ARCADIA?????? EDEN CREATIONS???????

Something something SCP

by vilsolad

SCP-6114 may only be performed within Chamber 6114-A, a reinforced concrete chamber within Area-34. SCP-6114 may only be performed with authorization from the O5 Council and the Directors of the Departments of Anomalous Weapons Development and Tactical Theology. A member of each Department must be present for each use of SCP-6114. Upon successful execution, the resulting entity is to be interviewed and either banished or given bespoke containment procedures.

SCP-6114-RABID is held within Area-34's Containment Wing C, in a reinforced SHAAC-L.

SCP-6114-WIZEN is not subject to containment procedures. See Addendum.6114.X for further information..RADIX-class items have been integrated into the Foundation's command structure.

SCP-6114 is a ritual capable of summoning deific entities, though only at a fraction of their full power. To perform the ritual, an item of significant historical or religious association to the target entity is placed at the center of a series of concentric circles engraved into the floor and filled with bovine blood. Upon completion, the resulting entity's name will appear rendered in a fine dust.

Entities summoned by SCP-6114 are captured into the item used during the ritual. Following the ritual, these entities can be moved to other vessels or banished with the assistance of thaumaturges.

To date, num entities are known to have been summoned via SCP-6114. All but one of these instances were created by the Foundation under Project Spearhead.

Following a multi-year campaign and investigation, the primary regional stronghold of GoI-003 ("Chaos Insurgency") was discovered along the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border. On 11/09/2017, A battalion from Armed Mobile Task Force Iota-27 ("Big Sticks") was deployed to siege the facility. The relevant excerpt has been included below.

by TopDownUnder

The path outside Site-Σ's east courtyard was lined with beautiful ferns, planted in rows so precise that they wouldn't fit anywhere other than the Math Department's site.

"And it took four hours. Four hours, Alex, on a proof that turned out to be a rounding error!" Lia Upasani was still going on, her hands moving wildly in front of her to accentuate her words. This was their usual routine, Alexandria Everest listening to Lia complain about whatever annoyed her that day as they walked around.

"Rounding errors happen."

Lia scoffed. "Not to me they don't."

They reached the fork where the path split, one arm curving past the greenhouse toward the cafeteria, the other cutting straight through into Tactical Math's quadrant.

"Let's loop around," Alexandria said, already moving toward the greenhouse arm. "I don't want to cut through Tactical."

Lia glanced sideways at the other path as they passed it, before turning back to Alexandria.

"Anyway. Did you hear Tactical's finally getting AWD's toys back?" Lia caught up to Alexandria, kicking a pebble down the path. "Whole department's been buzzing about it all week. Apparently the new director wants full cooperation, not the little scraps they used to throw at each other."

Alexandria turned away from Lia, making a face. "I heard something like that."

"Big shift, from what people are saying. Wasn't AWD basically radioactive for a while there? After the whole…" Lia made a vague gesture, the universal shorthand for the scandal, you know the one. "Their old director. Wasn't he—"

"Ezra, my brother." Alex cut her off sharply.

Lia stopped for a moment, letting the pebble roll off the path. She shook her head and continued.

"Right. Sorry. I always forget that's — I mean, I knew, I just." She sighed, cutting herself off. She knew Alexandria's family was a sore subject, even if she didn't know the finer details. "When's the last time you actually saw him?"

Alexandria hesitated for a moment. Lia opened her mouth to take back the question before Alexandria turned to her.

I remember the road up to my father's house better than I remember the funeral itself.

Tío Mauricio picked me up from the airport in a dingy truck that reeked of diesel and coffee grounds. He hugged me for a long time at the curb. He always did when he saw me now. He said my name right. I remember being grateful for that.

Three hours south, he said. Maybe more if the fog rolled in over Cerro de la Muerte.

And it did. I spent most of the drive watching it eat the road ten feet infront of us. Tío leaned forward over the steering wheel like that'd help cut through the fog. He had the radio on low, some AM station playing songs I half-recognized from being a kid. I counted switchbacks instead of making conversation. Fourteen, before the fog broke and the land dropped away into green on both sides. I could see the coffee field as we arrived at the house.

I remember the smell more than any conversation I had that day. It hits you the second you open the truck doors. Thick, sweet, rich. When I was young, I always imagined that's what the whole valley smelled like. San José smelled like any other city. This smelled like a place I was from, even though this was my first time there in ten years.

The house hadn't changed. Same tin roof, rusted at the seams. Same crooked fence that abuelo built and dad never fixed. Someone had strung lights along the porch for the occasion. They were small white ones. Too bright for a funeral, if you ask me. It was broad daylight anyways, so they did little.

Inside, it was full of people I mostly didn't know. Second cousins, an aunt I'd met only once, a man who turned out to be a neighbor and not family at all, though he cried more than most of them. They all knew who I was before I said anything — word travels fast in a family this big — and they came at me one after another with the same warmth, the same careful Alexandria, qué bueno que viniste, the same double-cheek kiss, the same not-quite-question in their eyes that they were too polite to ask. Nobody flinched at my new look or new name. Nobody called me the wrong thing. If anything, they overcorrected. They said it too often, like they had rehearsed something they wanted me to know they'd practiced.

I should have found that touching. I think some part of me did, deep down. But mostly I remember standing in my dead father's living room looking at the wallpaper — small yellow flowers, water-stained near the ceiling — and thinking that I could not name a single one of their birthdays, but they definitely knew mine.

I didn't feel unwelcome, far from it. I felt like a photograph of someone who used to live there, hung back up in its old place for the occasion.

The wake itself blurred into a long afternoon of the same three or four stories, retold by whoever thought they were the first to tell it. Felipito this, Felipito that. Someone's version of him as a boy, chasing chickens barefoot down the road. Someone else's version of him arguing with a professor over a few points on his paper. Nobody told the version of him that I knew. The one that had gotten me a job at the Foundation, the one who signed my transfer paperwork with a frown, the one who called every few months and asked about the weather to make up for an actual conversation. I didn't offer that version up. It felt like it belonged to a different person.

There were people there I recognized without being able to place, moreso than my family. A woman and a man standing near the doorway the entire time, not eating, not really talking to anyone else. Foundation, AWD. You could always tell. They had a way of making the room feel colder just by standing in a corner.

My younger brother, Matias, wasn't there. One of the Foundation people mentioned the why in passing. Some work thing at Site-3, something that couldn't be delayed or missed.

My older brother, Ezra, I saw across the room. He was in the middle of a conversation, his body angled for the door. He nodded absently along to our relative, looking for an escape. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of underneath it. I watched this same scene play out three or four times from across the room, without once walking over to talk to him myself. I told myself I was giving him space, but even in the moment I knew that was a lie.

It was on one of those laps around the room, looking for anything to do besides talking to my brother, that I found the book.

It was sitting on a shelf in the front room, wedged between a ceramic Virgen de los Ángeles and a stack of unopened mail, open to a page with a photograph of a mountain so white it looked retouched. I didn't need to read the caption. Even I knew what Everest looked like.

"He fought us for that thing, you know." An uncle I didn't recognize had come up beside me, following my eyes to the shelf. He smelled like aguardiente and cigarettes, the good kind of uncle smell. "After abuelo died. Everyone else wanted it for themselves, sold, whatever, and Felipe just said no. Absolutely not. Practically took it and ran."

"Why?"

He moved to answer, but shrugged instead. "Ask your brother. He'd know better than me." He nodded, unhelpfully, toward the door Ezra had just slipped through.

I didn't go out there to find him. I'd just wanted out of that room, to get some fresh air. It just happened that the porch door, the same door he'd gone through, was the closest to me.

He was standing at the far rail, back to the house, one hand pressed flat against the wood for support. He must have heard the door, because his shoulders locked before he even turned around — bracing to perform fine for one more relative. Then he saw it was me, and he relaxed.

"Alex."

"I didn't mean to…" I gestured vaguely behind me, at the house, at the whole day. "I can go."

"No. Stay." He said it quickly, like it blurted out of him. He heard himself and looked embarrassed. "I-If you want."

I stayed.

For a while, neither of us said anything. The porch lights buzzed faintly overhead, too bright now that the sun had set. Somewhere behind us we heard muffled laughter through the walls, and I remember resenting it.

"How was the flight?" Ezra asked finally.

"Fine. Long." I picked at a splinter on the railing instead of looking at him. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I haven't," he scoffed.

We talked about other things. The flight. Site-Σ. He asked polite, distracted questions about my role at the Math Department. He told me a little about his Department, AWD. Just the broadstrokes, what you'd tell a distant family member. He asked how long I was staying.

"A few days," I replied. "You?"

"I drive back tomorrow. You know how it is." AWD would always need their star Senior Engineer for something.

It should have felt easier than it did to talk to him. We were siblings. We'd grown up in the same house, technically, even if it hadn't overlapped for long. But every question felt like we were both trying to relearn how to talk to each other. I kept reaching for that version of him I remembered. From before he left for college, from before he joined the Foundation, from before AWD had gotten its hooks in him. From before the bags under his eyes had gotten so heavy.

"…well, are you gonna tell me?"

Alexandria blinked, coming back off her train of thought.

"Our father's funeral," she said. "Four years ago."

"Huh. That's a long time ago."

"Yeah."

Lia seemed to sense there wasn't more coming and, to her credit, didn't go looking for it. She started on something else — an Applied Math researcher she couldn't stand, a printer on the third floor that ate her print job — as they made their way back to their offices.

They arrived at Alexandria's first. Lia gave her a quick kiss goodbye, confirmed their plans for tomorrow, and left her.

Alexandria walked into her office, turning on her dim lamp. She sat down on her firm chair and sighed, looking at the paperwork infront of her. She reached down and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, pulling out an old book. She gently set it down, and opened it up to a photograph of a white mountain.

by TopDownUnder

The vehicle's onboard display said there was only one occupant. Alma reached over and turned it off.

The road out of Braulio Carrillo National Park was a black ribbon between walls of dark. The cloud forest pressed close on both sides, their headlights catching curtains of mist and nothing beyond them. The Foundation SUV handled the wet mountain road well; she was grateful for that, but still took each hairpin with both hands on the wheel, jaw set, eyes forward. The altitude made itself known in the thinness of the air. Somewhere, in the canopy, a bird was screaming. She didn't know what kind, but she wished it was a Quetzal. Those were beautiful.

In the passenger seat, Rafaela had her shoulder against the window and her arms folded over her chest, watching the dark go by. Her curly hair was uneven, cut without care, and the dried blood on her forearms had darkened. She had not said a word since Alma had pulled her into the vehicle and floored it through the south gate, and Alma had not pushed her to. They were both still reeling from everything that had happened. Alma herself was still in that flat, buzzing calm that comes after the adrenaline wears off but before the mind can catch.

Alma's phone buzzed against her thigh. She had forgotten to ditch it when they left Area-34.

She left it. A truck materialized out of the fog ahead, and she tucked the SUV tight against the mountain wall to let it pass. Her mirrors went white and then dark again.

The road straightened for a stretch. She reached down and pulled out the phone.

One notification. A text from Dr. Akabi Hayk.

Area-34's external security got called back, if you need a calm drive. See you when I see you. — A.H.

Alma read it twice. She thought of Hayk across the desk in their therapy sessions. She was always composed, careful, understanding. She thought of what it had cost her to send this. What it would cost her when they went looking for how two fugitives knew the coast was clear.

She pressed the window button. The mountain air came in cold, smelling of moss and wet earth. She dropped her phone into it without slowing down. In the side mirror she watched the screen glow briefly against the road before the dark swallowed it.

"Was that important?"

She almost swerved hearing Rafaela's voice. It was low, roughened at the edges. But hers.

"No," Alma responded. "Not anymore."

Rafaela made a small sound and turned her face back to the window. Alma's hands tightened on the wheel. She wanted to look at her properly, had been wanting to since the parking bay, since the door panel, since — but the road demanded her eyes and she gave them.

The trees thinned at a curve and for a moment the fog broke, and she could see the valley below: San José, a scatter of amber light in the bowl of the mountains. Distant and small and entirely indifferent to the two of them. She began the descent toward it.

"Where are we going?" Rafaela asked. She was still watching out the window, her breath fogging the glass slightly.

Alma thought for a second before responding. "I don't know. Where can we go?"

"Cartago," Rafaela said. "I know someone."

Her reflection in the passenger window was faint, uncertain. The dark forest behind it showed through her face clearly, like her face wasn't there at all.

The road widened as they descended. The mist thinned. A roadside pulpería appeared and fell away behind them, shuttered. There was a hand-painted sign above the door that Alma couldn't read at their speed. The valley opened around them and the forest pulled back and the city lights came closer and warmer, and neither of them spoke again.

It was enough, for now, to be in the same vehicle. To be driving toward something. To hear her breathe.

Alma reached the highway interchange and signaled left. Her hands had mostly stopped shaking by now.

Gloriana was the person Rafaela knew in Cartago. She opened the door on the third knock.

She almost looked past Rafaela entirely. Her eyes moved across Rafaela's face without pause, as though she was processing the face of a stranger. Then something clicked. Gloriana's hand flew to her mouth.

"Dios mío," she gasped. "Rafa. Come inside."

Rafaela and Alma slept in the spare room on a narrow mattress, a single window looking out over a shuttered store. Before dawn, Gloriana took the Foundation vehicle somewhere. Perhaps to scrap it, it didn't matter. Alma didn't ask where. She lay on her back and looked at the ceiling. She listened to the street outside. A dog barking, a motorcycle, someone's television through a wall. She didn't know if Rafaela was sleeping. She didn't turn to check.

Instead, she lay there and thought about the dashboard. One occupant.

She thought, also, about a footnote. The second one in her personnel file, which she had seen once and which she had produced, in a sense, through eleven months of Noospheric study she had been proud of. Work that had been cited in four papers, three journals, and two facility reports. Work that had indirectly led to the further refinement of SCP-9270's targeting system. She had known, very well, what the system was used for. She had told herself it didn't concern her.

She had never thought of it as a weapon.

Beside her in the dark, Rafaela breathed steadily. It took a long time for Alma to sleep.

When she woke, the morning light was coming through the window in a flat yellow bar. The space next to her was already empty.

She found Rafaela in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a borrowed phone to her ear. She was talking low and quickly, her free hand tracing something in the air as she spoke. Alma had forgotten about this habit until this moment, the way she mapped plans with her fingers as she thought, drawing the connections out of nothing. In daylight, Alma could see that the bruises on her arm had deepened overnight, purple at the centers and a sickly yellow at the edges. Her hair was not as uneven as it had seemed on the mountain road.

She looked up when Alma appeared in the doorway. Her hand slowed. She whispered something brief into the phone and lowered it.

"Good morning," Alma said.

"Morning." Rafaela set the phone on the counter. "We can go this afternoon."

Alma nodded. She leaned against the doorframe and watched Rafaela's face, which was doing something it always did in the mornings — working through something, still half-inside whatever she'd been thinking. Alma had forgotten this too. She had forgotten so much.

"Are you ready for this?" Alma asked.

Rafaela looked at her for a moment. "No," she answered. "But we need them."

They drove south from Cartago into the hills in a used car. This was coffee country, the fields rising in green terraces on either side of the road with the cordillera enormous and blue behind them. Rafaela gave directions from the passenger seat. Gloriana had lent her a plain shirt and jeans that were just a bit too long.

The place they arrived at was an ordinary house behind a roadside sodita. Three other vehicles sat in the dirt lot. A hand-painted menu board leaned against the porch railing, next to which a man sat on the steps, looking at the ground.

He looked up when they pulled in. He looked at Alma. Then at Rafaela. His eyes went back to the ground before snapping back to Rafaela. He got up and broke into a sprint towards them. Rafaela opened her door and met him halfway.

"Rafa!", he exclaimed.

"Beto!" She brought him into her arms when he reached her. He was broad-shouldered, heavy. He hugged Rafaela back with his teary eyes closed, as though trying to confirm her presence by touch alone.

Alma stayed by the car and looked at the mountains.

Inside, the house smelled of coffee and wood. Four more people sat around a table covered in printed maps and handwritten lists. One by one, as Rafaela came through the door, it happened again: The pause, the catch, the return. A man stood up from the table to meet her. Taking turns, they all approached Rafaela and embraced her, two of them holding back tears.

Well, all except one. A young woman near the window — twenty, maybe less — sat with her arms crossed, her jaw set, and watched Rafaela move through the room without expression. When her gaze passed Alma, it stayed for a moment, flat and measuring, before catching up to Rafaela.

The conversation that followed was practical at first. Beto laid out what had happened to their group in the eighteen months Rafaela had been gone. The northern cell had gone dark after losing two members; they were alive, as far as anyone knew, but were radio silent. The coastal group had fractured. A disagreement about a mission, or something more personal, Beto wasn't certain. The cell in Pavas was still active but running reckless, acting without planning.

Five of them had already been picked up by Foundation teams. Not a word from them since.

"They're combing through Braulio Carrillo right now," he added. "Probably looking for the two of you." He glanced briefly at Alma. "They're persistent."

"They always are," Rafaela sighed.

A silence settled. Beto refilled his cup. "Some people thought you left. You know, before we… forgot."

"…I know."

"N-not me. I figured something happened. But—" He stopped himself. "Some people thought you left."

"I know," she said, quieter.

Later, while the others bent over the maps and Rafaela was deep in conversation at the far end of the table — her hand moving again, drawing her thoughts in the air — Beto came and stood beside Alma. He pressed a cup of coffee in her hands.

"You're the researcher," he said. He didn't sound accusatory or questioning.

"Yep."

He watched Rafaela across the room. He drank from his cup. Then, he quietly asked, "How did you get her back?"

Alma held her coffee without drinking it. She had no answer she could give him. None that would mean anything, none that didn't incriminate her in the same breath. She said nothing.

Beto nodded, taking the silence as an answer, and walked back to the table.

by TopDownUnder

Special Containment Procedures: All SCP-XXXX instances are currently uncontained but remain within the confines of Site-225. Sitewide acoustic and motion sensors have been installed inside the walls of Sub-level 2, where instances are known to frequent. Three feeding stations, located in Sublevel-2 East Corridor, Sub-level 1 cafeterium, and the loading dock, are to be re-stocked daily. Supervised recapture attempts may be conducted with Directors Council approval

Archived Containment Procedures 03/22/2025: All Site-225 staff are tasked with, in addition to their existing duties, aiding in the capture of SCP-XXXX instances. Personnel are to attempt to corner or contain instances using any means available and, if successful, are to alert Security or Containment staff as soon as possible.

Archived Containment Procedures 03/14/2025: SCP-XXXX instances are to held within a standard biocontainment chamber pending further investigation.

Symbol drawn by an SCP-XXXX instance.

Description: SCP-XXXX refers to a group of six small humanoids, 55-70cm in height, with mottled grey-green skin, disproportionately long ears, and sharp teeth.

SCP-XXXX instances are capable of translocation through solid matter, up to an estimated radius of 12m. The mechanism behind this ability is poorly understood; leading hypotheses among Site-225 staff involve brief entry into a non-observable space. The ability appears to trigger in reaction to perceived threats, but is also used recreationly, usually to startle, mock, or otherwise antagonize Site-225 staff before withdrawing.

SCP-XXXX instances display an interest in stealing small personal items. Common targets are ID badges, writing utensils, and eyewear, which are rarely recovered intact. Instances are capable of vocalizations, which consist of rapid chittering and cackling sounds believed to constitute a language. Despite their generally mischievous nature, instances have shown no interest in harming personnel, and no major injuries have been attributed to SCP-XXXX.

Discovery: All six SCP-XXXX instances were first recovered on 03/14/2025 by MTF Rho-25 ("All's Well") conducting a routine sweep within Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada. Instances were transported to Site-225 for containment and evaluation. Six hours after arrival, before any testing or observations could be made, all six instances of SCP-XXXX phased through walls of their containment chamber. After searching for several hours, Site-225's security team failed to locate the instances and declared them lost.

Addendum.XXXX.1:

by TopDownUnder

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  By vilsolad and possum_punk
  

  WORDS AND SUCH

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ITEM #: SCP-LXXX

OBJECT CLASS:

SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES: All entry into SCP-LXXX is strictly prohibited. This protocol was enacted to prevent another CHESHIRE event.

DESCRIPTION:

by possum_punk

SCP-XXXX is contained within a standard human containment cell at Site-17. SCP-XXXX may only be interacted with approval from the Site-17 Director and/or at least one O5 member. Any unauthorized contact with SCP-XXXX will result in immediate termination.

SCP-XXXX is a 36-year-old female, legally known as Moira Byrne. SCP-XXXX poses mild precognition. This precognition typically manifests as accurate short-term predictions of immediate events, usually 1-10 seconds in advance.

In addition, individuals who interact with SCP-XXXX for an extended period of time report feeling a strong sense of déjà vu or familiarity, even if this is their first interaction with SCP-XXXX. A few individuals have also reported memories of events that have yet to occur. Testing indicates that these memories aren't precognitive in nature.

by TopDownUnder

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  Critter Profile: Neil!
  Author: TopDownUnder
  1.5k words, 8-min read

  For more by me, check out my author page!

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Critter Profile: Neil!

Overview!

Name: Neil

Species: Felis catus (Domestic cat)

Primary Caretaker: Terrestrial Team, Ellie Woods

Diet: Wet cat food, mice

Housed: Wilson's Wildlife Center, Enclosure 81

Creature Features!

Neil is our name for this little cat trickster! When the Caretakers dropped him off, they said he was a "minor Tartarean entity." That means something along the lines of demonic, I think. Neil looks like any other housecat, except for his glowing red eyes.

He's also a heck of a lot smarter than your average barn cat, and can even talk! He's got a very odd way of talking. I think he refuses to use any words invented after the 1700s. He's also got a soft spot for simple machinery. Give him a lever or a pulley and he'll sit there purring and watching it for hours on end. Show him a smartphone, though, and he couldn't care less.

Every conversation with Neil eventually winds its way around to him trying to buy your immortal soul, in exchange for "ancient knowledge" and "forbidden truths." He always opens with a little nugget of wisdom first, as a sample, before he tries to sell you the rest of it. Don't worry, you can just tell him no!

History!

The Caretakers dropped Neil off with us about five years ago now. They said they found him grumbling around the parking lot of a hardware store out past Boring, fussing about getting kicked out. They figured he wouldn't be much trouble, so they sent him our way!

Neil himself tells it a little differently, though. He claims he's a "Great Duke of Hell," commander of thirty-six legions, and an infernal winged lion. He says it was his "office to make men knowing all handicrafts and professions," and that he taught philosophy, mechanics, and sciences "back before man could even lift a tool." Whether you believe him or not, I wouldn't go laughing about it to his face. He does not care for being called "just a cat."

Special Needs and Accommodations!

He. Always. Gets. Out. No matter how we lock up his enclosure or reinforce it, we find him wandering the halls when we get there in the morning. As far as we can tell, he isn't doing anything bad at night, so we let him wander about. Just make sure to lead him back to his enclosure at some point. Speaking of, make sure to keep his enclosure stocked with toys! He has a habit of breaking them.

Even if you aren't assigned to Neil, feel free to pass by and chat with him! He enjoys the company, even if it doesn't sound like it. Just don't give him your soul. Obviously. You can just say no. He'll sulk around a bit but he's never pushed it too far.

by TopDownUnder

by possum_punk

by TopDownUnder

Working a lot with someone really helps you notice things about them. Small things you wouldn't notice about anybody else.

The way her glasses are just a little too big for her head, having to be pushed back up every five minutes.

The way she sighs when she puts her hair up to fight the heat.

The way two strands of hair always manage to evade being captured into her ponytail, perfectly framing her face.

The way her lips are perpetually semi-curled into a passive smile, slightly open to reveal her slight overbite.

The way she doesn't hold her pencil right, never having been taught the right way and never having the patience to learn it.

The way she slightly squints when she's trying hard to hear you over the ambient noise.

The way she gently nibbles on her pointer fingernail when she's thinking intensely about what to do next.

I used to think this was just a parabiology thing. You spend enough hours watching a thing, you start taking notes on it without meaning to; feeding patterns, vocalizations, the little tics that tell you something's about to molt or bolt or bite. It's not affection, really. It's just data. You write it down because you might need it later, and because writing it down is easier than admitting you've memorized it.

I figured I'd notice these things about anyone I sat across from for ten hours a day, five days a week, for months on end. That the noticing was a habit of the job, not a habit of the person.

I don't notice these things about Director Day. I don't notice these things about Akabi Hayk, who I've shared a wall with for nearly as long, and whose coffee order I could not tell you if you held a gun to my head.

But I do notice them about Vivian Shing.

Tonight she's noticing none of it about herself, because she's sitting cross-legged on my desk — not the chair she dragged to the side of my desk, but the desk itself, shoving my stapler out of the way with her hip like it didn't belong — eating rice out of a Foundation-issue specimen container with a fork she definitely stole from the break room.

"You're going to get in trouble," I say, not looking up from my report.

"For what?"

"Eating out of biohazard containers."

"Nuh-uh. It's not biohazard, I just labeled them biohazard so nobody steals my snacks." She points the fork at me. "Works on everyone except you, apparently."

"I don't want your rice, Viv."

"Everyone wants my rice." She eats another bite, considering. "Okay, not everyone. Vallis from the Task Force said it 'smelled aggressive.' Whatever that means."

"It means Vallis's an idiot."

"That tracks." She kicks her heel lightly against my desk drawer along to an ill-remembered rhythm. She always did this sort of fidget when her hands were full and her feet had to pick up the slack. Outside, the rain's been going since six, the downpour that makes Area-34's windows look like a fish tank. She complained about the humidity the day we got here. She still complains about it, daily, like it's the first time she's felt it.

"You know there's an empty cafeteria two doors down with an actual space for eating," I say.

"This one has you in it." She says it so carelessly. Like it doesn't cost her anything to say. Yet it costs me so much to hear. "Besides, your stupid stapler needed humbling."

"How's the hephaesium write-up coming?" I ask, mostly to make her stop kicking my drawer.

"Awful," she groans. "I have four use cases and they're all crossed out in red." She groans again and flops backward onto my desk, scattering a stack of printouts I'm going to dread re-sorting later. "Why'd they give it to me, anyway? I'm an entomologist, not a metallurgist! It feels personal."

"It's not personal."

"Everything can be personal if you want it to be," she says, upside down, her glasses threatening to fall as they slide further and further up her forehead.

We did this before. Not this, not literally this, not Area-34, not hephaesium. But this feel of it. Late nights. Somebody's desk. Somebody's report that isn't really getting done. Site-225, a few years back, before either of us had passports stamped for Costa Rica. She used to sit on the edge of my bunk instead of my desk.

I don't bring it up and neither does she. There's a version of tonight where I ask her something. Why the move to Site-37, why no warning, why I found out from a transfer memo instead of from her. And a version where she tells me, unprompted, the way people sometimes do at midnight when the rain's loud enough to cover anything that might come out wrong. Neither of those versions are happening tonight.

She slides off my desk eventually, mostly to spare my report from rice, and drags her own paperwork over so she can do it next to me instead of across from me. We work like that for a while, in silence.

She asks me how to phrase a Project Release Form without it sounding like she's giving up on the alloy entirely. I tell her she's overthinking the wording and she should just do it. She tells me that's rich, coming from someone who once spent forty minutes thinking of a name for a new canid.

"It needed a good name," I mutter.

"It just needed a name, Kat. That's all it needed."

"It deserved better than just a name."

I see her open her mouth to refute, but she stops. I see her look at me for a moment, like she's taking a note of her own, then goes back to her packet.

"Oh, I brought you something," she says a while later, sitting back up. She digs into her jacket pocket and produces a small ziplock bag. It's the ones we use for soil samples, and it's holding a very content pillbug.

"Viv!"

"It's not Boomer, Boomer's sleeping right now. This is a regular one. I found her under a planter in the courtyard." She holds the bag up to the light like she's showing off a diamond. "Watch, she does the thing." She taps the bag gently. The pillbug curls into a tight little ball. "See? Isn't that the cutest thing?"

"You scared it into doing that."

"Startled her. There's a difference."

"No, not really."

"There is if you love her." She taps the bag again, watching it curl tighter, absolutely delighted with herself. "Look at her. She's just a little marble now."

I look at the bag, then at her. She's flushed from the heat, hair coming loose at the temples. She's absolutely delighted by this bug she found under a planter, like it's the best thing that's happened to her all week. This is the thing about Viv that gets me. She makes you care about pillbugs. She makes you care about everything she does, by sheer proximity, whether you want to or not.

"I'm gonna keep her," she says, already moving the pillbug into a vivarium on her desk.

She hops off my desk to set up the vivarium for the pillbug, and I go back to my report, or I try to. The rain's softened to something steadier. The building's quiet in a soothing way. Half of the lights were off down the hall, the HVAC the only thing keeping the silence from being total.

I think about the catalogue again. I used to tell myself it was a professional habit, the same instinct that makes you log a specimen's resting heart rate even when nobody's asked for it. But specimens don't get added to on purpose. You don't go looking for new entries, like how I have with this one for months.

When I look back up, she's bent over my desk again, scribbling something into the margin of her own paperwork — a note to herself, a doodle, I can't tell — pencil held wrong, like always, gripped too high and too tight.

And there they are. The two strands of her jet-black hair. Escaped from her ponytail again, same as the day she grabbed my shoulder and called me Kitty like no time had passed at all. They were hanging right at the edges of her jaw, barely grazing her cheeks.

I reach over — she doesn't flinch, just a small pause in her pencil — and tuck both strands behind her ears. The way you'd do for anyone. The way you wouldn't do for just anyone.

She goes still. Then she looks up at me over the top of her big glasses, that same perpetual half-smile pulling a little wider, overbite and all.

Outside, the rain keeps going. Inside, for once, neither of us are in a hurry to fill the quiet.

by TopDownUnder

SCP-XXXX is stored in a standard containment in Area-34's FLAT Facility. The reflective surface is to be kept covered with an opaque cloth outside of testing.

Additional containment procedures pending further testing. Junior Researcher Asli Akgun is currently tasked with uncovering the anomalous properties of SCP-XXXX.

SCP-XXXX

SCP-XXXX during recovery.

SCP-XXXX is a wall-mounted mirror with an ornately carved wooden frame. The object shows moderate signs of age, indicating that it was constructed in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. The reflective surface is in poor condition due to the deterioration of the silver backing. SCP-XXXX's glass is marked throughout with dark spots and areas of clouding, resulting in a dim and uneven reflection that distorts toward the periphery.

SCP-XXXX was recovered following a Foundation raid on a known Serpent's Hand safehouse, where it was discovered in a storage room with several other anomalous artifacts. Of note, the primary occupant of the safehouse was missing during the raid and has remained unaccounted for. During standard intake, SCP-XXXX exhibited no anomalous properties. However, due to the circumstances of its discovery, it is believed to be anomalous. The nature of SCP-XXXX's anomalous properties, if any, remains under investigation.

by TopDownUnder

SCP-9373 is currently kept in the main lobby of Site-01. Personnel are allowed and encouraged to freely use SCP-9373 at their leisure. Cleaning and upkeep of SCP-9373's optical and mechanical components are to be performed as needed.

SCP-9373 is a 19th-century refracting telescope, constructed primarily of brass and teak wood. The external casing of SCP-9373 bears a deep gouge along its lower half, consistent with a ballistic impact at close range. Despite this and its age, the lens and internal optics of SCP-9373 show no signs of deterioration and remain in pristine functional condition. Engraved along the barrel of SCP-9373 is the following inscription:

We can see the beauty of the world, even if it can't see ours.

When an individual looks through the eyepiece of SCP-9373, the expected image is replaced by a view of the planet Earth as seen from the surface of the Moon. The precise vantage point on the lunar surface varies between sessions, with no point having been repeated to date. When viewed through SCP-9373, no artificial lights, structures, or other evidence of human civilization are visible on Earth's surface.

The image produced by SCP-9373 is stable for the duration of each session. Repositioning or reorienting the telescope has no effect on the observed image.

SCP-9373 was originally constructed by Professor A██████ W█████ in the 1890s for her associate wife, Nora W█████. The object remained in Nora W█████'s possession until her murder in 1904. The object was recovered from the scene of Nora W█████'s death by B████ H███████, one of the Foundation's founding members, and remained in their personal collection until it was donated to the Foundation in 1969.

The following pages were donated alongside SCP-9373, presumably ripped from a diary or journal:

Live view through SCP-9373.

by TopDownUnder

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-001-1 through SCP-001-36 are kept in separate low-security containment lockers and chambers throughout Site-01. Personnel may access any of these items with permission from the Site-01 Director.

SCP-001-37 is kept framed in the main lobby of Site-01.

Description: SCP-001 is the collective designation for a group of anomalous objects, documents, and mechanical devices. Each item in this collection was either collected or created by Professor A██████ W█████, an English paraengineer and occult researcher active during the mid-to-late 19th century.

The majority of SCP-001 materials were recovered following investigations into Professor W█████'s final residence after his death in 1914, though several associated objects had previously entered containment through unrelated acquisitions conducted by Foundation precursor organizations, namely the Royal Society for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Artefacts (RSSCPAA).

Surviving correspondence indicated that Professor W█████ maintained contact with multiple engineers, occultists, physicians, thaumaturges, and anomalous persons of interest throughout Europe during the latter half of the 19th century. Several individuals later involved in the cataloguing and storage of SCP-001 materials would subsequently participate in the formation of the Foundation.

by TopDownUnder

by TopDownUnder

Dr. Cairns, accompanied by his handler at an Anomalous Victims Meeting. Dr. Cairns was and currently is suffering from Multiple Semi-Personality Overlap.

Special Containment Procedures: The corpse of SCP-6170 is stored in a Cryogenic Biovault at Area-34. Personnel are allowed access with permission from the SCP-6170 Project Head and one member of the O5 Council. Under no circumstances is the corpse of SCP-6170 to be dissected, modified, or otherwise desecrated. .Draugr-Class Objects are considered Neutralised or Decommissioned, but ongoing anomalous phenomena originates from them.

Anomalies affected or created by SCP-6170-A are to be catalogued underneath a SCP-6170-B designation, but still retain a main database slot. If at all possible, SCP-6170-B instances are to be decommissioned.

Description: SCP-6170 refers to a sentient entity that, until an incident in mid-2016, existed within ██████████, Ohio. SCP-6170 demonstrated stabilizing effects on anomalous phenomena, not just in its general vicinity but throughout reality. Objects with anomalous traits brought close to SCP-6170 would have these properties diminished, or in some cases, outright nullified.

In mid-2016, due to circumstances outside of the Foundation's control, SCP-6170 was fatally wounded via gunshot wound. At first, no negative effects from its death were recorded and SCP-6170 was classified as Neutralised. However, recent analysis indicates that this incident has resulted in an increased amount of anomalous activity.For context, the amount of SCPs classified per year in 1976 was 3,406. In 2010 it was 5,231, in 2015 it was 5,754, and in 2017 it was 19,233.. Some preexisting anomalies have exhibited drastic changes in their nature, further deviating from normalcy. This ongoing event has been classified as SCP-6170-A.

On top of the above proliferation of the anomalous, reality has also begun to show signs of deterioration and collapse. The Average Hume Level for Earth and the surrounding space had decreased by 0.02Hm between 2016 and 2017, a stark difference from the previous annual decline of 5^-12Hm.

Alongside the increased rate of anomalous activities noted above in the Description, a sharp increase in what could be considered "negative" events has occurred. This has ranged from the installation of dictatorships in third-world countries to an up-mark in the amount of annual natural disasters. On top of this, many preexisting anomalies have shown alterations to their anomalous properties. In many of these cases these alterations have resulted in properties that either pose a greater risk to human life or actively attempt to break the Veil. Below is a non-exhaustive list of anomalies affected by SCP-6170-A.

Project Overview: Project Attis was created by the SCP-6170 team and in accordance with several thaumaturgic rituals.

Abstract: Project Attis was commissioned by Dr. Cole Thereven, and assigned to MTF-PSI-8, for the revival of SCP-6170. During its lifetime, baseline reality was unaffected, carrying on as per usual. After Its death, the anomalous began to diverge from their usual abilities, and Hume levels dropped.

Project Information: The revival of item SCP-6170 is important to normalcy and to the survival of mankind.

Several actions are in order, In the category of Anomalous technology integration, and thaumaturgic rituals. During the SCP-6170 event, SCP-447 went through a sublimation process, turning into a gas. It was eventually decided upon to combine item SCP-447 with the disposed corpse of D-1512134. listed below is an interview, categorized as a peak event in the SCP-6170 process.

Acting on information gathered from the interview in Addendum.6170.3, the Department of External Affairs held meetings with religious members of the Global Occult Coalition's Council of 108, believing that one of them either had information on SCP-6170-A, or was directly involved in the death of SCP-6170. As per the Foundation-Coalition Diplomacy Act of 1976, the representatives present at the meeting were placed under a Geas barring them from making untruthful statements.

Dr. Akabi Hayk, the interviewer in Addendum.6170.5, was informed of the lack of useful information gleaned from the correspondence with the Council of 108. Shortly thereafter, Dr. Akabi Hayk submitted a letter of resignation to her supervisor, citing a "lack of competence and expertise required to properly aid the Foundation during these trying times."

A reevaluation of the interview revealed it to be complete gibberish, with no deeper meaning behind it. What Dr. Hayk had taken to mean something was instead unrelated words strung together by the different personalities within SCP-8586 attempting to express themselves.

by TopDownUnder

1. Sarkic is a slur that has been reclaimed by some Nalkans.

2. The O-5 Council is basically invincible. They're only susceptible to damage when a certain number of inhibitors and inoculation are disabled. These protective measures so alter their appearance and the perception of them from baseline reality, they have to be turned off if they wish to mingle amongst the commoners.

3. Sushiblading is the second most popular anomalous martial art. The first is Tsab-Kau² a form of Nälkän Kung-Fu.

4. There are two main Ways of traversing between universes: Hell and The Library. There are other Ways but they are much more dangerous and mostly unreliable.

5. A lot of anomalous things happen at Burning Man Those who see them either think they're tripping balls or the actually are. The Foundation labels Burning Man a "Temporary Nexus".

6. The most unreliable method of inter-universal travel is the Noospheric multi-Universal Travel System (N.U.T.S) N.U.T.S. was created by Alicia Chao a.k.a. Black Queen Tasha. Tasha is incredibly defensive of her creation claiming, "It's a- it's a very early prototype" and "It will be relevant… someday."³

7. While the SPC is a large para-governmental analogous to in other universes, is does exist in the Prime PP-SCP. The Sisterhood of Pugilist Crusaders is a matriarchal lesbian shark-hate cult based in Bedourie, Qld, Australia.

8. There are two levels of Task Forces (including MTFs⁴, STFs⁵ and PTFs⁶), Alpha and Bravo. Alpha task forces have greater responsibilities and use the Hebrew Alphabet as part of their designations (e.g., PTF-Gimel-9 "Abercrombie and Fetch"). Bravo task forces have lesser responsibilities and use the NATO phonetic alphabet as part of their designations (e.g., MTF-Juliet-15 "SCP CPS"). No task forces use the Greek alphabet in their designations.

9.

Apocryphal Bullshit⁷⁸

1. Most members of Gamers Against Weed have known each other since childhood.

2. dado is a transgender woman. Or non-binary. I can't decide.

3. SCP doesn't stand for diddly squat.

4. The Foundation uses clones instead of D-Class. Or they just clone the same couple of D-Class over and over, shrug

5.

by possum_punk

Director Jimmy Day

Level4
Access

Full Name
Jimmy Day

Department
AWD

Position
Director

4865-4157534865-415753

ID NO.4865-415753
Valid until 02/2035

The new Director of AWD. Jimmy was elected to this role by the O5 Council and Ethics Committee. Despite this, the Committee still holds some apprehension about him. Records indicate that Jimmy has worked in several other Departments, but interviewing members of these departments has revealed absolutely zero information on him. Further investigation required.

Dr. Katherine 'Kitty' Summers

Level3
Access

Full Name
Katherine Summers

Department
AWD

Position
Specialist

7842-1259787842-125978

ID NO.7842-125978
Valid until 03/2035

A researcher in AWD. Graduted top of her class in Deer College, specializing in parabiology. She was picked up shortly after by the Foundation, and assigned to Site-225 until her transfer to AWD. Interviews with Hayk reveal that Katherine is unsure about the future of AWD, worried that it'll end the same as it did under Ezra. Still, she accepted the invitation to hopefully steer the Department away from that past.

Dr. Vivian Shing

Level3
Access

Full Name
Vivian Shing

Department
AWD

Position
Specialist

2145-7754822145-775482

ID NO.2145-775482
Valid until 03/2035

Dr. Akabi Hayk

Level4
Access

Full Name
Akabi Hayk

Department
Psychology

Position
Psychologist

5627-7689675627-768967

ID NO.5627-768967
Valid until 10/2030

A (para)psychologist at Area-34. Akabi doesn't officially work in AWD, but her connections to several personnel and her position at their HQ leads to her being heavily involved. A majority of the information in this document was gathered by her. Much like Katherine, Akabi is worried about the future of AWD, having been there during the fall of the last. She requested several times to be transferred from Area-34 to a less stressful environment. Lucky for us, she has enough skeletons in her closet we can use to keep her in place. That, and her wife works for AWD.

Dr. Alexandria Everest

Level3
Access

Full Name
Alexandria

Department
Esoteric Math

Position
Specialist

3516-9987553516-998755

ID NO.3516-998755
Valid until 11/2030

Dr. Hugh Finner

Level4
Access

Full Name
Hugh Finner

Department
AWD

Position
Specialist

5219-2548845219-254884

ID NO.5219-254884
Valid until 05/2027

A veteran member of AWD. Hugh joined the Foundation in the 1980s, fresh out of college. He helped pioneer research into other dimensions, leading many early extradimensional extrusions. He specializes in extradimensional geometry, topological anomalies, and stable interspatial pathways. He originally left AWD in the 1990s, transferring to the burgeoning Department of Extradimensional Research following a disaster in Portsmouth. Like many others, he was returned at the personal request of Jimmy Day.

Farhat al-Halaby

SCP-XXXX-Host

Level2
Access

Full Name
Farhat al-Halaby

Department
AWD

Position
Asset

4208-9872344208-987234

ID NO.4208-987234
Valid until 04/2035

A former Foundation thaumaturgist. Farhat has had a relatively normal career in the Foundation, mostly serving as a consult for containment specialist and AWD. She had no major achievements — or disasters — under her belt. Until she fully joined AWD, of course. During attempts at refining new containment sigils, Farhat accidentally attracted and fell victim to a thaumaturgic parasite, SCP-XXXX. This infestation has greatly enhanced her already modest abilities, at the cost of eating her away. The more she uses her thaumaturgy, the worse her condition becomes. Despite this, she refuses to relax, using her abilities to AWD's benefit. Of course, Jimmy encourages this.

SCP-7739

Ahwi

A very, very, minor God, Ahwi willingly entered containment in 2019, on the condition it got to spend time with Jackie, the daughter of Dr. Nicole Gardner. Despite some pushback from Nicole, this condition was accepted. This stayed in place until Jackie grew up, and lost interest in her deer goddess friend. Despite some… companionship with Nicole, Ahwi was depressed after Jackie stopped visiting her. Some way or another, Ahwi heard of the revitalized Sigma-66, and asked to join. AWD was predictably eager to accept her.

by TopDownUnder

SCP-XXXX-Host is to check in biweekly to the Department of Anomalous Weapons Development for wellness checks. SCP-XXXX-Host is not to leave Area-34 without direct permission from the AWD Director or SCP-XXXX Project Lead..Hera-class items are hostile but have proven useful to the Foundation.

In the event that SCP-XXXX-Host perishes, is compromised, or otherwise becomes unavailable to the Foundation, STF Epsilon-55 ("Devil May Cry") is tasked with locating and capturing SCP-XXXX. A containment chamber is set aside in Area-34 to serve as temporary housing for SCP-XXXX. A new suitable host is to be found as quickly as possible.

Outside of these containment procedures, SCP-XXXX-Host is not to be referred to by her SCP designation. Personnel are reminded that Doctor Farhat al-Halaby is still a member of the Foundation, and is to be treated as such.

Dr. Farhat al-Halaby, SCP-XXXX-Host

SCP-XXXX is a semi-non-corporeal thaumaturgic parasite. SCP-XXXX has a serpentine, segmented body with large mandibles and vestigial limbs. Under regular conditions, SCP-XXXX is invisible to the naked eye. Observation of SCP-XXXX requires either Etheric Resonance Imaging (ERI) equipment or for the viewer to be a potent thaumaturge.

SCP-XXXX subsists exclusively on Elan Vital Energy (EVE) harvested from sapient hosts. The entity exhibits a preference to individuals with elevated baseline EVE output, such as practicing thaumaturges. Upon detecting a suitable host, SCP-XXXX initiates a bonding process in which it violently integrates with the host's thaumaturgic aura. Once fully integrated, separation from the host is not achievable through standard means without risk of injury or death to the host. Methods that would allow for safe removal are currently under investigation by the AWD Occult Studies Division.

Once bonded, SCP-XXXX continously depletes its host's EVE reserves, producing symptoms such as chronic fatigue and impaired recovery time following the use of thaumaturgy. Paradoxically, SCP-XXXX simultaneously amplifies its host's EVE output during use of thaumaturgy. It is hypothesized that SCP-XXXX does this to secure a richer and longer-lasting food source. Practically, this means that hosts of SCP-XXXX exhibits measurably greater thaumaturgic potency after bonding.

Prior to the events of Addendum.XXXX.01, SCP-XXXX was known to the Foundation only in fragmentary historical references. Historical accounts consistent with SCP-XXXX appear across several recovered documents from throughout human history, most describing the entity as a spirit or presence that "rides" thaumaturges of exceptional power. SCP-XXXX was unconfirmed to exist in the modern era until the events of Addendum.XXXX.01.

SCP-XXXX-Host is the designation for the host of SCP-XXXX, which is currently Doctor Farhat al-Halaby. For more information on Dr. al-Halaby, refer to Addendum.XXXX.02

by TopDownUnder

by TopDownUnder