1-1412 Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their 
cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. 
Instances are observed to infest each other, however by 


this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by 
sustained fire from MTF-Q1-6 and MTF-Q1-7. 


1-1413 Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat 
ineffective. MTF-Q1-4 given first-aid, administered 
painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to 
the left arm and torso. MTF-Q1-6 and MTF-Q1-7 begin 
standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Q1-1 through 
MTF-Q1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP 
objects. 


1-1424 MTF-Q1 exits Sublevel C-3. 
Recovered Documents from [REDACTED] 
Memo Advanced Stages of Infection 


Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment 
terminated. 


[Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7] 


Attacking The Darkness 


Belfast, Ireland 


The GOC surveillance team who used the flat as a staging area had 
been stationed there for four weeks, doing an assessment of a 
Known Threat Entity in the area: a young man with low-level mind 
control powers who, so far, didn't know that he was anything other 
than a charismatic and persuasive university student with better- 
than-average luck with the ladies. Given the weak level of his 
powers, and his generally agreeable and stable personality, the 
watch team were generally inclined to classify him as a Response 
Level 1 and move on: someone to check in on once in a while, but 
not worth the hassle of neutralizing. 


Agent Chandra was on her way back from a fish-and-chips shop 
with a big paper bag containing her and her partner's supper when 
the red Toyota hatchback pulled alongside her. "Excuse me," the 
young man in the front passenger seat said, "Can you tell me how to 
get to the Ulster Museum?" 


Agent Chandra turned away to point, and that was when the man in 
the back seat raised his gun and shot her. 


The four men in the small hatchback burst from the car carrying 
submachineguns. They booted down the front door of the building, 
hustling up the three flights of stairs silently, bowling over a 
confused (and, soon, terrified) sixty year-old lady in the process. 
Three of them took up positions outside a particular apartment, while 
the fourth pulled a beanbag-like object from his jacket pocket and 
hurled it at the door. 


The door shattered off its hinges, skidded down the hallway, and 
came to a halt at the feet of a rather confused young man monitoring 
the feeds from several hidden cameras on a bank of computer 
monitors. Flaherty reached for the handgun on his desk and died 
slumped over his keyboard with eight bullets in various parts of his 


body. 


They caught Meehan in the shower and blew his brains out against 
the cracked and mildewed white tile. Lincoln managed to get to his 
weapon and fire a couple of shots through his bedroom door before 
the invaders bounced in a flashbang. He was trying to throw it out 
the window when it went off. Two rounds turned him from a blind, 
screaming man in to a silent, dead one. 


The men stripped the computers of their hard drives, grabbed 
whatever else they could, and stole a few small (but valuable) items, 
while one member of their team spray-painted the words "Tiocfaidh 
ar la" on the wall. 


They ran down the stairs and piled into the car, disappearing into the 
rapidly advancing night. The entire incident took no more than six 
minutes. 


Pasadena, California, United States of America 


Mister Grey smiled as he walked through a wing of the Norton 
Simon museum that didn't appear on any maps, the one that Frank 
Gehry didn't even know he was building for them when the museum 
was renovated in the 1950s. The museum was justifiably proud of its 
collection of contemporary art, but none were quite so avant-garde 
as the works being displayed today. 


He walked past a piece named "Janus," proffering a tray of 
champagne to the two well-dressed patrons studying the sculpture. 
The two men (one young, one old) who had been melded together, 
back to back, to form this piece writhed slowly in their drug-addled 
agony, offering a unique perspective on the passage of time and an 
illustration of the tension between the present, the past, and the 
future. 


The artist was standing near her largest piece ("Anemone" - a study 
of societal pressure, through the medium of a hundred arms grafted 
into a sheet of living flesh, the arms constantly reaching out towards 
the viewer in a mute plea for aid), demonstrating the method she 
had used to create this artwork with a pair of gerbils, melding them 


together and separating them again by a touch of the rust-encrusted 
scalpel she had purchased though their club. 


When the lights went out, and the underground museum wing was 
plunged into darkness, Mister Grey didn't panic. He didn't even 
worry when the lights came back on and he discovered that the 
artist was unconscious and her scalpel was stolen. 


He did, however, get quite upset when he found out that all of the art 
pieces had been killed. Damned Philistines, no appreciation for high 
culture at all. 


New Delhi, India 


Even here, in this land of old religions and older traditions, the voice 
of The Broken could be heard. 


A small voice, perhaps, drowned by the crush of bodies, but 
relentless, grinding through the ignorant resistance of the blind and 
lost. Insistent. Irresistible. Even more so now that the foul jailer of 
God had been slapped down, the voice of The Broken felt cleaner, 
brighter, stronger then ever before. 


Deep below the city they sang and rocked, these new children, fresh 
to the comforts of The Broken. Brother Sig watched in pride as they 
prayed in sweating earnest to the reliquary on the podium. A small 
vial, yes...but a product of pure love and evangelical devotion. The 
breath of God, the so called “clockwork virus”, had been known to 
the faithful for some time...but this was no mere breath. This was 
the roar of its voice, the wind from its great passing. 


Nurtured by the monks in the Australian monastery, this was a 
hundred times faster, turning the flesh to the divine in a matter of 
hours, spreading as fast as the passing breeze. When the devotions 
were finished, Brother Sig would release the vial into the Ganges, 
and bring thousands to the will of The Broken. Soon, hundreds of 
thousands would turn ageless, endless voices to the sky, and bring- 


His thoughts and flesh were abruptly interrupted by metal fragments. 


The MTF came hot on the heels of the first shotgun shell, pistols 
making a strobe light in the dim room, the chanting replaced by 
frenzied screaming, then silence, the smells of cordite, sweat and 
shit thick in the air. The four men in gas masks clumped to the 
central dais, one reaching out and gingerly lifting the thick vial of 
silvery-brown liquid. 


“Not a bad smash and grab.” 

“Easy on the smash, there...” 

“Bugger off, don't be so literal.” 

“Looks like the lot of them...so much for "God's" protection.” 


They quickly secured the vial in a steel canister, clumping back to 
the surface at a brisk pace. Had they lingered a bit more, they might 
have heard the sound wafting up from the pile of bodies. Soft and 
small, but insistent. 


The sound of ticking. 


Quantico, Virginia, United States of America 


When Agent Wolfram came into work the next morning, he found his 
office being quickly emptied by men wearing FBI windbreakers. 
"What's going on, boss?" he asked. 


"You're being reassigned to white-collar crimes, Wolf," Assistant 
Director Pavlova said. She handed the young man a manila folder. 
"You're a good agent. You deserve better than to be stuck down 
here chasing ghosts." 


"| see," Wolfram said slowly. "What about Uecker?" 
"| guess you didn't hear? Uecker's dead. He killed himself last night." 


"Let me guess," Wolfram said, very slowly and very carefully. "Shot 
himself twice in the chest and once in the head?" 


"| don't like what you're implying, agent," Pavlova said. 


However, in certain instances, the entity has appeared to time its 
attacks for maximum efficiency. If multiple parties come into contact 
with the water, SCP-856 will jump between individuals in fractions of 
a second, entirely regardless of distance. The entity’s ability of 
instantaneous movement does not apply to water up- or down-river 
of the containment area, or water physically detached from the 
confines of the river itself. Despite the abnormal capacity for 
movement exhibited by SCP-856, its attacks are of normal velocity 
and can be avoided with sufficient alertness. 


Factors that incite attacks appear to be variable. No amount of 
protective clothing appears to prevent SCP-856 from sensing the 
contact of humans with the river. Objects placed in contact with the 
water by human beings have likewise provoked attacks, save for 
certain instances conducted with extreme care. Fauna in contact 
with the river generally do not incite attacks from SCP-856. 


SCP-856 causes deep incisions and lacerations consistent with 
leonine teeth and claws. Wounds are fatal in 50-60% of cases, and 
generally come to the throat, face, or upper torso. 


SCP-856 by all accounts ceases to exist when not attacking. 
Extensive photography, satellite surveillance, and sonar sounding 
have failed to observe the presence of SCP-856 in the absence of a 
provoking party. 


Historical note: 


Foundation control over SCP-856 and the four kilometer 
section of the River was minimal between the 
discovery of the site in 1956 and the Sudanese ceasefire 
of 1995. At that point, greater numbers of personnel 
could safely enter the area and current containment 
procedures were put into effect. 


Prior to 1995, a small village of several hundred people, 
called, was situated on the eastern bank of the 

River within the region containing SCP-856. The 
inhabitants of the village were inexplicably able to draw 
water from and wash in the river without inciting attacks. 
Interviews revealed that the villagers believed the entity 


"Well, then, let me make it very obvious!" Wolfram shouted. "You 
and your bosses have never liked the work I'm doing. Well, I'm 
done. | quit. You can reassign me all you like, but you can't stop a 
private citizen from searching for the truth. And it's out there. | know 
where to find it." 


He slammed his badge and gun down on the empty desk and 
stormed out of the building to his rather beat-up Honda Accord. He 
took a moment to rest his head against the steering wheel, then 
started up his car and pulled out of the parking lot. 


In the movies, car bombs always engulf the vehicle in a massive 
fireball: this is because most car explosions are gas-ignited. It looks 
visually interesting, minimizes dangerous shrapnel on the set, and 
helps cover up the fact that there are no people in the car. In the 
case of the bomb that killed Agent Wolfram, the saboteur had 
decided to go more subtle: a tiny explosive charge on the main 
brake line, triggered when the car reached a certain speed, sufficed. 


A.D. Pavlova shook her head sadly when she heard the report of the 
fatal five-car pileup on the radio a half hour later. "Should have 
taken the transfer, Wolf," she sighed. 


Hong Kong, China 

“Good god Harken, we're just going after a low-level shape shifter...” 
“What? Do you think I'm under-prepared?” 

“...how many barrels does that thing have?” 


“It's called 'accuracy through target saturation’, look it up. It also 
gives me a mild and oddly inappropriate erection.” 


“lam getting a transfer. Today.” 


Baghdad, Iraq 


In the worst terrorist attack to date, the National Museum of Iraq was 
attacked and leveled by a massive car bomb planted by an unknown 


party. Not that anyone needed to know, of course. Just another 
senseless act of violence in a country that had seen too many. 


It was a pity more people on the investigation team hadn't seen the 
movie "Die Hard." 
Zurich, Switzerland 


"You found HOW many skips in Swiss bank deposit boxes?" 


Ulan Bator, Mongolia 


"All right, guys, let's go catch us a death worm." 


Buenos Aires, Argentina 
"That's a lot of Hitler clones." 


"We're going to need more napalm." 


Foggy Bottom, Washington, DC, United States of America 
"You'll never get away with this." 
"Won't |?" 


"You can't. You can't just kill a Congressman in the middle of 
Washington, DC, and expect to get away with it. There will be 
investigations. There will be inquiries. They'll find out all about 
you..." 


"| see. You seem to be laboring under several false assumptions, 
Congressman. The first is that they will discover you've been 
murdered. That will not be the case. What they will discover is your 
naked body hanging from a noose looped over a hotel room shower 
curtain rod, with an extra-large sized tube of KY jelly close to hand, 
and a semen-stained copy of "Barnyard Beauties" crumpled at your 
feet. | honestly don't expect the investigators will investigate very 


hard." 
"Wait, you can't..." 


"Your second false assumption is that we even care. You see, we're 
operating under Snowblind protocol. Small events, here and there, 
nothing too huge, but enough to do the job. A church burning down 
here, a small terrorist attack in the Middle East, a couple of 
nondescript, senseless murders of non-white, non-blonde, non- 
women. Things that might normally lead the news on a slow news 
day, except that it's not going to be a slow news day. The media are 
all going to find something more interesting to talk about. Maybe 
Paris Hilton is going to get a full-body tattoo of herself sucking a 
giant cock. Maybe the cast of Jersey Shore is going to have an orgy 
with a pair of sheep in the middle of a shopping mall. Or maybe a 
stodgy old conservative Congressman is going to be found dead of 
autoerotic asphyxiation while in possession of copious amounts of 
bestiality porn." 


"... oh God, no, you can't do this! | have a wife! | have kids! | have 
constituents! You can't let them think—" 


Inter-site memo from Resource Allocation Department, excerpt 


| swear to god, if | see the words “covered in fire”, 
“extreme threat suppression’, or “requesting more 
munitions” in ONE more goddamn report, I'm taking the 
month off. Who knew cutting the leash on groups of well 
trained, highly disciplined Agents could result in 
something about as dangerous and controllable as a 
blind chimp with a shotgun? 


Inter-site memo from Information Control Department, excerpt 


Would you PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell your 
testosterone-poisoned monsters to at least TRY to be a 
LITTLE discreet? | know you "feet on the ground" guys 
think we've got it easy, but I'd like to see one of you 
hyperviolent rockheads try to spindoctor four guys in 


black ninja suits gunning Mickey Mouse down in the 
middle of the Main Street Electrical Parade. 


Inter-site memo from Legal Department, excerpt 


FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK 
YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU 
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK 
YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU 
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK 
YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU 
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK 
YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU 


Somewhere in Colorado 


"And so, with your house burning down around your ears, you turn 
to me," the old man said softly. "The man who, many years ago, 
warned you to clear the dry brush away from your homes." 


"Hey, don't you DARE start on that shit now!" the man in the grey 
suit shouted. "This is bigger than our petty differences. We're 
looking at life or death right now!" 


"You're the one who started this!" the woman in white chimed in. 
"You provoked them. You bloodied their nose. You created this 
mess. You fix it!"