Each specimen of SCP-857-1g is 
composed primarily from a patch 
of human skin, with two unnatural 
bone growths enforcing a general 
shape. Specimens move by 
gliding from tree to tree. 
SCP-857-1g are predators, and 
will hunt SCP-857-1c and 
SCP-857-7a in large swarms. 
Each specimen of SCP-857-1h is 
composed primarily from a human 
ribcage. Specimens move ina 
manner similar to spiders and 
reside in the treetops. Specimens 
of SCP-857-1h are predatory, 
often leaping on and consuming 
passing SCP-857- 1c. 


CLASSIFIED - LEVEL FOUR PERSONNEL 


ONLY 


Confirm 


SCP-857-1i 


Further information 
Each specimen of 
SCP-857-1i is composed 


“...S-stop... M-m-m-mom, I-I hate i-it whe-” 


“ ” 


“But | c-c-can't h-h-h-h-help it!” 


There was a sudden, audible squawking from the phone, the 
massive man wincing down and away, as if from a blow imagined or 
remembered, 


“... [-l'm sorry, Mom...” 
“I'm sorry... | won't ever speak that way again...” 
“I love you too, Mom...” 


Boomer hung up the phone, then sat for a bit, trembling. He sniffed 
thickly, glaring down at the phone. He put it on the table, eyes 
welling with tears. He smashed his fist against it with the force of a 
good sized car. He smashed it again and again, a thin, ragged 
squealing leaking from his thick lips as he pounded the phone to 
bits, blood and scraps of skin smearing over the bench and the 
ragged wreck of the phone. He stared down at the bloody, shattered 
mess, heedless of his dripping hand, thick chest rising and falling in 
great heaves. 


The fat man then pushed the whole mess to the floor, sucking on his 
ripped and bloody fist like a baby, starting to hum around it again as 
he started fittings wires back into his current project. 


“Jesus, | almost feel sorry for the bastard. Then | feel that spot 
where I'm supposed to have a molar.” 


Harken winced, looking away from the small screen, his face a 
ragged patchwork of tape and a few stitches. The rest of him was 
encased in enough plaster to count as armor, his right hand little 
more then a heavily braced claw. Kramer had been playing 
nursemaid: that is to say, she was checking to see what still hurt. 
Often. With her finger. 


“So does that spot on your neck still hurt wh-” 
“FUCK!” 
“Okay, So yes.” 


Harken shifted away from his poker-faced tormentor, trying to focus 
on the small LCD screen. They'd managed to track down Boomer's 
lair without a massive amount of issue. That being said, they'd kept 
well away, just getting a robot close enough to attach a tiny camera 
to the roof. Boomer was the type to leave loads of bombs, traps and 
other assorted goodies laying around in a nightmare combination of 
cunning and blind, absentminded stupidity. You could plan around a 
smart enemy, a dumb one was prone to blowing your intelligent, 
well-planned ass off at random. 


They'd been watching Boomer for a couple days now, and every 
hour was more pathetic then the last. Yes, Boomer was a brutal, 
sadistic psychopath, but he was also apparently a pathetic, broken 
man with no real life, friends, or interests. No wonder he was so 
loyal to Dark: he'd probably never had a purpose or praise before 
Mr. Dark had stepped in. 


Harken set the portable viewscreen down, gingerly rubbing his eyes. 
“Okay, so, we know where the fat boy is going to be, but I'm not 
really overeager to get blown up trying to get to him.” 


“| could always drop in, or slide a shot through one of those upper 
windows.” 


“No, no, that's a bitch of a shot, and one miss could blow the whole 
place. Plus, who knows how he has the place rigged? | reviewed 
some files Central Records had on him: apparently a GOC strike 
team tried sneaking into a house he was using. They managed to 
blow up nearly a city block, and lost the whole team. Boomer wasn't 
even home.” 


“So what's your big plan?" Kramer asked. "I'm not overeager to 
wonder on every mission whether or not there's a random explosive 
or fat sociopath waiting in the wings. Plus, the only one who gets to 
slap you around is me. See, like thi-” 


“FUCK!” 
“Wow, that cast doesn't act as a buffer at all, does it?” 


“ANYWAY. | think | have a idea...isn't there a GOC squad in the 
area, hunting for... unh... oh dammit, that one germ bitch, 
whatshername...” 


“SCP-353, Vector.” 


“That's the one. Maybe they need to accidentally intercept a secured 
Foundation transmission discussing the difficulty of extracting the 
poor girl from the warehouse she's holed up in.” 


“But she's not — oh. Clever. Meanwhile, what do we do about her? 
Someone needs to get her back to site.” 


“Oh to hell with that, some MTF can go after that bitch. The last 
thing | need is an infection right now.” 


“Yeah, | know. This looks like it's kinda red and-” 


“FUCK!!” 


“Bobby, Bobby, my love, get in here, it's great to see you!” 
“Can't say the same.” 


“Oh Bobby, that's why | love you. While all the world cries for my 
amusement, | can always count on you to be the same hard-nosed 
prick as always.” 


Bobby was standing at parade rest just inside the doorway to the 
terrible man's office. It looked more like a overstuffed museum, with 
layers of carpets, relics, and assorted treasure covering every 
available surface in a haphazard fashion. There was probably more 
money in this room then some third world nation's gross national 
product, but it just looked like a old antique shop. Mr. Marshall sat in 
a wine-dark upholstered chair to one side, the fabric probably worth 
more then his life right now. Mr. Dark reclined behind a small, 
chipped desk. If Bobby recalled correctly, it was the same one the 


“From Hell” Jack The Ripper letter had been penned on. 


“You seem in tolerable shape, lad. None the worse for wear after 
your little stint in the nuthatch?” 


“...I'm fine, sir.” 


Bobby looked sidelong at Marshall, who was pointedly observing his 
fingernails. Bobby's hard mouth twitched, washed-out brown eyes 
narrowing in all that he would allow to show of his anger. For now. 
He'd been forced to mop up one of Marshall's little... accidents... but 
the cleanup had gotten out of hand. People had died. The police had 
caught him. Thankfully, Carter had been able to pull some strings 
and get him off death row and into an asylum - one, coincidentally, 
owned by a member of the Club. 


The rest had been nice: the days slow and easy, with nothing to do 
but watch the actual crazies and attend "therapy" sessions that 
mostly consisted of shooting the shit with other MC&D employees. 
He'd even gotten laid a few times: there was no shortage of 
attractive and heavily medicated female "patients" who, if not exactly 
willing, were not prone to believable protest. Still, he'd known better 
than to relax. Service to Marshall, Carter, and Dark ended with 
death alone. He hoped. 


“Bobby, you're a busy boy, so I'll not shilly-shally any more," Dark 
said. "Persons who shall remain nameless have bobbled the ball 

both on our patch and others. You feel up to hitting the pavement 
and shoring up our collection?” 


“Why are you asking me? | don't have a choice, do |?” 


Dark laughed, rising from his chair, waving a hand to Marshall as he 
crossed to stand in front of Bobby. 


“Would you look at this glorious boy?” he chortled, turning and 
winking at Marshall. “You'd think he was still a cop out in 
Whitechapel, and me some smuggler who's making him go crooked. 
No, Bobby, you don't have a choice. Few do, really. You should feel 
privileged not to have to bear up the weight of those illusions.” 


“Oh yes," Bobby said, flatly. "Deeply honored.” 


Dark smiled coldly, tilting his head a bit and locking eyes with 
Bobby. “Do this, and do it well Bobby. You know the stakes, and | 
always pay well. I'm a man of my word. It's up to you to choose what 
word it is | keep.” 


They stared for a few heartbeats, one dark, one gray, an almost 
audible tension crackling in the air. Bobby finally straightened, 
snapping off a salute that might as well have been a middle finger, 
and turned on his heels, marching out. Dark chuckled coldly, 
watching the door for several seconds before turning back to his 
desk. 


Marshall spoke up from the depths of the chair, rubbing his eye 
absently. “He's going to turn on you, you know that.” 


“Of course he's going to turn on me. Why the hell else would | keep 
that grating son of a bitch around?” 


Marshall stared at Dark, shaking his head in confusion. Dark lit a 
black cigar, blowing a thick cloud across the small office. “You know 
the difference between you, Carter, and me?” Dark asked. 


“What's that?” 


“Ambition. See, you two lunatics would be more than happy to gut 
me, kill off your rival, and set yourself as Emperor Of All That Is. 
Then again, you're both bloody hedonistic bastards. It's in your 
nature to take all you can get your hands on, and that's both useful 
and amusing. However, if you rule all that is... what then? How 
many families can you burn and force into auto-cannibalism before 
the blush wears off? How long can you bask in the admiration and 
fear of a planet before it just wafts into the background?” 


“|... what...” 


“Shut up when the adults are talking, Marshall. | want to enjoy 
myself, to have some bloody fun, eh? Sometimes that's sitting out in 
a spring breeze, being served tea warmed on a pretty girl's lap. 
Sometimes it's watching a child try and scramble around the rabid 


animals eating their parents. Sometimes it's just eating a really good 
steak. It's all relative, really. | don't want to crush all reality below my 
heel... just small, easily observable and touchable parts of it, now 
and then. | don't have ambition, Marshall, which means my ego will 
tolerate a threat. | welcome it, really.” 


“So... you're just letting him plot against you?” 


“Of course | am, you bloody twit! | bloody well helped him along! | 
was the biggest bastard | could be to him, hurt his loved ones, 
corrupted his oh-so-sacred morals... It was damned exhausting. 
Still, it's paying off... | think this is the time, this is it. Can you 
imagine the thrill of excitement and fear, knowing that someone 
could lash out, rise up, and generally throw the standard state of 
things in the fire, at any moment? Makes everything seem... fresher, 
more clear. Why do you think | insisted the team have those little 
cameras? When Bobby does finally go, | want to be able to relive it.” 


“You're a sick man, Dark.” 


“And you're a unimaginative twat, but | don't throw it in your face, 
now do |? Who do we bloody have on that fox girl? | want a status 
report within the hour, and | want to know where the hell she's 
gotten off to even sooner. Now get the hell out of my office.” 


"I've got somethin’ to say..." the girl hummed, as she picked through 
the racks of vials on the refrigerator shelf. "/ killed your baby today. It 
doesn't matter much to me as long as it's dead..." 


She read the label on one particular vial and smiled. Popping the top 
off the small glass tube, she threw her head back and drank it down 
in one gulp, savoring the taste as it went down. She felt the lovely 
little microbes begin to attack her body, but it was a simple enough 
matter to calm them down, to get them dancing in harmony with the 
rest of her little darlings. 


"I've got something to say..." she continued, pouring the can of 
gasoline all over the refrigerator room. "/ raped your momma today. 
It doesn't matter much as long as she spread..." 


The body of a white-coated researcher was slumped in his chair 
bleeding from every orifice: Ebola was not a good way to go. "Sweet 
lovely death, I'm waiting for your breath," she sang, as she lita 
match. "Sweet lovely death one last car-hnnnnngh!" 


The last note of her song dissolved into a grunt of pain as ten 
thousand volts of electricity coursed through her body. She 
collapsed in a heap, dropping the box of matches and scattering 
them all over the clean room. She tried to get back to her feet, but a 
second jolt of lightning sent her crashing back down to the ground. 


She tried to reach out with her viruses, to lash out with everything 
she had, but yet another jolt from the taser broke her concentration. 
"None of that, my dear," a sonorous voice commanded. Vector was 
turned roughly onto her back, and looked up into the faces of three 
people wearing full biocontainment gear. "Sandra, the syringe," the 
voice continued. 


One of the three - a woman - walked forward carrying a small black 
leather pouch. Vector kicked out at her. The three figures just 
stepped back, and the one with the taser pressed a button. Another 
shock of lightning arced through her, and she let out a scream. The 
man with the taser moved the weapon to his other hand and drew a 
pistol from a hip holster. "That was one and two," he said, gesturing 
with the taser. "This is three." He kneeled next to her and placed the 
muzzle of the gun to her forehead. 


Vector lay still, trembling, as the woman pinned her arm under one 
knee and cut the sleeve of her jacket away with a knife. She tied a 
rubber hose around her upper arm then expertly drew two large vials 
of blood. Finally, she inserted a large syringe of... something... into 
the girl's neck and waited, thumb resting on the plunger. 


The third man, who had been watching the operation from the 
doorway, finally walked forward. He leaned in very close to Vector, 
and through his hood, she could see that he was an older man, his 
hair shot with grey, and his face lined with age. "Kevin Spencer," the 
old man said. "His name was Kevin Spencer." 


"W-w-w-who?" 


"The man you killed. He risked his life to set you free, and you 
murdered him. He had a wife and a child. He was a firm believer in 
the cause. He made the best barbecue ribs | have ever tasted, and 
you took all of that away from us. And why? To intimidate the others 
into following you? They would have done so if you had asked. Such 
a waste." 


"F-f-f-fuck you... | d-d-d-d-don't work for y-y-y-y..." 


"| Know you don't. And | wouldn't dream of forcing you to do so. You 
are free to do as you wish. But freedom means living with the 
consequences of your actions. Sandra?" 


The old man stepped back. The woman with the syringe leaned 
forward and showed Vector the two vials of blood. "This one we 
keep," the woman said, holding up one of the vials. "And this one 
you'll get back." She tucked the two vials into her suit pocket, then 
held up an empty glass bottle with a double-circle and arrows logo 
on it. "We took this from the Foundation when we raided them. Do 
you know what it is?" 


Vector read the label through pain-blurred eyes. "No!" she 
screamed. "You can't!" 


"Easy! Easy!" Sandra said. "Don't do something stupid! Listen... 
LISTEN TO ME!" she shouted, as Vector began to struggle. "I don't 
want to kill you, so shut up and LISTEN!" 


Vector lay still, trembling. "Listen," Sandra repeated. "You took 
Kevin from us, so we're taking what you love away too. This is going 
to flush your body of all those viruses and germs you've been 
collecting..." 


"Please, don't..." 


".,. but you're going to get back whatever is in that blood. But you 
only get that back if we feel you've learned your lesson. So if you 
were thinking about trying to screw us over? You're going to lose 
everything. Do you understand?" 


Vector closed her eyes and nodded, tears streaming down her 


cheeks. Sandra grimly pressed down on the plunger of the syringe. 


Fire ripped through the girl's body, and billions of lives were snuffed 
out in a cascade of chemical death.