“He ain't gonna help us,” Friendly muttered as they signed the 
visitor’s log and headed for the elevator to the surface. His thick fists 
were still clenched. 


“That's an understatement,” Blank agreed, eyes still wide, heart 
slowing gradually. “He was threatening to charge us with 
insubordination.” 


“Sure he was. Lots of'em do that. He might be hiding somethin’. 


Might jus’ not want his security lookin’ bad, though, an’ it might be 
he’s jus’ difficult. Thing is, we still gotta do the job we came for.” 


She swallowed hard. “You really think we'll do better with 
forgiveness than permission?” 


“We're not goin’ for either one. Doctor Cooper was the last one to 
sign in 682's chamber. Permission or no, he's our next stop.” 


It took an hour of lurking to sneak their way to Cooper’s office. Agent 
Friendly smiled warmly at some of the people they passed, ignored 
others, nodded casually at a few, even flashed his internal security 
badge at a couple and threatened them into looking the other way. 
More than once, they ducked into a stairwell or conference room to 
avoid someone altogether. Blank was sure site security was going to 
come take them, and then what? Summary demotion to D-Class by 
the director, or a shootout right there in the hallway; the options 
were grim. 


But no security came. 


She was surprised how cramped and disorganized the office was for 
a researcher of Cooper’s rank. Cooper himself sat at a desk 
surrounded by columns of yellowing paper, doing a crossword 
puzzle. He startled as they burst in. “You can’t just-“ 


“We already, did, though. But you're right. We’re kinda not supposed 
to be here. So let’s do this fast.” Friendly’s grin was charming as he 
lit a cigarette. He put away the lighter and pulled out a revolver in 
one motion. The researcher gulped, eyes fixed on the gun. Blank 
looked at what was in front of her. This is all wrong. This guy’s no 
killer. 


“SCP-682 was terminated without authorization last night,” Friendly 
continued, emptying bullets from his gun and putting them in his 
pocket until only one chamber was loaded. “Where were you when it 
happened?” He cheerfully spun the barrel and snapped it shut. 
Cooper glared, but said nothing. Friendly cocked the hammer, 
beaming. “Y’ever heard of Russian Roulette, Doctor Cooper? We’re 
gonna have Doctor Blank here hold your hand down on your desk, 


and every time | have to repeat a question, we’re gonna-“ 


“Is that what this is about? The Lizard?” Cooper burst into harsh 
laughter, reminding Blank of a sickly crow. 


“That’s what this is about, sir. So. My question. Do | have to repeat 
it?” 


“Fine. God damn you, fine.” The doctor reached for his desk drawer, 
pausing when Friendly started forward. “May | please reach in my 
desk drawer and show you my alibi?” 


“Do it slow enough to not make us nervous,” Blank said, drawing her 
own piece. Friendly winked at her. 


Cooper dumped a brown paper bag on his desk, sneering. A glass 
bottle covered in a handwritten prescription rattled out, receipt 
fluttering next to it. “Here you go, tough guy. An old man’s pills.” 


Friendly picked up the bottle and rolled it in his hands. He opened it 
and took a peek. Checked the date on the front and matched it to 
the receipt. 


“Huh. So you were out getting these prescribed last night. Does Mrs. 
Cooper know she gave you the clap?” 


“Mrs. Cooper has nothing to do with it, you son of a bitch. There’s 
a... alady. A businesswoman. You know what | mean. | pay for her 
company. She gave me something more than | bargained for. Mrs. 
Cooper’s fine, because she hasn't been anywhere near it in months. 
Which is why | go see this lady in the first place.” He squirmed, 
twisting his ring. “And now you know the whole thing. Write me up 
for soliciting prostitutes, but | don’t know about 682.” 


“We're not here about prostitutes.” Friendly tossed the pills on the 
desk and put his gun away. 


“How do we know he didn’t mock that stuff up?” Blank cut in. “Those 
could be sugar pills with last night's date written on them.” 


“Look at him. He’s humiliated. He might jus’ be a good actor, so 
we're still gonna check this out — and God help you if we have to 


come back — but I’m thinkin’ this‘s just a guy with V.D.” 


“You're making sense for the first time since you came in here,” the 
researcher snarled. “And now | have some questions for you. Does 
Director Torres know you’re down here harassing his trusted staff? 
Do you have any idea the reputation | have in this building?” 


“Yeah, | heard. So you know what's next.” The agent whipped out 
the canister too fast for Cooper to react, white fog already spraying. 
Blank reflexively pulled her jacket over her mouth and nose. Cooper 
caught the amnestic full in the face, blinking furiously as he 
struggled for words. He slumped over the desk and relaxed into 
sleep. 


“Old guy like this jus’ needs a lil’ bit,” Friendly said, sliding the 
cartridge back into his sleeve. “Perfect that it knocked him all the 
way out. Maybe he'll think he jus’ took a nap on his own.” 


“Okay, so he didn’t do it. That leaves us nowhere! We didn’t get any 
closer to figuring this out.” The stress of the day caught up with 
Blank all at once. "We risked our careers, dosed someone, made 
enemies with a director, and didn’t even make any progress-“ 


“We made progress. We eliminated one suspect. We learned some 
things about our guy. We know at least that he got in there past all 
the witnesses. That he knows all about the procedures and security 
routines and layout of the containment chamber, but isn’t part of the 
research team. We ruled out some possibilities and got closer to 
figurin’ out if maybe it was another anomaly that did this. Everything 
that happens tells us somethin’, and we’re gonna use it all. It’s just 
not gonna happen right away.” 


She took some breaths. Tried to put it in perspective. “You're right. 
We'll do our part, and let the rest fall into place.” She tapped her 
hook against the back of her good hand. “We know it was something 
sentient, probably sapient. We know the wound was where a 
humanoid would have inflicted it. The Lizard is supposed to be 
invincible, so there has to be an anomalous force involved 
somewhere...” 


“See? We know more than we did this morning. And we'll learn more 


tomorrow. You did good. For now we've got to figure out how we’re 
getting out of here without getting caught.” 


“"..It has to be an anomalous humanoid. One with some serious 
knowledge. Some serious skills.” 


“Learning’s no good if you don’t get to act on it. Let’s go.” 


Cooper snored peacefully, drooling on his crossword book. 


Incense curled in the dim air of the dojo. Sharks circled in their 
custom floor tank. A muramasa gleamed on the wall, its edge 
crusted in chunky black ichor. 


The Foundation would hire a swordsmith to craft him another. This 
one belonged on display now: a trophy, to mark a momentous 
victory. 


“It was a truly... worthy opponent,” Darkblade said, to nobody in 
particular. “A legend. But all legends... must come to an end.” 


Document 964-R must classify SCP-964 as a Keter-level object and 
contain a fabricated description of the object composed from the 
properties most likely to cause a containment breach in event they 
are displayed by SCP-964. 


« SCP-963 | SCP-964 | SCP-965 » 


The Lockdown - Introduction 


Agent Greenwell was by no means afraid, only strongly wishing to 
be elsewhere. As he ran, quickly avoiding small chunks of rubble 
and broken machinery, his thoughts remained more on the past then 
the immediate situation at hand. The day’s shift, indeed his entire 
tour inside SCP-110, had been quiet and routine. Constant work 
was being done to map and catalog all the areas, engineers were 
working on ways to crack into the vast areas still sealed off, and 
there had been no disappearances or deaths for months. Even the 
main power grid was starting to give up its secrets. 


A deep, bass throb pulsed through the air around Agent Greenwell, 
accompanied by a shudder in the ground under his feet. He fell, 
small bits of dust and plaster drifted down from the high-domed 
ceiling, bringing both a sudden, sharp pain in his ankle and the 
current situation to the forefront of his mind. Greenwell rose, limping 
forward as another, louder pulse shook the air and ground. 


They had located a module, labeled “Civic Reclamation: Global 
Class”. The whole city was riddled with these “modules”, tiny little 
self-contained booths, containing everything from emergency 
supplies to whole laboratories. They appeared to have been 
activated when the Event happened to SCP-110. Most were still 
closed, with others appearing to have been damaged or looted at 
some point. However, this one was different. It was huge, bigger 
then four city blocks, and heavily re-enforced. It also appeared to 
have been opened at one point, and then closed back up some time 
later. 


The team slated to crack it open had gone out that morning. 
Everything was going as planned, until a sudden loss of contact. 
Agents had responded to find the entire module missing, along with 
the staff. Greenwell had responded with them, and had been the first 
to notice that they had lost contact with Core Services. 


Another heavy rumble rattled through the floor, followed by the faint 


sound of crashing and twisting metal. Agent Greenwell limped 
faster, looking around the open area for any nearby doors or exits, 
and finding none. He gasped as a misstep sent a screaming bolt of 
pain up his leg, and quickly fell behind a heap of twisted stone and 
metal, gripping his tortured ankle and feeling the bone slide 
unnaturally. 


The deep bass pulse came again, loud enough to rattle marble- 
sized stones on the tile, followed by another...and another. Agent 
Greenwell balled up, trying to be as small as possible, fighting the 
gnawing little rat of fear that was trying to work its way into him. The 
heavy pulse abruptly stopped, the final tone hard enough to make 
his heart rattle in his chest. 


He stayed silent and still, balled as tight to the hunk of rubble as he 
could, listening. Nothing came to his ears, just the faint sound of 
dust settling. He rose, slowly, plotting a clear path to the east wall 
amid the rubble, trying to sight something to use as a crutch. It was 
as Agent Greenwell started to hobble to a promising chunk of pipe 
that a harsh blast of steam and sound burst both his eardrums and 
sent him sprawling to the ground. 


He screamed, holding his head, blood flowing between his fingers 
as the shadow loomed over him, floodlights blinding him as the 
pulse hammered him again, sending Agent Greenwell into a spasm 
of agony. Blind and deaf, he screamed again as hard metal points 
suddenly dug into his flesh and roughly lifted him, his head spinning 
and awash in pain. 


He felt rather then heard the grinding of gears, the crackle of 
electricity. He felt oil, smoke and ash instantly cake to his skin, the 
taste of metal thick and gagging in his mouth as more hooks and 
points burrowed into his flesh. As he felt something start to grind and 
crush his feet, moving up to his ankles, he acknowledged one thing 
before thought was lost in a wash of pain, blood and oblivion. 


He was afraid. 


-Warning!- Contact lost with SCP-110 command and 
security. Initiating lock-down. Situation reported to O5 
Command. 


Grant entered the room, pausing briefly to examine the faces 
arranged before him with a suspicious glare before sitting down. 


He reached into his pocket, digging out a battered box of cigarettes 
and a pulled one out.“Heh, still looking us through for doppelgangers 
Grant?” laughed Richards, running his hand over his shaved head 
unconsciously. 


“Happened before. Take no chances,” grunted Grant, lighting the 
cigarette with a thick metal lighter and taking a long drag. “So what 
do you think it is this time? Mutating virus? Artifact retrieval? Or just 
your stereotypical big nasty?” he asked. 


Grant shrugged, eyes on the floor as he hunched over, leaning on 
his knees and exhaling a frail cloud of wispy grey smoke. “Don’t 
care. Just wanna kill it and go home,” he mumbled in response. 


“You, me and pretty much everyone here man,” Richards replied, 
leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. 
Everyone always does he thought to himself, eyes running across 
those assembled. 


Everyone was tense, as they always were before a mission. Sure, it 
was masked beneath a thick veneer of joking and comradely, but if 
you knew where to look, the signs were there. The newbies would 
fidget unconsciously with little things at hand, chuckling nervously as 
they made idiotic boasts, betraying their ignorance of the things they 
would inevitably fight, and sometimes die to. 


The veterans would smile and joke, though the humor never 
reached their eyes, as they had seen too many friends succumb to 
the horrors of their line of work, both physically and figuratively. 


And then there were the loners like Grant, who never connected with 
anyone, just sat there, waiting for the mission to start like a man 
would an execution. 

The door opened again, and upon seeing who it was, everyone went 
silent. 


The man paced through the center of the benches, picking up 


everything with those bored eyes, before slouching against the wall 
at the end. 

“So... boss, you know what’s going down?” asked Hill nervously. 
Everything that was ever said to the boss was almost always said 
nervously. A slight side effect of the boss being completely psychotic 
and liable to snap with little to no provoking. 


“No,” he replied tersely. 


Hill opened her mouth to say something else, but slowly closed it, 
rather than tempt fate. 

Smart move, thought Richards. Now that he was here, all comradely 
music and such quieted down, trying to be as inauspicious as a man 
tip toeing through a minefield. 


This continued for some time, until suddenly, the view screen at the 
end of the room lit up, displaying a blank screen with only the words 
“AUDIO ONLY” stretched across the middle in bright red lettering. 
Everyone began to shift in their seats uncomfortably at this new 
development. 


They only used the view screen when they were delivering 
messages that they wouldn’t in person. 

The man slumped against the wall narrowed his eyes at the screen, 
looking in irritation at the small camera positioned in above it. 


“Omega Seven, here are your orders. We have recently received a 
distress call from an outpost inside a recently unearthed SCP site. 
Since receiving that message, we have completely lost contact with 
the area,” informed the disembodied voice coming from the VDU’s 
tinny speakers. “You are to investigate the area and exterminate any 
and all threats in the immediate vicinity. Transport is in three hours 
at docking bay four, and all equipment will be provided enroute,” it 
ordered calmly. 


“Huh... seems pretty standard,” replied Foley. 

Then, almost as if an afterthought, the speakers called out once 
more. “Also, Pandora’s Box will be protecting, escorting and working 
with Mobile Task Force Zeta-9. 


The room went dead silent as the view screen faded to black, save 


for a very slight crack sound at the very back of the room, followed 
by the sound of something small, light and hard tumbling across the 
floor. 


The entire group, as a whole, turned to look at the source of this 
sound. The boss had clenched his teeth so hard that one of them 
had cracked and popped out of his hideous grin underneath the 
immense strain, his jaws clamping down like an industrial vise. 


The room emptied in seconds. 


/ / -0900 Hours: Mobile Force Omega-7 informed of 
mission and mission specifics. 
Briefing room 8 completely destroyed by SCP-076-2