He put on his shoes and straightened his tie. He grabbed a baseball 
cap from the dresser to cover his hair. He laughed despite himself. 


"Hmm, no, nothing. Yeah, that's what I'm getting. You have a-" 


The voice cut him off. He listened intently as he surveyed himself in 


the mirror. The cartoon fish on the front of his cap wrapping itself 
around a baseball bat looked like he meant business. 


"Huh. Decommission? That's a new one. No, no. Don't worry boss, 
we won't hesitate if things get hairy.” 


The Director hung up. He looked for his car keys. This was probably 
going to involve more than the IT guys before this was done. 


At 0521 hours, the MLB official scheduler posted a notice 
online for a game to be played at noon the same day, 
between the Cincinnati Reds and the Saint Louis 
Cardinals, at the Great American Ballpark in central 
Cincinnati. The starting pitchers were listed as Mike 
Leake for the Saint Louis Cardinals, and Ellis Canastota 
for the Cincinnati Reds. 


"What do you mean they're playing a game today? They just 
finished the goddamn World Series!" Dr. Hanaka barked loud 
enough to be heard from the front of the bus-sized mobile command 
center as it sped north on Interstate 75. "It's probably snowing there 
or something by now." 


"Actually, the weather is pretty nice today." Agent Allred-Smith 
gazed out the window as he balanced the long black case on his 
knees. "Which is far worse for keeping people out of the stadium." 


"Fuck," sighed Dr. Hanaka. "How many tickets were sold before we 
took the notice down?" 


A young woman sitting across from Allred-Smith at a mobile terminal 
quickly pecked at a keyboard. "17,397 tickets total, ma'am. It's a 
good thing we got the ESPN piece before they aired it. Pretty novel, 
an exhibition game right after the Series." 


"Seventeen thousand. This is a goddamn disaster." Dr. Hanaka 
paced to the rear of the command center. "Enriquez, get into the 
ballpark contracting system. | want our security folks there, and if we 
can | want concessions done by us too. Everyone in that park who 
isn't on the field or in the stands should be one of us." 


The young logistics officer looked up at Dr. Hanaka from his 
terminal. "You want us selling hot dogs?" 


Dr. Hanaka's eyes flashed behind her glasses. She loomed over the 
sitting Enriquez. "Hot dogs, beer, licorice, nachos and fucking 
churros if we can manage it!" She threw her clipboard to the floor. 
"We've got a breaching anomaly with a paying audience of 
seventeen thousand goddamn people. You shut the fuck up and do 
as you're goddamn told, understand?" 


Agent Allred-Smith couldn't help but think back to the last time he 
heard Dr. Hanaka speak, at a seminar on academic peer review a 
few months ago. He recalled struggling to hear the soft-spoken 
doctor from the back of the room. He coughed into his fist a couple 
times to conceal his laughter as the unfortunate Enriquez scrambled 
to fulfill his orders. 


LMTF 352-Dalet arrived at the Great American Ballpark 
in Cincinnati at 1147 hours local time. Given the number 
of civilians in the vicinity with the specific purpose of 
attending a baseball game, closing the ballpark was 
deemed to be unfeasible. By the time doors were 
opened to spectators, 78% of service personnel within 
the stadium were comprised of Foundation or 
Foundation-contracted personnel. Operatives at the 
scene elected to monitor the ongoing events and 
determine the next course of action. 


Agent Dunbar stepped into the luxury suite, crammed with wires, 
monitoring equipment and computer terminals, befitting an 
improvised command center. He looked out the window. The field 
below was ready for play, the grass freshly mowed, the infield 
perfectly manicured, a fresh Reds logo outlined in chalk behind 
home plate. 


"They just posted the lineups ma'am. You're not going to like it." 


Dr. Hanaka sighed. "How can there even be lineups? We've 
checked locations on everyone, none of the players from either team 
are in the area, or aware of the game. What does it matter?" 


Agent Dunbar fidgeted slightly. "Canastota is starting at every 
position." 


"Great," said Dr. Hanaka. "More of him." 
"For both teams, ma'am." 


The room was silent for a moment, all of the members of LMTF 352- 
Dalet looking to Dr. Hanaka for the next set of orders. She looked 
down at the game. Cheers went up as what looked like the 
Cincinnati Reds took the field. She grabbed a set of field binoculars 
and looked again. Sure enough, every single player was the same 
smiling, dark-haired young man. Each one's uniform bearing the 
same number 72 on the back, the name "Canastota" embroidered 
above. 


She looked to the signals technician of the group. "Readings?" 


An older man at an especially equipment-laden terminal responded. 
"Aerial sonar readings are negative. There's no one on the field 
except the umpires." 


"At least he's not officiating his own game. That would be 
unsporting.” Dr. Hanaka put down the binoculars. "Narrative officers! 
| need disinfo and social media posts out and blanketing the internet 
within fifteen minutes. This is a publicity stunt. See that it's perceived 
that way. Be ready to pull it back if things don't go well." 


A group of three researchers in the corner of the room immediately 
pulled out phones and laptops and got to work. Dr. Hanaka moved 
on. 


"Crowd control! Ensure that all of our vendors are fully stocked with 
Class C's. Don't start distributing unless | give the order." 


A man in a police officer's uniform stepped out of the room, already 
relaying instructions into the walkie-talkie in his hand. 


"Memetics! | want every communication coming out of that stadium 
screened for anomalous influences! Use the new Al we've 
developed. We don't have time to round up human subjects for 
observation." 


A frazzled-looking woman in the seats by the windows, concern in 
her eyes, opened her mouth. She looked up at Dr. Hanaka. She 
closed her mouth and began tapping at a tablet computer. 


"And you, Agent Allred-Smith." Dr. Hanaka now loomed over the 
Agent, reclining in a chair next to the suite refrigerator. "| want you 
up in the cheap seats with your toy there." 


She nodded to the long black case in Agent Allred-Smith's lap. He 
nodded back. "Your signal?" 


"My signal, Agent." 


Due to ongoing containment efforts coordinated at the 
scene by LMTF 352-Dalet, spectators at Great American 
Ballpark were documented to be under the impression 
that they were watching a non-anomalous game of 
baseball until approximately 1452 hours local time, 
coinciding with the middle of the game's seventh inning. 
At that time, an individual matching all known biometric 
data of the baseball player Pedro Borboén' and 
identifying themselves as such took the field and was 
handed a microphone, presumably as part of the 
traditional singing of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" 
during the seventh inning of baseball games. Notable 
discomfort among assembled spectators was audible as 
the identity of the speaker became apparent. 


Agent Allred-Smith surveyed the infield through his high-powered 
scope. Part of SCP-2272 duty was being familiar with baseball, and 
he knew a dead player when he saw one. He touched his earpiece. 


"This is way beyond documented behavior, Doctor. Do | have 
authorization?" 


Dr. Hanaka barked within his ear. "No, god damn it! You have 
authorization when | say you do!" 


"You going to wait until a dead man starts doing...whatever the hell 
it is dead people do, here?" 


"Your apparatus is set up?" 


Agent Allred-Smith touched the tripod directly in front of him. 
"Affirmative, doctor.” 


"Then you'll be able to react in under five seconds when | give the 
word. I'd explain how we need to learn all we can, but then | don't 
need to explain jack shit to you, Agent. You wait for my signal." 


"Roger that, Doctor." He leaned back in his seat. The dead man was 
speaking now, the crowd on their feet in anticipation. 


Pedro Borbén, noted multi-inning relief pitcher and deceased 
member of the Big Red Machine teams of the 1970s, looked 
skyward as he held the microphone. 


"Sport is a wonderful symbol of the human condition. You will be 
relieved to hear that, much the same way it is in this place, in our 
perfect society, sport is a sacred pastime." 


The crowd was silent. 


"Sport is more than competition. Sport creates victors and 
vanquished. The feeling of triumph cannot exist without the sacrifice 
of the defeated. You will understand more after we have truly 
spoken." The dead pitcher, looking every bit the spry athlete of 
generations ago, spoke with an impassive face. "This place, this 
game, this creation. This is a fine place for us to speak plainly." 


Agent Allred-Smith scanned the crowd for any unusual activity. All in 
the stadium were still, and perfectly silent. For the first time, the 
pitcher smiled. 


"We have heard a story from your people, many times, I'm sure 
you're familiar. Of a man asking his friend, returned from the grave, 
if there is baseball in heaven. Let me tell you, my brothers and 
sisters, there is baseball in heaven." 


The speaker laughed, a high-pitched, screeching thing, not at all 
matching the expression on his face. Allred-Smith trained the scope 
on the pitcher's face. 


"And today, we can all see together, they have baseball in hell, too." 


As he stopped speaking, the house organ came up, the familiar 
notes of the traditional song of seventh-inning stretches across the 
country ringing out. Pedro Borbon doffed his cap for the silent 
audience, and faded away into nothing. The organ continued. No 
one sang. 


Communications via social media and personal 
messages from civilians in attendance of the game 
increased greatly following the remarks of the unknown 
entity during the seventh inning. The number of 
messages, combined with the content indicating what 
had occurred, necessitated elevated containment 
protocols. At 1459 hours local time, Doctor Akane 
Hanaka authorized decommissioning of SCP-2272' and 
mass deployment of amnestics. 


The precursor agents had been authorized for distribution at the end 
of the third inning. Every refreshment item served in the ballpark had 
Part A of a Class C two-part amnestic. Based on field studies and 
their own observations of the game, the task force chemist assured 
Dr. Hanaka that the penetration rate was in excess of 90%. More 
than enough to ensure memory alteration and suggestibility among 
the "critical mass" threshold of the crowd. Dr. Hanaka nodded, and 
barked some words into a nearby handset. 


A small prop plane, carrying a banner behind it reading "2016 Winter 
Exhibition" and previously circling the stadium throughout the day, 
now swooped low over the Great American Ballpark, looking to have 
just enough altitude to avoid hitting the lights. A great plume of 
scarlet smoke billowed from the rear of the plane. Part B was being 
released. The reaction would be powerful enough to allow the 
narrative team to construct a plausible mass delusion that would 
hopefully obscure all details of what the crowd had watched here 
today. 


As the plane flew overhead, Agent Allred-Smith adjusted his gas 
mask and lined up his shot. The camera mounted on the tripod was 
a delicate, finicky instrument, and the satellite link was proving 
tricky. Three different observation modalities, including a converted 


form of the sonar feed, were needed to achieve the necessary 
viewpoint in which SCP-2272 would be obliterated. The research 
seemed to indicate that capturing the image of SCP-2272 ina 
format which would allow it to be both observed and unobserved 
would render it unstable as a coherent memeplex. Or something. 
The reasoning was above his paygrade. 


The green indicator light flashed on. He trained the camera on the 
field, making sure to capture the players on the field, the man 
waiting on deck, and both dugouts, all the smiling likeness of Ellis 
Canastota, number 72, right hand pitcher. All visual feeds were in 
tandem and functioning. He took the shot. 


At that moment, the billowing red cloud of smoke descended on him, 
obscuring the field, the seats, and all of his surroundings. He held 
the mask tight in place against his face, ensuring that none of the air 
around him leaked in. The amnestics officer would be pissed if they 
had to reconstruct his memory. 


A wind kicked up from the north, blowing out over the Ohio River 
and carrying the smoke out over the right field bleachers, like so 
many fly balls hit before. The view began to return as the smoke 
dissipated and retreated. Agent Allred-Smith dared a glance down at 
the field. 


Empty. Four dumbstruck umpires were congregated around the 
pitcher's mound, doubtless discussing whether to call the game 
before their minds were temporarily thrown into a suggestible torpor. 
No players on the field, in foul territory, or in the dugouts. Not an 
Ellis Canastota to be seen. 


An image appeared on the camera's viewfinder. Allred-Smith looked 
closely. The image he had taken, the image that had apparently 
neutralized this long-running anomalous phenomenon, was not of 
the playing field of Great American Ball Park. In its place, a black 
and white team photo showed on the camera's screen, 25 men 
arranged neatly in rows, wearing uniforms that he recognized as 
those of the first Cincinnati Redlegs teams. All 25 men bore the 
exact same smile that he had come to recognize as that of Ellis 
Canastota. 


SCP-525: Eye Spiders 


Item #: SCP-525 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Outside of testing conditions, 

the individual components of SCP-525 must be stored in separate 

sealed containers. No more than six components may be stored in 

the same room or within 15 meters of each other. All currently- 

existing components are accounted for at Storage Site-23 in lockers 
to 


Only Class D personnel are authorized to handle SCP-525. All 
supervising staff must wear protective eyewear during testing. 


Description: SCP-525 consists of multiple disjoined arthropod legs, 
10-15 cm in length. DNA identification has been inconclusive, but 
the closest match so far is to the brown recluse spider Loxosceles 
reclusa. The base of each leg ends in several minute hooks capable 
of perforating flesh. SCP-525 is covered in short, fine hairs, and is 
quite brittle. 


When alone or in proximity with fewer than six others, SCP-525 is 
inert. When eight components of SCP-525 are brought within range 
of each other (approx. 0.6m), the legs will immediately crawl into a 
group and attach themselves into a single entity, referred to as 
525-1. At this stage, the speed of its locomotion greatly increases, 
and it will attempt to make contact with the closest human or similar 
(see Addendum #525-A). 


When a suitable animal is found, 525-1 will climb directly towards 
the animal's eye. Having centered itself over a socket, four legs will 
secure the eyelid while the others extract the eye. Despite 525-1's 
rapid movements, extreme care is taken not to damage the eye 
during the extraction, [DATA EXPUNGED] severing the optic nerves 
and central retinal vein. Once the eye is free from the original 


Unlike a typical team photo, this photo was taken at night, under the 
stars. Nine moons could be seen in the sky. A sign propped in front 
of the smiling squadron read "The Past, the Future." All 25 men 
were holding their arms out in front of them. All 25 men were 
missing their hands. 


Footnotes 
1. Pedro Borb6én was confirmed deceased in 2012. 


Standard Dream Report 66-Y 990.2 


Document 990-04: