Ahh, Gears. Good to see you again.
Another year has come and gone. A year older. A year wiser. A year of your youth ground away in the mill of eternity. So, to commemorate this happiest of days: Tales! Tales of horror. Of suspense. Of moral ambiguity and cruelty. Of truncated kindnesses, and missing people, and maybe even a song and dance number. Tales with two faces, stories that don't and do mean at the same time, and the occasional tug at the heart string. Stories of men with needle teeth, or a horse who tells the future, or a duck whose quack echoes. Perhaps a skull who speaks all your fears, the tomb of the Czar's dead wives, or a chandelier made of bones. Who can say? All I can tell you for sure is…
Happy Birthday…! And many more.

Stitches

Happy Birthday!

She ran her fingers over the needlework, smiling down at her finished labor. It looked so beautiful, so carefully arranged… And it was. It really, really was.
She'd taken her time with this one. It wasn't like the dozens of other cross-stitchings she'd worked on over the years, all the samplers and patterns she'd completed and discarded. Box after box of the stupid things were sitting in her attic, all working towards this one. Those were just practice; a past time. This one was a true thing of beauty…
He was still murmuring, still trying to move the tongue that was no longer there. It would have ruined the elegant long-stitches over his lips. Even worse would have been the screaming, but the wires laced through his jaw took care of that. His hands were perfectly stitched together with French loops, looking almost elegant in their flowing pattern. He was beautiful. She smiled softly, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.
“Are you ready, hun? I have to do your eyes next…” she said, stroking the bulge straining at the front of his pants. He looked up at her, blinking for one of the last times, his bright blue eyes looking soft and wet…
And nodded eagerly.

Kindness

Happy Birthday!

We'd been deployed to some place in some little country whose name I can't spell. Place used to be part of the Soviet Union before it fell to pieces. We were at a tiny village, just on the crest of a beautiful cliff. At least, it was beautiful if you could ignore the pile of fresh corpses at the bottom.
It was like they had all just up and walked off the edge, like lemmings. Everyone in the village. It was our job to find out why. We went in in full Hazmat suits, to be safe. All the houses were empty, as if their occupants had just stepped out for a while. It was creepy. Only place left was the church. My partner and I drew the short straw, and went in. It was a simple, one-room affair, with a dirt floor. There were some sticks and rocks littered around the altar, so we moved in closer, to check behind it.
That's where we found him.
The poor boy was wearing rags, covered in bruises and cuts, and I realised that there was dried blood on some of the stones and branches around him. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. He looked up at me with the widest, saddest, most terrified eyes I've ever seen. They weren't human eyes. They were too yellow.
He was clawing at his own throat. The boy had wickedly sharp nails, but his tolerance to pain wasn't high enough for him to bring them close enough to sever anything vital. A choked sob escaped him, and those impossibly-wide eyes widened even more. He gasped, and clamped both his bloodied hands over his mouth. That's when I really noticed the feathers. They were growing forward out of his wrists, sticking out over the backs and sides of his hands. Was he what caused this, or was he a victim, too?
“What happened?” I asked in my best Russian, which wan't very good. He shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. My partner was already radioing in for backup and medical assistance.
“This is Six. We found… something behind the altar. Humanoid. It's injured.”
Good old Ashley. Always so cold and professional. I know I should be, too, but… I mean, I can do my job, you know, but sometimes I find myself feeling sorry for the weird creatures we lock up. Some of 'em, anyway. This kid's… almost human… right?
The med fellas came in, along with the rest of the containment team. Emmy had gotten her memo pad out again, probably scribbling down information that was gonna go in the mission report later, when the boy reached out toward her. The kid instantly had at least four guns trained at his head. He shrank back against the side of the altar.
“Dammit, guys!” Eddy – he was one of the med fellas – snapped at them. “I'm trying to bandage this thing's neck, which is kinda hard when it's moving around.”
Emmy must have given the kid an idea, because he started looking around. He picked one of the smaller sticks and started scrawling something in the dirt with it. The scritch-scratch of Emmy's pen doubled in speed, and I could hear her footsteps as she walked around the altar so she can get a better look.
“'Sorry,'” she translated aloud as he wrote. “'Not intend hurt. Scared. Sorry sorry sorry.'” She paused a moment. “The thing's got bad grammar.”
“That's great, Emmy,” Eddy said, although I don't think Emmy picked up the sarcasm, “and I'm happy for ya, but could ya ask it to hold still, dammit so I can save it's life?”
Emmy said something that I think's in Russian, and the kid stopped moving, so I guess he understood. The girl's a freaking savant, I swear. Can speak a bazillion languages, but can't read a situation worth beans, and she was still talking. I think she was asking questions, but the kid wasn't answering.
The flight back started out pretty boring. At least, for everyone that wasn't Emmy. She'd passing notes back and forth with the kid, or something, which I'm sure breaks all sorts of protocols, but from the look that was on her face, it looked like she was getting a pretty good idea of what the hell happened, so maybe she wouldn't get reprimanded too bad. I hope she didn't. She's a sweet girl. Kinda cute. I know I shouldn't be thinking those kinds of things about my co-workers, but she is.
I think everyone was surprised when Emmy suddenly announced that we all had to break out the earplugs, and now. We obeyed, of course. The kid looked like he was about to start crying again at the gesture; I think we hurt his feelings. Now, I'm no scientist or anything, but by this point I was starting to figure that the kid was refusing to talk for a damn good reason. However it happened, it was probably his voice that killed the villagers, and it could probably kill us, too. No-one else seemed inclined to ask Emmy why, so they were probably thinking the same thing.
We handed the kid over to the researchers at Site-██, and Emmy merrily started rattling off to them what she's learned. I was kinda shocked she could be so chipper talking about it, though. What I overheard sounded pretty grim. The villagers had mistaken the kid for a demon when he'd wandered into town looking for food, and were probably trying to exorcise him. When his fear for his own life outweighed his fear of speaking, and he said two words (or, at least, something that translated to two words in English) that, combined with a defensive swing of his arm in what had happened to be in the general direction of the cliff, ultimately led to an entire village of people calmly walking off the ledge to their deaths:
"Go away."
I didn't see the kid again until some years later. I'd had an accident that screwed up my leg too bad for me to go back to field work, and got reassigned to paper-pushing at Site-17. He still had some scars from what he'd done to his neck, but there was also a bigger, cleaner one that looked like it had come from a surgery. Given the fact that he was at Site-17 now, I guessed that they'd probably taken out his vocal cords or something. He smiled and waved at me when he saw me. I waved back.
… My supervisor saw, and I got reassigned before I even had a chance to get my things into my new old desk.

Unpalatable

Hope your cake's better

"So what are you doing up here in Saskatchewan?" asked the truck driver. His beard was rather scruffy and he didn't seem too bright, but he was inviting enough, and friendly. He was nice enough to pick up a hitch hiker, at least.
"I'm an investor. I'm heading up north to check out the uranium mines they have going here," I replied, watching the hula girl shake on the driver's dashboard.
"Why didn'tcha take a plane up?" the driver asked.
"Well I was going to but then that hail storm passed over the city and they said no flights would be leaving in 24 hours. I got a meeting up there in…" I checked my watch. "16 hours."
"Well it is nice to see the countryside, eh?" The man's gaze shifted to the sky momentarily.
"Oh yes, it is very nice." I looked up to, only to notice two spinning lights overhead.
"Now what wouldja say that is?" The truck driver could see them too.
"I dunno, maybe a chopper or something?" I gazed at the lights. Odd how they swirled like that. They seemed to get bigger as well.
"Nah, if it were a chopper it'd be making noise." The truck driver frowned. I looked back at the road to see if there were any other vehicles about. No one else on the lone, flat highway.
"Maybe i- Woah shit!" I was interrupted as the truck driver shifted the wheel sideways. I saw a flash of lights. Two lights, spinning I thought. And then the truck careened off the highway and flipped onto its side, leaving myself and the driver suspended sideways as our seat belts held us tight. I looked down to see a smashed hula girl.
"I- augh - I think I broke my arm," the truck driver said.
"Why the fuck did you do that?!" My head hurt.
"The lights came really close and we were about to smash them." The truck driver replied.
"Smash lights?" I asked, but before I could hear an answer I instead heard the sound of smashing glass and a quick ripping noise. I looked up to see the driver gone from his seat and the windshield broken.
I focused through the windshield to see a blob. It was large, red, and for all intents and purposes could only be described as a blob. It had several tendrils extending from its body, one of which was holding onto the driver. And then I heard the sound of smashing glass and I too was suspended in the air by a slimy, red tendril.
"Greetings Earth men!" said the blob, "I am Snozerghaslel, food critic of Snasser. My apologies for crashing your vehicle, but i thought that the best way to incapacitate you!"
I was too shocked to respond. I looked over at the driver to see him similarly surprised. I looked back at the blob.
"Can you hear me? Is my telepathy coming through alright? Hello?" the blob seemed to jiggle a little. For some unknown reason I decided to nod to communicate that its telepathy was, in fact, coming through.
"Ah, good. I thought I should congratulate you, for being the first specimens of a new food craze!" The blob jiggled some more. "I've eaten a few Garfhufians in my lifetime, and even a Cragelisalilian, but I have never eaten an Earthling before."
Sudden fear came over me as I realized what it meant. I squirmed a bit, but to no avail.
"Squirming just serves to wet my appetite, as you will soon learn. Anyways, let's get to it." I watched in terror as the blob opened up a hole in itself that soon filled with what I could only presume to be teeth. He picked up the driver and dropped him in. The driver screamed on the way down then was silenced as the hole closed. I barfed.
"Oooh, hmmm, good texture. Oooh, crunchy center." I could hear a grinding noise and retched again. "Ah, I really enjoy that liquid around the crunchy area. Adds a deep contrast that really keeps the taste-arms waving."
I heard a gulping noise and turned green. Then white as I realized I was up next for taste-testing. "I suppose you're up next, mister squirmy."
The tentacle began to rise up over the mouth-hole, which was once again beginning to open. I screamed. Quite loudly. So loudly the blob had to shake me and tell me to quiet down. I didn't. I had never been as terrified as I was right at that moment.
Then, just as it began to lower me into the mouth-hole, it stopped.
"Oh, wait, what is that after-taste?" The blob paused and smacked its mouth-hole. "Oh, that is wretched. That is absolutely vile. It's like, you know, it's like…" The blob snapped a tendril. "It's like when you get a really, slimy old sucker stuck in your tongue-ball. That is nauseating. Ugh"
The blob then threw me to the ground, slithered to its ship and took off. That night at the uranium site I got the vegetarian burger.

Coffee Shops

Here we go...

On the corner of Westpoint and Main, there's a big concrete building painted all sorts of vibrant colours. Across the sides, in big red block letters, are the words “GETOUT”. An unusual sight, set against the offices and banks downtown.
Outside, it looks like some obsessive-compulsive youths took their spray cans in clean strokes to some poor landlord's warehouse. Inside, the best café in the city. The Get Out, see? Get Out of your house, go see some friends. All kinds of people come around, from businessmen to students. Excellent reviews, wonderful clientele, and the tastiest damn espresso in the area. The owner makes sure of it.
Course, it only really took off a couple years ago. See, the owner, Boakes, he was in competition with his older brother for a while. The Elder Boakes had a fabulous little nook over on Sixth, just called Old Café, a couple streets over. Elder was content with his little coffee shop, over near the apartments. I used to come down every day for a tea. Wonderful atmosphere, not too much different from the Get Out. Bit more cozy, a bit warmer. But I digress. Basically, the Elder Boakes got the talent, where the Younger Boakes got the aspirations.
Anyway, the two of them had a falling out. Shouting matches once a week for months up and down the street. Everyone knew about it. Course, everyone seemed to be on the Elder Boakes's side. His brother was a bit of a weirdo back then, always angry, you know the type. Rumours said he was some sort of cultist. He doesn't seem like it any more. He changed a lot.
One day, the Younger Boakes just packed up and left the city. Nobody really missed him, except his brother. He lived above the café; at night, if you passed by right after closing, you might hear him crying upstairs.
A few months after his brother left, the Elder Boakes's café burned. He was caught inside, the firefighters found his body under some timber. I was actually one of the guys who went in to look for him. I was there, that night that the Old Café went up in smoke.
The next day the Younger Boakes appeared downtown, bought a warehouse, and began work on the Get Out. Completely turned around. His hair cut, he was dressed well, a lot of energy and charisma. Never would have guessed that he was that freak from before. Had a new business partner too, some youngish looking fellow. Never got his name. Long hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Always wore a hat.
… Can I tell you something?
The Elder Boakes… His hands and feet were screwed to a wooden frame. It must have snapped in the heat, the body was folded up like a sandwich. It was horrific. We never let that out, would cause a panic. Nothing like that ever happened before.
I've passed by the ruins a few times since, usually walking home from work. One night I turned the corner and I swear, for just a second, I saw that odd guy with the ponytail, under the streetlight, looking at the ruins. I just turned around, went the long way home.
Maybe the name of the Younger Boakes's café is not just some modern marketing gimmick. Maybe it's a warning.
The man had horns.

Dr. Toxic and Lady Catfish

Happy birthday, Gears!

Super Marvolo struggles, alone, on the floor of the supervillian's underground laboratory dungeon lair. Bound, trapped, his cape flopping useless on the ground. The chains that bind him are of a dexanite-troinian alloy. The dexanite is one of only three elements in the known universe that he cannot break, and the troinian is slowly sapping his powers and poisoning his blood. He is trapped, with no hope of rescue, unless Marvolo Boy, the Teen Wonder, can escape the deadly electric bear-sharks of Greater Camptos.
But it is not his own life he is truly worried about. Super Marvolo is as selfless as any hero, and the threat to his own life could not possibly motivate him to struggle as hard as he now does against the dexanite-tronian chains. No, this mysterious, unnamed supervillain has kidnapped the unrequited love of his life, Lady Catfish. Even now, this unnamed supervillain could be doing all manner of cruel, unthinkable things to his dear Lady. Super Marvolo could never forgive himself if… if…
Super Marvolo turns all his efforts to breaking his chains. He cannot break them, and yet - he must!
"Super Marvolo!" a hooded figure cackles from the darkness in the shadowy corners of the laboratory dungeon. "We meet again. For the last time."
The hooded man steps slowly from the shadows. The lights illuminate first his mad, toothy grin, then the contours of his face, then his mad, staring eyes. Super Marvolo gasps in astonishment.
"It's … you!" Super Marvolo exclaims. "Dr. Toxic! But you… you were dead! You were shot between the eyes in the Special Crisis of Heroes!"
Dr. Toxic throws back his head and laughs. "So naive, Super Marvolo! Then again, you always were more brawn than brains." Dr. Toxic circles Super Marvolo with menace in his mad eyes. "Did it never occur to you that during the Special Crisis of Heroes, I was teemed up with Snake Goblin, Master of Illiusions? You only saw… what I wanted you to see!"
"So you've been behind this all along!" Super Marvolo stares down Dr. Toxic with his piercing diamond eyes. "What have you done with Lady Catfish!"
Dr. Toxic throws back his head once more, his laughter echoing from the laboratory dungeon rafters. "You cannot even begin to imagine what—-"
The world tilts.
Super Marvolo collapses on the metallic floor, limp, eyes open, staring at nothing, not even breathing. The rats and spiders and moths in the cages that line Dr. Toxic's laboratory freeze and slump over.
The world stops.
Only Dr. Toxic is left moving. The look of mad glee falls from his face and the maniacal smile vanishes.
"Please," Dr. Toxic says. "Please. You don't - you don't know what this is. Please, this won't last long. I've been trapped here for … oh god, I don't know how long anymore."
He glances around, looking for an audience that he cannot see.
"Please, please. You have to help me get out. You have no idea what they've made me do. That woman… what did they call her? Lady Catfish? She's dead. They made me… they made me kill her, dismember her… leave her body parts in this hero's bed… For character development… and… the things they had me do to her, before she died… they made me laugh and they made me like it…"
Dr. Toxic forces back tears. "Their voices in my head, saying this is what audiences want… want the edgy villains… real-world violence so the power fantasy has extra spice…"
The room is silent. Unmoving. Dr. Toxic glances around, panic setting in on his features. "You have to do something," he says. "I'm almost out of time! The things they have me do, every day of my life in here - please, please, I'm begging you— Please!"
The double doors of the laboratory dungeon lair burst open. A figure stands silhouetted in the moonlight - a teenage boy, standing tall, cape billowing behind him.
"Teen Wonder!" Dr. Toxic exclaims. "How can this be? My electric bear sharks should have taken care of you!"
Super Marvolo leaps to his feet. "Quick, Boy Marvolo! Use your Marvel Gun!"
Boy Marvolo whips the oversized gun from behind his back and fires at Super Marvolo. The dexanite-troinian chains vanish in a burst of sparks.
"No!" screams Dr. Toxic. "Impossible! My plan was foolproof! This cannot be happening!"
"Good work, Boy Marvolo!" Super Marvolo shouts. "Now, let's take care of this dastardly villain."
A panel at the top of the laboratory dungeon lair opens, with the sound of an escape helicopter above. Dr. Toxic catches the line that drops through.
"You may have bested me this time, Super Marvolo," Dr. Toxic shouts as he lifts off. "But you haven't seen the last of… Doctor Toxic!"
"I imagine not," Super Marvolo says. "But we'll be ready." Super Marvolo puts his arm around Boy Marvolo. "Now, let's go rescue Lady Catfish."

Asche Zu Asche

Yes, I know this is in Russia and that's German. I don't care.

We finally made it to the safe zone. At least, it used to be the safe zone. All that was left when we arrived was a heap of rat-gnawed skeletons, and a notice from the military that the next outpost was 200 miles away. The snow was drifting, and the wind bit to the bone. Our masks were freezing over, and our lungs burning. We decided it was time to find somewhere to make camp for the night.
There were four of us. We still barely know each other, even though we've been travelling together for close to 5 years by my reckoning. It's hard to tell with what's happened. Winter never ends with all the shit in the air. We built a small fire and huddled close around it, eating the meager rations we'd dug out of the gray ice. Sergei was up on first watch. The rest of us slept uneventfully. My turn came up last. I woke up early, and told Alexi to go get some sleep. I locked a new magazine in my rifle, and took a seat in the tower, staring into the ashy sunrise
It's been nearly 30 years since we fucked the world. 30 long years since the bombs fell and mankind was wiped off the face of the planet. I don't know how many of us are still alive. For all we know, the last bastion of humanity might have been back in Petrograd, if that's still what they're calling it. Saint Petersburg before the war. God only knows how the name got changed. Not that it was much of a city anymore. The War levelled most of the city, leaving only the outskirts and the Metro intact. That's where we lived, maybe 1000 people trying to survive. Most of us never saw the sky, never stepped outside the tunnels. Too dangerous. Between the mutants and the weather, you could barely survive a day on the surface. The four of us decided to make a break for it. The military frequencies were still broadcasting, promising shelter and safety at an outpost 30 kilometers up the Neva. We made it there in a week, finding nothing but a notice to move to the next location. The past five years we've been chasing these signs and radio signals. From Lake Ladoga to Volgograd and north again. I don't know where we are anymore. We must be in Siberia by now.
Travel is hard even in summer, or what passes for it. It never gets above freezing this far north. Winter stops everything. Six, eight months we have to find a village to hole up in. Try to find an intact house, keep from freezing to death. We hunt for food. Find a feral cow, wild pig if we're lucky. Usually it's mutants. Howlers, we call them. As far as anyone can tell, they were rats before the War. Now they're the size of dogs, and vicious. And talkative. They howl and scream, you can hear it for miles. Not the worst, though. Most of the truly dangerous ones stay in the cities. We don't go in the cities anymore, not after what happened to Vladimir. A pack of these…things came out of the sewers, dragged him off. We don't know what they were. Looked like the bastard offspring of men and apes. We never saw him again.
I returned to the present with the sound of a scream. A howler, probably. Sounded close. I went to check it out, maybe put a bullet in it for breakfast. It seems like the storm had picked up overnight. I could barely see through the snow on my lenses, and even then it was difficult to see more than a few paces. I thought I saw something moving out there in the blizzard, but I could never get close enough to see it properly. I headed back to my post, cursing under my breath. Heading back into camp I noticed everybody else was awake as well. They'd all heard the beasts. I told them to go back to sleep. That's when Natasha screamed. I wheeled around, drawing my rusty old Makarov. There was something hanging from her arm. It looked like a howler. I put a round through its head and it dropped like a stone.
Sergei stepped over and started dressing the wound. We were all confused. Howlers aren't usually hostile like this. I was on edge, gripping my rifle tightly. Suddenly, a rhythmic…chant, or something started up, coming from all around us. Something about it chilled me to the bone. It had a profound inhumanity to it, the worst sound I'd heard since the freight-train roar of the bombs when I was five. Dark silhouettes started appearing through the snow. Seven, eight feet tall, all of them. Arms reaching their knees. They were coming closer, chanting all the while. No…not chanting. Grunting. Deep, guttural sounds.
I took aim at the nearest one and loosed a round. The thing went down, skull shattered. The grunting got louder, and the creatures broke away from each other, swarming us. A hail of gunfire tore them apart. Or that's what we thought. As I approached one, wondering what in God's name had attacked us, it rose again. Howling and spitting, it ran off into the storm. The rest followed. We sat down around the fire, thinking about what we'd just seen. At least a dozen creatures, aggressive and intelligent, and certainly not human. These beings were more advanced than anything we'd seen before, not just mindless animals. Myself and Alexi decided to go look around, see if anything particularly unusual stuck out.
We saw the silhouette of an immense tower in the distance. A cooling tower, from before the war. My god…how far have we come? We started towards it, looking for any sign of where we were. The ruins of a village came into view. No…not ruins. It was inhabited! The cooling stacks were operating, sending pillars of steam into the sky. We rushed towards it, thinking we'd found the “safe zone” at last.
The flap of leathery wings above drew our attention upwards. One of the…things we'd been attacked by earlier was flying overhead. It didn't notice us, and we left it alone. As we entered the village, we noticed it seemed somehow strange, as if it had been rebuilt, but not by humans. Our rifles were in our hands as we closed in on what appeared to be some kind of town square. What we saw there will stick with me for the rest of my life. The things that had attacked us earlier were there. A group of them. Alexi was as shocked as I was. We ran. Somehow they spotted us and gave chase. Alexi was killed almost instantly, one dropped a huge chunk of masonry on him. I fled, running back to the camp. The creatures lost track of me and returned to the village.
The realization struck me as I regained my senses. The group that had attacked us, that we thought had attacked us. They weren't hostile. They were intelligent, looking to welcome us. My god, what have we done? We can't communicate with them, we have no way of changing things. So we ran. Back towards Petrograd, back to our homes. Every day we run. And every night, I'm haunted by the flap of leathery wings over the snowy wastes. I never see them, just hear them. See footprints outside our hiding places. They are hunting us, and there's nothing I can do.
The remaining members of the group, Sergei, Natasha and I have decided we can't risk drawing them back to Petrograd. We make our stand here, at the Cathedral of the Epiphany in Irkutsk. Victory or death!

Bilocation

And Light is late to the party!

After the tumor removal, I started to notice I was always being watched. Not by, I don't know, anyone in particular, or friends or people from the hospital, just a hair-on-the-back-of-the-neck feeling- night, day, windows open or shut, just a prickle. Since it happened right after the brain surgery, I should have told someone, but by then I'd had enough of scans and doctors and soft serious tones, and diagnoses, and pity, and worst of all, constant company (full of warmth and support and never leaving your side, not once- any proper introvert would hate it. I did) So I didn't panic and didn't tell any of the doctors, not even Dr. Morton, who did the surgery himself.
That didn't really take away the surprise of waking up one morning, and finding someone else in bed next to you.
“The fuck?” I jerked awake and sat up in my PJ's. “Who the hell are you?”
The figure was already sitting up, arms folded, sheets about his waist, and didn't answer.
“I said- how did you get in my house?”
It didn't do anything, even when I yelled at it some more, so eventually I just got dressed and left. Took a little walk, played some Solitaire. The next day, it was still there, but up and moving a little, but still not talking, so I tried not to look at it. Called Rhonda and chatted for a while. Then, the next day, it was in my kitchen when I woke up, doing my dishes.
I turned the coffee pot on and wandered past it towards the table. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the figure said.
I processed this for a little while. “So, this means I'm crazy, now, right?”
“What?” Said the person, attacking a soup pot with a sponge. “No, that's stupid.”
“You weren't here before.”
“I am now.”
“Who are you?”
“Look at me.” He stopped scrubbing and stared at me. He looked just like me.
“…Are you, like, Tyler Durden or something?”
“No. No. Of course not.” He went back to scrubbing, and I shifted a little, suddenly scared. He looked just like me.
The phone rang, and the other-me glanced at it. I got up to answer it. Dr. Morton, in fact, had some results from post-surgery tests- I was, apparently, “right as rain,” and the recovery was going exactly as planned. He promised to call back with in a week.
I hung up, staring at the phone. “Doesn't he bother you?” asked the man in the kitchen.
“What? Why?”
“I don't know. Just bothers me.”
“No,” I said, with some certainty, unconsciously reaching towards the scar on the side of my head, that the hair was just beginning to grow over. “He's nice. Had me listen to his kid's flute recital when I was freaking out about surgery. Hell, he took a tumor out of my head. Cured me.”
“Me too,” said the guy, and pulled his hair out of the way to show me a matching scar. “I just want to kill him.” He picked a knife out of the soapy water of the sink, flipped it around in his hand. “Want to help?”
“What the hell?” I jumped up. “No way. Put that back. You're crazy.”
He sighed and dropped it into the sink. I poured a cup of coffee, practically ran into the living room, and proceeded to watch TV for the next few hours. At one point, I heard the door open and closed. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, later, I was feeling kind of weird about whatever had just happened, so I went down to the corner store and bought a six-pack, then later, don't ask me why (though I think it had something to do with the booze plus whatever pills I was on)- ended up calling Suicide Hotline. I wasn't, you know, thinking of anything, but the woman I got, Sarah, and I, ended up having this amazing heart-to-heart, where we talked about all the shit in my life, and what was happening, and what I should do about it.
We actually went on for a few hours, and I learned some things about her too, but by the end, we agreed I was going to call Dr. Morton in the morning and explain everything that happened- since whatever was making me freak out now was probably related to it, and to Crazy Man, and brain surgery was by nature scary and tricky, and these things probably happened to other people. She wished me good luck, and we hung up. I was feeling a lot better when I went to sleep.
When I woke up, Crazy Man wasn't there.
That morning, the phone rang. When I answered it, it was a police officer, saying I was wanted for questioning, regarding the death of- you guessed it- Doctor Jeremy Alfonso Morton, sometime last evening. He had been stabbed seventeen times by his own kitchen knife, and my fingerprints were found on the blade. I told him everything he asked.
I didn't do it.
No, I don't have siblings or a twin.
No, I hadn't left my neighborhood last night.
Yes, I had an alibi.
And… yup, five days later, I'm going in to testify at court. It'll be fine. My lawyer got Sarah from the SH, plus the clerk from the corner store, and even the desk-worker at my apartment, and all of them are willing to testify that I never left. It is weird, but he assured me, despite the fingerprints, and him being my doctor, it would have been a convenient disguise, and the evidence that I wasn't there is rock solid. They'll be bringing in other people too, it won't be me versus a grand jury.
Because it is, I know. I'm still worried, whatever the lawyer says, I still don't want to go.
I just really don't want to know who I'll see in the stands.

Fiction

...this certainly is...

Anthony sat down at the computer, letting his fingers hover over the keys for a moment, the quiet hum of the computer and the rush of his blood in his head the only sounds in the room… And then he heard them. Clicking. Whirring. Churring and churning and starting. He felt them turn, somewhere in the back of his head, starting up. The gears.
He closed his eyes, his fingers flying across the buttons, slowly putting the words together. He let the idea fall between the spokes, grinding his thoughts to powder… Changing them, rebuilding them. He turned the powder into mortar, then mortar into bricks, and the bricks into the wall. Now, he was putting the man behind it, the senile old man who had been trapped there for decades, slowly going mad, surviving on rats. He wrote about his mad ravings, those that he covered the walls with, that the—
A piecing cry broke his reverie, his eyes shooting open. He stood up and left the room, walking down the short hall to his son's bed and sat on the side of it, rubbing his back. He whispered quiet words, promising that dreams were just that—awful, terrible, dreams. "It's fine," he murmured. "It's just a shadow…" he said. "Shhh…shhh…." he shushed. All the time, they were clicking. Click, click, click—"…15 milimeters in diameter, the object has been discovered to hold an unquantifiable amount of electricity. Class-D test subjects have been cooked alive in a matter of seconds…"—click, click, click. "They're not real…" he murmured. His son was comforted, even if Anthony himself didn't believe it.
After all, there were monsters out there.
He got up as his son fell asleep, walking back into the office, sitting back at the computer, and waiting for them to restart. And in a moment, it did, and he fed them his ideas, and this time out poured blood and flesh and a burnt door. The door. That must be important then. He put the door up, built the cage, and started to build the thing behind it, all black flesh and too many teeth. He imagined its life, what it must think, how it must be… How it fed. How it entertained itself.
They were moving smoothly now, lubricated in blood and viscera.
He stopped, looking at it, almost numb. It was gone, now. Out of his head. Exorcised like a demon. And now… He clicked a few times, naming it, uploading it, licking his lips softly as he turned off his computer and closed his eyes in relief. Another demon gone. Another beast contained in words instead of his mind.
Of course there were monsters out there. So many monsters…
He'd made them, after all.


The door suddenly bursts open as Rex Sponge's foot gives it quick momentum. O5-7 wakes up from the slam of the door, leaving a puddle of drool on the desk. He looks around and slowly brushes his, long, curled moustache. His eyes suddenly set on the intruder at the door.
"Ah, so Rex, you have finally come!" O5-7 lifts an eyebrow and smirks, then rubs his hands together.
"Yes, your reign of cruelty is over, O5 dash 7, or should I call you… 'Data'!" Rex snarls and gazes at the man, aiming his pistol at the villain's head.
"Ah, so you figured it out, did you? That I am actually an SCP, a technopath?" Data giggles madly.
"And that you've been controlling that reptile the whole time!"
"Ah, yes, 682 is a prize." Data giggles again. "But did you know I - I mean we - made him! That we made all the SCPs?"
"Of course I did - I'm Rex Sponge!" Rex flips his hair. The poor and discomforting lighting of the room somehow makes it glisten. "Ever since you created and broke up with the Factory, Chaos Insurgency, ORIA, and Global Occult Coalition, you've never stopped abusing Class-D's for your own nefarious deeds!"
"Then you know that 173 is actually O5-1?" Data seems shocked at Rex's knowledge of Foundation history.
"Yes, and now your time is up!" Rex takes another step forward.
"Ah, but how do you expect to deal with… a tank of 231-7 offspring that we've been secretly breeding?" Data's hand begins to descend upon a large, red button on his desk.
"Your time is over!" Rex shoots Data's right hand. The technopath screams and pulls back his hand.
"Data, consider yourself Rex Sponged!" Rex pulls the trigger and a red dot suddenly appears on Data's head, which begins overflowing with blood. The O5 collapses into the chair, dead.
Rex takes a list out of his pocket and crosses a name off. One dead, eleven to go.

Or, wait, would it be 14? Rex shook his head out of his day-dream. Now was no time for lolly-gagging. Now was the time for action. All the planning he had performed would now culminate into this one moment - as soon as he kicked down this door.
Rex looked at the door. He gazed at its window, specifically the writing on it that said "O5-7". He took a breath in, then kicked it.
Jesus fuck, that hurt. But this obstacle would not get in the way of Rex Sponge, junior level researcher and herald of justice. He thrust back his leg again, ready to descend upon the door, when a noise interrupted him. It was a voice inside, telling him to come in. Rex paused, in thought, then shrugged and opened the door.
"You know, most people knock more than once when they want to enter. You're lucky I heard you." The voice came from a middle-aged man seated at a desk at the end of the office, sitting down and shuffling through papers.
"O5-7, your time is up, or should I call you… Data!" Rex gave a menacing stare at the man.
The man looked up. "What?"
"Don't toy with me, 'O5-7', if that is your real name! You and I both know you're a technopath!" Rex took a step forward, his hand at his waist, ready to draw a pistol.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" The man gave Rex a look of confusion.
"Don't use your mind tricks on me, bender!" Rex drew his gun, pointing it at the man.
"Wait, if I'm a technopath, how could I- You know what, never mind. What the hell is wrong with you?" The man gave Rex a look.
"Playing stupid will get you nowhere!"
The man sighed, and began to reach for a small, green button at the edge of his desk. Rex pulled the trigger. The man didn't even flinch as he pressed the button. Rex jumped out of the way, expecting the floor to open up beneath himself into a pit of keter-class solar babies.
"Security personnel will be here in a few mi- Did you try to shoot me!?" The man looked like he was about to laugh. "Did you not fucking notice the bullet-proof glass in front of my desk."
Rex had indeed failed to notice, being too focused on the corrupt demon sitting before him. Looking up now he could see a small mark left by his bullet that would probably have hit the ceiling anyways.
"B-but… you control 682…" Rex looked shocked. How could he not have foreseen such a devious trick?
"What the hell are you talking about? We're trying to destroy 682. He's a huge drain of our resources and kills a lot of D-class personnel. It's such a shame to see their lives go to waste like that."
"A-ha! So you think human lives are disposable!" Rex lifted his hand in triumph.
"What? No. Are you fucking stupid? I mean, I obviously hold a utilitarian philosophy, but that doesn't mean I kill people just because. What, you think I think this is just some big game?"
"But… what about when you created the Factory, and the Chaos Insurgency made 173 O5-1, and…"
"Are you high? No, seriously, are you fucked right now? What the fuck kind of…" The man shook his head. "I honestly don't know how to respond to that."
"No, I figured it out. When I sa-" Whatever Rex was about to say at that moment was lost as several armed bodyguards tackled him into the ground and sedated him.
"Are you alright, sir?" asked a security guard.
"Just fine, thank you Agent." The man nodded to the guard. He waited for the guard to leave, then swiveled his chair around. A small, white cat leaped out from a high shelf and landed on his lap, although only half of its body was visible. The man then pressed a large, red button under his desk and the wall moved to show a large screen displaying 11, or maybe 14, faces. Most clad with moustaches.
"Rex Sponge has been eliminated, brothers and sisters!" The man spoke in a sneering tone. "Now all we have left is Breanne Dact!" The man began to cackle, and others joined him.
"How do you propose we eliminate her?" asked a gentlemanly fellow in the top left.
"I say we stick 'er," a figure replied, smiling to show rather unkempt teeth, "I'll just slip in right behind 'er and stick 'er with my shiv." He then proceeded to take out his shiv and clean his teeth, to little effect.
"Excellent proposal, 173, but I have a better idea. Why don't we use Rex Sponge against her?" O5-7 looked around. "We'll simply abuse the obedience collars like we always do and have him kill her."
"That's totally mental!" 173 exclaimed, "I love it. Let's 'ave a jolly ol' time fuckin' with the bugger."
"Yes. This will end nicely. Muhahahaha."

Agent Johnson looked at Rex. "And… and that's why you killed Breanne? Because the O5s used mind control on you?"
"Yes, yes, of course. They're all evil you see. Could you loosen these restraints?"
"And… 173 is British?"
"Duh. Why else would he be wearing a top hat?"
"You never mentioned that."
"Oh, well he was. And he had a moustache. Seriously, these are cutting off the circulation to my hands."
"Not yet, Rex. You see, when we discovered you, you had no collar on at all."
"Well they gave it a self-destruct… thingy."
"And witnesses to the event said they saw no other collar either."
"It was camouflaged."
"They also said you called her a 'Lying, cheating bitch' as you strangled her."
"Well that's what they forced me to say."
"Rex, what makes you think I should believe anything you say?"
"They're evil, man, I'm telling you."
"Okay, let's say that all happened. Let's say you somehow knew what the O5s were saying even though you were escorted out. Let's say they used the mind control collar. Let's say you aren't fucking insane. There's still a gigantic problem with your story."
"What is it?"
Agent Johnson brought out a piece of paper. On it was a drawing.
"173 is Mexican."


Guys, this is another out of character post. Much like something to share, it's just a way for me to get out something that's bugging me, and not really a Tale per se. If you're looking for a story, or for some kind of interesting twist, this is not the page for you.
For a long time, I've had several reoccurring dreams. Most are of no consequence, or at least deserve a separate telling. One, however, recently took on a significance that I admit troubles me a bit. You see, I regularly talk on the phone with my girlfriend before bed, and since we're both contributors here and share a certain macabre mindset, I suppose it's unsurprising that our conversation often turns for the spooky. In this case, we were discussing night terrors.
She told me that only twice in her life had she experienced the feeling of paralysis that lies somewhere between dreams and awakening. One was a story for her to tell another day, but the other? It was my dream.
I was speechless for a moment, shocked, then began to speak in unison with her, and together we recited the events of the dream, then sat for a long time in silence. Our dreams were identical until the final moments. She tells me I should post about it here, so. Here. If any of you others have had this dream, speak up. I won't say it's significant, because I have no idea, but I will say it's sobering.
It begins with fog.
The night is dark and misted with a foggy soft rain, the kind that seeps rather than falls and soaks everything it touches to the bone. The streets around me are dark, lit only by the guttering streetlamp ahead which casts its meager light on the sullen cobbles in what seems almost like revulsion. For a short moment, there is nothing there but the silent street and the gloomy light. Then, almost as if dropped by stage magic from some unseen door, he is there. A man, or something like one, in a tall top hat and long cloaklike coat, standing just at the edge of the light as though he's been there all along, looking down at the ground beside his feet on the soaking street.
Often, on good nights, this is the part where I wake up.
I find myself inching closer, though I try like a man in fear of his life to turn and run. I feel my feet move against my command, pulling me slowly toward that circle of light that should be reassuring. Some nights, in the dream, I can hear him chuckle softly to himself, only once.
He sees me. I'm sure of that. Despite the depth of the nighttime dark, and his lowered gaze, hidden by the wide brim of his tall hat, he is totally aware of my presence, and of my inability to turn away or slow my advance. Any moment now, as soon as I cross some unknown threshold, he will look up.
I do not want him to look up.
Don't get me wrong, it's not just the dream me that's frightened. Maybe it's best to say that there is no dream me. I'm aware, every time, that I'm dreaming; I know that I'm in my bed in my house, surrounded by walls and locks and fences in the depths of suburbia. I know he's not real. Somehow the knowing makes it worse.
There is no sound in this part of the dream but the oddly muted hollow clatter of drizzle on cobblestone, but there is an impression of noise, of speech, of something, as I drift closer and closer and my fear and loathing and revulsion mounts to a crescendo as he silently waits for me, and with a gut churning wrench in the pit of my stomach I see as if in slow motion the brim of his hat tilting as he begins to raise his face toward me.
I always wake up screaming.
I told you that my girlfriend's dream is different from mine in the end. The difference is just as bad, to me, as the whole extended beginning. Like me, she finds herself drawn down the rainswept cobbled street, toward the figure in the tall top hat and cloak who waits, looking down at the edge of the streetlamp's meager glow. Unlike my dream, though, he never looks at her.
In her dream, the figure stares at something on the ground at its feet. A long dark bundle, dripping with rain and hidden by shadow. She's afraid to look at it, paralyzingly so, and in her dream it is this bundle, not the figure's gaze, that makes her writhe on her bed in terror as she tries desperately to wake up. He still knows she's there. He still waits for her arrival to pierce her with the gaze I fear so much, but it's the dark thing at his feet she cannot see, and that she wakes each time she begins to comprehend.
A long dark bundle at his feet, the size of a man.
The part that really scares me, guys? Not dream scared, but real world chilled? I think I know what she's afraid to see.
Well. I say that. I mean, it's stupid, really. There's no way it could be. Not in the dreams of two people who've been dreaming longer than they've known one another. It's not possible that what she fears to see could be connected to my dream at all, is it? But still. Part of me wonders about that man sized something lying prone in the puddles before the figure in our dreams.
I'm scared it's me.
~yoric


Worst Case Scenario
"Assume that everything I've told you is true."
"What's the worst case scenario?"
It's my job to answer that question; it's been my job for the past 22 years. I've been asked that same question by everyone from tobacco company executives to defense contractors. My life and livelihood depended on giving them the right answers. This one had degraded into nonsense; this "doctor" was screwing around and I couldn't understand why. The situation he had laid out was absurd — the whole interview was absurd — but I was once more being paid good money to answer that question even if the question and consequent answers didn't make a lot of sense.
"Doctor, at that point things would be bad. You would have lost containment entirely, everyone who could stop the spread would be dead, and over the next 24 hours everyone within a hundred miles would be at risk. But at that point, the worst case scenario is that reestablishing containment is the least of your worries because a previously undiscovered deep space object was just detected coming out of our observational blind spot behind the sun on a collision course with earth, leaving us only a few hours to come to terms with our inevitable destruction. That's always the worst case scenario."
You know what they say - garbage in, garbage out.
"It's been done. September 1992. One of my junior researchers assigned to the L3 observatory spotted it with a good two weeks' notice. That was the day the observatory paid for itself. It could have been bad, but we took a few notes for next time and went about our business.
"If you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll be right back with something for you."
He had to be screwing with me. But nobody with the security clearance he had provided would bring me in just to screw around. The nondisclosure agreements he had signed to get me in here had been drawn up by some of the world's best lawyers, this wasn't for anyone else's amusement. Bits and pieces of memories in the back of my mind started to come together. I tried to remember what I had heard on the news, 1994, mass casualty incident at Mill Cove, officials blamed an outbreak of a strain of Avian flu that was thought to have been extinct.
I have to give him credit, he's planted enough doubt in my mind that I was starting to question what I knew to have happened. But my imagination was running wild and I had broken into a cold sweat by the time he came back. He slid three folders over to me and asked me to read each one carefully and let him know when I was done. I took about ten minutes poring over details of each. For what they were paying me, I'd figured I'd play along. I looked back up and he spoke again, "Same question. Assuming these files are true, what's the worst case scenario?"
I handed him the first of the folders and said, "This one is easy. Don't let anyone touch it without gloves. Put it in a locker somewhere and don't let people have the key. That's it, it can't do anything if it's locked in a box. Your worst case scenario is that someone doesn't think it's dangerous and tries to play with it."
I thumbed through the second folder again and handed it to him. I responded, "This one's a bit more touchy. Keep it away from people, and require people assigned to it run any decisions by someone off-site. The worst case is that you let people start to empathize and let it out."
I slid the third folder across the desk and managed to keep a straight face. This one was a stupid joke, some kind of test that a psychology degree dropout would come up with to make sure you're thinking outside the box. "Doctor, this is not something you're prepared to deal with; it's an out-of-context problem straight out of a science fiction writer's mind. You can't contain it because it figures out what you're doing and breaks out. Every time you try to do something about it, it gets stronger. One day you're going to try something outrageous and it's going to outsmart you, then it's going to kill you. Then it's going to kill everything else it can. Then someday a few billion years from now, when lightning strikes a pool of mud and some sort of primitive self-replicating molecule forms, it's going to find and destroy that. This thing is the worst case scenario.
"Do you have any more questions?"
"No, Mr. Hanford, I'd like to offer you a job with The Foundation."


It's just me and Tim now.
Everyone else is gone.
He came up to tell me. William and Marie dug up Evan's body, took the life raft, and left. We're alone. On the upside, this means more food for us… I'm still hoping someone will come along and find us here. I want to know more about who owns this place, why it's so strange. Is the cliff really some sort of pier? Or is it something stranger?
I can't help thinking about how the front half of the plane just vanished, how the seam was so straight and perfect… How it looked just like the cliff at the end of the island Tim is sitting on dangling his feet over the water as he fishes to kill time. Perfectly straight edges… I think I'm beginning to understand. In a scary science fiction sort of way, it makes sense.
It's impossible, but… I think I unders

Researcher's Note: Document 1057-E-Stephen was discovered in the upper floor bedroom of a beachside rental home on the peninsula at[REDACTED]. The site was brought to the attention of the Foundation by a caretaker, who arrived to mow the lawn to find a male corpse, minus the legs and with the arms removed just below the elbows, lying in the middle of the driveway. Study of this document as well as [REDACTED]dentifies the body as Timothy Zwicky, who has been missing since the loss of ████████ flight ████ out of San Diego in March of ████. Neighbors report not seeing anyone enter or leave the house since the caretaker's last visit. Note that the house is not, nor has it ever been, located on an island. The "cliff" described in this account does not exist.
The body of a woman identified as Marjory Vinnigio, also listed as missing following the disappearance of flight ███, was found in the house. Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body.
Of particular interest to the Foundation is the fact that no passenger named "Stephen" is listed on Flight ███'s manifest. No other persons were found in the house, and the identity of this document's author is currently unknown.
Case 1057-E is open for all researchers with interest in contributing, to both evidence gathering and analysis. Personnel who wish to assist should contact doctor Vanheissen, and requisition documents 1057-E-Timothy, 1057-E-Ma[DATA EXPUNGED]


It all happened so fast.
It's just beginning to hit me that only a few days ago a massive plane crash left me stranded with just a few other survivors on an island, and that in those few days one of us has gone missing and another, a child for pete's sake, has been murdered. This is crazy.
I need to be alone.
I've come up to the bedroom and shoved a bookcase against the door. The others seemed to understand that I wanted to be left to myself for a while. I'm going to lie down and get some sleep, and maybe when I wake up this bullshit will all have sorted itself out.

kill. kill Kill die death die sacrifice the Symbol speaks the noise the noise
symbol noise SymNoiseb ol. Radio speaks and GOD speaks and he speaks and
his arms and his arms like knives in my back the lights the noise kill die THESYMBOL
no no no no no no no no no turn it off turn me off turn it off the radio the noise
I was flying on UA 93
That shadow in the footage, it was probably me
I'm the rumour, I'm the doubt, I'm the lie
But you wouldn't stand near me if you didn't want to die
HE IS TALKING TO ME.
I don't remember writing any of this. It isn't my handwriting.
Someone is knocking on the door. I'll figure this out later.


Evan is dead.
Marjory found him hanging from the tire swing's rope, with a weird symbol drawn on his back. It looked like some kind of voodoo thing, like witch doctors draw in the dust in shitty horror flicks. It was drawn in blood, but he didn't have a scratch on him, and for some reason that just makes it worse.
I'm really glad I didn't tell anyone about the gun.

William thinks it was Markus, that he's hiding on the island somewhere, that the canoe thing was just a fake to let him disappear. I dunno. He seemed like a pretty okay guy to me.
Marjory is curled in a ball on the couch now, crying her eyes out. Tim is with her, trying to help. He found some candles in one of the drawers, so tonight we'll probably do some kind of funeral… Evan's body is in the entryway, wrapped in the deflated raft from the plane. He was a cute kid. This is fucked up.
All afternoon I sat at the end of the driveway, thinking about how the front half of the plane was just gone, with a perfectly straight edge exactly like the cliff. It seems crazy, but I'm beginning to wonder. Probably best to push that thought aside. We've already got a maniac to deal with.

Just finished Evan's funeral, for what it's worth. We buried him out in the garden by the swing, and tried not to think about the fact that he'd been killed there. Everybody said a few words, just mumbling compliments mostly. It's not like any of us knew him well enough to have anything real to say. Hopefully, once we're rescued he can get a real proper burial with a real funeral back in civilization.
Marjory hasn't stopped crying since she found him. She keeps saying something about the symbol and her brother and trailing off. I'd write more about it, but she's honestly pretty tough to understand, and I think she's just raving anyhow. Marie seems to think she knows more about what happened than she's told us. The whole time we were in the garden she was staring at Marjory, glaring, while the candlelight flickered off a black eye I'm not entirely certain I believe she got in the crash.
William smoked nonstop the whole time, burning through all the cigarettes he had like there was a prize at the bottom of the pack. He was the only one at the service not holding a candle, and the glowing red cherry at the end of his fingers somehow only emphasized the fact that he was standing in darkness. Marjory was the only one crying. I can't help but begin to form some opinions of my own.
After the burial, we all went our separate ways for a while except for Marjory and Tim. I retreated to one of the bedrooms of the house and sat for a while reading a trashy paperback I found on a shelf by the light of an emergency glowstick from the raft. I must have gotten two or three chapters in, but damned if I can say what it was about, or even what the title was. We were all on autopilot, I think, still reeling from the one two punch dealt to us by fucked up fate. Eventually I gave up on the book and just started writing.
I don't know what happened to Evan, but I have a feeling something's going to go down between William and Marie, or between Marie and Marjory. William seems to have focused on Markus- that's a good thing. If Markus isn't here, they can't get violent. Marjory was the first one to find the body, but I don't think she could kill a kid. Tim was on the other end of the island, sitting on the front porch of the house. I could see him, and he could see me, so nobody suspects us. I don't get the impression Marie's suspicion is faked, which leaves William. Could he be faking his rage at Markus to cover up a murder? Why the fuck would he kill his own son? I don't want to believe that. What did happen to Markus, anyway?
Regardless, I'm keeping this gun with me at all times from now on.


This place is weird as shit.
I realize that's not exactly elucidating, but hell. It's looking less and less like anyone is ever going to read this anyhow.
My name is Stephen. I'm a commercial writer. Yesterday, I got on a plane bound for Shanghai. Somewhere over the ocean, the front half of the plane fucking disappeared. Six others and I wound up on a life raft headed for an island, reaching the place just as night fell.
This place is weird as shit.

Last night, all we really thought about was the house. We knocked, not really expecting an answer from such a deserted looking place, and then smashed the window on the front door and let ourselves in. Immediately, I headed for a small couch in the entryway and collapsed.
This morning, one of the other guys woke me up with a cup of coffee. It was the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had. His name's Tim, he's an accountant for some firm out of San Francisco. He was in the row behind me, apparently. He says the others are a construction guy named Markus, a banker named William and his wife Marie, their six year old son Evan, and a girl named Marjory who apparently knows a lot about cars. Whatever.
Anyway, they'd been scouting out the island, so I went out to join them. The place is, as I mentioned, weird as shit. The house is the only structure on it except for a single telephone pole, with one end of its lines connected to the house and the other dangling brokenly across the concrete driveway leading away from it and ending after just forty feet or so at a cliff so straight it may as well have been cut with a razor. My best guess is they moor some kinda barge here or something and connect it to the house, or maybe there used to be some kinda pier… No telling. That weird straight edge forms that entire side of the island, so that the whole thing forms a wonky oblong with a flat edge at one end like an unrolled condom.
On the other side of the house is a perfectly manicured lawn, complete with a little ornamental garden and a rope swing setup. There's a small dock, too, with a canoe moored at it. Markus thinks the canoe means there's more land nearby- it's tough to prove him wrong with all the fog that surrounds the island. He wants to row out and see what he can find. Most of the others are against it, but I figure we're obviously close enough to civilization someone is gonna find us soon enough anyway, and there's no harm letting him try. Hell, I'll help him shove off if he needs it.
The house itself looks like the sort of condo you'd find in a seaside town pretty much anywhere, with a vaguely Edwardian cast to its architecture. Lots of wood and suchlike. It's set up with modern appliances and lights, but there's no power at all- I guess the power came from the same place as the phone. Tim says the fridge was mostly empty but for half a gallon of rotten milk and some cheese that was just starting to go moldy from the warmth. That's a good sign. It means someone was here recently enough for the cheese to have just gone bad. The question is, when will they return?

Markus is gone.
The canoe is gone too, so we're assuming he took it while no one was looking. There's not a sign of him anywhere, though Evan keeps claiming he can hear Markus yelling. He's just a kid, and he wants to help. I don't blame him for pretending. Tim found one of the canoe paddles washed ashore a short way down from the dock. Not a good sign. Still, it's too early to worry, isn't it?
I found a gun in one of the cabinets while rooting through the house. It's loaded. I have it shoved into the waistband of my pants now… I'm not sure whether I want to tell the others. I'll hold off for now, just in case. If help arrives, keeping it secret will have done no harm, and if it doesn't, well. Better I have it than anyone else, I think.
Marjory is screaming.


"…tellin' me I live inna world where silly fucks don't let their own children receive medication because some asshat on a talk show told them not to, and you wanna know how my day is goin'? lemme tell ya, bea- no, thanks, I can't drink anymore, heart condition- lemme tell ya…"
The guy on my left keeps talking to the woman across from me as I order a can of ginger ale from a flight attendant with an enormous nose. It's the third hour of a seven hour flight, and I already want to just jump. The attendant gives me a can and cup of ice and moves on before I can ask for a napkin, which I suppose is just par for the course.
My name is Stephen, and I am a commercial writer bound for Shanghai from San Diego. I'm writing all this down to keep myself amused on my journey- if it comes out entertaining, I may pass it on as a travelogue to some magazine and make a few bucks. So far, though, it looks like the chances of anything interesting happening ar

Adrift at sea on an airline life raft. This is the sort of shit you see in movies. I never expected it to happen to me. While it's fresh in my mind, I'll write out what happened.
I'd just gotten my drink when the front half of the plane disappeared. I know that sounds crazy. It is crazy. But that's what happened, I fucking saw it. I was in seat 23B. Everything beyond two rows ahead of me just vanished with a rush of exploding pressurized air, leaving a yawning view of empty blue sky that tilted all too fast into approaching clouds and the howling rush of free fall. From the looks of the spray of blood I glimpsed before I passed out, the whole row's legs went with it, like they'd been cut by God's own invisible scalpel. I instinctively rammed my notebook back into my briefcase and like a moron started to raise the tray table when the lack of oxygen and adrenalin put me to sleep.
I woke to impact, as what remained of the plane hit the water and threw me hard into the seat in front of me. I had just enough time to gulp for air before the water rushed over me to fill the cabin.
I dunno who thought to pull the raft and toss it out of the plane, but I hope that crazy bastard got a hero's welcome in heaven. It was floating there waiting when I surfaced, briefcase deathgripped in my hand. I flipped it right side up and clambered into it. That's when I blacked out for the second time.
Eventually, one of the other survivors woke me up. There are seven of us. The one who's at the front of the raft says there's a small island ahead and we're moving toward it, but it's going twilight now and we may miss it in the dark. I hope we don't miss it.

We've reached the island. There's a house here.


Written by Sabituski
She hugs the stuffed rabbit close to her and watches the procession go by. Her mother shoots her the briefest of looks, and drops her offering on the table. The tiny coins clink in the iron dish, the pipe organ plays a handful of solemn notes, the seats creak as all the others sits back down, and then everything is still and silent as the fat man on the podium inhales enough air to get his disgusting, reedy voice working.
“Brothers and Sisters, let us bow our heads in prayer.”
The little girl hesitates a moment, before her mother grabs the back of her head and forces her down.
“…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke 'Come', and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked 'O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?' The Lord said unto me 'Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn'. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord! Thus I came to know his Heart and his Word, and I swore the blood of my family in his service! Amen!” The man at the podium's voice is almost a screech by the time he finishes, overcome with emotion and religious fervor.
“Amen,” the crowd roars back. An old man in the pew to the left of the girl stamps his feet. The girl opens a single cautious eye and stares at the mass of clockwork jutting out of his legs for a minute before her mother applies more pressure and she's quickly forced to shut her eyes again.
“Brothers and Sisters!” The laugh and smile enters the preacher's voice. “Raise your heads. This is not a time for weeping and gnashing of teeth. This is a day of celebration.”
The congregation cautiously raises their heads; they've been tested in this way before. Even the young girl remembers the time when the Father announced a 'Trial of Faith' and had those who looked up after the opening prayer killed.
“Rise, rise! Look and rejoice, people of the Steel. A month ago, the Faithful found a hated… Foundation…”
Here, he stops and spits on the floor. A few of the older members of the Church do as well.
“Foundation agent snooping around our abbey! Bring him in, Brother Adjutants.”
Two men in flowing black robes and face masks made of iron enter from a back room, slamming aside a large oak door and dragging a man in rags. In their free hands they carry cruel spears. The girl makes a tiny noise of fear before her mother slaps her on the thigh, making her jump slightly.
The congregation laughs when the man, hunched with pain and hunger, stumbles on the stairs up to the stage and podium. His ragged beard speaks of long days in captivity, and his blue eyes burn with a cool flame of anger.
The Father stands and flourishes his robe. “Now, rather than have our practiced Adjutants end this dog's life, High Priest Frick would like us to use this heretic as a trial for the newest and youngest member of our order. Young Lady Tau, please come here.”
The little girl – the Lady Tau in question – freezes. She hugs the rabbit as close to her chest as possible. Her mother shoots her a half-smile, pleased with her. She tugs the rabbit out of her grasp, and shoos her into the aisle.
Tau just stands there. Her mother utters a chuckle.
“She is nervous.”
The congregation laughs, and the fat priest's smile grows wider. He extends a hand in the direction of the girl.
“Come, child.”
She slowly advances, going around and up the stairs, and then reluctantly takes the man's hand. Here, she can hear the heavy breathing of the men in the masks behind her.
“Today, we welcome Lady Tau into the Order of the Black Cog, and that of The Broken God.”
He turns, still smiling, and nods to one of the masked men. “Do it.”
The Adjutant nods, and crouches down behind Tau. She turns, and the man's spear is dropped into her hands, nearly knocking her over.
The priest crouches down as well and whispers in her ear. “Do your duty to your God.”
Everyone on the stage backs away from Tau. Suddenly, she is acutely aware of both the ragged man on his knees in front of her and his hazy breath.
He looks at her. She stares back.
He speaks. “Look me in the eye.”
She does so.
“Now.”
He nods at her, resigned.
“Kill me. Or they will kill you.”
There is a pregnant silence, an intake of breath. Tau looks down at the weapon in her hands, then at the man again. He closes his eyes, mumbles a few words, and then inhales, waiting.
She clumsily thrusts the spear into his stomach. He winces, gapes, then moans. Tau flinches. She withdraws, stabs again, this time slightly higher. Blood leaks from between the wounds and he coughs, spattering Tau's white dress with red. She realizes she must have hit him in a lung.
He falls, cold blue eyes glassing up. Tau looks down at the spear in her hands, before the man in the mask reappears and takes it from her. He pats her on the back, as if he were burping a child.
Somewhere, far away, she hears the priest's voice, echoing over the silence in the room and in her head.
“Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will seek holy and terrible vengeance…”


The messenger walked swiftly down the corridors of Storage Site-23. Ten minutes had already passed since the event, and that was eleven minutes too many. Something like this should have been anticipated, but the ever-expanding object had been shipped off to its new location a week after growth started. No second thoughts, just a quick change in containment procedures and a quicker shipping.
He stepped into the office of the Site Director, who already had a dozen different reports before him and sat in deep thought. Blinking slowly, he looked up as the messenger closed the door behind him and stepped up to the desk. As the Director straightened his back, he said, "Agent Winthrop, report."
"Sir. In light of the unexplained growth of SCP-113 one week ago, a jet left Storage Site-23 approximately four hours ago, with the intended destination being Site-24, due to their expertise in the area. The jet…"
"Please, Winthrop," sighed the Director, rubbing his forehead. "If the reports I've received are correct, time is of the essence. Speak simply."
"My apologizes, sir," stumbled Agent Winthrop. "I just thought…"
"The point, Winthrop, the point."
"Yes sir. After flying for roughly two hours, the jet came under attack by an as-of-now unknown individual or organization. From what we can gather, someone from in the Site had let slip certain details of the transport, and the attackers figured it out from there. We lost three men today." Agent Winthrop bowed his head out of respect.
"Do we know what sort of weapon was used?"
"No, sir," said Winthrop, snapping back to attention. "There are suspicions of a ballistic missile, but we have no way of confirming it. All we know for certain is that they were capable of attacking a plane flying above 10,000 feet, and that the weapon was designed for maximum fallout."
The Director waited for a moment before signaling Winthrop to continue. Already, plans were forming in his head regarding how to stop any damage.
"Given the immense size of SCP-113 at the time of departure and the rate at which it was growing, a simple missile strike would have spread it out over approximately 2,000 square miles. However, given the type of missile our attackers were using, we estimate the damage area to cover around 85% of the planet's landmass. It's a confusing yet fascinating weapon, all things considered, sir…" Agent Winthrop trailed off at the last sentence, feeling ashamed of what he had said.
The Director continued to think, his brow furrowing as he eliminated unlikely options. As Agent Winthrop opened his mouth to ask a question, the Director snapped, "Keep talking. What kind of damage reports are we looking at?"
"Well, sir, even with SCP-113 diluted as it is, it's still potent enough to change the gender of anyone who comes into contact with it, regardless of whether they're inside or out. Even microscopic pieces can trigger the process. We haven't conducted enough tests to be certain, but it's very likely a few hundred people will die from the shock alone." He paused and shuffled his feet. "There's also the, erm… other matter…"
"Which one?" asked the Director under his breath.
"To be honest, there's no… feasible way for a human male to carry children, sir. Our current numbers around showing something on the order of 150 million women pregnant on the planet at this time. If we can't get to them quick enough, there are going to be internal… complications. The sex change will more than likely… kill them and the… children… sir." Agent Winthrop's face took on an ashen look as he spoke. "And of course, there are dozens of smaller issues that we don't have time to list right now…"
Grunting, the Director raised himself out of his chair, and walked around to Winthrop. Looking closely over the Agent, he said "Listen carefully, now, Winthrop. I do believe that I have a plan that can reduce the damage. Not prevent it, but reduce it. This plan could very well work, if we act fast. Human lives will be lost, yes, but there is nothing we can do about that. Before we can make this work, there is one thing I need to know. How much time do we have?"
"Sir, current ETA before first effects is five minutes."
A silence settled over the room as the Director took in this last statement. Agent Winthrop grew increasingly nervous as he watched the Director just stand there, staring off into space. He reached out a hand to help his boss, but only grasped air. Walking slowly, the director sat back down, and folded his hands before him.
"Agent Winthrop," he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. "I suggest you find yourself a change in underclothing."
Stumbling over himself, Winthrop managed to sputter, "B-but, sir! We have an immense catastrophe staring us in the face! Millions are about to die! How is it that you can joke at a time like this? Didn't you have a plan?"
Solemnly pushing himself back in the chair, the Director sighed and looked straight at the Agent. "Winthrop. How long have you worked for the Foundation? Three years, I think it is?" A nod confirmed this speculation. "Then allow me to explain something to you about this organization. We're not perfect."
"I already know that…" began Winthrop, but he was cut off by a wave of the hand.
"What you know is that even when we make mistakes, even when containment procedures are broken, even when some horrible creature is discovered and goes on a killing spree, what you know is this. Most of the time, we can still make a happy ending. The Foundation has enough experienced and talented people on hand to deflect the majority of the problems that come our way, and maintain the semblance of peace.
"However, for all the good we do, we are not infallible. Every once in a very, very long while, we are going to come up against a problem that has no solution. We are not gods. We cannot do everything. We cannot save an entire planet within five minutes. At times like this, all we are capable of doing is letting things happen, clean up afterwards, and yes, joke a little. At times like this, we are powerless."
Still willing to fight, Winthrop said, "Sir, we have to do something. Anything."
"James, what do you propose we do?"
The Agent waved his hands for a few moments, desperately trying to think of something to do, some way to save the lives of millions and be a hero. But nothing came to him, and, slowly but surely, he ceased moving, and simply looked dejected. Noticing that the conversation was ending, the Director scribbled out a message on a piece of paper. "Give this to the rest of your men. It's instructions for damage control. And James? I am so terribly sorry."
Taking the message, Agent Winthrop left the room and closed the door, leaving the Director to lean back in his chair, sigh, and wait for the inevitable stinging.


When I was little - I, that is Crackles, not an unnamed creepypasta protagonist - I went on a lot of road trips with my dad and my brother, almost always to Idaho to visit family. We passed by a lot of fields. Sometimes they had wheat, others had corn, others were littered with bales of hay. On occasion we'd see herds of cows. But the fields that just looked like several empty acres of dirt often baffled me. Were they not being used anymore? Were they freshly planted, with no new plants visible yet? Did nobody own them?
One summer, when I was eight years old, we were driving through Iowa along Interstate 80. One of those empty dirt fields caught my attention, not because it was particularly fascinating, but because there was a man in a brown coat standing in it with his back to the road. As our car passed by, I noticed he was turning slowly so that he was always facing away from me. I watched him until the car dipped over a little hill and he - and his dirt field - disappeared.
I asked Dad if he saw that. The 'field man'. He didn't. My brother hadn't either, as he'd been asleep since Illinois. I'm not certain if it was real, a very vivid dream, or a half-remembered bit from a film seen many years ago. Memories of small children can easily lie.
Sometimes, nearly ten years later, I find myself driving along Interstate 5 and looking out for the field man.


2011-06-07
13:35:00 CST
Agents Lament and Dodridge
[REDACTED], Northern Territory, Australia
Two men sit in a darkened room, waiting for assignment. They've been told they're to execute a termination order, but not much else. The hazy atmosphere, rich with the smoke wafting from a pair of cigars, obscures the light falling from a single, tiny window at the back of the room, hiding the spartan, block-style, concrete construction and bare furnishings. As they muse on temporal distortion containment measures, the best method for execution of a snatch-and-grab, and the niceties of covert tactical assaults, another, older man enters the room silently and steps over to where the two are seated at a cheap wooden desk. Wordlessly, he drops a folder in front of each man, dusting up ashes. They're promptly brushed off of a cheap suit and a set of fatigues, and the seated men flip through the enclosed papers quickly. They confer with each other briefly and nod. The man in fatigues stands and regards the older man. "Yeah, we can kill it. We can kill anything."
Lament and Dodridge. One's a no-account field agent on a dead-end career track with nothing to lose. The other's a loose-cannon jarhead security officer with a questionable past. They fight SCPs.
The older man takes the folders and steps out just as quietly as he entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Lament puffs at his cigar and glances over at Dodridge. "So. You got a plan for this one?"
Dodridge relights his, having winked out in the short time it took them to review their target. "I've got some ideas."

Foreword: The following records were retrieved from a partially destroyed test chamber scheduled for block testing involving SCP-723-D following the Agents' departure from Site-██. Any additional tests that may have been performed are not on record, and the following data is mostly a reconstruction based on both the intact security footage and the testimony of additional personnel.

Date: 2011/06/08
Time: 13:45:00 CST
Test Materials: 1x MRI MkXIX DEP .50AE (Mk19Mod2 revision) handgun, 8x 12.7x33mm 325-grain NJCP slugs
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Lament
Log of Events: Immediately following our arrival to the test facility, Agent Dodridge entered the chamber, stepped to arm's length from the termination target, drew his handgun, aimed at the target's face, and discharged the firearm. Both subjects recoiled at the shot in opposite directions, and Agent Dodridge is recorded as uttering several profanities while covering his face. Immediate playback of high-speed footage shows that the round impacted the subject's face and halted forward travel, deforming immediately on contact and dropping to the ground, as the subject traveled away from the impact at high velocity. Agent Dodridge suffered minor "blowback" in the form of a small shard of the round's jacket embedding in his face. SCP-723-D was unharmed but dazed by the sudden acceleration. Dodridge was treated and testing continued.

Date: 2011/06/08
Time: 13:57:00 CST
Test Materials: 1x 9.1 kg M183 Demolition Charge Assembly, 1x Sharpie (green, appended)
Test Subject: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Lament
Log of Events: Agent Dodridge re-entered the test chamber carrying a quantity of C4 that he had heated in a microwave to "make it mold easier," and shaped the charge into a block on SCP-723-D's head. After I remarked it had a passing resemblance to SCP-173, Dodridge agreed, and left the chamber for approximately five minutes, returning with a green Sharpie. He drew "eyes" on the block of explosive, muttering about the SCP "getting what was coming to it" and punching the demolition charge. Dodridge then installed a wireless electronic detonator, left the chamber, donned a pair of sunglasses, and triggered the device. Upon regaining consciousness and extinguishing a small electrical fire, we noticed that SCP-723-D appeared moderately disoriented, and that what was apparently a weak section of the structure had collapsed. After confirming our sense of hearing was intact, testing continued.

Excerpt from Agent Lament's Personal Journal:
Oh shit… I laughed so hard I cried. He seriously nearly shot his eye out, then nearly blew himself up. This is the best assignment ever!

Date: 2011/06/09
Time: 09:35:00
Test Materials: SCP-117
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Dodridge
Log of Events: So, he gets some peon to carry a sword in the stick in his hands. The dude just stands there and holds the sword. This is boring. Boring, boring, boring. Lament seems to think we can malnutrition him to death with this thing, but I don't think its working. Oh, for God's sake, we've been at this for three hours; I'm calling it. My turn again.

Portion of Conversation Overheard at On-Site Recreation Facility:
Lament: I seriously thought getting at him from the inside would work.
Dodridge: Well, it didn't! It didn't and it was boring!
Lament: Hey! I don't hear you coming up with anything brilliant! If you'd read the damn file, you'd know bullets wouldn't work!
Dodridge: Well, if you'd read the damn file, you'd know you were a douche bag!
Lament: Oh, it's ON!

Agents Dodridge and Lament were placed in the on-site brig for twelve hours following the incident, at which point, they insisted that they were "totally cool now. Don't worry about it." They later declared themselves "bros," and returned to the on-site recreation facility.

Date: 2011/06/10
Time: 14:26:00 CST
Test Materials: 1x GM M1114 UA HMMWV, Agent Dodridge (appended)
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Lament
Log of Events: I was advised by Agent Dodridge to stand well clear of the testing chamber, and complied in the midst of lodging complaints as to the perceived efficacy of the impending termination attempt. After the notification, Dodridge proceeded to board the Humvee and accelerated to approximately 90 kph toward the target. It it unknown whether or not the resultant impact had any effect on the subject, due to the remnants of the testing area being partially obscured by a small vehicle fire, likely caused by a failure to drain the fuel tank prior to terminal impact. Dodridge was observed to stumble out of the vehicle, fall down, curse, and subsequently engage SCP-723-D in hand-to-hand combat. After attempting to strangle the target for approximately fifteen minutes, Dodridge screamed inarticulately, extinguished the smoldering wreckage, and left the chamber.

It is believed that, at this time, several days of work and frustration were beginning to wear on both Agents involved.

Excerpt from after-action review for disciplinary proceedings involving Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge - Personal statements of Security Officer Bernard ███████
After failing to neutralize SCP-723-D yet again, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge proceeded to the on-site bar, where they demanded to be served. After accosting seven other patrons, I removed them from the premises and followed them to Agent Dodridge's room, where they left after several minutes, carrying what appeared to be a box of cigars and a duffel bag containing bottles of alcohol. Due to their inebriation, I escorted them back to the testing facility.

Date: 2011/06/10
Time: 17:58:00 CST
Test Materials: 1x Tippman X7 Paintball Marker, 200x Marballizer Paintballs (50x ea blue, orange, white, red)
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament (alternating)
Log of Events: I'm letting Lament go first, on account of the poor guy don't look like he gets to shoot stuff that often. It sorta shows. Damn. This guy can't shoot for shit. He's Halfway through a hopper with MAYBE half the balls on target. My turn. Barney, the security guy, doesn't know it, but he's getting shot, too, for saying this is stupid. HE'S stupid.
Log of Events: Oh. Oh that shit head thinks he's funny, huh? Well how funny is it now that we're both using the same paper! I can read what you wrote, shit head! Read this in your notes: go fuck yourself. Oh… and… he's shooting the guy. Guy looks like he's covered in paint. Whatever.

Security Officer Bernard ███████ later entered the site medical wing at 18:28 CST, complaining of genital pain and holding himself. His crotch was observed to be coated in red paint.

Date: 2011/06/10
Time: 19:29:00 CST
Test Materials: 1x 1000 mL bottle of Red Stag (empty), 18x 750 mL bottles of Keter-Class lager (empty)
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Dodridge
Log of Events: Ha! We only missed with ONE bottle, and Lament took it and smacked him in the nuts with it. He passed out after that, but I think I have another idea. They've got a concrete mixer parked outside to fix the chamber, so I'm gonna try to put 723-D back in a block like the one they had him in before. If I can concrete him, I might be able to just drown him. In water. Not concrete.

An estimated seven attempts took place between 19:29:00 CST and the final test, none of which have records. Over fourteen SCPs were utilized, all without permission. SCP-███ and SCP-███ are still reported missing, while SCP-███ has been found in orbit. Further investigation is ongoing.

Date: 2011/06/10
Time: I have no idea. The clock is melted, my phone's missing, and Dodridge can't find his watch.
Test Materials: Cement Mixer
Test Subjects: SCP-723-D
Observer: Agent Lament
Log of Events: When I woke up, cement was everywhere, and Dodridge was trying to shovel it into a pile where the the new wall was supposed to go, and 723-D was walking around, covered in the stuff. Dodridge said something about drowning him, but he can't be serious. There's nowhere NEAR enough concrete to drown him in.

The following record is an attempt to reconstruct the events of the remainder of 2011/06/10 and 2011/06/11, the complete record of which is still absent. Both Agents claim to have no memory of the events, though this is under review.

Upon ingestion of two fifths of Jack Daniels whiskey, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge entered the containment chamber of SCP-723-D and did willfully throw no fewer than eighteen empty bottles of various makes and models at SCP-723-D.
At some point, the decision was reached by Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge to engage in the ongoing attempts to decommission SCP-723-D. Agent Dodridge initially suggested moving SCP-723-D into the containment chamber of SCP-623, at which time, he was reminded by Agent Lament that SCP-623 was located at a different site.
In response, Agent Dodridge insisted that he knew how to operate a CH47-D Chinook transport helicopter. Agent Lament asked if he was “straight to fly,” upon which Agent Dodridge responded that “I'm straight, bro. I'm straight.”

Final Five Minutes of Flight, Extracted From Flight Recorder on ██/██/████:
“Dude. Nah, man. But really? I… I think that Rights woman? She is really nice, man. She is awesome. I could marry her.”
“Nah, man, I mean… She has that lamp thing, man. You know what she does to men with lamps?”
“Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. I think I meant Light.”
“Aww, hell, man. She'll kill you for that. She's deadly too, man. They're killers, man. They kill people.”
“Are… Are all the women around here deadly?”
“Fuck, man, I don't… Oh shit! That's… That's blinking!”
“What is that?”
“I don't know, man! I don't know!”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
(Twisting metal and screaming audible in the background)

Agent Dodridge successfully crash landed the CH47-D Chinook in the middle of ████████, where they insisted to local authorities that they were Federal Marshals transporting a convicted felon. Upon producing identification, both were apprehended by members of the ██████ Police Department and taken to the ██████ County Jail and placed in the drunk tank.

Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament later reportedly set a series of shaped charges, created through an unknown method, on the door of the ██████ County Jail Drunk Tank and detonated them.
Current estimates place the injured from the explosion at ██, though Dodridge and Lament apparently escaped unscathed. The two later stole a mobile home and drove it back to the crash site. At this time, the damage to SCP-723-D's containment cube was extensive, and Agent Dodridge suggested that it would be easier if they just “let him out so he could walk back, then they could put him back in concrete.” Agent Lament agreed.

Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins:
Blevins: They both had the proper ID!
Dr. ██████: They were both completely drunk and escorting a humanoid SCP.
Blevins: But he was in the Class-D jumpsuit!
Dr. ██████: Are you trying to tell me that two agents and a Class-D wasn't suspicious?
Blevins: People take out Class-D's all the time! I… I guess this is the first time I've ever seen one come back, though…
Dr. ██████: (Audible Sigh).

Upon reentering Site-██, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge reviewed the file and realized that they could throw bottles at SCP-723-D without problems. They then proceeded to hurl glass bottles at him, breaking most, until SCP-723-D requested that they stop.
At this point, SCP-723-D was instructed to “not sass me” by Agent Lament, resulting in SCP-723-D being repeatedly struck with a cricket bat, taken from the locker of Dr. Light. Dr. Light, discovering its absence, located Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge. Reclaiming it from them, she looked at SCP-723-D, noting that it was “Coming right for us!” before striking him soundly in the head, hitting him again and again until the force of the blows eventually caused him to lay on the ground, “taking it like a bitch.”
At this point, Agent Lament asked Dr. Light for her phone number. Agent Lament later reported that Doctor Light had claimed to be washing her hair that day. He assured the debriefing agent that his broken ribs were completely unrelated.
At this point, Agent Dodridge returned with several bottles of alcoholic beverages, procured from the locker of Dr. Locke, who had—Dodridge later insisted—“just left them laying there.”
At this time, Agent Lament and Agent Dodridge apparently decided that SCP-723-D “wasn't such a bad guy,” and proceeded to share their beverages. Discovering that their supply had started to run out, they reclaimed their motor home and proceeded off-site back to ██████.

Interview With Cpl. Jeremy Blevins:
Blevins: Sir, I know this looks bad, but I can explain…
Dr. ██████: Corporal Blevins. Just… I don't even… My God, man. How did you get this job?
Blevins: They both had the ID and everything!
Dr. ██████: I am… I am highly disappointed.
Blevins: They said they had to return the motor home!
Dr. ██████: (Audible Sigh).

Upon entering ██████, Agent Dodridge, Agent Lament, and SCP-723-D proceeded to “Jerry's Bar and Grill,” where they ordered a round of drinks for the establishment and then proceeded to get “shit faced.”
Agent Dodridge apparently paid for the drinks by allowing patrons to hit SCP-723-D with various objects for a monetary sum. SCP-723-D, for his part, eagerly consumed several beverages.
At 0900 hours, Dr. Tamlin entered SCP-723-D's containment chamber, noticed several shards of broken glass, and the open air hatch, and proceeded to contact the Motor Pool.

Mobile Task Force Delta-5 assigned to track down and recover SCP-723-D. Finding the mobile home outside “Jerry's Bar and Grill,” they further investigated, and found both Agent Dodridge and Agent Lament unconscious in pools of their own bodily fluids.
SCP-723-D was at the bar, apparently dead due to a peanut allergy triggered by eating bar snacks.

Agent Lament promoted to "Containment Specialist, First Class" and Agent Dodridge's pay increased two stages.
SCP-723-D: Decommissioned.


Good afternoon, Everett. May I call you Everett? Dr. Mann seems so impersonal. It's a fine summer day, isn't it? I'd offer you a drink, but it seems you're the host today.
Don't be so shy. You want to know about the Factory, right? Don't worry, I'll tell you plenty. You can still torture me later, of course. I'm afraid my screaming circuits are a little rusty, but I'll put in the effort. For you.
So what did you want to know? Perhaps the rundown on our upcoming products? There's a line of action figures coming up that I'm particularly proud of. We've got a new series of adult toys, and a couple others - don't want to give away too much, but let's just say there's nothing we can't make candy-coated.
Come now. Don't be so dramatic. We're hardly the worst problem you have - I wouldn't even call us a problem. We're just trying to keep you on your toes. At worst we're your court jesters, your Friday night entertainment.
Tell me you didn't find the monkeys and the liquid rock charming. Or the God series. The anti-gravity device - how could that fail to tickle you? The contact lenses were practically benevolent - doesn't everyone at the Foundation want to see the world for how it really is? The silly putty - don't deny your researchers got some laughs out of that. I've seen your testing logs, with those poor, hapless D-Classes. The pencil sharpeners, those really were a gift, considering the uses you've put them to. …Oh? You're one of the Foundation's most brilliant stars now, Everett. I've heard stories… You can't tell me a few baby-faced schoolchildren still phase you.
Oh, of course that's what you meant. No, we haven't infiltrated your organization. Infiltration implies we're the enemy, that we actually need to spy on you.
They work with you every day, why don't you ask them? How about Jack, eh? Certainly worked with more than his share of Factory items. And his lovely little necklace - I'm sure you know the Foundation has since acquired a few more of those things. Even if there's… flaws… in the production line. Didn't you ever wonder…
No, I see you're not ready to believe that one. That's alright. Loyalty is a virtue. It's true, you really have no reason to trust me.
Oh, is that what this is about? Someone told you a little story. Was it the one with the faeries? Dear me, I've struck a nerve. I can see the seed of doubt was already there. Then perhaps you really don't want to hear that the best parts of that story are true. And the parts that aren't - well, don't worry, those only get better. You can't be told too much too fast. Don't want you to end up like poor Kondraki.
You look unimpressed. I'm sorry, was that too dramatic? I try to save the drama for our products. But sometimes I just can't help myself. Look - you're important to us. Before you came along, where were we? Stuck mostly dealing in… oh no, wait, I'm not supposed to tell you that, yet. For now, let's just say they were hard times. We want you around. You're not our first love, but you're the best.
We're not going to destroy the world, Everett. That isn't the point. We're just capitalists with a sense of humor. We want to add a little spice, a little flavor to the proceedings.
We hold ourselves back, you see. We want to make sure you can handle us. For now. Soon we won't need to keep the kid gloves on.
Of course that isn't a threat. We're the Factory. We produce, we don't posture.
You're right. We've got plans. Big ones, it's true. Tell you what - if you do a good job torturing me, I'll drop you a few spoilers. You've got to go the extra mile, though. As I said, I've heard stories about you, Everett. They say there are few limits to how far you'll go, when given the proper motivation. I'll be disappointed if you just waterboard me or chop off a few of my extra limbs. And be quick about it. I can't stay with you much longer.
Before you go, indulge me with one more question. About that story, Everett - the faerie story. Did he tell you he thought - at first - that he had us tamed? That he did it all for the good of mankind?
Ah, I can see I'm right. I knew he was still a sentimental man. It warms my entirely metaphorical heart.
The future is a brilliant place, Everett. You'll love it. We'll get there, together. I promise.