The brickwork was warm to the touch, sandpaper stone that grazed her fingertips. She wondered how they were made. She knew it had to do with clay, and kilns, but nothing beyond that.
Bricks turned up everywhere here - spilling out of skips, or casually chucked through a window. Where did they come from? Were they the trappings of dead houses, ruins picked through for pieces of others' lives, or were they surplus, somehow finding their way into the general population?
She wasn't sure she wanted to know, because then she wouldn't be able to look at them as she did now. Nobody ever asked these questions - or, she supposed, someone did, in a little office in a masonry company somewhere south of the river, bordering onto a sand-waste builders' merchants. But outside of that little world, they were more like vagabonds, travellers turning up with their own premade underground of signs, symbols, communications.
One brick talked to another brick about the conditions in Southwark, for example; the places to hide, to avoid humans. Campfire talks revolved around dreams of being part of a house again - or perhaps a fear, a desire for individuality, for independence, a revulsion towards their mortar-glued cousins. Revolutionary tracts were passed around - freedom! An end to the mortar, which binds and annihilates us! - until one of them was picked up by a passing vandal, and the rest scattered, to turn up on a roadside somewhere in Aldershot many months later.
Nieves was contemplating this at a little cafe near Waterloo. The sun shone on mudstained groundwater, covering a bit of cobblestone. It was one of those cold, sunny days where a preceding rain had blown everything up. It was just London.
One hand lay on a notebook, another held a coffee mug. It was actually hot chocolate inside the mug - she was wiling away the time by waiting to see when Simon would notice. He would, probably, scold her for drinking something so inappropriate to the scene. He was always doing things like that. He had images in his head, specific and well-drawn pictures, lively portmanteaus he wanted so badly to bring into the world - and, in this vision, espionage was properly conducted with black, severe coffee.
The sun was starting to turn red, framed by two long hedges either side of a residential street. She cocked her head on one side and made a note. The sunsets here came a fraction earlier than one would expect them to. She shifted a leg uncomfortably, and swatted at a fly on the table.
The timeline was a splinter of Sol. She wasn't exactly sure when it was, but some time in the 1960s. The cars were oddly rounded, great caps over the wheels, all flowing curves and frontal grills. It was like art deco was catching up forty years too late.
But - had it been the 1960s a few minutes ago?
She sighed, and took a sip. No. It hadn't. This kind of life used to seem so glamorous to her, once upon a time.
She got up and headed down the street. There was absolutely no point trying to keep her notes straight now; clearly, time had indeed got muddled here. Again. Her contact would have been long since thrown into another reality, and there was absolutely no point in her tarrying in this reality.
The road was one of those residential London streets that could be anywhere else in the country, but which have some specific shape or structure that marks them out as being inextricably, invariably London. Flags marking the coronation were strewn from house to house, winking in the sunlight. A street party was going on, people chatting as they held glasses and pitchers of punch or beer, the children darting between their legs in petticoats -
Damn. Ten more years gone, just like that. 1953.
Nieves sighed. She really did not want to be doing this. She did not, in general, like time travel; she much preferred skipping between universes to having the temporal ground shift beneath you. Her newly regained sense of solidity could do without the constant rewriting of time itself.
She turned a corner, and a bomb swooped down and blew her into shreds.

Nieves sighed. She really did not want to be doing this. She did not, in general, like time travel; she much preferred skipping between universes to having the temporal ground shift beneath you. Her newly regained sense of solidity could do without the constant rewriting of time itself.
She turned a corner, and a bomb swooped down and almost blew her to shreds.
She pinched herself. Now it's the Blitz. She remembered seeing the images of Toulouse burning during the Third Global War back on Orchard; it seemed very similar to that, except that the English had won their war, and the Occitans had not.
She stepped forward, gingerly. The street was fine. Smokestacks blew up into the air, crowding out the sky. There was no bomb, no broken shrapnel. The bricks hummed in the walls, forming their first songs of rebellion.
England was full of places like this; those dull suburbs stretching in time, remade and reconstituted with the seasons but always the same place, the same concrete or tarmac. This was just their precursor. A man strode across the street in a top hat and tails, holding a copy of a newspaper under his arm. She moved forward, glancing up at the towers, barely noticing as the thief's knife slid between her ribs.

She moved forward, glancing up at the towers, barely noticing as a thief leapt forward at her. She dodged aside as the neighbourhood's respectability collapsed into the past. A loud and well-built man was decrying the French invasion of Russia to some friends. His voice carried over the thick August air.
Her clothes were now of the time, stifling and hot. She fanned herself vaguely, enjoying the summer sun. A cart rattled by; she plucked up her skirts as she stepped over a muddy street. She turned a corner and gasped, collapsing from the smallpox -

No, wait, that wasn't right.
Nieves rolled her eyes. She wasn't happy with this particular job. She did not enjoy moving through time. Throwing herself between one solid universe and another was much more her style. Her experiences at Site-01 seemed to have bolstered her sense of self, and she didn't want to see that crumble so soon.
As she turned into the next street, a bomb fell and -

Nieves hated time travel. She'd been born in Asturias, a country that knew the value of long and bitter time. It was part of the national culture; the ancient and neverending raids against Andalus, the long-spent dream of seizing Toledo, the wars over Saragossa and Lishbuna that had all seemed to blur into one, as she wrote down dates in a tired history class. She did not want to muck about with the past, dredge the old traumas past her waking eyes. She wanted to -
The bomb went off slowly, teasingly. The first licks of flame burst from its skin, like crushed fruit; then they expanded, floating up and around as a great and ragged orb absorbed everything into itself. She felt herself burnt, caressed by the flame, as she moved her languid arms to embrace it.

Nieves turned a corner and saw herself die.
Shit. That wasn't good. There were dozens of herself, entering the same street and being blasted apart. She turned and ran the other way, and felt herself crumble and fall with others of her as the smallpox clung onto the intestines, made them bend and bleed.
Was that how smallpox worked?
Multiplying time avenues. She hated time travel, but - no. No, she didn't. Let's try that, twenty of her thought, as they ran in a third direction.
Nieves loved time travel. As a girl, she had consumed adventure novels, books about knights shattering the formations of Moorish invaders. She'd wanted to join the army and march south, shattering all that came before her. Nieves del Rio was a fantastic name - snow of the river! Meaningless, but so romantic!
Nieves had wanted to go back so much. And then, one day, as a Foundation operative, she did go back, and saw the suffering, the poverty, and each individual human being ground down into nothing. So after that she hated time travel. She never wanted to see another past again.
She ran down another street. Westminster Cathedral stood out, stark, in front of her, its faux-Byzantine facade towering over her. It shone red in the half-light of evening. She'd read somewhere…
Or Simon had told her, the many hers, about this place. It was entirely constructed out of brick - no steel supports. A new cathedral for the post-emancipation Catholics. Christ's cross shone bright under the dome's gloom. She headed for the door, but was dragged away, the Puritan black cloaks taking her to be hung.

It was getting less clear…
Nieves had wanted to go back so much. And then, one day, she went back, and saw the suffering, and the poverty, and each individual human being ground down into nothing. But she came to accept that. Each one was a person. Even if they did not realise their own humanity, they were still people. Life was a vast and rich tapestry, and each moment of suffering was another thread.
She headed for the door, and swung it open. The bricks here were covered in soot - was that soot? No, this was a cathedral. But they were dark, Victorian, solid and uniform. Each individual brick did not matter; what mattered was the pattern, the whole, the bright and humming song that each of them contributed one strand to.
And in her mind's eye she saw all the bricks, each and every one. All their supports, their struts, their competing claims to the building's support, stretching out and multiplying in London, in England, all across the isles. So many bricks. So many of them, screaming and shouting, unified and unified, rising and falling even as the people moved through them, passed away from them, struck their heads on their corners and drowned beneath their archways.

Nieves had wanted to go back so much. And then, one day, she went back, and saw the suffering, and the poverty, and each individual human being ground down into nothing. And she didn't know that she had any thoughts at all.
She moved through the cathedral as it became Tothill Fields again, a prison of incarceration and redemption. She heard the screams of such a place, smelt the straw and dung, fell again into the cathedral, into the marble floor. She righted herself, and ran to the altar as the bricks fell around her, the naked sky of the future and the violet yawning maw that would, God willing, take London into its own -
She fell upon the altar, and stared at the inscription. It was not the right inscription. Someone had changed it.

For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me.

She felt the last of the bricks fall, and then there wasn't a London, or an England, any more. It was just a group of people, praying beneath the widening maw.

One of them got out. One of them had to get out, because there was nothing that had actually happened that was fatal. She'd just fallen into a distortion in time; that was not fatal in and of itself. Sometimes two or three could emerge from them, but in this case, it was just one.
Simon apologised profusely. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry, Nieves - I didn't know. All the reading pointed towards it being a standard temporal anomaly, I didn't - are you alright?"
Was she alright?
She looked out at the river. She was sitting at a little cafe on the waterfront. Snow was falling onto the water.
"Nieves, are you alright?"
The girl said she was, and said some other things to shut Simon up, to placate him. She took out a book, but she wasn't much in the mood for reading. She didn't like to use her name. She wasn't really sure what it was, any more.
That morning, someone called Nieves del Rio, having newly regained her name, had sat down at a cafe. But now, in the evening, someone sat outside another cafe and stared at the bricks. If you listened very closely, you could hear them sing.
She looked at her hands, critically. She wanted the skin to slough off again, but it wouldn't. It just stayed exactly where it was.

Vast Suspended Ruins

Foundation of Nomads

Irene in Leafy English Suburbs


NOTICE
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SITE-800 ABRIDGED DOSSIER

Official Designation: SCP Foundation Arctic Research Facility
General Information: Site-800 is a building complex located in a region in northern Greenland known as Coffee Club Island. Due to the location being uninhabited, the region normally has no issue with maintenance of normalcy, allowing a more "hands-off approach" in regards to anomalies. Site-800 currently only has around 20 members, making it one of the Foundation's smallest sites. It is generally supplied by boat, with rationing instated in seasons with icier waters.
Site-800 was established to observe the anomalous nexus surrounding the general northern Greenland area. This area spans around 12,000 sq. kilometers in size, and anomalies found in the region vary greatly in danger level and ability to be contained.

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AUDIO LOG FILE ATTACHMENT
Testing, testing. Yep, working now. Hello there, I'm Vince, the Director for Site-800. If you are reading this now, there is a good possibility that I am already dead. No, there isn't any monster out to get me, I'm not on anybody's 'to kill' list, just me.
It was three days ago when I was last at the Site. Our facility operates relatively different to other sites, in that we don't exactly contain anomalies, mostly just watch them from afar. It's pretty hard to contain these things in these elements. So we are mostly out and about, moving from place to place watching anomalies. Those ads they gave touting the Site-800 heating systems? Yeah, never gunna' see them. Hyperbole for you, literal for me.
Let's see… where do I start?
This site is by far the most expensive to maintain, having to supply everything through all of this icy water and whatnot. Overwatch Command wants to get their bang for their buck, right? What better way to do that than to send your employees into the gut-wrenching wilderness in the name of science!
That went as well as you could expect. I'm actually surprised we went this far without casualties. And by god, am I happy to fill that first slot.
We were assigned to watch a Keter-class entity, as we usually do. Me, Anne, and Will all go down to the coordinates they gave us, which is on a mountain a few kilometers up. We walk around the place a few times, looking for what we are meant to be tracking. That's when I felt the ground beneath me begin to shift, and you can already predict what happened next. Both me and several tons of snow slid off the mountain, never to be seen again.
Most deaths from avalanches usually come within the first hour or so, from suffocation. If a person is not dug out of the snow, then that person has virtually no chance of survival within the first 2 hours. Unless, that is, said person had a part of them extruding from outside the snow that they could use to dig themselves out.
I woke up feeling… groggy? My body, pretty beaten up. Snow is great at keeping you from dying if you fall from the height of, say, a mountain. I've even heard about people surviving from falls as high as ten-thousand kilometers if they fall into snow thick and powdery enough.
We pack communication devices in case of situations like this. Very useful, and until now we've never really had any need for them. Now, you can color my surprise when it turned out that I didn't actually have any in my bag. Woops!
So, like an idiot, there I was, cold as hell, sifting through a bag over and over again for something that isn't there.
I soon had the common sense to take shelter in a nearby cave, but the effects that could provide are limited. Thing is, being in the Arctic, there just aren't many trees out here, so not much to start a fire with. So, I did what any reasonable person would do, and set my bookbag on fire. In negative 50 degree weather, I do what I can.
We usually never receive prep for situations like this. Reason? The Foundation usually just sends a task-force into an area via helicopter or something like that, and if you die, you die. You get replaced, and the cycle continues. Anne was next-in line for Site Director in my case, if you weren't aware. Honestly, she should've gotten the job before me, she was a much better candidate. Smarter, better-equipped, less prone to falling off the side of cliffs…
I know how to ice-fish. You live in Greenland, you kind-of figure these things out. Kept me alive for quite some time. But even with my wonderful god-given ability to rip animals out of the water beneath and bite out their internal organs, that doesn't change the fact that I can't go on like this forever. Here, I'll either end up starving to death, freezing to death, or facing the same fate hundreds of different ways.
The primary directive of the Foundation has firmly been to maintain normalcy. Kind of ironic that in an area without any human life, a true normal, we end up falling flat on our faces. Or maybe I should be speaking for myself, who knows?
Why do I bother record myself? That's the question of the hour. Habit, I suppose? Recording yourself always goes under the assumption that there would be somebody to come across said recording.
[Pause]
Is anybody going to find me? Ever? This mountain has a radius of god-knows how many kilometers. If they do end up sending a search party out, even comprising of the full whopping 20 members of Site-800, will they be able to cover sufficient ground in time?
Today is Christmas Eve. Merry… Christmas I suppose? I had planned gifts to give out to both the other employees as well as family back home. I… miss them. I told them I was on a business trip, what will they be told now? And on Christmas?
I… don't want to die. Nobody ever does, I suppose. With all the monsters you might face on the daily, they wouldn't let anybody in that would fall over and die easily.
Please, if you're listening to this… just… remember me. That's all I ask for.
Vince.. signing off….
AUDIO LOG END


Winterheart

More by this author.

Kawasaki Kyoko sits cross-legged on the floor in a sterile grey chamber under diffuse LED light panels. The walls are thick and warded, the only entrance a heavy steel door leading to a airlock chamber. People with lab coats and clipboards watch through the thick bullet-proof glass of the singular window.
She opens her eyes. An indistinct fleshy mass about the size of a basketball sits in front of her, partially enclosed in a special container of bronze and steel. Tubes and wires protrude from the pulsating sac in dozens of places and clear fluid is continually pumped in and out of its slimy form. Kyoko smiles at it gently. It makes a strange squelching sound, as if in response.
"Diagnosis?" a voice asks, over the room's speakers. One of the lab-coats.
"It's sick. Fivefold Dissonance, stage 2."
"Anything you can do?"
"Unlikely, but I'll try." Kyoko relaxes her grip on local ontology, letting the 2nd Generation Scranton Reality Anchor assert control over its own little patch of existence. To the baseline senses, nothing changes, but Kyoko can sense the flickering potential of smoke-spirals and five-pointed stars in that space. She slowly tightens her control once again, feeling out the contours of the anchor's pseudo-mind from how it pushes back. Please behave, she tries to tell it, nudging it back toward the true baseline. She's supposed to be able to tune these things, but there are limits. One weird idea about pentagrams and it's off to Decommissioning to have their beryllium-bronze reclaimed.
If she'd been born ten years earlier, before Hypnos, would they have scooped out her insides to make one of these? The Foundation has never admitted to intentionally terminating contained ontokineticists, but the survival rate in containment back then was dire. And while 3rd Generation SRA cores are grown in a lab from stem cultures using misappropriated flesh-crafting techniques, the sources for 1st and 2nd Gen cores are suspiciously highly classified.
"Incurable, unsafe for use," Kyoko reports. "Decommission immediately. Sorry, little guy. You did your best."
She makes vague patting motion in the general direction of the anchor as its housing closes. A conveyor belt turns, the brass and steel box is replaced by another, which opens in turn. Kyoko repeats the process, relaxing and then tightening her hold on reality.
"Stage-1 Dissonance. Safe for low-priority use for no more than three… let's say two weeks."
The process repeats. The next anchor needs to be decommissioned, the next should last at least a month. The next might make it, but will require monthly check-ups from a trained Hypnos Operative (i.e. probably Kyoko.) All twenty-four of the SRAs that formed the Ontostatic Fence in Kyoko's last mission have been exposed to a corrupting influence and need to be checked for stability.
Kyoko gets into the rhythm of it after the sixth or seventh. Decommission. Decommission. Five weeks. Two years. Check monthly. Decommission. She is the arbiter of life and death for these strange, thoughtless little minds. Better than having them all burned.
The doctors warn her about the fourteenth SRA, which has a hole in its casting and still hums faintly. It isn't any worse off than the others, though, after a gentle chiding about the humming. It'll live another five years or more. Kyoko wishes it the best.
When the sixteenth SRA's casing cracks open, it releases a cloud of smoke and colourless green light. Kyoko is exhausted and off-guard, reality slips out of her grasp. The walls melt. The stars burn into her bared flesh.
"No. Bad." Kyoko scolds, carefully returning her own teeth and skin to their proper places. The anchor core, twisted into a dripping, tumorous mass, sings to her softly. She tries not to listen, to unravel the twisted logic of the fifth world. She is dissolving in it, but it won't be for long. Just need to keep it contained long enough for—
The core pops like a ruptured pimple under sustained fire from the chamber's ceiling-mounted auto-turret, spewing blood, puss and nutrient fluid across the room. The light returns to a comprehensible colour as Kyoko carefully reassembles baseline ontology into its rightful forms, or as close as she can remember. The stars remain. She collapses back on a clean section of floor and stares at the constellations through the ceiling.
She mouths the words of her mantra, but the meanings are lost—replaced by faint spirals of greyish smoke. The stars shine right through her eyelids as her consciousness fades.

The girl sits on a rock by the riverside. Her body is made of hard plastic, with ball-joints for articulation. Her features are static, carefully painted onto the contours of her head. She gazes into the water, untroubled by any of this. She does feel, however, as if she has somehow forgotten something very important.
She stands. Not far from here, the river flows out into a vast ocean. A smoke signal rises from somewhere over the water. She walks toward it. The shore glides toward her much faster than her legs move, but this also does not concern her. She continues, walking across the surface of the ocean for an amount of time somewhere between an instant and an eternity.
Somewhere, a young boy is standing while a circle of adults around him kneel. They are in a building that was once a rec center but is now a church. Everyone is wearing white. This is related to the ocean and the smoke in a way that cannot be easily described.
The adults are chanting in a language which the girl does not understand. They are naming the stars. The boy wants to cry, but he does not cry. He looks out of the smoke at the girl, and stars shine within his eyes. The light gets inside her somehow and her insides start to melt. She wants to say something but her mouth is not real, nor is the boy. Then, the stars reach up from the depths of the ocean and drag her down beneath the waves.
As she plunges into the depths, the girl realizes she is suffocating. Not because of the water, but because her body is solid plastic and her mouth is painted on. She does not know how long she has been suffocating for. A man's voice that tastes like vomit calls to her from somewhere very far away. She does not want to listen. She tries to swim for the surface, but the stars keep pulling her down. The voice grows louder.
A girl is sitting on a folding chair while a man in a beige sweater-vest stands over her. She sinks into the depths of the ocean, suffocating, while she sits in a folding chair in a room that stinks of acrylic paint. These two things are one and the same. The man places one hand on top of the girl's head and says something. She nods, because she is afraid of drowning. The hard plastic of her skull gives way with a snap. The man smiles. He reaches inside her head and plucks the stars out, one by one, till the doll at last floats to the surface of the water once more.

Kawasaki Kyoko wakes up in an infirmary bed with a splitting headache. The last thing she remembers is a rush of smoke emerging from a beryllium-bronze case. Blearily, she examines her surroundings. She's in an intensive care unit with an oxygen tube feeding through her nose. Small patches of her head have been shaved to allow clusters of electrodes direct contact with her scalp. Her personal handler, Grace Barlow, is sitting next to the bed. Kyoko smiles at her weakly.
"Sorry," she says, voice cracking a little. "How long have I been out?"
"About five hours. Thought we were going to lose you for a minute there." Grace gives her a stern look, but also squeezes her hand reassuringly. "Twenty-four compromised SRAs in one sitting is overextending yourself, Operative Kawasaki." (That's what Grace calls her when she's in trouble.) "We'll talk about this when you're better, alright? Getting your brain fried because you didn't stand up to some twit in a labcoat who thinks he can squeeze another hour of work out of you would be a lousy way to go. Got it?"
Kyoko nods weakly. Today's labcoat twit had threatened to have all the SRAs she didn't get to today decommissioned on the spot. It occurs to her in retrospect that he probably didn't have the authority to follow through on that
Grace pulls something from her pocket and puts it in Kyoko's hand. It's her comm tablet.
"Your friends are gonna want to know that you're ok," Grace says. "Be quick about it though, I'm going to tell the MD you're awake and he'll want to spend a while checking your brain for any stray starfish bits."
Kyoko nods and mumbles her thanks to Grace's back as she leaves the room. She checks her messages. A bunch of people asking about what happened and worrying about her health, and then,

JCastel

Hey when you're feeling better will you play Mario Kart with me Moon and Liam are too good at it
They keep lapping me and it's mean
Really hope you don't die btw!!

haha yeah, that sounds like fun!
Still alive btw. ;)
I'll ask if i can get a switch in my infirmary room or something

Kyoko puts down the tablet for a moment and smiles, glad to still be alive.

Juniper Castel Has Guests Over For Tea

The Puppet Show

[{$next-url} {$next-title}]


Note from Dr. ████████, dated 12/26/04:
Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to tell her about "Santa Claus" and then tell her that it was just a story?! Now we have another potential SCP to deal with, but we can't catch him because he is "magic".
- excerpt from SCP-239

.

1

A thin naked old man stood in awe outside an inconspicuous farmhouse in the rural outskirts of Chicago. An inhuman grin stretched across his face as he admired the twinkling Christmas lights that the inhabitants had strung up around their home. Tonight, the Yule Man has come to bring Christmas to the good little boys and girls.
Dragging his sack full of putrid goodies behind him, the Yule Man trudged through the snow towards the house. He scaled up the walls, peeking through the windows at its sleeping inhabitants before making his way up to the chimney. Squeezing himself down the flue, the Yule Man effortlessly emerged from the fireplace – his limbs outstretched and crawling like a spider.
The room around him illuminated by the warm glow of the Christmas tree that stood in the corner. Stockings hung along the fireplace mantle under framed photographs of a loving family. In front of him on a small round table were a plate of cookies and a drink accompanied by a note that read 'for Santa' in bright red crayon.
The Yule Man, placed his sack down on the floor and inspected the offering on the table. He was a creature of ritual and tradition; he could not turn down such a generous gift. He devoured the plate of gingerbread men and reached for the glass to wash it down. He inspected the creamy brown liquid first, recognizing the scent of coffee and whiskey to be that of Irish cream. An uncommon choice, but not unwelcomed.
However, it wasn't long after gulping it down did he started to feel sick. Something about that cream liqueur didn't agree with him. He hadn't sensed any substances in it that could have caused this sort of reaction.
“Do you like the gift we left for you?” an unseen voice asked. Before the Yule Man could turn to see who was speaking, he buckled over and began vomiting what seemed like buckets of Irish cream.
“The Foundation and I threw together a little something special for you this Christmas. Bailey's Irish Cream, poured from the veins of a drunk in a Santa costume.”
The Yule Man, now on his hands and knees, writhed in pain as he felt his blood, saliva, bile, sweat, and even the vitreous humor in his eyes begin to transmute into Irish cream.
“I told you to stay out of the Chicago area, Yule Man.”
Before his vision became clouded, he finally managed to spot the source of the voice - a small surveillance camera and speaker hidden within the Christmas Tree.
“Kids here already have a St. Nick.”
He struggled as he slowly lifted his body up off the floor, Irish cream dripping from his orifices as he did. His face was twisted into an expression of unbridled rage. The Yule Man staggered towards the device that was speaking to him, reaching out his long spindly arm and pulling it off its fixture. He stared into the camera, scowling.
“NAUGHTY.”
He crushed the device in his hands, letting the pieces fall to the floor.

In a bunker beneath a defunct military base, an old military computer bank stares back at the now static screen reading 'SIGNAL LOST'. Sgt. Nick – or St. Nick as he'd come to be know – had orchestrated the entire operation with the help of the Foundation. Being nothing more than a literal ghost in a machine, there was little he could do physically about this monster.
Every year they would set a trap using an old Chicago Spirit safehouse with sleeping D-Class inside in the hopes of catching the Yule Man should he ever set foot anywhere near his city. Nick made a promise long ago that he'd look after Chicago and he wasn't going to let that monster lay a finger on a single child.
“Do you think it worked? Is that monster dead?” He asked.
Alexandra, an artificial intelligence conscript from the Foundation who had been watching alongside him, furrowed her virtual brow.
“I'm not sure…I think we only managed to piss it off.”
"Hm. Initiate phase two."

2

Stan Clane was making his rounds around the world delivering Christmas gifts to all those who celebrated the holiday – a number that was substantially grown over the years as the population expanded and the holiday became more and more secular.
Every day was Christmas for him. Literally. It was part of his sentence – to go back in time and play the role of Santa Claus. Using time-travel paratechnology, he could stretch the night out for as long as he needed to make his deliveries, making it appear like he was in hundreds of places at once. And once he was done, he would jump forward in time and do it all again for the following year.
For how long would he have to serve this sentence? Hopefully by the time he got back to his native time period he would be free, or until whatever bootstrap paradox he's got himself stuck in is finally fulfilled. He wasn't even sure what the current year was, but he knew it was at least somewhere in the early twenty-first century now.
After delivering to few million or so houses that night, he eventually made it to one in particular with a peculiar design. In hindsight, he should have been suspicious of the building in question - it had no chimney and only had one entrance. The lack of chimney was no issue, plenty of homes around the world didn't have one. Stan would simply make his way through another way. There were always other ways in. But this place only had one singular door serving as the home's only entrance and exit - an obvious health and safety violation. But alas, he shrugged it off. He had a job to do, and so he entered through the door and made his way to the Christmas Tree.
However, when went to open his sack to retrieve whatever gift was meant to be delivered here, all it produced was a small rectangular object and a note addressed to him. The note instructed him to unwrap the gift and slide it into the nameplate mount near the front door. He was perplexed by the bizarre instructions. Doing as it said, he made his way to a desk next to the front door where a nameplate mount sat alongside a plate of milk and cookies. He unwrapped the small rectangular gift and pulled out a plastic nameplate that read "Thaddeus Xyank, Ph.D / Chairperson: Temporal Anomalies Dept." Stan slid it into the mount and, satisfied with his work, grabbed a cookie and opened the door to leave.
Except, the door no longer opened to outside. Instead it lead into what looked like some sort of office. Sitting at the desk inside was a mustachioed gentleman reading over a folder of documents. Stan jumped back in surprise of the impossible sight that stood before him.
"Ah! Mr. Clane! About time!" Closing the folder, the man got up from the desk and made his way towards the door to greet Stan.
“Forgive me," the mustachioed gentleman asked, "might I borrow you for a moment?”
“Who are you? How do you know my name?” Stan said, shocked.
“My name's Dr. Xyank. I'm from the SCP Foundation.” He explained, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
“You SCP guys again? Nuh-huh, I don't want any more to do with you lot! You're the whole reason I'm in this mess!”
“How would you like to get out of it then?" Dr. Xyank asked. This caused Stan to stop and pause for a moment before turning back to the face the man standing in the doorway.
"An early release. My department has been talking with the folks over at the Department of Chronology and we managed to work something out for you."
"You know the Department of Chronology?"
"Yes. They're a part of the Foundation too. At least, will be when they form in seventy years. My department deals with temporal anomalies - and is a bit of a temporal anomaly itself as a result."
"This all sounds too good to be true." Stan scoffed, "What's the catch?"
"There's something we need you to do for us." Dr. Xyank gestured toward the doorway he was standing in. "Please, come take a seat and I'll go over the details."
Stan thought about it for a moment before ultimately following Dr. Xyank into his office.

3

Santa Claus, or 'Der Weihnachtsmann' as the locals called him, was a narcissistic and misanthropic deity who resented his existence. He truly hated his job. It was tiring and no one ever appreciated his gifts. Sure, he often monkey-pawed them, but that's besides the fact. He would quit if he could, but his anomalous properties wouldn't let him. It wouldn't even let him take his costume off. He used to be so much more than what he was today - a personification of the winter. But over time he was changed as the beliefs from which he sprang shifted in the Noosphere. He hated to admit it, but he was scarcely a god at all any more.
"Ungrateful little snots." He thought to himself as he sat reading the letters that materialized around him.
Every year during the holiday season, millions of letters addressed to Santa begin manifesting in his vicinity, which in recent years has been in a standard humanoid containment cell at a Foundation site in Germany. Although tedious and exhausting, going through them all in time for Christmas was no problem. His anomalous properties made time. The world slowed down around him as he read through them, writing down who's been naughty and nice, along with their addresses - most importantly - their Christmas Wishes.
Finally, Christmas Eve came. The letters all read, his list all set, it was time for the Holly Night Event to begin. During this time, no cell could hold him and no MTF could stop him. Weihnachtsmann got up, tucking his scroll and fountain pen away in his coat, and proceeded to walk through the walls of his containment cell and down the halls of the site. There was nothing the mobile task force assigned to him could do to impede him. They could only track his movement and re-contain him after he had made his rounds. Walking out the facility and into an open snow-clad space, a reindeer-drawn sleigh appeared before him. As he approached the sleigh, a single letter suddenly materialized on its leather seat. He furrowed his brow and groaned.
"God damn it! Really?" He cursed.
Rolling his eyes, Weihnachtsmann snatched up the envelope and opened it. After a few moments, his annoyance faded. He paused as he briefly stared off into space, thinking about what he had just read. He folded up the letter and stuffed it into his jacket before climbing into his sleigh.
He found himself smiling for the first time in a long time. For once, he was the one getting a Christmas Wish.

The Foundation were no doubt panicking when they had lost track of him over Massachusetts. Given the true nature of the state, there shouldn't have been any stops for him to make anyway. However, this year there was.
Within the miserable city of Boston was a pocket dimension known as Wonder World!™ - a daliesque city under a sunless purple sky that served as the base of operations for the anomalous toymaker Dr. Wondertainment. Flying over the ridiculous suessian streets and infrastructure of the city, Weihnachtsmann soon arrived at the roof of Wonder Tower - a garish purple spire that dominated the skyline. He was unimpressed by it all and found the whole place insufferable.
Making his way down the what looked like a makeshift chimney clearly made for him, he entered the office of Holly Light. He was greeted by an oversized Christmas Tree that bent at the ceiling. Strewn across her ornate wooden desk and overlooking the whole of Wonder World!™ laid Holly Light herself.
"Santy Claus!" She giggled, kicking her feet in the air before leaping off her desk, "I've been awfully good this year! Did you bring me a present?”
"I've come for mine." he said, crossing his arms, "But I'm curious why you want it so bad. It's a miserable job."
"Wondertainment Enterprises has been looking to expand into the holiday market for a while now." she explained, "We've been competing with a market full of second-rate Santas - no offense."
Weihnachtsmann was offended. He grumphed at the notion of being called 'second rate'.
"Now don't be like that, you're a fine Santa! The real deal! I simply want to relieve you of your burden! To reward you for all your fine work! You could retire to someplace fit for a god other than a cramp little containment cell."
He liked the sound of that, to be honest. He opened up his bag and produced a handful of glittering dust.
"Fine. Let's do this."
Throwing the dust to the floor, the two of them were quickly enveloped by a golden cloud. In that moment, Wonder Tower shook - tremors could be felt rippling across all of Wonder World!™. Judy Papill, Holly's assistant, came storming into the office to see what had happened.
"Ma'am? Holly? Are you alright?"
As the glittery cloud of dust cleared, Judy found Holly seated in her chair behind her desk wearing a lavish red Santa suit and a great big smile across her face. There was no trace of her visitor anywhere in her office.
"I'm absolutely jolly."
| Santa Claus Procedures - Part 1 | Santa Claus Procedures - Part 2 »


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Sol Invictus

A Demonic Holiday Special

Co-Author/Designer:
Fantem
Co-Author/Illustrator:
Opossumistic
Scintillating Hate - Ansiel's Theme

by Mr Carbon

Word Count
Page one: 1786 words/6 minutes 30 seconds
Page two: 2144 words/7 minutes 45 seconds
Page three: 2074 words/7 minutes 30 seconds
Page four: 2169 words/8 minutes
Page five: 4999 words/18 minutes 15 seconds
Page six: 1352 words/5 minutes
Pgae seevn: ???
Total: 14,524 words/ 53 minutes

⚠ Content warning: This story contains mild sexual themes, a fly-based character, blasphemy, strong language, and alcohol usage.

⚠ content warning

Check out the audiobook by SCP Un[REDACTED]!
Also, check out the original song, Scintillating Hate, by Mr Carbon!
You can find it in the next page, and in the info module.

This was not how Primrose Fatish Von Trevil typically decorated for this time of year.
The jackal woman had never celebrated Christmas before. She celebrated Sol Invictus, and since the holiday coincided with her birthday, she took the event seriously. It marked the time of the year where days become longer and nights become shorter. So the fact that she was expected to decorate the office lunchroom with depictions of a winter night didn't quite sit right with her.
"Hey, least it's not all Abrahamic and shit," 'Captain' Adrian piped up. The imp was wearing a grinch sweater with the phrase 'Pucker Up And Kiss It' on the back, with a branch of mistletoe tied to the end of their tail. "They could've had us put up something holy."
"Not all humans celebrate the winter solstice the same way. This is a time of goodwill." Primrose sighed as she hefted up the pieces of a light-up snowman statue. "To be honest, I find it heartwarming that they trust me with organizing the party."
Adrian rifled through the box the Snowman came from and pulled out a top hat and scarf. "It's just what they have the newest member of the office do, Prim. It's like a tradition. Or office hazing."
"I am aware. But they do not typically delegate that person to handle the catering, the music, the events, the alcohol…", she listed as she accepted the snowman attire from them. "It is because they trust me with it."
"Sure, sure." Adrian rolled their eyes. "I wouldn't put that much stock in it though. Just don't go too overboard with the food, okay?".
"I was just going to get ice-cream from Brimstone Creamery™. It would be the best thing any of these mortals have tast-"

Primrose was interrupted by a polite knock at the doorway. She turned her head, and saw Sheldon Katz admiring her handiwork. "You staying late for this too, huh?"
"Ah, Sheldon, good to see you. And yes, I do not sleep, nor do I have anything pressing at the moment, so I might as well get this out of the way now." Prim confessed.
Sheldon walked in and stretched his back with a loud pop "Lucky you, I'm exhausted after dealing with that MC&D case."
Prim nodded. "Indeed. I will admit, I was completely unaware that McDonalds was one of their fronts, let alone that their ice-cream machines were secretly small-scale FSE Harvesters."
"Honestly, I can't believe it took us this long to figure that one out, it seems so obvious in hindsight." Sheldon yawned and rubbed the ache in his shoulder before he walked over to Primrose.
He put a warm and supportive hand on her shoulder. "You doing okay though? I've asked before, but… I know losing a mother is hard. And you've been staying late for a while."
She responded with a smile. "Working is helping me keep it together. I have considered her dead long, long ago, but… I am happy that I could see her one last time…" Prim felt her eyes get misty and rubbed them gently. "Fortunately, my wife Astia and the rest of my family have been very supportive through it all and for that I will always be grateful."
Sheldon gave Prim a nod. "Well… I'm certainly happy you have someone like Astia supporting you, Primrose."
Adrian could not help but pick up the nearly imperceptible sigh that escaped from Sheldon's lips as he said that. "Hey Sheldon, buddy, you uh… feeling okay there? You definitely seem a little more down now that Christmas is approaching."
Sheldon was quiet for a moment, he always underestimated just how well Adrian could read other people. Sheldon exhaled and closed his eyes. "Alright, don't laugh or anything but… I suppose I've been feeling a little… lonely lately."
"Oh?" Prim said as she took a break from decorating. "What do you mean, Sheldon?"
"I mean… romantically speaking…", Sheldon looked away and felt slightly embarrassed to admit that. "I was never very lucky in love in my prior civilian life and that didn't exactly change when I was recruited into the Foundation. It doesn't bother me on most days but… spending the holidays alone always gets to me, I suppose."
"Aw buddy…", Adrian hopped up on the table next to Sheldon to pat him on the back.
"Thank you, Adrian but by this point I think I just need to make my peace with it, is all."
"I am sorry, Sheldon", Prim said empathetically. "I know it feels a little hopeless right now, I did not think I would love again after Marion broke my heart. But you just… need to give yourself more time and find the right person is all."
Sheldon scoffed, "Well, if you happen to know someone who thinks a 43 year old workaholic lawyer is a prize catch then let me know."
"Sheldon, do not be so-" Primrose paused mid sentence as she suddenly recalled something. "Wait… I do know someone."
"…Really?" Sheldon cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
"Yes, another demon actually, you have met him before too. The Foundation has him indexed under… oh Hells, what was the number again?" She turned to look at her paralegal imp. "Adrian?"
"Oh shit, uuhhhhh, fuck" Adrian furrowed their brow trying to remember. "SCP-7… something, something. The guy you summon with the desk."
It only took a moment for Sheldon to recall who it was. His eyes widened. "… 738? Really?" he folded his arms, feeling more than a little apprehensive. "You really think he would be a good fit for me?"
"Of course I do", answered Prim confidently. "You both have a similar work ethic for starters. Work as a form of therapy. The two of you honestly have quite a lot in common."
"…I don't know whether I should be insulted or worried." Katz chuckled while going to the fridge for some eggnog. "After our first meeting years ago, I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to see him again."
"One thing to keep in mind is that you have only seen him in a professional context." Prim played the devil's advocate. "I am sure if we met on the other side of the bench, I would also be your worst nightmare."
"Just imagine if Prim still worked for the IRS." Adrian chimed in.
Katz shivered, taking a sip. "You got a point."
"… You know he's got a huge crush on you, right?" Adrian smirked.
Sheldon nearly choked. "Pardon?"
"Yeah, dude, you were the first mortal to give him an actual real challenge. That counts for something." Adrian teased. "He wasn't kiddin' when he said that was the most fun he's had in years."
"Yeah, but… what? You're joking, right?" Sheldon reeled. Surely they weren't being serious.
"We have worked together with him quite closely in the past" answered Prim. "I like to think Adrian and I know him fairly well. We met him for drinks semi-recently, and I told him I was now contracted with the Foundation. Do you know what the first thing he asked me was?"
"What was it?"
"Is that hunky lawyer still working there? Sheldon Katz?" Primrose said, her voice morphing into something sultry and husky that vibrated into Sheldon's ear like the buzzing of a fly's wings. He could only imagine it was a perfect imitation of 738's real voice.
"Heh, yeah you get a few drinks into him and all that professionalism and business bullshit comes crumbling down." Adrian said with a big smirk. "That dude is still down bad for you."
"I… uh… wow", Sheldon was speechless, a slight pink blush creeped across his face.
Prim hummed for a moment. "You know, I could pull a few strings. Maybe make a reservation at a high end restaurant, and you two could become better acquainted. I was planning on going on a double date anyway. I am sure adding two more seats to my reservation will not be an issue."
Katz sighed. "Maybe. When? And where?"
Prim nodded. "The 23rd, 7:30pm, this time zone. And we would be meeting here. I shall provide transport to Hell."
"…Shit, I feel like I'm going to regret this later but… alright fine, I'll give this a shot." Sheldon Katz caved.
"Excellent!" Prim clapped her hands together. "I will make the arrangements when I get home. I will tell you if he is not available. He is one of the few demons who celebrates X-Mass, so he likely will be. And even if he is not… I get the distinct impression he would make time for you."
"Really? Well that's… flattering." Katz was shocked.
"He can afford to. He's Vice Corporate Archdemon of the House of the Fly." Adrian explained.
"The… House of the Fly?" Katz raised an eyebrow.
"Its the official noble name for the Mammon dynasty of which he is an adopted member of. Adrian is referring to the fact that he has considerable wealth and has a degree of free time… He just spends a lot of that free time on his side businesses." Prim shrugged. "Like I said, work is therapy for him."
"Just… what kind of demon is he?" Sheldon realized just how little he truly knew about 738 and the sort of power he had. "I always thought he was some sort of… Succubus or something."
Primrose and Adrian both stifled their laughter. "Oh lords, Sheldon that is adorable." Primrose said while letting out a small giggle. "We will have to tell him you said that, he would be extremely flattered to hear it."
"Nah, he ain't a Succubus, buddy. He's just really charming." Adrian said, reaching for the eggnog that Sheldon set aside and took a sip. "He's a fallen angel like Astia, weird black halo and everything, he's a natural shapeshifter and just like you and Prim he's damn good at his job."
"Well… Alright, does he have an actual name that he goes by? The last person who tried to ask who he was had to be sent to a Foundation mental hospital."
"Yes, he has a real name, Sheldon." Prim answered. "He just was not allowed to reveal it at the time. Mammon Industries™ company policy prohibits their employees from disclosing any personal information to mortal clients. They claim it is to help project an aura of authority and fear but personally I just think they enjoy the theatrics of it."
"A whole demon family of theatre kids I tell ya." Adrian snorted.
"But yes, his name. It is a bit of a mouthful but luckily for you, it is still pronounceable by the human tongue," Prim cleared her throat. "now let me repeat this clearly:

his full name is..."


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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
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Content Warning:
Gore, violence, implied sexual gratification

Jacob Gheller stood alone in a dark alley on 25th street, fisting a man under the cover of night. The man on the receiving end had deserved to be fisted, at least in the mind of the fellow in the Santa suit, for the rampant sexual crimes he'd committed against several women and children in Jacob's area. Jacob had followed him into a bar earlier that night, luring the man as he had done to so many innocents before, and told him that he loved his work. Jacob and the man made plans to assault the senator later that night. It would have been an overwhelming display of dominance for men, to show that men don't need to be subservient to women, that men should reclaim their spot as the dominant sex in the country.
He told Jacob all of this just moments before Jacob wrapped his hand around his large intestine.
Now that man sat slumped against the wall trying to prevent his insides from becoming outsides as Jacob wiped his blood on his fuzzy red coat. Bad guys can't see you bleed if you wear red, after all.
"Please," the man begged, reaching out to grab at Jacob's ankles, "Please help me. I'm sorry. I'll never do this again, I swear."
Jacob nodded, "I know." Then he bent down to the man's level, making eye contact with him.
The man's eyes were bloodshot and full of water. His skin was ghostly white, almost as if he'd been bleeding from the hole in his abdomen. He smiled weakly, letting out a half-chuckle.
Jacob whispered in his ear, "I believe you," before grabbing the sides of the man's head and squeezing with all the strength he could muster. He lifted the man up by his head, spilling out more of his guts onto his suit as he did. The man flailed with his rapidly fading strength, desperately trying to free himself. Jacob's heart throbbed.
The man screamed as Jacob applied more pressure to his skull. Eventually the yelling became replaced by gurgles as blood pooled in the man's throat and mouth. And then, within a fraction of a second, Jacob's hands were compressed together, brain matter and viscera coating his fingers in a glistening red paste.
Jacob ignored the urge to deal with a more pressing matter; phoning in the job. Maxine had always hated the reverie Jacob took in his work, but that was because she didn't understand the joy of removing evil from the world by the strength of your own hands. How could she? She wasn't the one with Substance 9 coursing through her veins. It wasn't her fucking problem to deal with. She was overdramatic.
But still, she was his handler and a critical part of his job as Chris Cringle. He wiped the blood on his suit, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the number.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. -Click-
"Are you fucking kidding me." Jacob mumbled.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. -Click-
"Jesus tapdancing Christ."
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Gheller," the voice on the line answered. She sounded annoyed.
"Woman," Jacob replied.
"I'm assuming you took care of the target?"
Jacob glanced down at the now headless, eviscerated former-sexual assailant at his feet. He kicked the man's boot. Still very dead.
"Yep. I'm assuming you don't remember how to answer the phone?"
"Very funny, Jacob," Maxine sighed, "A cleanup crew is coming your way in about fifteen minutes. Can you do me a big favor and not get in their way this time? We don't need another repeat of the Halloween incident."
Jacob scoffed. How was she still holding that over his head? It's not his fault the cleanup crew caught him pants down desecrating the corpse of a former assassin. He didn't ask them to come right after he'd killed the man.
"Yeah yeah yeah," He said, "I'll be on my best behavior."
"Good. The Supervisor has your next assignment." And there was a click.
He was alone. Alone at night. With a still bleeding corpse just sitting there at his feet, inviting Jacob in with its ephemeral warmth. Jacob's mind was flooded with images of the inside of this man's corpse. The stench of the intestine, the wet slopping of his organs as they slid over one another on their way to meet the pavement. Jacob glanced at his phone. 9:05 P.M. The cleanup crew would be there by around 9:20. That was plenty of time.

The nondescript white van arrived exactly on time, and from within a small army of people dressed in full-body hazmat suits emerged. Their visors were one-way, obscuring their faces. On their backs were large yellow tanks with a hose and vacuum nozzle attached at the end. A lot of these tanks had seen better days; many were covered in old blood stains and beaten up by some people Jacob might not have killed all the way. The cleanup crew had been a part of his job since long before he ingested Substance 9 all those years ago, but as often as he'd seen them he'd never actually learned any of their names.
The supervisor (who Jacob called Mr. Clean) walked out of the driver's side last. He was the only one who didn't bother wearing the hazmat suit and opted to wear overalls and a pair of yellow rubber boots instead. Mr. Clean adjusted the sunglasses on his bald head and lit a cigarette. He barked a few orders to the people sucking up the mixture of blood and a viscous white fluid from a wall, and they turned their attention to Jacob.
He hated this part.
The two people lined their vacuums up with Jacob's body, flicked a switch on the sides of their tanks, and expelled a liquid that smelled like bleach and lemon on the front of his body.
"Spin," Mr. Clean ordered.
Jacob spun. He cringed as his back was soaked in the cleaning liquid. He heard another switch get flicked, and then the wetness was sucked from his clothes and hair, leaving him completely dry and free of blood.
Mr. Clean gave him a once over and nodded curtly, "Good."
Jacob turned around again, Santa suit feeling suspiciously warm and soft in spite of the rather violent cleaning process. His eyes shot down at the body. The organs had already been removed, and so had the blood. All that was left was a hollow husk of veiny skin that was being rolled up like a carpet by a member of the cleanup crew. He sighed as a frown grew on his face.
"Maxine said you have my next assignment?"
Mr. Clean remained stonewalled as he reached into his overall pocket and withdrew a small slip of paper. He handed it to Jacob and said, "No mess."
Jacob gave him a meek smile and replied, "Is that also a Maxine order or…?"
Mr. Clean dropped a massive hand on Jacob's shoulder. He buckled under the weight of the man's meaty arm. He winced as Mr. Clean's ironclad grip tightened around his shoulder. The man leveled his gaze at Jacob, meeting his eyes. Every time they were this close, Jacob tried to find that spark that most humans had in their eyes. The twinkle of empathy or soul, perhaps, that helped separate them from beasts. But like all the other times, Mr. Clean's eyes were void of anything.
"No. Mess."
Jacob swallowed hard. He felt a bead of sweat form and drip down the side of his face. With an effort he freed himself from Mr. Clean's grip and started rubbing his shoulder.
With apprehension in his voice, he said, "Yes sir."
Mr. Clean jerked his head to the right, signaling that it was time for Jacob to leave. After the Halloween incident, he knew better than to argue.
Before Jacob left the alley he asked, "Hey, can I keep-"
The night air grew heavy in an instant, as if they were a thousand meters below in the ocean. Jacob gasped for air, clawing at his throat for some respite from the overwhelming force that was crushing his trachea. He fell to his knees, unable to withstand the gravity being applied to his body. Even with Substance 9 flaring up within his bloodstream, his enhanced strength was only enough to allow him to look up at Mr. Clean and the cleanup crew.
The rest of the crew seemingly did not notice the sudden presence of a planet's gravity being exerted around them, as they continued to work unimpeded. Mr. Clean stopped barking orders at his crew and walked over to Jacob. He knelt down, getting eye level with him again. Jacob could have sworn he saw a spark of anger in the otherwise stoic bald-headed man.
"No. Mess." Mr. Clean repeated, slowly this time, "Understand?"
Jacob's words were getting crushed in his throat. He called on his enhanced strength to nod. Mr. Clean held his gaze for an uncomfortably long time before getting up and returning to work.
Suddenly the pressure keeping Jacob down was lifted. He shot up and arched his back. His bones did not agree with being crushed particularly well. Instead of sticking around and risking being obliterated by Mr. Clean, Jacob hurried off down the road, only stopping by a streetlight a few blocks away to read the intel on his next assignment.

Name: Christopher Cringle
Age: ???
Gender: ???
Crimes: Inflating the economy, theft, breaking and entering, distribution of wealth to the poor, unlicensed wish granting, enslavement of an entire race of diminutive laborers, illegal ownership of an endangered anomalous species, grand theft sleigh, unsupervised occultic practices of the Twelfth Noellic Circle
Assigned Vaporizer(s): Jacob Gheller(Subst. 9)
Due Date: Midnight. December 24th, 2024

The Vaporizers, making people disappear so you don't have to.

"Fuck," Jacob whispered under his breath. He stuffed the card into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone, dialing Maxine's number. While he waited an eternity for the dial tone to end, he began walking to his car.
"You're at the North Pole already? But the jet is still here." Maxine said.
"Is this a joke?" Jacob stammered.
Maxine sighed, "We don't do jokes, Gheller."
"Who wants Santa Claus Vaporized?"
"We both know it's literally in your job description not to ask questions. Is there anything else you want to whine about, or are you ready to get back here and do the job?"
"Well I-"
Click.
Jacob grumbled to himself, opened the driver's side door, and sat behind the wheel. Of all the strange shit that he had to deal with on a job-to-job basis, this one definitely took the cake. He shook his head and steeled his nerve. He turned the key and began driving back to HQ.
It was time for Santa to die.

The jet dropped Jacob off in the northern arctic. The pilot wished him good luck before proceeding to fuck right off and fly away. Jacob suspected she wouldn't be back until he finished the job or died, neither of which seemed like favorable outcomes.
As he trudged through knee-deep snow for hours, Jacob began to speculate on what would happen if the spirit of Christmas himself finally bit the dust. Would the holiday simply cease to exist? Would it have ever existed? The thought of retrocausality eliminating the season of joy upset his stomach, and the cold biting at his fingertips through thick gloves wasn't helping either.
Jacob cupped his hands to his mouth and exhaled. He was surrounded by coniferous trees and snowfall that refused to let up. The sun didn't reach this place, but the moonlight did. The way the light seemed to bend ever so slightly in one direction, or outright disappear when Jacob walked elsewhere, felt like a sign. Whether that was a good sign or not was up to interpretation. Jacob, however, couldn't find anything else to go on so he elected to follow the light to wherever the moon was taking him.
A hundred hours must have passed by the time Jacob spotted it: a facility in the middle of nowhere. The building was made of what looked like a mix of ginger bread and steel, the seams fused together with some kind of light-grey paste. There were giant, half-eaten gumdrops scattered haphazardly across the rooftop with a thousand bite marks on each of them. The roof looked like it was caved in at some point and then hastily repaired in the same night, having a long series of splintered wooden boards serving as the only shield against the snow. The area around the windows were lined with Christmas lights, most of which were shattered or not working. The handful that did work were all red, coating the snow around the facility in a faint red glow.
Jacob snuck up to one of the windows and peered inside. There was a strange warmth coming from the wall he was leaning against, and a pungent odor of soot and sweat flooded his nose.
Inside, Jacob could see a massive, incomprehensible work of machinery chugging away furiously in the center of the room. The angles of the thing were all wrong, as if the machine itself had been plucked from a place beneath the furthest depths of hell. On the top of the machine was a spout, out of which a constant stream of fire erupted and threatened to burn down the entire facility. Its gaping maw was open, lined with rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth that rotated counter-clockwise on a small conveyor belt. Jacob's eyes widened as he stared at that thing, frozen in a mix of terror and awe.
From the thing's mouth was a larger conveyor belt. On either side was an army of small, feculent creatures dressed in red and green suits, striped tights, and belt-buckle shoes. The creatures lacked facial features, save for a mouth, as the majority of their faces were covered in scars and grown-over skin. Their mouths were sewn shut, although Jacob could see small fangs hanging out at the corner of their lips. He wasn't sure how the blind creatures were inspecting each box that came out of the machine, but he didn't want to know either.
The machine burped, sending a larger burst of flame out of its chimney. A perfectly wrapped present, no larger than a typical board game, was spat out onto the conveyor belt. The box was opened by one of the creatures, who grunted and nodded in approval before checking a sheet of paper to its right. It then closed and re-wrapped the box, sending it further down the line until it fell off the belt into a giant, red sack.
"Jesus H. Christ," Jacob muttered.
One of the creatures turned its head in his direction, and Jacob ducked into a snowbank. He scooped snow over his body, never taking his eyes off the window. The creature that noticed him, one of the ones wearing green, slowly scanned the outside before Jacob heard a voice call it back to the line. A human voice, deep and gruff but… with levity in it? Like a bass-boosted Mickey Mouse, almost.
That's gotta be Santa, Jacob thought.
His eyes darted to the main entrance to the facility, where a set of iron and gingerbread doors stood as a solid, immovable aegis against him. Tearing through them wouldn't be an issue, nor would obliterating every single one of those diminutive, nightmare creatures. But the image of Mr. Clean crushing Jacob to death under immense gravitational power burned through his mind and he steadied his bloodlust. That extra challenge was the last thing he needed right now.
Jacob walked backward a few paces, looking for a more stealthy entrance. He spotted one after a minute of searching; a seemingly unguarded brick chimney near the back right of the place. Black smog spewed from the top, which meant there would likely be fire waiting for him at the bottom. At least he was dressed appropriately, Santa suit still in decent condition. Jacob adjusted his belt and made his way around the back of the facility. With an effort, he dug his fingertips into the steel and began to scale the wall as quietly as he could.
When he reached the roof, Jacob's gloves were worn completely away. The excessive climbing had done a number on the leather. With a disgruntled sigh, he cast the gloves to the side. He held his breath as he approached the chimney, smog blinding him.
Still, Jacob fought through until the chimney was within arm's reach. The smog had built up considerably at that point, acting like a forcefield that he couldn't fight through. Jacob reached a hand out to grab the edge of the chimney but instead of hard brick, his fingers clasped around something soft.
"Oh ho ho, what do we have here?" The bass-boosted voice of Mickey Mouse asked.
Jacob couldn't see what hit him, but he definitely felt it. The impact came from the front, knocking him backward until he was at the edge of the rooftop. Jacob steadied himself. Now that he was out of the smoke, he could get a good sense of his surroundings.
He held a breath as a man in a red Santa suit emerged from the smoke.
The man was at least eight feet tall and maybe four feet wide. His arms were the size of a freight train, and he hit like one too. Ten meaty fingers all tipped in black residue were clenched into fists. The man's thick grey beard reached down to his waist, but the mammoth of facial hair did little to conceal a gleeful, wicked smile that he bore at Jacob. Predatorial, yellow eyes glowed with a sense of malice Jacob had never felt before, and he felt every step the giant man took toward him.
The man pulled out a scroll from his waist. He checked the list once, gave Jacob a once over, then checked it a second time. He scoffed before rolling it back up and stuffing it behind his belt.
"Jacob Gheller!" The man's voice boomed. Just listening to his voice hurt Jacob's ears, "I'm afraid you aren't making the "nice" list this year, dear boy."
Jacob furrowed his eyebrows, "How do you know my-"
The man chuckled. Three "ho"s. Classic.
"I understand that you're here to royally fuck up my operation, Mr. Gheller," He said, "But in the spirit of Christmas, I can't let you do that."
Santa Claus took another step forward, then in the next second, he was face to face with Jacob, murderous glint dominating his eyes.
"Merry Christmas."
Jacob didn't have the time to comprehend what was said as he was rocketed skyward a second later. His chin ached. The wind rushing against his ears threatened to freeze them off. He flapped his arms like he was swimming, attempting to readjust. By the time Jacob passed the clouds, he had righted himself and was now falling to the ground feet-first.
The tops of the trees became visible just before Jacob was rocketed sideways. There was an iron grip around his waist, cracking his back and taking the air out of his lungs. Jacob looked behind him, mouth agape before twisting into a snarl. It was Santa Claus.
Santa rotated, spinning both of them, before letting go of Jacob and grabbing him again by the wrist. The large man threw Jacob into a tree. Jacob exclaimed as the splinters from the split wood dug through his clothes and into his back. He hit the ground with momentum that kept him going backward, but he managed to roll backward and regain his composure before Santa landed in front of him.
Santa landed by planting his fist into the snow. He rose slowly and regarded Jacob with disappointment.
"You think you can just sneak into MY workshop, spy on MY elves, and try to ruin MY holiday? I am the Santa Claus, who the fuck are you?"
Jacob didn't answer, opting to rip the tree he landed on from its roots and throw it at Santa Claus. The tree, however, did not do as well as Jacob had hoped. Santa Claus pressed the palms of his hands together and the entire trunk of the tree broke in half at his fingertips. The jolly man grinned, then raised his hands into the air and let out a deep, guttural yell.
He kept yelling for minutes that lasted years. When he stopped, it was quiet for a moment. But only a moment.
Jacob soon heard a thousand voices echoing from the direction of the factory. Then he felt the floor rumbling. The trees in the distance were being moved by a force Jacob felt but didn't see. He readied himself for whatever was to come next.
It didn't take long before the elves swarmed Jacob. A hundred scarred faces with gnashing teeth tried to tear their way through Jacob's flesh. Panicking, he backed into a tree and threw the elves off his body. Still, more came, armed with sharpened candy cane sticks. They stabbed at Jacob's arms and legs, trying to pin him. He thrashed and flailed and lashed out until he was freed from their many armed grasp, and then he picked two of them up by the head and smashed them together.
The rain of viscera seemed to stall the other elves from attacking, at least for a moment. Jacob dropped the headless corpses on either side of him, his blood now boiling and his fingers twitching like they couldn't wait for more. They attacked in unison again. Jacob sent a fist through the stomach of an elf that leapt at him, then used its body to block several stabs at his ankles and legs. He tore the impaled elf in half, spreading an ocean of blood and non-Euclidean organs across the others. The ribs of the creature had snapped and now showed their pointed ends through the meat.
Jacob wielded the two halves of this elf like two clubs, bashing away at his attackers and stabbing them as they tried to stab him. It wasn't until he'd thinned out a large number of the swarm that he began to laugh.
It was the first real challenge he'd had in such a long time since his injection. Substance 9 took away a lof the fun of murder and left him only with his own gratification and creativity. Any human would have fled by now, or surrendered, or done the job themself. But these things, these abominations from the underside of Hell, weren't human.
There were only a handful of them left standing now, warily eying Jacob as his animalistic gaze fell on each one of them. He'd only taken a few nicks and bruises so far, nothing that wouldn't heal in the next few seconds. He could keep going.
"Come on!" Jacob shouted, "Give me what you've got!"
Santa Claus walked calmly past his elves up to Jacob. He looked down at Jacob, breathing slowly. The man clenched his fists, drew his arm back, and punched Jacob square in the face.
Jacob was rocked backward, but stood his ground. Even through a broken and bloodied nose, he smiled. He launched his fist into Santa Claus' jaw. The behemoth's head turned, but he did not move.
"More!" Jacob yelled, then punched at Santa Claus again with more force than before.
Santa Claus responded. He grabbed Jacob's wrist and pulled him over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground. The wind left Jacob's lungs. He rolled to one side before Santa Claus' boot stomped into the space he just occupied. Santa grabbed Jacob by the waist and flipped him over his head, slamming him into the ground again.
Jacob rolled out of his grip and into an elf. He grabbed the small creature and threw it at Santa, running behind it. Santa caught the thing in one hand, but before he could place it on the ground beside him Jacob was on top of him again. He sent a barrage of blows into Santa's midsection. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
The jolly monster didn't react to the headbutt under his chin. An elf bit into Jacob's leg before he could follow up. Santa Claus took the second to launch his massive hand into Jacob's temple. His vision dazed, but only for a moment. He bit into the top of the elf's head, filling his mouth with a wet, coppery taste.
Jacob's heartbeat accelerated. His thoughts went blank. All that was left was the thrill of battle. A feeling lost to him for a time, and one that he relished in reclaiming. He fought Santa Claus until they were back at the facility, where the large man threw Jacob threw a wall and onto the conveyor belt.
Santa leapt at him, landing on top of him. He wrapped his hands around Jacob's neck and squeezed.
"You better watch out. You better not cry," he began singing.
Jacob punched him in the temple, loosening Santa Claus' grip on his neck. Jacob scrambled for footing while catching his breath, but Santa Claus was on top of him again. He slammed Jacob's head into the floor repeatedly before grabbing his hair and dragging him up the stairs, hitting his face on each step.
"You better not pout, I'm telling you why."
Santa Claus brought Jacob to the chimney of the horrid machine. He looked into the flames of the mechanical monstrosity, it was a fire that was hungry for him, one that craved to consume his flesh and bone until there was nothing left.
"Santa Claus is coming to town."
He raised Jacob above his head. With strained effort, Jacob kicked him in the back of his head, knocking his hat off. He wasn't sure what that would do, but it was less than he was hoping for.
At that moment, just as he was being tossed into the maw of that dreadful machine, Jacob reached for something, anything, to hold on to. He willed for the universe to let him survive, he prayed to whatever god of war would let him win the fight, he screamed to whoever would listen.
And someone did.
Jacob found his hand wrapped in Santa Claus' beard hair, the few pieces of stray hairs that lingered just close enough to be licked by the flames of the machine. Calling on Substance 9, Jacob scrambled up the man's beard and yanked once he was face to face with him. He fell backward, taking Santa Claus with him, only this time Jacob was in full control.
The large man's massive frame bent awkwardly once it hit the edge of the chimney. He let out a pained groan as he tried to slide down the impossibly bent wall, but something was holding him back. It was as if the very embers of the machine's bowels were reaching out to grab him. Smoke churned out from the chimney, blanketing the man and filling the room. Jacob closed his eyes as screams began to get overtaken by the roar of flame.

Mr. Clean and his crew arrived at the North Pole at 11:51 P.M., ten minutes after Jacob called Maxine and told her that the job was done. She was appreciative of the work, as she often was, and even congratulated him on fighting off a hoard of the diminutive species. Jacob felt warm inside.
Jacob's suit had taken more damage than he would have liked; loose strands of thread hung everywhere, and there was a gaping hole in the side, not to mention all the burns from nearly being tossed into an active chimney. It was a shame. He'd hoped to still make time for the Christmas party tomorrow, but the chances of finding a replacement suit in time were slim.
Jacob spotted Mr. Clean staring at the machine in the center of the room. His own helpers were shoveling the corpses of the elves into the furnace, as well as the few elves that had escaped the carnage. Mr. Clean looked on with a smile, something Jacob didn't think he was capable of.
The bald man turned his head as Jacob approached, asking plainly, "No mess?"
Jacob shook his head. Mr. Clean grunted in approval before giving him a curt nod.
"Do you—and I'm not expecting you to—know who put this Vaporization out on Santa?"
Mr. Clean unfolded his arms and rubbed the back of his head, "I did."
Jacob gaped.
"He didn't give me what I wanted for Christmas. Said I was "too naughty". Killing is wrong, covering up murder is wrong. It hurt. I was only ten, and I never forgot."
Jacob let out a scoff and said, "Geeze. You sure know how to hold a grudge, don't you?"
Mr. Clean nodded again, "I hope his death was painless."
Jacob patted him on the shoulder, "It was."
"Merry Christmas, Jacob Gheller."
"Merry fucking Christmas."

« Totally Not Guns Akimbo | Totally Not A Christmas Story | Totally Not Coming Soon »


Christmas was just a day like any other.
Fynn felt that way about everything this time of year. He just wanted to do his job and drink his coffee. The distant Christmas music coming from some of the offices was a bad sign for the rest of the day.
Fynn stepped into the research office he shared with his colleagues, his third cup of coffee in hand. The office was garishly decorated with the worst Christmas decorations he had seen in his life and some handmade decorations that must have taken hours to set up.
“Sarah, what is all this? How long did this take you?”He looked to Sarah as she looked up from her monitor, which was wrapped in tinsel nearly to the point where Fynn couldn't see the back anymore. The screen on the center wall displayed a crackling fireplace. There was a christmas tree made from sticky notes under it. She had gone all out for this.
"How did you know it was me?" Sarah questioned as Fynn set his coffee down.
"You've been playing Chrismas music since November 1st. I made an educated guess." Fynn said as he logged into his computer, tactically moving around all the decorations Sarah had put on his desk.
“You got me there, I came in a little early and decorated the office. I had Marian set out the decorations for me overnight so I could do this. I wanted to cheer the place up a bit from its normal sterile white. If we have to work on Christmas, at least we get to have some fun, right?” Sarah seemed to think this was the proper response, but Fynn shook his head at her agressive Christmas cheer.
“You and I have slightly different definitions of the word ‘fun' I see.” Fynn said, staring at his terminal as it booted up.
“Yes, but you can't stay grumpy all day. I know you don't celebrate Christmas or even like the holiday much, but a change of scenery should be nice.” Sarah smiled when she noticed Fynn nodding absentmindedly. He did agree somewhat, even if she went overboard, it was better than the normal sterile white and oppressive fluorescent lighting.
“So, what do we even do on Christmas?” Fynn asked as he logged in when the terminal finally booted up, he was still baffled at how slow the computers were in this place sometimes.
“Mainly the base observations for the project we're on…. then, since we have time, logging older data, so if we're fast we just get to hang out. We're mostly here for if something goes wrong and needs immediate attention.” Sarah smiled as she grabbed the bowl of chocolates she had on her desk. She offered one to Fynn, who took one because he couldn't resist.
“Thanks, so how about we just get started then? Better to knock the work out so we can have the most downtime possible, right?” Fynn suggested before he took a bite from the chocolate she had given him.
“My plan exactly! I'll see you there. I have to finish something up here.” Fynn nodded as Sarah spoke, only half listening to what she was exactly saying. He would see her in the observation rooms, which he hoped would be less holiday-themed.
Fynn was annoyed that someone had taken it upon themselves to decorate the observation chambers. He mentally blamed the nightshift as the room looked like all the with all the Christmas decorations they could locate in the facility. It was exhausting having to be more cheery than normal, all for something he didn't even care about to begin with.
Opening the door to the office, he was greeted by the sight of a small package left on his desk, wrapped with little cartoons of Santa, reindeer, and snowmen. The package had a red bow on top and before he could say anything about it, Sarah spoke up.
“Looks like Santa's elves left you a little gift to cheer your grumpy self up.” She smiled, putting the files she was carrying down on her desk.
“You didn't have to get me a gift, you know?” Fynn said as he picked up the small package, examining it for a moment.
“I know I didn't have to. I wanted to. Now open it up, I want to know if you like it.” Sarah was beeming that her plan to covertly have Fynn get his gift. Fynn let out a short sigh, sliding the bow off of the package and opening it to reveal a mug.
“‘You're my cup of tea'… You know I don't really drink tea, right?” Fynn said, not being able to hold back a smile.
“You took this shift quite late and I couldn't find one with coffee on it, but I knew you'd think it was funny. The chocolates inside are a thank you from Carlos that you were willing to take their Christmas shift.”
“I already told them I didn't celebrate anyways, so it wasn't that much of a bother. Most things are closed anyways, so it's not like I could have done much more if I wasn-”
“Shush, just accept that you did something nice for someone and they want to thank you. Also, I just wanted to cheer you up.”
“I didn't get you anything though!” Fynn looked back at Sarah, who thought for a moment before grabbing the ribbon that had been on the present.
“You did.” She grabbed Fynn 's hand, slipping the ribbon around his wrist. “Spending time with you on a shift where we're the only ones here from our team is enough. You're one of the best options to have alongside me on a day like this. You are enough of a gift for me.”
Fynn was left without a response to that, looking at Sarah, who said the nicest thing he'd heard on Christmas in years. He put the mug down and hugged her for a moment, smiling.
“Thank you. That… That means a lot to me.” Fynn smiled as he let go of her. Now he had some nicer memories to associate with Christmas at least.
“On another note, I don't want you to be alone tonight. My boyfriend is cooking Christmas dinner and he always ends up cooking for a whole orphanage. You're welcome to join us if you want and have nothing better to do.” Sarah smiled, phone at the ready, like she'd already gotten Fynn to agree to the offer. She wasn't wrong. Fynn had no plans for himself, and he couldn't say no to an offer like this.
“If it's not too much extra work… “
“It really isn't. I'll text him to set up an extra plate!”
“Thank you so much.”
Fynn was wrong, this Christmas wasn't just like any other day.
It was better.