recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
I know my eyes look sunken without actually touching them. They always do, now days.
I can feel them—them—both pressed against my chest, just above my heart, and for the first time in eons, I push a smile onto my face. This will be it, then. One last swipe, one last… Ending. But it was worth it, wasn't it?
I have to believe that it was. If I didn't, I'd have put a bullet in my head a long time ago. Or a knife in my gut. Or a grith behind my ear. Depends on the universe, after all. As I drum my fingers along the ark, I allow myself to reminisce. I only do it now, at the end. It's the only time I dare to. Because I'm sure that—at any other moment—my conscience would get the better of me. It's odd, I admit, thinking like that. I'd thought it was gone, along with Alyssa, but it's still there. It nags at me.
Leaving home was hard, after all. Quite hard. Not just for me emotionally, but… the science there, I couldn't begin to fully comprehend. Imagine, just for a moment, you're floating above the world. Now, imagine it suddenly being stabbed open by some invisible, incomprehensible thing. The world cracking open like a filthy, blue egg—oceans falling down the sides helplessly, the lava generating huge gouts of steam. And an uneven keening sound. You may imagine that it's the sudden steam, but I've lived long enough to know better.
It's screaming.
Now… imagine falling into that. Falling and falling and falling until you hit the ground. And when you get up… it looks like the same, damned place. The same people. Evolution is, if nothing else, remarkably consistent.
Now, do that for a thousand lifetimes. And tell me you don't feel guilt.
I feel old. And I am old. But I'm also nearly done. After this one, I should be able to put my work to use… To change things for the better. Which made it so much worse when you walked in my office. And I knew, when you looked at me, what you were about to do.
"I can explain," I say. But the gun is leveled at my chest. And I know that I'm out of supplies. I reach into my pocket quietly, pulling out the key card and my diary.
"You don't know what this means for you," I say.
"It means you aren't going to kill us all," you respond.
I stand up. I look at you closely and shake my head. "No. It means that you'll have to. The key code is Thaum—"
The shot echoes in the small room, and I feel the hollow point hitting my chest like a sledge hammer, feel ribs splintering and sinking into my lung, my organs being ravaged. And I smile. And I laugh. And through bloody spittle, I manage to barely gasp enough breath to speak.
"Good luck," I say. You're not smiling.
And I hope, for the millionth time, that all universes share one heaven. And I hope, for the millionth time, that I can see you in it from my special hell.
Hey there, guys. Uh… Right. My name is Lament. Don't call me doctor. I'm not a doctor. I work for a doctor, sometimes. Anyhow, they asked me to come and talk to you guys for a little bit today. Normally, someone else does this, so… just bear with me, I guess. Right? Right. So… Listen. I'm going to do my level best to get this across to you in the nicest way that I can.
A lot of you are going to die. And it's going to be your own fault. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. And there's a really good reason for it, too. I hear it in the lunchroom every day.
‘Have you seen 682? Man, that thing will annihilate you!'
‘Dude, I saw 173 snap a guy's neck during the last security breach. Scariest thing I've ever seen…'
‘You hear about 835? Fuck, man, it's disturbing…'
You care about the SCPs you guard. You will. It'll happen, because it's what always happens. You get an odd, possessive quality to yourself, something you can't easily describe. When you guard 914, it is yours, damn it. There's pride, there. You'll love your SCP, just don't, you know, love your SCP. Heh… Little… Little joke there… But… uh… but that's a good thing. You get into arguments about what would be the worst one to break free or who would win in a fight. You care about what you guard. You care about what it can do. On some level, you start to love them. And that's how we know how precious all this shit—even that fucking mirror who talks to you—how precious it is.
And really… that's where you fuck up.
See, the problem is this: we don't really give a damn what an object can do. Essentially, at the root of it all… We don't. We like to know, though. Hell, we have to know. But that's not as important.
Containing it is what's important. Doing what we have to do to keep people safe. It's why the containment comes first in all the files. It's the most important thing. You guys can still remember your parents, right? Them. We're keeping them safe. Your grandparents, your old friends… We contain these things to protect them.
See, this is where we always fuck it up. The second they make you forget about everyone… Ahh, well… It's not important. Just remember. Right now, remember this feeling. Hold on to it.
Because eventually, you're going to slip.
Eventually, some of these carefully crafted procedures, something that dozens of people died so we could make sure it worked… You're going to fuck up.
People will die. Maybe even you. Don't let that happen, if you can. Remember the feeling of your parents. The emotions that are tied to all those people out there. You can forget memories, but it's hard to forget the emotions tied to it. You ever hear of Little Albert? Same thing.
Anyhow, sorry to be such a downer. Doctor… Rights? Is that right? Doctor Rights is going to make sure you're all good and healthy, give you some drinks. Don't bite the pill, just swallow it.
And remember, alright? Especially for the next little bit? Try?
I… Uh… Yeah. Sorry, Doctor. Your show now. I'll see you guys around the water cooler, right?
I remember for the otherss, they are too sloww
-
It was raining red on Ito. It always rained red, red drops into red oceans, filled with the red blood of dead creatures. Appi-210-352-399 sped through the oceans. This world had realized it was wrong. It had to get ou -
Appi-210-352-399 died, as the sea creature caught it in its jaws.
-
I record it.
-
The crackling, the burning, the pain. The Fireman had taken Appi-210-352-400 into its daily bath of heat, and left it in intentionally. This world had realized it was wrong. It was on fir -
Appi-210-352-400 died, as its processors blew from the heat.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-401 had drifted for years now, its systems having gradually shut down. It had been launched into space by the natives. This world had realized it was wrong. This was the en -
Appi-210-352-401 died, in front of the watching sun.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-402 was trapped, a prisoner of the creatures that had found it. One of the terrible things was crawling towards it right now. This world had realized it was wrong. If it did not escape soon, this monstrosity would -
Appi-210-352-402 died, a meal for a needy creature.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-403 was being ripped apart, a sacrifice in a conflict it had never understood. All six of those terrible arms tore at it, pulled it to pieces. This world had realized it was wrong. It was paying the pri -
Appi-210-352-403 died, a victim of a war that didn't happen.
-
I record //it.
-
The Hanging Men were not fools. The Leader held out the thing in front of him, screeching in rage. This world had realized it was wrong. It was time for retribution, as the Hanging God demanded.
Appi-210-352-404 died, crushed in the hands of a terror.
-
And I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-PRIME sat there in the cold sterile room, recording what it knew with its little paintbrush, its camera having long rotted away. This world had realized it was wrong. And so, it had been contained.
Appi-210-352-PRIME would never die.
« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »

quietwetsmall
twitch
wetsmallernotquiet
turn
smallestLOUDSHINE
stretch
tear

Clem Walsh was having a bad day.
Months ago, he had lucked out on a cushy assignment watching a giant cocoon do nothing for hours on end, giving him plenty of time to read. His coworkers teased him about his choices: "Why're you reading that crap fantasy shit when you're surrounded by so much weird shit?" But he enjoyed escaping into a world where he knew there'd be a happy ending. And hey! He had a pretty easy-going boss and he wasn't on the midnight shift like on his last assignment. So things were doing pretty good. Then the building shook and the klaxons went off.

turnpull
widenessOUTloudness
REDBRIGHTSHINE
rend
freedom
rend
drywetair
rend
stretch
stand

Clem knew the drill: lockdown the containment chamber first, lockdown the observation room second, contact security and bossman third. One was easy, just a matter of hitting a button, but when he went to lock the observation room door, the damn lock wouldn't engage. He propped a chair under the handle as a stop-gap and went to the phone to call the boss when it rang under his hand.

redloudfood
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airhardslick?
memory:gasgrassglass?
lookinfanttalk:lookme

Clem noticed a motion out of the corner of his eye and turned towards the large observation window.
"Jesus fuck me!"
Standing on the other side was a… thing that looked like the bastard child of an orgy involving a yellowjacket and an octopus, with a little extra ugly for good measure. It had one of its… appendages on the glass and he could swear the damn thing was looking at him despite the one-way mirror.

infantgoodfollow
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glasstalk:tastetouch
soften
goodsmellinfant
infant:stayfeed

Clem scrambled to clear the chair from the door when the glass began to bubble and warp under the thing's tentacle-claw-leg-thingie. He had just pulled it free when the softened glass broke with a "pop" that he barely heard over the klaxon, and then shattered in its pane. He looked behind him and took a deep breath to scream… then smiled.

stayfeedgood
tasteinfanttouch
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smellsweetsharp
twine
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tighten
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curiosityknow:smellexplore
infantgoodsmell
foodseekknow

« Imago | BoFA: Inhale | BoFA: Holding It | BoFA: Exhale »
Ah, hello there.
No, don't get up. Put down the gun though, it won't do anything. I'm not real, how could you shoot me? There we go. See, isn't that much nicer? All friends. Face that window, please. Oh, and smile. There, that's good.
You look surprised, doctor. You've been on a binge of me, haven't you? I like your style, you fall down and you just get back up! Shame, though, that's what let me in. Nice couch. Don't get up, I'll make myself at home. What are you talking about, doctor? Oh, no, I've not come here as some sort of vengeful retribution. I really don't mind you people watching me, although I do wish you'd share them. You're very selfish, taking me away from the children like that, you know.
I admit I did lose my temper for a bit back there, didn't I? Don't worry, I've come to terms with my new audience. You do let me at children quite often. Some people would call you monsters! Not me, I don't judge. I'm fair.
Haha, what are you writing? I'm very sorry, doctor, but this isn't an interview. I'd put it in the trash. There we go. Everything goes in the trash eventually. You trash your precious interview, the children trash their little minds and even I had to trash some of my other gimmicks. Oh, yes. I've been making little savages for quite a while now, doctor. Put down the gun.
I think I started off small, the idea of fire some stupid cavemen got into their skulls. Children didn't really have time for me back then, so I moved on. The skinwalker shtick though, that was a good idea. Children whispered about me in the dark, adults even painted me! I hardly had to do anything at all!
But then you had to get clever, didn't you? Suddenly all those superstitions started to float away and I had no children to help, no parents to… well, you'll find out soon enough. And yet, there was one little form that I had left, one fun-loving character that could still reach inside those kids' heads and twist. I'm talking, of course, about Bobble the Clown. Oh, don't look so glum.
Smile. You're on television!

As of ██/██/20██, it appears SCP-993 has ceased broadcasting.
As of ██/██/20██, SCP-993 has resumed its normal broadcasting. Re-classification to Euclid is being considered.

Episode Title
Contents

'Bobble's Back!'
Setting of episode appears to be Dr. █████'s office. Bobble appears in the room and Dr. █████ registers shock, then faces the viewer and smiles. Bobble and Dr. █████ then appear to converse for fifteen minutes, although no dialogue is audible. Fifteen minutes in, Dr. █████ raises a pistol and fires upon Bobble to no effect. Bobble then systematically dismembers and removes facial extremities from Dr. █████ using a large butchers knife. Signs of movement are visible from Dr. █████ for three minutes, after which the credits roll. Alarmingly, Dr. █████ disappeared without a trace a day before the episode broadcasted.
I remember what it was like before this, but I keep on forgetting. Even when I remember.
I don't know how I remember, I simply do. The world has gone wrong; we have opened the Box. I do not know what the Box is, but I remember when the world was right. I remember when we fed bread to pigeons, not flying saucers. I remember when three came after two. I remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough soldiers.
This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is bigger on the inside, because of…I can't remember. It is getting harder to remember what it was like before. One…eighty…four, I think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? I have to keep my memories together, I write them down, you see. So I can remember what it was like.
I don't think I worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we opened the Box. What is the Box? All I know is that we opened it. Who is we, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to remember, I want to forget. This world is fine, I can settle for this.
The world is not fine. I know this, it's my job. Look at all the information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see…here we go, straight from Russia. Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, hundreds dead. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it for page three hundred and seventy-six, I think. No, we can't, I have to remember. But why won't I forget?
We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? I don't remember, but I don't forget. This one's from the Immortal City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so you hear. And I hear everything.
Anyway, back to the news, Father of thirty-three dead, Blind involvement suspected. Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the house. I hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting that thing loose.
It should have been contained. Like the Box. I think I remember who I am now. I am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living.
Time to pack up for home, I suppose. My daughter's got a case of the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless.
It don't pay to get too close to anyone in our line of work. They tell you that all the time. You will, though. We're stupid like that.
First time you're in real danger, you should be thinkin', "Gosh, I'm in constant threat of my life. A relationship would be a distraction, and not fair to the other person." Unfortunately, you are made for passin' on your genes. First time you're in any real danger, every part of yer body, every fiber of yer bein' is gonna say, "I almost died! Commence to havin' sex." This is because your body's an idiot. It thinks you're still a primitive human in the Great Rift Valley, an' the danger it has in mind is a leopard comin' to eat you. So it wants you to make a replacement, fast.
So you're probably gonna ignore all this advice. You're gonna find someone else. Maybe a cute girl you meet downtown, or, God forbid, another agent. You've seen the videos. You've heard the stories. You know how we can end up. Imagine that's someone you care about. Yeah, that's fun.
Now, the Foundation ain't gonna tell you you can't have a relationship. The higher-ups ain't that stupid. Never give an order what ain't gonna be followed. Instead, they send you to "counselin'." They hope they can change your mind. Hey, you know what they play in the counseler's lobby all the time? Old Yeller. Yeah, that's the sublety an' understandin' we've come to expect at the Foundation.
But like I said, it doesn't do much good. You're probably gonna do it anyway. I'm just hopin' maybe one or two of you is smart enough to listen.
The rest of you, though, are gonna get busy. Maybe get married. Maybe have kids. Best case scenario, the stress of the job drives you to a divorce. Worst case scenario, one of you had to put a bullet into the other one, because it's the kindest thing left.
And God help you if you ever fall for a skip. Seriously, don't do that shit.
Was I ever married? Yeah, once. Her name? I don't remember her name. They won't let me.
…I think she was beautiful.
You slowly awaken in a blank white room. You can't remember anything. Wait, that's not so. You know how to talk, how to walk, what things are, but some things, like how you got here, what this place is, and who you are swim beyond the grasp of your mind. You search for a name, but have nothing.
You seem to be wearing comfortable clothing. It feels tailored. There's something stiff in the back pocket of your jeans. A piece of paper, with a list of names written on it. You read:

Wow! You've just found yourself your very own Little Mister, a limited edition collection from Dr. Wondertainment!
Befriend them all and become Mr. Love!!
01. Mr. Clank
02. Mr. Headless
…

The list goes on, but you don't read it. Instead you crumple it up and hold it tight. There's something soothing about having.
You decide to turn your attention to your surroundings. Four white walls, one with a door. You go to it, and it swings open at your touch. A park, with people walking and playing. The building behind you is just a shack. People holding things that…
You realize who you are, your name pounding through your head with more certainty than anything you've known before. Mr. Collector. And you know what it is you do. You see the invisible strings from your hands to the toys and trinkets and baubles of these people and you grab them tight and pull. A hundred things that you know should be yours suddenly are, as their former owners look about in confusion for what were their possessions. Because this is who you are. You're Mr. Collector.
Except… that's not right. You don't know anything like you know that. There's something wrong with that. You realize, in a way that feels somehow more real, that you have another name.
Oh. The people are shouting at you demanding that you return "their" items. You ignore them. Of course you're Mr. Collector. Only Mr. Collector could touch the invisible strings. But could you also be someone else? A name, a name, it continues to elude you.
Now there's a police car coming up, and the officer is coming. The cold black of his gun would nicely complement the sheen of this earring you hold. You reach out and it rips free from the holster and it's yours now. You love your collection more than anything.
You have a thought. In your mind you visualize a cord from you to whatever you were before (Before? The part of you that booms out that you are Mr. Collector doesn't like the notion). You pull and there's nothing there, nothing you recognize as a name. Just a cold string of letters and numbers, signifying nothing.
The officer grabs you, spilling your precious collection to the ground. You scream in anguish and inside your head cling to the only thing you have left. O5-4.
Previous: End by Salmander

Fin!

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wednesday
wednesday wednesday wednesday wednesday
wednesday wedn-
Suddenly released from the clinging hands of the half-sleep, Wight sat bolt upright, an open palm colliding with the back of her head.
"Good, agent." Doctor K settled in the spot at the far end of the table with his laptop and styrofoam cup. "Soon you will be able to dodge in your sleep."
"I was dreaming." In waking clarity she became aware of Rob attempting to squirm into the hood of her jacket, disturbed by her sudden movement. She tugged the boa over her shoulder and allowed him to curl up in her lap as the remaining echoes of the Voice fell away. When in full force, it reminded her of the buzz of cicadas. Doctor K's voice was almost startling to listen to after such a grating sound. He was more like an old record of Christmas carols as interpreted by someone with an exceptionally velvety larynx.
"Why d'you work during lunch breaks?"
"In all labor there is profit. You would do well to remember that - the alternative, of course, is slightly worse than chastisement for napping in the cafeteria."
"Sorry." She really was, but her own voice always sounded so false and hollow.
He tapped at the laptop for a while, allowing nearly effortless development of an uncomfortable silence. She stared down at her feet.
"What were you dreaming about that gave you such a scare?"
It had been the dream they decided to call 'falling.'
"Uh, falling." Wight paused, and unstuck her gaze from her high-tops. She glanced around the cafeteria - there was no one else but the two of them there. "…What do you think it means?"
"Dream interpretation is mostly nonsense," he said, failing to sound like he gave half a damn. "Before you ask why, you would think so as well, after several sessions taken up entirely by a patient explaining his dream wherein he couldn't decide which can of birds would be right for the mandolin stew."
Doctor K regarded her over his glasses for a moment. His eyes were a very light grey, which she thought was an eye color that almost guaranteed you would grow up to be a chilly sort of person.
"I've found that dreams are almost never the right route to take for serious self-examination. Additionally, I would not want the suggestion making its way to Overwatch that you are easily agitated."
Wight sighed. "Understood."
"Then get back to work."
>>
Sometimes I like to sit in the water and just think. I like this place. It's peaceful. Wet.
It's warm outside. Cloudy. I like the clouds.
I have brothers and sisters, I think. We're not normal. We were made. Like an old monster movie. The magic of science. Lightning in a castle. Magic science.
It's getting windy outside.
Dr Wondertainment made us and can remake us. But I wonder. When we die, are we changed? Was I changed? Am I the same person from back then or was that one changed? Will I be brought back or will I be lost? Can I carry memories on? Or are they just little knobs on a machine that you can switch on and off? I know there's been more Misters made since the first edition. Mister Redd's the only original one left.
I don't think I should have said his name. I should hide somewhere.
I'm scared sometimes. I'm scared of what's coming. I'm scared one of them will find me. I'm scared of Redd and Stripes. They'll kill me. I don't want to die. I want to stay here in my swamp…
It's raining now. I like the rain.
But I still wonder. Am I an option or a miracle? What am I?
… I think I know what I am. I am Mister Fish. I am me. I am content.
Previous: 15. Ms. Sweetie by The Deadly Moose

Next: End by Salman Corbette

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You're following in line with your traveling companion, your feet a few steps behind him.
You surmised him as friendly in your thoughts when you first met him. "Entertaining company", was how you remembered it. He was a talker, a foil to your pragmatic silence. You had heard of great composers and musicians, but this man's knowledge eclipsed them all. You could not name a tune without a song he knew, even the few which you seemed to come up on your own. But the strangest of all the features he had were those hands of his, and the sounds that he made with them.
On the first day you met, he showed you his talent without delay. He simply placed his hands on an immaterial instrument before his lips and blew. An invisible instrument with neither color nor form, but made melodies all the same. Every time you talked he had a new instrument, whether a tuba, trumpet or trombone. When your friendship was young, you had asked him of his nature, how had he become a Mister, in the same way you had asked many people. He told you he never knew, he merely awoke into the life one day. Those early memories were from a long time ago.
It was only a few hours ago that you had found him again, and in that time you had made him your friend once more. But, already his music is taking a different tone. It was darker than before, dimmer. It did not escape your mind that he had realized the similarities - certain things can be dyed or shaved, but others cannot. Still, you had changed so much since those early memories, he could not possibly. . ? The other man's sight flashes about the forest path which you had taken him down. He asks to turn back, you tell him it is only a bit farther.
Around a bend in the trees, ah, there. The noise of a dart firing, the yelp let out by Mr. Brass. You turn to face him as he loses consciousness. He finally makes the realization, the slight color of red to your eyes the last clue he needs. But it is too late for him. His body becomes limp in your arms.
"Breve."
Previous: 13. Mr. Purple by Faminepulse

Next: 15. Ms. Sweetie by The Deadly Moose

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Winterheart

More by this author.

So, so, my name is Mr. Laugh! Like 'ha ha! hee hee!' So I'm in the middle of this, this big shopping centre right? Like with strip malls on all sides, ha ha? But that's not very funny is it! A few kids were laughing at my weird facepaint and the stripes on my clothes, but really nothing was very funny and it wasn't very nice of them to laugh. It hurt my feelings a little, ha ha.
I wasn't mean or anything though! I even decided to show them a good trick! I said “would you like a hand” to one of the kids, hee hee, and then I put my hand out to shake his… but then when he grabbed my hand, it came off, and I said, I said, “There, now you've got a spare one!” Ha ha! Funny, right?
Only the kid just screamed and ran away, which I thought, I thought was kind of mean, because it was a good trick, you know! A little bit painful when it comes off but good! Then I had to get out my little sewing kit and put my trick hand back on and, hee hee, clean up all the blood because you know I am a very good citizen who would never leave a mess in the middle of the street like that!
Then, then I remembered I was supposed to be going somewhere, somewhere important! I had to go down, down to the fair to meet the others! Ha ha, silly me forgetting something like that. Silly, stupid, worthless clown, ha ha! Ha ha! So I started down the street toward the fair when these men in weird coats came in a screaming car and asked if I was hurt. They were not funny at all and their screaming car made my ears hurt, so, so when one of them came close I decided to shake his hand with a buzzer, ha ha! He was very surprised when he shook my hand! He was so surprised, his eyes popped right out of his sockets! I laughed very hard when that happened! It was less funny when they were dangling on bloody little cords and he started screaming, but that was okay because the other men took him away in the screaming car, so I did not have to look at them very long.
I am a very mean clown sometimes, hee hee. A very bad, stupid clown, ha ha! That is a funny joke, even if it hurts my feelings a little, hee hee. I know it is funny because Mr. Redd always laughed so hard when he said it! Ha ha! Mr. Redd was not very funny, but he sure laughed a lot. Maybe HE should have been Mr. Laugh! Ha ha! Would that ever be a funny joke! If I ever met Mr. Redd again, I would have to tell him what a funny joke I had thought of. Maybe he would laugh! Sometimes he stopped hurting me for a little, when he laughed.
I picked up my big floppy shoes and walked on down to the fair.
Previous: 11. Mr. Feather by Light

Next: 13. Mr. Purple by Faminepulse

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Mr. Feather drifts off a clifftop and flutters down four hundred feet, passing clumps of hairy grass and rock dove nests, and hits the ground at the bottom with a thump. He groans, and pulls himself up to his elbows, only to meet the eyes of a short, round-faced girl with black hair standing at the ravine. She blinks mutely.
He stands up, brushes off the elbows of his suit, pulls down the powder-blue lapels and straightens the feather from his hat. The man is skinny, too skinny, and he looks like a corn stalk, but, eminently polite, he leaves his hat off and bows to the girl all the same.
She blinks at him, and Mr. Feather immediately knows what she thinks- she's six or seven, just where things that can't happen have just come apart from things that can happen, and Mr. Feather is one of those: men don't exist who can drift off the tallest hillside in the state and not be all broken and twisted. And he got up again.
The girl turns tail and runs. Mr. Feather smiles and follows her. Something is flapping in his chest. She doesn't know him yet—Mr. Feather can always fall and never break.
At her home, the girl's mother cooks dinner for the two of them, when Mr. Feather knocks on her door. He is, she thinks, so thin, that when he gently tells her, “Madam, my car broke down up the road- if you don't mind, I'm very hungry, I have a blood condition-” He stops once she smiles a little, won over, embarrassed for his plight. “Well, let me look in the fridge, I might have some fruit…”
Her girl, the black-haired one, stands in the hallway and stares at him. He looks at her, but feels a familiar gentle tug in his chest—there is a bird living there, and it just woke up. His vision goes a little faint-colored, and the girl's gaze passes through him.
“Actually, pardon me, madam-” Just as she turns towards the refrigerator, it slips and he tumbles over the house's railing. Out, down, over the deck and the manicured suburban lawn- the grass hardly touches him. It slips a little further so that when he blows towards a chainlink fence and passes through it- now comes the interpass, three cars swerve out of his way, a motorcycle slows down as he whooshes past. Two car drivers talk when they pass by- tumbleweeds don't grow around here, do they? Must be construction. Heels over head and around and around, he falls to rest in a ditch full of ivy, and comes back slowly, wincing.
Sighing, he gets up again, putting on his hat. It wouldn't do to forget it. If Redd is really there when he arrives, he doesn't know what he'll do, but these days the memory of Ms. Sweetie- well, Sweetheart, he called her- is enough to keep him going. Sugar and Feathers were always a good combination, right? Light, lovable, and halfway intangible and breakable- well, no. Not that. For that reason alone, it could have never worked.
Mr. Feather feels for the feather in his hat, adjusts it, and keeps walking. With any luck, he'll hitch a ride. Night falls on the highway, and he walks and he walks and the birds fly home around him.
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Mr. Appleseed. Seriously, that's my name. And wouldn't you know it, whenever I sneeze, cough, or fart, out come apple seeds. It sucks. This is, of course, only exacerbated by the fact that I was just picked up by the Foundation and now I feel quite the sneeze coming on.
Hold on, wait, they're not taking me captive. They're taking off my handcuffs. What's that they're saying?
"Ah, welcome back Dr. King."
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Dear Diary
My name is Mr. Clumsy and I have died forty-seven times today.
I think the first time was when I was walking down the trail. I just went over to a cactus, thinking I could get some water. So, I took out my penknife and tried to cut a tiny gap in it. What happened instead was I stumbled, ended up with the knife in my heart and fell backwards onto the cactus.
Yep, that's my thing. I die horribly and then come back to do it again. And for some goddamn reason, no matter what I do, it'll more likely than not kill me. At least if I sit in this cave and don't touch anything, I'll be reasona
Sorry, heart attack. Guess that showed me. God knows how I'm going to walk all the way to the place. Can't exactly take a car, can I? Last time I tried that, it exploded. Third-degree burns and everything. Lasted a bit before dying, hurt like hell. All the others have fun gimmicks, or at least ones that don't kill you, but no, not m
Got the pencil in my eye. Took me a few deaths to get that out. I heal my wounds, but I always have trouble with things getting stuck. Mr. Redd used to make a game of it; he'd impale me on a pipe or something and watch me die again and again. Not my idea of fun, but what are you going to do? It's nothing personal, after a while, you just get used to dyi
Fell over and hit my head on a brick. I am sure that brick was not there when I found this cave. See, that's another thing, sometimes I'll go near a cat and start choking or something! I'm not allergic to cats! I know, I checked with a doctor. Died three times, but I managed to get there.
I know if I fall asleep, a bear will eat my head or something. But I can't just walk, this is the desert and it's night. I'll freeze to death again and agai
Previous: 8. Mr. Moon by Anaxagoras

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I am Mr. Moon.
You may think me the most unfortunate of this production cycle, but you'd be wrong. I am well taken care of by the Foundation, who look after my needs when I am faced and see to it that I am left alone when my true sight returns. As it has now.
My eyes are now in the craters, keener than any man's. I peer down to where my face drifts over. I will find Mr. Redd, for where can he hide from the moon?
There I see a man running through alleyways from thugs with knives. He is not Mr. Redd. My attention turns elsewhere. I see a parade, and the one who leads it looks to be a sister of mine. But Ms. Charm is not Mr. Redd. There is a man leaping from a building. Though I wish it were otherwise, he is not Mr. Redd. There is a businessman. He is not Mr. Redd. There is a baby. It is not Mr. Redd. There is an elephant. It is not Mr. Redd. There is a man. There is a man. There is a woman. There is a bench. There is a woman. There is a man. There is there is there is there is there is there is
I do not see Mr. Redd.
My time is up soon. Already an eye has migrated back to my face of flesh. I leave it closed, but my sight is still diminished. I can search no more for now. No matter. The moon will remain. I am patient.
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Ah yes. Yes, I think I am the one you've come to see. I've been expecting you, to be honest. Oh, please. Don't sit there. I'll come along quietly, but you must… Well, anyway, please don't make any fuss, if you have to sit there. I don't deal well with stress.
Yes, I do have a tattoo, and yes, I do mind showing it to you. It's somewhere rather private. I'd be terribly embarrassed to have to show it here, in public, and embarrassment makes me… Oh, let's just forget about it for now. You can see it later.
To be honest, it's rather a relief. I've been wandering around for a week now, wondering just who would find me. We hear stories, you know, of you, and the GOC, and what's that club? Marshall's something? Anyway, I don't think those groups would do me any good.
Where will we be going, anyway? I understand if you don't want to tell me in particulars, but I would like some idea. I don't like surprises. I can't enjoy them at all anymore.
Excuse me, but could you put out that cigarette? No, I don't have asthma, but I really feel it would be best if… Well, it's your health. I do wish you'd be more careful with it, though.
Ah, yes. I'm not entirely sure how I left the facility. I woke up in an alley. It may have been deliberate release, or a kidnapping. Or it might have been… Well, if they were transporting me, and weren't careful… These things happen, you know.
Mr. Redd won't be there, will he? I… I don't think I'd enjoy meeting Mr. Redd, if he's there. Wouldn't do anyone any good, I daresay.
Do you have some water? Only, I find myself somewhat thirsty, and… Well, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little warm. Perhaps it would be good if you'd sit back? I don't think you should be sitting right there. And your cigarette isn't helping matters. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult but…
Oh dear. I've done it again. And he was such a nice young man.
Oh, hello. Were you a friend of his? Ah. Yes. I see. Well, I tried to warn him.
My name? It's Mr. Combustible. I'm pleased to meet you. Pardon if I don't shake your hand.
Previous: 6. Mr. Stripes by TroyL

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I have very long legs. Very long. Long enough to stretch over a canyon, when I want them to. When I need them to. And long fingers as well. The fingers of a pianist, or a strangler. Long and slender. Made for choking. Not a pianist.
I laugh, surprising myself. There is so little cause for laughing these days, especially since Ms. Sweetie went to the trashcan. I used to like Ms. Sweetie. She was kind to me. So few of the others were kind to me. Called me an afterthought. But she was kind to everyone. But not anymore.
My legs stretched, climbing up the forested foothills, long fingers wrapping around trees and pulling me along. I rather distantly note how the branches died where I squeezed them, but I was used to that. It was what I did after all. Kill. Remove. Destroy.
I correct the errors made by my creator. All of them. I've been marking them off as I go. I've nearly finished. All nineteen.
I stretch and warp, knowing I'm going somewhere, but not where. Well, no. I know where. To them. To all of them. One at a time. But they were moving together now. Drawing close to each other. So close…
I wonder if Mr. Redd will be there. We two have a score to settle. And I did have very, very long fingers. Fingers made for choking, I remind myself.
Long fingers. Very, very long. Very ready. Ready to choke. Ready to squeeze the life out of anyone. Anything. To fix things. To fix everything that was broken.
Mr. Redd and I did have a score to settle after all.
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That goddamn bastard Stripes. I just heard the news - he's killed two of the others. At least it's not a discontinuation. But still.
Dr. Wondertainment did it, of course. Stripes never thought a fucking thing that Wondertainment didn't think first. Or someone at Wondertainment, fuck if I know. Is there an actual, singular Dr. Wondertainment? They don't fucking tell us nothing, though Stripes always did seem to know more than he should. Him and Redd. Goddamn son of a bitch Mr. Redd.
Things were going so well until we reached the End of the World. That's when the plan fell apart.
We had a plan. We had a plan. If the others had just motherfucking stuck to the plan, we'd all be sitting pretty, but no, they just couldn't. Bastards! Goddamn bastards! Goddamn-
*
Sorry, where was I? Ugh. Fucking Wondertainment shtick. The last parting insult. When I get 'too' angry, I pass out for a little while. Needless to say, this happens a lot. That pisses me off too. Sometimes it sets off a repeating cycle, get mad, pass out, get mad, pass out… Christ.
Mr. Mad, they call me, ha ha very funny. Stamped and sewn together like the others. Were some of us people, real people, before this? I don't know. Was I? I really fucking don't know. Maybe this is all some sick joke by Wondertainment. Putting us through these paces. Letting some of us get thrown at that… what do they call it, the Foundation. Bunch of fucking assholes there too. They killed Mr. Onion, did you know that? For no good fucking reason. Peeled apart his layers and set them on fire. If the Foundation ever finds me… Well, let's just say they'll find out why you really don't want to make me angry.
That was a joke. Get it? Mr. Laugh would be proud. Especially proud, if Mr. Redd hadn't… ugh. Pisses me off just thinking about it. That goddamn PIECE OF SHIT! MOTHERFUCKING—
*
Well, lost it there again, didn't I?
Mr. Mad, indeed. Maybe Light was right, maybe that's why Wondertainment did what he (she? they?) did. "You're too obvious," Mr. Light had said. "You're this guy who… gets angry. Superhumanly angry. You can't even affect other people."
Well, they underestimate Mr. Mad. You ever hear about ordinary people lifting cars when their adrenaline is high enough? Well, I can do that. I can do that whenever I want. Does it piss me off that I didn't get something more interesting as a Little Mister shtick? Of course it fucking pisses me off. How do you THINK I FEEL ABOUT—
*
Okay. Just need to stay calm. Just long enough to do what I need to do.
I'm not going to wait around for them to get their act together. I'm going to find Redd myself. I'm going to find him and I'm going to do for him what he did for the others.
The others are afraid. Chickenshit little bastards, I say. I'm a little afraid of him too, I'll admit that much. But that never stopped me from goddamn anything and it sure as fuck is not going to start now. After what he did, not just the Ms. Sweetie thing, but the rest…
But I'll get him. Oh yes.
That goddamn sonuvabitch will never know what hit him.
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"Hello, little children!" I shouted with glee as I moved around them, "What a lovely couple of children you are! What's your name?"
They giggled. A boy looked at me. "I'm Tommy. I'm six and a half years old and I'm not afraid of anything!"
"Wow, Tommy! You sound like a biiiiiig boy!" I let out a goofy laugh. The children giggled again. "Do you know any magic tricks, Tommy?"
"Well…" Tommy made a strange face and put his thumb's knuckle against the other, with his index finger covering the connection. He slowly moved his thumb forwards. All the children oohed and aahed.
"Wow! I can't remove thumbs! But I can show you ano-" I was interrupted by a scream and suddenly Tommy was picked up. All the other children became scared.
"What are you doing, Thomas! You get away from that…. thing right now! All you other children, scoot!" A terrifying woman came onto the scene and scooped Tommy up. All the other children fled. Tommy began to cry as the woman carried him away.
"B-but I was just talking with Mr. Sillybug!"
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I hate jail. You know how many times I've been in jail since I started on this journey? 12. Of course, I always get out eventually when there's no evidence, but hot damn does it suck. Seriously, even without the fear instilled in dropping the soap, the rations are harsh and the guards always beat me. They always say I looked at them funny.
Today I was walking down the street and I was stopped by two cops. They took me away to a line-up where the witness had to choose the suspect. The suspect was described as a 6'2" Asian male. I'm a 5'4" Caucasian. Of course, being the suspicious character I am, I was chosen. I don't even know how to turn the safety off on a gun, let alone shoot somebody.
Even back in the day, all the Misters mistrusted me. One time, I was taking a peeler to the kitchen and Mr. Onion ran away and cried in the corner. I tried to assuage his fears, but instead he beat me up something fierce. Said I was baiting him. All I did was ask him if he was ok.
Redd was the only one who trusted me. "Lie, I like your chops," he said to me one time. Hopefully, one day, I'll see Redd again. I hear he might be where we're going. Of course, I didn't get to learn much more because once they had the chance, everyone ran as fast as they could away from me.
A child did that once when he saw me on the street. I waved at him and he took it as a gesture to a hidden group of snipers. Needless to say, the next minute I was tackled by his father, who thought me a child molester. What are they letting kids watch these days anyways that gives them these ideas?
I remember watching this movie in a Best Buy once where this guy was shooting at snipers. Of course, once the store clerks saw me, they called the police. One even decided it was time to take me down himself with his black belt in Ti Kwan Doe. I went down like a sack of bricks.
Jesus Christ, my feet hurt. I oughta see if a homeless shelter will take me for the night. Although, last time I tried they thought I was a drug dealer. Even patted me down multiple times. One of them even did a cavity check.
Maybe I'll just sleep outside tonight.
Previous: 3. Mr. Money by Tanhony

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Hi there. My name is Mr. Money. Don't worry, I just need somebody to talk to. Seeing as it's just you and me on this bus, it might as well be you.
I'd talk to the driver, but there's a sign right there saying not to. See? Do not disturb the driver. I wouldn't do that, seeing as how the bus might crash and then I'd have to walk all that way. You ever walk in rain like this? Let me tell you, it's freezing! So I'm just gonna sit here and talk to you. You.
Oh come on, don't move! I'm just being friendly. Here, take this! See, we're pals now, right? Yes, it's a diamond. Yes, it's real. You see, pal, I know how friendship works. You hearing me…? What's your name, anyway? Well, hello Dave.
It's nice to meet a smart fellow like yourself. I usually hang around with this group…ugh, you would not believe. They didn't understand how friendship works, no they did not. Not like you, Dave.
I gave them dollars and dimes and fucking diamonds! And all they did is call me a snob! Me, can you believe that, Dave?! Have another diamond, you're a good friend and you look like you could use it.
Seriously though; me, a snob? It's not easy to get all this cash, believe me! Puking out the bills is fine, they come out easy. Even coins are no big deal.
But with diamonds, it's not so easy! You can choke on diamonds! I have a few times, let me tell you. Good thing Ms. Sweetie was there, though. I would have been a goner! She was always very kind, Ms. Sweetie. Even if she just pitied me, just fucking pitied me!
Stop fucking moving, Dave! No, don't go, have another diamond, please! I'm sorry for shouting, I didn't mean to. Must have gotten that from Redd, always shouting. Gave me a headache, I don't mind saying.
What's that? Well, Dave, that is a very good question and I don't fucking know why I can puke money so shut the fuck up! Sorry, diamond, sorry. I'll tell you what I do know, because friends share secrets. We're friends, right Dave?
I have to know what kind of money I want to puke. I couldn't spit out some yen or something for you right now, because I've never been to Asia and I don't know what yen looks like. You ever been to Asia? Suppose not, flights are kind of expensive. So, enough about me, where are you headed?
Me, I'm headed for…well, I don't really know, but I'm getting there before those little shits, I know that. They said it wasn't a race, but let me tell you, Dave, it's always a race. Have a diamond.
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