Damn you, damn you all. | did not want to... Did not want to. Where 
are my pills? At home... Home... No! There's a shitload of requests 
here! | hate, just how | hate it all. They turned me into a simple data 
processing mechanism. And | wanted to be a judge. Dear Lord, if 
you do exist, please forgive those who take up this burden. How do 
they say? Amen? 


Whew! A break! 


the warning had been yelled at them. The above listed phobias will 
become apparent within six (6) to twelve (12) hours, along with 
sensations of being watched and persistent chills regardless of 
ambient temperatures. 


SCP-767-10 through SCP-767-12: Subjects who view these 
photographs suffer fear-induced paralysis if attempting to move 
away or engage in any activity not involving observation of 
SCP-767. No more than five minutes later, a black, gaseous mass 
begins to form at the ceiling, described as "smokey" or "shadowy" 
and designated SCP-767-15; video and photographic images do not 
record the appearance of this mass. If SCP-767-15 forms outdoors, 
or in a room taller than four meters, it will form at approximately the 
four-meter mark. Tendrils of the substance reach down to grip the 
affected subject and lift him or her into the air, at which point [DATA 
EXPUNGED] until it appears as in SCP-767-1. 


The nature of SCP-767-15 is currently unknown. Researchers and 
security agents who have attempted to physically intervene are 
thrown away with great force, and physical attacks against the mass 
pass through without significantly altering the whole. Currently 
Ongoing investigations have found additional cases of bodies 
discovered in the same condition as that caused by SCP-767-15 
over a course of one decade before Foundation agents became 
aware of the anomalous items and attributed to various other 
sources; similar reported instances which occur are under 
investigation for potential connections. 


« SCP-766 | SCP-767 | SCP-768 » 


A Broken Tool 


They promised me glory. 

| wanted peace. 

They told me "This shall advance the glorious Revolution." 
| wanted nothing to do with the Revolution. 

They said it would barely hurt. 

| screamed until | could scream no more. 

They said it would be over quickly. 


The doctors came again and again. 


Why? Why was | chosen? | was no revolutionary. | was no 
Nationalist. | was nobody. Why? 


They changed me. They broke my body and rebuilt it to do their 
bidding. The young men told me that | was truly an honor to the 
Revolution. | did not feel like one. | knew what | really was. A tool. 
That's all. A tool. A magical tool, but a tool nonetheless. 


At first, | tried to stop it. | ripped the magic metal out of me. The 
doctors saw. They told the young men, who told me the bad words. | 
stopped. 


| was put into a room. It was cold, and bare. Just a bed, nothing 
more. | curled up into it and cried. Why did they choose me? Why? 


They took me on a plane. They told me | needed to repay their "gift" 
to me. What gift? | did not see a gift. Tools are not made to be given 
as gifts. 


They took me off the plane, and | saw that we were far from the 
cold, cold place where | had been. The trees were tall, and the 
sounds were strange. The plants grew in strange colors, and the air 
was thick and sticky. 


The soldiers took me to a field of death. There were bodies 
everywhere. Young men cut down in the prime of their youth like the 
rice and wheat | cut down in my past life. Blood streamed and 
pooled in eddies in the flow of a river of death. 


Then, people started shooting at us, from the trees. Bullets ripped 
through the air. 


They told me to kill. | did not want to. They said the words, and | 
killed. And | killed again. And again. And again. 


| hacked through a tree to kill the boy behind it. His friend tried to 
shoot me. | stopped him, and then, he was dead too. | tried to stop. 
They said the words again, and | began to cry, as the magic metal 
inside of me pulled me forward. 


The river swelled. 


The next time the young men came to see me, they told me | was in 
for a surprise. 


| asked them if | was going home. 
They laughed. 
They told me that | was being sent for a special mission. 


"Finally, we will wipe out the Nationalists forever. You will do your 
country a great service. We have begun by taking the islands that 
they held onto. You will follow when we finally invade them." 


| asked them why. They did not answer, and insisted that it was "For 
the Revolution." | told them that | did not love the Revolution. They 
became angry. 


"The Revolution gave you your gift. You will show your gratitude to 
the Revolution, or else." 


| refused. There would be no more killing. 
"You will obey!" 
No. 


Then, they said the words. And they made them hurt. | was a 
coward. 


They put me on a beach. They pointed towards the "enemy." 


The slope of the beach was covered in walls, bunkers, and barbed 
wire, manned by soldiers. | saw no enemies, though. Only scared 
men and boys. 


"Kill." 
| ran forward. | tried to stop myself. The magic was stronger. 


| was tired. So very tired. No more death. No more killing. | wanted 
nothing but peace. Peace. Peace. Peace. 


And the magic stopped. 
The magic stopped. 
They screamed "Kill" again. 


The magic pulled me forward again, and one of the enemy cried out 
as he died. 


Then | stopped. 

"Kill!" 

| did. 

"Kill the rest of them!" 
No. 


"Do it!" 


| killed already. 

"They are escaping! Go after them!" 

| ran after them. But | did not stop them. 
"You are a tool! You will obey us!" 

No. 


They took me away. They put me away. | left my cold cell for an 
even colder one. The doctors locked me inside, and spat on me, 
saying that | was counter-revolutionary scum. 


| did not care. They had finally let me go. 


Before | fell asleep, | thought that | had finally gotten peace. No 
more killing. No more death. Only peace. 


When | awoke, the sky was grey. It was pouring rain. | blinked. 
No. 
No. 
No. 


| thought | was free. No more killing. No more death. Had they finally 
come for me again? 


| burst into tears. Where was my home? Where were the young 
men? Where was |? 


The lab and the doctors and the young men and the officers and the 
soldiers were gone. | was in a ruin of a building, with the sky 
weeping above me. The landscape was bleak and ruined. 


There was no one in sight. 


But what if they came back? 

What if they made me kill again? 

What if | could not stop them? 

| screamed. | would not listen to them anymore. 
| would never kill again. 


An abandoned rusty screwdriver lay on the ground. A discarded tool 
for a discarded tool. How poetic. 


| took it, and stabbed it into my ear. Blood gushed out, and the 
inside of my ears exploded in sticky and hot agony. | screamed 
again, as tears, rain, and blood mixed together. | bit my lip, and 
stabbed the screwdriver deep inside my ear again and again and 
again until | could feel nothing except the blood in my mouth. 


| did it again for the other ear. | cried out again, the screwdriver 
falling from my hand as | fell to the ground, sobbing. | wanted no 
more death. No more killing. The magic metal came out again, 
covering me, though | beat against it, screaming and crying. | hated 
it. | hated it | hated it | hated it. 


Why would it not go away? 

Where had my life gone? 

| curled up, tears streaming down my face once again. 

In the distance, | saw men coming. They had come for me. | did not 
care. Nothing could make me kill again. 

"What do you think it is?" the field specialist asked. 


"Best not to get near it. It could be dangerous," the team leader said, 
scratching his chin. "Let's get back to finding that damn skip." 


"C'mon, man, it's an old woman. Look, we gotta inspect her at least." 


"__.fine. Let's take a look." 


They slowly approached the woman, weapons leveled at the curled- 
up body. They stopped 5 meters away from the body, just in case. 


"Ma'am? Are you alright? Ma'am?" the lead specialist asked, still 
with his gun on the woman. 


"| don't think she can hear us. Look, her ears are bleeding." 
"What do you suggest?" 


"Let's get closer." The lead agent nodded, and moved closer slowly, 
while the rest of the team stayed back, still aiming at the curled-up 
woman. 


The first agent got nearer. The woman made no move to respond, 
and the team saw that she was sobbing. The lead containment 
specialist leaned down and touched her shoulder. 


Suddenly, thick metal arms erupted out of scars on the woman's 
arms, legs, and spine. They formed a wall, and the specialist barely 
managed to yank his hand away in time. 


"Fuck!" The specialist tripped and fell backwards. 


The woman mumbled. Her voice was hoarse, tired, but above all, 
sad. 


"What's she saying? That's not Mandarin or Cantonese. What 
language is that? Anyone know?" 


The containment agent's brow furrowed. "I think it's Hangzhou, or... 
no, Pinghua. Definitely Pinghua." He leaned closer. 


"Well? What's she saying?" 


The specialist listened carefully. "She's begging us 'No more. No 
more.'! don't know what she's talking about. And now's she's saying 
'No more pain." 


"Well, she's definitely anomalous. I'm calling in backup to help us 


with this one. Chen, see if you can get her to talk. Show her a pen 
and paper, maybe?" 


The woman on the ground curled up tighter. As the containment 
specialist sat down on the ground next to her, he heard her 
muttering again. 


"Lam a tool. Why am | here? | want my peace. | want my home. | am 
a tool." 


A Burial In The Woods 


It was just after dawn on the twentieth day, when Karl tore out his 
own throat and continued to rant and rave, that Lars' nerve finally 
broke. 


Whatever evils nature hid in the woods, they could not match what 
he had seen and heard in the past weeks on the battlefield. Soldiers 
screaming as they were torn apart by invisible hands. The howling of 
men blown in half by an artillery volley, howling that never ceased. 
He had to get out. He would run all the way back to Bavaria, if 
necessary. Just away. 


Lars scrambled to gather a few supplies in a rucksack before he left. 
Tins of food. Compass. Knife. The men in the trench, their bodies 
and minds in varying degrees of mutation, paid him no mind. Lars 
glanced at a rifle leaning against the trench wall. Memories of 
Russian soldiers screaming, faces consumed with fast-growing 
tumors, ran through his mind. He shuddered and moved on. 


By the time he was ready, the first light was beginning to creep over 
the tops of the trees. Lars tried not to speculate why the sunlight 
was a deep emerald color. He nodded and sped away from the rear 
lines. No one noticed as he he dashed across the scarred mud and 
twisted trees of the battlefield. He didn't stop sprinting even when he 
encountered the beginnings of the woods. 


A part of Lars' mind told him that he would need to conserve his 
strength, that running was a bad idea. He ignored it. Even a few 
hundred meters away from the battle, the trees became less 
crooked and twisted. Running from that damned place felt like the 
only thing to do. He could walk later. For the first time in several 
months, Lars smiled. 


After several minutes of running, Lars stopped to catch his breath in 
a clearing. Suddenly, he heard a humming sound from behind him. It 
was a sound that he knew all too well; the accursed rifles of the 


Austrian scientist warming up. 


"Turn around, please. Slowly," said a voice behind him, in a thick 
Hungarian accent. Lars did as the voice commanded, and found 
himself facing a wounded man sitting on top of a long wooden box 
with rope handles at each end. The man's eyes were of differing 
colors - one blue and one grey - and he had stitches over a wound 
running from his left ear to his chin. Lars recognized him as Nemes, 
the scientist who had insisted that they use the demon weapons. 


Despite the wound and the dirt, Nemes' hair and mustache were 
immaculately neat. He wore the blue uniform of an Austro- 
Hungarian officer. Several large spikes of bone - from the Russians’ 
rifles, no doubt - had torn through the uniform on his right shoulder 
and arm. 


In his left, Nemes held a rifle, aimed squarely at Lars' chest. He 
looked Lars up and down. 


"Deserting is a capital crime, you know. | would be well within my 
rights to shoot you here and now. It would be befitting a coward of 
your stature," Nemes said. Lars felt his mouth go dry. Once upon a 
time, he had considered death by poison gas or a shell to be the 
worst thing in the world. The past weeks had taught him otherwise. 
He thought about dying here in the woods, his body distorted 
beyond all recognition and felt his legs nearly give out. 


Nemes motioned to a shovel propped on a tree at the edge of the 
clearing. "Take the shovel," he said, "And dig a grave. Don't stop 
unless | say otherwise." 


Lars's throat tightened. He opened his mouth to protest. Please, | 
was doing reconnaissance. Please, | was running messages to a 
secret detachment. Please, | have a wife and child back home. The 
doctor's eyes narrowed and his finger slipped beneath the trigger 
guard of the rifle. 


"Take the shovel. And dig until | say otherwise," he said,"Unless you 
would rather | shoot you in the jaw first. | have heard that it is 
extremely painful." 


Lars nodded and took the shovel. He began to dig in the middle of 
the clearing. So this is how he would die: In a forest, forced to dig 
his own grave. 


It had been two days since he had slept, and the exhaustion, 
combined with the labor of digging, helped to remove him from the 
situation. He didn't feel any fear, just a dull resignation to the 
objective facts. 


When the top of the hole reached above his head, Lars stopped 
digging. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and his arms 
ached. 


"Keep going,” came the voice from above. It sounded more ragged 
than before. Lars sighed and continued to dig. 


At three meters, it became almost impossible for Lars to throw the 
dirt out of the hole. "Stop!" the voice barked. Lars was happy to 
obey. 


Nemes' head peeked over the edge of of the hole. Lars could see 
the tip of the rifle beside the man. This was it, he thought, dead in a 
forest. He felt like crying, but couldn't summon the energy to do so. 
Instead, he just looked at the ground. 


Suddenly, Nemes' hand came into his field of vision. Lars looked 
and saw that the doctor was extending a hand down to him. 


"Take," he said. Lars grabbed the shovel and took the doctor's hand. 
Suddenly, he found himself being pulled out of the hole and placed 
on level ground. Lars stared at the doctor for a moment, panting. 
Who the hell was this man, who had lifted him out of the grave with 
just one arm, as if Lars had weighed as much as a kitten? 


Nemes reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He 
pushed it in Lars' general direction. 


"Drink," Nemes said. It was only then that Lars realized how thirsty 
he had been. He opened the flask and took a swig, nearly choked 
on the burning liquid. The doctor stood silently, waiting for Lars to 
finish. After his coughing subsided, Lars took another drink. After all 


SCP-768: Long-Range Alarm Clock 


Item #: SCP-768 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-768 is stored without 
batteries in a standard Safe-class secure locker at Site . Access to 
SCP-768 requires approval from at least one (1) Level 3 Senior 
Researcher, and Site Security must be notified of any experiments 
to be performed on SCP-768 at least twenty-four (24) hours in 
advance.