“Oh you fucking think so?” Mansani stood up and gestured at her 
arms. “I'm story but look at you'd. Look what he's did to you. 
Compared to you I've got off lightly. Fuck. What the fuck would be 
do to me if he's every thought | as trying to... to what? What exactly 
are you tripping to achieve?” 


“We don't know,” Helen said. “Peace? Freedom?” 
“No such things,” said Mansani. “No such things.” 


Aidan gathered his walking sticks and commenced the painful, slow 
process of getting up. “He's no use to us,” he said. “He's got it easy. 
He won't help. And here’s me thinking we were getting somewhere.” 


“His address,” Helen said. “Please. Just give us his address. That's 
all we ask.” 


” 


Geoff Mansani shook his head. “Jesus, | don't know... He'd find out. 
“Please. He won't find out from us.” 


Mansani shook his head again, looked at her arms, and then at her 
daughter playing on the swings. “Christ... okay. You win.” 


“Like | been saying all along,” Aidan wheezed. “The guy’s a fucking 
saint.” 


And although no one but Helen could hear it, there was hope in his 
voice. 


Next 


Autoerotic Assassination 


SCP-173 has a human brain - or at least, a human-like brain. | know 
this because | have possessed it. My name is Carmen Lopez. | was 
born on January 17, 1951, in Santa Clara, California. | joined the 
army in 1970 and was deployed to Vietnam in 1971 before being 
plucked into the ranks of the Foundation in 1972. | am a member of 
Mobile Task Force Lambda-9, nicknamed "Mind over Matter". 
Lambda-9 is an offensive branch of the Foundation's Psionics 
Division; we are tasked with investigating, containing, and in some 
cases, terminating psionic phenomena. | am only thirty-two years 
old, the youngest and newest member of Lambda-9 by far. This also 
makes me the most expendable. Therefore, | was the least risky 
choice for possessing SCP-173 to see whether or not the 
Foundation can put it to use as an effective assassination tool ina 
highly classified weapons testing program. 


I'm so goddamn horny. 


It's crucial for me to know who | am, where | come from, and why | 
have possessed this concrete monster - otherwise, the memories, 
instincts, and other unconscious brain functions of what I'm 
supposed to possess could possess me instead. Mental fortitude - 
willpower - is everything. And right now, | want nothing more than to 
go to town on my non-existent genitals. It's a pounding itch in my 
skull. It's hard to remember why | agreed to this or even why the 
Foundation wanted to try this. | vaguely remember something about 
hunter-killer flies, whatever those are, but | can hardly think for want 
of need to beat my cock like it owes me money. It's the first time in 
my life I've ever felt this way - one of the reasons | was shortlisted to 
join Psionics was my apparent lack of libido. 


| force it down and focus on what I'm doing in here. | would take a 
deep breath but | can't breathe. | can't move my limbs at all. | can't 
even move my eyes - I'm locked into place in this concrete room, 
standing upright and staring straight anead, because | am under 


Living human subjects that approach within 1400 m of SCP-794 
report feeling an increasing compulsion to approach and enter the 
vessel, peaking at approximately 60 minutes of cumulative 
exposure. At this point, affected subjects will attempt to enter the 
vessel by any means possible, and must be terminated in order to 
prevent them from approaching SCP-794. Once within the vessel, 
affected subjects will enter the ship's cargo hold, whereupon they 
will immediately collapse and cease all life signs. 


SCP-794 was discovered on // during a routine satellite 
surveillance pass. The vessel was located shortly thereafter by 
Foundation agents, and current containment protocols were 
established following the loss of members of the initial survey 
team. 


Addendum 794-01: Analysis of Recovered Bodies 


Following limited experimentation performed via the use 
of remotely piloted robotic vehicles, the bodies of - 
(_) individuals have been recovered from SCP-794-01. 
Of these, were members of the Foundation initial 
survey team, were Army personnel reported 
missing in 19 , appear to be unidentified civilian 
explorers, and the rest are too far decomposed to 
identify. Autopsy of the intact bodies has shown a 
complete lack of neural tissue, including the brain, spinal 
cord, and all muscular and sensory nerves. During this 
time, SCP-794-02 has also grown by an estimated 3.4%. 


Further investigation is ongoing, but difficult due to the 
inherent danger of SCP-794 and our inability to approach 
it directly. D-class assets have been secured in order to 
derive a method by which SCP-794's compulsion effect 
may be mitigated or suppressed. 


Dr. 
« SCP-793 | SCP-794 | SCP-795 » 


observation by three women wearing orange jumpsuits and trying to 
avoid blinking at the same time. There are comms in their ears, 
undoubtedly telling them to look away at the same time. The people 
behind the comms want to see if | can stop myself from killing them 
instantly or if | am just a passenger along for the ride. 


Whoever's negotiating with them must be a hell of a talker, because 
they're moving to take up positions around me. Two of them move 
out of my line of sight; the third stays where she is. Then she closes 
her eyes. 


I'm so fucking horny. | thought it was bad before but it's excruciating 
now. Christ, is this what life is like for ordinary people? 


But | haven't moved - not even my eyes. And it only then occurs to 
me that | should try moving. Breathe in - or imagine breathing in. 
Focus. Lesson one of being a psionic is maintaining focus. | focus 
on the woman in front of me. She's trembling but her eyes are 
closed. | try to remember my training. Start small. Diagnose my 
movement capabilities. 


| start by rolling my eyes. I'm not sure if they're actually moving - this 
room has no mirror - but | can see into the corners of my eyes. Then 
| rotate my head. | don't actually feel it rotating - there's no feeling of 
movement or muscle or really anything besides my goddamn libido - 
but | can look to my left, where one other woman is trembling with 
her eyes closed, and my right, where a third woman is trembling with 
her eyes closed. 


They're trembling. So | haven't killed them. That's good. That means 
| have some control. 


| try to move my arms. | look directly at my concrete appendages 
and there's no movement whatsoever, but | can feel them. It feels as 
if |have two phantom arms, but | can move them and flex them and 
rotate them. | can even feel my hands moving around. | pump my 
left fist - the concrete doesn't budge an inch, but | can feel my 
phantom elbow popping slightly. The same goes for my right fist. 


Can | walk? I'm not sure. | try to move my legs but it feels, with 
some irony | note, like they're stuck in concrete. Again, it feels as if 


I'm controlling phantom legs that are flexing and bending and 
walking around. These concrete ones aren't going anywhere. Or so 
it seems. I've taken twenty nonexistent steps before feeling 
resistance, like | bumped into something. The woman standing in 
front of me opens her eyes and all of a sudden it's like | teleported 
from one end of the room to the other. | loom over her and I'm 
frozen in place again and she screams and falls back on her ass but 
she's alive. 


I'm feeling pretty proud of myself for not killing any of the D's when it 
hits me that the whole reason they put me in this thing is to kill 
people. And I'm still horny. 


Lovely. 


| wonder how much more productive humanity would be if they 
weren't so concerned with sexing each other. Still, | can hardly fault 
them if this is what they feel like all the time. It's horrible: a yawing 
hunger in my stomach coupled with a heavy itch in my loins that 
seems to be occupying all of my higher brain functions. My 
meditative exercises can barely keep it under control. 


The tingling gets worse when the D-Class enters the room, which 
makes things even more fucked up since said D is a he. The 
loudspeaker says something about a terminal disease, and then the 
words "Sergeant Lopez, proceed as discussed." 


The poor jumpsuited bastard blinks and then it's like my genitals and 
brain have swapped places. And as much as | want to have lost 
control of the concrete fucker, it's 100% me that imagines myself 
lunging across the room and wrapping my concrete stubs around his 
neck. | can feel his throat compressing; it's firm yet squishy and the 
itching in my loins is getting worse and | can feel myself getting 
closer and then his arteries burst from the pressure and there's an 
invisible crunch as his vertebrae give way and | come. 


If | had a cock there would be semen on the floor. But there isn't. 
The only thing on the ground is a dead man. | feel exhilarated, 
elated, exhausted, and empty. The tingling is gone. The hunger is 
gone. In their place is shame. | think | just got off on murdering 


someone. | hope to God that Abuela isn't looking down on me from 
heaven; she might die from shame and become the first person to 
do that up there. The only good thing is that my head is finally clear 
again. | can think properly for the first time in | don't even remember 
how long. | say a few prayers in my head, but | doubt that even the 
Lord will be able to forgive what | just did. 


| take these moments of lucidity to think. | just killed the D-Class. 
That time | was actually able to visualize myself crossing the room 
and throttling him. Which is odd because the whole time | was 
testing not killing the D's | had to imagine what it would be like to 
walk and move around. There's two reasons for that | can think of - 
either I've gotten better at controlling the concrete fucker or it reacts 
differently when it's actually in murder mode. | very much want it to 
be the latter. | don't want to be responsible for what | just did. 


The doors open and | take a look at the next poor fucker to enter the 
killing room; her face is puffy and weeping. There are little pustules 
all over her face, dripping onto her jumpsuit and streaking it. She 
looks resigned to her fate. God help me, the itching in my head 
starts again. 


"Sergeant Lopez? You may proceed." 


She blinks. | do the only thing | can. 


I've stopped counting how many D's - how many people I've 
murdered at this point. I'm not even sure it's that many - the 
Foundation doesn't have the resources to just throw people into a 
meat grinder - but | don't want to make the number any bigger than | 
have to. It helps me sleep better, and considering how many dreams 
I've had recently that ended with my hands wrapped around my 
mother's throat, I'll take what | can get. 


| have to keep telling myself | don't like killing. Not even in Vietnam; 
that was sixteen months of tropical disease and shooting at plants 
that shot back. | didn't sign up with the Foundation out of a sense of 
duty or righteousness - | just wanted away from that jungle. Away 
from all the killing. 


So that turned out all right. 


| don't even remember why | agreed to this. | had to have known | 
was going to be murdering people, right? Why else would | have 
agreed to possess a fucking murderous statue? There's so many 
things about this project and myself that don't add up but | can 
barely tear myself away from these fantasies of sex and death to 
think about them. This isn't me. This is the influence of the statue. 
My meditation and focus exercises are becoming less and less 
effective. Whatever passes for a mind inside this fucker is nothing 
more than a bundle of sexual and killer instinct. And it's worming its 
way into mine. 


But there's a light at the end of the tunnel. The shrinks have decided 
that my dreams aren't too problematic and I've been cleared for 
active duty. | don't feel ready at all but, ironically enough, | guess | 
know less about my own brain than they do. 


The target is a drug dealer with a passion for fine art. | Keep hearing 
the words 'reality bender’ and ‘bixby' and 'Type Green’ being thrown 
around but it feels like they're going in one ear and out the other. 
This whole thing is way too convoluted for an assassination - they 
could snipe him or bomb his chateau or poison his dinner or literally 
anything easier than training a psychic to possess a fucking killer 
statue - but apparently those won't work. 


The next few days pass by in a haze as | spend all my mental 
energy on ignoring my lower body. There are a couple more terminal 
D-class to kill. There is a box and the rumbling of shipping and 
handling. Then there's moonlight. | can't move at all but something is 
moving me through a garden. I'm staring at a marble fountain, 
surrounded by fancy topiary. 


And then I'm alone with a man in a fancy suit. He's admiring me - 
the statue. He's admiring the statue. This must be the target. He 
looks beautiful. 


He blinks. | do the only thing that | can. 


| don't remember what happened next. | don't remember how | got 


out of there or how | came back to the Foundation or anything that 
happened after | squeezed the life out of the man in the suit. All | 
remember is the rush of watching the life drain out of his eyes and 
the relief of my head clearing. 


| can't wait to get out of this body. | can't wait to get out of this prison 
of fucking concrete that's stripping my mind from me. | can't wait to 
not dream about killing people. | can't wait to not fantasize about 
murder. 


They wheel my body - me - into view. I'm separated from myself by 
a thick glass window and there are fifteen people staring at me from 
the other side. I've been placed into a coma and have been kept on 
life support for the last few days. 


The people behind the comms tell me that they're going to 
deactivate my life support within five minutes. | only need five 
seconds to jump out of this concrete fucker and 


and 
and 


and five seconds later I'm still stuck in the concrete. | can't stop 
thinking about how much | want to break them all. How much | want 
to break myself. My exercises aren't working. | can't think properly. | 
can't focus. | can't breathe. 


The people behind the glass look increasingly worried. | can't talk to 
them. | can't tell them what's going on. | can't beg them to help me. | 
can't do anything but stand there and suffocate inside of my own 
mind. There's a pressure building up in my head. 


Then | see them put an oxygen mask back onto my body and wheel 
me away. I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I'm buried inside of a concrete 
prison and there's a pressure in my head and my crotch and | can't 
think straight and | need to kill | want to kill give me someone, 
anyone to break and watch the life drain out of them please. 


The doors open. A D-Class walks in. 


She blinks. | do the only thing | want to. 


Autonomy, Part | 


< previous 


A mix of torrential rain and seawater pounds against the deck of The 
Loose Neutron as Agent Trauss sprints away from the stern railing 
and into one of the port side doors. He removes his helmet and 
wrings his hair out, dirty water splashing through the grate floor. 
Stumbling as the ship lurches, he hurries through the short grid of 
hallways and comes into the main cabin. 


"Captain," he pants, his vest and equipment drenched and forming a 
puddle on the wood floor. "Captain Delacruz. There's an enormous 
entity trailing us. It looks large enough to damage the hull." 


Delacruz turns around, bracing his thin, elderly frame against the 
back of his chair as he swivels. He looks flustered. "| can't handle 
this hurricane on autopilot, you know. | have to focus. It's pouring 
out there. What do you think you saw, son?" 


"A cephalopod. You couldn't miss it even in this rain. It's bright 
orange. | saw a large section of its body. It's the size of a frigate."