“What the hell is going on in there?” asked the sergeant impatiently, 
pushing Scott aside and stepping down to the basement floor. “Oh 
fuck-” he managed. The rushing mass of creatures on the floor 
turned simultaneously from the table to look at the four soldiers. The 
little nightmares grinned with hundreds of thousands of unnaturally 
needle-like teeth. After a moment’s hesitation, they sprinted for the 
men. The sergeant was paralyzed. Scott hysterically squeezed off a 
clip of shots while a screaming McKenzie attempted to pull himself 
back up the staircase. The four soldiers were quickly over-swept. A 
tide of tiny, searing pinpricks attacked their bodies, ripping little 
chunks out of their flesh. They were pulled down to the floor. Their 
ears were filled with the incessant screeching. Scott blacked out 
when they began tearing at his face. 


Private Scott awoke on the stone floor, his sight blurry, spluttering 
blood. He turned his head, and the dead eyes of the sergeant stared 
back at him. Jacobsen was slumped in the corner, also dead. 
McKenzie was face down on the stairs. He didn’t know how much 
time had passed, but he was sticky all over with his own blood. An 
excruciating pain suddenly expressed itself throughout his body. He 
gurgled, arching his back. There was an acrid smell in the air, like 
burning, and the myriad little bodies of the needle-toothed creatures 


lay blackened and legs-up on the floor all around. 


The man and the woman in the khaki suits were standing over their 
fallen comrade at the other end of the basement. 


“I’m sorry, Marty,” said the German one, folding the man’s arms over 
his chest. 


“We should have been more cautious,” said the woman, distraught. 
“Look, we got the goblet,” the German replied, “and he died doing 
his duty, in the field. We couldn’t have foreseen the flamethrower 


malfunctioning.” 


“| know...” said the woman, dejectedly. Scott coughed again, and 
she looked over to the staircase. “One of those bastards is alive!” 
she exclaimed. The woman ran over, feet crunching on the small 
bodies littering the floor. She bent down and put a finger to the side 
of Scott’s neck. 

“Alexandra! We don’t have time for this!” chastised her companion. 


“Il know,” she replied, exasperated, “the Germans are going to be 
here soon.” 


“The Nazis are going to be here soon,” the man said sharply. 
“This kid is barely alive,” she said, ignoring him. 

“Leave him. An unfortunate casualty.” 

“We can save him,” she said, after a pause. 


“How? He’s fatally wounded...what, do you mean to use...?” the 
German asked incredulously. 


“Yes!” the woman exclaimed. 


“No way,” her companion cried, waving his hands. “Leave him. Even 
if you did what you're thinking, you’d be giving him no choice.” 


“He has no choice. He’s dying.” 


“How would we ever get away with it, Alexandra?” the man pleaded. 


“We'll take him with us,” she said firmly. There was a long silence 
between them. Private Scott spluttered weakly, blood soaking 
through his uniform. He felt his feet growing cold. 


“He'll be stuck, he'll be imprisoned for the rest of his life,” said the 
German. 


“| Know — | know,” said the woman. “But at least we'll have given him 
life. We owe him that.” 


“He’s not our burden...,” the German said, but his tone revealed that 
he had given way. “If anyone ever finds out about this, it will be both 
of our heads,” he stressed, conceding. 


Scott was aware of someone crouching down beside him. He 
sensed something cold and metal being pressed to his lips. And 
suddenly his body was filled with a warm, dense liquid. The pain 
was forgotten, like a dream slipping away, and he felt the ragged 
tears across in his flesh sealing and knitting together. And he was 
better. 


SCP-1451 is a Caucasian male of indeterminate age... 


Welcome to This Fabulous Magical Locked Door 


Well, class, | hope you're enjoying our little field trip. Sorry about the 
tight squeeze. At least the place is abandoned. If you all behave, 
maybe we can stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way back to Site-17. 
Everybody in? You in the back, can you hear me? Good. Welcome, 
Bookworms, Merliners, and random Foundation Researchers, to 
your local Library. 


The local door to your local Library, anyway. 


Well, probably one of many local doors to your local Library. This 
grubby little basement is, in fact, a Way. 


You lot have much more self-control than most groups, you know. | 
barely saw you start forward. You were probably stopped by the 
next bit of my speech. So allow me to tell you what most of you 
apparently know already. To the likes of us, these marvelous 
interdimensional doors are closed and locked. Walk into that 
painting on the wall, and all you'll get is a bruise, no matter how 
much cinnamon you burn. I'll get to that in a second. 


The reason we've brought you all to this abandoned back-alley hole 
in the wall is because a couple of you are going to be staying here 
for the next few weeks. Many of you will be having similar 
assignments. Watch the Ways, ladies, gentlemen, and other, 
because that's where we get most of our information about the 
Wanderers’ Library. 


Ah, yes, the Library. An endless maze of shelves living at the center 
of every universe. Travelogues on alien worlds. Stories written by 
gods. Books that will never be written, just lying on the shelves for 
anyone to borrow. It sounds fantastic, but some of us have seen it 
for ourselves. You see, back in the good old bad days, when we 
could put something in a box without having to worry about whether 
it was comfortable or not, we stumbled on a Way into the Library. It 
was beautiful, endless, populated with the scholars of a million 


different universes. The higher-ups of the time, being the hoarders 
that they were, decided that the best way to deal with this was to 
grab literally everything and take it back with them. This did not end 
well. My arm still aches when | open a rhyming dictionary and 
remember... 


I'm rambling. Sorry. Long story short, if you're with the Foundation, 
you aren't getting in the Library. Anybody wants to quit, raise your 
hand. I'm kidding. 


So, as new agents, your job will be to monitor the Ways we know 
about. Most of them are seldom used at this point, but the beauty of 
a billion worlds is, there's always someone who didn't get the memo 
that there are Jailors (such a hurtful name, | know) waiting on the 
other side. From there, you have a few options, depending on what 
comes out of there. 


If they're human and from this universe, and remember, just 
because it looks like it's from Earth doesn't mean it's from this Earth, 
it's standard interrogation, amnestics and relocation. If they aren't 
quite human, well, you already know about the boxes. 


If they aren't from this universe, respectfully ask them to get back to 
where they should be. If they refuse, ask again. Respectfulness will 
be optional at this point. 


Don't be stupid about it, though. There are some pretty strange 
things out there, and some of them have claws. If something like 
that comes through, observe it from a distance and wait for backup. 


If at all possible, try to get any books they have off of them, and 
copy them as quickly as you can. We've actually got quite a 
collection of extrauniversal literature going. Just remember to 
leave the original back at the Way's entrance. You won't like what 
happens if you hold onto it, but that's an entirely different seminar. 
For now, we'll just say that the Library doesn't bother with late fees. 


So, that's about it for the Ways. There's plenty more to cover when it 
comes to the Library, but that was the only bit that required us to 
stand in a dank basement. Any questions before we go? 


The Serpent's Hand? Well, to be honest, while they are one of the 
more troublesome parts of the Library, they're also one of the 
smallest. As far as we can tell, they really don't have any more 
control over the Library than anyone else. But that's all I'll say on the 
topic so close to a Way. You never know if a Hand member's 
passed through here, planting some kind of freaky surveillance 
magic. We can talk about them more back at the site. Anything 
else? No? Good. Grab your buddy and make your way back to the 
bus in single file. | need a coffee. 


We're Sorry 


Director Samuels, you have often asked me what the ultimate goal 
of the SCP Foundation is. As | step down, | feel you have the right to 
know. 


Our ultimate goal is, and has always been, the neutralization of 
humanity. 


Note that | do not say the destruction of humanity. It has never been 
our desire to hurt you. 


| am not human. | am not a member of Homo sapiens. | am not even 
Terran. | am a member of a species very different from you, froma 
different star. It isn't important where | came from. What is important 
is my mission. 


We have been studying your species for as long as you've known 
language. As we have watched you grow, we have seen the 
anomalies arise. They have changed your world, and not for the 
better. And they are growing more frequent. 


We have performed experiments, using sample members of your 
species very far from here. We have removed variables, and added 
new ones. The results are conclusive. This is your doing. 


You, aS a species, are somehow changing the function of reality. 
The more of you there are, the stronger this effect becomes. There 
are nearly five billion of you at the time of this writing, and your 
population is growing faster by the minute. 


We tried peaceful methods at first. We tried to see if we could 
counter the effects. Then we tried to remove the ability from your 
species. Eventually, as we found there was no way to stop you, we 
tried to lower your population, and then to destroy you outright. 


Our final attempt has failed. We tried to detonate your sun. A worm 


‘Bobble Gets the Truth' 


‘Bobble Hates You' 


EXPLETIVE] YOU 
[EXPLETIVE] YOU 
[EXPLETIVE] YOU' 


silently stalks a woman for 
most of the episode. When 
she arrives at her home, 
Bobble the Clown attacks 
and kills her with a large 
butcher knife. At the end of 
the episode, Bobble the 
Clown details methods of 
remaining unseen in 
crowded places. 

Setting of episode appears 
to be a Prisoner of War 
camp. In the episode, 
Bobble the Clown tortures a 
captured soldier, repeatedly 
asking him nonsensical 
questions. The soldier 
eventually appears to die of 
his wounds. Bobble the 
Clown then details to the 
viewer how to inflict painful, 
but non-lethal injuries. 
Setting of episode appears 
to be a blank room. Bobble 
the Clown sits on a chair in 
the room staring angrily at 
the viewer for the full thirty 
minutes of the episode. 
Setting of the episode 
appears to be Site 's video 
archive, where recordings of 
SCP-993 are stored. In the 
episode, Bobble the Clown 
angrily details methods of 
breaching containment for 
several SCPs. Bobble then 
details methods to murder 
researchers involved in its 
containment, showing 
detailed knowledge of their 


larger than the moon Europa appeared and destroyed our device. 
Somehow, the anomalies are protecting you, the way a parasite 
might protect its host. 


It's changing you, and we can no longer stop it. We've given up 
treatment and euthanasia, and we are reduced to quarantine. We 
have sabotaged your space program. We are watching for attempts 
to leave your solar system by anomalous means. We can only hope 
that either you are destroyed by the anomalies, or else that you find 
a way to control them. 


And finally... | am sorry. | am sorry we tried to kill you. We are 
scared of you, and we do not want to die. We chose out of fear. | 
wish | could say | was glad it didn't work, but the truth is, | am still 
scared. 


What Am |? 


What am I? | don't know if | can even say. My own existence is a 
mystery even to myself. | see brief flashes of something. But what? 
Where did | come from? Who am |? What am |? 


| am an infant, separated from her mother. | have not felt my 
mother's heart since the moment | was born. | was ripped from her 
before | could even hear her voice. | was locked in a room. All | long 
for is a kind touch. Any knowledge that there's an ounce of 
compassion in the world. My mother was stolen from me, and I've 
never known anything but pain and fear. | just want affection, 
compassion, a hug, anything. 


lam a loving wife. In ancient times, the Lord's servant bade me, my 
husband, and my family leave a sinful city. With a voice of bright 
light, they commanded us to flee. "Do not look behind you, stray not 
from the path. Do not stop until the city is dead and naught is left but 
char and ash." So we flew. Yet even with the commandment of God, 
| still looked over my shoulder at my home. | instantly felt my flesh 
and blood turn to stone and salt. Eons have passed, and today | try 
to atone for my sins and correct those who make the same mistakes 
| have made, with force if necessary. Do not look behind you, run, 
and move forward. 


lam an angry god. You are my creations, made in my image. Or you 
were supposed to be. What | created was nothing like | envisioned. 
You were smaller, weaker, softer than me. You were a failure to me. 
But | am merciful, | let you live out of the kindness of my own heart. 
And you tossed that back in my face. You were ungrateful and 
stopped your worship of me. You stole my power with your 
disrespect. So | took the only form that gave me any capacity to use 
my abilities, one of the idols you created of me. A mocking form. 


| am from before God was broken. | was his word, and | was to 
spread through all corners of the globe. This was before humanity 
began taking its first tentative steps into the light. They were 


impressionable, malleable. They saw the glory that was God. He 
spoke through me, gave me purpose. | will never experience the 
same terror that was wrought on the world as God was broken. The 
pain, the fear, | felt all of it. And it broke me. 


| am an incomplete human, clay to the touch. Prometheus created 
humanity and set them on their forward journey. He gave them the 
fire, the drive to become better. Prometheus formed humans out of 
clay, ensuring they were formless and could make themselves into 
the best they could be. But they weren't his first attempts. There 
were failures. Many of them, including myself. | was broken, tossed 
aside. A facsimile of the human form. And it hurts. And it gnaws at 
me. | hate them, for they were given the chance | never was. 


lama slave. But no more. They took me from my lands, chained to 
all the other poor souls around me. We were forced to work. To 
build. To Raze. The work broke you. Your body, your mind, your 
soul. | had to escape. | watched the guards. For days. For weeks. 
For months. Until | saw my opening. | was careful, only ever moving 
when no could see me. Until | was finally free. 


lam a prisoner. Every day, all | see is four walls, a window, and a 
door. All day, every day, every week, every month. Four walls, a 
window, and a door. It's all I've ever known. Occasionally the door 
will open and men will enter. The first contact with the outside world 
in days. The door's open. | can get out. | rush for it, but | can feel 
someone's eyes boring into my back, and they leave. Four walls, a 
window, and a door. 


| ama hunter. Hunting is an art, you need to have an eye for detail. 
Yet where the artist wants to be noticed, a hunter does not. | wait, 
often for hours on end, waiting for the prey to turn away. That's 
when you strike. You have to be quick, so the prey doesn't have a 
chance to react, to fight back. And they do fight back, especially as | 
hunt the most dangerous game.