"Couldn't we find the song somewhere?" Quinn asked; fire trucks 
were beginning to surround the convention center, and firemen were 
coming in. Quinn lifted up her badge, as Darnell gave some bullshit 
explanation about Sinclair being trampled by the crush. "Or one like 
it? The lyrics don't matter, it's just the cadence, yeah? 


"...you have that app that lets you find music based on singing?" 


"Darnell does." They limped past the firemen, and Quinn nodded at 
her partner, who produced the phone and the app in question. "Sing 
it.” 


Sinclair hummed a few bars into the microphone, and within 
seconds, the phone chimed and brought up a song. "What is it?" 


"...Quinn," he said, bringing up the phone, "You're not gonna like 
this." 


It took half a minute for Quinn to realize what she was seeing. It was 
an electro-swing song. One that she was fairly sure she had ona 
cassette in her car. "...| hate the way the universe works." 


"Join the club," Sinclair laughed, before gasping and wincing in pain. 
"At least you don't have to live with it every day." 


"Can't believe we're doing this," Quinn said as she came down the 
elevator that evening. "Going to a rave full of people in-" she 
hesitated on the term- "fursuits to catch a cat god, all because a 
magician broke her arm." 


"The skippers have tech that's going to repair her arm within the 
hour," Darnell replied with a soft roll of his shoulders. "I agree that 
it's dumb we have to do this, but it's either this, or the death of 
hundreds of people." 


"Right," Quinn said, passing by a poster that stated a band that was 
coming to play at the convention had had their act cancelled; a brief 
glance showed it was the same band that played the song that was 
going to trap the cat. "...this could all have been avoided so easily." 


"Anyway. Let's do this." They walked through the hall, and at the 
ballroom doors, they were stopped. 


"Room's full," said a tubby man wearing what was clearly a rent-a- 
cop suit. "Fire code and all that, sorry." 


"FBI," Quinn said as the two agents brought up their badges. "There 
is a dangerous person of interest in there." 


"Well," the guard said, his mouth splitting into a Cheshire Chelsea 
grin. "This charade can be dropped, then. Master Irusan will not be 
stopped. His bacchanal shall-" 


Three seconds later, Darnell was wiping nose blood off of his fist, 
and Quinn was cuffing the "guard". "We might be too late," Darnell 
said. "We gotta get in there." 


"Agreed," she said, opening the door. "Didn't even bother to lock it." 


".,.they really don't need to," Darnell said, eyes wide as he looked 
over the crowd. In the center, surrounded by enamored men and 
women, stood Irusan, still having assumed the form of a simple 
human being in an animal costume. People around him waved to 
the rhythm of its cat song, which was only broken, briefly, by the 
entrance of the agents. 


WELL, it said in a booming, mental voice. COME TO WORSHIP? 
TO FIGHT? OR TO CONTAIN? 


"...we come to arrest," Quinn frowned. "By the power invested in me 
by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, | say: hit it, boys." 


The speakers in the room blared to life, blasting Lone Digger by 
Caravan Palace. "It's the twenty-first century,” Quinn yelled over the 
music. "We had our tech guys rig it up hours ago. They just needed 
our signal to confirm you were here." 


The cat god looked around in something that could be approximated 
to horror with its blank, plastic eyes, and it held its head, the 
phylactery still stuck to it. It looked like it was being sucked in, before 
it let out a command directed at its followers, heard by Quinn and 
Darnell like a headache: DESTROY. 


Instantly, one-hundred people began throwing themselves at the 
speakers, and the agents. Darnell went down thanks to a tackle from 
a particularly strong... Quinn didn't know what that was. A hyrax? 
She managed to dart through the crowd, and come up to Irusan, 
who was starting to shrink. 


BITCH, it screamed. | WILL SMITE YOU AND YOUR KIND FROM 
EXISTENCE. FELINES WILL FOREVER SHUN AND ATTACK 
YOU. 


"I'm more of a dog person anyway" Quinn snarked. "And besides, to 
do that, you need power. The most power you'll be having soon are 
the lights in your cell." 


The cat's form changed, and with a loud roar, the music cut out, the 
lights flicked, and Quinn felt the unmistakable surge of an EMP on 
her skin. Standing before her was a much smaller version of the 


abominable cat she had found earlier in the day, its twin maws 
gaping. This is a rave. Let's fucking dance. 


"Darnell!" Quinn called. "He pulsed the music! Get it back up!" 


"Trying!" He said, shoving his way through a crowd (pack?) of 
wolves. 


Quinn, for her part, took out her gun and aimed it, point-blank, at the 
cat. She fired, and the cat's head recoiled, only to slowly slide back 
forward, bullet in his teeth. "...that is so fucking cliche. Couldn't you 
have at least had a hole in your head?" 


Cliches are all | have left! The cat yowled in her mind, the voice 
having grown weaker. She felt scratch marks appear on her arm, 
and saw blood start to seep through her sleeve. My stories are 
burnt! / only exist because of a me-damned video game! 


Meanwhile, another yowl, another cut, YOU get to exist without 
needing your story to be told. Humans are the only self-sufficient 
sapient beings on this planet. How is that fair?! 


"You want a story?" Quinn asked, dodging a swipe of his claw. 
"Fine. Once upon a time, there was a very grumpy cat named 
lrusan. It- fuck!" she dove underneath its jaws as Irusan snapped at 
her. "It decided to trash a convention of nerds that tried to dress up 
like animals—" A gunshot to his side was followed by her crying out, 
"Darnell what is taking so long? 


"| got fucking bitten by five people!" he yelled back, delivering a 
punch to a foam-covered coyote head. 


Quinn was grabbed by a massive paw, and bit the cat's hand to get 
away from it. She was surprised that blood was drawn, and even 
more surprised when it was dropped. She continued talking as the 
cat's hand healed. "It decided to trash a convention just for the sake 
of getting new worshipers, making my life, my partner's life, the 
Skipper's lives, and the lives of everyone here miserable in the 
process." She weaved her way behind him, and said, "Then, one 
day, he got neutered by an FBI agent." Quinn punctuated this by 
making the lowest blow one could on anything male— a swift, 


upward kick between the legs. All this got her was a sore foot. "... 
mmmmmoooother fuuuuucker." 


Points for effort, lrusan grinned, his head turning around one- 
hundred eighty degrees, followed by the rest of his body. Now, 
animal companions mine, rend them limb from limb, and you will 
receive your reward! 


Quinn was grabbed from either side by cartoon-faced animal- 
dressed psychopaths, who began pulling at her arms. She didn't 
quite think that expression was going to be so literal. Then, 
something came to mind, one last, desperate thing. "...you really 
want to get my blood on your fur?" 


The people pulling against her stopped their efforts, paused for 
thought, and let her go. "Hell no," one of them, a rather graceful 
looking border collie, said. "| paid a grand for the head alone." 


lrusan looked perplexed by this. DESTROY! he commanded, once 
more. The furries just stood there, looking at him, then at their 
costumes, then at Quinn. 


Agent MacAllister grinned. "Nothing comes between a nerd and their 
cosplay." 


"| got it up!" Darnell yelled, and with an audible clack of a key, and 
the music started blaring from where it stopped, the near- 
indecipherable, mondegreen-filled chorus. 


With a final how/, the cat's began to sink into the symbol, and finally, 
in a puff of dislogic, vanished into the metal ring entirely. Quinn 
grinned as it rattled on the floor, clapping her hands... which then 
turned into a frown. "...and in five..." 


Foundation agents stormed the ballroom, two of them throwing 
Quinn and Darnell a gas mask each, before they flooded the room 
with a brain-wiping drug and knockout agent. The furries around 
them fell to the ground, some of their heads cushioned by the foam 
around them, others not so much. 


Quinn and Darnell exited the room, only to find Sinclair waiting for 


them, her arm mended. "Okay, | have to ask,” Quinn said. "Why is it 
you call us on these things? We're not well-equipped, we can't shoot 
fireballs out of our noses, and I've not touched an assault rifle in six 

months." 


"On these assignments?" Sinclair looked sheepish. "Quite frankly, 
Agent MacAllister, when it comes to containing an anomaly ina 
crowded, civilian setting... the Foundation doesn't have the best 
track record of minimizing casualties. | think the only causalities in 
this hotel are going to be the bedsheets." 


"...I'm done," Quinn peeled off her mask. "Do we have to stay here 
for the duration? Because | would take chasing down a currency- 
eater in Cincinnati any day over this." 


"You're stuck here," Sinclair affirmed, "But the drinks are free." 


"Thank god," both the agents said at the same time. "You gonna 
come drink with us?" Darnell asked. 


"| have to contain the phylactery, make sure the task force doesn't 
stomp anyone to death, and then... | have plans." Her eyes glanced 
downward at the ground on the last statement. "Well. Good job, you 
two. Pats on the backs, gold stars, et cetera." 


"Right," Quinn said. "Whatever. | hope they have really fucking good 
mojitos here..." 


The conversation turned to alcohol as Quinn and Darnell left the 
room. Sinclair, for her part, produced the panel schedule from her 
pocket and looked it over. The convention wasn't over yet- there 
was still the panel on selachian anatomy, another on fursuit building, 
a guest speaker, free STD testing, a screening of Zootopia— "... 
wait," she looked at the fourth event and rubbed her head. "Well, at 
least they're being careful." 


An Unusual Incident 


Robert Baxter was a punctual man. At 9:00 o'clock every morning 
his butt was in his undersized office chair. At 11:00 he would 
replenish his coffee. Lunch was at 1:30 sharp, no exceptions. A tuna 
and croissant sandwich with chips. At 3:00 he walks around the 
office on his way to the coffee machine, stopping to chat with 
whoever looked like they were receptive to it. Usually Julia, God 
bless her. At 5:00, with all his work done for the day, Robert is out 
the door, no, he wouldn't like to go for a drink after. He prided 
himself on his sobriety. Fifteen years strong, starting the day he got 
this job. 


If you asked his coworkers what they thought about him, the 
answers are pretty much all the same. Oh, Robert is a good worker. 
Always here on time, never misses a day. Good for a joke too, isn’t 
that right Julia? Sure, sometimes he’s a bit of a straight edge, but 
hey, you can’t blame the guy. Not after the car accident. 


His ex-wife has something a little different to say. If you can get past 
the ranting about his self-destructive and indulgent nature, she might 
admit that he was a total sweetheart when they first met. No, she 
isn’t mad at the new Robert, just the old one, the Robert who got 
behind the wheel of an SUV while blasted out of his mind and ended 
up fighting for his life in a Massachusetts hospital. She’s happy that 
he got his life back, but makes it clear she is finished with him, thank 
you very much. 


On an ordinary Friday morning, Robert drove down to the office, 
located in a well-hidden business park. He maneuvered into his 
favorite spot — no assigned parking here- and headed into the 
building. The elevator was on the top floor, so he had no choice but 
to wait. Robert hated waiting, especially for anything out of his 
control. Time, he had once theorized to his soon to be ex-wife, was 
mankind’s greatest enemy. We either have too much of it, or too 
little, and once it’s gone it never comes back. Life is a struggle 


22:36 


2F Stair: [ /mage becomes wavy and 
distorted. Movement can be seen, though 
the interference is such that no details can 
be made out. ] 


2F Bedroom: [ Slow, deliberate footsteps 
can be heard ascending the stairs. D-209 
attempts to open the window and escape, 
to no avail. J 


22:37 


2F Bedroom: [ D-209 procures a small 
lamp from the nightstand, and makes 
several attempts to smash through the 
window. ] 


2F Hallway: [ Sudden video corruption 
affects this feed as SCP-783 moves directly 
in front of the camera; the image resolves 
over the span of thirty-three seconds as it 
moves farther down the hall. At this point, 
the only affected area on the recording is 
immediately outside the bedroom. ] 


2F Bedroom: [ D-209 freezes. A knock is 
heard at the door. } 


22:38 


2F Bedroom: [ D-209 approaches the 
door, wielding the lamp as a cudgel. He 
asks for the individual at the door to identify 
themselves, receiving no response. He 
then asks Control if any personnel were 
able to gain entry. Observing personnel 
maintain radio silence. D-209 braces 
himself, and grasps the doorknob with his 


against the constant advancement of time; deadlines, age, even 
relaxation. A// people, he told her, despise Sundays, because we 
know in the back of our minds that it comes to an end sooner than 
we want. His words were slurring together at that point, but he was 
still proud of his attempt at philosophy. Not bad for a business grad, 
he’d thought while slamming down another shot. 


Arriving at the fifth floor, Robert met his first obstacle; the lights were 
off. He had seen some of his co-worker’s cars, so he figured the 
whole floor must be having trouble. Navigating his way through the 
darkened hallway he grappled at the door to the office he worked in. 


“Hello?” There was no response as he peered into the room. The 
blinds were down, so only a small amount of light was seeping 
through. He was groping around for the switch when he 
remembered: today was the fourteenth of September. It was his 
birthday on Sunday. 


Of course he had forgotten, he had been working too hard on the 
Peterson presentation to even think about celebrating. Despite his 
insistence to the contrary, his co-workers always threw him a 
surprise party. No doubt they were all hiding around the office now, 
waiting for him to walk in. There would be a cake (chocolate) and 
drinks (non-alcoholic). Susan probably brought in her famous salsa, 
she knew how much he liked it. 


Steeling himself for a non-productive workday, Robert flipped up the 
light switch and braced for the explosive cheer. There was nothing. 
In fact, there wasn’t anybody at all. The office was deserted, with 
chairs strewn about the floor. A half hung “Happy Birthday” banner 
fluttered next to the AC unit’s vent. On the floor next to the cubicles 
he could see the demolished remains of a once delicious looking 
chocolate cake —a large footprint impressed on the moist lump- and 
beside that a single shoe. There was a large splatter of what 
appeared to be seedless strawberry jam on the boss’s office door. 


“Guys, come on.” Motioning to the mess, “I hope you don’t expect 
me to help clean that up.” 


Silence. 


“If this is a joke, | very much don’t appreciate it.” He paused. Time to 
appeal to authority. “Henderson is going to flip when he comes in.” 
Still nothing. 


He left his coat on the rack but kept a firm grip on his briefcase as 
he moved towards the reminder of the office. /f | can reach my desk, 
he thought, / can get some work done. These clowns can wish me 
happy birthday like normal people. 


He never got that far. Turning the corner at the cubicles he 
encountered his second obstacle: Julia. Or rather, what was left of 
her.