A photograph of SCP-XXXX taken in the late 19th century. A figure, believed to be SCP-XXXX-1-A, can be seen in the doorway.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: The complex surrounding SCP-XXXX is to be closed to the public on the sixth of the month for maintenance. A long-term surveillance drone has been deployed into SCP-XXXX-1 to monitor the situation, and elements of MTF Epsilon-9 ("Fire Eaters") will be deployed if a breach appears imminent.
Description: SCP-XXXX is the chapel of the Alamo Mission in San Antonio, Texas. Between 6:30 and 9 AM on the sixth of the month, any subject present in SCP-XXXX is transported to a dimension referred to as SCP-XXXX-1. This dimension matches historical records of the Alamo Mission shortly after the final assault, with the chapel roof missing and the doors to the barracks destroyed by cannon fire. Thousands of tally marks have been carved into the exterior walls of the chapel. The terrain outside the complex is flat with no landmarks within sight.
Currently, twenty-two humans inhabit SCP-XXXX-1. Seven are Texian soldiers matching records of defenders of the Alamo while the rest are Mexican soldiers or missing persons from the city of San Antonio. The leader has worked with Foundation personnel to maintain containment and has been designated SCP-XXXX-1-A.
SCP-XXXX-1-A has reported nightly attacks by humanoids, designated SCP-XXXX, and has described them as pale men with skin stretched taut over their bodies. These humanoids move quickly on four elongated legs and can scale the ten foot compound wall with ease. SCP-XXXX-2 instances are resistant to conventional weaponry, but are incinerated in seconds if set alight. This process leaves no remains except ash, precluding an autopsy.
The supplies stored in SCP-XXXX-1 are restocked every morning, including black powder and oil. The inhabitants use these supplies to set traps baited with livestock or horses. This tactic is effective, but SCP-XXXX-1-A has noticed an upward trend in SCP-XXXX-2 numbers; recent attacks consist of seven or eight instances at once. SCP-XXXX-1-A estimates that the supplies in the complex can reliably defeat nine instances. Action may be necessary if this trend continues.
SCP-XXXX came to the Foundation's attention in 1982 after multiple transients went missing within an hours walk of the mission. A Class-D sent into SCP-XXXX-1 returned two hours later with a copy of the Bible and a note from SCP-XXXX-1-A. Currently, SCP-XXXX-1-A is cooperating with the Foundation to combat SCP-XXXX-2 and prevent the inhabitants of SCP-XXXX-1 from leaving.
SCP-XXXX-1-A is an unknown entity imitating Captain Almaron Dickinson, the artillery officer at the Alamo. It has claimed that his wife Susanna Dickinson and daughter Angelina were brought to SCP-XXXX-1 and taken by SCP-XXXX-2 instances. Records indicate that both survived the battle, and their remains, located 128 km away in Austin, seem to confirm this. Almaron Dickinson's body was exhumed for examination and no anomalous properties were noted. The skull was missing.
D-1871, a Class-D subject with no knowledge of the Alamo's history, was sent into SCP-XXXX-1. D-1871 reported a deep sense of dread when interacting with the inhabitants and stated that she could see them "flickering" in her peripheral vision. When asked to elaborate, D-1871 stated that the Texian soldiers wore uniforms that changed hues and the color of their eyes and hair changed every time she looked away. The non-Texian inhabitants did not share this effect.
D-1871 spent one hour counting tally marks on the chapel walls before SCP-XXXX-1-A approached. It confirmed that the tally marks represented days, and only smiled when questioned as to why there were only around 40,000 marks. It gave D-1871 a rosary it claimed to have found inside of a SCP-XXXX-2 instance and told her to leave immediately.
The motives and anomalous effects of the entities residing in SCP-XXXX-1 are unknown. Drone surveillance has proven the information provided on SCP-XXXX-2 to be correct, and that the instances are hostile to SCP-XXXX-1-A.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be contained in a standard containment cell with an exterior lead lining. It is to be fully submerged in a bath of sulfuric acid at all times. A guard armed with a caustic sprayer will monitor the cell and subdue SCP-XXXX if it manages to leave the bath.
SCP-XXXX will be given ten kilograms of organic matter once a week, including soil samples sourced at least twenty km away from the previous sample. SCP-XXXX will be allowed to leave its bath and interact with the biomatter. If it exhibits any behavior besides dormancy or inspection of the matter, it will be immediately recontained in its bath. See Incident Report IXXXX-B.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a colony of nanites weighing 84.6 kilograms. It is currently in the shape of a young man of European descent in his early twenties. During initial retrieval, SCP-XXXX lifted 1800 kilogram weights with ease and survived concentrated rifle fire. SCP-XXXX appears to have a defense system that slows or stops projectiles before impact. Testing has shown this system does not stop projectiles larger than a 20 millimeter cannon shell.
SCP-XXXX has not been observed to move faster than 8 km per hour. SCP-XXXX does not eat and does not require light to produce energy. It is currently believed to be powered by an advanced radioisotope power generator located inside its chest cavity.
SCP-XXXX has an eye-like port centered in its forehead. This port holds a device used to scan organic matter. It is currently unknown what information is gathered by this process. Occasionally, SCP-XXXX will use a number of instruments hidden in its chest cavity to carry out a closer inspection of organic matter, including dissections. The largest of these instruments is a proboscis approximately 0.8 meters long.
Testing has shown that temperatures above 1000 Kelvin will disable SCP-XXXX. While acids only incapacitate SCP-XXXX, initial retrieval reports suggest that high temperatures do serious if repairable damage. Mobile Task Force Epsilon-9 ("Fire Eaters") has prepared a termination plan if deemed necessary.
SCP-XXXX does not appear to be sentient. Although it has vocalized in English SCP-XXXX does not react to spoken or written language. It appears to recognize existential threats, but said threats do not seem to provoke any arousal or fear. Although the nanites that compose SCP-XXXX are self-replicating, it only replaces destroyed nanites, and its total mass never surpasses 84.6 kilograms.
Addendum XXXX-A:
Note from Dr. Jamin: I heard some youngbloods are getting assigned to help test the thing. I'm attaching the initial retrieval report; should be a good baseline.
SCP-XXXX was first spotted at the (REDACTED) summer camp in the Sierra Nevada range during a staff versus campers softball game. It entered the campers dugout during the third inning, killing three players. The entity then approached the catcher and dissected him over the course of three minutes. Afterwards, SCP-XXXX approached a nearby utility shed that hid a number of young campers and a senior counselor assaulted SCP-XXXX with a baseball bat. Witnesses reported that SCP-XXXX ignored the strike, lifting the counselor into the air and extending a proboscis to his left temple. The counselor would wake in the hospital two days later in a fugue state; as of this report, he has not recovered his memory.
Around this time, local law enforcement arrived at the camp. Two officers engaged SCP-XXXX with rifle and pistol fire. SCP-XXXX became dormant for eleven seconds, before turning and walking into the woods. The officers chose not to pursue. Shortly thereafter, retrieval team Romeo 9-A, commanded by Captain (REDACTED), arrived and began tracking SCP-XXXX. Trackers estimated that the target was moving at a steady pace of eight km per hour. Romeo 9-A located the object ninety minutes after its first appearance, neutralized at the bottom of a fire lookout tower.
The lookout informed Captain (REDACTED) that he had found SCP-XXXX ripping live wires out of the tower electrical box and confronted it with a flare gun. When SCP-XXXX unfolded its proboscis and tried to grab the lookout, he fired. The 26.5 millimeter flare lodged in its right cheek and burned for fifteen seconds, destroying approximately one-third of its head. Romeo 9-A restrained the entity and attempted to move it to the nearest containment facility.
Ten minutes before arrival, SCP-XXXX reanimated and attempted to escape. It took thirty seconds for the entity to break its restraints; during this time an agent managed to attach a thermite grenade to its leg. SCP-XXXX ripped open the side of the transport, gravely wounding the agent, and leapt clear of the vehicle. The grenade severed its left leg entirely, but the remaining nanites reattached and SCP-XXXX limped away at six km per hour. Romeo 9-A requested support from an element of MTF Epsilon-9 (“Fire Eaters”) and pursued.
After twenty minutes, SCP-XXXX reached a (REDACTED) electronics store. Romeo 9-A cleared the area of civilians while SCP-XXXX stripped six kilograms of aluminum and three kilograms of steel from cars in the parking lot. As it entered the store and began collecting rare earth elements from various electronics, Epsilon-9 arrived on scene and immediately moved to prevent possible out of control replication. SCP-XXXX was dormant when Epsilon-9 approached it and was contained without further incident. Captain (REDACTED) stated afterwards that during the six minutes SCP-XXXX was alone in the store, it had repaired most damage sustained to its head and leg.
Incident Report IXXXX-B
██/██/██, Site ██,
At 9:02 local time, the morning shift has taken over and Agent Mueller is monitoring the cameras in the SCP-XXXX chamber.
9:08, Dr. Jamin arrives bearing two cups of coffee. He gives one to Mueller and starts to lay out the day’s testing plan.
9:17, Dr. Jamin is collecting his earnings from a number of wagers. Across the facility, multiple containment breaches occur. The lights flicker and the two men exchange concerned looks.
9:21, the facility begins its lockdown procedure. Agent Mueller confirms that the entrance to SCP-XXXX’s cell is secure, and notes that the exit to the control room is locked.
9:32, Mueller loses the chamber camera feed. He orders Jamin to stand at the entrance with the sprayer, while he observes the chamber from the observation window.
9:38, SCP-XXXX leaves its acid bath and begins wandering around the cell. Mueller informs Jamin of the current situation and checks his sidearm.
9:44, SCP-XXXX moves into a blind-spot under the observation window and begins to vocalize. Analysis by Foundation linguists indicates that the vocalizations are recorded greetings in English, German, Latin, Aramaic, and five other languages. Three of the unidentified greetings cannot be replicated by human vocal cords.
9:49, Both men are covering their ears and appear to be in pain. Jamin convinces Mueller to open the door and re-contain SCP-XXXX so the vocalizations will stop.
9:50, Mueller enters the cell, handgun drawn. He spots SCP-XXXX and fires twice with no effect. SCP-XXXX disarms him and tosses him aside. Jamin retreats towards the control room, pursued by the entity. He manages to bathe its left arm in acid, neutralizing it.
9:52, Jamin runs out of space to retreat in the control room, and SCP-XXXX grabs him with its right arm, holding him in the air. It extends a proboscis to his left temple.
9:54, SCP-XXXX drops Jamin onto the floor and becomes dormant. Jamin is unconscious.
10:35, Site security enter the containment area. SCP-XXXX vocalizes upon seeing them, but does not move or resist re-containment. Jamin and Mueller are evacuated.
When Dr. Jamin recovered from his comatose state two days later, he requested a notepad and Class-B amnestics, writing continuously until they were administered. Three pages of shorthand notes were completed. According to these notes, SCP-XXXX's proboscis is an information transfer device that transferred an overwhelming quantity of thoughts and images directly into Dr. Jamin's memory. The transfer process was painless, but the information itself was "disturbing and damaging." Dr. Jamin regrets that he did not elaborate further.
Researchers are attempting to find a pattern connecting SCP-XXXX's information transfer victims. Upon returning to work, Dr. Jamin requested a procedural change to allow SCP-XXXX regular access to samples of organic matter. Since the change, attempted containment breaches have decreased by seventy percent.
Brushstrokes. Men can lie, men can conceal their true motives, but nobody can control their brushstrokes. The more rash, aggressive types blitz through with quick, aggressive strikes. Others, more calculating, carefully cross-hatch the entire strip. Only scoundrels and incompetents brush vertically. Short, horizontal strokes are necessary to make sure the booze seeps in.
David Anderson recited the monologue silently as he placed the tray of bourbon-brushed candied bacon in the oven. The short speech had become a tradition, ever since his family had moved to the small cottage. Part of him cackled; you weren't afraid to talk to yourself until you were alone, Davy. He wanted to strangle that part.
Of course, he wasn't alone, not entirely. The twenty pound pest nipping at his heels would probably live another decade at least. The Chihuahua mix neatly pressed her ears down the side of her head and gave master an unflinching look of adoration. He swept a piece of (regular) bacon off the counter for her. Eight years seemed more realistic. Davy applauded himself for remembering alcohol is toxic to dogs, and wondered if the St. Bernards ever had trouble with that.
Twenty five minutes later, Davy retreated to his office with the plate of decadent bacon. That was the nice thing about isolation; you could eat yourself to death, and nobody would know except the mailman. Axle curled up in her armchair, nose tucked in for warmth. In better weather she'd be running through the fields, burning off a night's sleep and an unhealthy breakfast, but the heavy snowfall was too daunting for the small adventurer. Davy crushed that line of thought before sentiment could take over. He had work to do.
The aging computer took a century and a half to boot. Davy donned his headset, launched a chat client, and jumped head-first into battle. Yesterday, Montreal Jay had reported hearing a series of explosions and left to check it out. He hadn't returned last night, and Davy's prayers for twenty-four hours of sanity had gone unanswered. He spent five minutes quietly lurking, preparing a damage report. The argument had three sides, none of them good.
The first was the paranoids, the main cause of the whole ruckus. They were terrified that Jay had been compromised in some way, and demanded that Davy remove him from the group before the Feds rounded everyone up and put them in gulags. It took almost an hour to shut them up. They refused to believe that, one, Jay had done nothing suspicious except actually investigate something, and two, none of their "fail-safes" and "contingencies" would protect them from a determined agency. He'd have to break that clique up somehow.
The other side of the actual argument were the casuals. They'd gotten quite vitriolic in their attacks, referring to the 'noids as cuckoos and worse. Davy couldn't disagree with their analysis, but it was damaging morale, and he put a stop to it almost immediately. They were a little pissed that the crazies tried to get one of their buddies kicked out, but they were mostly pretty rational (even if they never actually did any work.)
And of course, there was Alamo. The old man was in a weight-class all his own, throwing barbs at all sides. At the start, he'd been working on his own, telling the others to stop bothering him about some "damn Pepsi." Within minutes, he was asking if everyone in earshot "needed SPF 45 to leave the basement". Davy quietly muted him before he could fan the flames, informing him that he'd be un-muted once he swore he'd behave. The message came twenty minutes later, with only a single mention of "your taskmasters in the District," and the old-timer returned.
It was past ten in the morning when Davy finished work assignments. He'd been careful to blend the two sides together with the partner and group jobs; hopefully that'd prevent any future headaches. Alamo was off doing his own thing as always. Davy muted the voice chat, put some music on, and stretched for a second. His eyes caught the picture on the wall, and he took a deep breath. Babysitting the freaks might be draining, but it was his only chance of finding an answer. He couldn't stop now.
Davy dove back in, doing his own research when he wasn't putting out fires, and he found nothing but dead-ends. Every witness, every incident, just led to a dead-end or cover-ups. Something big was happening under the surface; summer campers went missing, populations dropped by hundreds or thousands with no explanation. People didn't just disappear, they ceased to exist. The others, even Alamo, thought it was the feds, but Davy had worked with feds back in the day. They weren't this good, they left tracks. He'd taken to calling it (whatever it was) the Organization, with a capital O. It felt suitably dramatic, suitably X-Files. Something awe-inspiring, something horrific.
Something he wasn't going to track down with a handful of nerds and a twelve gauge. Davy tossed and turned in his attic bed, unable to get to sleep. After half an hour of insomnia, he felt twenty pounds of pressure climb off his feet and hit the floor. He waited silently for three seconds, and then the scratching started.
"Oh, shut up, Ax, I'm coming. Stop scratching the door, it's an antique." The dog obediently sat, one paw resting on the door, and stared at Davy as he fumbled in the dark for the doorknob. The pup took off like a shot, while he stayed back and searched for a flashlight. So equipped, he headed for the stairs and froze. The lights were on downstairs.
This is how Ruby Ridge started, Davy mused. "Badass secret agents" stick their nose in someone else's business, dog goes for them, dog gets shot, everything goes to shit. He glanced at the shotgun leaning against the railing, but thought better of it. There were at least two or three men moving downstairs, and he didn't fancy his chances funneling himself down the stairs. Davy took four steps down, steeling himself, and spotted the first man.
Well, woman. She had a short chestnut ponytail and a Yankees cap, paired with sunglasses and a sub-machine gun slung over her vest. The "operator" look was completed by the puppy hooked on her left arm, totally at ease. Davy stopped three steps from the bottom of the stairs, surveying the terrain. A second agent was at his desk looking through his computer, and a third was flipping through the journals on his bookshelf. He was conscious of the woman's reaction; she could see his holster, she saw an armed man come down the stairs during a raid, and she didn't even blink. Why? She broke the silence before he could think it over.
"Axle, huh? Lemme guess, you brought him home and he tried to hide under the car instead of meeting the family?"
"Ax is female. Who the hell are you, and where is your warrant?"
The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, but she didn't alter her demeanor. She'd clearly been expecting some hostility; they were trashing his work-space, after all. "Could you come down here, Mr. Anderson, and take a seat in the living room? We'll be out of here in a few minutes, let you get some shut-eye."
"You didn't answer the question."
"I don't have to answer the question. I try my best to remain civil, Mr. Anderson, but my friends might take a different tack. You are armed." He couldn't read her through the glasses. She had at least maintained an illusion of friendliness, but the hint of a smile was gone from her face. Davy decided to do what she said, moving past her and into the living room. On cue, a fourth agent came through the front door, heading up the stairs.
"So, are you and your 'friends' from the Organization, miss?" Davy took a seat on the couch, looking into his office. The agent at the bookshelf casually pulled one bird-watching book out of a dozen, removing the listening device inside. These guys were good. Ponytail stayed in the living room doorway, ignoring the question entirely. Axle seemed blissfully unaware of the conflict, hovering through the house as the woman checked on the other agents.
After seven minutes of awkward silence, Blondie (the agent at the bookshelf, who resembled a certain man without a name) approached Ponytail, and the two conversed in hushed tones. Davy could just barely overhear the word "amnestic." Blondie went outside, and Davy waited a few moments before speaking. "Amnestic, huh? I'm not great at Greek, but I'd imagine that's some Men in Black memory-wiping crap."
The woman would finally snap, her kind demeanor breaking for one moment. "Would you just shut up? You've got a lot of slack, sitting there instead of being cuffed in the back of a van. Don't ruin it." Ponytail would close her eyes for a second, calming herself, and return to her detached state. Davy would cast about for some way to leave himself a message, but she was watching him carefully. Any attempt to move was met with a glare or barked command; a reach for a pen made her free hand inch towards a holster. Axle tried to slip away, but the woman only held her tighter.
Before he could come up with a plan, Blondie returned and gave Ponytail a quick nod. She relayed the nod to Davy. "Come with me, Mr. Anderson." He followed reluctantly, the dog's short tail beating furiously as she strained to see him. He considered running, but he could feel a carbine barrel only inches from his back. Blondie had decided to tag along.
It wasn't a long walk, but it felt like a mile. Ponytail pulled the door open with one hand, and gestured for Davy to climb inside. He mustered every ounce of courage in his body, a laser sight burning into his back, and spoke. "Where are they? It's not like I'll rememb-"
Davy had steadied himself for the blow, but it still knocked him flat. If he were ten years younger, he could've taken the rifle butt and not even flinched, but now he could feel the point of impact burning like wildfire. He took a few quick breaths, in, out, in, and rose back on his feet. Blondie looked deranged, screaming something in his face. Davy couldn't make out the words, but he got the message and climbed in.
Blondie turned to leave as Ponytail started to swing the van doors closed. Davy, his knees still shaking, put his hand on the second door to stop it and stared at the girl in front of him. After a few brief eternities, he spoke, just above a whisper. "Please. A pile-up would leave bodies. Where are my girls?"
The woman stared at him for a long time, unreadable behind her sunglasses. She glanced back at her partner and spoke quickly, spitting the words out in an instant. "They're dead. I'm sorry David." She slammed the door and turned the gas on. Davy could hear Axle barking outside. He didn't have time to decide if he wanted to remember. He didn't have time to cry.
The hangover hit as Davy entered the kitchen. It didn't take a detective of his caliber to figure out what happened; the ransacked liquor cabinet and empty bottles were plenty of evidence. He'd have to drive to the liquor store, and he hated driving. Something amazing must've happened to inspire the binge, but he couldn't remember a thing.
He filled a water bottle and grabbed a few dog bags, heading for the front door without even glancing at his office. The freaks could survive one day without him, and he needed this. Axle came skating in as he grabbed the leash and harness, obediently sitting and puffing up her chest. Davy reached down to buckle Axle up and froze.
Slowly reaching into his pocket, like he'd been stopped by a cop, Davy wrapped a bag over his hand and pulled the carbon-black hair out of the puppy's lily-white belly fur. He stared at the strange fiber for a few moments before reaching for his motorcycle gloves. They were similar material, although his gloves were more brown than black. Davy pursed his lips, lost in thought for a few seconds.
Then he looked at the dog, still waiting. He put the evidence bag aside and took her outside. It was a crisp snowy day, and for the first time in two years Sergeant David H. Anderson, Homicide Division, smiled.
An instance of SCP-XXXX-1 wearing the uniform of the 4th Army. Note the improvised mask.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Agents inside local government will divert infrastructure projects in the city sewers and inform the Rapid Response Team of any scheduled work. The above-ground entrance to SCP-XXXX is to be closed to the public and any trespassers are to be arrested by local police. Sensors will be placed at both entrances to SCP-XXXX as well as throughout the sewer system, and a Rapid Response Team will respond to any attempted entry.
Any personnel entering SCP-XXXX must speak fluent German and have the chorus to the German patriotic anthem "Die Wacht am Rhein" memorized. Class-D personnel may only enter SCP-XXXX through the above-ground entrance.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a system of bunkers concealed beneath Berlin, dating back to 1945. There are two entrances to the complex, an above-ground gazebo in the Tiergarten park and a portcullis in the northern Berlin sewers. These entrances are 8.9 kilometers apart but deposit human subjects less than 2 kilometers apart on opposite sides of SCP-XXXX. Inanimate objects, including corpses, are transported in direct contact with a human.
Subjects entering SCP-XXXX arrive in a large underground barracks containing military bunk beds and at least two instances of SCP-XXXX-1. These instances do not interact with humans unless provoked. Researchers have hypothesized that SCP-XXXX contains seven identical barracks that shift places, citing consistent personal effects that appear near the bunks every seven visits. Attempts to mark each barracks with outside materials to prove this theory have failed repeatedly.
SCP-XXXX-1 instances are semi-incorporeal constructs taking the shape of Imperial German soldiers from World War One. Approximately 65 percent of instances wear 1915 uniforms including pickelhauben, while the remainder wear 1918 uniforms. All SCP-XXXX-1 instances spotted to date have worn gas masks; 1915 instances wear improvised cloth masks while 1918 instances wear the G-17 mask. A Foundation historian has determined that the constructs all appear as soldiers of the German 4th Army.
If a subject speaks any language besides German inside SCP-XXXX, wandering instances will converge on them and attack. Recordings and writing do not prompt attacks. Targets who exit SCP-XXXX will be attacked on sight by upon their return. Subjects attacked by SCP-XXXX-1 instances have reported a smell of bleach in the air, similar to that of chlorine gas.
Outside the barracks, a sewer tunnel leads deeper into the complex to a guard post manned by four instances of SCP-XXXX-1. These instances will block any humans from passing who do not recite German nationalist poetry; "Die Wacht am Rhein" is the only work known to guarantee passage. The post is armed with one MG 08 machine gun, but it cannot be manned by corporeal humans and SCP-XXXX-1 instances have not been observed to fire it.
If SCP-XXXX was originally entered from the sewers, the room past the outpost will be a storeroom containing food, fresh water and various weaponry. This room currently holds forty-four forty-three Karabiner 98k rifles, six MP40 sub-machine guns, 114 111 M24 hand grenades and assorted ammunition. Following Incident XXXX-A, a mission has been planned to decommission the remaining weapons.
Subjects who entered from above-ground will instead encounter a fully stocked field hospital manned by two instances with red cross armbands. Any human who loses consciousness in SCP-XXXX (except in a bed, according to D-1871) will be abducted and taken to the field hospital. Treatment appears to be near instantaneous; test subjects have been sedated outside the field hospital and were fully treated when the research team entered. Observed treatments include amputation of broken limbs and replacement of damaged organs with metal facsimiles.
Continuing deeper into the complex from the storeroom or the hospital leads to a T-junction occupied by another outpost, manned by six SCP-XXXX-1 instances. These instances are hostile and can be neutralized without provoking others throughout the complex. This hallway leads to a final room, referred to as the "War Room."
The War Room is a large office space containing a map table, microphone, and broadcasting equipment. Commands spoken into the microphone will be broadcast through SCP-XXXX by a public address system. SCP-XXXX-1 instances will obey basic commands to move or stand at attention, but ignore any orders concerning humans in the complex. Instances do not follow orders to deactivate themselves or become dormant. Personnel are currently forbidden from using the microphone.
Max Brunner, the creator of SCP-XXXX, stated during an IRIS interview that the microphone was built to communicate with mundane troops taking shelter in the complex. However, Brunner also claimed that a certain string of words spoken into the microphone would release SCP-XXXX-1. He refused to elaborate what "release" meant in context before dying in captivity. Until more information can be gathered from Brunner's surviving compatriots, all testing with the microphone is to be suspended.
Addenda:
Interviewed: Max Brunner, Nazi occultist, head of the Brunner Ring, creator of Object 03023
Interviewer: Agent Roger Henderson, IRIS agent.
Foreword: Interview took place during the Berlin Airlift, when intelligence services were attempting to access Object 03023. Brunner's lack of co-operation was blamed for the loss of a six man team in 03023 one week earlier.
<Begin Log>
Henderson: Cigarette?
Brunner: Please.
Agent Henderson places a cigarette in Brunner's mouth, lighting it before withdrawing to his side of the table.
Henderson: Five men, one woman.
Brunner: Pardon?
Henderson: The team we sent in. Five men, one woman, all dead. You have something to say for yourself?
Brunner: I have told you many times, it is not safe. It isn't my fault you don't listen.
Henderson: 'Not safe?' You mean not safe for us. You and your gang were going to hide out down there forever, fight the good fight behind your army of monsters. But they left you, didn't they? Went west, took cushy job offers in Alabama, forgot your little cult ever existed.
Brunner: They picked their side. It's none of my concern now, is it?
The two men stare at each other for eleven seconds. Henderson shakes his head, rising back up on his feet and pacing. He gestures at Brunner with his cigarette as he speaks.
Henderson: Why the Great War? I've seen your record. Second Ypres, Iron Cross. Why won't you let your buddies rest?
Brunner smiles and stares blankly at Henderson. After eight seconds, the agent shakes his head and heads for the door. As he leaves, Brunner speaks.
Brunner: It's as your Hale says. 'My only regret is that I have but one life to lose for my country.'
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Agent Henderson has requested re-assignment to the rocketry program. Denied.
Foreword: Two days before Incident XXXX-A, test subject D-1871 escaped his handlers and disappeared in SCP-XXXX. A Rapid Response Team was inserted to terminate D-1871 and found no trace of the subject. Administrators decided to proceed with scheduled tests. Agent Birken's helmet camera captured the entire incident. Italicized dialogue is translated from German.
Footage: The team is moving in single-file on a walkway towards the field hospital. The outpost is approximately 40 meters ahead of them and SCP-XXXX-1 instances are turning to look at the team. Birken is in the rear, behind (in order) Senior Researcher Reynolds, D-1024, Junior Researcher Weis, and Senior Agent Hardt. Reynolds is an American guest researcher.
Hardt: Look alive, folks.
Reynolds: This place is disgusting. How do you work in the-
Two objects (later identified as M24 grenades) drop from the ceiling. Birken shouts a warning and throws Reynolds into the canal before diving in himself. Hardt jumps in, grunting in pain as shrapnel rips into the back of his vest. D-1205 and Weis are killed instantly. Birken and Hardt surface, then Reynolds. Reynolds attempts to climb back onto the walkway, and a shot rings out from a previously unknown passageway 25 meters away, striking Reynolds.
Birken and Hardt immediately return fire and a cry of pain can be heard. A second shot hits the tunnel ceiling as the passageway closes. Birken drags Reynolds onto the walkway and starts to dress his wounds while Hardt checks Weis for vital signs.
Hardt: She's dead, I'm calling for medical.
Reynolds: Oh, j-jesus christ.
The agents freeze, looking back the way they came. Two instances of SCP-XXXX-1 approach at a jog from the barracks. Birken turns back to Hardt, signalling "Engage." Hardt shakes his head. The two agents leap across to the other walkway and watch the instances approach. Reynolds goes limp as they close to ten meters. The instances grab the researcher and continue moving down the walkway.
Birken: Dear fatherland, put your mind at rest, dear fatherland, put your mind at rest.
The instances ignore the two men, passing through the outpost and into the field hospital. Birken watches the hospital door for a few moments before leaping across and picking up Weis. Hardt scans the tunnel walls rifle at the ready as they head to the exit. The two instances have returned to the barracks and watch closely as the agents approach the exit.
Hardt: Firm stands, and true, the Watch, the Watch at the Rhine…
The instances make no move to stop the agents and they exit SCP-XXXX.
Closing Statement: Eight days later, Senior Researcher Reynolds exited SCP-XXXX with a note from D-1871. It claimed to have ambushed the research team and expressed remorse at harming another Class-D. D-1871 offered to return to Foundation custody and assist with SCP-XXXX research in exchange for upgraded status. This offer has not been accepted, and any Class-D encountered within SCP-XXXX is to be assumed hostile.
A medical scan discovered that while treating Reynolds the medical instances replaced his right lung with an inefficient steel facsimile, significantly damaging his cardiovascular health and stamina.
Shortly after control of SCP-XXXX was transferred to the Foundation, a journal belonging to Max Brunner was discovered inside the War Room. Relevant excerpts have been included.
December 6, 1943
Project has been authorized. Testing facility in western Ukraine. Resources sufficient. Weber, Mayer, and Baumer warding site to contain subjects. Preparing to move facilities. First tests in three weeks.
January 19, 1944
Shot subjects sluggish, unresponsive. Gas appears to provide best subjects. Retain limited memory + full motor capacity, limited speech. Translator requested for further testing.
February 6, 1944
Ukrainian subjects are unusable; hostile to German troops, at least two guards dead. Considering other sources of subjects.
May 3, 1944
Bolsheviks inching closer, evacuated to Pomerania. Ukrainians still unusable, permission requested to test German dead. Denied, "defeatist." Eight subjects remaining.
June 7, 1944
Permission granted. Testing begins immediately.
July 4, 1944
Combat dead obedient but slow and damaged. Request permission to open war graves of 4th Army for gas victims. Facilities moved to Berlin. God help us.
August 20, 1944
Gas victims promising; obedient, aggressive, fast moving. Mental faculties are damaged, no form of speech. Believe I can fix. Ordered recovery of A. Company. Good soldiers.
November 9, 1944.
Isn't working, subjects remain non-verbal and unintelligent. Trouble at front in Poland; Army wants working prototypes. Sent Weber, Meyer and Baumer to handle it. I can fix them.
February 2, 1945.
Men are not co-operating. Weber theorizes too decayed to recover brain function: ludicrous. I will fix them. Preparing facility to hold out until project is complete.
April 16, 1945.
Bolsheviks have entered the city. The others have gone West, damn them. We were so close. I will try to escape, come back later and finish this. Deeply sorry.
The last page of the journal is an early 1915 photograph of two 4th Army soldiers. They have been identified as Lieutenant Brunner and Corporal Ernst Schneider of A. Company.
Photograph of SCP-XXXX's grave in Anzio, Italy.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be contained in a standard humanoid containment cell. SCP-XXXX has shown no intent to breach containment and can be re-contained by a single guard if an attempt is made.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a man of Persian descent, approximately 30 years old. It has been active for at least two millennia and lived in the British Isles for approximately 800 years before containment. SCP-XXXX is biologically immortal, and can survive extreme bodily trauma. It does not have an enhanced healing factor, and has refused to explain how it treated severe injuries in the past.
SCP-XXXX has indicated in interviews that it has spent most of its life fighting in various armies. Despite this, it shows little aptitude in melee or unarmed combat and has failed to pass a basic marksmanship test repeatedly.
Initial retrieval took place in 2003. Local police in Anzio, Italy excavated an unknown war grave after a caretaker reported strange sounds and discovered a partially decapitated head striking the side of the casket while its body remained inanimate. An agent within the department called for a retrieval team and SCP-XXXX was contained without incident.
SCP-XXXX suffers from severe memory issues. Researchers believe this is the non-anomalous result of storing thousands of years of memories in a human brain. Staff are encouraged to interview it and attempt to record memories, but should avoid casual discussion of entombment. SCP-XXXX claims to have been buried alive ██ times, for a total of ███ years spent underground.
SCP-XXXX suffers from vivid nightmares and general restlessness. It believes this to be a curse, but researchers theorize that these are merely symptoms of mundane post-traumatic stress. A proposal has been made to give SCP-XXXX access to a psychiatrist.
Addenda:
Interviewed: SCP-XXXX.
Interviewer: Eileen Richardson, psychiatrist.
Foreword: Initial psychiatric assessment. SCP-XXXX had reported worsening nightmares in recent weeks and refused to participate in a combat test.
<Begin Log>
Doctor Richardson enters the interrogation room. SCP-XXXX glances at her before fixing its gaze on the opposite wall. Richardson places a questionnaire in front of SCP-XXXX, introduces herself, and asks it to answer the questions. It ignores her.
Dr. Richardson. XXXX, I'm not the bad guy here. I just want to help, okay?
SCP-XXXX shifts its gaze to Richardson for a moment before nodding. The room is silent until SCP-XXXX finishes the form.
Dr. Richardson: Thank you. I've heard you've been having nightmares, could you tell me about them? You don't have to go into detail, we're only just getting started.
SCP-XXXX: Have you ever seen a cavalry charge?
Richardson shakes her head. SCP-XXXX rubs its eyes for a moment before speaking in a steady tone.
SCP-XXXX: The ground starts shaking when they're close, like a ship breaking up on the rocks. Your legs tremble, it takes everything you have to stay standing. They come so close you can count nose hairs, and then…
SCP-XXXX falls silent. Richardson begins to speak, only to be cut off.
SCP-XXXX: They stop, circle back around, and come at you again. Over and over, until you can't stand straight. The eighth time, the ninth time, you slouch, you let your shield hang down, and they don't stop. They crash through.
Dr. Richardson: I-Every night?
SCP-XXXX: Every night.
Dr. Richardson: I'm sorry. If you'll work with me, I think we can make some progress over the next few months. There are some wonderfully innovative treatments for post-traumatic stress today.
SCP-XXXX focuses its gaze on Richardson, and she fidgets nervously. It feigns a smile, but its eyes don't move.
SCP-XXXX: It's not shell-shock. I've seen how that breaks men. I'm just tired. I can't keep doing this forever.
Richardson does not argue the point, going over the questionnaire with SCP-XXXX instead. Ten minutes later, she leaves the room.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: SCP-XXXX stated that it would appreciate regular meetings with Dr. Richardson. Dr. Richardson believes treatment would gather useful information and lower the risk of an attempted breach.
During sessions with Dr. Richardson, SCP-XXXX mentioned recurring claustrophobic nightmares including entombment and gas attacks. She recommended exposure therapy.
Dr. Richardson was sealed into a coffin for five minutes as a modelling exercise. SCP-XXXX appeared distressed and tried to engage the guard present in conversation for the entire period. When advised of its agitated state, Richardson considered ending the session early but chose to continue the treatment plan.
SCP-XXXX was sealed in the coffin. Moments later it began kicking and banging on the sides, breaking multiple fingers. Dr. Richardson unsealed the coffin and was assaulted, sustaining a broken arm before the guard restrained SCP-XXXX.
Future psychiatric treatment has been cancelled. No valuable information has been obtained and treatment has only been detrimental to containment.
((note: in the actual article, this would be a subpage linked to as an incident report. in sandbox, have it in a collapsible for easy reading))
Bahadur had seen men torn to pieces by enemy fire, men tossed into the sky by enraged elephants. This was worse, much worse. Men and women laid out on tables or pinned to walls, skinned and butchered like animals. This was a hunter, not a soldier.
He'd made the second floor by the time he heard the slow footsteps trailing him through the stacks. The Persian took off at a dead sprint, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the information desk. The arcane array of pins and levers confused him, but he recovered quickly, charging his foe with a cry.
The sinister figure in orange spoke. Two words. Bahadur's knuckles grew white as he fought for control. His arms dropped to his side, fingers brushing the device in his pocket. Bahadur closed his eyes, visualizing the plastic clacker in his pocket. Just one more in-
The blade slipped cleanly through his throat. He couldn't breath, couldn't move. He was alone.
"Sun's high in the sky. It'll be a slaughter."
The sergeant was talking to himself again. The Wiltshire men didn't mind. They'd followed him through four years of war, from Dunkirk to Anzio. The humor - trapped on two beachheads on opposite sides of Europe - was lost to them.
He was standing at the entrance to the den, watching the horizon. Word had come up the beach that reinforcements were landing in the harbor, under the German guns. A shell splashed down a hundred yards away, tossing a geyser of mud into the air. They were bracketing the harbor. Finding their range.
A shrill cry broke the silence. The sergeant turned towards the sound, hitting the ground as a helmet sailed overhead. There was a deafening crack of steel on wood outside. The veteran coldly glared at the young man responsible,.
"I-I'm sorry, Sergeant. Taylor hid a rat in my-I didn't mean to hit you, I didn't mean it."
The sergeant tilted his head, continuing to stare through the horrified boy. The platoon fell silent. He nodded slowly, a hint of a grin crossing his face. The words were barely heard over the shells landing outside. "That helmet belongs to the British Army, Wilkins. Retrieve it. Now."
There was total silence. The young man looked to his comrades for help, but none came. The shells whistling over drowned out his footsteps. Two minutes passed before they heard his frantic return. He almost made it.
It was obvious that they weren't the target. The Germans wanted to land as many shells in the harbor as possible while thousands of green Americans were lingering in the open. That wasn't reassuring to the huddled men as the seismic shell impact threw them about. A corporal jumped to his feet and ran for the exit, but the sergeant stopped him with an outstretched arm. "He'll make it. He's strong."
On cue, the terrified private rolled into the hobbit hole. Both his hands were firmly clasped on the helmet, welding it to his scalp. A cheer went up as he shakily returned to his chair.
"Not bad, lad. We'll make a man of you yet."
The guns had been going for two days without rest. The men in the mud couldn't sleep, they could barely think. The hobbit-hole was built to hold a dozen men for a week or two. Now it held twice that. Six soldiers, displaced by the new arrivals, were forced to camp with the Wiltshires. They disliked the men and despised the sergeant.
The young private had gone quiet. His ounce of earned respect had vanished within a few months, and he'd returned to his job as platoon whipping boy. The outsiders saw him as a potential ally, but the Wiltshires wouldn't leave him alone, not even for a moment. The boy had withdrawn into a world of his own.
In the early hours of the morning, May 2, the rain stopped. The Wilts slept eagerly through the lull, packed like sardines. Only one man, a dark-skinned corporal, saw Wilkins pick his way out of the hole. He followed the young man to the downed tree. They sat and spoke quietly, facing away from their prison.
The fire began again, rolling up the beach. One soldier said that he was going to stay in the fresh air for a while. The other quietly handed him a canteen. They drank and disappeared into a cloud of steel.
Incident XXXX-D: SCP-668 breached containment in the possession of subject D-9041. He assaulted the site archives, killing three researchers and an agent. Automated security controls contained SCP-668 in the archives. When staff moved to evacuate SCP-XXXX, it offered to help with re-containment. Although Site Command rejected the offer, Agent J. McCafferty released SCP-XXXX and escorted it through the southern cordon.
SCP-XXXX entered the archives armed with a chest-mounted M18 Claymore mine 38 minutes before D-9041's explosive collar was set to detonate. It confronted D-9041 and attempted to detonate the mine, but failed. The subject was unable to kill SCP-XXXX, however, and spent the entire period attempting to do so.
A commission is currently investigating the breach. Agent McCafferty has been reprimanded for breaches of protocol. SCP-XXXX has received a commendation for its actions. All injuries sustained are expected to heal within six months except the loss of its left eye and kidney.
The Daily Courier
Shameless Graverobbers Target Soldiers
In Anzio, the remains of two British soldiers killed in the Second World War were stolen by grave-robbers. It is unknown why the bodies, half a century old, would be of any value to these thieves. Some locals believe the culprits may be members of neo-fascist gangs. ANZIO: PAGE THREE
analysis came back.
still mineral water. canteen is still mundane too.
you and i both know this is a waste of time, man. what's next, mass spectrometry on a bottle of arrowhead?
i'm recommending revocation of -1 classification, back me up. there's nothing here.
*AUDIO/VIDEO LOG - TRACKING AGENT J. MCCAFFERTY*
Agent McCafferty is approaching the cell of SCP-XXXX, carrying a breakfast tray. He enters the cell and the feed switches to the cell cameras. SCP-XXXX is reading at its desk, and McCafferty places the tray next to it.
SCP-XXXX: Good morning.
J. McCafferty: Morning, XXXX. The gang got you a treat, full English breakfast.
SCP-XXXX: A treat? Am I a dog?
Both laugh. Agent McCafferty begins to exit the room, but SCP-XXXX puts down its book and addresses him.
SCP-XXXX: Irish Army, if I remember correctly. Did you see any combat, John?
J. McCafferty: Yeah, a little in Lebanon. Why?
SCP-XXXX: You know that feeling when you kill a man? The mix of awe and…disgust, I suppose.
McCafferty inches towards the door, hand on his panic button, and shakes his head. SCP-XXXX spears a sausage with its fork and holds it in the air to examine.
SCP-XXXX: Imagine that you spent the best years of your life hunting legends and fairy-tales. Imagine that, with your closest comrades, you found one that promised you eternal youth and power.
The fork slips from SCP-XXXX's hand. McCafferty starts to leave the cell. SCP-XXXX does not appear to notice, staring at its shaking hand and continuing.
SCP-XXXX: Imagine you didn't want to share.
SCP-XXXX sighs and picks up its book, seemingly forgetting about breakfast. A note slips out and is quickly covered by SCP-XXXXs hand. The only words visible to the camera are "must make things right."
A reconstructed image of SCP-XXXX. Translations: Ireland forever, who never retreated from the clash of spears
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be kept in a standard containment locker, folded. SCP-XXXX should only be transported in a folded state. Site-17 staff are to be informed of active SCP-XXXX-1 instances to avoid unnecessary concern. News media and the internet are to be monitored for mentions of "The Real Antietam".
Description: SCP-XXXX is the original regimental colors of the 69th New York Regiment, part of the Irish Brigade during the American Civil War. The object is physically non-anomalous, made of green silk to U.S. Army requirements.
SCP-XXXX is in poor condition, covered in dirt and gore with multiple strips of silk cut off entirely. This physical damage does not hinder its anomalous properties. Officially, SCP-XXXX was decommissioned due to this battle damage and replaced.
The object is inert when folded. Any subject who comes into direct contact with SCP-XXXX when unfolded is permanently affected by an emotional perception filter. This filter, activated by a viewer's pre-existing feeling of fear or terror, alters the instance's appearance to that of a goat-headed man between seven and eight feet tall. These appear to be mythical Irish giants called Fomorians. This filter does not act through cameras or reflections, and ceases to function when the instance dies.
SCP-XXXX was initially retrieved in 1968 by the UIU. Shortly after the Smithsonian Museum of History and Technology opened, an agent searching the archives found the object hanging on a wall. When the agent met his younger partner for coffee, he learned of his anomalous appearance and they returned to take custody of the flag. The Foundation took control of SCP-XXXX in 1973, uncovering a number of related documents included below.
Addenda:
Two excerpts from the letters of a Confederate officer who contacted SCP-XXXX during the First Battle of Bull Run. Morgan would die in the coming months before his condition would become known.
July 24, 1861
We had fired the rifles in training, but they were deafening on the field of battle. Shot and shell whistled by, only adding to the cacophony. Not one of us expected to come through that rain of steel alive, but we had barely lost a man before we were upon them. The lines smashed together and the battle disintegrated into chaos in the smoke. I slew two Yankees with my revolving pistol before I saw the green banner. The Irish color guard was fighting three times their number, the color-bearer front and center. He was a tall man, impossibly tall.
I shot one of the unfortunate guards before charging for the standard. The color-sergeant took a desperate swing with his stave, hoping to keep me at bay, but I avoided it with ease. As I ran him through, I briefly saw horns on his head, thick fur in his face. Then he was a man again, red-faced and Irish. I struck the colors and began to withdraw with my prize, ordering my men to press the attack.
The gun-smoke was thick and choking. I could see little except the flags streaming in the distance. Time and time again, I would reach the edge of the cloud only to dive back in, spotting a band of furious Irishmen. On the edge of exhaustion, drained by this torment, I stumbled into a full platoon, fifty red-shirted Federal skirmishers, mouths agape. I must've been a sight to behold, sans cap, coated in sweat and powder.
Their captain recovered first, and raised his sword to charge. I reacted instinctively, and shamefully, tossing the Yankee banner at my attacker and retreating back into the smoke. I would soon recover my company, and continue the assault with them, but I dearly wish I had recovered that standard. As for the demon sighting, it was clearly another sign that ours is a righteous cause.
Per 
