Item #: SCP-819 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-819 is currently housed in 
a secured locker in Site-19. Permission from Dr. Dreyn is required to 
access items SCP-819-A through F. 


Description: SCP-819 was discovered in a pediatric office in ; 

, after several reports of children being rushed back with 
symptoms including vision loss, severe nasal pain, and idiopathic 
unconsciousness. Agents dispatched found that the lollipops offered 
to the children were causing different bodily fluids to disappear. The 
candy in question was confiscated, and the office staff, affected 
patients and their guardians were treated and administered Class-A 
amnestics. 


SCP-819 refers to the contents of a large box of seemingly normal 
lollipops produced by [REDACTED]. It appears only the one 
package recovered is exhibiting these anomalies. SCP-819 consists 
of six flavors of lollipops, individually wrapped and on looped safety 
sticks, classified as SCP-819-A to F. Current total of items SCP-819- 
Athrough Fis’ ,with having been used for testing. Physically and 
chemically, these items appear normal, and can be destroyed and 
consumed like any other lollipop. Fragments of the lollipops retain 
the effects. The flavors are mundane as lollipops go, reportedly 
tasting the same as unaffected lollipops of the same brand. 
Experimental testing found that each flavor affects a different bodily 
fluid. 


esignation Coior Fiavor Affected Fiuid 
SCP-819-A Red Cherry Biood 
SCP-819-B Orange Orange Gastric Acid 
SCP-819-C Yellow Lemon Urine 
SCP-819-D Green Lime Phiegm 


The scholar discovered the clockworks in a book. The forgotten 
diaries of a servant, left to rot in the University archives, acquired as 
part of a lot from an estate sale. He never doubted the truth of it, 
even when he presented his proposal to the derision of the faculty. 
He pooled his own funds, tapped other resources of varying levels of 
legality, and set out to find it. After eight weeks of searching and 
excavation, the scholar stood, reeking and filthy, over the unearthed 
sorrow of a Czar. 


Two more weeks were devoted to the planning of transport. The 
device was impossible to disassemble, and the scholar would not 
risk any more damage than the device had already taken. It was 
lifted whole-cloth from the pit, boxed and padded lovingly, and flown 
back to the scholar's home at a maximum of expense. There, two 
rooms were gutted and hollowed out, and the monstrous metal hulk 
was shifted into place. 


For weeks, the scholar pried and probed at the mass of clockwork... 
but could divine nothing. Tentative, safe experiments soon gave way 
to more dramatic and less well-reasoned theories, even as he had a 
large panel fitted over the long-destroyed one, with much more 
simple and direct notations on it. His classwork and other research 
projects suffered, and were ignored. He became more and more 
prone to rambling and outbursts of disjointed theories, always 
mumbling “I've almost got it cracked.” 


Others drew away from him, as if he carried a plague they could 
catch. The scholar ignored his shunning, the letters promising first 
reprimand, then eventually dismissal. Always, always, the next turn 
of the key would give the last shard of the puzzle, and cement his 
place in history...always the next one, the next vase, the next dog, 
the next fabric...the next one would finally reveal the pattern. And if 
not that, then the one after. Or the next one, surely. 


He wasted away, eaten from the inside by first obsession, then rage. 
He would force the reason from the hulk of metal, it would repay all 
the pain he had poured out for it. One way or another. 


The police found him almost by accident. Three ladies of the 
evening had vanished over the last week, and two patrolmen were 
making rounds with little hope or interest. The door swung open 


silently under their knock, the silence inside drawing them in, guns 
drawn. They found him in the kitchen, hanging from a stout rope. 
Pinned to his chest was a note: 


| have touched the hand of God 
And found it the same as the Fiend 
Hell is all around us 

Forgive what | have done. 


The two patrolmen swept the house as they called back for help, 
expecting little but the boredom and numb regret of any suicide 
process. Nobody knows what exactly it was that was found in the 
basement. Only one of the officers came back up, and he never 
spoke again during his short remaining years. Whatever it was left 
masses of strange, swooping scars over his face, and left his bones 
as brittle as glass. The other police who responded said the house 
was already burning when they arrived, surely the result of an 
electrical outage, or a stove left on by a distraught suicide victim. 
The moaning and bubbling wailing that seemed to rock from the 
base of the fire was without a doubt simply escaping gas or warping 
metal. 


They didn't know what to make of the mass of charred clockworks 
once the rubble was cleared. When the men from the government 
came, they were all too relieved to turn it over to them. It may have 
been that relief that caused them not to look at the ID cards too long, 
or follow up the case too closely. The story faded as well, just 
another tragic fire from a victim of professional stress. 


The Foundation was most pleased, all the more so with the 
knowledge that they'd swooped the item mere hours ahead of 
Marshall, Carter and Dark. 


Now they sit, poking and prodding in careful, controlled isolation, 
musing at this wonder of madness. More and more they learn, and 
as they do, the less they understand. They slip into confusion and 
anger slower, the madness spread evenly over many...but still they 
slip. They push and prod, trying to force meaning on insanity. 


Trying to divine the secrets of the universe from a child's toy. 


Close of Play 


San Luis Obispo, California sits approximately halfway between Los 
Angeles and San Francisco, stands seventy-one meters above sea 
level, and hovers over most of California thanks to a governmental 
building sitting in the heart of the city. At the front of this building is a 
set of sliding glass doors. 


Foundation Agent Jayson Valdez stepped through said doors, 
breaking both tenses and a sweat. The California branch of the 
Unusual Incidents Unit felt more like a small DMV, with a main desk 
that diverted people to one of a dozen teller windows. While the 
building did double as a more mundane government establishment, 
that was mostly just office paperwork. Nothing that required much 
interaction with the civilian population. But there had to be almost 
three dozen people in line, sitting in a row of chairs, or speaking with 
a teller. 


Had his mind not been in a constant state of minor panic he might 
have thought it odd. 


Once he found the door leading into the back of the building, Jayson 
advanced with his stomach in knots. Fumbling with an envelope, he 
extracted an ID card with a matching picture and mismatched name. 
He stared at the empty envelope for a few seconds before 
awkwardly crumpling it into his pocket. Knowing he was too far in to 
back out now, Jayson slid it through the lock on the door and it 
popped open for him. With a slow breath he slipped through and 
shut the door behind himself. 


The back was, in a word, different. Filing cabinets dotted the 
hallways between the cubicle farms, desks were coated with hills of 
paperwork, and a steady river of traffic flowed back and forth. A 
mountain of a man was standing in a gap between the filing 
cabinets, and the tight grin he offered Jayson shone like a handful of 
diamonds amongst a pile of coal. 


"Ed Pun?" he rumbled. 
"Y-yes. Hello." 


"Nervous?" The man chuckled when Jayson offered a broken smile. 
"That's fine, that's fine. I'm Tyler O'Banner. I'm to show you the 
ropes." 


Jayson only nodded as he examined the offices. "Is it always this 
busy?" 


"Bit of a lull, actually." There was a long enough pause for Jayson's 
face to fall, and then Tyler laughed. "I'm joking! Yeah, it's a bit hectic 
today. Big bust on a Spirit Dust ring. Anyway, we should be off." 


Jayson fell in line behind him, and together the two of them forded 
through their coworkers. A fair amount of them gave a glance toward 
Jayson, accompanied with a smile that seemed to hold more humor 
than friendliness. But Jayson couldn't pay them much mind, as Tyler 
had begun talking over the roar of the offices. 


"So the front is where we intake all reports and requests," he 
explained. "Normal civvies can complain about the lights that show 
up above their house at one in the morning. You get all kinds with 
that, and a fair few of them are just wild goose chases. But you gotta 
do it, you know? And then you have the actual unusual folk, who 
need to go through legal junk to remain registered and whatnot." 


"They just... walk in?" Jayson asked. He peered into one of the 
various offices and saw a blonde woman speaking very animatedly 
to the man behind the desk. 


"Mhmm." Tyler tilted his head. "Well, some of them. The ones who 
look human enough. Others we have to arrange transport. It all 
amounts to a lot of paper." 


"Is it really that bad?" His thought was sidetracked by a freakishly 
tall humanoid hunching over through the back of the room, looking 
like it was trying very hard to be as small as the young girl wrapped 
around its spindly neck. Jayson snapped back to attention. "| mean, 
do you get that many cases?" 


"Oh, man, you have no idea." Tyler laughed. "Luckily we have some 
tricks to make sure the loonies don't keep coming back. Subtle 
persuasion, feel me? Can't imagine what it'd be like without 
memetics." 


Without thinking about it Jayson commented, "| always hear 
memetics are bull- uh. Full of crap." 


Tyler laughed. "You can swear, | don't give a shit. And they are 
bullshit. But hey, manure has its uses. You'd know, eh?" 


"What do you mean?" 


Tyler opened a door with his name on it and ushered Jayson inside. 
When the door shut the din of the rest of the building cut out entirely. 
The sudden silence spun his heart around. But Tyler still had his 
friendly disposition, and he gestured to the chair in front of the desk 
amicably. 


"Come on, sit down. I've been looking forward to this bit." 


Jayson slowly lowered himself into the armchair. He was expecting it 
to be rigid or saggy, but it was a perfectly good seat. After squirming 
into a comfortable position he watched Tyler round the desk and sit 
in his own seat. 


Jayson took several deep breaths to try to calm his nerves. It didn't 
work. 


"So," Tyler said. "I'm curious what you thought you would be doing." 


"Um. Basic paperwork, maybe? Possibly doing street work to follow 
up on reports." 


Tyler nodded. "And you will. But, y'know, that wasn't quite what | 
mean. Here, let's do it this way. Grab your phone, call your superior. 
Tell them we're a bit bigger a deal than they thought, okay?" 


"I'm not sure what you mean. You're my sup-" 


"Jayson, please." 


Jayson could feel his heart banging away in his chest. 


"We both know you're with the Foundation, okay? | imagine they 
gave you some conditioning so that you can't actually reveal that 
yourself. That's fine. But you need to call them, right now, so that | 
can prove my point." 


A shaky hand reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He 
still had three bars. Did Tyler actually mean for him to make the call? 
When Tyler simply nodded at him Jayson opened the phone and 
plugged in the numbers. 


A chipper voice came from the other end of the line. "Stanford's 
Cables and Phones, how can | help you?" 


Friendly was not something he could pull off at the moment, so 
Jayson just went for nonchalant. It sounded like he was being 
strangled. "Hi this is Jayson, out on a job right now. In a bit of a 
pickle, need to consult Al." 


"What's your code, Jayson?" 
"Uh. One-seven-four-one." 
"One moment." 


For three seconds he listened to muzak and then his boss picked up 
the line. "Heyyy Jayson how's it going?" 


"Good," Jayson felt himself saying. His eyes bulged and he tried 
getting a look at his traitorous lips. "In, out, no problem. They 
actually take in reports from anybody. | don't know what their field 
agents are like but | imagine they stay busy doing a lot of nothing." 


"Yeah, figured. But it's just your first day, if you can even call it that. 
Maybe you'll actually find something!" The two shared a laugh, 
despite the fact that nothing about the conversation was funny to 
Jayson. "Get back to me if you find anything out. Til then." 


"See ya." 


Jayson listened to the dull tone of his phone for a few seconds 


before looking to Tyler. 


"So, | imagine you have some questions," Tyler said with his palms 
pressed together. 


"What the fuck just happened?" Jayson gasped, finding he had little 
air in his lungs from all the talking he didn't mean to do. 


"You know that paper you signed earlier, in the lobby? Some magic 
to it. You now have the same stuff as the Foundation gave you, only 
this time it's for the UIU. Fun times, yeah?" 


"So now what?" 


"You work for us now, pretty much. | mean, you'll tell your superiors 
exactly what they expected to hear. But you'll actually be doing 
some good for us. Helping out those living in the cracks." 


"And | can't actually tell anyone that, can 1? Memetic bullshit?" 
"Heaps of it." 
Jayson sighed. "Do | have a choice?" 


"Well, | mean, we could fire you," Tyler offered. "We're not going to 
hold you hostage or some shit. | imagine that will impact your career 
over at the Foundation, though." 


Another sigh. "Fine. Fine. When do | start?” 


«Lucid Daydreaming 


Cloudy With A Chance Of Showers 


The rain beat a staccato passage on the bright red umbrella. It was 
not a particularly heavy rain, but had been a steady one throughout 
the day, and the clouds were still as dark as they had been that 
morning. Dr. Rights had no problems with rain, so long as she was 
dry, but couldn’t help but feel the unavoidable irritation caused by 
the fact that it had decided to rain on one of her rare days off. 


A car sped past, hitting a puddle of dirty rainwater. The spray 
splashed Rights dead-on. The doctor snarled and gave a one- 
fingered salute to the retreating vehicle. She was reminded for a 
moment of her old philosophy professor, Dr. Cabenwald, who had 
the habit of calling the gesture the “inverted avian” and the tendency 
to make said gesture at the back of the dean’s head. 


Rights smiled a bit as she stepped over a puddle and continued 
down the sidewalk. 


It’s dark. The kind of warm darkness interspersed with 
lovers’ murmurings and the rustling of sheets. 


The door is kicked open. Sharp light and harsh voices fill 
the room. He’s dragged off the bed, pinned to the floor 
with his arms behind his back, stuttering incoherently. 
She’s screaming profanities. 


One man looks at her grimly. He’s armed. He tells her to 
stay calm, make herself decent, and wait. Someone will 
explain. She spits and screams at him, still half-naked. 


Rights had reached the top of the hill. To her left was a chain link 
fence and a steep expanse of grass and patches of small trees, all 
of which overlooked the far distant highway and sprawl of fast-food 
restaurants. To her right was a line of older, two story houses. 
Several had overgrown yards and “FOR SALE” signs in the front 
window. Some were brick, others covered in faded, chipping paint. 


Rights walked a bit further before crossing, stepping up the concrete 
steps to one of the houses.