“Because. | don’t know.” Emma frowned, neither of them knew 
anybody who left town that came back. They had seen a group of 
travelers, once, and observed them curiously, but they had left the 
second they stumbled across Joe’s own footprints, hastening away. 
Perhaps worried about contact, and frankly, Joe’s group wasn’t too 
keen on it either. “I’m gonna go back to the trailer. Ana wanted help 
mending some old clothes.” 


Joe grunted and continued his work with the deer, until Emma, 
dissatisfied with the lack of response, turned and left. Joe watched 
her walk away, and paused when he saw the corner of a box 
sticking out of her pocket, just barely able to make out a few letters, 
part of a logo. 


FIRST RESPO 


He paused, then, and for the first time in a long time, truly thought, 
deeply, about something beyond survival and the here and now. 


Then he turned back to the deer, a small smile on his lips even in 
the bitter cold, and went back to work. He would talk with Dan 
tonight, and perhaps...they could find a doctor in the next town. Yes, 
that would be good. 


Fight 


"Fucking hell, Sarah,” Mitchell said. "| guess I'll just stop talking. 
Just..." He made a growling sound of frustration. 


"You know how much | hate it when you curse at me," Sarah said. 
"You can't argue without cursing. | hate it." She sighed. "And that 
weird growling sound. It makes me afraid you're going to hit—" 


"Afraid I'm going to hit you, yes,” Mitchell interrupted. "Because 
that's ever happened in the past. | can't just be angry at how fucking 
irrational you are all the goddamn time; no, | must be abusive. Jesus 
Christ, Sarah." 


She was crying already. Mitchell felt terrible, but he wasn't willing to 
apologize yet. This trip was already a nightmare, and Mitchell didn't 
think the hike would be much better. He thought about turning 
around, decided against it. May as well give her some time to calm 
down, he thought. 


They reached the parking lot for the trail, sullenly put on their packs, 
and carried on. After an hour or so, Mitchell finally turned to Sarah. 
"Look, I'm sorry. For the way | acted." 


"I..." Sarah sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. | know how stressful it can 
be, doing as much work as you do. You really do need to work on 
your anger issues, though—" 


"| know," Mitchell said. 


"—and also your interrupting issues," Sarah said, frowning for a 
moment. Mitchell apologized again. 


They held hands the rest of the way along the trail, stopping to sit on 
a rock for a moment. Sarah got out her canteen and took a drink, 
passing it to Mitchell. / really do love him, she thought. | just wish he 
could be— 


Sarah saw something peeking its head out of the woods. /s that a 
monkey? she thought. What's it doing out— 


The monkey dashed along the ground towards them. "Mitchell! Look 
out!" Sarah screamed. Mitchell turned and looked just in time to see 
the little monkey bite him on the hand and dash off into the woods. 


"Ow, goddammit!" Mitchell yelled. But the bite didn't hurt as much as 
he felt like it should, so he composed himself. She already thinks | 
have anger issues, he thought. No reason to act crazy now, not 
when we're patching things up. "Aw, that was weird," he said. 


"Oh my god, are you okay?" Sarah asked 


"Yeah, yeah, it's cool," Mitchell said, playing off the pain. "Dude had 
little teeth or something. Eh, I'll be all right." 


Sarah packed the bags back up; Mitchell did the same. They began 
walking back. 


Half an hour of far more pleasant conversation followed. Halfway 
back to the parking lot, Sarah paused a moment. "Do you smell 
that?" she asked. 


Mitchell sniffed. "| don't smell anything." 


"Of course you don't," Sarah snapped, "you never smell anything. 
Jesus, | think you have a tumor or something. Same way you can't 
hear anything, either. At least not anything | say." Sarah shook her 
head and walked around for a minute, sniffing the air. 


"God, sorry," Mitchell said, recoiling slightly. 


Sarah sighed. "It's disgusting. | don't know how you could possibly 
not smell that." They kept walking. 


"Oh, god," she said after a while. "| know where it's coming from. It's 
you. I'm sure of it. What /s that?" 


"Hmm?" he asked. 


"Jesus, you really don’t listen, do you?" 


"Oh, not this again," Mitchell huffed. "What is it now? Am | not 
picking my feet up enough? Did | pick my nose? Do | have too many 
zits? Did | bring the wrong books? Did | forget what your favorite 
purse looks like? Did the food | brought not have enough green 
vegetables? What do you have to complain about now, for fuck's 
sake?" Mitchell realized he'd gone too far, took a step towards 
Sarah. "Oh, shit, baby, I'm sorry, | didn't mean—" 


Sarah slapped Mitchell directly across the face. "You pissant piece 
of shit, don't you ever speak to me like that again!" 


Mitchell was shocked, and in a considerable amount of pain. He 
rubbed the spot on his face where Sarah slapped him; it had come 
back with a spot of blood on it. He looked at Sarah and was 
shocked. She looked nearly crazed with anger. 


Sarah charged at him; Mitchell didn't know what to do, so he started 
running away. He dropped his pack on the ground so as to run 
faster. Sarah was close behind him, though; her time at the gym left 
her in better shape than he was. 


Mitchell heard a rustling in the woods beside him, then saw a form 
emerge. A dog was running next to him. Not even a big dog, maybe 
just a terrier. Mitchell didn't think much of this until the chipper- 
looking dog launched itself at him, growling and snarling as though it 
were rabid. The thirty-pound terrier brushed past Mitchell, its teeth 
nipping at Mitchell's leg before falling to the side. What the fuck is 
going on? he thought. 


He wasn't looking at the trail closely enough. A group of small 
animals were coming at him, mostly squirrels and stray cats. 
Startled, Mitchell tripped and fell to the ground, huffing. The squirrels 
began nibbling on his ears as soon as they reached him, while the 
cats clawed at his hands. 


Sarah was close behind. Mitchell fought to throw the animals off of 
him, clawing his way forward, but Sarah was too fast. She dove onto 
his back, knees first, shoving him to the ground with her weight. 


"You piece...of shit..." Sarah snarled, beating on the back of 
Mitchell's head with the bottoms of her fists, "moody....insecure... 


pussy...asshole!" The blows kept raining down. Mitchell was dizzy, 
his blood all over the ground now. He was barely holding on to 
consciousness. "I fucking...hate you...you son of a bitch! Just... 
fucking...die!" 


Sarah found a palm-sized stone on the ground nearby. The terrier 
caught up to the group and started biting at Mitchell's ankles. That 
was the last feeling Mitchell noticed before the rock smashed into 
his skull the first time. He didn't feel the last twenty-six times. 


Researcher Kim was sitting in front of his computer, considering the 
information in front of him. There were six murders now, all 
unrelated, all in wooded regions of the Southeast United States. All 
committed by people with no history of violent crime, often simply 
people who were near the victim. Hell, in two of the cases, multiple 
people all joined in, beating or clawing or kicking the victim to death. 
And in every instance, all signs pointed to a temporary yet total 
psychotic break. They all simply decided to kill somebody near 
them. 


Ten people do not "turn crazy" all at once. They don't murder a man 
for no reason. Their official cover stories involved drugs, gas leaks, 
the usual, but Kim wasn't the only one who knew that didn't explain 
things. Kim agreed with his colleagues who forwarded him the 
information; something anomalous was going on. He just had no 
idea what to do with that knowledge. He had no idea how to find... 
whatever this was. 


He heard a rustling sound behind him, like paper on tile. Rubbing his 
eyes (how is it already past midnight, Kim thought), he turned to 
look. 


A large manila envelope was just in front of his door. Kim walked 
over, opened the door, looked back and forth down the long hallway. 
Nobody. 


He closed the door and grabbed the envelope. Inside he found a 
batch of twenty photos, a printout of a Wikipedia article, and a single 
sheet of paper with some words scrawled on it. 


Dr. : That's nice. I'd just like to ask you a 
few questions, SCP-846. Where were you 
produced? 


SCP-846: ROBO-DUDE IS THE 
INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF DR. 
WONDERTAINMENT. 


Dr. : Alright. When were you made? 


SCP-846: ROBO-DUDE IS THE 
INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF DR. 
WONDERTAINMENT. 


Dr. : (Sighs) Okay, SCP-846 - 


SCP-846: THIS UNIT IS DESIGNATED 
ROBO-DUDE. PLEASE REFER TO ROBO- 
DUDE AS ROBO-DUDE. 


Dr. : No. Please tell me about yourself, 
SCP-846. 


SCP-846: THIS VERSION OF ROBO-DUDE 
IS EQUIPPED WITH OVER A HUNDRED 
NEW ROBO-ACCESSORIES AND ROBO- 
FEATURES, INCLUDING 'VOICE ACTION’, 
‘POWER PUNCH' AND 'ROBO-DANCE'. 
ROBO-DUDE WILL NOW DEMONSTRATE 
ROBO-DANCE. 


Dr. : No thank you, SCP-846, I'd like to - 


(At this point, SCP-846 began a 'Robo-Dance'’, 
which lasted twenty-three (23) minutes. 
SCP-846 ignored all questions during this time 
period.) 


Dr. : Are you finished? 


SCP-846: ROBO-DANCE IS COMPLETE, 
ROBO-PAL. 


He looked at the photos. He was shocked to recognize many of 
them, all photos of the victims he had been looking at only a few 
minutes ago. First he saw Mitchell Rosenberg, the most recent 
victim, covered in bite marks and lying with his head smashed in 
from behind. Next was another photo, much closer, showing 
Mitchell's hand. A circle was drawn around one bite in particular. 


The rest of the photos were the same; first, a victim, then, a single 
bite. Kim's knowledge of forensic science wasn't needed here. 
Anybody would have recognized it. Each victim was covered in bites 
from small animals, but they were usually different animals. This 
bite, however, was exactly the same on every single victim. Many of 
the photos were of victims Kim didn't recognize; he assumed they 
were new. 


He put down the photos and picked up the single sheet of paper. 
After some time, he was able to make out the scrawl. It was an 
address somewhere in Tennessee, no place Kim recognized. Below 
that read simply "LOOK IN THE BARN. BRING MASKS." 


Kim, confused, put the paper on top of the photos and looked at the 
Wikipedia article: 


The Philippine tarsier (Carlito syrichta), known locally as 
the kupal in Cebuano/Visayan and mamag in Luzon... 


He skimmed the article and began typing a message to his 
supervisor. 


Figure and Ground 


She lay, crying, in the darkened cell, listening to her brother's 
screams and the threats of their captors if he failed again. 


SCP-2162: Supplementary 
materials 


+ Addendum 3: Field Diary - SCP-2162/Navarro/01 


Addendum 3: Field Diary - 
SCP-2162/Navarro/01 


30 June 2013: 


Met with Agent Green today for an initial 
briefing on the anomaly. Turns out he used to 
hunt down reality warpers for the GOC - nice. 
Not the warmest of meetings then, given my 
"skillset". God knows why they assigned us 
both to the skip - | guess the theory is that it's 
either an experimenting reality bender or an 
anart project, so it could fit either of our 
specialties. 


But I'm not sure it's as simple as that. It's clear 
the skip was man-made, but as a piece of art, 
it's just not very interesting. Simplistic, even 
juvenile. And the execution feels all wrong. 
Even if the invisibility was meant to be post- 
modern, there's no sign of claiming credit for 
the work - no signature, no announcement. 


Even terrible artists want the world to know 
who they are. 


An experiment then - a practice effort? | 
seriously hope we don't see another draft. 


2 July 2013: 


The ground team traced the likely origin point 
for the anomaly to the Happy Camp Canyon 
Park in Moorpark. They located a possible 
epicentre based on the concentration of 
deceased wildlife, and found fresh bike tracks 
in the area. 


Starting somewhere isolated does suggest an 
experiment. Maybe one that didn't go as 

intended, that got out of hand? And whoever it 
was panics and rides off. On a mountain bike. 


It's got to be a kid. 
7 July 2013: 


Green and | have been talking to local 
anartists, asking about new faces. No luck 
around the northwest of the city, so we moved 
into central LA. They're a prickly bunch here - 
we've had a few walk-offs, a drink thrown in 
my face, and | think one of them almost 
unleashed some aggressive-looking mobile 
knitwear at us. | can't imagine trying to fit in 
here as a kid. 


Green's a good interviewer though: knows 
what to ask, and when to just listen. Turns out 
one reason things are so tense Is that we're 
not the only interlopers on the scene lately. 
Apparently some guy called Michael 
Cavendish has been asking for anartists to 
help on a project, offering big money on behalf 


of a rich widow in Beverly Hills. The artists 
here are far too principled to work for money, 
of course, and laughed him out of the place. 
But now their backs are up, so our intrusion is 
poorly timed. 


Michael Cavendish? I'm sure I've heard that 
name before. 


10 July 2013: 


Finally, a lead. We found someone who admits 
to seeing our mystery artist, and has even 
given us a name: Robert Baker. | was right - 
he's a kid. We've classified him as Pol-2162-1. 


Apparently Robert arrived in LA earlier in the 
year, and went straight for the anart 
community, looking to show off his work. Our 
contact saw him in bars some nights, "wearing 
ratty old jeans and tennis shoes, barely sipping 
a beer all evening". 


"Mostly people kept their distance - after 
Cavendish had been so pushy, everyone was 
wary of newcomers. So he'd sit quietly on his 
own. Then some notable anartist would show 
up, surrounded by contemporaries and 
hangers-on, and he'd suddenly fill with energy. 
Like an excited puppy, but one that still half- 
expected a kick. He'd scamper over to them 
and work up some quick effects - mostly lights 
and colours, spinning in intricate shapes. Half 
the time | don't think they even noticed him. 
Other times some lackey would make a 
comment, call him a hick or something, and 
they'd laugh and move on. And he'd just slink 
back to his table and wait, or wander out 
looking like he didn't know where to go. 


"The funny thing was, some of the stuff he did 


was all right - basic, but he had talent. He 
should have tried talking to more of us, or 
maybe we should have talked to him, but he 
only wanted to be noticed by the big names." 


It feels good to be talking with artists again. 
Researchers, scientists, they draw 
conclusions, give you the results of their 
observations. An artist can tell you more by 
painting the negative space - showing you 
other people's reactions and impressions until 
you see the outline of the person in the centre. 


Based on the contact's information, we've 
even managed to find an address in Reseda. 
No sign of the Pol, and his housemate wasn't 
much use, but we have set up surveillance and 
will intercept his mail. 


Our interest in Pol-2162-1 has been noticed, 
too - our contact pointed out Michael 
Cavendish, who had been watching us from 
the corner of the bar. We might need to have a 
word with him, | suspect. 


+ Addendum 4: Recovered Documents 


Addendum 4: Recovered 
Documents 


On 11 July 2013, Foundation interception protocols 
obtained a postcard addressed to Pol-2162-1. Text 
follows: 


Hey Goober, 


That's awesome news! Well done you. 
(Meanwhile, you have to get another phone, 
dude - postcards is cute and all, but | wanna 


hear this stuff sooner, and text you congrats)