"Yeah. Hang on, | need to give Bull a call." Skunkboy dropped his 
smart phone into the docking port on the dashboard of his car and 
pressed a couple of buttons. The phone lit up and began to dial as 
he started up the engine and pulled out of the parking spot. 


Click. 
"Skunkboy, this is Bullfrog," a baritone voice said. "Go." 


"I've got Spider, and we're on our way in," Skunkboy said. "ETA 


fifteen minutes." 


"All right. Kitten's already here. Meet us in the briefing room and I'll 
explain when you guys get here. Bullfrog out." 


Click. 


"So yeah," Skunkboy said, as they drove out of the parking 
structure. (A pale blue line of runes across the driveway glowed 
briefly as they passed: the protective ward confirming that everyone 
in the car was in it of their own free will). "You ever meet Knuckles? 
From 792 Fire Lance?" 


"... yeah?" 
"Brings a fleshlight, dildo, and lube every mission." 
"... why?!" Spider exclaimed incredulously. 


"Man, | don't know and | don't fucking want to know. Or how the fuck 
he got the handle 'Knuckles' in the first place. Dude's fucking 
strange." Skunkboy stopped at the red light, leaned his elbow 
against the driver's side door and watched the cross-traffic drive by. 
"He's one of the best safecrackers in PHYSICS Division, though. 
There's that." 


"... so he's really good at putting long, thin, hard things into tight 
cracks? Working in tight spaces?" Spider smirked. 


"Ha! | didn't even think about that angle." The light turned green, and 
Skunkboy continued on. "And that's not even getting into the 
condoms, tampons, pads, and other shit we use as field-expedient 
solutions. Sometimes | think we just do it to fuck with Q Division." 


"Man, don't even get me started on Quartermaster Division. You 
know they've got digi-cam tampons in stock?" Spider asked. 


"Really? Why the fuck would you need tactical tampons?" Skunkboy 
wondered. 


"Having your period in the field? But if they're gonna get all bloody 
anyway, what's the point?" 


"| mean, | can kinda understand the wrappers and applicators and 
shit being digi-cam, but the tampons themselves? | mean, it's not 
like they make us digi-cam our shell casings." Skunkboy made a left 
turn at a yellow light and pulled onto the freeway. "Plus, isn't that 
dangerous? Dyeing tampons, | mean. Toxic Shock Syndrome and 
shit like that?" 


"Man, | don't even know. Q Division is a bunch of fucking weirdos," 
Spider said. "That bald asshole with the Batman tattoo on the back 
of his head..." 


"Spencer?" 


"Yeah, that motherfucker,” Spider griped. "Every time | go down 
there, he tries to tell me that | should trade in my 1911 for a USP. 
‘Bigger magazine," Spider said, doing a passable imitation of a 
gruff, Southern accent. ""Yew don' wanna be stuck out thar in the 
shit wit’ only seven rounds in yer mag, do ya little lady?’ Fuck off! As 
if I'd ever be able to shoot one of those big-ass double-wides with 
these tiny hands," Spider grumbled. 


"Spencer's a fucking tool," Skunkboy agreed. "Go to Vic instead. 
Little old dude with the Colonel Sanders beard. He's old-school." 


"Yeah, | know Vic. He looks at me as if I'm a three-headed kitten or 
something. And I've heard some of the shit he says in the mess hall. 
Dude's 'phobic as hell." 


"... huh. Really?" Skunkboy said curiously. 


"Well, I'm not sure. He could be calling me ‘that he-she from 
Sparkplug' with the best of intentions," Spider said sarcastically. 


"... well. That's disappointing as shit. And against policy." They 
pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript office building, crossing 
another line of blue runes that glowed briefly as they passed. "You 
should take it up with Schowalter in HR." Skunkboy popped the 
trunk and pulled his bug-out bag and rifle case, slinging the latter 
over his shoulder. 


"It's not worth rocking the boat over," Spider insisted, retrieving her 


bag from the trunk. 


"Bullshit. You're not at your best if you don't trust your 
Quartermaster. And if you're not at your best, it puts the rest of us in 
danger. Talk to Angela. She'll straighten Vic out." Skunkboy closed 
the trunk, and the two of them headed into the building. 


"| guess. It's weird, though. I've put up with that shit all my life, but | 
didn't figure it would keep on going after | went for full identity 
reassignment. | mean, shit. I'm female down to the DNA now. No 
different from Kitten or Fox," Spider grumbled. 


"Eh. There's always gonna be some asshole hates you for no good 
reason, and they'll justify it any way they can. Human nature." 
Skunkboy walked to the elevator, hid the button from view with his 
body, and turned the "up" button so that the arrow faced down, 
pressed it three times. "Anyway, talk to Angela. She'll work it out." 


"| guess. You think it might cause problems between us and Q 
Division, though?" Spider wondered. 


"| don't know. But you think you're the only one Vic's talking shit 
about behind their back? Best to let HR deal with it and smooth this 
issue out for you." 


The elevator went ding, and the doors opened. Spider and 
Skunkboy walked in, and the doors closed. Shortly afterwards, the 
back wall of the elevator slid open, revealing a second elevator with 
bare steel walls and floor. 


Skunkboy pressed the button for the bottom level, and the elevator 
descended into the hidden section under the unassuming office 
building. "Anyway, if you don't want to talk to HR, I'll do it for you,” 
Skunkboy said. "| won't even mention your name." 


"All right. That's fine, though, I'll talk to Angela once we get back 
from the Scramble," Spider said. "Speaking of which, we'd better get 
our game faces on, and find out what the hell is so important that it's 
worth pulling me out of bed for." Spider paused. "You weren't in the 
middle of anything too important, were you?" 


unclear whether this is the result of genetic engineering or of 
surgery. This distortion is believed to be linked to its 
behavioural anomaly. 


SCP-652's behavioural anomaly is its ability to produce human 
speech instead of barking or other standard canine vocalizations. 
Subject constantly 'gibbers' phrases in at least thirty-four (84) human 
languages; although five (5) of the languages have not been 
identified yet, analysis of the other twenty-nine (29) languages (see 
document 652-G for list of identified languages) indicates that 
SCP-652 is constantly making meteorological predictions for various 
locations worldwide. These predictions have been found to be 100% 
accurate for those locations which have been able to be identified. 


The predictions have no obvious connection with any external 
stimuli; while it can be assumed that SCP-652 is aware of its own 
behaviour, it does not appear to be under the subject's control. 
Quality and clarity of vocalization is dependent on SCP-652's 
physical condition: speech is muted and 'mumbled' while the subject 
is sleeping, garbled while the subject is eating or drinking, and 
agitated and staccato when the subject is excited or afraid. Subject's 
‘voice’ is low in pitch, and has a rather limited vocal range; staff 
consistently refer to it as ‘unsettling’. 


While SCP-652's unusual larynx is the most obvious link to the 
subject's constant vocal activity, a basic knowledge of speech 
production tells us that simply changing an animal's larynx will not 
necessarily allow it to make sounds similar to human speech; 
indeed, comparative biology reveals that human and canid larynx 
structures are actually quite similar. SCP-652's larynx, on the other 
hand, appears to have no correlation to either. 


History: SCP-652 was recovered during a raid on a Marshall, Carter 
and Dark office in . It was found in a shipping crate bearing 
the indications of having been recently delivered by the 
[REDACTED] national postal service, with an invalid return address. 
At the time of the raid, a Marshall, Carter and Dark operative was in 
the process of composing a letter regarding SCP-652; the operative 
died while resisting capture and the letter (Document 652-N41) was 
retrieved from her typewriter. 


"... Powerpuff Girls marathon," Skunkboy admitted. 
"... really?" 


"Sister asked me if I'd come over and watch her daughters for the 
evening," Skunkboy said. "If you think YOU were pissed, imagine 
how Vicky felt when | told her she had to come home from her date 
early." 


"Shit. Now | feel bad." 

"Eh. Her date was trash. Didn't even walk her to the door." 

"What a fucking asshole," Spider agreed. 

Skunkboy opened the briefing room door, and they walked inside. 


"Sequence" 
« UHEC | Return to GOC Hub | END » 


"Special Observer" 


"It's the same old story that it's always been," Dr. Elaine Wicks said. 
"The farmers and ranchers keep slashing and burning their way into 
the forest. When they encounter the local tribes, they drive them off, 
sometimes by force. There are supposed to be laws in place to 
protect them, but the local governments are less than eager to 
enforce them. If you could put a word in with your superiors..." 


"I'll pass your concerns on to them," the man known as Joseph 
Knight said, "but | can't guarantee that they'll take action. I'm only 
here to assess the historical significance of the find." 


"Of course. That's what UNESCO needs to be concerned with," Dr. 
Wicks said bitterly. "Protecting the ruins. Those have world 
significance, don't they?" 


"The United Nations is, of course, concerned with the human rights 
of the indigenous inhabitants," Knight replied. "But that doesn't fall 
under my jurisdiction. | can promise, however, that your concerns 
will be passed on to the relevant authorities." 


"That's all | ask," Dr. Wicks said. "The Yashiwa are a fascinating 
tribe, and it would be a crime if their culture and heritage were 
destroyed so that Americans can get fat on hamburgers..." 


"| prefer tacos," Knight said. "If you'd excuse me, ma'am?" 


He nodded respectfully to the doctor and walked out of his trailer 
into the stifling heat of the Amazon rainforest. His thin shirt clung to 
his body, and the chirruping sounds of insects and brightly colored 
birds surrounded him like a kaleidoscope of sound. The camp was a 
small one: several tents, a latrine, and a trailer with computers, 
satellite uplink, and a gasoline-powered generator augmented by 
solar panels. The structures were arranged in a loose semi-circle at 
the base of a massive temple: hundreds of meters tall, made of 
hand-cut stone, covered in crumbling reliefs and tangled masses of 


vines. Thirteen archaeologists and anthropologists had come to this 
place to study the so called "Yashiwa Pyramid," already being hailed 
as one of the biggest archeological finds of the century. 


Mister Knight, and a few other members of the team, were here for a 
different reason. 


He saw James Zhao wave to him, and nodded to the young 
Chinese-American man, before jogging over next to his colleague. 
"Can you confirm?" he asked. 


"Not yet," Zhao said grimly, "I'm still trying to figure out what's going 
on here." 


"Damn," Knight sighed. "Have you managed to slow down the 
progress?" 


"I've convinced the teams that we need to catalog and study the 
exterior in-depth before we even think about entering the structure,” 
Zhao said, "but it's only a matter of time before one of them slips 
their leash and tries to open up one of those doors. | can't exactly 
tell them not to open up King Tut's tomb, can |?" 


"Do your best," Knight said. "Seriously. Try hard. The Council was 
adamant on this point: whatever's inside here, it caused half of their 
oracles to have a foaming fit when the discovery was announced. 
We cannot let this place get opened until we figure out what's inside. 
If someone does, and something bad happens... well, the last thing | 
want to do is to have to blame the Yashiwa for the massacre of a 
bunch of students. The 'murderous marauding savages,’ thing 
doesn't really go over well, these days. Besides, they seem like nice 
people." 


"Speak of the Devil," Zhao sighed. On the other side of the camp, a 
slight, rangy man with leathery, caramel-colored skin was walking 
towards them. He carried an ornately decorated blowgun-cum- 
spear-cum-walking stick in one hand, and his shirtless body was 
covered in ornate, interlocking tattoos. Out of respect for the 
newcomers, the man had traded in his traditional garments of woven 
plant fibers for a pair of brightly colored shorts. He had also traded in 
his traditional hand-woven sandals for a pair of leather Birkenstocks: 


that had less to do with respect, and more to do with comfort. 
Yashiwa shoes were notoriously uncomfortable. 


"Mister Tashika," Knight said, inclining his head respectfully. "It is 
good to see you again." 


"And you, Mister Knight," the man said. His English was tinged with 
a low, guttural accent: the Yashiwa language was largely glottal. 
"Your studies go well?" 


"They do indeed. We've been studying the bas-reliefs on the walls of 
the pyramid," Knight said. "They're fascinating. Do you know 
anything about them?" 


Tashika laughed out loud and shook his head. "I wish | could tell you 
that this was an ancient holy site to my people, and maybe even 
quote you some ancient story passed down from mother to daughter 
for countless generations... but the truth is, | don't know shit. The 
Yashiwa never came here often. There's no river here, the soil is 
bad, and the hunting poor." 


"Which is the interesting thing, to me," Knight mused. "People don't 
often build huge buildings out in the middle of nowhere. Buildings 
this big usually get built where there's some kind of natural resource 
to draw upon. A river for trade or fishing. Fertile ground for farming. 
High ground, for defense and isolation. Not to mention that you don't 
often find temples without ancillary buildings around them..." 


"Ancillary?" 


"Secondary," Knight clarified. "Things like homes for the priests, or 
farms to feed them, or to house craftsmen or merchants. Those 
almost always pop up around religious centers like temples. It's not 
often that you see a single building like this out in the middle of the 
jungle." 


"Then maybe this isn't a temple?" Tashika suggested. 


Knight paused for a moment, carefully choosing his next words 
before going on: "There's really nothing else it can be," he said, 
trying to keep his voice calm: Tashika was treading dangerously 


close to the truth here. "A building this big, what can it be?" 


"| do not know," Tashika said. "But..." he laughed nervously and 
rubbed the back of his head. "Shit. This is going to make me sound 
like some ignorant tribal..." 


"You're anything but ignorant, Tashika. Just go on and tell me." 


"All right," the Yashiwa man said, sighing. "Look. Our village has 
this... this old woman. Crazy old crone. We call her the Great 
Mother. They say that she can see the future. It's all ancient legends 
and myths, but it's part of our culture, you understand?" 


"Yeah," Knight said. "Shamans and wise women are universal." He 
vaguely remembered meeting the old woman when he and the 
UNESCO team had made their introductions to the local Yashiwa 
tribes. He remembered a withered old woman with one arm, leaning 
heavily on a stick, glaring angrily at the interlopers into her village. 
He also remembered Zhao telling him that the woman's EVE 
signature was showing distinct tendencies towards extrasensory 
perceptive abilities...