That was always the problem. The betrayers didn't understand what 
we had started out to do. To them, compromise was an impossibility. 
We were at war, and we couldn't win if we kept showing mercy to 
the enemy. In hindsight, | should have seen it coming. The secret 
discussions, the protests, the talk of a better tomorrow... it should 
have been obvious. And yet it wasn't. When they came for us, 
wrenched me out of bed and into the meeting room, | couldn't 
believe it. And when | saw Two and Five and Six and Ten next to 
me, bleeding and bruised, my mind could not put together what was 
happening. | thought it was some sort of drill. 


| didn't realize what was going on until they shot Ten. Four and Eight 
came out, and | knew that they had betrayed us. | still remember 
their words. “It's over,” said Four. “Humanity no longer has anything 
to fear.” 


So | sit in my cell, hoping to be allowed to die. | run through thoughts 
I've had a millions times before. | try to remember what life was like 
before this. I'm surrounded by nothing. And then, for the first time in 
years, there's something. The sound of an opening door, and a 
voice. 


“Hello, One. It's time to start again.” 


In Fear 


SCP-2006 

Object Class: Keter 

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-2006 is to be contained at 
Site 118 in an airtight containment cell. SCP-2006 must be 
constantly monitored for changes in form, which are to be noted 
immediately. All personnel coming into contact with SCP-2006 are 
required to enroll in an acting course with a focus on expressing 
fear... 


Dr. Morris’s vision blurred as he lost his focus on the page, and soon 
the letters were as meaningful to him as a wordsearch. He’d been 
through the acting class with the rest of those assigned to 2006, the 
bi-weekly slog of half-hour sessions. He felt they could’ve been 
better spent forgotten down a bottle with his friends. He knew how to 
act scared. He worked in a place that would send most screaming 
with a trail running down their legs. As he walked, he fumbled with a 
little red can of the shittiest, syrupy cola you could afford ona 
budget dedicated to concrete and rebar. Morris paused near a water 
fountain, struggling to crack open the top with his fingernails. His 
frustration grew until he wrenched the top for leverage, jostling the 
can too far to the side, causing the can to spray. 


“Shit.” 


Morris reflexively swore through clenched teeth. The higher-ups 
were going to love this, Morris. He looked at the light caramel 
streaming down his starched lab uniform. He blotted at it with a 
napkin, but it still left a discolored blotch down at the hem where it 
landed. He licked his thumb, pinching the fabric between his fingers 
to try and clean the spot. He stopped after it made no immediate 
effect. Begrudgingly, Dr. Morris dropped the now emptied can into 
the nearby trash can. The intercom crackled to life again. 


“Dr. Morris, please report to SCP 2006’s containment cell 
immediately. Failure to comply will be met with appropriate action.” 


Morris sighed, he knew he’d have to make it there as soon as he 
could. He walked down the winding corridors at a brisk pace until he 
could see the solitary steel doors with the omnipresent foundation 
logo. He swiped his keycard into the control room reader, waiting 
with his eyes to a retina scanner. It flashed an epileptic series of 
lights at him, the photon mappers ensuring he was supposed to be 
here. He always thought it was superfluous they would put one in 
front of a keter-class entity, considering all the other credentials 
work a person would need to be god-knows-how-many miles 
underground in a restricted area. The doors shunted apart with a 
hermetic hiss. Dr. Morris began worming his way through a control 
room of near-identical men in coats bustling around with clipboards 
and legal pads. From the opposite end of the room came a call. 


“Dr. Morris.” 


Senior Researcher Crusoe was standing at the helm of the 
operation, a bevy of hunched figures at the console behind her. The 
storming sea of staff parted as she spoke, and Morris walked 
forwards, a bit guarded. Crusoe wasn't in the mood. She was 
concealing her panic under a mask of friendliness. Morris knew that 
face, and he thought a silent prayer to gods he knew wouldn’t 
answer. 


“Afternoon, Crusoe. What’s the situation?” 


She feigned a half-smile, half-smirk. The plasticity of it only served 
to further his hypothesis that something was actually wrong. Crusoe 
was a Cold bitch of a woman who had never smiled unless it was to 
send a researcher to certain death in the name of advancement. To 
see her smiling was a source of certainty that this wasn’t going to 
end well. 


“At approximately 06:32 today, SCP 2006, who had been assuming 
the guise of an alien creature from the 1957 B-Grade horror film 
‘Invasion of the Saucer Men’, disappeared. He is still on our 
pressure sensors, but he’s disappeared from our cameras. We’ve 
already had the techs come in to assess our monitoring hardware, 
and we're all good on our end.” 


Crusoe motioned over to a wide array of computer screens formed 


into a single viewscreen. To Dr. Morris and anyone else who looked, 
it showed an empty containment cell. Four enameled concrete walls 
and a bare floor. Crusoe cleared her throat with a sense of 
arrogance, snatching Dr. Morris’s attention from the screens. 


“We're operating under the assumption he may be, waiting, per say, 
for someone to enter the room. We had to push back his last 
appointment after that scare with the toxin leak.” 


Morris remembered that scare. Some dipshit contractor had installed 
pipes for site-wide gaseous kill toxins incorrectly. The pipes 
ruptured, sending all personnel into an evac. It pushed everyone's 
schedule back, after losing about a dozen staff in the event. Crusoe 
motioned at a clipboard on the desk like a mother pointing ata 
mess. 


“So today, in lieu of Dr. Kilpatrick, we’re sending you in. You are the 
backup psychiatrist.” 


Nothing got him more pissed off than her smug self-important 
attitude. She wasn't just the Senior Researcher, she was better than 
you. If they sold framed posters of her, she’d plaster them over her 
office. Dr. Morris picked up the clipboard of canned interview 
questions, and the digital recorder on top. He clipped the recorder to 
his hip and mic’d up. Crusoe escorted him to the airlock, looking at 
him with the same caring facade. He stepped over the door 
bumpers, waiting for the lock to seal. Crusoe imparted a few words 
before the gates locked together. 


“Remember, Morris, scary!” 


Morris almost told her to shut up. He’d made the mistake once when 
talking to a senior, and while they had understood the stress of the 
situation, he was sure Crusoe would love to grill him for even the 
slightest insubordination. He turned around, anxious for the other set 
of doors to open. The intercom speaker above came to life, anda 
monotone voice spoke. 


Opening inner seal. 


The two doors pulled apart with a metal grinding and a bike-pump 


hiss. Dr. Morris took a few steps out into the chamber. His dusty 
white running shoes making soft falls on the bare concrete below. 
He cleared his throat to clear the apprehension that thickened the 
already stale air. 


“SCP Two thousa-” 


The jolting honk of a horn cut him off. He turned to face SCP-2006, 
only to come face-to-face with a horror fresh from his earliest years. 


Blinding white makeup caked the unnatural rubber skin. The 
caricature stood before him, not enough makeup to cover the dirty 
folds on the mockery of a human face. Two Curious George ears too 
low on the face for real anatomy. Aggressive red hair sprouting from 
the back ridge of his skull, like a halloween mask. The garish 
comedy war-paint, smeared across the face, was dripping fresh, in 
detail unthought of to his formative memories of the creature. 


Morris stumbled backwards, deeper into the containment cell. He 
almost tripped over himself, before finding stability on a wall. 


“Fuck!”, he shouted, a bit too unrestrained. No one had sworn at 
SCP-2006 before. Crusoe would be thrilled. 


SCP-2006, still in his twisted form, took a dramatic step forwards. 
Dr. Morris remembered his instructions, and screamed. It was only 
half-forced. 


Morris could still remember: He was eight years old. His parents 
brought home the VHS from the rental store. It wasn’t like the low- 
budget schlock he’d waded through on cable, this was a new 
package of actual scares. After Mom had went to bed and Dad fell 
asleep in his armchair with an empty bottle of Pabst Blue-Ribbon in 
his hands, he got to watch the forbidden fruit of his youth. He didn’t 
remember much of the movie as an adult, having never rewatched 
it. If he entertained the idea, it was met with pure apprehension. It 
was the same apprehension one would feel when they hovered their 
hand over a sharp kitchen knife, or the car cigarette lighter. What he 
did remember were the Klowns. They came from the cold vacuum of 
space not to cause comical ray-gun effects and burn down a few 
cities, instead, they hungered for human flesh. His flesh, of course. 


into a gold-colored ball. 
Notes: This also works for the stomach contents. -Dr. 


Experiment Log 876-A-5 


Date: - - 

Procedure 1: D-class personnel anesthetized and the stomach cut 
open. One SCP-876-1 pill (nydrogen) added to the stomach and 
observed. 

Result 1: The pill did not dissolve in stomach acids. 

Procedure 2: Robotic arm used to lift SCP-876-2 (helium) pill and 
insert it into D-class's stomach. High-speed camera used for 
observation. 

Result 2: Both pills disappeared approximately 0.01 seconds before 
conversion and the resulting explosive decompression. 


Experiment Log 876-A-6 


Date: - - 

Procedure: Pill extracted from SCP-876-1 (hydrogen), then 
bisected with a laser. 

Results: Small puff of yellow flames, signaling a reaction between 
hydrogen and oxygen. 


Experiment Log 876-A-7 


Date: - - 

Procedure: Pill extracted from SCP-876-92 (uranium), then 
bisected with a laser. 

Results: Geiger counter detected no amount of uranium in the pill. 
Notes: Why does it only do this for radioactive elements? Look into 
it. -Dr. 


Experiment Log 876-A-8 

Procedure: One half of pill used in experiment 876-A-6 welded to 
one half of pill used in 876-A-7. Resulting capsule is similar in 
appearance to pills from SCP-876- and SCP-876- . D-class 
personnel instructed to swallow the gold ball from 876-A-4, followed 
by a capsule from SCP-876-79 (gold) and then the new pill. 
Results: D-class doubled over in pain and promptly fell 
unconscious. Geiger counters detected a concentrated source of 


This childhood trauma before him had his image clawed from the 
reaches of his mind, using greasepaint and fear to fill in the gaps. 
SCP-2006 kept up his act. Morris struggled to come to words. 
SCP-2006 did it for him. 


“Doctor, did | scaaaaaare you?” 


Dr. Morris looked up at the nightmare clown, fumbling for words. His 
tone didn’t match his usual “concerned” voice, it only raised in pitch. 
Mocking. 


“Y-yes, SCP-2006, yes you did. My God, | almost had a heart 
attack!” 


A second passed before the edges of the crude grin on SCP-2006’s 
face rose. Underneath the lips were rows of teeth. The teeth of an 
alcoholic shark. Dr. Morris wondered who had shown him an actual 
horror movie, and who would be reprimanded for this. Fucking 
Crusoe, sending him in. Armin pulled himself from the floor, raising 
the clipboard to his chest, a show of control. 


“Hello, SCP-2006, | am Doctor Morris. | am an analytical 
psychologist for the SCP foundation. | have a few questions to ask 
you, relating to your actions earlier today.” 


The clown’s joyous expression stayed. Eager for his indulgence. 
“Ask away, Doctor.” 
Morris clicked his pen, a signal for his turn to begin. 


“Earlier today you had morphed into a form invisible to the staff 
outside, | am curious as to what you had hoped to accomplish by 
doing so.” 


He stood firm. The clown on the other end of the room broke his 
serious tone at the question. A quizzical look immediately wiped 
away all manner of hostility. 


“| don’t understand.” 


Dr. Morris repeated himself. 


“Well, we can see you through the cameras. It’s how we know you’re 
still here. Why did you try hiding from us?” 


It took him a few seconds, before an expression of excitement 
overcame his previous demeanor. Like a child who remembered the 
answer to the teacher’s question. 


“Oh! You hadn't come in last time, so | tried to get you to come in 
again. But you’re a new doctor. You're not Dr. Kilpatrick, though.” 
SCP 2006 said, his tone drifting into wistfulness. 


“No, SCP-2006, I’m not. I’m sorry to tell you.” 


He was, in a way, sorry. SCP-2006 and Kilpatrick had, well, a bond. 
Dr. Kilpatrick loved getting into the whole act with 2006, and even 
volunteered to accompany him on “movie night” a few times. 
Kilpatrick had been an unfortunate casualty of last-week’s toxin leak. 
Armin would probably be filling in for him for the foreseeable future. 


“Well, Dr. Morris, | miss him. | think he loved it when | scared him. | 
know he enjoyed getting scared just as much as | enjoyed doing it. | 
miss him, Doctor.” 


Dr. Morris shot back, almost impatient. 


“Yes, |am sure you miss him, but for now he isn’t going to be 
working with the foundation.” 


Morris could’ve slapped himself. He always felt like he was 
overcompensating for moments of “getting to know them” with 
sudden shifts of cold clinicality. He had to remind himself no matter 
how much he could “warm up” his patients, he was working with a 
keter class entity. But the jarring shifts to a clinical tone always came 
with frustration, always at himself. He thought that you could make 
up for two weeks of missing reports by filling out four weeks’ extra. 


“I’m sorry, SCP-2006. For snapping just there.” 


SCP-2006 looked at him with the eyes of a stray to a dogcatcher. 
The greased clown took on a demure posture, trying to come to 
grips with this information. He looked back at Morris in confusion. 


“Why did he leave? He wouldn’t just leave me like that!” 


The clown continued to stare at him with begging eyes. Morris 
quickly scribbled down onto a blank section of paper “No concept of 
death?”, with an exaggerated question mark. Another line to pursue. 


“SCP-2006, do you know where people go when they die?” 
SCP-2006 took a few seconds to ponder the question. 
“They get back up for the sequel?” 


Morris scratched into his sheet a bit more. He decided to bite off a 
bit more. The question had been cleared with the higher ups. He 
looked down at the questions page to make sure he phrased it in the 
most direct way. It would be the fuck up of the century if he ruined it. 


“What do you know to be the states of being alive?” 


SCP-2006 chuckled. He relaxed himself and spoke to Morris. 


“Well, there’s being scared! That’s my favorite, then there’s... uhh...’ 
SCP-2006’s face stalled like a choked engine. 
“.. breathing?” 


Interesting. Very much so. Dr. Morris had everything he needed 
from SCP-2006. At least the bare minimum required by Crusoe and 
would still let him catch the tail-end of happy hour. He started writing 
down his closing statements onto his page. 


“Now, SCP-2006, | believe our interview terminated. If you have 
anything else you feel you need to do,” Dr. Morris gave a coy, semi- 
forced wink, “before | leave, then go ahead.” 


SCP-2006’s beady eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning, 
though he stayed next to the door. 


“Oh, no, Dr. Morris. | am sated. | think I've reached my, ehr, quota of 
scares today? Even if they weren't all genuine. At least the clown 
outfit reaction wasn’t fake.”