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Item #: SCP-X
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: As of now, SCP-X is uncontained; its position and behavior(s) are to be closely monitored via Satellite at site ██████. All personal monitoring SCP-X are to submit to psychological evaluation after each shift. MTF “Clock’s Hand“ and four D-Class are to maintain a distance of no less than 804.672 meters from the entity at all times. Any newly discovered instances of SCP-XB are to be captured and housed at site █████ for further study.
See incident log “SCP-XB Alpha” for additional information.
Description: SCP-X appears to be a female humanoid of varying look, age and size, ranging in appearance from a prepubescent adolescent to an elderly senior citizen, due to its nature. Her personality is largely dependent on her exhibited age and appearance. For instance, if SCP-X appears to be a little girl, she will be generally kind hearted, curios and extremely helpful; with a light case of haphephobia. However, if SCP-X takes on the form of an elderly woman, she will begin to become conniving, manipulative, sadistic and increasingly predatory; she will also begin to exhibit signs of telepathy and will use this power to her advantage.
When SCP-X touches something inanimate or deceased, it may start to become “new” again; this process is usually accompanied by the “youth” being siphoned away from matter in close proximity to SCP-X, the range of this decaying effect increasing depending on the amount of restoration needed to convert the object in question to a state of pristine condition, or to its optimal state of existence. If SCP-X touches something new, or someone healthy, the youth is directly transferred into her, over time. If a healthy person is exposed to SCP-X’s touch for an extended amount of time, or too often during █████████, they will begin to degrade into a black viscous substance with acidic properties; this parasitic “feeding” behavior most notably being observed to take place when the subject is in its elderly form. SCP-X will also assume some of the physical properties of her victims in the form of DNA.
If SCP-X is in its adolescent form and it touches a person that is sick or injured, they will begin to heal and SCP-X may lose some of her own youth, respectively. People around SCP-X have the urge to hug, nurture, or engage in coitus with the entity, depending on it’s perceived age or form; this psychological effect varies based on █████████. SCP-X also has a cognitohazardous effect, in which case, any persons viewing her, or any imagery of her, may start to feel a sense of familiarity with the entity; regardless if they have ever laid eyes upon SCP-X before, or not.
SCP-X has no need for food, in the traditional sense, due to it’s nature. Instead, relying on consuming the black viscous substance created from “youth draining” living beings for its assumed nutritional needs. Natural foods sources introduced to the subject begin to regenerate over time, once skin contact is made, often rendering the food items inedible. If SCP-X touches a human corpse for long enough, the body will begin to [DATA EXPUNGED] and [DATA EXPUNGED] while SCP-X begins to age and the surrounding area and reality rapidly deteriorate around her. Corpses reanimated by SCP-X are refereed to as instances of SCP-XB.
Instances of SCP-XB aren’t alive or dead, instead left somewhere in between and are extremely dangerous. Instances of SCP-XB [Paragraph of redacted information]. ██████████
If anymore instances of SCP-XB are created, the O5 council and the highest levels local government are to be notified immediately.
Addendum: Recovered Journal
*Lawrence's journal:(Set in 1914, France during WWI)
Insert Date/Time (Morning Entry)
I don’t have nightmares, in the sense of traditional horror. If I were to tell you about some of my ‘bad’ dreams, you would think that I’m describing something pleasant; like spending a day with someone you love, for instance. A best friend, a beautiful setting, the fabrics of a wonderful dream… But in reality, it’s just a stark reminder of something that may never happen again. A fiction—a lie… Sweet and poisonous thoughts from a selfish subconscious, pulled from the darkest depths of one’s own scared heart.
I had a dream about Amélie, last night. It took place in my grandparents house, in Rochefort-en-Terre; a place that gave me a feeling of safety and comfort that I have yet to duplicate. We had finally made up. Her lips were dry and chapped when she kissed me, but it was still one of the softest kisses I could ever hope to feel. A rush of relief and happiness washed over me like a gentle wave of warm water. Images and feelings of intimacy flashed before my eyes… and all of a sudden we were just laying laying there, fully clothed, as if nothing physical had ever happened at all. And yet, we lie there… for hours, silently in the dreamscape—fully content with nothing but the nourishment of each other’s company.
Sigh… now all I can think about is how she died—and how I’ll never get the chance to tell her ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I love you’ ever again…
Insert Date/Time (Night Entry)
Another gloomy day… rain drowned the earth until nothing but mud and cold steam in the form of mist blanketed the town entirely. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of France was getting wet. Even the strong horses had a hard time muddling through the former dirt roads that had turned into miniature raging rivers of liquid soil and manure. I can’t complain too much, though—with the rain, comes water. And with those damn German pigs taking everything away from us, I made sure to collect as much clean water as I could, never know when the sky will see fit to grant us mercy again… because god seems to be running low on that now of days… if there even is a god.
I went by Paul’s shop today, I was hoping to get some fresh baguettes since all the black bread I’ve been eating lately tastes of stone and old rye. He had a way of baking grain that would make the wheat itself blush, if it were to be aware of its delicious fate. The German pigs were congregating outside of the shop, spewing rumors of an old woman that wonders around no man’s land, in between trenches, on the front lines. They speak of ghosts and ghouls out on the battlefield, but they are the true monsters. The nonsense these pigs talk about… I wish they would all just die.
The Shop was a complete mess, ransacked by the German pigs. I wasn't really surprised though. That’s what they do, steal and give you meaningless I.O.U.s while saying things like “you’ll be payed back after we win the war.” Like they’ll ever be able repay us for the things they took… we all know it’s a lie anyway.
Even though the shop looked like crap, Paul still greeted me with a warm smile; a nice contrast from the gloom outside. The place also smelled really good, too—heavenly really. A fresh loaf was baking in the oven while some good rooster meat slow cooked in a fine French red wine. He offered to share some with me, free of charge. He made me keep my burlap sack of items to myself and told me he didn’t need anything. So, I took off my muddy boots and slipped a few centimes into a place where I knew he could easily find them later.
As we sat there eating like kings of poverty by the fire of the oven, he told me about a plan to loot the neighboring village for supplies. He mentioned a cash of canned goods buried deep under a farmhouse. We could both really use the extra bits of food, I was tired of eating nothing but black bread for the past few weeks. And, Paul was a genius in the kitchen—roster usually has the consistency of yarn and violin strings, but this was tender, flavorful and juicy. Just imagine what he could do with those canned goods…
We’ll leave tomorrow at dusk, under the cover of the night sky, with the stars as our camouflage. Those stupid German soldiers always seem to get too drunk to notice anything at sun down, gorging themselves on pilfered wines. I hope nothing bad happens…
Insert Date/Time (Morning Entry)
Sometimes, I’m awoken by rifle fire in the middle of the night. I jump out of bed in a stupor, instinctively seeking safety, my mind still completely unaware of my body’s actions. The anxiety being akin to a German cannon ball being fired directly into my chest—the force of which becoming intertwined with the very fabrics of my soul… unable to pass through. Trapped within my heart and in my blood. Assaulting anything that could possibly form into a coherent line of thought in the process. And in these moments—I know what hell tastes like.
It rained all day, yesterday. And I saw it was still raining, when I finally gathered up the courage to look outside my window, before leaving my house to smoke a stale cigarette. It was a gentle rain now, like the sky was crying for my homeland. The wind carried a crisp chill on its back, along with the laughter and prattle of drunk German soldiers. I hate them.
I don’t think I’ll need any coffee this morning, even as I write this, my hands are still slightly trembling. I’ll pretend Paul’s leftover bread is a soft and buttery croissant, while I dip it in today’s rainwater. Even though it’s more of a brick than a baguette now, it’s still not bad. Hopefully, later today, I can get a proper Frenchmen’s lunch; at least two courses. I’ll need it for tonight.*
Adding More Journal Entries Soon
Interviewed: [The person, persons, or SCP being interviewed]> >
Interviewer: [Interviewer, can be blocked out using █]> >
Foreword: [Small passage describing the interview]> >
<Begin Log, [optional time info]>> >
Interviewer: [speech]> >
Person: [speech]> > [Repeat as necessary]> >
<End Log, [optional time info]>> >
Closing Statement: [Small summary and passage on what transpired afterward]
Note: When inserting block quotes with the > symbol, make sure you add a space after each > you use— otherwise your text won't show up.
