"Last-minute update," Bullfrog said, as the four team members made 
their final preparations for the mission. "Overwatch thinks that a 
Foundation Containment Team is in the area, looking for the 
parathreat. Standard doctrines apply. Avoid contact, don't get 
caught, and try not to shoot them. Any more questions?" 


None. 


"Then let's head out." 


The road was not a good one: rough, full of potholes, unpaved, 
winding, and uneven. It wouldn't have been so bad if the vehicle, at 
least, had decent shocks. As it was, every little bump and rock on 
the road was transmitted through the car's terrible suspension, 
through the thin padding of the seat, and directly into Spider's ass, 
thighs, and spine. 


Skunkboy was the driver: he drove with the lights off and the 
dashboard light unplugged, carefully making his way up the 
mountain road solely by the dim light of the stars, enhanced by his 
augmented reality visor. The wide lenses of the headpiece made 
him look like a kind of bizarre beetle: the eerie, pale starlight didn't 
help. He let out a low, muffled curse as the car rocked back and 
forth after running over a particularly large and sharp-edged rock 
that sent a particularly nasty jolt into Spider's coccyx. "ETA?" he 
whispered to Kitten. 


"Two minutes," the amazonian woman whispered back. "Turn into 
the clearing up ahead. We'll go the rest of the way on foot." Kitten 
was riding shotgun in the small SUV: partly because she was the 

navigator for this mission, partly because her tall body wouldn't fit 
easily into the cramped back seat. 


After a few more moments of jostling and bouncing, the car finally 
turned off into a small clearing in the woods, before coming to a halt 
at the base of a large sycamore tree. "Gimp masks and visors," 
Bullfrog said. "From this point on: no voices, no faces." 


Spider slipped on her own AR visor, tightening the straps firmly in 
place. As she'd practiced, she closed her eyes and counted to ten 
before opening them again. The image was dark and indistinct, but a 
small adjustment on the mask's left-hand slider brought the image 
back into focus. 


OCULUS was PHYSICS Division's four-function enhanced vision 
suite, combining low-light vision system with infrared imaging and 
ultraviolet. A fourth vision mode, VERITAS (because some goon in 
R&D had decided that naming it VITAL ENERGY RADIATION 
IMAGING TACTICAL AWARENESS SYSTEM was worth getting a 
cool-sounding Latin acronym), was based on Gen +2 super- 
technology. It utilized True Kirlian Imaging technology to detect the 


life energy of living beings: Elan Vital Energy, or EVE. Seen through 
VERITAS, her teammates were black silhouettes surrounded by 
blazing auras: Skunkboy was chaotic and energetic, Bullfrog was 
intense and focus, Kitten was cool and calm, like rolling waves. 


Spider raised her hand to the sky. Her own aura was flashing 
brightly, erratic and uncertain, like static electricity arcing off her 
fingertips. 


She switched back to low-light mode, then pulled the hood of her 
infiltration suit over her head (visor and all) and zipped the collar 
closed. Their masks pulled down, the four members of Assessment 
Team Sparkplug looked like nothing more than faceless robots from 
a schlocky sci-fi film. Bullfrog took a moment to help Skunkboy draw 
a camouflage cloth over the vehicle, then turned to face the other 
members of the team, tapping his throat twice to indicate a comms 
check. 


"Sparkplug Three, Mic Check," subvocalized the tall amazon. 


"Sparkplug Two. My mic sounds nice check one," quipped 
Skunkboy. 


"Sparkplug One. How read?" Bullfrog said. 


"S-" Spider swallowed hard and cleared her throat. The small noise 
sounded dreadfully loud in the silent night. "Sparkplug Four," she 
said at last. "| read loud and clear. How do you read?" 


"Loud and Clear," Bullfrog said. "Team Sparkplug is in position. 
Central, how do you read, over?" 


"Central reads loud and clear," a low, male voice said into their 
earpieces. "Be advised, Sparkplug, Overwatch has confirmed 
Foundation assets in your area. We estimate you have about a one 
hour head start on them. Best to move fast." 


"Acknowledged. Out." Bullfrog raised his weapon and drew back the 
bolt briefly, before letting the heavy weapon rest across his body. 
"Move out. Three, take, point. I'll bring up the rear." 


The tall, anonymous, masked figure that had to be Kitten nodded 


briefly to Bullfrog, then quickly moved off the mountain path and into 
the woods, followed by the other three members of Team Sparkplug. 


Her thighs burned, and her feet hurt. It was difficult to breathe 
through her mask, which covered up her nose and mouth. She could 
smell the stink of her own sweat and fear, mingling with the faint 
chemical scent of the chameleon fabric, trapped under her mask. All 
in all, Spider wasn't enjoying this march one bit. 


She took a moment to sip some water from her camelbak pack: the 
straw ran under the hood of her suit, so that she could drink from it 
without having to unzip the gimp mask. The water tasted flat, warm, 
and slightly plasticky. She was thirsty enough that she didn't care. 


The team had been walking for a good two hours when they 
encountered the Foundation. Kitten was the first to hear them, 
raising her hand and cocking her head to one side, then quickly 
gesturing to the rest of the team before darting into the low bushes. 
Kitten immediately followed Bullfrog off the forest trail, slipping 
behind the wide roots of a tall oak tree before hunkering down and 
engaging the camouflage on her suit. Bullfrog scattered a few leaves 
and twigs over her to help break up her outline before himself taking 
cover a few feet away. He too engaged his camouflage, fading away 
until he appeared to be little more than a slightly odd-looking lump of 
rock among the brush. 


Kitten winced and shook her head as the first of the Foundation 
personnel came into view. They were riding ATVs: four wheeled all- 
terrain vehicles, powered by single-cylinder motorcycle engines that 
roared loudly. They even had their headlights on. Four of the 
vehicles were ridden by men wearing digi-cam and combat vests, 
two men per vehicle. The fifth also had a man in an orange uniform 
sitting on a small cart behind the driver. He alone was unarmed, and 
his hands were chained to the cart. 


The driver of the lead vehicle raised his hand in the air, and the 

small convoy came to a halt. The riders of the two lead vehicles 

came together to consult over some kind of map, while the other 
members of the team stretched out and relaxed. 


shortening or extraction of the tusk has been proposed. 


Note: SCP-654 most likely avoided personal harm in the wild by 
hunting from a distance. If a larger containment facility can be 
provided, these problems should cease. 


-Dr. Stephens 


Note: Dr. Stephens’ objections have been noted, and overruled. 
Creation of a larger facility would require more resources than 
currently available. If difficulties persist, extraction will be 
considered. 


-Director Menzies 
Addendum 654-B-1: Follow-up report 


Treatment of SCP-654 made possible by use of sedation, porpoise 
stretcher, and a small mobile crane. Veterinary crew have 
discovered significant damage to the underside of its fluke; cause 
unknown, but suspected to be self-inflicted. Prolonged sedation and 
bathing, with enteral feeding, is suggested to allow recovery. 


-Dr. Earles 


Note: Upon further investigation, fluke damage has been identified 
as bite damage, most likely from another toothed cetacean. Not 
currently known how this went unnoticed during initial transport. 
Investigation pending. 


-Researchers Jones, Voth 


« SCP-653 | SCP-654 | SCP-655 » 


The passenger of the fifth vehicle (the one in the cart) cleared his 
throat. "Hey, can you guys let me out of this thing?" he asked. "I 
gotta take a piss." 


"Hold it," his driver (jailor?) said. "We're almost there." 
"Dude, | seriously gotta go. Unless you want me to piss in the cart." 


"Shit. All right, Keep your hands where | can see them," the driver 
said curtly. Another guard drew his pistol and kept it pointed at the 
prisoner the entire time that the driver undid the chains, careful to 
keep one hand on his own weapon the whole time. And then, to 
Spider's horror, the passenger walked straight over to the oak tree 
behind which she was hiding and unzipped his pants. 


She winced silently, willing herself to hold perfectly still, as the scent 
of ammonia rose in the night air. He didn't actually piss on her 
(thank God for small mercies!), but she was certain, at any moment, 
that he was going to notice how the light bent oddly at the base of 
the tree, if he didn't hear her heart pounding like a bass drum first... 


The man in the orange jumpsuit whistled a cheerful tune as he 
finished his business, shook himself off, and zipped back up. Spider 
willed herself to slowly exhale as the Foundation agents regrouped, 
then breathed shallowly until the convoy had driven away. Only then 
did she risk raising her head slightly and scanning the clearing for 
the other team members. 


She nearly screamed when Bullfrog tapped her on the shoulder, but 
managed to silence herself by biting her tongue until the urge 
passed. Bullfrog waited patiently for her to calm down, before 
gesturing to her to follow Kitten and Skunkboy along the path. 
"Central, Sparkplug," she heard him subvocalize. "Be advised have 
encountered Foundation personnel. Opposition is riding ATVs. 
Over." 


"Acknowledged, Sparkplug. Central Out." 


"What happened to our one hour head start?" Skunkboy whispered 
over the comms. 


"We didn't figure they'd be on ATVs," Bullfrog said. "We didn't figure 
they'd be that stupid." 


"They're gonna beat us to the scoop, Bull," Skunkboy pointed out. 


"Keep off the comms," was Bullfrog's only reply. 


It was another solid hour of marching by the time that Assessment 
Team Sparkplug finally caught up with the Foundation Containment 
Team. By the time they did so, it was all over. 


The parathreat was laying on the ground, struggling under a net 
lined with silver threads. Three of the Foundation agents were 
wounded, two with wounds that didn't look survivable. The prisoner 
in orange sat off to one side, his face splattered in blood, shuddering 
with fear. 


Spider couldn't help staring at the captured parathreat. She'd never 
seen a unicorn before. It didn't look nearly as beautiful as the 
shimmering horses that she'd had on the covers of her folders in 
school. It did look vaguely horse-like, and it did have a horn, but the 
resemblance ended there. No twelve-year old girl would ever have 
wanted scabrous scales, a ragged lion's mane, or the tail of an ox 
on her magical pony. 


"Central, Sparkplug,” she heard Bullfrog whisper over the comms. 
"Have made contact with parathreat. The Foundation got to it first. 
Please advise, over." 


"Sparkplug, this is Central. The Foundation cannot be allowed to 
capture the parathreat alive. Proceed at your own discretion. Please 
acknowledge, over." 


"Central. Sparkplug confirms, Foundation will not be allowed to 
capture the parathreat. Out." 


Spider felt another wave of nausea rise in her gullet. It was the only 
possible choice. The Sidhe would never countenance having one of 
their sacred beasts held prisoner by humans: part of the thousand- 
year treaty between the Fair Folk and the human race included the 


right to take vengeance upon any human being who violated that 
pact. What she knew of the Foundation, they would never willingly 
give up a unique paranormal specimen, either. 


Her imagination painted vivid, gory images of trees unfolding into 
magical doors, and hundreds of lithe, skeletal beings wearing 
crowns of antlers riding forth on the backs of tigers and stags, 
wielding swords made of pure starlight. She imagined the ancient 
peace treaty between humanity and its alternate-universe 
counterparts broken: all-out interdimensional war. Even if the Wild 
Hunt was defeated, there was no way that the GOC's Second 
Mission of concealing the existence of the paranormal from 
humankind could survive a full-out war with the kingdoms of 
Faerie... 


"Suggestions, team?" Bullfrog asked, interrupting her train of 
thought. 


"Give me a minute to set up. | can put two bullets into the unicorn's 
head. It's better than letting them take it alive," Skunkboy said curtly. 


"Better still if it lives," Kitten pointed out. "There's seven of them still 
standing. We each take two, the rookie takes one and the prisoner, 
then we let the target free at our leisure." 


"Killing them is going to piss the Foundation off big time," Skunkboy 
pointed out. "Do we really want to risk that?" 


"It's better than letting them piss off the entire Winter Court," Kitten 
shot back. 


"I'm saying, we shoot the unicorn, and all the Foundation gets is a 
funny looking dead body," Skunkboy retorted. "We—" 


"| get it. Spider," Bullfrog interrupted. "Your input." 


Damn it. "Wait one," Spider subvocalized. Her head was spinning. 
This was way too much for her. Her first mission, and she was stuck 
in the middle of the woods, facing a possible paranormal war, 
caught in the middle of a choice between pissing off the most 
powerful of the Faerie Kingdoms, and one of the most powerful 


human paranormal organizations in the world. Her mind was still 

reeling from the horrors that could be unleashed this night. To cap it 
all off, she was wearing a ridiculous skin-tight catsuit, carrying a gun 
she barely knew how to use, and she was smelling vaguely of pee... 


... smelling vaguely of pee... 


She carefully took a few steps back from her hiding spot and turned 
her face away from the Foundation agents. She very slowly undid 
the zipper on her mask, pulling the garment off over her head. She 
took a moment to breathe in a deep breath of fresh air, then held the 
hood up to her face and took a small, experimental sniff. 


Yeah. She could definitely smell the faintest scent of urine in the 
fabric. Some of the piss from the prisoner must have splashed onto 
her mask while she lay hiding. 


"Spider?" Bullfrog's voice sounded curt and impatient. 


For the first time in this horrible, irritating, exhausting mission, Spider 
smiled. 


"| think | have a third option,” she said. 


It took them another half hour to find a decent spot in order to 
perform the working. In the meantime, Skunkboy reported, the 
Foundation was taking the time to patch up their wounded comrades 
and prepare to move the unicorn out by cart. 


Bullfrog helped her to drape the camouflage cloth over her head and 
upper torso, while Spider pulled out her ruggedized tablet computer 
and brought up her grimoire. The screen was set low enough that it 
was nearly impossible to read except by the light of her goggles: she 
brought up the spell she wanted and double-tapped the screen, 
causing the complicated fractal to appear in all its eye-searing glory. 


She took the piss-stained hood and laid it in the center of the 
pattern, then pulled the black-handled athame from her pants pocket 
and pricked her left thumb with its tip. A single drop of blood welled 
up against her skin before falling onto the cloth, causing the fractal 


image to flare briefly. 


She placed the black-handled knife on top of the hood, closed her 
eyes, and reached out.