she was in the place of hers beyond anxiety 
where her eyes had no emotion left and her 
voice went flat. “Where the fuck have you 
been? | called you twenty times, we’ve got all 
hands on, it’s full fucking crisis.” 


“Lost my phone, stolen | think — crisis?” 


“Yes, asshole, crisis.” Kate was pacing around 
the room. She gestured at her monitor, a map 
of the Gulf Coast lit up with red. “We've got like 
five breaches in our region alone. Someone 
came and nabbed the stoplight, 2172, in the 
middle of the night and we’ve got severe 
reality fucks in Fort Walton. ESPN source 
tweeted that Canastota got called up to the 
majors. We've got three people in the hospital 
in Tallahassee with foot lacerations consistent 
with 072. That weird animal shit in St. Pete hit 
the fan.” 


“Holy shit. This is a coordinated effort.” | was 
completely awake. 


“Welcome to Saturday morning, Houghton, I’m 
glad you could fucking join us!” Kate locked up 
her briefcase. “This is all cover for something 
big. And | think | know what it is.” 


She gestured me outside and we got in her 
Continental. “What?” 


“Site-88 out in Bay Minette, it’s gone 
completely dark. No morning check in, no staff 
responding. So I’m flying directly there on SCP 
Airlines, flight number W-E A-R-E BONED. 
And congrats, your little adventure this 
morning means you're joining me.” 


We raced to Gainesville Regional, where a 
Foundation prop plane was waiting for us, pilot 
and all. 


The Gulf was aflame. This was going to push 
our little Task Forces to the limit. 


The Gulf: Aflame 


Part One — It's A Setup, It's A Setup, It's A 
Setup 


Part Two — We're All In This Together 


"The Worst Saturday” by Kate McTiriss 

"It Grows On Trees" by InsipidParoxysm 
"That'll do pig. That'll do." by Dr Cimmerian 
"Minor League to Major Arcana" by Zolgamax 


e "222" by Kate McTiriss 
© "22°" by InsipidParoxysm 
¢ "222" by Dr Cimmerian 


© "222" by Zolgamax 


Part Three — Our Friends Say It's Darkest 
Before The Sun Rises 


° "222" by Kate McTiriss 

° "222" by InsipidParoxysm 
¢ "222" by Dr Cimmerian 

© "222" by Zolgamax 


Epilogue 


° "222" by Kate McTiriss 

° "222" by InsipidParoxysm 
¢ "222" by Dr Cimmerian 

© "222" by Zolgamax 


Tales Set In The Gulf 


¢ Dixieland Nightmare Magic by Kate McTiriss 


1. 
2; 
3. 
4. 
5. 
6. 


re 


Fault Lines - They intend to fuck causality right in the 
ass. 

Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental - Some 
people are like pinballs. 

Operation Cannery Row: Document 2013§451A3 - The 
things we leave behind. 

| Double E - The first taste is free. 

The Hyacinth Hymnal - Bad religion via shortwave. 
Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee- 
Crook - Multilocational nightmare magic. 

Operation Cannery Row: Excerpts from the 
Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive 


* Green Thumb by InsipidParoxysm 


1. 
2. 


Shellfish for Breakfast 
Banana Smoothie 


3. Just Like Me 
4. Canola Oil Panic 


¢ Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer by Dr Cimmerian 


1. The One Thousand Deaths of Pastor Lewis Robinson: 
The Ethics of Repeatedly Drowning Baptists 

2. Sex, Success, and Targeted Advertising 

3. The Art of Coping with Anomalies in the Gulf Region 

4. The North Pole 

5. That'll do pig. That'll do. 


* One-Offs 


© The Ballad of Region 352 by Zolgamax 
© That's the Spirit! by Zolgamax 


SCPs Set In The Gulf 


* SCP-2072 / SCP-2172 / SCP-2272 / SCP-2558 / SCCP-2930 
/ SCP-2972 / SCP-2472 by Kate McTiriss 

* SCP-2065 / SCP-2131 / SCP-2713 / SCP-2913 / SCP-2987 by 

Doctor Cimmerian 

SCP-2091 / SCP-3015 / SCP-3130 by Decibelies 

SCP-2986 by Doctor Cimmerian and Faminepulse 

SCP-1692 by AndarielHalo 

SCP-2139 by psu! 

SCP-3403 by Zolgamax 

SCP-888-EX by stormbreath 


+ Writing For This Canon 


The Gulf is an open canon, created by Kate McTiriss, 
InsipidParoxysm and Doctor Cimmerian. All SCPs and 
tales set in The Gulf share the following general features: 


* They are set in the Southern United States, 
especially the Gulf Coast region. 
¢ They examine the personal lives and non-work 


side of Foundation employees and members of 

other GOls. 

They often feature a non-trivial association with 

religion or religious iconography and characters. 

They often feature multimedia (images, videos, 

audio) not typically found in SCP Foundation 

projects. 

¢ The Foundation actively searches to collaborate 
with other Groups of Interest, and is bound by a 
collaboration treaty with MC&D, the UIU and other 
groups in the Southern United States. 


The important part of The Gulfis that the Foundation is 
made up of humans, with human lives. Local Task Force 
members live in their own apartments. They have 
romantic flings with people outside of work. They're 
diverse, coming from all over the world and all different 
races, genders, sexualities and religions. And they lead 
groups that are mostly idle, with a lot of downtime 
between running and gunning. 


The Foundation, in The Gulf, can afford to rest 
sometimes. Until now. 


It Grows On Trees 


To be frank, Atkinson hadn't expected the object to create 
cockroach-like entities with thorns covering their exoskeletons. For 
organisms composed of plant matter, they packed enough of a 
punch to tear a gash in his right bicep, leaving him stumbling 
towards the chamber's exit door and staggering back into the 
antechamber. With a stuffed breathing, he tore open a first-aid kit 
and began to wrap his arm in some bandaging, after packing the 
wound. 


It was strange. The plant normally only exuded arachnid-based 
lifeforms, and only every so often. Atkinson was sure that it was not 
the environment of the chamber - he paid close attention to it, 
especially with the object's finicky nature. Never before had he seen 
anything but the arachnids it normally spawned, and the sudden 
change was rather concerning. He flicked the minor alert button a 
few more times to try and call for assistance, before finally noticing 
that he had shouted quite a few times while wrapping himself. It was 
odd - he hadn't noticed it during the process, but, he could feel the 
ringing in his ears of his own yells echoing. He glanced through the 
viewing port towards the plant. 


"Atkinson!" 


The doctor's head turned as the crew member, Fetters, ran down 
the hall. He sighed and stowed the first aid kit back on its wall 
holster, leaning against the wall with a clipboard. "Yes, Fetters? Why 
didn't someone come sooner? | could have been seriously injured." 


"| heard your shouting, just now. But there weren't any alarms." 


Atkinson raised an eyebrow. "| was sure that | pressed it. Sure of it. 
Both the internal and external alarm designators. Are you certain?" 


Fetters nodded, then clucked his tongue. "Mechanical malfunction? | 
don't know. I'll call up to the Sector overwatch." 


Fetters grabbed out his clearance card and swiped it, walking back 
out the antechamber's door and into the hall, pressing on the 
intercom. Atkinson stared at the small, unilluminated indicator light 
on the card swipe mechanism. He squinted. It wasn't green, nor had 
it been after Fetter's swipe. He pulled his own card, swiping it. The 
door opened, and he saw Fetter standing there, speaking into the 
intercom. It closed again, and he promptly swiped his Visa. Again, it 
opened, and this time Fetter was staring at him. "What are you 
doing?" he asked, letting go of the intercom button. 


"Testing the door. What did they say?" 
"Nothing. The wing must be malfunctioning. I'll call it in." 


Nathan pressed the intercom for himself as Fetters stepped aside. 
"Hello? Atkinson here." 


He waited. And listened. And what he heard was a perfect A flat. 


He grabbed Fetters by the arm and yanked him back into the 
antechamber, pulling the lever to lock out anyone from the 
containment's control room. Fetters pulled free and shoved Atkinson 
into the door. "What the Hell, doc? What's gotten into you?" 


"A perfect A flat, Fetters." 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"The intercom, Fetters," he breathed. "Something isn't right." 
"How would you know what pitch it was playing?" 


"| used to be musically invested, to a degree. | almost majored in it, 
you know. playing the-" 


"Get to the point," Fetters asked, impatiently. He turned and began 
to fiddle with the control panel, finding little to no response, mouthing 
confused phrases to himself. 


"SCP-" Atkinson murmured. 


"What?" 


Approximately 4 minutes after the initial manifestation of SCP-729's 
effect, bathers begin to suffer from rapid muscle wastage; material 
lost in this way becomes mixed with the water within the bath. As a 
result of this, bathers quickly lose the strength required to exit 
SCP-729 even if they were so inclined, and must be assisted by 
external observers. Within 6 minutes, the process begins to affect 
major organs, extracting them from the body almost intact; death 
typically occurs soon after. Despite the massive trauma inflicted in 
this way, users remain ignorant of the effect unless alerted to it by 
an external force. 


Complete deconstruction of the bather's body is typically completed 
within 20 minutes of the onset of SCP-729's effect. At this stage, it is 
possible to extract specific organs from within the mix of water and 
organic material left within the bathtub, although these are typically 
damaged to some extent. If left in SCP-729, these remains are 
further deconstructed; after 5 hours, no identifiable material remains, 
with the contents of SCP-729 instead comprising an organic ‘soup’. 
Long-term tests have indicated that this appears to be slowly 
absorbed into SCP-729, leaving clean water after 8 days. Parts of 
the stone from which SCP-729 is carved subsequently show 
discolouration. 


« SCP-728 | SCP-729 | SCP-730 » 


"SCP-" There was every indication that Nathan was stating a 
number to finish off the nomenclature, but no sound rang from his 
lips. He held up a finger and wrote the designation down on the 
clipboard: SCP-3142. 


"SCP-" 

"SCP-" Fetters tried again, mildly irked. 
"Sl Peet 

Fetters sighed. "Okay, explain." 


"It's an acoustic anomaly that prevents sound from being transmitted 
that can describe its anomaly, basically. Long-winded descriptions 
are fine, but, exact designation is impossible in anything but written 
records. Hence, you can't finish the name." Atkinson initiated 
lockdown of the plant's containment, setting down the clipboard. It 
guaranteed twelve hours of total containment, or at least, he hoped. 


"Are you sugges-" 


To be frank, Atkinson had not expected that the plant would create 
cockroaches. And, being fair, of course, he wouldn't have expected 
that they would catalyze a reaction between Pentaerythritol 
tetranitrate, a plasticizer, and a small startup reaction to set it all 
going. It kicked the wall in, and Atkinson and Fetters back into the 
opposite wall, showered with debris. The onset of plant-insects was 
immediate and frantic, Fetters grabbing Atkinson off the ground 
quickly and swiping a card to get back out the door. He shoved 
Atkinson forward and tried the intercom one last time, looking down 
the hall. It seemed pristine. 


Fetters tried to speak, but he suddenly realized that the both of them 
were breathing heavily, barely managing a what before wheezing, 
coughing, and brushing some debris from his clothing. Atkinson had 
left his coat behind, and his clipboard, which had taken the brunt of 
the debris. He leaned into the wall, palms planted on it, coughing 
vehemently. 


"l-it... cough means that, if a con- cough tainment breach were 


happening... we wouldn't hear it, if someone... someone managed 
to figure out how to use the anomaly. Like the... the plant. Yeah. 
That was the plant. That's... genetic engineering, for you.” 


Fetters didn't bother grabbing for his phone. He knew it wouldn't do 
him much good by now. "So what do you suggest we do, then, huh? 
Stand here and wait for something to get us? What the fuck, 
Atkinson?" 


Atkinson's oddly nonchalant attitude about things, especially in 
containment efforts that required a bit more force than he had 
planned for, had garnered him a small increment of gossip. He 
rubbed his temples. "Well, for starters, we start buying organic." 


"What?" 


"Well, | mean, look at it! The plant was obviously modified, look at it. 
Someone changed it between this current plant and the last 
seedling." 


"Atkinson, focus. What do we do about the breach of Site-88?" 


The doctor sighed. "Well, we find a way out. We stay calm. | think | 
know a way. SCP-3875 has a runoff tunnel that leads off-site. We 
can figure it out from there. Maybe we can get into the vehicle 
depot." 


"Right, right," Fetters breathed, trying to gain bearings as they 
began their way down the hall. Somewhere behind them, the 
scuttling of plastic explosives scratched against the doors. 


« The Gulf ||__ » 


That's the Spirit! 


Agent Isaac Allred-Smith was not having a good October. 


It had all started on September 30, when he'd filed a request for 
temporary leave. Under "Reason for Request", he'd written, "Too 
much goddamn stress." 


On October 12, he'd received a notice that his request had been 
processed, and in response, he was being moved to another Mobile 
Task Force. A more active Mobile Task Force. This did not make 
him happy. 


"The hell is this?" he had exclaimed, slapping the note on the desk 
of Regional Director Kate McTiriss. "Did you not read the damn 
paper | sent in? This is the opposite of what | asked for!" 


McTiriss shrugged, barely glancing up at him. "We both know stress 
isn't the issue, Isaac. The past two months have been slower than 
anything." She straightened a stack of papers Allred-Smith had 
knocked over in his outburst. "| highly suspect you're just looking for 
a way to take out pent-up aggression. And besides, it's not like we're 
dropping you in an active war zone. The task force isn't even on its 
home turf, so things should be pretty smooth. Besides, LMTF-237 
Teth is the Green Thumbs. Botany." She gave the agent a smirk. 
"What could be more relaxing than gardening?" 


Right. Gardening. Relaxing. 


On his first day with his new teammates, a meter-long insectoid 
made out of venus flytraps ate Agent Allred-Smith's guitar and half 
of his left shoe. 


Everything about the new job was awful. His temporary lodgings in 
Site-88 were small and smelled of pesticide. The on-site ethics 
team, led by Dr. Cinnamon or whatever, was way too touchy-feely 
for his liking. And he'd /iked that guitar, dammit. He needed it. Even 


now, as he sat hunched-over on his bed, his fingers twitched in the 
air, yearning for wood and nylon. The month had gone nothing but 
terribly. 


And then the klaxons went off. Isaac felt his Foundation-issued 
phone buzz in his pocket. Annoyed, he glanced at the screen. 


! Low-Level Breach Report ! 
Allred-Smith, 


We've got reports of a scip about 15 miles out. Some 
farmer made a call to the local police, completely 
delirious. We think we know what it is, but it's new. 
Hasn't got a number yet. 

Get out there, see if you can get it under control. Be 
careful, we're not sure how dangerous this thing is. Call 
for backup if needed. 


- Site-88/LMTF-237 Teth joint direction overwatch 


Attached files: 

10-31 breach_coords.txt 
ao_police_call.mp3 
ao_637_ tentative _file.txt 


Yeah, yeah. Another day, another potentially life-threatening 
mission. And of course they didn't send him with any support. He 
was only completely new to the region. 


He flicked on the police recording as he grabbed his jacket stormed 
out the door. Might as well get an early read on what he was up 
against. 


"911, what is your emergency?" 


"Oh God, oh God. They're out there. | still see them." 
"Sir, please state your location and the nature of the 
emergency, if possible."