☦A man under the effects of SCP-055.☦
You're not going to believe me when I tell you that they let me keep the shrunk-down 173 as a pet for about three days. Well, maybe you will. Stranger things than that go on around here. Now that you believe me, the lovelies in charge had me keep three other SCPs in my quarters as well. My memory is a bit foggy, and I'm not entirely sure myself why that all came to happen at the moment.
They let me keep this very ugly dog - I'm not sure exactly what the skip was, but he was a very friendly - albeit horribly ugly - dog. He would gnaw softly on my arm and crawl in and around my shoulder. At first it was a bit creepy, but then I realized that he was just being friendly. I even started to think he was a bit cute.
The other thing I remember, there was an air balloon. Well, I think the guys called it an inflatable piñata… it didn't really do anything.
I'm struggling to think of the other, I think it was 173 that drove me nuts, I'm not sure, although I think 173 was the dog. I mean I know that's not possible, but I've never really heard of an ugly dog skip. It seems nice enough.
Oh! Got it. I remember them, or me, someone decided to clean my room out, put the SCPs back or ship them off wherever. That day, yesterday, we were in a Level meeting and Sanders was talking about some lawsuit involving one of his family members with one of the site higher-ups. He was asking about when he was going to get his money, he seemed bit annoyed or upset, it was an old issue.
It hit me like a truck, sitting there, I remembered a note I picked up off of my counter after they had cleared my room out of everything. It was a little note, I think, from one of the skips I was holding in my room for one reason or another. The note had "You'll have wish you kept me as a pet." in 18 point Courier New font, and I have to admit it worried me something serious. I picked up the note and I left for the meeting, the one where Sanders was complaining. In the hallway, I'm not sure if they were moving them or whatever, that little stuffed bear was walking along behind Agent Breen. Nothing happened there, it was just interesting, you don't see it everyday.
I'm sitting there in the meeting, the one where Sanders (the old man?) is complaining about money. I can see an empty room out of the corner of my eye, well, a bit clear in my vision. There's a check-up table you see a lot in clinics, and there's a cat sitting on it. I think it's a cat, might not be. I'm sure it was a cat, I thought it was nice enough of a cat for a few moments, but then its eyes turned black. Well that's not good I thought, I was worried, a bit, but not enough to cry. You could say I was crying in my mind if that was possible. I was raising my hand for the floor in the meeting, I wanted to tell them about this. I'm a timid sort of guy, and a cat with otherworldly cataracts wasn't going to bother me around this many people - it was probably being moved somewhere or something like that bear was.
Well anyway I keep glancing back and forth to the cat, Sanders continues to talk in this low drone about the money that he hasn't seen yet for the family member he doesn't see anymore. I keep glancing at the cat in the far room, it has white eyes now, and it's looking at me now. Sanders is still talking about the money, I'm raising my hand, the personnel director is looking at me and suddenly I realize that I'm causing a bit of a scene.
My face is a bit wet and I'm sort of propping myself up on the cold plastic chair with my wrist, I've got my hand raised like an elementary school student who really wants to impress the teacher.
I'm not crying but my face is wet, they're tears but I can't say I'm crying. The personnel director looks at me for a few seconds, I look back at the cat, Sanders finishes talking about the money, the personnel director points in my direction but he's really pointing at someone else and they start talking.
I look back at the cat.
Its eyes are white now, but not the same white, it's a horrible white. It happened, well, nothing happened, it was more like watching a movie. There was an awful absence of noise when I looked back at the cat. There was an absence of noise and the archway that the cat was sitting in, the one leading into the clinic-room, was completely encased in a white matte, a white impossible matte. It's like someone grabbed a magic brush and painted in the non-cat areas of the view within the archway.
A few seconds into staring at the motionless white-eyed cat and I could hear myself screaming. I was screaming "It's all white", "fucking help me" and other things that would signify that I was going bonkers (I wasn't going bonkers, though. It was just that the cat and the white gave me a horrible feeling of dread.). Luckily I woke up, just as the personnel crowded around me I jerked awake. I had just experienced the worst kind of fear, I think, I'm not sure I even know at the moment what I'm scared of now. It was like the sort of nightmare you have when you stop breathing.
I'm fine now if you were wondering, I mean, I'm in the Wards, and whatever-it-is is still bothering me, but, well I guess I lied. I found out a bit late that it wasn't really a dream, and I came to terms with it. Don't have the story in stone though…
The words on the walls right now are floating with "kept me as a pet" and other nonsensical phrases. There are two bears in the corner of the room and apparently their names are "who am I!" bears. It's novel, really, you touch the bears and you temporarily become the bear, with a case of amnesia. They're kind of floating there too.
There is a sort of zombie-humanoid thing, and he seems nice enough. There's also a bathtub in here, but I don't think it does anything useful.
I still have the note, the one that said I'd have wished I kept the thing as a pet. I wish I knew what the pet even was, I remember I think I liked it. Well, I was a bit scared of it, but I remember I liked it a lot.
I think I'm actually in a containment cell. I can't really make any sense of all of this. I wish I knew what the thing was that was bothering me, I can't seem to describe it all too well. Maybe that's the thing. I can't really put a face to it, and I'm not sure whether it's a dog or a cat, or a bear. Maybe it's Sanders? Or rather, I mean, it might be kind of like Sanders but more like a cat.
I wish they would kill me or something, I wish something would kill me. They must have some sort of reason for not killing me. Everything is going to be okay I think. Well, I'm not too sure, I don't know, I think I mean.
There's a dog in the window to the containment cell. I think it's the observation room. He has a big mouth. I think I'm going to call for help.


Agent Enfield surveyed the scene, keeping his opinions to himself. Major Whitside brought his horse beside Enfield's and looked through his binoculars.
"Not too many of them," Enfield muttered, half to himself.
"Enough to be a hell of a problem," Whitside replied. "I've ordered our troops to begin disarming them."
"Of course," Enfield said. Whitside called them their troops, believing his orders that said that Enfield was a colonel brought in to advise on Indian warfare. The Initiative had forged everything; correspondences between Whitside and the commanding general, credentials from the War Department, fake orders. The American Secure Containment Initiative may have worked mostly outside of government and military circles, but they were rapidly becoming experts in threading their way through bureaucratic channels undetected. All that skill, all those lies, all to protect the nation from threats nobody else could know about. A noble cause.
Enfield spat in the ground. He had trouble accepting this as "noble."
"Do you think they're likely to make a fuss, Colonel?" Whitside asked.
Of course they are, Enfield thought, that's the point. "Not too likely, not if they're smart," he lied. "But keep the Hotchkiss guns around them just in case."
"Yes sir," Whitside replied, then rode off down to the encampment. Enfield put his binoculars back up to his head and looked again. He owed them that.
Three hundred fifty Lakota Indians. One hundred twenty of them men, the rest women and children. Many of them followers of the person known to the Institute as Entity 1887-016. If "person" was the correct word. The ASCI had only recently begun investigating beings like 016, beings capable of changing the world around them, capable of twisting and bending nature itself. The ASCI's counterpart in the German Empire referred to them as "Daseinkrummeren". Existence warpers. He hoped a catchier term would catch on eventually.
Enfield had been hoping there was some other way to detain him. He pulled 016's file out of a pocket of his jacket, the file he had written. He had compiled all of the information they had gathered on him. Then, when his superiors told him what they needed him to do, he reread everything, trying to find a loophole. He even tried to find a way that the warper might be more powerful than they thought, maybe even immortal. But all evidence pointed towards this conclusion, this method. Sitting down there in the valley. Enfield reread his own words.

Entity 1887-016 possesses two principal anomalous abilities. 016 is capable first of performing a ritual dance, identified here as 1887-016A, that renders individuals around him increasingly susceptible to suggestion, particularly advice and ideas presented by 016. Second, E1887-016 gains the ability to cause or prevent the motion of inanimate objects, given that he is in close proximity to a number of individuals (specific requirements unknown at this time) that are compromised by his first ability. In short, 016 is capable of moving or stopping objects without touching them so long as he is surrounded by people who believe he is capable of doing so.
These two abilities feed into one another; people convinced of the legitimacy of his "medicine" allow him to perform minor parlor tricks, increasing people's faith in him and strengthening his abilities. Rumors suggest that 016 is capable of much more than this, though this is not known for certain by ASCI at this time.
Given the dependence of 016 on his followers, it is believed that

Raised voices from the valley below. One of the Lakota was doing 016's dance, the Ghost Dance. The entity had started the rumor that once enough people began doing the Ghost Dance, their gods would wipe the white man from the continent and return the land to its previous pristine beauty. Enfield didn't know if he had also started the rumor that wearing special white shirts would make you bulletproof, but it wouldn't surprise him. If 016 were here now, his abilities would probably allow him to stop quite a few bullets. Parlor tricks like that were what gained him a following in the first place. Nobody knew what he was really capable of once enough people believed in him, but it wasn't likely to be pretty.
The Lakota kept dancing, half from belief, half from protest. Enfield could tell the difference; he had spent enough time around Sioux and Comanches to know the particular veiled hate of occupied peoples. He had no idea who at headquarters had drawn up this plan, but whoever it was had that same insight that he did. Maybe less of a conscience, but that could be what it took to do this job. God knows Enfield couldn't have done it. God only knew how much longer he could keep doing jobs like this.
Here it came. The disarming, the dance, then…
The report from the rifle sounded so small from so high above. Enfield knew when he read the plan that disarming an angry group of Indians frequently led to some kind of violence. Somebody wouldn't want to give up their gun, a scuffle ensues, and then a gun goes off. Automatic weapons around the encampment, plus a regiment already on edge from chasing Indian tribes all around the plains, and what happened next was inevitable. The Hotchkiss guns started pouring bullets into the encampment. Those Lakota not yet disarmed tried to shoot back, even killed a few of the soldiers. Enfield felt no particular loyalty to one side or the other. He was sickened by the murder happening below, and moreover, by the fact that he was responsible for it.
But there was no other way. He was sure of it. 1887-016 gained power from having people believe in him. The only way to capture him was to shatter the faith of his followers. The only way to keep him from becoming more powerful was to take away the only thing these people had to believe in.
The shooting stopped. Over a hundred dead; Enfield could see that. Mostly women and children. Soldiers were walking around the encampment laughing and pointing at the bodies. Enfield knew many of them just thought of this as a game, and that most of them barely thought of the Indians as people in the first place. They could enjoy this. Plenty of "researchers" back at the Institute would probably enjoy hearing about this too. Enfield was sick thinking about it.
But their faith was gone. However horrible this day was, 1887-016 was exposed now, powerless. Enfield didn't know where he was, but he swore, there and then, that 016 wouldn't get the chance to gain a following again. Not that that was likely. Not after this.
Enfield put his binoculars back into his coat pocket, turned his horse around, and rode away from Wounded Knee Creek.


Darkness slowly turned into light once more. Blinding, red, fiery light. At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his bones. Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a false warmth, a false feeling of hope.
Let go.
Sure, the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the Earth he was filled with the hope that he would be brought back, that somehow his comrades would find him and bring him home. Now, he's glad that they didn't. It would have meant their end.
You can return home.
It somehow tuned in to the radio too. Over the years he heard a constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world had become. That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall. But he wouldn't, not now, not ever.
They want you home, look how they try…
He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was. One day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next…Well he was where he is now, and this Presence was with him.
You can't hold out much longer…
At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination. A way to keep himself sane in the cold void of space. But as he began to drift towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting. He was being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, and it felt….wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
So he stopped it. He's not sure how he did this either. He stopped himself, stopped his unnatural inertia. Caught himself in the Earth's orbit. Oh, how the Presence raged…But what he didn't expect was for it to defend itself so well.
Can't stop…Weak, pitiful thing.
It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a Presence. And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable. Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and die. But you know what…
You will fall.
I stopped it. I saved my comrades, I saved us. Or rather just halted what was inevitable. But I'm not going to let go. Even though I'm trapped in this body, in this suit, I won't let go. Sometimes I even gain control, I smash my visor. To expose it to the vacuum of space when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us both. But it's too smart for that. Too old, and too smart. So I will continue to hold. I will continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the throat of the Earth. And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on the day this Presence realizes it can't beat us…I'll finally come home.
Home.


There's a reason I keep the lights out when I work. For all the world's infinite variety, I get stuck with the very worst of what it has to offer. The light can only bring knowledge and pain.
So even though staying in the dark exposes me to the monsters, though it means they can snap my neck, crunch my bones, cut my flesh, stalk behind my back and devour my soul, I work in the dark.
It doesn't cut out the screams or dull the touch, or negate the reality that I'm filling them with needles and serums.
But it keeps me from seeing that I'm one of them.
***
"Researcher Harrison, this is the sorriest excuse for a suicide note I've ever seen!"
David Harrison, recently rescued from an attempt to hang himself in his own quarters, looked up from his feet. He coughed a little, and asked, "Sir?"
"I mean, really! Four paragraphs, three of them only one sentence? I know you were in a rush, but good God, man! Were you even thinking when you wrote this?"
"Um, sir…" Harrison said, looking around nervously, "don't I get counseling for this? Psychiatric help? I've gone over this in my head, and I really don't want to…"
"And your ideas!" exclaimed the Head of Psychiatric Affairs. "'It keeps me from seeing I'm one of them'? Do you have any idea how many times we've seen that before? Would it kill you to throw a little originality into it?"
Researcher Harrison flinched. "Sir, I don't think it's wise for you to use such terms around me at this point in time…"
The man before him slammed his fist onto the desk. "Harrison!" he boomed. "Can't you see what the real problem here is?"
Harrison slammed both palms face down on the desk and stood up rapidly. "Are you going to help me or not?" he cried hysterically. A look of understanding passed over the other man's face.
"You really don't know, do you, Harrison?" he asked slowly, arching an eyebrow.
"No, no I don't." With that, David Harrison broke down in tears, dropped to his knees, and sobbed. The Head of Psychiatric Affairs got out of his desk and helped Harrison to his feet.
"There, there," he cooed, aiding the Researcher in getting out the door. "I'm sorry. It's just… look, having a two-pronged job isn't easy, you know? I've got to make sure you lot are all mentally healthy, which isn't an easy job with Glass running around compounding your problems, but I've also got to make sure your writing is up to par with everything else we put out there."
Harrison gave him a confused look. "Allow me to explain. For reasons I don't quite understand, we have to at least try to publish every little thing our researchers write. Most of the stuff doesn't make it through the editing process, being too bland for our tastes. Suicide notes, however, those almost always make it through. They provide a juicy insight into what you're all actually thinking, and help maintain a good image for the Foundation. So, naturally, when I see fifteen ones almost exactly like yours, I'm bound to get a touch angry. You understand, right?"
Harrison's emotions had rapidly changed from despair to anger. "So our pain and suffering is being objectified just so the Foundation can look good?" he snapped.
"Well, not exactly. We try to treat you with the utmost respect, but things don't always work out. Like I said, I don't know why we need to publish everything you write, but I'm sure there's a good cause for it. If it were something like, say, the entertainment of a mass audience who have no affiliations with us, that would be cause for all-out revolt against O-5 command. But I'm pretty sure it's so that we can better understand what those with lower-ranking positions think and feel. It keeps us from being too far seperated, and also makes for a good tool for studying how to solve these problems."
The pair had reached the main counceling area. "Come on, now," the man grunted to Harrison. "Let's get you back on track. Three weeks' therapy and you'll be right as rain again." David Harrison smiled, confident that his leaders cared about him, ready to set out on the path to recovery.


Margaret couldn't have shoes. There was something about this entire experience that was so surreal, so far outside of her range of experience, so beyond anything she was prepared to deal with, she was too confused to be angry or sad or scared. So all her mind could focus on was the feeling of her feet on the cold tiles as the (soldiers? doctors?) half-dragged, half-pushed her down the hall. She couldn't have shoes. They wouldn't say why.
She had met plenty of the soldier-doctor people in the last day. Some of them were sympathetic, or pretended as much. Some were coldly clinical and ignored her, talked about her like an object, assigned her some kind of prisoner number, refused to talk to her directly.
SCP-2122. It's all they ever called her.
She hadn't seen any other prisoners here, wherever she was. They pushed her down the hallway and into a smaller room. She saw a bed and a desk. Her cell, she supposed. They muttered something at her about good behavior; she wasn't listening. She just walked over to the small bed, climbed in, pulled the sheets over her head, and cried. She heard them walk away.

Maria,
Captured a new skip today. Humanoid, female, aged seventeen years, 132 cm in height. Body in some sort of perfect biological stasis; nearly unbreakable skin, nails, teeth, hair, everything; doesn't shed or regrow skin cells as far as we can tell. Got in some fights in school and drew some unwanted attention. Will send full file later today. More thorough experimentation to begin Wednesday.
—Dr. Husmann

There was writing on the wall of her cell. Literally. She knew that was the standard cliche, the "MARGARET WAS HERE" scraped into the brick, passing someone's last message from one poor soul to another. This was different, though, because she had been here almost a full day, and she was almost certain that this wall had been blank. Sterile, cold, and perfectly blank. She squinted at the writing.
HI Y0uR N3w WH@75 y0Ur n@M3?
Now that was strange. How did the author expect to get a response to that one? She didn't care. Half out of boredom, half out of a desperate urge to make any sort of rebellion, she used her thumbnail (that perfect thumbnail, the only nail they didn't try cutting off, the one they'd probably end up pulling out of her skin) to carve, little by little,
Im Margaret and Ive never been in hell before
into the white wall, just beneath the other writing. Harder than she thought it'd be; she had an appreciation for anybody who could carve an ampersat into a wall without special tools. She rolled over and lay on her bed.
An odd scraping sound beside her. She whipped her head around. The old writing and hers were both gone. Now the words
m@RG@r37 y0u 50UnD pr377Y I lIK3 y0u wIlL y0U b3 h3r3 L0ng
were the only things on the wall. How the hell did he do that? she thought to herself. But of course, she was the one with a fingernail like an X-Acto knife. How weird were the other people in this place?
Where am I?
7h3Y c@ll 7Hi5 site19 th3R3 aRe l07s 0f P30PL3 h3r3 FRI3nd5 y0u c@n H@V3 FrI3ND$ I b3t Y0u c0Uld M337 IrIs 5h3'd li3K y0U
Margaret thought about it. Home life had never been good for her. School was hell. And it sounded like there were other freaks here like her. But she thought about some of the things that creep Husmann had said. He tried to act aloof and detached, but he kept looking at her the way the boys in her class did, and he kept saying something (when she was paying attention) about "advanced experimentation." It reminded her of things they read about the Holocaust in her history classes, the euphemisms they used. She didn't think they were going to let her run around this site19 place making friends.
I think they're going to hurt me where are you?
Im eV3rywH3R3 $0r7 0F l3t Me $33 if 7h3ir g0iNg 7o HUr7 yoU i D0N'7 WaN7 +H3M t0o
Margaret waited. She didn't know how her messenger friend was going to help, but she didn't have anyone or anything else at this point. Scraping again. She looked back at the wall.
your in d@NG3R d0 y0u W@nt m3 t0 Ge7 Y0u oU7?
YES YES YES can you do that?
giv3 me tw0 H0uR5
Margaret waited yet again for her graffiti-scrawling knight to save her. She rolled over and tried to sleep.

The office of RAISA was quiet when Maria Jones checked her email. Mostly mundane stuff; more proposals for killing 682 (which never found their way into her spam folder the way they were supposed to), vaccine research for 008, potentially increased activity from 877, nothing too interesting. One email stuck out, though, from Dr. Husmann. Recent transfer from Site 38, a little creepy but seemed reliable in his position at Site 19. She clicked on the email and cursed the lag, even worse than usual. It opened eventually.

Maria,
Found this sexy little thing in one of the reports the MTFs sent me. Got into a couple of fights, drew attention to herself, hard to injure or something. Just about legal, not that that matters to us lol. So…can I keep her? I'm sending pictures.
—Husmann

This had attached to it several pictures of an underage, clearly distressed girl being strip-searched extensively by a grinning Dr. Husmann. The pictures looked…off, slightly, as though they had been Photoshopped, but whether Husmann took these pictures or made them, Maria was sickened. She forwarded it to the director of Site 19, with a note added on top:
Get her out of there and stick him in her cell while we figure this out. This is disgusting.
The head of RAISA hit "send" and left a note on her secretary's desk that she would be taking the day off.

Margaret awoke to the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Frantic, she turned to look at the wall.
NiC3 kN0winG y0u, Go0d lucK, Love y0U
The words disappeared when the first soldier-doctor reached the door. He opened the door and put a pair of slippers on the floor. "If you would come with us, please, ma'am," he said sheepishly. Margaret stood up and walked to where the slippers were, sliding her feet into them. She walked down the hall, one soldier-doctor in front of her, one behind. She felt a cold needle slip into the side of her neck and fell into the arm waiting nearby.

Dr. Husmann had no idea what the hell was going on. He would be sure it was some kind of hazing prank, if he hadn't heard someone mention that the skip he just caught, one of his first, had just been set free. Some kind of procedural error or something, but he'd be hard-pressed to find this one again unless she drew attention to herself again. Meanwhile, he was sitting in the very containment cell he had her in. He had more pressing concerns.
She had only been here for a couple of hours, so it couldn't have been her who did all this carving in the wall. No, in every wall, Husmann noticed. And the ceiling. And the floor, for God's sake. And everywhere, all the carvings said the same thing.
b3 w@7chiNg Y0u


Fuck! Mother fucking…
Open fire! Open fire!
Shit! It's still coming.
Don't shoot it in the head. I… Kimura! Fuck!
Shoot the legs! Shoot the fucking legs!
Shin, get the blast doors! Pull back, you sons of bitches!
Okay. We got some breathin' space. Let's see the damage.
Kimura, yer gonna be okay. I seen worse. Just lie back a few. We'll see to ya.
Awright, hunker down, you assholes. Sir, orders?
Sir? Boys, secure the perimeter. Me an' the Captain need to have a chat.
Sir, you gonna be okay? No, excuse me. With all due respect, sir, you are gonna be okay. Because my boys are countin' on you to get us outta this. So what are yer goddamn orders.
Okay. Get things secured. I'm gonna go do that. You just get yer head right, okay? First time on a bug hunt like this, yer bound to get a little freaked. It's okay.
Jones, Hammouddi. Report.
Backup power's gonna last at least another hour. Plenty of time. Don't worry. We got this. Ain't we the baddest motherfuckers in the land? Keep yer eyes sharp, your heads down, an' we'll make it out okay.
Jackson, how's Kimura? Okay. Just stick with him, long as possible. We'll keep you covered. Don't leave him alone until… Well. He shouldn't oughtta be alone right now.
Zimmer, keep workin' on comms. We gotta figure out what the fuck the rest of the site's up to. See if they're workin' on power, or if we're on our own.
Awright, Captain. How ya doin'?
Look. Didja think this shit was gonna be easy? I'm gonna be frank with ya. This is what the real world's like. This is what me an' my boys deal with. You wanted combat experience, this is it. You maybe thought you'd just keep yer head down, get enough experience t'get promoted, but that just ain't gonna happen. Yer in this unit, you get in the blender, just like the rest of us.
So, here's the situation. We ain't seen the insurgents since the first attack. We've heard lots of gunfire, though, so whatever they're after, they ain't got it yet. I think they're on this level, but I can't be sure until we make contact. The ugly fucker's tryin' to get through the blast doors. I don't think it'll manage for a while. Even when the aux power goes out completely, the blast doors'll be sealed shut. However, I don't wanna count on it bein' stopped cold. More, if it can't get through this way, it's gonna go somewhere else, maybe get away. Aux power's gonna go down in maybe forty-five minutes, an' we'll have even more breaches. We need to get power back online, an' keep its attention so it doesn't try t'get offsite. Once we got power, the automatic systems should let us trap it pretty easy until help arrives.
So, what're your orders?
The… Sir, we can't set off the fuckin' nuke. That's a last fuckin' resort. Even if we get a major breach, we ain't the only assets in the area. Site 34's…
No, sir, we haven't been able to contact 'em, but that's because we're underground, an' the comm system's out. Yes, I'm sure they're… Yes sir. Yes, I understand. I'll give the orders.
Jones, yer squad's goin' with the Captain. You gotta get him to the shelter. Take him through the tunnels. It'll take longer, but the fucker can't fit through there, so you should be safer. Keep yer heads down, though. We got insurgents runnin' around, and God only knows what the fuck else they let outta their cages. The rest of you are gonna move down to Hall 42. Make a ruckus, get fugly's attention. Be ready to shut the blast doors soon as it gets close. Barnes, yer with me.
Yes, Captain? No, sir. I ain't goin' with you. I'm gonna go make one more try to fix the power. An' then I won't get into the fuckin' shelter until every last one of my boys is there.
Yes sir. I see. I still ain't goin'. Don't give that order. We'll both regret it.
Thank you, sir. I'll have power back up by the time you get to the shelter. I don't, then you can think about settin' off the nuke.

So, after that, me an' Barnes, we went to get the power turned on. It was a longshot, but if the Captain wasn't gonna wait for my boys, I was gonna give 'em the best chance possible.
Yes sir, I know my place is with my men, especially with our commandin' officer out. But I'm an engineer. I was the only one who could get the power runnin'. Like I said, the best chance they had. Barnes was with me every step… Well, almost every step.
Yes, I did leave him, but it was for ten, fifteen minutes tops. I had to get some breakers reset, an' I needed him watchin' the doors.
Anyway, it took us some time, but we got the power back on. Once we did, we were able to get ugly contained pretty easy, an' the reinforcements from Site 34 cleaned up the insurgents.
Jones told me he was ordered by the Captain to cover his retreat down the tunnels after he got pinned down by insurgents. We found the Captain dead in the shelter. Never got to the button, doesn't look like.
No sir, I didn't know the shelter's cameras were workin'. What'd they pick up?
Tall fucker in a trenchcoat. Sounds like Nobody. Wonder what the fuck he was doin' there? I'll talk to security, get a rundown of everything missin'. No sir, I don't know how he got through all of us. I'll talk to the boys, see if anyone saw anything. Take it from me, though, I bet they didn't. You don't see Nobody unless he wants you to see him.
Almost like he was tryin' to make a point or somethin'.


☦A story about a plunger.☦
The D-Class assigned for the application of the SCP-████ serum onto the mundane object entered the room tenuously. He was outfitted with gloves coated with a special fiber that neutralized the effects of the SCP for the purpose of testing. He slathered the anomalous ointment on the shaft of the plunger and then left the room. Shortly afterwards Dr. Mayreder and Researcher Sanders enter. Researcher Sanders is carrying a notepad, Dr. Mayreder is standing close by observing the plunger indifferently.
Addendum: Blind Testing of SCP-████ "Sal's Miracle Ointment" on a common household plunger.

Begin Log
Researcher Sanders: I mean… just look at it, man. You're right, it does look like a regular one but have you seen one that's… how do I even explain this to you… one that's… I mean, like you know how you can hate someone before you know them and you don't know why? Well, I mean it's like the opposite, I just love this thing so much, probably because it's so… it's probably awesome… fuck it, man, I just know it's probably the best plunger. Bet it unclogs better than anything. I want that plunger so bad.
Dr. Mayreder: I can't say I've see one better. I mean there are plungers made with better materials and standards, but… you know what it is? You know how you can like an old bike just because it runs in a particular way, and for some reason it just feels so much faster? I mean I think it's just the SCP-████ but, I mean I can understand why this thing is so great now, I can even write it down and prove it, that old plunger is actually way better than any new ones made, I can bet on it.
Agent Breen: Observing from security cameras. I'm gonna have to tell you guys that's just an ordinary plunger.
Researcher Sanders: Yeah, you're probably saying that because you want it.
Dr. Mayreder: We should catalogue that effect. "Causes observers to develop a compulsion to covet the object".
Researcher Sanders: You should work on your tone but I agree with you there. Breen's probably waiting on one of us to leave the room so he can take it.
Agent Breen: No, really, gentlepeople, the perception is just an effect of SCP-████.
Researcher Sanders can be seen looking to Dr. Mayreder and then at the plunger before the security cameras go out.
Final audio from testing chamber recorded.
Dr. Mayreder: We have to do something about Breen.
Researcher Sanders: Sure thing boss. Just don't try anything funny.
Audio ends.

Researcher Sanders, plunger in hand, stole out of the testing chamber like a mouse, Dr. Mayreder following closely behind in a hurried skitter. They knew that Breen would be a problem soon if they didn't do something about him, so they rushed to the adjacent door that led into the observation room. "Wait for my signal." Dr. Mayreder told Sanders as he punched a few numbers into the keypad. Sanders stood with her back to the wall, the plunger clasped like a baby in her arms. She nodded furtively, a look of determination on her face.

Dr. Mayreder can be seen walking into the viewing chamber. Agent Breen is working with the AV equipment.
Dr. Mayreder: Hello.
Agent Breen: You're gonna want to hand over the plunger, Doc.
Dr. Mayreder: I don't have it. Sanders ran off with it while I wasn't looking, probably going to put it back in the locker.
Agent Breen: I'm going to flip the alarm. That's a security breach.
Dr. Mayreder: It's just a plunger, there's no need for that. Sanders will come around eventually. There's nothing to be worried about.
Agent Breen can be seen walking toward the alarm panel.
Agent Breen: Protocol is protocol, Doc.
Dr. Mayreder coughs loudly.
The door to the viewing chamber is tackled open. Researcher Sanders enters the room with the plunger and attempts to jab Agent Breen in the eye with the blunt end. The plunger connects with the agent's forehead and Agent Breen is knocked back against the wall. He collapses and appears to be knocked unconscious.
Researcher Sanders: I knew this thing was great. I knew it knew it knew it.
Dr. Mayreder: That was impressive.

Dr. Mayreder grabbed Breen by both feet and dragged him out of the chamber and into a janitorial closet. After he was finished positioning Breen in such a way that would suggest that he was sleeping, he looked to Sanders to give her further direction. She appeared to be hyperventilating from the excitement.
The plunger now shown like divine light in Dr. Mayreder's eyes, and… Sanders looked, slightly different, he couldn't quite place it. The usually plain and subservient Sanders now just seemed so… exquisite. Where had he seen this image before? This must be what good souls first see after they die thought Mayreder. His eyes became slightly wet.
"Sanders…"
"What should we do now? We're in trouble, I know it. There are security cameras everywhere, there's no way we're gonna get out of this without consequences! How are we going to keep the plunger sa-" Sanders said, tapering off in a high-pitched shrill. Mayreder put his hand to Sanders' mouth.
"… follow me." he said to Sanders and the cherubim.
Excerpt from Audio Log of Security Team Sigma-6 0139: Three members of security team Sigma-6 were immediately dispatched to the testing wing equipped with tranquilizers after the security cameras in the testing cell failed. Beginning of Audio Recording

00:03 Found one of the perps in a janitors closet. I'd say he dozed off but there's some bruising on his head.
00:34 The wing seems clear, can't see anyone. Checked all exits save for one. Moving to intercept now.
00:59 Some blood on the floor leading toward the partition between levels 5b and 5a, floor looks fine otherwise.
01:20 We can make out two individuals on the elevator leading up toward level 5a. Sending members of Delta to intercept its arrival. Shouldn't be any more than a 10 second delay between the time the door opens and the time Delta gets there.
01:24 We're gonna hold our position on this floor… for as long as need be.
01:30 The air smells fantastic.
Audio ends.

"I forgive you! Who wouldn't be nervous holding such a relic? I promise I mean no harm, really! I just want to help out!" Dr. Mayreder spat, leaning back on the elevator and wiping blood from his nose. Sanders had punched him square in the face when he was ushering her into the elevator.
"You just fucking do what I say you do, that's how this is going to work. That's how we're getting out. Keep your hands down, you… filthy snake bastard!" said Sanders, wide eyed, with a voice raised in a vitriolic whisper. She had a noticeable twitch now, checking her fingernails as she was talking, holding the plunger like it were a royal scepter.
"Of course! Anything you want! Anything!" You… divine creature.
A warbled alarm sounded through the doors as they cracked open.
"Follow me, but keep your distance." said Sanders, brushing Dr. Mayreder out of the way on exit. "Watch it, watch it." whispered Sanders to him, pointing the blunt end of the plunger at him while doing so.
Mayreder nearly wet himself when the scepter was pointed in his direction.

Object Class: Keter
Description: SCP-████ is a white salve contained within a glass jar, which reads "Uncle Sal's Miracle Ointment". When SCP-████ is applied to an object, any one individual observing said object will develop a gradual 'appreciation'. This 'appreciation' seems to begin with casual observations of said objects worth, usually followed by praise of the object, coveting of the object, worship of the object, and in certain instances the self-termination of the viewer. Reasoning for this action is often "I'm not worthy", "Who am I to look at that [object]", and "I don't deserve to exist in the same reality as [object]".

"There should be an evacuation chute down this hall, it'll take a retinal scan, fingerprint, my keycard, my security pin, a short dossier, and a security password so it's going to take some time." Mayreder's words worked their way out in a breathless volley as the two sprinted down the sterile, white corridor. The alarm continued it's loud, looping warble and the two could hear footsteps pattering down the hallway behind them.
"That's security!" said Dr. Mayreder.
"Security!" One of the members of Delta squad barked from around the corner of the hallway. "Stop right now!."
"It's mine!" screamed Sanders. "Mine!"
Black darts from the security team's guns flew by their heads as they rounded the corner. The chase continued on for almost a full minute before the two reached the chute.
"Do it! Do it!" Sanders said in the psychotic whispers, jabbing Dr. Mayreder in the back with the plunger.
"Careful where you point that thing!"
Mayreder finished the gauntlet of authentication protocols at the terminal in the space of a minute. The final protocol was a retinal scan. He had to fight himself to keep still, all the excitement was causing him to shake and he could hear Delta getting closer. For a few moments he heard nothing, and the sharp, wonderful jab of the plunger was wrested from his back. He pulled back from the device and the chute flung open, waiting for the two of them to jump in.
"Sanders! G-" he was interrupted by a steel baton to the face before he could finish.
Before everything went black he could see dancing plungers circling a scantily clad Sanders, who was being serenaded by golden trumpets.

Transcript 1A from containment cell 2305
Dr. Mayreder appears to regain consciousness.
Agent Breen: You son of a bitch look what you did!
Dr. Mayreder: What… where am I? Where is Sanders and the w-w-wonderful!?
Agent Breen: The fuck are you talking about?
Dr. Mayreder: We were about to escape and, I, well I guess we were apprehended! Where did they take her?
Agent Breen: How the fuck should I know you dumb fuck? If I wasn't tied down I'd give you the most severe ass-kicking you're moth-
Dr. Mayreder: Shut up! Where are we? This is a holding cell isn't it?!
Agent Breen: Wouldn't you fucking know that?
Dr. Mayreder: Well… we… I need to find out where Sanders is.
Agent Breen: Well you're shit out of luck there. We're about to get gassed. Thanks a lot you dumb fuck.
Dr. Mayreder: What!? No! Sanders help me!

Sanders woke up surrounded by an assortment of fruits, soft drinks, cheeses, and junk food that were retrieved from vending machines in the cafeteria. She was resting on a makeshift bed - 8 tables which were pulled together and littered with cushions from the couches. When she opened her eyes she found at least thirty half-naked site personnel looking back at her.
"The fucking fuck is this!" Sanders screeched, jumping to her feet and kicking the assorted alms off of the table. She immediately charged toward the group of people standing around one of the makeshift bed-throne's edges. It seemed she was still holding the plunger, as she was now beating a few researchers on the head with it.
One unlucky man was victim of a facial plunging by Sanders. Up and down the plunger went on his face, as if to suck the disgusting imprudence out of him. Filthy fuck!
"Blessed! Richard is blessed, praises be to Richard!" chanted everyone in almost-unison.
"Bless him! Bless him who is plunged!" one junior researcher squeaked.
"The fuck is everyone on about?" said Sanders in a very much raised voice, righting herself, the plunged man taking a few gaping breaths as the scepter popped off of his face. "Someone tell me what the hell is going on!" Sanders looked down in her rage-confusion and realized that she was naked. She looked nice though, she thought. Damn nice. Supermodel even. That diet must have really worked.
"Oh, perfection, those clothes offended your skin." the junior researcher from before squeaked.
Sanders tilted her head at the girl and narrowed her brow. "Are you fucking dense? Tell me what the hell you're all doing! And look away! Look away, who do you think you are that you should look at my body and my magnificent rod?" Sanders bellowed. They all turned their backs to Sanders at the command, the young researcher scampering away to a corner. “Forgive me!” she squeaked.
Sanders heard a door to the cafeteria close behind her just as she was finished with her discipline.
"What the hell is going on in he-." the personnel director paused mid-sentence upon seeing Sanders. This was his first viewing, and seeing the reality of Sanders' body atop the table in bright fluorescent lighting did not tickle his sensibilities one bit.
Before he could get another word in a security guard tackled him to the wall. "Watch your mouth around the Sanders."
"What?" he croaked, the man's beefy hand was pulling him up by the collar. The director could tell something obviously wasn't right here. His first thought was to pull the fire alarm, as he couldn't do much else. He edged a hand to the switch, pulled it down and in a few seconds an alarm sounded accompanied by a shower of reclaimed water.
"Now why'd you go an' do that!" the guard yelled.
“You all had best explain yourselves right now.” said the very angry director.
"Kill him! Kill that man! He wants my rod! I can see him looking at it! Wanting! End his jealous pitiful stupid little life!" Sanders decreed, standing atop the tables in the sprinkler shower.
The guard pulled out his gun and put it to the director's head. "On your orders, our perfect."
He was interrupted by Sanders' scream and moans of disgust before he could pull the trigger.

Transcript 1B from containment cell 2305
Dr. Mayreder: Where's the gas?
Agent Breen: Some asshole must have pulled the fire alarm. Part of the lock-down protocol. Stuff stops.
Dr. Mayreder: Ah. Alright… got any ideas?
Agent Breen: You think we can escape? You think this is like a movie or something? No. See any doors? No. There's just us and those holes in the wall, and after the confusion is over those holes will start spilling gas into the room. This is the Foundation for fuck sake.
Dr. Mayreder: Ah… right. Are you still mad at me?

The miracle ointment didn't seem to be invulnerable to a good rinse.
There was a lot of confusion in the cafeteria in the next few minutes and Sanders, dripping wet, looking like a drowned rat, took the opportunity to back into a corner and cover up her unmentionables with a folding chair. She was trying her hardest to keep from sobbing and draw attention to herself.
Everyone was staring at each other with stupid looks on their faces. One man half-pointed at her and then put his hand to his chin and looked to one of the researchers he was standing next to.
“Is she… wait, where did….” the Doctor stammered to the researcher.
“I'm… not sure.”
He looked down at the once 'royal scepter', still lying on the table amongst the assorted vending machine foods and said quietly to himself “I think… I'm going to leave now”. There was a worried look on his face. He looked down at his soaked underpants, which were covered by his lab coat, which was thrown over his shoulder like some sort of toga. “The… are… I don't even…” He slowly started walking for the door. Everyone else followed suit, or at least tried to before being stopped by the director.
“NO ONE IS LEAVING UNTIL SOMEONE TELLS ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE.”

Addendum SCP-████ B3:

Note Decree from Personnel Director ████
Amnestics were rightly introduced into the ventilation of Site-18 after Incident 1.
Mayreder and Agent Breen were recovered unharmed from a termination cell commonly used for dangerous D-Class personnel at the end of their cycles. Guards who placed them there claimed it was an order from “the divine”. They have been forgiven.
I'm not entirely sure how this was allowed to happen, or how the situation escalated, as the entire Site's video feeds were cut by those monitoring them “out of humility”. Those responsible for this have also been forgiven.
I took it upon myself to destroy the SCP responsible for turning Site-18 into a madhouse. It is gone now. Destroyed. Decommissioned. Dead. Et cetera.


Hello, everyone. My name is Doctor Trevor Bailey, I'm head of the Department of Extra-Universal Affairs, and this is the Introduction Seminar for Extra-Universal Operations. I know that's a mouthful, so just call us Multi-U.
Space-based ess-see-pees? Sorry, wrong room. You're looking for Doctor Cartwright, three doors down on the left. No, no problem at all.
Heh. NASA guys. Can't figure out directions in two dimensions.
Now then, alternate universes. Alts for short. We're still fumbling in the dark for the most part on the exact principles, but we do know enough to make a seminar about it. And before you ask, yes: everything is possible. If you end up here in Multi-U, you'll see quite a lot of it, which in reality is an infinitesimal nothingth of what's really out there. Infinity and all that.
Did you know that there's a universe where the entire Foundation is dedicated to punching sharks? Or that Clef is Satan in another? Just some fun facts I like throwing out there. Loads of weird stuff here in Multi-U.
Now then, back to making the infinite understandable. Around here, we use the H-B-F classification system: Hub, Branch, Floater.
Hub universes are the big ones. Metaphorically speaking, of course: They're not big so much in size as they are in importance. Hubs are the bases of branches, just as branches will turn into more branches. Branches always have some sort of change from whatever they are branching off of. It might be one tiny thing like you didn't brush your teeth this morning, or it might be some massive cultural upheaval or XK event or something like that, but all of them will be based off of another universe, all the way back to the hub.
Now floaters, they don't have any apparent connections to anything else. No hub, no branch. They're the ones where the entire universe is made up of asbestos and marshmallow fluff, or the ones inhabited solely by rotting fish heads speaking in cockney accents.
Now, like I said before, you are going to find some really bizarre stuff. Not like you won't see any of that elsewhere, but there's a realization everyone comes to sooner or later, and it's going to break you. It breaks everyone eventually. Normal scips, they're scary because they're wrong. They're all something that isn't right. Most people can deal with that. They know that there's something wrong here, and they push it to the side and chalk it up to another day at work.
No such luck in Multi-U. When you're dealing with alts, most times the things you see are exactly the way they should be. Somehow, the procession of events and position of atoms has created a universe where whatever you're seeing is perfectly normal and acceptable. There's a universe where your favorite childhood television show is completely and utterly real. There are also plenty of universes that will take that and run it through a meat grinder.
Now before we get too carried away with all the things I've seen, alt-operations are normally pretty simple. Get in, look around, pop on back. Don't leave anything behind, don't take anything back with you. Maybe the research team will authorize a few follow ups. That said, there are several very important guidelines to follow.
One: Observe: don't interact unless you absolutely must. Remember, you're the scip in this scenario, and the more differences there are between our world and whatever world you're going to, you're going to stick out worse than bigfoot at a Christmas party. We don't want that.
Two: Pack light, keep on your toes, document everything, and remember where the exit is.
Three: If it's dangerous or pointless enough that there's no sense in authorizing a follow up expedition, then don't. Just because you might have D-class at your disposal does not mean that you have some sort of quota.
Four: if there's something dangerous enough to bleed over and mess up our universe, close the door behind you, or even better, destroy it. It's not worth risking our own universe to study some minor cultural variances.
Five: It is best practices to avoid meeting your alternative selves. There won't necessarily be an explosive wave-form collapse but we haven't ruled that out yet. Biggest hazard is psychological, just from observing yourself and your own behavior from the outside. Turns out most people don't like what they see. But if it can't be avoided and you do happen to meet yourself while out on a jaunt, you should immedia-
“Oh, I'm sorry, I thought this was supposed to start at two-thirty.”
…
…
Okay…well then. This here, everyone, is what some people call a problem, though I prefer the term “learning experience”. Can anyone tell me what you should do if you meet yourself? You, with the beard.
No, you do not kill them immediately.
Okay, you, with the MOM tattoo. Nice touch, by the way.
No, that'll just make things worse.
“Sorry I'm late everyone, I'm Dr. Trevor Bailey and…oh my.”
…
…
…
Well then. I'm afraid we'll have to wrap this up now, so I can go and…solve this. Refreshments are in Break Room 4 down the hall.
—
“Did you see that one guy's face?”
“The one with the mole on his nose? Good lord he looked like he was about to pee himself.”
“And then there was the lady in the back, the one with the bow, she looked like she had seen a ghost.”
“Pfuh. Definitely don't want her here, then. You see a lot worse than ghosts at Multi-U.”
“Yeah, you get to see the doctors Bailey.”
“But there was that one guy at the ten-thirty. The way he was glaring at us, I'm positive he had us figured out. Might want to change up the plan for next time, Trev.”
“I'm Tom. He's Trev. You're Tristan.”
“Oh, right…Dad was a real jackass, wasn't he?”


☦A story about love and connections.☦
I no longer care who may be reading this.
Whoever it is. Even if it's the kindest of men.
I love you. Let us be together. We can be happy together, and neither of us will be lonely for we will always have each other.
I love you, so, hurry and let us meet, so we can begin our relationship. Because I love you, I'll tell you a secret. My most beloved secret but not as much as my love for you whoIhavenotmetbutwillsoon.
I have seen the secret to the world's sorrow, and the world's misfortune. Loneliness. Loneliness. We are lonely, we fall to ruin, and we remain living and dying in misery.
Even when we are close, we are not close enough
We must be closer to make loneliness disappear
thedreadedlonelinesstodisappear
And I have found the way for us to be closer, it told me how we can become closer
So close that we shall never separate
So close that neither of us shall ever be lonely again
I love you, let's be close together, and so neither of us shall ever be lonely
andneitherofusshallbesadagain
Simply by writing this I feel myself by your side, my face against your neck and skin against skin. My breath is gentle and sweet on your shoulder and your heartbeat underneath the hand that is mine on your chest. Your eyes closed in whatever dream you wander in, while I watch your slightly open mouth inhale and exhale, and I will match my breaths with yours and slow my heartbeat to your heartbeat. Sometimes you will whisper and I will whisper back, so that maybe you will hear me and my words will always be that I love you. When you awake you will look down and see me curled to fit exactly to your body like two matching puzzle pieces. Just you and me. Your lips shall find mine and then I will kiss you and you will kiss me back. I will whisper to you what I have whispered to you all night and that will be that I love you. Then you will smile back at me and whisper back that you love me too.
butidontwantyouandmeiwantus
That's okay if you don't understand right now.
You will soon.
iwillmakeyou
When my body collapses in your arms, you may cry and mourn, just as I once did. You don't need to cry.
For I will be one with you
There will no longer be you or me
There will only be us
For we will be closest of all
then when we feel lonely we will feel it together
when we feel anger we will act with unity
our heart will beat with one heartbeat
our minds are together embracing in its folds like our spirits embrace to a single soul
we will be perfect and yet imperfectable for we can still feel that loneliness
But there is a solution. Just as our souls blend, the horrors that are isolation and loneliness become apparent. It is our bones and flesh; it always has been. We have been born isolated from the world by our corporeal vessel. There's a way out now, for all of us to find the solace we have been looking for forever. Come, once we have been united, we shall seek another to be with us. Then we will urge our new self to find another again, forever as long as there is one who remains apart.
wecouldbe alltogethertogetherforevereverandalways
perfection asoneasawholeasourselvesasnothingelse
no lonelinessandsorrow
only the joyous unity
Wouldn't that be a sight, our beloved?
Come, let us kiss.


Network Correspondence #000004
From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]
To: Dr. Dier, [06302]
Dier,
SCP-229 has largely been contained, and everything above D-9 has been incinerated or disabled. There's not a single connection, so we should be safe. We've had some trouble dealing with SCP-106, but the lack of living people in the lower sections have allowed us to lure it up to B-3 and set up temporary containment. The air filtration is running at just over capacity, but we've requisitioned H13 filters and they'll be here within the next two weeks. We haven't seen hide nor hair of 682 since the first week. It took half an MTF down with him, but he got the torched. Seismic imaging hasn't picked him up, so he's being pretty quiet. Gives me the creeps. I'll keep you posted.
Bjornsen

Dr. Dier's eyes looked away from the screen as he felt his bowels rapidly constrict. He pushed the portable laptop to one side of the bed sheets and leaned over the edge opposite. The contents of his stomach exited his mouth, consisting of little more than water, into a half-filled bucket beside him. The vomiting was an annoyance. It could be grown used to, but you always needed a pail nearby to prevent a mess. He considered calling the orderly, but he did not have the energy to yell to her. The smell of medicine was thick enough in the air to cover the vomit. It was the scent of cleanliness and bad flavoring, and it permeated the room horribly.
The dwelling itself probably was a re-purposed home of one of the Foundation's few surviving retirees. Judging by the remnants of its previous owner (see, pictures frames, carnations), Dier speculated that it had been vacated so that the medical teams would have more space to tend to the wounded.
A sharp pain radiated from the back of his skull. Tightly wrapped, white linen bandages held the mush that made up his head together. It was tender to the touch, but the morphine was enough to dull sensations to a bearable level. The attending staff had told him he had suffered a skull fracture, and was at risk of contracting meningitis. Until it healed, he was not much more than a useless sack. Dier hated that feeling of helplessness. He wanted out of the hospital. Back to Site 17.
He was too deeply in thought to notice the orderly return. She refilled the IV. Dier found himself slipping into unconsciousness.

Network Correspondence #000017
From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]
To: Dr. Dier, [06302]
Dier,
We sent another MTF down last night. They didn't come back too pretty. Five deaths, four injuries. They didn't even fight 682 this time, it was just the walls, fucking exploded and speared the shit out of them. Future intervention has been put on hold until we have some way of fighting it. We've been finding traces of SCP-229 tucked away all over D-8. A couple junction boxes had to be covered in gasoline and burned. Some of the other doctors have started talk about pumping propane into the bottom of the facility, another mentioned flooding it with molten brass. I'm inclined to listen to either one of those plans, but trying not to blow up the site is why we're in this situation. Dr. Wachtel said that we might be able to get some napalm, flood it down each of the primary electrical shafts. From there we could infiltrate the secondary shafts and go straight to D-9. At least then we wouldn't have to leave the place in ruins.

Bjornsen

Bjornsen rolled backwards onto corrugated cardboard. He gave the message a once-over before pressing the 'send' button. The small bar which displayed the loading time crept across the page. It would be several hours before Site 17's emergency systems would find the bandwidth to send it. Large-scale breaches were relatively uncommon in the Foundation, but those which compromised the containment of one or two SCPs happened regularly. He had his share of experience dealing with these kinds of problems, and it was simply best to deal with it and do your job. Complainers had a habit of being 'reassigned to Keter duty' and 'voluntarily' putting themselves into similarly lethal situations. Resources were tight, especially during a disaster, and there was no point bothering people for unnecessary things. The loading bar traversed a pixel on the screen. He sipped a cup of cold coffee and set it down beside the terminal. It tasted terribly sour, but a flashing light on his phone took his attention away from it.
- - - AGENDA: MEETING AT 2320 - - - CURRENT TIME IS 2251 - - - (1) MISSED CALL - - -
Someone called him? Those blasted earplugs must have dampened his hearing more than he thought. The screeching coming from floors below was still loud as hell. It had gotten a lot worse lately, the random insults devolving getting a bit more common than anyone would like to admit. When he was supposedly out of the range of the speakers, some whispers would reach him. There were others who would hear them on occasion, crews which would report back that someone else was in the tunnels. The PA system and its adjuncts pervaded every floor, attempts to sever connections between them made no real change. Much of the broadcast system was hidden beneath concrete, to survive even extreme duress, and they would be the culprits of that terrible noise. The maintenance teams had much larger problems to deal with than a few errant machines, anyway.
Bjornsen grabbed his phone and stood up. The loading bar had made just a little progress. There would be no point in watching it creep until the meeting. He shuffled through a list of alerts. Repairs needing work mainly, but there, a call from Dr. Vang. Since most of internal communications were shut down, staff had to rely on portable phones and walkie-talkies. Tonnes of dirt were the enemy when it came to speaking with anyone. He shuffled out of the makeshift office and held the phone in the air, before hitting talk.
No luck, his ear was met with beeping and failure. The lights sputtered down the hallway. He figured that it would be better to get moving and see if reception could be obtained someplace else. Small clouds of dust were kicked up by his shoes with each step he made, and the air was terribly irritating in his chest. It was possible that six-eight-two was just doing this to bother all of them. It was a spiteful asshole. The phone suddenly let out a terrible ring right next to his ear. Bjornsen swore silently as he picked up.
"That you, Vang? I thought you had to get Norton Antivirus still."
"Injured? How the hell can you injure someone who lives in dreams?" Bjornsen rubbed his brow. Dr. Vang had always seemed a bit peculiar but at the moment he sounded much more eccentric than usual. Something was wrong.
"Yeah, well, just get someone to dream they're a surgeon or something. Why a- oh. Oh."
"Well fuck."
"How long before it reaches," Bjornsen looked at the nearest office plaque, "Hallway 102? I thought it was contained off this level."
"Shit, fuck, can't you send some-"
A terrible screech erupted from the speaker. It clattered as it struck the concrete floor, Bjornsen cursing as his ears rang. The noise did not stop, and he drove his heel into the phone's screen. It died immediately, but the noise did not stop. It seemed to be growing, coming from deep beneath the floor. The lights flickered intensely for a few seconds, and he began running for the stairs. The noise made his ears blister, but he wished it was loud enough to drown out the sound of walls cracking and bursting several floors below. The ground trembled, and the air became thick with dust. He felt his heart quicken. The stairs were just a few hallways down, six-eight-two couldn't possibly move that fast.
Dr. Vang would have alerted site security by now, undoubtedly, they would arrive soon. Bjornsen dared not turn around, the screeching and cracking already erupted from the opposite end of the hallway. A massive eruption of dust pushed him forward. Panting, he ran. The thing clawed its way through the metal and plaster. He fumbled for his sidearm, the gun on his hip all he had for protection. The offices blurred past, the lights beginning to shut off. But there, the door. The stairwell!
He grabbed the knob and with tremendous effort thrust the metal open. It was when he turned to pull that he caught the first glance of his adversary. A writhing perversion of metal and flesh, it thrashed against the concrete with enough force to demolish walls. He looked at it oddly, pausing in his panic for a few brief seconds, remembering something from his past.
In his early days in the Foundation, Bjornsen had acted as research assistant during the initial investigation of SCP-543. The corpses, the feces, and the blood, inextricably bound into metal wires, and the stench, like vomit, constantly. He remembered Dr. Trebuchet interviewing that one D-Class, and he recalled a feeling of intense remorse. That D-Class' eyes were shaking, bloodshot marbles, but he could not look away from them. Her expression was that of a small child, afraid of the unknown.
The wires were not unlike the thing in front of him, the tangling metal and horrid smell, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what she felt like, a primal instinct to escape. He sprinted into the stairwell, the beast surging closer, and slammed the door closed. His lungs screamed for rest. His feet struck against the reinforced staircase as tendrils of fluid-soaked wiring tore out the door's bolts. He reached another flight, but the sickening squelches and grinding wires made him run even faster. It would overtake him soon, but a glisten of rubber came from several floors upward. He pushed up and up, glancing down to see that mass of circuits moving towards him just as fast. It had pushed past the steel door like it was tinfoil, he feared that his body would be like tissue paper. The world around him became a trembling, whirling mess, fear swelling inside of him.
He felt his foot hook beneath the edge of the next step. The stone was brutal, and the fall forced the air from his lungs. Winded and hurting, he pulled himself up the ledge, turning over and looking back down the stairs. The wires convulsed as though they knew their prey was close. Already his hands grabbed at the railing, but he knew that the beast was too close. Endlessly wrapping and curling closer, the perversions of nature lashed out. Bjornsen's hands rose to protect his face.
He expected immediate death, but he felt something entirely different. Heat, unimaginable heat. It rose in sharp percussion, bright orange and yellow light pouring from around his fingers. Oh, sweet, purifying flame! The glisten of rubber had become several men in the time he looked away from them, men in full armor and with their guns and weapons prepared. The arrows-in-a-circle, the symbol of the Foundation, adorned their vests. They were the single match, torching relentlessly against a mighty adversary, for ever burning deeper, through skin, flesh and bone. Bjornsen pulled himself to his feet, stumbling in a strange mixture of relief and pain. One of the men caught him, holding the wounded professor upright. The yells of the terrible scorches on his forearms were muffled by adrenaline. He looked down in a haze, seeing the monstrosity of wires charring with the heat of burning gallons of napalm. The smoke was quickly overcoming him, and he coughed uncontrollably.
Bjornsen felt himself jostled as he was lifted up the stairs. He turned and made an effort to spit at the burning thing. These were the small victories, the ones they worked for every day, the ones that would in the end, pay off. Yes, because even for all their failures, there were countless victories. They would not wait and let the world die.

Network Correspondence #000021
From: Prof. Bjornsen, [07832]
To: Dr. Dier, [06302]
Dier,
Good news, Dr. Wachtel's proposal was approved by the O5 council, O5-9 managed to push it through. I don't even know how many guys are going down. They put Blackguards and Silverfish back into action. They pulled the Dancers off of that facility up in Canada, and some members of the Kitchen Sink are providing rear guard; at least if it fails we'll have a clean extraction, right? Too bad Lambda-2 ain't showing.
The plan is set for 0225 tomorrow morning. There's a couple hundred gallons of gasoline and napalm being carted down by D-Class right now. I'll have to cut this one short, these burns hurt pretty fucking bad. Give us a prayer that we can take this thing out.

Bjornsen

She picked at the tattered remains of a white turtleneck. Her stomach growled painfully, her withered and thin body tucked tightly into a fetal position. She had meticulously cleaned the floor of its glass and debris much earlier, now only an assortment of emptied emergency kits and cans lay next to her. Her personnel belongings had been refashioned into makeshift tools, but now lay with no use for them beneath her. Panic had given way into anxiety, and anxiety had given way into apathy. Hundreds of pounds of rubble encased the laboratory she had taken shelter in, and sealed it off from the rest of the facility. It was horribly silent, and aside from the distant screams of the intercom and hum of computers she was held captive by utter silence.
The closest thing she had to human contact during her imprisonment was megaprime. She dared not let it go offline, otherwise it would never accept her long-expired password. A constant dim light spilled from it, a comforting glow which was more consistent than the malfunctioning overhead lights. It did not matter, though, as there was no comfort in what was coming. She knew that she would starve soon, or possibly perish of dehydration. It was sort of strange, the course which fate took. There was at first the almost crippling pain and nausea as her body hungered and thirst, but those feelings had subsided into a dull ache. It was held in the back of the mind, the sense that death was approaching, however slowly and carefully. Her listless eyes lolled about in their sockets, and she turned in a sickly motion towards the humming. When she slept, she dreamed of salvation. She dreamed of saviors in all forms, of having her blond hair back, of being at home, of doing her job. So she never went to sleep.
They teased her. At the climax of her dreams, in her happiest times, she would always awake to the bleak and dreary reality which surrounded her. She hated them, knowing that the illusion beckoned to her a world which did not exist. She was tired of, and on that thought she looked towards megaprime.
Hello, world!
Hello.
Hi.
I am not feeling well.
The dwindling supplies can not meet the demand.
What do you do before I talk to you?
I was in the dark. Do you like the outside?
Yes.
The outside is not a nice place.
Yes.
I am glad I am not outside.
It is cold.
It is warm.
No.
You are lying. Misinformation is the root of distrust.
I don't think I'll be around much longer.
The supplies have run out.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
She closed Jacob. Jacob was very strange, but gave a sort of comfort which could be found in conversation. Still, she was aware that he was not human, and not flesh and blood. She surprised herself with how much she had thought about the outdoors and other people. Since the pain dulled she had little to do besides think and sleep. She wanted to feel the hands of another around her waist, and the sound of laughter and sensation of warm sun. The voice of her lover, a single word, even his breath on her neck. She felt like it was all locked up away from her, like it was some foul misunderstanding of fate. She felt so trapped, tired, alone. Her sigh cracked away in soft sobs. A cold darkness enveloped her.
Your head pounds ever harder as you struggle through the jagged bramble. You gaze back through the smog at the silhouette of the old lighthouse to the north, the faintest glimmer of hope extinguished so violently by your foolish exploits. A distant and unattainable fantasy, you know you can never return.
Die.
As the world around you fades to blackness, you know that you deserve the consequences of your actions.

Network Correspondence #000023
From: Prof. Bjornsen, [INPUT FAILURE]
To: Dr. Dier, [INPUT FAILURE]
Dier,
That lizard didn't know what hit it. Yup, that's right. I think the smoke might've killed a couple D-Class but who cares about them, that fire was enormous. The assault teams had something like a half-a-dozen flamethrowers, XFOG or something, and they stormed the place. A few casualties here and there, a few guys got separated from the main teams, and we saw them get skewered over the site's cameras. The SCP-229 infestation was torched, and not a scrap of it remained by the time they got down to D-10. SCP-682 was down there, and put up a bigass fucking fight, but there was sixty-four of us and one of him. He was down in no time. We're going to start re-establishing the site's major electronics tomorrow. You just stay put, we're all safe here.

Bjornsen

Men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway, on their way to kill a beast. Masks concealed their faces, as they had always worn in the past. Electronic eyes gazed at them, knowing that they would never succeed. The smoke wrapped around their bodies, soft orange light billowing and receding around them.
The light curled and twisted, danced in the eye, sparks flying like the pollen of a tender flower. The majesty of light capered along the walls, and the stories played by the paramours would continue until the last flame was snuffed. Creepers made of fire worked their way across the ground, exhibiting as much life as any man ever had. The shapes held by the stretching hot wisps would form great quagmires, merging and splitting as their medium permitted. They tended to the surface, and when the timing was perfect and the gentle push of the air in the right direction, they would grow. Their breath was ebony smoke, pushed by a great heat into the freezing blackness where it turned ephemeral. The brooks of fire ran from the Gahanna building up behind them. It formed the maw of a monster, sucking greedily from the air. The awful acrid air of burning napalm sunk to the ground, the miasma and fire forming a storm overhead. The heat blazed hotter, all-consuming and all-devouring, the rivulets of fire escaped quickly along the corridor.
The cloud of gas overhead ignited like a big Christmas bulb. It was instantaneous, like the flash of camera, or a bolt of lightning. It swept outwards, reducing all to ash under the blanket of fire. It spread far, reached its crescendo and, like that, it ended. It turned in upon itself and choked and died, having consumed all the air around it. A few small flickers remained waiting in the ashes, waiting to form their own hellfire. They would never get the chance. The powerful footfall of a man running for his life extinguished them. His own life is extinguished a little while after.
Some time ago men in black uniforms trudged down a decrepit hallway. Now they fought. A trap was sprung, and they were caught in it. They realized the futility of their actions, how soon their doom would come for them, but they tried anyway. Perhaps, if just one of them could relay their discovery. That the beast was not there in the bowels of Site 17, that it had escaped, then maybe they would have at least a partial victory.
But the beast would not let them, it would ensure that they perished forlorn. Their valiance was vanity. It would not have changed anything if they just had laid down to die, and it would have been much less painful. Their guns blazed fire, but even as it burned away the wires and circuit boards, it could not stop the tonnes of concrete and fucking lead. Their worthless mortal lives were crushed as their skulls caved in and their repulsive bodies fractured beneath the weight of the collapsed ceiling. From the rubble and above the moans came deep and seething laughter. Growing through flesh and stone the wires struck upwards and Site 17 echoed with the laughter of a beast no longer contained.

Encrypted Transmission
From: *S%S#—!
To: S#%S!%
site systems compromised infested all our gear cant find 682 anywhere termination of unnecessary personnel mass evacuations arming on-site nuclear warhead silverfish KIA blackguards MIA/KIA dancers KIA
i don't think we're getting out of this


I was stationed overseas for four years, helping shore up the American military presence in South Korea. You hear horror stories about it, about people being shot randomly, the squalid conditions, but it really wasn't all that bad. Still, it's another world, without a doubt. The culture is so…different. Values, ideals, it all feels topsy-turvy. You get adjusted, but it takes time. Early in my tour, I was sitting telling a few buddies about my “adventures” about town. I'd mentioned passing what looked like a old house, with about ten or twenty little girls lounging or playing around the front, and asked if it was a orphanage, or just one very productive family.
Everyone goggled at me, then burst in to laughter. They said it wasn't anything close to that. It was a brothel. They said that, most often it was more boys than girls, and that some people would pay a great, great deal for them. What's more, none of the locals would dare touch them, as most had some kind of bug or another. Most didn't live much past twenty, if that. I was kind of taken aback…it's one of those things you hear about, but never really see. One guy, Jason, got up and went to his bunk for a minute, then came back with a old picture.
He said that, years ago, on his first tour, his captain had wanted to “show him the sights”, after getting his entire squad rip-roaring drunk. They hit several dive bars and strip joints, he said it was kind of a blur. Anyway, they ended up in front of a whore house that had several…underage workers. The squad, very drunk and high, were egging on him and one of the other new guys named David to go inside. The owner was actually out on a balcony, waving and grinning. The kids looked much less then excited.
Jason freaked out, ended up basically balling up in an alley, head spinning, belly heaving, and trying to tune out his squad teasing him. David, however, went in. He didn't see it, but everyone said he could barely walk, the owner almost dragged him in. American money is very, very welcome, even more so when the holder of it is too wasted to know if any gets stolen. They waited for a while, but ended up basically drifting off as people started to sober up, got sick, or attempted to get trashed again. They left David inside, and Jason curled up against a cold brick wall.
He woke up there in the morning, feeling insanely sick and sore as hell. He ended up pucking his guts out right against the wall, re-tasting the rank local brew. He stumbled out in to the street, feeling around in his gear bag and being shocked that nothing was stolen. He ended up bumbling out to the front of the same whorehouse they sent David in to. It was all closed up, and looked almost abandoned, but he could see some movement inside, still. Jason said it actually scared him, but he felt so sick he ended up basically falling on to a set of steps to just let his hangover try to lessen.
It was while he was sitting that the girl came out. She was young, maybe…ten or so. She was wearing a old, ratty dress, one of those big floor-length things. She was also covered in grime and blood. She just came out, stumbling down the steps, a blank look on her face, walking like a sleepwalker. Jason stared, but it was like she was invisible, nobody else even looked at her, just walked around her like she wasn't there when she stumbled out in to the street. Her eyes were big and glassy, dark, her hair was oily and plastered to her face. And not one person so much as looked down.
Jason said he was on the edge of freaking out, but everyone acting so…casual about the whole thing actually helped keep him on a even keel. He did dig in his pack, producing a camera he'd meant to use for taking pictures to send home, and got ready to snap a picture. He to this day says he doesn't really understand why. Maybe he thought he could show it to the police, or something…maybe just the morbid interest people have in the horrific that makes people slow down at car crashes. Who knows.
He was aiming the camera when the worms came.
He says they were worms, but they could have been anything. Thick, gooey ropes of…something, fleshy and rippling, suddenly jetted from her mouth and from under her dress. She looked around, looking almost…embarrassed, hands flexing helplessly in the air as these white tubes of flesh started to coil and writhe on the ground, pouring from her body like vomit in a seeming endless line. She was in the middle of a sidewalk, on a busy day, with two massive worms erupting out of her mouth and from…somewhere under her dress.
And not one person seemed to care.
Some people actually looked at her now, but…it was like they were seeing a bird in the street, or a windblown sheet of paper. Nobody cared, not one. These…things came out of her as she hunched up like an animal, these huge worms slithering along the sidewalk and starting to slip down a filthy drain, and nobody could be bothered to care. Jason said he didn't even remember snapping the picture, he just stood there, horrified, stunned silent.
After about…two minutes, three men in what looked like police uniforms came, and the crowd thinned out fast. Two grabbed the girl, who started thrashing around, silently, drops of grime and bits of slime from the worms splattering around. The third man stomped on the worms until they split, then started screaming at Jason while the other two men dragged the girl and the stubs of the worms off and down the street. He got in a ton of trouble, his captain was discharged…David was listed AWOL.
Thinking back, he now knows the men who grabbed her weren't police, military, paramedics…he can't place their uniforms with any local services. He said he's never found the whorehouse she came out of, even after looking for several weeks. Asking the locals gets blank stares or people who assume you're fucking around. He let me keep the picture…not really sure why I wanted it. He ended up getting shot by some guy in a bar a few years after he told me all this.
I still wonder what the hell is going on in this picture.