"Tell me, did you ever try doing that to other people?" 
"Well... | tried with my mom." 

"Oh, is that so?" 

"| took her hand and we were walking on the bottom. But 
she asked me never to let go of her hand, no matter 
what." 

"So it is... How sweet. Thank you, dear Stacy." 


"Thank you for what, aunt Ann?" 


That was when they got her the Boy. 


He was ten years or so older than her, but she called him Boy 
nonetheless. Stacy liked to spend time with him - he had this funny 
clothes, very comfy and of her favorite orange color. She kept 
yanking him by his shirt's hem. 


They even seemed to become friends, although the Boy was looking 
at her warily. They started doing these "experiments" together, but 
the boy was always surfacing long before she did. Then they told 
her to take his hand and that made him stay. He kept gawking at 
Stacy, at his hand, and that made the girl laugh jovially underwater. 
In a few days they were comfortable sitting in the empty room or 
walking on the pool bottom. 


"Will you stay to be my friend? You're so sweet..." 

"Of course | will. Where else would | go?" 

"D-1634-1, please refrain from talking for now." 
But then they carried the Boy away. 
He wasn't back in a day. In a week. Even in a month, though he 
promised. 


"He promised we will always be friends! Why did he not 
come?" 


"I'm sorry, Stacy. He will not visit you again." 


They got her another boy in a week, but Stacy just wept and 
demanded her Friend back. 


They didn't bring anyone else to her. 


The next day Stacy stopped breathing out of spite. But the people in 
lab coats did not bring her friend back. 


Not even in a month. 


In two months she grew tired of that, which she stated explicitly. The 


people in lab coats nodded their heads and went about their 
business. 


It's not easy being unusual. 
Especially when you're twelve years old. 


Especially when, because of you being unusual, even the people in 
lab coats have you locked away in an empty metal room. Locked 
away and forgotten. 


Unusual Happenings 


Christmastime in Ohio used to mean bright lights all over, 
moderately snowy weather, and people who were normally the scum 
of the Earth giving some token effort to donate to the Salvation Army 
or the like. Now, it meant that while there were still bright lights, the 
only snow was the one that appeared on the television screens 
playing Christmas specials, and the scum of the Earth... well, they 
were being dealt with by a woman wearing a red wool beanie, a long 
white scarf, a brown winter coat and makeup under her eyes to 
make her look like she had been staying up for the past five days, 
high on something that was a mixture of rocket fuel and an octuple 
espresso. 


The woman toyed with her scarf, while her partner on the other end 
of an ear piece and a few other agents watched from the top of a 
building. It was a classic sting op; dealer comes by, maybe with a 
couple of friends, and tries to sell her drugs. She buys some, and 
the boys follow them back to their den, seize the rest. Classic 
honeypot; almost too classic. The woman was afraid they would see 
right through it. 


She breathed into her hands and shivered, her hand brushing up 
against the gun under her coat as she held herself. Why her partner 
wasn't doing this was beyond her, but then again, women were less 
likely to be profiled as law enforcement of any kind. One of the few 
times where sexism was useful. 


Soon, she heard boots hitting the pavement, and turned to see two 
men (she put a question mark after that word in her mind; they were 
so bundled up she couldn’t tell) carrying a metal briefcase with them. 
Classy, she thought, For a bunch of low-level Cinncy Dealers. 


They stepped up to her and opened the case, grinning at her as they 
revealed several glass vials filled with bright green powder, with dots 
of blue scattered around in it. The people grinned with rotten teeth, 
and one of them spoke. 


sounds from inside the case as their reason for forgoing typical 
precautions) releasing [DATA EXPUNGED], which caused 
substantial damage to the conveyor system area and the deaths of 
two on-site personnel. Despite the scale of the event, SCP-985 itself 
was undamaged, and the remains of the [DATA EXPUNGED] were 
unable to be recovered. 


Local media outlets reported a tragic mechanical failure as the 
source of the destruction. 


Plans for reclassification to Safe have been scrapped, 
further investigation is pending - Dr. 


« SCP-984 | SCP-985 | SCP-986 » 


“See this, girlie? V.D.. 100% pure Spirit Dust with chunks of Vic 
mixed in. Imported straight from Japan; it’s one hell of a fuckin’ trip.” 
The man, as she could now tell by her voice, howled like a wolf and 
cackled. “It’s good stuff. What’s your offer?” 


“Well,” the woman said, “It’s hardly pure if you mixed it with Vic. That 
devalues it by about a hundred alone. Also... how does it smell?” 


The dealer frowned, showing off his meth-mouth. “Smell?” 


“Yes, smell. Good smells like nothing; the bad stuff smells like rotten 
Bender Blood.” She held out her hand. “C’mon, if it’s good, I'll give 
you an extra 200.” 


The dealer grumbled and presented the case to her; in return, she 
took out a vial, uncorked it, held it slightly away from her face, 
planted a small tracking device inside the briefcase, and took in the 
scent of the Spirit Dust. The smell wasn’t exactly nothing; it was 
more of the scent of reality, ready to be turned into putty in your 
hands. But reality smelled like wherever you were right now. The 
woman grinned, taking out a bundle of Benjamins and handing it to 
them. “Thank ya kindly.” The dealer counted the bills and handed 
them to his partner, who took them in his hand, put them up to his 
face, and ate them. The woman blinked at this. “Uh.” 


“What’s the matter, girlie?” grinned the dealer. “Ain’t never seen a 
Banker before? He eats money and shits out unmarked bills. It’s 
great stuff; sometimes he even shits gold.” 


“Useful,” the woman said, scratching at her ear. “How Can this Man 
do that?” She heard cursing from her partner on the other end of the 
earpiece; he had picked up on the slight emphasis she had put on 
the words “Can Man”. The dealer just shrugged. 


"| don't question it, girlie, and neither should you." The dealer 
grinned and walked off, chatting with his Banker colleague. Once 
they were gone, the woman heard a voice in her ear. 


"Special Agent MacAllister, do you copy? This is Agent Christman, 
over." 


"I'm here, Darnell, don't be so formal." She paused just to mess with 
him. "Over." 


"Protocol, Mac. | got the big boys up here. Over." 


"| got some of the merch. They had, like, ten vials of the stuff in 
there. Over." 


"All right. Get back to the car. Over." 


"Right. Go after them, with the chance that they could find the 
tracker and ditch the briefcase, making off with the merch. Great 
plan. Did Higgins come up with that? Over." 


"We already have a shadow on them, Quinn. Don't do anything 
stupid. Over." 


"Darnell, do | ever do anything stupid?" asked Agent MacAllister as 
she walked off after the two people in the darkness of the December 
night. "Give me a little credit. Over." 


"...Shall | call Harley? Tell her you'll be home late again? Over." 


"If you'd be so kind. Over and out.” Quinn said into her earpiece, 
before bundling up and continuing after them in earnest, and hoping 
they weren't using portable doorways or insta-holes or anything like 
that. 


The west side of Cincinnati wasn't exactly the nicest part of town. 
That much was no secret; granted, the worst part of it, Over The 
Rhine, was showing significant improvement, and it was nowhere 
near as bad as some parts of Cleveland (or, as Quinn liked to call it, 
‘The Serial Killer Capital of the World’), but it was still pretty bad. 
And honestly, if it weren't for the fact that weird shit was happening 
here, Quinn wouldn't have bothered coming, and probably would 
have asked the P.D. to handle it. But, this was unusual, so she kind 
of had to do it. 


So, Quinn MacAllister tromped around in the cold December night, 
going after a person who made and/or sold drugs that could turn you 
into a demigod and his friend who ate money, and all she could think 


about was what life decisions had led her to this. 


Regardless, she soldiered on, always staying one corner or a block 
behind her marks, who were illuminated by the lights from 
televisions playing through windows late at night, or the occasional 
street lamp that actually worked, or even the headlights from a car 
passing by. And they were easy to follow, anyway; the dealer, it 
seemed, took joy in smashing trash cans and car windows with a 
crowbar. Quinn half-thought of a snarky comment related to Gordon 
Freeman on meth, but decided that it was best to save the snark for 
later. 


Soon, the pair came up on the most stereotypical-looking Drug Lab 
Quinn had ever seen. Broken windows, a strong smell of... 
something highly illegal, weird graffiti everywhere from various 
gangs, overturned trashcans... all of that good stuff. 


One piece of graffiti stood out to her; she'd seen it before in other, 
bad parts of town before, and it wasn't associated with any gang. It 
looked like a set of quadrants, with 2/3rds of a triangle in the upper- 
left corner, the number two in the upper-right, and a square in the 
lower-left. What was odd about it was the chalk seemed to give off a 
soft glow; luminescent chalk, Quinn guessed. 


After a bit, she looked at the address on the building, and called it in. 
She wasn't stupid, nor was she Batman; she knew full well she 
couldn't take on a house of possibly anomalous individuals on her 
own, so it was probably best to call in a team. 


However, as she was talking into the earbud, she heard the 
unmistakable click of a 10mm pistol behind her. "Well, well, well... 
Girlie's a cop. More than that... Girlie's a Skipper." 


"...call me Girlie one more time. | dare you." Best to keep him 
talking. Druggies liked to gloat. 


"Girlie. Girlie Girlie! Girlie." Methmouth the Dealer stepped around 
her, to the front, keeping his gun trained on her. "That explains why 
you didn't say nothin’ about Terry." 


"Your 'Banker' is hardly the weirdest thing I've seen in this city." 
Quinn rolled her eyes as she knelt on the ground before him. "Also, 
I'm not a god-damn Skipper. Don't call me that." 


"What are you then? Gawker?" 
"Nope." 


"...Hi-Guy? You guys usually ain't about doing bee stings- ah!" 
Methmouth the Dealer grinned. "You're a UlUseless! Fuckin’ hell." 


Quinn laughed softly, looking up at him. "Really? That's the best 
nickname you guys have come up with? Not Useless Idiots Unit?" 
Quinn tried desperately to keep him talking. 


"Shut up. Nobody cares if a UlUseless dies in a back alley. The 
Skippers'll just say that it was a... raid gone wrong or something." 
He turned the safety on his gun off. "Where should | shoot you fi-" 


Methmouth's speech was interrupted by a punch to the nose. It 
glanced off slightly, but sent him reeling nonetheless. He hissed in 
pain, rubbing his nose and growling. "Oh... you..." he took a step 
forward with each word. "Fucking... bitch!" He aimed his gun at 
Quinn. 


Just as he pulled the trigger, Quinn grabbed his arm and twisted it 
upwards. The gun went off next to her ear, causing it to ring asa 
bullet grazed her beanie. She winced at the noise and tried to swat 
the gun away from his hand. No good; he had it in a vice grip. 


Fortunately, Methmouth was also in a state of shock from the 
gunshot, and momentarily forgot the gun was in his hand. He 
punched Quinn in the chest, and she winced as she felt a rib crack. 
The sound of it made her adrenal glands wake up and have a pot of 
coffee made with pure antimatter. All of Methmouth's action's 
seemed to slow down. 


Quinn, despite the pain, swung around her hips into a cutting kick, 
trying to take him down before he could raise the gun again. One 
well-aimed kick to the side put him on the ground like a deflated 
tungsten zeppelin, and as his head asked the sidewalk if he could 


have its hand in marriage, he fell unconscious. 


Quinn radioed in her position, and then promptly proceeded to 
practically pass out next to the building. She hissed as the 
adrenaline stopped, the danger now passed. The rib fucking Aurt. It 
was minor, but it Aurt. 


By the time the FBI squad got there, Quinn's endocrine system had 
compensated enough that she could stand up, albeit shakily. Agent 
Christman came up to her, looking at Methmouth the dealer passed 
out on the sidewalk. "...you okay, Mac?" 


"Please," Quinn spat out a clot of blood; she had bitten her tongue 
when she got punched. "The trainers at Quantico prepare you for 
hard stuff." She grinned as trucks filled with an FBI Raid Team 
pulled up, and quickly overtook the building. She didn't go in with 
them; her work was done. 


Carla Bosch: Earlier this morning, some drug dealers 
got an early lump of coal in their stocking when the FBI 
raided their drug lab in East Westwood. The lab was 
purportedly used for cooking a hallucinogen similar to 
LSD, the name of which the FBI is not releasing due to 
public safety concerns. The raid was reportedly carried 
out with help from SpearCross Protections, a private 
security company, who had an unknown interest in the 


property... 


Quinn watched this on the 8:00 news with a smug look on her face, 
sipping at some coffee while her wife sat next to her. Harley Sterling 
smiled back at her. "Another good night?" 


"Yeah," she said. "Nobody really got in the way at all. Plapps is 
thinking of writing me a commendation for my work. | don't think | 
really did anything that good. Just shut down one of several dozen 
meth labs around here." 


"Hon," Harley said, kissing her cheek. "You did fine. Now, you 
should probably get along to work." 


Quinn nodded, finishing her coffee, kissing her wife goodbye, and 
heading down to her black station wagon. She drove off into the 
Cincinnati morning, leaving her mundane life behind like she did 
every morning, and entering the unusual. 


Hub | Another Boring Night» 


Unusual Music 


The sign at the top of the store should have read “Jive Kat's Funky 
Disco Beats”, but four of the letters had fallen off to make it “Jiv at's 
Fun y Disco Bats”. The tinted windows had been broken and 
replaced half a dozen times, and were taped over with posters. The 
sidewalk had become a breeding ground for broken glass and 
cigarette butts. Against the wall was a mud encrusted man sleeping 
under a torn jacket. 


A small black car pulled up. Out stepped a scrawny, blond haired 
man and a dark-skinned woman smoking a cigarette, both dressed 
in suits. The woman took one last drag before flicking the cigarette 
into the ever-growing pile of sidewalk trash. She rapped at the door, 
stepped back, and waited. The door swung open. Standing in the 
frame was a sweaty, rotund man, about six feet tall, with black hair 
and dark circles under his eyes. A a nametag on his left breast read 
“John”. 


“You looking for something?” he said. 


The dark-skinned woman pulled a leather wallet from her jacket and 
opened it. “My name's Sabrina Marx,” she said, and jabbed a thumb 
back at her partner. “That's Isaac. We're from the FBI, Unusual 
Incidents Unit.” 


“Goodbye,” John said, and began to shut the door. Sabrina's hand 
whipped forward and caught it. 


“Sir, five minutes of your time is all we need.” 
He scowled. “We're closed. Come back later.” 
“Now would really be the best time sir.” 


The scowl intensified. “Then | guess you'll have to make do with 
second best.” He shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn't 


budge. 


Sabrina sighed. “We're willing to pay you. One hundred dollars, just 
to look at the shop for ten minutes and ask you some questions.”