Four chattered in to his earbud, one hand still on his binoculars. 
“Smith, do we have ears on them? ...what? Say again... well, fix it!” 
he hissed, gritting his teeth. “Goddammit, what the hell is going on?” 


Grims ignored him, eyes wide and staring. The big guy had grabbed 
the kid around the back of the neck, and the kid looked... wrong, 
now. His arms were slack, his eyes glassy... he was talking, but his 
body looked asleep... or dead. 


“Grims, do you have a shot?” 

He paused, blinking and focusing on the big man. “Yes, sir.” 
“Smith is blind, the equipment is fogged out.” 

eSlre” 

“Take it.” 


Grims breathed deep, eye wide, pinning the razor-thin black cross 
on the brown bag. The kid was still talking in that drugged daze. He 
squeezed slow, exhaling in a controlled stream- 


The bag turned, it was tilted, it- 


It could see him. 


The finger squeezed on its own, even as Grims croaked a strangled 
yelp of surprise and horror. The big man pulled the kid up like he 
was a doll, shifting to the side as the high-velocity round turned the 
kid's brain to jelly, splattering it on to the alley. It'd taken less then a 
tenth of a second. Grims panicked, throwing training down a well 
and started firing wild. Somewhere, someone was screaming at him, 
hitting him, but it didn't matter. The running shapes didn't matter. 


He had to make that thing die. 


He'd seen some shit, SCP monsters and massacres, torture and 
moral black areas, but he'd never felt so... observed. It had looked 
down that scope, and... handled him. Like a nasty little boy with 
sticky, grimy fingers handling a mildly amusing trinket. Whatever the 
hell that was, it needed to die right the hell now. He kept firing, even 
as the sirens started and Four abandoned the roof to recover his 
team, even as his bolt locked back on an empty chamber, he just 
kept pulling the trigger. 


“Grims cracked, the Hand is in the wind, we have a possible skip on 
the way, bag it NOW!” 


Smith didn't even unplug anything, just pressed a switch that fired a 
electromagnet the size of a mini fridge, frying every single computer 
in a fifty yard radius. He grabbed up the baseball bat labeled "The 
Last Resort," and started smashing everything they didn't want the 
civilians seeing. Howard and Sickle threw down their cards and 
unslung rifles, moving quickly to the doors. Eighteen started closing 
up cases and getting the essentials packed. Four was barking 
orders at any back he saw. The Hand agents were tipped and 
hauling, and some big bastard had just crossed a busy street and 
barreled through the boarded up doorway like a bomb. 


Four guessed they had maybe two minutes until whatever the hell 
the big guy was got up to them on the third floor. Most of the stairs 
were under construction, so it should slow him down a bit. Howard 
and Sickle were covering the only two ways in to the room. Smith 
was getting his gear broken down, and Eighteen was ready to book 


with the remaining gear the second shit started going down. He 
thought about trying to recover Grims again. Fuck him, he was fried 
anyway. 


He was smiling with self-righteous warmth when the wall behind him 
exploded out around a huge, dark-suited form. 


The big man fell on Four like a thrown couch. As they fell in a heap, 
two of the Hand agents scrambled through the hole, crying and 
screaming as they launched at Howard and Sickle. Sickle caught the 
worst of it, still shocked by the monster who'd blown through the 
wall, and caught a sharp point of rebar in the neck. Howard had time 
to fire, but in the hazy plaster dust his shot went wild and buried 
itself in the other Hand agent's leg. 


The big man held Four by the throat, rising to a crouch and throwing 
him over to the rebar-armed agent. Four tried to scream, or move, 
but his neck felt like a numb, dead thing, and he couldn't make his 
arms work. He was still trying to make a fist when the rebar 
suddenly intruded in to his brain. Smith and Eighteen were huddled 
behind Howard, trying to edge out a doorway as the big man stood, 
plaster and dust turning him in to a towering ghost. 


Howard started firing and screaming with equal intensity, shoving 
Smith and Eighteen out the doorway. The big man dropped like a 
shot, only to rise with the still-moaning body of the wounded Hand 
agent held one-handed like a shield. Howard paused a moment, 
mental gears clicking as he considered, then fired, peppering the 
agent with slugs as the big man charged. The other Hand agent, still 
crying pitifully, rose from his bloody work and followed close behind. 


Smith and Eighteen were already nearly halfway down the partial 
stairs, heading for the presumed safety of the open streets when the 
gunfire stopped. They looked at each other for a second, 
exchanging a mutual look of “fuck.” before thundering down the 
stairs double-time. Smith kept running even when Eighteen 
screamed, but was forced to turn around when he heard the wet, 
fleshy thud. Howard's body had hit Eighteen like a nightmare 
snowball, smashing him in to the wall in a bloody heap, leaving him 
moaning and broken. 


Smith grabbed Eighteen's cases and ran, ran like a squirrel, ran like 
the bitch the kids in school had called him, and did so with no 
qualms at all. 


He hit the ruined doorway to find a clutch of police and gawkers 
assembled outside. He froze, trying to think of... something, 
anything, some story to use, even as the police aimed guns, 
screaming for him to freeze, drop what he had. But he had to keep 
the cases safe, that was his job, his whole reason for being here. 


He only realized that he had his pistol in hand still when they shot 
him, and by then it didn't really matter. 


Grims sat on the roof, watching Smith get turned to burger. He'd 
heard the team get chewed up...now the cops were swarming on 
Smith's body and his cases. Hopefully he'd armed the detonator 
inside. Probably not. 


Grims rubbed his face, sighing. For some reason, he'd stayed, just 
put down the gun after firing it empty, and put his face in his hands. 
Something was stuck in him, like a glassy little fishbone in his brain. 
It'd been when that... thing... had looked at him. It'd done 
something. That goddamn “M” word thing they always hammered 
home in training, he was sure of it. 


The rooftop door slammed open, the big bag-headed horror 
stomping out in a haze of white dust. Behind him trailed one of the 
Hand kids, dragging a length of rebar and wheezing 
“letmestopletmestop” like a broken recording. Blood was dripping 
from his eyes. 


Grims leaned back, looking up as the big thing loomed up over him. 
“So now what. Tear out my heart, dance around?” he snickered, 
jerking his chin at the bloody kid. “What they hell did they do? Eh? 
Tell me that, where do they figure?” 


The big man stayed still, looking down at Grims. He couldn't feel 

that... touching. Just a kind of slow curiosity in that blank face, like a 
spider watching you from across the room. He leaned over slowly as 
Grims stiffened, expecting... well, something bad. But it never came. 


The big man reached out, and patted his cheek, the way you would 
a child when they made some small accomplishment. The gloved 
hand smelled like blood, machine oil and spices, the leather dry and 
hard. 


Grims looked up at him, confused, trying to think of a question, but 
the big man turned and grabbed the Hand kid like a toy and started 
running, hitting the edge of the roof and launching himself to the 
next one, landing in a roll and discarding the kid, who started to 
slowly follow behind. He heard the big man bash in to the other 
roof's access door the same time the police came thundering up the 
stairs to his, pointing guns, screaming at him to get down, get away 
from the weapon. 


When they told him he had a right to remain silent, he laughed, 
saying it was more of a obligation. 


TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT OF “ACTON 7 SPECIAL 
REPORT” EVENING BROADCAST 


Thanks Tom. As you can see behind me, police are still 
sifting through what has become one of the worst and 
most senseless acts of violence in recent memory. 
Several men, as yet unidentified, broke in to this 
apartment building, and used it as a “sniper's roost” for 
picking off innocent people. In addition, it appears they 
killed a work crew who was in one of the remodeled 
apartments. In total, eight people are dead, with three 
more injured. One of the shooters, in a bid to escape, 
attempted to shoot his way through the police blockade 
and was shot and killed by officers. A second is in 
custody, found on the roof next to what is presumed to 
be the murder weapon. 


It's unclear at this point what the goal of the shooters 
was, or whether it relates to the recent terrorist attacks, 
however the FBI and Department of Homeland Security 
have been working closely with police. We'll have more 
on this story as it develops. Back to you, Tom. 


Faceless 


It was a simple matter really. Just a few authorization codes he 
nabbed the last time he got out and....there it was. For all their 
security, the Foundation was essentially just a secret prison that 
excelled in covering their tracks. If you knew the right people, you 
could use their tricks against them. This time it was looping the 
cameras. It's kind of interesting really, all you have to do is stand still 
for a few days and that's what they expect you to do. 


He adjusted his hat and locked in the codes. That was their one big 
flaw he thought, cocking his head at the unconscious guard slumped 
against the console. They expected the same. They expected their 
containment procedures to work and if they didn't, they at least 
expected them to break with a huge flourish and bang. They never 
check for problems until after the fact. He stuck his hands in his 
pockets, sauntering out into the halls of site 17. 


His walk was uneventful, as he knew it would be. With each turn, the 
guards in the previous hall changed. With each step, the cameras 
moved over their blind spots, missing him. He had planned this too 
long to let a minimum security site stop him. And finally, here he 
was. Nodding to the content looking guards, he opened the door to 
the containment cell, letting it softly shut behind him. His skin 
rippled, letting a rare display of emotion affect him as he walked up 
to the old man. This time he had decided to do the Foundation a 
major favor, as it had come to a point that this issue could no longer 
be ignored. Oh it had been noted before that "God" couldn't see 
other SCPs. But he was special. 


His skin changed, his form taking on the appearance of an old 
wizened man. There it was, finally recognition in the sage's eyes. 
His hands tightened around the neck of 'god' and squeezed. The 
fear in the abomination's eyes as his world slowly went dark was 
nothing short of blissful for the faceless man. Poor thing. Wiping his 
hands on his jacket, he once more strode out into the halls of Site 


visited. Prior to this experiment Dr. | was shown the location of the 
target area on a map. 

Result: The three dimensional representation of the supermarket 
and surrounding parking lot rendered. Small “tokens” made of 
[DATA EXPUNGED] rendering cars and people moving about the 
store. Dr. was able to view the inside of the store by thinking 
about removing the roof from the representation. Upon the thought, 
the flesh and arteries that made up the “roof” of the supermarket 
rapidly would grow or retract. Dr. thought about viewing the 
produce section in detail. The representation rapidly reconstructed 
into the produce section, showing objects and people moving 
through the area in much greater detail. Subject expired after seven 
minutes. 


Subject: D-461. 

Area to be viewed: All Foundation assets in North America. Dr. 
was not provided any information regarding O5 Command Level 
information regarding distribution of Foundation resources. 

Result: An accurate rendition of North America was created. The 
only map tokens generated however were for Site 19 and one for Dr. 
, which the controller was aware that Dr. was taking a vacation 
in the city located near the token. The controller was then told Agent 
was on assignment in [REDACTED]. A new token representing 

Agent _ was instantly generated. 


Subject: D-462. 

Area to be viewed: The nucleus of carbon atom held in a vacuum 
in Site-19, Lab . 

Result: Upon touching the table [DATA EXPUNGED] resulting in 
two weeks clean up and _ casualties. Testing on the quantum or 
stellar scale has been indefinitely suspended. 


« SCP-841 | SCP-842 | SCP-843 » 


ive 


This time there would be an alarm, but he would be back in his cell 
before that ever happened. People would talk, they would devise 
plans dealing with the death of God. It would be fun to watch at 
least, though if they knew what really happened they would create 
new containment procedures, and that wasn't something he planned 
on letting happen. His walk back was once more without incident. At 
this point researchers and guards were running to 343's cell, hell 
some of them would probably even take their own lives when they 
saw what happened if they had been corrupted far enough. But 
unfortunately that show wasn't for him. Just one last thing to do. 


There was only one guard left patrolling the hallway, one guard to 
notice the man in the crooked fedora and gray suit stroll into view. 
He tilted his hat and answered the question as he always did, 
knocking the guard unconscious before he could radio it in. He 
would be fine, waking up in a few minutes to tell them the story 
about the mysterious man completely calm in a sea of chaos. And 
SCP-600 would be standing still in its room as always, with no 
features, nothing to identify itself except for the identity of those who 
approached it. After all, it really was just Nobody. 


Factory-Finding Mission 


"So there | was, in a power plant what was about to explode, 
surrounded by the enemy." 


An idle thought; it's how Max would have started the story, if he'd 
survived. He'd have come up with some clever, improbable solution, 
or revealed that he'd had an escape plan the entire time. Or his 
team would have come in and saved him at the last minute, so he 
could fix the plant. 


But he hadn't survived. Most of his team had been elsewhere. I'd 
been the only one with him, and when the time came, | wasn't fast 
enough. No one could have made it to help and gotten back in time, 
but that didn't make it any easier. 


No one blames me for it. That makes it almost worse. | could get 
defensive, then. 


A backfiring car jolts me out of my thoughts. I'm jumpier these days. 


The neighborhood I'm in has seen better days. Industry built it, and 
then industry left like a deadbeat father without even the promise of 
child support. But it's on the uprise. That's why I'm here, in fact. 


I'm watching the men and women going to work. Work at the factory, 
which had been closed for years, and shouldn't be open. There were 
plenty of possible explanations, some of them perfectly ordinary. It 
could be a front for some crime syndicate or other, or more sinister, 
it could be a front for the Cl. It could be any number of things. But 
our suspicion is that it's not just a factory, but the Factory, capital 
letter and all. 


I'd heard of it, of course. It's in the intel briefs. But for the first time, 
I'm trusted with more of the story. It moves around, taking over 
abandoned factories like a parasite. It stays, collecting workers, 
shipping orders, and making trouble until someone goes and stops 


it. It's not as hard as it sounds. The trouble's finding it. 


I'll be going in soon. There isn't much more information | could get 
from the outside. | won't go in far. The Factory can be dangerous, 
but we've seen it enough times to know how far to go. If I'm right,