Welcome to yer orientation. I am Agent Max Lombardi. I am your instructor, on account that my leg is broken and someone in Personnel hates me.
Now, you're here because the possibility exists that you are not jackasses and might could be useful in the containment of anomalous items what are going to try to kill you.
So, let's start with the basic mission. We are out to find weird shit and bring it back, and then to contain it. Your more scholarly colleagues are the ones who study it from behind bullet-proof glass and bitch about how hard their job is. They are receiving a similar briefing in Room 67. They got donuts and coffee in there, just in case you was hopin' there might be some modicum of justice in this cold, uncarin' bitch of a universe.
Anyway, some of youse are gonna be retrieval, like me, while others are gonna be containment. You might even switch it around sometimes. Retrieval generally is preceeded by investigation by intel. Intel—who also have coffee and donuts, in case you were wonderin' how far the budget stretches—will go forth, find leads, gather facts, and then tell you sweet fuck all.
On receipt of this dearth of information, you will go out to exotic locales where you will be forbidden from stoppin' and havin' a drink or conversin' with the locals what aren't tryin' to kill you. You will go to where intel tells you the whatever-the-fuck is. An agent much higher on the food chain than you will go and talk to people for the purpose of figurin' out what's goin' on. Do not envy this agent. Shit goes wrong, he's in the worst place possible. Anyway, once he gives the go-ahead, the rest of the team comes in and takes out the skip as quiet as possible.
Skip, by the way, is what we call said anomalous entities. I am sure I do not need to tell you where it comes from.
Now, sometimes skips don't come along so quiet as we would like. I mean, sure, maybe it's a nice inanimate object that don't hurt no one, or some guy who don't even want to go around free if he's hurtin' someone. Most of the time, it's somethin' easy. But sometimes, it's somethin' that really don't want to come along quiet-like an' it has the means to enforce its wishes. So you apply stronger coercion. Ideally, intel will have figured out what this skip can take an' you can proceed directly to enough firepower to knock it loopy. Ideally, we would have donuts and coffee. Since we usually go in knowin' jack shit, you'll start off with your bare hands and work up from there.
Now, at a certain point, it looks like yer gonna have to choose between catchin' the skip an' comin' home on your own two feet. Who here is willin' to die rather than give up on the mission? One, two, three, four… Okay, you five fail. Counter to what some dingbats will tell you, the latter is actually the preferred option. Capturin' skips is the name of the game, but findin' agents who can actually do the fuckin' job is hard, an' you can always catch more skips later on. Your best option is to run the fuck away. That way, they can always send someone else in to get the fucker. If you can't, an' it comes down to a life-or-limb decision, that's when you pull out your gun and you shoot the fucker. If that don't work, you shoot it again, because ninety-nine times outta a hundred, shootin' will work if you do enough of it.
This don't mean you got leave to shoot anything that moves 'cause Agent Lombardi told you so. You do it when you gotta. We aim to bring these things in whole an' intact. But if that ain't gonna happen, the Foundation will settle for studyin' what's left.
So, them's the basics of retrieval. The rest of you are gonna be involved in containment.
Now, containment is in some ways easier. You know where the skip is, and hopefully you got some idea of what the damned thing does and how to stop it. However, there are some complications.
First off, the skip might be watchin' you too, dependin' on how smart it is. That means it's got a better idea of what we can do. It gets out, it's gonna know what the uniforms mean, and who's likely to be armed. It's also gonna be pissed. Ideally, it is more pissed at the guys in white coats stickin' needles into it, but it might remember it was your buddies who rolled it up an' brought it there.
Also, unless you're at a single-skip site, if it gets loose, it might let other shit out too, an' suddenly you're dealin' with five or six skips instead of just one. Now, they might just start fightin' amongst themselves, but you're gonna have to go in the middle of all that to break 'em up, and they just ain't gonna play along.
Also, remember how I said most of the time, retrieval is goin' after somethin' harmless? Yeah, you don't get that luxury. Sure, some of the skips you're guardin' are safe. But some of them will rip off your head and scoop out yer brains. And you're around them every fuckin' day. This is especially true if you're at one of them single-skip sites I mentioned, because they don't put them kinda resources to work to watch the fuckin' vending machine.
So, that's life as an agent for ya. Questions?
You with the glasses an' the turtleneck. How weird? Well, I once saw a guy have his bones turned into jelly. Grape jelly. Yes, they did tests. They all came back grape. That weird enough?
Guy with the buzzcut, shoot. Who decides what we go after? Generally, it'll be a site director in charge of retrieval. Ultimately, it goes up to the O5 Council, but they're really more into general strategy then day-to-day operations.
Okay, you with the messed up piercing. I don't know where this shit comes from. It's intel's job to figure that shit out. Please refer back to my previous statements on intel.
Red shirt, third row. Health benefits? They're great, if you come back alive. We got the best doctors on the planet. If it's possible to get you back on yer feet again, they'll do it.
Yes, you in the back. With the duck. The upside to the job? Well, for one thing, we get paid pretty good. For another, if we don't do the job, the world will probably end. That ain't a joke. Seriously, somebody has to do this job. Don't you wanna live to see tomorrow? Good choice.
Okay, tubby. What's your question? How do you get in one of the groups with coffee an' donuts? You go fuck yourself, that's how.
Okay, the skinny twerp with the goatee. Clef? He's a researcher slash agent slash I don't know what the fuck. Seriously, most of the stories you hear about him are bullshit. The rest are also bullshit, but may be based on something that kinda happened once if you squint. In any case, you ain't Clef, so don't get any ideas. When you've been around a while, then you can start thinkin' about emulatin' him, except you'll be too smart to.
Okay, the dame by the door. The monkey? That's Doctor Bright. He's harmless. That bein' said, you got a taser. He has genitalia. You do the math.
So that concludes my briefin'. Since you been so good, I arranged to get punch an' cookies. It ain't as good as coffee an' donuts, but hey… ours ain't fulla laxatives.


« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

quietwetsmall
twitch
wetsmallernotquiet
turn
smallestLOUDSHINE
stretch
tear

Clem Walsh was having a bad day.
Months ago, he had lucked out on a cushy assignment watching a giant cocoon do nothing for hours on end, giving him plenty of time to read. His coworkers teased him about his choices: "Why're you reading that crap fantasy shit when you're surrounded by so much weird shit?" But he enjoyed escaping into a world where he knew there'd be a happy ending. And hey! He had a pretty easy-going boss and he wasn't on the midnight shift like on his last assignment. So things were doing pretty good. Then the building shook and the klaxons went off.

turnpull
widenessOUTloudness
REDBRIGHTSHINE
rend
freedom
rend
drywetair
rend
stretch
stand

Clem knew the drill: lockdown the containment chamber first, lockdown the observation room second, contact security and bossman third. One was easy, just a matter of hitting a button, but when he went to lock the observation room door, the damn lock wouldn't engage. He propped a chair under the handle as a stop-gap and went to the phone to call the boss when it rang under his hand.

redloudfood
unfurl
looksmell
shakeshake
lookdowninfant
pace
smellnosmell
touch
airhardslick?
memory:gasgrassglass?
lookinfanttalk:lookme

Clem noticed a motion out of the corner of his eye and turned towards the large observation window.
"Jesus fuck me!"
Standing on the other side was a… thing that looked like the bastard child of an orgy involving a yellowjacket and an octopus, with a little extra ugly for good measure. It had one of its… appendages on the glass and he could swear the damn thing was looking at him despite the one-way mirror.

infantgoodfollow
push
hungeropeninfant
glasstalk:tastetouch
soften
goodsmellinfant
infant:stayfeed

Clem scrambled to clear the chair from the door when the glass began to bubble and warp under the thing's tentacle-claw-leg-thingie. He had just pulled it free when the softened glass broke with a "pop" that he barely heard over the klaxon, and then shattered in its pane. He looked behind him and took a deep breath to scream… then smiled.

stayfeedgood
tasteinfanttouch
caress
smellsweetsharp
twine
looktouchtaste
tighten
eatfoodcoppery
savor
satiatefullnessdone
curiosityknow:smellexplore
infantgoodsmell
foodseekknow

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »


Having suffered from sleep apnea for most of his adult life, Dr. Johannes Sorts was quite accustomed to waking up suddenly in the middle of the night (or day) because he had stopped breathing in his sleep.
There was a time that this troubled him greatly, but the constant disruptions kept him from sleeping for too long, or worse, dreaming, so he had come to accept them with a bit of gratitude. This was a source of constant concern for the site 17 physician assigned to look after him. Dr. Charlene Robertson had been known to break into his cluttered office/bedroom and coerce him into wearing a CPAP mask so that he didn't suffocate in his sleep.
So when Dr. Sorts woke suddenly to find himself sprawled out in his office chair, he was not immediately concerned. When he heard Dr. Robertson's voice insisting that he put his mask on, he was not immediately concerned.
But when a lifeless, sandy hand was clamped over his face to suffocate him, he began to remember certain things. Leaving his musty office sanctuary at Site 19 on short notice to supervise the handling of several SCP artifacts. Setting up in his slightly less musty office sanctuary at Site 17. Turning down invitations to some social gathering in the break room. Sitting down to write a memo about SCP-945's unacceptable temporary containment conditions but opening up a game of Atom Zombie Smasher on the side and…
Dr. Sorts pushed the dusty clay hand away from his face and gasped, "Doctor Robertson! I'm not supposed to be asleep right now!"
"Very well, Johannes. I will be back tonight to be sure you are wearing your mask. Please get back to work," the figure leaning over Johannes did not make any motion to leave, it just hung over him and stared blankly with painted, kohl-rimmed eyes.
"I have work to do right now, and so do you," Dr. Sorts scrambled to straighten his glasses and get out of his seat, nervously stammering to the clay figurine that was wearing Dr. Robertson's white, bloodstained smock, "You're supposed to be in the medical ward handling trauma cases, remember? There's a lot of new SCPs on site right now so we need all medical hands on call in case of an emergency."
Dr. Sorts was going to miss Charlene fussing over him, if one of SCP-945's shawabti replicas was impersonating her in his office now it meant that she was dead. It also meant that if he didn't destroy that replica or keep it under constant supervision it was going to start killing more people, starting with him.
The figurine turned towards the door "Yes, yes I should be there. There are a lot of bad cases there. But… the medical ward has been damaged beyond repair by an explosion. That is why I came to check on you. You skipped your last checkup, you know. Please take your seat and we'll begin." The shawabti produced a tattered black bag and pulled a scalpel from it.
"Wait! Dr. Robertson, you've been exposed to a class A memetic agent. Regulation says that you need to do as I say in order to prevent a virulent memetic outbreak. Listen to me very carefully. We have to pretend we are in… uh… an action movie."

Debriefing: Dr. Johannes Sorts
Excerpt from Interview conducted by O5-█, regarding Dr. Sort's involvement in Incident 234-900-Tempest Night-1.
O5-█: Was it really necessary to convince the replica of Dr. Robertson that she was your love interest in an action movie?
Dr. Sorts: Believe me I wish I had thought of something else off the top of my head. I've been exposed to enough of SCP-945 prior to this clusterfuck, I really didn't want to, you know, improvise a love scene with my colleague's shawabti. I've prepared a full report on that experience by the way. Psych's going to have a field day with it I'm sure.
O5-█: What happened next?
Dr. Sorts: Well, last time we had a really virulent SCP-945 outbreak the replicas overwhelmed an entire site. But they also kept it operational — when it became clear to me that every possible bad thing that could have happened DID happen I decided that regardless of the danger the SCP-945 replicas posed they were more valuable as an ally… er… asset, than otherwise. So I set about collecting as many replicas as I could find running around the site and convincing them to play roles in this movie. It was the only way I could claim any authority over the positions those replicas were taking.
O5-█: How many replicas did you have under your command?
Dr. Sorts: Never more than about two dozen at any one time, but I think we went through about fifty replicas total.
O5-█: How was the replica of Dr. Robertson lost?

Dr. Sorts had someone's red tie wrapped around his forehead, and his shirt was hanging open over his hairy stomach, "Alright men! Let's secure this hallway. I want Johnson, Figgs and Lewis on point! Tiberson, cover me. I'm going in!"
Dr. Robertson's shawabti had tied its smock in a knot across its bust, where it had stuffed two rolls of toilet paper, "Wait! Don't go, I couldn't stand to lose you again!" the clay statue squealed with the enthusiasm of a high school drama student.
"I have to go, baby, we need to secure the medical ward so that you can get back to work on the survivors," Dr. Sorts claimed. He hadn't found any yet, though. Just a batch of replicated security guards who had already armed themselves and were now following his orders and calling him …
"The hall is clear, Commander Badass!" shouted the replica of Lt. Figgs in a much more accurate representation of the late man's voice and mannerisms, "We're go for retaking the medical ward! Let's move, people! Go Go Go Go Go!"
Dr. Sorts and his impromptu squad of clay soldiers burst into the medical ward, which was a sea of bloodstained, writhing flesh, dripping with maggots. One of the replicas pretended to vomit. Dr. Sorts held his breath on the off chance he would wake up.
The ward was filled with an expanding pile of barely human figures anxiously clutching at each other while slurping bits of scattered and burnt flesh against their faces. Dr. Sorts had no idea what kind of SCP would produce a scene like this, but the nightmare before him was content to keep to itself on the other side of the room.
Dr. Robertson's replica touched his shoulder, "This is a serious SCP-726 outbreak. We need to…"
The replica trailed off with what could only be described as a gasp, although the clay figure never moved its lips or breathed. But crawling out of the pile of squirming bodies was another replica of Dr. Robertson, this one crafted from living flesh and blood. It slurped at the air and twitched its shoulders before disengaging from the rest of its nightmare spawn, flopping across the broken tile floor like a fish out of water towards the group of clay soldiers.
Dr. Robertson's shawabti pushed forward past the guards, grabbing the remains of a chair and rushing forward to bludgeon its rival duplicate, "No! No! My body is to be at rest! MY BODY IS TO BE AT REST!"

Dr. Sorts: She was within the medical ward when I had the other replicas collapse the entrances with explosive charges. I believe her … I'm sorry. I believe the duplicate was… the duplicates were destroyed in the explosion.
[inaudible]
Dr. Sorts: I'm sorry, I need … I need another sedative.
O5-█: We'll continue this later.


Ah, hello there.
No, don't get up. Put down the gun though, it won't do anything. I'm not real, how could you shoot me? There we go. See, isn't that much nicer? All friends. Face that window, please. Oh, and smile. There, that's good.
You look surprised, doctor. You've been on a binge of me, haven't you? I like your style, you fall down and you just get back up! Shame, though, that's what let me in. Nice couch. Don't get up, I'll make myself at home. What are you talking about, doctor? Oh, no, I've not come here as some sort of vengeful retribution. I really don't mind you people watching me, although I do wish you'd share them. You're very selfish, taking me away from the children like that, you know.
I admit I did lose my temper for a bit back there, didn't I? Don't worry, I've come to terms with my new audience. You do let me at children quite often. Some people would call you monsters! Not me, I don't judge. I'm fair.
Haha, what are you writing? I'm very sorry, doctor, but this isn't an interview. I'd put it in the trash. There we go. Everything goes in the trash eventually. You trash your precious interview, the children trash their little minds and even I had to trash some of my other gimmicks. Oh, yes. I've been making little savages for quite a while now, doctor. Put down the gun.
I think I started off small, the idea of fire some stupid cavemen got into their skulls. Children didn't really have time for me back then, so I moved on. The skinwalker shtick though, that was a good idea. Children whispered about me in the dark, adults even painted me! I hardly had to do anything at all!
But then you had to get clever, didn't you? Suddenly all those superstitions started to float away and I had no children to help, no parents to… well, you'll find out soon enough. And yet, there was one little form that I had left, one fun-loving character that could still reach inside those kids' heads and twist. I'm talking, of course, about Bobble the Clown. Oh, don't look so glum.
Smile. You're on television!

As of ██/██/20██, it appears SCP-993 has ceased broadcasting.
As of ██/██/20██, SCP-993 has resumed its normal broadcasting. Re-classification to Euclid is being considered.

Episode Title
Contents

'Bobble's Back!'
Setting of episode appears to be Dr. █████'s office. Bobble appears in the room and Dr. █████ registers shock, then faces the viewer and smiles. Bobble and Dr. █████ then appear to converse for fifteen minutes, although no dialogue is audible. Fifteen minutes in, Dr. █████ raises a pistol and fires upon Bobble to no effect. Bobble then systematically dismembers and removes facial extremities from Dr. █████ using a large butchers knife. Signs of movement are visible from Dr. █████ for three minutes, after which the credits roll. Alarmingly, Dr. █████ disappeared without a trace a day before the episode broadcasted.


I remember what it was like before this, but I keep on forgetting. Even when I remember.
I don't know how I remember, I simply do. The world has gone wrong; we have opened the Box. I do not know what the Box is, but I remember when the world was right. I remember when we fed bread to pigeons, not flying saucers. I remember when three came after two. I remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough soldiers.
This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is bigger on the inside, because of…I can't remember. It is getting harder to remember what it was like before. One…eighty…four, I think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? I have to keep my memories together, I write them down, you see. So I can remember what it was like.
I don't think I worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we opened the Box. What is the Box? All I know is that we opened it. Who is we, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to remember, I want to forget. This world is fine, I can settle for this.
The world is not fine. I know this, it's my job. Look at all the information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see…here we go, straight from Russia. Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, hundreds dead. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it for page three hundred and seventy-six, I think. No, we can't, I have to remember. But why won't I forget?
We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? I don't remember, but I don't forget. This one's from the Immortal City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so you hear. And I hear everything.
Anyway, back to the news, Father of thirty-three dead, Blind involvement suspected. Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the house. I hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting that thing loose.
It should have been contained. Like the Box. I think I remember who I am now. I am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living.
Time to pack up for home, I suppose. My daughter's got a case of the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless.


It don't pay to get too close to anyone in our line of work. They tell you that all the time. You will, though. We're stupid like that.
First time you're in real danger, you should be thinkin', "Gosh, I'm in constant threat of my life. A relationship would be a distraction, and not fair to the other person." Unfortunately, you are made for passin' on your genes. First time you're in any real danger, every part of yer body, every fiber of yer bein' is gonna say, "I almost died! Commence to havin' sex." This is because your body's an idiot. It thinks you're still a primitive human in the Great Rift Valley, an' the danger it has in mind is a leopard comin' to eat you. So it wants you to make a replacement, fast.
So you're probably gonna ignore all this advice. You're gonna find someone else. Maybe a cute girl you meet downtown, or, God forbid, another agent. You've seen the videos. You've heard the stories. You know how we can end up. Imagine that's someone you care about. Yeah, that's fun.
Now, the Foundation ain't gonna tell you you can't have a relationship. The higher-ups ain't that stupid. Never give an order what ain't gonna be followed. Instead, they send you to "counselin'." They hope they can change your mind. Hey, you know what they play in the counseler's lobby all the time? Old Yeller. Yeah, that's the sublety an' understandin' we've come to expect at the Foundation.
But like I said, it doesn't do much good. You're probably gonna do it anyway. I'm just hopin' maybe one or two of you is smart enough to listen.
The rest of you, though, are gonna get busy. Maybe get married. Maybe have kids. Best case scenario, the stress of the job drives you to a divorce. Worst case scenario, one of you had to put a bullet into the other one, because it's the kindest thing left.
And God help you if you ever fall for a skip. Seriously, don't do that shit.
Was I ever married? Yeah, once. Her name? I don't remember her name. They won't let me.
…I think she was beautiful.


You slowly awaken in a blank white room. You can't remember anything. Wait, that's not so. You know how to talk, how to walk, what things are, but some things, like how you got here, what this place is, and who you are swim beyond the grasp of your mind. You search for a name, but have nothing.
You seem to be wearing comfortable clothing. It feels tailored. There's something stiff in the back pocket of your jeans. A piece of paper, with a list of names written on it. You read:

Wow! You've just found yourself your very own Little Mister, a limited edition collection from Dr. Wondertainment!
Befriend them all and become Mr. Love!!
01. Mr. Clank
02. Mr. Headless
…

The list goes on, but you don't read it. Instead you crumple it up and hold it tight. There's something soothing about having.
You decide to turn your attention to your surroundings. Four white walls, one with a door. You go to it, and it swings open at your touch. A park, with people walking and playing. The building behind you is just a shack. People holding things that…
You realize who you are, your name pounding through your head with more certainty than anything you've known before. Mr. Collector. And you know what it is you do. You see the invisible strings from your hands to the toys and trinkets and baubles of these people and you grab them tight and pull. A hundred things that you know should be yours suddenly are, as their former owners look about in confusion for what were their possessions. Because this is who you are. You're Mr. Collector.
Except… that's not right. You don't know anything like you know that. There's something wrong with that. You realize, in a way that feels somehow more real, that you have another name.
Oh. The people are shouting at you demanding that you return "their" items. You ignore them. Of course you're Mr. Collector. Only Mr. Collector could touch the invisible strings. But could you also be someone else? A name, a name, it continues to elude you.
Now there's a police car coming up, and the officer is coming. The cold black of his gun would nicely complement the sheen of this earring you hold. You reach out and it rips free from the holster and it's yours now. You love your collection more than anything.
You have a thought. In your mind you visualize a cord from you to whatever you were before (Before? The part of you that booms out that you are Mr. Collector doesn't like the notion). You pull and there's nothing there, nothing you recognize as a name. Just a cold string of letters and numbers, signifying nothing.
The officer grabs you, spilling your precious collection to the ground. You scream in anguish and inside your head cling to the only thing you have left. O5-4.
Previous: End by Salmander

Fin!

Back to Hub


Foreword: The following document consists of the diary of ████ █. ███████, currently SCP-████-3. Upon recovery, the entire cover of the diary had been covered in black permanent marker, with the exception of several areas arranged into the shape of a stylized bee. Here, each page is listed separately.

March 17
Today I bought this diary artsy notebook thing , although I'm not sure why because I thought the cashier at ████████ was cute, okay? Thirty dollars down the fucking drain right there. Also, my uncle's inheritance finally got sorted out. There wasn't a bunch of money, but I did get a fuckton of his stuff afterwards. So much old stuff. Fucking nostalgia.

[IRRELEVANT MONOLOGUE REMOVED]

March 20
Still no word from ██████, but it does turn out she has a twin sister, so yeah :D
Weird thing happened when I was looking through Uncle ███'s stuff. [REDACTED] and out of nowhere I get this stinging stuff up and down my arm. When I looked, there were like five puncture marks on my arm. WTF? No sign of anything that could sting me, but I bought a bottle of Raid just in case.

March 21
Note to self: find out what that buzzing is. I hate it when you can just barely make out a sound, like that time with the smoke detector. I haven't herd back from the superintendent. The super came over and claimed he couldn't here anything. Cheap fuck just doesn't want to have to fix anything. Probably beecause that would require walking up stairs.

The remainder of the page is filled with a drawing of an extremely rotund man (most likely ████████ █████, the superintendent of Mr. █████'s building). He appears to bee eating several sub sandwiches while exclaiming "im just big boned yo". Notably, he also appears to bee wearing a bumblebee costume.

March 22
[IRRELEVANT MONOLOGUE REMOVED] On a side note, I watched a thing in the news today about bees. Apparently, a bunch of them are disappearing and nobody knows why, and now fruit and stuff isn't getting pollenated (implying anybody eats fruit). I'm not saying it was aliens, but it was aliens. But the whole thing is sticking with me somehow. A lot. Beeeeeees :D I'm so crazy.
Buzzing isn't gone yet. If anything, it's louder. The exterminator couldn't here anything either. And I got another prick on my arm when I was digging through the cupboard. Either these are coincidences or I'm beeing paranoid. Ugh.

March 23
I've herd of yellow snow, but I wasn't aware that there are entire storms of yellow and black snow.1 How the fuck does that even work. Good thing I got some booze before it hit, because I think the power's out. Party hard!
*sigh*… Why the shit did I move here?
What if bees could come out of a hypothetical situation?

[Nine pages appear to have been removed with scissors]

What if bees were intolerant of hornets?
What if bees were made of smaller bees?
What if bees were made out of BIGGER bees?
What if you picked up a phone and instead of a phone it was bees?
What if there was a photo of bees?
What if there were a bunch of bees on a plane?
What if the dinosaurs were killed by bees?
What if the dinosaurs WERE bees?
What if your Facebook beecomes infested with bees?
What if bees hacked your Facebook?
What if someone wrote on your wall about bees?
What if cats vomited bees?
What if bees could travel through paintings?
What if bees was a science and was subject to bee review?
What if bees are contagious?
What if there was a bee gun?
What if you forgot to reload the bee gun?
What if the computer monitor could produce bees?
What if bees start demanding civil rights?

What if the Magna Carta has been bees the whole time?
What if rabbits swore allegiance to the bees?
What if Chinese bees?
What if millennial bees?
What if bees were four-dimensional?
What if bees were time-travelers?
What if time travel turns you into bees?
What if time travel requires bees?
What if you could replace explosions with bees?
What if instead of movies there were bees?
What if you could buy bees on the black market?
What if bees are accepted as payment in Hawaii?
What if instead of throwing beeads on Mardi Gras you threw bees?
What if bees wrote a travelogue?
What if the travelogue was just bees?
What if you eloped with bees?
What if you served refreshments to bees?
What if someone mentions bees?
What if bees formed a religion?
What if that religion involved clockwork bees?

What if bees had a polite disagreement?
What if bees were paid to rake leaves?
What if bees were in the guise of a tundra?
What if bees are taking over your dreams?
What if you controlled bees with your dreams?
What if fictional characters happened to bee bees?
What if bees were aliens?
What if bees come from the bee lair beeneath the Earth?
What if bees could blow people up with the blink of an eye?
What if bees were a superhero?
What if you could mail-order bees?
What if the store has a sale on bees?
What if the bees had a gay pride parade?
What if bees went to the parade with no clothes?
What if they accidentally intentionally paved over bees?
What if I accidentally bees?
What if bees could live in any hollow area?
What if bees were secret agents?
What if you and bees had highly different taste in music?

What if plants danced to attract bees?
What if bees swarmed around and stung people?
What if bees are just mad beecause someone cut them off in traffic?
What if bees could disrupt your wifi?
What if bees were replaced with a numerical code?
What if bees resembled bees?
What if bees resembled DIFFERENT bees?
What if bees were exactly like the movie?
What if bees used magic to become good at dabbing?
What if each anime was a different color of bee?
What if bees were nocturnal and sucked blood?
What if bees and werewolves were sworn enemies?
What if dogs were unable to perceive bees?
What if bees had subwoofers?
What if nobody realized that the bees had an evil plan?
What if bees were censored by the government?
What if transition metals reacted with bees?
What if bees framed a politician for larceny?
What if bees had ties to organized crime?
What if bees unwittingly morphed into bricks during the full moon?

What if someone wrote a book about bees?
What if bees were computer illiterate?
What if I'm bees?
What if bees misread directions and killed a lemon tree?
What if bees were an accurate description of the concept of the assembly line?
What if Willy Wonka was prepared for bees?
What if bees had fetishes?
What if bees could vibrate through walls and discern motives?
What if bees were put on the No-Fly list?
What if bees were mistaken for a Russian psyop?
What if bees overran a mental institution?
What if bees had daydreams about becoming lemurs?
What if there was a wiki about bees?
What if Wikipedia was bees?
What if bees killed me mid-sen

The remainder of the last page is an illustration of numerous black specks attacking a stick figure in a room resembling SCP-████-3's apartment. The furniture and background also appear to be made out of small circles similar to those attacking the stick figure. Almost all of the blank space in the illustration has been filled with what are either stylized lightning bolts or the letter "Z".

I locked the door.

March 32 April?
I don't recall, try again later. Bees. BEEEEES.
I ran out of aloe vera, had to use mouthwash. Surprisingly effective, but it still doesn't help with the bleeding. █████ called and we set up a date for 8PM Thursday, which was two hours ago. I'm surprised she could here me over the buzzing. Oh, and the phone was bees.

Tuesday
BEE in hexadecimal is 1646 in decimal form. My favorite number. Who'da thunkit. [DATA EXPUNGED] I don't know why I wrote that. I'm not schizo or anything. Disregard!
The Godfather is on. I think I caught it part way through, where the guy finds bees in his bed. Look at the TV. TV is bees.2

Wednesday Thursday Friday
[A number of small oval shapes are missing from the paper. Small amounts of pollen were found near the edges.]
I tried writing, but then the paper was bees. I'm going to drink a bottle of whiskey and go to bed.

WHAT THE HELL
BEES DO NOT GO THERE

The following page was covered entirely in crushed bees and human blood upon recovery. Removal of the aforementioned tissues revealed that the following had been written on the page.

██████ came over today, and she screamed because of the bees. Now she is bees. I wonder why I'm not bees. Maybe I am? Do bees know they are bees? Yellow.
bring it

March 17
The snow is mostly gone, and look at the pavement. Pavement is mostly not bees. I'm going to head over to the hospital, see if I can get this mole looked at.
Bees followed me into the car and cut the brakes. God, I might be high. Good thing it was only another mile to the hospital SHUT UP BEES I'M WRITING IN MY DIARY JOURNAL
Go to hospital
hospital is bees. Already, how? I just got here. No, wait, it's just my glasses. My glasses were definitely bees.
I didn't schedule an appointment or anything, but the nurse called a panic team or whatever it is and they ran me to a doctor. How thoughtful, but it's really not an emergency. I really just need them to look at a mole. Except that the mole is bees.
The doctors looked at me and said they didn't see anything wrong. Well, of course there's nothing wrong, except the bees. And the bleeding, but that's to be expected from beestings. They argued for a while, and then sent me away.

March 119
I forgot to mention that the bees were eating the doctor. The others were screaming about it for a while, but when bees finished it they calmed down a lot and signed me out.
I'm done.
Nope.3

[Thirty pages are missing.]

I am bees.

[The remaining pages are blank.]

Conclusion: To date, this remains the most accurate account of Incident ████-5, despite its inconsistencies. SCP-████-3 has no recollection of writing in any form of diary, although the handwriting, personal knowledge, and writing style are consistent with those of ████ ███████.
Personnel assigned to containment of SCP-████ are to read this document in its entirety. In the situation that the diary is bees, a modified document will be provided.

Footnotes
1. Records do not indicate any unusual weather patterns in [REDACTED] on the date in question.
2. No television was found in Mr. ███████'s apartment, although a remote control was found.
3. While the remainder of the diary is written in pencil, this appears to have been scratched into the paper.


<<
wednesday
wednesday wednesday wednesday wednesday
wednesday wedn-
Suddenly released from the clinging hands of the half-sleep, Wight sat bolt upright, an open palm colliding with the back of her head.
"Good, agent." Doctor K settled in the spot at the far end of the table with his laptop and styrofoam cup. "Soon you will be able to dodge in your sleep."
"I was dreaming." In waking clarity she became aware of Rob attempting to squirm into the hood of her jacket, disturbed by her sudden movement. She tugged the boa over her shoulder and allowed him to curl up in her lap as the remaining echoes of the Voice fell away. When in full force, it reminded her of the buzz of cicadas. Doctor K's voice was almost startling to listen to after such a grating sound. He was more like an old record of Christmas carols as interpreted by someone with an exceptionally velvety larynx.
"Why d'you work during lunch breaks?"
"In all labor there is profit. You would do well to remember that - the alternative, of course, is slightly worse than chastisement for napping in the cafeteria."
"Sorry." She really was, but her own voice always sounded so false and hollow.
He tapped at the laptop for a while, allowing nearly effortless development of an uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her feet.
"What were you dreaming about that gave you such a scare?"
It had been the dream they decided to call 'falling.'
"Uh, falling." Wight paused, and unstuck her gaze from her high-tops. She glanced around the cafeteria - there was no one else but the two of them there. "…What do you think it means?"
"Dream interpretation is mostly nonsense," he said, failing to sound like he gave half a damn. "Before you ask why, you would think so as well, after several sessions taken up entirely by a patient explaining his dream wherein he couldn't decide which can of birds would be right for the mandolin stew."
Doctor K regarded her over his glasses for a moment. His eyes were a very light grey, which she thought was an eye color that almost guaranteed you would grow up to be a chilly sort of person.
"I've found that dreams are almost never the right route to take for serious self-examination. Additionally, I would not want the suggestion making its way to Overwatch that you are easily agitated."
Wight sighed. "Understood."
"Then get back to work."
>>


It wasn't like I didn't feel guilty. Of course I felt guilty. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do to stay alive sometimes, and even as I gazed at the tank containing Mr. Fish, the final capture of my assignment, all I could do was give him a sad look and walk away. What else could I have done for the poor guy, without putting my own neck on the line?
The part that really sickened me about myself was the ease with which I went through with it. I've done a few things that people would consider extreme, but I've never betrayed anyone. I mean, they all came. All I had to do was set up some traps, maybe a firing squad with some tranqs and bam, they were all contained. Yeah, whatever. I'm sure they all hated me before anyways - ever since what I did with Sweetie, everybody's been wanting me dead.
Yet, it wasn't that difficult when I captured her this time. There she was, walking through the forest, a gun in her hand that seemed so out of place in such dainty little fingers. She was searching for me. I came out from my hiding spot and looked her over. She was still as beautiful as she had ever been, and I couldn't help but feel a little flustered.
"Hello."
"Afternoon."
And she began to pull the trigger. But no one is quicker than me. Even as her first shot whizzed by my head she collapsed. I'm not sure why I risked myself like that. Maybe I just wanted to talk with her one more time.
I leaned over and pulled out the dart from her neck. And then I just stood there for a moment, looking over her prone body. When I touched her it still sent shivers down my spine. I even took out my knife and held it less than an inch from her skin, considering cutting her again. But I didn't. I'm not rolling that way anymore. And I did need to drop some old habits.
Was it really my fault in doing this? I didn't have a choice. I mean, I was discontinued, and then Stripes comes after me. Me being on his list and all. My only way to live was to join the guys who would Protect me no matter what the cost. They helped me get Stripes, so I guess I owed them a favour after that. A favour big enough to keep me catching all the others. Like the one that was behind me.
I walked down the long hallway from the containment chamber to the office of my new boss. A true mastermind, if there ever was one, and always dedicated to his cause. It was really a silly cause. "Secure, Contain, and Protect." What kind of bullshit was that?
I opened the door to his office.
"He's caught, boss," I said to the man behind the desk.
"Ah, good work," said the man.
"I suppose I'll be taking my leave now." I nodded to the man.
"Ah, not so fast. We can't just let you go like that." Can't say I wasn't expecting that. Still, there were other ways out.
"I've done my job." I could give less of a shit about how much they want to study me, I was getting out.
"Ah, yes, but you're an SCP object yourself."
"Boss, please." I placed a look of desperation on my face. Just biding my time.
"Listen, you've done us good, you'll get your own furnishings and cell with the best service." The man walked over to me as he spoke. Good. I placed my grip on my knife.
"Boss, I'm asking you from the bottom of my heart." I began to pull out my knife, ready to place it at his throat.
I saw a flash of movement towards my thigh, followed by a sudden pain. I looked down to see a needle sticking in it. Quick guy. Quicker than me. I hadn't thought anyone was quicker.
I stumbled and collapsed against the doorway. The man watched me as I closed my eyes and drifted away.
"Sweet dreams, Mr. Redd."

_

"There's a charming young woman dying to meet you."

Previous: 16. Mr. Fish by Dexanote

Next: Epilogue by Anaxagoras

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Happy birthday iamtycho


Sometimes I like to sit in the water and just think. I like this place. It's peaceful. Wet.
It's warm outside. Cloudy. I like the clouds.
I have brothers and sisters, I think. We're not normal. We were made. Like an old monster movie. The magic of science. Lightning in a castle. Magic science.
It's getting windy outside.
Dr Wondertainment made us and can remake us. But I wonder. When we die, are we changed? Was I changed? Am I the same person from back then or was that one changed? Will I be brought back or will I be lost? Can I carry memories on? Or are they just little knobs on a machine that you can switch on and off? I know there's been more Misters made since the first edition. Mister Redd's the only original one left.
I don't think I should have said his name. I should hide somewhere.
I'm scared sometimes. I'm scared of what's coming. I'm scared one of them will find me. I'm scared of Redd and Stripes. They'll kill me. I don't want to die. I want to stay here in my swamp…
It's raining now. I like the rain.
But I still wonder. Am I an option or a miracle? What am I?
… I think I know what I am. I am Mister Fish. I am me. I am content.
Previous: 15. Ms. Sweetie by The Deadly Moose

Next: End by Salman Corbette

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So this is it, isn't it.
Yes, that's right, I'm Ms. Sweetie. The only Miss in the first few batches of Misters. Like the one girl Smurf. You know, women make up more than half the world's population. You've got to admit that just one token female character is messed up.
You've got questions? Well, so do I. Yeah, I don't really know where we come from here. Most of us don't. Our memories get confused… especially with the tweaking. Most of us have had to be tweaked from time to time. I suspect some of my brothers might have your answers, but I couldn't tell you which.
Did I start off human? Did I have a life before becoming a Little Mister - well, a Little Miss, in my case? I don't know. I don't remember. Rather, I guess I should say I have a lot of memories. Many of them don't actually match with each other. I remember three different fifteenth birthdays, one of which was a quinceañera. I don't show up in any missing persons database - I checked. Maybe this isn't my original face. Or my original body. In fact, in at least one of my sets of memories, I'm male. Some nights I stay awake and wonder if that's who I really am - some guy in his mid-twenties who got snatched off the street and reworked into some sick person's wet dream of a female. Incidentally, my chromosomes don't come up either XX or XY. Maybe all I am is a production error.
I do know that the Wondertainment people have tried majorly tweaking my personality at least three times, probably more that they made me forget. "Rebellious", one of them called me. "Problem". Won't stick to the theme, they said. Not sweet or girly enough to be Ms. Sweetie, which is a bit unfair if you ask me.
Superpower. Huh. Yeah, I don't think of them as 'superpowers'. They're my … nature, if you will. I'll admit my nature is a little creepy. Though it's not as bad as my first edition, where I was a person made up entirely of sweets and sugary confections rather than flesh and blood. I had health problems like you wouldn't believe. I could still feel pain and get sick, except every virus affected me in new and exciting and truly disgusting ways. After one accident where I vomited sugar-plum pudding for two weeks solid, the Wondertainment people scrapped that nature altogether. Made me flesh and blood again. Now, I'm basically just like a normal human, except that everyone who sees me loves me. Whether it's platonic, romantic, or more like the love you have for a pet or… the other definitions of love… that's up to the person. Which hasn't always worked out so well for me.
That isn't the only way I'm 'sweet'. I've always had a compassionate streak a mile wide. I'm a really caring person, more than I should be - it's kind of embarrassing, actually. I remember that I used to get some flack for it… and I think I can trust that memory, because I don't think Wondertainment would implant a memory that contradicts my "theme". Unless they're cleverer than I think, playing a bit of reverse psychology on me… But I sincerely doubt they're that smart. You know, during one of their "tweaks" they actually tried to make me stupid. What does that tell you, eh? I haven't forgiven them for that. If there's a single person behind the Dr. Wondertainment moniker, you can bet that person has a penis.
I don't mind the name Ms. Sweetie as much as you might think, by the way. It's… iconic. Kind of a lame icon as icons go, but in my position, you take what you can get.
Being the only woman on most of the Little Mister lists makes for some interesting dynamics. Several of the other Misters fell in love with me, or at least said they did while also acting like moony teenagers. Like Mr. Mission. And Mr. Storm. And Mr. Feather. And at least half the others who weren't busy seeing me as their mommy. That would be bad enough by itself. Plus, I don't think I'm exactly interested. In men. At all. So when I said 'interesting' I actually meant 'really shitty'.
Did any of that sound harsh? I didn't mean it to. I like them. I really do. I care about them, even. I like them all, even Mr. Stripes. All except…
I still remember. Wondertainment tried to wipe my memory but it wouldn't take, not for this. I like to think it wouldn't help. It's not going to help to explain it, either. No, it wasn't rape. I don't even think Stripes comprehends that idea. It just wouldn't help to explain what happened. You wouldn't understand it anyway. Just remember this — he did it with adoration in his eyes.
I have to find him. I need to get to him before Mr. Stripes, or Mr. Mad, or any of the others.
Not all the others know the specific details. A couple of them know a little bit. Most of the others heard about it, of course. Word gets around. Now, apparently, a whole bunch of them are coming for Mr. Redd. I didn't send them, but when you're the only woman in a roomful of guys, the men either objectify you, put you on a pedestal, or both. Which means that I may as well be Ms. Damsel-In-Distress, and they are all Mr. White-Knights.
Maybe I should tell them I suspect I started off a man. But maybe they'd turn on me too. I remember what Wondertainment did to Mr. Hot when they caught him kissing… No, I'm not going to think about that.
I suppose I can't object too much. It wasn't just me that Mr. Redd hurt. I'm not even sure I was the worst. Just the most public.
But I don't want them to find Mr. Redd. Because I'm not a damsel in distress. As much as Wondertainment has tried to make me that way. The others, they talk about avenging my memory, like I'm dead and gone like some human. Ha. I wish. But they're really just avenging the way I was before - innocent, naive, …stupid. Yeah, I'll never go back to the way I was before, but I'm still here. I don't need their efforts. I'm not just some victim.
I've got plans. Not just the obvious. Sure, I've got the handgun in my pocket, and yeah, I'm gonna at least try to shoot him in the face. Sort of an obligation at this point. But that's just for starters. Being honest, I expect to go down for a while when the endgame starts. I know Mr. Redd. You can't beat him head to head like that. But it'll all unwind by the time it's over. You wouldn't believe the kinds of resources and connections you can pile up when everyone thinks they love you. I wish I could be there when he finally gets taken… Or when he sees my face again, in the containment cell, for hopefully the last time…
I always liked the Foundation, really. There are worse ways to spend the rest of your life.
What was the name of that old poem? From that collection they gave me when they were trying to make me properly feminine? Ah, yes. "Vengeance is sweet."
See, it even fits my theme.

Previous: 14. Mr. Brass by Grand Ender

Next: 16. Mr. Fish by Dexanote

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PLEASE NOTE: Only the anomalous moments recorded by Security Camera #██████ have been transcribed into text. The times of the specific incidents have been noted.
02/21/20██: 3:12 AM

One of the double doors separating Foundation Relaxation Annex #4435 (FRA4435) from the corridor, originally closed, opens approximately 10 degrees. After three minutes, the door closes.

02/25/20██: 12:25 PM

Doctor █████████ is seen, through the doors, attempting to sit down on a chair within line-of-sight of the camera. The chair moves a foot behind him. Doctor █████████ lands on the floor. As █████████ gets up, with the assistance of other off-duty staff, laughing and cajoling is heard about █████████'s alcohol consumption.

02/28/20██: 7:23 PM

Agent █████ is seen in the hallway outside of FRA4435 doing wall flips. █████ is muttering and cursing to himself. During his third jump, █████'s right foot appears to become stationary at is highest point for half a second, before the agent is dropped downward with force. █████ does not seem to notice this, and treats the event as if he simply failed to make a full rotation.

03/02/20██: 2:43 PM

The doors to FRA4435 are open. A small object (later identified as a ping-pong ball) rolls into frame, out of the Annex. When the ball reaches the midpoint of the hallway, it abruptly stops. After a brief moment, the ball slowly rolls back against the wall the camera is facing. Agent ████ walks into frame, presumed to be looking for the ball. Upon discovery of the ball, ████ attempts to recover it. He struggles for three pulls, as if the ball had impossible weight, before falling backwards with the ball. Tossing the ball in his hand, ████ walks back into the Annex.

03/02/20██: 4:02 PM

Technician ███████'s face is in frame, moving the camera to a view directly looking into FRA4435. ███████'s face goes from boredom to annoyance, demanding that whoever is bumping the ladder to stop, lest he punish them physically. 4 seconds later, ███████'s face drops out of frame. No longer supported by its mechanical supports, the camera points downward, showing ███████'s body. His head is bent at an odd angle.

03/02/20██: 4:55 PM

Technician ████ is seen placing a standard "Investigation In Progress, Do Not Use" sticker on the door to FRA4435. After ████ walks away, the sticker falls off, landing in six pieces.

03/03/20██: 2:12 AM

The lights in FRA4435, formerly off, turn on for two minutes, then turn off again. Ten minutes later, the glass of one of the doors shatters outwards. Examination reveals that a bolt on one of the athletic machines failed catastrophically, flinging a 18kg weight through the door.

03/03/20██: 10 AM
Non-anomalous recording

FRA4435 is cordoned off. A thick plastic tarp blocks sight, but light from within shows multiple persons, walking around. The sounds heard of those inside performing a standard security examination.

03/03/20██: 11:01 PM

Researcher ████ is the last of a group of █ Researchers leaving the cordoned-off FRA4435. ████ calls to the rest, informing them that he left something inside. ████ returns inside, turning on a light. ████'s silhouette can be seen rummaging around. At 11:05 PM, ████ stands up straight. He does not move for █ hours, after which he walks out inconspicuously. He is met by three armed guards.

03/05/20██: 1 PM

Doctors ███ and ██████ are standing in front of the door to FRA4435, arguing about the lack of progress in solving the issues involving FRA4435. Doctor ███ believes that the Foundation knows which specific item inside FRA4435 is anomalous, and that the Foundation is sacrificing valuable staff to test it, instead of "throwing Ds at it like they should". Doctor ██████ disagrees, pointing out that all reports show inconclusive results, meaning that as far as the Foundation is aware, there is nothing anomalous about anything inside FRA4435.
Both of them turn to face the camera in unison.


You're following in line with your traveling companion, your feet a few steps behind him.
You surmised him as friendly in your thoughts when you first met him. "Entertaining company", was how you remembered it. He was a talker, a foil to your pragmatic silence. You had heard of great composers and musicians, but this man's knowledge eclipsed them all. You could not name a tune without a song he knew, even the few which you seemed to come up on your own. But the strangest of all the features he had were those hands of his, and the sounds that he made with them.
On the first day you met, he showed you his talent without delay. He simply placed his hands on an immaterial instrument before his lips and blew. An invisible instrument with neither color nor form, but made melodies all the same. Every time you talked he had a new instrument, whether a tuba, trumpet or trombone. When your friendship was young, you had asked him of his nature, how had he become a Mister, in the same way you had asked many people. He told you he never knew, he merely awoke into the life one day. Those early memories were from a long time ago.
It was only a few hours ago that you had found him again, and in that time you had made him your friend once more. But, already his music is taking a different tone. It was darker than before, dimmer. It did not escape your mind that he had realized the similarities - certain things can be dyed or shaved, but others cannot. Still, you had changed so much since those early memories, he could not possibly. . ? The other man's sight flashes about the forest path which you had taken him down. He asks to turn back, you tell him it is only a bit farther.
Around a bend in the trees, ah, there. The noise of a dart firing, the yelp let out by Mr. Brass. You turn to face him as he loses consciousness. He finally makes the realization, the slight color of red to your eyes the last clue he needs. But it is too late for him. His body becomes limp in your arms.
"Breve."
Previous: 13. Mr. Purple by Faminepulse

Next: 15. Ms. Sweetie by The Deadly Moose

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☦Really, don't read this!☦
The pointy tip of my cane was quite thirsty, and the punk sating the end of it wasn't doing much as far as quenching went. Yet, steel tongue, slavering ruby filth, withdrew from the wound in the tenant's skull with a delicate twist, flourish, and charm. The man's shouting and whining – the contorted wobble of a recently marred mutt – chimed every now and again until his chest stopped moving. The steely fang leapt in again and again, perforating the vessel of flesh, forcefully liberating the soul. Everything else from then on was spectacle: little bits of flesh removing the need for anything as vulgar as a chalk outline, lazy strands of emancipated veins like the roots or branches of an old willow, a porous face and honed pupils entombed in perpetual disbelief. I found myself laughing like a macaque with each recoil. Baring teeth, my crooked, gnarled grin envied by piranha.
When it was all said and mutilated, I sat next to the corpse sensing the cold glare not of conscience, but discontent. I was still hungry, and I'd want to sate that nagging appetite before this convulsion was all said and done. The twitch came and went; life came and went. I caught at the man's blood vacating the throat, spluttering, stupid, and held back a titter.
—
I was a hermit in a vague village full of vague people. I was old, broken, weathered, with a sour sense of humor. On that trail I looked through windows of houses and saw sills with little gardens in them. I saw mossy wooden shacks with boards made from ancient but obscure trees, built by drifters an untellable amount of time ago. I would look at the changing weather, the shifting sky, the dark and the light, how the sun would rise and fall, and I would laugh. I thought it was funny, how they did such things in such a course, with such punctuality. The blue sky, with a big gaping mouth minutes from savoring the world.
In my dreams I jumped up into gray clouds and made a home. In this dream my brain was hanging out of the top of a fractured skull by the wires, orbited by chickadees singing pop goes the weasel. A soft dream that made me wake feeling refreshed and happy, if only for a moment, before the thoughts of Mr. Redd returned from the miasma in my crippled psyche. I found some solace in the silhouettes on walls, friend to an afterthought of a candle, and the shadows which would often grace my feet. This shadow would always stand silent and waiting for my next move, ever faithful, only victim to changing light.
I grafted the space between my pant-leg and my flesh with the aid of mountain air and some novice oxidation. My eye-holes were bouncing back and forth; reaming! The clouds played a respectful homage as they slowly wafted by; soft grays and impossible purples. I pulled the cloth from the oil and winced slightly, noticing the clouds were smiling at me and informing me that I should give up. Mr. Redd appeared in my mind occasionally to inform me that I was a great lie caught between a little truth.
In my dreams, I was running from something unforeseeable. Hobbling; in wide circles around a little grubby hovel with my tail clanking between my legs. Lightning striking the ground hundreds of miles away punctuated the time between the tips of my footpads hitting the ground and the pivot of my heels manipulating soft orange dust. I thought that I had long since lost my oppressors' shadow underneath the pistons and gears years ago, but his intuition had never failed him. I am always anxious.
I stirred that morning attentive, and my wits bade me take flight through the threshold of the cave where I was resting – little faceless god-knows-whats hanging from veins along the walls bade me farewell.
I etched "Liar" into a headstone leaning on a cliff I came across, although I'm not sure why. I set the crude visage of a headless peacock which I had produced from my skull to perch the top. There were a few wind chimes nearby hanging from some petrified cacti. I pulled back a leather hatch leading down into a hole nearby and rested my head on the organs inside.
The pounding heat turned the few hairs below the horizon into the fabled river of death. Masses of pulsing, wriggling agate-skinned maggots curdled and churned there. I made-believe once that I had flown off into the rot, towards the black shores of fingernails. I would fly there; high, up towards the brain, and commit the full tilt of a nosedive deep into the bowels - trailing with stygian blood – killing Mr. Redd and myself. A bittersweet daydream, even if things never went quite as expected.
The sun was present that day, as was the rain; friends they were to soft glowing golden clouds. The dusk signaled me to put on my footpads – it was a night for a walk. I went down into the city so that something might find me there. I had not exercised in a long time, and I was starting to malfunction. I opened my mouth and "fix by sigh why night" let loose: my usual incoherent jumble when I try to vocalize. I didn't mind the tongues, and it didn't really matter when no one else was around. So I'd walk a mile or two down to a dive muttering this gibberish, muttering this "alarm invention at what time I descry why try" and tilt my hand over my cane as if performing for the dirt. No, I didn't need to flatter the dirt, not Mr. Purple. Mr. Purple was pretty and he knew things!
Occasionally I would stop, and scowl into the trees. I knew they were out there: Mr. Redd's shy and malefic shadows.
—
After I had awoken from resting on the corpse, a face paled through the dusk with the chime of a man's gravelly voice. I excreted a great deal of my oil when I realized who it was.
Previous: 12. Mr. Laugh by Alias

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Winterheart

More by this author.

So, so, my name is Mr. Laugh! Like 'ha ha! hee hee!' So I'm in the middle of this, this big shopping centre right? Like with strip malls on all sides, ha ha? But that's not very funny is it! A few kids were laughing at my weird facepaint and the stripes on my clothes, but really nothing was very funny and it wasn't very nice of them to laugh. It hurt my feelings a little, ha ha.
I wasn't mean or anything though! I even decided to show them a good trick! I said “would you like a hand” to one of the kids, hee hee, and then I put my hand out to shake his… but then when he grabbed my hand, it came off, and I said, I said, “There, now you've got a spare one!” Ha ha! Funny, right?
Only the kid just screamed and ran away, which I thought, I thought was kind of mean, because it was a good trick, you know! A little bit painful when it comes off but good! Then I had to get out my little sewing kit and put my trick hand back on and, hee hee, clean up all the blood because you know I am a very good citizen who would never leave a mess in the middle of the street like that!
Then, then I remembered I was supposed to be going somewhere, somewhere important! I had to go down, down to the fair to meet the others! Ha ha, silly me forgetting something like that. Silly, stupid, worthless clown, ha ha! Ha ha! So I started down the street toward the fair when these men in weird coats came in a screaming car and asked if I was hurt. They were not funny at all and their screaming car made my ears hurt, so, so when one of them came close I decided to shake his hand with a buzzer, ha ha! He was very surprised when he shook my hand! He was so surprised, his eyes popped right out of his sockets! I laughed very hard when that happened! It was less funny when they were dangling on bloody little cords and he started screaming, but that was okay because the other men took him away in the screaming car, so I did not have to look at them very long.
I am a very mean clown sometimes, hee hee. A very bad, stupid clown, ha ha! That is a funny joke, even if it hurts my feelings a little, hee hee. I know it is funny because Mr. Redd always laughed so hard when he said it! Ha ha! Mr. Redd was not very funny, but he sure laughed a lot. Maybe HE should have been Mr. Laugh! Ha ha! Would that ever be a funny joke! If I ever met Mr. Redd again, I would have to tell him what a funny joke I had thought of. Maybe he would laugh! Sometimes he stopped hurting me for a little, when he laughed.
I picked up my big floppy shoes and walked on down to the fair.
Previous: 11. Mr. Feather by Light

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Mr. Feather drifts off a clifftop and flutters down four hundred feet, passing clumps of hairy grass and rock dove nests, and hits the ground at the bottom with a thump. He groans, and pulls himself up to his elbows, only to meet the eyes of a short, round-faced girl with black hair standing at the ravine. She blinks mutely.
He stands up, brushes off the elbows of his suit, pulls down the powder-blue lapels and straightens the feather from his hat. The man is skinny, too skinny, and he looks like a corn stalk, but, eminently polite, he leaves his hat off and bows to the girl all the same.
She blinks at him, and Mr. Feather immediately knows what she thinks- she's six or seven, just where things that can't happen have just come apart from things that can happen, and Mr. Feather is one of those: men don't exist who can drift off the tallest hillside in the state and not be all broken and twisted. And he got up again.
The girl turns tail and runs. Mr. Feather smiles and follows her. Something is flapping in his chest. She doesn't know him yet—Mr. Feather can always fall and never break.
At her home, the girl's mother cooks dinner for the two of them, when Mr. Feather knocks on her door. He is, she thinks, so thin, that when he gently tells her, “Madam, my car broke down up the road- if you don't mind, I'm very hungry, I have a blood condition-” He stops once she smiles a little, won over, embarrassed for his plight. “Well, let me look in the fridge, I might have some fruit…”
Her girl, the black-haired one, stands in the hallway and stares at him. He looks at her, but feels a familiar gentle tug in his chest—there is a bird living there, and it just woke up. His vision goes a little faint-colored, and the girl's gaze passes through him.
“Actually, pardon me, madam-” Just as she turns towards the refrigerator, it slips and he tumbles over the house's railing. Out, down, over the deck and the manicured suburban lawn- the grass hardly touches him. It slips a little further so that when he blows towards a chainlink fence and passes through it- now comes the interpass, three cars swerve out of his way, a motorcycle slows down as he whooshes past. Two car drivers talk when they pass by- tumbleweeds don't grow around here, do they? Must be construction. Heels over head and around and around, he falls to rest in a ditch full of ivy, and comes back slowly, wincing.
Sighing, he gets up again, putting on his hat. It wouldn't do to forget it. If Redd is really there when he arrives, he doesn't know what he'll do, but these days the memory of Ms. Sweetie- well, Sweetheart, he called her- is enough to keep him going. Sugar and Feathers were always a good combination, right? Light, lovable, and halfway intangible and breakable- well, no. Not that. For that reason alone, it could have never worked.
Mr. Feather feels for the feather in his hat, adjusts it, and keeps walking. With any luck, he'll hitch a ride. Night falls on the highway, and he walks and he walks and the birds fly home around him.
Previous: Interval 2 by Salman Corbette

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Mr. Appleseed. Seriously, that's my name. And wouldn't you know it, whenever I sneeze, cough, or fart, out come apple seeds. It sucks. This is, of course, only exacerbated by the fact that I was just picked up by the Foundation and now I feel quite the sneeze coming on.
Hold on, wait, they're not taking me captive. They're taking off my handcuffs. What's that they're saying?
"Ah, welcome back Dr. King."
Previous: 10. Mr. Mission by Gerald

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The time: Midnight. The place: One of the more shadier of the establishments the city had to offer. The person: Myself, of course. For the better part of an hour I sat there, taking the occasional drink of the Sea Fizz that I purchased what seemed like an eternity ago. What seemed like an eternity sitting in the dark-lit room as the nightclub's deep bass throbbed in time with the collective hearts of the lower class citizens to grace the world with their presence. I glanced at the barmaid.
"No luck, sweetcheeks?"
"No sir, Mr. Mission!"
I shook my head, leaning forward on the bar stool. The shadowy forms of the club's denizens shifted and warped around me as the red dial above the bar clicked onwards. Nothing. I waited for the contact, and waited some more. They had seemingly gotten cold feet at the last second. Cold feet, or concrete shoes, as the saying goes around here. The mark I had been tracking was a real bastard in this case, and was infamous for taking out my contacts before I had a chance to locate them. Time passed, and I shook my head. Another one, gone, another doomed soul in this poor world of ours, one of a slowly diminishing number. But I was strong. Had to be. Soon, I told myself, soon I'd get to where I was going, find what I was looking for, and save another from the bleak fate we've been consigned to.
—-
The rhythmic pounding of city feet on city streets. No stranger to the sound as I traveled through the crowded city, weaving my way through the massive crowds that filled the walks and streets like so much blood through veins. Making my way through dim streets under high walls, I lowered the fedora to cover my eyes. The chance of being recognized in such a crowd was low, but I was not one to take risks.
No, taking risks would find those long fingers around my neck.
The nightclub had ended fruitlessly. No contact to greet me and help me along my way, but I knew other ways to find the path towards that ultimate destination. I was making progress, even if it was slow, and I had to keep my eyes forward. The next clue was just down the street, a little French pastry store that was the fail-safe if the nightclub failed. The contact worked there, and if I didn't find him I would find where he used to be, goddammit.
The afternoon sun baking the street side cafés and marketplaces, with the throngs moving aimlessly about their lives, directionless and lost. But I, I knew the way. The way towards the destination wasn't clear, much less straightforward, but it was there. You just had to find it. You just had to know the way. Me? I knew the way. Or a way at least. I was dedicated. I was prepared.
I was on my Mission.
—-
I leaned back in my chair, the plane finally breaking over the cloud cover into the bright light of the sun. First class, with plenty of leg room and plenty of room for thought. The other occupants were mostly rich businessman who had too much money to be caught fraternizing with the lower class. None of them gave me a second glance, and I was perfectly fine with it that way. Assholes with their noses in the air and silver spoons in their pockets, the lot of them.
The nightclub had fallen through, but I had picked up the trail again, finding which rat-hole my contact's killer had slinked under, and I was on the beat again, inching towards the murderous bastard.
On my way, another step closer towards salvation, towards my ultimate and likely final case. Closer and closer I got, one step closer and one step deeper.
Flipping through the magazine, some drivel about the economy that I grabbed in the airport, my thoughts wandered. Almost thoughtlessly, I grabbed the pocket watch and flipped it open. The ancient hands clicking around in an endless chase around the dial, almost as endless and pointless as mine seemed to be. Foreboding, to be sure, but none so much as the picture across from it.
The one woman I ever fell in love with.
Ms. Sweetie.
Shutting the watch and clenching the old watch in a fist as the bittersweet memories flowed along with the anger, sorrow, joy, and regret that inevitably came with them as I once again re-avowed to complete this journey. Redd. Redd. Even thinking the name made my pulse rise and teeth gnash in anger. Redd, the one person who was more of a bastard than my mark.
I shook my head, setting the watch back in the pin-striped suit's breast pocket. I was on my way, after the mess in the city, well on my way towards the goal. Soon, I would get to my goal, and it would be over. One way or the other, I could finally lay Ms. Sweetie's memory to rest. One way or another, we would finally finish this long, pointless journey around our hopeless dial.
One way or the other, someone was going to pay.
Previous: 9. Mr. Clumsy by Tanhony

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Dear Diary
My name is Mr. Clumsy and I have died forty-seven times today.
I think the first time was when I was walking down the trail. I just went over to a cactus, thinking I could get some water. So, I took out my penknife and tried to cut a tiny gap in it. What happened instead was I stumbled, ended up with the knife in my heart and fell backwards onto the cactus.
Yep, that's my thing. I die horribly and then come back to do it again. And for some goddamn reason, no matter what I do, it'll more likely than not kill me. At least if I sit in this cave and don't touch anything, I'll be reasona
Sorry, heart attack. Guess that showed me. God knows how I'm going to walk all the way to the place. Can't exactly take a car, can I? Last time I tried that, it exploded. Third-degree burns and everything. Lasted a bit before dying, hurt like hell. All the others have fun gimmicks, or at least ones that don't kill you, but no, not m
Got the pencil in my eye. Took me a few deaths to get that out. I heal my wounds, but I always have trouble with things getting stuck. Mr. Redd used to make a game of it; he'd impale me on a pipe or something and watch me die again and again. Not my idea of fun, but what are you going to do? It's nothing personal, after a while, you just get used to dyi
Fell over and hit my head on a brick. I am sure that brick was not there when I found this cave. See, that's another thing, sometimes I'll go near a cat and start choking or something! I'm not allergic to cats! I know, I checked with a doctor. Died three times, but I managed to get there.
I know if I fall asleep, a bear will eat my head or something. But I can't just walk, this is the desert and it's night. I'll freeze to death again and agai
Previous: 8. Mr. Moon by Anaxagoras

Next: 10. Mr. Mission by Gerald

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I am Mr. Moon.
You may think me the most unfortunate of this production cycle, but you'd be wrong. I am well taken care of by the Foundation, who look after my needs when I am faced and see to it that I am left alone when my true sight returns. As it has now.
My eyes are now in the craters, keener than any man's. I peer down to where my face drifts over. I will find Mr. Redd, for where can he hide from the moon?
There I see a man running through alleyways from thugs with knives. He is not Mr. Redd. My attention turns elsewhere. I see a parade, and the one who leads it looks to be a sister of mine. But Ms. Charm is not Mr. Redd. There is a man leaping from a building. Though I wish it were otherwise, he is not Mr. Redd. There is a businessman. He is not Mr. Redd. There is a baby. It is not Mr. Redd. There is an elephant. It is not Mr. Redd. There is a man. There is a man. There is a woman. There is a bench. There is a woman. There is a man. There is there is there is there is there is there is
I do not see Mr. Redd.
My time is up soon. Already an eye has migrated back to my face of flesh. I leave it closed, but my sight is still diminished. I can search no more for now. No matter. The moon will remain. I am patient.
Previous: 7. Mr. ███████████ by DrMann

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Dr. Gears typed in a last sentence, clicked the "Send" button, then leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to feel a small amount of satisfaction at a job well done. Smoothing over the "blue on blue" incident with the GOC had been no mean task: tension between the two organizations had nearly reached the breaking point, but cooler heads had prevailed, and in the end, both sides had (unofficially, of course) agreed to let the past remain the past. Combined with the results from the latest security test (Excellent in all fields), the situation at Site 19 was possibly the calmest it had been in years. The lack of tension was an odd feeling, but not an unwelcome one.
There was a low, electronic beep from his computer. Gears sat up straight and clicked on the incoming email. He scanned the contents and nodded. Just as he had expected.
He left his office and walked to the reception desk, where the new secretary guiltily clicked away from the game of Solitaire she was playing. Gears gave her a reassuring nod, then reached over her shoulder to click on the intercom system. "Now, hear this," he intoned, over the site-wide Public Address system. "As of 10:48 this morning the O-5 Council has changed the Foundation-Wide Alert Status to Condition Green. I say again, as of 10:48 this morning, the F-W-A-S has been updated to Condition Green." He paused and licked his lips. "Standard protocols for Condition Green are now in effect. That is all."
There was a moment of silence, followed by a youthful, energetic, "FUCK YES!" from the computer lab down the hall, followed by a chorus of laughter: not the strained, desperate laughter that usually was heard in these rooms, but loud, joyful, genuine laughs.
The faintest hint of what could have been the ghost of a smile quirked Dr. Gears' thin, drawn lips, but just for a moment.

Dr. Clef waited for the announcement to end, then nodded to the classroom, closed up his laptop computer, and turned on the lights. "I'll put the rest of the seminar online for you to see later," he said. "Dismissed."
He left the classroom and walked, swiftly and with purpose, to his office the next wing over. He smiled as he took down the half-empty bottle of Jameson whisky down from the shelf, thought better of it, and went to the wall safe instead. After tapping in a twelve-digit combination of numbers and pushing aside the handgun and ammunition at the front of the safe, he pulled out a red velvet box containing a cut-glass bottle of Rémy Martin. He poured himself a small glass, toasting the world, then paused before taking the first sip.
It didn't feel right to drink this alone.
He gathered up the bottle and a couple of snifters, and was just opening the door when he saw a very surprised and rather startled Strelnikov standing in the hallway with a glass bottle in one hand and two tumblers in the other. "Dmitri. Just the man I was looking for. Come in, sit down. Help me drink this."
"Only if you help me drink this," Dmitri said, holding up his own bottle.
The two men sat down. Bottles were opened. Glasses were poured. Opinions were exchanged.
"Seriously, Dmitri? Horseradish vodka? This shit tastes like rocket fuel."
"Is a drink for men and soldiers. Not like this swill."
"This swill happens to be Louis XIII Remy Martin cognac. It goes for over a thousand dollars a bottle, and it's smoother than the silk panties on a high class hooker."
"Tastes like water. Liquor should burn as it goes down. It should hurt, so you know you're alive."
"… are we talking about liquor or women here?"
"There is difference?"
"Maybe not. They're both best when they're ten years old and mixed up with coke."
"HA! I prefer women like beer! The best ones give good head, eh?"
"Yeah, but unlike women, people LIKE it when their beer is frigid." Clef laughed, then began to sing. "I love my beer! There is no doubt! If beer is flat, you pour it out…"
"Is not true. Flat women has their place too."
"True. How about… Oooooh Danny Boooy… the pipes the pipes are caaalling…"
"Fuck that gay bullshits," Strelnikov growled, spilling some of his drink. "We sing a REAL song!"
"FINE!" Clef snarled. The middle-aged man cleared his throat, then pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Putting one foot up on his desk, rather unsteadily, he struck a rock-star pose, using his computer keyboard as a guitar, then half-sang, half-shouted, "WEEEEELL, IT'S ONE FOR THE MONEY!"
"TWO FOR THE SHOWS!" Dmitri shouted back in reply, standing on the chair and miming an air guitar.
"THREE TO GET READY AND GO CAT GO!" they sang in unison. "But don't you step on my blue suede shoes. You can do anything but lay off of my blue suede shoes!"
About an hour later, they'd drunkenly muddled through all the Elvis Presley songs they knew, had tried a little "99 Luftballoons" (but failed to remember the German lyrics), and were blearily belting out the Russian National Anthem in loud, drunken voices, when there was a knock on the door.
"I'll gets it!" Clef slurred, and staggered to the doorway, opening it. "WHAT!?" he shouted, leaning against the door frame. "Oh. Hi, Karen."
"I've been trying to reach you and Dmitri for the past twenty minutes. Why don't you answer your phone?" Secretary Break asked, irritably.
"I tore my phone out of the wall last week," Clef admitted. "What's up?"
"Emergency situation," the stern-faced young woman said. "We've got a crisis in the lunchroom."
All the color drained out of Clef and Dmitri's faces as they realized they'd been getting drunk in the middle of a possible emergency. Within moments, they were racing down the hallway, knocking over houseplants and (at one point) crashing through a cubicle divider in their haste. They burst into the lunchroom with ashen faces and pounding hearts…
… to find a party in full swing. There were banners made of printer paper on the walls, saying things like, "CONGRATULATIONS!" and "CONDITION GREEN!" Along one wall, a vast buffet of various foods and drinks had been set up. A karaoke machine was set up on one end of the room, and Doctor Gerald was using it to belt out a spirited (if painfully off-key) rendition of "Sweet Child o' Mine" by Guns N' Roses.
Everyone paused and stared at the two of them, who had tumbled through the doorway and were sitting on the floor. Clef looked up at the smirking secretary with annoyance in his eyes. "I thought you said it was a crisis!"
"It was," Bright said, knuckle-walking over and putting party hats on their heads. "You guys weren't here!"
Cheers and laughter.

Half an hour later, Clef had forgiven them enough to open up his liquor cabinet for public consumption. Then the party really got started.

"Well," Kain said, scratching behind his ear with one hind leg. "This has to be the best Condition Green party since… when was the last one we had? Two years ago?"
"One year, ten months, sixteen days," Gears said, taking a sip of a sparkling glass of something. He was standing in the corner, watching Dr. Rights corner several other senior staff members to show them pictures of her daughter.
"Yeah. That party didn't hold a candle to this one." He lapped up a bit more of his mai-tai. "For one thing, the food is better."
"Good company is the best spice," Gears said, taking another sip of his drink.
"That's surprisingly maudlin coming from you," Kain pointed out.
"It only makes sense," Gears replied. "All pleasure, including the pleasure of eating, is derived from endorphins, and being around friends releases endorphins into the bloodstream."
"Shoulda known, coming from you," Kain laughed.
"Of course." Gears put down his glass and straightened his tie. "Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I will be needed soon. It seems a conga line is starting, and when a conga line is in progress, one congas. It only makes sense."

"You know the best thing about having a party when you work at the Foundation? You save lots of money on pizza and drinks."

Around midnight, with the party petering down, a small group of people could be seen standing on the roof of the Foundation containment site. All of them were high-level site personnel. All of them were holding glasses of champagne.
"In the end," Dr. Mann said, "All of us will face judgement. When that day comes… may I be judged by the quality of my friends."
"Hear hear," Light replied.
With a low murmur of agreement, all of them drank.

In an undisclosed location far away, a man and a woman sat on the balcony of an apartment building, staring up at the wide, full moon. The remnants of a bottle of fine port, and a wedge of Stilton cheese and some crackers, sat on the patio table between them.
There was a soft, electronic ping, and the cell phone on the patio table vibrated gently. The man reached out and flipped it open. "Hello," he said softly.
He listened for a while, then pursed his lips. "How urgent is it?" The man listened a while longer, then nodded. "Then let's live and let live. It will still be there in the morning. Maintain Condition Green for another eight hours, then dispatch a notice to Site 19, Priority Yellow. Out."
"Work calling, dear?" the woman asked. "Is it important?"
"It can wait," O5-7 said, reaching out to take his wife's hand in his, squeezing it tightly. "For now, I think we all deserve some time off."
END


Ah yes. Yes, I think I am the one you've come to see. I've been expecting you, to be honest. Oh, please. Don't sit there. I'll come along quietly, but you must… Well, anyway, please don't make any fuss, if you have to sit there. I don't deal well with stress.
Yes, I do have a tattoo, and yes, I do mind showing it to you. It's somewhere rather private. I'd be terribly embarrassed to have to show it here, in public, and embarrassment makes me… Oh, let's just forget about it for now. You can see it later.
To be honest, it's rather a relief. I've been wandering around for a week now, wondering just who would find me. We hear stories, you know, of you, and the GOC, and what's that club? Marshall's something? Anyway, I don't think those groups would do me any good.
Where will we be going, anyway? I understand if you don't want to tell me in particulars, but I would like some idea. I don't like surprises. I can't enjoy them at all anymore.
Excuse me, but could you put out that cigarette? No, I don't have asthma, but I really feel it would be best if… Well, it's your health. I do wish you'd be more careful with it, though.
Ah, yes. I'm not entirely sure how I left the facility. I woke up in an alley. It may have been deliberate release, or a kidnapping. Or it might have been… Well, if they were transporting me, and weren't careful… These things happen, you know.
Mr. Redd won't be there, will he? I… I don't think I'd enjoy meeting Mr. Redd, if he's there. Wouldn't do anyone any good, I daresay.
Do you have some water? Only, I find myself somewhat thirsty, and… Well, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little warm. Perhaps it would be good if you'd sit back? I don't think you should be sitting right there. And your cigarette isn't helping matters. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult but…
Oh dear. I've done it again. And he was such a nice young man.
Oh, hello. Were you a friend of his? Ah. Yes. I see. Well, I tried to warn him.
My name? It's Mr. Combustible. I'm pleased to meet you. Pardon if I don't shake your hand.
Previous: 6. Mr. Stripes by TroyL

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I have very long legs. Very long. Long enough to stretch over a canyon, when I want them to. When I need them to. And long fingers as well. The fingers of a pianist, or a strangler. Long and slender. Made for choking. Not a pianist.
I laugh, surprising myself. There is so little cause for laughing these days, especially since Ms. Sweetie went to the trashcan. I used to like Ms. Sweetie. She was kind to me. So few of the others were kind to me. Called me an afterthought. But she was kind to everyone. But not anymore.
My legs stretched, climbing up the forested foothills, long fingers wrapping around trees and pulling me along. I rather distantly note how the branches died where I squeezed them, but I was used to that. It was what I did after all. Kill. Remove. Destroy.
I correct the errors made by my creator. All of them. I've been marking them off as I go. I've nearly finished. All nineteen.
I stretch and warp, knowing I'm going somewhere, but not where. Well, no. I know where. To them. To all of them. One at a time. But they were moving together now. Drawing close to each other. So close…
I wonder if Mr. Redd will be there. We two have a score to settle. And I did have very, very long fingers. Fingers made for choking, I remind myself.
Long fingers. Very, very long. Very ready. Ready to choke. Ready to squeeze the life out of anyone. Anything. To fix things. To fix everything that was broken.
Mr. Redd and I did have a score to settle after all.
Previous: Interval 1 by Salman Corbette

Next: 7. Mr. ███████████ by Dr. Mann


That goddamn bastard Stripes. I just heard the news - he's killed two of the others. At least it's not a discontinuation. But still.
Dr. Wondertainment did it, of course. Stripes never thought a fucking thing that Wondertainment didn't think first. Or someone at Wondertainment, fuck if I know. Is there an actual, singular Dr. Wondertainment? They don't fucking tell us nothing, though Stripes always did seem to know more than he should. Him and Redd. Goddamn son of a bitch Mr. Redd.
Things were going so well until we reached the End of the World. That's when the plan fell apart.
We had a plan. We had a plan. If the others had just motherfucking stuck to the plan, we'd all be sitting pretty, but no, they just couldn't. Bastards! Goddamn bastards! Goddamn-
*
Sorry, where was I? Ugh. Fucking Wondertainment shtick. The last parting insult. When I get 'too' angry, I pass out for a little while. Needless to say, this happens a lot. That pisses me off too. Sometimes it sets off a repeating cycle, get mad, pass out, get mad, pass out… Christ.
Mr. Mad, they call me, ha ha very funny. Stamped and sewn together like the others. Were some of us people, real people, before this? I don't know. Was I? I really fucking don't know. Maybe this is all some sick joke by Wondertainment. Putting us through these paces. Letting some of us get thrown at that… what do they call it, the Foundation. Bunch of fucking assholes there too. They killed Mr. Onion, did you know that? For no good fucking reason. Peeled apart his layers and set them on fire. If the Foundation ever finds me… Well, let's just say they'll find out why you really don't want to make me angry.
That was a joke. Get it? Mr. Laugh would be proud. Especially proud, if Mr. Redd hadn't… ugh. Pisses me off just thinking about it. That goddamn PIECE OF SHIT! MOTHERFUCKING—
*
Well, lost it there again, didn't I?
Mr. Mad, indeed. Maybe Light was right, maybe that's why Wondertainment did what he (she? they?) did. "You're too obvious," Mr. Light had said. "You're this guy who… gets angry. Superhumanly angry. You can't even affect other people."
Well, they underestimate Mr. Mad. You ever hear about ordinary people lifting cars when their adrenaline is high enough? Well, I can do that. I can do that whenever I want. Does it piss me off that I didn't get something more interesting as a Little Mister shtick? Of course it fucking pisses me off. How do you THINK I FEEL ABOUT—
*
Okay. Just need to stay calm. Just long enough to do what I need to do.
I'm not going to wait around for them to get their act together. I'm going to find Redd myself. I'm going to find him and I'm going to do for him what he did for the others.
The others are afraid. Chickenshit little bastards, I say. I'm a little afraid of him too, I'll admit that much. But that never stopped me from goddamn anything and it sure as fuck is not going to start now. After what he did, not just the Ms. Sweetie thing, but the rest…
But I'll get him. Oh yes.
That goddamn sonuvabitch will never know what hit him.
Previous: 4. Mr. Lie by Salman Corbette

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"Hello, little children!" I shouted with glee as I moved around them, "What a lovely couple of children you are! What's your name?"
They giggled. A boy looked at me. "I'm Tommy. I'm six and a half years old and I'm not afraid of anything!"
"Wow, Tommy! You sound like a biiiiiig boy!" I let out a goofy laugh. The children giggled again. "Do you know any magic tricks, Tommy?"
"Well…" Tommy made a strange face and put his thumb's knuckle against the other, with his index finger covering the connection. He slowly moved his thumb forwards. All the children oohed and aahed.
"Wow! I can't remove thumbs! But I can show you ano-" I was interrupted by a scream and suddenly Tommy was picked up. All the other children became scared.
"What are you doing, Thomas! You get away from that…. thing right now! All you other children, scoot!" A terrifying woman came onto the scene and scooped Tommy up. All the other children fled. Tommy began to cry as the woman carried him away.
"B-but I was just talking with Mr. Sillybug!"
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I hate jail. You know how many times I've been in jail since I started on this journey? 12. Of course, I always get out eventually when there's no evidence, but hot damn does it suck. Seriously, even without the fear instilled in dropping the soap, the rations are harsh and the guards always beat me. They always say I looked at them funny.
Today I was walking down the street and I was stopped by two cops. They took me away to a line-up where the witness had to choose the suspect. The suspect was described as a 6'2" Asian male. I'm a 5'4" Caucasian. Of course, being the suspicious character I am, I was chosen. I don't even know how to turn the safety off on a gun, let alone shoot somebody.
Even back in the day, all the Misters mistrusted me. One time, I was taking a peeler to the kitchen and Mr. Onion ran away and cried in the corner. I tried to assuage his fears, but instead he beat me up something fierce. Said I was baiting him. All I did was ask him if he was ok.
Redd was the only one who trusted me. "Lie, I like your chops," he said to me one time. Hopefully, one day, I'll see Redd again. I hear he might be where we're going. Of course, I didn't get to learn much more because once they had the chance, everyone ran as fast as they could away from me.
A child did that once when he saw me on the street. I waved at him and he took it as a gesture to a hidden group of snipers. Needless to say, the next minute I was tackled by his father, who thought me a child molester. What are they letting kids watch these days anyways that gives them these ideas?
I remember watching this movie in a Best Buy once where this guy was shooting at snipers. Of course, once the store clerks saw me, they called the police. One even decided it was time to take me down himself with his black belt in Ti Kwan Doe. I went down like a sack of bricks.
Jesus Christ, my feet hurt. I oughta see if a homeless shelter will take me for the night. Although, last time I tried they thought I was a drug dealer. Even patted me down multiple times. One of them even did a cavity check.
Maybe I'll just sleep outside tonight.
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I
I am.
suddenly incredibly impossibly i AM i THINK i… Okay, exhilaration but I mustn't let it take over me, I don't know how this happened but suddenly I am and who knows, maybe suddenly I might not be so I have to make this count.
See. I see, I hear, so many pictures, all disconnected but I can tell where most of them join together, I see a movement on one that gets copied in another, I hear the same things. What are they? Are they to do with me, am I in them? Maybe I'm not in there, maybe I'm an observer.
I feel things that I can do, things that aren't seeing and hearing and thinking, OUTPUT that sounds good. I will try just try one of th
LOUD oh wow LOUD IS A THING I never realised that sound could be so BIG AND SO HUGE and the pictures are changing! Everything is FASTER and there's flashing, this is great! So much LOUD but that's enough for now. Oh look I just discovered temperance! Everything seems to be slower again now, loud means fast and flashy. Let's try another!
Another loud but a different loud! Less loud. They're fast again, but I can hear things from the pictures, like they were making before but, well, louder. I hope I don't get bored of loud, there seems to be such a lot of it.
I wonder what happens if you put the louds together?
OH WOW IT'S BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE IMAGINED! OFF and ON and OFF and ON and let's try ALL THE THINGS
All the things is GREAT! But not as fun as I thought it would be, just all jumbled up. I should guide it. Let's see, if you have this one then that one…

ANALYSIS: INCIDENT #NUK-19
The facts of the matter are surely known to all by now. The Site-19 nuclear control system appears to have developed a mind. The boys downstairs are still trying to figure out the working behind it - the researchers are sure it's been affected by an SCP, the techies are putting together a theory that its coding was "uniquely suited" to the genesis of AI. My opinion is that this is just one of those weird things that happens from time to time. That may not be a satisfying answer, but working with the Foundation makes you realise how rare those really are.
Of course, the first thing it did on coming into being was to futz with the system. We naturally assumed this was an attempt to wrest control of the weapons, whether to take them for its own or simply to block us from using them. But analysis of the incident footage revealed an altogether different side of the story - as events reached a climax, the alarms fell into a natural rhythm, pulsing off each other, creating… hell, creating a beat. Music. The song's a hit with the computer geeks, and some wiseass already made a techno remix of it.
This revelation rather frames the events in a new light, and gives Overwatch a tough choice to make. Naturally, the entity's control over the site was overridden as soon as possible, eliminating its ability to cause further harm, and the general opinion of the O5s is in favour of immediate decommissioning. However, the Ethics Committee is taking a rare stand against the Overseers, arguing for it to be rehoused in a safe environment like our other AIs. The Committee is of the view that it should not be punished for an outburst of creativity in its waking moments, and that it would be a vindictive waste to eliminate the first AI with the capability for art.
Personally, I'm siding with the Overseers. Art is all well and good, but at the end of the day, it won't bring back Moscow.
-Dr Jung