SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘CHARLIE’

Link to article: SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘CHARLIE’.

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[[div class="anchor"]]
[[div class="sidebox"]]
||~ SCP-6881 || **Project: SERAPIS** ||
||||= Supplementary Document ‘CHARLIE’ ||

||= [[image https://i.imgur.com/Q2TCZnd.png style="width: 150px;"]] ||
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[[div class="meta-title"]]
SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘CHARLIE’
[[/div]]

[[div class="pseudocrumbs"]]
[[[scp-6881|Project: SERAPIS]]] >> Supplementary Document ‘CHARLIE’
[[/div]]

@@ @@

+++ ##900|► Play##

[[div class="blockquote"]]
[[div class="blockquote"]]
**GALLIO:** This is Agent Hector Gallio. The following information is classified Level 5 under Project Serapis. O-5 Eyes Only.

I started research into anomalies in the Shibbet’s Vale area of Southern Montana by starting with the most recent events, and working backwards. After the incident at the White Tail Ski Lodge, the next incident was from the county search and rescue service. This outfit conducts operations to find people lost in the wilderness across much of the southern part of the State.

In 1992, the service conducted an operation to search for three missing hikers on the southern slopes of the Mourning Cloak Mountains. The post-operation briefing was sealed. That’s strange enough. Stranger still is, the local police and emergency services had no record of it at all. Foundation protocols let me get hold of a copy of the operation’s records, which existed only on paper in the search and rescue service’s offices and were never computerised. The reason for all the secrecy became obvious as I read through it.

What I received was a package of documents including written materials recovered during the operation and transcripts of interviews with the rescuers involved. In particular one of them, a former fireman and search volunteer named Gerald McCoffrey, kept detailed journals of operations to use in training. It was his notes that let me reconstruct the events of 1992. 

McCoffrey died at the age of 72 two years ago, of chronic emphysema. It seems he never spoke to anyone, at least in any official capacity, of what happened in 1992. I wish I could have met him in person.

[[/div]]
[[/div]]

+++ ##900|■ Stop##

[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="SHOW —  Gallatin Journals [CLASSIFIED 5/SERAPIS]" hide="− HIDE"]]

@@ @@

= **SHOW FILES**

@@ @@

+++ ##900|1992##
+ GALLATIN COUNTY SEARCH AND RESCUE
++ ##900|SHIBBET’S VALE, MONTANA, U.S.A##

@@ @@
----
@@ @@ 
+++++ PERSONS CONCERNED

@@ @@

GERALD MCCOFFREY, Male, Gallatin County Search and Rescue
MICHELLE “SHELBY” EVERLEIGH, Female, Hiker
BRIAN “HERC” HERKHAM, Male, Hiker
ROMAN BLISSET, Male, Hiker

@@ @@

+++++ MATERIALS

@@ @@

JOURNAL TRANSCRIPTS - AUDIO FILE/WRITTEN

@@ @@


[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ JOURNAL LOG -- 1/5
----
[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
|name=McCoffrey.jpg
|caption=Gerald McCoffrey, circa 2011]]

(The journal of search and rescue volunteer McCoffrey.)

This operation takes place in the southern Mourning Cloak Mountains, about twelve miles north-east of Scarslow. The area is called Shibbet’s Vale. We were looking for three hikers, who had failed to return to their hotel in Scarslow. Volunteers found their vehicles parked just off the road near the old summer camp, with the hikers themselves absent. Realising they must still be on the mountain, county search and rescue was alerted and we set up a search for them.

Roman Blisset, age 32. Experienced outdoorsman, mostly hunting. Brian Herkham age 28, known as ‘Herc’. Not a veteran but not a complete novice either, and smart. Michelle Everleigh, known as ‘Shelby’, age 44. Very experienced. By all accounts they were decently equipped and had made all the right preparations. They knew what they were doing. The most likely scenario was one or more of them had been injured in an accident, and the others were sticking with the injured party to wait for rescue. 

I’ve run searches like this before but not in the Mourning Cloaks. Not many hikers go up there. It’s not as well known as a lot of the other parts of the state. There are established paths, though, some of them from the logging around here decades ago. The three hikers left their itinerary at the hotel. They were only supposed to spend a single night camping on the mountain before returning. We had the approximate location of their camp, so I decided to locate it and then radiate out to search for them as well as posting men on the path back to their vehicles in case they made it off the mountain on their own.

The weather was good, though even in summer it can get cold higher up. The terrain is rough, though. The Mourning Cloaks are rugged and steep in places. The ground can fall away suddenly when your view is masked by the trees. There are bears and mountain lions around, too. It was my first time in these mountains. The same for most of the other volunteers. This is Crow Country and I contacted the tribal council at the reservation. They didn’t have anyone familiar with the area since it turns out the Crow never settled in Shibbet’s Vale itself. Not sure why, it seems as good country as anywhere else.

(//There is a pause in the recording//)

Hour Eight

We got to the campsite in a few hours of hard hiking. It was just off the path leading to the first shoulder of the southernmost peak. It was still beneath the treeline. Three single-man tents around a firepit, all of them empty. The tents still had sleeping bags and groundsheets. Looks like they were planning to come back here, but never did. 

There were some personal belongings left in the tents. Toiletries, changes of clothes. The hikers were keeping trail diaries, which we found. Once we checked the immediate area and were satisfied they weren’t there, I radioed guys by the cars, who relayed to Scarslow that we’d need air support from State to get some eyes in the sky. Don’t know how long it will take. 

We’re in the unknown phase now. Those three could be back at the hotel, with no idea we’re looking for them. They could be lying dead in a ravine. Could be hurt and desperate for help. Every decision we make could be the difference between them living or dying, or everything we do might be pointless. You have to think in percentages, and tell yourself you did the best with the info you had, regardless of how it turns out. You keep going. You tick all the boxes. Follow all the procedures. Even if the worst happens, you have to be able to say you gave them the best chance you could.
[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ EVERLEIGH JOURNAL -- 1/1
----
[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
|name=Shelby.jpg
|caption=Shelby Everleigh, circa 1991]]


(The journal of Shelby Everleigh)

I’m worried. Not about the safety of Herc and Roman, they’ll be fine. I don’t think they understand this land. It’s not about conquering it, or making it your muse. It’s about respecting it. Reaching an equilibrium with it. It clears our mind of all the things we don’t need. It makes us stable. Herc and Roman don’t understand that.

The Mourning Cloaks are beautiful, but you have to put some effort into finding the beauty. The conifers up to the treeline are so dense it’s like walking at night. The rocks are brown and grey and this time of year the snow is only on the uppermost slopes. It’s not an Alpine valley or a Tuscan estate. It doesn’t jump out at you like the lid of a chocolate box. You have to understand what it means. The forces that pushed these mountains up from the ground. The winters every tree and blade of grass has to survive. You have to make the most of every glimpse of Shibbet’s Vale through the canopy, as if the mountains are rationing them to remind you who’s in charge.

We got to the clearing a couple of hours after I’d planned. Herc is a lot slower than me and Roman. I don’t think he knew what he was getting himself into. The tents went up, we built a fire to cook. Roman told his stories about the winter trekking he did in Colorado, I assume to impress Herc since I’ve known Roman for fifteen years and I’ve heard it all before.

They both fell asleep the moment they turned in. I stayed up for a while, looking up at the stars. If I’d chosen anywhere else to camp, the sky would have been hidden by the trees. Like I said, you have to earn the beauty of these mountains. 

The stars looked like nowhere else. I didn’t recognise any constellations. There was no Milky Way, just belts of nebulae and glowing planets like hard points of color. I had heard this place was special. I’m only starting to realise it now. In the morning we’ll keep going. Whatever the mountain has for us, we’ll have to work to get it.
[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ JOURNAL LOG -- 2/5
----

Hour Twelve.
By now, the concern for the missing hikers is severe. They haven’t come back down the mountain and going by Shelby Everleigh’s journal, they kept heading upwards. 

State has sent a couple of planes to perform a contour search, but the tree cover is heavy enough that we’re far more likely to find them with the ground search. I organised us into three teams, one to stay at the camp and two to follow the most prominent trails. 

We found a backpack. It was by the trail, at the foot of a tree. It had a couple of empty water bottles and nutrient bar wrappers, sunscreen and bug repellent, and spare socks, along with a spiral-bound notebook. From the journal entries in the notebook, the bag belonged to Roman Blisset. 

It’s never a good sign when hikers start shedding their belongings. It suggests they’re injured or exhausted, and have to ditch some weight to keep moving. At least it confirms Roman headed this way. I relayed this by radio to the other teams, who passed it on to the aerial searchers. They’re going to focus on the slopes above where the pack was found while we keep looking down here.

There’s something uneasy about these mountain slopes. I’ve been all over this state and plenty of places beyond, and this is different. The trees are denser, the birds are quieter. Even the sky looks different, like a slightly wrong shade of blue. I can feel it, too, like the way the air is just before a storm.

Shelby was right. Shibbet’s Vale and the Mourning Cloak Mountains are different. That’s why she came here. Maybe it’s why she hasn’t come back.

[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ BLISSET JOURNAL -- 1/2
----
[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
|name=Blissett.jpg
|caption=Roman Blissett, circa 1991]]

(The journal of Roman Blissett)

Second day. Herc is getting on my nerves. He keeps wanting to pause every twenty minutes to take photos or write down some poetry bullshit. He can’t keep up with us as it is. Shelby’s real quiet. Can’t tell if she’s annoyed too, or if it’s something else. Never could read her.

I seen something. Was taking a leak just off the trail. I heard something moving. You never know when a mountain lion or something’s strayed close to the trail. I’d finished and zipped up when it moved again and this time I saw it, and I backed off, real slow. 

It walked out from between two of the big old fir trees. I thought it was a black bear. I mean, it was a black bear. But...I’m only gonna write it here. I won’t tell anyone. Don’t want them thinking I’m losing it.

This bear had two mouths, one on top of the other. The lower one was like a big wound in its throat, but with fangs all yellow and misshapen. It was drooling blood. It had eyes all over its head, six or eight of them, shiny black orbs in red sockets. It had another pair of legs sticking out of its sides but they looked broken. It dragged them behind it as it walked forward. It was kind of lop-sided, like its legs were different lengths. 

Long slits opened down its sides, like they were breathing. Like gills. Little white tendrils inside. It made this wet growling sound and I kept backing away, slow enough not to make any noise. I couldn’t tell if it was looking at me, not with those shiny black eyes. I didn’t have a camera on me, but even if I had, I don’t know if I would have risked getting a shot.

The thing was diseased, maybe, or a kind of mutant like those animals that sometimes get born with five legs or two heads or whatever. But the weirdest thing is, in that moment, it wasn’t that weird. I mean, it fitted in here. Can’t explain it better than that. Felt like I was the thing that shouldn’t be there. 

I got back to the trail. The thing didn’t follow me. I told the other two I thought I saw a bear, and to be careful. Herc looked worried but I said they don’t come near people, and he believed me. Shelby gave me a look, though. She knew I saw something.

We’re not walking up a mountain here. We’re going somewhere else.

[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ JOURNAL LOG -- 3/5
----

Hour sixteen. I should have had us head back to the campsite and stay there ourselves, or else go back down the trail to the vehicles. But things have changed.

The mountain has changed. We followed the most likely path upwards, where the conifers and sparse undergrowth gave way to lush, deep green foliage from trees I couldn’t identify. They’re not evergreens, even. Never seen anything like it. We’re not that high up but it should still be only conifers growing up here, not these twisted things with ferny leaves that look like they’ve been here a thousand years. Moss and grasses underfoot, so thick it’s like wading through mud. 

There are bugs, these big mosquito things with fleshy sac bodies that hang down when they fly. Thick slimy caterpillars on the branches. And fruit, too. They hang in bunches from the trees in clutches of white flowers. The fruit are shaped like pears but a little larger. They’re pale and veiny. One of the other volunteers went to pick one but I warned her against it. Don’t mess with things you don’t know, I said, and I guess I was talking about this whole mountain.

We found another sign of the hikers. It was a bundle wrapped in a t-shirt, weighted down by a rock on top of an exposed root where it would be obvious. It was a few sheets of paper tied up in a leather necklace with a silver pendant in the shape of a cowrie shell. The necklace is listed in the personal effects of Brian Herkham and the note was from him, too.

I thought of heading back. I know I should do, according to the same rules I drum into the volunteers every season. But these hikers are lost up here, and they left us a trail. The planes can’t see anything from the air. It’s up to us, the four of us I took with me to follow the trail from the camp site. 

I think I understand what drew them here. There’s an allure to this strange place that demands we follow it in deeper. I have to know what happened here, where they are, what this place did to them. I have to know. I’m going in.
[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ HERKMAN JOURNAL -- 1/1
----
[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block
|name=Herc.jpg
|caption=Brian “Herc” Herkman, circa 1989]]

(The journal of Brian Herkman)

I’m worried. Scratch that, I’m scared. I almost lost them both. I started out thinking they would never leave me out on this mountain, no matter how badly I fell behind, but now I don’t know.

This place is so beautiful I can’t just let it pass me by. I stop to write down my thoughts or try to make a sketch, not that any of them capture what I’m seeing. The fir trees have given way to a dense, lush forest of ferns and fruiting tree. The sky, the rocks, the trunks of the trees, everything is different. Sideways from what I know. But then it changed, and I’m scared.

I saw a deer just above us, on an outcropping where I could see it clear against the sky. And dear god, it had wings. Not like a pegasus or an angel. They looked malformed. Slimy and fleshy. It had little segmented limbs running in two rows along its belly, like a lobster’s. It let out this awful gurgling sound, like the worst smoker’s cough.

Then Roman came crashing through the trees and yelled at me to get my ass in gear or they’ll leave me behind. I assumed the deer would run away at the noise but it didn’t, it turned and looked at him. Its mouth hung open and a long slimy tongue slobbered out.

Roman said, ‘there’s another one of the bastards’. He pulled out a gun, a big silver revolver. I didn’t even know he’d brought one. And he ran after the deer-thing.

I called for Roman to stop but he didn’t listen. He disappeared through the trees and this time the deer turned and ran. I called out for Shelby, hoping she was close enough to hear. I paused for a second, not sure what I should do, then I followed Roman. I thought at least if I caught him, I wouldn’t be left out here alone. 

The trees closed in and I couldn’t even see the sky. Then I heard two gunshots and I followed them to see Roman standing at the entrance to this… this cave. 

Not a cave in the rocks, but more like a tunnel through the trees. The branches entwined so closely overhead it formed a dark tunnel. Clusters of pale fruit hung around the entrance. I guess the deer ran in there because Roman was at the entrance, gun out, about to head in. 

I got the worst feeling about the place. It was like a throat waiting to swallow us. I called out to Roman but he ignored me again.

I don’t know why I did it, but I ran right at him and tackled him to the ground. Roman’s a bigger guy than me but I hit him from behind and he wasn’t expecting it. We both went down into the undergrowth.

It’s then I realise I’m wrestling with a guy who has a gun and I scramble out of there before the damn thing goes off. Roman’s on his knees, all scratched up from the fall. I say, don’t go in there. Something’s wrong about it. I ask Roman if he can feel it like I can, the way it wants to devour us. I swear I can hear it breathing, the breath of the mountain, wet and hungry.

Roman leans back against a tree, like all the energy’s suddenly gone out of him. He says he’s sorry, he isn’t thinking straight, and that it doesn’t seem a good idea to go into the tunnel or cave or whatever it is. We agree we should go back to where I saw the deer and try to find Shelby again.

We’ve waited here under the outcropping for an hour. I’m leaving this note here in case we get lost trying to find Shelby. If you can’t find us, my guess is one or more of us have ended up in the cave, up the slope and a little east of here. I’ve drawn it underneath as best I remember. You’ll know it when you see it. 

[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ JOURNAL LOG -- 4/5
----

Hour eighteen.

We found Roman Blisset alive, and Brian Herkham dead. Roman was uninjured except for some bumps and scrapes but he was exhausted and distressed. Much longer out here and I don’t know if he would have made it. 

Herkham had two gunshots to the stomach. I just hope he bled out quickly. His body was at the entrance to the tunnel he’d written about. We got Roman clear of the tunnel and asked him what had happened. Then I sent a couple of people to take him back to the campsite where they can get some calories into him before they head down off the mountain. 

We’re going into the cave. I have to know what happened to Shelby Everleigh. 
[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ BLISSET JOURNAL -- 2/2
----

We saw Shelby walking through the forest. She wouldn’t stop when she called to her. Me and Herk kept up with her, but only just. She moves fast. We realised she was heading for the cave. 

Me and Herk caught up to her just before she got there. I grabbed her but she threw me off and kneed me in the balls. Damn, she’s stronger than she looks. I swear that woman must be made of oak.

Herk came up behind her. That’s when I realise she’d got the gun off me. She shot him twice in the stomach. He folded over and hit the ground face first. I couldn’t move.

She told me not to follow her, and walked into the cave. I couldn’t even say anything, I was just numb. I could see Herk still breathing but I knew he was going to die. There was so much blood. No way a man can live with it draining out of him like that. I didn’t know what to do so I just stayed there with him. I knew I was supposed to talk to him, make him know he wasn’t alone, but what was I supposed to say? I just sat there in silence until he wasn’t breathing any more.

I didn’t see Shelby again. Either the tunnel leads somewhere, or she’s still in there.

I got these seeds embedded in my forearms. Little green spores which are sending out roots under my skin. They’re starting to divide and grow in there. I think they’re on my back, too. 
[[/div]]

[[div class="report-box"]]
+++ JOURNAL LOG -- 5/5
----

Me and two volunteers went into the tunnel with flashlights. The walls were entwined tree branches hung with that weird pale fruit. The air was thick with the scent of the white flowers everywhere and we had to breathe slowly to keep from choking on it. The floor was layers of decomposing plant matter so deep it was a struggle to walk through. 

Shelby Everleigh had left deep footprints in the mulch. It wasn’t hard to follow her, even when the tunnel forked. We tied the tags we use to mark evidence and trails around the branches to show the way back. The smell and the pollen made our eyes water and our noses run.

Then, we found her. I knew it was her from the remains of the orange windbreaker that hung in tatters around her waist. She was with her back to the wall, her arms and legs embedded in it, wrapped around with leafy vines. Her head was pulled back and wisps of her hair stuck out from under the foliage. Her face was mostly gone, replaced with a stretched and veined skin. Her mouth was open and her tongue was swollen purple-blue, like an exotic fruit had been forced down her throat. 

Her torso was deformed by huge translucent growths, fluid-filled sacs of stretched membrane. Inside them I could see the embryos of the things growing inside her. I recognised a deer foetus wrapped in tentacles. Something feline, maybe a mountain lion, with a mouth that ran all the way along its flank full of misshapen fangs. A bundle of feathered things tangled up with one another, rolling and pulsing in the slime. Dozens of smaller ones, too tiny to make out any details, all of them wriggling like tadpoles. 

I had the other two stay back from the body. They didn’t need to see it close up. I shone my flashlight down the tunnel and saw more bodies, a lot older. One I guessed was a bear from the bones and pieces of fur that still clung to it. Others were just a couple of mouldy bones hanging from the wall. Maybe some were human, I couldn’t see enough to be sure. 

This is where the abnormal creatures came from. The bear and the deer the hikers had seen. The mosquitos and the caterpillars in the trees outside. God knows what else. 

I didn’t know what to do with Shelby Everleigh so I left the body there. Whether she was alive or not, she was gone. I had the volunteers follow me out and head for the campsite. I didn’t care about how I was supposed to report all this or who I might have to explain it to, I just wanted to get off that mountain.

The smell of the tunnel, sickly sweet flowers mixed with the rot, clung to me all the way down. It still hasn’t quite washed off.

I’m not looking forward to tying all this up. I had to leave Herk’s body up there, which is going to take a whole bunch more explaining. Whatever I come up with, it’ll have to keep anyone else from trying to find the high forest and the tunnel into its heart. I’ll come up with something later. For now I’m just grateful I got off that mountain. That’s more than can be said for two out of the three hikers, and from what I’ve heard, the third isn’t looking too hot.
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="SHOW — COMMENTARY — DR. GALLIO: Gallatin Journals [CLASSIFIED 5/SERAPIS]" hide="− HIDE"]]
**GALLIO:**

Brian Herkham and Michelle Everleigh were reported missing in the Mourning Cloak Mountains, and in spite of a thorough ground and air search, they were never found. They are believed to have perished in an accident or fallen victim to an animal attack after becoming separated from the third hiker, Roman Blisset. 

That’s the report filed by Gerald McCoffrey. Families were informed and statistics adjusted. No follow-up searches were made, and the county search and rescue service managed to keep the matter from being passed up to the state level. It stayed a secret known only to the handful of volunteers who went up the mountain, and known in full only to McCoffrey himself. It was a risk writing down what he had seen, but I think he knew he had to make the truth available for someone who knew where to look. Someone like the Foundation.

The anomalous incident surrounding the search for the missing hikers has elements in common with the loss of Mobile Task Force Iota-28 in their encounter with SCP-6881. They include rapid and deviant growth of plants and animals, and anomalous flora and fauna indigenous to the area. SCP-6881 has been influencing the area abound Shibbet’s Vale for decades, and given the density of the growth described by McCoffrey’s testimony, probably for a lot longer beforehand. 

The 1992 incident has been added to the body of knowledge collated under Project Serapis. I’m almost done with this one. There’s just one thing I need to tie up.
[[/collapsible]]

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**Item #:** SCP-8921-EX. 

**Object Class:** Euclid.

**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-8921-EX is to be kept in a standard humanoid holding cell with the addition of a self-contained air purification and recycling system with filters fine enough to catch the biological particles given off by SCP-8921-EX. These filters are to be regularly changed and cleaned. All contact with SCP-8921-EX and its cell is to be conducted under Level 4 biological hazard protocols including protective gear, decontamination, isolated air supplies for all personnel and compartmentalisation of areas and utensils.

Biological material shed by SCP-8921-EX is to be gathered and burned, all under the same level 4 biological hazard protocols.  

**Description:** SCP-8921-EX is a humanoid formerly known as Roman Blisset. Chronologically it is 63 years old but the normal ageing process of a human male has not taken place for over thirty years. SCP-8921-EX appears human from the hips down, albeit with pallid skin riddled with prominent greenish veins. The rest of its body is disfigured with plantlike, fibrous growths forming bifurcating branches that push up from beneath the skin. So extensive are these growths that few vestiges of the original human form are left. 

SCP-8921-EX sprouts leaves and flowers, which then wither and drop away, on a twelve month cycle. Experiments with light deprivation suggest a lack of light causes this new growth to be stunted, but not to stop entirely. During this process, SCP-8921-EX sheds spores which can latch onto and, through a mechanism not yet understood, burrow into living skin. Experiments with lab animals and limited tests on D-class personnel show these spores can take root and germinate in a host body’s skin, creating plant-like growths similar to those on SCP-8921-EX. These spores have very high potential for infesting Foundation personnel and other SCPs and are the reason SCP-8921-EX must be kept isolated with a contained air and water supply. 

SCP-8921-EX was first contained when it was reported to local police wandering the border between Montana and Wyoming, where it had become the subject of an urban legend concerning the so-called ‘Green Man’. It was captured and contained at Site [REDACTED] without incident and was able to converse with interviewers, using the name Roman Blisset and maintaining it was a hiker that had become lost and become infected with spores from anomalous fauna. The infection caused a deterioration in cognition and so it was unable to specify where this infection had occurred. It was gradually rendered non-verbal by plant growths on its jaw and could only communicate by writing. Its deterioration, both cognitively and physically, meant it lost the ability to do this approximately five years into its containment. The last legible word it wrote was ‘Please’.

Following an O-5 directive, SCP-8921-EX is in the process of being reclassified as SCP-6881-1.


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**| [[[scp-6881|Return to Project: SERAPIS]]] |**
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[[=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box
|author=Ben Counter, Pacific Obadiah, & edited by LordStonefish, Lt Flops]]
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> **Name:** Overwatch Command Logo
> **Author:** [http://www.wikidot.com/user:info/estrellayoshte EstrellaYoshte]
> **License:** [https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported (CC BY-SA 3.0)]
> **Source Link:** [[[desk-of-junior-designer-s-yvonne|Desk of Junior Designer S. Yvonne - SCP Foundation]]]


> **Filename:** Middle-aged man with gray hair and beard.jpg
> **Name:** Middle-aged man with gray hair and beard
> **Author:** Francis Helminski
> **License:** [https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-SA 4.0)]
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Middle-aged_man_with_gray_hair_and_beard.jpg]

> **Filename:** Kambri Crews, Russell Harvard & Mare Winningham at "Tribes".jpg
> **Name:** Kambri Crews, Russell Harvard & Mare Winningham at "Tribes"
> **Author:** Kambri Crews
> **License:** [https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-SA 2.0)]
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kambri_Crews,_Russell_Harvard_%26_Mare_Winningham_at_%22Tribes%22.jpg]

> **Filename:** 387311630_f153980e98_c_d.jpg
> **Name:** Dave's words - "lets take a gay male bonding pic"
> **Author:** Rob and Stephanie Levy
> **License:** [https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-SA 2.0)]
> **Source Link:** [https://flic.kr/p/Ae5fJ]



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SCP-6881 SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENT ‘CHARLIE’

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