He told his brother and sister-in-law, "You ought to be proud. If 


Jacob gets picked, you'll get to be the parents of a very special boy." 


Debra twisted slightly in his grip and glared at him. "For the last 
goddamned time, Brett, what the hell is going on here?! | finally get 
a weekend off so we can come visit, and you practically kidnap us 
up here! For fuck's sake, you didn't even let us unpack!" 


"Aw, calm down, Deb. He's on his way up and you'll understand in a 
sec. He's a real great guy and | know you'll like him like everyone 
else does. So stop trying to squirm away. Besides, you're not gonna 
get anywhere so long as | have the keys to the truck." 


Debra kept glaring at Brett, her fists clenching and unclenching as 
she tried to figure out the best way to incapacitate him non-lethally. 
Brett had always dismissed her as just a background extra in the 
movies that Sunny Coast Productions made, but she knew three 
different martial art styles and was their best action stunt double 
(among other things). She liked Brett, even if he put on the "good- 
ol'-boy" act a bit thick at times, but she'd be damned if she let him 
put her son in some kind of mysterious danger. 


The tension was starting to give her a headache and she glanced 
away from Brett to see why her husband wasn't arguing too. She 
was surprised to see Jake looking glassy-eyed and somewhat 
vacant as he took deep, even breaths. She'd swear that he was 
hypnotized, but no one had even approached them since Brett had 
brought them into the clearing. Jacob's body posture was more 
relaxed too, which worried her even more, considering how tense 
he'd been just a few moments ago. 


Her headache rapidly intensified as a light breeze blew towards 
them, carrying the scent of pine needles and fresh air. Everyone 
else, her husband and son included, turned their faces towards the 
breeze as one and took a deep breath, then smiled. 


The upper branches of the trees across the clearing shook as 
something heavy landed on them, and Debra watched a... thing 
come jumping down the tree's branches. She'd never seen anything 
as intrinsically wrong as the creature that stood across the clearing, 
and almost retched as her headache reached new heights of pain. 
As her vision grayed out, she thought, "Fuck! They never told us in 


SCP-857: Human-Based Ecosystem 


Item #: SCP-857 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: The area designated SCP-857 
is to be surrounded by electrified fences measuring two (2) meters in 
height. Any civilians attempting to enter SCP-857 are to be brought 
into custody and interrogated. After interrogation, intruders are to be 
dosed with a Class-A amnestic. 


No specimens of SCP-857-1 are to be allowed to leave SCP-857. 


Description: SCP-857 is a section of the Amazon Rainforest 
measuring one square kilometer. Plants native to the region grow 
normally in this area, but animal life appear to instinctively avoid it. 
SCP-857 is populated entirely by what appears to be human organs 
and body parts capable of ambulation and basic thought. 


The source of these specimens are currently unknown, and they will 
hereafter be referred to as SCP-857-1. 


Specimens of SCP-857-1 are non-hostile towards humans and vary 
wildly in form and function. (See Specimen Log 857.) These mobile 
body parts appear to have been crudely altered to allow for 
movement and consumption of food. For example, most specimens 
do not possess an actual working mouth, but a large artificial orifice 
in the flesh that superficially resembles a mouth. The method by 
which specimens of SCP-857-1 digest food is currently unknown. 


Although SCP-857-1 are naturally incapable of reproduction, no 
decrease in the number of observed specimens has been noted. 
Exploration is currently underway in an effort to discover the source 
of SCP-857-1. 


Specimen Log 857: 


anti-psi training that it would be this goddamn paintul!", and watched 
as the creature slithered across the clearing to lay a rubbery, 
segmented limb across her son's face. 


« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale » 


Fun 


Valley lay in his bed, wheezing as he spoke with his head of security 
over the radio. 


"Are my preparations in place?" he gasped, still managing to bring 
menace into every syllable. 


A few seconds passed. A tick-tock came from over the radio. Then, 
Mr. Tick spoke. 


"Yes. It is ready. Sir." He said in that monotone voice of his. 
"How long?" 


Another few seconds passed. "Now." 


"Beta-23, move in." 


The six members of Mobile Task Force Beta-23 rushed forward, 
taking cover positions and looking for viable targets in the small 
cottage they had been tasked with clearing. They were not yet in 
there, however, and were still cautious of the enemy firing out of its 
windows. 


Which of course, was the least of their worries. The commander, 
unnoticed by the rest of his team, gasped in agony as what he 
thought was the grass of the field injected its paralytic venom into 
him. He would die last, as Marshall, Carter, and Dark's intruder 
prevention item was not yet hungry. 


The man at the back of the group flicked his eyes back and forth, 
checking for targets. He stepped on something as he moved slowly 
forwards. His gaze flicked down to the photograph for only a second, 
but that was all it needed. He quietly and politely knelt down and cut 
his own throat. 


The others turned around swiftly, having heard their fallen 
comrades' last gurgles. Two of them aimed their rifles at the absurd 
image of a stitch moving through the grass like a snake. Two 
stitches, three stitches. Their bullets did nothing as the stitches 
moved over them, joining them together, merging lungs and hearts 
and brains. 


One stayed, one ran. 


The one who had stayed stepped back, then winced and looked 
down. A small dart was stuck right in his knee. Shaking, he pulled it 
out. It was barbed. Was it poisonous? Would he die slowly, in 
agony? 


As he looked down and saw two maggots repairing his wound, he 
knew he would not die at all. 


The one who had ran carried on running, panic carrying him when 
his own strength failed. Soon, his frantic running was joined by the 
purposeful slam of four paws on the ground. Paws that were running 
towards him very quickly. A voice came from behind him, a horrible 
growl of a voice. He dared not look. 


"Sunny in Harare," it said. 

He panted. Would he make it to the extraction zone? 

"Mild in Miami," it growled. 

He was almost at the fence. Come on, almost! 

"Rainy in London!" screamed the voice, and the hound pounced. 
"All went well," tocked Mr. Tick. Of course, Valley knew this from the 


multiple television screens in front of his bed, but Mr. Tick was 
always a redundant sort of fellow. 


Valley smiled. He was dying, of course, but that was no reason not 
to have fun. He had to do it again soon. 


"Make another batch," he rasped into the radio. "Make them think 


they're gocks this time." 
"Yes. Sir." 


The door opened and a man stepped in. If you were asked to 
describe him afterwards, that was all you could say, he was just a 
man. The illogical colours of his jacket, the jagged curves of his 
pupils and the impossible pattern on his badge made sure of that. 


"You called me," smiled the man that had walked in. Its eyes flicked 
from radio to sky, sky to table, table to Valley in a few seconds. 
"You're dying?" the man asked curiously, his voice a dull monotone. 


"Of course | am," Valley said bitterly. "Mr. Carter's parting gift." 
"You called me," said the man again. "What is it you wanted?" 


Valley shifted uncomfortably in his bed and stared into what he 
hoped were the man's eyes. "| am a sick old man, friend." 


"lam not your friend. Yes, you are. Why do you want to see me?" 
said the man patiently, its voice quick, as if he was eager to be 
somewhere else. 


Valley leaned forward, his eyes shining with excitement. "| need to 
expand, but what | have is too limited. The few products | managed 
to steal before leaving Carter's lovely club are not enough. | need 
the Station, please. You must help me have it." 


One of the man's eyes drifted to the ceiling. The other one circled in 
its socket. It was in deep concentration. 


"| will need four men. Your best four men." 
"And money?" 


A look of confusion crossed the man's face. "! will not need money. | 
will need four men. Goodbye, Mr. Valley." It walked out of the door 
and it shut the door behind him. 


A few seconds passed. Valley leaned back, looked at the thin stump 
that had yesterday been his arm, and cried. 


The World From a Different Angle 


One Nice Afternoon 


"Oh, no," Tom groaned, seeing Deb's eyes light up at the familiar- 
looking pink display window . "I can't handle this. You're on your 
own, dear." 


"What's the matter, hun? Scared of a little women's underwear?" 


"Not scared, just uncomfortable. It's the way those clerks look at 
you, like I'm crashing some stranger's party." 


"You could help me pick something out for... later," Deb smirked. 


Tom smiled and kissed her forehead. "As it turns out, | love 
surprises." 


"Fine," Deb huffed in mock anger. "I'll just go alone, then. See you in 
a bit?" 


"Yeah, sure, I'll be around. Call my cell when you're done." 
"Sure thing. See ya, hun." 


Tom headed into the bookstore first and flipped through the best 
sellers on the front rack. When that grew dull, he headed over to the 
Brookstone to take a look at some needlessly complicated grilling 
tools and lay down on the Tempur-Pedic mattress. Around the time 
he was picking up a pretzel with nacho cheese sauce, he started to 
wonder how long Deb was going to be looking at bras, anyway. 


He was in the process of tucking the little white paper bag into his 
teeth to pull out his cell phone and call when the first shot was fired. 
At first, it sounded like firecrackers, but then he heard the shouting 
and saw the men and the guns. There were two groups of them, 


shouting and running around, hiding behind the white ceramic 
planters and tipped-over tables in the food court. One of them tried 
to move from behind a table to behind the counter of the Orange 
Julius: he fell down about halfway there, clutching his leg, then his 
head exploded in a spray of red and grey that splattered across the 
white tile floor. 


Tom realized then that he was huddled behind one of the big white 
planters, his cell phone clutched in his hand in a white-knuckle grip. 
He'd lost his pretzel at some point: he could see the little brown twist 
of bread smeared across the tiled floor, little yellow footprints leading 
away where someone had stomped on his small plastic cup of 
cheese sauce while running away from the gunfight. 


It was surreal. Things like this were supposed to happen in 
downtown Detroit or South Central Los Angeles, not in a Westfield 
Shopping Center in the Midwestern suburbs. There was a lot of 
shouting (mostly involving the word "motherfucker,") then there was 
a big boom, and a lot of smoke, and the shooting stopped. 


Tom saw a big black man in a brown leather jacket, holding a small 
gun: it looked like a toy in his big meaty fist. Some men in grey 
uniforms ran up, then, and the man in the brown leather jacket 
slowly put down his gun and lay down on the ground with his hands 
on his head. Tom didn't wait to see what happened next: the 
moment the cops got the guy, he ran down the escalator and started 
running towards the Victoria's Secret, shouting Debra's name. 


She met him outside, and they fell into each other's arms, holding 
each other tight, as if they would never let go. 


"| felt so useless," Tom confessed that night, after the cops and the 
reporters and the much-needed shower. "All that was going on... 
and all | could think of was to hide." 


"What could you do?" Deb asked. She was curled up in his arms 
and was resting her head on his chest. 


"| don't know," Tom admitted. "But | felt like | should have done 
something." 


Deb kissed him, and he kissed her back, and then they took each 
others’ clothes off and let things go from there. 


Two weeks later, Deb announced she'd missed her period. 


Sixteen years later, they told their horribly embarassed daughter 
why her full name was Jennifer Victoria Firefight Nathan. 


Seeing his daughter groan in horror as her younger brother made 
snarky comments and her boyfriend look on in jaw-dropped awe, 
Tom thought back to that afternoon in the shopping mall, and 
laughed. It was funny, he thought, how things tend to work out in the 
end. 


+ A Closer Look 


A Closer look 


Gunshot, 9mm, double-tap, Jeff thought, as the first 
couple of cracks rang out. It was a sound that didn't 
belong in a shopping mall at 2 in the afternoon. 


He dropped the big plastic bag and reached under his 
leather jacket for his concealed carry weapon. He 
checked the slide and the ejection port: both looked 
clear, and took off the safety. "Lie down on the ground 
and cover your heads!" he shouted to the other 
shoppers. "Wait here!" 


He headed towards the sound of the gunfire, keeping his 
head low and the muzzle of his gun pointed at the 
ground. He glanced around the corner leading to the 
food court, and saw a bunch of knocked-over tables and 
some guys shooting at each other. 


Jeff blinked in surprise: these weren't gangers. Gangers 
tended to stand up and run around holding their guns out 
in front of them: they usually relied on mass volume of 
fire, and they usually took a few shots then ran for it 


before the cops showed up. What they didn't do was set 
up lanes of fire, use cover, and coordinate their attacks. 
Especially coordinate their attacks. 


"Center Peel, fall back to the counters, go!" someone 
shouted. "Peel one!" A rapid fusillade of pistol fire rang 
out, followed by two guys trying to fall back to the food 
counters. One of them made it, the second took a round 
in the knee and fell. Jeff saw one of the guys crouched 
behind the planters take a deliberate double tap and 
shoot the wounded enemy in the head, killing him. 


Jeff's blood ran cold. He'd been a Marine in two tours 
overseas before retiring: that and six years in the force 
meant he'd spent just about half his life around guns and 
gunfighters in some fashion or another, and those 
fourteen years of experience were telling him that these 
guys were trained professionals: possibly Special Forces 
of some sort. Now that he knew what to look for, the 
lines of their clothing seemed strangely bulky in places: 
did they have body armor under their jackets and jeans? 
The small-caliber pistol in his hands suddenly felt very 
inadequate. 


Then one of the motherfuckers in the food court jumped 
up holding a small, stubby black tube, and suddenly 
things went all the way bad. 


Jeff didn't wait to see what happened next. "GRENADE!" 
he screamed. He ducked back around the corner, 
dropped to the ground, put his hands over his ears, 
closed his eyes, opened his mouth. The explosion felt 
like a full body punch to the gut. There were a few more 
shots, and then a lot of shouting. Jeff shook his head to 
clear his fuzzy vision and got back to his feet. 


The carnage was incredible. Everyone on the planters 
side of the firefight was dead or dying. In the food court, 
he saw the guy with the grenade launcher lying dead on 
the ground with a bullet in his head. There was another 
guy standing over him, holding a submachinegun of 


some sort. "GET ON THE GROUND, 
MOTHERFUCKER" Jeff shouted. The word 
"motherfucker" was very important in these cases: it let 
the guy know who was in fucking charge here. 


He swept his eyes over the perp's body: eyes, face, 
hands... 


Hands.