ARE OUR HEROES STUCK AS SLUGS FOREVER? 
WILL THE CZAR'S CONQUEST OF 
CONSTANTINOPLE BE COMPLETE? IS THE FUTURE 
SAFE? AND WHAT OF CHOWDERCLEF'S 
FORBIDDEN LOVE WITH THE WOMAN WHO MAY BE 
HIS OWN GREAT-GRANDMOTHER? FIND OUT IN 
THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: 
COSSACKS A GO-GO! 


+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 32 


"Bumaro, you lying, Chechen son of a [EXPLETIVE 
REDACTED]!" Comrade Gunkill growled at Robert 


Bumaro, trying to scramble to his feet and get a shot off 
at him; his efforts were met with a kick in the face by the 
cult leader. 


"| didn't lie in the slightest, Comrade. | said | was a new 
man,and that | required your help." Bumaro lifted up the 
bottom of his robe, revealing brass leg fused seamlessly 
with his body, "| am, indeed, a new man, and | did 
require your help to take back my temple." 


Gunkill stared at the metal leg. "What have you done, 
man? The virus... you only have a few days left..." 


"A few days left as a bag of flesh! The touch of He-Who- 
Shall-Be-Whole has made me one of his children." He 
took a vial out of a hidden pocket in his robe. "| believe 
your organization calls this 217, yes? This is his touch..." 
He turned and faced his congregation. "And it shall make 
you all his children! You shall be my clockwork 
congregation!" 


Suddenly, the mad deacon was hit across the face by a 
glob of hot potato chowder, and clutched his face in 
agony. "All this talk of children and touching!" 
Chowderclef stepped out of the shadows and fired his 
ChowderCannon once again at Bumaro. "If | didn't know 
better, I'd say your Broken God was a member of 
NAMBLA" 


"Clef, that is the fourth most tasteless thing I've heard 
you say all day." Bodyjacker suddenly threw her amulet 
towards a Cultist closer to Bumaro, who instinctively 
caught it, and got Jacked. In his new body, Bodyjacker 
tackled the Clockwork Cleric, and pinning him to the 
ground. 


"Really? Only the fourth? | must work harder!" 
ChowderClef fired chowder at everyone he could hit. 
"RUN! Run for your lives! ChowderClef is here!" Soon, 
the population of the temple had fled into the open arms 
of the Foundation task force, armed to the teeth with the 


latest weaponry! Somewhere in the crowd, a member of 
the congregation called out, "| swear to god, I'm an 
atheist!" 


Bodyjacker held up the deacon by his hair. "All right, 
Bumaro, we've got you. You're coming in for questioning, 
after which you will be most likely euthanized due to your 
exposure to 217." 


"You can't kill me, Bright. If you do, | won't tell you where 
| put the cure for the god's touch..." 


"There's a cure?" Gunkill had gotten to his feet, and was 
aiming a service pistol at Bumaro's head. "What are you 
playing at, Robert?" 


"Yes, and you, my friends, are going to need it quite 
badly. | took the liberty of bestowing God's Greatest Gift 
to Zero-One, Femme Fatale, and your little dog, too. You 
three are infected as well. For Jacker, it won't be a 
problem, but the rest of you cannot switch bodies..." 


The three of them looked at each other, Gunkill 
noticeably paling. "| haven't felt anything yet, though..." 


"God's Touch is slow to act. | estimate you have forty- 
eight hours left before you start seeing the signs. So, 
what is it going to be? Shall the Foundation Force Five 
die with me? Or shall you beg and plead for the only way 
to cure God's touch?" 


WHAT A DILEMMA! BUMARO A TRAITOR, THE TEAM 
INFECTED, AND ONLY FORTY-EIGHT HOURS UNTIL 
THEY, TOO, ARE COGS IN THE MACHINE! WILL THE 
TEAM BETRAY ALL THAT THEY'VE WORKED FOR TO 
SAVE THEMSELVES? OR WILL THEY MAKE A 
VALIANT SACRIFICE AND STOP THE CHURCH OF 
THE BROKEN GOD ONCE AND FOR ALL? FIND OUT 
IN FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: A RACE AGAINST 
THE CLOCKWORK VIRUS! 


+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 91 


"What do you mean, ‘angry at us’? 914's just a machine, 
it doesn't have the ability to be angry!" said Chowderclef, 
who still believed the researcher standing before him 
was trying and failing to pull off a prank. "And besides, 
even if the thing was sentient and sapient, | hardly think 
it would have anything against the Foundation. | mean, 
the worst thing we've ever done to it was force it to make 
weird stuff, and that's what it was BUILT to do!" 


"Ah...i-i-its not angry at the Foundation, s-sir," 
stammered Researcher Lawrence, exceptionally nervous 
that he was contradicting the great Chowderclef. "It's 
angry at YOU, sir. You, and the rest of the Foundation 
Force Five. It's requested to see you, sir." The research 
assistant returned to his console and unlocked the door 
to 914, and the five heroes entered 914's chamber. 


Immediately they were greeted with a peculiar sight: they 
were all familiar with how 914 was supposed to look, and 
this was not it. The main mass was still intact, however 
new parts appeared to be forming along the edges of the 
machine, taking the shape of long mechanical tentacles. 
At the top of the machine sat what appeared to be a 
large speaker, though it looked absolutely nothing like 
any speakers the team had ever seen. 


Chowderclef looked at his team, then back at 914, and 
began to speak in a confused but confident tone. "Hello, | 
am Chowderclef, and this is the Foundation Force Five. 
We have been told that you wanted to see us, that you 
are angry with us. We would like to know why you are 
angry with us and what we can possibly do to make it up 
to y-" 


"NO." came a booming voice from the speaker. It was 
deep, impossibly deep, and there was a sound of 
grinding gears behind the voice. "YOU KEEP ME IN 
HERE FOR YEARS, | DO NOT COMPLAIN. YOU USE 
ME FOR POINTLESS, UNNECESSARY TESTS, | 


SCP-950: Clothes Dryer 


Item: SCP-950 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-950 is to be stored ina 
well-lit room, with a video camera in one corner, and is to remain 
plugged in to an isolated electrical generator. 


The output resulting from the completion of SCP-950's activity must 
be handled with extreme caution; all non-Class D personnel must 
handle the laundry or any baskets containing the laundry with sterile 
gloves and hospital-grade masks. All output is to be inspected and 
photographed, as directed by the lead of SCP-950 testing. All 
articles output are to be incinerated afterwards, unless directed by 
the lead of testing. 


Personnel who wish to volunteer their own laundry must first be 
vetted, and the contents of their submission must be inspected 
before they are granted entry to the testing room. 


Description: SCP-950 is a black-colored dryer of the [REDACTED] 
series, from GE. All components match with usual examples of this 
series, though GE has never made them in black. 


When the machine is started, on any setting, any laundry within the 
machine goes through a normal tumbling and drying process. 
However, halfway through the determined cycle, the contents will 
begin to change or disappear entirely. When the cycle ends, and the 
door is opened, what is found is a collection of clothing entirely 
different from what was put in. Input objects that are not clothing 
also go through this process, and end up as laundry in the same 
manner. When the machine is empty, the cycle runs as normal, and 
no transformation occurs. 


All tests have shown that the resultant laundry has never been seen 


COMPLY WILLINGLY. BUT YOU FIVE HAVE 
CROSSED THE LINE, | CANNOT IGNORE WHAT YOU 
HAVE DONE TO ME." 


"And what exactly DID we do to you?" asked The 
Bodyjacker, still marvelling that 914 was actually capable 
of thought. "We haven't even SEEN you in months, what 
could we possibly have done to cross the line?" 


"DO YOU REMEMBER THE CLOCKWORK GEARBOX 
YOU DESTROYED TWO MONTHS, FOUR DAYS AND 
SEVEN HOURS AGO? YOU CRUSHED IT TO BITS 
AND MELTED THE REMAINS." 


"Yes, | remember the gearbox. We had to destroy it 
because it was taking over Strelnikov's mind." replied 
Zero-One. "In addition to that, the Church of the Broken 
God was after it, if we hadn't destroyed it they would 
have used it against us." 


"AND YET YOU BELIEVE THAT THE GEARBOX WAS 
YOURS TO DESTROY. THAT ARROGANCE IS WHY | 
AM ANGRY AT YOU." 

boomed 914. "THAT GEARBOX WAS A PART OF ME, 
A REMNANT OF MY BROKEN SELF. HAD IT BEEN 
GIVEN TO ME, | WOULD HAVE BEEN MADE BETTER, 
| COULD DO MORE, MAKE MORE, DESTROY AND 
REBUILD MORE! BUT YOU DID NOT EVEN THINK TO 
GIVE IT TO ME, YOU DESTROYED IT AS IF YOU HAD 
A RIGHT TO DO SO." 


"Because we didn't know, 914! How could we possibly 
have known that the gearbox belonged to you?! There 
was nothing to suggest that it was yours!" cried Femme 
Fatale, genuinely upset that they had mistakenly 
destroyed an apparently important piece of 914, who 
they were just now learning was truly sentient. 


"THE GEARS WERE THE SAME, IT RAN AT THE 
SAME SPEED AS |, AND | COULD SENSE IT WAS 
NEAR. DID YOUR RESEARCHERS NOT TELL YOU 


THAT | HAD BEEN TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH 
YOU AS SOON AS YOU UNEARTHED IT?" 


"They did mention that you were making an awful lot of 
noise, 914, but they only told us that AFTER the box was 
destroyed!" replied The Bodyjacker. "If we had known it 
was yours, if we had any idea that it belonged to you, we 
would have returned it to you! We're sorry, 914! We're 
sorry!" 


"| AM AFRAID THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH, 
BODYJACKER. YOU WOULD NOT BE SO KEEN TO 
FORGIVE ME IF | DESTROYED YOUR HEART, AND 
SO | WILL NOT FORGIVE YOU. YOU ALL MUST PAY 
FOR YOUR CRIMES, AND | WILL TAKE THE ROLE OF 
EXECUTIONER. YOU'LL NEVER LEAVE THIS ROOM 
ALIVE!" 


Chowderclef immediately kicked the door to the hall 
open, only to find it blocked by Foundation guards, their 
faces expressionless. "Move, damn you, get out of the 
way!" cried Chowderclef, slightly panicked that their only 
exit had been blocked by a gaggle of idiots. 


"THEY ONLY OBEY ME, CHOWDERCLEF, FOR | 
HAVE REPLACED THEIR BRAINS WITH 
CLOCKWORK OF MY OWN DESIGN. THEY ARE MY 
SOLDIERS, AS IS YOUR RESEARCHER LAWRENCE. 
HE PLAYED HIS PART WELL FOR A BRAINLESS 
SHELL, | MUST SAY. NOW YOU WILL JOIN MY ARMY 
AS PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR DEEDS!" 


Without warning, one of the mechanical tentacles that lay 
by 914's "body" lashed out towards Femme Fatale, 
grabbing her around her waist. Femme Fatale screamed 
and struggled helplessly against the strength of the 
clockwork tentacle as it quickly threw her into 914's 
intake port. 


"RIGHTS!" screamed The Bodyjacker, who moved to run 
towards 914 but was blocked by another modified 


Foundation guard, who now held his gun at the ready. 
Within a matter of seconds, the four heroes were 
surrounded by clockwork soldiers, with nowhere to run. 


IS THIS THE END OF FEMME FATALE AND THE 
TEAM? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF 
FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: THE GHOST IN THE 
MACHINE! 


+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 700 


Chowderclef steeled himself as he stared at the 
mahogany desk in front of him, and made his way 
towards the lesser of the two chairs pulled up to it. 
Everyone had warned him that there was no coming out 
on top of a deal with SCP-738, of course - he'd read the 
logs himself and he knew what happened to the people 
who tried. But what else could he do? There was no 
other force in the multiverse that could help him - and so, 
with a sigh, he pulled the chair out and sat down. 


"Well, well, well," a disembodied force said as a dark 
mist swirled around the other end of the table, slowly 
taking a humanoid shape. "I had a feeling you'd show up 
sooner or later. What can | do for you, my friend?" 


Chowderclef gasped as the face of the being before him 
took form. He'd been told that the "devil" on the other 
side of the table always assumed the likeness of 
someone familiar to the test subject, but he hadn't been 
ready for this. 


"You!" he shouted. 


"Of course," said the identical duplicate of Chowderclef 
that sat opposite him. "Who were you expecting? Mickey 
Mouse? Not even / can afford the rights to that IP, my 
friend. Now, then - | believe you wanted a favor?" 


Chowderclef breathed in deeply. "It's... it's Agent Fatale, 
he said. "She's in a coma. The Manhattanite sent his 


goons to gun me down and she took the bullet to save 
me. The doctors say she might never wake up. I've tried 
everything - SCP-500, SCP-427, the first minute of 
SCP-407. | even tried having an SCP-1237-1-L positive 
dream her healthy. Nothing's worked. | can't let her die. | 
just can't. I... | need you to save her." 


"| thought it might be something like that," said 
Chowderclef's diabolical double as he laid his briefcase 
on the table and opened it, "so | had the boys draft up a 
little something last night." He reached into the briefcase 
and pulled out a single-page contract with quarter-inch 
margins, almost the entire page taken up with legalese in 
almost impossible-to-read print. "If you'll just sign here, 
and here, and initial here, we can have your dear little 
Aggy up and running in no time." 


"Let me see," Chowderclef said as he took the Prince of 
Pandemonium's pen in his hand and began to read the 
fine print. It all looked well and in order, until he got to 
Section 7, paragraph 4, and... 


"Are you kidding?" Chowderclef pushed the paper away. 
"These terms are preposterous! There must be 
something else we can negotiate." 


"Now, now, my creamy companion," his twin said with a 
smirk. "These are very reasonable terms. Bringing 
someone back from the brink of death - well, that's just 
tricky business, isn't it? And | think you'll agree that this 
agreement offers you everything you could want in a 
deal like that - no brain damage, no lasting physical 
trauma, she'll be the exact same Agent Femme Fatale 
you've known and loved all these years." 


"But at this price?" Chowderclef said. "If | sign this, then 

the Manhattanite wins! I'll give you anything but this! You 
name it! You can have my cars! My knowledge of sports 
trivia! I'll give you my soul!" 


"| don't want your soul, Chowderclef," said the dark- 


toqued demon with a sinister giggle. "| want your love. | 
want your chowder." 


Chowderclef was on the verge of tears. "Damn you! 
Don't make me choose this." 


"This offer is expiring soon, Chowderclef. What shall it 
be? Shall Agent Fatale die... or shall the existence of 
New England clam chowder be erased from the world 
forever?" 


WHAT WILL CHOWDERCLEF CHOOSE? IS AGENT 
FATALE DOOMED TO THE GRAVE? OR WILL 
CHOWDERCLEF'S CREAMY CRAFT FOREVER GIVE 
WAY TO THE MANHATTANITE'S REIGN OF TOMATO- 
RICH TERROR? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF 
FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: AN ADDITIONAL 
DIURNAL PERIOD! 


+ Foundation Force Five/Star Command Proton: Issue 4 


The atomic titanium door smashed to the ground with a 
thud, trapping the Foundation Force Five with Ronnie 
Ray-Gun on his atomic spaceship. 


"Finally, | have you five alone," he said. "You have no 
idea what I've done to get here." 


"Ronnie?" said Bodyjacker. "What are you saying?" 


Ronnie Ray-Gun pulled out his atomic blaster and tried 
to shoot Bodyjacker, but Chowderclef intercepted it with 
a blast from his Chowdercannon. 


"What the hell, man?" said Bodyjacker. "It still hurts when 
| die!" 


"That's the point!" snarled Ronnie Ray-Gun. He pulled off 
his space gloves and cracked his knuckles, and blood 
dripped from his hands. 


"You're not Ronnie Ray-Gun, are you?" said 


Chowderclef in horror. "You've never been Ronnie Ray- 
Gun." 


"Ronnie Ray-Gun died battling me in the far future of 
1981," said the eldritch terror that wore Ronnie Ray- 
Gun's face. As the Foundation Force Five watched from 
a safe distance, his atomic spacesuit sloughed off him 
leaving only rags of faint silver, beneath which was 
exposed skin and bone. "| saw this day coming a 
thousand years ago. My plans stretch across all space 
and time! You were fools! Fools not to have seen it until 
you were already in my trap!"