It's Just A Dream - SCP Foundation

Incident 209-A

Experiment 209-A

Experiment 209-B

Experiment 209-C

"Hey. Up late? Thought you were off duty. What you got there?"

"Oh, I'm just going over the old reports from SCP-209 again. You know, the files it sticks on the thumb drive. Wanna watch with me?"

"The dream recorder? Heck yeah, I'd love to see those! Be right back, I'm going to want a beer with this. You want anything from 294?"

"I'll take a scotch."

"Ha! I'd never have thought you a scotch drinker."

"…Crap. Okay, yeah, I'll have the scotch. It's a 209 thing."

"Um, okay. But like, why'd you need hard liquor? It's not like anyone's been hurt by 209. It just sits there and records. Safe as can be. You lucked out for a first assignment."

"True. But you'll see. Here, this first one is what was on the drive when we found the SCiP."

imadethisyoubitch.m4a

You find yourself in a room with wood paneling, a large lit marble fireplace, two mahogany side tables, and two red velvet-upholstered wingback chairs. On the walls are various hunting trophies, comprising deer, Komodo dragon, cat, and human. On one side table is a chess game, set up at the beginning of play. On the other side table is a tumbler of a golden-brown liquid, under a glass bell jar.

With you is a young man, Caucasian, skinny, with short light brown hair. He looks at you, smiles with familiarity, and laughs triumphantly, stating, "It works! It works!" Another figure emerges from the shadows in the corner of the room, a butler, no, his features are too perfect, too standardized. A cartoon of a butler. The butler states, "Welcome to your dream. Please, be seated. In this portion of the dream, you will play a game of chess. The winner shall have the opportunity to drink this glass of fine scotch." He then stiffly returns to the shadows.

You and the young man sit and play the game of chess. He moves his piece wrong. Very quickly, you win the game and the butler reappears and removes the bell jar. "Your drink, ma'am," the butler intones. You accept your prize and drink. It is scotch.

The young man becomes agitated as you sip your scotch. "This is my dream. I made this machine, this is my dream! I should have won the game! Where's my scotch?"

The butler snorts and replies, "You are out of line, my dear fellow," and a rusty iron cage descends from shadows at the ceiling, capturing the young man. "I don't like the tone of your voice," the butler adds. He clears his throat and adds, "What shall I do with the riff raff, ma'am?"

Your mind fills with anger at the young man's arrogance and whining. You reply, "Make him a toy, smaller. Shrink the cage."

The butler replies, "Very good, ma'am." The cage starts shrinking, and the surroundings shift to become the quad at your university. The young man starts hunching over in his confined space, complaining of the pain and continuing to state that he made the machine, everything should be his. Annoying little jerk. Other people in the quad approach you, all smiling and fawning, asking about your new toy. The cage shrinks smaller than dimensions necessary to contain a human, but the young man is still inside, crushing his body into a catlike animal. His agonizing screams become shriller and more rhythmic, crying out every three seconds, but everyone else continues to gush over the quickly diminishing toy.

Tired of his wailing, you pick up the cage and squeeze. A wet-sounding crunch is heard, and the cage, now the size of a packet of cigarettes, contains a small, unidentifiable mass of tissue. It is thankfully silent. The butler appears again and intones, "Thank you, ma'am. I shall dispose of the cage for you. Good morning."

You wake, refreshed.

Closing Remarks:

SCP-209 was recovered from a makeshift sleep lab in the basement of the Biomedical Engineering department building of ███████ University. The thumb drive attached to the computer component of SCP-209 was found to have a single file, "imadethisyoubitch.m4a".

Subject was L███ G██████, (23 years old, female, Han Chinese ancestry). Upon interview, subject confirmed that this was her dream while attached to SCP-209. She did not know who built the device, nor how it appeared in the basement. She did not suffer any other ill effects and had a healthy psychological profile, and so she was given a Class B amnestic and released.

Researchers note that SCP-209 is designed to handle two subjects simultaneously, and recommend that future experimentation should be done with two subjects.

"Fancy. And hey, there's your scotch!"

"Mhm."

"That one guy was so annoying, though! I'd have crushed him, too."

"I know, right? Last time I dreamed of some dork like that, I dropped him in a vat of cement."

"Ha! I once used a jerk for laser practice."

"That's so awesome! Hey, you want the next one? This one gets steamy."

"Oh? Show me show me show me!"

romanceisfrownedupon.m4a

You awake in bed, a large canopied one. It is still dark, and you can only see a small distance. Next to you in bed, a lovely young woman with long brown hair, green eyes, and an orange Class D jumpsuit wakes up. She giggles and grabs you, kisses you, saying, "We did it! We've got all evening to ourselves."

"What if they find out about us?" you ask, nervously.

She laughs, as she runs her hand down your body. "Don't be silly, it's a dream. No one is going to care. None of this counts. We can do whatever we want."

A viewscreen flickers on, and a familiar green puppet appears on screen. He speaks. "Hi ho, Kermit the Forg here." Forg? "Welcome to your dream! For the first part, we're going to play a game of paintball! Painball! Payball! Yaaaaaaay!"

You and your date are apparently standing, wearing futuristic form-fitting armor, and are each armed with a rifle and a pair of pistols. Clear acrylic tubes descend from above to encase you and her separately. A voice is heard on your helmet's radio: "Entering arena in 3! 2! 1! Zero seconds! Ah ah ah…" Lightning is heard to crash over the radio.

You drop through the floor and slide down, speeding through a tube to the arena. The arena is an abandoned factory of immense size, with pipes and steel girders and large moving gears and catwalks everywhere. Various grinding noises can be heard. Although she is nowhere to be seen, your date can be heard through the helmet radio: "Hey! This works! I'm gonna get you! Just you wait!" She laughs playfully with fake malice.

You spy a red sign on a machine of unknown origin: "Romance between Class D personnel is frowned upon by the Foundation." The radio crackles back to life: "Mobile Task Force Unit 'Heartbreaker' is now entering the arena! Yaaaaaay!"

The sound of combat boots is heard, and a squadron of fully armed MTF personnel appear and fire at you. They miss, but their paint strikes a metal gear, which immediately rusts through with a seeping hiss. An alarm is heard, going off with a single klaxon blare every three seconds. You run. Run for your life. Standing still is death at the hands of the MTF.

You turn the corner, knowing that they are following you, and nearly run into your date, frightened. "Are they chasing you, too?" you ask. She nods, and you run on together, but quickly find yourselves in a dead end. Another red sign with the same message hangs over the unit as it approaches in lockstep. You fire at the unit, but the paint boils away before it can reach them.

She narrows her eyes and pulls out her pistol. "They're not who we're trying to tag. We're supposed to tag each other." She fires the pistol at you. It stings and nearly knocks the wind out of you. Reddish-pink paint scatters across your armor.

"We have a winner! Yaaaaaaay!" The arena and the MTF unit disappear, replaced with a white marble pedestal, with a tumbler of scotch. "Miss, here is your prize! Enjoy!"

She snorts and laughs. "Whiskey? I hate whiskey! Go ahead, you drink it." You shrug, walk up to the pedestal, and sip it. It is smoky, smooth.

The scene shifts to a typical suburban kitchen, in the morning. Your date wife, back in her Class D jumpsuit, is humming while baking at the stove, your baby daughter sits in a high chair, watching Kermit on a television, and you, also in your jumpsuit, lean back in a recliner at the kitchen table, scotch and cigar in hand, reading the newspaper. The headline reads, "Romance between Class D personnel is frowned upon by the Foundation." You looks up at your wife. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"Of course," she replies, "They can't get past our white picket fence." She glances out the window, where the front yard is visible, bordered by the white picket fence. Immediately beyond it, waiting, are a number of armed MTF soldiers and lab researchers in white coats.

You look back to your wife and ask, "You know, I only know you by your number. What's your name?"

"My name?" she replies brightly, "It's D." She stops, concerned. "No, it's not D, it's D."

A quick look outside the window shows that the fence has gotten closer to the house, and the personnel are closer as well.

"D!" Kermit calls from the television holding up a large letter D. "What other words begin with D? Dream! Doctors! Death row!"

Scared now, the wife adds, "I made you a cake." She reaches into the oven and pulls out a frosted yellow cake with strawberry filling, pink fondant, and light brown buttercream.

"Doubt! Dread! Dunce! Disaster! Detain! David drowned himself dead!" Kermit starts dancing.

The fence is now inside the kitchen, and half the room is filled with armed guards and researchers.

You finish your scotch and feel emboldened. You stand. "No. That's enough. I can't do this. This is my dream, and I am not going to fill my home with the likes of you!" You pick up Kermit's letter D and use it to chop the guards and researchers into pieces.

"Destroy! Devastate! Decimate! Decommission!"

"Come here, mine!" You pull her in, kiss her deeply. You unzip her jumpsuit and lift her onto the kitchen table, crushing the cake.

"Delicious! Delectable! Devour your darling deeply!"

She's pink. Pink fondant. Brown buttercream hair. You bite into her shoulder — soft, sweet yellow cake. You greedily tear off a chunk and swallow. She screams in pain. You keep eating. She made you this cake. Strawberry filling oozes out of her as you stuff your face with her intense, rewarding taste. She cries out in excruciating agony.

"Don't! Desist! Desirable!"

You have your fill. Satisfied, you turn to the TV. Kermit looks at you. "Wow, that is really something. That is a very good cake! Don't worry, I'll clean up the mess." Kermit hops out of the television and hums while he sweeps up the remaining crumbs.

You awaken, refreshed.

Closing Remarks:

Subject: D-39584

Upon interview, the subject confirmed the dream while attached to SCP-209. He appeared refreshed, and a post-experiment physical revealed reduced stress hormones and feelings of euphoria.

Subject wished to add a statement to the report: "Here, I thought I had hit bottom, but here, asleep today, I discovered my dream girl. Literally. I guess it's only fitting that she only exists in my mind." Given the minimal risk caused by the experiments, regular personnel are allowed to participate as subjects.

Researchers note that SCP-209 is designed to handle two subjects simultaneously, and recommend that future experimentation should be done with two subjects.

"Hottest. Cake. Ever."

"Pfffft!"

"And scotch again."

"Yeah. All the dreams have scotch. We aren't sure why. We've marked it as an anomalous behavior."

"And they both start with someone saying it's a dream."

"Yup! It's weird, when you're hooked up to the device, your dreams are more vivid and lucid. Probably something to keep you from recording a dreamless night. I mean, it's not a dangerous SCiP, but there really is some weird spooky stuff happening in that computer. It's got to be feeding a dream just as much as recording one."

"Feeding you scotch, apparently."

"Yeah, it really gave me an appreciation for single cask vs. blended."

"Huh? What do you mean? You've been hooked up to it?"

"Mhm. Since regular personnel got cleared to be subjects, I tried it out myself."

"Oh, really? Do you have that dream?"

"Right here."

scp6823110montauk.m4a

You enter a bathroom stall, a standard stall in Site-19. You hear a woman's voice in the stall next to yours: "Psst! Hello? Anyone there?"

You realize the toilet has not been flushed. You peer into the bowl, examining closely as you flush. The filthy, brown matter within the toilet splashes out, and the head a malicious green creature, resembling the head of an octopus, emerges from the depths of the commode.

The creature speaks, in a low, scratchy, hollow voice, "Welcome to your dream and doom. You are tasked with researching the worst SCP ever. The most destructive demon ever existed. You will work on SCP-6823110-Montauk."

The woman in the next door stall shudders. "No. Not that. Anything but that."

The creature presses, "Prepare to meet your doom. There is no hope. Your soul will be crushed and violated."

The stall door opens, entering into a large, wide containment chamber. The lights fade out to black farther into the chamber. The only apparent item in the chamber is a single medical operating table, empty, illuminated by a harsh medical lamp. A respirator can be heard, pumping air onto the table, every three seconds.

You start walking toward the table. A child's sobbing can be heard. Just beyond the edge of the darkness, scales and undulating motions are detected, a blackish green against black, belonging to what looks like four giant monsters.

The whimpering in the stall next to hers continues: "No, no please, I can't think of anything. The neighbor's stall closes. "No, I need something else. Something else."

You approach the medical table. Although the rattling hacking and wet slurping of the monsters in the shadows can be heard, they stay back. Only suggestions to their presence remain. Next to the table, the electrodes to a machine resembling SCP-209 dip in a tumbler of scotch. A girl's voice is heard: "You're supposed to fear me."

You laugh and look around. What, this is the worst that could happen? What's supposed to be here? You pick up the scotch and sip it. You look into the glass, inhale the aroma of the scotch, and reach out to flip a light switch.

The entire containment chamber floods with light, showing stark white walls. A loud screeching is heard as four creatures, each about 8 meters tall, resembling giant lizard-octopus hybrids wearing overalls, cower in the corners of the containment chamber trying to avoid the light, trying to avoid you. A large viewscreen on the back wall of the chamber flickers to life, showing the image of the octopus head, still in the toilet as previously. It speaks: "The experiment was a success. The end of the world has arrived. The planet falls into an inferno… and you are now in charge." Scenes of devastation appear on the viewscreen, but the containment chamber remains normal, unblemished, antiseptic.

You shrug, and look around. You remember you are supposed to wash your hands after leaving the toilet. The woman cowering in the stall, opens the door, stops wailing, and watches you closely, in awe of your bravery. You finish your scotch and walk over to the sinks at the side of the containment chamber and wash your hands. You grab a terry cloth towel. You are about to dry your hands when you notice an unidentifiable insect crawling on the towel. The cowering woman approaches slowly. You flick the first insect off the towel, only to find two more. You scrape the towel, but the insects multiply in number, become larger, more asymmetrical, more deformed.

Disgusted, you toss the towel to the cowering woman. "You're a wimp," you challenge. "Come ooooonnn! You didn't help one biiiit!" The woman starts jerking and screaming as the insects crawl all over her and start to bite. "I should just leave you to them," you spit in contempt, pointing to the monsters in the corner. They slither out and approach the screaming woman. You turn to leave the room, the voice of the creature in the toilet calling over the intercom: "Commence Procedure SCP-6823110-Montauk." As you leave, the woman screams in abject horror.

Outside the chamber, the world is intact and opens to a lovely park/meadow. The mountains at the edge of the meadow rise majestically, the ground is carpeted with beautiful wildflowers, and children play on the jungle gym in the park. There are no signs of devastation anywhere.

You awaken, refreshed.

Closing Remarks:

Subject: Junior Researcher ██████ ████████

Upon interview, subject confirmed the dream while attached to SCP-209. She appeared refreshed, and a post-experiment physical revealed reduced stress hormones and all markers of 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep, corresponding to her actual sleep time.

Of note is that the subject is new to the Foundation and had never heard of Procedure 110-Montauk before, even in rumor.

SCP-209 is designated Safe and it is not considered harmful. Further testing should focus on how the dreams are generated and recorded.

Researchers note that SCP-209 is designed to handle two subjects simultaneously, and recommend that future experimentation should be done with two subjects.

What? This test was supposed to have two people. We've already run it with one. We know it works just fine with one. When are we going to try it with two?

If I have to be the next subject, I will. This thing is harmless. Heck, it's only anomalous because we don't know how it was made. Maybe a little for dream content. I'm sure the world could handle learning about a dream recorder that works, but until we know how the two-person function operates, we can't risk it.

- Dr. ████ ████

"Oh my god, that girl was such a whiner! Leaving her with those things? Totally deserved it."

"Yes, I mean, please, 'no, no, not that, I'm so scared of an empty table!' What, does 110-Montauk have to do with a medical table that attacks you or something?"

"…You really don't know what that is, do you?"

"I'm new, you know. A couple months ago, I'd never even heard of the Foundation."

"Right… but… how did you dream about it?"

"I don't know. Why did I dream about scotch, too? Heck, we don't really know all the capabilities of 209. Like I said, I think it records dreams from others and uses them to feed dreams for the subject? Maybe someone who used this early on really liked scotch. We still don't know who built it. Anyway, I've got one more dream here. Wanna see?"

"Let's do this! Better than a movie marathon, this is."

ignorethatmrpresident.m4a

You are on stage, at a podium with a plate with your name ("Agent Rashaun Washington"), facing an audience shrouded in darkness, with a blue background behind you. A second podium shares the stage with you, manned by a Vietnamese man, mid-50s, in a lab coat. The second podium bears the nameplate "Doctor Troy Minh".

At the front of the stage, just before the audience, an elderly Caucasian male wearing glasses and a blue suit the same shade as the stage background sits at a desk. He states, "Welcome to your dream. Tonight, we will be listening to our two Presidential candidates. The first question is for Agent Washington. Are you the first President of the United States?" Emboldened, you say yes. A light bell is heard. "That is correct. The next question is for Dr. Minh. Is this the dream you wanted?"

Dr. Minh replies, "Agent Washington and I are here, together, aren't we? We are sharing the same dream?"

A buzzer is heard. "I'm sorry, I'll ask the questions tonight. The next question is for Agent Washington. Why are you going to lower taxes?"

You think a moment and say the first thing that comes to mind. "Nobody likes taxes." The bell rings.

"That is correct. The next question is for Dr. Minh. You are polling well in Ohio, Puerto Rico, Uganda, and [REDACTED] (this is shown by the word "REDACTED" showing up over the moderator's mouth). Do you think you will win the electrical vote?"

Dr. Minh becomes agitated and conjectures, "Wait, all these dreams start with a competition between two people. When there's one subject, they just win against some dream. But tonight there are two subjects, and we're fighting head to head. Who wins? Do we both get scotch? Does the scotch drinker win the dream? And so what happens to the loser? Is the loser the winner's dream? Oh no, does this mean the loser is forgotten like a dream?"

The buzzer sounds. It repeats again and again, every three seconds. The moderator replies, "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. Congratulations, Agent Washington. You are the new President of the United States!"

The audience erupts in applause. You see yourself, fireworks erupting behind you. You smile triumphantly, a glass of scotch in your hand. Drowned out by the thundering applause, Dr. Minh says, "No! Don't drink!" But you down the scotch yourself anyway. You notice your shoelaces have been stolen.

The moderator turns angrily to Dr. Minh. "You, sir, are out of line. Out of order. Out of options." He adds, "Mr. President, please choose your executive order."

You look at your podium, which has grown larger, become oval in shape, and carries a large number of oval buttons on it. In the seconds taken to examine the podium, buttons labeled "Nuke," "Taxes," "SCP-1981," and "Change" are visible. You press a button labeled "Guantanamo."

You look up and see Dr. Minh wearing an orange jumpsuit and surrounded by military personnel. The soldiers strike Dr. Minh and force him to his knees. They wheel out a large, bloody wooden table. Everything suddenly turns to static, with a horizontal bar over the static, labeled "DATA EXPUNGED".

"Aw, c'mon, are they serious? They're expunging this record?"

"No, be patient and look closely. This expunging is part of the dream. He dreamed his dream being expunged."

The static has a horizontal bar over it, labeled "DATA EXPUNCHED". Cranking is heard behind the static, with the occasional sound of marching soldiers. It becomes clear that the static is reddish and chunky, as if it was a fine spray of ground meat, like pork being made into sausage. The bar reads, "DOCTOR EXPIGGED".

The moderator addresses you, saying, "Well done, Mr. President. I shall clean up for you. Enjoy your adulating public." The point of view shifts to see the audience clapping in the dark, then the city clapping, then the state, then the entire United States. The entire nation erupts in fireworks.

You awaken, refreshed.

Closing Remarks:

Subject: Agent ███████ ██████████

Upon interview, the subject confirmed the dream while attached to SCP-209. Subject proved to be in good spirits, scored low on anxiety tests, with low levels of blood cortisol and other stress markers. Subject remarked, "Did you see that? I got to be President!"

Subject asked about Dr. Minh in his dreams, apparently reporting deja vu. Researchers checked Foundation personnel records to confirm that no person by the name of Troy Minh has ever been hired. Satisfied, subject resumed duty.

Researchers note that SCP-209 is designed to handle two subjects simultaneously, and recommend that future experimentation should be done with two subjects.

"You know, Rashaun insisted on being called Mr. President for a week after this experiment."

"Haha, you serious? Well, let's face it, he had an awesome dream. They're all awesome in their own way."

"Heh, true. Even mine, it was like it was supposed to be scary, but I had no idea why. So everything became scared of me, and I was a total badass."

"Yeah! …You know… You think I could try it out?"

"What, you want to dream for 209? We could do that. It's not in use tonight. And I'm the principal researcher, so I have the access card for it."

"I still don't know how you got that. Usually there's a doctor who's principal researcher, not some newbie junior researcher."

"Yeah, but like, this thing's so safe, they don't need huge containment protocols on it. So yeah, let's go. Maybe we should do it together. After all, we've never tried two subjects yet."