Harken 


She sighed, opening the box and absently nibbling a pastry as she 
walked to the tiny kitchen. True, with direct (if limited) willful control 
of most of her major bodily systems, she didn't have a lot of need for 
caffeine, but the ritual itself was sometimes more important then the 
actual materials. She flopped on to a gray couch, glaring at the 
clock. She hunched lower in her sweatpants and hooded pajama 
top, sipping the scalding hot coffee. 


“Noon, Harken. Then | find you, and break whatever you have left.” 


Crouched in the middle of a searing morning sun, Harken was 
suddenly seized by an involuntary shudder. He shook it off, 
refocusing on the long, squat building on the other side of the 
crumbling parking lot. Deserted, some broken windows, weeds 
slowly eating the gray sea of blacktop, it looked like a lot of nothing. 
Harken shifted slowly, blinking the sweat from his eye. The area 
behind the old guard shack had looked like such a good idea in the 
dim fog of the morning, but the rising sun had turned it in to an oven. 
Still, he dared not move. Boomer had a sixth sense for danger like 
an insect. 


He peered through the crack in the thin shack walls, watching the 
old security shutter at the loading dock. It'd been nearly three hours 
since the fat man had left, and Harken was starting to give up hope. 
He might have shifted out already, gone on to the next site. Which 
would put Harken in hysterical danger, as Boomer loved to blow his 
old work sites as a parting gift. Still, this felt right. The big man was 
still here, still lurking. He'd seen- 


There. 


Waddling up around the back, shady side of the factory was the 
bulky outline of the tubby lunatic. Watching him in the cool dark 
shadows made Harken's hand squeeze on the lump in his suit 
pocket. Sweat rolled down his back, his face, but he felt none of it 
now, eyes widening despite the salty sting. Boomer leaned and 
grabbed the handle of the security grate. Probably a few hundred 
pounds, the big man hefted it like he was opening a window. He slid 
inside, letting it fall back with a crash, echoing across the empty 
black space. 


Half an hour later, Harken slid across to a broken window like a 
shadow. 


Boomer hefted the last of the oil drums in to the old cargo container. 
It was the last batch, and even with all the fun of building and testing 
bombs, he was tired. He twisted the last of the wires in to place on 
the top, and started setting the remotes. This was so much better 
then just doing cars or popping an office for Mr. Dark. Those nice 
church people were paying good, and Mr. Dark wouldn't need to 


SCP-938: Blood and Thunder 


Item #: SCP-938 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-938 is to be contained 
within Capacitor Bank Zero at Bio-Containment and Research 
Site-06 Bio-Containment and Research Site-07. This bank is to 
consist of 427,500 EPCOS B4345 capacitors, maintained within 
Storage Warehouse Zero. Storage Warehouse Zero should be 
constructed of unreinforced high-strength concrete, its interior walls, 
floor, and ceiling lined with 5cm of insulating PVC. The structure 
must be devoid of electrical wiring and systems; lighting should be 
provided by fiber-optic cables routed underground from adjacent 
structures. Neither the fiber-optic cables nor their cladding may be 
electrically conductive. Storage Warehouse Zero should be a 
minimum of fifty (50) meters from adjacent structures. 


Capacitor storage racks are to be positioned over the warehouse's 
built-in floor drains. Capacitors containing SCP-938 appear to seep 
a dark red fluid, identified as [REDACTED] blood, in a manner 
visually similar to condensation. This is normal, and not a sign that 
SCP-938 containment has been breached. This phenomenon may 
be ignored, provided Storage Warehouse Zero's floor drains remain 
unobstructed and precautions are taken to ensure this blood does 
not interfere with capacitors positioned below. Should this 
phenomenon cease, site command is to be immediately informed of 
a potential breach of containment. 


Both the structure and Capacitor Bank Zero should be inspected by 
four (4) Class D personnel supervised by two (2) Clearance Level 
Two research personnel and at least one (1) Clearance Level Three 
security officer weekly or immediately following any electrical storm 
occurring within twenty (20) kilometers. No electronic devices are to 
be brought into Storage Warehouse Zero without prior authorization 
of Level 4 research staff. Personnel implanted with pacemakers or 


know, so what was the harm? Besides, they liked big bombs, 
burning bombs, the kind he almost never got to make anymore. His 
thick lips split in a grin, remembering his first firebomb...how the 
house had burned...how his step-brother had screamed, skin 
flowing like wax down his- 


A small, sharp ping rang through the abandoned factory floor. 


Boomer whirled around, shockingly fast for such a big man. A few 
yards away stood a panting, sweaty man wearing a dirty suit. He 
held what looked like two sets of brass knuckles, with knife blades 
attached, the right hand pointing up, the other one down. His eyes 
glared with hate, mouth tight in a humorless grin. He pointed at 
Boomer with the right-hand knife. 


“You broke my fucking jaw.” 


They stared a moment, then Boomer heaved a spare drum lid like a 
discus at Harken. Harken twisted, but caught the edge with his arm, 
grunting at the sharp pain. Boomer was already moving, dashing to 
his workbench. He felt around frantically, keeping the other man at 
the edge of his vision as his hands scrambled over the bench. 
Harken followed hot behind, ducking cleanly as Boomer tossed a 
hammer. As he closed the gap, Boomer suddenly whipped up and 
lashed out with a length of pipe. Harken dropped low, feeling it swish 
near his head, then lashed out at Boomer's thick ankles with the 
knife. 


Boomer yelped, then kicked out, catching Harken off guard, tipping 
him off his feet and sprawled to the ground. The fat man wheezed, a 
keening cry leaking from his flabby lips as he saw blood start to 
drool down his leg. He rose the pipe like an ax, and brought it 
crashing down at Harken's prone form. Harken rolled and raised his 
steel-banded fist, catching the pipe with a resounding clang. Boomer 
stumbled back, Harken twisting to his feet even as he felt his hand 
going numb from the impact. 


Boomer swung the pipe two more times, Harken easily keeping out 
of range, glaring at the fat man. He pulled the pipe back, tipping it 
back like a bat, waiting. Harken crouched, slipping forward with an 
oily smoothness, feinting with the knives, watching Boomer cringe 


and slide back. The blood from the first wound has slid down the 
blade, drooling in to Harken's clenched palm, his own feverish heat 
making the handle feel like a hot, slick eel as he brought it forward. It 
was a bad thrust, but still dug a furrow on the side of Boomer's vast 
belly, bringing another keening shriek. 


Harken pressed in, slamming his fist against the slash, again, and 
again, the steel band widening the wound with each strike. He 
brought the left knife down against Boomer's thigh as the big man 
smashed his fist against Harken's head. The agent was sent 
sprawling, but Boomer nearly fell, clenching his thigh, watching the 
blood well up between his fingers, oozing on to the floor. His head 
swam, running in too many directions, the sweet-sharp pain of 
slivered and punctured flesh filling his head with screaming. 


Harken rose, shaking his head, spots swimming in front of his eyes. 
He flipped his right dagger, now holding both down, his hands numb 
and slick, feeling the bruises already forming in his palms, the 
underside of his tongue feeling sharp and prickly from panting. 
Boomer stumbled up, panting, holding his leg, looking at Harken. 
They stared, and for a moment, Harken saw a crying, cringing child, 
trying to shatter a world he hated and didn't understand. 


He hissed something, coiling to strike out again, looking at the exact 
spot on Boomer's flabby neck where he'd bury his knives. He was 
just getting ready to do so when Boomer started to giggle through 
clenched, bloody teeth. Harken froze, staring at the oddness of it, 
watching as the big man brought up his hand clenched around... 
something, some little mass of- 


deadman switch. 
FUCK. 


He started sliding back quickly, wanting to get clear, but unwilling to 
turn his back on the big man. Boomer wheezed and giggled, 
hobbling deeper in to the cavernous building. “Huh. Huh huh. F-fuck 
you Harken! Come and catch Harken! Little baby! Huh!” Boomers 
broken, blubbering taunts were overshadowed in Harken's ears by 
the soft, sharp “ping” of a hand-sized piece of metal hitting the 
ground. 


Running now, uncaring if he caught a bullet in the back at this point, 
there were several seconds of silence, Harken feeling as if he hada 
helmet of his own sensation on. Bruises on his face, palms, back. 
Lungs burning. That sharp tang of pain under the tongue from 
breathing too hard, sweat and blood in his eyes, feet stinging with 
every slap on the hard concrete floor, the glow of light from a 
window like the light at the end of a miles-long tunnel, a- 


and suddenly lifted, deafened, the window approaching much too 
fast, legs trailing like useless streamers, a burning, searing wave at 
his back, and now through, tiny razors slashing over him, feeling 
disconnected, discontinued, dis...something or other, the ground 
warm and welcoming from the old air, and sleep now. 


He woke to the sound of crackling and smoke, and for a second 
assumed he'd fallen asleep at the bonfire again, and that mom had 
tapped him awake to go home. Reality snapped back in to focus 
with a sickening, grating lurch, and Harken curled up slowly, hissing. 
Somewhere, he could hear the dim whine of firetrucks...so he 
couldn't have been out for too long. The trench knives felt slimy and 
hot in his hands, so he dropped them, wiping his face and seeing his 
hand come away bloody. His face was a mass of glass cuts, it 
seemed. 


He groaned, trying to fish out his phone, hand feeling sore and 
about as flexible as an old tree branch, chest and back feeling like 
he'd been crushed between two massive frying pans. He stumbled 
away to the relative security of a treeline, watching the smoke and 
fire rise quickly. Somehow, mashed his fingers to his phone in the 
right sequence, coughing and swallowing down a upsetting amount 
of blood. 


“Fuck, Harken, what the hell?” 
“Sorry.” 


“What the hell did you do? Where the fuck are you?” 


“| had a lead on Boomer. | just...thought | should follow it up.” 


“You could have died! The fuck are you thinking? We work as a 
team for a fucking reason, we back each other up, we inform each 
other, we-” 


“I'm sorry, Kramer.” 

“We try...what?” 

“| said I'm sorry. It was stupid. I...1 just felt like | had to.” 
“..ls he dead?” 

“...Probably not. Blew the building, | cut him pretty bad.” 
“Are you ok?” 

“...I'm alive.” 

“Not what | asked.” 

“...I'm functional. You of all people should appreciate that.” 
“...command is going to be pissed.” 


“Actually, | don't think so. Looks like something big is in the works. 
Lots of bang here, but it looks like even more was shifted out 
already. Someone wants something to explode pretty big, pretty 
bad. I'm going to call the cleaners after you, let them handle it. I'm 
sore.” 

“| bet.” 


“Can you come get me? I'm at that old Ford plant on ninth. Look like 
a Cop.” 


“Sure.” 
“...My hands hurt. | think | need to lie down.” 
“Sure, Harken. Just stay put.” 


“...thanks for not threatening me with additional bodily harm.” 


“Who needs to threaten. It's assumed.” 


“Have | told you today that | love you, Kramer?” 


Sex, Drugs, Money 


Only a few years into the mess of destructive publicity that took the 
extralegal SCP Foundation by storm, it's clear that their old motif of 
secrets and lies isn't holding up to the test of the public eye. Being 
the resilient international monstrosity that they are, the organization 
adapted; publicity was used to benefit their image, with campaigns 
for new hires skyrocketing past those of tech giants and space 
exploration companies alike in terms of popularity. The Foundation's 
newer recruits are their new image: Young, intelligent, attractive, 
and marketable. But if there's one concept our post-breach world 
has learned the hard way, it's that things are not always as they 
seem. 


And with the newly surfaced story of Officer Reginald Jacobson 
floating to the top of the Ethics Committee's murky cesspit of 
questionable employee conduct cases, these truths are hitting the 
public harder — and more unmistakably — than ever before. In this 
segment, we'll cover the details of what happened, what got leaked, 
what's on video, what's in text, and what's still to remain unseen, 
forever lost in the tight-lipped networks of internal SCP Foundation 
communications. 


In order to fully understand the scope of this case and all its red 
flags and failures, | believe we as readers will need to break it down 
into key three elements of the Foundation's new modus operandi. 
With this in mind, let's crack open the Jacobson case and take a 
good long look at how it's going to change the Foundation — and 
the world — in a way that is irreversible even by their standards, and 
through what means: 


Sex, 


3426 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina 
May 22nd, 2022 


“Mom, Reggie’s on TV.” 


River Jacobson pauses with a skip in her heartbeat and 
leans her broom against the garage wall. “What about, 
honey?” She peels off her garden gloves and wipes the 
sweat from her face using a dirty sleeve. “Here, I'll come 
inside. It’s too hot out here for this anyway.” She follows 
her barefoot six-year-old up the sandy stairs and into the 
living room, making sure to press the garage door button 
behind her. 


“They’ve got his picture on the news, see?” 


That time her heart skips two beats. She sits down on 
the couch and stares at the cereal commercial playing, 
too distracted to care about her soil-covered pants 
touching the white vinyl. “I thought | told you not to turn 
on the news without me here. There are too many scary 
things on it these days.” 


“| didn’t turn it on, Oppenheimer did!” 


River glares at the German Shepherd sitting calmly 
beside the TV’s button array. He sniffs and whines. She 
rolls her eyes. 


”...And we’re back, on the WECT 42 Carolina Beach 
morning news. This segment, we’re showing you more.” 


River recognizes Amanda Scranton-Jones as soon as 
the station cuts to her. Her son had always liked her 
while River saw her as biased and irritating, and they’d 
butted heads over the topic several times. “Good 
morning. I’m Amanda Scranton-Jones and we’re back to 
our breaking news segment. Local Wilmington area SCP 
Foundation officer Reginald Jacobson is in the middle of 
a hot mess; an alleged sexual assault case taking place 
internally at his place of employment has surfaced, with 
sources reporting that a total of three videos of his Ethics 
Committee meeting have now been leaked from 
confidential records. One of the videos — the most recent 
of the three, which was uploaded last night and gained 
thirty-five million views overnight — appears to show that 


Jacobson is being internally tried for rape by his 
organization’s committees. The video depicts-” 


River breaks eye contact with Amanda and winces when 
the video appears on-screen. “Rose, get out of here. You 
don’t need to see this.” 


“But-” 


“Don’t argue with me. You're six, for heaven’s sake,” she 
adds under her breath. Rose frowns and runs down the 
hallway and into her room. Oppenheimer’s ears perk up. 
“Go check on her,” River mutters with a wave. The dog 
leaps up and happily bounds down the hall.