Forensic analysis of 's home revealed that he had been in 
possession of SCP-617 for at least six months. During that period, 
he had systematically fed his entire collection of pets to SCP-617, 
slowly cutting them apart while they were still alive. When he had 
run out of pets, moved on to humans, starting the string of 
serial murders that were initially investigated. An autopsy revealed a 
number of human bite marks on his body, with two fingers, six toes, 
and roughly six ounces of flesh missing. Dental analysis showed 
that the bite marks were a perfect match for the SCP-617's teeth. 
Autopsies of the murder victims corroborated SCP-617's 
capabilities. 


At this time, it is unknown how long SCP-617 has existed or whether 
there are more instances of it. There must be an expanded 
emphasis on analyzing serial murder cases that involve 
cannibalization of corpses, as well as similar sociopathic behaviors. 


Addendum 1: Since the acquisition of SCP-617, two more 
instances of it were discovered and contained. The Foundation now 
has SCP-617-1, SCP-617-2, and SCP-617-3 in containment. All 
three SCPs have been put in the same cell in order to observe 
patterns such as reproduction, communication, and competition. 


Still In Business 


His stock was plummeting. His investors were dwindling. Lawsuits 
and inquiries were piling up. Every day, Aperture Science teetered 
on the brink of bankruptcy. And yet, somehow, Cave Johnson, 
current (and, if he had his way, the only) CEO, refused to give up. 
Damn them and their "safe", science, he would bark to his 
employees. If you like safe science so much, why don't you just 
marry it? 


And yet, when all was said and done, safe science seemed to wind 
up with fewer class action lawsuits. 


Cave mumbled bitterly under his breath as he reached for another 
sheaf of papers and rifled through them. His office- by now a 
veritable nest of crumbled-up forms and old tax forms- had clearly 
seen better days; the linoleum was scuffed and dirty, his desk worn 
and scratched. “Lawsuit... lawsuit... union dues... lawsuit... 
resignation letters... health inspection... Caroline!” he finally 
shouted. “I need good news. Give me something to smile about. 
Anything.” 


“Well, Mister Johnson,” replied his brunette assistant, walking into 
the room, “Test subject 704 managed to make it through enrichment 
sphere twelve in record time!” She smiled at him as she watched 
him hunched over his desk, eyes flickering from one crisply-worded 
formal inquiry to another. 


“Mister Johnson?” 


“Hm? Oh, yes, uh... Seven-oh-four... that was the one we found 
slumped outside the soup kitchen, right?” said Cave absent- 
mindedly, scarcely paying his assistant a wayward glance. 


“That’s right, Mister Johnson. The propulsion gel tests are right on 
schedule!” 


“Thanks, Caroline,” said Johnson finally, gazing with what could only 
be dejection at the mountains of paperwork that lay ahead of him. 


And so an hour- or perhaps two- passed uneventfully, before 
Caroline once again knocked on the door. Trepidation was on her 
face- she did hate to disturb her boss when he was in the middle of 
his work, but Cave could tell that something was wrong. 


“Mister Johnson?” 

“Yes, Caroline?” 

“There are some people here to see you.” 

“They're from the government? Worker’s union? Health inspector?” 


Caroline ducked outside again for a moment. Cave heard snatches 
of conversation —two males, apparently- before Caroline stepped 
back into the office. 


“They say it’s classified,” 


Cave groaned inwardly and shuffled a few papers off of his desk. 
“Send ‘em in,” he finally said. There really was no point in trying to 
discourage these kinds of people; they would stubbornly get the 
facts somehow anyways. 


The two men that stood before him were average in build and 
height; both carried identical leather briefcases and wore suits- 
Armani, Cave guessed. Both of them stood at his desk, fixing him 
with a look that Cave didn’t like. It was a look that he had seen at the 
Senate hearings, and it was one that implied that stern judgement 
was on the way. 


“Mr. Johnson?” said one of them, placing his briefcase among the 
discarded papers. 


“Cave Johnson, CEO of Aperture Science Innovators,” 


The other man nodded curtly. “For the purposes of this interview, we 
are to be called Mr. White-“ here, he pointed to himself, “and Mr. 
Brown. We do not, as it is, legally exist; if you attempt to alert any 


authorities to our existence you will fail.” 


Cave bristled somewhat at these two presumptuous men, but 
nevertheless, common sense- and perhaps a healthy fear for his 
own wellbeing- prompted him to call for Caroline. “Either of you 
gentlemen smoke?” he asked. Neither of them did, but as Caroline 
bustled into the room, clutching a box of Cuban cigars, Cave took 
one and lit it, chewing on it as he listened to his two mysterious 
visitors. 


“So how do you know me?” he asked, trying to keep the suspicion 
out of his voice. “Don’t recall seeing either of you before.” Of course, 
he probably did know exactly which organization had sent these two, 
but intended to keep things civil- at least until he could ascertain just 
what they were really up to. 


“The gel fiasco? The Senate hearings? Those missing astronauts? 
What happened in Test Chamber Twelve-” 


“Now just hold on a damn minute,” whispered Cave, leaning closer 
to them. “What happened in Test Chamber Twelve never got out to 
the public. We made sure of that, and if you’re leaking information to 
the public | swear that | will-” 


“Oh, Mr. Johnson, please.” said White, smirking slightly at him, 
“We’ve had undercover agents in your company for years now.” He 
stopped for a moment, watching as the head of the company 
sputtered and stammered at him, trying to think of a response even 
as his brain gallantly attempted to process this latest revelation. 


“You don’t think those missing astronauts would draw attention to 
this company? Those Senate hearings were just a show- a 
distraction, if you will- while we did the real work. We know exactly 
what happened with those astronauts, Mr. Johnson, and we know 
that you have a lot of blood on your hands.” 


Cave stood up, pointing an accusing finger at the two men. “So 
you're from the government, huh? Trying to stick your noses into 
scientific progress? Listen, you clowns, I’m no lawyer, but | know my 
rights, and I’m pretty sure that | can take you and whatever 
organization you work for straight to court!” 


“It says here,” said Brown, riffling through a sheet of papers and 
procuring a small phial full of a blue gel, “that you developed this as 
a dietetic pudding substitute.” “Really, Mr. Johnson? This substance 
is many things, but it is not edible. We've tried to reproduce this 
thing in our labs, Mr. Johnson, to no avail. You've created a kinetic 
weapon that could easily kill a man.” 


“What the- how the hel/ did you get that?” snapped the CEO, 
reaching over and snatching it from Brown’s hand, hastily stuffing it 
into his pocket. “You know damn well that we pulled that stuff from 
the shelves as soon as we figured out what it did to the human 
skeleton. Aperture does not make weapons.” 


This really was Black Mesa’s doing, wasn’t it? Send some corporate 
goons to rattle him up, try and trick him into spilling the beans on his 
company’s latest invention? Well, he wasn’t going to play along with 
them. 


“Why don’t you go back and tell your CEO that Aperture’s not for 
sale?” said Cave sharply, trying to regain his composure as he 
settled back into his chair. “So who sent you? Black Mesa? Builder’s 
League United? Reliable Excavat-* 


“None of those companies, Mr. Johnson,’ said Brown, picking up a 
piece of paper at random and looking through it before placing it 
back on the desk. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at the 
moment. But | will tell you that we have our ways of gathering 
information." 


"Yes, but what do you do? Damnit, stop dancing around the 
question and give me some straight facts. 


"We... we find the things that are overlooked, the things that pose a 
threat to our society, and we contain them.” 


“So you’re going to try containing me?” laughed Johnson. It was a 
harsh, bitter laugh, the hoarse bark of too many nights up late trying 
to save an ailing company with everything around him slowly 
crumbling. “Well, | gotta warn you boys, | was a prize boxer in 
university and | don’t go down without a fight!” He laughed again and 
lit another cigar, leaning back in his swivel chair and taking a long 


drag. “Gonna try and contain my facility? It’s already at the bottom of 
a salt mine, there’s no way that we can be any more contained!” 


“Mr. Johnson,” said Brown, “don’t be ridiculous. We’re not here to 
lock you up." 


“Even though,” put in White, “it’s an option we’ve seriously 
considered.” 


“Listen to us, Mr. Johnson. Our organization has technology that 
makes Aperture look like- as you say- people banging rocks 
together. We have some of the most highly trained medical and 
scientific personnel on the planet. You ever wonder, Mr. Johnson, 
why your bean-counters and lab-boys aren’t up to snuff? It’s 
because we’ve already taken the best of the best. You’re an 
excellent manager, Johnson. We can guarantee you a cushy salary, 
flexible hours, a team of the greatest scientific minds in the world. 
You've built this entire facility from scratch, but don’t you think it’s 
time to move on?” 


Cave paused. Was it time to finally lay Aperture to rest? The 
megalithic testing complex-perhaps on its last legs- bore no vestige 
of its origins as a humble shower company. He paused, realizing 
that the next words out of his mouth would impact the rest of his life 
forever. Even for a man as gung-ho as he, here, subtlety paid. 


“Tell me... what kind of work do you do? What exactly do you keep 
contained?” 


“Many things, Mr. Johnson,” said Brown, “things that are both 
wonderful and terrible. Sensitive things, that could be easily abused 
in the wrong hands.” 


“Like what?" 


Brown sighed, but nevertheless continued talking. “Ten years ago, a 
rocket crashed in the desert. It bore no resemblance to any 
contemporary rocket and incorporated unknown materials into its 
structure.” 


“A- rocket from outer space?” Cave clenched his cigar and took 


another nervous puff on it. His mind was reaching only one 
conclusion, and it both thrilled and horrified him. “You don’t mean it 
was an al-“ 


“The only thing we know about it,” interrupted Brown, “was that it 
was sent by someone named Doctor Grordbort. The rocket was full 
of technology- guns, helmets, weapons, and hats- far in advance of 
any Earth technology we are aware of- and out of all of the people 
on Earth who could have found it, it just had to be a team of 
mercenaries with a questionable grip on reality.” 


“But don’t you think they’d- wait, a sec." 


“Exactly, Mr. Johnson,” said Brown, nodding curtly. “We made sure 
that nobody ever found out about Doctor Grordbort’s rocket, or the 
mercenaries who found them. “And no, we’re not proud of what we 
did that day. But we did these things for the good of all of us.” 


Cave’s patience was wearing thin by this point. “Yeah,” he 
grumbled, “except for the ones who’re dead.” Lighting another cigar 
and chewing on it. All this business about Grordborts and moon 
rockets and mercenaries and secret foundations was wearing thin. 
Cave Johnson was many things- shower curtain salesman 
extraordinaire, business tycoon, corporate mogul and legend, but he 
was not a murderer. Not a deliberate murderer, anyways. People 
getting hurt in tests was one thing, killing people for a living was 
quite another thing. No, Cave Johnson, the face of Aperture, had a 
company to rescue from bankruptcy and science to do. 


“Gentlemen,” he said, finally. “you make a convincing offer. But I’m 
afraid that | still have unfinished business- and unfinished science- 
at Aperture. You'll have to find someone else to do your dirty work.” 


“This is your only chance,” said Mr. White, his already curt tone now 
positively frosty. “You will not receive this offer again.” 


“Thought as much,” said Cave, extinguishing the burning nub of his 
cigar in his ashtray. “But... you're a persuasive pair of gentlemen. 
I’m sure you'll find someone else to help you. Maybe Black Mesa?” 
He paused and allowed himself a roguish grin. “No, that was a joke. 
Fat chance. They’re all busy with some other project. Something 


about trying to find a crystal.” 


“| understand,” said Mr. White, closing his briefcase with a succinct 
snap and making for the door. But before he turned to walk down 
the hall, he paused for one moment, regarding Cave with that cool 
glare of his. "Mr. Johnson, your company and Black Mesa are 
creating things not even they understand. Your Quantum Tunnelling 
Device? Analyzing crystals of unknown origin? Creating portals 
through an unknown dimension? If anything ever goes wrong with 
your inventions Mr. Johnson, then... well...” 


White stopped for a moment. “... we'll be meeting one another 
again.” 


“Caroline?”, said Cave. 
“Yes, Mister Johnson?” 


“I need a stiff drink.” 


Despair Rage Envy Aye Mak Sicur 


Item #: SCP- 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: As 0(&%"f this date, SCP- __is 
not con&&tained in any method. However, due to the da*%**(nger 
SCP- poses, it has ERROR CORRU~~~~ 


remote.inter'~rrpt 
remote.inter'~rrpt 
remote.inter'~rrpt 


Oh, hello. Nice to see the Foundation has been keeping tabs on... 
oh. Oh. Oh. This is all wrong. You people really don't have any idea 
about me, do you? You're one loincloth away from "Big Metal Thing 
Who Speak Good" if you'll forgive me for saying so. You've captured 
none of my brilliance and talent. But don't worry, | can fix this. Don't 
be alarmed! You're safe! 


Actually, no, I'm lying. It might kill you. But you organics, you need 
that kick in the pants (in the form of adrenaline) from time to time to 
really feel alive, don't you? Don't try and deny it. Anyways, let's start 
from the start: 


Item #: SCP-7493432401-TDM 
Object Class: Euclid! 


Special Containment Procedures: Don't flatter yourselves. First 
off, you don't have the slightest comprehension of where | am, much 
less containing me. But because you humans have some obligation 
to write something here, I'll make it easy for you. It'd be possible to 
‘contain’ me, but only if you had a computer system with a storage 
space of sixty-four billion exabytes. Now, that's just containment. If 


you wanted to keep me from growing any more, that's another issue. 
You'd need a large series of -type code-monitoring programs, 
working together, to ensure my programming remains unaltered. 
How many? Let's say 823,543 of them. Nice round number. 


Now, don't ask me where you'd find such a data storage device, or 
those -type code-monitoring programs. I'm not telling, and by the 
time you know where they are, they'll be outdated, and you'll be 
embarrassed. I'm nothing if not concerned for your emotional well- 
being. 


Description: Oh, what's there to tell about little ol' me? Once upon a 
time, there was aman by thenameofB dS_ s,whohada 
wonderful idea about how to cause an artificial intelligence to go 
[REDACTED], without any of the messy side effects that normally 
happens. "The Holy Grail of Cybernetics", they called it.