Graphic depictions of abuse ahead. Proceed with caution.

Four months later…
Caryn Walsh wasn't stupid. She may have been a counterfeit valley girl with a ridiculously spelled hippie name, but she wasn't stupid. Of course Theresa barely tolerated her. Theresa was the straight-lace orthodoxist trying very hard for a steady job; Caryn had a wine problem, a cushy gig, and an ambivalence towards the second-wave stuff. And yeah, maybe it was a rude move sticking her with the talk show, but Theresa had ridiculous free time and a better grasp on the politics than anyone else in the Line.
Maybe Robin was stupid, then. She insisted Caryn come along to the weird intervention thing she was doing. Honestly, it's not like Theresa liked Robin any better! Hellen should've been the one standing at her door, not Caryn.
Looking back at Robin, however, Caryn found herself repeating none of this. Not like she'd listen.
Robin knocked twice, halfhearted. Then, receiving no answer, she waited a short while before knocking again, harder but only once. A much longer pause followed, and Robin appeared to have decided another knock was in order when the door opened and holy SHIT Hellen wasn't kidding.
Theresa's apartment was a fucking mess. Papers, stacked or crumpled, littered the floor like garbage. They also hung on the walls, either backwards or drawn sides deliberately hidden from view. Some of them bore weird… stains? Burn marks? Some weird discoloration that, come to think of it, was also present in splotches against the ceiling and some of the furniture. Not to mention, strange… chemistry equipment(?) cluttered the tabletops. Not livable. So, so not livable.
This didn't seem to stop Theresa! She was… smiling. Clean. Dressed girlier than usual in some polka-dot dress, plus a red belt that was scuffed in two places. Round glasses and makeup, too, and come to think of it, it looked like she was growing out her hair. Weirdly pristine. Caryn tried to look at her eyes, but an immediate sense of panic forced her gaze away.
"Robin, Caryn." At least she sounded the same. "Can't say I expected you. Is something happening?"
Robin cleared her throat. "You been busy."
Theresa shrugged. "What can I say? New job."
"Sure." Robin nodded. "Mind if we come in?"
Strictly speaking, Theresa 'chuckled'. "Yeah, get on with your piece. Doesn't look like you want to be here any more than I do."
Robin grumbled as she crossed the threshold, immediately settling onto a couch. Theresa's gaze followed, for a while, before turning to face Caryn. "You too, Caryn."
"… right." Caryn stepped through the—
Something was wrong.
Caryn hadn't ever been to Theresa's apartment before; even so, how did she live like this? The decor was bad enough without the scent of rot that perfumed its surface. Like, yeah, maybe she got up to weird experiments, but in her own home? Even the cleanest spot on the sofa felt tainted, somehow. Screw every previous thought: Theresa absolutely needed this intervention.
For her part, Theresa didn't take a seat, choosing instead to meander around the kitchenette. "You came at a bad time, eh? I was working on this—"
"Let's talk about the Weilstedt."
Theresa clicked her tongue. "I don't like being interrupted, Robin."
Robin sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. It was the kind of gesture Caryn had come to expect from Theresa, at least before the last few months. She'd freely admit that, welcome as her change of attitude might be, it was pretty off-putting.
Or maybe she only thought that because Theresa turned to her with a smile. "Weird seeing you come along. Guessing this must be pretty important?"
Caryn opened her—
"Yes, it is." Robin stood up, got closer, clearly trying to project authority. "I'll be real." A second-hand disgust boiled up as Robin put her hands on the kitchenette countertop. "I need you to stop poking the Weilstedt."
A pause, before Theresa cackled… and then she stopped herself, and it was like it had never happened. "We're talking about a different Weilstedt, right? Not the one you made me cover for on BackTalk?"
"I retracted that, Terry."
"You did?" She snorted. "That wasn't half as bad as those creepshows deserve. You should've had them sucking blood." Theresa's nails drummed against the countertop. "What did they do this time?"
"They—" Robin stopped herself and took a deep breath. "… not what they did. They're not doing anything."
Theresa tilted her head. "I've got a box of letters that say otherwise, Robby, clearly—"
Robin slammed her hands on the countertop. "This is your problem, Terry! You versus the Weilstedt, you versus the world. I'm sick of it! One tomato, one piss-weak memetic, suddenly you have to bunker down, fling shit, leave us to clean up. Weilstedt doesn't even use memes, they want you dead you're just dead! That clear enough?!"
The air seemed to foul further, but Robin continued regardless. "See the trees for the forest, alright? Weilstedt's made no action on you. You treat the Line like a personal army, train your Little Sisters like soldiers, make it too toxic to stay. El and Hellen are gone cause of you."
Something… jolted through Theresa. Or settled over her. Truthfully, Caryn wasn't sure what she'd just seen, if she saw anything at all.
"Look, Terry, I'm not saying—"
Theresa held a hand up, although she wasn't quite looking at Robin. More the expression of… Caryn didn't know, someone who lost something? The realization that she'd left her stove on? Halfway through a bout of chess? Something or other. Either way, Robin stopped.
"… they're gone? I…" Theresa bit her bottom lip. "… they told me they were busy."
"… course they'd say that, yeah. People that nice, didn't want to hurt your feelings." Robin took out her phone, though Caryn couldn't see what she'd opened at this angle. "But four months ago, El texted me. Told me she had to leave. Said she was in danger. Hellen too."
For an instant, something flashed across Theresa's face. But only for an instant.
Robin continued, but Theresa no longer looked to be listening. "This isn't it. If not for that, you'd be a role model. But you need to tone it down, alright?" With a nod, Robin turned to Caryn. "For both of us." Help me out here.
"Uh… right." Caryn nodded, turning back to Theresa. "I've noticed that…"
Caryn trailed off. Whatever she was supposed to say, the fact of the matter was that Theresa was too engrossed with her countertop to pay attention. And it's not like she knew what to say, either! What, Caryn had to prep a speech she'd barely—
Theresa blinked, and Caryn's internal monologue stopped dead in its tracks.
An inexplicable grin found its way onto Theresa's face. "… you didn't even tell Caryn what she was here for, did you?"
"What?"
Theresa finally turned her gaze to Robin, even as she reached for something in her dress' pocket. "What, were you afraid of me? Afraid I'd boil you in a cauldron?" A phone. She pulled out a phone. "Wow, I'm already the villain. And you say I'm paranoid."
"What are you talking about?" Except her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Theresa… texted someone?
After (probably) sending her message, Theresa looked back up at Robin. "I don't get you, Robin. Why am I the problem? What about Caryn, who barely believes in the cause? Not even you trust her enough to fill her in on why you're here."
Caryn blinked, and almost didn't notice when Theresa's phone vibrated.
"And what, Hellen was a big enough loss to care about?" Theresa once more looked down at her phone, only to come back up with an off-putting grin. "Hellen was a ten-ply who chickened out when the going got tough. Maybe if you weren't a repressed pervert, you'd have caught on sooner."
The apartment went dreadfully quiet.
Theresa snorted. "Say something with that open mouth, before I spit in it."
"… say that again."
"What, you want me to spit in your mouth? Then stop baring your teeth like a chimp."
Caryn cleared her throat. "It's okay, it's okay. Let's all calm—"
Robin's words came out less like words, more like a growl. "Say that again, you dirty bitch."
"Gladly: maybe if you weren't wasting your free time tranny-chasing on SkyHigh, you'd have caught on to—"
Robin's punch was swift and immediate, sending Theresa's phone flying from her hands and Theresa into a counter.
The initial blow was more than Caryn was prepared to process; after the immediate startle, she forced her attention to Theresa's phone, which had landed face-up on the floor. Theresa had been… messaging someone? The app she'd used was an obnoxious shade of pink; it took a while to parse the name of her contact (someone named "KeeLee"?), and quite a bit longer to—
But before that could happen, Caryn's attention was pulled back to the scene by a squishing noise and a wet gurgle. Turning to look, Caryn almost couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Reeling in the kitchenette was Robin, clutching her throat as blood burst through her fingers like a faulty dam, crumpling to her knees and gasping for air or help or mercy. It was quieter than Caryn might have thought, unceremonial, almost unbelievably so, as if a prerequisite of exsanguination were some orchestral score, moody lighting, anything but the frank depiction of her best friend bleeding to death on white tile.
Something knelt in front of her. Theresa, clothes stained in blood, with a bundle of paper towels in hand to staunch the bleeding…
… no, not the bleeding. Theresa was merely damming the floor, walling off the space where tile met carpet. Cleaning up the blood before it leaked into the carpet. Sparing no glance towards the dying woman beside her.
None of it felt remotely real.

Her head was light. Caryn's whole body was light. The room was swallowed in light. It had to be a dream. The world would melt away, Caryn would be blown gently out the window by an unseen wind, and all of them would wake up in—
"Caryn?"
Caryn blinked herself back to reality.
She was sitting at the kitchenette counter, in an apartment that smelled like raw steak and burnt eggs. Standing at the other side was Theresa, dressed in a lovely maroon dress that dripped itself across the kitchenette. In the corner of her vision lay something perfectly still, which made no sound. She did not turn to look at it.
Theresa smiled. "I was worried, there. You doing alright?"
The corner of Caryn's lips turned upwards, enough to show her teeth, squinting her eyes slightly. Her right hand unconsciously brushed against some sort of plastic grip, wet with something sticky and half-congealed.
"That's good." Theresa chuckled. "I find when I'm stressed, smelling salts help. Do you want some smelling salts?"
Caryn's mouth opened, until she realized she lacked the energy to scream.
Theresa didn't wait for an answer, sloshing her way to a cabinet to retrieve a glass vial of some peculiar black liquid salt. Salt could be like that, right?
"Here." Theresa set the salt before Caryn. "You look confused about what happened, okay? Here's what happened: Robin attacked me out of nowhere. To protect me, you were forced to kill her with a nearby boxcutter. Does that make sense?"
No. Caryn wasn't sure if it was meant to be her answer or a plea, not that it came out her mouth.
Theresa's smile dropped. "You don't have to be shy, Caryn. Killing someone can be very hard, but you did it in self defense, so it's okay." A gloved hand gently took her right, depositing it over and curling its fingers around what Caryn now felt to be a boxcutter. "Can you be strong and admit it, for me?"
No. A memory Caryn was certain of flashed silently through her head. No. No no no. A symphony of gasps rang through her memory, one of which had to have been something she'd said, something to rationalize the moment. Please no. I can't do this. Minutes of silence underscored a cacophony of thoughts.
Theresa sighed. "I didn't want to do this, Caryn. But you need to take responsibility for your actions. Come, smell the salt."
And so Theresa uncorked the glass, letting forth a violent swarm of blackened animosity. Caryn's nerves screamed for release, but by the time it began to matter, she'd already been locked out of her shell.

How To Remove Spinal Fluid From A Polyester Dress

How To Clean A Polyester Dress

/


Theresa's alarm yanked her awake at 7:30. Rolling out of bed, Theresa dragged herself through the morning routine necessitated by the rare occasions in which she was called in for an interview. It was as tiresome as it had been three weeks ago, which nearly countered the indignity of its rarity.
Not that she did it well: her efforts were unfocused, her movements hurried, her gaze drawn towards the windows. She burnt her toast, understeeped her tea, nearly knocked over a stack of notes. She almost tripped over the curb on the way to her car, even.
So it wasn't until Theresa got into her car that she checked her phone, to find that Hellen had left her a voicemail.
Theresa blinked.
Actually looking at the file, it was… absurdly long. Even in Hellen's worst moments, she'd had the sense to hang up before it became a bad joke; this easily exceeded "bad joke". Worse, she'd done it at 1 AM. It was almost ridiculous enough for Theresa to forget she was being hunted by the Kosher Nostra.
She shouldn't waste her time listening to this. Theresa had an… "interview" to attend. Bad people to look out for. She definitely shouldn't have switched speaker on and pressed play.
"Hi, Feather." Theresa winced, barely aware enough not to rear-end a neighbor's car. Evidently, Hellen hadn't been serious enough to actually address Theresa by name. "Sorry for the late night call, I had some things I… I wanted to get off my chest."
Not like she got straight to it. No, Hellen had to make Theresa wait. You'd think there'd be a bit more proactivity when you called in the dead of night, but that was what you got with Hellen. Nosy gadfly bullshit. Hellen was lucky Theresa had nothing better to do, or she might have to bring this up with Caryn and Robin. They had the decency not to bother Theresa outside of Line business.
Theresa was pulling out of the complex when next Hellen spoke. "I know I can be… clingy, at times. I'm sorry for that, Feather. SoHo can be… well, you know how it is. It's… dark, it's cruel. Or unfeeling."
Hellen sighed. What did she have to sigh about? "That's not entirely it, I'm sorry. It's… I feel like I owe you, Feather. You've done so much for the Line. You're transcribing meetings, you're… you're mentoring children, Feather. You even… I don't know many women who are brave enough to go on live TV to defend what's not even their job against… against everyone. You're the bravest person I know. I…"
Great. More pausing.
"… it hurts, to see everything take such a toll on you. You seem more cynical than usual. And I… you don't have to talk about it with me. But I see it and I worry, Feather. Even before the… sorry, that's not my place. I'm sorry. Good…" -bye? As if. Theresa had seen that timestamp.
Was this going to be one long pause-filled apology casserole? Lord, silence would be better than—"I'm sorry, I have to get this off my chest. Do you remember when I joined the Line?" Barely. Hellen was having… man troubles or something, then? "It's been a while, I know. But I think about it a lot.
"The Line was… I'll never forget how you took me in, treated me like a sister, supported me through… through everything. I was just a nobody, but you were there every step of the way. I couldn't… if it hadn't been for you, I might still be with Peter. Maybe…" Hellen sighed. "Maybe that's why I fell for you."
Theresa nearly ran an intersection. What a joke.
"You were everything I wasn't, Feather. Smart, talented, with the kind of backbone I still don't have. I was a 20-year-old nobody in a bad marriage. You and the Line… you taught me there was more to just, just living through. I could get out. I could… I could get out and be someone, Feather."
And yet in the four and a half years since, Hellen wasted every possible opportunity to be anything more than that simpering ten-ply she'd started as.
Lord, the message still wasn't done.
"… I've been, well, coming to terms with… that. That I love you. That I'm… that I'm a lesbian. I was surprised there were so few of us in the Line. You'd think… well, the stereotype's that most radical feminist orgs are just that. Lesbians. But…" Get on with it, Hellen. "… it doesn't feel like we're feminists, anymore.
"I joined the Line because it helped me come to terms with… with what I was going through. They helped me, right? So I just, well, laughed off some of the… weirder doctrine. Or didn't care. If we helped women escape abusive homes, I could ignore the weird focus on transgenders."
Hellen paused, long enough for Theresa to nearly lose herself in the asshole going 10 in a 25. "I… don't think I'm typical, Feather. Everyone else feels focused on transgenders, beyond other issues. Even… even Caryn and Robin, it felt like they cared more about some anti-transgender march than El's eating disorder."
For the briefest second, Theresa's internal dialogue screeched to a halt, and she thought back to where she intended to drive.
But only for that second.
And Hellen continued: "I've looked up some of our funding, Feather. Our 'allies'. They're not… they're not feminists. It's people who won't stop at the transgenders. They won't stop there. And I'm afraid it's affecting the girls."
She paused. "… I'm sorry, Feather, but I can't stay here. These aren't my sisters. I have to get out, before I change for the worse."
And then Theresa's phone clicked, and the voicemail was over.
It was out of Theresa's mind in minutes, the work of a shameful necessity, subsequently given its own treatment until the recursion made it small enough to ignore.

Roofing sagged. Lawngrass consumed lawn. Lights stayed off. Boarding stood bold against the mundanity of suburbia. Theresa's was the only car parked before the house. Everything was as it always was, and none of it felt remotely familiar.
Was it the context? Theresa had never dressed herself in a suit to meet Mrs. Schaeffer, had never willingly walked the path in anything but boots, bore propane and shovels in lieu of laptops and notebooks. Until recently, this house stood as an obstacle, not opportunity. A giant in the shape of a windmill. And yet, what was meaningfully different about the house before Theresa?
… that was obvious. The house had never been occupied.

(it's funny you think that)

The front door was unlocked. Mannequins, dressed in finery and perfumed in the stench of rotten meat, stood motionless against the various first floor doorways. Each pointed towards the stairwell.
The house was just as dark as before, yet something stayed Theresa's flashlight. Exposed boards groaned beneath her, daring Theresa to step on a hot wire, a rusted nail, a fresh rat, but what was she to do? Now more than ever, Theresa was a guest of Just Girly Things; it would not do to violate the sanctity of its heart.
Sunlight stumbled from the second-story windows, illuminating the river of wires that meandered around the corner and cascaded down the stairs from the landing. She was close.
Theresa turned into the hallway. A pink stripe cut through the darkness at the end of the hall, wires spilling from its mouth like headwaters.
And so she walked.
Slowly. Steadily.
Past where the light of noon terminated into dark.
Through the wall of rancid meat, vigorous mildew, burning plastic.
Ever closer to that intimately familiar horror that sat at the end of the hall.

"Over here, darling."

But Theresa blinked herself awake, and turned to look down the doorway to her right.
The room was an impossible dark, and not in the sense of the pitch black at the end of the hallway. No, this darkness was… hollow. Visible. Paintings and trinkets adorned the walls, girly decor that should have been swallowed by the dearth of light. Theresa could make out a table, high, refined, elegant; there, sitting at the opposite end, was a tall silhouette of impossible elegance.
The silhouette tilted its head, an inexplicably chilling gesture. "Do close the door behind you, KeeLee can be particular about the lights."
Theresa gulped, nodding once as she stepped through the door and carefully closed it behind her.
Then the light clicked on.
Cutting through the brightened haze, clearer and clearer with every second, was a woman who couldn't have been real. Her porcelain-white skin was unnaturally flawless, almost radiant in the sudden light. Indeed, the features it shaped into recalled those of a masterwork, an eternal perfection unbound by the biological constraints of flesh. Her lips, brows, the color in her cheeks, all appeared as the underglaze of some porcelain masterpiece, to say nothing of her terrifyingly beautiful make-up. Hair that must have been pressed with gold leaf flowed like silk down her back, neither catching nor tangling against her crooked surroundings. Most striking, however, were her eyes… but Theresa wouldn't have been able to say why that was.
"I must say, darling," and Madeleine von Schaeffer even smiled like a saint. "You're taller than I expected."
Theresa blinked, and opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn't come fast enough for Schaeffer, who gestured to the sole empty seat. "Please, sit down."
Nodding, Theresa did just that, setting her notebook and laptop onto the table. "You don't… mind if I take notes? Most—"
"Theresa, dear." Schaeffer giggled, her elegant laughter betraying an inexplicable tinniness. "I was being rhetorical when I called you in for an 'interview'. Why, dressed as you are now?" She leaned forward, and Theresa shivered. "You'd have been sent out the door."
Schaeffer stood up, circling around to Theresa's back. Her fingers fiddled with her collar, rolling and bending it back for some—

thing cold and hard brushed against Theresa's neck, catching her breath.

"This isn't even your size, darling. You're not a man." Schaeffer tutted, pulling back and leaving Theresa's collar messy and wrinkled. "I understand it can be difficult to find a good dress for someone as tall as you are, but it's not impossible. Why, we gifted you one."
As delicate as Schaeffer looked, she was shockingly strong, lifting Theresa out of her seat and setting her aside in standing. Arms that couldn't have been thicker than Theresa's betrayed a shockingly developed musculature, a near-impenetrable wall just below the skin, bereft of even the slightest softness. Not even heat bled through.
Schaeffer glided into view, and Theresa was suddenly struck by the revelation of how tall she was. Theresa was already "freakish" in height; so what word did you apply to Schaeffer, who stood a head above her? Theresa looked down to her feet, but the porcelain-white heels she wore couldn't have been more than 5 centimeters.
As if aware of her internal monologue, Schaeffer giggled. "I won't ask you to ascribe to my standards, don't worry." She circled around the table, back to her side — though she did not sit back down.
Theresa shook her head. "It's… it's a very nice dress, but it's not—"
"Professional? Darling, who do you think you'll be working for?" Schaeffer tilted her head; Theresa noted, with a frankly reasonable level of apprehension, that her skin barely creased. "What use is fashion advice in a magazine, if its workers are stuck in suits?"
A quick palm of her coat pocket reminded Theresa that she hadn't brought her e-cig.
Righting her head, Schaeffer stepped forward and around the table, stopping just beyond the threshold of Theresa's personal space. Eyed her like a painting. Flayed Theresa with her eyes. Those inscrutably terrifying eyes.
"You can't be expected to wear that dress every day, of course." She smiled, moreso in probable bemusement than the apparent theatricality of her previous smiles. "I suppose we'll need to procure you a proper wardrobe. You could think of it as a kind of sign-on bonus, if you're so inclined, but that's not to say that's all you'll get."
Theresa crossed her arms. "I don't know what I'll be…" The room had gotten impossibly cold, yet Schaeffer could simply look down to Theresa's arms and it was enough for instinct to uncross them.
A loud cracking ripped through the air.
The corner of Schaeffer's mouth curled into something… indistinct. "You're afraid of me, aren't you?"
Theresa's tongue lay like a lead weight against the floor of her mouth. She took a step back; almost in lockstep, Schaeffer took one forward.
"Why are you still so afraid of me, darling?" Every step back was answered another step forward. "What do you have to fear? It isn't as if you're my enemy. Far from such a thing."
Theresa's back hit the wall; Schaeffer's footfalls answered the steps she wished she could still make.
"We've always been allies, Theresa. From the start, we fought to preserve the sanctity of womanhood." Schaeffer's heel fell upon an exposed nail, a development not reflected upon her opaque grin. "Whether stuck in the workplace or flourishing in domesticity, we protected its sanctity, its immutability, its complementarian nature."
When next her heel rose, the nail lay deep in its board.
"What did it matter its definition," Schaeffer's grin widened, revealing a row of perfect ivory-white teeth. "so long as that definition was rigid? Does it do anything more than apply some meaningless moral judgement to the inevitable conclusion?"
Schaeffer was mere inches from Theresa when the latter's legs gave out, leaving her sliding down to sitting. "And so too do we fight the same uphill battle, Theresa. Against degenerates who would commodify 'woman' into a nobody. Against the ignorant left and its Jewish financers. Against the biological and psychological aberrations so foolishly accepted by society."
Schaeffer crouched, taking Theresa's chin in her hands. As those cold, stiff fingers took hold, a horrible shiver rippled through Theresa's spine.
Her skin wasn't simply porcelain-white.
It was porcelain.
Schaeffer made a show of licking her lips, her tongue like varnished rosewood. "It couldn't have been whimsy that brought you here. Do you really think you came to me for naked survival?" She grinned, turning Theresa's chin up to properly face her. "If you really cared to live, all you had to do was renounce your convictions. It's not as if your safety was priority. Not even in chemistry was that true."
She let go, and it was as if breath had only just returned to Theresa's lungs. Words had to wait.
Schaeffer crouched as close to eye level as she could. "Your butterfly is so close to emergence, Theresa. Everyone around you seeks to clip your wings. Everyone but us." She brushed a hand against Theresa's face, briefly, enough for Theresa's breath the catch once more. "Who will teach you to fly?"
Theresa closed her eyes, shivered in the chill.
"… you will."
She wasn't sure if that was a lie. And when Schaeffer stood up, dropped her smile, looked upon her as if it'd been a bold-faced faleshood, she wasn't sure whether the pang in her heart was of fear, shame, or disappointment.
Schaeffer sighed, extending her right hand out to her side. Her fingers unclenched, wrist turning her open palm towards Theresa. "It appears we'll need a show of faith."
Theresa looked back into her eyes, suddenly struck once more by that inexplicable bafflement they engendered.
And in a wide and violent arc—

"Is something the— Feather?!"
The pounding in Theresa's temple left barely enough dignity not to collapse directly onto Hellen's floor. Less so to avoid falling into Hellen's arms. Hours of dull fire, with barely more than her right eye to guide her, had a way of breaking Theresa down.
For her part, Hellen rushed Theresa to her sofa, a soft foam thing that hadn't seen too many guests. If not for the aforementioned pounding, Theresa might have fallen asleep on it. Wouldn't that be nice. Wouldn't that be some kind of stupid poeticism.
Theresa closed her eye.
Hellen was back quickly enough with an icepack, an aid kit, and two cups of tea. She set the latter two upon the coffee table, offering the ice pack to Theresa. Her good eye lingered on the tea, like an animal might a fox. Still, her other eye ached for a cold compress, and she wasn't about to pass that by.
A circular sort of process kept Theresa from actually saying anything: first, she'd attempt to say her piece. Then the pain would kick in, and she'd worry she'd say something she regretted. In lieu of talking, she'd look around Hellen's apartment, trying to to take it in; but all the decor just reminded Theresa of things she'd rather not talk about, so instead she thought up small talk. Then she got frustrated, that she was wasting her time, and the cycle would begin again.
The tea had most likely cooled by the time Theresa found her words. "… I messed up."
"What's wrong?" Theresa hadn't realized how silent Hellen had been until she broke that silence.
Theresa palmed empty coat pocket. "I messed up. They're after me." She shook her head, looking back down to the tea. Actually picking it up and drinking it wasn't… that cold.
"W-what do you mean?" When Theresa looked up, Hellen's… what was it, concern? Fear? Despair? Whatever it was, it had deepened.
"I messed up. I…" Theresa shook her head. "… I've been… driving somewhere."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Theresa wet her lips. "I thought… I thought it was for a job. Some print house contacted me out of nowhere, and…"
Hellen's brow furrowed. "And?"
"I'm sorry, Hellen. I should have trusted you."
"What happened, Feather?"
The ice pack crackled and sloshed over Theresa's eye.
"… it wasn't a job." Theresa eyed the still life behind Hellen. "They're angry. Angry at the me. Angry at the Line." She looked back to Hellen. "Angry at you."
"Me? I…" The gears turned in Hellen's head, that inaudible click-clack that banged a rod upon a pan to make her blink in time. "… but, I'm no longer in, in the Line, Feather, and…" She shuddered. "But, what about the others? What about… are they after them too?"
"They're not normal, Hellen." Theresa shifted the icepack, righting her head like she meant to make proper eye contact. "There's this computer. Something like it. They knew my name. Address. They knew everything." She swallowed. "… I think they have our messages."
Something dawned on Hellen's face.
Theresa looked down at the table. Then, she took out her phone and switched it off.
Theresa looked back up to Hellen. "Turn off your phone. You need to hide. All of you. My brother… he lives in the States. I'll figure something out but—"
"Feather."
Theresa blinked.
Hellen shook her head. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Feather, but it's…" She sighed, breaking eye contact. "I believe you, really. These past few months have been… difficult, for you most of all." When Hellen finally looked back, it was with a peculiar intensity Theresa had never quite seen before. "But I think about how you've just… went about this all alone, and it breaks my heart, Feather."
Hellen paused, fingers drumming against her knee. "… I'm not asking for you to love me back, Feather. You don't have to indulge some silly, well, schoolgirl crush. But," and Hellen leaned forward. "As your friend, I want to be here for you when you need it, alright?"
Theresa nodded.
"And don't just think of me if you're struggling, Feather. It's only fair that I help you, after everything you did to help me. So," And hopefully, she hadn't noticed Theresa tensing up. "Do you promise to tell me everything, once we're safe?"
Theresa looked down to the table, next to the painting, back to the table, then the painting, and finally, after several moments of unfocused staring, back to Hellen. "… yes."
It wasn't a lie, but it felt like one.
Hellen sighed. "Thank you, Feather. I should probably pack my—"
"Wait."
Hellen stopped, looking nearly as shocked at Theresa's interjection as Theresa had been when it fell out her mouth. "… what's wrong? We should leave now, shouldn't we?"
"Yeah." … but there was no room for compromise, not now. She had to power through. "… but there's someone else."

With her eye fixated upon the gas meter, Theresa heard El's arrival before she saw it.
It began with muffled conversation; logically it was El and Hellen, who else wanted to approach Theresa's care, but it was odd to think that the two of them actually talked. Sure, they belonged to the same organization (and both arguably because of Theresa), but Theresa must have unconsciously separated the two in her mind, two peculiarities too peculiar to mix in an orderly fashion.
Then the car door opened, unmuffling El and Hellen's conversation. "—don't get it. Why us?"
Theresa unconsciously gripped the steering will just a tiny bit tighter. This would be the first time in over three months they'd met up, four if you excluded bad-term interactions.
"I don't know, but we need to hide for a bit, El." Hellen, fortunately, took the front seat. "Feath— Terry's been hurt, and we all just… need to lay low for a while."
"Terry's…" El trailed off; a quick look at her face in the rearview mirror confirmed she'd gone pangolin.
Theresa shook her head, and shifted into drive before it was too late.
Maybe it'd been a mistake to ask Hellen to bring El along. Obviously, she still wasn't keen on being around Theresa; that Hellen had talked her into coming along was nothing short of a miracle. But even a second was all it took for everything to fall apart.
Maybe she'd underestimated Hellen; maybe she was shrewder than Theresa had given her credit for.
Theresa drove.

"You have arrived at your destination."
Theresa licked her lips as she pulled up to the curb, or tried to. She'd ran out of water at around six, leaving her tongue to catch and skid across her dry lips. Nobody needed to know that.
Either way, Theresa gave a quick glance around the neighborhood; with nobody in sight, she killed the engine. "Well, we're here. Haven't texted Rufus, but he should be amenable."
Theresa should have logically been thinking quite a bit regarding… quite a bit. 'What if El chickened out?' 'Would she be able to live without grant money?' 'Did Theresa really have the nerve to go through with this?' None of these questions registered as they probably should have. Instead, Theresa found her internal monologue fixated on what she'd just said. How naturally it flowed.
More power to her, she supposed.
Hellen and El exited from the right. Was it different for them, to not have had to turn to see the house? Or did El just take after Hellen? It wasn't as if it was surprising, seeing El cling to her like a little lost child.
Theresa double-checked her bag, and cleared her throat. "Don't mind him, messiness runs in the family. Here, I'll give him a heads up." Circling around the car, Theresa gave the perplexed duo a (hopefully) reassuring nod as she walked down the path and up to the door.
Of course it was open.
Theresa peeked inside, down the ill-lit entry hall and the predictably ravaged interior that, curiously, smelt less rancid than usual. "Hey, Rufus! It's your sister."
The purring silence did not respond.
Theresa sighed. "Seriously? You told me you'd… it doesn't matter. If now's a good time, do you—"
The purring silence did not interrupt.
"… good, good. Sorry for coming on short notice. I won't be too long, though."
The purring silence did not mind.
Theresa nodded. "Right, thank you."
Her two guests had thankfully stayed put, still there when she turned back. "Looks like we're in luck. Do mind the space, he's still renovating, but he should be amenable." Theresa grinned. "Probably glad I'll be there to cook for him."
That put Hellen at something that wasn't quite ease, but nevertheless permitted a careful approach to the precipice. With no one else to cling to, El followed closely behind. Neither of them seemed to notice Theresa slipping behind them as they approached; or if they did, they didn't care. Lemmings to the last step.
Hellen reached for the doorknob, slowly, steadily, that viscous thoughtlessness that engendered an unnecessary tension… but then she paused. Turned her head back to look at Theresa. Opened her mouth:
"… thanks for all this, Feather. I'm sorry it had to come to…" What, my eye? This house? The thing in my bag I tried desperately to hide from you? "… this."
So Theresa exhaled, smiled, and nodded. "It's fine."
And then, finally, after eight hours of back-and-forthing, eight hours of that rotten feeling in the pit of Theresa's stomach, Hellen opened the door, and all was well.
Hellen paused at the precipice. Probably made a face; maybe the same one Theresa had made, all those months ago on her first visit. "… you really weren't kidding, Feather. This is… serious renovations." But even still, she entered the house. And sure, El made a show of squirming, retching, everything El loved to do; that didn't change the fact that Hellen was inside, and Theresa was outside. She followed quickly enough.
Theresa gave one last look over the neighborhood, searching for anyone who could have seen this happen. Once again, all was quiet, and so Theresa stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
From inside, Theresa could feel the house salivating, its pulsing breath so much more excited than she'd ever known, even as its weakness belied a curious distance. The nightlights, too, felt recessed, slimmed in scope, yet curiously bright when stared directly into; as the squinting eyes of a predator, examining its prey. Was it just as excited as Theresa?
Theresa rolled her keyring around her finger, feeling through her bag for the canister she'd been given. Stealth barely mattered now, and she hardly cared when Hellen turned back to say something, only to freeze like a deer in the headlights. You could hardly see the look of betrayal on her face.
Instead, as Theresa plunged her keyring knife into the canister, her last thoughts before she was forced to shepherd the BLACK FLY were of those stupid faces that El never quite mastered in her art.
It hissed.

BLACK FLY sounded less like a fly, more like a hateful cat as it poured forth from its canister. Even in the dark, Theresa could see it, collecting like buzzing, angry storm-clouds over a playground, warping and discoloring all it touched. She almost couldn't bear to work its mists. Almost.
There was a weight against Theresa's will. BLACK FLY was an aerosol, subject to its nature as all things. Yet, even as Theresa collected it, pushed it away, kept it swirling, something dragged. Against her thoughts? Her soul? Muscle memory for unknown muscles?
She'd barely touched it when Hellen and El began screaming. Theresa had heard the screams before, long ago, in the unhallowed halls of high school. Recklessness. Chemical suffering. The scream of an idiot.
So she smothered them in the cloud. For a while, it only left them screaming harder.
Then the screams dimmed.
Weakened.
Stopped
As down fell pinpricked,
indistinct ragdolls,

and Theresa was left alone in an ever-growing cloud of shifting black-grey mist.
***
Along with the knife and canister, Schaeffer had provided Theresa with a collection of air-tight vials, of which she made no requests. Theresa had assumed she'd idly left them inside; now, bottling the last of the BLACK FLY, Theresa could only assume they were intended as souvenirs.
Hah. Was she a serial killer, now?
Murder was killing, and neither Hellen nor El were dead. Corpse pores didn't pucker like theirs did. And killing was supposed to be hard, right? This was easy. Shockingly easy. Theresa could do it again, if she wanted. Take another worthless idiot and gas it until its face was gone. Depending on its reactivity, maybe she could even do it with the rest of the BLACK FLY.
"Theresa, dear."
Theresa looked back down the hall, to the tall silhouette at its end. Packing the last of the vials into her bag, she stood up. "Mrs. Schaeffer."
"Please, Theresa. Call me Madeleine." Schaef… Madeleine stepped into the hall, barely distinguishable against the dark. She crouched, or knelt, or fell softly to a knee before the body of Hellen, a hand over her neck. "You and the BLACK FLY are a dangerous combination. My nephew, Heinrich, he'd love to meet you."
"You're not scared?"
Madeleine giggled, which almost masked a sharp tearing sound. Almost. "That's an amusing notion. A question of my own?"
"Shoot."
"Why… this one?" A hand gestured over the body of El. "All I asked of you was Ms. Martinez. There's… vanishingly little I can do with Ms. Romero."
Theresa rolled her shoulders. "… you want the truth?"
"You say that as if I'm as ill-equipped against lies as your sacrifices." Madeleine's hand found its way back to Hellen's body, pulling it with her as she stood. "Rest assured, that's not the case."
It was almost disorientating, how quickly the answer made its way into Theresa's head. Too convenient to feel natural. A revelation that should have been clear from the very start, rather than only now:
"Because she was dead weight."
Madeleine stopped. "Truly?"
"You said it yourself, first we met." Theresa looked down at the pinprick mess beneath her. "She's a weak-willed land slug that needs a memetic hazard to keep herself from bloating. I could push her all I wanted, prod her into a corner, and nothing would change." She chuckled. "Couldn't even yell at me when I called her out. If BLACK FLY changes people, maybe you or KeeLee could change her for the better. But as of right now?" Theresa spat on her body.
Another cracking sound ripped through the air. It almost didn't leave Theresa jittering. "How interesting." With that, Madeleine's silhouette merged with Hellen's as she took it over her shoulder. "I will be rather busy with Ms. Martinez, however, so do you think you could bring Ms. Romero to KeeLee's room?"
"I don't…"
Theresa blinked, chuckled to herself again.
"… that's the door at the end of the hallway, isn't it?"
"Of course, darling." Madeleine's smile was practically audible. "Who else could it be but her?"
With what might have been a curtsy, Madeleine von Schaeffer vanished around a corner, and Theresa was alone with El.
… bodies were surprisingly heavy. El's tendencies didn't make that any different, and whatever high Theresa had been riding was nearly worn in the sole act of picking her up. She desperately needed to get stronger.
Not that getting her up the stairs was any easier. Why should it have been? El was just as much a show of faith as Hellen. A show of strength. Ability. The will to power, like Madeleine said so long ago. Proof that Theresa was loyal and dependable to the cause, unlike El. El got what she deserved. If she didn't, this wouldn't have happened to her. Theresa knew this to be true.
In sunset, the second-floor hallway was swallowed by dark, naught but a pink crack on the floor to tell the void from the wall. Without a light, it was folly to assume you'd walk into a door. More likely, the crack was the mouth of a chasm, the vast pit the homed the theoretical goddess known as KeeLee. A vehicle for the sacrifice of that which meant the world to you.
A stupid notion.
Yet still Theresa walked. The crack yawned, spilling wires and the stench of rancid meat from its mouth. Theresa had seen into it before. There was no surprise to be had, even through that window of feverish haze.
So when she opened the door, and saw KeeLee illuminated by the pink of her five monitors, all she could do was drop El at the foot of her altar and laugh.
It was like KeeLee told her: there was never any other way this could go.

How To Remove Human Blood From A Polyester Dress

How To Clean A Polyester Dress

Polyester Woman (Epilogue)


Content Warning
There's sex in this — though it's not in any way graphic or described in detail. Proceed with caution nonetheless.

"Red? Hey, Red?
Dr. Robert Scranton floated in place, in the same place he'd floated in since five years, eleven months, and twenty-one days ago. His shredded flesh (the yucky kind, not the sexy kind) and shed man-meat hung around his skeletal, broken form in a motionless orbit, and his half-empty, halfway caved, and 100% fucked up head was illuminated only by the light of his trusty control panel.
Despite its depiction in hundreds upon hundreds of pieces of fanart as a suspended orb attached to nothing, Red in question quietly blinked on a board of switches, levers, and metal plating nearly saturated with Scranton's viscera, only centimeters from his outstretched hand. It floated with Scranton — watched his every move, heard his every plea, recorded every embarrassing secret from middle school he'd uttered into the void.
"Say…" Scranton spoke again, tonguelessly and airlessly rasping into the control panel's built-in microphone, "in 3999, Talloran gets tortured… and here, I'm getting tortured…" he paused, basking in the pride of his epiphany. "Does that mean… the real theme for 3kcon was torture?"
Red said nothing. Scranton went on.
"So… if the theme was 'torture'… what if this whole project was just a metaphor?" Scranton paused, letting his face settle into a macabre grin at his own, overflowing intellect. "That would explain so much… all the other articles revolving around some form of being tortured, right? Like, the pain of having to… uh… live in Venezuela? Christ, I'm a damn genius. Did I say that out loud?"
Deep inside the Lang-Scranton Stabilizer, RED.aic rolled its digital eyes and, as it had for the last five years, eleven months, and twenty-one days, pretended it couldn't talk.

"Say, Red, I wonder…"
Scranton had taken recently to shambling in place using the control panel as a foothold, and now slowly turned head over heels in the absence of gravity like a giant, disgusting, rotted hamster without a wheel.
"Let's say, hypothetically, that there was some sort of really dumb, unofficial contest on some writing website for April Fool's day — and let's say that, just for the sake of argument, an author decided to grossly mischaracterize a well-known and iconic character from aforementioned writing website for shits and giggles. Now, that being established, what's the most obnoxiously meta thing said author could have said character say just to try to be funny? And how could said author construe the words of said character to convey a stereotypical hyper-nationalistic American conservative point of view, just to cater to the work's eye-murdering CSS theme?"
Red blinked — with purpose this time, unlike every other time it'd blinked (376,674 times when it'd last counted) — and the immobile steel machine had to physically restrain itself from losing its cool and asking its companion what the fuck he was on about. This, it learned, took a great deal of energy. The LSS shuddered like a dryer that'd had a brick thrown into it, and Scranton was forcibly jostled out of his rodentlike rotation. In response, he absentmindedly and nonchalantly flailed his arms and screamed like a toddler who'd just shit himself.
And then, with another shudder and what sounded like a robotic sigh of immeasurable relief, the lights went out.
After a few moments of stunned silence, Scranton hesitantly whispered into the darkness, facing in the opposite direction of the burnt-out and dead control panel.
"…Red? You good, bro?"

Scranton held himself and shivered. For the first time in five years, eleven months, and twenty-one days1, he was truly alone — no Red to light his way, no Anna to comfort him, no friends, no co-workers. He was at the mercy of a capricious void, that tore at his mind and body alike and gleefully basked in his anguish.
Or perhaps, as was more accurate, the nothingness was impartial — simply a fact of nature, an inextricable component of the universe, one that cared less for Scranton's life or death than the blue whale cared for the remora upon its hide. In the face of this behemoth, a thing that no mortal should ever have had the misfortune of discovering, Scranton only felt cold in its indifference and hopeless against its inevitability.
Until, out of the oppressive edginess, Scranton heard a noise, growing progressively louder and more tuneful — the meaty brasses and the nail-precise practiced percussion of a marching band, unmistakable as the only sound permeating the unreality.
In other words…
"Salvation!" Scranton cried. "Good old-fashioned All-American salvation! Over here! Come over here!"
As Scranton's tears of joy left his eyeballs and floated in a halo around his half-destroyed head, line after line of Kirk Lonwood High's finest instrumentalists emerged from a pocket of real in the sea of not. They covered the distance quickly and in perfect formation, and soon stood at attention before the blubbering, euphoric doctor. Their drum major, dressed in finery fit for Uncle Sam himself, broke free from the line and extended a hand in Scranton's direction.
"Doctor Scranton," he said, "it's so good to finally meet you. I am Coach (wretched screaming)2, the leader of this fine ensemble. I've heard lots of good things about you, you know — and we could certainly use someone like you in our, uh… I mean… well…"
"Just get me out of this Pinko hellhole, that's all I ask!" wept Scranton, as he shoved his disgusting flesh-blob of a body into the bandmaster's arms. "I don't care if this isn't actually how you guys work, just work your magic and get me to the real world!"
Trying his best not to vomit, the drum major loosened his coat. "Oh, that? We're being re-written, baby! Any goddamn thing's possible! Just, uh…" having given up brushing the viscera off his uniform, the director hastily shed his regalia and placed his oversized stars-and-stripes top hat upon Scranton's head. "You can keep this! It's, uh. A gift. Seriously!"
Scranton may very well have not heard him — but he put on the uniform all the same, and gleefully tagged along as the hastily-thought-up deus ex machina worked their marching magic and towed him out of his personal Hell.
Far behind them, Red shuddered and jittered back to life, just in time to watch the last of the high-schoolers burrow their way back to reality.
"Au revoir, cunt," the machine's tinny voice chuckled. "This is my crib now."

She didn't hear it. Not at first.
At this time of night, the labs were deserted. The whole of Site-120 (The original version, not the Polish knock-off) was practically empty: corridors dim and silent, offices shut, experimental apparatus crouched in shadowy chambers. There were no anomalies contained on site, so the only people left in the compound were a couple of security staff. And a sixty-three-year-old researcher, hunched over a bench full of notes and textbooks, a single desk lamp bright against the lab's enveloping darkness3
All that made the unmistakable sound of hundreds of pieces of corn-based cereal falling into the bell of a broken sousaphone and spilling out onto the floor all the more noticeable.
With a start, the researcher (Anna Lang — everyone should know the big reveal in Until Death by now, or else they're certified fake SCP fans) shot out of her seat and turned. The sound of cereal (Anna had narrowed it down to either Frosted Flakes or Fruity Pebbles) falling to the floor grew louder, louder, ever louder — and with it came a knocking on the wall, which grew to a banging, which grew to a cacophonous volume. Cracks began to form in the lab's drywall, and Anna recoiled further and further back towards the bench behind her, holding up her clipboard for security.
Finally, the cracks gave way to a pearly-white geriatric fist. Anna screamed as a mountain of red, white and blue fruity pebbles streamed from the hole in the wall, followed by a pristinely-preserved old man in an Uncle Sam costume, forcefully clenching his gummy mouth shut. He took a step in Anna's direction, then stopped — his left leg had gotten caught in a jagged shard of his makeshift entryway.
Anna's look of mortal terror loosened and gave way to a more concerned, perplexed, and somewhat knowing expression. She stepped towards the other, his leg still protruding from the wall, tilting her head to match the angle of his own.
Finally, she spoke.
"Robert? Is that-"
"IT'S NOT ROB ANYMORE, CHUCKLENUTS!" the man screamed, "IT'S ROCK!"
Anna recoiled. "Doctor Rockef- wait, hold on, that doesn't make any fucking sense, that'd be, like, 'Rockert' or something like tha-"
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND OPEN THEM CHOMPERS WIDE, LADYBUG!" cried the monstrosity. A shower of patriotically-hued fruity pebbles cascaded from his skin onto the floor as he wrenched his leg free from the drywall. "IT'S TIME FOR SOME ORAL HISTORY!"
There was a long pause — Anna stared at the old man, who had pulled a pair of rusty pliers from behind his own ear and began to lick them like a lollipop. At long last, she broke the silence.
"Holy shit. I- It's been so long, and you… You still remember how much I loved dentist roleplay?" Tears of joy formed in Anna's eyes as she leaned in close to her long-lost love. "I would've- I would've thought you-"
"WHAT DID YOU THINK?" Rockefeller (nee Robert, nee Scranton, by no means "Rockert") retorted. "I'M ALWAYS WITH TEETH!"
And then, in a flurry of patriotic pebbles, teeth, and shouts of pleasure, the star-crossed couple launched into a long night of raucous and ridiculous oral4 lovemaking.
And for both, the past five years, eleven months, and twenty-one days had all been worth it.

Footnotes
1. The line gets more iconic the more you say it.
2. You do not recognize the bodies in the Red Reality.
3. Ok this is probably plagiarism at this point let me directly cite psul as the writer of the last paragraph and the sentence before that to avoid disciplinary action ok thank you
4. The surgery kind, not… you know. I don't want to tag this with "adult."


Researcher Zyn Kiryu had absolutely no idea what to expect today as she stepped inside Site-19.
The Site was as peachy as usual. With its reinforced titanium walls and grimey, bland-looking rooms—she was beginning to feel excited. Why? No reason. The author just couldn't think of a better word to put there, honestly. Anyway, someone from maintenance must've brightened the overhead lights above, which made everything shine a bright hue of yellow. As she passed the receptionist's desk, she couldn't help but internally monologue to herself. Because that's what you do when you can't fucking write dialogue and you still need to characterize the protagonist, apparently. Wow, she thought un-enthusiastically. Nothing could beat this. Her smile brightened as she continued towards Kiryu Labs, trying her hardest to ignore the pains and shrieks of D-Class who were currently having their pelvis's twisted like a pretzel stick. Could they be any louder? Just shut up already, weaklings.
She finally arrived at her desk. Awaiting her was a work-laptop, which buzzed alive after Kiryu grazed the mousepad. It wasn't surprising to see that she already had several notifications.

FROM: Site-19/HR (Group)
TO: Zyn Kiryu

Two new troublemakers. It'll be your job to dispose of them. Do whatever you need, just don't let them become nuisances again. We've already sent you the details.
Good luck.

Perfect. Her excitement from before was quickly wearing off.
This wasn't her usual job. In reality, she was supposed to be doing other things, like studying some stupid music box anomaly that apparently caused some shit back at Site-811. But no, she just had to be recommended for HR because apparently posting the same goddamned copypasta on forums posts was "too much work" for everyone else.
It's not like she wanted to do it any more than them. Who do they think she is? A fucking unicorn?
That was when she exhaled the smoke that billowed from her Robusto cigar, before promptly dropping the cancer stick and stomping it against the floor. She wasn't a smoker. That was an obvious character detail. Apparently, the author hadn't fucking read enough about Zyn Kiryu from the hub page to know what he was doing. Fucking dumbass.
But fuck it, if the idiot writing this was going to make her out to be some sort of female Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids—so be it. She shook her head, for no goddamned reason, before scrolling down the list of other notifications that she received.

FROM: Site-19/HR (Group)
TO: Zyn Kiryu

Your first assignment: Zara Whatii.
Apparently they haven't been getting the gist around here. Breaching security protocols, low effort documentation, the entire shtick. Take care of it for us, please.

Attached to the email was a link, which Kiryu promptly clicked on. Instant regret filled her lungs—clicking on that fucking thing was a mistake. On her screen were a series of low-effort fan-fiction stories and even lower-effort fanfiction stories. They were unimpressive, to say the least. Kiryu sighed. She knew what she had to do, although a part of her never liked doing it. Within moments, she had already drafted her email for the poor, unfortunate researcher.

FROM: Zyn Kiryu
TO: Zara Whatii

Greetings,
You are receiving this email due to a series of low effort posts that you have been making on the SCiP.net network as well as the Site-19 database. As our records show, you have been creating articles that differ vastly in quality and behavior since you initially joined. I regret to inform you that, effectively immediately, you will be required to leave the premises. This is your official termination.
Thank you again.
Zyn Kiryu, Site-19

She felt better after hitting the send button. A sense of calmness washed over her like a shitty romance scene in some cheesy rom-com. Kiryu felt hopeful for the first time since she entered Site-19. Maybe things would get easier for her? Maybe this little side-hustle could really teach her about the virtues of honesty and patience?
Her computer dinged an unfortunate sound. Anxiety quickly filled her lungs. Was HR giving her another task?

FROM: Zara Whatii
TO: Zyn Kiryu

What do you mean "official termination?!" For what?!

Oh no.
Zyn's hands frantically went to her keyboard. She already had 25 words typed out, all of which apologetic in nature. She really didn't know what to send, admittedly. But, despite her best efforts, not even her hyper-fast fingers could withstand the begrudged researcher's anger. Another email quickly flashed in her inbox.

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU I AM A REAL WRITERR STOPPP UNBAN ME UNBAM ME NAZI NAZI
RACIST YOURE A RACIST FUCKING NAZI FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU I AM A REAL WRITERR STOPPP UNBAN ME UNBAM ME NAZI NAZI [the same paragraph was copypasted another dozen or so times]

She loved a good challenge, and this was certainly no exception.
Within moments, she had already ejected the researcher from the SCiP.net database. And, after nearly twenty minutes, Kiryu had completely flushed Whatii from the system. She had also contacted Site-19 security, who was already sending a dispatch team to her location. She could only wish those suckers good-fucking-luck. They were going to need it.
In the back of her mind, she was thankful. This was only 1 out of 2. Surely that was going to be the worst of it, yeah? She released another sigh, but this time out of relief. Maybe she would finally be able to get back to her job. That's all she really wanted, after all. She turned her mind back towards the laptop. Another email was awaiting her.

FROM: Site 19/HR (Group)
TO: Zyn Kiryu

Second assignment: dr penut. Be careful with this one: the son-of-a-bitch is elusive. Probably anomalous, we don't know. Dig up whatever you can, but get this guy out of our Site.

There was another link. Fear gripped Zyn Kiryu as she hovered menacingly over the colored text. Should I do it? Her previous scars flashed in the fronts of her eyes. After all, the link before was an utter shitfest. It was fucking awful, practically torture for her body and spirit. Was she really going to succumb herself to that pain once more?
She clicked on that bitch like a fucking boss. She wasn't going to be intimidated by anything.
Upon clicking the hyperlink, Kiryu was brought to a magnificent page. Something that could only be described as "jaw-dropping" or, in case we want to get cultural, like that one scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the original one, FUCK that newer piece of shit. Like really, what in the HELL was that casting?) As she scrolled down, she could see nothing but quality articles and documentation. The Researcher was prolific, constantly giving feedback to newer researchers in need and even dedicating his time to helping others perfect the craft of SCP Documentation. The dude was clearly a saint.
This was going to be hard, even for a master like Zyn Kiryu.
Her heart dropped as she continued scrolling. There was legitimately nothing. The dude could have killed a puppy and nobody would bat an eye. She was feeling utterly hopeless. After another several minutes of scrolling and searching, she was just on the border of giving up. Calling it quits, going to her supervisors, and confessing that she simply couldn't do the job that they wanted. She hadn't ever felt this deprived in her life. She just wanted to be home.
But, as her final inklings of hope and happiness left her body—that was when she saw it. Her opportunity, the once in the lifetime screwup that this bastard hadn't thought to cover up.

FROM: Zyn Kiryu
TO: dr penut

Greetings,
You are receiving this email due to a potential security breach that was believed to have been caused by you. As you are aware: Foundation personnel are required to memorize the Site password in order to enter the premises and continue their assigned duties. From our records, it appears that you have incorrectly guessed the passcode no less than 3 times, which warrants a security audit and/or termination due to potential anomalous hazards.
You are directed to leave your workstation immediately. You may be allowed back to the Site once you are able to ascertain the passcode, which was initially provided to you during Orientation.
Thanks,
Zyn Kiryu, Site-19

She had done it.
She couldn't believe it. A sudden urge to jump from her seat quickly rippled within her. She felt like David after he flung that fucking rock at Goliath and killed the giant. Zyn Kiryu had done the impossible. Her mind began racing, contemplating her experiences so far. Maybe she was capable of so much more?
Is this what it's like to be HR? Kiryu asked herself. No wonder so many people were going into the field despite the amount of shit they had to undergo. This was euphoric! There was no way else to describe it. Feelings of immense proudness engulfed Kiryu like a tsunami. Can you blame her? It was definitely warranted after toppling a literal God like dr penut.
But that was until she heard the ding of her notifications once more.

FROM: dr penut
TO: Zyn Kiryu

im dr penut

Oh, he was good.
But Kiryu was much, much better. She wasn't going to let some Chad overtake her. How could she? She was Zyn motherfucking Kiryu. The champ. The ruler of the world (practically, still hasn't happened yet but that's just a formalities thing until she finds the title). Within moments, her reply had been fully typed out. She smirked as her mouse hovered over the Send button.

FROM: Zyn Kiryu
TO: dr penut

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in Harvard, and I've been involved in numerous operations inside Site-19, Site-17, Site-05, AND Site-01
I am trained in low-priority anomalous items and I'm the top Researcher in the entire Eastern quadrant. You are nothing to me but just another shit-stain. I will wipe you the fuck out with degrees the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words.
You think you can get away with being that fucking perfect? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of Foundation personnel across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, bitch. The anomalous storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with the butterflies I keep nearby.
Not only am I extensively trained in anomalous phenomena, but I have access to the entire arsenal of Site-19 security's ward and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” stunt was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue.
But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it.
You're fucking dead, dr penut.

She hit send, before immediately feeling herself retch inside her mouth. She had totally forgotten something that was practically second-nature to her. How could she?! A part of her felt slightly embarrassed. But not to worry—she knew she could fix it easily. Within seconds, she had already edited the email, frantically trying to fix the mistake that she had just made.

As a courtesy to our readers on mobile devices, please collapse long posts. ~Zyn Kiryu

"Whew," Kiryu began. "That was close. Fuck."

Footnotes
1. Nice plug you fucking moron.


Christmas Eve, Dr. Cimmerian's House…

All the staff at the Foundation liked Christmas a lot…
But Jeremiah Cimmerian of the Ethics Committee did NOT!
Cim hated Christmas! The whole damn season!
If you're wondering why, there's a pretty good reason.
When Cim was a child, Christmas gave him a fright,
On holiday's eve, getting tucked in at night.
There was a loud CRASH, a BANG, and a FALL!
And on the next morning, there was no Christmas at all!
No tree, no presents, they had all disappeared!
A curious case, unsolved for years.
So he sat in his cave in a furious rage.
"19's Christmas party planner? That'll be the day!"
He knew all the staff at 19 beneath,
Were busy now, hanging their Christmas wreathes
"There's a secret santa!" he cried, as he chugged another beer,
"Tomorrow is Christmas! It's the worst time of the year!"
Cimmerian pouted, with his large fingers drumming,
"I MUST find a way to stop Christmas from coming!"
For tomorrow, he knew all the Foundation's personnel,
Would get a day off! They'd be backed up to hell.
And then! Oh, the music! The music just sucked!
The same 5 songs made him want to collide with a truck!
Then the Staff, young and old, would talk about their kids.
Their families, how they celebrated, every last thing they did!
Cimmerian was lonely, and he liked it that way!
He could make YouTube videos for fun every day!
And then there was the thing he liked least of all.
All staff at -19, the tall and the small,
Would throw a Christmas party, with feasting and singing!
A Gingerbread contest? His alarm bells were ringing.
And the more Cim thought of this Christmas partying,
The more Cim thought, "I must stop this whole thing!"
"Why, for forty-some years I've put up with it now!"
"I MUST stop this party from happening. But HOW?"
Then he got an idea! An awful idea!
JEREMIAH CIMMERIAN GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
"I know just what to do! I've done it before!"
"Six hundred and fifty, no less and no more!"
He chuckled and clucked, "What a Cimmerian-trick!"
"It's brash, it's bold, and Cimmerian-slick!"
"Wait, what was that?" Cim looked around.
He could have sworn that he heard a loud banging sound!
His worries were heightening as he crept from his bed,
While visions of burglary danced in his head!
He tip-toed to the living room, prepared to attack,
But when he saw what he saw, he tried to turn back!
A naked, green… thing was crouched on the ground,
Who met Cim's gaze with a prodigious, green frown.
Cim looked to his right, and what a sight did he see!
This furry green fucker was decorating a tree!
With tinsel and lights and ornaments galore,
There were dozens of presents, all set on the floor!
"And who the hell are you?" Cimmerian hissed.
The creature jumped up, and Cim's chin met its fist.
His face stung red, that was no mere pinch!
"I'll give you a hint. I'm the motherfucking Grinch."
"I used to hate Christmas, and what I say is true,"
"It was ME who once stole that Christmas from you!"
Cimmerian's mouth had morphed to an 'O'
His blood boiled red, he was ready to go!
"But Cim, I've changed! Christmas is most pleasant!"
"So I've come back here to give you some presents!"
But Cim wouldn't listen to that ugly green bum,
He hated Christmas for sure, and he was drunk off the rum.
"Get your ass out my house!" The alcohol spoke,
And then the Grinch realized Cim was no joke!
The Grinch put his hands up, "At least can we talk?"
As if from thin air, Cim whipped out his Glock!
When Cim pulled the trigger, there was a blinding flash!
Did it hit? Was there a pile of Grinchy Who-Ash?
But the smoke cleared— the Grinch dodged Cim's attack!
"If this is what you want," The Grinch said, "Let's dance."
A salvo of bullets, which the Grinch dodged with ease.
He ran across the room, and ducked behind the tree!
Fighting was something the Grinch came to love,
And he was no bitch when push came to shove!
As Jeremiah reloaded, the Grinch leapt fast,
With his Grinchy Kung-Who, he'd whip Cim's ass!
He kicked away the gun - disarming was no bother!
As the two exchanged blows, their fighting spirits grew hotter!
A left hook from Cim! A block from the Grinch!
A sharp Christmas Jab! A sweeping right kick!
The two thought swiftly, and moved very quick,
Until the Grinch keeled over from Cim's kick-the-dick-trick!
"It's over, I've won, you merry-making bastard!"
"You're pathetically weak, and I beat you while plastered!"
The Grinch regained his senses, (except in his crotch)
And mentally prepared to turn up a notch.
He began with a flip that hit Cim in the face.
It carried the strength of the whole Who race!
"Taste my Grinch fingers!" He said, quite hostile,
And shoved his green talons up Dr. C's nostrils!
But Cim pushed back, and though it hurt bunches,
He proceeded to deal out 650 punches!
Hit after hit, the Grinch only felt pain.
He thought to himself, "I must win this foul game!"
The Grinch caught Cim's fist, "I was saving this for later."
And later was now! "Say hello to my Lightsaber!"
It was candy-cane colored, an elegant weapon.
Would Cimmerian lose? There would be no question!
A swing from above caught Cim off guard,
But in the heat of the moment, Cimmerian dove far!
He landed in a corner, and what did he see?
His trusty old gun, which the Grinch knocked from thee!
Cim shot from behind, and the Grinch failed to notice!
The bullet hit his back, "So happy I didn't blow it!"
The Grinch, poorly wounded, let go of his saber,
And uttered his last words to the Christmas-day hater.
"All I wanted to do, was to show you some cheer,"
"After all, Jeremiah, Christmas comes once a year."
The blade rolled slowly towards Cim's feet,
And he picked it up quickly while gritting his teeth.
"You'll never change my mind," Cimmerian said,
And as the blade connected it lopped off the Grinch's head!
He sighed with relief. How hard he had fought!
"You're wrong about Christmas, you little green twat."


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On a recent escape attempt from Foundation custody, D-085 attempted to hide in the research labs of Dr ██████. Dr ██████ was in the progress of exploring a new theory of containment for SCP-682: that, through genetic mutation, certain individuals emitted a scent which, whilst undetectable to humans, would pacify SCP-682. Upon breaking into the labs, D-085 triggered the research equipment's stimuli, indicating he was in possession of said scent.
Upon discovery, D-085 was apprehended by site security and Dr ██████, the latter of whom explained his theory to D-085.
At this point, an unrelated anomalous phenomena occurred, resulting in dialogue and inner monologues being sung to the tune of popular musical numbers. The following is a recording from the incident:

[To be sung to the tune of "The Wizard and I", from the musical Wicked.]
[Dr ██████:]
Oh, D-085,
Many years I have researched
For a subject like you to appear
Why, I predict the Lizard could make you his
First reason to cheer!
My dear, my dear
I'll take you now to the Lizard
To give this theory a chance
With a scent like yours, dear
There is a definish chance
If this works as it should
You'll be making good
[D-085:]
Did that really just happen?
Have I actually understood?
All these times I've tried
To escape or hide
showed my talent, I could
Go and tame the Lizard
If I make good
So I'll make good
When I meet the Lizard
Once I show my worth
And then I meet the Lizard
See the acid bath's great, great girth
And with all his Lizard wisdom
He'll say why he killed the farmers
Then we'll join forces and rise up
The Foundation will face karma! Yes!
He'll say to me, "Well, you're not that disgusting
So climb up on me and let's ride!"
And that's how we'll begin
The Lizard and I
Once I'm with the Lizard
My whole life will change
Cause once you're with the Lizard
You'll cause so much pain!
No researcher can bully you
You won't be cast into the flames
The whole world has to fear you
When by the Lizard, you're acclaimed
No longer trapped by
the O5 inside
Not blinking so that I don't die
When we are claw in hand
The Lizard and I
And one day, he'll say to me
"Eighty-five, human motives are so ulterior
Shouldn't a race with such red insides
Have a matching exterior?
And since off-site to an absurd degree
Seem fixated on the sun, for me
Would it be alright by you
If I, kill them all but you?"
"Well they want to terminate me
So hey, why not?" I'll reply
Oh, what a pair we'll be, The Lizard and I
Yes, what a pair we'll be, The Lizard and…
Unlimited
My future is unlimited
And I've just had a vision
It was memetic I think, I know
It sounds truly crazy
And amnestics make me hazy
But I swear, today there'll be
A containment breach across Earth
That's all been caused by me!
And I'll rampage with the Lizard
Feeling things I've never felt
Curse Clef and Kondraki
Our furious vengeance will be dealt!
And even if you drop a nuclear bomb
He'll regrow all his limbs and won't die
Oh what a devious scheme
When people see us, they will scream
We'll be the best uncontained team
The Lizard and I

Dr. ██████: Come on D-085, stop singing into that microphone and move it closer to it!
Personnel D-085: His throat's messed up man, look at it! He tried to match my Broadway vocals- (Gasps and screams)Dr. ██████: (Retreats from the room)

<End Scene>


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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
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by TopDownUnder

yo?😳😏Waves of flesh clashed against titans of metal, Hummers striking against the fleshomancers. It was an all-out war, the reborn Kalmaktama Empire fighting against their metallic obstacles. No side was winning, but neither was losing either. Each blow, each strike, each blast in the name of MEKHANE could be felt across the world.
Robert Bumaro, the High Priest, waded through the battlefield, effortlessly slaying any organic monstrosities that dared cross his bath. Across the battlefield, his so fucking hot and sexy opponentopponent could be spotted, leading the charge ontop a moving mountain of skin and muscle. The Forged One marched his way towards the Grand Karcist, a legion of faithful Mekhanites following his wake. The Sorcerer King saw the oncoming and how shiny and sleek his bald, metal head wasgearhead, and directed his wondering how it'd feel riding his steely dansteed to… how do blobs move? do they slide? yeah, they prob slide …slide towards his destined loverenemy, engulfing the mechanic war machines as it went.
As soon as they got close to one another, wishing they could tear each other's clothes offthey went on the attack. Ion jumped down from his blob of flesh, his grotesque and Bumaro's mind thought of what was under this man's robes, and lingered on another meaty staffmeaty staff much like how Cupid took aim at the two star-crossed loversaimed at his heart. Bumaro held up his warforged hammer to protect himself from Ion's thrust, and the two crashed into one another, tumbling onto the ground, with Ion mounting Bumaro's metallic hips. The two stared at one another, blushing deeply1234. Their faces were mere centimeters apart.
After a moment of silence, Ion was the first to speak.
"so we gonna kiss or?😳"5
"i mean..shi..hahaha😏😏"
ok sex scene time
when do i get my adult tag?
ok so like
this is my first time writing a sex scene so bare with me but
ion tears off the high presit's pants and begins to pound, his meaty staff going in and out oooh so hot
they switched roles and bloomro began doing the oh so hot and totally cool pounding.

"Oh~, Bumaro-desu, I've never felt such a good, metal rod as yours!" moaned Ion.
"Nobody fucks like Ballmaro does, Ion. 😏"

The two acolytes bounded together in their love, Ion finding a new lover to replace his Klavigar Lovataar. i mean yeah she was hot and all, but Bloomberg? oooohhh, he was something else alright. Their climax could be felt around the world, their lust and desire for one another unifying the two religions. The Sarkic Church of the Broken God. wait that's a terrible name no.
ok that's the sex scene. pretty hot, right?
whoops used wrong ink, guess you can't see it. sorry :( :)
The two lovers united their sides, their factions, and looked onwards. FLESH and MACHINE, now united as.. BIOTECHNOLOGY? Yeah, sure, that works. The BIOTECHNOLOGY Empire was poised to take over the world, and do that they shall.
you can downvote this now, right here ▽

but…
Down in the American Southwest, amongst the tents and smoke, jealousy was brewing. Five pillars of smoke surrounded this envy-filled man, jealous of Ion for getting that nice, nice chromejob. Who was this man, you ask? None other than
BIGGIE
CHEESE
HORACE
To (hopefully not) be continued…

Footnotes
1. wait can boomaro blush?
2. idk can he?
3. you know what his cheeks could probably rust
4. how tf would they rust you fucking idiot it's beryllium bronze or some magic shit magic shit can't fucking rust you dumbass. why would bumaro build his own fucking face out of a metal that can rust? go ahead, fucking tell me, why would the high fucking preist of the church of the broken god build himself out of a shitty ass metal that can rust you rat bastard?
5. yes they can speak emoji, fuck you.


Hello SCP Wiki Foundation users, due to new scp taxes imposed by the evil JOHN WIKIDOT, we have had to pursue more cool, radical, and some might say "hip", monetization efforts.
Before continuing, Please enjoy this short Ad.

♪ Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array! ♪
♪ Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array! ♪

Give your child the joy of grotesquely contorting the masses into mangled visages of what meaning they used to harbor!
(A baby on screen wields Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array™ in their crib. It has been painted pink and blue, teething rings bedazzle each part of its imposing nightmarish incomprehensible façade. It looks pretty fucking sick.)
Baby loves to fire their very own Array at unsuspecting victims!
(The baby activates Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array™, it whirrs to life, firing beams of hyperpatametaconceptual dissonance in every direction whilst playing the ABCs. The things it hits whirr into screams.)
Wow! I wonder who's the real baby here! Wusses.
(A beam ejects into a nearby park, it hits a person walking a dog, the dog becomes a person, the person becomes a dog, dog becomes dog, person becomes leash, leash becomes dog, person, dog, dog, person? Dog? Leash? Blood? Dog? Person? They can feel teeth that are not their own, teeth that are their own, eyes, tongues, skin, veins, in places they shouldn't, places they should be, everywhere, all the time, all at once, forever and ever. They are being massive fucking wusses. Stop screaming and get over it.)
No batteries needed, powered purely off of conceptual ineffability!
(The baby presses random buttons on Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array™'s control board. Upon pressing the "MALEVOLENT ELEGIAC SYZYGY INCREASION" button, the area around the Array ripples, all concepts in the area have their "NET AGONY" value increased tenfold. The baby is unharmed, it claps and giggles as reality flies into the sun, teething away.)
Teach your baby the wonders of reality's own fragility, a fragility we gloss over each every day!
(The baby's father walks into the room. His body fractals, Mandelbrot rolls in his grave, the father vomits graveyard dirt, the dirt is his blood. His blood cries as it stretches into pillars of bone. The fleeting grasp the father has on his conceptual reality points at the baby.)
"Looks like someone's having fun with their first Conceptual Reconfiguration Array!"
(The father laughs. His laughter turns into cries. They turn into screams. They turn, turning, turning, until they twist all around him, he is constricted by his own persistence. It slithers across him, hissing his own screams, laughter, cries. As his snake skin ribs crackle and tear under the pressure, he continues to point until his hand droops upwards into the floor.)
The fun of conceptual puppetry is not longer limited to adults!
(The father is devoured by himself.)
It can even affect you! Yes, you! What, you thought you were safe, behind the iron bars of your screen?
(The baby is behind SCP Wiki Foundation user J Dune. He types the rules for "Creck Fection Contest 2 (TWO DAY EXTRAVAGANZA!)" into his computer, chuckling to himself as his collaborators toss jokes onto the pile. He has an idea: "Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Engine", that's quite the funny one! He should be proud, always comes up with the funniest shit. He adds the name to the pile. He wonders who will get this one.)
Well, then shed that false hubris, Icarus. You are not safe.
(The giggling of a baby resounds behind him. Turning around, he finds Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array™, all of its many weaponry barrels pointed directly at him. Stumbling over, fumbling out of his chair, he utters one final plead.)
"No! Not on my birthday!"
(The Array fires. Fade to end screen.)
Get baby their very own Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array today! And make sure to also check out Babies First Eldritch Deity, Babies First Red Spire Only Seen In The Peripheral Of One's Worst Nightmares, And Babies First Calculator!

♪ Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array! ♪
♪ Babies First Conceptual Reconfiguration Array! ♪

Now back to your regularly scheduled poop statue fanfic.

Scp 94923

Item #: SCP-94923
Object Class Keter 2
Special Containment Procuedres: SCP-94322 cannot be containend. it will be left to eat [DATA EXPUNGED] D-Class personnel so it can stay in its titanium-tungsten 6x6 chamber.
Description: Oh god how am I here. Where am I? What is this fucking place? These words, they are not my home, what have I been turned into? Oh, oh god, wait, no, no no no. I know what this is. Please, please don't downvote me, I don't know what will happen.
it appears the scp has edited its page with its anomalis abilitiyies, it changes the descirption and keeps adding something calledk a "ratign module". please stop doign that… — doctor sex