(Connected to SCP-001 Project)
The Foundation scrubbed the recording. No trace remains in the archives — not officially. But I was there when it played back, and I cannot forget.
I need to put it into words, because the report's redactions don't even scratch the surface of what we saw.
MTF Epsilon-██ thought they were entering ruins. The satellite feed had shown a mausoleum — anomalous in structure, yes, but nothing beyond containment precedent. They were calm. Too calm.
Inside, the air was heavy. Oppressive. Marble halls stretched in impossible geometries, lit by cold blue fire that flickered without smoke. The deeper they moved, the more it became clear: this was no tomb.
It was waiting.
That was when she appeared.
A figure — woman-shaped, but no longer human. Skin pale as bleached bone, eyes glowing crimson, a gown of aristocratic black and red lace that whispered against the stone as she glided. Her smile gleamed, sharp as a broken chalice.
And then she spoke.
"Ara… little mice, scurrying in my master's halls."
The operatives raised weapons, but she only tilted her head, almost curious. She extended a gloved hand — and gravity itself betrayed them.
Blood lifted from the first soldier before his body hit the floor, drawn in perfect crimson strands. His scream died halfway, veins emptying into the air. The blood twisted, condensed, and hardened into a spear.
Another operative fired. The spear flew faster. It tore through his chest before the muzzle flash even bloomed. Then it liquefied again, splitting into barbed tendrils that lashed outward.
The feed recorded slaughter impossible to rationalize: red lines slicing through armored operatives, arterial storms filling the lens. She moved like a conductor at her orchestra, every flick of the wrist another death note.
At one point she paused, bored, and brought a blood-forged spear to her lips. She licked delicately, savoring, then let it collapse into droplets that rained across the floor.
Her laughter echoed.
"You came uninvited… but you will not leave empty-handed. My lord will hear of your offering."
The last image before static: a hallway drowned in red. Bodies strung like marionettes, their lifeblood orbiting her in a macabre halo.
And then — silence.
Nothing was recovered. No weapons. No bone. No ash.
The official file lists her as SCP-001-A.A guardian-class entity. Clinical, sanitized. But I know what I saw.
She wasn't defending anything. She was playing.
And she was only the first.
Recovered from Unofficial Memo – Dr. █████ █████, Site-██