Ten minutes and a brief trumpet solo later, Jackson Sloth Memorial 
High had devised its sixty-eighth unique emergency siren code, and 
Ms Burton's test had been postponed for the seventh week in a row. 
Ms Burton sat on a picnic table out on the school lawn and stared 
blearily at the test paper in her hands. Slowly, she began to rip it into 
little pieces. Adam stood at the top of the steps outside the school's 
main entrance and watched his teacher's mental breakdown with a 
purely non-malicious satisfaction. Utkarsh was sitting a few steps 
down, with his head in his hands. Adam sat down beside him and 
watched the road. White vans began to pull up at the front of the 
school. The signs on the side read "School Cosmetology Provision". 
The paint didn't seem to have dried yet. A representative from the 
company exited the lead van and approached the principal to ask 
what, exactly, had happened. 


"Same as last time," said the principal, "Except with hair." 


Adam and Utkarsh shifted a half-inch to the side as a squad of 
black-suited school cosmetologists marched past them into the 
school building. Adam grinned at the stern-faced military efficiency 
of the team. 


"Elite Mobile Hair-Disposal Unit Bravo Sixty-Niner!" he said, 
"Codename: Occam's Leg Razor!" 


Utkarsh didn't respond. Adam frowned, and nudged him. 


"How ‘bout that hair, huh?" said Adam. Utkarsh nodded without 
looking up. "Pretty crazy. Wonder where that came from." 


Utkarsh shrugged noncommittally. 
"Probably your mom's pubes, right?" said Adam desperately. 


"| was gonna ace that test," muttered Utkarsh. 


"Alright," sighed Adam. This again. 


"| was!" said Utkarsh. He turned his head and glared at Adam, "| 
was. | studied for it. | studied for it when it was announced, two 
months ago, and | studied for it every week it was delayed since 
then, and now | could find a integral with both hands behind my back 
and my dick on fire. | was going to ace it." 


Adam smiled nervously. Utkarsh snorted and turned away, hunched 
over on the step, arms folded. He didn't look back at Adam. Adam 
fidgeted nervously. 


"| was going to ace it," Utkarsh growled. 
"Dude, you're still gonna get a good mark—" 


"I'm gonna get the same mark everybody else is gonna get. The 
same mark everybody always gets, and no-one ever, ever earns," 
Utkarsh barked. Adam shuffled the half-inch back. "You know, | 
want to do shit, okay? | just want to do shit, and when | do shit, | 
want it to make shit happen, okay? Cause and effect. Just once, just 
for once, when | throw a ball | want it to come back down, instead of 
getting snatched out of the air by a fucking owl." 


"It's usually an eagle," Adam mumbled. 


"My dad's gonna ask me how the test went today, Adam, and | gotta 
tell him I'm getting a B because the PA system decided to grow a 
beard. That is bullshit. That is a literal hailstorm of bullshit." 


(Two second low pitch, three short.) 


"I'm sorry, man," mumbled Adam, "But shit happens, right? 
Everyone goes through this. It's just the way the world works. Maybe 
you needa talk to someone about this. Not me. Someone who's not 
me." 


"Nah," said Utkarsh. He blinked, and shook his head, "No-one would 
ever believe me. Let's not talk about it anymore." 


"Cool," said Adam, who was feeling particularly compliant. The 
doors opened behind them. A member of the elite trimming unit 


stuck his head out and yelled at them to clear out of the way. They 
gathered up their bags and sauntered slowly down the steps. The 
rest of the squad followed shortly after, dragging a tangled mass of 
hair the size of a small car. Adam and Utkarsh watched the team 
move it slowly across the lawn. 


"So, what do you think was the deal with that hair?" asked Adam. 
"| dunno," Utkarsh shrugged, "Probably rats in the walls." 

"Or swamp gas," said Adam. 

"Or a weather balloon." 

"Yeah." 


The team of combat stylists began the complicated process of 
preparing the hair for transport. One of them started up a chainsaw 
and began to try and cut into the side of the twisted knot. The 
chainsaw's desperate shrieks and pealing black smoke were such a 
fascinating distraction that Adam and Utkarsh almost didn't notice 
the darkening skies, or the pitter-patter growing louder behind them. 
The worker with the chainsaw certainly didn't, until something wet 
and wriggling dropped down onto his head. The man lowered his 
chainsaw, looked up to the sky, and groaned. Adam laughed. 
Utkarsh just shook his head in disbelief. As the downpour increased, 
low-pitched sirens rang out for exactly four seconds and the 
students of Jackson Sloth's Memorial High began to gather their 
bags and head home. 


|Hub| 


Nacho Business 


In the Foundation, you can't afford to pull punches. If you make an 
assumption, expect it to fly back in your face before you can say 
"Skipper". Hell, do you know how many tests they have to run in this 
place? It's a laundry list bigger than my forearm. | don't know which 
poor tuna head they got to do the tests, but I'm glad it ain't me. 


- Overheard from within the Site-87 administrative washroom. 


Researcher Brian Cohen stood above the slightly luminescent nacho 
bowl classified as E-00043. Currently, it was being bombarded with 
amusingly high levels of secret radiation, to see what would happen. 
This was always the worst part of the job. Every time a new shiny 
diet cola or infinite curdle dispenser came along, he had to test it for 
every type of unforeseen anomaly under the sun. 


There were tests to see if it reacted to water, a test for gravitational 
force, tests to determine whether or not it could cause a massive 
heart failure to someone sitting on it... basically, if a Level 4 could 
imagine it, he'd have to test it. Brian checked his watch, and sighed. 
Only about 104 tests left to go... 


TEST NUMBER: 196 

OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl" 
CURRENT TEST: "Testing for "Rage State" 
TEST PROCEDURE: 


Brian slouched in his chair, lazily pawing for a bag of pretzels as 
D-5611 entered the chamber. Fumbling for the mic, he pressed his 
cheese dust-encrusted fingers to the intercom button. 


"Please insert the nacho you were given into E-00043, and eat it." 


The orange jumpsuit clad woman looked over to the sparkling snack 
receptacle, then back to the intercom. 


Subject A 


Subject: Photograph #29, Text Fragment #115 

Page(s): 56 

Description: A smiling, handsome man of approximately 20 years 
of age stands with his hand extended, as if holding something that 
cannot be seen. "Your friend, . lam almost made jealous by 
the happiness you show when he is in town!" - Subject A 


Subject: Text Fragment #128 

Page(s): 61 

Description: " : ; . Why must you spend so much 
time with him? Our bed seems to have grown cold lately. Am | at 
fault?" - Subject A 


Subject: Text Fragment #133 


Page(s): 63 
Description: "My dear , itis with sadness that | admit to having 
had an affair with my beloved . | cannot deny it any longer; 


though | am reluctant, when you read this | will already be gone. | 
can only hope that you can find it within your heart to forgive me." - 
Subject B 


Subject: Photograph #33, Text Fragments #136-137 

Page(s): 67, 68 

Description: A damaged photograph, older than the ones before it, 
showing a couple holding hands. The face of the man as well as the 
surroundings are blurred by what appears to be drops of human 
tears and smeared blood, and the woman has been cut out using 
scissors. "It has been a long time since | have written. My tears are 
run dry, and sorrow has turned to hatred in my heart." -Subject A "If | 
cannot have you, then no one else will. No one shall even remember 
your name when | am through." - Subject A 


Addendum 733-02: Experiment Log for SCP-733 
[REDACTED] 
Addendum 733-03: Incident 733-03 


On // ,asecurity breach was reported at Site- . Upon 


"You being serious right now?" 
"Yes. Just, uh, drop it in for a couple seconds, and then eat it." 


She shrugged. "Whatever. You're the boss, | guess." There was a 
slight clink, followed by a crunch. 


Brian watched her for a minute, going over the rage state checklist. 
Subject was not suddenly gaining additional muscle mass, or 
attempting to exit the test chamber. Subject had not threatened to 
"spill the blood of ten thousand wasps into your accursed soul." 
Brian leaned into the mic. 


"Yo, D-Class. How you feel?" 


Inside the test chamber, the orange-clad woman shrugged. "Same, | 
guess.” 


RESULT: E-00043 was determined not to cause a rage 
state in human subjects. 


TEST NUMBER: 205 

OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl" 
CURRENT TEST: "Insanity Probability" 
TEST PROCEDURE: 


Brian glanced at the clock, half-hoping it would show some sort of 
serendipity with the schedule. Sadly, these hopes were misplaced. 
Three in the morning, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Looking around the 
cluttered, snack-wrapper laden observation chamber, he sighed, 
and slapped his palm onto the intercom button. 


"Send in... you remember which one we're on?" 
"Two hundred twenty three, | think." crackled the speaker. 
"Send, uh, that one in then." 


A blond-haired fat man sauntered into the testing chamber, wearing 
a bright green jumpsuit. A small stain was ingrained to the collar, 
probably jam. Brian stubbed his finger to the intercom, and rattled off 


test instructions in the third worst German accent he'd ever done. 
This was the mind-affecting test, seeing whether or not the bowl was 
a thing what made you go cray-cray. Obediently, the D-Class put it 
on his head, and just as hypothesized, nothing happened. 


RESULT: No anomalous properties detected. 


Brian sighed. Only a couple dozen more to go... 


Testing continued as it always did, at a snail's pace. There were 
tests of cumulative exposure, where they made someone wear it all 
day. Tests for seeing if it made your bladder weaker, or for making 
you into a different type of bowl, maybe some to test if it changed 
eating habits. The results were usually predictable as they come: 
The tester would do something silly with a bowl, and Brian would 
check the clock and whine to himself. 


Later tests were always the weird ones. These had the object do 
something so specific and bizarre, you know it only started because 
some sweater in Kansas turned out to be double memetic. Brian 
was pretty sure that wasn't an actual thing that existed in reality, but 
it was still on the testing schedule. There was a laundry list of other 
oddities: Dog vigor, paper towel radiation, and whether or not it 
caused acne in sharks. Just in case. This one had the test subject 
just sit next to the bowl, trying to make polite conversation while 
being hooked up to more brain scanners than you could count. 


But, finally, it was time for the last test. 


Brian himself would be performing this one, as it was a test of his 
own creation. He'd been over the list dozens of times, looking for 
this one being listed, but never found it. It boggled the mind that 
nobody in the Foundation Smart Test List Initiative(FSTLI) had 
thought of it. But, it had been absent. In one hand, Brian picked up 
the bowl, and in the other he held a bag of chips. 


TEST NUMBER: 301 

OBJECT: E-00043 "Shiny Bowl" 
CURRENT TEST: UNAUTHORIZED 
TEST PROCEDURE: 


Brian poured the chips into the bowl. 
There was a silence. 
A crunch. 
Then nothing. 
INCIDENT E-00043-A 


On //_ , Researcher Cohen attempted to initiate an 
unauthorized test with E-00043, with notes recovered 
from the test observation chamber citing his inability to 
"believe this shit" when the test was not included on the 
roster. Subsequently, E-00043 demonstrated a 
previously unknown anomalous effect, filling the entire 
test chamber with "Lays" brand potato chips, severely 
injuring Researcher Cohen. Investigation into the 
incident is ongoing, and E-00043 has been slated for 
additional testing. 


|Hub| 


Leafers 


A rust-covered forest green 1976 Dodge Dart pulled into the parking 
lot of S & C Plastics with a rattle and a shake. With many an 
unpleasant grinding clackety-clack, the engine cut and the 
headlights went out. 7:30 am, local time. Dr. Marshall Grant, a not- 
too-pudgy entomologist of 42 with hazel eyes and soil-brown 
thinning hair, looked up at the neon sign with its broken ampersand 
and flickering ‘L’ and gave a defeated sigh. 


What the hell am | doing here? 


Three weeks ago he had put in for a transfer. A change of scenery, 
Dr. Melcher had said. Just the ticket for getting out of that rut he was 
stuck in. Was it really a rut when one successfully had 7 years as 
HMCL supervisor of an SCP project, and four of those without any 
accidental exposures, breaches, or casualties? It should have been 
a great source of pride for him, a wonderful relief, exactly the kind of 
record any researcher should beam and brag about. He had served 
on SCP-400 from discovery through assessment and containment, 
even held the withered corpse in his own arms and fed it with a 
bottle. SCP-400-B was his baby. But to be honest, it was just a 
source of stress and worry and misery and depression. At least 
Marshall had learned to be honest about that. This was neither a 
punishment nor a demotion. Grant had come willingly. 


Pure research. That’s what. Goddamn crustaceans about to give me 
a heart-attack... 


It was early enough that the night shift had just shuffled out, and the 
day shift hadn’t quite shuffled in. Just a skeleton crew of guards and 
one or two post-docs burning the mid-morning oil. The parking lot 
was empty as you like it, with a faint rustling of the first autumn 
leaves the only— 


“HEY! WATCH IT, MACK! I’M WALKIN’ HERE!” 


Marshall stopped dead, half in a cringe as he squeezed a bit of 
startle out of his eyes. “Oh! I’m sorry sir, |...” But as his head 
swiveled around to apologize to what sounded like a very burly man, 
there was no one. “...Didn’t see you there?” 


“Yeah, I'll bet you are. Fuckin’ lunatic,” the voice came again. Grant 
wanted to relax but it... and he... What? No one was there! Nothing 
at all in the lot with him but a few cars twenty meters off and an 
oddly colored mantis slowly trundling along the pavement near his 
feet. Yet he had heard the voice clear as a bell and swore he 
smelled burning tobacco coming from some place. 


It’s just nerves, Marshall. Relax. First day jitters... yeah, that’s it. 


His badge swiped by the RFID reader, which beeped a friendly 
‘hello’ and turned its LED green just for him. The offices of the 
entomology department were empty, so he rooted around until he 
found the door with his name-plate on it and let down his briefcase 
on the desk. Site-87, he had been told, had a few ‘real card’s on 
staff. It looked like it from the posters, photographs, and funny 
newspaper clippings that adorned all the offices he had poked his 
head into. Except his, of course. Grant traveled light, lived light, 
didn’t care for too much unnecessary decoration. Dr. Melcher had 
said that might be a problem, too. Not enough color in his life. Who 
had time for color in a world where a mother couldn’t even be certain 
if her baby was alive or dead? 


Enough of that shit, Grant, he scolded himself harshly. 
“Yo, those leaves are fuckin’ beautiful!” 
“| Know, right! Lookit all them colors!” 


The voices were faint, but he heard them distinctly. It sounded like a 
tourist or something. What did they call them in New England? 
Leafers! People coming out of the city in great droves at ass-thirty in 
the morning to watch the first rays of the autumn sun catch the 
foreign and marvelous colors ‘red’ and ‘yellow’. 


“Shit that’s wicked pretty.” 


Grant stood and darted to the door. No one in the hall. No one 
walking. No steady pat pat of footsteps or clicking of light switches 
or even squeaking of hinges. Just him. 


“So how’s the misses?”