The beaten red pickup truck rumbled down the road. The rain had 
stopped, for the time being, leaving wet roads and puddles in its 
wake. Far behind in the distance, a plume of smoke rose above the 
trees. Just a wiring problem, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 
Nothing unusual in the country home of Mr. Martin Malone, just 
some faulty wiring. Mr. Malone himself was, thankfully, elsewhere 
when it occurred, and would not be back for quite some time. 


The inside of the truck was silent, all save the old, coughing engine 
and the crackling radio. In the cargo compartment beneath the floor 
sat several plastic bins, filled to the brim with the recovery efforts. 
Even working fast, it would take nearly a week for a thorough 
examination. 


Montgomery hit the ‘off button on the radio, interrupting the used car 


salesman assuring the public that “everything must go!” She 
brushed a strand of hair out her face. 


“Well, that went about as well as expected.” 


“That it did, Montgomery, that it did. The site’s down, the hole’s 
plugged, the body’s hid, and it looks like there was quite a bit he was 
keeping for himself. All in all, a job well done.” 


“| almost feel sorry for the guy, y'know? He went from being a full 
member of Marshall, Carter and Dark to some nutty backwoods 
hick.” 


“He couldn’t take the heat, so he left the kitchen. A smart move on 
his part, though it didn’t do him much good in the end. Tene 
memoria, Malone, mortes hominum causam scientiae, et cautelam 
omne progredi saepe serviunt.” 


Montgomery shook her head and smiled. 


“Now you’re just being pretentious.” 


Busy Office Bees 


Site 22 


He always hated the buzz of the lights. 


Something about that off-tone, buzzing noise just didn't sit right. It 
shouldn't be that way: a low, droning buzz, while reading through file 
after file, in a claustrophobic little office. 


But it was. 


Doctor McBride sat at his desk, like he did every single Friday, in his 
tiny office, in Site 22. For the last three hours of every week, he 
reviewed the files of potential subjects, which may or may not 
require additional investigation. It seemed so much more interesting 
when he first started. Somehow, it had become routine. 


He leaned back in his chair, and stared up at the buzzing fluorescent 
light above him, frowning slightly. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It just never 
ended. 


He sat up, reached for his coffee, and grimaced as he took a sip of 
the slightly stale, overly sweet liquid. He looked down at the cup for 
a moment, frowning. He shouldn't be drinking coffee at this hour. His 
doctor warned him about his caffeine intake, especially in the 
afternoon. 


He slipped his glasses off his face, and sighed, pinching the bridge 
of his nose. He was vacillating. There were still six files to get 
through, and it was already four thirty. 


He thought to himself, that he should feel lucky. He gets to leave 
every day at six. He wasn't like one of the research scientists down 
in the labs. Just an A&D evaluator. He was fairly happy with that 
arrangement, if it wasn’t for the damn buzzing. 


A&D. That's what they called it. Acquisitions and Development. 
Such a clean, sterile way of saying "Lifelong imprisonment of people 
who scare us." Of course, he knew why these things were 
contained. It's not like there wasn't a reason. A good reason, 
actually. But it still was what it was. 


He slipped his glasses back on his face, and looked down at the file 
in front of him. 


Subject, a bunch of scribbled black marks over the name, redacting 
the information. No names. Never names. 


A quick physical description. Young. Tall. Thin. Poor kid was barely 
out of college. Supposedly showing signs of psychokinesis, 
consistent with exposure to an object, which had slipped 
containment last year. 


Doctor McBride scanned the page quickly, looking at the supposed 
evidence. A few eyewitness reports of things moving around the 
young man. A fire in his dorm room. A car accident. Nothing 
concrete. His shoulders relaxed, thinking that there was nothing 
there, and flipping to the last page, with the notes section to 
recommend that no action be taken. 


His eyes slid over the damning line, as he went to check the "Do Not 
Detain" box: 


"Subject was observed undergoing a ritual prayer consistent with 
‘Church of the Broken God' worship. This was positively observed by 
remote viewing through embedded camera, consistently since 
potential exposure date." 


The doctor's shoulders fell, and he checked the "Detain 
Immediately" and the "Level Gamma" boxes. He jotted down a few 
notes, and cross-referenced the object containment procedures for 
the object in question. 


He set down his pencil, and frowned down at the report. With a few 
quick notes, he'd condemned this young man to either life 
imprisonment, at the outside, or god forbid horrible testing 
procedures. He considered this for a moment, and looked down a 


the "Do not Detain" box, carefully. It was always tempting to just 
check the box, and let people get on with their lives. 


Unfortunately, he knew better. He put the report in the finished 
stack, and pulled out the next, letting the young man slip out of his 
mind. 


He methodically worked through the reports, until the last neatly 
stapled pile came to the front. Four of the others had been "Do not 
Detain". It made him feel a little better about the first case, but he 
wouldn’t lose sleep over having to make that call. Not anymore at 
least. 


He looked down at the last report. He was a little surprised, the 
name wasn't redacted. 


Subject: Daniel McBride 


He froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. The 
physical description listed his age, height, weight. Everything down 
to the last detail. 


He flipped to the description section, a cold sweat breaking out on 
his forehead. Why would his name appear on an A&D report?! He 
skimmed the section quickly. Connections to the Chaos Insurgency? 
Unauthorized access of Foundation Resources? Obvious exposure 
to multiple objects manifesting a variety of mental and physical 
abnormalities? 


He felt his anger rise. Someone was playing a pretty sick joke. 


He flipped to the last page, to see who'd prepared this report. Of 
course, his own name was on it, who else would be listed. Some 
jackass from records had been pissed off at a request he made. 


lt must have been Jackson. The guy took everything personally. He 
picked up the report and stormed out of his office. He mashed the 
elevator button, and pressed the floor. 


He leaned against the elevator wall, and huffed. What the hell were 
they thinking? This is exactly why he was considering a transfer. It 
was bad enough having to deal with stressful work without every 


the entire surface of the skin is covered. Subjects have reported 
excruciating pain both internal and external, with skin beginning to 
change colour between pale brown or green. Movement in the joints 
becomes stiff and increasingly more difficult. As the internal body 
pressure rises, blood will be forced out various orifices of the 
subject, including their eyes and fingernails. Bone width increases, 
and muscle is absorbed into the widening bones which thicken 
rapidly, causing [DATA EXPUNGED] to the subject's body like that 
of SCP-805 itself. 


The transformation has been observed to take 3 to 8 hours, 
depending on how much bare skin was infected by SCP-805, each 
result ending with the subject [DATA EXPUNGED]. X-rays have 
shown them to be completely hollow inside. However, it is theorized 
that the subject may be still aware and conscious as, despite no 
mobility, pulse or breathing found post-transformation, the remains 
have been observed creaking and groaning as if attempting to 
move. They do not respond to tests with normal stimuli and most 
noises appear to occur when in the vicinity of SCP-805. 


These corpses do not carry the infection of SCP-805 to other 
humans but it is still recommended that they are handled with thick 
gloves to prevent splinters. Remains are to be observed for a time 
after transformation before being incinerated. 


Addendum 865-01 SCP-805 was discovered in the 

countryside, with authorities alerting the Foundation after a series of 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. SCP-805 did not resist capture and 
containment, but resulted in the deaths of staff during this time. Its 
origin and age are unknown. 


« SCP-804 | SCP-805 | SCP-806 » 


Tom, Dick, and Doctor Harry trying to recapture the glory days of 
pranking other researchers. 


The door opened, and he walked quickly down the halls, nodding at 
a few familiar faces, most on their way out of the administrative wing 
at this hour. 


He walked past a few unmarked doors, to the one labelled 
unceremoniously "Records." 


Inside, the bored looking clerk at the desk looked up from his 
magazine, and blinked sleepily. "Can | help you?" 


"Yeah. You can tell me who actually prepared this report, and how 
screwed they are." He handed over the now-crumpled pages. 


The clerk skimmed the report, and looked up, "Doctor Theodoratos. 
Is something wrong, Doctor McBride?" 


Doctor McBride froze for a moment. He snatched the report back, 
and looked down at it. It still said his name. The words hadn't 
changed. 


"| don't...| must have been mistaken. Yes, this report looks fine now, 
long day." 


The clerk leaned back "Sure doc. Anything else?" 
"No. Of course not." 


Doctor McBride walked calmly out of records, and back up to his 
office. He quickly threw the report in his desk drawer, and tried to 
forget about the whole thing. Maybe he just needed some rest. 


Site 71 


Doctor Theodoratos sat in his office, along with Doctor Matok, 
looking over Doctor Theodoratos' last A&D report of the day. "Detain 
Immediately" was off-putting enough, without having to do it to one 
of their own. 


Subject: Daniel McBride 


"Cognitohazard? Really? | mean, | guess we all know they're out 
there, but...how?" 


Matok shrugged. "Not really sure how it got in. We suspect 
something coded in to a report by a mole." 


Doctor Theodoratos grimaced. "So how did they realize he was 
infected by it, again? | didn’t see anything..." 


Doctor Matok flipped to a page in his copy of the report, shaking his 
head slowly. "Complained about buzzing, and he was short multiple 
assessments. We found them in his desk with all of the 'Detain 
Immediately’ boxes rubbed off the page completely. Erased until the 
paper shredded." 


Doctor Theodoratos looked puzzled for a moment, "Buzzing? | saw 
he put in a maintenance request, but | didn't think much of it for 
evidence." 


Doctor Matok stood, and walked out the door frame, "Come on, 
Alec. They replaced all the ceiling lights with LED's last year. Better 
for the environment, yadda yadda. They don't buzz like the old 
lights. McBride was raving about them for six months." 


Doctor Theodoratos laughed, and said "Of course. Of course, that 
makes sense. Thanks Jim. So, what did they do to the guy?" 


He watched Doctor Matok walk to the door, turning in the door 
frame. "From what I've heard, he's been detained at Site 18. Keeps 
repeating the same phrase. ‘Judge, Jury, Jailer, no more!’ Whatever 
the hell that means. They're probably experimenting to figure out 
how it happened. Usually they just end up disposing of the subject, 
and dissecting the brain to figure out what the original cognitohazard 
was. Poor guy." 


Doctor Theodoratos managed to keep his hands from shaking until 
Doctor Matok left the room. 


All he could think all day, was how much he hated the buzzing of the 
lights in his office the past couple weeks. 


But We Do Not Talk About That 


People die. 

Expendables? Two in three. Per week. 

Security? Two in three. Per month. 

Researchers? Two in three. Per year. 

Doctors? Two in three. Per decade. 

Look to your left. 

Look to your right. 

And wonder, always wonder, which side of the terminal 
curve you are on. 

But we do not talk about that. 


Agent Strelnikov aimed his Kalashnikov at the blast doors. 


Sweat wicked down his cheek, passing stubble, then separated from 
his face, dripping to the floor. Seven minutes. Seven minutes he had 
been pointing his rifle, seven minutes without moving a muscle, 
going on eight. He had heard the screams, but seen nothing. He 
could not hold it off any longer. He had to see what was going on. 


Strelnikov inched his way towards the doors, then peeked. He saw 
the thing standing near a pile of corpses, tapping madly on the 
device in its hands, its body glowing with a dull red heat. Strelnikov 
recognised beeps of confirmation. He rounded the corner, keeping 
his sights trained on the figure. His boot squeaked. The thing 
glanced over its shoulder. 


Strelnikov saw red splatter from his chest, then saw nothing at all. 


Technical Researcher David Rosen stared at his screens, listening 
to his boxes hum. 


The database, Rosen thought, was a giant brain. A constant influx of 
sensory data, reaching out and categorising the world. The brain is 


easily distracted, easily disturbed. A hit to its metaphorical noggin, 
and a metaphorical concussion would transpire. But there were 
more subtle problems, and it was one of these that plagued him 
now. 


Requests could be made in the field; transfers, requisitions. The 
system automated most of these, when reasonable. But here was 
an order to provide an asset to an unrelated person, seemingly 
without justifiable need. The system consulted Rosen. Rosen looked 
at the words, felt himself approve it against his will, then fell to the 
floor. 


Rosen felt his ears buzz with white noise; silent screams, then 
screaming silence. 


Dr. Ellis "Iceberg" Gill looked at the small pill in his hand. 


It could cure any illness, they said. He had asked before. Many, 
many times. And he had been denied just as many. Yet here he held 
one in his hands. He smiled. Perhaps some administrator had seen 
fit to ease his discomfort. Empathy was a rare thing in this line of 
work. Iceberg gulped down the pill. He felt a gurgling, then a 
wrongness. 


The room grew colder, and colder, and colder. Iceberg shivered, and 
shivered, and shivered, and then the shivers stopped as the water in 
his cells froze and expanded and popped the neurons that passed 
on the message that he was far, far, far too cold. The man of cold 
realised that the pill was not curing the cold. It was curing the man. 


Iceberg dropped, then shattered, blue shards of human clattering 
across the floor. 


Sometimes it is more than two in three. 
But we do not talk about that. 


In Dread Forever Fled 


I’m sorry, but look at us. We're still in here, after all this time. We’ve 
served our sentence and then some, and we're still in this goddamn 
prison. It’s not the time to be angry with each other, we’ve done 
enough of that over the years. We don’t work together, so we don’t 
get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, 
they’re what’s keepin’ us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can 
kill who you’d like when they go wandering through, and have a jolly 
time with getting your stab quota filled, but that doesn’t give us 
freedom. It doesn’t get us out beyond these walls. | Know me and a 
lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this 
hellhole. Now, | know most of us wouldn’t have trusted each other 
with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that’s getting out of 
this jam.