Special Containment Procedures: The area SCP-821 is located in 
has been purchased by the Foundation, with a standard 
containment warehouse constructed around it, designated 
Containment Outpost 821. Daily inspections of SCP-821's exterior 
structure are to be performed by security personnel, with any 
significant changes being reported to the containment supervisor. 
No personnel are to enter SCP-821 due to its structural instability. 


Description: SCP-821 is a structure located within the former town 
of Esheville, FL. Records recovered from the local government 
indicate it was constructed sometime between 1955-1957. The 
interior is in a permanent state of degradation, with all attempts at 
maintenance or restoration being unsuccessful. 


SCP-821's interior contains a varying number of devices intended 
for children, such as a carousel, a stage with a set of 4 animatronic 
figures, and a variety of midway games. There are also a number of 
kiosks which sold food and souvenirs when SCP-821 was active. 
During initial containment, these devices were fully functional. 
Maintenance was performed by humanoids within SCP-821, 
formerly known as SCP-821-1, who also operated the devices within 
SCP-821. Instances of SCP-821-1 were humanoid automatons 
composed of painted copper. Devices contained within SCP-821 
displayed anomalous properties when they functioned, including: 


¢ Models of animals that were attached to the carousel would 
move autonomously. 

« Animatronics were shown to be able to engage prepubescent 
subjects in conversation. 

¢ Food and drink were produced within SCP-821 without a 
source. 


talk. 
"Are you going to kill me?" 


| smiled. Kids are a lot smarter than most people give them credit 
for. 


"No, no I'm not. | think this man might have been trying to, though." 


| gestured to the sheet-covered mound on the floor, and the bullet 
hole in the wall opposite. The child, bless his heart, looked 
unconvinced. 


"Are you a policeman, then? You don't look much like a policeman." 
"Oh? And why is that?" 


"You've got a gun. Only killers and soldiers carry guns. Are youa 
soldier?" 


"Hah, sort of. We detected a... well, do you know what the word 
‘temporal’ means?" 


The kid shook his head vigorously. 


"It means, sort of, to do with time. Something nearby isn't exactly 
when it should be, and I've got to figure out what it is." | had an idea. 
"Do you feel like helping?" 


He nodded, slowly, and | started to grin. "Great. You can call me 
Dick-" A smirk, which | did not appreciate, "or Mr. Miguel, if you 
prefer. This man fired a gun at you, right, and then someone," | 
paused. Best to be honest here, | think. "or something, stopped him. 
Do you have any idea what that thing looked like?" 


Another vigorous head-shake, and a miniature snowstorm of 
dandruff. "No. There was... uh... weird purple light, though? Like 
fire, but, sort of, cold?" The kid realised what he was saying and 
clammed up. "I probably just imagined it though." 


| sigh. Nothing for it, | was going to have to cut the veil. It's always 
easier with kids anyway — they're much more willing to believe 


things, and memory-wipes work better on unformed minds. 


"No, no, that sounds about right. That's what we call an ‘anomaly’. 
It's something that, ah, shouldn't really exist, but does anyway. My 
job is to go around and help sort them out." 


"Oh, like that 'temporal' you were talking about?" 


"Exactly! It's an anomaly, and probably has something to do with the 
purple light. That sounds like exactly the kind of stupid crap," a 
phrase that elicited a giggle from the kid, "that they'd slap on toa 
time machine to make it seem more impressive. You'll never find a 
more unbearably self-centred group of nerds than temporal 
researchers." 


"Hmm. Well there was the fire, and a kind of buzzing noise, and then 
the man appeared." 


"This would be the man who died?" 


"Yeah. He appeared, and so did another man about a second later. 
The second one, uh, punched the first one and then stabbed him 
with a sort of syringe." 


"And the first man, he shot at you and missed, yes? And then the 
other man disappeared?" 


"Yeah." 
"And that's all you saw, before | got here?" 


The kid nodded, and looked down at his feet. | patted him on the 
back, and sighed. 


"Your parents. | expect they're probably out at the moment, right?" 
He murmured something that may have been "shopping". 


"Right. Why don't you go outside for a little bit while | finish up here 
— it's a lovely day, after all. I'll make sure everything's when and 
where it should be, and you won't have to worry about any of this 
any more. Sound good?" 


A hesitant nod, and | caught a glimpse of his face beneath a tangled 
mop of hair. He looked like he was trying hard not to cry. | handed 
him the rest of the chocolate, and motioned him through the door. 
Another day, another job, another chrono-mess to sort out. | clicked 
my neck, and settled down to work. 


| popped a pill — a mild mnestic agent to counter the delayed 
amnestics I'd stuck in the chocolate bar — and began pacing the 
room. Someone (it seemed like a ‘one’ at this point; ‘thing's don't 
normally have the imagination for stuff like this) was screwing with 
time, and that upset me on a very personal level. | began examining 
the shelves, searching for some clue as to why someone would 
want to kill a kid like this, and why someone else would risk a 
paradox to stop them. Photographs, ornaments, books, nothing out 
of the ordinary. This was a normal, run-of-the mill townhouse — 
Victorian, terraced, slightly messy but only in the way of all houses 
containing a young child. Familiar to anyone who's done any amount 
of fieldwork. 


Extremely familiar, actually. Those photographs, those souvenirs — 
oh goddamn. | swung around, yanking the sheet off the body, 
revealing a face I'd seen many times before. Every time | looked ina 
mirror, in fact. 


"Fuck fuck fuck fuck." 


| stared out of the window at the kid, who was in the process of 
forgetting the last hour or two. 


"Fuck!" 


I'd been stupid. | should have recognised him from the haircut, to be 
honest: my parents were never that good at hairdressing. Of course, 
| went by Richard back then, so he wouldn't recognise me based on 
my first name, and Miguel was a pseudonym — the most basic form 
of identity concealment the Foundation had on offer. | glanced at the 
tasteless kitten-themed calendar, which confirmed it. 2038, twelve 
years after my birth. Which meant that three of the four participants 
in this charade had been the same person. Extrapolating from that, | 
could only assume... ah. Hmm. Of course the murderer wouldn't be 


around for comment, but knowing him, or rather, knowing me, he/I'd 
have left a message somewhere. | flipped over the calendar. 


Hi, 


You've probably worked it out by now. Or maybe not, | 
don't really care. Point is, I'm in a loop-catalyst timeline, 
which means that anything | do now can affect the 
overall outcome. You know that already, but | can't stress 
it enough. | killed me/you, which means it's technically 
suicide, so you don't have to worry about prosecution; a 
small benefit, but one worth noting. 


It's up to you what you do now, since I'll probably be 
back to attempt to murder the kid in a couple years or so 
— continuity, am | right? | don't know why I/you/we did it 
in the first place. Maybe we were blackmailed, or bribed, 
or just wanted to bring the timeline crashing down on our 
heads. In any case, you're technically investigating a 
paradox I've just resolved, so you're free to go. 


Try not to fuck everything up again, 
Richard Miguel, Iteration 1, 2038 (at least for now). 


| barely even noticed the body behind me disappear in a flash of 
self-correcting purple light as | made the decision not to kill my 
childhood self, and ended up never having been going back to stop 
me. | slumped against the wall, head pounding. 


Fuck time travel. 


Seriously. 


Contact 


Greetings, Doctor. 


Before | begin, please know that any attempt to trace this 
message will lead you to the public wi-fi connection at a 
McDonalds in Sylvan Lake, Alberta, Canada (a popular 
vacation spot, and not my permanent place of 
residence). 


As you're already aware, the SCP Foundation is not 
exactly listed in the Yellow Pages, and as such, 
communication with the Foundation must be carried out 
in this fashion. 


Allow me to get to the heart of the matter: | am an entity 
that your Foundation will be quite interested in, and | 
myself have an interest in your Foundation. 


| ama 16 year old male, and have a unique ability 
relatable to that of your "telekill alloy". In short, my 
anomaly is such that for whatever reason, | am unable to 
be affected in any fashion by any form of telepathic 
instance. For example, SCPs 268, 053, 055, and most 
notably, 239, would have absolutely no effect upon me. 


I'm sure you're able to comprehend not only the research 
possibilities | may present to you, but also the practical 
application in an MTF. This is exactly what | am 
requesting from your foundation: level 3 security 
clearance for the express purpose of further research of 
SCPs whose psychic/telesthetic qualities would prohibit 
further research (most notably SCP 055), and/or to be 
assigned to an MTF that would deal with psychic/ 
telesthetic SCPs/potential SCPs. 


In exchange for loyalty and cooperation with the 
Foundation, in turn, | request specifically not to be held in 
any form of containment cell of any kind. Instead, | 
request to receive a standard salary for an average level 
3 researcher/MTF agent (whichever is deemed to be 
appropriate by the Foundation), and to be housed in a 
standard Foundation residence with permission to leave 
the premises as | deem fit, unless of course a situation 
arises that requires my involvement (as with any other 
Foundation employee). | wish this request to be 
discussed among the 05 Administrators, and | will not 
reveal my location and allow Foundation employees to 
retrieve me without the above terms being accepted by a 
majority of the 05 Administrators (at least 7). 


| hope to hear from you soon, Doctor, and | hope we will 
come to a reasonable solution soon. 


J. Swift 


Bright stared at the email. "I'm a Level Five researcher, god damnit." 


Dodridge sighed heavily. “Why do ya think they don’t think we'll be 
able to track them?” he asked, glancing sideways at the man 
crouched next to him. 


“Hell, | dunno,” Lament sighed. “This kid is supposed to be some 
sort of psychic vacuum. Immune to all that brainy shit and mental 
influencing.” 


“And he seriously sent a level four researcher an email?” 
"Level five." 

"Whatever." 

“Yeah. Just... popped it right off.” 


“Wow. Seems like he’s immune to his own IQ.” 


Lament snickered and picked up his box of McNuggets, chewing 
them slowly. “God damn, | love this spicy mustard.” 


“| don’t know how you can eat that garbage.” 


“It’s like foie gras and shit, man. Most delicious parts of the food are 
always the trash.” 


“You’re eating chicken slurry formed into a disc.” 
“And it is fucking delicious.” 


Dodridge smirked for a moment, then laid down on the ground, 
getting into position. “So, this one is dangerous?” 


“Dangerous enough. You ready?” 
“Yeah.” 


Lament peered through a set of binoculars as the van pulled up next 
to the McDonalds for the fourth time in as many days. Dodridge 
leaned over and stole a McNugget. 


“| saw that.” 
“Fwuk woo.” 
Lament snickered, then held the radio to his ear. 


“Good. Oh-Four-One confirmed it. It’s the ugly kid in the yellow 
hoodie.” 


“Oh, nice,” Dodridge mumbled, looking through his scope. “I thought 
he looked like a ponce.” 


SYLVAN LAKE, ALBERTA, CANADA - Teen killed in a 
shooting at a local McDonalds. Witnesses noted that 
there was no sound of a bullet firing, but the victim— 
believed to be one J. Swift—suddenly fell to the ground. 
An RCMP van was in the area and responded to the 
scene of the crime. Currently, the event is being treated 


as an act of random gang violence. Mr. Swift's body is 
being transported back to Ontario for burial. 


Dr. Mann snapped the glove onto his wrist with the efficiency of a 
prison guard and peered down at the body. “Oh yes,” he said, 
nodding and lifting the saw. “Many research possibilities, Mr. Swift. 
Many, many research possibilities...” 


CONTAIN 


Capture was successful 

Despite that against our efforts to obtain 
From here it becomes quite stressful 
For to keep is much harder than to gain 


Often the dangers are not apparent 

Until we start searching for its production 
The path to see the truth inherent 

Is crossed many times with destruction 


Not all are kept against their will 
Some we cannot even hold 
That danger, how long is it until 
It chooses not to be controlled 


Test their powers and their strength 

Are they Safes, Euclids, or Keters 

Find their dimensions, height, width, and length 
Write it down on sheets, in meters 


Ask for answers we are lacking 
Of course, getting them is rare 

Whether because it is attacking 
Or it simply doesn't care 


Inside some are kept under control 
Within cage, tank, or room 

Others are not held in; those we patrol 
To keep the ignorant from their doom 


Never let it leave 

If it should escape 

We must hastily retrieve 
And fix the holes left agape 


Contain Yourself 


Hey there, guys. Uh... Right. My name is Lament. Don’t call me 
doctor. I’m not a doctor. | work for a doctor, sometimes. Anyhow, 
they asked me to come and talk to you guys for a little bit today. 
Normally, someone else does this, so... just bear with me, | guess. 
Right? Right. So... Listen. I’m going to do my level best to get this 
across to you in the nicest way that | can. 


A lot of you are going to die. And it’s going to be your own fault. I’m 
sorry, but that’s just how it is. And there’s a really good reason for it, 
too. | hear it in the lunchroom every day. 


‘Have you seen 682? Man, that thing will annihilate you!’ 


‘Dude, | saw 173 snap a guy's neck during the last security breach. 
Scariest thing I’ve ever seen...’ 


‘You hear about 835? Fuck, man, it’s disturbing...’ 


You care about the SCPs you guard. You will. It'll happen, because 
it's what always happens. You get an odd, possessive quality to 
yourself, something you can’t easily describe. When you guard 914, 
it is yours, damn it. There’s pride, there. You'll love your SCP, just 
don't, you know, /ove your SCP. Heh... Little... Little joke there... 
But... uh... but that’s a good thing. You get into arguments about 
what would be the worst one to break free or who would win ina 
fight. You care about what you guard. You care about what it can 
do. On some level, you start to love them. And that’s how we know 
how precious all this shit—even that fucking mirror who talks to you 
—how precious it is. 


And really... that’s where you fuck up. 


See, the problem is this: we don’t really give a damn what an object 
can do. Essentially, at the root of it all... We don’t. We like to know, 
though. Hell, we have to know. But that’s not as important. 


« Midway games that would emit vocalizations complimenting 
users with high scores. 


The animatronic band was composed of four machines, each 
playing a different instrument. Once per hour, they would play a set 
of popular songs from 1957-1960. When not playing, these 
animatronics could communicate with subjects observing them, and 
were capable of conducting basic conversation. Notably, 
vocalizations produced in this manner were shown to be unique, 
with logs compiled between 1959-1961 showing that no 
conversation had been repeated.