He responded that they were already on the bus there, and that I’d 
have to deal with it. He likes doing things like that. (And since he’s 
got seniority here, my options were limited.) Technically, the 
Outreach and Recruitment Program allows it, and he’s got agents 
Corduroy and Jésus (Does he even have a last name? No one 
seems to know) watching the Shack with him, so | eventually 
stopped complaining. 


So things just went normally for a few days. Cover job, real job. No 
containment breaches, so the kiddos must have kept their noses out 
of things. And then Stan calls me up at four in the morning going on 
about how his grand-nephew found one of the books. Number 3. 


Now this is a pretty big deal. We currently have Book 1, and a few 
pages from Book 6, and those things are the basis to almost every 
containment procedure we have. 


And our illustrious Agent Stanford Pines lets him keep it. He went 
and copied the whole thing, but he let the kid keep it. 


Now, as you would expect, | was somewhat angered by this. 
Actually, | was thoroughly angered by this. So | did something rather 
stupid. | packed up a bunch of amnestics (Have to catch myself 
every time. Always want to say amnesiacs. Didn't even know there 
was an Official term until like, a year ago.), and went off to the 
Mystery Shack. Give them a nice mind wipe and take the book. It 
was too big of a security risk, you know how it goes. 


So | go over to the Shack that afternoon. (Was tied up during the 
morning. Gobblewonker was cranky.) Was going to pull the 
Jehovah's Witness spiel, had my suit on and my pamphlets all ready 
and everything. 


Standard procedure. 


Standard procedure doesn’t involve getting tackled by a goat, having 
your disguise seen through by a twelve year old girl, declared to be 
a tooth fairy, tripping over an inconveniently-placed collection of 
billiard balls, falling unconscious, and then being held for 
interrogation by a kid named Dipper, who correctly guessed that | 
belonged to a secretive (correct) government (incorrect) 
organization (generally correct) called the SCP. (Because someone 
decided to do the cutesy hidden initials in the cover organization 
material thing.) 


To be completely honest, | was so baffled by the scenario that the 
duct tape was quite enough to keep me in the chair for almost 
twenty minutes. It was a thoroughly humiliating experience. My 
captors had moved on to something else, something about 
investigating the woods to find my co-conspirators (Oh, if they only 
knew what was under the house). So they shut me in the closet. 


| broke out of course, and as soon as | walked outside, lo and 
behold, | see the twins in a golf cart, chased by a rather angry two 
dozen 1000s. The exact circumstances elude me. 


In their prepubescent driving finesse, they managed to nearly run 
me over (while coming close enough to classify as professional stunt 
drivers), and through a series of acrobatic maneuvers | don’t recall 
comprehending, | end up on that same golf cart, which shot off into 
the woods. 


And so here | am. In a golf cart, driven by children, quite positive | 
have gone completely insane, screaming at the top of my lungs, 
pursued by an angry crowd of Bigfeet (that is the plural form, right?) 


So yeah. 
That’s life around here. 


Carbondale’s still worse. 


Gotham's Strangest Criminal 


Commissioner Gordon looked at the newest victim of Gotham City's 
latest killer, and sighed. "Why do all of the criminals insist on having 
these ridiculous M.O.s,?" he said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. 
He wish that, just once, there'd be just an ordinary crime in Gotham 
city; a simple bank robbery, or a cat stuck up a tree, or-hell-even a 
bomb threat at a school. But at Gotham City, nothing was normal, 
with a homicidal clown and a man dressed as a bat, and other 
weirdos. Speaking of Batman, Gordon thought, where was he 
anyway? 


"Hello, Commissioner," a voice said, startling the aging man and 
nearly giving him a heart attack. He turned around to see Batman, 
hanging from a lamp post by his feet before gently landing on the 
ground. He rose, revealing his seemingly always scowling face. 
Gordon had only seen Batman smile a few times, and it always 
creeped him out when he did. Gordon sighed, removing his hand 
from his chest. "Batman, you really should stop doing that," he said, 
removing his glasses to wipe the sweat off his brow. "My heart isn't 
like it used to be." 


Batman grunted, as if he wasn't sorry at all. Instead, he looked over 
the body. "Same as the others, | suppose?" he said in his growl of a 
voice. Gordon nodded. "The man's badly burnt, as if someone threw 
acid at his face," he said with contempt. "However, the boys at the 
lab studied the burn marks from the other victims, and they found 
traces of..." . At this point, the commissioner frowned, a bemused 
look on his face. "Clam chowder." He rubbed the bridge of his nose 
with his fingers, wondering why he hadn't retired yet. Batman had a 
thoughtful look on his face. Who could have done this? However, 
before he could finish his thoughts, Gordon's Walkie Talkie went off. 
"We have a code 39 at Kane's Soup Palace. | repeat, a code 39 
at..." Commissioner Gordon switched off the radio, having heard it 
the first time. "I think we might have found a lead," he said, turning 
to Batman, only to find that he disappeared. Gordon sighed. "| need 


a vacation,” he muttered, walking off to his police car. 


Kane's Soup Palace 
"WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!" the police officer said into the 
megaphone. "SURRENDER NOW!" 


"Never," shouted the man holding the customers hostage. He was 
unremarkable in terms of appearance, except for the apron that said 
"Kiss the Clef" that was stained with what might have been tomato 
sauce, and the 2-meter high chef's hat. He held a steaming bowl of 
clam chowder in one hand, and a blonde woman-apparently one of 
his hostages-in the other. "Now, you shall listen to my demands, or 
this lovely lady," he said, while tightening his grip on the woman's 
neck. "Will die by my special New England clam chowder 
recipe....of DEATH!" He then laughed maniacally; however, his 
cliched evil laughter was interrupted by a batarang to the face. He 
stumbled to the ground, dropping the hostage, but-oddly enough-not 
the bowl of clam chowder. Batman then dropped through the broken 
skylight in the building, landing in front of the man. "Let the hostages 
go..." he started to say, but then stopped, confused. He had never 
seen this eccentric-looking man before. "Who are you?" The man 
got up, straightening his chef's hat. He then looked at Batman with 
an angry look on his face. He grabbed an oversized soup ladle, and 
said, in a voice as quiet as a whisper- 

"I'm ChowderClef.” 


With that, he lunged for Batman, attempting to club him with his 
soup ladle. However, Batman was able to dodge Chowderclef's 
attack, and uppercutted him. However, he miscalculated his attack 
time, and he instead knocked the bowl of clam chowder out of 
ChowderClef's hands. All was silent for a moment, as the bowl 
soared through the air, and then landed on Chowderclef's head. 
Chowderclef stood still for a moment, as if not registering the pain of 
the hot clam chowder running down his face. He then collapsed, the 
bowl making a 'CLANG' noise. Batman sighed, as if he was 
dissapointed that the fight didn't last as long as he hoped it would. 
However, nonetheless, he grabbed Chowderclef by the neck and 
dragged him out towards the police officers, who handcuffed him 
and threw him into a van marked 'ARKHAM ASYLUM". Before the 
door closed, Chowderclef turned to Batman-although his vision was 


obscured by the bowl-and shouted, "THIS ISN'T OVER, BATMAN! 
SOON, CHOWDERCLEF WILL RETURN" He then started laughing 
again as the van drove off. 


Batman shook his head in disgust. However, just then, a smell 
caught his attention. Curious, he walked back into the Soup Palace. 
The source of the smell turned out to be a bowl of clam chowder, 
similar to Chowderclef's except smaller. He picked up a spoon. 
"BATMAN, WAIT," Commissioner Gordon said, walking up to 
Batman. "It could be poisoned." However, Batman lightly shoved the 
Commissioner away, put the spoon in the bowl, took it out, and 
sipped. 


"Needs more crackers." 


Holder Of The Foundation 


On any IRC server in any chatroom, PM an operator who appears 
inactive. 


If he replies, ask to see the Holder of the SPC's. 


Should he respond with a kickban, leave, and never come to the 
server again, lest the wrath of its admins shall descend upon you as 
a K-line. 


If instead, he responds with "You have to consult an alchemist." 
reply quickly with "The psi folks tell he's not unlike a jester". Should 
you mistype, or should he leave the channel upon your response, 
pray for your end to be quick, for there's nothing that will save you. 


You will then be invited to another channel, whose name | know not, 
for its listed name is pure black. In there, a parade of trolls most vile 
shall fill your screen with revolting imagery and enraging ignorance. 
Do not reply, and do not become angry, for if you do, they will 
devour your soul. 


Instead, when one of them shall post a link to /x/, reply with "That is 
where it all began, and where it shall end." The channel owner will 
step in with a masskick. 


Rejoin the channel immediately. A single man, his whois address set 
to localhost, will await you there. He will react to the sole phrase, 
"Choke on a goat dick." At that moment, the server will grant him a 
+0, and he'll begin telling tales of every bad SCP submitted, 
discussion clusterfuck, asinine wiki application. Should you retain 
your sanity, he will ask for your deepest desire. Reply with [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. You will disconnect from the server, and your chat 
history will be gone as if nothing happened, but on the surface 
nearest to your right hand shall lie a cartridge titled "Sisters of 
Cheyenne Point." 


The cartridge is object 069 of 4132, and it is worth the twenty hours 
of net playtime. 


SCPokemon 


“So you’re saying that we can’t close 826 until...” 

“Until somebody finishes the main narrative, yes.” 

“And we still don’t know where the skip is... hiding, in the setting.” 
“That is also correct.” 

“What the hell happened? It never screwed up like this before.” 


“As far as we can tell, the interaction between the item, along with 
the book and matching electronic media caused the anomaly. We 
never tested 826 with multiple formats of matching subject matter.” 


“'.. God dammit. What now?” 


“| suggest we send an expeditionary force to retrieve the item. 
However, because of the nature of the setting, only one Agent may 
be sent at a time. We sent a three-man team in and they exploded.” 


“What.” 


“However, it has been found that we can retrieve inorganic items 
from the setting and keep them indefinitely within our world. While 
we do believe that they will degrade and vanish once the setting is 
closed, | believe that this gives us a... how does one say, cheat 
code, in winning back SCP-826.” 


“... what kinds of ‘inorganic items’?” 
“Please come with me. We have some preparations to make.” 
Dr Django Bridge had offered to house the Bookends at his Site for 


a while. While Site-66 is labelled as a Bio-Site, it usually houses 
miscellaneous animate SCP objects that may or may not be organic. 


Of course, he did this with the expectation that the other Doctors 
would keep their stuff out of his stuff. And of course, everything 
always cocks up. 


“I’m not an Agent. Why do | have to-” 


“You have proven in the past to be an expert when it comes to the 
current circumstances of the item.” said the ginger-headed research 
assistant. 


Bridge was being pulled down the hall by several Agents and 
Research Assistant Steve, towards the unused area of the Site. 


“That doesn’t even make sense. What did you do to my site?!” 
Bridge was irate. 


“Listen, I’m just reading from a script, my doc wants you to do it.” 
They turned a corner and reached a door to a testing chamber. 


“| don’t even know what you people are doing.” 


“Err sorry. Just take the instructions and backpack.” And with that, a 
large backpack was hefted into Bridge’s arms by an Agent, and the 
paper into his hands. 


“... Fine. Whatever. Okay. I'll do your fucking mission.” 


As everyone else piled out, Bridge looked at the portal. A door of 
white light, opening to the unknown fuckup beyond. He took a deep 
breath, then a long sigh. Sure, he’s messed up here and there. The 
cockup with the lizard and ticket, yes, that was a bad move. Taking 
photographs of Birth Worm wearing funny hats? Yes, okay, that’s 
dumb. But what the HELL did he do to deserve this? 


Oh well. After several minutes of dread and reflection, he slung on 
the pack and stepped in. 


“So why is the guy who pulled the bullshit with the ticket going in to 
retrieve this skip?” Agent Dodridge leaned against a wall, watching 
monitors watching Bridge. 


why the door didn't close all the way. But do you 
remember, perhaps, how the plane managed to land 
safely? Or what became of ? 


[REDACTED]: is in Paradise with [DATA 
EXPUNGED]! | didn't see it, when he went in, but 
everything was just like he said, he was right, he was 
right about everything... 


Dr. Glass: But about the plane? Nothing in our testing 
seems to indicate the plane is capable of landing on its 
own. was a Boeing engineer right? Would he have 
been capable of landing the aircraft? 


[REDACTED] is capable of everything! He opened 
the door to paradise! He'll come back for me one day, | 
know he will, one day, one day... when I'm worthy, he 
will... 


Partial log of Interview M: Subject was on-board on the 
Foundation's fifth manned flight of SCP-616, and the first flight with 
no occurrence of [DATA EXPUNGED]. 


Dr. Sanders: Very well Father. Please continue. 


Father :|hadn'tso much as done an exorcism before, 
you know? | mean, | believed in Evil, and | knew what 
must exist, but | never thought- 


Dr. Sanders: What happened after the door opened? 


Father : We kept praying. | had my eyes closed, | was 
terrified of being sucked out. | felt the fires, the heat and 
sulfur of hell. The heat was immediate, the smoke almost 
suffocating. Father [REDACTED] clutched his chest and 
fell over, and | almost went down to see if he was okay, 
but | knew | had to keep praying. The plane started 
shaking, and | could barely stand up ... we were all just 
standing there, praying so hard... 


Dr. Sanders: What did you see inside the door? 


“Eh, it can’t hurt. At best, everyone and everything comes back 
unharmed. At worst, he dies.” Agent Lament shrugged. He sat at the 
desk and got comfortable. 


“Yeah, but wouldn’t one of us do better? This guy’s a fucking... 
archivist? According to his file.” 


“Throw him a bone. He'll appreciate it if he survives.” 


Bridge opened his eyes and looked around. A bedroom; a bed in 
one corner, computer... A TV and Super Nintendo sitting in the 
middle of the floor, that’s a bit strange. Shrug. Stairs in the corner of 
the bedroom. What...? Whatever. 


He descended the stairs, noticing a woman at a table. Okay. Seems 
non-hostile. 


“... hello?” He tapped the woman on the shoulder. She turned and 
smiled. 


“Right. All boys leave home someday. It said so on TV. Prof. Oak, 
next door, is looking for you.” 


He froze for a moment, staring at the woman, before running out the 
front door and looking around. A larger building to the left, empty 
fields to the right, a small fence before him, water beyond. He 
dropped the backpack and finally read the mission brief Steve gave 
him.