(Connected to SCP-001)
The Foundation scrubbed the recording. No trace remains in the archives — not officially. But I was there when it played back, and I can't forget. I have 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 walking into ruins. The satellite feed had shown a mausoleum — anomalous, sure, but nothing we hadn't handled before. They were calm. Too calm.
Inside, the air was heavy, oppressive. Marble halls stretched on and on, impossibly vast, lit by cold blue fire that flickered without smoke. The deeper they went, the less it felt like a tomb. The place wasn't abandoned. It was… waiting.
That's when she appeared.
A woman — if you could still call her that. Skin as pale as bone, crimson eyes that glowed like embers, dressed in a gown of aristocratic black and crimson lace. She glided toward them, her smile sharp as broken glass.
And then she spoke.
"Ara… little mice, scurrying in my master's halls."
The operatives raised weapons, but she only tilted her head in amusement. She extended one gloved hand, and the impossible began.
Blood lifted from the first soldier's body before he even hit the floor, drawn in crimson strands as if gravity itself had betrayed him. He screamed once, choked off as his veins emptied into the air. The blood coiled, twisted, and condensed — a floating spear of living scarlet.
Another operative fired. The spear moved faster. It tore through his chest before the muzzle flash faded, then liquefied again, whipping outward into barbed tendrils.
The feed showed impossible carnage — red lines slashing through black-ops armor, the air itself filling with a storm of condensed blood. She wove it like a conductor with an orchestra, every gesture another death, every flick of her wrist another scream.
At one point she paused, almost bored, and brought a spear to her lips. She licked it delicately, as though savoring wine, before letting it shatter into droplets that rained across the stone floor.
Her laughter echoed as the camera blurred.
"You came uninvited… but you will not leave empty-handed. My lord will hear of your offering."
The last image before static: the entire hallway awash in red, soldiers' bodies strung up like grotesque marionettes, their lifeblood orbiting her in a macabre halo.
And then silence.
Nothing was recovered. No weapons. No armor. Not even bone fragments.
The official file labels her SCP-001-A. A "guardian-class entity." That's all. Clinical, sanitized. But I know what I saw.
She wasn't defending anything. She was playing.
And she was only the first.
— Dr. █████ █████, Site-██, Unofficial Memo