instant, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He saw the crate falling, 
faster and faster, getting ever closer to the girl’s head... 


Global Occult Coalition Manifestation Priorities for 
Extranormal Abilities in Type-Green Entities 


This document outlines the order in which abilities 
typically manifest in Type-Green entities. Keep in mind 
that while this progression is typical for Type-Greens, it 
may not be representative of all cases. In addition, in 
many cases Type-Greens may manifest multiple levels 
of ability simultaneously. 


Level 0: Spontaneous Defensive Behavior 

Typically, a Type-Green entity’s first experience with his 
or her abilities comes unintentionally, in response to an 
immediate perceived threat. While the mechanism by 
which this reflexive action occurs is not well understood, 
it has been shown that increased levels of adrenaline, as 
well as other hormones associated with the acute stress 
response, can cause reality-affective powers to manifest 
more easily. 


... and then it wasn't. 


Caleb blinked. The crate was gone. There was no trace of it 
anywhere. No pieces of rope, no splintered wood, none of whatever 
was inside it. The only evidence that something had fallen was the 
frayed end of the rope still attached to the pulley. 


Everyone who had seen the incident froze for a moment. No one 
knew exactly how to process what had just happened. The poor girl 
kept staring up where the crate used to be, as if she was still waiting 
for it to come back down. 


Most people, however, hadn't seen the crate fall. Because the crate 
never hit the ground, it never made any noise, so nobody really paid 
attention to it. The dumbstruck dock workers escorted the girl back 
into the crowd and gave her a lecture on how it wasn’t safe to go 
onto the docks when people were working. 


The human mind copes with what it doesn't understand by ignoring 
it. Among the people who had actually seen the incident, most 


chose to believe that they had somehow mis-seen what had really 
happened. The crate missed the girl and fell into the water. The rope 
never broke. The entire incident never happened. 


A select few, however, chose to remember. They knew what they 
had seen, and what they had seen wasn’t normal. Some of these 
people were later dragged from their homes in the middle of the 
night and made to forget. Others were smart enough to keep their 
heads down about it, earned the right to guard their memories, and 
with it, the knowledge that the world around them was not nearly as 
coherent as they had been led to believe. 


One person in particular, however, learned a little bit more that day. 
The instant they saw the crate vanished from the air, not simply 
moved somewhere else or made invisible, but actually removed 
wholly from existence, they knew that they were responsible. They 
did not understand how or why it had happened, but they knew for 
certain that they had been the cause. In that instant, as they 
perceived the imminent danger, they looked at the offending object. 
Then they looked at it in a slightly different way, and it was no more. 


Thus, Josephine, the little girl wno was nearly crushed, lived. And a 
great power lived with her. 


Level 1: Manipulation of Matter 

After the initial discovery event, many Type-Greens will 
begin a phase of experimentation. Typically, abilities 
which involve the manipulation of matter are the first 
conscious abilities to manifest. These can include 
telekinesis (the physical manipulation of objects without 
applying measurable force), transmutation (the 
conversion of one type of matter into another type), and 
violation of the conservation of matter (destroying matter 
or bringing new matter into existence). 


It took some time before Josephine was again able to cause 
something to happen by her will alone. At first, she tried pointing at 
inanimate objects and ordering them around, as if the atoms 
contained therein were soldiers waiting for orders. When that failed, 
she tried making hand gestures and saying magic words. This, too, 
proved ineffective against the permanence of reality. She tried 


simply thinking very hard at an object, but the solution proved more 
complex. 


She reached an epiphany in the middle of the night. She awoke from 
a nightmare, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. She had 
dreamed that she was again on that dock, immobilized as the crate 
fell down on her in slow motion. She smelled sweet salt water, heard 
the waves rushing around her. She struggled desperately to move 
out of the crate’s way, but she felt as if her whole body were 
encased in concrete. Her physical body failing her, she was now 
forced to control her power or be crushed. She closed her eyes and 
tried to focus. In her mind, she saw the crate. She saw the gravity 
pulling it down, and the friction pulling it up. She saw the air moving 
across the surface of the crate, she saw the nanoscopic foam which 
formed the atoms which formed the molecules which formed the 
wood which formed the box. She saw the crate for what it was. 


And then, she saw that it was not. Influencing reality is, in the 
simplest possible terms, a matter of perspective. 


Many years later, Josephine returned to the dock. The waves were 
rolling in gently. Gently, at least, so far as other people would see it. 
Josephine could feel the kinetic energy in the water, the energy 
pushing the waves, the energies flowing in waves and particles 
between earth and water and sun and moon. But the salt water, the 
sweet smell basking in the air, she had no way to reproduce or 
analyze it. Deep down, it was all neural impulses, memories, 
particles. But some part of Josephine didn't want to analyze it. She 
didn't want to spoil every little magic for herself. 


Josephine told nobody about her... condition. She did it to protect 
herself, and her loved ones. But part of the reason was that she 
knew, deep down, that if anyone knew what she could do, they 
would try to use her for their own purposes. 


And Josephine had plans of her own. 


Cast On 


The needles were bamboo, six inches or so in length, streaks of 
rainbow stain running down their length. The yarn was Angora wool, 
pure white. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it; 
this one in front of her was purer, whiter, superior in every regard. 


She inhaled deeply, exhaled. She began the home row, wrapping, 
threading, wrapping, threading. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. Wrap, 
thread. 


The Headache dimmed, ever so slightly. It was a proper noun at this 
point. The headache began on a Sunday afternoon, remained 
through the evening, and she felt it still the next morning. That was 
thirteen years ago. Her...condition rendered painkillers unusable; 
anything that could impair her judgment could expose her. She 
couldn't let her guard down. She could never let her guard down. 


Inhale, exhale. Wrap, thread. Eighty-eight stitches on the home row, 
then she inserted her free needle into the loop nearest the end of 
the needle. The Headache dimmed ever so slightly more. Josephine 
smiled, knitting and purling down the row. She didn't have much 
interest in the end result, an end pillow for a love seat, but the point 
was the repetition. The relaxation. An audiotape of Pachebel's 
Canon in D played in the background, and the headache dimmed 
further. 


"| hardly see the point of further discussion," the old man said. 
smirking. The smirk was always there. "You never seem to unearth 
anything new." 


"You claim you're here voluntarily,” the researcher said. "If you're so 
annoyed by our line of questioning, you can simply leave, can't 
you?" 


"That would be remarkably impolite, | feel," the man said. "I simply 


think you're not having an adequate amount of fun with this." 


"Fun?" the researcher asked. "SCP-343, this is my job. My job is to 
make new discoveries into beings such as yourself, and there is no 
part of you inclined to help me. You would be more than happy to 
lead me on a wild goose chase of contradiction and invention until 
my superiors sent me to a microbiology lab in the Arctic Circle." 


The old man paused for the first time in their conversation. "That 
was remarkably forthright, Dr. Castile. | admire forthrightness. | see 
so little of it from individuals such as yourself, researchers, 
bureaucrats. Very well, I'll tell you a secret. I'll tell you something | 
haven't told any of your people before. Lean close, Richard." 


The researcher, taken aback for a moment, leaned his head close to 
the other man in the room. The old man across the table leaned 
close as well. 


"Richard, | have no idea how | got here." 


Josephine was well into her third row of the pillow when she realized 
the headache had almost completely faded away. She was amazed. 
It had been literally years since she had felt so at peace. She had a 
list, a very, very long list of ways she had tried to find relaxation, 
tried to find peace, from her burdens. Her burdens never ended. So 
many enemies, Josephine had thought (she would not let those 
thoughts get in the way of her knitting). So much work to be done, all 
the time. Josephine felt the throbbing intensify momentarily, then 
fade again. Her hands bobbed forward, caught the yarn, pulled 
backward, and formed the next stitch. One step at a time. Each 
motion deliberate, yet inevitable. Each step optional, yet destined. 


The headache was gone. She felt so much relief; she had been so 
burdened, burdened with the work of evading the Beast. That was 
her name for those so-called "scientists", those animals that hunted 
beings that were different than they were. Her Inquisition. Her witch 
hunters. On days when she questioned herself, days when she 
doubted herself, she wondered if she really was a witch. Something 
unnatural. Something that needed to be confined. 


The yarn was perfect, floating in the air in front of her. The skein 
unraveled itself, feeding inch after inch, foot after foot into her 
handiwork. She had seen a skein in a local craft shop and studied it. 
She had created this one from pure thought, pure imagination; she 
had vibrated quantum foam and Platonic form and rearranged 
molecules and humors and atoms into something new, something 
that had never existed in the universe before. This was what she 
did. This was what God or nature made her to do, and she would do 
it. The headache returned for a moment, then passed as she began 
a new row. 


"You don't know why you're here?" Researcher Castile asked. 
"You're God, you're here of your own will, but you don't remember 
doing it?" 


"Did you...| mean, that isn't... lied, child," the old man, SCP-343, 
said to the other in the room. "It is tricks, games. | play with you, as | 
always have." The old man's eyes stopped tracking the researcher 
in front of him. "| am here and God and always will- -be here- -lied, 
child, it is tricks- -" The old man jerked forward suddenly, ramming 
his head against the top of the table. His arms hung limply by his 
sides as he rammed his head against the table again. 


"What are you—" 


"Gerald Clifton, Cleveland, Ohio," the old man slurred through a 
broken nose and several broken teeth, blood streaming from a gash 
in his forehead. "| was born in 1912, please. Let me die. | feel it 
controlling me. She controls me. She'll come back any minute." 


"What are you talking about?" 


"It isn't me talking. When you talk to me. 'God' is what it wants you to 
see me as. It watches you. It sits inside me and makes me talk. Kill 
me. Let me die. It will come back for me, it will lie to you again." The 
old man seemed his age for the first time that Researcher Castile 
could recall. Seemed...human. Seemed normal. 


"You're being controlled by an external force? Is that what you're 
telling me?" 


"Let me die," the old man pleaded, tears streaming down his face, 
blood dripping into his eyes. "Let me die free, please." 


Josephine neared the end of her sixth row when she realized 
something was amiss. The headache had left her, but it pulsed ever 
so slightly as she paused. Too relaxed, she thought. / let go of one 
of them. 


She closed her eyes and her mind left the room, the house, the area 
code that her body inhabited. It traveled from one predetermined 
location to another, isolated location. They would have been 
impossible to find if she didn't know exactly what she was looking 
for. The people who had built prisons on those locations had 
designed them to be impossible to find. She checked containment 
chambers across half a dozen Sites before she found what she was 
looking for at Site 17. Gerald, she thought. I'm so sorry | needed to 
use yOu. 


She concentrated further and found herself in the same room- - 


Researcher Castile was furiously scribbling notes. "Gerald, how long 
have you been controlled by this entity?” 


"| have no idea," the still-sobbing old man replied. "So long. Most of 
my life. She put me here. She wanted you to find me. She wanted 
you to catch me. She watches me, and watches you through me. 
She needs spies. She knows what you would do to her. She fears 
you. So many others. She's so old, at least a century, maybe closer 
to two. She's so tired." 


Castile perked at this. "More? Other beings controlled by the same 
entity?" 


"Many," the old man replied. "I can tell you at least that- -" The old 
man stopped talking suddenly, his eyes closing, his head sagging 
downward. 


His head rose, his eyes locking on Researcher Castile, and Richard 
knew he was looking at someone different. Something different. 


will not remember writing the tale when questioned about it or 
reading it. They will also not remember much about the days 
following until the effect wears off, most do not even remember 
coming to work, describing the lapse in time as a blur in their 
memory. Possible use as a short term amnestic is pending approval. 


ID: SCP-603-508 

Aliases: "Jean, the kids are not safe" (Jacob variant) 

Compiled on: 19-Nov-20 

Recorded by: Dr. 

Description: A Jacob window is rendered. The scene is identical to 
most Jacob iterations; however, a black 1-pixel thick diagonal line is 
rendered across the screen, and pressing any key other than return 
has no effect. 


If the operator presses the return key the program will enter a line of 
dialogue into the input field automatically and Jacob will respond to 
it. The dialogue is identical each time the program is run. 


Full transcript: SCP—603—508-—LOG 


Pressing return additional times after this dialogue finishes will print 
"null" indefinitely. 


ID: SCP-603-734 

Aliases: "Is This A" 

Compiled on: 23-Nov-20 

Recorded by: Dr. Zara 

Description: Runs in 320x240 resolution, 256 colors. Program 
produces various images, asking if each one represents a common 
object or living creature: typing "YES" or "NO" makes the scene 
proceed to the next image. Images do not repeat, unless the 
process is restarted entirely as per SCP-603's standard operation; 
the same images and questions are produced regardless of how 
questions are answered. This scene reappeared several times; in its 
third iteration, "verification" images started appearing, in which 
giving the wrong answer to these images shuts down the process. 


"So smart," said the voice coming from the old man's mouth, 
contempt dripping from each word. "So lucky. Such a breakthrough. 
Such a promotion," the voice said. "| bet you can already see the 
commendation." 


"Am | speaking to—" A flash of light blasted across the table. Castile 
tried to speak, heard only croaks; he had been rendered mute.