The unwashed man fell still and silent. "Um... we haven't really 
figured that part out yet. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, 


you know? We got as far as the ‘similar names’ thing, and went off 
on the 'Fuck these guys!’ crusade." His eyes lit up and he began 
bouncing up and down again. "But we'll figure it out! You guys have 
to have been suppressing us somehow! So we're here to declare 
war against the SCP Foundation!" 


The Site Director was doing all he could to keep from burying his 
face in his hands. "Just what is the name of your organization?" 


"People Shitting Chipperly!" 
Clearly, the battle to keep face and hands separate was a futile one. 


The Site Director's body shook violently as he took in a few deep, 
ragged breaths. His assistant and the lunatic both stared at him, 
wondering what was wrong. At length, he removed his hands, took 
one last breath, straightened his tie, and spoke. 


"No. No. No. I'm not accepting it, | am bloody well not accepting this. 
SPC, | get, | get how people can misspell it as that, and | get how 
you can go all, 'Oh, it's punching sharks, haha!’ But no. I'm not doing 
it. I'm not going to have anything to do with the PSC organization." 


"Do you have any idea," he said, trying to keep himself from 
shouting, "any idea at all, just how much trouble the Shark Punching 
Center has caused us? We've plugged way too many resources into 
just making them go away, and lost something like six or seven 
versions of Bright to brain aneurysms in the last week alone. It's too 
much trouble to actually deal with nutters like you." 


"SO go away," he stated flatly. "I'm not going to have you locked up, 
or mind-wiped, or even just straight up killed. It's too much trouble 
for a problem we shouldn't even have to be dealing with. Just go 
home, get on with your healthy shitting, or whatever it is you do, and 
never show your stinking face around here again. Do | make myself 
clear?" 


"put 
"Before | change my mind," the Site Director growled. 


The filthy madman blinked once, then turned and fled into the 


desert, hopefully to never be seen again. Waving his hand, the Site 
Director instructed the guard to close the blast door. "Come on, 
Lucy," he sighed, "let's get back to the cafeteria." 


At that moment, another individual came running up to the entrance, 
looking equally as insane and ragged as the one who had just left. 
"Now wait just a minute," he shouted, "I've spent two weeks looking 
for you, and the People's Coconut Society will not be...!" 


"Fuck off," the Site Director spat, and the blast door clanged shut in 
the man's face. 


It Takes Two 


| lay on the hill and stare at the sky. The stars dance underneath the 
patchy clouds, casting no light above or below. | was on the 
committee that made the stars up. We had two days to figure out 
what they should look like, reconstructed from the shattered 
allusions and metaphors that remained. Did they look like eyes? 
Like glass? My proposal was for numerous suns, dimmed to a 
crystalline glow, close enough to see their ripples and motion across 
the sky. We chose Brandt's proposal: thin tendrils of elastic light. 
Occasionally they reassemble themselves into memetic triggers, 
self-reinforcing projections. | think that was what got it the greenlight 
in the first place. It certainly wasn't its aesthetic value. Did Brandt 
know that? Is that what | could see in the stars in his eyes? 


"Why would he think my name was Jenkins?" | ask Annette. They 
are laying next to me, finishing a protein bar. | have already eaten, 
though | have already forgotten what. "We don't even have a 
Jenkins in the memetics department." 


| KNOW. 


They're more relaxed now, out of the site. We walked for one or two 
hours towards the city, me complaining the whole way. Finally they 
agreed we had gone far enough from the danger for the night. Now 
they are taking their time with their messages: full words, 
punctuation, little pauses in between words or for emphasis. | have 
never seen them like this, but it makes sense. Communication 
cannot be purely functional; it must have some art to it. Annette 
must compensate in other ways. 


| DONT THINK HE CARED. 


"| cared, though. | can't believe he didn't recognize his favorite 
employee!" 


WHO WAS THAT? 


| sigh. Beside me Annette gives a raspy cough. 


Another day. We walk again. To keep busy | start assembling the 
deconditioner, piece by piece. If | do it slowly, and never look at the 
final product, I'll be fine. It will end up bundled into a little box. It is 
opening the box that is the problem. | think Annette knows, but they 
haven't said anything. Why not? Do they even care that I'm going to 
die because of them? My head begins to ache. What's the use of a 
heroic sacrifice if no one sees it? | allow myself to imagine the 
moment—the box opened, the world fading away to black. Annette 
standing over me, the pain gone at last. My selfishness sickens me. 


About halfway through the day we stop at a road that leads to the 
city. | collapse gracefully. 


YOU WILL NOT MAKE IT UP THE HILL. 
Annette points beyond the city, to the hill. "No," | gasp. "God no." 
WE WILL GET A CAR IN THE CITY. 


Practically a novel for Annette. | continue to pant on the ground. 
Annette rolls their eyes at me, | swear. | don't know where they 
picked that up. 


| WILL GET A CAR IN THE CITY. 
"Thank you Annette." 
YES. 


And then they're gone, running off like a cheetah. The pain returns. | 
can feel tears leaking from my eyes. | allow myself another fantasy 
of blackness closing in. | shut my eyes and see stars. 


Annette is shaking me. | sit up, bleary-eyed. 
"Is someone here? Is something wrong?" 


Annette hooks a thumb over their shoulder. | follow it and see 
nothing. | look around and, behind me, see a car, slightly used. 


"Borrowed?" 

STOLEN. 

In the car now. The road is empty, even this close to the city. 
"Who is this for?" | ask, looking out the window. 

NOW YOU ASK? 

"| had assumed it was an O5," | say. 

YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT ASSUMING. 
Another long one. "I'm surprised you know," | say. 

ENGLISH IS MY NATIVE TONGUE. 


| blink. Annette gives a long rasping cough. Finally | realize they are 
laughing. | laugh too. The laughter cuts off. 


ELIZABETH WILLIAMS. DID YOU MEET HER? 
| close my eyes and lean back. "| don't think so. Not a memeticist?" 
NEVER. APPLIED TOPOLOGY. 


"No, | never had much reason to." | open one eye. "What's she to 
you?" 


WHAT IS IT TO YOU? 
| let my eyebrows shoot up and close my eye again. "I see." 


| feel like an intruder on these roads. They should be congested. 
There should be people living under the overpasses. There is no 
one. The roads haven't had time to decay yet; when the end finally 
comes, | imagine it will happen bit by bit, as little plants and shoots 
probe for cracks in the surface. Will gravel be left, in little strips? My 
headache has gotten worse. | can feel something stressed, deep in 
my head. Some girder or platform that is bearing more weight than it 
should. Little creaks. | think things are getting too bad. Already the 
surroundings are less clear, less vivid. | try to think back to where | 


slept earlier. Can | remember anything about it? What was there? | 
don't know. | look over. Annette is as solid as ever, at least. Black 
combat fatigues. Little black disc on wrist. Clear glass eyes. Ina 
week, maybe two, they will be the only thing left. 


Entering the city. There are people here, now. They just appeared, 
in the space between moments. Everyone is out today. There is lots 
of light, all of a sudden. | don't remember there being so much light 
before. 


Everyone is in threes. Sometimes two men sandwiching a woman, 
sometimes two women sandwiching a man, sometimes no order at 
all. The shapes of the people are vague; | find my eyes sliding off of 
them, and my headache keeps ratcheting up in intensity, bit by bit by 
bit. The road is choked with abandoned cars. The walkers don't 
ignore themdon't even notice themand walk over and around them 

in ways that hurt my eyes to trace. My headache has turned into a 
screaming migraine. Inside one of the cars | can see still blurs. 


Annette tries to nudge the car through. 
WE HAVE TO WALK. 
| nod. | can feel sweat pouring off my face. 


We get out of the car. | can't feel any attention from the blurs. That's 
good. | stagger a few steps and start to fall before Annette catches 
me. We can make it a few blocks if | lean on her shoulder. | don't 
know if that will be enough. Every step feels like it's taking more and 
more out of me. | want to throw up. | want to lay down. I'm thirsty. 
My headache is worse. We continue. We continue. 


| am on the ground. A blur is above me now. They stretch down an 
arm and say something. | do not understand them. They appear to 
be modulating in and out of English. They speak again. Where is 
Annette? | haul myself to my feet. A weight falls on my shoulder. 


—| just want you to know that if we never see each other, | love you 
very much. 


Those are my own words. | thought that was a good idea, over a 


month ago. That even if the end came fast, there would be no 
regrets. Stupid. It was a stupid idea. My own words. 


"Annette?" 
| fall down again. 
"Annette?" 


Something strong grabs me around the armpits and | almost 
scream. | feel something on the end of their arm tap on my chest. 


INSD 


They haul me along the sidewalk, heels dragging. Not good for my 
nausea. | feel my heels catch once, twice, three times on something, 
and then we're inside. Annette drops me. | try to stand up and vomit. 


The floor is cool and smooth. It is bringing my headache down. | 
think the vomiting helped. | haul myself up on the ends of my arms 
and look around. | am inside. It must have been a house. Gaps in 
the walls let fresh air and light in. | run my arms along the walls. 
They are rough and textured. The wind whistling through the holes 
in the walls creates a happy melody. A bird flies from my teeth. | 
emerge into a large common area. There are people all around, 
coming in, coming out. Most of them are lounging, though, on the 
floor, on the walls, with each other. There is laughter, like the tinkling 
of the wind. | shut my eyes and see stars. Where is Annette? 


| am being led into the room. High above | look down and see the 
space continue. The people (person?) lead (leads?) me to food. | 
am famished. | eat. There is music. How long has there been 
music? But there is music. They are making music. 


Someone grabs the end of my arm. It is Annette, solid and real. 
GO 


The ground is shaking. They yank me up behind them, hard. That 
thing on the end of their arm starts tapping me again. 


"What's happening?” More taps. 


There is a roar, and a flash of light. Annette hits me and we hit the 
floor, wind rushing over us, blasting us. There is nothing but sound. 
It stops. We stand. Off in the distance, where the Site once stood, 
there is the slowly-rising mushroom cloud. Inside of it, | see stars. | 
close my eyes and see stars. 


« Hello, Little Girl | |t Takes Two | Children Will Listen » 


It Wasn't a Vacation 


September 21, 1997 


Jack Bright strongly considered a change in career. Science wasn’t 
working out. Too much contact with other human beings, for one. 
Lack of respectable, cackle-worthy science was another reason. 


Third, and most importantly, was the distressingly high number of 
eviscerations, decapitations, immolations, castrations and all other 
sorts of mean, nasty, horrible things that happened in his general 
vicinity over the past fifteen minutes. 


A head gone astray in its search for a body exploded on the wall 
next to Jack like a rotten melon, splattering him with gory pulp. 


So far he had narrowed his choices down to: basement dweller, 
professional hobo, and male prostitute. 


Concrete dust rained down on his head. He managed to stifle a 
sneeze. 


Cadaver was also looking highly likely. He was already good at 
playing dead, why not try the actual thing? 


The gurgling in the background petered out, followed by a body 
hitting the floor and an indifferent grunt from the one who tossed it. 


Go to Germany, they said. 

Meet with the Coalition, they said. 

It'll be fine, they said. 

They know how to deal with the occult, they said. 


They said this, they said that...ah fuck. 


Interview 887-a 
Interviewer: Dr. Zara 


Foreword: Interview takes place three days after subject's 
containment, and has been translated from the original Russian. 


<Begin Log> 
Interviewer: Good evening. Can you understand me? 


SCP-887: Oh, yes, yes. <pause> You have a familiar 
accent, have you been to ? 


Interviewer: | fear I'm not at liberty to discuss that, sir. 
Now, if you please - could you state your name and 
place of birth? 


SCP-887: , born in... <pause> of 
, Russia. 


Interviewer: Do you understand why you are here? 


SCP-887: |... this is a hospital, yes? | believe | came for 
a treatment. For my headaches. | get a lot of headaches 
after the truck crash. 


Interviewer: | see. Could you describe what you 
remember from this accident? 


SCP-887: | was driving a truck - carrying a shipment of... 
| don't remember. | was almost to , | think | fell 
asleep on the wheel... something hit me. | don't 
remember what. 


Interviewer: What happened next? 


SCP-887: Oh, | woke up lying down on something soft. 
The hospital, | suppose. Many voices around, but | 
couldn't see anything. Or move. Tried to speak for a long 
time. A long time. Tell people | was okay, yes? And then 
| hear... (Subject fidgets, searches clothes for 


Seconds dripped by like a particularly painful flow of molasses. 
Jack’s strained ears picked up heavy breathing, a few pacing 
footsteps. Able was still there. 


He had been expecting it, but it still sounded incredibly wrong to his 
ears. A ukulele did not belong in the middle of a secret ex-Nazi 
bunker, much less a secret ex-Nazi bunker being currently torn to 
pieces by a Neolithic war god. Neither did a voice that Jack could 
not stop comparing to Mark Hamill’s interpretation of the Joker. 


“You know, I’ve been considering taking up a hobby. Knitting seems 
like a good option. Or maybe fly-fishing. Skiing...nah, | hate snow. 
Also, your mother was a whore.” 


BOOM 


Jack leapt to his feet and began to run unsteadily towards the 
double exit doors, ears ringing. There was no such thing as a better 
distraction than Ukulele. The man himself was standing there in the 
doorway, holding an anti-tank rifle. His head was that of a red panda 
with an eyepatch. He nodded and grinned as Jack sprinted past him 
and down the hallway. 


Four months in that cult compound, all on a hunch. Then you have 
some guy claiming he’d discovered a way to immortality, and life 
turns into a heist movie trying to swipe a philosopher's stone. 


Jack felt at his labcoat pocket. The lump of the pendant wasn’t 
there. The adrenaline pumping through his brain told him that it was 
no big deal. He could pick it up later. Avoiding a grotesque and 
messy death, that was a big deal. 


All he was going to do was drop it off. That’s all he was going to do. 
Drop it off with someone who knew what to do with it, let it be their 
problem, and then head out and have a beer. Or two. Most likely 
more than two. Enjoy a nice little vacation in Europe while he was at 
it. He deserved it. But no... 


“Hey there. How’s it going?” 


Ukulele jogged backwards nonchalantly next to him. His head was a 


television, displaying the words “Ceci n'est-pas une televisione" in 
alternating teal and maroon letters. The gun was slung lazily over 
his shoulder. 


“Mint?” he held out a little metal tin. 
Jack shook his head. 
“Oh. Then you might want to hold on to this. You dropped it.”