Output: One even smaller model of SCP-914 weighing 
the same as all input materials, including the photograph. 
The model possesses all features of the original, 
including complex miniaturized clockwork, intake booths 
and a miniature setting knob and mainspring key. 


It's SCP-914 all the way down. -Researcher 


Name: Dr. Hadian 

Date: 1-2-17 

Total Items: One (1) roll of yarn and one (1) porcelain 
teapot, full 


Input: The above items 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) teapot, still porcelain, of the same make 
as the input; however, it was filled with a viscous, multi- 
colored fluid. Additionally, the yarn was replaced with a 
length of brown string, that has a vaguely earthy scent to 
it. Further testing shows the teapot's contents to be 
chemically similar to organic fibers, particularly those 


should have this all wrapped up by dinner. Grant, you and Arthur 
make sure everything is ready for June, will you?” Both huge men 
nodded, moving back and opening the heavy steel door, given 
Marten a view of the bare tiled walls and stained concrete floor drain 
beyond before the door swung shut again. McCredie rose, stubbing 
out his cigarette out and grinning “Well, let’s give her an hour, and 
then we'll get this mess over and done with!” 


“Ugh...why do these places always smell like smoke and old 
people? Why can’t we ever meet at some club or something? God, | 
really think he goes out of his way to bug me sometimes...” June 
flipped her hair back in disgust, looking around at the sitting room, 
her black dress shining with small interwoven crystals. “Why did he 
want me here even? Aren’t we supposed to be going out for 
dinner?” 


Marten nodded, smiling. “Yes ma’am, and he will be along shortly. In 
the meantime, he wished for me to give you a small gift on his 
behalf.” Her eyes immediately lit up, a grin spreading over her face 
as she squealed happily. 


“Really? Where is it? Oooh, | love presents...” 


Marten gestured to the steel door, and she hurried over, pulling it 
open with some effort. “Ugh...what a heavy door...ooh, is that it? 
lt's...just a yin-yang with a little chain. How is that...what is this 
place? Arthur? What are you doing...let...let ME GO!” The start of 
her scream was cut off sharply as Marten gently closed the door. 


McCredie reclined in his chair, chuckling slightly as he looked to the 
small speaker planted on the coffee table before him. “You’re a loon, 
Harper, you know that don’t you? It takes real dedication to keep 
playing a game you're bad at.” A short burst of laughter from the 
speaker quickly devolved in to a coughing fit, before the voice gave 
a gasp and replied. “McCredie, you’re not any better then me at the 
cards, you just cheat better then anyone else at the table. Besides, 
don’t you still owe me two from that Easter game?” 


McCredie scoffed, waving his hand at the speaker as if it could see, 


his head turning slightly as Marten quietly opened the steel door and 
strode over to him, the sound of a muffled sob quickly squelched as 
the door re-closed. Marten leaned down, whispering “Sadness, sir” 
quietly in to McCredie’s ear, causing the bald man to shake his 
head, face pinched as if he’d bitten something sour “Oh, lord, no, not 
at all...that’s a good chap.” McCredie shook his head twice and 
Marten slipped back behind the steel door, the short, soft thud that 
came several seconds later muffled by Harper asking about 
McCredie’s plans for the following evening. 


“Going to take the wife out for walkies? You've kept her so tight 
under wraps people are beginning to talk old man. Or perhaps 
there’s another reason for your social hermitage? Young blood for 
old bones?” Harper ended with another gale of laughter and 
coughing, McCredie sighing and placing his hand over his face, 
even as he sported a slight grin. 


“You know how it can be Harper. Just getting her presentable before 
| go trotting about and making a fool of myself.” He missed Harper’s 
reply as Marten slid silently up to him again. “Jealousy, sir.” 
McCredie thought for a moment, before shaking his head again. 
“No, no...a little green can liven up a woman, but more trouble then 
it’s worth.” 


McCredie turned back, chatting with Harper about tomorrow night’s 
gala, occasionally broken by Marten stepping out to whisper in to 
McCredie’s ear, or a louder then normal sound from behind the 
door. As Harper droned on about his new system for poker, there 
was a sudden, sharp knock on the steel door, followed by several 
other, soft thumps. McCredie twisted in his chair, Harper's 
disembodied voice all but forgotten as the steel door handle 
suddenly wrenched open, and a bloody, shrieking banshee lunged 
from behind it. 


McCredie shouted, and attempted to run from the room, hide behind 
his chair, and strike at the screaming wrath before him, which 
caused him to succeed only in sending him tripping in to a heap on 
the floor. The lank, howling form before him ripped the chair aside, 
bloody blond hair sending a spray of crimson droplets across the 
room, her yawning mouth drooling a stream of blood and saliva. 
Lashing out with hands twisted in to talons, she gouged and ripped 


her way closer to McCredie, who was quickly backing away along 
the floor, eyes locked on the twitching, screaming horror. 


She leapt, and landed at his feet, blood splattering on his face and 
hands, McCredie giving a cry of revulsion and horror as her arms 
pulled back to lash and rip against his face. Before the mutilating 
blow was struck, however, there was a loud, solid thud, much like 
dropping a melon from a small height. The bloody, screaming thing 
went silent, her arms frozen a moment, before seeming to drift to her 
head as if she were under water. Locked in that pose for what 
seemed a eternity, she suddenly pitched to the side as a sizable 
block of dark wood connected with her temple, sending her 
sprawling to the side, her temple visibly dented as blood began to 
drool over her silent, still face. 


Marten stood, panting, behind where the woman had stood, blinking 
as he looked at a broken chair leg in his hand as if it had somehow 
magically appeared there. A large man was lumbering his way from 
the room behind the steel door, hand over his face, which was 
leaking a great deal of blood. Another man’s feet were just visible 
through the doorway. They did not appear to be moving. McCredie 
rose, trembling, and looked between the far room, and the broken, 
bleeding thing on the floor, mouth working soundlessly. 


It was several seconds before he was able to speak, and when he 
did, it sounded nothing like him. Gone was the bluster, the pompous 
flash, leaving the hollow, rattling husk of a whisper, emanating from 
a man who had just seen death, and knew that it missed him dearly. 
“W-what...what was...” he trailed off, unable to muster the strength 
to continue, eyes wide with shock. Marten placed the chair leg down 
on the table, gently, before adjusting his shirt sleeve. “Anger, sir. We 
were...not expecting the ferocity. Arthur may have lost a eye. | think 
Grant is dead.” 


McCredie nodded, not hearing a word, looking at the twisted, broken 
body on the floor. He rubbed his face, and looked in renewed horror 
as his hands came away bloody from the splatter she had sprayed. 
“Oh...oh god...I...need to go. | need to change, I...I...” he trailed off 
again, sputtering and going silent as he slowly started to back away 
from the bloody scene before him. Marten nodded as Arthur 


stumbled in to a chair, groaning as he continued to hold his face. “Of 
course sir. The car will be waiting for you, | will attend to things here 
sir.” 


McCredie mumbled a “quite right...very good...” as he stumbled like 
a sleep walker to the door, glancing back only once, before rushing 
out the door and down to the car. Marten had been pulling the gun 
from Arthur's free hand as the man moaned, blood dripping between 
his fingers and down his chest. However, it wasn’t that which sent 
him sprinting to the safety of his car, nor even the broken wrath on 
the floor. It had been the sight of June, taking two hesitant steps 
from the small room behind the steel door. June, arms lifeless at her 
sides, shivering slightly and unheeding of her torn dress or bloody 
feet. June, who’s eyes had found his for a split second, and shown 
him a deep tunnel in to a being who’s entire existence had shrunk to 
a heart beat and expanding lungs. 


Much later, Marten called McCredie, to inform him the re-integration 
had proceeded without incident, and the events of the afternoon had 
been erased. McCredie replaced the receiver without speaking, 
mentally screaming that they had bloody well not been erased. 
Walking to the drawing room, he pulled a large bottle of whiskey and 
a glass from the bar, before tossing the glass aside with a dull thud 
and drinking deeply from the bottle. To his credit, he did not finish 
the bottle, but that was only because of his falling through the floor 
of wakefulness like a millstone through plywood. There, he slept the 
sleep of the numbed and horrified, the whiskey clouding and dulling 
the clawing, shrieking horrors that would swirl on the edges of his 
awareness for a long time to come. 


“Bloody hell old man, why didn't you tell me? She's a vision, no 
wonder you've been dabbling with hermitage! | doubt I'd have the 
strength to rejoin society, with that strutting about the house!” Harper 
clapped McCredie on the back, hunching over with another laughing 
bout of coughs. McCredie twisted away slightly, still somewhat tired 
from the night before and not in the best humor. He turned to face 
the direction of Harper’s comment, wincing slightly at Harper’s loud, 
rattling cough. 


June McCredie stood on the far side of the ballroom, a vision ina 
simple black dress, her laughter bubbling around the room and 
drawing admirers like moths to flame. Mr. McCredie had been 
getting comments all night on his “diamond in the rough”, and those 
who had previously met her begged to know what had caused the 
sudden, dramatic shift. Gone was the spoiled little rich girl, to be 
replaced by a charming, funny (and even a touch flirtatious) high 
society girl. So what if she laughs a little too long, and appears to be 
about as deep as a soap dish, his fellows said, too much depth can 
lead to complications. 


McCredie could only offer a cheap smile and shrug his shoulders, as 
he did now with Harper. The coughing man straightened up with a 
small amount of difficulty, and clapped him again on the back. “Fine, 
you old tom, you keep your secret. I’m off to the green room for a 
round and a game, | think I’ve been around you enough for the good 
luck to rub off!” chuckling slightly, Harper limped off, snatching a 
drink from a passing tray, and leaving McCredie alone for the first 
time that evening. 


He stood, watching his new wife framed with a ring of admirers, and 
shivered. Where the others saw the bubbling, fawning beauty, all he 
could see was a shrieking, bloody horror, screaming and snapping 
for his flesh. He shuddered, and looked away, catching the eye of 
Laura DeFoe, who was leaning against the bar. She nodded to him, 
then smiled, looking away and shaking her head, before turning 
back and raising her glass, her smile much more coy. McCredie 
broke in to the first genuine smile of the day, and tipped a imaginary 
hat to her. A bit older then his normal fair, she was never the less a 
very handsome woman... 


“Honey, | was just talking to your friends, and they wanted to go out 
for a party tomorrow, just a small group. It sounds like such fun, but | 
wouldn't dream of doing anything without you darling!” June gushed, 
grabbing McCredie’s arm and nuzzling it slightly with her cheek, 
breaking his revere. He reflexively flinched away, before relaxing a 
bit, still eyeing her with a degree of suspicion. “June, I’m rather tired, 
why don’t you go back to the car, Marten will take you home. I'll be 
along presently.” 


June looked up, her smile never flickering, but her eyes were glassy, 


and her movements seemed ever so slightly jerky. “Whatever you 
say my love, I'll go right away! I'll be waiting for you when you get 
home.” Her voice was a lilting tease, and she gave him a gentle 
poke with her finger before moving away, her dress swishing as she 
strode across the room. McCredie turned back to the bar, hoping 
DeFoe had not seen, and was pleased to see her engrossed in 
conversation with Harper, the old man doubled over in another fit. 
McCredie straightened his tie a bit and started over to the bar, 
feeling the thrill of the safari as DeFoe started to turn back to him. 


His advance was halted just feet short of his goal by another 
associate, who took his hand and shook it vigorously, heaping him 
with congratulations. He bore it in good humor, as DeFoe was now 
watching, and he extracted his hand with a smile. “She’s beautiful, | 
mean, just radiant. I’m stunned, she’s...she’s...” the young man 
fumbled, and McCredie turned to face DeFoe directly, her smile a 
promise and a invitation. He took a glass from the bar and raised it 
to her, his broken wife and the stuttering young man forgotten even 
has he finished the fumbling sentence. 


“She’s perfect.” 


Performance Anxiety 


“He stood his ground when facing an entity forty times his size. | can 
respect that.” 


“He died.” 
“Yes.” James nodded. “That’s why | respect his decision.” 


Said entity had devoured Oates without pause, but it had lasted 
about eight seconds when it encountered James. It had swallowed 
the man in a mass of slithering sinew and fanged orifices... and then 
began to expel high-speed projectile organs as it collapsed in on 
itself. It was as if someone had activated a gigantic blender from 
inside it- chunks of squid-creature had rained down for quite some 
time afterwards. 


Corporal McSteward glanced at her traveling companion. “You’re a 
lot mellower than your reports suggest.” 


“These are very different circumstances when compared to my usual 
excursions,” James said flatly, still painted with cephalopod innards. 


“You're telling me,” Corporal McSteward muttered. “I don’t even 
have a gun.” 


“We can compensate for that.” James sheathed his sword. 
“| must have lost it during the evacuation.” 
“Indeed.” 


The nearest town was several miles away, but at least that limited 

the project’s exposure. A forced march through the scrubland was 

fatiguing at best and torturous at worst, but the weather and terrain 
didn’t bother James. She got the feeling nothing did. 


The things had crawled out of the base camp’s walls, coming from 


shadow, coming from the areas where peripheral vision failed even 
trained soldiers. Bullets did nothing, and flesh and Kevlar offered 
little resistance to their grasping tentacles and rending teeth. And 
neither did bravery, as Oates found out to his cost. 


She suppressed a shudder. James had already killed seven- that 
was reassuring- but it meant there’d likely be far more out there. 
Freakish beings of all shapes and sizes, exploring the wilderness 
and heading towards civilian areas. 


“Are there any potential survivors unaccounted for?” That same 
disinterested tone, as if exchanging small talk and not discussing the 
potential of an apocalyptic surge of otherworldly things. 


“| saw Hill reach the Jeep but | don’t know where he got to,” 
McSteward sighed. “I think they got to him first. Him, Oates, the 
whole goddamned regiment. | think it’s just you and me now James.” 


The base camp’s armoured division had proved just as fragile as the 
infantry; metal panels and engine parts were twisted and torn as 
easily as the bodies had been. Hill had reached a car in time, but as 
the corporal arrived he’d been racing towards the horizon as the 
other vehicles burned.