Any and all instances of SCP-755-b discovered are to be reported 
immediately to a superior and destroyed if possible. After 
encountering an instance of SCP-755-b, the discovering party is to 
seek a safe location within view of the instance and to remain 
observant for their own safety until the arrival of MTF Gamma-30, 
then to obey any orders or requests for assistance made by the MTF 
leader at that time. 


Description: SCP-755-a (hereafter referred to as 'the vandal’) is a 
graffiti vandal who is thought at the time of the archiving of this 
report to be active in San[REDACTED]ia, though the work of the 
artist has been sighted in eight other cities in the continental US and 
Europe, including Denver, CO, Newark, NJ, Muni[REDACTED] 
Security footage shows the vandal to be a light-skinned individual 
with a slim build who stands approximately two meters in height. 
From the basic body type shown in the footage, it is assumed 
though not confirmed that the vandal is male. The vandal regularly 
travels large cities, leaving behind instances of SCP-755-b. 


SCP-755-b (hereafter referred to as 'the graffito’) is a graffito, style 
and form varied by instance, that invariably reads (with incorrect 
capitalization remaining consistent in all instances) "WAtCh For thE 
WhitE Bird.". The graffito is typically written directly onto surfaces 
with marker or paint, or in some recorded instances (list available to 
personnel with level three clearance or higher upon request) 


Another one hissed; "You consume them like sweet pudding, you 
do! They are the seed of the Angels. The Fifth demands their 
return!" 


| don't—" 


"A new dawn is upon us. And we must make way for the flood." The 
cultist pointed down at the pair. "You have spat in the face of—" 


"Enough! Take them with us! We shall hold them at the church until 
further notice." 


Two of the men produced sacks and grabbed both subjects. Penny 
pleaded in terror and Timothy was nearly unconcious. They shoved 
their heads in the bags and carried them into the night. 


"Hello?" 

"Yes, hello. Who am | speaking to?" 

"Harry. I've got the distributors." 

"And the eggs?" 

"Said nothin’. We'll crack 'em when we get to the church." 


"That is unfortunate. However, | am proud of you, Harrison. You 
have served the Fifth's Reach well.” 


"Yeah, thanks. What about you?" 
"Oh, we're fine. We just made it back." 
"Alright, good. So... I'll just see you back at the church?" 


"In due time, Harrison. Me and dear Penny have much to discuss." 


{$previous-title} 
War On All Fronts 
A Place In The Back Of Your Mind 


A Place In The Back Of Your Mind 


Timothy Price awoke from a dreadful slumber. There was something 
covering his head, almost grabbing him around the neck. He lifted 
his arms to loosen it, but he found his hands to be bound. He tried to 
free them but it was no use. 


Suddenly, there was a burning pain in his calf. That was the spark 
that made him remember; that made him go "oh shit". 


Almost immediately after, his wife's blood-curdling screams reached 
his ears. He had never heard her curse in such a manner before. It 
was like a trial of pure desperation; that lingering horror in the back 
of your mind, waving the key to freedom right in front of you. This 
was their first time being held in that terrible place. 


"H-honey..." he choked as he slowly regained his composure. 


"Tim?! Tim, where are you?!" Her screams were blurred and 
distorted due to the swelling bump on the side of her face. An 
artifact from their departure. 


"... Are you, are you hurt? Where are we?!" 
"I'm fine, I'm— I-] don't know." 


"Alright, just— argh!" Timothy tried to stand up, but a jolt of agony 
whipped up his body like a wooden stake. 


"Tim! Tim, are you—" 
"Fine! I'm fine... it's nothing.” 


"Tim, please, | need to know! Tim, please! Tim... Tim..." she began 
repeating his name, each distressed echo lobbing another piece of 

her sanity with it. She wanted so badly to lean against him one last 

time; to feel his warmth against her. Timothy began to audibly weep 
with her, expressing the same desires within. 


But then, they heard something. A quiet shuffle coming from a few 
feet forward. Immediately the two stopped crying and lifted their 
heads. 


"Hello?" Penny sniffled. "Who's there?" No answer; only the silence 
was left, mocking them and teasing the possibility of insanity. It rung 
in their heads like mad. But after a few minutes, there was a voice: 


"Are we done?" It was from a woman, calm and even somewhat 
gleeful. Like the old woman who runs every orphanage in every 
movie. The captives wanted to scream at the anonimity, but they 
couldn't muster up the courage to do it. 


Finally, Timothy requested: "Take these fucking things off of our 
heads you—" 


"As you wish," she whispered peacefully, almost kindly. She 
grabbed the tops of their heads and lifted the thatchwork bags away 
from them. 


A burst of cold, arid wind splashed their skin as the pouches were 
lifted, reminding them both of the dusty atmosphere of Marshall's 
office. Their eyes took little to no time adjusting to the light, as the 
room was somber and drab by default. The walls were made only of 
dusty stone, with a surprising lack of cobwebs. A wooden door was 
almost stamped into the wall in the back of the room, and in front of 
it was a towering character. She was clad in robes identical to those 
worn by the kidnappers. Several white patterns sprinkled accross it, 
each resembling a five-pointed star or miscellaneous shape. Her 
eyes were dim, and almost devoid of color, and her ears... 


"You're a fae?" Penny examined with astonishment. The woman, 
always smiling charmingly, delicately caressed the tip of each ear. 
They were pointed, stretching out like a butterfly's antennae. 


"Why, yes. Is there a problem with that?" 


"No, it's just— why do you want the eggs of the thing that—" Penny 
was interrupted by her giggling. Timothy clenched his teeth, angered 
by her. How can she be so calm? Does she even know what she's 
doing?! 


"Our mission is not for your ears, Penny. But you do hold a vital key 
to our conquest," she said, straying closer to Penny and leaning 
over her. 


"What's your name?!" Timothy shouted. 


The mysterious woman hummed, still watching over Penny; "You 
may simply refer to me as Aibreann, thank you for asking." She then 
ran her fingers through Penny's hair, enraging Timothy. 


"Get your hands off her, you psycho!" With that, Aibreann turned to 
him, her smile instantly morphing into a discontent poker-face. She 
stood up straight and positioned herself in front of the man. He tried 
to shout again but, to his fearful surprise, not a word was able to 
escape his lips. he tried to inhale, but it seemed as if his throat had 
locked itself shut. 


As he began to violently thrash in his chair, frenzied in his need for 
oxygen, Aibreann said: "You're a bit of a talker, aren't you? Also a 
bit loud." She smiled, "I like you. Although | fear that you're not 
necessary for my — well, our— personal quest for information." 
Penny watched in the background as her husband began to tremble. 
She knew fae were low-key reality benders, but not to this degree. 
"Could you stay quiet for a little while? Hm?" 


Finally, Aibreann let him gather air once more. He gasped like he 
had never gasped before. He didn't answer, but only stared at the 
captor in utter fear. She tilted her head whilst waiting for an answer. 
Timothy only nodded swiftly, drenched in sweat. After that, Aibreann 
gracefully hovered back to Penny and loomed over her like a hawk 
feeding its children. 


"Now then, shall we begin?" 


"I..." Penny glanced to her right, at Timothy. He still lay floored, but 
was still shaking his head at her underneath the magnitude of 
shaking. She then remembered the Hathscorns, and the hatchlings. 
If the Hathscorns could bring the eggs back to life... "No. Not to you, 
not to anyone! You are, you're fucking insane!" 


Aibreann's expression faded back to pure contempt once again. She 


was like a condemning mother, only willing to treat others with 
respect as long as she got what she wanted, and it horrified them. 


"Are you sure, love?" Aibreann said with the same delicacy as her 
better self. 


"Yes I—" Penny stopped in the middle of her words. She could still 
breathe, thankfully, but there was something else: under her skin, 
something was squirming and writhing. It wasn't breaching her flesh, 
but it still caused a great deal of pain. The more she felt it, the more 
she recognized the familiar feeling the "creature" had. It felt like a 
hand, reaching into the back of her head and stroking her brain. 
During this, Aibreann was also concentrating on her, tilting her head 
and narrowing her eyes. 


She grinned again. "Are you sure, poppet?" 


"D-don't call me— fuck! Don't call me poppet!" she yelped in 
discomfort. The hand caressed the base of her skull's backmost 
lobe. 


"Oh, tut, tut. No need for such fowl language, dear. How can we 
make this better for the both of us?" 


"Stop it!" Penny screamed, anguish rising in her veins. Timothy 
could swear he saw Aibreann grin wider. 


"... Lused to be like you," Aibreann began to monologue. "I lived 
amongst people; people like you and your dear husband. | thought it 
quite nice, until —" she pulled Penny closer "— | was given a gift, 
from the father | never knew: the Undying Fifth. So me and my 
friends left our normal cities and our normal families. And we were 
shown the realm of possibilities." Aibreann accustomed herself only 
inches away from Penny's body, her mouth right next to her left ear. 
Further discomfort took hold of Penny as the un-physical hand 
clutched the top of her skull like a basket ball. Timothy could only 
watch in horror. "And we can take you with us." 


"| don't know!" Penny finally screeched, tears forming globs and 
slithering down her face and neck. Aibreann lifted herself from the 
distressed girl and took five steps back. 


"Is there anyone who might possess the seed?" 


"I— Carter knows where they are! B-but / don't know where they—" 
Penny stops herself. She didn't want to rope in anyone else. But she 
had already said too much as Aibreann grew more content. 


"Do you, perhaps, have his contact with you?" 
Penny was silent. 
"Well?" 


"01-384-2903! Leave her alone!" Timothy shouted from across the 
room. Aibreann glanced at him and nodded in gratitude. 


"Thank you. You have been of great help." She walked to the door 


and cracked it open, looking back as she did; "We have an 
important call to make." 


Thieves Come In Fives 
War On All Fronts 


Occult Standards 


Occult Standards 


"Sales for our patented anti-lever have been growing rapidly 
recently. There's been extremely positive reception coming from the 
Church of the Broken God," Reuprecht Carter stated, a pie chart 
projected onto a white board behind him. He was conferencing 
MC&D's distributors concerning their most popular product of the 
month. The room around them was sharp and spotless, a luxurious 
hue of purple painted onto the walls and peices of high-end folk art 
clinging to the walls. The only scent the pervaded was that of money 
and cleaning spray. 


He had indeed received the dire news, but the police were already 
on the case. 


"In fact, may | add, the Mekhanites have been gobbling up our item 
recently! They say it's because it "assists with construction efforts", 
whatever that may mean. We—" something began to buzz in the 
corner of the room. It was a Nokia phone, resting in a charger port 
situated on a table. "I'm so sorry — Melanie? Could you get that 
please?" Carter nodded to a blonde woman politely resting next to 
the table. She picked up the phone and pressed it against her ear, 
Carter resuming his speech. 


"Hello, this is Marshall, Ca—" 


"Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but is Carter there?" a man said from the 
other side. His voice was rough as sandpaper, almost sounding like 
a rabid animal readying to pounce on the nearest soul. 


"Um, yes, but it seems Carter is busy right now. Would you like to be 
put on hold, sir?" 


"Busy? With what?" 


"He is in a meeting, sir. Who is this?" 


"My name's Harry. Come on now, this is important," he began to 
grow impatient. Melanie rolled her eyes, lowered the phone, and 
silently treaded next to Carter. 


"Sir," she muttered. Carter waved her away, but she persisted. "Sir, 
it's from Harry. He says it's important." 


Carter paused. "Who?" 
"Harry, sir? You don't know him?" 


"No, I—" He grabbed the phone and raised it to the side of his head, 
"Hello? How did you get this number?" 


"Hello Carter," Harry chuckled ruggedly, completely disregarding the 
question. "| have some news for you." 


"|... what is it?" Half of Carter was genuinely concerned, yet his 
ignorance pushed him onward. The distributors began to stare at 
him in displeasure. "Of course we had to be lectured by Carter, of all 
people," one of them uttered to another, "The best thing he can do is 


"We want your delicious caviar. All of it." To that, the room fell silent. 
"... Excuse me?" 


"Yeah, that's right. Your delicacy, the spotlight of Pretty Penny's. We 
want them, and you've got 'em." 


"|..." Carter looked at Melanie, who still stood there distantly, and to 
the audience. He smiled at them and declared: "I'm sorry, but this 
meeting is over," before immediately turning around, hunched, with 
a look of concern plastered across his body. 


"So? What's it gonna be?" 


"| don't understand, are you robbing us? If so, you're not going to get 
anywhere with this ploy." This wasn't the first time Carter had ever 
been threatened, but it was turning out to be one of the strangest 
ways that he had been. 


"No, we can pay you back. We've got an artifact you'd kill for, if 
we've got our cards right." 


As Melanie shut the door behind her, Carter raised his hand, 
motioning for her to come back. "Have you..." 


"I'm sure the Prices would be delighted by your little donation. And if 
you don't cooperate... Meet us at Outermost Shelf 5101520-E, and 
be there as soon as you can. Any amount'll do." Harry hung up. 
Carter's brow raised and he looked up in panic. His legs were ready 
to give way. Did | just hear that right? his brain pleaded. What do | 
do? Do | call private security, or— 


"Melanie, could you schedule a meeting with Ben, please?" 
"Sure, sir. When would you—" 


"Immediately." 


"Mornin' to 'ya," a man named Howard Walcott exclaimed 
delightfully as Jay Suthers plopped down next to him. The two were 
in a relatively new car; it had an alabaster coat of paint that 
shimmered like chrome, and the seats were tightly wrapped in jet- 
black leather. Jay carried a cup of coffee with him, as his nose was 
growing red from the cold before Howard showed up. 


"Hey, have you got the stuff?" 
"It's all in the trunk, why?" 


"Just making sure," Jay sniffed, sucking the snot back up his 
nostrils. He really wasn't built for low temperatures. "So, what's the 
occasion?" 


"Wait, he didn't give you a call?" 


"No, what's going on?" he said as he sipped his drink. 


inscribed on scrap material and left in prominent locations. The 
writing materials appear to have no anomalous properties, and 
several recovered instances are stored for study in the low risk 
materials sector of Site 93. Persons who read the graffito are 
invariably injured or killed in apparent accidents involving a white 
bird of some description. Extensive research has confirmed a 
statistical correlation between the accidents and having read the 
graffito, and that instances of the phrase written by persons other 
than the vandal do not correlate with accidents or injuries to any 
measurable extent.