SCP-886-A-alpha does not know how or why she began to exhibit 
her anomaly, only that it began suddenly and without warning. 
Similarities between SCP-886 and SCP-2910 have been noted, and 
investigation into whether SCP-2910 is a variant or altered version 
of the anomaly seen within SCP-886 is currently ongoing. 


Addendum - Recovery of SCP-886: SCP-886-A-alpha was 
discovered by embedded Agent Donelly when a local newspaper 
released a story regarding her anomalous pregnancy in a weekend 
column. A cover story revealing the column as a piece of short 
fiction was released and associated civilians were altered 
appropriately. 


A task force was called to the area and SCP-886-A-alpha was 
extracted under the guise of a car accident. Family and friends are 
being monitored for further anomalies, with special attention paid to 
the subject’s sisters and daughter. 


« SCP-885 | SCP-886 | SCP-887 » 


hiding places and piercing my disguises. My years as a child came 
back, all the more horrible. My mind, fragile as it was from years of 
animal existence, began to unravel. A great many died, and all along 
| felt myself slipping away. 


They drove me across bloody fields, to Paris, down, deep into the 
bowels of that city, where the dead digested in their holy peace. It 
was in those catacombs where | had a transformation. A single 
moment of clarity, where the universe fell into order around my 
broken body. 


| became a god in a dark, slimy hole, bleeding and naked and half- 
dead. My apotheosis was witnessed by the empty sockets of a 
thousand skulls. 


| returned to the surface, and my fight was over. They were no more 
a threat to me than the gnats. A god has no reason to fear a man, 
and he likewise has no need to bother in fighting them. They merely 
need to be waved away. | did so, and then | left, and for the first time 
in decades, they did not follow. 


Peace then, for the first time since | had last heard my mother’s 
songs at night. | gloried in it. | watched the world, and it was good. 


In time, | suppose | forgot about the crows and their fellows. They 
did not forget about me. A god’s sin is pride, and | had it in full. | 
believed they had thought me dead, but they never did. The false 
body | left in the catacomb was not enough. They were only waiting, 
taking their time, and in time, their children and children’s children 
came once again hunting me, and once again, they had learned. 


They had learned, and | had not. God though | was, | could not see 
all, | could not do all. They had ways to fight back, as they always 
had. My peaceful life shattered, as did my illusions. | was old and 
complacent, they were not. | fled once more. 


It was then that | made my place among you, playing card tricks and 
telling stories, all to make you believe that my power was infinite, 
that you would not dare cross me lest | destroy you. It was a lie, all 
sleight of hand and clever riddles. You were never in my power, but | 
in yours. With you, | was safe, a god in his holy place. | had hoped 


that | would ride out the storm, that those who sought to destroy me 
would eventually give up, but | know that is not true, and | know now 
that it would not have mattered: you would have eventually turned 
me over, and you would have been justified. 


| know that you will seek me out, and so | only hope that this may 
lighten your hearts. 


Good bye, my friends. Good bye. 


It's a bird! It's a plane! It's-!? 


I'm going to preface this. This was written as a joke. You 
shouldn't take this as something to emulate. Having someone 
write something in the same vein would be embarrassing, and 
I'd probably end up taking the story down. So please, as you 
read this, remember, it's not even CLOSE to possibly being 
canon. 


Thomas lazed at the security desk. Fifteen minutes until his shift 
ended. Fifteen minutes until he could go get a drink, hit on that cute 
girl from maintenance. She looked like she sure knew her way 
around a wrench, and Thomas had a "tool" of his own for her to 
handl- 


"Uh, Pardon me. Can you tell me where the research labs are?" 


Thomas' musings were interrupted by the sound of his genitalia 
retracting inside his body from sheer horror. 


Floating in front of him, approximately four feet above the ground, 
was a fetus. A high pitched voice spoke again. 


"Normally | would know where it is, but I'm a new transfer and your 
site is set up strangely. My name is Doctor Abortion." 


"Do-do-doctor what?!" 


"Doctor Abortion. As you may imagine, my name is centered around 
my unusual appearance. Now, if you'll direct me to the research 
labs, | will be out of your hair." 


Thomas wordlessly pointed. The fetus bobbed at him, and floated 
off. 


Today, Thomas decided, was a good day to hide. Under his bed. 


In the hallways, people stopped and stared. A female lab assistant 
screamed, and fainted. The fetus bobbing its way along the corridors 
took no notice. A tune was hummed, though, for the life of them, 
they couldn't understand how. 


The abortion who floated like a butterfly and gave nightmares like an 
elder god paused in front of a door. A knock was heard, and boggled 
many a researcher. 


Doctor Gerald poked his head out and stared. 

"Surprise, Daddy!" 

Thomas, hiding under his bed, shrank deeper into the darkness at 
the sound of a piercing scream. 


"But, but, but, but!" 


"You transferred right after | started to show. Not trying to run on 
me, were you?" 


"No! | didn't know! No one told me!" 


"Probably because of the fear of me being captured. Most one-night- 
stand babies aren't this valuable." 


"So, you're sure it's me?" 

"Yes, |am. They ran all sorts of tests on me. Still are, actually." 
"So, uh, what is the, uh...?" 

"He's a healthy little boy." 

"What are we going to name it?" 


"Oh, sticking around are we? Well, | was thinking...Claude. After 
me." 


It's just paint, right? 


My eyes are starting to burn again. 
"| need to blink." | say. 
"Clear." says Randal. 
"Clear." says Will. 
Randal is still cleaning, Will is behind me, to my right. | want to turn 
around and check up on him but... Yeah, THAT thing. 
It's just spray paint, right? The eyes? 
Because how the fuck is it staring directly at me? 
The other boys say it's the same for them. Fucking green spray 
paint, gazing directly into their souls. 


| can't see Will, but | can imagine him shitting his pants. He's the 
greenest of us all. 


Did it just move? 


Nah... Fucking paranoia. 


Have you ever been attacked by an animal? A dog got me on the 
leg when | was 12, | had to get a rabies shot and all that. 


"I~ Uh, | need to blink, guys." says Will, shakily. 
"Clear." says Randal. 


"Clear." says l. 


Yeah, definitely scared shitless. 


Anyway, when you're about to get attacked. There's this moment 
when your body and your brain knows what's about to happen, even 
if your mind doesn't. 


It's primal. Your body tenses, the adrenaline pumps. It's fight or flight 
or, in my case with the dog, fucking freeze. Regardless, your body is 
ready to react. 


This is that, the entire time, for a fucking statue. How the shit do you 
react to a stationary hunk of concrete? 


Randal is over there doing his damndest to clean whatever the hell 
this is off the floor. Why don't they get drones to do this shit? 


"| gotta blink." Randal says. 
"Clear." says Will. 
"Clear." says l. 
Well, in a few minutes and it'll be my turn to mop. 


| can't turn all the way to look but from what | can see, Will didn't do 
the greatest job in his area. I'm gonna have to pick u— 


CLANK 


CRACK 


What? No — Fuck, | was— | looked — It wasn't even for... 


RANDAL DROPPED HIS FUCKING MOP. IT GOT WILL... | JUST 
LOOKED FOR A SPLIT SECOND! IT'S FUCKING INSTINCT! It's 
fucking instinct... 


How the hell was it already on its way to me? 


Why? What the fuck does this thing have to gain from snapping our 
necks? Why did it have to do that to Will? 


I'm angry now. | want to punch this fugly bitch in the face. | guess 
this is the fight response kicking in. 


Goddammit, this is FUCKED. 


This whole thing is FUCKED. Why does this thing get to choose who 
the FUCK lives or dies?! I've been in this piece of shit place for 
almost a year! I've seen a lot of terrible shit, I've survived a lot of 
terrible shit. 
| feel its eyes judging me. 
Yeah, sure. I've done some horrid things to get here but is any of 
this horseshit worth it!? | had my reasons! | did what | had to do! I've 
paid my fucking dues! 
bs 
I've paid my dues. 

"Mmmph-ha" 
A sound escapes my mouth. | feel a smile crack on my face. 
| hear Randal speak behind me. 

"Will? What the fuck... The mop. It just—Wiil..." 

"Hah! Hahahahaha! HAAAHAHAHA!" 


My laughter cuts him off. My mind feels pierced by its gaze. | think | 
understand. 


I'm cackling now. | find myself pointing at the statue. My eyes burn, | 
can't blink now, not yet. 


"What the fuck, Leo?" 


Randal is concerned. | don't blame him. 


| hear the coats say something over the intercom but I'm not 
listening. 


Everything, all this effort, the danger, the anxiety. WHY? I've been 
fighting my whole life, fighting for more money, for a better life, to 
see my mom again. And look where | end up. Face to face with the 
fucking end. 


That's what this thing is. An end. 

It's not staring into your soul because it wants to kill. It sees the 
fucking irony of it all, the irony of you. Life is chaos, it's a struggle 
from the day you're born, you're just flailing through time until you 


reach the bottom of a hole. And then it's over. And then you're gone. 
And then you're forgotten. 


All this thing wants is for you to close your eyes. And then it all ends. 
A simple purpose, and looking at Will, one that works. 
He's not scared anymore. 


"Leo, dude, I'm not sure what's going on with you, but | 
need to blink. Like, right now." 


| hear him, | need to blink too. Tears are streaming down my face. | 
feel them merging with the beads of sweat on my face, snaking 
downward, over my jawline, onto my neck. I'm not laughing 
anymore. 


"Clear." 


| smile when | say it. 


The End's eyes are unmoving. Eyes that shouldn't be real. 


| mean... 


...It's just... 


...paint, right? 


It's Not Spelled Like That! 


"How long has he been out there?" asked the Site Director as he 
strolled down the corridor leading to the entry hub. 


"Around three hours, sir," replied his assistant, nervously shuffling 

her papers. "We've contemplated shooting him, but decided that if 

he came all the way to Site 19's gate to just stand out there yelling, 
he can't be too much of a threat." 


The Site Director nodded slowly. He had dealt with attempted break- 
ins before, but some man ranting his head off at the Site gate was 
something new entirely. With any luck, they could wipe his memory 
and send him on his way inside of ten minutes, and get back to 
eating lunch. If not, he'd just order the stupid bastard shot in the face 
and be done with it. Either way, the problem would be solved. 


The pair arrived at the titanic metal wall that served as the Site's 
blast door. Anyone trying to break in would be stopped dead in their 
tracks, even if they could get past the snipers and electrical fencing. 
Beyond it, a mere two meters away, stood some raving lunatic. "Just 
a moment sir," grunted the on-duty guard, punching in the passcode 
to open the blast door. As the monstrous groaning sound of sliding 
metal emitted from the blast door before them, a similar sound could 
be heard from behind. No madman, no matter how harmless, was 
worth risking a containment breach over. 


A sliver of light fell over the Site Director and his assistant as the 
blast door picked up speed, opening faster and faster. The shadows 
of Site 19's low outer walls spilled across the dusty landscape. In the 
distance, one could see the small electric fences and the vast desert 
beyond. The Site Director had seen all of this before, however. What 
concerned him the most was the hunched-over man who rapidly 
advanced on the pair. 


"Do you have any fucking idea how long | was standing out there, 
man?" he blurted, waving his arms frantically. "| mean, it's the 


SCP-887: Hypergraphia 


Item #: SCP-887 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-887 may be kept in 
standard quarters. Personnel must take care he feeds himself and 
uses the facilities at regular intervals, as he'll frequently forget to do 
so (Full feeding, cleaning and exercise schedule annexed). 
SCP-887 must have writing materials available to him at all times, to 
avoid unnecessary confrontations and ensure continual research. 
Used paper should be sent to analysis at least biweekly. 


Description: SCP-887 is a man in his late forties, born in : 
Russia. His left arm and left side of his face are partially paralyzed, 
resulting in slurred speech. SCP-887 recently emerged from a 17- 
year coma in Hospital, St. Petersburg, displaying nearly- 
complete mental recuperation aside from extreme hypergraphia. 
Subject claims he was conscious during the entire length of his 
coma, receiving communications from an unknown source; his 
hypergraphia is attributed to him writing down all that was told to him 
during this period. 


SCP-887 is amiable, but has trouble keeping track of long 
conversations and cannot be taken off his work for more than fifteen 
minutes at a time. The subject is adamant about his process, going 
as far as writing on the walls with his own blood if writing implements 
are unavailable. 


SCP-887's output includes text, drawings, mathematical equations, 
and engineering blueprints. Several display knowledge of languages 
and concepts he was not educated in or that he would not have 
been aware of while interned. When questioned about the contents 
of his work, he claims to have forgotten or not known more than 
what's written down. 


middle of goddamn summer out there! | spent something like eight 
hundred dollars to get out here, in the middle of goddamn July, and 
you guys just leave me standing in the middle of the desert at noon? 
Shit, man!" 


The Site Director looked over the haggard man. He had a long, 
scraggly beard that reached down to his stomach, and dark brown 
hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in weeks. His eyes flitted 
wildly back and forth, looking over the Site Director and the armed 
guards standing at the ready. His apparel was little more than a 
sweaty white t-shirt and torn jeans, his feet completely unshod. 
Worst of all, some exceptionally foul odor was wafting from his 
person, which the Site Director could only pin down as rotten corn. 


"What..." he began, choking slightly on the man's smell, "What do 
you want?" 


"Look, man, we tried to contact you through the mail, but we never 
received a message back, so they sent me out here. Fucking 
inconvenient if you ask me, but..." 


"We burn all unsourced letters and delete suspicious e-mails," the 
Director said, quickly growing impatient with the man. "What exactly 
are you here for?" 


"I'm here to declare war on you lot, man!" the foul-smelling individual 
shouted, jumping up and down while making slight jabs with his fists. 
"We heard about this one group of dudes, with a name similar to 
yours, who were kinda ticked at you getting in their way, you know? 
So the guys and me got together and thought up, 'Hey, ourname is 
similar too, and we think that you guys have been crapping on our 
goals too, so we're gonna go to war with them!" To apparently add 
effect, the man kicked his legs about and made several high-pitched 
screeches. 


"| see..." the Site Director said, rubbing his chin and hoping the 
glare on his glasses would hide his rolling eyes. "And how have we 
been wronging you?"