SCP-3335 : The Hole in My Head Where My Mind Used to Be

Name: The Hole in My Head Where My Mind Used to Be
Author: Billith
Rating: 107/155
Created at: Mon Dec 18 2017

Since the time of its surfacing and detection via Foundation operatives, over ~0.5% of the Earth's population have willingly consumed SCP-3335 for recreational purposes.

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ADULT CONTENT

This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.

If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.

⚠️ Content warning: This article contains references to potentially distressing/triggering topics, including drug use/addiction, excessive language, suicide/self harm, neurodegenerative dysfunction/mental illness, gore/body horror, class disparity, and the United States justice system.

Approximately 12,000 words. 45-60 minute read + a 4 minute video.

Much of this piece is based on the experiences and feelings of myself, along with others I have known. My heart goes out to those who have lost their lives in the war on drugs. I hope they are no longer in pain, and may they one day see true justice, wherever they may be.

Please exercise caution when reading.

with love, billith

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SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES

Due to the popularity of SCP-3335, it is currently considered uncontained in certain dense population centers of the world.1 Foundation agents inserted into underground trade markets and international crime syndicates are to monitor the use and distribution of SCP-3335. Clandestine laboratories are to be expunged of all compounds bearing resemblance to the anomalous chemical structures seen via SCP-3335's gas chromatography and mass spectrometry testing.

Information warfare is currently the most effective deterrent to both usage of SCP-3335 and the discovery of its anomalous properties. Other containment methodologies typically align with the United States' global "war on drugs" campaign and thus an undisclosed but significant portion of the Foundation's annual budget is currently dedicated to supporting these efforts.

As of 2018, SCP-3335's global trade markets and laboratories have been reduced by approximately 85% from 2003. Despite this, there are assumed to be several operations still producing SCP-3335 to this day.

Foundation interception of large-scale distribution efforts and the eradication of affected individuals are considered top priorities until further notice.

DESCRIPTION

SCP-3335 is an off-white compound similar in appearance to flour. It is a hallucinogenic substance of arylcyclohexylamine structure, with effects similar to other NMDA receptor antagonists, such as those of phencyclidine (PCP) and its derivatives.

Analysis of SCP-3335 samples have proven to be not useful, many of which have resulted in conflicting or inconclusive outcomes. Material Safety Data Sheets (MSDS) procured during testing have effectively culminated in various erroneous information. These outcomes imply an inconsistent or nebulous chemical structure. It is unknown how synthesis of the compound is accomplished, and this process is likely anomalous in nature.

Since the time of its surfacing and detection via Foundation operatives, over ~0.5% of the Earth's population have willingly consumed SCP-3335 for recreational purposes.

SCP-3335 exhibits a large array of effects, most of which are common to substances of its kind. These effects include, but are not limited to:

• Euphoria/Sense of serenity
• Closed and open-eye visual hallucinations
• Analgesia, numbness
• Significant change in perception of time (dilation and constriction)
• Confusion/disorientation, delirium
• "Hole" experiences
• Intense mind-body dissociation, out-of-body experiences
• Ambulatory psychotic behavior
• Paranoia
• Nausea, vomiting
• Psychological dependency/addiction, compulsive dosing
• Frightening, untimely distortion or loss in sensory perception

In addition to the above, SCP-3335 exhibits previously unrecorded anomalous effects that deviate highly from those of its more explainable analogues, including deficiencies in clotting factors (hemophilia), bone marrow overproduction of red blood cells (polycythemia vera), and compulsive hematophagy of oneself or of others with SCP-3335 still present in the bloodstream, which mimics titration and encourages propagation of the compound.

Toxicity reports of affected individuals reveal a consistent low-level blood content of SCP-3335 that does not dissipate nor filter out of the body via metabolization. Dialysis treatments are ineffective in hindering the production of SCP-3335 in the body. It is theorized that SCP-3335 may cause lasting changes in physiology that aid in the endogenous synthesis of the chemical.

Due to the aforementioned difficulty of removing SCP-3335 from the bloodstream to treat affected individuals, widespread use supports theorized potential for large-scale LK-Class Personality Transmutation Events. As such, experimentation and thaumaturgic/clairvoyant use is currently halted, per O5 request.

INCIDENT LOG 3335.1 — SCP-3335-1 Emergent Event I

On ██/██/████, an unknown portion of civilians in the New York City area that were known users of SCP-3335 became comatose (now designated SCP-3335-1). According to eyewitness reports by other users of SCP-3335, prior to this, victims were seen staring at a "hole" in the ground. Subjects that walked to this area experienced unexplained syncope, and did not recover; all affected individuals have remained comatose since the event.

INCIDENT LOG 3335.2 — SCP-3335-1 Event I Update

Individuals continued to experience this phenomenon, and with no pattern or risk factors identified, Foundation-made ad campaigns were deployed to demonize the use of SCP-3335, as well as its users, within the public eye. After the number of unconscious individuals surpassed ten thousand, the O5 Council held a conference with the Emergent Threat Tactical Response Authority (ETTRA) and Ethics Committee to discuss potential options. Suggestions included adulterating large supplies of SCP-3335 with toxic additives, novel counteragents, and/or analogues with far higher receptor affinity than SCP-3335, all of which failed to pass Council vote due to various logistical concerns. A motion was passed to increase plainclothes Foundation agents deployed to areas of interest, such as known hotspots for illicit activity, entertainment venues, rehabilitation centers reporting higher-than-average rates of SCP-3335 abuse, et cetera.

Widespread amnestic dispersal was considered, should the rate of SCP-3335-1 manifestation fail to decrease. The possibility of an emergency United Nations Security Council summit was also discussed, which would be used to coordinate various international efforts with the wider community.

ADDENDUM 3335.1 — Civilian Interview Record I

Interview Log 3335-1A
Interviewee: Steven ████████, 23
Interviewer: Agent █████ Francis, stationed NYPD detective
Notes: This interview was conducted after a Foundation-staged raid of ███████ ████, a popular nightclub in downtown NYC, several days after the events of Incident 3335.1. Apprehended individual was a known source of SCP-3335, although said person was not involved in synthesis or large import distribution of the compound.

Following detainment, an investigation of ████████'s home was conducted, where the subject's remaining supply of SCP-3335 was recovered alongside other various illegal goods.

Interviewee was highly distressed upon Foundation interception, but was released post-interview after application of Class-B Amnestics. Original audiovisual log was streamed directly from the present agents' concealed, body-worn transmitters, then uploaded to a server managed by SCP-3335's project leadership team.

<████████'s agitated voice is muffled through the microphone of Agent Francis' body camera. Subject appears in view, placed in the available seat by a Foundation plant posing as a contracted security guard. For the safety of both personnel, neither agent knows the identity of the other. Additionally, the CCTV cameras and table microphone within the chamber have been deactivated. After a moment, the commotion subsides.>
████████: —Get your hands off me! You gonna just sit there and let your fucking goon do your dirty work? I guess it makes sense for a motherfucking twelve. I don't know anything. I just was holding it for my friend until she got back from the bathroom. It's an honest mistake. Give me a break.
Agent Francis: Look familiar?
████████: Uh—No?
Agent Francis: Why did it sound like you were asking me if your answer was right?
████████: No, I, uh, was just confused, man. I've never seen this shit in my life.

<Subject looks at Agent Francis expectantly, who produces a packet of rolled-up documents from the inside of his suit jacket, unfurling them lengthwise and selecting one. He places it on the table and slides an image of an opened duffel bag over to ████████. The contents are visible: A large volume of powder in a solid brick, several bundles of paper currency, various paraphernalia, and a handgun. ████████ reacts in surprise, unable to conceal the sudden loss of confidence.>
Agent Francis: Mm. Are you sure?
████████: Yes?
Agent Francis: I see.
Agent Francis: Well my apologies then, you're free to go. Sorry for wasting your time.
████████: Really—?
Agent Francis: No, not really. Sit your ass down. <████████ returns to the chair, startled> We know the bag is yours. We recovered it from your residence not too long ago.
████████: Wait, so you—How did y'all even get a search warrant—? It's like three in the morning.

<The agent does not respond, holding up his left pointer finger as he becomes distracted by his phone.>

I-I need a lawyer or something, right? Someone give me a lawyer.
Agent Francis: Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You can still go home before the morning, you know. I just have to ask you a few questions about what you were selling over at ███████ ████. Plain and simple.
████████: Yeah, okay, sounds too good to be true. I'm not saying anything. I want a lawyer. And my shit back.

Agent Francis: That is not possible. And—let me get this straight—you think we should give you back your kilos of narcotics, tens of thousands in distribution profits, along with an unregistered handgun?

<Agent Francis selects another photograph from the wrinkled collection on the table, rotating it and pushing the page towards ████████.>

Footage taken from the venue clearly shows you engaging in the sale of an illicit substance. For all we know, you had more of this brick on you at time of arrest than we can see here. And the gun? Who knows. It's got your fingerprints on it.

By the time you receive counsel, we will have enough evidence supporting your incarceration, either way. Your best choice is cooperation.
████████: Fuck off, there's no way that's legal. I have the right to an attorney. You can't fuck with evidence like that.
Agent Francis: You're more than welcome to fight it in front of a Judge. See who they believe. If you would rather settle this more—discreetly, I have an offer for you.
████████: An offer?

<The agent leans forward, quieting his voice to a whisper and indicating to ████████ that he should do the same. After a moment, subject acquiesces.>
Agent Francis: I'll be honest. We aren't looking for low-level dealers like yourself. I could be doing far better things with my time, I'm sure you could be, too. Answer my questions, you walk free this evening. Otherwise, I'll have to throw you in a tank for the night. They start running folks up to Riker's in——four hours. Once you leave this room, I will not be able to help you. You don't have any prior felony convictions, you're mostly clean otherwise. This can be over in an hour if you just answer truthfully. I'm not interested in sending you to prison, but we have more than enough to do so if desired, and more. Do you understand what I'm saying?

████████: You—You're serious?
Agent Francis: Yeah. Are we on the same page?
████████: I guess so.
Agent Francis: Good enough. So, to start us off. How long have you been selling SC—er, what are you guys calling this stuff on the streets now?
████████: You phoning it in, twelve? Least informed narc of all time. Yeah, my boy's over in the Bronx been calling it 'strangeluv' or some shit. I don't know much about it, okay? I call it ends' meet. For the last few months, anyway.
Agent Francis: Alright. That's not exactly a small supply. In fact, it's the largest we've seen in one place, outside of organized crime rings. You don't strike me as Triad material, no offense. Where did you get this sort of quantity, exactly? Your friend over in the Bronx set you up with someone?
████████: Nah, man. If you're hoping for a snitch, you're shit out of luck. I ain't about to put a fucking target on my head.
Agent Francis: We can offer you witness protection if you fear violent retaliation. Refusing to provide this info is unwise; you should at least cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence. Maybe your friend from the Bronx can visit you across the East River—
████████: What? I thought you said I wasn't in trouble!
Agent Francis: That was before you withheld the identity of your contact.

████████: Shit, how did I miss that? Fuck. No. That's—I don't know who it was! But I can't. I was told I'd be in the ground if I even mentioned him—fuck, not again.
Agent Francis: Contact, likely male, possible connection to organized crime syndicate—
████████: Stop doing that! Look, I don't know what he looks like, I never saw the guy, okay? I swear, he contacted me on Whisper I picked up through a dead drop. No cash changed hands, I don't fuckin' know anything else!
████████: Yeah, yeah.
████████: So, what, are you in on this, too?

<████████ shakes, a bead of sweat clearly visible on his left temple, knuckles strained as he grips his end of the table.>
Agent Francis: Okay, okay. I believe you. Take a deep breath. Here. Let's take five. I'll be back. Sound good?

<████████ nods. Agent Francis rises and turns to leave, the silent guard moving to open the door for him, which causes the Agent to jump.>
Agent Francis: Agh!—Christ on a cross. How long have you been standing there? I thought you were outside the room this whole time. Wow. You're really quiet.

<Guard unlocks the door and pulls the handle for Agent Francis, tilting his head towards the now-open passage.>

Well. Okay. Thanks.

<The security guard closes and locks the door behind Agent Francis. A few minutes of silence pass, ████████ becoming visibly less tense over this period. He and the guard exchange a glance. The guard points two fingers at his own eyes and then redirects them at the detainee's, who rolls them in response.>

<The guard doesn't respond.>
████████: I don't think the 'blue wall of silence' means ya gotta be completely silent all the time, but you do you.

<Agent Francis returns a short while later with some items from a nearby vending machine, a bag of chips already open. He sits back at the table, offering bottled water and a selection of snacks to ████████, who turns them down.>

Agent Francis: Sho, how did you complete your buy if no cash changed hands? Something anonymous as well I imagine, crypto?
████████: I can't be fucked to figure that e-currency shit out. Didn't have to, anyway. It was a freebie.
Agent Francis: The whole brick? That's… certainly very generous.
████████: Yeah, and the gun, too. Didn't ask questions when I saw the quantity. I'm not stupid though, I know he wasn't doing all that to be kind.

Besides, there's hardly anyone out here that'd touch something they or they friends ain't familiar with nowadays. Calling it fent two-point-oh.3 I was right there with 'em for the most part until remembered I got this nifty little thing with droppers, a regency[sic] test or whatever.
Agent Francis: You mean a reagent test. A testing kit.
████████: Yeah, yeah! That shit. I'm all about harm reduction.
Agent Francis: Mhm. So, the test results?
████████: Right, sorry. Yeah, the thing never even changed color. That was good enough for some though, since that meant it wasn't fent.
Agent Francis: Was it good enough for you?
████████: Tried it once I saw it wasn't killing nobody. I know that's not illegal. My body, my choice, right?
Agent Francis: Sure. Like I said, no trouble for you tonight, as long as you answer the questions. Only a few left.
████████: Uh-huh.
Agent Francis: So… what was it like? The drug.
████████: What, you want some? —that was a joke—but, ah, I don't know, man. It's hard to explain. Not to be that guy, but you have to try it to know what it's like, okay? It's some weird shit.
Agent Francis: Just do your best. I was your age once, you know.
████████: Yeah, I get it. Trying to be all chummy, I see you. I bet y'all're thinking you tried the same shit when you was young, yeah? Well, not this. I know the scene, some of you been around the block before you got your badge. I respect the hustle, but this is something new. They got scientists or some shit working on this stuff. I know fuck all when it comes to cooking up the designer shit—this is as designer as it gets.
Agent Francis: Right, so, what, you're unable to describe the positive effects, at all?
████████: Uhhh, let me think. Okay, so they had this shit called 'roflcoptr',4 years back, lame-ass name if you ask me, but that stuff was fire. It was like walking around with your body just laying there, you know? It's kinda like that.

Got this magical something to it. Warm, almost alive. Like I walked off to another place entirely. With that rofl shit, you knew you was fucked up. Knew it was a drug, right? This was different. Same deal, I saw myself laying there on that fuckin' futon. But it was like I could walk away and never come back. Good feeling. Don't have to deal with none of this shit that's happening out there in the world right now. Got that free roam. My body could be cut to shit, three bullets in my back and a knee on my throat, and I could care less because, fuck it, right?
Agent Francis: Sounds nice. The high, I mean.
████████: Yeah, it does. But whatever you're thinking doesn't even come close. Too bad you snap back after a couple hours, you know? Pulls you right back in. Like a dream, I guess. Gotta wake up sometime. Right, twelve?
Agent Francis: I understand. Now, a couple of folks have been found comatose because of this drug, you know anything about that?
████████: Yeah, I mean, I saw the news, not my people though. Nobody got hurt from my deals, the stuff I sold was clean, on god. You saw the fucking brick. Does it look like I need to cut my product?
Agent Francis: Well, all of their tox reports came back, and nothing unusual was detected in any of their systems. So, what's the difference? Maybe this stuff isn't as safe as you might have thought.
Agent Francis: It isn't, you're right. Relax, you'll be able to head home shortly.
Agent Francis: And what did she say?

████████: Fuck if I know, man. I'm not about to fuck anyone over, I'm just trying to get by. Maybe they just OD'd, you know? That's not my responsibility!
████████: 'ight, okay. You know, this is not how y'all typically do things, from my experience.
Agent Francis: Yeah. It's uh, police… reform?
████████: Ohhh yeah, I can totally hear that shit now. Like asking me if your answer was right. That's a good one.
Agent Francis: Have you noticed anyone acting odd or abnormal? Your buyers? Friends? I don't need names, just any general observations, feelings, or inclinations.
████████: Hm, you know what? There was something someone said, this chick. Blonde. Didn't look the type. She said something about a hole. Heard it before, but she said some weird shit about it, got me messed up for a bit. Sold her some anyway, money's always green, right?

████████: She said—'next time, we're gonna jump into it for real?' But it wasn't just what she said, it was also how she said it, ya know? Like she wasn't even talking to me. I don't know. Weirded me the fuck out. Drugs are drugs, right? Still, don't go jumping into some goddamn hole in the floor. High as balls or not. Can I leave? I'm tired, man.
Agent Francis: Alright. One last question.
████████: Okay, what?
Agent Francis: Did you ever see this so-called 'hole'?

████████: I think so. Took a few bumps at a party and it caught my eye. Weird visual for sure. Looked dark as fuck. Quiet. Wouldn't jump in if I had the choice. Well, I mean, part of me said go on, you know? 'You smoke crack on the streets, what's some shit you're seeing gonna do to you that's worse than what rock has on you?'

I'm sure you see them crackheads out there all the time, itching themselves, doing god-knows-what for a little piece of that cook-up. But this? Nah, man. I just felt something bad, I dunno…I told myself I was tripping out, but that thing seemed like a one-way trip, if you know what I'm saying.
Agent Francis: I see. Alright. That just about covers it. You're good to go. Thank you for your cooperation.
████████: I still don't believe it. I'm just gonna walk? That's that?
Agent Francis: Yep, that's that. Give this kid his forget-me-nows.
████████: My what?

INCIDENT LOG 3335.3 — Situational Update

Note: In the early morning following this interview, the subject's unconscious body was discovered in critical condition within a drainage ditch alongside the New Jersey Turnpike. He was then transported to a nearby ICU. Unfortunately, ████████ succumbed to blood loss before arrival, as his blood was not present at the time of his recovery.

INCIDENT LOG 3335.4 — SCP-3335-1 Emergent Event II

On ██/██/████, the Foundation was alerted to an influx of SCP-3335-1 instances re-awakening with substantial alterations in personality and physiology. Extreme mood swings, visceral reaction to sensory input of any kind, along with overwhelming compulsions to isolate in small and unlit spaces with other SCP-3335-1 instances have been observed.

Affected individuals have shown marked increase of adrenaline and cortisol present in blood testing, as well as a higher blood concentration of SCP-3335.

Electroencephalography (EEG) tests yielded unusual patterns of electrical activity in the brains of SCP-3335-1 instances, similar in effect to those who have undergone partial-to-full corpus callosotomy procedures.5 As a result, many subjects develop symptoms similar to, but notably different from, callosal disconnection syndrome, also known as "split-brain" disorder.

When an affected subject appears to have acquired symptoms of callosal disconnection syndrome, hemispheres of their brain will take on attributes of their own and deprive the other hemisphere of existing attributes. This results in separate impulses and perceptions for the left and right halves of an affected instance's body.

Unlike documented cases of callosal disconnection, both hemispheres of SCP-3335-1 instances develop into their own consciousness, one of which may retain some personality traits of the original individual. Retained personalities possessed by SCP-3335-1 will show marked torpor and emotional dampening. Subjects may also experience bouts of catatonia/reduced cognitive function.

The other hemisphere is occupied by a unique consciousness.6 These personalities are highly erratic and self-destructive, often participating in grievous self-hematophagy to the point of expiration.
Interviewee: SCP-3335-1, formerly known as ██████ ███████
Interviewer: Dr. █████████ █████, Foundation psychologist
Note: This interview was conducted at the ██████ Valley Hospital in ████, Minnesota. Due to security concerns, personally-identifying info has been redacted. SCP-3335-1 specimen claims to have no memory of the time leading up to becoming comatose. In addition, this instance is considered one of the more active cases, with fluctuations in awareness having increased to nearly a dozen "attacks" every day.
Dr. █████: So, ██████, how are we feeling today?
SCP-3335-1: Doing okay, I guess. Feeling a little weird. Vision is a bit blurry… Uhm. Can you get these restraints off?

Due to the continued existence and function of the corpus callosum within the brains of typical SCP-3335-1 instances, significant "cross-chatter" can occur, resulting in some level of neurological competition between hemispheres as they "fight" for primary control of various bodily functions. Despite this, neither consciousness appears to be aware of this quality, instead confabulating when pressed for explanation of such behaviors.7 It is completely possible to inform subjects of the nature of their predicament, and how to identify these effects. Unfortunately, atypical behaviors will always be explained away through confabulation. EEG tests suggest transient epileptic disturbances can occur at the boundaries between these shifts in consciousness, which may result in bouts of sudden but temporary retrograde and anterograde amnesia.

ADDENDUM 3335.2 — Civilian Interview Record II

Interview Log 3335-1B

Dr. █████: We'll have you out of them soon. You experienced a significant psychotic break and hit your head pretty badly. We had to place you in a medically-induced coma to prevent your brain from swelling. Do you remember anything about what happened?
SCP-3335-1: The last thing I remember was… feeling like I was falling down a tunnel. I couldn't see, and I tried to say something, but my mouth wouldn't form the right sounds.
Dr. █████: It's not uncommon to feel something like this when you lose consciousness. Nothing to worry about. How do you feel right now?

SCP-3335-1: Well, my throat hurts, for one. And I don't feel too sober, yet. Feeling a bit off… When will that go away?
Dr. █████: Not long, I imagine, and we'll get you some lozenges and a glass of water for your throat. Can you go into further detail as to what you mean when you say you feel "off"?
SCP-3335-1: Um, well, I feel out of it. Like my body isn't working the way I want it to. As if it's lagging behind the rest of me. Sometimes I'm good, sometimes not. It's been on and off for a while. Really tired. Feeling a little numb, but it'll pass, right? Sorry.
Dr. █████: I'm sure it will. How is your mood and overall mental state? I know these situations can be quite stressful.
SCP-3335-1: Yeah, you could say that.

Well, I'm okay…You know. Just feel a bit slow. I don't feel like myself, if that makes sense. I just feel… disconnected. Do you know what I mean?
Dr. █████: Sure. And has the medication we gave you this morning helped at all? Or is it about the same?
SCP-3335-1: It's been worse, actually. Getting worse, actually. Getting, feeling more like somebody else, actually. Getting…Somebody—uh, does that make sense, actually? Some—make sense?—make sense? M-make sense? Actually? Make sense?—make sense?—make sense-m—uh—huh?

<SCP-3335-1's speech slurs as it starts to mumble, a look of confusion evident. Subject's voice lowers in volume until inaudible, eyes losing focus and skewing slightly as its form slumps back in the hospital bed. SCP-3335-1's alternate consciousness is likely exerting control over subject's speech functions, with palilalia (seen above) being one of the most common first indicators of a transitional event. Other indicators include deficiencies in facial/object recognition, memory loss, flat or inappropriate affect, and atypical/disordered patterns of thought.>
Dr. █████: ██████, are you alright? I didn't catch that.
SCP-3335-1: Who? Make sense.
Dr. █████: I'm sorry. What did you say?
SCP-3335-1: Out. Want out.
Dr. █████: What do you want out of, ██████?

<Subject flexes and moves appendages sporadically, tensing and straining against hospital-provided restraints. It tries in vain to bring the left arm to its open mouth and the right follows in an apparent attempt to grab the first. It gives up on both after a few moments.>
SCP-3335-1: Hmmmm. No. Trapped. Cage. Bad— Out. Must find my
Dr. █████: ██████? Find your what?
SCP-3335-1: M-my gr-g— Can't say. Want out. Get me out.
Dr. █████: It's going to be okay. We'll get you out as soon as you are well.
SCP-3335-1: No. Now. Out cage. Out of… Out of v-vessel. Get me out of vessel. Want out of vessel. Light h-hurts. Skin hurts. Burns. C-can't think. Where a-am I? …Why?
Dr. █████: I don't quite understand what you mean. You're in the hospital, you suffered a—
SCP-3335-1: Suffered a! Suffered a! Get me out. Hurts. Suffer now. Do job. Make two one, one two. Make zero. Doesn't matter. Let me out… hurts.
Dr. █████: What can I do to help you, ██████?
SCP-3335-1: into the divide! Listen! C-cut into the head. Into t-two, one. The flesh. The bone. Want out. It hurts. <subject's eyes water as it begins to hyperventilate>

<SCP-3335-1 instance is administered a sedative, at the discretion of the patient's care team.>
SCP-3335-1: No… Please. It burns! I'm going, going, going f-farther down. W-why are you doing this? Why?!

Dr. █████: Can you hear me, ██████?
SCP-3335-1: Out! Get me out! Please! No more! K-Kill me.
Dr. █████: ██████? Stay with me, okay?
SCP-3335-1: Kill me—

<Subject screams in apparent anguish. Monitors show heart rate exceeding 240 beats per minute. After a few seconds, subject ceases screaming.>
Dr. █████: ██████?
Dr. █████: I'm sure it will.
Assigned Local Unit: Tactical Field Ops. Gamma-7 ("Night Watchmen")8

<BPM monitors show rapidly stabilizing functions. Subject refuses to respond to stimuli for several minutes. After a period of about fifteen minutes, it is assumed that SCP-3335-1's alternate consciousness is now dormant within the subject's psyche.>
SCP-3335-1: Huh—What? O-Oh, sorry about that, I zoned out for a sec, I think. Yeah, uh, so I still feel weird sometimes, is what I was saying. A bit numb, it'll pass though, right?

ADDENDUM 3335.3 — Related Field Operations

Reports of SCP-3335 consumption in ████████, ██ led to an investigation of several known "drug dens" in the area. Foundation field operatives familiar with the territory have been assigned the task of raiding affected homes, terminating users of SCP-3335 and destroying all paraphernalia or lab equipment that may have come into contact with the substance. A select record of operations can be found below.

TFO GAMMA-7 ACTION LOG

OPERATION "COLD TURKEY"

Mission Parameters: Investigate sites of interest and terminate affected individuals, neutralizing all traces of SCP-3335.

Present: Agents Alpha; Bravo; Charlie (also referred to as 'Command'); Delta; Foxtrot; Echo9

Additional Information: The following is an audiovisual transcript of a staged, late night raid on an apartment complex in downtown ████████, ██. Members of TFO Gamma-7 were equipped with standard deep-cover tactical wear, including low-profile Kevlar suits and suppression-integrated Maxim 9mm handguns, as well as standard Urban Survival Protection (USURP) kits containing an assortment of survival gear for urban response teams.

Field agents were posted at strategic vantage points near the three entryways of the apartment complex while Gamma-7 infiltrated the interior.

Alpha: Alright, mics on, everybody check in.
Bravo: Bravo here.
Foxtrot: Foxtrot, check.
Echo: Echo, checking in.
Command: Delta? Where's Delta?
Delta: Here, sorry. Sorry. Setting up the camera. Should be coming live now.
Alpha: We're ready to go. Command, please confirm video feed.

<Delta's visual broadcast activates, revealing a run-down urban alleyway leading to the back entrance of the complex. The building has multiple floors, and the windows of each are boarded up with plywood, their respective fire escapes rusted through and in varying states of collapse.>
Command: Affirmative. You are clear to proceed.

<The group is seen swiftly making their way to an ancillary access point, treading through puddles and various detritus.>

<Some ways down, two civilians are loitering under an awning near the entrance to another building, exchanging angry words in a heated moment. They notice the approaching agents and flee into a structure across from the target.>
Bravo: You can run, butcha can't hide!
Echo: Watch it. Just 'cause Charlie is on squawk duty this time doesn't mean it's a free-for-all. Betcha they'll review this thing later for QA. Besides, MTF certs are next year. Try not to fuck it up.
Command: Yeah, man, being van guy is cushy. Don't blow this for me, dipsticks. I mean—
Alpha: 'Kay, Charlie, we are approaching the entryway. Anything else we should know about this place before ingress?
Command: Okay…oh, right. Here. Recap. The Harrington Apartments. Multi-unit complex with twenty-four residences across three floors. Old, nearly a hundred and fifty years standing, so no elevator. Two stairwells, one at either end, however, and three entry points— front, back, and maintenance, the latter of which you'll be using for your incursion today. Residents are mostly lower income individuals. The number of occupied units is unknown; tenant records were lost during an influx of 3335-1 in the past year. Other than that, your guess is as good as anyone's.

<Gamma-7 approaches the apartment's maintenance accessway, the door a battered slab of gray adorned with a dull, silver knob. Delta reaches the entrance first and grabs the knob, twisting it, though the door does not give way.>
Delta: Crap, the thing's locked. Solid, too.
Alpha: I told them they should have got us a Dremel. Command, do we have permission to barge the door?
Command: Negative. Too likely to draw attention. But—
Echo: Wait, I've got it, give me a second.
Foxtrot: What are you—
Bravo: Aha, very good.
Command: Yes?
Alpha: Echo jimmied the lock with his ID badge. Crafty little critter.
Echo: There we are. These older locks are really weak shit. Strong doors or not.
Command: Did you guys all forget that you have lockpicks in your survival kits?
Alpha: We talked about this. If we don't open the plastic bags they're in, Dispatch will take them back and refund me. If you buy the gear next time, you can tell us to waste your six hundo on some bobby pins. Let's go.
Bravo: You smell something toasty? Or am I just havin' a stroke?
Foxtrot: I smell it too. Jury's still out on the stroke, though.

<Gamma-7 quietly enters the building, which is pitch black just past the doorway, an immediate and sharp left turn barely visible on the other side. A glance down the narrow corridor reveals what is likely a row of multiple technical rooms used for maintenance access. Shoulder-mounted flashlights are activated as the team makes their way inside.>

<The team checks each of these rooms, two team members on each side, one opening the doors and one inspecting the status of its respective room; one maintenance room, two storage rooms, a boiler room, and a small bathroom, with an "all clear" reported from within each.>

<Passing further inside, a room labeled ELECTRICAL rapidly draws closer. A low rumble is heard through its door.>

<Investigating quietly, Alpha opens the door to a corroded series of fuse boxes and wiring panels, used to distribute power amongst the individual units of the complex. Most are damaged beyond repair, through neglect; electrical damage and water damage being most obvious, the rest lacking any sign of power leading from the master panel, even if functional.>

<The source of the noise is identified as a personal gas generator, dangerously rigged to backfeed into the circuitry belonging to one apartment of the topmost floor, where an indicator light and the residue of a worn label, which may have been the apartment number, coexisted next to one another.>

<The team takes a turn leading farther inwards. It passes through an empty laundry room. Though once communal, the machines here lay broken and disused, built aside dusty shelves and gray, moldy drying racks.>

Alpha: Now I'm catching it. Is someone cooking? It's kinda making me hungry.
Echo: I bet the only thing we're gonna be eating tonight is an Amy.10
Delta: Figured that generator would be the source of the smell, all things considered, but it is definitely getting stronger. Ugh, it's making me nauseous.
Foxtrot: I have… hm, one piece of gum left. Take it before I change my mind.

<Gamma-7 proceeds through a thin hallway, heading towards a main thoroughfare once used to access eight apartments which are divided evenly along either side. The hall is concealed under black curtains of shadow in lieu of light, large and empty, walls alternating from drywall, to brick, to gaps between rotting wooden beams and rusted, black-speckled pipes, eventually terminating in darkness. Behind Gamma-7, a set of nondescript double doors stand, featuring a small window on each side. The view through both is completely obscured by further shadows.>
Alpha: Alright, we've entered the main hallway, but, huh.
Bravo: Yo, Charlie, any reason you took us the long way? There are doors right here.
Command: Shit, sorry, I forgot to mention. Those are the main inner doors, they head to a foyer-slash-mailroom area. Exiting from there brings you directly out front, which tends to get a lot of foot traffic. Mostly just transients and pregnant cats but, either way. Too risky.
Bravo: Makes sense.
Alpha: Right. A bonfire would explain the barbeque smell… I guess. Oh, is that smoke?

Command: Sorry?

Bravo: Bathroom is clear, albeit disgusting. Mirror is smashed through.
Foxtrot: <holding a palm over the mouth and nose belonging to a nearby instance, then checking for a pulse> Still alive. Skin's cold. Shallow breathing. Bradycardia. Probably from the ice, which means they're likely comatose—

<Bravo enters the room, shining his flashlight towards Foxtrot. The beam illuminates two instances of SCP-3335-1, who immediately awaken, eyes in rapid nystagmus. Another moment passes, and both pairs are suddenly fixed on Foxtrot. Bravo panics and attempts to disable his flashlight, fumbling and dropping the object, causing further commotion. A scream is heard, followed by a sharp whine emanating from Foxtrot's microphone.>
Foxtrot: Bravo! You son of a—
Alpha: Get out of the way!
Bravo: Shit—!
Foxtrot: Fuck—get em off me, agh!

<Affected individuals are heard vocalizing in near-harmony, deviating to express extreme emotion with no cohesive pattern or inciting cause. One instance attempts to pull its own arm off of the agent, but ultimately fails to do so. Foxtrot's pleas for help are quickly drowned out by the commotion.
SCP-3335-1: Flesh cleaved in two. Two. Mind cleaved to one. One. Help. Help. Help. Help! Let us out!

<Coughing and sputtering is heard. Delta and Echo rush into the room, camera revealing Foxtrot trapped underneath two SCP-3335-1 instances. Both possess extensive bandaging, though they begin to gnaw at their own wrists with coordination and purpose. Foxtrot thrashes harder but remains immobilized.>
Bravo: Jesus fuck!
Foxtrot:
Delta: What are they doing—?!
Foxtrot: —Shoot! Shoot them!

<Struggle, more gunfire, then quiet. Foxtrot is heard panting and coughing.>
Bravo: You alright?
Foxtrot: No, I'm not fucking alright! Did you see that?! Oh g-god—
Command: What happened? I could barely see your feed.
Alpha: Drugheads, came to life without warning. They were all over Foxy here. Damn things were bleeding everywhere. They pinned him down.
Foxtrot: I-It bled into my m-mouth.
Alpha: What?

<Alpha turns his light towards Foxtrot's face to see him ejecting more red-tinged slurry. He coughs and gags further before answering.>
Foxtrot: The fucking thing wrung out its wrists into my mouth! Fuck—

<Bandages on the instance's arms are observed to have been torn away, blood now flowing freely out of deep lacerations just below their wrists. Fresh scratches are observed on one, corresponding to skin and blood seen under the upward-bent fingernails of their right hand.>
Alpha: Oh, that's vile. How come these guys could talk and move like that?
Delta: More questions. None of which I want answers to.
Alpha: Charlie, you need to report that Foxtrot may have had contact with the chemical agent in question. Likelihood of contamination unknown.
Command: U-Understood. Suggesting evac for Foxtrot, followed by standard decontamination procedures for the rest of you. I'll make a case for Foxy but we all know what they said about exposure.

Alpha: Good plan, Charlie. Let's regroup—

<A large commotion is heard from the stairwell, along with sounds of structural collapse. Alpha steps back into the hall briefly to see boxes and furniture replaced by a large cloud of dust. When the particles settle, it becomes clear that the decrepit stairs have collapsed.>
Command: Everything okay in there? Seismic sensors just blipped.
Alpha: Yeah. Stairwell ate it, though. At least we got another.
Command: Yep, opposite end of the building, as you know. I've sent some recovery agents in to clear a route for extraction. Ah— Okay. Agent [IDENTITY REMOVED] says there's a bunch of garbage and furniture on the other stairwell, but it is intact. Working on clearing it out as we speak.
Echo: What's that supposed to mean?

Alpha: Yeesh. Alright. Maybe we could get to the roof? Some of the nearby buildings looked close enough, but I wouldn't bank on the fire escape being up to code.
Foxtrot: Either way, I don't want to just sit around, waiting to turn.
Alpha: If you turn. You're not the group's lightweight, after all.
Alpha: Not surprised you don't remember. Though, I'm sure housekeeping remembered having to remodel our hotel bathroom.
Echo: It was one party. I had skipped lunch… and breakfast.
Command: You're cleared to continue if you so choose. Be safe and sober out there.
Foxtrot: Yeah. Right. I'm okay, I'm okay. Let's keep going.
Alpha: Alright, Charlie. We're gonna continue for now. Keep us posted about egress.
Command: You got it. Talk to you soon.
Alpha: Can't stop a Watchman.
Bravo: Damn fucking straight.

<Gamma-7 moves out into the hallway once more, inspecting the remaining doors on their current floor and revealing them all to be empty, and in similar states of disrepair. Echo notes a pleasant greeting of 'Hello :)' spray-painted on one of the doors.>
Echo: I guess someone's got a sense of humor. Or maybe they really are that friendly.
Alpha: Don't know which I hate more.

<Nearing the last functioning set of stairs, Gamma-7 finds another unlocked door, which leads to a spacious yet cramped domicile. It possesses signs of more recent activity; dozens of boxes with varying contents, primarily medical and surgical supplies, fill much of the apartment's floorspace. Ledgers of messy handwriting litter the kitchen table, along with diagrams and heavily notated images of dissected human brains.>
Foxtrot: These are describing some sort of surgical process. Removing a part of the brain. And… And altering the nervous system to let one hemisphere take advantage of this criss-crossy thing here.

<Foxtrot indicates to particular image depicting contralateral brain organization; specifically, how each hemisphere of the human brain controls motor functions for the opposite side of the body. A series of tightly-bound nerve fibres form a rough chiasm across the brainstem.>
Bravo: I'm no neurosurgeon, but doesn't operating on a brain require like… extreme accuracy and a completely sterile workspace? I don't think we can even reconnect a brain in the right way once the cables have been cut. Right?
Echo: Yeah, this is way outside of humanity's collective understanding of neuroscience. There might be something worth something to the lab coats in here, or it could all be anomalous parlor tricks.
Alpha: Amateur science project? Or the key to unlocking the secrets of the human mind? Who knows. I'll grab 'em anyway, why not. Some of this stuff has to be made up, 'Basal ganglia'? I'm pretty sure if I showed you my basal ganglia, I'd get reported to HR.
Echo: I'm gonna ignore that.
Alpha: <inspecting a document with hand drawn diagrams and notes, depicting a process of rewiring "foreign" neurons and synapses together> Gah, I can't even read this chicken scratch. My kid could've done better than this.

Alpha: What? Oh. Goddamn it.
Bravo: You have a child?
Alpha: What, did I not tell you? It doesn't matter anyway, it was a slip of the tongue.
Delta: Huh?
Alpha: I don't mix work and personal life. Not in this profession.
Echo: I tell you guys everything. All my dirty little secrets.
Alpha: You do? What a boring life.
Bravo: Yowch.
Alpha: Hey, whatever mistakes I make in my spare time, and whatever unfortunate consequences result from said mistakes, are noneya. What are we gonna do next, exchange photos of our pets on their birthdays? Have an office sweater party?
Foxtrot: Don't knock it until you try it. You'll never know if you never find out.

<The team goes quiet. Gamma-7 makes their way into a master bedroom, spotting two SCP-3335-1 instances occupying the space. One is hanging from a noose made of electrical wires tied into knots and fed through a hole in the ceiling, which is secured around a wooden support beam. Its eyes are bulging and bloodshot.>
Bravo: Poor bastard.

<The second instance is found laying across a mattress, covered in blood. Layers of rust-colored stains hide, partially obscured beneath the bright and glistening red of a recent spill. On a nearby nightstand, used surgical equipment is piled in a heap. The instance is alive, but just barely; it breathes shallowly, skin blue and pallid. It possesses head bandages matching other recently-observed brain surgeries, performed with a level of craftsmanship expected. However, something must have gone awry during this procedure in particular, as a hastily-performed tracheostomy is observed; a small, plastic tube extends from an incision in its neck, allowing the instance to breathe while its nose and mouth were unable to provide a clear route. A collection of bloody plastic bottles found beside the instance and its red-stained lips suggest an inability to multitask.>
Alpha: Damn. At least this will be easy. Keep your distance, though.
Bravo: I think I know where the smell is coming from.
Echo: —Agh!

<After termination, Gamma-7 proceeds out to the front stairway, which appears to have been remodeled sometime in recent decades. Lights moving through piles of detritus downstairs confirm the presence of Foundation recovery agents, who are waiting on chains and a hoist to dislodge a large safe blocking the first floor path. Gamma-7 decides to progress to the third and topmost level. Bravo, reaching the floor first, pauses, eyes scanning and registering something out of camera view. He exhales slowly, pressing his eyelids shut for a brief moment. When he opens them again, there is a noticeable fatigue in his gaze.>

<The third floor landing presents itself, which is a similar layout to previous, aside from the inclusion of remains belonging to several individuals, piled against the far wall. All appear to have undergone the same procedure, possessing paricularly subpar repairs, even when compared to other instances observed. Flies can be seen swarming around the cadavers, a writhing mass of maggots infesting the cranial cavity of one unlucky corpse. Foxtrot is heard vomiting off camera.>
Alpha: Sensitive stomach there, Foxman?
Foxtrot: Coughs. Ack. Can't help it. All I can taste is copper, rot, and half-digested pizza.
Alpha: Point taken.
Bravo: Here— have some water.

<Camera feed wheels around to show Echo, staring downward into the dark stairwell. Delta points the camera in a similar direction. Nothing is there.>
Delta: What? What was it?
Echo: I saw someone behind us… Or, I thought I did.

Alpha: Alright, stay alert. Bravo, check downstairs for any signs we're being followed. Don't venture off too far. Terminate first, ask questions later. None of this moralistic bullshit; as far as I am concerned, it's kill or be killed from here on out. The rest of you, start trying doors. Alright?
Bravo: Alright.

<Gamma-7, sans Bravo, move wordlessly, splitting up and attempting to access the remaining apartments. Most of which are barricaded or otherwise blocked from inside. Bravo rejoins a moment later.>
Bravo: Stairwell clear. Must have run off.
Alpha: Alright no problem, let's try this one—

_<A sharp yelp is heard, originating from beyond a closed door across the hall, adjacent the bodies. A low //thump_ is registered, followed by indistict, dampened vocalizations which grow silent after a short time.>//
Alpha: New plan. Let's go.

<Gamma-7 silently makes their way to the door, finding it locked.>
Alpha: Echo, get this lock here.
Echo: Mhm.

<After a moment, the agent's badge proves to be effective once more. Echo pulls the door open, shoulder light projecting a beam into the pitch-black space beyond its threshold.>
Echo: Oh my god.

<Camera feed points into the doorway, revealing a floor littered with SCP-3335-1 instances, at least twenty. All appear unconscious or dead. Blood and filth coats the ground. In a corner, two individuals are hooked up to intravenous lines which are used to siphon blood into buckets. Makeshift chemistry equipment and paraphernalia are noted, along with large containers of powder assumed to be SCP-3335 and/or its precursors, as well as coolers, ice machines, and various shipping materials.>

<Echo places an index finger against his lips as he steps into a trashed living room, carefully navigating around unresponsive SCP-3335-1 instances, with the rest of Gamma-7 wordlessly following suit. Echo pauses, peeking around a corner, which leads to a kitchen space. Gamma-7 notes a large, open hole located on a wall of the kitchen, which leads into a neighboring unit.>
Echo: Bodies just keep going into the other unit. I guess this is where everyone went. Wonder if other units are like this.
Alpha: The hell is this, some sort of hive…?
Bravo: It looks more like a two-in-one chemlab and trafficking depot.
Echo: They're extracting the stuff using… communal blood buckets.
Delta: God, that's fucking nasty. I vote we torch this whole complex and get the hell out of dodge, I want to go back and take a shower.
Alpha: That's starting to sound like the only sensible idea. Let's finish up, I don't think there is much more to learn here, but we need to know for sure before we demolish the place. Some rooms up here.
Bravo: —Also, this might not be the best time to point this out, but is that smoky smell getting worse?
Alpha: No, you're right. And it doesn't smell the same. It's… more acrid.

<Sounds of movement are heard coming from another room in the apartment. Alpha gestures towards it, he and Delta slowly navigate their way around a number of sleeping forms, heading back into the kitchen, where chemistry equipment occupies much of the counter space. A number of appliances hum, one of which appears to reduce red liquid into an orange paste, another dries a batch of paste into crystalline powder. Test batches of yellow-to-white powder are strewn about the countertop.>
Delta: Tweaking the formula?

<Once through, Delta and Alpha investigate a nearby bedroom. Alpha crosses the doorway's threshold and disappears out of view. Camera feed pans around to reveal a single instance of SCP-3335-1 convulsing on the floor.>
Alpha: Alright. Let's douse this place.

<Bravo produces a small container of accelerant from his pack. He begins pouring it onto floor, then stops as an unknown figure emergs slowly from the shadows. Gamma-7 raises their weapons towards the stranger, who raises both hands in response.>11
Alpha: Identify yourself. Now.
POI-3335: Well?!

POI-3335: Easy now. I highly suggest you reconsider your course of action. I am unarmed.
POI-3335: Please, lower your weapons. For your own safety.

If you shoot, you will be responsible for what happens to everyone on your team, and to the dozens of lives laying peacefully around us. Pursue your other options. A new world awaits all of us, and it is approaching quickly. If you lay down your arms, you can walk free. You can avoid your planned obsolescence.
Alpha: You're in no position to threaten us. Explain yourself. What have you done to these people? How—?
POI-3335: I did nothing, and I am not threatening you. I am only a middleman in this transaction, a mere messenger of the danger you are in. Your window is closing.

<POI-3335 steps towards the group, keeping both hands raised as Alpha trains his sights towards the figure's head. The stranger lifts his own hands higher in response.>

POI-3335: Please, listen to me! You are surrounded by containers for one of two products, or one half of one supply. They also chose to be here. It is their duty. To their community. Do you know your duty?

<Members of Gamma-7 do not react, unable to gauge the individual's demeanor. When POI-3335 speaks again, it reasserts the question in a gravely serious, angered tone.>
Delta: We have to stop your operation. This is… too much.
Bravo: It's fucked up, is what it is!
POI-3335: You are mistaken. Our methods scare you, understandably, because they are unrecognizable. But they are voluntary, and necessary.

Echo: Bullshit. Foxy didn't volunteer for this. They pinned him down! They bled into his mouth!
POI-3335: <looking to Foxtrot, smiling, hands lowering slowly, approaching the operative> Ah, right. I knew it was you. I smelled it in your bloodstream. Paradise is being writ inside your skull. Others will not see it until your mind is twisted back to reflect upon the limitations of Form, and the worlds within.

<Foxtrot gives a respectful nod, dropping his gun and pulling off his headwear. The agent's once-bushy hair is now shaven, replaced by a circular pre-operative guide marking drawn in a dashed line traced around his head, temple-high. He kneels proudly. Alpha lowers his firearm, bewildered, though he keeps the weapon pointed in POI-3335's direction.>
Foxtrot: I did it. I brought them. Get me out.
Delta: What are you talking about?! We saw you nearly choke to death, y-you didn't, you couldn't have wanted that!
POI-3335: Of course not, who would? An unfortunate occurrence. It wasn't your fault, remember. Your 'friend' was cavalier with his flashlight and you paid the price. But you will get used to the taste, I just wish it was on your terms. Foxtrot—or Randall, as I know him—and I have a preexisting relationship. He wanted a ticket to our Migration, and, to his credit, knew exactly what he needed to do to get there. <to Foxtrot, caressing his forehead> You did exceptionally.

The rest of you should have stayed away. But of course you couldn't. <pauses, sighing wearily> You all have yet to realize that you cannot turn back from here. That there are no retakes. These days mark the end of your Foundation's edema within our Flesh. I'm sorry it has to be this way.

Your employers trample on a plan far larger than you know, right as it closes in on them, on you. And interfering with a global trafficking operation run by clairvoyants is bad for your health. Isn't that right, [IDENTITY REMOVED]?
Alpha: The fuck did you just call me?
POI-3335: Your name. Well, one of them. We know a great deal about you.

<Delta, Bravo, and Echo all turn to look at Alpha, who does not acknowledge their glances. He raises his weapon again, eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and anger. After a moment, a Foundation-issue handheld transceiver on the kitchen counter crackles, along with Gamma-7's comms.>
Command: Hey, what's up guys, sorry about the delay, needed to take a piss and couldn't find a bathroom, what's going on_—oh holy shit—<rustling as the headset is displaced from Command's head and deposited some distance away.>—fuck fuck fuck, where's the goddamn situation manual!—oh-<the sound of tires swerving on asphalt, followed by a loud crash>—Ugh… fuck, agh, my head, ow—oh, hi, sorry! Didn't see you turning there. Yeah, really sorry, emergency though, gotta, gotta go, sorry, yes, right, my insurance card, yeah. Fuck, lemme get… wait, I just—I need—I just need to—to handle-I said-I NEED TO HANDLE SOMETHING FIRST PLEASE! Jesus. Uh, shit-shit-okay-There!——w-would this be "D" for "double-cross"…? Or, no—"P" for "Personal info leak"?-or is-is it "T" for "teammate assimilation scenario"…or… no, no, no…<distant sirens, growing louder>_—Ah, fuck. I, uh, I gotta go.
POI-3335: Ahem. We know so very much about all of you. None of you are free from criticism.
Bravo: Do we have to take him in alive? I'm beginning to lose patience with this guy.
POI-3335: Ah, yes. Of course you would be the one to do so. You've lost your patience with so many people. Did they all deserve it? You tell me… or maybe you don't have to. Maybe they're already here.
Bravo: Fuck you.
Delta: Stop! Don't let him get under your skin.
Echo: I thought you transferred in after university… right?
Alpha: Get to your point.

POI-3335: Oh, ever the realist, aren't you? Always pragmatic. Do you remember why you joined the Foundation, hm? That bright future, thrown away for chemical bliss and long-sleeve shirts to hide your track marks. Do your teammates know? Perhaps the irony of your assignment would not be lost on them.

<Her teammate doesn't respond, camera view shaking lightly in response to the line of questioning.>
POI-3335: Of course. Your judgement is built on hypocrisy, your careers built on lies told to drown out the pain of your mistakes.

Meanwhile, there are buildings like these right under your noses, all over the world. You and your kin look down on these places and the people within with pity and disgust, you demonize us as criminals and write us off as lost. We embrace each other, give opportunity to prove one's worth. These people have purpose! The folks that cover the ground around you, they work tirelessly to realize our collective vision. They're searching. Even as we speak. Collecting data. Building mental dossiers. Compiling lists. Learning names.

And yet, none of these minds will ever see Paradise. They do this for those that will, fully aware of their position. They have given their lives to their other halves. It is their duty.
Alpha: Your paradise and mine are not the same. And what of these people after they have served their purpose, then? You abandon them.
POI-3335: We do not abandon anyone. They disembark by choice. See for yourself. If you must.

<POI-3335 indicates to a large, closed pantry to Alpha's right. The rest of Gamma-7 keeps their weapons pointed at the figure while Alpha cautiously approaches. Delta eases her way over just as Alpha pulls the bifold doors open, staring silently inside with a fearful, manic confusion.>
Delta: More questions.
Alpha: Ones I no longer want to know the answers to.

<Camera trains downward on a square hole cut into the floor which descended down into darkness. A glow of hazy, sick-smelling smoke drifts upwards, approximately two stories above the foyer. Alpha reels.>
POI-3335: Quick, effective. Not everything in this world is pretty, but mercy can be beautiful.
Alpha: That's putrid. What the hell is this?
POI-3335: Disposal. Chemical synthesis produces waste materials, byproducts, excess reagents… and yet. What's still harder to dispose of than toxic carcinogens?
Delta: You… You mean—
POI-3335: I don't choose for them. They prefer to slough off their flesh over living in the status quo you seek to maintain. They happily do so, as it is their duty. And Randall has given up his vessel to be my next avatar, in time.

<Echo leaves the room upon learning this information, visibly unwell. Bravo stares at a discolored wall in front of him, jaw clenched with anger.>
Alpha: So… who are you, really?

Alpha: Answer the question.

Who are you?
POI-3335: I'm the herald.
Alpha: The Harold? Is that your name?

<POI-3335 laughs, then groans as if in pain, clutching its abdomen.>
POI-3335: The herald. With an e.
Alpha: The herald of what?

<POI-3335's expression is unclear.>
POI-3335: I am herald of the Source. Of two in one. Cognitive dissonance in bisected planes. I oversee, I guide, and I prepare.

I bring messages of hope and bifurcated gifts and relief from the pain of this world. I am herald of a new mode of existence. I birth wasted matter from cages of bone, I sing them lullabies to quell their aching neurons. My name is Sicadîn. Ixtab. Charon. Muut. Anubis.

Tarakeshwara. Xolotl.

Herald to the Source.

I am home to those that sleep standing up, the living dead. I deliver them to worlds of Paradise. You can join us too if you so desire. But you have to make a choice.
Alpha: What choice?
POI-3335: The process is perfect. Minds are not. You have receded, specialized, commodified. The coming world needs not realms of exclusivity. It needs not gated pathways to higher states of Man. It needs open roads that lead to everywhere, where all those places lead as well. Opportunity to spread outward infinitely, a ripple through a cosmic ocean of our own design.

And yet, you've grown fat on the secretions of divide. Your absence of pain has become worth its displacement and not its shared burden. But pain is inevitable. Weakness is a choice. So, your choice is whether or not you are weak. Paradise is open to all, should they seek it.

Are you willing to give up your most precious gifts to get there? You will miss them, but they will be with you always, in partition.
Alpha: And, what, to you, are my most precious gifts?
POI-3335: Not to me, to all. If I give you a choice to live one of two transections of existence, which would you choose? Knowing the face of your daughter or being able to speak her name? Knowing how you felt about her or knowing exactly how old she was when she was taken from you?
Alpha: Sick trick trying to get me emotionally invested.
POI-3335: To sacrifice these things is the most selfless of acts. To hold onto the pain of your loss just to keep her alive is selfish. She can only exist in Paradise. In here.
Alpha: Here's what I think.
Alpha: Typical Sarkic charlatans. I know a grift when I see one. Alright. Bravo, finish dousing this place and light it up. I'll deal with the paperwork.
Bravo: You got it. Everyone good?
Bravo: Burn in hell.
Alpha: Outbound. Let's go, I could use a cigarette and a hose down.

<Alpha fires a shot into POI-3335's head, which pierces its target and does not exit the other side. It falls roughly onto the kitchen tile, groaning loudly as the remaining life fades from its body. Foxtrot stares at the fresh corpse in shock, which enables a second shot from Alpha's sidearm to easily make contact with the back of his neck, killing him instantly.>

<None of the present agents reply, but move towards the door in unison. Bravo pours the rest of the accelerant in a line towards the door as he backs out, lighting a match.>

<Tossing the match, Bravo turns and leaves just as flames begin to spread. Gamma-7's egress was largely uneventful and has been redacted from this document for brevity. Remaining members of Gamma-7 arrived onsite some time later without incident.>

INCIDENT LOG 3335.5 — Situational Update

In the week following the events of this mission, all members of TFO Gamma-7 were found dead in their places of residence. In addition, immediate family members of those involved have since been reported missing, none of which have been recovered. SCP-3335 field operations reassigned to MTF Pi-1.

INCIDENT LOG 3335.6 — SCP-3335-1 Emergent Event III

Surveillance of the New York City area revealed a large, abandoned textile factory which was being used by SCP-3335-1 instances as a nest. Upon termination of SCP-3335-1, autopsies confirm removal of one side of the brain (hemispherectomy).

In addition, several unidentified hemispheres were recovered from the building, having been removed and carefully reconnected to one another in chains using an unknown but highly sophisticated procedure, found to have been "rewired" into a single structure.

One RFID-enabled cerebral implant was approved for use in interpolating data from the structure. 392 ms after activation of a neural implant, the structure underwent a complete cessation of brain activity. A series of images and garbled tones were constructed from the data received, which can be found below.

• • _

  ACCESS RECOVERED DATA?

  The exact meaning of the above media, if such exists, remains unknown.

• _

« SCP-3334 | SCP-3335 | SCP-3336 »

SOLO AFFAIRS

Billith's Author Page

Death is a slow, persistent teacher, and I was its sole student, with countless ears pressed against the abyss.

We sail the skin beneath the sea.

You don’t need to pretend to care about my wellbeing.

Global containment efforts of SCP-8868 have been abandoned.

There will be no remains.

AD ASTRA SED CORPORA NOSTRA RELIQUIT.

"He reached for the gods and found only dust. I reached for life and found only chains. Yet we both remain, etched into the marrow of the world."

malplatformation: any resemblance to existent persons, either real or imagined, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Rsr. Thorley continues to be reminded that this operation is voluntary and unlikely to produce any perceptible benefits, thus they are free to stop at any time.

you store what you've learned in the vault at the back of your mind. you know it well.
WARNING: May cause drowsiness and disorientation. Do not operate heavy machinery while under the influence of this product. This is for your safety.

If there exists some means of understanding this timeline and its eligibility for existence within the Database, it has yet to be discovered.

b e e s (muffled through wall): ayy where you at?

Actually, while I have you here, can I talk to you about something? It's important.

SCP-2719-J is to be contained inside (your mum).

O5-1: Oi, what the fuck is that thing?

This page has been eligible for deletion since: 102 years, 3 months, 5 days…

Hello there! My name is Billith, and if you are reading this, you've either lost a bet or have stumbled upon my technical classifications and logos page.

There is a hole at the center of Everything.

MULTIPLAYER AFFAIRS

First the needless company-wide upgrade to the iPhone 23, now this.

ADMONITION: Intermission II

ADMONITION: Intermission

THE CURRENT goes where it pleases, and builds dams in its wake.

Filename: nothingtoseehere.jpg
Name: Hallway 09
Author: Sampsonchen
License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Source Link: Wikimedia Commons

[[<]]

Filename: 01.png
Author: Billith
License: CC BY-SA 3.0

According to Dr. Holland, the canine "can tear bad guys to shreds, but would never hurt a fly elsewise, even if it flew into his ear."

It starts with an earthquake.

"You know what's worse than being a dead employee? Being an eternally employed, dead employee."

Baker-Miller Pink (pictured). Those sensitive to cognitohazardous media should avoid prolonged exposure.

Filename: Red sky.17
Author: Kala Kalwanu
License: CC BY-SA 4.0
Source Link: Wikimedia Commons

It's Casino Night at the Wanderers' Library. Docents and demons ally to deal every game of chance imaginable.
But we're here to play a game of skill; let's pocket the Eight-Ball.