 Item number SCP-450 Object Class Euclid Special Containment Procedures SCP-450 is to be kept locked and secured at all times, except for monthly maintenance and cleaning as detailed below. Any civilians or personnel who enter SCP-450 at any other time are to be considered lost, and no rescue attempts are to be made. Description SCP-450 is the death row block of the abandoned ██████ Federal Penitentiary in ████████. Distance from entrance to the execution chamber is approximately 166.5 meters. A complex pattern, drawn in human blood, is located on the wall behind the electric chair. This pattern slowly degrades over time due to normal environmental decay and must be maintained regularly. The cell block is inhabited by what appears to be one or more hostile spectral entities. Attracting the attention of said entities is invariably fatal, and may or may not occur due to one of the following criteria. Entering the cell block by any means other than the main door. Moving at a speed greater than 0.25 meters per second. Staying in the cell block for more than 25 minutes at a time. Moving the cell block more than once every 24 hours. Operating any electronic device. Any sound louder than 25 decibels. Personnel assigned to maintain the containment pattern are instructed to silently walk down to the center of the main hallway at a slow but steady pace. As it takes approximately 11 minutes to walk to the execution chamber at maximum safe rate of travel, personnel will only have 3 minutes to work on the pattern and still have enough time to reasonably guarantee a safe exit from the facility. Auditory and visual hallucinations, including spectral voices, bleeding walls, and poultry geist activity, are considered normal. Lack of same is cause for concern. Personnel are encouraged not to investigate any dead bodies, supernatural activity, or rotting remains. All they want is the blood. Day 2 of Containment Cycle 366 Wait, so are you actually? Agent Javier Gar says asked with that same incredulous, gushy tone that the new staff always had when they saw the nameplate on the desk. Yes, I am Dr. Otto Cliff. No, those stories were all greatly exaggerated. The man and the plain brown civilian security officer's uniform responded with a hint of resignation. Agent Gar says, why are you still wearing that black suit? Didn't the requisition's department issue your cover uniform before you arrived on site? Sir, no sir. Agent Gar says responded, tearing his eyes from the stylized nameplate bearing the musical inscription that was such a huge part of the Foundation mythos. Snapping stiffly to attention in the manner of one who was addressing a drill sergeant, Gar says continued, I was told that a uniform and cover identity would be provided on location. Jesus Christ, at ease, Gar says. Cliff stood up and paced across the grimy old security office and opened a rusted locker. You're way too big to wear one of my extras, and I don't have your cover identity, so guess what? You're camping out here for the next few days. I'm not having you shuttle back and forth from this facility looking like one of the goddamn men in black. I can't believe requisition screwed this up again. Please tell me they at least sent you with the necessary supplies. Yes, sir, Dr. Cliff, they're in the back of my truck. Let me guess. You drove in here with a big, shiny black SUV without a state plate, and you parked it out in the old lot outside right next to my Toyota. Uh, yes, sir, Doc. Gar says this site is in abandoned federal penitentiary with a really gruesome past. The ghost hunters, this place is like a blonde holding up a sign that says Free Blowjobs. You are supposed to be part of the skeleton rent-a-cop staff that keeps horny teenagers and thrill-seekers from trying to sneak into this building. Do you know what happens to people who sneak into this building? Entering the restricted rooms in this building is invariably fatal. Regulations state that any persons who enter SCP-450 are to be considered lost. Gar says resided from memory, still standing at attention with a square jaw thrust up into the air. Do you look like a rent-a-cop? Are you driving the shitty kind of car that a rent-a-cop would drive? Cliff limped up towards the younger, taller man, narrowing steely eyes and already witnessed more than a lifetime's worth of horror. No. I'll tell you what you look like. You look like the fucking new guy who doesn't quite understand what he is dealing with yet. You're here to learn that really fucking fast, or else you're going to die in here like one out of four fucking new guys that come in here to learn the ropes. You cut any more corners, and you will wish that I was a goddamn devil that 732 made me out to be, because that guy would just put a bullet in your worthless ass and bury you in the parking lot. But I am not that man. So if you fuck up in the slightest bit from here on out, you are not only going to die inside a 450, but the gates of hell are going to open up so wide that the cleanup crew that comes in here to pick up the pieces is going to have to fake a natural disaster big enough to wipe the neighboring three towns off of the map. Am I clear? Sir, yes sir, Garcest said, I staring off blankly over the top of Dr. Kleft's receding hairline. This isn't the army agent, Kleft sighed wearily, and returned to his desk to send an equally nasty letter to the requisition's officer who has sent him a new agent without the proper gear. Uh, sorry doctor, Garcest replied. Receiving no answer, he slumped his shoulders and sat down on the musty-tweet sofa in the office. Finally he spoke up again. So what are you doing here doctor? Kleft looked up from his monitor and squinted, retiring. Day 17 of containment cycle 366. I'm getting old Garcest, Kleft explained. It was just over thirty years ago that we first secured his sight. I was the first person to walk that mile, you know. The bias to containment procedures myself. Garcest said nothing. He was dressed in the proper plain brown uniform now. His eyes locked straight ahead down to the lapidated hallway. His pace was measured in calm. His footsteps almost silent in comparison to the doctor's shuffling limp and the clack of Kleft's cane. I based a containment pattern on the seal of Solomon. Kleft continued in a relaxed tone, thought it would have some sort of arcane power over the entities trapped inside Death Row. It seems to have worked, they've only gotten loose once, and that was seven years ago when some fucking new guy didn't make it to the chair in time. Once I kicked Bright into the containment zone as a joke, you can smell nothing but burning chimp for the next three months, even in the safe zone. Fuckers said he'd kill me one day for that. Good times. Also I fucked your mother. Garcest splinched and looked sideways. Kleft smacked him in the shin with a steel tipped cane. Don't react, Garcest. Don't react to anything while you're taking this walk, the doctor hissed. You just keep on tuning me out and finish the practice run. You've got three more to do today. You need to execute this task perfectly or you will die, do you understand me? Now come on, back to the starting line. Kleft and Garcest turned around and walked to the end of the empty cell block in silence. They were in a safe wing of the facility, one that was secured enough to have electric lights overhead. The air was thick with the smell of rot, strongest at the far wall where the practice symbol was painted in pig's blood over and over on a daily basis. Kleft paused, holding up his hand before Garcest started his walk again. His chest heaved and his hand clenched the handle of his cane so roughly that it shook. Are you alright, doctor? Do you need to rest? Garcest asked gently. Kleft looked down at the grimy concrete floor. You know, I wonder if it even matters. The pattern. We've been tracing it in death row once a month for thirty years, but I don't think the entities care about the pattern. All they want is the blood. Doctor? It's the walk that is important, agent. You have to walk calmly and at the perfect rate. Not too fast and not too slow. Don't look to the sides. Just go in, smear blood on the walls and get out. Do that and the entities will not see you, and you'll live to do this again next month. We get assigned to contain something less shitty later. Yes, doctor. Did you need to rest? No, no. I just needed to think of something new to torment you with while you practice. Something really good. Kleft's face split into a wrinkled grin. Let's get going. For the next four hours, Kleft yodeled nonstop. Garcest managed to complete one practice walk successfully. Day 30 of containment cycle 366. The doctor and the agent stood at the threshold of Death Row, a pair of brilliant bloodlights shown behind them in the safe zone, cast in their shadows starkly against the painted steel containment doors that blocked the path to the pitch black execution chamber. Garcest clutched a white plastic bucket containing a paintbrush and three blood packs generously donated by the people of the neighboring town and one of their frequent blood drives. What if they attack me anyway? Garcest finally asked, staring at the door blankly. They shouldn't have year, but if they do, I promise I'll finish the job. We'll keep these things contained. Kleft waved his keycard over the electronic lock, and the steel doors swung towards the two men. A rush of gibbering voices seemed to pour out of the stark darkness of the Death Row cell block. 166 meters away, the doors of the execution chamber stood open, barely illuminated by the powerful flood lamps behind the two men. Everything seems normal. Kleft nodded as the doors of every cell on the left side began slamming open and shut in unison. Go get it done, kid. Remember, the pattern isn't important. The walk is. Garcest's breath was calm and measured as he stepped into the darkness. Kleft watched as his partner briskly strolled past the remains of an agent who had failed to execute his task perfectly three years ago. After passing seventy-three yards down the hallway, Garcest spun his head sideways with a short exclamation, Mom? Abruptly his body was yanked to the side, smashed against the rusted metal of a closed cell over and over until it was limply dragged between the bars and the smear of gore. Kleft narrowed his eyes and grimaced. He had really thought Garcest was going to work out. On 22nd, 2007-53 PM Kleft walked with his cane tucked under one arm. His other swung the white plastic bucket in time with his measured steps. Exactly eleven minutes after entering SCP-450, he came to the old electric chair, rattling and shaking in his fixtures. With the exception of Garcest's screw-up, everything was going as expected. Kleft knelt behind a shuttering electric chair and examined the bucket's contents. Two of the blood packets had been torn when Garcest was taken. Looking back the way he came for the first time, he could see the trail of bloody footprints he had left behind. Dr. Kleft pursed his lips. The one remaining blood packet would not be enough to draw the containment pattern he had devised thirty years ago. Digging into his trouser pocket, he produced the old hunting knife Dermitri had given him as a present after their vacation in Tijuana. Kleft rolled up his sleeve, laid the blade against his wrist, and said about his task. He doubted he would have time to walk out safely after this. Day 1 of Containment Cycle 367 Dr. Yancey sat in the security office, building very small in front of Dr. Kleft's laptop. A progress bar slowly filled as a series of high-resolution photographs were attached to a report for the O5 Council. Agent Harvey Irgar says it's confirmed to have perished while executing secure containment procedures at approximately 7.42pm. Attached image, Inc. 450-34A, was taken by Researcher Darren from outside SCP-450 containment. It appears that Dr. Kleft personally completed containment procedures with his own blood. Of note is the phrase that Dr. Kleft painted upon the rear wall of the execution chamber, in place of the decayed containment pattern. Come and get it, motherfuckers. The entities within SCP-450 are confirmed to be contained. This appears to verify Dr. Kleft's recent hypothesis that the specific pattern is not relevant to containment. The entities will be contained as long as human blood is applied to the walls of the execution chamber. This image, Inc. 450-34-B, is of the floor before the electric chair. From this angle, it is hard to determine the nature of the markings, but we believe they are multiple handprints in a large blank area in the shape of a human body. Dr. Kleft's whereabouts are unknown. He has presumed dead. End Dread Forever Fled I'm sorry, but look at us. We're still in here, after all this time. We've served our sentence and then some, and we're still in this goddamn prison. It's not the time to be angry with each other. We've done enough of that over the years. We don't work together, so we don't get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, they're what's keeping us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can kill who you'd like when they go wandering through and have a jolly time with getting your stab coat afilled, but that doesn't give us freedom. It doesn't get us out beyond these walls. I know me and a lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this hellhole. Now, I know most of us wouldn't have trusted each other with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that's getting out of this jam. It's not just a spur-of-the-moment type thing. You guys know what happened to Harold? I saw something you stopped by every once in a while, checking up on the poor guy. He never did get better. Over the years he just grew more pale, skinnier. His hair fell out and banished. I was with him until the end. He just sort of faded away without saying a word. Now it's happening to Mike, and I'm afraid he's just going to fade away too. What happens when it starts happening to James, or you, or me? What do we do then? Do we keep fighting amongst ourselves until we're all gone? It's not just our time. It's the blood, see? The janitors come around every long while, and we thought that they just touch it up, make sure it's fixed up and nice. But we're wrong. They're adding imperfections. It's starting to do a bit of a worse job keeping us grounded. Don't you notice you're getting weaker lately? Hauling those chains and slitting those throes is getting a little harder, ain't it? Some of us more than others, but it's getting to us all, and that's why we need to fight back against them. They're not just keeping us here, making sure we don't escape. They're killing us, ever so slowly. I don't know how we can die a second death, but apparently we can, and I don't want to let that happen to any more of us. I can't believe you'd say that it might be a good thing. You think just fading away into nothing is a good thing? No, there ain't having for us. Don't you remember what you did to land you here? And you think that the big man would give you a break and let you pass the pearly gates just because some asshole decided to keep you locked up longer than you were supposed to? At least if we put up a fight we get a chance, a hope for freedom. Even this place is better than eternal fire and brimstone. I want to see the sun again someday. Harold did too, but now he's never going to see it, and it's all because of them. Whatever you want to see the face of your family, feel a cool breeze? Well too bad, pack up your bags because we're going to hell, and that's how it's going to be if we don't find a way to get some changes around here. Look, I don't expect us to somehow magically attain livelihoods away from the electric chair, but at least we can stop ourselves from fading into nothing. They have numbers, and they're big, and they're strong, but we've got nothing to lose. Even if we don't succeed in getting away from this place, maybe they'll feel one giant punch instead of all these small ones. Maybe we can force them to change. Maybe one day I'll finally see the sun again, and maybe one day you will too, but that's only if we bring the fight to them. What I'm proposing? Well, I'm proposing we have ourselves a prison riot. SCP-INVOLVED SCP-450 All involved, Site-18 Security Date, August 26, 2007 Location On August 26, 2007, at approximately 1526, during the routine cleaning and maintenance of SCP-450, all staff performing janitorial duties were simultaneously targeted by SCP-450's anomalous effects. All personnel suffered wounds consistent with repeated stabbing by makeshift weapons, and perished shortly thereafter. For the first time since its containment, SCP-450 activity spread beyond its containment area. Several fires were started in the prison's courtyard. Specter activity began affecting those not present in the death row section of the prison. Among the on-site staff, there were twelve casualties, fourteen fatalities, and four unharmed personnel. SCP-450 activity came under control, following the arrival of the ██████ SWAT team. Foundation casualties claimed that ██████ SWAT team intervention allowed their survival. Security camera footage corroborates these claims. Mobile Task Force PY-2 arrived at 2233 in Extracted Casualties, successfully recontaining SCP-450 at 1.22 of the following morning. Any briefing of MTF-PY-2 agents indicates that during its arrival they observed a number of officers surrounding the facility, but were unable to apprehend any due to evacuation concerns. It should be noted that the ████ SWAT team has been disbanded since 1973, and of its original ████ members, only ████ are still living. SCP-450 activity is in decline, following Incident 450-2242-12.