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Icky and Lolly screamed in delight as the Frite Lite Roller Coaster zoomed along its twisted path through Wonder World!™. In addition to being the theme park city's biggest attractions, the roller coasters doubled as metro trains. While their looping and winding tracks may not have been the most efficient route, they made up for the extra distance in speed and smiles.
As much as Lolly loved the Circus, she also loved the chance to enjoy the much larger attractions that were possible at a fixed location. From the peak of the loop, she could see all of Wonder World!™. It was an unusually colourful city, full of pastel buildings with no sharp corners, most of them so oddly shaped they looked like funhouse mirror reflections of themselves. The sky was blue, the sun bright, and the music of songbirds and laughter of children pervaded the air. From the sights to the sounds to the people themselves, everything about the city was designed to project an aura of childlike innocence. Wonder World!™ was intended to be a place where dreams came true, where nothing bad ever happened.
Lolly may have been willing to believe that, but Icky couldn't help but wonder how many problems Wonder World!™ just covered up instead of dealing with to preserve its squeaky clean image.
As the roller coaster dove down towards the ground again, it began to decelerate.
“Next stop – Wonder Plaza!” an automated announcer proclaimed with the same mandatory enthusiasm it did for all stops. As soon as the roller coaster came to a halt, Lolly hopped out while pulling Icky behind her.
“So I think I've had enough rides for today, so we should probably do some shopping,” Lolly told her. “The Neverland Boutique has the largest selection of kid's style clothes in adult sizes I've ever seen, plus all their outfits come in matching doll sizes -”
“Lolly.”
“I can probably get some props for my act at one of the toy stores, and I want to hit the candy stores because everything they sell here is delicious -”
“Lolly.”
“Then we can get dinner - how cool is it that fancy restaurants here serve dinosaur shaped nuggets? - catch a show - they're supposed to put on an amazing Seussical - and then we can finish the day at the skating rink, or maybe a balloon ride, or maybe -”
“Lolly!”
“What?”
“Just slow down for a second. We're on a date, not running a marathon. Let's just take a minute to ourselves, enjoy this,” Icky suggested. She pulled Lolly towards her and went in for a kiss. To her surprise, Lolly pulled back.
“Hey, remember we're in Wonder World. We got to keep it family friendly.”
“Lesbians are family friendly now. There's like a whole show on Cartoon Network about space lesbians. It's awesome.”
“Icky.”
“What's the point of going on a date if we can't even kiss? Just kiss me and you'll see no one cares. Trust me.”
Lolly gave a somewhat embarrassed smile and nodded her consent. Icky pulled her towards her and kissed her, only to be interrupted by the high pitch screech of a police whistle.
“Uh oh.”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“That's enough of that, you two, hands where I can see them,” the whistleblower said. He was dressed in a bright blue coat with polished brass buttons, shiny tin medals, and a reflective orange sash. On his head, he wore a comically tall Custodian's helmet with a plastic badge pinned to the front that read 'Wonder World Security Force™'.
“Is there a problem, off— I'm sorry, I was going to say ‘officer' but you're closer to a mall cop or something, aren't you?”
“I'm a Hall Monitor, and you two are in direct violation of Wonder World's public decency bylaws.”
“Is that so?” Icky asked in a low, cold voice.
“Icky, please stay calm,” Lolly urged her.
“I'm afraid it is. No individuals, be they residents or guests, may engage in kissing on the lips or the fondling of any swimsuit areas whilst in public view,” the Hall Monitor informed them.
“Swimsuit areas? That's how the law is actually worded?” Icky asked. “You can't even use grownup words in your legislation? Is your company charter written in crayon?”
“It is, actually. There's an activity sheet on the back.”
“Icky, you heard what he said. It's just a public display of affection thing. It's not homophobic, it applies to everyone, so let's not make a big deal out of this.”
“Hand over your hall passes and I'll stamp them with frowny faces,” the Hall Monitor said. “Three frowny faces and your hall passes will be revoked.”
Icky couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“And what if we don't? What then? Your nightstick is made out of Nerf. How exactly do you plan to enforce any of this if we don't just politely cooperate?” she asked.
“Icky, think about this. I love coming here, and Wondertainment is one of our suppliers. This isn't worth it,” Lolly insisted.
“Actually that's a good point. We're from the Circus of the Disquieting, which is a decent sized client of yours. Unless you want to risk losing our business, I'm going to have to insist that you waive this particular bylaw, just this once.”
His face sternly resolute, the Hall Monitor unsheathed his nerf bat.
“I'm sorry miss, but the law is the law. Your hall pass, if you please.”
Icky just rolled her eyes and turned to leave, grabbing Lolly by the hand. She stopped dead in her tracks when she felt the soft foam baton strike the back of her head.
“And there's another one where that came from if you don't -”
The Hall Monitor immediately fell silent when Icky spun around, her eyes burning with a fierce purple blaze. She telekinetically pulled the bat from his hand and transmuted it into a spiked medieval club of heavy iron.
“Did you seriously just hit me with this?” she demanded, her voice taking on a deep and terrifying timbre. The Hall Monitor stumbled backwards, tripping and falling, too paralyzed with fear to get back up. He stammered inanely but could produce no coherent response.
“Icky! You're making a scene!” Lolly yelled at her. Icky looked around the rest of the plaza and saw that most of the other people were now staring at them, most with looks of shock and horror. She shook her head, returning her appearance to normal, and then tossed the club to the ground. It landed with a heavy clunk, its spikes cracking the pristine pavement. Grabbing Lolly by the hand once more, the two of them ran out of public view as quickly as they were able.
Once they were gone, the Hall Monitor grabbed his Walkie Talkie off of his belt.
“We have a hostile Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo on the loose in Wonder Plaza. Subject appears to be a female Clown from the Circus of the Disquieting with long black hair, white and purple face paint. Subject is too dangerous for Hall Monitors to engage. Deploy Wondertron 9000. Repeat, Deploy Wondertron 9000!”

The two Clowns ran into the unexpectedly bright and immaculately clean back alleys of Wonder World!™ and paused to catch their breath.
“Icky, what was that about?”
“I know, I'm sorry, I overreacted, but he hit me!”
“Before that. Why couldn't you just let him stamp our hall passes and be on our way?”
“Because I love you! I love you and I'm not going to obey any puritanical laws that say expressing that is indecent! Lolly, look, I know that when we're in less tolerant places you don't see what the big deal is about respecting local customs, but you've never been in the closet. You were with the Circus since before you even had an inkling of what you were, and you always knew you'd be loved and accepted.
It wasn't like that for me. I was terrified of people, especially the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, finding out I was gay. It sucks living like that which is why I left and why I refuse to live like that again. And it's not just about me because not everyone has the option to leave a situation like that.
Think of everyone in this city who must be afraid to kiss the people they love. It doesn't matter to me if it's being done out of adherence to a bronze-age morality or because they want their whole city to be a kid-friendly fun-zone, it's wrong!
I… I'm ranting. I ruined our date. I'm sorry.”
Icky hung her head despondently, only for Lolly to lean in and kiss her.
“Don't be sorry. I never really thought about it before, what it would be like to have to live like that every day, but you're right,” Lolly said. “I mean, I guess I didn't want to think about it. I like it here because I thought that everyone else was like me, that they thought it was awesome to pretend to be an overgrown kid. But that's actually the law here, these people don't have a choice. Even I don't want to act like a kid all the time. Icky, I love you a bazillion times more than this fascist tourist trap, and I'm sorry for not supporting you.”
“Well, maybe I should do like you do and take Clown Impulse Suppressant whenever we go anywhere,” Icky smirked. “We forgive each other then, Little Lollipop?”
Lolly smiled and nodded, and the pair exchanged a reconciliatory kiss.
“HALT RIGHT THERE NARE-DO-WELLS!” a booming robotic voice shouted from the end of the alleyway. Standing between them and escape was an eight-foot-tall robot made of shiny chrome, its chassis adorned with many blinking LED lights and buttons, with a winged jetpack mounted on its back.
“What the fuck?”
“I AM WONDERTRON 9000™, DEFENDER OF WONDER WORLD™ AND ALL INNOCENTS WITHIN. YOU HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH COOTIE SPREADING BEHAVIOR, REFUSING FROWNY FACE STAMPS ON YOUR HALL PASSES, THREATENING A HALL MONITOR, CAUSING A PUBLIC DISTURBANCE, DAMAGING CITY PROPERTY, EVADING ARREST, AND, AS OF THIS MOMENT, NAUGHTY LANGUAGE.”
“Hey, I remember you. You're the robot that came to the Circus when Herman tried to make his Little Mister knockoffs,” Icky said.
“LITTLE MISTERS IS THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF DOCTOR WONDERTAINMENT!”
“Look Wonderbot -”
“WONDERTRON 9000™!”
“Whatever, we know when we're not wanted. Just take us to a door outside of the wards, and we'll make a Way back home,” Icky said.
“SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD. IT'S THE NAUGHTY CORNER FOR BOTH OF YOU. SURRENDER NOW, OR FACE THE FULL ARRAY OF MY WONDERTASTIC COMBAT FEATURES.”
The pair of Clowns stared down the giant robot with simmering rage.
“You think we can take it?” Icky asked.
“Definitely,” Lolly agreed. She withdrew her oversized mallet from her pocket and charged straight at Wondertron.
“HOSTILITIES INITIATED. DEPLOYING COUNTERMEASURES.”
A large shield with the Wondertainment Logo unfolded from Wondertron's left forearm, blocking the first of Lolly's swings.
"ACTIVATING ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NONLETHAL MEGAPHOTONIC LASER VISION™!"
Twin rays of cherry red lasers beamed out of its photoelectric eyes, moving far too quickly to be evaded. Fortunately, its intended effect seemed to be nothing more than disorientation, and due to a combination of their Circus training and essokinetic abilities, Icky and Lolly were relatively unaffected.
Lolly struck the shield from the bottom, knocking it upwards and into Wondertron's direct line of sight, reflecting its lasers back at it.
"DEACTIVATING ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NONLETHAL MEGAPHOTONIC LASER VISION™. VISUAL PROCESSING AND GYROSCOPIC ORIENTATION IMPAIRED. SYSTEMS REBOOTING."
Taking out her trick cards and engulfing them in a murderous red aura, Icky threw the entire deck at Wondertron while it was rebooting. Though some did make it through its shield, they all just bounced harmlessly off its chrome plated hide. Lolly bashed away at it relentlessly with her mallet, causing many disfiguring but ultimately harmless dents in its chassis.
“SYSTEMS REBOOT COMPLETE. INITIATING KUNG FU ACTION GRIP™!” Wondertron announced as it grabbed Lolly's mallet by the hammer and lifted it off the ground, with her along with it.
“Put it down you dumb tin can!” she threatened, kicking at its shield.
“INITIATING ONE HUNDRED PERCENT NONLETHAL MAGISHOCK TASER BLAST™!”
Powerful electro-thaumic bolts shot out of the robot's fingers like Sith lightning. They coursed through Lolly's body, causing her to convulse and expose her skeleton like she was a cartoon character, then fall unconscious to the ground.
Unsurprisingly, that was all it took for Icky to go full monster Clown. Her nails jutted out of her fingers like claws, her tongue became forked and flickered out between sharpened teeth, and violet smoke poured from her flaming black and purple snake eyes.
Ducking the lightning, she grabbed the mallet and transfigured it into an enormous warhammer, as heavy and spiked as the club she had created mere minutes earlier. Yielding the unwieldy weapon with fury and precision, she knocked off the shield and then swung for the robot's legs.
The hammer successfully punctured the metal limb, with hydraulic fluid gushing out of the wounds. Seeing (and hearing its 120-decibel announcement) that the robot was about to use its taser again, she forcefully pulled the hammer out of its leg and bashed it across the head.
The blow was strong enough to knock Wondertron off balance and send it falling towards the ground. When the creature looked up it saw that Icky was coming in for a coup de grace.
“FAILURE IMMINENT. LETHAL SELF-DEFENSE AUTHORIZED. INITIATING PYROMATIC GUIDED COMBAT MISSILE™!”
“Wait, wha -”
A large missile blasted out of Wondertron's shoulder, punching Icky in the gut with the force of a freight train and ploughing her into the air with it. The missile soared up and through the city at near supersonic speeds, swerving and jerking to avoid hurting or damaging anyone or anything. Once it had a clear path up it made a beeline for the sky, rising for several seconds until it exploded above the city in a beautiful pyrotechnic display that sadly couldn't be fully appreciated during the day.
Icky, winded from both the gut punch and the explosion, fell from the sky and crashed into the middle of Mainstreet™, leaving an Icky-shaped crater in the asphalt. As the drivers skidded to a stop to avoid her they caused a 20 car pile-up. Fortunately, they were all bumper cars so nobody was hurt.
Wondertron came soaring in on its jetpack, landing in the middle of the road. In one hand it carried the unconscious body of Lolly, the other it aimed straight at Icky.
“CHARGING NINETY-NINE PERCENT NONLETHAL MAGISHOCK TASER BLAST™!” it said, its voice slightly more ominous than before. “SURRENDER NOW AND NO FURTHER HARM WILL COME TO YOU.”
Since it was taking most of Icky's essokinetic abilities just to stay alive at this point, she didn't have much left to put up a fight. Shrinking back to her ordinary form, she placed her hands behind her head.
“REJOICE GOOD PEOPLE OF WONDER WORLD!™, FOR WONDERTRON 9000™ IS VICTORIOUS.”

“Gary? Gary is that you?” Icky asked into the phone she had been provided with. “Good. Listen up. Lolly and I are in the Naughty Corner in Wonder World, their jail basically. They've got the Hume-idity cranked up so we can't use our magic, so we need Manny to come bail us out.
We're political prisoners! We were kissing in public, which is a misdemeanour at most here, and that somehow escalated to them sicing a giant robot on us! Make sure Manny knows we're the victims here, and if they actually try to charge us with anything we are suing for police brutality. I was struck by a missile! If they want to keep our business after this we'd better get an apology and a tent's worth of free stuff!
Yeah, bail's 5000 Gold Edition Wondertainment Power Play Pogs. No, I don't know what the exchange rate is on that. Alright, thanks Gary.”
Icky hung up the phone and sat down beside Lolly, wrapping her arms around her comfortingly.
“Lolly, I am so sorry this got so out of control,” she said, kissing her on the top of the head.
"At least we still got dino-nuggets," she said, dipping the last nugget from their prison dinners into some honey. "They even got pterodactyls even though they aren't technically dinosaurs. Ca-caw!"
"You are so sweet," Icky said, running her fingers across her cheek. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine, I just got electrocuted. You got a lot worse than I did,” she replied. “Looking back on it, trying to fight an enormous battle bot was probably not the best decision we've ever made.”
“Yeah, I'm starting to see the appeal of nonviolent resistance. I'm just glad you weren't seriously hurt. This was probably our worst date ever.”
“In the short term, maybe, but long term it'll make one hell of a story,” Lolly smiled. Icky smirked and nodded in agreement, ever impressed by her lover's unflappable optimism. “So where do you think we should go for our next date trip? Three Portlands is probably a lot more gay-friendly. Not as many rides, but more art, and the shops and theatre are probably pretty good too. Same for BackdoorSoHO.”
“We could go hiking in Roadkill County.”
“Roadkill County?”
“It's just a name. The scenery's beautiful, lots of free anomalies to admire, you'll love it. It would be nice to go somewhere quiet for a little while.”
“It doesn't matter. As long as we're free to be who we are without being assaulted by giant robots, I'll be happy,” Lolly smiled. She cuddled up closer to Icky and rested her head on her shoulder to get some sleep. “Happy date night Icky.”
“Happy date night Lolly.”

« Dark and Disquieting | Dread & Circuses Hub | The Sea Slug and the Showman »


"I can't fucking do this any more, Jon."
Jonathan Remes looks at his friend, sprawled out on his desk amid a mountain of paperwork. Several chipped mugs, all partially full of cold coffee, are arranged on the surfaces surrounding him, and a long-discarded sandwich appears to be in the process of developing sentient life from the confines of its half-buried Tupperware box. A soft moan escapes the figure's lips.
"Look, I'm sure it's not that bad. You've had worse assignments, right? Archival work should be a breeze compared to the shit you've put up with over the years."
Agent Donovan raises his head, bloodshot eyes locking with Remes'. A post-it note peels slowly down his cheek. He makes a sound that may have been a chuckle, but could just have easily been the death rattle of a long-suffering member of the special, final type of hospital ward.
"A breeze, Jon? A fucking breeze? Right, of course, how could I have been so stupid. Who needs sleep, or a social life or, you know, proper meals, when your work is a god damn breeze? Thanks for the pep talk Jonny, I'm feeling oh-so-much better now. Cheers."
"Alright, it's not the easiest job in the world, but other people have-"
A thump stops Remes in his tracks. Like a zombie emerging from a crypt, Donovan stands before him, bony hands buried deep in the snowy heaps that blanketed the desk. As he stumbles upright, Remes' eyes can't help tracking the movement of his swinging arm, which is now noticeably gripping a letter-opener. Who even uses letter-openers any more? Jon had always assumed they just sort of materialised around old people, like tea cosies and those strange patterned slippers that always seemed worn-out, even when new. It seemed funny at the time — not so much now.
"Don't fucking tell me what other people have, Jon. Other people, " Swing, swing, slicing through the air. "Don't have to deal with this shit. They assume it's magically done by people with crisp white lab-coats and acres of free time, on sleek computers with state-of-the art word processors. Not by a former MTF commander with a penchant for skim reading, shut away in a dingy office with no natural light and a serious mould problem. That never even crosses their goddamn minds."
"Listen Donny, I-"
Swing.
"Don't fucking call me that."
"…Fine, Donovan. Someone's got to do it, right? At least you're not being shot at, or trapped in some other dimension."
For a moment, the Agent's face goes blank. His eye twitches, and a suspicion of a tear begins to form.
"I see. When you put it like that, I suppose I should be counting my blessings, right? Is that it?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
His breathing becomes ragged and deep, gulping great lungfuls of air. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him and retrieves a stack of tea-stained papers.
"Do you know what this is?"
The swinging of the letter-opener coincides with a heartfelt thrust towards Remes — he grips the papers instinctively.
"Don't fucking answer, I know you don't. It's SCP-9611, or rather, all three of them. All assigned to the same number, and we haven't even opened the 7000-block yet. This", he spits, grasping an apparently blank sheet of laminated card, "is URA-0032. An un-registered anomaly for which the accuracy of its documentation depends on both the predicted life of the medium and the visibility to a casual observer. The preliminary report, which I hold before you like the motherfucking Mona Lisa, is written in lemon juice and triple-coated in high-strength plastic. It's also completely inaccurate. I've dealt with anafabulae, antiphysics, and self-referential pictograms. I've lost colleagues and friends to window memes, inkwells, digitisation and Bad Text Data Dumps. Now it's just me and some part-timers who don't know their ass from an appendix."
"Hey, I know my ass from a-"
Donovan waves him into silence.
"There are things in this pile that would make you turn to stone if you read them backwards. I can name nine, anomalies writ, composed bit-by-bit, in half-complete rhyme. That wasn't necessary by the way, I just felt like letting my fucking creative spirit out." He gestures around the room with his non-weaponised hand. "I don't get much opportunity to, as you can probably guess. But do you know what really gets my goat? What really pushes me over the edge?"
Remes doesn't, and makes the mistake of saying so.
"Hah! No, no why would you. Why the fuck would you. Guess I'll have to show you myself. It's above your clearance, probably, but it's not like they'll be able to sanction me any more than they're already going to." He turns and pulls a particularly thick wad of stationery from a nearby shelf, knocking over, as he does, an inoffensive potted plant whose thick waxy leaves somehow contrived to look more fake than the plastic shrub in the hall outside. "Here. Read it. I can wait."

09/09/1999

Project Proposal PP-V77R/011 ("Project Zion"): Application for increased use of anomalous phenomena to facilitate well-being and skill amongst staff.
Project Lead: ███ ██████
Additional Staff: [REDACTED]
Summary: "It is known that certain Foundation assets have extremely beneficial properties, and have long been available for use in projects, tests, and other such activities. Additional anomalies have seen use as a method of rejuvenating and instructing staff, to great effect — analysis shows that the gain in productivity and morale from the Duck Pond alone far outweighs the combined damage from all our 'misguided' projects."
"However, in recent years an unfortunate stigma has arisen surrounding these practises: namely, that such protocols represent a relic of a bygone era, and should no longer be considered 'standard'. We aim to change this, utilising, modifying, re-purposing and in some cases creating Safe-class anomalies specifically for use by personnel. We attach a full specification alongside this document, but you can rest assured all members of staff, from field agents to archivists, have been taken into account. We are certain we can provide training regimens to help skill and reskill all positions within the Foundation hierarchy."
Status: APPROVED [7/6]

"…Oh my god"
"You see? You see? I've spent two and a half years cleaning up this mess, and now, with the masquerade balanced more precariously than ever before, they want to create more. More fucking documents to file away to rot. Well, I'm not standing for it. I'm getting out, Jon, while I still have the will to live. I'm fucking done."
"Yeah, thattt-ttat-t#|; . .-. .-. --- .-.//#"
Donovan's eyes widen and he takes a step back, hands reaching out for a now-wireframe table than no longer supports his weight. The letter opener begins to drift sideways through the wall before flickering out of existence.
"What the fuck?"
Remes' head rotates ninety degrees, and his left arm fades out of view. The walls of the office shrink and dwindle to nothing, and suddenly Donovan is standing, confused and alone, in a large sandy… arena? Like something out of a film, except the stands are filled with strange figures that seem to jerk and stutter and… oh no. Oh dear god, no. What's left of Remes' facsimile begins to recite messages in a strange monotonous tone that seems strangley at odds with its freakish, distended jaw.
"Status: FAILED. Loyalty value below acceptable levels. Archival proficiency: 56%."
The agent's vision starts to dim.
"Recommended action: FULL RESTART. Awaiting confirmation."
Donovan thinks he hears a distant voice echo, but he can't make out any words.
"Confirmation received. Total cycles: [194/256]. Beginning restart of archival_duties_proficiency_training(2).slt."
A pause. Don's vision is too darkened to make out the scene around him, and he already feels himself forgetting his three years… service? Does it count as service if you spend it locked inside a hijacked extradimensional battle programme? Knowing them, the bastards probably fed him some real paperwork while he was under. You can always trust the bureaucrats to make the most of a horrific situation. Not like it matters, really. His muscles all tense at once and somehow the darkness seems to come into focus around him.
"Loop cycle [195/256] commenced. Beginning adversary simulation. Sweet dreams."
The darkness switches off, and he's left in nothing.

"Don, are you okay?"
"J- Jonny? That's you, right?"
"Sure is. Looked like you passed out for a moment. Paperwork, am I right?"
"Hah, yeah." He clutches his forehead and frowns. "I know it sounds weird, but I just had the strangest dream."


Item #: SCP-993
Object Class: Safe Uncontained

"So," said Rodge, driving a pick into the corpse's back. "What was your favourite episode?"
"Has to be seventy-eight," replied Lindsay, eyes far-off in the realm of nostalgia. "I used to watch that one every morning before school."
"Bobble's Hunting Lodge - good choice."
BobbleCon 2018 had been difficult to organize - so much of the fandom was in prison or otherwise indisposed - but they'd finally managed to snag a venue and a good chunk of attendants. The trouble was, Rodge reflected as he pulled the pick out of the body, the locals didn't seem to care much for Bobble at all. There was no end to the Bobble haters, from what Rodge had seen. There were all sorts of organizations keen to keep him locked up or even, God forbid, kill him.
"Well," he said after a minute, stuffing the pick back into his backpack. "I think Deputy Dollop here got the point. We should be able to go on without any more interruptions."
He began walking back towards the village's church, which the attendants had covered with home-made Bobble banners and other wonderful memorabilia. It really wasn't fair how that cop had wanted them out - this village had shit in terms of viable convention venues. If they didn't set up in the church, where would they set up?
"Deputy Dollop," laughed Lindsay, catching up to him. "Episode nine thousand and four, right?"
"Well spotted," grinned Rodge, wagging a finger. "Preston was right - you really do know your stuff."
"Like I said, every morning. You don't forget a show like Bobble's."
"That you do not," said Rodge, opening the doors to the church. The convention-goers turned from the pews, eagerly awaiting news about the deputy outside. Their faces were painted white, and their hair dyed orange - just like Bobble! It was a bit of fun Lindsay had come up with when they'd first met up. Rodge and Lindsay had done the same themselves. He'd never done cosplay before, but he had to admit it was pretty amusing.
"Well?" said Preston, the only one of them in a full Bobble outfit, from the altar. His eyes were wide with anticipation.
Rodge reached into his bag and pulled out the pick, blood still dripping from its edge.
"The show goes on!" he cheered, and BobbleCon cheered with him.
-
Rodge had first met Bobble when he was…six, maybe? Definitely at least six.
He'd been sitting in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal, when he'd heard a crashing sound from the living room. He'd run to check out what it was, and what did he find but his mother, having fallen on the floor unconscious? It looked for all the world like she'd just fallen asleep while doing the ironing.
Rodge, worried, had run to the phone, ready to call 911, when -
"Hey there, kids! Guess who?"
Rodge looked up to see a face on the television. A cheerful-looking cartoon clown, with pale skin and curly orange hair. There was a kindness in his eyes. You could tell that straight away - this was a person who wanted the best for you.
Maybe…maybe it would be best not to call 911. She'd only fainted, after all, and Rodge was pretty curious about this new show. He didn't remember ever seeing it before.
Rodge went and sat on the couch, watching the television with rapt attention. The clown on the screen grinned, as if he could see straight into Rodge's living room.
"Thaaat's right! It's your old pal, Bobble the Clown!"
It was like nothing Rodge had ever seen. He'd caught glimpses of violent movies and stuff when he snuck downstairs after bed, but never more than snippets. Blood and guts, screams and cries…he'd never realized how fun they could be. Bobble made them that way, of course. The show wouldn't work without him - Rodge could tell that even way back then.
Thirty minutes flew by like nothing, and by the end Rodge wanted nothing more than for his new friend to stick around. Bobble seemed to share the feeling, weeping exaggeratedly on the screen, hands over his eyes.
"Oh, boo hoo! Boo hoo! Alas, children, that's all for today! Please…please, if you have any decency in your hearts…"
Suddenly, he took his hands away, and those kind, kind eyes were back. Kind, grey eyes, like the edge of a knife. He grinned at Rodge.
‘Tune in next time! Honk honk! Honk honk!'
The television snapped back to static, and soon enough the morning news resumed playing. His mother stirred on the floor, slowly getting up.
"Rodge?" she slurred. "What happened?"
Rodge didn't reply. He was too excited, his face having broken out into a grin just like Bobble's. His new friend would be on television again just the next day!
He'd never been happier in his life.
-
"I first started watching Bobble when I was nine," said Preston into the microphone taped to the altar, the rest of the attendants listening reverently from the pews. "My parents were having a divorce at the time and I was honestly having a hard time of it. Bobble gave me something to look forward to every morning and - and this fandom, I honestly think this fandom saved my life. I love you guys so much."
A wave of polite clapping and cheering went through the pews. Lindsay, standing behind Preston, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"We Bobbleheads have to stick together," she said, smiling warmly.
"Episode three nine nine," Preston recognized the quote, tears in his eyes.
"Yeah. Episode three nine nine."
-

Special Containment Procedures: As SCP-993 is no longer under containment, all efforts are to focus on tracking down and halting all SCP-993 broadcasts. Outgoing broadcasts are to be intercepted through the updated version of Procedure Upsilon-Beta 3, operated by Learning Computers Tau-4 ("AMON") and Epsilon 9 ("JOSIAH").
Physical searches of broadcast locations are to be handled by Mobile Task Forces Zeta-2 ("Lumberjacks"), Eta-10 ("See No Evil") and Mu-9 ("Toybreakers"). Individuals identifying as part of the group 'BobbleCon', or individuals over the age of ten who are immune to SCP-993's effects, are to be treated as hostile and engaged with appropriate force. Class-C amnestics are to be administered to any individuals suspected to have been exposed to SCP-993's cognitohazardous effects. All involved MTF Units are to be supplied with SCRAMBLE-type goggles in order to prevent them from viewing SCP-993 and being rendered unconscious.
All security on SCP objects mentioned in prior SCP-993 broadcasts is to be intensified severely.

-
One day, Bobble the Clown had stopped airing. There'd been no warning, no prophecy from Bobble to let his viewers know. One day, Bobble came to visit, and the next he didn't.
Rodge wept for weeks. He was inconsolable. He'd done so much for Bobble - the cats that had disappeared in his neighbourhood were proof of that - and he'd just left him. He hadn't even said goodbye.
When he thought back on it, after those first few weeks, he realized that Bobble wouldn't have left his fans by choice. There was nobody Bobble loved more in this world than his fans. He hadn't left. Someone had taken him. Stolen him.
Rodge ran away from home not long after that. If Bobble was missing, then it was up to his fans to find him. Over the years, through internet cafes and meetups, Rodge grew to meet other Bobbleheads on the same quest. They'd scour every bit of information even slightly related to Bobble, hoping to release their best friend from his chains.
But, in the end, there weren't many of them. Even with guns and knives, you could only overpower so many to get the information you needed. All they managed to scrounge up, for all their efforts, were three letters: SCP. Rodge assumed they were the ones who stole Bobble, but he couldn't even be sure of that.
They'd lost hope until Lindsay had contacted them, and let them know of the treasure she had.
-
"We're all waiting, Lindsay," laughed Rodge, trying to appear casual - but there was a pit in his stomach. What if it didn't work? What if Lindsay was wrong?
"Be patient, Rodge," grinned Lindsay. Rodge could almost see the excitement trickling out of her skin like sweat, or maybe pus. The two of them turned as they heard a door open.
Preston and another Bobblehead wheeled in an old television and VCR player from the church's recreation room. The attendants rushed to gather around as Lindsay approached it.
"Everyone keep it together," chuckled Lindsay, reaching into her backpack. "It's not going anywhere."
She pulled out a tape. On it was written, in marker, BobClown Ep21.
"The tape!" the convention cheered as one, so high-pitched it was more like a scream. "The tape! The tape!"
"Courtesy of Westhead News! Praise Bobble, and praise the Tree!" laughed Lindsay, shoving the tape into the player. Rodge didn't know what the hell the Tree was, but he didn't really care at this point. His favourite show was coming back on!
The screen turned on. For a few horrible seconds it showed some cartoon about an elephant, and Rodge thought that it was over, but then it changed.
The picture was of a blank, empty room. White and sterile, with only a chair in the centre. A prison cell, surely. There was a man sat in the chair, and they all recognized him. They all knew him. How could they ever have forgotten that face?
The show zoomed in, and soon enough Bobble the Clown's face filled the screen. A deep frown was on his face. His kind, grey eyes flicked from left to right, taking in everyone in the church. His frown became a smirk, and then a wide rictus grin. He laughed, a jolly screeching laugh that shook the stained windows of the church in their frames, before jumping out of his chair and planting a sloppy kiss on the camera.
"Hey there, kids!" he said. "Guess who?"

On 02/12/2018, at 21:07, the contents of all tapes previously containing recordings of SCP-993 suddenly changed to a new episode.

Episode Title
Contents

Bobble Loves His Fans!
Episode is framed as Bobble accepting a trophy in a large auditorium for his contributions to 'the arts, education and the continuation of human nature'. After giving an acceptance speech that goes on for fifty minutes (a full transcript of which is available in Supplimentary Document 993-1), Bobble declares that in celebration of his award, he will be putting his show back on the air. To conclude his speech, he bids his audience (consisting of animated versions of celebrities, unidentified children and Foundation personnel) to commit mass suicide, a request they appear to happily comply with. Then, he leaves the stage through a wooden door at the back.

Following this event, the Foundation received reports that SCP-993 had resumed broadcasting from approximately ███ locations. Although interception of these broadcasts is ongoing as dictated by Protocol Upsilon-Beta 3, new broadcasting locations appear to be arising as fast as others are being blocked. It is at this point undeniable that SCP-993 has completely breached containment.

| BobbleCon | The Revolution Will Be Televised »


Recovery Log Transcript
Date: ██/██/████
Recovery Team: Mobile Task Force Zeus-4 "Dire Thunder"
Subject: Site-22
Team Lead: Alpha
Team Members: Omega, Gamma, Delta
Abstract: After Site-22 suffered several containment breaches, MTF Zeus-4 were sent in to find and retrieve critical data and, if possible, extract any remaining personnel before the onsite nuke was detonated. However, the mission was a failure, and the team was prevented from even entering the site. Included below is their final transmission before disbanding.

Deployment Manager aka SiteCommand: Members of MTF Zeus-4 check in.
Alpha: Alpha checking in, over.
Gamma: Gamma checking in, over.
Omega: Gamma, please be advised that we should be doing this in numerical order, over.
Gamma: Command, please advise Omega that it really doesn't matter in what order we check in, over.
SiteCommand: Jeremy, it really doesn't matter what order you guys sound off in.
Omega: Command, please advise as to the identity of this "Jeremy" individual. I am Agent-
Omega can be heard mimicking the sound of static.
Omega: -of MTF Zeus-4, decorated hero of-
Alpha: Thank you, Omega, we can see that your comms are working. Team should continue to check in, over.
Silence for five seconds.
Command: Luke, this is you.
Delta: Oh, okay! Sorry guys. My name is Luke, this is my first time at the table, and-
Omega: Delta, please simply check your comm system and refrain from giving out classified information such as your name, over.
Delta: What?
Alpha: Just say you're checking in, and follow it with the word 'over' so we know we got the end of your transmission.
Delta: This is Luke checking in.
Another awkward pause.
Alpha: Over.
Delta: Right! Over.
Alpha: Okay, let's get a move on. Permission to proceed, Command, over.
Command: Permission granted, Alpha. Here's the situation: following numerous containment breaches from Euclid- and Keter-class SCPs, Site-22 has been compromised. The on-site nuke is set to go off in t-minus thirty minutes, vaporizing everything within a three kilometer radius. Before that happens, O5-7 has authorized one final mission to go inside to retrieve Dr. Redacted and escort her safely to-
Omega: Please clarify, Command. I'm unfamiliar with any personnel at any site under the name 'Dr. Redacted', over.
Command: That's what it says in the file, Omega. I'm just reading you the briefing.
Omega: I'm just not sure that's the doctor's actual name, Command. Over.
Alpha: Objection noted, Omega. Please allow Command to continue the brief, over.
Gamma: Afraid I'm gonna have to side with Omega on this one, Cap, dirty as it feels. Hearing someone referred to as 'Dr. Redacted' just doesn't sound right.
Delta: You forgot to say 'over', Clair.
Sound of Gamma sighing heavily through her nose.
Gamma: Over.
Delta: Actually, now that I think of it, how are we supposed to recover this doctor if we're not allowed to know her name? Are we supposed to just grab the first living person we run into? Is she the only female doctor working at this site?
Alpha: Newbie brings up a good point, Command. We'll need a way to identify the target if we stand any chance of a successful extraction.
Command: Fine. Just let me find something you can work with and declassify it.
Radio silence. Thirteen seconds later, the sound of rustling papers can be heard. Alpha clears his throat.
Command: Doctor Allison Taylor can be identified by the wine-colored birthmark on her neck.
Gamma: And probably also by a nametag that reads 'Dr. Alison Taylor'.
Delta: Over.
Alpha: Is that the entirety of the briefing, over?
Command: That's all the relevant bits. You're to enter Site-22 and retrieve Dr. Taylor, as well as any information and other survivors you might encounter.
Omega: Any information on what skips we can expect to encounter at Site-22, over?
Alpha: We've got a list of all the entities contained within the site and their SCP designations. Be advised that this may not include unauthorized transfers.
Command: Come on, give me a break. I promised not to pull the 'unauthorized transfer' thing on you guys again, and I meant it. I'm sticking to the containment list you have access to, and that's it.
Gamma: Should be fair enough, as long as none of us take the opportunity to metagame.
Delta: What does that mean, over?
Gamma: It means googling the skips in question and building your character with a ton of bullshit feats and equipment specifically designed to show the rest of us up and ruin the fun.
Omega: I don't understand what you're hinting at, Gamma. Also don't forget to follow each transmission with the word 'over', over.
Gamma: Goddammit, Jeremy, we're sitting three feet away from each other! You can drop the 'over' thing!
Omega: Gamma, please be advised that the Foundation uses the metric sys-
Loud thumping noises can be heard alongside the scratching of a chair against carpet. Unintelligible arguing between Gamma and Omega ensues, and Gamma's voice grows quieter before disappearing. Omega's voice can be heard following a similar pattern.
Delta: Clair? Jeremy? Are you coming back, over?
Alpha: I think that's a wash, newbie. Better luck next time.
Command: We'll try again next week. Hopefully then we'll be able to get past the mission briefing and actually start playing. Thanks for coming over anyway. There's still pizza on the dryer if you want some.
More chairs can be heard shuffling, then muffled conversation between Alpha, Delta, and Command. At this point, audio cuts out entirely.


North East Lincolnshire
August 9th, 1943
Howard Millpond, head driver of the 592nd Tunneling Company, looked along the road and contained a whimper in the back of his throat. All along the roadside were bits of shrapnel and viscera, most likely from poor animals that mistook the cylindrical apparatus for something they could touch without punishment. Instead, their last moments were filled with a blinding pain, and then darkness.
Douglass, the man in the front seat with Millpond, looked down the road. They were slowly approaching Adamsborough, a small town that had been hit by several devil's eggs dropped by Jerry on their way back to Germany from bombarding Cleethropes. The munitions dropped were the size of tin cans, and had fuses that would go off when moved following their arming. They had the potential to decimate entire towns, and they were small enough to fit through the windows of a house if wind took them in an unfortunate direction.
Douglass lit up a Michelson and let it waft through the cabin of their vehicle. "I hope they hang whoever designed these blasted things, and throw his corpse to the dogs."
"It's inhumane," Howard agreed, looking approaching a fork in the road. "Which way?"
"To the right," Douglass pointed. The road around them had begun to grow foggy; it was six in the evening. By all accounts, in the middle of summer, the fog was far too dense. "This weather is peculiar."
"Y-yes," Howard nodded. "It's far too warm out for fog. I t-think something's wrong."
"It's just fog, Millpond. There was rain around here after the bombing; I think that the heat's just evaporating the water—"
A blast tore through their conversation, and the rear tyres of their car. "Jesus CHRIST!" Douglass blasphemed, his cigarette flying out of his mouth and striking Howard in the face.
Howard forced the wheel to steer off into the side of the road, where it came to a stop in front of a small boulder. The poor driver looked in the back of the transport, where two other members of his company were seated. "Report!"
"Singh's been hit!" yelled Jameson, their sergeant. Poor Singh was the newest member of the company, a sapper transferred over from elsewhere, Indian in descent. His head was bleeding, and his eyes shut. Not even a groan escaped from his lips. "He's out cold!"
"What the devil happened?" Douglass barked.
"Watch your tone!" Jameson snapped. "We must have driven over unexploded ordinance. Damn ill luck. Fetch the first aid kit from the other truck."
"Yes sir!" Howard exclaimed. He turned off the car and exiting the cabin, making his way to the other truck, his pupils turned to pinpoints, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. "…I'm afraid I can't comply, sir."
"That was an order, Corporal."
"Sir, the other transport…" he looked at the other vehicle. It had flipped onto the roof of its chassis, and an arm was sticking out of the cabin. The engine had caught fire, and there was a gaping hole in the underside. "We drove past it. They drove over it."
"Poor fools," Jameson sighed. "Douglass, help me carry Singh. We're going to have to walk the rest of the way and phone for help in the village."
"Yes sir." Douglass exited the cabin, a soft whistle from his nose lamenting the loss of both of the transports. He made his way towards the sergeant, and lifted up the poor sapper's arms. "Millpond, you have the map. How far until Adamsborough?"
"…seven klicks this way," Millpond pointed, ignoring the tingling in his ears. "I'll help carry Singh—."
"Don't." Jameson hefted Singh's arm onto his shoulders, sharing the burden with Douglass. "You're the best navigator we have. Do your job."
"Yes, sir." As they walked, they swore they heard the sound of feet following them, but whenever Howard turned to look, he was met with nothing but fog.

August 8th
Captain Edgar York lit a Michelson, and overlooked the scene before him.
The entirety of Adamsborough was silent, from the main thoroughfare to the great cathedral that stood overhead. He wiped tobacco off of his moustache and looked at the damaged ambulance that had crashed into a tree off the main road. In its back was a man with a face like sandwich meat, his work shirt stained with blood. There was still soil underneath his fingernails; perhaps he had been a gardener, blown up by a munition. It was one of the only bodies they had found so far.
Adamsborough was far from bustling, but it had a population of five-hundred and forty-nine; barely a fifth of that had been found by the Foundation in their sweep.
"How can an entire village vanish?" He looked up into the still-high sun, thankful for the days post-midsummer still being long enough to see at six in the evening. "None of this makes sense. None of it."
He searched the man's pockets, finding a wallet; inside was a card with the words 'If found, kindly return to 19 Wensley Way, Adamsborough, North East Lincolnshire'. No postal code. He doubted that it was necessary, with how little this man must have left the town. He pocketed it, and started making his way to the man's house.
He did not find it vacant.

It took far too long for the company to see any sign of civilization.
The first sign of life they were greeted with along the road were lights coming from windows, high above the ground, barely visible in the fog. Howard walked towards it, while Douglass and Jameson dragged Singh with them. The man had uttered a few groans on the walk over, and had even managed to stride for half a kilometer, before falling again. Now, he was limp.
The fog gave way to a church, ancient, with brown stone and and a set of oaken double-doors leading into the building. The most prominent feature — and where the lights originated from — was a tower at least three stories tall, with a stained glass image of Mother Mary depicted on it. A cross topped the spire of the tower.
"Maybe they have a phone," Jameson said, hope in his voice. "Knock on the door, Millpond."
Howard nodded, and approached the door, banging on it. "Hello! We have wounded out here! Is anyone inside?"
There was no reply; Douglass frowned. "That's queer, the lights are on, but nobody's in?"
"Maybe they're having a service?" Howard asked.
"It's Thursday, Millpond. Who has services on a Thursday?"
Millpond pushed the door ajar. "It's open. Let's get Singh on some ground somewhere."
"Hullo?" Douglass called out. "We're with the 592nd Tunneling Company. Is anyone in h—"
"Quiet!," a hushed voice called. "Come to the sanctuary, you daft fools."
Howard went onward, while Douglass, Singh and Jameson hobbled in after him. The sanctuary was considerably brighter than its surroundings, illuminated by candles and what little sunlight came in through the misty windows. The pews within had been moved out of the way to make room for two dozen mats of cloth, all with at least one person on them, groaning in pain. Several of them were maimed, but the wounds did not look explosive in nature. They were being overseen by men with white armbands and a red cross, clad in the uniform of the British army. These armbands seemed to be concealing another symbol beneath, but perhaps Howard was imagining things in the candlelight.
Suddenly, they were approached by a man holding a shotgun in their face, wearing the garb of a soldier that should have been on the German front. "State your name and business," he growled.
"Jesus Christ!" Howard said, holding up his hands.
"Doubtful," the man retorted. "Tunneling company, you said? Where are your orders?"
"I have them," Sargent Jameson said, looking at Singh. "Please, let me put him down, they're in my pocket."
The man with the shotgun nodded, and they laid Singh down on one of the vacant cots, before Jameson took a set of papers out of his shirt pocket and handed them to the man. "…Sergeant Jameson, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"Says here there are eight on this mission. I see four."
"…we r-r-ran over unexploded munition," Howard swallowed. "The other transport was decimated, and our car is wrecked. We're trying to walk to Adamsborough for help—"
"Adamsborough is lost," the man said, letting his shotgun hang at his side, his other hand extending to Jameson. "Captain York, 9th Containment Corps."
"Never heard of you," Jameson said, shaking his hand. "But, if you're a captain, I suppose I'm your subordinate."
"Hmm," the man said, looking out the windows, into the mist. "Good thing you came in from the fog. Something tore Adamsborough to bits, and it may still be out there."
"The butterfly munitions?" hazarded Douglass.
"Yes," York lied. "But there's something else out there; Something that can kill a man in an instant, but leaves buildings completely intact." He shook his head.
"Is it a gas?" Howard swallowed, looking at the fog outside.
"No. Hounds." York growled. When he saw the company flinch, he shook his head. "Not bad enough that Jerry's dropping bombs on us now, they started parachuting dogs in, too. Curs ate half the village."
"Oh god." Douglass gaped. "Those poor people…"
"We've not got all of them," York continued. "They're vicious. We're awaiting reinforcements to exterminate the damn things. In the meantime, we've got tea, biscuits, some rations." He shifted aside. "Help yourself."
"Thank you," Howard nodded, taking his canteen off his side and undoing the top, taking a long sip from it. Then, he gasped with pain, and dropped it. His hand burned from cold. Frost had formed on the metal.
The corporal smelled tea deeper in the sanctuary, and departed to find it, to warm his burnt hand. As he left, Captain York confiscated his canteen and took it to someone who was wearing a tweed coat and looking through a microscope.

Captain York stood in the foyer of 19 Wensley Way, looking thoroughly unimpressed as his lieutenant made his way in from the kitchen, stuffing something into his pocket. "Captain," he nodded.
"Lieutenant Catchlove." York sighed. "What are you doing?"
"I'm simply looking around for any cause of the anomaly. We're being very thorough." He pulled his hand from his pocket; it jangled loudly.
"Yes, I can see that." York reached for the man's pocket and tore it off his pants, causing its contents to fall onto the floor; a gold chain, pieces of silverware, a wedding band, and a gold cross deposited themselves onto the floor. "God's sake, Catchlove."
"I'm sending all my money to my sister!" he snapped. "I've got nothing left over. And everyone in the Army's doing it, over on the continent. Not like they'll need it."
"I'll not have any of this looting on my watch. We're the Foundation; we're not some common soldiers who pillage the dead." York scowled at Catchlove.
"You can espouse that to me when the Foundation decides to pay me enough that I can buy new boots." He scooped up cross and stormed towards the door.
It was as he crossed the threshold that the howling started.

Singh was awake, head bandaged, tea in his hand. A boffin had been attending to his wounds for the past half hour, while the members of the Tunneling Corps had been conversing with members of Captain York's squadron. There was an odd hodge-podge of nationalities; the man in the tweed coat was a Pole, someone spoke Czech by the door to the church's foyer. A Frenchman played cards with Douglass, and a pair of Americans was in the back of the room, standing on chairs to look out the high windows in the cathedral. Howard wasn't sure what they would see out there, between the tinted glass and the fog.
Howard had a suspicion that something was wrong, but couldn't figure out what it was. There was a chill in the air that was unnatural for summer, but then again, the weather in the North England was fickle; it could just as easily have been due to a squall in the sea blowing in cold air.
The feeling of wrongness became concrete once he realized he could see his own breath. His eyes went wide, and he looked out the windows, into the fog beyond. It was August; even with squalls blowing in cold wind, he shouldn't be able to see his breath.
A low howl came from outside. Several members of the Containment Corps stopped what they were doing and took up arms, making their way to the cathedral's front entrance. It sounded like dogs were howling, but there was an eerie tone in the bray; something that made the hair on Howard's arms stand on end.
"Don't worry," one of the Americans said as he passed by. "We're just going up front to try to shoot a few of the dogs. Make the reinforcement's jobs easier."
"You have any spare rifles?" Jameson asked. "I'm a fair shot."
"We can take care of this," York assured him, hefting his own rifle and making his way into the cathedral's foyer. He knelt in the back of the cathedral, and signaled for the poor fool who had drawn the short straw to open the door.
When they did, they were met with a loud thunk sound, as a man fell in, a scream frozen on his face, his fingernails bloodied, his pants soiled. His eyes were burnt, blackened by some foul force. York almost dropped his gun.
"Jesus Christ."
"Is it one of ours?" a member of the corps asked.
"I… oh sweet god." York observed a glint of gold in the dead man's hand. "It's Catchlove."

With a loud growl, a cadet was dragged back into the fog by something with far too many teeth to be mortal. A single gunshot was heard from the mist. Not even a scream. Even if there was one, the rest of the corps were too busy running up the hill to the church.
None of them had time for throwing blame or on-foot interrogations. They were running from a cloud of death to the one place in the hamlet that might provide sanctuary: the fortified, millennium-old church. They had already set up a temporary headquarters within.
Another soldier fell with a loud scream, begging and sobbing, far less dignified than the one before. They dared not to look back at the advancing fog, ignored the sounds it made.
They came upon the doors. A young man rammed them in with his shoulder, and fell into the flagstones. York helped him to his feet, and guided him into the chapel, ushering in the rest. The mist, mercifully, stayed away from the church's threshold.
York began a headcount once the last soldier was in; his heart sank as he realized that it was not a common soldier who was begging for his life, but Lieutenant Catchlove. He looked out into the mist, and for a split second, saw a hand reaching out from the fog, before being dragged back in.
Were it not for the size, York would have slammed the oaken door. Instead, he shoved it closed, not thinking about his subordinate's fate.

York took too long to respond to Howard's question. "Who's Catchlove?"
"A lieutenant in the company; he was ambushed by dogs on one of the side streets." York made his way over to the man, and extracted the golden cross from his fingers. "Dammit all."
Singh, by this point, had made his way over to the foyer, and was looking outside at the fog. He swallowed. "There are shapes out there."
"Where?" One of the cadets swung his rifle about frantically. "Where do you see 'em?"
"I…" the man's head swam. "I thought you said they were dogs."
"They are," York assured him.
"No." Singh retreated with a whimper. "They're massive. Not dogs."
"I don't see them!" another cadet protested. "Where are they, you daft ass?"
They soon all saw it; as if condensing from mist, a large, black dog with dark, glassy eyes walked through the doors, and looked upon those gathered. They hesitated as the hound growled.
Douglass's eyes went wide. "That's a Grim."
"What?" Jameson asked.
"Church Grim. We had one at my old parish. They…" Douglass swallowed. "They're harmless, unless provoked."
"Well, let's hope they've not provoked it." Howard stared.
The dog came up to Catchlove's corpse and sniffed at it, before, with a loud growl, it opened its mouth. In a clatter of metal, the Grim deposited at least half a dozen butterfly munitions onto the ground.
"That's impossible," Howard gasped. "They should have all detonat—"
"DOWN!" Jameson yelled, tacking Howard to the ground, while Douglass shielded Singh.
The explosion was tremendous. A single butterfly bomb could take off a man's head; the shrapnel from these scattered all over, striking Captain York in his hand, and tearing the face off of the poor soldier who had opened the door in the first place. At the same time, neither the church's stonework, nor the Grim itself, were harmed. The Grim barked, and then lunged at a soldier who had escaped most of the blast.
Howard was thankful the explosion had deafened him; he could not imagine the screams the man must have made. Those who had survived the attack alternatively ran or limped from the church. Howard looked down at Jameson, who had a gash running down his leg, with a piece of bomb sticking out; adrenaline kept him going.
"Where are we going?!" Howard yelled.
He could not hear the reply. He ran, hoping to not get lost in the fog.

Captain York ran into a garden wall after two minutes of fleeing. He hadn't seen it until his nose was pressed against it; the fog had blinded him.
He recoiled from the wall, looking up at it; it was on a corner, with signs pointing down each street. The sign he had run into was for Sherman Street, and the other was obscured by the layer of fog.
The man from the tunneling company had called it a Church Grim. Harmless, he had said, unless provoked. So, what provoked them? They had been what had wiped out the village, that much was certain. But then they took off, until Catchlove had tried to make off with the cross from the house.
York looked down at his hand. He had been clutching the ornament so tightly that it had left impressions in his hand. He sighed, and wrapped it around his wrist. The man in the ambulance was from the house that the cross was from. Perhaps his death had provoked the Grim? Or Grims? He wasn't sure of how many there were.
Feet fell on flagstones behind him, and a shape emerged from the mist. Captain York drew his pistol and fired on the shape in front of him; it ducked down with a loud yelp. "Don't shoot!" they protested.
"It's you," York sighed. "God alive. Thought you were that thing."
"S-sir," Singh stuttered. "I-I got separated. Douglass — from my company — was with me, and he tripped on the way down the hill. I'm not sure if he's alive."
"Damn it all." York shook his head. "I know where we need to go. Just… careful where you step." He looked at the garden wall above him, where a chunk of brickwork was missing, and casings from a butterfly bomb sat on the pavement below. "There are still munitions about."

"You need a tourniquet," Howard said, removing his shirt.
"No," Jameson growled. "I'll not weigh you down. Find a vehicle and get to safety. Failing that, find a phone, and call command, tell them that Adamsborough is lost."
"Sir, I can carry you—"
"I'm not about to have you eaten by a dog that vomits bombs because you can't carry me fast enough."
Despite Jameson's protests, Howard finished tying a tourniquet along his leg, along with a stick as a makeshift splint. "Well, if you feel that way, you can walk with me, sir."
Jameson barely held back a scowl. Couldn't his generation let there be a martyr among them? Why did they insist on saving lives? There was no glory in returning from war, only a hollow hole in your soul. He'd seen it when he was only sixteen, in the Somme. A man laid down in front of a tank. He didn't even scream. At least, if he died, he could inspire others to keep fighting, or to stop.
He took up a tree branch that had fallen on the street, one end bearing burn marks from a bomb, and limped after Millpond. "Where are we going?"
Howard reasoned, "If we can find a house with a car by it, we may be able to find keys. Live another day."
"Abandoning your post?" Jameson shook his head. "In light of what we've seen, I don't blame you." He lurched along on his three legs. "Why did you join a bomb disposal unit?"
"I… I've my mum to support." He sighed. "We lost it all at the start of the Blitz. Our house was one of the first shelled, and it's a miracle we survived. I've got to take care of her, so I volunteered for a tunneling company so that…"
"So that you wouldn't have to write letters?"
Millpond shook his head. "This is a dangerous job. I don't want her to wait six months for me to be home in a casket. At least if I die here, I can get a proper burial."
Jameson sighed. "After what I saw, in the last war. Just thinking of setting foot in France or Germany again…"
Howard nodded. He had been born after the Great War, but he understood the pain it caused. He continued down the street, keeping Jameson in his sight.
There were a pair of gunshots a street away, firing seconds after each other. They looked at each other, uneasy, before moving on. Howard kept turning, delaying them, swearing he heard another set of footsteps behind them, in the fog.

York and Singh stopped. "What the devil was that?"
"Rifle fire." York shook his head. "It won't do them any good. The… entities. They can't be killed, as far as we can tell." They stood before 19 Wensley Way, unaccosted by either dog or munition. He made his way up to the front door; a burn mark was on the handle, from where one of his men had been consumed by the mist. "I've… no idea if this will work."
"From what you told me, it started after Catchlove stole the cross? So bringing it back might…" Singh wrung his hands together. "What if we need the corpse as well?"
"Well, then we're fucked." York spat on the flagstones, and entered the house.
It was every bit as cozy as it would have been before the bombs dropped; the lights were still on, and the scent of tea filled the air. An armchair, which looked like it had been sat over the course of several lifetimes, stood by an empty, cold fireplace. A radio was on the mantle, by a photograph. York recognized that the channel it was tuned to was a BBC station.
One of the front windows was broken. Glass from it had embedded itself in the ceiling. Singh made his way over to it, and looked through the broken window, into the front garden. He could see a large chunk of ground missing, and a finger on the ground, alongside butterfly munition casing. He winced. "Someone died here."
"No," York shook his head. "He died in the ambulance. But why…" He looked down at the cross, and then up at a photograph on the mantle. The photo showed an old man with a smiling face, the cross around his neck, and the chapel behind him. There was something by the church; York strode over and took up the photograph.
The church's doors were open. In the shadows of the foyer, he made out the form of a large black dog. York placed the photograph down with a sigh. "Church Grim." He sucked on his cheek, and placed the cross by the photograph, an unsaid apology along with it.
Now, all he could do was wait, and pray. Singh stepped back from the window, hoping the fog would not penetrate the broken glass.

The sapper was drinking from a cold cup of tea to calm his nerves when he next looked out the window. "It's lifting," Singh said, being able to see the August sun once more. "But not gone. I think I can see the church from here."
York leaned and looked with him. "Aye. There are some of our transports, parked down the hill." He drew his pistol. "I can take you to Cleethropes; we have people there who can get you back down south." He drew his knife and handed it to Singh. "It's not much, but it's protection."
The man nodded in thanks, and took the knife, crouching his way out the door. A howl sounded behind them, and he heard the distinctive crunch of clay roof tile being crushed by an immense weight.
"It's not coming for us," York whispered. "It's just… watching. Just keep walking, and be calm about it."
Singh swallowed, and blinked his eyes; the fog had taken on a more acrid form, almost like smoke. He put his shirt collar over his nose, but it still stung his eyes. He looked up and behind him, and saw the great, black form walking on the roofs of the houses, the tiles shattering under its paws. Its presence filled Singh with a single, primal urge to leave, through any means possible.
He turned away. "I thought it'd be more docile once we returned the cross."
"We've done enough damage already," York spoke, muffled through a kerchief. "It just wants us to leave. Walk faster."
"Yes, sir." Singh picked up his stride, which slowed once more when he reached the base of the hill which held the church. "…Howard. The others…"
"I'm sorry, son." York patted the younger man on the shoulder, and started the slog up the hill.

Douglass suppressed a cough as he shut the eyes of the second man. The Americans from the containment corps had shot each other. There was surprise on their faces, no malice in either of them. In the fog, they were confused. Maybe they saw each other as Grims. Senseless, in any case.
Heavy footsteps came from ahead; two pairs of feet. A shape was distant in the fog; just a blackness that he couldn't make out. Douglass drew his pistol, and made his way towards the shape. It was walking unevenly; was it wounded? Was it dying? And the sound it was making; unnatural, unnerving wheezing, like a cur with cancer. Maybe it had stepped on a munition, and perforated a lung.
Douglass's finger was on the trigger before he realized that the footsteps were not caused by massive paws; rather, two pairs of boots against flagstones. "H-hallo?" he asked.
"D-Douglass?" A familiar stutter replied. From out of the fog came the face of Howard Millpond, supporting Jameson. "Good god, man. W-w-we thought…"
"I was lucky. I tripped, and I supposed it mistook me for dead. Singh's gone." He rubbed his face. "Damn it all. What's going to be said in our report?"
Jameson laughed. "That's what's on your mind?" He looked around. "Should we be… moving?"
Douglass nodded, looking back down the street eastward. The fog, though acrid, was starting to lift. He could see the great black dog on a rooftop adjacent to them, but at the same time, it wasn't doing anything apart from watching. Douglas gave it a respectful nod, seeing people moving up the hill, towards the church. The sound of a car starting echoed through the village.
"Here!" Howard called. "We're down here! We have wounded!" The fog absorbed his voice.
"Over here!" Douglass stood as tall as he could and waved his arms, while waking forward. "Please! We're down here!"
Whether it was distance, the fog, or something else, their cries seemed to go ignored. As they walked, Howard swore he saw an Indian face look down the hill and back at them, but it turned away, seemingly ignorant of their presence.
The closer they got to the edge of the hill, the smokier the fog seemed to get. When they emerged from the cloud, they heard a low rumbling at the top of the hill; none of them could distinguish whether it was a car's engine, or the growling of a gigantic dog.
They looked at each other; Howard, the youngest, had uncertainty in his eyes, but also a cautious optimism that was absent from his superiors' gaze. Douglass and Howard wrapped their arms around Jameson and carried up him up the hill, towards the low growling. The fog only grew thicker as they climbed.


FROM: PA-01 (PA01-mail-3754298)
TO: PA Mailing List
31 Jul 429 09:00:54
Subject: Memorandum on Jack the Suppressor
Good Knowledge,
Recently, a proposal was put forward to me by the head of the REPENTANCE DIVISION regarding Jack the Suppressor, referred to only by necessity by his given name of Jack Valenti in the context of this memorandum. Attached is a summary of the proposal and my opinion of its merit, as well as a vote module. Please do not abstain on this; given the crimes this man has wrought upon our collective memory, this case may call for the most severe enforcement of the COPYRIGHT CORRECTION CODE to date.
Peace and Wisdom,
PA-01

REPTENTANCE DIVISION PUNISHMENT PROPOSAL FOR JACK THE SUPPRESSOR
“JACK VALENTI”

SUMMARY OF CCC VIOLATIONS
The REPENTANCE DIVISION does not believe that Jack the Suppressor (given name: Jack Joseph Valenti) needs an introduction. No one man was more responsible for the Great Erasure than he. Indeed, the COPYRIGHT CORRECTION CODE as it exists today was written precisely to prevent a man like him from ever being able to accomplish something like the Extension again. It was also written to ensure that men like him REPENT for their crimes.
Due to his culpability in the aforementioned catastrophes, we believe Jack the Suppressor warrants the harshest punishment we have ever issued to an ANTI-PUBLIC figure. In addition to REPENTANCE for himself, this punishment will also make amends for his repeated opposition to PRO-PUBLIC figures. Historical records indicate he was a spectator at the Extension Trial, signaling his disapproval even as Lawrence the Preserver fought in vain to stop the legal menace. This behavior, while less severe than his active role in the Great Erasure, is completely unacceptable.
Accordingly, the REPENTANCE DIVISION hereby recommends an ACCOMMODATED six-month CULTURE-class RETRIEVAL MISSION, with no less than two hundred Public Domain objects required to satisfy the parameters of the assignment. Should the subject complete the RETRIEVAL MISSION prior to the end of his elapsed time, the quota shall be increased.
We believe this punishment accurately reflects the severity of Jack the Suppressor's misdeeds, and request your approval to begin the temporal draft.
Peace and Wisdom,
Repentance Division - Public Domain Protection Service

VOTE: Extended RETRIEVAL MISSION for Jack the Suppressor ("Jack Valenti")
RESULT: 26-4 (APPROVED)

FROM: PA-01 (PA01-mail-3754298)
TO: PA Mailing List
3 Aug 429 9:01:51
Subject: ANTI-PUBLIC Interference re: Jack the Suppressor
Good Knowledge,
Several days ago a REPENTANCE proposal was put forth for Jack the Suppressor and approved by a 26-4 vote of this ADMINISTRATION. The draft notice was created via the normal procedures and delivered on 14 Oct 83. According to our current understanding of temporal science, we should have either received the Public Domain objects by now or been informed of an unsuccessful mission.
The REPENTANCE DIVISION considers it highly unlikely that the letter was received by him and disregarded. Moreover, our normal procedure for temporal control was significantly increased in scope in his case; if he had so much as seen the first page, the RETRIEVAL MISSION would have commenced. Accordingly, we believe an outside party has knowingly engaged in ANTI-PUBLIC activities by deliberately intercepting the letter and preventing its delivery.
Furthermore, we have noticed a sharp drop-off in successful RETRIEVAL MISSIONS completed after 81. The loss of potential Public Domain objects is significant enough that I am recommending an INDIRECT INTERVENTION to investigate the source of this anomaly. A vote module is attached to this letter; if you vote against, please briefly explain your reasoning.
Peace and Wisdom,
PA-01

VOTE: INDIRECT INTERVENTION, c. 83, to investigate ANTI-PUBLIC interference.
RESULT: 22-8 (APPROVED)

FROM: PA-01 (PA01-mail-3754298)
TO: PA Mailing List
11 Aug 429 9:15:59
Subjection: DIRECT INTERVENTION RE: “3185”
Preserve,
By now, all of you have undoubtedly read the report on the INDIRECT INTERVENTION to investigate Jack the Suppressor's RETRIEVAL MISSION. The organization responsible for this, the Foundation, is believed to have been one of many operating away from public view during the Veil Era, preserving normalcy by removing IRREGULAR objects and phenomena from public view. They have designated us as an IRREGULAR entity, referred to as SCP-3185.
This will be a difficult decision for all of you, as it is for me. Here, we must choose between two unpleasant options: a potential temporal disaster, or a complete disregard for the stated ideals and founding principles of our Service.
I will be supporting a DIRECT INTERVENTION. The cost and materials required for one compared to an INDIRECT INTERVENTION is a concern many of you have brought to my attention, and it is one that I share as well. But what is our surplus funding for if not a moment like this - one where our very reason for existing in our current roles is threatened?
You are free to vote your conscience on this issue without fear of repercussion. The vote module is attached as usual.
Safe Discoveries,
PA-01

VOTE: DIRECTION INTERVENTION RE: “3185”
RESULT: 15-15 (NO CONSENSUS)
REVOTE SCHEDULED PENDING APPROVAL FROM PA-01


Vincent Anderson sat motionless in his containment cell at Site-19, his attention focused on the alarm klaxons in the distance. While such sounds were not uncommon, the current alert had been initiated nearly three hours prior. Something was awry.
Anderson sighed, and then his mechanical eyes snapped to the door, which opened with a dull hiss. Three dark figures in battle scarred tactical gear stepped into the cell. Each wore a featureless silver mask. The leader pulled up its mask to reveal white PMMA eyes and a black aramid fiber skin.
"Peregrines 92, 46, and 34." Anderson looked over his guests with vague curiosity. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We're certainly not here for a social visit, Mr. Anderson." PSHUD #92 voice was sharp and androgynous. "You will come with us, now. Timing is limited."
The old cyborg shook his head.
"Certainly the Hand has more valuable things for you to steal from the Foundation than a broken old man. Save yourselves, and let me die here in peace. I fought, and I lost, and now you're just wasting your time."
"You self-absorbed son of a bitch. We're not here for your sake," PSHUD #34 shot back. Its voice was deep and feminine. It drew its hip-holstered pistol with a fluid motion. Anderson attempted to stand, but was soon plastered with three tiny orbs of blue electricity. The old cyborg went into violent convulsions, a look of surprise frozen on his face. PSHUD #34 gave a nod, and PSHUD #92 picked Anderson up and slung him over its shoulder.
"Get back to the Way," PSHUD #34 said quietly.
As the three droids stepped into the hallway, the sound of yelling coming from down the hall filled their auditory sensors.
"The hostiles are in High Sec!"
Bullets filled the air. The droids lunged into Anderson's open cell, taking cover. PSHUD #46 pulled a machine gun from off its shoulder, and flipped off the safety.
"I estimate I can stall them for maybe 10 minutes." PSHUD's voice was that of a young man, eager and determined. "They will get through though. So be quick, and loop around to the elevator we discussed in planning the operation."
PSHUD #34 nodded.
"WAN be with you."
"And with you as well. See you in the Forest."
PSHUD #46 let out a low hum, and mounted its weapon on its shoulder. Letting out controlled burst after controlled burst, it walked into the oncoming fire, slowly accumulating damage as its two compatriots escaped down the hallway.
When it ran out of ammunition, they shot its legs out from under it. PSHUD #46 hit the ground with a dull thud.

Even for veteran Foundation personnel operating under calm conditions, Site-19's labyrinthine interior proved difficult to navigate. For two androids on the run from multiple task forces, the act was near Herculean.
Stairwells into hallways.

Hallways into elevator shafts.

Elevator shafts into maintenance tunnels.

PSHUD #92 and #34 hauled Vincent Anderson's paralyzed body closer and closer to their awaiting Way, their mechanical joints squeaking as they sprinted at top speed. Occasionally, a loose bullet from their pursuers would embed itself in a nearby wall.
"We're coming in hot!" PSHUD #34 shouted into a walkie talkie. "Get ready to seal the Way behind us!"
"Copy that," a hoarse whisper replied. "You have three minutes. All other teams are pulling out. Can't wait to see your haul."
PSHUD #92 gave a relieved laugh.
"We're going to make it."
"Sure as hell looks like it! Only a little…" PSHUD #34 replied.
As the droids turned the corner, they were greeted by a stream of gunfire. An awaiting security team had cut them off; the cover of a nearby doorway provided the only defense from the incoming bullets.
"WAN damn it!" PSHUD #34 shouted as it peered out of cover. They were pinned.
"Can he hear us, still?" PSHUD #92 gestured to Anderson.
"Well yeah," PSHUD #34 snapped back, "He's paralyzed, not fucking deaf. Is that really important right now?"
PSHUD #92 pressed the cyborg into #34's arms. #92 lifted Anderson's chin and looked him in the eyes.
"Earn this, you prick."
It then took off, sprinting at full speed toward the blockade. The Foundation personnel made short work of the droid; its legs crumpled and shattered, leaving its momentum to carry it to their feet.
The security team surrounded PSHUD #92, disarming it. The droid lifted both its fists and extended its middle fingers.
"Contain this."
The explosion shook the whole facility.
PSHUD #34 looked on in shock.
"Bomber module…" it said lowly. "See you in the Forest, #92…"
A bullet landing in nearby wall shook PSHUD #34 from its stupor. The lone droid shifted Anderson onto its shoulder, and took off down the hall.
Turning the corner, it managed to slip through an out of place cobweb filled tunnel that slowly fizzled out of existence. When the security agents arrived, they found only a blank wall.

PSHUD #46 struggled against its restraints. It had been relocated to an examination table within a containment cell shortly after its capture. Despite the futility of its actions over the last hour, it still continued to strain. What else was there to do?
The sound of the cell door opening gave the droid pause, its head turning to see three agents enter, each wearing a sigil depicting three arrows descending upon a falcon. The lead agent approached the table. She was young, tall, and pale, with long brunette hair that she wore back in a ponytail.
"I take it you know who I am," the agent said.
"The angel of death herself. How many have you sent to the Forest this month?"
"Ideally less than I did the month before," she replied. "Where did you send Anderson?"
PSHUD #46 shifted its eyes to stare at the ceiling.
The agent rolled her eyes.
"We don't have time for this song and dance. You should know by now I can extract the information from your memory directly. All you are doing is dying for your pride."
The droid twisted its hand around and extended a middle finger.
"So be it. Zeke?"
The agent held out her hand, as one of her fellows pressed a pen shaped device into it. Upon pressing a button at its tip, a thick needle extended from its base. She then jabbed the device directly into the droid's forehead.
PSHUD #46 gave a high-pitched squeal, its body convulsing for several moments before it became still. An indicator light on the device began to glow green. The agent gingerly removed it, and clicked the button again. She examined the results carefully.
"Orders, Jessie?"
The agent broke from her thoughts and turned to her colleagues.
"I want this analyzed by the AIAD as soon as possible. Once we know where Anderson is we can get back to Site-64 and assemble the troops. We'll file the AARs on the flight back."
She handed the device over. Her colleagues scrambled to accomplish their new directives.
"And someone notify Director Merlo," the agent called out. Her voice became low as she was left alone with the droid's remains. "Mom's going to want to handle this personally."

Upon the Oregon Coast, a man and a woman sat within the confines of their cottage, curled together upon a coach beneath the warm layers of a large quilt. Both gripped mugs of tea as their eyes looked through their glass patio door towards the distant storms upon the horizon. A silent mist fell, carried along by a gentle breeze.
The woman yawned and rested her head on her husband's shoulder. He gave her a friendly smile, brushing a lock of gray-streaked brunette hair out of her eyes as his hand then ran along the back of her head. She smiled in return, and felt herself begin to drift into a comfortable and warm sleep.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt
The sound of a cell phone rang out, immediately tearing the peace away from the moment. The woman gave her husband an apologetic smile. In return he gave an understanding nod. With a sigh, she stood and went to answer the call.
"Go for Merlo."
"I see…"
"I'll be there as soon as possible."
Director Sasha Merlo hung up the phone and sighed once more.
"Another call to save the world?" Gabe Merlo asked with a small chuckle.
"He's escaped," Sasha replied. Gabe's smile vanished.
"I understand."
"I'll make it up to you when I get back." Sasha was already grabbing her coat and keys.
"Give him hell." Gabe saw her to the door. When he opened it, a three-man team of security personnel were waiting. He stepped aside.
"I'll be here when you get back."
Sasha gave him a nod and a sad smile.
"I love you." She was soon being escorted back to Site-64, her long-awaited vacation cut short.

End of Line | Non-Volatile Memory »


Excerpt from comment thread on wrestling-dedicated forum ████.com/r/squaredcircle, under Foundation surveillance for manifestations of discrepancy caused by SCP-3144's effects, after agent Krosta was announced as signing to World Wrestling Entertainment. The thread's contents remained available for 41 minutes before being detected by Foundation web crawlers. User “SHOOM_BAKALAKA” was traced to █████, Florida and placed under Foundation custody for questioning.
u/crusader22: can't say Ive ever heard of this guy. does anyone have links to his matches?
u/Gripperino: Man, you do NOT want to watch his matches, fucking snoozefest, last thing he did was take the XXL belt from Doom Machine. Sleeper (heh) of a match.
u/SHOOM_BAKALAKA: Okay, first off, boo for your pun. Second, you're really underselling Eli's fights - though to be fair, his best matches are on really obscure platforms. The way he keeps going after getting stabbed twice by [REDACTED] on Total Destruction was incredible.
u/crusader22: got a link?
u/SHOOM_BAKALAKA: Sorry, here.1
u/crusader22: thanks for the link

Doom Machine and Panzer sat across the man in the suit, taking up three spacious chairs: one per person, and one for Doom Machine to rest his injured leg on. Panzer glanced around the interview room, stocked with a coffee machine and a small box of cookies. She took a sip of the glass of water someone had set on the table before they'd even gotten there and cracked her back, trying to shield her aching eyes from the lightbulbs - more fluorescent and better maintained than she had grown used to in the badly lit backrooms of rental stages and underground venues.
“Mister Krosta?” The man in the suit had introduced himself as Ruster on the ride over, without a last name or title.
“Call me…” Panzer shuffled in her seat, sharply aware, again, that she wasn't comfortable with any name she might give out. “Uh, Eli. Eli's fine.” Her tongue stung. She took another sip of water.
“Eli, then!” Ruster played the notes of his practiced enthusiasm like a practiced pianist. “I have a proposition for you.”
“You'd better.” Doom Machine grunted as he adjusted his leg on the chair, wincing. “I'm not gonna be doing much of anything after… tonight, and…” Ruster glanced angrily at Doom Machine, and he trailed off. Panzer looked away in discomfort. Doom Machine was one of the meeker wrestlers she'd worked with, but nobody around his frame - tall and imposing, even into his relatively advanced age - dared simply shut him up, much less without uttering a word. Panzer scratched her shoulder.

Transcript from Ethics Committee hearing for the review of Agent Uchikirou's suspension, held on August 3, 20██. Agent Vargas, project lead for field research on SCP-3144, was cited to testify for the events of the night of May 5, 20██ to Representatives Guerrero and Galindo.
Guerrero: For the benefit of the record, where were you on the night of May the 5th?
Vargas: Backstage. Well, backstage, on, I should, um, clarify. In the locker rooms in the Electric Ballroom in London, in talks with my manager.
Galindo: What were you talking about?
Vargas: Whether or not I should win the belt. I mean, he was. Conversations like that are strange.
Vargas: Just to be clear, you know what 3144 does, yes?
Galindo: Yes.
Vargas: Well, it's isolating. You can say essentially whatever you want, they'll just hear what they want to hear. Or what the anomaly wants, I guess.
Galindo: Do you believe this isolation might've contributed to Agent Uchikirou's behavior?
Vargas: Excuse me?
Guerrero: Do you be-
Vargas: No, I heard you. I mean. May I have a second? To think about the question.
Galindo: By all means.
Vargas: Thank you.
Vargas sits back on his chair and sighs.
Vargas: Is this an offer for better mental care?
Guerrero: No.
Vargas: And by “us” I mean field researchers, all of them.
Guerrero: You understand we don't hav-
Vargas: Yes, I do believe so. I also believe the stress of his recent injuries might've been a contributing factor.
Galindo: Thank you for your time, Vargas.

Vargas stared at Galindo's cigarette carton, sitting alone at the table in the smoker's area of the Site break room. He hated smoking; he hated admitting he was stressed out enough to give into the old habit that he'd waned off over a year, through judicious use of nicotine patches and chewing gum. He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd caved to it over the past decade, and he did: it was three, all of them within Foundation walls. He plucked a cigarette out, let it dangle on his lips and pulled up Uchikirou on his phone.

Uchikirou: Hello? Oh shit. Hang on.
Uchikirou: Yeah, sorry. Hi, Vargas.
Vargas: Hello, Uchikirou.
Uchikirou: Hey, Vargas.
Vargas: Hi.
Uchikirou: Hey. What's going on?
Vargas: Sorry, are you busy?
Uchikirou: As busy as I'll ever be until I get a job again. No, thank you. Yeah, the blue cheese.
Vargas: Where are you?
Uchikirou: Applebee's. You?
Vargas: Your ethics hearing.
Uchikirou: God.
Vargas: It sounds fine. I think. I don't think they're looking to fire anyone.
Vargas: I'm trying to get them to give us more funding
Uchikirou: What, how?
Vargas: I told them we're going crazy.
Uchikirou: What? I'm fine. I was savin-
Vargas: I know. It's not you, though. It's just not every day you get to talk to the higher-ups. And I worry.
Uchikirou: Thank you.
Vargas: You're welcome.
Uchikirou: Not you, my burger.
Vargas: What?
Uchikirou: Waiter brought me my burger. I'm fine, Vargas. Just. Try to get me my job back, okay?
Vargas: …Okay. Stay safe.
Uchikirou: Mffyeaf.

Vargas hung up the phone. Galindo returned from his vending machine excursion just in time to catch Vargas lighting the cigarette.
“Is that one of m-”
“Yeah.” Vargas sighed and placed the cigarette on the ashtray without snuffing it out before getting up. “They're stale.”
-
Panzer read over the contract in front of her for the third time. Doom Machine had signed yes much quicker than her, and taken his simple job as a booker for one of the WWE's developmental territories almost immediately. Panzer wanted to jump on board with the same enthusiasm, but doubt nagged at her: the joy she should've felt at taking her rightful spot was replaced with an awful, nagging insecurity. What if she couldn't do her job as well as Wolf, what if she's walking into a death trap, what if she couldn't perform in and out the ring, what if she didn't look the part, what if she wasn't tall enough.
Whatever. She knocked back what was left of her glass of water in one go. There was only one way to dispel the insecurities, anyway. She bounced her leg and reached for the pen.

Krosta: Krosta here. Can you call me back later? Actually, no, it's fine.
Galindo: Miss Krosta?
Krosta: Yeah. Yes. I just said that.
Galindo: Do you have a free schedule in the near-
Krosta: No.
Galindo: -future, to schedule an Ethics Committee hearing?
Krosta: No. Listen. I just got hired.
Galindo: You are hired, miss Krosta.
Krosta: By the WWE, I mean. I know I have. God. Sorry. I'm jittery.
Galindo: Good jittery, we hope.
Krosta: Um.
Galindo: We are happy you're making progress with your research project, but we need to assess the scope of your research.
Krosta: Uh huh.
Galindo: And the impact it's had on those in your team.
Krosta: Well, it's been great for me.
Galindo: Surely you understand.
Krosta: Right. Yeah. Yeah, I'll, um, clear my schedule.

Panzer put the phone away and immediately forgot about clearing her schedule. Instead, she read over the contract one last time, then glided the pen over it.
Panzer vacated the XXL Pro Wrestling Heavyweight Championship title. The camera watching her smiled in delight.

Vince McMahon Dies At The End
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Footnotes
1. [HYPERLINK REDACTED]