Your position as Lead Toy Designer has been filled 
extraordinarily well. Sales have been up across the 
board. 

Unfortunately, | have found myself particularly 


predisposed by current arrangements, that being the 
event of my demise. 

Don't be sad about this! | was getting rather bored 
anyway. Out with the old, in with the new! 


That being said, | will no longer be keeping the position 
of Key Creative Director And Big Boss Man, again, 
because | am dead. 

Hence, | am elevating you to the position of Key Creative 
Director And Big Boss Man Lady! Congratulations! 

| trust you will live up to the role as only my daughter 
can. 


| have always been proud of you. 


Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse 
Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq. 


(P.S. Your mother sends her best regards!) 


Jeremy looked at his owner expectantly, anticipating a pat on the 
head for expedience and a job well done. Isabel sat on the floor and 
read the letter, her grin slowly turning to a look of deep and profound 
confusion, then unspeakable sadness, with tears dripping down her 
cheeks, then excitement and elation. She reached over to Jeremy, 
flipped him upside-down, and rubbed his belly as he rolled around in 
bliss. Tears continued to stream down her face as she laughed 
happily. She shouted out towards the corridor: 


"Jeremy and Jeremy! | need some celebratory ice-cream, stat!" 


Isabel turned to the large, moustachioed painting of her father on the 
wall, wiping the tears from her cheeks. 


"Bye, Dad." 


Lars Celarent, the Dean of Alexylva University's Interpretive Dance 
department, was returning to his office after a delicious breakfast of 
cheese that tasted like celery. Upon arrival, he noticed a small letter 
slipped halfway underneath his door. Lars leant down and picked it 


up; the red wax seal still warm to the touch. He tore it open with his 
fingers, and slipped the letter out into his hands. The cursive was 
curly to an almost unreadable degree, but Lars was able to make 
out the meaning behind the words. 


To My Colleagues; 


| regret to inform you that, effective this morning, | am 
tendering my resignation as Chancellor of Alexylva 
University. 

As many of you know, | have been serving as Chancellor 
in-absentia more and more as of late. 

With the event of my death last night, | am left with two 
options: resign, or serve in-absentia indefinitely. 

Seeing as my time will now be heavily invested in no 
longer existing, my resignation is the more responsible 
path. 

In accordance with official University policy, my 
successor will be elected this afternoon by popular vote. 
Please act responsibly until that time. 

Murdering your peers beforehand, while not technically 
against any rules, goes against the spirit of the election. 
Similarly, negating the event of their birth should be 
looked down upon, though substantially less so. 


Thank you for allowing me to serve you all as Chancellor 
over the past years. 

| wish you all the best of luck with your future 
endeavours. 


Gratefully yours, 
Chancellor Westinghouse 


Lars fetched his formal attire, bulletproof vest, and sniper rifle. A 
new chancellor had to be elected, and with any luck, it was going to 
be him. 


James Seudon entered the tiny church. He'd driven for five long 
hours, twisting and turning his way through the mountains, leaf- 
covered roads leaning dangerously towards tipping his car off the 


side of a cliff. And here he was, not a human being for miles around. 
Which was odd, because he was supposed to be meeting a local 
Roman Catholic priest. James looked at the solid hardwood door. 
The lock was heavy and thick; James pulled out a pick gun and had 
it open within seconds. The church was clearly long abandoned, 
dust covered the rotting wooden seats. Every step James took on 
the stone floor echoed as though he were in a much larger space. 
He walked towards the stand at the front, then noticed a clean white 
envelope sitting on it, tied shut with thick red ribbon. James pulled 
the bow apart, opened the envelope, and began to read the letter 
inside. 


Mister Seudon: 


Well done on finding your way here. | apologise for the 
remote location, but it was necessary to isolate you. 

| have selected you to be my successor in the field of 
religious artifact research. 

Congratulations! 

Should you not desire this job, feel free to report this 
location to your superiors. | imagine they would reward 
you well, destroying decades of my notes and research 
in the process. 

But of course, then you wouldn't be able to look at my 
collection for yourself, and | think we can both agree you 
wouldn't do that. 

James, you're one of the few people who asks the right 
questions of the right people. 

Unfortunately, the wrong people have taken notice. You 
need to go to ground, and trust me, there is nowhere 
safer than here. 

Should you wish to continue, enter the confession booth, 
and loudly proclaim '| Am Free Of Sin’. 

You will know what to do from there. 


Yours in the Lord, 
Reverend Lionel Philbert 


James read the page curiously. He looked up and noticed the small 
confession booth to the side. He walked to it and opened the door. 
James then pulled out various tools, scraping samples from the side 


of the box, the ground, the dust between the stones, and 
investigated them avidly. Satisfied, he entered, sitting huddled inside 
the box. He re-read the letter, reassured himself, then shouted the 
words to the booth's empty other side. 


"| am free of sin!" 


Eric Burke walked into his office. With the unannounced 
disappearance of the previous Acting Director of the Global Occult 
Coalition, it was necessary to elect a temporary stand-in. Burke had 
been moved up two levels of hierarchy, since all of the 
predecessor's immediate juniors had turned down the temporary 
position, preferring to maintain control over their various 
departments. Burke had leaped at the opportunity, applied, and after 
a single day he was given the job. He considered it unusual, but 
considering the way that the GOC operated, it was well within his 
weirdness parameters. He was showed to his (temporary) office by 
a secretary, who soon left the room to fetch him a cup of coffee. 
Burke noticed a folded sheet of paper on the top of the desk; he 
unfolded it and began to read. 


To my Successor: 


You likely believe you have been elected as a temporary 
substitute. 

However, my notice of resignation can be found in the 
top drawer of this desk. 

Let me be the first to congratulate you: consider yourself 
the new Acting Director. 

You have been briefed by others on what the role entails; 
standard administrative tasks and so forth. 

| trust that they have done their job, and that you now 
know yours. 

However, there is one matter which they have not been 
briefed on. 

Do not inform anyone of what | am about to tell you. 


You will likely never meet your immediate superior, 
Madam al Fine. Without going into details, you should 
not want to. 


You will likely receive weekly letters from Madam al Fine. 
Without going into details, you should not open these. 
Burn them immediately upon receipt. Do not open 
them. Do not tell anyone you are doing this. 

If anyone asks, all of your actions are in accordance her 
dictates. 

Do not seek out Madam al Fine. 

| trust you have been a member of this organisation long 
enough to understand that some orders should not be 
questioned. 

This is one such order. 

Please dispose of this letter as expediently, untraceably, 
and permanently as possible. 


| wish you the best of luck with your new position. 


Sergeant Reginald Ulysses Law 
Acting Director, United Nations Global Occult Coalition 


The secretary entered the room with a tall mug of dark brown coffee, 
placed it on Burke's (no longer temporary) desk, then left. Burke tore 
the paper to shreds as soon as she left the room, threw them into 
his coffee, stirred them twice with his finger, and downed the hot 
beverage in three gulps. Nothing's properly disposed of until it's 
been through a digestive system, he thought. 


Bijou Dashwood heard a letter slide through the slot at her door. She 
had thought that the snow outside would have postponed the mail; 
then, she realised that the mail had come yesterday. Confused, 
Bijou left the kitchen, walked to the front door, tore the envelope 
open, then pulled out a folded letter and a small metal needle from 
inside. She read the letter, face slowly hardening, then scrunched it 
up into a ball. Bijou returned to her living room and threw the letter 
into the crackling fireplace. She slouched into a large armchair, fire 
warming her feet, as the edges of the paper glowed, then turned 
black and crumbled into ashes. 


To the recipient of this letter, | apologise in advance. 
This was sent by an automated system. | don't know you, 
and you don't know me. 


SCP-725: Parrot Whale 


Item #: SCP-725 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Subject is confined to a small 
coastal inlet adjacent to Sector-07. SCP-725 shows all biological 
requirements of its wild analogues, and is to be fed and its enclosure 
maintained according to on-site biologists. Because of the subject’s 
excitable nature, all watercraft are prohibited from operating within a 
20 km radius of the enclosure, except as a measure to deter other 
marine mammals from lingering in the vicinity. Audio recordings are 
to be played on the hydrophone in the subject’s enclosure according 
to the current project director. 


Description: Subject is a 13.7 m long, 34,800 kg female cetacean 
with gross anatomical similarities to Megaptera novaeangliae, or the 
Humpback whale. It was recovered after causing maritime 
disruptions in Bay. Physically the animal is similar to other 
humpback whales. Small anatomical differences may indicate it is a 
subspecies of that organism, or [DATA EXPUNGED]. 


Initial hypotheses of increased intelligence or self-awareness proved 
false. SCP-725 has demonstrated no mental capabilities beyond 
standard aptitudes of its parent species. What it does have are 
remarkable abilities of audio retention and mimicry; in effect, it 
remembers precisely every sound it hears and is able to repeat 
them at will. This includes unnatural sounds like high frequency 
vibrations, which other whales cannot duplicate. 


In captivity the subject exhibits a compulsive need to seek out and 
repeat new sounds. This may be adaptive mimicry, a reproductive 
strategy, or [DATA EXPUNGED] Once Foundation personnel began 
playing audio recordings regularly in the enclosure, these behaviors 
subsided. The subject exhibits preferences for some sounds which it 
will repeat for weeks, months, or longer, while others it will simply 


Welcome to the Chaos Insurgency. You're the boss now. 
You might be thinking, how the hell did | get this job? | 
didn't apply for it. 

You almost certainly hate the Insurgency as much as | 
do. 

That's why | became the boss. To rein them in. 

| sabotaged them from the top down for years. They 
never noticed. 

There are people in this world who are completely, 
profoundly selfish. 

Some of these people are in the position to do serious 
harm to society at large. 

The Insurgency is a collection of the worst people with 
the greatest potential. 

You have likely been directly affected by the actions of 
the Insurgency. 

You likely have done research of your own to oppose 
them. 

You almost certainly wish to abolish them from 
existence. 

But it is vital that you do not shatter the Insurgency apart. 
The key purpose of the Insurgency is keeping these 
people unified and controlled. 

Further reductions into factions could result in a war that 
could tear the world apart. 

The Insurgency requires a leader who can continue its 
stagnation as best as possible in a covert manner. 


My system has chosen you. 


If you consent to this, please insert the enclosed needle 
into your left eye. 

You will understand more afterwards. 

It won't hurt, | promise. 


| regret putting you in this position, but anticipate you 
shall rise to the occasion. 
Archibald Mirum 


Bijou looked at the needle in her right hand. It sounded like 
nonsense, but she could feel something inside of the point calling 


out to her. She held her left eyelids apart with her left hand, moved 
the needle to the surface of her eyeball, and thrust it deep into her 
pupil. 


Bijou clenched her jaw. It was not painless. But it was worth it. 


The Manna Charitable Foundation received an anonymous five 
million dollar donation. 


Marshall, Carter and Dark discovered five million dollars had 
disappeared from their coffers. 


The Janitor noticed a buzzing in its pocket as it escaped from the 
chaos far below. 


Sender: Critic Reroute Number (662-639-4663) 

SMS Content: Hard Drive Sixteen. 

File - infohazard_images_492.7z 

Password - 
3jkb25bv6266kla3j2b6kindejbkreb6k26j4bv2346jg23 
The instructions are in there. You will know what to do. 
| love you. Thank you, and farewell. 


The Janitor did not read the message until the following morning. 


Ruiz Duchamp woke up staring at an intriguing installation piece. 
The piece itself was composed of several hundred mobile phones, 
all taped speaker-to-microphone, in a long, snakelike weave. 


"Bluh." 


Ruiz wasn't sure quite when he had gone to sleep. After The Critic 
had died, he'd felt somewhat detached. He felt cheated of his prize. 
Ruiz groggily slapped himself in the face, trying to rouse some 
semblance of coherence within his noggin. It wasn't working. 


Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the 
street, entered his favourite coffee shop, and asked for a double- 
strength espresso, which he then used to down his daily caffeine 


pills, multivitamins, and antidepressants. 
And then, Ruiz finally woke up. 


Then he remembered that there was a dead body still sitting in the 
middle of his exhibition room. 


“Shit! Carol, hold onto this!” 


Ruiz placed his coffee into the hand of the confounded barista, 
sprinted back to 'wowwee'’, and took a look at the body that was 
once Nobody. At least it had been a clean shot; were it not for the 
circular hole in the centre of his forehead, or the dried blood that had 
run down his cheeks, or the teeth that had broken from the sudden 
impact, or the smell of his body beginning to decompose, or his 
extremely dishevelled suit, with his customary grey fedora (also 
punctured) dropped beside the seat with burn marks and blood at 
the point of impact, you could almost think he was still alive. 


Ruiz threw a blanket over him and started walking back to the coffee 
shop. 


the first of first is death 
The first of second is before. 
The First Of Third Is After 
BOUND BY THE BARD 
« no | Hub | Detained » 


Detained 


Agent Green walked down the street, a Styrofoam cup of tea in one 
hand and a glowing cigarette in the other. Endless crowds of people 
flowed around him, occasionally bumping his arms or legs. Green 
moved to the right, turning down a secluded alleyway. Go straight, 
go straight, turn left, go straight, turn right, turn right, turn left, go 
straight, turn left... 


Agent Green found himself in front of Safehouse-53. 


Safehouse-53, from the outside, appeared to be an abandoned tailor 
shop. The storefront windows showed a small room, dust coating 
mannequins wearing antiquated dresses and suits. Green sipped his 
tea and walked to the wooden door, rapping on it and hearing his 
impact echo. He heard a shout from inside, gradually louder 
footsteps, and then Agent Tangerine swung the door open from the 
inside. Tangerine was standing two steps down, wearing a blue and 
orange Hawaiian shirt; the door did not, in fact, lead into the 
abandoned tailor shop, but into a basement level below. 


"Gotta give up the smokes, Green."