Access into SCP-722's chamber is to be permitted only in the event 
of emergency maintenance, which should be performed by a team 
of Class D personnel with a security detail of at least two clearance 
level 3 Agents. Anyone gaining entry into SCP-722's chamber is to 
be outfitted with a suit of high-extremity polar wear and a set of 
nightvision goggles as the interior chamber is unlit. Security 
personnel should be outfitted with a silenced flechette pistol and 
take extreme caution in the event of its use. Should any personnel 
involved in a maintenance operation attempt to compromise the 
artifact in any way, they should be terminated with extreme prejudice 
regardless of security clearance. Security personnel are required to 
report their status at 10 minute intervals. In the event of a lapse in 
reports, the interior chamber is to be flooded with nitrogen gas until 
no life forms are detected. 


All agents entering SCP-722's enclosure are advised to not make 
any attempt to touch the artifact as it is known to be extremely 
volatile. The far extremities of SCP-722 are to be avoided at all 


“Crunchy lasagne! Crunchy cheeseburgers!” 

“Crunchy cheesecake!” 

“Ewww.” 

“I'd eat it.” 

“I'd eat it too.” 

The pair of them turned to Joey, speaking in unison. 

“This is pretty cool.” 

“So, you don’t like, feel sick or anything? Or high?” 

“No, why would we...” 

Overgang spat out his mouthful of Cheecelery. 

“You were using us as fucking GUINEA PIGS?” 

Joey broke into peals of laughter. 

“I’m fucking with you, it’s fine. Thing is, got me to thinking, right, 
what about other food, or whatever? We call ourselves artists, but 


honestly, I’m a pretty shitty chef. All | eat is ham and cheese 
sandwiches.” 


Arsehole countered. 

“Hey, | worked at a pizza place for a year.” 
“That’s assembly, it doesn’t count.” 

“Shut up.” 


“Anyway, not my point. All I’ve ever done in the past is visual art, 
right? Like painting, or sculpture, or that thing in ’93.” 


“Oh man, | loved the thing in ’93!” 


“Well yeah, everyone loved the thing in ’93, it was a thing that made 


you love it.” 
“Oh. Right.” 


“Not my point, guys. The thing is, I’ve been sticking to titillation of the 
eyeballs for way too long, and | can’t think of a single guy out there 
who’s just making weird food.” 


“Eddins did, | think.” 
“Who?” 


“Eddins? Guy with the curly hair? Come on, everyone knows 
Eddins.” 


“Oh, Curly Hair Guy, right. Never talked to him, keep seeing him 
around.” 


“Yeah, Eddins fucked around with food for a bit. Didn’t do much with 
it though, from what | remember. Stopped with it after those fucking 
tomatoes.” 


“Well that’s the thing, right, food’s like performance art. You make it, 
you give it to someone, and they eat it. It’s real intimate, right? And 
you can’t make the same meal exactly the same way twice, so it’s 
properly one-of-a-kind, you can’t copy a meal the same way you can 
copy a game or something.” 


Overgang, one of the few professional anartist coders, frowned at 
this. 


“Hey, Joey, that’s... well, yeah. That’s kind of true.” 
“No offense, man.” 
“Hey, you've got a point.” 


“Anyway. | reckon I’m going to do some stuff with food for the next 
exhibition. Stretch out a bit, you Know, expand horizons or whatever. 
Just walk around with a platter of trippy sweets and snacks and 
stuff.” 


“Sounds neat. You realise that’s on Friday though, right?” 
“Wait, that’s this Friday?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What’s today?” 

“Tuesday.” 

“Shit. Wait, what are you guys doing for it?” 


“I’ve got my Half-life mod, you know, the one that puts your family 
members into it?” 


“Oh, yeah. Arsehole?” 


“Eh, don't have anything right now. I’m still working on that thing with 
Hiro P.” 


“Ah, cool. Say, you and Hiro. Is there any... you know?” 
“What?” 

“Joey is trying to politely ask if you’ve fucked his brains out yet.” 
“The fuck are you talking about? Hiro’s gay.” 

Overgang and Joey glanced at each other, then looked to Arsehole. 
“Seriously?” 

“Yeah. That a fucking problem?” 

“No, no, just... didn’t peg him for that, | guess.” 

“Well, yeah. We're actually planning something with him and his 
boyfriend next week down at the docks. Should be fun, you guys 
can tag along if you want.” 

“Nah, I'll pass.” 


“| think I’m right.” 


“Suit yourselves.” 


Arsehole stood up, pulling three joints from her back jeans pocket. 
She lit them all one at a time. 


“You know we don’t smoke, right?” 
“| know.” 


Arsehole stuck the three joints into her mouth and walked out onto 
the patio. 


« Flexibility | Hub | Shady Meetings » 


Shady Meetings 


“You're the new Clipper, right?” 


“No, | think the name we’re going with is Snipper, Miss The Director. 
A lot more snappy. Snippy snappy.” 


The Snipper winked, clicking his fingers towards the woman 
standing at the door. 


“Did you have to bring those in here?” 


“| think you mean ‘them’, and no, | didn’t, but they were all very 
interested in meeting everyone. They just couldn't bear not to see 
you all.” 


The Director pinched her nose at the seat of rotten flesh. 
“You seen anybody else yet?” 
“Nobody was here when | arrived.” 


The Director moved around the table, taking the seat directly 
opposite The Snipper. 


“Alright. I've got to ask. How’d you get that in here without people 
noticing?” 


The Snipper looked blankly at The Director’s teeth. There was a 
smear of lipstick on one of them. 


“Without noticing?” 
“...you know what? | don’t even want to know.” 


An awkward silence formed between the two. The Director retreated 
to the comfort of her phone, texting out messages to her various 
actors, then playing a few rounds of solitaire. The few times she 


dared look up, The Snipper was carefully disassembling a human 
hand. He peeled back the skin, then stripped off the muscle with his 
bloodied fingernails. He smiled innocently, plucking at the tendons 
and watching his bony puppet dance. 


Fucking kid, The Director thought to herself. 

“Hey guys, you’ve got to... oh. New Clipper, right?” 
The Composer stood awkwardly in the door frame. 
“Snipper. You must be Mister The Musician, yes?” 


“Uh, Mister The Composer, actually. Is that... damn, that smells. Are 
those human?” 


“You mean ‘they’, and yes, they are.” 

“Huh. Cool. Pretty fucking metal.” 

“Mostly skin and bone, actually.” 

The Composer turned, taking the seat next to The Director. 


“Anyway, Sandy, you need to listen to this. You know how | was 
working on that one sample... you Know, ‘what’s cooler than being 
cool?’ Finally finished my muxing it properly, check this out. Ah, 
you'll want both of these, here.” 


The Composer handed an iPod to The Director, earbuds swinging 
pendulously. She placed them in her ears, then pressed the play 
button. Her face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then 
bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. 


“That’s pretty good!” 

“Hey, Clipper, you want a listen?” 

The Snipper looked up from his rotting carcasses. 
“Snipper. Sure.” 


He reached over, and The Composer dropped the iPod into his red, 


dripping hands. He carefully placed one earbud in, then the other. 
The Composer looked expectantly at his face, waiting for some 
semblance of change. There was none. The track ended, and The 
Snipper placed the iPod back on the table. 


“| don’t understand.” 

“Well, you know where the sample’s from, right?” 
“Yes.” 

“And then, you heard the screaming, right?” 
“Yes.” 

“Well, it’s... don’t you get it?” 
“No.” 


The Composer shared a knowing shake of the head with The 
Director. Fucking plebeian, they thought to themselves. 


“Don’t worry about it. It’s a bit of a complex work. There’s layers in 
it.” 


The Composer wiped off the viscera from the screen, switching to 
another track and settling into his wooden chair. The Director 
continued tapping at her phone. The Snipper was pulling apart 
another hand. The Builder and The Sculptor walked through the 
door, deep in conversation. 


“See, it’s like when you were building that stairwell, man, it’s gotta 
be... ah, yeah, he’s already here. Cover your nose, man.” 


“Damn, that’s rank.” 

“What'd | tell you though?” 
“Yeah. Pretty fuckin’ metal.” 
“Mostly skin and bone, actually.” 


The two of them sat on either side of The Snipper. The Builder 


initiated conversation. 

“So, Clipper-“ 

“Snipper.” 

“Snipper, then. Have trouble finding the place?” 
“No.” 

A short pause drew into a longer one. 

co Be 

Another pause. 


“Hey, Bob, | finished that thing | was working on, you know, the 
‘cooler than cool’ thing, listen to this.” 


The Builder reached over to the offered iPod, relieved at the offered 
distraction. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then 
bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. 


“That’s pretty good! Here, Tim, check this out.” 


The Sculptor took the iPod from The Builder, passing it across The 
Snipper, still fiddling with his hands. The Sculptor put the earbuds in 
his ears. His face was one of stoicism, then expectation, then 
bemusement, and then of restrained laughter. 


“That is pretty fucking good. Where are you gonna air this?” 


“Was thinking | might mail it out. Soeaking of which, got an 
interesting package today. A messed up version of ‘We Are The 
Champions’, a shitty French cover. Butchered the translation, 
though, every damn article is wrong.” 


The Snipper looked up, staring at The Composer’s eyelids, some 
vague flash of recognition setting his face into a frown. The Sculptor 
gave his reply. 


“Yeah, we’re gonna have to talk about that. You’re not the only one 


getting mail.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We'll talk about it when everyone's here.” 

The Painter burst through the door, poster in his hand. 
“Some asshat mailed me this shit.” 


He unravelled it and displayed it to the group. The majority of it was 
covered by crayon doodling, but in the centre of the poster was an 
intricately detailed human bottom, with the phrase ‘SHE GOT A 
SWEET ASS’ written underneath in glowing gold print. 


“Don’t get too close. Looking too long makes you shit yourself. It 
literally makes you shit your pants. | got this thing, | stared at it, 
wondering, gee, what does this mean, and then bam, brand new 
pair of underwear ruined.” 


The Painter rolled the poster up again, sitting between The 
Composer and The Sculptor. The Snipper intensified his gaze and 
frown. 


“This the new Clipper?” 
“I'd prefer Snip-* 
“Yeah, he is.” 


The Snipper switched his glare to The Director. She continued 
playing solitaire on her phone. 


“Well, about time we got rid of the old guy. He was losing his cool a 
bit.” 


The Sculptor moved uncomfortably in his seat at The Director’s 
comment. 


“He wasn’t that bad, you know. Getting on in years, yeah, but he 
was alright.” 


“Still though. Old men aren’t cool.” 

“Say that to The Critic. Speaking of which, anyone seen him yet?” 
“Nobody was here when | arrived.” 

“Weird. He’s normally the first one sitting at the table.” 

The Snipper sighed. 

“Are you any of you even listening to me?” 

Everybody turned to stare at him. 


Fucking nutjob. 


Felix Cori entered the cordoned-off room. Ruiz looked up from the 
half-yellow carbon steel blade on his lap. 


“Clipper.” 

“Duchamp.” 

“Enjoy the pizza?” 

“It was alright.” 

“Good.” 

Ruiz looked back down and continued painting the blade. 
“What are you doing?” 

“Painting a carbon steel blade yellow.” 

“Why are you painting a carbon steel blade yellow?” 
“Because they didn’t sell yellow ones at the store.” 


“Ah.” 


Felix sat down on one of the wooden chairs that littered the studio. 


t 


costs. In the event of contact with the artifact, agents are advised to 
immediately exit the enclosure and report to the base medic for 
detox. 


Description: SCP-722 was found in the eastern glacial ranges of 
Greenland by Greenpeace activists making a documentary on the 
effects of global warming. Upon descending into a crevasse that had 
opened up on the southern end of the Kangerdlugssuaq glacier, 
they discovered a network of tunnels within the glacier which had 
long since been smoothed out, eventually reaching a series of larger 
chambers which seemed to host a tremendous serpentine body. 
After another hour of exploration the team left the glacier and 
headed to the nearby town of . Within hours most of the team 
felt symptoms of a wide array of sicknesses resembling everything 
from swollen lymph nodes to fast necrosis of the skin. By nightfall 
the entire team was dead. An SCP operative on leave caught wind 
of the story and sent notification to high command. 


SCP-722 is by all accounts a terrestrial serpent, of incredible size, 
length, and girth, coiled through a series of tunnels of unknown 
origin. Most of the tunnels in SCP-722's enclosure are completely 
smooth, though a few patches, specifically on the paths nearest to 
the head and tail of the artifact, are marked with some form of 
ancient Nordic script. All attempts to translate the script have ended 
in failure, and the dialog appears to pre-date the settlement of the 
island by Erik the Red at the turn of the 11th century. No historical 
records exist of any previous settlement in Greenland, so the source 
of the script is currently a mystery. 


SCP-722 is clearly in a state of prolonged slumber, and many parts 
of the creature's body have become embedded in the glacier, 
possibly due to cave-ins or parts of the ice re-forming over many 
years. While this would normally warrant a Euclid ranking, 
SCP-722's immense size (currently estimated at between 8 and 
12km) could pose a threat to nearby cities or the world at large in 
the event of it awakening. Additionally, the artifact possesses 
formidable defensive abilities. (See attached document, #722-A) 


Document #722-A: Unidentified Toxin '722' 


SCP-722's skin seems to secrete a potent toxin which has currently 


was Cluttered with electronics and laboratory equipment, a quietly 
humming centrifuge sitting in the corner. 


“What’s in the centrifuge?” 

“Contagious cancer.” 

“Why are you making contagious cancer?” 

Ruiz looked up at Felix. 

“What do you want, Clipper? I’m busy.” 

“I’m not The Clipper any more. | got sick of that.” 
“And? Do you want a pat on the back? Go away.” 


Felix sat in stunned silence. Ruiz continued covering the circular 
blade, occasionally dipping his brush back into the bucket of viscous 
paint beside him. 


“| was expecting a ‘well done’ at least.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, | left them all behind, I’m not a part of it any more.” 
Ruiz stood up, dripping blade held out as he pointed. 


“YOU were not the problem. You weren't doing anything, and 
honestly, | fucking liked it that way, you were the one person in that 
whole fucking club that | frankly didn’t give a shit about. But now 
you've left, and my stupid fucking brother’s in with them, and he’s 
just going to fuck it all up.” 


“Your brother?” 


“PICO. FUCKING. WILSON. The fucking psychopath your ‘friend’ 
pulled in to replace you. This wasn’t part of my fucking plan, he’s 
just going to fuck everything up. Fuck. FUCK!” 


Ruiz threw the wet blade at the opposite wall like a frisbee, slicing 
through the plaster like butter. He stood and stared at the stunned 


Felix, frowning like a spoilt child. 

“Ruiz, now, that’s not MY fault, you know, it’s-“ 

“| know it’s not your fault. | know. | know. Shit. Fuck. Sorry Clipper.” 
“I’m not the Clipper any more. Call me Felix.” 

“Sorry Felix.” 

Ruiz walked to the wall, and started to extricate his yellow sun. 


“It was pretty damn simple, before. I’ve been working on this shit for 
months, it was all supposed to be planned, and then that asshole 
just happens to be in town, just happens to be showing off his stupid 
corpse bullshit. He’s not a fucking artist, he’s just a straight-up 
monster, and he’s going to complicate things a hell of a lot more.”