[| Establishing shot, drawing back from a series of containment 
chamber doors, until we see NAVARRO standing behind a 
desk with GENERAL BEEP and ROBO-DUDE. A DRONE 
appears to be directing the camera. | 


NAVARRO: Hey folks! Welcome, uh, to the Satellite of Love. 
I'm not sure how long I've been up here but don't worry — at 
no point has it gotten any less tedious. 


GENERAL BEEP: It almost makes you want to see what the 
Kon has in store for us next. 


NAVARRO: Yeah, almost... but not quite. 


ROBO-DUDE: INCOMING TRANSMISSION! SITE-19 
DOCTOR KONDRAKI! | AM MAKING AN ANNOUNCEMENT! 


NAVARRO: Whelp, speak of the devil, | suppose... 


[ A screen appears, upon which DR. KONDRAKT'S face is 
displayed. KONDRAKI appears to be slightly disheveled and 
several butterflies are crawling on his face. ] 


KONDRAKI: Hello, Navarro. How's the weather up there? 
NAVARRO: Same as yesterday... a nice hot slice of nothing. 


KONDRAKI: Well, I've got something for you today that might 
liven things up a bit. Are you ready? It's a doozy, this one... 


NAVARRO: Yes. | am so excited. Please. Give it to me. Send 
your SCP signal into my Satellite of Love. 


KONDRAKI: You're feeling snippy now, but you'll be lucky to 
have any feelings left after watching... SCP Foundation: The 
Movie! 


NAVARRO, BOTS: OH NO! 


[ Camera zooms back in through the doors. NAVARRO and 
THE BOTS briefly visible leaping into a conveniently located 
movie theater hatch. ] 


[| EXTRENIOUS DETAIL REDACTED | 


[| NAVARRO, ROBO-DUDE AND GENERAL BEEP are visible 
in silhouette, in front of a movie screen | 


NAVARRO: Brought to you by Soaps from Corpses Products! 


GENERAL BEEP: Soap? | thought it was Salman for 


Controlled Pesticides. 
ROBO DUDE: WHAT ABOUT- 
NAVARRO, BEEP: Shhhhhhh! 


[ Movie playback continues normally, for approximately 45 
minutes, with riffing. | 


PESTERBOT: [ Stumbling in from off-screen | | will destroy 
you, but first, Navarro, you must- 


NAVARRO: Wait, what? What's going on? 


GENERAL BEEP: You dare you interrupt the proceedings? 
We may have to watch this over again! I'll have you court- 
martialed! 


PESTERBOT: How dare you besmirch me when | merely 
come to warn Navarro? Your souls shall suffer in the deepest 
pits of- 


NAVARRO: Nevermind that, what's going on? 


PESTERBOT: Although deeply offended, and murderous, | 
will inform you. There is a celestial body rapidly approaching 
the Satellite of Love, and- 


ROBO DUDE: WHAT IS GOING ON? 
ALL: SHUSH! 


NAVARRO: Will everybody please shut up so that | can— is it 
getting hot in here? 


[| THE HATEFUL STAR SUDDENLY EXPLODES THROUGH 
THE SCREEN. INSTANTLY, THE ROOM IS ENGULFED 
WITH FLAMES. | 


THE HATEFUL STAR: 
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS 


NAVARRO: 
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS 


BOTS: 
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL 


THE HATEFUL STAR: 
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS 
YOUR MOVIE SUUUUUUUCKS 


[ CAMERA IS APPARENTLY DISABLED THROUGH 
EXTREME TEMPERATURES. NO FURTHER 
BROADCASTS DETECTED. | 


Note from Dr. Edison: How dare they desecrate my 
cinematic masterpiece. Comparing the directing to 
drunken, headless chickens stapled together to act as a 
steadycam operator was completely over the top. | also 
did not appreciate the repeated comparing and 
contrasting of my cinematic skills to other scientists with 
my name. | demand that this be expunged from the 
record! 


Lighten up, Edison. It's good for your blood pressure. — 
Director Aktus 


Grand Theft Anomaly 


Offices of the Federal Investigation Bureau, Los Santos, San 
Andreas | 11:40 


“...Yeah. No. No, that’s not what I’m saying.” 
“What are you saying, then?” 


“I’m saying- fuck, hang on.” Veteran FIB agent Dave Norton is 
having a busy day, and the numerous knocks at his office window 
aren't helping his focus. He takes his expensive dress shoes off the 
desk and tips forward in his chair, looking up at his coworker 
standing by the door. “What is it, Steve?” 


“Oh, are you busy?” Steve Haines answers, gesturing to the phone 
in Norton’s hand. 


“Yes, | am.” He turns the phone face-down to the table. “Now, what 
do you need?” 


“It’s-“ Haines hesitates. “It’s that DeSanta again.” 
“Townley? What’s he done this time?” 


“We’re gonna need to talk to him. He's about to get himself in deep 
shit if we're not careful here. Meet me in the courtyard at lunch. Can 
you do that?” 


“Of course, of course. What's wrong?” 


Haines shakes his head and leans further in the doorway. "Don't 
wanna talk about it. Not here. Look, just come to the courtyard at 
lunch. It's all good." 


"Alright, alright, I'll be there." Norton nods and moves the phone 
back to his ear. 


“Good. Don’t miss it.” 
“Alright.” 

Sandy Shores, San Andreas | 17:45 
“No, fucking damn it, | said pineapple!” 


“Sorry sir, you know there’s bad reception out here, haha. We'll have 
it right over-” 


“Bad reception? Bad reception? Listen buddy, if | can call the good 
times line at four AM without a single missing syllable in my dirty 
talk, | can definitely order a fucking pizza without my voice cracking 
up! ‘Reception’ my ass! Now get it over here in fifteen minutes and 
I'll give you a twenty!” 


“Alright sir-” 
“Good bye!” 


Trevor Philips hasn’t had the chance to sit up off the toilet before his 
phone is ringing yet again. He rolls his eyes and answers it. “I’m 
taking a shit, Mikey, whaddaya want.” 


Michael Townley's voice is smooth and calm to a degree that Trevor 
finds grating. “Your time. Look, I’ve got something big on the radar, 
buddy-” 


“If this is another of your goddamn pyramid schemes, | swear | will 
personally rip off your h-” 


“It’s not that, it’s not that. Listen, I’ve got something new, alright, 
something we haven't seen before. Could land us in the black for 
good. And it’s not illegal.” 


“When the fuck did that ever matter?” 


“It didn’t, but it could make this easy. This is wacky shit, man, I’m 
tellin’ you! Give me a chance, will you? Look, drive out to the house. 
This ain’t the kind of shit | wanna be talking about on the phone.” 


Trevor grits his teeth and resists the urge to slam his phone onto the 
ground. “...Fine,” he grumbles. “I'll be over there tonight. Later. I’ve 
got a pizza coming.” 


“Excellent. See you soon.” 
“Mmm. This better be good.” 
Rockford Hills, Los Santos, San Andreas | 19:30 
“Hey Uncle Trevor!” 
“Fuck off, kid.” 


“Alright. Glad to see you!” Michael's son ambles back upstairs with a 
slow nod and a grin. 


“Trevor, honey, can | get you a drink or anything?” 
“No thanks, Mrs. DeSanta. Unless you got vodka-” 


Michael DeSanta comes down the stairs, interrupting them. “Trev, 
come on. Let’s talk.” 


“You sound awfully excited,” Trevor says, shooting a glance at 
Michael’s wife, who smiles as usual. “Get on with it, then.” 


“Alright,” Michael starts, leading them outside onto the patio. 
“Franklin and | were talking and we’ve found something really damn 
good. Something that doesn’t- make sense." He clears his throat. "A 
glitch in the system.” He smiles and squints as he looks side-to-side, 
sitting down on one of the poolside chairs. 


“What's the glitch, then?” 


Michael leans forward. “Alright, so you go into the supermarket, 
right? And you buy one of those prepaid cards. What happens 
then?” 


“Then you have a prepaid card. Don’t talk to me like a fucking child, 
Mikey-” 


SCP-612: Aggressive Cable 


Item#: SCP-612 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: All specimens of SCP-612 are 
to be kept in Containment Cell in Site- , attached to sockets 
appropriate to their form. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber 
will be checked for physical breach every fifteen (15) minutes. An 
electric meter, installed outside the cell, will remain connected to a 
remote monitor. Any significant power flux is to be logged and 
reported immediately to Dr. _, as well as on-site maintenance 
personnel. Testing indicates that a 1 M solution of aqueous sodium 
chloride stuns SCP-612, rendering it temporarily inert; therefore, a 
delivery system is to remain charged and ready for immediate use. 
Weekly testing is mandatory. The walls of the containment cell are 
to be lined with conductive metallic mesh, permanently connected to 
ground, and the cell's exit is to be charged with a potential 
exceeding 1 kV. All power to the cell is to be generated locally to 
prevent SCP-612 from accessing the primary grid. As SCP-612's 
containment is not yet complete, all personnel are advised to keep 
alert for any cable which exhibits unusual activity, including but not 
limited to: unexplained power flux, unstimulated movement, and 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. 


07/09/ : All personnel assigned to SCP-612 must wear Faraday 
suits capable of discharging an electric potential in excess of 2 kV. 


Description: Instances of SCP-612 present as electrical cables of 
various types. Any variety of cable can potentially play host to 
SCP-612, but its preferred method of attack leads it to favor power 
and network cables. 


SCP-612 is, in its dormant state, simply piled on the ground. It 
prefers to hide in dark, warm places, or to be attached to appropriate 
sockets. Apart from its sentience and capability for movement, it 


“Shh, shh, don’t get pissed.” He laughs and slaps Trevor on the 
shoulder, earning a glare. “Okay, so you get a prepaid card, right? 
And then you use it, and then it’s gone. But Frank and | were at the 
old gas station down the hill, right? And we saw the employees 
fucking around with their registers. Talking about a computer glitch 
and shit, right? Registers showing some... abnormal screen, and 
ringing up merch that wasn’t actually at the counter. Looked weird, 
like super weird. So Frankie and | decided we were gonna stick 
around, see what they were messing with, didn’t have nothing else 
better to do, right? Alright, so we’re watching ‘em, pretending to talk 
by the cigarette cabinets, and we see this thing ringing up prepaid 
cards when they hit the buttons. On the register screen. Just all by 
itself!” 


“Jesus, man-” 
“What?” 
“You seeing this shit- How many tabs did you pop earlier?” 


“What? Oh come on now, this was rea/, Trevor! Hell, call Franklin if 
you want-” 


“Fine, fine, uuughhhh. Carry on.” Trevor puts his head in his hands 
and leans on his knees. 


Michael nods. “Anyway, so what I’m saying is, we grabbed one of 
those cards that thing rang up, eh? And it worked.” 


“What?” 


“The card worked. Hundred-dollar prepaid, wasn’t even rung up, 
wasn't even transacted, and it worked at the liquor store down in 
Morningwood!” 


“'..You called me over here to talk about a hundred dollars?” 


" 


“No, | called you over here to talk about the potential for thousands, 
he says, lowering his voice. "Think about it, Trev! Man, if we figure 
out how this thing works, this- this- fucked-up register system glitch 
thing, we could be in the black with infinite prepaids! It’s a glitch in 
the system, buddy, it doesn’t make any sense, but think about it!” 


Trevor nods. “I don’t know, man. You talk to Franklin about this?” 


Michael shrugs and lights a cigarette. “Eh, you know the kid. He'll 
jump on board with us for anything, but the kid trusts his gut.” 


“Mmm, and what'd his gut say?” 


“Man, | don’t know. | don’t know the kid’s personal instincts. Look, 
you on board or not?” 


“Just sounds like we’re playing with fire, man. If you don’t even 
understand how this thing works, you know, it might be- | don’t 
know, freaky government shit! You know they’re always installing 
shit- watching-” 


“Eh, this ain’t government, buddy, you know it’s not. They don’t fuck 
with the- with the economy like this, you know? Nah, this is 
something weird.” 


“You don’t think someone’s coming after it, then?” 


“What do you mean?” He frowns. "No one's coming after it; there's 
nothing to come after. Imagine if this works at other places! We 
need to at least look into it, buddy, I'm telling you. | know money 
when | see it, and this is fuckin' A." 


“No, | mean, you know, this weird shit. Not the money. Shit that 
doesn’t make sense. You don’t think there’s some freaky secret 
government shit, like FIB or IAA coming after this?” 


“Pff, get outta here. | know you ain’t a white-collar guy, but some- 
what, secret organization, some Men In Black shit? Nah, man. 
That's crazy. There ain't any shit like that out there, not like that. I've 
been in this business my whole life, man, you know | know my way 
around.” 


“Mmm. Whatever you say, Mikey.” 
“Trust me, buddy. We've struck gold.” 


Trevor nods, stands, and walks back over to his truck. "We'll see!" 
he calls out, shaking his head as he starts the engine. "We'll see." 


He backs out of the driveway, flips off a pedestrian who he almost 
runs over, and starts the drive home. 


Offices of the Federal Investigation Bureau, Los Santos, San 
Andreas | 09:15 


“The who, again?” 


"The SCP Foundation. My name is Agent Shaw. | had an 
appointment for nine with an Agent Haines? Is he around?" 


"Oh, our apologies. He must be stuck in a meeting. | know he 
wouldn't mind if you went ahead into that conference room and 
waited for him. He should be out in a few minutes." 


"Very well. Which room?" 
"Down the hall, second door on the left." 


"Alright. Thank you." Shaw picks up his briefcase and heads down 
the hall, instinctively closing the door behind himself before 
remembering Haines will be looking for him. He sits with his back to 
the window and opens his briefcase to remove his laptop and 
documents, keeping the spray can of Class-A amnestics in the 
bottom of the bag for easy access should anything go south. 


There's a knock at the door, and then a firm "hello?" followed by the 
entry of a man who looks like he spends five hours a day on a golf 
course and another five in a tanning salon. He beams and sits down 
across from Shaw at the conference table. "You must be Agent 
Shaw! Pleasure to meet you." He extends his hand across the table 
to meet Shaw's. "So sorry | was late! | was stuck down the hall with 
some of the buffoons from HR. Anyway, interesting to see one of 
your organization out in the light of day! You're not gonna brain-wipe 
me after this, are ya?" 


Shaw gives as genuine a chuckle as he can muster up, which isn't 
much. "Ha. No. I'm afraid we just need to discuss a newfound 
anomaly that may potentially be affecting businesses in this area. As 
this develops, it is heavily expected that we'll need full FIB 
cooperation in shielding its existence from the public eye; 


specifically, we will need to pose as FIB agents when containing 
instances, and a cover story will need to be developed immediately 
with which CEOs of major corporations will be informed that this 
anomaly is a credit fraud program and the FIB is investigating-" 


"Whoa, whoa, slow down, my friend. One thing at a time. So, you 
need me to sign something, eh? Trust me, | Know how it goes-" 


"Oh, no- well, not yet. That's for the higher-ups. | actually need your 
help tracking instances in this area. A fellow named Norton told me 
you've got a few long-time criminals on your radar that may be 
getting involved." 


"Oh, Norton gave you the run-down, eh? Yeah, we've got them on 
our radar alright." 


"Trevor Philips and Michael DeSanta?" 


"Well, his real name's Townley, not DeSanta. DeSanta’'s his post- 
witness protection program name. We helped the guy back in the 
day, see." He waves his hand. "But that's not relevant, we just need 
to figure out how to deal with this before it blows up." 


"Helped him? | thought these guys were criminals." 
"It's complicated. At this point they're flagged as hostile, yes." 
"| see. Anyway, can | show you the preliminary documents?" 


"Sure, sure. But say, why isn't our department in on this? You know, 
the abnormal events department?"