The foundation was blaring with doom and gloom, for an external attacker had begun to consume.
Our perspective switches, and it's far more grimy. Slimy, gross, and not quite tiny. The place was unkept, and yet it was huge. But who would be stupid enough to act as a stooge, and disturb the one that would take sat waiting, like a Scrooge?
Locked away in a container was the one you shouldn't seek. Without eyes on him, for movement, he was far too meek. But beyond, he could hear screams of terror. Perhaps, it was today that one would finally make an error.
SCP 4885 could hear all of their screams, and a squeal of delight, so bright, so right.
For there was an Old Lady, who swallowed a blob. And bit by bit, she swallowed some more. I don't know why she swallowed a blob. They said it brought joy, but she thought it a job. When I tried to ask why, she called me a snob!
And while on her rampage, she encountered a door. So shiny, so clean. Must taste like a s'more! But when she devoured the glorious door, there she found the one she should have ignored.
Yes, the Hungry Old Lady had started a War.
FIGHT!
For reasons beyond mortal comprehension, the Old Lady still looked famished. The kind of hunger that didn't stop at pies or planets. Without a moment's hesitation, she lunged at the lurking anomaly, teeth bared in crooked abnormality.
SCP-4885 phased downward, melting through the floor like ink spilling into water. For a moment, there was silence, then, with a violent snap of air, it materialized again right behind her, ready to grip and tear.
But before he could so much as touch her, the Old Lady's elbow jerked backwards on reflex, not out of training, but purely because standing up for a Lady her age was rather draining. The accidental blow cracked against Waldo's face like a battering ram. He was launched across the facility, his body folding awkwardly mid-air before he slammed through layers of reinforced steel like papier mache, embedding deep within the plated wall with a metallic shriek.
The eyeless abomination slowly clawed itself up. One hand absently rubbed the void where his eyes should've been, more from habit than pain.
That's when he heard it.
A noise. A loud, crunching noise.
His expression twisted, as a look of shock came over his face. The Old Lady was eating her way toward him, her dentures grinding through steel beams, rebar, concrete, and soil as if it were all just fistfuls of birthday cake. Sparks danced off her teeth, and yet she barely seemed to notice or care. It wasn't rage. It wasn't personal. It was just... Tuesday.
Snarling, SCP-4885 phased again, appearing just behind her once more, and with desperate fury, kicked the Old Lady across the cheek with enough force to split most human skulls like ripe melons.
She didn't budge.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
The sound of the kick echoed through the ruined chamber, but the Old Lady merely turned her head slowly, jaw still chewing on bits of twisted metal like a grandmother chewing on caramel that wouldn't quite melt.
With a distorted snarl, it teleported above her now, folding its limbs inward like a spider ready to pounce, before launching itself downward, heel-first, aiming a brutal axe kick directly at her head, a blow meant to shatter skulls, pulp organs, and leave nothing behind but flattened bone and regret. Yet the Old Lady tanked it, quite well I might add, not a bruise, not a scratch, it was honestly mad.
Then, with a grin full of crumbs and a glimmer of glee, She plucked him from midair like fruit from a tree. Before he could react, the Old Lady spun on her heel, twirling the anomaly around her head like a medieval flail, which she later lets go off.
This time it manages not to fail again. He phased back in, stylishly so, as the Lady opened up, and out came snow!
Faster and faster, machine-gun delight, as they pummeled forward in a flurry of furious white. But the monster just smirked and laughed maliciously, sliding with grace, Phasing through snow like a ghost in a haste.
Then, just as she lined up another absurd barrage, he struck. SCP-4885 blurred in and out of vision, spamming his teleportation like static skipping on a broken tape, flicking from point to point around the Old Lady's head like a swarm of flies. Flicker after flicker, he darted like a shadow impossible to pin, his form like a ghost scribbled hastily onto reality itself.
The Old Lady swiveled her head lazily from side to side, genuinely confused for the first time in years.
Then, that's when he struck!
With a sudden burst of physicality, 4885 shoved her with all his force, not elegant, not graceful, but effective. The force sent the Old Lady stumbling backward, heels dragging deep trenches in the ruined facility floor.
And that's when he raised his arms.
A slow, theatrical motion, triumphant, terrible, proud.
From the cracks in the ground, from the shattered walls, from the ruins of the facility itself, they came. The hundreds of corpses. All of his victims. Skin bleached paper-white, eyes replaced with pages, limbs warped like unfinished sketches. The floor trembled under their numbers as they rose to their feet with agonizing creaks. Yes, with slow painful animation did they rise, all turning their eyeless gazes toward her.
A tidal wave of distorted, grotesque figures began to charge, moaning and rasping like broken wind-up toys.
Yet the Old Lady didn't flinch. With a wet hack, she spat something heavy from her throat, a rusted, worn knight's sword, blade chipped, handle frayed, but still sharp enough to cleave through nightmares.
With a grunt, she charged.
Steel flashed. Limbs flew. Every swing was a butcher's stroke, each impact sending the corpses bodies scattering like torn confetti. She even paused every so often to swallow a handful whole, crunching down on bone and book-page flesh like old crackers she found behind the couch.
But numbers… were numbers.
Swing after swing, slash after slash, the sword dragged. Her arms grew heavy. They began to relax. The Old Lady huffed. The floor became sticky with muck and melted illustrations. And finally… she slipped, with a puff.
The mass of bodies surged, pressing against her legs, tangling her arms, pulling her down like desperate fans at a midnight book signing. And they bit, and they scratched, they tortured her whole.
SCP-4885 stepped forward, slow, deliberate, savoring the moment like a wolf circling its prey. His eyeless face twisted upward, almost forming a bigger grin, than the one etched on his face.
He wanted this one to last.
"Where's the Old Lady now...?" he might've said, if he had a mouth that worked.
This wasn't going to be quick.
This was going to be sick.
He was going to savour this in every way. So, slowly but surely, he tore open an entryway. Her jaw gave way, and opened up wide. But curiously, she didn't seem to show pain, her face looked rather resigned.
But so, the monster climbed in headfirst, with barely anyroom to move, ready to remove and improve, to choose and behoove, as the screen slowly faded, to black.
But when it opened it's eyes, Black was all that met it. No red, no bruises, no squishes, no juices. Just pure black. Nothing that he was used to. He had entered the belly of the beast, or rather, the void of a Feast.
He floated around, aimlessly and empty. A variety of other things she'd swallowed would occasionally fly by. The Joyful Blob, a shrieking White humanoid. An Old man, even a Supreme Demon Lord of all Evil that you'd likely try to avoid.
He looked beyond him, and oh the wonders he would've seen. Every anomaly, floating simultaneously.
Then, he phases past meteorites, teleports past some comets. Despite the permanent expression etched on his face, you could tell despite everything, that he was annoyed. So he and teleports and teleports again, looking for any way out of the empty void.
Then, far above that eternal black, came a light both distant and cracked. A pale, cratered thing drifting through the empty, slow at first, but speed? Gaining plenty. It wasn't a star, nor a comet's flare, but the Old Lady's leftovers, which she ate back then. The moon, never forgotten, brightly it's always shone, falling downward like a pumped football thrown.
SCP-4885 tried to phase, to flee, to twist around or slip past free, but the rules here weren't his to bend, and the pale old rock was his sudden end. With a final crunch like bone on tile, the flaming impact left nothing behind, not even that permanent smile.
We cut to the outside, as she eats the last of the corpses. She licked her lips with glee, barely wary of all the losses. But digesting those anomalies is not how this ends. Her stomach growled, full from eating the ones that transcend. She began to swivel and sweat, and with a great big flop, from her mouth, out popped a Laptop!
"SCP Foundation" the screen read. "The kids might enjoy reading this", she intelligently said, in her head.
So she closed it up, with one mighty leap, she flew into the skies, leaving the foundation's remains rotting, as a heap.
KO!