"Christopher, hey." She squeezed his shoulder. He didn't look up 
from the TV. She glanced at it, and froze, instantly awake. It was the 
local news channel, video of brilliant white fireworks in the sky. The 
camera panned down, to where the reporter, in a panic, was 
gesturing and shouting to a perfectly whitewashed sculpture of a 
human being, frozen in mid-run. It could have been a statue, were it 
not for the impossible detail. And the many other white-coated items 
in view. A house, cars, a bird in mid-flight. 


She hauled Christopher to his feet, snapping him out of his stupor. 
"Get the kids!" She barked, in his face, and he stared at her. 


"We....we should stay inside." 


"Nope!" She released him, and motioned to the kids' rooms, turning 
to the door. She had to get the car started, dashing upstairs to grab 
her phone and keys, returning downstairs just as the cries of an 
interrupted toddler started to go through the house. Christopher 
stepped out, carrying the little boy, and she nodded to him, hustling 
to the garage. She waited in the car, checking her phone again. Low 
signal. Finally, he stepped into the garage, carting the still-bawling 
toddler and a frightened five-year-old girl behind him. 


"Ophelia, you get in the front seat. You're riding like a big girl for 
this!" She shouted out the window, and the girl perked up, a bit, 
hurrying around. "Christopher, get in the back. You can put Chester 
in while we're moving." He nodded, and did so, frowning at his wife. 


"...1 promise, I'll explain later," she said, softly, making sure Ophelia 
was buckled in and Christopher was getting the boy into his carseat 
before pulling out of the garage. Outside, the neighborhood was a 
mixture of panic and reserve. Most people were hiding inside. Some, 
though...were out, sitting on rooftops, standing in yards, frantically 
packing cars. 


The second she heard Chester's restraint belt click into place, she 
floored it, steering the family van wildly around people and cars alike 
in the street. They came across a massive white splatter on the 
street, and she curved around it. Out of the neighborhood, out of the 
suburbs...into the surrounding fields. 


The little boy fell back asleep. Christopher and Ophelia stared out 
the windows, uncertain and horrified. There were white items 
everywhere, splatters over cornfields, perfectly preserved white 
trees. A few people, here and there, cars, stopped in the street, the 
people inside frozen perfectly. 


Rights tried not to look, until she barreled through the gates of the 
compound, slowing only to roll down the window so the guard could 
see her. He waved her through, and she pulled into the parking lot, 


idiopathic vomiting of 
acid 
SCP-819-C Yellow Distended or exploded 
bladder, inability to 
drain bladder, 
abnormal amount of 
urine discharge 
SCP-819-D Green Severe nasal 
discharge, vomiting 
phlegm, difficultly 
breathing from phlegm 
accumulation 
SCP-819-E Blue Swelling or bursting of 
eyeball and lens, 
eyeball becoming 
dislodged from socket 
SCP-819-F Purple Cerebral edema and 
double vision and/or 
headaches and/or 
slurred speech and/or 
perception issues 


Experiment Logs: 


Experimentation was performed on D class personnel to determine 
the effects of the different colors of lollipops on bodily fluids and 
progression of symptoms as they were consumed. Subjects were 
connected to various monitoring tools such as pulse oximeters, 
pneumographs, and ECG to monitor vitals during the course of 
experimentation. 


Experiment Log 819-1 Ali Colors 
Test: Taste Comparison 
Subject: D-6338 
Procedure: Subject was given 2 of each 


flavor lollipop, one of which was a 
sample from SCP-819 and the 
other an ordinary lollipop of the 
same brand. Subject was 
required to briefly taste each 


where several others were waiting, being led in. There weren't that 
many, actually, when she looked over it. Only a dozen or so, but 
there were several white splatters on the asphalt, a handful of white 
Cars... 


She skidded to a stop. "Get the kids out!" She shouted at 
Christopher, hopping out and looking around, finding herself face to 
face with Gears. He looked at her impassively, and checked her 
name off of a list. "What the fuck is going on?!" 


"We believe SCP-7843-1 either breached containment, or was 
released by a hostile group." 


Dr. Rights gestured emphatically in the arm, trying to work up words, 
though now her lack of sleep and preparation were catching up to 
her. Christopher called from behind her. 


"Honey!" 


"One moment!" She shouted back. He must've been struggling with 
the child restraint, still. Ophelia opened the car door and sat there, 
legs swinging, looking around uncomfortably. Rights glanced at 
them, then back to Gears, wincing as several of the booming sounds 
grew louder, then faded again. She looked up, the white fireworks 
were starting to leave cracks in the sky, she could see them in the 
distance. Like cracks on a windshield, centered and spreading. 


"Please make your way inside, to the designated shelter areas," 
Gears said. Rights glared at him. 


"What are we doing?" 
"lam not certain what you mean by this question." 


"This is nationwide, isn't it? Worldwide? What the god damn hell are 
we doing about this?!" 


"Mom! Mom!" Ophelia shouted, upset. 


"... There will be a controlled release of SCP-7778 into the upper 
atmosphere, once the satellites reach optimum height." She stared. 
"This will occur in thirty-seven minutes, approximately. Please 


retrieve your family and-" 
BOOM 
BOOM 
BOOM 


He didn't finish his sentence, and she almost didn't see him react, so 
focused she was on his impassive, unmoving face, when his hand 
fisted in her shirt, and dragged her forwards, roughly. She hit the 
ground at his feet, hard, and cursed, tensing as she saw white 
splatter here and there, meters away but still too close. A scream 
was Cut off, and she saw one of the splatters hit another researcher, 
and in a moment he was nothing, a blank white statue of himself, in 
mid-stride, his coat billowing behind him. 


Gears looked behind her. 

She didn't hear anything. 

She got to her feet slowly, taking in a very, very deep breath. 
"Doctor Rights, please go indoors." 


"..." She stared at him. The remaining few in the parking lot were 
bolting their way inside. 


".,.Please go indoors, to the designated shelter area. Do not turn 
around." 


She didn't listen, and turned on her heel. The white had hit the van 
head-on, and it, and the short area surrounding it, were completely 
washed. Inside the open doors, she could see Christopher, hunched 
over Chester's peacefully sleeping face, his hands locked in mid- 
struggle with a twisted belt. Ophelia's mouth was open, mid-yell, 
brows low and fingers gripping the edge of her seat with concern. 


Every last detail of them, down to their eyelashes, perfectly 
preserved, and washed white. 


She was not entirely certain what happened next, other than that it 


was exceedingly rough, and she knew bruises were going to form on 
her arm where he grabbed her and hauled her inside, ignoring her 
kicks and screams. It wasn't until she was flung onto a couch that 
her thoughts seemed to catch up to her, and she decided to stop 
screaming and fighting and start curling up and crying. Going 
through the emotional training was not anything like the real thing, 
she thought in the back of her mind. 


A quarter-hour passed, and she felt good enough to sit up and look 
around. One of the lower lounges, re-purposed. The doors were 
shut, and there were a few dozen individuals waiting around. 


"...Where is everybody?" 


"There are nineteen designated safety areas for staff in Site 17." 
Gears was sitting next to her, looking over a checklist. She stole a 
glance and rubbed her bleary eyes. Names. Very few of them were 
checked off. 


"What about the skips?" 


"SCP Containment is self-sealed under Emergency Protocols. They 
should remain unaffected, as us." 


She sat back against the couch, going over every question in her 
mind, trying to pick the important ones. 


" _.When is the reset set for?" 


"The first instance of SCP-7843-1 was detected at Midnight, Central 
Time. The reset is set to return to one minute before the first 
detonation occurred, and the phenomenon became self- 
propagating." 


She forgot her questions, and another jag of crying hit her. A few of 
the other researchers looked at her with mixtures of pity and 
empathy. She caught her breath, and Gears handed her a pen. 


"_..What's this for?" 


"Do you remember the report you submitted while applying for your 
current position? It was about the possibility for physical evidence to 


remain after preternaturally memetic or reality-altering events." She 
stared at him, blankly, as he stood and pulled more pens from his 
pocket, handing them out around the room. "We are presented with 
a unique opportunity here, to retain information of an information- 
erasure event. While the Foundation already has pre-set means to 
record these hours, this will serve as a baseline test for the 
possibility of personal information retention." 


Everybody else seemed to get it at once, with a collective series of 
"oh"s and "ah"s and "this is retarded"s. 


Rights looked down at her hands. 


"There are four to five minutes remaining until SCP-7778's release. 
Please take this opportunity to manufacture evidence." Gears 
announced, and sat back down, all out of pens, looking over his 
sheet again. 


Rights stared at her bare arms, still in her pajama top. She looked 
up. One researcher was frantically scrawling on the walls, another 
was opening magazines and writing inside of them, on every page, 
methodically and quick. One of them started writing on the inside of 
his labcoat. She looked at her arms again...and began to write. 


Over the next several minutes, many things happened. Most 
importantly, though, the walls began to fade. They could be seen 
through, and before long they could see all the way to other 
saferooms. There was some waving and gesturing back and forth. 
She looked down, between her feet, and saw SCPs peering back up 
at her. The furniture went next. Some items were retaining, but 
many things, including the edge of Rights' slippers, were started to 
fade as well. 


She kept writing, they all did. There was little else to do. Dr. Gears' 
list disappeared out of his hands, and he sat there, eyes closed, 
arms at his side like a puppet with no strings. Finally, Rights ran out 
of important things to write. She had started at the elbow of her left 
arm, and extended down to the back of her hand, with her tiny, neat 
handwriting. Names, dates, appearances... 


"Hey, Gears?," Rights asked, looking down at her feet. Her ankles 


faded, revealing yellow fat and red muscle beneath. Her toes, just 
rapidly-fading bones, flexed. So weird. 


He didn't look at her, but opened his eyes. 
"...what about you?" 


"Erasure events typically use manipulation of the emotional 
connection with memories to alter an individual's perception of 
events, rather than manipulating the events themselves." 


"Ah...SO...will you be affected?" 


"In the case of an erasure event, | often am not. Other times, | am. It 
is variable." 


She sat back. Wait. 

"Has this happened before?," she asked, suddenly. 

"Yes." 

She stared at the ceiling. Maybe it would be okay. 

"One minute." He said. Everybody sat down, tired...and waited. 


It was the longest sixty seconds in the whole of her existence. 
Everything was fading to white. She couldn't feel her arms anymore, 
and when she glanced down, they were gone. The tip of her nose 
disappeared. She saw another researcher, fading faster, reduced 
down to bones and nerves and a cluster of half-there organs, before 
he vanished altogether. 


She closed her eyes. 
The darkness itself faded to white. 
And then. 


GOOD MORNING. DO DOO DOOO...BUH BA BOP BAH BA DA 
DA DA DA BA- GOOD MORNING! DO DOO DOOO...BUH BA BOP 
BAH BA DA DA- 


She flopped her arm to the bedside table like it was a dying fish, and 
managed to knock her alarm clock out of reach before she finally 
rolled across the empty bed and reached it, jamming on the off 
button violently. With a soft groan, she checked the time. 5:31. 


It took considerable effort to get out of bed that morning. Every 
thought seemed to drag like concrete, every movement ached. She 
stumbled to the shower, and winced at herself in the mirror after 
turning on the water. It was only after she stuck her hand under the 
flow to test the temperature that she noticed the smeared ink rapidly 
washing off her skin, and quickly pulled her arm back. Weird, had 
she been writing on herself in her sleep? She looked over the 
remaining words, smudged from sweat and sleep. 


"...Ophelia, November 1st, five years old, brown ha....hair? Is that 
hair?" She read and mused aloud, squinting. "Huh...okay, more... 
uhm... Topher...October 24, oh, well, that's easy.” Her brain 
chugged to life. She heard her husband stir in the bedroom, and 
groan, rolling over in his sleep. As if on cue, she could hear her 
daughter darting around the hallway downstairs, to the TV. 
Weekend! Time for cartoons! 


After several minutes of squinting, she realized that there was 
nothing else decipherable on her arm. Why had she been writing 
about her husband and kid? There were only other words that didn't 
make sense. Daysitting? No, Ophelia was in kindergarten...Blonde? 
No, everybody was Brunette. 


She shook her head. Probably not important, she rationalized, 
shuffling into the shower and scrubbing her arm clean. The rest of 
the morning went featurelessly. She complained to Christopher that 
the toddler bed was still set up in Ophelia's old room, now relegated 
to storage, and he asked her why there was a box of diapers in the 
closet. They didn't think about it. 


She didn't think about it until she arrived at work, smiling at the 
guard as she pulled through the gate leisurely. The only thing odd 
about the day was when they called for a meeting and announced 
that SCP-7778 had been released last night, and to report any 
suspicious behavior or items found, as they could be classified as 
evidence. 


She was glad she must've slept through that. Sounded like a real 
clusterfuck. 


CODE NAME: - The Truth 


What is the easiest way to hide the identity of SCP-001? 


This would have been a perplexing question for the Administrator 
who had conceived General Notice 001-Alpha. How do you hide the 
most important anomaly the Foundation ever has, and ever will, 
come across? How do you hide the creator of the two thousand 
anomalies to follow? How do you hide the ultimate weapon? How do 
you hide the universe itself? How do you hide something worse? 
Like the identity of the Administrator, the circumstances surrounding 
how they came to their final decision is shrouded in mystery and 
known by a select few. 


Regardless of whether the process was arduous or came in an 
epiphany, the outcome is evident for all to see and functioned 
precisely as planned. Several completely different files are present 
in the entry, preceeded by a foreword stating that none, one, several 
or all of these files were the true SCP-001. The tactic worked as 
intended, with a myriad of conflicting explanations erupting and 
battling to prove that they were correct, but never having enough 
evidence to disprove the others. The simplest conclusions were the 
most common; that there was no true 001, that it was simply a ploy 
utilised by the O5 Council to instil a sense of purpose into the staff of 
the Foundation, hiding the truth that these anomalies had no source 
or explanation; or, that all the files were the true 001, that by some 
twist of fate they had devised a method of co-existing somehow.