The O5 was cut off as Clef produced a waffle out of one of his lab 
coat pockets. It was already half eaten and still covered in dry syrup, 
which had stained his pocket and picked up god only knows what. A 
crunching sound broke the silence between the O5 and Clef as he 
started to eat it. 


O5-8 finally piped up. "The following restrictions are—" 


He was cut off again by Clef making eye contact whilst slowly eating 
the stale waffle. O5-8 did not have the time nor patience for this. 
"Out," he said firmly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just get out, 
Clef." 


Clef grinned with a large amount of waffle still in his mouth and stuck 
to his teeth. He placed what remained of the waffle on O5-8's desk 
as if it was some sort of parting gift and left the office with a small 
skip in his step... 


... And another waffle from another pocket. 


« | HUB | » 


In Case You've Ever Wondered... 


At exactly 9:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's 
eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible 
pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 
9:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps 
out of her tank. 


She stretches elaborately, a series of half-yoga poses designed to 
unkink muscles not used to motion, joints cracking audibly. When 
the popping stops, so does she. She walks to a metal sink and spits, 
then drinks deeply, gasping. A toothbrush waits for her in a porcelain 
holder; brand new, still wrapped. She cleanses the taste of rubber 
from her mouth and grins experimentally into a small metal mirror 
mounted to the wall. 


Clothing has been left for her, folded on a bench on the opposite 
wall exactly according to her specifications. White pants, black shirt. 
No tags, no labels. A lab coat, cut with a strange high collar, 
Foundation ID badge already clipped to the front pocket. A pair of 
glasses, one lens squared off, with a slider on the temple piece to 
adjust magnification. A pair of heavy combat boots cut in white 
leather. She gets dressed. 


A speaker mounted in the corner plays something ambient with a 
pulsing beat that could be equally at home in a nightclub or an 
upscale restaurant. There is nothing else in Renfield's room- the 
austerity suits her just fine. She nods to herself and steps out, smile 
hidden behind her collar. 


The hallway beyond is lined on one side with identical doors, and on 
the other with identical photographs- the same as the one that 
adorns her ID badge. Below each is a small plaque made of stiff 
cardstock, the same sort you see below paintings in upscale 
galleries. Each plaque contains a pair of dates and a short 
paragraph. An obituary. She doesn't read them, but her fingertips 
trace the wall below them as she passes. 


At 10:00, she presents herself to Research Director Anderson. His 
reaction to her presence is as terse as ever. No greeting, just a 
directive. The name of the Researcher she'll be working under, and 
number of the SCP object they'll be working with. She does not ask 
questions. He looks relieved when she walks away. 


At 10:15, after a short walk to the containment wing, she presents 
herself to the Researcher. He does not ask her name- everyone in 
the Foundation knows Renfield. He thanks her for her work, and 
seems pleased she's been assigned to him. He asks her to step into 
a containment unit. She nods, licks her teeth, and steps in. 


At 10:19, she dies. Her evisceration is as swift as it is horrible. 
Something unfathomable like a shadow on a malfunctioning CRT 
monitor reaches into her with a claw made out of noise and shucks 
her like an oyster. On the other side of the observation window, the 
Researcher frantically takes notes as she is consumed. He does not 
look surprised. 


At exactly 11:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace 
Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an 
audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left 
hand. At 11:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and 
she steps out of her tank. 


« | HUB | » 


Funfiction 


05-7 arrived to the breached containment unit at the lowest 
underground level of Site-19. Director Bright waited for her along 
with a Containment Specialist. 


“It’s good to see you again, Jack,” said the overseer. “Sorry for the 
wait, | had to come here all the way from the HQ as per protocols. 
Let’s see what we are dealing with here.” 


The man standing next to Bright handed over a dossier to her. 
“Thank you, Dr. Blackbox,” she said after looking at his ID badge. “If 
| understand correctly you were the Containment Specialist 
assigned to this item.” 


“Yes, Madam. The containment was breached yesterday. We 
evacuated all personnel not involved in the recovery operation.” 


“| see. Let us start the investigation with the containment unit.” 


They entered the grandiose cubical room. It was discreetly 
embraced by a 3 inch thick layer of pure titanium. The overseer 
looked into the dossier, and started skimming its contents. 


“Scp-7448: Blood Ogre ... Keter ... virgins to be sacrificed ... 
unparalleled aptitude for martial arts ... Scantron Anchors ... may 
freely roam the facility,” she said then stopped for a moment. “I think 
| got all the necessary information now.” 


How could that happen in the Foundation’s largest Site? she 
wondered, unconsciously looking at the upper right corner of the 
nearest wall as if it could show anything about the validity of her 
concerns. An empty wall, polished and made from the king of the 
metals, stared back at her. 


“We have to recover it as quickly as possible. Are you in, Jack?” 


“Oook,” replied Dr. Bright who was occupying a primate body. 


“You might want to arm yourself if you are up against that 
otherworldly demon,” said a man stepping into the room. He was 
wearing an orange overall with a 6-digit number on it. “Here, take 
this gun. They gave me two anyway.” 


“| don’t think firearms would be useful against it, but thank you 
nonetheless,” said the overseer showing her smuggest grin to 
Blackbox. Then she pulled the trigger. 


Dr. Bright and O5-7 arrived to the cafeteria following the path of 
destruction. The monstrous ogre stood at the center of the hall, 
laughing with arms crossed. The floor was covered in broken tables 
and chairs, kitchenware and the scattered ashes of MTF Kappa-13 
(“Red Shirts”). A screen at the cafeteria’s wall was miraculously left 
unharmed. 


Safety First 


23 hours, 57 minutes and 45 seconds 
have passed since the last containment breach. 
Keep Site-19 secure together! 


05-7 noticed a familiar figure lying under some debris. “Alto, 
swallow this, quick!” she said as she ran to him and handed over a 
pill from a plastic can labeled ‘500’. The next moment the shirtless 
Clef was standing in front of the ogre with replenished energy in his 
muscles and renewed determination in his eyes. O5-7 fainted as she 
couldn’t handle the raw manliness radiated by him. 


“Oh, you are up again, just when | thought we were finished. Show 
me what you got then, human!” 


“That’s what your mother said too.” 


“How dare you mock me, you lowly scum!” shouted SCP-7448. “I 
shall destroy you with my ultimate technique.” 


“What kind of ultimate technique could that be?” asked Clef. “You 


SCP-671: Deconstructing Ants 


Item #: SCP-671 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-671 must be kept at 
Sector- ina clear plastic terrarium no less than 10m x 1m x 1m. 
The terrarium is to be assembled by heat merging only. It should 
contain at least 400 kg of sandy soil with humidity at least .%. 
Appropriate food is provided via a hatch every week. The room is to 
be monitored by four cameras at all times. Entry and exit is via an 
airlock, which must be flooded with an insecticide harmless to 
humans each time it cycles. No piece of the door beyond the 
innermost panel itself may be accessible from inside the 
containment room, and all fixtures inside the room must be either 
sealed or built into the walls. 


As long as any SCP-671 individuals are outside the terrarium, 
personnel entering the room must either wear only clothes that will 
not trigger SCP-671, use strong insect repellent, or wear a sealed 
single-piece suit over all other clothing. All but the simplest items 
must be kept within a sealed transparent plastic bag or similarly 
protected by insecticide or repellent. Should SCP-671 individuals 
escape the terrarium outside of experimental procedure, the room is 
to be flooded with insecticide. 


No SCP which can potentially be disassembled is to be kept at 
Sector- , and SCP-671 may never enter a facility where such SCPs 
are kept. 


Description: SCP-671 is a large colony of Spanish carpenter ants 
(Camponotus cruentatus), comprising approximately 30,000 
individuals. When SCP-671 is faced with a complex artificial device, 
its constituent individuals will attempt to reduce it to its simplest 
components. (Organisms, living or dead, do not trigger this 
behavior.) The ants appear attracted to artificial devices as to food 


don’t look like you have one.” 


“Foolish mortal! This attack is the most powerful of all. You know the 
guy who can summon any blade he wants? Well, | can wield him!” 
he said. Able appeared out of thin air, wearing his sharpest suit. The 
ogre grabbed him by the legs and swung towards Clef. 


“You think | wasn’t prepared for that?” said Clef and pulled out a 
Middle Eastern man with metal limbs from ... well, no one was really 
sure from where. He used him as a human shield to reflect the strike 
back at the attacker. As the fierce battle reached its climax, the 
banana Dr. Bright was eating started to turn brown. 


SCP-7448 pulled out Able’s head from his nasal cavity, preparing for 
another strike. Clef glanced to his right as the screen changed 
colors. 


Safety First 


24 hours, 0 minutes and 2 seconds 
have passed since the last containment breach. 
Keep Site-19 secure together! 


“Fourth!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. SCP-7448 was deleted 
at -50 and four staff votes. 


« | HUB | » 


Date Night 


Alvarez knocked on the open door and stepped into the office. 
“You asked for me, sir?” 


Dr. Gears looked up from the files on his desk, fixing his gaze on the 
young security guard. “Yes, I’ve been trying to contact Dr. Clef all 
evening, but he’s not answering his phone. I'd like you to locate him 
to make sure he’s all right, and tell him | have something urgent to 
discuss with him.” 


“But sir, it’s Friday night,” Alvarez said, suddenly uncomfortable. “If 
you'll recall...” 


“Oh, I see. It’s his...” 


“ ” 


... yes. 
“And he can't...” 


“He’s left instructions that he’s not to be disturbed under any 
circumstances, that’s right, sir.” 


“Well, | suppose things can wait until tomorrow morning, then.” 
“Very well, sir.” 


Alvarez left the office. 


Dr. Alto Clef sat in the dining room of his Site-19 suite. The place 
was lavish, by any standards — gold-embossed wallpaper, ornate 
oak paneling, 18th century furniture, the table set with priceless 
china and the finest silver. An antique Ming vase sat on a pedestal 
nearby, gleaming in the warm glow of the crystal chandelier; an 
original Caravaggio hung on one wall, a Vermeer on the other. Barry 
White played softly in the background. 


“Mmmh!” Clef exclaimed, setting down his spoon and wiping his 
mouth with his napkin. “The fennel soup was exquisite. D-12130 
really outdid himself tonight.” He gestured to one of the several D- 
class personnel in attendance. “More wine, D-23897.” 


“Right away, Dr. Clef,” the man in the orange jumpsuit said, 
nervously stepping up to the table and refilling his glass with a 
particularly crisp Chardonnay. 


Clef lifted the glass to his mouth, took a sip, and sighed with 
satisfaction. “This is nice,” he said, smiling at his guest. “We should 
do this more often, don’t you agree?” 


Across the table, SCP-173 stared back at him, unmoving, silent. 


Five D-class personnel were positioned around the living statue, 
their eyes fixed on it, cold sweat dripping down their faces as they 
struggled not to blink, not to break eye contact, not even for a 
second; a sixth man stood directly next to 173, trembling with terror 
as he lifted spoonfuls of fennel soup up to its face, smearing the 
contents where its mouth should have been. 


“May | just say how lovely you look tonight, darling,” Clef said, his 
eyes moving appreciatively over the black evening dress covering 
the statue’s curves, the blonde, lustrous hair of the wig on its head, 
its rouged stone cheeks... “Il was going to wait until later, but seeing 
you like this, | just, I... Heh, look at me, you have me babbling like a 
schoolboy. | don’t know what it is about you. You’ve always had that 
effect on me.” 


SCP-173 looked on, its stone features blank, impassive. 


“Anyway,” Clef said, “I got you a little something to show you how 
much | appreciate you being here, sharing this evening with me.” 
Clef reached into his pocket and took out a small flat box, handing it 
to D-23897, who was standing nearby; the man took the box and 
went around to the other side of the table, his heart rate rising as he 
approached 173. 


“Open it, darling,” Clef said. D-23897 opened the box, revealing a 
gold necklace inlaid with dozens of small diamonds. “It should be the 


right size, | had it made especially for you. Go ahead, put it on,” Clef 
smiled. D-23897 removed the necklace from the box and reluctantly 
tied it around 173's neck, wincing as his fingers brushed against the 
cold, hard cement surface. Clef was momentarily at a loss for words. 
“It suits you to perfection,” he said at last. “God, you’re beautiful. | 
feel like | never want to take my eyes off you.” 


At that precise moment, Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe 
began to play; Clef felt his heart flutter. “It’s our song,” he breathed. 
As Barry White’s rumbling voice filled the air, Clef found himself 
staring into 173’s alien, painted-on eyes, losing himself in their 
depths. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice now little 
more than a husky whisper, “I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. 
What do you Say we...retire...for the night?” 


Clef was lying in his ample bed, 173 at his side, the lush satin 
sheets in disarray around them. The D-class personnel were 
standing in a circle around the bed, ten pairs of eyes that had not left 
the statue for the last two hours. 


“| can’t tell you how much these little trysts of ours mean to me,” Clef 
was murmuring in 173’s ear. “Running Site-19, all that responsibility, 
all those lives depending on me, it gets so exhausting. You’re a 
miracle worker, you know. You really—” His train of thought was 
interrupted by a series of hushed whispers — two of the D-class 
personnel seemed to be having an argument. Clef cleared his throat 
loudly. “Do you mind?” 


D-23897 snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, sir. It's D-45931, he hasn’t 
slept in a couple of days, and he was starting to nod off. | told him 
he had to keep his eyes open.” 


“Oh, | see. Well, actually, that’s not necessary.” 
D-23897 frowned, confused. “Bult, sir, the statue...” 


“| won’t deny she can be a feisty one, what with those fiesta states 
of hers, but as long as I’m around she won’t try anything.” 


“So...there’s no danger?” D-23897 asked. 


“That’s right, no need to worry.” 
“Now, if that’s all,” Clef said, “I’d like to get back t-” 


“Then why are we here?” D-23897 nearly shouted in disbelief. “Why 
did you make us stay?” 


Clef gave the man a strange look, the hint of an unhinged smile 
playing on his features. 


“| just like it when people watch.” 


« | HUB | » 


The Most Dangerous Game 


The Most Dangerous Game 


Site 19