Sir came back a short time later with Honey, who seemed just as 


distraught as Sir was earlier. They sat and watched Pinky for awhile, 
and Mr. Bear came to learn Pinky's real name was Micheal. Mr. 
Bear chanced a downward glance and found that the tag affixed to 
his paw had the name ‘Micheal’ scrawled onto it. He figured that this 
must be his purpose: to help teeny Micheal in any way he could, if 
indeed a stuffed bear was capable of such a thing. 


That night, Mr. Bear left his post, shimmied up the leg of Micheal's 
chamber, and peered through the glass. He was struck by a sudden 
understanding, an innate sense of all the imperfections in the infants 
underdeveloped system - his heart beat erratically, his brain wasn't 
receiving the proper amount of oxygen, his bones were brittle and 
frail, and his lungs were barely functioning. Mr. Bear was terrified. 
There wasn't a part of him that wasn't failing! 


He had to act fast, but wasn't sure what needed doing - until of 
course he vomited a small pair of scissors and a length of string. 
Now, this may have been a shock to some; but hey, Mr. Bear was a 
sapient stuffed animal, so it didn't seem very odd to him. Instinct 
kicked in and guided his actions. 


He worked underneath the table. Mrs. Nurse and some similarly- 
dressed people came and went, so he made sure he was out of 
sight as he fashioned all the necessary bobs and bits for the child. 
Mr. Giraffe was the first casualty, followed by misters Lion and Tiger 
(they didn't seem to mind the sacrifice all that much). Little by little, 
he'd construct a replacement organ from the velveteen flesh of his 
comrades. Upon completion, all he had to do was concentrate, and 
it would manifest in his patient. 


His task complete, Mr. Bear hurried up to his spot on the table (it 
was a bit lonelier there than before), and played dead. 


Mr. Bear looked on in horror at the inferno his residence had 
become. He had been lying outside in the wet grass (Michael had 
abandoned him for a shiny red ball the other day, and neglected to 
return for him) when it started, and now all he could do was watch 
the blaze eat its way through the house. 


He wondered what they would do now, where would they live? He 


and Micheal had become fast friends (though, Micheal would get 
cross whenever the adults looked over, and Mr. Bear acted as if he 
was a normal stuffed bear), over the past two years, and he couldn't 
imagine himself anywhere else outside the place he'd come to think 
of as home. This line of thought was shattered by a scream coming 
from within the house. Micheal was still inside. 


Mr. Bear was off as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. He 
squirmed his way in through an open window and plopped into the 
kitchen. Smoke clouded his vision, and the hungry flames made 
traversing the collapsing house safely a nigh-impossible feat - but 
traverse he did. He followed the sound of Micheal screams, making 
it through the lower floor and into the furnace of a living room. He 
could make out a small shape at the bottom of the stairs, barely 
moving. 


He rushed forward, falling to his knees at the boys side. Micheal was 
coated head-to-toe in burns, his hair had been singed off, and what 
was left of his clothes had fused to his flesh in places. Mr. Bear 
frantically looked about, searching for something he could use to 
repair him, anything, but it was all going up in flames. 


Mr. Bear panicked, there was no way he could help him here, they 
had to get out. He tried and he tried to move him, to drag him to 
safety, but he could barely lift the boys arm, let alone the weight of 
his whole body. Mr. Bear sat down, trying with all his might to think 
up a way to make him well again. He sat and cried and hugged the 
child, as the floor quaked, and the ceiling gave. Together, they 
plummeted into the Earth. 


Long after the blaze had been snuffed, long after the thick, black 
plumes finally thinned and dissipated, long after the looky-loos and 
the gawkers had their fill of excitement, Thomas and Amelia Farris 
sat waiting on the edge of their property. Much like the firefighters 
and construction personnel, they operated in shifts. One would rest 
at the motel, while the other remained vigilant. The hope that they 
would be reunited with their child had left days ago, (a fantasy they 
had momentarily entertained before the structure collapsed) so now 
all that was left to do was to wait for whatever remained, so that they 


may lay him to rest. 


At the moment, they were both present. Almost all of the debris had 
been cleared, and they were expecting the find within the hour. 


"Mr. and Mrs. Farris?" 


Kyle Mitchell, a local boy and firefighter-trainee who had been 
assisting in the cleanup, approached. He had been perhaps the 
most resolute of his company, diligently working sunrise to sunset 
with the others, and late into the night by himself to help find their 
boy. 


"Yes? Did you," Amelia looked hopeful, "find him?" 


Boy shook his head, "We'll keep looking, but there's practically 
nothing left to look through. I'm just— well, we found this." 


He produced a stuffed bear. A small brown one that Thomas had 
picked up for his son when he was born. The thing was horribly filthy 
- having been caked in dirt and ash and absolutely soaking wet. 


"I'm really, very sorry. | don't expect this to even be a slight 
consolation," he spoke carefully, as if each word carried with it the 
weight of the world, "but | really do hope it helps." 


They took it from Kyle, and despite the stench and the grime, held 
the last piece of their son close between them. If Thomas hadn't 
known better, he would've sworn the bear was hugging them back. 
They nodded a silent thanks, both afraid their grief would taint any 
words of appreciation, and Kyle trekked back to his work. 


Kyle Mitchell strode away from the scene that night, as the final 
truck hauled away the last remnants of the Farris' house, quietly 
tucking a stray tuft of stuffing into his pocket. 


As strange and as unfamiliar as Life had been, Mr. Bear was 
completely bewildered by whatever Un-life he was experiencing. 
The final shred of himself, a wisp of cotton falling through the aether. 
He existed (if one could call it that) in this state for an eternity, 


unable to see or hear or move or act. 


A strange sensation arose - which was odd, because he didn't think 
he'd ever feel anything ever again. It started as a numb tingling, then 
gave way to full proprioceptive awareness. He could feel himself 
inside his body - or at least, he thought so at first. He wiggled his 
limbs a bit, realizing the proportions were all wrong (he didn't 
remember being so tall), and he was missing his fuzzy hair. 


When the rest of his senses returned, he found himself face to face 
with his reflection; in a mirror propped up upon a table in the kitchen 
of a small apartment. He was composed of a colorful blend of 
patterned textiles - not at all like the drab brown of his old body. 
Seams ran every which way, holding all. Gone was his shiny plastic 
nose. The one he wore now was embroidered right into the fabric, 
along with a brand-new smile (didn't have one of those before, 
neat!) and a pair of eyes. An anatomically-correct pin of a heart was 
stuck right to his chest. 


"How are you feeling?” 


Mr. Bear would have been startled by the voice, had it not been so 
soft and gentle and tinged with genuine concern. A big people stood 
over his shoulder. Seeing the strangers face, and the kindness in his 
eyes, gave Mr. Bear the impression that he really was an old friend 
that he'd somehow forgotten. 


"It isn't perfect, and I'm not sure you'll ever really be right again, but 
it's the best | could do." 


Mr. Bear wasn't exactly able to articulate his gratefulness, given the 
lack of a functioning mouth; so he simply turned and hugged his 
newfound-friend. 


"Ha! Glad you like it.” 


The man broke the embrace, and knelt down to retrieve a small, 
empty gift-box up off the floor. Its exterior shined with a glossy 
patchwork of designs that matched Mr. Bear's new fabric. He placed 
it on the table, whipped out a small card and began jotting 
something down onto it. 


Level 4 Security Access Required 


A selection of 13 level 4 personnel on-site have been 
authorized to make note of or "mark" any level 3 
personnel or below who are suspected of having been 
anomalously created by SCP-922. Personnel who are 
"marked" are not to be re-assigned without the 
authorization of Site Director al-Zarqa and at least 10 of 
the 13 authorized level 4 personnel. If authorized, these 
individuals are to be given amnestics and monitored at 
their new assignments. 


The identities of the 13 authorized level 4 personnel are 
to remain classified to all personnel save for Site Director 
al-Zarga and the O5 council. 


Description: SCP-922 is a reality-altering phenomenon affecting all 
2, students and faculty of the University of locatedin , ,as 
well as an additional 9 civilians in the surrounding neighborhoods. 
Affected individuals display a number of discrepancies in memory, 
including recollection of non-existent events and individuals. 
Additionally, SCP-922 may or may not be responsible for creating 
new individuals, most of whom have been positively identified using 
local census records. 


The nature of the anomaly's effects make it unknown as to whether 
these individuals are newly created or have been previously 
removed from the memories of fellow students or faculty. Alterations 
made by SCP-922 have indicated a behavioral pattern of evasion 
and deception based on indirect interaction with Foundation 
personnel. Further investigation and research into a possible 
conscious source to the anomalies is pending. 


SCP-922 was first discovered in August 2009 when several students 
attempted to drop a course (SCP-922-2) they did not register for. 
The registrar was unable to find any information on the course in 
question, and the registry numbers for the course in question were 
found to be non-existent in the campus course catalogue. The class 
was labeled as "Barricades, Borders, and the Bourgeoisie: America 
and the New Deal" taught by a Professor "Martina Bauer", with the 
class location and time labeled "TBA". 


"Everything you've done, everything you're capable of doing - can't 
go to waste. There are more out there who are going to need you." 
He finished the note, and turned it around for Mr. Bear to see. On 
the card, in a neat, blue, cursive script: 


Hello! My name is Kairos! 


Mr. Bear tilted his head at the name, and looked back and forth 
between it and his benefactor. 


"It's ancient Greek, roughly meaning 'right or opportune moment’; | 
figured it suited you." He answered with a polite smile." Just as 
you've already done, you're going to find that perfect, opportune 
moment to swoop in and be there for others where none else can. 


Kairos nodded gleefully, clapping his chubby little bear arms in 
excitement. The mysterious altruist lifted him up, nestled him 
affectionately in the box, and tucked the note alongside him. He 
waved 'goodbye' to the bear, and reached down for the lid. 


The last thing Kairos saw before the lid shut and he was sent off to 
places unknown, was a loving smile, and a pair of kind eyes. 


Micheal sat on the observation table, doodling away at a picture of 
his family at their old house and kicking his bear-legs to and fro. 
After putting the finishing touches on Mr. Bear, he threw the crayon 
to the ground and leaped up to show the researchers. 


He tried to point to himself, his human self, but he couldn't specify 
very well without actual fingers. Everyone simply smiled and nodded 
or giggled and sent him on his beary way. Walking through the halls 
of Site-27, Micheal silently huffed. None of them understood him, 
like, really understood him like Mr. Bear did. If only Mr. Bear was still 
around, he'd know what to do... 


Micheal stopped mid-stride. Why didn't he think of it before? If he 
needed a new Mr. Bear, well, he could just make one! 


Rebar Nightmares 


Finally, it was time for his grand escape. 


It was the time of month when they would need to come in and clean 
his cell again; three people in jumpsuits, one with a mop to clean up 
the pungent mess he had spread throughout the room. But today 
would be different — today, he had a plan. 


The door groaned. The Statue sprinted to one of the corners beside 
the bulkhead; a spot that was always out of view when they entered, 
one that they never checked. Not until they were already inside. 


He reached the corner, unobstructed by a line-of-sight; it was only 
then that his physical form, SCP-173, moved to the corner. It never 
actually moved, and neither did he — it was more akin toa 
calculation. "If this is my speed, and that's where I'm heading, that is 
where | will end up" — then his body would simply reappear where it 
was supposed to be, circumventing the rule of inertia. 


Despite its slow start, the bulkhead only took three seconds to fully 
open. The three D-classes looked in, surveying the room without 
entering. He could feel their eyes shift, looking and expecting him. 
They were confused — the room looked empty to them. That was 
exactly how he wanted them. 


The three of them walked in, none of them checking the corners 
beside the doors. The Statue rushed towards them. 


But SCP-173 barely moved. 


He was being obstructed by someone's line-of-sight. Someone, 
outside the container, was watching the three D-classes enter. 
Nobody ever watched them come in. 


‘Heeeeeeeeeeececey theeeeereeee!' 


‘Heeeeellooo0000000000!' 
Oh for fucks sake. 


Unable to move — frozen by their unwavering gaze — The Statue 
watched in horror as a pair of tear-shaped creatures, each with a 
single eye, rolled in on their single wheels to sit and stare at it. 


‘Fuck off would you?’ 

'Heeeeeeeeeeeeceeeey, that's noooooot veeeeeeee;ry nice.’ 
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah, that's reeeeeeeeeaally meeeeeeeean' 
‘| don't give a shit, you're fucking up my -' 


The three D-classes turned, realising the two little Eye Pods had 
figured out where the statue was hiding. Two of the D-classes 
locked their gaze on SCP-173, while the third started mopping. 


‘Fucking hell, you've ruined it! 


‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaw, weeeeeeeeee're SooddOdoOOoOrry, 
Staaaaaaaaatue.' 


"Yeeeeeeeeeah, weeeeeeecee're reeeeeeeeeally 
sooooooooooorry.' 


‘Sorry doesn't fucking cut it. I've got to wait two fucking weeks before 
| can try again, and they'll probably fucking check this corner now. 
Fucking great.’ 


"Weeeeeeeeeceee didn't knoooo0000W yooooocococaeu were 
dooooo00000ing soocod00000000me+thing!' 


"Yeeeeeah, weee -' 


‘Would you just shut the fuck up please? You have the most fucking 
annoying voices I've ever fucking heard. Just shut up." 


The Eye Pods obliged. The silence was unbroken, save for the 
sound of the squelching mop, for several minutes. 


'Heeeeeeeey Staaaaaaatue!' 

‘| thought | asked you to shut the fuck up.' 
'Gueeeeeeeeeeceess whaaaaaaaat!’ 
‘Fuck off." 


‘Cooo000000000Me ODO0O0D000000NN, gueeeeeeeeeeeess 
whaaaaaaaaaat It is!’ 


"Yeeeeeeeeah, gueeeeeeceess!' 
‘No. Fuck off. Shut up.’ 


‘Weeeeeeececeeell, the suuuuuuuuUUit peeeeeeeeeeeople 
weeeeeeeeeeeent baaaaaaaaack tooo0000 wheeeeeeeere 
theeeeeey fouuuuuuund UUUUUUUUUS...’ 


‘And they forgot to fucking take you back? No fucking shit.’ 
‘Nooooo000...' 
‘I'll gooooooo0000 get theeeeeeeeem!' 


One of the eye pods — dash B, the mustard coloured one — rolled 
out of the chamber and out of ear shot. The other sat, watching the 
Statue in silence. 


"... What is it.’ 
"YouuuuuuuUUUUU'll sSeeeeeeeeeeee!' 


‘No, fucking tell me right now you little shit-stain. What the fuck is it 
fetching.’