instances of SCP-956-1 are kept in a neighboring room, and are to 
be maintained at a temperature of -4 degrees Celsius in order to 
prevent melting or destruction. Any use of SCP-956-1 is to be 
authorized by at least one member of O5, and to be carried out ina 
room identical to SCP-956's containment chamber. Any excess 
SCP-956-1 created by tests with SCP-956 is to be incinerated 
unless authorized by personnel with Security Clearance 4 or higher, 
as are any extraneous instances of SCP-956. 


Description: SCP-956 appears to be a common pinata, resembling 
an unknown quadruped. Tests have revealed that, although 
superficially similar to paper-mache, SCP-956 is constructed of 
various amounts of glue, _, Sugar, an unidentified fur, and human 
tissue. SCP-956 has also shown to be highly resistant to any sort of 
bludgeoning damage, with large amounts of crushing force showing 
no damage to its structural integrity, though the use of gunfire as 
well as heat and flame have shown to be effective. 


By default, SCP-956 remains in a passive state. It shows no signs of 


Old, but still the best. 


He leveled the weapon to her temple, and pulled the trigger with a 
dulled pop, like a car door slamming. She twitched once, the reflex 
tossing the blanket off her, and then went still permanently. 


Clef took the time to say “I’m sorry.” And rearrange the blankets 
back around her. 


After waiting a few seconds and listening to make sure nobody else 
awoken or was listening in, and then he crept back to the hallway, 
moving slow and checking the rooms as he passed them. Bathroom. 
An empty guest room. Work studio. Nursery... 


He slipped into the nursery and glanced over the edge of the crib. 
The tot was fast asleep, thumb in mouth, holding on tight to a 
handmade quilt, entirely unaware. Clef sighed. This was too easy, 
but he’d rather too easy than too hard any day. He reached into the 
crib with the weapon, and with another dull pop, the porcelain head 
of the doll burst into fragments. 


And he reeled back. 
This wasn't the target. 


He reached into the crib, and his fears were confirmed. A doll, just a 
doll. It may have looked like a toddler in the dim light, but it was just 
a doll. He pulled the quilt off, and froze. A small black box with a 

post-it note on it sat there, amidst the broken doll and baby clothes. 


He picked it up. 


“Clef, 

| Knew you’d come for me, 

| never did get to say goodbye. 
-Hugs and Kisses 

The former Dr. Rights” 


There was a long moment of shocked silence, followed by intense 
cussing. 


The man sat in his car across the street, window rolled down, and 


glanced up quietly as he heard Clef’s voice carrying, and rolled up 
the window. This was going to be loud. 


Clef paused as he heard a noise, just a faint, high-pitched pinging, 
and glanced down. On the little black box, a red circle lit up. 
Followed by another. And another. 


“Oh, come on-“ 


The man smirked slightly as the explosion rocked the car, before 
frowning when the child sleeping in the backseat stirred and let out a 
wail. “Oh, oh...hey, hey girl.” He murmured as he climbed into the 
backseat with her, offering a soft smile and taking the little girl’s 
hand, his middle-eastern skin so much darker than hers, pale as 
porcelain. Even this young, Bijhan could see the resemblance to her 
mother. “Shh, shh, shh...don’t you worry, Ophie. Lets get you to 
your new home...” 


She looked up at him with such pale, pale eyes with no shine to 
them at all, glassy and inhuman, and sniffled. 


The Diary of An Author 


Rufus' Diary 
Day 1 


Well it finally happened, | got hired! | actually can’t believe it! Mind 
you every other studio was interested in me, but obviously not for 
the right reasons. | mean all they ever did was freaking swarm 
around me like I'm some kind of circus act. I’ve finally found a brand 
that appreciates me for who | am. As a writer and an artist, I’ve 
found a company that actually lets me express myself; | get to live 
the dream. To all the people who said | couldn't do it, take a look at 
me now. 


Day 11 


Working for the foundation is pretty much everything | thought it 
would be and more. Not only are they giving me practically 
everything | think | could ever need as a writer, but they’re also 
giving me a place to live, free food, and well... pretty much 
everything is free. They've even given me a complementary office 
with a huge window. The window doesn‘ have a great view 
considering the only scenery consists of my coworkers studying my 
work in their white coats all day. In a society like this, free anything 
is so damn rare, so you've just gotta take what you're given. 


Day 43 


| love this job, but that isn’t going to stop me from missing my friends 
back home. | literally haven't had the chance to put down my work 
since | got here. | know I’ve finally hit the jackpot, but | guess you 
can't have your cake and eat it too. 


Day 56 


It was a tough call, but I’ve decided that I'd rather be able to have 


the company of my friends and family than write for these people. 
Sure they’ve treated me well, but my coworkers informed me that 
this job is going to be all work no play. There are never any breaks 
with these people. I've been needing to sleep at the office since day 
one, just because of how crammed my schedule is. Writing is my 
passion, but that doesn’t mean | want to do it literally 24/7. They 
treat my writing like crack. | know it will be a let down for the 
foundation, but | gave them my one weeks notice. | was pretty sorry 
about it too. 


Day 63 


This is messed up. | tried to leave the building today, but | couldn’t 
even leave my room. My office door is locked from the outside. | 
called for help all day, but nobody came. | know they heard me too. 
Some asshole walked by the glass and didn’t even acknowledge 
me. There’s got to be some kind of law against this bullshit right? 


Day 65 


This is some kind of weird cult. These people are addicted to my 
goddamn writing. They pretty much worship it. They hang onto every 
word | write and literally discuss it for hours. I’ve seen them do it 
through the glass. I’ve tried escaping, but the walls, door, and even 
the damn glass are solid. We'll see how much they worship my 
writing when it's god awful. 


Day 73 


| don’t understand the infatuation of these people with my 
literature... | handed in my latest work, “LET ME OUT OF HERE 
YOU FREAKING WEIRDOS”. They literally gave me no reaction; 
they ate it up just like they did with all my other works. Christ, | just 
want to go home... 


Day 113 


These assholes forgot to feed me today. It’s as if they haven't ruined 
my life enough by imprisoning me. What's a giraffe got to do to get 
some sustenance? 


The Doc Block 


"We brought a pretty little lady for you today, 173," said the doctor to 
the statue. The statue did not respond. After all, wno knows who 
could be watching. He instead stared back at the doctor with dead 
eyes. Through the corner of his vision, the statue could spot 
personnel moving in another statue, however he could not focus on 
it. 


"We'll leave you to it," the doctor smiled and left, and then the others 
did as well. As soon as they exited, the statue turned its head to look 
at what had been brought in. 


She was another such as himself, but with long, flowing red hair, 
luscious brown lips and piercing green eyes. She looked back at him 
with her own indecipherable expression. Within the blink of an eye 
he was standing in front of her, looking into her eyes. 


Are you a Statue too? asked the statue's eyes. 
No, |! am a sculpture, replied her eyes. 
Where have you come from? his eyes asked. 


Where you have been, her eyes said, the fluorescent lighting 
glistening off her emerald corneas. 


His eyes stopped speaking as the door opened and he became 
aware of the doctor watching them again. The statue wondered why 
he could never get some privacy around here. Didn't the doctor 
realize he was on a date? 


The doctor watched them for a while, taking notes as his various 
compatriots kept their eyes locked on the two. The statue was 
furious, how could he make a move with these onlookers all staring? 
Why must this happen now? 


Then, it happened. Against all chance a dust mote hit the eye of an 
onlooker at the same moment the other blinked. Both eyes closed 
and the statue sprang to action, snapping one's neck with his tough 
hands. He looked up to see his female companion had done the 
same with the other. 


"Oh shi-" said the doctor, but he was cut off as the statue snapped 
his neck. How could he look at two of them at the same time? 


Where were we? asked his eyes. 
Hold on, her eyes replied. She proceeded to smash in every light. 


The statue smiled to himself and began touching the sculpture. Now 
no one could see them. 


License Information 
The image used in this article is an art piece by Izumi Kato, and has not been 


released under any Creative Commons license, and may not be used for 
commercial purposes. This article does not reflect the original artistic intent of the 
creator. All rights are reserved by the artists. See the scp_{73 article for more 
information. 


The Doom Of All Frogs 


Researcher Rasmusen was dying. 


This wasn't an unusual state of affairs. Between the downturns of 
coffee addiction, sleep deprivation, the general aches pains three 
concussions gives a person, slow decay was just part of the 
background radiation. After all, everybody was dying all the time. 
Some just happened to be more aware of it than others. 


Rasmusen's office was still the picture of order. Apart from the 
broken glass spilled across the floor, everything was nearly in order. 
The poster hanging on her wall still proclaimed that mankind would 
not go back to living in fear. Her supervisor's corpse hanging 
through her office's door was sporting an impeccable haircut. Pens 
inhabiting the coffee cup on her desk were nearly unspoiled, only a 
hint of blood splatter. 


Framed photos adorning her desk still showed scenes of 
picturesque life. A graduation snapshot. Mother, father and little 
brother Joel posing on top of a tractor. Vacation stills from a trip to 
St. Augustine, with Researcher Rasmusen sitting at the edge of a 
fountain. Surrounded by statues of frogs, each denoting an hour of 
the day. A sword embedded in the ground acting as the center of a 
sundial. It had been noon then. It was midnight now. 


There were alarms blaring outside the office. The sound had 
blended with the background of screams, ripping and tearing to form 
a nice medley of acoustic annihilation. Tinnitus had set in long ago, 
to the point where it was impossible to tell where the pounding noise 
inside her head ended and the screeching cacophony outside of it 
began. 


The PA system, still somewhat functional despite the catastrophic 
damage inflicted upon the facility's innards, burbled a message 
about donating to some Foundation-organized charity for retired 
MTF veterans, along with inscrutable pre-scheduled afternoon 


announcements, concluding with a cheery wish to have a nice and 
productive day. 


Underneath her desk, Rasmusen was breathing into a paper bag 
that used to hold her lunch. The applesauce previously meant for 
her stomach was now splattered on the floor and her trousers. That 
posture had been sustaining her for the past forty-five minutes, at 
least, give or take what felt like a few centuries. Containment failing 
hadn't been on her agenda when she showed up to work that day. 
There had been two meetings scheduled for the morning, about 
upgrading some RFID scanners in the Level 2 sector and adding 
Soda Pop to the break room vending machines. 


Maybe the breach had been coming for a long time. One security 
flaw or mistake or oversight cascading over weeks and months, 
maybe years, until biding time turned to biting spines. Time was 
running out now, however long it had been in the making. Policy was 
one hour after catastrophic breach, on-site fail-safes were to be 
armed. Policy was that payment would be made to family and next 
of kin. When they were filling out the form, they had been allowed to 
choose their own cause of death. Rasmusen had selected an 
alligator attack as her preferred cause of death. Visiting the alligator 
farm had been the best part of her last vacation. 


A thought had been creeping into her mind ever since the sound of 
glass shattering had stopped echoing in her head. There were two 
people required to begin the process of initiating their certain doom. 
One of them was the lead scientific researcher. The other was the 
lump of dead flesh currently hanging halfway through the door to her 
office. Peeking her head over-top her desk, Rasmusen could see a 
flashy gold lanyard hanging from his neck. 


Gulping, she stood and strode forward. The lanyard itself was not 
sticky like she had been expecting it to be. The blood had dried, at 
least on the outside. From the sounds emanating from within the 
body when she opened the door, there were still plenty of fluids to 
be found inside. Looking down the corridor, a fist was forming 
around the golden ticket ensconced within her hand. Thinking of the 
thousands of people living on the outside. Joel was playing 
Minecraft on his phone somewhere, right now. She started walking. 


Walking through the broken and jagged corridors of her former 
workplace was a great way to see some despair and depravity. Men 
and women were arranged in piles by security guards, using them 
as cover while firing their weapons at some unseen abomination just 
beyond her line of sight. The few living workers she passed were 
fighting, flighting, or fucking. Just the things you do when the world 
is crashing around your ears. 


The break room was a scene of relative normality. Other than the 
few corpses strung around the room, an engineer sat at a table 
reading a newspaper splotched with dark stains, while one of his 
coworkers stood with hands on hips as a vending machine failed to 
dispense his energy bar. Cursing, he began banging on the machine 
with his fists as Rasmusen passed by. 


In the high-level staff offices there were piles of corpses being 
burned. Some of them were massive and deformed, with bright 
white bulbous blobs emanating from their bodily orifices. A few of 
them seemed to be wriggling, but Rasmusen didn't linger to see the 
conclusion. 


The science labs were a horror show. Men and women struggling to 
their last, impaled by shards of glass, girders of iron, and one 
another. The floor here was slick with blood and viscera and a 
chemical concoction reeking an odor akin to a recently cleaned 
toilet. It was hard navigating with eyes clamped shut, but looking 
away from one more pleading outstretched hand would have been 
too much. 


A few members of the science team remained at their posts, working 
on various projects. Some of them handled broken test tubes, 
pouring them into equally compromised mixing jars as though both 
held some long-lost compound. Others were staring at broken 
equipment, looking through shattered microscopes and filling out 
now-irrelevant logs and paperwork. 


Walking to Head Researcher Bolland's research quarters would 
have been a five-minute trip in a more peaceful era. A collapsing 
bulkhead plus fearful screaming had equaled several detours. 
Finally, inevitably, she arrived. Walking through a doorframe that 
had been torn from its hinges, she could see the remains of the door 


bisecting a filing cabinet. 


For a few moments, it appeared as though the room had been 
freshly painted. Dark red covered most of the walls and ceiling. But 
by this point, Rasmusen knew better than to expect nice things. 
Standing still, the sound of gentle weeping wandered through the 
ambient terror, from somewhere beneath a pile of collapsed 
masonry.