The Father, The Son, and Shia LaBeouf - SCP Foundation

“So, what is this that you’re doing exactly?” Dr Zhang - a tall, slim Asian man with a square jaw and surgical demeanour about the self - stepped into the containment cell, frowning at SCP-1247. The SCP didn’t respond, as he was rather preoccupied with the demolition of a large pot of mushrooms. “Dan?” Zhang asked again, tone patiently firm.

“What does it look like?” Dan finally responded, stopping to pant. His knuckles were white around the axe he gripped in both hands.

Dr. Lost sat in the corner, frowning uncomfortably. “Sorry. I thought it might help him.”

Zhang ignored the indigo-haired researcher, choosing to focus on his patient. “Well, to me it seems like you’re destroying mushrooms. Would you like to tell me what inspired you to do this?”

“Revenge,” Dan gritted out, swinging again at the (now thoroughly broken) pot of mushrooms. “These fucking fungi tried to kill me, so now I’m giving them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Can you see them?” Zhang asked, stepping closer while still keeping a fair distance between them.

“Yeah,” Dan said.

“Hm,” Zhang made a note on his clipboard. “How are you feeling, now that you’ve… hurt them?”

Dan paused. “Good. Yeah. I’m good.”

“Hm,” another mark against the clipboard. “Now. I’m aware that previously during experimentation, they burned a-”

“Thanks. I remember,” Dan winced, and Zhang nodded sympathetically. “Of course. Apologies. Now, that seemed to hurt you, yes? What’s the difference here?”

“These are beefsteaks,” Dan gestured.

“Ah, indeed. Gyromitra esculenta,” Zhang glanced over at Dr Lost, who nodded in confirmation.

“False morels,” they said quietly. “It’s close enough.”

“Of course,” Zhang replied. “Very good thinking.”

Dan continued to hack at the mushrooms. Zhang and Lost exchanged a look.

Dan closed his eyes, hoping for sleep to grab him and take him quiet and quick.

It hooked into him like the clawing arms of Leviathan plants. Ivy vines and thorny tendrils.

It took him quickly.

But there was no quiet.

This dream is screaming and ruddy, caked with browns, deep under the earth it rots his mind. He opens his eyes.

The bed he sits upon is a hospital bed, in the cave. The edges of the white sheets are caked in dirt; the cave's walls and floor covered in a thick blanket of honeycombed morels. The thick grooves looked squishy and squirming. Something deep in his mind shifted with the suck and shift of the walls, and it occurred that this was his mind.

A few long thin fungi tendrils had trailed up, poking into Dan’s wrists, and suctioned to his head, like an IV drip, dripping decay into a dead brain.

Before him, on the edge of the bed, sat Shia LaBeouf.

“What the fuck?” Dan asked. Shia was dressed in a white robe, feet bare. A intricate mask of fungal vines crossed over half his face, obscuring it from view, and twisting back into something like horns. He gripped an axe in his left hand, encrusted with brown blood. “Dan.”

“That’s me,” Dan said suspiciously. “Where in God’s name am I?”

“In Her cave,” replied Shia LaBeouf. “Or Him. Them? Man, I don’t know how to keep up with the lingo these days. Whatever they’re calling me.”

“And… who are you?” Dan drew his knees to his chest, pulling himself back against the pillow, and away from the man.

“God,” said Shia LaBeouf. “If you want to give a name. You can call me Shia, though. But- well, this is awkward, but I didn’t really know how to talk to you any other way.”

“Talk?” Dan raised an eyebrow, suspicion and confusion blending into intrigue.

“Yeah. Uh, like I said, this is gonna be awkward, but I need you to stop killing shrooms. I mean… okay, so, you’re kinda a Chosen One right now. Like, obviously, I’m not your dad, but also I did make you. Or choose you. Whatever. Point is, I’m the reason that 70% of your brain is now made of morels.”

Dan lunged at Shia LaBeouf. Shia dodged, flickering out of reality until Dan had regained his control, and was sitting up again, panting angrily. “Hey,” Shia flickered back in. “Not cool, man.”

“You aren’t real,” Dan hissed.

“Neither are you,” Shia shot back. “Probably. Y’know, reality is actually only a 30% chance right now. There’s a 70% chance that none of this matters, I’m dead, and you’re next.” He shrugged.

“That’s bullshit,” Dan said. “I know you’re trying to confuse me so I believe you.”

“Honestly? I might,” Shia shrugged. “I mean. You’re Mushroom Jesus, not me,” He considered. “I’m just Shia LaBeouf.”

“Out of all of that,” Dan replied, breathing hard. “I think I might believe that the most.”

“Anyways,” Shia stood, holding up the axe. “Consider this insurance. Sorry for doing this, but… I can’t exactly have my big dude running around killing all my soldiers. So…”

With a swift swing, the axe embedded itself deep into Dan’s chest. He screamed, head wrenching back. The walls all flinched, recoiling, before squeezing in again. Cold, fleshy mushroom pressed into the back of Dan’s neck, and his shoulders and hands.

Pain was a fungal hellfire, and it burned him clean through, all the way to the marrow of his bones, which had long ago turned from marrow to morel. It burned to his heart, where brown buds had recently taken root.

It burned him all the way back to the waking world.

“Good morning, Mr Forrest,” Dr Lost greeted, from Dan’s cell door. Dan looked up, wincing as he saw their face, or more specifically, the face of Shia LaBeouf. “How are you?”

“Bad,” Dan replied.

“That’s unfortunate,” Dr Lost frowned. “Would you like to continue the Destruction Therapy we tried yesterday? I’ve consulted with Dr. Zhang, and we’ve designed a room for you that can provide you optimal safety to get out your anger.” They shifted to an encouraging smile, eyes hopeful.

Dan took a deep breath, and screamed.