piece and took it home with me?” 


“Of course not!” Jane says, her bouncy red curls mirroring her 
chipper demeanor. “Take as much as you like! | made ten of them.” 


You pause. “Oh. Wow.” You only missed the window of normal 
response time by under three seconds that time, you estimate. 
That’s not that bad. “Anyway, yeah, I'll just... uh...” You stand and 
look around the break room. There aren’t exactly ample amounts of 
clean Tupperware containers lying around. You bite your lip, hoping 
Jane and the others don’t see you stressing. You don’t want to come 
off as detached, after all. Maybe if you can just- 


Jane’s husband says your name, interrupting your train of thought 
with a jolt. You immediately smile to cover it up. “Oh, yeah, just 
looking for- containers-” 


The array of coworkers at the table collectively give you a 
sympathetic look, though you swear you see a few eyerolls mixed in. 
“It's okay, sweetie, the holiday spirit isn’t for everyone. Go get some 
rest, huh?” 


You swallow and nod, forcing in a smile and a halfhearted “have a 
good night,” repeated a few times while you put your phone in your 
pocket and grab your jacket. It takes more iterations than usual for 
you to remind yourself that Jane never intends to sound 
condescending. 


Your phone rings as you walk across the complex. You ignore it, 
letting its shrill beeps ring out across the empty, snow-covered site 
grounds. 


‘It’s okay, sweetie, the holiday spirit isn’t for everyone. Go get some 
rest, huh?” You scoff, repeating the sentence in your head over and 
over again until you’ve restructured it at least eight times and given 
yourself a dull ache above your ears. “It’s okay, sweetie, the holiday 
spirit isn’t for everyone. Go get some rest, huh?” “It’s okay, sweetie, 
you never get any rest.” “It’s okay, sweetie, we can tell you don’t 
want to be here with us.” “It’s okay, sweetie, we don’t really like you 
anyway.” “It’s okay, sweetie, just go home.” 


You slam the door to your apartment. It smells terrible, and the 
warmth isn’t the pleasant type. It’s more like a stagnant, sweaty 
stench, characteristic of your unit’s ageing infrastructure. Maybe you 
should call maintenance, you think as you yank your dull, snow- 
covered work shoes off - but then again, you watched them replace 
the air filter only two weeks ago. Perhaps your sink is clogged again. 
You throw your laptop bag on the couch and watch today’s SCP 
documents scatter out of it and onto the floor. You ignore them as 
you walk over to the sink, reaching underneath and pulling out a 
gallon of bleach. You run the water and turn the garbage disposal 
on. The noise makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on 
end. 


When you pour the soap and bleach into the disposal side, filthy 
brown bubbles pile up out of the opposite side. You sigh and start 
scrubbing the aluminum with the dirtiest of your three dish brushes 
while the grinding noises get worse and the documents on the floor 
start rattling from the currents of the ceiling fan’s air flow. When the 
sink is clean and you don’t think you can manage to hold your 
breath anymore, you turn the disposal off and face the stove. It'll be 
oatmeal tonight. That’s the best your stomach can handle right now, 
you reason. It’s better than nothing. 


You’re sitting at the table with your phone in your hand. Your blood 
is boiling. No, your pot of water is boiling. As you fiddle with your 
missed call log, the boiling increases in intensity until your kitchen 
smells of burnt bread and meat. What had been in that water? 


No, not the water. You'd just forgotten to clean the stove after you 
spilled soup on it the night before last. Or was it yesterday night? 


You’re interrupted by a sharp, splitting headache, and in turn you 
remind yourself to stop thinking about things like that. Which day 
was it that you spilled soup, you repeat to yourself with internal 
laughter. /t doesn’t matter. 


You have a missed call from your mother. She’s probably with your 
grandparents at the nursing home for Christmas Eve. Your thumb 
hovers over the ca// button until you can’t bear the sound of water 
boiling any longer, and then you dial her and stand up out of your 
barstool simultaneously. 


“So glad to hear from you! | know you're busy with work, but | 
always love hearing from you. What are you doing for Christmas ?” 


You try to recall this evening in the break room while you dig through 
your filing cabinet. “Oh, well, today | was with some of my coworkers 
for dinner.” You clear your throat. Your voice sounds a little hoarse, 
you realize. You hope you don't have a cold. 


“Oh, well that’s nice. Do you still like your job?” 


Where is that fucking notebook? “Oh. Yeah, | mean, paperwork’s 
paperwork, but it’s alright.” 


“All | want is for you to be happy.” 
“| know, mom.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine!” 


“Okay, okay. I’m not trying to be annoying. I'll let you go, but have a 
good night, okay, honey? We wish you were home with us.” 


That line is what triggers the onset of the paranoid pulse-quickening, 
and you say “thanks, love you, goodbye, merry Christmas” at least 
three times before your mother finally reciprocates and you can 

hang up. You sit down on your couch with your head in your hands, 
staring at the SCP documents on the floor through the cracks in your 
fingers. Should you just get them out of the way before eating? No, 
that will just stress you out. You might as well multitask. You pick up 
the first document with shaking hands and stumble over to the 
kitchen table, throwing it down with a crisp smack. 


You’re not mentally ready to read yet, you realize. You go into your 
bedroom and grab your home laptop, turning it on and setting your 
music library to shuffle. It plays instrumental electronic. You clear 
your throat in hopes that doing so will clear your head as well, but 
only the former does anything of use. You pour the boiling water into 
your oatmeal. Almost all of it has boiled away by this point, but 
there’s enough. You turn the burner off, grab a spoon and paper 
towel, and sit down at the kitchen table to read. 


You forgot your binder. You wiggle out of the topheavy barstool and 
go over to the computer bag again. You start trembling again at the 
sight of all the documents you have to go through tonight. Maybe 
you should save them for the morning so that you can get some 
sleep tonight. 


You focus on your oatmeal again and take a bite. It’s only 8:30 PM. 
You don’t need to go to sleep yet. 


The first article is a draft from the memetics department, as usual. 
They sure do love torturing you, you think with a scoff. Hopefully this 
one won't trigger an unavoidable panic attack like last week’s did- 
was that last week or the week before? It was the week that your 
mom first took her parents to the nursing home. You remember her 
telling you. Maybe you should call her and ask. 


Your headache cuts into your thoughts again. You sigh and stare 
into the oatmeal. Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about it. You 
know better. 


SCP-XXXxX is the placeholder designation for a potential 
Type Il memetic symbol found in a major metropolitan 
area on December 20, 2016. SCP-XXXX’s location and 
all investigation dates should be redacted. The name of 
SCP-XXXX’s primary investigator should be redacted. 
The content of Exploration Log A2 should be expunged 
completely following the line “Agent Rogers is seen 
entering the right-side door of the building.” 


Thank you, 
Site-12 Memetics Department 


You gulp down an unchewed mouthful of oats and start reading, 
clicking your sharpie and preparing to start blackboxing. “Los 
Angeles.” That’s the first one. You nervously eat another bite without 
chewing. You start scanning the document for other instances of the 
city’s mention, and black out four more. Then you look for dates. 
Eight of them. You put the document away, not wanting to read the 
exploration log right now. You'll do it in the office in the morning, 
after scanning this version and opening it on your work computer. 
You'll need text editing for that anyway. 


Your kitchen still smells like hell. You stand up and walk over to grab 
a stack of documents. You figure you can plow through at least ten 
before you have to go to bed, and there can’t be more than twenty. 
You remind yourself that you’re lucky you were even approved to 
take them home; you could be stuck in your office right now. 
Remember what you have, you remind yourself. 


SCP-835 needs a thorough scan for potential overlooked 
details, as its last readthrough by Redaction Dept. 
personnel was carried out in 2013. Please have at least 
three personnel read through both the redacted and 
unredacted versions and cross-reference them with each 
other at least thrice. 


Thank you, 
Site- Information Security Department 


You shove another bite of oatmeal down your throat. It’s not hot 
anymore. Maybe you should get some water. You grimace at the 
article picture and start reading. “SCP-835 is to be monitored and 
checked daily for new growth.” It crosses your mind that perhaps 
you shouldn't read this one while eating. You set it to the side and 
move on to the next printout. 


Warning: The attached document contains potential 
cognitohazardous stimuli, the effects of which are not yet 
fully understood. If you feel the onset of the following 
symptoms, please stop reading and contact medical 
personnel within three hours: Increased libido, increased 
lethargy, onset of headaches, onset of nausea, visual 
hallucinations of unknown entities, visual hallucinations 
of humans. 


Please review for any mentions of the name “Adam 
Leeward” and please review Figure A for at least ninety 
seconds. If Figure A induces the symptoms in the 
aforementioned paragraph, please stop reading for an 
hour and begin again with more of Figure A redacted. 
Repeat self-exposure until Figure A does not induce 
symptoms. 


Thank you, 
Site-81 Cognitohazards & Infohazards Department 


You try to roll your eyes, but you just get goosebumps and a feeling 
of being watched instead. You really shouldn't have chosen to live 
alone when you have this position, you think, but that thought is old 
news. You put SCP-2708 in the ever-growing ‘do not read’ pile and 
move on to the next document, but it’s no better. 


It's 1:20 AM when you’re finally in bed - all your work for the day 
filed away - and your dreams are filled with images of dangerous 
symbols plaguing the streets of Los Angeles and unknown entities 
watching you from your open closet. You bolt upright, pulse 
pounding. You gasp and sob on initial reaction, but your mind 
chooses to focus on your aging grandparents and your stressed 
mother rather than the horrors of your articles. 


You want to climb out of bed and take a blowtorch to the pile of 
documents on your kitchen table. You want to reach over to the 
bedside table and call your mother to make sure she’s okay, or 
maybe to make sure she’s really herself. You want to curl up under 
the covers and shake uncontrollably until your body forces itself into 
unconsciousness, but you’re reminded that SCP-072 might pull 
them off of you; after all, its project managers needed redactions 
added years later just in case reading the article is what draws it to a 
subject. 


... There’s still some oatmeal left over from dinner, and your stomach 
is growling. You force yourself out of bed, but you keep your eyes 
closed until you reach the light switch, on the off-chance that there’s 
a hallucination staring at you from the doorway or the corner or the 
porch. 


You're fixing a bowl of cereal and sucking on a candy cane when 
you find your phone in your hand and your thumb dialing a number. 
Is it your mother, or is Jane calling you to tell you that you forgot to 
take any pumpkin pie home? 


*Redactions Department, this is Jones speaking.” 


Subject: SCP-411 

Photographed Activity: Sitting in front of the news bank. 
Photo Result: A young male human (presumably SCP-411) is 
sitting in an unknown device with what seems to be a neural 
interface alongside 15 other human figures in similar devices. 
Notes: Whatever it is, it does not exist yet. -Dr. 


Subject: SCP-418 

Photographed Activity: Eating Foundation rations with a plastic 
spoon. 

Photo Result: Eating a steak in a casino. A stack of poker chips 
can also be seen on the table. 


Subject: SCP-423 

Photographed Activity: Residing in a copy of The Eye of the World 
by Robert Jordan. 

Photo Result: The room is filled with books and a person is reading 
in the corner, although only the hands are visible from behind a 
stack of thick leather bound volumes. 


Subject: SCP-451 

Photographed Activity: Weeping in Site-19 cafeteria. 

Photo Result: SCP-451 lies awake in a bunk in the Site-19 sleeping 
quarters, surrounded by other staff members. SCP-451 exhibits a 
look of relief on his face. 


Subject: SCP-492 

Photographed Activity: Helping researchers carry lab equipment. 
Photo Result: The photo is unchanged except for the fact that 
SCP-492 has the appearance of an actual human. 


Subject: 6 examples of SCP-504 
Photographed Activity: Sitting in a bowl prior to testing. 
Photo Result: No change. 


Subject: SCP-507 

Photographed Activity: Eating in the cafeteria 

Photo Result: Conversing with Foundation researchers over lunch. 
Subject is dressed as a Foundation researcher. 


Subject: SCP-516 


You mumble your name and credentials absentmindedly and hear 
him shuffling papers around. 


“Okay. Are you safe? 


You slur the best summary of the thoughts you had while sitting in 
bed that you can muster up. 


Do you need an agent to come there? You only have two 
emergency procedures left, by your record-” 


“Oh, I’m right here.” You frown at your odd phrasing, but don’t give it 
a second thought as you pour a little too much milk into the bowl of 
store-brand Honey Bunches of Oats. “Oh. | mean, yeah, | know. 
Please just send someone.” Your voice cracks and you feel fluid 
running out of your eyes and down your cheeks again. Should you 
get blueberries? This would be good with blueberries. You hadn’t 
gotten a new bag of frozen blueberries since last week, actually. Or 
was it the week before? 


“Are you there? I’m sending Williamson over right now. Please 
remain calm.” 


*Sorry, Director.” You stab flakes of cereal with your spoon before 
hanging up. You repeat that action until there’s a knock at your door, 
and then a tired sigh and the sound of a key in the lock. You avoid 
Williamson’s face when he rushes over and starts talking at you, 
your mind on other, more important things. When he escorts you 
over to the couch to push all the papers off and lay you down, you 
grip his hand a little too hard. 


“| vacuumed yesterday,” you say while staring at the ceiling. “I hate 
popcorn ceilings. Is the floor clean to you? Do you think it looks 
clean?” 


“| forgot to take my shoes off,” he says with a half-assed smirk while 
he tourniquets your upper arm and starts digging in his bag. 


“How is your mother, Williamson? My mom’s with my grandma and 
grandpa for the holidays. Are you doing anything for the holidays?” 


He sighs and wipes his forehead before he snaps on his latex 


gloves. “I'll be with the crew at a Christmas Eve party. And please 
don’t think about past events right now. You know the headache it 
causes.” 


Yes, you do. You swallow and try not to stare at Williamson’s beard. 
You aren't successful. 


“Okay, now please don’t jab me in the throat this time,” he says 
quietly, wiping your arm with an isopropyl! alcohol-doused swab and 
readying the syringe. 


“Why don’t they make you shave?” you wonder aloud. 


“Because there’s no rule about it,” he says with a sigh, puncturing 
your vein. 


“Why not?” 

“Today’s code is B-thirty-five.” 
“What?”