McDowell pulled in to the finest coffee establishment known to 
Kansas, a beat to hell Dunkin’, and set the brake. 


Inside of the shrine to the holy bean brew, Denton and McDowell 
had spread the case file out across a couple of pushed together 
tables. The bored teenagers behind the counter tapped away at 
smartphones, while the two agents poured over the scant 
information. It was a five hour slog through a very dense, and yet 
nearly useless set of autopsy reports and 'eyewitness' statements. 


"Okay, so according to this...'report' is a very kind word here, there's 
been sixteen victims in two months. All of them have been mutilated 
somehow, and four of them are children. | don't see any 
commonality to them." McDowell frowned, looking left and right over 
the pages. 


"| think that's exactly it. There's no connection to them. So we've got 
12 victims, all dead from gunshot wounds, and missing some bits. 
Then we've got four kids, who are presumed dead, with no bodies 
found. I'm kinda surprised they even marked them victims." Denton 
lifted the last of the coffee to his thirsty maw, and smacked it down. 


presence was confirmed within and destroyed by 
02-06-1992. 


On 02-20-1992, Dr. confirmed the sensation of familiarity 
reported byJ S_ was solely attributable to a hitherto 
undocumented effect of a second exposure to aerosolized AMN- 
C227 following a first exposure of an individual to ECt. This 
sensation appears to act as a lure in those affected by AMN-C227, 
drawing them toward higher concentrations, most often centering 
around dens of SCP-939. 


Addendum 03-01-1992: AMN-C227-aided Tracking of SCP-939: 
We can use this. Anyone exposed to a concentration high enough 
for temporary anterograde amnesia to manifest can stalk them like 
bloodhounds if they know to identify the misplaced sense of 
familiarity for what it is. Based on Agent 's retracing of the route 
Mr. J. S. and his friends followed, we know to expect an effective 
range of kilometers if we use this form of tracking. No, it can't find 
individual SCP-939, but it can guide us to their dens. 


| recommend we brief a number of field operatives on this plan. Any 
willing would then be exposed to AMN-C227 under controlled 
conditions and dispatched first to the locations of AMN-C227 use on 
civilian populations. Any errant sensation of familiarity experienced 
by these operatives will be taken as identification of an SCP-939 
den nearby and reported as such. Eradication teams will be 
dispatched to investigate, destroying these dens as they are located. 


After this has been accomplished, | believe the dispatch of these 
operatives to major population centers to facilitate their securing, 
coupled with standard monitoring of civilian, military, law 
enforcement, and [REDACTED] channels of information is the best 
course of action to locate and exterminate SCP-939 in the wild. - Dr. 


"Be right back, need another." 
McDowell waved his hand, and continued reading. 


Denton approached the counter, and smiled, holding up his phone to 
pay for another coffee. "Hey there, can | get another Extra Large, 
Milk, Three Sweet and Low, light pumpkin swirl?" 


The teenage girl behind the counter looked at the agent as if he was 
a canid anomaly who'd just shit on her shoes. "You've had like... 
four, and we're trying to close. You sure?" 


Denton frowned down at her. "It's 7 pm. You guys don't close until... 
ever, actually, this is a 24 hour location." Denton leaned in closer, 
and narrowed his eyes. "And if you don't give me coffee, I'm going to 
start throwing furniture until coffee appears. Capiche?" 


She rolled her eyes, unimpressed by the threats of the older agent. 
About four hundred times slower than necessary, coffee appeared, 
was paid for, and began its journey towards Denton's stomach. 


As he sat down, McDowell looked up, raising an eyebrow, "You've 
got a caffeine addiction mightier than an O5's sphincter." 


Denton took another sip, and sniffed diffidently, "| have good taste, 
nothing more." 


McDowell looked down at the cup, "You're drinking pumpkin coffee. 
Good taste is definitely not among our assets here." 


Denton smiled as they slipped in to the easy familiarity they'd shared 
for years. "So what do you think?" 


McDowell frowned, and cocked his head to one side, poking at the 
sandwich he'd barely touched. Breakfast wasn't his thing. "I don't 
know. My gut says the adults are just...cover, for the kids. No 
bodies, mysterious circumstances. I'm almost sure there's at least a 
17th vic though, the coroner." 


Denton nodded, "That, or he decided that boca was the best place 
on earth and moved. Either way, | think you're right. So, the question 
is, is this anomalous?" 


McDowell narrowed his eyes down at the case files. "| dunno, 
honestly. Half of me thinks it's a ‘nom, the other half thinks this is a 
vanilla serial killer. | mean, if it's someone in local law, especially 
someone high up, there's no way they'd get caught. Not in a town 
like this." 


Denton nodded, and took another sip of his coffee. "So. Perkins?" 
McDowell nodded back, "Perkins. " 


Back in the truck, Denton pressed his thumb against his own 
Thaumic ring, and a look of concern crossed his face. "Ever wonder 
what the side effect of these jobbies are?" 


McDowell lifted the lever in the bottom of his seat, sliding it back all 
the way to the back of the cab. He reached down, and pressed his 
palm to the concealed safe under the chair, which slid back without 
a whisper. "According to the tech's not much. Why?" 


Denton slid his chair back as well, mirroring the same motions. He 
drew a heavier caliber pistol, and a web belt festooned with various 
bits of havoc-causing equipment. "I dunno. I'm getting a bad feeling, 
and | think it's like...a premonition or something." 


McDowell looked at Denton, his face set with concern, "Should we 
call in an MTF? I'm not tussling with something that's gonna turn us 
in to paste without some of ye olde goon squad behind us." 


Denton shook his head, "No, but I'm gonna radio in either way. If the 
site higher-ups think they should send someone, I'm not gonna say 
no." 


Several hours, and no goon squad back up later, Denton and 
McDowell prowled around the property of Sheriff Perkins, pistols 
drawn. The comfortable weight of years and food didn't hinder either 
of them, as they stalked up to the house. 


Denton's finger started to vibrate as the thaumic ring detected signs 
of something off. "Yours going nuts too?" 


McDowell nodded, and raised his fingers to his eyes, pointing 


behind the house, to a small storm cellar. Denton nodded, and 
stalked over to the entrance, placing a hand on the metal, making 
sure to keep the ring off the surface. 


A faint heat suffused the ring on his hand, and he looked up at 
McDowell, nodding. They eased open the doors, as quietly as they 
could, peering down in to the darkness. A faint red light could be 
seen at the bottom of the stairs. 


Denton took the lead, his gun held out before him, creeping down in 
to the gloom, red lightbulbs the only illumination. The cellar looked 
clear, and he held his gun down the line of sight as he waved 
McDowell down. 


They cleared the small cellar, finding nothing. McDowell 
straightened up, and his gun slipped back in to his holster. "Nothing. 
Were we wrong?" 


Denton's eyes alighted on a large storage trunk in the corner, and 
the faint light coming out the far side. "Not likely. Check it." He 
carefully slipped open the trunk, which revealed a set of stairs 
deeper underground. The faint smell of blood was unmistakable. 


The two agents cleared the entryway and descended down in to the 
earth, rough concrete giving way to jagged earth. The walls of this 
tunnel had been crudely broken out with a pickaxe and hammer, and 
Denton swallowed hard. "I don't like this." 


"Me either. Do we go for backup?" McDowell looked at Denton with 
hesitancy written all over his face. He was looking for an out. 


Denton didn't even have to hesitate, "The lights in the house weren't 
on. He's in here somewhere. And four of the victims were kids, Jim." 


McDowell nodded, breaking out in a sweat as he stalked forward, 
taking the lead. They moved together, Denton covering McDowell as 
they stalked forward. 


The red light had turned sullen, and the source had disappeared. 
There were no lightbulbs down here. The hellish light suffused 
everything with an even glow. A faint sound came from up ahead. 


Denton craned his neck and concentrated, recognizing it as crying. It 
sounded like a child, and he put a hand on McDowell's shoulder. "1 
think it's a kid up ahead. We've gotta do something." 


McDowell's eyes took on a flat cast, and he nodded, stalking down 
the tunnel faster. They came to a roughly circular chamber. 
Overhead, red light flooded in from some...thing above them. The 
rings on both agents’ fingers were practically buzzing. 


In the middle of the room was a steel chair, with a young boy duct 
taped to the frame. His arms, legs, and torso were all strapped to 
the high-backed steel. His head had been craned back, with duct 
tape over his forehead, mouth, and ears. His eyes were exposed. 


From a side tunnel, Denton heard the telltale sound of a knife ona 
sharpening steel. Fuck. This is so fucking wrong. 


McDowell growled slightly under his breath, and stalked forward, 
reaching back to the pocket knife he kept on his belt. He covered 
about half the distance between him and the chair, before holding 
out a hand to reassure the boy, "Alright, we're gonna get you out of 
here ki—" 


The dust at McDowell's feet snapped out like a viper. Denton's eyes 
darted to the ground, taking in a series of what looked like pink 
snakes rushing across the floor. They rapidly expanded, and moved 
up at the forward agent, faster than the blink of an eye. 


McDowell's voice froze in his throat, looking down at tendrils of 
steel-hard flesh, which had slammed through his body. He couldn't 
even process the amount of pain he was in, as invading flesh 
occupied what had once been his comfortably aging body. 


"Hrr...ngg...ahh... ," McDowell managed to struggle out before the 
tendrils retracted in an arc, leaving several chunks of what had been 
Denton's partner on the floor. 


"Oh fuck!" Denton swept his gun up as quickly as he could, but a 
hand clamped down on his wrist. How did he get behind me? The 
hand squeezed, snapping the delicate bones there. Denton 
screamed as the gun dropped out of his hand. 


"Now now, Special Agent | don't give a fuck, we can't have you 
damaging the sacrifice." Another hand hit Denton in the spine. His 
legs instantly went numb. 


Denton barely had time to choke out a gasp of pain, and panic at the 
prospect of being permanently paralyzed, before the "sheriff" 
slammed him back against the wall, another set of tendrils snaking 
out from Perkins’ pant legs. 


Denton set a new personal best for pain, as they constricted harder 
than an anaconda, crushing his arms and legs, and holding him fast 
against the wall. His screams echoed around the chamber, as the 
fleshy tendrils buried themselves in his blood vessels, worming their 
way in to his body. The tendrils writhed visibly, his arms a ruin of 
shredded flesh. Denton didn't have words to put to the fulminous 
pain shooting up his nerves to his brain. 


The young boy in the center of the room started sobbing under the 
duct tape, as Perkins circled around, the tendrils from his legs 
playing out like some kind of disgusting rope from a spool. He 
placed his hands almost delicately on the boy's head, and looked up 
at Denton. 


Denton's pain-hazed eyes could barely focus, as Perkins slowly 
lowered his head to the boy's face, opening his mouth. His eyes 
snapped open wide, in both horror and panic as Perkins’ teeth slid 
over the boy's left eye, snapping shut with a too-loud impact of teeth 
against vitrious material. 


The boy squealed and tried to struggle away, his face a mess of 
blood, as Perkins, still never breaking eye contact with Denton 
leaned over, and snapped his jaws like a viper over the boy's right 
eye. The sickening sounds of squelching and chewing escaped 
Perkins’ lips as he chewed with an open mouth, swallowing with a 
final sigh of satisfaction. 


The boy squealed for several more seconds, as Denton vomitted all 
over himself, and down on the floor. Tears flowed from his eyes, 
"You...fuck you, you fucking...fuck | swear to god, I'm...fuck...-FUCK 
YOU!" 


The boy made a whining sound, for several seconds, as Perkins 
yanked the duct tape off of his mouth. The boy's words whispered 
out, too quiet for the butchery perpetrated on him. "Owie...owie... 
daddy it hurts...owie... ," Denton threw up again, the last of the 
coffee that McDowell had shared with him ending up on the floor. 


Some combination of the boy's complete lack of understanding how 
he could be in this much pain, his own agony, and the completely 
incomprehensible strength of Perkins started to chew at Denton's 
rapidly cracking psyche. 


Perkins leaned down, running his tongue in the now-empty sockets, 
before sealing his lips around the orifice, slurping out the last of the 
liquefied humor, straightening as he smacked his lips. He placed a 
hand on the boy's forehead, and murmured a word. It quieted 
instantly. 


It sat up ramrod straight, as Perkins cut the tape. "Be a darling, and 
head back to work with the others." 


The eyeless, mutilated child turned its empty sockets to face its 
father, a rictus of joy and agony spread across its face. "Yes, 
daddy." It turned, and tottled off down another tunnel, trailing a 
stream of blood from its ruined sockets. 


Denton's ring was knocking against the spongy flesh of his 
restraints, as he felt consciousness slipping away. Perkins took a 
few steps toward him, and smiled. "Don't worry Agent. You go away, 
eventually. They all do." The last sight Denton saw was the row of 
perfectly triangular teeth at the back of Perkins’ throat as he closed 
his teeth down on Denton's left eye. 


Smarks 


Excerpt from comment thread on wrestling-dedicated 
forum _ .com/r/squaredcircle, under Foundation 
surveillance for manifestations of discrepancy caused by 
SCP-3144’s effects, after agent Krosta was announced 
as signing to World Wrestling Entertainment. The 
thread’s contents remained available for 41 minutes 
before being detected by Foundation web crawlers. User 
“SHOOM_BAKALAKA” was traced to __, Florida and 
placed under Foundation custody for questioning. 
u/crusader22: can’t say lve ever heard of this guy. does 
anyone have links to his matches? 

u/Gripperino: Man, you do NOT want to watch his 
matches, fucking snoozefest, last thing he did was take 
the XXL belt from Doom Machine. Sleeper (heh) of a 
match. 

u/SHOOM_BAKALAKA: Okay, first off, boo for your 
pun. Second, you're really underselling Eli’s fights - 
though to be fair, his best matches are on really obscure 
platforms. The way he keeps going after getting stabbed 
twice by [REDACTED] on Total Destruction was 
incredible. 

u/crusader22: got a link? 

u/SHOOM_BAKALAKA: Sorry, here.! 

u/crusader22: thanks for the link 


Doom Machine and Panzer sat across the man in the suit, taking up 
three spacious chairs: one per person, and one for Doom Machine 
to rest his injured leg on. Panzer glanced around the interview room, 
stocked with a coffee machine and a small box of cookies. She took 
a sip of the glass of water someone had set on the table before 
they’d even gotten there and cracked her back, trying to shield her 
aching eyes from the lightbulbs - more fluorescent and better 
maintained than she had grown used to in the badly lit backrooms of 
rental stages and underground venues. 


“Mister Krosta?” The man in the suit had introduced himself as 
Ruster on the ride over, without a last name or title.