"They're staring at me. Dozens of them. | can feel their 
eyes on me. They took the whole field. The whole field 
full of their staring eyes and broken smiles." 


"Sir, | uu 
"It's burning! | can feel them burning! | -" 


Allred-Smith clicked out of the audio. He wouldn't be getting any real 
information from that. Standard creepy shit. That farmer was half out 
of his mind, and there was some sort of weird interference in the 
background. A murmuring, chuckling sound, cutting itself off every 
so often. That couldn't be good. 


Isaac fumbled with his keys as he punched the coordinates into his 
car's GPS. Almost as an afterthought, he opened the object file and 
set activated text-to-speech. He wasn't a fan of robots speaking 
broken English, but dying in a car crash on the way to a scip would 
be just perfect. 


Item #: [AWAITING CLASSIFICATION] 

Object Class: Euclid [TENTATIVE] 

Special Containment Procedures: [AWAITING 
ANALYSIS] 


Oh, so he was going in practically blind on how to catch this thing. 
Brilliant. 


Description: SCP-n/a is the collective designation for a 
species of roughly-humanoid organisms populating the 
southern United States. Instances of SCP-n/a are similar 
in appearance to indigenous flora, with genetic analysis 
showing similarities to Cucurb- 


OK, people that looked like plants. Or plants that looked like people. 
Got it. Whatever. Skip a bit. 


Upon reaching maturity, instances of SCP-n/a become 
mobile, and gather in populated areas in large clusters. 
Upon settling in a location, the bodies of SCP-n/a 
instances will undergo a period of what is assumed to be 
directed necrosis, developing semi-geometric 
abscesses. Few instances of SCP-n/a have been 
observed to display the same abscess pattern. 
Prolonged exposure to these patterns, especially those 
displayed by newly-matured specimens, have resulted in 


observers developing a sense of paranoia in 70% of 
cases, and an intense fight-or-flight response in 46% of 
cases. 


Don't look at them too hard. Sure. He'd have to squint or something, 
he supposed. It certainly was nice of them to send him in without 
any kind of special equipment. 


Following abscess formation, SCP-n/a instances will 
manifest bioluminescence, as well as increased heat 
output. Extreme caution is to be exercised when - 


Too late. He was here. The farmer hadn't been lying. The field was 
positively glowing, alive with bizarre geometric shapes emitting 
bright yellows and oranges. In the shadows, he could make out 
taller, humanoid silhouettes. They weren't moving. They only stared. 
Allred-Smith put his hand on his pistol. He wasn't supposed to 
damage anomalies if he could help it, but if those things got any 
closer, he wasn't taking any chances. 


This was it. Go time. 


Allred-Smith cautiously opened his car door, and began easing his 
way toward the field. One of the figures shifted. Isaac felt his heart 
rate quicken. He picked up his pace, reached for his gun... 


...and promptly tripped over a large gourd. "The hell?!" he shouted, 
spinning around. A crude, frightened gaze met his own, glowing with 
an inner light. 


A jack-o-lantern. He was staring down a jack-o-lantern. 


Isaac heard laughter from behind him. "We were beginning to think 
you got lost," said one of the silhouettes, bending down. In the light 
of the pumpkin, the figure's face revealed itself to be that of 
Nathaniel Atkinson. "Glad you made it, after all." 


"Sorry about all of this," chuckled another figure. It flicked on a 
flashlight and metamorphosed into Dr. Jeremiah Cimmerian. "We've 
been so busy that we never had the time to give you a proper 
welcome to Site-88." 


"Well, better late than never," said a third shadow, stepping out of 
the darkness and transforming into Agent Jacob. "Even if Atkinson 
did almost ruin that phone recording." 


"| couldn't help it!" protested Atkinson. "I never imagined I'd get to 
hear you pretend to be a farmer, or that it would be so hilarious. At 
least | was able to swap out Isaac's bullets for blanks!" 


"Anyway," interrupted Cimmerian, regaining his composure, 
"apologies for all the inconveniences you've been burdened with 
over the past few days. We hope you can come to forgive us." He 
pressed something large into Isaac's arms. "And behalf on all of us 
here at Site-88..." 


"Welcome to the team!" the rest of the shadowy figures cheered, 
quickly breaking out into a barrage of jokes and laughter. 


Isaac looked down at the object in his arms. It was a brand-new 
guitar, with green tuning heads. "May your thumbs be forever 
green!" declared an elegant inscription on the side. 


For the first time in a while, Agent Allred-Smith smiled. Maybe his 
stay here at Site-88 wouldn't be so bad, after all. 


The Lombardi Tales 


So, you wanna join the Foundation? Think you 
know what it's like after readin’ the reports? Pal, 
you don't know the half of it. | seen shit you 


wouldn't fuckin’ believe if your mama told you in 
Sunday School. Name's Max Lombardi, an’ | been 
an Agent for ten goddamn years. You wanna know 
what it's like? Lemme tell you about it... 


Urban Legends 

Grasp On Reality 
Property Values 
Nobody Knows 

GOlng My Way 
Relationskips 
Orientation 

Trick or Treat 
Command Performance 
Hiccup Jacet 


Urban Legends 


Don't talk to me about no fuckin' urban legends. Jesus, in our line o' 
work, you'd think you'd know better. 


Whadda | mean? | mean they ain't just fuckin’ stories, dipshit. Oh, 
fine, some of 'em are. | mean, sure, no gangbanger's gonna shoot 
you just 'cause you flashed your headlights. But a lot of ‘em ain't. 
Why don't nobody hear about 'em? Why don't they hear ‘bout no 
fuckin’ skips? We ain't the only ones dancin’ in this here party, ya 
know? 


No, | ain't fulla shit. Look, I'll tell you how | know they're real. 


Okay, so this was a while back. | was out huntin' elves in Jersey. 
What? They was short, had pointy ears, an' squeaky voices. That's 
good enough for me. Were they really elves? Probably not. Sure as 
hell didn't bake no cookies. Do | give a shit what they're really 
called? No | do not. Anyways, don't interrupt. 


So, I'm off duty, having finished up for the day. | go drinkin’ at a dive 
in the bad side o' town. Reminds me of home, right? So, there's this 
broad. She's cute, so | buy her a drink. One thing leads to another, 
an' | go back t'her place. No, it ain't professional, but what the fuck 
do you care what | do in my fuckin’ off-time? Jesus. 


So, we have some drinks, make some small talk, an’ | suddenly find 
myself crashin' harder'n Buddy Holly an' the Big Bopper. Yeah, you 
see where I'm goin’ with this. 


Thing is, the bit where you wake up in a bathtub, wit' ice? Yeah, 
that's bullshit. They're takin' yer fuckin’ kidneys. The fuck do they 
care if you live? You're just Some random fuck who can point 'em 
out in a line-up. Best if you don't ever turn up. 


Yeah, I'm still alive. Thanks fer noticin’. Y'might also notice somethin’ 
they didn't account for, proper-like. I'm a big fuckin’ guy. Three 


hundred pounds, hair under seven foot. There's a whole fuckin’ lot of 
me. An’ it takes a lot to take me down, an' even more to keep me 
down. | wake up with this real bad pain in my side. | open my eyes, 
and there's this fuck with a scalpel openin' me up. | put a stop to that 
really fuckin’ quick, believe me. | was a bit woozy, but I'm a trained 
Foundation agent. They was a bunch of amateurs. It went down 
about how you'd expect. 


So don't talk to me about no fuckin’ urban legends. 


Anyway, keep yer eyes open. This fucker with the hook's gotta show 
up sometime. 


SCP-730: Decerebrating Plague 


Item #: SCP-730 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-730 and associated 
materials and subjects are housed in Sector-07 in a Delta level 
containment facility. Ongoing research necessitates regular staff 
interaction with affected materials (using appropriate isolation 
equipment). Researchers are required to undergo 36 hours of 
isolation and decontamination before leaving the containment 
facility. Any staff exposed to SCP-730 will be reclassified as a 
research subject and assigned to the facility indefinitely. 


Description: SCP-730 is an engineered retrovirus developed in 

, Italy by Dr. . It infects and mutates developing 
mammalian embryos, including humans, causing abnormal fetal 
development. Infected individuals grow to term as physically healthy 
fetuses lacking any anatomical features above the brain stem (see 
epidemiology report). 


This vestigial brain stem is capable of passive maintenance of the 
body’s functions, including heart rate, respiration, digestion, 
homeostatic function, and waste elimination. The affected 
individuals show no higher functionality but respond to pain stimuli, 
recoiling or fleeing in the limited fashion available. With the use of 
intravenous life support equipment it appears that the biological 
functions of affected individuals can be extended indefinitely, though 
owing to the complete alteration of their genomes by the retrovirus 
no recovery is possible. 


Adult organisms cannot be infected by the virus, but act as passive 
carriers once exposed. The virus is spread by contact with any 
bodily excretion, including sweat. Once exposed an individual will 
continue to harbor a reservoir of the virus without experiencing any 
ill effects until they contact and expose a pregnant woman, 


Grasp On Reality 


Lemme tell you about reality benders. 


First off, we like t'call 'em Bixbies. Why? One, in case somebody 
accidentally says somethin’ in front of a civilian, it don't tip ‘em off. 
Two, if yer talking to a reality bender, they might not know all they 
can do, an' you don't wanna give 'em any ideas. 


These fuckers are dangerous. You see one, you don't engage 
unless you absolutely have to. If you do have to, be polite, try t'think 
happy thoughts, maybe you'll have a good day. Probably not. 
Whenever you can, let the experts deal with 'em. 


We don't try containin' them, most of the time. Yeah, Foundation 
don't usually work that way, but we like t'have a world to live in. So 
on this point, we usually agree with the GOC. Better they're gone. 


Okay, so, you're fightin’ somebody who can do pretty much 
anything. How d'you stop 'em? Well, first off, they can't do anything 
they ain't thought of. Like, they can maybe all read minds. But if they 
ain't thought about doin’ it, don't know they can, then they're not 
gonna try it. Remember, they're not smarter'n you. They may be 
able to do things different, might know things you don't, but they're 
not smarter. 


Second, they gotta concentrate. We had one asshole, he decided he 
was gonna know about everybody watchin’ him. Fucker killed twenty 
of us before we just had a bunch of us rush him. Couldn't get all of 
‘us, y'know? 


Which kinds of Bixbies are worst? Depends how you mean. For my 
money, it's a kid Bixby. Almost always ends with a bullet. Sniper can 
usually take 'em out pretty easy. But actually killin’ 'em? You show 
me a guy who just shot a three-year-old, | show you somebody with 
some damage upstairs. There are worse things you'll do for the 
Foundation, but not a lot. 


Now, hardest to take down? Usually, somebody around late teens, 
early twenties. Much younger, they don't know enough to do as 
much harm. Older'n that, they don't got much flexibility in their 
thinkin’ to try anything real out there. Late teens, early twenties, 
they're gonna experiment. They're gonna try anything that springs 
t'mind. They're not gonna be slow an’ careful in figurin' out what they 
can do. We get one o' them, we pull out th' big guns. 


Now, it don't always end with us killin’ 'em. Sometimes, especially 
older ones, we can talk with ‘em, a little. Convince 'em the world ain't 
worth it. Get 'em to move on somewhere else. A lot of 'em will even 
do it on their own. So far, ain't one of ‘em ever come back. No one 
knows just why. Maybe this world really is that much of a shithole. 
Or maybe somethin's eatin’ 'em, | don't know. 


Anyway, now you see what | mean when | say a giant turtle ain't no 
big deal, even if it is spittin’ fire at us. 


Property Values 


I'm real sorry about all of this. 
| knew we was in trouble soon as Barnes shot yer daughter. 
Oh, hey, quit cryin’, she'll be fine. He's a lousy shot. 


Anyway, I'm real sorry about yer dog. | mean, it did bite my leg, but | 
guess it wouldn't've done that if | hadn't been beatin’ you with that 
lamp. Hey, good news there. Lamp still works. Little duct tape, it'll be 
good as new. 


Those ropes too tight? Sorry. I'd loosen 'em, but we don't want you 
gettin’ loose an' tryin' to escape. There's been enough screw-ups 
tonight, don't you think? 


Guy you should be pissed at is your neighbor. Fucker switched the 
house numbers. Must've known we was on to him. 


You wanna know what this is about? Eh, what the hell. Ain't like 
you'll remember any of this tomorrow. 


See, a few months ago, there were some murders. Yeah, you read 
about 'em. Skinned alive. That's a bunch of bullshit, right there. You 
ever skin somebody alive? They wriggle everywhere. 


Oh, now look what you done. Never throw up when yer gagged. 
Here, lemme clear yer mouth. Now, you scream, we're gonna have 
to break another finger. Okay, there you go. That's good, right in the 
bucket. And now the gag goes back on, an’ you still got eight good 
fingers. See how that works? An’ just kiddin’ about the finger. I'd've 
just shoved the gag back on. You've suffered enough, y'know? 


So, where was |? Oh yeah, skinnin' people alive. Hard as hell. That 
bit was made up by the papers. Sounds a hell of a lot more exciting. 
Nah, he cut their throats first, then skinned 'em. Anyway, twenty 


years back, there was another case kinda like this, back east. 
There's a few folks who've talked about it, but they don't think there's 
a connection, on account the guy there was caught. But check this 
out: The fucker said he needed to eat the skin to live. How does he 
end up dyin’? Malnutrition, even though he gets three meals a day. 


So, we look into it, an' the guy had a kid, who moved out here. 
Yeah, yer neighbor. So, we come in, do some checkin’ up, an’ once 
we did, it came pretty clear he did it. Unfortunately, looks like he got 
wind of us, an’ skipped out, with a last little screw you in the bargain. 
So, we got guys tearin' up his place to figure out where he went. Oh, 
we'll find him, don't worry. He's sloppy. He'll screw up eventually. 


Anyway, get comfy. We got someone comin’ here who's gonna 
make you forget everythin’ that happened. Tomorrow mornin’, this'll 
seem like it was just a botched robbery. We'll even set you up t'look 
like a hero, saved yer family. How's that? 


By the way, how's rent around here? Seems like a nice 
neighborhood. 


Nobody Knows 


Well, shit. 


Yeah, I'd say you got the bastard. They don't get much more dead 
than that. 


Okay, calm down. You're not gonna get D-Classed. Breathe, kid. 


Here's what happened. You're not the one who shoved him off the 
building with a live grenade. You were doing your honest best 
t'follow orders and take the bastard in alive. You were doing just 
fine, too, until Nobody killed him. 


Well, yeah, obviously, someone killed him. | meant Nobody, the 
person. Or people. Or whatever. You've heard of Nobody, right? 


Yeah, that one. Does mysterious shit, helps or hurts us, an' then he 
disappears. He's the one who did it, understand? 


No, it's not exactly lying. Okay, so it's lying, but it's lying to cover 
your ass, which is practically a moral obligation at this point.