Photo Result: Operating a control panel growing out of the back of 
an enormous vermiform creature firing electrical blasts from its 
mouth. Said blasts are destroying a human city. 

Notes: Photograph had to be taken with extreme stealth. Flash was 
covered with black electrical tape before experiment was 
undertaken. 


Subject: SCP-1030 

Photographed Activity: Resting in a fetal position in its 
containment cell. 

Photo Result: SCP-1030 is standing up holding the severed head 
of the photographer and SCP-1030-2 appears to be carved all over 
the head. 


Subject: SCP-1040 
Photographed Activity: Standing in his its containment vault. 
Photo Result: No change. 


Subject: SCP-1057 

Photographed Activity: Being fed in its aquarium. 

Photo Result: Being fed a significantly larger quantity of food in its 
aquarium. 


Subject: SCP-1063 

Photographed Activity: Being interviewed in its habitat. 

Photo Result: Seated on a fallen tree in a woodland environment, 
contemplating a potted plant which it holds in its hand. Its axe blade 
seems to be covered in blood. 


Subject: SCP-1123 

Photographed Activity: At rest in its container. 

Photo Result: Two photographs emerged, the first displaying an 
online news article reporting the recognition of the Armenian, 
Assyrian, and Greek genocides by the Turkish government. The 
second displayed a similar headline detailing the rise of democracy 
in China and freedom of Tibet and the former Xinjiang. 


Subject: SCP-1156 
Photographed Activity: Being interviewed in the paddock outside 


of blood. 


Goosebumps formed over her as the soft hum of air conditioning 
began, the cold breeze running over her exposed back. “Where’s my 
shirt?” she wondered out loud. With no doctors around to tell her to 
stay in bed, she quickly got out of it, hunching over to brace herself 
for a pain which never came. She stood straight up then, feeling the 
flesh on her chest stretch as she moved. 


Catherine walked down to the end of the ward, where a few desks 
and lockers stood. Two of the lockers were opened, one with a post- 
it note attached complaining about someone named ‘Avery’ not 
cleaning it up properly. It did not seem like her own clothing was 
around. She turned to look at the desks, wondering if there were any 
keys in them. 


The desks had a few papers on them, computers, pen cups, medical 
charts, emergency flashlights, manila envelopes. Things one might 
expect. She found several keys in drawers and one bright red stress 
ball with a crude face drawn onto it. Squeezing it, she began a slow 
process of finding which keys opened which locker. After eight 
lockers had been opened, she finally found one with some clothing 
in it. A piece of paper taped to the inside of the locker noted that it 
belonged to a woman named Doctor Elizabeth Schumacher. 


“Sorry Elizabeth,” Catherine mumbled as she pulled out the blouse, 
underwear, and skirt. She was mildly disappointed to not find any 
shoes. She then looked down at the hospital gown, the cool breeze 
still hitting her exposed backside. She gripped the flimsy feeling 
material, wondering how horrible the exposed flesh will look 
underneath. She could not feel it, perhaps the damage had been 
less than she thought, but she braced herself for an ugly sight 
anyway as she pulled off the hospital gown and let it fall to her cold 
feet. 


Underneath were large patches of reddened flesh, cracked dry lines 
of pus lining some of them. Her left breast was lopsided looking with 
a chunk of it still missing. Catherine frowned and poked the tender 
flesh there, and bit her lip in the sudden flare of pain. “That wasn’t 
the smartest thing to do.” She groaned, cradling it. 


Getting over the pain, she quickly pulled on the slightly loose 
clothing, buttoning up the blouse and zipping up the skirt. She 
looked over at the heavy double doors, then at the two rows of 
empty hospital beds. The lack of a window in the white room, the 
quiet air as the air conditioner turned off. 


“This isn’t a hospital,” she realized, looking back to the doors, the 
revelation taking a few moments to fully dawn on her. If she was not 
in a hospital, where was she? Where did the other patients go? Why 
were the grievous injuries healed? Needles felt like they were 
digging into her heart, a fearful confusion burrowing deep inside. 
Frowning, she walked over to them and pushed them open quickly, 
sending a shaft of light into a dark hall. She poked her head out, 
seeing nothing but dim lighting from a few small bulbs down the 
corridor. Catherine took a few steps out and suddenly found herself 
on her back, her head cracking against the tiles as she slipped. 


Sitting up, she rubbed her head and looked down at her other hand. 
It was cold, and as the doors closed a sliver of light crossed over her 
hand, illuminating the red. 


Chapter Five: This Place Seems So Familiar 


It's just me and Tim now. 
Everyone else is gone. 


He came up to tell me. William and Marie dug up Evan's 
body, took the life raft, and left. We're alone. On the 
upside, this means more food for us... I'm still hoping 
someone will come along and find us here. | want to 
know more about who owns this place, why it's so 
strange. Is the cliff really some sort of pier? Or is it 
something stranger? 


| can't help thinking about how the front half of the plane 
just vanished, how the seam was so straight and 
perfect... How it looked just like the cliff at the end of the 
island Tim is sitting on dangling his feet over the water 
as he fishes to kill time. Perfectly straight edges... | think 
I'm beginning to understand. In a scary science fiction 
sort of way, it makes sense. 


It's impossible, but... | think | unders 


Researcher's Note: Document 1057-E-Stephen was discovered in 
the upper floor bedroom of a beachside rental home on the 
peninsula at[REDACTED]. The site was brought to the attention of 
the Foundation by a caretaker, who arrived to mow the lawn to find a 
male corpse, minus the legs and with the arms removed just below 
the elbows, lying in the middle of the driveway. Study of this 
document as well as [REDACTEDjJdentifies the body as Timothy 
Zwicky, who has been missing since the loss of flight out of 
San Diego in March of _ . Neighbors report not seeing anyone enter 
or leave the house since the caretaker's last visit. Note that the 
house is not, nor has it ever been, located on an island. The "cliff" 
described in this account does not exist. 


The body of a woman identified as Marjory Vinnigio, also listed as 
missing following the disappearance of flight , was found in the 
house. Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to 
the head and body. 


Of particular interest to the Foundation is the fact that no passenger 
named "Stephen" is listed on Flight ‘s manifest. No other persons 
were found in the house, and the identity of this document's author 
is currently unknown. 


Case 1057-E is open for all researchers with interest in contributing, 
to both evidence gathering and analysis. Personnel who wish to 
assist should contact doctor Vanheissen, and requisition documents 
1057-E-Timothy, 1057-E-Ma[DATA EXPUNGED] 


sex at frigid temperature 


In this world, the clouds cannot bear to cover the sky's splendor. 
Rain falls unbidden, like unsaid sorrow. Snow floats down in fluffy 
flakes and remains white until springtime. The winds are too gentle 
to bring sudden storms. 


Dr. Iceberg presented his mentor with a single, thornless rose on 
Valentine's Day. He confessed his feelings. He acknowledged that, 
if he stayed, he would grow cold and indifferent to cope with his job. 
Just as his mentor had done. If he was rejected, he would transfer 
out and put this all behind them both. 


"I'll stay with you, and we can both be cogs in this machine." 


Dr. Gears decided that accepting the offer was the logical, efficient 
choice at the time. He had wanted to smile but could only bring 
himself to nod. By that evening, he had presented his new partner 
with a box of chocolates and fed them to him at the rate of precisely 
one chocolate every two minutes. 


The first year together was the most difficult. For a solid month, 
nothing changed save for a morning kiss that Dr. Iceberg initiated; 
Dr. Gears never responded, nor did he pull away. In frustration, 
Iceberg attempted to spark a jealous reaction. He flirted with various 
women for months. Dr. Gears said nothing, except to offer a 
breakup if Iceberg was no longer interested. 


On their first anniversary, Dr. Gears walked in five minutes late and 
placed a vase of freshly cut roses onto his partner's desk before 
attending to the morning paperwork. 


Dr. Iceberg had forgotten. Embarrassed, he skipped lunch for some 
shopping. By the evening, he had presented Dr. Gears a box of 
chocolates. 


"Sorry. | didn't find anything better— work took up my time. | forgot 
the date-" 


Dr. Gears merely nodded, then opened his mouth in expectation. 


That night they shared a bottle of wine. Gears offered Iceberg his 
bedroom, then they had sex in his bed. The sunrise met them 
asleep in each other's limbs, no different than any other couple on 
the morning after Valentine's. 


The second year was easier. Dr. Iceberg stopped trying to get 
reactions. He learned instead to understand his partner's affection. It 
came in convenient breaks during heavy workloads, the occasional 
plate of muffins on his desk in the morning, and mid-afternoon fresh 
coffee. 


Every year for the next six years, Gears brought Iceberg roses on 
the morning of Valentine's Day. Iceberg brought chocolates in the 
evening. Then they had sex, each time a little less passionately. 


Iceberg got colder. 


Gears watched. He wanted to stop this. He wanted this to never 
end. 


It is the evening of their seventh Valentine's Day. Dr. Iceberg feeds 
Dr. Gears chocolates at precisely one every two minutes. Every 
three minutes, they sip wine in unison. When the chocolates run out, 
they fall into bed together. 


The sheets are not particularly soft— standard Foundation grade. 
Neither says the other's name. They don't have the lungs to kiss in 
the heat of it; their lips rest against each other, sharing breath. 


After it is over, Dr. Iceberg holds his mentor against himself. Fear, 
insecurity, and sadness sparks in his blood. His heart races even as 
Gears' slows in preparation for sleep. Do you still care? Do 1? How 
much worse will | get? Am | already your mirror image? 


"What is the purpose of continuing to acknowledge Valentine's Day 
in this manner?" 


The question brings Dr. Gears out of his sleepy state. He dwells on 
the question. /f / said there was no purpose anymore, would you 
leave? If you left, could you recover? But he could not give this up 
for the world. 


"| have learned from you it is important to maintain established 
interpersonal relationships." 


Iceberg can only nod. He wants to do so much more. 


The sunrise finds them fast asleep in each other's arms. 


Thomas, the Average Anart Citizen 


Thomas had never quite understood the delicate and fine art of 
moderation. That isn't to say that he was irresponsible, naive or 
stupid, it was just that he wasn't able to grasp the concept of ‘too 
much’. Despite his laziness, he often tried to deal with multiple tasks 
at once, leading to an overwhelming amount of work, responsibility, 
and blame on him when things went wrong. He was trying his best 
at all times, very few doubted that, but truth be told, he was utterly, 
thoroughly incompetent. One can easily find expired products in his 
overfilled fridge, trashed leftovers with enough calories to sustain 
someone for three days straight or three to four soap dispensers in 
the bathroom. 

Upon being asked about these things, Thomas would just shrug and 
reply with “Better safe than sorry”, or some other cheesy line to 
justify his wasteful tendencies. 


Which is why he was once more flat-out drunk and barely conscious, 
as he made his way through the city’s streets to get home. His 
performance could hardly pass as walking, it was more of a 
continuous falling process in which he miraculously managed to 
avoid face-first contact with the ground. 


The past six hours have been incredibly fun for Thomas - despite 
being kicked out of three bars and two nightclubs, getting wasted 
whilst partying loudly and trekking around the district to get to the 
next fill mill had its attractiveness. Especially as he and his peers 
liked to chug beer as if it was water. Much to his dismay, the nature 
of alcohol didn't make these memories last, and the following 
morning will most definitely have him be in a miserable, pitiful state, 
as hangovers usually go. 

But all that was of no concern to him at the moment, as all of his 
sluggish thoughts were dedicated to remembering the steps that 
needed to be carried out in order to use the extradimensional Way 
nearby to get to the Wanderer's Library, where his makeshift home 
was located, between the high, dusty bookshelves in one of the 


many ‘slums’. 


Eventually, at a time so late at night one could say that it was 
already getting early, Thomas managed to stumble into the alley 
containing the invisible magical portal, knocking over a small 
trashcan and scaring away a stray cat in the process. In order to 
open the way he needed to... needed to... 

Thomas figured out it had something to do with the brick wall he was 
currently using to support himself. His hands slowly began to 
explore the texture of the graffiti marked structure as he pressed his 
face against it, greatly enjoying the supposed comfort of these 
several tons of stone. 


“What was the damn Knock again...?” he attempted to mumble, but 
to any outside observers who could have been nearby it would have 
more sounded like a sloppy “Wawas d’kna ‘n?’, which wasn't as 
articulate as Thomas intended it to be, but luckily for him he was 
unable to notice anyways. Hitting the wall a few times with his bare 
palms didn't work, so he continued with the rather stoic approach of 
standing there and developing a mental map of the wall by 
inappropriately running his hands across it. 

Safe to say, despite the rather pragmatic approach to the problem, 
his actions didn't and wouldn't lead anywhere in the foreseeable 
future. And somewhere, far in the back of his mind, Thomas realized 
that, but it didn't stop him from continuing. 


Eventually he let out a frustrated groan and tumbled backwards, 
angry at the wall, the world, the Library, and everything else in 
existence that was even remotely related to his situation. So angry, 
in fact, that he attempted to run head-first into the wall to bring it 
down for denying him access to the Library. 

He got lucky and didn't split his skull open due to this foolish act, but 
instead landed right through the new opening in the wall. 


What wasn't lucky, however, was that it didn't lead to the Library, but 
instead to a deserted island somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. If it 
hadn't been for him tripping over himself and only getting halfway 
through, in turn also experiencing a rough meeting between face 
and sandy ground, he would have ended up there, for what would 
have most likely been the rest of his life. Thomas rather helplessly 
crawled back and tried to stand by supporting himself against the 


wall - his hand slipped and he fell, letting out yet another pained 
groan. 


The Way was gone, and Thomas was much too tired and confused 
to try to use it one more time. Hardly coherently, he wondered why 
the Way didn't lead to the extradimensional archive he wanted to get 
back to. 


"Don't ya have your own silverware?" 


"Lost it after the Library tried to redirect me to what | can only 
assume to be Utah.” 


"Utah?” 


"A hot, deserted and barren wasteland. On a second thought, could 
have been Venus...”