The doctor and the agent stood at the threshold of death row. A pair 
of brilliant floodlights shone behind them in the safe zone, casting 
their shadows starkly against the painted steel containment doors 
that blocked the path to the pitch black execution chamber. Garcez 
clutched a white plastic bucket containing a paintbrush and three 
blood packs generously donated by the people of the neighboring 
town in one of their frequent blood drives. 


"What if they attack me anyway?" Garcez finally asked, staring at 
the door blankly. 


"They shouldn't, Xavier. But if they do, | promise I'll finish the job. 
We'll keep these things contained." Clef waved his key card over the 
electronic lock, and the steel doors swung towards the two men. A 
rush of gibbering voices seemed to pour out of the stark darkness of 
the death row cell block. One hundred and sixty-six meters away, 
the door to the execution chamber stood open, barely illuminated by 
the powerful flood lamps behind the two men. 


"Everything seems normal." Clef nodded as the doors of every cell 
on the left side began slamming open and shut in unison. "Go get it 
done, kid. Remember, the pattern isn't important. The walk is." 


Garcez's breath was calm and measured as he stepped into the 
darkness. Clef watched as his partner briskly strolled past the 
remains of an agent who had failed to execute his task perfectly 
three years ago. 


After passing seventy-three yards down the hallway, Garcez spun 
his head sideways with a short exclamation. "Mom?" 


Abruptly his body was yanked to the side, smashed against the 
rusted metal of a closed cell over and over until it was limply 
dragged between the bars in a smear of gore. Clef narrowed his 
eyes and grimaced. He had really thought Garcez was going to work 
out. 


June 22nd, 20 7:53 PM 


Clef walked with his cane tucked under one arm. His other swung 
the white plastic bucket in time with his measured steps. Exactly 
eleven minutes after entering SCP-450 he came to the old electric 
chair, rattling and shaking in its fixtures. With the exception of 
Garcez's screw-up, everything was going as expected. 


Clef knelt behind the shuddering electric chair and examined the 
bucket's contents. Two of the blood packets had been torn when 
Garcez was taken. Looking back the way he came for the first time, 
he could see the trail of bloody footprints he had left behind. Doctor 
Clef pursed his lips—the one remaining blood packet would not be 
enough to draw the containment pattern he had devised thirty years 


ago. Digging into his trouser pocket, he produced the old hunting 
knife Dmitri had given him as a present after their vacation in 
Tijuana. Clef rolled up his sleeve, laid the blade against his wrist and 
set about his task. He doubted he would have time to walk out safely 
after this... 


Day 1 of Containment Cycle 367 


Doctor Yancy sat in the security office, feeling very small in front of 
Doctor Clef's laptop. A progress bar slowly filled as a series of high- 
resolution photographs was attached to a report for the O5 Council. 


Agent Xavier Garcez is confirmed to have perished while 
executing secure containment procedures at 
approximately 7:42 PM. Attached image [Incident 
450-34-a] was taken by Researcher Darrin from outside 
SCP-450 containment. It appears that Doctor Clef 
personally completed containment procedures with his 
own blood. Of note is the phrase that Doctor Clef painted 
upon the rear wall of the execution chamber in place of 
the decayed containment pattern: "Come and get it 
mother fuckers." 


The entities within SCP-450 are confirmed to be 
contained. This appears to verify Doctor Clef's recent 
hypothesis that the specific pattern is not relevant to 
containment. The entities will be contained as long as 
human blood is applied to the walls of the execution 
chamber. 


Attached image [Incident 450-34-b] is of the floor before 
the electric chair. From this angle it is hard to determine 
the nature of the markings, but we believe they are 
multiple hand prints and a large blank area in the shape 
of a human body. Doctor Clef's whereabouts are 
unknown. He is presumed dead. 


Along Came A Spider 


He cautiously made his way through the ruins. He had a name, but it 
had long since been forgotten. His name was now a word that had 
been written under a drawing in the margin of a journal he didn’t 
remember keeping. His life had become one of service to the 
Foundation. Now the Foundation was no more, and he had returned 
to the site of his greatest failure. 


Just what was the agent’s greatest failure, he wasn’t entirely sure. 
Perhaps it had been leaving the site without making sure everyone 
understood his instructions. Perhaps it had been failing to ensure 
that the robots had all of their moving parts protected. Perhaps it 
had been allowing his paranoia that the containment procedures on 
359 weren't sufficient, and he had to see for himself, to get the 
better of him, which had been his reason for leaving in the first 
place. But whatever it was, within a day of his leaving the site, there 
was no longer a site to return to. 


The news had come from one of the Level 1 personnel who arrived 
at 359’s roost. The vine had somehow hitched a ride on one of the 
robots, he claimed, and had killed anyone who saw it. People had 
been sent to the lab with flamethrowers to attempt to contain it with 
minimal collateral damage, but to no avail. The more people it killed, 
the faster it soread. By the time the situation had reached the point 
where activating the on-site warhead would have been a viable 
option, anyone who had the security clearance to do so was already 
dead. 


The agent had called in an airstrike on the former site, but the vine 
had already spread far beyond the site by the time it was cleared. 
Within a week, the entire American Midwest was overgrown. 


He and the remaining survivors had erected a shelter, a massive 
steel dome with a glass roof to let sunlight in. He knew the plant 
couldn't put down roots in metal or glass, and the glass was too high 
for any vine to reach without roots for support. He had thought they 


would be safe in there. He had forgotten the ingenuity of the plant. 


He had lost track of the time the survivors had spent inside the 
dome when the attack came. The vines had crept over the glass 
window and smashed it with the rocks held in their roots. Next had 
come the Great Rain of Mice. Dead mice began to fall through the 
broken skylight, erupting with vines the instant they hit the ground. 
The survivors had been caught completely off-guard. Within hours, 
the dome had been completely overrun. 


So now, dressed in a thermal insulation suit specifically designed to 
shield his heat signature from the plant, he returned to where it all 
began. He wanted to understand where everything had gone wrong. 
He had already seen that the plant had stacked various porous 
objects against the dome to reach the skylight. 


As he climbed over the numerous skeletons, humans and otherwise, 
entwined in the mass of vines, he saw something sitting in the 
middle of the room. It was one of the robots that had been used to 
maintain the plant after Incident 307 had killed a D-class personnel. 
One of its arms had long since rusted and fallen off. As he 
approached, he could see a plant growing out of it, with its roots set 
into the rubber casing on one of its hydraulic tubes. 


He prepared to turn back, when something at the other end of the 
room caught his eye. It appeared to be a light, but the sun had set 
hours ago. Against his better judgment, he made his way through 
the vine-strewn door. He immediately recognized the room he was 
in. It was the plant’s containment cell, and the light, which was 
somehow still lit, was the hydroponic chamber where the original 
specimen had been contained. But now, there was something 
different underneath it. 


The hydroponic station had been replaced by a table, with several 
glass terrariums on it. Inside each terrarium was a sizable colony of 
mice. As he watched, a vine snaked forward, lifted the lid off of one 
of the terrariums, and touched one of the mice, which froze on the 
spot. The vine wrapped around the mouse and removed it from the 
terrarium. So that’s how it’s survived all this time, he thought. The 
damn thing is farming hosts! 


He turned to leave, but felt something tug at his leg. One of the 
seams on his suit had become caught on a thorn. Before he could 
decide the best way to disengage himself, the vine began to move 
towards the mice, pulling the seam out of the suit completely. 


Instantly, the vines homed in on his heat signature and grabbed the 
suit with their thorns. He could hear them tearing at his clothes, as a 
particularly large vine wrapped around each limb and forced him to 
his knees. As he looked up, a single vine crept up to his face. 


It was a plant. It didn’t have a mouth. It didn’t have a face. It didn’t 
even have a head. And yet, for just a second, he almost swore it 
was grinning at him. 


Evaluation Log 781 


Evaluation Note 781-01: Psychological analysis shows subject to 
be highly forgetful about personal events in general, but even more 
so on those leading to his death. His memory repression was likely 
developed as a coping mechanism to deal with his frequent painful 
deaths. In an attempt to aid the development of his mental health, 
security personnel on nightly detail are hereby ordered to defend 
SCP-781 from his manifestations if possible. It is my hope that 
perhaps with some treatment and reprieve from the nightly attacks, 
SCP-781's dreams will not be manifest as hostile - Dr. Glass 


Evaluation Note 781-02: SCP-781's mood and mental health finally 
seem to be improving. He has been regularly cheerful as of late, has 
begun to request company, and has become increasingly open with 
his thoughts. Furthermore, SCP-781 expresses gratitude of the 
Foundation's interference on his behalf. However, the nightly attacks 
continue at the same intensity, and no significant progress has been 
made with the subject's frequent memory lapses - Dr. Glass 


Evaluation Note 781-03: Previous questioning about SCP-781's 
origin had been fruitless, but today the subject confided that he 
believes himself to be "from where dreams come". The subject 
seems to believe there is a specific reason to his existence here, 
outside the "dreamworld", and that it may be linked to his recurring 
attacks. - Dr. Glass 


Evaluation Note 781-04: Under my command, testing for possible 
uses of SCP-781 is ongoing. It appears SCP-781 is not able to be 
used as a reusable source of human organs, as all parts of SCP-781 
disappear twelve hours after its death, even if they have been 
preserved or made functional within a different body. Further 
research is necessary. - Dr. 


Evaluation Note 781-05: On all trials, it seems SCP-781 returns 
perfectly healthy despite mode of death. When exposed to mundane 
toxins, SCP-781 succumbed as normal, but as always, returned 


Also This All Happened On The Same Day, So | Don't 
Know Why He Said It Like That. 


The following is the last recorded message from newly 
promoted Director Austin of Site-12. It is unknown if the 
director was suffering a mental break or if he was under 
the effects of an unidentified memetic effect released 
during the site-wide breach on December 25th, 2013. 


Regardless, the site experienced the simultaneous 
activation of both the above ground and below ground 
nuclear fail-safes 1 minute and 43 seconds after the 
broadcast. There were no survivors. 


if the audio player is broken so is the masquerade... 


Alternate Hypotheses 


We gotta keep our own, don't we? 


That's what my dear Momma always said. If ya got something 
earned, or somethin’ that's yours, keep it safe. Don't let any o' them 
outside peepers come creepin' in, tryin' to make off with somethin’ of 
yours. She wanted to keep away from them folks, to live with what 
we already got. 


| kept care of Momma and Sue Ann fer all my life. Side by side, we 
lived'n peace, and sometimes comfort, if we was lucky. We each 
had our protection, an' used it well. But, sometimes it wadn't 
enough. Momma passed back in '48, bless her heart. Big storm 
knocked her right over, an' she never got up. Sue Ann got to be with 
Momma some years after, with a rusted heart. 


But y'can't let yerself fall apart when some'n your own ain't around 
anyplace. | kept up, remembrin' them and keepin’ to my own, like 
Momma woulda wanted me to. Keepin’ it safe. The protector don't 
quite look like what he used to be, but that don't change a thing, now 
does it? Still keeps to me, like | do t'him. Y'all should've kept to 
yerselves, 'stead of headin’ here. 


You folks never learn. Comin’ onto someone else's land ain't 
respectful, and then up and lyin’ about it don't help. | chased yer 
buddies away, maybe they'll think twice about coming back. 
Anythin's possible. Lookit em’ run. They go quick when they scared, 
don't they? 


Now, uh, fer you. See, my protector's been gettin’ on in his years, 
and he don't have the spring to his step what like he used to. Tellin’ 
me he's tired, and wants rest. The man deserves to rest more'n 
anyone. But, | still need a protector. 


You like beans? Aww, well you'll learn't love ‘em, soon. 


INCIDENT 1270- 

On / /201 , several agents were performing routine 
reconnaissance into SCP-1270's second floor. During 
this time, SCP-1270-1 suddenly manifested and began 
attacking personnel, injuring and fatally wounding . 
Following the incident, Agent Fowells, who had been 
with the reconnaissance team, was found to be missing. 
His current status is MIA. 


Alto Clef Jr.: Fins of the Father 


Death, some say, is an inevitability. The entire cosmos attempts to 
kill us; Meteors endeavor to crash into us, anomalies vie to redact 
us, the sun sends solar waves towards our humble planet, galaxies 
collide bombastically, and the paradigm terror of entropy dictates 
doom of a cold or hot end. This, | accepted without fear or anger. 
One day, however, | found a new aspect, a new chapter to death, a 
most unbearable mortality: turning into a goose with human legs 
while | slept. 


My name is Buckchamp McFuckmeup, and it is short to say | was 
bumfuck terrified of what happened. | worked for the Foundation, | 
knew what happened to people who experienced anomalous 
changes while they slept. | was not prepared to be locked up ina 
“standard humanoid containment cell” for the rest of my avian life. 
So, | took the only approach that | could think of at the time: hope 
that nobody would notice. | slapped on a gasmask to mask my beak 
and head, and shoved my wings through my suit. Thankfully, it 
turned out my cover was as covert as one could expect from an 
anthropomorphic gosling; that is, rather. However, | found that things 
were quick to change under the influence of an anomaly. 


The job was a response to an anomalous occurrence in a decrepit 
factory. As soon as we entered, the disrepair of the place was 
apparent, it's condemned interior flush with a veneer of ash and rust, 
gins and dynamos either in hefty disrepair or too obsolete to be 
useful; reminded me of my local laundromat... except today | forgot 
my quarters. The progression down the spacious machine house 
went slow, every now and then a spark of energy spurring a long 
dead tool to life (giving the squad a healthy spook and ridding them 
of a few bullets), but steadily in our search for whatever the fuck was 
in here. All we were told was that some teenagers broke in, heard 
something weird, and one of them died because a monster ate them 
"or something." By that information, we could capture this dust for 
being anomalously allergenic and | think the bureaucraps and |