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2004

9 September
Site-43: Lambton County, Ontario, Canada

Before his eyes, in the middle of a sentence, she became a different person.
She had been Dr. Lillian Lillihammer. He was still Dr. Daniil Sokolsky. He was, as she had been, a Junior Researcher at Site-43.
He was pretty sure the full sentence was going to be "It's probably because you're an asshole." She'd said it before — many people had — and it was true. The break came cleanly at the halfway mark: "It's probably because," she said, and then her eyes were wide, and she wasn't talking. Her eyes didn't widen, and she didn't stop talking; a switch was thrown, a bit flipped, one state instantaneously replaced the other. She'd been smirking when the sentence started, but when it didn't end she was hollow-eyed and haunted. He'd never seen a look like that on her face before.
He'd never seen a look like that on anyone's face before.
"…Lillian?"
She took a deep breath. "What's the date?"
Ooh! An unpleasant grin split his broad face. Time travel! "Ninth of September, 2004."
She exhaled. "Oh, thank god."
The grin died. Boo. Not time travel. "Why did you need to know the date to finish your sentence?" Whoever you are.
"I just… oh, thank god." The real Lillian was a pragmatic atheist; she only believed in those gods attested in the SCP database.
"You're gonna give God a complex."
She laughed. The real Lillian never laughed. She stood up. "I need to find McInnis. He'll know what I'm allowed to tell you."
As she walked out of the cafeteria, he found himself grinning again. Maybe timeline travel?

It was timeline travel.

2011

17 May

Eileen Veiksaar's office looked like a garage sale at Steve Wozniak's house. The Chief of Identity and Technocryptography had a fetish for technology, so long as it was obsolete and generally considered worthless. This was one way Sokolsky knew she was a genius.
He was a genius, too. That was the other way.
She peered up at him from behind the 1993 Macintosh LCIII on her desk. "Turning in 5109, Daniil?"
He nodded. "I've done enough damage with it."
She shook her head, smiling. "You're such an asshole. Close the door." As he complied, she picked up her PDA and tapped the screen, twice. A low hum filled the room. "We're secure. Fire when ready."
He cleared his throat. "I-1-a-m-2-t-h-e-3-j-"
She sighed. It was easy to say the entire forty-one character string rapid-fire, if you knew it. (It was impossible to say any of it, if you didn't.) But he liked to be dramatic, and he had a captive audience, so he took his time.
"-l-l-i-e-s," he finished, not quite thirty seconds later.
She blinked. "Got it."
The "One-Time Password" was Sokolsky's favourite anomaly of all time. It had gotten him a promotion to Senior Researcher, after all. Whereas everyone else on the waitlist for the unforgettable, one-way-transmissible magic word wanted to use it to lock doors or lock screens or lock lockers, he'd used it to defraud his colleagues and then explain in detail how he'd done so.
No-one knew where the anomaly had come from, and no-one knew why it worked the way it did. SCP-5109 was a true cognitive isolate: a completely unique thought which could only be held in one mind per universe. It could only be transmitted orally, or, rather, aurally — if you heard the owner speak it, either in person or via a recording, it ceased to be theirs and it became yours. If the owner wrote it down, it looked like alien gibberish to everyone else. If you knew a fragment of it, you couldn't reverse-engineer the rest… even if you were a computer. Mnemonics, mnestics, even hypnotism had all failed. It was a semantic miracle.
"Who's next on the list?" He didn't really want to hear the answer.
"Wettle. Nothing special — big surprise — he just needs a password he can't forget." She rolled her eyes. "Because he's an idiot."
"What a waste."
"Him, or the password?"
"Both. Eileen… 5109 can do amazing things. That waitlist should be full of people with Rube Goldbergian schemes, not people who'd otherwise be putting their logins on Post-Its."
She shrugged. "Or we could stop playing with fire before we get burned, for a change. After that stunt you pulled, everyone's going to be trying to dream up the next oh-so-clever trick. Do us all a favour, and don't put yourself back on the list."
"The next clever trick I think of is going to be way too clever for the list. I'm going straight to the top with it."

2012

9 September

"Why do we need to do this?"
Dr. William Wettle was naked, so Sokolsky didn't look at him. "Because your clothes are from the alternate timeline. They're going to disappear in…" He glanced at the computer display. "…twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes."
"So, what's the hurry?"
Sokolsky emptied Wettle's threadbare labcoat into a series of containers, labeling each one with permanent marker. "Who's in a hurry? Not me." He dropped the labcoat into a box on the floor, and kicked the box under the table.
"Can I get dressed?" Wettle whined.
"No, but you can get your naked self out of my lab. They'll be taking your Humes in the next room."
Wettle opened the door and walked out, muttering. Dealing with him was always such a pain in the ass; this time, however, Sokolsky was counting on it.
William Wettle, Lillian Lillihammer, and five more (non-alliterative) colleagues had just returned from an involuntary timeline-travel trip. Between 6:22 and 6:28 PM on the 8th of September every year, they had to do precisely what they'd done between 6:22 and 6:28 PM on the 8th of September, 2002. An unstable time loop caused by an anomalous materials handling disaster meant that those seven minutes each year were actually the same seven minutes, each year. Anything they did differently would change the course of history, retroactively.
This didn't happen often, but it had happened in 2011.
The alternate timelines were apparently unpleasant. Lillian had refused to talk about them, and her fellow travelers were similarly closed-mouthed… except Wettle, who lacked the imagination necessary for either trauma or storytelling.
The other six would be equally blasé by this time tomorrow. At the end of their year of hell the time loop had recurred, and they'd managed it correctly. Reality had caught up twenty-four hours later, as it had in 2004 when he'd seen his Lillian become a brand-new, sadder version. The alternate timeline had now never existed. In short order, their memories would reflect that; they'd remember the "real" events of the past twelve months, and forget the alternate reality entirely. Anything they'd brought back with them would also disappear.
It was a zero-sum game, as far as everyone who wasn't Daniil Sokolsky knew.

2020

8 December

Sokolsky put his feet up on Veiksaar's desk. He'd had to dump two computers and a keyboard on the floor to manage this act of insolent informality, but it was worth it.
All seven members of Provisional Task Force Sampi-5243 ("See You in September"), the sometimes-timeline travelers of the past eighteen years, were glaring at him in cramped discomfort. He'd chosen the venue for security reasons: two taps on Veiksaar's tablet, and this was the most secure room in the underground complex.
Most of his colleagues were waiting for him to explain the purpose of the meeting. William Wettle was staring at the sprinklers on the ceiling; Dr. Harold Blank was sitting on the floor, tying Wettle's shoelaces together; Roger Pensak, Chief of Security and Containment, was scrolling through something on his PDA and leaning on the door. Pensak wasn't a member of Sampi-5243, but he'd been asked to attend as an extra precaution.
If some Group of Interest wanted to blow up a room, this would be a solid choice.
Sokolsky rubbed his hands together. "Alright, friends. I've got a job for you which doesn't involve alternate timelines."
Delfina Ibanez, the diminutive MTF chief, regarded him suspiciously. "A job? You mean, from ETTRA?"
Sokolsky looked pleased. As the Chief of Site-43's new Emergent Threat Tactical Response Authority division, his job was to craft clever, efficient responses to problematic situations using the Foundation's catalogue of anomalous objects and knowledge. "Our very first operation together," he agreed. "We're putting 5109 back into circulation."
Wettle looked confused, even for him. "The password? I thought Overwatch confiscated it."
"They did. They also un-confiscated it, on my suggestion."
Allan McInnis, the stoic Site Director, frowned. "Why are you on a suggestion-making basis with O5?"
"Because they recognize brilliance when they see it."
The Task Force members regarded Sokolsky with a mixture of annoyance, interest, and familiar contempt. He kicked over a pile of envelopes on the desktop. "Early in the new year, each of you will be called to duty — at a moment's notice — and whisked away to one of our other secure facilities. ETTRA is carrying out a cascade sting op against suspected moles from Groups of Interest around the globe." He pointed at the envelopes. "Willie, be a good boy and hand those out."
Dr. Udo Okorie's amber eyes were wide. "How is 5109 going to stop even a single terrorist attack?"
"We're going to tell the rest of the Foundation that the waitlist is back up, they can requisition the unbreakable password for their pet projects again. And then we're gonna game it. Tell each of our suspects they've won the anomaly lottery, their projects are approved. They'll all apply; we did our psych homework on them. You'll take 5109 to them personally, and they'll use it to do a dirty deed… and we'll catch them in the act."
"And said act will kill everyone, or ruin everything, at each Site." Ibanez didn't look impressed.
"Nope. Because I'll send you a second copy of the password, via secure connection, when you need it. Whatever they do, you can defuse."
Seven pairs of eyes bored into him. Wettle was rubbing a yellow stain on his labcoat, tongue stuck out.
Lillian Lillihammer spoke first. "You just said 'another copy of the password'. Elaborate."
Sokolsky grinned. "Once this operation is concluded, I'll be happy to. For now, just know that there are two instances of 5109 in my head."
Blank shook his shaggy head. "Okay, again, 'two instances of 5109'. That's gibberish. 5109 is an isolate. There's one copy per universe. It doesn't have instances."
"It does now."
"How? Why?"
"Just let it go," Sokolsky advised. "Focus on what's in the envelopes. You can open them now, by the way."
The moment she saw what was in hers, Okorie squealed. "Eckhart House?!" Everyone stopped to stare at her. "I get to go to Eckhart House?!" The italics were deafening.
"What's Eckhart House?" Wettle asked.
"Only the coolest place on Earth! Site-91." Okorie was hopping on the balls of her feet. "Okay, sorry, I'm excited. I'm going home! Ish. And I'm gonna see one of the best collections of occult literature this side of the Library. Maybe even a dead god! Oh, wow." She beamed at Sokolsky. "I could kiss you."
"Raincheck."
Amelia Torosyan seemed surprised to have gotten an envelope. She didn't open it. "Is it really a good idea to send the maintenance chief off-Site? We've been having a lot of trouble with the aging AcroAbate systems lately."
"You're going to Site-77 in Italy, should be very scenic." Sokolsky tried for a friendly smile; it wasn't in him. "Take your boyfriend."
Torosyan blinked. "My boyfriend, who is half of an active anomaly?"
"One field trip in eighteen years won't kill him."
McInnis was still frowning. "It's not him you should be worried about."
Torosyan glanced back at him. "It's him I'm worried about."
"India," said Ibanez, tossing the contents of her envelope on the desk. "Site-36."
"Isn't that the one with the murder statue?" asked Blank.
"I thought the murder statue was at 19," said Wettle.
Blank shook his shaggy head. "That's a different murder statue."
"There's more than one?"
"There's more than ten."
"Wait, though," said Ibanez. "I'm the MTF commander. I can't just leave."
Sokolsky shrugged. "Take an MTF. Pensak can handle the rest."
Lillihammer had her envelope open. "45, huh. I always thought something anomalous was gonna eat me."
"The fauna in Australia are plenty anomalous," said Blank. "It's a puzzle-piece from a different puzzle-planet."
Wettle was staring at his assignment, looking like a cat who'd forgotten why he'd walked into the room. "It says… you're putting me in a pit?"
"Hooray!" said Blank.
"A pit for sloths?"
"Checks out," Blank crowed.
"Seriously, though? Sloth's Pit." Lillihammer put both hands on Blank's head for support, and leaned across the desk. "You're not sending Willie to Site-87?"
Sokolsky shrugged.
"You're sending Willie, our Dr. William Wettle, to S&C Plastics?"
"Wait," Wettle interjected. "S&C Plastics? That's S&C Plastics?!"
"Wow." Ibanez was smirking. "If we're lucky, they'll keep him."
"I can't go there!" said Wettle, a note of panic in his voice. "I'll get trampled by the Ghost of Black Fridays Past, or possessed by the Underpants On Your Head Monster, or get into a blood feud with the concept of American Exceptionalism, or some shit!"
"Make sure they take pictures," said Blank. He tore his envelope in half to open it, and re-assembled the note. "Site-13…K? What's that mean?"
"Means it's in Korea," said Lillihammer.
"13K," he mused. "Is there even a non-K 13?"
"They don't do that to the Japanese Sites," McInnis remarked. He was looking at his envelope with marked distaste. "The Nexus around Site-79 is video game themed, Daniil. You know I don't know the first thing about video games."
Sokolsky nodded. "Maybe I'm hoping it'll lighten you up."
McInnis shook his head. "Maybe you thought it would be funny."
Sokolsky nodded again. "Maybe I thought it would be funny. And it's been a while since you got some fresh air."
Torosyan still looked worried. "Are we precipitating disasters, here? And won't the moles know this is a trap? And why don't you send us along with both copies of the password? That way we don't need to call you at all."
"Question one: no, we're pretty well convinced these disasters are imminent with or without our involvement. We're tricking them into putting their plans in motion on our terms, rather than theirs. Question two: also no, because nobody outside of this room knows the unbreakable password is presently breakable. It can't be a trap because it can't be a trap. Question three: still no! If I send you with both passwords, the risk doubles. Losing one 5109 would be bad, but losing two would be disastrous."
Blank raised his hand.
"What, Harry?"
"Why are we even doing this? If you know who the moles are, detain them."
"First of all, we're working on suspicion only at this point. And we can't just go after them directly; they're connected enough we'd risk them going off half-cocked and doing some real damage. Worse, if we come down on them hard, we'll never learn who they were working for. Who they were working with. We're treating this as an intelligence-gathering op. We might get to capture a few Persons of Interest. We might find out how they infiltrated us, or what their future plans are. We might even uncover gaps in our security systems. The potential gains far outweigh the risks." Sokolsky sat forward. "Every one of these situations is a shitstorm waiting to happen. We do it this way, the shit hits the fan on our own terms, and we have a ready-made fan-de-shitter."
All eight of his colleagues looked troubled, somewhat confused, embarrassed by his verbiage but generally satisfied. They bought it. Sokolsky tried not to grin, feeling a nervous tension in his bones.
This is where the fun begins, he thought.
"This is where the fun begins," he told them.

/

The Time After Time Password

Georgian Gothic


Alex Molina quietly made his way toward Faeowynn Wilson's office in the Wilson Center, carrying with him a potted poinsettia. Much to his surprise, she wasn't occupied with the Supervisors, and even more surprisingly, her door was wide open. He knocked.
"Come in." She didn't look up from the paperwork she was working on.
"Hey, babe." Alex grinned.
"Oh, hey Alex. What's up?" Faeowynn looked up, smiling back at him.
"I brought you one of these." He held up the plant, then put it up on top of a nearby file cabinet. "Figured your office could use a little holiday cheer."
"Thank you, now I don't have to be Scrooge anymore." She laughed.
"Heh. So, I wanted to ask, do you have any plans for Christmas Eve?"
"Nope. Just work. The usual."
"Well, I have something that I wanted to do with you. Ever heard of Tamalada?"
Fae brought her pen to her lip and hesitated for a moment. It had been a long time since high school Spanish.
"That sounds vaguely like tamales. Is it related to them?"
"It is! And Tamalada is sort of a Christmas celebration in Mexico my family observes. Basically, we all get together and make tamales."
"Sure, I'd love to go. Why didn't you ask me sooner?"
"Well, I kinda forgot. You know how busy it gets this time of year. Less volunteers since everyone wants to be with their families and all that." He shrugged. "Besides, I didn't know if you wanted to meet my family yet."
"I know I was… difficult… when we first started dating, but that doesn't mean I don't want to meet them."
"Difficult? No kidding." Alex smiled, walking around the desk towards Fae.
"Watch it. I can fire you, you know." She stood, folding her arms at her boyfriend as he approached.
"Will you, though? Remember, I'm the only means you have of getting tamales here in Boring."
"I can drive to Portland."
"And who will bring you coffee to your office every morning?"
"I can have a volunteer do it."
"You're killing me here, Fae."
"Good. Then perish." An evil smile spread on Faeowynn's face. Alex feigned indignation.
"Fine, you're making me bust out my trump card. Who's going to wrangle the volunteers for you now that Old Al is retired?"
There was a brief silence as Fae tapped her chin.
"Hmm… You do make a convincing point." She nodded in approval.
"I've got a better one for you."
"What's that?"
Without a word, Alex stood on his tiptoes and pressed his lips onto Fae's own. She smiled into the kiss, chuckling after a moment before breaking away.
"Fine. You get to keep your job. And tell your family I'm looking forward to meeting them."
"Can do!" With that, Alex turned around and made his way out of the office, leaving Faeowynn alone with her paperwork once more.
She sat back down. She was nervous. She was always nervous, though. That's why she took SSRIs; and they helped for the most part. But she felt it stronger now more than she had during the rest of the day.
The thought of meeting Alex's family seemed lovely to her, and it would be a step towards deepening their relationship. This was something she no doubt knew Alex wanted, otherwise he wouldn't have proposed it.
But, and there was always that lingering 'but' with her, she didn't know if his family would accept her for her. Tim; no, dad, had only just barely put the minimum effort forth to do so, and he was her father. What of her boyfriend's family? Would they reject her and by extension, Alex? What if he left her because of it? No, he wouldn't. But she didn't want Alex to be hurt. Faeowynn also didn't want to be hurt, but she had dealt with that rejection for her entire adult life; another one wouldn't hurt too bad.
But, and there it was again, and it would still hurt.
She sighed, reaching for her phone in her pocket. Scrolling through multiple apps one handed on her phone, she chewed her nails with the other. Finally, she found the IRC app.

juliachildenthusiast: Hey Jude.
juliachildenthusiast: You have a sec?
bluntfiend: I'm high as hell right now
bluntfiend: But yeah I always have time for friends
juliachildenthusiast: Thank you.
juliachildenthusiast: Okay, so. You remember Alex from the last time you were here?
bluntfiend: Yeah
juliachildenthusiast: He wants me to meet his family.
bluntfiend: Congratulations
bluntfiend: Or condolences
bluntfiend: I'm not sure which applies here
juliachildenthusiast: I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm happy we're at that point in our relationship.
juliachildenthusiast: But at the same time, meeting parents is stressful enough even if you're not trans, you know what I mean?
juliachildenthusiast: Do you have any advice?
bluntfiend: Actually, I don't
juliachildenthusiast: Damn.
bluntfiend: You're going to laugh at me
juliachildenthusiast: I wouldn't ever laugh at you, Jude.
bluntfiend: I've never dated anyone ever
juliachildenthusiast: Really?
juliachildenthusiast: Huh.
juliachildenthusiast: Okay.
juliachildenthusiast: Why, if you don't mind the question?
bluntfiend: Oh boy
bluntfiend: Well
bluntfiend: I don't think I ever really felt like I was
bluntfiend: Like
bluntfiend: Emotionally well enough for a relationship if that makes sense
bluntfiend: That and I don't want to hurt anyone you know?
bluntfiend: Something about loving yourself before loving others
bluntfiend: I don't know
juliachildenthusiast: I felt the same way for a long time.
juliachildenthusiast: I've only had one relationship in my life aside from Alex.
bluntfiend: Mr. Chaser?
juliachildenthusiast: Yeah.
juliachildenthusiast: It really fucked up how I saw relationships for a while.
juliachildenthusiast: But eventually I was able to trust again.
bluntfiend: It's not that I don't trust
bluntfiend: You know I trust you, esther, jj, and bones
bluntfiend: It's that I just feel like I can't be a good partner to anyone because I'm pretty fucked up
bluntfiend: You know what I've been through
juliachildenthusiast: Yeah.
bluntfiend: Besides my whole philosophy on relationships is that you shouldn't leave your significant other worse off than when you started
bluntfiend: And I would definitely leave someone worse off than where we started
juliachildenthusiast: What do you think I should do then?
bluntfiend: This is going to sound really lame but
bluntfiend: Do what your heart tells you
bluntfiend: In other words
bluntfiend: Do you love alex?

Faeowynn put her phone down.
Did she love Alex? They had been dating for almost a year now. He had been nothing but accommodating to her in their relationship so far. He understood when she had to stay late at the Center and cancel plans at the last moment. He had been completely understanding of her desire not to rush things and had allowed for the relationship to proceed at the glacially slow pace she had set for it. The only thing he did that annoyed her was that he always ate the last pizza slice whenever they ordered from Panucci's.
She chewed her fingernails again.

bluntfiend: Fae?
bluntfiend: You still there?
juliachildenthusiast: Yeah, sorry.
juliachildenthusiast: Had to deal with something for a second.
bluntfiend: Were the fascists bothering you again?
juliachildenthusiast: No, just someone coming into my office.
bluntfiend: Gotcha
bluntfiend: So what are you going to do?
juliachildenthusiast: I'm gonna go meet them.
bluntfiend: Good for you, I'm happy for you
bluntfiend: If anything happens we're all here for you Fae
juliachildenthusiast: Thank you.
juliachildenthusiast: Sincerely, thank you, Jude.
bluntfiend: This isn't just the weed talking but
bluntfiend: Love you girl
juliachildenthusiast: Love you too, dude.

Alex and Faeowynn sat parked outside the small Molina home. It had snowed recently, but the driveway had been shoveled. Faint cumbia music could be heard coming from inside. The shadows of people within could be seen through the window.
"Well, here we are." Alex looked over to Fae.
"Yeah."
"Shall we go?"
"Not yet."
"Do you wanna hang out in here for a little longer?"
"Yeah."
Silence.
.
..
…
Suddenly, there was a light thud, causing Faeowynn to jump in her seat.
"Hey, hey, it's fine. That was just snow falling from the tree up there, see?" Alex pointed to the hood of the car, where a small patch of snow had come to rest from above.
"Oh." Fae sighed, hanging her head slightly. Her right hand came up to her mouth, and she chewed on her index fingernail.
Again, silence.
.
..
…
"Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"If you don't want to do this, I can take you home. We can watch Nightmare Before Christmas on the couch or go to the IHOP off of the interstate and have some waffles. Or if you want to be alone I can just leave you there. No pressure. No judgments." Alex offered a kind smile.
Fae was quiet. She fidgeted in her dress. It had been a long time since she had worn one; she had gotten so used to the Center's khaki uniform that she almost felt uncomfortable in the grey dress. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, her shoulders were too broad. Her jaw was too masculine. Her cheekbones were too defined. She looked at her reflection and all she saw was her father's son. There was no way Alex's family was going to be okay with her.
Her expression sank as she was finally able to break her eyes away from the mirror. She shivered. Alex noticed this and leaned over to put an arm around Faeowynn.
"It's okay, babe. Let's go home."
Just as Alex was about to start the car, the front door to the house opened. An elderly woman wearing a shawl stepped outside, illuminating the night with a flashlight. She shined it up against the two of them.
"Mijito?" Her faint voice was barely audible through the shut windows. Alex rolled them down and replied:
"Abuela? Is that you?"
"Sí, mijo, soy yo!" She started walking closer to the car. Faeowynn froze in fear.
"Oh crap." Alex grumbled.
"Mijo, ven adentro, te vas a morir de frío aquí fuera!"
"Abuela, I was about to go! Faeowynn no se siente bien."
"Dios mio, I am so sorry Faeowynn! It is so nice to meet you!" She was practically at the car already, shining her flashlight into the vehicle and blinding both of them. Fae was still frozen. Abuela shut off her flashlight and put it atop the chassis.
"Alex, open the window! I want to meet her!"
"Pero Abuela—"
"Hazlo." She spoke in a stern voice, the same one she would use years ago when she would babysit him and young Alex would get into trouble. He almost instinctively complied. The window lowered and revealed Faeowynn, sitting in the car with a panicked expression on her face. She hadn't cried in many years, but she could feel herself getting close to it now.
There was a brief pause as Abuela got a good look at her. Her face hardened for a moment, but then quickly loosened up again.
"Why is a pretty girl like you crying right now? Is my grandson not treating you like you deserve?" She asked in heavily accented English.
Fae stumbled over her words.
"I… I… No… He treats me fine."
"Good! Si no, I would have to hit him with my broom." Abuela laughed. "Come on, come on inside! It is too cold out here!"
"Actually, Abuela, Faeowynn doesn't feel good. We were going to go."
"No, no, no. There's nothing a good tamal can't fix. And Alex me dijo that you like tamales very much!"
Had Alex told them about her beforehand? Or maybe they were accepting of her regardless? Either way, it didn't matter. She wasn't going to taste rejection tonight. Tonight she was the woman she had always known she was. Fae sniffled slightly.
"Abuela, I—" Alex started, but was interrupted by Faeowynn.
"No. I want to stay. I feel better." She looked back at him with a weak smile.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Que bueno!" Abuela laughed again, grabbing her flashlight. "Come on! We're watching La razón de la culpa and Ricardo Montalban is about to show up in it!"
Alex and Fae got out of the car as Abuela hurried back inside to get out of the cold. Alex brushed the fallen snow off the hood as Faeowynn approached him.
"Hey."
"Hay is for horses."
They were silent a moment.
"I love you." Fae smiled.
Alex blinked.
"I love you too."

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by Ethagon

The sky was especially turquoise today. Even for the Backdoor this intensity was quite unusual.
A man looking outside the window of his mansion briefly considered changing his suit, but decided against it. If he'd go out today it would be in white, matching the family's fell colour. Apart from the sky he also glimpsed two pedestrians making their way to his mansion.
He got to the door just a moment before they rang the bell. The door opened to two surprised human faces. It wasn't clear to him if they were surprised by the premature opening or if they were novices to the occult art world and were wondering why the man who opened had the head of a goat.
"You're speaking with a member of the Whytefel family. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
The left face answered "Lannah" while the right one took a moment to respond "Allison Chao."
"We're searching for Edvin Whytefel. Something was stolen", said 'Lannah'.
A spark of interest went through Edvin's eyes. "Come in."
He led the two ladies to the room he had designated for the few clients he got and started to serve his guests and him from the wine in the room.
Only after his guests had been seated and provided with drinks did he start to talk.
"So what is the stolen artwork?"
Ms Chao narrowed her eyes. "How do you know it's artwork?"
He chuckled, glass in hand. "This is the Backdoor. Everything worth stealing here is art."
'Lannah' continued. "We lost a collection of three-dimensional cogs in pop-art style."
Ms Chao took out a sketch of the cogs in question while 'Lannah' kept talking. "They can move although we're not completely sure when they do it and in what direction they go."
"Put them in any liquid and they will cause increasingly strong currents in it. There seems to be some sense to the direction of the current, but we haven't figured it out yet.
Whytefel nodded and ate a piece of his glass. "Is the Artist known?"
No direct answer. Now he was certain that both were new to this world or they would not be so surprised by him eating something that would be inedible to the unoccult.
He raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
"Sorry. Honestly, we don't know if he's known in this universe. He was known under 'COG' in hers." 'Lannah' indicated Ms Chao.
Maybe not completely new if they were aware of universes. Perhaps just unfamiliar with the artistic side of things. "I haven't heard of him. How long have you both been in this universe?"
"We both arrived today in the Backdoor. I've been here before briefly, but it's Allison's first time."
"Does the artwork have any special meaning to you?"
"Why should I tell you that?", said Ms Chao, arms folded.
"Well, the more details I know about this case the faster I can solve it."
"You haven't even said yet if you'll take the case."
"If you wish we can talk about that first. The theft seems interesting enough that I'd be willing to look into it. I'm sure whoever recommended me told you about my rates?"
"We were only told the garden is the serpent's place," said 'Lannah'.
"Oh." They were Serpent's Hand. "Oh, of course. Under friends, I of course have different payment options. This wouldn't by any chance be a favour from White Crow you're calling in?"
'Lannah' shook her head. Shame.
"In that case, I can offer you to pay me with art, as long as it's of a certain quality."
"Are you going to do the same with the art as you just did to that glass?" Ms Chao asked.
Whytefel let a slight smile on his face. "Likely. I think art is best appreciated through its culinary qualities."
They hid their reactions better this time.
'Lannah' continued. "What art would be acceptable?"
"I haven't had extra-universal in quite a while, so let's take one cog from the collection you're searching for as a reference point, yes?"
He could see the refusal in Ms Chao's eyes, so he quickly continued. "If you find me a better artwork I would accept that as payment as well. Of course, I only expect to be paid at all if I'm successful in finding your thief and the stolen goods."
'Lannah' kept silent. It was up to Ms Chao, after all. "How fast can you get it back?"
"I'm confident I can get it done by the end of this day."
"And we don't have to pay you if you exceed that deadline?"
Whytefell left out a slight laugh. "That is the least I can do."
Ms Chao nodded. "I think those are agreeable terms."
"Wonderful. So where did the theft occur?"
'Lannah' took the lead again. "We rented a place at Bob's. The Collection was inside a locked box that was part of a," she glanced at Ms Chao. "setup we had running -have running still."
"The box wasn't just locked, there were tricks to it," Ms Chao added. "If you tried to open it normally the box would just glide through your fingers and flush around the whole room and leave behind this sticky trail. Doesn't matter though. They took the whole box."
"I must say it's quite the surprise this happened at one of Bob's apartments. Normally it ensures relatively strict security."
'Lannah' scoffed. "Yeah, well. Bob hasn't lived up to that."
"It should be the best in the city outside of Do-It-Yourself, so I'm afraid I can't recommend a different staying place for the time. I'd advise you, however, to stay away from the Deep End. All apartments there are owned by Kqälig, some Shark Guy. Uses the place to trap Boxers that visit this universe occasionally."
Ms Chao nodded in thought.
Whytefel stood up. "That will be all for now. If you have any more details to share with me, you have my card."
He saw his guests off at the door and they went their separate ways. Edvin Whytefel walked directly to Bob's apartment complex. He was thrilled to have a case again.

It didn't take long after he arrived at Bob's apartment complex before Bob turned up. Whytefel wasn't sure how it did it, but it had an uncanny sense of anything happening near its apartments.
Bob wasn't the real name of the creature that now stood before him. Rather it was an uncreative nickname, likely based on how much Bob resembled a Blobfish albeit with more arms. The landlord was about to reach into its mouth before Whytefel interrupted it.
"We can talk about business later. I'm here on behalf of a client. Could you bring me to the room of a 'Lannah' and a Ms Chao?"
The creature looked at him for a moment. Then it gave in and led him to the apartment without Whytefel having to say anything else.
The whole apartment complex could be described as one big artwork based on the noble idea of artists being able to pay rent with their artwork. Bob, an integral part of that artwork, was one of the few in this city who knew how to truly appreciate art. A lot of the 'rent' ended up in its belly. But an apartment complex had costs to cover so if the landlord deemed the art of high enough quality it was sold to the likes of him, Marshall Carter & Dark Ltd. and very rarely the Medician Academy of Occult Art. The last one usually had the artist also getting something out of the deal.
Naturally, as one of this apartment complex sponsors by proxy, the landlord had no real justification to not let him inspect the apartments.
The landlord didn't let him out of its eyes when Whytefel entered the apartment. That burglary had occurred in this room was evident. Most lockers were only closed half-heartedly and the whole apartment looked rummaged through.
There were no signs of entry through the window.
He also saw the setup that 'Lannah' had spoken about. Some kind of spell matrix encircled around a botch and a still-spinning globe. He touched the botch with a spare pencil and sure enough, it was sticky.
Nothing else in the apartment was sticky, so the box must have been stolen without trying to open it.
He looked closer at the spell matrix and the globe. He thought back to the Unified Thamautology books he once ate. This would be a scrying spell, trying to reveal the position of a specific person. Given that the spell had used The Cog Collection as its focus, it was obvious what the spell was searching for.
With both the focus and the target of the spell being extra universal it would be a matter of seconds to find the target's exact location if both were in the same city, and a matter of hours if both were on the same earth.
That was with the focus. Now that the focus was gone the spell would take days if it didn't turn up empty entirely.
"How long were they gone between their last visit and the one before that?"
The landlord held up three fingers.
"Three hours?"
The creature nodded.
"Did you notice anything notable in that time?"
The creature remained still.
Whytefel sighed. "Mind if I eat that door handle? I'll pay you double the price plus our usual business."
The creature remained still for a moment. Then it nodded.
"Much obliged." Whytefel took out his special set of knife and fork and began to slice the door handle. He put the slices on a plate he brought with him and began to eat.
Unsurprisingly you could taste the handle being mass-produced, but he didn't have high expectations for the taste of a door. There was however a tang of occult skeleton key, the one they mass-produced on the streets and scammed tourists into buying. They weren't built robust in any way and usually broke after opening one door.
Now to focus on the flavour of fingerprints left on the doorknob. Most recent was the landlord, having opened the door for him right now, a bit older were two sets of what was likely 'Lannah's and Ms Chao's hand. Before that the landlord. He couldn't taste any deeper as older fingerprints were erased by someone having cleaned the handle.
"That settles this matter. Now let's talk about business." The two discussed a bit longer before agreeing on artwork to sell to the Whytefels and Edvin took his leave.

Whytefel was sitting in his car. Backdoor SoHo wasn't built for cars. This problem was solved by having the car transform into graffiti when it intersected with walls. On the more busy streets his driver just drove slowly.
The car windows were see-through from his side, but he tried not to look outside too much. Too many pedestrians looked somewhat angry at his car instead of minding their own business.
That was until he found who he was looking for. "Lavender. It's been too long," he said while stepping out.
Before him stood a human person behind his booth. Lavender was startled after the door opened.
"Good day to you, Mister Whytefel."
"A good day to you too, Lavender. What have you been up to in the last time?" Whytefel had bought art that Lavender had created a long time ago. That was before Lavender had accumulated a heavy debt to the Shark from the Deep End. Now he was just selling tourist traps of souvenirs. Like skeleton keys among other things.
"Oh, you know. The usual. Just selling my stuff like always."
"I can see that. Anything worthwhile?" The booth had no skeleton keys. That was in and of itself not unusual, a booth like this could afford like three in a week, but it was worth noting.
"You tell me," Lavender chuckled nervously.
"Hmm, what about the thing in your hand?"
Lavender had some kind of dough in his hand that stretched like multiple yoyo's everytime he swung it.
"What, that? I mean if you want it it's yours. That will be 50 bucks."
"I'll take it for 10."
"You're the boss. Enjoy!"
Whytefel ignored the fallen artist and went back into the car before he ate the scam article in one gulp. Better to get it over fast.
Every artist leaves something of themselves in their art. This style can even blend somewhat through when absolutely no effort was put into the piece. He was sure that that thing he had just eaten was of the same design as the flavour of skeleton key he had found at the apartment. What he also tasted was the micro-backlash of a scrying spell.
Lavender was no spellcaster. Either somebody had cast a scrying spell on his right hand or he had held a trinket of it for at least a few hours on this day.

His next point to visit required Whytefel to leave the Backdoor. He let his driver paint a sigil on his forehead, which would lead anyone who saw him to dismiss the possibility that that person had a goat head. The sigil's effect didn't need to be strong.
Some parts of the Serpent's Hand often wondered why families like his were part of the group. In their mind, the Hand was nothing more than a ragtag group of misfits. But it was only sensible to join the Hand if you were not part of the 108. Where else did you get such great connections across the multiverse and such great access to the knowledge of the Wanderer's Library? Besides, his family was just as much oppressed by the veil as anyone else.
He left the Backdoor and crossed a street in bland New York to get to the Medicean Academy of Occult Art — New York Branch. The Academy was itself too fine to take residence in Backdoor SoHo proper. Admittedly, having to cross just a stretch of veiled New York where the Jailors would more willingly apprehend you, if needed, provided just a bit more security to the place.
As always, he was stopped before he could enter the place. This time it was Andrea Hammer, chief of the branch's restoration team.
"We're not letting you in, Whytefel."
"I'm not here to eat The Epiphany," one of the most famous occult artworks in the anomalous community, " as I have said time and time again, I will not do so until I acquire the rights to it."
Hammer scoffed. "That will never happen."
"We'll see."
"Why are you here, Whytefel?"
"Have you heard about an anartist named 'COG'?"
"Occult artist. And of course I have. Claims to come from 'another universe' where they have a 'Sharkic Empire'. What's your point?"
"That's where he's from? To think those universes can produce anything of worth. Or that you'd know about an artist from somewhere so secluded."
"You don't actually believe that, do you?"
Whytefel deflected. "I've only heard about him recently. And that got me thinking about the marine exhibition you have soon."
"What about it?"
"I was thinking about sponsoring it."
Hammer raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. "That would be great. Quite a few of the pieces that are supposed to be animate are missing the moving— Ah I see what you're doing."
"Oh? Enlighten me."
"You think you can get into a legal position where it becomes easier for you to justify eating our art."
"That is not at all why I'm here. Say, Ms Hammer. Have you been to the Backdoor today?"
Hammer turned away. "Leave, Whytefel. You're not getting in."
With nothing left to say, Whytefel went back to the Backdoor. The circumstances of the theft began to crystalize themselves to him more clearly.
He had a hunch where the stolen goods were and he would follow that hunch.

The Deep End was a more literal term than you might expect in other cities. Backdoor SoHo was built three-dimensionally, the whole place being one giant artwork of impossible paths. Yet the sky was visible for most of them.
Not so for the Deep End. Being at the very bottom of the Backdoor, the sky was mostly blocked by high-up apartments, roads and walkways. Only rare slivers of Backdoor sunlight could make it through.
That didn't make the Deep End a less lively place. This play of light and shadow in the Deep Ends atmosphere lent itself perfectly to its own kind of artwork, there even was an often well-visited platform for performances that used that atmosphere.
It was also where Kqälig, apparently a "Sharkic", had his apartment complexes. Once in his maw, you would have trouble escaping the debt to him and were forced to work it off by creating anart that Kqälig would sell to Marshall Carter & Dark Ltd. who in turn sold it to their gullible veiled customers.
As he got deeper into the Deep End he found a blind alley that looked like people had died there quite a few times. There were leftovers of a boxing glove. Whytefel ate it and followed the taste of the sympathetic link to where the rest of the boxing glove would be.
He found a building that had a completely black car parked in front of it.
He walked in and was immediately yelled at to not get further inside. Then multiple people tried to shoot him.
Their bullets served as a nice hot dish for the evening.
In the building proper he was just about to witness Kqälig giving a cog in a pop-art style to somebody who did not at all represent Marshall Carter & Dark Ltd.
Seeing Whytefel walk in, he said: " I see you have other things to deal with, Sir." And stepped back.
"I am here on behalf of a client." Whytefel pointed to the cog. "Let me return the stolen good and we can all be on our way."
Kqälig ate the cog, sail and all. The Half-Shark chuckled. "What stolen good? You have no ground to stand here, goat. Better return to the surface before you get hurt."
"Oh, I have plenty of grounds to cover. You come from the same universe as this artist 'COG' and his collection. This made scrying for the collection incredibly easy for you."
"Your point?"
"My point being that even that blatant display of the stolen good right now aside, I can prove that you ordered the Cog Collection to be stolen and would be more than happy to share the results of my investigations with the Unusual Incidents Unit. Unless we can come to an agreement, of course."
"That would require you to have anything to show them."
"Correct me if the following timeline is wrong. You kept an eye out for the collection to appear in this universe. As soon as it appeared, you ordered one of your 'pets', Lavender, to retrieve said collection with the help of a scrying spell. Lavender would have been found by Bob immediately, but luckily for you, someone else required the landlord's attention. You must have told the Academy about the collection at an earlier point as a backup you could always buy it back from. They had an interest in the cogs as generators to kickstart their marine restoration efforts." He was guessing a fair bit for the last part.
"What does the Academy have to do with-"
"Andrea Hammer demanded from Bob to let her into Ms Chao's room. Bob eventually agreed so the Academy would still exhibit pieces from its complex. In the meantime, Lavender used one of his skeleton keys to open the door and stole the whole box with the collection. With the scrying spell, the box's content was clear. He left the apartment, whiped the door handle and brought you the collection." Hammer then later rummaged through the room without success, but that wouldn't interest the shark.
"That's a nice story you have there, but that's all it is."
"You think I'm not thorough? I have testimonies from all involved," Whytefel lied. While getting those testimonies would be easy if he worked with the UIU it also sounded tedious, so he hoped this would be enough.
"Plus I can always testify before them under oath. My past experiences with them would add weight to it," he added. This much was true.
Kqälig grinned a shark's grin. "How about we make a deal instead? I think neither of our families wants to really enter a feud."
"On that, we agree. Do you have something in mind?"
"A very simple game. I always wanted to test a goat's stomach against mine." One of his henchmen gave him a set of vials. "Drinking from these vials makes you regurgitate one of the things you ate in full form. I'd say we each take turns. Whatever comes out of one, the other one owns. We stop when we both don't want to continue. No grudge is held afterwards."
"Let's put it under oath."
Whytefel took off his velvet gloves and bit into his palm, the shark did the same. Both recited the agreed-upon terms while making specific hand movements ending in a handshake.
"I'll give you a small mercy and take the first sip." The shark said and drank from the vial. "One of the lesser known sharkic arts is the control of your stomach's contents." A pristine hamburger landed on the table in front of Kqälig. "It's going to be a while until you get that damned cog."
"A commendable ploy." Whytefel took a sip from his vial. "However, I regret to inform you that my family's gift entails enjoying the culinary qualities of everything without consequences." Nothing else happened. "Be it glass or magic vial."
"You may have a sturdier stomach, but I'm sure you will give in."
And so they took turns. Kqälig giving nothing of interest and Whytefel giving nothing at all.
"Let's finish this farce. Stalling will bring you only misery."
"Nonsense" answered the Half-Shark through gritted teeth. It was at that point that the first of the Boxers came out of the shark's mouth.
The Boxer immediately resorted to pugilism, until Kqälig's henchmen tried to apprehend them.
"Was that the only one?" said Whytefel after another sip.
"Fine, have your damn cog. It's useless without the full set anyways." Kqälig left the cog on the table to focus on the Boxer, who had since KO'd his henchmen.
"Much obliged." Whytefel took his leave.

"As you can see this is the only part of the collection I could recover." There would have been enough time to pay someone for a scyring spell himself to find the rest of the set, but that sounded too tedious. He had his fun.
"So I won't demand payment."
Ms Chao visibly relaxed.
"I can of course offer to eat this part of the collection for you. It would be simple to pinpoint the location of the rest from there and I could uncover things about the artwork you do not yet know."
"No, I think we're good. Thank you for the help."
"You're welcome. On Farewell, a word of warning: This 'sharkic' went to great lengths to get the collection out of your hands. Be prepared that he will disrupt you further on your journeys."
"We will. Thank you again."
"Always for a fellow Hand." He saw his clients of a second time.
What an eventful day. How to cap it off? A painting for dinner would do.


Mobile Task Force Alpha-9 (“Last Hope”) was not having a merry Christmas. While non-anomalous people around the world were settling down for long winter's naps, excited about the fun the morning would bring, Alpha-9 was bracing for impact.
Instead of drinking eggnog, Agent Andrea S. Adams was waiting in ambush under the only unsealed air vent in Site-17. Instead of wrapping gifts, Agent Aleksander Foxx was checking and rechecking all his various guns, knives, and ammo. Instead of checking a gift list, Agent Rainer Miller was going over a mental list of small objects he might need to summon later. Instead of building gingerbread houses, the team's newest and youngest member was constructing weapons and armor from solid light. And instead of hanging stockings over a fireplace, Agent Iris Thompson was hanging polaroid photographs of strategic choke points on the wall in front of her.
In fact, about the only person in Site-17 doing normal Christmas things was SCP-239, nestled snug in her coma bed. Unfortunately, the visions of sugar plums dancing in her head were about to become everyone else's problem.
Iris glanced over her shoulder at the unconscious reality bender, separated from her by a pane of one-way glass. “Everyone in position?” She didn't really need to ask, since she could see everyone through the pictures she'd taken of their positions earlier that day, but it was still procedure.
“Aye,” Adams replied. The vent she was guarding had been strategically chosen as a compromise between distance from SCP-239 and number of possible shortest paths from it to her containment chamber.
“Yes,” Foxx seconded, waiting in ambush around a blind corner.
“Yeah,” Rainer said, standing guard in a narrow hallway.
“Yep,” Leora reported, waiting at one end of an elevated walkway.
“Alright,” Iris finished. “Now we wait.”
They didn't have to wait long. At midnight sharp, sensors detected a small craft coming in for a landing. The automated anti-aircraft guns atop the building fired at the incoming bogey, but none of them seemed able to lock on as the vehicle slowed, leveled out, and skidded to a halt on the roof. There were antipersonnel mines all over it, but none of them detonated.
This was because they had all been transmuted into whoopee cushions. No one was up there to hear the farting sounds, but they did hear the howling of a bitter winter wind as it rattled into the vent system.
It was no coincidence that one vent remained open. When planning their defense, Alpha-9 (and their supervisors) had concluded that, if it really wanted to, the bogey probably could have forced its way out of a sealed vent or entered by a different means entirely. With one vent open, though, it would hopefully take the more predictable path of least resistance – right into an ambush.
Apparently, that hope had been well-founded, if the increasing volume of the rattling in Adams's vicinity was any indication. Calmly, she stepped back and raised her weapon, something that looked as much like a cannon as it did a rifle.
It still took her by surprise when, instead of snow, the vent erupted with a dense cloud of black soot. Her helmet kept the particles out of her eyes and throat, but the cloud was still almost opaque. Adams fired blindly at the obscured vent, and the boom of her weapon drowned out the sound of black boots landing heavily on the floor. In the fraction of a second that it took to switch from visible light to infrared, the intruder had closed the gap between them. One hand seized Adams's gun by the barrel, and another shoved her so strongly that she flew off her feet.
Something behind her eyes went click.
Twisting in midair, Adams turned her fall into a flip and skidded back on her fingers and toes. Slowly, she stood.
As the soot cleared, it revealed a very, very recognizable figure.
“Miss Adams,” said the real, genuine, honest-to-God Santa Claus, “we don't have to do this the hard way.”
“Yeah,” she retorted, “you could leave now.”
“No can do, Miss.” He tossed the gun and its broken strap aside. “I have promises to keep.” Then he raised his fluffy mittens in a fighting stance. “And butts to kick before I sleep.”
“Adams?” Iris asked. “Do you see him?”
Confusedly, she replied. “Do you not?”
“No,” Iris said, a touch of panic in her voice. She could faintly hear his booming voice, but the picture portal showed only a soot-covered Adams, bantering with thin air.
“Well,” Adams supposed, “they never do catch him on video.”
“Shit.” There went any hopes of sniping the guy through a picture.
“Should I still engage?”
Santa smirked, amused by her seeming hesitation.
“Shit. Yes. Engage.”
Without further words, Adams rushed him. The spirit of Christmas was more than a foot taller than her and probably twice as heavy, but he also seemed twice as fast, somehow. He spun around behind Adams as she lunged through the space where he'd been, then wrapped one massive arm around her waist.
“Santa suplex!” he shouted, hoisting the superhuman agent effortlessly over his shoulder and falling back.
Fortunately, the suit's helmet absorbed most of the impact, and Adams flipped out of Santa's grip. He bounced back to his own feet just as quickly, but he still had his back to her. Adams leapt onto it and wrapped her powerful arms around the old man's neck. It would have been the perfect position to choke out a normal assailant or snap his neck (or even tear the head clean off, for that matter)…but jolly old St. Nicholas was no normal assailant. She might as well have tried to strangle a statue. Santa fell backwards again, trying to crush her under his weight. It was certainly a lot, but nothing like the grand piano Clef had dropped on her head.
Then again, it was hard to breathe with 500 pounds of comfort and joy on top of her. Harder than Santa was finding it to breathe with her arms around his throat, if his jolly chuckling was any indication. With a grunt, Adams heaved Santa off herself. They both clambered to their feet.
“You're tougher ‘n' you look,” she said.
“Never judge a gift by the wrapping.”
With a running start, Adams launched herself into the air and delivered a mighty drop-kick to his big, bearded face.
Well, she tried. What actually happened is that Santa grabbed her by both feet and started spinning. Through the picture, Iris watched in dismay as Adams blurred into a spinning ring shape. Then, with a cry of “Peanut Butter Pinwheel!” Santa let go and sent Adams flying down the hallway. At a T-intersection, she collided with the wall and went straight through it, leaving a comically Adams-shaped hole and everything.
“Should we…” Leora started to request, hearing her teammate's cries over comms.
“Hold your positions!” Iris ordered. If Santa was that fast, adding more people to the equation
would just increase the odds of Adams getting (more) hurt by accident.
Whistling a holiday tune, Santa retrieved his bag of toys (still lying under the vent) and slung it back over his shoulder. He dusted a bit of soot off the other, apparently the only place where any of the black stuff had actually gotten on him.
“Hey!” Adams shouted, drunkenly, from her hole. “'m not done w'you yet!” She punched her way back through the wall and squared up again.
Santa sighed. “Really?”
“Really!” she confirmed. “Bring it.”
He brought it. Santa covered the distance between himself and Adams with the speed and force of an avalanche. She dodged to the side, but was surprised when Santa's big arm shot out and caught her across the chest (“Clauseline!”) like a tree branch. From her new vantage point on the ground, Adams looked up in horror as Santa rose into the air. One arm was bent outwards, elbow ready to strike her in the gut. The other was holding a sack of – Adams's brain quickly and unhelpfully estimated – about a billion toys that probably weighed a lot more than a piano if you put them all together. Right now, with a booming cry of “Polar Piledriver!”, Santa was putting them all on Adams.
Iris still couldn't see Santa, but she did see the cracks spread across the concrete under Adams. She winced; Adams screamed.
“Status!” Iris cried, as Santa skipped happily away.
Adams groaned, which meant she was alive, at least. Iris had to content herself with that, because now the bogey was approaching Foxx's position.
“Foxx, incoming!”
Foxx didn't respond, since that would've given away his position. He heard Santa's heavy boots on the concrete as he approached…then stopped.
“Mister Foxx,” he called out, “I can see you when you're awake, too.”
“Armed?” Foxx whispered.
“No,” Iris answered, “but…”
Foxx didn't wait for the “but”. He sprung around the corner and unloaded two of his favorite pistols into old Kris Kringle. As the bullets struck him, the old man's chest and stomach blossomed with…nerf darts?
Santa gave his signature laugh. “Careful, Mr. Foxx. You'll…” He didn't get to finish, because Foxx had reloaded and tried again.
When Foxx was done, Santa brushed the darts off his jacket. “Why, when the first one didn't…” This time, he was interrupted by a different gun, something with a long barrel that Foxx had kept slung across his back. As before, he ended up covered in darts instead of bullet holes. One landed squarely in the middle of Santa's forehead, and he looked up at it with crossed, indignant eyes.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked, plucking off the offending dart.
Foxx was not, if the knife now tumbling through the air was any indication. Santa swatted it aside effortlessly.
“Really?”
Then Foxx tried his last trick – a grenade. He chucked the device, then dove back behind the corner.
Moving impossibly fast, Santa dove to catch the explosive in the catcher's mitt that had just appeared on his left hand.
“Foxx?” Iris asked, seeing him bolt back around the corner. He didn't answer, but Iris saw the grenade wink back into existence as it left Santa's hand. Although “blur” might have been a more accurate word than “wink,” since it seemed to be moving at the speed of a major league baseball pitch. It could also turn corners, apparently. Before Iris even had time to remember the last time she'd watched a teammate die, the grenade had gone off…
…with a whimsical snap and a poof of ribbons. Iris almost breathed a sigh of relief, but then she saw that the ribbons had wrapped around Foxx's arms and legs (and a paper hat had affixed itself on his head). He landed painfully on his face. Foxx struggled against his restraints, but those ribbons were apparently much stronger than the tissue paper they resembled.
As Santa approached, he scooped up a piece of paper from where the grenade-turned-Christmas-cracker had exploded.
“Hey Mister Foxx,” he asked, reading from it. “Who is Santa's favorite musician?”
Foxx stared up at his attacker, dumbfounded.
“Elf-is Presley!” Santa chortled.
Iris groaned. Foxx just redoubled his escape efforts, without success.
“Alright,” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible, “he's heading for you next, Miller. Guns and explosives don't work on him, he just turns them into toys. What else do you have?”
“Toys, huh?” Rainer pondered, looking down at his hands. “Let's see if he can play with fire.”
On cue, the blast door in front of Rainer slid open. Santa was standing there, a disappointed look on his face.
“Mister Miller. Do you really want to spend your Christmas Eve fighting Old Saint Nick?”
“Sorry, Mister Claus. Just doing my job, nothing personal.”
Santa nodded and dropped the toy bag behind him. “I understand. And I hope you understand that I also have a job to do.” He loudly cracked his mittened knuckles for emphasis.
“I do.”
“Well, let's get it over with then.”
Uncertainly, Rainer raised both hands. “So you know that song about roasting chestnuts?”
Santa's smile seemed to widen. “I do.”
“…yeah.”
Then he opened a small wormhole in front of each hand, both connecting to a dimension filled with nothing but lots and lots and lots of fire. The flames shot towards Santa in two powerful jets. At the same time, Santa raised his own hands and fired twin jets of snow. The elements collided at the halfway point, dissolving into a cloud of hot steam. After only a few seconds, Rainer couldn't even see Santa anymore. Soon, the cloud had even enveloped him and obscured Iris's point of view entirely. He kept the fire going until the damp heat of the steam became unbearable.
Without the roar of flame and hiss of sublimating ice, the hallway was dead silent. Rainer tried to peer through the steam, but it was as impenetrable as a thick fog. He felt like a sitting duck. Quickly, Rainer conjured a set of thermal imaging goggles and slipped them on. Nothing showed up on the thermal scan, but he wasn't sure if that was because Santa was gone or because of the hot steam around him. He staggered backwards, looking frantically about for any sign of his holly jolly opponent.
His back bumped into a bowl full of jelly.
Rainer started to shout, but his cry was suddenly muffled. There came a tearing sound, and a heavy thump.
“Miller!” Iris demanded. She tried to squint through the thinning steam cloud, but still couldn't see anything. “Are you okay?!”
“Ugh,” he grunted, “yeah, I'm okay.”
“What happened?” As the cloud continued to disperse, Iris thought she could make out a wriggling, humanoid shape on the ground.
“He wrapped me.”
Now Iris could see it. The struggling shape on the ground was Miller, bound up to the neck in colorful wrapping paper. Well, at least he wasn't hurt.
In a matter of seconds, Santa was at Leora's position. He stood at one end of the walkway and beheld Leora at its midpoint, decked out in shining, crystalline armor that looked like a cross between Captain Marvel's costume and medieval plate mail. It was, in Iris's opinion, completely ridiculous. Less ridiculous was the blade of solidified light in Leora's right hand, complete with a cruciform hilt.
Dramatically, she leveled her light-saber at Santa Claus. “Let's dance,” was the best quip she could come up with.
Santa smiled. He dropped the toy sack at his feet, then reached into it. When his hand came back, it was clutching a whole-ass Scottish claymore.
“What kind of kid gets a real sword for Christmas?” Leora mused.
“What?!” Iris stammered, desperately wishing she could see the fat bastard.
“Hey,” Santa said, “I get a present too.”
Three throwing stars of pure light sliced through the air towards Santa. He swiped them out of the air without even looking, the gigantic sword moving like a fencing foil in his super-strong hand. Leora formed a chain-whip in her left hand and lashed it at Santa. The crystal chain wrapped around his blade, and she yanked at it, trying to disarm him. As she could've predicted if she'd seen him curb-stomping Adams, her most powerful tug came nowhere close to the strength of Santa's grip. He looked at the chain around his blade in mild curiosity, then yanked it. Leora was smart enough to let go instead of being dragged off her feet, but the maneuver still left her off balance for just a moment. In that moment, Santa blurred across the distance between them and planted one big black boot on Leora's belly. The kick sent her flying, but Leora's luminous armor took most of the damage. She even managed – barely – to keep her footing as she skidded to a stop at the end of the walkway.
“That all ya got?” she said, forming a circular shield – with a big star in the middle, of course – in the hand that wasn't still clutching a sword.
Santa looked up at the lights overhead. “No,” he said, “I don't believe it is.” Then he snapped his fingers, despite the fluffy mittens still encasing them, and all those lights went out.
“Shit,” Leora and Iris said in unison.
Without further ado, Santa lunged at Leora, now the only light source in the room. She actually managed to block the first swing, but it packed so much punch that her shield immediately winked out of existence.
“Get out of there!” Iris shouted. Light armor or not, Iris wasn't sure the kid could survive a trip through a wall. She certainly couldn't handle another “Polar Piledriver.” She couldn't handle taking orders, either, apparently, because she continued to stand her ground against Father Christmas. None of her swipes connected, though; Santa's longer reach and bigger sword made sure of that.
Then again, Iris thought, maybe she could help the kid in another way. She raised her old polaroid, made sure the flash was on, pointed it at the picture, and snapped another.
As the new light lanced into the room, Leora snagged some out of it out of the air and used it to form a giant, glowing fist. For the first time, Santa actually looked surprised. He looked even more surprised when the fist swung at his face. He blocked on pure reflex, but the blade of the claymore apparently wasn't as magical, or as strong, as he was. It snapped in half under the onslaught, and Leora's crystal fist glanced Santa's face. It knocked his signature hat right off.
Santa staggered backwards, looking more surprised than hurt, and Leora pressed the attack. Her sword slashed down in a deadly arc…
…and shattered into a million tiny, harmless sparkles of non-anomalous, not-at-all-hard light. Leora looked up at Santa, a hurt expression on her face.
Santa Claus, who had apparently never been in any real danger, was no longer smiling.
“That's enough,” he said. With a wave of his hand, he dissolved all of Leora's other constructs. This time, Iris didn't have to tell her to run.
Abandoning her wall of pictures, Iris picked up her rifle and leveled it at the door. Not a moment later, it slid open.
“You should be more careful with that thing, Miss Thompson. You'll shoot your eye out.”
She tried to shoot for Santa's, but instead of a BANG there was just a disappointing pop. Iris looked disdainfully at the cork dangling on a string at the end of her gun, which was now made of wood.
“Shit.”
“Language, Miss Thompson!”
That, she would later reflect, was what pushed her over the edge; the absurd assertion that a swear word could possibly be objectionable under these circumstances. With a cry of frustration and desperation, Iris lunged at him with combat knife drawn. As expected, Santa effortlessly wrestled it from her grip and wrapped her in a crushing bear hug. She kept fighting, but her kicks and headbutts seemed to bounce right off like he was made of rubber.
“Tisk-tisk,” he chastised, “and to think I brought you this shiny new pair of roller skates.”
Iris felt her boots transform, a second before Santa stuck a ribbon to her with one hand and sent her spinning across the room with the other. The ribbon twined around her as she twirled. Then her back collided with the wall, her wheeled feet slipped away, and her butt crashed painfully to the floor. Maybe she was just concussed, but for a moment there Iris could've sworn there were two tiny turtledoves circling around her head. Or maybe they were French hens.
Still whistling jovially, Santa strode past his incapacitated opponent. The door to the containment chamber slid open to admit him. He drew right up to SCP-239's bed and dropped his big red bag beside it. Then he started rummaging inside.
“Let's see…aha!” Santa removed a long, thin, package and set it beside Sigguros on the mattress. He lifted the lid, revealing a comically, frightfully oversized syringe full of cinematically bubbling liquid that glowed a garish pink. “Just what little Siggy wanted: to wake up!”
“No!” Iris cried, shaking her head to clear it of avian Christmas presents. “You can't!” She lurched towards Santa and managed to fall over in the door to the containment chamber.
“Of course I can! Santa can do anything.” Carefully, he lifted the syringe.
“Don't you know what she is?” Iris yelled, twisting around to face him.
“A little girl, unfairly confined against her will?”
“A Type Green! A reality bender, a child-god!" Iris heaved herself up onto her right shoulder. "She could destroy us all!”
Santa seemed offended. “She would never! Siggy is Nice!”
“What?! She's been unconscious all year!"
Santa shrugged. “Can't be naughty in your sleep. Well, not until puberty.”
“Are-" in her surprise, Iris lost her balance and fell over on her face. Though her voice was now muffled by the floor, she continued. "Are you serious right now?!”
“Well, I suppose you could argue that noct…”
“She summoned a fucking dragon in the middle of the Site!”
“Doctor Clef was trying to kill her!”
“Because she made him do it!” Iris wasn't actually too sure about that part, but she figured Santa probably wasn't either.
“Not on purpose,” Santa said, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, she didn't kill that D-Class on purpose either, did she?”
“She brought him back!”
“She BLEW UP A HOSPITAL!”
“As a baby! I didn't judge you for pooping your pants as a child.”
Iris growled and rolled back onto her shoulder. “You didn't exist when I was a child! You're just a figment of her imagination!”
“Well,” he retorted, “what is Santa if not the hopes and dreams of children? And it's my job to make those dreams come true.” He turned back towards Siggy, but Iris wasn't finished yet.
“And what if her dreams are our nightmares, huh?” Something about that choice of words tickled the back of Iris's brain, but she didn't have time to think about that.
Santa paused. “What do you mean?”
“What if Siggy wants to make the world a ‘better place'? What if she wants to turn the whole fucking thing into a stupid fairy tale? What if she wants revenge on the people who put her in that coma and scorches the Earth to get it? What if she gets bored and decides to put out the fucking Sun?”
“Siggy would never…”
“Are you sure?" Iris spat. "Are you sure she's so nice? Have you ever known a kid?”
“Of course!" Santa drew back, offended. "I know every child!”
"Then you know how mean they can be. Drawing on the walls, breaking shit and lying about it, stealing shit. Throwing a screaming hell-fit when they don't get exactly whatever the fuck they want. I was an insufferable little shit as a kid."
Santa looked up for a moment, remembering. "Eh. You usually broke even. Well, except that first year of middle school. Sophie never did anything to you."
Iris hadn't expected Santa to actually dredge up her Nice/Naughty ratio, especially from before SCP-239 even dreamed him into being. She certainly hadn't expected to be scolded for it. If her face hadn't already been red from all the yelling and rolling around, it would be now.
"This isn't about me! You're - you're just proving my point! Kids are cruel! Kids are bullies!"
A crease formed between Santa's bushy white eyebrows. "Well, some of-" he began, but Iris wasn't finished. She was properly ranting now, fired up into a frenzy by frustration (Why wouldn't this holly jolly asshole listen?!), humiliation (How dare he throw her personal life in her face like that!), and most of all desperation (OH GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE). There were even a few hot, angry tears bubbling up as she wriggled around down there like a ribbon-wrapped slug.
"And kids get bullied, for stupid shit they can't even control like how tall they are, or how fast they can run, or their dorky hobbies, or who they like, or…or what their name is! My brother, he…" Iris caught herself before that particular pain could slip out. Any further than it already had, anyway. God, how many people even knew she had a brother? Well, Santa surely did with his omniscient fucking List, but that also meant he didn't need her to tell him.
For a long, tense moment, Santa stared into Iris's eyes. They were angry. Hurt. Frightened.
Santa glanced back down at Sigguros. She was pretty young, especially if you didn't count the years she'd spent unconscious. And the Foundation hadn't exactly been great parents.
“What's your point?”
“My point," she gasped, out of breath, "is that you're about to give that girl permission to write on the walls of reality. To break the whole damn universe and lie about it. To take whatever the hell she wants. All because she's been ‘nice'. By default."
“But…but it isn't fair! Siggy never meant to hurt anyone! She shouldn't have to spend her life…” he gestured at her unconscious form, and the beeping machines connected to it, “…like this!”
“You think I don't get that? You think I don't know what it's like to be locked up forever because of what you can do, instead of what you did?”
A look of confusion crossed Santa's face. “Then how can you fight to keep her like this?”
“Because I still realize that there's seven billion other people on this planet, and they don't deserve to get mind-controlled or blown up or whatever else any more than Siggy deserves what's happening to her. I'm Protecting those people, from her. And if you're one ounce as good as you think you are, then you will too.”
Santa looked back at Siggy, and his lips twisted into a frown. He looked down at the syringe full of bubbly magic medicine, and a tear glistened in his twinkling eye. With a defeated sigh, he placed it back in the padded box it'd come from.
“Cold, not cruel?” he asked, as the drop slid down his rosy cheek.
“Something like that,” Iris answered.
Santa put the lid back on the box, and the box back in his bag. He didn't sling it over his shoulder this time; he just dragged it sadly along behind him, until he got to Iris.
“You're blocking the door,” he said, quietly.
“Whose fault is that?” she retorted.
Santa squinted. With a grunt, he lifted up the sack and stepped gingerly over her. For the first time that night, he seemed tired. His broad shoulders were slumped, his light-footed skip replaced by a slow, heavy trudge.
“I'd wish you a happy Christmas,” he mumbled, “but I don't suppose your ironclad ideology has any use for happiness.”
Iris didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't. As Santa plodded away, though, she did feel kind of…bad? Was she really feeling sorry for the guy that'd kicked her team's asses from here to the North Pole?
Yes, she reluctantly admitted, she was. He looked like a kicked puppy.
“Santa, wait.”
He stopped in the doorway. “What?” he asked, without looking back. All the mirth that had filled his voice before was gone.
Iris thought about stopping, or telling him to fuck off, or something. What was she doing, putting the mission back in danger like this? The bogey was retreating, Siggy was asleep, the world was saved…and she'd made Santa Claus cry, on Christmas Eve. What kind of a jerk does that?
“There are other kids in here, you know.”
Santa peered at her over his shoulder, but he didn't speak.
“And if they're anything like I was, they could really use something to believe in. Or someone.”
“What are you saying?”
“Well,” she said, biting her lip for a second, “Siggy brought you to life for a reason, right? To make kids' dreams come true?”
“I…I suppose so, yes.”
“And there's more in that bag than just a big needle.”
“Well, of course.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Santa seemed to consider this. Slowly, a jolly smile crept back onto his face. “It's not too late,” he whispered.
“What?” Iris asked. Her ears were still kind of ringing from all that spinning, falling, and yelling.
“It's not too late,” Santa repeated, whirling around to face her, “to save Christmas!”
Iris started to return his smile, until she noticed the mischief in it.
“But I'm going to need some help,” he said, pointing at her.
Iris groaned.

“Well,” Santa boomed, “good job, everyone!”
“Thank you!” Rainer replied, sincerely.
“Thanks,” Leora said, less so.
Iris muttered something unintelligible.
Adams just grunted.
Foxx remained silent.
Santa chuckled. “Aw, where's your Christmas spirit?”
Adams was the first to answer. “Pretty sure you crushed it with that ‘Polar Piledriver'.”
He winced. “Ah, sorry about that. I…got a little carried away on that one.”
“No shit.” She shot a dirty look at her un-piledriven teammates, who pretended to ignore it.
“Well,” he sighed, patting his great bowl-full-of-jelly with one massive mitten, “my work here is…wait!” With the same mitten, he pointed toward the center of the room. “We forgot the most important part!”
No one moved.
“That's really high up,” Rainer observed.
Sighing, Iris fished her phone out of her pocket. “Leora, star me.” With one hand, she took a picture of the problem area. With the other, she accepted the large, crystalline star that Leora had made. Then she passed it through the picture and set it in its proper place. “Ta da,” she said, unenthusiastically.
Rainer actually started clapping, so she punched him – lightly, but not too lightly – on the arm.
“Perfect!” Santa cheered, drowning out Rainer's quiet “ow”.
Stepping forward a bit, Santa turned to face the bedraggled members of MTF Alpha-9 (and Lambda-2). He was beaming, with little red dimples and everything. “Thank you for showing me that Christmas isn't incompatible with the Foundation's overwhelming moral ambiguity after all!”
“Thanks for not killing us,” Leora grumbled.
He winked. “Well, there's always next year.”
Everyone's eyes widened fearfully at the prospect of a rematch, but Santa ignored them.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” From his fuzzy jacket, Santa produced a surprisingly large box wrapped in colorful paper. He handed the package to Agent Foxx, who accepted it suspiciously, as if it might be a bomb. Then he noticed the tag on it: “Lucille”. Foxx gave Santa a quizzical look.
“It's Dippin' Dots, Mr. Foxx. They're little frozen ice cream balls, and I think your daughter will enjoy making them very much.”
Foxx sighed and shook his head. He should've guessed.
“Now,” said the jolly old elf, hoisting the massive sack of toys back onto his shoulder, “I really must be going. Merry Christmas!”
With a salute, he dissolved into a flurry of snow and vanished into the nearest air vent.
The assembled agents stood there in silence, staring at the vent. Foxx was the first to speak.
“I need to get home. Lucy will want to open this.” Then he walked away, followed by various mumbled holiday wishes.
“Say, Rainer,” Adams sighed, with palpable exhaustion, “ya got any peppermint Schnapps in that wormhole dimension?”
“What's a Shnop?” he asked.
Adams stared at him for a second or two. She opened her mouth to explain, but ended up saying “Yo Foxx, wait up!” instead. Then she limped away after her fellow Real Adult.
“You guys want anything?” Rainer asked, pulling a Sprite cranberry from one of his wormholes.
“A normal fucking holiday,” Iris grumbled.

When Christmas morning came, it felt much like any other to the various humans and humanoids of Site-17. There hadn't been many festivities this month; mostly just a few holiday-themed arts and crafts sessions, whose flimsy products would soon be exchanged as makeshift gifts. Everyone would pretend to like what they got, if anything, and then they'd sit down to watch some outdated Christmas classic that even the longest-contained anomalies could still remember seeing before the skippers got them. There weren't even any decorations, since some of those could be repurposed as weapons.
At least, that's what they'd been expecting. But when the cells slid open for breakfast that morning, something was clearly different. Instead of the harsh, unsteady glare of the ever-present fluorescent tubes, the cafeteria was lit with the warm glow of a million tiny Christmas lights. Evergreen garlands arched up and down the walls, and delicate paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling. Festive tablecloths covered each table, anchored by glasses of eggnog and plates of sprinkle-coated sugar cookies. The most impressive thing, though, was the tree. It stood tall and proud at the center of the room, its living branches heavy with countless sparkling ornaments and ribbons. At the top of the mighty pine, seemingly higher up than the ceiling should have allowed, a massive crystalline star gleamed the brightest of all. And all around the base of the tree, there were dozens of expertly wrapped presents.
For a moment, the crowd of groggy anomalies bottlenecked there in the hallway, eyes wide and mouths agape. A small child was the first to break from the stupor, because she'd spotted her own name on the comically oversized tag that dangled from one of those presents. After that, it was a free-for-all.
The security guards, who were still trying to get their bearings amid the holiday hoopla, could do little more than shout ineffectually over the ruckus. Paper, ribbons, and bits of carboard flew every which way, and countless exclamations of surprise and delight echoed over the sound of tearing paper products.
Han scrambled into a bag full of tissue paper. Seconds later, he emerged clad in a white, sequin-spangled Michael Jackson glove. Alexei found a book called Goncharov and its two sequels, favorite works of literature that he never expected to see again in this dimension. Cactusman pulled a protruding string on a box taller than he was, which fell away to reveal an entire saguaro cactus.
“Hey big guy!” he exclaimed, then went in for a hug. “Ouch,” he said, quietly.
Stacey's present was a DVD holding all 21 episodes of My Love From Another Star. She was glad to see it; none of the other skips were fans of K-drama, so her requests to have it added to the approved media pool had been repeatedly denied. She still wasn't sure if they'd let her watch it now, but this wasn't the time to worry about that.
Stacey was halfway through her sixth sugar cookie when she spotted Leora, sitting at a table off to the side with Rainer and Iris. She hurried over, eager to see what they'd gotten. As she got closer, though, she realized that the three members of Alpha-9 didn't look nearly as jolly as the rest of the folks in the room. In fact, they were exhausted, covered in bruises, and still wearing their tactical gear. Stacey opened her mouth to ask what'd happened, but Leora saw her approaching and spoke up first.
“Hey! What'd you get?”
“Oh. Uh,” she held up her DVD. “A show I liked, before…” she gestured at the Site around her.
“Nice,” Leora replied, showing a tired smile.
“What did you get?” Stacey asked, seeing no signs of gift-opening around her friend's feet.
Leora shared a look with Rainer. Then, in unison, they reached into their jackets and pulled out fist-sized lumps of coal.
“We were naughty,” she said. Rainer started giggling. To Stacey's astonishment, the perpetually-grouchy Iris did as well. Before long, Stacey had joined in too.

Gently, a fluffy-mittened hand lifted SCP-239's pillow and swapped it for a softer, more colorful one. Another hand tucked a fluffy teddy bear under her limp arm. Finally, a warm, purple blanket was pulled up to her chin and tucked in.
“Sweet dreams, Siggy,” Santa whispered. Then, as Christmas Day dawned over Site-17, he was gone.


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⚠ Content warning: This article contains implications of gore and cannibalism.

⚠ content warning

There was an unbearable craving in my stomach.
I sat dormant on the living room couch, my eyes fixated on the cracked television screen as I shifted through channels eight to eleven. Clips bled together like fresh paint on a wall, coming off as static to my ears. The ceiling fan swayed gently in the breeze, the fluorescent light hummed a jarring melody, and I could sense a dry taste in the air. With this hollow feeling keeping me company, it felt like your typical Friday night.
"Hungry…"
A layer of saliva coated the walls of my mouth, dripping down my chin as I felt a sharp ache in my gut. Oh, what familiarity, this yearning for the taste of cheap fast food. My lungs danced around, begging for its alluring aroma. These hands wanted to shower in the grease seeping from their orifices. I could bear it no longer, unable to relish in the delicacy of such fine china. I must have a bite. I must consume.
Though, I wonder about the last time I ate a proper meal. The kitchen is a breeding ground for a dust bunny colony, preparing for its eventual dominance over the rest of this post-apocalyptic space I called an apartment room. I found it odd knowing how I used to thrive behind the counter, preparing myself the pinnacle of meals without fault. Chefs worldwide would feed on their hearts, knowing how well I held a knife. But nowadays, my body lost its motivation to move and to be productive.
I used to go outside. Now, I fear the sun pouring in every morning.
However, I shouldn't stray from getting something to eat, so I reached for my stained phone atop a bed of books and magazines. Cold to the touch but colder when greeting, it sprayed my eye with a bright light. Tedious, to say the least.
Lately, I've gotten addicted to this one delivery service. With a few clicks and some bucks to spare, a fresh pizza appears on your doorstep. My tongue yearned to wrap around the brittle crust, the melting cheese, and especially the sauce. How I wanted to bathe in the fondness of the savory sauce, I caught myself gripping my chest once again. Calm down, and hurry on with your order.
As I went online, my eyes hovered over the stacks of pizza boxes scattered across the floor. I reminisced on how I drained the sustenance of their soaking fragrance, their life masticated by my teeth. The viscous liquid began to rise above the levels of my mouth once more. I gulped.
There was nothing like a hearty Margherita to satiate my overwhelming hunger. Leaving another fingerprint on the screen, I proceeded to checkout, throwing away paper in the wind to replenish myself. I could see it: A lowly meal crying tears of oil to quench the thirst of an unhealthy obsession. My eyes widened as I sensed a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. With such agony, I longed for freedom from it. It left me without a breath to breathe.
Before I suffered any longer, however, I could hear a fleeting doorbell interrupting the sore silence. I quickly leapt off my seat and rushed to the entrance, my legs scraping against the wooden floor. I desperately threw myself toward the handle and grasped it without falling to the ground. As I struggled to stand, I unlocked the door and swung it open to see the light of my life before me.
Without wasting another moment, I ushered my dear inside and swept everything off the table, making room for another night of satisfaction. As the mouthwatering creature rested upon its deathbed, I took a moment to enjoy its perfume. I could sense the love and care coating every slice, glistening under the lamp like a shooting star. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I decided to dig in right then and there.
Bless the lords for this meal. I took a slice and ravished it with my teeth, chewing away its skin and letting it writhe before swallowing, shoving the mass down my throat. Shutting my eyes, I prepared myself for the burning sensation, waiting for all the flavors to envelop me like a cocoon. I remained still for a minute, then another, and another.
But, despite how long I strained to take in this gift, my chest still felt hollow, pleading for an exit from this shivering emptiness.
The cheese tasted blander than usual, and the crust tainted my tongue like sandpaper. Not even the sauce was enough to plough through my dismay. What an excuse for a pizza, leaving my throat barren and dry like a desert. It was as if I'd eaten a mouthful of chalk.
Disappointing. Just disappointing. It breaks my heart.
I wanted the food to wash over me with euphoria. Instead, I found myself dissatisfied with how parched it left me, causing my taste buds to shudder and the ends of my lips to weigh down. All sorts of mixed emotions cascaded through my mind — none being positive. I tossed the pizza aside and groaned as I fell back on my couch.
There I fixated on the ceiling fan as it swiftly spun, my brain filled to the brim with thoughts of confusion, shock, and bitterness. What have I done to deserve such dissatisfaction? Have I grown too used to the taste? What was even the point anymore? Questions, many questions, yet no answer arrived. I was taught not to waste food, no matter how below-average its quality was, but I struggled to take another bite. I almost returned to the website to complain but stopped.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection on the phone screen. I stared at myself, stared at every little detail before settling on my eyes — my pleasant and moist eyes. Just then, a thought struck my head.
I had an idea.
Turning to the kitchen beside me, I got off my seat and staggered across the floor, pulling myself closer to the entrance. Each step made the wooden boards creak in response. Bursting through the door, I scanned the untouched territory standing still as the air melted down my throat.
My feet shivered from the touch of the tiled floor, which shot a cold stream up my body. Regardless, I dragged myself toward the goal in front of me, resting neatly on the counter. I could hear it calling to me, the sound of a desperate knife left in an isolated cage. I felt the world around me shifting elsewhere as I reached for its grasp. My vision grew blurry, my heartbeat pierced my ears, and my breath weighed me down. It was like my body took every opportunity to slow me for whatever reason, begging me to stop. Despite this, I persisted and took the chance.
Nostalgic, the feeling of holding this knife. It warmed from my touch.
Then — as I glared at my sunken expression on its sheen, my mouth stained with cheese and sauce — I focused on my glistening eyes. The pizza was so dry I would perish from dehydration if I took another bite. Staring at myself made me realize I needed something to compliment it, something more than even the sauce to bring the flavor to its absolute potential. The feeling of lukewarm food tainting my stomach left it upset. My eyes shined under the flickering lamp above me. I hesitated for a second when pointing the blade toward myself, but then I figured:
This pizza could use some toppings.

…

…

…

Never before have I tasted anything more delicious in my life.
An added taste to the mix brought this pizza's flavour to its limits and beyond. Angelic tears and golden light coated my tongue in a bright hue. The sauce — now coupled with my homemade toppings — seeped down my throat, loosening and finally releasing me from these stressful chains that kept me trapped. I could breathe with ease once more, even cleaner than before. The world had never felt so fresh in my nights alone. All thanks to my cooking skills.
Honestly, who wouldʼve thought? My mastery of the culinary arts remained despite so many long and lonely evenings. Chefs worldwide would feed on their eyes, knowing how well I held a knife. At last, I was satisfied.
Five out of five stars. I never knew how delectable a pepperoni pizza was before now.

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Other

NOTICED: SCP-7345 Fanart (+17) •

CRACKHEAD: SCP-173 Fanart (+30) •

a lack of care. (+28) •

7K DOODLES (+68) •

King CalcaRuler: Halloween Emperor (+29) •

COMBUST: SCP-6057 Fanart (+22) •

froot froggo :) (+39) •

DITTO: SCP-#### Fanart (+40) •

HELTHY: SCP-6780 Fanart (+25) •

Certified Criminal (+32) •

FISHER: SCP-2689 Fanart (+23) •

RESPOND: Telecommunications Monitoring Office Fanart (+44) •

ARTWITNESS: SCP-5843 Fanart (+29) •

SCiPTEMBER DOODLES (+20) •

the winkwonk page v2 (+24) •