So it came to be that three members of Site-87's administrative staff 
found themselves locked in a conference room. First was Director 
Nina Weiss, who had just developed an entire lock of grey hair from 
stress in her first three years of being a director, which some of the 
newer staff commented made her look like an "annie-may" 
character; some Japanese thing. 


With her was, essentially, her second-in-command, Dr. Tyler Bailey, 
head of the Department of Multi-Universal Affairs, a nebbish-looking 
man with dark hair who had a better sense of humor than most 
sitcoms. One pocket in his coat almost always held a flask of scotch, 
another his wallet with a picture of his triplets. 


Also in the room was the head of accounting, Jerome Brisby, a 
shorter man who had a sense of humor similar to that of a Catholic 
who was forced to talk with the King of England circa 1529. He had 
a look on his face that would best be described by a phrase that 
would not be properly coined until over twenty years later: "| am so 
fucking done right now." 


Its significance is unclear, and Mr. failed to include any 
photographs or sketches of the deity in his notebook. 

EDIT: The fragment with the unidentified deity has been retrieved 
and reattached. Its function is still not known. 


Addendum 960-02: 
* Incident 02, 03/02/ 


© The curator of the [DATA REDACTED] Museum of Art 
in , , United States, having recently acquired 
SCP-960 and placed it in storage, decided to put it on 
display. Security footage shows the curator, Dr. ; 
moving the artifact from the basement to a display case 
on the second floor, without wearing anything on his 
hands. He spent the next several weeks in his home 
[which he would have even if SCP-960 had no 
extraordinary properties, since he had been placed on 
probation by the museum's board of advisors for 
disregarding protocol in transporting the fragment 
without gloves], during which time he brought about: 


@ A rock opera chronicling the rise and fall of the 
Roman emperor Octavian, left untitled. 

@ An emotive modern dance routine involving two 
male dancers and a trapdoor. 

@ A sculpture of himself sculpting Michelangelo 
creating the Pieta. Described as "intriguingly 
ironic." 

B@ What would later be known as [DATA 
REDACTED]. 

@ A science-fiction novella about humankind being 
unknowingly forced into a hopeless battle against 
extraterrestrial forces by a godlike ancestral 
species. Overbearingly pessimistic in theme and 
tone. 

@ An outline for the polity and doctrine of an entirely 
new branch of Protestant Christianity, which he 
named . (Dr. _ wishes it to be known that the 
ideology expressed within these documents, while 
indeed inventive, is tremendously vitriolic. It is 


And then, of course, there was the representative from Site-19; as 
the administrative center when it came to budgeting, they had a say 
in this miniature crisis. Francis Wojciechoski sat in the corner, 
fiddling with a prescription bottle. He had nothing to do with 
finances, and essentially acted as a liaison between 87 and Director 
Bright at 19. 


"How's Jack doing, by the way?" Bailey's attempt to make small talk. 


"Trying to stop rumors of the absurdities going on at 19 from 
spreading. Honestly, a researcher accidentally integrates himself 
with his pet dog, and people say all sorts of things." He tried twisting 
the pill cap, and watched as the entire bottle flew out of his hand. 
"Dammit." 


Weiss picked up the bottle as it landed at her feet, and frowned at 
the name of the drug on it; she recognized it immediately. She 
helped develop it back in her parapharmacology days. It was a 
classified formula, and the pharmacy he had gotten it from hadn't 
bothered to redact or hide the name. She sighed, and walked over 
to Francis, undoing the cap and handing him the bottle. "Do you 
need some water?" 


"| have some," he said, producing a water bottle from underneath his 
chair, where one had not been just a moment ago, "Thank you." 


Weiss looked at those assembled. "Brisby, how far into the red are 
we?" 


"At this rate, it's going to approach twenty thousand dollars by the 
end of the week. We need some extra income to counteract it." 


"We have some surplus lab equipment that we could hawk off to the 
school district—" Bailey started. 


Brisby cleared his throat, a noise that sounded like it was coming 
from a sick toad. "They don't have a chemistry lab anymore at either 
Sloth Memorial or Sloth Senior. Remember?" 


"Right, the Bunsen burners kept getting haunted. Still no word from 
the Horizon Initiative if we can get an exorcism in there?" 


"No," Weiss sighed, sitting back in her chair. "We may just have to 
cut back on the salaries of the staff until we manage to terminate all 
of the crimataphagi. It's ugly, and they won't like it, but it has to be 
done." 


Brisby took out a mechanical calculator and loaded it with a strip of 
paper. "Site-87 has... 421 employees currently, not counting civilian 
E-Class employed at the upper levels of the facility... containment 
specialists are given a salary of..." he trailed off into a long string of 
numbers that only people who eat white bread with a single swab of 
butter, drink bitter coffee with absolutely no cream, and chuckle at 
Garfield are interested in. 


Soon, he came to a conclusion. "Financially, | agree that's the most 
sane course of action. Pragmatic, but ugly. Wojciechoski, can you 
see what your superiors think?" 


The three of them turned, and saw Francis Wojciechoski had 
vanished. "...where'd he go?" Bailey asked. "Director, what was that 
medication he had?" 


".,.a hybrid antipsychotic and retroviral supplement meant to 
counteract and suppress abilities consistent with Type-Green 
entities. Upon ingestion, the symptoms have a possibility to 
manifest." She put her head in her hands. "Goddammit." 


Brisby and Bailey both looked horrified. "You're telling me that 19 
employs reality benders?" Brisby said. 


"Yes." 


Bailey's and Brisby's hand both met their foreheads in synchronicity, 
accompanied by loud s/aps that made a researcher passing by the 
room wonder if they had dropped something behind them. 


"...how many of the rumors of 19 are true?" Bailey groaned. 

"I'm not even cleared to know that. Come on," she sighed, standing 
up. "We have to notify Sigma-10 to contain him before he does 
something really stupid." 


"Like what?" 


Meanwhile, outside the site, a man whose name could only be 
pronounced as a series of music notes had willed a sign into 
existence. 


FIRST (AND HOPEFULLY ONLY) ANNUAL 


S & C PLASTICS BENEFIT 
BAKE SALE 


WE CAN'T AFFORD TO FEED OUR OWN 
EMPLOYEES. 


WE'RE FEEDING YOU SO YOU CAN FEED 
US. 


Along with this sign, he had summoned a dozen pans of various 
types of brownie, cookie, cookie brownie, cake, cupcake, miniature 
cupcake, miniature cupcake inside of a cupcake, strudel, danish, 
and potato salad. He didn't know where the potato salad came from; 
it always seemed to somehow show up at bake sales, even if 
nobody wanted it. Now all that was needed was- 


"FRANCIS!" 


"Right on cue," he grinned, turning to face Nina Weiss who stormed 
out of the site, on a warpath, flanked on all sides by members of 
Sigma-10 in tactical gear. He noticed about half a dozen snipers 
appearing on the rooftops surrounding the site as well, and felt the 
lasers on his skin. He just shrugged, and all the guns jammed at 
once. "Ah, hello director. Try the cookie brownies." 


Nina's eye twitched. She'd requisitioned Scranton Devices for 
literally almost this exact reason, but order had been delayed for 
almost a year now, and they now had a goddamn Type-Green trying 
to sell something as abominable as cookie-brownies. |t was a sin 
worthy of a chain pizza restaurant. "What are you thinking?!" 


"I'm trying to help! The facility's in the red, so I'm holding a bake 
sale." 


"We're a worldwide scientific NGO, not the Sandusky, Ohio PTA! 
This could constitute a massive breach of secrecy-" 


"Director," he said, putting his hands together and sighing, "It's a 
Nexus. What's more, it's Sloth's Pit. It's the third-most active Nexus 
in the United States, falling behind only Daleport and Roadkill 
County, Oregon. Do you think people are going to question this? 
Now have. A. Brownie." 


"Wojciechoski, you're a threat to the site, and right now, | trust you 
about as much as | trust the governor to not veto a bill that would 
cure cancer. I-" She blinked, and chewed on something that 
suddenly appeared in her mouth, before spitting it out. "Did you just 
teleport a brownie into my mouth?" 


"He did it to me too," Bailey gagged, leaning on one of the tables to 
spit it out. "Brisby, | swear to god-" 


"First thing I'm doing after this is resolved is fast-tracking the 
Scranton Device requisition order,” Brisby assured, spitting out his 
own portion. "Fuck me." He smacked his lips and frowned. "...is that 
chocolate chip?" 


"Yes, and you all owe me $5.00." Francis- or something very much 
like him- gave a rictus smile and opened his hand. "Don't be stingy. 
It's for the good of the site, after all." 


"We're not giving you shit," Tyler growled as he took out this wallet 
and deposited $15.00 into Francis' hand. "What the- hey!" 


"Wojciechoski," Weiss said, coming up to his face as he pocketed 
the cash, "You will stand down immediately, or | will personally put a 
bullet in your skull." As she said this, every member of Sigma-10 
aimed their guns right at Wojciechoski's head. 


"In front of all these people?" 


"All what-" Weiss's eyes widened as she looked around her, and 
realized a good tenth of the town's populace had suddenly appeared 


there, and were browsing all the treats, except the potato salad. 
Nobody likes bake sale potato salad. "Stand down. Stand down!" 


All of the task force lowered their weapons. Couldn't risk killing a 
townie. 


"Calm down, they came here of their own volition." Wojciechoski 
rolled his eyes, which were suddenly concealed under a wide- 
brimmed hat. "I'm not a monster. And all of the food here is non- 
anomalous." 


Weiss inhaled sharply through her nose, and her breath came back 
through her nostrils in something that could best be described as a 
muffled scream. "...if | hear one report of any sort of anomalous 
stomach flu or anything of the sort-" 


"| have beryllium-lead bullets in my luggage." He tipped his hat, and 
twirled a ukulele in his hand. "Anyone up for some live 
entertainment?" The question was rhetorical, and he was already 
walking away. 


"Wh- I-" a task force member— she thought that Ewell was his 
name, Nick Ewell— stared at her. "You're going to let him get away 
with it?!" 


"He could literally punch us into last week. We don't have much 
choice." Weiss sighed, looking downcast. "Let's just hope that he 
doesn't get anyone weirder than him out here." 


Brisby nodded, before his eyes went wide at something over 
Weiss's shoulder. "Would a giant four-eyed black cat qualify?" 


"...| don't think cats have six legs," Bailey added. "Nor can they hold 
microphones." 


Weiss felt her hair start to part with her scalp as she tugged at it. 
"God, the Council is going to have my ass. Hopefully their 
medication kicks in soon." 


As the cat sang the last few notes of The Cure's Friday, I'm In Love, 
Bailey was offering Weiss some of his flask. "Take it," he said. 


"You're gonna need it." 


"Do you work inebriated?" frowned Brisby. "You do realize that's 
grounds for termination?" 


"He's right," Weiss affirmed, looking at the display with a slanted 
look as the cat began a rendition of an R.E.O. Speedwagon song, 
with the reality bender strumming ukulele alongside it. "Drink on 
your own time." 


"It's ginger ale," Bailey rolled his eyes. "| know | feel sick to my 
stomach, and it's either this or baking soda mixed with water to 
settle it.” 


Weiss snatched the flask out of his hand and knocked it back, the 
sharp taste she could feel through her nose confirming that it was, in 
fact, ginger ale. She handed it back, wiping her mouth. "This is 
bizarre." 


"| Know." 
"I'm going to call 19 and see if he can get a handler out here—" 
"Here's a phone!" 


The three professionals jumped backwards as Francis- or rather, the 
thing that looked like him- appeared, offering a red phone to them, 
with a cord that appeared to terminate underneath the hood of a car. 
"Feel free to call 19." 


Weiss, unsure, took up the phone and began dialing the number, 
placing the phone on top of a table next to a plate of strudels. She 
began conversing with Director Bright, while Brisby just looked at 
him oddly. "So," he coughed. "Reality-bending can be treated with 
medication?" 


"Indeed!" grinned the man with the ukulele. "It's a compound of 
fluorine, oxygen, carbon, and some selenium. Your dear director 
helped develop it. Oh, have a strudel." 


Brisby instinctively spat, thinking that he had teleported another 
pastry into his mouth- only to find one being presented to him using 


the man's wrinkled right hand. He frowned, tilting his head. "Huh. 
The hell kind of strudel is that?” 


"Cinnamon," he said. "That'll be three bucks." 


"I've not even eaten it," Brisby frowned through a mouthful of strudel. 
He swallowed, his eyes widening. "That's pretty good. But can ya 
cut it out with this?" 


"Oh, what harm did a little mind control ever do? Besides, if it tastes 
good, it tastes good." He held up three dollars between his fingers. 
"Let's see..." He produced a calculator from beneath his hat, and 
began punching numbers it. "What did you say the deficit was?" 


"Approaching $20,000 by the end of the week." 

"Well, so far, we've made almost 10k." 

Brisby actually did spit out his strudel in surprise. "What." 
"Yup." 


"This sale has been up for an hour! How can you have made 
$10,000 during that time?" 


"Dollars?" His nose wrinkled. "I'm speaking in terms of Yen. That's 
only about ninety bucks, but every little bit helps, yes?" 


Brisby just gave him a mystified look. "You're insane." 


"I'm a fucking reality bender! Of course I'm insane!" He grinned a 
grin that wrapped around his head, and opened his mouth to laugh, 
which displaced the top of his skull from the bottom half. "Oh calm 
down. No-one is going to get hurt. Except maybe by the potato 
salad." He leaned in, and whispered in a way that conspiracy 
theorists do when talking about whether or not Lee Harvey Oswald 
was secretly a lizard man who would go on to play Neil Armstrong in 
faking the moon landing, "There's a reason nobody is eating it.” 


"Which is?" 


They were interrupted by the slamming of a receiver and a glare 


from Weiss. "I just spoke to Director Bright. You are to report back to 
Site-19 as soon as your medication takes effect. He has approved 
intravenous injection should the need arise." 


Try to give back to the community and this is the thanks | get? 
Tough crowd. What was | talking about?" 


"The potato salad," Bailey cut in, handing Mr. Ukulele a twenty as he 
chowed down on a plate of brownies. Brisby and Weiss just stared 
at him. "What? It tastes good." 


"Ah, right! Well, you see—" 


"Hey, Alto!" called the four-eyed cat in a smooth baritone, "Come 
back on over here! | need some accompaniment for my singing, you 
know!" 


"I'm coming!" He smirked a the three of them. "Sorry, duty calls." 
With that, he fled towards the giant quadrocular feline, and began 
strumming a rendition of Somewhere over the Rainbow. 


"Call security," Weiss grimaced, one of her eyes contorting into a 
look of pure worry. "Tell them to quarantine the potato salad." 


The potato salad was placed into the only Keter-certified 
containment unit in Site-87, and the entire staff felt like they had 
been had.