“How is this relevant?” asked Hamilton, who was beginning to think 
his time was being wasted. Sanchez would be desperate to try and 
show his command he had his eye on the ball, yet this would just 
make him look like an idiot. 

“W-well, sir, he was reported as having a spoon in his hand when he 
died.” 

Hamilton was about to laugh at the absurdity of the sentence, when 


he realized the full implications of what was being said. 

“You mean it’s like-“ 

Hamilton never finished, as Sanchez was clearly desperate to get 
his point across. 

“SCP-463.” 


Hamilton stood up, knocking over the pot of pens as he did so. 

“Has it breached containment?” he asked, his voice a tone of worry. 
“| checked with Doctor Nauls, nothing happened. Nothing out of the 
ordinary.” 

Hamilton began to relax, but stopped himself just before he did. 
“S-sir, I-l think...” began Sanchez, whose voice was filled with worry. 
“| think there’s more than one.” 


Hamilton stared vacantly at Sanchez, before snapping out of it. 
“Alright, have you told anyone else?” he asked hastily. 

“N-no...” said Sanchez, quietly. 

“I'll get supervisor Childs, you try and get me all the information on 
Copper.” 


“Sir, just one more thing...” 

“What?” said Hamilton impatiently. He grabbed the pen pot and 
slammed it onto the table, upright. 

“Why spoons? It seems a bit random.” 

“| don’t know, Sanchez,” he said, as he grabbed a few pens at once 
at dropped them into the pot. 

“And we'll-“ 

Hamilton never finished. He was going back for a second handful of 
pens, when he stopped suddenly. For an instant, he stood perfectly 
still. Then his head snapped backwards violently, and he slowly fell 
onto the floor, his head smashing against the wall as he fell. 
Sanchez jumped up suddenly, making his chair fall on the floor. 
“Oh JESUS!” he shouted, as he tried to get as far away from 
Hamilton as possible. 

He looked over the desk, to see Hamilton's empty expression 
staring back at him. He was dead. 


In his hand, was a pen. 


Sanchez stood in silence, for what could have been either seconds 
or hours, before finally whispering, "They're everywhere..." 


The shed had a strong smell of damp and sweat. The wooden 
boards that composed it were filled with rot. It was the only room in 
the shed, and a few rays of sunlight from the setting sun seeped in 
through the murky windows. 


This was where | was born. No, born isn't the right word for it. 
Created, maybe. 


Or fabricated. 


My existence began with a blinding flash of light, followed by a view 
of the shed’s ceiling. | don’t know how, but | knew. | knew that the 
sky was blue, that | had just been born, the capital of Latvia, all the 
languages in the world; | knew. | don’t know how, but | knew. 


| attempted to move, but | was unable to. Then, | realized what | 
was. My eyes - or at least what | used to see - were located in a 
shallow, oval-shaped bowl. The rest of my body was composed up 
of a single thin bar. 


| was a spoon. 
| was completely unable to move, | was trapped. 


Then, my view of the ceiling was interrupted by someone’s head. He 
was white, overweight, and his head was devoid of any hair. He then 
spoke the first words I’d ever hear. 

“Goddamn it! Fucking thing didn't work!” he shouted, in a slightly 
Welsh accent. 


He picked me up, and inspected me. Then, he threw me to the 
ground in rage. 

“Why won't it just work? | paid good money for that!” 

When | hit the ground, it was the first time | had ever felt pain. 


That was immediately followed by the first ever feelings of rage. | 
couldn't move, why? Why me? What did | do? Why? Why? Why? 


| landed on the floor, angled in such a way | could still see the man. 
He was leaning on a table; presumably where | was created. 
He grabbed a scrap of paper, and began scribbling down notes on it. 


Then, he pressed on the pen so hard it went through the paper, 
causing him to scream in rage. He threw his pen across the room, 
breaking it. 


Then, he kicked open the door to the shed, kicking in closed as he 
fumed back to his house. 


| didn’t know at the time, but that would be the last time | ever saw 
him. It would be years until | saw anyone else. 


| think it was years, anyway. He left me to fester in the shed, to rot, 
to die. Eventually | began to wish | could. There was nothing but the 
shed. | couldn't move, | couldn’t escape, | couldn’t scream. 


| could watch, and | could hear, and | could smell. 


| could see the moss slowly grow around me until it encompassed 
me, leaving me with nothing but darkness to look at. 


| could hear the patter of rain that | would never feel, the trickle of 
water that | would never drink. 


| could smell the linger of damp that encased the shed, the slow, 
rotting body of a nearby rodent. 


| think my creator killed himself after | failed to show any signs of life, 
that 200 days of work resulted in no pay off. Ironically, he 
succeeded. 


Why did he succeed? What was he even trying to do? Why did it 
have to be me? 

Maybe it was years. Maybe decades, or even centuries. | waited. 
And waited. And waited. 


| could think, my mind was complete. 
Eventually it was filled with only one thought. 
Revenge. 


It took a few years, but eventually the moss rotted away. The shed 
was different when | next saw it; the table had gone, and a few 
random objects lay on the floor, all covered in rust. Hundreds of 
dead flies were everywhere. 


Someone entered the shed again. He was tall, white, and much 
thinner than the only other human being | had ever seen. Dust and 
cobwebs flew into his face, but he brushed them away. 


“Jesus, Terry, this place is really fucking old,” he said, looking 
behind him. 

He lowered his head down, to see old random objects on the floor, 
such as a disc, a playing card, and a small scrap of paper. 


“This stuff might be worth something, actually.” 

“Yeah, Paul, I’m sure someone will pay millions for some old king of 
clubs you found in a random shed...” 

Paul continued to search. Finally, he came to me. 

He picked me up, and inspected me. 


“What’s that?” asked Terry, who had entered behind Paul. 
“Just this old spoon.” 

“Oh wow, a spoon! That was obviously worth going here!” said 
Terry, putting on a mock voice. 


“Well, it might be worth a few quid. This looks pretty well made.” 
“Let's have a look.” 
Paul passed me to Terry. 


Terry looked at me, his expression one of disgust, before he turned 
me around. 

“Ah!” he shouted out of shock, and he threw me to the ground. 
“What?” asked Paul. 

“It’s got a massive lump of mould on the back of it! I’m not fucking 
touching it!” 

“Fine. When I’ve sold it for millions, you won't get any.” 

Terry let out a small laugh. 

“Yeah, I’m so jealous,” he said, sarcastically. 


| could only watch as Terry left, and Paul leaned down to retrieve 
me. 


| hated them. | had realized that | would be stuck, that they didn’t 
care. 
He picked me up. 


| still do not know how exactly | did it. The build-up of rage had been 
going for years, probably more. 


In a single second, all of that energy was released. 


Paul was in the doorway of the shed, when his head snapped back 
violently, and he fell to the floor with a thud. 


Terry must have heard it, and he turned, still smiling. 


His face instantly contorted into a face of horror. Even from several 
feet away, Paul’s death was obvious. His neck was angled 
awkwardly, his back bent over itself. His eyes were open, gazing 
vacantly at the ground. His mouth was open slightly, a small pool of 
saliva dribbling onto the ground. 


Paul’s body was dead, but a small part of him survived. He wished 
he was dead, but he wasn't. | knew his fate, and he knew mine the 
second | killed him. He was now me. His mind was transported into 
another spoon, somewhere in the world. There was a weak, 
extremely weak, telepathic connection. | could see, and smell, and 
hear what he could see, smell and hear. | think he was somewhere 
in a kitchen. | took his knowledge as well. 


| would force him to kill. lf anyone touched him, they would die. If 
anyone touched me, they would die. Humanity had left me to rot ina 
shed for years; | would have my revenge. 

Terry panicked, and ran, as he retrieved his phone, and hastily 
began dialing 999. 


It took ten minutes, and | was stuck in Paul’s cold, dead hand for all 
of it. It was better than the shed, at least. It was summer, and | 
wasn't in the shade. Sure, British summers were pretty shitty, but it 
was at least warm. 


That was the first - and only - time | was in the sun. 


| managed to get a good look at the house. The windows were 
boarded up, and parts had completely collapsed. Nettles and grass 
grew everywhere; the house had clearly been abandoned some time 
ago. 


Sirens loomed closer. Eventually, the paramedics arrived. They 
walked around the house; there were no fence to stop them. 


They all wore high visibility jackets, and carried a stretcher between 
them. Terry was nowhere to be seen. 


They all bent down, and laid the stretcher next to Paul's dead body. 
Two of them lifted Paul- and myself- up onto the stretcher. 


One of them must have noticed me. Rigor Mortis had not yet set in; 
he attempted to remove me from Paul's grasp. 


| was ready, but he wasn't. 


He let out a scream, and collapsed to the floor. One of the medics, 
who was standing the closest to him, spoke. 


"Shit, Ryan, you ok?" she asked, walking slightly closer. 
Ryan just let out another scream. 
"Oh Christ." 


His back was bent at awkward angles, and blood was pouring out of 
his mouth, while he continued to scream. 


"Shit, Dave, Steve, get the spine board." 


Steve and Dave exited, running. 


It was an hour later, when | learnt, much to my disappointment, that 
Ryan had survived. 


However, Paul had managed to kill two more people. Two more 
people who could join my ranks. 


The police arrived shortly afterwards. 


There were eight of them, five men, three women. They took Terry, 
Ryan, Steve, Dave, and the female paramedic whose name | had 
never learnt away for questioning. 


They all inspected the area. When Ryan broke his back, | had 
landed nearby in the grass. 


Three figures approached. They must of had realized what | was 
capable of, as they edged slowly towards me. | noticed one of them, 
the tallest, had a pair of tongs in her hands. 


"Alright. There it is. Benny, you got the safe?" asked the one whose 
hands were empty. 


Benny acknowledged him silently by nodding his head and holding 
out a small, cubical metal box. 


"Good. Amanda, you ready?" 
"Yeah. Let's just do this." 


She bent her knees slightly, and gripped me with the tongs, before 
dropping me into the box. 
Benny closed the lid on it instantly, and | was left in darkness. 


When the darkness finally ended, | was in a small glass display 
case. 


Ten faces watched me, from outside the glass. All peering in, all 
desperate to know what | was. 


| would show them. 
All of them. 
If they want to know what it's like to be me, I'll let them. 


I've picked up the occasional piece of information from the Class-D 
they send me. They're throwing fuel on the bonfire, and I'm all too 
happy to spread. 


They recently found out there's more than one of me, but it was 
worth it. 


| absorbed the knowledge and thoughts of Doctor Wilford Anthony 
Hamilton. 


| Know their secrets. 
And they know mine. 


lam SCP-463. 


and will grow to a similar size and reproduce in turn given suitable 
conditions. 


The first of the Foundation's captive SCP-799 population ( 
individuals at time of writing) was retrieved on / / from ; : 
where it had been residing in the home of notorious germophobe 
[DATA REDACTED}, after it metamorphosed and apparently fed on 
his infant granddaughter. A standard biological sweep revealed the 
blanket’s nature, and it was taken into containment without 
resistance. 


It is not known how many instances of SCP-799 exist outside 
Foundation containment, as they are very difficult to detect except 
by genetic testing. Extrapolation of growth rates and reproductive 
weights from the specimens in containment suggests that a filter- 
feeding SCP-799 organism reproduces once every fifty to sixty 
years. 


Note: Any wild blankets should be destroyed upon detection. This 
species is fascinating, but we have a large population in 
containment and the wild ones pose too much risk of public 
exposure. Further research into a possible special connection with 
SCP-1626 is ongoing —Dr. 


« SCP-798 | SCP-799 | SCP-800 » 


Beneath The Council 


This is a tale about before. Before the cave and the mountains, 
before the hills and the forests, before the oceans and the sky. This 
is a tale about where we came from, children, and about why we 
flee. This is a tale about the War In Heaven. 


In the days before, before the floods and the rise of the fangs in the 
east, before the east itself, before the angels here fell, before the 
hearts and the storms, before Sauel and Luna and the stars above, 
when the Flesh and the Metal rode in harmony across the void, 
when the Fifth Son of the old days (may he remain beyond) had yet 
to embrace the void, before the sundering of the seven low stars 
and the king who rose from the bleeding, there were the Stellar and 
the Na-Stellar. They crossed the nothing that was before all things 
as if capering children, the shining glee of the Stellar and the 
glistering acceptance of the Na-Stellar forging a thousand thousand 
imaginary gardens in which they could play. Time uncounted passed 
as the twin races of light and dark frolicked in their brief creations, 
and the Aeon of Nothing passed beneath their dancing feet. 


As the unwatched time passed the fabric of all things began to 
bubble and shape and from it emerged the first council of the All. 
Karakine, first of his name and the king of the Stellar, who ruled the 
shining children as their caring father. The Metal, she who was 
grown from strictest order, and who kept this moment following the 
last. The Flesh, he who was grown from wildest chaos, and who 
gave this moment distinction from the next. The Fifth son, the 
outsider from the last world, who ruled the Na-Stellar with his 
watchful eye. Together these four formed the council of the All, and 
the Aeon of The Council began. 


As the council watched, Karakine grew displeased. The Stellar were 
complacent, their creations transient. Nothing could last in the empty 
maelstrom of order and chaos that existed before all things, and he 


spoke to The Metal. “There must be things, a universe which we can 
call home. Do you not agree?” 


And the Metal nodded her head, and there was a point of infinity. 
And the point exploded, and there was earth and fire, and the Stellar 
were each surrounded by great clouds of air and rock which blazed 
into glorious light as they found themselves spread across the 
cosmos. The Na-Stellar became their antithesis as they always had 
been, and became the great dark attractors which eat all light and 
rock. The Stellar and Na-Stellar saw their new forms and were 
pleased, and they spiralled around each other in their love of their 
new dance. And so the Aeon of The Dance began. 


Long after the formation of the new dance Karakine looked on the 
universe from His new form and found it lacking. There was order 
and light and dark and air and rock, but there was no chaos. So He 
turned to the Flesh and said “Why is there nothing? Nothing but rock 
and law? This great pasture needs some flesh. Give it life.” 


And the Flesh bowed its great head to the ruler of the Stellar and the 
flesh became life and the flesh spread, and the Stellar King was 
delighted. The Stellar took up worlds of their own, worlds which 
danced around them and each other, worlds upon which life 
swarmed and grew, and they were delighted too. And so the Aeon of 
Life began.