Secondly, while normal SCP-008 infectees are rendered incapable 
of any action more complex than walking, standing, grabbing, and 
biting, Exocet-strain infectees are now capable of running, jumping, 
and navigating complex physical obstacles. This is possible due to 
an alteration, not in the SCP-008 prion itself, but in the addition of a 
nano-machine designated SCP-008-Finback. 


The Finback nanite appears to have been purpose-designed to 
manage and direct the SCP-008 prion, setting up barriers preventing 
entry into the cerebral cortex. It also appears to be responsible for 
the Exocet strain's most alarming mutation. SCP-008 infectees have 
long been reported attacking and ingesting living humans, but as the 
organism results in the destruction of the infectee's digestive 
systems, no sustenance could be drawn from said consumption. 
Finback not only prevents the digestive system from decaying, but 
utilizes the material consumed to construct a rough duplicate of its 
host body from DNA harvested from the infectee's body cells. Once 
enough raw material has been received, the host body's belly will 
burst open, releasing between one to four duplicates. These will 
then proceed to seek out and consume any vegetable or animal 
matter present, growing rapidly to full size in as little as twenty-four 
hours. 


Analysis of both the Exocet prion and the Finback nanite indicates 


that the two were deliberately engineered to operate in symbiosis. 
Even more concerning are indications that the Finback nanite 
shares several traits in common with a now-neutralized SCP 
anomaly responsible for the death and transformation of one Agent 
Adrian Andrews (formerly archived under SCP-784, iteration 
6). 


Speculations and Security Concerns Raised by the "Camp 
Granada” Incident. 


The existence of the Finback nanite alters the list of possible origin 
points to one: the Foundation itself. Only we have access to the 
SCP-784-ARC anomaly. Further, analysis of laboratory and 
containment access logs indicate discrepancies in the amount of 
SCP-—784-ARC material constructed, reported destroyed, and 
returned to containment over the past ten years. 


Approximately ten grams of nanomaterial are now missing, more 
than enough to create a self-replicated seed for the creation of more 
SCP-784-ARC material. For this reason, | am recommending a 
complete audit of all Overseer-Level projects beginning immediately. 
Whichever party was responsible for secretly developing SCP-008-E 
must be discovered, and their reasons for doing so brought to light. 


(Presented to the Overseer Council for Review by Factotum 
"Cringe.") 


From: Overseer Council 
To: Factotum "Cringe" 
Re: SCP-008-E 


Your suggestions have been received and are under 
review. 


All information pertaining to SCP-008-E is now classified 
Level 5 under Code Word PALISADE TEMBLOR 
WHITTIER. Administer amnestics as needed to all 
personnel aware of the existence of SCP-008-F 
(Finback), and sterilize/secure all samples of Exocet/ 


Finback under Procedure 397-Sub Rosa. 


Upon completion of these orders, you will resume 
monitoring Assets Resh, Samekh, and Gimel until further 
notice. 


O5-Eight 


FROM: Senior Special Agent Andrea S. Adams, Mobile Task Force 
Lambda-2 ( ) 

TO: Dr. Alto Clef, Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ( ) 

RE: Operation "Camp Granada." 


¢ The suit's performance was satisfactory. However, | would like 
to consult with R&D regarding some alterations. 
¢ SCP-105 performed well. 


Aside from that, nothing of interest to report. 
- Adams 
+ 


Dear Sir or Madam, 

Marshall, Carter, and Dark sincerely regrets the 
unfortunate death of your child during the recent 
events at our Happy Acres Youth Camp. The 
loss of a loved one is never easy, even when 
anticipated, but it is harder still when they are 
taken from us far too soon. 

We offer our sincere condolences and deepest 
sympathy on your loss. May the outpouring of 
sympathy, the kind acts of friends and 
strangers, and the comfort in knowing that your 
loss is felt by many help you through this difficult 
time. 

As a gesture of support, we are refunding all 
fees charged to you for your recent stay at our 
Diamond Mountain Resort in the form of a 
certificate of store credit. 


All This Wandering 


0930 CDT 
"One more time. Just one. Come on, girl.” 


Plastic handle firmly in hand, Ritchie placed one foot on top of the 
leaf blower. He let the pullcord out, readied himself, and pulled. The 
engine made no attempt to turn over. Pulled again. That time, the 
barest hint of life, that extra second's growling... then nothing. 


Ritchie didn't want to take this piece of shit back to the motor pool. 
Men have a very strange way of looking at other men who openly 
admit an inability to resolve a mechanical issue themselves. / suck 
shit at engines, okay? he always wanted to say. / don't think half of 
you fucks can read. Let's call a truce, huh? 


One more try, then. Ritchie readied himself. Pulled. Realized what 

was happening immediately. Couldn't do anything about it. Felt his 

entire mass flying backwards. Watched his vision of the leaf blower 
turn into a vision of the parking lot and then a vision of the sky. Hit 

his head and back against the concrete sidewalk. 


Twitched. Didn't cry. Humiliated, yes, but still had some standards. 


"Need some help, soldier?" The sun was blocked out momentarily 
by a silhouette. A definitively female, probably brunette silhouette. 
That silhouette could give a man ideas. 


Oh shit, Ritchie thought. This girl's, like, 19, maybe? She's got to be 
one of the college kids. He tried to think of something to say. Settled 
for groaning. 


She giggled. "Here." She reached her hand down towards Ritchie, 
who grabbed it along the wrist like a medieval handshake. "Up we 
go now. Come on." 


Ritchie was surprised at how easily she helped him up. Definitely 
stronger than expected, he thought. 


"You okay?" she asked. "| saw you fall. Looked like a nasty spill." 


"Yeah, it's, uh. It's no big deal. Didn't hurt. | mean, you know, it 
wasn't a vacation or anything. The university doesn't provide those 
kind of perks." Ritchie realized that he had been sure to emphasize 
the low-paying nature of his job during this courtship ritual because 
he was an idiot. He tacked a short, uncomfortable laugh onto the 
end, just to remind himself that he wouldn't be successfully 
reproducing any time soon. 


The girl chuckled warmly. "What is that job, exactly? Other than 
waking up freshmen at seven in the morning on days they don't 
have classes?" 


Ritchie smiled hopefully. ""Landscaper' is the word you're looking for. 
Grounds department. Just getting some of these leaves out of the 
flower beds." 


"Satisfying kind of work, is it?" She smiled, keeping eye contact. 


Ritchie shrugged. "Well, you know. It's good enough money. And 
there are some advantages, as you point out." 


The girl's eyes twinkled. "But?" 


He thought about it, figured he may as well go for broke. "I have this 
theory. | think that at the end of the day, no matter what it is that we 
do, all men really just want to be heroes, you know? It's why we 
idolize athletes. You sit in the bleachers, a normal person, and you 
see this other person that's pretty ordinary, except he throws a ball 
well and people are cheering his name like he's saving orphans from 
a burning building." Ritchie looked at his equipment. "I'm 
comfortable, sure. But I'm never gonna be a hero." 


She looked Ritchie up and down, looked at the equipment, the 
efficient layout of his work truck behind him. "It's funny you mention 
that, because | would have sworn this looked like a soldier's work. 
Did you serve?" 


"Nah, but | get that a lot," Ritchie said. "I think my dad might have 
served, and | just picked up a lot of his habits." 


"You think?" The girl's voice implied curiosity, but her face didn't 
actually seem puzzled. 


"Yeah, we didn't communicate much." Ritchie started rubbing his 
temples; that mild little nagging headache started in, the one he got 
when he spent too much time thinking about the past. "He was sort 
of...away, you know? Even when he was there. Not a neglect sort of 
thing, just a...wait, why am | telling you all of this?" 


"You never spent any kind of time in any military force of any kind?" 
The girl was no longer pretending to flirt, just making steady eye 
contact. 


Ritchie's head was now openly throbbing. "I...uh, you don't, you 
know, ah, fuck... | don't know what you're getting at. There's no way 
that —" 


The needle slipped into his neck from behind. Ritchie had a split- 
second to think Jesus, what an obvious distractio— before a voice 
right beside his ear whispered, "She's a million miles away from 
me." 


Ritchie died. Someone else woke up. 
"Separated by a hollow wooden door," replied Peter. 
"Name, auth, and rank, Agent," the voice behind him said. 


"Peter Xavier Avalon, Alpha-18032-Gamma-Gamma, Senior 
Operative," he droned. 


"Last assignment?" 


"Mobile Task Force Omega-7, ‘Pandora's Box'. 


The woman behind Peter walked into his field of vision, held up a 
finger, moved it horizontally in front of him. Peter's eyes couldn't 
track it at first, but then the norepinephrine derivative included in the 
mnestic cocktail started kicking in, and he started becoming more 


responsive. "Look at me, Peter," the woman said. "Do you know my 
name?" 


Peter took a second as the memories came back and nine years 
melted away. "Yes, ma'am, Dr. Jones," he said. "Sorry, I'll need a 
minute." 


"Take your time, son," Maria Jones said. "Have a seat." She 
motioned him onto the gate of the truck. "That was a hell of a drug 
you just got hit with." 


"Yeah. Yeah," Peter nodded drunkenly. "Where am |?" 
"You're in the, uh...Alex, what's this college again?" 


"University of Tennessee at Martin, ma'am. Small rural college town. 
About nine thousand students," the younger woman said. Clipped. 
Cool. Professional. Not flirty at all. 


"Thank you, Alex." Maria turned back to Peter. "You're a 
groundskeeper. You've worked here for about seven years, ever 
since the Goodyear plant closed down. It's been nine years total." 


"Nine years?" Peter shook his head. "We talked...we were just 
having a conversation about the amnestics and the protocols of this. 
You just explained the memetic activation code. You were telling me 
about the...the 'extremely unlikely event' that you might have to 
reactivate me at some point in the future. It was..." Peter gazed past 
Maria, at Alexandra's worried face. "It was just happening." 


Maria shook her head. "Your internal clock is going to be one of the 
last things to adjust, and it's the hardest thing to ignore in the 
meantime. Put it aside for now; it'll get you mobile until you recover 
from the worst case of jet lag in recorded human history. We need 
you back, Pete." 


Peter looked at his much-less-defined arms, his torso, the quite 
visible (though not overly pronounced) pooch in his T-shirt, felt his 
breathing, rotated some of his joints. "My mind feels fine, ma'am, but 
| don't know if this body quite has what it had the last time we 
talked." 


SCP-706 has no particular resistance to tissue damage resulting 
from the ingestion of hardened porcelain. 


Unless otherwise directed, SCP-706 will compulsively maintain its 
appearance, typically involving looking at itself in mirrors and using 
any available makeup or paint to apply, remove, or adjust its 
features. SCP-706 will become distressed and uncooperative if not 
provided appropriate materials with which to maintain its materials or 
if denied the ability to inspect its own appearance. 


SCP-706 was recovered from __, Texas following a police report 
involving a violent domestic dispute at a suburban residence. 
SCP-706 was discovered in a back room of the residence 
surrounded by a large pile of destroyed remains from several dozen 
porcelain dolls and multiple sets of fine china dinnerware, with most 
of the porcelain mass having been consumed. Class A amnestics 
were administered to responding law enforcement personnel and a 
cover story given to local media. 


Addendum 706-1: Recording Transcript 


The following audio recording was taken from a damaged digital 
camcorder found within the residence. 


(Irrelevant content redacted for brevity.) 
Mrs. : Okay, sweetie, one more time, okay? 
(slamming sound, presumed to be a door) 


Mr. : (slurred) | have had enough of your goddamn 
caterwauling. Will you two just shut the fuck up? 


SCP-706: Daddy? 
Mrs. : Honey? 


Mr. : (slurred) You and your fucking princess shit 
and your fucking awful music— 


Mrs. : Honey, you're drunk— 


"Alex?" Maria said. 


Alex moved her hand to her hip in one smooth motion. A metal 
glimmer of light, a flicker, a whoosh, and suddenly Pete found 
himself holding a stainless steel throwing knife by the handle — then 
on his feet, ready to take down the 115-lb brunette he'd been flirting 
with three minutes previously. 


Maria smiled. "You have the instincts. We can work the details out 
later. Are you with us?" 


Peter looked at his body, then at the sad pile of old and worn-out 
landscaping gear that had been Ritchie's life. "Yeah," he said. "I'm 
with you." 


1030 CDT 


Matthew kept blushing every time he met Pamela's eyes. It was a 
strange time to be getting embarrassed, but he wasn't sure how else 
to feel. He leaned forward and kissed her awkwardly, pushing his 
tongue in against her teeth. She moaned and opened her mouth 
more, inviting him in. 


Matthew just knew that she knew something was wrong. He just 
knew it. But he shouldn't think about that, because that made 
those...those problems happen again. "Are you ready, baby?" he 
asked in his most seductive squeak. 


"Mmm-hmm," she said, nodding eagerly. Matthew couldn't believe 
she wanted this (but don't think about that! he thought, thinking 
about that), couldn't believe someone who looked like her wanted 
her first time to be with someone who looked like him. 


And after the last two attempts, he couldn't believe she was siil/ 
interested. 


A song called "The Last Polka" playing in the background, thumb 
and two fingers touching the open end of the condom, he pressed 
forward with his hips. He felt the reservoir touch her labia and bend 


back in (he felt everything so acutely right now), felt the tip slide 
across sensitive membranes, and find its way to the opening. 
Pamela sucked her breath in; he felt her tense up ever so slightly, 
even though they knew that this didn't have to hurt if Matthew did his 
job correctly... 


Matthew pushed inside. He locked eyes with her, and at that 
moment, knew that he would never be that close to another human 
being, knew that you couldn't be that close to another human being. 
This was as close to telepathy as two people could share. Matthew 
had enough confidence to pull his hand off of his penis (can she feel 
it getting harder? he thought) and bring it up to stroke her hair. He 
kissed her again, more tenderly now. 


They wouldn't be the same after this, weren't the same as they had 
been just a few seconds ago, not in the way that society kept 
insisting this moment made them different, but something had 
changed and they both knew it and both knew the other felt the 
same. They had figured out so much in the last hour, the prototype 
engineering problems that so many young couples are left to figure 
out on their own; friction, trigonometry, force. Certain gas laws came 
into play during the last beta test as well, which was met with 
laughter by both of the scientists involved in the experiment. 


"What's so funny?" Pamela asked. 
Matthew realized he'd been snickering. "It's...like, all of this?" 
Pamela nodded at the unasked question. 


"It's all worth it. Just to be with you like this, right now. It was all 
worth it."