"| mean, really! Four paragraphs, three of them only one sentence? | 
know you were in a rush, but good God, man! Were you even 
thinking when you wrote this?" 


"Um, sir..." Harrison said, looking around nervously, "don't | get 
counseling for this? Psychiatric help? I've gone over this in my head, 
and | really don't want to..." 


"And your ideas!" exclaimed the Head of Psychiatric Affairs. "It 
keeps me from seeing I'm one of them'? Do you have any idea how 
many times we've seen that before? Would it kill you to throw a little 
originality into it?" 


Researcher Harrison flinched. "Sir, | don't think it's wise for you to 


use such terms around me at this point in time..." 


The man before him slammed his fist onto the desk. "Harrison!" he 
boomed. "Can't you see what the real problem here is?" 


Harrison slammed both palms face down on the desk and stood up 
rapidly. "Are you going to help me or not?" he cried hysterically. A 
look of understanding passed over the other man's face. 


"You really don't know, do you, Harrison?" he asked slowly, arching 
an eyebrow. 


"No, no | don't." With that, David Harrison broke down in tears, 
dropped to his knees, and sobbed. The Head of Psychiatric Affairs 
got out of his desk and helped Harrison to his feet. 


"There, there," he cooed, aiding the Researcher in getting out the 
door. "I'm sorry. It's just... look, having a two-pronged job isn't easy, 
you know? I've got to make sure you lot are all mentally healthy, 
which isn't an easy job with Glass running around compounding 
your problems, but I've also got to make sure your writing is up to 
par with everything else we put out there." 


Harrison gave him a confused look. "Allow me to explain. For 
reasons | don't quite understand, we have to at least try to publish 
every little thing our researchers write. Most of the stuff doesn't 
make it through the editing process, being too bland for our tastes. 
Suicide notes, however, those almost always make it through. They 
provide a juicy insight into what you're all actually thinking, and help 
maintain a good image for the Foundation. So, naturally, when | see 
fifteen ones almost exactly like yours, I'm bound to get a touch 
angry. You understand, right?" 


Harrison's emotions had rapidly changed from despair to anger. "So 
our pain and suffering is being objectified just so the Foundation can 
look good?" he snapped. 


"Well, not exactly. We try to treat you with the utmost respect, but 
things don't always work out. Like | said, | don't know why we need 
to publish everything you write, but I'm sure there's a good cause for 
it. If it were something like, say, the entertainment of a mass 


SCP-995: Under The Couch 


Item #: SCP-995 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: 

SCP-995 is to be secured in a two (2) by three (3) meter terrarium 
placed in a four (4) x four (4) containment room. The terrarium is to 
be cleaned twice a week. During cleaning SCP-995 should be 
placed in a substitute terrarium fit for its size. All personnel should 
be sterilized before and after coming into the containment cell. 
SCP-995 is to be contained in multiple terrariums with each colony 
separated. Currently there are 4 colonies; each terrarium is to be 
made to fit the number and size of SCP-995 in the colony. SCP-995 
has been moved to a larger containment room which is 20 x 20 
meters. Each terrarium is to be cleaned weekly. If any colony 
reaches the established population limit, randomly selected 
SCP-995s are to be destroyed. Only Level 2 personnel or higher are 
granted access to SCP-995 with approval from any Level 3 
researcher that has been assigned SCP-995. Feeding of the 
specimens is to be done twice a week at appropriate hours. During 
any containment breach the room is to be sterilized by incineration. 


Description: SCP-995 is an organism with traits that vary between 
those of fungi and those of animals. SCP-995's life cycle starts with 
it being a spore. The spore stays dormant until it finds an area that 
has low light and is moist. However, an SCP-995 spore has more 
probability of activating under artificial structures such as household 
furniture; leather, vinyl, and polyester seem to be favored. There, the 
spore will grow into a soft organic mass which feeds off 
microorganisms in the air. It will continue to grow, sprouting 
appendages enabling it to move. A mouth will soon form, along with 
teeth and a simple digestive tract. SCP-995 in its mature stage 
feeds on larger organisms such as insects and rodents. The 
specimen will then start generating more instances of SCP-995 via 


audience who have no affiliations with us, that would be cause for 
all-out revolt against O-5 command. But I'm pretty sure it's so that 
we can better understand what those with lower-ranking positions 
think and feel. It keeps us from being too far seperated, and also 
makes for a good tool for studying how to solve these problems." 


The pair had reached the main counceling area. "Come on, now," 
the man grunted to Harrison. "Let's get you back on track. Three 
weeks' therapy and you'll be right as rain again." David Harrison 
smiled, confident that his leaders cared about him, ready to set out 
on the path to recovery. 


What Lies Ahead 


Agent Silas walked through the bazaar, taking special care not to 
touch any of the passers-by. You heard stories about people coming 
down with horrible diseases after spending a day in a Luna market. 
He'd had his inoculations against the more common ones, like the 
clockworks, but you could never be too careful. He'd known a guy 
who'd burst into flames a few days after visiting Luna. It was one of 
the biggest human colonies in the galaxy, and so it was a melting 
pot for all sorts of contagions and viruses. 


For a few seconds, the street was plunged into darkness as a sky- 
train passed overhead. The crowds around him didn't even seem to 
have noticed, being that used to the dark. Silas hurried up: he 
wanted to be out of this godforsaken place as soon as possible. He 
turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Fucking 
Homeworlders. 


They were gathered all around a big model of the Homeworld, 
listening to a preacher who wore a large winter coat and a necklace 
made of pebbles. The crowd was mainly human with a few 
Precursors on the fringes here and there. Precursors were a rare 
sight, but usually the most devout and radical of the Homeworlders. 
It has been their Homeworld for longer, Silas supposed. That wasn't 
to say every Precursor was a Homeworlder, though. Silas had once 
known a Precursor who was devoutly Catholic. Good guy, they'd 
taken out a nest of schizo-forms together. 


Silas pulled his hat down over his head - there was always a chance 
a Homeworlders might recognize him from one of their Desecration 
Broadcasts. A leaflet fluttered through the air and landed at Silas’ 
feet: 


WOE TO THE DESECRATORS 


WOE: 


TO THE MEMBERS OF SCP WHO HAVE RELEASED 
THEIR HORRORS ONTO OUR HOMEWORLD! 


In the year of the Homeworld 2193, the Desecrators, in 
their pride and folly released the Horrors they kept onto 
our Homeworld and doomed all who stood upon it! 


TO THE RAVAGES OF THE MINT ZONE AND TO THE 
DEVIL THAT KILLS ALL WHO LOOK UPON IT! 


Those of the Colonies were forced to look in horror at 
what the Desecrators had wrought! 


TO THE BEAST THAT NEVER DIES AND TO THE ROT 
OF THE ELDER! 


The Desecrators continue in their sins on far-flung 
worlds, hidden from the eyes of true believers! 


TO THE SPHERE OF DEAD THAT FILLS THE SKY OF 
MEXICO AND TO THE OCEAN OF BLOOD FROM 
WHICH NEW HORRORS SPILL! 


Fear not! Every last Desecrator shall be purged from 


their hidden nests and forced to face the justice of the 
Homeworld! 


WOE TO EVERY LAST 
TRAVESTY INFLICTED ON 
OUR HOMEWORLD!!! 


Typical 'woe to the Homeworld’ doctrine. Some photographs of the 
SCPs down on the Homeworld, some old pictures of Homeworld 
landmarks. 


"My brothers and sisters!" the preacher was shouting. "We have 
been torn from the Homeworld, from our Homeworld, by the 
whisperers and agents of the Desecrators! In their pride, they have 


let their Horrors destroy it! Woe to the men of O5, the instigators of 
this destruction! Woe to the men they command, the Foundation 
heretics and the Foundation dreadlords, for in their mindless 
obedience they doomed our Homeworld!" 


"Woe!" the crowd echoed. 


"But fear not, dear flock!" said the preacher, raising his arms high in 
the air. "For the day approaches when the Church of the Homeworld 
will take us all back to our rightful place in the universe! The 
Homeworld will be purged clean of the Horrors that pollute it! Our 
children will laugh and play in the rain-forests of Antarctica and the 
lush green fields of Norway! This, the Church promises to you all!" 


The crowd was chanting now, a standing ovation to the preacher. 
"Father New Zealand! Father New Zealand!" 


With the stuff you had to deal with, being an Agent wasn't easy, but 
the Homeworlders only made the job harder. If they'd figured out 
who Silas was, the crowd would probably have descended on him 
and ripped him to shreds. That, or use him for the center of one of 
their Desecration Broadcasts. They always needed executions for 
those. 


Still able to hear the ravings of the preacher, Silas finally reached 
the address he had been given and entered. 


The room he found himself in was grey and bare. Most likely he was 
one of the only people to ever step foot in here. Two others were 
already there, looking like guards from the way they were 
positioned. One was a human man, his only distinguishable trait 
being the misshapen thing on his face that might have been a nose. 
The other one was a Begriven, standing a good foot over Silas. It 
walked on three legs and its thick body was framed by six stick-like 
arms on each side. Its long, curved neck ended with an almost 
comically small head. The Begriven regarded Silas impassively. 


The man spoke first. "Do you have me?" 


Silas nodded and placed his bag gently on the ground, careful not to 


damage the item within. He opened it up and lifted it out. It was 
rather burnt and dented, but still recognizably a toaster. "Where's 
Marshall?" 


The man tapped at a device on his wrist. Mr. Marshall, or at least a 

hologram of him, appeared in the room. He was a young man with a 
symmetrical plastic face, wearing a black suit. He rubbed his hands 
together. 


Silas didn't like working with Mickey and Dee, but here in the 
Colonies, the Foundation didn't have that many options. With the 
heavy Homeworlder presence, it was almost impossible for SCP 
retrieval to take place. The O5's had decided that trading something 
relatively harmless for information on something definitely harmful 
was worth it, and so Silas was going along with it. His was not to 
reason why. 


"Mr. Silas!" Marshall's voice sounded cheery, but distorted and far 
away. Problems with the signal, most likely. "Glad you could make it. 
| see you've brought me." 


"Yes," said Silas, starting to feel suspicious. It was kind of funny, 
when you thought about it: it was common knowledge that Marshall 
couldn't be trusted, yet people always seemed to trust him anyway. 
Desperation drove you to stupidity, and Silas was beginning to 
realize that agreeing to this deal had been pretty damn stupid. 
"Where's the data you promised?" 


Marshall ignored him. "You've met my friends here, | see. This is 
Henry," he said, gesturing to the man with the busted nose. He 
turned to the Begriven. "And this is Bountiful Splendor of the 
Seventh Mother. Did | get that right?" 


Bountiful Splendor of the Seventh Mother clicked in the affirmative. 


"| got you what you wanted, Marshall," said Silas. "All | want is the 
data." 


Marshall furrowed his brow in a look of mock confusion. "Data? 
What data?" 


"You know what data, Marshall. Stop playing games." 


"Oh, that data. It doesn't exist, sorry. | tricked you," said Marshall, 
obviously struggling not to grin. The Begriven lunged forward and 
restrained Silas before he could make a move. "Henry, please tell 
Mr. New Zealand he can come in." 


Henry nodded and opened the door. The preacher from the street 
walked in, glaring at Silas with utter contempt. 


"You're sure he's a Desecrator, Marshall?" New Zealand asked the 
hologram. 


"Oh, definitely. He tried to pay me to tell him about one of his 
Horrors. Can you believe that?" 


"You're mocking me, Marshall," growled New Zealand. "But you're 
right. I've seen his face on the Broadcasts. You've received the 
payment, | take it?" 


"You son of a bitch!" shouted Silas. "| paid you! | brought me to you!" 


Marshall shrugged. "He paid more, it's nothing personal. Thanks for 
bringing me, though." He nodded to the toaster on the floor, then 
looked back up at New Zealand. "Well, you can see we've got him. 
We'll have him on your shuttle within the hour, and then you can 
take him to wherever you film those Desecration Broadcasts of 
yours." 


New Zealand's eyes narrowed. "You are obviously not trustworthy, 
Marshall. You deal in Horrors and betray your customers. How do | 
know you will do as you say?" 


Marshall grinned his fake plastic grin. "Like | said, you paid more 
than he did. He'll be delivered to your shuttle within the hour." 


Mr. New Zealand stood in the room for a few seconds, then looked 
at Henry, said: "Within the hour." and left. 


Silas spat on the floor. "| heard you guys were down on your luck. 
This isn't very dignified, is it? Not very classy?" 


Marshall's face twisted in anger. "Get him out of here," he said, and 
the hologram vanished. 


Silas felt Bountiful Splendor's grip loosening. They were going to 
start moving him to the shuttle any second now, but he needed to 
time this right. 


Henry stood in front of him. "Alright," he began. "Here's how it's 
gonna work. You make a move, | shoot you. You say a fucking thing 
to anyone, | shoot you. You even try to run, | -" 


Silas' hand lunged up, holding his hidden laser pistol, and shot 
Henry. Fragments of charred bone and meat scattered across the 
room. Silas kicked Bountiful Splendor away from him and started 
moving towards the other side of the room. 


He looked back. Bountiful Splendor was already back up and 
moving towards him fast. Silas fired twice, wildly: the first shot 
clipped one of Splendor's arms, sending the tip of it flying across the 
room, while the second blew off its head. It screeched in rage and 
charged at him, knocking him off his feet. His vision blurred from the 
impact. 


He knew he only had a few seconds before Splendor came back to 
its senses and finished him off. He reached wildly for a weapon, 
anything, finally grabbing something light, but blunt. Splendor flipped 
him over, its backup jaw emerging from a cavity in its chest. Silas 
began to hit it repeatedly with the object, sending dark green ichor 
splashing across the room. Splendor fell to the floor, twitching, and 
Silas finished it off with one last blow. 


He brushed some of the green fluid off his clothes and looked down 
at his hand, realizing what he had been beating Splendor with. The 
goddamn toaster. It wasn't much more than a wrecked piece of 
metal covered in Begriven blood now, though. He quickly stuffed the 
hunk of metal into his bag, throwing it across his shoulders. Soon 
enough, New Zealand would come back wondering why he wasn't 
on the shuttle yet. He checked the room one last time, found 
nothing, and left. 


As Silas’ shuttle took off, the entertainment module picked up a 
Desecration Broadcast. Since they hadn't managed to get him, Silas 
guessed it was pre-recorded. On the screen next to the controls, a 
Homeworlder priest wearing an '| Love NY' shirt was circling a 
bound and gagged scientist. The priest took a sheet of paper from 
somewhere off-camera.