The Foundation didn’t like moving personnel to different facilities if 
they didn’t have to. Mayreder, Sanders, and two of their colleagues 
were retrained in the space of three weeks in the Special 
Containment Procedures for the object now located in their wing. 
Two freshly recruited researchers also joined their ranks. 


Containment for these objects wasn’t complicated; most of the 
intensive work was saved for actual researchers. Most of the training 
consisted of memorizing routines and very droll evenings of 
watching an object through a monitor. 


The contents of the media rooms of Site-18 were moved to a smaller 
facility, and refit to contain Safe objects. The contents of the 
Document Archive were also shipped off somewhere else, and this 
room was refit as an anomalous artifact warehouse. The labyrinth of 
lockers currently held roughly five hundred objects. Luckily Sanders 
didn’t have to deal with them, and they didn’t need much done - after 
some bureaucratic hoopla, individual items would be sent to Cold 
Storage to be indefinitely forgotten. 


She could understand the refit. The new warehouse was already 
half full, and the area that was housed with these trinkets was 
packed tight as if they were expecting more. There was no shortage 
of new parcels every week. She wondered to herself how the 
Foundation managed to pay their rent every month. 


She shrugged it off. Staring at some weird thing every day from 9 to 
5 was a lot less stressful than editing a mountain of expense reports 
and newspaper editorials. Other than having to deal with Mayreder, 
her job was easy, the changes were welcome. 


In his office, Mayreder rested a fat finger lightly on the edge of the 
domino track. Each domino was perfectly spaced two fingers apart. 
There were seventy dominoes in this set. Each domino was 
faceless, and fashioned from ivory. Each weighed sixty grams. His 
father gave the dominoes to him two years ago. 


Knocking the first one off to see what happened to the rest was a 
temptation. The fact that he had never done it was ridiculous; some 
sort of superstition had prevented him from doing so. His life was 
dominated by paranoid obsessions, which made him a good fit for 
the job. This habit of compulsive carefulness had caused month old 
piles of revised documents to form in middens around his office, and 
his worry for synergy a permanent annoyance to the people who 
answered to him. 


Mayreder’s ruminations were interrupted by a sudden itch on his 
scalp. He stamped a foot down in an awkward hop on as his finger 
slipped. He watched with some perturbed distress as the chain of 
pieces began to fall. 


Sanders could hear the faint machine-gun clicking of ivory down the 
hall as she punched in her key code and retired to her room for the 
night. 


| Hub | 


Senescence, Consumption, Persecution 


August 14th, 2051 - September 9th, 2077 


The castle was old and decrepit but still stood, a testament to the 
stubbornness of humanity’s rules impressed upon the world. It had 
been so easy then to establish their symbol of absolute control upon 
everything they felt the need to conquer. It was not so easy to 
maintain. 


Still, the castle proudly stood. It was unaffected by water and rain. It 
took no damage from vines supported by it or the animals sheltered 
by it. None of those could remove the old stones, dislodge the 
buttresses or collapse the foundation. 


An insignificant fragment of stone is chipped from a wall. 


The patient flipped through the pages of a well-loved 
storybook with the same intentness as when it was new. 
It paid no heed to when the good doctor walked in, 
though the wings on its skin stopped their fluttering for 
just a moment in acknowledgement. Dr. Blake coughed, 
unused to the musky scent of a neglected room. 


The doctor fiddled with his badge, arthritic fingers 
rubbing over his Site Director title, then his name. “Hello, 
SCP-1252.” He spoke with a timbre that denied the 
wrinkles on his face. “I'll make this quick. We’ve decided 
that resources here would be better spent elsewhere. 
Therefo-” 


“Yes. Please.” 


The doctor’s momentary silence was the only sign he 
may have been taken aback. “Excuse me?” 


SCP-695: Eels 


Item #: SCP-695 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Units of SCP-695 are to be 
contained in fresh water tanks, with no more than ten members in 
any single tank. All water used in containment tanks is to be from an 
enclosed system separate from any outside system, with all water 
used being added manually to the system as needed. Tank seals 
are to be checked daily, with any sign of leakage, wear, or attack 
being immediately reported to Site Security and repaired. 


Staff working with or around SCP-695 or the containment area are 
to be in full Haz-Mat gear at all times. Staff physically handling 
SCP-695 may do so only in ten minute increments, with a thirty 
minute break for examination and observation. Staff failing to clear 
examination are to be removed immediately to quarantine. 


Any SCP-695 colonies found outside of containment are to be 
immediately sterilized. Any and all subjects found to be harboring 
SCP-695 are to be entered into quarantine for observation. Subjects 
found unsuitable for testing are to be sterilized. 


Description: SCP-695 appears to be a form of hermaphroditic 
parasitic eel. SCP-695 has a multiple-stage life cycle that uses 
human beings as its primary host. Investigation has shown that 
SCP-695 may be the result of genetic tampering, with several 
aspects of its physiology, behavior showing evidence of non-natural 
evolution, and several genetic sequences matching those of 
SCP-1238, SCP-1340, and SCP-1821. SCP-695 is capable of 
sustained survival outside of a host, but will seek out a host 
whenever possible, appearing to rely primarily on smell and 
electromagnetic sensitivity. 


Juvenile SCP-695 are between 3 and 5 centimeters long, with an 


“Yes. Please.” The humanoid’s throat was raspy with 
lack of use. What remained of its tongue licked at its lips, 
wetting them with half-congealed spittle. “You can't... 
really...” It took a breath of its mask. “...keep me 
anymore, right? That’s okay.” It tried to give its most 
reassuring smile. “I don’t mind.” SCP-1252 attempted to 
reach out and console the man who had lied to and 
trapped it here. The wires barely allowed it to unbend its 
elbow. 


“...Can you at least afford a bullet?” 
Dr. Blake reached over to turn the life support off. 
What was but one brick, fallen out of its massive walls? 


The cameras couldn't see everywhere, though they tried. 
Many had been coated in vines but no one could afford 
the resources to replace or repair them. What few 
remained could only survey a small area, leaving the 
children free to do as they desired once they learned to 
avoid the artificial eyes. 


A boy neared his 50th birthday but had long forgotten to 
age. His faded blue pajamas seemed transparent under 
the sunlight as he climbed through his home. Normally 
he would only be awake once the moon had tucked the 
sun to bed, but today he had come to check out the first 
visitor in a decade. 


At the edge of the overgrown garden, a girl cradled a 
nearly lifeless ragdoll in her arms. Her head was cocked 
to the side in curiosity, though no expression could be 
seen past her sun bleached giraffe mask. She had come 
to be invited into a secret club of children who had 
discovered that the physical world was just an option. As 
the local welcome crew came to greet her, she extended 
her prize. 


The boy took her ragdoll, pressing it to his ear. The 
rough fabric could be seen from under his translucent 


fingers as he listened to a soul of what was once a 
woman, begging to feel again. He handed it back to his 
new friend, lips moving without sound. Do you know tag? 


The rain is relentless this season, breathing life into withered vines 
to begin their work again. The animals seek shelter, burrowing away 
the castle’s foundations. Perhaps it had been wrong to think of such 
a relic as everlasting. 


But still, inevitability seemed too far away to accept. 


The room was given a gentle paint of cartoony animals in 
pastel colors, though even that has faded with time.Worn 
out children’s toys lay strewn over the floor, forgotten 
only to be rediscovered and played with as new again. A 
half-finished lion made of legos lay on its side as a 
reminder of what was lost. In a corner, a boy with red 
hair and a blush of freckles took his afternoon nap. His 
hands clung tightly to the holey blanket, allowing a thin 
sheet of worn fabric to defend against all the frightening 
unknowns of the world. He was neither roused by the 
sound of a door opening and closing nor awakened from 
the soft footsteps. 


There was supposed to be a single guard on duty. They 
could not afford to have a guard for the guard, not 
anymore. It was the long-awaited opportunity to strike a 
personal wound. The attackers could afford their bullets, 
where the protectors could not. 


To come running at the sound of a single gunshot was to 
be too late. The boy who endured the suffering of 
strangers had been finally allowed to no longer feel 
anymore. 


A stiff breeze prompted a few shaky stones to lose their grip. What 
used to be impenetrable now warmly invited all animals to shelter 
and home, unable to keep out even the least agile amongst them. 
The castle had become a giant rat’s nest and all the predators 
wanted their share. 


The Administrator surveyed the empty table before them. 


There used to be a time, about a generation ago, that 
each chair was filled with the best specimens humanity 
could provide. The brightest minds and the strongest of 
wills met together regularly to maintain absolute order 
onto a world that steadily became more disorderly. They 
were the steady hand that disciplined the rowdy teen. 
They were the gatekeepers between that which ran 
against the grain of society and the curious humanity that 
sought to cross them. 


There were few signs of things having gone amiss. At 
first, the increased collection of anomalies was brushed 
off as the result of a rapidly growing organization and the 
greater resources to hunt more leads. A few less useful 
sites were converted in anticipation for new growth. It 
was a simple matter of diverting minor funds at the time. 
If those bright minds of that day had been smart enough 
to predict the need for more extreme change at the time, 
perhaps all of this could’ve been avoided. 


That was wishful thinking. It was inevitable. The 
Administrator knew that. The Administrator knew that 
even before the Overseers began to empty their chairs. 


The first was a freak containment breach. It turns out that 
when the Engineering team had to construct hundreds of 
chambers a month, triple checking turned to double 
checking and double checking to a single glance over. 
Not even the kindest of man could keep up with the pace 
of new stories to fabricate, fresh containment procedures 
to devise, still-bleeding tragedies to hide. 


The next two were suicide. Even the strongest of wills 
broke under sustained pressure. The remainder were 
picked off over the years. A few simply disappeared. 
O5-2 hadn't been seen since 590 was executed by the 
Cl. Jack never could handle the loss of family. O5-4 left 
only the icon of a stylized rat king on her desk, a 
testament to how ingenuity was nothing more than 


functional insanity. 


Friendship and spirit did nothing to prevent this. Their 
ideals, aspirations, and the hearts that birthed them 
could not produce the strength they needed. Respect 
and duty had long fell to the wayside, far from the 
binding contracts that they were thought to be. 


In the end, nothing they really believed in could’ve saved 
them. 


The castle’s remaining walls moaned like the joints of an old man. 
Inevitability was on its way. 


| Hub | 


Anno Domino 


December 1st, 2081 


Access: Record of extranormal events and object 
retrievals 

Enter password: ************ 

Access: Record for Site-466 retrieval agents. 
Enter password: ******* 

Access: Records dated November, 2081. 


Date: 1/11/2081 

Location: [REDACTED] Shopping Centre car park 

Response Priority Level: Green 

Description: An unidentified man was seen wandering through a 
multi-storey car park at approximately 14:00, behaving erratically. 
Witnesses reported that he left scorch marks on all the surfaces he 
touched, and emanated large amounts of heat. 

Follow-up Operations: Foundation agents secured the area and 
subdued the man, consequently designated E-75006. 


Agent Chard ignored the muttering of the man, still audible as it was 
from within the insulated cell. When the researcher went over to the 
viewing window, Chard did not follow. 


The man inside, he knew, was naked. He had been dressed in 
casual clothes but they had caught fire as the man’s temperature 
continued to increase, and they had been removed with heat-proof 
gloves once they had arrived back at the facility. Standard 
equipment like that was one of the few things that weren’t in short 
supply. It was clear that the heat was making him uncomfortable, but 
with his internal body temperature he should already be dead, so he 
hadn’t much scope to complain. Not that he could, at any rate. The 
unfortunate man was rambling as if half-asleep, in hesitant, indistinct 
nonsense. Clearly his condition was making it difficult for him to 


think or speak properly. 


Based on the location and clothes he had been wearing, Chard 
suspected he was shopping when it had struck him, whatever it was. 
He could confirm that, with security tapes and background checks. 
He had people on it. But for now, he had to ensure the handover of 
the E-Class object to research personnel. 


Something about this particular researcher, Dr. Kritschau, faintly 
annoyed him. All of his features were set high in his face in such a 
way that he always had the appearance of peering down at you like 
a specimen, even if, like Chard, you were a few inches taller than 
him. He hadn’t looked in Chard’s eyes at all as the Agent had 
explained what he had seen during the retrieval, instead keeping his 
gaze firmly fixed on the paper as he took notes, but now that he was 
looking at the object he was writing quickly and fluidly without even 
glancing at the page. 


Chard let this continue for a short while, with Kritschau ignoring him 
and noting down the immediate observations of the new SCP, but 
then he felt compelled from awkwardness to move over to the 
viewing window. The man inside had pressed himself up against the 
cold concrete wall, trying to keep himself cool. He faced away from 
them and tried to cover himself up. 


Chard’s eyes drifted to the floor of the containment chamber. The 
researcher said something under his breath. “So, needs a 
refrigerated, or at least insulated and well ventilated, humanoid 
containment chamber. Materials must be heatproof. Food and 
water... ” 


Chard cleared his throat. The researcher didn’t seem to hear him, so 
he started talking. “Is he going to live?” 


Kritschau’s eyes stayed fixed on the huddled shape of the man. 
“That’s up to the directors. You know how it is.” Chard looked 
uncomfortably at the windowsill, not willing to look up and compound 
the man’s shame. They both knew that Kritschau was mincing 
words. 


The man clambered to his feet, arms held away from his body, and 


moved to the other side of the cell, surface for cold concrete. 
Kritschau noted the behaviour down. Then he sucked in a breath, 
put the lid back on his pen, and pulled down the blind. Chard was 
relieved. Something about the unfortunate man elicited his pity. He 
wouldn't want his life in the hands of the Foundation, either.