SCP 3288-6982 could tell you.

He may play dumb, but he's the one his siblings pointed to.

You'll just have to get him to talk.

Helena Schmidt wondered if this was surely some sort of joke.

The idea that this thing, this wretched, squirming, stinking degenerate that laid in its bed, could tell her

anything of value sounded too ridiculous to be true. Draped in fine velvet sheets, its bloated bald

head rested on an ornate throat pillow. The decrepit, Habsburgian chittered and perverted

broken German, or a version of German so ancient and corrupted, Schmidt could only identify very basic,

albeit still mutilated root words.

It wasn't that she was afraid of it.

As far as SCP 3288 specimens went, this one was relatively harmless. This wasn't to say it wasn't dangerous,

but rather that its deformities, and end result of God knows how many years of constant inbreeding,

had been detrimental to it. It lacked no legs, save for misshapen, gnarled stubs that ended suddenly in jagged, two-toed feet

that more closely resembled pig hooves than human feet.

It could barely even stand, let alone walk.

And there was a battalion of guards standing outside its cell door.

No, she wasn't afraid of it.

She was repulsed by it. Still, she had a job to do,

and SCP 3288-6982, as vile as its very existence was, was the only one that could even give them

the answers they needed. The doctor had procured a bottle of vintage wine,

a 1967 dona wrote, to be precise, as a peace offering for it, knowing that alcohol had been its

declared prized mortal luxuries long before its containment. A terrible thing to waste,

...