| left the box on Karen's nightstand, pausing to listen a while to her 
soft breathing. It's not a large box, but it's large enough that she'll 
notice when she wakes up. An e-reader, near new. It was a good 
price, and | know how much she wanted one, but she'll still be 
pissed at me. Until she reads the note - at least that's what I'm 
hoping. 


| walk downstairs in the darkness, carrying my bag and my shoes - | 
don't want to wake anyone. Mike would have his never-ending 
questions, and Emily would end up crying for her momma, and 
either way Karen would be up and | don't want to explain it to her. 
It's the right thing. I'm doing it for them. 


Outside, there's a hint of coolness when the air moves that wasn't 
there yesterday, like someone flicked a switch and Fall began. A flat 
lid of cloud covers the sky, with the pre-dawn gloom starting to 
lighten off to my left. | slip on my old sneakers, and head down the 
drive to where | left the car. 


The first generation Ford Escape is a beautiful car. Even if it's a little 
old now, | don't mind. | can't know for sure, of course, but | like to 
think | made this one - 2003 is the right year. | keep it in neutral and 
roll it down the drive, with the engine and the headlamps off. Not 
that Karen could stop me now, but she may as well get some more 
rest. Halfway down the street, | bring the engine to life. It's a solid, 
reassuring sound. | feel like you can tell when a car has been put 
together by hand. It just feels more reliable. For the second 
generation in 2008, Ford let all of us welders go - some advance in 
robotics, apparently. They're all made that way now. 


Driving through the suburbs at this hour, all the houses are dark. At 

my third turning, | can see Jim's old house. It's been empty since the 
family moved away. | wonder if any other places are empty. At least 
we don't have to worry about squatters since they opened the new 


mission downtown - that's one thing the city's done right. 


Once I'm on the highway, there are a few more cars. | wonder where 
they're headed so early. In my rear-view, strip malls and motels fade 
into the half-light. | smile when | see the steakhouse, thinking of two 
years ago, when Karen and the kids took me for a surprise birthday 
meal. That was a good day. Maybe | can take Karen back there 
again soon. 


The flat, grey, uniform sky seems to press down over the Interstate. 
| put the Escape in fifth gear and turn on the radio. An angry guy, 
ranting - something about how Iraq wasn't about the nukes or the oil. 
| don't need to listen to that today, so | switch over to soft country. 
It's almost light enough to switch off my headlamps, but | like the 
glow from the dash on my hands. Nice to be doing this without traffic 
for once. 


| pass the Costco without slowing - I'm not on shift today. Working at 
a big box store isn't the same as at the plant. It's a job, and Lord 
knows I'm not ungrateful, but it's not the same as the feeling of 
having made something. 


An hour or so passes, and the clouds lighten to the colour of 
dishwater. I've come off the Interstate by now, and I'm working my 
way along country roads. It's lucky Jim gave me such good 
directions. Finally | see it: a squat low-rise office park, stretching out 
next to fields and woods both turning brown. It's nondescript, buff 
coloured - looks like it was built in the eighties. Jim said the 
company was the same one that raised the price of Karen's 
prescription, but I'm not sure. It didn't sound the same. Anyway, it's 
not important. 


| pull into the parking lot, surprised at the number of cars here on a 
Sunday. Locking the car, | take my bag and walk across to the 
entrance, through the automatic doors. There are big letters on the 
front of the desk: "Here for your health". 


"Welcome to Smith-Cline, how may | assist you?" chirps the 
receptionist. She is young and pretty, and | suddenly feel my age. | 
try to remember what Jim told me. 


"Uh, I'm here for the, ah, clinical study?" | feel awkward. Jim said 
anyone could do it, but maybe | need an appointment. 


The receptionist is all smiles, gesturing to a waiting area across the 
hall. 


"Of course, sir. If you'll just take these forms and have a seat over 
there, we'll be with you shortly. Does your family know that you'll be 
here for the week?" 


"Yes." She probably will soon, if she hasn't already. | hope the e- 
reader is worth it. 


| need to ask, but I'm not sure how. 
"I'm sorry, | - can you tell me -" | trail off. 


"Payment, sir?" she seems to know what | mean. "If you put your 
bank details on the form, we can wire the money right to your 
account." She must get asked that question a lot, | realise, feeling 
embarrassment well up inside. 


| head over to the plastic seats, holding the clipboard. There are a 
few others here, not many. A black guy, little older than me, 
humming softly. A bored-looking kid who could be here for tuition 
money. Two rows over is a woman my age, flannelette shirt covering 
a t-shirt with an animal on it. She nods at me as | sit down. 


| start filling out the papers - health questions, my account number. 
Jim told me about the money, more than | make in a month at 
Costco. More than | made at the plant. Enough. Jim came here five 
or six times, he said. He didn't tell Paula, she thought he was 
travelling on business. He didn't even tell me much, really - he said it 
was mostly sleep studies, sometimes vaccines. Mostly observation. 
He said the time went fast too, so before he knew it he was waking 
up on the last day, ready to go home. 


I'm skimming through the pages now. Only a few questions, some 
legal stuff. | wonder if Jim was driving back from here, when it 
happened. A drunk driver, according to the police. Paula stayed at 
our house a few nights - it was like a sleepover for all the kids. 


Please tick yes to confirm your consent. I'm thinking about the 
funeral, watching the casket being lowered. | check the box. 


Almost on cue, there is a woman walking over to me. She's late 
thirties, brunette, wearing a lab coat and sensible shoes. She smiles 
as | finish the documents. 


"Thank you, sir. Would you follow me please?" 


| heft my bag and stand up, and she leads me back past reception, 
turning to speak over her shoulder. 


"Can | have your name please, sir?" 
"Ryan." 


"Welcome to Smith-Cline, Ryan. I'm Amy. Is this your first time 
here?" 


"Yes," 


"That's great, we really appreciate everyone who volunteers here." 
She sounds sincere. 


As we pass the automatic doors, | look out into the carpark, back 
into the grey world outside. For a second | can't see my Escape, and 
then | spot it as another car drives past. Amy is opening a door at 
the end of the hallway, another hallway beyond it. 


"First, could you take a quick look at the top of your form,” she says. 
"There should be a number there - could you memorise it please." 


"A number?" | look - each page is printed with "V-65112". 


"I'm afraid so," says Amy, with an understanding smile. "We get so 
many Ryans, and Amys, and every other kind of name. A number 
helps us keep track. Now if you'll just come through here..." 


| look back down at the form. V-65112. | think about Karen, and the 
steak dinner I'm going to buy her. Then | follow the woman through 
the door. 


Love and Relative Dimensions in Fate: Dr. Clef/Doctor 
Who 


‘Alto Clef, there’s something you'd better understand about me 
‘cause it’s important, and one day your life may depend on it: | am 
definitely a mad man with a box!” 


~the Doctor, some irrelevant year 


The year was [REDACTED] and the place was the TARDIS. Alto 
Clef had come spiraling through a Level 4 Actualized Spatial Suction 
and Fragmentation Unraveling Cylindrical Circumvention 

(L4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C.) Event Field and landed on the floor. He looked 
up and gasped. It was the Doctor. The Doctor was wearing a bowtie. 
Then Clef fainted. 


Then Clef woke up. As soon as he looked up into the Doctor’s bright 
something-colored eyes, he felt a pang in his heart: a throbbing, 
emotionally charged sensation that sent his head spinning before 
traveling down through his stomach and into his dick, which 
immediately shot straight up. “I- | am here on behalf of the SCP 
Foundation,” he stammered out, trying to remember standard 
operating procedure for encountering sapient entities in foreign 
reality constructs. “...One moment.” He rolled to the side, slapping 
his naked eight-inch cock against the floor, and pulled out his radio. 
“Come on, come on,” he muttered, tuning it to 69.69 MHz. 


“It’s Ukulele,” he said. “We’ve just experienced interference from a 
Level 4 Actualized Spatial Suction and Fragmentation Unraveling 
Cylindrical Circumvention Event.” 


“You mean an A.S.S.F.U.C.C. Event?” 


“No,” Clef growled, and eyed the Doctor as he leant against the wall 
with his pants unzipped, “but we’re about to.” 


SCP-802 is sapient, or possesses any sort of intelligence at all, but it 
is clear through long-range infrared scans and constant surveillance 
that SCP-802 has no physical crew manning it. The tank itself, while 
operational, is in incredibly poor condition. While personnel have 
been unable to get close enough to properly examine it, it is clear 
that it is heavily damaged. The top turret is completely missing, its 
hull weapon is non-operational, the treads are nearly falling off, and 
the hull is pitted and worn with age and battle damage. However, it 
is still capable of operating beyond its projected performance 
specifications and is able to achieve speeds of up to 40 kilometers 
per hour as opposed to the documented 28 kilometers per hour. 
Infrared scans have also shown signs of trace heat around where 
the engines should be located, which are inconsistent with the heat 
signatures of a conventional engine, making SCP-802's primary 
method of propulsion unknown. SCP-802 is also highly resistant to 
damage. Attempts to destroy it have been met with failure, as 
SCP-802 can take repeated hits from anti-tank weapons and remain 
operational. While the damage caused only seems to be cosmetic at 
best, it can successfully drive SCP-802 away temporarily. 


SCP-802 "patrols" an area that is roughly six square kilometers in 
the French countryside, near [DATA EXPUNGED]. Within this 
territory are mostly urban ruins that are the remains of the town 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. Records show that the town was founded in 
the early sixteenth century and abandoned in the early twentieth 
century. However, there is no indication of what caused the town's 
inhabitants to leave. Upon arrival into SCP-802's area of influence, 
intruders will immediately be shadowed and stalked by SCP-802, 
which will constantly attack and harass them in any way possible. It 
is unknown whether SCP-802 has ever left the confines of the ruins. 
However, it seems to show no interest in attempting to escape and 
has stayed well within the security perimeters. 


Oddly, the strangest aspect of SCP-802 is that music seems to 
emanate from within its hull. The same music can also occasionally 
be heard echoing throughout the entire containment area at night. 
Analysis from eyewitnesses and from recordings has shown that 
SCP-802 tends to play music from the late nineteenth and early 
twentieth centuries. The sound quality of this music however is 
incredibly poor. The music is constantly skipping and stuttering, as if 


“I'll show you my Keter-class cock if you’ll show me your Sonic 
Screwdriver,” Clef whispered into the Doctor’s ear, his lips brushing 
against the taller man’s soft hair with a rough hand braced on his hip 
and his cock hard against his ass. 


“I- | don’t Know what that means, but sure-” 


“Excellent,” Clef grunted, guiding him over to the couch that for 
some reason existed in the room. “I’m sure we can learn a lot about 
each other.” 


the Doctor nodded, letting the ukulele-carrying, lab-coated man push 
him down onto the leather cushions. “So, uh... who’re you?” 


“The name’s Clef.” He tossed his hair to the side and gave himself a 
migraine. “Alto Clef.” He looked dramatically into the sunset. The 
sunset was really a lightbulb. He looked into it anyway. Then his 
migraine got worse. “Shall we begin?” 


“Allons-y.” 


Clef turned the Doctor onto his stomach and yanked his annoying 
brown pants off. He then removed his Scranton Reality Anchor from 
his belt and started smearing it with Foundation-issue lubricant. 
“Sorry, but the Hume levels in here are fluctuating between three 
and five-point-six and I’m going to have to address that somehow.” 


“Any word from Ukulele on the reality distortion, Kit?” 


Blanchard’s coworker turned to him, leaning back in their chair and 
propping their feet up on the control desk. “Nope.” 


“Really? Nothing’s coming through your radio?” 


They shook their head, but stopped. “Well, | mean... there’re some 
distorted sounds, like scratching and interference.” They held the 
radio up to their ear. “Electromagnetic interference. Moaning.” 


“Excellent.” 


Clef was balls-deep in the Doctor when his migraine started getting 
worse. He knew he had to finish soon, because the lube-y reality 
anchor was staining the couch. He started thrusting harder, enjoying 
hearing the Doctor cry out every time the head of his dick rubbed 
against his prostate. Clef spilled into him with a shuddering gasp, 
picturing Kondraki’s scruffy beard for just a split second before 
tightening his grip on the Doctor’s coattail with a satisfied groan. 


Truly their respective reality constructs had a lot to learn from each 
other, Clef thought to himself, pulling out and dripping into his pants. 
He got up and went to the nonexistent bathroom. "Kit, Blanch. | have 
an update." 


"Fantastic," Kit said. "What're the Hume levels?" 


"They were between three and five-point-six for a while, but | 
addressed the issue using the proper equipment." 


"| see." They shuffled paperwork around. "As what should we 
document this event, exactly?" 


"Level 4 A.S.S.F.U.C.C. Event Field issue, taking place ina 
structure referred to by the subject as a ‘Time in Relative Dimension 
and Space’ device." 


The Doctor nodded from behind the half-open door. 


"But tonight," Clef added, eyeing the older man, "it was a Love and 
Relative Dimensions in Fate device." 


Then they made love all night by the lightbulb. 


continue = 


Break On Through 


The page does not (yet) exist. 


The page scp-169 you want to access does not exist. 
* create page 


“That’s funny,” you think. “I could have sworn...” 

You click on the Recent posts link. Maybe there’s something in there 
about it. No, there’s no explanation. It doesn’t look like there’s been 
much activity tonight, either. You hit View categories, then 
announcements. 


Forum Category 


Requested forum category does not exist. 


“Now that’s odd,” you begin to think. “Maybe they’re doing some 
major site maintenance.” 
You tap the red link in the upper left hand corner of the page. 


The page does not (yet) exist. 


The page main you want to access does not exist. 
* create page 


Now your fingers are getting a little jittery. You click SCP series, and 
a thousand copies of [ACCESS DENIED] are staring back at you. 
You open them over and over. 

008, gone. 

212, gone. 

914, 682, 173, gone. 

You frantically press refresh again and again. The page scp-series 
you want to access does not exist. 


And then, with no prompting, your screen jumps, and there’s a white 
page with grey text. 


Wikidot.com — professional Wiki collaboration tools. 


No Site exists for this address 
Click to create scp-wiki.wikidot.com now!