The agent frowned, retorting, "It's a spatially-limited creature whose 
anomalous properties prevent it from being readily able to take care 
of itself.” 


"It's a baby chicken that can't move more than two meters away 
from a two-kilo chunk of granite," scowled Zhang, "We'll attach the 
rock to an RC car and a tracker to the chicken and program the car 
to follow the chicken around." 


" But—" 


"No. Just, no," Zhang sighed, "The chicken doesn't need any 
additional containment procedures. It'll be fine at one of the 
Foundation's animal care facilities. Stop coming to containment 
specialists about this." 


"... It's just that | grew up on a farm, y'know, so that poor thing—" 


"Goodbye." 


Thankfully for the containment engineer’s thinning patience, his 
remaining appointments of that morning were far more reasonable 
than his first. There had been two of these which were notable. One 
had been with a senior researcher who needed the containment cell 
of a humanoid anomaly remodeled. The other had been a 
conference call with a supervisor who informed him that a procedure 
he had designed was being selected for high-priority 
implementation. 


In his last scheduled meeting before lunch, Zhang had dealt with the 
case of a junior researcher whose object of study had left him with a 
somewhat amusing handicap. The very irate Dr. Seymour Tracy was 
the latest person to have read an anomalous copy of Green Eggs 
and Ham. This had left him unable to speak in anything but iambic 
tetrameter — the classic children’s book’s rhyme scheme, in other 
words. 


It was well-documented that this effect would pass onward as soon 
as another human being read the anomalous book; however, none 
of Dr. Tracy’s co-workers was willing to aid him. Interestingly, they 
had all cited Tracy’s “jackassery” as reason not to. But Zhang was a 
stickler to the principle of professional integrity. His simple solution 
to the doctor’s problem had been to gift the book to a D-class 
subject in the infirmary, one who had recently been rendered mute 


and attractions that come from the huge amusement 
companies, and we just can't compete. The children just 
aren't interested in old places like this. The skee-ball, Big 
Bertha's show plaza, the carousel... they just don't care. 
They're bored by it. The world has moved on. 


| know that each of you has put a lifetime into making 
Funland a success, and that's the hardest thing for me. 
Each of you will receive a generous severance package, 
followed by a pass to return to your home. Thank you for 
your service. 


Mr. Funland 


« SCP-820 | SCP-821 | SCP-822 » 


by an encounter with another anomaly. Both parties were happier for 
it. 


On his way back to his office from that brief excursion, Zhang’s 
pager went off. After a quick check informed him that Site Command 
wanted him at ground-level containment, he dutifully hurried to the 
nearest stairwell. 


He made it to the ground floor lobby area after climbing three flights 
of stairs. A glance around the place quickly distinguished a fully- 
uniformed security guard waving at him as he held open the door to 
the containment area. Zhang ran to the guard. 


The guard lifted a hand in a stop signal as the out of breath 
containment specialist approached. 


“Containment engineer, right?” asked the man behind the face 
shield. 


Zhang patted the ID clipped to the chest pocket of his shirt, verifying, 
“Yes. Avery Zhang, Level 2 clearance.” 


“This way,” replied the guard, leading him through the doorway. 


They soon arrived at the sealed door of a containment chamber. 
Two other security guards were present there, both of them with 
their face shields off. One was peering into the containment 
chamber through the window next to the door. The other was 
cursing as he entered a code into the entrance’s keypad and nothing 
happened. 


The guard whom Zhang had followed into the containment wing 
explained, “The skip’s in temporary holding elsewhere while we’re 
supposed to be maintaining the chamber. Four D-class personnel 
went in, and one of ‘em managed to trip the cell’s emergency 
lockdown. The room's sealed airtight, they’re running outta oxygen, 
and our override code isn’t working.” 


Zhang moved to the keypad by the door. The guard who had 
previously been trying to override the lockdown stepped aside for 
him. 


He entered the ten-digit passcode that had been issued uniquely to 
him. He hit enter, but the keypad screen flashed red, denying him 
access. Zhang frowned and entered the nine-digit passcode that 
was shared by all the on-site containment engineers. The keypad 
again rejected it. 


“Crap.” 


Anxious, Zhang glanced through the window into the containment 
chamber. To his astonishment and confusion, he saw four D-class 
personnel using long brooms to scrape slime off the steel-plated 
walls in no great hurry. 


“Wait,” said Zhang in disbelief, “They’re still cleaning in there?” 


The guard looking through the window replied, “They didn’t notice 
when they tripped the cell lockdown, and we haven't told them that 
they’re suffocating.” 


Zhang’s morbid response was, “It’s a big room, and carbon dioxide 
is heavy. They'll die of COs poisoning before they run out of 
oxygen.” 


“Well, get them out, then!” 
“Manual bypass it is.” 


The engineer removed a red-handled multitool from his back pocket. 
Using it, he made quick work of the bolts holding the face of the 
keypad to the wall. With the numerical pad hanging by a mass of 
wires, Zhang set down his multitool and pulled a small penlight off 
the keychain on his belt. 


Clicking the light on in his left hand, he pointed it into the dark space 
in the wall. With his right hand, Zhang reached in and tugged at two 
gray wires. Carefully, he separated them from the bundle they were 
grouped in. Holding onto the small lines using two fingers, he set 
down the penlight in his other hand and picked up the multitool once 
more. With the wire clipper function of the tool, he cut both gray 
wires. 


With an audible hiss, the door to the containment chamber unsealed 


itself, sliding open without resistance. 
“Finally,” sighed the first security guard, “Thanks, Zhang.” 


“No problem,” he said, “But I, uh, really hope that your temporary 
holding cell can last a while. With a problem like this, they’re going 
to have to check the whole system before normal operations 
resume.” 


One of the other guards frowned, responding, “Damn. The temp 
cell’s not a problem, but this incident is gonna be a pain to write up.” 


“Yeah, well, you don’t have to write the technical report.” 


Having turned in the technical report and enjoyed a blissfully 
uneventful late lunch in the cafeteria, Zhang made the trek back to 
the engineering department with significantly less tension in his 
shoulders and in a moderately optimistic mood. With the crisis of the 
day averted, he felt reasonably sure that what remained of the 
afternoon would be calm in comparison. 


As he passed by the engineering division’s break room, Zhang 
remembered that he was out of coffee in his office. He decided to 
backtrack for a quick caffeine stop. 


There were two people already sitting on the couch when Zhang 
entered the break room. To his pleasant surprise, both of them were 
good friends of his. 


He greeted the two by name, “Cynthia. Remy.” 


The round-faced blonde in the violet blouse responded first. She 
greeted him sunnily, “Avery, hey! Come sit down with us.” 


“Yeah, Zhang,” grinned the man sitting next to her in baggy civilian 
garb, “Take a break for once, don’t overwork yourself.” 


Uncertain, Zhang paused to check his wristwatch. He glanced back 
at his friends and acquiesced with a softening expression, “I just 

came back from lunch, but guess | have the time. | don’t have to be 
anywhere until three. Just let me grab some coffee before | join you 


guys.” 
“What do you have at three?” asked Cynthia. 


As he grabbed a paper cup from a small stack by the coffee 
machine and poured himself a generous helping of French roast, 
Zhang answered thinly, “I’m supposed to oversee a procedure | 
designed. Details are need-to-know, sorry.” 


“Fair enough,” shrugged the blonde with little disappointment. 


Zhang stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, foregoing 
cream entirely. After the sweet granules dissolved in his drink, he 
slipped a plastic cap over the rim of the cup. 


Cynthia called out to him from across the room again to say, “Hey, 
Avery, have you seen this week’s break room challenge yet? Patel 
picked a great one. The responses are hilarious.” 


“| haven't yet,” Zhang replied. 
A bit of explanation: 


Some number of months ago, the facility had taken in an 
anomaly that near-constantly broke containment while 
also being mostly harmless. In response to this 
annoyance, an anonymous joker had posted a challenge 
on the notice board daring any engineer on break to 
tackle the task of containing the thing. 


Half the department wound up attaching slips of paper 
(and styrofoam cups) to the notice board with 
suggestions written on them. Few of the responses had 
been serious (several had involved SCP-682), but the 
entertainment derived from the break room challenge 
popularized the concept. Even after a permanent 
solution to the anomaly’s containment was found, certain 
creative minds in the engineering department took it 
upon themselves to continue the challenge with a variety 
of already-contained anomalies, particularly the very 
infamous ones. 


Zhang took his coffee from the countertop and walked to the notice 
board next to the refrigerator. 


Among the humdrum of morale posters, rules, and policy updates 
tacked to the corkboard was an index card. Scrawled in black 
sharpie on that index card were three numbers: “096”. 


He barked a laugh, “The Shy Guy? Hah! You're right, Patel did 
choose a good one.” 


One suggestion said to encase SCP-096 in concrete. Another 
recommended restraining the anomaly with bungee cords. An idea 
written in what Zhang believed to be the department head’s 
handwriting on the back of a napkin proposed strapping it ina 
neodymium vest and suspending it in a vacuum chamber from an 
electromagnet in the ceiling. 


Still shaking his head in wry amusement, Zhang plopped himself into 
a lone armchair and sardonically inquired of the man on the couch, 
“Say, Remy, what brings an ill-educated field agent like yourself 
down to Archimedes’ playground?” 


“That’s a good question!” Cynthia laughed. 


Said agent feigned hurt when he replied with a jest, “That’s ill- 
educated intermediate field Agent Anderson to you, Mr. Zhang. And 
what, is visiting a beautiful lady not a good enough excuse to hang 
out with you nerds in engineering?” 


Cynthia’s retort was lighthearted and teasing, “Not when she’s 
married to a member of Site Command and you’re head over heels 
for a certain someone in the research department.” 


“Hey, hey, come on, since when did this start being about my love 
life?” complained the field agent. 


The conversation carried on in good cheer for another ten minutes. 
It ended at 2:40, when Agent Anderson confessed that he was 
running late to turn in an incident report. Not long after he exited the 
break room, Cynthia received a summons from her project manager. 
She stood and left Zhang alone with an apologetic smile. 


Zhang finished off what was left of his coffee and tossed the cup 
away in the garbage bin. 


Just as he was about to leave the room himself, he decided to add 
his own two cents to the notice board. Digging around in his 
pockets, he found a crinkled, four-day-old receipt from a toy store. 
Borrowing the pen-on-a-string hanging by the notice board, he 
scribbled his own response to the week’s break room challenge on 
the back of the receipt. Once finished, he stuck it to the notice board 
with an unused thumbtack. 


Trap 096 in a giant hamster ball in a spherical containment room. 


With that task completed, he left to make the journey to his three 
o'clock appointment. 


2:51 


“Remy,” said Zhang with professional detachment, “I didn’t expect to 
see you here.” 


The field agent turned around and responded in an equally 
impersonal tone, “Zhang. | hadn’t realized before running into you in 
the break room that the procedure was your design.” 


Zhang bit his lower lip as a swell of emotions rose in the back of his 
throat: guilt, sorrow, bitterness, pity, pride. He walled them all behind 
a barrier of professionalism, but he couldn’t help sighing tiredly, 
“Remy, let’s just call it what it is: a termination.” 


The reply he received from his long-time friend was a choked, thinly- 
veiled protest, “It’s euthanasia.” 


Several minutes of silence passed. 
2:55 


They were the only two people waiting in a clinically bright hallway 
deep in the bowels of the engineering wing. The fluorescent lights 
above their heads cast sterile shadows at their feet for the two men 
to stare at. The unmarked door at their backs was a gallows. 


During this entire time, Zhang was struggling to find something 
resembling the right words — but find them he did. 


“’m sorry it’s you who has to do it.” 


Agent Anderson took in a sharp breath. As he let it slowly back out, 
he softly stated, “Don’t be sorry, Zhang. | was on the recovery team, 
so | volunteered. It’s... better this way.” 


Unsure of what else he could say or do to comfort his friend, Zhang 
only nodded. 


ae 


“| Know we’re doing this out of mercy,” said Anderson unexpectedly, 
“We’ve had her for months, but we’re no closer to a cure, and... she 
just wants to die. But | still wish it could be any other way.” 


Suddenly, the door behind them opened to reveal the figure of a 
lanky, owl-eyed woman of graying age who Zhang recognized as his 
supervisor, the project manager. 


She said in a voice like falling sand, “I hope you haven’t been 
waiting long. We're ready to begin soon.” 


She stepped back, and they followed her inside. 


It was not as well-illuminated inside the room as it was out in the 
hall. As such, it took Zhang and Agent Anderson a few moments for 
their eyes to adjust. 


The room was quite comparable to a small recording studio’s 
soundbooth. In one corner there was a coat rack from which there 
hung gloves and a winter jacket. There was space enough for 
several chairs along one wall. On the wall opposite there was a 
short row of computer stations where the sound mixing board would 
have been in a studio. A wide window above the table on that same 
wall looked into an adjoining space about the size of a recording 
booth. 


But of course, neither instruments nor music stands occupied that 
adjoining room. 


Through the glass of the window and of the door leading into the 
adjoining room, everyone could see the only two objects inside. The 
first was a dry, stone bathtub on top of a rubber mat. The second 
was lying on its side within the bathtub; a metal statue bearing the 
strikingly realistic visage of a young girl attempting to curl herself 
into the fetal position. 


Anyone viewing the statue for the first time would feel curious about 
the fact that someone had dressed it in a simple, white dressing 
gown. Anyone viewing the statue with prior knowledge of its origins 
would feel little for it but pity and horror. 


Zhang looked over the shoulder of a technician at one of the 
computers. He recognized what was on the screen as a brainwave 
graph, but he lacked the knowledge to determine what any of the 
patterns meant. The readout on a separate monitor gave the 
ambient temperature in the adjoining room as -25 degrees Celsius. 
An infrared camera feed on another neighboring screen showed that 
the body of the statue in the tub was significantly warmer than the 
air around it — almost 37 degrees Celsius, in fact.