As for the involvement of the Insurgency, it is the opinion 
of this Agent that their motives were simple. They 
wanted the Foundation to experiment on SCP-884-4, 
specifically to infect more and more members of the 
Foundation. Due to the mundane nature of the work and 
the low level of researchers assigned in a long-term 
capacity, close to ( ) separate instances of 
infection have been discovered, more than _ times the 
number of personnel they themselves have lost. 
Examination of causes of death from practically every 
person associated with research on SCP-884-4 had to 
do with an inability to make a crucial decision at an 
important moment. Agent Jones, for example, hesitated 
a moment between drawing his weapon and running 
when confronted with SCP- in 195, resulting in his 
death. Dr. Cho drowned in 19 , presumably unable to 
decide it was time to get out of the bath. 


when you can get it. Nothing's much less amusing than ending up in 
one of their room's that's like a permanent dunk tank, y'know? 


Slowly shaking their head, those hawk eyes zeroed in on my own. 
"When | was a child, my home was attacked in the war. They shot 
my father, and as | held his head, he said to me 'I'll always be here. 


"Jesus." | leaned back in my chair, looking the kid over. Her 
breathing had quickened, and under the table her hands were 
curling into fists. 


"That was when he died. After that, it's not funny anymore." 


Leaning back over the table, | look her in the eyes. "Listen. | don't 
know how you got here, but | know how it is. Not having parents. 
Being alone. | was made, not born." 


Her face was painting me a picture of disinterest. I'd have to reach 
into my guts to find a way to reach this kid. 


"So, when | was first made, by a Doctor, a bad Doctor, he set me up 
in a parking lot two weeks late for the circus." 


Checking on my audience, she was at least looking at me now. "So, 
I'm looking around, and the first thing | see is a leg. Just Some guy's 
leg, but not a guy's leg, laying in the middle of a parking spot. 
Perfectly squared with the lines, right dead-center smack in the 
middle of the space. Like someone stuck it there just for me." 


That got her interest piqued. Looking over at me, | could feel the 

touch of her eyes on me before seeing them. "I didn't know what to 
do with it. First thing | did, tried to find a hospital. Only problem with 
that, is | go in and they tell me they're not taking donations. | tried to 
explain, but they just laughed, and laughed.... sent me on my way." 


Curiosity was overtaking her disinterest by storm. I'd have to come 
up with a point to all this soon. "| went to the police, maybe thinking 
they could help me out, but they think it's a gag. | guess that's what 
you get when someone lets you go on April Fools day. The sergeant 
at the desk was more concerned with his donuts than me, and let 
me ramble on and wave this leg around until his laughing knocked 


over his coffee. They kicked me out after that." 
Interest was waning. Now or never, it was time for the kill. 


"Eventually, | got picked up by these spooks, and they brought me 
here. Meanwhile, I've still got this leg, with no clue what to do with it. 


Breathing in deeply, | reached down, firmly grasping my leg. With a 
hollow popping noise, | detached it, and placed it on the table. 
Skeptically and tentatively reaching out, her hesitation quickly turned 
to joy as my plastic-esque leg shrunk from adult recluse size to kid- 
sized. It was pink. It was meant for her. 


Winking at her, | have a sly grin on my face. "Maybe you can help 
me out?" 


Cue gasping, her grin shattered the practiced mask of her face. 
Pushing out of the chair, she ran out into the hall behind her, yelling 
"Look! Look!" They don't care, but that doesn't matter. She thinks 
they might, and that brings a smile to her face. | couldn't make her 
laugh but, looking down to my new stump, | think a smile was 
enough. 


The Glorious and Everlasting Victory of Pablo 
Foxenflower over the Traitor Lazarus Wyrm 


Another email from Briten. Fucking condescending arsehole. God, 
it's been so fucking tempting to just plaster his face everywhere with 
“LEADER OF THE CHAOS INSURGENCY’ or something. 


The following document is to be immediately destroyed 
after reading: 

Twenty-six of the twenty-nine of Site-3403's staff have 
been terminated by Task Force Alpha-One following Site 
Commander Lauren Harris’s direct refusal of orders to 
terminate Security Guard Raymond Trask after his 
potential contraction of SCP-4083, “He Of Many Minds”. 
The termination of three surviving personnel shall occur 
upon their relocation. 


Need a good cover story, kid. Two days. You did real 
good on the last one, kid, so keep it up. 


BEWARE THE BLOODSKULLS 

The Chaos Insurgency have struck again, mercilessly slaughtering 
the practically defenceless Site-3403 down to the last man. This 
time, they have used their brutal gang of murderers known as the 
Bloodskulls for their distinctive method of securing entry: having a 
point in the centre of your forehead worn down to the bone. The 
leader of this terrible team is none other than Lazarus Wyrm. 


Soft-spoken, polite, and covered in tattoos from head to forehead, 
Captain Wyrm is the leader of the Bloodskulls. In a previous life, 
Wyrm worked for the Foundation; however, the man grew an 
unhealthy obsession with SCP-9347, “The Vortex”, and purposetully 
submerged himself in the hopes of becoming a God. However, 
Wyrm’s plan both failed and succeeded, as security guard Pablo 
Foxenflower managed to retrieve him before the transformation 
could be complete; as a result, the man was both incredibly smart, 


strong, and durable... but he was now corrupted, and would stop at 
nothing to finally become a God. He soon broke free of his restraints 
and escaped from the facility. 


Most will never see anything of Lazarus Wyrm except his name and 
his crimes, will talk to their mates about what a jolly big meanie he 
was, and then go back to talking about some other mundane shite. 


But some will dig. Quite a few, actually, especially those who had 
lost friends in the “attack”. 


And it’s my job to give ‘em answers. 


Lazarus Wyrm would be born to Thaddeus and Imperia Wyrm, his 
siblings Dickon, Auric, and Severa. He would attend the entirely real 
Red Rose primary school and be taught by the entirely fictional 
Finbar O’Reilly. After showing repeated interest in both philosophy 
and physics, he would graduate with a joint degree age twenty-one. 
He would then apply for a position at Nova Sciences, a Foundation 
Front ran by the (unfortunately) 100% real and 100% dickhead 
Doctor Jake Briten. He would then slowly rise through the ranks until 
he met Pablo Foxenflower, and he became the Foundation’s villain 
for the next six months until Foxenflower rammed his head into a jet 
engine. 


But it's never that easy. Thaddeus Wyrm’s parents were Hiram and 
Waverly Wyrm, while Imperia would be the child of Cellaria and 
Cecil. Thaddeus worked as a butcher, while Imperia ran the finances 
for him. Backstory upon backstory, lie upon lie, nothing personnel 
upon nothing personnel... on and on it goes, until even the most 
desperate of diggers will turn back, fully convinced that Lazarus 
Wyrm was a real person. Anyone who digs deeper than what | have 
created will fall victim to a rather convenient paradox: anyone 
insane/sad/bored enough to spend all of their time convincing 
people that Lazarus Wyrm doesn't exist is too insane/sad/boring to 
be taken seriously. 


There are 32,084 members of the Chaos Insurgency, and | created 
all of them with nothing more than an “Evil Name Generator” and an 
overabundance of military jargon that armchair generals pleasure 
themselves to. They spend their time trying to “take over the world” 


for unspecified reasons and occasionally massacring a Foundation 
Site that’s getting a bit too close to insubordination or that is manned 
by morons that can’t keep a lid on anomalies. Sometimes the GOC 
or some other group finds themselves victims of this mysterious 
organization, and occasionally they topple governments. A very 
busy organization, the Chaos Insurgency is, especially one made up 
of nothing personnel. 


See, most people in the propaganda division of the Foundation have 
exactly one maxim: the simpler the lie, the better. The guy who 
taught me the ropes — that twat | mentioned earlier, Jake Briten, he 
told me this stupid story about a total moron who had to think up a 
cover story for this guy who got killed in a containment breach. Guy 
spent ages coming up with this elaborate backstory about how the 
guy got killed in a car crash when a drunk driver rear-ended him. 
Spent all this money on crashing a car and mangling the body and 
doing all kinds of stuff... only, turned out he didn’t have a drivers’ 
licence. Because he was blind. 


But isn’t that just so... boring? The rest of the propaganda division, 
they’re complacent with just slapping on “sudden heart attack” and 
calling ita day. Morons. No, | aim for something greater. Lies can do 
so much more than cover up mistakes. | can have squads of heavily 
armed soldiers terrified of an organization that doesn’t exist outside 
of a few newsletters and my imagination. | can have people of 
science cursing creatures and personnel that are nothing, were 
nothing, will always be nothing. | can have impossible anomalies 
that could destroy the world hold back in fear of dust and whispers. 
And | — 


“Sorry, kid, looks like you’re staying late tonight.” Briten dumps a 
sheaf of papers on my desk. “Need ‘em done by tonight.” 


“Of course, Doctor Briten. I'll get on them as soon as possible.” 


God, | really should make the bastard a Cl spy or something. I’ve 
worked for the prick for three years, he still can’t remember my 
name. Hell, nobody ever does. That’s the downside to working in the 
shadows; you can never attack from the front, never see their face 
crack in fear when they realize you- the one who they belittled and 
punched around and humiliated — was the one to kill you. 


But I’m not even a name to him. To any of them. 


I’m just the Nothing Personnel Kid. 


The Aftermath: But Here's What Really Happened 


"Hey, uh, hey Clef?" 
"...Yes, Konnie?" 
"We really fucked up good this time, didn't we?" 


"Shut up and keep your eyes on the statue. I'm almost done 
cleaning." 


Inside/Outside 


On 10/18/20 the following unauthorized modifications to the 
experimental data of SCP-2719 were logged by the external 
monitoring server. Based on the information gained from the logs, 
and the successful recovery of Site-81, Dr. Watkins has been given 
a posthumous commendation. 


Pointer Outcome 
Site-87 Became inside. 
SCP-T84 Went inside. 
inside Went inside. 
inside Went inside. 
inside Went inside. 
Data Corruption Went inside. 
Population of Site-81 Went inside. 


Meanwhile, inside... 


Dr. Watkins ran. He didn't know whether he was running away from 
something, or towards something, but he ran. Other people ran on 
the ceiling beneath him. One of them was struck by a dozen glass 
books falling from a room on Dr. Watkins’ right. No one stopped to 
help the fallen man. No one could reach him. He was There, and 
they were Here. Wherever Here was for them at the time. Managing 
to get from Here to There would have been quite the feat. 


He ran for another hour. Ten seconds. Three years. He wasn't sure. 
Sometimes the doors whizzed past in a blur, and other times the 
halls stretched out for an eternity. A voice called out from 
somewhere else. 


"Help me! I'm stuck!" 


Dr. Watkins spun, trying to follow the voice. "Where are you?" 


"Inside." 


Some part of Dr. Watkins began to ask "inside what," but the 
thought was lost as he stepped through a door into a room full of 
origami locks. Of course the voice was inside. Where else would it 
be? "Don't worry, I'm coming," he shouted. He opened another door, 
into another, identical room. He turned to look at the room behind 
him, but saw instead a new hallway. There was someone moving at 
the end. 


Dr. Watkins left the origami room and ran down the hall. The 
someone was above hin, sitting cross-legged with its eyes closed. 
Dr. Watkins stopped and looked up at him. "Are you who was calling 
for help?" 


The someone opened one eye and looked back. "No. | do not need 
help. Others would stop me from being inside." The eye closed 
again, and the someone was silent. Before Dr. Watkins could tell the 
someone that they were already inside, that they were still inside, a 
door opened, and the someone tumbled through it serenely. The 
door was too high up for Dr. Watkins to follow, so he settled for the 
one that had appeared in front of him while he spoke to the 
someone, and began running again. 


The hall twisted in every direction as Dr. Watkins ran. Left, right, up, 
down, back upon itself. He checked every door he saw, looking for a 
light, a place that wasn't this building. Room full of steel furniture. 
Room like the site break room, but everything was upside-down. No 
room, just a block of warm putty behind the door. For a moment the 
doctor was sure that he was running inside a giant wheel, as each 
door led to the same empty interrogation chamber, tinted a pastel 
pink. But none of them had more doors. Each one was a dead end. 


Dr. Watkins gasped as he opened another door, and nearly leapt 
through it into the open sky before him. He caught himself on the 
frame as he realized that the sky extended to the ground as well. 
Across the room was another door. It wasn't out, but at least it was 
progress. But how was he supposed to get across the sky? Dr. 
Watkins removed his watch and held it out, slowly letting it slip from 
his grasp. It fell onto the sky at his feet with a soft thump. He 
crouched and touched the area near the watch, and did not fall 


though either. It was warm to the touch. It was plastic, a giant 
computer screen with a background of skies. Dr. Watkins laughed, 
high-pitched and tense, and ran across the room, through the next 
door. 


The running continued for a long time. Doors were opened, rooms 
were crossed, halls were walked, but no exit. No exit. There was no 
out. Was there an outside? Did an outside even exist? There may 
not be, but Dr. Watkins kept going. 


The doctor's run had slowed to a trudge, breathing heavily. He was 
tired, he was thirsty, but he could not stop. The was nothing more 
important than getting out. He stepped on a platform made of 
notepads and slid across a room full of water, unblinking. Outside 
was the only goal. There was nothing more important than outside. If 
he could get outside, he could report this, maybe find a way save 
the others inside. He just had to find the outside. He stepped off the 
platform and into another hallway. Find outside, get out of inside, 
save the inside. Out of in, into outside, outside-in. 


Dr. Watkins stopped dead in his tracks. Maybe that wasn't the 
answer. Maybe the someone was right. Maybe he needed to be 
inside. Maybe to be more outside, he had to be more inside. Maybe 
the outside was inside. Yes, that was it. He just needed to be more 
inside. More inside. He took a few steps, then stopped and turned, 
walking back the other direction. If he didn't know where outside 
was, how would he know where inside is? Where is inside? What is 
more inside? 


More inside. 
Inside. 
In... 


Inside? 


Pointer Outcome 
Dr. Watkins Became inside. 
inside Went inside. 
SCP-184 Outside. 


This has been one of the most elegant and long term 
plans the Insurgency has ever enacted, and its efficacy 
is obvious. Recommend immediate investigation into the 
SCPs known to have been examined by the previous 
members of the Insurgency and the temporary freezing 
of any ongoing research in the interim.