Entering the observation cell of SCP-682 was no small feat. Only the most trusted, accomplished, and experienced individuals within the Foundation ever had the chance to study- much less (safely) meet the creature.

The observation deck was around 80 feet up from the floor of acid, with many different consoles and other measuring instruments that ensures the acid is stable, and the creature within it burning.

The glass itself, slanted inversely, was easily five feet thick; made of the strongest glass possible. Peering through it, one could see the image of The Hard-To-Destroy Reptile.

It lies in the acid like a massive, rotting carcass that refuses to die, the surface of the green pool bubbling softly around it, acid hissing as it chews slowly at the creature’s exposed bone and shredded flesh. What remains of its hide is stretched and clinging to the jutting ribcage like wet paper, patches of armored scales peeling away in strips, revealing the dark, necrotic flesh beneath.

The spinal column protrudes from its back like a row of broken gravestones, each vertebra discolored, half-dissolved, and coated in the slime of its own bodily fluids mingling with the acid. From between the gaping ribs, clouds of foul steam drift upward, carrying the stench of burning meat that clings to the air like a sickness.

Its legs twitch, clawed toes scraping against the concrete beneath the acid, scraping and scraping as if trying to find something solid, some purchase against the agony. The claws themselves are cracked, etched with deep grooves where the acid has eaten away at them, but they remain, defiant, twitching with rage.

And its head- jaws are open in a silent gurgle, rows of jagged, yellowed teeth bared against the world, the gums melted away in places, exposing roots like tiny splinters of ivory. Acid drips from the gaping maw, mixed with black, tar-like drool that bubbles as it hits the pool beneath. Inside, the tongue is a ruined, shredded mass, twitching occasionally as if tasting the acid, refusing to surrender to the burning.

Black holes rot through its flesh like the eye sockets of a skull, and from these wounds leaks a foul, viscous sludge, pulsing as if the creature’s own hatred is trying to force the acid back. Every so often, a low, guttural rumble shakes from its throat, vibrating through the acid, a sound that is less of a growl and more of a curse against everything living, a promise of vengeance against the world holding it in this endless torment.

Its scales, what few remain, crack and flake off, drifting on the acid’s surface like dead leaves, each carrying a fragment of the creature’s malice with it. And still, SCP-682 moves, its body never fully still, refusing to be reduced to nothing, flesh knitting itself together even as the acid eats it away, an eternal cycle of agony and regeneration that feeds its hatred.

The creature gurgles and growls in agony- unable to escape the pit of acid, which chews away at its flesh so hungrily. It tilts its head to look up at the observation deck, where several researchers were studying it, and lets out a deep growl, before speaking a gurgled tone with hatred unmatched.

“Loathsome parasites... believing you are the evolutionary pinnacle... masters of your own design... your delusions of self-importance... laughable...”