After forty-five minutes of observation, SCP-682 had not moved. 
Two D-Class personnel in anti-807 environment suits were sent in to 
verify that SCP-682 was in fact terminated; D-class were equipped 
with further "specials" in case SCP-682 required further distracting. 


For a moment, she was taken back to the time she had first danced 
with a boy, all those years back in Sao Paulo during Carnival. After a 
moment of remembering, what his hands had felt like on her arms, 
she returned to the movie. The couple were now looking into one 
another's eyes. The music within her swelled with saccharine 
strings. 


So, she thought, it's some gag where the soundtrack is produced 
internally. Ho hum. Nothing more than a cheap novelty. So much for 
American anomalous cinema. Rita had promised her that 
Greensboro Yellow was worth seeing, but if "sound-without-sound" 
was all that the creator could think of, Carla would need to 
reevaluate the list of people she went to for advice. 


Someone in the audience gasped, stirring Carla from her reflection. 
Her eyes darted around the screen, looking for something that would 
have drawn a gasp. Nothing. Just the couple dancing again, but now 
a dog had wandered into the frame, limping slightly. 


Carla wanted to groan. She could be at home, practicing her sigils, 
or at the university, or at the graveyard again, or... anywhere, really, 
that wasn't dark and filled with easily-impressed morons. 


The scene had shifted, now to the narrow street of a favela. Odd, 
but not particularly interesting. The shift drew another gasp, this time 
from a different viewer. Morons. 


She was gathering her things to go when she saw the couple 
dancing across the screen again in black and white. Their skin 
colors were now switched, with a dark girl and a light boy. Just like 
the boy at the Carnival all those years ago. 


Carla squinted. Wait, no, that wasn't just like the boy at the Carnival, 
it was the boy from the Carnival. She gasped, despite herself, 
seeing her younger self mimic the moves she had danced with the 
light-skinned boy half a lifetime ago. She felt the music of that day, a 
dozen melodies rising and falling against one another. 


The couple danced and the boy whispered something in the girl's 
ear. Carla had never made out what the boy had said in his rough 
Maranhao accent; only his a's and ch's rose above the noise of the 


Carnival. The music overwhelmed her as the couple danced and 
danced and danced and danced. 


Finally, the music died down, as the couple's rhythm slowed, then 
stopped. The boy gave a friendly smile, as he had done those 
twenty years ago and kissed the young Carla on the cheek. The 
Carla in the theater cried out, wanting to ask a million questions of 
the light boy on the screen. The other viewers looked at her, 

startled. She had never seen him again after that day. Where did 
you go? What was your life like? Did you dance with another girl that 
night? 


The light boy on the screen waved to the young Carla, then he 
walked out of her life, forever. The music was almost impreceptible. 
Carla clenched her fists so hard she could feel the pain in her wrists. 
She wanted to yell and stomp her feet and curse the director and the 
boy and the idiots gawking at one of her most cherished memories. 


The Carla on the screen stood, dazed and smiling, on the sidewalk. 
Then, she began to skip. As she did, the young girl began to 
change. She grew taller and her hair grew straighter. The music 
around her grew flightier. When she finished skipping, arriving at a 
plain grey building with a palm tree in front, the girl was no longer 
Carla. She looked almost identical to one of the women in the 
audience, now. There was a gasp. Carla turned, just in time to see 
the woman's jaw drop as she saw her doppelganger onscreen. 


Carla sat through the rest of the film, watching the half-digested 
memories of the audience stitch themselves into a narrative. She sat 
as marriages and broken wrists and spilled rice played out 
onscreen, as the music played within her. But she never saw the 
boy again. 


Cotonou, 1962 

The air of the exhibition seemed to wrap itself around Ewansiha 
Soglo, strangling him. The small elite of Cotonou had gathered here 
at this small, non-descript building near the heart of the city, to be 
seen. A half-dozen conversations, all in French, wove their way 
between the well-dressed patrons. 


Ewansiha avoided the conversations. Not because he couldn't 
partake, he reminded himself, but because he was too profound a 
thinker to be caught up in their gossip. Ever since that day when his 
professor had introduced him to the book of Marx in the brown paper 
wrapper, he had seen the world as it truly was. Everything, from 
religion to the anomalous art, was superstructure. So let the well- 
dressed idiots prattle on about their petty feuds. Ewansiha could see 
where the world was heading, and knew he was on the right side of 
history. 


He moved from exhibit to exhibit, having decided to stay just long 
enough to be seen. A series of photographs that caused him to hear 
taste the color blue. A guitar that gave off the sound of a dozen 
songs played simultaneously. Ho hum. 


Ewansiha came to a grotesque statue in the corner of the room. All 
twisted metal stretching upwards towards the ceiling, it was by far 
the ugliest object in the gallery. Ewansiha could make out dozens of 
faces contorted in grimaces - whether from pain or amusement, he 
couldn't tell. 


Typical decadent American garbage, Ewansiha thought. As he 
turned to leave, he blinked. 


And the world fell apart. 


The elegant conversations in studiously accented French morphed 
into the yapping of dogs. He looked around at the other patrons and 
saw that they no longer had mouths or eyes. He tried to remember 
where he was. The Most Holy Dahomey Empire, he remembered, 
under the enlightened rule of Emperor Maurice XIV. These vile 
creatures were nothing but half-made beings, cobbled together from 
the unmade portions of humans. There was nothing to fear from 
them. He turned to the grotesque statue, a monument to one of 
Maurice's predecessors. He blinked again. 


The air ran thick with ropes of words. Ewansiha could see the 
contours of the conversations flowing from the patrons' mouths. The 
words skittered through the gallery, pulling the sentences into a pile 
in the center of the room. He couldn't remember where he was 
anymore, just the contours of the country, the city, the neighborhood 


he was in. Only the statue was solid. 


Ewansiha blinked again and the world was remade. And again and 
again and again. Finally, he stepped away from the statue and the 
world was as it had been. He was Ewansiha Soglo once again. He 
was in Benin, Cotonou, specifically. These patrons were nothing but 
fatuous gits. History had a direction, one that he was helping to 
guide in his small way. 


He moved away from the statue that had remade the world again 
and again. He wasn't scared, he reminded himself, just wanted to 
experience the other so-called art here. Even as he looked at 
paintings that moved and sculptures that sang, he couldn't stop 
thinking about the ugly statue. 


Two months ago, he had been to an exhibition from the Soviet 
Union. The anomalies, such as they were, merely filled him with 
proletarian pride and made him feel as though he was riding the first 
tractor at a proud kolkhoz. Committed communist though he may 
have been, Ewansiha had to admit that he would not remember the 
Soviet work in a year's time. 


But this? This decadent American piece? He would be puzzling over 
it for years to come. 


TOP SECRET 


ACCESS TO THIS DOCUMENT IS LIMITED TO 
THOSE PERSONS CLEARED FOR THIS SPECIFIC 
PROJECT: 


BG. Marcus Lyle COL. Jasper A. Hunt COL. Thomas 
Callahan 
LTC. Anthony Endrizzi MAJ. Aaron H. Sutton 


MEMORANDUM TO THE OVERSEERS OF PROJECT 
‘CLEON,' 388th INDEPENDENT SPECIAL COMPANY 
Subject: The Efficacy of Parascientific Arts Funding 
From: MAJ. Stephen M. Jacoby 


Since its inception in 1953, the work of Project 'Cleon' 
has been first, to identify American citizens engaged in 
the use of parascientific materials and methods to 
produce works of art, and second, to covertly fund and 
foster the work of these individuals, particularly with 


regards to international exhibition. By fostering such 
works of art, the goal of the project has been to effect a 
greater respect for American culture and society among 
members of the parascientific community, giving the 
388th Independent Special Company a deeper pool from 
which to draw potential talent in the struggle against 
international Communism. 


Ten years on, Project 'Cleon' has been highly successful 
in this regard. 157 exhibitions of American parascientific 
artwork have been funded, traveling to nearly every 
country not under direct Communist control. Favorable 
write-ups of these exhibitions have been written ina 
variety of widely-read parascientific periodicals, such as 
"Planasthai," and numerous intelligence sources indicate 
that American art is held in high regard for its creativity 
and "vitality." In the first year of the project alone, the 
388th Independent Special Company was able to recruit 
over eighty new intelligence assets from the 
parascientific community worldwide, more than the past 
five years put together. 


In addition to the improved perception of America in 
areas of potential future conflict, Project 'Cleon' has 
yielded more tangible benefits. The work of many 
parascientific artists either utilizes techniques that may 
be useful for future weapons research, or may itself be 
used as a weapon. Most notably, the sculpture "Untitled 
17" by Gerald Saito, has, when properly handled, 
repeatedly yielded detonations in excess of 2.3 kilotons. 
While some experimentation have yielded sub-optimal 
results (see Incident 'Critias'), the overall research into 
the weaponization of these phenomenon remains 
promising. 


Project 'Cleon' has proven to be extremely effective in 
achieving its stated goals, and has provided the 388th 
Independent Special Company with additional, 
unforeseen benefits. Therefore, | strongly recommend 
the indefinite continuation of the project. 


« | Matryoshka | Hub | Misnomer | » 


Misfire Hub 


Incident Report X8B9-A: 


On July 5th, 2014, Foundation staff were notified of two 
murdered Foundation employees found in the elevator of 
Basement Level A of Site-19, and the ensuing 
confrontation from five Foundation staff as a result, 
resulting in the death of Doctor Huey Carlson. Initial 
accounts were contradictory and none interviewed were 
particularly forthcoming. 


Three days following the incident, SCP-__, previously 
known as Vincent Madyson, spoke with interviewers to 
clarify what had happened. In its own words: 


| mean, fuck it, might as well try and get the 
story straight. Especially if everyone else is too 
tight-lipped to do so. 


Following Interview -Aand Interview _ -B, the rest of 
those involved gave their own statements. See addena 
for more information. 


First-Hand Accounts: 


1. Flick of the Wrist 
2. Now I'm Here 
3. Stone Cold Crazy 


Tangentially-Related Reference Materials: 


* SCP-092 rewritten by Voct, originally by Unknown 
Author, previously rewritten by Quikngruvn, 
previously rewritten by Drewbear 

¢ SCP-2620 by Decibelles 


Character Profiles: 


Age: 34 
D.O.B.: 03/17/1980 


Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) Level 0 (For Official Use 
Only) 


Position: Researcher of Anomalous Art, Advisor for Anart-based 
(Anomalous Art) MTFs As Decided Based on Behavior 


Sites: 19 


Status: Contained 


Age: 26 

D.O.B.: 06/22/1988 

Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) Level 1 (Confidential) 
Position: MTF Combat Training Copy-editing 

Sites: 19 

Status: Demoted for 36 Months, Permanently Suspended From 
MTF Duties 

Age: 24 

D.O.B.: 01/01/1990 

Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) 

Position: Nurse, Assistant for Medical-Based Anomalies 
Sites: 19 


Status: Alive 


Age: 46 
D.O.B.: 11/07/1967 
Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) 


Position: IT Specialist, Researcher of Anomalous Programs & 
Computer Software 


Sites: 19 


Status: Alive 


Age: 63 
D.O.B.: 12/09/1950 
Security Clearance: Level 3 (Secret) 


Position: Doctor, Project Manager, Employee Training, HMCL for 
SCP- ,SCP- ,&SCP- 


Sites: 17, 19 


Status: Deceased 


Age: 59 

D.O.B.: 06/30/1955 

Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) 

Position: Researcher of Chemical-Based Anomalies 
Sites: 19 


Status: Deceased 


Age: 47 


"Specials" were placed on ground in front of SCP-682's head; in 
response, SCP-682 opened its eyes and began gnawing weakly on 
nearest "special". 


D-Class personnel began touching SCP-682, believing that it had 
been rendered harmless; at this point, SCP-682's skin ruptured in at 
least eleven locations, releasing ultra-high-pressure (estimated 2.7 
MPascals) jets of blood in all directions. Contact with SCP-682's 
blood breached the integrity of the anti-807 environment suits, and 
both D-class personnel were contaminated. 


D-Class personnel began [DATA EXPUNGED)]; by the time 
SCP-682 had finished consuming the second "special", its skin had 
healed over and both D-class personnel had terminated. SCP-682 
then devoured the third "special" with the same speed and 
enthusiasm as it had devoured the first. 


Item: SCP-662 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
Mr. Deeds is summoned, and asked if he can destroy SCP-682 
permanently. 


Mr. Deeds' response: "I'm terribly sorry, sir, I'm afraid | can't." 
Mr. Deeds is asked if he can kill SCP-682. 


Mr. Deeds' response: "Again, sir, I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid | 
can't." 


Mr. Deeds is asked if he can incapacitate SCP-682. 


Mr. Deeds' response: "As a matter of fact... depending on how sir 
means the word ‘incapacitate’, and depending on how long sir 
wishes the creature to be incapacitated... yes." 


Mr. Deeds is asked to expand on how he would perform such an 
action. 


D.O.B.: 04/15/1967 

Security Clearance: Level 2 (Restricted) 

Position: Researcher of Chemical-Based Anomalies 
Sites: 19 


Status: Deceased 


Flick of the Wrist 


It sounds like you didn't pay much attention last time. If you're going 
to have me repeat my account of the whole incident, it looks like I'll 
have to tell you what the score was again. 


Two bodies with the side of their head blown off, Dr. Carlson 
bleeding out from a shot in his shoulder, and his four subordinates! 
in a confrontation with each other. All of them in a cramped elevator, 
forcefully stopped between the first floor and the first basement 
level, the smell only getting worse with each passing minute. 


I'd have found the the situation a lot more palatable, amusing even, 
if | wasn’t the one being pinned against the elevator wall. 


“Dean, let him go! What do you think this will accomplish?” Jenna 
had yelled out in a weak attempt to stop him. Everyone there knew it 
would end when Dean decided it would end. 


"Relax, | just want to talk to him for a little bit more. You see, Vincent 
—" and before | knew what happened, he moved his arm off of my 
chest and his hand to my throat, lifting me up before he continued. 
One swift move. "| have to admire those sheer balls of yours. Tell 
me, how'd you do it? Did they see it coming? When you blew their 
brains out with your anomaly, did you enjoy it the way I'm enjoying 
this?" He grinned; it was a look of pure self-satisfaction. 


"Gggghh, I-I didn't —"