Clef removed the hat and said, “You’re right. Sombreros are so last 
season.” He threw his hat at me, then walked over and took my hat, 
saying, “Jester hats are what’s in, you know. Big in France.” 


And that time | just shot him because he had been fucking with me. 


Have A Heart 


SCP-173 looked at the ground of its cell. As always, it was strewn 
with blood and shit, along with the corpses of the most recent 
cleanup team. However, on this day, something different lay upon 
the stone ground. A small, red object, with two bumps on one end 
and a small point on the other, with a white, waving pattern curling 
around the edges. 


Without pausing in its mad, frantic scratching of the walls, 173 
picked up the object and peered closely at it. Beneath the stains 
from the floor, there appeared to be some sort of indecipherable 
scribbling across the object's front. What intrigued 173, however, 
was the picture on the front, for it was a picture of itself, standing in 
the corner of the cell, glancing over at the viewer. This puzzled 173 
immensely; it knew many came into its cell with many strange 
objects, but it was not aware any were capable of capturing an 
image of it in such a fashion. Still, even after years of isolation, the 
sculpture recognized the image as itself, in some rudimentary 
fashion. 


173 went about its usual business, dashing around the room and 
clawing at the walls, occasionally coming to a halt in the dead center 
of the room, so as to stare intently at the door and gather its 
thoughts of hatred towards those beyond. It did not let go of the 
object, though, for it still puzzled the statue. For what reasons, 173 
could not say why, but there was a sense of mystery about this 
thing. 


Hours later, 173 took to examining the object again. A little molding 
of the edges revealed an interior space, which it could open with a 
slight amount of effort. More of the strange scribblings were laid 
down on both sides of the inside flaps. Thinking they must mean 
something, 173 put its crude knowledge of human writing to use, 
trying to decipher the meaning behind the scratches. After an hour 
of hard work, 173 had managed to work out something that sounded 


like it might pass human lips. Putting all the information together in 
its head, it sounded out the words internally: 


"Hach-aa-pehpeh-eeey... vvvvv-aa-llintt-aaaayyy-nehs... deh-aa- 
eeey..." 


Complete and utter nonsense. 173 had a firmer, if still very loose, 
grasp of human speech than human writing, and this did not sound 
like anything a normal human being would say. Perhaps one with a 
mouth like its own, but certainly not one like those who kept it 
prisoner? 


Could it be that they were mocking 173? Had it really come to that? 
They spend years upon years keeping it frozen in one place with 
their glances, locking it away, denying it the satisfying sound of a 
sickening crunch of revenge... and now they would mock it? Rage 
rose up inside 173; if they truly had descended to such cruel levels, 
then it would let them know just how cruel it could be in kind... 


Fortunately, a thought of reason broke through the madness: It had 
not yet deciphered all the scratchings on the object. Perhaps if it 
were to do so, there would be a different course of action open. Of 
course, if they really were mocking it, then a wholesale slaughter 
would definitely ensue. 


173 turned its attention to the scribblings on the left side of the 
object's interior. Two of the words, "to" and "from," were not hard for 
it to figure out: they were monosyllabic, and already ingrained into its 
limited vocabulary. So someone from the outside had sent 
something to 173, and wanted it to know the origination point of the 
object. A further examination of the words after "to" confirmed this 
suspicion. "Ess-Cee-Pee... lee-vvv-eee" It didn't sound like much, 
but turning the phrase over and over in its head, it came to the 
conclusion that it was the name they had chosen to give it. 


Shifting its attention back to the right-interior side, 173 noticed 
something else. The scribbling "Hach-aa-pehpeh-eeey" almost 
sounded like a word it knew. Something it always thought when 
snapping necks, something the people whose necks it snapped 
never seemed to be at all. Something like... "happy." 


SCP-863: Patchwork Crabs 


Item #: SCP-863 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-863-1 is to be contained 
in a 2m x 2m enclosure and provided with nutrition as detailed in 
Nutritional Chart 863-1-1. Due to its low risk of breaching 
containment, SCP-863-1 is to be kept under guard by one (1) 
member of security. In the event of limb loss, SCP-863-1 is to be 
provided with a replacement from a similarly proportioned crab. 


SCP-863-2 is to be contained in a 6m x 6m enclosure and provided 
with nutrition as detailed in Nutritional Chart 863-2-1. SCP-863-2 is 
to be kept under guard by two (2) members of security. In the event 
of limb loss, SCP-863-2 is to be provided with a suitable 
replacement. 


SCP-863-3 is to be contained in a 10m x 10m enclosure and 
provided with nutrition via robotic arm as detailed in Nutritional Chart 
863-3-1. SCP-863-3 is to be kept under guard by six (6) members of 
security at all times. No personnel are to enter SCP-863-3's 
containment enclosure. In the event of limb loss, SCP-863-3 is to be 
provided with a cadaver as replacement. 


Any specimens of SCP-863 found in the wild are to be destroyed. 


Description: SCP-863 is a species of crab commonly found in 
areas of . SCP-863 specimens, when first born, measure 
roughly three centimeters in height and one (1) gram in weight, but 
are capable of growing up to sizes of [DATA EXPUNGED]. When 
fully grown, specimens superficially resemble the Japanese spider 
crab. Specimens of SCP-863 are born without limbs, and undergo a 
process in which they utilize the limbs of other organisms, or even 
whole organisms in lieu of their own. 


This gave 173 pause for thought. Someone beyond the door, one of 
its captors, wanted it to be happy. What could that possibly mean? 
The two words after happy remained incomprehensible to it, but they 
were surely just a further extension of the message of happy. So 
what could happy mean? Were they pleased with its performance as 
of late, and wanted to reward it for killing so efficiently? Did they 
understand now why it killed, and wanted to make sure it stayed 
happy by doing so? 


Did they see it was unhappy, and that it wanted out? 


As unlikely as it sounded, this seemed the most reasonable to 173's 
disturbed mind. It had served so much time, been held prisoner for 
so long. And it wasn't like it had been completely perfect before they 
took it in. Had these past decades been nothing but a long waiting 
game, one it simply had to sit through until the end? After so much 
time, it certainly hoped so. 


And the shape of the object... 173 folded it back up, placed it on the 
ground, and tore into the bodies of the dead men on the floor. It took 
all three of them, but 173 was eventually able to extract a heart and, 
with much trial and error, mold it into a shape approximating that of 
the object. To 173, necks were the most fragile, and thus most 
important, part of the human body, but from what it had seen of the 
frightened, panicked reactions of those it had killed over the years, 
many held the heart up as most important. Whoever had sent this 
not only wanted 173 to be happy, but to connect that happiness with 
something distinctly human. 


Having entirely stopped its routine of scratching at the walls, 173 
stood there, in the middle of the room, staring at the card. There was 
more text to decipher on the front, but it was stunned by the 
potential implications of the interior of the card. For the first time in 
ages, it felt something towards its captors other than blind, seething 
rage, and cold, bitter hatred. Some deeper meaning was hidden 
here, some message that potentially meant its freedom. This 
surpassed the man seeking to die. This broke through to some 
deeper part of 173's... soul, it supposed. 


It made a decision: It would spend as much effort as it took to 
decipher the writing upon the front of the card. If it turned out to be 


something negative, something mocking the sculpture, the 
aforementioned slaughter would take place. If it were some 
message of compassion and understanding... then it didn't know 
what it would do. But the lives beyond that door would be spared for 
another day. Sitting down for once, 173 set to work, spending hours 
staring intently at the front of the card, calculating to the best of its 
abilities the meaning of the scribblings upon the red, heart-shaped 
object. 


At last, words and a meaning emerged. 173 stood slowly, stared at 
the door, and then went back to scratching at the walls. 


KKK 


At 0900 hours, Doctor Martin placed a Valentine's Day 
card in the pocket of D-3521, set for cleaning duty in 
SCP-173's cell. At 0906 hours, all three cleaning 
crewmembers were dead by an attack from SCP-173. 
Due to an internal mechanism jamming, the door to 
SCP-173's containment cell could not be reopened, 
resulting in the corpses of the cleaning crew remaining in 
the cell, and SCP-173 discovering the card. SCP-173 
displayed highly uncharacteristic interest in the card, 
carrying it around the cell for several hours, and 
spending a significant amount of time sitting on the floor 
staring at the card. At 1700 hours, the internal 
mechanisms of the door were fully operational, allowing 
for retrieval of the bodies. 


At this point, SCP-173 breached containment and 
attacked personnel all around Site 19, killing forty-two 
staff members at last count, including Doctor Martin. 
SCP-173 was restrained at 1727 hours by sixteen 
Foundation agents, and returned to its containment 
chamber shortly afterwards. 


For future reference, the card Doctor Martin sent into 
SCP-173's chamber contained the following picture: 


Creator Information 


The image used in the SCP-178 article is the art piece "Untitled 2004" by touma 
Kato: he photograph was taken by peisuke Yamamoto: All rights are 
reserved by the artists. 


A note of caution: SCP-173 is a secondary use of the image of the art piece 
"Untitled 2004", which was created by youmi Kato: he concept of SCP-173 
does not have any relationship with the artist's original concept of "Untitled 2004". 


The sculpture, its likeness, and the photograph have not been released under any 
Creative Commons license. Only the text of this article is released under Creative 


Commons. This sculpture and its likeness may not be used for commercial 
purposes under any circumstances. Izumi Kato has graciously chosen to 
allow the use of the image of "Untitled 2004" by the SCP Foundation and its 
fanbase for non-commercial purposes only. 


He Was Blind and Deaf on a Sunny Day 


It was when the waves splashed against his body that he gradually 
returned to consciousness. How long had he been lying here? He 
found himself half-buried in the sand and attempted to move, but 
was too weak to do so. 


The sun must have risen; he could feel the heat, but his eyes would 
not open, if eyes even existed. Something felt very wrong to him, but 
he could not quite place what it was. He tried to remember, and for a 
moment he thought he had something, but it was all too distant and 
unreal, and that feeling faded. He was blind and deaf, lying there as 
the cold, salty water cut him again and again. He knew something 
was missing, or rather, everything was missing. And that was when 
he remembered the pain. 


He screamed for days but nobody listened. His body parts, barely 
holding together, each anguished fragment emitting a chorus of 
screams. Ocean and sand had become his eternal prison, 
enveloping his body and slithering through his wounds. The more he 
struggled, the greater his pain. There was no escape. 


He hungered. He had to eat, after all. Or did he? He could not 
remember ever having needed to, but the hunger had nonetheless 
consumed him. There was a strange craving, an urge to replace - to 
compensate — for what was missing. So he dug from the sand 
around him, and swallowed whatever he could find. But the more he 
ate, the hungrier he felt. His body hurt even more as he felt parts 
that should not be there growing. Cancer, perhaps, but he could not 
care less. 


There was something missing, and he had to find it, he had to stop 
the pain. 


He screamed and dug and fed for days and nights. Gradually, the 
sand had lost its grip of him and he no longer felt the torture of the 
salty sea. He had more time to think between the episodes of pain, 


but his memory was distant and broken. Who was he, what was his 
name? He did not know. What had happened? He could not 
remember. Vaguely, he could recall a war. No, not war, a battle. Or 
was it just a fight? 


One night, when his body was bathed in the glow of the full moon, 
someone answered his cries. They took him home, tended to him, 
scraping away all the filth that had accumulated on him. They spoke 
to him, but it was in a language he could not understand. He would 
thank them, but doubted they would understand his words of 
gratitude. The pain still lingered but had lessened in his new home. 
There was no water to choke him, no sand to scrape him. His 
caretakers even offered him food, easing his unending famine. 


It was when he felt much better, when he thought they could finally 
hear what he had to say, when things fell apart. He felt their quarrels 
and confusion, but could not understand their nature. He was then 
fed with something strange; it moved as if struggling and soaked his 
body in strange liquids. Whatever it was, he could not stop himself. 


He felt screams, not his, but from those around him. He could not 
comprehend what was happening. It reminded him of the war - the 
fight so long ago. Were there screams as well? Someone else 
came, and his caretakers ran. 


He did not know them, but he soon became afraid. They carried with 
them strange things and a large water prison. He wanted to run, 
along with his caretakers, but couldn't. He screamed and screamed 
but they did not care. They came closer, and plunged him into the 
cold, salty water. 


He found himself drowning again, as his senses left him. 


Healthy Child 


The following article is an excerpted transcript, which has been 
annotated and pulled from article #232397 — Home Video? 7.mov. 
Personnel who require either the entire Home Video17 entry or a full 
transcript of Home Video17 should consult section HVAA#000001 7 
of the eVisual-Library archives. 


Transcript Log-232391-17-2: 


Subject-2323 is referred to as "daa" in article #232398 
and refers to child subject in the video with the name 
"Daniel". 


00'34" - Subject-2323 carries a camera and approaches 
a male child estimated to be between the age of 6 and 9. 
At a distance of roughly one meter, subject-2323 speaks 
to the child. 


Subject-2323: Danny, try this. 

Daniel: What is it? 

Subject-2323: Just try it, | picked it from the garden. 
Daniel: Okay daddy. 


01'46" - Male child consumes unknown substance and 
promptly displays discomfort. 


Daniel: My hands are itchy. I'm allergic. 
Subject-2323: Relax, it's just your nerves. 
Daniel: What was it? I'm so itchy. 


Subject-2323: It's okay. 


Daniel: | need to get it out. | need, it hurts, it's hurting 
me. 


Subject-2323: Don't worry. 


02'21" - Male child begins to chew on his own right palm 
between thumb and index finger. Child breaks skin with 
his teeth. The composition of his tissue is revealed to 
have a saturated green colour. No blood is visible from 
the puncture wound. Child begins weeping. 


Daniel: What's happening daddy? Make it stop please. 
04'43" - Child appears panicked and begins to fidget.