"E-Everything ?" 
"Everything." 


Kennedy licked his lips. He had some vague knowledge of what 
these people were — if they could even still be called ‘people’ in any 
sense of the word — but never told anyone about them. They 
wanted privacy, and Kennedy was okay with that — as long as they 
kept giving him his drug. But he also heard that they weren't too kind 
to those who snitched on them. He remembered what happened the 
last time someone tried ratting them out. He felt his stomach churn 
as he remembered the reports of his friend — the snitch — being 
found in the woods, his body torn apart. Cops said it was wolves, but 
everyone knew wolves couldn't rip someone in half like that. Wolves 
didn't remove multiple organs. Wolves didn't rip someone's jaw in 
half. 


"And if | don't?" 


"Well, | think it'd be best if you don't think about ‘if’ right now." 


"You don't remember?" 


Kennedy nodded his head up and down furiously, his eyes pleading 


for some form of trust or approval behind that one way window. 
"What's the last thing you remember?" 


"Well," he said, thinking hard of the last thing that happened. He had 
been out partying with his friends at a bar. He had gotten drunk, and 
blacked out. He then woke up in the dark place. He remembered 
fumbling around, realizing that he was in a sewer. He had holes all 
along his arms — similar to the ones that were made after he 
plunged the syringes into his skin. He walked and tried finding a way 
out before bumping into the G-men. He told them all of these things, 
and, by the tone of their voice, they believed him. 


"Have you ever heard of a group called "The Sarkics"?" 
He tensed up. 

"N-No, | don't think | haven't." 

"Alright. What was the name of this bar you went to?" 


"The Big Clams. Yeah, that's the name. Stupid double entendre, you 
know." 


"Alright. We'll leave you for the moment." 


They came back two minutes later. 


"Mr. Kennedy, we have evidence to suggest that you have been 
using the Class Z type drug KOHCTpykuuvA, also known as 
"Snakepeel" regularly for an unknown amount of time. How do you 
respond?" 


Kennedy once again felt all the heat drain out of him. He did the only 
thing he could think of doing. 


He smashed himself against the wall repeatedly, screaming at the 
top of his lungs as he slammed into the wall with one large thud, his 
head bleeding out and him falling to the floor. 


While Kennedy was receiving medical attention, Agent Eleonora 
began her research into recent Sarkic activity with the UIU. Aside 
from continuing the anomalous War On Drugs, they had wire tapped 
dozens of suspected Sarkic politicians, CEOs, public figures, and 
celebrities. Additionally, they requested information on all of the 
director's activities before his death. 


After a dozen hours, five Red Bulls, and an occasional Facebook 
break, Agent Eleonora was able to track down a Person of Interest: 
Jeremiad Toizer. Suspected leader of Occult Criminal Organization 
#1213, AKA "The Red Dawn", Toizer had been accused of money 
laundering, drug manufacturing and selling, illegal religious practice, 
and general fuckery in over 21 states. He had been captured by UIU 
agent three weeks ago. 


He had blown his brains out two hours before the director died, and 
three hours after their initial meeting. 


Somehow, Toizer had been able to sneak a pistol into his cell. The 
cameras were all cut before the suicide occurred. Most likely 
explanation was that of a rogue UIU agent feeling bad for bastard, or 
possibly a Sarkic sympathizer. 


But the two incidents were too close to one another. 
She stepped outside and took out her pack of cigarettes, and began 


to smoke. 


Agent Derren arrived at The Big Clams while Agent Eleonora did her 
research. He stood at the bar and drank some non-alcoholic orange 
juice, and attempted to strike up a conversation with the bartender. 


"You ever heard of aman named Mr. Kennedy?" 


The bartender looked at Derren, his large brow furrowing into a 
dozen little lines across his face. His mustache twitched, and his 
mouth seemed to downcast into a permanent frown. 


"Was he a Pirate?" 


"Yes, he was." 


"Yeah, | know him. | think he only joined that stupid fucking party 
cause he wanted to call himself a pirate." 


"Heh, yeah, he doesn't seem like the political type." 


"Fucker voted for Harambe in the general election so he could get 
five likes on Facebook." 


"Good to know." 
"So, watcha need to know?" 


"Well," Derren said, taking out his normal FBI badge with no 
reference to the UIU, "He disappeared awhile ago, and | need to 
know where he was last seen. Witnesses last said he was at your 
bar, and that he was taken by some," he continued, pretending to 
look through a notepad, "quote-on-quote strange people. Do you 
know these ‘strange people'?" 


Again the bartender's brow furrowed his brow further. 


"| remember seeing some unusual people around here when | saw 
him last — yesterday. These guys had tattoos all over their bodies 
— | think it may have been some religious thing. They were drunk, 
but generally intelligent. They were around my bar for the entire day, 
just drinking and shit. | would have kicked them out, but they kept 
flashing their checks and | kept ‘em coming. Best to not ask 
questions, ya know. Best not to get involved. Now Kennedy, the 
thing about him is, is that he doesn't trust many people. So when | 
sees them leaving with Kennedy in the same car, | knows they must 
have been pretty damn convincing — or maybe they had something 
he really really wanted." 


"| see. Tell me, mister...?" 
"Herman. Herman Schmidt." 


"Well, Mr. Schmidt, have you ever heard of a group called "The Red 
Dawn"?" 


"Yeah, I've heard of them. Aren't they a bunch of stoned edgelord 
trolls L.A.R.P.ing in the woods or something?" 


"Edgelord?" 


"People doing things for attention, mostly. At any rate, what do they 
have to do with this?" 


"Well, | think those men you had in your bar were members of the 
Dawn." 


"That's fucking stupid." 


"| Know it is, but it's the only lead | have at the moment. Do you have 
any idea where they might have gone?" 


"Well, they were going west if | recall correctly, outside town. But 
other than that, | have no idea where they might be." 


"Hmm, | see. Thank you for your time Mr. Schmidt, | will talk to you 
later. Be warned, you might be called in for a federal interview. Don't 
worry about anything, it's just normal protocol." 


"If you find Kennedy, do me a favor and punch him in the balls. 
Repeatedly." 


"| make no promises." 


Agent Eleonora and Derren drove outside town, on the same 
highway where Kennedy was meant to go. Kennedy was in the 
back, half asleep and drugged up on morphine. 


"You think we'll find anything out here?" Eleonora asked, lighting a 
cigarette. 


"| don't know, but it's our only lead at the moment. Also, could you 
roll down a window or some—" 


Agent Eleonora hit the large metal gate separating the front seats 
and the back with the back of her knuckles hard. 


"Hey Kennedy, wake up!" 


Kennedy bolted up, looking around. He had the eyes of a man who 


SCP-1001: Ya-Te-Veo 


Item #: SCP-1001 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1001 is to be kept at Bio 
Site-103, in a greenhouse reinforced as per Dangerous Organisms 
Protocol 12A. It is to remain rooted in the soil core, 9 m diameter x 
4 m deep, in which it was removed from the site of discovery. It is to 
be watered and fertilized sporadically, as detailed in Document 
1001-2. No object capable of producing hazardous sound (sonic 
weaponry, audio-based memetic effects, high-decibel infrasound, 
etc.) is permitted within hearing distance of Bio Site-103. 


The object is to be fed 20 kg of Nutritional Supplement 1001-R-8 
once monthly. The precise formula for Nutritional Supplement 1001- 
R-8 is detailed in Document 1001-2, but it bears repeating that the 
supplement’s protein content is not to be less than 40% by mass, 
and that all protein is to derive from pigs, dogs, or comparably- 
intelligent species. These guidelines may be altered as necessary 
when testing requires that SCP-1001 be hungry. 


Bones, horns, and other hard tissues are never to be provided 
except as part of duly-supervised tests. All tests involving provision 
of hard tissue are to be preapproved by both Dr. Glastonbury and 
the current Security Director of Site-103. 


Description: SCP-1001 is a single plant apparently belonging to an 
undescribed species of We/witschia. Unlike other Welwitschia 
species, it has a tree-like trunk which broadens into a woody taproot 
180 cm wide and 5 m long, 2 m of which protrudes above the 
surface. Also unique to SCP-1001 are its leaves, which are up to 

6 m long, lined with barbed prickles, and capable of secreting a 
sticky pitch-like resin, and which are capable of motion with 
considerable dexterity and strength. SCP-1001 is geographically 
disjunct from its known relatives, having been found in the Andean 


had been having a really really great wet dream. 
"W-What?" 


"We need your help. We think the people who took you last night are 
out here. Try think of anything that looks familiar to you, anything at 
all." 


"Y-Yes ma'am." 


They drove for what felt like hours as Kennedy was forced to recall 
anything resembling the place they were. They drove past dozens of 
tiny little farms, filled with vast acres of corn, watermelons, and god 
knew what else. Kennedy's mouth watered at the thought of eating 
something beyond mashed potatoes and water. Whatever the prison 
he was in fucking sucked, even by prison standards. 


Eventually, things began to shift together. Like pieces in a jig-saw 
puzzle, the mountains and roads and houses and farms and even 
the signs began to come back to him. Not all at once, but just 
enough for him to realize that things were starting to become 
familiar. They were coming up a hill — yes, yes, he was beginning to 
remember things. And — if memory served him correctly — they 
shou — 


"Turn right! Turn right!" Kennedy screamed, scaring Agent Derren 
into curving right into a tiny corner on the hill, barely visible behind 
the dozens and dozens of tiny little branches and overgrown 
bushes. 


Derren was able to avoid tipping the entire car over, and saved them 
from murder by stupidity. The car moved down the hidden path, 
which was covered in dozens of tiny vines and bushes and other 
shrubs. Agent Eleonora took her pistol out and began loading it, her 
eyes analyzing every single part of the road. 


Kennedy felt his heart drop below freezing — again. He couldn't 
remember what happened beyond this road — only that it involved 
something really really horrible. The dru — 


He screamed, grabbing hold of forehead. He expected to feel blood 


leaking out of a large crack around the top of his skull but felt 
nothing. It hurt — it BLED — and every time he thought about the 
drug his brain rejected it — as if it didn't want to remember — 


His heart skipped a beat as those words flashed across his mind. 
The implications of something like that — is it possible? What if — 
what if this was their plan? What if it was their plan to leave him in 
the sewer, to leave him with these G-men, to lead them here and kill 
them and — more importantly — him. 


As he thought about these implications, the car buckled upwards — 
far above any pothole in the ground. It was only after he felt himself 
fly through the hair, feeling the world move upside down outside his 
window and the sound of a loud explosion that he knew something 
was wrong. 


He never even felt the large branch of a tree enter through his head 
as the car collapsed onto the tree. It felt too vague — too dreamlike 
— to be real. He felt like he was dreaming, like things were slowly 
fading away from him. He looked down at himself — a larger branch 
entered his stomach and calf of his left leg. He laughed. He felt 
extremely high right now, like things weren't even real. 


Kennedy tried to giggle but only blood came out. 


|Hub| Yellow Plumber II » 


You Are Not Insignificant 


Last week, we lost Researcher Kermode. He hung himself in his 
office. Didn't even leave a note explaining why. Everyone thinks he 
broke under stress. 


Well, this week, we're losing me. And | think you all deserve an 
explanation as to why. 


| was working with Kermode on a few projects. We dug up a few... 
ugly things. Who could have guessed that manuscript would reveal 
the Foundation going back that far? Or that the fortune teller would 
show us the possibility of it existing far, far into the future, 
desperately trying to keep the human race safe even after the 
apocalypse. Hell, I'll admit | was shaken when we stumbled into the 
containment chambers even the O5s didn't know about. 


Kermode killed himself because in light of all of that, all of those 
grand achievements that the Foundation's done and will do, he felt 
like nothing. Just a bug crawling across the surface of the planet, 
searching for a non-existent meaning. At the time, | didn't really get 
what had shaken him up so badly. Still didn't for the past week or so. 
But his death got me thinking. 


| still don't see exactly what's so horrifying about being insignificant; 
it's something every living creature has to deal with. But our work, 
and the time I've had to think since his death, that's brought me to 
another conclusion. I'm not insignificant. 


| work for the Foundation. Even if I'm only a single unit, I'm still a unit 
that's working with a million others, working behind the scenes to 
keep the world safe from impending disaster. We're all part of one 
great, big machine, designed specifically to keep everyone safe. We 
here aren't insignificant; we're the most important people on the 
planet. 


And that terrifies me. 


Has anyone really ever realized how many people we protect? How 
many people whose simple existence relies on us not screwing up? 
There's seven billion individual walking, thinking, innocent people 
out there who could die the very instant we make a mistake. Hell, in 
a few cases, a sizable chunk of the universe is relying on us to play 
our cards just right. Every last little thing is reliant on us, and we're 
continually one bad move away from ending it all. 


And even if we don't screw up, look at all these new threats 
materializing. We've brought in close to a thousand new objects this 
year. What was the average beforehand? Twenty? Thirty? 
Something big is happening. The sheer amount of anomalies 
popping up tells me that we'll be needing to apply more and more 
pressure to the world soon. Tightening our defenses, closing up 
gaps, making every thing safer and safer, always applying more 
pressure. 


We're the protectors of the world. We've got the whole planet in our 
hands, cupping it with a light squeeze to keep it safe. What happens 
on the day we squeeze a little too hard, and everything implodes? 


| can't be a part of that. | need to get out, right now. Even the time it 
would take to apply for an amnestic is too long to live with the 
knowledge that our only two options are utter failure and destructive 
success. So that's why I'm relying on a piece of lead in my brain. 


I've got to go now. 


Goodbye. 


You Can Leave Your Friends Behind 


« SCP-3688 | Your Friends Don't Dance » 


Kayleigh MacMallan felt the bullet tear through the side of her head 
as her vision cut out and she collapsed to the ground. Two of her 

duplicates stumbled and tripped too, before she managed to regain 
control and get them back on their feet. That was the second one to 
die today - she had felt it both times. At least the bullet was quicker.