"We are still on Earth," | said, turning to look at Cyrus, "aren't we?" 


He just shrugged and scratched the back of his head with the 
switchblade. 


"We'll find a way down, right?" | said. "We'll be okay?" 
"| don't know." 


Continued in Interference >> 


Wednesday - 4 


<< Back to Interference 


| heard white noise, unbearably loud against ears so used to silence. 
| turned around, my heart racing, but it was just Cyrus messing with 
the radio. 


"There won't be anything,” | said, approaching him. "Just static..." 


He switched to AM and spun the little tuning dial very slowly towards 
the left end. No flickers of human voices or music, just the hiss of 
white noise. It hurt to listen to. At the very left end, he stopped, and 
there was sound, an unidentifiable one—I had never heard anything 
like it before. The pulsating of an alien's thoughts, the sound of the 
very farthest reaches of space. | felt Rob the snake suddenly wind 
tighter around my shoulders. 


"What is that?" 


Cyrus yanked the radio's electrical cord out of the wall socket; Rob 
immediately relaxed. "Unholy." 


| guess | should have pegged him for weirdly religious, he carried a 
Bible around all the time, but | never really noticed until now. It was 
probably the only thing keeping him from completely losing it like the 
others. | wondered for a second why | hadn't gone insane, but | tried 
not to think about it too much. 


We left the classroom at the sound of hundreds of running footsteps, 
fleeing down the stairs to the ground floor. | was about to throw open 
the door to the office to hide, but Cyrus dragged me into a janitors’ 
closet instead. 


"Don't go in there," he said, almost inaudible over the footsteps and 
screaming. "Don't ever go in there." 


| almost asked why, but | stopped myself, not wanting to know. | 
opened the closet door just a crack and looked through into the hall. 


They weren't after us, | quickly realized, they were running towards 
the edge. They jumped. All of them, too many for me to get a count. 
None of them were afraid. Their running steps were utterly drowned 
out by a great roar like the sound the ocean makes during a storm, 
but much larger, more terrible than any ocean or any storm or any 
tangible thing on Earth. They all tumbled into the whiteness. | had 
known some of them. | had known all of them. | heard their 
monstrous sound tear out of their throats, it came from the fog and 
the air. The roar grew to a deafening volume. | felt like perhaps | 
should jump too, but when | stood to do it, Cyrus pulled me back. 


"Wednesday," he said, almost breathless with panic. "Wednesday." 


| woke up. 


Above me were a few people wearing gas masks and talking 
amongst themselves. | couldn't hear them, their voices were only a 
murmur, at least until my head cleared itself a little. | rubbed my 
eyes. 


"She's coming around," said one of them. 


| tried to speak to them. | knew | spoke their language but | didn't 
completely understand what they were saying. 


"Hmmh," | mumbled, attempting to sit up. Everything felt heavy. 


"What do you remember last?" said another gas mask, but one of 
his fellows swatted him. 


"Don't ask her now, dipshit. Wait until she's at least lucid enough to 
speak properly." 


"Sorry." 
"C'mon." 


One of them scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder. 


Another yelled in surprise. 

"Snake!" 

"Well don't scream about it! Where?" 
"On her shoulder..." 

"Is it alive?" 

"Yeah -" 

"Don't worry about it - " 


"Can we focus for two seconds and leave? Dunford, Barnes, stay 
here, we'll come back." 


| felt like | was falling from a great height. Had | jumped? If | did 
jump, then the other kids who jumped must have been around there 
somewhere too... 


Had | just dreamed the whole thing? 
"Where...?" | said, my mouth not working right. 
"Don't talk yet, you'll have plenty of time for that later." 


They took me outside, and | heard many voices. They took my 
clothes and undid my hair and pushed me into a tent where | was 
soaped and hosed down by a cranky-looking woman in a white coat. 
| stumbled into a different tent, and the woman directed me to a 
metal chair. Cyrus was there too, looking far more alert than | felt. 


One of the gas masks handed me Rob, who was pretty wet and 
maybe a little stunned from the shower. He promptly curled up in my 
lap. 


All of the people in the tent were adults - none of my classmates in 
sight. The gas masks who had carried me out were not there either, 
but there were what looked like doctors and nurses and people who 
looked maybe they might be in the military, though something was 
off about them. Each had some sort of symbol on their shoulders or 


their chests, something | didn't recognize. They conducted their 
business with lowered voices just barely above a whisper. 


A man wearing a white coat and small round glasses was speaking 
to Cyrus too quietly for me to hear. Cyrus seemed to listen, | guess, 
but wasn't responding. 


The man grew frustrated with Cyrus's silence and approached me 
carrying a tape recorder. 


"My name is Dr. Krell," he said in a cool voice. "We represent the 
SCP Foundation." 


ae 


Wednesday - 5 


<< 


wednesday 
wednesday wednesday wednesday wednesday 
wednesday wedn- 


Suddenly released from the clinging hands of the half-sleep, Wight 
sat bolt upright, an open palm colliding with the back of her head. 


"Good, agent." Doctor K settled in the spot at the far end of the table 
with his laptop and styrofoam cup. "Soon you will be able to dodge 
in your sleep." 


"| was dreaming." In waking clarity she became aware of Rob 
attempting to squirm into the hood of her jacket, disturbed by her 
sudden movement. She tugged the boa over her shoulder and 
allowed him to curl up in her lap as the remaining echoes of the 
Voice fell away. When in full force, it reminded her of the buzz of 
cicadas. Doctor K's voice was almost startling to listen to after such 
a grating sound. He was more like an old record of Christmas carols 
as interpreted by someone with an exceptionally velvety larynx. 


"Why d'you work during lunch breaks?" 


"In all labor there is profit. You would do well to remember that - the 
alternative, of course, is slightly worse than chastisement for 
napping in the cafeteria." 


"Sorry." She really was, but her own voice always sounded so false 
and hollow. 


He tapped at the laptop for a while, allowing nearly effortless 
development of an uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her 
feet. 


"What were you dreaming about that gave you such a scare?" 
It had been the dream they decided to call ‘falling.’ 


"Uh, falling." Wight paused, and unstuck her gaze from her high- 
tops. She glanced around the cafeteria - there was no one else but 
the two of them there. "... What do you think it means?" 


"Dream interpretation is mostly nonsense," he said, failing to sound 
like he gave half a damn. "Before you ask why, you would think so 
as well, after several sessions taken up entirely by a patient 
explaining his dream wherein he couldn't decide which can of birds 
would be right for the mandolin stew." 


Doctor K regarded her over his glasses for a moment. His eyes were 
a very light grey, which she thought was an eye color that almost 
guaranteed you would grow up to be a chilly sort of person. 


"I've found that dreams are almost never the right route to take for 
serious self-examination. Additionally, | would not want the 
suggestion making its way to Overwatch that you are easily 
agitated." 


Wight sighed. "Understood." 
"Then get back to work." 


o> 


SCP-993: Bobble the Clown 


Item #: SCP-993 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Any broadcasts of SCP-993 are 
to be intercepted as detailed in Protocol Upsilon-Beta 3 and blocked 
from public viewing. All intercepted broadcasts are to be recorded 
and stored for future viewing. Any subjects used to view SCP-993 
must be under the age of ten and are to be dosed with a Class A 
amnesiac after they have described the episode. 


Viewing of SCP-993 must be authorized by three (3) Level 4 
personnel. 


Description: SCP-993 is a children's television program entitled 
"Bobble the Clown" which first began airing in / /19 . SCP-993 
seems to have been made in the style of an educational cartoon, 
with the primary plot of most episodes being the titular character, 
Bobble the Clown, learning a new skill or activity. The program 
appears to have no supporting cast and the setting of the program 
often changes between episodes. 


SCP-993's anomalous properties become obvious when the 
program is viewed. Anyone watching aged ten years or older will 
immediately fall unconscious when the program begins and will 
remain incapacitated until the end of the program, later reporting a 
stabbing headache immediately before blacking out. 


Children under the age of ten viewing SCP-993 later report that it 
teaches and advocates activities such as cannibalism, murder, 
torture, [DATA EXPUNGED]. These activities appear to become 
ingrained in the subject's mind; repeated exposure to SCP-993 can 
result in permanent psychotic and schizophrenic symptoms. 


Episodes of SCP-993 are regularly broadcast from a currently 


Wednesday - 6 


<< 


it's been almost three days since i last saw you 
come on 
it's not safe here 


"Up you get, agent." 


Wight drew a sharp breath as Doctor K thumped her on the 
forehead with the flat of his hand. 


"Nngh - what?" 
"We've landed. Come along." 


She followed him, her foggy head largely unable to parse the white 
light of high noon that she had hidden her eyes from during her nap. 
She climbed off the motorboat as Doctor K was speaking, but she 
wasn't really listening. Her ears were still filled with indistinct words. 


The "gate" of Site 78, lined with barbed wire, yawned before them as 
she presented her badge to the man in the booth. 


".,.a lack of words for certain concepts. At any rate you ought to 
familiarize yourself with the place." Without waiting for a response, 
Doctor K strode off towards the largest of the site's watchtowers. 


Wight rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. Site 78 
surrounded this entire cluster of islands, all of them covered in the 
crumbling ruins of a dead civilization. She decided her explorations 
may as well begin from the center. 


As she approached the foundation of what must have been a very 
spacious building, she spotted a pair of figures in the distance, 
standing on a very small island that bore an archway. She crossed 
the big island, pulled off her boots, and waded to the small one. 


One of the figures was a scrawny brunette - she crouched on the 
ground before the arch. Every few seconds there would be a click 
and a flash as she took photos of the pictograms etched into the 
worn stone. The other figure, a tall woman in a long red dress, was 
easily recognizable as SCP-900-1 - she had fairly plain features, 
aside from lengthy white hair, covered mostly by a thin shawl. She 
averted her eyes and spoke a few words to the other woman, who 
stood up and turned quickly. 


"...Agent Wednesday Wight, yeah? New sniper?" 


"That's right." She nodded to the boa constrictor draped over her 
shoulders. "That's Rob. Who are you?" 


"Liddell. I'm one of the zillion linguists you'll probably meet here. And 
by zillion | mean three." She gestured to 900-1. "This is 900-1. 
Required designation, obviously." 


900-1 addressed Liddell. The tongue she spoke was smooth and 
graceful, interrupted every once in a great while with a harsh 
consonant. 


"Curious," said Liddell. 
"What?" 


She shook her head and spoke to 900-1. Liddell's way of speaking 
the language, Wight thought, was very obviously an American 
stumbling over unfamiliarity. 


"There's a few words she's using | don't recognize," she said, pulling 
off her shoes, "so I'm going to have to have her repeat herself to Dr. 
Vanheissen. He's the site head and, uh, our most storied linguist. 
You can come if you like." 


The three sloshed across the shallows to the big island. 


"Our office is kinda small, but there's not a lot of us anyway." Liddell 
paused to put her shoes back on. "Oh, and we're pretty much 
completely analog." 


“Cause of the electronics disruptions, yeah?" 


"Mmhm. It's sporadic and usually not that bad, but it's kind of a pain 
to deal with, so we just avoid using very advanced electronic stuff 
altogether. Except for our fans, and our lights, and that fence." She 
gestured to the walls enclosing the islands. "Oh, and we have a 
radio. Most of the time it's just static but sometimes you can hear 
indistinct voices." 


"Neat," Wight said. She hoped she wasn't coming across as a bitch. 
Her voice just sounded so dead all the time it was hard not to. 


Liddell opened the door of the office for Wight and 900-1. Wight 
looked around - the place was dark and cool, tiled in that weird 
mottled grey that had been ubiquitous in offices a couple decades 
ago. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat at a desk covered in paperwork as 
he fiddled with an old radio - Wight felt her insides clench reflexively, 
though when she realized the thing wasn't on, she exhaled with 
relief. 


"Ugh, power's out again,” Liddell muttered. She started towards a 
door on the left when she noticed the Hawaiian shirt. 


"Sup, midget?" he said, nodding to Liddell. 


"Don't call me that, and don't mess with the radio when there's a 
blackout. Doc V said." 


"He also said not to be a sycophant. Midget." 


Liddell stalked off, 900-1 in tow. He set the radio on the desk and 
turned to Wight with a grin. When he was looking at her full in the 
face, she could see that his eyes were of mismatched colors. 
"Delacroix. Emergency medicine and demolitions." 


"Er." Wight had checked the report - there was a grand total of 32 
people in the whole Site, counting 900-1. "How often do you get 
work around here?" 


"Pretty much never. 'S why I'm always listenin’ to the radio." He gave 
the little plastic box a hard thump with a closed fist. "Or | would, if 
this place didn't keep fuckin’ with my stuff." 


"Oh. | don't like radios anyway." 


"Bad experience?" 


"You could say that." She rubbed the back of her head, feeling a 
little awkward. "Um, where did Doctor K go?" 


He gestured to the door Liddell had disappeared through. Wight 
approached it. For a moment, she was almost proud of herself for 
doing something right for once. 


The lights flicked on, and so did the radio, and so did the Noise. Rob 
curled around her arms; only moments later her hands filled with tiny 
cuts as she brought them up to guard him from an explosion of 
window glass. She blinked a few times against the warmth that was 
filling her left eye. 


"Jesus Chr - " 


She attempted to respond to Delacroix, but consciousness left her 
before she could make a sound. 


Welcome Aboard 


"Wait, so we're hiring this guy blind?" asked the man as he sat ata 
table piled high with papers. 


"Yes sir. He's just been informed he has a high-level position with 
us, plus good pay and benefits. He'll be in momentarily. He just 
needs to sign these," said the younger aide, gesturing towards the 
piles of papers. 


"And if he asks about particulars?" 
"That's your problem. You're the lawyer." 


"...figures. Send him in. And kill the lights. May as well have a little 
fun with him." 


"Yes sir." 


Thomas LaFerro rubbed his eyes as he waited for the new hire. It 
had been a long day, and he hated hiring people when they didn't 
know what they were getting in to. 


"H-hello? Are you in here?" 


Internally sighing, LaFerro said, "Yes, right over here. Have a seat 
and we'll begin." 


Slowly, the new hire walked over through the room and sat down in 
the chair. It and the table of papers were the only illuminated things 
in the room. 


"Wow, you guys take your shit seriously."