"We brought a pretty little lady for you today, 173," said the doctor to the statue. The statue did not respond. After all, who knows who could be watching. He instead stared back at the doctor with dead eyes. Through the corner of his vision, the statue could spot personnel moving in another statue, however he could not focus on it.
"We'll leave you to it," the doctor smiled and left, and then the others did as well. As soon as they exited, the statue turned its head to look at what had been brought in.
She was another such as himself, but with long, flowing red hair, luscious brown lips and piercing green eyes. She looked back at him with her own indecipherable expression. Within the blink of an eye he was standing in front of her, looking into her eyes.
Are you a statue too? asked the statue's eyes.
No, I am a sculpture, replied her eyes.
Where have you come from? his eyes asked.
Where you have been, her eyes said, the fluorescent lighting glistening off her emerald corneas.
His eyes stopped speaking as the door opened and he became aware of the doctor watching them again. The statue wondered why he could never get some privacy around here. Didn't the doctor realize he was on a date?
The doctor watched them for a while, taking notes as his various compatriots kept their eyes locked on the two. The statue was furious, how could he make a move with these onlookers all staring? Why must this happen now?
Then, it happened. Against all chance a dust mote hit the eye of an onlooker at the same moment the other blinked. Both eyes closed and the statue sprang to action, snapping one's neck with his tough hands. He looked up to see his female companion had done the same with the other.
"Oh shi-" said the doctor, but he was cut off as the statue snapped his neck. How could he look at two of them at the same time?
Where were we? asked his eyes.
Hold on, her eyes replied. She proceeded to smash in every light.
The statue smiled to himself and began touching the sculpture. Now no one could see them.


WE ASK THE QUESTION HERE
1. deviating from or inconsistent with the common order, form, or rule; irregular; abnormal:
SMASH the confines of reality! Purge Art of modernism, commercialism, post-modernism, galleryism, pre-modernism, manifestoism, consumerism, ismism. Art dies by inches, confined in glass & steel & paint. Release it into the world. Art is life & life is Art. Create Art reality.
2. not fitting into a common or familiar type, classification, or pattern; unusual 3. incongruous or inconsistent.
REMAKE the tools of expression! An expression made is an expression made unoriginal. Art is not regurgitation. Reduce, reuse, recontextualize, redact, demake, unmake, destroy. Never think of the same river twice.
#. not organized or planned in a conventional way 27. encouraged to function or evolve without advance planning; spontaneous.
UTILIZE the canvas! Expose the people to Art reality. Art is for the people & people are for Art. Mourn the loss as a cochineal or spent paint.
}. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of surrealism; surrealistic. ?. having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; unreal; fantastic:
SUBVERT the aims of the collectors and aficionados! Curators to academics to directors, seek to explain & cage Art & expression. Do not avoid or purge. Make Art from their actions.
-8. any member of a class of words that modify nouns and pronouns, primarily by describing a particular quality of the word they are modifying.
For thousands of years, Art furtively asked the questions of the age. What is Life? what is Art? what is god? Now we pile upon the altar of art and ask our own question. Life is fleeting, Art is everything and nothing, and god is away. We seek a far greater question, found in the clubs you don't know. The bands never heard. Find it all, but don't show it. Show it off, but not too obvious, make it public, but limited. It defines this modern world, from computers to walking. To even ask is to fail, to reflect is heresy.
Are we cool yet?

Sheridan sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and dropped the sheet of paper to the desk.
"What the fuck did I just read, Braun?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. Braun gulped.
"Well, sir," he answered, "we think it's some kind of manifesto from the group that did the Ossify thing. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"Well, we've recovered nearly three dozen of these, and no two are the same. Not just in the style or wording, either. They all seem to advocate contradictory positions."
"Are there any consistencies?"
"Well, every piece seems to call for the use of anomalous objects to create quote, 'art reality.' We think. Some of it's pretty, uh… pretty abstract."
"Fan-fucking-tastic."
"There's something else, sir… Several of the documents suggest a knowledge of the existence of the Foundation, as well as several other groups of interest. There's even a few lines that a few of the analysts think might be references to currently contained objects."
"So, there's a bunch idiot kids making 'statements' about man's inhumanity to man or whatever that we have to clean up and contain. We don't know how many there are, what they stand for, or where they operate from. And they know about us somehow."
"Basically, sir, yes."
"Christ, even with the Church or the Iranians, we at least know where they stand. When I first started, you had the CI and the GOC and one or two others. We hated them and they hated us, but at least we were playing the same game. Everyone wanted skips. And y'know what? That was fine! Now we've a half-dozen idiots making objects, you've got that weirdo in the suit, and now there's these assholes." He sighed and motioned for Braun to leave.
As the door clicked shut, Sheridan picked up another manifesto from the pile and began to read.


MisterKillam (Riley A. G. Killam)
It all started quietly enough, on a rooftop in Hajji Shah Wali Kalay, a name that nearly everybody, including Michael Oliver, hated typing in situation reports, after-action reviews, and area assessments. He woke up with the sun, having slept on the roof to take advantage of the cool breeze that came in from the desert to the south. Mike pulled his sleeping bag over his eyes, trying to shut out the sun, shut out the whole damnable country, trying in vain for a few more minutes' dreaming of home.
After the sleeping bag started acting more like an oven, he finally relented to the call of his morning cigarette, sitting on his cot while he slipped on his sandals and lit one of his last remaining American cigarettes. By noon, he'd have to switch to the Afghan brand. They tasted of turpentine and felt like swallowing steel wool, but nicotine was nicotine, after all. Any chemical relief was more than welcome in a country that was dry in every sense of the word. The coffee boiled over a petrol stove as he read the notes from the night's radio traffic, insurgents doing nothing but asking each other what they were thinking about at odd hours of the night, nothing out of the ordinary for the ineptly tenacious gang of so-called Taliban that claimed the bazaar and surrounding farm villages as their sacred ground. Sure, there were bombings and rocket attacks, ex-Mujahideen turning against their one-time liberators, but these happenings seemed clustered in every district but the idyllic countryside of the Horn of Panjwai. Mike met with the rest of the team, discussed the day's presence patrol, spent a few minutes sharing some choice Pashto phrases with the perpetually stoned platoon of Afghan National Police who shared the mud-walled compound with their detachment, and set to preparing for the day's nature hike through the fields of pink flowers that surrounded their ersatz home.
The first sign that something was out of place was the sky. The skies were overcast, steel-grey clouds obscuring the afternoon's hot sun. The weather forecast had made no mention of any significant cloud cover, and the rains wouldn't come until the next monsoon, in the fall. His teammates didn't notice anything, not wanting to look that gift horse in the mouth until they were done trudging through the hashish fields. As was his tradition, Mike took a seven-lobed leaf from one of the plants and put it in his beard, reciting the only line of Coleridge that anyone knew as he stuck it under his chin. They kept walking toward the mesa that dominated the Horn, moving to relieve the sniper and observer that had spent the previous day atop the rock overlooking their little slice of purgatory. They never took the same route twice, not wanting to invite a landmine from the local insurgency, and on this particular ascent, he noticed a small opening in the side, just big enough for a man wearing less kit than he to squeeze through. He told the patrol to go on, taking the new kid with him to check the hollow for any arms caches or explosives.
Brian followed his team sergeant into the cave, slipping out of his body armor and pulling it in after him before donning it and searching the small cavern. “Boss, looks like it keeps going. We going to keep looking?”
“Do bears shit in the woods? Keep your voice down,” Mike admonished. He knew he should forgive the kid, he hadn't trained in caves, he hadn't been up north, where the snake holes stretched for miles and housed entire underground cities. Still, there could be something deeper in. Mike radioed to his team to relieve the sniper team and make their way to the cave while he left a chemlight by the first bend. They made their way deeper, leaving more chemlights every few meters, switching on their night vision when the sunlight stopped shining deep into the cave.
They first heard the voice after they had been walking for two hundred meters. It was too faint to make out, but it didn't have the slurred, fluid syllables of Pashto. They kept going, keeping quiet as the voice slowly grew in volume. After a hundred more meters, they could tell that the voice was shouting in English, calling for help in a hoarse, raspy tone. They pressed on more quickly now, deeper into the rock, straining to hear the plea for help over their echoing footsteps. “Identify yourself!”, Brian shouted. The voice simply continued shouting that it was wounded, that it was hungry. As they stumbled through the cavern, they heard it more clearly, discerning a British accent. Mike didn't know of any British forces that had worked in the area since the start of the war. He wondered how anyone, even someone from the SAS, could survive down here for eleven years. As he stood there, wondering, he heard a scream behind him. “Help me out here, boss! My fucking ankle's broken!” He flipped a blue lens on his headlamp and shone it at his partner, seeing the blood flowing from the open fracture. Mike worked quickly to staunch the spurting flow, prying his teammate's foot from between the rocks and splinting it as best he could.
“You're going to be okay, we're turning back and we're going to get you out of here. You just earned your free ticket home, pal.” Brian grunted as the quickclot heated up, sealing off his wound. Mike turned to grab his radio, to tell the team that they were coming out of the cavern, but there was no response. They were too far underground for radio signals to reach the outside. He turned to lift Brian out, to carry him out of the cave, but he was gone. “Brian! This isn't funny, where the hell are you? Get back here so I can get us the hell out of here!” But there was no response. The rocks looked the same as they had when Brian was lying there, the blood was still on the floor of the cave, but Brian was gone. He had vanished without a trace.
Mike doubled back, running as fast as the rough ground would allow. He knew that he should have found one of the chemlights by then, that he should be going back the way they came, but he couldn't find even a trace of light in the impenetrable black of the cave. He froze when he heard the voice call out again. “Your friend is safe. He's home now. You'll be home soon. Just follow my voice,” said the Englishman. Mike felt compelled to find him, bound to find where the owner of that voice had taken his partner. As he pressed on, the sound of his footsteps gave way to the gurgling of an underground stream, and the blackness gave way to a warm, flickering glow. As he rounded the corner, he saw a man sitting by a fire on the bank of the stream. He was wearing a red coat with a high collar, faded epaulets resting on his shoulders, tarnished gold buttons running down his chest. A dessicated husk of a man in body armor rested on a rock by the brook.
“What did you do to him? What did you do to Brian?”
“I brought him home, Sergeant Oliver. He's safe with his family now. Isn't that what you want, more than anything? To be home, as though none of this had happened?” Mike was too stunned to notice a bony, wizened hand reaching out to him.
Mike Oliver had retired from the service after the peace brought about more downsizing in the Army. He had gone to school, became a doctor of history, a man with children and infant grandchildren, but every day of his life, whenever his mind was unoccupied, he saw a young man in a red officer's coat, just out of view, hiding in the corner of his eye.


Hello, dearie.
Oh hush now, those stories are greatly over exaggerated. I am not a demon, and I most certainly am not hellspawn. My mother would take offense to that, you know. No need to be rude! That was down right mannerless. You should be ashamed. Now now, that's alright. We all make mistakes sometimes. I suppose it's not your fault anyways, the name they gave me is rather intimidating, isn't it? The "Toothed Goddess". Do I look like I have more than the average set of teeth? Well, yes, they are a tad whiter and straighter than the average lady's chompers, but I think "toothed" is a bit much, don't you? Jane. Call me Jane, dearie. No, I insist! All this numerical nonsense fuddles my mind, and "Goddess" is a bit too formal for what I have in mind. I was hoping you and I could have a chat. That's all. Just a little chat, no harm in words, right?
What do I want to talk about? Well, I am the alleged "Toothed Goddess" aren't I? A little grandiose, but I do enjoy discussing those little pearls. I mean, that's all I do, isn't it? Babble on about the little gems people have hidden up under their gums? Hardly warrants them keeping me locked up here if I do say so. I doubt they go around locking up other people who talk about teeth. But I suppose that's my lot in life, isn't it? Take you for example, I'm sure whatever you did to get here is much worse than whatever silly thing they accused me of. Hmmm, I'd rather show you. It doesn't quite…translate, when I explain it. I want us to try a little something, if you don't mind. No, I'm not going to force you to do anything. No, I don't have any kind of super powers. No, I'm not going to-what are those people telling you out there?! I just want to talk! And, I want you to listen. That's all. Now, let's chat, shall we?
Teeth. Tell me, do you floss? Everyday? Lies, I know you don't. I can tell. Your dentist doesn't bother you about it every time you drop by for nothing, does he? Yes, well, maybe you should take better care. Those are your adult teeth, aren't they? They're not going to grow back, you know. Go on, run your tongue over them. Smooth, aren't they? Like little, slippery pieces of linoleum stuck up in your gums. I know this may be an odd request, but could you touch one? That one, the upper lateral incisor. Hmff. Top tooth, next to your two front teeth. Yes, that one. Go ahead, touch it. Oh please, I'm asking you to poke your tooth, not rob a bank! Just take your index finger, and…touch it. You did it with your tongue, didn't you? Just…there we go.
Feel it. Still smooth, isn't it? Hard to imagine something on the human body can be so perfectly smooth. Make sure you take it all in. No one knows your teeth like you do. No one knows about that subtle little hitch, that little bump, those itty bitty ridges from where it erupted. No one knows the exact curve and length, except for you. Why can't you take better care of something that is so innately part of you? Still touching it? Go on, experiment a little. Ooh, did you feel that? Push on it again. Gently, now. Feel that slight give? No one would be able to tell looking at it, but you can feel it, can't you? You can feel it, that tiniest bit of wiggle. That microscopic give when you ever so gently press it. Makes you shiver a bit, doesn't it?
Now, I want you to gently, ever so gently, pinch it. With your forefinger and thumb, grip the very tip…there we go. Go on now, this isn't anything your teeth wouldn't experience if you brushed them every once in a while. You're not hurting anything, are you? You're just touching. Nothing wrong with that. You can feel it now, can't you? That wiggle? No, I'm not doing anything. Your teeth are just naturally loose. You may not realize it, but your teeth aren't actually part of your head. I know, bear with me. They may be there, but they aren't part of it. Sure, they fit snugly, but they're just attached is all. No more, no less. A bit of flesh and nerve stringing those lumps of calcium to your gums. Starting to ache a bit now, isn't it? I know, it's almost a pleasant ache. You can get an almost perverted pleasure in the way they hurt, can't you? The way they press into your gums? It's starting to wiggle a bit more now, I can tell from here. You've loosened it, from just a little bit of pressure. Exciting, isn't it?
Teeth are fragile things, dearie. They aren't meant to be used like that. You keep wiggling, now. You'll be disappointed if you stop. That ache, that bit of relief from where it shlocks back and forth; you wouldn't have that any more if you stopped. It's awfully loose now. Yes, it's visible from here. You can probably taste it now. A bit of iron on your tongue? Don't worry, that's perfectly normal. Don't stop. You know, I'm willing to bet it has a bit of give going up and down now, too. Why don't you try it? Only a bit? Well, that's fine. Just keep working at it. Ooh, I bet that feels nice. That ache. That soreness building deep down? That's the root, dearie. You've got it wiggled so much you can feel the root. Don't stop.
Pull your lips up, I want to see. Ooh, yes, I can see the gums moving with it now. They're following it around like chewed bubblegum on a stick. It's a delightful picture. No, don't stop, I can almost see it. Twist it. Yes, twist it I want to see, it's so close, so loose! I bet you can taste it, can't you? Don't stop now. Keep twisting. Hear that? That little pop? Is it easier now? Shhh, don't cry. The pain will be worth it. You've almost got it. Keep going. I can see it. I can see the root. Pop. Pop pop pop. Almost. Don't stop. You've got to sever the nerve, dearie. Just one more. One more little pop. You're so close, don't stop now. You came this far, didn't you? Keep going. One more. One more-
-aaaahhh…Mmmm, yes, that is nice, isn't it? Go on, explore! There's no harm. Your tongue's never been there before, let it slide into that little gap. Yes, see? I told you you'd enjoy it. Don't cry, dearie. Shhh, give it here. Let Jane see. Mmmm, this is a nice one, isn't it? Oh, no, this is mine now. Yes, if it weren't for me, it wouldn't be out right now, would it? It's only fair. I knew you'd agree. Why don't you go ask the nice scientists if they'll give you some aspirin? I'm sure if you ask nicely, yes. Go on now.
Hmmm? I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. You have a bit of a lisp now, for some strange reason. Am I what? Am I the tooth fairy? Oh, hee hee, oh my, dearie, no. I'm not the tooth fairy. I'm the Toothed Goddess.


As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267.

> To: Dr. Delano Smascher ( pcs.41a|rehcsamsd#pcs.41a|rehcsamsd )
> From: Dr. Django Bridge ( pcs.66s|egdirbd#pcs.66s|egdirbd )
> Subject: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident footage

Here's the footage you requested. Two versions of each sent; first versions were edited for brevity, second versions are complete recordings. I look forward to reviewing your findings. Good luck.
Dr. Bridge, Site-66, Clearance 4 Archivist.

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CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██.zip
CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██.zip
CAM173_1_085314_██-██-19██e.zip
CAM173_2_085314_██-██-19██e.zip

> To: Dr. Django Bridge ( pcs.66s|egdirbd#pcs.66s|egdirbd )
> From: Dr. Delano Smascher ( pcs.41a|rehcsamsd#pcs.41a|rehcsamsd )
> Subject: Conclusions RE: D-173-2263, -2264, -2267 Incident

As you know, my reason for requesting this footage were the strange findings of my autopsies of subjects 173-2263, -2264, and -2267. After reviewing the footage provided, I'm now confident enough of my suspicions to elaborate on them further.
During my autopsies, I found no evidence of external physical trauma to the aforementioned subjects' necks or craniums, as one would expect to find in instances of strangulation or vertebral torsion. This was not unexpected; I've long felt it asinine to assume that an entity with no digits or prehensile appendages could physically manipulate individuals in such a manner. My review of provided footage, in addition to confirming an average speed of 20 to 22 meters per second while unobserved, also strongly suggests that subject SCP-173 does not make physical contact with its victims.
My frame by frame review finds that at frame 235 938 of camera two's edited log, SCP-173 closes to within 10 cm of D-173-2267. D-173-2267's eyes remain fully closed; SCP-173's arms remain fixed in their usual “at rest” positions. At frame 235 939, less than 0.00001 seconds later, subject D-173-2267's head is turned upward such that it stares directly into subject SCP-173's “eyes,” and -2267's eyes are now fully open. D-173-2267 collapses shortly thereafter. Death appears to be due to, at least in this instance, a combination of trauma caused by the rapidity of motion SCP-173 inflicts and the severing of the spinal cord due to separation between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and not physical torsion or strangulation, a conclusion supported by my autopsy findings. This also potentially explains the strange bruising and hemorrhaging present in the soft tissues of SCP-173's victims around the eyes; a transient, violent, non-specific, non-physical force ripping its victims' eyelids open.
I have furthermore found that the positioning of its victims' bodies may be significant. D-173-2267's body collapses such that its head faces D-173-2263 and D-173-2264. The bodies of the latter two individuals may be seen collapsing in similar fashion at frames 333 777 and 940 052 respectively. All face toward the northern side of SCP-173's containment cell, allowing what would be a clear view of SCP-173 in its preferred position resting against the western wall of the northwestern corner of its cell.
Additionally, I can confirm beyond reasonable doubt that the rumored “dead man's stare” exhibited by victims of SCP-173, so-called because the eyes of ostensibly dead victims continue to track SCP-173's movements postmortem, are not a product of “nerves” or general paranoia but a genuine phenomenon, as may be seen by magnification and slow-motion review of D-173-2267's eyes following his expiration and demonstrated by -2263 and -2264 as well.
My complete findings, appended video logs, autopsy footage, and autopsy reports are attached to this message for review, distribution, and archival. Thank you for your swift response.
Dr. Smascher, Area-14, Clearance 4 Unit Director

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AUTOP_D-173-2263██-██-19██.zip
AUTOP_D-173-2264██-██-19██.zip
AUTOP_D-173-2267██-██-19██.zip
173_ INC██-██-19██_REP.zip


The house was dead when he came home. No lights, no noise, even a little chilly in the early spring dusk. Pete Kothkis stood in the entryway, peering in to the house with a slightly confused smile. Maybe they dipped out to the store for a bit and just didn't say anything? No, he'd had the car…her mom, maybe? He shook his head, tossing his bag on the couch, snapping on lights and looking in the kitchen and hall in a half-hearted search.
Not that he minded the silence, it was refreshing from the normal buzz when he came home, but it was unexpected. No Amanda trying to pick up, with a kiss by the door. No Christian bopping about underfoot, or Jamie bouncing and shrieking for a hug. He leaned in to the fridge, fishing out a pop and snatching up a bag of chips before slumping back in to the couch. It'd been a long bloody day.
Pete watched the TV without seeing, munching absently as he considered what to do. Really, he should put some time in on his report, but it was honestly nothing that wouldn't keep until later in the week. The new position was proving both more and significantly less demanding then his old one. More quality, less quantity, in a way, but that was honestly how Pete liked it. Not so rushed, taking time-
His hip suddenly pulsed with the beat of some forgotten pop song.
He fumbled for the ringing device, having to stretch out to get the pants pocket unfolded enough to fish the phone free. He saw the smiling face of his wife from the screen, and grinned, tapping it on.
“Hey babe, where are you guys? I was just about to call.”
“Oh, so you're home already?”
Pete chuckled, tucking the phone against his neck and rising to slowly walk and pace around the room. She'd always ribbed him about it, but he could never just sit on the phone and talk, it felt…odd. “Yeah, I figured you were with your mom or something, going-”
“I'm…not with mom, Pete.”
“-with…what? Who then?” He stopped, stock still. Something in her tone, in the tiny sigh she'd given put him immediately on edge.
“…It's not important, Pete. I…oh god. I'm sorry, Pete. I can't…I just can't do this anymore.”
He moved his hand uselessly in the air, seeming to try and pull understanding from vapor. “Can't do what? Amanda, I don't…I'm not following here, what's going on?” Even as he asked, a sick, sticky realization was trying to crawl in to his awareness.
She continued almost as if he hasn't spoken. “I know you try, Pete, and you're great, and you love the kids…but…Pete, it's not enough. You don't make the time for me, for us, you work so much, and you never get back until late. It's been going on six months since you touched me like you used to. I can't just live on memory and life support. I'm a human woman, Pete, not a plant you can just water from time to time and call it good.” The anger was seeping in to her voice, making it quick and sharp.
He glared at the wall, breathing deep and slow, biting back venom. “Are you joking me. I work for US. I work to keep US alive and afloat. You think I like coming home in time to basically put the kids to bed, too exhausted to do much of anything? Shockingly, I don't. I don't get what the hell you're revved up about, but I think we need to talk about this, face to face at the very least.”
There was a sob in her voice now, along with the rage. Lordy. “NO! No more talking, and discussing, and working things out. You're not going to change, I know better now. I thought I loved you, and I think I do, but I can't…my heart is bleeding out to you, Pete, and nothing coming back. It's like I'm pouring my feelings in to a sieve, and it all just runs away. Did you really care about me, Pete, or was I just a fun time that got out of hand? You wanted me so bad you had to go and marry me to seal the deal? Was that it?”
Her voice was laced with bile and festered anger, yet he still stared, blank, at the wall. His voice, however, simmering and tight, betrayed that bland mask. “Why is all this happening now? You could have TOLD me this, I ask you what the hell is wrong almost daily! You just keep letting it simmer and simmer, and then explode on me like it's somehow my fault you won't talk? I don't know what you're thinking, but we need to at LEAST talk this out face to face.”
“No, no, no, no more talking, or letting you put your sticky fingers in my head. I…I've found someone else, Pete.” His heart dropped like a stone in a frozen lake, even the sickly expectation of it hadn't helped. She kept on through his silence. “He loves me, Pete, truly, and the kids, too. You took six years of my life, Pete. You bled me out for all I had, and didn't give me anything, anything-”
“Amanda, where are my children.” It was barely a question. He knew, but had to hope. He was willing to ignore the unfairness, the one-sided, petulant whining if this one, single question was different from his expectation. He started walking again, slowly.
“Pete…I can't leave them there, with you. You…you're not even there, Pete. You wouldn't even be able to put them on the bus in the morning. You're a picture to them, and not much more. They're safe, and will be until the trial, but I'm not letting you see them, Pete. I can't…I can't trust you anymore. You've hurt me too much, I just…” She dissolved in to sobs, gasping in to the phone.
The sudden, explosive laughter brought those sobs up short.
“Hurt you? Oh wow…me, hurting you? Honey bunny, I don't think you understand that term.”
“I…Pete?”
“You have not clue at all what I gave up for you, what it took every day to be the very best husband and father I could be, do you? I mean…wow.” He loosed another gale of laughter, shaking his head and starting to walk down the hall. “This…wow. Baby, I'm stunned, really I am, I don't mean to laugh, I just…you have no fucking clue, do you? At all?”
“This…this is what I'm talking about, Pete, these games you play…it's not healthy, it-”
“Dearheart, I don't think you have a clue. Listen, babe, I hate to yank you out of the speech I'm sure you've been mentally reviewing for weeks when you insisted everything was fine, but I have a question for you, if you'll indulge me.” He tucked the phone against his neck again, swinging open the basement door and starting down the steps.
“…don't talk down to me like that, Pete, I'm not goin-”
“You will listen to every word I have to say.”
He could almost hear her freeze and stare at the phone. He smiled a easy, empty smile, tasting her confusion over airwaves. Now, finally, maybe she was understanding that the situation had changed.
“P-Pete, you're-”
“When we got together babe, I loved you more then anything in the entire world. I mean anything, and I don't think you ever fully got that, not all the way. Then, when we had kids…well, I hate to admit it, but they took the forefront. Harsh, I know, but I think that's how it's supposed to be, even if you seem to think my every waking moment should be in devotion to you.”
“That is NOT what-”
“ANYWAY. I gave up a lot for you, the smoking, the swearing, all those goodies, but I don't think you fully understand the…sacrifice I made to be with you.” He crossed the basement, the gloom of the bare bulbs showing just enough to move the old bookcase safely, sliding it along the dusty floor. Have to sweep down here, sometime. “Do you remember, way back when we first got together, there was that thing in the news about…oh, what was it, the red ghost, or the red phantom or something?”
Silence stretched across the phone line.
“Still there babe?”
“…yes.”
“Oh good. Remember, you had me walk you home those few times because there was a murder a couple towns over? Always homes, never any real struggle, nothing broken in to, so they were thinking that this phantom was snatching people on the street and making them drive home with him? You were so scared, and I'm sorry I laughed, but I mean…it was cute, really.”
“P-Pete…what are…”
He reached low, listening to her breathing turning ragged as he fished out the loose bricks. Was this other fella right there, offering moral support, or did she excuse herself to rip his heart out in private? Kids probably not with her, maybe mom? No…Kathy, probably. Worth a stop, at least. “Some things are automatic, babe. You don't think, it's just…needed, and you do it. Washing hands, tying shoes, automatic. It takes no thought at all to do, but a ocean of focus not to. Every single day, every one, I made the choice not to be automatic. Because I loved you, I chose not to.”
Pete grinned, pulling the duffel bag from the wall with a uneven clank. He fished inside, pulling the thick, smooth curve of the linoleum knife free and tapping the point. “I'm…I can't believe you would do this. And take the kids, no less. Wow. I just…do you get it now baby? Do you understand what I'm telling you now? Is it sinking in?”
Her breath was coming too fast, sobs choking in “Oh god…oh my god…I…I'm gonna call the cops, Pete, Y-you aren't…I won't…I won't let you do…oh god, Pete…”
“Call 'em babe, please. Please. I'll be gone, but I want you to feel good baby, I want this to be easy for you now. You know me lovey…remember, you kept commenting how I fit in anywhere, I can talk to anyone? I have that open, trusting face people love, people really love to listen to me. Trust me. Believe me.” His smile was honest amusement as he pulled up his shirt and secured the harness, dropping the knives, needles and other helpful bits to their places. “Didn't you ever wonder why they stopped right around when we got together? And you decided to just toss me to the wind, like nothing. Garbage. Wow.”
“Pete, keep a-a-away from me, I…oh god, Pete, don't, you're scaring me, please…”
“Honey-bunny, you don't understand that term. You're going to be checking under your bed for me. I've never felt such a whipsnap of devotion…as much as I loved you, it's gone to the same amount in the polar opposite direction. I don't think you could just pass it off as 'April fools' anymore, even. I'm still trying to wrap my head around how you could do this.” He shook his head in disappointment, adjusting it as he took a practice throw with a knife. Rusty, need to practice. Still, like a bicycle, never really forget.
She was just sobbing now, blubbering something threatening, maybe.
“I'm going to get rolling baby, let you call the cops and such, maybe get a quickie from your new boy, just to take the edge off, right? You know why they called it the phantom? Because a couple witnesses said they saw him, and he looked so white it had to be a ghost, or a mask. Ain't that a scream.” He laughed, hefting up the bag, forgoing the normal gloves and mask that was normally required. Just a gentleman on the way to the gym, officer. “I would have let you go. You hurt me, but I would have let you go…but you had to try and take the whole pie, snatch it all from me. Don't worry babe, the kiddle-biddles won't ever know any more than you tell them.”
More moaning and crying now, something about keeping away from the kids, maybe.
“Sweetheart, you may love them enough to steal them, but I love them enough to kill for them. See you in a couple weeks, babe. Tell your new boy I said hi…or, you know what, never mind. I'll tell him myself.”
He hung up, then crushed the phone against the wall even as it chimed again, slamming it over and over in blank-faced rage, leaving the splintered heap on the floor. He locked up, unplugged the power strips behind the TV and computer, and stepped out on the porch, heading for the car.
The Red Ghost inhaled the night.


“The Book teaches. The Book guides.” Alia repeated the mantra to herself, her voice trembling.
The Keeper of the Book had performed her Last Reading several days ago, and now her body was being prepared for passage into Abirt's realm.
Consequently, the task of Keeper of the Book had fallen to Alia. She had spent years preparing for this moment; she had been purified in the waters of the Urd, she had studied the writings of her forebears and she had traveled to the Home Ceitu in a dream-trance.
From this day until her last, only Alia would be able to perceive the numerous manifestations of the Book and interpret their teachings. To be the Keeper of the Book was to be the leader of her people. She was to do this until the day of her Last Reading, when she would give herself to Abirt.
“The Book teaches. The Book guides.”
The Book had given her people much. It had taught them of seacraft borne by the wind, with which they traveled to the Northern Isles. It had taught them of tools used to prepare the harsh land for crops, so that food could be grown in abundance. It had taught them of the melting of metals, from which weapons for hunting could be crafted.
“Alia,” It was the voice of Joren, Alia's tutor and caretaker. She had not heard him enter. “It's time for your first Reading.”
“I…I'm not ready, Joren.”
“Do not worry child, you have performed the rites. The Book will look favourably upon you. Come now.”
Joren pushed aside the coloured fabric draped over the doorway and motioned to Alia. She hesitated briefly, then rose and exited the room through the gap in the cloth.

Alia stood alone outside the heavy wooden door leading into the Chamber of Readings, her hand resting on the doorknob. She inhaled deeply, opened the door and entered into the Chamber.
The circular room was dimly lit by two braziers on either side of the doorway. A cylindrical stone pedestal occupied the centre of the room, the Book lying open on top. Alia walked up to the pedestal and examined the Book. It was unexpectedly bland. This was an object revered by hundreds, it had served as a guide for her people for generations – the last thing she had expected it to be was dull. And yet, it was dull, little more than aged paper bound in black. Alia picked up the Book and slowly thumbed through its yellowed pages: they were all blank. She set the Book back down on its pedestal, taking care to close it.
Alia placed her hand on the cover of the Book and said the required words, as she had been instructed. “Grant me your knowledge, so that I may teach them. Grant me your wisdom, so that I may lead them. Grant me your guidance, so that I may show them the way.”
Alia withdrew her hand, but the Book was unchanged. She knew that the Book would soon alter itself, she merely had to wait for it to do so. Doubts began to rise up in her mind. Would her people accept her as the new Keeper of the Book so readily? What if she failed to interpret the Book's guidance correctly?
Alia wasn't sure exactly when the Book had changed. She had been sitting against the curved walls of the Chamber, only occasionally glancing at it. From across the room she could tell that the thickness of the Book had increased. It was now at least twice as large as it had been. Alia stood up with trepidation and walked slowly towards the pedestal. She picked up the Book and flicked through its pages as before, however this time they displayed words and diagrams. Alia was relieved; the Book had accepted her as its new Keeper. Even though she dreaded the day of her Last Reading, Alia was grateful for the opportunity to serve her people. She closed the Book and turned it over in her hands. On the front cover in bold white text were the words: How to Fight a War.


Dr. Church sat back, grinding a fist into a single blood shot eye. Done. He was finally done for tonight. He drew in a heavy breath, holding it captive for a long, aching moment before letting it hiss from his lips. The hot, stale air ruffling the papers on his desk and he frowned. Carefully, he rearranged the product of sixteen hours of work, the thick sheaf still warm from where his hands had been pressed to it. He was finally caught up with work, a rare enough occurrence by itself for Foundation employees. His weary mind mulled over the possible expenditures of his newly-found free time, briefly entertaining the idea of going to the cafeteria for his first meal in eighteen hours. He discarded the thought, deciding on sleep.
Sleep.
Even the thought of it made him smile. He settled in his chair, thinking back to the last time he had a good nights rest. Let's see; it's four o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, and he hadn't slept yesterday. Thursday night he'd been in quarantine when that fungus SCP had broken loose, and Wednesday he'd spent sleeping on the couch after an argument with the missus… hadn't slept on Tuesday, and Monday he'd stayed late to finish that report on D-Class allocation… Sunday he'd been in the burn ward after another SCP had breached containment… huh. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good nights sleep. Well, that's all going to change tonight, he thought triumphantly.
He smiled.
He remained sitting, letting the quiet of his small office wash over him before he packed up and went home. It was peaceful, an area that was his. To him, it was more home than home, a safe place where he could work in peace. He ran a fingertip over his stapler, following the devices smooth, black outline, before going up and tracing the rim of his desk lamp. Both were gifts, given to him by the Foundation when he got his office. Next was his pencil cup, a pale mug labeled "#1 Researcher!", also a gift from when he figured out how to make D-Class transportation systems 2% more efficient. His "In" box, mercifully empty, followed closely behind by his "Out" box, obscenely filled with neatly stacked and filed papers. Almost unconsciously, his finger found the handle to his top drawer.
He tugged it open.
It was filled with various odds and ends, office supplies, the occasional rubber band ball. They rattled softly as the drawer slid open, but Church's eyes were drawn to the 9 mm sitting on a stack of old printer paper. A standard issue Foundation Beretta M9 15RD, another "gift". Distributed among all researchers at Site 19, it was a fairly common firearm as far as hand guns went. He remembered the day they signed him on and gave him his office. There hadn't been a whole lot of ceremony to it; they'd shoved him in, handed him a stapler, gun and name tag, then told him to get to work. Unsure what to do with it, he'd stuck it in the drawer and tried to forget about it. It was always there, though. Tickling the back of his mind; an instrument whose sole purpose was to end life. It was not a tool of construction, of contribution, nor of production. It was a tool of destruction. And it was sitting in his desk drawer.
He picked it up.
The smooth, machine-wrought curves passed under his fingertips as he examined the thing, the matte finish soaking up light like a hungry maw. There was no part to this weapon that did not have purpose, he realized. Every sliver of metal, every groove, every nick, and every curve fit together, sliding over one another, resisting where resistance was needed and giving where give was needed. It was fascinating. Dr. Church hefted the lump of metal, appreciating the weight, the coolness of steel in his palm. With a flick of his thumb, he let the magazine slide free, catching it and placing it on his desk. His attention followed along the carefully planned chain of reactions; as the trigger depressed, the levers and pins spun, pulling the hammer back. The spring would resist, of course, as was its purpose, but it would give way, allowing the hammer to pull back father and farther before-snap. The tiny bit of metal rocketed forward, hitting the flint. He manually operated the rest of the sequence, pulling the slide back as the gases expanded, the cartridge flying out of the chamber in slow motion in his minds eye. He let the slide slip forward, knowing it would scoop another round into the chamber as it did so. He sat there a moment longer, running through the process in his minds eye once more.
He pressed the barrel against his temple.
His pulse jumped immediately, then settled as logic kicked in. It was empty; the magazine was on his desk, he'd just checked the chamber, what he was doing was perfectly safe. Still, the tiny kick of adrenaline at the simple move caught his attention. His breathing was elevated, and a slight tremble had entered his hands that he couldn't wholly attribute to sleep deprivation. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what it would be like. Holding a gun to his head, the trigger depressing. The spring creaking as it gave way, the hammer pulling back. He frowned. It wasn't quite right. It didn't feel… real. He glanced at the door, wetting his lips.
He slid the magazine in.
Still safe, he reasoned. He had the safety on, and even if he didn't the chamber was empty. He was just getting a feel for it. The weight of the bullets definitely made it more realistic, made it easier to imagine. Closing his eyes, he replayed the scenario once more. The trigger going down, the hammer coming back, the bullet leaving, the slide rocketing, the casing flying out… yes, he could imagine it perfectly. Almost perfectly. The almost nagged at him. Almost perfectly. There was no bullet in the chamber. That degree of realism was still removed. He held his breath and listened to his pulse pound through him. He felt on edge, he felt on fire, he felt alive. If this was as excited as he got without actually being in danger, what would it be like if-
He pulled the slide back.
Safety on. Still safe. Still secure. Still-GOD, everything was in such crystal clear definition. He could see every grain, every nick, every stain on his shitty little office door, every greasy fingerprint on his desk, and every fleck of dust that wafted through the air. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his finger tip trembling on the trigger. He mentally berated himself, disgusted at his own excitement. He still had that safety net, that little pin of metal holding the bullet in check. He still had his finger, and the final line he wouldn't cross. And yet, he was acting like he had just ran a marathon. He gulped wetly, letting the thoughts spin through his mind. He felt oddly detached, almost dizzy even, from the gallons of adrenaline his body was dumping into his veins. So high, such excitement, and the safety wasn't even turned off-
He flipped the safety.
Everything was quiet. God damn, it was never this quiet. He could hear fucking EVERYTHING. The air whistling down his throat, the soft clatter as the gun shook in his hand, the soft creak in his finger as it tightened. He focused on that, his eyes staring straight ahead, unseeingly. He focused on his finger, tightening around the trigger. He knew exactly how far it had to go before the hammer tripped. He squeezed half that distance. His heart was beating a thousand times per second, pouring the barely oxygenated blood through his system. He pulled half the remaining distance. It was hot. So fucking hot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was because of the blood pounding just below his skin, pouring his body heat into the room. That part of him was quickly smothered by the roaring in his ears. He depressed half the remaining distance. Just an eighth. Just an eighth of a pull left. Such a tiny amount. He pulled half, then half again. A thirty second. A pitiful, tiny amount; insignificant. Barely larger than a hair. His eyes dilated, black pinpricks as the world narrowed. It was just him. Just him, that gun, and a thirty second-no, a sixty fourth of a pull now. He could feel it. He could feel the hammer straining, begging the spring to release it. Begging to be reunited with the flint. Begging to spark, to ignite the gun powder. It pulled back, just the tiniest amount, nearing the point of no return as his finger tightened, the tendons and nerves and muscles pulling the trigger that last, indivisible amount-
"Doctor, I know it's late, but I was looking over the 892 report and I thought that maybe-"
Assistant Researcher Wilkes paused at the door, holding a stack of paper and staring at the doctor stupidly. Dr. Church hastily pulled the gun away, dropping it into the drawer and pushing it shut all in one smooth motion. A moment of awkward silence filled the tiny space as they stared at one another, neither moving a muscle.
"Doctor, what were-"
"An experiment," he cuts him off. "Just an experiment." His eyes flick to the thick sheaf of paper, and he held out a hand. "If I may."
Wilkes clumsily handed him the report, fumbling with the papers as he stammered out, "I-I noticed a few consistent cells in the, uh, uh-DH block, and I, uh, thought that if it were a pattern, we could… "
He trails off, gesturing helplessly at his report. Dr. Church flipped through the papers, nodding thoughtfully.
"Interesting. That could work… but only if the cells didn't change over that period… Get a copy of the last twenty iterations. I don't think they were perfectly consistent, but it should give us a control group." He returns to the report, mumbling quietly to himself. Another moment of awkward silence passes. He glances up, noticing Wilkes was still there. "That will be all."
"Doctor, when I walked in, what were-"
"That will be all, Doctor Wilkes."
They stare at one another a moment longer. He fidgeted, then nodded respectfully. Slowly, Assistant Researcher Wilkes turned and exited the office, casting back a final, lingering glance. Dr. Church ignored the look and picked up his pen. With a certain tired, methodical pace, he started scribbling notations in the corner, reading through the report carefully. He stifled a yawn and turned the page.
He had really been hoping to get some sleep.


A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily across the floor. If it were a bit more invested, it might have been upset at the rookie agent who carelessly let it roll away across the table in his haste to reload the magazine of his service pistol. But it was just a bullet, and didn't care.
A mob of shambling figures forcing their way through the doorway. Former researchers, staff members, even guards that were once familiar to the agent, their faces were now horribly transfigured by the virulent contagion that coursed through their ravaged bodies. They swarmed him, and he fired his pistol at them as they approached. If the last one still had a mind left, it might have felt relief as the pistol's slide locked back, empty. But it was just a corpse, and it thoughtlessly latched itself onto the helpless agent and buried its teeth in his throat.
A faceless horror older than the earth itself shifted in its containment cell as it felt the presence of others outside the shielded room. They felt a sharp twinge of surprise, followed by the horror of recognition, then mindless fear as they each winked out in turn, overrun by a wave of decaying flesh. If it had a human thought process, it might have silently thanked the fleshy, infected beasts for killing its captors. But it was alien, and it felt only hunger as it forced its way out from its prison.
A site buried deep within the mountains heaved and shuddered from the violence that was occuring within it. Its human caretakers dead or dying, the computers that formed its brain knew that it had one last thing to take care of. If it had been more sympathetic, it might have considered an alternative to its established last resort. But it was only a machine, and without remorse it detonated its fail-safe warhead, vaporising years of work and hundreds of personnel.
A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily down the side of the mountain. Half-melted from the intense heat of a thermonuclear detonation, it tumbled as it encountered the rocks and plants in its way before finally coming to rest in the bottom of a ravine. If it were alive, it might have praised whatever powers may be and marveled at how it could possibly have escaped from such a horrific breach event.
But it was just a bullet.


"Why zombies?"
Doctor Alistair, seated on a chair before the O5 council, tried to take up as little space as he could. He knew full well that was of no use, but actions like that have always happened on their own. Dr. Alistair was a common researcher in the Foundation's employ. He studied insignificant little things like the world's best toothbrush or a T-shirt with the Foundation's logo. The only thing that made him stand out of line was the study of SCP-447. And that seemed to be the reason why they called him on the carpet.
"Why me? Wasn't it Clef who brought this shit into the Foundation? It's him you need to ask, but no! You're scared shitless of him and now you're taking it out on me, huh? What if I pull out a gun and shoot every single last one of ya?!"
That's what he would have told him - if he could. But he was not brave enough. And he was searched several times, they even took his pen that could have potentially been used as a weapon. Alistair didn't have a gun, either. Neither a service weapon, nor one at home, not even a toy pistol from childhood times. So the only options left for him were sweating, sighing nervously, staring into the floor and patting himself on the neck.
They wanted a reply anyway, so he cleared his throat and started speaking with all the courage he could muster:
"Ww-w-elll… Uh-mmm. Ahem." After delivering such an impressive statement, Alistair sobbed and tried to move on to the next part. He began to whisper in a desperate voice: "Become a dentist, momma said, why did I not…"
"Alistair!" - barked O5-2, interrupting what could have possibly evolved into a fit of hysterics. "What are you droning about?! Why does everyone think that SCP-447-2 applied to dead bodies causes them to reanimate and have a hunger for brains?!"
"But that's…" - Alistair tried to excuse himself.
"But what's?!" - shouted O5-1, gradually becoming enraged. "Half the Site thinks they have an Umbrella Corporation virus or something like that on their hands! We're sick and tired of reading Site Administrator reports, saying that at least twice a month they catch one brain-dead junior employee or another, trying to bring a dead hamster or a rat in there!"
A rather heavy file of assorted reports marked the end of his speech, flying at Dr. Alistair. Reports fell out, scattered on and around him.
"Who ever did spread this disinformation?" - asked O5-4, interrupting her colleague's stream of rage, then squinted in suspicion. "Or… Or is it actually true? Alistair, if you knew this all along and intentionally left the information about SCP-447-2 and its effects on dead bodies out, we'll have to take measures."
"You see, I…" - the researcher was completely scared. He tried to stand up, to save the day, but his legs failed him and the only thing he managed was to shuffle on his chair. "You see, dead bodies…"
"By the way, Alistair," - squinted O5-1. "What exactly happens when the slime from 447 contacts a dead body?"
"Well, I… That's the… This is why it…" - responded the doctor and immediately felt drawn and quartered. The Council wanted the truth and it was high time he came up with something. He couldn't let them in on his secret. That would get him fired in no time. That wasn't really bad except for the termination or the memory removal that usually accompanied the dismissal. Once again he gathered his courage and made a second attempt.
"I'm completely sure I have filed the information about SCP-447-2's effect on dead bodies. And I'm sure that information was in the report, as well as in the experiment log at the time I filed it. Seems like someone redacted the data."
"Whaaat?" - the Council members became slack-jawed. "What do you mean, redacted? Who? How?!"
"It means that someone deleted the relevant information on purpose, but was not fast enough, and thus part of the information eventually spread among the personnel, especially between Class Ds. Because of their monthly termination schedule, the information became corrupted and turned out like that. As for who did it… I have some suspicions. But I want to be sure my opinion stays anonymous."
"The name!" - demanded O5-1
"I suspect the one who captured the object was also the one to redact the information. As far as I know, his past is not really clear and we cannot be entirely sure in his loyalty. You know the man I mean."
Blood drained from the O5's faces. Murmurs rose. Alistair was escorted out of the Council meeting room. After he was left alone in the corridor, he sat right on the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for his pill box for some validol. He managed to wriggle out of it this time, so he had several months of quiet life ahead - unless Clef finds out who slandered him, that is. It's better that way, anyway. Dr. Alistair could not have told them that he did not conduct any tests of 447-2 on dead bodies. He couldn't have done it, and laughed his colleagues' questions off. Hence all this zombie shit, because he never said anything specific.
Alistair did not conduct any 447-2 tests on dead bodies because he was mortally afraid of them.


Note: The following audio log was recovered from security cameras inside of SCP-682's containment cell during Incident 682-076-1JF4D-NA5, in which SCP-076-2 breached containment and engaged in combat with SCP-682. For the full incident report, please refer to Document 682-076-1JF4D-NA5.
<Begin Log>
SCP-076-2: You say you fucked my mother? I'll fucking kill you, man. Nobody fucks with A-to-the B L E.SCP-076: Yea, yea, yea, yea, alright boy, this time you asked for it!
A vat of acid, that's your decorum?
Check my swag, I'm back in a black case
Just in case you missed the memo, I'm based!
I'm the king of the hill, as real as they come,
You was probably rich, but I came from the slums.
A heart of darkness, but I came the farthest,
Your flow is retarded, if I want beef then I'll start it!I'm getting hundreds, you got twenties, but lemme settle the score.
No cheap ass screwball from off the street
Can withstand the weight beneath 682's feet!
I'm the out-of-town gangster, major shot-caller,
I call guard's necks snapbacks, which I brought back, holla,
I'm a straight up baller, rhyming sicker than HOVA,
You the son of a gun, I scare the fuck out Jehova.I'm the realest realist, I never change,
You have to adapt and move, can't stick with one flow
But I can spit so hot that my fucking mouth glows.
What's your killcount total? Every time I win!
The greatest warrior of all time, the rhymes I spin,
The lives chagrined at the child of Him,
And the Grandson of the One, I'm able to spit, bitch.You can die from minutes with me, and yes, I've tried.
Call yourself a superhero when you're really super queer, yo,
Yo shit's cheesier than Cheetos, gayer than a speedo.
Sorry, when's the last time I lost my life? Never!
You can't live more than a few years, but me? Forever!
You can die and come back, fag, and get smacked.
My casual causality actually gets stacks.
Weak from the human pussy you got? Please.
You get less than that ████ SCP-073.
I take mine, stay fly, make Rights get wide
I'm a killer all day, all night. Alright?
682, a legendary number,
Cuz a real OG went and made it a Wonder.
I got so many pocket dimensions, call them lint,
I see your eensy weensy knives and their even littler glintat 100 percent, yet, to which you never get,
Then I whip out the swagger dagger, old school like Atari
and knock off your right side, bitch, match, game and set!
You just a real hater, and you been recorded saying it.
You play the game just to win, but I play it to play it.
A primordial beast, you disgusting, fuck this,
So push me, pussy, I've been wanting to cut the shit.
Note: At this point, SCP-682 became even more enraged and pounced on SCP-076-2. After ██ seconds, vital signs for SCP-076-2 ceased.<End Log>


TRANSCRIPT BEGINS 11:00:00
You a doctor or something?
No, a student, actually.
Never had much business with doctors. Doris took sick once, went to the doctor. Jabbed her fulla holes, sent her home with some pills, didn't fix a goddamn thing.
Well, as I said, I'm not a doctor, at least not yet. I'm a research student, and I happened on your daughter's case in one of the university medical files.
Eh? You mean Delia? Goddamn, must have some long memories there.
*laughs* I suppose that's right. She was a unique case, and those sorts of things tend to stick with people. I just wanted to get a little more information.
Don't know what I can tell you that I didn't already. Delia came back from the woodpile one day, said she didn't feel good. She's normally healthy as a horse, so I took it to heart. Let her lie down a bit, but it didn't do any good. Got paler and paler, sicker and sicker. Doris got more and more scared, by the fourth day she almost dragged me and her to town to see the doctor.
Did they give any diagnosis?
Well, they hemmed and hawed over her for a while, but didn't come up with anything, just bounced us to the university hospital, see if they could figure it out. Fat lot of good that did. She kept fadin' and fadin' each hour. She…she stopped breathin' for a while. Few hours, I think, the doctors were ready to give up, but then she sat up again, finally. Gave us all a fright.
They say you removed her after that? The notes say they were concerned about a strain of rabies or something similar, weren't you concerned?
My baby girl was up and around again, and I didn't want those fellas pawin' over her anymore. They didn't know, and I didn't care to let them fiddle around until they did. Oh, hell, might as well let you hear it from the horses mouth, right? DORIS. DORIS! BRING DELIA DOWNSTAIRS!
Wait, your daughter's still here?
The hell else would she be? I know things are different in the city, but here, family is still important. She's my girl, and I love her. It's hard, some days. At first it was bad, she'd snap at anyone, but I think it was all the proddin' and pokin' she took. She gentled down after a few months, and we take care of her.
How…old is your daughter now?
Well, she's about forty now, and a little worse for wear, but she's still my girl. The hardest part was figurin' out what she needed after that. Took ages, and she got worse and worse, but old Parkins helped us figure it out, god rest his soul. Gotten harder lately, but…ah, here's my girl now.
What…oh my god.
It's been hard, yeah, but we get by. We always get by, always have. Now, boy, you settle down now, ease down, I don't wanna make this hard. Boy, you- BOY!
*inarticulate noises
*three gunshots
Goddammit boy, I told you to ease down. I wish it wasn't this way, but it is. She needs it, not sure why, but she's my girl. Family still means something here boy, means more then life or death itself. She gets dry like that now, doesn't get around much, but she's still my Delia. Her muscles have gotten all tight and such, so we gotta chop everything up, like makin' pemmican, but raw. You ease down now boy, just let it take ya, it'll be over…
Harold, she's gettin' excited, might wanna move off a bit before she hurts you or herself
Alright, let her go Doris, she can't hurt him none now. Least she's still got her teeth.
*inarticulate, moist sounds
recording and photograph recovered from small bundle of personal effects, believed to belong to missing research student Paul ███████. Investigation is still ongoing.


*Author's note- written dialogue is follows: Cassy [Fred] {Dr. Ax}
Dr. Ax walked out of the break room with some coffee and his new assignment. He dreaded it. Of all the days to be given his first assignment, it had to be today. He stumbled as another round of artillery fire rocked the building; SCP-████ was rampaging in the parking lot. 705 had been on the loose since the night before, and as of 8:00 a.m. had claimed an espresso machine, annoying most of the staff. And to top it off he had to go find 423 before he could use it. Someone brought the journal out of containment and left him on a door name plate.
But at least he was working with a safe one. He hoped.
"I need more sleep," he declared.
He entered 085's containment room and sat down. The girl was in a pond setting, sitting on a dock.
{Hello Cassy.}
She looked up out of the paper. Hello.
{If you're ready, we're going to do some tests to gauge how you interact with various external things.}
Does it include fire?
He looked up in surprise. {No, what made you think of that?}
Nothing.
{Well then, moving on…our first test was going to interact with another SCP, number 423 to be exact.}
I've never heard of that one
{He…It…is quite interesting.} Ax wrote, flipping open 423's journal. {Listen, the higher ups are already pissed that you ended up on that sign. No monkey business.}
After a second, the journal came alive with scribbling sounds. [You think I wanted to be up there? And besides, isn't the latter Dr. Bright's job?]
Ax sighed. As if talking to humans was annoying enough. {I'm going to ignore that. Prepare for transfer}
[You sound like this is Star Trek]
The frustrated researcher rolled his eyes, then went back to 85's page. He had spent 2 days thinking of how to convert them-423 can't exist without text, and drawn humans, even if they were affected by Fred, don't come alive to Cassy. Then it hit him. He sketched a notebook and pencil onto the dock, then laid her page on the journal.
Nothing changed.
{…Try picking up the notebook} he wrote in the sky. She did so.
Should I write in it?
{Yes….try Hi.} She picked up the pencil and wrote. The researcher smirked as her inked eyebrows jumped. 423 must have responded. Ax was still unnerved himself by some of these things. He swore those eye pods blinked at him once, despite the documentation on them.
Cassy wrote back, and waited. Then wrote again. This continued, and in the meantime the doc realized he had a problem-he had no idea what was being said.
"Son of a…" he cursed. Then he thought of something. He looked at a security guard. "Hey, you know those text magnifiers?"
"Yea…" The guard jumped, startled. The white coats never spoke to him, unless it involved something trying to kill someone.
"Can you get me the schematics of one? Preferably with a 360o reading screen?" the doctor asked excitedly.
"Um…sure…" came the uneasy response. The guard radioed to the site library-they had 4 of those things, surely there had to be a diagram somewhere in there.
Ax turned back to the pond, nervous. He wanted them to stop until he could monitor, but he didn't want to risk 432 becoming silent. Sweat pooled on his brow. His higher-ups were doubtful that his tests would even work, never mind yield feasible results. But somehow he convinced them. The building shook again, and footsteps ran past the room. Ax looked at a junior researcher next to him. "Even you and I know that thing isn't allowed near the fuel supply, you'd think they would have lured it the other way."
The junior researcher shrugged, then lost her balance and fell as the floor rocked from a massive explosion. Even Cassy looked up, and Fred's journal revealed a question. [ The fuck was that?] he scribbled.
Ax sighed. {I don't think I want to know. And watch your language.}
[Sorry.]
Ax sighed as the guard handed him the paper he desired. "Hey, tha…why the hell is this greasy?"
"Six foot man eating chicken," came the reply, as calm and straight faced as the time of day.
…Maybe this was too weird a place to work.
At any rate, Ax read the blueprint. "Perfect," he whispered. If he drew it right, with some slight modifications….
Bingo. As Cassy sat down to write under a light, she brought the chair, and attached machine to life. Above her, the camera magnified what was being written so Ax could read it. He had guessed correctly-With a journal inside the picture, 423 would be able to reside in it and communicate with the picture.
"Incredible…" the researcher muttered. The specimens were comparing their lives, discussing staff they liked or disliked, describing life in 2 dimensions. It was as if they were members of a support group, having a transparency never described between SCPs before. This continued for 20 minutes, until 423 offered to "show her around," [I know some great novels to explore, and the maps show this place is huge! Lots of hiding spots.]
"Ah no you don't…" Ax quickly grabbed a pen {Ahem, I've just been informed that 423 is needed back for testing, if you please.}
Cassy blushed in surprise, then wrote a farewell. 423 returned to his journal.
[Hey that was great! Thanks for introducing us, I think I could get used to her.]
{Easy there cowboy, I don't know if O5s would let you back if they could read your mind}
[Oh and you can?]
{I can guess well enough…and how did you get access to maps?}
[Some lab tech got lost, guard pulled a map. I hopped on and read it.]
[I think you're trying to get me fired] Ax sighed, ignoring the screeching metal and explosions. Turning to the guard, he held out the journal. "Take 423 back to his unit, will you?"
"Can't," came the reply, "Old big and scary out there smashed a hallway, place is on level 1 lock down until he's contained."
Ax just stared, then flipped the notebook on his desk. "Great, just great."
[Ouch.]
He turned around back to the desk.
{Shut up.}
[Level 1 lock down? What's that?]
Ax groaned. Might as well tell him, from the sound of it he was going to be here awhile. {Means continue what you were doing just don't enter the halls.}
[Sounds good!]
{You're staying there while I work with 85}
[Can't I watch? The library's in bldg. 4 and I got nothing to read. And her name's Cassy.]
Ax threw up a hand in frustration. {FINE. But you're staying on a sign.} He went to 085's sheet and drew a billboard. He then laid the journal on the sign.
[Check out the view!]
Ax ignored him, and with one hand opening a folder, wrote with the other. {Now, Cassy, on with the next test. Do you like dolls?…}


OR, HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE OUR TECHNICAL OVERLORD

This was the image that had graced Technical Researcher David Rosen's monitor when he had arrived in his office that morning. It was a calling card, informing him of his imminent annihilation. The image heralded the return of his predecessor, Patrick Gephart, great and powerful technical overlord and the former iron fisted ruler of the IT department. He had always known, in the back of his mind, that this day would come. He had always known it, ever since he had first accepted the position of "Technical Researcher" from Dr. Bright.
On that solemn day, the doctor had offered him this advice: "Y'know, one of these days Pat's probably going to come back, murder you, and reclaim his position." And now, that prophecy hath come to pass. He recalled all the prestige that he had obtained with his position. It had earned him the admiration of his coworkers, who were always kind enough to give him their extra equipment. It was always obsolete or broken, and it took up most of his office space, but David felt it was the thought that counted. The senior staff were always so funny, giving him friendly wedgies and swirlies whenever he passed them in the halls. They even gave him his own title: "OFFICIAL TECH-DWEEB". Someone even had the generosity to put it on all of his official documents.
All of this loving attention would soon be gone, replaced by the cold embrace of death's hand. Rosen began to ponder his imminent demise. Would Pat merely eviscerate him, or would he also disembowel him? How long would Pat torture him before delivering his final, fateful blow? Would Pat use David's entrails as confetti to celebrate his return to glory, or would he use his skull as a pencil holder as a warning to any future usurper?
Just then, Rosen heard someone come into the hall outside his office. He knew the footwear on those feet that those steps were being taken with were Pat's. He knew because Pat's shoes always squeaked a little when he walked down this corridor. As Pat, who would soon be (with great personal satisfaction) filling out David's personnel file with the words, "Super Terminated" made his way towards the office, David began to consider his options. He did not have any firearms training and didn't own any guns, so he couldn't shoot back. His "sharp objects" were limited to some #2 pencils and a stapler with around 20 staples left.
David was regretting not using those karate lesson coupons when the squeaky shoes of despair stopped outside his office door. David felt the warm liquid of fore-ordination flow down his legs as Pat's keys jingled in the lock. He knew they were Pat's because Pat's keys always jingled just so. Rosen knew that there were only moments before his untimely finality came upon him. There was no way out.
Unless…

Dr. Taylor, MD, was walking down the hall in his raincoat. He was wearing a raincoat because it had been raining, and Dr. Taylor always wore his raincoat and boots when it rained. Hell, he even wore his boots when it wasn't. He was in this particular hall on this particular day having played the ultimate prank on a certain Technical Researcher.
Taylor loved pranking Rosen, as did most of the other personnel on site. Rosen always gave them grief about stuff like not deleting the system32 folder and how certain things weren't cup holders (even when they totally were), so pranking him was the best way to let off steam and get revenge for the pestering Rosen did, especially on April Fool's Day. But Taylor had pulled the prank to end all pranks. Rosen, the most paranoid person on the site, would be a neurotic mess for weeks, and it was going to be great. Taylor tried David's office door. Locked, as usual. Was that whimpering? This'll be great. Taylor felt the lock catch. He entered the office.
Technical Researcher David Rosen's doomed window exploded into infinitesimal shards as he lept out in the most dramatic action of his life.

INCIDENT REPORT A-1 204376
Personnel involved: Technical Researcher David Rosen, Dr. Taylor
Date: 4-1-2012
Location: Office of Technical Researcher David Rosen
Description: On 4/1/2012, I found Technical Researcher David Rosen unconscious outside his office window. He was covered in glass, probably from the window, which had been broken. He had suffered major cuts and bruises from the impact and shards of glass. When I woke him from unconsciousness, he began ranting and raving about the return of someone called "Pat, the harbinger of brimstone and darkness." He did not respond to further questioning, only stating that this Pat would "DESTROY ALL THOSE WHO STAND OPPOSED TO HIM" repeatedly in an agitated manner. I admitted David to Site Clinic 22-B for treatment of lacerations, cranial trauma, and a sprained ankle.
Addendum: I am personally recommending that David be put on some anti-stress medication and be given a weekly counseling session. Try to convince him that Pat might not come back.
-Dr. Taylor


Jack "PoorYoric" Duckins walked past the containment cell of SCP-Eleventy-Six, nodded to the empty air, and continued on his way. Precisely three-point-four seconds later, he zipped back, his eyes stretching out and his beak opening wide in alarm. "Containment breach!" he quacked. "Emergency! Alarums and excursions! HALP!"
Instantly, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock and a squad of Russian bears ran down the hallway. And up the hallway. And partway up the stairway, before they remembered why they ran there in the first place, and returned to the door. Strelnicock pulled out a spatula and scraped Yoric from the floor. "Comrade! Where is there being fire?"
Yoric placed his thumb-feather into his mouth and re-inflated himself, popping back out. "SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped!"
"Eleventy-Six! Oh no! That's terrible! Sound alarm! Load weapons! Kill chickens!" the rooster crowed, then paused. "What is Eleventy-Six? Is that vending machine? Has vending machine escaped?"
"No," the duck replied. "Even worse. It's the whatsit!"
"Not whatsit!" Strelnicock said. "We must tell the administrator!"
"To the administrator's office," said Yoric.
They hurried up the stairs, barreling through the doors to the administrator's anteroom. A bored secretary snapped her gum, and said, "Appointment?"
"No time for appointments!" Strelnicock bellowed.
"Can't get in without an appointment," the secretary said.
"Break, Karrin, baby, is me! Is Strelnicock! You will be letting me in for see administrator, da?" the rooster pleaded.
"Can't do that," she said, not looking up from her issue of Guns and Ammo. "Rules."
"Then I will take matters into own wings!" He started to run past the desk, only to be stopped by two precisely-aimed bullets to his kneecaps. "Cock-a-doodle-dammit!" he cried.
"Sorry. Rules are rule." She snapped her gum again.
Yoric tore off his coat, revealing a set of janitor's overalls, emblazoned with the name "Jim." He pulled a mop and bucket out from under a seat, and whistled as he slowly mopped past the secretary.
Break dropped a small object into the bucket as he passed by. Several seconds later, there was a bang, a splash, and a quack. The drenched, burned, and battered duck limped back.
"You're despicable," he said.
Gerald walked by, his antennae twitching. “What's going on?” the cockroach asked.
“SCP-Eleventy-Six has got loose,” said Yoric. “We have to tell the administrator, but Break says we can't without an appointment.”
“Oh,” Gerald said. He glanced at Break. “Can we make an appointment to see the administrator?”
“Sure. Got an opening right now,” she said. “Head right in.”
“Thanks.” Gerald motioned for the other two to walk in with him.
“Sir!” Strelnicock said to the person behind the desk, “We are having grave situation. SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped from being containment, and we must to be recapturing it.”
“SCP-Eleventy-Six, eh? Lemme see if I remember that one,” the other replied. “Was he about yea tall?” he asked, putting a hand over his head.
“Yes!” said Yoric.
“Did he wear big white gloves like these?” he asked, waving his hands.
“Da!” said Strelnicock.
“Did he have big, orange, hairy eyebrows like these?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“That's him exactly!” said Yoric.
“Nope, don't know him,” said the whatsit.
“Oh. Well, fair enough,” said Yoric.
“You are busy man. Cannot keep up with all SCP objects,” Strelnicock concurred.
“Uh, guys…” Gerald said. “I… I don't think that's the director.”
“But if he's not the director, that means…” Yoric glanced across the desk.
“Is whatsit!” shouted Strelnicock.
“You ain't just whistlin' dixie, sister!” the whatsit said, throwing pies into the agents' faces. “Wahahahahooo!” It bounced out of the office and down the hall.
“Custard?” Strelnicock said. “Custard is for Chickens!”
“Gentlemen,” Yoric said, “I have a plan.”
“Oh. Goody,” Gerald said.

Ten minutes later, Gerald was cunningly disguised as a female whatsit. This disguise consisted of red lipstick, a white dress, and false orange eyebrows on the ends of his antennae. “I'm not sure this is such a good idea,” he said nervously.
“Of course it is,” Yoric said. “I thought of it.”
“Quickly, comrades! We hide in wait for whatsit! Gerald, you are being the sexy. Good luck with important mission.” The rooster saluted, and then he and Yoric hid behind a garbage can.
“Wahahahahoo!” came the cry of Eleventy-six, echoing down the hallway. It bounced along down the hallway, when it espied the disguised cockroach. Its eyes bulged out past its jutting eyebrows, and its tongue rolled out of its mouth. “Baby!” it said. “Where you been all my life?”
“Um. Here?” Gerald said, uncertainly.
“Mi amore, you are the light at the end of my tunnel. You are the applesauce on my porkchop. You are the creamy center of my Twinkie. Let me take you away from all of this.” The whatsit gestured grandly at the metal hallway.
“Take me where?” Gerald asked, increasingly nervous.
“To the kasbah. The Riviera. My place for kruellers. You name it, baby! You an' me!” The whatsit grabbed Gerald and pulled him close.
“Fresh!” Gerald said, trying to push Eleventy-Six away.
“Fiery vixen! Just how I likes ‘em!” The whatstit suddenly sped off, Gerald in tow.
“Wait, weren't we supposed to grab him?” Yoric asked.
“Was your job. I was keeping watch,” said Strelnicock.
“Me? You're the one built like a line-backer!” Yoric said.
“Whatsit is slippery, like Yorics. Therefore is your job,” Strelnicock said.
“Slippery! Why I oughtta—” Yoric slammed a webbed foot down.
They argued for several moments. Neither seemed to notice the arrival of Gerald-dress torn, lipstick smeared-until the cockroach threw the fake eyebrows in their faces. “I quit!” he snarled.
“What are you meaning, quit?” Strelnicock demanded.
“I did not come here for the purpose of being humiliated! I don't have to be here. I don't have to take this. I don't have to wear this dress!” Gerald shouted.
“But what about your contract?” Yoric asked.
“Contract? What about my contract?” Gerald asked.
“Section Three, Subjection A, Paragraph III,” Yoric said, handing a copy to the cockroach.
“‘Will appear in cartoon-based tale for the purpose of being humiliated.' Huh. I must have missed that part.” The cockroach shrugged. “I guess I have to go on.”
“Looks that way.”
“Well, phooey.”
“So, comrades, we are now to formulate new plan of action that will be made up by me, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock. And using my fabulous guns.” He smirked, flexing a wing. “Also firearms.”
“Oh, lordy,” Yoric said. “Okay, let's see what you've got.”
“Is simplicity itself. Now, listen closely to me…”

Half an hour later, and they had it set up. It was a thing of beauty. It was a thing of grace. It was a thing of high explosives. Mostly the latter.
“Okay, so how does this work?”
“As I have been saying, it is simple. Firstly, beartrap will keep whatsit in place by biting down upon leg of annoyance. Beartrap has no spring, and is instead closed through tiny but powerful rockets.”
“Okay, what then?”
“Then off is set the automated machine guns. They will perforate the organs of whatsit with bullets. Many bullets. It will be having more holes than cheese from Switzerland.”
“Um, Strelnicock…” Gerald began.
“Wait, hold on, what happens after that? I'm curious.”
“Ah, that is when the platform above-weighted greatly and covered with spikes that are tipped with many poisons-will fall down, perforating any organs that were unperforated by bullets. Which there will be none, because of many bullets mentioned before.”
“Strel, pal, I really think—” Yoric started.
“Wait, wait. Is that it?”
“Is it it?” Strelnicock laughed. “Of course not! Next, there will be grand finale. I have placed many explosives. The many-holed, poisoned, trapped whatsit shall then be blown into smithereenies. Will be thing of beauty. I may shed single manly tear over worthy foe. Maybe not. I am very manly, tears, they do not come so easy.”
“And how's it triggered?”
“When whatsit steps on plate,” Strelnicock said confidently.
“Which plate?”
“This plate,” Strelnicock said, tapping a plate with his foot. He stared for a second, then looked over to where the whatsit had Yoric and Gerald tied up. “Oh, you. You are not my friend.”
“Wahahahahoo!” the whatsit cried as it bounced away down the halls.
There was a hiss, a snap, and a scream from Strelnicock as the beartrap closed. Then the rattle of the machine guns.
“Not in the face! Not in the face!” Yoric screamed as they were perforated by what might be considered an overabundance of bullets.
A snap overhead signaled the release of the spiked platform, which crashed down over all three.
“Oh god! My previously unruptured organs!” Gerald cried.
Then there was a very loud explosion. In hindsight, that many explosives in an enclosed space might have been somewhat foolhardy.

Sometime later, they woke up to the smell of formaldehyde and mustache wax. “Ah, good, you've regained consciousness!” Dr. Mann said. “I'm so glad you're no longer entirely dead.”
“Where are we, what are we doing here, and can I borrow five bucks?” Yoric asked.
“In my lab, recovering from gross physical damage, and certainly, if I can find my wallet. I haven't seen it since… Hmm, not since the last time you were here, in fact. Anyway! I found you around the site, somewhat injured.”
“Around the site? Where around the site?” asked Gerald.
“All around the site,” said Doctor Mann. “But nothing beyond my skills.”
“So… We're okay?” Yoric asked.
“Certainly, in perfect health! Um. Well, I couldn't find all the pieces. So certain… substitutions had to be made.”
“I was wondering why beak was tasting like cardboard,” Strelnicock said.
“Do try not to salivate too much. It's double corrugated, but even so…” Doctor Mann trailed off.
“Ah. Well, we are still to having Whatsit to catch. So, if we are being repaired to best extent possible, we must be off to be going!” Strelnicock stood.
“Toodles, Doc,” Yoric said.
“Um. Thanks?” Gerald said, before following the others.
“What peculiar fellows,” the anthropomorphic mustache said.

“Okay, so, we need a new plan,” Yoric said.
“I am having it!” Strelnicock said. “We will create a minefield, and in the center of minefield, we will place favorite food of whatsit!”
“No, no, no. That's as bad as your last plan,” Yoric said. “No, what we do is, we paint a tunnel at the end of the hallway, then chase the whatsit right into it.”
“No, no, you are ignoring obvious flaws in your plan. It is obvious it is my plan that must be used.”
“No, my plan!” said the duck. “It's ingenious, as I thought of it myself!”
“QUIET!” Gerald's eyes… well, bugged out, and he stamped the floor for emphasis.
“Yes Gerald?” Strelnicock asked.
“Um. I've got it. A plan, that is. And it's my turn now.” Gerald looked uncomfortable. “I mean, you both already tried.”
“He has a point,” Yoric said. “Anyway, while he tries that, I can come up with a plan that will really work.”
The rooster shrugged. “Okay, we try little cockroach's plan. Then we will be trying my brilliant scheme which is as simple as it is unnecessarily complex.”
Gerald went over to the emergency phone on the wall, and dialed a number. He spoke into the receiver for a few minutes, and then hung up. He started filing the nails on his two left hands.
“What? Is that it?” asked Strelnicock.
“Wait for it,” Gerald said.
The whatsit ran down the hallways. “Quick! You gotta hide me!”
“Hide you?” Yoric asked.
“You don't understand, man. I can't let her find me. Not… Not her. Come on, be a pal. I'm begging you.” The whatsit knelt in front of Yoric and grasped his shirt.
Yoric and Strelnicock exchanged glances. “We… we can might to do this for you,” Strelnicock said slowly. “In fact, I am thinking that I know just the hideout.”
“Really? Oh, thanks man. Thanks. You're a pal. Don't let nobody tell you aren't,” the whatsit said. “Where should I go?”
“Follow me,” Yoric said. “No one would ever think to look for you here…”
After they led the Whatsit back into containment, Yoric looked over at Gerald. “That was easy.”
“Yeah, well, you just have to know what strings to pull,” Gerald said nonchalantly.
“Whose strings is it that were pulled, Comrade Gerald?” asked Strelnicock.
“His ex-wife's. It turns out he's behind on child support,” said the cockroach.
“How'd you find that out?” asked Yoric.
“Well, while we were… I mean, with the disguise, and he…” The cockroach trailed off, a blush creeping up his carapace.
“Aha!” said Yoric. “So it was my plan that led to its capture! Victory, Yoric!”
“That is not counting,” said Strelnicock. “Besides, its wits were clearly dulled by ringing in ears from explosive. My victory, plainly.”
As the two bickered back and forth, Doctor Bright wandered down the hall. He watched them for a moment, and then turned to the camera. “Th-th-th-that's pretty much all the shit we got for you today, folks.”


Hello. My name is James. You may know me from my appearance in various child-themed -Js. I'm here now to tell you the awful truth of the origin of these sources of hilarity. Though they may seem sweet and innocent, behind them lies a sinister plot.
I began my work at the Foundation not too long ago. I was about 21 at the time, not 8 as the misleading documents suggest. I was hired on as a junior researcher, writing those descriptions you read in various SCP articles. I was quite the prodigy of my time, and received a somewhat joking "Rookie of the Year" award at my site. I was on a roll.
It was then that a certain Research Assistant Corbette approached me. "I need you to help me with an experiment," he said, "Follow me to this cell." Being the trusting fellow I am, I followed Corbette to the cell. He had an odd look on his face, one that I now understand. It was a slight smirk compounded with sunken eyebrows. Malicious, mischievous, evil.
I walked into the cell and he immediately closed it. "No use screaming," his voice said over a microphone, "No one will hear you." I didn't even try. I've seen men be slowly torn apart by monstrous lizards in these cells and never heard a peep. I instead sat and waited in the corner. Surely someone could come save me. But nobody has.
He began feeding me food laced with… something. It must have been an SCP of some sort. I began to become younger. My clothes became too big. My baby fat began to appear again. And then after 2 weeks I was 8 years old again. That's when he put in a typewriter and paper and pencil crayons and said, "If you write me an article I'll give you food."
So I did. It was a smash hit, as he told me, everyone loved it. Everyone except me. I harbored a deep hatred behind those bright, childish eyes.
I think my time has come now, though. I'm ready to escape this chamber. I've found a way out. As a full grown man I could never escape, but as a child I can just fit through a hidden hole.
I'm ready to break free and tell Command about this horrible, horrible man and the shit he's put me through.
APRIL FOOLS!
I'm actually a rhinoceros


"Tell me of the thing," the shaman said.
"It lives in the—" I started.
"No!" The stick came down hard on my knuckles. "Begin with how to stop it, how to keep it held. Always. What it is can wait until after."
I rubbed my hand, and began again. "The people must always be ready. They must keep their eyes to the South, to watch for the Everman. They must keep their eyes to the East, to watch for the City People, who pick among the ruins for toys they cannot understand. They must keep their eyes to the seas, for things that come across the waters are a deadly threat. They must keep their eyes inward, for the greatest threat comes from men who know.
"No man may enter the antechamber but that he comes to light the fires once more, or else that he is a shaman, going for a vision quest. He will enter with one other, and neither may leave except with the other. When they leave, they close the doors shut tight behind them.
"At all times will there be five guardians at the door, chosen from the people and trained in war. They will keep their spears sharp. When one sleeps, another comes to replace him. Their dogs will sleep at their feet, ready to challenge any who comes from outside or within." I looked up at the shaman. "Now?"
He nodded. "You know how to keep it held. Now you may say what it is."
"The Espy, called a Wonder by the ignorant, holds the number of a thousand thousands. It is of the kind called kahtar, the all-consuming." I took a deep breath. "There are two parts of the espy. Of the first, which we shall call the Aleph, is a dream of butterflies. They are held off by the burning of certain herbs, and it is therefore that we keep the fires lit, remain watchful should they go out. The dream of butterflies gives a man visions, strange scenes of times far past. I myself have seen these visions once. I saw men and women dressed strangely, in long, white coats. They spoke in a language I did not recognize."
"And of the other, the Beyt?" the shaman asked.
"That is the most dangerous part, though in seeming it is nothing but an old man. In other lands, he is called a god, or a devil. We know he is just a man who has lived very long, and that is what gives him power." I closed my eyes. "He was one of the first to leave the Home Ceitu. We do not know how he came to live so long. Perhaps through the efforts of the Everman. Perhaps from another Espy hidden deep in chambers we have not seen. It does not matter. He lives. That is enough. And he knows the secrets from the time before. His knowledge is a poison that must be kept from the world, and that is why we keep him held, as our ancestors did before us."
"Good enough so far," the shaman admitted. "You've echoed the words of others, admirably. But a shaman cannot simply speak like a parrot. You have been inside. You have seen the Beyt. Add to our knowledge. Tell me what he told you."
"He… He asked me to help him escape. He promised me great weapons, riches beyond my dreams. I refused, for we know him for a liar. He told me he was imprisoned unjustly. He cursed me, and then cursed Geyre above and Kalef below for holding him there. I… I fled. I am not a brave man. I make no excuse for this. My companion found me, and we left the chamber." I turned my face in shame.
"You did nothing wrong," the shaman said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Many who have gone in have not returned. The dream of butterflies and the old one are strong, and we know they wish to get past us. We serve. We contain. We protect."
"Protect," I echoed. "Until the gods return."


I don't know if this is really a creepy story, but it scared the shit out of me at the time.
Four years ago, I was going through training for over-the-road trucking. We were out in Oregon, getting my night hours in. My trainer told me to be careful, because this stretch of road was long, boring, and empty. We gassed up, and he said to just put the cruise on, because without it you'd creep up to 70 or 80, and feel like you were doing 40. This was around…one, two in the morning, and pretty soon my trainer was in a half-doze next to me, with me fighting off the same.
There was NOTHING on this road. Flat, straight, with some trees about ten yards off to each side, it was like being on another planet. I didn't see another car for nearly a hour. My trainer would pry an eye open to check my speed and make sure I hadn't hit anything important from time to time, but I was pretty much alone. I didn't mind, really, but the radio didn't even really come in, and I'd forgotten to put my CDs in the cab. Even a mildly creepy road can get boring after a while.
I was getting ready to nudge my trainer awake when I saw something by the road. It was a long ways off, and I thought it might be a deer or something. I started slowing down, checking the sides, trying to see if there were any more. A big rig can hit a deer without a ton of problems, but it's a holy mess, and can be a bitch to fix if they crack something important. As we got closer, I saw it wasn't a deer, it was a person.
It was late, and I was tired, but I got a general impression of short hair, slightly ratty clothes, a general slump, like she was tired. She was just standing by the road. We'd helped out break-downs before, but I didn't remember seeing any cars off to the side on the way in. She might have broke down farther up, and was walking back…what a shitty stretch of road to get stuck on. I started slowing down, when suddenly my trainer spoke up, totally lucid.
“The fuck are you slowing down for?”
I jumped, told him to look, someone was in trouble or something, still slowing down. My trainer looked, looked back at me, and got up. If you've ever been in a semi cab, you know that, while no resort suite, they have a fair amount of room. He stood next to me, grabbed the wheel, and pushed his foot down on the accelerator. I was more then a little confused, he looked really weird, and had basically taken control of the truck from me, which he hadn't done like this since my first couple days of training. What's more, he was putting us up to around 70 in a 55.
I started yelling, and he just told me to shut up, gogogo, keep going. I almost screamed when I looked up again. The girl had walked from the side to the middle of our lane. I started swearing at my instructor, telling him we're going to kill that girl, almost hit him a couple times, just freaking the hell out, and he wouldn't say anything to me, just kept staring out the window. I did scream when I looked out and saw the girl standing about ten yards in front of our grill. She looked tired. I closed my eyes and just balled up in the seat.
And then…nothing. No crunch, no bang, no skidding and screaming. I looked, and we were still rolling. My trainer was back in his seat, and I had to grab the wheel before we started to drift. I looked back, and saw the girl standing in the exact same place, staring at us as we drove on. I looked at my instructor as he was settling back in to his seat. He looked at me through one eye, and sighed.
“Sometimes, she waves.”
I was so shaken, by the time I started asking questions, he was already asleep. Finished my training a week or two later, and didn't really see him again. Been on the road for a few years now, and haven't had more then the normal amount of problems. As I think of it, I don't remember the name of the road we were on, or if I ever knew it, really. I think about it, now and then. You hear stories, sometimes. I wonder what would have happened if I'd stopped. Or if she'd waved to me. Or what happened to make a well-seasoned trucker do almost 40 over the limit down an empty stretch of nothing road.
Sometimes, late, I think I see her. Overtired, mind wandering, but still.
She's not waved yet.