SCP-670 is to be provided with forty-five (45) centimeters of cotton, 
twenty-five (25) centimeters of silk, twenty-five (25) centimeters of 
polyester, fifteen (15) centimeters of rayon, and twelve (12) 
centimeters of rope each month. Any objects created by members of 
SCP-670 that could be used as a weapon are to be immediately 
removed from the containment area. 


Description: SCP-670 is comprised of four roughly humanoid 
individuals, SCP-670-1, SCP-670-2, SCP-670-3, and SCP-670-4, 
who refer to themselves collectively as 'the Cotton family’. 
SCP-670-1 and SCP-670-2 appear to be the ‘father' and the 'mother' 
of the family, judging by their height and comments made in 
interviews, while SCP-670-3 and SCP-670-4 are the ‘children’ of the 
family. Members of SCP-670 possess a thin outer layer of hardened 
clay 'skin', showing signs of deterioration from over a long length of 
time. 


Under this, the organs, flesh, and nervous system are composed 
entirely of different types of thread. The majority of the thread used 
is cotton, but large amounts of silk and polyester are also present. 
Small amounts of rayon and nylon are also noted in the internal 
organs. The skeleton is composed of rope knotted into a suitable 
shape and the fingers of SCP-670 members seem to be rusted 


My Brother The Ape 


Scene: A messy office, home to to one of the Foundation's best and 
brightest men. Not a big, or a fancy office, but one that gets the job 
done. We arent talking about the name on the door. That guy's story 
will be told another day. Today, we talk monkey business. 


The monkey statue saw it all. The organization it created was at 
once disrupted by the lawless spirit of reality. Sighing, it picked up 
the papers in the office and set them upright again. Standardizing 
the spelling, and removing any reference that wasn't Alto Clef. The 
ones addressed to Agent Ukulele, aka Adam ben Yahweh, aka 
Lucifer, First of the Fallen, aka That Bastard were thrown in the 
trash. 


It wished it could return to any of the old masters of the universe. 
They didn't have to deal with this bullshit. Bright was a comrade, 
even if it had the sneaking suspicion he hated him. Kondraki was a 
ridiculous man, but at least he was usually out doing some crazy 
shenanigan and not trying to do his work. 


Of all of them though, the best to work for was Dr. Gears. For Cog 
had seen the reality shift for what it was, and it left him so 
traumatized that he took no part in these new world antics. Usually, 
he sat in an empty office and stared at the well. When someone 
came to speak to him, then the role of the emotionless would begin, 
and he would humor them with a walk. 


050 sighed, and returned to its master's work. 


There was a knock at the office door. A curious occurrence. Usually, 
people were too frightened to even walk past the door, for fear that a 
shotgun-toting demon would leap out and end their miserable 
existence. Perhaps it was a mistaken knock, from a new researcher 
or somesuch thing. A one time-thing, quickly rectified to the horrors 
around him. 


There was a pause, and the door began to open. The floorboards 
creaked as the figure slowly stepped closer and closer to the now- 
anxious Clever statue. Stopping before it, the figure seemed to draw 
all light in the room to his person, making him a titanic figure in 050's 
mind. The figure's lips parted, and he spoke. 


"I'm here to talk to you about the banana business initiative." 


Swinging from vine to vine in her enclosure, SCP-397 was reminded 
of just how boring her life really was. She knew every inch of the 
enclosure by heart, and could swing from these vines with her eyes 
shut. Nobody really came to see her, most of the time, so that was 
at least some form of improvement. But there were other things to 
do besides sit in a cage and wait for death. 


With a huff, she shimmied down the vine and to the cage floor, 
where for the hundredth time she felt around for any structural 
imperfection which may aid in an escape attempt. Every rivet was 
pried at, and every floorboard was tested, and the result was the 
same as always. Smooth and unbroken. 


"Hello, 397." 


All the hair on her back perked up, and froze, like a glacier of 
monkey-fear. Someone was in her enclosure, and they were talking 
to her. Enemy, or friend? Fight, or flee? 


Before a conclusion to these issues so suddenly raised could be 
reached, the voice spoke again, with a commanding tone. 


"| think | have something you may be interested in." 


A lavish party was underway in Site 19's cafeteria. There were 
streamers emblazoned with every potential birthday message that 
could ever be uttered. Candies and cakes lined up and down tables, 
shining under the bright fluorescent lighting and seeming to be 
calling out for consumption. Party hats adorned every head, and 
every hand held some other merriment device. 


A small circus was in the center of the room, with elephants and 
lions and all other sorts of jolly animals. There were cannons, and 
trapeze, and maybe even some magicians. All of them stood below 
one massive banner wrought of velvet and friendship: "HAPPY 
BIRTHDAY DOCTOR RIGHTS!" 


In the midst of all this, a single gentleman stepped to the cafeteria's 
threshold. 


The man smiled as the crowd parted before him. While the party 
was a nice diversion from the usual drudgery of work, there was only 
one thing this party held which could be of interest to him. Ata 
central table, surrounded by candies and clapping researchers, was 
a small monkey toy, bringing birthday cheer to all who wanted it. 


"Birthday monkey. Long time, no see." 


The monkey clapped, flipped, and continued with its song and dance 
routine. 


"It's been a long time... but we need your organizational skills. Not 
many monkeys can put a party like this together." 


With one final clap, the birthday monkey looked up to the man. It 
clapped its hands together twice. 


"No... it isn't the Manhattan thing. We have a new job for you." 
"Ook?" 


"Yeah, ook." 


One could hear the proboscis engineer containment area before 
they could see it. Shortly after they heard it and before they saw it, 
the smell of hot metal, burning monkey fur, and slag would invade 
the smell-holes with vigor. After all other senses had been 
overwhelmed, the awe-struck visitor would be met with the gaze of 
machinery and magic. 


An assembly line of faceless monkeys, all acting in union ona 
conveyer belt that could only fit the fattest conveyer man, were it a 


real belt. Each monkey knew its job, and did it with gusto. At the end 
of the belt, seven monkeys with goggles over their non-existent eyes 
were busily pounding parts into whatever the newest contraption 
was. 


Production didn't cease as several men entered the containment 
unit. One man looked around at every wondrous device beheld 
within this room, and grinned. He'd come to the right place. 


"Ask them if they'd be interested in a work proposition." 


The young, acne-riddled boy on his left nodded, and spoke in the 
language of hand-signs. 


"Well? What do they say?" 


The acne-man looked up to him. "They're willing to work if you give 
them something fun to do." 


"Tell them" he said, turning to walk out the door. "That's exactly what 
they're gonna get." 

Dr. Jack Bright carefully watched the face of his newest visitor. 

"| really, really don't want to do this." 


The man leaned forward in his seat, idly playing with Bright's desk 
decorations. "You owe me, Bright. We both know that." 


Bright grimaced as best he could with simian features. "You drive a 
hard bargain, don't you?" 


"Always. Do we have a deal?" 

"... Deal." 

Two days later, five monkeys sat together inside a largely empty 
podium area. Two statues, one Proboscis engineer, one resentful 


Chimpanzee, and a slightly bored and irritated Orangutan. The man 
who had called them together strode briskly to the podium, and 


pulled out some well-worn note cards. 


"Gentlemonkeys. My name is Doctor Blast, and | am here to tell you 
about one of the greatest monkey-related investments the SCP 
Foundation will ever make." 


He paused for dramatic effect. Nobody appreciated it. 
"Introducing... Junior Omega-7 Task Force Five: Monkey Business." 
Bright facepalmed. 

« | HUB | » 


Send in the Clowns 


Agent Whitaker woke up, groaning. He felt like he had one hell of a 
hangover; there was a noise in his head that sounded like that 
annoying National Weather Service "braaaaaak" noise, and his face 
felt... oily. He blinked, and suddenly realized that he was standing 
up in the middle of a street, and not lying down in bed. What the hell 
was happening? 


He looked at a nearby window, and saw his reflection: his face was 
painted like a clown, and he was wearing a cowboy hat for some 
reason. And... was that a sports commentary he could hear? What 
the hell was going on? Last thing he remembered, he and his team 
were trying to get into... somewhere... 


"Hey, buddy. You're up." He was pushed out of the alleyway by an 
unseen force, and stepped before a... the best word to describe it 
was a "dragon" but surely a dragon wouldn't have looked this wrong. 
Its skin was a combination of scales and rotting flesh, it had at least 
six eyes, and an opening in its stomach that looked almost like a 
second mouth. And the stench... It looked angry, and he could see 
why. On top of it, there was someone that appeared to be trying to 
ride it, holding on to bits of rotting flesh like a set of reins. 


Whitaker ran for it. He was in a city, all right, but... the city didn't 
make sense. Streets dead-ended into diagonal brick walls. A 
skyscraper stood right next to a warehouse. Part of what he thought 
was a school jutted out into the middle of the street. He ran into this 
last one, hoping for cover from... whatever it was. 


A horrible, inhuman voice bellowed "DISGUSTING!" The entire 
building shook as Whitaker cowered under a desk. He nearly let out 
a squeak of fear... but no sound escaped his lips. He tried saying 
the word "apple". Nothing. "barley". Nothing. He couldn't talk. 


That was inconsequential. He heard a loud crashing noise; the 
lizard-thing had broken through the school. He ran out the back. He 


heard another voice, booming and loud, the same sports 
commentary he had heard before; something about "rodeo clowns"? 
Was this some kind of sick joke? And that damn noise in his head 
wouldn't stop. What the fuck was going on? 


The lizard broke through the school, but Whitaker was a block away 
by then. He looked up, and stopped in his tracks suddenly. There he 
was, on a jumbotron bigger than entire buildings, showing him 
running away from the lizard. Below that were spectators, several 
thousand of them, sitting in a giant grandstand. The jumbotron 
briefly displayed the words: 


682 RODEO 
BROUGHT TO YOU BY 
PEPSI 


Whitaker didn't have time to even think what the actual shit before 
the jumbotron switched back to him, showing the lizard, presumably 
682, right behind him. Its jaws were open... and then they snapped 
shut on his leg. 


The last experience Whitaker felt in his life was indescribable pain. 


"So then my dad shot her," intoned Kain. "It was weird." 


"What an amazing story, Professor Crow! Let's see how Kondraki is 
doing!" Clef checked the timer. "Holy 343! Konny's been riding 682 
for 3 hours now! 3 hours riding the magic dragon! Someone give this 
man a Foundation star!" 


"It's a pity about the rodeo clowns, though, don't you think?" 
"They're just GOC agents, Crow. Nobody will care." 
"...remind me what the official purpose of this test is?" 


"To test how 682 reacts to urban environments. Didn't you read the 
brief?" 


"Did we have to use an actual city, though?" 


"It'll be fine, Kain. Don't be such a worrywart." 


Just then, 682 started climbing the Empire State Building. Kondraki 
still clung on to it as it dove in and out of the building, trying to buck 
him off. All the while, the two of them could be heard cursing. 682's 
speech went something along the lines of "Get off me you filthy 
human!", while Kondraki simply laughed from exhilaration and 
cursed as he tried to dodge flying glass. 


Finally, 682 reached the top of the building, and with a swing of its 
head, shook Kondraki off. Within 2 minutes, the man was a puddle 
of red mist on the pavement below. 


"And Kondraki clocks in at 3 hours, 10 minutes! Not bad!" Clef 
looked at Kain. "Have someone scrape him off the pavement, will 
you?" 


Kain grumbled a bit, before speaking into the mic, "The 682 Rodeo 
is brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Mas. Coming up: the tie-down, 
and more bareback 682 riding! But first, these messages." 


« | HUB | » 


In God's Name 


The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe walked 
in and shot Alto Clef right in his stupid face. He—deciding to be 
Matthew now—grinned broadly as the blood spattered from the exit 
wound, spraying over the wall behind Clef. Matthew laughed with 
glee just before he heard the voice to his left. 


“Sucker.” 


He turned just in time to see the sneer on Clef’s face, and then, the 
shotgun exploded and took his head off. 


The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe walked 
in—ignoring the decoy duplicate this time—twisting and firing to the 
left, putting a set up bullets right up the wall. His eyes went wide as 
the butt of the shotgun came over his temple, sending him sprawling 
down. 


He looked up, rolling over and staring upward. Clef was on the right 
this time. 


“Sucker.” 


The shotgun took his head clean off again. 


The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe kicked 
the door open, hurling the grenade in and then ducking to the left. 
The explosion ripped through the office, and the sound of cursing 
came from inside instantly. Matthew gathered his feet under him, 
lurching forward and quickly checking the entrance and exit points, 
ignoring the charred corpse at the desk. Obviously a decoy. 


Suddenly, the corpse’s hand popped up, putting a bullet into his 
knee. A moment later, the corpse fell to the side, and Clef stood up, 


aiming the shotgun. 


Matthew sighed. “God damni—* The shotgun. His head. Simple 
math now, really. 


Sharpe got the machine gun ready. He pulled the pin out of the 
grenade, kicking the door open, then throwing it in. The explosion 
hit, followed by the cursing. He nodded. It felt like it was coming 
together, finally. 


He spun into the room, spraying the bullets everywhere, peppering 
the walls, desk, charred corpse, filing cabinet—fucking filing cabinet 
—and the large, stained glass window. 


Stained glass window? 


He looked more carefully into the room. This... This wasn’t Clef’s 
office. This wasn’t Clef’s office at all. 


“Sucker,” said the voice. 


He turned, managing to raise his hand and half-extend his middle 
finger before the shotgun went off. 


He made sure that it was the right office, verifying it a half dozen 
ways. He placed the explosives carefully, then headed back down 
the hall. He quietly slipped into the side room, then moved into the 
air ducts, working his way up into them. 


Once he got to the vent directly down the hall from Clef’s office, he 
pulled his rifle into position, then pressed the button, detonating the 
explosives. 


A few minutes later, Clef stumbled from his office, hacking loudly. 
He looked like his arm was bleeding. Sharpe zeroed in on his head, 
then pulled the trigger. 


Clef's head exploded. Matthew grinned broadly. 


There. There we go. This one. 


sewing needles. 


Members of SCP-670 have demonstrated an advanced aptitude for 
the use of thread, using their ‘fingers’ to create extremely 
complicated objects, such as suitable eating implements and 
seating, in a short amount of time. Notable objects created by 
members of SCP-670 include: