Casponaut's Killer Sandbox

SCP/TALE DRAFTS

SCP-Beality
- Showcasing the universe after events of SCP-2000-B
- More articles showing the effects of SCP-3368 on different SCP's
  - Something with 106 and SCP maybe (because fuck i love my barbacue grandpa
Something inspired by STALKER and METRO - huge influences on my stuff and i feel like it could fit the SCP canon

She sat in the lounge, clutching the manila folder to her chest. The sum of her work over the last few months, something that would massively benefit the Foundation in what it did.

See, most of the administrative staff tended to look at the Foundation in terms of pure numbers, productivity and mortality rates head of the pack. But she knew from first hand experience as Site Therapist that there had to be a better way, some way of looking at it that didn't just turn people into numbers.

She had first hand experience with it, people getting burned out and exhausted, people that didn't even come into contact with the darker horrors that the Foundation kept under lock and key. The human mind could only take so much stress from watching a fundamental break in reality that at some point, it just ran out of gas and broke down.

That's why she was here, really. Research in hand, in the lobby of one of the heads of the Foundation. Hopefully she wouldn't make a fool of herself.

"Dr. McDowell?" The secretary said from behind the desk. Dr. McDowell snapped out of her panic induced trance and looked over. "Yes?"

"Dr. Bright will see you now."

Jack Bright could barely be seen through the haze of cigarette smoke. McDowell tried not to cough as she sat down across from the Head of Personnel, setting her files down on her lap.

Clearing their throat, Jack Bright, this time in the body of a middle aged man, clean shaven and with slicked back hair, took the cigarette from their mouth and tapped it against an ashtray on his desk, leaving it there.

"My apologizes. Sometimes the bodies they stick me in have certain physiological requirements that I can't ignore." He gestured to the cigarette. Extending his hand, he shook McDowell's hand, then gestured for the files she had in her lap.

McDowell handed them to him, trying to not let her nerves get the best of her.

"So they tell me you want to…" Bright had started skimming through the folder. "…what was it again? Some sort of-"

"Morale initiative, sir." McDowell adjusted her glasses. "I've seen the amount of burnout that this line of work can do to people. It's…well, to be honest, it has a negligible effect on productivity. I've seen the statistics with my own eyes. I believe that this is more of-" She tried to find the words.

"A moral issue?"

"…yes." Not the words she would use, but she wasn't going to correct her superior at this moment.

"Hm. So what, you'd want to increase on-site therapists, put up posters, what?"

"I have a few ideas sir. Some of them are a bit more simpler than others. I was thinking group therapy, social activities, increased recreational activities and areas in facilities, things like that."

Bright raised an eyebrow. McDowell continued.

"I know that our entire goal is to contain and protect, but we can't do that without taking care of our own. We're losing so many up and coming staff members because there simply isn't any safety net for them to work with, no support groups, no bonding, nothing. It's not the anomalies that are harming personnel, it's the sheer mental isolation. That's what I intend to change."

"Have you given any thought to how much of a budget you'd expect for this project?"

"…to be frank sir, I'll take whatever is offered to me. As long as I can prove that this will work."

Bright was quiet, thinking. McDowell, internally, yelled at herself, not sure if what she said was too up front or confrontational.

"Alright. I'll have to discuss it with my colleagues, but I can see the merits of your idea."

McDowell's heart swelled.

"I'll propose this. You'll be given a six month trial period. If overall morale doesn't have a noticeable increase by then, I'm sure you'll figure out a suitable benchmark, then we'll deem this a failure. But if it succeeds, well, I'm sure either HR or the Ethics Committee will be happy to help provide additional funding."

"Thank you sir, I'll make sure it succeeds."

"Once I've brought this up with the other department heads, then you'll receive more information. Just to be clear, this is only my agreement with the project. I can't guarantee it'll be given full support or a go-ahead."

"I understand completely."

Bright stood up, shaking McDowell's hand and opening the door for her. Leaving, McDowell cheered internally, grateful for the chance to make an impact.

It was the middle of the night when she received the call. A simple automated message. It's contents were easy to understand, she would be placed in charge of the Foundation's new Morale Initiative. Given a new office, she would be expected to start work on the project in the morning.

McDowell didn't sleep for the rest of the night. She was too busy sketching out ideas and plans, fueled by adrenaline and caffeine.

Tomorrow was the start of a new day. For her, and for the Foundation.

This is the first time Kasparov is entering into the Exclusion Zone, having just turned eighteen. The five men walking with him, his older brother among them, are experienced at this. They've done this before, but he hasn't. That's why they move quietly, to avoid the military helicopters that fly over the area.

The Zone, he has been told repeatedly, is different from the one established around Chernobyl only nine years prior. This one isn't to keep people from being exposed to radiation. Instead, he is told, it is to keep people away from the truth. What that truth is, the older men don't seem to know. They have learned to make a profit though, saying that they can find strange objects, ones that break the laws of reality. Westerners, he is told, pay a pretty price for them. Not enough to make a man wealthy, but enough that he can afford to save, afford to get out of the lifestyle out of a few years, move somewhere better.

They are armed with pistol and rifle. They aren't expecting to use them, but the men among them have had bad experiences with others doing the same thing they were. At least, that is what he is told. He thinks, somewhat, that they are lying. The man who explained to him why he carried a weapon, an old rifle from decades ago, told him with a hint of fear in his voice about how some men grew greedy from the Zone, how they killed others to try and scavenge for whatever items they could find. He could understand being scared of other men, but the man had nervously glanced towards the woods as he spoke. Almost as if he thought something would come out of them.

They walk along the fence, boots sinking into the marshland. The man in front, young, strong, and smart, holds up his hand, stopping. The rest of them follow his example. His name is Gregor, and he has been doing this for ten years.

Gregor pulls out a pair of bolt cutters and a small metal object - a bolt. Carefully, he bends down on one knee, bouncing the bolt in his hand. Finally, he gently tosses it towards the fence, expecting something.

Kasparov leans over to his brother, whispering.

“What is he doing?”

His brother leans back, eyes peeled towards the sky. “The fence is electrified in certain places. He needs to cut through - the military cut off access to our last entrance.”

Kasparov nods, feeling the marsh swallow his boots. He crouches down himself, lowing his center of mass, making it easier to run if need be. At least, that’s what he assumes he’s doing. He’s mostly copying the other men.

Nothing happens, no spark, no noise. Gregor nods to the rest of them and uses the cutters, quickly cutting through the fence. He makes a small hole, just large enough for the biggest of them to squeeze through. Kasparov is last in line, and fits through easily, the smallest one among them.

They continue to walk, their path illuminated only by moonlight. Occasionally, they hear helicopters overhead, and they dive into the marsh, letting themselves sink, staying still for what feels like hours at a time.

Kasparov has heard stories of the men who have ventured into the Zone before him. How they come back broken, mangled, either in mind or in body, torn apart by helicopter fire or by wolves. It scares him. But he is here, so he must carry on. Work is hard to come by these days, and his mother has bills to pay. She cannot work, and his father is long dead. So he and his brother find ways to make up the difference. Like this.

He does not know their destination until they arrive. It’s an abandoned cargo ship. How it reached here, he cannot fathom. They are miles away from any shore. The other men, his brother included, pay it no mind, continuing to walk towards it. His brother walks, then pauses, turning to face Kasparov.

“Come on, we’re already late as it is.”

“How did a ship even get out here-”

His brother shrugs, looking at the beached ship. “I dunno. I guess it’s just one of the many mysteries of this place. Now come on.” He starts walking again. After a minute, Kasparov shakes his head, regaining his bearings, and follows behind.

He doesn’t notice them until they get close. They look like soldiers, but they aren’t dressed in the camouflage that has become familiar to Kasparov. No, they wear black and purple, faces hidden by gas masks, as if they’re scared of something in the air. The men Kasparov has traveled with, they have gas masks, yes, but they hang at the hip. The soldiers stand on the ship, giving them a clear vantage point over the area. And a clear line of sight with the rifles they carry.

Gregor frowns. Something is wrong. He walks up to the ship, close enough so that the soldiers can hear him.

“Where is the man I made the agreement with? He said he would be here.”

“The terms have changed. We’ll still take the items, you still get paid, only difference is you get paid just a little less. Bonus will come next time.” The lead soldier, the one who spoke up, sounds Western. Probably English, but Kasparov can’t really tell.

“The terms were changed last time, the bonus was supposed to come today.”

“Well, it’s not.” Kasparov is suddenly very aware that they are in a marsh with no real cover, and the men on the ship in front of him seem to be very well equipped. “Now, the items.”

Gregor glances to the backpack one of the men is wearing, then back at the ship. “At least tell us why the terms have changed. Maybe we can work something out.”

The soldier makes an almost imperceptible motion with his hand, and the others on the ship come forward. “When we made the agreement, you guaranteed that the area would be secure.”

“As far as I knew, it was!” Gregor replied.

“Not anymore it isn’t.” Another hand motion and the click of safeties being turned off could be heard by all. “Now give us the items. You’re in no position to bargain, and we don’t have the time.”

Gregor is quiet, thinking. Finally, he nods to the man who’s backpack he had glanced at before. “Give them what they want. It’s not worth the trouble.”

Despite some quiet protests among the group, Kasparov’s brother among them, the man takes off his backpack, handing it over to Gregor. Gregor tosses it towards the ship. The bag lands with a squelch. A soldier is sent down to grab it. The tension fills the air, both Gregor’s group and the soldiers all too aware of the other’s guns.

Kasparov is the first to hear it though. It’s faint, at first. The sound of something cutting through the air. He’ll never know if they were followed, or if it was just a routine patrol. But the answer doesn’t matter with what happens next.

The soldier yells out profanities, probably assuming that he was double-crossed. Yelling an order, his men start firing randomly, either at the helicopter that has just arrived or at Gregor’s men. Gregor yells out an order as well, and the group of stalkers hits the mud, returning fire. All the while, the helicopter lets out its own burst of gunfire, a sniper on-board tearing through metal and flesh. Whoever was in it didn’t care about who they hit.

The three parties trade fire for what seems like ages, but eventually, all that’s left is the sound of the helicopter, and even that begins to quiet as it begins to land on a dry patch a few yards away.

Kasparov is playing dead at this point, not knowing if his fellow stalkers are alive or dead, not caring. He has reverted to a state of pure survival, holding his breath as to not let anyone know he’s still breathing.

The men on the helicopter are quick in their search, talking into their radios about “anomalies” and something called “MCD”. He doesn’t know what they mean, but he can only assume they’re talking about the soldiers who were on the ship.

After what seems like hours, they finally leave, the helicopter taking off. Kasparov waits until he can’t hear the rotors anymore, then waits more after that. He doesn’t want to take any chances.

Standing up, he sees that he’s the only one left alive. He falls to his knees when he sees his brother’s corpse, torn apart like so many before him, but he does not have time to mourn. The helicopter may come back eventually.

It takes him a day to reach their former point of entry. He crawls through the hole and makes the long trek back home. He doesn’t say anything to his mother. His arrival alone is enough.

He showers, then lays in bed, thinking. He does not think about what he has seen, or about the death of his brother. No, he thinks of numbers, of bills and such that now must be the burden of one.

So he makes a decision.

The next night, he walks to the Zone’s fence. With him, he carries a rifle, a pair of bolt cutters, and a bag of bolts.

He performs the same ritual he saw performed the night before, only this time, he is alone.

And after he cuts through the fence, he reenters the Zone.

After all, he’s eighteen now. A man.

And a man must provide, no matter if it kills him.

Posted Stuff

This is just a place to store the stuff I've successfully published on the wiki, just in case I want to rework it or anything, gives me the OG files to do so.

It was the buzzing that got to you. Not the half-converted bodies, not the sweet stench of honey, but the buzzing. It filled the air, almost tangible in its sound, a static noise that replaced any thought that wasn't related to bees. It filled every moment of your life with the knowledge that you and your family were dead. That you would either turn into a freak, or your corpse would be used to build another hive to make more bees. It was the knowledge that humanity was breathing it's last.

The man got on the beekeeping suit, taping chemical tape around thick rubber gloves and boots. A precaution when surrounded by tiny, deadly bees. He had seen what had happened when one didn't tape up a suit. Thousands pouring into a man's mouth, his screams drowned out by the buzzing. Either that or they got into your ear, to change you. He saw that happen once, a man who couldn't take the loneliness, who just wanted to be a part of a species again, so he ripped off his helmet and let them pour in. The freaks had encouraged it, spewing shit about how the conversion was a good thing, how it wouldn't hurt. He had finally got them to shut up about a year ago. Speaking of the freaks, it was that time of the month again. Trading day.

"Oh, it's no big deal, the bees are wonderful. Such lovely singers." They had all seemed so damn cheerful.

The last time he had a human was when someone had run into town, just wearing a shirt and jeans. The swarm had taken him, bees crawling into his ears to go to work. A lot of people did that in the final days, not able to take the loneliness and the buzzing. He wouldn't though. He could deal with being alone. Hell, he'd done it for most of his life. Putting on the hood, he grabbed a handheld smoker, putting fuel into the satchel. It was his own mix, pine and dried grass from the forest. He gathered up the rest of his things, trading goods, some snacks, and extra fuel, and headed out the door.

The door had to be slammed shut to close. He needed to take a closer look at it one day, once he had the parts. Leaves crunched under his feet as he walked towards the car, the fall air numbing his hands. Sliding into the front seat, he turned the ignition, waiting for the engine to sputter to life. When it finally did, he pulled out of the driveway, glancing at his cabin. Years of work had gone into it, major additions being a greenhouse, water collectors, and a windmill for extra power. It was his wife, his kids, the only thing he really cared about besides his own survival.

An empty road was all he saw as he drove through the forest, roots starting to bust through the asphalt. The occasional husk of a car was on the side, looted long ago for parts. No one came out here to refurbish the road these days, there not being a point to it. Why waste time on a road when you could just fly? It was a hassle though, with no way of fixing them. He probably could, if he had any supplies. Right now he just had to make do, at least until the roads collapsed completely. He'd probably have to walk then, either that or find a Jeep or something. Passing the sign for Sheldon, long since overgrown with vines and covered in honeycomb, he turned the corner, the smell of honey overpowering. The first buildings that he saw were covered in beehives, dark clouds surrounding them like smog. And then he saw the freaks.

The freaks watched him with compound eyes, going about their daily business. The man was a monthly spectacle, something to see and acknowledge, maybe brag to your friends about. He didn't harm any of them, bringing in supplies to trade. Mostly apples, surplus from his fall harvest. He pulled to the side of the road, getting out. Locking it, out of habit more then anything, he stepped onto the side walk. One of the freaks waved to him, spindly arm in the air. He gave a polite wave in return. Turning to the storefront, he glanced up at the vine covered sign. "Hanson's General Goods." Taking a breath, he went inside.

"Morning Monthly!"

The bee was happy, antenna twitching. Monthly was a good man, even if he was a beet of a downer. He always brought good flowers and fruits to trade, that, apparently, he grew himself! In return, the bee gave him technology that the hive couldn't use, usually things with buttons. Cell phones could have worked, but the power had gone out about ten years ago. Plus, who needed cell service when you could just communicate with pheromones? Mail composed entirely of scent, forming wonderful little packages, he loved it.

Monthly stepped up to the counter.

"Brought in the usual, twenty pounds of apples, plus the flowers."

Always being polite, Monthly made sure to transport the whole flowerbeds. Most people would just cut up the whole thing.

"That sounds wonderful, let me just see what we found this month. Your generator still working?"

"Yeah uh, I mean, some bees, no offense I mean, tried to build a hive in it. Found it when I came home one time. Had to smoke them out."

"Oh no, I understand. The little guys are sweet but they just don't understand, you know?"

"Yeah." Monthly tapped on the counter with a rubber glove, glancing around the store. The bee turned and looked through the shelves, trying to find something that could be a fair trade. Aha, an Xbox! Still worked it seemed, plus the place they found it at had some games that could be played.

"You got anything to keep you occupied? Got an Xbox here if you wanted, could throw in some games."

"How much for it?"

"How many apples did you say you had again?"

"Uh, 'bout nine or ten, give or take."

"I'll take three for this, then I can give you an even trade of honey. How much?"

"Just a pound then."

"So four pounds of apples? Sounds good!" The bee set the Xbox on the counter, then went over to grab a few jars of honey. Monthly went out and grabbed two bags, one in each hand. Coming back inside, he set them on the counter.

"Hey, if you uh, don't mind me asking…"

"Yeah?."

"You guys all this happy and carefree?"

"Oh, well, I'd like to think our little hive is, but you know, it always depends on the flowers and the people." He twitched his antenna in an equivalent of a smile.

Monthly didn't seem to recognize it, nodding quietly. He set the bags down on the counter.

"You mind if I ask you something in return?" The bee asked, holding honey.

"Yeah, sure."

"Do you ever get lonely? You know, living by yourself for years. Can't recall you ever mentioning a dog or kids or anything."

"Uh, no, not really." A quick frown flashed across Monthly's face, the man bad at hiding his emotions. The bee was saddened. He was social, used to being surrounded by family members and his loved ones. Being alone would bee like suicide.

"You know, you don't have to…change or anything, but you're welcome at my house if you'd like. Like I've said before, if you just wanna come to hang out, maybe have dinner, you're always welcome." He grabbed the apples in trade, setting them down behind the counter.

Monthly looked at him. "Thanks for the offer, but, I'm gonna have to say no. Wouldn't be able to eat anything really, not with this thing on-." He gestured to his suit. "Plus, I gotta conserve fuel, already eating it up with these trips. The bee shrugged.

"Well if you ever like to come, you're always welcome at our table. That all?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Well, have a nice day." The bee said kindly. Monthly only nodded in response, grabbing his goods. Stepping outside, the bee felt sorry for him. Monthly was a man who was alone in the world, both by his own exile and by biology.

The man drove home, silent. A damn freak got to him. He didn't need it's sympathy, perfectly fine being alone. Pulling up into the driveway to his cabin, he stepped out of the car, getting the Xbox and honey. Heading inside, he was greeted only by the hum of his generator. The air was still, and it smelled, a mix of body odor and sawdust. Putting away the Xbox and honey, he started to take off his beekeeping gear. Underneath, he only had on a t-shirt and jeans. Glancing out at the setting sun, he yawned. It was early, but sleep called to him. He unrolled his futon, turning it into a bed. After setting out blankets and pillows, he turned off his generator. Finally he slipped into his sheets. Sleep hit him easily, brain falling swiftly into the blackness of REM.

There was a humming noise, he noticed when he woke up. Getting up and stretching, he thought nothing of it, thinking it was his generator. Until he realized that his generator was turned off. The hum got louder, like a speaker blaring into his ear. Something was in his ear, and he knew what. Turning, he saw the door to his cabin cracked open. It must not have shut it all the way last night, letting a swarm get in. He started to panic, remembering the fate of everyone else who had the bees come in. Frantically, he looked for something to end it, not wanting to end up like everyone else. But, at the same time, some part of him accepted his fate. He knew that was the bees. It was them working to keep him alive and trapped in their hive. They wanted him to be with others, and the only thing he could do was obey. Not bothering to put on the beekeeping suit, he ran to his truck, getting in and driving to town. The only thing he could hear is the hum of the bees as they went to work.

He arrived in town, stumbling out of his car. Some citizens of the hive watched in mild surprise, as the man they christened Monthly wasn't wearing any of his usual gear. Something had to be wrong. One came up to him, confused. "Hey partner, everything okay?"

"No damn it, everything is not okay!-" He stuttered his words, heading for Hanson's General Goods. The bee was there, stocking shelves as usual. Turning to see who had entered, he saw the man standing in the doorway. "I'm changing damn it-"

"What? Changing, what do you…oh, you mean-"

"I'm beecoming, I mean, becoming a freak, just like all of you. And, and I can't do this alone, my body won't let me." He winced, looking at the bee. "God, I-I'm so lonely, you were right, really, just let me bee by you, please-"

"Of course, I know exactly what you're going through, just take a seat.I'll go get someone." The man took a seat in a chair by the counter, head in hands. He had been so prepared, so cautious, and now it had all gone to waste. The planning, the work, all of it was useless. But part of him accepted that, the feeling spreading. Eventually, he calmed down, only one thought in his head.

How bad could this be?

The bees sat around a dinner table, buzzing a prayer before eating. The same bee who ran Hanson's looked around, seeing all the faces. It was good, he thought, to see his friends and family. And seeing the new face, the one who had just finished his change a month or two ago, was wonderful. Really, the bee thought, he was glad that Monthly had finally gotten that chance to come to dinner.

Glancing outside, he thought. It would be a good day to check on the crops. Winter was finally letting up, and spring seeped through the snowy hills. He was excited. He could tell, it was going to be a beautiful spring this year.

As the bees ate, their buzz resonated with the others in the hive, and the collective buzz there resonated with the next hive over, and so on and so forth, until the entire world buzzed in harmony. The world finally seemed to be at peace, no wars, no death, just a plan to work towards the greater good.

Drawing of SCP-XXXX-A, created by Junior Researcher Abrams after a routine expedition into SCP-XXXX.

Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Site-XXXX has been constructed around SCP-XXXX, with the purpose of studying organisms and objects originating from SCP-XXXX. It is to be monitored by at least 4 guards at any time.

As of ██/██/99, expeditions into SCP-XXXX are prohibited.

Description: SCP-XXXX is an extradimensional location, accessible by way of a free standing door, located at ██████, Massachusetts. The interior of SCP-XXXX appears to be a large church, built in the style of 14th century Gothic architecture. SCP-XXXX's physical size is unknown, and is theorized by some to be infinite. The farthest expedition into SCP-XXXX reached a distance of 10 miles before turning back for supplies. Coating the walls and floors of SCP-XXXX is a organic substance is a red organic substance. Analysis has revealed a 48% match with human DNA, with unidentified DNA forming the bulk of the genetic sample. Currently, there are no known entrances or exits to SCP-XXXX besides the one in Foundation custody.

All electronics will fail in SCP-XXXX, resulting in a reliance on pen and paper for research purposes. This has created an unreliable basis for the Foundation's current knowledge of the anomaly.

SCP-XXXX-1 refers to the inhabitants of SCP-XXXX. SCP-XXXX-1 instances are reported to range from five to seven feet tall, with variation in body mass common. The heads of SCP-XXXX-1 are similar to several common flower species¹, with a yellow optical organ in the middle. The "petals" of SCP-XXXX-1 contain two sets of teeth, which can range from 15 to 35. SCP-XXXX-1's skin coloration ranges from dark red to purple, with the texture being described as leathery. All SCP-XXXX-1 instances have been seen wearing brown robes, similar to certain religious orders on Earth.

SCP-XXXX-1 are generally polite and are willing to communicate with research teams, which has benefited the Foundation's knowledge of SCP-XXXX greatly. SCP-XXXX-1 instances all follow the same religion, which has been identified as "The Order of Cernunnos." According to interviews, the following tenets form the basis of the religion.

"Cernunnos" is a potential Class-Ω Theological Entity who was directly responsible for the creation of SCP-XXXX
Currently, the entity is in a "great slumber", following the removal of "infinite flesh", which resulted in the creation of SCP-XXXX
Because of this, SCP-XXXX-1 have a culture and religion based on fair and equal sharing, i.e, company for food, or help for shelter.

SCP-XXXX-1 have stated that other "travelers" have arrived before in SCP-XXXX. However, no evidence of previous non SCP-XXXX-1 has been found.

Interview - 9/16/97
Interview was taken by Junior Researcher Howell on a routine expedition into SCP-XXXX. Conducted with an SCP-XXXX-1 (designated SCP-XXXX-1A) instance who was currently tending to crops. Originally, it was written as a journal entry and converted into it's current format after Howell's return.

SCP-XXXX-1A: Oh, hello there traveler. Are you well?
Howell: Good, thank you. And you?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Tired, weary. My hands feel as if they slip off the bone they reside on.
Howell: How long have you been out here?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Since first ringing, in the early morn.
Note: Time is kept in SCP-XXXX by periodic ringing of bells across the anomaly. Currently, no source has been located. In this instance, first ringing is equivalent to early morning.
Howell: Crouches next to the crops, glancing at SCP-XXXX-1A instance. Do you mind if I take a sample?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Not at all traveler, go ahead. We share, like Cernunnos shared his flesh to make us. May I ask what you plan?
Howell: He crouches down and takes a larger specimen, placing it in a biological evidence bag. Specimen is a large fruit, with leathery texture and dark red coloration. Just had to take a sample for research. Can I ask what it is?
Note: SCP-XXXX contains multiple species of plantlife, which are a food source for SCP-XXXX-1 instances. However, no livestock have been seen at this time.
SCP-XXXX-1A: Lord's Heart. Care to try?
Howell: Lord's Heart? You mean like Cernunnos?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Yes, exactly. Flesh is given and shared here, all is shared. That fruit represents that, it is the dead, the living, bundled together in simple cellulose and starch. It is Cernunnos, like all of this is. It gestures to the organic coating which lines the walls.
Howell: The bells ring for the third time, marking noon. Guess that's my leave, I need to take this and catch up with my boss. Thank you, hopefully we can see again?
SCP-XXXX-1A: If the bells are favorable. Safe travels, traveler.

Incident Log XXXX-1 █/██/99
D-8892 had been assigned to janitorial duty in Site-XXXX. On █/██/99, at 13:23, D-8892 attacked two junior researchers and entered SCP-XXXX, in an apparent escape attempt. Security Team 1 mobilized and entered SCP-XXXX approximately 45 minutes later. The following is compiled from Security Team 1's accounts.

13:23 - D-8892 enters SCP-XXXX
14:08 - Security Team 1 enters SCP-XXXX. Surrounding the entrance on SCP-XXXX's side is a swarm of SCP-XXXX-A. Security Team 1 pushes through the crowd into the center.
14:12 - The crowd is surrounding D-8892, who has been cocooned to the ground by the organic substance present in SCP-XXXX. By him is a SCP-XXXX-1 instance, apparently killed. D-8892 is screaming in pain.
14:14 - Security Team 1 debates among themselves if they should free D-8892. At the same time, SCP-XXXX-1 instances have started to vocalize, chanting. D-8892 has ceased screaming.
14:15 - Security Team 1 turns to see D-8892 being pulled into the ground. It appears as if he is dissolving.
14:16 - The assembled SCP-XXXX-1 instances move in and surround the encased D-8892, ignoring Security Team 1. They continue to chant, and Security Team 1 reports a bright light filling the area.
14:46 - Security Team 1 wakes up, having lost consciousness. The body of D-8892 is nearby, [EXPUNGED]. Security Team 1 exits SCP-XXXX.

Two months later, on █/██/██, a research team received fruit from an SCP-XXXX-1 instance, harvested in the same area as Incident-XXXX-1. Upon return to the lab, analysis showed a 55% genetic match to human DNA. Further breakdown showed that 34% matched blood samples taken from D-8892.

Sketch of an SCP-XXXX-1 instance, created by Junior Researcher Howel after a routine expedition into SCP-XXXX.

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: Research Site-XXXX has been constructed around SCP-XXXX, with the purpose of objects and organisms that originate from the anomaly. It is to be assigned a standard Foundation Security Team in regards to security and on-site safety.

Description: SCP-XXXX is an extra-dimensional location accessible by way of a free standing door, located at ██████, France.

The interior of SCP-XXXX appears to be a cathedral, built in the Gothic style of architecture common in 15th century Europe. SCP-XXXX's physical size is assumed to be infinite, with the farthest expedition into SCP-XXXX reaching a distance of 16 km before having turning back for supplies. Rooms within SCP-XXXX are varied - while the bulk of the anomaly appears to be hallways and naves, expeditions have discovered specialized rooms within SCP-XXXX that seem to be primarily used for the growing of crops and as sleeping quarters. Coating the walls and floors of SCP-XXXX is a organic substance that is red in coloration. Analysis has revealed a 48% match with human DNA, with unidentified DNA forming the bulk of the genetic sample. Currently, there are no known entrances or exits to SCP-XXXX besides the one in Foundation custody.

As of the time of writing, all known electronic devices fail to work within SCP-XXXX. This has led to a reliance on pen and paper for the recording of interviews and information gathering, and has led to a less then accurate knowledge base of the anomaly.

SCP-XXXX-1 refers to the inhabitants of SCP-XXXX. SCP-XXXX-1 instances have been reported to range from five to seven feet tall, with variation in body shape and mass common. The heads of SCP-XXXX-1 are similar to several common flower species², with a yellow optical organ in the middle. The "petals" of SCP-XXXX-1 contain two sets of teeth, which can range from 5 to 10 cm. SCP-XXXX-1's skin coloration ranges from dark red to purple, with the texture having been described as similar to leather. All SCP-XXXX-1 instances have been seen wearing brown robes, similar to certain religious orders on Earth. SCP-XXXX-1 have been polite and willing to communicate with research teams, which has benefited research into SCP-XXXX greatly.

SCP-XXXX-1 society is similar to that of a monastery lifestyle common in the Middle Ages, appearing to be self sufficient with no need to leave SCP-XXXX for supplies. Substance wise, SCP-XXXX-1 members appear to feed on a variety of fruit and other vegetation grown on the same organic substance that covers SCP-XXXX. SCP-XXXX-1 instances all follow the same religion, which has been identified as "The Order of the Flowering Soldier." According to interviews, the following tenets form the basis of the religion.

"The Flowering Soldier" is a potential Class-Ω Theological Entity who was directly responsible for the creation of SCP-XXXX
Currently, the entity is in a "great slumber", following the removal of "infinite flesh", which resulted in the creation of SCP-XXXX
Because of this, SCP-XXXX-1 have both a culture and religion based on fair and equal sharing, i.e, company for food, or help for shelter.

SCP-XXXX-1 have stated that other "travelers" have arrived before in SCP-XXXX. However, no other organisms have been found within SCP-XXXX other than SCP-XXXX-1. Despite this, SCP-XXXX-1 have shown researchers artifacts given to them by other individuals who have entered SCP-XXXX. Most of these artifacts range in age from the 10th to the 18th centuries, and are typically weapons or battle standards that seem to have been recovered by SCP-XXXX-1 instances.

Addendum:

Interview - 9/16/97

This interview was conducted by Junior Researcher Howell on a routine expedition into SCP-XXXX with a SCP-XXXX-1 (designated SCP-XXXX-1A) instance who was tending to crops at the time.

SCP-XXXX-1A: Why hello there traveler, are you well?
Howell: I'm doing well, thank you. How are you?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Tired and weary. My hands feel as if they slip off the bone they reside on.
Howell: How long have you been out here?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Since first ringing.
Note: Time is kept in SCP-XXXX by periodic ringing of bells across the anomaly. Currently, no source has been located. In this instance, first ringing is equivalent to early morning.
Howell: Crouches next to the crops Do you mind if I take a sample?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Not at all traveler. We share our fruit like the Flowering Soldier shared to create all of this. May I ask what you plan to do with it?
Howell: Crouches down and takes a larger specimen, placing it in a biological evidence bag. Specimen is a large fruit, with leathery texture and dark red coloration. Just wanted to take a sample for research. Can I ask what it is?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Lord's Heart. Care to try?
Howell: Lord's Heart? You mean like the Flowering Soldier?
SCP-XXXX-1A: Yes, exactly. Flesh is given and taken here, all is shared. That fruit represents that, it is the dead, the living, bundled together in simple cellulose and starch. It is the Soldier, like all of this is. It gestures to the organic coating which lines the walls.
Howell: The bells ring for the third time, marking noon. Guess that's my leave, I need to take this and catch up with my boss. Thank you for this. Hopefully we can see again?
SCP-XXXX-1A: If the bells are favorable. Safe journeys, traveler.

Incident Log XXXX-1 █/██/99

D-8892 had been assigned to janitorial duty in Site-XXXX. On █/██/99, at 14:00, D-8892 attacked two junior researchers and entered SCP-XXXX, in an apparent escape attempt. The onsite security team mobilized and entered SCP-XXXX approximately 8 minutes later. The following is compiled from the security team's accounts.

14:00 - D-8892 enters SCP-XXXX
14:08 - The team enters SCP-XXXX. Surrounding the entrance on SCP-XXXX's side is a swarm of SCP-XXXX-A. The team pushes through the crowd towards the center.
14:12 - The crowd is surrounding D-8892, who has been cocooned to the ground by the organic substance present in SCP-XXXX. By him is a SCP-XXXX-1 instance, deceased. D-8892 is unresponsive.
14:14 -Members of the security team debate among themselves if they should free D-8892. At the same time, SCP-XXXX-1 instances have started to vocalize, chanting. D-8892 is still unresponsive.
14:15 - Team members turn to see D-8892 being pulled into the ground, appearing as if he is dissolving.
14:16 - The assembled SCP-XXXX-1 instances move in and surround the encased D-8892, ignoring the security team .They continue to chant, and members of the security team report a bright light filling the area.
14:46 - Security team members wake up, having lost consciousness. The body of D-8892 is nearby, [EXPUNGED]. Inside the chest cavity of D-8892's corpse is a newly blooming flower, identical to the head of a SCP-XXXX-1 instance. The team then exits SCP-XXXX.

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