INTERNAL TRIBUNAL DEPARTMENT

Case file

Сase №24-А-II/2019
Opened on: 19.03.2019
Status: Archived

2nd Tribunal (judge Joyce, judge Brown, presiding justice Peterson)
Defendant: Doctor Frank McCreedy (personal ID 302701), SCP Foundation employee, formerly staffed at Zone 12. Held no assignment at the time of arrest due to temporary suspension.
Corpus delicti: the defendant is accused of attempting to commit crimes provided for in paragraphs § 1.2.2, §1.2.6 and §6.4 LC ITD, as well as of committing crimes provided for in paragraphs § 1.2.7, §3.2.2, §3.2.5, §3.2.8 LC ITD.

It's hot. Sweat rolling down the back has already soaked the mantle and began to seep into the back of the chair. Judge Joyce still did not feel all too well, and so the AC unit remained off – a slightly open window had to do. Distant sounds of the city melded together into a barely discernible noise, occasionally interrupted by the sirens of the police or ambulance cabs.
Justice Peterson pried his eyes away from the papers and took a look around. Judge Brown, a confident middle-aged man, stood by the window and held his hands behind his back. His gaze was cast upon the tall white obelisk dividing the setting sun in two. Brown's thoughts wandered further yet – into the building with the large rotunda, where the man dreamed to work instead of wearing his pants out in the SCP Foundation's Tribunal.
Peterson glanced at Judge Joyce and passed her the napkins with a pat on the back. The aged woman with faded red hair cleared out her nose loudly and humbly responded with an apology. Joyce had been working in the Tribunal for 25 years now, and all this time she refused the promotions to the High Tribunal in Paris, time and time again.
The ISD investigator-prosecutor stopped his rustling of papers and leaned back onto his seat, lazily eyeing the gray-haired Presiding Justice cleaning his glasses. Then, after discarding the cloth into the case, the man retrieved a long silver chain out of one of the drawers – a symbol of the Foundation's judicial authority. Having put it on over the mantle, Peterson immediately changed from the kind-hearted old professor Harvard into an icy bulwark that had sentenced more to death than any juror of the Third Reich could even dream of.
- Mr. Presiding Justice, the defendant has been delivered, - a loud awakening from snooze by the bailiff.
- Good. Gentlemen, please take your seats, - Peterson addressed Judge Brown in plural form.
With a soft step the man took his seat to the left. Brown genuinely respected Peterson, although the same could not be said for Joyce; however, he never disrespected her despite that, either.
The Sentence Enforcement Team soldier brought in a short balding man dressed in a lab coat and cuffed. None of the defendants among the Foundation personnel were allowed to dress in informal clothing – it was imperative for the judges to remember who's standing before them. The soldier seated the man and took his spot beside. Following those, let in by the bailiff, were the secretary, invited expert, and the defendant's colleagues. The procession closed with two of ITD's interns, who took up spots on the last row of the almost empty courtroom.
Peterson looked over those present, then gave a short nod to the secretary. The bailiff closed the courtroom doors.
- All rise!
Those present did so, and the judges pronounced the text of their oath in unison. Then the secretary allowed them to sit back down, and Justice Peterson took the first word. His hardened voice with a light rasp instilled fear – and, at the same time, a hope for justice.
- The SCP Foundation Second Tribunal will now hear the case number 24-А-II/2019. Defendant – Doctor Frank McCreedy, SCP Foundation employee. Mister prosecutor, you may begin.
The prosecutor rose, cleared his throat, and went on to read from his paper.
- Frank McCreedy, you are charged with a number of committed and projected offences related to your position of curator for SCP-████. According to the Internal Security Department's report, you have unwarrantedly approached a person perceived to be a GOC agent, who, fortunately, was an ISD provocateur. In line of this criminal contact with our agent you transferred information constituting operational secrets, in particular the SCP-████ dossier, information about the internal structure of the Foundation and its security system. Seized unauthorized copies of the documents in question have been attached to the case files.

Item №: SCP-████

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: The location of the object is to be concealed from park visitors via imitation of park redevelopment construction. The motion for opening civilian access to the anomaly masked as a lightshow installation (see instruction to Procedure “On the surface”) is currently pending for approval.

Description: SCP-████ consists of a special region of space shaped as a round plane approx. 2 metres in radius, located in ████████████ Park, Washington, DC, USA. Peculiarities in refraction of light, propagation of waves and particles, as well as lack of outstanding air flow within the borders of the anomaly leads to believe that the anomaly is a unique example of a pseudoportal.1

With the help of mist diffusers the Foundation researchers have not only determined the specific bounds of the anomaly, but also that it is a one-way portal. The anomaly does not visually manifest or reveal anomalous properties from the “other side” (the side of the plane directed north-east).

The Foundation does not possess information on when this anomaly formed, which makes it likely that a considerable number of civilians have passed through SCP-████ without realizing or incurring any deviations from normalcy. Due to the fact that attempts at disposal have proved ineffective, and that further use of current containment methods raises considerable difficulties, the containment team is currently revising the possibility of allowing civilian access to the anomaly, presenting it as a visual lightshow installation.

Judge Brown, after requesting permission from the Presiding Justice, addressed the persecutor:
- Mr Persecutor. Aside from the SCP dossier, do you possess direct evidence of the defendant's culpability?
The persecutor took a drink and carried on:
- Yes. We possess a transcript of McCreedy's e-correspondence with the ISD provocateur presented as a GOC agent, as well as a video recording of their meeting in person. As such, culpability in charges provided by article one subarticle two, “Treason”, is evident. That is all in line of charges, Your Honor.
The bailiff passed the persecutor's documents to the Justice. Peterson scrupulously examined them, then passed them – first to Joyce, then to Brown. With a rhetorical nod the judge leaned back with an indifferent look on the face; Peterson meaningfully looked at Judge Joyce. The woman coughed, then spoke up.
- Ahem. With your permission, Mr. Presiding Justice, I would like to point your attention at the charging document. Here we see accusations under clauses of Article III, “Significant Disciplinary Violations”… Insubordination… Abuse of office…
The persecutor rose again.
- Yes, Your Honor, the defendant has committed multiple disciplinary violations of various degrees. All of them are related to the service's internal protocol. Considering the previous charges, I found it unnecessary to mention this specifically.
- A wise decision, - Brown noted while spinning a pencil in his fngers.
Judge Joyce continued talking without raising her head over the rustling of paper.
- But still, this is of relevance to the case. Such severe transgressions are not committed out of whimsy. Mr. McCreedy has an exceptional record, as well. Keter and Euclid assignments. A reward from O5-2. Excellent reviews from colleagues, senior staff and… - the woman lifted her gaze at the persecutor with her brows raised high – And even from the Internal Security Department!
- How will you explain this, Mr. Persecutor? – a sudden question from Brown, who pointedly stared the ISD officer down.
- Issue withdrawn. This court meeting is about McCreedy and not the ISD, - Peterson remarked strictly. Brown nodded in agreement and relaxed once more. – Please continue, Joyce.
- So, Mr. Persecutor, - Judge Joyce continued, - I would like to know what, according to you, is the motive for these crimes?
- We hypothesize that he intended to destroy or hand the object over to the GOC.
- But… if I understand everything correctly, - Peterson passed Joyce the seized copy of the dossier, - SCP-████ is classed as “Safe”. Additionally… right…. Yes, here – it's written… “attempts at disposal have proved ineffective”. May I speak with the expert? Dr…. u-uh…
- Will Hunt, interim curator of SCP-████, - the unremarkable man tenuously responded as he rose from his seat.
- Mr. Hunt, please tell us about the recorded and hypothesized dangers posed by the object, - the Justice ordered.
- Yes, Your Honor. Judging by the results of a large number of research measures undertaken, we can confidently say SCP-████ poses absolutely no threat to…
- It's a lie! – McCreedy shouted suddenly, bolting up from his place. His guard menacingly whipped out a tazer. – Will… Your Honour, I wasn't able to convince them or reach the GOC, but please – at least you listen to me…
- To order! Defendant, you will be given your word. Mr. Hunt, please continue.
- Ah… yes. Of course, - the man wiped sweat off his brow and guiltily turned away from the accused. - SCP-████ is not dangerous and requires no special containment procedures. It's a pseudoportal, the only one of its kind. It leads nowhere… No, not exactly, it leads exactly where it is. Its exit plane is where it should be. It's basically just an area with odd refraction of light, violations of heat transfer and anomalous atmospheric separation that does not affect other material objects. The portal has been detected in the city park, lots of people have come through it and found nothing suspicious. Currently we have an array of water dispersers and lights to point out its location. We plan to lift the quarantine soon and open it up to the public under guise of a lightshow. The path there is rather difficult, anyway, and further efforts at concealment would only raise more difficulties.
McCreedy listened his former colleague's report with undeniable alarm, but the last few phrases ticked him off.
- Come to your senses already! What are you doing? Files, read my files, you're bringing about a K-class event! Classifying a Keter as Safe, even planning civilian access as if it were a tourist attraction! - McCreedy scowled at his colleague.
The guard pointed his taser at the defendant, but was then stopped by a gesture from the Presiding Justice.
- Continue.
- Oh, - the alleged criminal swallowed audibly, and rose with a clank of his chains. – Listen. I apologize in advance for an overly hasty and expressive tale. I am very concerned. Phew… I previously held the position of curator for this anomaly. My group researched the peculiarities of light refraction, passage of waves, and hypothesized that this portal is indeed an unusual case of a one-way portal. But it leads to a dimension that fully copies ours, up to the point where it contains a similar portal that leads into our reality. That is, SCP-████ is basically two portals in two identical copy dimensions.
While Justice Peterson leafed through the dossier, Judge Joyce looked over his shoulder.

Update as of 11.11.2018 Fragment of initial description of SCP-████ contains incorrect information. Object has been reclassified as Keter.

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: The object must remain under protection by MTF Ξ-13 “Storm Harvesters”. Any and all intrusions SCP-████-А must be carried out under direct observation of the curator of research. All persons who disregard this order and enter the object are counted as MIA. Copies of such persons exiting the portal must be immediately terminated or detained (by decision of MTF duty officer at the time).

Description: SCP-████ consists of a special region of space shaped as a round plane approx. 2 metres in radius, located in ████████████ Park, Washington, DC, USA. The object is a portal leading into a different area of space-time (hereafter referred to as SCP-████-А), which is a complete copy of our reality and is inhabited by copies of all real persons (SCP-████-N) and other living organisms.

The unique property of the anomaly is that an identical portal leading back to our reality is located in SCP-████-А. The location of both portals in relation to the landscape is identical. The existence of the object is only visually confirmed by irregularities in refraction of light on the border of the anomaly.

The portal does not transfer light from the other dimension, which makes direct observation of SCP-████-А from our reality impossible. Additionally, the “other side” of the portal plane does not exhibit distortion of space-time. That means that a subject that has crossed the border of the object will not be able to return to their dimension by stepping back. In order to “return”, one must step around the portal and enter again from the same side which they entered when entering SCP-████-А.

All processes happening in SCP-████-А are absolutely identical to those in reality, from global events to molecular chemistry. Additionally, all instances of SCP-████-N consciously mimic the behavior of their “counterparts” in reality. As such, all cases of civilian or employee passage into SCP-████-А leads to an similar passage of an instance of SCP-████-N into our world, with them copying the actions of the “original” in our dimension. The process has been depicted on fig. 1.

Fig 1. Main principle of anomaly functionality.

The danger of the anomaly consists in the transfer being completely unnoticeable due to the portal's properties and equivalence of the entry/exit points in the copy dimensions. The Foundation currently does not possess information on the number SCP-████-N in our reality, or on the number of civilians currently presiding in SCP-████-А. Unfortunately, no method of determining subjects as SCP-████-N exists as of yet. Passive copying of the “original” behavior coupled with complete lack of display of own will also prevents search and detainment of such subjects. Of special importance is the fact that there exists an SCP-████-N copy of every human on Earth, including those of Foundation personnel and world leaders.

The anomaly containment group has taken the decision of classifying the object as Keter due to unknown level of threat from SCP-████-А, unidentified number and level of intrusion into human society by SCP-████-N, undetermined motive for their behavior and level of self-conscience.

- So, to put it bluntly, if I insert my leg into the portal, my copy's leg will leave through the other side. If I enter wholly, my copy will appear in our reality and carry out all actions I do there. The transfer is unnoticeable, so you could just go out on a jog and, as silly as it sounds, jog into the parallel world. You'd go home, sleep, go to your work… and never notice that you're surrounded by a false stage inhabited by copies of your relatives, friends, colleagues. Not just copies. Thinking copies. Consciously pretending and mimicking copies. Now multiply all that by the prospect of the portal opening again. Dr. Hunt is opening the door to a dominance shift scenario. One of K-Class Events, I'll have you know.
- Yes. I see. Right here, - Peterson tapped a dry finger on the paper, - is your version of the document, attached to the case and determined false by the current curator. With a figure… I understand your point, overall. What research led to such conclusions? Do you have proof?
- He does not, Mr. Presiding Justice, - the persecutor denied McCreedy a chance to speak. – Allow me to read an addendum dating 10.12.2018, added by interim curator Hunt after reverting the document to its initial version.

Update as of 10.12.2018 The above fragment of SCP-████‘s description contains false information. SCP-████ has been reclassified as safe. The document has been reverted to original, Doctor Hunt has been temporarily assigned as curator. Personnel with level 4 clearance may view the addendum to the dossier for details.

Incident ████-1-I Description

Previous curator of SCP-████, Doctor McCreedy, had initiated a set of experiments aimed at determining and confirming the theory of existence of «SCP-████-А»2, a copy of Earth and its population fully copying all activities of its “originals” on Earth.

Doctor McCreedy's theory was based on “personal experiences”, unverified by witness accounts or voice and data recorders. In order to search for confirmation of his theory of existence of a parallel world, Doctor McCreedy had initiated a number of tests, a non-exhaustive list of which is as follows:

comparison of star maps;
behavioral testing;
“passphrase/response” checks;
measurements of all known emissions and waves;
measurement of radioactive decay on both sides of the portal;
experiments of data transfer through a cable inserted through the portal;
“infiltration” and long-term dwelling with a helm-mounted camera;
comparison of various events (including those impossible by chance) near the object and inside «SCP-████-А»;
capture and experimentation on persons from «SCP-████-А»;
torture of persons from «SCP-████-А» aimed to receive admission.

Throughout the time of research absolutely no proof of existence of «SCP-████-А» or «SCP-████-N» has been determined. In his attempts to defend his working theory to the last, the curator unjustly reclassified the object as Keter and initiated costly containment procedures. Doctor McCreedy also ignored numerous direct orders and directions from higher staff.
The doctor's colleagues, ISD and the Ethics Committee timely prevented experiments on selective termination and autopsy of persons from «SCP-████-А». Foundation administration likewise dismissed the doctor's requests of arrest of his staff and denied a full rotation of the research campus.
During one of the latest experiments there was a “violation” of the unjustified containment procedures installed by Doctor McCreedy. One of the research team members, having been uninformed of the new directives due to gross criminal negligence, crossed the anomaly border and has been thus terminated by a member of MTF via flamethrower. After McCreedy's dismissal and following investigative measures, Doctor Hunt has been assigned as interim curator of SCP-███.

Judge Peterson shifted forwards, took his glasses off, and spoke:
- My experience tells me this violation of containment procedures was premediated. Is that so, Doctor?
McCreedy remained silent. The ISD investigator-persecutor took a victorious grimace.
- So you suggest, mister Presiding Justice, that he… - Brown pointed a finger at the defendant and went still, awaiting an answer. The persecutor was the one to answer in place of Peterson.
- Yes, Your Honor. That was the continuation of his experiments. We have no proof, unfortunately, and thus I refrained from voicing this charge, but… the ISD is convinced that McCreedy knowingly sent the junior specialist into the anomaly, aware that he will be destroyed by the MTF soldiers. The Ethics Committee forbade him from experiments involving termination and autopsy, so he chose sacrifice of his staff member instead.
- What? Is that your doing? Yours? – Doctor Hunt stood up and was immediately halted by the guard's stern glare. – You're a fucking psychopath, that's who you are. And for what? Got your damn proof?
- No, I did not, - quietly wheezed McCreedy, - the damned hero burnt him to a crisp, there was nothing much left to investigate. Seems like intentional sabotage. Listen – nobody knows of the originals' fate. They may be destroying them in secret, making additional copies. They may no longer shy away from acting the way they benefit from. From failing to copy us. Please understand, with no distinctive properties it is very difficult to keep track who passed through the portal how many times and, consequently, who's who. We could have missed a lot of people. As such, regarding that flamethrower accident… I have the surname and ID of that soldier, Your Honor, I would like to make a motion to…
- Enough, McCreedy. Personally, it's all clear to me, - Judge Brown looked over to his colleagues. – Nothing more to discuss here.
- One last question, if I may, - Judge Joyce addressed the ISD persecutor, - was there an expert examination of the defendant's putability?
The persecutor rummaged through his briefcase and procured a small document.
- Yes, Your Honor. Medical Service Area number 01 has examined the accused and has determined the following…

Medical Area 01

Impression № 475/14-1

Comprehensive analysis of Doctor McCreedy's mental state has yielded unfortunate results. The medical board of doctors has determined that mister McCreedy is under the influence of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, anxiety, as well as paranoia characterized by absolute belief in his unjustified and improvable theory. It is known that the employee held an immense authority among his peers and was a first-class specialist. Evidently, prolonged pressure on Keter-class duties, excessive stress and following sudden transfer to Safe-class curator duty considerably undermined the subject's mental health. In turn, his excessive obsession with work grew into a paranoiac delusion regarding SCP-████.

It is our unanimous opinion that McCreedy's testimonies that confirm his own theory are result of a systematic delusion based on a single case of disturbance of consciousness, coupled with auditory and visual hallucination.

Result: the subject is no longer fit for performing further activities in SCP Foundation due to high psychological instability and extremely high threat to the Organization and the surrounding personnel. Despite aforementioned symptoms, the subject fully comprehended the dangers of his behavior and fully accounted for all decisions. Recommend directing Doctor McCreedy to compulsory treatment in Medical Area 01, followed by deletion of memories of SCP Foundation and personality restructurisation.

- … that he fully realized the extent of his deeds and bears full culpability. Please, study the impression, - the persecutor passed the paper over through the bailiff.
- So, let's summarize, - Justice Peterson passed a hand over his tired face, - we have established practically all aspects of the case. Now, the last question. From myself. What spurred your belief in the parallel world beyond the portal? Why did you ignore the most obvious explanation and construct this complex theory full of specificities and assumptions, which you failed to prove, in addition? Mr McCreedy, please retell us the testimony that the medics of Medical Area 01 and the new curator Hunt allude to.
McCreedy, jingling his chains, exhaustedly rose and proceeded to tell his story.

- So, is that it? – the energetic balding man in jeans and a black sweater approached the plastic diffuser arc.
- Yes, Doctor. The dispersers have been installed yesterday, so you can't see light distortion on the edges now, but the border is much more clearly pronounced. No more accidental contacts, - the young dark-haired woman in a bright T-shirt passed the report and photos to McCreedy. – I took it upon myself and made a few experiments with D-class personnel while you were getting here.
- Excellent work. Let's see-e… Pseudoportal… Interesting. Number of interactions…
- Twenty four. That's those we conducted ourselves. Add in the agents who have detected the anomaly and an uncountable number of people who passed through the portal without noticing a thing. All recordings have been made, no radiation, memetic or antimemetic hazards found. No problems with the test subjects. No other effects of the anomaly.
- Very good. Preliminary assignment of Safe, then. Have you been there yourself?
- I… – the woman faltered. – I arrived immediately after the discovery and the agents have already been through. So we thought this is just a visual distortion…
- Understandable, - McCreedy smiled.– But, Claire, for the future. I've been assigned to Safe as a little vacation of sorts, but my line of duties lies in much more dangerous matters, where a wrong step will have you dead. You might call me paranoid, but I'd only climb into there in person after the twentieth D-ummy.
- Yes, Doctor. You're absolutely right.
- Oh, don't be upset. Sometimes I wish I could take an amnesiac to forget all my work… A week of Safe should cheer me up. You think I should take a visit?
- No entrance into the portal has been accompanied by anything unusual, Doctor.
- Right. Turn it on, I want to see it in person.
The quiet hissing of water ceased. McCreedy approached the portal and attentively looked it over. Just by the edge of it, beyond the parapet, the air shifted and shimmered slightly, as if over a stretch of hot asphalt.
- Never would've noticed it myself, - McCreedy voiced his thought and entered through.
Nothing happened. The doctor saw no shimmering as looked back, either.
- Yep! It only works one way! – Claire shouted over, standing at the other end of the bridge across.
McCreedy nodded to her and went on to walk around the anomaly's surroundings. Fresh air and sunny weather all arranged for it. The doctor's head began filling with idle thoughts.
«It's been so long since I've just walked in a park. Maybe… five years. Or six. I've earned this. “You can't leave this object, you understand it best”. I'm not a machine, Mr. Director, sir, I'm a human person. If I could have copied myself, I definitely would have».
McCreedy strolled on the gravel path. A Foundation member guarding the gates of the containment area, posing as a construction worker, tapped his hardhat with the right hand slightly. The doctor was leaving the guarded area.
«You could bring an impulse charge into that sierra tunnel. An EMP. If it blasts out the equipment, we'll be able to collapse everything without worrying about repercussions. Heffelbaum would be against that. Oh, his ideas of “Thaumiel on the Moon”. Silly. I should think over the details and make a draft for a proposal».
McCreedy, absorbed in thought, strolled out of the park and into a small alley connected to it.
«Right. Not the right thing to be thinking about. SCP-████. Portal. Or, pseudoportal. Mhm. Nothing on the measurement, passage is safe. So, what do we have here… Examining physical state… Analyses, blood… The girl's young but has got her head on her shoulders. Echo… Encephalogram… Real-time distance ECG… Now this is interesting. A miniscule shift in biological rhythm during transfer. Is that a malfunction? Right… No, consistent between everyone. No error in other measurements. Less than a second of delay. No visual inconsistencies during transfer. So then what?»
The doctor failed to look ahead and collided with a well-built man. Both painfully fell to the asphalt. The big guy hit his head, a tinge of red began showing above his ear.
- McCreedy, bastard. Fucking shrink… – muttered the man while holding his head, but then swiftly changed face.
- Sorry, I didn't mean to… Hold on. What did you call me?
The man swiftly changed face, twice.
- I didn't call you nothing. Do you have a paper napkin?
- Yes, I do. Could you repeat what you just said at the very beginning?
- I didn't say anything, get off of me. Hissed in pain and that's it, - the man stood up, shook himself off and spat out, - weirdo.
The doctor remained on the ground. An unusual moment of insight shone within him – and without knowing what he's doing, he entered a minimarket.
There was a small queue at the checkout, a male cashier slowly checked the goods. McCreedy stood near a rack of old-timey sunglasses, tried a pair, and began eyeing the journals on a nearby shelf. Having noticed a big circular mirror above himself, he made a cautious glance in it. The whole queue covertly watched him with seemingly innocent passing glances, studied him. In a fit McCreedy turned on his heels and shouted. For further element of surprise he pointed a finger the way children would improvise a gun. The bystanders did not even flinch, but watched without concealing themselves.
- I'll show y'all's true colours, - sung out the doctor, mimicking a southern accent.
The crowd watched unblinkingly. After a moment, the cashier responded nonchalantly:
- You won't prove anything anyway, McCreedy.
The doctor was taken aback. Suddenly, their looks shifted to judging, and then began whispering between each other. McCreedy heard the words “psycho” and “nutjob”. He ran out of the mall and ran to SCP-████, failing to keep breath.

- …when I entered the portal again, I immediately directed a group of agents to search for the video out of the mall. And what'd you expect? The recording is the almost the same, but only almost. Nobody was watching me, and the cashier never addressed me. Do you understand? And when I returned SCP-████-А, the video had been already deleted. Do you get that? I returned back again, but somebody wiped it in our reality as well. They're among us! Listen to me! Anybody! – with a crash of his cuffs McCreedy noisily fell into his seat again.
- I've heard you, Mr. McCreedy. The Tribunal will now depart to make their judgment, – said Peterson.

The judges held their council for about forty minutes and emerged quite exhausted. Those present rose again.
- The SCP Foundation Tribunal will now declare their decision. In the name of humanity and normalcy. Dr McCreedy, for your transgressions against the organization, which are: attempts at sabotage, attempts to contact a GoI, dissemination of classified information, preparation to destroy anomalous object, preparation to transfer anomalous object to GoI control, multiple gross disciplinary violations, as well as unproven but obviously evident case of termination of a Foundation employee, considering the weight of your charges and a high risk of recidivism, the Trubinal sentences you to death penalty. Considering your contributions and a lengthy record in line of duty for the Foundation, as well as a fact of psychological illness, the Tribunal considers it possible to replace death penalty with personality deletion followed by compulsory treatment and implantation of false memories. The Tribunal reserves the right to again replace treatment with death penalty on motion from the ISD or Foundation medical personnel. This decision may be repealed by O5 Command in accordance with the established procedure.
McCreedy closed his eyes and silently let the guard drag him out of the hall. The invited participants slowly filtered out, and the last to leave were the ISD persecutor and the secretary. Only the judges remained.
It has gotten dark outside. Judge Brown shifted to his favourite window and took a look again at the snow-white building with a grand dome cupola. Behind him, with a loud clattering of metal, the Presiding Justice was busy taking off the silver chain around his neck.
- They've made a strange decision, - Brown spoke, addressing his own reflection in the glass.
- It does not matter now, - Joyce replied, collecting papers into the briefcase – and, strictly speaking, never mattered from the start. Precisely from the moment he tripped up and remained here.
- Agreed, - Peterson entered the conversation while packing his glasses into the case. – This could have taken a much harsher turn. Let's be glad that absolutely nothing at all was required from us.
Brown smirked. Beyond the window, around the sharp-tipped obelisk, drifted white and red lights of cars, which, from this distance, seemed more so like toys.

Footnotes
1. An object that enters such a portal ends up in exactly the same space as it would have with no interference from the portal. In other words, a pseudoportal is a portal that leads into itself.
2. The designation is used for informative purposes only and is not a valid designation. There is no proof of existence of «SCP-████-А».


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"Mmm. That's pretty sure."
"I wouldn't say it if it weren't so."
Richard sighed again as he stamped out the wilted remains of his cigarette in the ashtray before gathering the dossier in his hands once more. He flipped through a series of black and white satellite photos, a few written memos, scribbled post-it notes still attached. He closed the manila folder before setting it back on the desk and clasping his hands behind his head.
"You know the Foundation doesn't have a big presence there, Tony."
"If we did, I wouldn't be talking to you, Richard."
"And the research department is certain that it's there?"
"Sure as-"
"My ex-wife, yeah, I got it. I need to be certain though. Getting a presence there requires the kind of capital that takes years to build, Tony. You can't move on these things overnight."
"Well, it's a good thing you've been here for a while."
Richard snorted. “But what's it doing there, anyway? Last time it was spotted was in London, and they found it in Mongolia.”
“I would imagine that he wants to go home. Can't blame him, really.”
“And you don't think Jane's people can handle it?”
“The Brits? C'mon Richard, we both know who's leading this circus. The Brits don't have the balls to do it without us. They need you to push the suits over here in the right direction. You know, lead them to the water and shove their heads in.”
“Careful, Tony, I'm one of those suits now.”
“You're still one of us.”
Richard paused. Was he? He certainly didn't feel that way on most days. In fact, most people who saw Richard day to day simply assumed that he was one of the many ordinary lobbyists who clamored for congressional attention for their pet causes. For the most part, his routine was the same as well; meeting with government officials, taking them out to lunch, arranging calls with important people, and filing stacks of reports.
“…okay. Leave it to me. I'll see who I can talk to.”
Tony grinned, standing up from his chair and extending a hand out. Richard accepted it with only a moment's hesitation.
“Great. I knew I could trust you on this one.”
Richard stood up and walked with Tony to the door, opening it for him. Tony looked back at him, still grinning as he clapped a hand on Richard's shoulder.
“Hey, when you get it done, we'll get a drink, eh?”
“Might need it, Tony. I'll call you.”
Tony stuck a hand in his pocket as he sauntered away, waving a hand behind him as he left. Richard watched the white coat-clad man walk away for a long time before he slowly closed the door and adjusted the lapel of his suit. He calmly strolled back to his desk before sinking down into his chair and opening the manila folder once more, this time with a pen in hand. He re-read the highlighted sections of it again, carefully this time, making sure that he understood the exact characteristics of what he was looking at and where it was located before making a few annotations of his own. After a few minutes, he stopped to rub at the back of his neck and stretch out some kinks in his shoulders that he had developed from his routine of hunching over the desk.
Richard idly tapped the pen against the top of the desk, head propped up by his left hand.
Well. No other way around it, he supposed.
He reached over the desk and plucked the phone from its cradle before punching in the number with his pen and raising the receiver to his ear. It rung for only a moment before going through.
“Yes, Mr. Brooks?”
“Claire, put me through to the Secretary of Defense's office. I need to have a word with him.”
“One moment, sir.”
Richard continued tapping the pen on his desk as the call was transferred. He supposed that getting as close to the top as he could was the best place to start. The phone clicked as the call finally went through. An unusually bright voice answered.
“Hello, you've reached the secretary's office. How may I assist you?”
“Mary? This is United States Liaison Richard Brooks. When can Donald and I have a chat?”

Richard gave a small nod to the waiter as he set down the plate with his salmon meuniere. The other plate was gently placed on the other end of the small table, a New York strip steak, extra rare. Richard's companion for lunch gave a tight-lipped smile and a nod to the waiter as well, before taking up his fork and knife.
Richard had opted for the privacy of the small table at the back of his favorite steakhouse. For lunchtime meetings, it was his favorite spot to talk, as the waiters were quick, quiet, and most of all, discrete. They weren't the type to gossip about their patrons, seeing as they saw many of Washington's elite dining there regularly.
Well. It didn't get much more elite than him he supposed. Richard sliced off a piece of his salmon and ate it, hardly even getting a feel for the taste, eating in a perfunctory manner. In contrast, his lunch guest ate as if he were attacking the meal, the bloody pieces of meat still oozing juice with every stab of the fork. Richard took the smallest sip of his glass of water, before clearing his throat.
“Mr. Rumsfeld-”
The man in question waved a knife in the air in Richard's general direction. He paused to place his fork and knife down gently, before dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. Richard couldn't help but notice that he had nearly devoured his entire steak in the few short minutes, leaving the salad more or less untouched.
“Please, Richard. Call me Donald. We've known each other long enough.”
“…alright, Donald. How's the steak?”
“Fine. It's fine. Come on, son. We've been doing this long enough for you to skip the chit-chat. Show me the courtesy of telling me why you're here, and we won't waste anyone's time.” The secretary clasped his hands on the table in front of him.
Richard reached into the messenger bag by his foot and withdrew a manila folder. He placed it on the table and slid it towards Rumsfeld, who opened it and began perusing the contents. Rumsfeld's eyes widened for a moment, the only hint of emotion betraying his otherwise impassive face. He finished browsing the contents, and closed the folder while setting it back on the table before regarding Richard with a cool gaze.
“You people are an odd bunch, you know that?”
“We try our best, sir.”
“Who gave you this intel? CIA's been looking up their own ass for over a year now, and they've barely scratched their own rectum. Meanwhile, you people seem to have a knack for knowing things you shouldn't.”
“All due respect, Donald, you and I both know that I'm not at liberty to say more.”
“Figures. What's the angle, then?”
“Pardon?”
“What did I tell you about cutting the bullshit? You can't possibly be dropping something like this out of your sense of civic duty. You're a Democrat, after all.”
“Independent, Donald. But you're not wrong. We have….other interests in that region, assets that we would like to acquire. Relevant to our primary objectives. It would benefit us if the United States government were to…increase its presence there. Think of this as a casus belli. A justification. Our interests are coinciding in this case.”
“I know what casus belli means, son. I went to Princeton. Where did you go?”
“Harvard, sir.”
“Figures. So what are you people so interested in that it'd come to this?”
“I can't say much, Donald. You know how it is. But suffice to say, the consequences of not moving in there could be…catastrophic. Let's just say that the UN isn't looking for the right weapons of mass destruction.”
Donald Rumsfeld tapped a finger against his temple as he leaned to the side of the chair, readjusting his position as he maintained his eye lock on Richard. Richard sat, fingers laced together, and resting on the table, simply waiting.
“So what would you need from us?”
“Not much. Just assisting with the deployment of one of our recovery teams. We think your initial targets would coincide with ours, so we're happy to move in after the first wave.”
A grin curled up the right corner of Rumsfeld's mouth. He leaned forward onto the table, still staring straight into Richard's eyes.
“You're a real bastard, you know that? How long have you been sitting on this intel for?”
Richard was unmoved.
“As long as we needed to, Donald.”
“Terrific answer. There's a career for you in politics yet, son.”
Donald stood up from the table, and collected his jacket, shrugging it over his shoulders. The assorted members of his security detail moved as one, filing around him as he plucked a toothpick from the table and stuck it in his mouth. He took the folder from the table and handed it to one of them, who carefully accepted it before tucking it into a briefcase. Donald turned to look at Richard one last time, the point of the toothpick stabbing outwards.
“Done. I'm sure you'll be hearing from my people soon about the details, but this is more than enough for me to go on. Always a pleasure, Richard.”
“Claire will handle the details, I'm sure. Have a nice day, Donald.”
Rumsfeld gave one last nod of acknowledgement before walking out of the private room, flanked on all sides by ear-piece clad men in black suits. Richard quietly sat at the table for a moment, before exhaling the breath he had been holding in for the entire lunch. He glanced down at his hands, which were trembling. Richard sighed, letting his heart rate come to something a little more healthy, before taking up his fork and knife and finishing his lunch.

May, 2003
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Richard and Tony clinked the two freshly opened beer bottles against each other before both of them took a deep swig. Richard set his bottle down next to him and leaned back in the reclining swivel chair of Tony's office. The last few months had been a flurry of activity, ones in which neither of them had managed to get much sleep. Richard hadn't even seen Tony since that day eight months prior, busy as they had both been on different sides of the same project.
The liaison clasped his hands behind his head, savoring the opportunity to roll his sleeves up and loosen his tie for once. For his part, Tony looked equally laid-back, coat off and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. Richard closed his eyes for a moment, simply content to bask.
“Was it hard?”
The question shook Richard free from his almost-dozing state. He opened one of his eyes to peer at Tony.
“Was what hard?”
“C'mon. You know. Talking to them about it. How do you do it?”
“I don't want to talk about work, Tony. I thought we were relaxing. How are the kids?”
“You don't give a shit about them and I hardly do either. C'mon. Answer the question.”
Richard sighed. “Somewhat. Coming up with the right amount of evidence, while being vague enough for them to fill in their own details.”
“You mean lying.”
“I didn't lie to them, per se. Rumsfeld's been looking for an excuse for a long time. Let's just say that I let his imagination wander a bit.”
“Ah, creative lying. I like it.”
Richard snorted. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Just before Richard was about to take another drink, Tony lobbed a rolled up newspaper at him. Richard caught it, and unrolled it. It was a newspaper front page from the week before. The main photo featured the president, doing his most presidential smile and giving a thumbs up as a crowd of people before him clapped and cheered. The headline matched the gaudy stars and stripes banner in the background of the photo.
“MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.”
What Richard's attention was drawn to, however, was the circling of a face in the crowd, difficult to recognize from this distance. It wasn't hard for him though, seeing as the face belonged to himself.
“If it were only that easy…” Richard muttered as he looked upwards from the paper, rolling it up once more.
“Hey, the president said so. Must be true. Can I ask you another question?”
“If it'll get me back to drinking sooner, then sure.”
“Do you think it was worth it?”
Richard paused. He looked outwards, through the window of the office, into the view of the staging area where the workers were beginning to haul in the new acquisition, the reason that they had lost sleep for months. The engravings on the outside of the three meter stone cube seemed to drink in the light, making the staging area darker than it should have been. All around, researchers were flitting about, making notes of the various symbols, examining the intricate door, and directing junior researchers here and there.
Richard Brooks reached into his breast-pocket, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out, tapping it against the side of the pack before placing it into his mouth and lighting it. He inhaled deeply before exhaling out a cloud of smoke.
"Let me ask you a question first. Why did you come to me to do it this way from the get go?"
Tony fidgeted in his seat, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
"You know we don't have-"
"-a large presence in Iraq. But we still could have pulled something off. Come on Tony, be honest with me. Who did the calcs?"
"…risk assessment ran some models. It'd be cheaper to do it this way. Too much hassle the normal way."
"Figures. Then to answer your question, we got it back, didn't we?”
“Well yeah, of course. But at the cost of-”
“Then mission accomplished to me too.”


[[iftags +component]]
[[=]]
For information on how to use this component, see the License Box component. To read about licensing policy, see the Licensing Guide.
[[/collapsible]]
[[/div]]


The wind swept over Oak Hill Cemetery, shaking old leaves from old trees. Spring was coming to an end, and Autumn was preparing its arrival. Visitors pulled close their jackets as they lowered flowers to their dearly departed. Children walked aimless and restless. The act of paying remembrance to those-no-longer-with-us had yet to become weight in their minds.
In a far corner of the cemetery, shaded by large trees peeking over the fence, was a mausoleum. A concrete hut covered in leaves, algae growing along its base foundation, served as a memorial. The lock was never turned in recent years; it had been more than a decade since its last visitor.
The inside of the mausoleum was barren of adornment. Like funerals, grave memorials were more for the living than the dead, but the practicality of being an impenetrable box took precedence over aesthetics. Light only filtered through the foggy glass of the steel door, and even then it revealed no things of beauty, no flowers long dead, and no traces uncovered by dust. In this concrete room with no windows, alone lay the last living reminder of Rebecca Soss.
The reminder, a broken headstone with a name, a poem, and an oak tree engraving, did not touch the floor beneath. In defiance of fate, it remained.
For thirty years, it remained. It broke no further. It refused. It would stay elevated.
But all pass in time. Year after year, those that built the concrete hut of the memory became occupied, dropping the burden of remembrance as thoughts passed and so too letting the headstone fall. It hovered barely an inch from the floor now. It was only a matter of time.
A gust blew across Oak Hill Cemetery and over the mausoleum. With the wind came a draft through the thin cracks of the steel door. With the draft came an unseeable force, cold and quiet. This air of mysticism touched every wall and shifted every loose piece of gravel, until suddenly it stopped. And then, there stood a woman in a suit, as if carried in by the wind itself. Her body remained still as she turned her head and assessed her surroundings.
Surely this was the wrong place.
Normal locales for the specter was hospice rooms and bedrooms in lonely houses. In such places, the soon-to-be departed was clear and obvious. And yet here she was, in a boring cell with a rock on the floor. Something wasn't right.
She took a few steps to the stone and squatted down to get a better look at it. Fine marble, sturdy. Seen better days, probably. A tree carved into it. A name.
The name…something about the name. Rebecca. Soss.
And then it clicked, and the specter spoke, its voice ethereal and distant like a whisper from the opposite end of an old chapel.
"I remember you."
She did. Three decades ago, in a Wisconsin home, the ghost appeared very much as she did now… save for the color of her hair and skin. She remembered the softness of Rebecca's voice in her last moments. She remembered how it quivered, reluctant to the idea that her life was at its end. She remembered how Rebecca's body relaxed as she understood there was no point in resisting. The specter waited with her in silence as the heart carried out its final beats. Rebecca would not die alone.
The specter was the only witness. Her hand was the last hand Rebecca held before her soul moved on. And now, it was time for the final piece of her departure.
The specter sat down in front of the reminder. She reached into her suit pocket, but hesitated. She remembered how much smoke bothered Rebecca in life. She'd keep the pack in its place for now. Out of respect. She put her hand on the stone and waited.
The wind swept over Oak Hill Cemetery, rustling the branches above the mausoleum. Within, a ghost and a memory, neither related. The final moments passed, one after another, bit by small bit, without witness or interruption. The world was blind to the event.
And then, a crack.
The wind stopped. The trees ceased their autumnal dance. The people remained still for that singular moment. Silence.
Another crack. And then another. The headstone fractured as it impacted the floor, each split branching into multitudes of breaking paths… until finally, it was over.
The marble stone became gravel on the floor of an unadorned concrete room. The final memory of Rebecca Soss lay in pieces above her remains.
The specter remained seated for a brief moment before standing up. She dusted her pants. Her job was done. After giving one last moment of mourning for the twice-departed, the wind blew again.
Peace had come to this place. It was time to move on.


The first thing that John noticed is that it was dark. There are, of course, many types of darkness.

Just a few short seconds ago...

The first thing that John noticed is that it was dark. There are, of course, many types of darkness. There's the comfortable darkness, with the gentle embrace of good nights sleep. On the other side of that coin, there's darkness that presses down with the gentle embrace of an enemy sworn to strangle you. Most people would say that the worst kind of darkness has just enough light to let you see things slinking around. They are wrong. This was the kind of darkness that loudly and violently denied that light even existed. This was… advanced darkness.
The second thing, and possibly more disquieting, was that it was very moist. Slimy could also be bandied about, if basic linguistics could have surfaced above the untold number1 of other questions he had about where, what, and why it's undulating.
Things did not undulate in John's world. It was just an unfortunate coincidence that John's world had been swallowed by a very excitable Shiba Inu.
With a slippery surge, John burst out of something, the extraordinary sights of his surroundings not at all reaching him through his very closed eyes. Not opening his eyes was vital. Opening his eyes meant that everything that had happened was real. It meant that his home was destroyed, he wasn't anywhere near his town, and that the dog-
"Welcome home!"
John very slowly opened his eyes, only to be greeted by the face of a happy Shiba Inu.
Said Shiba Inu2 continued.
"Sorry about the travel time!".
Had everything gone as planned, John would have woken up slightly slobbery but no worse for wear. An unfortunate mathematical error on the half of Reginald, who forgot to carry the 3, had landed them in some wonky chocolate factory. A fun destination for small children, it was more of a terrifying exercise in cacao based death for Reginald. Still, it was impressive that he could calculate trans-dimensional quantum vector calculus without looking at his paws.
John propped himself up on the fluffy carpet and looked around. It was his father's office.
There was the large mahogany desk, caringly and humbly marked with the number of pygmies who died to acquire the wood. The dark chocolatey leather of the office chair. Towering bookshelves dusted with sugar. It was still almost correct. The stuffed alligator was, in fact, a crocodile. One potted plant was a particularly suspicious shade of green.
Nothing had changed in his since he was a kid. Except for the bits that had.
The swaths of jungle print carpet were the same. His father had never really got the idea behind jungle print, John reflected from his position sitting on a helvetica 'e'. A dense fog shrouded the room in what might have been mystery were it not such a pleasantly bland relief from the visual assault on his eyes.
The fog machine was still present, at least. That was fairly comforting to John.
And John desperately needed all the comfort he could get. The shock of his kidnapping had taken a crowded back seat to nostalgia and loneliness. Waking up in unfamiliar places was no new ground to him - it wasn't uncommon to find himself next to his father in entirely unfamiliar lands, if there were lands at all3. Here, now, the death of his father was finally hitting him. There was just something about the news being delivered by a talking dog that made it fail to sink in. Needing guidance, John turned to the most normal, familiar thing in his life at that moment, who was currently chasing his tail around a gothic print 'g'.
John sat for a bit, considering the innumerable failures that had led him to this point. Being born, that was up there. He had to imagine that semester abroad held some measure of blame. Branton, Missouri! What was he thinking, a place so… so… exotic! But if he knew his family, the only way out of this was straight through.
"Reginald." His words drifted through the fog, exciting currants and Eddies in the wafting mists.
"Yes!" Reginald snapped to salute from his thorough ocular patdown of the room, one ear upright and the other half cocked as if in salute. He held this pose for a full 0.23 seconds before his eyes began to slowly trail back towards his tail, an infinitely more engaging and lively target than the slimy John before him.
"I. Ok. What are we doing? What do you need me for? You told me dad was in danger."
Reginald's ears wilted as he lowered his head in shame.
" I'm sorry John but your dad really is gone he didn't even say goodbye to me"
John had long ago processed his separation from his father. In an unusually creative turn years ago, he planted a modest garden with a tasteful and respectable selection of flowers, appropriately somber for a funeral. His father would have hated it.
"He never was much one for goodbyes."
" No but he was a good boy and now we need to help him"
John sighed. "Help… how?"
"The Executive Board is trying to come back the Chairman4 is trying to break the seals after your dad shook all those cans and made them sniff their dividends!"
When one considers the Executive Board, it is important to recognise two things. One is, of course, the delicate balance of homonyms in the English language and the broader implications of transdimensional etymology. The second is that the Executive Board of any corporation is a parasitic arm5 full of metaphorically soulless, vile, horrible, inhuman, eldritch, abominable, dreadful, cheating-at-foosball, odious, offensive, obnoxious, no-good-very bad hornswaggling blood sucking zombies who are categorically incapable of contributing any value to the company.
In the case of Wondertainment, this description is also literal.
The Wondertainment Board of Executives hailed from a place beyond conception where the stars had long burned out, husks rolling aimless, unheeded horror without names or knowledge. This did not bother them, for they had no eyes. The company was their vision.
In several years, John's father would drive them out with arcane magics and rollicking fun. The specifics were rather lost on John, who at the time was 3 years old and engaged with the Wondertainment Grabby-Claw-Thing™. Without thinking about it, John absentmindedly began to rub his back, remembering flashes of the glowing orange hexagons.
"I know this is a silly question, but what do you need me for in any of this?"
"Joooooohn John John you need to renew the blood rites inside the Workshop of Wonder they're about to faaaaaaiiiiil"
"Are they," replied John flatly.
"yes"
"You know, you kidnapped me."
Reginald cocked his head at John, panting lightly.
"I'm a bit upset about that."
"yes that's pretty reasonable."
"Reasonable!" shouted John, standing abruptly. "Nothing is re-tiddly-von-sidderlysonable anymo-"
He caught himself. That part of him was gone. He left it behind with the Wondertainment Super Secret Surprise Box™.
"Ok." John took a deep breath, readying himself. "Take me to it. So I can do whatever this is. And then I can go home."
Reginald looked between John and the door. John sighed, and followed the Shiba Inu to the door, slipping through the Way and towards the the Factory Floor.

It would perhaps be worth taking a moment to describe the wacky, weird, and wonky world of Wondertainment. Wondertainments through the years would tell people that it's located between imagination and fun, but that's a flight of fancy. The Wondertainment complex was hapazardly strewn across slips and crevasses in more esoteric spacetimes, the kind that contain more than one time dimension, and at least 5.3 spacelike ones. Commonplace directions, such as "turn left at the Corgi Pits", were as productive as a pit full of Corgis. This would pose a problem to any employees that were attempting to clock out, had the machine not disappeared under mysterious circumstances6 three eternities ago.
The Wondertainment Factory Floor, which did overtime as R&D and a janitorial closet, was built on the founding principles of wonder and fun. Work fit into neither of these categories, and was greeted with a mixture of shame and some mild gastrointestinal stress. Describing it would be as fruitless as describing the infinite potential of imagination; indeed, a particularly well negotiated deal meant that sections of the Floor were built from the minds of children7.
Perhaps an observer would see a gaggle of Wonderneers working merrily over a vat of innocuously bubbling cauldrons. Possibly be they would find a delightful gorilla in some spiffy overalls. Perhaps hear the screams of some unfortunate mister. Maybe see an unfortunate Wonderneer fall over a nonexistent railing into an innocuous bubbling cauldron8.

Beyond the factory floor, across 5.3 space-ish dimensions, there were the Wondices, less painfully referred to as the fun-gulags.9 It was here that John and Reginald found themselves after a perfectly cromulent trip through the firmament of reality. The only particularly interesting encounter in their journey, other than the usual pattern screamers, was a rather nice young man named Arthur, who was enjoying a nice ham sandwich on his lunchbreak. This run-in with John and Reginald would quite seriously traumatise the otherwise perfectly respectable accountant and leave him with an extraordinarily unlikely idea. During his stay in the sanitarium, many would comment on his peculiar mantra: "contain the man secure the dog protect the sandwich". This did not dissuade him of his fascinatingly foundational idea, and he eventually shortened it to something a bit more catchy. It would eventually become quite the influential idea.
The particular subtend of the fun-gulags that Reginald and John found themselves in was formerly the manufacture of Happy Hiker Grrrranola Trail Mix™. The transition to gaping hole in shareholder value was widely considered a good move. It was here that the executive board was trapped, stymied by a dearth of bureaucracy, Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™10 , and of course, heavy ordinance.
Reginald finished scarfing down the remains of a ham sandwich. "This is where he did it! This is where your dad 'sponged The Board!" Reginald's tail wagged excitedly as he pointed with his nose towards the 8-ball shaped hole.
The room could be described thusly: An appropriate amount of walls, the exact right amount of ceiling and floor, and sparsely decorated except for the center. The center of the room had an odd protrusion that roughly resembled an 8-ball haphazardly latticed in Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™. Except instead of black paint on the 8-ball, it is the sheer absence of any light at all. And it wasn't an 8-ball, it was a horrid gash in the fabric of fun. And just like regular, boring gashes in the fabric of spacetime cause light to warp and bend around them, this horrid gash in the fabric had an even more mortifying effect: to warp and bend fun itself.
Whispers that bounced around the room promised stock options and treasures yet to come. It was profitic.
John noticed all of this, and a couple extra things. The Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™ were stained with a dried, brownish substance, that was of note.
He also noticed that Reginald no longer quite looked like a Shiba Inu. The dog reminded him of the Wondertainment Mister Homemaker™ handpuppet he had growing up, with the Cobalt rod and the bleach. There were lumps and shapes where there shouldn't be. Like a hand shoved and contorted into a form not its own. John didn't remember the tentacles either, come to think of it. John shook his head. The pit was playing tricks on his mind. He couldn't have known that was the warping of fun itself, stripping the fun exterior from Reginald. John can't read the narration, you know.
The gravity of the situation was beginning to weigh on him. And slowly drag him towards the center of the room. Towards the 8-ball.
"I - I don't know about this, Reginald. I, I can't -"
The rest of the words did not make it from John's mouth. Reginald was hacking up something akin to a hairball, but as established this is not quite what John saw. In John's eyes, Reginald was revealed as an aberrant projection of some greater malefic intent, redolent of twisted Riemannian geometry and blasphemous shapes, the sum of their angles defying all measures, impudent in its Poncelet profligacy.
You know. Lovecraft shit.
By this time, John's nerves had long since broken. He may have been able to handle the talking dog. The return to the Workshops. Probably not this eldritch paroxysm before him and certainly not all those things and The Board. The shattered pieces remaining of his psyche would now be more ostentatiously described as deliquescing. With rising panic, John stepped weakly backwards, slipping on the same dark substance splattered across the Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™. Arms wheeling, scrambling for purchase, he slammed onto the Wondertainment Absestoslutey Safe Linoleum™, falling backwards towards the 8-ball, dragged by its gravity.
"John!" Reginald bounded forward towards John, whatever thing Reginald had been throwing up - and the Shiba had been throwing up, like a weird hairball, John now realised11 - held in his mouth. Reginald quickly tossed it to the side as John instinctively grabbed a Wondertainment Big Foam Noodle™ to stop his fall.
"John! Don't panic!"
John could feel his legs, now halfway inside the abyssal 8-ball, go numb.
"Panic! I'm not panicking! This isn't panic! Wait till I adjust to all of this! Then I'll panic!"
As if sensing his panic, the abyss gave another pull. John's hands slipped on the Wondertainment Big Foam Noodle™, now slick with John's sweat and the dried brown residue.
It is said that impending doom gives great clarity. It lets people focus, collect their thoughts. It's a shame that those thoughts are often "I'm in impending doom".
John Unterhaltung noticed three things.
The first thing was that he was in impending doom.
The second thing was that it almost smelled like chocolate.
The last thing he saw was the bottle of Wondertainment Interdimensional Banishment Chocolate Syrup™.

Reginald whined sadly, curled up with his tail between his legs. He looked at the failing stickers and Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™ that were all that remained between the Board and the pure, uncut fun of Wondertainment.
"I need to find another Wondertainment :("

Footnotes
1. At least seven.
2. Who as you remember was named Reginald
3. The family trip to Saturn did not go well. It was smoggy, wet; didn't support human life at all. The worst part was when they found out that the jewelry store was closed. It was strange, their advertisement about rings was still up.
4. With his metal wheels and his lumbar supporting back. Absolutely shameful.
5. The hand notably does not reflect light in the visible spectrum.
6. Involving a masseuse, a brown M&M, and a parcheesy game
7. If Wondertainment employed ethicists, they might argue that children needed their mental facilities. Wondertainments did not employ ethicists.
8. The Floor is built on wonder and fun. What need do they have for safety?
9. Wondertainment does not employ ethicists.
10. The Wondertainment Big Foam Noodles™ were moderately effective at binding the profit motive, but child testing indicated that the fun was unbound.
11. Finally.


« Act II - Scene III | Demasqed | Act II - Scene V »

Act II - Scene IV

Interior of Site-96. The stage is fairly sparse, with one door downstage center-left, and a large wooden desk with a hollowed out space beneath it inside the implied room of the door. The stage is barely lit, with a spotlight following Dana and Jazz, who are sneaking around, quietly. Each one is holding a powered flashlight, and wearing comfortable, gray clothes.

JAZZ
(whispering)
Are you sure they're up here?
DANA
(whispering)
No, but I know they were moved to a new room. I'm just not sure which one, or even really which floor.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Well we can't be here all night, the security guards are eventually going to come up here.
DANA
(whispering)
I know for a fact that the security guards are a floor below us right now, and that's the main base of operations, so there's a lot of ground to cover. Plus there's alcohol, and if they didn't change the rotation, that means Boris is lead patrol tonight. I always find like half a bottle of gin missing when I come in on Saturdays and Thursdays.
JAZZ
(whispering)
You've really thought this whole thing through, haven't you?
DANA
(whispering)
Well I don't exactly want to get caught. Even if we are employees, breaking the lockdown is a pretty serious offense, one that I don't know if Michael would be able to bail us out of.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Yeah, I guess you're right.

The two walk down the hall, towards and past the door.

NARRATOR
As Boris and Landa sat at the bar, drinking the night away, they were in perfect bliss. But what they could not have known is that something was lurking in the shadows above. For on the floor just above them was-
DANA
(frantic and terrified)
My husband and I are in a rough patch! My husband and I have hit a sort of a… uhh… rocky place in our marriage and I've been… sleeping on the couch downstairs for the past few days!
NARRATOR
…
JAZZ
(awkward)
…
DANA
(awkward)
Yep, totally normal thing for me to bring up, and I'll continue to as the night goes on, don't you worry!
JAZZ
(awkward)
Dana… I…
NARRATOR
Boris and Landa began to head upstairs, wary of what they may find. Was it anything? Was the narrator playing mind games for a bit of fun? There was no way to know.
DANA
Oh shit! Here!

Dana motions to Jazz to hide under the desk. They cram underneath it, just able to fit.

DANA
(whispering)
Alright, we should be good here.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Dana, what was that? The whole thing with your husband? I mean, I'm happy to listen, obviously, but it felt a little… out of place?
DANA
(sighing)
Sorry… it's my… it's the thing the Hornets won't talk about. My uhh… marriage.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Oh…
DANA
(whispering)
Yeah… but, hey don't worry, it's all good. Nothing you have to think about too seriously.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Are you guys going to be alright?
DANA
(whispering)
Yeah, definitely…
JAZZ
…
DANA
(sighing, looking down)
I don't know.
JAZZ
(hesitantly placing her arm on Dana's shoulder)
Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Wanna talk about it?
DANA
(whispering)
I don't… I don't know.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Well what happened to cause it? Just a general feeling, or something specific?
DANA
(whispering)
Something… specific. Something… related to my job here.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Oh… Oh.
DANA
(whispering)
Yeah… ever since all that stuff with the D-Class came out… I mean, he was already pretty upset for finding out I didn't actually work at a lab, but this sort of pushed him over the edge. He doesn't…

Dana breaks down.

DANA
(crying softly)
He doesn't think he can trust me anymore.
JAZZ
(sympathetic)
Hey, hey, that's okay. That's okay, you know? This stuff is bound to happen with a job like this. It'll only be a matter of time before things get back to normal.
DANA
(wiping tears)
Yeah… no, you're right, and plus… I don't think we're going to get divorced, it's just… really hard… right now. I think… I think I may have been so invested in this whole "mission" because I just need something to take my mind off of things, you know?
JAZZ
(sympathetic)
Of course…

Jazz sits, comforting Dana silently as he dries his eyes and regains his composure. They sit awkwardly, still under the desk, for a short while.

JAZZ
(quietly)
Mine is also about my relationship…
DANA
(whispering)
Huh?
JAZZ
(clearing throat)
Sorry my… my hornet thing is also… about my relationship. It's… m… my boyfriend, Brimley.
DANA
(concerned)
What about him?
JAZZ
(whispering)
I don't… I don't really know. I don't know, it's just… something is wrong, and I can't tell if it's him or me.
DANA
(whispering)
Well, like, give me an example?
JAZZ
(whispering)
I mean, he doesn't seem super invested in our relationship, but he still like… loves me… but I don't know… if I love him? And I feel like such an asshole for it…
DANA
(whispering)
You're not a bad person for not having feelings for someone… When did you start noticing it?
JAZZ
(whispering)
I mean, sort of for a while but… I guess after he didn't bail me out, that sort of solidified it for me.
DANA
(concerned)
Wait, was he supposed to?
JAZZ
(whispering)
Yeah, I called him the night before you got me and told him I needed his help but he sort of… ignored me. In his defense, though, I think he'd been out drinking.
DANA
(concerned)
How is that in his defense, if anything that's worse.
JAZZ
(whispering)
I don't know, he's a young guy, he's allowed to go out drinking with his buddies. It just felt… it hurt. But I mean, he's usually pretty nice, is the thing. When I was so broken about the whole North Korea thing, he convinced me to stop being sad and he took me out to get tacos.
DANA
(whispering)
Are tacos your favorite food or something?
JAZZ
(whispering)
No, they're his… he had been wanting to go and I tried to get him to stay home with me but he convinced me to go get them with him…
DANA
…
JAZZ
(whispering)
That sounds pretty bad when I say it out loud.
DANA
(whispering)
Jazz do you… have trouble saying no, to him?
JAZZ
(whispering)
I mean… not… I…
DANA
(whispering)
You've got to be more assertive. This guy sounds like… like he's taking you for a ride, you know? He gets you to do what he wants, and doesn't give that back to you.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Our relationship just has a different… dynamic, I think…
DANA
(whispering)
Are you happy?
JAZZ
(whispering)
… well I mean, that's sort of a loaded… a loaded question, I don't really… see…
DANA
(whispering)
Tell me the truth. Heart to heart, I spilled my guts, you spill yours. How long have you wanted to break it off?
JAZZ
…
DANA
…
JAZZ
(whispering)
Almost a month.
DANA
(whispering)
Jazz… you have to do this. You owe it to yourself, you're… you're a wonderful person and if being alone is going to make you more happy than being with Brimley, you need to tell him that. Firmly.
JAZZ
(whispering)
Yeah…

The pair sit in silence once again, both deep in thought. Suddenly, the sound of voices is audible from stage left. Two security guards, Boris and Landa, walk in holding flashlights. Dana motions to Jazz to keep silent.

BORIS
Look man, I'm pretty sure the Hornets were just pulling our legs, there's nothing up here except that weird-ass robot thing.
LANDA
We should still look everywhere, just in case. I mean, we don't need more fuck-ups at this site, I think the daytime personnel have got that basket pretty full as it is.
BORIS
Come on, we would have found something by now, plus there hasn't been an announcement since we started looking.
LANDA
I suppose that's true…
BORIS
Let's just head downstairs again, this floor is empty. Alright?
LANDA
Ah… I see what you're saying.
(loudly and suggestively)
Alright! We are heading downstairs now! I hope nobody tries to sneak around after we leave, which we are doing right now!
BORIS
(confused)
What the fuck are you… we're actually leaving you moron. This isn't a set up- the hell is wrong with you?
LANDA
Oh… sorry.
BORIS
(walking offstage)
Fucking idiot…

Boris walks offstage, with Landa following close behind. Dana slowly leaves from under the desk, followed by Jazz.

JAZZ
Jeez, that was a really close one, huh?
DANA
Jazz… thank you for listening to me back there. And… I hope you take my advice.
JAZZ
(awkward)
Yeah… yeah definitely. But now… can we maybe ignore all that? I'm in a very emotionally weird place right now.
DANA
(awkward)
Yeah, of course, yeah.
JAZZ
(awkward)
Cool… thanks…
DANA
Well, at least we know one thing.
JAZZ
What's that?
DANA
Boris mentioned finding a "weird-ass robot thing" and I'm pretty sure he meant Crystal-INE, so we at least know they're up here.
JAZZ
Wow, you're a shockingly good listener.
DANA
Why thank you. Now without further ado, let's go find that weird-ass robot.

Dana makes an incredibly dorky "victory stance" pose, which Jazz chuckles at and rolls her eyes. Blackout.

End Scene

« Act II - Scene III | Demasqed | Act II - Scene V »


Tubbioca was dreaming of munchies and flowers on his soft bed when he heard the door to his containment cell open slowly. He yawned and stretched his little plushie nubs, then slowly rolled over.
"Hello? It's munchy time already?" He inquired looking around, but he saw no one.
"Playtime? Where is everyone at?" No one was there.
He heard a faint rustle as if someone had moved paper. The plush was confused. His door was never left open without someone coming in or out.
"Who's there?" Silence.
Tubby jumped off his bed with a soft thump and started waddling towards the door. He wondered whether the nice people with the munchies would come today. He did love his munchies.
"Munchies? Is it munchy time already?" More silence.
The plush paused in thought. Where were his friends? He didn't have an answer, so he decided to find out. Maybe he would find his munchies along the way.
"Where is everyone?" Tubby asked himself.
Tubbs waddled out of his containment cell and looked around. To his left, a long hallway with doors along both walls, that ended in an intersection with another. To his right, a similar hallway but this one ended in a large space far away. A sign was on the wall with words on it.
The right or the left? The tiny plush didn't know which way to go but decided to go to the right since it was shorter.
Off he waddled but stopped suddenly. He saw something on the wall halfway down the hallway. With fast little plushie waddles, he made his way over there. Tubby looked up at the wall, there was red stuff smeared on it.
"Those are pretty pictures!" The stuff on the wall must be pictures because they looked like the ones that a researcher showed him on several cards. She'd called them pretty pictures and asked him to tell her what they looked like to him.
He nodded and said happily, "They are really pretty pictures. Thank you whoever made them."
And the pictures were drawn in red too! He liked the color red. It reminded him of the juicy, crunchy, red munchies his friends sometimes brought him. This made him happy and he began to dance. First, he hopped. Then, he spun. Followed by a double hop, another spin, and finished with a roll from side to side.
After his little dance, he happily bounced down the hallway with little plushie bounces. Now and then he would pause to look at more pretty pictures on the wall, and repeat the process. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this hallway pretty for him.
The plushie was so happy that he passed an open doorway and almost didn't notice it.
Tubby stopped and turned around. He tilted to one side, then the other. This was the only open door he'd seen since he started exploring. He forgot about the pretty pictures he was following and waddled towards the open door.
"Hello? Anyone in there?" Only the soft rustling of paper answered him.
"Are you a friend?" This time, there was no sound.
Tubby frowned as much as his little plush face allowed. He knew he had heard something.
Silently he crept up to the doorway and looked inside. It was an office. Directly inside the office, there was a simple desk and chair with a trash bin next to them. He moved further inside and saw another chair next to several bookcases and filing cabinets to his left. There was no sign that there was anyone in the room.
"Come out! Don't be scared. I'm a friend." He squeaked, getting frustrated.
Nothing moved, but Tubby knew there was something here. He scanned the room from just inside the doorway. Then he moved towards the desk and looked behind it, but nothing was there.
A rustling sound came from inside a drawer of the file cabinet. Tubby snuck over to investigate and out popped a small origami teddy bear holding a folder.
The origami teddy bear jumped down with the folder and ran out the door.
"Stop! That's not yours!" But, the figure was gone.
Tubby ran as fast as his little nubs could take him. Once he got into the hallway, he saw the figure flatten itself and disappear through a crack in the wall. It left the folder outside the crack.
"Wait! Let's be friends!" The plush yelled after the paper figure. This thing was quick.
Tubby came to the crack and stared at it. He was confused. How could that thing fit in there? He pressed himself up against the crack. He couldn't fit. His plush body was too big. The origami figure shouldn't have been able to fit either, but somehow it did.
"Hello in there! Why did you hide?" His only answer was silence.
"Do you have munchies in there?" He asked hopefully. Nothing but silence. Tubby frowned.
"Fine! Stay in there! I don't wanna be your friend anyway." He huffed. What a rude paper creature!
He looked down at the folder. On it was a name and a small picture of one of the friends that would come visit him. Inside, there were papers with many words on them. Tubby frowned as he tried to make out the words but couldn't. He soon gave up and turned away with hurt feelings. All he'd wanted to do was make friends with the paper bear.
He walked towards the cafeteria. Several times, he turned around because he thought he'd seen an origami bear head poke out of the wall.
The cafeteria looked huge to the little plushie. And there were tables and chairs. He immediately forgot about the strange paper thing. Tubby stared in awe at the vending machines in front of him. Slowly he approached the vending machine.
"Wow! Munchies in a box," he muttered, "Big box."
He had never seen so many types of munchies. There were munchies in bags. Some were in wrappers. The wrappers were pretty. He particularly liked the shiny ones. The plushie tried to jump up to the dispensary opening but his little plushie legs couldn't send him high enough.
"Bye munchies, I'll be back soon," he said with a sigh and waddled away from the munchies in a box.
Tubbioca was distracted when he spotted a pool of red with an object next to it. He waddled over to investigate.
"What is this? It's so pretty!" He exclaimed.
The plush poked it with a little nub. It was sticky and quickly stuck to his nub. He thought it felt weird. Tubbioca poked it again. And hopped up and down with excitement at discovering something new.
Tubby looked down and saw his nub had left a mark on the floor from the red fluid. His little eyes widened. He could draw pretty pictures with this red liquid.
Tubby dipped his nubs in the red liquid and started drawing. He didn't know what he was gonna draw but he knew it would be wonderful. Frantically his little nubs drew squiggles, circles, and he even managed a few squares.
"Ta-da! All done!" He exclaimed happily. He was now standing in the middle of a crude drawing of himself about 5 times his actual size. All drawn in the red liquid.
Tubby nodded approvingly at his handiwork. He thought it was the best anyone would ever see.
The plush then finally noticed the object resting next to the pool of red.
"Oh, you're a pat-pat!" Tubbs squeaked with joy. He loved pat-pats. They solely existed to hold things and to give him pets. He was sure that's what they were naturally designed for.
He started to waddle over to the pat-pat but found his front nubs had difficulty moving. The red fluid had begun to dry on his little nubs and had gotten quite sticky.
"This stuff is sticky," he said looking at his sticky nubs. How would he get rid of the stickiness, he wondered.
His eyes widened as he had an idea. He quickly popped his right front nub into his little plushie mouth and started to suck on it. Once that nub was clean, he proceeded to work on the left one. Within a few minutes, his little nubs were clean, though his body had some red smudges that he didn't notice at the time.
"Tastes kinda weird," he said smacking his little plushie mouth.
Tubby circled the pat-pat, it wasn't attached to an arm-part, which he thought was peculiar. All the other pat-pats he had seen were connected to a human person with an arm-part. He then turned his attention back to the severed pat-pat and waddled over to it.
"Hey pat-pat, you gonna give me pets?" It just sat there and didn't respond.
"Pat-pat please give me pets?" Tubby asked again. Again it seemed to ignore him. He poked it. It didn't move.
"Do you have munchies?" He nudged it with his head.
The plush frowned. Maybe the pat-pat was sick. Or maybe it was lost and didn't know what to do without a human person. That must be it, he decided, the pat-pat must be lost.
"Do not worry pat-pat," he comforted, "I will find your human person."
Tubbioca waddled away, confident that he would find its missing human person. He headed towards the nearest door, which leads to the cafeteria kitchens.
Tubby pushed the door open to the kitchen and looked around.
"Pretty! Someone worked hard," He said.
The entire kitchen had been splattered with red liquid. It covered the floors and parts of the walls. A person sat slumped in a corner with several shards of bone embedded in his chest along with many slashing cut marks across his unmoving body.
"Oops! You're sleeping. I'll come back later," Tubby said as he sees the sleeping person.
Tubbioca waddled backward out the kitchen door. He tried to be careful to not wake the sleeping person in the corner but the kitchen door slammed closed.
"Shhhhhhh!" He scolded, "He's sleeping!"
A loud thud resounded through the cafeteria as something heavy hit the floor.
Tubby whirled around and saw a teddy bear-shaped entity made of various pieces of bone.
"Hello, friend!" He exclaimed.
The bone teddy tilted its head to one side contemplating what to do about the grey plushie in front of it. Then it took a slow step forward. And then another.
"You want some munchies?" Tubby asked. "Munchies are in the big box over there." He nodded towards the vending machine.
The bone bear stopped and stared at the little grey plush. Then it took another step forwards.
Suddenly, the skeletal bear was no longer slow. It was very fast. The bear covered the distance between the little grey plush and itself within seconds.
Tubby felt a sharp pain from behind and was sent flying end over end. He landed with a light thud and skittered across the floor.
"That really hurt!" Tubbs complained, rolling back to his feet. Despite the pain, Tubby was unharmed, though there were light marks on his rear that proved the bone entity had made contact.
The bear moved with surprising speed. Again closing the gap between the plush and itself, this time slapping Tubby across the face with razor-sharp skeletal claws.
Tubbioca was sent spinning from the force of the blow. When the spinning stopped, he felt dizzy and his face hurt. He felt tears welling up in his little plushie eyes.
"Why did you hurt me?" Tubby rubbed his face.
In response, the teddy smacked the grey plush across the face again.
"Go away!" He yelled and launched himself towards the bear with a headbutt.
The grey plush was sent flying over a table by the mighty smack that he received as a counter-attack.
He shook himself. That last hit had really hurt and had made him a little dizzy from the tumble. The bone bear ran towards him.
Tubby rolled to one side and jumped at the teddy. This time he made contact. His little body had enough force to knock the bone bear over on its back. Tubbs began to jump repeatedly on top of the entity.
"Why did you hurt me?" He demanded, jumping on the bone creature with each word.
In response, the entity fired a bone spike at Tubby's face, sending him flying backward. He landed a short distance away.
The bone creature jumped to its feet and extended an arm towards Tubbioca. It shot at Tubby again, this time barely missing him.
"Don't throw things at me! It's rude!" The plush shouted. He was angry. He had tried to be friendly. He'd shown the thing where the munchies were. Was his kindness returned? No, instead this thing was trying to hurt him.
"You're making me angry!" Tubbs shouted.
Tubby then did what he knew best. He munched. Quick as lightning, Tubby engulfed the bone spike that was embedded in the floor, pulling it free in the process.
The change was slow at first but became faster as it progressed. First, little nodules began to form all over his body. Then, they began to grow outwards. Finally, they stopped growing and developed hard sharp tips on them. Tubbioca now looked like a hedgehog with spikes made of cloth-covered bone.
The bone teddy tilted its head to one side as if noticing the change in Tubby's appearance. It fired another spike at the plush but Tubby hopped to the side. And fired a bone spike right back at the bear, barely missing it.
"Take this!" The plush yelled at the bone bear and fired another shot, hitting the bear in the chest. The bone bear shook itself and fired back, but missed.
Tubbs shot several spikes at once towards the bear. Each spike hit and embedded into it. The bear wobbled and stumbled forwards a step. Tubby fired one last spike, once again striking the bears head. And the bone teddy fell over. Its bones separating once it hit the floor.
Tubby, the now spiky plush, shed a tear. He didn't know why the bone bear was not moving anymore. More tears came.
"Sorry!" He cried. "Soooo sorry!"
"Why'd you hu-urt me?" He cried as he piles more of the shattered bones together.
"Bones come back! I said I'm sorry! Wake up!" He nudged the pile of bones.
"Bye-bye bones, sleep well," he said and shed one last tear.
He turned away from the pile of bones. The plush was very sad. Tubby never wanted to hurt the bone bear but it had made him angry and was trying to hurt him.
Tubby shook himself, rattling his bone spikes. He turned to the next hallway and started waddling.

Tubbioca was still waddling aimlessly, thinking about what he'd done to the poor bone teddy. When the floor suddenly dropped out from under his little nubs. Tubby was suddenly bouncing down a set of stairs. He hit each step on his way down with a little "oof" and the rattle of his bone spikes.
When he reached the bottom, Tubby shook himself.
"Oopsy," he remarked with a little smile. As startling as it had been, he had to admit that was kind of fun.
"Wow!" He said as he saw the hallway before him.
The hallway was in a state of disarray. Light fixtures had been damaged and doors were broken or left open. There was red liquid on the walls and some on the floor. And to Tubby's surprise, there were people sitting or laying on the floor.
"Friends!" He yelled. He was so happy to finally see people after what had happened to him
Not a single person moved. Tubby ran up to the closest one. A man with a black vest and a helmet on that was laying on the floor with red streams from his ears.
"You sleeping?" Tubby asked. He nudged the man's arm.
"Can I go back to the room now? I'm very tired." He stated. The man didn't respond.
"Wake up! Why is everyone sleeping?" Tubby asked.
Tubbioca frowned and waddled quietly through the dead as to not wake them. He suddenly stopped because he saw something strange.
"I've never seen you before ear-man. Are you a friend?" Tubby asked a man covered in ears. It didn't reply.
As he walked down the hallway he saw more and more strange bodies. Some had holes through their chests or abdomens. Tubby didn't understand what he saw.
Tubby waddled along then stopped. Some distance in front of him there was a large open room. And inside that room, he thought he could see figures gathered in front of a massive set of double doors that were slightly open
The plush got excited. These might be friends. Maybe they had munchies. Tubby ran towards the room.
"Hi, friends!" He exclaimed as he entered the room.
The group of bear-shaped figures turned to face the plush. And tilted their heads to one side.
"You shouldn't be here," said an electronic voice.
"Why not?" Tubby asked. He looked around for the voice.
"I'm Tubbioca! Who are you? Do you wanna be friends?" Tubby asked.
A normal looking teddy bear stepped forward with another bear that was made of wires and radio parts. The ordinary teddy bear stepped slightly further forward and motioned to itself.
"I am known as Builder Bear. The humans called me 1048. The others are companions that I built." The electronic bear said for the other.
"No objects are supposed to be wandering around," the electronic bear said.
The ordinary teddy turned towards the group and made several motions with its paws. All of the bears spread out and encircled Tubby.
"Who let you out? Was it a human?" The radio bear asked.
"I dunno," Tubby responded, "I woke up and the door was open."
Tubbioca saw the origami bear and got excited.
"Hello, friend! Nice to see you again!" He exclaimed.
The origami bear ran and hid behind a metal bear.
"How do you know that one?" Radio bear asked the plush.
"I found him in a room with a folder," He replied.
Builder Bear glanced back at the paper bear and then looked back at Tubby.
Tubby smiled at the builder bear. He had made a friend he thought.
Builder Bear tilted its head and motioned at Tubby.
"Kill it," the radio bear said.
"What? No, don't kill me!" Tubby gasps. He thought they were friends.
All the bears started to move forwards. The metal bear was the fastest and leaped at Tubby ready to shred the plush to ribbons.
Tubbioca managed to roll out of the metal bears path just in time. Unfortunately, he rolled right into a bear made of batteries and wires. Tubby felt an intense electrical shock as the wires on the teddy bear wrapped around him.
Tubby struggled as hard as he could, using the bone spikes he'd acquired from the bone teddy bear earlier to rip wires. A bone spike logged into the bear's central battery and suddenly the plush was let go. He turned around to see the bear staggering backward holding its chest.
"Sorry!" The plush apologized. Even when he had to, Tubby didn't like hurting things.
But Tubby didn't have time to feel sorry for the battery and wire bear. Other bears were quickly closing in.
Metal bear made it first again to the plush and this time landed a fearsome blow, sending Tubby flying into a teddy bear made of nails.
The nail teddy tried to puncture Tubby. But Tubby's plushie skin would just bend. The plush did feel sharp pinpricks though where the nails tried to dig in.
Tubby shook violently trying to get the nail bear off of him. His spikes managed to knock some of the creatures apart and it let go, but was quickly back up.
Slowly, Tubby was whittling down the bear's numbers. The fight was quickly boiling down to several bears that Tubby's bone spikes could not damage and the Builder Bear with its radio bear companion.
The remaining teddy bear constructs circled the little plushie. Tubbioca was getting tired but these things were not giving him a break. He had three more bears left to fight. There was the metal bear, with its impenetrable metal structure and its raw power and speed. There was the nail bear with more metal defense and its strategy of bear hugging its opponents. And finally, there was the rubber bear, made of bits and pieces of rubber. Tubby's spikes could hurt it but not break it apart.
Near the giant open double doors, stood Builder Bear and radio bear. Builder Bear was busy trying to create another bear.
Tubby panicked as all three bears leaped straight for him at the same time and shot all his bone spikes, launching them in all directions like an exploding porcupine. Tubbioca closed his eyes and expected to feel pain from being beaten by the brutal bears. But all he felt was the weight of the teddy bear constructs as they fell on top of him.
He struggled to get out from under the bears. Fearing they would start attacking. Then he saw it. Builder Bear lay on the ground with two spikes in his teddy bear chest and one in his head.
"Hello?" Tubby asked. He heard muffled crying from inside the giant doors.
He walked over to Builder Bear and poked it. Builder Bear did not respond.
"Not sorry," Tubby said. And waddled past the now deceased teddy bear. This one time Tubby believed was ok to have hurt something.
Inside the room with the double doors were all of his friends. Many were wounded and some were sleeping but all were tied up and gagged.
"Wow, it's a party!" Tubby squeaked with joy! He had found his friends.
He started to waddle over to the group of his friends but paused. His stomach felt weird. And he noticed the spikes had never grown back. He felt a surge within his body and he regurgitated the spike of bone that he had eaten back in the fight with the bone bear.
Now Tubby was back to normal. He bounced over to his friends and nuzzled them. Many made sounds at him but he couldn't understand them with their gags in their mouths. The plush didn't care. He was just happy to be back with his friends.
Tubby found his favorite person, a researcher that visited him daily, snuggled up to him, and said, "Nice party. But I'm ready for bedtime! Can I have munchies later?"
The researcher looked confused at the plushie staring at him. Tubby didn't care because now he had found his friends. The plushie curled up and fell asleep.
Later, a mobile task force secured the area and freed the prisoners. Tubby was placed back in his containment cell and given a big snack before he went back to sleep.