Following Incident ABCA14-939-3, all non Class D personnel 
interacting with SCP-939 for any length of time are required to wear 
two (2) water-proof electronic pulse monitors for the duration of such 
interaction. These pulse monitors will transmit to a wireless 
monitoring system independent of a facility's main power grid, with 
at least one backup power system on standby. Should both an 
individual's pulse monitors flat-line or otherwise malfunction, the 
wearer will be presumed dead, personnel instructed to disregard all 
the wearer's subsequent vocalizations, and a breach of containment 
declared automatically. Security personnel responding to such a 
breach are likewise required to wear these pulse monitors. 


Additionally, all live SCP-939 must be implanted with subdermal 
tracking devices upon capture. 


Description: SCP-939 are endothermic, pack-based predators 
which display atrophy of various systems similar to troglobitic 
organisms. The skins of SCP-939 are highly permeable to moisture 
and translucent red, owing to a compound chemically similar to 
hemoglobin. SCP-939 average 2.2 meters tall standing upright and 
weigh an average of 250 kg, though weight is highly variable. Each 
of their four limbs end in three-fingered claws with a fourth, 
opposable digit, and are covered in setae which considerably 
augment climbing ability. Their heads are elongated, devoid of even 
vestigial eyes or eye sockets, and contain no brain casing. The jaws 
of SCP-939 are lined with red, faintly luminescent fang-like teeth, 
similar to those belonging to specimens of the genus Chauliodus, up 
to 6 cm in length, and encircled by heat-sensitive pit organs. Eye 
spots, sensitive to light and dark, run the length of their spined 
dorsal ridges. These spines may be up to 16 cm long and are 


he'd have to be blocking several of the containment lamps. That 
wasn't a problem, though; there were enough lamps in the room, 
coupled with the high reflectivity of the suit, to ensure that no 
shadows would be cast. 


Swinburne bent down and used his hands to pry out the recessed 
trim around the bulb, a circular trim coated with chromium. Carefully, 
he set it down on the ground and started to unscrew the blown-out 
bulb. Initially, the bulb refused to move, but after a few good 
clockwise twists, it started to come out. A shiver ran down 
Swinburne's spine, thinking of the thing to which his back was 
turned. After a few more twists, the old bulb was released. He set it 
next to the chromium trim and began to screw in the new bulb. 


For those precious few moments of counter-clockwise screwing, 
only one thought passed through Swinburne's head: 


"Pleasegodpleasegodpleasegodworkadonttailpleasegoa" 


And then the new bulb was glowing bright, causing Swinburne to 
squint. He popped the trim back into place, took the old bulb, and 
headed back towards the lift. Only once did he glance back up at 
017, hanging in its suspension chamber. As always, it was immobile, 
but all the same, another shiver passed through Swinburne's body. 


When he was back into the lift and it was moving up, away from the 
mad chamber holding a monster, Swinburne collapsed, slinking 
against the wall of the lift and fighting back great heaving sobs. He 
managed to stand and compose himself before the lift opened out 
into the hall of Containment Wing Beta. Swinburne pulled the zipper 
down on his suit and pulled off the face mask, sucking in great gulps 
of air. He gave Dr. Martell and the other members of Response 
Team Echo a thumbs-up. 


Dr. Martell nodded and spoke into a walkie-talkie. "System 
malfunction rectified, stand down THREATCON Omega. Repeat, 
system malfunction rectified." 


After a moment, the flashing hazard lights shut off. Over the PA 
system, a voice declared: 


"Attention all personnel: THREATCON in Containment Wing Beta 
has been set to Neutral. All personnel are to return to their duties as 
normal. Repeat, THREATCON in Containment Wing Beta... 


Martell walked over to Swinburne and clapped him on the shoulder. 
"Good work, Lloyd. C'mon, let's get some coffee at the canteen." 


Lloyd Swinburne nodded, feeling more drained than he had ever 
been. As the two men walked down the hall, the message on the 
loudspeaker continued to play; Response Team Echo dispersed and 
went back to stand-by, and researchers and staff went about their 
duties in Containment Wing Beta as if nothing had happened. 


Shards & Static 


| asked them where | was. Who they were. 
They told me they were the Foundation. That where | was didn't 
matter. 


Shards. Shards inside my skin, shards inside my head. Everything 
was broken, breaking. They were breaking me apart. 


They said they were trying to understand me. 
But | didn’t understand them. 


Should | have known? What should | have been thinking? What 
thoughts did they want me to think, to stop them from turning me to 
shreds of myself. 


| asked them where their humanity went. 
They told me humanity doesn't hear about this. 


| tried to think, | tried to bring something to the surface they’d listen 
to, something to stop the knives. 


| told them my name is Juliet. 
They told me my name is H497. 


But that’s not a name, is it? Did | dream of having a name? | couldn't 
remember how long I’ve been here, or who | was before. | saw 
flashes of colour when | close my eyes, but when | open them | saw 
the grey walls and static. 


| told them | want to go home. 
They told me | don’t have a home. 


But | remembered a home. | was warm then. | forgot what that 
warmth feels like, but | longed for it. That’s something | did 
remember. They refused it, refused the one memory | knew wasn’t a 


dream. 


They told me | was diseased, that | was missing the thoughts in my 
brain. They have to inspect me. 


| told them they took parts of my skin, asked them if they’re the 
disease. 


They didn’t like that. 
| didn’t like them 
so | think we’re even. 


But they’re right. | don’t remember what my hands used to look like, 
and | don’t remember this static. | don’t mind it though, it helps. They 
had cut into me, trying to remove the parts that are still there. The 
static clings to me anyways, insulating me from the pain. | don’t feel 
what’s missing anymore. At first, | felt the knives, now | don’t. | still 
don’t like them, but they come anyways. | woke up, once, being 
prodded in a dim room. 


They said that they wanted to remove the static, so they removed 
parts of me. 


| said that | don’t mind, the static took the place of what went 
missing. 


Sparkling like fireworks of black and white. It kept me safe from the 
pain. Kept me numb. 


| used to tell them | was human, that | deserved to be treated like 
one. 


They would tell me I’m barely alive, that I’m not worth the effort. 


It gets dim, the lights. The light is reaching me less and less now. 
But | don’t mind, the static keeps me safe. 


| wanted to lay my head down, for now. For a while. To try to think of 


words to say that would make them release me. 


Now, | can lay my head down anyways. There’s no point to the 
thoughts, the static takes their place, warms my brain. | feel its 
warmth, is this what... what home felt like? 


| asked the static if it was my home. 
That warmth, the tingling was its answer. 
The numbness that felt so welcoming. 


| can hear voices, they feel so far away. Were they getting their 
knives? It didn’t matter, really | didn’t care. 


They call me a failure. 
A new voice among them calls me a victim. 


| can’t see them. The static hides the world from me. It protects me, 
and | don’t mind. 


Their voices get louder, fighting each other. then they fall, hushed 
and fading to static. 


The tingling begins to go away. The warmth, gets hotter. 


| try to open my mouth, to speak, to breathe, but my throat is filled 
with static. | don’t mind, it’s Keeping me safe. 


Poa) (tle tan HABA aiaiaw 
feel like I’m noating away. 


| want to go home. 


Shark Tale 


| was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by 
sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to 
me, maybe they didn’t. One of them shoved me down into a chair. 
Did | feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, 
trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this 
godforsaken place. 


| Knew why | was there. The murder of my wife. | knew it was wrong, 
but | didn’t care. For that one moment where my hands were around 
her neck, | was God. | knew | wasn’t the Devil, as | saw him looking 
at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new 
opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month! 


It was Hell. 


A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, 

metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his 

lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking 
forward to seeing what hell | would go through. 


He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The 
initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn’t look like 
anything special. 


“Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back. 


I'd seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so | 
reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It 
refused to fit no matter how hard | tried. Eventually, | just put it on 
my pinkie finger. 


“How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor. 


| looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me 
put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin’ hungry,” | replied sarcastically. 


Then the pain began. | jerked forward, blood trickling out of my 
mouth. Oh god, what was happening? 


One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, 
as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other 
teeth joined it. As | watched them in horror, they began to squirm 
and writhe and change shape. Soon, | was looking at a dozen 
miniature...sharks? 


As | was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As | was thrown 
into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I’m in observation, the 
hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets. 


As | sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, 
organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and 
there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea 


She Waits 


The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The 
smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her 
lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits. 


The woman is alone. She walks through a crowd. Searches for the 
exit. Trips, falls. Pain, white-hot, lancing through her wrist. She 
screams. 


The sound of rapid footsteps. A jacket tightly wrapped around her 
arm. A palm, gently against her back. A face, delicate and creased 
with worry, staring down at her. The pain seems to fade slightly, 


The woman is alone. The desk is covered in sketches, smudged and 
torn by erasure and work. Coffee mugs left haphazardly around the 
room. She draws. 


The women sit together. Together, they laugh. A strawberry is lifted, 
placed lightly onto lips. A bite. A kiss. They eat. 


The woman sweats. Her muscles scream, crying out for rest. The 
groan of bolts being turned, the thunder of metal being hammered. 
Steam pouring, burning her arms and face. She grits her teeth. The 
work must be done. She works. 


The women lay in bed. A night of passion, of love, of flesh, plays on 
their minds. Sounds of laughing, moaning, kissing. They sleep. 


The woman cries. Feelings of failure, of guilt. Tissues, soaked with 


tears, balled and tossed across the room. Whiskey bottles shattered 
on the floor. She weeps. 


The family sits at dinner. The sounds of eating, drinking, and 
silence. Not a word is spoken. 


The father speaks. Asks her why. The mother says nothing. She 
doesn't need to. 


The woman responds. Tells him off. A plate shatters. The mother is 
standing. Her face is tight, her eyes watering. She points one finger 
at the door. 


The women leave. 


The woman screams. The machine wheezes, coughs smoke. The 
smell of burning flesh, of burning dreams. The body, too far away. 
She reaches. She fails. 


She burns. 


She lies in a hospital bed. She enters the room. The heart monitor 
calls to her excitedly. 


She takes her hand. The monitor slows. A nurse calls out. She 
turns. Speaks for a moment. Turns back. 


The monitor makes no sound. 


The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The 
smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her 
lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits. 


She cries. 
Item #: AO-881982 


Item Description: A 2-story machine built to 


believed to be sensitive to changes in air pressure and flow. 


SCP-939 do not possess many vital organ systems; central and 
peripheral nervous systems, circulatory system, and digestive tract 
are all absent. SCP-939's respiratory system is atrophied and 
serves no apparent purpose beyond spreading AMN-C227 (see 
below). SCP-939 have no apparent physiological need to feed, nor 
any way to digest consumed tissue. Ingested material typically 
accumulates in the respiratory system of SCP-939 and is 
regurgitated once the amount is sufficient to markedly inhibit its 
function. Despite the absence of many vital organ systems, 
SCP-939 are capable of bearing live young. See Addendum 
10-16-1991. 


SCP-939's primary method of luring prey is the imitation of human 
speech in the voices of prior victims, though imitation of other 
species and active nocturnal hunts have been documented. 
SCP-939 vocalizations often imply significant distress; whether 
SCP-939 understand their vocalizations or are repeating previously 
heard phrases is the subject of ongoing study. How SCP-939 
acquire voices is not currently understood; specimens have been 
documented imitating victims despite never hearing the victim 
speak. Analysis of SCP-939 vocalizations cannot distinguish 
between SCP-939 and samples of known victims’ voices. The use of 
biometric voice-recognition security or identification systems at any 
installation housing SCP-939 is strongly discouraged for this reason. 
Prey is usually killed with a single bite to the cranium or neck; bite 
forces have been measured in excess of 35 MPa. 


SCP-939 exhale minute traces of an aerosolized Class C amnesic, 
designated AMN-C227. AMN-C227 causes temporary anterograde 
amnesia, inhibiting memory formation for the duration of exposure, 
plus an average of thirty (30) minutes. It is colorless, odorless, and 
tasteless with an estimated ECt50 for inhalation of 0.0015mgsmin/ 
m3, In well-ventilated or open air environments, risk of exposure to 
ECt50 is greatly reduced but not negligible. AMN-C227 is typically 
undetectable in the bloodstream sixty (60) minutes following 
cessation of exposure. Reported sensations of disorientation and 
mild hallucinations immediately following removal from environments 
saturated with the agent are similar to recreational use of numerous 


reanimate the deceased. 

Date of Recovery: -04-196 

Location of Recovery: _—_, Ohio 
Current Status: Destroyed in fire. Creator 
killed in fire. 

Research Value: None 


Shell 


02.12.2031 


We're in what used to be Chicago, and I'm more terrified than I've 
been in a while. Based on what | can see (do | even have eyes’), 
we're about thirty miles from where | grew up. This is, for all intents 
and purposes, home. Big Boy has definitely worked this area over; 
it's surprising to think People could live here. But live here they 
must, because we're here. Big Boy never sends us out unless the 
existence of People has been confirmed. There won't be any People 
once we're done.