"Damn dude, you lacing your shit with bath salts or something?" The 
Mayor began to walk away. "Fuck that. I'll buy somewhere else." 


"Hey, she's not one of my customers, man! | have no idea who this 
crazy bitch is. Come on, | need that money! Fuck." He turned to face 
the Shadow, who had finally begun regaining her breath. Snarling, 
he gave her a final kick before turning to follow the Mayor. 


The Shadow sat up slowly. "Get back here... Get back here! I'll take 
you in! I'll kick your ass! Come back, I'm not done!" She slipped and 
fell on the ice once again. "Motherfucker! I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll 
break your fucking spine, COME BACK" 


Carl was wrong about Sarah, about her. She'd save the day, she 


knew 
cape. 


it. "I'll fucking.. kill him." she whispered. She swore it on her 


Item Description: A red cape that causes any subject 
wearing it to believe that they have superpowers and 
must use them to save the world. Note that the cape 
does not provide any superpowers. 

Date of Recovery: 05-04- 

Location of Recovery: Carl's Cool Comics in . 
Minnesota 

Current Status: In Site 34 secure storage. 


The SCP-173 Christmas Eve Spectacular! 


It was Christmas Eve at Site-19; Christmas Trees entered the 
foyers, wreaths and ribbon decorated the halls, and a lone menorah 
sat in the center of the cafeteria so that Researcher Polanski 
wouldn't throw a hissy fit. Hell, even 682 only killed 3 people that 
day as his gift to The Foundation. Everything seemed just fine. 


That is, except for one lone soul; SCP-173. 


173 had seen many Christmas Eves come and go at Site-19; many 
usually dull. The only people 173 saw were the usual batch of D- 
Class doing their cleaning duties. Of course, he would always try to 
give them their Christmas hugs, which they would always fall head 
over heels for. They would even leak love juices from time to time. It 
was a small gesture, but it was warming to 173's heart that his effort 
was appreciated, going these lengths just for him. 


However, this Christmas Eve felt...underwhelming, to say the least. 
So far, the D-Class who had usually come to clean his cell were 
nowhere to be seen. Usually, they would have sent in the D-Class 
by now, but it was already 2 o'clock, as shown on his painted-on 
watch. 173 began to worry, scraping along the sides of the room in 
an attempt to come up with possible scenarios; some theories 
ranged from possibly being at 682's cell, to the D-Class being with 
their families. While it was within the realm of possibility that there 
was no scheduled cleaning of his cell for that day, 173 knew down in 
his heart that it couldn't possibly be that simple. 


As he was just about to concoct another theory, the lights turned off 
and the doors to his cell were opened. 173 was delighted, as walks 
around the facility were rare occurrences. During these walks, he 
would pretend that he was walking on the beach for hours at a time, 
soaking up the sunlight like no tomorrow with a pretty girl at his side. 
Of course, 173 decided to take the opportunity by the neck and 
headed off into another room. 


As 173 began his stroll through the halls of Site-19, 173 realized he 
had gained some weight, so he decided to go on a small jog instead. 
He had put off his New Years Resolutions this long, never really 
getting the chance to get this kind of exercise in. 


During his jog, he saw something peculiar: a room with a light on. 
During these walks, all the lights would be off, presumably to let the 
researchers get some sleep. However, the door to the room was 
somewhat open, and he could hear noises coming from the room. 
Deciding to put off his jog, he approached the room, growing louder 
and louder. 


As he opened the door, he saw researchers, janitors, and security 
guards give a hearty scream of joy at his arrival. The room itself was 
filled with the usual Christmas decoration fare, along with many 
presents gifted to 173. As shown by his lifeless face, he was 
overflowing with joy. 


Of course, the first gift 173 received was becoming the grand 
champion of the staring contest that they were having. It was easy 
for 173, of course, since his eyelids were nonexistent. In fact, it got 
to the point to where their eyelids got tired, and they announced 
when they were going to blink. He thought they were weirdos, but 
loved them for that reason. 


After the festivities, including the presentation of presents and eating 
a lot (it was his cheat day), he wanted to give everyone a hug. There 
was a small problem with that, however: he has never hugged this 
many people at once, so he felt fairly awkward trying to hug even 
one person, as there were at least 20 more people watching. But, as 
if his problems were being telepathically analyzed by the gods, the 
lights within the room went off. 


Perfect. 


During this time, 173 hugged everyone in the room, everyone giving 
at least some love juice to him. A few minutes after the party ended, 
the guards came in with the cart; or, as he liked to imagine it as, his 
bright red Ferarri. As 173 was being carted down to his cell, he 
reminisced about everything that happened that day; the presents, 
the cheering, the hugs; it was more than anything he could have 


imagined. It showed to him that The Foundation really did care for 
him, even if it was minimalistic most of the time. It showed 173 that, 
despite not showing emotion, those close to you will always 
appreciate you. 


In short, he was happy. 


The Seas of Orcadia Part 1: How | Met Your Mither 


Long ago, in the days before the Knoggelvi, when Teran 
still slept beneath the waves, and the old gods waged 
their wars in the Great Southern Basin; life for the 
Finnfolk was a simple one. A nomadic race, we spread 
across the turbulent waters of the North Sea and British 
Isles, offering services to the youthful, less-established 
Mud-Men migrating to our rocky shores. Fishermen, 
hunters, merchants, and others roamed the waters. 


Five tribes existed among the folk of the Northern Sea. 
We lived among the shores and islets of Great Britain 
and the rocky Fjords of Scandinavia in those days, 
settling in no single place. 


The Sylk lived to the West, on the green shores of 
Ireland, tending to the Fae, when they still walked among 
the world. They say the men and women of the Sylk had 
scales greener than the grass itself, and were oft 
mistaken for mischievous Leprechauns due to their 
bright red hair, and rather short stature. 


The Silki occupied the South along the cliffs of Dover 
and at the mouth of what would become the Thames. 
They provided fish and trade to Mud-Men, living in 
thatch-roofed huts along the river. Many early depictions 
of the Finnfolk with black scales can be traced to the 
Silki. 


The Selchi swam to the east along the fjord's of 
Scandinavia, providing trade and pleasure to the Plant 
Tamers and the Flesh Crafters, two races 
constantly at war. They were most famous for their multi- 
colored scales, beauty, and height, oft being mistaken for 
the Mer folk of the Caribbean. 


The Selkie Fowk walked along the shores of Scotland 
with their crimson scales, keeping the beasts of the lochs 
at bay. They were the first among our people to resist the 
Knoggelvi, and the last to unify beneath one banner. 


The fifth tribe, the Finnfolk, with their fair colored scales, 
and long light hair, sailed the seas aboard an isle, visible 
to only the five tribes. They lived in a small city, 
Finfolkaheem, honed from crystal over hundreds of years 
in the center of the isle, 


History of the Finnfolk, a liberal interpretation, Chapter 1. 


150 Years Before the Sealing Summer (YBSS). 


Triemides is being prodded in the cheek with a rather obnoxiously 
sharpened stick. Her attempts to negate and ignore the poking by 
rolling onto her side and burying her head in the sand merely cause 
it to relocate. The second location, naturally, is far more sensitive, 
and much more irritating. 


"Bjorn, if you do not cease your incessant prodding, | am going to 
take that stick and shove it where Sdl's light does not reach." Her 
voice is groggy and slow, filled with fatigue. 


*Poke* 


Triemides' arm shoots out, ripping the stick from the offending 
party's grip, snapping it in half, and throwing it in the direction of the 
fire. She rolls onto her belly, releasing a slow sigh of satisfaction; 
having rid her tormentor of his only weapon. She eases into 
slumber. 


*Poke* 


Her eyes pop open, scale-covered brow wrinkling in irritation. The 
flames of the campfire conjure dancing shadows in the surrounding 
sand. The crystals of Finfolkaheem shimmer underneath the 
moonlight in the distance, only the waves and the occasional gull 
audible in the early summer morning. She rolls onto her back to get 
a good look at her tormentor, webbed fingers unconsciously running 
across her cloth covered rump. 


A figure, standing at the edge of the fire's light, stares back. Four... 
no, two, bright yellow eyes hover in the blackness, their gaze 
piercing through Triemides' chest. Darkness obscures its features, 
but the body shape is wrong, too many curves. Her brain buzzes. 


A female. No fins. Light isn't reflecting off any scales. Must be a 
Mud-Woman. She fails to make the obvious observation. The stick 
pokes her cheek once again. 


"If you're looking for pleasure, I'm not that sort of Finwife." The 
irritation slips into her voice. "Now let me sleep in peace." 


The Mud-Woman's gaze shifts from Triemides' to the fire. She says 
nothing. 


The Finwife rolls in the other direction, back turned to the stranger, 
her golden scales shimmering in the dimming light. Her eyelids 


SCP-973: Smokey 


Item #: SCP-973 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-973’s nature precludes it 
from full containment within the Foundation. Due to the danger it 
presents, the 60-kilometer stretch of US Route on which it is 
known to manifest is to be under satellite surveillance at all times. 
Any vehicles attempting to travel the designated section of highway 
between 22:00 and 04:30 are to be diverted to the detours at exits 
and ___ by Foundation personnel. Trespassers are to be forcibly 
arrested and detained if the need arises. 


Description: SCP-973 consists of two entities. SCP-973-1 is a 
police cruiser, resembling those used by state troopers in the 
early 1970s. The vehicle appears to be in an advanced state of 
disrepair: eyewitness accounts have consistently mentioned large 
dents in the doors and hood, a heavily cracked windshield, heavy 
rusting, and a loose rear bumper secured with duct tape. 


SCP-973-2 is reported as a Caucasian male in his late forties, 
wearing a state trooper uniform dating from the same time 
period as SCP-973-1. Subject is described as balding, slightly 
overweight, and having a handlebar mustache. 


SCP-973 will manifest at night when another vehicle enters the 
designated territory, and is believed to be triggered by the target 
vehicle accelerating over a certain speed. This limit varies, with the 
average being in the area of 88.5 km/h (55 mph), but it can range 
anywhere between 53.3 km/h (85 mph) and 112.7 km/h (70 mph). 
No predictable pattern or connection between differing limits has 
been found as of yet. 


When this limit is broken, SCP-973 will appear approximately 0.4 km 
behind the target vehicle and will chase down the target at high 


droop shut, slipping into the bliss of slumber. She ignores the soft 
footfalls, the shifting sand, the sound of a Mud-Woman sitting down 
near the fire, the ocean waves, and the gulls. Sleep finally comes. 


Mud-Woman. 


Sand flies into the darkness, briefly obscuring the light of the fire. An 
ornately decorated khopesh presses against the neck of the Mud- 
Woman, her pale sickly green colored skin shifting slightly in the 
firelight. Tightly wound strands of red hair brush against Triemides' 
golden scales. The Finwife's arm angles over the Mud-Woman's 
shoulder, her hand clenching the hilt tightly. 


"You move, | slice open your neck. Try and speak without my 
permission, | slice open your neck. Do you understand, demon?" 
The Finwife's words hiss between her sharpened canines, blue eyes 
narrowed dangerously. 


The Mud-Woman nods. 


"Three questions. Answer them straight, and honestly. If you lie, or 
try to manipulate me," She presses the khopesh a little tighter 
against the woman's neck, drawing a trickle of blood, "then you die." 


"How did you get to Hildaland?" 


"The tide washed me in." The voice of the Mud-Woman is melodic 
and disarming. It brings Triemides' fatigue back to the forefront. "I 
don't remember much before that." 


"What's your name?" The Finwife shifts, her arm briefly brushing 
against the Mud-Woman's skin. She quickly pulls it back up, a hint of 
surprise leaks into her thoughts. The skin is so soft, how is that 
possible. 


"I go by Alva." Alva's voice shifts in pitch with her words, an 
inadvertent lullaby of expression. Triemides blinks, fighting back the 
drowsiness. Her leg accidentally makes contact with the Mud- 
Woman as she shifts her stance, trying to stay awake. It's a 
pleasant, but embarrassing sensation. Her skin reddens beneath the 
gold scales. 


"What are you?" The words are almost sluggish. 


"I'm... uh... well..." She pauses, face twisting in thought. 


"I'm just a simple Mud-Woman." Alva offers a smile, even though 
Triemides can't see. 


Triemides hesitates; she can sense the lie. The hesitation is a 
mistake. The Mud-Woman's hand touches her thigh. Her eyelids 
spike up as something in her head loosens, a tight barrier she 
wasn't previously aware of. Pressure. Pressure in her head, 
growing. 


A tiny tiny section of her parietal lobe is stimulated, and expands, 
filling empty space within the back of her skull. In a flash, it is the 
size of her pituitary. She grips her head, fingers threading between 
the strands of blonde hair. Hundreds of voices, dozens of new 
sensations and stimuli bombard her mind all at once. 


"Make it stop! Make the voices stop!" She yells, falling to her knees. 
The khopesh drops into the sand with a dull thud. The Finwife 
descends into incoherent rambling. 


Alva places her hand on the Finwife's head. She slows the input of 
stimuli, but does not reduce the structure's size, allowing her brain to 
adjust to the new sensations. Triemides stops rambling, and loses 
consciousness. 


A long trident, with sharp, diamond shaped prongs, prods Alva in the 
neck. Then another. And another. She's surrounded by a group of 
unhappy looking Finnfolk. 


Wake up. 
Triemides rolls over in the feathered bed. 


Wake up. 


The Finwife's eyes slowly open. Natural luminescence from the 
crystals of Finfolkaheem makes her head spin, a throbbing knot of 
pain sitting just below her scalp. She lays flat, waiting for the 
dizziness to fade, before sitting up. Regret joins nausea as the 
contents of her stomach empty onto the smooth stone floor. 


Her fingers run behind her head, tracing their way across the scales. 
She can't feel any knots, or swollen lumps. 


I'm afraid your current condition is my doing. 


Triemides freezes, the thoughts accompanied by a searing pain in 
the back of her skull. She scans the infirmary slowly, nausea fading. 
She's alone. She closes her eyes and leans back against the warm 
crystals composing the walls. 


She's not alone. An entirely different world becomes visible with her 
eyes closed. The air is filled with purple, the sun a sphere glowing 
pink; the ground undulates, appearing only as a translucent line 
beneath her webbed feet.