The man looked at the calculator and said "Okay, okay. I'll go get it. | 
didn't realize the world would end if | didn't! | feel so awful..." Reject 
chuckled to himself and began to shadow the man as he hurried 
down the hallways. When they arrived at a file cabinet, the man 
stopped. He ran his finger along the cabinet until he reached "2004 
Operating Budget Reports Jan-Mar." He started typing on the 
calculator. After a short period, the calculator responded. The man 
jumped back, aghast. He yelped "No! | brought you to the stupid 
monkey! That can't be!" Reject quickly decided he'd had enough of 
complaining from this unknown man and dealt a swift uppercut to 
the jaw followed by an elbow to the nose. As he fell, Reject grabbed 
SCP-168 and the brown paper bag. Overjoyed, he began to walk 
back to his office. He looked once more at the unconscious 
accountant on the ground. And then he laughed, and left this bloody, 
deceptive business behind him as he strolled back towards his office 


with a renewed sense of confidence. 


"Nevah let practicality stand in de way of art, my cousin." The 
humongously fat Hawaiian nodded ponderously at the uniformed 
corpse held aloft in his hand, then slowly shook it so that it's head 
nodded along. Chuckling to himself, he slipped the matchbook the 
poor guard had died failing to protect into an outer pocket of his 
enormous satchel next to a tarnished canteen, and waddled out of 
the ruined containment unit and down the hallway toward the 
personnel wing. 


Flanked by a pair of traitor guards, their sleeves rolled up to reveal 
liberty cuffs emblazoned with blaring abstract designs, the huge man 
reflected on the work and planning that had gone into this effort. It 
was impractical, sure. Infiltrating the Foundation's security forces 
alone had taken months. Fortunately, the prank war was a regular 
yearly event, so he'd had plenty of time to prepare. 


"Ah, here it tis." 


He stopped in front of a particular office, grinning as he began 
pulling the necessary materials from his satchel. A small funnel, a 
length of tubing, the matchbox and canteen, and hundreds of small 
paper packets, which his helpers began opening one by one. 


It didn't take long to tape the tubing to the mouth of the canteen, and 
slide the other end under the door. It took only a little longer to 
funnel the contents of the packets into the gap, and considerably 
less to open the matchbook and slide it in as well before sealing the 
gap completely with more tape. Once their work was done, the big 
man rose and nodded to his companions, then paused to doodle a 
small cartoon on the door before heading back down the hallway 
they'd come in by and leave the facility. 


Later that day, as loyal security men tried desperately to work out 
what had happened to SCP's 649 and 109, Reject arrived at his 
office to find a scribbled caricature on his door of a fat man ina 
bowler hat giving him the finger, with the text "PRANKED BY 
BRUDDAH GROVE! Are We Cool Yet?". 


Reject had just enough time to curse before the door burst and he 
was swamped by a massive wave of lime jello. 


Dr. Los E. R. dug a finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last 
vestiges of shaving cream. He winced as the dried bits twisted 
painfully before crumbling lose. Site 19 was a maze on the best of 
days, and on Senior Staff Shenanigans day it was a minefield. He 
rerouted around the third floor; he had heard that someone had 
gotten their hands on a metric ton of hissing cockroaches and 
thermite. He skirted the south side of the fourth floor, trying to find 
his way back to the restrooms to wash up. If memory served, it was 
at the end of the hall on his right, next door to where they put 
Research Assistant Reject after he somehow managed to shrink his 
office to a third of its original size. 


He was scrapping dried flakes of cream from his lower back when 
he noticed he what he was walking in. Quizzically, he raised a foot 
to get a better look. Smells a little like lime, kind of minty. Looks like 
some kind of green...slime? He glanced down the hallway and saw 
Reject, lying in a puddle of the stuff. He was either out cold, or dea- 


Los E. R.'s heart skipped a beat as he put two and two together. 


"DEAD BODIES!!!" 


Screaming incoherently, Dr. Los E. R. hurtled back the way he 
came, sticky green jello foot prints marking his progress to the 
nearest SCP-447 alarm. 


Bruddah Grove paused as the klaxon sounded. Blast doors slid into 
place over the exit. How poetic, so close to freedom with artifacts of 
power. With the dead security guard he had been dragging along, 
he waved at his companion. 


"Dis noise, have they figured out what we are doing?" 


The traitorous guard shook his head, the blood draining from his 
face. "That's the 447 alert. They've locked the exits. They're going to 
detonate the on-site warhead." 


There was a full moment of silence. 
Carefully picking each word, Bruddah Grove looked at the tiny man. 
"How doh we get out den?" 


The two guards looked at each other nervously. "We don't. We could 
try to get to the O5 bunker, but we can't make it from here. It's fifty 
levels down-" 


"Wait!" The other guard perked up. "The Site septic tank! | know that 
they've started reenforcing them ever since Bright accidentally 
flushed 523. It might be able to withstand the blast!" 


"The Sewage Access Hatch isn't far from here, we can make it if we 
hurry!" 


Taking the slim glimmer of hope for what ever it was worth, the trio 
hurried desperately down the hall. 


05-8 sighed. This was not the first time the 447 alert had been 
sounded on Senior Staff Shenanigans Day. Before flipping the 
switch and killing everyone on-site, he took a moment to make sure 
it was a dead body. If it wasn't, no harm done. If it was, well...the 
nuke wouldn't do any good, anyways. 


A quick check later confirmed that Research Assistant Reject was 
not, in fact, dead. Perhaps more importantly, it turned out that it 
wasn't even 447 slime at all. With an irritated grumble, he switched 
of the klaxon. This prank war was stupid. 


Bruddah Grove sat in the filth of the entire Site, watching his two 
companions float face down in the lanterns pale light. He might be 
here for a while, and they were using up too much air. He reflected 
on how their lungs filled with filth and life drained from their bodies, a 
testament to how life starts pure and ignorance weighs innocence 
down with shit. A haiku rose unbidden from his lips. 


"Here | stew in filth, 
Waiting for the Bombs Big Boom. 


Now, Are We Cool Yet?" 


Dr. Los E. R. felt rather silly. Of course it was another prank. He 
should have known. It probably wasn't even meant for him. 


Having long since given up hope of finding a bathroom to clean up 
in, he had started to work his way back to his office. Pushing the 
door open, a bucket of water immediately fell from atop the door. 
Irritated yet strangely grateful to get some kind of wash, he lifted the 
rim of the bucket to find the monkey sitting on his desk. 


Junior Researcher Byantara had prepared a whole week in advance 
for this day. With Senior Staff position at stake, there was no reason 
not to be prepared. Crazy prepared, in his case. 


Six days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes and nine seconds ago, 
Byantara was profusely apologising to a very unamused Doctor 
Crow, surrounded by the products of twenty-three very startled 
Malayan Stink Badgers which had now escaped their cages and 
were clawing the wallpaper off Doctor Crow's office. Long story 
short, it was yet another round of maintenance duty for him. 


Four days, seven hours, two minutes and fifty-five seconds ago, 
Byantara began painting the offices on the third floor of Block 2A, by 
himself, using two paint rollers, a crate of white paint, a box of 
plaster, a crate of tomatoes, and several dozen rolled-up meters of 
ultra-thin semi-permeable tubing. 


Two days, twelve hours, thirty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds 
ago, a parcel arrived for Site-19, sealed with black tape and hastily 
recovered from designated post box PO-2354 by a certain shifty- 
looking Junior Researcher sent to collect the daily personal mail. 


One day, two hours, and exactly forty-nine seconds ago, Byantara 
finished his lab work, packed up, cleaned Chamber 2A-2-1 and 
secured several large marital aids to the floor before locking up. He 
proceeded similarly for Chamber 2A-2-3, -2-5, -2-7 and -2-9, and left 
the building with a little smile. Now, all that was left was to hope 
someone in Block 2A actually managed to get hold of 050. 


said yard under the premise of widespread bark beetle infection, and 
the site was placed under observation. During observation period, a 
new corpse was discovered despite security footage showing no 
violations of perimeter within assumed time of death. Autopsy 
revealed anomalies inconsistent with human anatomy; notably, 
seeds located in [REDACTED]. Agent F noted that all victims 
have been found hanging from a single species of tree, anda 
thorough examination has resulted in the procurement several 
samples of unripe SCP-936-1, leading to SCP-936 classification. 


MTF Xi-8 "Spearhunters" performed removal of all instances of 
SCP-936 within an surrounding area of 45 km sq. Obtained seeds 
contained at Bio Research Site-104. 


Addendum 936-1: 
EXPERIMENT LOG SCP-936 


SUBJECT: D-532, 25-year-old male. 

GRAFT: 100 cm sq. of skin taken from SCP-936-2. 
RESULT: Skin graft implanted successfully. Skin shows 
higher mechanical resistance, possibly due to interstitial 
cellulose fibers. However, incisions take longer to heal, 
and poor resistance to UV light. 


SUBJECT: D-821, 25-year-old male. 

GRAFT: muscular tissue taken from biceps of 
SCP-936-2. 

RESULT: Muscle graft implanted successfully. Muscular 
tissue appears to behave ordinarily, and has similar 
strength/volume ratio. Despite D-821 being restrained for 
several days due to operation , implanted muscle 
showed no traces of atrophy. Subject D-821's diet 
switched to protein-deficient - measurements of rate of 
muscle loss showed this to be lower by a factor of 


SUBJECT: D-231, 30-year-old male. 

GRAFT: Kidneys taken from SCP-936-2. 

RESULT: Graft implanted successfully. Kidneys shown 
to have remarkable liquid economy. Subject expired due 
to renal failure after seven weeks. 


One hour, three minutes and twenty-one seconds ago, he idly 
browsed through the frantically compiled digital record of SCP-050 
possession. Soon it would arrive. From Bright, to Clef, to Reject... 


Byantara refreshed the page, spat out his acrid coffee, and dashed 
out of the lab. In his right hand was a remote, with a single green 
button, and he mashed it in double time to his steps towards the 
central communications office. Tucked in safely mere inches above 
the ceiling of Doctor Los's freshly painted office, forty-eight plastic 
phalluses began to hum. 


As expected, not only was the comms office a very long distance 
away, it was also utter chaos. Someone had sounded some sort of 
alarm beforehand, and whoever was meant to be guarding the place 
were long gone, leaving dog-eared papers in their wake. Chuckling 
to himself, he called up the speaker of Office 2A-3-5. 


Five seconds. Four seconds. Byantara cleared his throat. Three. 
The collective vibrations caused by the forty-eight sex toys would be 
building up to the maximum by now, shaking the ceiling - and walls - 
of every office on the floor below it, rupturing the many little sachets 
of tomato juice seeded in the plaster beneath the apple-scented 
white paint. Two. 


Junior Researcher Byantara took a deep breath. One. 


In his office, Doctor Los E. R. cowered beneath his desk as the walls 
began to bleed and the ceiling screamed his name. He was too busy 
wetting his pants to notice SCP-050 disappear from his office, later 
to be found in the locker of Junior Researcher Byantara. 


"Bloody Los... Surprised that even worked as a prank... " 
Researcher Eisenberg sat at his desk, absentmindedly stroking 
Nastasia, his linen cat. "I'll teach him to cut the latin...wait, that's an 
idea.". 

Researcher Eisenberg rushed out of his office, and returned rather 
sweaty, holding a heavy Latin dictionary. Work has just begun. 


About an hour later - languages weren't exactly his strong side - 
Researcher Eisenberg arrived into the containment cell of SCP-758, 


with a sheet of paper heavily worn out with eraser marks. It might 
have been his imagination, but it seemed that upon seeing it, Vasili 
let out a sigh before introducing an ample amount of corrections. A 
glance at the current tally showed him however, that the statue has 
changed owners several times since he started his preparations, 
currently residing at the desk of some no-name Junior Researcher... 
whose name was actually rather lengthy. "Byan-ta-ra... bloody hell, 
and | thought my surname was unwieldy." Researcher Eisenberg 
sighed and took out a pencil. 


"Bloody hell, hope this ink is black enough..." His sweaty hands 
grabbed the worn leather of SCP-141, an act that would make many 
a bibliophile cringe, and he began to laboriously scribble onto the 
first free page, trying to imitate the original writing as well as 
possible. "..e-ra-tio ... that should be it". Shaking with expectation, 
he ran to the nearest internet-enabled terminal. 

A quick search, and even quicker email from a disposable address 
later, Viadim. A. Eisenberg, in his mind already a Senior 
Researcher, walked back to his office. 


Sitting at his desk, Junior Researcher Byantara was enjoying the 
fruit of a day's work - SCP-050 stood on his surprisingly clean table, 
and if it was his lucky day, he might just about be among the few 
Foundation employees to ever skip a rank. "Wonder if Los has 
caught them all... he's lucky there isn't 151.. | wonder if the big one 
counts as Sn-" 

His thoughts were interrupted by a kick into the door, and in the next 
moment, he had to take cover behind his desk from a hail of bullets, 
accompanied by an even stronger hail of high-fidelity Russian 
swearing. A desk that the monkey statue has conveniently 
disappeared from. 


Earlier... 


To: gro.pcs|vokinlertsad#gro.pcs|vokinlertsad 

From: moc.rotaniliam|detimilnu_sexnyl#moc.rotaniliam| 
detimilnu_sexnyl 

Subject: Take a look at who you work with, Dimitri 
Junior Researcher Byantara is an interesting man, isn't 


it? 
www.cnn.com/201 1/1 1/15/Europe/scientist-accused-of- 
aiding-chechen-terrorists/index.html 


Researcher Eisenberg prepared himself a cup of tea, and against all 
rules of hygiene, kissed the small statue, which responded by giving 
him a mild electric shock. 


"Hey buddy, | see no one has bothered to come see you today. I'm 
sorry for that, alot of shi..stuff has been going on ,but it's fun stuff. 
You know what a prank is? Good, you wanna help me with one? Oh 
don't worry no one will get hurt, and here have some MnMs. Tasty 
aren't they? You wanna help me now. That's great! Here's the plan." 


As he watched the gelatinous form move from the room, a smile 
formed on Junior Researcher Tad's face. It was his time to shine for 
once. It was luck that he walked by Eisenberg's office just in time to 
see the statue appear on his desk. 


Eisenberg sipped at his tea, giving glances to his prize every few 
seconds. He also kept an eye on the door. Making sure that no fool 
would try to win the statue. If only he thought to check the airvent. 
As the orange form lowered down, it's pseudopods at the ready. 
Eisenberg looked up; Even with the strong smell of herbs in his nose 
he picked up another scent. The smell of the fur was 
indistinguishable to him, yet how could it be? As he turned around a 
high pitched squealed erupted followed by a shout. 

"TICKLE WRESTLING!"