SCP-4750

SCP-4750 as identified in situ

Item #: SCP-4750

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Upon re-apprehension of SCP-4750, it is to be held in an isolated standard humanoid containment chamber on a standard meal plan at Auxiliary Site 25-Delta. The site is to be maintained as a separate building at least 100 m from all other Foundation or civilian buildings.

All personnel assigned to SCP-4750 are to be lodged at Auxiliary Site 25-Delta until reassignment. Any items required by personnel must be transported by cart or held in the hand, and no harness, holster, backpack, lanyard, or similar equipment can be used. Blankets and towels are not to be made available at Auxiliary Site 25-Delta; temperature control and air dryers will be used in all cases.

All personnel at Auxiliary Site 25-Delta must be naked at all times.

Description: SCP-4750 is a humanoid resembling a male human of advanced age and Swahili descent. It is sapient and can speak in Swahili, Arabic, Old Norse, and English.

SCP-4750 can remove the dermal and epidermal layer from humans in intact layers. The process by which this is accomplished has never been directly observed and is not known at this time. In all cases, the removed skin was underneath clothing.

Addendum 4750-1: Identification Notes

Foundation agents investigated reports of skinned corpses appearing in Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania. After recovery of a jacket constructed of human skin, efforts focused on locating a bespoke clothing maker hidden among the neighborhood's many narrow alleyways.

Foundation agent Arnfast Haraldrsson (from SCP-4242-Thor) insisted on joining the investigation team. He was later discovered to have kept a private journal of his research, containing details not present in his official reports. The contents of the journal have been declassified for potential insight into the character of SCP-4750 (included here, translated from Old Norse):

+ ACCESSING LOG 4750-1

Agent Haraldrsson investigating rumors in Stone Town

This place confounded me.

When I first arrived in the future, I was astounded by the size and treasures of my homeland. Yet even with its many tall buildings, it could not prepare me for the mad chaos of Zanzibar. Houses piled on top of each other. The merchants did the same, squeezing together trying to gain your attention. The Foundation told me that the locals are used to travelers. Thankfully, I would not have to blend in.

Most people I spoke to were useless. I would say that I wanted special clothing, and they would lead me around the corner to a pushy man—always a brother or cousin—trying to sell me this wrap or that hat. Too common. I wove my way deep into the back alleys to get away from them. Then, one boy said he knew the place, but I must promise not to tell anyone. The boy looked somber as he trudged down paths rendered dark by competing rooftops. He led me to a small shop at a hall-end. Sitting at the shop’s entrance was an old man, sewing. I turned to pay the boy but he was already running back out into the light.

The man's fingers worked quickly and deftly with his cloth, needle seemingly flying in and out of his work like a mosquito by a drunkard's ear. He somehow finished his stitching in the time it took him to raise his head to meet my gaze and smile. He bade me come in, in the new language of the Saxons that everyone speaks in the future.

I walked into his shop. There was piles of linen and leather and wool and the tree-wool all in sheets of fabric. Needles bloomed from cushions on tables, hung from posts and rafters. Thread draped down from the ceiling. And in the center of this web stood the tailor, already looking me over carefully. He asked me for what I sought.

I thought about what I was taught to say. This place, it felt thin. The skinner could easily have been nearby. But there was reason I wanted this task. I wanted something more, something that the skinner might provide. I wanted a garment that could make me rich.

He pulled forth a stand, and on it was a fabulous jacket made entirely of golden threads. Taking the jacket off the stand, he offered it to me, helped me put it on. It was a beautiful garment, shining even in the dim light of the shop. It was prettier than a woman bathing in a waterfall in spring, but it was not what I wanted.

In response, the tailor pulled forth a wide belt, wider than my hand, made of silver and gems. Reds, greens, blues, even fiery orange glittered all over the room as he placed this object around my waist and clasped it shut. Every flickering mote was caught in this belt and sliced into a dozen shades, causing the light to paint the walls and dance on every surface. It was lovelier than a summer breeze over a volcano erupting in precious stones, but it was not what I wanted.

He unclasped the belt from my waist. Then he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, whispering in the old tongue, the Norse of home. "You want nábrók."

Here is the skinner.

From here we spoke in my language. I was surprised he knew of nábrók. He placed his hands out, his slender fingers wagging and twitching with age. Wherever there is clothing, there is need for the tailor, he explained. He said he could make it with my help. There are two rare items needed to make nábrók. A pair of trousers made from the unbroken skin of the lower half of a man, given freely. A coin stolen from a poor widow, placed in the trousers' pouch. The result is a pair of breeches as smooth as your very skin, and to which money will always be attracted as long as the poor widow's coin remains. He said he could find the skin, make it comfortable to wear. But I would have to steal the poor widow's coin myself.

I expressed doubt he could deliver. The old man grinned, and long, crooked, stained teeth emerged from his mouth as if they were not used to his lips. There is plenty of misfortune in Zanzibar, he cackled. Plenty of poor widows. He lifted back a pile of leather, to reveal a pair of gloves. No, not gloves, but empty skin from a pair of hands. Plenty of men ready to lose their skin.

Addendum 4750-2: Recovery Log

+ ACCESSING LOG 4750-2

Mission Parameters: Recovery of SCP-4750

Personnel: Agent Arnfast Haraldrsson, MTF Pi-1 ("City Slickers")

<BEGIN LOG>

Alpha: Okay, mic check.

Wolf: I wish we had these wind-whispers at home.

Bravo: Well, big guy's works. Bravo here.

Charlie: Charlie.

Delta: Delta confirms.

Command: That's the team. Situation is this: An active hostile reality bender is hidden in the backstreets of Stone Town. Haraldrsson knows the way to the target. All engagements must be nonlethal. Alpha, make sure everyone's tasers are functional.

Alpha: Tasers checked, charged and passed out. Arnfast, have you ever used a taser before?

Wolf: The Thor-sling? Yes, I have.

<Bravo chuckles.>

Bravo: Thor-sling? I love that. You come up with the best words.

Charlie: Easy, girl.

Alpha: Focus people, we have a mission. Arnfast, we'll be calling you Wolf. You lead Bravo and Charlie to the tailor shop. Once you identify him, engage with the Thor-sling. Delta, are you in position?

Delta: Check. Clear shot down the main street. Ready to tranq if he comes this way.

Alpha: Great, everyone move out!

Wolf: What, now?

Alpha: Is there a problem, Wolf?

Wolf: Are we sure we must attack now?

Command: We are timing this before dawn to limit foot traffic while maximizing ambient light. Traffic will only increase the longer we delay, risking civilian casualties. The target represents an active hostile force. We don't know how many more people will be skinned if we don't act quickly. Do you have reason to delay the mission, Wolf?

Wolf: I… No. There is no reason. I will take you, Bravo and Charlie.

Alpha: Great. So stop fiddling with that and let's go.

Wolf, Bravo, and Charlie head into Stone Town.

Wolf: Here. His shop is at the end of this hall.

Charlie: Great. I’ll set up the Tesla gate here across the close entrance. It'll be keyed to your IDs, so you'll be safe, but it should give the target a nasty shock.

Command: Exercise full caution. We do not yet know how the target skins its victims. All we've been able to tell from autopsies is that there are no identifiable tool marks. It's as if the skin just comes off in one piece.

Bravo: Roger that.

<Wolf hums to himself.>

Wolf: Let me go alone. He knows me, he will not suspect anything.

Bravo: I'll be right outside. If you have any trouble, I'm coming in. Be sure to incapacitate the target before he can steal your skin, okay? Make it quick and quiet, and we'll all be out in no time.

<Wolf continues to hum.>

Alpha: I get that you're nervous, but you really shouldn't hum like that, Wolf. We can all hear you. Bad for stealth.

Wolf: Yes. I understand.

Wolf and Bravo approach the shop while Charlie and Delta set up their perimeters.

Bravo: Wolf? You're playing with that again. You sure you're all right?

Wolf: The coin is necessary. He will know what it means.

Bravo: Oh… kay. Be careful in there, big guy. Don't want you to get hurt.

Bravo: Wolf is entering the shop.

<Wolf's channel is muffled. Rustling can be heard.>

Alpha: Wolf, your channel is breaking up. Confirm you can hear this.

<No change to Wolf's channel.>

Bravo: I can see him inside, talking to someone. I can't make out what he's saying. C'mon, big guy, shoot him and let's go home…

<Wolf’s channel continues to rustle.>

Bravo: He’s not listening, and he’s not doing it. I’m going in.

<A wooden door flies open. On Bravo’s channel, Wolf is heard protesting. A gurgling scream (presumed to be SCP-4750) is heard. A taser fires. A wooden door slams shut.>

Bravo: Wolf! Put the whisper-wind back in your ear! You had him! Why didn’t you fire?

<Wolf’s channel stops rustling.>

Wolf: I… We run after him now.

Alpha: Bravo, report. Did you hit the target?

Bravo: Negative, he ran into a back room. He can really move for an old—

<Charlie inhales and moans.>

Alpha: Charlie! Status!

<Charlie gurgles.>

Alpha: Wolf, check on Charlie. Bravo, make chase.

Bravo: Target’s not back here.

Wolf: Charlie! His skin is over there.

Bravo: What? No! I’m coming right back.

Alpha: Can you do anything for him?

Wolf: We can honor him later.

Bravo: Oh god, Charlie… Yeah, he’s gone. How did the target get past the gate?

Alpha: I’ll get the gate. Go after the target. Delta, traffic report!

Delta: Light activity, mostly shopkeepers opening up. Wait! I see the target!

Alpha: Take the shot when you get it. Bravo, Wolf, go to Delta’s location.

Delta: He’s just behind some rug merchants… C’mon, guys, move that rug… There! He sees me?

<On Delta's channel there is a warbling sound followed by a wet blanket plopping.>

Alpha: Delta! Everyone go to Delta!

<Bravo and Wolf ascend an external stairwell.>

Wolf: It is too late. Delta is skinned.

Bravo: What the hell? This is a rooftop!

Alpha: The target can’t have gone far. Check the alleys around here.

Wolf: I see him! I have you, blackguard!

Bravo: Don’t just—oh…

Alpha: Bravo? What just happened?

<Bravo runs back down the stairs.>

Bravo: Wolf just tore off his shirt, jumped over the side, grabbed a power cable with his shirt and slid down into the alley.

Alpha: Well… Go find the two before—

<Wolf bellows in pain.>

Bravo: Wolf!

Wolf: (voice of SCP-4750) Haah… Your shirt! Why did you take off your shirt?

Wolf: I won’t let you…

Wolf: (voice of SCP-4750) Give me your coin.

<A taser fires on Bravo’s channel. SCP-4750 exhales and collapses.>

Bravo: Target down. Wolf… God…

<END LOG»

Postscript: SCP-4750 was taken into custody. Agent Haraldrsson was skinned from the waist down, and expired from his injuries within 24 hours. The skin from his lower half was found with a 100 Tanzanian shilling coin inside the scrotal pouch. This skin has been preserved and sent to Site 17 for testing.

Addendum 4750-3: Initial Containment Interview

+ ACCESSING LOG 4750-3

Interviewer: Agent Rashaun Washington

Interviewed: SCP-4750

Foreword: Based on experience from the recovery operation, Agent Washington was requested to perform the interview naked in order to prevent the possibility of dermal removal in SCP-4750's presence. Agent requested a pistol for self-defense, which was granted. Interview took place in an interrogation chamber with table, two chairs, viewable from an observation chamber.

<BEGIN LOG>

SCP-4750: Oh, hello! Do come in, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to cover yourself up? I can offer you the shirt off my back. I made it myself, from the longest staple cotton grown along the Nile. Very soft. You'd never know it's there.

Washington: Thank you, but no. I'm here to ask you about the events of ██/██/██. Could you please describe your version of what happened?

SCP-4750: What? Including the year? It could not have been so long ago.

Washington: It's for the record.

<SCP-4750 scans the room.>

SCP-4750: Oh? So you are recording this? Yes… I suppose you are. Really, you have nothing to fear. I have no reason to hurt you. You have your gun, but I do not see a threat. Only a man who is ashamed and uncomfortable at his nakedness. Perfectly understandable. Are you sure you wouldn't like my breeches? Wide flax, very breathable, and held by a long drawstring. It would still fit comfortably around your midsection.

Washington: I'm fine. We want to learn about what you did to our agents that day. Cooperate, and we will be able to help each other out more.

SCP-4750: Cooperate? Certainly. I am sure I can provide you and everyone at this base with comfortable uniforms. It must feel awfully strange for you not to wear yours right now. White cotton twill button-down shirt, 40 cm neck, 90 cm sleeve length, button down collar, two button cuff. Although, honestly, I can make you even more free to move with a 39.5 cm neck and an 89 cm sleeve length. Less fabric, it will move more like your own skin.

Washington: That's the problem, isn't it? A number of agents left Zanzibar in bodybags without their skin, and we know you had something to do with that.

SCP-4750: Black cotton heavy fabric chinos, waist size 86 cm, inseam 92 cm. A little too generous in the leg, perhaps, but necessary to maintain the spare secret pocket along the outer seam as it curls around the right thigh. Official enough to make you look ever so slightly intimidating, but not really identifiable as any government or paramilitary force. Quite an excellent exercise in using clothes to show your status.

Washington: We're not here to discuss the uniform I'm not wearing. How did you skin those men, and why? What do you get from it? And why do clothes matter so much in what gets skinned?

SCP-4750: Clothes always matter, my good man. It is never simply something to keep our modesty and keep the elements at bay. Clothes are the tools you use to speak to each other, let others know how important you are. Look at you now. You worry about your modesty, you know the cameras are filming you, getting a good look at every angle of every crevice of your body. But even more than that, you worry about your status. Your uniform, crisp and clean, marks you as someone to fear, to respect. It proclaims that you belong to a greater force. It promises retribution if you are harmed. It says you have the upper hand, that kindness and brutality are gifts for you to bestow, not your interviewee. But now? I wear nothing more than a simple shirt and breeches, but compared to your nudity? It is respect. Come, won't you even accept my cap, as a trinket of goodwill and understanding?

Washington: I'm safer off if I don't. Now, would you please answer the question? How do you skin people, and why is it underneath their clothes?

SCP-4750: Clothing is, in many ways, another form of skin. Think, for a moment. You've been sitting there for a while, now, listening to me. You're used to the way your clothes brush against you with every slight move you make, but after all this time in one place, you start to notice the same with your skin. Do you notice where it tugs against your flesh? How it tingles? You might even feel slightly that it's already lifting off the muscle underneath. That feel of clothing against your skin, and that feeling of skin sliding, sloughing away from your body, they get confused. You can't be sure which layer is which, anymore.

<SCP-4750 strokes and pinches its cheeks.>

SCP-4750: It's probably time I change my uniform, myself, anyway. This one is looking a bit worn, don't you think?

<SCP-4750 sinks into its chair. It becomes visibly smaller and more covered in its garments.>

Washington: What? Stop. I'm naked, you're not doing anything to me.

SCP-4750: Careful, others are watching.

<Agent Washington leaps up and grabs at SCP-4750. It flops out of its chair to land in a pile on the floor. The pile consists of SCP-4750's outfit, epidermis and dermis. The dermis has been stitched together in multiple places with leather strips underneath the shirt and pants.>

<END LOG>

Postscript: Researcher Severskaya was seen in security footage to have run out of the observation chamber, scanned herself out of Building 17-C, and exited Site-19 under haste. Upon arrival of security to the observation room, a skinned corpse was discovered, fully wrapped in printer paper crudely stitched together with the corpse's own peripheral blood vessels. DNA testing confirmed the corpse as belonging to Researcher Severskaya.

Reports of skinned corpses have been found scattered around the greater ███████ metropolitan area. MTF Nu-10 ("Naturists") has been assembled to track and apprehend SCP-4750.