Accompanying Note: / thought the tomatoes 
were such a hoot, so | thought I'd give it a try 
with a different fruit. 


SCP-903-5: A shard of obsidian carved into a 
humanoid shape. Whenever an individual cuts 
themselves on its edge, SCP-903-5 morphs 
into a perfect image of that individual. 
Accompanying Note: For the price of a little 
pain, you'll have a little buddy to keep you 
sane. 


SCP-903-12: A bronze key that weighs 90 
tonnes. 

Accompanying Note: With this you can open 
any door, if you have the strength to get it off 
the floor. 


SCP-903-20: A pack of "Blue Lady" brand 
cigarettes with a picture of a blue haired 
female with one eye. Anybody who smokes 
one of these cigarettes is temporarily afflicted 
with a condition where they are convinced a 
one eyed woman is staring at them. 
Accompanying Note: Jake a puff if you dare, 
if you can withstand her unbreakable stare. 


All other instances of SCP-903-X omitted. For 
a full list please file a request to Dr. Ryan. 


Addendum: After four years of containment and testing, as well as 
cataloging all instances of SCP-903-X produced, SCP-903 
reactivates and produces only a single, handwritten note. 


Even the greatest minds can lose their inspiration. Can 
you please help an artist in desperation? 


Footnotes 
1. For a full listing of SCPs transported through SCP-903, please 
send an official request to the current Site Administrator. 


Madame Lucia 


There were rats in the soufflé again. lago was at his wits' end. The 
little vermin found the cheese in the pantry and once they got a taste 
they wouldn't stop for death. He had tried everything to keep them 
down: Traps, catchers, jewelry... 


He realized that he couldn't delay his next thought any longer. He 
would have to report this to Madame. He set down the enormous, 
rodent-laden ramekin, gulped the last of his cooking brandy, and 
began the long walk from the kitchens to the sitting room. 


Rats! he mused as he tramped through gold and gem encrusted 
hallways. Castles always had rats! It didn't matter where it was. On 
an island, atop a mountain, halfway between dimensions, they 
always found their ways in. And a more modern house would not do 
at all for Madame. She was so old fashioned. The pearls that hung 
from the ceiling had hung there for centuries. 


The soufflé was, of course, another problem. It was huge. Madame 
could only stomach the best of the best. Only one percent of 
anything was good enough and the rest was disposed of. Despite 
this, she required large portions. The only sensible thing to do was 
to enlarge the one percent until there was enough to satisfy her. A 
gigantic soufflé was the only obvious solution, far easier than one 
hundred smaller ones. Unfortunately, it was also much easier for the 
little pests to escape lago's keen eye as he lowered the batter into 
the oven. 


He could not escape forever. He found it harder and harder to 
concentrate on anything else but the door at the end of the corridor 
that he had entered. His thoughts were quite unconsciously brushed 
aside by the fear and shame ballooning up in his mind. 


Mostly fear. 


In her airy tower, high above the shifting plain between here and 
there, sits Madame Lucia. The room is lavishly decorated, as the 
rest of the castle is, but here there is true opulence. Here are the 
paintings where each stroke is worth a country. Here are the rugs of 
quagga fur and the diamond-paned windows and the fireplace of 
marble polished to shine like the moon. Yet it all appears shabby 
when one views the figure sitting in the high-backed chair facing 
away from the door. Madame's cascade of white hair falls over the 
chair back, each strand a thread of diamonds. She wears long, black 
silk gloves. One million silkworms were boiled alive to find the few 
threads that were flawless enough for her. 


That is all one usually sees of Madame Lucia, and it is all that is 
needed. Just one percent. 


lago opened the door to the sitting room as decorously as he could 
manage. Madame sat in her usual spot, sipping tea. The cup she 
held in one hand was of a porcelain so finely wrought that, were it 
displayed in a museum, simply breathing in its general direction 
would result in a one hundred dollar fine. 


After each sip, she emptied the cup into a crystal pail at her feet, 
and refilled it with fresh water from a golden tumbler. She then 
picked up a small silver spoon with a daisy pattern in the handle, 
hopelessly cheap-looking compared to everything else, and stirred 
the liquid just once. 


"Iago," she said in a voice like the gentle tearing of a rose petal from 
its stalk. She would always speak first. To deprive her of this right 
was an affront to all that was good and pure. "Where is my soufflé?" 


lago was not required to bow. He could not have at this moment. He 
was too terrified. "Please, Madame, | am so terribly sorry, Madame, 
please. There are rats in the soufflé again." 


The teacup hesitated for a moment before resuming its passage to 
Madame's lips. "They still trouble you? After all you have done? | 
cannot believe that you would be so incompetent." her voice took on 
a slightly petulant tone. "| suppose you ignored my suggestion? That 
you offer them last month's finest jewelry to stop." 


"| did, Madame. They did not appear to want it." 


"Hah. That is impossible. You probably chose the wrong jewelry. It 
was that hideous ring, | imagine." 


"| offered each piece to every rat that | could find, Madame." 
"Hmph. | doubt that." 


lago was relieved that Madame was in a good humor today. He 
decided that now would be the best time to propose his own plan. 
"Madame, please, if | may be so impertinent as to offer my own 
thoughts on the matter-" 


"Yes... you are quite impertinent... Go on." 


He plunged on, emboldened by the brandy. "Madame, perhaps if the 
cheese for the soufflé were stored in a less opulent cellar, it will take 
care of them itself. There is certainly enough wealth between the 
cellars and the towers that the effect would not extend-" 


"But, what would the rats think!" Madame sounded absolutely 
horrified. The hand that held the spoon fanned her face for a 
moment. 


"Madame?" 


"What you are suggesting, lago, will be nothing short of ruinous. I- 
imagine for a moment that the rats enter the pantry to, to-to-to find 
garnets in the walls instead of rubies! | would be a laughingstock! 
They would never believe that this is a respectable house!" 


"Madame, please, | am sorry, but | can think of no other way to 
prevent the rats from getting in your soufflé." 


"Then you will make rat soufflé!" 


lago ducked as the teacup shattered on the wall next to his head, 
soaking him with jasmine drops. He was trembling all over, certain 
that his deserved punishment would come at last. Madame was 
sitting bolt upright, about to turn... 


When she didn't. She spoke softly, "Yes... haha... rat soufflé, what a 
novel idea..." she laughed. "Rat soufflé, oh how do | amuse myself. 
Hahahaha..." 


"Ha... haha..." lago laughed breathlessly over the simple fact that 
he was still alive. Madame was not angry. And the rush of 
adrenaline to his brain had allowed him to come up with another 
idea. 


"Madame..." 
Hm? Yes, lago? Haha..." 


"Please, Madame, what if | were to offer some of your cheese to the 
philistines?" 


"Iago, you do go on." 


"Ah, but, Madame," he said, warming to his idea. "The rats are 
obviously ashamed of what they do to you. That's why they kill 
themsleves." 


"Oh? Yes, | never thought of it that way..." 


"Suppose | were to send a bit of cheese to the philistines. A 
generous gift from Madame! They will be overjoyed, and the rats will 
surely follow. They will no longer feel guilty, and your soufflé will be 
safe." 


Madame's hands clapped for a moment at the utter bullshit that lago 
had spun. "Oh, yes, lago! Such an idea! You may have my leftovers 
tonight." 


"Madame, you are too gracious to me." 
"But... what about my rat soufflé?" 
lago smiled. "I will save the choicest rats that | am able to find." 


Madame Lucia's hair moved a bit as she nodded, catching the 
firelight and making it dance. 


"Yes, lago. Now, fetch me another cup of tea. Mine appears to have 
gone." 


lago nodded, and left to make the preparations to move the cheese 
to the plainest room in the castle. His. 


Magnum Opus; or, A Diatribe In Defence Of Cliche 


It was a dark and stormy night, and two men sat ina 
cave. They stared deep into the fire, listening to the 
torrents of water that crashed through the 
undergrowth outside. Finally, one spoke to the other. 


"Tell me a tale, Fred.” 
And so the tale began. 


It was a dark and stormy night, and two 
men stood in a cave. Confused and dazed, 
they stared deep into the fire, listening to 
the torrents of water that crashed through 
the undergrowth outside. Finally, one 
spoke to the other. 


"Tell me a tale, Fred.” 
"But I-" 
And so the tale began. 


It was a dark and stormy night, 
and two men stood in a cave. One 
slipped as the world was built 
around him, falling into a pool of 
half-written rainwater. The other, 
dressed all in black, stared deep 
into the fire, listening to the first 
man's shouts of bemusement. 
After what seemed like hours, he 
spoke. 


"Oh Fred, won't you tell mea 
tale?" 


vt | don't-" 
And so the tale began. 


It was a dark and stormy 
night, and a man was 
running from a cave with 
rain pouring down his face. 
The embers of a fire long 
since extinguished wafted 
after him, stinging the back 
of his neck. 


He twisted and turned 
down the mountain path, 
stumbling over half-baked 
ideas and narrative 
devices. He came to a lake, 
rippling and deep, and 
heard a crunch behind 
him. 


"Hello Fred." 


A gulp from the hunted 
man, and the faint rustle of 
paper as the figure 
approaches him. 


"What do you want from 
me?” 


"You know what | want. It's 
all I've ever wanted.” His 
voice becomes harsh and 
distorted as he nears the 
lake. "! want you to tell me 
a tale." 


And so the tale began. 


It was a dark and 
stormy ni- 
"No. vr 


And so the tale began. 


It was a dark and 
stor- 
"No!" 


And so the tale began. 


It was a dark- 


"NO" 


And Fred dove into the 
lake. 


And Fred's skull cracked on the 
cave's stone floor. 


And Fred let the fire consume him. 


And Fred broke free. 


The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared at the blotchy 
mess of paper in front of him. It had seemed such a good idea. 
"Containment of Narrative Entities Through Recursive Storylines." 
He'd devised an ominous antagonist, too, and a perfect setting. It 
would have been beautiful. 


He leans back in his chair, and a heartfelt sigh escapes his lips. The 
world had no sense of justice, that was the real problem. In a story it 
would have worked. The struggle to contain the unknown, the 
chasing of Fred through layers and layers of story until he finally 
submitted, the triumph of good over evil. There was no plot to the 
universe. 


Unless, of course... 


He jerks forward, mind spinning. He'd written about a metafictional 
entity, right? Something that could trap SCP-423 in an endless 
network of ever-more-complex narrative. So the plot, from their point 
of view, would be hunting him down. The chase, that was the 
tension, the inevitable submission the enemy. 


Except he'd been bloody stupid, hadn't he. He hadn't written a hero, 
a Foundation agent who could fight for the good of humanity, he'd 
gone and written a goddamn antagonist. 


Thunder crashes outside, and the doctor jumps to his feet. He runs 
to the window and throws back the curtains. Darkness. A cold sweat 
breaks on his forehead as he hears the floorboards behind him 
creak. Floorboards? No, not floorboards, not floorboards at all. 


Stone, hard and wet and so very, very cold. 
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear. 
"Hello doctor." 


The triumph of good over evil is a played out trope, but still. Cliches 
are cliched for a reason, right? 


"It's me, doctor. It's Fred. | have a question for you.” 


Time seemed to stand still as the two men, writer and written, stared 
into the fire. 


"Won't you tell me a tale?” 


And so the tale began. 


Making a Scene 


+ Open for other entries from this team 


Team Name: We Deny The 
Existence of Other Games 
In Town (Sigma-3, 
"Bibliographers") 


Team Members: Gaffney (Capiain), 
thedeadlymoose, TwistedGears, Dexanote 


Entries: 


° Lessons Learned by Dexanote 
* Site 11, Conference Room K, 8:58 AM, July 12, 
1982 by Gaffney 
* Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over 
Your Head by TwistedGears 

° Making a Scene by TwistedGears 

° Magic Orientation by thedeadlymoose 

0 The Conspiracy Of "Sigma-3" ("The 
Devils") by thedeadlymoose 

¢ SCP-2975 - Another Sun by thedeadlymoose 


© (Contains After Action Report, attached to 
the end of the SCP document.) 


« A continuation of: Nothing Says "Promotion" Like a Bag Over 
Your Head 


« SCP-902 | SCP-903 | SCP-904 » 


Daniel Navarro, newly fledged MTF Sigma-3 operative, was making 
use of his new-found super secret agent status by skulking through 
an abandoned building. What had once served as a copper refinery 
in the early 20th century had been remade by the 21st into an art 
house dedicated to Japan's industrial heritage, and Navarro 
struggled not to get distracted from his ultra secret objective. 


Navarro approached the eastern wall and examined it, giving the 
wall a few pokes. He found a spot where the mortar clung to his 
fingertip. One of the adjacent bricks vibrated slightly, but only for a 
moment. 


Wiping the supposed mortar on his pants leg, Navarro dug into his 
pocket. "You guys might want to try something a little stronger if 
that's all it takes to break it. Let's see, password is..." He slowly 
sounded out the Japanese. 


A few of the bricks rattled. One rattled louder, followed by an 
adjacent brick edging its way out of the wall, revealing a thin rippling 
film behind the bricks. Navarro aided it in its escape and snapped 
his hand back when it began to turn into a person. 


"| guess I'll let that count," the woman said in accented English, 
brushing off some of the fake mortar from her skirt. In Japanese she 
gave the wall a sharp comment, and other bricks began to work their 
way out of the brickwork. A ring of bricks emerged, and they 
morphed into people and heaved the proper bricks they had been 
supporting out of the way. 


The wavy portal shimmered lightly, catching what little light there 
was and refracting the view. Behind them was a small area 
consisting mostly of pipes, likely blocked off during the revitalization. 
Navarro nodded at the woman and stepped into the portal. It felt like 
walking through wet cement. He could feel the cold air at the refinery 
on his trailing ankle, his leading foot felt pleasantly warm. The portal 
stretched across his face like elastic, but he pressed onward until it 
finally tore and he was looking somewhere else entirely. 


Much like the proper Japanese island he just left, it once served asa 
refining facility. The key differences were that this place was still 
active, and that rather than copper it refined ideas. Buildings 


sprouted up across the gravel roads, stories and levels budding from 
the base floors to form various shapes. Brains complete with spinal 
columns, spiraling coils, and various canines made of brick and 
mortar and wood filled the area, similar buildings cropped together. 
Above him was the angled dome that encased the area. The 
"proper" Japanese name didn't translate particularly well into 
English, but according to his informant it was often referred to as the 
Okayama Attic.