"…Now what have I got left? Paris. Maybe that's enough for some, but it isn't for me anymore. Because the more beautiful everything is… the more it will hurt without you," said Jerry.
"Jerry… don't let me leave you this way," said Lise.
The doctor sniffled as he watched intently, not wanting to miss any of his film. It might have taken a bit of convincing, but the Foundation didn't see anything inherently wrong with giving the doctor a DVD player and a copy of An American in Paris. Plus, for the researchers on duty, it was an amusing change of pace, watching him wipe his eyes as Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron sparked a romance under the picturesque Parisian sky.
"No Lise, don't do it, he's the perfect man for you!" the doctor commanded the film in front of him, "He's the cure to your woes, Lise! Please, you must reconsider!"
Doctor Omage laughed to himself from the safety of the security room at the desperation. He turned to his coworkers, smirking and gesturing towards the footage of the doctor's containment chamber, "Tell me this wasn't worth it. I know it was a weird ask, but he requested it himself; said he felt he needed a break and had never seen one before. Watching him is its own show!"
Researcher Vin and Researcher Craquelin gathered around the screen, unabashedly enjoying themselves.
"Give him a copy of Titanic next, I wanna see if he starts singing Celine Dion," Researcher Vin remarked.
"No, no, better yet," Researcher Craquelin interjected, "Dirty Dancing. You're lying if you say you've never wanted to see oh-four-nine cut a rug."
While the researchers debated on which films would be more fun to make their subject of interest watch, the doctor began to notice a commotion from just outside his wall that was interrupting his viewing pleasure. He reached over to the DVD player, briefly pausing it so he wouldn't miss the few precious minutes he had left of his film. The researchers in their brief moment of ignorance didn't see as the doctor had walked over to the wall of his cell and placed his ear against it, listening for what exactly had the gall to interrupt him.
In that moment an alarm blared throughout the entirety of Site-19, and the wall to the doctor's cell exploded in a fire of great magnitude, great justice, and great handsomeness. Don Quixote, donned in a suit of finely crafted kitchenware and sturdy duct tape, walked through the crater, the grin on his face revealing his excitement at the chaotic adventure forming around him.
"Good Doctor of Forty-Nine, today is the day of your liberation!" he announced, sword thrust in the air triumphantly.

Dr. Menard cleared his throat and rubbed his baggy eyes as he sat across the table from SCP-3774-2432. It had been a miracle that she had been resurrected with her memories considering the methods with which she was brought to life. Though, in his age he learned not to question if something should be logical when you're dealing with the anomalous. Sometimes things like that aren't worth the brain power.
"SCP-3774-2432," he started, "My name is Dr. Pierre Menard, and I'll be guiding you through this interview. We'll just be needing a few bits of information about your time with Merle Gilroy, if you'll be willing to answer them."
"My name is Leslie," she politely replied, "I know my, ah, designation is that number, but could you please call me Leslie?"
Dr. Menard looked tiredly at the mosquito giving him sass but resigned with a sigh, "Fine. Leslie. We'll need to address a few things about your time with Mr. Gilroy, as I just said. First, are you aware that what you were doing was not your mission?"
Leslie's wings flicked in a brief sign of nervousness, "Y-yes, I know that I wasn't… doing what I was supposed to."
She already knew that they were going to punish her, she just knew it. The times she shared with Merle on the couch watching romance movies and trying to eat a single piece of popcorn were nice, but they were against her directive. The times that she watched Merle go to sleep, watching the way his chest rose and fell in a calming rhythmic pattern, were lovely, but they were against her directive. All of the good times she had… they would get her punished and most likely killed.
Dr. Menard coughed as he wrote something in his clipboard. If one were playing close enough attention, one could hear Leslie's heart beating faster in the deafening silence of the interrogation room. After what felt like an incredibly uncomfortable eternity, Dr. Menard finished writing and looked back up towards Leslie.
"Am I in trouble?" Leslie blurted out.
A sigh left Dr. Menard's lips. "No, not this time. In fact, you inadvertently helped us achieve a greater understanding of bio-engineered cybernetics. You seemed to have some kind of awareness of your abilities, in fact, according to certain audio files."
"What do you mean by that?" Leslie asked in reply.
"You had children with that man. You're a mosquito and he's a human, and yet all four of them were born perfectly healthy," Dr. Menard stated. "You knew how to do it, you said it had something to do with his blood. How did you know?"
Leslie was stunned.
"Leslie?"
"Are my children alive?" Leslie asked, not sure whether to feel hope or despair. "I'm sorry for asking so many questions, but can you please just answer this one thing?"
"If it will help this interview go along faster, yes, your children are alive," Dr. Menard stated.

How could the House Foundation keep such a kind, noble man locked up? The Good Doctor of Forty-Nine sought only to help people, sought only to cure their diseases! As a champion of justice and nobility, Don Quixote knew that it was his duty to free this man so he may spread his cure throughout the world!
"Adventure awaits," Don Quixote announced, "you and I will assist people around the world, vanquishing evil in all of its forms! You with your medicine, and me with my rapier wit and swordsmanship!"
Rather than jumping at the idea of going on an adventure, The Good Doctor was simply looking down at a sparking black box. His fists were balled, as if something had angered him. Did he not realize who was standing next to him? Perhaps it would be wise to have proper introductions. Don Quixote took his own advice and walked towards him, looking as friendly and charismatic as always.
"Good Doctor, my apologies for the rude introduction! I should have begun with my name, but pardon me for being caught up in my own escapades. I am Don Quixote de La Mancha! A chivalrous knight on a quest which requires your assistance!" he proclaimed, "Do you accept the call to adventure?"
The Good Doctor turned achingly slowly towards Don Quixote, irritation rife in his gaze. Obviously he was not impressed by his display of friendliness.
"I do not care about your ravings, 'brave knight'. I had found a brevity in my life of turmoil, a moment of enjoyment between my duties. Now it is a smoldering wreck beneath a pile of reinforced concrete," he said quite rudely. "As much as I'd like to return to my work, and I appreciate the opportunity you have given, I am not going to go on your 'quest', you egotistical meathead."
Don Quixote let out a belly laugh, The Good Doctor had quite a way with words! As Don Quixote laughed, he barely noticed his new companion simply walking past him, not giving him any mind as he walked through the opening that was created for him. Don Quixote was confused; was he really so upset about a simple electronic box? Surely Don Quixote had made an error that he had not intended, and so it was his duty to repay it. Especially if he needed The Good Doctor's assistance with his journey ahead.
"Good Doctor, wait just a moment!" Don Quixote shouted back, "I have clearly made a mistake here in one form or another, and for that I am deeply sorry. I hope that there is some thing that I may do to regain your good graces, Doctor, for I was never here with intent to harm or befoul you."
The Good Doctor stood on the rubble, his hand resting on the wall of the blown-out crater. Don Quixote knew that if that poor man stayed unprotected out in the open for too long, he surely would perish at the hands of the House Foundation, or worse, become re-captured. Don Quixote needed to earn his trust, and he was prepared to do anything for it.
"I have heard of the tales of Don Quixote. It has been ages since I have last read such stories, but I can never forget his love for his Dulcinea. Such passion, such dedication, it's charming, really," The Good Doctor explained, "I may not have a love like he does. I may not ever have such a love."
Don Quixote walked up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Is that what you want, Good Doctor? Do you seek companionship?"
"No," he shook his head, "But I do have a friend who could use it."

"SCP-4028 is loose? Where is he?" Dr. Menard said into his phone as the alarm blared, "He's here? At Site-19? Hijo de puta… I'm in the middle of an interview!"
Leslie stood still, panicked at what was happening. She was already mentally overloaded by the fact that her children were still alive, and now all of a sudden some potentially dangerous anomaly is loose within Site-19.
"Uh-uhm, Dr. Menard? I-is everything okay?" Leslie shuddered out.
"Hm?" Dr. Menard said turning towards Leslie, "Yes, everything's going to be fine. I'll be right back; stay here and don't you dare try to leave."
With that, Dr. Menard disappeared behind the exit door, leaving Leslie alone in the interrogation room with her thoughts. Her kids were alive, but where were they? Does that mean that Merle is alive? Are they together? Do they… remember her? Leslie didn't bother keeping track of the time.
Her train of thought was derailed as she suddenly heard something on the other side of the door. She hoped that that meant things were going to be okay, that whatever breach that had happened was over. As the door burst off its hinges revealing a mustachioed man clad in pots and pans, she knew that that was not the case.
"P-please sir, don't hurt me! I mean you no harm, I just-"
Leslie was interrupted by the man, "Do not fear, insect! I am here with intent to help and befriend!"
Don Quixote approached Leslie, shivering on the table, and gingerly picked her up on his finger. He peered her over, letting Leslie get a good look at his face as much as he was looking at hers.
"I am here on request of a mutual friend, The Good Doctor of Forty-Nine! We ourselves have our own adventure to go on, however he alerted me to your personal quest! And so, we raided the information stores of the House Foundation and found a parchment that we believe you would be quite interested in!"
"The good doctor… you're friends with him?" Leslie said in pleased confusion, "B-but… he said the best thing for me to do was comply! Dr. Menard is going to be-"
"Dr. Menard?" Don Quixote interrupted once again, "Dr. Pierre Menard?"
"Y-yes… do you know him too?" Leslie asked timidly.
Don Quixote let out a knowing chuckle, "If you are worried about Dr. Menard… do not worry. He's an old friend of mine, he will surely understand."
Before Leslie could reply, Don Quixote cupped Leslie in his hands and walked back out the door of the interrogation room. On the ground were two incapacitated guards, and standing above them was a very familiar figure.
"Doctor!" Leslie said through Don Quixote's fingers, "You really did help me escape!"
The doctor turned back to Leslie, "Hah, well, it wasn't exactly my idea, but if I were to escape this facility, it would be improper to let you remain in here. Especially considering you introduced me to the wonders of modern romantic cinema."
Leslie emulated a gasp and the doctor winked. She could tell from behind his mask that he was giving her a satisfied grin. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, setting it on the desk next to him. He unfolded it gingerly for Leslie to see and Don Quixote set her down atop it. Leslie looked it over, before realizing exactly what they had delivered to her.
"Merle's alive! He's with our children!" Leslie exclaimed in joy, "And they're in… well, they're somewhere in West Virginia, but that at least narrows down the search!"
The doctor nodded, "Apologies for being unable to find an unedited file, in our rush we found what we could."
"Speaking of rushing," Don Quixote piped up, "We must flee! Adventure abounds, and we won't be doing much adventuring standing idly by! ¡Vamos amigos!"
The trio made their way beyond the offices and cells of Site-19, making their way through hallways until they reached the exit. Don Quixote and the doctor stood back and held the door for Leslie as she flew through. She turned back, and the doctor once again gave her a reassuring nod. She knew they needed to stay for whatever quest they needed to do, but her own call to adventure wasn't here. It was in West Virginia.

Let Her Heart DEET Once More

Leslie's Journey in the OCT

I am Become DEET, Destroyer of Worlds

Check out my competitors tales, too!
Gabriel Jade: Los Dias Y Los Caballeros De Leslie Y El Doctor
The Great Hippo: Down With The Sickness


The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started. An unmarked van that had been driven off the deserted road sported several new bullet holes. The driver's door opened and a body slumped out. A machine gun clattered to the ground and a silence fell.
The agents of MTF Tau-51 closed in.
The back doors of the van were gingerly pulled open. Scattered throughout the back were several watertight boxes. One of them had spilled open, revealing sealed bags of a fine electric blue powder. The lead agent, a slender man with short blond hair and a trimmed beard, stepped inside and examined the contents.
"Ross?" MTF Commander Damian Creed called out.
The man's colleague, a woman with goggles and neck length red hair, responded by coming forward. Taking off a glove, she held an outstretched palm over the bag. The temperature in the van dropped slightly as her hand briefly glowed with a white light. She then turned her head back and nodded.
"It's Seance Dust alright," Agent Beatrice Ross replied.
Creed grinned.
"Right on! Alright, folks, let's get this cleaned up and sent back to Sixty-Four. Someone get Pi-1 on the line. We're ready for clean up."
As the various members of Tau-51 moved to carry out their duties of packing up the contraband, Ross remained by her commander's side.
"Holman's going to want an update after this."
"I know." Creed deflated.
"Do we have any more to show him?"
"Just another 20 kilos of Seance Dust."

While her time there was always few and far between, Beatrice Ross despised the Site-64 Director's office. Despite it being one of the larger offices in the facility, she always felt like the walls were closing in on her. She looked over to Creed from her spot in one of two large chairs facing the Director's desk. He seemed calm enough, though he was gripping the arms of the chair tight enough to make his knuckles turn white.
Before both of them, across the desk, an older man with salt and pepper hair looked over their case report. Before long, he placed the documents down neatly, then cleared his throat.
"So, let me see if I get this straight," Site Director Holman began. "Six months, seven Seance Dust busts in Portland, and not only are we not any closer to finding the manufacturer, but we also have no idea where the intended destination is. Am I more or less correct, Creed?"
Creed sighed.
"With all due respect, sir, we know the source is Three Ports. Everyone we have apprehended has more or less confirmed that. Unless you want me to make an enemy of the US government, we can't go after the source ourselves."
"Has Spencer had any luck then?" Holman asked, forcefully tapping the documents with his index finger. "I'm guessing not since you didn't mention it in the report."
"The UIU have a few leads," Ross interjected. "But Spencer is still trying to get a warrant. Whoever has set up this operation has done a bang-up job covering their tracks. Until we find the manufacturer we might be forced to just keep knocking the blocks out of their hands when we find them."
Holman closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"With this kind of success rate, you two would make good candidates for Gamma-13."
Holman opened his eyes and looked toward Ross.
"Is there anything thaumatological someone could be using this for?"
Ross shook her head.
"I've already looked into that. As far as I know, there is not. Then again, it's outside my specialty. We'd be better off asking a necromancer, but the Foundation doesn't have a ton of them on the payroll. Fairly obvious reasons as to why."
"I don't suppose you know of any necromancers from your time at ICSUT Portlands, do you?"
Ross paused.
"Ross?" Creed asked, an eyebrow raised. "Do you?"
"I may know one."

"You know, you can afford to look little less nervous," Ross whispered.
She and Creed stepped off the streetcar, and into a light Three Portlands rain. The two agents, clad in plain clothes, hurried onward across the crowded, water-logged plaza towards the Shadow of the International Rose Test Garden.
"I'm not exactly my mom when it comes to Three Ports, okay?" Creed whispered a reply. "Not exactly friendly territory here. Sorry, I'm worried we're going to turn a corner and it'll be like the screaming scene in the '78 body snatchers remake. Sue me."
Creed stopped midstride and looked at their destination. Before him was a hillside dotted in phantom bushes. Row upon row of black, cyan, violet, and green roses bloomed. Their delicate petals shimmered as the rain passed through them.
"Pretty cool, right?" Ross grinned.
"Haunting is a more accurate term."
"Where else would you expect to meet a necromancer?"
Creed chuckled and nodded, and they resumed walking.
"How do you know this person anyway?"
Ross shrugged.
"Old girlfriend. Animated a skeleton that swept me off my feet so we could dance macabre."
"Really?"
"No." Ross rolled her eyes. "She's an old ICSUT classmate. To be honest we didn't get along too well. She considered evocation to be pop magic. All flash and no substance."
"And you think she'll help us?"
"If you have any better ideas, I'm all ears."
Ross suddenly stopped and sighed. Before them, a dark-skinned woman in a long red coat stood under an umbrella, admiring the flowers. Upon her shoulder, a skeletal bird was perched. The red pinpoints in its eye sockets turned and gazed at the approaching agents.
"That her?" Creed asked under his breath.
"Yep," Ross replied, and began to approach. "Annabelle. It's been a while. How have you been?"
A smirk came to the woman's lips.
"Beatrice," she said softly. "You look well. How's life treating you? Still practicing I hope."
"In a manner. You?"
"Always someone dying." Annabelle grinned. "Who's your friend?"
"Work colleague," Ross replied flatly. "What's with the bird? Pet?"
The skeleton tilted its head and let out a loud caw.
"NEVERMORE!"
Annabelle chuckled.
"Familiar. I call him Edgar. Drums up business a bit."
"Isn't that a bit on the nose?"
"Haven't had any complaints yet." The necromancer shrugged.
Beatrice eyed the bird for a few moments longer, then regained her train of thought.
"You mind if I pick your brain a bit? I have a problem and need your expertise."
"Fire away, my dear."
"Are you familiar with Seance Dust?"
Annabelle's smile vanished.
"Are you a cop?"
"What? No-"
"Is your friend a cop?" Annabelle interrupted.
Ross blinked.
"No. I take it you've heard of it then."
"I've had one or two requests for a vial of it in my practice," the necromancer replied bluntly. "If you're looking for a fix I'm afraid I can't help you."
"That is not it at all," Ross chuckled. "Just humor me here. Hypothetically, if someone had a ton of the stuff—crates, even—could it be used as a component in any rituals or incantations?"
"Yeah. Overdosing."
"That's it?"
"You can talk to the dead. That stuff is basically a poor man's immortality, what more do you need it to do?" Annabelle shrugged. "While it produces a minor necromantic effect, the potential is so small that even if you had a literal mountain of it, you still couldn't so much as levitate a spoon."
"Right." Ross sighed. "I figured that would be the case. Thank you for agreeing to meet up. We should catch up again sometime soon."
"Of course, dear."
Ross gave a nod and began to take her leave, falling in by Creed's side. Before they had gotten too far they heard Annabelle call out.
"Beatrice, you don't actually have a mountain of the stuff… do you?"

"Gotta love a dead end," Creed said as they stepped out of the Way and back into a trash-littered alleyway in Portland, Oregon. The sun had long since gone down, leaving the area shrouded in darkness. Ross emerged soon after, the Way then vanishing back into a faded piece of graffiti upon a nearby brick wall that vaguely resembled a rose.
"I wouldn't say it was a complete dead end," Ross said with a shrug. "At least we know whoever is trying to stockpile the stuff can only use as directed."
"Still are no closer to discovering who that is though. Or why they're stockpiling it for that matter."
"I'm guessing to talk with the dead," Ross chuckled.
"You don't say?" Creed rolled his eyes and gave a small smile. "Come on. Let's hit up Secret Crest. I'll buy."
The two agents began to make their way back out towards the street, stopping only when three men in long dark coats emerged from the street to block their path.
"Well, this isn't-"
Ross caught her words as the three men produced pistols, their barrels aiming directly at her.
"Get down!"
Time seemed to slow. Ross felt herself fly backward, Creed shoving her behind the cover of a nearby dumpster.
Damian? she thought.
"Kill the mage quick!" One of the assailants shouted. Creed quickly produced his own pistol, and let loose several rounds. An assailant dropped.
"Damian?!" Ross whispered.
More gunshots, and the sound of bullets piercing flesh. Her commander fell to the pavement shouting in pain. Blood slowly crept into his clothing and began pooling around him. Footsteps closed in.
"For fuck's sake get the mage!"
"Damian?!?" she shouted.
Ice formed over the standing water in the alley as the temperature dropped. The surviving assailants stopped as they realized they could now see their breath.
"Shit, she's casting a spell!"
Ross emerged, her right arm crackling with electricity as she aimed her palm at the lead attacker. With a deafening crack, a single arc flew through one of the men, causing him to drop and be still. As the remaining assailant began to run a wave of pressure left Ross's hand, launching him into the air where he floated. The agent produced her sidearm and fired off two shots.
The floating corpse crashed to the pavement.
"No, no, no…"
A thin layer of frost built up on Ross as she rushed to Creed, a thin plume of breath indicating he was still alive. The blood around him had frozen, and he violently shivered in the sudden cold. His breathing was sharp, each gasp causing him to wince in of pain. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Gingerly, Ross placed his head in her lap.
"You idiot, you didn't have to do that!" she shouted.
"I'd be a shitty commanding officer not to," he said with a pain-addled chuckle. "Didn't know you had a thing for getting shot."
"For fuck's sake, Damian…" she hissed.
"Don't suppose you have any magic tricks you could do?"
She nodded and held a hand on his chest. The temperature dropped again. Creed's eyes began to droop as he seemed to fall asleep. Across his body, the bleeding stopped as the wounds cauterized. Ross's fingers began to turn black.
"They knew you were a thaumatologist," he said as he drifted out of consciousness. "This was an assassination attempt, Bea."
Creed's breathing became shallow, but he no longer seemed to be in pain.
"Hang… in there… sweetie…" she managed to say through chattering teeth and fumbled for her phone.

"911. What's your emergency?"

Portland Vice | Middlegame »


In the shadow of a soldier's assault rifle, Yulian Fyodorov stared down at the pile of (pointless, repetitive, yet for some reason incredibly classified) documents in his desk drawer. Just below the grayish government-issued papers, he could make out the white-paper edges of his novel manuscript — practically ready to be bound and sent off to a publisher.
Three years of blood, sweat, and skipped lunch breaks, eked out from his shabby little office typewriter. It was no Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, but it was a good novel, full of action and romance. And inscribed on the inner page, the words "For Sasha Kudrina, with love."1 stood out proudly in black ink.

"ALL PERSONNEL, YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO COLLECT ANY AND ALL DOCUMENTS IN YOUR POSSESSION WITHOUT EXCEPTION FOR IMMEDIATE INCINERATION. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. INSUBORDINATION WILL BE MET WITH DEATH. THERE WILL BE NO WARNING SHOTS."

The Captain of the Taskforce's booming voice had been painfully clear. Within seconds, the entire office was turned inside-out. File drawers were torn out of cabinets, entire books and binders dashed to the floor, papers flying in the air and covering the ground like a blizzard. Task-force men watched over the entire proceedings, ready to fire at the sight of a pocketed hand or a moment's hesitation.
Yulian looked up at the beast of a man towering directly over him. He looked back down at the novel. It was right there! He was going to bring it home that very day!
"Excuse me, Sir, but if I might just -"
The chuCHAK of the Officer's Kalashnikov made the hair on Yulian's arms curl. His heart dropped through his stomach and down to his knees. There was no pleading to be made. Protocol was protocol. Not a single document, classified or otherwise, was making it out of this office intact.
Box in hand, Yulian lined up with dozens of other bureaucrats for the paper furnace, surrounded on both sides by men watching with rifles. If only he knew they'd be coming today! He could have easily brought the manuscript home yesterday evening, without incident. But now he was next, and a second later, it was gone. It was all gone, every single letter of his magnum opus and his career, in a bath of flames.

After being given the clear, Yulian was ejected from the premises. He walked slowly, dragging his feet as he went, to a public bench two blocks from home.
There, he burst into tears, and wept.
He had seen the signs - the inflation rates, the protests, the coup attempt. The Soviet Union was failing, and everyone in the office knew it was only a matter of time before the Task Force came for them.
But even for bureaucrats of the GRU 'P' Division, it just happened a little sooner than anyone had expected.

"Yulian," Ivan called out.
No response.
"Yulian!" Ivan repeated sternly.
Yuli woke up in the passenger seat of a dilapidated but ever-functional Russian automobile, a Trabant 601.2
"Sorry, I was asleep. Where are we?" said Yulian.
"Here," said Ivan.
Yuli looked out the window and was introduced to a small apartment in the middle of the next town over. He had been to this town three times in his life, but never this side of town, and never this deep within it.
Ivan opened the car door and got out onto the sidewalk. "Let's go. We'll drink."
"Okay. And thank you, but I'll pass."
"Fine. We'll get down to business first." Ivan replied.

Ivan's door had three locks and he opened them all with ease. Yuli took a look inside the small apartment, and there was just enough room to sleep reasonably, to eat, to shit.
"Now this," Ivan said, pulling a box from under the bed, "Is something more powerful and more rare than anything you have ever encountered in your life."
Yuli nodded, but in all truth, he was absolutely terrified. "Will we die?"
"No, no, it's not like that. Not all powerful things are inherently destructive. And you understand that with me showing you this, we have made a bond like brothers, and you will never speak of anything we do and anything you see."
"Why are you doing this to me? I did not ask for this. I'm a paper-filer. Whatever your objectives may be, I don't think I will be of any use to you."
"Two reasons — " Ivan held up two fuzzy-gloved fingers. "For one thing, I know I can trust you. Отдел "Психотроника" didn't take just anybody."
"This is true." said Yuli matter-of-factually.
"And second of all — " Ivan paused for maximum effect, as if he was giving a speech. Thick crow's feet spread from the corners of his eyes as a smile grew larger and larger on his face.
"Yes, second of all — every organization needs a bureaucrat."
"I told you, Pasternak, we are not an organization!"
"Of course we are! We're rebuilding the glorious GRU-P from it's burning ashes. We will arise like phoenixes and bring glory to the motherland!"
"With who, Ivan!? Two people don't make an organization! You need many people! Hundreds!"
"We work out the nitty-gritty later. So, are you in?" Ivan held up his hand, waiting for a handshake.
Yuli stared at the delusional old codger. This man's completely mad! But Pasternak's silent hot-gun and his decades of experience in snapping necks meant that, at least for now, Yuli would have to remain a willing hostage. It would be best to play along. He's not an evil person, just a lunatic.
Yuli grimaced. "…Okay, Ivan Alexeyevich. I'm in." Yuli shook Ivan's hand.
"Excellent. Welcome aboard, comrade. Now behold," said Ivan, unlatching the eight locks on the box quickly. "An 'объект'!"3

Inside the heavily padded box was a glass bottle smaller than a deck of cards. It glowed with a pleasant green glow.
"This… this costs millions of dollars."
Yuli's eyes widened. "Dollars?"
"Dollars. It is a sleeping faerie dragon."4
"Can it kill us?"
"No. We don't have the Объекты to wake it up. And we probably never will. But some people do, and some of those people are willing to pay serious money for this."
"What does it do?"
"The dragon? I'm not sure. It is not part of Slavic mythology, or as we understand dragons. The people of the British Isles would know something more. Let's just say it is an incredibly rare reminder of the Old World before men, and All Who Inhabited It. We are to respect them for this, and not let them fall into the hands of madmen."
Yuli pondered on this. Even with such a thick Moskvich5 accent, Captain of Alternative Research Ivan Pasternak was a man made wise from years of work in the field, in places unseen and unspeakable.
"The glow is warm, and I feel… happy inside."
"Yes, it does that." Ivan closed the lid of the box. "You best not look at it for too long. Some people get lost in its glow. Others begin to desire to open the bottle and die."
"I thought you said it wouldn't kill us!" Yuli said disconcertingly.
"It will not kill us. We are not madmen. Now…" Ivan said, standing up and holding the case, "… our mission for today is to sell this for no less than a million dollars."
"And who, praytell, would be able to buy this from you?"
"I have my networks, as I am sure that you have your own." Pasternak winked.
"Great, good luck with that," Yuli said. "And what about me? What am I supposed to do now? I've left my home and my employment. My things are packed away in your car's backseat."
"We get you unpacked later. For now, you are coming with me, comrade."
"I am?" Yuli frowned.
"You are." Ivan smiled.

Yuli and Ivan Go On an Adventure.
Avos'.
« Chapter 1 - Poputchik. | Chapter 2 | To Be Continued »

Footnotes
1. для Саши Кудриной, с любовью.
2. Yuli knew this, but not because he particularly cared about cars of any sort. But in every Russian town, there will be one gopnick you call comrade and all he'll ever talk about is what just rolled out of the shop. Such information, while not particularly necessary to the motherland's national goals and efforts to stamp out capitalism, was also not harmful.
3. Pronounced 'obyekt', ya nerds
4. The body of a faerie dragon in hibernation is incorporeal, and cannot be researched in a clinical, scientific manner… The strength of its glow is dependent on its physical maturity, and while not fully understood, has the power to rejuvenate an entire forest. Faerie dragons have been reported in the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant Zone of Alienation, but it [is] unknown how the G.O.C. will have responded to their purported presence, since taking control of the Zone in 1987. Private Notes, Unknown Researcher, p. 47.
5. from Moscow, a Moscovite.


3T stood around with a cup of Dream Catcher Chamomile™, making small talk with the other Toy Tinkers before the big presentations. This month's were sure to be amazing. 3T was especially excited for Brainy's newest and zaniest invention yet. Today he was going to unveil his big, sugary, aquatic themed product, and 3T was positive the crowd — and, more importantly, the overseers — were going to love it.
The large, spiral splattered doors led to the naturally lit — well, as natural as you can get with a world where nigh everything, including the sun, was artificial — Business Theater, where today's presentations would happen. The seats were numerous enough to hold the entire company's employees, and each department got their own designated (and color coded) section. The Toy Tinkers, for obvious reasons, took the front seats when the Business Theater was used for the toy presentations. It was spectacular. It was theatrical. And more importantly, it was what determined the next month's batch of new projects. Every Toy Tinker spent every month preparing for these presentations, unless they were still working on producing an accepted toy model from the previous month.
The waiting room was ginormous, and shuddered as the Frite Lite Rollercoaster flew past. 3T was understandably a little bit nervous. He couldn't imagine his measly project, the Paint Wand, to stand up to the giants of the industry. I mean, he couldn't even have thought up a very good name for it. Paint Wand. It was just named what it was. Who cared if you could point to anything and change its color?
But someone caught his eye.
From across the excited crowd of aspiring Toy Tinkers, 3T saw Polly Gary Ashley looking absolutely miserable next to the hippo-shaped cold water dispenser. She looked like she had just learned of a death in her family. 3T, empathic as always, couldn't just let her sit there alone. 3T moseyed across the crowd, making it a point to avoid all the gag tiles that squeaked when you stepped on them. Polly seemed to notice him coming, and only began shaking more.
Finally, they were in distance to speak above the crowd's thrum of conversation.
"What's got you down, Polly?"
She avoided eye contact.
"Polly? I'm here to talk."
"It's the presentations."
"Oh, don't worry too much about the presentations. They're easy, Polly. People don't judge you so hard, even if you don't win you don't really lose. They're pretty easy, Polly. They're easy."
"No, that's not the problem."
3T frowned. "What's the problem?"
"The Piano Plant."
"What about it?"
Polly stared at her feet, and fondled the sweating glass of water in her left hand. "I promised you I'd change it."

No one had seen Polly since the day they heard that Brainy died, three weeks ago. They didn't even show up to Brainy's funeral, nor the funeral for the kids. After they found the burnt down Tourist Trap and the charred remains of children, Brainy, and… dolls. The day after Brainy had come to Thomas Timothy Thompson in a dream. Only Percy knew of that, because 3T didn't know the point in sharing. Either no one would believe him, or… or what? What could they possibly do with that information? In any case, 3T didn't want to share with everyone. It was his experience. It was his alone.
Except with Percy Pinwheel.
He shared everything with Pinwheel. He even moved in with her just recently. Currently, he was drafting up his next toy. Paint Wand had, understandably, not been accepted. He did have his own, and it was fun, but it just didn't have the grandeur that Wondertainment seemed to be looking for recently. Unfortunately, however, 3T expected this next presentation to be… low energy. Nothing had been the same since Brainy left.
The Toy Creation Department had been quieter.
Solemner.
Sulkier.
Worse.
Dull.
Some of the passion had been lost. All of Wonder World!™ had been taking a long time to get over it. Some people were quicker than others to be happy again. Some people still couldn't handle that something so… horrendous had ever happened. Especially not from here. Not birthed from the womb of Wondertainment. It was just wrong. 3T was one of those people. So any distraction was welcome.
And here came one now.
The apartment complex's soft buzzer sound came above the many fans and pinwheels that littered Percy's apartment. 3T sat up. The buzzer came again. 3T pushed the unfinished — perhaps unstarted was more accurate — toy blueprints off of his lap and onto the coffee table. He carefully dodged taut wires to make his way over to the elevator and pressed the button to establish two way communication with the person at the buzzer on the ground floor.
"This is Thomas Timothy Thompson, living with Percy Pinwheel in her apartment, who is this?"
"Ashley. Polly Gary Ashley."
The Polly Gary Ashley that hadn't been seen in three weeks.
"Ashley?!"
"Yeah, can… can I come in."
"Yes, oh my yes you can, come up now!"
3T quickly flipped the tiny blue switch that allowed the elevator to stop at their apartment, and then rushed to the nearby bathroom — nearly tripping — to run his hair under water.
"Who's there, Tee?"
"It's Ashley!"
"Polly Gary Ashley?"
"Yes!"
"Oh! My! I'll put on a pot of water!"
The elevator dinged. As the doors slid open, an unsightly mess was revealed. Ashley looked — and smelled — as if she hadn't changed clothes or bathed in… an indeterminate amount of time. Their soleless pajama slippers, grey lint-ridden sweatpants, and unnaturally brownish-pink tank top were almost enough to distract from their face. But, unfortunately, nothing could really do that. Their round red nose was noticeably dented, eyeliner had streaked down their cheeks at some point in the past week, bags under their eyes were like nothing 3T had ever seen (and that's saying something, seeing as 3T had insomnia), their lips were cracked like old pottery, their hair matted and unkempt.
When Percy saw them, she startled. "Dear me!" She rushed over to Ashley, and practically pulled them out of the elevator. "Sit on the couch, honey. And stay there. Do you need a bath?" Before Ashley could answer, "I'm going to draw you one. And your hair! We're going to comb that. Tee, get the brush?"
3T walked back into the bathroom and decided he'd do the noble thing and sacrifice his hair comb to the hell that awaited in Ashley's hair. He walked back out, and Percy had already gone into full mother mode. She couldn't help it, when people looked bad. After all, image was everything. Ashley just sat there as Pinwheel used a lint brush to freshen up their sweatpants, and by the time 3T had made it to the couch with the comb Percy had procured a new orange shirt for Ashley to wear. Percy handed 3T the old pink shirt and told him to go wash it. So 3T did.
He went through the kitchen and out the door onto the little balcony. They were only on the second floor, so the view wasn't great, but it was nice to be outside. Besides, the apartment complex was on a hill, and this balcony looked down the hill, so the height difference was noticeable. The streets were bustling with almost no one, seeing as it was a Snoozeday.
3T pulled out the tub that they kept under the small glass table on the balcony, filled it with hot water from the rainbow colored hose attached to the spigot with googly eyes, and began to soak the shirt. The fact that Polly Gary Ashley had showed up at their house still baffled him, but he knew that Percy wasn't going to let any discussion start until they were clean.
"We're getting Ashley unclothed and washed, don't come in for a bit!" Percy hollered from inside.

Ashley looked much better.
They looked normal.
Well, they still looked like they had been hit by a train.
But they didn't look homeless. So that was a step up.
Ashley and Percy sat on the couch, and 3T sat on the ground across the coffee table from them. Pinwheel had prepared them all tea and turned off the fans because Ashley had complained about it being too cold. The silence was uncomfortable, but 3T and Percy were okay waiting for Ashley to be comfortable speaking. 3T and Percy weren't talkers, anyways. There was a comfort about being able to go around and not needing to talk to each other, just enjoying each other's presence. This wasn't enjoyable, but it was more acceptable for them than Ashley probably knew.
"I…" Ashley began to croak out. Their voice had all the bumps and ridges of someone who had just woken up, but their exhaustion implied they had been awake for days. "I first… want to apologize for not… changing it."
Percy looked confused, but understood that Ashley was aimed at 3T, and chose not to interrupt.
"It's not that I didn't mean to, I… I forgot to. Or, I, didn't have the motivation to. I don't know. I don't know why I didn't." Ashley stared down into their tea. "I… I haven't… been able to tell anyone, because the first person I wanted to apologize to… was Brainy…" Ashley swallowed loudly, and then let out a small jet of air. "And I can't do that, so…"
Percy patted Ashley on the back, and Ashley mouthed "I'm okay" in response.
3T frowned. "Well… I'm conflicted, because… I can't say it's okay." Ashley nodded. "It wasn't an okay thing to do. I knew that in the moment but you convinced me of a way in which it would have been okay. But you didn't come through on that promise. And it was a big enough promise that an apology alone will not make things right. If anything will make things right."
3T breathed in sharply.
"But that is not to say that I hold it against you. I think that, in this sense, you are, in the derogatory sense of the word, immature. I think that maybe you got into the business world too early. That maybe you had more growing up to do. And that's unfortunate, Ashley. That's really unfortunate." 3T sipped his tea. "But the mistake was made. And you won't make it again. And you are apologizing, and you are acknowledging what you did wrong. And you're clearly really beating yourself up over it. None of this makes what you did okay. But I get it."
Ashley looked up and made eye contact.
"You will grow up, and you will become a better person, and that's life. There are things that you do, mistakes that you make in the course of life, some worse than others, and you will have to live with them. I don't think you're a bad person, Ashley." 3T reached across the table and touched Ashley's hand. "And I forgive you."
Ashley looked down at 3T's hand on theirs… and their eyes began to well up. "I… I'm just, I'm just so…" Tears began to fall into their tea. "This wouldn't have happened, if… if…" Ashley took their hand not holding tea and placed it on their face. "If I hadn't…"
3T quickly set down his tea and circled the table to kneel next to Ashley and put a hand on their knee. "It is not your fault that Brainy did what he did. That is nobody's fault but his own. You can't take responsibility for that. Don't take responsibility for that. You will only hurt yourself."
"But…"
"No buts. You are never responsible for what other people do outside of your influence. Brainy was in the middle of nowhere, on his own, doing what he did. You can't let yourself feel responsible for that, Ashley. That's the worstest worst thing you could ever do to yourself, Ashley. It's the worst."
Ashley nodded, and continued to spill tears. 3T looked to Percy, who then got up and cleared her and 3T's tea. 3T made his way to the side of the couch where Percy was just sitting, sat in her spot, and rubbed Ashley's knee. Ashley wiped their eyes, and in doing so looked up at 3T. In that moment, 3T opened his arms, and Ashley quickly came in for a hug. 3T rubbed their back, and gave them a shoulder to cry into. "Three weeks of this," he thought to himself. "Oh, gosh…"
Ashley's sobs filled the apartment, and Percy looked concerned at the two huggers. 3T looked up from the embrace for a second to mouth "more tea, please", to which Percy nodded and ducked behind a corner.
"I… I wish Brainy was here…" Ashley cracked out.
3T furrowed his brow. Ashley wished Brainy was here? Why? What would they stand to gain from that? Closure, 3T supposed. But that was it. There was no reason for Brainy to come back. Brainy had done a horrible thing. Brainy had done several horrible things. Brainy had acted irrationally, out of line, and he had abused Wondertainment's leniency. He had played them. A company that had only ever done good for him. A community of people who had done nothing but supported and loved him, and he took them for granted(?), and used their premises for… monstrous activities. He killed people. Kids. And for that, Brainy was unforgivable. Forsaken. Forbidden from ever coming back.
3T clenched Ashley's back, taken now with his own emotions.
"I don't."
And at that very moment the apartment complex's buzzer sounded again.

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w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


A chitinous grandmother, a business card case, an unassuming ficus, and two cowboys accompanied by a headless Tyrannosaurus Rex sat across their creator in a cozy living room. They exchanged glances as they sipped their tea, dreading the conversation they were about to have. But still, they had to.
Pendleton Tweed, the younger of the cowpokes, gave a nod to Boone, his elder. He stood up and cleared his throat, setting down his cup on the coffee table. There was a pause during which Tweed seemed to mull over what he was about to say before finally speaking.
"So we heard there was an original character contest going on…"
Their creator, a curly-haired man with a sizable beard, leaned back in his chair, feeling his stomach turn to knots. Of course, that's why they all dropped by to visit at once. They're upset. They wanted to be in it. Guilt wracked his mind and his tongue ran dry before he finally answered.
"Look…." The creator started, exhaling deeply. "I'm sorry."
"We ain't mad-" Boone interjected, his authoritative voice taking a softer but still stern tone. "- but we's disappointed for sure." The other present anomalies expressed some form of agreement with him, except for the ficus which did not react; not because it did not agree, but because it was a potted plant.
"We know you didn't win the 4kcon, but you had a good thing goin'! Y'all three took 14th place and got a buncha eyes on me and Tweed. Why didn't ya think ta, ya know, use one of us? Or even ol' Tex here?" Boone pointed to the headless prehistoric beast at his side, which moved its neck up and down in an apparent nod. "Hell, y'all could've even used that no-good sonuvabitch Father Jacob and it could've been mighty interestin'."
The creator sank in his chair, almost feeling berated by his contest submissions. "Okay, I get you, but how the hell was I supposed to fit a god damned dinosaur and two town sheriffs stuck in the Cretaceous period into a narrative? Boone only barely has a character and Tex has nothing! He doesn't even have a head!" He glanced at the cowpokes, who then looked at each other before Tweed responded.
"Last I checked there's an Anomalocaris in the contest." Tweed folded his arms.
"Anoma-what?"
"It's a prehistoric fish of some sort, except this one has guns for a head."
"Cool."
"Yes, but I reckon a headless dinosaur is just as 'cool'?" Boone cocked an eyebrow and followed suit with Tweed in folding his arms.
Groaning, the creator leaned forward and rubbed his temples while staring at the ground. "How the hell am I supposed to make an interesting narrative out of two cowboys stuck in the past? The whole point of this is supposed to be character interaction and there's no logical way I could write up a way of having you interact with anyone." He got up, walking to the chair upon which the business card holder sat. "Just like this, look! All it does it make business cards, see?" The creator opened the contraption, producing ten cards.

Uncle Nicolini
Contactable Via Private Message
Lazy Hack, SCP Wiki

"Oh fuck off." The creator shut the small metal case then set it down on the table in a huff.
"Language, dear." The elderly woman finally broke her silence. Her many eyes fixated on her creator as a chitinous arm brought a teacup to her proboscis, which she then used to sip the dark liquid.
"Come on, gramma. I don't need your sass right now."
"My sweet little child… I have to agree with those handsome young boys. You've disappointed your granny. Why didn't you think of using me, your first ever creation? That mean old cousin Johnny is in the contest, think of what could have come if we crossed paths! Pssht. That young man needs a stern talking to. Why, if he did what he's doing now back in my day-"
"I didn't think to use you because in hindsight, you're pretty lame and I really wish I could forget you." The creator sighed. It hurt him to admit that, but he knew deep down it was true. Like many, the first thing he had made was not something he was proud of. "You want the truth? I didn't enter any of you because I couldn't think of a way to write you into interesting characters. Hell, two of you are inanimate objects for fuck's sake."
Boone stared down his creator, locking his furious eyes with the indifferent pair of his maker's. "The shark and bear got in, and those two are animals. Have ya seen those tales 'bout the phone girl and the bear? And that one with the shark and the Russian? Those was creative and imaginative, giving them a damned personality. I reckon you's just lazy."
Silence.
Stares.
A sigh.
"Get the fuck out of my house." The creator pointed at the door behind the group. Boone swiped the cardholder and marched out. He was followed by all the other anomalies except for the ficus; not because it didn't want to leave, but because it was in fact, an inanimate object. The disgruntled creator grabbed the plant and followed after the gaggle of rejects leaving his domicile, then set the plant down on his porch. "Take the fucking plant, too. I don't want to start speaking in business jargon."
Once inside he shut the door and exhaled deeply, walking towards his computer. The faint pale light of the machine illuminated his face as he took a seat by it.
"Finally, some peace and quiet."
He grabbed his mouse and opened up World of Warcraft, then leaned back to watch the loading screen. The creator grabbed his phone and opened up the Wiki; he did this almost religiously while waiting for things. A few taps later, he found something new.

"Alto Clef Jr.: Virus Alert"

A spectator tale for the OCT. He read it, even though his Priest had loaded into Zuldazar forever ago, finding himself enjoying the odd little thing. Not thinking much of it at the moment, he locked his phone and started checking the emissary, the Tortollan Seekers. As he pondered where to begin his questing for the day, he felt something.
A spark.
He Alt + Tabbed, opened up his Sandbox, and got to work.

This is not an OCT Entry, but you should totally go read the actual entries. They're pretty great.

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Site 19 was under another containment breach. The MTF team assigned to this breach, upon watching the recordings of the event, were confused at the happenings. A previously unidentified man was seen breaking into the cell of SCP-2337, and taunting it with a bag of gummy worms. The corncrake was then chased across the facility, breaking through walls with screeches of various destructive frequencies.
The good doctor and the lunatic seemingly ran across the facility in pursuit of each other, ending up causing another containment breach in the cell of a Class-D. The Class-D also proceeded to join in the pursuit, attempting to snap the unidentified man's neck. During this chase, they broke into the office of Foundation personnel, and spilled a glass of what was later described to the security team as "anomalous milk", which fell into a drain and into the sewers. The Class-D, finding the research staff dead from the blast, ran out of the facility.
Due to this, the security team was unable to identify the anomalous properties of the milk. These were the events leading up to the capture of 2337, although the unidentified man escaped.
A member of the security team assigned to the incident looked across the table at the ziptie-secured corncrake on the other end.
"So, tell me again, in English, what just happened."
The corncrake seemed especially flustered by this, taking a moment to respond.
"Why, cackle-shackle, Lordo Plectrum enchanted me with stranglefruits," The corncrake said, then returning to pecking at the zipties. The security team officer sighed again, trying to stay calm under the insane circumstances.
"But why," He said, "Does this fucking milk have any importance?"
The corncrake looked up at him, then letting out a seemingly annoyed version of "CACK."
"The fruitsnackles arounding the bedsheet universes are tie to cow juice, cack."
"..So you're saying the milk fucked with the fabric of reality?" The security officer said, slightly offset by this reaction. The corncrake simply nodded, going back to gnawing at the zipties. He looked back at the camera in the top corner of the room, which the research team was watching through. As if to say, 'Y'all seeing this shit?'
Below the site, the previously unidentified man now named by the good doctor as "Lord Plectrum" was crawling through the sewers. He found a collection of Sarkic ritualistic symbols marked on the sewer floor, along with milk splattered on them. He approached the situation, taking it in. Then, the reality-bending properties in the symbols noticed the nearby man, and activated.
The milk started to fizzle, the symbols lighting up the sewer in a pale shade of white. Then the floor opened up like a needle had been struck into the fabric of reality, and Plectrum looked down into the hole. Inside moved around an uncountable amount of anomalous entities and other various tentacle-adorning demons. And the lord in the sewers heard a deathly cry of pain from a corncrake above, who had seemingly detected the great disturbance.
Plectrum turned and began retreating from the tear in reality, running into a group of hooded individuals who had presumably made the ritual.
“Now, this is the part where I run.” the man said, as Sarkic cultist eyed him.
Suddenly, just as he began to crawl backwards, the Sarkic cultists were reduced to particle radiation, which caused everything around them to decay. Perhaps it was the skinless abominations from the lost Tenth Level of Hell. Or, perhaps, it could have been the milk that he had spilled. These were the thought that went through the lost lordship's head, as he felt a tingling feeling in his gut.
“Oh, poodles." The man said, as he, and everything around him, was also reduced to particle radiation. Though he was not completely turned to radiation, and he crawled backwards through the pipe, and ended up touching the anomalous milk. The milk then spread, fully converting him to alpha particles. Through this, it spread even more, eventually evaporating the entire sewer system.
Soon after, the milk would consume more things as the winged demons terrorized the inhabitants of Site-19, leaving the cells without guards. Many Keter-class SCPs (and otherwise) had breached containment at this time, leading to the milk continuously expending energy attempting to turn them into alpha particles. After a day of doing this, it expended all the energy in the known (and unknown) universe, leaving only SCP-2337 floating in a void, chewing on a gummy worm.
The screen faded to black.
The Seinfeld theme played.
Credits rolled.
The corncrake finished telling his story.
"And that's how we escapitated the Site nine-ten, cack."
The MTF officer sighed, crossing out the notes on their clipboard.


D.S. al Fine dawned consciousness back into her body from slumber, yawning, and opening her eyes to her office on fire.
Her office was so very, very much on fire.
In front of her, her mounds of paperwork were infernal. Walls were draped in flame. Her wood filing cabinets, even, alight.
What? she thought.
What the fuck?
She propped herself up from her leather chair, grabbing her cane and hobbling to the door, which thankfully wasn't yet on fire, and exited her office.
The hallway she exited into, as well, was on fire.
"Fuck."

Fire keeps going because it finds exothermic reactions which need high energy inputs. It's nothing more than chemicals doing their work, nothing more than predetermined entropic mechanisms coming to work.
Clair Wythers knows this.
She sighed when she saw the flames recede from the wall in front of her, creeping down the hall in its recession towards a focal origin with its back turned.
She never knew why she got the most tired when people fucked with fire.
She walked back into her office, freshly scorched, and reached for her telephone to report there was a Type Green walking down the hallway of the GOC headquarters in Washington D.C., and that it was burning everything.
She waited a few minutes for someone to pick up.
"We'll have a strike team there in five minutes."
She hung up, walked over to her desk, and opened the bottom drawer, taking out her Mateba Autorevolver in .44 Magnum.
She'd be done in two.

Nathan Ó'Reathallaigh wasn't exactly sure why today, of all days, everything around him seemed to be on fire.
He knew himself. He wasn't a reality bender. He wasn't a reality bender. He took a deep breath.
My name is Nathan Ó'Reathallaigh. I am 35 years old. The date is… Fuck, I've never been good at dates. I am currently at my job in the Global Occult Coalition office in Washington, D.C.. My favorite beverage is half cream soda and half tea. My favorite color is green. My favorite song is "I Want You" by Savage Garden. I ate… I forgot. Fuck. Doesn't fucking matter. This doesn't fucking matter.
He wasn't a reality bender. He was just being affected by an anomaly, which was unfortunate, but wasn't his fault. He couldn't be a reality bender. He paused, and the fire paused with him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck. I'm going to fucking die, aren't I?
He rested against a wall, slipping down, his shirt riding up as his knees bent and his ass hit the floor. He cried a little as the fire raged around him.
The elevator nearby opened its doors as someone else rounded the corner into the hallway. And three cracks followed from the someone's revolver.

Two of the bullets hit the back of the elevator, perforating the sheetmetal and spitting back concrete from hitting the shaft. One hit Buck's bulletproof vest in his side, sending him to cover with a wheeze and a stagger. One more for good measure whizzed into the iron box, missing entirely.
Just a few minutes prior he had been making small-talk at the water cooler to an uninterested girl from the PSYCHE division when a circular spot of flames on the roof slowly progressed towards them.
Why the fuck does this always happen?
He peeked out around the corner, firing wildly once, being returned a bullet in kind. He fired again, this time being met with nothing. He dashed to the other side of the elevator and tried to get a good look at his target and was promptly hit in the center of mass once more, making him and his Colt fall to the ground, coughing heavily.
Six it was, then.
He picked up his firearm, eyes still watering, and sent three shots down the hallway.
The first one nicked a bystander resting against the wall in the jugular. Blood burst forth in arterial sprays, sizzling as it spattered against the flaming wall, the poor man grasping his throat desperately gurgling to try and stop its jet ejections of what little life he had left.
The second hit target, piercing through his adversary's arm, sending her now-being-reloaded revolver and bullets to the floor, her recoiling, making:
Shot three hit square center of mass. She went down in a heap. He guessed that both lungs, her esophagus, and her heart were FUBAR from bone fragments from her sternum being shattered at 2000 joules worth of impact. She shuddered on the ground, grasping for her firearm, and threw up way too much blood before the twitches took her.
Agent Pocket Ukulele rolled onto his back as the flames around him petered out and died. He let the tears wick onto his downy cheeks and roll down his face before he picked up his walkie-talkie.
"Type Green eliminated. One casualty from crossfire by firearms exchange, male."
"Very well. Mission accomplished, Agent Pocket Ukulele."
"… Target was D.S. al Fine."
"…"
"She shot at me."
"…"
"Are… any questions? I figure it's worth mentioning. That's sort of a big deal."
"I'll pass it along to D.C. al Fine. Otherwise, a Type Green is a Type Green."
"… Understood. Over and out."
It hurt.
It hurt a lot.
He had a terrible feeling that this wasn't an accident.

This was written for the SCP Original Character Tournament. Be sure to also read The Scent of the Worm by TechSorcerer2747.

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Professor Gregory Cabenwald
Edinburgh, August 5th, 1915

The Skeptics' Club of Philadelphia

Dear Dr. Cabenwald:
 We have heard many wondrous things about your skeptical society across the pond! We read your public thrashing of Mr. Westcott's foolish occultism with great relish. Given your rigorous scientific approach to disproving the existence of witchcraft, superstition, and other pernicious beliefs, I am convinced that you and your compatriots are just the fellows to unravel the mystery of our strange little stone.
 Though I have no doubt our mutual friend has explained our quandary to you, I shall relate the details once more in the interests of posterity:
 It cannot be chipped or otherwise altered by any power known to us. My lads and I have made all efforts to do so, with no visible result. We have used hammers, chisels, drills, acids, furnaces, a caustic agent, and even rolled over it thrice with a boulder (two tonnes!). One foolish boy even suggested dynamite, and I would be lying if I said I was not sorely tempted by the notion.
 The matter vexes us to no end, for (as you must be aware) we cannot determine a substance's composition if it will not react to chemicals or otherwise permit some portion of it to be separated from the whole. Your expertise in this matter would therefore be deeply appreciated!
 In all honesty, I am glad to be rid of the thing, if only for now. My lads are good Christian men, but many are mentally timid. This item brings them some consternation. At least one believes it is evidence that our Lord has finally made a rock "that even He cannot pull asunder".
 Here is to the hope that your laboratory is made of stronger stuff than ours!
Sincerely,
 Daniel MacIntyre
 Director of Archeology
 Scottish National Museum

NEXT


The man sat at a long, wooden conference table with his 12 fr—
The man sat at a long, wooden conference table with the 12 people he knew best.
He rubbed his forehead as one of them spoke at length of precautions and procedures put in place to stop the things that they didn't even rightly know how they were stopping. It was Thursday, and just a little bit before noon. He didn't know why, but that fact always filled his stomach with cold dread. Eventually, the chatter stopped. He realized it was his turn.
"So you can't tell us about why your proposal worked, because that would make it not work anymore." He said, eyelids squeezed tight and shielded from the fluorescent lights by his open palm. His middle finger and thumb pressed rhythmically against his temples, to assuage his growing stress headache. Against his better judgment, his eyes opened again, looking at the two paragraphs of text on the crisp white paper they had all been supplied. "And you can't tell us why you can't tell us, because, of course, that would also cause containment to fail."
O5-1 only stayed quiet when he didn't disagree. The voice that spoke in his ear was his own. "Hey, buddy. It's time to go to containment chamber fifty-five. I'm not gonna shut up until you're there." There was the briefest pause. "Hey, buddy. It's time to go…"
He snapped his attention back to his… to the people around him. His finger pressed a button on the compact black earpiece he wore, but his voice wouldn't stop repeating the message. "Well, then, I guess we'll just have to trust you won't get us all killed." He stood from his chair and turned to the door.
"We aren't done here, there's still the matter of the vote," one of the twelve informed him sharply. O5-7's hands went to his pockets, one quickly withdrawing a quarter to toss on the table in front of her. O5-3 picked up the coin, squinting at the departing O5-7, who was waving his hand flippantly.
"Flip for it," he offered, pulling a lab coat from a wall hook as he departed. "Important call from me, gotta take it."
The remaining twelve sat in dignified silence for a few moments. At length, O5-1 tilted his chin towards the coin, bidding her to cast his vote.

The repetition in his ear was annoying, swiftly building to infuriating. Still, he realized why it was necessary in pretty short order; he had forgotten where he was going a dozen times by the time he had gotten to the elevator. He stared at the buttons in mild confusion which wasn't helping his headache. There wasn't a containment chamber fifty five. He gave a deep sigh, eventually deciding to start his search in the keter wing. After all, he repeatedly reasoned, if there were a chamber that didn't exist, that's where he would have put it. He leaned back against the wall and fell into a rhythm, banging the back of his head against the metal wall each time his voice started over on the long ride down, if only to distract himself from stopping the elevator and wandering off. He didn't expect it would help his headache any, and he wasn't disappointed.
"Hey, buddy. It's time to go to containment chamber fifty-five. I'm not gonna shut up until you're there."
"Hey, buddy. It's time to go to containment chamber fifty-five. I'm not gonna shut up until you're there."
"Hey, buddy. It's time to go to containment chamber fifty-five. I'm not gonna shut up until you're there."
The elevator stopped. He had long since grown to despise his own voice, and this ride hadn't done anything to change his mind about that fact.
The next half hour, spent perpetually realizing he wasn't lost in the worst part of Site-19, churned the calm sea of dread in his gut into a roiling pot of stress and acid. The guards he'd passed had helpfully informed him that there was no containment chamber fifty-five. He had nodded, and presented his keycard to be scanned each time, and each time he had been cleared to pass.
At last, he had come to an unmarked, unguarded door. Beyond it, a long, solitary hallway. Finally, a large metal blast door emblazoned 55. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He doubted he would have sent himself on a snipe hunt. He held the keycard in his hand and, for the first time, looked at the fake name on it. He didn't bother trying to remember it, slotting the card into the reader on the wall. The blast doors pulled apart with a loud, continuous rush of air.
He stepped into the chamber, and the lights flickered on. It was big, far bigger than it needed to be. A few cables ran from the wall on the far side of the room, leading to a small carpet lying in the middle of the chamber. He cocked his head curiously to the side. For all the world, it looked like a condensed living room, placed carefully in the middle of an empty warehouse. He stepped closer.
"…It's time to go to containment chamber fif—" The blast door closed behind him with another outflux of air, married with a controlled bang. He let out a sigh of relief. He didn't realize how much the noise of his voice had felt like a drill until it was gone. He tried shaking the lingering ringing from his ear as he approached the carpet. As he neared it, it wasn't the old tv, or the other unrecognizable screen lying nearby that drew his attention.
It was his old bean bag chair. He knelt down next to it, squinting his eyes to clarify his memory. The wear on it was unmistakable; this was his, but he'd lost it sometime after college… His eyes continued around the carpet, coming next to a self-contained record player, thick headphones attached by a cable. A few moments of leafing through the album covers confirmed it; these were his too. His heavy sigh accompanied him as he sank onto his old chair. Immediately, he winced, sitting up and sharply pulling the black remote control that had lie camouflaged on the beanbag out from under him.
"Fucking—" he studied the remote to distract from the fading pain. This, at least, had never been his. He aimed it at the old cathode-ray screen sitting in front of him, pressing the red button at the top left. Blue screen. Channel 3. Fuck he hadn't dealt with this shit since he was a kid. He studied the controller for a few moments before carelessly tossing it aside, but not so carelessly that it didn't land on the carpet, realizing that it wouldn't activate the VCR sitting atop the wood-grain finished TV. Grumpily, he stood, stabbing his finger at the black box's 'play' button. Maximizing his laziness, he grabbed the small flatscreen tablet lying nearby, taking it back with him to plop onto the beanbag again.
White, flickering bars danced vertically across the screen for a few moments, before the black screen crashed up into itself to reveal a boring-looking, tired-eyed, balding man. O5-7 looked over his shoulder, then back at the screen. This video had been recorded in this room.

Hello, O5-7. I am O5-7.

This was going to be one of those kind of days, huh?

On the off chance you aren't O5-7, feel free to help yourself to a seat in my chair while you rewind this video, then leave.

The old O5-7 looked small and timid. He cleared his throat and offered the camera a weak smile.

I'll keep this brief, because you have work to get to. I want you to assume everything I'm about to say makes sense, because there isn't enough tape here for me to show my work. There exists a theory that, if the simulation of a universe capable of supporting sentient consciousness is possible, then the odds of the universe we are living in not being simulated plummets to somewhere in the neighborhood of 0.

The old man moved the handheld camera along with him, pointed at his face, as he moved to sit in a cushioned wooden chair via a complex series of 'oofs' and loud pops emanating from his bones. When he was settled, his hand reached offscreen, returning with the small touchscreen device that O5-7 currently held on his lap.

When it was discovered that someone had, infact, successfully gotten one up and running, our hands became tied. So we designed and built this. This is a machine that simulates universes.

He flashed the camera to take in the unmarked, blackened screen sitting in his lap, then returned it to his face. Along the way, his weak smile had fallen to a two-pronged attack by despair and sadness. His features fell back to a much more defensible neutral expression.

By increasing the number of simulated universes to as near an infinite amount as possible, we aim to reduce the probability that the universe we are in is among the number of universes that are simulated. The ethical dilemmas posed by this decision is part of the reason there's now a division of just that. Still, the damage had been done, and we must act for the good of mankind, yes?

The way the old O5-7 looked into the camera, it seemed like he was almost hoping for an answer.

The project was classified, and the object itself was physically encoded with enough antimemetics to ensure that the secret couldn't get out, let alone spread. We stuck it in the last place anyone would come looking for it, and that would have been the end of it. However, there were those of us on the council that weren't satisfied with the state of affairs. The amount of suffering made possible through this device is beyond imagining. And so, it was decided to set a warden.

The man's wizened finger poked first against his own chest, then, after a moment, at the camera.

Fortunately for us, we have an algorithm set up to only display simulations that have developed a sizable number of consciousnesses, so that we can focus on… on the ones that will have the greatest impact. The simulations are too complex to change much, but tweaking universal constants such that all matter collapses into a single point is surprisingly easy, when you can tinker around with them. Don't worry. I already took care of the calibrations for that. That's… that's all I have. I'm sure you have a clear picture of what's going on. I recommend checking on it about once monthly. Oh, and, last thing, make sure you rewind this before you go. The effect I'm going for doesn't really work if you have to rewind it fir—

The tape ended.
O5-7 looked around the room. It seemed bigger than it had before. "How many times have I come in here?" he asked, to the stack of albums he supposed, since he was reaching for them. They didn't answer for a while, so he pulled one out. "I guess Farewell to Kings is as good a place to start as any," he pondered, setting the record onto the player and activating the machine with one hand as he wrangled the headphones into place with the other.
He settled back into the beanbag chair as the guitar began. His gaze fell uncomfortably on the black tablet on his lap, and he finally probed his fingers around its edges until the screen illuminated. It asked for a password, and he gave it the one he had inherited from the previous O5-7.
He was looking at a room not unlike this one. The user interface was surprisingly intuitive, and he found he was able to move the view at tremendous speeds with remarkable precision. "And what, exactly, constitutes a universe that contains too much suffering?" O5-7 asked himself the question that all O5-7's asked themselves.
There was an O5 council in this council room. They didn't seem much more distressed than his fr— than the people he hung around. He took this as a good sign and decided to move on. He tapped the rectangular green button.
The view was back in a room like this one. In the corner of the room stood SCP-173. He took a long breath as the view moved out of the room slowly and flew through the halls. Through the halls stained with blood and things that were not blood. Statues littered the facility. Hundreds of them. To a twitch of his fingers, the view shot into the O5 council office. Thirteen corpses. Three statues. He eyed the rectangular red button at the far bottom left of the screen. He touched it. "Yes," his voice and finger answered the machine, "I am sure."
The view was back in a room like this one. He adjusted it to be in the O5's council room. He hoped most of them would be like this. Thirteen people he wouldn't mind working with. Green button.
Green button.
Green button.
Green button.
The camera saw blackness this time. With a sinking feeling, he moved the camera for quite a while before he saw anything that wasn't pitch blackness. Finally, the view broke above what he suddenly realized was an unbroken sea of inky pitch, miles deep. He found, eventually, a speck of white. He could hear it laughing, and crying. A mask, emerging from the ooze, flooding the world with it. Red button.

His stomach hadn't ever settled. Hadn't even tried. He never made it more than five green buttons in a row before…
The overseer council chamber. Thirteen clowns sat in the seats. Red button.
Before something like that happened.
His breath was unsteady, and his vision was starting to have its own ideas about what it should be focusing on. He squeezed his eyes shut and sat the small flatscreen device down on the floor. He pulled himself out of his chair, and moved to hit the rewind button on the VCR. The old man had recommended coming back once a month. He would return next Thursday. He took small comfort in the fact that he now knew why Thursdays were so disagreeable.
He turned off the TV, put the remote back on his old beanbag chair. He wondered, briefly, what his other predecessors had preferred to sit in when they did this.
He left the room, and the door closed behind him. He turned, and walked back out of the hallway—


1991

The sun rose on the bright September morning. The sun hugged the ground and overpowered the roof of a little house. On the second story of the inlet, in the second door to the left of the stairs, there was a room with a young boy who was covering his head under his sheets.
The young boy was trying to hide. This was the first day of his new school and it was apparent to his mother that he did not want to go.
"It's time to go to school," said his mother. She did not know why her son was afraid of going to school. Was it the teachers, the students, the homework? These were questions that one would expect a mother to ask in this situation, but they were not the ones that arose in her mind.
The single thought that encompassed her mind was the love for her son and she knew the proper way to display it.
"Honey, let me tell you. Whatever the obstacle that's blocking you right now you can overcome it. Do you know why? It's because you are my son. And I know it's impossible for my son to be stopped by anything…"
2015

The sun began to set on the drab October evening. The trees undulated in the subtle wind that blew across the headstones in the cemetery. The early morning gloomy rainstorm turned the bright sky from a saturated blue into one of a lifeless, dull gray.
A man sat on a brown bench. He did not notice the signs of decay on the bench. The slow rot that was creeping along the side. The small nest of ants in the underside. The damp wood that left an imprint on his pants. It was as if he was a part of the decay of the bench itself.
The man's hands were on his face. On this quiet, peaceful day, after the storm had subsided, there was little sound in the air. The squish of mud from passing mourners, the buzzing of a nearby fly, the occasional thunder in the background. All was suppressed by the sound of the man sobbing. The man had been coming to this area for long stretches of time for four weeks now.
"We should head back to the dorm, it's starting to get late and we should get something to eat." The man didn't perceive the words of the man who had been his friend for 14 years.
"I don't want to, Mason, I really…" his friend plopped down next to him on the bench.
The creak from the decaying wood jolted life into the bench as the insects started to scurry and the soft sob of the man came to an end.
"You know, when someone passes, it's best to think of the great things that they did in their life. Don't just wallow in your depression," said Mason, interrupting the otherwise lethargic environment.
"I have an idea of how to get your spirits up. Tell me what you remember about her. I know for a fact that whenever I came over she made the best after-school snacks. Remember the time she made those home-made pizza bagels? We ate those for a week straight!"
Mason sounded eager to discuss memories, but, hidden inside, he was also in grief at the loss of his friend's mother, for they were also close. But he knew that making his friend feel better was the goal.
"Hmph, I guess." Mason was fine with this response, despite the bluntness with which it was said.
At least he isn't completely in grief now, Mason thought. "Okay, now it's your turn. What do you remember about your mom that makes you happy?"
"…Now that I think about it there is one thing that I really fondly remember. It was how she knew exactly what to say to keep my self-confidence up. During middle school, I was afraid of that guy, Xander, but she told me that the only person I should fear is her."
Mason and his friend started to laugh. Suddenly, a frown grew on the face of the man.
"That's the one thing I miss the most, somehow she knew how to make me feel better any time I wanted. Every time I woke up, she made me call her to make sure I was safe. Now I won't be able to hear her voice in the morning ever again. I just wish I could hear her again, somehow, some way…"
"I know she hated tech, but do you at least have some recording or video?" Mason asked excitedly. Finally he had something to latch onto. Something to put the lamenting heart of the man to rest and maybe his own too.
"No, I can only hear her when I remember her, it's like she only exists in my mind now."
"Damn, that sucks." Mason laid back with his hands behind his head. Suddenly, a spark lit in his mind.
"Hey, you know Todd from gen physics class a year ago?" said Mason.
"Yeah, I remember him… I don't know him, he always fiddled with some Raspberry Pi in the back of the class." As they spoke the gray clouds began to part and a few rays of sun shined throughout the graveyard.
"I heard from Alyssa that he became an intern at a some new age tech company or something."
"How is that relevant to me at all?…" Unknown to the men the wind picked up, stirring the leaves of the trees as Mason brought up his plan.
"I don't know exactly, but Alyssa was drinking with him at Harvey's about two months back and heard that he is working with something concerning the brain and memories. I'm not sure about the specifics though" said Mason in an animated tone, which juxtaposed the surrounding environment.
Mason knew full well what he was saying would not lead to anything. He just assumed that in order to slowly make his friend feel better he would need to get him out of the cemetery.
"Yo, let's go to his dorm, it's the big one on Sinclair Campus. Maybe he knows how to access more memories of your mom through some lucid dreaming type thing. At the very least we should do something constructive." Begrudgingly, the man stood up and started walking away with his friend.
"He'll either not answer or kick us to the curb," thought Mason.
But Mason was wrong.

Item Description: A gray analog alarm clock that sounds like the owner's primary maternal figure when reaching its set specific time.
Date of Recovery: 10-28-2015
Location of Recovery: Ithaca, New York
Current Status: Kept in storage. Destroyed by Agent ███████. Agent reprimanded.