They approached the car and opened the doors. “I know. It’s just 
weird to think that he could just make something vanish like that. 
And we were right next to him.” 


Conrad put his hand on Seth’s shoulder. “Listen, we caught him 
early. We always do. His abilities never got strong enough to be 
dangerous.” 


Seth sat in the back of the car and buckled in. 
“If it makes you feel any better, Seth, | was also nervous in there.” 


Seth looked through the back window of the car as it began to drive 
off. “Well, you certainly didn’t show it, boss.” 


“Look, what I’m saying is that it's OK to be nervous sometimes, 
especially with something like this. Just... don’t let it get to you.” 


“Alright.” 

The car was silent for a moment. 

“Mr. Brindis is it true what you said about me?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You said that | made people think that they were toasters.” 


“Yeah. That's the whole reason why I’m used for these sorts of 
things. What a reality bender believes becomes real. And if they 
believe that they’re a harmless appliance, problem solved.” 


“| got that, but... is the other part true?” 

“What do you mean Seth?” 

“You said | showed people the truth.” 

“Which is?” 

“You said that, in a way, we’re all toasters. Is that really true?” 


Conrad sighed. “I think so. If you’re around me long enough, you'll 
know.” 


“Alright...” Seth was silent for a moment, then continued. “Wait, how 
long have you been around me?” 


Conrad smiled. “Long enough to know.” 
“But... isn’t that dangerous?” 


“Not if you know what you're getting into.” Conrad looked out the 
window. “It’s sort of... metaphysical. It’s difficult to explain. | think 
you'll understand it if you’re around me long enough.” 


“Boss,” He paused, “How do you know that it’s true? What if it’s just, 
| don’t know... just me telling you something wrong?” 


“| just do.” The car pulled into the parking lot behind the apartment 
building. “We won a war for me, Seth. We went against a strong 
enemy and we didn’t win easily. I’m pretty sure that we were 
following me for a better reason than just talking about me in the first 
person all the time.” 


The car parked next to the tent that technicians had set up earlier. 
Seth and Conrad got out of the car and went inside. 


The technicians were rushing about, all looking concerned and 
surprised. Dozens of lights were blinking, and a loud buzzing filled 
the area. 


Conrad simply stood at the entrance for a moment. “That can’t be 
good...” 


One of the guards rushed over to them. “Commissioner, we just got 
a spike in the readings.” 


Conrad stared at him with a puzzled look for a second, before 
approaching one of the many pieces measurement equipment that 
were kept inside. It was a simple analogue meter, with a graph being 
printed on a sheet of paper. The graph showed a spike, before 
abruptly dropping. 


Conrad opened his mouth, but said nothing before entering a brisk 
walk back towards the apartment building. Seth quickly followed. 


“Sir, what’s going on?” 


Conrad pulled open the door and rushed into the stairwell. “That 
can’t be right. That can’t be right.” 


“Mr. Brindis?” 


They both soon reached the second floor, and ran to the apartment. 
Two guards remained stationed at the door. 


“Open the door!” 
“Mr. Brindis, what’s going on?” 


The door was opened, and they both stared inside. The kitchen was 
clearly visible, as were the table and chairs, and the toaster and the 
loaf of bread. 


Conrad approached closer. He looked around the room, then at the 
table. After a moment, he turned back to Seth. 


“He got out, Seth.” 
“Who got out?” 


“That fucking reality bender, he got out!” He stared back at the table. 
“This shouldn't have happened, this isn’t possible! He wasn't 
supposed to be this strong yet!” 


“ ..Mr. Brindis?” 


” 


Conrad dropped to his knees. “I... I... how... 


Seth walked over to the table, and looked at it carefully. Words 
seemed to be printed on it in some sort of ink, which already 
appeared to have set into the surface. 


You can’t make me eat any more goddamn toast. 


Seth did not even think about what this meant. He looked at Conrad, 
and then knelt down beside him. After a few minutes, he spoke. 


“| guess this guy didn’t like toast, boss.” 


Is it possible that a man 

Could have so much in common 
With me, a simple appliance? 

Would a character and me, a toaster, 
Come to being similar? 


Perhaps so. 

His plight, his desire to be free, 
For me, it’s familiar. 

When oppression reared itself 
And he feared 

That he would be lost, 

He prevailed. 

For me, the Foundation paid the cost 
And for him, it was my followers. 
Perhaps he may attract 

A few crowds too. 


He said that he tired of toast, 
And maybe | also 

Grow weary of the stuff. 
After so long of making it 

All the time, 

Maybe I’d had enough. 

Or at least | would 

If | could 

Feel such things. 


But | can't. 
I’m just a toaster. 


Let the Games Begin 


Junior Researcher Marcher was not having a good day. His favorite 
parking spot by the door had been taken, leaving him to drive all the 
way back to the end of the lot to find a space. His coffee had burned 
his tongue, and his pen had leaked, getting him tackled by an 
overzealous new agent who had heard about SCP-505. 


Granted, running for his life from an ancient war god/murder victim 
gooned out on the "ancespirits of his forewarriors", as he had 
screamed it, made the other mishaps seem almost pleasant by 
comparison, but that was the only good thing about today. 


He turned a corner, and slammed into Dr. Biltmore. Okay, he 
thought as he helped her up, maybe there are two good things about 
today. 


"What the hell is happening!" she screamed over the alarms. 
"76-2's broken out and he has the belt!", he shouted. 
"What?" 

"ABLE HAS THE CHAMPIONSHIP BELT!" 

"Oh, god! How many casualties?" 


"About half of this wing is dead," Marcher told Biltmore as they 
stumbled into a nearby closet. The alarms were a bit quieter here. 


"Only half?" she asked. 


"It would have been more, but he stops every five minutes to throw 
taunts at you at the top of his voice. That's the only reason I'm still 
alive." 


"Jesus..." she muttered. "Do you think that security-" 


contradictory. 

ZIE/66,667: [REDACTED] 

AABT/38,545: Confirmed as Dr. . Researcher has 
been detained and used for testing with SCP-892. 
ABWS/80,323: Updates display subsequent digits of pi 
to the 105th place before resetting. 

ABXA/20,468: Consistently displays "death" string. 
Name, time, and cause different each time. 


« SCP-891 | SCP-892 | SCP-893 » 


"Most of them were in the cafeteria when he broke out," Marcher 
said soberly. "Everyone in one place, it was a slaughter..." 


They were silent for a few moments, the solemnity of the occasion 
calming even the little voice in the back of Marcher's head informing 
him that he was alone in a closet with the love of his life. 


It was Dr. Biltmore who managed to get herself together first. "So," 
she said, "how do we take him down?" 


Marcher stared at her. "We? Are you joking? We need to wait here 
for reinforcements." 


"They won't get here fast enough,” she said calmly. 
"It'll be suicide!" 


"If the situation out there is as bad as you Say it is, then the first 
priority of the Task Force that gets here will be the on-site nuke, not 
to look for survivors," Biltmore said in the same bland, matter-of-fact 
tone. "It's suicide either way, unless we find another way to end 
this." 


"And if we don't?" he demanded. 


"I'm Level 3. | Know the codes, too. I'd rather not die today, but | 
won't hesitate if that's the only option." 


There was another moment of silence, this time clanging with the 
unheard sound of two people's minds working desperately to think of 
a way to not die. Marcher happened to glance into a dark corner of 
the closet. "Hey..." he said slowly. Biltmore turned and looked at the 
dusty old thing that had drawn his attention. Their eyes met. 


"Not that thing," she said. 


"| read the documentation. It creates a pacifistic mind, it said. It 
already worked on Able once." 


"Did you read about what else it does?" 


"The effects are supposed to be slow to develop. We can deal with 


them when we're safe." 
"...Fine. Who's going to distract him?" 
"Not it." 


"Shit." 


Able worked his way down the hallway, laughing at the pathetic 
weaklings attempting to defy his mighty eagle heart and tiger blood 
as he cut them down. 


"THIS WILL BE THE FIRST OF YOUR MANY DEATHS AS | CAST 
YOU DOWN INTO THE LAND OF BLOOD AND HELLFIRE TO 
JOIN MY DAMNED ARMY!" he screamed as he tore a man in two. 


Then, as the crowd cheered in his eyes, a ridiculous female in a lab 
coat without any sequins at all dared to step out in front of him. 


Dr. Biltmore looked behind Able, and saw Marcher getting into place 
with the wheelchair. He nodded and she nodded back. Then, trying 
to remember those hazy weekends with her father spent in front of 
the TV, back when she was four years old, she opened her mouth 
and shouted at Able. 


"Hey, uh... Able! You can't handle the truth! That you, uh, suck at 
wrestling! Can you smell what I'm cooking? No, because you are 
Un-Able! Because... you're unable to do anything! And | had sex 
with Torrie last night!" 


Able's face became incandescent. He pulled in a mighty breath, 
then screeched at full volume. 


"YOU SNIVELING WORM IN THE GARDEN OF THE SPEARS OF 
VIKINGS BROUGHT DOWN BY MY VENGEFUL GOD! 1 AM THE 
FIRST TO KNOW DEATH, AND | HAVE MADE MYSELF HER 
UNHOLY PRIEST. | SHALL SHARE HER DEMENTED WHISPERS 
OF BLOOD AND VENGEANCE WITH YOU, YOU-" but he was cut 
short as Biltmore caught him in the chest and heaved him into the 
wheelchair. 


There was silence for one perfect, frozen moment, before a wave of 
pure, testosterone flooded energy burst from the belt around Able's 
waist, and rippled across the entire Foundation. 


Deep in Site-93, a colossal machine was hard at work. After a few 
hours, its latest creation rolled out of it, covered in spikes, belching 
flames, with a gun that was only capable of firing folding chairs. 


Printed on the front, in a dainty cursive script, were the words, 
"Relanceur de |'enfer." 


A researcher snuck into the soup bow''s testing room, sniffling 
miserably. His heart brightened, however, at the delicious smell of 
chicken that suddenly began to waft from the bowl. As he picked it 
up, ready to slurp every last drop, the liquid began to bubble and 
steam. He leaned closer, puzzling over the boiling chicken-noodle 
soup, when it exploded from the ceramic receptacle, splashing every 
inch of his body. 


As the poor man rolled on the floor, clutching at the many heat 
blisters forming on his bright red skin, words formed on the inside of 
the bowl. 


They read, "C'mon, slugger! | barely tapped you there! Be a man 
and let's go again!" 


The machine woke, listening to a glorious song. The music called to 
it, Singing of carnage and death and shit blowing up. It followed the 
song, knowing in its engine that, whatever was about to happen, it 
was the very reason the machine existed. 


Junior Researcher Marcher woke up in the middle of a ring, wearing 
a black and white striped tee shirt, with a handful of red cards. 


He turned, to see a beautiful, buxom woman in a black bikini with 
way too much spray tan holding a card that said "Round 1" on it. 


Nothing out of the ordinary here, he thought as the crowd filed in. 


In the center of the ring, sitting in his wheelchair, Able adjusted his 
tuxedo, patted his porcupine hairdo, and grabbed the microphone in 
his lap. He raised it to his lips, paused, and then spoke. 


"Ladies and gentlemen, skips and girls... Let's. Get. Ready. To. 
RRRRUUMMMMMBLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEE! ! !" 


Let The Right One Innily 


Arnold closed the door. That was number four. Four grown adults so 
far, without costumes, showing up at his door and asking for candy 
for their toothless babies. Unreal. This was in addition to the 6-7 
middle schoolers that had showed up without costumes, without 
"trick r' treats", and without "thank yous". Arnold knew it didn't pay to 
chastise these losers; better to just give them the stupid candy and 
get them out of his face. Still, it killed him a little bit each time. He 
loved Halloween, and clearly these people only loved free candy. 
Whatever. The good kids who actually dressed up, greeted him, and 
used their manners, generally made it all worth it, but this year they 
were more sparse than usual. Heck, Arnold would have settled for 
more of the shy little ones who just wouldn't say anything at all, 
regardless of their parents' well meaning encouragement. 


Ding Dong. 


Arnold grabbed the candy bowl, and opened the door. Costumes. 
Actual, real costumes, and they looked like effort had been put into 
them! What the hell were they supposed to be though? 


"Trickle-teetle-treat!" came three male voices in unison. 


"Oh man, | love the costumes! Looks like you boys really put some 
work into those!" Arnold exclaimed. He would be generous with this 
trio. 


"Silly moldy oldy! We are not twigs and beans! We are lady-types!" 
said the one on the left. It looked like some sort of large headed 
monster with horns, with nothing more than a potato sack running 
from its neck to its knees. The other two were pretty similar. Maybe 
they weren't as high effort as he originally thought. Arnold felt his 
lifted spirits sag a bit. 


"Well, whatever you say. Just nice to see some real costumes 
tonight. You kids can take three pieces each." Arnold held out the 


bowl of candy towards them. 


All three of the visitors bowed their heads towards the bowl, as if to 
inspect the candy closer, or maybe even smell it. Then they raised 
their heads up again. Arnold realized they didn't have arm holes in 
their costumes, which would make collecting candy fairly difficult. 


“Thank-a-dee-yankee Sir-Oldy, but we do not have arms for 
grabbing the scrum-diddlies!" the middle one explained. 


"No-siree-bob-for-apples! No armsy-daisies! We usually eat the 
child-produce scribbles, but since it is clear as a beer that you do not 
have any, we will glad-happily take the tricksy!" the right one added. 


"Look, kids, just take some candy or move along. It's great that 
you're all in character, but I've never seen whatever jap cartoon 
these things are from, so | don't get it." Welp, this is it. This is the 
last time | hand out candy on Halloween. 


The middle one spoke again, "But Sir Oldalots! The platter-tude of 
the Ween is tricks OR treats! Do you achy-break the law?" 


"Yes, we request a jig or the law is broken!" the left one chimed in. 
"A merry jig," said the right one. 

Arnold's face grew dark. "Are you asking me to dance for you?" 
"YESSADEEDLE-DEE"" came the trio's reply. 

"Get the fuck out of my yard." The door slammed. 

A gaggle of elementary-aged children expressed audible 
disappointment as they watched the porch light of their next target 
turn off. They paid little attention to the odd trio that had just come 


from the house, even as the three of them began to skip in unison 
down the sidewalk. 


"What is fuck?" asked the left one. 


"And why do the older-boulders always want us to get it out of their 


yarbles?" asked the right one. 


"You two are such young-youngs. | will show you the fuck,” said the 
middle one.