"Sorry. Rules are rule." She snapped her gum again. 


Yoric tore off his coat, revealing a set of janitor's overalls, 
emblazoned with the name "Jim." He pulled a mop and bucket out 
from under a seat, and whistled as he slowly mopped past the 
secretary. 


Break dropped a small object into the bucket as he passed by. 
Several seconds later, there was a bang, a splash, and a quack. 
The drenched, burned, and battered duck limped back. 


"You're despicable," he said. 


Gerald walked by, his antennae twitching. “What’s going on?” the 
cockroach asked. 


“SCP-Eleventy-Six has got loose,” said Yoric. “We have to tell the 
administrator, but Break says we can’t without an appointment.” 


“Oh,” Gerald said. He glanced at Break. “Can we make an 
appointment to see the administrator?” 


“Sure. Got an opening right now,” she said. “Head right in.” 
“Thanks.” Gerald motioned for the other two to walk in with him. 


“Sir!” Strelnicock said to the person behind the desk, “We are having 
grave situation. SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped from being 
containment, and we must to be recapturing it.” 


“SCP-Eleventy-Six, eh? Lemme see if | remember that one,” the 
other replied. “Was he about yea tall?” he asked, putting a hand 
over his head. 


“Yes!” said Yoric. 


“Did he wear big white gloves like these?” he asked, waving his 
hands. 


“Da!” said Strelnicock. 


“Did he have big, orange, hairy eyebrows like these?” he asked, 
waggling his eyebrows. 


“That's him exactly!” said Yoric. 
“Nope, don’t know him,” said the whatsit. 
“Oh. Well, fair enough,” said Yoric. 


“You are busy man. Cannot keep up with all SCP objects,” 
Strelnicock concurred. 


“Uh, guys...” Gerald said. “I... | don’t think that’s the director.” 


“But if he’s not the director, that means...” Yoric glanced across the 
desk. 


“Is whatsit!” shouted Strelnicock. 


“You ain’t just whistlin’ dixie, sister!” the whatsit said, throwing pies 
into the agents’ faces. “Wahahahahooo!” It bounced out of the office 
and down the hall. 


“Custard?” Strelnicock said. “Custard is for Chickens!” 
“Gentlemen,” Yoric said, “I have a plan.” 


“Oh. Goody,” Gerald said. 


Ten minutes later, Gerald was cunningly disguised as a female 
whatsit. This disguise consisted of red lipstick, a white dress, and 
false orange eyebrows on the ends of his antennae. “I’m not sure 
this is such a good idea,” he said nervously. 


“Of course it is,” Yoric said. “I thought of it.” 


“Quickly, comrades! We hide in wait for whatsit! Gerald, you are 


being the sexy. Good luck with important mission.” The rooster 
saluted, and then he and Yoric hid behind a garbage can. 


“Wahahahahoo!” came the cry of Eleventy-six, echoing down the 
hallway. It bounced along down the hallway, when it espied the 
disguised cockroach. Its eyes bulged out past its jutting eyebrows, 
and its tongue rolled out of its mouth. “Baby!” it said. “Where you 
been all my life?” 


“Um. Here?” Gerald said, uncertainly. 


“Mi amore, you are the light at the end of my tunnel. You are the 
applesauce on my porkchop. You are the creamy center of my 
Twinkie. Let me take you away from all of this.” The whatsit gestured 
grandly at the metal hallway. 


“Take me where?” Gerald asked, increasingly nervous. 


“To the kasbah. The Riviera. My place for kruellers. You name it, 
baby! You an’ me!” The whatsit grabbed Gerald and pulled him 
close. 


“Fresh!” Gerald said, trying to push Eleventy-Six away. 


“Fiery vixen! Just how | likes ‘em!” The whatstit suddenly sped off, 
Gerald in tow. 


“Wait, weren't we supposed to grab him?” Yoric asked. 
“Was your job. | was keeping watch,” said Strelnicock. 
“Me? You're the one built like a line-backer!” Yoric said. 


“Whatsit is slippery, like Yorics. Therefore is your job,” Strelnicock 
said. 


“Slippery! Why | oughtta—” Yoric slammed a webbed foot down. 


They argued for several moments. Neither seemed to notice the 
arrival of Gerald-dress torn, lipstick smeared-until the cockroach 
threw the fake eyebrows in their faces. “I quit!” he snarled. 


“What are you meaning, quit?” Strelnicock demanded. 


“| did not come here for the purpose of being humiliated! | don’t have 
to be here. | don’t have to take this. | don’t have to wear this dress!” 
Gerald shouted. 


“But what about your contract?” Yoric asked. 
“Contract? What about my contract?” Gerald asked. 


“Section Three, Subjection A, Paragraph Ill,” Yoric said, handing a 
copy to the cockroach. 


666 


Will appear in cartoon-based tale for the purpose of being 
humiliated.’ Huh. | must have missed that part.” The cockroach 
shrugged. “I guess | have to go on.” 


“Looks that way.” 
“Well, phooey.” 


“So, comrades, we are now to formulate new plan of action that will 
be made up by me, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock. And using my 
fabulous guns.” He smirked, flexing a wing. “Also firearms.” 


“Oh, lordy,” Yoric said. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” 
“Is simplicity itself. Now, listen closely to me...” 
Half an hour later, and they had it set up. It was a thing of beauty. It 


was a thing of grace. It was a thing of high explosives. Mostly the 
latter. 


“Okay, so how does this work?” 


“As | have been saying, it is simple. Firstly, beartrap will keep 
whatsit in place by biting down upon leg of annoyance. Beartrap has 
no spring, and is instead closed through tiny but powerful rockets.” 


“Okay, what then?” 


“Then off is set the automated machine guns. They will perforate the 
organs of whatsit with bullets. Many bullets. It will be having more 
holes than cheese from Switzerland.” 


“Um, Strelnicock...” Gerald began. 
“Wait, hold on, what happens after that? I’m curious.” 


“Ah, that is when the platform above-weighted greatly and covered 
with spikes that are tipped with many poisons-will fall down, 
perforating any organs that were unperforated by bullets. Which 
there will be none, because of many bullets mentioned before.” 


“Strel, pal, | really think—” Yoric started. 
“Wait, wait. Is that it?” 


“Is it it?” Strelnicock laughed. “Of course not! Next, there will be 
grand finale. | have placed many explosives. The many-holed, 
poisoned, trapped whatsit shall then be blown into smithereenies. 
Will be thing of beauty. | may shed single manly tear over worthy 
foe. Maybe not. | am very manly, tears, they do not come so easy.” 


“And how’s it triggered?” 
“When whatsit steps on plate,” Strelnicock said confidently. 
“Which plate?” 


“This plate,” Strelnicock said, tapping a plate with his foot. He stared 
for a second, then looked over to where the whatsit had Yoric and 
Gerald tied up. “Oh, you. You are not my friend.” 


“Wahahahahoo!” the whatsit cried as it bounced away down the 
halls. 


There was a hiss, a snap, and a scream from Strelnicock as the 
beartrap closed. Then the rattle of the machine guns. 


“Not in the face! Not in the face!” Yoric screamed as they were 
perforated by what might be considered an overabundance of 
bullets. 


A snap overhead signaled the release of the spiked platform, which 
crashed down over all three. 


“Oh god! My previously unruptured organs!” Gerald cried. 


Then there was a very loud explosion. In hindsight, that many 
explosives in an enclosed space might have been somewhat 
foolhardy. 


Sometime later, they woke up to the smell of formaldehyde and 
mustache wax. “Ah, good, you’ve regained consciousness!” Dr. 
Mann said. “I’m so glad you're no longer entirely dead.” 


“Where are we, what are we doing here, and can | borrow five 
bucks?” Yoric asked. 


“In my lab, recovering from gross physical damage, and certainly, if | 
can find my wallet. | haven’t seen it since... Hmm, not since the last 
time you were here, in fact. Anyway! | found you around the site, 
somewhat injured.” 


“Around the site? Where around the site?” asked Gerald. 


“All around the site,” said Doctor Mann. “But nothing beyond my 
skills.” 


“So... We're okay?” Yoric asked. 


“Certainly, in perfect health! Um. Well, | couldn't find all the pieces. 
So certain... substitutions had to be made.” 


“| was wondering why beak was tasting like cardboard,” Strelnicock 
said. 


“Do try not to salivate too much. It’s double corrugated, but even 
so...” Doctor Mann trailed off. 


“Ah. Well, we are still to having Whatsit to catch. So, if we are being 
repaired to best extent possible, we must be off to be going!” 
Strelnicock stood. 


“Toodles, Doc,” Yoric said. 
“Um. Thanks?” Gerald said, before following the others. 


“What peculiar fellows,” the anthropomorphic mustache said. 


“Okay, so, we need a new plan,” Yoric said. 


“lam having it!” Strelnicock said. “We will create a minefield, and in 
the center of minefield, we will place favorite food of whatsit!” 


“No, no, no. That’s as bad as your last plan,” Yoric said. “No, what 
we do is, we paint a tunnel at the end of the hallway, then chase the 
whatsit right into it.” 


“No, no, you are ignoring obvious flaws in your plan. It is obvious it is 
my plan that must be used.” 


“No, my plan!” said the duck. “It’s ingenious, as | thought of it 
myself!” 


“QUIET!” Gerald’s eyes... well, bugged out, and he stamped the 
floor for emphasis. 


“Yes Gerald?” Strelnicock asked. 


“Um. I’ve got it. A plan, that is. And it’s my turn now.” Gerald looked 
uncomfortable. “I mean, you both already tried.” 


“He has a point,” Yoric said. “Anyway, while he tries that, | can come 
up with a plan that will really work.” 


The rooster shrugged. “Okay, we try little cockroach’s plan. Then we 
will be trying my brilliant scheme which is as simple as it is 
unnecessarily complex.” 


Gerald went over to the emergency phone on the wall, and dialed a 
number. He spoke into the receiver for a few minutes, and then 
hung up. He started filing the nails on his two left hands. 


“What? Is that it?” asked Strelnicock. 


“Wait for it,” Gerald said. 
The whatsit ran down the hallways. “Quick! You gotta hide me!” 
“Hide you?” Yoric asked. 


“You don’t understand, man. | can’t let her find me. Not... Not her. 
Come on, be a pal. I’m begging you.” The whatsit knelt in front of 
Yoric and grasped his shirt. 


Yoric and Strelnicock exchanged glances. “We... we can might to do 
this for you,” Strelnicock said slowly. “In fact, | am thinking that | 
know just the hideout.” 


“Really? Oh, thanks man. Thanks. You’re a pal. Don’t let nobody tell 
you aren't,” the whatsit said. “Where should | go?” 


“Follow me,” Yoric said. “No one would ever think to look for you 
here...” 


After they led the Whatsit back into containment, Yoric looked over 
at Gerald. “That was easy.” 


“Yeah, well, you just have to know what strings to pull,” Gerald said 
nonchalantly. 


“Whose strings is it that were pulled, Comrade Gerald?” asked 
Strelnicock. 


“His ex-wife's. It turns out he’s behind on child support,” said the 
cockroach. 


“How'd you find that out?” asked Yoric. 


“Well, while we were... | mean, with the disguise, and he...” The 
cockroach trailed off, a blush creeping up his carapace. 


“Aha!” said Yoric. “So it was my plan that led to its capture! Victory, 
Yoric!” 


“That is not counting,” said Strelnicock. “Besides, its wits were 
clearly dulled by ringing in ears from explosive. My victory, plainly.” 


SCP-828: *bS_»,AT_d,AS 


Item #: SCP-828 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-828-1 is to be housed in 
the Site-641 marine mammal rehabilitation center located 10 
kilometers inland from the coastline of Somerset Island, in the 
Canadian Arctic Archipelago. It is to be kept in regular contact with 
site personnel and interviewed regularly by the on-site psychologist. 
To facilitate this SCP-828-1 has been granted limited mobility. It is to 
be surveilled via a GPS-enabled ankle monitoring system. If 
SCP-828-1 approaches within 5 kilometers of the ocean it is to be 
intercepted by onsite security personnel and returned to 
containment. Following review by the Site Director, SCP-828-1 may 
be placed in restrictive housing. SCP-828-1 is not to come in contact 
with any prepubescent human subjects. If this occurs, SCP-828-1 
will be mandatorily placed in restrictive housing and an independent 
investigation of Foundation personnel will follow.! SCP-828-1 is to 
be fed with fish or small whales native to the region@. Only while in a 
controlled, experimental environment may SCP-828-1 come in 
contact with SCP-828-2. 


SCP-828-2 is contained in the Site-641 reliquary located at the 
Cunningham Inlet Facility. It is to be inspected bi-weekly for 
deterioration. A textile restoration technician is to inspect SCP-828-2 
bi-monthly for degradation. Repairs will be conducted with the 
assistance of the on-site, classically trained, Inuit shaman. 


Description: SCP-828-1 is a humanoid organism that stands 1.4 
meters tall with white, pupilless eyes, long "hair" composed of kelp- 
like unbranched stipes of Alaria esculenta3. The subject's skin 
resembles that of fish of the Myoxophalus* genus. SCP-828-1 is 
amphibious but cannot remain out of water for more than 10 minutes 
without suffering from dehydration. The subject's hands and feet are 
webbed to facilitate swimming. Medical examination of the "hair" has 


As the two bickered back and forth, Doctor Bright wandered down 
the hall. He watched them for a moment, and then turned to the 
camera. “Th-th-th-that’s pretty much all the shit we got for you today, 
folks.” 


Descent 


| haven’t always been special. 


| trained for it. | trained for years, following Them, studying Them 
from as close as | could safely get, learning what made Them tick 
even as the sight of those glorious beings drowned my mind in 
serotonin. There were a few nights where | wanted to kill myself over 
what | was planning on doing to Them. But | remembered the look 
on my mother’s face on the day | left forever, and | hardened my 
resolve. 


| found a new community where nobody knew me. | blended in 
easily enough. Even this close to the Out-lands, reality is still elastic 
enough that new neighbors with mysterious pasts go fairly 
uncommented on. Everyone around me played by Their rules, the 
rules They imposed just by existing. It made them pretty boring 
company sometimes, but | still managed to find some friends. They 
were always part of my plan, even in the early days when | didn’t 
really get it. 


| trained my body and my mind relentlessly, urged on by the vision 
of my mother in her bed on that last day. | started getting into 
“accidents” whenever | hung out with my friends. Falling off of a cliff 
and landing unscathed because I’d scouted the location tirelessly for 
the highest concentration of tree branches to break my fall. Diving 
out of the way of a loosened sign that was about to fall on me at the 
last second. Jumping over a car that was careening towards me. | 
brushed with death in front of witnesses over and over again, and 
they were duly impressed by my ability, but it never got any easier. | 
had thought that once | had established myself as “special,” the 
universe would recognize me as a potential member and slot me 
into a path that would eventually take me to Their level. It wasn’t too 
far fetched, if what the conspiracy theorists say about reality being 
thinner is true. It seemed like a failure, and | gave up was ready to 
give up. 


For some reason, | couldn't bring myself to. 


| went back over my notes. | even risked studying Them in person 
again. It was so hard to watch Them at their ridiculous and deadly 
games, knowing what happened to all of the background characters 
that get in their way. | remembered waiting for my mother to come 
home with a gift from a city that had been nearly leveled in some 
twisted rodeo. | cried as | watched Them kill all of those innocent 
people. But | came away with valuable information. | was going 
about things all wrong. It wasn’t a matter of strength. It was a matter 
of character.