It's so easy to say yes, to knuckle down and get to work.
Item#: 9731
Level2
Containment Class:
safe
Secondary Class:
none
Disruption Class:
keneq
Risk Class:
danger
Special Containment Procedures: The headquarters of North Star Interactive (designated Containment Area-9731) has been quarantined indefinitely under the pretense of a major black mold infestation.
All future SCP-9731 components are to be stored in Containment Area-9731.
All skin-to-skin contact between the anomaly and a human is prohibited, except in the case of experiments with adequate life support to support a catatonic individual.
Should a human become a component of SCP-9731, their personal effects should be tested for SCP-9731.
An Ethics Committee review of containment procedures is pending assignment of an Ethics Committee liaison.
Description: SCP-9731 designates a gestalt consciousness, formed on 13-05-2025 from the lower-level employees of North Star Interactive. This combination was facilitated by a Neo-Sarkic flesh crafter hired by the company's upper management with the objective of “increasing output quality and work speed.” Due to the flesh crafter's presumed absorption into SCP-9731, the process by which the combination was achieved is unknown and at this time irreversible.
On contact with an object inhabited by SCP-9731, which includes computer workstations, personal effects, and the amalgamation of approximately fifty-three (53 ± 7) human bodies, humans will be rendered unconscious and experience guided hallucinations controlled by SCP-9731. Though other details vary, hallucinations consistently feature an entity who interacts with the victim until they are revived or experience braindeath, the latter rendering them an extension of SCP-9731, regardless of physical proximity.
Addendum 9731-1: SCP-9731 hallucination events.
Foreword: on 15-05-2025, Foundation assets received notice of anomalous activity at North Star Interactive’s headquarters. Due to a poor assessment of the anomaly’s threat, a full MTF investigation was rejected for a more cost-effective containment by security from nearby Site-21. This resulted in Officer Renynolds attempting to use a company computer and experiencing SCP-9731’s anomalous effects. Her experiences were retrieved via a CTT (Computed Thaumaturgical Tomography) Scan and are represented below:
[BEGIN LOG]
You wake up, and you are on a ship. The ship is snared between the sea and the sky, whipped by the wind and the waves. Above, the sails writhe in torrents of rain and sleet. Through the rigging climb figures of shadow, barely distinguishable from wisps of cloud. They are adding more and more sail, lashing it down and spurring the ship ever faster.
Another person strides toward you, unfazed by the turmoil. They're covered in strands that twist with the wind, something like seaweed. They thrust out their hand and you see they are holding a bucket.
“Bail.”
The voice is growling, impatient. You step back, confused and instinctively hostile to its demands.
“What? Why?”
“This ship, everyone on it?" The seaweed man growls, "We will sink if you do not bail.”
As you begin to respond, the ship's bow plows through a wave, and the entire deck is plunged into the ocean for a few seconds. When you've recovered, you find the seaweed man is still watching you, bucket in hand.
“Could we slow down?” You point upward, to where sails continue to be piled on. “Maybe get some more time to bail?”
The seaweed man does not even glance up.
“They are doing what must be done. And as for you-” The bucket is thrust forward once again.
“Bail.”
A bolt of lightning cracks the sky, and you see it is not seaweed covering this person, but cords of knotted leather. Even their hands are creaking leather with pieces of jagged metal for fingernails. You can hear the cords whistling through the air; feel them dragging across your exposed back and tearing into the skin.
Darkness returns. You seize the bucket and scramble below-decks, hoping the person formed from whips will not follow.
The ship's hold is a mess of flailing bodies, each trying to hurl water out of the portholes. But water still ebbs around your shins, dark and glittering from the flickering lamps.
As you go deeper, seeking a glimmer of organization or at least a porthole not blocked by a press of persons, you begin to hear the creak of machinery.
In the back of the hold, where no one has bothered to light lanterns, massive pumps grind. Driven by the motion of their human operators, each powerful downstroke of the pump purges water from the hold.
You watch, entranced, as mere human flesh works in harmony with the mechanical. Those clinging to the handles lending their strength to the work one second, and being dragged upright by the machine the next.
Your bucket falls from grasping fingers as you push your way between two of the pumps' operators. They quickly make room, knowing that many hands in the machine is the only way the ship will survive. You join them, feeling the rise and fall, the ebb and flow of the machine through its handles. And you bail, because otherwise we will all sink.
[END LOG]
Afterword:
At the recommendation of Site-21 leadership, all members of Site-21 security have been registered for mandatory re-training on the initial stages of anomaly assessment.
Officer Reynolds is now a component of SCP-9731.
Foreword: on 16-05-2025, Researcher Richard Deylan accessed SCP-9731 without authorization to conduct a battery of non-standard tests. During one of the tests, Researcher Deylan tripped, making contact with the main mass of SCP-9731. Once retrieved, Researcher Deylan was connected to a CTT machine modified for the exploration of SCP-9731 hallucinations, enabling observers to communicate with the affected subject.
[BEGIN LOG]
You come to in a hallway of white marble. The architecture is impossibly gothic, arch upon arch building up into a fractaled ceiling.
Richard, this is Scott. We’ve got you hooked up to the machine, and we’re going to get you out. Try to take a look around, and avoid that whip-thing.
You’re not sure where the voice comes from, and you puzzle over its meaning. What is a whip-thing? But the next moment, all thoughts of strange voices are pushed to the side.
A figure stands in front of you, swathed in linen bandages; the intricately wrought points of a crown poke through the wrappings on their head.
They raise a hand and gesture.
You follow and are let along the soft carpet to a grandiose door, elegantly towering above you. Despite what the door must weigh, it drifts open at a touch, and you are now in an arena. Along the edge, thrones have been set out, filled by figures too indistinct for identification, despite the bright daylight that shines from above. Murmurs pass between the thrones, and the figures ignore your entrance, intent on their discussion.
Your guide steps forward, each step a muffled clink on the cool granite tiling. You follow, admiring the red veins that twist through the stone, draining away from the center of the arena. In the center is a waist-high pillar carved into shapes impossibly delicate for the marble it is made from. On the pillar is a cushion, empty, expectant.
A hand is raised, and there is now an egg sitting on the bandaged palm. The face, despite being completely covered, stares directly at you. A voice tinged with metal echoes through the room.
“Create. Show us your works.”
You take the egg, knowing what must be done. There is no paintbrush or well of ink, so you drive your fingernail into your thumb until blood is freed. Slowly, aware of the importance, you draw your thumb across the egg, leaving the first stroke.
What are you doing? Do not engage.
You push the voice to the back of your head; you’ll get to it eventually. But right now, people are watching, and you need to create.
Then the egg is complete, and you set it on the cushion. It nestles perfectly onto the velvet, and the blood stands stark and vibrant against the egg and its surroundings. Satisfied, you step back to let the spectators witness your work.
Silence greets the reveal. You look around and see your guide remains fixed on you, completely disregarding the egg. On the room's periphery, the figures are unmoved; their flow of conversation uninterrupted.
Rebuffed, you return to the egg, trying to discern why it failed to elicit appreciation. With more discerning eyes, you see now it is not the masterpiece you envisioned. Against the flawless cushion, the lines are smeared and imprecise. Amongst the craft displayed on every surface of the arena, your attempt is blatantly amateur. The theming which you were so proud of is revealed for the shallow bandaid it is, covering a lack of any real thought.
You rush forward, snatching the unworthy piece from its dais and hurling it to the ground. The guide steps over the remains and extends its hand again. The bandages have begun to work loose, and you catch glimpses of a golden palm underneath the new egg being offered.
You are almost overwhelmed with the honor of being given another chance. Doing your best to suppress the trembling excitement within, you gingerly take the new canvas. You try not to look at where your previous work lies shattered on the ground.
You need to get away.
The voice is quieter now, subsumed under the drive to create something worthwhile for your expectant audience.
Focusing back on the matter at hand, you hiss in frustration. Distracted by that nagging voice, your thumb had slipped, sketching a red line across the face of the egg, Disfiguring your beautiful work.
You look up at the audience, sure you will see impatience, maybe even anger, at your incompetence, but you are blessed with that same total indifference as before. Your advocate steps forward once again. Many of the bandages have loosened, and each movement reveals glimpses of finely worked gold. It offers another egg.
Blinking to hold back tears at the kindness you are being shown, you take it and place it on the dias, your previous attempt consigned to the floor.
The blood from your thumb has ceased to flow so readily, but there is nothing else with which to paint. So, ignoring the twinge of pain, you reopen the wound.
This time the work is better, but the watchers still will not even spare a glance at it. So you cast it away, ignoring the dull crack announcing its impact on the floor. You accept the newly offered egg, knowing that you will create a marvel worthy of adulation and awe, even if you must bleed yourself dry to do so.
[END LOG]
Afterword:
An investigation found that Researcher Deylan was dissatisfied with the lack of recognition his previous work on anomalies had received. His research notes (now part of SCP-9731) indicate he hoped to use his unsanctioned testing to produce "results they can't ignore".
Researcher Deylan is now a component of SCP-9731.
Foreword: On 26-05-2025, an exploration into the hallucinations of SCP-9731 was approved. This exploration utilized a CTT machine modified to allow communication and a retrieval mechanism designed to wake the subject upon completion of all objectives. To prevent further loss of essential personnel, a D-class was requisitioned. (Use of a D-class will be reviewed upon assignment of an Ethics Committee liaison.)
[BEGIN LOG]
Your first moment and every moment thereafter is suffused with thunder. Not natural thunder heralding a cleansing storm, but an angry, artificial rumble of artillery. Well before you notice the olive drab uniform you are clad in, you know you are at war.
Stay focused.
You try, but even removed from the front lines, the terror of battle is all-encompassing. You can feel the important things sliding away, leaving behind only a vague sense of purpose, the feeling that this battlefield is not your own.
You want to run away or burrow into the ground where the shock of bombardment cannot reach you. But, under the shadow of those guns, you doubt there is anywhere their shells will not eventually fall.
Boots staggering in unison announce a new presence. In the distance you can see a column of infantry trudging through the mud, heads bowed and shoulders slumped. To either side ride officers, their lanky horses striking a fine line between well-muscled and malnourished. At least, they must be officers, although their forms are too vague to identify a specific rank.
The formation draws closer, and it becomes clear just how tired the soldiers really are. Each strains under the weight of a rifle far too bulky to be practical and struggles to match the pace of the officers: too fast to comfortably walk and too slow to a run.
Approach them.
You are glad for the direction. It helps drown out the feeling of wrongness as your legs, responding to no command your mind has given, drag you toward the bleak parade.
As you draw near, you see between the officers and the grunts walks another being. It lurches up and down the row in precise steps, looming over the tired marchers.
It is not like the human foot soldiers or the indistinct mounted commanders. It is all too clear, and all too inhuman.
It wears a facsimile of a uniform. But beneath the rough fabric, sharp angles bulge and twist. Ramrod straight arms swing in sync with each step and at the end of each clenched hands glint like no skin ever has. It doesn't clink with each step, but it ought to. Iron, steel, and brass, from head to foot.
Its mouth is a jaw of tread plate and a mass of spent casings for teeth. On top of it all is perched a simple infantry helmet with a sergeant's stripes. As if uniform and rank could make this thing a true soldier. And in between helmet and teeth, there is a hole with spiraling grooves etched into the interior metal.
The hole of its face shouldn't be that deep. It should reach the back and open out to the other side, letting through what little sunlight there is on the battlefield. But instead, the rifling twists away and fades into shadow, and whatever sits in the back of the barrel is completely enshrouded in darkness.
It meets you halfway, and you both stop, almost within an arm’s length.
Talk to it.
The impulse is compelling, and you open your mouth. But no utterances escape. The air that comes rushing in, full of smoke and sweat and blood, defies the words in your throat. Before you can squeeze anything out, a grating voice commands your full attention.
“You're holding up the entire column. Fall in line.”
The battlefield speaks through the sergeant in front of you. Its voice is the grinding of tank treads over rubble, the rattling of artillery shells falling into the chamber, and all the other artifices of war. It is a voice that resonates with something deeper than words and demands obedience.
Pull it together, D-class. We're counting on you.
Two unstoppable forces meet in your head, tearing at each other for command. In their wake is left confusion.
“Why?”
The sergeant gestures behind, to the overburdened infantry who have finally caught up and now struggle to remain at attention while standing ankle deep in mud and carrying far too much. Its voice rasps over the sound of a hundred people trying to stay quiet.
“A chain cannot pull if each link looks out for itself. Each of us counts on one another. Each of us would not have the strength to march without those to either side. Your decision to stop – to make things easier on yourself – drags everyone with you.”
Good, keep it talking.
“But why do I need to march? Why do I need to talk? I didn't choose to be here, to fight this war.”
The officers have all turned towards your conversation. They watch with faces too indistinct for any emotion besides disinterest, but urgency radiates from them all the same. Glancing over its shoulder, the sergeant makes what would be eye contact if either had eyes. When it turns back to face you, its posture is straighter, its shoulders thrown even further back. A gunmetal hand reaches out; a weight settles on your own shoulder.
“Now is not the time for doubts. There is a gap in our ranks waiting for you. There are men and women who need you.”
The sergeant that speaks in the voice of violence steps aside, expectant. Almost, the plight of the infantry in their miserable column overwhelms you, drives you to fall in and join them in suffering.
But one more suffering soul wouldn't make the war stop, or make the march any shorter.
So you turn to leave.
“Stop.”
That awful voice still rages in your ears, but it no longer claws at your mind as it did only moments before. You continue on your way, and each step you take plants your feet on firmer, dryer, ground.
Good enough. Standby for extraction.
You feel a tug from within, and know how easy it would be to obey; to heed the call and be yanked away.
You can't remember where you will go if you succumb to the pull, but you know it was better than this. Or at least different. Your memories are of clean concrete and whitewashed walls, all traces of dirt, blood, or violence excised.
As you continue to walk, a breeze washes over you, carrying something new, not born of war. You look around and find that what you had took to be fragments of bloody cloth are actually poppies. Small, barely established, but still eking out a living in a place you had thought of as a desolate wasteland only moments before.
We're having trouble bringing you back. You need to surrender to the pull.
You could give in, and let yourself be dragged back. But you don't think wherever you came from had poppies, or the birds you see wheeling overhead, chasing after each other.
So you decide to trust your own two feet.
[END LOG]
Afterword: D-class subject's brain activity indicates continued hallucinations but cannot be revived, despite no mechanical or electronic failure.
D-class subject has not yet become a component of SCP-9731.
Addendum 9731-2: SCP-9731 Administrative Notice