Phillip looked around him. He knew this was a moment he'd 
remember for the rest of his life, regardless of his choice. He 
whispered yes to the television. 


| appreciate your time, and we'll be in touch. Don't worry, 
you'll Know when it's us. 


In the mean time, | return you now to your regularly 
scheduled programming, already in progress. 


The voice-over paused for a moment, and then began to describe 
the complications associated with nyctophobia. How being afraid of 
the dark could prevent sufferers from leading a normal life. 


But Phillip never noticed that. He was already on his phone. The 
click of someone picking up on the other end soothed him. 


He took a deep breath before saying, "I love you. | don't think | say 
that enough. I, uh... | just wanted you to know," 


During the short silence on the other end of the call, he fiddled with 
his Foundation ID badge on the end table. 


« The One Thousand Deaths of Pastor Lewis Robinson - The 
Ethics of Repeatedly Drowning Baptists | Rammer Jammer 
Yellow Hammer Hub | The Art of Coping with Anomalies in the 
Gulf Region » 


Sgt Pepper 


This message is to be distributed to all Foundation personnel: 


In recent weeks, we have lost a lot of good men. To those of you at 
stationed at Sites far away from their passings, this may come as a 
surprise, aS containment breaches are at a quarterly low. Those of 
you at the Sites which have lost men know the cause: A mass 
epidemic of suicides is sweeping the SCP Foundation. 


Before you panic, know that our top researchers and doctors have 
determined that this is not any sort of memetic kill hazard unleashed 
upon the personnel of the Foundation, nor does it have anything to 
do with the new set of anomalous objects whose exact properties 
we have yet to classify. Everything is, as of this writing, still locked 
up nice and tight. Near as we can tell, there are simply a lot of 
people working for us who have gotten depressed. As such, this 
notice has been sent to you in the hopes of preventing any more 
unnecessary losses. It is respectfully asked that you not take any 
further action until you finish reading. 


A lot has been made of the suicides of Researcher Kermode and 
Doctor Shears. They aren't the only two who have chosen to take 
their lives in these past weeks, but they are the ones whose stories 
have been spread around the most. Their notes indicated, 
respectively, that they didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, 
and that they held far too much responsibility. Our psychological 
branches have instructed me to not refute these claims; individually, 
there's a lot that's bigger than us, and it's entirely possible that we 
may one day screw up. There is really no point in trying to sugar 
coat reality, even if it is for a good cause. 


The problem with their arguments is that they don't see any of the 
good we as the Foundation do. Kermode failed to see himself as a 
part of something working for the greater benefit of mankind, and 
Shears, while sidestepping the issue, thought only of the gloom and 
doom the Foundation could bring upon everyone. 


In contrast to what those two and many others thought before taking 
their lives, the situation we are in is possibly one of the best the 
Foundation has ever seen. We have found a record number of 
anomalous objects in the past year, gained enough people to more 
than keep up with our hiring needs, and successfully lowered 
containment breaches by sixty percent. If we were going to crush 
the world in our hands, we would have done so by now. 


The very idea that committing suicide is somehow going to improve 
our situation is absolutely ludicrous. However, there is, once again, 
the fact that we simply live in a very, very grim world. It's hard to get 
through the day living with the knowledge we have. But you all really 
do need to remember, things simply are not that bad. 


We are doing the right thing. We are being incredibly successful at 
it. We are making things better. We are actively saving lives. And we 
need you to keep your life protected. If you just remember that, we 
can nip this suicide thing in the bum, and get back to making the 
world a better place. 


It's rare for a message from higher up to end this way, but have a 
nice day. 


-Sgt. Lee P. 


Fools of Us All 


"NO! JUST NO! 1 QUIT!" 


The entirety of Site-87 stopped what they were doing as the 
intercom system came to life and Director Nina Weiss was heard 
over the loudspeakers, cursing like a drunken Lord Voldemort 
having an argument with his father. It was quite a spectacle to hear 
a woman pushing sixty-five to be using words that were esoteric 
even to the linguistics department. 


This string of curses ended with "—and fuck the spatula you rode in 
on!" followed by what was either a very quiet gunshot, or a very loud 
thump. 


"Bound to happen one day." Tristan Bailey whistled as medics rolled 
Weiss, in a stretcher, past his office, where he was conferring with 
his superior. "Someone had a heart attack on April Fools day." 


"Never thought it would be her," affirmed Claire Hennessy as she 
looked away from the report she had been handed. "The one day a 
year where the universe's cosmic prank is that nothing anomalous at 
all happens in this town, and lo an behold, our fearless leader keels 
over." 


"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" 

Claire looked at him oddly. "Where would we even get that much 
Antarctic Wine? Unless your brother's been sending you more than 
you claim." 

"What?" 

"What?" 


"No," Tristan shook his head. "What I'm thinking is that we try to find 
out exactly what made Weiss just... explode." 


"We have more serious matters to attend to. For instance," she 
pretended to flip a page of the report, "do you want to meet at the 
Black Garden or at Berry's in town this Saturday?" 


"Berry's is undergoing renovations, and | don't want to find paint 
chips in my milkshake again." 


A look of befuddlement crossed Claire's face. "...that implies it 
happened at least once." 


"Twice." 

"And you kept going back." 

"They're damn good milkshakes, Claire." 
"How many people in the site eat there?" 


"...0h dear god.” Tristan's eyes widened. "If half the site had lead 
poisoning from eating there, it would explain... so much, and yet so 
little." 


It was true; Nina Weiss had had a heart attack. She was sturdier 
than anyone else her age — partially due to favorable genetics, 
partially due to emergency ingestion of an anomalous regenerative 
compound in the 1980s — so she would make it. 


"God dammit," acting director Harold West grumbled. "This is 
supposed to be a quiet day. The only quiet day Sloth's Pit gets ina 
year." He gesticulated wildly, nearly hitting one of the medics in the 
face. "Literally the ONLY DAY ALL YEAR | can say ‘what could 
possibly go wrong?’ and have nothing bad happen." 


Suddenly, something bad happened. Harold West's gesticulating 
finger collided with the wall, and he felt a crunch as the phalanges in 
it broke. Everyone stared at him. "...could be coincidence?" one of 
the younger medics offered. 


"Don't," West growled as one of the other medical staff began 
bandaging his finger. "Don't tempt fate. | don't want you to say 
anything else that could tempt fate. None of that." 


"...could be worse—" began a nearby member of security staff, 
entering with a paper cup of bean juice. Everyone in the room glared 
at him. "...it's April First! Give me a break!" He brought his cup of 
coffee to his lips- only to have the scalding liquid inside jump out, 
splash him in the face, and then turn into chunks of Kit-Kats. 


Everyone ducked as the cup began flying around the room, spitting 
high-velocity Kit-Kats out and ricocheting about the medical bay, 
before someone had the foresight to open the door, and it flew out, 
down the hall, and embedded itself in the face of 


Katherine Sinclair was knocked flat on her ass by a Kit-Kat Coffee 
Cup Cannonball, and had the sudden compulsion to say this five 
time fast, before she realized this would be an awful idea. She 
brushed her red hair from her eyes, and crawled along the floor to 
avoid any further collision with the Kit-Kat Coffee Cup Cannonball. 


She crawled her way to the doors of the medical bay, and stood up, 
presenting her tablet to Acting Director West. "Here's the... 
preliminary report on what's going on from... Occult Studies." 


West looked over the document, ears turning scarlet. "No... this is 
documentation of SCP-1893." 


"Which iterat-" Katherine looked at the document, and barely 
resisted the temptation to scream and throw her tablet on the ground 
before repeatedly stamping on it and professing her normality. "Well, 
it's random, don't you know!" She quickly brought the proper 
document up. "Montgomery is currently under the hypothesis that... 
we've undergone some sort of CK-Class Restructuring Scenario." 


"...the whole town?" West stared. "We need to evacuate 
immediately. Code Delaware." 


"That's reserved for the 4th of July!" Katherine stared. "You honestly 
don't think—" 


"I'm not risking a repeat of what happened last year, when Hamilton 
came out. | don't give a fuck who lives, who dies, who tells my story, 
so long as it doesn't involve us having to drop a neutron charge on 


SCP-939: With Many Voices 


Item #: SCP-939 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-939-1, -3, -19, -53, -89, 
-96, -98, -99, and -109 are kept in Cell 1163-A or 1163-B, 10 m x 
10 m x 3 mcontainment chambers within Armed Bio-Containment 
Area-14. Both cells are environmentally regulated and negatively 
pressurized, with walls constructed of reinforced concrete. Access to 
these cells is regulated by an outer decontamination chamber and 
inner gas-tight steel security doors. Observation windows are 
constructed of laminated ballistics glass 10 cm in thickness 
protected by a 100kV electrified mesh. Humidity is maintained at 
100% at a temperature of 16° C. Specimens are monitored at all 
times via infrared cameras. Level Four authorization is required to 
access SCP-939, their containment areas, or the observation 
chambers. 


SCP-939-101 is dismembered and stored in Cryogenic Preservation 
Tanks 939-101A to 939-101M within Bio-Research Area-12. Access 
to SCP-939-101 requires authorization by two Clearance Level 3 
personnel, one of which must be present for all research and testing. 
The contents of only one (1) 939-101 tank may be accessed at any 
given time. Core temperature of SCP-939-101 tissues must be 
monitored while removed from cryogenic preservation; should core 
temperature exceed 10° C, tissues are to be returned to their 
corresponding tank and all testing suspended for a period of 
seventy-two (72) hours. Barring core temperature exceeding 10° C, 
research of SCP-939-101 tissues may continue as long as its 
ramblings and pleas for release may be tolerated. 


Containment cells should be cleaned biweekly. While this takes 
place, SCP-939 specimens will be transferred to the adjacent cell. 
During this time, the cell's door and observation window must be 
inspected for damage and repaired or replaced accordingly. 


the town." 


"...yes director," she swallowed. "I'll deliver your orders to the 
SPPD," after | delete my browsing history and put my tablet in 
bleach. 


"As for all of you, you should all —" this was interrupted by him 
banging his finger against the same wall as he gesticulated, 
"FUCKOFFANDDIESONOFASUBMARINER!'" 


"I speak fluent ‘in great amounts of pain’," sighed one of the doctors, 
Peter Beach. "I think he said ‘get to the bunker with Director Weiss." 


"Yesssss," West winced. Sinclair pulled out a flask of mandrake oil 
and dipped a birch wand onto it, trying to gingerly tap the finger with 
the solution. 


"Painkiller," she tried to explain, "Though if your finger starts turning 
green, I'd suggest amputation." 


"Great," West groaned. "Could this day get any worse?" 


Suddenly, the day got worse. 


There was a reason that Post-Mortem Assurance Specialists existed 
in the Foundation, and Sigma-10 was just seeing one of those 
reasons firsthand. The cult of Satyr's Reign, responsible for the 
resurrection of countless psychopaths within the town limits of 
Sloth's Pit some one year, three-hundred and fifty-eight days earlier, 
had spontaneously risen once more at the corner of Main and Bray 
Road, due to being exposed to a great amount of narrative irony— 
or, as the official report would read (assuming anyone would get out 
of this alive): 


"You just had to try fixing your cat with magic!" Seren Pryce growled 
over her earpiece as she, for the second time in her life, shot a 
zombified Josef Stalin in the apricot. "God DAMN it, Williams!" 


"It was Blake's idea!" Ruby Williams asserted as she hacked the arm 
off of a cultist that was reaching for her brother. "Watch your six, 
goddammit!" 


"Watch yours!" Blake retorted, firing a hollow point into the brain of a 
zombified Charles Manson— "Wait, isn't he alive?" 


"Who fucking cares?!" Nicholas Ewell had turned bright yellow out of 
sheer frustration. "None of this should be happening! It is April 
goddamn first! This is our. One. Fucking. Day. OFF!" He screamed 
this as he made someone who he thought was the Torso Murderer 
fellate a shotgun, and then made it climax. "| ain't about to have our 
day ruined by a bunch of zombie psychos and zombie psycho 
cultists!" 


"Preach, Nick!" Seren cackled, sending an incendiary round into the 
torso of a reanimated cultist. "Seriously though, Williams, both of 
you are so getting discharged when we're done." 


"Later, Pryce," Ruby growled as she drove a knife into the soft 
palate of yet another Charles Manson. "...what the fuck." 


"It's like there's an extra day in March or something!" their medic, 
Raymond February, said this as he took a pot shot at another cultist; 
he had elected to hide in the doorway of the Wal-Greens sitting at 
this corner. 


"Impossible," Pryce frowned. "Thirty days hath September, April, 
June, March, and November. That's how the rhyme goes —" her 
eyes went wider than the plot holes in a bad smut novel. "Now hold 
up a minute." 


".,.that's not possible." Harold West swallowed as he heard the 
reason why Director Weiss had had a heart attack. "March only has 
thirty days." 


"It's March 31st," she groaned through a morphine drip. "The 
entirety of the town seems to have forgotten that March has thirty- 
one days." She rubbed her face. "I attribute it, in part, due to the 
amount of chemicals in the food from that one restaurant downtown- 
Benny's?" 


"Berry's," West grunted through a face full of palm. "Bailey 
mentioned finding paint in his milkshake at one point. Lead 


poisoning made the entire town forget a whole day existed?!" 


"Not lead," Weiss breathed, slowly. "L.E.A.D. Leukocytic Erroneous 
Amnestic Derivative. There's been abnormal amounts of it in the 
paint all around town." 


"Director, please," Dr. Beach groaned. "If any of us hit our foreheads 
any more, we're going to have concussions." He looked her over. 
"So, the reason for your heart attack was... stress induced by the 
discovery that March had thirty-one days, and that today was not, in 
fact, April 1st." 


"That's correct, | think." Weiss sighed. "...| think | need a break. 
Some vacation somewhere. Hawaii is supposed to be nice. Or 
there's the Jersey Shore." 


West wondered why anyone would want to go to New Jersey 
willingly. "...well. We just have to stay down here until the craziness 
outside subsides." 


Seventy-Million Dollars in property damage, a razed local 
landmark, five-hundred dead zombies, cultists and zombie 
cultists, four colly birds, three french hens, several dozen 
doses of headache medication, and a hastily bought plane 
ticket to Hawaii later... 


April 1st