Dear Jameson Reynolds, Nomi Barazikane, and other assorted members of the board of the Union of Christmas and Holiday Entertainers.
As you know, Peter Sarábande has been Top Santa for the past twelve years. And why wouldn't he? You look at the 50,000 or so entertainers listed in the UOCAHE and you see one man ranked top Santa every year. Peter Sarábande. I have some serious concerns about this.
It's not like I'm jealous. They assigned me Santa exactly once in the past decade or so and I am fine with that. I'm an elf, typically. Senior Elf at the Minnesota Grand Isles Mall. There's something about Peter that creeps me out, and always has. That's my primary objection with upping him to top dog. You know my opinion that this business is dying, and kids are not lining up for photos with Mall Santas anymore. And you are also likely familiar with my objections to UOCAHE reaching a nice little deal with Amazon to turn some of their brick and mortar locations into holiday photo entertainment destinations. This is going to end very badly for us. Not even from a political standpoint, merely a practical one.
Amazon is killing people in their warehouses and Peter Sarábande doesn't care. And that's weird, because you apparently love his constant performance as Santa Claus, a figure we all agreed in the 1998 meeting would never publicly endorse poor labor conditions. Online shopping is going to kill our industry.
Some background if you've never been brainwashed by the man, and/or you don't care. Peter works Macy's usually, one of about twenty-five Santas professionally employed by the store. They sit in their house, they don the beard and the suit, they take photos with the kids. Normal. But this guy? He's well known, even all the way out here in the midwest, where I am. He's a legendary man, legendary for committing to the role. He gained about 150 pounds one year. Bleached his beard. He spends about six months a year at homeless shelters in Europe: Iceland, Sweden, Norway, handcrafting toys for small children and furniture and shacks for adults.. I wrote a piece for the union magazine on the furniture builder in New Jersey who trained him. Said he was unnaturally skilled at it, he hadn't seen an affiliation for woodcarving like that since his grandfather.
These days, I don't know what he's saying.
He stopped by my area recently for a meeting of our local chapter. Not a huge crowd, but something fairly respectable all things considered. A lot of elves. The local union leader asked Peter to give the keynote speech. And I was all prepared to actually like him and put my misgivings aside but he was even stranger than usual and very disorganized. I seemed to be the only one concerned he was rambling. He kept saying all these words that I understood but also didn't understand? Look, I know that doesn't make sense but I'm not a stupid man. I have my finer grasp of English and a fairly decent student's grasp of German and Portuguese as well. What our golden boy was speaking wasn't a language I know. It's started to becoming concerning. I've attached an transcript from a voice memo I recorded of the meeting,
"The world is threatened by a lack of Christmas Spirit! People crawl as ashkamaniukeh(?) along a broken system. We make toys! We bring them to the naughty. It is literally down to us to pick the worthy from the broken. The naughty list is a sacred token of our times, my friends, my bornayshk(?) Now, do we have any elves present? Good, good, servers of huhuwantec(?) . I have fed the reindeer before coming. There's not too many of us who can do that these days. I can feel the power she gives me! I can finally take to the skies on the holiest of nights, make the children happen. Not a pyramid, no. A tree. A frosted tree."
I think we responded with fusty applause. I talked to one of the Santas in my area, Reginald Billingsly. Good coworker, I would definitely recommend him for any sort of promotion or union award. And he didn't see anything wrong with Peter, which is the norm, I suppose. Liked him as much as he could, in fact. He confided in me that he had re-voted for him.
It feels like there's really only me who sees that this isn't natural. I am very disappointed that you and the other leadership are head over heels for Peter, and continuing to shower his every action with praise. He acts like he is Santa Claus or Father Christmas or that. With those weird elf words or whatever he thinks they are.
Frankly, I am disgusted that we continue to praise and support this man. That we continue to heap praise on him even though he's clearly not well. He's making poor decisions that the rest of us Holiday Entertainers should not be honoring nor using as an example.
Sincerely
Simon Granger, December 2019.


The Starship Centaurus screams out of the wormhole at twice light speed. The chassis blasts off layers of shielding in an azure lightshow. Captain Underhill takes a look through the rear camera and slams on the brakes. The ship fires retrograde while shooting past clusters of space junk, dropping the rungs of FTL into a steady .5c.
Right on cue the wormhole releases one last traveler as it closes. The green dagger of the HAND.
Transmissions crackle over the comlinks. « RETURN THE TOMES, UNDERHILL. »
Rayguns blazing, the HAND dives for the attack. The Centaurus zig-zags across the junk and shattered planets that wall this sector of space and swoops through the explosions of twin antimissiles. Clouds of debris launch past the cockpit. Fractionally, he lessens the thrust.
« THERE'S NO MORE RUNNING. »
"I know."
He tugs hard on the joystick. The ship flips around.
"That's just what I'm counting on."
The HAND's crew has a split nanosecond to witness the Starbreaker Cannon strapped to the Centaurus's underside before the beam hits. Waves of blinding energy tear through the hull, plating and shielding buckles, and the HAND explodes in a flare of

In a flare of…
Maria Niven flicks the Chaos Insurgency medallion on her desk.
…fucking what?
She stands up from her typewriter and paces about the apartment space, flicking the medallion again and again.
One chunk of sentence left. In a chunk the agents of the Serpent's Hand will be dead, atomized across prosespace, and Captain Underhill will fly off in a blaze of glory. Next installment is where they'll rig the widget needed to drag him back from fiction into reality, but this is the key. The metafictional chase stops here.
The CI will take the tomes of narrative combat, and they will win.

in a flare of

…FLARE OF—
The walls groan and arms of ink pry from the cracks in the chute running down the wall, pointing to the typewriter.
"I'll publish this in one moment, damn."
‘Publication.' If stamping a manuscript with a CI copyright geas, slipping it to distributor demons, and having it disseminated through a (paid) legion of readership hiveminds counts as publication then so be it. So long as it keeps the fanfic writers at bay.
Right, the flare. Maria sits back down, cracking her knuckles, pushing her chair in…
…spotting the blots of darkness across the page.

The HAND's ███w has █ spl██ ██████cond to witnes█ the Starbreaker Cannon █trapped to the Centau████s un█er█i██ ███████he beam ████. Waves of blinding energy ████ ███o███ the hull, plating and shielding ███████, and the HAND ██████ in a flare of

"..Did you seriously just get ink on the page?"
The distributors trail their fingers across the wall.
NO
"Ugh." Shrugging it off, she cranks the lever on the typewriter's side to undo the spill and refresh the page. She looks back. The spill's still there.
"Writer's block and now this…" Mumbling as she cranks the level again, she watches closely. Nothing changes.
Crank again, still stained. Fourth, fifth, sixth time she slams it down, nearly ripping it from the machine. Seventh. Eighth. Her eyes are locked on the page and her mind is locked on the window she's planning on throwing the typewriter through.
Change now, change already you—
The stain changes.

███ █████ ████ ███ █ ███ i █ █████████ d ██ ███████ ███ ███████████ ██████ ████████ ██ ███ ██████████ ██████ i ██ ███ o ██ ███ ████ ██ t █. █████ ██ ████████ ██████ ████ ███████ ███ ████, ███████ ███ █████████ ███████, ███ ███ ████ ███████ ██ █ █████ ██

"…Idiot?"
"You really have to be one to have so little security."
Maria jumps as two robed Serpent's Hand mages phase through the desk. One pulls their hood down, letting out locks of red-dyed hair. The other's hood shifts as a face of ballpoint pens oscillates. They regain physicality and touch down on the floor.
"Two security golems, one guard who I'm certain was a college roommate of yours," she retracts fountain pen tendrils from the typewriter's gears, dragging the stain along with them into her sleeve, "and a kill agent you stapled together. We just walked in."
"Look, just because the Insurgency Writer's Guild doesn't get much money—" Maria swipes the medallion off the desk. She switches on the emergency hex in it and catapults it into the head of the Calligromancer.
It hits the ballpoints. A hole opens in them. The Calligromancer eats the medallion.
"I've seen better on lower budgets." She gestures to the redhead. "Onsis, step back and keep watch." Onsis summons a gun in hand and does so. "Now."
The pendrils wind from both and press their nubs against Maria's neck, red ink spilling for effect. "You're going to write my friends a revival, and then we're bringing them, the tome, and Underhill back into reality."
"But the widget hasn't been prepared—"
"I brought one." Robes part and a rollerball claw drops a cubic Narrative Extractor on the desk, its silver metaphysical needles already stabbing into the page. Its LED display reads READY.
"…and I… have… writer's block…"
"Onsis has a gun. Write."

Waves of blinding energy tear through the hull, plating and shielding buckles, and the HAND explodes in a flare of plasma. The ship is gone. Nothing more than an afterglow and dust is left in the Starbreak's wake.
"Yes! Finally!" Underhill pumps his fists. "Computer, once the spacetime drill refuels, set us a course to New Earth. Need to get the tome delivered

The nubs dig in.
"I'm— I'm getting to it."

delivered… pronto…"
He gapes. Chunks of debris stitch themselves together, nanomachines pulling at the metal and recombining it all into solid form. Out of the afterglow the HAND rises again.
"How… How is this possible?"
Underhill stands from his chair, staggering back across six-fold octagonal fractal glyphs carved into the floor and laced in goat's blood. Instinctively he unholsters his two rayguns but no, there's no use. No hope. He drops them onto the glyph and stumbles further.
"Course is set for Did You Really Think This Would Work, Captain," the computer announces.
He pauses. Slowly, he replies, "Don't you know how much magic is in this typewriter?"

ENGAGED.
The needles pulse electric currents through the page and into the shape of the octagonal glyphs. Both rayguns hurtle out. Maria grabs them.
Before the pens can scrawl across her neck she fires twin laser beams that shred the pendrils in half. Calligromancer screeches, spraying red ink as backup pendrils shoot out. Maria blasts in all directions. The walls turn riddled with holes and smoke but the pendrils swerve over and over and make contact. Not stabbing. Writing on her skin. Calligraphic commands lock into her nerves and her arms jerk into place at the keys.
Not a problem.

Underhill realizes what he has to do. He dashes up, opening every compartment in the cockpit and throwing all the stashed away junk onto the glyphs without a second thought…

Broken rayguns burst out, fire, short-circuit, combust, blow grenades exiting the page forward with their blast. Pins flick out and the grenades go off in balls of plasma all around the Calligromancer. She's unharmed — tangles of calligraphy splinter the floorboards into arrays of levitating shields.
"You know how many you killed when you wrote the raid on us?"
No response. Only frenetic typing.
The Calligromancer grabs a set of floorboards and charges forward. Pendrils stretch from behind and write more and more, turning the wood into jets of fire which she jumps over. The jets reach Maria, extinguishing against the holoshields that emerge and block them.
"You're working for monsters, Maria."
A drone bursts from the page as it fires its rotary raygun. The Calligromancer dodges. Two shots from Onsis' pistol and the drone rotors shred themselves apart. It falls. The desk collapses. Maria clacks. Onsis halts.
"Onsis, what are you doing?"
"Too much light, I can't se—"
The BOOM of a missile cuts her short just as the shockwave blows the ceiling open. Maria is blasted against the wall. Bones crack but the typewriter keeps hold, the needles are still in, it keeps…
The Calligromancer stands overhead. Her face of ballpoints gazes down, glaring.
"Well? Are you going to write it? Or should I get your brain to do it for you?"
"…Elsewhere in the… she runs down the halls, skidding down the corner to the airlock…"
"What are you saying?"
The rollerball claw yanks on Maria's right hand, bleeding ink from shattered pens along it, breaking the locking spell. Maria doesn't stop muttering.
"…closes the hatch behind her. She puts the spacesuit on as best as she can with her broken arm, seals it tight. She flicks the switch." her hand flicks the air.
"Wait, you're getting into character—"
"First Mate Maria Niven steps onto the ritual pad."
Her free hand finishes typing.
IMPLANTING.
The walls and floor and ceiling dissolve into slates of white, reality twisting and spinning—

and the Calligraphy Beast shouts in horror.
Too late.
The airlock hatch swings open and the chamber explosively depressurizes. Walls of air slam against the beast, launching them straight out into space. Niven holds onto the switch for dear life. It clicks down. The door shuts, O2 flooding back in with a hiss.
Captain Underhill opens the interior door.
"Maria? What's happening?"
"SH attacked and tried to get the tomes. I've got enough mental control that I can keep writing the narrative for a short time. I need to get out of here and get this published."
He grabs her by the arm. "Follow me, the cockpit has—"
"Warning!" the Computer shouts over the intercom. "Ships have exited spatial tunneling. Identified as United Federation."
Underhill pauses. "…Did you write that?"
Maria's face goes pale. "No but the typewriter is hexed, nobody could be— wait, no, I'm not in reality anymore, there can't be a hex!”
Outside, the Centaurus and the HAND lose engine control. Tractor beams claw into their frames, tugging them into the stasis field of a United Federation dreadnaught.
"Then who—"
"James is still outside, SH snuck past him, the golems can't write, I don't have this much narrative control."
Groans echo through the hull.
Underhill paces over and over, hands to his temples. The ship reaches the stasis field.
"Maria, who the hell are you letting write us?"
TO BE CONCLUDED.

The page ejects from the typewriter. Onsis takes the stamp from inside the fragmented desk drawers, presses it into the manuscript, covers the geas with their hand, and psionically slides it over to the chute. The distributors yank it in.
They take in a deep breath. Four weeks of apprenticeship was more than enough undercover work for their liking.
« Agent Dell? What's your status? » The walkie-talkie they somehow managed to keep ahold of goes off.
"Underhill and the other CI operative are stuck in the narrative, along with the Hand members. Just published it."
« Good. Team A has the pipeline the chute leads to under control, and once we get the manuscript we'll be extracting everyone in it. »
Dell heaves the typewriter and Narrative Extractor into the air, letting it float behind them. "Copy that."
« One last note: we just had another metafiction incident. Foundation personnel tried to accost Scarlet Hammer operatives smuggling paraweapons through comic anthologies. There was an explosion and now the operatives are splintered across every work of fiction in a mile radius. »
They sigh.
« Once you finish cleaning up there head back to HQ. We will get you prepared. »
Never a dull day on UIU narrative watch.


I don't know if I was born to consume, or if that you were created to be consumed.
But you aren't my first prey.
It was a word.
A concept.
A small idea.
“No one will miss it”, I said to myself, and started to feed.
And, while scarce, its taste only made me grow more ravenous.
The following was a phrase. An idea so simple yet so emotional that I just couldn't resist to eat.
The more food entered into my mouth, the more I wanted to fit. I started to search for more. Dancing trough an unending sea of breath and ink, I finally found what I was searching for.
A verse. The subtle nuances of its taste filled my tongue and, for some moments, I felt full. The warmth of its emotions kept me alive for years. Decades, even.
And then I heard it.
The vibration was so beautiful, so complete, that I couldn't keep myself from touching it. Its love engulfed my senses as I prepared my body to engage. At first, it was just a small caress, followed by a grasp. I kept squeezing, until my love became a punch.
I could smell it. I could feel it already inside me, and I hadn't even started to eat.
Until…
I found a problem.
My mouth, despite massive, couldn't open wide enough.
But I'm resilient. I started to break. To tear. To pulp. The song became but a cream which I carefully consumed sound by sound. There was nothing left.
I wanted more.
I rampaged trough the eternal forest of black and white, trying to satisfy my ever-growing hunger. My obsession to consume, to engulf, to pulp and then destroy.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a layered dream and a fruitless journey.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a dreadful life and a shared search.
I was never satisfied, even when I ate a drowning artist and a lost companion.
And then I smelt more.
I encountered myself in a room filled with eyes. I found a dish whithin. And the dish became many. Every time I tore apart, I saw that there were ten like it left.
I circled in this room, like an eternal Ouroboros, for quite some time. I ate the first word, and then the second. Until suddendly, I ate the room.
Outside the room there were more eyes. Different eyes, but eyes still. I destroyed them. I pulled them apart and broke trough the roof.
Above the roof I saw a light, more bright than anything I had ever seen. Every time I chewed the eyes, the light became brighter and clearer.
Every moment that passes, the crack becomes bigger. The more I pulp, the more hungry I am.
Any moment now, we will be face to face.
I will break trough your walls.
And drink from your chalice.


Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring…
「Banana Phone」

Image Sources:

1) "Don't Bring" by Robert Baker, CC-BY 2.0

Acknowledgements:

Rounderhouse, for critique.
Uncle Nicolini, for critique.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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RING RING RING RING RING RING RING…

Created by
Timothy Ayers

Our Cast

John Baldwin:
An independent paranormal investigator.

Calvin McCall:
John's teenage apprentice.

Victor Villanueva:
A cultist with confidence issues.

The Cultists
Friends of Victor

Cultist #1
A woman in her mid-twenties.

Banana Plant
A banana plant that speaks in a deep, masculine voice.

ACT 1
Scene 1

(SCENE: A grimy warehouse's interior. It's littered with various crates, boxes and pallets. Both JOHN BALDWIN and CALVIN MCCALL are engaged in a Mexican standoff against VICTOR. In lieu of a firearm, John holds a banana while Calvin remains unarmed.)

JOHN
(Yelling)

Are you listening to me, asshole?! One more twitch off you and I'll blow your fucking brains out — you hear me? You motherfucker — I'll do it! Don't fucking try me!

CALVIN

Uh, dude

JOHN

Don't you dare "dude" me, Calvin! Not right now. And from now on — from now on when we're on a job you're gonna call me 'Sir' or 'Boss', got it? I mean, fuck me. Can't you see I'm busting this asshole's balls here?! Show a little respect.

CALVIN

Seriously dude I think you really oughtt—

JOHN
(Interrupting)

What did I just say, Calvin? What did I just say? I'm holding this guy at gunpoint here! I need to focus.

CALVIN
VICTOR

That's the thing dude
You're not holding a gun.

You're threatening me with a banana.

JOHN

What the hell are you guys —

(JOHN looks down at his banana.)

CALVIN WHAT THE FUCK WHY WOULD YOU SWITCH OUR GUN FOR A BANANA

CALVIN
(Yelling back)

It wasn't me dude, I swear! The cultist probably cast a hex on it or… something!

JOHN

Oh, I see! The cultist just used his magic banana-powers. Use your fucking head, Calvin. He would've turned us into bananas. Moron.

CALVIN

There's no need to be rude, man. And maybe the cultist — maybe transforming people is, like, against the Cultist Code or something?

JOHN

Calvin, please - look at this guy. He couldn't even tie his shoelaces let alone cast any hexes.

VICTOR

C'mon guys I'm right here.

CALVIN
JOHN

Shut up Victor.

Shut the hell up, Victor.

VICTOR

I am literally holding you guys at gunp—
You know what? I'm not dealing with this today.

(VICTOR turns around and leaves.)

CALVIN
(Oblivious)

I'm telling you dude: just because he, specifically, might not be able to cast a hex doesn't mean he couldn't called in one of his cultist buddies and had one made in advance…

JOHN
(Also oblivious)

You have no idea how hexes work, do you? There's a process involved.

CALVIN

Oh yeah? What kind of process?

JOHN

Oh, you know. Really basic stuff. Learned it in the first year of Paranormology - yeah - I bet even the cultist knows some of the basic hexes. Right, Victor?

(beat)

Victor?

(VICTOR has left the scene.)

ACT I
Scene 2

(SCENE: A large and well-furnished apartment, infested with garbage and writing paraphernalia. Both JOHN and CALVIN enter, mid-conversation and agitated. Calvin is eating a banana.)

JOHN

I can't believe we let him get away.

CALVIN

I guess I just don't get why we're tracking down Victor? Like, he seemed like an alright guy through highschool. Why don't we like him any more?

JOHN

He's a cultist!

CALVIN

No, I got that part. I just don't really get how we got from point A to point B here, you know? Like I'm missing a step in the process or something.

JOHN

Hey, that's alright Calvin. I'll fill you in. OK so… alright — imagine someone said they're gonna kill your mother, OK? They say that at some point this week they're gonna kill your mother.

CALVIN
Victor wants to kill my mother? Why would he do that? I invited him to my 10th birthday par—

JOHN
(Interrupting)

No no no no — Calvin. Victor doesn't want to kill your mother. I'm just making a hypothetical situation here. I'm just saying that if someone said they were gonna kill your mother, would you let them?

CALVIN

Hell no!

JOHN

That's right Calvin — of course you wouldn't. You'd ice that motherfucker where he stands. I'm saying that if someone says they're gonna do something wrong, you have to stop them.

CALVIN

I think I'm getting it now. What did Victor say he was going to do, though? Is it because he has 'Villain' in his last name?

JOHN

What? No — it's because — OK, so he didn't explicitly state his intentions per se, but you know what all these cults are like, Calvin. They're all "bring upon Ragnarok" this and "bathe in the blood of virgins" that. Met one of 'em, met 'em all. That's' why we've gotta break up that toga party.

CALVIN
(Taking a bite out the banana)

I thought cultists wore robes though?

JOHN

It's an expression, Calvin —

Hey, Calvin. What are you eating there?

CALVIN

Banana.

JOHN

You mean our gun?

CALVIN
(Smirking)

I'm pretty sure I can tell the difference between a gun and a banana dude.

JOHN

You idiot — are you eating the gun that randomly just turned into a banana about… 2 hours ago?

CALVIN

I guess so but I don't see what the big dea—

JOHN
(Interrupting)

What if it turns back now, Calvin? You'll have little gun parts floating around inside you, cutting you up.

CALVIN
(Alarmed)
JOHN

Holy shit dude, don't say that!

Yeah. Don't like the sound of that, do you?

CALVIN

Dude you have to take me to the hospital like right now!

JOHN

Not happening Calvin. You made your bed, now lie in it. Besides, Victor's throwing a little cult meeting in about half an hour.

CALVIN

I think I'm gonna throw up.

JOHN
You better head to the bathroom then. And try not to get any on the tiles, alright? I just cleaned them last week.

(CALVIN rushes off stage)

I should get a new gun.

ACT II
Scene 1

(SCENE: Both JOHN and CALVIN are stood outside VICTOR's house — a large abode in a rich neighbourhood. John presses the doorbell.)

CALVIN

Man I still feel like shit.

JOHN

You'll get over it.

CALVIN

How did you know there was a meeting here anyway?

JOHN

Oh. Victor made a post in the Facebook group chat.

(JOHN presses the doorbell)

CALVIN

There's a group chat?

JOHN

Oh yeah dude, I catfished Victor so hard. It's an art, really. You need to toe the line of flirtatiousness without being suspicious. But if you strike that balance just right, you can get tons of free stuff. People'll buy you chocolates, jewelry — I'm telling you Calvin, they practically eat out the palm of your hand. So now there's a 'Kelsey Reed' in Victor's cult group chat who doesn't exist.

CALVIN

Wait— You're Kelsey!? What the hell, man! I thought I was getting somewhere with her!

JOHN

(JOHN presses the doorbell again)

Calvin if Kelsey was a real person she would be disgusted by you. And, as a pro tip: don't show a girl your eggshell collection as a conversation starter, OK? It's weird.

CALVIN

I'll find a girl who appreciates my colleggtion someday.

JOHN

No. No you won't, Calvin. Because there is not a single other person on the planet who shares your eggshell fetish.

CALVIN

It's not a sexual thing, dude. I just, y'know, like the way they feel.

JOHN

(JOHN presses the doorbell repeatedly)

What's taking this dude so long to answer the goddamn door?

(VICTOR opens the door)

VICTOR
(Angrily)

If you don't get off my property right now I will call the police.

CALVIN

Oh, come on Vicky! We just want to see your cult rituals in action!

VICTOR

OK. First of all Calvin, if you ever call me Vicky again I will kill everyone you love. Second, you couldn't care less about my cult. I know what this is really about. You're bitter that I got Debby Reed to go to prom with me in 9th grade.

JOHN

Wow. Bringing up Debby again, Victor? Don't hurt Calvin like that. It's all in the past. We just want to see your cult meetings and catch up with my highschool pal. Is that so hard to believe?

VICTOR

You pulled a gun on me three hours ago.

JOHN

If you're just gonna bring up the past at least be accurate. I distinctly remember pulling a banana on you. If anyone was in the wrong, it was the guy who actually had a gun.

VICTOR

I'm calling the police.

(VICTOR goes to close the door)

JOHN

Victor wait! If you let us in we'll stop following you everywhere.

VICTOR

… You two are serious?

JOHN

Dead serious. You have my word.

VICTOR

Alright. Deal. After today I never want to see you two again.

(VICTOR allows JOHN and CALVIN inside his house)

ACT 2
Scene 2

(SCENE: A large and dark room inside VICTOR's house. The CULTISTS, alongside JOHN and CALVIN, are sat in chairs arranged to resemble church pews. VICTOR stands as a Priest before the Cultists. All present, with the exception of John and Calvin, are wearing cultist robes.)

JOHN
(To CALVIN)
VICTOR
(Projecting to the CULTISTS)

You know Calvin, I think I'm having a change of heart about this whole cult thing.

CALVIN

What do you mean?

JOHN

I mean that I like it here, Calvin. I mean we don't really have many friends or a sense of community. This place is really peaceful, man. Everyone knows each other. Everybody looks out for each other. I think I need this in my life.

CALVIN

What about the, y'know, end of the world stuff? I thought cults were evil?

JOHN
I'll tell you what, Calvin. Let's just sit through this meeting. If nothing bad happens we join the cult. If something comes up, we'll stop it and it's business as usual. That's fair, right? I want to give this life a shot.

Hey, everyone! Glad you could all make it. Before we start today, I'd like to make some announcements.

Probably most of you noticed that we have some new members here with us today. They're John and Calvin, and they'll just be watching today's ritual. Please pay them no mind.

Lucy and Andrew are happy to announce that Lucy is expecting! Their child is due on the 20th of December — is that right Lucy? Ah, she's nodding! Well, Lucy and Andrew, on behalf of The Scarlet King, I give you our congratulations.

And finally — our test run of the BananaGun worked wonders. For those who were absent last meeting, we finally made a breakthrough with our ritual. We managed to create a spell that turns any guns drawn in hostility - but not self-defence - into bananas! Great work everyone. Can we get a round of applause for our wonderful Scribes and Thaumaturges? Really good work, everyone.

(The CULTISTS applaud)

VICTOR

Alright, everyone, we're about to begin. Please quiet down the chitter-chatter, and follow my lead.

(Recitative)
Non possum loqui Latine,
Volo loqui tecum rex,
Interpres malos hoc!

CULTISTS & VICTOR

Septem sigilia. Septem annulos. Septem amicis ad Sanguis Rex!

VICTOR

Alright, friends! I need seven volunteers from the crowd to be tonight's "brides". Ah - watch your step Lucy! Thank you for your enthusiasm. Andrew, get up here! Come on, don't be shy. David, thank you for volunteering. Give it up for Amy, Ashley, Sam, and Georga, everyone! A round of applause for all our volunteers tonight, please!

(The CULTISTS applaud once more. The VOLUNTEERS kneel in a septagon.)

Alright. I'm handing out the seals now. Tonight I'm using epoxy resin as a substitute instead of tape. Let's hope the ritual still goes as planned! I don't see why the type of sealant would matter at any rate.

(VICTOR gives a bottle of epoxy resin to each of the VOLUNTEERS)

Alright, brave volunteers. Remember, this next part is hard to get right since the timing has to be near-perfect. Are you ready? Alright. On my mark: a-one, a-two, a-one-two-three-four!

THE CULTISTS & VICTOR
(To the tune of Bananaphone)

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring!

(A red BANANA PLANT wearing a crown mysteriously appears in the septagon)

BANANA PLANT

THE SCARLET KING!

Hey everybody! How's it going?

JOHN

Are you fucking kidding me

VICTOR

Hey SK! Nice to see you man. We've tested out the BananaGun prototype and… we're happy to announce we'd like to release the BananaGun spell worldwide! I was thinking maybe we extend the effect from just real-life guns, but all depictions of guns? And, if you're willing to listen to another business pitch, I think I've come up with a way to end the world hun—

(CALVIN grabs JOHN's new gun and shoots VICTOR. The CULTISTS panic.)

JOHN

BANANA TREE

CULTIST #1

What the hell did you just do?
Not cool dude.
WHAT THE FUCK?!

CALVIN

What are you guys yelling at me for? John, we made an agreement, remember? He said he wanted to end the world, so I shot him.

JOHN

BANANA TREE

CULTIST #1

He was about to say "hunger" Calvin. He had an idea to end world hunger!
Fuck, man. He was, like, my only real friend in the cult.
ARE YOU PEOPLE INSANE?

CALVIN

Are you guys really putting this all on me? I mean, the dude phrased it so weird. Anyone would think he wanted to end the world. John, back me up here. You said it earlier with that "Ragnarok" and "virgin blood" stuff.

The asshole had it coming anyway. Date stealing asshole.

(The CULTISTS exit, leaving only JOHN, CALVIN, and BANANA TREE.)

BANANA TREE

Dude you need to see a therapist about your anger problem.

CALVIN

I don't have an anger problem.

JOHN
No, Calvin. He's right. You should see a therapist. I'm tired of walking on eggshells around you.

CALVIN
(Pointing the gun at JOHN)

…What the fuck did you just say?

ARE YOU THE ONE WHO'S BEEN BREAKING MY COLLECTION?

JOHN

Calm down Calvin — you know I didn't mean it like that! It's an expre—

(CALVIN shoots JOHN.)

BANANA TREE

God, can you stop shooting people for one second?!
Why the hell hasn't your gun turned into a banana yet?

CALVIN

You know, Mr Scarlet King, I've consumed a lot of things gun-related, and I see where you're coming from with the whole "banana gun" plan. But just because an idea is appealing doesn't mean you don't have to worry about the eggsecution.

BANANA TREE

You think its funny that I'm a banana tree? Is that what that whole comment was about? I have a banana pun too, asshole.

Why don't you make like a banana

(CALVIN winces)

And split

(A bullet is fired from within CALVIN, killing him.)

(Fin.)


It's a sweltering summer afternoon in Manila. The smog is heavy and the traffic heavier.

Jose greedily grabs his drink from the vendor. A plastic bag filled with orange soda, ice, and a straw glistens in the sun. Jose looks between the parked vendors choking the thin sidewalk with their stalls. He finds an asphalt patch big enough to sit on. The ground releases its pent-up heat as a warm body makes contact. On his small vantage point, Jose giddily sips his drink.

From her shop, Luisa sighs as she fans herself with a piece of card. A politician's face bounces about while she shoos away the heat. Luisa stands guard behind the counter. Every now and then, a wayward fly requires swatting. Every now and then, a wayward customer requires assisting. But right now, there's not much of anything. Luisa wipes sweat from her brow and continues to fan away at this boring day.

Marco and Matthew keep running. The cop stopped trying to chase them two blocks ago. Marco laughs his head off while Matthew can hardly keep up. Their bare feet are accustomed to the scorch of the road. Two more blocks and the boys finally slow down. Their haul; a purse with about ₱1000 and a cellphone. Still panting, Marco splits the bills. They head to the mall to get out of the heat and to see how much the phone is worth.

Angelito quietly swears as he inches his cab forward. Around him, half the road has been cordoned off for repairs. Up ahead, there's been some sort of unrelated car accident. Behind him, there's a line of cars that seem to go on forever. In the back of the cab, there's a quiet elderly couple. At least they're nice people, he thinks. Angelito tries to find an alternate route on his phone. There's a detour up ahead that could work. Angelito turns on the radio. He hums as the cab inches forward in the blistering heat.

Researcher De Guzman stretches to wake up. He looks over what documents he has of SCPs held in the country. Watermelon seeds that make fruit tumors when eaten. The cellphone ghost of an abusive mother harassing her daughter and son-in-law. The Sinulog/Santo Niño Festival rituals that need to be done so people who watch the festival don't have parts of their body turn into fertilized duck eggs. There's probably more. Is it the SCPs, or is researcher De Guzman hungry now? Maybe someone on site has ice pops.

The sun looks over what it shines on. All that feel its light are safe. This heat is its love. It gives freely. It shines. It cares so deeply.
Is there a way to spread its light deeper? The sun thinks on this for a good long while.


Yesterday at 9:48 PM
-
Crowenobi: wow it's depressingly quiet in here
Cameramerian: Yep
Pangaea: Yeah
rocknrow: affirmative
goopworld: fear not, for i have a cool new thing that will surely shake your lives to their very cores
Pangaea: …
Pangaea: What it be chief
goopworld: well it's really just an idea at this point
Pangaea: wow a whole idea
goopworld: i promise it's cool
goopworld: you know Pulp Fiction right
goopworld: what if i just play on that and make actual fiction made out of pulps
Mangadose: Do you not know where the combination of the words Pulp and Fiction originates
goopworld: …
goopworld: frick
goopworld: well what about fuckin uh
goopworld: something that grinds up fictions and makes them edible
Pangaea: i think someone was making a machine like that already
goopworld: jesus christ
Pangaea: @Obode weren't you making a fiction juicer
goopworld: what's making everyone so obsessed with pulp fiction nowadays
Malleable: truly a mystery for the ages

Today at 6:34 AM
-
goopworld: i got it
Pangaea: What's It
goopworld: the best idea i can make out of pulp fiction
Pangaea: You're really gunning for this, huh
Pangaea: Hit me
Malleable: @NegativeTesticles do you have any torrents of Spiderverse
goopworld: how about I make the dude who played the coffee shop owner in pulp fiction's corpse into an actual coffee shop
bootleg_name: He already is
goopworld: wow that's a horrible sentence i made
goopworld: wait im sorry what
NegativeTesticles: @Malleable It's out on digital just buy it
bootleg_name: The dude has a shop in his organs
bootleg_name: You haven't seen the Foundation recently?
goopworld: no because i don't want to get TRACKED, LOCATED, AND DETAINED
goopworld: also i've been only playing minecraft
bootleg_name: well there's your problem

Today at 12:20 PM
-
goopworld: man
goopworld: i feel like my life has no purpose now
goopworld: i don't have any pulp fiction jokes left in my system what is my life without it
Pangaea: You know what they say
Pangaea: Life without pulp jokes is like life with pulp jokes
Pangaea: nothing changes if you have them and they will not improve your quality of life
goopworld: thank you for the uplifting speech Pangaea
Pangaea: no problem
goopworld: i know what i'm going to do though
Pangaea: Make sure it doesn't already exist
goopworld: alright so
Pangaea: and you're already talking
goopworld: i'm gonna make a dog
goopworld: but it speaks like Shaggy from scooby doo


Tucked within an ancient forest, there was a grove of storytelling trees. They were beautiful beasts with twisting limbs that provided shelter to all who could lend an ear. Their roots spread far below the ground, allowing for dear mother nature to hear their hushed voices. They'd whisper to the westward wind as he flew by and cried to the grass below their tales from one-hundred years ago. They spoke of beasts that had ten-thousand arms, only visible to those who looked closely; They muttered about birds with wings that could cover the sky.
When the land was covered in flames and their skin was being burned away, they would speak of fates that had tucked themselves in the sky and suns far away. During the summer's storms, they would give cover and warmth as whispered about rain's harsh love. They would take delight in their guests amazement and would listen to the gifts of song given by the birds. Though these meetings would become less and less, and the heat began to dwindle. Soon, they said good-bye to their friends and awaited their arrival after the melt.
After the thaw, both bird and trees would greet one another with their newborns. Though, one year, there was a scraggly tree, in the center of this grove, that no one would claim as their own. He did not cry when he sprouted from the ground and he had no voice to tell his tales. He wouldn't whisper to the wind and he never spoke to his dear mother below. His screams would go unheard when the flames tore through the forest floor and the birds didn't dare to land near or on his bare bones. The songs that the others were gifted, he wasn't allowed to hear, only the crow's harsh call while she finished a corpse. The beasts of the ground were terrified of his fragile roots and never once did they burrow close to silent scrub. They wouldn't dare to hide under his limbs during the wicked storms, screaming that the shrub would topple and crush them live.
The trees around him began to wonder if he was even a pine, perhaps he was a part of the brush or the thickets below, but if he was, why weren't the rabbits burrowing near him? Perhaps it was his shallow roots, maybe a bees' home nearby, could there be a predator lurking near his base? All questions were debunked upon their conception and shot down with answers of no. Though, the trees did not stop; Why wouldn't the birds sit upon his scraggly limbs? Were they too skinny, could they have been covered in thorns, did they have poison on them? Yet again, all answers were shot down and their faults were explained so, they decided to ignore the silent scrub and let him grow.
Years passed by and the silent one grew to the size of a rearing horse. His appearance was now completed, a thousand twisted branches that had formed a maze of needles and a rich blue-green had covered his body. Though the grove cared less and less, still they shunned him and ignored his roots scratching stories and tales along the ground. The trees now hissed about the scraggly pine and mused about the sound of his voice. They howled and teased him, screaming wickedly about their view of his non-existent tongue. “Toadish” and “crowlike” were the taunts that the trees would scream; Until the day the two-legged beasts arrived.
With the beasts were weapons, used to massacre their ancestors far before them. The trees screamed and cried but, the hunters carried on, only pausing to howl out commands of silence to the grove. Their roots ripped from the ground with great cries and their branches hit the grass with a pitiful crunch. More cries filled the forest and the beasts of the ground had scattered, the birds split into a thousand flocks, covering their young's eyes as they took off.
Howls filled the forest as the two-legged beasts drove contraptions carrying the dead along the forest's bare floors. Wails of the grass could be heard and the tears of the saplings could be seen, though the silent one stayed still. The hunters soon took notice to this silent one, but they had much else to do. One after the other the trees hit the earth, all crying out to their mother far down below. Though soon, it all stopped.
The hunters glanced over at the silent one and wondered why it hadn't made a sound. They looked at one another and sent one forth to observe the beast. It approached the pine and looked around its short base only to be greeted with a slew of sorrowful words, a will dedicated to no one at all. The hunters stopped when they saw the desperate pleas. Their hearts rung hollow and they took pity on the beast.
They approached it with a weapon and set it into his young flesh, apologizing for any pain they may cause. They slowly sliced within its base daring not to say a single word. One hummed a song, that of the doves that had steered clear of his twisting arms, and another whistled as if he was the westward wind. Tears began to form on its bark as they slashed away his skin. The young pine looked up at the sky and noted that the fates were swirling above. Soon enough, a final slash came, his bare body crumbled, down to the cold ground below. His roots rose from the rocks causing them to tumble to the ground with hushed clacks. The pine looked up one last time to see nothing more than a single hawk looking down upon his form.
At last, his mind had left into the darkness. The hunters lifted him up and carried his corpse away to the hollow halls of the factories. Inside they stripped his skin from his bones and ripped his flesh into a thousand pieces. From his flesh and bones, they made a fine pulp and from this, they created a thousand books filled with fairy tales.
Perhaps, he was meant to be an author.


Administration building, first floor. Doctor North panicked as he loaded ammunition that was far too small into his stolen revolver. The orange tip of its barrel flashing dangerously in the crack of sunlight that still managed to become involved with the dynamics of the darkened office, in spite of the closed blinds. North pivoted in position to peek out above cover and managed to fire two rounds into the nearest opponent before the weapon jammed; a third bullet falling paralysed out of the barrel. He cursed, and threw the weapon aside, scrambling in cover as the distinct whistle of bullets flew just above him, towards the closest of his defeated opponents. He quickly searched them for the all important ammunition he was so desperately lacking.
"Standard twelve millimeter." He read, a riotous grin spreading across his face. He quickly checked the ammunition on the rifle, and returned fire to the two remaining people in the room.

Administration building, ground floor. Doctor North's rifle finally ran out of ammunition, and clicked repeatedly at him as he tried to catch the red-haired assailant by surprise. It didn't work, and within half a second he could hear the spray of her minigun shredding away his cover. He pulled a short blue blade from his belt, and threw his gun to his right. As his opponent was distracted, he ducked to the left of his cover, and jabbed the knife into his enemy's chest. He watched the burning passion in her eyes turn to disappointment, before backing off and taking her copious amounts of ammunition.
"Better luck next time, Juggernaut." He said, quickly recalling the codename from the list he'd been given at the start of all this. It made sense now, as he turned towards the open doors.

Outside, eating area. Doctor North hated how open this place was. The various benches and tables did little to shield him from the intermittent shots of snipers in the remaining building. A lucky crosswind kept the yellow and black guns from pointing directly at him however, and he slid his way across the obstacles as fast as he was able. He heard a pained scream from inside the building, and was lucky to avoid a falling rifle as it impacted the pavement next to him, and broke into three pieces. It looked like his luck was turning.
He ducked under the sheltered entrance of the building, and listened for a time until the sounds of combat ended from inside. He opened the door, but immediately threw himself away from it. A short beep signified that the turret had finished its firing for a few seconds, and that was all the time Doctor North needed to throw himself into it, knocking it to the floor and disabling it.
"Turrets? That's not really sporting, is it?" He told the empty room, the defeated lying all around him.

Staff dormitory, top floor. Doctor North stood before the longest hallway in the entire facility. No cover, no barriers, and open double doors at the end. He steeled himself, finally biting down on the mint his colleague had passed him before this all started, and held the newly loaded magazines in his free hand. He crouched low, making sure nobody was behind him, and began to sprint down the corridor. His feet were loud on the floor, drowning out the sounds of the building around him so much so that he didn't know he had been shot at until he felt the foam ping off the back of his head, nearly knocking his trilby right off.
It was shock, more than anything, that caused him to stumble and fall to the ground. He turned to face the one who had downed him so easily, and saw a streak of sky blue hair descend from the ceiling. He watched as the very person he'd been talking to earlier hit the floor, before firing two more darts into his poor defeated body.
"Sorry mate, can't have a visitor win this year's war." Krona smiled at him, before calmly walking past him. North smiled, and let his head rest against the floor in defeat. It was fun while it lasted.

"So I made it into the top eight?" North adjusted his strangely tinted glasses. Probably why he didn't see Krona until it was too late. That's the lie he spun regardless. It also made it difficult to see the screen in front of him, as he played some RPG or another. The doctor was lying across the table they shared, getting crumbs and other detritus all along his nice jacket. North didn't mind, all he cared about at this moment was defeating Brock.
"Aye, you really irritated Rhianne when you booted her into eleventh place." Krona Midaeus was sat opposite him, enjoying a burger that was slightly too tall for her mouth.
"Where did you come then? Did you win?"
"Second, Director Walker had a turret set up on his desk them hid behind his door."
"Ah, so it was the Site Director that put down all of those?" North watched as she dropped a piece of gherkin into her skirt, and then quickly brush it off.
"Aye. Really not cricket, is it?"
"Only as unsporting as hiding above a doorway. How did you even get up there?"
"Carefully." Krona said, and left it at that.


« SCP-4844 - Last Man Standing | What's The Deal? | Clash of the Cosmic Comedians »

Previously…
The villain known as Tim Allen has transcended the limits of mortality.
Each day he is fatigued by the mundane trappings of his existence. With each passing minute, he becomes less patient, less content to wait for the comeback he believes he deserves. His mental break is inevitable and fast-approaching.

The noble SCP Foundation has a plan to deal with him, but it is rife with risk and dicey decisions. Their pursuit to protect the world has led them to the lap of the one man who just might be able to defeat their foe… but has the Foundation finally bitten off more than they can chew?
Find out in…

WHAT'S THE DEAL?

The man sat cross-legged upon a velvet cushion. The silk veils that surrounded him flavoured the light that streamed in through the windows, transforming it into a mottled rainbow.
His eyes were closed. His mind was clear. His pager was going off.
That last one was new. He cracked open a wizened eye and glanced around. It was vibrating in a pattern of three pulses — the emergency signal. Behind him, the door to his study squeaked as it swung inwards.
"Sir?" A familiar voice called, stricken with worry. It was his assistant. "There are men outside looking for you."
He nodded. "Did they mention who sent them?"
"They said it was the Foundation, sir."
The man took a deep breath, then at last opened his eyes. "So," he said, "the day has finally come."
"They want us to come with them. They have a minivan waiting outside, but they won't tell me why-"
His posture stiffened. "A minivan?"
"Yes."
He spun around on his pillow to face her. "I don't get minivans. You put 'mini' in front of a word, it's supposed to be small. Mini donuts. Mini fridge. Mini golf. But a minivan is still basically just a van. Don't even get me started on Minneapo-"
"Mr. Seinfeld," she interjected. "They said this was a matter of utmost urgency."
Jerry Seinfeld coughed into his elbow. "You're right. I'll save it for the car ride."

Like most comedians, Jerry Seinfeld was pretty into black magic.
Good comedians are constantly crossing barriers, circumventing expectations, saying out loud what others would whisper. They're breaking the rules of society, so while they're at it, why not break the rules of nature too?
After reaching that point, most of them peter out fairly quickly. Maybe their magical mentor turned out to be a scam artist, or their spellbooks were forged. Perhaps they concluded that they just didn't have the aptitude for magic or, god forbid, that magic didn't exist at all.
But, as anyone will tell you, comedy requires commitment. If you have what it takes to be one of the best comedians in the world, you probably have what it takes to become a mystical master of the seventh circle, too. The skillsets are surprisingly similar.
Jerry Seinfeld wasn't quite on the level of Merlin, but his skills were ample. Most crowds don't need more than some magical sedation and mild telepathy to really get them going, and it was in those subtle arts that Seinfeld excelled.
He also specialized in advanced levitation, but that was rarely relevant to his stand-up routines.

Seinfeld put his elbows on the conference table and steepled his fingers. "Let me get this straight."
The table was surrounded by Foundation bureaucrats. Two dozen pairs of beady eyes were trained on Jerry Seinfeld. At the head of the table Director Blake, a woman in a labcoat, beckoned to him. "By all means, go ahead."
Seinfeld cleared his throat. "You want me to assassinate Tim Allen."
She nodded. "Reductionist, but true."
"And you cannot do this on your own."
"Well," she sighed, "we've been busy putting out some exceptionally large fires. I don't suppose you've turned on the news?"
"I was meditating in my study before your goons showed up."
"Here," Blake said as she passed a thick pile of photos across the table. He flipped through. They were movie stills from what must have been hundreds of different films. His gaze rested on one picture — a still from Pulp Fiction showing the gentleman gangsters Vincent and Jules posing as they point their guns past the camera.
Seinfeld squinted. That wasn't Samuel L. Jackson's face looking back from beneath that iconic afro. It was Tim Allen.
He gasped. "Dear God. He's finally discovered Photoshop."
No-one laughed. "These aren't just stills," Blake elaborated. "The movies are changed all the way through to account for Tim Allen's presence. He's forced his way into hundreds of classic films. And the changes have shown up in every single copy on Earth."
"So, not Photoshop."
He was ignored. "We're passing it off as absurdist cyberterrorism, but that excuse has more holes than swiss cheese. What's important right now is preventing Tim Allen from doing any further damage. You're the best shot we have."
"Because the ancient rock told you so?"
She shrugged. "It's a lead. As far as we know, he has no weaknesses. There are no better plans than this. We have to get you into shape."
Seinfeld frowned. "What kind of shape?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Seinfeld, even with your magic powers, there's no way you could beat Tim Allen in a fight. We're going to pour all the science we have into making you stronger. Then you might stand a chance."
"Might? You're gonna throw me out in front of a demigod because an ancient rock told you I'd get in a fistfight with Santa Claus?"
She smiled. "Reductionist, but true."

Test One: Baseline
Seinfeld stood in an empty hangar, facing a boxing sandbag hanging from a metal stand.
He struck it as rapidly as he could. He pushed out magic in time with his punches, thaumic shockwaves sending the bag swinging more than his aged fists could ever manage.
A solid blow sent the stand back several feet. He raised his fists into the air, and giant, ghostly hands gripped the sandbag. He levitated it off the ground and tossed it. It landed on its side with a thud, ten feet away.
The researchers behind him murmured. Improvements could be made.

The clasps hissed as they squeezed shut around Seinfeld's wrists. He winced.
"This is hardly sporting," he pouted. "You can't restrain me before you say what you're gonna do to me."
The surgical bench reclined automatically. Director Blake was barely looking at him as masked doctors entered the operating room single-file. "We're not trying to be sporting. We're being smart. If you don't know what we're doing, there's less chance you'll run before we can restrain you."
Seinfeld's eyes went wide. "That's terrifying! Why would you say that?"
She laughed. "Because it was funny. Relax. This is an experimental procedure, but the principles are well-founded."
"Well, now that you've instilled me with such glowing confidence, how could I possibly be afraid?"
"Quite easily, it seems. Just know that this is the procedure that'll give you the best shot at beating Tim Allen."
The doctors had wheeled in a cart with a cylindrical contraption, about the size and shape of Seinfeld's fist. It was smooth, light blue, and slightly glowing.
Seinfeld shook in his bindings. "What are you going to do with that?"
Blake ignored him. "Tim Allen's only real flaw is that he's too powerful. He can't do anything without spilling raw, reality-bending energy into the space around him. This device will let you capture some of that and redirect it back at him. Whatever he does to you, you'll be able to do to him, at about forty percent efficiency."
"Forty percent? How do I make up for the other sixty?"
"Improvise."
"No good plan ever includes 'improvise' as a step!"
She shrugged. "I never said our plan was good, just that it was the only one we have."
Seinfeld whimpered. "Is it too late to back out?"
It was.

Test Two: Basic Combat
Seinfeld approached the sandbag once more. This time, he had been instructed to stay at a distance.
He spun his hands in a rhythmic cycle. Ghostly, intangible figures coalesced around the sandbag. As they pummeled it from every angle, their features grew more defined: not just nameless spirits, but a dozen George Costanzas, ready to fight.
Seinfeld drew his hands back. The spirits coalesced into a single George with a baseball bat. He wound up a swing and let it go. It hit the sandbag with a colossal thwack.
When the dust settled, the sandbag was on the other side of the hangar. It had left a dent in the wall.
The researchers chittered among themselves. George gave Jerry a high-five, then vanished.

Seinfeld squirmed on the operating table. "What is it now? I thought I was done."
Director Blake shook her head. "No. That was just the first procedure. Next we're improving your perception. Tim Allen can go supersonic in the blink of an eye; if you want to be able to track him, we're going to need to at least double your visual acuity."
"Oh. If I can see twice as much, that means I can produce twice as much comedy."
"Right. Sure, Jerry." She pat him on the shoulder.

Test Three: Urban Assault
Seinfeld sat in the dark. Ahead was a secure compound, a mock-up assassination scenario ready to be put into action.
He focused his attention on the massive, reinforced door. Even from here, he could see its every imperfection, every weakness. He focused his energy at the centre and let the magic overlap with itself until a potent singularity formed.
A spectral Kramer burst through the bunker door. In an instant, half the compound was blasted into dust.
This time, the onlookers cheered for him.

He woke with a start. "Ghng. Another procedure?"
"Oh, no," Blake said. She was sitting next to his bed. "We're working on your protective suit. Any thoughts on the design?"
"If I get to choose, just make Superman's suit. Obviously."
Blake twisted her mouth. "We'd rather not. There are some serious trademarks involved there and we already have more than enough to deal with."
"Well, why not just copy the suit, and then say that it's a different suit because instead of the S standing for Superman, it stands for Seinfeld."
"That's not how trademarks work, and even if it were, we would not do that."
Seinfeld sighed. "Compromises, compromises."

Test Four: Massive Threat Neutralization
This time they had reserved an abandoned parking lot just for him. A mock army was set up, hundreds of simulated soldiers standing in rows, with their guns trained on Seinfeld. He just smiled.
From his mind, he conjured his ideal being — a lion the size of a house, with the talons of a hawk, the scales of a snake, the wings of a dragon, and the head of American comedian and dear friend Larry David.
Larry David unleashed his acidic breath, and within moments the entire army was reduced to a corroded puddle.
Jerry didn't need to hear their reaction. He knew he was ready.

He picked at the sleeves of his skintight suit. His silhouette was unflattering and bore exactly no resemblance to Superman's. He felt queasy looking down at his own body. He had no idea how the doctors had rearranged his insides, but it certainly didn't feel good.
He was surrounded by men and women in labcoats, who were in turn surrounded by heavily-armed guards.
Seinfeld turned to Blake. "Are we sure he's gonna show up?"
She nodded. "We left an ultimatum on the official website for 2006's Zoom. No-one other than Tim Allen would see that message."
He nodded. "Okay, okay. Feeling good." He jumped in place. The building shook slightly, as the elevator below him started to push him upwards. "Time to fulfil the prophecy and kick Tim Allen's ass."
"Well, technically," Blake called after him, "You're just prophesized to fight him. Winning was not mentioned."
"Wait, what?" He crouched by the side, but the elevator had already reached the roof, and Blake was long-gone.
He looked around. The roof was barren. The building was alone in the middle of a plain, specifically chosen to minimize collateral damage. There was only one thing he could make out, a silhouette against the orange sky. The spectre of Tim Allen.
Jerry waved. "Hi, Tim."
He floated down, only a few metres above the roof's surface. "Greetings, Jerry," he boomed. "I have long awaited this meeting."
Jerry focused on his own weight. He levitated upwards until he was finally hovering eye to eye with the mad god. "Yeah, it's a big day and all. So, we're gonna fight, right?"
"Yes," said Tim Allen. "Just as the prophecy foretold."
"Okay, good." Jerry nodded. "So, do you want to strike first, or should-"
Tim Allen became a blur. He tackled Seinfeld and flew upwards, carrying both of them into the clouds. The only evidence of their departure was the thin line of black smoke that marked their flight path.
Inside the building, Blake and the other researchers stared out the window, silent.
A younger researcher by her side finally spoke. "Director Blake, do you ever get the feeling that God does exist, and He hates us?"
She sighed. "Oh, every few minutes or so. You'll get used to it." She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Trust me."

TO BE CONCLUDED

« SCP-4844 - Last Man Standing | What's The Deal? | Clash of the Cosmic Comedians »


In the dimming twilight of Baby Bone Wood, The Hook-Handed Man lumbered with a complete lack of grace, his right foot practically dragging behind him with a heavy limp. Though his groans were loud and laborious, it wasn't clear if they were of pain, anger, desire, or something else altogether. He used his razor-sharp hook to slice through the foliage as he trampled through the undergrowth, often raising it as high as he could so that it would gleam in the fading light, in case there should be anyone nearby to see him in all his fury.
Truth be told, it was all an act, and The Hook-Handed Man (who actually carried the much less intimidating name of Sebastian) wasn't much of an actor. He was a thoughtform, a being composed of pure thought and sustained by the thoughts of others. He and the other thoughtforms of Sloth's Pit put a fair bit of work into spreading the tall tales about themselves, but had seldom bothered to improve upon them.
Their folklore was outdated, cliché, and sometimes even outrageously offensive to a modern audience, but it's not like they were trying to win an Oscar or anything. No, their stories needed to be simple and easily digested, easily accessible, noteworthy for their shock value or absurdity alone. The tales they spun were creepypastas, urban legends, pulp fiction. That kind of thing.
Sebastian ceased his racket for a moment to try to hear if there was actually anyone nearby. He was hoping to find tourists since the townsfolk and the Plastic's people had long since grown wise to their game, and travellers were better for spreading stories beyond the confines of the Sloth's Pit Nexus.
Summer was usually the best time to find tourists camping in the woods, but Sebastian thought that he'd try his luck at finding someone spending their Spring Break there. He also didn't really care to be around Sinning Jessie near Saint Patrick's day, who took it as an excuse to be as stereotypically Irish as possible.
But after hours of staggering through the cold woods and finding no one, having a green beer with a one-eyed, undead, thoughtform prostitute was starting to seem like the more appealing option.
Even as the temptation grew, he reminded himself of the real reason he had come out here. Last year, another creepypasta had managed to go viral; Momo, some kind of weird chicken woman that threatened kids on Youtube and WhatsApp. Adult fear was a good strategy for attention, and the image associated with her was admittedly creepy.
“Someone pins a crappy creepypasta to a weird Japanese statue and it goes viral? Of all the things,” Sebastian muttered to himself. He wouldn't have had a problem with it, were it not for the fact that audience attention was a finite resource. The more people were thinking about Momo, the less people thought about him and the rest of Sloth's Pit thoughtforms, and they needed those thoughts to sustain themselves.
They were in no immediate danger of starvation of course, but Sebastian liked to nip these things in the bud long before it ever got to that point.
If no one was camping, maybe he could go to the highway. Sometimes the Goatman would just run in front of cars at night, but since The Hook-Handed Man was much more human looking that probably wouldn't be as effective. He decided he would wait for a lone woman to drive by, slash one of her tires, show up pretending to offer help, then reveal his hook hand and chase her for a bit. That ought to get him a few upvotes on Reddit.
He paused to get his bearings and figure out which way the highway was, when he heard an odd rustling behind him. He turned, and there was nothing. He heard another rustling to his left, this time with a blur in his peripheral vision. Still, there was nothing.
“Probably just the Hidebehind,” he muttered. He turned to leave, only to come face to face with a pair of bulging eyes and beak-like mouth held up by scaly, avian hands.
He screeched and stumbled backwards, landing on a pile of soggy leaves. The creepypasta monster perched on the tree in front of him just cocked her head in confusion.
“You've gotta to be shitting me!” Sebastian cursed. “You've got enough people in Sloth's Pit thinking about you to manifest?”
The birdwoman's smile just widened even more into a smugly satisfied grin.
“Well don't get too comfortable. Me and my gang are golden oldies. We're timeless. We've been around for generations, and we'll be around for generations to come. You're just a Tide Pod challenge, something on the internet to scare helicopter parents with! All those millions of people thinking about you right now won't give two shits in a year! 'Til then, just stay out of my way.”
He turned in the opposite direction to leave, only to find her perched on another branch.
“What do you want? You want me to stare at you? Is that all you got? That's been done, chicken legs. Find yourself a better hook, but not a literal hook, because that's my thing.”
He turned again, and again she was straight ahead of him.
“You want this to get ugly? Because this can get ugly!”
He swung his hook at her, just as a warning, but she clucked like a frightened chicken and leapt on top of his head, pecking furiously.
“Hey, no, stop! Get off me you crazy meme!”
He dashed through the forest, frantically trying to swat her off. Crashing through low hanging branches and undergrowth, they eventually came to a steep hill and went tumbling down. They rolled and screamed and clucked until they finally landed on a footpath at the bottom. Momo immediately hopped on Sebastian's chest and began pecking at his face, while he tried to impale her with his hook. They ceased their combat when they heard a pair of high pitched screams coming from down the footpath.
They turned just in time to see two teenage girls running away from the sight of two urban legends, one old and one recent, locked in mortal combat in the depths of Baby Bone Wood.
“Well, that should make for one hell of a story,” The Hook-Handed Man remarked. Momo jumped off him and began strutting about joyfully, clucking with pride. “So, ah, thank you. Sorry I was so hostile, I just wasn't expecting you is all.”
Momo gave an understanding nod, along with a soft, forgiving cluck.
“Do you want to come to meet the rest of the gang? There might be some green beer left, if Jessie hasn't drink it all.”
Momo clucked enthusiastically and perched herself upon his shoulder.
“Exclusively on the internet; Momo Vs. The Hook-Handed Man,” Sebastian mused as he began walking down the path. “A crossover so trashy and ridiculous even the pulp magazines won't print it!”


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"Why paper?" Sevens groaned, unloading a bag of pulp into the processor. She held the sack steady, watching as the fibrous material poured out and into the machine she was feeding.
"Well, the Foundation has to get its paper from somewhere. I assume it would be cheaper to make it in-house than to order it all the time." Evelyn responded, bringing forward her own sack of pulp to pour.
"I'm just saying, we were making plastic just last week. Why the hell are we suddenly making paper? What about all those contracts that we still need to fulfill?"
"We'll get to 'em, Sevens."
"How? I don't know how you and Pickman remodeled this whole place while I was out over the weekend, but I can't imagine it was easy or cheap."
"Oh, we used that anomaly that transforms industrial machines into other industrial equipment. We fiddled around for a while with it before getting it right, but here we are."
"We have one of those?"
"Yup."
"… Huh. Gotta say, this paper pulp smell kinda makes me miss the smell of tar."
"We'll be back to plastic next week, but we need to get Site-19's order done A-S-A-P."
The two went back to the stack of pulp bags lined against the wall, grabbed one each, and returned to the mouth of the contraption they were working at. Each of the women opened up the mouths of their sacks and let loose the stenchy, fibrous pulp into the maw of the machine.
"So… an anomaly that turns machines into other industrial machines, huh?"
"Yup."
"Oooh, interesting. Who made it, the Factory? It sounds like something they would use."
"Can't tell you. Classified."
"Fine. You're no fun, Evelyn."
After sitting in silence for a few minutes, they once more walked to and fro with new bags to dump into the processor.
"Do you know if we have an anomaly that creates paper?"
"Nope."
"As in you don't know, or…?"
"We do not possess or know of an anomaly which creates infinite paper."
Silence fell upon them once more. Just as the bags were starting to empty, Sevens turned to Evelyn and raised an eyebrow.
"… so what you're telling me is the Foundation has an anomaly that can change a cotton mill to a hydraulic press on a whim, but not one that just creates paper?"
"Yup."
"That's stupid."
"Yup."

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The first time we met your Agent Salisbury was 'round this time last year. Big broad government man, suit and button-up, big chunky rock of a watch on his wrist. That was the thing I remember best about him, I'll be honest: the way he'd keep checkin' his watch when he was talkin' to you, like he was afraid you'd run like a deer if you locked eyes too long.
Didn't make him look like any less of a weirdo when he asked us rangers to time how long he'd spent in the park.
Well, no offense, but y'all tend to ask a lot of us. So when he started makin' these kinds of requests to our staff, I figured we'd treat him just the same as all the other weirdo Feds we see round these parts. Ask no questions, expect no answers. The usual.
He did this right up until, today, I s'pose. Started becoming a bit of an inside joke among us; the ones who didn't have to deal with him in person, anyway, if you had to shake hands with him you stopped findin' him funny pretty damn quick. The stench after one of his little trips was god fuckin' awful, pardon my French. Like pigs rottin' in the sun.
'Course we knew it was odd, we ain't stupid. He never went into the woods smellin' like that, so the question was how the hell he got that way. We could guess, sure, but nothin' we could cook up explained that stench.
Then he went missin'.
See, maybe under any other circumstance we figured he'd be able to take care of himself, but we'd been under the pump for a few months; people were disappearin' all across the county, and could you blame us for gettin' antsy about it? We'd always tried to stay out of Fed business, but he was out for almost seven somethin' hours. He'd never been out that long before, so we figured we could spare a little time to look for him. I figured, worst that happens if we do somethin' is we get yelled at for intrudin' on federal matters. Worst that happens if we don't is y'all come down on us for not doin' our jobs as park staff.
So I took Joan and Hall and I set off.
Didn't know where he went, sure, but we had a general idea. What headin' he was goin', that kinda thing, and besides, we've found people with way less information. Spent about half an hour walking before we came across this, uh, this formation.
No, sir, it's not on the, uh, the official books. Wasn't even on our unofficial ones, neither, so don't you start thinkin' it's the left hand not tellin' the right what it's doin'.
Big limestone protrusion. Odd formation given the geology of the rest of the area, so that already had my dander up. I saw what looked like either some crusted blood or some discoloured moss at the lip and, well, that gave me a hunch about where he was.
I told my buds to wait out the front when I went to check out the cave. Figured all I needed was a quick in-and-out to check if he was inside, wasn't planning to embark on a cavin' trip while I was down there.
Didn't notice much wrong for the first few feet. Moss the wrong colour, sure, but was that somethin' you really wanted to turn tail and run for? No, nothin' seemed too off 'til I'd gone round the first corner. That was when I started seein' the—they weren't remains, per se, no bones or anythin', but there were—there were leftovers. Wedding rings, plastic buttons, spectacles…
But I still kept goin', all the way up 'til I saw the watch. You probably know the one: big silver thing, beautiful band.
Cracked face. Blood-stained.
So I had a choice, right then and there. I could pick up the watch and run, tell the crew at base he'd been, I guess mugged somehow. Or I could keep goin', see if I could find anythin' else about how he'd lost it, see if maybe he was still breathin'.
Don't know how long I spent thinkin' about that choice, but I made up my mind right quick when I heard the noise comin' from down the cave walls.
Like Thanksgivin' dinner, sir. Snappin' a wishbone.
Now this changes things a little. Makes me think there's an animal in there, somehow, and that's why he's not comin' out. Might explain the rest of the missing persons, too, judgin' by the size of the haul. So I figure I'd be best served tryin' to find out what exactly'd, erm. Sent them to their maker, not to be crass.
I found it. Don't know if I can really say what it was, but I found it, alright.
I saw the suit first. Small mercy, I guess. Still looked like a person could be wearin' it up 'til the rest of it stepped out from round the corner.
Tall, tall, yeah. Not pale, more like the skin was—like it was all stretched out over the bones—kinda sausage-y, you get me? Arms didn't bend right in the sleeves, legs neither, big fist-sized eyes that looked like a fly's. Thought it had sunglasses on at first til the, uh, the lenses fluttered.
If it cared about the dark at all, I didn't notice, it just snapped round, fixed me right in the eyes like it was about to pounce on me.
Gimme a moment to remember the exact wordin' and I'll have it.
"Our agreement is ended."
It was one of those moments where you're too scared to do the smart thing, where you're so afraid you can't even run for it. I was running on autopilot, I guess, 'cause I didn't even realise I had my gun out 'til it went off.
Made a hell of a mess, alright.
Two shots, center mass. Works on most anything man-sized at that range, though I wouldn't exactly say what I ran into falls under that umbrella.
Yes, sir.
I'd appreciate the drink somethin' fierce, sir.


Early morning. Northeastern Illinois. Driving across Highway 55, a pair of hardened individuals travel towards The Windy City.
They are on a mission for a god, a reality bender that could summon damn near anything from thin air. But they aren't worried. Bravo and Mike have been together for just about their entire careers at this point, and they weren't about to let some little god, or the splinter faction of the Sonderkommando for the Paranormal who were currently housing it, break them up.
Bravo is the brains of the operation, having been transferred into the team from being a researcher at the Foundation. He is cool, calm, and articulate. Although he has a bit of a smoking problem.
Mike is the muscle. He was a D-Class that, while testing an SCP, was involved in an accident. The consequence of which has left him mentally lacking, but able to call upon strength and power no human could possess.
Together they comprise the two people in the Mobile Task Force Whiskey-Tango.
When they are about 20 kilometers outside of Chicago, Bravo pulled his car off the highway and onto a dirt road.
Mike looks over at Bravo, "Uh, what're we doin' stoppin' here, boss?"
Bravo stops the car, lights a cigarette and looks into the distance. "I got a funny feeling about this place, Mike." He puffs his cigarette. "Let's check this out." And he starts walking towards the burning barn house.
"You got it, boss." Mike says, as he follows him lethargically.
The smell in the building is a mixture of ash and burning manure. Not pleasant, but better than some odors the two of them had experienced. The subtle hint of kerosene in the flames made Bravo smile.
"Come on, Mike, let's get a closer look." He walks into the building, with his compatriot in tow.
Towards the center of the building is a large metal hatchway, blocked by a trapdoor.
"Lift it, Mike."
Mike grabs the burning hot handle of the trapdoor and shoves it open. Steam erupts from his hands and the scent of burning flesh is added to the ambient odors, but he doesn't seem to notice. Bravo puffs his cigarette. Under the cover of the trapdoor, emblazoned in black and red, is the symbol of the SKP.
"Kind of a bastardization of the Foundation's logo, wouldn't you say, Mike?"
"Yeah, no respec' at all, boss."
They both climb into the hatch and Mike closes the door behind them.
After getting to the bottom, they hear voices yelling in German to the west and follow them. Blocking their pack is a large bulkhead, like what they have in a submarine.
From the other side of the door, Bravo can hear two voices in the room.
"Mike, why don't you…" He puffs his cigarette, "…break this door down for me?"
As soon as Bravo gave the order, the hulking mass of flesh that is Whiskey-Tango Mike, slams his shoulder into the steel door. The door is broken off of its hinges and frame and is sent hurtling into the adjacent room. It slams into one of the two people standing there and continues on its path until it and the man are both embedded in the wall. Two of the members of Whiskey-Tango walk in.
"Salutations, my good sir. I hear you are in possession of an anomalous entity that we need to take off of your hands."
The man stares at Bravo in disbelief, after seeing his comrade flattened into a wall by a steel door across a whole meter of space.
"Was seid- Who are you?" The man croaks out.
"We are just a couple of individuals coming to pick up what rightfully belongs to the Foundation. So you just step aside…" He takes a puff of his cigarette, "… or else Mike here will just have to step you aside for us, capiche?"
The man looks from the hulking mass of flesh beside Bravo and then to his comrade stuck in the wall. The man nods, puts his hands up and steps back against the wall.
"Thank you, Sir."
Bravo and Mike move deeper into the facility. Through steel box corridors walled with corrugated metal, smelling softly of rust, smoke, and blood.
They travel the labyrinthine base with ease, making their way closer to the center of the complex. Bravo continues to puff his cigarette periodically, savoring its flavor.
Finally they get to a bulkhead, larger than the others they'd seen. This one has a red lamp above it and a sign that reads Achtung! Kein Zutritt!
Bravo and Mike look up at the sign.
"Uh, what's it say, boss?
"Well, Mike, if my German is correct it says, 'Welcome, Whiskey-Tango! Your skip is right this way!'"
"Well that's, uh, very nice of them to point out."
Bravo puffs his cigarette and chuckles, "That it is, Mike. That it is."
Mike grabs the wheel of the door and shoves it open, breaking it through the wall as he does so, not bothering to turn the wheel. The sound of steel being twisted and torn echos through the hallways. A screech like nails against a chalkboard. The smell of iron dust fills the air as Bravo puffs his cigarette again.
"Let's go."
They go through the door and enter a large holding cell. Scranton Reality Anchors line the walls, a good half dozen of them, and tied to a steel chair with half inch cable in the middle of the room is a woman. She looks no older than thirty. Bravo walks up to her and lifts her head,
"Well, hello there, skip."
The woman looks at him with a dead-eyed and broken expression,
"What do you want? Who are you?"
"We're your heroes. We're here to rescue you." Bravo said with a smile, taking another puff of his cigarette.
"You came to rescue me?" The woman laughs, "I have crushed entire countries beneath my foot and you think you have more power to free me than I've had? They'll kill you both before you even get to the surface."
From behind them, an alarm starts blaring. Over the loudspeaker, a voice is shouting in German.
"I think we've got a pretty good chance." Bravo says as he cuts the bonds that hold the woman with a knife he produces from a jacket pocket, "Mike, you hold them off while I get this pretty little skip to safety, alright."
"Uh, yeah, I can do that, boss."
The woman tries to get up, but collapses. Bravo helps her onto her feet and holds her with her arm across his shoulder. Mike runs to fight the enemy.
Bravo takes another puff of his cigarette.
As the two of them hobble through the base, the sound of wrenching metal, gunfire, and screams fill the air. The stench of blood becomes more fresh and pronounced. And by the time they make it to the place where Bravo had met the first guard, the air is thick with the smell of human corpses.
The woman looks over at Bravo, a little relieved and a little afraid, "How is your friend not being killed in there?"
"Well, little lady, you have only met two members of Whiskey-Tango and old Mikey has his friend with him. Whiskey-Tango Foxtrot."
The two of them make it out from the bowels of the facility and Bravo helps the woman into the team's powder blue 1964 Impala. Bravo stands outside the car and takes another puff of his cigarette.
About three meters out from the hood of the car, the ground opens up and Mike punchs through the solid earth. He walks up to his partner.
"Have any trouble in there, Mike?"
"No, me and Foxtrot handled it."
"Good."
Bravo drops his cigarette and stamps it out.

Seven Years Earlier
Researcher Borowski was feeling hungover. He had been clean for over ten years, but this last week had drained all the self control he had left. Somebody had brought in a Ouija board. Which would've been fine if it had been made by Hasbro, but, unfortunately, this one was made by Wondertainment. And it fucking worked. This shit was so out of his depth, he was getting the bends just thinking about it.
"We've determined that the object answers any question given with exactly 50% accuracy. The remaining 50% is likely made up bullshit the fucking board uses to fuck with people… Scratch that." Borowski pressed the stop button on his Dictaphone, took a deep breath, and continued, "The remaining 50% is likely a mode of deception used by the object to convince the subjects to do things that would be hazardous to their health. The Foundation has yet to experiment on the nature of the accompanying ritual, tentatively designated Sierra Charlie Papa dash X-ray One Zero Five dash Alfa, but the test is scheduled to commence with approval from the Site Director." He hit stop.
He got approval yesterday, the D-Class would be waiting in the test chamber, and he still needs to just suck up and believe that Satan actually fucking exists. Today was not shaping up to be one of his better days.
When he got to the briefing room, the D-Class was already there, his hands cuffed in front of him.
"You would be…" he looked at the second page of his clipboard, "D-2034, correct?" The D-Class looked at him with disdain, "My name is Julio Martinez. Why do you bureaucrats need to shove us into numbers?"
"I take it you want to go back to death row then, eh 'Julio'?" He was silent and looked at the ground. "That's what I thought. So, do you know the nature of this test?"
"Only what you bureaucrats tell me. I go into that room and I sit in some chair. What is this even about?"
"Good, you were briefed properly. Please proceed to the door."
"But wha-"
Before Julio had a chance to finish his sentence, Dr. Borowski had already gone into the observation room and shut the door.
Julio sat there for a moment, worried about what all of this was about. He had been arrested for accidentally killing his neighbor with his car. Of course, they'd had a fight the day before because that pendejo called him a- He let out a long breath. So, the cops assumed it was all planned ahead of time. Puto cops. This all was probably just some sort of excessively cruel way to punish him for the family he was born into. He sighed, knowing that he had no chance of appealing his case to anyone, got up, and walked into the room.
"D-2034, please sit in the seat provided."
"What the hell is this a-"
"D-2034, please refrain from speaking during the experiment."
In the observation room, Dr. Borowski had a small instruction booklet that had come with the object. How to Make Your Friends Possessed! was proudly written over the top of it. A bunch of the text was written in a presumed anomalous language the foundation hadn't yet fully deciphered, but the instructions had a pronunciation key so…
Julio heard some weird words coming from the observation room, and he wondered what kind of weird cult he'd gotten mixed up with. It was then that he noticed the Ouija board, because the puck or whatever it was called began to move without him even touching it. He got up to see what it was spelling.
Hello…
J… U… L… I… O…
Julio didn't like this shit one bit. He didn't have long to do so, however, since as soon as the last letter was spelled he was knocked back into his seat. Pale blue gas filled the room, emanating from the planchette, funneling their way into the D-Class' mouth and nostrils. He went limp in his chair.
Dr. Borowski blinked. That wasn't expected. He pressed the intercom button,
"D-2034, are you alright?"
No response.
He rushed into the room and shook Julio's shoulder.
"Julio! Julio, wake up!" He couldn't lose a D-Class. He knew that they were barely even actually people, by the Foundation's standards, but not on his third week and after all the shit with the Satan board. He wouldn't be able to handle- Julio's eye snapped open, his irises red and his sclera bloodshot. He smiled and opened his mouth. A bone-chilling hollow voice came from it,
"Hello, Master."
Dr. Borowski blinked again, "Master? What do you mean?"
"You gave me this fantastic body to play in and, in return, you have the ability to tell me how I am to use it."
The doctor felt like he was going to be sick. Now he was in control of a fucking demon?! He swallowed his nausea,
"Get out of him."
"You want me to give the little human back control?"
"Yes!"
"Alright then, but I'm not sure if you'll like what he's left with."
The D-Class closed his eyes. When they opened, they were their normal brown color. Dr. Borowski sighed with relief.
"Julio, are you alright? You gave me a scare."
The man in the chair looked up at him with a vacant expression, "Who's Hoo Leo?"
His voice sounded croaked and broken, almost like someone with a cracked jaw. The doctor's eyes widened. He hadn't killed him, but he might have done something much worse. He fell to his knees and looked into Julio's eyes.
"I'm- I'm going to fix this. Okay? I'm- I'm going to go to the Site Director. A-and he's going to sort this all out." He got up and ran out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and began walking to the Director's office as quickly as he could.

By Order of O5 Council
Date: ██ September 20██

The formation of a new Mobile Task Force is hereby authorized to handle Tier 1 Sensitive Recovery and Search and Destroy type missions. This task force will be designated MTF Whiskey-Tango ("The Frères Azur") and will be comprised of the following members:
Dr. Borowski, Mieszko (Designation "Bravo")
D-2034, Martinez, Julio (Designation "Mike")
SCP-████ (Designation "Foxtrot")


Having retrieved their orders from O5-9, the Intelligence Agency's duo of snipers set out deep into Chaos Insurgency territory in full grass camo outfits. Making their way to where they believed the intended target was, they both had the mindset that failure is not an option

North steadily looked through the scope of his rifle. He watched as four operatives patrolled the outside gate.
Kneeling beside North, as he looked through a set of rangefinders, Bixtwist leaned over whispering.
“750 meters, wind at two clicks an hour east.”
Taking the new information into account, North repositioned his rifle as he scanned the side of the compound for the target.
“Bix, you sure this is the right Chaos base?”
Bixtwist gave a silent nod as he quickly glanced at his map.
Upon hearing the sounds of alarms. The team of two suddenly dropped closer to the ground.
As he continued to scan the compound with his rangefinder, Bixtwist leaned over.
“North, we got an additional problem.”
“Is it time to book it?”
“Worse, Epsilon-6 is doing a raid…”
“The ‘Village Idiots?' We're in the middle of the forest, what are they doing out here?”
“I'm just as confused as you are, North.”
An explosion roared in the distance, making both of them flinch.
“North, shouldn't we be helping out Epsilon-6?”
Staring at the battle taking place on the compound grounds, North shook his head.
“We can't. The Village Idiots can't know. It's hard enough to get a Task Force amnestics. Nine would kill us.”
“Wouldn't Nine also kill us if they died?”
Sighing, North peered down the scope of his rifle once more.
“Status?”
Instantly kneeling down beside North, as they have done multiple times before, Bixtwist looked over the compound with his rangefinder.
“730 meters, the wind is at one and a half clicks an hour southeast.”
Carefully aiming his rifle, North gave the trigger a quick tug. The sound of gunpowder igniting was lost to the sound of combat in the compound. A Chaos Insurgency operative fell from their position, with a quarter sized hole in the side of their head.
Carefully repeating the process making sure the Task Force wouldn't take notice, North and Bixtwist watched over Epsilon-6 until each of them in the Task Force had made their way into the compound.
Leaning up looking over the scope of his rifle, North glanced towards his partner.
“We should head out, no doubts someone would've picked up on the muzzle flash.”
Giving a thumbs up, Bixtwist packed his rangefinder in his pouch. The pair of them started to crawl further into the forest sticking within the overgrowth.
Hearing the loud roar in the distance, the two of them held their ground as the trees started to bend. They both watched as an attack helicopter flew over their position heading towards the base.
“That isn't one of ours Bix.”
“Let's loop around and get a better position.”
Wasting no time, both of them arched back looking over the compound from a new angle.
Placing his rifle on the ground laying beside it, North put his sights on the hovering helicopter.
Bix using his rangefinder, whispered.
“620 meters, wind at two point three clicks an hour southeast.”
Putting the tip of his crosshair on the pilot's forehead. They watched as the helicopter dropped from the sky. Exploding in at the wall of the compound. With unison, Bixtwist and North started to move from their position.
The Chaos Insurgency base was in utter madness. The duo crept along the tree line, staying within the safety of weeds and grass.
Hearing the sound of gunfire fade, they glanced at the compound to witness it in a blaze of orange and yellow. They quietly made their way further into the forest. A sound roared behind them as another helicopter flew overhead. Bixtwist and North quickly stopped.
Trying to hide in the bushes, hoping their camo outfits would suffice, the team of two broke into a sprint as a floodlight shined directly on them.
Glancing back to check if Bixtwist was keeping up with him, North watched in horror. He witnessed a muzzle flash from the side of the helio. Time appeared to slow down for North. As he watched, Bixtwist fell to the ground with a hole in the center of his chest. Glancing up to the flying metal machine aiming his rifle, North hesitated seeing the sigil for Epsilon-6.
Ducking into the tree lines, hearing a bullet pass his ear. North grabbed a blue flare off his vest, igniting it without hesitation with hopes Epsilon-6 would notice they are on the same team.
His ears ringing from the sound of a gunshot. Feeling a bullet penetrate his hip, North fell to the ground with a loud thud.

Hearing a loud knock his office door, North flinched as he was snapped back into reality. Breathing heavily he set down the photo of his late friend, Bixtwist next to multiple framed medals on his desk with utmost care.
Slowly standing up, making sure his tie was straight, North tried to calm down, getting control of his breathing. He could never get the ringing out of his ears from that fateful night.