On Monday morning, Dr. Alto Clef (former director of Training and 
Development, and now the director of Mobile Task Force 
Lambda-2 ("Dr. Clef's Bisexual Stripper Assassin Squad")) 
walked into the suite of rooms set aside for said Mobile Task Force 
and waved pleasantly to the attractive woman with vaguely Asian 
features sitting behind one of the six desks in the outer suite (the 
other five of which were empty). 


Senior Special Agent Andrea S. Adams did not reply. This did not 
surprise Dr. Clef. 


He headed to his own office, closed the door behind him, and turned 
on his computer. He two-finger typed his password into the 
keyboard and began going through the day's emails and alerts. 


After reading the first couple of messages, he realized something 
was odd. He scanned his computer screen carefully. His eyes lit 
upon the header of his emails. 


That was how Dr. Clef found out that he was now the director of 
Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Impending Sexual Harassment 
Complaint"). 


His head snapped up. He glared out the window of his office at the 
lone occupant of the outer office. Adams' eyes were locked onto her 
computer screen, and her face was expressionless, except for a 
slight hint of an amused smile around her lips. 


Clef's left eyelid twitched once. 


On Tuesday morning, Senior Special Agent Andrea Adams walked 
into the suite of rooms set aside for Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 
("Impending Sexual Harassment Complaint") and found that her 
stationery had arrived. A nameplate, box of notepads, and a stack of 


five hundred contact cards (which were like business cards for 
people in the same business as you are) were sitting on her desk. 


She picked up one of the contact cards and looked it over. Very 
nice, she thought. Cream-colored. Embossed with the Foundation 
logo. There's my name, and the Mobile Task Force Symbol, and the 
name of the— 


She glared intently at the name of the Mobile Task Force. 
Senior Special Agent Andrea Adams. 
Executive Officer, Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 
"Uppity Smart-Mouthed Bitch." 


She crushed the card in her hand reflexively as she heard Clef 
snicker in his office. A cold fury descended upon her and settled just 
below her heart. 


On Wednesday morning, Dr. Alto Clef (director of Mobile Task 
Force Lambda-2: "Uppity Smart-Mouthed Bitch") headed down 
to the site cafeteria to pick up some snacks and bottled water for his 
office mini-fridge. He filled out the necessary form and slid his ID 
card into the computer as the bearded man behind the cash register 
gathered up the requested supplies. 


The bearded man stared at the computer screen, glared at Clef, and 
asked, "Is this a fucking joke?" 


"... oh God," Clef groaned. "Not again." 


The bearded man turned the screen around, revealing that Clef had 
charged the snacks and drinks to the operating account of Mobile 
Task Force Lambda-2 ("Fat Ugly Misogynist Dinosaur"). 


Clef let out a single loud, sharp, extremely heartfelt curse. 


On Thursday morning, Clef smirked as he walked into the office, 
eagerly awaiting Adams' reaction when she found out what he had 


changed the name of their Mobile Task Force to. He powered up his 
computer and looked up at the top of his screen. 


His eyes widened. 


He stood up from his desk and stormed out of the office, down the 
hall, down two flights of stairs, and down another hall to a red door 
with the symbol of Recordkeeping And Information Security 
Administration. He opened the door, ready to let out a loud, angry 
complaint, only to halt dead in his tracks as he saw two women 
there he wasn't expecting to see. 


One of them was Adams, standing in front of the desk clutching a 
"Request for Minor Services" form (the same one that he'd filed 
twice this week, requesting "Change to Nickname of Mobile Task 
Force"), looking shamefaced and guilty. 


The other was a severe-looking woman appearing on a 
teleconferencing screen behind the hapless tech usually assigned to 
this desk. 


"Ah, very good, you've arrived," Maria Jones (Director of the 
Foundation's Recordkeeping And Information Security 
Administration) said coldly. "Now that the entirety of Mobile Task 
Force Lambda-2 ("Adults Acting Like Children") are here, I'm 
going to begin my little talk about wasting my valuable employees' 
time with stupid office pranks and juvenile games..." 


On Friday morning, Adams and Clef went to the armory to get a gun. 
"All right, love," the balding man with the winged dagger tattoo on 
his bulging right bicep said. "That's one Mk-7 sidearm, serial number 
A-59652-00, one shoulder holster, three magazines, and one 
hundred rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammunition. Anything else?" 


"No," Adams said curtly. 


"Cool. In that case, you sign here, and you, Doctor Clef, sign here 
as Task Force commander." 


Clef and Adams complied in silence. 


"All right, then," the balding man said. "If you'll just hand me your ID 
cards, I'll input this into inventory." 


Clef and Adams handed over their ID cards in silence. 


The balding man whistled a cheerful tune as he swiped the cards. 
Then his brow furrowed in confusion. He checked and rechecked 
the data on the screen. "Hey, seems like there's an error in the 
system," he said. "I'm getting your Unit Designation, but not your 
unit's nickname." 


"... that's all right," Clef said shortly. 


"Yeah, no big deal. It happens all the time with new MTFs," the 
armorer said. "If you Know your unit's nickname, | can enter it in for 
you..." 


"No," said Clef and Adams, Director and Executive Officer of Mobile 
Task Force Lambda-2 ("NO NAME ENTERED"), respectively. 


What's Real? 


“Agent Powell, this is Site 42. Do you have eyes on the target?” 


“Negative, doc. Team is in position. We're approaching 
manifestation time. Subject should arrive within the next half-hour.” 


“Good. Make this a clean retrieval.” 
“Right, right... Uh, doc? Can | ask you a question?” 
“Is it relevant to your mission?” 


“Well, sort of. It’s just that, you know... It’s a full moon, right? And | 
was wondering, uh... Are we hunting a werewolf?” 


“... Negative, Agent Powell. You’re pursuing a metamorphic entity 
with transformations based off of the lunar cycle.” 


“Yeah, but | read the briefing. It turns into a wolf.” 


“It is a humanoid being which gains physical traits similar to that of 
Canis lupus, yes.” 


“Okay, but that’s a werewolf.” 


“Agent Powell, ‘werewolf’ is an unscientific term, and it should not be 
used to describe an anomaly we do not yet have a full 
understanding of.” 


“You gave us silver bullets.” 


“Testing on DNA samples gathered from previous manifestation 
sites has shown that silver's molecular structure causes it to be able 
to penetrate the subject's unusually thick epidermis. Now, Agent 
Powell, if you could please focus...” 


“But that’s just it! | can’t focus! This has opened up the floodgates for 


me! | mean, if werewolves are real, what else is? Like, are vampires 
real? Are Frankensteins real?” 


“No. And Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster.” 
“Are mummies real?” 


“No. Wait. Technically? | mean, they definitely exist, but do you 
mean the ones that walk around? No. No, never mind.” 


“What about the Loch Ness Monster? Or the chupacabra? See, | 
can’t stop wondering now.” 


“Agent Powell, if you don’t stop this, I'll have to have a word with 
your commanding officer.” 


“What about dinosaurs? Are dinosaurs real? 


"What? Yes. Of course they're real. Dinosaurs weren't an anomaly. 
Now, Agent Powell, I'm ending communications. If you could please 
just—" 


“Is Bigfoot real?” 


“ " 


"Doc? Are you still there?" 


And that’s the story of how Agent Powell got demoted to file clerk. 


SCP-996: Broken Topology 


Item #: SCP-996 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-996 is to be stretched to a 
1 meter by 1 meter square sheet. It is held in place by four clamps 
on the corners and mounted on a frame. The assembly is locked in 
storage under standard security. 


Description: SCP-996 is a sheet of sheer gray fabric. Under no 
stress, it takes the shape of a circle with a 0.5 meter diameter. The 
fabric seems to be infinitely elastic, as it will stretch under small 
amounts of force, and large amounts fail to rupture it. Attempts to 
puncture SCP-996 result in it deforming around the puncture 
implement. Shear forces will cause elastic deformation, but do not 
tear the material. Thus, SCP-996 seems to be topologically ideal. 


SCP-996 has a thickness, volume, and mass of zero. The fabric can 
intersect itself: when folded, the two halves pass through one 
another. Microscopes show images similar to the macroscopic 
sheet; no additional detail is revealed. Despite an infinitely thin 
thickness, the material is not sharp and bends harmlessly at a touch. 


Experiment Log 996-Mkf 


Date: - - 


Procedure: SCP-996 given to D-class. D-class instructed to interact 
with the fabric as he wished. 


Results: D-class experimented with SCP-996, quickly discovering 
the self-intersection property. Repeated folding, stretching, and 
manipulation resulted in a tangle around D-class's hands. D-class 
attempted to remove hands and was successful, then pulled on two 


There Between the Trees 


My Duchess Louise, 


The riches which | have recovered for you are the very 
least | owe to one who has so often bankrolled my 
travels, yet vanish into insignificance against the 
wonders which cannot be melted down. Such things lie 
quite outside the experience of your colleagues in the 
Secure Containment Initiative — there are some 
treasures which bear no number, which defy the confines 
of description. These are the spectacles of the True 
World, and these | long to show you when my tributes 
have slaked your thirst for gold. 


| enclose with this letter an account of the most obscure 
and sacred ceremonies of the people which reside in the 
great forests of the Congo, a land with whose inhabitants 
| trust you are well familiar; to which | have so often 
returned in order to enrich your knowledge as you have 
allowed me to enrich my own. 


The Wilds have long since gorged themselves upon my 
youth, but for you | will return until the Forest has drunk 
away my blood. 


Xenophoni 
Paris, 1908. 


Coming to the Congo for the first time in 1880, | sought trinkets 
amongst the crumbling ruins of the Old Empires. | had not yet found 
the True World, that realm of experience beyond science or 
anomaly. Now | walk the forests of the world to capture that which 
cannot be removed — the rites and magics of the forest peoples, 
which on occasion wander far from mere superstition indeed. African 
or European, seeker or scholar, the jungles will tell you of the power 
in their depths at the first opportunity. In my profession it pays to 


take the jungle at its word. 


This most recent expedition — 1906 — was organized to test the 
mightily persistent rumors which swamp any traveler to that country, 
of a most terrible magic practiced only in the deepest forests of the 
Congo, a nameless Rite orchestrated by the La'Hamon people 
which no words could bind. 


Capricious peddlers along the shore claimed it was held to keep the 
sun from vanishing, while Ba'Mabuti elders claimed it was to pacify 
the spirits of the heavens which might otherwise consume their 
subjects. The most fanciful of rumors surrounded the ritual and its 
practitioners, yet all agreed on three points — firstly, that the ritual 
itself was of the absolute greatest importance; secondly, that it was 
to be found at the bend in the great River Congo, at which could be 
found a seat of great magical importance. This supposed seat was 
called variably the Altar of History, the Spirit Song of the Moon 
Palace, and the Limbs of the Earth, among others. All questioned 
made reference to an incredible entity born of the mountains and 
central to the ceremony. No more than that could be made certain. It 
soon became clear that a dedicated journey would be required if | 
was ever to observe it — or at least lay the rumors to rest. 


We departed from England in February of 1905. | will soare you, 
Duchess, the details of how | organized the party; suffice to say that 
we numbered twelve, all experienced and known to you; with these 
men and women | pushed down the length of the Congo River and 
arrived at the bend where the nameless Rite is held by those few 
who fully Know it. The inhabitants of those forests, the La'Hamon, 
call themselves the People in their tongue, and so it is that | have 
named them in my account. 


For fear that | should impose upon your patience as | have imposed 
upon your largesse, | shall spare you a description of our journey up 
the river and into the forests of the People. It is enough to say that 
fourteen months' journey saw our party and equipment safely 
deposited in that region of the jungle where the river bends wildly, 
where the treeline gives way to plains and the Mountains of the 
Moon disappear into the cloudy distance. Fourteen months' travel 
and another three ingratiating ourselves into the ways of tribal life, 
living in their village, earning their trust and, eventually, access to 


that object of so much pursuit — the People's Nameless Rite. 
The Coming of the Rite 


Our time of study amongst the People came to a close on the 
Sixteenth of April. Prior to that day, nearly three months passed as 
we came to know the People, the events of which are without 
significance, though we picked up some desultory information about 
our quarry. Yes, the People possessed magics of great power; yes, 
that magic was rooted in what they called the Limbs, though we had 
not yet seen the Limbs, nor the grove in which they rested. | confess 
there were moments during our months of waiting and observation 
when some of our party doubted that any such mystery as we 
sought existed at all; yet the excitement of penetrating into these 
hitherto all but undiscovered tracts would have provided ample 
satisfaction even if we had not found the ultimate goal — but find it 
we did. 


According to their beliefs, the People have no special claim over the 
Rite or its ingredients — they are not even custodians, much less 
owners — and so could not rightly deny us the chance to see 
jungle's greatest treasure, the rumors of which had summoned our 
team out from varied homelands and onto this long journey. Thus, 
though only recent guests, when the day of the Rite came suddenly 
upon us we were invited to gather in the grove with the rest of the 
tribe. It would not have been safe in any case, the eldest remarked, 
to remain outside when the Rite was in progress. 


As the sun set on the appointed day, we were summoned by a 
general call to the heart of the village. From there, the whole of the 
tribe accompanied by our expedition, departed for the Hidden Grove 
—acircle of stones five hundred feet in diameter, about half way 
between the village and the spot where the trees give way to wide 
plains. Near the edges of the forest, the canopy is not so thick, the 
vines not so aggressive. At the center of the ring there lay a sort of 
cave, and within that cave slumbered the Limbs of the Earth — an 
enormous suit of armor of which I'd never seen the like. 


We of the expedition were of course riveted; now either we would 
see that entity whose coming rocked half the continent, and touch 


once more the sublime perfection of the True World — or face 
disappointment presently too horrid to bear contemplation.