"Captain! Calm down!" the O5 barked. "Will you be able to get a 
man in there? 


"In, yes." 
"Uh..." the doctor began, then trailed off at the captain's glare. 


"Continue, doctor,” the speaker crackled. 


"Uh. Aircraft could be close enough to intervene within four minutes 
without attracting attention. Another car could follow and catch up in 
three," the doctor muttered, carefully not meeting the captain's eyes. 


"Captain. Knowing this, do you think this would be viable?" 
Jameson's brow furrowed in calculation. "...possibly. But | still-" 


"Dammit, Captain!" the O5 snapped, the mask of calm dropping. "If 
you can't head this operation, someone else will. You may be a 
veteran, but you're not above being moved from fieldwork." 


Agent Hunter sat uneasily in the darkened police cruiser parked in 
the SCP-front restaurant. It had taken a little while to find, even for 
the Foundation. Vintage police cruisers with original plates weren't 
generally what you got in most car dealerships under "deal of the 
month". Then they had to modify it up and make it as fast as they 
could without changing the appearance. Not to mention the cameras 
that had been added. He adjusted his microphone under the 
unfamiliar uniform. He wasn't used to wearing a proper uniform, 
much less one with a badge. Were men a different shape in the 
seventies or what? At least | get a gun for this one, | guess. And 
some decent backup. Captain Jameson appeared at the side of the 
car, making him jump. 


"Don't worry, Hunter. Just stick to the script and you'll be fine. You're 
a state police sergeant. He's a trooper. Emergency up the road, he 
has to follow you. Most important thing: It's seventy-six. If anything 
should go wrong, I'll be on the guns in Curtis' helicopter and Black 
will come tearing up behind you with team 2 in the support car, team 
3 will be coming from ahead. You've pulled loads of missions like 
this." Jameson said, in a voice he hoped was cheerful. 


"Not against a genuine scip, sir," Hunter replied. "Still, first time for 
everything. | guess. Almost time to move?" 


"Go time in five minutes, Hunter. See you on the other side," 
Jameson replied, before walking away and climbing into the 
helicopter. Hunter listened to the helicopter take off and, just two 
minutes later, pulled out of the car park, waving to the Team 2 car 


as he left. 


Soon enough, Hunter was blasting down the highway at just over 
ninety kilometers an hour. It wasn't long before he heard the siren 
and saw the lights. He pulled over immediately. He watched his 
mirror and saw a rust-ridden, dented police cruiser with a cracked 
windshield pull up behind him and an overweight man step out. As 
the man drew closer Hunter could see the state police uniform and 
the gun holster he was wearing. The man stepped up beside the 
driverside window and bent down revealing deadpan eyes, a 
handlebar moustache and balding hair as Hunter rolled down the 
window. Some distance away, Captain Baker told Curtis to move the 
helicopter to one kilometer away exactly and radioed for team 2 to 
begin moving up at a distance. 


"Sir, do you — Oh. You're an officer too?" the trooper said ina 
surprised tone. 


"I'm a sergeant, yes. I'm in something of a rush, trooper," Hunter 
replied, hoping that he sounded less tense than he felt. 


"| don't recognize you, Sergeant, but I've only been patrolling this 
area for a little while. What did you say your name was?" 


"| didn't. I'm Sergeant Hunter. I'll need you to follow me, trooper." 
Hunter replied. 


In the helicopter, Captain Jameson grimaced. He wanted to be 
closer but didn't want to give himself away with the noise of rotors. 


"Hunter, eh?" The trooper scratched his head. "I haven't heard of 
you before. You new?" The trooper seemed to be full of questions, a 
strange glint in his eye. Hunter felt sweat drip down his spine. 


"No, trooper, I've been here a while. | am a sergeant, after all. Now 
I'll need you to follow me, there's an emergency up ahead and all 
officers are to proceed there as fast as possible but with no lights. 
Understand, trooper?" Hunter was losing it, he knew. 


Hearing this, Jameson growled again and told Team 2 to get in 


position quickly. He was soon told they were moving as fast as 
reasonably possible. 


"Yes, sergeant, I'll just get my car. When did you join up, again? | 
think my buddy Jim might know you..." 


The man just wouldn't give up, Hunter reflected. The trooper's eyes 
were glinting more strongly now, and getting brighter . 


"Nineteen-seventy-six, trooper," Hunter said. "Now get going! In your 
car, trooper!" 


"No you didn't!" the trooper growled, his mouth opening a little too 
wide, and drew his gun. "IT'S ONLY NINETEEN SEVENTY- 
THREE!" 


Hunter paled, jammed the key in the ignition, and stomped on the 
gas. Bullets pinged off the doors and cracked the windshield; in the 
rearview mirror, he could see the trooper's mouth opening wide, and 
the man's eyes starting to glow. The radio turned itself on. 
"NINETEEN FUCKING SEVENTY-FUCKING-THREE, YOU 
FUCKING LIAR! YOU... YOU LYING FUCK! RUN, YOU FUCKER!" 


"All teams move in now! Cover is blown!" Jameson yelled into his 
headset. 


As Hunter pulled away as fast as he thought safe he couldn't think of 
anything except to curse his own stupidity. Somewhere at the back 
of his brain he realized his rear bumper was trailing on the ground 
and his driverside doors must be horribly dented. Then he heard the 
sirens. 

"RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN-" The 
loudhailer made him find some extra acceleration from somewhere 
and he drove as fast as he could. 


"Where the hell are you guys? Team 2, Team 3, report!" Captain 
Jameson yelled into his headset. 


"Team 2, closing in! Two kilos out!" 
"RUN, FUCKER, RUN," 
"Team 3, less than a kilo out and closing fast oh fu-" 


Gloves are lined in silk, shoes in leather. As with the coats, both 
appear machine-assembled and bear no tags or marks of 
ownership. 


The Foundation was called to the site after numerous reports of 
repeated anomalous animal attacks in the area. Animals were 
reported to be unusually close to human dwellings, and to be 
abnormally aggressive considering the species involved. Likewise, 
behavior after captivity was not consistent with the norm; [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. 


Personnel found SCP-801 lying on the floor of the lodge along with 
numerous other sets of normal articles of clothing. 


Donning any article of SCP-801 begins a rapid change in the 
wearer. Subject begins by doubling over in pain as internal changes 
start; described variously as “excruciating”, “burning” and “like my 
[REDACTED] organs are liquefying and [DATA EXPUNGED]”’. 
Subjects soon (within two (2) minutes) lose both coherent speech 
and the ability to stand upright. Subject's vocalizations begin to 
become less human and more animal as external changes become 
apparent according to which article of clothing is worn. Although 
subjects may manage to remove the clothing before this stage, no 
halt in the process takes place. Characteristic is the lengthening of 
the front of the face into a snout or muzzle, lengthening of the arch 
of the foot, and of the tailbone. Three (3) minutes into the transition 
subject demonstrates signs of extreme pain and fatigue. At this 
stage subject begins prodigious vomiting, apparently shedding 
excess mass and tissue unneeded for the new form. What mass 
cannot be expelled in this manner enters into an advanced state of 
cellular deterioration and falls away from the main body. At minute 
five (5), the subject resembles its new form almost entirely; extreme 
hair growth begins over the body, apparently interfering with the 
subject's upper dermal layers, and resulting in expelling much blood 
from the body along with the newly grown hair. 


Upon completion of transition, subject will be extremely fatigued, but 
not docile, and care should be taken when caging or terminating test 
subjects. All subjects thus far have shown extreme and relentless 
aggression and resistance to pain. When caged and lacking an 
exterior target, subjects will bite and scratch themselves far past the 


"FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER,” 


Lights were flashing, sirens screaming, brakes screeching and all 
were overwhelmed by the noise of the helicopter bearing down in 
time for Captain Jameson to see team 3's oncoming car get 
blindsided and knocked into a tree by Agent Hunter's police cruiser, 
denting his hood and passenger door. Team 2 came close to the 
trooper's dented car as Jameson prepared to fire on it with the 
helicopter's mounted gun. He briefly wondered how a rustbucket of 
that standard managed to maintain such speeds. 


"RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKER, RUN, FUCKE-" 
The noise of heavy machine gun fire drowned everything else out. 


MISSION REPORT 
Objective: SCP-973 capture attempt 


Personnel in charge: Doctor Baker, Captain Jameson 


Result: Failure. SCP-973 is still uncontained. 973-2 
seems to have been unaware of - or possibly unwilling to 
acknowledge - the actual date, but is now aware that it is 
at least some time after 1976. The implications of this 
are unknown; however, SCP-973's "territory" appears to 
be growing faster than before. 


Casualties: [DATA EXPUNGED] 
Notes: | fucking told you so. - Capt. Jameson. 


BobbleCon 2018 


Item #: SCP-993 
Object Class: Safe Uncontained 


"So," said Rodge, driving a pick into the corpse’s back. "What was 
your favourite episode?" 


"Has to be seventy-eight," replied Lindsay, eyes far-off in the realm 
of nostalgia. "| used to watch that one every morning before school." 


"Bobble’s Hunting Lodge - good choice." 


BobbleCon 2018 had been difficult to organize - so much of the 
fandom was in prison or otherwise indisposed - but they'd finally 
managed to snag a venue and a good chunk of attendants. The 
trouble was, Rodge reflected as he pulled the pick out of the body, 
the locals didn’t seem to care much for Bobble at all. There was no 
end to the Bobble haters, from what Rodge had seen. There were all 
sorts of organizations keen to keep him locked up or even, God 
forbid, kill him. 


"Well," he said after a minute, stuffing the pick back into his 
backpack. "I think Deputy Dollop here got the point. We should be 
able to go on without any more interruptions." 


He began walking back towards the village’s church, which the 
attendants had covered with home-made Bobble banners and other 
wonderful memorabilia. It really wasn’t fair how that cop had wanted 
them out - this village had shit in terms of viable convention venues. 
If they didn’t set up in the church, where would they set up? 


"Deputy Dollop," laughed Lindsay, catching up to him. "Episode nine 
thousand and four, right?" 


"Well spotted," grinned Rodge, wagging a finger. "Preston was right 


- you really do know your stuff." 
"Like | said, every morning. You don’t forget a show like Bobble’s." 


"That you do not," said Rodge, opening the doors to the church. The 
convention-goers turned from the pews, eagerly awaiting news 
about the deputy outside. Their faces were painted white, and their 
hair dyed orange - just like Bobble! It was a bit of fun Lindsay had 
come up with when they’d first met up. Rodge and Lindsay had done 
the same themselves. He’d never done cosplay before, but he had 
to admit it was pretty amusing. 


"Well?" said Preston, the only one of them in a full Bobble outfit, 
from the altar. His eyes were wide with anticipation. 


Rodge reached into his bag and pulled out the pick, blood still 
dripping from its edge. 


"The show goes on!" he cheered, and BobbleCon cheered with him. 


Rodge had first met Bobble when he was...six, maybe? Definitely at 
least six. 


He'd been sitting in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal, when he’d 
heard a crashing sound from the living room. He’d run to check out 
what it was, and what did he find but his mother, having fallen on the 
floor unconscious? It looked for all the world like she’d just fallen 
asleep while doing the ironing. 


Rodge, worried, had run to the phone, ready to call 911, when - 
"Hey there, kids! Guess who?" 


Rodge looked up to see a face on the television. A cheerful-looking 
cartoon clown, with pale skin and curly orange hair. There was a 
kindness in his eyes. You could tell that straight away - this was a 
person who wanted the best for you. 


Maybe...maybe it would be best not to call 911. She'd only fainted, 
after all, and Rodge was pretty curious about this new show. He 


didn’t remember ever seeing it before. 


Rodge went and sat on the couch, watching the television with rapt 
attention. The clown on the screen grinned, as if he could see 
straight into Rodge’s living room. 


"Thaaat’s right! It’s your old pal, Bobble the Clown!" 


It was like nothing Rodge had ever seen. He’d caught glimpses of 
violent movies and stuff when he snuck downstairs after bed, but 
never more than snippets. Blood and guts, screams and cries...he’d 
never realized how fun they could be. Bobble made them that way, 
of course. The show wouldn’t work without him - Rodge could tell 
that even way back then. 


Thirty minutes flew by like nothing, and by the end Rodge wanted 
nothing more than for his new friend to stick around. Bobble seemed 
to share the feeling, weeping exaggeratedly on the screen, hands 
over his eyes. 


"Oh, boo hoo! Boo hoo! Alas, children, that’s all for today! 
Please...please, if you have any decency in your hearts..." 


Suddenly, he took his hands away, and those kind, kind eyes were 
back. Kind, grey eyes, like the edge of a knife. He grinned at Rodge. 


‘Tune in next time! Honk honk! Honk honk!’ 


The television snapped back to static, and soon enough the morning 
news resumed playing. His mother stirred on the floor, slowly getting 
up. 


"Rodge?" she slurred. "What happened?" 


Rodge didn’t reply. He was too excited, his face having broken out 
into a grin just like Bobble’s. His new friend would be on television 
again just the next day! 


He’d never been happier in his life. 


"| first started watching Bobble when | was nine," said Preston into 
the microphone taped to the altar, the rest of the attendants listening 
reverently from the pews. "My parents were having a divorce at the 
time and | was honestly having a hard time of it. Bobble gave me 
something to look forward to every morning and - and this fandom, | 
honestly think this fandom saved my life. | love you guys so much." 


A wave of polite clapping and cheering went through the pews. 
Lindsay, standing behind Preston, put a reassuring hand on his 
shoulder. 


"We Bobbleheads have to stick together," she said, smiling warmly. 


"Episode three nine nine," Preston recognized the quote, tears in his 
eyes. 


"Yeah. Episode three nine nine." 


Special Containment Procedures: As SCP-993 is no 
longer under containment, all efforts are to focus on 
tracking down and halting all SCP-993 broadcasts. 
Outgoing broadcasts are to be intercepted through the 
updated version of Procedure Upsilon-Beta 3, operated 
by Learning Computers Tau-4 ("AMON") and Epsilon 9 
("JOSIAH"). 


Physical searches of broadcast locations are to be 
handled by Mobile Task Forces Zeta-2 ("Lumberjacks"), 
Eta-10 ("See No Evil") and Mu-9 ("Toybreakers"). 
Individuals identifying as part of the group 'BobbleCon'’, 
or individuals over the age of ten who are immune to 
SCP-993's effects, are to be treated as hostile and 
engaged with appropriate force. Class-C amnestics are 
to be administered to any individuals suspected to have 
been exposed to SCP-993's cognitohazardous effects. 
All involved MTF Units are to be supplied with 
SCRAMBLE-type goggles in order to prevent them from 
viewing SCP-993 and being rendered unconscious. 


All security on SCP objects mentioned in prior SCP-993 
broadcasts is to be intensified severely.