Subject: 

Info: 

Results: 

Additional Comments: 


Date: - -20 

Subject: D14729 

Info: First test subject 

Results: Subject reported an initial period of blackness before vision 
returned. Subject responded to questions, but complained that it 
was difficult to hear. After 10 seconds, subject began screaming and 
demanded to be released. When questioned, his only response was, 
"They're cutting me, they're cutting me, get me out." When informed 
that he would remain until the question was answered, subject 
hurriedly described the hooded figures who were slowly 
dismembering him. Further detail of the vision was provided after the 
experiment. 

Additional Comments: The effect of SCP-825 is much as expected 
from reports provided by [DATA EXPUNGED] though this currently 


"|'m just going to read a passage here. 'When attached to a door 
frame, SCP-1022 can be used as a portal to wherever you want to 
go. For example, if you wanted to go to Paris France, you would 
open the door via the door knob, and step through the door fame 
with the location (e.g. France) in mind.” 


Dr. Jones rested her head against her desk. 


“When you step through the door frame completely, the door will 
close itself and a flash of white light will be seen from behind it. 
Once the flash has gone back to normal, the subject inside 
SCP-1022 will be transported to the desired destination.” 


Dr. Jones began gently banging her head against her desk. Looking 
up at the agent in front of her, she said, "There...there can't be 
anything else to this, can there?" 


"Um, for some reason, the Door to Forever could also take the 
money in your pockets and fuse it into weird Monopoly money 
somehow." 


Ms. Nala was sitting at her desk when the intercom switched on. 
"Hello! Is anyone there?" 


Bemused, Nala pushed the "talk" button. "Yes? Can | help you? 
Who is this?" 


"It's...it's Agent Valdez, ma'am," the voice said. "I think Dr. Jones 
had a stroke. Please, send in emergency care!" 


RAISA Directive #201209: 


Investigation is to take place as to the possibility that 
SCP-048's current containment is inadequate for the 
entity's present nature. Convincing evidence has been 
presented to RAISA Command suggesting that 
SCP-1022 may be infected with either the being 
responsible for SCP-048's present condition or (an even 
more daunting prospect) a duplicate iteration of the same 


phenomenon. 


The possibility that further containment slots may be 
contaminated and rendered unusable in a similar manner 
as SCP-048 is frightening in and of itself. However, this 
entity may also lead to a distracting and dangerous 
misuse of resources for the containment of nonexistent 
phenomena. 


There is hope, however. Further research has 
demonstrated a similar tendency was present in items 
designated SCP-1031 prior to the containment of the 
item currently occupying that containment slot. In 
particular, one item categorized as SCP-1031 was an 
unnamed goblet allegedly capable of transmuting any 
fluid into hazardous substances; this was revealed to be 
a common plastic Solo cup painted to appear to be made 
of steel, and possessed no unusual qualities whatsoever. 
Suspicion has been cast on the entity known as "The 
Alchemist," an unknown being believed responsible for 
convincing researchers that various drinking containers 
possess anomalous properties and should be contained, 
even to the extent of leading a quest to recover them. 


—NMaria Jones, Director, Records and Information 
Security Administration 


Cut Up While Thinking 


They wake me up in the middle of the night. | think it's the middle of 
the night. Their faces are scared, and | wonder if the Russians have 
finally started bombing. 


I'm ready, | say. I'm ready. Just give me a minute, I'll put on my 
clothes. | can't find my clothes. 


It's OK, they say, but their faces say it's not OK. 


Are the bombers in the air, | ask. Please tell me the bombers are in 
the air. Please tell me we still have second-strike. 


Everything's OK. Please try to keep calm. 
Keep calm? Where are my clothes? Where are my clothes?! 


| know | need to keep calm, but | can't. Because | know it's my fault. 
Because | was asleep on the job. 


Easy, they say (no, it's not easy, everything's hard, so hard, why is it 
so hard?). Do you know who | am? 


That terrible question. Insidious. Always the inference - you don't 
know, you are unfit. Testing. 


You're the people | need right now, | say. Just - | need to get 
dressed. | can't face this if I'm not dressed. Are my clothes upstairs? 
Nancy, | call. Nancy? 


| look for the stairs, but someone's taken the stairs, they've been 
nuked, the first strike has comprehensively neutralised the first floor 
of my house. 


You should have woken me up earlier, | say, it's worse than | 
thought. 


One of them starts shining a bright light in my face and | get a 
horrible feeling | might not be in my house after all. That's been 
happening, lately. 


Do you know what day it is, they ask? Who is the President? 
| think I'm the President. 

You've had a fall. 

| know. 

| realise I'm cold. Am | outside? 

You were out jogging, they say. You tripped. 

Oh. That kind of fall. 


| know he'll be here any minute. He might even be behind me now. 
My constant companion, through this fog. | never see his face. He 
wears a thing over his face, a hood, like in the Old South. Half of all 
Americans still hate ... oh, oh. 


With me, always, since | saw the thing. Spinning, wheels, 
kinetoscope, cinema. Pictures of myself, talking. Making a speech. A 
speech | didn't remember giving. The first time | noticed. 


| watched it six times. Each time different, but always starting the 
same way. 


The other day in the East Room of the White House at a meeting 
there, someone asked me whether | was aware of all the people out 
there who were praying for the President. And | had to say, "Yes, | 
am. I've felt it. | believe in intercessionary prayer." 


But | couldn't help but say to that questioner after he'd asked the 
question that - or at least say to them that if sometimes when he 
was praying he got a busy signal, it was just me in there ahead of 
him. 


| think | understand how Abraham Lincoln felt when he said, "I have 
been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming 


conviction that | had nowhere else to go." 
Nowhere to go. Just me, in here. 


| asked for a transcript of the original soeech. So | could compare, | 
said. In the end it got so tangled up in my brain | didn't know what 
was the tape and what was real, what | was supposed to have really 
said. 


More than a decade ago, a Supreme Court decision literally wiped 
off the books of 50 States statutes protecting the rights of unborn 
children. Abortion-on-demand now takes the lives of up to one and a 
half million unborn children a year. 


Is all of Judeo-Christian tradition wrong? Today's poll shows that five 
out of six Americans have now been crucified. Planet Earth about to 
be recycled. | must admit that | am here again. 


Marxism-Leninism is actually the second oldest faith, first 
proclaimed in the Garden of Eden with the words of temptation, "Ye 
shall be as gods." 


Last year, | drafted a constitutional amendment to restore ritualistic 
cannibalism in memory of a dead god. | am older than stars. The 
dictator who is assembling the world's most dangerous weapons is 
here in our own country. | am ordering Congress to begin the final 
holocaust. 


| thought, if | watch the tape enough, I'll end up right back where | 
started. Maybe I'm just one of the recordings, getting gouged away 
by invisible knives a bit at a time, or decaying into static, anything 
relevant | had to say eroded by time and dust. 


| watch myself as a chunk of flesh is ripped away from one cheek, a 
great tear opens up the neck. The duality creates a Berlin wall in my 
soul, partitions me. The me watching the tape suddenly realises he 
is no longer watching the tape, that all that happened years ago. 


Please don't hurt me, | say, | just want to go home. 


No-one's going to hurt you, they say. You're safe. But | wasn't 
talking to them. | can hear the rustle of his robe, black hessian. 


After | watched the tape, | learned more about what they did. The 
thing. Rock, under houses. Hundreds of things, hidden in the dark, 
that could end the world. The Russians had their own, they said. We 
can keep them safer than you can. Cabinet meetings, talks, with the 
British, nothing that could be done. | think Margaret understood. 
How deep it hurt. To be powerless. 


| said nothing when | first saw him. Standing behind George in 
meetings. In the press conferences. At the end of my bed. Wires at 
the ends of his fingers, trailing away over the ground, lightning in his 
veins, screaming silently behind his hood. All the time hearing my 
own voice, a speech | know | gave and can't remember. 


Suffer the little children. Born into blood and filth and pain in an 
eternal prison, engulfed in darkness, the place of crows. We will win 
the war on terror. There you go again! 


When he goes, he takes a little bit of me away with him, every time. 
He takes it from the me who watches the screen, hides it 
somewhere else. In the end there is only the man on the tape, cut 
up while talking. 


/ urge you to beware the temptation of pride—the temptation of 
blithely declaring yourselves above it all and label both sides equally 
at fault, to ignore the facts of history and the aggressive impulses of 
an evil empire. 


| turn, and he's there, features anonymous under the hood, head 
raised to the sky. Standing on a box, arms wide. This is it, he seems 
to be saying, this is your world. 


We have it within our power to begin the world over again. We begin 
bombing in five minutes. Static, unending. Five minutes to midnight. 
| am weapons of mass destruction. 


God help me, | scream, and the men around me drag at my gown, 
pulling at me, trying to calm me down. 


There's a woman there, and | think it may be Nancy, but | can't 
remember. He's taken that too. He's taken me and given me to men 
| do not know and whose words | cannot countenance. 


This is my world. 


God help me! God help America! 


Tales D 


D-2000 


From: Foundation Global Administration, Requisitions 
Division 

To: Researcher Byzant 

Subject: Approval of D-Class request for SCP-4932 


Researcher Byzant, 

Your request for 1,250 D-Class personnel for use in 
testing with SCP-4932 has been approved. The 
aforementioned quantity of D-Class personnel will be 
imported from Site 18 to Bio-Site 84 immediately. You 
will be notified when the requested quantity has arrived 
at Alice Springs, Australia. 


F.G.A Requisitions Division 


Howard Byzant leaned back in his chair once he had finished 
reading the e-mail. 


“What?” he muttered to himself. He had needed the D-Classes and 
the approval would make it considerably easier to learn how the 
anomaly in question functioned — break some eggs to make an 
omelette and all that. What stunned Howard was that the number of 
D-Classes he had asked for had been approved, were being flown 
or shipped over from some foreign country like morbid livestock, and 
that he had sent the request for them just the previous day. 


Howard remained motionless in his seat as the superficial absurdity 
of this response sunk in. He would soon have a small army of 
expendable prisoners at his beck and call, all to be sent to what 
would almost definitely be their death for no higher purpose than to 
record how they died, and how long it took. One and a quarter 
thousand souls — more people than there were in Australia with a 
sentence of life imprisonment — who would have their idea of 
normalcy shattered briefly before their bones followed suit. 


It was then that Researcher Byzant leaned forward again and began 
typing up a group e-mail to his colleagues assigned to SCP-4932. 
They had to prepare for the arrival of the D-Classes, finalise their 
brief accommodation and obtain other research materials that they 
needed to get before testing begun. Though he felt a brief empathy 
for them, Researcher Byzant first and foremost had an allegiance to 
the Foundation and by extension would be expected to do whatever 
was needed to gain the information they sought. 


Besides, they were D-Classes. D-Classes were only taken from 
death row, so they were screwed anyway. The only exception was 
when Protocol 12 was enacted, and the Foundation hadn't been that 
desperate for expendables since the early eighteen-hundreds; every 
single one of the 1,250 humans Researcher Byzant was about to 
receive had obviously done some horrendous things during their 
lifetime to end up where they were. They would deserve whatever 
fate they got. 


“Good morning, D-53682. My name is Dr. Amanda Clarke, and | will 
be conducting your psychological evaluation today.” Her voice was 
warm and welcoming, but conveyed a false sense of empathy. 
She’d spoken to hundreds of thousands of D-Classes, all with 
relatively similar stories of breaking the law repeatedly or severely 
and ending up here, and with each subsequent interview she 
became more and more jaded to them. Dr. Clarke didn’t really care 
about any of the men and women she spoke to anymore. She’d 
already predicted the response of the downbeat looking man before 
her, before he had even entered the room. 


“My name is Jesse Ball.” He was unhappy with the soulless number 
that had become his new identity. Amanda briefly looked down at 
the sheet on the clipboard she held, and ticked the box confirming 
he was still attached to his former name. It was always the first to be 
ticked. 


“Very well then Jesse. How has your day been?” She ignored the 
majority of his response, paying heed to only the small packets of 
information that she needed and drowning out the rest with how she 
felt about her own day. She had already spoken to over a dozen D- 
Classes today, all with the same story of innocence and pleas for 


remains a theory. 


Date: - -20 

Subject: D14783 

Info: Profile indicates subject had a near-death experience after 
falling into a frozen lake as a child. 

Results: Subject described being trapped in a small room slowly 
filling up with water. After 10 minutes, subject became unresponsive 
to questioning. Technicians discussed removing SCP-825 when 
subject resumed speaking, describing the room now filling with icy 
cold water. Process was repeated with foul and polluted water. Each 
time subject grew more agitated. Process repeated with blood and 
then liquid excrement. After 317 minutes subject no longer 
responded to questioning. SCP-825 was removed. Subject 
remained unresponsive, and was terminated after 7-day observation 
period. 

Additional Comments: The escalating pattern is clear, as is the 
focus on the subject's personal phobias. 


Date: - -20 

Subject: D14791 

Info: Profile indicates subject suffers from arachnophobia. 

Results: Unexpectedly, subject experienced a vision of being 
sexually assaulted by several former cellmates. Subsequent 
investigation revealed that such an attack occurred during a 
previous incarceration. SCP-825 was removed for 10 minutes and 
then the subject was informed that it would be reapplied. Subject 
answered intimate questions and followed demeaning instructions in 
a frantic attempt to prevent reapplication. Reapplication resulted in a 
similar vision, except all participants were now covered in spiders. 
After removal, subject damaged restraints in his attempt to escape 
and was sedated. 

Additional Comments: Containment facility outfitted with stronger 
restraints. 


Date: - -20 

Subject: Experimental animal CAN16925 

Info: adult canine 

Results: SCP-825 applied for 90 seconds. Subject displays 
considerable discomfort, and cowers from SCP-825 after removal.