The wrinkles on Delacruz's face flatten as he widens his eyes. "Has 
it caught up with us? If | go any faster, you won't be able to stand up 
out there." 


"It's only a few hundred meters behind us. It's definitely getting 
closer. | first saw it in the binoculars about ten minutes ago. It was 
twice as close when | looked before coming in here." 


His voice cracks underneath the rasp of his southern accent. He 
nods. "Alright. Go get your boy Rogers and hop on the stern guns. 
But do not fire until | give you the all-clear. | think we can make it 
lose interest if we speed up, but get on out there." 


"Yes sir." 


"That's ‘aye captain’. Talk to me on your helmet comms once you're 
set up." 


Trauss fakes a chuckle and does a mock-salute as he turns on his 
heel and dashes back out to the hallway. He ducks into the barracks 
room and approaches Agent Rogers, who is reading a copy of 
SCP-3848 as he reclines in his cot. "Hey," Trauss starts. 


"What are you all wet for?" 


"| need you on the deck with me. There's a massive cephalopod 
trailing the ship and getting closer. Captain told us to go man the 
stern guns." 


"Shit, alright." Rogers rolls out of bed and throws his boots on. 


"You had your shoes off while we travel across a 3069 hot zone? 
We're getting close to the Site. This is the worst of it." 


"| was trying not to be paranoid," he huffs. 
"Meet me there. | need to make sure that thing isn't any closer." 
"Alright. Hey, | call the 20 millimeter!" he calls out after him. 


Trauss pushes his hair out of his face and puts his helmet back on, 
flipping the visor down and bracing himself for the conditions 
outside. He takes a deep breath and cranks open the starboard side 
hatch, rain pelting against his gear and the wetsuit underneath as he 
slides down the ladder and lands on the deck. He stumbles against 
the wind as he crosses the short distance from the ladder to the 
harpoon gun on the stern, taking hold of it with a gloved hand and 
yanking himself up into the seat. 


He levels the viewfinder with his eyes and adjusts the focus, 
zooming in on the horizon. "Captain, I'm on the harpoon. I'm looking 
for it now." 


"Where's Rogers?" Delacruz's voice crackles in his helmet under the 
sound of rushing water. 


"A minute or two behind me. Stand by." He scans the horizon. "Shit, 


I'm not seeing it." 
"| got nothing up front, son." 


The view of dark gray waves and rain suddenly changes to a blur of 
orange. Trauss jolts in surprise and zooms out, refocusing the lens 
to reveal a view of writhing, transparent tentacles thrashing in the 
water, their internal structure highlighted by phosphorescent orange 
flesh and veins. "Fuck. This thing is closer than | thought. I'm 
reading it at 113 meters out." 


"To your left," Rogers says over the headset as he runs up. Being 
significantly bulkier than his coworker, he doesn't struggle in the 
wind as he leaps into the seat of the 20mm autocannon mounted 
several meters to Trauss' left. 


"The entity is 110 meters out at your one o'clock." 


"Tell me when to fire, Captain." Trauss can only hear Rogers over 
the earpiece, the sounds of the elements drowning out his voice. 


"Do not fire, Agent Rogers. Maintain an awareness of the entity's 
position." 


Trauss swivels the viewfinder onto the center of the creature's mass 
again. He zooms out. "75 meters." 


"Taking it to 35 knots, boys." 


Trauss braces his boots against the mount as the vessel 
accelerates, his back flat against the seat and arms straight. "65 
meters." 


"Why can‘ | fire at this thing? Clearly it sees us!" 
"| said hold off, Agent!" 

"60 meters." 

"Approaching 40 knots." 


Trauss is thankful to have no sense of scale for soeed as The Loose 


Neutron rockets across towering waves, the spray from each impact 
dousing the deck in cold seawater. He feels moisture start to leak 
into his suit around his neck. "50 meters." 


"| can't go any faster than that, fellas-" 

"| could fire right this second, Captain!" 

"That could make things very much worse, son, | said hold off!" 
"30 meters." 

"Fuck!" 


"30? Christ, alright, fire when ready!" the Captain yells. Trauss' 
earpiece screeches and whines, static fading in. The sound of 
automatic fire fills the air and overpowers the noise of the roaring 
hurricane as Trauss focuses in on where Rogers’ rounds are striking 
the creature. Fluorescent yellow fluid bursts out of the bullet wounds 
before the flesh around it immediately reforms. 


"Fucking expected that," Trauss mutters, knowing neither of the 
others can hear him. He watches the creature swoop downward and 
under the waves, tentacles trailing behind it. 


"Hell no," Rogers mutters. 
"Talk to me, boys." 
"It went under the surface, Captain." 


The craft lurches forward, the force pressing Trauss against the 
seat. "/'m slowing to 20 knots. Get in here now." 


Trauss clambers out of his seat, slipping on the wet metal. He lands 
on the deck with a loud splash and makes a beeline for the closest 
hatch, rain covering his face visor and blurring his vision. 


"Get in there," Rogers yells, opening the hatch for him. Trauss steps 
up onto the edge of the hatch as the craft tilts to the side without 

warning, putting off his balance and sending him tumbling down and 
sliding across the deck. His vest and gear protects most of his body 


from the impact, but his helmet slams into the steel railing with a 
force that makes him lightheaded. He sputters and coughs as 
splashing seawater strikes his face. 


"Don't let go!" Rogers’ voice sounds distorted and choppy in Trauss' 
damaged helmet. 


"Not planning on it," he chokes out, fingers wrapped around one of 
the railing's steel bars. He watches the water below him show a hint 
of something orange moving below the surface. The ship lurches in 
the opposite direction as his gloves slip, sending him flying upward 
in an arc and thudding back down onto the deck as the ship 
restabilizes. Pain shoots through his ribcage and spine before a 
tickling twinge in his head nullifies it. His mind fumbles through 
dreamlike thoughts about that being the first time his N3 implant 
noticeably affected him as he rolls onto his back, swaying with the 
boat. 


Trauss stands upright on the now-level deck, barely able to see. 
Three orange tendrils shoot through the downpour after him. He 
ducks and rolls, still acutely aware of the damage done to his spine 
despite the N3's pain response countereffects. One of the tendrils 
trips him, knocking his head against the deck. He makes eye contact 
with Rogers as the older man exits the hatch and starts to move 
toward him, mouthing something in what seems like slow motion. 
The largest of the three tendrils wraps itself around Trauss' throat as 
he tries to fend off the smaller two, lifting him off the deck and 
flinging him over to dangle above the rushing water. His vertebrae 
pop, sending daggers through his back and sides as he struggles to 
get a hold on the creature's slick skin. The N3's response in his 
brain is immediate and overwhelming, flooding his limbs with 
numbing heat and making his head and ears throb. 


"Don't panic! We'll do something, damn it!" Rogers' voice doesn't 
register at all as Trauss gazes at the body of the creature holding 
him. Its head surfaces, squid-like with two bright orange-and-black 
eyes, the corneas detailed and vivid. The expression in its irises 
conveys a sapient presence, the intelligence level of which Trauss 
infers he cannot fully understand. It tightens its appendage around 
his neck, black spots starting to fade in from the edges of his vision. 
He hears more rapid gunfire from the ship, but the anomaly's grip 


SCP-795: Reality-Bending Cat 


Item #: SCP-795 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-795 is to be contained in a 
75 mx 5 m area divided and secured with clear Plexiglas walls 
containing locked doors as follows: 


(a) One wall/door at 5 m from the far end of the room. SCP-795 lives 
in the 5m x 5m space thus created. 


(6) One wall/door at 35 m. This defines the outer limit of the area 
that SCP-795 can affect while contained in Area (a). 


(c) One wall/door at 65 m. Area (c) may be used safely for 
observation while SCP-795 is contained in Area (a), but must be 
cleared if an interaction is taking place in Area (b). 


(d) A standard containment door at 75 m. This creates a 10 x 5m 
area where SCP-795 can be safely observed while released into 
Area (b). 


Two Level 1 guards are to be posted in Area (c); they should move 
to Area (d) if SCP-795 is in Area (b) for an experiment. Due to injury 
potential, non-D-Class personnel are not permitted to interact 
directly with SCP-795. An automated food and water dispenser, and 
litter changer have been installed in Area (a) to limit unnecessary 
contact with SCP-795. 


If necessary, SCP-795 may be tranquilized from a distance and then 
safely handled. 


Additional cats exposed to SCP-795 must be contained in an 
identical manner for a period of three hours. 


Description: SCP-795 is a large (8.2 kg) black long-haired domestic 


doesn't falter. He loses sensation in his feet and fingers, pulse 
thumping slowly. One of the other men says something through his 
headset, but he can't parse the sentence, and can only let out a 
small moan in response. The last thing he sees before his vision 
fades is the anomaly's eye, its pupil the size of his head, staring 
straight into him as his consciousness drains from his body. 


"There are those of us who are the Foundation, and there are those 
of us who serve it." 


Trauss opens his eyes. They're sticky, as if he's been sleeping for 
ages. White light pierces his mind as he tries to lift his head. 


"Do you know which side of that line you're on? Do you want to 
know which side of that line you're on?" 


Trauss sits upright and looks for the speaker. Keeping his eyes open 
takes a great amount of effort; he recognizes from that and from the 
lack of sensation in his legs that he must be dreaming. He blinks 
thrice and focuses on the man in front of him: someone older than 
him, wearing a three-piece black suit, a black bar obscuring his eyes 
regardless of what angle his head is tilted or how he moves. Trauss 
tries to speak, but no sound comes out, and he finds that he can't 
think to formulate a sentence anyway. "Dreaming?" he mouths. The 
noise that comes out sounds like it's being produced underwater. 


The man makes the closest thing to eye contact that he can, head 
centered behind the redaction. "Do you know who you are?" 


He tries to answer, but the more he processes his surroundings, the 
more his interpretation falls apart; he doesn't see his body even 
when he looks down, and he doesn't have a neck to tilt down in the 
first place. The man in front of him is sitting at a desk, but behind it is 
an expanse of textureless gray space. The light is ambient with no 
source and stark white. 


"It appears you can't stay at this time." he tilts his head down to look 
at his watch. "| hope to see you again." Trauss catches a glimpse of 
its face, and the symbol displayed on it sends a spike of pain 
through his head. 


He blinks and the phantom sensation of the eyes he used to have 
thuds dully in what his mind remembers of his nerve endings. 
Dreaming, he thinks, and allows the wave of incomprehensible 
nothingness to overtake him. 


Trauss is aware that he's conscious before his body is, and he 
spends several seconds panicking internally when it won't respond. 
The darkness shrouding him lifts when someone removes the black 
cloth from his face. He shakes his head and squints in the 
fluorescent lighting, making out three people standing around the 
table on which he's spread out. 


"Holy shit," one of the researchers says under her breath. 


"H- Uh, hi," he stammers, clearing his throat as he sits upright. His 
head reels. "What's happened?" 


"Will you state your identification?" 


"C-51174. Cyrus Trauss, Site-42. Er, | mean- well, that's where I'm 
from." He looks down at himself, wondering why he's wearing a D- 
class jumpsuit. He takes in the room around him, knowing that he's 
never been here before; the ceilings are low and cluttered with 
arrays of pipes and wires, and the floor and walls are composed of 
an unfamiliar matte gray material. The doorway behind the 
researchers is narrow and rounded at the edges, a stripe of white 
LEDs running around its perimeter. 


One of the two women steps forward. "Agent Trauss. Welcome to 
Lunar Area-32." 


He stares, combing through his memories internally. He had left 
Site-42 on The Loose Neutron. \t had gone fairly smoothly for 
several hours. He had seen something and sprinted to tell the 
Captain... and then what? 


"We know you may be having trouble processing this." Her voice is 
clearer than most, and she enunciates a little too well, making her 
appear almost robotic. Trauss shudders and grips the edge of the 
table. His body feels disproportionate and heavy in a way he can't 


place. "There was an accident involving an unknown anomalous 
entity released by SCP-3069. You were killed in action by this entity 
at 17:20 on July 4th, 2041." 


He gulps, his mouth dry. 


"You are a copy of Agent Trauss' consciousness, saved via his PIl 
at 17:08 on July 4th, 2041. You have his personality, memories, and 
certifications. There is no aspect of the human brain that the PI 
cannot translate into ED-K++ and save as a digital file. You are 
Agent Trauss, fully, minus twelve minutes of memories and your 
original body." 


He feels sick, the straightforward nature of her explanation feeling 
like a punch to the gut. "I- I'm dead. | died." 


"That body died, but you are right here and alive in another body." 


"This- is a D-class. You amnesticized a D-class and put me in their 
body." 


The man speaks up. "No. It's stranger than that," he coughs, tone 
toeing the line between sardonic and grave. "Certainly. That body 
has 95 percent of your original DNA, and is technically only sixty 
days old, though the estimated equivalent age based on health and 
appearance is 30 years. Using technology similar to that of 
SCP-2000, we are capable of cloning-" 


"Oh God. Oh, fuck." He leans forward and motions at the trash can 
sitting behind the woman who had been speaking. She understands 
and hands it to him quickly, looking to the side as he vomits up bile 
and a fluorescent blue substance. 


"That's just preserval fluid. It's not possible to get it all out until the 
body is autonomous and capable of digestion and regurgitation." 


He nods, wishing she would stop talking. Any and all sensory input 
makes his inner ear ache and throb. "Okay." 


"Do you understand?" 


"Yes. Just give me a minute." 


"Of course. Take all the recovery time you need. If you want, we can 
wait out-" 


"No, no," he stammers, hands shaking. "Sorry, | just- don't want to 
be alone right now.” His breath catches in his throat as if he's about 
to cry, which he feels he hasn't done in years. He tries to distract 
himself, sniffing and wiping away the first leak of a tear. "What is 
today?" 


"September 7th, 2041." 


He freezes up. "It's been two months? What was | doing for two 
months?" 


The leading researcher crosses her hands at the wrists and looks at 
him sympathetically. "'You' were a file named 51174.edk on that 
computer's hard drive for two months." She gestures to the 
touchscreen monitor array mounted on the wall beside her. "We had 
to have time to synthesize that body after getting the news that only 
two of Directive A-42's assignments made it to Site-3069. That script 
was then loaded into the body you currently occupy approximately 
20 minutes ago." 


"This body has the same PII as my real one?" 


"Actually, one far more advanced. You had the N38, and this is the 
N4." 


"What's the difference?" he rasps, throat burning.