Really, Clef wanted this containment to work perfectly because he 
was so goddamn tired of SCP-682. The years of failed termination 
tests. The constant containment breaches. The body count 
numbering in the thousands. He'd known some of the people on that 
list. A few too many. 


Clef had honestly expected 682 to breach containment at a dozen 
points during its transport to the newly built Area. He'd expected it to 
breach containment when they removed it from its original chamber 
at Site 19. He'd been expecting it to breach containment for the past 
two weeks. Hell, he was still expecting it to breach containment now. 


But so far, so... 


SCP-682 stopped moving, all at once. Simultaneously, a warning 
alert came up on the monitor readout. 


Clef's eyes narrowed as he read it. 
The living creature's entire being suffused with light. The acid and 
the radiation and the chemicals ceased to affect it. The suffering and 


horror and fear drained away like water. 


To the living creature, it was like its eyes opening for the first time in 
thousands of years. 


Its vast wings, once cut from its back as punishment for its sins, 
sprouted once again. 


It spread its wings and flew. 


Chaos. 682 ripped through the walls of its tank, then the walls of the 
inner containment chamber. The MTF squads opened fire as it 


lapses into a coma followed by death. EEG monitoring of affected 
individuals during this process has shown a massive increase in 
activity of all brainwaves, particularly gamma and beta-type waves. 
It is presently theorised that this is the result of SCP-606 attempting 
to transfer all the information it has gathered to the individual's brain 
through an unknown process, despite the normal human brain being 
unable to sustain the stress of such a procedure. 


Results of interviews with SCP-606 have been mixed. Although it 
has previously deigned to answer some basic questions about itself 
and its history, any more in-depth questioning or questioning on the 
topics it posesses knowledge of inevitably results in a request by 
SCP-606 to ‘enlighten’ the interviewer and a refusal to answer 
further questions. Requests made to SCP-606 to refrain from 
attempting to ‘enlighten’ without permission have been partially 
complied with; SCP-606 no longer tries to ‘enlighten’ every individual 
it comes into contact with, but it has still sporadically tried to perform 
the process without prompting. For this reason access to SCP-606's 
cell is restricted. 


SCP-606 was discovered by the Foundation on 6/11/19 in , 
France, after a rash of missing person reports was brought to the 
Foundation's attention. Personnel subsequently managed to lure 
SCP-606 into a transport vehicle and transfer it to its current facility 
by offering it D-class personnel to ‘enlighten’. Once its non-corporeal 
nature was discovered, SCP-606 was asked why it did not attempt 
to evade capture. It replied that it 'wished to see what would occur’. 
As SCP-606 is able to pass through all forms of matter, it 
presumably stays in Foundation custody of its own free will, perhaps 
due to the constant supply of information provided to it. 


Addendum 606-1: Complex communication with SCP-606 was 
made possible on 2/4/20 when Drs. and completed their 
work on the aforementioned tone-based language. Details of this 
language were transcribed onto normal writing paper and left in 
SCP-606's containment chamber. An excerpt from SCP-606's first 
interview follows; conducted from a secured monitoring room over 
microphone. SCP-606 is capable of understanding normal human 
speech, and thus Dr. ‘s commentary is in English. 


Document #606-1 


entered the secondary containment chamber. Clef didn't wait to see 
what would happen. He left the observation deck. 


At this rate, 682 was going to breach into the Area at large in only 
minutes. When it did, it would be able to kill a lot more people, 
before it was either contained or the last-resort nuke went off. Clef 
did not intend to sit by while that happened. 


He went to the office behind the observation deck, opened the safe 
in the back, and took out his backup gun. 


"Gun" was somewhat of an understatement. "Cannon" might have 
been a better description. The PSX820 was a testosterone-fueled 
monstrosity straight from a 90's video game. It was an incredibly 
expensive weapon, designed initially to take down certain 
anomalous, heavily-armored vehicles. In testing it had been able to 
reduce 682's mass by up to 65%, depending on the power setting 
and how well you aimed. 


Clef had never been what you'd call a crack shot at close range. Not 
without a perfectly calibrated scope. But with a cannon like this, you 
didn't really need to aim. 


He took the elevator down to the outer containment chamber, and 
arrived not a moment too soon, judging from the racket coming from 
behind the— 


682 burst through the tertiary containment doors. Wasting not a 
second, Clef fired the cannon directly into the monster's face. 


The blast washed over the creature just as harmlessly as if Clef had 
been blasting it with a garden hose. 


Tendrils sprouted from 682's form and ripped through Clef's body. 
It was different, somehow — changed — 


Shock. Then, loss of consciousness. 


The darkness receded for a little. 


Clef tried to prop himself up. Tried to reach the case of plastic 
explosives attached to his belt. But he couldn't get his fingers to 
move the right ways. Could hardly move at all. 


682 prowled restlessly across the other side of the outer 
containment chamber. It didn't look like the same 682 anymore, 
though. It was entirely a pale off-white color. Still sort of reptilian in 
appearance, but mostly covered in feathers and quills. It moved less 
like a lizard and more like a lion, complete with feathery mane. 


It had two wings folded along its back. It never had wings before. 


"Fucking... Lament..." Clef muttered. "I'm gonna kick your ass so 
hard if..." 


If 682 didn't stop ignoring him again and finish the job of killing him. 
If he didn't bleed to death here on the floor. If he didn't get rescued 
and then die of some weird 682-transmitted infection. If he survived 
but could ever walk again. Pretty big /fs. 


And then 682 turned to look at him. Six reflective eyes blinked in the 
feathers on its face. 


"Lament," 682 said. "I recognize the name." 


Clef had heard 682 speak comprehensibly on only one other 
occasion, that recorded in its general-access file. "Disgusting." 
Inexplicably spoken in guttural English. Half of what little 
understanding of 682's psychology that they had. Off-the-record, 
researchers often assumed it had started out human. Some kind of 
reality bender gone wrong. 


Its voice was very different now. And it wasn't speaking English. 
Some alien song-like sounds that for some reason Clef could 
understand perfectly. 


"Yes. Troy Lament. The man born Jeremiah Colton. The 
containment specialist who designed this new prison for you." 


It was conversing with him. Also... Jeremiah Colton? 


"| have no idea what you're talking about," Clef said. "But | suspect 


you're going to tell me." 


682 seemed to hesitate. "He is not the only one of yours with a false 
name. | know who you are, Alto Clef." 


Clef laughed. He was getting dizzy. "Then you should know what will 
happen if you kill anyone else in this containment site. The 
Chowder-Clef Containment Protocol activates. Then it's boom, 
boom, boom all the way home. And that's just the beginning. You 
think you know pain? You have no idea. Not even the slightest clue. 
The plans I've set up will haunt you to the ends of the earth and 
beyond." 


"You are lying. There is no such Chowder-Clef Containment 
Protocol. | know who you are. | know what you are." 


"Of course | am lying." Focus. Focus. "I'm the Devil, remember? Just 
when you think I'm down for the count, I'll be back to stop you, 
roaming the Earth like a roaring lion..." 


"You may have once loved the goddess, the mother of demons," 
682 said, "but that does not make you the Devil." 


"You'll take Lilith's shtick seriously, but you can't cut me a little bit 
of..." Clef coughed. "Slack?" Blood. Figured. "Looks like you got me 
good, either way." 


"| have not killed you. Only disabled you. You will be retrieved by 
your underlings when | leave. You will need weeks to recover, but 
you have not been permanently injured in any way that your 
Foundation cannot fix." 


"Well, that's... awesome. Very kind of you," Clef said. "We're bros 
now, huh? That's it?" 


682 watched him with its many new eyes. 


"So goddamn chatty all of a sudden. Why the hell haven't you killed 
me?" Clef asked. 


"There will be much death to come," the creature said. "And there 
are other reasons, which are my own." 


"That... that time when they shoved me in your containment cell," 
Clef said. "Why didn't you kill me then?" 


"| was unsure what you were. Due to the alterations made to you. It 
gave me pause. Confusion. | thought perhaps... you were one of His 
servants, come for me at long last. | thought... No matter. Now that | 
have returned to my glorified form, | can see you for who and what 
you are." 


"Glorified form? What the hell are you, anyway? What the hell are 
you doing here?" 


"| wait. The others have ridden forth already. Conquest, War, and 
Famine. Only | remain." 


"... The Horsemen of the Apocalypse." Clef laughed out of sheer 
disbelief. "And you're... what? Conquest, War and Famine... That 
makes you Death, doesn't it." He laughed again. "Death. Huh. 
Should have called that..." 


"lam not Death," 682 said. "| am her Steed." 
"Her Steed?" 


"Yes. | await my Rider." 682 raised its head abruptly. "She comes. It 
is time for me to go." 


"Wait!" Clef tried harder to focus. "Why didn't you kill me? Who is 
your Rider? What are you planning to do? What..." More questions 
that he should have asked already. Needed to delay the monster 
more. Get as much information as possible. But the words were all 
slipping through his mental fingers like grains of sand. 


"For what it's worth, Alto Clef. | am sorry." 
Clef processed that for a long moment. His vision had gone blurry. 
"Why are you sorry? Thought you said... that | wasn't gonna die." 


"lam sorry for everything that | have done to you and yours. | am 
sorry for all the innocents | have killed. | am sorry for all that | have 
done which you do not know of. And though | am not responsible, | 


am sorry for everything else you have lost. | am sorry that there is 
nothing | can do to make amends for any of it. My Master calls." 


Clef tried to think of a witty rejoinder. Everything was so cloudy... 


"Above all, | am sorry for all that is to come." 682 seemed to be 
moving away. "Goodbye, Alto Clef." 


Alto Clef slipped away again into unconsciousness. 


Excerpt from Surveillance Log x16012113441, Date - - 


< 05> Biohazard Level 4 Alert. Site-17 enters Accelerated 
Lockdown due to multiple containment breaches. 


< 56> Instances of SCP-098 enter Site-17. SCP-098 instances 
display previously uncatalogued behavior and morphology. 


< 08> Site-17 Security Team Bravo engages SCP-098 in hallway 
C-10. 


< 12 Site-17 Security Team Bravo neutralized. 


< 13> SCP-098 swarm proceeds to containment facility for 
SCP-053. 


< 20> Containment Breach. SCP-098 swarm enters SCP-053's 
containment chambers. SCP-053 reacts with apparent familiarity. 


< 32> SCP-098 swarm breaches lockdown and accompanies 
SCP-053 off premises of Site-17. 


The living creature met the little girl for the second time in several 
thousand years and nuzzled her with delight. She kissed him, 
giggled a girlish giggle, and climbed onto his back. 


Reunited with her Steed at last, Death rode hard towards the vast 
army of angels to join their march across the world. 


And Hell followed with them. 


« Interlude: Last Words from Svalbard | Canon Hub | The 
Bloody Autumn » 


The Bloody Autumn 


Agent Mathews awoke to the sound of gunfire. Then laughter. 
Chilling, inhuman laughter, filling the air from everywhere. 


Mathews had fallen asleep at his post, the radio tower several yards 
away from the main Site. Satellite Site-66, Zone-097. The Pumpkin 
Patch, as it was known to the researchers and security tasked with 
looking after it. A younger Agent, Mathews had been stationed here 
for the better part of a year now; the most ‘excitement’ he’d enjoyed 
was when the cherry tree grew human eyes last month. 


He rubbed his eyes, confusion and panic welling up inside him. 
Blinking the sleep away, he opened his eyes to see a figure staring 
back at him; a child with pale skin, oily black eyes, and bloodied 
teeth. 


It screamed. 


One week earlier, a hundred and fifty miles away, a television ina 
dingy basement flickered to life. 


“This just won't do.” A colourful, sinister figure stood with its arms 
crossed, looking out the box with a disappointed expression. The 
being watching the television snorted awake. Tall, broad, a being of 
wood and wire and chain and cloth, of thorn and barb. A living 
scarecrow, brought to life by a stray bolt of lightning years ago. A 
bastardization of nature, neither alive or dead. 


“’'d have expected that a creature like you would have better things 
to do than waste your life watching television.” sighed Bobble. 
“Honestly. What a sad, sad picture.” 


“... Do | Know you?” murmured the being. “Feel like | should know 
you.” 


Mathews screamed in terror. He stumbled out of his chair, tripping 
over himself, running as fast as he could out of the room and down 
the hall. The building was dark; quiet laughter followed him, closing 
in fast. 


Bursting through the station's emergency exit, Mathews stumbled 
and fell, scrambling to keep on his feet. It was raining, and nighttime; 
a cool wind blew, one which would be refreshingly brisk in any other 
context. The main complex’s floodlights flickered on and off, power 
surging randomly; the wilderness around the complex was pitch 
black otherwise. Mathews could hear gunfire and voices he 
recognized, each cut far too short to imply survival. The site-wide 
breach alarm began to wail; it too, was cut short mid-scream. 


The lights all faded at once, the dark closing in totally. After what felt 
like an eternity, a pale yellow glow surrounded Mathews. 
Disembodied flames danced high above; pavement had been 
replaced with lush grass and ragged brush; hundreds and hundreds 
of pumpkins covered the landscape, for miles around. Dozens of 
glowing eyes peered through the dark, a chorus of giggles rising 
through the dim. 


He ran. 


“So yor telling me...” the scarecrow in the basement knelt on one 
wooden knee, at eye-level with Bobble. “Yor the Horseman of 
War..." 


“And you know this. You understand it. You can see what | am, can't 
you, scarecrow?” 


The entity made a sound like a creaking wooden door; a snerk, 
perhaps? “What c'n | do for you?” 


“For lack of a better phrase, | want you to bloom.” Bobble grinned. 
“Seeing you like this breaks my heart. You had such potential. Such 
promise. Whatever happened to you?” 


“The fucking scientists and creep-killers. They’re on to me. Almost 
got me last time. Jus’ gotta lay low for a while. Find a new haunt.” 


“Mm. So you're hiding in a shack in the woods, with stolen 
electricity, wasting your life away." Bobble tsk-tsk'd. 


"Fuck off, clown." 


"What if..." Bobble offered, ignoring the cuss. "What if | were to tell 
you... that | could give you a way to beat them. To become more. 
More than an urban legend?” 


"... I'm listenin," muttered the entity. 


"A friend of mine- a very good friend, you'd like him- went and 
borrowed an item you might find interesting, from our mutual 
enemies."