The convoy was beginning to slow down, and at the head of the 
pack Forsman could almost make out the silhouette of a big tower. 
He opened his car door and was hit by a block of freezing air. 
Pulling up his parka, he began trudging down toward the silhouette 
of a tower, hazy from all the snow in the air. It was the thing the 
washouts Claimed to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. Orville 
walked up next to him. Orville was another one of the guys the big 
chiefs had sent down to look at this thing. He was great at explaining 
to overexcited officers that the magic flying bobble-head they had 
found did not require an Apozem recovery protocol. Forsman 
nodded to him as they walked toward their mutual destination. 


It was a big fucker. That was the first thing that occurred to Forsman 
as they got closer. There were the signs of excavation protocols 
being enacted even at this distance from the site. He saw kids 
digging holes through solid permafrost. Locals, probably recruited 
recently. As they went on, the digging became more and more 
organized. It went from freezing teens digging haphazard holes to 
professional engineers yakking about controlled demolition with the 


tremble of heavy machinery permanently in the background. The 
excavated area itself was at least three hundred and fifty meters 
across. Not meters, thought Forsman, yards. They didn't use meters 
anymore. 


The hole itself was too deep to see anything, but the officers in 
charge were more than happy to blather about all their theories on 
what the object really was. "Maybe it is some ruins that came from 
ancient civilizations!" was one of the more popular theories. Another 
one that was brought out almost as often was that it was an 
extraterrestrial vehicle. Most of them hadn't seen the thing for 
themselves, and had no idea what it actually was. But that didn't 
stop every officer Forsman interviewed from spouting off their own 
kettle of bullshit. 


"Now lieutenant," Forsman would say, as he pretended to look at the 
important documents on his clipboard, "When did you first become 
aware of this object?" 


The lieutenant would reply that they had found it "Pokin' out of a big 
ditch. Some of the people that used to live in the next town over 
went wild over it after it grew right into an insurance office." 


Things would go on like that, with Forsman asking what had 
happened to the property (Demolished), townsfolk ("Evacuated"), 
and how things at the excavation site were going (they always said it 
was excellent). 


And then he would have to ask about their theories on what the 
object could be. And he would sit and listen as the man seated in 
front of him listed off speculative bullshit, sometimes with clever 
theories they had come up with all on their own. The theories usually 
ran the gamut of things that he had heard a million times before. 
Aliens, ancients, conspiracy blah blah blah. The only one who 
wasn't completely up his own ass was a junior officer who had been 
in the dig site. He was the only officer Forsman knew of who had 
seen the thing. His name was Jasper. 


Jasper told him that the thing looked like a tree connected to a 
bunch of big roots, all made of some kind of metal substance. When 
one of his men tried to touch it, they'd been snarled in by millions of 


fibers growing out of the thing that pulled him in. They had stopped 
underground excavation after that, and begun trying to dig it out 
from the surface. Jasper told him that it looked like the thing went a 
long way into the dirt. It was the only useful information Forsman 
had gotten all day. 


Forsman looked at his accumulated data and shook his head. It was 
just a textbook case of overeager officers taking something big and 
scary to be more dangerous than it actually was. All it seemed to be 
was a big fibrous root in the ground. Strange, certainly, and 
definitely warranted the Insurgency's attention, but it wasn't doing 
anything particularly dangerous. Such a shame. He had had hope 
that maybe this wouldn't be bullshit, that they may have actually 
found something important before the Foundation could add it to 
their collections. But...well...that was a fanciful thought. 
Realistically, he would probably never be important enough to do 
anything other than these backwater assignments. At least he didn't 
have to live here. 


He shut down the terminal, and a piercing whine began blaring. He 
covered his ears and ducked. After a second, he realized it was the 
alarm. The intercom crackled and fizzed, and then spat out a static- 
riddled announcement. 


"ALL SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO 
EXCAVATION SITE PRIME IMMEDIATELY, OBJECT NASAW HAS 
BEEN ACTIVATED, REPEAT, OBJECT NASAW-" the bulletin 
sputtered, and then went silent. Forsman got up and grabbed his 
gun. The door handle stuck for a second, but he was still out in the 
corridor within moments. The corridor itself was in pandemonium. 
Men and women in secondhand uniforms ran in every direction, and 
the feeling of panic was heavy in the air. Forsman noticed Orville 
calmly walking toward the exit. He pushed his way past a security 
agent fumbling with a gun and walked beside him. 


Their conversation was short. 
"Any idea what's going on?" 


"None at all." 


"Heading out." 

"Of course. You?" 

"Of course." 

They hit the exit doors and looked up. 


The tower was no longer at the center of the excavation site. Or, 
rather, it was in the same relative place, but the excavation site was 
gone. The tower was several hundred feet in the air. Several 
hundred tendrils, the root structures, trailed down to the earth. They 
ripped tremendous amounts of earth apart as they were liberated 
from their underground resting place. It looked like a flower being 
pinched and lifted into the sky, and they were the bugs being 
smashed by the uplifting roots. 


As the tower grew higher, the ground around them started to break. 
The trails of the roots drew closer to their location. Forsman looked 
to his right to ask Orville what to do. He realized Orville was gone. In 
his place, there was a big mesh root, ornately woven and 
glimmering in the winter sun. Forsman turned around to go back into 
the base, radio command about what had happened. And he 
would've been able to, had the door not been blocked by a large 
root, also ornate, with intricately carved patterns. Forsman would 
have turned to try and run, but he tripped on a root. As he watched it 
crawl up his leg, he didn't feel any pain. He looked over at the dig 
site, saw roots spreading, making new towers to put themselves out 
of the ground. Some might call it a shame. He thought it was 
beautiful. 


It was the last thought he ever had. 


novel screeching vocalizations throughout. Partial debriefing 
interview follows. 


Dr. :D-7294, please state your opinion of SCP-847. 
D-7294: Cute. It knows its place. 
Dr. _: Please elaborate. 


D-7294: The way it squeals and grovels, it knows what 
it's there for. Pity it does a lousy job. 


Dr. :Inwhat way? 


D-7294: It doesn't follow orders. Yes, you can pose it, 
humiliate it, but it doesn't do much more than mewl 
anyway. | had to break off a finger just to see if it 
mattered. It didn't. [Pause] You know, it's ironic. You 
dream your entire life of finding a woman who's that 
compliant, that devoid of thought, that helpless to your 
every whim, and when you find her? She's just a useless 
mannequin who can't do anything. 


Dr. : Thank you, D-7294. We're done here. Guards, 
please escort D-7294 back to his cell. 


Addendum 847-C: Message Log 


Below is a log of all messages written by SCP-847 to date while in 
Foundation custody. Attempts to communicate with SCP-847 have 
met with failure. SCP-847 does not use words when vocalizing and 
does not respond to questions asked by personnel, whether spoken 
or written. 


8/25/1983: COME BACK 
10/13/1984: | CAN DO BETTER 
3/9/1986: WHERE ARE YOU 
5/18/1988: WHERE IS MY PRINCE 


First Time's The Charm 


Assigned Personnel 


Light Transport Vessel 04 


Pilot: Brad Cannon 
Deckhand(s): George Montgomery 
Rudy Lynch 


Timothy Holland 
Boarding Party 
Security Officer(s): Ken Jones 
Peter Aives 
Researcher(s): Gene Perry 
Dorothy Hansen 
D-Class: D-3487 


Brad Cannon heard Peter Alves coming before he entered. He was 
humming some tune from some opera that Brad didn't know the 
name of. Peter didn't know the name either; he simply identified it as 
‘that song where the dude's just stoked about the elephants’. 


"So," Peter slid into a seat across from Brad in the mess hall. "Your 
crew got picked to take us on our little trip tomorrow, huh?" 


Brad swallowed the last of his lunch. "Heh, | volunteered us." 
"Oh. Really?" 


"Yeah, it's something to do. Beats just cruising around the perimeter 
all day, at least." 


"| hear ya, man." Peter replied as he dug into his own meal. "Three 
months of seatox, and then the post is boring as sh-" 


"Seatox?" Brad interrupted. 


"Oh. Yeah, y'know. Like detox, but out at sea." Peter explained, 
adding with a grin "| am gonna party so hard once I'm back ashore." 


"Sure kiddo," Brad smiled back. Then he stood and took his 
mealtray. "Speaking of boring, I've got to get ready for a patrol-shift 
right now. See you at the briefing tomorrow morning." 


Alves gave a small wave goodbye as Cannon walked away. 


Specialized Tools/Equipment 


* Noise-cancelling Ear Defenders (x12) 
¢ Disposable Camera (x6) 

* Set of Semaphore Signal Flags (x2) 

¢ Retractable Personnel Tether (x4) 

¢ Analog Stopwatch (x2) 


Ken Jones held one stopwatch in each hand. After watching them 
count off 60 seconds in sync, he reset them and placed them back 
on the workbench with the rest of the items. Satisfied that everything 
was in working order, Jones turned around to find Brad Cannon 
approaching him. 


"Hey," Ken greeted him "how was patrol?" 


"Meh, same old same old." Brad replied with a shrug. "Weather's a 
bit nasty out there." 


"Hm... That going to affect the mission?" 


"Nah, shouldn't be anything we can't handle." Brad reassured him. 
He then turned to Rudy Lynch, who had just now followed him in. 
"Everything squared away down there?" Brad asked, referring to 
their patrol boat. 


"Pretty much, sir. Tim and George are just topping up the fuel. 
Wanted to let you know we tuned into the forecast; it might blow a 
bit more tonight, but should die down by late tomorrow morning." 


"Ah, good news." Brad said, as much to Ken as Rudy. "Make sure 
they don't need any more help, then all three of you can turn in until 
tomorrow's briefing.” 


"Oh hey!" Ken interrupted as he slotted the four mini-flags into the 
box holding the ear defenders. "I'm gonna come with, put these on 
the boat so they're there in the morning." 


"Nah, Rudy can take care of that for you." Brad took the box from 
Ken and passed it along. "Right Rudy?" 


"Sir!" Lynch gave an informal salute before he turned and left with 
the box tucked under one arm. 


"Oh, the rest of that..?" Brad gestured toward the remaining gear. 
"I'll hang onto it 'til tomorrow." Ken said. 


After bidding each other farewell, Cannon left. Jones, once more, 
examined and tested each piece of equipment; then he tucked 
everything into his gearbag and retired to his quarters. 


Objective 


* To board scp-—2454 for the purpose of gathering 
data and recording observations 


"It doesn't mean ‘get ready to make your way back soon’; it doesn't 
mean ‘just finish your roll of film quick’, okay? You get three pulls, 
you get your asses out!" 


Ken Jones, giving the D-Class personnel their directions for the 
operation, could not seem to emphasize this enough. "Because 
there are no extra minutes. If you aren't back on this boat when the 
timer's up, | cut your cord and it's nobody's problem but your own." 


The four D's tasked with entering the ship to take photos nodded 
broodingly. Jones, apparently satisfied, turned and faced the front 
window. He saw the cloudy gray sky as the small cabin cruiser's 
bow rose up over the crest of a wave, then the cold gray sea as it 
dipped back into a trough. Briefly in between, the massive cruise 


ship on the horizon. 


Brad Cannon leaned over from his captain's seat. "Support Vessel's 
reporting about 11 minutes between pings," he mentioned to Jones. 
"Could be you will have an extra minute..." 


Jones turned to him now. "Is that coming from the guy who woke up 
ten minutes before his alarm this morning, treated it like an extra 
hour, and sti// was late to briefing?" Cannon smirked at that slight 
exaggeration, but kept his eyes ahead as he negotiated the ocean 
swells. "If I'm lucky enough to get a bit of breathing room," Jones 
continued, "I want it there when | need room to breathe." 


Planned Procedure 


¢ Light Transport Vessel 04 (operated by Brad 
Cannon and crew) will transport all personnel from 
Support Vessel 01 to area of operations 

* Boarding Party will enter SCP-2454 with cameras 
and evidence bags, taking photographs and 
collecting articles for study 

¢ Light Transport Vessel 04 will extract personnel 
from area of operations and return to Support 
Vessel 01 for debriefing 


"Of course he won't want to leave anyone behind," Dorothy Hansen 
spoke in a hushed tone. "But if it comes to jeapordizing the entire 
team, and the objective, for the sake of trying to save one -" She 
halted mid-sentence and stared gravely at the back of the seat 
inches in front of her face. 


"Relax," said Gene, soothingly. "Breathe... Try to focus on the 
horizon." Gene Perry and Dorothy Hansen were the two official 
researchers on this assignment. They shared a bench seat, and for 
the most part had been chatting between themselves. 


The pair of them had been slated to board SCP-2454 together; 
recording observations while remaining on the deck of the ship, in 
sight of Jones and Alves at all times. But Dorothy started feeling 
nauseous shortly after the transport boat got under way, and Jones 


made an executive decision that she would not be boarding the 
cruise ship in that condition. 


Gene, however, had insisted that he still get to investigate the 
anomaly himself. And Dorothy had been trying to convince him it 
was too dangerous to go alone; without a tether, without a second 
pair of eyes to keep contact with the guards. If he was, at the wrong 
moment, wrapped up in taking notes instead of watching for the 
signal to evacuate... 


Gene argued that this opportunity was too good to pass up. If it's 
taken ten years to even attempt a first exploration, how long would it 
take to mount a second? This was a chance to make a 
breakthrough, to earn some recognition. He wouldn't get another 
chance like this one. 


Dorothy raised a finger. She wanted to interject, after taking a 
second to brace against the seasickness. "You said 'ten years'?" 


"It's a fairly short assignment, you know," Gene reasoned. "This 
posting, | mean. | guess enough people are happy to just put in their 
three months and transfer out." He sighed and added derisively 
"Without contributing to our overall understanding of the thing.” 


Hansen understood Perry's point. But this conversation only made 
her more anxious about the plan, though she couldn't articulate why. 


"And we finally got a project head that's pushing this stuff through," 
Perry prattled on. "Not just thermal imaging and satellites, but real 
hands-on observations. | can't let this chance slip away." 


Hansen had tuned out, instead committing her focus to not throwing 
up. 
Hazard Assessment 
¢ Constant vocalizations by SCP-2454-1 


© Noise-cancelling ear protection will be worn 
by all personnel within the area of operation 


¢ Bursts of radiation occurring at approximate ten 
minute intervals 


© Total time in area of operation will be limited 
to seven minutes