The few other inhabitants of the break room were noted, if dimly: 
One woman, with a scar on her cheek and a sleeve tattoo, one man, 
with a pencil mustache and an M-16, and one teenage girl, with 
blonde hair and pink pajamas. All three were sitting on the 
overstuffed sofa (A buy from a local thrift store. Francis nearly got 
his foot crushed when he and Ben moved it in). The girl was 
watching TV, something about a cartoon dog-rabbit thing screaming 
at a rather dopey looking red cat. The adults looked bored. The 
woman was staring at some spot to the lower right of the TV, the 
man was sipping from a coffee mug. The girl was eating fluorescent 
blue Pop-Tarts. 


“Sam. Tony. Iris.” Francis slowly nodded to each in turn as he 
shuffled over to the coffee machine. Whatever the response was fell 
on deaf, distracted ears. He punched “strong coffee” into the 
keypad. The machine dispensed its usual paper cup, followed by a 
steaming black sludge. 


Yeah...that’s good. That’s good... 


He took the cup and turned to the vending machine. Oh, you crafty 
Japanese. Of course you’d have something this bizarre around a 
back alley. Francis fished in his pocket, taking out the five hundred 
Yen he kept in the pocket of every pair of pants he owned (for 
emergencies). 


Ka-chunk 


The machine coughed out something that, on closer inspection, was 
a lumpy object wrapped in thin tin foil. The labeling was unreadable. 
Francis set down his coffee and tore open the foil, a Russian nesting 
doll made of molded beef jerky. Inner layers looked to be cheese, 


processed egg, chocolate, and a few tiny ones he couldn’t identify. 
He’d leave those out. 


Francis shuffled out of the break room without another word. 
Fucking paper work. Dammit Berg it was not that easy. 


There was a short silence. 


Iris and her two guards looked at each other with a mix of confusion 
and barely-held laughter. 


“So then. Gimp suit wedding dress. That’s a new one,” Iris said. 


Francis walked down the hall, alternating between tearing off chunks 
of doll with his teeth and gingerly sipping the sludge. He could barely 
taste either. 


Ugh...Why isn’t it working. It’s fucking bean slurry and | still feel like | 
have an iron spike driven through my skull. 


A low hum echoed from down the hall, followed by a swish of wind, 
a glint of reflected light and blinding, unimaginable pain. Francis 
dropped to his hands and knees, screaming, though the word did 
not do the sound justice: this was something that tapped into the 
basest, most savage pain of man. What was that on the floor...a 
pool, a red pool...Blood. Blood everywhere. Red in his eyes, 
blinding red and black and pain. 


Slowly, slowly...painfully...Francis raised a trembling hand to his 
face. 


No...God no...oh God...oh God oh God oh God 


His right cheek was wet. He could feel ragged skin and pulped bone 
and torn muscle under his fingers. His hand moved up, on its own 
now. Right by his eye socket, in his socket, he could feel cold metal: 
a long piece of cold metal, slick with blood, with a pointed tip about 
five inches from where his eye would have been. Should have been. 


Francis screamed again. The faces in the wall laughed as the clocks 


melted and the floor fell away and the meat hooks dug into his flesh 
and hoisted him to the cockroaches on the ceiling and everything 
went out like a snuffed candle. 


“Look, Connor, | realize the danger. Yes, he may end up killing us 
all. He just might save us too. He can twist reality with a thought, 
subconsciously, even. Self preservation kept him alive and he's 
already healed up. If he can learn to control it consciously... yes, | 
know the dangers involved. We’d be trying to put a god on a leash 
and employing him. Yes, | do think it’s worth it. Bear in mind, he is 
my student: | know him far better than you, Connor. Yes, | still trust 
him. No, | am not going to be sloppy: | will have him killed if he can’t 
be trained, trust me. We'll keep him under sedation until we find a 
proper solution. Tell Dr. Elliot she’s inheriting his duties for the time 
being.” 


Document 860-! and II 


Below are the transcripts of exploration | and II into SCP-860-1. 
Exploration | realized on / / 
Exploration Il realized on / / 


Exploration | 


(D-3456 is a 31-year old Caucasian male of average build. 
Psychological background is unremarkable. Class-D designation is 
the result of a demotion due to [DATA EXPUNGED]. D-3456 is 
equipped with an LED flashlight, a handheld camcorder fitted with a 
transmission stream, and an audio headset for communication with 
Dr. at Control.) 


D-3456 inserts SCP-860 in the door leading to an abandoned house 
on Street, , Germany. He turns the key and opens the 
door, revealing SCP-860-1. D-3456 staggers. 


Dr. : Please proceed. 


D-3456 hesitates, then passes through the door. After he takes two 
steps, a loud bang is heard. D-3456 turns quickly. The door is 
closed and attached to a large concrete wall. D-3456 moves towards 
it and attempts to turn the knob. 


D-3456: ,this is locked! How the hell'm | supposed to— 
Dr. : Please follow the trail, D-3456. The exit should be on the 
other side. 


D-3456 sighs, then turns around and walks down the trail. After 
walking 64 meters, D-3456 stops. 


D-3456: Did you hear that? 

Dr. :Nosound came through the audio feed. 

D-3456: It sounded like... a howl... or... or something. Came from 
the woods, seemed far away. 


Green Day 


Authors Note: This takes place in the universe of 
SCP-2238. 


|Hub| Green Day II » 


Birmingham, Alabama. 1993 


The old man couldn't help but glance through the windows over and 
over again as he waited for them to come by. Chills went up and 
down his spine as he noticed the black squad car rolling down the 
dusty road to his country farmhouse. His heart thumped and 
thumped against his chest as the figure exited the car and closed in 
on the door to the house itself. 


Fuck me. 


He knew something like this was going to happen eventually. He just 
knew it! The deepest and darkest parts of his mind knew that 
something like this was only going to end in disaster, for him and 
everyone else involved. 


Three knocks on the door. 


He took a deep breath, and opened the door, only to be greeted by 
a tall man, wearing a gray trench coat. In his hand was a silver-lined 
suitcase, with a blue pentagram on the side. The friendliness of his 
smile was only offset by its routine, impersonal frigidity. 


"Hello, | am Agent Garrison, officer of the South-Eastern division of 
the Global Occult Coalition. Mind if | step inside?" 


"N-No, not at all," he stammered out, cracking the door open to 
reveal the hovel of a home he had. 


"Mind if | ask your name?" the man inquired, stepping inside the 


home. 
The old man chuckled, his deep laugh echoing through the home. 
"James Henderson, but call me Henderson." 


"Well, Mr. Henderson, this is quite the lovely, uh," he paused, 
looking over the messy one bedroom house. Cups were still laid out 
on the coffee table, plates piled up on the kitchen counter, the TV 
had a large crack covering most of the screen', and clothes were 
strewn across the entire building. It looked like it was one knock 
away from collapsing in on itself. 


"— house. Yes. Very lovely indeed." 
"Well, | try." 


"Mind if | sit down here?", Agent Garrison said, pointing towards the 
small wooden table near the middle of the room, a variety of 
assorted pieces of trash and filth covering the surface. 


"Of course not," Henderson replied, lying through his teeth as he 
threw the trash off the table in one swift motion, crashing to the floor 
with a loud clatter. They took their seats, each seated directly across 
from the other.2 Henderson tried his best to avert his gaze directly at 
the floorboards, and, more specifically, from the creature living 
beneath said floorboard. 


"So, Mr. Henderson, how long have you lived in this, um, place?" 
"Five years, or so." 


"And how many dependents do you have living underneath your 
care?" 


"None. Unless you count the rats," he chuckled out. 
"Any family, biological or otherwise?" 


Henderson paused, his eyes drifting away from the Agent and 
towards the surface of the table. 


"None. They, um, all died when the Foundation bombed Site-43. My 
family was near it when they did that, when the Foundies did the... 
well, you know." 


"My apologies. We all have had family members die at the hands of 
the Foun—" 


"| don't want to hear it," Henderson interjected, his tone shifting. 
An ugly pause. 

"Why are you here?" 

Agent Garrison cleared his throat before answering the question. 


"Neighbors and certain members of the South-eastern division have 
determined an unusual amount of Humes within the area around 
your 19 acres of land. Usually, these would be classified as minor 
nexuses or possible Ways within your area, but," he stopped talking, 
pulling out a small notepad covered in black ink, "the amount in your 
area suggests a possible Green living in your property." 


Henderson tried his best to not gulp. 
"G-Green?" 


"Yes, Green! Reality Bender! Freaks, magicians, whatever you 
wanna call them. They're within your property, based off the 0.01 
reading on the Kant counter." 


Henderson gulped. 


"Now," he said, sitting up and walking near the middle of the room, 
"would you mind letting me investigate your property for the Green? 
The Coalition will reimburse you for any and all damages we may 
inflict in the name of the greater go—" 


Henderson leaped onto the Agent, punching and beating against his 
head and desperately grasping for some sort of weapon he had on 
him. 


"Dammit — fuck — what the hell are you —" 


He was cut off from each continuous punch coming from Henderson 
before the Agent was able to wrestle him off of him, allowing for 
enough time to brandish his pistol from its holster hidden inside of 
his trenchcoat. 


With the Agent on top, Henderson felt the cold metal of the gun 
against his Adam's apple. It was the coldest piece of metal he felt in 
a long time. 


"Now," the Agent said, wheezing as he turned the pistol off ‘safe’, 
"Where's the Gre—" 


Henderson attempted to wrestle the gun away, but only felt the 
surprise presence of a bullet into his throat and into his frontal lobe. 
The brain splattered against the wall and floor and every in between, 
making the house a painting of red. 


"God fucking damn—" 


Agent Garrison was cut off by the sound of rustling outside the 
home, and the sound of a child's soft footsteps as it left the cellar of 
the farm house and into the large and spacious woods behind it. 


Fuck me. 


"Did you intend to engage the criminal?" 

"No sir. He attacked me, and | had no choice but to put him down." 
"Did the Green escape?" 

"I'm afraid so, Commander." 

Agent Garrison trailed behind another man. His gray trench coat 
signified the commander of the GOC's anomaly neutralization 


branch in Jefferson County. 


"Reports from neighbors suggest the Green is inside the woods 
somewhere. What do you suggest as our course of action, sir?" 


"Kill it," the Commander replied, a venomous tone in his voice. 


"Understood." 


The man stopped in front of the dead body, a bullet wound inside of 
its head. The blood was oozing out of the frontal lobe and shoulder 
of the creature in front of him. He tried to stifle the small smile 
creeping onto his face. He faced the short woman next to it, blood 
covering her gray trenchcoat. 


"Agent Bailey, did an analysis of the body suggest anomalous 
properties, reality bending or otherwise?" 


"No sir." 


"Any evidence of a connection to either the Foundation or the 
Hana’e" 


"No, sir. He seemed to be a civilian." 

Civilian traitors. The worst types. 

"| see. What of his relation to the escaped Green?" 

"They weren't biologically related, it seems. Gave the bo—" 


"Please, Agent Bailey, don't treat it as if it was human. It's 
unprofessional." 


"....Alright, sir, the Green was given shelter." 

"Better. What of its age?" 

"Analysis of the basement suggests single digits, sir." 
"Thank you. As you were." 


The man readjusted his rimless glasses and looked out the window, 
towards the fields and towards the woods that surrounded the small 
wooden house. 


The boy ran through the shrub and bushes, his heart beat racing as 
he heard the men closing in on him. The bright flashes of light were 


getting closer and closer to him. 
"This way!" 
"Get your guns ready. Intel suggests Response Level 4." 


The boy tried to not vomit as he crouched near a tree. His entire 
body felt weak, he shivered despite it being relatively warm. 


This is it, isn't it? he thought as he closed his eyes and rested. This 
is how I'm gonna die? In the middle of some dark woods where 
nobody can hear me scream. Is James still alive? 


He tried to throw away that thought, but it kept eating away at him. 
He could feel his throat fill up with bile and vomit at even the thought 
of what they were doing to James. He heard about Coalition torture 
tactics. His imagination flashed to car batteries, pliers, and needles. 
He gagged at the thought. 


His heart only sank further as he heard a shrill voice and saw the 
glaring light coming from behind the tree. 


"Hey, the trail leads this way!" 


Three figures stood standing on the treeline above the forest. They 
watched the small child crouched behind the large oak tree, his 
head buried inside of his shirt. The five-man group were following 
the trail of footsteps towards the oak tree. The hooded figure's bare 
feet dangled below, swaying back and forth. 


"Can | go in boss? It's been so long since | killed one of these Gock 
bastards." 


"Not yet.” 


The hooded figure chewed on his finger, looking through the bushes 
and tree line towards the group of five Gock soldiers. All heavily 
armed and covered in the latest Anchor armor.? He bit down harder 
on his ring finger, drawing blood. 


"You know not to do that," the taller man said, his clown mask 


hanging around his neck. 
"Sorry, a habit of mine." 
"Hey, the trail leads this way!" 


The boss looked back at the hooded figure, and nodded. 


The man approached the trail, aiming down his sight for a young 
humanoid. He had expected a chase, but nothing to this extent. If 
only Agent Garrison had been a better sho— 


"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey Gocky.” 


He turned his head to see a dark haired boy, hanging upside down 
and blood dripping from his lip. His eyes stared directly into the 
man's own. His face twisted into a frown.4 


"Don't worry," he said, licking his lips, "it's mine." 


Before the man could respond, the creature drew its hands forward 
towards the man's throat. His entire hand enveloped the man's 
throat. 


Crunch. 
"Oh, so that's what that sounds like." 


He jumped down, looking at the man's face. His eyeballs were 
dangling out of his skull. He looked at his own hand. Several white 
shards covering the palm, along with a variety of different fluids. He 
tried wiping it off on his hood, before feeling several eye-balls staring 
at him from behind. 


"Freeze!" yelled a deep voice, "Lay on the ground, or we will shoot." 


The hooded man turned around, facing towards the four other 
members of the group, their guns and flashlights turned on him. He 
decided to follow the most logical course of action in such a 
situation. 


"Hey, you wanna hear about the cannibal with a girlfriend?" 
"Lay on the ground, or we will sho—" 


"Yeah," he continued, ignoring the cold voice as he tried to stifle his 
own laughter, "I heard he ate her out!" 


Click 


"Hey," he said, putting his hands behind his head and backing away 
from the group as they readied their guns, "guess you can't win 
them all—" 


He jumped back onto the stump of a tree, and propelled forward into 
the group, crashing into them. 


"right?"