male subjects are present or not. SCP-847 will emit vocalizations 
resembling distressed grunts and screeches, immediately animate, 
and physically attack the woman. During Pattern X behaviors, 
SCP-847's strength and speed are greatly increased, with sprints of 
up to 45 kph and exertion of 40 KN of force having been measured. 
During an attack, SCP-847 will occasionally shatter an appendage 
(usually a finger or toe) in order to produce a sharp edge. 
Furthermore, plastination resin is released from its eyes, mouth, and 
shattered sections of its body. Resin falling in open wounds results 
in a quick hardening of soft tissues that spread until the victim's 
body reaches a composition of a similar polymer as SCP-847. 
Following plastination, SCP-847 will harvest selected body parts 
from the victim corresponding to damaged sections of its own body. 
It will fuse these parts to its body via the resin. Not all damaged 
sections will be repaired in this way. Upon completion of harvesting, 
SCP-847 will return to Pattern Y or Pattern Z behaviors. 


The resin produced by SCP-847 has been shown to have its 
anomalous plastination effects occur only when applied to soft 
tissues of women. The resin has no effect on cadaverous, 
nonhuman, or male tissue. Application of high voltage electricity (in 
excess of 10 kV) will cause a temporary solidification of the resin, 
resulting in SCP-847 becoming inanimate for approximately 5 
minutes, regardless of the behavior pattern expressed at the time. 


Addendum 847-A: Recovery Log 


A federal human trafficking investigation led to the discovery of 
SCP-847 in the basement of an abandoned department store in 
Las Vegas, NV on 8/23/1983, surrounded by partially disassembled 
and broken non-anomalous female mannequins wrapped in plastic 
sheets. FBI agents on the scene witnessed SCP-847 exhibit Pattern 
Y behaviors. Initially thinking it a trafficking victim, agents moved in 
to assist. SCP-847 then switched to Pattern X and attacked one of 
the agents. The agent subdued SCP-847 with her stun gun (leading 
to the discovery of high voltage electricity as a tool for containment) 
and was evacuated from the basement. The UIU was informed of 
the situation. Foundation agents were contacted through regular 
channels and SCP-847 was secured. Despite signs of human 
habitation, the trafficking victims were never found. 


of Project Malleus. We will require additional reports before 
approving anything further. Leave us." 


As De Montfort made his way through the now dark streets back to 
his hotel, a smile crept to his face. He knew informing the 
Foundation of the last Cathar was the right thing to do. With the old 
men finally stirred from their complacency, the world was about to 
find out just how terrible the Wrath of God could be. 


First Day 


Joshua Thomas Eichburg stared in disbelief at the room in front of 
him. It was smaller than any other office he'd seen at the FBI, 
maybe the size of a bedroom. It was the only one he'd seen with no 
windows. Two of the seven overhead lights had burned out. Six 
desks had been shoved up against the walls. At one of them, a short 
woman in a blue suit was tapping away at a computer. At another a 
middle aged man was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. A 
second woman, tall and dark-skinned, was reading through the 
contents of a manilla envelope. None of them noticed him. He 
looked for a good place to put the box of supplies he was carrying. 


“Hey, you must be the new guy!” Joshua felt someone tap his 
shoulder. He turned and saw a scrawny looking young man with 
messy blonde hair smiling at him. “Joshua right?” 


Joshua nodded. “Right.” 


The three people in the office had all turned to look at him now. He 
gave a half hearted wave to them. They turned back to their desks. 


“Ah, ignore them,” said the young man. “They're just jealous.” He 
extended a hand. Joshua shook it. “So, my name's Isaac. | was the 
newest, till you came along. That's Sabrina,” he pointed to the dark- 
skinned woman, “Jessie,” the woman typing, “and Matthew,” the 
man. “Any questions?” 


“This can't be everybody.” 


“It's everybody. The five of us, tasked with handling any and all 
‘unusual incidents’ on the east coast.” 


Without looking up Matthew grunted out, “That's five too many.” 


Isaac shook his head. “Matthew has some strong opinions about the 
usefulness of our group. It's best to ignore him. That's your desk.” 


Joshua put the box on the indicated desk. Like the others in the 
room it was made out cheap plastic, with a marked lack of structural 
integrity. One of the drawers only closed halfway. When the box was 
dropped onto it, it made a long groaning noise. Joshua quickly took 
the box off and placed it on the floor. 


“| want to show you something,” Isaac said. He was standing across 
the room, at another desk. Joshua walked over and saw three 
objects laying on it- a penny, a copy of Action Comics issue 430, 
and a ballerina statuette. 


“This,” said Isaac with a hint of pride, “is the collection.” 
“The collection of what?” 


Isaac just grinned. He held up the penny, turned it over so Joshua 
could see both sides. “I present to you, an ordinary penny.” 


“Amazing,” said Joshua. 


“It gets even better.” Isaac flicked it at the wall. It fell on the desk, 
and he made a dramatic sweep with his hands at it. “Behold.” 


Joshua beheld. Rather than heads or tails, the penny was showing a 
third side, a large eye. Joshua picked it up and turned it over. The 
bottom side was tails. He turned it back and saw the eye had turned 
back to heads. “What the fuck?” 


“It gets cooler,” said Isaac. He was grinning like a child who had just 
gotten away with a particularly nasty bit of mischief. He flipped it 
again, and it showed a picture of George Washington instead of 
Lincoln. A third flip revealed a turkey clutching an olive branch and 
bundle of arrows in its talons. “Wild huh? This is our collection.” 


“Your collection.” 


“Our collection. You're one of us now, hombre. You're looking at 20 
years of UIU heritage.” 


“Right. But there are only three things,” said Joshua. He eyed the 
comic and ballerina. 


“Three unusual things,” said Isaac, and put the penny back up the 
table. “We've found other stuff, but we normally don't get to keep it.” 


Joshua laughed. “What, does somebody take it from you? Big scary 
men in black with funny accents?” 


Before Isaac could respond, Joshua's phone rang. He answered, 
and a voice said “Hello Joshua. This is Skip.” The voice was a 
male's, smooth, clipped, and professional. In the background 
Joshua could hear two people chattering. 


“| don't know anybody named Skip,” said Joshua. When he did, 
Isaac's body seized. Sabrina and Jessie both shot up and hurried 
over to him. Matthew ignored them. 


“Give me the phone!” hissed Sabrina. “Let me talk to him.” 


“Don't give this phone to anybody else,” said the voice. “Just listen. 
You're probably angry and frustrated. We understand that. Your 
future's just been crushed. You've been transferred to an 
underfunded, understaffed unit where agents’ careers go to die. You 
think you'll be stuck for the rest of your life chasing ghosts and 
Bigfoot and other fantasies. Is this correct?” 


“Maybe,” said Joshua. The others were looking at him solemnly. 
“That depends on who this is.” 


“Joshua, we're the people who are here to tell you that you're wrong. 
The work you'll do in the UIU matters greatly. Everything you've 
been told about, it's all real. And you're going to help protect the 
world from it.” 


“I'm not sure | understand.” 


“We'll call. When we do, be sure to pick up.” The voice hung up. 
Joshua looked down at his phone. “What the fuck was that?” 


“Ah,” said Isaac. 


“A great big pile of horseshit, dropped right down your fucking 
britches,” said Matthew. He stamped out the cigarette and stood up. 
“I'm going to go out on a limb here and say they fed you a bit about 


‘saving the world’. Our work being ‘important’. Is that right?” 
Joshua nodded. 


“Let me tell you what they actually meant. We're their gimp. We're 
here to take it up the ass, smile, say ‘thank you sir, may | have 
another’, then go and fetch them a big bundle of grapes and feed it 
to them. They'll call, send us out on some inane fucking errand, then 
pat us on the back and send us packing with a lollipop in hand.” 


“That... | don't think that answers my question,” said Joshua. 


“What Matthew is trying to say, in his own inelegant manner,” said in 
Jessie, “Is that the person lied. We don't know who they are exactly, 
but they're massive. Government scale influence and resources. 
Sometimes they'll call, always with a menial assignment they can't 
be bothered with. They're the ones who take most of what we find, 
like Isaac was saying.” 


“Lovely,” sighed Joshua. “Just when | think this couldn't possibly get 
any more demeaning.” He pulled out his phone and tapped in *69. 
Nothing happened. He tossed it onto the desk. “So that's it then? 
Everything we're going after is actually real, and we can't do 
anything about it.” 


Jessie nodded. 


“We sometimes do things about it,” chimed Isaac. “We can do stuff 
on our own. It's just not very effective.” 


“Do things like find pennies, you mean?” 


“Yes! Exactly like that. We do stakeouts some times. Busts. It's uh, 
normally nothing. But sometimes, you know, we get lucky.” 


Joshua rubbed his temples and looked at Sabrina. “And you? What 
do you think about all this?” 


She shrugged. “I think... it's good that we're not the only people out 
there handling this. If we were the best humanity had to offer, that 
wouldn't be a very good sign, would it?” 


Matthew snorted. 


“Okay. Okay. Maybe this could be a good thing.” Joshua ran his 
fingers through his hair. “At least it means we're not chasing after 
nothing right?” 


The room was silent. 


“Dammit, there has to be something we can do. We must know 
something, right? We have some sort of budget, even if it's fucking 
nothing. We're FBI agents. That means something, right?” 


The room was silent. 


He walked over to his desk and began to unpack the box. “Right.” 


The Man with Oscilloscope Eyes 


The smoking ruin of the black Crown Victoria lay on the side of the 
road, its wheels slowly turning in the air, a massive tree trunk 
piercing the windshield. The tree had blasted through the safety 
glass and through the driver's seat, knocking the steering wheel off 
its column, through the headrest, and into the back seat. A clearly 
unsurvivable accident. 


Except for the young man in the grey duster sitting on top of the 
transmission hump, smoking a cigarette. Clearly a dangerous 
activity given the heavy scent of leaking gasoline in the air. 


The glare of halogen-bright headlights coming down the curve 
interrupted his reverie, so he hopped down from the mangled wreck, 
tossing his still-glowing cigarette butt into the passenger-side seat. 
He climbed up the embankment and stepped into the middle of the 
road, waving a battered Yankees baseball cap over his head. The 
Mitsubishi pulled up beside the wreck, and he walked over to the 
driver's side window, where an obese, balding man with a furrowed 
brow glared up at him angrily. 


"You're late," the young man said, showing him the time on a Mickey 
Mouse watch. "You said you'd be here twenty minutes ago." 


"You said you could take this guy in. What happened?" 
"I'm guessing a little girl happened," the young man said. 
"How the fuck do you figure?" 


"Well, | don't know. You think maybe the little girl whom you told me 
could mess around with electronics might have had something to do 
with the inexplicable failure of my car's transmission system? | 
thought you told me she could only affect computers." 


"Shut up. You're supposed to be the best. My bosses paid a lot of 


money for you. So far you've given us shit. Get in the car." 


The young man walked to the passenger's side without another 
word, tossed his grey duster in the back seat and climbed in. "Little 
girls," he muttered. "It's always little girls. Make a note, if you have a 
chance to fight a seven-story monster or a kindergartener, take the 
monster, you'll live longer." Behind him, the gas fumes had finally 
started to ignite, and blue-yellow flames were licking the upholstery 
of the wrecked Crown Vic. "I'm going to need a new car, and a six- 
man support team,” the young man said. "In addition..." 


"You're getting jack shit." The young man felt cold steel against his 
temple. He glanced up into the rear view mirror. Walther PPK. 
9x17mm. Silver finish. Ivory grips. Stylish gun, must have cost a 
small fortune. "This experiment is over. We're switching back to our 
usual MO, and you're going to hell.” 


"| really wouldn't do that if | were you," the young man said. His 
voice was low, and flat, deliberately cool, like a snake in the rushes. 
"Not with only a gun. I'd recommend a stake and some holy water." 


The fat man laughed. "Shut up. Aren't you a fucking lousy liar.” 


"You shut up. You won't kill me. You paid a lot of money for me, and 
your bosses won't like it if you waste resources." 


"My bosses don't know about you. This is an independent operation. 
Perfect deniability. You were dead the moment that you took the 
contract. Or did you really think that the Foundation would even 
bother with some loser who got kicked out of the GOC?" A fireball 
ignited the night sky as the gas tank of the Crown Vic finally caught 
and lit. In the lurid scarlet light, the fat man's features appeared 
harsh, cruel... yes, even demonic. 


The young man smiled, a wide, mirthless smile showing lots of 
crooked white teeth. "No support. No resources. No replacement 
car. | guess that makes sense." The young man leaned his head 
back and sighed, staring up at the roof of the car. "My mistake. | 
guess I've gotten soft. But one thing that | haven't forgotten..." 


There was a gunshot, and a brief flurry of movement, and then the 


small Mitsubishi leaped forward like a pouncing cat. The tiny car 
swerved off the side of the road and over the edge of the 
embankment, where it tumbled end over end down the rocky ravine 
and crashed, inverted, into a small creek bed at the bottom of the 
hill. Two more gunshots, then silence. 


The young man pulled himself out of the passenger's side window, 
grimacing as he nursed a gunshot wound in the ear. Blood was 
streaming down his face from a cut on the forehead, and his left 
ankle was twisted strangely as he rolled over onto his back, gasping 
for breath. Broken ribs. Definitely broken ribs. 


He grinned up at the starry night sky as he tossed the silver-plated 
Walther into the creek. "As | was gonna say... | never forgot to set 
the car into Park when doing a roadside execution," he wheezed. 


He reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't 
there, realizing only then that his coat was still in the back seat of 
the car. He considered his options. Given the situation, passing out 
seemed like the best course of action. 


So he did. 


First Locke Donation 


Graciously donated by Ms. Pri: 


Of Interest: trans-reality, trans-reality transference, non-entropic, 
device, donation. Cornucopian? 


Asset Summary: A report written by Junior Assistant Secretary 
Rhiannon Locke, of the Committee for African Operations follows: 


Some of you may not have known that | had a sister, Priscilla Locke 
decade ago. Now, she's returned, or rather, another version of her t 


Ms. Priscilla Locke, as you all Know her now, is living witness to the 
carrying around with her, known as the "Anabasis." Long story shor 
started to come apart, and she used the "Anabasis" to come to us. \ 
the "Anabasis", she tracked me down and graciously offered to hel¢ 
"First Locke Donation".