Notes: While it is certainly unusual that 
SCP-951 is aware that it will "die" when the 
game is beaten, unless there is some ulterior 
motive that we have not considered, SCP-951 
appears to be harmless. - Dr. 


Addendum: The following printed document was recovered 
alongside sixteen affected cartridges of SCP-951-1. In addition, 
each cartridge was engraved with a serial number, one of which 
having the word "PRIME" engraved after its serial number. 
Investigation into the serial numbers is ongoing, however results so 
far have been inconclusive. 


Show document 


LOGICAL UNIFIED CENTRAL ANOMALY 


The pills. They worked. But, now, | smell that ocean scent. God, it's 
strong. 


It's a bit too strong. 
Fuck, that's bright. Did it get hot in here? 
Yeah, it did. | need to lay down. 


Goodnight, Bahamas. 


The Foundation agents stood in room 555, looking at the tablets on 
the nightstand. The lamp was on, and the package of capsules 
glowed profusely. 


"Hot damn," Agent Salla said as he looked down at the capsules. He 
picked them up, turning them around to read the warning inscribed 
on the back. 


"Moodiness, flaccid skin, looking dull, tendency to 
depression? Obviously you are in lack of sunshine! Our 
range of supplements restores the vitality you need. 
Sunset Laboratories offer a wide range of solar radiation, 
from Borabora to the Maldives, Haiti and the Bahamas. 
Just ask your pharmacist. Read the instructions carefully. 
Do not exceed the recommended daily dose. These 
Solar supplements are not intended to be a substitute to 
natural exposure. Avoid abusive use." 


"Poor bastard. As least he was able to enjoy that sweet ocean scent 
before he went." 


That One Time Kit Tried to Kill Himself 


Kit distantly remembered a time when he had tried to kill himself, 
and the police had found him covered in chocolate from the 
doughnuts he had as a last supper, and they thought it was blood. 
His words were slurring as he said no, it wasn't goddamn blood, and 
to leave him alone. They pointed out the door they had busted down 
with the key all good policeman carry, and that "people 
were worried about him." People. Blow it out of your ass, he tried to 
say, but he was suddenly so very tired. 


There was little argument when the police made him go to the 
hospital (he couldn't really argue, they threatened him with being 
sectioned) and the overworked junior doctor confirmed the pills 
weren't going to kill him, this time, and he discharged himself under 
the watchful glare of the police, the nurse removing his IV port, and 
faintly he remembered being tackled by four big fuckers when he 
had tried to leave with it still in his veins. The nurse had lectured him 
about how, of course, they couldn't let anyone out on the streets 
with such easy access to their veins. Such an idea was madness. 
So, scowling, he waited for that to be removed, signed a sheet that 
said the hospital wasn't responsible if he keeled over, wondered 
how long they meant that to be for. Forever? Probably not forever. 
The police had disappeared by then, and he was left to make his 
own way home, at nearly 4am on a grim Winter morning. 


He dragged his ass home, and only to find there was a big board 
over his doorway - the battering ram had left the door broken and 
wide open, tempting to robbers, even if he had nothing. The police 
held responsibility, but would do nothing about it, Kit knew that 
much. He had to phone a locksmith and fumble his way through that 
conversation, fudging payment using a credit card he lifted from his 
last grift, and then wait for the guy, sitting slumped outside his own 
flat. 


His eyes hurt, and he struggled to rip the hospital wristband from 


around his wrist. He wondered if his upstairs neighbours would allow 
him to come in, then decided that the rude awakening from the cops 
had probably turned them off from him. But when he moved in, they 
had left him cookies, and a note. He wanted a piss, and he wanted a 
smoke, and most of all, he wanted to sleep - he ached for it, his 
entire self bled for it. 


That was why, when it came to the locksmith arriving, Kit was mostly 
asleep on the floor next to his doorway, curled in the foetal position, 
his bag held protectively close - and a folding knife held even tighter. 
The locksmith worked around him - Kit assumed - and only dared to 
wake him when he was done with his work. The poor man was 
greeted with angry eyes and nearly had a knife at his wrist when Kit 
snapped into drowsy, but intense, action. He was quick to withdraw, 
but safe to say, he had left his mark on the man - nearly literally. 


He apologised profusely, of course - Kit is never Knowingly Violent. 
But his eyes also never left the man as he stumbled down the stairs, 
and he didn't dare to try the door and expose his back until the 
locksmith was long gone. Finally. Kit slipped into his flat, and started 
his day like he did all others, like nothing had happened at all the 
night before. 


That, Kit thought, lying on a mattress on the floor in a different flat 
miles away, was a long time ago. He watched cigarette smoke float 
up, even though he was sucking on a lollipop. Things could become 
other things, if you wanted them enough. That was before he had 
made his peace with the things he saw, and the things that 
happened to him. That was after his first time, but before Bloom. 
That was in a dark place, and butterflies, alleyways, flashlights, 
tongues, brotherhood - they had all been a light, of sorts. He now 
saw more of the world than most people could ever want to see, 
apart from the fact he did want it. 


Yes, purposeful death was far away in Kit's world now, but still - he 
missed the weird abstract humour of chocolate being mistaken for 
blood, of trying to escape the hospital as if it were a stealth mission, 
of managing to sleep in a threadbare hallway with a stranger 
working a mere arm-length away from him. Where it was funny may 
be lost on other people, but over a year later, looking back - Kit 
found it painfully, painfully funny. And the next day, that was the day 


that opened his eyes to everything beyond what he normally saw. 


He remembered that, once he had slept off the majority of the 
opiates, he was twitchy with nervousness as they seeped out of his 
veins. He tried to sit and stare at the abstract painting he had gotten 
from the local craft fair, tried to write a handful of crappy poems, but 
found it taxing to stay still too long. So, with a groan of frustration 
and a hand running through greasy locks, he had decided to leave 
the flat and take a walk. 


It was fair to say, he had mused as he wandered, that he knew the 
area quite well, having lived here for a year and taken various paths 
to and from the local city centre. So, when he stumbled across an 
alleyway he didn't know, Kit found himself pausing. It felt like the 
world paused with him, and flickered at the edges. He didn't know 
what drew him to the entrance — at the time, he blamed the taxing 
start of drug withdrawal, but now he felt like it was some sort of 
destiny. Problem was, destiny wasn't always a good thing. 


Intrigued, maybe even enchanted, Kit edged down this alleyway, 
into a world he had never seen before — his Narnia, his Hogwarts, 
his own world whose craziness he didn't yet know but he anticipated 
with every twitching fibre in his being. A couple of twists and turns 
down from the mouth of the magically appearing structure, there 
was graffiti everywhere, for the first time on the otherwise bare 
bricks. But this wasn't the desperate graffiti of someone wanting to 
be the next Banksy, nor the tags of local gangs that he had seen on 
other buildings. Instead, there were messages chalked on the wall, 
with responses occasionally scribbled beneath. Kit paused to 
examine some of them, hand resting gently on the brick, feeling the 
cold, intensely grazing material beneath his hand, as if to ground 
himself. 


‘Emery: plz check lampost sect 43 iyc? Only purple lite. Thx. 
Maria.’ 


"Boy-ya lookin for boss. Dixon sect 550.’ 
‘Dont be loser and pix D. Mocker and thief of hearts!’ 


‘duman male, 1.7m, flat face, spare meat. Saw heading sect 27. 
Any1 own him?' 


Jurren Vaagevuur. New visitor. No boss no stunker no lock.' 
'No hope.’ 


‘CHANGE FUCKING BRICK PATTERN SECT 260!!!" 
'Y dont u?' 


"FYI: Aliyeva (Izabella) Larionovna died in sect 472 on 5/11/17. 
RIP." 

‘Knew her. Good mocker.' 

‘Friend of mine. Miss her.' 

‘god rest’ 

‘There is no god! SOB with stunker wot got her!!!" 


‘Got approx 1.7kg meat 4 swap. Fingers/toes or no lock — Sect 
56 by puddle (looks like dinosaur).' 


'U hav no futur’ 
“You *have no spellcheck.’ 
'fuk off boy-ya.' 


‘Live now. Tomorrow we die.' 


He had stumbled across the local corkboard. They'd been chalked 
or spray-painted on quite neatly, in various colours, some which 
faded and some which glittered. They spoke of a living, breathing 
community. The last one sounded distinctly Slavic. The names too, 
from earlier — Polish, English, maybe Dutch among them. A world Kit 
had found, and, unknowingly to him at the time, one he had 
disturbed — one that he would end up returning to again and again. 
He paused only to scan the wall again as if it could answer his 
questions, but nothing changed, so he followed twists and turns from 
memory that led him out of the alleyway. 


As soon as his back was to the wall, something appeared 
unbeknownst to him that would change his entire future. 


"New loskon. Kitlet near perfect. One prev boss. Takers?" 
‘Bloom 4 loskon lozer!' 

‘agreed.’ 

‘Mine to take.' 


« Kit's Horror Hospital of Horror | Hub |Loskon in the Making» 


That's The Joke 


Threat ID: KTE-8544-Porcelain "Butt Gh 
Authorized Response Level: 7 (Apocaly 


Description: Type-Z8 poltergeist inh 
capable of travel by inhabiting hu 
subdued temporarily by defec 
taken to avoid falling 


Wiping is t 
ass 


| know the thaumaturgists already told us that it wouldn't be 
susceptible to targeted metaexposure, but | still maintain that it was 
worth a shot. | didn't even need to use the whole page.- Researcher 
James, age 8. 


00:00: Test commences. Subject instructed to initiate 
stated protocols. 


00:14: Subject reports gastrointestinal distress. 
KTE-8544-Porcelain produces characteristic 
vocalization. 


00:23: KTE-8544-Porcelain attempts to replicate via 
subject's posterior, but is hindered by testing protocols. 


03:19: Subject ceases testing protocols. KTE-8544- 
Porcelain observed to be subdued, but active. Subject 
instructed to remain on toilet in case protocols must be 
resumed. 


03:41: <CLASSIFIED> due to subject's unusually small 


frame and an oversight in toilet selection. 
04:19: <CLASSIFIED> 


| would have sworn that those cafeteria burritos would do the trick. 
Here's hoping they can get the guy a new butt.- Researcher James. 


Researcher James was instructed to interview KTE-8544-Porcelain 
to ascertain information that could assist in the entity's liquidation. 


Researcher James is seen pacing the restroom. Camera 
focused on KTE-8544-Porcelain shows the entity in its 
toilet. Scene is dramatic. 


<Begin Interview> 


Researcher James: So. KTE eight five four four 
porcelain. If that is your real name. Who are you? 


KTE-8544-Porcelain: i am the butt ghost!! 


RJ: And why should | believe you? <Slams his hands on 
the toilet seat and presumably glares at the butt ghost in 
a threatening manner.> 


BG: im going to eat your butt 


RJ: How bizarre. <Stands up from the toilet seat and 
accesses a plastic baggie of Goldfish crackers.> Why do 
you eat our butts, butt ghost? Butts do not equal love, 
you know. 


BG: ffft fart poot poop phbbbt 


RJ: <Chews on Goldfish crackers like a hard-boiled 
detective would chew on a cigar.> Fascinating, truly 
fascinating. You know, despite your rather... prolific 
history of gluteocidal self-replication, you seem to be a 
solitary creature. Mind telling me why? 


BG: <makes more hilarius farting noises> 


RJ: But of course. It would only make sense, with you 
being a butt ghost. One last thing: <Looks the butt ghost 
dead in the eye with a chilling stare.> Wiping. Why does 
it get rid of you? Where are the hostages? 


BG: <tries to eat jameses butt, butt he cant becus hes in 
the toilet and james isnt> im a butt ghost 


RJ: <Attempts to snap his fingers, but he hasn't quite 
gotten that down yet.> It all makes sense now! What else 
could the moral of the story be? I've got all | need to go 
to the presses with this! 


<End Interview> 


Closing statement: Researcher James was grounded for 
unrelated reasons after the conclusion of this interview. 


He knows he's only allowed one snack in the afternoon. And by the 
way, we don't have to make him a Researcher just because only he 
can talk to it.- Researcher James's Dad 


Test ID: 8544-Porcelain-Gimmel-83 


Description: At the recommendation of Sanderson 
Consulting Partners, a task force was formed to use 
victims of KTE-2985-Silver to destroy the butt ghost. 
Four infectees were brought to the toilet containing the 
entity. The entity was destroyed by repeated exposure to 
emissions of the infectees. 


Question: Is there any reason we couldn't have just used 
normal lasers?- Researcher James's Dad 


Yes. The reason is because butis.- Researcher James 


KTE-8544-Porcelain: Liquidated. 


The Art of Coping with Anomalies in the Gulf Region 


| stare out into the dimly lit Gulf of Mexico as the sun's last rays peek 
over the horizon. One thought goes through my mind, as a glimmer 
of light illuminates a sign welcoming me to Orange Beach, Alabama. 


What in the hell have | gotten myself into? 


I'd spent the last few years working as a researcher at Site-73. But 
this... this place was something else. Something completely 
different. I'd gone through the motions with my soon to be superior, 
Dr. Jacobs earlier today. He'd told me about the drowning man, 
Event 2047, and Han, the talking hand. To Jacobs this was just 
another day. For me, it was my first ethics assignment. For me, this 
was Bedlam. 


Site-88 contains more than just a few safe anomalies. There are 
world enders here, there is evidence of the world almost ending, 
more than once. There are aliens, someone buying and selling 
senses, and there's a minister who offered just a little too much to fix 
a mistake he'd made. And something else was here that had taken 
him up on that offer. 


One of my predecessors doesn't even exist. There are ethics papers 
on file and no one knows who wrote them. Reality at Site-88 is so 
fluid that they set up hume detectors just to make sure everything 
stays real. 


Who am |? Why do | care? I'm the Ethics Committee Liaison. Just 
some guy with higher access than everyone except the site director. 
It's my job to look over the containment procedures for every scary 
ass object at Site-88 and then contemplate the deep ethical 
questions. 


The sun's last glow finally goes out, and the darkness drops again 
over the water. | sigh, and sit down in the sand on the edge of the 
ocean. Somewhere out there, a church sits uncrushed by the untold 


SYSTEM OUTPUT 


SPECIMEN 000004089 DELETION LOG 


REASON FOR DELETION: FAILURE OF 
PRIMARY MODIFICATION PROTOCOL - 
ANOMALY DOES NOT RETAIN COMPLEX 
INFORMATION AFTER CYCLE IS 
COMPLETED 


LOG OF EVENTS 


EXECUTING PROTOCOL AD5555: 
DELETION OF UNSUITABLE ANOMALY 
ERROR: PROTOCOL AD5555 FAILURE 
RESTARTING 

ERROR: PROTOCOL AD5555 FAILURE 
RESTARTING 

ERROR: PROTOCOL AD5555 FAILURE 
EXECUTING BACKUP PROTOCOL AD2525: 
DELETION OF UNSUITABLE ANOMALY 
ERROR: PROTOCOL AD2525 FAILURE 
RESTARTING 

ERROR: PROTOCOL AD2525 FAILURE 
RESTARTING 

ERROR: PROTOCOL AD2525 FAILURE 
DELETION PROTOCOLS FAILED 
UNABLE TO DELETE SPECIMEN 
SPECIMEN 000004089 DISCARDED 


END OF LINE 


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