Fullbrush: If you want to cooperate, | will 
speak with my superiors and we can arrange 
something. 


<End Log> 
Interviewed: SCP-828 
Interviewers: Dr. Isaac Rosenthal and Teriaq LeChatlier 


Foreword: The following interview was conducted in full 
cooperation with SCP-828, following negotiations with 
Site Administration. Dr. Isaac Rosenthal has been tasked 
with establishing biographical and anomalous details 
regarding SCP-828 


+ show block 
<Begin Log> 


Rosenthal: Alright then, 828, why don't we 
start with some history. Tell me about yourself. 


SCP-828: Where do you want me to start? 


Rosenthal: The beginning? Whatever part of 
your life you'd consider to be a beginning. 


SCP-828: My memory is more torn than my 


Discovered Attack 


The box had arrived in Site 17, and been accepted as an object 
worthy of containment. Its sender had been correct that it could not 
be opened from the outside, at least, not by them. Nor could they 
see what was actually inside it. Like any hunt, the best way to 
appeal to prey was via their hunger or curiosity. The box was an 
appeal to both. 


The trap, however, had sprung too soon. The thing inside, bought 
and trained at disgusting expense, had proven impatient. Even 
more, it had also proven unable to see its quarry with as much 
clarity as they had been led to believe. At least it'd had the sense to 
slither back in and wait, but their hand had been tipped. Still, he was 
not a man to throw out a tool, no matter how inappropriate. The time 
would come again, even if it was not the one they had hoped for. 


Mr. Dark tapped a hard nail against his thin teeth, thinking. The 
greatest opportunity for acquisitions in years, and it was all going 
tits-up. Their old doll, Kramer, was finally out of the toybox. In the 
wrong hands, yes, but her random lethality and crippled psyche 
could still tip against those same hands. That twit Scud had been 
mopped up, finally. He'd stopped being useful months ago, and the 
expenditures could now be routed to better purpose, but it still 
rankled. More troubling, Cutridge had somehow fallen prey to that 
fat lush Harken at the worst possible time. 


Incompetence everywhere. Lack of vision. Even worse, pure profit 
being flushed down the sewer by the hour. The kumiho had 
escaped, and none of his people were even looking for it? A 
gorgeous, deadly creature, able to change form and slaughter at 
will... what could be done with that lean and hungry spirit once it 
was properly brought to heel? Recording options alone could cover 
a good portion of this budget hemorrhage. 


Dark's lips curled in a wintery, predatory smile. He played with a 


pen, doodling blasphemy as he looked over a small spray of photos 
on his desk. He lifted one, depicting a hulking brute with a bag head, 
blurry and unaware of the observation... or uncaring. The Bagman 
had been content to do its own business for some time now, rising 
from time to time to devil those witless enough to still hold to magic 
and faith. Rogue, yes, dangerous, yes, but sometimes a mad dog 
was better then no dog at all. Perhaps others should be made aware 
of its "usefulness." No need to mention the absolute disdain for 
authority and control. 


Dark hated to travel. He had not enjoyed any of his visits to the 
States since helping that Anderson fellow set up his factory. Too bad 
Anderson was gone; HE wouldn’t have let things get out of control 
like this, or at the bloody least, gleaned a profit from it. He prepared 
a note to Marshall and Carter. They would not be pleased — they 
liked Dark out of day-to-day operations as much as he wished to 
stay out of them, warmly ensconced in The Museum. Still his best 
"purchase" to date, regardless of the undying animosity of The 
Library and its parasites. Still, sometimes it was required to stir the 
ashes, remind everyone of what their damn jobs were. They were 
here to provide wonders beyond limit for their discerning club 
members. 


It was about bloody time to cause some wonder. 


He snatched up a glossy black phone headset, punching numbers 
and causing a distant phone to ring. Dark sighed, tapping fingers on 
the smooth dome of a yeti skull. Finally the other end picked up, and 
he shifted forward, starting to scribble. 


"Were you off for a bloody coffee break, Cheryl? So sorry to upset 
your routine, but | need the New York club notified to have my 
rooms ready within the hour. I'll be flying out shortly, have Mr. 
McCreedy ready up a ten-man team for quick action, have Bobby 
head it up." 


".,. What? Why the bloody, bloody hell was he committed? ... 
Really? That's tragic, Cheryl, but that's no reason to take him off 
active roll. Get him loose and cleaned up and over to the club 
immediately. I'm going to get this goddamn rubbish back on track 
manually, and | want him right on the point." 


"... That's a good girl, Cheryl. Oh, and one more thing, dearie. Call 
Boomer, and have him blow a little kiss to Agent Harken. He's 
thumbed his sodding nose at us a bit too much, it's time he knows 
that we have taken notice." 


He hung up, leaning back and looking up to the bust of Caligula over 
the door. Mr. Dark smiled with true warmth, tapping his lips. That 
dear boy Boomer... not the sharpest razor in the apple, but a sweet 
lad all the same. He had the rather useful opinion that anything 
worth doing was worth doing with massive property damage. 
Inelegant, yes, but the idea of Harken burning or splattering in his 
bed was enough to warm even Mr. Dark's pinched heart. 


Carter was waiting on the tarmac when Dark's jet landed. Various 
attendants, along with the New York club director were ranked 
behind him, every one of them with the same strained, nervous 
smile. Nothing good ever came from Mr. Dark visiting the States. It 
immediately put him in poor humor at the best of times, and with 
things as they were right now... 


Carter repressed a shiver as the door slowly opened. Two tiny Asian 
attendants (identical female twins) scrambled out, carrying a cigar 
case and a opened umbrella. Next was Dark's longest-running 
secretary Cheryl, looking harried but still hard as a iron wrecking 
ball. 


And then the puppeteer himself, Mr. Dark, elegantly shabby, like a 
bitter old owl, snapping at everyone in reach, hitting his attendants 
with the tip of his cane when they fell so much as a step behind. 
Staff swarmed to the jet to get his voluminous luggage as Dark 
snatched up a cigar, the attendant ready with the match almost 
before he had it in his mouth. He turned, and caught sight of Carter 
standing at attention. He turned and faced him, a thick cloud of 
smoke pouring slowly from his nostrils. Carter stiffened, swallowing 
thickly. 


Oh shit, here we go. 


Dark crossed in a haze of smoke. Behind him, an unlucky porter 
dropped a heavy steamer trunk of luggage with a loud crash. "Fire 


him," Dark said, without breaking stride. Carter felt some of the 
tension leave him. Dark was in a good mood: the last man to 
damage one of his possessions had been shot in the head. 


All too soon he was there, glaring up at Carter, the thick and oddly 
spicy smell of his cigars curling around him like strangling hands. 
"Well, so good to see you, old boy,” he said. "The way things have 
been I'd assumed you were dead.” 


"It's nice to see you too, Dark. No need to be snide." 


"Oh, but | feel there is, my good man. You see, | give you and 
Marshall all the rope you need, and it seems you've made a noose, 
put it around your own necks, and are ready to jump off the bloody 
chair with it. You're letting these bastards run circles around you, 
and you're ignoring it because everything is all right at the club. Just 
because the fire hasn't reached the back yard yet doesn't mean it's 
not still on the way.” He hissed, pulling deeply on his cigar and 
glaring. 


"| understand that Dark, we've just been forced to move a little 
slower because of the publicity. | have a team-" 


"Oh, bugger your team. Who do you have, Finnegan and that twat 
Logan on it? It is, isn't it? Those two wastes of tissue aren't worth 
the air they breathe. I've got a ten-man staging now, and I'm putting 
Bobby on this." 


"Bobby?" Carter almost gasped, eyes wide. "Isn't that a little... 
much? | mean, think of the Thanksgiving incident, I'm not sure if he's 
comp-" 


"Oh sod off, you twit, Bobby's on this now, and | want your fat 
fingers out of it. A fox girl who can shape-shift into any desire or 
dalliance is running around free, and you've sat. A woman who can 
cause or end any sickness is strutting about like a goddamn starlet, 
and you've twiddled your thumbs. You begged me to be here, 
Carter, your silence screamed to me again, and I'm going to handle 
things for you." 


"Dark, goddammit, enough wi-" 


Dark smiled then, and Carter didn't feel nervous or angry anymore. 
He was afraid. That was a smile of a man who knew too much about 
you, who was fumbling your dirty secrets about in his dirty head. 
Dark slid closer, his cold hand pulling Carter down to look him in the 
eye, close enough to kiss. 


"You called me before, Carter, and | fixed things then too. I've 
always done right by you, dearie, even if | am a bit... gruff. So tell 
me, sweetheart, do you have something to say?" 


"| asked if you had any opinion to express, Carter." 
"... none at all, Mister Dark." 


"That's a good lad." Dark released him then, patting his chest. "Have 
the girls draw a bath for me, | need a cup of coffee and | have to 
piss." He steamed away in a haze of smoke, throwing the lit cigar at 
a staff member who he felt was moving too slowly. Carter watched, 
breathing slowly with effort. Now, win, lose or draw, he'd been 
benched. Dark was calling the shots now, he'd been pushed aside, 
like a child who'd been playing in the kitchen. There was no telling 
what Dark would do now... there was so much to collect. 


"This is Kramer." 
"Hey, sweetie. Are you still at the store?" 
"lam going to punch you in the throat. No, I'm on the way back." 


"Can you get me a burger and a cup of coffee? The machine at the 
hotel doesn't have shit in it." 


"Harken, are you drunk?" 


"No, no, no... well, maybe, why, do | sound drunk? | was drunk last 
night | think, does that count?" 


"Damn it Harken, you need to be lucid." 


"Oh come on, I'm as lucid as | ever am. You were gone for two days, 
what am | supposed to do to keep amused? A man can only 
masturbate so much." 


"Sweet lord, Harken, sober the hell up fast. If you're like this when | 
get there, I'm getting a transfer. After | beat you senseless." 


"Oh stop... get me food, please? Please? No booze for the rest of 
the week, | swear." 


"It's Saturday, Harken." 
"Oh... well, for a while then, OK? I'm really... Kramer, | need to go." 
"What? What the hell is going on?" 


"There's a fat man with no shirt yelling in the parking lot, and he said 
my name." 


"Harken, wh-" 


He hung up without looking at the phone, eyes glued to the fat man 
on the ground floor. The hotel was a big, cheap horseshoe-shaped 
building on four levels. He'd gone to the third floor on the opposite 
side to hunt for snacks (and, ideally, medication for his throbbing 
head), and had an excellent view of his hotel room on the ground 
floor. The big man with no shirt was standing in front of the door to 
Harken and Kramer's hotel room. Harken leaned on the railing, 
squinting in the sun and watching with more amusement then fear. 


The big man hammered at the door, then stepped back. He was 
rather fat, long hair, scraggly beard... he looked like he'd had a 
rough go at life... missing three fingers on his left hand, too. 
Something about him rang a bell, somewhere. The fat man laughed, 
then yelled in a strained voice. 


"Wakey Wakey, Harken! Mr. Dark sends his love!" 
Mr. Dark? As in MC & D? As in the people- 


Why would this slob know about th- 


Missing three fingers. 
Seemed unstable. 
Boomer. 

FUCK. 


Harken tried to take cover, but the exposed walkways offered 
nothing for protection. The fat man pressed a small device in his 
hand, and the entire left side of the hotel vanished in a oily black 
explosion. The walkway, held up by little more then rusty bolts and 
hope, dropped with a shrieking crash, taking Harken with it. He 
screamed, trying to find something soft to hit in the kaleidoscope of 
concrete and metal. He failed, crashing to the ground flat, most likely 
cracking several ribs, plus a few other things he would have 
preferred uncracked. 


He lay there, the wind knocked out of him, groaning and slowly 
trying to turn over. He didn't have to, as a meaty hand grabbed and 
hauled him up like a side of beef. He was suddenly looking into 
Boomer's sweaty, giggling face as he gripped Harken's now-bloody 
shirt. Boomer smiled and giggled more, then smashed his thick, 
stupid skull into Harken's face. It was like being hit by a car. 


"Huh. | Knew you'd be here, Harken, | knew it. Mister Dark never 
tells me wrong, Harken. Do you feel bad, Harken? You look bad, 
Harken. Huh." 


Harken was working on something witty when Boomer's fleshy fist 
smashed into his cheekbone. He moaned, feeling his eye already 
starting to swell, ears still ringing from the blast. Boomer slapped 
him twice. Each hit was like getting hit with a cutting board wrapped 
in a thin layer of padding. 


"Mister Dark wants me to tell you to stop it, Harken. He says that 
you're being too mean and need to stop it, Harken. You got lucky, 
but if you keep it up he's gonna kill you dirty and slow, Harken. Huh. 
Heh. He's so mad at you, Harken. | think I'll kill you, Harken, and 
make Mister Dark happy with me. OK?" 


Boomer followed up this with another fist to his face, then his throat, 
making Harken gasp and croak, trying to wheeze down breath. Over 
the ringing in his ears was an even more annoying and lovely 
sound... sirens. Boomer heard them too, swearing breathlessly as 
he pounded out a few more meaty hits, finally spitting in his face and 
knocking his head on the blacktop. 


"You have a good day, Harken. Huh. Be seeing you later." 


He rose and ran off, leaving Harken pounded and bloody on the 
ground. It seemed like hours later, but finally someone came and 
started fussing over him. He could feel the heat from the burning 
hotel, the throbbing of his own bruised and smashed flesh. Not just 
beaten, no, but beaten by that giggling retard Boomer. He was 
almost unsure what hurt more, his ego or his body. 


Someone he couldn't see washed his face, swabbing away blood 
and grime. 


"What the hell happened?" 
Harken smiled painfully, trying to laugh through pulped ribs. 


"Man, | just got here myself." 


Kramer drove too fast, looking in the rear-view mirror every few 
minutes. Harken looked like a man who'd rode inside a cement 
mixer full of gravel. He moaned occasionally, turning over in his 
deep, drugged sleep. 


She'd seen the explosion just as she pulled off the freeway and 
realized something had gone wrong. Getting to the hotel wasn't 
hard: she'd fought the urge to speed there and proceeded to the site 
at a normal pace. Upon seeing the flashing lights, she'd driven on 
past. Kramer had parked in an alleyway a mile up the road, waited 
for more people to respond, readied her FBI credentials and twisted 
her face to match. After a reasonable delay, she'd threaded her way 
in, drifting to the ambulances with random flash of ID here and there. 


Getting Harken out had been more difficult. She'd been forced to 


create a distraction. Just a little disconnected heart monitor in 
another ambulance, enough to make the focus shift. She'd piggy- 
backed him out through the still-smoking rubble, tossing him into the 
back seat of her car with as much grace as she could muster.