From the inbox of President Mortimer Phillips:
Dear President Phillips,
I believe the workers in the western wing are talking about unionizing. Our best course of action would be to scare them. Perhaps the pinwheel?
Elliot Browning, HR

Morty,
We got a problem with a breach in the lower floors. Apparently some low-level got ahold of a really sharpened pencil and has seized the putty manufacturing line along with some other rebels. They will, of course, be "fired" once this is resolved.
Jim

President Phillips,
Attached you'll find a financial statement for the next fiscal quarter. Summary: Our stickers have gone down in sales, possibly due to skepticism. On the other hand, Dark Ltd. has agreed to begin distributing our dish-blood items. Our recommendation is a 10% increase in sales price to Dark Ltd. with the agreement that we provide a given quota of 200 annually.
Corporate

Monty,
I found this note on my door today, right before my desk exploded:

Dear Mr. Killborn,
We will no longer take this bullshit. It is time us workers fight for our rights, and none of you assholes at HR can stop us. Consider this a final warning before we blow this place sky high!

I am recommending increased security until this issue is resolved.
Jim

Hey boss,
Where would you like that jacuzzi installed?
Reggie

Monty,
We've found the culprits. Needless to say, their contracts with us have been terminated.
Jim

Dear Mr. Phillips,
We regret to inform you that several of your employees have been terminated due to gross negligence in the shipping of your products. We were able to recover the products and they are now being distributed, but we would recommend that next time your shipping personnel come unarmed as we requested.
Carter

Dear Pigheaded Corporate Scum,
This is your final hour. You may have killed our friends, but we still stand strong against the inhumane oppression you propagate against us. As you are reading this a 10 megaton nuclear warhead is being aimed at your factory, and be re-assured we will not hesitate to blow this place to hell if you don't meet our demands.
Fuck you

Dear Mortimer,
We've recently been getting reports of your employees attempting to engage in nuclear warfare. While we are not concerned with your internal affairs, it is rather bothersome to cover up a nuclear explosion. We've stopped them now, but next time, keep your subordinates in line.
Franz

President Phillips,
We've filled out your request to install software allowing you to see the previous edits of memos.
Maintenance

Morty,
Hey, you know that hot chick from Corporate? Well I've been hitting on her a little much lately and she's filed for sexual harassment with HR. All I did was send her a picture of my nads something pretty cool looking. Could you let this one slide? Pretty please?
Jim

==ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL==
This is an automated message. There has been an explosion somewhere in the WEST WING. It is recommended that you avoid the area for the next THREE days.

Hey boss,
I kind of messed up on that jacuzzi installation. Can I try the East Wing instead?
Reggie

President Phillips,
We are currently undergoing some re-configuration of wages as our replacement employees are discussing unionizing.
Corporate

Mort,
We're over.
Janette

President Phillips,
We have filled out your request for the termination of Janette Wesley.
Security

Morty,
I heard you got rid of Janette. Could you at least wait a few days next time? You know how good I am with rebound chicks.
Jim

Morty,
Hey, you asshole. What the fuck are you doing, sending your goons on me? Hey, what was with those guys in my office today? We're friends, right? I won't bother you again, promise.
Jim

Hey boss,
I found Jim in your jacuzzi today. He said you let him. Just thought I'd make sure.
Reggie

President Phillips,
James Killborn has been demoted to assembly line duty, at your request.
Human Resources


Written by Sabituski
Two old men sat at a dinner table, directly across from each other. Above, an old glass chandelier hangs, ornamented with beautiful lights. On the north wall stands an impossibly large portrait of the same two men – shaking hands and smiling, their once jet black hair now dull gray.
There's the sound of cutlery moving about, of cups being lifted and then replaced.
“Keats,” one says.
“Hm?”
“We need to stop.”
“Oh? Oh! I agree completely, the Oracle stock is played out and useless to us now. We should look to invest in clean -”
“Not stocks, Keats.”
Both men put their cutlery down in unison and look at each other. They've been friends for so long that neither manages to muster up one hundred percent of the steel possible in their gaze.
“What are you talking about, Bill? I have to say, your train of thought is sometimes too fast for me to catch.”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”
“I'm afraid I don't.”
“I guess I have to spell it out for you, then.”
“I suppose.”
And here the first speaker -Old Wild Bill, if that matters- looks genuinely angry. He almost stands, thinks better of it, and stops himself. Silence hangs about the room like a condemned man.
“You…this, Keats.” He spreads his arms out around him in exasperation, showing off their grand surroundings. Indeed, the room seems better suited for the upper class streets of London, Washington, Tokyo, or Moscow. Who'd believe it was buried meters deep in Australian dirt? Who'd believe above these men's heads was a statue that would kill you, an immortal lizard, and perhaps worst of all, something red? Who'd believe that below them, even deeper still, was a nuclear warhead with a 20 megaton yield?
As it turns out, quite a lot of people.
“Are you unsatisfied with the Retreat Room, Bill?”
“Listen to me, you little shit.” Bill had taken this tone with the other man only a handful of times in their long, long acquittance, and it slaps Keats awake.
Old Wild Bill stands, and in that moment, he no longer is an old man, but the warrior once called Laughing Bull. His hands, tough black leathery things, come down hard on the table. "I've known you for a long time, William. I know you better than your old whore of a mother knows you. I have stood behind you in all your endeavors; even the ones that were monstrous. It was by my will that my old tribe did not rip your scalp off on the spot when you came riding into our camp. I talked to you, befriended you; you were inquisitive and intelligent, but lacking in humanity."
The other man rolls his eyes and scoffs at the word "humanity".
"It's true. I followed you because…I cared for you, Keats. You were a good friend, despite your greed. But I will not let you hold the world for ransom any longer."
Keats merely takes up a napkin and dabs at his chin and mouth.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
“I'm waiting for you to finish this tired little tirade. Or would you rather me continue this story? Should I recount the tale of how the metal in your backwards little tribe's sacred 'relic' responded to my touch? Or should I yell loudly about what we found there? We could take this out in the hall, if you please.”
"The Factory is a mistake, Keats. It is…" He searches for the right word. "…not a thing of man. We are not meant to create in such a way."
"You are correct about one thing there, at least. It's not of man. It is mine. The Factory is my will made reality. And an effective tool to impose my reality on anyone who cares to disagree."
"You're mad."
"Insults now, is it?"
"Do you realize how old we are, Keats? Why won't you see reason? I am two hundred and ten today. I have watched my entire family die. Ever since you created that damn water -"
“Ah, the Fountain of Youth. Not my most graceful or original creation, but it works.”
Bill's rage was growing. He just looked at the other man and gritted his teeth. Keats noted this and grinned shallowly.
“And who would you tell about this grand conspiracy theory, Bill? The other O5? They are mine. A man's creations can never turn against him. You would know that, wouldn't you, Bill? You're the one who produced the most humans with my Factory. What were their names, again? Alto and Jack? Oh, and there was the one that looked like your son. The old you broke. 'Doctor' Gears, was it?"
“Shut up, Keats."
"I think not. You see, I have known of your growing dissent for some time, and I have planned this moment. Perfectly, I might add. Do you think I would honestly let you walk in here one day and end the world's greatest and longest con? No, Bill. There are still countries to bribe, blackmail, and ruin. There is still money and power out there that I do not yet have. Do you realize what leaders will pay to keep their people safe and their rule secure? I simply cannot allow you to ruin this job for me, despite old friendships." Keat's voice had slowly descended in tone; where there was once affable enjoyment had been replaced with cold stillness.
"I'll kill you, William Keats. And then I'll kill your toys."
“Big words from an old Indian. Excuse me, Native American.”
“You piece of shit -”
Keats had been thumbing the action on his gun since Bill had begun speaking. Two shots rang out, and Wild Bill suddenly found he no longer had knees. There was a scream, and Keats stood, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. In his other hand was a smoking matte-black revolver.
“And history repeats, it seems. The noble English have once again prevailed against our savage foes. ” He presses an intercom button built into the table, and a quiet speaker crackles to life.
“Yes, Mr. One?” An extremely chipper female voice echos throughout the room.
“Mrs. Escot? Which Sites are Alto Clef and Jack Bright currently stationed at?”
“One minute please, sir.” Keyboard taps. “Dr. Clef is stationed at Site 19 sir, but he is currently visiting Dr. Bright at Site 23.”
“Ahhh, 23. The renegades. How convenient; three birds with a single stone. Mrs. Escot, please arrange for SCP-173 and one of our cloning devices to be transferred to Site 23. Once they are inside, please remotely seal the exits and arrange for the two to interact. You have my permission to use our sleeper agents.”
“Yes, sir! Sir, shall I detonate Site 23's nuclear warhead afterward?”
“Hmmm…no, but please ensure that the Site's entrance is buried. And see to it that a cleaning crew is set down to the Retreat Room. Tell them to bring mops.”
“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” Click. The speaker turns off.
Wild Bill lays on the floor, bleeding and barely holding onto consciousness. Keats walks over and stands over him, the gun still in his hand.
“Any pithy last words, Bill?”
Bill's left hand weakly extends a middle finger.
“How predictable.” There is a single crack, and the world's second oldest man dies.
Keats looks at the broken body of his only friend, shrugs, and pockets the gun. He removes a cigarette and a lighter from his breast pocket, and lights up. The smell of tobacco mixes with the smell of gun smoke, and for a brief second, William Keats, pride of his father and light in his mother's eyes, feels a deep sense of nostalgia and accomplishment.
“You ran a good con. Happy birthday, Bill.”
He throws the lit cigarette unto the other man's body and leaves the room.
Ten minutes later, a crew in orange jumpsuits with mops enters the same room, and wordlessly cleans up the body. Thirty minutes later, every single man and woman in Site 23 is trying not to blink. An hour later, and Keats is sitting across from the President of the United States and calmly informing him how easily SCP-682 could be transported into Washington.
The next day, a large amount of funds are transferred into the Foundation's coffers.
Ignoring death and tragedy, the con, and the Foundation, goes on.


Jenkins started as he always did, with the heart. He took it in his gloved hands and turned to the small safe, already open. Gently he placed it inside and closed the door.
Second, of course was the brain. Padded clamps lifted it out of the sawed off portion of the skull and after a few quick snips Jenkins took it over to the safe and spun the combination dial on the far right up one digit. The safe opened. He placed the brain in the empty compartment and shut it away.
With the skull empty the eyes could be removed easily, preserving connection to the optic nerve. This one had piercing green eyes. Jenkins almost wanted to keep them out for a while, before they dilated fully. But he was not one to tamper with an established routine. 0000334 for the left. 0000335 for the right.
Then the ventral cavity was emptied, alphabetically, except for the troublesome pancreas of course. When that was done and all the organs had been secured in the little safe it was time for the real work with the bone saw to begin. He hated the sound of a bone saw in action and there was always so much to be done with it when the time came.
Before he began, Jenkins looked at the safe, then went over and spun the two dials on the right back to 0000334. A single green eye caught the light and he smiled. You have to be able to appreciate the little things. He gathered it in his medical glove, shut the door and thumbed the dial, revealing the other eye. He put them beside each other and admired them again, though he knew it couldn't last. He had to put them away before the corneas wrinkled.
Later, as he began to put the parts away, Jenkins realized that everything he'd put in the safe last month was gone. Usually he had to dispose of a dozen or so unused organs and whatnot. Well, the Doctor must be having a field day lately. He turned back to the dismembered corpse, an expert by now in using one hand for the bloody thing, one for the combination.
The very last thing were the feet, and Jenkins sighed with relief when they were each stowed in their own compartment, knowing this might be the last time he'd have to do this. He was up for a promotion and anything had to be better than doing this every month.

Two hours later and five thousand miles away, an examination was concluding.
"Well Doctor?"
"It appears you were right to call. You'll need a transplant right away." The doctor went over to a small safe, turned the dials on it until it opened. "Good. Mister Jenkins has fulfilled his quota right on time. We can begin immediately." he said.


It was inevitable. In a world full of monsters and cosmic horrors and all sorts of weird things, it was bound to happen. The end of the world. Some of the SCPs were designed to do it anyways.
But it wasn't ever supposed to happen like this. Doctor Parker sat in his office, pondering what was happening. A week ago, it had all been fine. Many had left in the previous years, but containment had been maintained, and the world was, for the time being, safe. Life wasn't normal, but it went on.
And then came the start of last week. A huge drop-off of Foundation personnel, while often mourned, was never considered odd. This group, though, had vanished out of existence. Many could remember them, but records of their deeds and history were simply gone. Task forces were assembled, naturally, but to no avail.
The next day brought worse news. SCPs started disappearing. At first, it was the small ones, ones that had been locked up in the back of everyone's memories, like SCP-132. But then the more important ones began vanishing. Everyone swore they could remember SCP-082, but it wasn't in its cell. Its cell didn't even exist any more. The day 173 vanished was the worst. It had started the Foundation. With its disappearance, many lost hope.
Two days after it all started, the task forces figured out something of a pattern. Many researchers and doctors were vanishing after all of the SCPs and Foundation history they had archived went. Not much to go on, but it gave those remaining an impression that there was some order to the senselessness around them. Though it didn't help matters, as those who made the discovery vanished soon afterwards.
The world began to die. Whatever was eating away at the Foundation wasn't satisfied; it wanted to devour the whole world, and it was. Within a day, most everything was gone. At that point, it was only a group of less than a dozen, hidden away at Site 19 with the last SCPs. They had built up a field designed to combat entropy. A relic of a genius mind who had long ceased to exist.
On the last day, Doctor Parker locked himself up in his office. In the past hours, the men and women around him had vanished, along with all their hard work. Site 19 was being consumed all around him, and only his office remained safe. So he ran in, locked the door, and waited. For what, he didn't know, but he waited nonetheless.
Heaving a sigh, Doctor Parker lifted himself out of his chair, and walked across the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. He was determined to stay alive, but he could feel himself slipping. Having never archived an SCP, he had lost nothing to the decay. But that wasn't true. He had lost friends, he had lost family, he had lost the entirety of the world he lived in.
And now he was losing himself. Bits and pieces of his memory were fading, even though he was only in his late twenties. Even here, with a smaller version of the device protecting him, the last remaining part of the world he knew was vanishing. Anger tried to cloud his thoughts, but there weren't any left.
Turning towards the door, he hoped against hope that opening it would reveal something. The day before he had done so, and found nothing but an infinite whiteness. But maybe he had just been tired. Maybe now, with a clear head, there would be something awaiting him on the other side of the portal.
He opened the door, and he saw madness.
There was something outside his office, but it wasn't anything like he knew. A whole new universe was making itself outside. Even though it was only in its formative stages, Parker could tell right away that it would be done soon, and when it was, it would be nothing like the one he knew. There would be no room for Doctor Parker, or the SCP Foundation, or anything sane and right from the one before.
Doctor Parker stood there for the longest time, letting all of this sink in. He could fight on. He could fight and make his own niche in the new universe. It could try its hardest to reject him, but he could survive, and he could make a living. Hell, he could even rebuild the whole of his universe, with enough time.
Then, he stepped out into the entropy, and let it swallow him.


Written by Sabituski
Hello, sir. I know what you're here for, but if you've got the time, I'd like to tell you a story. Now, don't get that look on your sweet, soft face. This story is rather good, if I do say so myself. I can't make promises for the telling – after all, this old man is getting on in his years. But if you'll take a seat for a while, and actually listen to me, well…who knows? You may learn something. Now, please, sit down.
Now, I'll assume an educated individual like you is familiar with the Many-worlds interpretation, yes? A funny old theory that says that every action on the planet creates a breaking point – a point where possibilities slip from view, only to find themselves in the fertile ground of another world. These possibilities go on to lead fulfilling lives in this different world, whereas they might've stifled and choked in their originating worlds. The universe as you know it is very similar, if you'll let me indulge in metaphor for a second, to a dandelion. Every hour, every minute, every second, possibilities are all collectively being blown from the originating point, floating throughout the ether, and taking seed. It's the difference between a live fire and a misfire. The difference between a dead cat and a live one. The difference between magic and your science.
Now unfortunately, these other worlds are drawn behind a curtain that your kind does not see, nor fully comprehend is present. Thankfully, I was lifting curtains of that nature since before you were a twinkle in Adam's eye. Shall I tell you what's behind Door Number One, doctor? Hah. Don't bother answering. I can tell by the look on your face that you want to know.
Have faith and patience, doctor. And more importantly: listen.
Consider a world where the difference was in human thought. Here, now, we are present in a world where men disparaged and hated the age of myth from the get-go. Let's call our world the World of Reason. In Reason, mankind has turned against his creators and betters, calling them folktales, nightmares, and yes, gods. You have used Reason's light to banish the dark from our minds, and you succeeded – at least for a while.
However…
Mankind is truly incapable of destroying these things. How would you wound a god, or destroy a nightmare? You can explain them away, put them in a meter by meter cell – but they will always find a way out. Myth always finds a way back into the world. All you've done in the World of Reason is altered the lock and keyhole, slightly. You'll find Myth has a great many keys, and a myriad of methods for getting his grimy fingers under the door…there were forces at play in the universe, doctor, that you cannot even comprehend. Gods, small and tall. Things older and greater than even I.
You'll find that you have a great number of their aspects on file.
Now, then. Let's turn to this other world I mentioned.
In this world…let's call it the World of Myth. In this world, mankind has learned its place. It is a world of faith, of subtle belief in things that are greater than man. They believe, and it does not dominate their lives. Humorously, in their belief, they have obtained the world your Foundation so desperately seeks. The primal forces do not seek to enforce and patrol such a world, and as such, that world is devoid of the supernatural. No Keters, no Type Greens, no Genius Loci, no Class Apex Hazards, and no Individuals. It is a world of pure irony, and my fondness for it increases every day.
Now then, doctor -

Cadwallader, what the hell? Your time with 343 ended almost 30 minutes ago! What are you still doing here? Get the hell out now, or you'll be on Langley's shortlist so fast your fuckin' head will spin!

…Ah. Such language.
Must you go? I see.
Do not look at me so sadly. We'll meet and chat again, eventually. Whether it is at Eden, Site 19, or Meggido does not matter – I'm always ready for your questions, your pleas, and your prayers.
It's what I'm here for, after all.


Once upon a time, there was a tailor of well-repute, who resided in a cottage some distance from the town square. He was known to be the best at his art, and his fingers moved like rippling water, manipulating even the finest of fibre and thread into intricate lines of motion that, so the story goes, could bring tapestry to life. Now, we know little truth in that fact. But the thing everyone agrees on is that one day, the tailor sighed.
For he had grown old over the years, and his hands were no longer the systematic swift swirling of small ripples, but the choppy churning of deep lakes. As always, his finished products were magnificent in detail and his commissions rolled in, but there lacked the spark, the swift precision that was his hallmark and pride and joy in his early days.
So the master tailor decided to search for an apprentice. Notices were put up, word was spread, and soon hopeful pupils by the coachload were hiking up the path to the master tailor's cottage, which was secluded so as to aid his concentration on his work. The tailor welcomed his candidates with open arms, and directed them each to a private room where they were shown a needle and as much as they required of the tailor's finest thread. Thinner than a horsehair and flimsier than rotten flax but shining silver which seemed to animate in the cold winter light. The task was to weave a single sheet of shimmering, moving silver, which could not be broken by human means. The tailor could accomplish this with ease, and even demonstrated it in front of the rapt students-to-be.
Naturally, many forfeited after testing the thread, and though there were some who came close, with a twist and a snap, their hard work would come undone by the stern-faced tailor. You have failed, he would say for the hundredth time that day, and the candidate would sigh, pack up and go.
Now this continued for a week, but among the many hopefuls, none were able to replicate what the tailor had taken years to learn and even longer to master. As he showed another dejected candidate through the door, he thought to himself. "I can weave shimmering dragons, flying through the moving tapestry sky; I can weave live fire-flies with their glowing dances onto impossible textures of coats. If I cannot find a man worthy enough to be my student, I shall weave one myself! For nothing knows the fine flow of needle and thread better than one made of needle and thread himself."
The next day, the tailor locked his gate and blocked out his windows. Taking a bundle of fine white cotton, he began to weave. In and out, through holes impossible to find and even harder to thread, into three dimensions he constructed a matrix of interwoven thread, and with a final tuck completed a solid bone out of impossibly locked cotton. More and more he sewed, until a complete man's frame was formed. Then he bounded to the frame, by way of hooks and needles, countless numbers of springy red fibres, dyed with the blood of goats and bewitched by an old gypsy he once met in his earlier days. Slowly, the woven muscles twisted and snaked round one another until they stretched taut on the white cotton bone, and twitched with excited tension. But the tailor pressed his hand to the jumpy threads and said, "Lie still. It's not time yet."
With thin catgut he sewed infinitesimal compartments, until the structure resembled a human lung, and he placed it in the open quivering ribcage. In several swift movements of his needle he connected dripping red thread to fleshy catgut and woven bone, and painfully but surely the muscles contracted. His creation took a shuddering, shallow first breath.
For the veins and arteries he threaded numerous hollow yarns through the strands of interwoven red tendons, into linen bone and within breathing chest, and at the center of it all placed a little sewing-machine mechanism, driven by clockwork held fast with craftsman's glue and a live starpiece. Feeding silk through the heart, he wound up the pulsing starpiece, starting off the mechanism with a muted titter-tatter. Through the hollow veins life's silk coursed, bringing movement and vigour to the limbs. But there was yet no mind to control it, and the creation did not rise.
Using a sheet of smooth pink silk, he stitched skin to muscle, covering the exposed rawness with a layer of thread so warm and smooth to the touch one could have mistaken it for a real person. With embellishments crafted from marble he slid fingernails into raw pulsing nailbeds, and teeth into dry gums. The hair was spun with the finest gold thread the tailor could afford, falling over clear glass eyes filled with bella-donna dew for sight. He left a small opening at the base of the skull, for he had not yet thought of how to weave a sentient soul.
Finally, among his vaults of disused material he discovered a strange colourless spool of thread which somehow shimmered with light more than even his most delicate silver. It was fine, but somehow not too thin, and so strong that he needed a carving-knife to sever it, but felt in his hands and needle that in all his years of practice and self-training, this thread was spun for his talented fingers alone.
In the pale moonlight he began to cast the thread into a single piece of textile. But the more he spun, the more he deviated and the needle twisted and turned, forwards and backwards into ways not even he could comprehend. It was as if the thread was compelling him, forcing his fingers into complex loops and maneuvers until he lost track of everything and all that remained was an indeterminate bundle in his hands, chaotic yet somehow orderly, which seemed to change its shape depending on from which angle he looked at it. His needle was also warped and bent double into a smooth curve, although he could not remember it doing so while he was sewing.
Carefully, gingerly, he lowered the strange dreamy bundle into the cavity of the skull, and stitched up the hole with a single movement. The glass eyes grew a little less opaque, and the tick-tick-tick of the clockwork heart quickened, and the woven man came to life.
That was the story he told the townsfolk, as he brought the woven man to the market the next day. Silk pulsing through threaded veins, it spoke and breathed and acted like a human being. In fact, so engrossed was the master tailor at his project that he did not realise he had created the woven man entirely in his own image. The townsfolk were amazed, and expressed joy at the tailor having another hand to help about in the never-ending work and commissions.
The days went by, and soon enough the woven man grew to be as proficient as the master tailor was in his prime. The master tailor, on the other hand, slowed and declined, and instead preferred to spend his evenings at the local barhouse with a few friends, a deck of cards and a mug of vodka while his creation toiled away and practiced. One night in a drunken rage, he threw down his cards and exclaimed, "I should never have made that blasted woven monster in the first place! Why, I would have trained a respectable born-and-bred man instead, one smart enough not to overtake his master at his own art!"
Late in the night, the town sentry recalled hearing a scuffle in the tailor's cottage. By the next morning, only one man was seen at the market, carrying his own wares. "What happened to the other one?" they asked.
"Tried to murder me in my sleep, that traitorous bastard."
"Where is he now?"
The tailor turned to them. "I killed him. Torn him apart. Strung his sinews into a bonfire, then set him alight with his burning bones."
The townsfolk asked little about that fateful night. The master tailor was apparently driven by the death of his doppelganger, and proceeded to generate tapestries the likes of which no one had ever seen before.
But no man is immortal, and even the master tailor's rippling fingers could not save him from Death. Now this is where the story gets strange, for when they cremated his body in the town square, his body burned like dry cotton on a summer day, and at the bottom of his ashes was a single clockwork sewing-machine mechanism, winding down to the tune of a dead starpiece.


On weekends, people ask me how my week was.
This week was simply business as usual.
On Monday I oversaw an operation to examine a strange creature in a young girl's abdomen.
It was remarkable. It generated an antibiotic more potent than any modern medicine can create. The creature had latched on to the female's spinal cord between the T12 and L1 vertebrae. It had entrenched itself into it, melding its blood vessels and nervous system to hers. It was a difficult operation to remove it, but we managed it. The creature would revolutionize the medical industry, if we could perfect and synthesize the antibiotics. We moved the creature into the ICU. We disposed of the body. She was pretty, but she had served her purpose.
On Tuesday I researched the effects of SCP-078 on schizophrenic patients.
There were four trials, each with a different test subject: an elderly male and female, and a young male and female. I was interested in seeing what happens to the effects of 078 when exposed to a damaged psyche. Of course, death was always an outcome, but if a few hours of clear data was recorded, any end to the test subjects would have been worth it. The young male and female were particularly interesting. We have a clear recording of their descent into apathy and depression. One subject, the female, found ways of self-mutilation using only her fingernails. We were eventually forced to euthanize all four. A pity - the data we got from them were important to our research.
On Wednesday I lobotomized a human subject who was exposed to SCP-215.
It was irritating. We had to restrain him on the table while we were conducting the operation. He kept screaming and struggling, making my cuts ragged and unprofessional. Such a shame, but the samples we retrieved showed significant evidence of mental trauma, as well as some other unidentified anomalies. He may never speak again or play the piano, but he'll live. An IV drip would be a simpler way of gaining nutrients.
There were no tests or experiments on Thursday.
I had to go to a mandatory psychological examination. I don't understand the point of this. I'm perfectly fine. I have so many more tests to conduct.
On Friday I injected a test subject with SCP-742.
There was nothing truly out of the ordinary today. It was more of a whim that I did this test, but testing is something I live for. The young girl, about 8 I suspect, was very patient and willing. Of course she screamed when we stuck the needle in her arm - any young child would. We waited the normal incubation time, and then began the tests. We started with small animal in a cage. Within minutes the subject grabbed it and sucked it dry. From there we moved on to larger prey: a rabbit, small dog, and a cat. Although it seemed she would take them, she wasn't satisfied. I was interested. I wanted to see how she would react to a human subject, so I decided to wait until her next scheduled feeding session. When the orderly brought in the usual small animal, I locked the door behind him so he could not run. (Why would he, anyway? This was for science! For the good of the world! He should be honored.) He screamed unnecessarily loudly. The test subject rejected the animal and went straight for the orderly, feeding quickly. The data was interesting, certainly worth more than the disposable orderly.
Some would call my week insane and unnecessarily extreme. But why is that?
It's simply business as usual.


Background: During regular testing SCP-185 was set to a Foundation used frequency and the year 20██ was entered into the keypad. The following transmission was recorded.
<Commence Log>
Research Assistant Corbette: Hello! I'm your commentator, Salman Corbette!
"Redacted" Pagan: And "Redacted" Pagan with the fourth annual Anomalympics, hosted this year by the Foundation itself, in conjunction with the Global Occult Coalition: "Protecting Humanity, whether it likes it or not!"
Research Assistant Corbette: Haha, let's not be too harsh on them, Pag. We've also got a few guests from the Chaos Insurgency, Agents ██████████ and ███████, participating in a few events.
"Redacted" Pagan: We even have a few members of the enigmatic club from Europe, Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd., competing. It's amazing to see the kind of sportsmanship that comes around this time of year, wouldn't you say?
Research Assistant Corbette: Well, it's always good to just place politics aside and have some nice, friendly competition. Unfortunately, the ORIA agents were not able to make. Some sort of nuclear crisis going on. But, let's get started, shall we?
"Redacted" Pagan: Of course. For our first event, we have the beloved classic 1000 Yard Dash! From the SCP Foundation we have SCP-076-2, otherwise known as Able, who has chosen this event to show off, in his words, "What it means to have fun."
Research Assistant Corbette: From The Chaos Insurgency Agent ███████ will be "proving superiority", and apparently Mr. ██████████ from Dark Ltd. will be racing under sponsorship. We also have guest competitor Dr. Bright, who claims that his monkey legs aren't going to stop him from doing anything.
"Redacted" Pagan: And the firing of the Sun Launcher signals the opening of the competition! Agent ███████ of the Chaos Insurgency seems to take an early lead, with Able tripping over his unlaced shoes! He's muttering something in Sumerian, but that's not important right now.
Research Assistant Corbette: Wait, hold on, I've just gotten word that due to the anomalous nature of several contestants, the event has been changed to the 1000 meter dash. Officials are lengthening the track right now… And Mr. ██████████ is catching up to the Agent. I must say, doesn't he look good with that Bauer sponsored helmet on?
"Redacted" Pagan: Very much so, and it seems as though wearing a helmet has paid off, as Dr. Bright has procured a banana peel from his racing leotard, thrown it across the field, and has caused Mr. ██████████ to trip! I would say that's cheating, but with Able on the field, I guess nothing is!
Research Assistant Corbette: Oooh, I don't think he's going to recover from that setback. And it looks like Dr. Bright and Agent ███████ have caught up to one another, with Able just lagging behind.
"Redacted" Pagan: It's a very close race, very close indeed but… WOW it seems Agent ███████ just went topless to stun Dr. Bright! Now, sexual warfare is just a low-blow, but we should have expected that from our friends at the Chaos Insurgency!
Research Assistant Corbette: And with Dr. Bright sent stumbling, Agent ███████ wins the race! But Able doesn't seem to be happy.
"Redacted" Pagan: Ah, he'll get over it, it seems 73, Cain, is coming over to help up his brother, and is teaching him how to tie his own shoes. Now that's the kind of thing we want to see here at the Anomalympics.
Research Assistant Corbette: Good thing too, or else the Chaos Insurgency might be out for the three-legged race. (Laughs).
"Redacted" Pagan: Ah, those violent days of Able are over, Salman, ever since we convinced him of [static for 23 seconds] he's happy to lend a… rather competitive hand!
Research Assistant Corbette: Of course! But now onto a much looked forward to event, wrestling.
"Redacted" Pagan: Sadly, Able can't participate in this event because of the incident last year when he broke 72% of Wrench ██████████ of the Church of the Broken God's body. I would make a joke right now, but the poor guy is still being treated.
Research Assistant Corbette: So instead we were able to get 682 to participate! Of course, he originally declined the offer, but after [static for approximately 30 seconds] -appy to join in.
"Redacted" Pagan: Under current regulations, 682 is forced to remain at 32% of his original size so that other participants can have a chance, but thanks to some convincing on the Foundation's part, he was glad to oblige.
Research Assistant Corbette: Well, let's just hope that acid was strong enough. Also participating is Agent ██████████ of the Chaos Insurgency, Madame ██████████ of Dark Limited, and SCP-096.
"Redacted" Pagan:It seems the Madame is dressing up in some sort of suit… Agent ██████████ as well, do you have any information on these, Salman?
Research Assistant Corbette: I'm just getting information that the two were previously professional wrestlers. Sweet Tooth and The Crushnugget, respectively. Thankfully 682 has also been trained in wrestling. If you look now you can see them placing a Luchadore mask on his partially dissolved head.
"Redacted" Pagan: What a small world we live in, indeed.
Research Assistant Corbette: Of course, we can't have 096 showing his face, and so he's wearing SCP-035 with pride, along with SCP-619-J. Apparently we are “piling on every SCP we can to kill that fucking lizard”.
"Redacted" Pagan: So…what happens if that Abomination we've built wins?
Research Assistant Corbette: “We'll nuke the fucker”. The fucker being the abomination, I believe.
”Redacted” Pagan: That's an order from Site Command?
Research Assistant Corbette: That's an order from the referee, who looks quite scared right now.
”Redacted” Pagan: Wish I could get a headset like that.
Research Assistant Corbette: Well Pagan, being a Research Assistant does have its benefits. Perhaps one day they'll promote me and I'll get an actual chair.
”Redacted” Pagan: Well, I'm fine being a [static for 12 seconds] but back to the current subject: This is going to be an interesting, if not blindingly horrifying match! The participants are geared up and ready to go. Who do you have your money set on this match, Corbette?
Research Assistant Corbette: I'm gonna have to go with 682 myself, since it's so hard to destroy. (Pause) Apparently 682 prefers to go by the name El Reptilioso in this state, and we'll be referring to him as that for the rest of the event.
"Redacted" Pagan: Because of the late entry of 96, the two Foundation entrants will face each other, with Sweet Tooth and Crushnugget in their own match.
Research Assistant Corbette: Our first match will be 96 vs. El Reptilioso, who are stepping into the ring now. 96 and/or 35 appears to be shouting about the blood of his forefathers, while El Reptiloso is growling loudly. The referee steps into the ring and the bell is rung.
"Redacted" Pagan: And… I can't believe how fast he did it, but 96 has already gotten 682 into a triangle hold! I guess 35 is really taking advantage of 96's strength!
Research Assistant Corbette: Wait? What's this? An audience member has just thrown something onto the stage! Why, it's SCP-572!
"Redacted" Pagan: A move like that seems pretty risky, “pride goeth before the fall” and all that…
Research Assistant Corbette: 682's already picked it up, and is slashing it around with it, trying to find 96.
"Redacted" Pagan: And… mother of 343! 96 lunged onto the scaly bastard's back!
Research Assistant Corbette: Oof, that's gotta hurt. But it looks like Reptilioso already noticed the abomination and is turning around now, slashing.
"Redacted" Pagan: Just what was 35's plan in doing that!? It seems he's already been hit by the blade and… how the hell are we letting a sword pass in this!?
Research Assistant Corbette: I don't know, but it's goddamn entertaining. Oh, and 96 falls over.
"Redacted" Pagan: El Reptiliso walks toward the… thing and… WOW, 96 was playing possum!
Research Assistant Corbette: He seems to have surprised Reptilioso. And… Jesus! I don't know how he did it, but he somehow has Reptilioso in a Nelson.
"Redacted" Pagan: This is indescribable! Reptilioso has grown arms on the back of his head and… now has 96 in a german suplex!
Research Assistant Corbette: 96 and/or 35 is shouting something about his 'destrucisity'. He seems to be stretching down and… he grabbed the sword from Reptilioso's mouth! Oh, and a straight whack on the head. That's gonna leave a mark.
"Redacted" Pagan: And it now appears that Reptilioso just doesn't care anymore! He's grabbed 35 and appears to… oh no! He just pulled it off! Holy shi- [static is heard for 43 minutes].
"Redacted" Pagan: Give a round of applause, Madame Sweet Tooth is this year's champion in wrestling, and not a single nuke went off! If you missed even a second of the action, you would definitely be surprised at the Madame's performance!
Research Assistant Corbette: Thank god we all went blind right when that mask was removed! And now onto our next event and a favourite of all, 110-Montauk.
"Redacted" Pagan: And it seems a variety of spectators have just lost their lunch, [pause] but no fear, after the horrible events of SCP-231-7 and the [static for 2 minutes 12 seconds] -ven was cured, and the Foundation took her horrible procedure and made it the name of: The Bikini contest!
"Redacted" Pagan: 231-7, however, is now enjoying a picnic lunch with 053, and several spectators.
Research Assistant Corbette: Our competitors this year include 105, Sweet Tooth, Agent ███████, and The Invisible Woman. Our Own Dr. Bright has graciously volunteered to judge the contest.
"Redacted" Pagan: It appears that the bruises from Madame Sweet Tooth of Dark Limited are going to hurt her chances this year!
Research Assistant Corbette: Not to mention that she appears to have been given several shots of testosterone. In fact, I've just gotten information that Dr. Bright has disqualified her from this competition.
"Redacted" Pagan: And there she goes, poor girl… well, at least she can take solace in the fact she won something… and WOW, her replacement from Dark Limited is something out of a fantasy book! It appears to be a tall [static for 3 seconds] -ronze skinned [static]wom[static] her entry form states she's MC&DL Curio-BAC-7, and as her letters indicate, she has some BACK.
Research Assistant Corbette: Actually, I've just gotten word that Dark Limited had just gotten a hold of 826. Sources say this may be the mystical Aphrodite we are looking at.
"Redacted" Pagan: She appears to wear a collar of sorts…the classic MC&D Slave collar and Bright has graciously allowed the collar to stay on due to the events of a likely XK-Scenario from an angry goddess.
Research Assistant Corbette: And here comes 105, dressed in a nice one-piece.
"Redacted" Pagan: You have to appreciate the modesty of the girl… though it seems Bright doesn't.
Research Assistant Corbette: Right behind 105 is 347. And what a stunner she is in a complimentary bright green bikini. Really leaves a lot to the imagination, as can be seen by the expression of several doctors watching.
"Redacted" Pagan: Judging from their looks, it does appear to be the first time most of the attendees have seen 347's assets.
Research Assistant Corbette: Oh, who's that looker there? It's Agent ███████, from the Chaos Insurgency, who had previously tripped up Bright with what she's showing off now. And doesn't she look great in that itsy-bitsy thing?
"Redacted" Pagan: However, the showing appears for naught as Bright seems to hold a grudge against for what she did in the first event, giving a very disapproving nod as his only clue to his judgment.
Research Assistant Corbette: Just goes to show, you never tick off the judges.
"Redacted" Pagan: And here comes that "Aphrodite" to strut her proverbial stuff! With a very provocative display, she shows off her V-shaped swimsuit and in a STUNNING moment it appears Dr. Bright has made some comment about his bananas!
Research Assistant Corbette: (Pause) And the results are in. It's a surprising four-way tie. (Pause) Apparently the winner will be chosen by sexual fav- And they're dragging Dr. Bright offstage.
"Redacted" Pagan: Well, it appears no-one wins this event… (pause) Well, isn't this a surprise? The newest judge is supposedly Dr. Clef! (Pause)
"Redacted" Pagan: Now of course, this is in no way biased, as the judges for these kinds of events are always decided upon whom is hosting it, and as the Foundation is hosting it this year, we have our pick of the judges, we tried to get Nobody, but not even that box could get a hold of him… her… it… them.
Research Assistant Corbette: [static for approximately 3 minutes] -O5-6 is now beating Clef and declaring that there are no winners and this competition was not actually planned.
"Redacted" Pagan: Well, what a rousing display that was. Several men, and women, had to leave the audience when Agent ███████ and BAC-7 started their catfight! But onto our next event…
Research Assistant Corbette: Anomalous trivia!
"Redacted" Pagan: Now, as per regulations, AI's and machines are NOT allowed…(pause) It appears that this rule does NOT apply to individuals augmented with technology… several members of the Chaos Insurgency and Dark LTD. Seem relieved.
Research Assistant Corbette: Of course we have our own robot, Dr. Gears! (Laugh) Up now we have Agent ██████████ of the Chaos Insurgency and a rather brainy looking representative for Dark Limited up to compete with Dr. Gears.
"Redacted" Pagan: And when we say brainy we mean BRAINY, it appears that the contestant has a BULGING brain almost protruding through the skull… and it just twitched… I may lose my lunch if I continue looking at it.
Research Assistant Corbette: The contestants step up to their places and are each given a large, red button. Janitorial staff are being called in to clean up the spinal fluid dripping behind the Dark Limited representitive.
"Redacted" Pagan: Now the first question is: What event occurred that caused the emergence of [static for 20 seconds]?
Research Assistant Corbette: -ears takes the first point.
"Redacted" Pagan: And the second question - in what year did the schism between the Chaos Insurgency and SCP Foundation take place?
"Redacted" Pagan: [static for 12 seconds] …It appears that the Dark Limited representative takes that point!
"Redacted" Pagan: Surprising indeed!
Research Assistant Corbette: Third question is a Foundation specialty: What are the main components of 173's metal? [static for 7 seconds] Dr. Gears wins that one.
"Redacted" Pagan: By correctly guessing it was a trick question and then stating [static] of wh- [static for 12 minutes].
Research Assistant Corbette: And Dr. Gears wins a stunning victory of 20-5-7. Of course, he was almost a shoe-in when the Dark Limited representative's head exploded, and took out Agent ██████████.
"Redacted" Pagan: The foundation appears to be in the lead, but we have several events lef- [static] -umball blowin- [static] -pture the fla-[static for 17 minutes 42 seconds] and now onto the half-time show!
Research Assistant Corbette: Performing today will be none other than Fernand “The” Cannibal with back-up singing from Herr Chirurg, who will also be playing a very special organ.
”Redacted” Pagan: Also, Marilyn Monroe, circa 1961, has been provided to us by our friends from Marshall, Carter, and Dark through use of SCP-826 and Mr. Carter's personal magazine collection.
Research Assistant Corbette: And here's the first song, Piano Man by Billy Joel. We'll hook up the audio of the singing to our broadcast now.
[DATA EXPUNGED ON O5 REQUEST]
”Redacted” Pagan: What an astounding performance, Salman. Not a dry eye in the house… field… whatever! The point is, everyone was deeply moved by the performance of the half-time show!
Research Assistant Corbette: Indeed. [Sound of nose being blown]. And now onto our next eve- [Static for 2 hours and 5 minutes]
Research Assistant Corbette: -and 173 gets another hit. Foundation leads 85 to 79.
"Redacted" Pagan: And I'm greatly astounded by 173's performance. However, as the game is Marco-Water-Polo I can understand why!
Research Assistant Corbette: Indeed. And the game finishes with Leopotamus scoring a final goal. Foundation wins!
"Redacted" Pagan: The Dark Representative put up a great fight, but [static for 13 minutes]-hat a wonderful [static]-ame of tug of war!
Research Assistant Corbette: The Foundation had to take a loss on that one, but with Sweet Tooth the Dark Limited was bound to win. And now onto our final event.
"Redacted" Pagan: With the SCP Foundation and Chaos Insurgency tied, and the event being worth an astounding 40 points, whomever wins this will be declared the champion.
Research Assistant Corbette: We will now conclude with an old classic, beach volleyball.
"Redacted" Pagan: Unlike previous events, the teams will be mixed together, and the winners of that team will face off in a one on one volleyball championship match!
Research Assistant Corbette: Up now we have two SCP objects, 517 and 372 vs. Sweet Tooth and Agent ██████████ of the Chaos Insurgency
"Redacted" Pagan: That's odd, Agent ██████████ of the Chaos Insurgency is wearing a long coa-(pause) It seems that the Chaos Insurgency has recently gotten hold of SCP-262, the Coat of Many Arms.
Research Assistant Corbette: This will be an interesting match indeed. Of course, it wouldn't be possible without Dr. Smith [static for 2 minutes] -omehow was able to get the volleyball's fortune told. Of course now we have two normally hostile SCP objects participating in a fun and engaging sport.
"Redacted" Pagan: The participants have shook hands…which has to be seen to be believed. And the competition has started, Grammie kicking it off with a three-handed cannon!
Research Assistant Corbette: Of course actual Grammie will be sitting on the sidelines, with those nasty hands poking out of a rift that's opened up on the cou- WHAM what a spike!
"Redacted" Pagan: And returned by Lady Sweet Tooth, you have to give the lady credit, Salman, we can safely say that she really is the only human in this competition!
Research Assistant Corbette: And a failed return by Grammie. Point Sweet Tooth. But wait, a sudden serve by 372 and a failed return by Agent ██████████. Bet he didn't see that coming.
"Redacted" Pagan: He really doesn't seem to have training with that Coat… practice makes perfect.
Research Assistant Corbette: And slam another spike by 372. At least, I think so.
"Redacted" Pagan: It's very hard to say with all of these arms on the field… (pause) And it seems that Bright is trying to call the game off for claiming it an affront to beach volleyball… citing lack of desirable women. (pause) And the complaints go on deaf ears as the game goes on!
Research Assistant Corbette: Hah, well Pag, would you say he's talking about Sweet Tooth or Grammie?
"Redacted" Pagan: Well, Salman, I'm guessing that since one of them is an inanimate statue, he's referring to Sweet Tooth… And it seems those complaints didn't fall on deaf ears as Sweet Tooth just scowled into the audience and MISSED a return.. that is going to seriously hurt her chances!
Research Assistant Corbette: And as the game comes to a close it looks like Grammie and 372 will come out the winners here, making the Foundation this year's Anomalympics winners.
"Redacted" Pagan: ….and Sweet Tooth has made a MAD dash to Bright within the audie-OH that has GOT to hurt, I'm glad that the camera isn't on her right now as I'm sure the Anomalympics would surely get a higher rating for the violence taking place!
[static] (monkey screams followed by crashes) [static]
"Redacted" Pagan: She's torn apart a quarter of the bleachers! I may have to redact saying she's a normal huma-[static]
Research Assistant Corbette: And Agent ██████████ stumbles and falls on that last return. An amaz- What the 914 making sweet love to Gears? How did Sweet Tooth learn 110 Montau- [Static for 40 minutes]
"Redacted" Pagan: And the day's activities are winding down with everyone gathering around the Anomalympic Flame, generously provided by SCP-457, the Burning Man, after convincing him of [static for 12 minutes] breaking into song led by 661 [static] Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. have started their auction. [Static for 5 minutes]
Research Assistant Corbette: -eet Tooth sold for [static for 2 minutes] -nd what a great day that was. From [static] I'm Salman Corbette…
"Redacted" Pagan: And this is "Redacted" Pagan. And yes, I do have to say "Redacted"… it sounds cooler, and these have been:
Research Assistant Corbette: The Anomalypics. Thank you and goodnight.
[Static for 5 minutes 12 seconds before the transmission ends]
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Foundation personnel are currently searching for individuals with the surname "Pagan". Research Assistant Corbette was questioned; however, it was determined that he had no knowledge of the transmission. He did express distress, however, that he had not yet been promoted after ██ years. No known proposals for the "Anomalympics" or anything similar have been discovered.