One day, Bobble the Clown had stopped airing. There’d been no 
warning, no prophecy from Bobble to let his viewers know. One day, 
Bobble came to visit, and the next he didn't. 


Rodge wept for weeks. He was inconsolable. He’d done so much for 
Bobble - the cats that had disappeared in his neighbourhood were 
proof of that - and he’d just left him. He hadn’t even said goodbye. 


When he thought back on it, after those first few weeks, he realized 
that Bobble wouldn’t have left his fans by choice. There was nobody 
Bobble loved more in this world than his fans. He hadn't left. 
Someone had taken him. Stolen him. 


Rodge ran away from home not long after that. If Bobble was 
missing, then it was up to his fans to find him. Over the years, 
through internet cafes and meetups, Rodge grew to meet other 
Bobbleheads on the same quest. They’d scour every bit of 
information even slightly related to Bobble, hoping to release their 
best friend from his chains. 


But, in the end, there weren’t many of them. Even with guns and 
knives, you could only overpower so many to get the information you 
needed. All they managed to scrounge up, for all their efforts, were 
three letters: SCP. Rodge assumed they were the ones who stole 
Bobble, but he couldn’t even be sure of that. 


They'd lost hope until Lindsay had contacted them, and let them 
know of the treasure she had. 


"We're all waiting, Lindsay," laughed Rodge, trying to appear casual 
- but there was a pit in his stomach. What if it didn’t work? What if 
Lindsay was wrong? 


"Be patient, Rodge,” grinned Lindsay. Rodge could almost see the 
excitement trickling out of her skin like sweat, or maybe pus. The 


two of them turned as they heard a door open. 


Preston and another Bobblehead wheeled in an old television and 
VCR player from the church’s recreation room. The attendants 
rushed to gather around as Lindsay approached it. 


"Everyone keep it together,” chuckled Lindsay, reaching into her 
backpack. "It’s not going anywhere." 


She pulled out a tape. On it was written, in marker, BobClown 
Ep21. 


"The tape!" the convention cheered as one, so high-pitched it was 
more like a scream. "The tape! The tape!" 


"Courtesy of Westhead News! Praise Bobble, and praise the Tree!" 
laughed Lindsay, shoving the tape into the player. Rodge didn't 
know what the hell the Tree was, but he didn't really care at this 
point. His favourite show was coming back on! 


The screen turned on. For a few horrible seconds it showed some 
cartoon about an elephant, and Rodge thought that it was over, but 
then it changed. 


The picture was of a blank, empty room. White and sterile, with only 
a chair in the centre. A prison cell, surely. There was a man sat in 
the chair, and they all recognized him. They all knew him. How could 
they ever have forgotten that face? 


The show zoomed in, and soon enough Bobble the Clown’s face 
filled the screen. A deep frown was on his face. His kind, grey eyes 
flicked from left to right, taking in everyone in the church. His frown 
became a smirk, and then a wide rictus grin. He laughed, a jolly 
screeching laugh that shook the stained windows of the church in 
their frames, before jumping out of his chair and planting a sloppy 
kiss on the camera. 


"Hey there, kids!" he said. "Guess who?" 


On 02/12/2018, at 21:07, the contents of all tapes 
previously containing recordings of SCP-993 suddenly 


Episode Title 
Bobble Loves His Fans! 


Contents 
Episode is framed as 
Bobble accepting a trophy in 
a large auditorium for his 
contributions to 'the arts, 
education and the 
continuation of human 
nature’. After giving an 
acceptance speech that 
goes on for fifty minutes (a 
full transcript of which is 
available in Supplimentary 
Document XXX-1), Bobble 
declares that in celebration 
of his award, he will be 
putting his show back on the 
air. To conclude his speech, 
he bids his audience 
(consisting of animated 
versions of celebrities, 
unidentified children and 
Foundation personnel) to 
commit mass suicide, a 
request they appear to 
happily comply with. Then, 
he leaves the stage through 
a wooden door at the back. 


Following this event, the Foundation received reports 
that SCP-993 had resumed broadcasting from 
approximately locations. Although interception of 
these broadcasts is ongoing as dictated by Protocol 
Upsilon-Beta 3, new broadcasting locations appear to be 
arising as fast as others are being blocked. It is at this 
point undeniable that SCP-993 has completely breached 


containment. 


| BobbleCon | The Revolution Will Be Televised » 


Body Bags 


He lies in darkness, no sound but his own heartbeat in his ears. 


The sickly warm air inside the bag suffocates him; the plastic sticks 
to his skin, making him sweat. 


How long has it been? Hours? Days? 
How much longer? 


He waits—he doesn't dare do anything else. To pass the time he 
tries falling asleep again; for a long time he hovers on the edge of 
consciousness, eyes slowly growing heavier... 


BANG! 


A door opens, the sound gunshot-like in the stillness—his body 
tenses up, fully awake. Fluorescent lamps flicker to life on the 
ceiling, harsh light stabbing at his eyes through cracks in the bag’s 
zipper. He hears footsteps nearby, echoing, growing louder, closer, 
no doubt about it now, they’re coming for me... 


The footsteps stop, not two feet from him. 


He goes deathly still, afraid to even breathe: a dark shape lowers 
itself over him, blotting out what little light filters into the bag. He 
hears movement, feels hands move over the plastic— 


With a screech-like sound the bag’s zipper is yanked open—light 
floods his entire field of vision; he gasps, blind, defenseless. 


“It’s all right, Xiang,” a voice says. “I’m a friend.” 


He blinks, his eyes gradually adjusting to the light; slowly, the figure 
standing over him is revealed in more detail—an older man ina 
white lab coat, his gray balding head shining under the lamps. His 
plump features are impeccably shaved, his eyes tiny-looking through 


point of bleeding. One raccoon-transitioned D-Class was found to 
have gnawed through the contents of its own stomach while another 
subject [DATA EXPUNGED]. 


It is recommended that all subjects be terminated following testing 
and examination. 


Addendum: Testing the coats on non-human species has yielded 
mixed results. 


Placing an ordinary animal inside a coat made from its own species 
(I.E., placing a raccoon inside SCP-801-2), or placing the same 
subject in the same coat twice has no effect. However when placing 
ordinary animals (or sedated, transitioned subjects) inside a coat 
made from a different animal results in subject transitioning normally 
for the first three (3) minutes before aborting. Resultant subjects are 
often missing fur or limbs, or otherwise have limbs partially 
transitioned. In addition, once mass-purge has started, subjects may 
have organs [REDACTED] and are unable to support life functions. 
Most subjects do not live through this process. 


Addendum 2: Attempting to transition a subject wearing multiple 
articles (such as SCP-801-1 and SCP-801-6 and/or SCP-801-7) 
functions similarly to putting one species inside a non-coincident 
coat; however, in this case, the transition stops earlier, leaving the 
subject at least partially conscious, but with partially transitioned 
limbs, [DATA EXPUNGED] etc. As these subjected have exhibited 
the same violent tendencies as those fully transitioned, it is 
recommended they be terminated immediately. No attempt at 
communication should be made. 


« SCP-800 | SCP-801 | SCP-802 » 


the thick lenses of his glasses. 


“Who... who are you?” he croaks at the man, his voice feeble from 
lack of use. 


“’m a doctor,” the man in the lab coat says. “I work here.” 
“You called me ‘Xiang’.” 

“| thought you’d prefer that to ‘D-239009’.” 

“How do you know my name?” 


“| read your file.” The doctor holds out his hand. “Il suggest you come 
out now if you want to stretch your legs, | can’t stay long.” 


After a moment's hesitation Xiang takes the extended hand, and the 
other man helps him out of the body bag, then off the gurney. 
Wincing at the stiffness in his joints, the sweat-drenched fabric of his 
jumpsuit clinging uncomfortably to his skin, Xiang takes in his 
surroundings. He’s standing in a pristine-looking room, its floor and 
walls covered in white ceramic tiling; there are counters, metal 
tables loaded with shiny surgical tools. About twenty black body 
bags like the one he’s just come out of are placed on gurneys on 
either side of a central aisle, each of them with a cadaver inside. 


“Where am |?” Xiang asks, nervously eyeing the bodies. “How long 
have | been here?” 


“You’re still in Site-97, I’m afraid. In the morgue, to be precise. And it 
is...” the doctor looks at his watch, “...two thirty a.m., which means 
you've been here roughly... nineteen hours. | imagine you're hungry, 
| brought you some food.” 


He reaches into the pockets of his lab coat, takes out a plastic- 
wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water. “I hope you don’t mind egg 
salad, it’s all they had left at the cafeteria.” 


His eyes widening, Xiang takes the offered items and, without a 
word, unwraps the sandwich and devours it in a few bites; finished, 
he opens the bottle and begins guzzling down its contents. 


Between two gulps he looks up at the doctor. “That woman... that 
guard... she brought me here...” 


“Yes, she’s a friend.” 


“| don’t understand... She came to my cell, said she had to bring me 
to the lab for tests... on the way there she pushed me into a room, 
told me to get in the bag. She said not to move, not to come out, 
whatever happened.” 


The doctor nods. “I’m sorry we had to leave you here for so long, but 
it couldn’t be helped. You won't have to do this much longer. Your 
autopsy is scheduled for later this morning. I’m the one supposed to 
perform it, but I'll simply sign the documents attesting you were 
killed in an experiment with SCP-1993. Then you'll be taken via 
underground tunnels to another building, to be incinerated. One of 
the employees there is with us. | don’t have all the details, but he'll 
help you get out.” 


Xiang frowns. “Get out?” 


The older man blinks, taken aback. “You mean... the guard, she 
didn’t tell you?” 


Xiang shakes his head, confused. 


“I’m sorry, I'd assumed...” the doctor says. “Well, then | suppose | 
have some good news for you. We’re getting you out of Site-97. If all 
goes well, by this time tomorrow you’ll be a free man.” 


Xiang stares blankly at the man. “You're... helping me?” 
“That's right.” 
“...why?” 


“We run periodic checks through our databases, and your name 
came up last month. You fit the parameters.” 


“What parameters?” 


“You haven't been involved in any tests posing a statistically- 


significant risk of contamination by anomalous agents or entities. 
Also, you pose no threat to the public based on your past history. 
That is to say, you’re innocent of the charges you were convicted 
of.” 


“How do you...” 


“| told you, | read your file. You were an activist, your only crime was 
standing up to an oppressive regime. You didn’t deserve the death 
sentence, just like you don’t deserve to be here now. We can only 
help so many people if we want to remain unnoticed, so we try to 
make each one count.” 


“You're... you're serious.” Xiang realizes his heart is racing. 


” 


“Yes. 


“You're getting me out.” 


” 


“Yes. 


Xiang considers this, not yet daring to believe it. “What happens 
after... when I'm outside?” 


“Someone, an agent, will be waiting for you. You'll be given papers, 
a new identity, a little money. The tattoo with your designation will be 
removed. You'll also be given amnestics, that’s uh, pills to make you 
forget your time at Site-97, and false memories will be implanted in 
your mind. Probably some story about you spending the last year in 
jail, being tortured, but then escaping and seeking political asylum. 
Sorry, but we simply can’t allow you to leave with any knowledge of 
what goes on here, some people would go to great lengths to obtain 
that kind of information.” 


“Then after that... I’m free?” 


“You're free,” the doctor says, giving him a brief smile. He looks at 
his watch. “Now unfortunately | have to leave very soon, but if you 
need to relieve yourself before you go back in the bag, there’s a 
bathroom at the back, there.” 


In a daze, Xiang wanders over to the small bathroom and closes the 


door behind him; turning to the small mirror he nearly jumps—it’s a 
full second before he realizes the man in the orange jumpsuit 
looking back at him is himself. In shock, he stares into those 
haunted, sunken eyes, their sheer darkness making him shudder; 
his face, too, is unrecognizable, a taut emaciated mask of pale, sun- 
deprived skin, its features blurred, deformed by all the scars, by the 
burns, the six or seven missing teeth lending the mouth a sinister 
air... 


He looks like a corpse. 

I'm dying, he thinks. They’re killing me. 
Then it hits him—then it becomes real. 
I’m getting out. 


The first sob takes him unaware, rattling him from head to toe— 
another one comes, then another, and soon he’s weeping so loudly 
he has to cover his mouth so the man outside won’t hear him. 
Through his tears he stares at his own ravaged face in the mirror, 
the sight conjuring up memories of all the horrors, the indignities, the 
death from the past year, raw, unfiltered images flitting before his 
mind’s eye in quick succession, like scenes from some sick snuff 
film. 


It’s over, he tells himself, desperately holding on to the thought. /’m 
getting out. 


I’m getting out. 


When he finally manages to stop crying he steps out of the 
bathroom. 


The doctor is waiting for him, pacing up and down the aisle—he 
looks up when he hears him. “Ah, good. Come, I'll help you back in.” 


Xiang walks to the gurney—he’s about to get on it when he turns to 
the doctor instead. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, looking into 
the man's eyes, trying to understand. “Surely you’re running a huge 
risk helping me.” 


The doctor pauses—for the first time he seems at a loss for words. 
“Because none of this is necessary,” he says at last, gesturing to the 
nearby cadavers. 


"What do you mean?" 


The man shakes his head. “We tell ourselves that everything we do 
here, we do for a reason, but that’s not the truth. Every single day 
we do things we don't have to do. We throw prisoners at anomalies 
that are already contained, just to see what happens. We drop them 
with a flashlight and a camera in godforsaken places we have no 
need to explore. We test deadly objects on them that wouldn’t pose 
a threat to anyone if they were just left alone in some storage 
locker.” 


“Then... why?” Xiang asks. 


“They say scientific curiosity has a way of running amok. We’re 
certainly proof of that, it's become a damned compulsion with us. 
We have to know everything, no matter the cost. We’ve come to 
value empirical knowledge above human life, to the point where our 
whole way of conducting research hinges on the idea that a certain 
type of people are expendable.” The doctor pauses, visibly agitated; 
when he speaks again it’s in a quieter voice. “Well, | disagree. Guilty 
or innocent, | say people like you aren't just things to be used and 
then discarded. | say you matter. And I’m not alone.” 


Xiang stares at the man, wanting to say something, trying to, the 
words not coming. 


“Now,” the doctor says after a moment, “I really do have to go. If you 
could just..." 


Xiang complies, climbing onto the gurney; he leans back, and the 
other man begins pulling the body bag over his legs, his chest, then 
around his head—through the still-open zipper Xiang, a lump in his 
throat, looks up at the other man.