"Tell you what, Agent, maybe we should go try some of the other 
food," Patil said. He spotted a blue La Choy box on the table and 
picked it up, "You tried one of these fortune cookies yet?" 


They each took one and cracked it open eagerly. A scream came 
from the chocolate fountain around the other side of the table, and 
Chirurg scuttled off to investigate. Patil looked at his fortune. 


You will find reality is not as it should be. 
He rolled his eyes. 


"These things never come true," he said, "What fortune did you get, 
DeLaurier?" 


DeLaurier looked up. He was holding the box of cookies up to his 
face, and was covered in crumbs. 


"Fortune? I've just been running a train on these cookies, man." he 
said. Realisation struck, "Oh, right, fortunes! Yeah, the slips of 
paper. Sure, check 'em out." 


He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sheaf of paper 
slips, handing them to Patil. Patil started reading through them as 
the agent went back to gorging himself on empty carbs. 


Bad luck lies around the corner. 
Enjoy the night to its fullest, you will not live to regret it. 


Make hay while the sun shines, it may not shine much 
longer. 


Keep eating cookies, diabetes isn't going to be a 
problem. 


Ugh. You're not even going to read this fortune, are you? 
Or any other fortune, for that matter. Or anything else, 
ever. 


Your lucky numbers are: 
UG.ON.DI.EB.IT.CH 


Say goodbye to your legs, asshole. 
"Eh, they're all pretty vague," said Patil. 


The sound of trumpets blared out from the speakers that lined the 
room. The butterflies on the stage shifted into an image of red 
curtains, embossed with the words 'The Site 19 SCP Sparkle 
Spectacular’. A hush went over the room, and the hundreds of 
Foundation personnel stopped eating and talking and avoiding 
bloodthirsty chocolate ants and moved towards the stage, shuffling 
into their seats. Patil and DeLaurier, with their forged ticket, stood 
behind the back row. As the trumpets died down, the butterfly 
curtains parted, and the hosts of the evening stepped out onto the 
stage. 


She was a young woman in a red evening gown. He was a small, 
hairy man in a custom fit tuxedo. Patil recognised the man from his 
wanderings about the site, as he imagined most of the other 
personnel did, and a wave of good vibes filled the room. The hosts 
stepped up to a podium at the side of the stage, the woman helping 
the man climb atop a stepladder so that he could be visible. The 
butterflies closed behind them. 


"Good evening, everyone!" he said, "And welcome to the Site 19 
SCP Sparkle Spectacular! My Item Number is SCP-208, but most of 
you around the site probably know me as that little fellow who 
makes you feel good! Tonight, you can just call me Bes!" 


The crowd cheered. 


"| fuckin' love Bes," whispered DeLaurier. A few people around them 
overheard and nodded in agreement, "He's such a good guy." 


Patil smiled back, "He's so friendly. He reminds me of the Teddy 
Bear, before it started performing abortions." 


"My Item Number is SCP-105, and my name is Iris!" said his co- 
host. There was a mixed reception. 


Bes took the microphone again and began to recite his opening 
speech. 


"It's been a big year for the SCP Foundation," he said, "Since our 
last Bender's Day celebration, we've captured eight new SCP items, 
lost sixteen, and accidentally destroyed twenty-five. | guess you 
can't make an omelette without breaking a few eldritch 
abominations! We've also been responsible for fourteen thousand 
civilian casualties, which is well within the limits of acceptable 
collateral damage. Well done, everyone!" 


Iris began talking again, "Before we get started on the real show, we 
have a few awards to give out. Our first presenter tonight is a lovely 
young humanoid called SCP-187!" 


The butterfly curtains parted again, and a young woman stepped out 
onto the stage. The crowd applauded, but as she moved beyond the 
range of the dazzling lights, she froze, and screamed, and covered 
her eyes. The crowd went silent, and Patil could just barely hear her 
shrieking voice. 


"They're all dead!" the girl screamed, "They're all fucking dead!" 


She ran off stage, clawing at her eyes and shrieking. Bes and Iris 
looked at each other. 


"This is a disaster," DeLaurier muttered. Patil nodded his head in 
agreement. "This is a BK-Class ‘Total Buzzkill' Scenario." 


"Let's skip ahead!" said Bes, "The Site 19 SCP Sparkle 
Spectacular... starts right now!" 


"How do they get all the skips to behave?" asked DeLaurier. Men 
made of fire swooped through the air above their heads, spinning 
and looping and firing jets of flame that nearly singed the crowd. A 
giant mechanical spider crawled along the wall, occasionally 
shooting sprays of gasoline out of a squirt cannon, which the fiery 
creatures would dive into, bursting into brilliant explosions and 
emerging at twice their original size, before splitting in two and 
spiralling away again. 


Up on the stage was a tank of water. One of the flaming creatures 
circled above it, creating a ring of fire which an invisible shark was 
apparently jumping through. The crowd had gotten tired of that 
pretty quick. 


"They have a skip who can control minds," said Patil, "All he has to 
do is say 'You want not to hurt us,’ or 'You want to do a bunch of 
crazy loops in the air,’ and they'll do it." 


"We probably should've gotten him in with the Teddy Bear," mused 
DeLaurier. 


"Do you reckon they've caught that thing yet?" 
"Shh, I'm watching the show." 


The flaming men retreated into tanks on the ceiling, and the giant 
spider crawled over to the stage to drag the shark away. The 
butterflies began to swarm around again, creating jagged, menacing 
shapes and twisted patterns. A single spotlight focused on the 
stage, and the floor began to bubble. An oozing, sick black slime 
dribbled up from the ground, and a rotting corpse dripping with blood 
and bile rose slowly through out of it. In its hand it held a human 
skull, half shorn of flesh and compacted into a dense rod of 
splintered bone and brain. The spinal cord trailed from it, wrapped in 
a winding string of barbed wire that intertwined with a sparking 
electrical cable leading down under the stage. 


The Old Man raised his hellish microphone to his crooked mouth 
and began to sing. 


"Myyyyy bonny lies over the ocean..." 

He lifted a hand imploringly. The crowd chanted back. 

"MY BONNY LIES OVER THE OCEAN" 

The Old Man's smile widened and he moved on to the next line. 
"... my bonny lies oooococover the oceeeean!" 


This continued for at least ten minutes, before the Old Man dropped 


become less violent. SCP-670-2 begins 
unstitching the heart. 


8:19 PM: SCP-670-2 deposits unstitched 
nylon and polyester from the heart. SCP-670-3 
ceases movement and vocalizations at this 
point, presumed dead. Central nervous 
system, brain, and skeleton are now visible. 


8:25 PM: SCP-670-2 has unstitched the brain 
and central nervous system. Begins untying 
the skeleton. 


8:28 PM: Skeleton is untied and placed next to 
other disassembled materials of SCP-670-3. 


8:29 PM: SCP-670-1 approaches observation 
window and requests identical materials to 
those currently on the cell floor. Request 
accepted. 


8:34 PM: Requested materials are brought in 
by two D-class personnel. SCP-670-2 requests 
that the clay ‘skin’ is not removed, but other 
materials are delivered without incident. The 
materials that comprised SCP-670-3 are 
retrieved for further study. 


8:35 PM: SCP-670-2 begins creating an 
identical copy of SCP-670-3 from the delivered 
materials. 


8:44 PM: Clay 'skin' is applied to copy. Copy 
of SCP-670-3 is completed. SCP-670-1 refers 
to it as ‘Alfie Cotton’. 


8:45 PM: SCP-670 retires to their beds. 


Retrieved materials contain no anomalous 
properties, but study is still ongoing. 


« SCP-669 | SCP-670 | SCP-671 » 


the mic, clapped his hands with a single wet, thick splattering noise, 
and sank back below the stage. 


Bes and Iris returned to the podium, carefully avoiding the 
cancerous sludge. A large metal cage, the contents completely 
covered, was wheeled in from offstage. 


"Well, it's the moment you've all been waiting for!" said Iris, "One our 
most popular SCP items of all time!" 


"The guy you love to hate!" said Bes. 


"He may find us disgusting, but we find him delightful!" said Iris, 
"Everybody, put your hands together for the king of Keter..." 


"The sultan of sapient non-humanoids..." 

"The ombudsman of overly-long termination logs..." 
"The bestest lizerd ever..." 

"The Hard-to-Destroy Reptile himself... 

"SCP-682!" 

"Who will be performing an interpretive dance routine!" 


The crowd cheered. Patil and DeLaurier jumped in the air and 
bumped chests. There was so much whooping that it sounded like 
an alarm had gone off. The Senior Staff box was dead silent, but 
Patil tried not to pay attention to that. You don’t fuck with the Senior 
Staff. 


On stage, Iris and Bes each took hold of a lever on the side of 682's 
cage, nodded to each other, and pulled down. The door swung 
open, falling forwards to clatter onto the floor. The whole crowd held 
their breath, pressing forwards to see the contents of the stage. 


SCP-682 lay motionless, its back torn apart. leaving a gaping hollow 
of blood and tattered organs that were ever-so-slowly beginning to 
heal together. 


"What the fuck?" said DeLaurier. On stage, Bes tilted his head to the 
side, confused. He stepped into the cage to investigate, and a 
gleaming, bloody metal teddy bear burst through 682's face, slicing 
Bes in half with a single slash of its steel claws. 


Patil's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to freeze, 
seemed to change colour, seemed to go completely cold. He heard 
someone scream, and wasn't sure if it was DeLaurier, or Iris up on 
the stage, or someone in the crowd, or the whole crowd, or the 
whole world. The metal bear galloped off the stage, diving into the 
crowd as if it was a pool of water. A spray of blood and flying body 
parts moved through the audience like a non-invisible shark's fin, 
belying the motions of the speeding, slashing, murderous bear. 
From SCP-682's bloodied body more bears began to emerge, bears 
made of bone, or nerves, or clotted blood. The next few seconds 
were pure panic, terror. Patil and DeLaurier ran for the exit, leaving 
the crowd behind them, trapped between the rows of chairs. 


Patil could feel the sound behind him, pressing against him like a 
solid wall of screams and roars. Blood splattered against his neck. 
He and DeLaurier parted to go around the stalk of the Senior Staff 
box, because regardless of circumstances, you don't fuck with the 
Senior Staff. Patil emerged from the other side of the stalk, and so 
did DeLaurier's legs. 


Patil swore, and heard a metallic shriek from right behind him. 


"Who's that guy down there?" asked Dr Bright. 
"The bear?" asked Clef. 


"The Indian in the labcoat," Bright said. He pointed him out, "The 
running man. The one who's still alive." 


Dr Crow pressed his snout up against the glass and squinted, "You 
know, | think I've seen that fellow around the place. He works in 
containment, | believe. Something Patil." 


"| hope he doesn't try and fuck with us,” muttered Clef. 


"Well, he's dead now," said Kondraki. The metal bear held up Patil's 
severed head in its shining crimson claw and howled, a distorted 
mechanical screech of bloodlust and victory. The doctors leaned 
back in their seats and sighed. 


"You know what?" said Dr Clef, "That was pretty fucking 
spectacular." 


« | HUB | » 


Waffling About 


Clef's dreams were shattered when his alarm decided to scream in 
his face. His eyes cracked open as a lazy hand fumbled to turn off 
the alarm. Another day, another 5AM start, and another struggle to 
get out of the comfort of his bed. 


"Shut up," he grumbled, his hand still trying to find the snooze button 
for the alarm. In the end, he knocked the clock to the floor. It beeped 
its last beep, coaxing a pleased grunt from its owner. Although the 
funny-eyed man was comfy in his bed, he knew that he had to get 


up. 
It was a special day. 


It was waffle day and there was not a chance in hell that he'd miss 
his favorite breakfast, not again. 


Clef slowly sat up in his bed, stretching his arms out and cracking 
his back before he got up. Across his room lay strewn various 
clothing items and useless papers. It was normal, but he could never 
help but feel slightly guilty about the state of his room. 


The thought quickly passed as he made his way out of his room and 
to his little kitchen. It was waffle time, and there was no point pouting 
over something like the mess on the floors right now. Even though it 
was getting really bad... 


Clef opened a kitchen cupboard. A Cheshire smile crawled across 
his face at the sight of at least 5 packets of waffles laying on the 
shelves. He pulled out a pack and opened it, causing one to fall on 
the floor. "Oop— 5 second rule," he chirped, bending down slowly to 
pick up the fallen waffle comrade to wipe it off on his blue pajamas. 


Into the toaster they went. The entire packet of 4 waffles, including 
the floor waffle. Clef pushed down the little lever on the side of the 
toaster and in they went to cook. He didn't bother going anywhere 


whilst they cooked. He loved the smell that came out of the toaster 
as they got warmer and warmer. 


A few moments later and POP! went the toaster. Clef jolted a little 
but laughed it off. "Silly ass toaster," he mumbled, still not fully 
awake. The waffles were finally ready! 


He grabbed a plate from another cupboard and pulled the waffles 
from the toaster, not caring how much he burned his fingers in the 
process. 


Plop! 


On to the plate they went, one by one, and piled on top of each 
other in a proud waffle tower. 


The old man near threw himself on to his couch. There was a maple 
syrup bottle on the coffee table that he'd gotten ready the night 
before. He grabbed the bottle and squirted syrup all over his waffles. 


At last, Clef could eat his waffles. The beginning of a good, 
productive day, started with golden brown waffles. He didn't bother 
with a knife or a fork; most of them were dirty and in the sink (or on 
the floor). He just picked up a syrup-covered waffle in his hand and 
started to chow down. Any syrup that dripped on his PJs was quickly 
scooped up with a bit of waffle. 


"And then of course, | started getting too much syrup on my Pus, so 
| had to take them off sloooowly—" 


05-8 interrupted. "As fascinating as it would be to listen to you try to 
turn that soft, sagging body into an object of erotic fixation, | think 
we're going to get back to the matter at hand. I'll ask you again, and 
no tales about "Waffle Time". What have you been doing since you 
left the site on the 8th, over 60 hours ago?" 


Sensing that his ability to bullshit might not carry him through this, 
Clef tried again. "Well, that's an incredible tale of mystery and 
wonder | call 'Lord Shittington Drops The Kids At The Pool'—" 


Clef winced as his superior's lips thinned significantly. 


"And why are significant portions of Atlantic City, New Jersey, 
including the casino that happens to be the site of the last recorded 
activity on your credit card, on fire?" 


Clef swallowed deeply. "| can promise this was vaguely work- 
related." 


"Is that 'work' in any way related to a document on your desk labeled 
‘My Master Gambling plan'?" O5-8 held up a forestalling hand as Dr. 
Clef opened his mouth. "No, enough. It's my finding that you are in 
gross dereliction of your duties as Director of Site 66, and the 
following restrictions are to be placed upon you—"