9:22 AM: The gang retreat back to the limousine, where 
their associate had been covering by firing warning shots 
at passers by. 


The limousine takes off in the direction of Paris. Two 
policemen attempt to pursue by horseback and bicycle, 
but are easily outrun by the vehicle. 


9:27 AM: The Foundation task force ceases vomiting 
snakes. All snakes in the room disappear, and the door 
is unlocked. 


11:40 AM: The automobile is found, abandoned, on 
boulevard Pereire in Paris. 


Inside, police find clothes, bloodstained cloth, and a rifle 
used in the robbery. 


Foundation investigators find traces of intense residual 
thaumic energy imprinted in the limousine's trunk, but no 
source is found. A thaumic artifact is presumed missing, 
in POI-1844's possession. 


POI-1844 is upgraded from a potential instigator to an 
active, major threat to normalcy. 


Octave, 


It is not by accident that | offered my home to shelter your comrades 
on that night. 


As anarchists, it is our tendency, and perhaps our necessity, to let 
needs and requirements go unsaid, merely wordlessly fulfilled. It 
need not be said that my home is open to those who need to hide 
from the eyes of the police. That much is expected. 


| don't wish to bore you, nor waste time stating the obvious. What | 
mean to say is that there are things that go unseen, because the 

light of society would not bear to shine on them. They force us into 
the darkness, thinking us rats, and we learn to flourish in that night. 


They ask that we care for their banks, their belongings, their gold 
while the masses starve and freeze. You cannot reconcile this. So 
you hurt them. 


When | think on what I have done, and what | have yet to do, | 
wonder if it suits me. The obscurity forced upon us, the restraint of 
our minds and bodies. The withering of an ego that does not fit what 
those "above" wish for us. Have | become complacent, moderating 
my resistance from behind a typewriter? 


Already | have regrets. | do not wish to languish in the dark further. 
Our words cannot simply go unsaid anymore. When | see your 
actions, | see steps into the light, and | know that this darkness 
cannot persist. 


With you in inevitability, 
Victor Kibalchich 
Monsieur Garnier, 
Your performance in Chantilly was exemplary. 


It was heartening to see not only how well you defied the odds, but 
also the implicit acceptance of what | had offered you that night, 
which feels like so long ago. 


In my home, we have novels of all kinds. Anyone there could tell you 
that all fiction, from epic poems to sultry romance stories, share 


The swarm will also target any vertebrate animals during their 
search. Upon contact, the swarm will proceed to "sting" the subject, 
injecting a fluid that completely freezes all muscles in the body 
almost instantly. This fluid reacts only to the skeletal muscles, and 
allows all organs, including the brain, to function normally. 


Once frozen, the microbots will move the subject into close proximity 
to SCP-771, and proceed to cut off portions of tissue. The swarm 
will bring the tissue back to SCP-771, attaching the pieces to the 
pre-existing biological components. Once the subject dies (typically 
from blood loss after 2 to 4 days) the microbots cease their 
"harvesting" and retreat back into SCP-771. The harvested tissues 
appear to immediately contract the same degenerative illness as the 
original tissues, and degenerate to an unusable state after 12 hours, 
necessitating the retrieval of additional tissues. 


Addendum: Notes on containment 


It has proven very difficult to collect samples from SCP-771 or its 
"swarm", due to the highly aggressive and invasive nature of the 
swarm. It also appears to "sense" attack, and attempts to de- 
activate or damage SCP-771 cause a highly aggressive reaction 
from the swarm (see Breach Incidents 1101-771: 1-14) 


Any action capable of disabling or deactivating the swarm will also 
damage SCP-771 beyond repair, and eliminate its primary form of 
"life support". The highly complex and advanced (if damaged) nature 
of SCP-771, and the paralyzing "sting" of the swarm have enough 
research application to warrant continued containment, in the hopes 
of finding a way to deactivate the swarm without destroying 
SCP-771. 


In addition, information gathered from SCP-771 has shown a 
possible in the , which [DATA EXPUNGED] 


Addendum: Text Log 771-11-0-B excerpt 
Note: Data collected via an LCD screen temporarily attached to the 
"data port" of SCP-771. Questions asked via loudspeaker by Dr. 


Dr. : Where are you from? 


common attributes. 


Form, and structure. Paths that are followed thousands, millions of 
times, anchoring their followers in common knowledge, understood 
structures, ideas that are innate to ourselves. 


The world is not so different from fiction. There is a narrative in our 
world. It is a story that some try to tell, louder than anyone else's. 
Their version of the world, of fiction, must be particular. They can 
restrict the quanta of stories, bar the world from exploring the innate 
ideas they possess from birth. 


They turn our world into a shadow of what it could be, make it a 
shallow puddle reflecting a vast, unending sky. 


| have seen the possibilities that await when we transcend these 
limiting elements. My family, my comrades, all wanderers long to live 
in that open air. 


You reject the basis of the Foundation's monomyth. You will see the 
world restructured into one unlimited realm, free of conflict, strife, 
and class. 


| understand that what | have asked of you is difficult, the most 
difficult thing a man can do. 


| regret that you were not able to visit our collection in person. 


Sincerely, 
Le Sagittaire 


On March 30, André Soudy was arrested. He was later 
executed. 


On April 7, Raymond Callemin was arrested. He was 
later executed. 


On April 24, Etienne Monier was arrested. He was later 
executed. 


Date: May 14th, 1912 
Location: Nogent-sur-Marne, Paris, France 


6:30 PM: French police surround a building in the 
commune of Nogent-sur-Marne in Paris. They believe 
POI-1844, along with René Valet, is holed up inside. 


The police announce their presence, and are answered 
by potshots from the windows. 


8:30 PM: POI-1844, Valet, and the police continue to 
trade covering fire for an extended period of time. The 
crowd outside the building grows, police reinforcements 
burgeoning into the hundreds, not including civilian 
spectators. 


Foundation forces arrive to provide additional cover. 
Fearing the fallout of an immense thaumic attack should 
a cornered POI-1844 utilize the purported artifact from 
Chantilly to its fullest extent, Foundation counter-thaumic 
specialists from multiple Sites across Europe have been 
diverted to contain whatever results from this standoff. 


10:30 PM: POI-1844 and Valet gather their stolen money 
and set it alight, destroying ten thousand francs. As the 
police lay down machine gun fire from outside the 
building, the two men retreat to the cellar. 


At approximately this time in the four largest Foundation 
sites in Europe, anomalous distortion is registered inside 
archival departments. 


Many volumes of documents and classified logs vanish. 
Others burst into flames, consuming whole wings of data 
before the fires can be contained. 


Meta-analysis of the surviving documents later reveals 
that the greatest gaps in knowledge are related to what 
might be an anomalous organization or place related to 
an intense concentration of literature. 


It is believed that this specific data has been 
anomalously obscured to the fullest extent, preventing 
the Foundation from comprehending or intercepting the 
organization or place in any part. 


12:30 AM: Police lead a squad towards the building, 
planting explosive melanite charges. They retreat, and 
detonate the charges, shattering windows down the 
street and collapsing the building entirely. 


As the authorities charge into the remains of the building, 
they discover both POI-1844 and René Valet semi- 
conscious in the wreckage. Both are shot in the head. 


They are later buried in unmarked graves. 


On March 24th, 1912, the day before the robbery in Chantilly, a 
document was received by La Sdreté Nationale, addressed to the 
Chief of Police Xavier Guichard. Below is an excerpt. 


| declare Dieudonne to be innocent of the crime that you know full 
well | committed. | refute Rodriguez’ allegations; | alone am guilty. 
And don't think I'm going to run away from your police; on my word, | 
believe they're the ones who are afraid. 


| know there will be an end to this struggle which has begun 
between me and the formidable arsenal at Society's disposal. | know 
that | will be beaten; | am the weakest. But | sincerely hope to make 
you pay dearly for your victory. 


Awaiting the pleasure of meeting you, 
Garnier 


A Holiday Appeal 


A Holiday Appeal 


Good Evening, this is O5-7 with a Public Service Announcement. 
Here in the United States and abroad, SCPs are starving and 
homeless, but you can help by sponsoring an SCP through the 
Christian SCP Fund. For less than a dollar a day, your contribution 
can: 


— Provide SCP-053 with the clothes she needs to go to school. 
— Keep SCP-682’s containment tank full of Hydrofluoric Acid. 
— Feed a Pufferkitten for a month. 


When you sponsor an SCP, we'll send you its picture and 
Containment Report. You may write to your SCP whenever you 
wish, and quarterly progress reports let you see how your 
sponsorship is helping. 


Please give. Think of the Pufferkittens. 

Disclaimer: The Christian SCP Fund is not responsible for: 

— Injuries sustained while visiting Euclid and Keter-level SCPs. 
— Memetic effects of letters from your SCP. 


— Mental disturbances caused by a picture of your SCP eating a 
[REDACTED]. 


A Hopeless Case 


Jude remembers the first time he smoked so vividly. 


Maybe that's weird. All the stuff he can do, all the stuff he DID do, 
not as important as weed to his shitheap of a brain. 


He still didn't know if it was something he’d changed. He didn’t really 
do stuff on purpose, except of course the big one. 


The kid he bought from, some high schooler, was known for selling 
oregano to younger kids, he found out later. Passed it off as weed to 
middle class white boys who didn't know any better. So how Jude 
ended up getting stoned off his ass is really a mystery, but it sure as 
shit happened. 


It was the first time he'd ever really felt presentin his body. For his 
entire life, the part of his brain that wanted to check in on how his 
body was feeling had been trained like a lab animal in some horrible 
experiment from the 70s, getting shocked until it was cowed. He had 
spent so many years just floating through the world. Even over the 
past month, living in his new body, the training was still sticking with 
him. And it was weirder now, cuz he could never in a million years 
explain it to someone, since they’d now only known him as Jude. 
Not that he had anyone to explain it to, really, but weed helped with 
that little fact too. 


As he coughed out his first clumsy hit, smoke slowly rolling through 
the air in his parents' basement, he sank into his body at last. He felt 
every muscle, every nerve. He really was Jude, in more than just 
name. 


His name never bothered him, as such. It was just some sounds that 
told everyone “Hey look at this person”. Really, the issue was that it 
told people, especially people who knew anything about Ukrainians, 
“Hey look at this ga/.” His name was just one more reminder of who 


he wasn’t. 


It was the first gender thing he changed on purpose. He wasn’t 
ready to try anything serious, especially with his body, because 
fucking hell those are complicated. He didn’t wanna end up in the 
hospital and have to come out as both trans and some kind of 
fucked up magic user. 


But if he knew about this magic shit and didn’t try it for this, he would 
be agonizing over it every day for the rest of his life. So he just stuck 
with his name. Jude Kriyot. Jude Kriyot. Jude Kriyot. 


St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes. He 
had always felt drawn towards a few saints over the course of his 
years studying that shit, and St. Jude was one of them. Maybe 
because his name sounded like Judas, but he was so different. 
Maybe because Jude liked the idea of a saint for fuckups like him. 


Jude Kriyot. Jude Kriyot. Jude Kriyot. 


He repeated it until the familiar feeling of his mind twisting came, 
and he was frozen in one spot for a second, the world rushing 
through his head so fast that he didn’t have time to process a single 
image. And then all was still. He was breathing hard, brain tingling, 
way worse than it had when he did smaller shit like summon up a 
bag of chips. 


He pulled up Facebook. 


“Hi Jude, what’s on your mind?” the faceless corporate overlord 
greeted him. 


He breathed out a long sigh and continued to stare at the name. 
Jude. No one was ever going to call him anything but Jude, ever 
again. His eyes got damp, but he didn’t let himself cry. He’d done it. 
He'd made it happen. 


He laughed to himself, tears still sitting in the corners of his eyes, for 
a second wishing he’d chose a some ironic name, but names were 
special enough for him to drop his shtick and make something that 
mattered. Chatroom nicknames were where he went full meme. And 


after all, there was still beautiful irony in being named after the 
fuckin’ patron saint of lost causes. God. Maybe he couldn’t drop the 
shtick. Forever ironic and loving it. 


Every time someone asked “what would your magic powers be”, 
every time for his whole god damn life, Jude felt the pit of his 
stomach drop. He knew that what he wanted wasn’t gonna fly, not 
even close. But his mind always went there first. How could it not? 
He was no emo shitbag, but the times he did cry, it was something 
about his gender. He’d broken down and punched the wall of a 
changing room at a Macy’s once when trying on bras. That sort of 
thing. Those desperate hot tears and the deep, painful knowledge 
he had no way out. 


He didn’t blame the kids at school and their games, they had no way 
of knowing, but “would you rather”, “truth or dare”, “what would you 
be like if you were born the opposite gender” “what would you do if 
you could do any magic spell ever”... so many questions that were 
just fun for other kids always made him feel confused and pissed off 
at the same time. All he could do was stumble out some response, 
he was good at bullshitting, but he felt like they could tell something 
was up. It didn’t help that he was the “funny girl” who was invited to 
lunch, sometimes, because they felt bad for “her” and “she” was fun 
to laugh at. He felt like he’d been on the fringe of groups for as long 
as he could remember. 


So all of this was on his mind when he realized, holy shit, | do have 
magic fucking powers. Or whatever it was. It’s bitterly amusing how 
fast his mind went to “change my gender right now let’s fucking get 
on this, dog!” after he discovered it. Gender thoughts were always 
lurking in his brain, in the emotional mess part, he supposed. 
Luckily, his intellect kicked in, and he figured that he’d need to 
practice on small stuff first. Like that thing with the extra cookie at 
the back of the oreo box. He had been looking forward to those 
oreos all day at school, ignoring class as usual to daydream about 
food or internet forum drama. 


But when he got home and opened the bag, it was totally empty. His 
stomach sank. He was never any good at handling disappointment.