Marty frowned. "I'd shake your hand if | could, but I'm uh, it's hard. 
But yes, deal! Deal definitely deal. For certain. | won't disappoint 


you, | swear it! Just uh, just pretend like | shook your hand. We'll 
shake on it properly later. Deal?" 


Manny retracted his hand, and smirked. He was getting the hang of 
this rascal's personality, and suddenly he found him lightly 
charming. Lightening up, he leaned back in his chair, and nodded at 
Smarty. 


"Deal." 


"Yay! Yes, yes, yes Ow, ow ow, ouch oh gods, too excited. Too 
excited! If there is such a thing! Heheh, okay, sorry, uh, can | have, 
can | get... I'm in need of more than some band-aids, |, can I, uh, an 
infirmary? ‘Intensive care’, | think you said? | need that. Can | go 
there? Please?" 


Manny looked over at the stage hands, one of whom was 
begrudgingly handing over some scrip to the other due to a lack of 
piranha teeth, and whistled. They looked up, and came over to 
Smarty, picking up the stretcher they had put down earlier. They 
helped him onto it as he made grunts and moans of pain and 
grumbled out some strained gratitude. Icky sauntered into the tent, 
glaring at Smarty who flinched at her accusatory gaze (or maybe it 
was a Stray tooth that they missed and was poking into his back). 
Manny went back to his professional demeanor, or at least became 
more solidly grounded in it, and prepared to explain the situation to 
an understandably angry Ringmaster, but first... 


"Marty? | forgot one thing." 
"Oh?" 


"Lose the Smartie part. We have too many people named after 
candy." 


« Life's a Show|Dread & Circuses Hub 


Dystopia Contest 


First place goes to 
Mission Statement, by Dr 
Reach. 


Second place goes to !, Autarch, 
by Kalinin. 


Third place goes to Starch and 
Cream, by djkaktus. 


Congratulations to everyone who entered! Thanks for 
participating! 


Contest Entries 


1. Mission Statement by pr Reach, at (+65) 

2.1, Autarch by Kalinin, at (+62) 

3. Starch and Cream by d3jxkaktus, at (+44) 

4. Decommissioned by Dillinger PhD, at (+36) 

4. AK=(0K/ 0x, OK/ dy, OK/ 3z) Or: Episiotometrics by 
Eskobar, at (+36) 

4, Let Me Guess, Applesauce? by waterfire, at (+36) 
7. The Melody Of Autumn, Passing Into Winter by 
SoullessSingularity, at (+35) 

8. |hope you get back to me soon by br Hysteria, at 
(+30) 

8. So Too Did They by Americium241, at (+30) 


10. 
11. 
t2 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 


She's Angry and Going South by vivax, at (+28) 
Stage Fright by NomadMonad, at (+25) 

Where Bad Children Go by zoigamax, at (+23) 
Cakework by circlesAndSquares, at (+22) 

Aftermath by Agent MacLeod, at (+20) 

Who You Gonna Call? by Doctor Cimmerian, at (+12) 
Enasni Si Gnihtyreve by A Random Day, at (+11) 

The Fall of a Soyuz by Lordspy, at (+3) 


Click here to experience nostalgia for a more dystopian time 


That's right, it's that wonderful time of year again... The 
leaves are turning wonderful shades of red and orange, 
it's getting colder, and the marmots are beginning their 
long, wintry slumber. You guessed it: We're having 
another contest! The theme of this one is dystopia. For 
reference, dystopia is defined by Google as "an imagined 
place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad, 
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one." 


Cool, what kind of tales can we 
write? 


Your story must take place in a universe in which the 
Foundation 


1. Existed as seen in the non-canon at one point 
(exhibiting the characteristics of the SCP 
Foundation as we know and love it) 

2. Currently exists, but having changed significantly 


The world itself must be 


1. Dystopian in some way — for reference, that 
means "a place or state in which everything is 
unpleasant or bad, typically a totalitarian or 
environmentally degraded one" 

2. The "main" world (as opposed to SCP-093's mirror 


universe, or inside SCP-108, etc. unless there's a 
reason for that to qualify as the "main" world) 


Other than that, go wild! 


Could you maybe give us some 
examples? 


Sure. Hopefully these ideas will help you brainstorm. 


¢ In a world where the Daeva founded and run the 
Foundation, a researcher discovers a Scranton 
box with a copy of SCP-140's documentation 

¢ Due to the sheer number of SCPs, the Foundation 
has become a totalitarian regime in order to 
contain them all efficiently 

¢ After the recreation of the Broken God, the 
remnants of the Foundation are trying to 
quarantine the few remaining unindoctrinated 
civilians from the plague of SCP-217 

¢ Tensions between the Foundation and the GOC 
have come to a head, and the two organizations 
are engulfing the whole world in an all-out war 


Here are some questions for you to keep in mind as you 
write. 


¢ What caused the world to be this way? 

* How long has it been this way? 

* How has the Foundation changed, and why? 

¢ What happened to all the SCPs? 

¢ How have the Gols changed, if at all? 

* Are things going to get better, worse, or stay the 
same? 


What about the boring rules? 


¢ One entry per author. Collaborations are allowed 
but neither author will be allowed to submit another 


tale. 

* No significant edits after the tale has been posted. 
If you wouldn't do it to someone else's tale, don't 
do it to your own until the contest ends. 

¢ Once your entry is in, it's in. Tales will be subject to 
the normal deletion process, and authors with 
failed entries will not get another chance. Make 
sure your entry is as good as possible before 
submitting it! 

¢ Entries must be new. No sequels either — you 

must write an original tale that is not part of an 

existing canon. 

All entries must be tagged with "dc2014" (Dystopia 

Contest 2014) in order to be counted. Otherwise 

we'll all think, "Wow, you should submit this tale to 

the contest!" 

Do not post before November 21st or after 

November 30th. 

No malicious downvoting. This is always a rule, but 

| mention it here again because contests can get 

competitive. If you do this, not only will you be 
disqualified, you may also be banned from the site. 

The tale with the highest vote count wins! 


If you have any other questions, PM me (Reject 
does not match any existing user name) with them. 
If they're good, I'll post them here for everyone's 
benefit. 


Peanut Gallery Hall of Fame 


Is there a suggestion/limit for length? 

No. Just keep in mind that you're writing a tale, so if your 
entry is too long people might get bored and stop reading 
partway through, and if your entry is too short it probably 
doesn't have enough material. 

Why can't we use canons or write sequels? 

This contest exists so that users write original tales. If 
you just continue an arc or lift from a canon that's already 


SCP-629: Mr. Brass 


Item #: SCP-629 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-629 is to be contained in a 
standard humanoid containment cell. SCP-629 may only be taken 
apart during routine testing. Once per day, SCP-629 is to be 
provided with the materials it uses to maintain itself. As of current 
regulations on "Misters", SCP-629 is to be contained in Hall _ of 
Site- . 


Description: SCP-629 is a humanoid automaton, 1.7 meters tall 
and weighing 500 kilograms. SCP-629's body has been constructed 
out of ornate brass replications of human body parts. SCP-629's 
components require daily maintenance, which only it can perform. 
The words "Mr. Brass, from Little Misters® by Dr. Wondertainment" 
have been embossed into SCP-629's back. This designation 
appears as "8" in Document SCP-909-a. 


SCP-629's body has been constructed in such a way that every 
portion of it is removable and interchangeable. These parts can be 
removed without causing SCP-629 any damage, although it 
expresses minor discomfort when these parts are being removed. 
Additionally, the parts that have been removed from SCP-629 can 
be re-assembled into new areas. Testing has shown that the 
number of ways SCP-629 can be theoretically rearranged is 
approximately 73.4 billion different combinations. SCP-629 is 
capable of controlling these new constructions on its body, but 
expresses extreme discomfort from these areas of its body. 


SCP-629 was recovered from a facility believed to have been 
controlled by the Church of the Broken God. SCP-629 was 
recovered in a raid on this Church property after reports of 
suspicious activity in the area were confirmed. It was located in the 
central antechamber as Church members attempted to integrate it 


on the site, you're not really doing that. 

Can we use SCPs then? 

Of course. Use whatever you want on the site as 
inspiration as long as you're not writing a sequel to a tale 
or an installment in an existing canon. 


What's the prize for the winner? 


The winning tale will be linked from the front page and 
the author will feel good about themselves. 


Where should | submit my tale? 


You shouldn't. The contest is over. Sorry. 


Mission Statement 


The alarm sounds its gentle, delicate electro-waltz. It does not wake 
me up; | have been awake for almost two hours now. Dreams are 
not safe anymore. 


| stand up, knowing | cannot fool the kind tyrant that is my auto- 
manager. It will start bothering me in a few seconds if | do not get 
up, and in a few more it will start giving me the occasional shock just 
so | get to work. 


For a minute, some rebellious part of myself wonders... Well, why 
not? Let it fry your brain. Make this a little harder on everybody. Or 
arent you tired of this lie, of all the pretending? Do you really agree 
with the plan? 


| do not. But no one person matters. 


The rebellious impulse goes away, as usual. As | stand in my 
bedroom, a spartan habitat excavated from moon rock and covered 
in cold concrete, | check on that one thing we used to contain. 


The anchor of all anchors. 


Under the Sun lies a nest, shining with its own light. It is a 
At its center, a goddess huddles against her legs, her face 
over her face, pushed by the breath of the star below. 


She wonders if it will hurt. 
Death. The end, after thousands of years. For good. For re 


She shivers, thousands of arms stretching out of her back. 
supernumerary fingers pointing practically everywhere; shi 
now she doesn't even feel them. They have their own insc 
hands whose branches stretched, growing on themselves 


thick cloud of her black hair for years now. 


It's never been this bad. She feels how the whole universe 
their pleas for help, she wonders... was trusting the Founc 


For a brief second, when their contraptions grip around he 
for all reality — and then, she is in agony. 


For hours. And days. And weeks. And forever, even when 
cinders under the Sun; now, she is gone. Not dead, but as 


And, even in infinite pain, she feels somewhat glad: she is 


The anchors tear her apart. 


The anchor of all anchors. 


| observe the float, the screen of ultra-light nanogel where a 
goddess is dying, and will keep dying; she has been dying for a few 
hours now. She is the central foundation of the Border, and she has 
to be. Nothing else will stand the strain. Nothing else this rea/ ever 
wanted to help us do what must be done. 


| begin to dress up. Then | realize how pointless it has been for 
twelve years that | wear clothes at all. 


While we could, we secured anomalies. When we were unable to do 
that anymore, at least we could contain the ones we already had, 
mining them for the most pitiful scraps of data we could extract. 
When we weren't able to do even that, we chose to do the one thing 
we were supposed to do. The one thing we intimately believed, in 
our core, to be right. 


We protected them. 


Not just from anomalies, but from the truth. From the lies we told 
ourselves, too. And from the sad, pathetic lies of omission we kept 
telling those who worked for us, hoping they would not feel curious. 
Hoping they wouldn't peek at the stars. 


They did. 


And so, a handful of them figured out that the universe was going to 
die. 


There are always such perceptive individuals, and we know how to de 


"Look, mommy!" 


Risa Volyanova glances at what her beautiful six-year-old | 
black fur, arranged in the chest area to look like a space st 
emblazoned over the heart. Risa sighs; they just do not me 


Knowing fully well Federation Day is coming, Risa picks it | 
merits for their paltry checks. Certainly way too many for ju 
junk. Not a good present, not even for such a special day. 


She sighs. There are so few special days left... 


Risa tries to remember some of the toys (anything, anythin 
amnestic prescriptions and early conditioning have made F 
kind of memes that could get in one's mind, who is she to | 
been told all her life. A family condition, mental... And poss 


She shakes her head. She hates giving Caricia bad news, 
enough with the first therapy sessions... 


... and that is when she notices the little kid has let go of h 
of their children, Risa turns around, searching the shopping 
enormous windows at one side of the arco-mall, watching 1 


"Mom, have stars always been so far away?" 


And the alarms shriek. 


Originally, this plan was to wait and keep our world as safe as 
possible from any threats, anomalies from beyond and inside alike 
hunted and imprisoned for the greater good; and, when the time 
came, we would simply go out, no fight, no fuss. If reality ended, 
then we would end with it. 


Those who had ideas on how to solve the problem either contacted 
their superiors or waited until they were promoted. Eventually, they 
were in a position to change the original plan, and so they did. 


The final activation sequence of such plan is about to begin. Phase 
two is already active and about to end. It will take a few minutes, so | 
have time to indulge in my feelings. 


My desktop is made of wood. Real, earthly wood. A memento from 
my predecessor, an anachronism filled with memories; be it emotion 
or respect, | cannot bring myself to discard them. | find myself being 
regularly dragged to them instead. | cannot help but to be observe 
and study them, to lucubrate on how these small relics and 
prohibited things reached her hands. And | particularly cherish one 
of them, which | pull from the uppermost drawer. 


| look at the protein-made model of a Star Womb. It is a magnificent 
thing, a massive, gargantuan thing. And it fits in the palm of my 
hand. My mind makes me feel that it is not right; it soawns worlds, 
how could it be so small? 


| used to enter the nanogel projector rooms and ask the computer to 
model a few of them for me, around Earth. | Know that, at such 
distance, their mutual gravity would disperse them and destroy 
Earth. But | marveled, | gaped at their incredible size, their infinite, 
inspiring majesty. In awe. 


| gaze at the screen. It announces that Phase two will reach Earth in 
minutes. All gone now. 


All there is left now is humankind. 


The mess hall was filled with laughter and the colorful sha 
Recreation Hour got into its best fifteen minutes. Everyone 


Reyes danced xyr most ridiculous moves, hoping xe woulc 
tonight. Xe liked a pair of the tall, flowing Miner types in th 
low gravity had done numbers on them. Reyes was conce 
blame them; a broken arm or a dislodged pelvis would be 
when it could replace them and make new ones in the pro 


A few of the bartenders looked cute too; there was a half-r 
flirting with a bunch of guys. Reyes smiled; why wouldn't h 
hour, and thanks to the nanogel that filled the air, not one | 
handsome, too! 


But sees could get you into trouble if you happened to hee 
brain scrub. Another ten months of drool every time xe wa 
was too short for that kind of bullshit; Reyes danced away. 


Maybe xe could get one of xyr old friends to the bunk tonic 
visiting. 


But then, xe saw the girl. As Reyes looked at her, xe reco¢ 
those poor people.