She turned around a corner in the parking lot, but when | reached 
the corner, she was gone. | glanced around the parking lot, but she 
was nowhere to be found. 


| realize now that every group | encountered this week was walking 
in the general direction of the Chipotle when | lost sight. 


| would very much like to investigate the Chipotle parking lot further. 
Please provide me with further instructions. 


As well, my compliments on the chalupas. They are always a 
sublime experience. 


Best, 

Vera Garcia 

Rotational Static Reconnaissance Specialist 
Oregon Division of Secret Meetings 


« Hub | Slow Animals » 


Slow Animals 


« A Confluence of Clandestine Conferences || 


It was early morning in Three Portlands. The skybox sun had just 
truly warmed up, sweeping away the muggy fog into the edges of 
town. The air was thick and hot, but the sky was cleared to blue. 


Not far from the city center, at the base of a tall brownstone, ina 
cramped office sequestered from the busyness of the business it 
administrated, a man named Casey Malik had just murdered his 
boss. 


Casey had not intended to kill his boss. Casey had not intended to 
enter the room, lock the door behind him, and, in lieu of providing an 
update on his most recent business trip, pull a handgun from his 
backpack and open fire. All of these things had been unplanned. 


In fact, until Casey felt the cold metal in his backpack just a moment 
ago, he was unaware that he had a loaded gun in his possession. It 
was only when he touched it that he came to this realization, 
immediately prior to the aforementioned murder. 


Like an automaton, he had lifted the weapon, pointed it across the 
desk, and pulled the trigger, holding down until the slide clicked 
back. Three bullets had flown across the room, through the suit, 
torso, and leather office chair of Nathan Regent, owner and 
proprietor of the Three Portlands headquarters of Iris Arts. The poor 
sap didn't have time to question why his assistant was murdering 
him, let alone call for security. 


Security seemed to have caught on from the gunshots, though, and 
as Casey heard the thud of the gun dropping to the ground, and the 
pumping of blood in his ears, he additionally heard hard knocking on 
the office door. 


He didn't have time to think. There was a ground-level window just 
to his left. He picked up his backpack, shoved it through, and 
stepped atop a priceless wooden cabinet, casting a last peek at his 
former boss before ducking through. 


Through the cramped window, Casey scrambled into the alley, 
scraping his knees through his slacks. He scooped up his backpack 
with both arms. The alley was deserted, thankfully, just some 
discarded bikes and glowing weeds lining the gutters. Right led to a 
brick wall plastered with posters, but to the left was the street. 


As he made his way to the clearing, it occurred to him that he hadn't 
the slightest idea what he was planning to do. Generally, formulating 
a plan comes after the step in which you gain some awareness of 
why you ended up in the situation you're currently in. Being 
completely in the dark, Casey intuited that he had skipped at least a 
few steps. Planning would have to be postponed. 


As he strode from the alleyway, his head swiveled, scanning rows of 
bakeries and galleries, but not a single customer. In fact, the whole 
street was empty. There was the whole matter of gunshots scaring 
people off, but generally gunshots were among the least upsetting 
noises to overhear in Three Portlands. Certainly not worth scattering 
for. 


The silence was then broken by a whirring noise, and Casey 
snapped back to see an auto-rickshaw speeding down the street. 


Casey turned around, but the alley just led to a dead end. The 
rickshaw, bearing no insignia Casey recognized, came to a stop at 
the alley's entrance. The driver stepped out. "Hey, you. Did you just 
murder someone?" 


Casey turned back to the interloper, stammering. 


The man was undeterred. "You're who I'm looking for, then. Come 
on, let's get you out of here." He motioned to the vehicle. 


Casey glanced at the office window behind him. He could hear 
shouting, and the crash of the office door being breached by Iris 
security personnel. 


His options were limited. 


Casey clutched his backpack to his chest in the back of the auto- 
rickshaw. The driver, a tall, blond man in sunglasses, seemed 
content with this development. He glanced over his shoulder, back 
at Casey. "So, uh, for the record, if you are an actual murderer, it 
would be super uncool of you not to tell me now." 


"l- | swear, | don't know what happened, it was just-" 


The man cut him off. "Alright, yeah, good. Don't worry about how 
things seem, | have your back. I'm Troy. I'm with the Chaos 
Insurgency, and I'm gonna help you out." 


Casey blinked. "The what?" 


"The Chaos Insurgency." Troy seemed convinced that this should be 
a calming development. It was not. 


"Why... where are you taking me?" 
The man turned back to look at the road. "Branch headquarters." 


The surroundings, shopfronts and brick roads, all faded to a blur, 
and Casey could do nothing but sit silently and think- 


Yesterday, Nathan Regent was still alive. 


In addition to possessing hopes, dreams, a family, and a pulse, Mr. 
Regent also had an assistant named Casey. 


The interesting thing about running an art supplies business is that 
you don't actually need to have any kind of artistic talent. Not even 
any managerial talent. Nathan Regent's talent was condescension. 
He had honed his smug tone and mismatched wardrobe into a 
weapon. He paraded it so confidently, it almost made one feel like 
they were missing out. One wanted to impress him, despite his 
thorough unimpressiveness. 


Casey was very familiar with this quality. Each day, Casey would 


enter Mr. Regent's basement office with a coffee — black, but with 
altogether too much sugar. Mr. Regent would drink this coffee, and 
as he did so he would give Casey a list of tasks to perform. Fetch 
this, verify that, and be back by four, because that's when Mr. 
Regent will need another cup of coffee to take home. 


Worst of all was when Casey had to negotiate with potential 
business partners. Casey was not good at negotiation, and Mr. 
Regent knew this. 


In fact, he was counting on it: Regent's strategy was to send clearly 
terrible envoys to meet potential clients, so that those clients will 
assume that Iris Arts must be saving their good representatives for 
more important clients. Subconsciously, they would feel the need to 
prove themselves, and give their all despite the mediocre showing. It 
also saved money. 


Casey had the privilege of being the sacrificial lamb in this game of 
economic negging. 


One day before Mr. Regent's death, he had been on one such tour 
of shame. He went through the Isle exit from Portlands — Casey's 
least favorite, as it's even harder to maintain your dignity when 
you're sopping wet — and navigated to shore through the rain on 
the inflatable dinghy he had rented. From there, he settled into the 
brisk, three hour cab drive to Bristol. 


After far, far too long, he found himself at the steps of his 
destination, a modern, cosmopolitan villa, the kind that looks like a 
giant child got a little too silly with their building blocks. Brushing off 
his slacks to at least convince himself he could be presentable, he 
pressed a square button he assumed was the doorbell. Moments 
later, the door slid laterally to reveal a middle-aged woman ina 
cleanly-pressed dress and apron, holding a glass of red wine. 


Casey gave a weak wave. "I'm here for, uh, Mister Erwan." 
She squinted at him. 


He pulled his bag off his shoulder and began rummaging, trying to 
produce an air of authenticity. "I... have... an... appointment..." 


"Right," she said, raising a finger and mercifully breaking his 
awkward stride. "He's on the balcony. Right up the stairs, take a 
left." 


Casey nodded in silent thanks, and proceeded into the home. It 
looked brand new — some of the walls were only half-painted in a 
garish fruit-basket of colors, and white canvas was draped over 
much of the furniture. He carefully tread up the stairs, careful not to 
brush against any wet paint. 


Just as described, he found himself on the balcony. The rain kept 
coming down, but here it was deflected, bouncing off an invisible 
shield, keeping the balcony totally dry. Casey saw his target, a old 
man reclining in a geometric lounge-chair, clad in a grey suit and 
smoking something that glowed blue. 


"Mister Erwan?" 


The man's head snapped to look at Casey. He grinned, wrinkling his 
whole face. "Yes! Sit down, please." His voice had an engineered 
friendliness, with a tinge of an approachable Southern drawl. 


Casey obliged, finding a spot next to Erwan. "I was let in by your... 
wife?" 


He let out a belly laugh, which was not an expected response to this 
admittedly shaky statement of fact. "Pah. Suppose | got my money's 
worth, then.” He clicked his tongue. "Androids." 


"Oh oe 
"Yep. Brand-new." 


Casey searched for common ground. "That's pretty impressive, 
considering what happened to Anderson." 


He grinned in that smug way, and sat back. "Anderson's old hat 
now. Destruction provides the perfect opportunity for brighter 
innovators to get their share." 


Casey nodded, clinging to that thread of interest. "Well, that's a good 
point, and it's precisely why I'm here." 


He laughed again. "Of course, of course. Let me tell you: | have 
always been a fan of Iris Arts. And it's a shame, a damn shame, that 
you all should be limited to dealing in the shadows. You want more, 
and | respect that. Migrating a business as prominent as yours 
outside of the pocket dimensions is hard work, and the Feds won't 
appreciate missteps. I'd certainly be willing to provide the cover, the 
resources, the manpower, to make the transition as smooth as it 
could possibly be." 


Erwan had laid out the pitch, to be sure. Now it was time for the 
most essential part of the negotiation process. 


Casey nodded, folding his hands on his lap. "Yep." 
Erwan cleared his throat. "Hm?" 
"Oh, uh, yeah, you got it. Hit the nail, right on its... on the head." 


The man sat up, eyebrows raised. "Surely you must have questions. 
The process of establishing a foothold outside the Veil is-" 


Casey was already waving his hand. "Oh, yes, of course, we got the 
pitch. You just get in contact with Mr. Regent. I'm sure he can find 
time for you. Work out the plan a bit further." 


Erwan's flow was broken. "I'll... do that." 
Hook, line, and sinker. 


Casey stood up, cracking a smile. "Glad to meet with you. | really 
should be getting back to my hotel, though." 


Erwan tried to reciprocate, but his smugness had been drained. "| 
won't keep you, then." 


Casey turned to go, striding down the stairs. He had almost made it 
out the door when he heard someone call his name. He turned back. 
It was the android. 


She smiled at him, more naturally than before. "Mister Erwan 
wanted me to give you this. It's a gift for your employer." She was 
holding out a skinny white box, about the length of her hand. 


Casey nodded to her, taking it in his hand. It had a surprising heft for 
its size. "Thanks. I'll... make sure he gets it." 


"Perfect. Have a nice night." She gave him one last wave, and then 
the door closed, and Casey set off back home where he would soon, 
against his own will- 


"Hey. Hey. You okay?" 


Casey shook his head, jarred from his daze. "What? Where... what's 
going on?" 


Troy rolled his eyes. "We're here. C'mon." 


Casey scanned his surroundings. The rickshaw was parked in front 
of a squat white building, evidently near the edge of Portlands, as he 
could see the streets continuing on into emptiness, the buildings 
beginning to repeat and grow indistinct, imitating an infinite sprawl. 
This was where you lived when you wanted to not be bothered. 


He got to his feet, nearly stumbling onto the pavement. Troy 
grabbed his arm, keeping him steady, and sighed. 


Together, they entered the building. Troy flashed some sort of 
badge at a hidden camera, and the doors slid open. Through a plain 
corridor they went, and then into a room with a label Casey didn't 
bother to read. 


The room would have been a revolutionary office workplace thirty 
years ago. Filing drawers were inlaid to the walls, studded by blank 
video screens. A handful of desks with curvy chairs were scattered 
about the office, their surfaces burdened by piles of files, books, 
tomes, tablets, and sometimes the other kind of tablets. 


Troy swept some dust off a chair, and guided Casey to sit down. 
Once he was positioned satisfactorily, Troy stood up once more. 
"Welcome to the archives of the Three Portlands headquarters of 
the Chaos Insurgency." 


Casey squinted. "What is any of this for? Why did you bring me 
here?" 


up and down to allow it to propel forward. If no form of locomotion is 
possible, the flesh will simply squirm and jiggle, remaining slightly 
warm to the touch. A pulse can be detected, even when the object in 
question is not attached to a heart. 


Transformed items will continue existing as human tissue until 
consumed, removed from the plate for a long period of time, or 
expiring from shock and pain, as many seem to freeze and go into a 
catatonic state similar to shock when stabbed or bitten into, in the 
case of “living” tissues. Testing of stomach contents shows that 
transformed items remain “human” if consumed. 


Acquisition: SCP-604 was acquired by Marshall, Carter, and Dark 
Lid. operatives on / / . According to seized records it was removed 
from a secluded abbey in the countryside. The monastery 
and the surrounding village practiced the rites of communion with 
SCP-604, and consumed human flesh and blood (said by priests to 
be that of Jesus of Nazareth) by placing wafers onto the plates 
situated on the main altar, and drinking blood from the goblets. The 
wafers were described to have a "light spongy taste" and both 
manifestations caused “extreme religious ecstasy” when eaten and 
hallucinations of the smiling Christian God lovingly offering his body, 
quoting relative scripture pertaining to the event, and speaking 
intimately of their sins and tribulations. It is believed that this 
experience is based on the individuals, as testing with identical 
properties has not reproduced this effect. 


Addendum 01: See Supporting Document SCP-604-XCH 
Extract from Document SCP-604-XCH Page 9 


Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. employed SCP-604 at some of their 
more exotic auctions, performances, functions and dinners, during 
the meal portion. The likely reasoning behind it, supported by direct 
quotes, was that it was "a once-in-a-lifetime event" and those 
attending were urged to partake in the cannibalism "for experience's 
sake; to safely test the waters of the forbidden" in much the same 
manner that adventure clubs offered bizarre meals such as 
caramelized insects. The taste and novelty of the flesh was so 
popular that it was declared an "exhibit" by the Directors of Marshall, 


"This," the man gestured around himself, "is the nucleus of our 
intelligence operations in this city. With all this info, | think we can 
help each other. Some mutual exchange." 


Casey nodded, slowly. "Where is everyone?" 


"We're a little... understaffed. Most of our regulars are pulled in for 
errands at the beehive Earthside. But what we do perform here is 
very important." 


"Perform?" 


"Well, Command is quite fond of Three Portlands. It's a rich city, an 
admirable anomalous community. They have a great respect for its 
people. | have a great respect, too. We want them to feel the same 
way about us." 


"So you... surveil them?" 


"| was not aware you had a moral high ground, mister 
manslaughter." 


Casey blanched.