Output: A fine metal dust that exhibits similar properties 
to the "Fine" result, appearing to resolve itself into 
crystalline structure. It can be safely molded by hand, 
with the rough consistency of hot wax, and can be pulled 
apart without much effort. Class-D personnel who 
touched the substance barehanded reported a feeling of 
delight, and continued to play with it even as it encased 
their hands. Subjects were pulled away without injury 
and the substance has been contained. 


Note: Well, it certainly seems like a fun little toy to play 
with, but I'm fairly certain this isn't safe by any metric. 


Name: Dr. C. Ahearna 
Date: / /2017 
Total Items: Three (3) Samsung Galaxy phones 


Input: One (1) Samsung Galaxy phone. 
Setting: 1:1 
Output: One (1) Apple iPhone. 


Input: One (1) Samsung Galaxy phone. 

Setting: Fine 

Output: A cell phone of unknown make or model, still 
using the same Android Operating System as before. 


2835. Lisle was on his feet in an instant. 


As the pelican jammed the smoking barrel into the mouth of the 


Lisle punched the eject button on the DVD player. 


Penny stared at the TV with pursed lips. Not frightened, but she 
hadn't blinked once throughout the scene. 


"Sleeping Beauty's a really weird movie," she said. 
"I'm sorry you saw that," said Lisle. 


Penny shrugged. "It's a lot better than that clown show." 


Page 285 of the Guild Ledger 


AN ENTRY for the exprefs Purpofe of addition to the Guild 
Catalogue of Phenomena. Should the Pofsibility arife that this 
document fall into the hands of a non-member, the pofsefsor is 
required by Guild Charter to deftroy it completely by fire. 


THIS PAGE documents an occurrence on the date the feventeenth 
of March, the Year of Our Lord 1785, at the harbor of Bofton, 
Mafsachufets Commonwealth. On the morning of this day, a fingle 
fisherman, whofe name remains unmention’d herewith, returned to 
Port with a number of ftrange wounds upon his vefsel and perfon. He 
was extremely frightened, shouting that an incredible beaftt of six- 
and-a-half rods had devoured a great quantity of Ships and had 
injured him thus. He defcribed it as a whale of un-natural proportion, 
with a thoufand gnashing teeth and multiple tumor-like protrufions. 
After this report, many young men armed with mufkets and pikes 
embarked to deftroy the Creature. 


THE BEATT approach’d the harbor and caus’d the deaths of the 
armed men with great rapidity, meanwhile bellowing in loud and 
beleaguered tones. The Harbor Batteries were fired upon’t with no 
effect. The Whale-Beaft appeared to be not injur’d by normal means. 
By the Grace of God, Guilds-man Sir James F. was prefent and was 
able to act in the circumttances. It was only thru the ingenuity of Sir 
James F. that the Creature was captured. He caft a great quantity of 
fish into the harbor, drawing the creature near. Sir James F. then 
gathered the Sailors at hand, who flung down anchors from the 
dock. The anchors were caught upon the fleshy parts of the back of 
the Beaft, acting as if fish-hooks. It ftruggled piteoufly, and men 
climbed the mount of its back and ftruck it with blades, until the time 
at which it was fubdued by direct and clofe cannon-fire. 


SIR JAMES had thefe anchors fixed to a galleon, by which means 
the Creature was dragg’d to a bay eight miles to the North, at a 
location undifclofed herein. It remains there, chained to a cliff-face, 


whereupon it feeds on fish. A troupe of armed men is ftationed to 
maintain the imprifonment of the Beaft, warding off pafsers-by on 
foot or Sea. Should the Whale-Creature attempt to break free, thefe 
men fire upon’t with cannon and mutket until it is fubdued, so it may 
be re-chain‘d. 


THIS TEXT conftitutes page two hundred and eighty five of the 
ledger of the Guild for the Retrieval and Documentation of Abnormal 
and Otherwife Un-Chriftian Phenomena. 


Pan-Wotcher 


The messenger walked swiftly down the corridors of Storage 
Site-23. Ten minutes had already passed since the event, and that 
was eleven minutes too many. Something like this should have been 
anticipated, but the ever-expanding object had been shipped off to 
its new location a week after growth started. No second thoughts, 
just a quick change in containment procedures and a quicker 
shipping. 


He stepped into the office of the Site Director, who already had a 
dozen different reports before him and sat in deep thought. Blinking 
slowly, he looked up as the messenger closed the door behind him 
and stepped up to the desk. As the Director straightened his back, 
he said, "Agent Winthrop, report." 


"Sir. In light of the unexplained growth of SCP-113 one week ago, a 
jet left Storage Site-23 approximately four hours ago, with the 
intended destination being Site-24, due to their expertise in the area. 
The jet..." 


"Please, Winthrop," sighed the Director, rubbing his forehead. "If the 
reports I've received are correct, time is of the essence. Speak 
simply." 


"My apologizes, sir," stumbled Agent Winthrop. "I just thought..." 
"The point, Winthrop, the point." 


"Yes sir. After flying for roughly two hours, the jet came under attack 
by an as-of-now unknown individual or organization. From what we 
can gather, someone from in the Site had let slip certain details of 
the transport, and the attackers figured it out from there. We lost 
three men today." Agent Winthrop bowed his head out of respect. 


"Do we know what sort of weapon was used?" 


"No, sir," said Winthrop, snapping back to attention. "There are 
suspicions of a ballistic missile, but we have no way of confirming it. 
All we know for certain is that they were capable of attacking a plane 
flying above 10,000 feet, and that the weapon was designed for 
maximum fallout." 


The Director waited for a moment before signaling Winthrop to 
continue. Already, plans were forming in his head regarding how to 
stop any damage. 


"Given the immense size of SCP-113 at the time of departure and 
the rate at which it was growing, a simple missile strike would have 
spread it out over approximately 2,000 square miles. However, 
given the type of missile our attackers were using, we estimate the 
damage area to cover around 85% of the planet's landmass. It's a 
confusing yet fascinating weapon, all things considered, sir..." Agent 
Winthrop trailed off at the last sentence, feeling ashamed of what he 
had said. 


The Director continued to think, his brow furrowing as he eliminated 
unlikely options. As Agent Winthrop opened his mouth to ask a 
question, the Director snapped, "Keep talking. What kind of damage 
reports are we looking at?" 


"Well, sir, even with SCP-113 diluted as it is, it's still potent enough 
to change the gender of anyone who comes into contact with it, 
regardless of whether they're inside or out. Even microscopic pieces 
can trigger the process. We haven't conducted enough tests to be 
certain, but it's very likely a few hundred people will die from the 
shock alone.” He paused and shuffled his feet. "There's also the, 
erm... other matter..." 


"Which one?" asked the Director under his breath. 


"To be honest, there's no... feasible way for a human male to carry 
children, sir. Our current numbers around showing something on the 
order of 150 million women pregnant on the planet at this time. If we 
can't get to them quick enough, there are going to be internal... 
complications. The sex change will more than likely... kill them and 
the... children... sir." Agent Winthrop's face took on an ashen look 
as he spoke. "And of course, there are dozens of smaller issues that 


we don't have time to list right now..." 


Grunting, the Director raised himself out of his chair, and walked 
around to Winthrop. Looking closely over the Agent, he said "Listen 
carefully, now, Winthrop. | do believe that | have a plan that can 
reduce the damage. Not prevent it, but reduce it. This plan could 
very well work, if we act fast. Human lives will be lost, yes, but there 
is nothing we can do about that. Before we can make this work, 
there is one thing | need to know. How much time do we have?" 


"Sir, current ETA before first effects is five minutes." 


A silence settled over the room as the Director took in this last 
statement. Agent Winthrop grew increasingly nervous as he 
watched the Director just stand there, staring off into space. He 
reached out a hand to help his boss, but only grasped air. Walking 
slowly, the director sat back down, and folded his hands before him. 


"Agent Winthrop," he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. "| suggest 
you find yourself a change in underclothing.” 


Stumbling over himself, Winthrop managed to sputter, "B-but, sir! 
We have an immense catastrophe staring us in the face! Millions are 
about to die! How is it that you can joke at a time like this? Didn't 
you have a plan?" 


Solemnly pushing himself back in the chair, the Director sighed and 
looked straight at the Agent. "Winthrop. How long have you worked 
for the Foundation? Three years, | think it is?" A nod confirmed this 
speculation. "Then allow me to explain something to you about this 
organization. We're not perfect." 


"| already know that..." began Winthrop, but he was cut off by a 
wave of the hand. 


"What you know is that even when we make mistakes, even when 
containment procedures are broken, even when some horrible 
creature is discovered and goes on a killing spree, what you know is 
this. Most of the time, we can still make a happy ending. The 
Foundation has enough experienced and talented people on hand to 
deflect the majority of the problems that come our way, and maintain 


the semblance of peace. 


"However, for all the good we do, we are not infallible. Every once in 
a very, very long while, we are going to come up against a problem 
that has no solution. We are not gods. We cannot do everything. We 
cannot save an entire planet within five minutes. At times like this, all 
we are capable of doing is letting things happen, clean up 
afterwards, and yes, joke a little. At times like this, we are 
powerless." 


Still willing to fight, Winthrop said, "Sir, we have to do something. 
Anything." 


"James, what do you propose we do?" 


The Agent waved his hands for a few moments, desperately trying 
to think of something to do, some way to save the lives of millions 
and be a hero. But nothing came to him, and, slowly but surely, he 
ceased moving, and simply looked dejected. Noticing that the 
conversation was ending, the Director scribbled out a message on a 
piece of paper. "Give this to the rest of your men. It's instructions for 
damage control. And James? | am so terribly sorry." 


Taking the message, Agent Winthrop left the room and closed the 
door, leaving the Director to lean back in his chair, sigh, and wait for 
the inevitable stinging. 


Paper Pusher 


Researcher Clayton stood before the small office door and double- 
checked to make sure he was in the right place. The room was so 
out of the way that it looked like it had been built as an afterthought. 
Clayton gave a quick look around, and then knocked. This was to be 
his first assignment for the Foundation. 


“It’s open,” shouted a voice from inside the office. Clayton took a 
deep breath and stepped inside. 


At the center of the room was a large desk decorated with all 
manner of small trinkets. The near and side walls of the room were 
covered in motivational posters, while the far wall was lined with 
numerous old filing cabinets, most of which were labeled with what 
appeared to be someone's name. A single man sat alone in a chair 
behind the desk with a friendly smile. 


“Dr. Cameron?” Clayton asked as he began to inch his way towards 
the center of the room. 


“In the flesh,” declared the man in the chair. His head was bald and 
starting to spot, and a thick pair of glasses sat on his crooked nose. 
Rather than a lab coat, he wore a bright green knitted sweater that 
appeared a few sizes too big. “Just 'Donald' will be fine, though. The 
actual doctors tend to get their feathers ruffled if they catch you 
calling me by their precious title.” 


Clayton smiled as Donald laughed at his own joke and ushered him 
to take a seat. 


“Are you ready to begin?” Donald asked. 
Clayton nodded enthusiastically. 


“Great,” Donald replied. “First things first, we’ll need to get your desk 
moved here. You'll also want to make sure you invest in a very good 


chair. Your back will never last otherwise.” 


Clayton nodded a second time. He looked around the desk once 
more. Among the objects that caught his eye were a miniature ship 
in a bottle, a silver Rubik's cube with the different sides represented 
by various colored gears, and what appeared to be a large alligator 
tooth. 


“What is it exactly that you do for the Foundation, Donald?” 
Clayton’s eyes were drawn to the numerous filing cabinets along the 
far wall. 


“Glad you asked.” Donald swiveled in his chair and rolled over to the 
filing cabinets, banging one of them on the top. “I’m in charge of 
these.” 


Donald proceeded to write his name on a small label and slid it into 
place on one of the few unused cabinet drawers. He then sat 
twiddling his thumbs. Clayton opened his mouth to ask what was 
going on, but ceased when Donald held up his hand. After a few 
more seconds Donald opened the drawer and pulled out a small file 
folder; the date and hour were printed neatly on its label. He then 
rolled back to his desk and opened the folder, removing a sheet of 
paper from inside and sliding it to Clayton. Half the page was 
covered in black type that said: 
iamcurrentlythinkingaboutdemonstratingwhatthisobjectdoesforyou 
over and over. 


“Basically, if your name is on one of those drawers, then your 
thoughts are recorded on the paper that appears inside, all nice and 
organized by the day and hour you had it,” Donald explained. 


“It all runs together.” Clayton looked on in awe. 


Donald chuckled as he fed the paper into a nearby shredder and 
then removed the label with his name from the filing cabinet drawer. 


“It sure does!” he exclaimed. “Human thoughts don't run in nice little 
sentences and paragraphs. They happen in an instant and run 
smack dab into each other. It’s called 'stream of consciousness’. Our 
job is to read these papers, and turn the jumble into useful 


information. You'll get used to reading the transcripts after a while.” 


“If the Foundation can access anyone’s thoughts, why are we the 
only ones assigned to the task?” Clayton looked over the cabinets 
again. “There must be thousands of people out there whose 
thoughts are of considerable value.” 


“Sure there are; the only problem comes from the number of 
requirements these damn things have when they operate,” Donald 
said as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath as he 
began to enumerate the cabinet’s problems on his fingers. 


“First off, the drawers have to be closed to work, meaning that if you 
have it open, you stop collecting the person’s thoughts. If you close 
the drawer without returning the file to the cabinet, it goes blank and 
you're stuck with just a useless ton of paper. You’d think you could 
get around that by just writing the person’s name on two drawers, 
but if you do that then neither drawer works. On top of that, these 
cabinets only store about four days’ worth of thoughts. After that, the 
older thoughts begin to disappear as the new ones are being written. 
Finally, you have the problem of how to interpret the damn things. 
You can’t just scan them into a computer because the text won't 
appear on digital copies or images.” 


“That sounds like a lot of work for little pay-off, even if you can 
decipher the pages,” Clayton said, his enthusiasm fading.