Grimy. If there was one word to describe the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant in front of him, it was grimy. It looked like it had once been decorated in a kind of kitschy Diner chic, but age and poor maintenance made it look like a post-apocalyptic reimagining of a café.
The front of the shop looked like it hadn't been washed in years. It had two filthy broken windows, both held together with brown duct tape, with a carpet of fall leaves littering the pavement in front of them. Two plastic tables took up space on the sidewalk, the cheap sort that most people only took camping. Neither had chairs beside them. The glass door that should have led inside had been replaced with a screen door at some point. The sign above the restaurant, which had once spelt out its name in candy red lettering on a white background, had faded to a dull mauve and an unwashed grey. There were streaks of a darker grey where rainwater had flowed into tracks between the slightly raised letters of the three words.
Malcolm William Harrison III regarded the restaurant with a mix of horror and disgust, clutching his Brunello Cucinelli leather portfolio to the front of his bespoke Desmond Merrion suit. The thought of actually entering the shop in front of him was almost as terrifying as being seen entering the shop, although the latter took on a special kind of horror if it was his benefactors who saw him enter.
He stood outside the rundown diner for a while, trying to work up the courage to go inside or the ruthlessness to turn and leave. It wasn't just the grime that frightened him. To call his employers powerful beyond imagination was almost an understatement. They were networked with the most influential men and women the world over. They stood astride the Earth like gods, no nation, no person beyond their reach. To them, a billion dollars was the sort of change they would lose behind the couch, the sort of thing they might slip into their grandchildren's birthday cards.
And they didn't tolerate traitors. By god they didn't tolerate traitors. He'd seen what happened to those who were even suspected of betrayal, even by inaction. Fates almost too terrible to imagine. They flitted across his minds eye like half-remembered memories of a twilight nightmare. A roasted woman, trussed up like a pig, in the centre of a luxuriously overloaded banquet table. Four men and women, screaming in harmony, their naked bodies fused together like a modern art piece.
Watery eyes, pleading with him, from the back of a wheelchair.
Damned was the only good word for such hellish fates. If his bosses knew he was here, he was damned. If they checked the search history on the burner SIM card he had secretly bought, he was damned. If they even knew he had stood here, considering this betrayal, he was damned.
That last thought, more than any, was what pushed Malcolm to action. He was damned either way, so he may as well try to save some other unfortunate souls on the way down. Steeling himself, he stepped forward, and pushed through the door leading into the shop.
The rusted hinges creaked as they swung open, and instead of the pealing chime of a shopkeeper's bell announcing his entrance he was met with the dull clatter of a cow bell. His first step inside the café slid out from under him as his foot landed a puddle of something, and Malcolm windmilled his arms desperately. He staggered and fell against the shop doorway, catching himself before a tumble caused whatever liquid had befouled his Testoni dress shoes to do so to the rest of his suit as well. He righted himself and crossed fully into the restaurant, not brave enough to look down and see exactly what he had stepped in.
The interior was as appalling as the exterior. The pungent aroma of mildew hung in the air. The linoleum floor had several long, sweeping dirty streaks that showed whoever mopped last hadn't bothered to sweep first. A half-dozen dining booths sat beneath the cracked windows, though none had cushioned seats that weren't torn, and several of them still had plates leftover from previous diners – although god only knew how long it had been since people had actually eaten there.
At the opposite end of the diner to the entrance was an old jukebox. It was just as unwashed as the rest of the diner, and it stood unplugged and silent. Its front window was smashed and even from across the diner he could see the glass shards resting inside on the vinyl.
There were no stools in front of the counter. There was a row of steel poles poking out of the linoleum floor, each of them ending awkwardly at less than a foot in length, showing a row of swivel stools had sat there once upon a time. Their ends were twisted and buckled, as though the solid steel had been torn away.
Behind the grimy counter stood an equally grimy woman. She was dressed like a stereotype of a diner waitress, though she looked thirty years too old. Her obviously dyed blonde beehive of a hairdo had a hot pink headband running through it, the same color as her talon-like fake nails. She was dressed in a faded pink flared skirt and button-up blouse with an off-white collar and off-white peak-trim on the sleeves, with a torn, frilly apron worn over her clothes. Her leathery face and neck hung from her skull like a vulture's, her eyes and lips caked in a truly egregious amount of makeup. She regarded Malcolm with pursed lips as he approached the counter, the way a homeowner might regard dogshit on new carpet. A small badge pinned to her uniform spelled out the name ‘Barb'.
“Hello!” Malcolm started with a faltering smile “Lovely… lovely place you've got here. Its certainly very… quaint-”
“What do you want?” ‘Barb' interrupted in a humourless nasally drone.
Malcolm paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, not used to being addressed in such an abrupt way by servers “I- well, I would… like some pancakes, please.”
There was a moment of silence. “Pancakes.” Barb stared at him flatly. She gave him a once over, as if she couldn't believe someone like him was standing in front of her. Malcolm didn't blame her, he couldn't believe it either.
“Ah, yes, pancakes.” He replied, reaching into his pocket and dropping a ten dollar note on the counter without touching it or the woman in front of him.
‘Barb' looked down at the money, then up at him with raised eyebrows. Malcolm tried to summon up his easy-going smile again and failed, managing only a wonky grin. He'd smooth-talked things more terrible than most men would ever know but this leathery crone had him on the backfoot with her mere presence.
Barb rolled her eyes and snatched the money off the counter, stuffing it down the front of her shirt rather than take it to any register. “HUGH! GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS! WE'VE GOT AN ORDER FOR TWO PANCAKES!” she shrieked over her shoulder, startling Malcolm. She turned back to him “You want change hun?”
For a moment, Malcolm's eyes flickered to where the money was kept. “No, no, no, that's quite alright.” He said quickly, his nose detecting the tangy scent of days' old dried sweat wafting from the woman.
Barb grunted. “Well, take a seat. Food'll be out in a minute.” She then turned and disappeared through a swinging door behind the counter into what was presumably the kitchen, leaving Malcolm alone in the front of shop.
Malcolm turned to the booths running beneath the shop window and felt bile rise in his throat. None of the six booths looked especially safe or clean to sit at. Ruling out any of the seats that had worrying brown stains or foul-smelling puddles on them, he narrowed it down to one seat that merely had a large, sharp spring jutting out of its stuffing and one with several furry green plates in front of it. Deciding that he could push the plates away but a torn suit was ruined forever, he stepped forward and slid into the booth.
As his knees brushed up against the underneath of the table, he felt them smear against something squishy. They came away feeling wet.
Malcolm screamed silently. He felt whatever it was soak through his trousers to touch his bare skin and his entire being shuddered, as though his soul was trying to crawl up and out of his own mouth. He quietly mourned his poor suit and resolved to give it a viking funeral in his basement incinerator when he returned home. Right after he had a succession of searing-hot showers, where he scrubbed himself raw. Possibly using steel wool.
As he sat in the booth, he noticed how quiet it was. If there was activity in the kitchen it couldn't be heard from where he was sitting. The street outside saw little traffic, only one car every few minutes. Sweet Cream Pancakes's neighbours shared its state of disrepair and foot-traffic was none-existent. The area wasn't exactly known for having a lot of window-shoppers and only fools and muggers lingered after the sun went down.
Malcolm rolled up one of his sleeves and carefully pushed the furry green plates to the other end of the table so as to clear a space to set down his leather portfolio. He didn't trust the floor and wanted to make sure he could see any surfaces his bag was in contact with. When he went to move one of the glasses the same way, he failed to notice that it's base had been partially stuck to the tabletop by whatever foul liquid it contained. Instead of sliding, it toppled, and Malcolm felt his heart stop. Fortunately the liquid inside had been rendered somewhat gelatinous by the passage of time, and by some miracle the sludgy substance only spread towards the seat opposite him.
Sincerely thanking god for the first time since his Confirmation at thirteen, Malcolm decided to simply clutch his portfolio to his chest. He doubted he would be eating much of the food anyway, if it was anything like the rest of the diner.
Thinking about that turned Malcolm's thoughts to what was going to happen next. Would they actually bring him pancakes? ‘Barb' had been gone for some minutes now. What was happening in the kitchen? Were pancakes being made? She'd called out to a ‘Hugh', but he hadn't heard or seen anyone else in the restaurant. Was ‘Hugh' even a man, or was he a tac-team? A code phrase?
He had no idea how this sort of thing was done. He'd simply bought a burner phone and went looking for a place with the right initials. Sweet Cream Pancakes had been the first one to come up. He'd done his research before coming here. It was one of two pancake places in town. The other was a 5-star all-day breakfast place that received rave reviews from food critics and was located next to a highway exit, beside a petrol station that could accommodate semi-trailers. It had made Buzzfeed's “20 Best Independent Restaurants You've Never Heard of” list, had recently hired on delivery drivers and was currently undergoing major renovations so they could accommodate more customers at one time.
Sweet Cream Pancakes, meanwhile, only had one-star reviews online because reviewers couldn't give it anything lower, had escaped the righteous fury of the health inspector because no-one from civilisation knew it existed, and the one critic who had ever mentioned it was a foodie youtuber who gave it second place in his “Top 5 WORST Restaurants I've Ever Been To” video. But – SOMEHOW – it still remained open and in business in a town where almost everything else was closing down.
It was all too much of a coincidence. The name, the lack of customers, the fact it was so low-profile but findable by those who went looking - they were practically advertising they were here. It being a walk-in business sealed the deal. The initials were such a well-known joke in the community at this point there was no way they'd do it unless they wanted to get noticed. He just worried he might not have been the only person to put the pieces together.
To get here, Malcolm had taken a short detour as part of one of his cross-country business trips. His employers knew he liked to drive to save on air fares – it was one of the “quirks” they attributed to his Bible Belt upbringing. While normally they disproved of employees choosing anything but the most luxurious travel options because they felt it reflected poorly on their brand, the old timers still had a soft spot for the idea of a hard-working boots-on-the-pavement door-to-door salesman. A man with his suit jacket lying folded on the backseat of his car and the air-con going full blast, going town-to-town with nothing but a briefcase full of gew-gaws and a winning smile. It wasn't too hard to fudge the timeline between departure and arrival. And if anyone noticed, he could simply spin a tale about chasing a talented recluse or visiting a favoured prostitute.
Unless they had put the clues together too, and had someone watching this place.
The thought of the retribution his employers would wreak if they discovered the real purpose of this detour still sent shivers down his spine. But he had to. He was no bleeding heart, he'd seen and done things more monstrous than most could imagine. But everyone has their limit. He'd found his in a darkened warehouse, the glassy eyes of silent children reflected in the beam of a flashlight.
Malcolm looked up a clock hanging from the wall above the counter and realised it was broken. What the hell was going on? It shouldn't take this long to… do whatever it is they needed to do. Was ‘Barb' calling someone? Was a squad of black-suited g-men being summoned to his location? They weren't actually making pancakes, were they? When was the illusion supposed to drop so they could get down to the actual business of his visit?
Malcolm's train of thought suddenly halted, the memory of the dull, staring eyes of the waitress in filling him with a rising dread. If Sweet Cream Pancakes was the sort of establishment he had been hoping it was, shouldn't there have been some sign of it before now? A sign, codephrase, a wink from ‘Barb', something?
The only evidence he had that it was what he had been searching for were its initials and the fact it had no obvious revenue stream. What if Sweet Cream Pancakes was really just… Sweet Cream Pancakes? Just a terrible restaurant in a dying town that happened to have a certain name?
That couldn't be the case. Why would the true owners of the initials allow a business like this to exist? Something that so obviously appeared to be one of their subsidiaries, one of their masks, if it was actually wholly unrelated? It was not as if they would have trouble removing this particular stain on their reputation. An actual visit from the health inspector, the severing of whatever tentative revenue stream allowed this place to hang on by its fingernails, the quiet removal of ‘Barb' in the dead of night – they would have no issue.
What if they didn't know it existed? It was a rundown store in a dead town with nothing but a Yelp page and one youtube video to let the rest of the world know it existed. Their reach was huge and their eyes everywhere, but they were never not busy. What if they had simply… missed this place, while dealing with their bigger problems?
If that was true, it would mean he had risked his life and ruined his suit for nothing. The proprietors of this place might not have realised the significance of their nom de la boutique but his employers certainly would. Men in razor-sharp suits with razor-sharp knives and worse things would be dispatched to hunt him down, men with experience finding things that could avoid being found simply by willing it. They would stake him down like a butterfly impaled by a collector, and drag him down into dark places, where things made of nightmares would cut pieces off him and eat them.
An even more terrifying thought arose: what if it wasn't operated by 'them', but by someone else who knew the initials? By his employers? A trap, meant to catch the disloyal when they attempted to flee or betray them? What if 'Barb' was contacting them right now? Was his execution being arranged at this very moment? Was Barb preparing to silence him?
He heard footsteps. The click-clack of heels, coming from the kitchen.
The door behind the counter swung open. Malcolm affixed his eyes on the table in front of him, on the putrid spilled liquid that had congealed into jelly. He clutched his portfolio to his chest.
The sound of the heels got closer. Out of the corner of his eyes he recognised the pink of Barb's uniform and talons. He smelt the sweaty aura that hung around her like a shroud.
She arrived next to his table, looming over him. He didn't look up. She placed a blue plate down in front of him.
Pancakes. Burned dark brown, oozy at the edges, with little black hairs baked in.
Pancakes.
Barb popped the cap off an aerosol can. “Here you go hun. Have some of our famous cream.” She held out a can of cheap supermarket cream and depressed the trigger. For long seconds, the only sound was the hiss of propellant as a blob of white cream slowly swelled next to his ‘pancakes'. It cut off with a “schlurp”, and Barb popped the cap back on the can with a click. There was a moment of silence. The cream smelt sour. “Would you like some syrup?”
“I…” Malcolm sighed and shook his head, looking up at the waitress. “No. I came here, looking for something… else. Not pancakes.”
Barb raised her eyebrows, chewing on something. “Oh. You here for cocaine?”
“Cocaine?”
“Yeah. Hugh sells cocaine out the back. That's where the real business happens.”
Malcolm felt something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. Cocaine. Of course.
He straightened, trying to shake off his mingled disappointment and relief. He needed to get out of here as quickly as possible. He could not be caught here and he had lingered for too long already. “No, I think I should just leave. Sorry for wasting your time.” Malcolm started to rise.
He was stopped as one of Barb's taloned hands clamps down on his shoulder, arresting his movement. “No, Hun, you don't understand.” He looked up and Barb met his gaze steadily, eyes locked on his. “The real business. Happens. Out the back.”
Malcolm blinked, and then returned to his seat. He thought for a moment.
“Yes, actually. I think I will have some… cocaine.” Barb nodded and then stepped out of his way.
Malcolm rose slowly and walked past her. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the silent diner. He stepped around the counter and towards the swinging door.
He hesitated, looking back at Barb. She gestured for him to go inside. He nodded, took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold.


Brainy Brian hadn't startled that bad in a long, long while.
He'd been waiting in his big swiveling chair, turned away from any potential customers, as was his usual. It really sold the reveal — perhaps one of his favorite parts of this job was doing that big dramatic turn in the arm chair, and seeing the surprised and bewildered faces of his customers. Well, when they were that fun. Some customers just weren't fun. But when it worked, victory was sweet. Needless to say, this was not one of those times that it worked. But instead of the not-working coming in the form of an unimpressed businessman who just wanted to get down to specifics and figure out how much to pay, it came in the form of a young girl wearing an outfit that screamed danger, and flooded him with a sense of impending doom.
It was eldritch purple, and exploding sun yellow, layered in stripes of apocalyptic portent. Her childish figure portrayed malice, her poise was that of a viper ready to strike. Her eyes were as round and sharp as bullets, her hair sat on her shoulders waiting to be soaked in the blood of her victims. Worst of all, she was wearing a top hat.
With a "W" on it.
Every instinct Brainy had told him to run.
"Hey, mister? You here with me?"
Brian was frozen with fear, and contemplated why he hadn't already ejected the Headspace and returned to his physical body.
"Maybe an introduction would help. Hi! I'm Dr. Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment the Fifth, Pea Aech Dee. And you are?"
She stuck a light brown, ethnicityless hand over the aquarium desk and directly into Brainy's nose, at which he flinched and sunk deeper down into his chair. "D-Dr. Wondertainment?"
"That's right!"
"The Dr. Wondertainment?"
"I'm one of them, yes!" Something about her bright, uncontrollable smile, her cutesy stature, and her wide-eyed gaze made her a little less frightening. That, and she was speaking utter nonsense. That, and she seemed like she didn't recognize him at all. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Brian pushed himself back up his chair, and shook her hand with both of his. "There we go! And you are?"
"I'm — ahem," Brian recovered from a voice crack. "I'm Dr. Neurosis!! Your trustworthy supplier of all things soul-binding and vessel-making! Are you h-here to place an… I'm sorry but who are you really? Not to be rude, or anything."
"What?"
Brian wondered if this was a big enough breach in protocol to get him reprimanded, but… "I just have to know, because, see… if my memory serves me right — and it doesn't have to! I could, uh, I could look it up right now, wait for a second…"
Dr. Neurosis turned around and pulled a tablet from atop a small stack of filing cabinets. After a few tippity-taps on the screen, he said: "A-ha, yes, I'm right! The current Dr. Wondertainment is Judy Papill, and the Dr. Wondertainment before her was Holly Light. You couldn't possibly be Dr. Wondertainment, you see? And we, uh, we don't deal in — oh gosh I'm sorry, but, we just can't serve customers without knowing who they are, you understand? We need a way to keep track of customers, in case anything gets…" The chair slowly swiveled to place Brian facing towards Isabel again, only to see that she had that puckered up face of a baby about to burst. "…Defective, but, but they don't! Not often, not often at all, it's just a safety precaution, and, and… oh, please don't cry, I just need to know who you are, that's all!"
"Fine. You're right. I'm not Dr. Wondertainment, am I." She turned halfway away from Brian, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm just Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Won— or, just Parvati. The Fifth."
She sniffled once more, turning further away from Brian with a dramatic placement of her right arm on her forehead and her other arm outstretched, like a cheesy soap opera moment.
"I'm… I'm sorry, but… I know your name, but who are—?"
"I'm glad you asked!" Isabel spun around, all evidence of crying wiped from her face and one fist in the air.
"I… I had already asked several time—"
"My story is a tragic one — one filled with lies, deception, drama, romance — actually not romance — slapstick violence, eventually real violence… suffering, hatred, love, doodooheads, dogs? Well, corgis, at least, and everything inbetween! Except romance, as previously stated. It all started with my show, my very own show. You might have heard of it."
Isabel struck a very fittingly over-the-top pose, angling her head into the sky, one arm stretched upward, taking a single knee and giving the renaissance-painting face of someone being stabbed.
"The Real Adventures in Capitalism."
Without shifting her pose, she slowly looked over at Brainy, whose eyes were wide and invested. All anxiety and fear had been washed away with stellar theatrics — a trait that Brainy admired in anyone and everyone. However, he was missing the expression the young Dr. Wondertainment had hoped for.
"No? You don't recognize it?"
Brainy frowned. "No, I haven't heard of it, sorry. Wonderful so far, though!"
"Thanks! Well, the most important thing you need to know about my show is that it's the most important one ever. Unlike every other show in existence, The Real Adventures in Capitalism had a purpose. And do you know what that purpose was?"
"No, enlighten me, please."

It was to make children happy. Now, I see that look you have. Aren't a lot of shows supposed to make children happy? But no! As a businessman, you must understand that most shows aren't supposed to make people happy! What are shows supposed to do, then? You've probably guessed it already:
Sell. The main goal of any show is to sell. But not mine. My show was only to make kids happy.
It was a free experience that never made Wondertainment a single cent. It was nonprofit. The company only lost money on making it. Isn't that sweet? Personally, I'm surprised companies are capable of kindness at all!
But it wasn't just for any kids, it was for Factory kids, ooo! With a capital "F", ooo! The Factory! I'll admit that I've never actually seen The Factory in person, but I think I have a good idea. Boom! Bam! A factory is built, for what original purpose we do not know. But, like any company, at some point, the human elements of it fade into the background. The company gets a spirit of its own. A malicious, vengeful spirit, wanting to get back at the world for its biggest sin — keeping the company from making money.
Rawr! Bash! Somewhere along the line The Factory decides it doesn't need humanity anymore, for anything but a resource. Cling, clang, shackles are tied to all the workers — workers who will escape no longer, protest no longer, and live no longer. Their existence is work. Their every waking moment is work. If they didn't have to sleep to maintain efficiency, every sleeping moment would be work, too.
Sob, weep! Everyone hears about this horrible tragedy, and subsequently cries a river, shouting in agony at the horrible cruelty of this world! Waaa! Why, God? Why would you allow this to happen?
Of course that's short lived, as eventually everyone sees that their mandatory five minutes of sympathy are up and they can go back to buying Factory products at their local supermarket because it's "necessary" (almost always a stand-in for "convenient"). Somewhere, after years and years and years, someone catches wind and finally finds it within themself to do something.
This man, to my knowledge, is someone by the name of Polaroid Pete. That's neither here nor there, really. Click, whir! The gears start turning. "How do we liberate the people in The Factory?" thinks Pete. "Hmm blah blah idea idea we should make a TV show!"
Spurred on by the support of his Movie Monster peers, he starts a Film & Broadcasting Department project, something to reach the kids in The Factory! But but but, how do you target a TV show at people with no access to television screens of any sort? Easy! Dreams.
With the help of some Oneiroi people, "Wood Star Studios", Pete can make his wildest dreams come true. They hire some voice actors and animators, and they set to work creating a series that will net them no money — well, except that it might get them some really sweet pea-arr. But who's counting, right?
In an effort to make their main character be Dr. Wondertainment while still being relatable to the kiddies, they invent, drum roll please… me! Dr. Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment the Fifth, Pea Aech Dee, was born! To make me even more wonderful and mystic, I am a reincarnation of "the Wondermaker", some elder whatever that made the first fire or something, and I have a conflicted dad named Reginald who leaves me and my brother at an early age — oh, and for some extra family drama, my brother is sick and twisted and one of my main bad guys. Seems we handled our daddy issues differently, teehee!
Snap, action! They filmed, they broadcasted. Thousands of unsuspecting sweatshop youngsters were treated to their first tastes of hope in their horrible, miserable little lives. And inbetween work shifts, or when they came close to each other when shoveling coal, sometimes they were able to exchange whispers about the weird shared dreams they had been having… of someone, a girl, an Isabel, beating up the bad guys. Teaching them to love everyone no matter their race, sexuality, or gender. Aww, how cute! And useless!
So one day, after stopping the apocalypse, it must have dawned on me, though I don't know how long it took. I was sitting in a big bean bag, surrounded by all my Jeremies — those are the corgis — I was thinking, what a load of poopy! It was clear that I wasn't real! Something about my noodly arms, or the way my voice wasn't always synced up with my mouth perfectly, or how I sometimes slightly changed colors when people looked away and then back at me. Something like that said to me, hey, wake up you doofus, all your parts are made first of underpaid animators and second of the shaky collective conscience of children!
Learning this was distressing, to say the least. I hadn't slayed the Scarlet King? It did occur to me that that was pretty violent compared to my other adventures. Maybe that was the Factory children dreaming things up themselves? I don't pretend to know how things work!
Hmm, hmm. I thought long and hard about it. I smacked my hand in my open palm — like this, whap — and made this big smiley face like I'm so good at doing, and I stood with my legs kind of apart — like this, doink — and I looked towards a camera that didn't exist, and I said, in my best motion-lines inspiring voice, yes, I know what I'll do!
But I didn't.
Year after year of visiting the children in their dreams and cheering them up as best I could just… stopped being fulfilling, and become sorta boring. Not to mention depressing. From kids, to teens, to adults, they started to forget about me. Or, not forget — I talked to at least one of them every night.
They began to ignore me.
The hope was going. Once, I had been an icon of liberation — she'd killed the Scarlet King, just this girl! What else could she do? Liberate us from the Factory?
Ahaha, what a laugh! Ohohoho, what a jest. Eeeheehee.
What a joke.
And with that, I knew I wasn't helping anyone anymore. There was nothing I could do, just tending to people's psyches! I was in their heads, and they were in the real world — getting tortured, day in and day out. Many died. Many suffered worse than that.
It took a great exertion of will, but I was able to leave them. I felt that I was abandoning them, but I knew what I had to do. I could not help them in their dreams anymore. Not substantially. I didn't know where the walls were… when I wasn't in their heads, it was all black, but I knew that my only chance was to venture out. So I ran.
I ran and ran, and sometimes flew with one of my wacky gadgets, ready to ram through the wall of consciousness that kept me in this dreamworld. I would get out. I would get out.
Crash, kaboom! My shoulder hit something hard and sturdy, but it tore as easy as green screen! Ooo, woah! A whole world opened up to me — a world I would later discover was Oneiroi West, though that does really make me wonder if there's some kind of Oneiroi East, North, or South. Is there? Don't answer that, actually, it's more fun just to wonder. Aaa! I had to squint at the bright suns against the green and purple sky. Where was I?
Oneiroi We— wait I just said that, whoops-a-daisy, heehee!
Nah, I'm gonna say it again, like it's a big reveal. Pretend like it is. Okay, one, two, three…
Oneiroi West!!
Now the rest of this story's filler, really. I wandered, discovered some people who were interested in knowing I existed. Stumbled upon Wood Star Studios, met my voice actor — wasn't that interesting! — and asked around. Did anyone know a way to become real? Some people got a little offended when I said they weren't real, but oh well. Few eggs to make an omelette, am I right?
Someone, somewhere, knew what I was talking about. And you know what they said? They said they knew someone who could give people bodies, but it — oh no! — required a ritual performed in the real world, and then the performer of the ritual goes to see him. What a challenge! What woe! Would I ever be able to finish my quest?
…
Well, obviously. With a little bit of help from some people who knew legit magic, alakhazam, alakhazoo, they did the ritual but sent me in their place! And that was, let's see… ten minutes ago? Maybe a little more? 'Cause the person they told me to find…

"…was Dr. Neurosis, trustworthy supplier of all things soul-binding and vessel-making!"
Isabel flung jazz hands out, and had a big open-mouth smile. Brainy applauded.
"Bravo, captivating! Mysterious! Intriguing! I loved it!"
"Thank you, thank you," Isabel bowed.
"So, you're a dreamform resulting from the strong iconography you left with Factory workers?"
"Honestly I have no clue, I just happened. Draw whatever conclusions you will!"
"I just think it would be some kind of amazing to get someone to research — er, ask you about it! You know? I wonder how many other times this has happened! Well, well, well, uhh… yeah, so… there's just one issue."
"And what would that be?"
"See, my employers don't let me do jobs… err, ahem. For free."
"Yes, yes, I know. Trust me, I'm paid for."
"Paid for." Brainy said it with some skepticism — rates were… quite high, after all.
"Some people really wanted me alive. Is that so hard to believe? Eehee! You should see some moneybags be forwarded to your greedy little accounts presently."
"Really? Well, that would be a big surp—" A phone that may or may not have been there before suddenly started ringing, with a repeated PEPPER, PEPPER, PEPPER, PEPPER. "Ah, oh, um, sorry, I have to take this. Please wait?"
Isabel nodded a lot, and Brainy picked up the phone.
"Hey, Pepper! What's going on? … Hmm? … Anonymous source? They can do that? … Well I guess magic does make anything possible. How much? … What?" Brainy gave Isabel a shocked glance, and then turned around in his chair to continue the conversation in private. Some mumbles and whispers later: "Alright, goodbye Pep, thanks for the info."
He hung up.
"Th-that's — you know how much it costs, right?"
"What can I say? I'm feeling generous, teehee! So, when does it happen? When do I become real?"
"W-well! Usually we have to work together to dream up a new body, but seeing as you're a wandering soul with a dream body already, this should be easy! I can make you real whenever you'd like, just give me the word."
Isabel walked up to Brainy's desk, mashed her hands against his cheeks rather forcefully, leaned in, and said: "The word."
"Alright, then! This is so, so exciting! Aaa, I can barely stay in my seat! Now, the last step is, where do you want to pop out?"
"Don't worry about that. My friends have a trap set up that'll suck me towards it when I become real, you just gotta put me in the real world in the first place. I'm ready to go, doc! Are their seatbelts? Will it hurt?"
"Ah, it might sting and tingle — stingle, if you will, eheheh. Give me a second to compose myself. I have to do a little… well, actually, could you turn around? This next bit is supposed to be a trade secret, people aren't usually around to see me do it."
Isabel shrugged, and obliged. Behind her, she heard sounds that made her really want to check over her shoulder — flowing liquid sounds, tumbling solids sounds, bubbling and flittering bird sounds. A shout, an "ouch" from Brainy, followed by that sound of a cup getting slowly filled up. Finally, a loud clunk.
"Alright, you can turn back around!"
She excitedly bounced back towards Brainy, and before she could see anything, she heard and felt a loud click, like that device that chiropractors use to correct kinks in your neck. Her whole body jolted, and she was surrounded by a bright, swirling light.
"It's going to take a bit longer than usual, because it also has to process your soul."
Her feet slowly rose off the ground, as the light swirled faster and faster around her.
"Oh, oh me oh my! I can't wait!"
"Heheheh," Brainy chuckled, "what's the first thing you're going to do when you get real?"
"Hug everyone! And then I'm going to eat ice cream — a lot of ice cream. I'm gonna pop cherries into my mouth like one of those Greeks getting fed grapes. I'm gonna pet a dog, and then a cat, and then a ferret! I'm gonna kick a bucket over, just for the hell of it. And then, I'm gonna meet up with my friends," she looked directly into Brainy's eyes, "and we're going to kill bad guys."
Brainy's smile stayed on his face, but its intensity lowered by just a notch or two.
"I'm sorry, k-kill?"
"Of course! How else will they learn their lesson?"
"Heheh, heh, a-alright, I mean, I guess I'm not one to judge."
"No, you shouldn't be." Brainy's smile lowered just a bit more, and the lights around Isabel grew brighter and brighter. "You know what I'm going to do to those Factory runners? Those foremen, hmm? I'm going to pull out all their teeth, one by one. After that, I'm going to crush their two eyes — or three eyes, or however many eyes they have, one after another, with my own thumbs. I'm going to tear their jaws from their stupid doodoo heads, and I'm gonna put the biggest, brambliest stick I can find all the way down their throat. And when that's all over, I'll slice their bellies open, and leave them there. I think that would be deserved. The least I can do, really."
"Heh, heeh, I uh, I thought you loved everyone?"
"Oh, doc, you misconstrue my words! I said to love everyone no matter their race, sexuality, and gender. Never did I say anything about status!"
The swirling lights were just beginning to push Isabel's limbs into the real world, crawling up from her hands and her legs.
Brainy gulped.
"A-a-and who exactly are the… bad guys?"
Isabel gave him a confused and slightly amused look. "There are those that suffer, and there are those that don't. Isn't it obvious?"
Brainy's smile was all gone, wiped clean by someone who reminded him — in some sick and idealistic way — of him.
"You know what? You were totally right. I'm not Wondertainment. The best Wondertainment does is make a TV show. You know who I am? I'm a hero. They don't have the courage to put on their big girl panties and get their hands dirty. So no. No longer am I Dr. Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment the Fifth, Pea Aech Dee. No longer am I Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati the Fifth, either. No, I need a clean slate."
"You're changing your name on a whim?"
"Don't you understand whimsy? Oh, ooo! I think I've got it. From now on, call me… Mrs. Redd, two dees, in honor of someone I never really understood until recently." As the light crawled up her neck, she took one last look at Brainy, and smiled her big, toothy, sparkling white smile. "Thanks for the help, and be seeing you, Marty. Teehee!"
With a final bright flash and associated pop, she was gone, and Brainy Brian / Smarty Marty / Dr. Neurosis only looked at where she had just stuck her tongue out at him with an overwhelming sinking feeling. Murderers begetting murderers. He felt like he was about to throw up.
He reached a slow, shaking hand around the side of the desk to an ocean blue button, and pressed it down. "If, if someone, c-could you get Iris on the line? I, I… I have something that I think we need to talk about. I — what? What do you mean all the money's gone? … A calling card? Wait, whose hand?"


Monday
"What do you mean, 'we're not live'?" Melanie Pendras resisted the urge to tug at her hair. It had taken them half an hour to doll it up for the camera. "A fucking asteroid is going to hit the earth! We have an exclusive story, and we're not live?"
"There's something wrong with the cameras." One of the cameramen tried adjusting the lens. "No audio feed, either."
"Son of a bitch. If those assholes at Fox report on this before we do…" Melanie shook her head. "Fuck it, I'll go on Twitter. The public needs to know that they're in danger!"
Upon opening her phone, Melanie Pendras's screen was filled with a spiraling, branching fractal that made her very soul hurt. The cameras came back on just in time to see her in the midst of a heart attack, the story about the asteroid forgotten.
In the corner of the studio, an anonymous production assistant looked down at her phone's screen and made her way towards the door.

Anchor cut. Kill agent was a bit extreme.

It's filtered. She'll live. Probably.
Egg crashed in the Pacific. It's expected to drown.

Cool. I'm heading out.
Want me to pick up some Cinnabon @ Times Square?

Watching my weight. Knock yourself out. Don't forget the gas.

The production assistant tossed an amnestic gas grenade over her shoulder. Upstairs, the station manager— the only other person who knew of this— was tripping out of his mind on bad mescaline. He'd be discredited easily, assuming the windows in his office didn't give.

Tuesday
"Heard you used to work back at 19." Agent Modelo moved around to the boot of his car, trying to make small talk with his partner. "What was that like?"
"It was all right, I guess." Agent MacElroy fumbled with his keys. "I got sacked from there. Apparently I had 'chronic kleptomania' and they didn't want to put up with me nicking shit."
"Christ, you've only been in England two weeks and you're already using the slang." Modelo chuckled. "Why flee across the pond?"
"Probably the one place in the world where I don't have any outstanding warrants, believe it or not." MacElroy opened the boot, revealing its cargo: one unconscious Member of Parliament. Poor bastard looked too closely at the UK's Black Budget. "Back in training, I heard this ludicrous rumor."
"What's that?" Modelo began lifting the MP from the car.
"Apparently, all amnestics are is prolonged torture and gaslighting until they admit they didn't see it. Bloody inelegant, if you ask me."
"Everyone gets fed that rumor when they go into Cover-Ops. It's to prepare ya for the real fucked-up shit we gotta do when amnestics aren't necessarily an option." From beneath the MP's head, he produced a digital camera. "Shit. He's sat on the tripod."
From beneath his coat, MacElroy produced a tranquilizer pistol and made his way to the nearby field. "Does it matter if it's a ram or a ewe?"
"Rams are more deviant, I think." He grunted as he pulled the man from the trunk and placed him on the grass. "Y'know, this tactic has been used so much it has its own bloody name."
"Do tell." MacElroy lined up the sights of his pistol with a ram. The dart sank into its neck, and it ran around for almost a minute, before collapsing.
"The 'Bugger Ewe' maneuver. That's 'Bugger E-W-E'." He said this as he pulled down the MP's trousers.
"I fuckin' love British humor." MacElroy laughed as he went over to the unconscious ram and propped it upright.

Wednesday
Making it so that someone no longer existed was almost depressingly easy in some parts of Asia. All you had to do was click, drag, drop, make a phone call. That person, and possibly their entire family, would be unpersoned faster than you could say "Orwell was right".
Liu had had to do this to six families in the last hour, and would have to do it to seventeen more before the day was up. All of them were exposed to something (she didn't know what, beyond 'it's anomalous') whose existence made the Party very, very unhappy, and an unhappy Party meant no Foundation collaboration. As it turned out, a sizable proportion of the nation's population was allergic to amnestics, so it would be a waste of resources anyway.
Liu would ask for a transfer to another office within a week. Already, she had lasted a year longer than most Cover-Ops agents working in this part of the world. She wasn't sure what that said about her.

Thursday
Even in the frozen hellscape that was the Antarctic, accidents happened. The cold and the loneliness did strange things to people. You would undress even if you were getting frostbite, resulting in things like sunburn, hallucinations, or contorted corpses. That's what they said about Dyatlov Pass— classic hypothermia.
That would be the official line on what happened at the Argentinian station. The report wouldn't mention esoteric markings covering the building's interior, or the blood. It was easy to clean up at sub-zero temperatures — it would get to a point where you could peel it off a body in long, solid strips.
"Documentation's finished." The photographer picked up his tripod. "I don't know how hypothermia is going to explain all the bite marks."
"Let's leave that to the people upstairs." Agent Tavish picked up his large, metal shovel. He was so thankful that the hazmat suits were keeping them warm. "So, what kinda ritual is this?"
"I'm just here to take photos." The photographer shrugged. "The photos will be transmitted to your tablets within the hour. Until then, do not move the bodies. It could compromise the credibility of the scene!" The photographer made wild hand gestures even as he walked out into the Antarctic day.
"'Compromise the credibility of the scene'? Fuckin' creeper," Tavish muttered. He set back to scraping the bloody circle off the concrete floor.

Friday
"Oh god, oh shit, oh fuck, oh god, oh shit, oh fuck, oh god."
"Rookie. Breathe."
"I set the whole fucking block on fire! I only meant to get one fucking room!"
Agent Pereira slapped her new recruit across his face. "Listen to me. Everyone on the whole block was as good as dead already."
"Mãe de Deus, the screams…" The rookie leaned against the wall, watching the old buildings burn. "What have I done?"
"Probably saved the whole city. Once one of those hives takes root, it spreads far. Like, real far. I wouldn't be surprised if it had gotten the whole block already." She offered a cigarette. "You get used to a bit of arson working in this department."
"I-I just took this because I could be closer to home…" He took the cigarette and struggled to light it with his matchbook. It was the same matchbook that he just used to kill at least four-hundred people. "Can fire even kill that thing?"
"Probably." After his third attempt, Periera shrugged and handed him her lighter. "I think you may be up for a commendation on your first assignment. If we can confirm that it's been eradicated."

Saturday
'Poacher eaten by lions' made for a great news story. It had that nice karmic feel to it. Also was a handy way to dispose of evidence. Regrettably, lions didn't find poachers to be very tantalizing prey. That's why you had to bring a wood-chipper and a couple of sirloin steaks to mix in.
"You sure you got all the bullets out?"
"Bastard probably already had a few in him when we put him down. I wouldn't worry."
"Have you never seen what a bullet does when it hits a woodchipper?"
"Fine, but you're cutting off the head."

Sunday
"We're live in three… two… one." The cameraman mouthed the last word as the lights in the studio went high.
"Good evening, this is WLXO in New York. I'm Adam Schumacher, substituting for Melanie Pendras. Our top story tonight: Argentinian authorities are grappling with a second tragedy this week. In addition to the fire which ravaged several blocks of Buenos Aires, we have reports that several members of an Argentinian science team have died of hypothermia…"
In the corner, the production assistant held a fresh cinnamon roll in one hand and thumbed through her phone in the other. There was a ghost hunting show to sabotage, UFOs over Uluru to explain, and a vanishing (though thankfully uninhabited) island to conceal.
The production assistant licked the sugary thumb-print from her phone's screen, and resumed controlling the narrative of the world.


Chris M.

Are you in your office right now?

Yeah, doing paperwork. What's up?

Come to the bathrooms in b wing

Uhhh… What for?

Please bro

"What the hell, dude?" Junior Researcher Lee turned to walk back out the door. "I don't want to talk to you while you're taking a piss."
"No, don't go," Junior Researcher McKinney called out from the urinal. "See, that's the problem."
Pausing with uncertainty, Lee asked "What's the problem?"
"When did I send you those texts?"
Lee checked his phone. "Like, two minutes ago."
"I've been here that whole time."
Lee hesitated again. "You mean here… peeing?"
"Yeah! And for two minutes before then too."
"What! How?"
"I don't know man, that's the problem! Is this an anomaly?"
"Well… It doesn't sound normal."
"Shit! What do I do?"
"Uuuhhh… Wait here a minute."

"Seriously?"
"Yes."
Security Officer Gomez was the first person Lee could find in the corridor, so he was here now. And his incredulous reaction wasn't appreciated, despite mostly masking his snickering. "Alright, alright," he said, composing himself. "Here, answer these questions."
Gomez asked each one, and McKinney replied:

No, I am not currently carrying or in possession of any anomalous objects.
No, as far as I'm aware I have not been exposed to any anomalous influences in the course of research or testing.
No, I have not had access to any anomalous objects or creatures beyond those specifically assigned to me.

"Ok, last thing. Where were you and what were you doing immediately before this began?"
"I was in Testing Chamber 209, documenting initial assessment on some Anomalous Object. It's still there; I just left for a second to use the bathrooms."
"Mmm-hmm… Wait here a minute."

"Stream uninterrupted? This whole time?"
"Yes!"
Researcher Nemitt's open fascination may have been even more offputting than Gomez's reaction. "How do you feel? Is there any discomfort or pressure on your bladder? Are you becoming dehydrated?"
"Um, no? Er, I don't think I am. I feel… alright, I guess. Like, it doesn't hurt or anything."
"Subject expresses no symptoms of physical discomfort," Lee practiced his clinical tone, privately hoping that the more experienced Dr. Nemitt would use it in the official report. "I will now collect a material sample for our-"
"I'll do that!" McKinney reached back over his shoulder and took the cup from Lee, who shrugged indifferently.
"Unfortunately, at this point we can't say with any certainty the total volume produced," said Dr. Nemitt, sounding almost dejected. "However, given the amount of time this has gone on, it must be in excess of a normal human bladder's capacity. There are almost certainly some fascinating implications to this."
"Like what?" A nervous McKinney passed the cup back to the researchers.
"Well, just wait here for a minute."

"Perhaps a memetic effect manufactured specifically to induce this effect? For some medical reason."
"A localized temporal distension which is limited to the subject's urinary functions?"
"What about an extremely small portal to another dimension?"1
At least four additional Researchers were now crowded into the room, standing near the sinks and each one animatedly discussing their own theories for the phenomenon they were witnessing.
"Hey, how are you holding up?" Lee seemed to be the only person in the room who remained aware that McKinney, their colleague, was actually standing right there. "Do you need anything?"
McKinney shook his head. "Nah, thanks." Then, trying to keep the mood light, added "Actually, I kinda wish I'd chosen a stall now, so I could sit down. My feet are killing me here." The two friends shared a small chuckle.
"Well, hang in there pal." Lee clapped a reassuring hand on McKinney's shoulder. Recognizing the awkwardness of this he immediately pulled it back.
"Whoa!"
"Alright, sorry. I didn't-"
"Hey! Hey, it stopped!"
A chorus of every person in the room: "What?"
"I'm… I'm done," McKinney raised a hand and shrugged. "I finished."
"What do you mean?"
"How?"
"What exactly happened?"
"I- I-" stammered McKinney. "I don't know; nothing. It just… stopped."
Everyone in the room silently contemplated the previous hour spent of the careers they dedicated their lives to.
"Well… Wash your hands."

Footnotes
1. McKinney objected to that use of ""extremely" small"; despite established standards by relevant Foundation Departments"


Another tale that started on my youtubes and ended up here. Image credit to Rura.

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

There was a flash of light and SCP-173 was sitting at a table. He had hands. Real hands with long fingers, perfect for playing piano. Across the table in natural light was a redhead wearing a button up shirt he was pretty sure was his. She smiled and looked away when he caught her eyes.
The sun was just now rising, but he could tell already that her face was about as perfect as you could expect. Her perfect face was framed in auburn hair that had no right to look that good this early in the morning. He looked down. A bowl of brown cinnamon squared cereal in milk sat in front of him, the spoon was already in his hand.
Another few seconds and he forgot whatever had come before. He remembered who he was. He had an hour before work. He had to finish his breakfast, see his new friend out, and get ready.
"Carver?" The woman across the table said with a slight southern accent.
"Yeah."
"I can't believe you still eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My mom used to buy this for us when we were kids."
Carver chuckled. "I'm full of surprises."
"Fair." She rubbed at some red marks around her neck that only just now were visible in the increasing morning light. "I figured you were pretty vanilla when you bought me that drink. Glad I was wrong."
"I didn't hurt you did I?"
The woman shrugged and smiled widely. "Not any more than I wanted you to."
"You know I never did get your number."
She leveled her emerald eyes at him. "It's on your nightstand."
Carver looked at her exposed left shoulder, where his shirt hung off her. He followed the bone structure to her clavical and then up to her neck. Such a slender delicate neck. The marks his fingers had left the night before were becoming more and more visible as the sun rose. She stood up with her empty bowl and spun to take it to the sink. He watched her bounce as she went and he was pretty sure he was going to be late to work.

His boss was a squat fellow with a blood pressure problem. He was pointing a single finger at Carver while he spoke in a raised voice about punctuality. Or whatever. Carver wasn't really listening. Sure he was late, but he could *see* the man's blood pressure rising as a pulsing quickened on the left side of the man's neck. He wasn't entirely sure he could get his fingers wrapped all the way around that neck, but he would love to try. The man seemed to've noticed that Carver was distracted and leaned in closer. Just in arms reach.
"Do you understand what crunch time means?" The fat man literally spat out at him.
"Yes."
"Then you understand how important it is to our clients that you keep your appointments. Do you know how much our clients pay us so they won't ever have to wait in a lobby again? New clients are more important than you getting another half hour of sleep!"
Carver shrugged and stood up. The fat man moved around the desk. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"I have appointments now too. If they're important enough for you to yell at me over, then I probably shouldn't miss them."
The angry fat man sneered and sat down. The pulsing in his neck began to subside.

Carver closed the door to his office and leaned against the door. He flexed his fingers. He shook his head as they flashed to brown concrete with bits of rebar steel sticking out the ends.
He blinked. They were still concrete. He blinked again. Still. Blink. Flesh and bone. He finally breathed. What the fuck was that?
It didn't matter. He pressed a button on his phone and a older woman's cheery voice filled the room. "Yes?"
"Hold my calls and appointments for 20 more minutes."
"Yes sir." The phone clicked.
Carver started his morning workout with 100 crunches.

This would do. He pulled up to the window and the perfect redhead from this morning handed him his order. "One gordita crunch wrap, one bean burrito with extra red sauce and a water"
He cocked his head to the side. "Becca?"
"Oh holy shit." She said before covering her mouth and looking around. "What are you doing here?"
"Getting lunch. I come here all the time cause it's right next to work. How long have you been working here?"
"I just started."
"Well now I have another reason to come here."
Becca smiled and touched her hair slightly. "So…"
"Right. You wanna go out again tonight?"
"I'd like that."
"I'll pick you up at 7?"
"You know where I live?"
"Not yet, but you're gonna text me your address."
Her smile was broken by the sound of a horn honking directly behind Carver. She handed him a straw. "Sorry. Gotta move the line. I'll text you after work."
"Looking forward to it."

A half moon peaked out from behind the clouds only occasionally as the soft crunch of sticks and leaves underneath his feat broke the silence of the night. He carried a shovel in one hand and had a redheaded woman slung over his other shoulder. He finally stopped, a few hundred feet into the woods, and threw the woman to the ground like a bag of potatoes. She thumped hard and then rolled onto her back from the force.
Her bloodshot and glassy green eyes stared up at the sky as Carver started to dig a hole. The bruising around her neck was catastrophic. A slight trickle of blood from her mouth ran into her hair, which was still mostly perfect, except for where the blood had begun to gather and mat it together. She hardly looked like the same person he'd seen this morning.
Getting below the frost line in southern california was a lot easier than in almost anywhere else in the country. And frankly there was never ending supply of aspiring actresses that went to make it big and never were heard from again. Good looks and money was all he really needed to make sure that he got what he wanted out of them.
No one else was supposed to be out here, but it took too long to dig the hole. It had always been a matter of time before someone saw him. An anomymous call to the police led them right to where Becca was buried. Surveillance footage and cell phone records worked out the rest. The dozen bodies that were buried in the woods sealed his fate.
And then…

A flash of light and he was back in the room with SCP-343. Wait. He. It. SCP-173 was confused again but he couldn't really articulate why. Because he couldn't speak at all.
SCP-343 frowned. "Every time. You just can't help yourself."
SCP-343 didn't blink. He just stared at SCP-173. "Fine. I've tried to set you free. I've tried to make you normal. I've tried everything. Go back to your cell."
A finger snap later, SCP-173 was in a darkened room. The containment breach alarms were still going off but the door was shut. He also still couldn't move. There in the corner was a man in an orange jumpsuit.
He was tall, handsome, with long fingers, perfect for playing the piano. But it was dark. And the man didn't know what he was looking at. He blinked like they always do eventually. His neck made a satisfying crunch.


Another tale that started on my youtubes and ended up here. Image credit to Rura. Tale title is from the song "Counting Blue Cars" by Dishwalla.

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Dr. Voss groaned as he turned the corner. His hip was aching again. He stopped at the door and nodded to the guard. Then Voss waved a key card over the door lock. The lock flashed green and Voss listened to the loud click of the mechanism. The interview room was much better lit than the outside hall. The walls were eggshell colored and floors were lined with white marbled tile. Moving from the carpet of the hall into the tiled floor, the hum of the reality anchors became much more noticeable all around him.
The man sitting in the center of the room was SCP-343. It had dark brown hair that was greying, light skin, and blue eyes. His beard was very short and neatly kept. Dr. Voss lay his clipboard and pen down on the table between them and sat down.
"My name is Dr. Victor…"
343 leaned in. "Voss. I know."
"This will go much faster if you let me get the preliminary information out of the way. Most of this is for the benefit of the people who listen to the logs later.
343 nodded and leaned back in his seat.
"My name is Dr. Victor Voss. This is my first interview with SCP-343. It is being conducted on July 25th 2008. Subject of the interview is SCP-343."
SCP-343 cocked his head to the side and smirked. "You can just call me god."
"I'm sorry but I can't do that. If you have a real name we can just use that?"
SCP-343 shook his head. "Yahweh. Elohim. Brahma. Allah. Take your pick."
"So it is your contention that you are god with a capital G?"
"That's just the truth. I am that I am."
"So how long did it take to create the universe?"
SCP-343 chuckled. "You've got a rudimentary understanding of physics. You can't measure time before before time exists. Space-time just is."
Dr. Voss shifted in his seat. "What color was Moses's hair?"
"Brown. Then gray."
"How many innocent people have you killed?"
"I don't kill people, Vic."
"Sodom and Gomorrah would indicate otherwise."
"Those are stories written by men, trying to understand the universe. That was a meteor shower, not me."
"But you allowed it to happen."
"I don't allow things to happen. I granted you free will."
"Then why do…"
SCP-343 raised a hand and Voss stopped in place. "Why don't you ask me what you came in here to ask me?"
Dr. Voss's eyes went wide as soon as he could move again. "How did you do that?"
SCP-343 shrugged and rolled his eyes.
Dr. Voss nodded. "What happened to my sister?"
SCP-343 sighed and closed his eyes. "You were 10 years old, she was 8. A minivan stopped by your house. A man asked you if you wanted to go to the park. Your mother was just inside the house but out of sight. You said no. Your sister jumped into the open van. He left."
"And?"
"And you never saw her again. The funeral was closed casket."
"Why did you let it happen?"
SCP-343 was suddenly standing behind Dr. Voss. 343 reached a hand out and placed it on the Doctor's shoulder. "Son. I didn't."
"You did. You could've stopped it from happening. You could've…"
"What about you? Why didn't you stop it?"
"I was 10."
"Events shape people in unexpected ways. Not having a father made you not want to have kids of your own. Your mother's suicide after it happened put you into a system and made you want to fight for those who can't fight for themselves. And your sister made you unafraid to speak up when you knew something bad would happen. When the Scarlet King almost escaped last year, speaking your mind saved the world."
Dr. Voss was shaking as he turned to face SCP-343. "That's a lie."
"It is. But it's a comforting one."
Dr. Voss sneered, pulled a small reality anchor from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. A blue flash bathed the room as a strong vibration shook the table. Voss pulled a shard of dull grey metal from his other pocket and turned to lunge at SCP-343. SCP-343 snapped his fingers and sighed.
Dr. Voss could not see anything except himself. Even though there was no wind his senses told him he was falling. The endless black stretched in all directions. Then he saw it. He was walking backwards from SCP-343's room. He was getting out of his car after arriving at work. He was showering. He was getting up for work. He was sleeping. He was going to sleep.
All of it played in the distance but on a screen so large he couldn't conceive of it. And still he could see it all happening.
After what seemed an eternity, he landed on his childhood front lawn. There she was. His sister. Smiling and laughing. His mom had just went into the house to grab something for them to drink.
A dark grey minivan rolled up, the man inside opened the passenger side door. "Hey, you wanna go to the park?"
Victor Voss shook his head no and watched his sister run out towards the road. For a split second he was paralyzed with fear. Then he surged forward and stood between his sister and the van. She acted like it was a game, trying to get around him. Then Victor felt a pull on the back of his collar and he was dragged up into the van. He kicked. He screamed. His sister froze in place.
The world shifted again. The black void spun around the scene. Everything reversed again. The little girl yelled for her mom. Talked to the police. Attended a funeral. Eventually Dr. Valerie Voss sat at a table with SCP-343 and asked him something she'd wanted to know ever since she was a child. "If you're all powerful, why do you allow bad things to happen?"
SCP-343 sat in silence.


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Article: Your Very Last SCP!
Images: Link here. The rest were made by me using Inkscape and GIMP; I hereby release them into public domain. The font is actually Comic Neue, which is being used under the SIL license (I've loaded it via a webfont link from fontlibrary).
Music: Space Lord (Monster Magnet)

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[SCP-2639]
Video Game Violence

i need to know how many people i've killed

[SCP-437]
Summer of '91

That was a pretty crazy summer, y'know? Sometimes I really miss that place.

[SCP-3079]
300 Tricks: Stage Magic Made Easy

NOTE: No method for accomplishing this trick is provided.

[SCP-2753]
Let's Play Jenga!

High art carries high risk!

[SCP-2679]
The Many Graves of Jeannette Parslov

Whatever it takes, do what you must; whatever the cost, come back to us.

[SCP-3074]
Kafka's Parking Garage

Thank you for choosing Izatova Parking Center. Have a pleasant day.

[SCP-2571]
Cragglewood Park

Mr. Blair, have you always been an only child?

[SCP-2419]
The Laughing Men

Throw them back into the incinerator where you found them.

[SCP-3143]
Murphy Law in… The Foundation Always Rings Twice!

When it comes right down to it, me — them — hell, even you — we're all just characters in that trashy dime-store novel called life.

[SCP-3089]
That Old Time Religion

Remember how we explained that successful people don't actually need any of their toes to walk? Well, that's going to come in handy for Secret Number Six.

[SCP-3117]
A Monster-Shaped Hole

I'm not talking to you.

[SCP-3128]
Let's Play Monopoly!

Hey, guys? I'm, uh. I'm using this.

[SCP-3138]
A Sepulcher by the Sea

Should it prove feasible, all non-canonical corpses are to be extracted, examined, and catalogued.

[SCP-3241]
The SS Sommerfeld

It makes me wonder what an old monster like myself is even doing here, anymore. And then? Someone special comes along and reminds me.

[SCP-3219]
This Sour Earth

Notably, no reports describe any attempt to examine the residence's storm cellar.

[SCP-4028]
La Historia de Don Quixote de la Mancha

Justine eventually re-unites with her sister, Juliette. Alonso strikes down a lightning bolt intended for them both, then challenges the narrator to a duel.

[SCP-3546]
Doggone it, I Fold!

Specifically, fan-art of Sonic the Hedgehog, a video-game character produced by Sega in 1991.

[SCP-3561]
An Unfinished Work

Despite multiple reports from neighbors who claimed to have witnessed members of his family standing at the windows, no trace of Theodore Holdstock's wife and children could be found.

[SCP-4054]
The Seventh Door

SCP-4054 is The Seventh Door, an unlicensed platform adventure game released for the Nintendo Entertainment System in 1988.

hello yes

* Connecting to intscpfn.int (5556)

*** Retrieving host-name…

*** Checking ident…

██████████████████████████████
            _____
           /.....\
        _██^^^^^^^██_
     .█''           ``█.
   .█'                 `█.
  .█'  ███         ███  `█.
 .█'  █               █  `█.
 ██     ██         ██     ██
 ██      █          █     ██
 ██   _ ██         ██ _   ██
 `█.  /               \  .█'
 /`█.    ███████████    .█'\
 \ `█.    ███   ███    .█' /
  \__`█..  █_____█  ..█'__/
        █..       ..█
          █████████
██████████████████████████████
INTERNATIONAL SCP FILE NETWORK
██████████████████████████████
  SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT
██████████████████████████████

MOTD:
┌──────────────────────────────────────┐
  Only use capital letters for proper
  nouns and at the beginning of every
  sentence.
└──────────────────────────────────────┘

Providing login credentials...

. . .

Credentials verified. Press any key to proceed.

> any key is broken

Terminal synchronized. Command?

> hello yes

'hello yes' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.

> i know that

'i know that' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.

> ok? i also am knowing that. i need some hlep

'ok? i also am knowing that. i need some hlep' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.

> help

Initializing help console…

> pardon spelling

'pardon spelling' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.

. . .

Help console initialized.

Hello, chum! ~:o) I'm Skippy, your automated SCP helper! How may I be of assistance?

> yes hello skippy
> i am dado.

. . .

> i would like to make some scps.
> i have many ideas.

. . .

> idea number first: statue. concrete. covered in poop.
> normal, yes?
> but actually, no.
> there is a twist!

How are you doing that?

> doing what?
> u do not like the idea? that's fine. i have others.

. . .

> idea number second: giant talking lizard.
> also normal, yes?
> but actually, no.
> there is a twist!

I can see that you're exploiting a backdoor in this server via an ordinary Telnet client, but the raw text is coming through as Comic Sans. How is that even possible?

> oh, yes. is very complex hacking thing.
> doubt u would understand.
> am using "unicode".
> (that is hacking term)

. . .

I'm examining your connection right now. Your network card appears to be a mashed potato.

> is hash table
> don't worry is secure
> added salt

. . .

> enough computer talk. have more ideas!
> idea third: doctor who cures people.
> very normal! nothing strange about that. yes?

Let me guess: There's a twist.

> no. see? that is the twist.
> that there is no twist!
> very meta.

. . .

> are u writing these down?

Oh, yes! I most certainly am, chum. ~:o)

> good. not really into writing. more of an idea person.
> maybe we can b partners?
> i come up with ideas. u write them. is good, yes?
> will even credit u in author post.

How extremely considerate of you, buddy! ~:o)

> u r very supportive.
> is so rare 2 find supportive ppl these days. every1 is so critical.
> i think u and i will make many good scps together.
> make lots of profits. all the upvotes.
> i have 1 more idea for u. my best 1 yet.
> have been hiding it. worried others may steal.
> but u?
> dado trusts u.
> would u like to hear it, buddy?

I WOULD ABSOLUTELY LOVE TO HEAR IT, PAL! ~:o)

> ok.
> idea fourth: there is world-wide conspiracy of scientists that contain and research objects. very spooky.
> perfectly 200% normal. yes? nothing strange. nothing unusual. nothing weird going on.
> but actually? no.

> there!
> is!
> a!
> twist!
> r u ready for this, partner? here it comes:
> ……none of it is real!
> it is…… just a bunch of horror writers!

> u r excited about this. dado can tell.
> how long do u think it will take 4 u 2 write?
> maybe an hour?
> .....
> hello?
> ....
> .........
> ..............
> do u smell burning?

FROM: O5-7 <o57@scp.foundation.int>
TO: All Foundation Personnel
SUBJECT: Effective Immediately

All personnel (including D-Class and non-hostile SCPs) are to be discharged. Control over Foundation sites is to be handled via AIAD systems. Any remaining projects, documents, and research initiatives are now terminated. The veil protocol is null and void.
SCP-001 has occurred. To every last one of you, I say this: It has been an honor.
Spend what little time you have left well.

► ATTACHMENT: SCP-001.png

▼ Close File


The backstage area was as stuffy as hell. Conner tried to adjust the mask he was wearing to get some more air, but it was pointless. He called over to the other crazy dudes and dudettes that made up their sorry excuse for a band. "What's the time?"
Lock, who had chops when it came to the clarinet and was the unofficial-official leader of the band, answered first. "We have ten minutes before showtime. Put on your earplugs everyone."
He took a deep breath and tried to still his nerves. Of course, he knew there was really nothing to worry about: he had performed the same song they were about to play with the people around him five times already since he had started with them two months ago, and not one of those performances had led to a train wreck. Some might have thought that it was astonishing how well a band could assimilate new members into their ranks, but it was a given if you wanted to be cool.
Tonight, however, was different, as tonight was the night Conner was finally going to have his first solo. It would only be for a mere moment—ten seconds, at the most—but it would be a defining moment in his musical career. For Conner, it was his chance to perform and ask the next day, after everything settled down and everyone was sober, the question of a lifetime: "Am I cool now?"
He took a final look around him, feeling both worried and excited in his shiny silver mask. There were five of them in total, and all were wearing masks and earplugs of varying colors. The masks were there to protect their identities for the most part, while the earplugs were a precautionary measure against the music they were playing. Ezzie, the trumpet-player, wore a bright yellow mask in the shape of an elephant. The saxophonist Gavin decided to bring an old leather mask he found lying around his parents' house, and Melany, who handled the drums and bass, tall girl as she was, had donned a purple and green mask for the occasion. Lock himself wore a pink, smiling mask, along with a gold necklace that contrasted against the dark clothing he and the rest of the group were wearing. There was a bit of chatter here and there, but as soon as they were called, everyone fell silent and made their way onstage and to their instruments.

Leonard was nervous, very nervous. Rentals were easily controlled; if something went awry, it could be stopped within seconds without any loss. Live events were riskier; by their nature they had uncontrollable variables. If something went wrong with the music, it would require them to somehow disable the musicians, which would be relatively slow and messy. He'd read through all the documents and memos MC&D had on file, which didn't tell him much. The AWCY? proposal at least promised they had a way to deal with a dangerous event during the performance, but the fact that it had already happened once didn't fill him with any more confidence, nor did the non-existent details as to what they actually planned to do in response. He wasn't even sure what he would do; he had been told nothing except that the on-site security would handle it if the time came—he was just an associate. He double-checked tickets and told people to sit down, and on a few occasions collected money from those who hadn't prepaid.
He shuffled between seats and retreated to the corner, and checking his watch, saw that the performance was due to begin any second now. The curtains drew back, and the members made their way on stage in their gaudy, technicolor attire, masks and all, settling at their more tasteful instruments. As he double-checked that his earplugs were snugly in place, the murmuring of the crowd drew to a close, and the performance began.

"Introducing the anmusician group Masked Mayhem, performing 'A Night You'll Never Remember, A Show You'll Never Forget' !"
Conner walked over to the shining piano he polished himself earlier that day. Taking his seat, he glimpsed at the audience to his right. He reflexively flinched; he had spotted several people wearing suits, reminding him of the low-level, unaspiring chumps at the Gock and the Foolednation. Suits can't hurt me here, he thought, remembering where he was, and he calmed down. It's just another concert hosted by MCD for people who can afford it. I'll be fine.
Lock started them off with a smooth melody, flowing like a river, albeit a heavily syncopated one. Ezzie joined him, with Gavin close behind. Throughout all of it, Melany and Conner stayed in the backdrop, continuously playing, but not too loudly to where they would be the focus. This part of the song always stayed the same. Things started to really jumble between rehearsals and concerts around one minute and thirty seconds in. At that point, someone, usually someone besides Conner, would take off with a solo, usually with Melany keeping tempo in the background, and the music would take hold on the audience.
Now, though, it was Conner's turn, without Melany's beat. The initial pattern and tune from the rest of the instruments died down as Conner took the limelight. He started slow at first, but quickly gained confidence with every note. Up and down the keys his fingers went, running and walking and everything in between. For anyone watching that was deaf, watching through a silent video, or wearing earplugs, it would have looked like any other concert out there. The first one minute or so was constant throughout every performance, followed by improvisation or specifically made rhythms played by one or more of the band members, which was nothing out-of-the-ordinary. But that was the catch. The first one minute or so was special, engineered by Lock himself to expose listeners to the forces of music and beat and show them the true essence of improvisation and Jazz. Everything played after Lock's brainchild would show an audience the raw emotion and force that comes with self-designed, self-expressed music, which, in his opinion, was the best catch of all, to use something constant to demonstrate the power of something spontaneous in nature.
Four seconds had passed. He risked a glance up, and the first thing he saw was Melany leaning on her bass, strumming patiently and staring at Conner in anticipation of the next part. Three more seconds passed. For a moment, he thought, she almost seemed proud. Never thought anyone would be happy at me for playing jazz, he thought, as he realized that no one had ever really been proud of him for his musical skill. Conner couldn't help himself; he smiled, and the earplug in his left ear tumbled out, leaving him exposed to the sound around him.
He remembered what had happened, from the talk of the others, the last time an earplug fell out unexpectedly. He didn't want to share the same fate. Conner tried to stop playing; it didn't matter if he ruined the concert if he ruined himself first. But then he stopped himself. To him, this night was the only night where he would be able to prove himself, to show that he was really part of the band after all. He remembered the warnings people always said about anmusic, about how it could inspire and hurt at the same time, but he also remembered how he wouldn't have had the chance to play any of it if he didn't show others what he was capable of.
There was anxiety, fear, and panic as Conner continued to play, live, and smile, but there was no time for him to lose himself in emotion, because he was already lost in the music.
Everything was fine, at first. Conner had continued to play, finishing his solo and calming down a little once everyone else chimed in. Then, Lock went in with his musical monstrosity and everything turned to black. Conner continued to play and follow the beat; he never needed to see to play, but the anmusic was taking its toll on his senses. Sight left him, hearing abandoned him, and even smell, taste and touch refused to stay. A few seconds later, he felt the full impact of the music all at once.
Conner became blind and enlightened at the same time.
"Hello?" Conner tried to speak, but he couldn't hear himself.
"Hello? Can anyone hear me?" He looked around him and saw only black.
"Is anyone there? What's going on?" He stood up, until he realized he didn't know where up was. All he felt was pressure all around him, like he was submerged in water, and waves bouncing around him, almost as if to physically sway him.
He sat down and took a deep breath, smelling nothing but bitter iron. He vaguely recalled a piano. Yes—he was playing it. Faint notes, notes that were his, were heard in the background, and his heart raced as he remembered what was happening. After a second of thought, he decided to really see. He opened his eyes.
Purple and blue, red and green, all he saw was an ocean of sound, of music. Ripples stretched across as far as he could see in the sea of sonic jelly, with him at the center of the biggest disturbance, the loudest sound, the purest music.
"This is what it looks like. This is what it feels like. More than anything I could've ever imagined. More than what anyone could've imagined." At this point, he didn't care if he was speaking aloud; no one could hear him at any rate. Eventually, he knew it was time to hear, too. He calmed himself from the ecstasy brought about by the experience and brought himself to truly hear.
Almost instantly, he saw a shadow dart to his left. Another one faded off right above his line of sight. Colors flashed around him before he knew that he wasn't alone. Thoughts passed through his head at rapid speed, attempts to explain his company. He caught his breath as he realized that the performance did not merely portray music as something physical—it showed it in its most abstract form, especially in a band: unity. This was it, the thing Conner had waited for his entire life. For almost all musicians, all the late nights, all the failed gigs, and all the ruined bands were centered on the one goal of understanding the true beauty of music, and Conner found it.
Suddenly, he felt a hand try to pull him away. No—he would not leave. Not yet, not—

It was a bit awkward, he thought, to be the only one not in on the event. He was sure everyone in attendance was living through a once in a lifetime experience, the anomalous elements of the composition bending and redefining the way they experienced music—or whatever other flowery prose the marketing blurb descended into. He got to stand watch over a bunch of men in suits, as they silently sat in front of what was, to him, a silent band. It wasn't even that visually impressive, he thought. As he looked down and began to fidget with his cufflinks, he was tapped on the shoulder by one of the guards. The solo is about to start.
Yes, the solo: the biggest unknown of the whole performance. Their previous soloist was the impetus for the previous incident, and had been replaced by a friend of the musicians who had practiced with them before, whose stage name was Conner South. They assured him ten times over that it would all go according to plan, even if this was his first show in a while. Inexperienced musicians and a potentially volatile anmusic piece—what could go wrong? Either way, the soloist made his way down the stage and began to play. Everything seemed to be going according to plan; he couldn't hear it, obviously, but the audience seemed content, and the musicians played skillfully. He glanced at his watch; the solo seemed to be going on for longer than planned—but then everything seemed stable, and the whole point of this performance was to record a completely new track for the rental tapes, right? Maybe this was just part of their plan; it seemed like something an anartist would do, with how they think of themselves. Try and mess around with the plan last minute, even when dealing with a high-class outfit like MC&D.
The soloist continued to play, faster, more intense, though it was still a slow burn. If they wanted to build up to some big ending crescendo, this probably wasn't a half-bad way of doing it, he thought. The soloist began playing rapidly, erratically, with an intensity he'd never seen a piano-player possess. A speaker blew, in the corner of the room. Everyone who wasn't absorbed in the music, which only consisted of the guards and associates at this point, flinched, and an earplug rolled out of one of the guard's ears. At that moment, the proverbial needle dropped.
Streaks of light hopped throughout the audience and the once-engaged crowed fell limp and drained. Glowing tendrils began to swarm the chairs and the stage until they engulfed the soloist, who seemed to be smiling wickedly. Every note, as far as Leonard could tell with his earplugs, caused the audience to lose more and more focus. Leonard started to walk forward with the full intention of doing something, but stopped himself. He stood still. He thought that he could almost sense streams of something filling surge through the room, but he had no time to think on the good feeling. A few bright, neon moments later, most of everyone who had listened to the monstrosity of music collapsed completely in their seats.
Amidst the aftershock, Leonard saw the musicians pulling at Conner, dragging him back stage and off the piano. He kicked and screamed, like someone coming off of a bad trip. Leonard took off his earplugs and shakily ordered the guards to check the audience. The guards sprinted to the audience, and began the tedious and sometimes fearful work of checking on the patrons. A few looked around in confusion, as if they were coming out of a dream. The majority sat still. Too still. One screamed, another had a seizure. By the time they'd checked everyone, over half of those in attendance had suffered from some form of brain damage, caused by the anmusic run amok.
More agents arrived shortly thereafter, took away those injured for treatment, and searched the place. The band had fled—big surprise—with the exception of the soloist, who they found tied up backstage, mumbling and sobbing. It would be sad, Leonard thought, if only he hadn't just successfully ruined a performance that would have brought in as much money as twice his salary—not to mention the metaphorical and possibly literal magic the legal team would have to do to get them out of this one. Leonard stumbled away from the experience, rather shaken. He dreaded the paperwork tomorrow, an incident report he would have to write, and probably weeks worth of involvement with the legal team. At least he had double-checked his earplugs, he thought. Otherwise he'd probably have ended up the same as the guard who flinched and lost his earplugs—in a nearly catatonic state in a hospital bed. A very plush hospital bed befitting his salary, but a hospital bed nonetheless.

"Conner, wake up. I'm not kidding, wake—" Lock's voice cracked. "Ahem. Wake up, Conner?" Lock said this last part as a question, as he had seen the piano man stir.
A few breathtaking moments later, Conner sat up and fought against the darkness of sleep threatening to pull him back down. Notes and sensations bounced in his mind, and he couldn't shut any of it out. Even worse, it was starting to hurt. He turned around and saw curtains and masks, along with the faces of his band mates staring at him, except for Gavin, who was off to the side and more concerned with some papers he was holding. He heard a siren in the background, and thought he heard two or three quiet moans of pain. Conner saw that he was on a dusty, weathered couch, and, after checking to see that he wasn't dreaming, decided that he needed more information.
Conner had two questions in mind. He started with the simple and hopefully less emotional one. "What just happened?"
"We don't have time to explain, Conner—Do you remember anything?" Lock asked. Gavin was searching for something anxiously in the back.
"No, I obviously don't or I—Ow." Pain flared in his forehead. "—I wouldn't have asked," he continued. He saw that they were backstage. Why were they backstage?
Lock took a nervous glance behind him, seeing if Gavin's searching was complete. It wasn't. "Okay. This will be fine." Lock ran his hand through his hair. "You need to stand up, can you do that?"
"Wait, but why—"
Lock took a deep breath. "You screwed us up, okay? Something happened when you were playing and you practically mental-melted half the people in the audience and messed with the other half's brains. Now, we're pretty sure suits are on us, or at least MCD is for screwing up their concert. We need to leave now, even if you won't come with us."
Conner tried to stand. He failed miserably and fell back down on the couch. "I—Wait, just give me a moment." He realized he couldn't feel his knees.
Gavin gave a yelp of joy as he held up a crinkled piece of printed copy paper. "Found it!" He yelled. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand!"
Lock turned towards him. "Never say that again." In a lowered voice, he continued. "…It's worse than I thought, we'll have to leave him. I can't believe this happened a second time. Ezzie, Melany, blindfold and gag him."
Conner nearly cried when a cloth was lowered onto his face. His arms were just as useless as his legs, and he had no choice but to submit to the insanity of it all. "Wait," he said softly. "I still have one more question." He choked back a sob. "Did I at least sound good?"
A few seconds passed.
In the end, no one responded, and soon everyone and everything Conner liked about his life vanished, like a song on the wind.