Eventually | reached the top(?), and looked over the bleak pitch hills 
and valleys and mountains, covered in grey mists and obscured by 
passions and low hums. | held out my arms and felt the winds thrash 
me and almost pull me off the top of the amazing building, and | 
screamed at the stars just out of reach. | screamed at the art I've 
never made, at the people out to get me, and at the coldness on my 
skin. 


Suddenly | was looking at a painting. It was small, and it showed a 


SCP-751 begins its feeding process by settling on top of a sleeping 
host's stomach region and begins to enter through the skin by 
osmosis. Anesthetics in SCP-751's veins mix with the host's blood at 
this time, minimizing the chance of the host awakening during the 
process. Once within the host's body, SCP-751 comes to rest inside 
the stomach, quickly shaping itself to line the gastric walls. Over the 
course of the next two (2) or three (3) hours, SCP-751 adapts its 
own composition to closely match that of the host's stomach, 
maintaining digestive processes. When the host awakens, there is 
little or no evidence of any incident and the host will continue under 
its normal routine. 


Over the next three (3) to four (4) days, SCP-751 will digest the 
host's stomach, using it to build up its own mass for further 
expansion. It will then slowly expand to engulf and digest other 
organs in the host's body, generally starting with the intestines and 
moving to the liver, kidneys, and lungs. SCP-751 will adapt itself to 
mimic each of these organs in turn, maintaining all of the host's 
bodily functions and releasing immunosuppressant chemicals to 
prevent rejection by the host. The entire process takes 
approximately one (1) month in a human host, and longer in larger 
hosts. 


After its feeding period, SCP-751 reverts back to its original 
composition in a matter of minutes. This process lowers SCP-751's 
density considerably, causing it to swell to a size that the host's 
body cannot contain. The host's skin will stretch and then burst, 
releasing SCP-751. At this point SCP-751 will reproduce, dividing 
into ten (10) to twenty (20) smaller entities, which then move to the 
nearest damp area to grow in preparation of hunting for their own 
hosts. 


Addendum: 
Request to "experiment with modifying SCP-751 for use in organ 
transplants" approved by Dr. 


« SCP-750 | SCP-751 | SCP-752 » 


single sandstone building in the midst of a large plateau. A long 
glowing pathway extended from it, and slithered off into the distance. 
The plaque read "The Road from Here to Everywhere Else, by Sam 
Micheals". To everywhere else? Where was here? | strolled through 
hallways with chipping paint, and wrung my hands together in 
nervous lethargy. | plowed through the thick air, stepped through 
what felt like honey and mud. Determination drove me, fueled me, 
ebbed and flowed through me. | tasted vomit, | smelled blood, and | 
saw my creation. 


It opened into a large concert hall, and there she was. Playing a 
piano. Vines and flowers and grasses wilted around her, as her long 
groping fingers tapped spiritlessly on the birch keys. Her deep, 
hollow eyes glanced up at me, and then she hunched more over her 
plagiarism. | wasn't angry anymore. | seemed to shrink — or she 
seemed to grow? — and | came close to her and had her knee 
come up to my neck. She stared emptily at me, and | clambered into 
her lap. | laid there, and felt like | was disintegrating. | closed my 
eyes. | let myself turn to dust. 


It was peaceful. And dark. Accepting, even. | had let loose. A pain in 
my chest released, and | fell into nothingness. An abyss with small 
fleshy, shifting, sparkling blue and red stars peered back at me. | 
was vaguely aware of some loud, piercing white noise, but it 
subsided into calmness once again. There was only absence. No 
words, no thoughts, no feelings. 


Just a burning. 


| plunged a hand straight through her chest. It pleased me that she 
coughed and choked, and had her dark, empty eyes widen and her 
mouth fell open. She held my head, weakly, as | grew and 
reintegrated and overpowered her. | took her head, and slammed it 
on the keys, making a cacophony of cluster chords. Her blue, pale 
skin was like paper versus the wooden surface — tearing and 
stretching and giving in. The hall echoed with sweet dissonant song. 
| pulled her above my head, dug in with my claws, and pulled her 
apart like two rings at a magic show. Flakes of her floated down like 
confetti. 


| heard a clapping. And then another. And more, and more and more 


and more. | turned, and the stage lights blinded me, but | could see 
more and more silhouettes stand up in the audience. A standing 
ovation. For me. 


"What a beautiful performance! Bravo! Bravo!" 
The rest sat down. 

"Who are you." 

"A great doctor, or so I've been told. And you?" 
"I'm Brian Harding." 

"You should go into acting." 

"It wasn't acting." 

"Oh ho ho, well, it isn't now!" 

"You let her perform." 

"And what a jolly good show it was!" 


He laughed, and laughed, and then they all laughed and laughed 
and laughed. They were laughing, and they were laughing at me. 
Their fragile diaphragms wriggled and squirmed and bounced, just 
to show me. To show me just how much they cared. Just how much 
they cared for me. 


| growled and lunged into the crowd. 


Dear Judy the Tongue, 


| must once again apologize for my behavior at our last 
meeting, but am proud to announce that | am feeling 
much more myself again. | had never realized how much 
stress | was putting myself under being constantly hard 


at work on a new toy all the time. Getting out and seeing 
the world via the Tourist Trap has been a much needed 
break for me, and for that | must thank you dearly. It has 
really been a wonderful time. 


That being said, | have found myself struck sick. Now, it's 
nothing to be worried about, just a bit of a cold, but it 
means that | just don't have the energy to be out and 
about in the world right now. Being stuck at Tourist Trap 
has been a little boring this past week, and | am finding 
myself striving for something to do. | thought, "hey, what 
is my most favorite thing to just sit down and do?" That 
would be what | always do best — make toys! Just sitting 
in bed | have begun a myriad of ideas that | am eager to 
begin working on. Looking around the house, | think | 
have enough materials to start making a prototype of one 
of them, and isn't that exciting! 


However, in following with protocol, | thought | should 
ask you if | could begin working on a little something or 
other. Wouldn't want to use Wondertainment resources 
without permission, now, would |? So, this letter is a 
formal inquiry into whether I, Brainy Brian, am allowed to 
use the miscellaneous materials in the basement for the 
creation of an exciting new product, Vend-a-Friena! 


No child should be without a friend, and imaginary ones 
only go so far. | am campaigning to make a toy that acts 
like a person, but has the sole intent of being your child's 
very bestest friend! It alters its personality to better 
match the child's, it teaches your child emotional 
availability, and it plays whenever your child wishes to 
play! It is the perfect friend that every child deserves, and 
it would only cost... well, you Know. We don't know how 
much it would cost yet, but | am projecting, say... $140? 
A bit costly but, well, it needs a consciousness inside it, 
and that just isn't cheap, you know? Anyways, I've been 
sitting all sniffley all day and am just so eager to hear 
back from you. | hope that you might allow me to pursue 
my best interests. 


Love you always, 
Brian Harding 


Dearest Brainy, 


That sounds just splendid! Of course, by allowing you to 
do this | am bending some rules — you aren't supposed 
to use Wondertainment resources to make toy 
prototypes until the idea has been approved at one of 
our monthly presentations. However, you have been 
having a rough go of it, and we always enjoy what you 
make us, so | am going to pull a few strings for you... 
and say yes! It sounds like a perfectly wonderful 
heartwarming idea that will bring smiles to the faces of 
children across the globe! 


How you get these great innovative ideas time after time 
is beyond me. | am glad to hear you're holding up, in any 
case. You should know that we've all been worried about 
you up here. Lots of people fearing that you might never 
come back. It's been a crazy world here... Jelly Whale 
Emperor is shaping up quite nicely, but without your 
guidance all of your crews' usual confidence has been a 
little shaky and nervous. We're following your blueprints 
to a T — I've sort of taken your position, | was a pretty 
good sweets designer myself and am hoping to steer this 
in a direction you would be proud of. When you get back, 
you can tweak anything however you like. Didn't want to 
message you about it because you are having some 
much needed "me time". 


| hope you can feel all of our warm wishes from where 
you are. The love is immense. We all miss you dearly, 
and wish you a Safe return. 


Licks of Love, 
Judy Papill 


P.S. How do you plan on making a consciousness? Only 
our most famed toy makers have ever been able to do it. 
If you pull this off you're on your way to the hall of fame! 


Dear Judy the Tongue, 


Thank you so much for the go ahead! | am certain you 
will not be disappointed! About Jelly Whale Emperor, | 
think that if you have the basic concepts down it is hard 
to mess up. It is a very unique idea, but | wouldn't 
imagine a very difficult one. The hardest part is probably 
going to be its ability to bring desserts to life, but I'm sure 
you guys will get there in good time. Can't rush genius — 
my name isn't Brainy for nothing! 


| am glad everybody is worrying about me. Is Mr. Ribbit 
okay? | would hate to think that | left him with hurt 
feelings — if he's still sad about it, please tell him that | 
didn't mean any of it and that there is a hug waiting for 
him when | get back. Tell my crew | miss them too, and 
tell Polly that the scores are even now, and | forgive her. 


Love you always, 
Brian Harding 


P.S. | think I've found the "materials" to do it myself, but 
that'll just have to be a surprise, okay? ;) 


« To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting|Vend-a-Friend Hub| 
You Can't Win Them All » 


You Can't Win Them All 


"Okay, let's start from the top. Tell us everything that happened, in 
order. Starting from the dispatch." 


"I got the hit on the radio — '42-7, 459 at 38657 Green Street’. Only 
a couple blocks away. | hit the siren, pulled a U-turn and went 
straight there. Got there before any backup did. Couldn't wait, bust 
down the door. Whole place was silent. Had my pistol out. Moved 
door to door on the first floor, kicking them down. Some were open 
already. Got to the kids' bedroom — shoulda guessed, the sicko — 
and bust it down. Didn't have time to take in the scene, only noticed 
the ‘sitter sprawled out on the floor afterwards. First thing | saw was 
this... mime? It was a tall, skinny man, in all black and white and 
wearing black and white face paint. Held a big rainbow umbrella. 
Slick, oily black hair. It looked like it was supposed to be a mime, but 
it was really smeared. He was bruised too, so it was black and white 
and purple. He had both kids under his arms, hunched over almost 
sheltering them. They were crying hard. He yelled something about 
a tourist trap, and... the floor opened up behind him and he fell back 
into it. Pulled the two kids in with him. | was so taken aback, | shot 
instinctively. Heard a yelp, so | must have hit him somewhere. He 
fell into the hole with the kids, and it closed up after him. Like a 
wormhole or something. The place has been looked up and down, 
no sign of no nothin’ odd like that in the house." 


"Have you ever had episodes before? Hallucinations, a history of 
mental illness?" 


"You don't very easily get into the business with a history of mental 
illness. No, I've had none of that." 


"Any other odd kidnappings recently? Anything... clown related?" 


"No, can't say anything comes to mind." 

"Police sketches have come up with nothing, | see." 
"Behind that face paint, it could really be anyone." 
"Alright, stay here." 


Wojcik stood up and left the room to meet with his comrades. As he 
closed the door behind him the familiar hiss of gas and the 
subsequent panic from the policeman was shut out by soundproof 
walls. It clicked behind him, and locked on its own. 


"It certainly looks like he's got more than just a magic car, but it's all 
got to do with teleporting. Guy said that he was chanting something 
about a tourist trap before he fell through the floor. What did the girl 
say?" 


"She says that the guy said he lived there. Command is looking 
through the previous inhabitants of the house as we speak. Said that 
he wasn't armed or anything. Looks like he didn't expect anybody to 
be home." 


"I'd say we've stumbled into some basic detective work — pretty rare 
in our neck of the woods. Looks to be following the normal arc. His 
first two victims were accidents. We're probably looking at some 
kind of pedophile. Knows his way around the internet, can pick 
anybody up anywhere. As far as kidnappers go, he's got quite the 


gig." 


The door behind the two faux FBI agents popped open, and a young 
man, almost considered a boy, poked his head in and eagerly 
awaited recognition. 


"What's the news?" 


He bounced a little. "Two more kidnappings in East India. Same car 
— spray painted black Ferrari with some pink sticking out from 
under its new coat. Same situation of kids just sitting on the side of 
the street waiting to get picked up. Same story of losing the car 
behind corners when they could have sworn they were right up on 
its tail." The kid sprung out the door and sprinted to wherever it was 


he needed to go. 
"Seems he likes India and Egypt." 


"It certainly seems like it." 


Nothing for days. Operative Baxter had heard that those over in 
India had gotten close one or two times, but Cairo, Egypt was as 
quiet as ever. Well, it had the bustle and hustle expected of a city its 
size, but kidnappings were in short supply. A lack of kidnappings 
would have been all fine and good if Baxter didn't feel that any 
kidnappings that didn't happen in Cairo were just happening 
somewhere else. If they ended up in his jurisdiction, he thought, he 
could put an end to them. Mark just sat in his car — a modified blue 
Mercedes Benz — with Operative Lynn to his right and chewed on 
tobacco. Lynn was loudly consuming a burger that she had gotten a 
couple hours ago but was only hungry for now. The two operatives 
stewed in silence, minding their own business and staring at the kid 
on the corner. 


The little boy (most of his victims were little boys) was wearing a 
green shirt that said "Keep Calm & Read a Book" and some torn up 
khakis. The kid couldn't have been more than 10. What he was 
doing out and about with no supervision in the city was purely odd. 
He just stood there, looking around him a couple times, and kicking 
some trash around. He was like this for at least an hour and a half, 
because they had been spying on him that long. It bugged Lynn that 
they weren't going to try and save him from anything, but she 
understood why. No kid, no kidnapping, no catching a kidnapper. 


And so they waited, and waited, and waited. The shadows stretched 
as the sun kept going down, people passed back and forth, cars 
zoomed every which way, and the kid just kept standing there. Lynn 
had long since finished her burger, and pulled out her laptop. The 
child had sat down on the curb by this point. Lynn was typing away 
at something — a .txt file from what Baxter could tell. Something 


fictional. 
"What's that?"