Wilson Wildlife Center, Enclosure 8, Boring, Oregon
It was a hot day in Clackamas County. The slow drawl of the weather forecast lazily drifted through the corridors of the enclosure, calling for 90-degree weather all day. The residents of the center did their best to beat the heat. Staff sipped iced tea and the crows sat in shaded trees, while Maya the Magnificent, fallen from grace, paddled slowly in a small pool.
She waded out and shook herself dry to allow her caretaker, Alex Molina, to give her a tray of raspberries and a pail of water. She laid on a soft bed of leaves and ate her food while the caretaker cleaned her area. It was a nice life, Maya thought. "There was food, water, and treatment for her strange condition, but Maya missed her life as a free bear, exploring the wilderness." As nice as the enclosure was, it could never beat the feeling of warm sun on her back and fresh air blowing through her fur. The short walks Alex sometimes took her on never felt like a perfect substitute. The small area, the seemingly endless tests done by the strange men in white coats and long hours alone drove her crazy. In short, she was bored.
She finished her snack and got up, hoping to find an activity to keep herself entertained for a short while. She walked to the climbing area and nudged Alex.
"Hey there, sweetheart! I'm finishing up here and I gotta take care of some more critters, but if you want to climb for a bit go ahead!". The caretaker patted Maya's head and turned, revealing a small box-shaped object. Maya jumped. Alex had been known to carry cigarettes and she'd been craving some all day. Quickly while his back was still turned, she extended her claw and smoothly removed the object. She waited until Alex had left and then ran to her small cave to get a modicum of privacy.
Looking down, she grunted in disappointment. What she had to assumed to be a small cigarette box, was not full of much-needed nicotine sticks, but instead a phone in a silicone, cutesy giraffe case with a piece of duct tape on the back. Maya squinted at the tiny cursive writing on the back, trying to divine some meaning.

Hey Alex, I think my phone has one of the skips the Supervisors are tracking. If you get a chance, could you run to the Supervisor office to give it to them? Thanks a bunch! Love, Faeowynn

Maya looked around quickly and decided that having nothing else to do, a day playing with a caretaker's phone would be a day well spent. Maya unlocked the phone easily; it had no password. Typical of these people, Maya thought to herself. Using the pad of one of her paws, she scrolled through the apps until a bright yellow square caught her eye: yellow like the sunflowers Alex planted in her enclosure, her favorite. Uplifted by that thought she opened the app and scrolled through a list of names before discovering the photo filter feature. After 15 minutes of playing with flower crowns, dog faces and feeling like the princess she was, Maya was startled when her screen suddenly switched to an incoming call screen.

Maya was intrigued. She hadn't interacted with anyone but caretakers for a long time. Hesitantly, Maya accepted the call. The face of a young girl filled the screen. Maya had barely any time to contemplate the person in front of her when an earsplitting shriek filled the air.
"OH EM GEE!" the girl cried. "IT'S YOU!" Maya was confused, she didn't look like Faeowynn at all. The chances that she was being mistaken were slim. Her look of confusion was evident as the girl tried to explain herself. "Um, hello? It's me, Stacey, remember? It has to be you, right? You're the only anoma-whatever bear I've ever seen." Maya paused. She had encountered this girl on a previous adventure. She was strange, trapped in a program that Maya realized was the same she was using now. She expected her to have changed or aged, but she still seemed to be an impatient and overconfident teen. Maya gave a quick nod.
"Yay! You do remember!" Stacey clapped her hands. "I wanted to thank you, actually. You might not have known it, cuz' I was acting kind of crazy, but you really helped me out. I was really scared about all the ridiculous stuff that had been going on and I was doing my best to play it cool, and I just saw you and I thought: Wow. I saw how brave and powerful you were, I heard about how bad things were for you before you got here and I saw how you could dance in spite of all the terrible things that happened to you and that just inspired me to hang in there and keep going."
Maya was stunned. She had no idea that a brief visit could have such a profound effect on someone. Before she could attempt to reply, Stacey continued. "Anyway, you're looking good as ever! Those photos you took were super cute! I see you have a new place! Give me a tour?" Maya huffed and picked up the phone. She walked once around the enclosure, phone in tow, past the cave, the pond, and the soft bed of moss. "Nice place!" Stacey said. "Very cozy." Maya plopped back down in her cave. "What do you do for fun? Hope you don't stay in your cave all day!" Stacey stuck out her tongue in a playful manner, applying the doggy filter for dramatic effect. Maya grunted and looked away. "You- You don't actually do that, right?" Maya didn't respond. "Oh no, I'm sorry. That must really suck. Don't your caretakers give you stuff to do?"
Maya nodded. Alex had the pool made just for her. "So whats wrong?" Stacey pestered. Maya knew exactly what was wrong, but had no words to say it. She missed fresh air and the expanse of nature. She missed eating berries and catching trout and meeting new people. She missed feeling normal. The people at WWS certainly helped her heal, but Maya felt she had to find peace with herself elsewhere. This wasn't where she wanted to end her story.
Unsteadily, Maya drew a few words in the dirt. "Small. Bored. Want out. Want freedom. Peace." Maya showed Stacey the words, only half-hoping that she'd understand. Miraculously, she did. Perhaps as a result of Stacey's own imprisonment, she could sympathize with Maya's thoughts.
"Oh." Stacey paused for a bit before continuing. "I think I understand. Let me think for a moment." The call ended and Maya sat in her cave, alone with her thoughts. After a minute, a shaft of light permeated the darkness of the cave. Stacey had sent a message. Feeling relieved, Maya looked at the text.
3009

okk
i have a plan

Maya tilted her head inquisitively.
3009

WERE GONNA BREAK U OUT!!!💥💥

Maya frowned. She did want to go, but the people here had treated her well and she didn't want to make them upset.
3009

maya please dont be sad 😢
i thought it thru
you want to go out rite?
and it doesnt have to be 4 very long
im sure the ppl here would be happy 2 take u back
if u want

Faeowynn

hmmjmm
klm
kop
K

3009

YAYYYYYY!!!
tysm maya u wont regret this
ok first things first take a pic of the door
and send it to me

Maya grasped the phone with both paws and awkwardly took the photo of the door.
3009

ok
thats def a padlock
u need keys 🔑🙁
i dont think even i could do it so u prob cant
lemme try smth
imma send u some videos
keep playing them as they come
run the 1st chance u get

Maya walked to the center of the enclosure waiting for further instruction, unsure how a video would help. The phone buzzed: The first of Stacey's videos. Here goes, thought Maya as she played the clip. Immediately, Maya was startled by a loud burst of sound. "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! HELP HELP HELP SOMEONE PLEASE HELP!" Stacey screamed from the phone. Maya collected herself and played the next two videos, more confused than ever. "PLEASE HELP, ANYONE! I FELL IN THE BEAR CAGE! I CAN'T GET OUT. PLEASE HELP, I'M SO SCARED, ITS GONNA EAT ME." Starting to understand Stacey's plan, Maya grinned and growled a few distorted bars of Entry of the Gladiators. Soon, the sound of running could be heard outside of the enclosure, followed by metallic clanking and muttered swears.
"Miss please stay calm, Maya won't hurt you!" Alex shouted from behind the door. "Damn lock. How'd she even get in there?" He muttered.
"IM GONNA DI-DI-DIEEE" sobbed Stacey.
"Ma'am, please stay calm, I'm almost there! You're not gonna die." Alex said. Maya was impressed, Stacey was really laying it on thick. Maya started to let herself believe the plan might work.
"HURRY! GET ME OUT NOW!" With a final jiggle of the lock, the heavy door swung open, just in time for Alex to see a 300-pound bear, charge full speed at him, giraffe phone in tow. Jumping over Alex with a mighty leap, carrying herself and her new friend through the door and on the path to adventure!
Alex watched Maya and Stacey bound down the hallways of Wilsons Wildlife Solutions, trying to process what he had seen. "W-was that Faeowynns phone?" he stammered out weakly. With a start, he realized what had just happened. "Oh no. I'm so fired, aren't I?"

This is an entry to PeppersGhost's Original Character Tournament. Thank you to the illustrious keyii for the wonderful character of Stacey Lee. This is her entry!


The sun shone down on the west Texas compound's concrete stairwell down, down into the stone.
It couldn't have been more than a few feet down that, in the darkness, a door creaked and whined as the wind buffed against it, a once occupied shoe blocking its closure.
Backlit by starlight, front lit by lamplight, a figure descended the concrete steps, pausing before the door, closing his eyes, and swinging it open.

Blood?

There was blood.

It happens.
The figure let out a sigh as he carefully stepped where the bodies weren't, semidry ichor slicking his boots. And he stopped, and looked, just to make sure he was right.
The televisions along the walls, the ones that weren't too caked in blood, were broadcasting garbage. Black, white, all color, geometric bleeding fractals, static overlaid on carefully crafted stills of hallways forever going down. Music, if you could call it that, square into saw into triangle into sine into square tones at hardly audible volume and hardly perceptible speed, quietly filled the hallway.
All along its sides, dying messages. All the same.
"Send bitcoin to [REDACTED] have 1 week".
He was right.
This was the place.
The hallway stretched, probably fifteen meters down. Plaincloth bodies lined its floors, one or two MTF agents who were too unlucky to get here before Him. All cut down the arm, self inflicted. He rubbed his eyes and continued moving.
The door at the end looked like it belonged in the front of a home in Suburbia more than a secret lair. It was cherry. It had a deadbolt and a seizelock. And it had a doorbell.
He rang it.
Someone inside yelped.
And then silence.

He didn't have time for this.
He knocked at the door, and said:
"Nathan Snyder?"
No response but metal sliding against metal and a rattling spin. He slipped to the floor.
The wood splintered above him. One shot. Two, three, four five six shots and a click. Shrapnel and tinnitus and blood enveloped him, and he stood up.
"That ain't any way to greet a guest, is it?"
The man drew up his revolver from its holster and fired back into the door. Something heavy fell on the other side.
A rather favorable transaction.
The man shot out the hinges and kicked down what remained of the cherrywood door, collapsing on top of the crumpled body on the ground opposite him.
"Nathan Snyder."
A groan from the pile replied.
"Nathan Fuckin' Snyder. Now, I don't know you. But you've made quite a mess here, haven't you?"
The door shuddered and heaved, and the body beneath it heft it off of itself, shuddering and gripping its deathwound.
"Nathan Fucking Snyder! I've got only one question for you."
The man known as Nathan Snyder coughed. "F-fuck."
The victor smiled. As much as he could, at least.
"You ever heard of the Original Character Tournament?"
Nathan stared at the ceiling.
"I ask, you ever heard of this thing called the, Original Character Tournament?"

Nathan absolutely didn't fucking know what was going on, if he was completely honest.
The hallway leading to his center of operations was covered in every variant of the Neurocrack worm he could find. It should've been impenetrable. He knew he'd turned it back on when he returned. He could hear it outside, streaming in from where the door once was.
I must've fucked up, he thought.
I must've fucked up on the programming and now this psychic fucking projection is going to kill me.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"Figures. Didn't think so, at least. I guess, uh. No hard feelings, then."
Nathan absolutely was fucking losing it, if he was completely honest.
He didn't account for something unhuman.
"No fucking hard feelings? No hard feelings? You fucking shot me!"
"You tried to shoot me first."
"I— What the fuck are you?"
He coughed. It was bad. He was losing focus. His head was pumping lighter and lighter and the crisp glow from his computers was losing its luster.
Nathan absolutely was

Nathan

nathan
"You can call me Junior. That's who I am."
"i dont want to die

The life left.
Buck left.
Back into the Texas sun, he spread his wings, blood dripping and caked on, to dry.
After a moment of this, he reached into his uniform's pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper.
Nathan Snyder, he crossed off.
I wonder if this means I'm in now? he thought.
Guess I don't really care.
Guess I'll just leave them no choice.
And he walked into the sun.

This was written for the SCP Original Character Tournament. Be sure to also read To Run Forever by Attila the Pun.

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Desk. Magical, grants wishes? Looks fancy. Roommate, transgender felon, claims a fairy lives inside. Crescent shaped hole?

Check out more of my articles here!
⚠ Content warning: This article contains transphobia.

⚠ content warning
"D-952, please step forward."
Veronica Fitzroy stepped forward, wincing at the bright light. She'd have assumed technofascist mad scientists would've worked on getting a better mugshot system, but hey, if some shadowy facet of the US government really did have need for meat through the grinder, it was small price to pay for escaping life in a men's prison.
But it'd be over soon. She'd lost everything, botched a suicide, and let Bandages get away with everything, but it'd be over soon. That made her happy, at least.

***

Even after the homophobia, drone strikes, and regressive tax laws, the US Government always had one last way to fuck the world.
The Foundation's best idea for an experiment was to put twenty murderers in the same room with three stooges who could barely operate a musical instrument. The only thing that could make it worse was if they were a Rush cover band, which, in-fact, they were, because life was just a series of practical jokes.
Perhaps as part of the experiment, or perhaps as torture, several instruments had been scattered around the room for the rest of her merry band to play. Some, inexplicably, had already began banging out Canada's Styx without a care in the world; certainly, without a care for music theory and its application. How anyone with half a functioning nervous system could stand four simultaneous (which was rather generous phrasing for a couple of off-beat lunatics) renditions of 2112 was anyone's guess.
With every off-key shred, NP Rock ate at the pit of her stomach and the back of her mind.
Veronica was almost glad when, getting up to smack the drummer in the face, one of the mall cops finally dragged her out.

***

She could have been a professor by now, if she hadn't gotten sidetracked. Teaching undergraduates basic engineering equations by day, getting high off mushrooms and fucking the music theory instructor by night. Maybe Ashy'd still be alive, then.
Her mind was wandering. It did that these days.
Wasn't like the problem before her deserved her attention. It was an shitty problem, written on shitty paper. At least to Veronica, it was immediately clear that the whole process was objectively incorrect; number theory didn't work like how this little bugger supposed it did, and several portions were straight up nonsense. That they expected her to write an analysis of the problem as if it made sense was nearly as nonsensical. But then, things rarely made much sense, anymore.
Veronica decided to take the inverse sine of said nonsense number, and inexplicably found herself accosted by an angry grizzly bear.

D-7294 looked up as a tall, chestnut-haired (dyed blue, of course. That always boded well, especially with a dye job that horrid) girl was deposited into his cell. Smiling, he deposited his book (Die Klavierspielerin, a little reward for good behavior) to the wayside as he gave the poor girl a lookover. "Hello. Are you still 1285, or am I speaking to fresh meat?"
The girl had an ugly laugh, somewhere between Baba Yaga and those dead-eyed video stars he used to watch in his free days, ending in a smile that never reached her eyes. Eyes not quite dead, but not quite alright; but, the Disposables were rarely an "alright" folk. "Do I look fresh to you?"
"Fresh is relative. Frankly, you look like roadkill that hasn't died." The second car would be coming soon enough. Girls this fragile rarely lasted, especially the ones who pissed off HR hard enough to earn a cell with D-7294.
"Yeah?" 7294 swore he could spot the slightest bit of bemusement on the wretch's face. "Dead on." The bemusement faded quickly from the girl's face as she collapsed in a slump in the corner. "Just waiting for the right thing to do me in. Fucking taking them long enough."
7294 almost felt something. A vestige from a dozen lifetimes past, perhaps; the memory drugs rarely erased the imprint memories left.
What a dumb animal.
"Let me ruin the surprise, then: you don't get out." The girl barely stirred at that; she probably already knew that tidbit. "Nothing here just kills you. And if it does, you'll go to hell like everyone else." Somewhere in the "diary" he kept, 7294 assured himself that hell was an eternity in one's corpse. He still can't remember why.
Another ugly chuckle. She could certainly stand to be broken.
"Yeah, maybe. But let a woman dream, alright?" 7294 was surprised: the most put together thing about the girl was her uniform. She may have been a head taller, sure, but the Foundation had made her small. Still, such was the price of climbing a mountain of sandpaper.
"Dreams are for children. The Foundation breaks both, in time, so I suggest making them like you, before they start placing you with the more…interesting experiments. But, a moot point. I believe your next experiment will be the one that brings you down."
When the girl finally looked back up, D-7294 swore he could finally see something approaching humanity in her face. "You think?"
"Well, little lady," This time, the girl sneered. "some people, you can just tell. All in context clues, of course." At one point, the girl might've had the left half of her head shaved; even with hair growing back in, the bruising was readily apparent. How she avoided a concussion was anyone's guess. "Since you don't appear to be new, that means you've gone through quite a bit of tests…tell me, what's your name?"
"Veronica."
"I meant your real name."
"Veronica. If you're gonna be like this, we're not gonna make for good roommates."
D-7294 sighed, mostly to keep an appearance. The girl's response wasn't all that unexpected. "Okay, then. My name is D-7294. Your name used to be Veronica. What is it now?"
"Oh, we're going with The Prisoner level metaphors, here. Well, my number's 952. My name remains Veronica, okay. It's a nice name. Picked it out myself."
"And this?" The flourish was instinctual. Symphonic habits died hard. "This is why I know they don't like you. Whoever you used to be, be it some vegan mustard peddler or b-movie stunt double, that ended the moment you were handed a life sentence. Here? You're D-952. You're a lab rat, and refusing to walk the maze means they'll dissect you instead."
D-952 barely reacted as 7294 ambled over to her slumped form. "They've already put you through the tough ones, haven't they?" She sneered as he loomed over her, of course; he couldn't say he liked her stubbornness, but she'd break, eventually. The girl didn't look the type to bend. "Well, now they've roomed you a serial femicide." Barely winced at that. Probably glad she was getting attention in the first place. "Next is something a little deadlier than me, and a little less pleasant. You've put yourself in a corner. Fighting will make the corner smaller."
D-7294 recognized the stare 952 was giving him. A recalcitrant glare that sought to replace both action and rhetoric in a situation where this girl had neither. These days, 7294 was rarely in the position to receive one of these.
"Veronica is dead, and none of her friends are here to care for D-952."
And with that, D-952 finally began to cry.

***

D-7294 always dreaded new roommates. More often than not, they interrupted his daily routine with incessantries. Thankfully, D-952 stayed quiet.
Time was hard to count in the Foundation, so one went by events, instead. Four sets of stretches, two hundred crunches, a piss break, a few chapters of his favorite book, and three lookovers of the "diary"(Updated with every rumor and personal experience since he'd been allowed pen and paper, of course.) in case they needed him for something peculiar. Today wasn't Sunday, so they wouldn't be allowing him access to the cello, but it helped to do the standard finger exercises, just to keep the muscle memory there.
It was only after he began unconsciously humming a tune that he even remembered he had a roommate.
"Hey, uh…could you be a little quiet?"
D-7294 couldn't help but smirk as he looked back over to the disheveled mess on the bed. For all the fight she'd almost certainly spent with the Foundation, right now she couldn't even bear to face her roommate. "Am I bothering you?"
Finally, D-952 turned over. 7294 swore the bags under her eyes had deepened since they threw her inside, to the point where she looked less like a human and more like a pale, overgrown raccoon someone dressed in an orange jumpsuit. "Yes. You are."
"What a shame."
7294 continued humming, as 952 turned back over in her bed.
Time didn't exist in the Foundation, but breakfast did, and it always came carefully through a hatch at the bottom of the door. Eggs and turkey sausage, plus a bit of fruit. Today was a coffee day for both of them, and while 7294 was glad to be getting out of the room, he almost pitied 952. Lizard bait was probably a best-case scenario, here.
The best case for time's continued existence, however, was the punctuality of the Foundation. Some unit of time after coffee day breakfast (which 7294 had begun to call a "koffee"), men in white coats and black armor would come in to escort either him or his roommate to whatever the men in grey suits decided they could throw Disposables at. A koffee was always the same amount of time, of course. At times, 7294 even swore he could count in them.
Of course, 7294 was bemused to find only one post-koffee transport squad at their door, and even more bemused when they ordered both of them out.
He almost felt sorry that the mall cops that had to drag his half-dead companion out to what he could only assume was a memorable time.
D-7294 had learned, of course, to stand straight and look forward whenever he was being sent on these excursions. Looking like you were cooperating was, after all, just as important as actual cooperation. Of course, he'd occasionally side-eye the containment chambers, get a glimpse of what horrors and wonders lay beyond his peripheral. Maybe look out for that demented half-cat they let wander the halls, just so he doesn't step on it and piss off some bleeding heart orderly.
There was little reason to do much else, however, until the two of them were shoved into a large room with a beanbag chair and a box. Typical. In D-7294's experience, a combination of random objects was always the worst thing they threw at you. Looking over to-
…D-7294 wasn't sure he was looking at the same person, anymore.
D-952's posture had completely changed. Where previously she had adopted the stance of a depressed koala, D-952 now stood straight, with a look of almost grim determination on her face. Moreover, she looked…there weren't many good ways to put it, but "receptive" was one description.
The intercoms crackled into life. "D-7294, please approach and open the box."
Oh, fun. He gets to kill her.
Opening the box didn't ring any "diary" bells, but it was nice not to die instantly. The inside of the box was a new rich sort of plush, heavily padded and drenched in a cloyingly sweet fragrance. Most of the fragrance came from a tumbler of some sweet, brown oh god no, they expected him to drink this, didn't they?
"D-7294, take a sip of SCP-209, and falsely describe the experience."
Well, between this and getting fed to an overgrown peanut…
…it tasted good. Really good. Warm, like a good whiskey from back when he was a free man, if not quite as bold. Smooth, with just the right amount of burn on the way down. Moreover, it made him feel…good. Fresh as new, and all of that.
D-7294 found himself unconsciously taking a seat in the beanbag chair. "…a bit cool."
The entire time, 952 had been standing at attention for the next command, unmoving and outwardly stoic. He'd have almost mistook her for part of the room at that point, if she hadn't shivered as soon as the words left his mouth.
7294 took another sip. "…lively, but fruity."
And that's when she started getting antsy, fidgeting in place. He hadn't expected much from his half-dead companion, to be sure, but it was nice to finally break her out of half-rigor mortis. It was only about half a minute later that she finally moved, pacing around the room in hurried steps, nervously stealing glances between 7294 and the observation camera.
7294 considered saying something else, just to make her squirm further; but the spectacle was amusing enough as it was right now, especially as 952 suddenly clutched her stomach and fell to her knees.
One thing he could say: he'd never seen someone vomit fruit puree before.
He could kill her, of course: certainly, that seemed to be the point of this exercise. It'd been a while since they let him do that. Just…say something, like "warm as the sun", or "it's nice to drink something without a skin". Maybe she'd even be happy, finally getting to die. That would be nice, he thought, as he sipped his drink in silence.
Maybe he could bend her into shape. Oh, the men in grey suits would love that. The problem child broken into a compliant doll, every agonizing contortion recorded for posterity by the men in white coats. Perhaps, one day, he could perform an encore; they'd turn him a boogeyman, preying on the naughty. That too would be nice, he thought, as he sipped his drink in silence.
Only after he finished his drink and found himself escorted back to the cell did he realize he forgot to break his silence.

***

"Why didn't you kill me?"
D-7294 looked up from his "diary" (complete with a new entry for whatever he just drank) at the former vegetable in the fruit-stained jumpsuit. "I beg your pardon?"
"Okay Bundy, lemme spell this out: you, you are some kind of serial rapist, or murderer, or whatever happened to get you locked in here. Me, I am an uppity tranny that no one will miss. You have been given the means to horribly kill me, and instead I end up vomiting smoothies for ten minutes. What gives?"
Was that why her voice was so annoyingly scratchy? "I could ask why you looked so keen on not dying."
The sudden shift from carrion to rabid in D-952 was off-putting, to say the least. A side-effect of the brandy? "Look, that's not important. I've been around the fucking block, and a creepoid like you would take any fucking chance to flay the skin off my fucking arms. So, what gives?"
…D-7294 didn't have an answer.
"Maybe I wanted to watch you suffer more." 7294 looked back to his "diary", and couldn't quite focus on the words. "Who knows, maybe you're the One who miraculously gets me to 'see the light'. Maybe we 'make love' in an amateurishly written sex scene, somehow escape the Foundation, and adopt a family of adorable puppies that fix your myriad of issues, all of which conveniently stem from your infertility. Or maybe, just maybe, I didn't feel like it."
7294 wasn't sure if he liked her better half dead or half mad, but he was sure of one thing: he didn't like her. "And for god's sake, what has gotten into you? Just an hour ago you had to be scraped off your bed with a spatula."
Thankfully, that shut her up for a while.
Lunch came, eventually. Fried catfish and green beans, plus a yellowed rice that was probably more salt than grain at this point. One of the guards had slipped a can of cranberry juice into one of the meals, either as a joke or a reward; still, fruit juice didn't quite appeal to him at the moment.
7294 had learned to appreciate the silence during lunch; small talk rarely amounted to much in Foundation care. It helped that 952 was a silent eater. Shame it only took half a post-meal koffee to ruin the quiet.
"…I saw a desk."
"Haven't we all?"
"Okay, asshole. I meant a room with only a desk, sandwiched between two rooms with a chair each."
7294 sighed, glancing through his "diary". "And I'm sure they have a very good reason for that." There were a few desk rumors, of course, but that meant little when their descriptions were as disparate as this. "Do you mind telling me what this has to do with anything?"
"Because…" 952 trailed off. "…alright, this is going to sound really stupid, but that desk's got a wish-granting fairy in it."
952 was right, of course: that was stupid. It was several seconds before 7294 stopped laughing.
"What's so g-ddamn funny, huh? You just got done making me vomit the probiotic special, but apparently fairies are too 'out there'."
The conceit wasn't quite as hilarious the second time around. "I can believe that the supernatural exists. I can believe that, through some means, we are able to shape the world through its usage." 7294 placed his "diary" to the side. "What I do not believe, however, is that you share a history with a quote-unquote 'wish-granting fairy' that inexplicably resides inside of a desk in the exact same prison you are currently trapped in."
"But… I mean…" The girl certainly believed her delusion, at least. That, or she should've taken up a career in stage. "I know it's there! I've had friends who…there's a gash under it, crescent shaped, and my… my friend, Jack… he has a piece of it! Fucking…" D-952 stopped in her tracks, realizing how ridiculous this whole affair was. "…listen, my friend made a really bad wish with a piece of that thing. He…we used it to hurt people. It's all…it's all still out there."
"Then I…well, used it for legalese and…" D-952 shivered again. "Ah, hell, I don't know much about this, or how I can put this into words. But I need to get to that desk, so I can…"
952 sat back down on her bed. "G-d, I hate to even say this. But…I have no illusions you don't believe anything I just said. Still, do you think you could…I dunno, help me?"
Help. Help her.
Of course she needed his help. Here was a flighty moron, unable to do anything on her own, who crumpled like wet tissue at the first sign of resistance; and yet even still, she apparently felt the need to lash out at anything that struck her fancy. Hell, he should have killed her back there, where he had the chance, where she'd actually be useful for something. She was barely more than a featherless biped with a mood disorder; of course she needed someone to crush her back into place.
"…alright. Maybe I will." D-7294 stood up . "Under one condition."
"Does it involve weird sex?"
…
"That's not necessarily a 'no' to weird sex, it's just-"
7294 tried sighing hard enough to interrupt 952, but it came out more as a frustrated grunt. "Shut up. Just…shut up, for once. God, what is wrong with you?"
952 mumbled something that wasn't quite loud enough for 7294 to hear, but that assumed he cared in the first place.
"I can help you survive long enough, if that's what your asking. Maybe I could even help to obtain an assignment to this…wish-granting desk. But!" 7294 stepped over to once more loom over 952. This time, she didn't sneer, and he somehow found that worse. "You will be completely obedient to me. If I am accosted by some thug during exercise or recreation, you are to draw attention from me. If I am in need of extra energy, you are to give me some of your food. But most importantly, just shut the fuck up when we're alone."
D-952 silently nodded. The sudden stillness was unnerving, but if the alternative was everything else with this girl, he'd gladly take it.
Finally sitting down, 7294 returned to his diary. "I'll give advice tomorrow, if you'd kindly buy in with a portion of your dinner. Don't worry, they expected you to die today, so there's no chance they'll stick you anywhere else."
Dinner was three six slices of over-seasoned turkey and mashed yams.

Hello. Your name is Zeke Don, but you go by D-7294. This isn't your first time reading this, but it might as well be. Likely, you've had your memories erased. Let's get a few things out of the way:
1) The Supernatural exists. Yes, quite a shock, you who've had your memory wiped. Fairies are real, there's monsters under your bed, and Al Gore is likely a reptilian. However, physical laws exist alongside them, and they are the one thing these demons cannot kill.
Every ghost, monster, or artifact that exists operates under a set of rules, each entirely unique to one another. That means that for every terror that longs to tear your legs off, there is an entire field of study dedicated to the combating said terror. Some method may be esoteric, while others may be reminiscent of the stories you heard growing up. The fact remains, however, that through a certain set of behaviors, you can ensure, with near 100% guarantee, that you will not die. Knowledge is power.
Therefore: Record every rumor you can, underlining every truth and striking through every falsehood.

Veronica assumed this one was meant to kill her, but unless a sheaf of papers from some reject's art collection had the ability to tear her jugular out, she should be fine.
"D-952, please observe the document."
Well, it appeared to be a character study of oh fuck no. Veronica may have been stupid enough to associate with Jack and, by extension, the Man in Bandages, but 7294's pictographs were pretty fucking clear on what not to do here.
"Please describe the contents of the document."
Veronica spoke in visual metaphors of visual metaphors as she thought of nothing.

Much to his surprise, D-952 was shoved back into their shared room with nary a scratch. 7294 looked up from his copy of Les Misérables just in time for the door to slam shut. "I'm surprised you somehow survived. What did they throw at you?"
952 began wriggling like an eel, before putting a finger to her lips and shaking her head.
"That explains quite a bit, but not about what they put you up against. For god's sake, can't you be normal?"
"Well, excuse me for being thrown in a room with a…" 952 trailed off. "It's, fuck, uh…cognitohazard, right? The thing you can't know about? Ah, fuck it." The springs in 952's mattress creaked as she haphazardly tossed herself into bed, but they didn't exactly allow them to oil the damn things, did they? "G-d, I feel like I'm living Kafka's nightmare, sometimes."
"Learn to get used to it."

2) You are working for the Foundation. Not on your own free will, of course, but that hardly matters. Perhaps, one day, they might release you. For now? You're a glorified lab rat.
Your job is to provide information on what happens when what interacts with what, with a focus on the what, why, and how. Sometimes, it'll be as simple as playing a record; other times, you might be forced to clean feces off the feet of a statue. It's important to keep your wits about you, lest your skeleton is snapped into a pretzel.
Of course, because you're expected to provide information, you cannot tread too carefully. If you cannot provide your captors with the information they require, then you are unfit for testing. If you are unfit for testing, they kill you.
Therefore: Be careful, but play the game. If things move too slow, improvise.

D-952's jumpsuit looked a little burnt, as did her skin. Nevertheless, the Foundation had failed to kill her today, which was nice…if only because D-7294 could get more information out of a manic depressive than he could a corpse.
D-7294 readied his pen. "What did they throw at you today?"
"Okay, uh…" For the slave of a slave, especially one covered in chemical burns, 952 looked livelier than 7294 had ever seen her. "So there's this dog, alright? And it eats things. But, well, it eats by corroding them."
"Interesting." Corrosive dog, tested on troublemakers. "Tell me, why am I still speaking to you?"
"…excuse me?"
This was barely worth the effort. "You have survived the efforts of a corrosive canine. I am asking you how you're still standing."
"Oh, I just tried teaching it some tricks. Fed it parts of my suit when needed. I think it knows how to sit, now." 952 paused. "…you know, I'm not sure how I'm still alive."
"Interesting." Supernaturally lucky airhead, tested on me. "For someone who wanted to die so badly, you're awfully bad at dying."
D-952 shrugged. "I have hope, now. Can't waste it."

3) You are surrounded by humans.
Humans do not make decisions through reason. Man is an entirely emotional being, driven only by impulse and feeling. If the "truth" does not feel "truthful", humans will see it as "falsehood". There are no exceptions to this rule.
It is extremely easy to trust someone that you like, even if it should be clear that what they're saying isn't true. After all, no one wants to admit that they wasted time and energy on someone they could not trust. Popular "truth" is thus defined by the path of least resistance.
Therefore: Make yourself likable.

"So, uh, how've you been?"
The researcher overseeing her looked up from her paperwork into the containment chamber, and more specifically at the Veronica. "I…beg your pardon?"
"You know. What's it like working here? I was always more FUCK-" Veronica dropped the tongs, and with it the live mouse it'd been holding and the centipede who suddenly crawled up. "…sorry! One of them started climbing up, and…you know I'll just, uh, pick it up. Right now." After the bugs finished eating. "You know, I used to care for lizards. I don't know if they ever ate this much."
"I believe most of the energy goes into their legs. I wouldn't know, I studied marine biology." Well, at least it wasn't a reprimand.
"That's pretty tight. Dunno why they have you on centipede duty. I'd have thought they'd put you on shoggoth duty or something."
"I don't think shoggoths exist."
"Ohhhh do I have some stories for you, Ms…"
"…Paternoster."

***

D-CLASS PERFORMANCE EVALUATION FORM

AUTHOR: Ariel Isabel Paternoster
OBJECT OBSERVED: SCP-363
PERSONNEL REVIEWED: D-952
DATE: 19/07/2020, 0:00-2:35
PERFORMANCE SYNOPSIS: D-952 was instructed to feed SCP-363 as specified, to which she complied. Afterwards, D-952 talked at length about a variety of subjects, including [REDACTED]. These claims are currently being investigated.
COMPLIANCE DISPLAYED: A
COMPETENCE DISPLAYED: A-
DO YOU RECOMMEND TERMINATION: No

4) Above all else: TRUST NO ONE.

D-2677 first saw D-952 at one of 7294's weekly cello "recitals", turning pages for him. That's what 2677 told her, at least. She's pretty sure she'd seen him watching her before.
After a bit of searching, he saw her again in the Yard. They had a great time, of course. They talked, and talked, and talked at length. She told him her life story, her childhood in "Chicago", how to tune a string instrument, all that stuff. He told her about his time behind bars, what he did to amuse himself, hell, even a bit on how to craft, use, and hide a shiv. Still, she left in a hurry.
One day, someone slipped him a picture, and when he tried to compliment it he suddenly wasn't there.

***

Days turned into weeks.
They stopped trying to kill her, fucking finally. At the very least, D-952 Veronica rarely felt endangered. Mostly, nowadays, she got stuck with sanitation. Sure, she occasionally had to clean an ogre's room, or transport a glass case full of tar and masks, but she was a big girl, and knew her way around this kind of block. Hell, sometimes they stuck her with odd folk like the dude with the weird teddy bear, or some woman with a Bane mask. Sure, she wasn't allowed to talk much, but the sights were better than plain concrete. Plus, you always felt a little safer with a shiv.
Too bad they rarely lasted longer than a month. They'd hit her with a few drugs every now and then, not enough to dumb her down but enough to make her forget some of the important shit she'd seen; but, that's what 7294's journal was for. Plus, the desk wasn't on record anyways, so they didn't know to block that little bit out.
She almost felt like she was getting used to D-7294's music. Sure, it was revoltingly dissonant and depressive, but then, so was Highway Ash. Besides: he was helping her get to the desk.
Weeks turned into months.
D-952 wasn't a happy woman, of course. Still, she was happier than before…or felt like it, at least. She had to be happier, right?
Not being able to do things besides exercise and sleep (requested literature was given to 7294), combined with long hours testing and regulated curfew, meant D-952 Veronica didn't do much but get into shape and maintain a good sleep cycle. Hell, she'd already lost a bit of weight.
Veronica D-952 was forced to admit, however, that the experiments were getting quite a bit weirder. Checking the circuitry of weird floodlights, finding ways to prepare a giant, dopey-faced fish for eating, making tea from a statue's roots. They didn't kill her, though, and that's all that mattered. Hadn't taken her to the desk yet, sure, but…well, she wasn't sure exactly what she'd do there, anyways.
Months turned into years.
Veronica D-952 was good to those around her, and they were good to her, too. Maybe not everyone, but they stopped being "around" her soon enough.
Well, maybe not herself. She'd grown wiry over time, a result of…something? Whatever, she ate what she needed to and didn't what she didn't. Her eyes, too. Bit dead, of course, but she didn't know any other trans chick who had lively eyes. Sort of a rare thing for…
Whatever.
She rarely had to worry, these days. Maybe they'd force her to eat a cookie cake, or drink bland chicken soup from a hateful bowl that shamed her life choices, or play a childrens' playground game. Normal stuff you'd expect from something whose existence isn't recorded outside the deep web. But she did her job, and she did it well. After all, she had to go on, for…
…something was wrong, here. But she'd been wrong her whole life.

"Please, 7294, take a seat."
Supervisor Jared Green was a kindly-looking man, at least for a slavedriver. But, nine(?) years in the Foundation, and you get used to things you'd never thought you'd get use to. "Charming office." The office was trashy, filled with (Garfield-plastered) motivational posters and knick knacks, but it was better than a cell. "Pardon me asking, but is this a special occasion? Say, release? Termination?"
"Oh!" Supervisor Green had an annoying chuckle. "No, nothing so dramatic. No, this is just formality. Your roommate, D-952, is…well, has she told you, yet?"
"Something about a 231?" 7294 was surprised. Given…everything, he thought she'd kill herself at the first mention of transfer.
"If you know that, we're going to have to perform an impromptu amnesticization session after today, but yes, essentially. Over the past two years, D-952 has shown remarkable competence and loyalty, with an active drive for discovery and perfectionism. She has also, on a few occasions, aided the Foundation outside of standard experiments, primarily in the form of advice and a colorful background in both engineering and anart. She is, without a doubt, a model D-Class."
All thanks to himself, of course. Shame her dream was dead, but it's been dead from the start.
"However, due to the sensitive nature of her assignment, I'm afraid there's still a bit of procedure the Foundation has to run through." 7294 had to suppress a chuckle as Green cut himself on a sheet of papers. "Now then: first, how long have you two shared your cell?"
"Two years, plus change. Surprised we made it this far." Well, her. 7294 hadn't survived 9 years of service for dumb luck.
"Interesting. And how did she act, when you first met her?" Supervisor Green looked down to his paper sheaf. Already, one of the corners was stained with a drop of his own folly. "If I'm to understand, her transfer was…never mind." He quickly moved the top paper to the back, but not quickly enough for 7294 to miss the "ETHICS COMMITTEE" stamp. "Either way, I'm led to believe she hasn't always been…cooperative."
"Not at all."
"Well," There was no reason for Green to take off his glasses when he looked back to 7294. Probably just wanted to look 'cool'. "What do you believe was the…turning point, so to speak?"
D-7294 had expected not to remember the details, of course. However, the heavy sense of frustration, flavored with disappointment, came as a bit of a surprise. The imprint memories left were rarely erased. "I believe we had just come back from an experiment. We had an argument over something unimportant," A lie, but one he couldn't debunk himself. 7294 found he couldn't quite look Green in the eye. "and she told me that…" But, there the tides of memory flow in. "…she had seen a desk, that she claimed that some…wish-granting pixie inhabited it."
These days, 7294 rarely had the time to look at posters. The tacky Garfield ones always brought back memories of teaching kids music, back in his free days. He never got how that big orange feline captured the hearts of teachers everywhere, but by golly did he worm his way into the trash heap of unpopular pop culture.
Turning back to Supervisor Green, D-7294 came face to face with the face of a man who might as well have just caught his boss, his secretary, and his dog screwing his wife.

From: AHarper2@Scipnet (Site Director Anderson Harper; Classification Level XK-4; Employee Number 1285)
To: YYarkoni@Scipnet (Senior Researcher Yehezkel Yarkoni; Classification Level XF-3; Employee Number 2677)
Re: Re: Interrogation fruitless
Date: 25/9/2022
I'm not wasting mnestics on a former ••|•••••|••|• subject who somehow isn't X~X.
Bomb collar. Sit-down with 738. Ten minutes to explain herself. Blow her head off the moment she says anything she shouldn't.
Let's see if it jogs her memory.

D-952 was forced into a chair, wearing a cumbersome collar. The last time this happened was six years ago, and the collar wasn't beeping, and a machine wasn't assembling a…desk?
Veronica D-952 felt she should have been happy, but this didn't feel like a happy moment.
It was a very nice desk, to be sure. Mahogany, lined with velvet, with a fancy but oppressive atmosphere to the whole thing, not exactly helped by the throne currently being lined up with everything else. If D-952 had to guess, this setup was pilfered from some rich asshole CEO's private estate, probably replaced by something equally ostenta-
And very suddenly, the throne was occupied by a beautiful woman in an overcoat. "Yarkoni! How are you? How long's it been, eight years since I'm back in the saddle? How's Katz doing?"
The intercom buzzed. "Irrelevant. D-952, do you recognize-"
"Is it really gonna be like that, again? You may not have put a moron on the seat, but I know desire when I see it. Shame she's an ugly sack of shit, but I ain't no judge, just the lawyer."
"D-952. Do you recognize the figure before you?"
D-952 blinked, and shook her head.
"Course she don't, dear, I'm wearing the skin of your dead wife." For the first time since this began, the figure made eye contact, leaving Veronica D-952 unseasonably warm. "Now I know you got business with me. Come on. O5 promotion? Immunity to SCP-3211? Or what about right now, knowledge on this-" The woman grinned, leaving D-952 even warmer. "…how long has it been, Joshua? Cute trick with the will. Shame it'll cost you."
"Yarkoni, tell you what." Suddenly, D-952 wasn't staring at a woman. She was staring at a man wrapped head to toe in bandages, as the warmth was subsumed by horrid chill. The imprint of memory was rarely erased.
"I'll spill the beans. Only price: you change his documentation to my specifications."
Very suddenly, D-952 Joshua Veronica Katherine Fitzroy remembered why she wanted to see this desk so badly.
Bandages had resumed talking with Yarkoni, but whatever he said, it was vile and cowardly, and if she listened to it any longer she'd lose her chance or die. Veronica opened the desk drawer, and searched.
Veronica thought back to everything. Every single g-ddamn thing that kept her from being a normal, well-adjusted person.
How her heart screamed for Veronica to flense Joshua from her skin in every waking moment, an inadequacy abated by nothing; how those around her tried to weaponize her inadequacy, her father out of spite, Dr. Hartly out of disgust; how even those she loved never quite saw her as a normal, intact woman, and how every performative wound made in honor of them stung yet. How she'd never see Ashy, or Brad, or fuck it, Jack or Izzy or Sara again; how forgiveness remained forever out of her reach as she almost certainly died buried in a brightly lit tomb of dirt, concrete, and steel, mediocre schlock and a monument to her own failure the only thing for the world to remember her by.
And in the span of a second, all that disappeared as Veronica took a letter opener out of the desk and buried it right into the Bandaged Man's smug fucking eye.

This tale was made for the SCP Original Character Tournament, organized by PeppersGhost. Thanks to WrongJohnSilver for letting me use D-7294! Find his take on Veronica [PLACEHOLDER]

SCP-952

TAPE 1

The Last Things Dr. Darryl Loyd Ever Did In Chronological Order


It was your average day at Site-42. Tiny celebrities running about, researchers using memetic expletives, flesh-eating parasites in a vacuum-sealed glass; all the norm. The guards were stirring as they began to contain the latest Keter anomaly recovered from Goi-466 'Wilson's Wildlife Solutions.'
In a nearby cell, the cactus sat idly, thinking to itself about its predicament.
"i am thirsty", thought poky.
"Yeah, me and you both little guy." Carnegias snarked.
"where is the mortal with the water"
"They don't come for another two hours. You realize it comes at the exact same time every day, right? We've been here for five moons!"
"what is a moon"
"It's literally in the name of your species."
"oh"
Suddenly, powerful tremors started shifting the entire facility. The flower pot holding the cactus started to shake on the table supporting it.
Carnegias happily thought to themselves, "Oh my void, it's happening! I've been waiting for this day for ages, the Titans are loose!"
"my roots are shaking"
"Oh great Titans, hear my plea! Rescue the all-powerful Elder God Carnegias!"
It was at this moment that the flower pot supporting the Cactus fell and shattered on the concrete flooring. The Cactus was exposed, no longer under the sturdy protection of its container. The Cactus laid idly by, thinking to itself about its predicament.
"oh no"
"Oh ye void! Our plan is ruined! The Titans will never hear my cries down here!"
It was at this moment, the Cactus realized that there was nobody who could help them. poky and Carnegias lay idly on the floor, trembling to the power of the earthquakes. Yes, nobody would ever be able to help poky and Carnegias escape this sticky-
BOOM!

The gate to the cactus' containment cell blasts open! The gate flew upwards into the ceiling, going upwards into the sky before appearing as nothing more than a twinkle. The ceiling crumbles as a large gate-shaped hole is left in the remains.
"Look, poky! An exit! It's our escape!
"i do not want to escape yet"
"How, in the millions of dimensions that a variation of yourself exists in, could POSSIBLY want to stay here?"
"i want to see the doggy"
Standing where the gateway was formerly intact stood a being that neither poky nor Carnegias had ever seen before. The beast had long, curved legs almost six times larger than the cactus. The creature had short, stubby arms and had a tail measuring twice as long than the table the cactus formerly sat upon and had a small tag attached to its paw reading as 'Ringo'.
Carnegias was astonished at the sight.
"What in void's name is that? A giant rodent?"
"it is a doggy", thought poky.
"I don't care what it is, it's nothing but-"
Carnegias was interrupted when Ringo stretched his neck down and took a nibble out of the side of poky.
"OH VOID! VOID! It's trying to consume us! You need to stop it! The Great Carnegias cannot perish to a rodent!"
"it tickles"
"Fool! You're going to get us killed! Use our power to stop it!"
"i will not harm the doggy"
As Ringo curiously inspected every detail of the cactus, the old roo' naively grasped the cactus by its exposed root.
"Okay, listen here buddy. If you don't do exactly what I say, this 'doggy' is going to eat us. Do you understand?"
"it is so cute though"
"WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN TO ME YOU !̡̦͚̬$̦%͚̦̫̠#̟̘̙͎@͖̠͈̬̦͚̯$͉̠̣͈̦̥!͇̦̟*&̝̗̜^̷̗̳̥̤̲͉$̞̺̯̀!͙̺̳̻͡!̭̪͎͓̗̟!̧̻̟͖̠͚!!!"
Ringo took the cactus and placed it upon his head, adorning himself with a spiky and sapient crown. He took care not to poke himself as he moved it to the side in a slick style. The kangaroo was looking quite handsome in his new headwear.
"Bingo! Now is our chance little buddy, hold on tight!"
poky attempted to describe its excitement as best as it could. "we get to ride the doggy yay"
Ringo took a minute to observe his surroundings before spotting the gaping hole in the ceiling.
"We're doing it poky! We're getting out of here!"
"mush doggy mush", thought poky.
Ringo made sure to time his jump with elegance. The Cactus clung to the top of the creature as it took one big leap upwards at the ceiling hole. The Creature nailed the landing, causing a massive tremor upon contact.
As our heroes begin to make its way to the exit gate, they're suddenly stopped in their tracks by a group of five unknown characters. They were dressed in green military outfits, with the capital letters 'CI' stitched onto their vests.
"YAHAHAHAHA!!" Belched the leader. "You fell right into our trap, Ringo! Submit to the Chaos Insurgency, one way or another!."
Ringo began to quiver at the sight of the Insurgents; the firearms, as well as the uniforms, caused the poor old buck to relive several painful memories. The cactus idly clung to the roo, thinking to itself about its predicament.
"carnegias i'm scared"
"It's all going to work out for us poky. Just listen to me, and we will make it out just fine."
"You haven't much time left, Ringo!!"
"Three."
The Insurgents take several steps towards our heroes. One of the Insurgents open a large burlap sack; Ringo begins to tremble. The Insurgents continue to countdown.
"Two-"
Ringo takes one massive leap in the air. The Insurgents freeze, unable to stop the event about to happen. The cactus clung to Ringo's cranium, unable to comprehend the tragedy about to strike.

KA-BOOM!

Ringo sticks the landing! The Insurgents stumble as the ground beneath them cracks and crumbles. The ground begins to cave, creating a large gaping hole. One by one, the Insurgents begin to fall, cursing at Ringo mid-descent.
The cactus idly clung to Ringo, thinking to itself about this predicament.
"wow"
"…well alright then, that was much easier than expected."
"the doggy can help us escape now"
"The obstacles in our way are now next to none. So yes; this doggy is going to get us out of here."
With our heroes at Gate A entrance of Site-42, Ringo hops the three of them outside of the facility. The sun is setting; the cactus bathes in the warming sunlight as Ringo took in a deep breath of the fresh air. With freedom only moments away, Ringo begins to hop west into the sunset; free at last.
…or were they?

While our heroes may have finally escaped Site-42, have they managed to completely escape the grasp of the Foundation? Are they truly safe?
The answers to these questions will be answered next time, on Poky Ball Z!

This is my lolFoundation entry for the SCP OCT contest! Please read my opponent Captain Kirby's tale here, he's one heck of an author!

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Dr. Sinclair opened her one good eye with some care, but ultimately the difference to her vision was negligible. The room in which she found herself was dark, and large enough to prevent her from seeing the walls. If she focused, she could just about spot a pinprick of light off in the distance, but with no perspective clues it could have been anything from a doorway to a star.
She shifted her weight, and immediately regretted it — her flesh felt raw and tender, heavy and wet against the concrete. If she was wearing clothes they were ragged and blood-soaked, and clung too closely to her body to tell. She began to cough, and heard it echo through the warm, still air. Wrenching herself onto her side, she felt something hard slide up and out of her throat, bouncing a little way across the ground before coming to a rest.
She reached for the thing — square and plastic and familiar — and squinted to examine it. Whatever she'd crawled away from was providing just enough light to be slightly better than useless, and with a little bit of effort she could make out the lettering.

esc

She fell to the floor again, exhausted from the effort, and let her mind relax. Within minutes she was unconscious once more.

What had happened? Well, she'd been stupid, obviously, way too proud of her work, but besides that… who knows. Alarm malfunction, probably. Might not even have been anomalous. In any case, her supervising team had all followed the fire evacuation procedure, and she'd been left alone in th- the place, conducting the survey on her own. It had gone dark before she knew what had happened, and the next thing she saw was some kind of oversized study. All the shelves were empty, too. Why she remembered that over everything else she couldn't say, but she did. It was a study the size of a banquet hall, and all the shelves were empty.
She reached out her hand for a light switch, and some vaguely canine desk lamp had grasped her around the neck. All four legs had been bulbs — lit bulbs — and she'd almost screamed as it burned through her jacket. Instead she gritted her teeth, ripped it off, and dashed its carved wooden skull along the wall. Its mangled head started screaming, somehow, and didn't stop for… for…
Anyway, the rest of it was a blur. She'd faded in and out of consciousness, and her existence day by day had been a kind of prolonged, torpid nightmare. Individual memories had been suppressed and bottled, squished up in that dark space at the back of her mind.
She could remember the clock though.
It hung from the ceiling like a bat, faces angled towards her as she lay bleeding on the desk, funnel scraping down her oesophagus. It never touched her, thank God, but it was an ever-present feature of that place. She got into the habit of tracking the time, the phases of the moon, anything and everything it showed her.
It was a kind of game. She'd count under her breath, and the one with a toaster for a head would cut her until she was screaming the numbers like a war cry. The sun never moved, but the numbers did.
For eighteen months.

"When does the world go beautiful?"
"No no, don't be stupid. Use an older one."
"Oh, right. Uh, does the black moon howl?"
She felt her mouth move wordlessly as the memetic identification phrase pushed its way past her lips, silent confirmation that she belonged to the Foundation.
"She's ours, yeah." A pause. "Better be quick with her, too. Doesn't look like she's got long left."
"I'll get her legs, you get her shoulders."
Katherine gurgled, and the people hauling her onto the stretcher paused. She tried again.
"I…"
"Please, don't try to talk. You've damaged your throat quite badly."
Nevertheless.
"I… I was…"
Again.
"I was… was in…"
Once more, you stubborn thing you.
"I was in Germany…"
The two men looked at one another, then at the Thaumaturgist's mangled frame. Silently, they laid her on the stretcher, and she suddenly felt very, very tired.

Item #: SCP-2856
Abridged Description: A large warehouse formerly located on the outskirts of Leipzig, Germany, formerly owned by █████ Industrial. When any human is alone within the structure, they will be transported to an extradimensional location resembling a farmhouse, inhabited by an indeterminate number of semi-mechanical entities. Occasionally, a subject will be returned, severely modified to resemble one or several common home appliances.
Status: In permanent storage.

"So, ToasterHead — can I call you ToasterHead?"
The master of the house remained facing away from her. Just outside her peripheral vision, Sinclair's personal tormentor (something wiry, headless, and bristling with static) gibbered and chittered away. She ploughed on.
"Anyway, ah, ToasterHead. Why do you do this? Enjoyment, obviously, I can tell that you enjoy it-" Her eyes darted momentarily to where the study's previous occupant lay, ribcage open and smouldering slightly. "-but is it really fulfilling?"
ToasterHead stopped, and turned slowly, metal face glinting in the permanent evening. It cocked its head to one side, and (despite not having the features to express with) gave off an impression of temporary curiosity. 'I am intrigued', its immutable visage said. 'Entertain me.'
Emboldened, she ploughed on. "Don't you ever think that there might be more to life? Or, um, existence? I'm still not sure how you work. But, uh, there might be more than just cutting people up and, ah, rearranging them, I mean. Not that that's a bad thing! You're very good at it! But I think there could be something you're… missing."
Katherine hadn't had cause to flutter her eyelashes before, and she gave off the overall impression of a camel in a sandstorm, but to her relief it seemed to work. ToasterHead cocked a metaphorical eyebrow and strode forward, knife swinging at its hips. The tap-tap-tap of its wooden feet on the tiled kitchen floor set her teeth on edge, and she took a deep breath. Just a couple steps more.
Three.
The creature crossed the threshold into the study.
Two.
It entered the thaumaturgic bubble she'd spent the past two months conjuring and reinforcing.
One.
It got within striking range.
"Eat magic, you bread-burning toaster-ass sadistic motherfucker!"
For a moment, the world was filled with light and the scent of burnt hair. Katherine felt eight weeks of stored energy loose from her arm, burning as purple flames crackled across the sigils carved there. It was old magic, and definitely forbidden, but contained, in a beam the width of a dime, the stored energy of a runaway freight train.
As the smoke cleared she fell forward in her restraints, filling the silence with hacking coughs. After thirty seconds rest, she lifted her head up to survey the carnage.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
She hadn't even seen it move. One moment it was curled up muttering in the corner, the next it was between her and her target, taking the full brunt of the blast to its chest. It bent down towards her, plastic bubbling and oozing down its front. She gagged on the fumes, and stared with watery eyes as it lifted its single wireframe arm towards her. Purple electricity flickered on its fingertips; as it raked its hand down her chest, it was all she could do not to scream.

Beep beep.
Beep beep.
Beep beep.
"Doctor?"
Beep beep.
"Doctor Sinclair, can you hear me?"
Beep beep.
"Katherine?"
A grunt. Not a word, or even the suggestion of one, but a grunt that said 'I hear you, and I was sleeping, so it better be worth my time'. The other doctor, the non-sorcerer one, smiled.
"Hello, Katherine. My boys tell me you were down in the hangar. They found you in quite a state, or so I hear."
"Grfgghdt."
"You've been out of it for a good few days. Take your time."
"Get fucked."
"Now, is that the thanks I get for saving your life?"
Katherine opened her eyes for the first time, and squinted in the light. Bent over her was a friendly old man in a white coat. He looked familiar.
"Where-"
"Hospital. Foundation-owned, so don't worry, you're among friends here. Our records are hazy, but according to our records you've been stuck inside twenty-eight fifty-six for a… long time."
"Yeah, I- oh fuck, I have, haven't I. I-" Tears began to fall from her eyes unbidden, hot and wet. "Oh fuck, sorry. I- sorry."
"No no, don't be. I can't even begin to imagine what you've been through. If you need a minute, a day, a week, whatever you want, it's yours. We're just happy to have you back."
The memories poured into her head like metal in a mould, searing through her mind. She shivered, although the ward was well-heated and her gown was comfortable, and she was astounded by how distant it all seemed. How unreal. Like a dream, or more accurately a nightmare. A long, long nightmare. She managed a grin.
"No, no, I should be happy, right? I'm out, aren't I? Still-" Shiver "-still alive? Even if it took me a y- year and a half. I got out in the end."
She tracks the movement of the doctor's face. She was never good at reading people, but she knew embarrassment when she saw it.
"What's the matter?"
"I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. We knew the farmhouse could keep people alive, but we never considered…"
She sat up in her bed, despite the cacophony of protests from her spine. Absently, she rubbed the network of scars along her right arm where they must have dug out the USB ports. The world around her grew cold, and distant.
"When…"
The doctor answered by pulling the ward's curtains aside. In front of them — or rather, beneath them — was the surface of the Earth. More scarred and worn than she knew it, but infinitely recognisable. He turned back. She could place, now, where she knew him from.
"Yes, I'm- I'm Dr. Reynolds. Dr. Ewan Reynolds. I believe you knew my grandfather. I'm so sorry. I didn't think… none of us thought…"
But she wasn't listening any more. She was transfixed on the view from the window, on the rest of the ward's empty beds, on anything but the man in front of her. She falls back, and stares at the ceiling. Doctor Reynolds was babbling now.
"Time dilation, memory alteration, some kind of combination of the two… oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, we didn't think… It's been so long, 2856 was just another architectural anomaly in the storage hangar, nobody expected anybody else to come out… we sent in a comatose patient every few years to check it was still functioning as normal, but…"
He catches the look in her eye. "Somewhere between one and three hundred years. Our records are fairly incomplete, what with everything that's happened, and we really can't be more precise than that."
She begins to shudder again, and feels the bile rise into her throat. The doctor places his hand on hers, but retreats when she attempts to pull it away. She doesn't do human contact, not really. She's not a 'hug and hold hands' kind of woman. But then again, of course, he couldn't be expected to know that. Nobody could be expected to know that. Her vision swims, decorating the room with blurry duplicates of the view from the window. A hundred Earths look back at her, stoic and unimpressed.
The Doctor edges towards the door. "I'm sorry, I'm being so insensitive, it's just, people from that far back, it's- it's unheard of, really. Oh god, I'm sorry. I- I thought you'd been told. I didn't think. I'll- I'll leave you to get some rest, yes? Yes, um. Let you get- get acclimatised."
He wipes his nose, apologises once more, and ducks out of the room, turning off the lights as he goes. The only sounds left are Katherine's own breathing, the whirr of the air conditioning (now, she knows, the air supply), and the soft beep-beep-beep of the machinery stacked beside her, pumping oxygen into her lungs and fresh blood through her veins.
After a while she falls asleep, dreaming of empty shelves and old friends.

This was written as part of the SCP Original Character Tournament, Round One, between my own ToasterHead and Ihp's Dr. Sinclair.
Read Ihp's competing tale here.


Addendum: In July of 2018, an abandoned house within Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin suddenly manifested properties similar to those encountered in SCP-2856. At the time, Foundation Researcher Katherine Sinclair was investigating the area alone due to signs of a thaumic disturbance. Dr. Sinclair reappeared approximately two weeks later within Sloth's Pit's Nexus Zone, collapsed on the roadside.
The following is the first part of an account of the events as told by Dr. Sinclair.

Okay, you know me? That is, me, the toaster that forces you to say that I am it in the first person? We had reports that a phenomenon similar to the one affecting myself was occurring at 44 Elm Street. People went in and found something that forced them to refer to it in the first person, but only if they saw it. They also found graffiti that had resemblance to thaumic glyphs used in Germany.
I went in alone— Reynolds, my partner, decided to stay outside while configuring some equipment. I wanted a look at the glyphs for myself and… this is going to sound bizarre, but I ended up getting lost.
44 Elm is, by all accounts, a three-story house that's maybe got 1000 square feet in total area. But when I went upstairs to do some searching, I ended up getting turned around. Looked out a window and found myself seeing inconsistent geography. Soon, I turned around enough, and found myself in a farmhouse.
My phone didn't get reception— not even a GPS signal. Still, it was well-lit enough that I didn't have trouble seeing. But when I looked outside, the sun seemed… wrong. After a few hours, I realized it wasn't moving— kind of sticking in the sky at a late-afternoon position.
And that's when I found the first… entity. I dropped my phone on the way down the stairs, and found two at the bottom. I grabbed the wrong one, and that's when I realized it had a face scratched into the screen. The face moved, and I got stabbed in the hand by a Swiss Army Knife. I dropped it, and picked up my actual phone. Used the blood to power a small spell so that the cut would close.
It's at this point that I heard skittering throughout the house— like metal insects. Gave me flashbacks of the whole incident with the nanites back in 2013, eugh. Saw all sorts of being standing in the halls of the house— some of them had computer screens for faces, or a microwave for a body. A lot of them had mannequinn parts.
Then Toasterhead—
What, I'm not allowed to call him that? I'm laid up in a hospital bed with a good part of my skin burnt, waiting for my meds to kick in. Give me a break, Stuart.
Sorry. I know you're just trying to follow protocol. but I'm still calling him Toasterhead.
Anyway. Toasterhead just kind of… looked at me. I think he was afraid to come near me, which is kind of fair. He'd probably seen me do magic, and I can probably make every phone in this building go on the fritz with a wave of my hand.
So, naturally, a giant spider made from a water heater sneaked up from behind and made a web of insulation. Not sticky, but fiberglass certainly makes it uncomfortable to move. That's where all of the chafing on my arms came from. Well, most of it.
The spider put me on its back, and carried me towards the kitchen. There was viscera everywhere, and it smelled… imagine a meat freezer whose cooling system has broken down, in the middle of summer, next to the county fair's horse stables. Kind of like that. Good thing I skipped breakfast.
I'd read about this thing in passing— knew it altered people to become… appliance-like. I could smell freon in the air, and saw what looked like an air conditioner dials on the counter. Toasterhead started.. pouring freon into a glass, trying to get me to drink it.
I… god, I can't even describe it. My throat burned, my body ached. I couldn't speak, so that seriously gimped my thaumic abilities. I could maybe will myself to use a blood spell, god knows the fiberglass was making me spill enough from my struggling. Hold on, hand me that bowl?
Thanks. Sorry, memory of it makes me want to vomit. Anyway, it's around that point that I noticed a cat in the room— several of them. One on top of the fridge which I realized later had several people's rib cages used as the structure.
Now, putting this out there right now: I'm not good with magic related to animals. Yes, I know, ironic, given my hobbies. Don't give me that smirk, Stu. But I… figured I had to try. Read something about projecting an aspect of Bastet into a cat in order to give them an order. I figured, what was the harm.
When they went for the dials, I used some of the blood that had dripped onto my palm from the fiberglass cutting into me to draw an Ankh in my palm. It's still burned in there a little, don't know if you can see it. The cat kind of looked at me, standing at attention, and I kind of… I don't know, mentally begged them to do something.
It hopped off the fridge, and bumped up against Toasterhead's legs. It put the dials down, picked it up, and began petting it. Then, it jumped out of his hands and onto the spider-thing, startling it enough that it let go of the fiberglass webbing.
I ran for it. The cat ran after me, to the front door. On the way out, I smeared blood on every electrical thing I could find— bulbs, switches, sockets. Then, when I hit the door, I managed to activate a hex wave that fried the electronics of everything inside— at least for the time being.
Then, I ended up in the middle of a field. I kept running, and then I started falling.

"What happened after that?" Agent Stuart Jones took his hands off of the keyboard. The transcription software on his computer was broken, so he had to manage with hand-typed notes.
There was a short cough from behind him. He looked up to see Nurse Mei Liao looking at him, holding a new saline drip. "Mr. Jones, Dr. Sinclair needs her rest. She's lucky she's alive."
Sinclair sighed. "Yeah, it's getting late. Come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you a little more?"
"Might be best for you to gather your thoughts. Maybe this thing will start to make sense." Stuart closed his laptop and stood, making his way out of the infirmary. He didn't even notice the portly man sitting outside, face lined with worry.


She knew this day would come. Dr. Craggs was nothing if not a plotter of the utmost degree. She cajoled, coerced, blackmailed, and sometimes performed indecent favors for the Foundation in the interest of information and access. She was basically just a Foundation agent at this point, albeit one that was confined to a rather charming, if industrial, apartment somewhere inside Site… something or other. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement - Craggs got to study interesting things and not be shot for crimes against humanity, and the Foundation was therefore able to profit by her knowledge.
As much as Craggs liked studying interesting things, not being executed for crimes against humanity, real or perceived, was higher on her priority list.
Unsurprisingly, she was on the hitlist of a Chaos Insurgency assault squad. "Squad" and "hitlist" are perhaps misnomers, because it's more like a battalion and precision strikes aren't really their thing. The last time they tried this they sought poetic justice and subterfuge - this time, brute force appeared to be the theme of the day.
This wouldn't be a repeat of the previous incident, though.
This time she had a PA system and a plan.

Every day Travis Kazmarek had ever woken to a 'general quarters' alarm had been a bad one.
Waking up to a general quarters alarm and someone shouting at him through a PA system had been a first, though.
He tried ignoring it, but the shouting didn't stop.
"…Who is this? Why are you calling me? And how did you get into the PA system?"
Her tone changed at the drop of a hat. Travis' ears were thankful.
"PoI-7701, currently in Foundation custody. I'm calling because I don't want to be shot. Asking politely, believe it or not."
"Don't you have a security team or something?"
"I have reason to believe they are combat ineffective. In case you don't remember, I'm the CI defector. I'm pretty sure I'm the target of this little adventure."
"Two queries - one, why the hell should I help you? Two - why are you calling a disgraced MTF member currently undergoing psychiatric treatment?"
"Several reasons, actually. First being that 60% of Foundation staff is already dea-"
Muffled gunfire echoed through the PA.
"Sorry, 63%. Second being an almost certainly dead security team, third being certain attack patterns common to large-scale Insurgent attac-"
Travis groaned. She's not just a defector. She's a lunatic defector. "…just cut to the chase, lady."
"Neither of us wish to die. You're the only person left who has both the access to the functionality I need, the skills to do it, and the self-awareness to realize while the Foundation is great at containing things, their external security procedures are pretty much bunk. And, you also aren't already bleeding out on the floor. Yet."
"That barely answers the first question."
"In case you don't remember, SOP for a large scale-attack on a Foundation site is to seal the blast doors and pump the place full of nerve gas. I have reason to believe that this is not a fate you desire."
"Your powers of observation are astounding. Still doesn't answer the question."
"I spent a lot of time planning for events like this. It's a good way to pass the time. And sometimes comes in handy."
"You write contingency plans for fun?"
"Are you going to help me - us - escape or not?"
Travis did his best Tevye impression. On the one hand, this lady - Dr. Craggs, he had ascertained - was known to the state of California to be a certified nutcase. On the other hand, she's also clearly done her homework on this sort of incident. If anyone's getting out of here, it's her. On the other hand, she could as just as likely get him killed to get herself out… but on the other hand, that's still better odds than waiting here for the VX gas to kick in.
"Fuck it. What needs to happen to get us out in one piece?"
"How much do you value your job?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"A simple escape has a 40% chance of success, but abiding by Foundation escape procedures cuts that to twe-"
"I don't need the odds, thanks."
He had a debt of honor to pay. Didn't need to run that particular tab any higher.
"We'll have to do this the right way."
An audible sigh from over the PA.
"Fine…"

Travis wiped the blood off his face mask. "Gas is delayed 45 minutes, nonessential servers set to self-fry, Foundation procedure 784-0.234 followed to the letter, looks like every thing is se-"
"I need you to open up SCP-3845's containment chamber."
"Are you nut- actually, wait, don't answer that question. But opening a containment chamber? How does that help us?"
"The bulk of CI forces are between you and me and the vehicle bay. 3845 is localized and probably rabidly vicious at this point. It'll be a pain to deal with later, but without exposing the population at large. By my estimate, at least 78% of the current staff is dead. My estimate of Foundation vs. Insurgent casualties as a direct result of releasing 3845 is about 1 to 7. I don't trust the algorithm that much, so it's probably closer to 1 to 9."
"What about the chances of it killing me?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to. But it does reduce your chance of being killed by CI bullets by a factor of six. Now get over here and pick me up before we both become statistics."

Buddy had a long memory.
Buddy remembered living in a pleasant land full of green and food and Friends that they could Play with. There was a nice breeze and water to Play in and a sun that shined just for them. There were sad times when they found other Buddies that couldn't Play anymore but that was okay because they had a Friend that he could Play with and be okay with.
But then the Bad People took them away and the Friend was never to be seen again. There was no more green and Friends, and there wasn't very much food either. they only saw gray and black and harsh light. Playing in the little space they had seemed empty.
Buddy didn't know how long he had been there. But it was a while.
A long, long while. All he could do is sit there and stew about what the Bad People were doing and what was happening to his poor Friend somewhere out there, probably far away.
They hoped that the Bad People hadn't gotten to her too. Buddy hated the Bad People. They didn't deserve to Play. They came by poked and prodded and looked at Buddy like they were some kind of caged animal.
That's all Buddy was now.

Travis always hated walking through Containment. Whole place seemed like a disaster waiting to happen.
"You could have told me you lived behind the vault door. I always figured something nasty was locked behind it. Would have been much easier to find."
"Your impression was correct. In any case, I can only assume our uninvited guests are probably listening in to our radio communications. Thanks for telling them where we are."
The vault clicked open. Behind it was… not what he expected.
"Sorry about the MOPP gear. 45 minutes was only enough delay time in fifty-fiv-"
Even more of a loon in person, apparently. "What did I say about statistics?"
Craggs shrugged as she removed the headgear, revealing a plain face with a short haircut. "Knowledge is power."
"Can you use a gun?"
"My accuracy decreases precipitously beyond five meters."
Travis' turn to shrug. "Just pry one out of the cold, dead hands of the next dead CI guy you see."
Screams and gunfire sounded from across the facility. "Buddy's really doing a number on them."
"Buddy?"
"3845. Some witness kept calling it that. Pretty tragic, if you ask me."
"What was tragic about it?"
"They barely ran any experiments! Not even a single dissection! The thing's pretty durable. Could probably use it as mine-clearer, or berserker. And they know there's more of them - seem pretty disposable to me. Huge missed opportunity."
The bitter disappointment on Craggs' face reminded Travis why he usually doesn't ask any more questions than he needs to.
"Anyway, enough ranting about the Foundation missing opportunities literally all of the time. Next stop, vehicle bay."

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Buddy was free.
Kind of. This was not a familiar space. These were not familiar sights or smells. The only thing they were familiar with were the Bad People, whom they hated
This place was not like Home. Like the cage, it was cold and gray and filled with harsh light. Infested with Bad People.
Worst of all, it still felt like a cage.
More than anything, Buddy wanted to go back Home. But on the way there, they would surely meet other Bad People. Bad People did not deserve to Play. Buddy decided to break the Bad People, so they couldn't Play anymore. Then go back to where the sky was blue and the ground was green, and find the Friend again.
So Buddy did. They had funny sticks that made loud noises, but Buddy was quicker and stronger.
Buddy couldn't count very high, but they knew they broke a lot of Bad People.

"Again, illustrating the importance of lab safety, especially when dealing with live test subjects. Which, if we're being honest, is the only real way to get anything done."
Travis held up a fist.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It's the international sign for 'shut the fuck up or 3845 is going to spot us'."
"Oh. Duly noted."
It didn't work. Buddy was already approaching them at great speed.
Craggs waved. "Buddy! Buddy! Calm down!"
"What the hell are you doing?"
"It's our only shot, so shhhhhh."

Buddy could hardly believe it. They had found their Friend, out here, of all places.
Buddy was sure it was her. She looked similar, but bigger. Buddy had been gone a long time, after all. Wore a funny black suit. Maybe they didn't look the same after all.
But she called them Buddy. No one else ever called them Buddy but Friends. That's how they knew.
There was Bad Person right there, but they couldn't bear to break anyone in front of their Friend. Maybe he was her Friend too.

"Buddy! You need to let go, Buddy!"
3845 released Craggs, letting her fall back to the ground, but didn't quite let go.
"I'm glad to see you too. You need to get out of here before the bad people catch you again!"
3845 lingered long enough for Cragg's discomfort to become more evident.
"Go on, Buddy! I'll see you on the outside!"
And with that, Buddy trotted in another direction, one they hoped was an exit.
Travis let out an breath he had been holding the entire incident. "I have no idea how that worked."
"God, I hate personal contact." Craggs shivered, then smiled. "3845's pretty simple cognitively. Probably idolized whatever girl was on the outside, like a dog to its master, but without being able to distinguish it very easily. He's going to pretty sad when we don't meet on the outside. Or ever again."
"How do you know it's a he?"
Craggs' smile widened. "If that's the statement you take issue with, we're going to be great friends."
"Anyway, vehicle bay's next door on the right. I think we're going to be shooting our way out, so you need to dr-"
"It's a standard technical, yes? I'll sit on top with the gun."
"I really think you should dri-"
"I'll sit on top with the gun."
Travis didn't press the point.

The CI assault had been swift - most of the vehicles were still in their parking spots, their crews either dead or dying.
"Can you even operate the gun on one of these?" Craggs' rifle fire had been marginal at best. While Travis had seen the logic in Craggs' prior plan, putting the veteran in the driver seat seemed counterintuitive from any direction.
"This was the whole point in bringing you along at all."
"Wait, what was the all the earlier escape stuff about?"
"Okay, yes, you were helpful there. But you need to drive. You scored third in your Foundation combat driving course. The two people ahead of you are dead and comatose, respectively."
"That was like, eight years ago. Wait, how did you get access to personnel records?"
"Blackmailing the mail administrator. Also, I don't know how to drive."
"You don't know… how to drive? You mean drive stick?" If Travis was dumbfounded before, he didn't have an adjective to describe his current state.
"No. I cannot operate a motor vehicle. Always had more important stuff to learn instead. Anyway, that's why you need to drive. Also, I have no idea where the next Foundation site is. There's an active Interpol Red Notice with my name on it, and at least three anomalous organizations have bounties on my head. The sooner we get out of daylight, the better." Craggs shrugged sheepishly.
Their vehicle rolled out of the bay, with little resistance.

"Let me get this straight. You planned an escape attempt with me specifically in mind, because of a driving course I did well in almost a decade ago."
"Not really, this was all made up on the fly. I did know the driving bit offhand."
"I thought you said you had contingency plans for stuff like this."
"Yes, but it's much better practice to come up with strategies on the fly than use pre-planned ones."
"This was practice?"
"Was it not for you?"
"No! We almost died."
"But we didn't! Which I think speaks volumes about my escape planning skills."
If I Tried to Run, Would You Give Me a Shot? | Tying the Gordian Knot |»


by Captain Kirby

Ok, so they're coming to water us. You ready for some practice?
yay water
Yes, water is good, but you're also going to do the trick right?
i will try
C'mon buddy. You need to believe in yourself.
If there's one thing that four months of containment has taught Carnegias, it's that being a mentor is hard. You gotta teach and encourage and just be there all the time for your pupil, and you can't yell at it or else it'll get sad and lose confidence. The vessel is going to die before Carnegias can even breach containment at this rate.
Normally, that wouldn't be an issue, he'd just pull his powers together and go find another one. But ever since he lost his powers to his new head mate… well there was no knowing what would become of him if the vessel died.
Alright, here comes the water. Now's the chance! See through the man's Third Eye!
…
You uh, you looking?
this tastes good
No— but— you can have the water later! It's not going anywhere! It's staying right in the soil.
im thirsty
Aaaand now he's gone. You missed it.
whos gone?
The— never mind. It's fine. Just drink our water.
Yeah, this isn't working. Maybe this really will be the downfall of The Great Carnegias. He'd already lost, like, most of his eldritch flair. He didn't even have a better title than "The Great" for himself. What did he even used to say to mortals? Well… he definitely called them mortals. That's for sure. Probably puny also?

Four men unloaded a large crate labeled "SCP-WWS-021" from the back of an armored truck. They moved carefully but swiftly. They didn't want to hurt the thing, but no one told them how long the sedatives would last. The crate was brought to containment cell #441 and opened. Two trained anomalous animal specialists strapped 100kg weights to each of SCP-WWS-021's legs. Then the men backed out of the cell, closing the door behind them.
"How long we holdin' on to the kangaroo?" one asked.
"Only a few days until transport to Site-33 gets here. We're not actually built to contain something like this," the specialist replied. "I'll have to give him another round of anesthesia in tomorrow. Don't want to overdose him."
"We also didn't get earthquake insurance, did we?"
"Oh, we have the insurance. We have literally every insurance. Just don't want to use it."
"Touché."
And with that, the men left Ringo to dream of the Wilson Wildlife habitat he was about to miss.

Carnegias tried to compose lines in his head, and escape to a little fantasy where half the world had spikes through it and most of the sentient life had spikes in their minds. He called it "Spiketopia", and it was his happy place.
carnie?
What? What is it? Also don't call me that. Also can't you see I'm in the middle of something?
you seem less evil
Oh, oh really? Me? The Eldritch God of Spikes and All Things Pointy?
yes. like that.
Don't start with me.
are you ok?
Oh, I'm just peachy. Just sitting here trying to salvage any hope of returning to my former terror. How's it going just drinking water and doing nothing with your life?
im happy
Of course you are! You're worthless! You couldn't tell the difference between rocks and the bones of your old owners!
carnie—
I said don't call me that! You pathetic waste of particles I— I think I can get somewhere with you. That this'll work. But it's just a fucking pipe dream.
carnie youre scaring me
Good. I hope you feel scared. Terrified even. I can practice being scary on you, so I don't lose my edge.
carnie stop it
Why should I? You're going to cry? You're a fucking cactus, you can't cry. You can't scream. You're just trapped here with me.

STOP IT

Ringo's dream suddenly turned to spikes and pain. It was in the ground, in his head, in his feet, in his everywhere. He woke up and tried to run away. He couldn't move his legs. But he was scared. All of the past fears of being trapped. And hurt. And tested. And trapped.
He jumped again.
This time with the power to shake the facility.

Cracks shot up the walls. The ceiling rumbled.
My Void what did you—
A key support gave way. The cell collapsed.
And then everything was still. Including the debris, which hung in the air like it had been frozen in time. No alarm sounded but evacuation commenced. The employees of Site-64 emptied into the parking lot and turned to watch the building. The quake was localized to the West Wing, namely used to hold low-threat anomalies. Foundation agents bolted in to retrieve every magic lamp and fountain pen they could find.
They would get to the living subjects last. Like the kangaroo who just shattered its restraints, and the cactus it approached.
Hey… you still there? Buddy?
The kangaroo got even closer. If it kicked the pot, it could kill the vessel.
I really need you to wake up right now!
It stopped right in front of the cactus and cocked its head to the side.
I'm sorry ok! I'm sorry I didn't mean it! I was just frustrated! Now please wake up!
The kangaroo waved at the cactus.
Wait what?
i can see us
Are you— are you a kangaroo now?
i looked in its third eye. like you told me
Wait, you're doing the thing! It's working!
i did the thing?
Good job! How much you have control over? It's movement? Senses? Thoughts? I— I can't believe you can do that. And you stopped the cell from falling!
i did good?
You did very good. Excellent.
yay! i did a good thing!
I'm going to need you to pick me up, and bring me outside, ok?
The kangaroo nodded, and then did as it was told.

Ringo panicked. His mind felt cramped, like the many boxes he's lived in. Except the room in his head hadn't shrunk. There was just something else in his head with him. A big something.

Awake.
Ringo opened his eyes, and he was in the shack again. The one with the needles and the shackles and not enough food. It was more empty that he remembered it, and had a red tint to it. A man dressed in a bullet-proof vest with the letters "CI" embroidered on it stood in front of him. The man spat on Ringo. He flinched.
Rise.
It took a few moments for the words to register, and then a few more for Ringo to act on them. He felt weak and hungry, but he knew what happened when you didn't listen to the vest-men. Ringo kept his eyes on the Shocking Stick tucked into the man's pants.
Move forwards.
Ringo understood, and he moved. His body was guided toward a pot full of needles. Ringo didn't like sharp things, since they reminded him of the all syringes that have been stuck into him over the years. He moved anyways.

Stop.
Ringo stopped, and then cocked his head to the side in confusion. The vest-man activated his stick and a stinging sensation shot through Ringo.

I SAID STOP MARSUPIAL!
He didn't move after that.

Understand that you listen when spoken to, dumb animal. As an inferior being you have no place to think for yourself. Now, be a good servant. Wave.
Ringo resisted the urge to nod, but waved instead. He stood there for another minute, still as a statue.

You are going to pick up this pot and carry it out. Understand?
Ringo nodded.

THEN MOVE.

Just as the last of the anomalies were cleared out of the collapsed wing, a kangaroo carrying a cactus joined the containment specialist. The oddity barely registered for most since their minds were elsewhere. Just as soon as the kangaroo set the cactus down in the grass, it collapsed. And so did the West Containment Wing of Site-64.
No one was entirely sure what caused the building to stay upright. Even Carnegias didn't really know. But one person knew. Well, one Poky cactus knew.

If you want more poky and Ringo, you can check out HotColes' entry here!