Exposure Method: Instructed to place hand on SCP-859. Displays 
shock and revulsion to SCP-859 after contact, similar to initial case. 
Acute arachnophobia observed in Subject. 

Result: After showing violent resistance and extreme terror when 
attempting to expose Subject to an agitated huntsman spider, 
Subject is restrained and spider placed on Subject. Subject bitten 
and immediately exhibits symptoms of extreme anaphylactic shock. 
Subject dies within 1 minute of exposure, and attempts at 
resuscitation result in failure. 

Note: Huntsman spiders have particularly mild venom, rarely 
resulting in little more than mild pain. 


Subject: D-47565 - female Caucasian, 27 years old, no known 
medical allergies 

Date: / /20 

Exposure Method: Instructed to place hand on SCP-859. Subject 
exhibited significant resistance prior to instructions. Similar initial 
symptoms to previous subjects. 

Result: Subject restrained and exposed to agitated huntsman 
spider. Emergency medical treatment administered immediately 
after Subject is bitten, including epinephrine. Medical treatment has 
no effect, Subject dies within 1 minute of exposure. 


Subject: D-47901 - male Asian, 29 years old, no known medical 
allergies 

Date: / /20 

Exposure Method: Instructed to place hand on SCP-859. Subject 
exhibits regular initial symptoms, after which Subject is placed in 
secure isolation chamber, with measures to prevent any insects 


monsters back in their cages ASAP. What is it Reilly's always 
saying? "We don't make excuses, we produce results!" Bert was 
certain of it: they had to get that target right now. 


He got back in the truck and tried to focus on the radio chatter. It 
hadn't taken long for the squad to zone in on their target. Fireteam-3 
sounded excited. They were closing in on the objective, flushing it 
towards Fireteam-2. Maybe we're going to complete recontainment 
on our own, Nash was hopeful now. Maybe the other squads will 
show up, and we'll tell them it's been taken care of. Maybe we'll 
look- 


The crack of gunshots in the distance interrupted that train of 
thought. "What the hell?!" Each fireteam is equipped with non- 
lethals. We're geared for recontainment, not combat! The guns 
aren't meant to be a first resort... The radio was buzzing with all 
three fireteams co-ordinating their attack. Nash was trying to discern 
why they'd immediately gone to live fire. Are they getting killed out 
there? He tried to get a word in, but was either getting talked over, 
or just ignored. He punched the dashboard of the truck in frustration. 
"For fuck's sake guys..!" What was happening? 


That was when the rest of the MTF arrived on scene. Nash wasn't 
sure what he felt most: anxious, relieved, agitated... When the lead 
vehicle in the convoy stopped alongside his and the passenger in 
the front seat stepped out and crossed toward him, a new feeling 
pushed into the picture: confusion. 


He recognized Captain Reilly, even behind the SCBA unit covering 
his face. "Situation, Nash," the commander demanded. Bert sat in 
stunned silence, trying to piece together what he was seeing. The 
other operatives in the lead vehicle were kitted up with breathing 
masks as well. "Nash," Reilly pressed him, "where is the rest of your 
squad?" 


Bert opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, only managing a 
vague nod in the direction of the road behind him. He saw Reilly's 
eyes narrow, assessing the situation at hand. Not one to waste time, 
the captain hustled back to his own truck and climbed in, turning to 
address one of the team members in the back seat. The rear door 
behind the driver opened and the passenger got out, closing the 


door behind him. The captain gestured for his driver to continue up 
the road, and the convoy of reinforcements drove on. 


The man now approaching Bert Nash's window was Reilly's second- 
in-command, Staff Sgt. Barnes. He leaned in to address Nash. "New 
security trainee,” Barnes said ruefully. "Hell of a thing to let them 
screw up. If they'd have sent the full details right away we could 
have all come out at once, properly equipped." He shook his head at 
the situation: one minor error compounded into a major mishap. 
Nash still didn't understand what was happening. 


Barnes finally recognized Nash's concern. "Don't worry," Barnes 
reassured him while gesturing towards the facemask. "These aren't 
for anything toxic out here." In Barnes' hand, Nash noticed for the 
first time the dossier he was carrying. "In hindsight a wider perimeter 
should have been given. Minimal threat to your safety, mind you. | 
just hope they haven't been-" 


Bert had dialed down the volume on the radio when he'd seen the 
other trucks approaching, but someone out there was screaming 
into their handheld. The words came through loud and clear, 
interrupting the staff sergeant. 


"Yyyeaah!! Nailed the sonofabitch!" 


Dan Potter pulled off the dirt road into the clearing and nosed his 
SUV in behind the other with matching park ranger markings. He 
parked it and stepped out into the hot mid-day sun. Wilson Boyle 
met him next to the vehicle. 


These men were members of an MTF as well, but one specializing 
in a different sort of containment: suppressing knowledge and 
information. 


Potter glanced around at the brightly coloured tents set up next to 
two civilian vehicles in the makeshift campsite. Boyle's partner was 
addressing three young men and taking notes in his notepad. Boyle 
greeted his colleague. 


"Wil," Potter responded with a nod. They conversed in hushed tones 


at the front of the truck. "So, what's the situation here?" 


"These kids say they got out here Thursday night. Been camping, 
‘partying’..." Potter understood the implication. Boyle continued. 
"There was four of them come out for the weekend. Seems they 
thought their buddy retired to his tent early last night, but this 
morning there's no sign of him. Possible he wandered off in the 
night, got lost or something." 


"Mm-hmm," Potter nodded. "Let's have the specifics," he said, 
gesturing to the notepad Boyle held. Boyle opened the pad to the 
relevant page and placed it on the hood, his Team Leader copied 
names, basic descriptions, and a few coded abbreviations. 


As Dan Potter jotted down the information he mentally mapped the 
location of last night's incident, and the campsite they stood in now. 
He contemplated just how far a lost kid could wander through the 
woods at night. "This it for details? How about clothing?" 


"Eh... A blue sweater. Probably. No ‘photographic memory'-types in 
this bunch." 


This grim puzzle was coming together in Dan's mind. There were 
still pieces missing, but the bigger picture was clear enough. 
"Alright. You two hang about here for now; keep up this ‘lost hiker’ 
bit. Likely we'll hand this off to real SAR and they can waste their 
time in the bush. But have some amnestics handy, just in case." 


Boyle tipped his ranger hat to Potter. "Sir." 


Going Out 


On 9/18/2011, SCP-703 manifested an instance of 
SCP-703-1. Analysis revealed it to be a list of items 
produced by SCP-703, dating back to its initial 
containment. Referencing with updated documentation 
has reinforced the classification of SCP-703 as a sapient 
non-organic. Analysis of this document's content is 
ongoing. 


Item: Aluminum can. 

Note: Weighed 21.32 grams. 

Status: Retrieved 14.78 seconds after appearance. 
Item: Red paper. 

Note: Contained drawing of a circle. 

Status: Retrieved 11.12 seconds after appearance. 
Item: Green pen. 

Note: Contained red ink. 

Status: Retrieved 10.09 seconds after appearance 
Item: Stuffed tiger. 

Note: Name was "Paulie." 

Status: Taken after 9.00 seconds. 

Item: Picture of me. 


Note: Aesthetically pleasing. 


Status: Taken after 10.01 seconds. 
ltem: White paint. 
Note: Usable for restoration purposes. 


Status: Stolen after 9.89 seconds. Was not used for 
restoration purposes. 


Item: Three (3) bullets, .45 caliber, hollow point. 
Note: Acceleration was below expectation. 
Status: Stolen post-impact. 

Item: Gaseous matter. 

Note: Unsafe to breathe. 


Status: Stolen via inhalation after 20.6 seconds. 


ltem: An apology 

Note: Made with care. 

Status: Taken after 45.78 seconds, without remark. 
Item: Sweet things. 

Note: Is this better 

Status: It wasn't. 

Item: Your briefcase. 

Note: Left it in your office. 

Status: Sorry about the stain. 

Item: Sheaf of papers. 


Note: Helpful. 


Status: Helped. 

Item: A better lock. 

Note: You seemed worried about it. 

Status: I'm sorry. 

Item: One of the black boxes. 

Note: I'm sorry | cheated, wanted to help you move. 


Status: Went through them. Broken up. 


Golan 


Date: 2015-02-15 
¢ Time: 17:56 


* From: Subsite 23-Delta-K6 Lead Research 
Analyst Dr Marion Kelster 


* To: Subsite 23-Delta-K6 Chief Security Officer 
Frank Onegra 


Subject: RE: (Ex)Agent Paris - observations and 
SCP-2982 testing to date 


Hi Frank 


Tests confirm it. Changing the contact details changes 
the person. CCTS Golan's 'species' was changed to 
Patella vulgata - the common limpet - by another test 
subject. 


Golan displayed signs of extreme distress almost 
immediately. Physiological changes were complete 
within an hour. 


It took a security detail three hours to pry him off the floor 
using crowbars. The mucus was everywhere. We're 
currently arranging suitable salt water containment. 
Sometimes the little things make you smile. 


Dr M Kelster 


"Real name, date of birth and designation?" 


The man blinked under the glare of the lights, not fully 
comprehending the question. The room was bright, clinical, 


shadowless; a faint, lingering smell of disinfectant; wipe-clean 
furnishings; tiled walls and floor. Hygienic and stark. Things 
happened here, he realised. Things that the sterility of the test 
chamber could not hide. 


The question came again, and this time he answered. "David 
Golan. July the 5th. 1975. D-2982-13." 


Somewhere nearby, a pleasantly banal three tone chime sounded 
softly. A light above the door outside would be changing from green 
to red. 


Test In Progress; Do Not Enter, Do Not Disturb. 


"Time is 14:30:01... Diamonte-Kircher Stress Scale Indicator Blue- 
Indigo-3... D-2982-13, can you read the first line in green on the 
display on the wall directly in front of you? Read it out loud, in your 
own time, and tap your foot as you speak." 


Golan squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the test chamber's harsh, 
unnaturally bright light. "The sun shine... shines... on the beach. 
Jane is eating an... ice cream." 


"You're doing great," said the voice. A slightly bored, humdrum 
voice. "Your foot, though? Can you tap your foot, please? In time?" 


Golan looked down as he answered. "Look; I'm not super smart but - 
"He stopped mid sentence. His foot was still. "That's weird. | 
thought - | mean, | can feel it tapping. God." He looked up at the 
lights; there were no obvious cameras to direct his question to. "Did 
you do this? Is this you? What exactly is this a test of?" 


"Try not to get ahead of yourself," the voice suggested. "Just focus 
on the here and now." And then, as an aside to someone else, 
"Time is 14:31:02. Possible positive." And back to Golan, "Please 
describe your physical and emotional condition." 


"| don't know," he answered. "Starting to freak out a little here. Tired, 
thirsty." 


"There's water in the hydrating pouches. Fresh in the blue, salt in 
the red. Feel free." 


"Why would anyone want sa/t water?" he asked himself. 
Nevertheless he walked over to the alcove and found himself picking 
up one of the red water bottles. It sloshed with a surprisingly 
pleasant, soothing sound. He held it close to his cheek before 
putting the nozzle to his mouth. 


"Time is 14:33:42: D-K SSI Green-Blue-2," noted the voice, again as 
an aside; muffled, as if a hand were being held over the microphone. 
"Second possible positive." 


Golan sucked, not quite sure how the salt water would taste. He 
expected to have to fight the urge to be sick, but it was a revelation; 
like nectar, or champagne, or good strong beer. Delicious. He drank 
the contents of the bottle within seconds and discarded the 
crumpled plastic husk onto the floor. 


He licked his lips. He understood that this sudden taste for brine was 
unnatural, and no doubt part of whatever test he was being 
subjected to, but at a deeper level he didn't care; it was delicious. 
He picked up the bottle again and sucked harder, eager to get every 
last drop from it. 


Even as he discarded it he was reaching for the others. One, two, 
three, four... The fifth he poured over his face, relishing the 
sensation of the water on his skin. 


He was vaguely aware of the disembodied voice again. "Time is 
14:36:57. Subject D-2982-13 has consumed six litres of salt water in 
eighty five seconds. Yeah... Likewise. Not this quickly, though. 
Fascinating. D-K SSI down to Blue-5." 


"You know | can hear you, right?" Golan said. "Shouldn't you be on 
mute or something?" 


"Not important," came the response. "What we're discussing won't 
affect the validity of the test." 


"Really? What if | don't like it? What if | refuse to cooperate?" Golan 
countered. "What if | clam up?" 


Another voice, female, quieter and therefore, Golan guessed, sitting 


next to the first. "Clam up?" it said, just audible. "Now that is ironic. 
Best line of the day.” 


"What does that mean?" asked Golan. "What the hell does that 
mean?" 


"D-K SSI increase to Green-Blue-1." 


He drew a deep breath, ready to demand that the test be halted, 
ready to demand to see a lawyer - but stopped suddenly as a new 
sensation squirmed its way into his awareness. 


"You okay in there?” 
"| don't know," he answered. "My feet are sticky." 
"Sticky?" 


Golan didn't answer. Instead, he sat on the single plastic chair and 
removed his standard assignment slip-ons, fumbling with suddenly 
unresponsive fingers to remove them. He flicked the left one off first 
- strings of thick, slimy gunk splattered outwards as he did so - and 
without thinking put his foot down on the tiled floor. 


"What the - " 
As the sole of his foot made contact, it squelched. 


"What is this?" He looked down, fascinated and disgusted, as his 
foot spread outwards; no mass, no structure, just something with 
vague, amok toes, adrift like little pink lifeboats in a sea of 
nonsensical skin and flesh, veins like tiny wriggling scrawls of 
spaghetti spasming against orphaned bones. 


One second, two seconds, three seconds, four. 


And then the horror, the reality of what he was witnessing hit home. 
He tried to stand up, to pull away, his senses in revolt, but his foot 
was anchored firmly to the floor and he fell backwards, his arms 
windmilling and his bowels and bladder failing. 


"And there's the Anderson Reaction, right there," said the voice. "D- 


from breaching isolation. 

Result: Subject exhibits increasing levels of paranoid 
arachnophobia, peaking after five (5) days in isolation, after which 
Subject is observed semi-catatonic, curled into a fetal position in the 
corner of the chamber, and constantly babbling and muttering about 
"spiders on the walls", and "they're coming to get me”. Subject found 
dead of severe allergic reaction to spider venom after seven (7) 
days. Over _ spider bites were found on the Subject, despite having 
found no spiders within the isolation chamber, and preventative 
measures still being intact. Review of security footage showed 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. 


« SCP-858 | SCP-859 | SCP-860 » 


K SSI Yellow-5." 


"Oh Christ in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name," he whispered. "Oh 
God our Father, give us this day our daily bread. Hail Mary, full of 
grace..." 


"Time is 14:46:32. Subject D-2982-13 is showing signs consistent 
with expected test results. D-K SSI Yellow-1."