SCP-9205

Link to article: SCP-9205.
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**Item #:** SCP-9205

**Object Class:** Euclid (Formerly Safe)

**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-9205 is to be contained in a secure storage locker at Site 76. Personnel assigned to study or handle it are to undergo full psychological evaluations every month: those with misgivings concerning their age, health, and appearance are to be immediately reassigned.

All captive instances of SCP-9205-A are to be held in separate humanoid containment cells. If removed for exercise or testing, instances must be fitted with handcuffs, weighted manacles, and restraint masks. If any instance deploys its nictitating membranes, personnel are to retreat to a safe distance until it is fed, sedated, or terminated, depending on the circumstances.

Meals for SCP-9205-A instances must consist solely of raw meat and bone, delivered twice daily. Though they cannot derive nutrition from fruit, vegetables, or cooked meat, they still enjoy the taste and can be given food from the cafeteria as a reward for good behaviour.

**Description:** SCP-9205 is a cylindrical jar made of polished black marble, 14 cm in height and 6 cm in diameter, undecorated except for the Latin words carved into the lid: //Male parta male dilabuntur.// [[footnote]] “What has been wrongly gained is wrongly lost," a quote attributed to Marcus Tullius Cicero.[[/footnote]] The jar is capable of self-repair, having survived multiple gunshots during attempts to acquire it, and it is not known if it can be permanently damaged or destroyed.

The contents of the jar consist of an opaque grey gel, which cannot be completely extracted or exhausted, as SCP-9205 automatically generates more to replace it. This substance is chemically identical to cold cream and exhibits no anomalous traits until exposed to the skin of a human being of at least forty years of age. If used on any other individual, animal, or object, or held in any container other than SCP-9205, it will harmlessly dissolve.

Once applied to the face of an individual of the minimum age, SCP-9205's gel produces an immediate and irreversible rejuvenating effect across the entire body within one minute of application. Regardless of the quantity used, users will be regressed to approximately 20-30 years of age, experiencing a full restoration of physical health and mental acuity in the process.

Twenty-four hours after application, users begin manifesting negative symptoms, including patches of discoloured skin, hair loss, loose teeth, and intramuscular pain, all of which escalate over time, often prompting users to make use of SCP-9205 again in the erroneous belief that they are now aging at an accelerated rate. 

SCP-9205 is the only means of treating these symptoms, restoring the subject's initial state of rejuvenation within one minute of application regardless of symptom severity; drugs, surgeries, or even other anomalous items have proved ineffectual. However, the efficacy of SCP-9205 diminishes with repeated uses, progressively halving the time in which positive symptoms are exhibited [[footnote]]Twenty-four hours of positive symptoms being divided into twelve, then six, then three, then ninety minutes, then forty-five minutes, etc. This same reduction applies to the period of negative symptoms prior to transformation. [[/footnote]], often forcing users to apply more over shorter periods until they cannot meet the accelerated demands and enter the final stage of transformation.

Those who do not reuse SCP-9205 continue to degenerate over the next twenty-four hours following the initial manifestation of negative symptoms, ultimately escalating from mutation to transformation in the final minutes. This process cannot be reversed or undone in any way, making the metamorphosis into an instance of SCP-9205-A inevitable and permanent as soon as a compatible user is exposed.

**SCP-9205-A** instances are similar in appearance to human children between 5-11 years of age. All specimens are completely bald and exhibit translucent grey skin prominently marked with black-tinted veins, which they disguise with makeup and wigs in public.

 SCP-9205-A instances also sport nictitating membranes that deploy in response to fear, hunger, or anger as an instinctive defence mechanism, being dense enough to shield the eyes from bludgeoning, stabbing, and even chemical weapons. [[footnote]]Current analysis indicates that SCP-9205-A instances are largely sight-oriented, have no enhanced sense of smell or hearing, and require time to regenerate before recovering from impaired vision, making these membranes essential for guaranteeing their effectiveness as hunters.[[/footnote]] When these membranes are in use, their eyes appear to turn opaque black, possibly as a threat display to potential enemies.

SCP-9205-A instances possess enhanced regenerative capabilities and though they cannot survive decapitation or perforating head injuries, research indicates that they can fully regenerate amputated limbs and even fractured spines over the course of a month. Because of this, instances no longer physically age: several captive specimens were reportedly converted during the 1920s and have not exhibited any signs of senescence or even basic maturation.

Though they demonstrate no enhanced strength, anomalous mutations to the nerves, muscles, joints, and cardiovascular system make SCP-9205-A instances notably faster and more agile than the human norm. Top speed varies between instances, though most instances can reach speeds in excess of 70 kph with very little effort.

SCP-9205-A instances exhibit anomalously powerful jaws capable of exerting a bite-force in excess of 2000 PSI, with two additional rows of incisors and molars hidden behind their human front teeth. Unusually elastic muscles and tendons allow instances to distend their jaws to more than quadruple their normal size, often resulting in their bites being mistaken for the results of animal attacks.

All instances are obligate predators subsisting entirely on raw meat and bone. Those lacking the funds to buy meat survive on livestock, pets, carrion, and human beings.

**Discovery Log**: SCP-9205 was first brought to the Foundation's attention in 1987, following several unexplained disappearances among Los Angeles' wealthier inhabitants. Initially attributed to kidnappings, anomalous commonalities in police reports and a lack of ransom demands eventually led to the Foundation being notified.

According to witnesses, the missing individuals had all undergone major cosmetic surgery in the days prior to their disappearance and appeared significantly younger than their chronological age. This was not considered unusual, as the victims had expressed frustration with aging and were often described as “vain”, but none of them would admit the name of the clinic or professional responsible for the surgery. All the victims had been keeping a black marble jar in their home, though none admitted where they had acquired it, and in all cases, the jar had been removed by the time police arrived to investigate the disappearances.

Though the Foundation was able to determine that the jar was responsible for the rejuvenating effects of the “surgeries”, the reason for the disappearances remained unknown, and the identity of the vendor could not be determined through mundane forensic accounting.

On 15/10/1987, wiretaps of witnesses revealed that that the brother of one of the victims had observed the initial effects of the object in action and decided to purchase it after his sister’s disappearance, intending to use it once he had “worked up the nerve." Two hours later, Foundation agents successfully confiscated the item shortly after the owner had applied his first dose. Following a brief analysis by a field researcher to determine that it was safe to handle, it was given the formal designation of SCP-9205 and prepared for transportation.

However, while SCP-9205 was being removed, the team was attacked by seven individuals now recognized as SCP-9205-A instances. Five Foundation agents were killed in the attack, and though the two remaining agents were able to terminate three of their assailants, the surviving instances and their apparent ringleader were able to escape with SCP-9205.

In the aftermath, fingerprint analysis revealed that the attackers had all been individuals listed among the missing, with the ringleader identified as the sister of SCP-9205's previous owner. Upon being transformed, all prior owners had been hired by the vendor's organization as security guards, with available evidence suggesting that the vendor had deliberately withheld information on SCP-9205's long-term effects from their clients in order to guarantee their eventual metamorphosis and recruitment.
 
Combined with the previous owner's interrogation, transformation, and subsequent containment, SCP-9205's anomalous attributes were finally documented and understood.

**Addendum 05/04/2014):** Subsequent research has found that SCP-9205-A instances are not recent developments, with obscure references to “grey cannibal brats with the jaws of sharks” found in rare archives of anomalous activity dating back to 1920, though their connection to SCP-9205 was not understood at the time, with any missing persons associated with them believed to have been eaten rather than converted.

It is also believed that the distinctive appearance of hungry SCP-9205-A instances may have led to the urban legend of the “black-eyed children"[[footnote]]A cryptid taking the form of a child with black eyes, commonly encountered trying to manipulate civilians into allowing them into their homes or cars.[[/footnote]].

However, SCP-9205’s vendor has continued to elude the Foundation. Investigation has revealed that this was initially because the stock market crash of 19/10/1987 discouraged further sales, allowing the vendor and their staff of SCP-9205-A instances time to move their base of operations. Afterwards, it is believed the vendor was able to avoid detection by restricting sales to more discreet clientele who avoided public life wherever possible[[footnote]]Numerous documented SCP-9205-A instances were formerly recluses, agoraphobes, political exiles, and even wealthy fugitives living under assumed identities.[[/footnote]], all of whom could be more easily exploited, defrauded, converted, and subsequently recruited into the vendor's organization without drawing significant attention. 

No evidence has been found to confirm that SCP-9205 is being smuggled internationally through mundane methods, suggesting that the vendor is employing a thaumaturge or some other anomalous means of transportation.

On the rare occasions Foundation agents have been able to find and intercept a courier believed to be carrying SCP-9205, a security team of SCP-9205-A instances was able to retrieve the objective and escape before Foundation backup could arrive.

At present, it is still not known why the vendor's former clients willingly become employees of the organization that defrauded and transformed them.
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="> Operation GREY METAMORPHOSIS Preliminary Stage: October 2024" hide="- Close"]]

Following a tip-off from Marshall, Carter, & Dark, webcrawlers uncovered a Dark Web forum for prospective SCP-9205 users. Known as “The Society of Iðunn's Orchard,” the forum’s membership had been pooling resources to pay for access to the “Vessel of Eternity."

This forum also confirmed that the vendor, now known as "Imperial Purple Imports," was leasing the item instead of selling it, allowing temporary access to SCP-9205 upon payment and removing it after a single use. [[footnote]]Combined with the failure to mention SCP-9205's negative symptoms, it can be presumed that the leasing system was intended to defraud IPI's clients of additional money once they began manifesting said symptoms.[[/footnote]]

Foundation strategists agreed this represented an unprecedented opportunity to infiltrate the Society and finally acquire the item. However, given the difficulty in securing the mission objective from Imperial Purple Imports' security personnel, the only reliable method for the infiltrator to escape with the mission objective would be to use SCP-9205 and undergo the transformation themselves. 

The agent selected for this mission was Senior Agent William Shadfly. Agent Shadfly had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer three months prior to selection and chemotherapy had proved ineffective in treating his condition, leaving him with a projected life expectancy of less than a year; combined with his lack of personal connections outside the Foundation, it was believed that he would be the ideal candidate. Upon being approached for this role, Agent Shadfly accepted the offer, agreeing to be contained upon the successful completion of the mission in exchange for privileges normally denied to SCP-9205-A instances.

Agent Shadfly then contacted the Society under the name of "Bill Ambrosian", agreeing to provide the remaining funds needed to access to SCP-9205 in exchange for membership[[footnote]]The majority of these funds were garnered from the liquidation of Agent Shadfly’s home, cars, and bank account.[[/footnote]]. In return, he was provided with the address of a hotel in Manhattan where the Society was due to meet with IPI's courier.

On 27/10/24, Agent Shadfly was fitted with a subdermal tracking device, provided with forged documents, multiple sets of replacement clothing[[footnote]]In sizes projected to fit him post-transformation.[[/footnote]], a wig, a jar of makeup, an emergency signaling device (concealed in Agent Shadfly's wristwatch), and a cufflink dictaphone to ensure mission documentation, before being dispatched to New York City to commence the mission.

[[/collapsible]]
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="> Mission Documentation: Part 1" hide="- Close"]]
[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 27/10/24, 4:00 PM
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[BEGIN LOG]

This is Agent William Shadfly, reporting from the Bellingwalsh Hotel, Manhattan.

I’ve met with the Society, all twelve of them, not counting the guards and private nurses. Membership is as expected: aging heiresses turned plastic surgery addicts, sagging corpocrats too limp for the boardroom hookers, rich mummies chasing eternal life… and now me. (//coughs//) The oldest of them’s in his late nineties. The youngest is fifty-five, so I don’t feel too out of place. (//chuckles weakly, coughs//)

I can confirm that they’re //not// pooling their funds because they’re poor: I recognize a few suspected members of Marshall, Carter & Dark’s client list here, along with real estate moguls, Wall Street wizards, business dynasty scions, Hollywood studio execs, and even the odd crime boss. Twelve of the biggest cheapskates in the West, and all of them too proud to accept the notion of growing old and dying like everyone else.

Bit more public than IPI's usual clientele, though. Odd, that.

The head of this little secret society is Patrick Thule, the political megadonor. No surprises there, given his interests. I’m assuming Thule’s used his own company to do some digging on me, but the Foundation’s forgeries are holding up for now... or maybe it's just money talking louder than sense.

Thanks to my donation, I’ve now been officially accepted as the thirteenth and final member of the Society of Iðunn's Orchard. (//cough//) Thule's bought out the entire fifteenth floor for our use, so we've settled in to wait for IPI's payment to be accepted.

It's deathly quiet up here. Dark, too: all the shutters have been lowered for secrecy's sake. None of the Society members are friends, so no socialization. There’s a boardroom with a huge media suite on this floor, but nobody’s used it. Instead, we're alone in our rooms, wasting time. Most of this crew are glued to their iPads, watching the markets. Me, I'm taking advantage of the lull to survey the floor, work out exit routes, calculate threat levels... and maybe finish reading //Fatal Beauty// if there's still time.

Hopefully, I won’t have to wait too long. (//cough//)

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 28/10/24, 7:00 PM
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[BEGIN LOG]

(//cough//) Payment’s been accepted. Thule gathered us in the boardroom to tell us that Imperial Purple Imports are sending a courier tomorrow.

Celebratory drinks were passed around. With my throat coughed raw, it was like drinking lye, so I didn't bother with most of mine. I don’t think that rubber plant will ever recover. 

Everyone else got drunk and let their guards down, so I listened. Pretty dull stuff: stocks, crypto, rivalries, politics, the state of their spouses’ genitals, what they’ll do once they’re young again…

Thule was gloating, going on about how he’ll still be young, handsome, and doing business when the presidents he crowned are “ashes in forgotten urns”. He's got his gimlet eyes set on Imperial Purple Imports next: supposedly, IPI's got a board of directors hidden away somewhere in Cardiff, and Thule wants them on his side as fellow megadonors for his next political coup, even claims that they've all used the Vessel themselves and been immortal for almost a century.

Of course, that'd imply that the IPI directors are all SCP-9205-A instances by now. I'd ask why they'd want to spread the madness further if they've experienced what their Vessel does firsthand, but then again, I remember how much the Society paid for a single use of the goddamn thing. Greed can explain an awful lot.

Interesting detail: Thule also claims that the Vessel isn’t the only anomalous item IPI have on offer, even says the board //created// SCP-9205 and the rest of their collection from scratch.

Yeah, it’s not hard to see why Marshall, Carter & Dark tipped us off about IPI's deal with the Society: they’re hoping we’ll wipe out a competitor while they swoop in and steal their inventory. 

As for how they found out... well, Thule has a long-standing beef with MC&D over stiffing him in some deal back in the early 2010s, so as soon as he got a sniff of eternal life, the prick called them just to rub it in their noses. Evidently, money can't buy you brain cells.

The only other Society member of any interest was Imelda Waldington, the mining magnate. She's easily the most distinctive member of this little club: plastic surgery addict, eighty years old by now, and the work she's had done hasn't aged well. She's had her face swathed in bandages since day one here.

Anyway, she mentioned seeing homeless children watching her on the way over, weird shadows following her limo through the underground parking lot, and some //very// young messengers loitering in the foyer.

Imperial Purple are keeping tabs on us. No surprises there. Hopefully, they haven’t figured out who I am, otherwise they'd have called off the deal… but there’s no way of being sure until tomorrow morning.

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 29/10/24, 5:35 AM
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[BEGIN LOG]

//(muffled sounds of commotion and footsteps in the background)//

(//whispered//) It’s just arrived. The IPI courier is waiting by the elevators. Tall, white porcelain mask, black business suit, purple tie… and two SCP-9205-A bodyguards. They were wearing wigs, shades, and a ton of goth makeup, but I could see the grey skin between their sleeves and gloves.

Thule’s gathering the Society in the boardroom for a ritual. It’s bullshit, of course: around his fifth glass of scotch last night, he told me "the Vessel" doesn't need ceremony to work, but he wants there to be one anyway to "unite us". Personally, I think he just wants another chance to verbally jack off about how awesome eternity's gonna be for him. He’s even having a bunch of mirrors set up around the boardroom so everyone can see the results. 

I guess it won’t be long before I’m summoned, then. But…

(//distant knocking on doors, excited sounds of shouting//)

I’m scared. This is the last time I’m going to be human. Christ, this mission is the last time in my entire life I’m going to be allowed outside of a cell.

(//sigh//) Thirty-two years as an agent. Thirty-two years of fighting monsters, locking up eldritch doodads, saving the world, and risking death, eternal suffering, or just being turned into a monster. Never thought I’d become a monster to save the day… or my own life.

I know that’s why I was offered this job: the O5s knew I’d do anything to survive and even more if it meant sparing my pride another minute of watching myself withering away on chemo. But somehow, even with everything I want within reach, I’m still scared of… 

…well, losing what little I have left.

(//pause//)

I don’t have to do this. I can sneak out, pretend there was no offer, that all of this was just a dream, and my real escape route is either Switzerland or a hot bath… and then I can pretend that dying scares me less than what's about to happen. 

I can just… pretend.

(//muffled knock on the door, muttering from outside//)

Ah shit. (//loudly//) Alright, Imelda, I’ll be out in a minute…

(//whispered//) Can’t put it off forever, I guess. It’s too late to quit now that the action’s already started. Here goes nothing…

(//inhales deeply, slowly exhales//)

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 29/10/24 (2:00 PM):

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[BEGIN LOG]

(//music can be heard playing in the background. When Shadfly speaks, his voice is noticeably smoother and younger//)

It worked. Ceremonial bullshit aside, it was so simple: once Thule was done fondling SCP-9205 like his mistress’s tits, one of the guards passed it around the table, all of us took a handful of the gel, and by the time the jar had done a full circuit, the effects had set in.

It’s one thing to know the effects, but it’s another thing to see them for yourself. To see the skin go taut like a drumhead, the hair //erupting// out of the scalp, the shape of the body changing under the clothes… it’s the sort of thing you can’t do justice to by describing it. People were shedding pounds on the spot, gaining new muscle, standing up straighter, becoming //new//...

Once it was over, none of them could resist the mirrors. A few of them even stripped just to show off their bodies. Especially Waldington - practically ripped her bandages off just so she could admire herself minus fifty-five years of plastic surgery.

Even I couldn’t help taking a good look at myself. I didn’t realize it before, but back in my mid-twenties, I looked pretty damn good. And as for the cancer… well, I’m no oncologist, but I can tell it's gone: the coughing, the pain, the breathlessness, even the lingering effects of the chemo, all gone.

Of course, while we were busy admiring ourselves, the courier fucked off and took SCP-9205 with him. The guards didn't see them leave and none of Thule's flunkies downstairs saw them exiting via the lobby, so IPI definitely have a thaumaturge on the payroll. 

Still, all part of the plan: once the side-effects show up, the Society will try to rent it again. The third try will probably be my cue to steal it. By then, hopefully I'll be fully transformed.

(//pause//)

Funny thing: I couldn't help noticing how //warm// the Vessel felt while I was holding it, almost like it was...

(//Music changes, switching to louder, more upbeat song; Society members can be heard attempting to sing along with it//)

...Anyway, Thule's decided it's time to party, and the Society haven’t stopped for the last six hours. They’ve called in room service, drug dealers, hookers, even rented a karaoke machine: the entire floor is jumping. Even the guards are getting shitfaced.

I’ve been celebrating for the sake of the mission, starting with lunch: a bloody rare steak, mashed potatoes swimming in butter, a big glass of merlot… and for dessert, a tumbler of rum and a slice of chocolate mud cake. Haven’t had any of that in years – doctor’s orders – and goddamn did I miss how good they tasted.

I’ll join in the fun, take the karaoke machine for a spin, maybe even enjoy a little light debauchery. Just for appearance’s sake, of course, just so the rest of the Society don't start asking questions.

(//sigh//) They don’t know it won’t last. I’ve got to keep the smile on my face until then, knowing that all of them will be monsters before they leave this hotel. //I’ll// be a monster before any of them figure out what’s really happening…

It’s worse than I imagined. I thought that the worst thing I’d have to live with would be the transformation or spending the rest of my life in a cell. I didn’t realize just how good it’d feel being young again. After just three months with cancer, I’d forgotten what it was like to live without all the pain and puking and hair loss and ugliness and fear...

I’ve finally got a life worth living again, and starting tomorrow morning, I’m gonna lose it all over again.

(//knock on the door, muffled voice from opposite side//)

(//loudly//) I’ll be with you in a minute, Imelda! (//quietly//) Can’t afford to get melancholy: I’m off to belt out a few power ballads. 

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
[[/collapsible]]
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="> Mission Documentation: Part 2" hide="- Close"]]
[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 30/10/24 (6:22 AM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

It’s started. First grey spot, on my right hand. Timing lines up: I used SCP-9205 around 6 AM yesterday morning, so this is hour one of the transformations. 

Also, I've been having weird dreams: a whale being slaughtered, me watching from the deck of a ship, getting soaked in the damn thing's blood... and feeling this overwhelming wave of hatred from God only knows where, this sense of being mocked. Not sure if that's a side-effect of SCP-9205 exposure or just Imelda's absinthe.

Nobody’s awake yet, so it looks like I’ve got some time to find somewhere quiet to hole up so I can complete the process undisturbed, make look like I just left the hotel to celebrate. 

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 30/10/24 (7:38 AM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

Found a maintenance passage next to the elevator; I think I’ll be safe to hide here until I’m fully transformed. Had to steal a key to get in - thank Christ for drunk guards.

Little bit cramped, but there's enough room for my luggage plus shaving mirror, so I can keep track of the symptoms.

I've now got grey patches on both hands, on my arms, on my neck, on my face. I’ve also lost a few tufts of hair. (//chuckles weakly//) I only got it back yesterday, too. Looks like I don’t need chemotherapy to go bald anymore. 

I can hear a few of the Society members up and about by now, but I don’t think any of them have noticed any sympt-

(//distant scream; sounds of doors opening, footsteps, muffled sounds of conversation, unknown voice crying//)

Ah. I think Imelda has just noticed her first grey spot.

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 30/10/24 (1:23 PM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

Things are getting interesting. You’d think I wouldn’t be able to hear the panic from this distance, but billionaires are even louder than usual when they’re scared. The loudest is Thule; he was trying so hard to be the fearless leader, but the moment he noticed his own grey spots, he practically shat himself.

Right now, he’s on the phone to Imperial Purple, trying to arrange another visit from the courier, and doing a lot of haggling. The prick thinks he’s aging to death and he’s //still// tighter than a hamster's condom.

Nobody's surprised I’ve “left”, just annoyed I’m not around to help pay for the jar this time. Just as well they haven’t seen me, or they’d be selling their firstborn for that session.

Right now, I look like a mouldy cheese: huge patches of grey skin and black veins all over my chest and arm. My hair’s falling out in clumps. I’ve lost a couple of molars. 

And I’m not even halfway there yet.

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 30/10/24 (6:30 PM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

(//tired, slurred//) Jar’s come and gone. I snuck out, took a bathroom break, did a little spying while everyone was in the boardroom.

No ceremony this time. Just twelve idiots trying to take a handful of gel all at once. A few tried to grab the jar back so they could take more, but the guards kept order. Most of the Society members cried once rejuvenation set in, like dope fiends going back to the needle. 

Thule paid an extra hundred million for the courier to book a room at the hotel, just so they'd be back quickly next time, then got shitty when they wouldn't tell him the room number. Of course, he wasn't alone on the grumbling front: there weren't any celebrations today, just lots of Karenesque screaming at room service when dinner finally rolled around, and a hurricane of arguments between the Society members.

Everything hurts right now. Just gotta be happy knowing Thule's gonna be hurting too.

Third session. That’ll be my chance. Just got to hold out ‘til then.

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 31/10/24 (5:58 AM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

Just woke up. More nightmares of whaling and hatred. Worst of the pain’s setting in. Down to just my front teeth and canines. Hair’s almost gone except for this wispy, shedding halo. I’m grey all over now, like a shark.

(//sharp intake of breath//) Every muscle in my body... feels like they're drawing inwards. My skeleton's going to go the same way, I can tell. I... (//grunt of pain//)

Jesus Fucking Christ... My bones feel like... molten... lava... I never asked the lab boys if it was possible to... die from... transforming... and it's too late to ask now... oh god, my //eyes//...

(//muffled clinking and rattling; comparative analysis suggests that Agent Shadfly has just gagged himself with a belt to muffle his screams//)

(//unintelligible groans and screams, accompanied by sounds of cracking bones and distending flesh, Agent Shadfly's voice sounding progressively higher and less mature//)

(//sounds of transformation continue for forty-five seconds//)

(//silence//)

(//when Shadfly next speaks, his voice is that of a child//)

Oh... god. That... that was... definitely a near-death experience... 

...I'm going to choose to believe that the... the reason my vision went weird back there was because the nictitating membranes were growing in. I //have// to believe it... because the only other reason I can think of is that my skull shrank //ahead// of my eyeballs and popped them open mid-transformation... then regenerated them as soon as the change was over...

...oh fuck...

...I'm just... going to... lie here... for a bit. Until I can move again.

...Shadfly out... 

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
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**DATE:** 31/10/24 (6:30 AM)

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[BEGIN LOG]

I'm awake. God only knows how, but I'm awake. Decided I might as well get changed while I'm waiting, because these clothes sure as hell don't fit anymore. Even if I hadn't bitten the belt in half while I was transforming, I wouldn't be able to walk far without my pants slipping off.

Also, the old shirt's covered in blood: my body rejected the tracking implant during the transformation, spat it right out of my shoulder. It's still working, so the best I can do is hang onto it.

At least the quartermaster supplied some new clothes in a range that fits me. I just wish it was something other than a suit: right now, I look creepy enough without the Damien Thorn wardrobe.

Aside from the veiny grey skin and the bald dome, I look pretty close to how I looked at around five or six years old. At a distance, I guess you could mistake me for a cancer patient, but at close range... well, right back to shark comparisons.

Still, with this makeup and the wig, I could pass for one of the courier's entourage... but it's not going to fool the real IPI staff when they show up. So how the hell am I going to get close enough to the boardroom without raising the alarm? My only way out of here is this door...

...and this vent. Huh. Looks like there are advantages to being small after all.

Just need to find a screwdriver to get it open, or... oh. 

(//grunt of effort; sounds of metal slowly being torn apart//)

Goddamn. (//spits, faint clanking sound//) Well, hopefully nobody adds that to the bill. Okay, I'm pretty sure these vents stop near the boardroom. Just got to get there before the Society decides to book another-

(//Distant scream//)

And that's my cue to get moving. Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
[[/collapsible]]
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="> Mission Documentation: Part 3" hide="- Close"]]
**Incident Report (31/10/24):**

At 7:35 AM, Agent Shadfly activated his emergency beacon, prompting SCP agents remotely observing the Bellingwalsh Hotel to call for backup. 

Upon arriving on the 15th floor, agents found the bodies of three members of the Society of Iðunn's Orchards, the IPI courier, two private nurses employed by Society members, and all twenty-seven of the Society's guards. Analysis revealed that only 40% of the fatalities were due to gunshot wounds, the rest being due to bites from SCP-9205-A instances. 

The only survivors of the massacre still at the scene were two partially transformed Society members, who were immediately contained. Agent Shadfly, the remaining seven members, and SCP-9205 could not be located.

According to the two witnesses, after noticing their negative symptoms returning for the second time, the Society had correctly assumed that they were being defrauded by IPI. Soon after, they became convinced (erroneously) that the only way to make SCP-9205's effects permanent was to claim sole full-time ownership of it. 

When the IPI courier arrived at the boardroom for the third and final time, numerous Society members drew concealed firearms and attempted to steal SCP-9205 at gunpoint, resulting in a standoff that only ended when Agent Shadfly dropped from a ventilation shaft and successfully dislodged the item from Patrick Thule's grip.

In the ensuing gun battle, all parties involved tried to seize SCP-9205 for themselves or stop the others from claiming it, resulting in numerous fatalities and injuries. In the confusion, Mrs Imelda Waldington was able to escape with SCP-9205.

As soon as this was noticed, the combatants left the area in an attempt to pursue Mrs Waldington, with the surviving Society members exiting via the elevator, Agent Shadfly descending the stairwell at top speed, and the IPI guards leaping out the nearest window and onto the neighbouring rooftops. The two witnesses, having suffered immobilizing injuries during the fight, were left behind.

As Foundation agents arrived to contain the survivors and prevent media exposure, Operation Control received an emergency call from Agent Shadfly with a request for tracking services.

@@@@
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[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
----
**DATE:** 31/10/24 (8:00 AM)

----

[BEGIN LOG]

(//sounds of distant traffic//)

Pissed as a bear right now. As if losing the damn objective and having to kill my way to the exit wasn't infuriating enough, I'm still tearing up: one of those pampered cocksores stabbed me in the eye with a fork during the brawl. If it hadn't been for the membranes, I'd be half-blinded right now.

Good news, though: I was able to attach my tracking chip to Imelda's car before she could put pedal to metal, and I'm following the signal as best as I can. Thank Christ for my phone. It'll take longer to reach the mission objective this way, but it'll draw less attention than a goth five-year-old outrunning a limo in broad daylight.

On the downside, it’s been about fifty-five years since I was this short, and I’m not used to seeing NYC as huge as it is right now. Not that this place ever seemed like a //small// city to me, but goddamn, it’s like being a hobbit in Mordor right now.

For now, I'm sticking to the alleyways to avoid further attention. I mean, the disguise works perfectly for Halloween, but I'd rather not have any more concerned adults asking me if I'm old enough for coloured contact lenses... or if I need help finding my parents.

At least I can move as fast as I like back here. That's the one benefit of this body: sheer unmitigated speed.

Shadfly out.

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
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@@@@
[[div class="blockquote"]]
= **AUDIO LOG TRANSCRIPT**
----
**DATE:** 31/10/24 (11:45 AM)

----

[BEGIN LOG]

**Agent Shadfly:** The tracker's led me to this warehouse. Imelda's car is out front, but the driver's side window's been smashed open. I don't see any broken glass on the ground, so presumably, the car was brought here by the attacker. Looks like I wasn't the only bastard who thought of planting a tracker on Society cars.

//sound of car door opening//

**Agent Shadfly:** And there's a body in the trunk - partially eaten, face chewed off. It's not Imelda; judging by the clothes, it's a homeless man. Best guess is that the instances that carjacked her got hungry and stopped for some takeout.

//deep breath//

**Agent Shadfly:** This building is almost certainly an Imperial Purple safehouse. Now, I //could// leap onto the roof and try creeping in through an upper story window... but on the other hand, if they captured Imelda alive, IPI are presumably still out for new employees as much as money, so I might as well introduce myself. I'm going to leave the dictaphone running to document as much as possible, then hit the emergency switch as soon as I can confirm that SCP-9205's in the building. Wish me luck.

//pause//

//footsteps//

//knock on the door//

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** (//over intercom//) I haven't seen you before. Are you one of the recruits from the hotel? 

**Agent Shadfly:** (//feigning surprise//) Recruits? I... er... I guess I am. I'm Bill Ambrosian; I left before I started... transforming. One of your guys ran into me on my way back to the hotel and they told me to come here if I wanted shelter and explanations.

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** (//over intercom//) Oh, so Jordan and Donnie finally found you, did they? Well, at least the hotel sweep wasn't a total washout. Come on in.

//sound of heavy door swinging open; sounds of conversation and muted activity from inside//

**Agent Shadfly:** Um, good morning, I- //WOAH!//

//door shuts, sounds of multiple locks being engaged; faint sounds of scuffling as Agent Shadfly is slammed against a wall//

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** Relax, it's just a quick search.

**Agent Shadfly:** (//gasping for breath//) First time I've ever been patted down with my neck in a mancatcher. Do you really need this much security?

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** Better to be safe than sorry with the enemies we've got. 

**Agent Shadfly:** Like who?

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** Secret societies trying to shut us down, some weird guy in a suit ambushing our shipments, hunchbacked Austrian cannibals with a hate-on for free enterprise... take your pick.

**Agent Shadfly:** Oh. Then what's with the - ow! - alcohol wipe?

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** Just to make sure you're one of us. Wouldn't be the first time one of our competitors press-ganged a real child into spying on our operations. Besides, I think you'll be happier without all that greasepaint.

**Guard:** He's clear, sir. No weapons, no artefacts, no wires. And he's definitely one of the Grey Children.

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** Good. Set him down, lock the inner gate.

//sounds of locks engaging//

**SCP-9205-A Instance:** I'm Bingham. You can take off that wig, by the way: you're among fellow brokers now.

**Agent Shadfly:** ...You live here?

**Bingham:** Only as long as we need to. Think of it as a roaming stock exchange for the Grey Children, one of several around the world. For now, it's your classroom, pal.

**Agent Shadfly:** Stock market readouts, financial simulators, banking software, real estate listings... you're not just trading paranormal artefacts here, are you?

**Bingham:** Of course not. Buyers for the Vessel don't come along every day, so we get by much as we did in our old lives, except now we kick a percentage upstairs to the board every month: stocks, crypto, commodities, loansharking, protection rackets, designer drugs, you name it. A few of us go on running our old companies, but... well, just look at what happened to Huey out in Nevada: he was ruling an empire from a hotel room for ten years, but one dead body double and all the King's Mormons couldn't put Huey together again.

**Agent Shadfly:** And that's why you lease the Vessel to less public figures, is it?

**Bingham:** That's the rule.

**Agent Shadfly:** Then why lease to the Society? Thule was one of the biggest political donors of the last two decades, and the others weren't exactly shy around the spotlight either.

**Bingham:** Most clients don't offer the kind of bonuses the Society was offering. 

**Agent Shadfly:** Too good to pass up, then?

**Bingham:** You'd better believe it. I mean, can you imagine the assets a big fish like Thule can bring in once he's part of the company? Even the board of directors couldn't hide their collective hard-ons over that bit of rulebreaking.

//pause//

**Bingham:** Something wrong?

**Agent Shadfly:** No, it's just... none of you seem all that fussed about not being human anymore.

**Bingham:** Why not? We've been this way for a while now - since 1975, in my case. Besides, once you get over the shock, you'll realize that you got exactly what you wanted: this way, we'll always be young. Plus, we're faster and deadlier than any pleb on the street, and with some good makeup and a decent set of Bambi Eyes, we're beneath suspicion.

**Agent Shadfly:** You really don't mind being a child for all eternity? You don't miss any of the things you had as an adult? As a //human?//

**Bingham:** What's to miss? Sex? Drugs? Fame? (//scoffs//) The transformation erases all competing pleasures, makes us more like //ourselves//. I mean, I won't pretend we don't enjoy our little luxuries-

**Agent Shadfly:** And vanities, too. Nice suit, by the way.

**Bingham:** Thanks. Yours isn't bad either. But my point is, we spent our entire lives chasing money; now that old age and society aren't holding us back anymore, why not go on? Why not take the game to the next level? Am I right, boys and girls?

//cheers and catcalls in the background//

**Bingham:** Speaking of luxuries, are you hungry?

**Agent Shadfly:** Starving.

//sound of refrigerator opening//

**Bingham:** Here. You have the left, I'll have the right.

**Agent Shadfly:** ...Oh. O-okay. Uh... this is what we live on, then?

**Bingham:** Oh, you can get by on any kind of meat, but I prefer the hunt.

**Agent Shadfly:** Yeah, I could tell by the glitter nail polish and the butterfly tattoos.

**Bingham:** Relax, those are temporary.

**Agent Shadfly:** Temp-! Just how old was the... specimen you got this arm from?

**Bingham:** Thirteen, maybe? Old enough to fall for my "help me, I'm a lost little lamb" routine. Of course, it's nothing compared to what we can get trick-or-treating. Work hard this afternoon and I might just let you tag along with us tonight.

**Agent Shadfly:** Uh... thanks.

//muffled chewing//

**Agent Shadfly:** Er... (//chewing//) About the Vessel... where is it? Last I heard, Imelda ran off with it.

**Bingham:** (//chewing//) It's upstairs in the loft, along with Waldington and the rest of the Society.

**Agent Shadfly:** You already got them all? (//chewing//)

**Bingham:** Was there ever any doubt? (//chewing//) We're keeping 'em caged, chained, and sedated until they've finished transforming. Trouble is, we ran out of drugs before we could put Waldington under and she's been a horse's ass ever since.

//crunching bones, sound of Bingham swallowing//

**Bingham:** Doesn't help that the neurotic bitch was practically sponge-bathing herself in the Vessel's gel when we caught her. Burned through most of her remaining time as a human every time she found a hint of a grey spot: she's just about ready to change by now.

**Agent Shadfly:** ...Can I see her?

**Bingham:** (//tuts disapprovingly//) You're supposed to be learning the ropes, Bill, not fraternizing with the unconverted. Besides, I've got to make a call to Jordan, see if he managed to pick up anyone else from the hotel-

**Agent Shadfly:** Please, I... I might be able to help. Maybe I can talk some sense into her, at least so she'll cooperate once she's one of us. 

**Bingham:** //Bill...//

**Agent Shadfly:** Come on, she's only going to be human for - what? - another few minutes at the most. You can give me the lessons any damn day of the week.

//silence//

**Agent Shadfly:** Hey, if diplomacy's too boring for you, Bing, then we can always spice it up with a wager.

**Bingham:** (//curious//) ...go on.

**Agent Shadfly:** If I get Waldington to cooperate before she turns, I get ten grand. Twenty thousand if she accepts the change, fifty thousand if she agrees to work with us, and a hundred thousand if she acknowledges that this is what she wanted all along. If I can't even get her to be a good little girl before she turns, then //you// get the hundred grand.

**Bingham:** (//laughing//) Deal! 

//footsteps//

//sounds of conversation and activity gradually fade//

//creaking of stairs//

//sounds of a combination being entered and a heavy door being opened and shut//

**Bingham:** As you can see, we've got more than enough room to keep the entire society caged until they're fully transformed. Plus, it's soundproofed, so we don't have to worry about the neighbours calling the police. 

//muffled chanting and mumbling from multiple subjects//

**Patrick Thule:** Whaling. For something protean. Mostyn found it. After he left Brecon.

**Agent Shadfly:** Um... why are they sleep-talking?

**Bingham:** Just a thing the newbies do. Always good for a laugh.

//sleepy humming from multiple voices; humming and song choice [[footnote]]Tentatively identified as the Eton Boating Song (published 1863) [[/footnote]] appear perfectly synchronized.//

**Patrick Thule:** Protean essence. Theft. Transgression. Judgement. Punishment. Where are all the other parts? Why are they screaming at me?

**Agent Shadfly:** The hell is that supposed to mean?

**Bingham:** Nevermind that, you've got more important things to do.

**Patrick Thule:** It could've been worse. For us. So many worse fates. Could have chosen a different...

**Bingham:** And over here we have... (//mimics drumroll//)

//muffled whimpering, clanking of chains//

**Imelda Waldington:** (//sobbing//) Please... don't look at me... I'm... //hideous//.

**Bingham:** She doesn't have long, as you can see. Unless you want me to win the bet, you'd best pull your finger out.

**Agent Shadfly:** ...What's that on the table there?

//analysis indicates that Agent Shadfly has just activated his emergency signaling beacon//

**Agent Shadfly:** And why's it just sitting out in the middle of the loft?

**Bingham:** You've already had the dreams, right? They're strongest when you're in close proximity to the Vessel, hence the sleep-talking. When the Vessel's in a mood, those visions are very good at breaking in problem recruits.

**Agent Shadfly:** Ah.

**Bingham:** Speaking of which, I think you have an appointment with Waldington. First, though, I've just got to put the Vessel back in the safe and-

//loud crunch//

//sound of body slumping to the floor//

//pause//

**Agent Shadfly:** (//spitting//) Vertebrae are //such// a bitch to bite through. Looks like you're still alive, though. Knowing our healing talents, you'll be able to walk again in a month or so, but by then, it's not gonna make much difference.

**Bingham:** (//ragged gasping for breath//)

**Agent Shadfly:** So... you still think the Society's deal was too good to pass up? (//chuckles//) Don't go anywhere; I've got some business to attend to while we wait...

//footsteps//

**Imelda Waldington:** Please. I need the Vessel... //Please...//  I just want to be normal again. I'm not like Thule and the others. I didn't get into this because I wanted to be immortal or eternally beautiful or anything like that: I wanted to undo all the plastic surgery and be the way I used to be, before... before I threw everything away. I just wanted a second chance. You can understand that, can't you?

**Agent Shadfly:** I'm sorry, Imelda, but the Vessel can't stop you from changing. It can only delay it. And you're almost out of time.

**Imelda Waldington:** ...But why? Was there some ritual I didn't perform? What went wrong with the Vessel?

**Agent Shadfly:** Nothing. It was always going to do that.

**Imelda Waldington:** But... that's not fair. That //can't// be fair! There should've been another way! It's just not... not...

//sounds of cracking bones and Waldington screaming at full volume, voice steadily growing younger; sounds continue for approximately one minute before lapsing into silence as Waldington loses consciousness//

**Agent Shadfly:** (//retching//) ...fuck. I thought watching it happen to me through a shaving mirror was bad enough. (//deep breath//) Well, at least I can secure this thing while we wait for backup.

//footsteps//

**Agent Shadfly:** Warm to the touch again... like... like....

//pause//

**Agent Shadfly:** Oh no... not more nightmares, not //now//...

//sound of Agent Shadfly collapsing to the floor//

**Agent Shadfly:** ...How many pieces did they cut you into? How many different kinds of beauty could they use them for? How are you alive? //How are you still alive?!// How...

//trails off into incoherence//

[END LOG]
[[/div]]
[[/collapsible]]
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[[collapsible hideLocation="both" show="> MISSION DEBRIEFING" hide="- Close"]]
Thirty minutes after Agent Shadfly triggered his signaling device for the second time, Foundation backup arrived at the IPI safehouse in force.

Covertly introduced tear gas proved effective in nullifying the combat potential of SCP-9205-A instances: since none of the instances were alerted to the threat, their nictitating membranes did not deploy in time to protect their eyes from the gas, making it difficult for any of them to retaliate when Foundation operatives were authorized to break down the doors and attack.

As a result, though five of the twenty-three SCP-9205-A instances were able to escape through thaumaturgical means, twelve instances were successfully apprehended, along with three of the ten hired security guards on site. The remainder were terminated in battle, with no Foundation casualties resulting.

Following the cessation of hostilities, agents were able to cut their way through the loft's door with oxyacetylene torches: inside, they found the caged members of the Society of Iðunn's Orchards, Agent Shadfly, and SCP-9205.

With Imelda Waldington fully transformed, and Patrick Thule and the other surviving Society members completing their own metamorphoses over the course of the following hours, all were subsequently contained. Given the level of financial influence wielded by the Society members, the O5 Council has authorized operations to replace all transformed or deceased VIPs with body doubles loyal to the Foundation, both to ensure the preservation of the Veil and the reduction of any potential economic instability triggered by the disappearances.

Agent Shadfly was unconscious when located and did not awaken until he had been rehoused at Site 76 along with SCP-9205 and the other transformed Society members.

> **Interviewed:** Agent William Shadfly 
> 
> **Interviewer:** Dr Phillipa Percival
> 
> **Foreword:** The following log constitutes the remainder of Agent Shadfly's mission debriefing, with the events of the mission itself having already been reported. Interview took place in his new quarters.
> 
> **<Begin Log, 05:00 PM, 31/10/24)>**
> 
> **Dr Percival:** ...All in all, I'd say this constitutes a successful mission. You've done exceptionally well.
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** Let's not make mountains out of molehills; I only managed this because the brokers were complacent and greedy.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** Come on, you secured an artefact that's been eluding us since Black Monday and you helped take down Imperial Purple's New York branch. That's got to be worth a celebration, right?
> 
> //pause//
> 
> **Dr Percival:** Will?
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** You're not supposed to call me that anymore, Philly.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** You're not supposed to be calling //me// that either. Look, could you just tell me what's wrong? Please? It's hard enough getting Agents to accept therapy, and damn near impossible to secure it for SCPs. Just tell me what's on your mind.
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** Well, about the only thing we can be thankful for is that this wasn't another apocalypse waiting to happen. I mean, Imperial Purple Imports barely qualifies as a Group of Interest: they spend more time on rugpulls and loansharking than anomalous items. Small potatoes, really.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** Surely you can at least take pride in-
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** We only found out about IPI because they got greedy and broke their own rules blatantly enough for MC&D to find out. We couldn't find their board of directors, we don't know where the other branches are, we couldn't seize their other artefacts, and we can't stop their clients from buying shit that's //guaranteed// to turn them into monsters. Not exactly a worthwhile end to my career.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** That's not the only reason why you're in a bad mood, though, is it?
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** (//sighs//) No. When I touched SCP-9205 at the warehouse, I saw something. It might have just been a hallucination but... I think I'm beginning to understand.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** ...understand what? Your whaling dreams?
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** //Male parta male dilabuntur//. The IPI board of directors screwed up when they were making the Vessel, let a little too much of what it //once was// seep through to the finished article. Essence was stolen from it to replenish their beauty and their lives, so their beauty and their lives were stolen from them. The transformation was meant as an insult.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** You mean-
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** I //said// the damn thing was warm to the touch. Like a butchered whale in the ice, carved open, innards smoking... but somehow just alive enough to dream. 
> 
> //pause//
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** Not that it matters.
>  
> **Dr Percival:** Why not?
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** You heard what Bingham said. You //know// how many of the victims ended up working for IPI even after everything the company did to them. And I'm betting that Imelda's the only Society member with an ounce of regret for what they've become. Every bastard that shelled out for eternal life and beauty saw the Vessel's insult, and eventually said "yep, that's who I am! Let's have fun with it!"
> 
> **Dr Percival:** So what? It's not like they'd be the first altered individuals to embrace their change-
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** Embracing the change isn't the point! //They sank to new lows//. The transformation was meant to show them how petty and childish and monstrous they really were... //and they liked it.// That's why I'm feeling down, Philly. Because everything about the Vessel - its creation, IPI, the Society, my mission... it's all been a waste of time. (//sighs//) All in vain, if you like.
> 
> //pause//
> 
> **Dr Percival:** ...Do you want me to bring you that bottle of scotch you asked for earlier this week?
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** I don't need to drown my sorrows, Philly, I need //sleep//. When I wake, maybe I'll feel better about this whole pointless mess, maybe even enough to enjoy my retirement. Until then, I just want to sleep... and try to forget.
> 
> //Agent Shadfly lies down on his bunk and closes his eyes.//
> 
> **Agent Shadfly:** That's all for now, Dr Percival.
> 
> **Dr Percival:** (//sadly//) Very well then. Thank you for your time, A-1.
> 
> **<End Log>**
> 
> **Closing Statement:** Agent William Shadfly (retired) has been redesignated SCP-9205-A-1 and is no longer to be treated as a human being.
> 
> As per SCP-9205-A-1's testimony, SCP-9205 has been reclassified from Safe to Euclid in accordance with its possible status as a sentient object.

[[/collapsible]]


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