The SCP Experience - The Only Meat I Eat | SCP-5286

Episode Date: July 7, 2025

After waking on a train with no memory of the night before, Logan discovers grotesque, twitching cysts birthing tiny, sentient versions of himself—creatures that crave to be eaten—and as their numbers grow, his sanity, freedom, and body are consumed by a curse with no escape but surrender. This story was derived from ⁠⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5286 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠⁠ Author: Matt Doggett * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The M-track train sways gently, but each side-to-side motion sends a wave of nausea through me. I keep my eyes shut, knowing that if I open them, the sick feeling in my stomach will only get worse. In the coach car, people around me are talking in low tones, but each uttered syllable stabs my brain like a needle. I would scream at them to shut up if the effort required wasn't massive. I don't even remember boarding the train last night, and I have no idea where we are now, For all I know, I've slept through my stop in Chicago. Snippets of the previous night's events surface hazily, making me groan and long for unconsciousness.

If I could just sleep for a day or two, I could handle all these foggy memories and their hideous implications. Did I really do that last night? Was that party really that crazy? I hope these flashes aren't real memories. I hope they're just nightmares I had while I passed out after boarding the train. Please, let that be the case. Turning my mind away from these grotesque, half-clear thoughts, I think of playing video games, watching movies, or reading. That's what I should

have done on my vacation, instead of going to New York and partying my bank account empty. What was I thinking? If I could take it all back, I would stay home and relax, enjoying the quiet and sleeping in every day. A chill washes over me. I tried to ignore it. I'm currently using my hoodie as a pillow, jammed up against the window. The last thing I want is to move enough to put it on. Without thinking much about it, I rub my arms in a vain attempt to try to warm them up. But I freeze as my left hand encounters something on my right arm. My eyes shoot open, but I don't look at the strange, bulbous thing on my arm. Not yet. I lock my stare at the window at the passing houses with their backyards abutted against the train tracks.

Gently, cautiously, I probe what feels like a fluid-filled growth on my arm. It's huge, the size of a golf ball. Finally, unable to stop myself and fighting to keep my gorge down, I turned my head. Rancid, alcohol-tinged bile shoots up my throat. It's a minor miracle that I don't spew the contents of my stomach all over the seat back in front of me. The ugly growth on my forearm is a wine red color, and there's another one just like it a few inches up. My throat closes to a pinpoint as I stare at these odd deformities. They produce a very faint red glow, as if a dull light is on deep inside, occluded by the fluid within. Something twitches inside one of the growths. The squirm raises goosebumps along my arm, and I yank my hand away from it.

Slowly, eyes locked onto the growth, I ease my hand back towards it, waiting for it to twitch again. It doesn't. Using my index finger, I broad the thing, pressing down on its center until I feel something hard inside. Whatever it is moves. I yank my hand away again, mouth open, bleary eyes dry as sandpaper. The unmistakable feeling of someone staring at me plucks the strings of my awareness.

Turning, I look past the empty seat on my right and across the empty seat on my right and across the aisle at a little girl of five or six. She stares at my arm, curiosity and fear mixing in her gaze. Her mother snores in the seat next to her, oblivious to the waking world. The growth twitches again, drawing my attention back to it. A sudden, an intense shame crashes over me. I yanked my hoodie from its spot between the seat in the window and drape it over my arm, obscuring the two growths. I look back up at the girl, face flushing, as though I've just let loose. a loud and wet fart. She turns toward me and pulls her legs under her, so she's sitting on her feet, facing me across the aisle. She has a painfully serious look on her face, big brown eyes

fixed unerringly on me. Are you okay? I tried to smile, not wanting to scare this child. Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about me. How are you? Are you coming from New York? What are those things on your arm? She looks on the verge of crying. And I feel that if she starts because of me, I'll break down too. I don't know what they are, I tell her, scooting to the aisle's seat and looking both ways for the nearest restroom. Are you sick? No, I'll be okay. I promise. Pinky promise?

The girl asks, a little hope coming into her angelic face as she extends one tiny pinky toward me. Without thinking, I reach out, extending my own pinky. Then something occurs to me. What if I'm contagious? What if touching her spreads this vile sickness to her? I yank my hand back before our fingers touch. She looks at me, clearly hurt, as only a confused and spurned child can be. Her hand drops slowly to her lap, pinky still extended.

I feel a cyst twitch again, and this time I'm sure there's something moving inside the growth, something that's trying to get out. Standing up, I rushed down the train car to the nearest bathroom. I can feel the girl's eyes on me. As I push open the tiny bathroom door, I glance back down the aisle and see her leaning out, staring after me, chin trembling. As soon as I get the bathroom door closed and locked,

I drop the hoodie to the floor and inspect the growths in the bright light over the tiny sink. There is a slight difference between the two of them. One of them, the twitchy one, is slightly bigger. In fact, I think it has grown since leaving my seat. Raising my arm closer to my face, I inspect the larger of the two, certain I can see something in the middle. It's just a dark splotch, but it's there. I recall the sensation of touching something hard in it.

Nausea clamps around my insides, but I swallow all the spit my mouth is producing, still staring at the growth. It's still twitching, but now with increasing frequency. The dark splotch inside moves, the muscles and tendons directly under the growth. growth react. As I watch and disgusted awe, the growth splits open. Watery blood spills from the ruptured sack, a coppery, somehow sweet smell wafting out. I can no longer hold it in. I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and vomit bile and stomach acid into the basin. Even as I vacate the contents of my stomach, I'm aware of the movement coming from the ruptured growth. Frantic, insistent movement. As soon as I'm done spitting, I look over at the cyst. I blink, unable to

to process what I'm seeing. It's impossible. I don't remember what all I took last night, but there must have been some kind of hallucinogen in there somewhere. This is all a hallucination, because what I'm seeing is impossible. Regardless, I watch, dumbfounded, as a tiny, naked version of me pulls its legs out of the meat of my arm and then hops off onto the little shelf next to the toilet. My flesh seems to heal quickly. The only evidence of anything amiss are the bloody flaps of thin skin that were recently a cyst. The area underneath, where the tiny little me came from, is otherwise normal. Of course it's normal, I tell myself, this isn't real. The little me, covered in that watery blood, looks into my eyes and smiles. Are you hungry?

He asks him a tiny voice that matches his tiny body. The world spins. My eyes roll up into my head. I collapse under the toilet, and everything goes black. Someone is opening. my mouth. Fingers broad my lips and reach past my teeth. Spitting. I yank my head up, not realizing where I am, expecting to see someone standing over me, fingers outstretched and wet with my saliva. But I'm alone in the Amtrak bathroom. Everything suddenly comes rushing back. I look down and realize I'm not alone. There are two tiny versions of me, one of them larger than the other, but neither more than six inches tall. They stand on the shelf next to the toilet looking up at me smiling glancing down at my arm I see that the other cyst

had burst but there are two more growing there and three are my other arm one of the tiny humans says the other one laughs and says in a sing-song voice we're the best thing you'll ever eat yes sirree tasty tasty without thinking I sweep my right hand at the two tiny people and knock them into the open toilet they shout. I slam my hand onto the flush button, and the two tiny versions of me disappear in a swirling rush of water. Still sitting on the floor, I look around, trying to get a grip. This is not real. It can't be. As I get to my feet, I spy the growths on both my arms. Bending down, I yank my hoodie off the floor and pull it on, obscuring the cysts. Not bothering

to wash my hands, I leave the bathroom and go back to my seat. The little girl studies me as I sit down. I ignore her, staring out the window. My heart beats irregularly as I try to keep it together. It's not real. It's not real. I close my eyes and try not to think about the cysts on my arms. My stop can't get here soon enough. I reach my apartment more sober than I've ever been. Dread makes my limbs heavy, my shoes scraping on the concrete leading to my front door. My teeth are clamped together so hard I've developed a splitting headache, but I mostly focus on the twitching, growing cysts under my sleeves. I didn't even bother waiting around for my checked baggage to be unloaded from the train.

All I have with me is my backpack, which I brought into the coach car with me. While I was trying to hail a cab after shoving my way off the train, I felt a warm wetness soaked into my right sleeve. I froze at the curb outside the train station. my right hand still held up. Little limbs scrabbled down to my armpit and then along my rib cage. A tiny, naked version of me dropped out from under the hem of my hoodie and landed next to my right foot on the sidewalk.

It looked up at me, grinned, and then started singing. I panicked, aware of all the other people nearby, and of the cab pulling up to the curb. Raising my right foot, I smashed the tiny me against the concrete. Tiny bones crunched and a splatter of the curb. blood erupted from either side of my shoe. The cab that had just pulled over screamed away, apparently haven't seen me do it. I looked after the cab, wondering what exactly he saw. Could he have seen it clearly? Could he have seen me crushing a tiny version of myself underfoot?

Glancing around, I made sure no one else had noticed. But there was one pair of eyes on me, boring into me. Turning, I met those eyes. The little girl from the train stood 10 yards away, waiting for a light to turn so she and her mother could cross the busy street. Her cherub-like face, slack with wonder, suddenly twisted. She cried out, bawling, pointing at me with one accusing finger and yanking on her mother's hand to get her attention. I whipped my head away and focused uneasily on the traffic. Shortly, another cab pulled over.

I jumped inside, glancing once out the window at the unrecognizable mess of flesh and blood on the sidewalk. It could have been a squirrel or a chipboard. monk, only there was no fur, just a bit of brown hair from the crushed skull. As the cab pulled away, another cyst burst inside my left jacket sleeve. With my right hand, I reached up that sleeve, grabbed the tiny me by the head, and squeezed, popping its skull between my fingers. The cabby he studied me in the mirror. I gave him a smile as I wiped my hand on my black sleeve, for what I thought was a smile. He flinched and darted his eyes away. I got the feeling it was

happy to get rid of me when he dropped me off outside my apartment, just 30 seconds ago now. Praying my roommate isn't home, I fetch the keys for my pocket with shaking hands and unlock the door on my fourth try. I can feel the dead me in my pocket, where I surreptitiously put it after I popped its head like a grape. Once inside, I throw my backpack down and rip my hoodie off, inspecting my arms. My inside's a tight knot of dread. There are five cysts of varying sides. There are five cysts of varying size on my arms, not including the ones that have already popped. The biggest one among them, on the underside of my right forearm, twitches in what I've learned are pre-birth spasms.

Another one is getting ready to come out. I race to the kitchen and grab a knife, then move to the bathroom I share with my roommate, Randy. Using the mirror to guide me, I broad the large cyst with the tip of the knife, pressing lightly at first, but soon increasing the pressure. The tip punctures the growth, sending a jolt of pain through my arm as the maroon liquid spills out and dribbles down to my elbow, where it drips off, splattering the sink and countertop. Once the liquid is mostly out, I glimpse the top half of the little person in there. I drop the knife and dig into the cyst with my fingers, grunted against the pain and trying to pull the creature out. It doesn't want to budge. It's as if its legs are stuck in my forearm. Still, I pull it.

but my slick fingers slip right off. The sight of the tiny body sticking out of my forearm sickens me and turns the pain into a buzzing background noise. I grab the blue hand towel from the rack on the wall and use it to grip the body tightly. Pulling, the pain becomes too much. My eyes water as I continue to pull, my face, an unrecognizable mask of agony and determination.

Finally, I feel a rip, so deep and elemental that I nearly vomit. There's another, smaller rip, and my hand comes away. and my hand comes away. My prize wrapped in the stained hand towel. Huffing and weary, I opened the towel and see that I've ripped the creature in half at the waist. Tiny intestines no bigger than angel hair pasta dangle from its ruined abdomen. A glance in the mirror at the cyst reveals what can only be the top of a tiny pelvis.

I tossed the towel and its contents into the trash can and pull the mirror open to reveal the medicine cabinet. It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for, Randy's bottle of Xanax. Twist off the top, standing it with blood in the process, and pour out several of the bar-shaped pills. I down two of them and leave the bathroom with the other ones cupped in my hand. In my bedroom, I set the pills on my nightstand and then flop down on the bed, face down on my pillow. Two of the other cysts on my arms twitch.

I ignore them, starting to sob. Soon enough, exhaustion and the drugs pull me into a stupor that isn't quite sleep, but is a damn sight better than consciousness. I welcome it, hoping when I come back to myself, this will all have been the product of a mental breakdown or a bad hallucination trip. Anything but what it actually is. What the hell, Logan? My roommate's angry voice cut through my semi-conscious stupor like headlights through fog, but it's enough to pull me toward reality. Holy shit, dude. Are you okay?

He must have seen the blood in the bathroom. That much registers, but I can't quite remember why I was bleeding. I can tell by Randy's voice that he's outside my closed bedroom door. The fog clears a little more. Enough for me to know there's something in my mouth. Something squirming. Bogan? Randy calls.

The anger in his voice now fully replaced by soft concern. He knocks on the door as I sit up and reach for my mouth with one hand. Then Randy opens the door just as I pull a tiny naked me out of my mouth. My roommate, a friend from high school that I had the utmost respect for until we started living together, is dressed in black, food-covered clothes. He's a server at a chain restaurant a mile from our apartment, and he must have just gotten off work.

The red-tinged beard hair splashed across his jaws too long, and his green-glass-colored eyes are dancing with shock as he takes in the scene before him. I only realize how bad it is when I look around, still holding the tiny me up near my face as it squirms in my grip, jeering and laughing crazily. All around me, a ray of my face. on the bed are miniature mees. There are at least a dozen of them, and they're all laughing or

talking or singing. But it's the ones I see perched on the top of the door jam that give me pause. Four of the little creatures stand up there, holding a serrated kitchen knife between them, two on a side. Before I can warn Randy, the two creatures holding the knife blade lean out and drop it. A moment later, the two at the handle dropped their end. The knife falls straight down and bounces off Randy's skull, tip first. Randy yells, stepping farther into the room while raising both hands to his head. What the fuck?

He turns around and looks up, hands still clutching his head, which is now bleeding pretty good, as scalp wounds do. All four of the little bastards leap off the jam and on to Randy. One of them takes a swan dive directly into his mouth. My roommate's eyes go wide as he spins around,

reaching in after it with one bloody fingered hand. Even from where I sit, I can see his throat bulge out as the little creature burrows under his windpipe. The other three launch a coordinated attack. One climbs up his face, using his scraggly beard for purchase. It grips Randy's left bottom eyelid with its tiny hands and yanks it open, then throws itself head first into the socket, shoving the eyeball back as it goes. Randy backpedals, one hand in his mouth, the other now digging at his left eye. He bumps into my bookshelf and stumbles.

tripping over my comforter, which I apparently kicked off during my drug-induced sleep. He falls, careening off my desk with the side of his head, knocking the other two creatures off in the process. The ones in his throat and I remain. By now, his face is changing colors from lack of air. I've been watching this whole thing through the artificial calm of a Xanax high, but the implications of what's happening to my friend finally stick in my throat. I tossed the creature I've been holding since Randy came in. Then I get to the thing. get off the bed to help my friend. Randy is still conscious, but the gash on his head from hitting my desk spits blood all

over my carpet. His face has turned from peach red to the sickly hue of an overripe blueberry. Blood pools in his ruined left eye. I can see the tiny, human-shaped bulge under the skin just below the socket. The thing is thrashing around. It disappears under his eyeball, which bulges madly out and then pops from its socket with a gag-inducing squelch. Randy's legs kick uselessly.

Both hands are fixed around his throat. As the dozen or more little creatures still on the bed sing and laugh and chatter, I shove Randy onto his stomach, hook my hands under his armpits, and pull him up. I've never actually done the Heimlich maneuver on anyone, but I do it now, trying to force the creature out of his throat. It doesn't come. Soon, I feel Randy's body goes slack, but I keep trying until there's no doubt in my mind that he's dead.

I place his body down carefully. I realize I'm crying. My legs go rubbery, and I collapse to the floor, my back against the side of my bed. My head in my hands, I sob. Not just for Randy, but for me, for whatever is causing this, and for what comes next. I have to call the police. I'll be front-page news, a freak, something that scientists study for years to come. My life as I know it is over. my fingers. I see the little bastard crawl out of Randy's mouth. It looks around and then smiles up at me. Hungry? It yells. A chorus of little yells sounds around me. I drop my hands and see that I'm surrounded by the little things and see five more cysts growing on my arms. It takes me a moment to realize what they're saying. Thus far, since Randy came in, it has been little more

the noise. But now I realize they're all clamoring for the same thing. They want me to eat them. Before some sings about how good they taste, swaying back and forth with their arms around each other. Several of the creatures are perched on my legs, and they're suggesting recipes. Carmelized onions. Shred me and put me in your yogurt. I look at the creature now and perched on my dead roommate's chin. Do you want me to eat you? Yeah!

The little guy says, jumping for joy and nearly falling back into Randy's mouth. Fine, I say, snatching the creature up and putting his head in my mouth. Using my front teeth, I decapitate him, warm blood filling my mouth. I toss his body aside and then spit his head out. It bounces off my desk and comes to rest between Randy's legs. The other creatures change their tune, shouting at me for not eating their compatriot. That's not eating! Maybe he needed salt.

You have to chew and swallow, you big goof! Roaring, I lurched to my feet and fall pleasantly into a frenzy, stomping on their little bodies, snatching them up and crushing their little bones and my fists. I yell, feeling like Godzilla ransacking the city. Some of them retreat under my bed. I flip the piece of furniture over and get on my hands and knees, crushing them with my palms or the sides of my fists. By the time I've killed them all, I'm exhausted, and my room is a complete wreck. As I sit among the wreckage, one of my new cysts bursts and a new miniature me comes out, still covered in bloody birth fluid. It crawls up to my shoulder.

and says, I bet you're hungry. You could eat me. I'm great with cheese, bread, and mayonnaise. I grab the thing and throw it as hard as I can against the wall, and then look around for my phone. I'm still looking when there's a knock at the front door. In a daze and exhausted beyond caring.

I trudged down the hall and open the door to reveal a man and a woman in black suits standing on the stoop. It's dark outside, although I have no idea what time it is. They both look me up and down. up and down. Logan Burke? The man asks. Yes, that's me. The woman looks at my arms but says nothing. Those look like they hurt, the man says, gesturing at the cysts. I shake my head. Not really. Can we come in? What do you want? Well, let's just say we heard you have a problem. I guess you gave a little girl at the train station a pretty good fright. So much so that her mom called the cops. Luckily, we were listening in on

that call, and we got to the train station before they did. We found what you left behind on the sidewalk. I stare at them, dumbfounded. They speak so casually. I find it impossible that they really know what's happening to me. But then the woman speaks for the first time. I'm guessing they want you to eat them. Is that right? My mouth drops open. Then I lurch out onto the stew, wrapping both of them in a hug. Oh, thank you. Thank you. You have to help me. Please. 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo. Prere to play.

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to pay the conditions so apply. sickened by the memory of that day so long ago, when I thought those two assholes in suits had come to help me. That's what I said. Thank you. The words, recalled now after all this time, are like a knife straight to my shrunken stomach. Each time I remember that day, which is something I do often, so much that it has become a favorite pastime, it's a twist of that knife. I sit on the edge of my bunk, hunched over, elbows on knees, as I stare at the strip of padded floor between my feet.

What I wouldn't give for a real knife right about now. Only I wouldn't stick it in my stomach. I would open my jugular with it. Maybe even both jugulars. That way, the medical team, as fast as they are, wouldn't make it here in time. But, of course, a knife is out of the question. There's nothing in my cell I could use to kill myself. Believe me, I've looked.

As I stare at the off-white padded floor, a foot-tall, naked version of me, prances into view. looking up at me with a grin on his stupid face. He must be one of the older ones. That's something I've learned since being locked up in here. The longer they live, the bigger they get. To a point at least. I haven't seen any of them grow taller than a foot, and there was a time when I let them go wild for several days.

I don't even know how many there were by the end of that stretch. Maybe 50, maybe more. Of course, Dr. Fuckface had to come in and sedate me, ending that little experiment. They fed me through a tube so I wouldn't die. Just thinking about it makes my stomach pucker in revolt. The foot-tall mini-mead dances a little jig, spinning round and round between my legs, his eyes never leaving my face.

His mouth moves, and I'm sure he's singing, but I don't hear it. I've learned to tune all their little voices out. If I hadn't managed that, I would be insane by now. Well, more insane. Okay, Dr. Fuckface says. His voice coming through the speakers, impossible to ignore given its enhanced volume. Logan, it's time. The tendons in my neck feel brittle as I raise my head and peer at the thick window opposite my bunk.

Just beyond the reflection of my cell thrown by the bright overhead lights, I can see Dr. fuck faces outline on the other side of the glass. Please, Logan, he says. Help me out here. I don't want to sedate you again. None of us like that. Just let me die, I say in a raspy voice. It's amazing how many things change in your body when you don't eat for a long time.

Even my voice sounds weak. You know I can't do that. I glimps my face in the glass. It's a stranger's face, hollow cheeks, sagging skin, empty eyes. Strangely enough, the mini-meas that keep coming out of my body look like I did when all this started. For whatever reason, they don't look like this version of me, this walking skeleton with less than 1% body fat. I drop my head back down. Even the simple act of holding it up is exhausting. The foot tall me is still between my legs, but he's no longer dancing. He's smiling and gazing up at me,

speaking every so often. It only registers as a distant buzz, like a fly on the other side of the room. Logan? Dr. Fuckface says. Please, I want to give you back your privileges, but you need to show that you're willing to work with me. And once we get you back to health, you can eat whatever you want again, so long as you eat the required amount of meat first. It's not just bad enough that I have to keep birthing these abominations, but I also can't digest regular food anymore. My body no longer pulls nutrients from vegetables, fruits, grains, or most meats. Now, the only thing I can digest, the only thing that provides the nutrients I need to live are those little abominations. That's why they're always trying to get me to eat them.

It's like that's their whole purpose. But I can't help but wonder what the point is. Why have I been cursed? What did I do at that party that would lead to this? And why the fuck can't I remember anything but dream-like flashes from that night? Think of it. Fuckface continues. A video game system.

A streaming service. Any book you want. Exercise privileges again. I want to give it all back. But you need to show me your willing. to do your part. The little guy between my legs wraps his tiny arms around my calf in a hug. He shuts his eyes, face turned up, smile stretching his plump cheeks. Fuck this little bastard. Fuck Dr. Fuck face. Fuck the guards and fuck this curse. That's exactly

what it is. A curse. I vibrate with rage, wanting nothing more than to bash my head into the wall or the floor until I die. But even if I did, it wouldn't work. That's why I have padded floors and walls. Even when I didn't, I couldn't bring myself to smash my head hard enough to cause more than a splitting headache. For all I know, I can't die. Not really. Maybe that's part of the curse. The possibility sends meathooks of dread through my shrunken guts. I imagine the years stretching out before me like an endless, deserted highway through a featureless white, added landscape. No entertainment, no food, no companionship, but these little assholes that are always begging me to eat them. My stomach puckers, but before I realize what I'm doing, I

reached down and grabbed the foot tall me from between my legs. By the time I get both hands on him, the rage has taken over, and it has brought submission with it. Holding on to the little abomination by the legs and the upper torso, I wrench my hands down, bending his spine backwards and feeling it snap like a carrot. I bring him up to my mouth and sink my teeth into his tiny stomach. My incisors popping through his stretched skin and into his coppery guts. I bite down hard and yanked my head away, pulling in the opposite direction with my hands. I come away with a small mouthful of meat, an intestine unravels caught between my teeth. I suck it up like a piece of spaghetti, chewing. I stand up and look around for my next victim

while tossing the corpse away absently. There are two dozen of them in the cell with me. They all look at me with joyful awe, knowing I've finally broken. The battle of wills is at an end, and I've lost. I snatch them up by the handful, ripping off skulls that pop like hard olives between my molars. I crunch through legs and arms. I suck the organs out of tiny rib cages and feel the gritty pop of testicles rupturing between my teeth. Blood spills down my chin to stain my filthy, off white smock. By the time I'm done, the room is strewn with half.

feet and corpses. Tiny puddles and splashes of blood mar every surface. My belly is swollen and painful, but I'm surprised to feel better. The mental release, I realize, is a relief. All this time, I've been trying to hold on to some piece of my old life, some semblance of normalcy. Now that I've let go and embraced my curse, I can see the road ahead. It's just as long, but it's no longer featureless. There are things to do. lessons to learn along the way. I turned to the window, coagulating blood dripping thickly off my chin. I step directly to the glass so my silhouette cuts the reflection,

encompassing Dr. Fuckface's figure on the other side, and thereby allowing me to see him clearly. How's that? I ask, trying to sound more belligerent than I feel. Dr. Fuckface, whose real name is Rayberg, gives a fatherly smile of encouragement as he nods. That'll do. SCP 5286's anomalous properties manifest in the form of cysts that appear on the body,

which quickly grow in size over the course of two to five hours before rupturing. These cysts are filled with a violet red substance determined to be a mixture of blood, amniotic fluid, pus, and an alcoholic liquid determined to be red wine. When a cyst ruptures, a single SCP-586-1 instance will be produced from inside. These instances are miniature humanoids, which are identical to the host, both physically and genetically. These clones grow to a maximum of 12 inches in height, and are fully capable of walking, speaking, and conversing after they separate. They are invariably jovial and energetic, often singing, dancing, and taking any action that would increase the probability of being willingly consumed by the host. Those include verbal manipulation, disguising themselves within other forms.

food or drink, and occasionally self-mutilating, flaying, and potentially cooking themselves in various ways in an attempt to make themselves appear more appetizing. They remain cheerful throughout the entire process, commonly commenting on how good they taste. However, they refuse to force-feed themselves to the host, and have not been observed performing any action that would cause physical harm to said host.