Addendum 760-02: On / /20 , 86 days after the initial discovery of 
SCP-760, another specimen of SCP-760 was obtained; revealing it 
to be a member of a species rather than an independent creature. 
Specimen previously in possession re-classified as SCP-760-01, 
and newly obtained specimen was classified as SCP-760-02. 
Research into the social interactions between the two began 
immediately following SCP-760-02's arrival at Sector 05. 


Addendum 760-03: SCP-760-01 and 02 were observed taking part 
in what appears to be some sort of mating ritual, which involved 
consecutive hours of consistently "screaming" at each other and 
[DATA EXPUNGED] resulted in the immediate medical treatment of 
SCP-760-01, and the knowledge that specimens of SCP-760 are 
hermaphroditic. 


Addendum 760-04: SCP-760-02 gave birth. Subject titled 
SCP-760-03. 


Incident Report 760-01-I: On / /20 , at approximately 21:48, one 
of the guards posted to contain SCP-760-01 fell asleep on his shift. 
SCP-760-01 was somehow able to "see" this, suggesting that the 
hairs on its face allow it to sense through walls. It then proceeded to 
its containment door and partially disassembled it from the inside, a 
process taking roughly hours, and proceeded to feed on the guard 
as he slept. The other guard was unaware of this due to 
SCP-760-01's active camouflage in the hallway lights, but 
proceeded to coax it back into its containment area the moment he 
realized what was happening. 


« SCP-759 | SCP-760 | SCP-761 » 


Skitter Marshall 


Skitter Marshall was cold, wet, and slightly miserable. The rain 
pelted down unrelentingly as he shivered and stared at an 
innocuous-seeming building. The townhouse Skitter stood outside of 
seemed much the same as the others next to it: dark red bricks, 
flawless white door, and a building number in golden embossed 
numbers. The only difference, to the casual observer, was that every 
window had been blacked out. The real difference, as Skitter knew, 
was that this wasn't a building at all. Behind the brick wall, there was 
nothing but empty space; a hollow ventilation shaft down into the 
London Tube. Such was an open secret; it was a curiosity to most, a 
weird quirk of the city. The truth of the building was available on 
public file. The door shouldn't even be able to open. By all logic, 
there was no place for it to lead, beyond a sheer drop. It wasn't 
marked as an access point. 


And yet, for some reason, it had a lock. 


Skitter had inspected the building twice before. He couldn't see 
through the keyhole, as it didn't go all the way through. The gap 
between the door and the frame was too tight to see through. Yet 
there was a gap; the door's handle had weight, and could twist a 
little, the frame could be budged slightly to either side. This was, it 
seemed, a door to nowhere, and the mystery of the 'why' of this door 
intrigued Skitter to no end. After his initial discovery, he returned the 
following day, pushing a pick gun into the lock and firing it while 
twisting softly. It didn't work, but that wasn't too surprising. It was 
more likely to have been a wafer tumbler than a pin tumbler, but he 
had to make sure anyway. Skitter had needed to come back with his 
full set of lockpicks. Of course, he couldn't do it while other people 
were around. It could make a scene. Unfortunately, this being 
London, people were always around, both night and day. 


And so Skitter had waited until a dark and stormy night to pick the 
lock. 


He switched a small flashlight on, sticking it into his mouth, then 
unwrapped his tools. Lockpicks, while not technically illegal in the 
United Kingdom, were still questionable items in the hands of 
anyone who wasn't a licensed locksmith. Skitter was not a licensed 
locksmith. He did have a love for locks though, or rather, he had a 
love for picking locks. It was something about the twisting of the 
torsion wrench, the delicate manipulation of each pin one by one. It 
was the thrill of laughing in the face of people who had dared to 
squirrel their possessions away. Skitter took every opportunity to 
pick a lock, and typically liked to reward himself after getting one 
open. This was normally by claiming physical goods as his own; 
normally, those that the lock had previously intended to secure. 
There was no malice behind the theft, it was simply a game. Pick the 
lock and win a prize. 


Skitter started applying pressure to the torsion wrench, poking and 
prodding the pins with a hook pick. One, two... nine wafers in all. An 
excessive number, it could take a while. He shivered slightly, moving 
closer and shielding the lock from the rain with his body. It wasn't 
much more difficult to pick a lock with more moving parts, simply 
more time consuming. Skitter bounced the first wafer up and down. 
It was heavy, with strong spring resistance; a weaker set of tools 
would likely bend and snap before even being able to- 


SNAP 
"Shit." 


Skitter placed his tools on the wet pavement, delicately extricating 
the pieces of broken pick. While he cursed under his breath, his face 
was contorted into a grin. This was new. This was fun. He pulled a 
sturdier pick from his set, a thick half-diamond, and started to rake 
the wafers afresh. He didn't apply torsion at first, checking the 
resistances before commencing the attempt in earnest. 


click click click 


The rain hit Skitter's hair, running down and dripping from his chin. 
The first three wafers were safely wedged in position. The fourth, 
however, refused to move. Skitter passed it, moving on to the fifth. 


Click click 


The fifth and sixth easily budged into position, with the seventh not 
moving. Again, Skitter moved to the next. 


click click 


The eighth and ninth wafers sat on the thin ledge made by the 
torsion wrench. Skitter had started to lose the feeling in his fingers; 
icy rain pelting down and dripping into the keyhole. Just four and 
seven to go. 


Click click click click 


They didn't want to stay in place. Skitter swapped fingers, both 
applying torsion and holding the diamond pick with his right hand. 
There was no room for another wide pick in the lock; he picked up a 
thin hook pick in his left hand, and carefully inserted it. He pushed 
up the seventh pin with the wide pick, and the fourth pin with the thin 
one. Carefully, Skitter jiggled them up and down, applying rotational 
force all the while. 


Click click click click CLICK 
wW HA \" 


Skitter grinned, pulling the picks from the lock, placing them among 
the rest of his tools while still holding the lock open with his torsion 
wrench. He shivered a little more; partly from the cold, partly from 
the anticipation. He wrapped up his tools, shoving them into his 
trouser pocket, then stood up, shaking rain from his hair. Skitter 
glanced to the left, then the right. Nobody in sight. He looked back to 
the door; holding the wrench in his right hand, he awkwardly twisted 
the doorknob with his left, then pulled it open a crack. The door ajar, 
he released the wrench and pocketed it, then opened wide the door. 


The first surprising thing, at least to Skitter, was that there was 
something behind the door at all. He had opened the door expecting 
an unmarked maintenance point, or some kind of evacuation path. 
Instead, there was a long, straight corridor, with walls, floor and 
ceiling made of dark and polished stone. There was no determinate 


light source within, and yet Skitter had no trouble seeing clearly 
inside. Warm air billowed out from the passage, overpowering the 
freezing rain. 


The second surprising thing was that there was a young girl behind 
the door. She carried a thick book in her hands, with several more 
poking from a messily packed messenger bag slung over her 
shoulder. Her face was one of intense focus; flipping through the 
pages of the book forwards, then backwards, then forwards slightly 
more. The girl walked a few more steps, only metres from the still 
confounded Skitter, then looked up from her book. She raised an 
eyebrow. 


"| didn't think anyone knew about this one but me." 

Skitter blinked twice, then formed a response. 

"What?" 

"This shortcut. It was hidden well enough. How'd you find it?" 


"I, uh... well, the door had a lock on it. And it didn't make sense, | 
guess." 


"Fair enough. This one leads 'round into the British Library's storage 
rooms. Good for some light reading, when | don't want to make the 
trip out to the other Library. No overdue fees this way, either. 
Anyway, have fun." 


The girl briefly popped open an umbrella, jumped past Skitter, and 
had disappeared into the rain before he could turn around. He 
turned back to the long passageway, only one thought running 
through his mind. 


This was weird. 


In time, Skitter mapped out the London shortcuts as best he could. 
They always connected one point to another through impossible 
paths, uniformly separated by long corridors of black stone. The only 
apparent pattern was where the shortcuts weren't: there were never 
shortcuts where people regularly gathered, they were never near 


phone booths, they never seemed to bunch together. While all 
shortcuts connected points within the greater London area, there 
were no shortcuts into or out of the City of London, nor did the path 
of any shortcut ever intersect with its area. Skitter had spent a week 
wandering around the Square Mile without finding a single 
suspicious Space. 


He learned to intuit their locations. Around the shortcuts, there was a 
certain electricity; it sent strange shivers through the spine, or 
caused goosebumps up one arm but not the other. And so, Skitter 
taught himself how to seek out these pockets of strangeness in the 
world. 


Sometimes there were people inside the shortcuts; on catching sight 
of him, most of them turned and walked the other direction. Some of 
them chatted to him briefly, then carried on with their business. 
Some of them talked for a little longer, and so he got to asking 
questions: how did you find out about the shortcuts? What do you 
use them for, which ones do you find most useful? Most of the 
talkative people had simply happened upon them one Way or 
another; Skitter assumed that the untalkative ones, perhaps, had 
more to Say. 


And so it carried on. 


On a day like any other, Skitter found a letter. It wasn't delivered to 
his apartment; he had simply found it wedged in the door of a 
shortcut he frequented particularly often. The envelope was old 
trimmed and sealed by red wax, with a cursive Mister Skitter 
Marshall in deep black ink on the front. Skitter tore open the letter, 
sitting cross-legged in the dull illumination of the shortcut, and read 
the message inside: 


to the recipient of Skitter Marshall the; 

you have been stated Claimwise presently at the hence 
to forthwith of many am to. via the forthwith, Hence into 
plain and direct of the subject topic. some rational 
Inheritance of the company 

MARSHALL, CARTER AND DARKE LTD. 

is am wish to many. Consumption from the. collection at 


JUNE 26 

from the place of Residents. 

forthcoming For incomprehensible, henceways, message 
from Incipient. 

"You have inherited a duty. | hope you can carry the 
burden well." 

from AMOS MARSHALL of death 

graceless Corpuscule; 

The A-78xD United Eidolonic Collective 

(deepness for incomprehensible) 


Skitter had no idea what to think of the note; its incoherence 
obfuscated any message that was meant to be conferred. He 
determined it was a request to be at home on the 26th of June. As 
strange and unusual as the message was, strange and unusual was 
interesting, and for Skitter, interesting was enough. Days passed, as 
days do. 


On the night of the 25th of June, Skitter Marshall went to sleep in his 
home. 


On the morning of the 26th, he awoke in an unfamiliar bed. 


« Third Death | Hub | Robert Carter » 


Robert Carter 


Robert Carter was cool, calm, and collected. He straightened his 
deep blue tie, then parted his hair with a metal comb. The lights of 
the Las Vegas strip lit up the night as bright as day. Robert 
continued to stride down the pavement, taking out one stick of 
nicotine gum, another of strawberry flavoured, and placed them into 
his mouth. He chewed, merging them both into a single amorphous 
blob. He rolled the wad around his mouth, then parked it between 
his left cheek and his teeth. It was a slower hit than chewing 
tobacco, but the taste and texture were better. 


Robert continued walking, the beam of light from the top of the 
Luxor's pyramid guiding him to his destination. He cracked his neck 
from side to side, then stretched his arms into the air. He moved 
through the entrance, walking through the atrium to the high limit 
area. A staff member waved at him, and he in return; Robert was 
one of their most regular patrons. 


Robert wasn't the best at poker, but he didn't need to be fantastic to 
turn a profit here. While other, more specialist casinos were filled 
with savvy players at their tables, the Luxor was a hotel and 
entertainment venue as well. Rich businessmen would stay here on 
trips and play at the tables on a whim, with no real concept of how to 
play, and Robert was glad to empty their pockets. 


He walked over to the cage, exchanging ten thousand dollars - cash, 
of course - for chips, and getting his name placed on the wait list. He 
moved to the cocktail station, smiling at the bartender, who returned 
the smile. 


"Good evening, Mister Carter. Your drink, as always." 
"Thanks, Jim. Keep the change." 


Robert handed the bartender a crisp fifty-dollar bill, taking the 
Pineapple Screwdriver from the bench and sipping it pensively. He 


seated himself in a nearby lounge, watching a table of men throwing 
their money away at a Baccarat table. Robert was filled with a sense 
of schadenfreude as he saw two men dejectedly leave the table, 
their money wasted to the house. Games of chance, while 
interesting, were never worth the financial risk. There were no 
betting systems that offered meaningful returns, with the exception 
of counting cards; even then, you'd likely be removed from the table 
before gaining a decent win margin. 


A staff member walked over to Robert, bowing curtly. 
"A seat has become available, Mister Carter. Please follow me." 


Robert stood, following the man over to the table with his highball 
glass in hand and his bag of chips in the other. The house dealer 
moved the white button in front of the empty seat as Carter 
approached, the other three people at the table looking towards their 
newcomer. 


Carter cased them. His thought patterns were something like this. 


Number One: male, heavy build, balding brown hair, a slight 
roundness to the belly, a beer placed in front of him and a small pile 
of poker chips. A black suit jacket, opened to accommodate for the 
rotundity of his gut. Light tan, slight lazy eye, probably on holiday 
looking to burn through some savings. Not a problem. 


Number Two: female, curvy, deep red lipstick, green dress, with 
shoulder length brown hair. Probably the wife of someone rich, 
having some fun with the husband's money. She seemed to have 
the largest pile of chips in front of her, though whether by chance or 
ability, Carter couldn't say. 


Number Three: male, tall, lanky, glasses, long hair, wearing a suit 
he's clearly a bit uncomfortable in; likely here for the IBM Impact 
conference being held at the Venetian. A potential threat, but based 
on the assumption of his employment, probably more analytic of the 
table than the people sitting at it. In that case, easily bluffed if the 
table could have some decent hands in play. 


Yes, he thought, sitting down to the left of One. This was a good 


table. 


Carter pulled his chips from the bag, sorting them into ordered piles. 
The dealer spoke to Carter while shuffling the cards.