“I've never seen anything like her or her nine hundred and ninety 
nine brothers and sisters at any of the showings I've attended before 
or since.” 


“Her lattices are so intricate and delicate | don't dare examine them 
too closely, but what | can see is some of the most complex Craft 
I've ever encountered. They aren't mere animate sculptures. They're 
sentient, feeling things, each with a distinct personality. I'm told 
some of her siblings even have offspring. They serve no agenda, 
have no sociopolitical message, harm no one. They exist simply to 
bring wonder and beauty to the world.” 


“A master's magnum opus: Life, from a thousand scraps of paper.” 


“| still don't understand most of how she was made, or how she 
works... but there is one thing | do know:” 


“Etsuko is Cool.” 


| leave him for a while to look through the rest of the pieces and 
finish pouting. 

With the wards I've got on that room he couldn't hurt anything in 
there if he tried. 


When | check on him later, Etsuko is perched on his head, his 
sketchbook is out, and the lopsided grin is back. 


Might just make an artist of this one yet. 


Critters 


I’ve gotten used to them. The feet. You never think about how many 
feet they have. How they grip at your skin and the hair on your body. 
How they hold onto you effortlessly. They almost tickle now. Almost. 


The smell. It's barely noticeable anymore. At first, it was... It was 
pretty bad. | threw up a lot. And then they started crawling into my 
mouth when | was trying to eat... But then | realized they didn't mind 
when | ate them. | think that was when | started to come to terms 
with it. They didn't taste good at first. But then... The crunch. Insects 
have a texture all their own. Thick and sweet and full of... | don't 
know what. It was like the best thing I'd ever eaten. And they didn't 
even mind. There was so much | could just reach out and take... 


| think they like to sing me to sleep. Hard to ignore it when they get 
in my ears. Well, everywhere else too. All kinds of things chirping 
and buzzing around all the time. Constant noise. | mean, it’s a lot 
louder in the summer. A LOT louder. | don’t think | mind, though, 
they just like to sing. It’s almost like music. 


... [can see them watching me. Not the crawling things, no, the 
people. | know how you see me. Even in places where the strange 
people live, people who the world forget. Even they look away. | can 
see it in their eyes, they pity me. Or they’re just plain grossed out. 
Revolted. You too. | see you trying to look me in the eye. Not at the 
bits in my hair. Not at my teeth. I’ve seen that look before. You don’t 
want to, you can’t help but stare. | Know you can’t. They never can. 


It's okay... NO no, you can sit back. Yeah, it’s alright. Your eyes are 
watering. It’s better if you move away a bit. Take a drink of water or 
something. It'll help your stomach. 


| gave up trying to wash them off. Not in a shower or a bathtub, 
those aren’t big enough, not enough water to wash them away. Not 
that | didn’t try, it’s just a lost cause at that scale. | mean, | still have 
scars from scrubbing so hard. Then | started to go swimming to 


drown them. Like the story of the Pied Piper. You know, he took the 
rats away and drowned them in the river. | always loved swimming, 
even before it gave me that little breath of cleanness. Then... then 
the leeches found me. 


Leeches aren't... Ants are the worst. They're so small. They get all 
over, in my hair, and nose, and ears, in my eyes... Thousands of 
them, it’s... It’s just... | can’t even... | can’t even describe it. Just 
imagine every inch of your body cov- never mind. I’m sorry. I’m 
sorry... 


... |never even mentioned the rats. Always so, many... But | guess 
they’re not... At least they’re warm. There’s so many they keep me 
warm in the cold. Like a fuzzy blanket. A fuzzy, hungry blanket. 
People keep rats as pets, right? It’s no different. Everyone loves 
pets... | love my pets... | love them all... 


... [ll never be alone... 


Crunch Is A Beautiful Sound 


So, the D-classes messed up Crunchy’s bi-weekly cleaning, again. 
Oh and by Crunchy | mean 173. | never really cared for the 
nickname ‘The Sculpture’. | think Crunchy captures his essence 
much more effectively. Sorry, its, not his. | know I’m not supposed to 
anthropomorphize these things, but it’s hard. When it’s your job to 
understand something like this, how can you not try to get inside its 
head? 


Take right now for instance. Two D-classes just had their necks 
snapped, and the third’s giving his all to the most important staring 
contest of his life. He’s Amy Ponding it, blinking one eye at a time. 
I’ve been told that doesn’t work, but Crunchy isn’t moving. Why 
wouldn't it work, after all? We don’t know, because we don’t know 
why Crunchy can only move when no one’s looking. If it is some sort 
of quantum wave function thing, then the Amy Pond thing should 
work. Of course, it could have nothing to do with quantum wave 
functions. Maybe he’s just shy. 


If Amy Ponding it doesn’t work, then what would happen if someone 
with one eye looked at Crunchy? We should test that. Out of all the 
D-class we have, some of them have got to have only one eye, and 
no one’s ever sent them to 173 for testing? And did we stop using 
the Eye Pods on this guy? Was that back when we stopped cross- 
testing everything just because we could? Man, those were the 
days. 


Mr. Pond is still holding his own in there. He’s backed up against the 
door and is screaming to be let out. | should open it, but | can’t help 
but think that Crunchy might be faking it. There’s an access control 
vestibule of course, so even if he gets through the door it won’t do 
him any good, but | can’t quite shake the feeling that he knows 
something | don’t. The little scamp’s broken out of containment more 
than once, after all. 


Sometimes | wonder why Crunchy does what he does. No one’s 


ever seen him move, or if they have they didn’t live to tell about it. All 
video feeds of him are either static or blue screens of death unless 
there’s someone with him, but we can still hear him scraping the 
walls of his cell. And why kill everyone on sight? Who does that? 
What does he get out of it? He doesn’t eat the bodies or use them 
for anything, and if it was for pleasure you'd think he'd take his time, 
like the Old Man. Crunchy, he’s just a monster with no rhyme or 
reason. He’s a boogie man to scare people. 


And the bloodied shit that lines his cell, jeez. Dude should really see 
a doctor about that. How can you make shit without food, answer me 
that? His file should probably be classified as ectoentropic. It’s not 
though, for some reason. 


| really wish we could find out where Crunchy comes from. It’s 
probably nothing special, just something a random anartist whipped 
up in their garage or something. On the other hand, Crunchy’s got a 
bit of an aura about him. I’ve heard people call him ‘The Original’ 
before, but | don’t know why. He’s not the first SCP. At least, | don’t 
think he is. Then again, everyone knows these numbers aren’t 
chronological, and rumour has it that all the SCP-001 files are just 
disinformation. Crap, what if he is the first? He was transferred to 
Site 19 in 93, but who knows how long we’ve had him. 


What if he’s not just the first, but the source? What if he was the first 
anomaly, and that single breach in the laws of physics was enough 
for a whole shitload of anomalous freaks and monsters and objects 
to flood into our reality? That’s a weird thought, right? If 173 never 
existed then, for example, Herman Fuller's Circus wouldn't exist 
either? Not one other Skip, not one Gol, not even the Foundation 
would exist without 173? | just blew my own mind. 


Well, I'll probably get in trouble if | don’t let Mr. Pond out. I’m 
probably in trouble already, letting him scream for so long. The 
Ethics Committee has really been cracking down on D-class abuse 
lately, but that’s just a budgetary thing. We can’t burn through these 
guys like we use to. I'll just open the inner door to the vestibule 
and... 


Crunch. 


Footnotes 
1. Records recovered from Island have uncovered 
references to "farmer trees" dating since 1937. 


« SCP-823 | SCP-824 | SCP-825 » 


...the feed just cut out. Crap. That’s fine, I'll just look at the file, see 
what I’m supposed to do. It says that if he starts acting weird, I’m 
supposed to contact my HMCL supervisor. 


What the hell is an HMCL supervisor? 


CryogenChaos' Comment Tales 


Over the years, |, CryogenChaos, have posted several short 
supplements to tales and forum threads in the form of comments on 
said articles and threads. These "micro tales", as they were, have 
generally been well received by the community, and even sparked 
full tale fodder. As such, many folks have said that it would be a 
shame if these little blurbs were lost to the ravages of Wikidot time, 
so fellow user ObserverSeptember helped compile a few of the 
more noteworthy ones here. If you find any others and would like to 
have them added here, shoot me a message or post a link in the 
comments! 


Also, I'll probably still be writing mini-tales as they come, so expect 
to see this page grow. 


Note: As most of these are intended as supplements to the main 
content, it's recommended to read the main tale/forum post/etc. in 
order to get some context. 


Tale: Quiet Days (Original Post) 


Doctor Gears stayed longer than any of the other personnel (with 
the exception of the O5 council, of course), assisting others with 
their re-adjustment into society. He noticed a wide variety of 
emotions from the leaving staff: some were overjoyed that they were 
finally done working with such dangerous objects and eager to start 
a new, normal life; some were angry that they basically had to start 
over from scratch, claiming that spending the last few years ina 
facility that according to official record did not exist was shit for their 
resumes; and, most curious of all, a fair amount of sadness from 
people who, as far as Gears was concerned, should have been glad 
everything was back to normal. 


Days passed and people left, and eventually it was time for Gears 


himself to go. As he walked away from the now empty Site 19, he 
stopped and looked back for a moment, remembering all the time he 
had spent in that building. He still couldn't believe it was over, that 
protecting humanity, the job that he had committed himself to for 
longer than he could remember, was finished. As he gazed back at 
the facility, a strange thing began to happen: he began to feel rather 
odd. It was small at first, just a slight discomfort in his gut. 


Then, the memories began to fall. 


He remembered the constant struggles against 682. He 
remembered the puzzlement and amusement from testing 914. He 
was feeling quite uncomfortable now. He remembered the break 
room with the other researchers, how they would laugh and make 
jokes and have a great time while he would sit, stoic as always. He 
remembered the fun they would all have together. He could feel his 
breathing becoming labored. He remembered, shortly after the 
discovery of the loss of the anomalies, Bright finally achieving his 
final wish. He remembered Clef being unable to cope with normalcy 
and taking his own life. He remembered Rights, normally 
mischeveous and joyful, cleaning out her office with a distinct look of 
sorrow on her face. He remembered how even though it was a 
stressful, terrible place to be, how it was home to more demons and 
horrors than any other place in the world, perhaps even the 
universe...it was still home. 


For the first time in many, many years, Gears felt a tidal wave of 
emotions. 


And for the first time in many, many years, Gears began to cry. 
Tale: Quiet Days (Original Post) 
"To the O5 Council (and the rest of the Foundation, too!) - 


Thank you all for being my very best collectors! Sadly, it is with a 
heavy heart that | must inform you that | do not think | will continue 
with my work any longer. I've done my part here, and | hope that my 
products have made people happy (I especially hope that they made 


YOU all happy as well!). As part of my final goodbyes, | have 
included a special, one-of-a-kind collectable that | wish for you to 
have. It may not be as impressive as my other creations, but | hope 
you find it wonderful in its own right. 


Sincerely, 
Doctor Wondertainment" 


This was the note that was attached to a rather large package 
wrapped in glimmering purple wrapping paper. When opened, the 
package contained a rather large replica of Site 19, made out of 
ordinary plastic. When opened, the model building contained 
detailed figurines of each of the site personnel, from the O5 
personnel down to the lowliest janitors, each poseable and each 
with noticable smiles on their faces, but otherwise nothing 
anomalous about them. Each individual figurine has been sent to its 
appropriate counterpart along with a copy of the note. 


Forum Post: What does SCP-055 actually look like? 
(Original Post) 


"You know, this will be the five hundred and eighth time I've told you 
all this story, so let's start out with some startling news you won't 
remember. These defenses are nice, but honestly you probably 
know as well as | do that they don't do jack. | mean, | can open the 
door basically any time | want, | keep it propped open just enough to 
make it look like it's locked, but that's beside the point. Now then, 
onto origins, | suppose. 


| came to you people because | wanted to know what the hell was 
wrong with me, why nobody could remember me and why | 
practically don't exist. | mean, sure, it had its advantages, like being 
able to do practically anything without consequence, but after awhile 
the need for human contact just became too much. Even with my 
‘mysterious nature’, I'm really surprised | was in the right place at the 
right time to find you people. | talked to your site director and 
convinced them of my...what'd they call them? Anomalous 
properties? Anyway, when | was able to tell your director all about 


his wife when he didn't even remember talking to me, he got a bit 
understandably freaked out. | think the fifty inch cement was a bit of 
overkill, but | still appreciate the gesture. 


You probably don't remember how long I've been here. Hell, | don't 
even remember how long I've been here. | do remember around the 
twenty year mark | started to get annoyed at how little progress was 
being made, so | started to leave whenever | got the opportunity. 
Fooling you all wasn't hard, | could leave a freaking toenail behind 
and you'd still think you had the mysterious anti-meme on your 
hands. Despite my annoyance, | was really interested in your 
organization, picking up weird things off the streets and studying 
them for science. | liked that. 


But then | saw the downsides. | saw how you all couldn't take certain 
risks for fear of exposure, for fear of media attention that you 
couldn't control. So that's when | decided to help. | snagged one of 
your radios and since then I've helped you put away more 
anomalies than you can count. That's right, I'm your Foundation's 
‘guardian angel’ of sorts. | go out and | take the risks you can't afford 
to, and | help you bring these things in. Don't worry, I'm not going to 
go rogue entirely. After all, for what its worth, this cell you've put me 
in is my home. 


No, no, that's fine, you're going to forget this conversation anyway. 
They always do, and at this point I've stopped caring. It's fine, really. 
| mean, I'm not all that important. In the end, I'm just a Nobody, after 
all." 


Tale: The Price We Pay (Original Post)