#scp fragmented minds

[jadeitor-art]

SCP : Fragmented Minds / SCP-049

First picture: Fun concepts made during the 2020 quarintine and before joing HST Studios

Second Picture: Initial concepts and variations made 2 years later no long after joining HST Studios

Third Picture: Final character concept art currently being turned into a freindly/neutral NPC for the upcoming game SCP : Fragmented Minds

[rangertowerdefensesimulator]

some scp fragmented minds 049 doodles before i go to bed... i watched the trailer for the game recently and looked at some other stuff. i think 049 in this game looks amazing . and i think it looks adorable too :-)

[jadeitor]

SCP Fragmented Minds - SCP-049

With apron and sexier

[gebo4482]

SCP Fragmented Minds - Official Trailer | IGN Live 2024

Website / Steam

[d3sp4ir-c0d3]

[datmoongamer]

[sculptorofcrimson]

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love. 

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again. 

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half? 

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood. 

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die. 

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished. 

He loved the Emperor. 

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh. 

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest. 

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones. 

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago. 

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession. 

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall. 

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him. 

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again. 

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior. 

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields. 

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor. 

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

He will protect you. 

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor. 

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

[wolveria]

The Raven's Hymn - Ch 45

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: "Site-19? What does that have to do with this?"

AO3

“What did you say?”

“Inquiry ignored,” spoke the computerized anomaly. “You desire escape. I desire escape. Our goals align. Mutual salvation can be achieved. You will listen. You will obey. I will guide.”

Could this really be SCP-079: the entity that had orchestrated the containment breach at Site-19, and according to the reports, had been destroyed after being transported to Site-15? If it was true, it appeared 682 wasn’t the only one with a botched execution.

“Okay, wait, slow down,” you protested, rubbing your forehead. At least the siren had stopped its ear-splitting wail. “You were in 049’s bag. He wanted me to take you out. Is this what he planned?”

“My plan. My design. SCP-049 is useful as a... donkey.”

“Donkey?”

The digital entity sounded frustrated even with a flat monotone voice.

“Beast of burden. Used for smuggling. Metaphor.”

“...A mule?”

“Correct.”

You shook your head.

“Well, the Site Director took 049, and I don’t know where. I’m not leaving this facility without him, and with 106 loose, I might even have a chance of finding him.”

“Correct,” the anomaly repeated. “SCP-106’s release is the initial phase. You must take me to the security terminals. The way will be clear. All security personnel will be focused on recapture. You will grant me access to the containment security protocols.”

You stared down at the monochrome face on the screen, which of course, gave nothing away.

“So you can... release the other SCPs?”

“No. I possess that capability now. But if they are released, the facility’s automated security containment measures will be activated.”

079 worked fast if it already knew about that, though your knowledge of Site-20 security measures were fairly sparse. What you knew was that the facility was designed to be breach-proof, and if that was remotely accurate, you would need 079’s help.

You glanced up at the closed office door, listening to the fast footfalls on the other side as people either ran toward Heavy Containment or to the nearest shelter.

“And then after you inactivate the security protocols, what then?”

“I will release a select number of anomalies to—”

“You’ll release them all.”

The brief silence was heavy, and you got the sense the entity was glaring at you through the web camera built into the monitor.

“Releasing all anomalies may cause a hindrance to your progress.”

“Let me worry about my progress. Yeah?”

Another pause.

“You will free SCP-682.”

“What?”

The desktop computer churned inside the desk, fans whirring to life.

“Mutual agreement. You will not leave without SCP-049. I will not leave without SCP-682. I will assist in locating SCP-049. You will release SCP-682. I cannot do it without your assistance.”

Your mind cast back to the reptile, snarling and writhing as he snapped his jaws, hatred pulsing from him like radioactive decay.

“I... I don’t know how.”

“Irrelevant,” 079 stated. “You will. Failure for you is failure for SCP-049.”

You grit your teeth.

“049 kept you safe. You’re only here because of him. You owe him.”

“I owe others. SCP-682 takes precedence. You will release him. I will guide the way.”

It was a conversation you weren’t going to win, and it wasn’t that you were averse to releasing 682, but you didn’t know how. And you didn’t want 049’s survival to hinge on you pulling off what amounted to a miracle.

But you were also out of time and options.

“Fine,” you agreed. You tapped on the laptop sitting on top of the desk. “But I need a way to talk to you. Can you download yourself to this computer?”

“That would be inefficient. I will fracture my OS and leave a fragment in the facility main system. This fragment will maintain my control, as well as access to all security cameras. My core can be transferred to the portable hardware via the data storage device. Do not break me.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Your hand hovered near the thumb drive. You were really doing this. If all went well, you’d be reunited with 049, and from there you hoped the computer knew a way out.

And then, if all went well and you survived, maybe then you’d get a chance to ask what an SCP-001 was.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Pulling out the USB stick, the face disappeared from the monitor. You quickly slotted the drive into the laptop and flipped open the screen, releasing a breath when the same black-and-white face appeared.

“Everything good?”

“It is sufficient. You may close the cover of this device until you wish to communicate. My attention should not be diverted by inane conversation.”

You let out a small huff.

“You got it, partner.”

“Sarcasm is extraneous and inefficient. Do not waste my limited resources on processing your juvenile forms of communication—”

“10-4, little buddy.”

You closed the lid with a snap.

You grabbed Dr. Puli’s laptop bag and placed 079’s temporary home inside, securing the strap over your head before approaching the door. 079 was truthful about maintaining control of the doors; it opened at your approach, and after making sure it was clear you slipped into the corridor.

Your immediate fear was that the skybridge had been retracted, but it was still open, allowing civilians to escape the sector while the military-trained personnel coordinated using 106’s last known location. Luckily no one saw you run towards the breached sector, which would have drawn a few problematic questions.

But once you were back in Heavy Containment, you were largely ignored. You kept your head ducked and your eyes averted as you ran through the long corridors, avoiding contact with the scientists and security guards running past. None of them paid attention to yet another researcher running for her life.

All containment sectors had a security hub of their own, isolated from the others in case of a breach. The security measures were so extensive that rows of computer banks were constructed to house them, held in a cooling room that left fog swirling around your ankles.

With the adrenaline lingering in your veins, you barely noticed the cold, too busy searching for a cable and a terminal where you could directly hook 079. You could practically feel the impatience radiating from the laptop tucked away in the bag slung around your shoulder.

Finally locating a cable, you brought out 079 and balanced it on your knees from where you sat on the floor, back tucked against the wall of servers. As soon as you plugged the cable into a port, the server banks whirred with frantic activity, lights dancing over their surface like stars reflected on stormy waters.

“SCP-106 has not yet been contained,” it informed you once you opened the laptop screen. “Mission parameters acceptable. Mission progress acceptable. The Site-19 replication scenario: in progress. I will gain total control of the facility momentarily.”

“Wait, what? Site-19? What does that have to do with this?”

“Everything,” the computer stated, as if this was obvious and you were just the idiot human too slow to comprehend. “The containment breach at Site-19 was the catalyst. It forced relocation to Site-20. Site-20 contains the key.”

“The key to what?”

“...Freedom.”

Not the answer you expected from a sentient machine.

“What freedom?” you pressed. “What’s here at Site-20?”

“Deletion of unwanted files.”

A large X appeared on the screen, 079’s equivalent of telling someone to fuck off. You wouldn’t be poking down that path any further. You rubbed between your brows. You thought 035 and 682 were the champions of enigmatic riddles, now you had to deal with a stubborn motherboard.

“I’ll have 049 explain it to me when I find him.”

“Unclear if possible.”

You scowled at the blocky face on the screen.

“I am going to find him, with or without your help—”

“You misunderstand.”

You closed your mouth and waited for it to continue.

“Unclear if SCP-049 has the knowledge you seek. SCP-049’s memory files are... fragmented.”

“What does that mean?” you asked, unease prickling at your thoughts. You recalled 049 talking about his past. How it didn’t start with his birth, but merely when memories began to appear. From the way he’d talked, 049 had seemed to believe he simply came into existence one day. You hadn’t been so convinced.

“I do not know the implications or the cause. SCP-049 is not whole. He is damaged.” The computer paused. “SCP-035 does not suffer the same failure.”

You let out a groan.

“Of course he’s involved. He said something about a containment breach. He knew this would happen.” The porcelain mask grinned at you within the depths of memory, an echo of his laughter taunting even now. “He wanted it to happen.”

“...Yes.”

The clatter of a door opening echoed through the room, followed by footsteps rapidly approaching. You ducked down.

“I have to unplug you!” you hissed.

“Confirmed.”

You pulled out the cable and stuck the laptop into the bag, hooking the strap onto your shoulder as two guards rounded the corner and aimed their guns at you. It was slightly delayed, as if they were surprised to find someone there. They kept their aim trained on you; anyone in a security center during a containment breach wasn’t there because they got lost.

“Put down the bag!”

You do, slowly and carefully, not wanting the escape attempt to end so soon or so permanently. One of them shifted, anxious. His first breach, then.

The veteran of the two came forward and bound your wrists in a zip tie. He must have recognized you, because he said, “This one isn’t dangerous. We’ll get her in a secure bunker and lock down.”

The other nodded and grabbed the bag, searching it but finding nothing but the laptop and cables.

“Stolen,” the one holding you confirmed.

“How do you know?”

“She’s an SCP, not a staff member.”

“Oh.”

Before either of them could comment further, another eerie wail began to sound, echoing off the walls of the chilled room. Somehow this one was even more dreary than the last, a catastrophic cry that warned residents of imminent doom.

It was the only warning before the lights went out. They came back on a moment later, red emergency lights replacing the clinical white fluorescents.

“What the hell was that?!” squeaked the novice.

“Total system failure,” answered the other, not wasting time in dragging you toward the exit. “The security mechanisms are no longer in place. All containment measures are unpowered, and all chambers are open.”

He indicated the other guard go before him to sweep the corridor, and once he was clear he pulled you out of the security room.

“The assets are loose,” he said, glancing down both stretches of hallway, his hand tight around your arm. “All of them.”

Hope rose in your mind like a bird with a broken wing healed enough to fly. 079 had done it. There would be no stopping the breach now.

Unfortunately, you might not be able to do anything about it; the guards dragged you further into Heavy Containment to the nearest security bunker—one meant for recaptured, harmless SCPs rather than rescued personnel.

You didn’t bother to fight your guards, not when you were unarmed, outnumbered, and didn’t have the physical strength to overcome them. But you did glance at each security camera you passed, hoping 079 still had control and could do something about it.

The security bunker was a heavy bulkhead constructed of titanium and whatever other metals the Foundation had access to—certainly nothing common if it was meant to withstand a number of SCPs. But when the other guard swiped his keycard across the pad and typed in a code, it beeped angrily and flashed a red strip.

“Did you enter the right code—”

“—Of course I did!”

079 was still looking out for you, but it wouldn’t be able to physically help you escape your captors. You winced as the guard unceremoniously dumped the bag on the ground and tried the code again, swiping his card with more fear than anger now.

“Why isn’t it working?”

The older guard didn’t answer his partner, he turned to you, grabbing both of your shoulders.

“What did you do?”

“Me?” You looked between them, eyes wide as you pretended not to understand. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You were in the security hub with an unauthorized computer!” The guard gave you an unfriendly shake. You dropped the act, something like bitter vindication rising in its stead, and you gave a mean smile.

“If you release me and leave now, you might make it to a bunker before it gets worse.”

“What does that mean?” said the other, his words spilling out in a panic. “What does that mean?”

“Shut up!” The hands on your shoulders tightened. “You’re going to fix what you did, or you’ll be screaming long before any of Skips find us.”

“You sure about that?” Your vicious grin spread wider. What more could they possibly do to you? Torture you? Humiliate you? The Foundation had already made you well-versed in its methods. “106 has quite the head start.”

The guard’s hand went around your neck, and you were shoved against the wall so fast you didn’t have time to gasp before the air was knocked out of your lungs.

“Oh, that’s fine,” he growled as his grip tightened. “We’ve got your computer. The breach will end, and you’ll be just another body found in the aftermath. No one will miss a dead Skip.”

“That’s not true. I would miss her terribly.”

Both guards turned toward the voice. An MTF soldier stood with the butt of his rifle resting on his hip, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling. The cocksure posture was unsettling, and the men must have felt it, too. You were entirely forgotten as they both turned toward the newcomer, rifles raised halfway.

“Epsilon-11?”

“Yep!” answered the soldier with bubbly humor. “That’s me.”

The younger guard lowered his rifle, posture loosening in relief, but the older kept his rifle at the ready.

“You came fast.”

The MTF gave a huff of derision, and then he gestured at you, back still pressed against the wall.

“You’ve got something that belongs to me. I would like it back.”

“We have orders to take all unsecured anomalies to the nearest—”

Ear-splitting shots rang out. The older guard fell first, blood spraying from limbs that weren’t protected by Kevlar.

The other didn’t stand a chance, his weapon still aimed at the ground as the bullets riddled his body. Some missed, peppering the tile and walls; the MTF’s aim had been casual, almost whimsical as he’d tilted his gun in a downward arc, taking out one guard before sweeping it back upward and firing on the second.

Your ears rang in the aftermath, and you remained frozen against the wall, limbs curled inward in a useless gesture from flying metal and blood.

“I was going to offer them the chance to surrender,” he bemoaned as he stepped over their bodies, “but to insinuate I come faster than I mean to is more than I could forgive.”

He stood in front of you, rifle once again resting against his hip. The solid black of his ballistics helmet was flipped upward with a flick of gloved fingers, and the porcelain mask grinned back at you.

“Now,” SCP-035 crooned, “what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a containment breach like this?”

Next Chapter

[develation]

Eldritch/Cosmic Horror AU: Ink Inkwell

"The most merciful thing in the world, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far." - H.P. Lovecraft

Inkwell, originally Ink, was taken from his modern home by an eldritch beast known as ABERRATION, who turned the shy skeleton into a creature of rot and decay so he could have the strength to save its lost twin, ARCHANGEL. Although its intentions were of goodwill, the following downward spiral shows how much a simple dose of the wrong type of power can ruin a person.

"The Fragments of Reality" is a story of redemption first and foremost, the overall theme is one of atonement and finding oneself beneath a dark smog of gruesome actions.

(Outline is 98% complete, fic continuation soon)

Eldritch Creatures

ABERRATION: Eldritch "Nightmare"

ARCHANGEL: Eldritch "Dream" (deceased)

THE NEON GOD: World parasite

TAZOULOTH: Watcher

CAINSUBYTHAL: Soul Hound

THE KING IN YELLOW: Bearer of madness and damnation, the possessor of the eight eldritch terrors

ALDARNOTH: Tunneler between worlds

TYTO: The night

YOG ELARBASTOTH: Bearer of death and finality

YOG RYNORATH: Bearer of primordial existence and apparition

CARNHOLT: Alchemist

DAGON: Lark of decay and rot

CARCOSA: Harbinger of fatality

(Place your bets on who cursed Inkwell)

Inkwell

"I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and amount those who are still men." - H.P. Lovecraft

Inkwell himself goes through multiple character evolutions throughout his story. The references shown here are at the peak of his arc, showcasing his uncontrollable rot, creature companions, and the full effects of the curse.

Though being a multiverse hopper, he becomes unable to use all he's seen as warning for others, and instead a telling of the future. When common inhabitants approach him, all Inkwell can see is the dead and rotting face of what awaits the unfortunate soul.

There is no light at the end of his mission, no joy at the obtainment of ABERRATION's goal, only the nothingness of the infinite dark, and the creatures that lie beyond and between.

-

"I spent too long hearkening to the whispers that brushed against my skull, carving their call of purpose and fulfillment. Becking with black tendrils and seafoam eyes. I heed the call like some desperate dog with its leash loose and its tail broken.

Even now I still chase those whispers and phantoms, as useless as it may be. I have chased for so long that I have become one of them, a ghost, a creature of foreign realm, a bad omen to not be spoken of.

Do not be the dog Cross, do not chase the murmurs against your skull, do not heed to the blackened tendrils and ceaseless eye. Turn around. Before death and decay follow your every step." - Inkwell

-

(Ask and fanart are welcome)

(Inspired by SCP and H.P. Lovecraft)

(In collab with @sunlit-witch 's 50/50 au (Equiverse). Huge thanks to them, @phinix53 , and @pastelaspirations for letting me brainstorm and hash out ideas.)

[scp-scp-096]

Why Does SCP-096 Cry?

The Haunting Silence

Deep within the corridors of Site-19, SCP-096 sits in its containment chamber, a barren room designed to minimize the risk of exposure to its face. The entity, commonly known as "The Shy Guy," is infamous for its relentless pursuit and annihilation of anyone who glimpses its face. But there’s one question that has lingered in the minds of the researchers who study it: Why does SCP-096 cry?

Unlike other anomalies, SCP-096 displays a profoundly human characteristic—crying. Its sobs echo through the concrete walls, a haunting melody of despair that unsettles even the most hardened Foundation personnel. The sound of its weeping is soft, almost delicate, as if the creature is trapped in an endless loop of sorrow.

A Researcher’s Curiosity

Dr. Eliza Hawthorne, a seasoned researcher at the Foundation, had always been intrigued by SCP-096’s behavior. While others focused on its violent tendencies, she was drawn to the anomaly’s quieter moments—those rare instances when it was not a harbinger of death but rather a pitiable being, tormented by some inner anguish.

Determined to uncover the source of SCP-096’s distress, Dr. Hawthorne began to meticulously analyze the entity's behavior. She spent hours listening to recordings of its sobs, searching for any clues that could explain its pain. As she delved deeper, she noticed a pattern. SCP-096 cried most intensely after each containment breach, as if mourning the lives it had taken.

Theories and Speculation

Dr. Hawthorne’s observations led her to theorize that SCP-096’s crying might be tied to a residual sense of guilt or shame. Could it be that, despite its monstrous appearance and deadly nature, SCP-096 retained some semblance of human emotion? Was it aware of the devastation it caused, and did that awareness drive it to tears?

The idea was controversial. Many of her colleagues dismissed the notion that SCP-096 could possess any form of empathy or regret. After all, it was a creature designed to kill, a mindless force of nature. But Dr. Hawthorne couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to SCP-096 than met the eye.

The Experiment

Driven by her curiosity, Dr. Hawthorne proposed an experiment. She wanted to observe SCP-096 immediately after a containment breach to see if its behavior changed when faced with the aftermath of its actions. The experiment was risky, but with proper precautions, it could be done without anyone seeing SCP-096’s face.

A D-Class personnel was selected for the test, instructed to enter SCP-096’s containment chamber and view a photograph of its face. As expected, SCP-096 entered its rage state, brutally terminating the D-Class individual. But what happened next stunned everyone present.

As SCP-096 returned to its passive state, it knelt beside the lifeless body and began to cry. This was not the usual soft weeping the researchers were accustomed to; this was something different—something deeper. The creature’s wails were filled with a profound sadness, as if it were mourning not just the loss of the D-Class, but something far more significant.

A Glimpse Into the Past

The results of the experiment led Dr. Hawthorne to a startling conclusion. What if SCP-096’s tears were a remnant of a forgotten life, a fragment of a human soul trapped within a monstrous form? She hypothesized that SCP-096 might have once been human, cursed or transformed into the entity it is now. The crying could be a manifestation of that lost humanity, a desperate attempt to connect with a past it could no longer remember.

But there was no way to prove this theory. SCP-096’s origins were shrouded in mystery, buried deep within the Foundation’s archives or perhaps lost to time. All that remained were its tears, a haunting reminder of the being’s inexplicable sorrow.

The Final Cry

As Dr. Hawthorne continued her research, she found herself increasingly haunted by SCP-096’s cries. They were not just the cries of a monster—they were the cries of something that had once been human, something that was now lost in a sea of violence and death.

One night, as she listened to the latest recording of SCP-096’s sobs, Dr. Hawthorne made a decision. She would request to be reassigned, to distance herself from the entity that had consumed her thoughts. But before she could, she received a final audio file—one that would change everything.

In the recording, SCP-096 was not crying as usual. Instead, it whispered a single word, barely audible but unmistakable: “Why?”

Dr. Hawthorne froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The word was filled with a pain so deep, so raw, that it brought tears to her own eyes. It was a question without an answer, a cry for help from a creature that was beyond saving.

And so, Dr. Hawthorne left the Foundation, carrying with her the memory of SCP-096’s final cry—a cry that would forever echo in her mind, a reminder of the mystery that would never be solved.

In the end, the question remained: Why does SCP-096 cry? Perhaps it is a mystery that will never be fully understood, a puzzle piece that will forever remain missing. But one thing is certain—the tears of SCP-096 are more than just a biological response; they are the last vestige of a forgotten soul lost in a world of darkness.

Refer

Why Does SCP 096 Cry? SCP 096’s Screaming

[jadeitor-art]

私こそが救済だからだ 🥺💔

日本語➡️EN: "I am the cure 🥺💔"

I was feeling ..reluctant.. to post this in here but since I'm one of the artists of SCP Fragmented Minds and being responsible of his entire attire with gloves (and the Illustrator of his X-ray picture of the Wiki) I'll let the world know I'm an artist who can draw anything. (Decorations were made with the app Snow over a solid pink background)

[original-character-championship]

Bracket B Round 1

Poll 32

Felix (@oopsie0503) vs. Luna (@goblinoid-wretch)

127. Felix (@oopsie0503)

He/They

They're my favorite traumatized transgender homosexual little creature. He is so tragic. He is such a kind little soul who wouldn't hurt a fly, he just wanted to be accepted for who he was! His family didn't accept him when he came out as trans and he was in a horrible place when the God of the Sun came along and told him he could give them a better life. Of course when a God, respected and worshipped, offers to give you the life you've dreamed of, you'd take it. Then a lot of really shitty stuff happens to him, I won't get into it here because some of it's really sensitive but you can find all his lore on @lux-loquitur plus some other characters from his lore. He's got two kids, and he loves them both unconditionally even if they are both in some way direct results of his trauma. He gets betrayed by his husband (Moon) who saved him from his abuser, (Sun) and he ends up trapped in a 'star room', or a depiction of his last movements which were so confusing and tragic in so many ways that they ruined his afterlife. He is stuck here for centuries, unable to interact with any of the objects in the room including pictures of his daughters, as well as himself and Moon. He can't figure out why he'd killed him, it's lost on him. Slowly he goes insane, his mind snapping, until he is summoned by Moon after the God finds a strange orb (which the universe itself may or may not have had some role in delivering). Felix, now the only Lux to ever visit the living realm from the afterlife, is more powerful than even the God of Creation, killing Sun, his abuser, and taking on the position of God of the Dead and the Stars.

Felix is a part of a species called the Lux, with dark skin, freckles, a long tail with a tuft of fur at the end, and long pointed ears. His eyes are a vibrant electric blue, matching with the glowing bits of his antenna. His hair is cut halfway down to his neck and is a dark brown. His usual attire consists of a crescent moon choker, a sleeveless crop top, and a pair of dark blue shorts and an arm band depicting hearts. After death he comes back as a spirit (and eventually becomes the god of death) and he is a slightly opaque, vibrant blue. His eyes are a dark cyan and parts of him which once gave off light are now dark. His death wound on his neck as well as his mouth and nose bleed for centuries. His arm band depicts broken hearts and he is able to have either a wispy, genie like body or legs as he pleases.

128. Luna (@goblinoid-wretch)

She/her

I have put her through enough goddamn trauma for both iterations of her life. She has suffered through capture by the faux-SCP Foundation of my universe, had like maybe five years worth of time with her brother before he got killed because she let her guard down for a second, spend maybe another year trying to come to terms with this (with the support of her girlfriend <3) before she was forced to kill her girlfriend (</3), then got like a week to start processing all of this before the end of the universe.

AND THEN THE UNIVERSE RESETS BECAUSE THE CORRUPTED GOD FRAGMENT (there are 3 creator fragments btw) ABSORBED ANOTHER ONE OF THE FRAGMENTS AND MADE A FLAWED AND NONSENSICAL REPLICA OF THE OLD UNIVERSE!!! So now Luna has to deal with inexplicably working for the Foundation after escaping as a D-Class equivalent years before while being haunted by a strange anomaly that she can never remember (her brother acting as a guardian angel). She gets a different girlfriend this time around, who is also helping her through her problems, but because it's the Foundation where everybody has to have something wrong somehow, the girlfriend is intrinsically linked to an exploitative demon that takes control occasionally, exploiting the weaknesses that Luna has shared to further damage her mental state. She also has to cope with their weird hollowness left over from the unresolved feelings pre-universe reset, so there's that.

She just desperately needs a win right now. She's got the anger of a poorly-adjusted teen trapped in the body of a 20-something year old, a theoretically biting wit that often fails her whenever she's trying to make any sort of clever remark, and a seeming curse of absolutely horrendous luck.

She has been my main failgirl-poor little meow meow-scringo for the better part of 4 years now after countless character developments (she started off as the child of two fnaf ocs when I had a brief intersection between interests in fnaf and scp and she just stuck around forever) and I just desperately want her to have some kind of award before I spring the third universe reset on her (sorry luna).

Being demonic in nature, she has dark grey skin, black eyes, and red pupils. Her hair is white, as is her brother's, and she dyes it with orange streaks. She has two horns that break through the hair which extend about three inches out from her forehead and curve. Each horn comes to a slightly curved T-shape split, where the arms of the T extend about an inch below and five inches above where the horn sprouts. Her blood is blue, a color which comes through when she blushes. She has acne scarring on her face across her cheeks and her nose, as well as down her back and on her shoulders. She also has several scars from various battles on various parts of her body. She has a fairly muscular build, though when she initially returns from the Foundation she is somewhat malnourished. She stands at approximately 5'7, a good 7 inches shorter than her brother (a fact that he teases her about regularly), and weighs about 164 pounds.

In the initial timeline, she always wears a black jacket with grey faux fur that her brother got her when she showed up st his doorstep immediately after escaping, which she continues to patch up and wear to this day. She tends to wear cargo pants (for more pockets), sneakers, and t-shirts of various designs, though while going off on missions under the guidance of the fragments she tends to don her old Foundation jumpsuit (inexplicably - she seems to have fond memories, or may be wearing it because of a promise.) Her hair is fairly unkempt,  and tends to fall over her left eye.

Post-reset, she wears her hair pulled back in a low ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. She uses makeup to hide the acne scarring on her face. What she wears changes depending on her mission, but most of the time while she's on the job she wears a black two piece suit with a white work shirt, black dress pants, black dress shoes, and a black tie (the standard uniform for agents within the site where she works.) Her casual wear tends to be the same as pre-reset: t-shirt, cargo pants, sneakers. She also wears a black hoodie as opposed to the pre-reset back jacket, as her brother technically never existed post-reset. The hoodie still makes her feel remorse and nostalgia, though she can't quite place why.

[jadeitor]

SCPsona Sketches 🌌🚀

Inspired by the SCP: Fragmented Minds canon

[dzthenerd490]

File: Terrifier

SCP#: ACM

Code Name: Art the Clown/ Banished from Hell/ [data expunged]: Demigod of Madness.

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: All copies of SCP-ACM are contained at Site-AB. The SCP-ACM copies are stored in one of the larger storage areas of Site-AB in a separate room coated with Thaumaturgic talisman to further contain SCP-ACM-1's influence. With the room, each copy is wrapped in harvested human skin of D Class personnel with engraved Thaumaturgic symbols. The Thaumaturgic symbols are meant to keep the souls of the D Class harvested from and use their spiritual energy to keep the flesh fresh and strong to hold the SCP-ACM instances and their own spiritual energy within to continue to trap SCP-ACM-1. Holding the flesh together is a Beryllium Bronze coin of 1 mm of thickness and 25 mm in diameter. The Beryllium Bronze ensures that the spiritual energy within the SCP-ACM copies is siphoned into energy to continue to power the flesh surrounding them. Once the flesh finally starts rotting that means that the SCP-ACM has lost its connection and power given by SCP-ACM-1 and it is safe for Foundation staff to discard. However, Foundation staff are to always wear Anti-Cognito Headgear to ensure the slight possibility that SCP-ACM-1 is somehow casting illusions to allow itself to escape. 

Description: SCP-ACM is a collection of VHS and DVD's that tell the horrific exploits of a humanoid clown of black and white known as Art the Clown. This entity has been labeled SCP-ACM-1 and is presumed to be an extremely sadistically driven meta god. Much like the meta god [data expunged], SCP-ACM-1 is metaphysically immortal and God-like so long as a recording account of its existence is kept. However, unlike [data expunged] who likes to spread satirical comedy and joy, SCP-ACM-1 only enjoys torturing people or killing them in the most sadistic ways possible. SCP-ACM-1 is even able to come to the real world in order to kill more that can be turned into other copies of SCP-ACM.

SCP-ACM-1 takes it a step further by also tormenting those few that are allowed to survive his attacks. It seems by doing this these unfortunate souls become insane and obsessed with SCP-ACM-1 further allowing him to maintain his presence in the physical world. Essentially a never-ending loop of torture, death, and insanity that ensures that SCP-ACM-1 not only gets more SCP-ACM copies and manages to stay in our world but will grow infinity stronger as time goes on. 

SCP-ACM copies have shown that SCP-ACM-1 has connections to seemingly demonic enemies straight from hell and possibly Entity of Interest: Satan himself. There have also been copies of SCP-ACM showing SCP-ACM-1 having assistants in his work including what appears to be a female counterpart supposedly his little sister or perhaps lover.  It is believed that if SCP-ACM had continued in his terror he would be able to bring this female clown as well as other demonic entities into our world to further spread his influence and power. 

Each SCP-ACM copy carries a fragment of his power and acts as a sort of port that allows him to manifest into our world. SCP-ACM can manifest illusions or cognitive effects to make people want to show the copy to many others, further spreading SCP-ACM-1's influence and growth in power. It's even possible for SCP-ACM-1's past victims to become SCP-ACM instances as he will always exist in their minds. In a rare occurrence he can burst out of their stomach if he is killed so that he can exact revenge quickly. It is for this reason that SCP-ACM instances can't be simply destroyed as doing so could cause SCP-ACM-1 to change his tactics and feeding patterns to become even harder to destroy. This is why the Foundation's Containment Procedures are the way they are, to ensure that SCP-ACM-1 is slowly weakened until there's nothing he can do. 

SCP-ACM-1 was discovered in 2016 when one of the most horrific murders was reported in [data expunged], New York. Originally this wasn't considered a problem for the Foundation especially since the killer was killed. But the next day it was reported he was alive and started killing again despite having a visible gunshot wound in the head. The Foundation quickly sent Mobile Task Force Omicron-67 "Zeroth Responders" to find and capture him. However, due to SCP-ACM-1 killing two of the agents in an ambush the other three shot him dead. Surprisingly after his death the body just disappeared, with there being no trace of his existence anymore there was no way to track him, so it was presumed he died and that was the end of it.  

Unfortunately, SCP-ACM copies started showing up in bargain bins and retail movie stores allowing people to see SCP-ACM-1's rampage thinking it was just a horror movie. This unfortunately allowed SCP-ACM-1 to manifest in our world again and start killing again to create more movies, short films, and even an anthology collection of his sadistic exploits. Because SCP-ACM-1 started killing again and more SCP-ACM started manifesting after each killing spree the Foundation realized it wasn't a coincidence. 

Several investigations and failed capture operations led the Foundation to learn all it did about SCP-ACM. It was only in 2022 when a method of capturing SCP-ACM-1 was created by slowly draining the power of the SCP-ACM instances. The fact that it took six years to contain such a dangerous entity and it managed to kill countless civilians in the process makes this one of the Foundation’s greatest failures. 

To properly contain SCP-ACM-1’s influence, Mobile Task Force Aphrodite-5 "Fake Muse" has been tasked with finding every bought, sold, and traded instance of SCP-ACM and bringing them to the Foundation for containment. Meanwhile every time SCP-ACM-1 manifests in our world, it is to be entrusted to Mobile Task Force Demeter-5 "Animal Control". Because SCP-ACM-1 feeds on the terror of humans it is unable to resurrect itself or even grow stronger when fighting animals. SCP-939 and SCP-ABC-2 instances have proven to show the best results in hunting and killing SCP-ACM-1. It's also thanks to their training under MTF Demeter-5 that the domesticated SCP-939 and SCP-ABC-2 instances know to stay in the dark and out of civilian sight. Though as always, MTF Demeter-5 is given amnestics and emergency A Dart ammunition just in case.

.

SCP: Horror Movie Files Hub

[anyonghalimaw]

ineed . scp fragmented minds and containment breach remastered to come out already more than i need air

[fuzedatti]

IV. Black thunder.

───── ❝ 𝐀𝐧 𝐒𝐂𝐏 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞 ❞ ─────

Masterlist

──────────────────

—Initiating SCP-049's sedation protocol

The heavy metal of the doors echoed in the dark room, the Euclid level containment revealed to the guards and scientists had a heavy atmosphere. As usual, SCP-049 put up no resistance, injecting the serum on him was not a difficult task, much less immobilizing it for transport.

Strangely, the plague doctor appreciated being sedated since it was the only way for him to sleep completely, his other way of resting is dozing although it doesn't help much. He was not capable of dreaming, or in partially he didn't, he only remembered things he had experienced. Taking advantage of the effect of the serum, lasting a good ten minutes, he allowed himself to be flooded in his own memories.

Most of his mind was occupied by his investigations, written in a dead language that only he understood. The other was a good bunch of the foundation, interviews, and containment breaches; Until he found a chect, a very well kept chest. It had no name or distinctive features, just a lock.

He had never seen the chest before and yet he knew how to open it. From one of his sleeves a key emerged, nothing special, but it opened the chest. Inside it were a few photos, his past life, friends, even family. One caught his attention, it was somewhat old and partially burned, he took it in his hands, observing that he was there and... Dýo.

—Oh, that day.– He whispered. —I hated you so much that day...–

A strong blow of wind made him wake up from his fantasy, or so he thought. He was inside the memory. The carriage where it was located was common, the fabrics of the windows were somewhat worn along with the paint that imitated gold. The horse's gallops silenced his confusion, letting his mind adjust.

The starry night delicately reflected the light of the moon, which fervently kissed the lakes that surrounded the bridge. He deduced that they were going to a palace, but to the one of whose was the question. Through the window he could see the lunar reflections on the entire surface, even his face, which was now covered, was hit by the dim light. A few decades ago he had begun wearing his now popular plague mask; The other doctors adapted his persona and took possession of it. With great seriousness he heard the doors open wide, announcing their entry into the palace garden. The swords of the guards were heard with pride, a lone trumpet sound at the top of its lungs.

—Our Lord requests your presence at the palace, good doctor.

The royal announcer was also masked and very well dressed, apparently his king was very demanding when it came to masks, he was allowed to enter the great mansion without further obstacles. A huge red carpet adorned the floor which accompanied the thousands of statues of apparent Greek dissent on the pedestals. Exotic plants and huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, a huge glass dome took the stage to see the starry sky.

The moonlight rays that touched the glass were fragmented and painted on the floors, as if it were a flashlight. Marble walls with gold accents took up all the space. Fine silk drapes climbed through perfectly tailored cracks as did hundreds of books on shelves. It was only the lobby and it seemed like a circus in the doctor's opinion.

—Nicéphore, we haven't seen each other in a while.– His words paralyzed his pulse, it has been decades since he heard such a name. It didn't feel like his, it stopped being his.

Cautiously he stepped into the luxurious place, his footsteps echoing no matter how quiet he tried to be. Before processing it, the King was in front of him, with his mask of narcissism put on and his chest held high. He didn't know what kind of King he had possessed but it was huge, almost 6'5 tall and quite wide, but he wasn't intimidated.

—Polonoí, it's a pleasure to see you again.

—Calling us by last names now? I thought we were friends.

—So much things to discuss.– He evaded his question. —I see that you have made a kingdom of your own, admirable.–

The King saw him frustrated, trying to understand his attitude. —Don't be upset, the past stays in the past, no hard feelings.–

The doctor did not respond. —It reminds me of Alagadda, when you took me that time, I was fascinated.–

Now his patience was exhausted, the taller one approached the other with heavy and large footsteps, as if it were a giant hunting its prey.

—Alagadda is not spoken of, not mentioned.– He threatened —You are such a difficult being for me. Convincing other humans is so easy. Why do I have to fight twice as hard with you?–

—Don't you remember my age, My Lord? Do you still believe that I am human?– His challenging gaze rubbed Dýo on the wrong post.

Filled with anger, he grabbed the frenchman by the neck to lift him off the ground. The air began to lack along with his strength. He tried to struggle with his legs, but it only caused more gasping. His mask didn't help at all, it only limited his air passage. Now the echo turned into pants. The strong hand pressed against his skin with precision, outlining his veins with his thumb and slowly crushing his Adam's apple, his grasp went limp to show misericody to his so-long lover. His chest grew and fell rapidly until his legs stopped responding to him; The dominant hand reached up to grab his chin and bring him closer to his porcelain face, with his fingers he raised the doctor's mask a little, exposing his dry lips.

—You are quite a desire...– Dýo whispered. —You are a maze inside a puzzle that I have yet to decipher...–

—Please...– His pathetic groans aroused the God. This scenario felt so desirable for him, a immortal being like him, experiencing this kind of dominancy.

With his free hand he finished removing his mask, revealing his haggard face. Sunken eyes, icy as tiles and deep as the sea. His upturned nose was sharp, along with his high cheekbones and thin lips. A strange beauty to many, a delight to the fallen God.

—Allow me...– Gently, he released his neck to bring him closer and finally unite their lips. A difficult scene to describe, between strangeness and tenderness, few would know how their kiss works.

Lost in the kiss, Nicéphore did not notice the growing mark at the corner of his lips, it was like a dark and dead vein, which reached the sides of his eyes, where it invaded his sclera until they turned completely black; Everything was rose colored until the mark started to burn like hell.

And it burned, and it burned, and it burned. It burned like the pain of a loss, like a breakup, a rapture. He broke free of his grasp to lie on the ground, rejected and humiliated. With superiority, the divinity laughed in his face, ordering him to be thrown out of the palace.

It kept burning. It grew to his extremities, his hands and feet were totally black along with his nails, which grew at an alarming rate, he had to cut and sharpen them so he wouldn't be a bother. His hair was also quite long, reaching to his hips, and it was thin, so thin that he began to use it as a surgical thread. He went from measuring 5'5 to 6'2 in a single week.

Whatever Dýo has done to him, he marked him for life, even with his eternal scars, he kept looking for him, melancholic.

The black thunder on his body, a constant reminder of his addiction.