this CSS is here because i spent 8 hours on it so i'm going to put it wherever i can get away with it


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Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures:

Description: SCP-XXXX was an unidentified organ that would in the place of the appendix. Though SCP-XXXX was similar in shape to an appendix, it would typically be close to twice an appendix's average size, ranging from 7-9 mm in length. Rather than the lymphoid tissue1 that comprises the appendix, SCP-XXXX would primarily be composed of cardiac muscle tissue. SCP-XXXX would manifest within a subject only under certain conditions, described below:

  • The subject was undergoing surgery
  • The medical practitioner was experienced in surgical procedures
  • The medical practitioner was on good standing in their local medical community


Awaiting D-Classification (separate from the rest of the drafts because i ain't about them nested tabs)

rating: 0+x

The highest floor of SCP-XXXX. Click to enlarge.

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class:

Special Containment Procedures:

Description: SCP-XXXX is an abandoned prison, formerly used for the holding of D-Class personnel. Despite inter-site Foundation records indicating that the area of SCP-XXXX is currently being used as Site-44, a humanoid containment site, there exists conflicting documentation about the nature of this Site (see Addendum XXXX-1). Much of the building shows signs of wear, coinciding with its disuse in late 1958.

Four of the five floors of SCP-XXXX are uninhabited, and exhibit no anomalous properties. The bottom floor of SCP-XXXX is similar to the above floors, with the exception of all cells bearing the label "D-00001." These cells are inhabited by several humanoids, some of which are anomalous, labeled SCP-XXXX-1 to SCP-XXXX-13.

SCP-XXXX-1 through -10 are the designations for the 10 non-anomalous humanoids residing within SCP-XXXX. All such instances refuse to communicate specific details about their past, noting only their induction into the Foundation as D-Class personnel.

During their incarceration, instances -1 through -10 have formed a rudimentary Mobile


The country-side villa was a bright, yet sultry place of residence for the men who comprised of Calton's Runners. The view was splendid, the plain fields and trees dotted around as far as the eye could see was only interrupted by the lone dirt road leading into the compound. A pointman, Markus Karlsen, stood by the window looking out at the expanse. Markus was contemplating a defense plan for the villa, something that could be useful. But really, he was bored, as work hadn't been plentiful, and he wanted a little excitement. And that excitement was only one phone call away.

Hiiiiiighway to the danger zone! I'll take you riiiiiiding into the danger zone!

"Markus! Get the phone!" cried out Sean, a good friend of mine.

"Yeah, I got it." I responded. I headed over to the phone, picked it up, and waited a second before answering.


"Hello?" the voice on the other side asked.

"This is Carlton's Athletics, how may I help you?" I always thought the "Carlton's Athletics" front was a real bore. We didn't even have a website; no one would call our number on accident.

"Uhh, yes, um, do you have any services available?"

"We've got training programs, athletic equipment, sporting goods, you name it. What are you looking for?"

"Yeah. I'm looking for something good, a real hit." A pause. That was the keyword. I grabbed a pen and clipboard from the nearby table and started to collect some information.

"When and where?" I queried.

"In the warehouse on the corner of Sixth and Alameda, downtown. In two hours."

"You know you're not giving us much of a timeframe, right? If we're rushed we might not do a goo-"

"Yeah, yeah. That's fine."

"Alright then-" I wrote the intel on a slip of paper. "Who's the target?"

"I can't give you much details."

I paused, looked incredulously at the phone, then responded. "I'm sorry, but if you can't give us any details we can't do a very good job of making sure we're getting the right guy. Ya understand?"

"Yeah. Well, I can tell you one thing. It's a man in a yellow hat. Very dea-"

"Wait. Let me make sure I heard that correctly. A man. In a yellow hat."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Like the goddamn monkey cartoon?"

"Curious George, yes, I'm familiar."

I wasn't sure if it was a joke or not. But work had been slow lately and frankly, I would take any work over sitting in the jacuzzi.

"What's the payment?"

"Fifty thousand dollars, in incrementing serial numbers, paid to any bank account anywhere, or drop-off. We mean business."

"I can see that. Let me tell you the contact information."

I finished up the conversation with our new client, whose apparent name was Vic Danton, and gave the info to Sean. He was the head of Yellow Team, and a very capable crackshot and pointman. He scrutinized the intel sheet before handing it back to me. He pointed his finger in the air and twirled his finger.

"Let's get going!"

13:43 — Red Team Transport Van
Headed to the corner of Sixth and Alameda

McEron looked at his MP5-K in his hands. He had felt a connection when he selected it for training. This machine had smoothly got him from training to pointman. All it had to do now was get him through this new mission. He heard someone turn around behind him.

"I’m stuck with damn 12 gauge here. I get to take out all my anger on door handles. Goddamn door handles." the operator behind him, Phelps, commented.

Kittrige shoved his 1911-A1 in his vest as McEron tapped the bolt on his MP5-K. Kittrige mentioned something to McEron, but he was tuned out, contemplating the operation. There was no learning curve for mercenaries. It was life or death. He felt a punch on his right shoulder. It was Karlsen.

"Hey, McEron. I know you’re nervous, it’s your first mission. I want to give you some advice. When you do this shit, remember: bang, bang. No philosophical shit, no hesitation, no misled ethics. We're here to do a job. It's killed better-trained guys than you. Don’t freeze. Got that?" Karlsen smiled in the dim light of the van.

"Yeah. Thanks, Karlsen." McEron replied with a curt nod. Karlsen was an experienced mercenary and the fact he was on McEron's team reassured him a bit.

"We're almost there. Get all your gear. We're going on foot this last stretch and we'll meet up with Red Team. Again, good luck."

14:00 — Teufel, California
Warehouse #7, corner of Sixth and Alameda

A crackle of static followed by a sharp silence came out over the radio.

"Blue Team in position. Waiting for Red Team go."

Gareth motioned for her team to lock their rappels in place.

"Red Team in position. Waiting for Yellow Team go."

Heichel looked back at his men, who all nodded in synchronization.

"Yellow Team in position. Waiting for Orange Team go."

Friedel adjusted the knobs on his scope as Savalas flipped off his binocular covers.

"Orange Team in position. Start the clock."

Heichel and Gareth heard the shot from Karlsen's gun. They noted the time.
14:01 and 3 seconds.

Karlsen ordered Phelps to shoot the door down.
Gareth sent out the command to Red Team. "We're going in!"
Heichel kicked in the back door to the warehouse.
Friedel took a deep breath.

The assault was on.


McEron was relieved. Everything had been going according to plan. Blue Team had nearly cleared out the office floor and already several hostages were out of harm's way. However, as per the info, Red Team was to breach the room where the man in the hat was supposed to be. He stacked up on the left side of the door, intending to take the left inner corner.

"Charges set."

Karlsen signaled the countdown.

"Three." Walter extended the stock on his rifle.
"Two." Kittridge flicked his selector switch to semi-automatic.
"One." McEron shifted a bit, and raised his MP5-K.

"Zero." A click. A powerful thump swept the room as the double doors shattered into a fine mist of wood chippings.

"GO GO GO!" The team quickly entered the room. McEron, through training, started identifying threats.

Nothing. The room was empty.

The team let up their weapons, surprised at the room.

"Be careful. Intel said he should have here." whispered Karlsen. McEron and Phelps looked around for more rooms as the other three went to help out Yellow Team.

McEron had been searching the walls when he found the slightly ajar wood panel.

"Hey, Phelps, what do you think of this?"

Phelps came over and examined the panel. He gave it a little push and it swang inwards.

"Door. You take right, I'll take left." said Phelps.

"Gotcha." McEron replied.


McEron and Phelps charged into the room. The former started to identify threats again.

Wallpaper. Table. Chair.


The two men ran over to the downed leader. Heichel momentarily confused, before raising to fire his gun.

"Heyeyeyeyeyey, it's just us, Sean. What happened?"

"Hat man… ruthless… Yellow Team… gone."

"Gone? Did the guy take them out?"

"He's crazy… bullets do nothing. Nothing… nothing at all."

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted upstairs. A message erupted on Phelps's radio.



Friedel fidgeted nervously as he heard the chatter. Both Savalas and he could see the flashes of light go out one-by-one, just like a broken string of Christmas lights.

Savalas pressed the PTT button on his radio.
"Hello? Hello? Is any team there? Repeat? Hello? HELLO?"

A line of static was the only response to his query.

"That's fucking it. I'm going in. I feel useless here by myself."

"How would you describe your encounter with the, uh…"

Victor re-examined the file clutched in his fingers. "The anomaly?"

For all the memories that then flooded Martin's mind, words had unfortunately failed him; for a good few seconds, at least. Time enough that he could hear the soft clicking of a typewriter in another room, almost certainly hammering out the phrase "Martin pauses." At the very least, the noise had provided slight relief from the horrific recollections that befell him. He figured he may as well break the silence, however, and began his account.

"Well, I… I was on the field, just doing my job. My- uh… the job… we had to go deal with-"

"I'm familiar with the terms, yes."

"… okay, so, um… the warehouse. I was on, uh, I was there. We…we all were. It was a simple job, take care of one guy, right? That's what we thought, just one goddamn-"

"Please refrain from discussing extraneous matters." Victor wasn't even looking at Martin now, instead nervously glancing at the one-way glass on his right, for reasons Martin was curious to know.

"I, uhh…what the hell do you want from me, then? He was a fucking monster. Built like a god damn tank, seven feet tall, and… the fucking bloodlust, you could see it in his eyes, none of our bullets could-"

"Perfect! You know what, I would love to continue talking about the, uh, the anomaly, but I think we have all the information we need." Victor got up, and moved towards the door. Martin sat deadly still.

As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, however, he had remembered that there was still work to do. Sighing, he returned to his seat, noting that Martin was still, well, still. "By the way, we will be required to dose you with Chemical 108 following this interview."

"… what? What the hell is that?"

"It's an amne… amnest-, uh…"

Victor paused for a good few seconds. Time enough that Victor could hear the soft clicking of a typewriter in another room before he shot another violent glare at the one-way glass and mouthed at it to quit the goddamn noise. "It's an amnesiac compound, for the erasure of memories."

"Wait, you can do that?"

"Yes, we can. In many cases to aid in the treatment of traumatic memories. A medical professional will be here soon to administer the compound." With that, Victor got up from his chair, left to the door, mentally reviewed the interviewing procedure in his head, mentally reviewed the interviewing procedure in his head again, and then left.

Waiting for him on the other side was stenographer, report writer, and assistant to Victor, Frederick Masley.

"Alright, Vic, I can edit the document all day and night, but there is no way in hell I am getting away with changing an interview log. It's bad enough that we had to get outside help, but this? We'll have the higher-ups on our asses so fast-"

Victor placed an impatient hand on Masley's shoulder. "Listen. Buddy. Both of our jobs are in your hands, so here's a little gift from me. Use it well." Victor produced a small, yet surprisingly weighty black highlighter, and threw it for Frederick, who followed Victor's expectations in failing to even touch it. By the time Frederick had made his way to the highlighter, which had rolled quite a ways away, Victor had already left the vicinity.

"Fuckin' documents are digital anyways…"

Interview with Witness-03.

DANTON: How would you describe your encounter with the, uh… the anomaly?

(Martin pauses.)

WITNESS: Well, I… I was on the field, just doing my ███. My- uh… ███ ███… we had to go ████ ████-

DANTON: I'm familiar with the terms, yes.

WITNESS: … okay, so, um… the warehouse. I was ██, uh, I was there. We…we all were. It was a ██████ ███, ████ ████ ██ ███ ███, █████? That's what we thought, ████ ███ goddamn-

DANTON: Please refrain from discussing extraneous matters.

WITNESS: I, uhh…what the hell do you want from me, then? He was a fucking monster. Built like a god damn tank, seven feet tall, and… the fucking bloodlust, you could see it in his eyes, none of our ███████ could-

DANTON: Perfect. You know what, I would love to continue talking about the, uh, the anomaly, but I think we have all the information we need. By the way, we will be required to dose you with Chemical 108 following this interview.

WITNESS: … what? What the hell is that?

DANTON: It's an ████… ██████, ██… It's an amnes██c compound, for the erasure of memories.

WITNESS: Wait, you can do that?

DANTON: Yes, we can. In many cases to aid in the treatment of traumatic memories. A medical professional will be here soon to administer the compound.

It was a quiet ride back to the villa for the three men that now comprised Calton's Runners. Sean didn't have much to say, for once, and across the empty expanse of the van, Martin didn't want to hear any of it. Once Sean finally did get speaking, it was well away from Martin, to the audience of Markus.

"You know, this all reminds me of something."

Markus wasn't sure if he had heard Sean correctly, but he wasn't about to second-guess himself. "Of what, exactly? A horror flick?"

"Something like that. Something of an urban legend, really." Sean's tone was hushed, quite jarringly. Markus almost couldn't recognize his voice. "A group of trained soldiers during World War 2. Heard stories about how they quashed some super secret Nazi projects, paranormal weaponry and all that nonsense."

"And what does that have to do with our situation, Sean?"

"They tried to go on an old talk show