The Captain had been his friend years ago, before he joined the 
British Army, when things were first starting to fall apart. He was 
there when the Doctor partook of the Spring of Youth. He had 
helped push the dioxin barrels in when the Doctor was done with his 
injections. The rusty red drums cracked easily, bleeding the oily 
chemicals into the cold, clear water. 


Five months ago, Company B had come over with the European 
invasion of the States. They quietly went rogue when everything 
collapsed. And when the Captain found the Doctor again, they took 
him as their leader. 


The caravan drew closer in the valley below, and the Captain spoke 
a few words into his radio. And suddenly it was all chaos for the 
convoy, and tattered green raining fire down on shiny black. When 
the first shots hit, the soldiers below scattered, taking cover behind 
wreckage and returning fire into the hills. The Captain’s men 
whooped like red Indians, their rifles cracking sporadically in the 
bleak sunlight. 


Their numbers would quickly have over-swept their prey, but they 

held back for the two tanks, which fired blindly into the hillside. And 
the small band below might have pulled a hasty retreat, might have 
saved their cargo, if not for the ruined destroyer lying in the waters 


to their right side. The destroyer was tilted, half sunk, but the bow 
still sat above the water. The refurbished and manned front turret 
began turning. The members of the convoy had no time to react. 
The naval gun flamed, and the lead tank exploded, blasting sharp 
chunks of metal dozens of meters. 


The black-armored operatives were quickly reduced in numbers. 
Someone — a white-suited figure — had extended their torso from the 
hatch of the remaining rear tank. The person lifted a megaphone, 
speaking clearly in a woman’s voice. 


“Cease firing! We are not with the United States government!” 
Perhaps she had recognized the uniforms of soldiers on her 
assailants. It was of no matter, though, as a second rumbling blast 
from the destroyer announced the end of her short plea for parley. 


Soon the victorious ambushers were down among the remains of 
the convoy. They sifted through the bodies and the scalding 
fragments of the two tanks with hope for loot. The Captain stood 
eagerly by as two of his men clipped the lock away from the back of 
the eighteen-wheeler. They threw the double doors open. Several 
cowering scientists and a series of electronic panels were exposed 
to the light, and the two soldiers climbed up. The Captain listened to 
the brief bursts of gunfire. 


“What’s up there?” he yelled into the cavern of the truck. 


“Not much...hold on,” one of the men called back from the depths. 
“There’s another door farther back here. We’ve got to cut through 
these chains.” 


There was a clink of metal against metal, and the man called back 
again. “It's a bare room. There’s nothing back here but...” He 
snorted derisively. 


“What?” yelled the Captain, growing impatient. 
“It looks like a guy in an oversized clown-suit. What the fuck!” 


The soldier laughed again. He poked his head out of the truck, 
grinning at the Captain. There was a subtle snapping, and the man 


collapsed. 


It took only a few more minutes for the one hundred and thirty one 
members of Company B to be killed. A few seagulls were the only 
witnesses to the oddly proportioned creature. It moved rapidly 
across the landscape in short and erratic jumps. 


The sun began to set, and the Doctor settled comfortably down on 
the torn out rear seat of an old sedan. He cradled a steel banjo in 
the curve of his lap, strumming a few slow chords. He breathed the 
acrid air of the outside world unfiltered, unaffected by the deadly 
conditions. The tall creature had halted twenty paces before him, 
transfixed by his unbroken stare. The Doctor's eyes watered and 
burned, but he had no need to close them. The thing stood 
awkwardly alone in the gathering darkness. 


“Looks like we’re going to be here for a while, big man,” the Doctor 
said, sighing. Then he added, “At least until | break one of these 
strings.” He nodded to the banjo. The odd figure stood, silent and 
unmoving. 


Enasni Si Gnihtyreve 


He inhales and exhales at a pace and intensity not unlike a buffalo 
mid-coitus. Of course, it isn't like anyone can hear him, given that 
the building is screaming while red lights strobe the corridor. The 
thought briefly crosses his mind to calm down- and then the signal 
from the squad leader pushes the thoughts out of his mind. They 
burst into the room. Objects are strewn around and smoke is filling it 
from the corridor. The squad locks gazes with the hideous beasts 
cowering in the corner, behind overturned desks and tables. Some 
of the creatures whimper, staring fearfully at the squad. One 
squadmate retches inside his helmet, staring at the hideous 
abominations. He himself is barely keeping his breakfast down 
staring at them. Where is their flesh? Where are their arms? 


They're missing so many limbs, and so much flesh, and yet they 
aren't bleeding... he can even see their organs through what little 
remains, hidden beneath stolen coats. One of them reaches into 
their coat- it's pulling out a weapon! He immediately pounces on it, 
ripping its head from its shoulders. The other creatures scream, a 
cry to action for the rest of the squad. They fall upon the fleshless 
abominations, peeling away limbs, ripping out organs, crushing 
bodies between their hands, butchering the creatures and painting 
the room in bodily fluids as the lights flash in fear and the building 
wails. The rest follow his lead. The sirens and their screams are 
deafening him and then it's all over. 


"Good work", he hears, and he accepts the adulation quietly. He 
looks back at the bodies with a small amount of empathy for their 
plight - and finally the sight of oozing, candy-red liquid, spreading 
towards his boots, gets him. He's a trained killer, a remorseless 
slayer of monsters, a Knight of the Flesh, a decorated MTF member, 
and he vomits, barely pulling his helmet off in time to splatter the 
floor in pasty brown sludge. Looking at these grotesque bodies that 
attempt to masquerade as humans, he knows that the world will be 
much safer without them. He begins frisking the creatures. 


One stirs, and he quickly crushes its skull within his four palms. It 
slumps without a sound, and its coat falls aside to reveal an ornate 
golden necklace with a beautiful ruby. He smashes a sacred boot 
down on the cursed object, caving in the creature's chest. The 
necklace is unscathed, sending pain shooting up his foot, so he 
carefully kicks it deeper into the pile. The amulet can burn with its 
damned owners. Outside, he watches as the building is blown to 
bits, incinerating the bodies and damning them to eternal clockwork 
torment. Its death cries ring in his ears. 


She watches keenly as the ceremony begins. The Keepers of Flesh 
are chanting the words of the Sacred Cleansing Process, smacking 
their bellies to produce the beat, and circling the purification altar 
while the music thumps and throbs in her skull. Fireflies flash, 
illuminating the clockwork demon, whose kicking and swinging from 
the ropes that suspend it provide a demented rhythm. 
Red-blue-drumbeat-green-purple- 

kick-yellow-green-drumbeat- 

blue-kick-red-drumbeat- 

kick-blue-yellow-green- 

drumbeat-drumbeat-kick- 

and she writhes and spasms in a horrific mockery of dance, lost in 
the crowd and swaying to the beat. Somehow it attracts another, 
whose arms fly everywhere in tune with the explosive drumbeat and 
then the music switches over to the final crescendo and suddenly 
they're -are they tangoing? - 

yes, they are tangoing, and she barely even knows 

what a tango is, much less how to do one, 

but this other woman is calling all the shots. 


They spin and spin and the lights are whirling around and she is 
radiating heat and the demon is being lowered into the cleansing pit 
to the roar of the crowd. It keens and suddenly candy-colored liquid 
is raining from the ceiling but nobody cares because it is time for 
purification and suddenly they're lying together and she is on top 
and feels the soft touch of her body and her lips and then the hard 
shell of a pill. 

It dissolves on her tongue and she savors the familiar tang. The club 


begins to swirl, and then it gets warmer and warmer until the woman 
starts to melt. 

She whispers about being cold, 

but the heat is collecting on her skin, 

milling on it and buzzing on it and 

sopping up the sweat seeping from her pores. 

It reforms into flies, swarming around her 

and clinging to her skin and scrabbling 

and making her itch and it burns! 

Oh god it burns! She's bucking now, and the demon finally stops 
keening at the bottom of the pit. It screams as the Great God 
devours it whole, cleansing and purifying its soul. The crowd roars in 
envy and ecstasy, a wave of sound that strikes her eardrums at the 
climax. Bolts of lightning pierce the sky and now she's barreling 
down the road, hoping to make it home before falling unconscious in 
the middle of the road. Out of the corners of her eyes, she can make 
out the buildings around her leaning away, nervous that she will 
vomit on them. 


She dashes down the street, which twirls around itself and makes 
her dizzy. The lampposts are growling and rippling. She skips 
around one, giving it a sharp rap. It whimpers and the rest of the 
lights quiet down. Now she's running and running but it's like she's 
stuck in one place and then that place is in the grasp of two Flesh 
Guardians. 

"Out after curfew?" they rasp. "Explain." 

Their voices are oozing and striking each other in a cacophony 
that makes her head pound and she desperately tries to say 
something 

but the words are tripping over each other and blocking her mouth 
and suffocating her. "B-bad," she chokes out, " bad soma," 

and they release her and she falls hard onto the pavement. 


It squeals in protest while the Flesh Guardians snicker, their batons 
out and ready to dispense a beating. Their disrespect is infuriating; 
can they not tell who she is? 

As she gasps for breath, she raises her hand to display the insignia 
of Mobile Task Force Gamma-2 engraved in it, and the Flesh 
Guardians have enough brains to immediately hoist her up, tripping 
over their own words in an attempt to apologize for their stupidity. 


She waves the goons off and stumbles down the street while they 
sweat to themselves, terrified that tomorrow they and their wives 
and children will awaken for cleansing. 


It's two in the morning when he is awoken by the screaming of a 
family downstairs. He attempts to return to the sweet embrace of 
sleep, but the calls of the Great God beckon him to work. He gets 
out of the bed, uttering a short prayer to answer, and steps foggy- 
headed into the bathroom to cleanse himself. Standing in the middle 
of the room, cleansing tendrils probe him for impurities, popping the 
crust from his eyes, shaving excess flesh, and evacuating his 
bowels before pushing him out. Once he is certain that he is 
properly cleansed to receive the teachings of the Great God, he sits 
down at the desk and begins to write. The Great God teaches him 
the history of the universe, injecting it directly into his mind through 
the Great God's power, and he studiously copies the teachings 
down. During a lull in the sermon, he scrutinizes the work. 
Everything that he has written down contradicts what he was told the 
previous night. 


Clearly he was not listening properly the previous night; but to write 
it all wrong is a grave error. The children must learn their history in 
an unbroken chain, and this is the second time in a row that he has 
had to revise his own teachings. Penance is in order to apologize to 
the Great God for failing to deliver his message. He steps into the 
kitchen to pick up a peeler from the drawers. Returning to the desk, 
he places the peeler to his arm, and begins to shave his flesh as an 
offering. Strips of flesh are cleaved from his arm and fall to the desk, 
where they are quickly absorbed. He winces, but does not cease his 
efforts, uttering a prayer of apology to the Great God. Mid-prayer, he 
sneezes and his arm twitches, and severs a nerve and several blood 
vessels. 


He lets the blood drip onto the desk, positive that the Great God will 
appreciate the extra sacrifice. It burns, so after several minutes, he 
jams the useless arm into his mouth and down into his stomach, 
gagging at the acrid taste, accepting it as punishment for failing to 
complete the prayer. The sermon begins again, and he continues 
writing, breathing through his nostrils to avoid embittering the arm, 


The “coral” of SCP-835 is extremely hard, requiring high-powered 
diamond drills to collect even small samples. SCP-835 also grows at 
a very accelerated rate, capable of adding 22.68kg (50lbs) of mass 
every day. SCP-835 is susceptible to many chemicals, which cause 
SCP-835 to “seal up” and halt all growth for 24 hours, prompting the 
development and use of Suppression Tactic A-A6. Testing has 
shown [DATA EXPUNGED] 


SCP-835 emits a large mass of semi-liquid material several times a 
day from the large polyps on each “end”. This appears to be made 
of semi-digested solids, fecal material, and semen. This mass also 
has several forms of virus, bacteria, and parasites, many of which 
have been found only within SCP-835. The bacterium 835-15 forms 
the major concern for containment, due to [DATA EXPUNGED]. 
This, coupled with the extremely hard “shell” of SCP-835, form a 
major obstacle to neutralization. Any force capable of “cracking 
open” SCP-835 would also cause the “slurry” inside to spread, and 
cause additional infection from 835-15. 


Addendum 835-01: First Draft of After Action Report by Mobile 
Task Force Zeta-Niner: Circumstances of Retrieval 


On -- at :: hours, Mobile Task Force 
Zeta-Niner (Mole Rats) conducted an investigation 
of SCP-835. At this time, SCP-835 had a mass of only 
four tons, and only one large polyp at the north end of 
the structure (designated Polyp Alpha), Polyp Bravo not 
yet being in existence. 


As per standard procedure, four team members were 
chosen for the initial investigation. Standard isolation 
suits (underwater variant) were worn by all four team 
members: Lieutenant C took point as team leader, 
while Sergeants L and M _ served as support. 
CorporalH_ ,a rookie team member, accompanied the 
team as an observer. A standard Underwater Remote 
Vehicle, or URV, was used for initial investigation. 


SCP-835 did not, at first, act in a hostile manner towards 
the team, allowing team members to approach and make 


careful to ensure that he writes down exactly what is taught. When 
the sermon is over, he tucks the writing away into a folder. He can 
see the rising sun, illuminating the deep crimson sky, indicating that 
lessons will begin within the hour. Picking up the folder, he walks to 
the door and steps out. 


One door over, some Keepers of Moloch demand that the family 
next door surrender their child. The father and mother keep their 
mouths shut, 

but the baby is bawling, even though 

it has been born, raised, and 

pampered for this moment its whole life. 

He just wants the damn thing 

to shut up because its incessant wails 

are ringing in his ears. 

All he wants is a drink, any kind of drink to shut it up. 


But it doesn't matter. He has the words of the Great God to 
strengthen and enrich him with the knowledge of their illustrious 
history. His sacred duty is to enlighten the children, so that they may 
grow up as proud devotees to the Great God. The sun is shining 
bright, the sidewalks and buildings are humming, and his arm is 
starting to taste sweet. He nibbles on the elbow thoughtfully as he 
prepares the lesson plan for the day.