He got out of the car and walked past the real white picket fence that 
his great-grandfather had built, smiling all the way. It was good to be 
home. 


Johnny's Wild Ride 


Johnny was sitting at his computer desk, head hung low as the tears 
streamed down his cheeks. He couldn't believe that he'd found yet 
another internet community that he was exiled from. First it was the 
tumblr kids, then the twitter kids, then the furries, and now, finally, he 
faced the worst kind of exile. Exile from an online writing group that 
probably took itself way too seriously. He was about to call his best 
friend — James, the emogoth who attempted to bridge the two 
social strata end ended up with a cigarette burn from when he 
dropped it on himself — when the door to his room was kicked in. 
Standing there in a long, white lab coat was none other than Dr. 
Bright. He knew, because of the amulet that was around his neck 
and the name badge on his chest. He gasped as he saw one of 
them, one of those who had cast him aside and neglected him. But 
he couldn't help but notice that something was... out of place. 


"HELLLLLOOOOOOO, JOHHNY!" screamed Bright, his eyes manic 
and wild. It was then that he realized that it wasn't the Dr. Bright he 
had been expecting (the quiet, morose one who wanted to die from 
the more recent stories), but was actually the crazy, wild eyed Dr. 
Bright who had starred in stories where he'd specifically and 
delightedly killed a man who cut him off in traffic and sentenced D- 
classes to masturbation therapy in Dr. Glass's office. It was then that 
Johnny realized exactly how fucked he was. 


Johnny let out a loud, pained squeak as he was grabbed by the ear 
and dragged from the desk, arms and legs flailing madly to the sides 
as Bright tugged him down the stairs and into a large, waiting white 
van that was emblazoned with a large, Foundation logo. On the 
side, he saw the name. Soap-from-Corpses-Products. He cringed as 
he was hurled into the back. "WELL, JOHNNY. IT'S TIME FOR YOU 
TO GET TO KNOW THE FOUNDATION." 


The door slammed in Johnny's face, and as he pleaded and banged 
against it in impotent rage, Dr. Bright walked around the front of the 


unorganized, and written in C++. Efforts to compile code are 
ongoing, but comments indicate the program is [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. 


Sample 887-3137: 47 pages of Hexadecimal code. Code 
successfully compiles into a PNG image of Dr. in a speedo. Dr. 
claims no such picture was taken. 


Sample 887-0031: Map of a country called "Lemuria", written in 
English, Circa 18 . "Lemuria" refers to a hypothetical land bridge 
that was thought to connect Madagascar with the rest of Africa, only 
to be disproved with the theory of continental drift. The map does 
not correspond with any known geography, above or below water. 
Interestingly, the capital of the nation is called "Atlantis". 


Sample 887-5893: An extremely clever, detailed, and well-thought- 
out plan to assassinate Ronald Reagan and replace him with a 
Soviet spy. 


Sample 887-5894: An extremely clever, detailed, and well-thought- 
out plan to assassinate Leonid Brezhnev and replace him with an 
American spy. 


Sample 887-4324: A short story supposedly written by J.D. 
Salinger, meant as a prequel to The Great Gatsby. 


Sample 887-2331: A complete roster of the Boy Scouts of America, 
circa 1983. 


Sample 887-1123: A selection of random passages that begin with 
the letter "A", pulled from various "holy" texts. The most common 
texts cited were (in order): the Bible, the Koran, Dianetics, and the 
Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. 


Sample 887-4333: The words "HE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!" 
Sample 887-9913: A list of exactly 743 ways to skin a cat. 


Sample 887-1111: The musical score for "SCP Foundation, The 
Musical" 


Sample 887-1426: A Buddhist self-help book titled "Reincarnation & 


van and climbed into the front. He pushed in a tape — Dylan, from 
the bad years — and cranked the volume as Johnny covered his 
young, Deathcab listening ears in pain and collapsed to the floor of 
the van. Bright peeled out and down the street, meeting up with an 
escort that led them both out in the country. 


What felt like hours passed (in reality, only forty-five minutes, as 
Johnny didn't have any of his electronics to make the time pass by 
properly) before they pulled to an abrupt stop, slamming the 
stammering, crying, whining, bitchy, annoying, under aged user's 
face against the hard, crosshatched plastic divider. Bright hopped 
out from the front before walking around, opening the back and 
dragging out poor Johnny, throwing him into the dirt of a strange, 
abandoned back road. 


Johnny looked up at Bright with utter fear and horror, his jaw slack 
as he stammered. Bright reached into his jacket and pulled out a 
shotgun, leveling it at Johnny's face. 


"Do you want to live, Johnny? Do you want... to live?" Bright asked. 


Johnny had already gone number one, number two, and number 
three in his pants, but he somehow managed to nod. 


"Good. GOOD. | hate it when they want to die," the mad incarnation 
said, pointing over Johnny's shoulder. Johnny turned, looked, and 
his jaw dropped. 


They were near an arch, and above the entrance, he saw the name 
of the place written in large, blocky black letter. "Silas Presby's 
Camp for Troubled Youth?" he said. "But... but... that's not an SCP 
cover," he stammered, eyes wide. 


Bright grinned down at him. "I know. I'm turning you over to my 
counterpart," he said. 


From behind a bush stepped a gaunt, tall man. He was skinny, yet 
his right arm was massive and strong. He looked down at Johnny 
and spat in the dirt. "This is what you bring me, Bright? This is what | 
get?" 


Bright nodded, "Unfortunately. He's the only one that couldn't spell 
this month. Very eager, though." 


The man nodded, and then knelt next to Johnny, squeezing the 
young man's arms a little. "Not much on him. But he'll do," he said, 
nodding. 


Johnny looked up at him, swallowing. "D-do for what? Am I... am | 
going to become a... a Class-D?" he asked. 


"No," said the old man. "You're going to become a Class-P," he said, 
sucking in the snot from his nose before spitting it into the dirt again. 


"A... a Class-P? I've never heard of that..." 


The old man laughed. "You will," he said. "Welcome aboard, 
Johnny. | hope you liked shark week." 


Bright climbed back into the van, waving at them and smiling a rictus 
grin, "LATER, JOHNNY. JUST REMEMBER. AIM FOR THE NOSE. 
AIM FOR THEIR FUCKING NOSE." 


Bright punched the gas, and in a cloud of dust, Johnny and the old 

man were left standing under the arches. Johnny went number four 
as the old man squeezed his shoulder. "Come on kid. We've got a 

Class-S off of Florida." 


"A what?" 
"God damn, kid, You don't know?" 


"Know what? 


Johnny was waiting in the helicopter as they approached the jump 
site. His arms were clad in thick, heavy metal, and his body — once 
weak and leaned by years of apathy toward real food — had grown 
strong over the months of training. He hovered over the water, 
looking down as the old man in the front nodded to him. 


"You ready kid?" he asked. 


Johnny nodded. He was ready. He was so fucking ready to punch 
this god damned shark. He was doing the world a service. He was 
going to save them, one punch at a time. 


"Then go for it, kid! Target is directly below. Do NOT miss!" 


Johnny looked at the water, his chest hammering as he leapt from 
the plane, looking for the target — Tigershark T-18543, a Known 
Nibbler — was finally in their grasp. He hit the water, holding his 
breath as he looked, then immediately and suddenly sank thanks to 
the incredibly heavy shark-punching gauntlets on his arm. 


He plunged deep into the depths, his lungs aching as the ocean 
swallowed him whole. 


"How the fuck do you keep convincing them to do that?" asked 
Bright into the receiver. 


"You always send me the idiots," came the reply. 
"Right. We'll have a few more next month." 


"Sure. Just keep sending the canned tuna, and we'll keep this little 
operation going." 


"Right," said Bright into the phone, putting it down with a click. He 
looked back at the applications, his nose crinkling slightly as he went 
through, clicking. "Approved, Approved... How the fuck hard is it to 
spell Alabama? Denied. Denied. Denied..." 


"Denied." 


Join the Flock 


ANALYSIS OF ANOMALY 


We have analyzed the interviews with subjects that come 
out of SCP-3662. Though all of their experiences vary 
wildly, there has been an interesting constant. All 
subjects have reported seeing a large bird, often orange 
in coloration. This includes subjects who were avid bird 
watchers to subjects who lived in areas without an 
abundance of birds. 


We haven't been able to isolate what, exactly, the bird is. 
However, recent subjects have reported that it's getting 
larger, and one subject even reported being attacked by 
it. We're still trying to figure out what this means, and the 
interviews are still in progress. 


- Researcher C. Calvin 


Sergeant Michael talked softly to the D-class subject. She had just 
exited SCP-3662 and entered the body of another D-class, and he 
wanted to know what, exactly, went on in SCP-3662. 


"So," Sergeant Michael said, making sure not to raise his voice, "try 
to describe your experience inside of the device." 


"It was like a black, blank void," said the young woman in an even 
softer voice, "sort of like a raven's coat of feathers. Do you like bird's, 
sir?" 


"Yes, yes | do," Sergeant Michael said. He thought that it might have 
been slightly odd that she brought up birds; didn't she get attacked 
by one? At least, that's what she said in the other interview. These 
kinds of anomalies rarely had any consistent rules. He decided to 


ignore it and continue his questioning. 


After the interview was done, Michael said his goodbyes and left the 
room. On his way out, he ran into one of his old friends, Dr. Marco. 


"Hey there, pal," said Dr. Marco, "how was the interview?" 


"Meh," Sergeant Michael replied, "now if you'll excuse me, | have to 
take my leave. Early bird gets the worm, you know what they say!" 


Dr. Marco chuckled a little bit. "Oh, you!" Dr. Marco was an avid bird 
watcher, and Sergeant Michael liked to make fun of that fact. 


Dr. Marco eventually clocked out and went home to his wife, with 
whom he talked about a bird he saw on the way home that had blue 
and black stripes. Mrs. Marco pretended to be interested in his 
hobby before going to bed. In the morning, Mrs. Marco met with her 
book club and talked somewhat excessively about the birds and the 
symbolism in To Kill a Mockingbird. Everybody went home to their 
husbands, and talked about some bird related subject. 


"Ma'am, there's something wrong with my monitor." 


"What do you mean?" Technical Assistant Marie walked over to the 
research assistant's cubicle. As expected, the young man was 
browsing Twitter. She was supposed to issue reprimands for this, 
but at this point, she was more apathetic than not. 


"As you can see," the research assistant continued, "there's a 
smudge on my monitor. I've tried to wipe it off, but it's stuck. | think 
it's somehow in the computer." 


Marie leaned over and looked at the monitor. A user had taken a 
picture of a rather non-photogenic bluebird. Marie scrolled up, and 
the blur stuck to the picture. 


Marie's expression changed from pure disinterest to that of concern. 
She took out a cell phone and dialed a number. "Hello, site 
command? Could you please seal off Computer Center 26, Hall 3, 
please? We've got a meme in here and | think we've all been 
exposed.” 


This was the life for Sam. Sitting on the dock, smelling the lake, and 
fishing with his best friend, George. He couldn't have asked for a 
better vacation. 


"We're blessed in this life, right, George?" said Sam. 
"Uh-huh. | love the birds here" replied George. 


After a short silence, George made another comment. "Boy, we 
haven't seen a fish in hours. Where do you think they all are?" 


"| wish | could catch birds with this pole" replied George. 


"Say, what's with birds, today?" questioned Sam, "It's all you've 
been talking about since we got here." 


"What can | say? | guess I'm a bit bird-brained." 
Sam chuckled. "Alright, you know that was terrible." 


"Hey, | like terrible jokes too. You know, birds of a feather flock 
together." 


Sam chuckled again and said no more. He continued to fish, but he 
paid a little extra attention to the flock of birds flying overhead. 


Dr. Frederick Hoygull, despite the fact that he was a bird, had 
earned a PhD and a well-paying research position in the SCP 
Foundation. Hoygull wasn't his real name, which didn't roll off the 
tongue; one of his colleagues had given him the name of Hoygull at 
one point, and it stuck. Right now, Dr. Hoygull was sitting across 
from Site Director Browning as he jabbed his finger at a multicolored 
map. 


"All of the red dots,” Director Browning yelled, "are people we know 
are infected. Now, if the agents had done the quarantine properly, all 
of the dots would be here." Director Browning pointed at a significant 
cluster of dots around the town of Wakeford. "However, some 
chucklefuck didn't do his job, and another chucklefuck posted the 
meme on the internet, which is why we've got dots all over the 


goddamn country!" 


"Why don't we just quarantine America, then?" replied Hoygull, 
writing his reply on a sheet of paper in lieu of vocal cords. 


"It's too late for that. We've already got reports of infection in Europe 
and China. This is on the internet now; we can't take this down, at 
least not alone. So we have to pass this on to our peers in other 
countries. That's your job. You know about your natural immunity, 
right?" 


Dr. Hoygull nodded. For whatever reason, SCP-3095-1 were not 
able to catch nor spread the bird meme. 


"Get the message out to them. | don't want to lose more personnel, 
or more importantly, myself, to whatever this thing is." 


"Welcome back to CNN. Today, we have some breaking 
news. Michael?" 


"Thank you, Cheryl. Today, an episode of Family Guy 
titled '! Dream of Jesus’, has been taken down from all 
streaming services and television rosters. Fox has 
refused to respond to any contact from CNN about this 
incident." 


Scene cuts to 'l Dream of Jesus’. In this scene, main 
character Peter Griffin is performing a dance to the tune 
of The Trashmen's 'Surfin' Bird '. A male voice narrates. 


"The episode 'I Dream of Jesus’ contains Peter Griffin 
dancing to a 60's song titled 'Surfin' Bird", before he 
meets Jesus Christ and turns him into a celebrity. It is 
unclear whether Fox was under pressure for the 
inclusion of Christ, or for another reason. However, it is 
unknown why this happened over ten years after its 
release, and not earlier." 


"Thank you, Bill. What do you thi-" 


At this point, Foundation officials detected the presence 


of SCP- in the broadcast, and hijacked broadcast 
equipment to disrupt the broadcast. Over 1.3 million 
people are suspected to have been infected. Quarantine 
operations ongoing. 


Gregory sat at the poker table, holding a few cards in his hand. He 
had a royal flush lined up to be played, and he was trying to read his 
opponents for anything that might help him in his play. He looked at 
Kens, who had a pretty good poker face, and was therefore hard to 
read. He shifted his gaze over to Frank, whose eyes were glazing 
over as if he was dozing off. Finally, he switched his sights to 
Donald, who... also seemed to be dozing off.