Three bell tolls were heard throughout the Colossos. Three 
contestants remained standing. Stormmaster looked around for the 
third and spotted a bright flash in the middle of the plains. Janus, 
son of Roadmaker, exited a white scar extending from the sky to the 
ground. Stormmaster had exited the cave he took refuge in and 
approached the same hill he started at. Chrysalis remained still, 
standing just in front of Janus, who appeared to be opening the 
bright scar further with every passing second. 


Lightning began to strike more frequently now. The wind started to 
pick up, almost knocking Stormmaster off his feet. Janus was too 
small to be hit by the lightning, and Chrysalis had a protective shield 
of crystal surrounding her core. Stormmaster saw Chrysalis seem to 
hesitate, but upon nothing exiting Janus’s doorway, she froze Janus 
faster than he could blink and swept him up in the hurricane of 
crystal. 


Two bell tolls. Stormmaster stood tall on the hill. Hurricane-speed 
winds were accompanied by an unending deluge and a deafening 
lightning storm. Chrysalis started moving towards him, 
circumnavigating the blinding door that stood between them. She 
floated in front of him, threatening to end the Grand Melee in an 
instant. Stormmaster stayed firm, tuning out the countless thoughts 
telling him he was doomed. He could feel crystal start to form on his 
armor. 


Hi All, lve Just Come Up With A Very Cool New 
Technology: IDEAS IN WORDS. Help Me Spread The 
Word Or Youll Look Like Real [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] 


" [sic] 


At this time, SCP-947 is used by approximately % of all English 
speakers worldwide. 


Addendum: Interview with Gautam Ramesh 
+ Show interview log 


Shortly after the identification of SCP-947's 
anomalous properties, Gautam Ramesh was 
brought in for an interview. Junior Researcher 
Ashwin Pichai was chosen to interview him 
due to Pichai's previous exposure to SCP-947. 


Date: 4 July, 2017 
Interviewer: Dr. Pichai 
[BEGIN LOG] 


[EXTRANEOUS INTRODUCTIONS 
OMITTED] 


Dr. Pichai: Anyways, I'd like to ask you about 
the word [EXPLETIVE REDACTED]. 


Ramesh: Oh, uh, yeah, sure. Uh, what do you 
want to know? 


Dr. Pichai: Well - how does it work? There's 
nothing else even remotely like it that exists in 
the world. 


Ramesh: Oh, yeah yeah yeah. This is pretty 
cool stuff, | mean. So, uh, the human brain is 
like a computer, yeah? 


Dr. Pichai: Yes. 


Suddenly, a flurry of metal birds emerged from the portal, with a 
number of them surrounding Chrysalis. Before she could even 
retaliate, a bright flash erupted from the sphere inside the hurricane 
of crystal and metal, blinding Stormmaster. He felt his mana out of 
reach, and the storm immediately let up. He found that all the mana 
in the immediate area was gone, and he wasn’t able to maintain the 
storm anymore. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Chrysalis 
fall out of the sky. She barely missed Stormmaster, hitting the side 
of the hill and rolling into the scar, disappearing in a flash of light. 
Every fighter simultaneously broke free of their crystal prison, 
immediately falling unconscious. The scar abruptly closed, the 
remaining metal birds falling out of the sky. 


One bell toll. Stormmaster had won by default. The storm 
disappeared completely, and he threw up from the amount of water 
he had consumed. As the inside of the Colossos began to reform, 
he picked up one of the metal birds. It was misshapen and cracked, 
but he could make out words on it. “Foundation Containment 
Drone.” He thanked the mysterious metal bird for defeating 
Chrysalis. Stormmaster placed it down as he felt the Colossos reset, 
marking the end of the Grand Melee. 


Story To Be Named Later 


Video Footage Taken From Incident Chimera 


Footage begins, showing two pairs of feet. A voice can 
be heard, identified as Chadwick Wentworth, referred to 
here as X-1. Second subject, Peter Frans, referred to as 
X-2, is not heard from at this time. 


X-1: No, no Pete, my face, Pete, my face! God damn it 
Pete, if you're going to be my minion, you gotta do what | 
tell you! My FACE Pete! 


Camera angle tilts upwards, revealing subject X-1. 
Subjects face is covered in inexpertly applied white make 
up, with heavy mascara around the eyes, and black 
lipstick. Subject is thin to the point of emaciation, with 
long, greasy, dyed black, hair. Subject is dressed in 
black knee-high leather boots with a five-inch platform 
heel, black pants covered in chains, a black silk shirt, 
and a black cloak, with red undertones. X-1 looks at the 
camera, and smiles. 


X-1: There, there, much better... now hit record... 
RECORD, Pete god damn it man, why did | even make 
you my minion? Hit the red but- 

There is a jump in the film. Camera is now centered on 
Subject X-1. 


X-1: -make sure it's fucking record- Shit! Anem. Good 
evening, dear mortals, and welcome. For | am Azarael 
Astoroth, Archduke of the Seventh Layer, and soon, you 
shall all KNEEL before me! For, in my deals with the 
devil, | have gained life everlasting! And not only am | 
now a totally awesome and wicked vampire... 


X-1 gestures around himself, in an attempt to indicate 


the fading twilight he stands in. 


X-1: But | can stand in sunlight without fucking sparkling! 
That's right! | may have gone into the grave, but | came 
back, with a thirst for your blood! And | shall rule you all, 
all of you! Especially you, Mark Olsen! That's right, | bet 
you're all sad and shit now, oh no, big bad vampire 
gonna come for me, I'm gonna drink your fucking blood! 
In fact, I'm gonna go do that, right now! Come on Pete! 
No, ignore the old man, come with me! 


Subjects begin moving, out of the shaded spot they were 
in, and down a wooded path. Subject X-2 is slower than 
subject X-1, despite X-1's continued exhortations for him 
to keep up. Subjects approach a modest ranch in what 
appears to be a well-to-do suburb on the edge of the 
woods. X-1 begins making what are best described as 
‘spooky’ sounds, outside the rear window. 

Subject X-3, identified as Mark Olsen, comes out the 
back door, holding a baseball bat. Subject is broad, and 
well muscled, dressed in only boxers and a varsity 
jacket. Subject appears enraged. 


X-3: What the fuck dude, what the fuck? You gay little 
faggots wanna fuck with me some more, huh? You 
wanna go? Come on! I'll fucking kill you limp wristed 
pansies! 


X-3 takes a swing at X-1. X-1 places his hand in the way. 
There is a crunch, as X-1's fingers break. X-1 laughs. 


X-1: You cannot kill the undead, you punk! 


X-3 stares in apparent shock, then drops his bat. X-1 
bends his fingers back into place with a clicking sound. 


X-3: Chad? Chad, you're dead man, you're dead! They 
fucking buried you man! 
X-1: And now | am back. And you... you are going to 


pay! 


X-1 throws himself at X-3. There is a tangle of limbs, with 
X-3 maintaining the upper hand until X-1 begins to bite 
him. X-3 begins screaming, as X-1 devours him alive, 
ripping off huge gobs of flesh with both hands and teeth. 
The camera view drops to the ground, and for roughly 
ten minutes, it tapes the forest, while the sound of crying 
and animalisitic growling can be heard. 

The video cuts again. 

We now see a very bloody X-1, standing at the back 
door of another house. He is trying wipe his face clean of 
the blood. 


X-1: Stay focused on my face Pete! Ahem. 
AHAHAAHAH! Now you mortals see what happens if you 
mess with me! 


X-1 shakes his finger at the camera. The finger drops off. 
He scowls and picks it back up. The tape cuts, and when 
it comes back, we see the finger has been put back on 
with electrical tape. 


X-1: You see what can be done, with my great powers! | 
am a lord of the undead...and now, now | claim my bride! 


X-1 turns to the door, and opens it. He sneaks down a 
long hallway and goes down approximately 13 stairs. At 
the bottom of the stairs is a small room, a couch, and a 
television. On the couch a pale, thin girl, dressed all in 
black. She is identified as Alison Hargreaves, X-4. She 
turns her head at the sound of X-1, and then falls off the 
couch. 


X-1: Dame Lilian, | have returned for you my love! 

X-4: Cha- Azrael! You came back! 

X-1: | told you it would work my queen! And now, | shall 
make you mine! For ours is a love that shall span the 
ages and- 

X-4: You're covered in blood. 


X-1 moves closer to X-4. She scoots away from him. 


X-1: | just had to take care of someone who had taken 
something of mine. 

X-4: You killed someone? No, we weren't supposed to 
do... Who did you kill? It was Mark, wasn't it? 

X-1: It does not matter my love, he can not make you 
eternal, he- 


X-4 throws a lamp at X-1, striking him in the chest. 


X-4: | LOVE HIM! You ASSHOLE! Undead and you still 
can't get it that... 
X-1: |CAN MAKE YOU IMMORTAL, my love. 


X-4 pauses, and lowers the statue she had picked up. 


X-4: Then do it. But know that, for eternity, | will hate 
you. 


X-1 approaches the girl, and turns her back to him. We 
see his mouth open, unhinging like a snake. Five sets of 
needle-like teeth emerge from his lips, and he sinks them 
into X-4. A loud slurping sound can be heard on the 
audio. X-4 screams and slumps against him. X-1 lowers 
her to the floor, and gazes down at her, before speaking 
softly. 


X-1: 1 did love you. More than he did. 
There is a loud pounding from off-screen. 


X-1: Shit, someones at the door. Pete! You watch her, I'll 
get the door. 


X-1 storms off-screen. The camera remains on X-4 fora 
moment, before it is set down. A hooded shape walks 
on-screen, Subject X-2. He speaks in a low mutter. 


X-2: Face. 


X-2 bends over X-4, his hood falling back. X-2 is in an 
extreme state of decomposition, the flesh rotting from his 
head, his skull showing through in places. 


X-2: Face. 


X-2 widens his jaw, revealing all his teeth are needle- 
like. He begins to chew the flesh from X-4's face, ripping 
gobbets of flesh from her throat with his clawed hands. 


X-2: Face. 


The low battery light flashes, and the tape ends. 


Strangers of Site-17: 105 


It had been sixty-eight days since the guard posted to her door had 
been reassigned in favor of the security cameras. Her mind was now 
mostly free of the deadening aftereffects of sedative, allowing her to 
spend more and more time thinking the way she was used to. They 
had even let her have shoelaces again. Most importantly, however, 
were the changes in the staff. Dr. Whitman was again permitting 
himself to furtively look at other case files during her sessions. The 
guards in Corridor Twelve began joking with her again. Director 
Hayakawa showed up less and less frequently. What passed for 
normal life in her corner of Site-17 was returning. 


Now was the time. 


Fighting the urge to glance sidelong at the security camera stationed 
in the corner of the room, Thompson clutched at her stomach 
through her bright-orange jumpsuit, doubling over in what she knew 
would be now-familiar pain to the security staff. The stress-induced 
nausea was nothing new. During her brief time with Pandora's Box, 
the medical staff had mostly controlled it with drugs, but now the 
Foundation saw no need to keep up an expensive pharmaceutical 
regimen. She suspected this was part of the "re-education" process. 
No matter. It would be turned to her advantage soon enough. 


Quickly, she made her way to the steel toilet in the corner. The cold 
sweat on her forehead and the excess saliva came naturally, as 
expected. There was no need for acting; what she was about to do 
was cause enough for an attack all on its own. 


She leaned into the bowl and heaved, wrenching herself free of the 
contents of her stomach. As she opened her eyes, she spotted the 
photograph, floating among the semi-digested remains of a 
cafeteria-issue eggplant sandwich. Gingerly, she lifted it out, making 
sure to keep her back between the security camera and her hard- 
won prize. Dr. Whitman, like everyone else in contact with her, had 
been ordered to clear his workspace of any and all photographs. 


Thompson had observed Dr. Whitman just as closely as he had 
observed her, and she knew that this was a man that could be 
trusted to never throw anything out. True to form, his desk was 
packed with forms, notebooks, old calendars, receipts from a 
decade prior. And, of course, the photographs that had formerly 
adorned his desk. While he had gone out to retrieve his briefcase, 
she hunted for the one picture that she remembered, the one that 
would bring her deliverance. And for once in this godforsaken place, 
luck was with her. 


She studied the picture closely. She remembered it as a photograph 
of Dr. Whitman and an unnamed secretary, lost to time and staffing 
reorganization, drunk in the manner that office workers always seem 
to reserve for Christmas parties. She recalled that partially obscured 
behind the "Happy Holidays" banner was the bright yellow "LEVEL 3 
STAFF ONLY" sign that adorned many rooms in the facility, and 
above this sign was a stained air vent. Without breathing, she 
looked at the photograph. It now featured only a door in a brightly-lit 
corridor. No sign of Dr. Whitman and the insensate secretary 
remained; only the entrance to the Site-17 pharmacological 
dispensary. 


She smiled. Jackpot. 


Thompson gingerly moved her hand into the photograph. As she 
neared the door's electronic keypad, she recited the mnemonic that 
she'd kept in her head for two months after overhearing a chance 
conversation in passing between two security techs. 


"Four years in Site-17." 

She touched "4" on the keypad. 
"Fifteen dead in Operation Milk Run." 
She entered a 1 anda 5. 

"One plus zero plus five is six." 

She entered a 6. 


"The year of mom and dad's wedding." 


She entered an 8 and a 7. 
"Attempt number." 


Upon entering the 3, a green light flashed above the door handle, 
and the deadbolt sharply clicked open. Thompson pushed open the 
door. Barely distinct now, shelves laden with bottles, boxes and 
plastic bags beckoned. Her elbow was now past the photograph's 
threshold, and she reached as far as she dared into the pharmacy. 
She picked up the nearest bottle she could find, grasping it like a 
grain of rice between her fingers. The bottle grew bigger and bigger 
as she pulled it out of the photograph. The label could now be read. 


Acetylsalicylic acid. This wouldn't do. Thompson dropped the bottle 
in the toilet and reached back into the picture. Her second foray 
yielded a plastic bag full of eyedroppers. She scowled, dropped the 
bag into the toilet as well, and tried again. Reaching for the next 
shelf over, she saw a bright orange plastic bottle of larger relative 
size. As she retrieved it, she noticed that she had 200 capsules of 
orphenadrine. These would do the trick. 


She opened the bottle, and shook a small pile of capsules into her 
hand. She noticed the designation on her fluorescent yellow tracking 
wristband: SCP-105. She closed her hand around the pills. 


"My name is Iris Thompson." 


She swallowed the first handful of pills. She poured herself another, 
swallowed them, and took a third handful. In the space of a minute 
and thirty seconds, she had ingested the entire contents of the 
bottle. Her stomach churned in rebellion. Her pulse quickened. 


"My name is Iris Thompson," she said softly as the surroundings of 
her cell started to come in and out of focus. 


The bottle fell from her grasp, and suddenly the cement floor rose to 
meet her, silently, without feeling. 


Strangers of Site-17: 343 » 


Strangers of Site-17: Hayakawa 


Site Director Hayakawa set a kettle of water on the hotplate and 
locked his door. He took a final look at his desk and the series of 
filing cabinets and countertops in his office. Spotless, organized. 
Gleaming white.