SCP Foundation

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.

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

Assigned Local Unit: Tactical Field Ops. Gamma-7 ("Night Watchmen")⁷

Present: Agents Alpha; Bravo; Charlie (also referred to as 'Command'); Delta, Foxtrot, Echo⁸

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.

<BEGIN LOG>

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, the windows of each have been 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 agents and flee into the structure across the target.>

Bravo: You can run, butcha can't hide! <cackles>

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— <clears throat>

Alpha: 'Kay, Charlie, we are approaching the entryway. Anything else we should know about this place before ingress?

Command: Okay…oh, right. <papers rustling.> 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 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.

Delta: Crap, door's locked. Solid, too.

Alpha: I told them they should have got us a Dremel. <sighs> Command, do we have permission to barge the door?

Command: <silence for a few seconds> Negative. Too likely to draw attention.

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. Let's go.

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

<Gamma-7 checks each of these rooms, two team members on each side, one opening the doors and one inspecting the status of its respective room and reporting on its contents and usage; One maintenance room, two storage rooms, a boiler room, and a small bathroom, with an "all clear" being heard from within each.>

<Passing further inside, a room labeled "ELECTRICAL" rapidly draws closer, and a low rumble is heard through its solid door. Deciding to investigate, 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 fuses owned by one apartment of the topmost floor, where an indicator light and the residue of a label, which may have been the apartment number, coexisted next to one another.>

Bravo: You smell something toasty? Or am I just havin' a stroke?

Foxtrot: I smell it too. Jury's still out on the stoke, though.

<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.⁹

Delta: Thought the generator would be the source of that smell, all things considered, but it is definitely getting stronger.

<Gamma-7 continues without event through the next room, a thin hallway connecting back to the other maintenance rooms and loading areas, heading forward to the main thoroughfare once used to access the four apartments on each side of the passage. The hall is concealed under black curtains in lieu of light, large and empty, walls alternating from sheetrock, to brick, to gaps between rotting wooden beams and rusted, black-speckled pipes, terminating in shadow. Behind Gamma-7 a set of nondescript double doors stand, the small window on each side obscured with darkness.>

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 the foyer, which contains the mailboxes and such for the whole complex. 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?

<A black emission can be seen pouring out of the seam between the door and the top of its frame.>

Command: Sorry?

<Alpha removes his wool toque and tries to open the foyer door, using the hat like an oven mitt. He winces and retracts his digits, donning the headwear again a moment later.>

Alpha: Seems like the foyer is off limits… for whatever reason. Anomalous? I don't see any flames. I think I actually hear running water.

Echo: I hear it.

Command: Roger that. I guess?

Bravo: Kid, you suck at being van guy.

Command: We all suck! At least I'm trying something new.

Bravo: Valid.

Alpha: We'll circle back around to look at the foyer again later. I'm glad that the cover story is basically writing itself, though.

Delta: I see where your head's at, and I like it.

<A series of sounds akin to struggling are heard somewhere above. Alpha looks up, then across the hallway.>

Alpha: Okay, stairs up ahead. Stairs behind us. What is this place again, two floors?

Echo: Three.

Alpha: Hmph. One entrance compromised. One exit through maintenance areas. Let's choose a door. Delta, pick one.

Delta: This one on the left, I hear voices.

<Audio feed picks up muffled speaking. After a few seconds, Foxtrot is seen knocking on the door. The voices grow silent.>

Echo: <quietly> You're just going to go up and knock like a gentleman? Real polite.

Foxtrot: Fuck you, [IDENTITY REMOVED].

Echo: What'd you just—

Alpha: I don't have time for this.

<Alpha is seen kicking the door next to the handle, causing it to fly open. Camera view is obscured while agents funnel into the room, although a scream is heard, cut short by several suppressed gunshots. View returns, two individuals lying on a broken coffee table. Syringes and wax bags litter the floor.>

Alpha: That ought to do it.

Bravo: What the fuck, man. No one said they were our targets! We gotta confirm that shit beforehand.

Alpha: They've got powder, though.

Foxtrot: Nah, see the stamps? That's heroin. And they've got candles. I heard these guys don't like light.

Echo: That was a risky move. Don't be an idiot. Why do you think we're still TFOs? Shit like this. That's why. If you make me wait another year to re-take MTF certs again, I will sneak laxatives into every meal you eat for a year while we wait for the next one.

Alpha: I guess I'll just eat out every day for a year, problem solved.

Echo: You think that will stop me? I can get fifty part-time jobs. Still less soul-crushing than being stuck in a trap house with you.

Alpha: Whew! Echo's got some teeth today! <sighs> Okay, let's keep moving then.

Bravo: Also, it's a trap mansion.

Alpha: <pointing to Bravo> Trap mansion. What he said.

Delta: If you children are done with your bit, I'd love to continue on with our, ya know, mission. At this rate, we'll be spending the holidays here, too.

<Silence for fifteen seconds as the group navigates back out into the hallway. Checking the next door over, it is determined to be unlocked but barricaded, and cannot be opened. The same result occurs with the next two. Foxtrot goes to check the opposite side but is stopped by Delta.>

Delta: You hear that?

<Muffled, unintelligible vocalizations can be heard in the distance.>

Foxtrot: It's getting louder.

<Sound increases in volume over a period of ten seconds. Soon after, a lone figure is seen crashing down the stairs closest to the group, staggering and swaying, standing, then falling again, apparently unable to keep steady for long. Individual is heavily bandaged around the head and arms.>

Bravo: We have someone inbound.

Foxtrot: He looks hurt. Or really high. Or both.

Alpha: What's your name?

<No response is given, instead, the figure continues to babble and clutch its head in distress. It either does not or cannot effectively communicate with Gamma-7.>

Delta: What should we do? Look at those bandages. Are you alright?

Command: You know our mission parameters. I can't dispatch a medic unless you know they aren't a dash-one.

Delta: Don't remind me. Hey buddy, let's see your pupils—

<Delta shines her flashlight into the instance's eyes, which begin shaking violently the moment the bright torch touches their respective retinas. The instance of SCP-3335-1 loses motor control with a loud thump, falling unconscious and starting to convulse. It then becomes rigid, emitting a groan as the air is forced out of its lungs, capillaries in its face and eyes bursting as the gauze on its head begins to turn red in splotches. The instance assumes decerebrate posture, indicative of a severe, soon-to-be-fatal brainstem injury, and its painful warping of form ceases shortly thereafter.>

Bravo: Well, that was something. Never seen one of those up close before. Fuck me.

Echo: I don't want to be here.

Bravo: You good?

<Echo nods, though he is pale, arms crossed tightly against his stomach in a defensive stance.>

Delta: Did I do that?

Alpha: Yeah, there was nothing in the briefings about this. They mentioned photosensitivity—Bit of an understatement if this is what they meant.

Delta: Uh. You might want to see this.

Echo: What is it?

Bravo: Oh god, what the hell.

<Delta pulls back the bandaging to reveal a set of miscellaneous materials that run in a radial pattern around the individual's head, which is split into several segments along uneven, messy seams. Dried residue suggestive of quick-dry adhesives run their length, as well as a set of inconsistent stitching, supported by the presence of thumbtacks, staples, sewing needles, screws, and broken syringes as an attempt to further secure the pieces in place. The wounds are infected and continue to bleed.>

Alpha: Yeah, this guy looks messed up. If I had to guess I'd say he paid for back alley brain surgery, or cracked himself open and tried to put Humpty Dumpty back together using whatever he had laying around the house. Did a shoddy job either way.

Delta: These sutures look loose—fuck!

<The stitching appears to dislodge, the portion of skin and bone falling away, revealing an open hole into its cranial cavity.>

Alpha: Fuck, that's awful. I can see inside his head.

Foxtrot: <stifling a gag>

Alpha: What—

Bravo: Where the fuck is his brain? Where the fuck is it?

Alpha: No, there's some left. Looks like its missing about half. One…lobe?

Command: Hemisphere.

Alpha: Okay…nerd.

Echo: <quietly> How… How was this guy still alive? Did he just get the surgery, like, five minutes ago?

A few seconds of speculation follows, cut short by another guttural bellow somewhere above Gamma-7.

Bravo: I think it's time we took this a little more seriously.

Foxtrot: Yeah. Let's head up, not looking to hang around too long. I picked the wrong day to eat three slices of pizza before doing fieldwork.

<Silence for ten seconds, followed by the crew's echoing footsteps. Something else is heard moving a ways behind Gamma-7, only audible to Delta, who was situated at the tail end of the group. She turns back towards the hallway and stares for a few moments. Detecting nothing, she is seen returning to the rest of her team.>

<Gamma-7 is seen approaching the stairwell, ascending to the second floor landing, maneuvering around large boxes and furniture that cover the stairs as poorly-constructed barricade. A few items require relocation further down the stairs, which is accomplished with some effort.>

<The second floor is accessed, a narrow hallway compared to the previous, though the residences themselves are likely larger; The maintenance areas from the ground floor are not present here and the apartment doors are noticeably farther apart. Foxtrot throws up a hand sign to his teammates, who immediately stop moving at the command. After a moment, he turns to face the group.>

Alpha: What is it?

Foxtrot: Smell that?

Bravo: Smells like death. Still hungry, Alf?

Alpha: What do you think?

Delta: This door is ajar. What's that?

<An image resembling a Celtic knot can be seen on the off-white door, painted on with a reddish-brown pigment.>

Alpha: I see it. Weapons ready, everyone.

Bravo: Watch your step.

<The team passes the threshold into a trashed apartment. It appears recently lived in.>

Alpha: Alright. Three doors. Bravo, Foxtrot, you come with me. Delta, Echo, check out those two.

Echo: You got it.

Bravo: Quiet now.

<Ambient background noise is picked up for the next thirty seconds. Alpha, Bravo, and Foxtrot venture into a hallway and disappear from view. Delta and Echo are seen entering the decrepit living space and dining area on the opposite side, determining them both to be empty. Large portions of the furniture and walls have been smashed or torn apart. All light sources have been removed, as well as their fixtures and any wiring which would have connected them to a power source.>

Delta: Clear over here. Looks like someone tried to redecorate with a sledgehammer.

Echo: Same.

Alpha: Okay. Foxtrot, check the bedroom. Bravo, cover the bathroom.

Bravo: Got it.

Foxtrot: We got bodies in here, yo.

<The camera feed confirms this claim as Echo and Delta rejoin Alpha and Foxtrot in the master bedroom; A number of individuals are seen laying across the moldy floor and against the unkempt bed.>

Alpha: More dash-ones. Are they dead?

Foxtrot: No bandages on the heads. Wrists though…

Bravo: Bathroom is clear, albeit disgusting. Mirror is smashed through.

Foxtrot: Still alive, shallow breathing though, even lower heart rate. Probably comatose—

<Bravo enters the room, shining his flashlight in the direction of Foxtrot. The beam illuminates the still faces of two instances of SCP-3335-1, who immediately awaken, eyes in rapid nystagmus for a moment. Another moment passes, and both pairs are 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 only to express extreme emotion with no cohesive pattern or inciting cause. One appears to be attempting to pull its own arm off of Foxtrot, but fails to do so. The agent's pleas for help are drowned out by a gurgling sound. Alpha is heard firing rounds into the figures, although they do not seem deterred.>

SCP-3335-1: <in approximate unison> 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 underneath two SCP-3335-1 instances, who are pinning him down. Both have the same 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: <choking and gasping>

Delta: What the hell are they doing—

Foxtrot: <wet coughing>—Shoot! Shoot them!

<Struggle, more gunfire, then quiet. Foxtrot is heard panting and whimpering.>

Bravo: You alright?

Foxtrot: No, I'm not fucking alright! Did you see that?! Oh god—<vomits>

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: <gagging> 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 wounds in my mouth!

<The bandages on the arms of one of the individuals are torn away, blood flowing freely out of deep lacerations on the wrists. Fresh scratches are seen on the arm from its other hand, which has skin and blood under its fingernails.>

Alpha: Oh, that's vile. <pauses> 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: <pauses> 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.

<The room is silent for a moment.>

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 the boxes and furniture replaced by a 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, the 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 ensure a clear route for y'all. Ah—<pauses> Okay. Abernathy says there's a bunch of garbage and furniture in the other stairwell, but it is intact. They're working on clearing it out as we speak.

Alpha: Yeesh. Alright.

Foxtrot: If we have time to kill, we should get as much of this place cleared out as we can. I don't want to be just sitting around, waiting to turn.

Alpha: If you turn. You're not the lightweight of the group, right? <indicates to the teammate on his left>

Echo: What's that supposed to mean?

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.

Foxtrot: <chuckles> 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.

Alpha: <pulling Foxtrot to his feet> 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, the team finds a spacious yet cramped domicile unlocked, possessing signs of more recent activity; Dozens of boxes of 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 of the human brain, scored with various marks and denotations.>

Foxtrot: They're surgery notes, for removing a part of the brain. And… <pauses> And modifying the nervous system to let one hemisphere take advantage of this criss-crossy thing here.

<The agent indicates to a diagram explaining how one hemisphere of the brain is responsible for motor control functions for the opposite half 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 it's severed.

Echo: Yeah, this is way outside of our 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? <looking at the notes> Or the key to unlocking the secrets of the human mind? Who knows. I'll grab em anyway, why not. <glancing at each page as he begins stowing them in his bag.> Some of this stuff has to be made up, <pauses> '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, on the topic of rewiring "foreign" neurons and synapses together> Gah, I can't even read this chicken scratch. My kid could've done better than this.

<The rest of Gamma-7 looks over at him.>

Alpha: What?

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.

Echo: Yowch.

Alpha: Hey, whatever mistakes I make in my spare time, and the unfortunate consequences of those 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 'til you try it, is all I'm gonna say.

<Gamma-7 enters the master bedroom, spotting two individuals occupying the center of the room. One is seen hanging from a noose made of electrical wires tied into knots, fed through a hole in the ceiling, which is secured around a wooden support beam. It's eyes are bulging and bloodshot.>

Bravo: Poor bastard.

<Another lies on the bed, which is saturated with blood; layers of rust-colored stains are being hidden underneath fresh red colouration. On the nightstands, used surgical equipment is piled in a heap. This SCP-3335-1 instance is alive, but just barely; It breathes shallowly, skin blue, possessing the head bandages of other recently-observed brain surgeries, with levels of craftsmanship expected. However, something may have gone awry during the procedure, as this SCP-3335-1 possesses a hastily-performed tracheostomy; A small, plastic tube extends from an incision in its neck, allowing it to breathe while the nose and mouth may have been unable to provide clear route. The empty bottles next to the creature's limp body and its red-tinged lips suggest an inability to multitask. Several additional water bottles are found around them, filled with a sickly, dark liquid.>

Alpha: Damn. At least this will be easy. Keep your distance though.

<After termination, Gamma-7 proceeds out again to the second stairway and confirms the presence of Anomalous Recovery Agent Abernathy, whose team is waiting on chains and a hoist to dislodge a large safe blocking the first floor path. The group decides to continue progressing onto the top level.>

Bravo: I think I know where the smell is coming from.

<The third floor landing comes into view, which is of similar layout to the second on first glance, with the added remains of several individuals piled in the far corner. All appear to have undergone the same head trauma, with varying degrees of repair. Flies can be seen swarming around the bodies, a writhing mass of maggots infesting the cranial cavity of one unlucky cadaver. Foxtrot is heard vomiting off camera.>

Alpha: Sensitive stomach there, foxman?

Foxtrot: Can't help it, all I can taste is copper, rot, and digested pizza.

Alpha: Point taken.

Bravo: Here—have some water.

Echo: —Agh!

<Camera wheels around to show Echo staring back down the stairwell. Delta walks back and aims the camera downward into the space.>

Delta: What? What was it?

Echo: Someone was behind us.

Alpha: Alright, stay alert. Bravo, go ahead and check the second floor 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, let's start trying doors.

Bravo: You got it.

<The agents are seen attempting to access the apartments, most of which are barricaded from the inside to a degree that would require plastic charges to clear, a method that could just as easily level half the neglected complex in one move. Instead, Gamma-7 continues on.>

Bravo: Stairwell clear. Must have run off.

Alpha: Alright no problem, let's try this one—

<A scream is heard coming from the far end of the hall, followed by some dampened vocalizations.>

Alpha: New plan. Let's go.

<The team silently makes their way to the door, which is locked.>

Alpha: Echo, get this lock here.

Echo: Mhm.

<After a moment, Echo bypasses the lock and pushes the door open.>

Echo: Oh my god.

<Camera comes into the view of the doorway, revealing the floor to be littered with SCP-3335-1 instances, at least twenty. All appear unconscious or dead. Blood coats the ground. In the corner, two individuals are hooked up to intravenous lines, seemingly used to siphon blood into buckets. Makeshift chemistry equipment and paraphernalia are noted, along with large containers of powder assumed to be SCP-3335, coolers, ice machines, and shipping/packing materials. One wall has been torn down, originally separating itself from the barricaded apartment next door.>

<Echo steps into the room and carefully navigates around the bodies, the rest follow suit. He pauses as soon as his head was able to look around the corner into the kitchen and, subsequently, the open hole into the next unit.>

Echo: Bodies just keep going into the other unit. I guess this is where everyone went. Wonder if more of the units are like this.

Alpha: <hushed> 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 here, 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.

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 making their way around the bodies and through the kitchen, where more chemistry equipment is set up, the apparent purpose being reducing blood into paste, then subsequently into powder. A few test batches are seen strewn about the countertops.>

Delta: Tweaking the formula?

<Once through, the two head into the bedroom. Alpha is seen crossing the threshold and disappearing out of view. The camera reveals a lone instance of SCP-3335-1 convulsing on the floor.>

Alpha: <sighs> Alright. <whispering> Let's douse this place.

<Bravo is seen producing a small container of accelerant from his pack. He starts to pour it on the floor but stops when a lone figure steps slowly out from the shadows. The rest of the group raises their weapons at the stranger, who raises his hands in response.>¹⁰

POI-3335: Easy now. I really suggest you reconsider your course of action.

Alpha: Identify yourself.

POI-3335: If you shoot, you will be responsible for the death of everyone on your team, and dozens of lives laying peacefully around us. Pursue your other options, for a new world awaits all of us. If you lay down your weapons now, you can still be a part of that.

Alpha: What have you done to these people? How—?

POI-3335: I did nothing. I am a mere middleman in this transaction.

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. Do you know yours?

<Gamma-7 does not react, unsure of how to gauge POI-3335's calm demeanor. When he speaks again, he reasserts his question with incommensurate anger which does not help with their assessment.>

POI-3335: Well?!

Delta: We have to stop your operation. This is… too much.

POI-3335: You are mistaken. Our methods scare you, because they are unrecognizable. But they are voluntary.

Echo: One of our teammates didn't volunteer for this. They pinned him down! They bled in his mouth!

POI-3335: <looking to Foxtrot, smiling> Ah, yes. I knew it was you. I smell it in your bloodstream. A thousand new worlds are being writ on inside of your skull. Others will not see it until your eyes are twisted back to reflect upon the limitations of Form.

<Foxtrot gives a respectful nod, dropping his gun, and pulls off his dark toque. Foxtrot's once-bushy hair is now shaven, replaced by a circular pre-operative guide marking drawn in a dashed line around the side of his head. He kneels proudly.>

Foxtrot: I did it. I brought them. Get me out.

Delta: <panicked> Foxtrot, what are you t-talking about?! We saw you nearly choke to death, you didn't want that!

POI-3335: Of course not, who would? An unfortunate coincidence. <to Foxtrot> 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. <to Delta> Foxtrot—or Randall, as I know him—and I have a preexisting relationship. He wanted a ticket to the Migration, and, to his credit, knew exactly what he needed to do to get there. <to Foxtrot> You did exceptionally.

<to the others> You do not yet realize that you cannot turn back from here. That there are no retakes. This marks the end of your edema, clogging the drain pipes of progress. Trampling on a plan far larger than you could know. You will learn that 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.>

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 removed 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, ahh, my head, ah, Hi, sorry! Didn't see you turning there. Yeah, really sorry, emergency though, gotta, gotta go, sorry, yes 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, shit-shit-okay-There!—<pages rustling>—would this be "D" for "double-cross"…? Or, no—"P" for "Personal info leak"?-or is it "T" for "teammate assimilation scenario"…or…is it…no, no, no…<sirens>—Ah, fuck. <communication ends>

POI-3335: Ahem. We know so very much about all of you. None of you are free from criticism.

Bravo: 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. <POI-3335 glances amongst the bodies on the tile and carpet>

Bravo: Fuck you.

Delta: Stop! Don't let him get under your skin.

POI-3335: Oh, ever the realist, aren't you? Always pragmatic. Do you remember why you joined the Foundation, hm? Do your teammates know? Perhaps the irony of your assignment would not be lost on them.

<Delta goes silent.>

Echo: <to Delta> I thought you transferred in after university?

<Her teammate doesn't respond, eyes brimming with tears.>

Alpha: Get to your point.

POI-3335: Of course. You see, 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, you demonize them as criminals and write them off as lost. We embrace them, and they welcome opportunity to prove their worth. <pointing at the bodies nearby>. WE have given them purpose! The folks on 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: What happens to them after they have served their purpose?

POI-3335: See for yourself. If you must.

<POI-3335 indicates to a large closet to Alpha's right. The remainder of the team keeps their weapons trained on the entity, while Alpha, very cautiously, approaches. Delta eases her way over with the camera in-hand. Alpha pulls the bifold doors in opposite directions, revealing its contents with a fearful, manic confusion.>

Delta: More questions.

Alpha: Ones I no longer want to know the answers to.

<Camera trains downward on a dark, square hole cut into the floor, descending into darkness, the glow of hazy, sick-smelling smoke drifts upwards, approximately two stories above where the foyer would be. Alpha reels.>

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 know the rules. They've sloughed off their flesh in exchange for a chance at Migration. They happily do so. 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. Bravo simply stares at the the wall in front of him, jaw clenched with indignant anger.>

Alpha: Who are you, really?

<The entity does not respond.>

Alpha: Answer the question.

Alpha: 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.>

POI-3335: The herald. With an e.

Alpha: The herald of what?

<Its expression is unclear.>

POI-3335: I am herald of the Source. Of two in one. Cognitive dissonance in bisected planes. I oversee here, I guide there, 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, to 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: A choice?

POI-3335: The process is perfect. Minds are not. You have receded, specialized, commodified. The 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.

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?

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: Would you rather hold on to the pain of that loss if it meant keeping her alive, in here? <entity points to its own temple>

Alpha: Here's what I think.

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

Alpha: Typical Sarkic charlatans. I know a grift when I see one. Alright. Bravo, finish dousing this place and light it up.

Bravo: Outbound. Let's do this.

<Bravo pours the rest of the accelerant in a line towards the door as he backs out, lighting a match.>

Bravo: Burn in hell.

Alpha: <to Delta, Echo, Bravo> C'mon. I could use a cigarette and a hose down.

<Tossing the match, Bravo turns and leaves as the fire starts to spread. Gamma-7's egress was largely uneventful and has been redacted from this document for brevity. The remaining members of Gamma-7 returned onsite without incident.>

<END LOG>

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 been reported missing, none of which have been recovered. SCP-3335 field operations reassigned to MTF Pi-1.

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 the 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. Nerve endings in the brainstem were found to have been "rewired" to those of the others.

One RFID-enabled cerebral implant was approved for use in interpolating data from the structure. 392 ms after activation of the 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.