Addendum: Casualties numbered 155 (approximately half the site 
staffing), with 62 personnel permanently injured and 93 personnel 
dead. SCP- __ has been reclassified as Euclid and placed ina 
specialized containment locker at Site- . Protocol Wonder-Alpha 
was put in place in order to deal with future recall of Dr. 
Wondertainment products. 


Tracing 


Back in school, one of my teachers useta say that if something was 
bothering you, if you were having bad feelings, you could write it 
down and that would help you feel better. But | don't think she meant 
it like this. I'm not really writing this down, I'm just tracing it. | see it 
on the paper, where I'm gonna write it, and | write it because that's 
what's gonna be there. Even though these ARE my feelings and my 
thoughts, it's still not me choosing what to write. It's just what the 
future says my words are. One of the doctors here said it doesn't 
make sense, | only write the words because | see them in the future 
and | only see them in the future because I'm gonna write them, so 
it's a anti-logical paradock. | don't think I'm spelling those right, but 
it's not like | gotta choice. I'm just tracing. 


| hate it here. | hate the SCP Foundation and all its Secure Contain 
Protect garbage, and | hate living in . And | know they're 
gonna find this page, cause | can see where they're gonna marker 
through the name of the place. And they're gonna marker through 
my name too. | can say I'm Marilyn Monroe, or Courtney Love, or 
Oprah, or Jessica Alba, and nothing happens, but as soon as | write 
down | can see that they're gonna marker it out. It's like | 
got no name any more. I'm just a god damn SCP. And | hate that. 


| hate the monsters here. | hate how the agents make me look at 
them. | hate when | see people with their arms and legs and heads 
tore off, and | know the monsters are gonna do it and | can't do 
nothing about it. | hate when | get so scared | start crying, and | hate 
when | get so scared | pee myself, and | hate that | can't keep any 
secrets from this god damn paper cause it's what I'd write if | had the 
chance but all | can do is trace. 


| hate the doctors here, mostly. Some of them are kinda nice, but 
mostly they don't care. | hate Doctor and his markered out 
name, and | hate Doctor and her markered out name, and | hate 
that | don't even got the chance to write out my own hating cause all 


| can do is trace. 


The food here is okay, though. | like food. | always did, I'm not one 
of those crazy Anna Rexy girls. | just couldnt eat the food when | 
kept seeing it turn into poop in front of me. | can't pick my own food 
from the cafeteria, but | can look at a menu and ask for stuff, and 
one agent gets it for me while the other one puts my blindfold on. 
The blindfold isn't fun, but now | don't gotta watch food turn into 
poop as soon as | stick my spoon in. And it's better than having 
them do an IV thing in my arm like | was in a comma. 


| know they dope me up. And it's not just sticking me with needles, 
either. They hide pills in my food. They think that if they didn't, I'd 
poke my own eyes out like a crazy so | could stop seeing stuff like 
this. But | can't ever REALLY do that, cause when | look at myself in 
a mirror | still got both my eyes. And if | ever do see myself without 
my eyes, then it'll happen no matter what. 


There isnt anything else on the paper after | finish this line, so | 
guess that means they find me soon and put my stupid mittens back 
on me FUCK YOU MY NAME IS MY NAME IS 

MY NAME IS 


Tradition 


“I’m telling you Gears, this is going to be the best year yet." 


“That would be a matter of opinion, Crow. However, | can not be the 
only one present who finds the situation ironic: we, as researchers of 
an institution whose sole purpose is the containment of the 
paranormal and unknown, are observing an over-commercialized 
holiday celebrating distilled and often completely fictitious versions 
of such.” 


<Gears, this is no time for analysis. Just drink your punch.> Bright 
signed rapidly with one hand. 


The three doctors were all taking part in the time-honored party 
tradition of standing by the punch bowl, engaging in what could be 
called “conversation”, if the definition was stretched. In one way or 
another, each one was arrayed in costume: Crow had donned a 
black greatcoat, specially made of course, accompanied by a red 
sash and a matching high-peaked hat with a silver eagle pin on the 
front. Bright was in the body of an adult male orangutan. Gears was 
still wearing his lab coat, but someone had placed a floppy, 
oversized wizard’s hat on his head and he had yet to take it off. 


The Site 19 D-class cafeteria had been converted into the main 
party center, and the effort was admirable. There was a 
considerable amount of black and orange streamers hanging from 
the ceiling, along with dozens of jack o’ lanterns which sat grinning 
on the long metal tables. Of course, there was also the general 
mishmash of fake spiders, bugs, skeletons, bats, ghosts, neat glow- 
in-the-dark doohickeys, a fog machine, and a sound system 
currently running through volume two of “Halloween’s Best Hits”. 
The cafeteria line was laden with a sizeable assortment of foods, 
mostly sugary and very little otherwise. The crowd was still small, 
consisting mostly of those in charge of the party. The night was still 
young, and most staff members were still spelunking their way 


through the haunted house. 


The haunted house was, easily, the crown jewel of the event. All five 
floors of the adjacent D-class barracks had been cleared out and 
converted into a maze of terror, ending in the cafeteria. While some 
in the Foundation would question the wisdom or point in making a 
haunted house, the fact that the senior staff was in charge was 
usually enough to strike an appropriate level of fear in the average 
staff member. 


Needless to say, what went on within was classified. 


Clef stepped out of the shadows right next to Crow, Gears and 
Bright, wasting no time in helping himself to a plate of pumpkin 
cookies and a cup of red punch. He was dressed in a sharp tuxedo, 
with a pair of plastic devil horns and a Guy Fawkes mask. 


“Rights, you’re up.” He nodded to the approaching doctor, who was 
plastered with zombie makeup and had a very large and relatively 
convincing meat cleaver stuck in her head. “You should probably tell 
Doctor Glass that his office will be pretty busy come tomorrow. And 
word from Ghost at the front says that Dr. King just entered the 
maze. Get the apple seeds ready.” 


“I’m on it. Wish me luck, guys.” Rights sauntered off through the 
secret entrance to the maze, chainsaw in tow. Someone was going 
to get a very nasty surprise in a few minutes, of the dropping-right- 
behind-you-from-the-trap-door-in-the-ceiling variety. 


Clef turned to the three punch-drinkers. 


“So, how ‘bout them Rangers?” Clef managed to take a bite of his 
cookie without seeming to move his mask. 


<Continue that statement and you are contending with three 
hundred pounds of ape.> Bright downed another cup of punch. 


“Eh, | don’t care that much myself, anyway. Though | am curious 
what happened to you, Bright. Last time | checked, you were going 
as Nyarlathotep. You even had an Egyptian host and everything.” 


Bright’s expression was one of pure simian unamusement. 


< If | ever find out, you'll Know. Because you'll hear them screaming 
from the other side of the site.> He snarled as he signed, with fangs 
far larger and more intimidating than he usually had. 


Seeing now as an excellent time to shift the conversation away from 
the Rage of Bright, Kain made a strategic interruption. 


“So, uh, how’s it looking in there, Clef?” 


“Let’s just say that there will be some people who'll need a new pair 
of shorts." 


“What'd you do to them?” 


Clef leaned forward and whispered. Even with the mask on, it was 
obvious he had a smug smile of satisfaction. Kain and Bright 
nodded, understanding. Gears’ expression was blank. 


“You did...nothing. | do not believe that | understand.” 


<Okay, look. Most of the lower staff are terrified of Clef. Half of them 
believe he’s the devil for crying out loud. Now, can you imagine 
walking around a corner and seeing him just standing there and 
staring at you?> 


“Interesting. You took the deep-seated fear most lower personnel 
have for you, and built upon it so that you would have to exert only 
the minimum effort for the maximum effect.” 


<| just said that.> 
“There is no harm in repetition of the conclusion.” 
“It's good science.” 


The set of thick black curtains that split the barracks from the 
cafeteria fluttered open, revealing the form of Agent Yoric, who was 
clad in enough voodoo paraphernalia to make every witch-doctor in 
the western-hemisphere sigh heavily at the absurdity of it all. 
Ignoring the cookies, punch, and the “Monster Mash”, he walked 
over to the four doctors with the steely intent of someone about to 
speak their mind and the expression of someone who had very 


nearly had a heart attack. He jabbed an accusing finger at them. 


“Why on God's green Earth did you install an animatronic 682 head 
in the janitor’s closet?” 


This statement was followed by an incredibly awkward silence. Kain, 
Clef, Gears and Bright all looked at each other, then at Yoric, then at 
each other again. 


“Oook,” Bright said. 


Traffic Resumes 


"So, have you got everything down? The previous crew should be 
arriving in half an hour." 


"| think so. Man, this is the strangest assignment I've ever been on." 


"Yeah, 2771 duty is...memorable, if nothing else. There's no rhyme 
or reason to Tutella, but it doesn't change, so if you memorize it 
you're golden. You get the currency back as bonus pay, so don't 
screw up." 


"Got it." 
"Oh, and one more thing. If they smile, you're fucked." 
"...what?" 


"We don't know what to do. We've tried a lot of different things, but 
none of them are the right response. It's the procedure's biggest 
weak spot at the moment. Just consider it an early end to your shift." 


"Alright then. Can | smoke?" 


"No. One guy tried, and apparently he caused an earthquake or 
something. They don't let that guy back in anymore." 


After over five years in the Foundation, Michael had grown numb to 
horror. The nightmares come to life that he'd help to contain had lost 
their ability to haunt his thoughts or terrorize his subconscious. 
Nothing, however, would ever tame his sense of wonder at the 
sheer amount of strange. As another traveler approached his toll 
booth on the tongue-road that seemed to have no beginning or end, 
he remembered a saying the Senior Researcher he'd studied under 
had been fond of: We all sometimes worry about the monster that'll 
eat our face, but it's our job to ask why it wants to eat our face. 


The traveler presented him with a rough approximation of an ID. 
Trying his best not to cringe, he bit off the top half of it and wrapped 
the rest of it with the foil his instructor had given him. Traffic 
resumed, in his mind and on the road. 


Ok, they don't use language, we know that much, he thought to 
himself as the next muscle bulge moved forward. Their verbal cues 
are the same for frustration and anger, but different for everything 
else. What's the logic? 


The traveler moved up to his toll booth. 


Eating IDs, tearing off their faces casually...what is the reasoning in 
this? 


The traveler smiled. 


Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Michael mentally went through the 
list of non-appropriate smile responses he had read and tried to pick 
one he didn't think was there. Saying no doesn't work, letting them 
through doesn't work...uhh... 


There was a loud knocking on the toll booth door. Panicking, he took 
the roll of foil he had and threw it at the traveler's face. Just as the 
2771-1 instances were taking him away, he thought he saw her 
expression change. 


"...s0 you threw foil at her?" 


"Well, | didn't know what else to do, so yeah. Still didn't work, 
though." 


"How did they react when they took you away?" 


"They shook their heads and slammed their fists on their palms 
really loudly." 


"They did the same thing to me when | got a smile. | gave the dude 
the stink eye for a minute or so and he turned around and went the 
other way. Next thing | know, the cloth guys are all over me." 


into a catatonic state. Afterwards, no other progression was shown 
until a period of five (5) weeks, in which the subject was discovered 
with a large gash in his torso, organs having been pulled from the 
body cavity. It is unknown how such a wound came to SCP-979-V1. 


SCP-979 was found in , Chile. SCP-979 was featured in an 
exhibition by an artist under the pseudonym of The Kind Man, in the 

Museum. After news reports of hallucinations and an outbreak 
of synesthesia, SCP-979 was placed under Foundation custody. 


Addendum: 
+ Interview Log 979-01 
[BEGIN LOG] 


Doctor D : Good Morning. Please identify 
yourself. 


: Morning already? Well, last | checked my 
name was _.. Don't you whitecoated bastards 
have a record of this shit lying around? 


Doctor D : The time is exactly 9:07 AM. 
Please explain for the recording how last night 
went. 


: What, you didn't see it? 


Doctor D : Nothing recorded last night 
was particularly unusual. However, your 
behavior- 


: You didn't fucking see it?! It was hovering 
over me the whole damn time! At least 
[REDACTED] things just barely touching me, | 
could feel it! When it's not the fucking 
whispering, it was the colors, the damn smells! 
Ain't there a way you can reverse this syn- 
thee-sa bullshit? I've seen you psychopaths do 
things that make reality shit itself, for 
chrissakes! 


"What are they trying to say with that, anyways?" 


"| think it's their way of going ‘this wasn't good enough, do 
something else.' Problem is, they never tell us what something else 
is. They get annoyed when we encounter the smile dudes, but the 
angriest we ever saw 'em was after we let one of the smiles through 
the toll booth. Damned if you do, damned if you don't." 


"Pretty much. | hope | get a few ‘normal’ people before a smile 
today. They just raised the tax on cigarette packs and it's killing my 
wallet." 


"Hah! Well, they're a lot less worse for your health than half the 
assignments we get put on." 


This time, it took him six hours. He had managed to rack up five 
grand and had almost forgotten Procedure 366-Tutella wasn't 
perfect. His mind was briefly lost in contemplation as to how he 
would spend his riches for the day's work when the bliss was 
abruptly shattered with a charming grin from an old man. 


NO! Goddammit, not again, | was doing so well... 


His face grew redder as the seconds ticked away. He thought about 
the months he would have to do this, the countless times he would 
be rudely abducted after screwing up, how none of this made any 
sense... 


...and, just as the toll booth door burst open, he snapped. He pulled 
out his pistol, screamed "FUCK IT!" at the top of his lungs and shot 
the traveler in the forehead. 


Time seemed to stop for a moment. He turned around and saw that 
the 2771-1s were staring not at him, but the road. The "earth" below 
him began to shake and the tongue-muscles oscillated wildly, their 
passengers completely nonplussed. As his eyes returned to the 
road, he saw the tongue twist itself into a bottomless DNA-esque 
helix and slide the corpse down into oblivion. 


The 2771-1 instances nodded at Michael, simultaneously made 


cutting motions across their mouths with their fingers, and left the toll 
booth. 


Traffic resumed. 


Behavior Response Results 
Traveler smiles. Loudly exclaim "Fuck The transportation 
it" and engage travelersystem will distend 
with sidearm. into a helix and engulf 


any injured or 
terminated travelers. 
Traffic resumes.