The Scoop - SCP Foundation

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! President Cornwallis of Earth Thirty-One resigns in scandal! The story’s all yours for a dime, ma’am!” the paperboy shouted through the bustling crowds of Time Square.

Timothy passed off the last copy of the Sunday paper with one hand, and drew in a fistful of coins with the other. Even with that “inflation” gobbeldygook Mr. Noteworthy was always yelling about, today’s paper run might just be a record haul: almost twenty smackeroos! And all before dark, too!

The boy shoved the coinage in the pockets of his suspenders as he hopped down from his rickety wooden milk crate. He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the top of his flatcap, before squinting to read the time off one of those fancy electronic billboards this city was so fond of. It was just turning 3:30.

Timothy’s stomach growled. He’d skipped lunch that day to get the extra sales in; needed to impress Mr. Noteworthy before asking that big favor, even though he felt bad about not eating that PB & J his Ma had packaged for him that morning. He kicked the crate up and caught it under one arm, it was time to go back.

The boy’s ears perked up as he heard shouting from somewhere in the mass of people around him. It was pretty easy to miss one or two folks yelling in the busy streets of New York. But those three police officers in the nifty black uniforms pushing towards him through the crowd were saying something very peculiar.

“SCP-5402, stop where you are now!”

Well that’s an odd name. The boy swung his head over his right shoulder. Then his left. None of the other passerbys looked much like a Mr. or Mrs. “5402.” But the officer in front, now close enough that Timothy could see those three white arrows on his helmet, seemed to be looking right at him. Confused, he pointed his finger to his chest, as if to say: Who, me?

“Do not move from that spot! You're coming in for questioning.” The man reached out at him, probably to grab a paper.

Timothy sighed. The news media must be really popular on this Earth. “Sorry misters, I just sold the last copy. But I’ll have some extras to sell tomorrow morning, I’m sure of it!”

Blip.

Right as the officer reached him, Timothy disappeared from Earth Thirteen. Celestial bodies whizzed past his vision like streamers, as he rocketed through the cosmos of infinite worlds. He was still getting the hang of this particular mode of travel, one of the many perks of being a paperboy for the best outlet in the multiverse. He just needed to pick out the right dimension to land in, he didn’t want a repeat of that kerfuffle with all those spooky melting folks. He wondered if people from that world were made of ice cream?

Ah, snap out of it Tim, focus!

As he finally settled down into his home dimension, galaxies and nebulae seemed to swirl around him like a glowing cloud of pixie dust. Finally, he spotted just the right planet, and on that planet, just the right country, and city, and building… Timothy focused in on just the right spot, on just the right floor, aaaaaannnd…

Blip.

…he was back! Timothy stood right inside his place of employment: The Cosmic Courant, the best and oldest extradimensional weekly in the multiverse.

The office was abuzz with the many dapper-dressing, dimension-hopping worker bees under its employ, as usual. There was a fancy word Tim couldn't remember for places like this place. Places packed with the overwhelming sounds of shuffling papers, clattering typewriters, and the hurried chattering of reporters and editors trying to make a deadline. But the only word he knew to call it was "chaos."

Blip.

A young man in a fedora popped into the office, sending papers flying off a nearby desk in a whirlwind. He strode through Timothy's path, walking with all the swagger of a man ready to change the world, but with all the speed of someone who knew it wouldn't wait for him. He paid the boy no mind as he slung his overcoat over his head onto the coat rack. "Jan, get me page three and make it snappy. Chris Rock and Will Smith just had a pistol duel in the Twenty-First."

Timothy strolled on through the building, ducking under the adults in the room, who seemed so transfixed on their myriad tasks that they hardly noticed him. To Tim, it was awe-inspiring, the way they so intensely and efficiently went about the news; the last thing he wanted was to break their concentration with a pardon or excuse me. He bobbed and weaved as they rushed about their daily business until he reached the door at the far end of the room: the office of the Editor-In-Chief, Norman Noteworthy.

"OH OKAY, WELL YOU CAN TELL THOSE MOTHERLESS DUNDERHEADS OVER AT TRANSDIMENSIONAL TELECAST THAT TV IS A FAD, AND THEIR COMPANY SURFS ON SNAKE OIL!"

Mr. Noteworthy smacked down his rotary phone with such a fury, Timothy was surprised the dial didn't pop off. The Editor muttered to himself and energetically paced the room, the white streaks in his hair fittingly looking like speed lines the way he bounced from one spot to the next. The grizzled veteran of the press snapped his suspenders before collapsing in his swivel chair, exhausted from yet another long day of red-faced arguing and shouting commands to the "pencil-necks" under his employ. He shuffled through the mountains of papers on his desk before finally noticing the paperboy at the door. "What, Tim?" he asked curtly. The man's eyes widened ever so slightly, seeming to register that he was talking to a kid. He rubbed his temples, and his expression softened. "Sorry Tim, what can I do ya for?"

"Hiya Mr. Noteworthy! Pulled in a record haul today!" Timothy beamed as he presented his flat cap, stuffed to the brim with a heap of coins, bills, and a colorful assortment of currencies from countless worlds.

"That's good, Tim. Strong stuff. You're gonna make it big in this business." The Editor blazed through his sentences with all the speed of an auctioneer.

"Yeah, I thought so too. I was thinking I might be ready to give writing a try, actually."

The Editor paused, leaning back in his chair and massaged the stubble on his chin as he mulled over his next words. "Tim, Tim, love the enthusiasm, that's what we're all about here. But you're a little young to go to print. Besides, we need ya where you're at, nobody can zip around quite like you can!"

"Yeah, but–" Timothy hopped on one of the chairs in front of Mr. Noteworthy's desk, sitting on top of his milk crate to get about eye level with the man. "–I really think I'm ready! I mean, I've been learning a lot and all, handling papers for you guys. And I've always wanted to do this, you know, writing. Like you."

"Aw, kid. Lay off the heartstrings." Mr. Noteworthy leaned back in his chair, pushing his hands together in deep––however brief––thought. "Tell ya what. You're already bouncing all over the cosmos, I'm sure you can find a good story out there somewhere. Find me something, bring it back, and we'll see if it's up to snuff."

"Applesauce!" Timothy leaped out of his chair, and bolted through the door. "Thank you Mr. Noteworthy! You won't regret it!"

Blip.

All-righty. Timothy thought. Stories. Stories, stories, stories, stories. If I were a story, where would I hide?

The aspiring journalist biked down the long, stretching aisles of Earth-Three Thousand and Eight. The titanous shelving units on each side of him were filled to the brim will kitchen appliances, home decor, and more ready-to-assemble furniture sets than he knew the names of. He stopped at a makeshift mailbox resting on one of the shelves, dropping a paper inside. A Ziploc bag full of Swedish meatballs sat nearby as his payment.

Suddenly, Timothy was overcome with an idea. Everybody loves local businesses! Mr. Noteworthy said they're "the front line in the war against communism." I could write a puff piece about this place! He scanned the aisles as far as his vision would allow. Hm… I just gotta find someone to talk to.

Timothy screeched to a halt as a yellow-clad silhouette appeared in the distance. It was a tall, faceless man in a striped IKEA uniform. Golly, he thought. My first person! And a worker to boot! The boy cleared his throat as he biked closer, notepad in hand. "Hey mister! Mister! Timothy Times with The Cosmic Courant, could I borrow you for a second?"

The creature meandered onwards, ignoring the boy. Oh wait a second, he doesn't have ears! He probably can't hear me. Timothy sucked in a deep breath. "MISTER! CAN YOU SPARE A MOMENT OF YOUR TIME?" His shout echoed deep throughout the store.

"Hey, hey kid!"

Timothy scanned around for the source of the voice. He turned his attention to a makeshift wall in a nearby clearing, built from overturned refrigerators and ovens stacked like LEGO pieces. A giant cardboard sign read "KITCHENWARE COMMONWEALTH." A man was leaning over the top of the wall, almost fifteen shelves high. He wore tattered clothes, covered in cupcake trays he donned like a studded suit of armor, and clutched a spear firmly in one hand. "What are you doing? Get away from that thing!"

"Oh, hey! You must be a customer! My name's Timothy Times, I'm a junior reporter with The Cosmic Courant! Wanna answer a couple questions for me?"

"You– What? Kid seriously, it's gonna be dark soon, get inside!"

"Sorry mister." Timothy put up both his hands. "My momma told me not to go anywhere with strangers."

The fluorescent lights, dangling a football field off the ground from an infinite sheet metal roof began to shutter off one by one, sending a looming darkness cascading over the world. "The store is now closed," a voice echoed from somewhere off in the distance. "Please exit the building."

The man became panicked. "Kid, seriously, get out of there."

If Timothy could see behind him, he would have seen the faceless man whip around to face him as the lights went off. It began to lumber towards the boy, its elongated, claw-like fingers stretching wide ready to pounce.

Timothy tapped his pencil to the notepad. "Well just a second, sir. I need to speak with the fine gentleman behind me."

"Stop messing around, don't go near that thing!"

"Why, is their customer service that bad?" Timothy began to jot down on the paper.

The creature dove at Timothy, clamping down on him like a venus fly trap. But the instant it drew close enough to touch him, his teleportation kicked in like a reflex, vanishing him from the spot before he even knew what was happening.

Blip.

Timothy looked around. He landed in a random spot in the store, at the very top of a shelving unit miles away. Hmmm… he thought, as he continued writing. I'll give it two stars.

Maybe I should give some hard-hitting politics a try? Timothy blipped into the center of a large auditorium. It was packed to the brim with hundreds of men, but they all somehow looked exactly the same. Green eyes, blonde hair, and, the boy thought, maybe just a little on the chubby side. This was the People’s Dimension-Hopper Republic, and today was a big rally for Representative Tommy from Massachusetts.

At the center of the crowd, standing at a podium, stood one particular variant of the blonde men: This one wearing a somewhat wrinkly suit and tie instead of the identical casual wear of the masses around him. Timothy bounced to the front of the crowd, notepad in hand. “Hi, Mister– er, Congressman Tommy! Timothy Times, with The Cosmic Courant. Care to answer a question or two for the free press?”

The congressman put on an enthusiastic grin, seeming thrilled just for the attention he was now getting from someone other than a copy of himself. “Hey little dude, totally! Fire away!”

Yes! My first interview! Timothy tapped his pencil to the paper with anticipation. “Sir, the extradimensional audiences wanna know––Did you always want to be a leader?”

“Well, that’s actually a great question! You see, it all started when I was a little boy. I came from a bit of a broken home, and my mother was… wait a minute.” The congressman’s body started to shimmer and ripple, something weird was happening. His face turned to shock as his body went translucent, suddenly fading to nothing. “Oh no no no, come on, not again!”

Blip.

And just like that, the congressman was gone. The crowd of blonde men quieted and put down their signs in a collective look of disappointment. “Well, there goes another one,” Timothy could hear one of the men grumble from the back.

Timothy looked around. The man was completely gone, and ditched him mid-question to boot. Well that was rude, the boy thought.

Blip.

Timothy appeared once again on Earth Thirteen, in the frigid heights of the Himalayas. This time, his still empty notepad was swapped for a cheap, yet comically oversized press camera now slung from around his neck. The flashbulb on top seemed to be even larger than his face. Well, he thought. Maybe I’m no interview whiz, but snapping a quick photo can’t be that hard!

The up-and-coming journalist scanned the mountain range, which seemed to stretch out endlessly in all directions. The weather didn’t bother him––it never did––but the desolate, snowy white peaks threatened to kill him of boredom if he didn’t find that thing soon.

And then he saw it, a wavy, black silhouette off in the distance at first, until he blipped over closer. It was a tall, looming thing, covered head to toe in black ribbons. It lumbered across the summit, ignoring the boy. Good golly, Timothy thought. That sure is a funny-looking getup. Are those streamers? Maybe he’s a hipster, this’ll top the fashion section for sure!

Timothy let out a shrill whistle. The thing turned to look at him, pausing. If the boy could see its face––if it had a face at all––it would look confused. “Hey mister, say cheese!” The camera let out a blinding flash, and the creature recoiled. It stared at the boy reproachfully, taken aback by the sudden burst of light. “This’ll look dandy, thank you sir!”

Blip.

After just a hop, skip and a jump back to the Cosmic Courant, it was only a matter of figuring out the printing press. Timothy picked up the top sheet of a stack of his very own paper, admiring the beauty of his photo on the third page. Ah yes, the boy thought. My magnis– my magic–… uh… He tried to remember that one super professional-sounding phrase Mr. Noteworthy said the other day. Oh yeah, my magnum opus!

As he turned to skip over to the Editor-In-Chief’s office, ready to wave his first article over his head, the boy almost ran face-first into a dark shadow looming over him. It was that hipster from the Himalayas, but what was he doing here? “Uh… hey mister! Your picture turned out real dandy, wanna see before it goes to print?"

The creature looked down at Timothy. Then the paper. Then back to Timothy. And back to the paper again. And then it simply reached down, picked up the stack out of the boy’s hands, and… POOF. Disappeared.

“Oh…” Timothy murmured to no one in particular. “Okay.”

Hours later, the boy popped in front of a London newsstand, where he sat down on the curb in a slump. Applesauce, this is harder than I thought! Maybe Mr. Noteworthy was right, maybe I’m just not ready. He propped his face up with his hands, mushing his face with his palms. Maybe I’ll never be ready.

But before he could blip back home in defeat, something in the stand caught his eye. A newspaper like none he’d ever seen before. Its front page was an inordinate collage of headers and pictures, alive with every color of the rainbow. The sheets were so shiny they almost looked like they were made out of plastic. This was more elaborate than any paper he’d ever read. And that price tag: Eight dollars! Maybe this wasn’t a newspaper at all, maybe it was one of this world’s holy texts?

Timothy picked up a copy from the rack and read it over. "What in the hoo-ha is 'People Magazine?'” As he flicked through the pages, Timothy’s journalistic passion was reignited as he was overcome with a wonderful, spectacular, brilliant idea.

Dr. Alto Clef waltzed down the halls of Site-19, bedecked in a custom-tailored suit, in sharp contrast from his lucky Hawaiian shirt he always fit under his lab coat. His usually unkempt bushel of hair was combed back in a stylish parted hairdo, kept firm under a thick crust of gel. The stench of gunpowder, booze, and pure, unfiltered human sin––or, as he called it, his “intoxicating musk”––was kept at bay by his finest cologne. This was the one night a week the good doctor fretted over appearances; tonight was date night.

Clef spritzed his Binaca into his mouth, even though his breath was already a freezing whirlwind of minty fresheners, and he anxiously smoothed his hair back one last time. His grip on the fresh-cut bouquet of daffodils––her favorite––tightened as he unlocked the door of the containment unit.

And there she stood, the apple of his eye, in all her magnificence: SCP-173. For this one night a week, this glorious concrete work of art was all his. And… she was looking away?

Ah, Clef thought. She’s in one of her moods. Oh well, it’s time to turn on the Clef Charm. The doctor cleared his throat. “It’s been too long, darling. I brought daffodils, your favorite.” The statue stood still, giving Clef a shoulder colder than its rebar skeleton. “Hon, what is it? You know you can talk to m–.”

Then he saw it: a black and white newspaper, sitting at the end of the table the crew of D-Classes had just finished setting for their romantic evening minutes ago. Clef could sense she wanted him to read it, and so he did. The top of the front page read, in big, bold letters:

DOCTOR CLEF’S SECRET LOVE CHILD?

Love, Loss, & Scandal. SCP-166 Tells All!

By Timothy Times

“Babe, it’s not what you think!”