Pretty cold, | know, to shoot a man dirty like that. But | hate these 
Chaos Insurgency fuckers. | know they've done worse. I've seen it. 
Hell, if the roles were reversed he'd have done the same to me. And 
gotten a kick out of doing it, too; no remorse. | did it because | had 
to. My first housecall tonight nearly ended with a knife in my gut, and 
| wasn't going to chance it happening again. Call it doing what's 
needed to complete the mission. Call it payback for all our agents 
that the Cl has done for. Call it righteously purging the world of a vile 
blight, one piece of human scum at a time. It's damn near heroic 
when / do it. Though heroes probably don't need clumsy poetic 
sentiments to justify their actions to themselves... 


| scratched another address off the list and scooped up the ring. | 


dropped it into my pocket, where it clinked against the three similar 
rings I'd collected tonight. | put in a call to the Site dispatcher, 
requesting another clean-up crew at yet another location; he started 
whining an objection, but | hung up on him before he finished. 


| stood there a minute, sipping a fresh beer and gazing out the 
window at the starless night. | thought of the thug I'd found the 
original scrap of paper on, and how he'd got himself killed rather 
than taken in by us. | thought of the four creeps I'd put down so far 
tonight, how all of them had unwaveringly refused to do what wasn't 
ordered in their own instructions. Then | thought of how it was 
getting pretty late now. 


| glanced around the room, even though | knew | was alone; just an 
instinctive thing. | dabbed a finger into the white powder on the table 
and gingerly tasted it. | smirked at my recently deceased host while 
helping myself to a line of his fine cocaine. After all, there's one 
more ring to collect tonight; | can't run out of juice just yet. 


A shrill, chirping sound harshly interrupted my much-needed sleep. 
My hand blindly searched the bedside table for my phone, while my 
head cursed at the damned alarm it shouldn't have even left set to 
go off this morning. By the time the phone was in my hand my mind 
recognized it as not the alarm tone, but the ringtone for calls from 
Site. With a long and aggravated sigh | brought the phone to my ear 
and grunted some tired approximation of a greeting. 


| was notified of a previously unscheduled consultation with my MTF 
Team Leader this morning. | pulled the phone away to look at what 
time it was, and then grumbled that I'd be at my office in a couple 
hours and would call in from there. "I'm afraid not," came the reply. 
"I've been advised that you're to come down in person for this 
meeting. As soon as possible." My head uttered a string of 
profanities, while my mouth said I'd be on my way shortly. My hand 
was three quarters of the way through hurling the phone against a 
wall, but instead placed it back on the table. | dragged myself out of 
bed and set to making myself presentable. 


The cool air on the drive out of town helped reduce the sharp pain in 
my head to a dull ache, and | didn't feel nauseous at all. In short, 


SCP-801: Seven Furs 


Item #: SCP-801 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: All iterations of SCP-801 are to 
be kept in a metal locker on Foundation grounds. Access to 
SCP-801 for testing purposes is granted to any personnel Level 2 
and above. All articles of SCP-801 should be dry-cleaned after 
testing. No further containment procedures aside from standard 
security are required. 


Description: SCP-801 is a collection of seven articles of fur 
clothing, found inside a hunting lodge in the Adirondack mountains. 
Attempts to trace the owner of the lodge were unsuccessful; though 
locals insisted that they had seen lights and heard gunshots in the 
area until recently, Foundation personnel discovered no further 
evidence of recent occupation. 


SCP-801 includes: 


-One (1) mink fur coat (SCP-801-1) 
-One (1) raccoon fur coat (SCP-801 -2) 
-One (1) wolf fur coat (SCP-801-3) 
-One (1) squirrel fur coat (SCP-801-4) 
-One (1) sable fur coat (SCP-801-5) 


Each coat is of a full-body length and includes a hood. Coats are 
lined with the same black silk, and none show any tag or washing 
instructions despite appearing to be machine-assembled. 


Accompanying the coats are: 


-One (1) pair of rabbit-skin mittens (SCP-801-6) 
-One (1) pair of elk-skin shoes (SCP-801-7) 


this hangover ranked as ‘pretty bearable’. Which was good, because 
trying to dig myself out of a hole in the presence of Russell Wallace 
was bad enough on its own. Russell Wallace essentially acts as 
handler for me and a handful of other agents on U-MTF Delta-88 
that operate in the region. He was a big man with a short fuse; and 
I'd be walking right into the blast zone. ... Again. 


| shuffled past the security checkpoints and into the administrative 
wing of the site. | made my way through the halls until | reached a 
slate on the wall which read 'MTF Delta-88, TL - R. Wallace’. | 
knocked on the adjacent door and entered the office. Wallace sat 
behind his desk with a single file folder closed in front of him. He 
fixed his steely gaze on me, but didn't say anything until | was 
seated across from him. Another agent might have taken this to 
mean things weren't so bad after all. | recognized it as the calm 
before a storm. 


A few more moments of silence passed, then "You worked last 
night." Wallace had a way of asking questions that sounded more 
like statements of fact. Which they generally were, but | was meant 
to answer anyway. 


"Yes sir. | was assisting Gamma-19 with picking up a POI for 
questio-" 


"I'm aware of that." He interrupted. "You haven't filed your after- 
action report on that assignment." 


"It was going to be turned in this morning, sir. | was working late on 
a follow-up to that incident..." | trailed off as his stare intensified. 
"You're aware of that as well, I'm guessing.” A barely perceptible 
nod confirmed that he was. "Well," | attempted to slip the noose, "I'll 
get that paperwork to you right away, an-" 


"Do you know how I'm aware of that fact, Buggeman?" | wasn't 
getting away that easily. | turned over the possible answers in my 
head. An operative from Gamma-19 ratting me out for pocketing the 
lead and following it up alone? No, | was sure | hadn't been followed 
to any of the locations. Site dispatch logged the clean-up requests? | 
told them to keep it off the books, and they'd said they would since 
they owed me a favour. Or | ended up owing them a favour after the 


fifth one. Wait, that was after the third. Or was it th-? 


| became suddenly aware of the tense silence filling the room. My 
lack of a response served as admission that | didn't know how he 
knew. | was legitimately anxious to hear the answer. He opened the 
folder on his desk and showed me the contents. Sure enough, there 
was a summary of all five of my after-action support requests. | 
stared at it for a long while. Longer than necessary, for someone 
who already knew what it said. Longer than necessary for someone 
reading it for the first time. When | finally forced myself to look back 
up and meet Russell Wallace's stern face he asked if | had any 
explanation to offer. 


| cleared my throat nervously. "My after-action report will address 
the support requests." I'd barely finished before he launched back. 


"Will your after-action report address why you consistently act 
without oversight from your superiors?" he spit viciously. Here 
comes the rage. "Will your after-action report address why you insist 
on operating without calling in appropriate backup beforehand?" By 
now he was red in the face and nearly out of his chair hollering at 
me. "Will your after-action report address why you seem to think that 
Foundation resources exist solely to satisfy your deluded fantasy of 
being some kind of hardboiled detective-story character!?" 


To tell the truth, | hadn't considered including any of those points in 
the paperwork. | wisely chose not to give voice to that truth, making 
due with uneasily chewing my thumb behind the hand | held to my 
face. He'd done a thorough job of cowing me down, and we both 
knew it. | played the card that would hopefully be my deliverance, 
and placed the bag from my jacket pocket on the desk. Inside that 
bag were the seperately bagged and labelled silver rings, as well as 
the scrap of paper detailing one small step in a larger Insurgency 
scheme. I'd gotten results, at least; but | let that go without saying as 
well. 


Wallace briefly examined the items laid before him, his expression 
seemed to acknowledge that | did indeed have something to show 
for my work. If | didn't have the rings, bagged up and ready to turn 
over right there, Wallace would likely have moved to terminate me. 
Right there in his office, with his bare hands. "Go home and clean 


yourself up, Ben," he muttered at me. "Be in your office Monday 
morning." 


As it stood, | was relegated to administrative duties for the 
foreseeable future. And unless Research Dept. found those rings to 
be something major, | wouldn't get back in the field for a damned 
long time. Maybe never... 


Bloodletting 


September 7 


| had a dream last night, something that doesn't happen to me very 
often at all. | laugh and joke about how | seem to have no 
imagination at all, but it really is odd that | haven't had one in over 
ten years now. I'm writing this down before | forget any of it. 


| am a doctor, | think. | Know it is me, even though | can see her face 
and | feel like | am watching from over her shoulder. It is a dark, 
moonless night, and the mountains and fields outside are covered in 
snow. The cold sinks straight into my bones as | get out of my car 
and head towards the small, run-down house where | have been 
called. The mother, a Hispanic woman, is crying frantically and 
trying to tell me something in nearly-incoherent Spanish. Her 
daughter is possessed by a demon, she says, and | notice the silver 
crucifix pendant she wears, possibly the only thing of value she 
owns. 


Her daughter, a girl of maybe eight years of age, kneels in a pool of 
her own blood. She bleeds from every orifice, and she mouths 
obscenities that | know to be Latin even though | cannot understand 
her. But more than anything else, | notice her eyes. They are 
bloodshot, but even more than that her left eye is completely red, as 
if it were a clear orb filled with crimson. She laughs at me and | feel 
a chill deeper than the winter night outside run down my spine. 


Time blurs. | Know | cannot treat her here. | don't know that | can 
treat her at all, but | restrain her and wrestle her into my car before | 
drive off as fast as | dare on the slick, icy road. The blood is the key. 
It has to be. It flows within her, and it is corrupted. | know what must 
be done, but | don't know how | can possibly carry through with it. | 
know | have to get her to a hospital or something. Somewhere. 
Anywhere. 


My heart skips a beat as | realize that | no longer know where | am. 
There is suddenly an impenetrable mist that surrounds us, and 
though | see the outline of mountains beyond them, | do not 
recognize the road | am on. | pull over to the shoulder and stop, 
turning to look at the girl on the seat behind me. She grins — an evil, 
toothy grin — and tells me that | cannot escape this nightmare. In 
that moment, however, | am filled with a grim clarity and | know what 
| have to do now. 


Making sure that she is strapped down tightly, | pull out my tools and 
instruments. There is no time to actually collect it; | simply start a 
straight vein-to-vein transfusion between us. Then | slit her wrists. 
My blood is just enough to keep her alive. Just barely enough to 
sustain her as she bleeds out the corruption. Her screams echo 
across the frozen mountains for hours on end. 


| woke up screaming and rushed to the bathroom, where | threw up 
into the toilet. | was still shaking when | finally managed to pull 
myself to my feet and | washed my face to try to shake off the chill of 
what I'd experienced. Several minutes passed before | could even 
manage to look at my reflection in the mirror. 


That's when | noticed it. 


My eye was bloodshot. But only my left eye. 


Containment Team Note: 


Document was recovered from the computer of Dr. 
Evelyn Winters and is dated approximately three (3) 
days before Incident -Zero. 


As Dr. Winters is completely incoherent at this stage and 
we still have no known initial infection vector for SCP- , 
we are continuing our investigation as planned. 


Dr. 
Senior Observer 


Blue Brotherhood 


Doctor Baker cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, | feel that the SCP 
would respond well to what it might perceive as a fellow officer. | 
propose tha-" 


"That we take one of my men, get him to play dress-up, and send 
him out in front of a murdering motherfucker to make idle chit-chat," 
MTF Captain Jameson said in a flat tone, cutting across the doctor 
in charge of containment. "You propose that we pretend it's the 
fucking seventies, and just hope my man doesn't get bent over and 
fucked while you and your cocksucking bunch of rat-fucked /ab 
coats listens to the whole goddamn thing over a fucking radio!" His 
voice rose to a shout and he smacked his desk with his hand. 


A metallic voice came from a grey speaker in the wall marked 
"05-4". "Calm down, Captain. Uncontained SCPs are a serious 
problem. We are willing to expend a lot of resources to contain 
them." 


"My men are not some kind of fucking 'resources' to be 'expended 
whenever we have a minor issue, sir." Jameson gave the last word 
the same inflection as the word 'scumbag.' 


The speaker crackled as the O5 sighed. "Captain, | do not believe 
they are." Jameson began to rise from his seat, his face red, but the 
speaker interrupted him. "But | don't want an unsecured SCP, with 
an expanding area of effect and trigger time, to continue operating 
outside our control." Jameson sat down, still seething. "Now, 
Doctor... proceed." 


"It appears that the... officer in question is a simple trooper. That is, 
he has no great level of authority," Baker said. "It is entirely possible 
that he would view a superior officer as, well, uh, a superior officer. | 
think we should send a man out to at least try and talk to him, if not 

capture him completely." 


Captain Jameson snorted. "Talk to him? Capture him?! What do we 
do, just order him to come in? Tell him we'll have his badge if he 
doesn't come with us? How can we even attract his attention without 
getting someone fucking killed!" 


"That's exactly it, yes. We order him to come in, if possible. Maybe it 
will have to be left at making contact. And we attract his attention by 
speeding on his highway. On average, drivers need only travel at 
about ninety kilometers an hour in ord-" 


"In order to be attacked and killed by a psychopathic cun-" Jameson 
interrupted, only to be interrupted himself by the O5 . 


"Listen, Captain. Doctor Baker has a plan to secure this SCP. You 
are a Captain of a Foundation task force. | realize the doctor is not a 
field agent, but the fieldwork will be left to you. | want this SCP under 
control, soldier." 


The Hollywood line tempted the captain to salute sarcastically, but 
there was probably a camera in there somewhere. There usually 
was. 


"l.. is this a viable plan, Captain?" the doctor stuttered, hesitant to 
irritate the soldier further. 


"It's a fucking crazy plan, you... you /ab coat! What's next, just 
asking 682 to stop hating everything?! I.. you... it..." Jameson took a 
deep breath. "Have you ever seen one of your men die, doctor?" 


"|.. I'm not a field agent -" 


"No. You're not." The three short words fell into the conversation like 
lead weights.