War: 805, the poisonwood foal. He can pet it with his golem arm without suffering its effects and brought out Ruin to prance around the paddock with it. He feels happy watching them play and brings 805 apples at times.
Fury: 530, Carl the Puppy. She can’t resist the puppo despite his constantly shifting form, and will go nuclear if anything happens to her snookums. Yes, he’s hers now. Carl has no objections, so long as the angry lady keeps giving him tummy rubs and treats.
Strife: 955. He loves these freaky lil dudes, they’re weird and he digs it. Also, they’re friendly despite their strange appearance, a cross between an angler fish and a lizard-bug-thing with six legs. He’s totally taking all of them when they’re done at the Foundation. And 999. Who doesn’t love that blob.
Death: 529, Josie the Half Cat. As I’ve said before, he enjoys her company and the touch of her soft, grey fur. He’s never been a cat person, and muses that Azrael would love Josie, if only to marvel at her only being literally half a cat, all while giving her chinny skritches and letting himself relax. Josie and Dust have learned to get along, and Josie has been caught preening her new feathered friend.
Another lil crumb of the SCP AU for y'all before I go to bed: Death gets to meet Josie the Half Cat (529), who decides his lap is the comfiest place to sit at the time. Death decides to start petting her, and finds an unexpected sense of calm in the texture of her soft fur and the low rumble of her purring. Dust doesn’t like Josie at first, but comes to tolerate her presence. As long as she doesn’t try to eat him.
This is gonna stay as a oneshot for now, I think. I want to make it longer and eventually make a more official looking entry like something off the SCP Wiki, but here we go. Tagging @imagine-darksiders because this was their idea. I promise there’s some semblance of a plot I’m cooking up for this, but it’ll be posted up on Ao3 if I write more.
“Enter the chamber, D-091337.”
You hated that voice on the P.A system- cold, clinical, uncaring. Just another Tuesday for these people, for you it could be your last day alive, like so many forced into the dens of the monsters they kept here, and it felt like you’d been marched to the gallows. You sighed- could be worse, you supposed. You could have been forced into the femur breaker, waiting for the unimaginable pain that heralded your impending death. You could have been put on 173 duty, having to rely on two other strangers in order to survive cleaning the mess that thing in there- you’d done it before and you never wanted to do that again. You took a breath to choke back the fear, only to have it knocked out of you as the butt of a rifle struck you between the shoulders, forcing you to stumble through the door as it slid open.
“If you turn around, you will be shot,” Says the gruff voice behind you. “Get in there, now.”
You wanted to give the man a nasty look as the door closed behind you, if you weren’t expecting your painful, bloody death. Your eyes were closed, still cringing from the developing bruise in your back as you hissed through your teeth, though you forced yourself to look up, deciding you wanted to at least see what was going to kill you, only to find four pairs of eyes from four different, humanlike individuals looking back at you- four very tall individuals, three of them male, and one female. One of the males, who was pale as a corpse and wore a skull-like mask, had a shaggy, mangy looking crow on his shoulder, that stared at you curiously with its beady little eyes, almost like it was judging whether or not you were a threat, much like the other individuals were doing as they watched you straighten up and press yourself against the door.
“A human?” One of the males piped up, this one wearing a silver helmet that only showed two amber eyes that looked you up and down, from your orange jumpsuit to the white sneakers to the dark circles under your eyes. He glanced to the others in the room, the fluorescent light glinting off the silver plated armour he wore. “Didn’t they say they were gonna send someone to talk to us?” Amazingly, their English was perfect, and the others responded in similarly perfect English.
It was the skull-masked male who spoke next, his wiry frame hunched in the way he sat, his eyes like smouldering embers. “No weapons,” He observed with a voice like a rattling sigh, a last word on a dying breath, and he glanced briefly to the panel of one-way glass before he spoke again. “What is your name, Human?” He almost sounded as if he was bored. You had taken a breath to reply, when the voice of one of the scientists gave you a warning over the P.A system.
“D-091337, you are not authorised to speak.” You froze, pressing yourself further against the door. “You are unauthorised to interact beyond the instructions we give you.”
The female, her dark lips pulled in a scowl, glared at the one-way glass with eyes like glowing moonstones. Despite the feeling of danger emanating off of her, she was beautiful, her olive skin smooth and unblemished, hair the colour of wine floating freely behind her. “They can talk when they decide to talk to us themselves,” She growled, the armour she wore clanking together as she shifted in her place leaning against the wall by the third male, a man built like a mountain who wore a red cloak around his shoulders- you couldn’t see his face past the massive pauldron on his shoulder. “I think we’ll decide who’s ‘worthy’. Now, answer my brother’s question.”
Well. The scientists wouldn’t like that. At first, it was hard to speak. You tried to say the first syllable, but your voice won’t come because of your shock at what happened. Their eyes were all on you now. Eventually, you managed to croak it out, audible enough for them to hear. “(Y/N)…it’s (Y/N).”
The skull-masked male nodded slowly. “Why have they sent you, Y/N?”
“I don’t know.” Your voice still croaked with nervousness and trembled as badly as your knees were. You’d seen other D-Class like you getting thrown to these monsters, and though you knew that some of them weren’t bad, you knew that Keter classification sign outside the cell meant bad news. “Maybe to see if you’ll turn my brain into mush, or eat me alive.”
They all blink at you, then look at the one-way glass, then to each other, almost as if asking the same question. Finally, the helmeted male looked back at you, his voice sounding slightly disturbed at the suggestion. “Why would we do that?” He asked. “We said we weren’t here to kill any humans.”
“It’s what these people do,” You tell him. “They feed regular folks like us to monsters for their ‘experiments’. Just to see what happens.”
The skull-masked male hummed thoughtfully, pressing a hand to the one-way glass and pushing slightly to test how solid it was- you took some pleasure in imagining the scientists and soldiers shitting themselves at the sight. “Do they really think this is going to hold us?” He wasn’t really asking you, but you answered anyway.
“They say that you guys are Keter class. I think that means they think you’re here to kill people.” Usually the scientists said these things, and you swallowed a nervous lump in your throat as you mustered up the courage to ask, “…If you’re not here to hurt humans, what are you here for?”
The female gave a derisive snort, the helmeted male choosing to answer instead. “We’re just here for the monsters. Tall dark and sulky over there–” He jerked his chin in the direction of the other male with the skull mask. “He told us not to hurt anyone when we turned up to get the job done.” The remark was met with a glance from the masked male, but not much else. Not much of a talker, you noted as you looked between them all, shuffling your feet awkwardly- they didn’t seem like they were as much of a threat as the red sign outside the cell had made them out to be, if what they said was true. Maybe…
“D-091337. You are to leave the cell immediately. We’re going to get someone to interview the subjects.”
You jumped as the voice came over the P.A system, followed by the sound of heavy boots behind the door. You figured that meant they’d throw you back in your own cell and send in one of the scientists, but the skull-masked male stepped around you first and pushed you back with a large hand that paled against the bright orange of your jumpsuit as the door opened, causing the crow to squawk and flutter away, landing on your shoulder. The female dragged you further back by your arm, looking like she was ready to rip apart the guards as they levelled their rifles, but the skull-masked male was very calm.
“There’s no need for those.” He set his hand on the muzzle of one of the rifles and gently lowered it. “We’ve already made it clear that we’re not here for you or your Foundation.”
The guard shook his rifle away from under his hand, then raised it again. “Standard procedure,” He remarked gruffly, then looked to you. “If you don’t get over here now, we willshoot you.”
The female didn’t seem to like that, putting you behind her and reaching for something on her hip. The other two males looked ready to fight as well, slowly rising to their feet. “We’d prefer there be minimal conflict,” The skull-masked male explained slowly, looking directly at the guard who had spoken. “We were in the middle of a conversation. It would be rude to shoot our guest.”
“Not like you’d get a shot in anyway,” The helmeted male added, and you swore you could sense a smirk behind the metal. “Fury’s good with that whip, and your run of the mill bullets don’t exactly work on us.” That made the guards wary, a few of them looking between themselves as if reevaluating the situation. “Also,” The helmeted male pulled a pistol, seemingly from out of nowhere, and held it up for the guards to see. “I’m a much better shot.” You turned your eyes away from the door to look at the pistol, ornately engraved with beautiful spiralling patterns along the barrel.
Tension hangs heavy in the air, so thick you swear that the cliché of being able to cut it with a knife might actually be able to be proven if you tried. Eventually, one of the guard turns his head, one hand to his ear, and it takes a long moment before he motions to his fellows to stand down. “They’re sending in a researcher. The D-Class can stay.”
The helmeted male chuckled as the guards filed out and the door shut again, and he holstered the pistol. “Wise choice.” His eyes glance back at you. “You good?”
“Yeah.” You glanced at the door, then at the helmeted male. “Thanks.”
“What did they mean, ‘D-Class’?” Asked the skull-masked male as he turned to look at you, the crow fluttering off your shoulder and back onto his.
“It’s what they call us.” You shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile. “D-Class, D-Boys, the Disposables. Some of us are criminals, some are just folks down on their luck who were promised a hefty paycheck if they survive the month.”
“Criminals?” The helmeted male cocked his head. “What’d you do?”
You held up your hands defensively. “Nothing! I needed money!”
The tall individuals all look between each other again, their faces sharing an equal measure of concern, and you wish you could say you hated it. You’d never really known the things they kept here to care about humans, so why did they, when they were the dangerous ones? It almost seemed like an insult.
Eventually, it was the skull-masked male who spoke. “And all you have to do is…survive?” He asked, looking down at you with a gaze that made it seem that he was thinking about something.
“Well…yeah. I don’t think they’ll let me remember what I saw, though…” You sighed. “They…have ways of making people forget. And maybe that’s good. There’s nothing but nightmares down here.”
Hey so I remembered that I wrote this while I was falling down the SCP rabbit hole. There’s already a canonical SCP 4814, but I just took 4HM and made it a number. I’m very original I know. Based on a post @imagine-darksiders did a while back about the Horsemen being kept as SCPs.
It needs more work and will be part of a future fic, so stay tuned :D
SCP 4814: The Four Horsemen
Object class: Keter
Description: SCP 4814 is comprised of four individuals, three male, one female, referred to as 4814 A through D, standing at various heights l and sporting different facial features. 4814-A has pallid skin, long black hair, and wears a skull-like mask that it refuses to part with, but has admitted to it being made of bone. 4184-B is also masked, this time with a helmet made of an unknown metal, giving it the appearance of a third eye, and has short, black hair. 4814-C has long, wine-coloured hair and pale white eyes, with tanned skin. 4814-D also has tanned skin, but has long white hair and glowing blue eyes. Each individual is always in armour that they refuse to remove or have removed by foundation staff. They do not share a hivemind, referring to each other as “brother” or “sister” as if they are family.
SCP 4814-A is accompanied by a common crow (C. brachyrhynchos) which it calls “Dust”, and is fond of it to the point of threatening people with their lives if anything should happen to it. It will be referred to in this report as SCP 4814-A-1.
All subjects of SCP 4814 has a weapon that is contained on their person and can be summoned at will if removed, and appear to have names attached to them.
SCP 4814-A: A large scythe it refers to as “Harvester”. (Designated SCP-4814-A-2) It can take the form of two smaller scythes, a large hammer, or a long pike.
SCP 4814-B: Two pistols it refers to as “Mercy” and “Redemption” (designated SCP-4814-B-1 and SCP 4814-B-2). Both resemble revolvers in design, with 4814-B-1 resembling a transitional or “pepperbox” revolver, and 4814-B-2 resembling an M1873 Colt Single Action. Both guns appear to have an endless supply of ammunition. (Addendum [DATA EXPUNGED]: Further testing reveals that these pistols can produce a destructive beam when used together in a certain way by the subject.)
SCP 4814-B also has a variety of tools such as two short sabres and caltrops that it uses to create distance between itself and its attackers.
SCP 4814-C: a long handled whip with razor sharp barbs along a wire of red energy (designed SCP 4814-C-1).
SCP 4814-D: A large broadsword, adorned with depictions of baroque faces in the steel, named “Chaoseater” (designated SCP 4814-D-1). To date, no other being is able to lift the sword except for 4814-D and its siblings.
Merry Christmas to everyone in this bonkers year. May the next be gentler.
Fury rolls her eyes hard and snorts a lot when you try to explain. Those humans and the utter wackiness of their customs. A tree inside a room? Covered in little lights and tinsel? What kind of tacky, glitzy nonsense is that? Words of disdain die on her lips when War barrels in with an absolute unit of a spruce, held nonchalantly over his shoulder - and the whole house starts to smell like a fairy tale. She’ll emerge again when you’ll be dressing the tree, her eyes big and fixated like a cat’s.
Speaking of War. Of course he’ll celebrate with you. Whatever it is that you feel like celebrating. This silver-haired giant loves you, remember? War is not big on this whole…theological background of the event (to be honest, neither are you), but the part about setting a table next to the hearth, feasting and being merry is an idea very much after his own heart. And exchanging gifts! He won’t admit it, not straight up, but the Red Rider is secretly giddy at the thought of receiving them. It’s been some time since anyone gave him a gift.
As for the tree… it didn’t have to be so fucking HUMONGOUS. But first, this house was built with Nephilim proportions in mind, and second, War is an avid subscriber to the “bigger is always better” school of thought. Don’t ask.
Strife is as much of a child at heart as you are. Well, not entirely. But he did manage to preserve his kid-like sense of wonder somehow, so you don’t have to try hard to make him participate. (Even if he did ask: “Who the fuck was this Jesus Christ? Never heard of the guy!”)
He’ll be the most visibly enthusiastic about this whole shebang: the dressing of the tree (he’ll get himself entangled in tinsel in no time), the cooking (he’s abysmal with it, but can be used for menial tasks like grating orange zest or whatever); the holiday songs (he’ll put them loud-ass speakers to use, making Death lose his shit over hearing Last Christmas for the hundredth time in a row.) Don’t tell him about the mistletoe. Or do tell him about the mistletoe - and watch how he brandishes it and chases flustered War around.
Strife is such a whirlwind of enthusiasm and questionable ideas that sometimes you’ll wish he’d lose interest - and let the rest of you prepare stuff in peace. On the other side, he’s the one who’ll initiate a snowball fight in the garden after a long day full of hard work. It’s been ages since you’ve been in a snowball fight.
Deathwill acknowledge that you want to have a proper Christmas with the four of them. He’ll give out his longest sigh, his wry, yet tender chuckle (you know which one), shaking his head at the superfluity of it all. And then he’ll comply. With the cooking (he seldom eats, but he can chop stuff up into perfect little chunks at a dizzying pace), with the gifts, with everything. He’ll be as silent and efficient about it as they come, too. Long lost are the times when the Pale Rider would actually pour his heart into celebrating…anything, really. He’s pretty much immune to the festive magic. But all this wonderful excess, this happy hubbub makes your eyes glint and your cheeks flush with anticipation. And that’s what matters.
Because he loves you. This old sourpuss loves you like you wouldn’t believe.
Okay but what if you taught Azrael internet slang and he started saying “pogchamp” because his human friend taught him that it’s what you say when you’re happy about something
im obsessed with this fuckin screencap of war’s abyssal armor
the pose. the fucking pose he looks like he’s on a runway or at a photoshoot. i see this image and this is the only fucking thing my brain can come up with
I’m convinced that War is generally not a vain guy (too absorbed with the morbid nature of his work to care about appearances.) But even he has his…moments.
Sometimes - not very often - he catches his reflection somewhere. He assesses this presence in the mirror, as grand and unstoppable as a moving glacier, and he goes “Hmm. Yes~” in his mind.
He’s beauty, he’s grace, he’ll punch you in the face
