The reef was a sanctuary of life, if that life was quite unusual. They 
observed huge schools of fish and jellyfish, pods of dolphins and 
whales of various sorts, and even glimpses of massive squids 
resting and feeding in the shallow, rich blue-green waters. Then 
there was Australia, where they soared low and slowly around the 
edges of the last truly human place on earth. They had no clearance 
to enter the territory known only as 23, but even from the edges, 
they could see fertile farmlands, and caught glimpses of people 
tending to them, or ones in uniforms who tensed and peered at the 
UAV through the scopes of their weapons before letting it pass by. 


Indonesia passed in a blur of sandy, deserted islands, spotted with 
vast open-mine pits, and the occasional tall spire of a golden clicker 
city, a flicker of a messenger whale plated in titanium here, a seagull 
made completely out of golden paper-thin blades there, and then up, 
into the heart of India, where a truly astounding sight awaited them. 


The largest clockworks city in the world, perhaps in all of existence. 
It spanned for hundreds of miles in any direction, a sprawling, ornate 
work of art, the people and animals and things that were neither 
operating in perfect patterns. Women who looked like dark bronze 
marionettes wearing saris of woven steel silk shined and washed the 
immense brass walls and walkways of the cities. Men wearing 
plated golden armor walked to and fro, observing with camera eyes. 
Massive moving statues were everywhere, swinging their many 
arms in a repetitive, slow dance, and pigeons who were strangely 
unaffected by the metal disease roosted in nooks and crannies. 


What they ate, Anahita thought, she didn’t want to know. 


The city was so huge and glorious that they spent several days in 
exploration, careful to avoid the guards or other things that would 
notice and could attack the UAV with spring-loaded steel blades or 
slicing wires. There was a center to the city, a massive gold and 
brass monument, a temple, but the guards were so thick around it — 
dogs the size of cars made out of silver, centaurs made of copper 
and partially of glass that showed the gears and wires whirring about 
inside their bodies, all kinds of strange things — that they dared not 
move any closer to it. 


Then up through China. A desert of pale dust. Not sand, but true 
dust. There were ghosts here, too, but they were not the bored, 
simple people that she had seen before. These were specters, 
wraiths that drifted through the dust, twisted and malformed in fear 
and pain, attacking each other and attempting to attack the UAV at 
seemingly random intervals, while others simply crouched and cried 
or screamed and thrashed endlessly. Nothing was alive here. They 
had traveled, and they knew, that this area, the dead dust, was 
nothing but death. And it was more than death. 


It was a battlefield and a neutral zone. 


At first, she almost thought there were trees, then she saw their 
fleshy texture, and watched as the ground became less dust...and 
more of a softly throbbing mat of meat under the UAV. They 
wheeled high above the infectious range, just in case, and peered 
downwards. Nobody entered what was once Russia. Nobody 
entered, and nobody left. If there was something to be said about 
the clickers and their clockwork virus, they did a damn fine job of at 
least keeping something worse at bay through unknown means. 


They only did a quick circling, enough to see whole cities of flesh, 
malformed monsters wandering to and fro, the long-distance camera 
a little fuzzy on the UAV, before jetting Eastwards. Somewhere 
between Russia and Alaska, everyone looking at the screens or the 
data blacked out temporarily, then came to as if nothing had 
happened once the UAV entered Canada. They knew that they had 
observed something, but a quick rewind of the video feed provided 
only static and the amnesia showed no signs of clearing. 


They quickly decided that perhaps this was a good thing. 


Down through Canada they went, watching as the snowy tundra 
slowly started to turn into desert, and down to the Golden Gate 
bridge, which truly was golden now, as it had been assimilated into a 
clicker city where cars that operated and wind-up wheels that brass 
men cranked every so often went to and fro. 


And then the UAV turned Eastwards...and headed home. 


All things considered, the worldwide tour had taken nearly two 
weeks, and Anahita was hardly satisfied. But there would be more, 
her copilot assured her, tail wagging. After all, he pointed out, the 
UAV’s were easy for his kind to manufacture, and they would need 
more data. This had, after all, just been a preliminary tour. 


Anahita smiled, then, and looked at the screens as the UAV slowly 
circled in on autopilot for a landing, wherin it'd be taken to be 
disinfected through god-knows-what means, and watched the 
ghosts. 


Several of them, men and women and fading specters alike, waited 
on the roof, wearing lab coats. One, a plump woman with long hair 
that billowed constantly in a phantom breeze smiled and watched 
the UAV before starting to clap, before they all applauded silently. 


At least, Anahita thought...somebody respected this first tour. 


Yes. SCP-1000 is Bigfoot. 


I'm sure you've snickered. Don't worry. Contrary to 
rumors, we don't actually assign you to "Keter duty" for 
finding something humorous. 


You think Bigfoot is funny because we want you to think 
Bigfoot is funny. We've bankrolled Hollywood comedies 
and farcical documentaries, paid off men in gorilla suits, 
perpetrated hoaxes with bear prints and goat fur, bribed 
and brainwashed cartoonists to get especially silly 
depictions on children's television. Even the term 
"Bigfoot" comes from us, planted in the media in 1958, a 
term people would find even harder to take seriously 
than "Sasquatch". 


Why? We'll get to that. 


The information in the article that you've already read 
isn't entirely true. There are two direct lies, and plenty of 
lies of omission. 


There is no such thing as the "anomalous pseudo- 
disease" referred to as SCP-1000-f1. SCP-1000 does 
not possess a magical death aura. In fact, SCP-1000 
does not directly exhibit any anomalous effect 
whatsoever. 


We also lied about SCP-1000's intelligence level. 
SCP-1000 aren't chimp-level smart. They're smarter - to 
be precise, they are exactly as smart as us. 


That brings us to the lies of omission. That's what this 
letter is for. The lies came from me, so | figure the truth 
should come from me as well. 


This is the story we got from the Children of the Sun who 
defected to us. It's a story we didn't believe - refused to 
believe, at first. 


As you've already read, the apes we call SCP-1000 


Worse Than Fear 


Jo Lowe was not the brightest person at Site 118. She was not the 
most skilled, or the most punctual, or the most professional. It was 
usually for one of these reasons, or one of her many other 
shortcomings as a Junior Researcher, that she found Dr. Devane 
knocking on the wall of her cubicle. This, however, was not one of 
those days. The area around his widow's peak had reddened 
slightly, a sign which Jo knew well. She braced herself as he 
extended a manilla folder stamped with the word ‘REJECTED’ in 
bold red letters. 


“You’re lucky Director Ownings just stamped your proposal instead 
of handing me a box of confetti,” he said as Jo sheepishly retrieved 
her file. “You do realize that this goes against the very nature of the 
skip’s containment procedures, don’t you?” 


“| don’t think it does,” Jo replied. “Otherwise | wouldn’t have 
suggested it.” 


“The version of Manos: The Hands of Fate without the ‘riffing’ is 
perfectly acceptable,” he said. The word ‘riffing’ came out of his 
mouth like a hairball. “It falls exactly within the parameters of 2006’s 
containment procedures. Had your proposal been about the original, 
unedited films featured on this Mystery Piece Theater program-” 


“Mystery Science Theatre 3000.” 
“Yes, that. Had your proposal featured the original films-” 


“But that’s just it, Doc,” Jo interrupted. “2006 has already seen half 
of those films, some of them multiple times. Joel and the bots 
already riffed one of his favorites. He loves Ro-Man. How much 
more will he love watching people talk about Ro-Man?” 


“The Director is afraid this might give him the wrong idea, Ms. 
Lowe.” Dr. Devane’s voice was measured and steady, but the 


telltale red blotches were starting to appear on his neck, just behind 
his ears. “The films shown to 2006 are specially chosen to 
demonstrate to it the absolute nadir of horror filmmaking while 
simultaneously convincing it that they are the apex. In this way, the 
Foundation can contain him by preserving his ignorance of the 
world’s true horrors.” 


“That’s why | only ever pick Hays Code-era films,” Jo added. “They 
feature no nudity, virtually no gore or violence, and they’ve got a 
goofy, family-friendly charm their modern counterparts tend to lack. 
This way, 2006 won’t accidentally learn about things like blood- 
covered zombies or torture porn or shooting squirrels because 
they’re gay. At the very least, | think 2006’s containment procedures 
need serious revision. The phrase ‘low-quality horror film’ really isn’t 
as specific as O5 command probably thinks, since that covers 
everything from Ed Wood to-” 


“Yes, I'm aware, Ms. Lowe,” Dr. Devane said curtly. “We hired you 
so you can use that expertise to create short lists of films for 
SCP-2006 to view. Films which, according to its containment 
procedures, must be of low quality and must be used to demonstrate 
to it that these represent the pinnacle of fear in the human 
condition.” 


“| Know,” Jo said as she attempted to hide her exasperation. “What 
I’m trying to say is that in order to understand how to successfully 
protect people from its negative effects we may not have to contain 
it at all. We could potentially reclassify it as Euclid, maybe even a 
Thaumiel.” 


“Ms. Lowe, this simply is not what the SCP Foundation is for. We 
understand 2006 to a perfectly acceptable degree, and its 
containment procedures are in place for a reason. If it breached 
containment and learned what really scares people-” 


“It would result in something more akin to an episode of Scooby Doo 
than a breach of 682 or 106’s magnitude,” Jo said, interrupting him 
for a second time. The blotches behind his ears were beginning to 
spread down his neck. “My experience with 2006 tells me it doesn’t 
want to hurt people. It wants to scare people. In its mind, those are 
entirely different things. 


“I’ve seen the print-outs,” Jo went on. "When it successfully scares 
somebody, its brain chemistry, or whatever you want to call it, spikes 
in ways that are extremely similar to a five-year-old blowing out a 
candle on a birthday cake or a mother holding her newborn kid for 
the first time. I’m not sure it understands why humans feel fear, or 
what it would even do with the concept of nuclear war. | think it 
would help us if we asked it.” 


Through this speech, Jo’s supervisor continued to look at her with 
his level, measured gaze. She could see him taking deep breaths in 
and out through his nose, and she noticed the redness spread 
across his face. She changed her tactics. 


“What is the purpose of life, Dr. Devane?” 
“I’m afraid | don’t understand the question, or why you’re asking.” 


“What is the purpose of life?” Jo repeated. The doctor looked at her 
as though she had just asked him why cat piss was leaking from his 
ears. “I'll tell you what | think it is: | think we’re here to make life 
better for each other. We’re here to make the world a better place, to 
make each other happy. You’re probably thinking that’s naive, and 
you’re probably right, but that’s how | feel.” 


“Ms. Lowe, it is our job to make life better for the entirety of the 
human race. We cannot cater to the needs or whims of these 
anomalous entities. It goes against the very principles upon which 
this organization was founded.” 


“I’m not saying we give 2006 its own themed carnival,” she said. 
“Not yet anyway. I’m just saying that we can loosen up containment 
procedures and maybe even change its classification with a few 
tweaks.” 


“Your enthusiasm for this particular project has been duly noted, Ms. 
Lowe,” Dr. Devane said finally, some of the redness receding from 
his cheeks. “I will recommend testing sessions with some of the 
Mystery Science Piece movies that 2006 has yet to see. Will that be 
an acceptable compromise?” 


“| suppose,” Jo relented. “But doctor, | think Dr. Louef and Dr. 


Wensley are blowing this all out of proportion. | don’t think 2006 
wants to scare people. | think what it wants is to make them happy. 
It just doesn’t understand the difference.” Dr. Devane took a deep 
breath and the let out a deep sigh. 


“You're young, Jo,” he said, his voice calm and almost vulnerable. “l 
do genuinely appreciate your enthusiasm, and frankly, | wish more 
of our personnel had your attitude. However, the fact of the matter is 
that the containment of these entities is done for a reason, and 
whether or not we agree with that reason, we still have to follow 
procedure and keep it contained. You'll understand given more time 
in your position. I'm confident in that." 


He smiled warmly. Jo tried to return the smile, but it felt forced, so 
she dropped the attempt. Dr. Devane turned and left her workspace, 
and Jo sighed before swiveling back in front of her computer. She 
needed to prepare for the next testing session with 2006. She 
needed to know whether the comedy she'd chosen was droll enough 
to pass through 2006's quality control. 


‘I’m sorry, Ranger Brad. | guess all this talk of horrible mutilation has 
me on edge.’ 


‘That’s all right, Dr. Armstrong. This horrible mutilation has a whole 
lot of people on a whole lot of edges.’ Jo didn’t laugh at the line, at 
least not outwardly. She hadn't laughed at Manos, not at Boggy 
Creek 2, not at Leech Woman. This was small potatoes. 


“Are they scared, Miss Jo?” SCP-2006 swiveled its bony skull head 
towards Jo Lowe and fixed her gaze with its hollow eye sockets. Jo 
paused for a moment longer than she meant to before forcing her 
eyes wide with pretend fear. 


“Oh no, oh dear!” Jo shouted at the top of her lungs. She clutched at 
her chest as though her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. The 
bucket in her lap flew into the air, raining salty, buttery popcorn 
down on the the SCP and the Junior Researcher. “Please don’t hurt 
me! | don’t ever wish to become the Bride of the Lost Skeleton!” 


“Relax, Miss Jo, it’s only me,” SCP-2006 said through fleshless 


skeleton lips. Its tone of voice had the slightest edge of irritation. “I’m 
glad I’m scaring you and all, but | wanna watch the movie with you.” 


“Oh, SCP-2006,” Jo said as she let out a loud, melodramatic sigh. “I 
nearly died from the scare you gave me.” 


“| wasn’t trying to scare you, not this time,” SCP-2006 replied, and it 
shifted its face to that of a dark-haired man with a glorious black 
mustache. It crinkled its forehead in disapproval, and Jo was left 
wondering if this was the reason it changed its face to begin with. “I 
want to watch this scary movie with you. It’s very scary. Skeletons 
are very scary.” 


“The Master would approve,” Jo agreed, and the disapproving look 
faded from SCP-2006’s face. It jumped to its feet and threw its arms 
up gleefully, the red handprints on its black cloak waving in 
sympathetic excitement. “2006, do you like it here?”