Some time ago we received word of a drug raid in Malaysia in w 
may have some relevance to us. The drugs in question were sai 
filled with 'garbage'. Despite this, the pills were in high demand 
ailments, including certain forms of cancer. 


| know as well as you all do the sort of quackery out there, but | | 
There is definitely something to this medicine, and it has proven 
of these pills and discovered that they were indeed filled with rex 
remarkable effect. 


Our volunteers who had been suffering a number of physical ailr 
recoveries within days. Diseased and wounded flesh fell away lil 
tests has shown nothing wrong with any of them, and to this day 
healthy. 


This drug had no name, and the company ascribed to it was sim 
found evidence that this company once operated out of Southea 
products, all undoubtedly of an anomalous nature. 


While the company appears to no longer be in business, their pr 
cannot emphasize hard enough what it would mean if we could « 
the former employees who could potentially help us in producinc 
products. 


I'm attaching a list of individuals known to have been employed | 
Inc."). Each of them has a letter and a number beside their nam 
and number of the person | want you specifically to investigate. 


Do whatever you can to get information from them. Remind then 
the starting point of a whole new world for all of us. If anyone is | 
this e-mail (don't hit reply all!). 


Dodger: Your code assignment is E4 a man named Sam Challo! 


Caecilia Cortez 
Signature stuff 
MCF 


Dodger stared at the man across from her incredulously. She wasn't 
entirely convinced he wasn't intentionally trying to aggravate her — 
here she was, exhausted and looking half asleep, and he was 
seated upright with a chipper smile. He was her third interview in as 
many days, despite being the only contact she was officially 
assigned to investigate. 


"You serious? | just asked you half an hour ago if you wanted a 
coffee and you said you didn't like coffee." 


"| said | didn't like black coffee. | didn't know you'd be going out and 
getting the sweet stuff. Figured you had coffee in here, regular black 
kind." 


She stared at him, he stared back. Nothing seemed to reflect in 
those blue eyes. Maybe he was being an ass, but she couldn't afford 
to antagonize their only lead on the Stuff people. She slid her own 
coffee across to him. He looked at the rim, as if expecting a lipstick 
imprint and wanting to wipe it down first. 


"I'm not under arrest, am |?" 


Dodger smirked, "I'm not police. We're just a charitable foundation 
looking for some promising donors. Please go on." 


"Alright, so," He went on, "Typical day in the life at Stuff Industry." 
"Stop. 'Stuff Industry'?" 
"Yeah." 


She pulled over the catalogue cover, and pushed it towards him, 


"This says 'A Place for my Stuff, Inc. 


He seemed to have noticed it for the first time, "Oh... yeah, | don't 
know. Place had a bunch of different names before | joined up." 


"Including this one?" 


He shook his head, "No. Never heard of this before. Reminds me of 
something, though. Oh yeah — George Carlin! He had a routine 
about people's houses, said that houses are really just a place for 
your stuff, while you go out to buy more stuff." 


She leaned closer, propping her chin on her hand to keep from 
dropping her head in frustration, "Typical day in the life at Stuff 
Industry...?" 


"Yeeeeah," He sipped from the coffee, waiting a moment before 
going on, "So pretty much everyone is in on it, but no one says shit. 
All sorts of crazies get hired and no one knows why. Front desk, 
there are two women there as lobby attendants. No fucking idea why 
there's two since neither of them does much of anything to justify 
one person working the desk." 


"What do they do?" 


"They sit there and direct everyone upstairs. Doesn't matter what it 
is; upstairs. There's a woman upstairs behind an identical desk who 
actually does the job of sorting out visitors. Only one." 


"So what's... what's special about this? Just sounds like needless 
waste." 


"Check it, though; the offices. That's where | worked. There's like 
four levels of offices for a hundred people total. There's less than 
fifty of us. Orders come from up top, 'Do this’, 'Send this message to 
client’, ‘Deal with this lawsuit.’ Sometimes it gets done, most of the 
time we get a wrong name, phone numbers’ disconnected, e-mail 
address misspelled or don't exist. Then it gets sent back up the line, 
‘return to sender’ type shit. No one hears shit about the assignment 
again. New one comes next time, same routine. Paychecks are 
cashed, hours are logged, time is wasted, shit gets done, 


somehow." 
"How is this different from a typical office environment?" 


He grinned, then shook his head with a surprising tenseness, "You 
don't understand. I'm not saying we dick around and just coast on 
by. Year before | quit, some asshole on the seventeenth floor drops 
something behind one of the printers, and accidentally pulls the 
plug. Someone raises hell about it six weeks later. | go and plug it in, 
printer starts printing out six weeks worth of backlogged shit from all 
over the office. Fuckin’ no one thought to check it out for six weeks. 
No one." 


"I'm still waiting to see what makes this whole situation extraordinary 
and not just complete and utter incompetence." 


The man nodded, "That's alright. Moving up higher on the ladder, we 
got the labs. The labs are the scariest shit. Everyone who works 
there signs confidentiality agreements. Solid shit, too — | once knew 
a girl who worked there, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life. 
Got her drunk as hell and started asking what she did. She wouldn't 
peep. She seemed okay, though; all the lab people were. Not like 
grim men in black types, just normal people not spilling company 
secrets. Oh, and outside of the labs, there's people waiting. Like a 
doctor's office. This is the scary shit — the people are always the 
same, every day. Some of them are completely naked, they don't 
give a fuck. You talk to them, they don't say anything. You push 
them, they'll push you back, then security might get involved, but 
otherwise they just sit there. They're there when the first guy gets in 
in the morning, they're there when the last guy leaves at night. 
Always the same people." 


"You sure they're people?" 
"They're not robots." 


Dodger sighed, and leaned back in her seat, "Further up the 
ladder...?" 


"Board of Directors. There's like eight of them. Normal people, 
seems. Except for about five of them." 


Dodger kept leaning back in her seat, waiting for the hammer to fall. 


"There's two of these guys, brothers, like Indian or Pakistani or 
something. They speak decent English, but they don't know shit 
about running a business. Also, there's a woman there who was a 
prostitute. Don't get me wrong, she's smart as hell, smartest person 
in the whole building probably. But she was definitely like... recently 
a prostitute. Not like, ten years ago, but like, last week kind of thing. 
Another guy there, he keeps staring at her. Nothing inappropriate 
just stares like she's some kind of monster. Pretty sure he's wasted 
24/7 or something. No fucking way that guy was ever in his right 
mind." 


"And the fifth?" Dodger was starting to be impressed, but still none 
of this lead anywhere she could see. 


"Fifth guy. Chinese guy. Nasty motherfucker. Barely spoke English, 
dressed like he was a fucking butler, with tuxedo and bow tie every 
day. Yelled at everyone in Chinese, never smiled. No one was sure 
he even worked there till they saw he had his name on an office." 


"A circus of misfits, but what does this have to do with anything?" 


He shrugged, "You're the one asking. Anyway, then there's the 
CEO. Mr. Petter Vangen. Not sure if his name is 'Peter' but all the 
documents with his name on them say ‘Petter’, so we all call him 
Petter." 


"What's his wacky talent?" 


"He's in his office all day every day, from 7 in the morning to 7 at 
night. Comes out for breakfast and lunch. Nice guy, talkative. Guy 
speaks the worst broken English you've ever heard. Can't spell 
worth a damn either. He sends personal e-mails and they're an ugly 
mess. He's got no professionalism at all and no sign that he's ever 
been to high school, much less got any proper business 
experience." 


NOOrser 


"So everything comes from him. Memos, work orders, letters, 


everything from his office. All in perfect, proper English, all perfectly 
spelled." 


"So..." 


"| mean it, they come from him — none of the secretaries writes 
anything or does anything, they just pick up the papers and send 
them on down. He is sending them out. Or someone with him, in his 
office. No one goes in or out but him, though." 


"He's keeping the company afloat all on his own, then?" 


"You don't get it — the guy, for lack of a better word, is a complete 
and utter moron. Guy's a tool. He could be jackin’ it in his office all 
day every day. Sometimes the memos come out of his office and 
they're in Spanish or Creole. One was in fuckin’ Chinese. Guy 
doesn't speak or understand any of those languages. Like it matters; 
everything trickles down, and it all stops at us or the lab techs, and 
for shit us office types didn't get anything done." 


At least now they had gotten somewhere. Dodger mashed her 
palms into her eyes as she sat upright, "So the CEO..." 


"He don't know shit. Doesn't do shit." 
"The board of directors..." 
"Don't know or do shit." 


"The lab techs, the office workers, security and maintenance, the 
janitorial staff..." 


"The janitors clean the bathrooms. Otherwise, no one knows or does 
shit." 


"And that's all you know about The Stuff Industry, as far as you 
worked for them at their main office?" 


"Pretty much just that. Shit happened, products were made, profits 
were turned. Just without any of the employees involved." 


Dodger was on the phone as the man went out, still with Dodger's 
coffee in hand. 


"Hey," She grumbled. 


"Ey," The voice on the other end was more animated, but had the 
same flat tone, "The guy?" 


"Doesn't know shit." 
"Elaborate," Director Hong's voice reverberated, louder than normal. 


"He had some stories to tell. No one in the office noticed the printer 
was unplugged for over a month. Bosses are stupid, bosses are 
incompetent, no one knows what's being done, secret lab doing 
secret stuff so secret even the lab workers don't know what it is." 


"Shitkicker," Hong grumbled. 
"Familiar story?" 


"Pretty much what everyone's been told thus far. 'See nothing, hear 
nothing, Know nothing.’ Starting to refer to the ex-employees as the 


‘Know-Nothings'. 
Dodger sighed, and leaned back in her chair, "Any more?" 


"We've got some Mission Watch people who dropped out. Passport 
issues and such. If you're up for a quick flight to Kuala Lumpur, you 
can get ahold of a few more and see what they've got to say." 


"May as well... | could use some extra rest." 


Week 1 | Week 1 Day 3 » 


Week 1 Day 3: Finding some Stuff 


The first two people Dodger had looked in to had had no idea what 
any of their co-workers even did, beyond seeing them wandering 
around the building. Dumb as Challon had been with her, he at least 
checked out when it came to the Board of Directors. Following a 
dead end in Kuala Lumpur, she tracked down the "Nasty 
motherfucker" with surprising ease. 


Qian Hao-Li, 57, had spent 25 years at "The Stuff Industry" and had 
plenty of tracks to follow. He now sat before her in a café booth, 
dressed in a fine tuxedo with a red bow-tie. He looked like a mix 
between James Hong and Wes Studi, and looked like he hadn't 
smiled since Deng Xiaoping came to power. He spoke fine enough 
English, despite what Challon had said. 


Dodger had two big cups of coffee in front of her, and nudged one to 
him. He gave a slight shake of the head, and she nudged it back 
towards herself, "So is it ‘Qian’ with a Q or 'Chan' with a C?" 


"Either's fine," He said in a high, practiced voice, like he was 
preparing to make a speech. 


She set a pad of papers down in front of her, and started to skim 
through them. 


"Am | being investigated?" He asked. 

She glanced up at him with a quizzical look, then remembered 
where she was — he owned several restaurants and cafés, this 
being one of them, "No, I'm not police, Mr. Qian." 


"Are you an American agent?" 


"| work with a charitable foundation. We're just checking up ona 
potential donors associated with 'The Stuff Industry'.” 


"Stuff Industry’ is dead and gone," Mr. Qian said coldly, "No money 
to be had there." 


"We're not interested much in money so much as the products put 
out by the company. We're thinking a company goes under, they've 
got to have stockpiles of unsold product somewhere." 


"Why do you need me?" 


Dodger shrugged, "Do you know where we could find some of this 
‘Stuff'?" 


"No." 
"Know anyone who might know?" 
"| Know nothing." 


She grinned and laughed slightly. Mr. Qian showed no reaction. She 
quickly recovered herself, "Excuse me. It's been rather difficult to get 
any solid information on this company. We're just trying to get ahold 

of as many former employees as possible and hopefully reconstruct 

a picture of the company in how it operates." 


"Why do you care? You say you're not police." 


She shrugged, "We've heard lots of conflicting stories, so we're 
naturally wary about whether or not we're even dealing with the 
same company each time." 


Mr. Qian snorted, brushing away something on his sleeve, "You 
know when you have a genuine 'Stuff' product. You always know." 


"Please go on..." 


"You want to know what it was like working there?" He glared at her 
again. 


"I'm kind of interested now in what makes a genuine ‘Stuff Industry’ 
product genuine.” 


Qian leaned forward slightly on the table, "The Stuff Industry’ 


SCP-735: Insult Box 


Item #: SCP-735 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-735 is to be stored ina 
locked cell at Research Site-14, with access granted to Level 2 
personnel or higher after having undergone a session of preparatory 
therapy to interact with the device. 


Description: SCP-735 was discovered in ; among the 
personal possessions of after said individual's body had been 
found, having committed suicide. The SCP in question is, in 
appearance, a small box constructed of a brushed-aluminum-like 
alloy of unknown composition featuring a slot on one side. Sound is 
capable of being heard through this slot. When measurements are 
taken, the object is found to emit low-level magnetic pulses that 
intensify in the presence of humans. No external power source is 
required, and indeed the surface of the item contains no input 
points. 


Upon contact with skin, SCP-735 will "awaken" and begin discussion 
with the person who touched it. This discussion is immediately and 
intensely hostile and personal in nature. The device apparently has 
one goal, and that is to incite the person in question to rage, as 
quickly as possible. It does this primarily through profanity and 
verbal abuse, in a matter seemingly tailored to be the most 
discomforting to the subject. For example, during the conversation 
related in Addendum 735a, the vocal patterns of the device were 
recorded as sounding like an angry, late middle-aged man with a 
New Jersey accent. SCP-735 is capable of speaking to a subject in 
any known language and dialect, but has a tendency to use one that 
will be the most upsetting to the person interacting with it. 


A notable side effect of interaction with the box is a sharp increase 
of adrenaline in the subject, far more so than would normally be