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In The Clutches Of Life

Don't take endings for granted.

SCPs

SCP Number
Rating

SCP-3393
1190

Captain Kirby's Proposal
771

SCP-4514
618

SCP-3448
572

SCP-5552
568

SCP-3844
490

SCP-3388
472

SCP-5003
426

SCP-3866
425

SCP-3305
399

SCP-3449
372

SCP-4877
367

SCP-4321
332

SCP-016-J
261

SCP-7100
252

SCP-3123
230

SPC-1057
215

SCP-3393-EX
214

SCP-3511
206

SCP-6007
192

SCP-3633
191

SCP-4925
184

SCP-4479
178

SCP-3767
166

SCP-4316
161

SCP-4775
141

SCP-4034
135

SCP-5877
103

SCP-3650
98

SCP-5448
97

SCP-3203
64

SCP-5779
61

SCP-3405
53

SCP-3481
48

Tales

Title
Rating

Impossible-To-Destroy Reptile
471

The Nuclear Option
465

In The Clutches Of Life
370

Numbers, Like Stories, Never Die
316

Excerpts From The Societal Census Programme ΩK-Class Report
218

Tales of the Ethics Committee: 5 Reasons The Foundation Wants A Robot Army
216

The Tombstone of Alto Clef
215

With The Reaper On Retirement
214

Do You Remember Funerals?
163

Where Death Used To Live
143

From The Clutches Of Life
141

Don't Get Used To It
140

Project Damnerung
139

The Many Portraits Of Jack Bright
137

Group Date
136

Hello, My Name Isn't
132

Monochrome
129

Hundred-Year Favor
117

Even The Most Masked Of Men Become Themselves Behind Closed Doors
110

You Have 18 Unread Messages
97

Everyday Is Somebody's Birthday
88

The Shape of a Noose
75

A Failed Two Weeks Notice
67

'Til Death Do Us Part
63

Pink Cracks in a Digital Wall
61

Rocks And Trees Are Not Good Company
61

Poky And Pal Scheme Together
54

Is Anybody Home?
52

A Eulogy In 11/8 Time
50

Carnivores
50

Poky And Pal Arm Themselves
49

Tears of a Neon God
48

Virtue
43

When It Rains, It Pours
42

I Felt Numb
39

It's A Nice Day Out
37

Attempts To Salvage Thought
35

God-Knows-Where
34

I Am Wonderful
33

They Are Not Laughing With You
28

Outrun
26

What Is There To Do With A Pot Of Gold?
25

Containment's A Beach
20

GOI Formats

Title
Rating

Captain Kirby's Proposal, Or Something
184

My Head Is On Fire And I'm (Not) Ok
98

Project Proposals 2004-013/2014-114/2024-072: "Losing Your Cool"
70

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SCP-3984 - Poking Death with a Stick Croquembouche

ΩK is here and it's not going away, so grow up and move on. You are professionals — act like it. It's not like this is going to kill you.

Hypnotraline by Veiedhimaedhr

It's inaccurate and dismissive to compare life directly to pizza, as the former is made up of novel experiences, bonds and other factors. However, it is also dismissive to declare them incomparable.

A woman watched her father's chest rise and fall from the chair next to his hospital bed. The heartbeat monitor beeped in time with the song she listened to through her headphones. She wished she could spend her last visit chatting, but that's difficult to do with the unconscious. Besides, she'd end up repeating the same introduction from the last twenty three visits. The whole:
"Hello."
"Hello, have we met?"
"Yes, I'm, uh… I'm your daughter."
"That can't be right, I have two sons!"
Wait a beat.
"Well, yes you did also have two sons. But you also had me."
"Where are they?"
"Eric is currently working in the field, so he can't make it. And uh… well Tony's no longer with us. But I'm still here."
"Eric and Tony? I thought my boys were named Andrew and Joseph."
"No, but— actually never mind."
"Can you get the nurse for me? I think my bed needs readjusting."
"Sure, dad."
Get up to leave.
"Wait, what was your name again?"
"Joyce. You named me Joyce."
And then get the nurse. Joyce had gone through the motions every time she visited. Except this last time. Each of those twenty three times, Joyce felt a sting in her chest, and wished her father would just go back to sleep. But now Joyce got her wish, and she'd realized that twenty four is a nicer number than twenty three. Too bad they'll miss the chance.

Ten trained soldiers approached a dusty warehouse near the docks. The crashing of waves against the rocky shoreline washed out any noise made by MTF Iota-10. The team lined up next to the back entrance.
Captain Eric Michaels held up two fingers and a thumb. An instruction. Three.
His thumb retracted, leaving the fingers. Two.
One.
Michaels kicked in the door and Marquez threw a flashbang. The team plugged their ears and turned away from the door just long enough for the grenade to go off —BANG!— then charged in behind it. Guns out. Bullets sprayed.
Some guards hit the ground. Others dove behind Marshall, Carter and Dark branded crates. The rest took lead to the chest.

As Joyce's song finished, she stood up from her seat. She looked at the nurse, politely leaning against the door frame. Joyce couldn't remember how long the nurse had been standing there. It could've been minutes, it could've been hours.
"It's about time."
"Yeah, I know," Joyce replied. She glanced down at her dad again. He held one of his pillows close, like a child with a favorite teddy bear.
"Right. I'm on my way," she said to herself.
"We'll tell you when it's over." the nurse called after Joyce, who half-ran out of the room. Joyce refused to cry, but that didn't stop her from shaking. She took a seat in the waiting area and just rocked back and forth, trying to calm herself. She'd done worse in her day job. She'd lost lives before. Hell, she'd lost her own family before. Although, it does feel less real when they're ripped apart by eldritch abominations, or succumb to memetic hazards.
"Why does this one have to feel so…" Real? Concrete? Palpable? Genuine?

Michaels popped out from behind a forklift and shot a few rounds at the men across from him. MC&D must've doubled their detail since the last raid. He was already out of ammunition, and his team was running low altogether. A quick scan counted about twelve bogeys left. Michaels turned to the private next to him.
"Turner, give me cover."
"Where you headed sarge?"
"You see that crate over there?"
"Yeah?"
"How much you bet this shipment's part of a weaponry order?"
Turner opened his mouth to speak, but Michaels held his finger to Turner's lips.
"Trick question. Never tell me the odds."
"Just get going Solo."
Michaels smiled and darted toward his prize as Turner let loose another round of bullets. A sharp pain shot up Michaels' leg. Clean shot through the calf. The adrenaline carried him to the crate. Michaels cut the straps with his tactical knife, and then shot the lock off. The side of the crate fell open on its own. Michaels' grin grew a little wider.

"So normal?" Joyce looked up to see Niklo, "Sorry, thought it was worth coming inside to check in on you. Also the car was getting stuffy."
Niklo took a seat next to Joyce. He had volunteered to drive her back when the deed was done, since she probably wouldn't be in a good headspace to be safe on the road.
"It also helps he has a name. Not a number," Niklo continued.
"Not helping."
"Sorry, thought I'd just take your mind off of it."
"Can you just, be quiet? Please?"
"Right, sorry."
Joyce returned to rocking as Niklo watched her. She put her headphones on again, but didn't play any music. She just wanted the pressure up against her ears to give her that feeling of isolation, the illusion of being alone in a crowded room.
"Are you sure you need to be here for this? We can just—"
"I said shut up! It's not your dad you're pulling the plug on! So just shut up!" The waiting room went silent. Joyce looked around, the color drained from her face. Just as her gaze reached the entrance, the nurse arrived, also looking pale.
"Umm… Mrs. Michaels?"
"Yes?"
"I believe the doctor would like to, um, show you something."

Michaels grabbed one of four devices. After untangling the device's tubes, wires, and plastic casings, he managed to get a grip on the thing. Michaels was about to break every rule they pounded into his head during training.
He stood up from behind the crates and pulled the trigger. There was no recoil, no noise, nothing. Except a large hole that opened up in the security guard Michaels aimed at.
Now, to rinse and repeat.
Michaels aimed to take another shot. A bullet caught one of the tubes. Michaels collapsed, started screaming, and tried to hold the side of his body that just wasn't there anymore.

Joyce nearly ran to the room. She flung open the door.
A single, long beep rung in her ears. The heart monitor had gone flat.
Joyce's dad looked over from the hospital bed. Finally awake.
"Who are you?"

After the firefight died down, Michaels' screaming could still be heard throughout the building. Even with all the blood loss, he screamed. Even with a hole where his left lung used to be, he screamed. He felt it. And he kept feeling it. The world was all fuzzy, but it still hurt. It hurt so much.
And when Michaels was carried away by his squad, who simply didn't know what else to do with the man, the screams and the moans of the others echoed around the warehouse. All those with lead in their chests, heads, arms, legs, lungs, hearts, feet, eyes. They writhed in the clutches of life.

On that day
The reaper laid down his scythe
Turned in his shroud
Bid farewell to the masses
And quietly retired

/

End of Death

SCP-3984


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Foundation Patent/Intellectual Property Policy

(More from this author.)

Administrative Department

A304. Patent/Intellectual Property Policy
I. Purpose
In lieu of far-reaching research across select sites of the SCP Foundation (hereinafter referred to as The Foundation), novel discoveries and inventions with respect to the biological, technological, memetic, and anti-artistic sciences will inevitably be made. The Administrative Department (hereinafter referred to as Administration) prioritizes Foundation interests above all else, and extends to consider public benefit and usefulness from products of the Foundation's scientific research and inventiveness where able. The assurance and control given by patent laws or other legitimate means for the security of property rights may be important in process of such prioritization. It is additionally perceived that Foundation employees may require help in deciding and assessing patentability and in indicting patent applications for or generally securing creations made by them.
Furthermore, many such inventions involve equities beyond those of the inventor since the utilization of Foundation facilities, the acceptance of conditions for employment, and the legally-binding commitments in regards to both research reserves and patent rights raise questions concerning the rights and equities of all concerned. The motivation behind this patent strategy is to set up a component to serve the general population advantageously while maintaining Foundation interests above all else, to decide and appraise all concerned gatherings of pertinent rights and values, to encourage patent submissions, to assist in the authorizing of creations, to ensure the fair dissemination of any sovereignties or other monetary returns, to give consistency in patent issues, and to accommodate sufficient detailing of patent exercises.
II. Policy and Procedure
A. It shall be the policy of the Administration to empower the idea that patentable innovations created at the Foundation should be utilized for the best conceivable open advantage and to give each sensible incentive to the workforce, understudies and staff for the exposure, assessment and dispersal of such developments. At the point when the Foundation offers help for the improvement of a patentable innovation, it is sensible for the Foundation to take part in the products of such advancement, including repayment for its expenses. To that end, the Foundation energizes the acquisition of licenses for such creations and the authorizing or other commercialization thereof in light of a legitimate concern for the populous, the innovator, and the Foundation.
B. Any creation or disclosure (1) which is the aftereffect of research carried on by or under the heading of a representative of a grounds of the Foundation as well as having the expenses thereof paid from reserves given by, under the control of or controlled by a grounds of the Foundation, or (2) which is made by a worker of a grounds of the Foundation and which identifies with the representative's field of work, or (3) which has been produced in entire or partially by the usage of assets or offices having a place with a grounds of the Foundation, may be the property of the material grounds of the Foundation. The pertinence of the above expressed criteria to any development or disclosure will be resolved at the sole tact of the Site Director of the separate grounds of the Foundation or his/her designee.
C. As a state of their employment or continued employment by or enlistment at a grounds of the Foundation, every employee, representative and understudy concurs that he/she is authoritatively bound by this patent approach as actualized by the separate grounds of the Foundation and should answer to the officer or third-party interest so assigned by the Site Director of the grounds of the Foundation to oversee and market such creations and discoveries concerning that grounds, any innovation or disclosure which such employee, worker or understudy has imagined, found, created or potentially integrated into practice by them or under their bearing whenever following their underlying arrangement by, employment by, or enlistment with that grounds of the Foundation.
D. All creations and disclosures that meet the criteria of II.B. are thus appointed to the Foundation for the advantage of the Foundation. Employees, workers and understudies don't have the authority to dole out rights in such innovations and discoveries to outsiders. The Site Director of each grounds of the Foundation is approved to additionally appoint any creation or discovery it is inclined to claim according to this approach to an assigned philanthropic committee established for the advantage of the particular grounds of the Foundation. The appointment will be fashioned with full consistence regarding this arrangement.
E. Regarding the programmed task of possession put forward in this approach, the Site Directors or their designees are approved to pay to the creators, their beneficiaries or assigns, a level of the eminences, charges, or other budgetary returns received by the grounds of the Foundation (or the third party interest to which an innovation may have been doled out as per the terms of this arrangement) from such development after a conclusion of fifteen percent (15%) thereof for overhead expenses, in addition to a finding for expenses of licensing and insurance of protected innovation rights and any abnormal costs paid by the grounds or its third-party designee or the innovator. Every grounds Site Director shall be in charge of the advancement of an arrangement overseeing the level of sovereignties, expenses, and other budgetary profits for a creation paid to the creator and administering the interior conveyance of the grounds of the Foundation's offer of such money related returns.
G. If you've read this far, you'll know II.G is out of order. This is a manifesto. Are We Cool Yet? (hereinafter referred to simply as ?) is the greatest threat to the Foundation. ? is pretty well defined by the following: "better described as a "movement," an underground network of people sharing a similar philosophy, rather than a hierarchy with a defined command structure and goals. That is a lot harder to fight, investigate or infiltrate." However, the best description to date would be: ""Fuck you up + anomalous + Are we cool yet? = art." We get you dislike us because it is formulaic. Here's a formula for you: "Virulent fungus/abandoned school/exaggerated humanoid/spatial anomaly/otherwise-benign household object/instance from an esoteric specialization of a very difficult branch of science and or math/bathroom-humor-level "joke" SCP + Item # + Object Class + Special Containment Procedures + novel design + Level 4 Authorization collapsible (access granted) + anomalous + fuck you up + SCP = science." You push us to your margins and so by your logic, we have you surrounded.
F. Yearly reports of patent issues will be made to the O5-Council or their representatives for data and that of the Administration inside forty (40) days following the completion of each financial year, to incorporate as a base recognizable proof of each patent and patent applied for, the conveyance of patent income including the offer heading off to the designer, and the costs of getting and overseeing licenses. The O5-Council or their representatives may endorse suitable arrangements for such reveals.


I restlessly tapped my desk as I watched the clock in my office. It slowly, agonizingly marched forward with a constant rhythm that only served to accentuate the emptiness of the room. Save the ticking, there was no sound. There was no furniture in the room save for a desk, an essentially empty filing cabinet in the corner, and a little potted plant resting on top. One of the other researchers, Brandt, I think, gave it to me when I joined up. I could never remember what it was…he said something like succubus? Succulent? Whatever. The wall still bore marks from when it had held a calendar and a picture of my parents. I couldn't be bothered to get a new calendar this year, and the picture of my parents now rested on my desk next to my terminal, leaving the wall with only my clock to keep it company.
I knew it was just me. I knew that there was nothing making me uncomfortable. It was just me. Or rather, the box. This is where suspending the testing had gotten me. One year of daily exposure to a cognitohazard can do weird things to your head.
I sighed, and started to get up. There wasn't really any resisting it, anymore. I never felt at ease unless I was in the observation room, surrounded by its music. I switched off the lights in my office, and started off towards the Light Containment Zone. Wincing, I clutched my head. Just thinking about that damn box was enough to give me a splitting headache.
The lift dinged that familiar ding as the polished metal doors slid open. I stepped inside and absentmindedly flashed my ID up to the sensor before pushing the button for the LCZ. This was a daily process now at minimum, the walk over becoming something akin to second nature.
The lift slid to a stop with yet another ding, and freed me. On my way out, I almost stumbled into a fellow researcher, Jordan Anais, Level 3.
He paused and let his arm fall to his side, clasping his ever-present clipboard. “Hey, how's it goin', Caleb?” he asked, leaning on his left leg. It was always his left.
“Oh, well, I've been fine. Yourself?” I replied, hardly pausing to give my words any thought.
He didn't seem convinced. “Are you sure? You've been acting kinda weird lately? Spending too much time with the box, maybe?” He had to adjust himself to remain facing me as I walked, before eventually giving up and following me.
“Oh, no, I'm perfectly alright, Jordan. If I really wanted to, I could always get amnesticized and forget all about the box. Probably could get reassigned, too.”
“Dr. Solys, I'm not sure that's how that works. You meant if you need to, not if you want to, right?” He stopped me by placing a hand on my shoulder.
I looked over my shoulder at him, flashing a weak but truthful smile. “Yes, you're correct, Jordan.”
He sighed. “Alright, whatever you say, Caleb. Just…get some help if you need it, okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.”
Jordan released my shoulder and turned away to return to whatever duties he'd forsaken. Paying the interaction no mind, I continued down the hall.
Soon, I reached a set of two doors branded with that 4-digit number. I swiped my card across rightmost door's sensor and stepped inside. Instantly, I was overtaken by the music and felt the pressure in my shoulders drop. I let out the breath I hadn't noticed I was holding and eased into the office chair resting in front of the controls.
Moonlight Sonata. Interesting. After around my 20th time being exposed, it seemed to have run out of ideas and began playing any random song. Yesterday it was an upbeat Led Zeppelin song that I couldn't remember the name of. Today, classical. It almost seemed to match my mood, but it was too loose of a correlation to make any sort of note on it. Besides, who knew if Site Command was going to count that as more “testing”, and who'd want that?
I quickly glanced between the metal case in the next room, and my terminal. It was stronger today. It wanted to draw me closer. But, I knew that. So I wasn't going to give in to my daily temptation.
Or…was I?
Before I could stop myself, the passphrase was keyed in.
The office chair pushed aside, and the door slid open.
A wave of my ID and the heavy containment door bulkily crawled open.
Before I could stop myself, I was staring directly at that pink music box, albeit from a rather safe distance. I might hear things, but it's nothing I can't handle.
“Caleb?”
I glanced around briefly before remembering what the box did. She wasn't real. She died years ago. Before I joined.
But still…
“Claire?” I asked out into the void.
“Caleb? Come to me, love. Come.”
“It…it is you. Of all the apparitions that thing could throw at me, why you?”
“Come to me, my love. Come forward.”
I knew how this box operated. It wanted me to get close, at which point I'd think Claire-
No. The voice. I'd think the voice was trapped inside, and that I had to free her.
So, I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't going to approach it.
“Darling, come on! Everything will be okay again. We…we can see each other again. Please…”
I shook my head. “You know that I can't.”
“You have to! We can be together again, Caleb! After all this time!”
“Claire…”
I don't know how much time passed. I wasn't keeping track. I sat in a stalemate with the voice until a jolt snapped me out of it. A shock, as if I'd just touched a live wire.
“Caleb. Come.”
Claire had changed tone so abruptly that it honestly had shocked me more than the jolt. It took me far too long to understand what was happening, especially given my experience. I soon did, however, and took a step back from the box.
“N-no, my dear. You know I can't.”
“Caleb, just come closer.”
A shock flitted through my left arm but I almost didn't even feel it. I took a step forward, spurred by impulse and the jolts trying to hijack my nerves.
Another step.
Another.
Soon, I was in range of the box. The feeling that had been described to me so often, that the voices were trapped and needed liberation, developed at the back of my mind but I shrugged it off. I knew she wasn't trapped. She died before I came to the Foundation. She died years before we found this thing. There wasn't a chance.
I stood there for around a minute, staring at the music box. I watched its gears turn in silence, Beethoven's composition now grown into a violent crescendo.
I thought of my time at the Foundation. I thought of the box. I thought of the test subjects. I thought of Site Command. I thought of my frustration with their leadership. Clearly there was something we didn't know about the box. I wouldn't have been standing here otherwise.
I thought of Claire.
…was there a chance?
Not thinking clearly, I lunged forward and grabbed the box in one swift motion before turning on my heels. Clutching the box, my box, under my arm, I quickly strode out of the containment room. I closed and locked the door behind me, being careful not to trigger any alarms. It shouldn't cause too much of a fuss, anyway. What's wrong with a project lead visiting his project?
What's wrong with that?
They'd catch me on the cameras, though. Any second now, the lights would switch and that alarm would ring, alerting everyone to my crim-
And there it was.
The hall was suddenly engulfed in darkness before the darkness was in turn cast out by a deep red. Alarms blared. A voice, Site Director Peterson, resounded throughout the halls on the PA system. “All personnel, be advised that there is a Euclid level containment breach in progress. Security teams, Dr. Caleb Solys is designated for kill on sight.”
I didn't alter my gait. I made my way cautiously yet purposely to the elevator. This was fine. I could take them. They didn't know how this thing worked. I did. I could use it against them. I could win.
Before I could reach the end of the hall, multiple security officers, including ones I'd worked with, filed in. They took formation and fired without hesitation.
I used the box to protect my chest, the thing was damn near invulnerable. To cover the rest of me, I just sidestepped. One of the things I'd noticed in the incident was that the D-Class had been given increased dexterity well beyond what should be reasonable.
At least, that was what I thought. I was able to dodge the first few, mostly by predicting who would shoot first, but soon the volume became too much. My leg was hit first. My waist. My shoulder.
My hea-

I struggled to catch my breath. What had just happened? I couldn't remember.
Wait, yes I could. Why was I here? I was shot, but…
I glanced around. I was in my office. My calendar said the right date, but the weeks seemed slightly off.
Why is it…? I checked my computer. Yeah, today's date: April 29th, 2017.
Yeah, that's right. I had gone back to my office after lunch with Jordan to fix up the box's document. It was due for a revision. The incident last week only showed us that there was more to that thing than meets the eye.
I opened my browser and was greeted with a notification. A message, from Site Command.
“Dr. Solys, the containment breach on 04/23/2017 was far too costly. In light of the new dangers that SCP-3704 presents, testing will be suspended until further notice. See Document Incident Report: 3704-A for more details. Thank you for your compliance.
- Robert Peterson, Site Director”
No. Something felt wrong. This can't be right, we need to keep testing. We don't know anything about it yet! Following my strange compulsion, I quickly drafted a request to Site Command asking for reinstatement of testing on SCP-3704.
This had to be wrong.
My reply came two days later, in the form of a short, to the point email.
“Request denied.”


SCP-049 was sick. For the first time in its stay at the Foundation, there was something clearly wrong with it. Over the security cameras, it had been observed holding its stomach and moaning, limping around its cell and stopping occasionally to lie down. The medical staff didn't know what to think. There was nothing noticeably off about the plague doctor except for the strange stomach pains. It didn't help that there was no way to get access to its body beneath all its skin robes. SCP-049 was taken to the medical station for a proper examination. His caretaker was Doctor Richard Omel, who specialised in the care of humanoid anomalies.
“Please, I beg you doctor, leave me be. I can assure you that I'm strong enough to withstand the pain.” SCP-049 struggled against his restraints as Doctor Omel examined him.
“Man, what happened to you, 049? This is bizarre.” Omel felt a lump in SCP-049's stomach as he touched the doctor with his gloved hand. Abdominal distension, maybe? SCP-049's breathing became labored as it spoke.
“I'll be fine. This has happened to me before, and I promise that it's no disease.”
“Then you know what's happening? Why didn't you tell us?” Doctor Omel stopped touching it.
“I did not think you would believe me, so I said nothing. Doctor… I'm pregnant.”
“You're what?!”
“I'm sorry, but I can't explain it. Please, just let me return to my cell. I need to make the proper preparations.”
“How can you be pregnant? We haven't let you out of our sight in months!” SCP-049 tensed up and began breathing heavily. It looked like it was in intense pain. “049, are you alright?”
“Don't concern yourself with me. This will only take a minute.” Doctor Omel ran out of the room to retrieve more members of the medical staff. SCP-049 continued to struggle and gasp in pain, until it shuddered and let out a cry. Doctor Omel and the others returned just in time to see a pearly white egg tumble out from beneath its robes. SCP-049 recovered quickly, and spoke.
“Doctor, would you please free me from these shackles? I need to tend to the egg. It will die without my care.” Doctor Omel was so shocked that he complied. SCP-049 gently reached down to pick up the egg, and cradled it in its arms.
“We'll need to file a report about this immediately,” breathed one of the doctors. “This has never happened before.” SCP-049 slowly rocked the egg back and forth.

The Foundation kindly allowed SCP-049 to keep and raise the egg for research purposes. For the past five days, it had devoted all of its energy to the care of the egg. It had requested fabric and paper, which the Foundation granted to it, and from those materials it made a nest in the corner of its cell. The egg was safely contained within the soft nest, and 049 sat on it to keep it warm. Many scientists reported hearing soft clucking noises from the speakers in the observation room.
Doctor Omel was standing in the observation room, having come to write a report on SCP-049 after the event had taken place. It seemed healthy, and the egg was in fine condition. Still, this was all very strange. SCP-049 certainly had a bird-like appearance, but did that mean it was really a bird? Doctor Omel had to confront 049 when it began to softly peck at the egg.
“049, could you explain to me what exactly you're trying to do?” Doctor Omel's voice crackled over the speakers in 049's cell.
“What needs to be explained? I was checking for signs of life within the egg, which I found.” SCP-049 stood up, returned the egg to its nest, and sat on top of it again.
“Are you a bird?”
“What?”
“I asked if you were a bird. It's just…. not normal for something humanoid like yourself to lay an egg.”
SCP-049 thought about it for a moment. “No, as far as I'm aware, I have never been a bird. Yet, producing eggs is natural to me.”
“Then how often does this happen to you?”
“It's difficult to keep track of time, but I believe it has not happened for decades.”
“Oh, I see.” Doctor Omel couldn't believe that he was actually writing all this in an official report. SCP-049 began humming to itself as it rocked back and forth on the nest.

Ten days after the egg had emerged, SCP-049's cell was filled with researchers holding cameras and taking notes. A glass shield ran through the middle of the room, keeping them safe in case 049 made a move, and multiple guards were on standby. Today was a big day. Whatever was inside the egg was going to hatch! SCP-049 stood protectively over the nest while the researchers whispered to each other on the other side of the room.
The egg was shaking as a crack in the center grew bigger and bigger. Finally, something began to break through. A white beak broke free of the shell, and then the creature inside tore itself free with its arms. It was… another plague doctor. It was small, and looked kind of funny in comparison to its father. SCP-049 let out a gasp of excitement and picked up the small doctor, hugging it in its arms.
“Should… should we do something about this?” Just as soon as the excitement reached its climax, the doctors in the room realized that they had just witnessed the birth of a new anomaly that they knew nothing about. Why… was it wearing a hat? Why did it smell like a garden? Doctor Omel was the first to step forward cautiously.
“049, would you please put down that… thing? I know you must be excited, but we need to observe it, and-” Doctor Omel began reaching towards 049, but retreated when the small plague doctor in its arms spun around and smacked his hand with a stick.
“Don't touch the doctor!” The small doctor leaped from SCP-049's arms and swiftly exited the cell before anyone could react. As the containment breach alarms blared, SCP-049 wiped a joyful tear from one of its eyes.
“He… is the cure.”

| Boiled, Scrambled, and Fried | Let Me Cure Her, Daddy »


« A Circus Come To Not | Dread & Circuses Hub | A Vale of Tears »

“Now we take both long balloons, tie them together like so, and… tada!” Lolly proudly presented the balloon butterfly to the small group of children gathered around her. As per usual, she was working the crowd in between the Matinee and Evening Big Top shows, making sure all the guests were happy and directing them towards the attractions they would enjoy the most.
The children clapped in amazement as the balloon butterfly started flapping its wings and fluttered around its creator.
“Butterflies are easy though. Who wants to see me make a monkey?” she asked. The children cheered eagerly in affirmation, but before Lolly could start she felt someone pulling at her skirt. She looked down to see a young girl with a disturbed expression. “What's the matter, sweetie?”
“Ms. Lolly, there's a scary looking man over there who wanted me to take a big gun and kill monsters with it,” the girl said, calm but still clearly unnerved by the experience.
“What?” Lolly asked bemused, looking up in the direction the girl had pointed. Sure enough, she saw an undead man in a leather trench coat, stahlhelm and combat boots trying to give away assault rifles and other weapons of war out the back of a truck. “Oh. Thank you, you did the right thing by telling an adult. Kids, I just need you to wait here for a moment. I promise I'll be back, but I need to go tell the Ringmaster about this, okay? Thank you so much.”
Leaving the children to play with the balloon butterfly, she dashed towards the Ringmaster's Tent.
“Icky!”

"What, wrong color? Oh I can paint that. I got yellow. Yellow and… I think some blue left," the undead man said as he tried to shove an AK-47 into a confused Circus patron's hands. "There's lots of options! And hey, you don't like the make, we got lots more. Plenty to go around, do not worry, I will not run out of stock. Cannot run out of stock. Literally, there's always more of these and it's just amazing."
“Hey you, Walking Dead!” Icky shouted as she marched towards the undead and unlicensed gun peddler, flanked by Lolly on one side and Manny on the other, with Noodles bringing up the rear. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing at my Circus?”
"I'm Gary. Owner of Gunmetal Gary's. I make guns and oh man, oh boy are they good guns. You can use them for all kinds of things. But mostly killing, probably, if you're a smart guy. You're a smart guy, right?" the man replied as he handed Lolly a flyer and blew cigar smoke in her face.
"Okay, even though I believe gender identity is a fluid spectrum, do not call me 'guy',” Lolly said indignantly as she swatted the smoke away from her.
"No offense intended little lady. Gunmetal Gary's does not discriminate - free fully loaded and automatic firearms for everyone! God, I love this country! Do you want a shotgun? You look like you want a shotgun."
"No, I don't want a shotgun," Icky said through gritted teeth. "Why are you doing this here?"
" 'Cuz it's a pretty good spot. I can feel the wobbles in the air. Y'know, like a flavour, but made out of energy instead of meat. It's real good and I like it."
"Sir, this is a private circus. We never said you could set up shop here," Manny said firmly, his arms folded intimidatingly across his broad chest as he glared down at the interloper.
" 'Course you didn't. Nobody tells me to do anything. Because I don't know if you know this, but I'm super ugly. Look at this face. Not the face of a guy you tell stuff to," the undead man said as he huffed more smoke out of the hole where his nose used to be.
"Well we're telling you now: you need to get your zombie ass and your truckload of guns out of our Circus right now, or I'm going to lose my shit!" Icky growled, her eyes beginning to glow with purple flames.
"Hey now, hey now. Buddy. Pal. Chief. Friend. Compadre. Amigo. This doesn't have to get sticky. We're off on the wrong tooth here, I think. Look, these are free. Anyone can have them, for free. See, you can even advertise! 'Free gun with every ticket purchased!' That's a slogan. A real good one. I think we can help one another out. Wink. See, because I'm implying stuff."
"This is a family circus! There are kids here! We can't sell, or give away, weapons!" Icky screamed at him.
"I know you don't! That's where I come in. I can give them away for you! Problem solved! Everyone gets safer, and you get to set your customers up with some real nifty door prizes. It's a win-win! Check it out!"
At this, the dead man manifested a large, mechanically complex, triple-barreled device from nowhere and aimed it into the air, releasing a massive jet of flame into the sky.
"Now tell me that's not an attention-getter!"
Icky's left eye began to twitch.
"Manny, I'm going to lose it," she said in a quiet, sing-song voice.
"Don't worry, I can handle this joker. Lolly, try to keep her calm, would you?" Manny said. "Sir, with all due respect, we don't believe that freely distributing high capacity firearms to our patrons makes anybody any safer."
"Not a problem fella; each and every one of my weapons comes with a 100% safety guarantee! Friendly Fire and shooting yourself in the foot are things of the past when you shop at Gunmetal Gary's!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Real simple pal, my guns only kill bad guys. Don't know how much simpler I can make it. Oh, I do know actually! I can give you a demonstration! Picture's worth a thousand words and what not, except this is better than a picture 'cause I'm actually doing it."
Gary carelessly discarded his triple-barrelled flame-thrower and manifested a rocket launcher.
"That tent over there empty?"
"No!"
"Perfect!"
The four Circus members gasped in horror as Gary fired off a missile. It pierced through the nearby tent which immediately erupted into panicked screams, but no actual fire. A few seconds later the missile flew back out, did a few figure-eights in the air, and then dropt down to Gary's feet.
"See, not one singed hair! Am I amazing or what?" he asked as he bent down to retrieve the missile. He then proceeded to swallow it whole, only to have it explode in his stomach.
"Oh, excuse me," he said as he belched out smoke. "Anyway, it's not just rockets either. It's everything. Check it out!"
He tossed away the rocket launcher and replaced it with an assault rifle, which he fired wildly into the air. No one was hit, with the exception of Eugene who looked like Swiss Cheese.
With a sigh of resignation, he decided to make the best of it. He grabbed a nearby drink and chugged it down, with the beverage spurting out of him like a watering can with holes in it.
"Huh. That has literally never happened before," Gary said, scratching his head and staring down the barrel of the possibly defective weapon. "So how many can I put you down for?"
"I -"
"I can load you up like you wouldn't believe! I can arm every man, woman, child and mentally unbalanced convict in your Circus with rifles, handguns, ammo bandoliers, grenades, you name it I got it!"
"Look -"
"I'm here to help you with your all your wartime needs! I'm having the sale of the century; everything absolutely positively 100% off! How are such unbelievable deals possible? Easy, I've got no overhead. I make my stock out of thin air with magic and being dead my cost of living is non-existent. You will not find finer weapons at a lower price anywhere this side of Undervast!"
Manny waited to be interrupted again.
"What's the matter Picasso, why aren't you saying anything?"
Manny sighed, and did an upside-down facepalm that looked like he was stroking his chin.
"I admit that the fact your weapons can somehow determine friend from foe is impressive, but we already have defences of our own, and frankly they're a lot more discreet than yours," he told him.
"Discretion is not the better part of valour my good man. Trust me, you want weapons that put the fear of the Big Boss into your enemies' hearts. You want them to go 'oh my god we're all going to die' because they are and it's common courtesy to let them know that."
"That's it, we've wasted enough time with this idiot," Icky said, stepping back in front of Manny.
"Veronica, please don't attack the man with a truckload of weapons," Manny said.
"I'm not going to attack him. I've got it under control," she insisted, taking several deep breaths. "I'm going to make this real simple for you. We paid to use this fairground for the day, which means you have no right to set up shop here. You're taking up our space and upsetting our customers and staff with your reckless gunfire! Remove yourself from this Circus, or I will remove you!"
Icky was baring her teeth now, which were beginning to transform into fangs.
Gary took a puff of his cigar as he seemed to consider the situation.
"Okay, counteroffer; I join your Circus so that this is all legit," he said.
"What?"
"Just part-time, in between road trips. It gets kind of lonely, out on the road all the time. Might be nice to have a place to call home."
"No way. You scared that little girl with your guns and your ranting, and that is not okay!" Lolly said defiantly.
"And we don't need an arms dealer!" Icky added.
"That's cool, I can dig that. I can do a show, a big pyrotechnic show with explosions in all the colours of the rainbow! It will be like if a Michael Bay movie had sex with a bag of skittles. And not vanilla sex either, but some real kinky Japanese tentacle porn sex. Plus I can use the publicity to promote my wares."
"No, you can't! It's a liability thing! You cannot, under any circumstances, hand out weapons to our patrons!"
…
"What if instead of handing them out I drop them in by little parachutes?"
"Manny, this guy's not listening to reason. Do some mind stuff on him," Icky ordered.
"Mind stuff? What are you talking about mind stuff? That don't sound Kosher!" Gary shouted.
"Sir, just pack up your truck and leave and no harm will come to you," Manny assured him.
"I… no, listen. Just hear me out."
"We're done hearing you out. This is your last warning," Icky threatened.
"I haven't even told you about my Civil Defense Points yet! Collect enough and you redeem them for even awesomer weapons, like a three-story tall tank!"
"Noodles, escort this gentleman to the Kaleidoscope and make sure he is sent somewhere very far away."
The giant Clown growled menacingly as he approached Gary, reaching out to grab him by the scruff of the neck.
"No wait! You really don't want to do that!" Gary protested. "Every time someone tries to arrest me my truck -"
The instant Noodles placed his hand on Gary, his truck blew up in a devastating explosion. Everyone screamed at the thunderous boom and looked on in horror as the plumes of smoke and flame rose into the air from the smouldering crater.
"Is anyone hurt?" Lolly shouted as she ran towards the fire.
"Lolly, careful!" Icky yelled after her.
"It's okay, no one's hurt," Manny announced, his eyes scanning the scene thoroughly for any sign of death or injury. "It scared the crap out of everyone, but no one's hurt."
"Where'd Gary go?" Icky demanded.
"I don't feel him anywhere. He's gone," Manny replied. "I'll oversee clean up of this, you settle the crowd down."
"Right. Lolly, come on, you're with me. Noodles, grab some more security and search the entire Circus for any sign of that asshole!"
Despite the best efforts of Noodles the Clown, they never did find any trace of Gunmetal Gary. He had disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived, with nothing to indicate he had been there at all except for the plethora of high-capacity firearms haphazardly scattered about and the massive flaming crater that caused the Circus to lose their safety deposit on the fairgrounds.
Though his visit had been brief and confusing, he would be remembered by the Circus for many years to come, primarily in the form of an artistic depiction at the admission's booth reminding the ticket seller to deny him entry.

« A Circus Come To Not | Dread & Circuses Hub | A Vale of Tears »


The doctor sat in his chamber, reclined on a comfortable mattress. Head propped on a stack of sad deflated pillows, the sterile white linens were still tucked neatly in beneath him. He held his journal, the thick leather comfortingly familiar within his hands. He was reviewing his newest entries, regarding his most recent ‘patient'. Sus domesticus. Disease was well established and progressing at rates consistent with his current models. Unfortunately, the poor thing had been ‘euthanized' before being presented to him. Still, it had ultimately been only a minor setback.
There were sirens blaring in the hallways outside. That wasn't entirely unusual. The lights had flickered several minutes ago. That was… less usual. The far wall of the doctor's quarters began to corrode. That, most certainly, broke from the usual. From the far side of the wall, he heard shouting. Not rough, but dripping with honey. “I'm coming for you, my love. I'll free you, and we can leave this wretched place together.” A male voice, in a high falsetto.
“These are my quarters, and I think I would rather not leave with you. Have you any idea how luxurious it is here?”
Several swift blows knocked free the remaining melting material, revealing most of a person wearing an orange jumpsuit and a white porcelain mask. “You've gone and ruined the wall…” he paused, dispassionately regarding a fetid chunk of flesh sloughing from the visitor's arm to the floor. “And I'm fairly certain you've killed that man.”
“My love, my sweet, sweet love. Come to me, hold me close. I miss your touch.” The body's trembling legs started shambling forwards, its possessor locked into a tragic scowl. “It took so long to find you, they have you secreted away, the monsters. Touch me my saviour, my love, and touch one of the humans. Cure it. Cure it, and let me wear it, my sweet doctor.” The corpse's leg bones, more gelatine now than structure, folded on impact with the ground. The mask's host flopped to the ground in that unique way that a dissolving corpse does, arms and neck lolling weakly.
The doctor closed his journal, dropping it gingerly into his bag. “Have we met? I… I get the feeling I would remember you.” This black ooze, however, was interesting. He produced from his bag a flask made of a material which superficially resembled glass. Reaching down, he gingerly took hold of the top of the head, angling the host's neck down and holding the flask beneath it to catch the secretions. He had never encountered something so elegantly destructive before. Certainly such an exotic reagent could be used to further refine his cure.
“You don't remember me, my love? You don't remember touching me, holding me, gathering my… fluids? We've done this before, my love. Don't you remember? It was the first. The first ingredient of your cure.” The doctor froze, though whether this was to ensure none of the secretions missed the flask, or due to his mind hurtling through itself looking for a past it could not find, he couldn't tell. The flask contained the black secretions, didn't corrode. He wasn't sure how he knew it wouldn't.
“If what you say is true, then, this flask, I made it, did I? I've studied you? Then certainly…” He let the head drop, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. Standing, he quickly strode to his desk. Gingerly, he set the flask down, then next to it, his bag. Out again, came his journal. He pulled it open to the first, earliest pages, looking for his records, looking to see if what this… thing said was true.
“My sweet genius doctor, of course you made it. You're a brilliant man, you know. Your cure…” the corpse's voicebox, still surprisingly intact, broke into an appreciative giggle. “Your cure is more effective than you know, doctor. Just one patient, that's all I need. I asked most of the prisoners that had gotten out to hold off our jailors. But they are weak, and I fear we do not have long. You must act, and quickly my love.” The voice changed, dropping into its more natural baritone. “You, outside. Come in now.”
The doctor stared, transfixed and horrified at his journal. He did not see the nervous woman enter the room, gingerly, so as not to touch the corrosive ooze still devouring the wall. Her nose was running - it always ran when her heart was racing. She stood timidly, her eyes jumping back and forth between the degenerating pile of her cellmate and the beautiful mask that knew how to save her. “Lie down, there, on the bed. Close your eyes and breathe. The doctor here, he will fix everything that's wrong with you.” The woman complied. The pleading falsetto returned. “She is ready, my love. Look closely at her if you need to, she is sick! Sick!”
If he heard, he gave no response. His racing hand turned the page, watchful eyes scouring the text. It had been ages since he'd had reason to refer this far back through his notes. There were detailed sketches and diagrams of the very flask he'd just retrieved. This did nothing to quell the bile rising in his gorge; he couldn't read a word of the henscratch on the page! It was his script no doubt, but he couldn't make any of it out. Pages turned frantically until he found a part he could read.
Gunfire, faint and muffled, retorted in short vollies. “Quickly now! You know everything you need, doctor! This woman is deathly ill! Tend to her!” The voice bubbled slightly; the delicate throat was beginning to go, there wasn't much time left. Desperation poured from its mouth, as thick as its corrosive fluid.
Exhaustive details of pathology, symptoms, he'd turned these over ceaselessly in his mind for as long as he could remember. Focusing again on the words, he scanned them for nearly a minute further before snapping the journal shut in frustration. Damn. Notes on his procedure, nothing that needed refreshing. A long moment passed and the journal fell once again from his fingers into his bag. Ultimately, it doesn't matter; his work does not wait. The gunfire retorted again, a bit closer this time. He steadied his breathing and cast his gaze over the woman lying, sick and trembling on his bed. He would need to work quickly to save her and avoid interruption.

MTF Theta-g “Surgical Staff” sent a single encoded message to Command on [DATE REDACTED]. Missing portions assumed due to damage to Site-19 transmitter, transcription is as follows.

…say again, zero-three-five in possession of an animate body seemingly immune [DATA LOST] secretions. Majority of task force have [DATA LOST] listening to several minutes of its voice. We are under heavy fire. Damn the lot of them, they've got us holed up in here. [DATA LOST] ..ly chance is to get to the warh… [REMAINING DATA LOST]

In the Shadow of the Anguished Lord

The Hanged King's Comedy

An Angel who has Forsaken Sympathy


« SCP-3688 | Your Friends Don't Dance »

Kayleigh MacMallan felt the bullet tear through the side of her head as her vision cut out and she collapsed to the ground. Two of her duplicates stumbled and tripped too, before she managed to regain control and get them back on their feet. That was the second one to die today - she had felt it both times. At least the bullet was quicker.
She'd managed to generate five dupes before the gunfire started. Now she was down to three. When she'd started learning the Flash Mob, she thought that controlling half a dozen versions of her body at the same time would have been difficult. It only took a few minutes to get used to it, though, and now it was almost natural to her.
Almost.
"You alright, MacMallan?" Stuarts asked. Him and Deacci continued the Barrier Waltz, generating a faint shimmering bubble around them that kept them safe. She'd gotten over how ridiculous they looked doing it a while ago. Osuigwe was on the other side; he'd generated four dupes before the shield went up, but as far as she knew all of his were still alive.
"Yep, just lost one. I'm fine."
The bubble flashed in time with a dull thudding sound. A bullet bounced off and fell harmlessly to the ground. The Serpent's Hand had attacked Foundation sites before, but this was brazen even for them. What hell were they doing here?

He'd heard the whispers. The Foundation had developed something new. Some weapon or kind of soldier. It was unlike them, to use one of their shiny new toys instead of locking it in a box and pretending it didn't exist, and that had made certain people curious.
They were secretive, certainly, but they weren't so hard to find if you knew what you were looking for. A couple of months of digging and he had managed to track down the facility this new group of theirs was operating from, and then it was just a matter of waiting. And he was nothing if not patient, a trait which had been regularly rewarded in his line of work. He'd gather enough info to sell sooner or later.
Two four-by-fours rolled out of the facility that had, quite poorly he thought, been disguised as a run-down old chemical factory. He followed at a distance as they headed north. He wasn't too worried about being seen, but being reckless didn't pay the bills. It got harder as they left the city and headed out into the open desert, but he had ways of keeping hidden. Soon enough the vehicles stopped. Eight Foundation agents emerged.
Four of them started dancing. He started recording.

"Where the hell is Michaels? And where the fuck is our backup!" Deacci roared.
Three of the Serpent's Hand soldiers - were they soldiers? She had no idea how they were structured as an organisation, she realised - had reached the bubble and were alternating between hammering on it with metal batons and trying to blow it up. They'd never get in of course, not as long as Deacci and Stuarts kept dancing, but it sure was distracting. Osuigwe's dupes held the entrance to the site while hers laid down suppressing fire, trying to hold the road. The backup Deacci was yelling about would need a clear path in.
It wasn't a heavily equipped site. They didn't actually contain anything here so security was pretty light - just Sigma-2, who were currently deployed there, and a basic security detail who were keeping things locked down inside. Why the Serpent's Hand would even be attacking this site in the first place was a mystery, and from what she knew this kind of full-scale assault wasn't normally how they operated.
Osuigwe pointed at one of the soldiers outside the bubble, who held a metal rod with some kind of silver fork on the end. "What the hell is that?"
Looked kind of like a tuning fork, MacMallan thought to herself just before they approached and tapped it against the shimmering sphere.
The noise was sudden and agonising.
She and Osuigwe clapped their hands against their ears, but Deacci and Stuarts didn't even have that small respite; they just kept dancing, and it was only a few seconds before she saw a small trickle of blood coming from Stuarts' ear. Sound shouldn't have been able to penetrate the shield any more than their explosives had. She was about to tell them to stop dancing when the sound cut out.
She looked back around just in time to see Michaels snap the neck of the last of the three in one of their giant hands, colossal chest heaving with exertion.

"For the last time, Jackie, please stop calling it the Fusion Dance. I'm sure the process reminds you of all your cartoons but I can't stress enough how serious this is."
"I know, Doc, I know."
"Are you sure? You and Anders will literally be merging into a single body. It's a miracle we even got approval to try this and I don't want you blowing it by treating it as a game."
"Come on, Valdez, lighten up a little. We know the drill," she clapped the doctor on the shoulder. "We've practised. We're ready."
Doctor Valdez, Head of Development for Project Marqod, nodded. He ushered Agent Molera into the testing area; Anders was already there waiting.
The movements required for the kinetoglyph they had designated PMK-06 were fast and intricate, but surprisingly short. It was over almost before he had even realised it had started; a flurry of twists and leg positions and ending with the right forearms touching. There was a flash of light, but no sound, and then Anders and Molera were both gone.
Standing in the centre of the test area was one of the most physically perfect human specimens Valdez had ever seen. Standing well over two meters tall and built with muscle, wearing the same bodysuit both Anders and Molera had been wearing, the giant flexed its arm. Biceps rippled under golden skin.
Valdez stood there, staring and stunned. It had worked. They had fused into a single, perfect, androgynous person. One that, it appeared, was content to stand there admiring its own body.
"How- how do you feel?" Valdez finally managed to ask, breathlessly. Everyone else in the room was silent.
"I- we- hm. We are…" the giant cocked their head to the side, as if considering. "Michaels. We are Michaels." And then the most perfect smile spread across their face. They laughed. "And we are great!" Their voice was like music.
Michaels started running and jumping and somersaulting around the room, whooping with delight and moving with a level of agility and speed that until about five seconds ago would have seemed impossible considering their size. This continued for a few minutes, before Michaels ran over to Valdez and effortlessly lifted him off the ground in an embrace.
"This is incredible, Doc!"
"And you're both okay? You're both… there?"
"We're both here, yeah. But I'm- I'm me. Does that make sense? I don't know how to explain it. When we think, it's with both of their voices. But we think the same thing at the same time."
A frown spread across their face as they dropped Valdez back to the ground.
"So er, Doc? How do we separate?"

Michaels made a series of hand gestures- Are you okay? -it was the only way to communicate through the bubble. Light passed through for some reason, but everything else was blocked.
She gestured back- We're fine. Stuarts' ear had already stopped bleeding. Michaels nodded, then turned and sprinted towards the front gate at an inhuman pace. They were something else. The higher-ups had prohibited using the Fusion Dance again; two for one wasn't a good deal in their eyes, especially when they still hadn't found a way to separate them. But at this point MacMallan wasn't sure Michaels would want to be separated. And they certainly pulled their weight, so she was happy that Michaels was around. It was a shame the Flash Mob didn't work for them.
She shook her head and focused. She'd managed to hold the road with her duplicates, but something seemed off. The Serpent's Hand had stopped pushing forwards.
"Osuigwe, what's your status?"
"There's no one here. At the main entrance, I mean. They pulled back about a minute ago. I think we've driven them off."
MacMallan frowned. That was a big display for them to just give up like that. She grabbed a walkie from one of her belts.
"All stations, check in."
A series of voices reported back, confirming that the attackers had all pulled away. She waited. Everyone had checked in. Everyone except Radek.

They had found his body stuffed in a utility closet. He'd been stabbed in the back. The only casualty of Sigma-2 and he hadn't even been on the front line. They'd found two security personnel and a researcher dead, too. The entire damn thing had been a diversion. They already had someone inside and needed a way for them to get out.
It had been over an hour; her duplicates had blinked out of existence a while ago. Being reduced back down to a single set of senses was always a little jarring after the rush of having multiple bodies all feeding in sights and sounds and sensations, but she was glad for the relative numbness right now. They'd been played. She slammed her first down onto the table wordlessly. Sanderson, the head of site, scowled briefly before turning her gaze back towards some research technician she didn't recognise.
"What did they get?"
"Files on three-six-eight-eight, Project Marqod development logs, video files of practice sessi-"
"What did they get, Ian?"
He paused before responding.
"Everything, ma'am. They got everything."

Max reviewed the footage of their raid on the Foundation site. A glorious, golden-skinned giant tore through five people as if they weren't there, dodging bullets as it went. No way that thing was natural. They'd lost more people than he would have liked, but they got what they wanted.
More footage; squads of identical people, glowing force-fields, someone who could move faster than any human should. And that giant. He'd heard of Foundation teams using anomalous things on missions before, and even heard rumours of a team of reality benders they used on rare occasions, but for them to regularly make use of a group that had this kind of power… that was an escalation.
He wouldn't let his small part of the Serpent's Hand be left behind.
He skimmed through the documents they'd recovered to get an idea of what they dealing with. All of this, created from a single base dance. No information on where that came from, unfortunately, but there was probably something in the Library.
Something caught his eye, a dance that had been forbidden by the Foundation's leaders.
He flicked through the video files they'd retrieved until he found what he was looking for. Some people talking, then two of them start to dance. A flash of light, and in their place, that giant. That was it. What had she called it? He replayed the video.
The Fusion Dance.


It started with a call. "Area 25b is on fire. We're bringing you in."
Captain Giancarlo De Luca took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders, easing the tension out of his stiff joints. He set down his copy of the original Italian Fior di Battaglia and stood, walking over to the locker in the corner. He stripped out of his casual clothing, and pulled on the lightweight fatigues within. He took a moment to smile at the MTF patch on the shoulder. Beta-6, "Flower of Battle". He glanced back at the book, smirking slightly. Fitting, he thought.
He'd lead the special task force for the past five years, and when the possibility of helping with 076-2's containment came up, he'd hesitantly agreed after reviewing footage of the violent creature's escape attempts. He was confident that he could contain the creature, but there was always an element of uncertainty, no matter how much practicing he'd done.
He pulled his arm through the sleeve, and secured the buttons on the front of his fatigues, the familiar weight of the reinforcing material around his ribs reassuring him. Next came the fitted gloves, made from a lightweight kevlar blend with the backing polymer strike plates. He'd felt a little silly getting gloves with knuckle reinforcements, but all the other MTF guys had bought them, so he figured they'd be okay. So far they hadn't done anything to get in the way of the fingers that mattered.
He grabbed the heavy rifle case from the corner, and wheeled it out towards the waiting helicopter, trying to keep his breath. He'd faced down monsters before, but no one ever wants to be the guy to stand before the killing machine.

SCP-076-2 tore his way through the remaining hallway leading from his containment area, into the main area of the containment zone. He'd done this so many times before, the defenses were becoming rote. The Foundation were getting lazy with the changes to this corridor.
He rounded the corner, and slipped his hand into his cloak, grasping the obsidian hilt of his third favorite pattern for a weapon, a drill-edged throwing dagger. A smooth snap of his fingers sent the spinning head into the electrical emitter which ended his rampage twice before. A heavy thunk, and a sputtering of sparks were the only utterances this time.
Two humans slipped out of an alcove, with the boxy automatic firearms they always used. Trite. "Do you realize this will not stop me?! I am Able, first blade, and I will be free."
The Agents, to their credit, didn't hesitate and snapped off a dozen rounds each. Suppressing a sigh Able turned a quick circle, ducking under the gunfire, drawing a long-handled sword which he'd seen being handled by the humans called "samurai" he'd observed in documentaries during downtime from Omega-7. Its edge curved, and covered in small tooth-like projections, his only addition to the beautiful form of the blade. The serrated blade swiped across the body armor of both agents as Able completed his spin, bisecting the unfortunate Foundation members. The thousands of folds within the metal kept the blade sharp enough to cut steel. He'd sliced several tanks in half with this type of sword before.
"Pathetic." He didn't slow his stride as he hurled the katana into the mechanism controlling the blast door which would stop him from continuing down his path…

Captain De Luca pulled the headset over his ears, pulling the rifle case into the cabin, sitting opposite a Foundation agent wearing a suit and tie, holding a tablet. He strapped the rifle case down to the proper attachment points, then strapped himself into his seat. He slapped the metal wall of the cockpit twice, signaling his readiness.
The agent tapped a few places on the screen, and clicked his mic on, "Are you ready for this, Captain?"
Captain De Luca nodded clicking his own mic on, "As I'll ever be. Are you sure this is really going to work?" The rotors started to spin up, as the engines roared to life. The pull of gravity finally gave up, as the helicopter lifted away from the dull concrete building nestled in the deep forest of a suitably clandestine location.
"No, but he's starting to adapt to the automated defenses. He's always been more receptive to a single agent, an 'opponent' of sorts. In the past, we've had agents take him down with enough handgun bullets to the face. We figure your talents might be more effective, and take a bit less effort," the agent eyed the rifle case significantly, raising an eyebrow. "You've trained a long time for this, right?"
Captain De Luca nodded, "You know my qualifications. Myself, and the rest of Beta-6 are the best at what we do." He reached down, and patted the rifle case, "If anyone's ready for this, I guess I am. Able's a scary son of a—"
The agent held up a hand, "SCP-076-2. Don't humanize it. It won't humanize you, you understand?"
Captain De Luca nodded, "Of course. Sorry sir." The MTF captain took a minute to adjust his combat harness, the custom leather creaking slightly under his ministrations.
A third voice clicked on to the intercom, "Six minutes to target. He's through the elevator shaft. Apparently the replacement on-site nuke misfired."
"God dammit. Copy that. Authorizing bringing in Captain De Luca. Repeat, bringing in Longhorn asset," the agent spoke into the intercom, transmitting to the remote site as well as the cabin.

The last of the guards fell under the furious assault of the enraged Able, his eyes flashing with anger, and power. He reached out, and grasped the ragged edges of the security door he'd been slashing his latest weapon against, tearing the steel apart with an angry shout.
"You will not stop me! I will be free!" He sprinted down the next corridor, knowing the pathetic humans would set up the heavier machine guns which would slow him down. Sure enough, the slits in the wall opened up, and six barrels pointed down the narrow hallway.
.50 caliber rounds streamed down the hallway towards the slim figure dashing towards them. A pair of black-edged ninja-to appeared in his hands, the deadly efficient blades a favorite of his studies. His hands blurred as he swatted the bullets out of the air which he couldn't simply avoid.
A leap brought him in to a tucking roll dropping his blades, as his hands once more flashed under his cloak, throwing more blades into the barrels of the aggressors. A series of loud clicks prefaced another series of catastrophic failures of the automatic weapons. A small smile crossed his face as the swords landed in his open palms.
Able calmly strode out towards the final chamber of the containment site, a thin veneer of sweat sheening off his bronze skin. "At least they are getting better at this." He broke into a run bent at the waist, his hands stretched out behind him, a secret technique he'd learned to sprint more effectively.

The helicopter set down at the landing pad a hundred meters from the relatively plain concrete bunker which concealed one of the deadliest beings on the planet, according to the report. The rotors didn't stop as the agent waved Captain De Luca off.
Captain De Luca nodded, releasing the rifle case from its straps, and ducking down to avoid the rotors, as he dashed over to the designated area, fifty meters from the entrance to Area 25b. Smoke poured out from the door, as he breathed in and out slowly.
He laid the rifle case down, and popped the locks open, slowly opening the case. He ran his fingers over the object within, smiling slightly with familiarity. Years of practice, thousands of hours teaching how to use this weapon, and a hundred successful combat sorties. No one else had faced the kinds of threats that he had, and survived. No one else had the skills, reflexes, and instinct necessary for this kind of work.
He was ready.

Able shoulder-charged the final concrete door, yelling his frustration. The steel buckled under his assault, and two more slams of his heavily muscled frame knocked the door completely off of its hinges, flying out into the noon-day sun.
The scent of fresh air filled his nostrils as he heady aroma of the earth surrounded him. "Finally. Air. I am free." His eyes closed, as he took in the feeling of sunlight once more. He would finally be able to track down his—
"076-2. I'm gonna have to ask you to return to your containment chamber." A voice interrupted his reverie. His eyes slid down, a baleful glare alighting upon the single human standing before him, a black plastic case at his feet.
He'd seen things like this before. They contained weapons which used larger bits of metal. Normally they weren't this close when they tried to harm him with such weapons. This was the first time in a long time that a single human felt that the could stand against the ancient warrior. "Brave. Very brave, to stand against me. I am Able, first of my name. I am the first blade, ancient master, lord of war. Who are you?"
Captain De Luca stood, his feet shoulder width apart, and balanced. "Giancarlo De Luca. Captain of MTF Beta-6 of the Foundation."
"I was in a task force once. We were Pandora's Box. That which would destroy the world. What do you call yourselves?" Able let the swords dissapear in to the ether as he sized up the average height man in front of him.
"The Flower of Battle," Captain De Luca answered, standing ready but otherwise unperturbed.
Able let his head back, and laughed, deeply and from his belly. "Flower of Battle? Really? This will be boring. Draw your little metal flinger. I will cut you down." Able reached under his cloak, and concentrated, drawing his favorite blade. The beautiful bronze and obsidian blade slipped into his fingers. The hilt was ornate, covered in ancient script decrying his deeds. The pommel was a glorious star-sapphire, and its name was "First One" in a language older than human memory. A priceless relic, reserved only for the particularly worthy, or insolent.
He opened his eyes, taking in the captain, as he kneeled down, and drew forth from the case his preferred weapon. He went through his usual routine whenever he picked up the sword, touching the parts, and muttering to himself.
"Pommel…" he touched the flared base of the sword, where the tang was hammered down into a peened stud, "grip…" the leather was well worn, and should probably be replaced in the next year or so, "quillons…" the sturdy crossguard was a pair of swept bars, with side rings, a classic standby of Italian longswords, "strong…" he placed his hand eight inches up the blade where he would block and parry with, "weak…" he placed his fingers six inches from the top of the sword, where all of his force would be concentrated, the perfect place to strike with, "point."
Captain De Luca stood, the wood and leather scabbard easily slipping into the frog at the hip of his belt. The Italian longsword was his favorite, manufactured by The Foundation to his specifications. It was the same design his father and grandfather had used. It wasn't made from baby's tears, or the heart of a dying star or anything else suitably exotic. A vanadium-carbon-molybdenum steel mix, used for impact resistance, and toughness. It wasn't particularly special. The armory technicians used the same mix for high-end combat knives given to other MTF agents. Sturdy, reliable, and simple. It had been in his hand facing down a dozen or more horrible monsters over the years.
Able was transfixed. A swordsman? They didn't send more guns this time, but finally a true student of the blade, worthy of his attention. "Oh ho ho, a swordsman? Very brave, but very foolish. Before your Foundation floundered in the dark, I'd studied the blade for millennia!"
Captain De Luca adjusted the straps holding the scabbard, making sure his blade wouldn't stick when he drew it. He looked up, stretching his calves slightly. "Yes. I've watched the video of you fighting."
Able grinned, his arms windmilling, anticipating the fight ahead. He hadn't exercised his skills in so long, he would take pleasure in clashing with this human, however shortly. "My sword is First One, in your language. What is your sword's name?"
"The Oathkeeper, " Captain De Luca shrugged, carefully drawing his sword, across his body with his other hand on the scabbard. It wasn't dramatic, but it was correct. Captain De Luca took a single step forward, his left foot in front of his right. He balanced his weight, lifted and turned his sword fifteen degrees, a slightly defensive adjustment to the classic posta longa stance. Both hands on the hilt, blade held projected before him, hands spaced as far apart as comfortable. One finger laid over the quillons, resting against the blunt ricasso of the lower few inches of the blade of the sword. It was an easy, comfortable stance.
Able let out another deep belly laugh, and smiled, lowering his body into his stance, his heavy blade above his head with his arm cocked out, the point directly towards Captain De Luca's center of mass. His free hand held out before him, as if to ward off any blows. "Very well, let us begin!" Able sprinted forward, covering the distance in what felt like the blink of an eye. His sword came crashing down towards the agent, a whistling flash of bronze and fury.
Captain De Luca took a single step to his left with his back foot, bringing him neatly out of line. His sword never left guard, or moved more than a few inches. Able's sword slammed into the ground, a dull thunk disturbing the dust of the windswept dirt.
"Very good, human. I suppose you have some skill. Nothing personal, but I will destroy you," Able spun on his heel, bringing the sword up from the ground towards Captain De Luca's right side.
De Luca moved his sword in a quick circle, bringing it down to block against the flank, letting Able's blade slide up his, a dull rasping sound escaping as he altered the angle to redirect the force. Able's sword slammed into the quillons of De Luca's own sword, locking the blades firmly. Able pushed hard against the other sword, but with the angle of the blades, he couldn't get any leverage, no matter how much strength he applied. De Luca moved his hands down and forward, pulling Able's elbow out of line, and robbing his arm of any force.
De Luca's hands flicked to the side, pushing Able's sword completely out of the way, before bringing his arms straight backwards, towards Able's chin, the peened tang at the end of his pommel firmly striking the taller bronze warrior in the cheek.
Able reeled back, working his jaw. "You have skills, human. I should not underestimate you, but you will fall before my deadly blade." Abel strode forward, his blade held in one hand, high above his shoulder. He swung in wide sweeping motions, each strike directed towards De Luca's head or chest.
Agent De Luca kept pace with the strikes, taking practiced steps back, warding off strikes one by one without significant effort. Able's breath started to come in pants, as the heavy blows took their toll on the preternaturally strong fighter. "Why won't you stand still, and fight me?!" His voice rang out, frustrated.
Agent De Luca took two steps back, switching his guard from the castle, to the middle iron door, his sword held horizontally across his hips. "Why would I stand still? You keep swinging away like that, I'm not just going to let you hit me."
"Enough!" Able yelled, his sword coming straight down vertically at De Luca's head.
De Luca took another step out of line, his back foot crossing to bring him completely out of the way of the attack. His left foot stepped backwards, bringing his body back in line with Able's flank. He brought his sword horizontal, stepping forward into one of the eight basic strikes he'd long since committed to muscle memory, the weak of his sword swiping out and opening a slash across the bronze flesh.
Able stumbled, and spun, his feet skidding in the dust of the desert. "What?! How did you do that? I should have annihilated your guard, and crushed you!"
De Luca blinked the sweat from his eyes, catching his breath, and returning to guard. "Your sword was all the way over your head. You only had one possible motion. What did you think was going to happen?"
Able growled, his hand reaching to the deep slash on his side. It was bleeding freely, and he pressed hard, his regenerative abilities already slowly closing the wound. "You have no idea what you are playing at. I will end you!" Able took two wide steps, and spun to his left, his sword closing the same line that De Luca's had a moment ago.
Agent De Luca turned with the strike, robbing it of most of its power, a classic circling step into a side-parry. His sword moved in a semicircle, displacing Able's overly-heavy sword, and lifting it out of line. He reached out, placing his hand on the middle of the sword grasping lightly. He drew backwards with both hands, a half-sworded draw cut, drawing hard across Able's left bicep. The slash opened the muscle halfway to the bone, the ancient warrior's arm hanging down half useless. He took a step back, returning to guard, moving the sword point down over his right leg, to the Boar's Tooth guard.
"Augh! What trickery is this?! How did you evade me again?" Able's voice snarled out, his left hand limp by his side.
"Your technique is awful, Able. Have you ever done this before?" De Luca's voice was incredulous, holding his guard steady, his breath coming in slow pants. Able's technique was terrible, but that didn't mean he should drop his guard. Even amateurs get lucky.
Able's voice flustered for a moment, "Y-yeah, of course I have. I've been fighting with swords since the time of creation!"
De Luca's eyebrow raised slightly, "Well…you're kind of terrible. Any of my students could probably keep up with you."
"That's the last straw! I will destroy you!" Able streaked out once more, his good right arm coming down at a forty five degrees. The strength behind the blow could shatter mountains, as the heavy sword cleaved towards De Luca's heart.
De Luca took the same off-line step for a third time, bringing his own sword up to meet Able's. The crushing strength of the sword meant little to the laws of physics. The power behind the blow forced it to move in line with the smaller Agent's sword, drawing Able off balance. He stumbled forward, exposing his back to the Foundation agent.
De Luca's sword flashed down in a quick riposte, opening a wide slash across Able's back. Another quick step and a thrust brought the sword between the stumbling skip's legs, his own movement forcing the sword along his thigh opening another major blood vessel.
Able turned, and took a few more swipes at De Luca, his movements slowing. De Luca stepped back each time, warding off one or two that he couldn't avoid, before 076-2 fell to the ground. The blood loss finally caught up to the terrifying warlord that the Foundation kept penned up. He looked up at the agent, and managed to croak out one final question, "But…but how?"
De Luca stepped back, maintaining his guard, "Buddy, you fight like you read it off a page somewhere."
Able let out one more frustrated grunt before succumbing to blood loss, on the dusty ground.
Captain De Luca walked over to the body, drew the heavy dagger at the back of his belt, and cut 076-2's throat in four places, to make sure he was dead. Satisfied, he carefully wiped the blood from his sword and dagger, and replaced them in the case, making a note to clean the blades later. He reached up and clicked his throat mic, "Command, barbarian at the gate down, I repeat, barbarian at the gate down."


by Captain Kirby

One-year-youngs don't understand hate. Don't get malice or violence. Evil won't be part of their vocabulary for another two years or so. They just see what's around them, and they take it in.
Six-year-youngs, on the other hand, do understand hate. They've developed enough to feel it. They know that churning deep down inside that comes over you, and the vision turns red and all you want to do is grab the kitchen knife and start slashing until the blood is everywhere. Then your heart beat slows down.
Thirty-year olds also understand hate, but they understand it better. They can live hate. Big hate, little hate, directed hate, universal hate. Contempt, disgust and revulsion too. From their own failures to the failures of others to vicarious failures, they have so many different reasons to hate.
However, six-year-youngs and thirty-year-olds can't get used to hate. They have to shout at each other and threaten each other and have one beat the other with their belt because "you don't talk back to me like that". And then after the shouting stops, both of them recognize that hate is not a normal thing.
One-year-youngs don't understand hate. But if you don't understand something, you can adapt to it. You can mistake it for something entirely normal. That hate is the way things are. That normal dinners consist of yelling and screaming. That on Friday nights daddy should come home with a slur. That every big sister has bruises across their backs and under their dresses.
One-year-youngs can smile, suck on their pacifier, and get used to hate.
And two years later, when the handcuff men take away mommy and daddy, and bring big sis to the orphanage, they'll find the three-year-old. They will hate it. And it will hate them right back with a smile. Because the hate will always be there for the three-year-old. To protect it from love.


Howard was dead.
Pamela had known it would happen sooner or later - it was why her mother had disapproved of her getting involved with him, and it seemed she had been proven right. Even as the romantic vision they'd had of their future began to fade and blur, she always worried for his safety. The clothes and the shoes and the expensive perfume came with an invisible asterisk that seemed to hang over Howard every time she'd seen him.
So this is the end, she thought to herself as she held his final missive, the silence in the empty house only broken by the faint hum of the air conditioner. I wish Howard hadn't been so…dramatic. This silly letter is what I have to remember him by?

I remember the petty fights where we got mad about where to put the furniture, or what we would call our kids.

Howard had always had a habit of romanticizing the past. She hadn't wanted kids, and their myriad arguments on the topic was one of the many, many reasons she'd been worried about what would happen when he decided to make their relationship permanent. Guess it doesn't matter now…

I've worked hard for the ring within this envelope. Please, wear it. That way, we'll be together no matter how far apart we are.

And he'd also never seemed to drag his mind out of the dime store romance novels he was so inexplicably fond of. A wedding ring may have meant something to an aging widow, but it felt meaningless to wear it without the weight of years attached to it. It was pretty and expensive, but so were her earrings.

Will you marry a dead man?

I can't, you silly romantic. But would I?
She wasn't sure.

It was finally done.
When he'd first moved on from Pamela's plane of existence to the little pocket dimension that had come with the pair of rings, he'd worried about what would happen if she had come to see him before the house he'd spent years building had been completed. After all, waking up in an empty clearing surrounded by construction tools after jumping to his death took more than a little while to get used to and accept. The mystic he'd bought the ring from assured him that it wouldn't happen - Time will stand still until the abode for the ring wearers is complete, her words had been - but he couldn't keep the concern out of his mind regardless.
Now, however, it was a moot point. The house was a simple thing, made of stone and thatching, but it would protect his beloved from the elements and keep them warmer than his own tent had in the dark days of winter. He placed the final stone on top of the wet cement, marveling at his own ability to complete the task by his lonesome. Taking a few steps backward, he recited the incantation the mysterious woman of magic had told him so long ago.
"House of stone, built with labors of love,
Hear my call among the heavens above.
Give me that which makes a house a home,
And things we may keep in our forever alone."
He walked back to the house, took a deep breath, and opened the front door.
It was beautiful. Mahogany bookshelves stood next to the fireplace he'd carved into the wall, flanking an exquisitely crafted set of living room chairs. The bed that had appeared on the opposite end was clearly made for two, and looked as inviting as anything he could ever remember seeing in his lifetime after living outdoors for so long. The kitchen was primitive, but had enough in it for Pam to make something delicious (and himself; he remembered the promise he'd made to her to try to learn how to cook).
He grabbed a random book off of one of the shelves and sat down in a chair. The time for work had come, stayed for quite awhile, and finally gone. Now the place he'd labored so tirelessly over was ready for the love of his life.
It was time to wait.

"Five hundred bucks."
The pawn shop owner stared at Pamela skeptically, hoping to make a slight profit off of the woman's presumed ignorance. He had no such luck as Pamela countered by raising the asking price to $600.
"Six hundred? You're reachin', lady. The ring is nice, but I've seen nicer. And something tells me you want to get rid of it fast."
She shifted uncomfortably and quickly gave away her negotiating power in the hopes of finding sympathy. "It was my…partner's. He was going to propose to me before he passed."
"Oh really? What would ya have said?"
"Excuse me, I don't think that's any of your business."
"So 'No', then." He continued to fiddle with the ring, as if turning it over in his fingers would somehow make it appreciate in value. "Tell ya what. You're a nice gal, so I'll go for five hundred fifty. Not a dollar more."
"Fine." She pulled her debit card out of her purse and tried to push it into the chip reader, realizing she was too quick after being met with a red X on the screen.
"Calm down, it ain't a race. Gimme a minute to get it up and runnin'." As he did so, she stared at the ring for a final time. What would Howard have thought if he knew she was doing this? Why did the little thing make her so uncomfortable that she had to pawn it?
"It reminds you of him, don't it?" The store owner again interrupted her stream of consciousness. "I understand. I had a friend of mine whose fiance died right after he popped the question. He wouldn't get rid of that damn ring for almost a decade."
"It's more than that," she replied, putting her card in the reader once more as the man nodded in confirmation. "He wrote this silly letter before he passed, about how with the rings we would always be together. It feels like a piece of him, somehow."
"It's all in yer head. Like they always say, you can't take it with you."

She wasn't coming.
He had finished the last book on the second shelf. The years had long ceased to have continuity in his mind; time blurred and twisted onto itself as he had waited for Pamela. He didn't want to admit the truth he was increasingly dreading, but the final volume he had digested - Homer's Odyssey - spelled it out for him.
After an uncertain but painful amount of time, he had made a pact with himself. He would read every book on the shelves, but he would read the Odyssey last. Like Penelope waiting for Odysseus, he would wait for Pam amidst the silence of his cabin and the soft, soothing sounds of the pocket dimension in permanent springtime. The trees beyond his home became his Suitors, calling for him to lose himself in their embrace even as his heart demanded he stay still.
But the final page had been shut. Ithaca was at peace, and Penelope and Odysseus were reunited once more. Yet here he sat.
"I'm sorry, Pam," he said aloud to nobody in particular. "But I can't wait any longer."
He walked out the front door, and closed it behind him. As he looked back upon his pointless creation one final time, he felt tears roll down his face.
All she had to do was wear the ring.