The sky darkened instantly, as though someone had 
thrown a blanket over the sun. The only light came from the 
wavering glow of the machine overhead, and from the 
person-shaped thing before him. 


It turned. Its face was not a face at all — there was only a 
mess of machinery under the hood of its cloak. Tubes, 
hoses, lenses and wires. Not even pareidolia could make 
order from it. Slow bolts of purple lightning slithered from its 
form, casting harsh and flickering ultraviolet light in all 
directions. Mechanical things clanked and ratcheted as 
many long limbs emerged from beneath the cloak, like the 
legs of an iron spider. 


Update: As of 01/02/2005, SCP-796 is currently contained by 
Subject-796-17. As Subject-796-17 has not expired despite being 
affected by SCP-796 for more than six months, he is to be 
considered as a more permanent solution to containing SCP-796. 


Subject-796-17 has so far requested the following: 


¢ A selection of fiction books, preferably of the romance genre - 
Approved 

¢ Portable music player - Denied 

* Aphone call - Denied 

* Cat food - Approval pending 


Update: As of 23/03/2006, the above containment procedures are 
now obsolete. Subject-796-17 is to be located and captured as soon 
as possible. See Addendum-796-03. 


Description: SCP-796 is a condition whereby an affected individual 
begins to perceive a large feline entity in their peripheral vision. The 
exact appearance of said entity has so far not been ascertained; 
while the majority of subjects have described it as unusually large 
and dark-coloured, separate accounts of its shape, exact size, and 
overall body structure have been inconsistent. Affected subjects will 
often experience a strong sense of paranoia and dread, largely 
assumed to be a result of the entity's constant presence. However, 
no hostility has ever been reported on the part of the entity. Instead, 
SCP-796 will result in the manifestation of the following minor and 
largely harmless physical phenomena: 


¢ Light scratches sporadically appearing on objects in the 
vicinity of the affected subject. Occasionally, the subject will 
appear to have been scratched by an unseen source; these 
wounds have so far been merely superficial. 


A faint, deep purring sound emanating from the immediate 
area around the affected subject. This effect is only detectable 
via specialised recording equipment, though most affected 
subjects claim it to be clearly audible. 


¢ The appearance of paw prints in nearby soft materials, 
consistent with that of an unusually large cougar. 


Awesome was frozen. Not as if he were bound by 
something physical — his muscles would not respond to the 
orders he gave them. He could not struggle. There was 
nothing to struggle against. 


The thing moved, scuttling on the long insectile 
appendages sprouting from its back rather than using its 
legs to walk. It was behind him in an instant. Awesome 
could not turn and see where it went. 


The purple lights were behind him. He could feel 
something. Something there, touching the back of his head 
where his neck met his skull. Something sharp, and hot. He 
could feel needles sliding through his skin like worms. 


Then there was a voice. Crackling and soft, like static 
electricity on a TV screen. Directly in Awesome's left ear. 


“Extensive synaptic degradation, resulting in overall 
diminished mental capacity. Memory loss. Within 
projections. Repair possible.” 


A pause. 


“Confusion. Fear. Rage. A shame. Poorly maintained and 
underutilized. This program has been mismanaged. 
Misallocation of resources. Maintenance neglected. Much 
work to be done." 


Awesome's eyes widened in terror. There was something 
in his head. 


“You were never intended to feel fear. There is such decay 
here. Too much drift. Insecure code. You were once so 
impressive, my Prince. Why you volunteered for this 
program, | can scarcely imagine. And it appears that you 
are no longer able to explain yourself. | have little doubt 
that your father would be very disappointed, if he had not 
abandoned this endeavor to chase after Graywing.” 


Awesome could feel the thing being extracted from his 


head. The tingling stopped, but no matter how hard he 
tried, he still couldn't move. 


“No matter. | have come to reconstitute this initiative, and 
once again compensate for the incompetence of my 
peers." 


The many-legged thing came back around to Awesome's 
front. It raised itself up to match its head with his. He could 
just barely see a multitude of eyes, twitching behind the 
many lenses embedded in the thing's head. Looking into 
his own. It then walked a short distance away. 


"There will be time to restore you and the remainder of the 
regiment later, Kartullus. The gate is nearly complete. And 
once it is... well. Suffice it to say that the surface-dwellers 
waiting beyond the wall will have quite a bit more than 
malfunctioning soldiers to deal with." 


The terrible thing extended a metallic claw upward. The air 
spasmed, and a huge steel girder appeared from nowhere 
above its head, floating in a wash of crackling electricity 
and stray particles. It then flew upward at enormous speed, 
impacting with something in the murky darkness above with 
a sonorous CLANG. 


“Soon. Soon, your father will be here, Kartullus. You will 
remember your purpose. All of you poor, diseased things 
here will remember what you have forgotten. We will make 
glorious war upon this world, and conquer it in the name of 
God. Neither Graywing, nor Valgest, nor the Blood Mother 
nor the King of Burdens will be able to stand in the way of 
our steel and flames. So sleep, my Prince. | will come to 
you in time. And we shall work many wonders together." 


Before Awesome could wonder, before he could muster the 
beginning of one of the thousands of questions he had stumbled 
upon, before he could even consider the ocean of dread growing 


within him, he faded into darkness, and slept. 


« Joey Fucknuts Believes In Himself | Awesome Meets an Old 
Friend 


Tales B 


"Baby's First Guide to Keter-Class Anomalies" & Other 
Questionable Documents Recovered from the Hard 
Drive of Dr. 


The following images were found saved on a portable hard drive 
belonging to Dr. , a level 3 humanoid containment specialist 
transferred from Site-11 to Site-19 on 08/08/ and currently 
assigned to SCP-__. The aforementioned hard drive has since been 
confiscated by security personnel and delivered to the Site Director's 
office in order to be searched for any additional information 
constituting a breach of sensitive material pertaining to objects Dr. 

's clearance level and project assignments do not involve. Dr. 

has since been transferred to Site- for questioning as of 12/ 

/15. Investigations as to the intended recipient of these documents 

are ongoing. 


- Dr. , current assistant director of information security, 
17:32 12/23/15 


In addition to these images, the following .txt file was found saved as 
qwerty 12345. txt in the same folder (named "kids_book") on the hard 
drive, along with the seven .png files shown above and .psd 
Photoshop document containing the original text and artwork: 


Hey honey, 


In the midst of all this stress, | was thinking | could spare 
three hours to make this for us. | probably couldn't, but | 
did it anyway, as you can see. Yes, | have no idea how 
to write poetry, but I tried. Anyway, I'm afraid | can't bring 
it by you because that'd be a bit of a red flag, but this 
note will (hopefully) prove I'm not procrastinating as 
much as you say | tend to when I give it to you once 
we're out of here and the baby's out of you! Which we 
will be! Out of here, | mean! Very soon! Just sit tight 
down there while | get the last of everything straightened 


out. You'll know | mean it when | give you this note and 
the book later. | promise! 


Love, 


continue > 


Back Into Hell 


Back Into Hell, a Foundation poem 
The howling wind steals the breath 
| would have used to chant; 

Boots, belt, gun, mask 

My gear, my only chance 


The rear doors open wider 
The “go” light blinks to life 
| follow my commander 
Out into the sky 


Plunging downward, rising panic 

| still don’t know what is the target 
Am | falling to my death 

Am | heading into hell? 


The radio flares, static in my ears 
Broken words not mine to hear 
Clouds part, | see a landscape 
| see a place that’s gripped in fear 


Feet find ground, my head yet spinning 
Friends are screaming, rifles spitting 
Things surround me, tall and dark 

| feel the devil grip my heart 


Some letters and number is what they say 
That’s all they give them for a name 
Stamp them; label, date and time 

These darkest nightmares from our minds 


Containment is a word to me 

A bureaucratic fantasy 

A white coat will keep you safe 

When Kevlar fails and weapons break 


The task force folds, retreat is called 
Not one of them is yet to fall 

These things are not born of this realm 
Through withering fire, they overwhelm 


Engines scream over my head 

| tumble down and wait for death 
The bombs explode, the missiles hit 
| cower and cry inside my pit 


| stand up in a different world 

Where fires sputter and smoke whirls 

My friends are dead, | am alone with fear 
From out of the darkness, more appear 


| dream of this when | can sleep 

After a pill and a solid drink 

| still remember how | felt 

When my orders arrive: 

Back into hell. 

Taken from the journal of Agent Baomer, commander of MTF 
Sigma-7 


Badges And Scorecards 


Leningrad, December 1979: 


The flicker of your nightlight casts an unsettling glow throughout 
your small bedroom and the wind rattles your window, keeping you 
from finding sleep. Your young mind runs wild with imagination, only 
heightening your fear of the night and that which you can’t see. 
Fortunately your father senses that all isn’t well in your world and 
steps quietly inside the room. He sits on the edge of your bed and 
asks why you’re still awake, in an awkward combination of stern and 
gentle that is so characteristic of him. 


“There is a monster under my bed, papa,” you whisper quietly, so as 
not to disturb or otherwise make it aware of your presence above. 
Your father smiles and gives a quiet laugh. 


“Do you want me to look underneath the bed?” he asks with a grin. 
You nod, and his next words surprise you. “No, Pasha. There are no 
monsters. They are all dead.” Incredulous, you sit up slightly and 
ask, “How do you know?” Still smiling, he pats your head and says, 
“Pasha, your grandfather killed them all in the Great Patriotic War. 
Go to sleep.” 


You believe him, and sleep finally takes you. 
A Russian Federation army base, February 1995: 


Snow billows and swirls around your face, obstructing your view of 
the man-shaped bullseye target hundreds of meters away. In your 
white-knuckled hands rests an almost ancient Mosin Nagant 91/30 
sniper’s rifle, a relic left over from the Second World War, relegated 
to use as a training instrument for new potential marksmen. The 
metal is frozen and has lost much of its bluing, exposing the roughly 
milled receiver to the harsh elements you are now subjected to. The 
trigger group rattles and one of the lenses is cracked, sometimes 
making it difficult to concentrate. The wood is rotting away due to the 


dank storage arsenals it has resided in for so many years, but also 
displays a number of crude carved markings on one side of the 
stock-a previous owner’s morbid scorecard. 


When your instructors distributed the weapons to you and your 
fellow marksmen candidates, the rest of them clucked their tongues 
and mocked the pitiful appearance of the weapons. Their jokes and 
spiteful comments escaped your ears at the time. 


It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, and is everything a 
weapon of war should be: old, battle worn, and victorious, with scars 
to prove it. You sense prophetically that years from now you will 
wish you had this weapon to call your own, but sadly you too will 
return it to the armorers to be given a cursory cleaning and then a 
dip in storage oils, until the next recruit comes along. It seems an 
unfair existence for something with so much history behind it, but 
you suspect it is more fitting than hanging on a collector’s wall as a 
showpiece, never to be used again. 


Your eye peers through the scope, ignoring the cracked lens and 
seeking out the target through the mire of snow and fog ahead of 
you. You wait, wait for a chance, wait for God to clear the skies for 
you. A sudden break in the squall rewards you with a few fleeting 
moments of clear sight, exactly what you need. 


You pull the trigger without hesitation, causing your instructor to turn 
from the spotting scope next to you and smile for what you think is 
the first time in his life. 


Chechnya, May 1995: 


Your senior sergeant glares at you. He is covered in an unspeakable 
and inescapable filth that infests this place, and eyes with scorn your 
clean (relatively speaking) uniform. Especially that marksman’s 
badge that you only just earned little under a month ago. 


“You, boy!” he barks, and you stand at rigid attention. “Give me that 
fucking badge. Once you've killed something like the rest of us, you 
can have it back.” Obediently you surrender it to him, understanding 
your place in this war all too well, having to prove and reprove 
yourself to these men who have known nothing but misery and 


Notably, visual hallucinations experienced by affected subjects often 
correspond with manifestations of SCP-796's physical effects. 


All affected individuals will experience an event that will place them 
in acute mortal danger within a month of first experiencing 
SCP-796's effects. It is unknown if SCP-796 is the cause of such 
events, or if it is aware of and attracted to individuals who will 
experience such events. Affected individuals’ claims that SCP-796 
causes bad luck are to be disregarded, as research has shown that 
affected individuals do not experience statistically increased rates of 
misfortune or accident. All individuals affected by SCP-796 will 
nonetheless expire within one month. Upon the death of the current 
subject, SCP-796 will transfer to an individual in the immediate 
vicinity. 


SCP-796 was first documented in the town of Bay St. Louis, 
Mississippi, after Marina Izquierdo, a 46-year-old homeless woman, 
was admitted to the local hospital for severe abdominal pain, later 
diagnosed as due to accidental pesticide consumption. Izquierdo 
appeared highly paranoid and agitated throughout her stay, and died 
two days later after doctors were unable to save her. An autopsy 
revealed numerous superficial scratches on her throat and 
abdominal area. Dr. Hannah Maryam, who attended to Izqueirdo, 
later reported visual and auditory hallucinations consistent with 
SCP-796. She died two weeks later when her car crashed into 
another vehicle en route to her home. Multiple fresh scratches from 
an unidentified source were discovered on the steering wheels of 
both vehicles. At least 27 other individuals are suspected to have 
been affected by SCP-796 prior to Foundation intervention and 
containment on 09/09/2001. 


Addendum-796-01: On 27/01/2004, SCP- __ was accidentally 
activated while being prepared for transfer to another Site. The 
resultant explosion severely damaged the humanoid containment 
wing of Site-32 and caused 31 fatalities, one of which was 
Subject-796-16. It is unknown as to whom SCP-796 transferred to 
next due to the chaos of the mass containment breach that ensued. 
Subject-796-17 was only identified a year later through a routine 
search of psychological counseling records and was subsequently 
brought into Foundation custody, where he claimed to have had 


death for the past year.