Had to sell the rights to most of the Eastern seaboard for these 
things, but — no, no, Carl, they’re not just boxing gloves. These are 
thaumatological and shit. Gloves just fit on hands, right? Well, not 
these babies. They’re all up and enchanted to fit on anything with a 
limb — two-leg amputees, eldritch wannabe-boxers, you know, niche 
market kinda stuff. Well, guess what else the magic recognizes as a 
limb, folks? That’s right. That’s right. Fins. 


Womenshark and gentlefish, octopeople and mollusckind, you know 
that the Coharmonious Pelagic Society is a peaceful-loving bunch. 
Live and let live, we say. Live and let live. But that ain’t what’s 
happening here, is it? 


Starting today, the sharks punch back. 


People Are Not Wearing Enough Hats 


"...which brings us once again to the pressing issue of just how 
much there is left to contain," said the Head of Foundation Staff to 
the meeting, shuffling the papers in his hands. A collection of bored 
individuals sat before him. An excited looking man started to fiddle 
with the projector up front. 


"Next on the agenda," continued the Head of Staff, "Researcher Erit 
Invictus has a proposition for a new class of SCP." A collective 
groan came from those assembled. 


"Now, now, hold your complaints," said Erit, starting up his 
presentation, displaying the Foundation symbol. "First off, this is not 
another class of ‘SCP’. It's an entirely different concept altogether. 
See," he flicked to the first slide, "even though SCP stands for 
‘Secure, Contain, Protect’, it has come to mean pretty much any 
anomalous object under the containment of the Foundation. So, 
what | was thinking is this." 


He flipped over to the next slide, which displayed the letters 'NAO' in 
black block capitals. "Non-Anomalous Object.’ "There are too many 
things humanity is just not ready to know about yet, but are perfectly 
explainable by Foundation standards. Going by the classic definition 
of an SCP, we can't contain them. But, with the NAO-class objects, 
our horizons are expanded so much further! Take that teleportation 
system from last month; a few hours of research on it and we 
understand how it works on a basic level. The problem is that it's still 
exceptionally buggy. 


"| wasn't aware of any bugs in the system," muttered a woman near 
Researcher Invictus. 


"You obviously haven't heard of the half-dozen researchers whose 
lower limbs would like to disagree," said Erit, shooting her a dirty 
look. "Anyways, until such time that the human race is ready for 
such a thing to exist, we should contain the teleportation system." 


A few people coughed in the silence that followed. At length, one 
man stood up and asked, "Aren't we already on our way to 
perfecting the technology for use within the Foundation?" 


Erit blinked. "I beg your pardon, Mister Tuomey?" 


"Well," began Tuomey, folding his arms behind his back, "I've been 
supervising that project for a few weeks now, and from what my staff 
has told me, they've already worked out that issue. In fact, we've 
already had six successful tests in a row, wherein the subject 
reached the desired target without any major loss of life or limb. 
Sure, it's far away from the requirements of our actually using the 
system - there's still the matter of getting them back - but compared 
to most other SCPs, it's a really big step forwards." 


"But, but..." sputtered Erit, fumbling with the button in his hand, "that 
goes against the rules of the Foundation! You're trying to use an 
anomalous object for collective gain!" 


"Didn't you just say this concept wasn't anomalous?" asked Doctor 
Mackenzie. 


Erit swallowed hard and started sweating. "Well, regardless, of that, 
the teleportation system is still very dangerous. Until humanity is 
ready for it..." 


"Wait, wait," said, Research Assistant Godbot, holding up his hands. 
"I'm confused. How do you define when humanity is ready for it?" 


"That's actually a good question," chipped in Aelanna. "There's 
really no way of defining such a concept, now is there?" 


"| actually thought we'd be containing really dangerous things that 
aren't anomalous,” said Researcher Gargus, "which opens up a 
whole new can of worms, seeing as that would be a monstrous 
waste of resources." 


"Look!" shouted Erit, stamping his foot on the ground. "What I'm 
saying is that our jurisdiction isn't far enough. If we're going to be 
protecting people, shouldn't we expand what we can contain?" 


"If we can understand it, why not utilize it?" 


"That's Serpent's Hand talk!" 


What followed was a large amount of shouting, bickering, quarreling, 
and all those other words that get involved in things when an 
argument is started up. Needless to say, the volume continually 
escalated throughout all of this, making opinions harder and harder 
to understand. The whole mess was on the verge of physical 
violence when someone at the end of the table coughed. Everyone 
present turned to see the Head of Staff sitting perfectly still, a steely 
look in his eyes. 


"All of you sit down,” he said slowly. A quick rush for chairs followed. 
"Get back in order." A straightening of ties and clearing of throats. 
Silence fell over the room for a moment. Erit moved the speak once 
again, but the Head of Staff stopped him with a raised hand. 


"Mister Invictus, it appears you missed a few key points during your 
initial orientation. Allow me to elaborate them for you." Researcher 
Erit nodded his head. "First off, despite our vast resources, the 
Foundation simply cannot afford to contain everything. Regardless 
of how expensive certain containments may be, they are always 
kept under a balanced budget. Taking in such a vast quantity of 
objects is simply not possible. 


"Second, our purpose is to contain anomalous objects. It is not 
explicitly stated, true, but they are the ones that only we can deal 
with. Normal organizations simply cannot handle them, and most 
Groups of Interest wish to use them for selfish or self-destructive 
purposes. Our focus must be on the paranormal, the supernatural; 
the everyday, no matter how dangerous, can be left to someone 
else." 


"But sir..." began Erit, holding out his hands. 


"Left to someone else," growled the Head of Staff. Erit swallowed 
again and nodded. "Third, as was mentioned in your little quarrel, it 
is not our job to decide what the human race is ready for. That 
should speak for itself. 


"And finally," he said, casting a glare over everyone else present, "| 
want to see the attempts to utilize the teleportation system shut 


down. It goes against policy, and is the only thing Mister Erit got 
right in his presentation." He turned to look at Researcher Invictus 
again. "We get enough of this from new members of the staff. Don't 
fall into old habits, Mister Invictus. That will be all." He sat back in 
his chair again, and reassumed a disinterested position. 


Erit stood at the front of the meeting for a few moments, coughed, 
and switched over to his final slide. "This concludes my 
presentation. Any questions?" Several dark glares from those 
assembled. "Right then. I'll just be..." He shuffled back to his seat. 


"And now, our final item of the day," said the Head of Staff, shuffling 
his papers once more, "Researcher Gargus wishes to speak to you 
all on the state of the fourth wall after his constant assaults on it..." 


Perfection 


“Do | hear five hundred thousand pounds?” 


“ ” 


“Thank you...do | hear five fifty?” 


“ 


“Thank you ma’am...do | hear six hundred?” 
“Thank you...six fifty?” 

“One million pounds.” 

“...t-thank you sir. Do | hear more?” 


“ ” 


“Sold, to Mr. McCredie. Thank you so much sir. This next lot...” 


The bald man who had just spent an absurd amount of money ona 
small, somewhat tacky yin-yang medallion rose from his seat and 
exited the small, lavishly decorated auction room, entering a 
separate room filled with thick leather chairs, a small but well 
stocked bar, several men and women in very expensive dress, and 
a sizeable Christmas tree. The smell of smoke was very noticeable, 
but not unpleasant as the bald man lit a cigarette to add to the 
general haze. A short, stocky man in a non-descript black suit 
walked up, bowing slightly before speaking. 


“Sir, | take it that you acquired the...um...” 


“Yes, yes...” the bald man said, waving his hand in a dismissive 
gesture. “Marten, bring the car up for me, and have a valet just load 
the medallion into the trunk; | don’t want to wait for that ‘secured 
shipping’ nonsense for weeks. We'll be going to the airstrip in a bit; 
I'd like to be at the Paris club by this evening.” 


Marten bowed slightly again “Yes, Mr. McCredie. If | may, your 
recent acquisition may attract unwanted attention. | can have it 
routed through a service in Bhutan that is excellent in dealing with 
these matters.” 


Mr. McCredie took a long drag on his cigarette, waving his hand 
again as he started to eye a bottle of aged scotch behind the bar. 
“Of course, do whatever is necessary, but | want that necklace in 
Paris by this weekend. Also, have Arthur and Grant ready in Paris 
when | get there.” 


Marten followed Mr. McCredie as he strode up to the bar, acquiring 
a very good and very expensive glass of scotch with a few gestures 
to the bartender. Marten bowed and spoke again as Mr. McCredie 
took his first slow sip. “Will Mrs. McCredie be joining you on this 
evening’s flight?” 


Mr. McCredie’s face twisted with a sour expression as he put down 
his drink. “No, no...she’s still pouting in her new apartment over my 
having to work on her birthday...but we'll soon see to that, won't 
we!” He laughed, taking another sip. “Send for her tomorrow 
morning. If she makes a fuss, say...| don’t know, something 
romantic or some such. She’s young, and still loves to think of 
herself as a princess...oh, say that she'll get to meet royalty, that 
should shut her up and get her packing.” 


Marten moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. “And the...special 
considerations you asked for have been attended to as well. A local 
funeral home has offered its services and crematorium for modest 
compensation as soon as we are in need.” 


McCredie scowled at Marten, waving him away as he turned back to 
his scotch. “Really, is it necessary to inform me of every little step? 
Go; make things ready, I'll be leaving here in the hour. Really, | don’t 
know why | still bother with these Christmas get-togethers, they 
always end on some sour note...are you still here? | said go!” 
Marten bowed and quickly walked off, leaving McCredie to his 
scotch and a drab conversation with a member of the English 
parliament. 


June McCredie came off the jet in bluster of expensive silk, blond 
hair, and whining. “This isn’t another one of his stupid little business 
meetings, is it? | swear, if he drags me all around town to meet a 
bunch of old, stupid men in suits, I’m going to scream. With all the 
meetings and social stuff he does, you’d think he’d find time to go to 


one or two real parties! You know, music and dancing and fancy 
drinks and all that stuff...not gagging on smoke having to listen to fat 
old guys talk about pricing strategies and having to act interested.” 
She hurried off the tarmac and into the reception area of the 
McCredie’s private airstrip, as Marten directed the unloading of her 
considerable baggage from the jet. 


Later, as her car ambled its way down the busy Paris streets, she 
continued her monologue, directing it at the back of Marten’s head 
as he drove. “Really, this is it. | don’t need him, if he’s not going to 
put some time into our relationship, | don’t know how this is going to 
work. We've been married a year, and we’ve only gone on three 
vacations, just the two of us. Now all he wants to do is stay at that 
club of his all day and smoke and drink.” She ended in a huff, 
crossing her arms and pouting out the window. 


Marten smiled, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Ma’am, I’m sure you 
appreciate his position. Your husband is a powerful man, and need 
to keep up appearances to maintain his position.” 


June huffed again, burying herself more into the leather seats and 
watching Paris roll by. Ata stop, she piped up again, still looking out 
the window. “Marten...is...is John in trouble? | mean...with the 
government or anything?” 


Marten stiffened a little at the wheel, his smile unfazed. “No ma’am, 
Mr. McCredie has a quite friendly relationship with parliament, as far 
as | am aware.” 


“Oh,” she sighed, “Il was worried...some men came by, asking about 
him. They said it was about some delivery to India or something. ..it 
sounded like he was in trouble.” 


Marten smiled and shook his head, ignoring the sweat starting to 
form on his palms. “I’m sure it’s some kind of mix-up, nothing to 
worry about.” 


She nodded, resting her chin on the edge of the door, looking out 
the window. “I’m sure...they said something about a foundation or 
something when they were in the hall...probably just some charity 
looking for a handout.” 


Marten nodded, quietly wiping away a bead of sweat on his 
forehead as they started forward again. “Yes, that must be it, very 
good ma'am...” 


After dropping June off at a suitably ostentatious hotel to “freshen 
up” for the evening, Marten worked his way down a network of side 
streets to the Pairs chapter clubhouse of Marshall, Carter, and Dark 
Ltd, buried in a mass of hotels and boutiques. After parking in the 
private underground lot, Marten walked to the elevator, punching in 
the code for Mr. McCredie’s private room. Almost as soon as the 
doors opened, he was roughly grabbed and hurled inside by Arthur 
and Grant, landing in a heap. Lifting his head, he took in the room 
for a moment, decorated in late Victorian style, except for the oddly 
out of place steel door on the far wall. Mr. McCredie sat in a huge 
leather chair, smoking and looking down at Marten with mild 
amusement. Arthur wrapped a huge hand into Marten’s collar, lifting 
him back to his feet as Grant took position next to McCredie’s chair. 


McCredie spoke, smoke drifting from his mouth. “Foundation agents 
were at my home yesterday. Care to explain?” 


Marten swallowed hard, sweating under McCredie’s lazy but 
piercing gaze. “Th...they know nothing, sir. If they knew it was you, 
they would have already raided the club. They are not the police or 
government; they don’t have to justify anything to anyone. Shooting 
in the dark is all they can do now.” His voice carried much more 
confidence then he felt, and he was sharply aware of the gun- 
shaped lump in Arthur’s jacket pressing into his spine. 


McCredie took a long drag on his cigarette, thinking, before waving 
his hand, causing Arthur to drop him again. “Honestly,” McCredie 
said, “I believe you. However, we can’t have these things happening 
again, understand? | pay you bloody well enough; | expect things to 
be taken care of in the proper fashion. Speaking of which, did you 
manage to get my darling wife to the hotel in one piece?” 


Marten nodded, adjusting his suit. “Yes, she should be here by this 
evening.” 


“Excellent,” spoke McCredie, rubbing his hands together. “We 


SCP-914. 


Input: One 10 kg ingot of copper, one 10 kg ingot of tin, 
one 500 g block of wood, one 100 g spool of cloth, one 
photograph of SCP-914 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One miniature model of SCP-914 weighing the 
same as all input materials, including the photograph. 
The model possesses all features of the original, 
including complex miniaturized clockwork, intake booths 
and a miniature setting knob and mainspring key. 


The miniature model was tested to determine if it 
functioned similarly to SCP-914. 


Input: One 50 g nugget of copper, one 50 g nugget of 
tin, 2.5 g of wood, a 0.5 g patch of cloth, one photograph 
of SCP-914 

Setting: Very Fine