Jack "PoorYoric" Duckins walked past the containment cell of SCP-Eleventy-Six, nodded to the empty air, and continued on his way. Precisely three-point-four seconds later, he zipped back, his eyes stretching out and his beak opening wide in alarm. "Containment breach!" he quacked. "Emergency! Alarums and excursions! HALP!"
Instantly, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock and a squad of Russian bears ran down the hallway. And up the hallway. And partway up the stairway, before they remembered why they ran there in the first place, and returned to the door. Strelnicock pulled out a spatula and scraped Yoric from the floor. "Comrade! Where is there being fire?"
Yoric placed his thumb-feather into his mouth and re-inflated himself, popping back out. "SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped!"
"Eleventy-Six! Oh no! That's terrible! Sound alarm! Load weapons! Kill chickens!" the rooster crowed, then paused. "What is Eleventy-Six? Is that vending machine? Has vending machine escaped?"
"No," the duck replied. "Even worse. It's the whatsit!"
"Not whatsit!" Strelnicock said. "We must tell the administrator!"
"To the administrator's office," said Yoric.
They hurried up the stairs, barreling through the doors to the administrator's anteroom. A bored secretary snapped her gum, and said, "Appointment?"
"No time for appointments!" Strelnicock bellowed.
"Can't get in without an appointment," the secretary said.
"Break, Karrin, baby, is me! Is Strelnicock! You will be letting me in for see administrator, da?" the rooster pleaded.
"Can't do that," she said, not looking up from her issue of Guns and Ammo. "Rules."
"Then I will take matters into own wings!" He started to run past the desk, only to be stopped by two precisely-aimed bullets to his kneecaps. "Cock-a-doodle-dammit!" he cried.
"Sorry. Rules are rule." She snapped her gum again.
Yoric tore off his coat, revealing a set of janitor's overalls, emblazoned with the name "Jim." He pulled a mop and bucket out from under a seat, and whistled as he slowly mopped past the secretary.
Break dropped a small object into the bucket as he passed by. Several seconds later, there was a bang, a splash, and a quack. The drenched, burned, and battered duck limped back.
"You're despicable," he said.
Gerald walked by, his antennae twitching. “What's going on?” the cockroach asked.
“SCP-Eleventy-Six has got loose,” said Yoric. “We have to tell the administrator, but Break says we can't without an appointment.”
“Oh,” Gerald said. He glanced at Break. “Can we make an appointment to see the administrator?”
“Sure. Got an opening right now,” she said. “Head right in.”
“Thanks.” Gerald motioned for the other two to walk in with him.
“Sir!” Strelnicock said to the person behind the desk, “We are having grave situation. SCP-Eleventy-Six has escaped from being containment, and we must to be recapturing it.”
“SCP-Eleventy-Six, eh? Lemme see if I remember that one,” the other replied. “Was he about yea tall?” he asked, putting a hand over his head.
“Yes!” said Yoric.
“Did he wear big white gloves like these?” he asked, waving his hands.
“Da!” said Strelnicock.
“Did he have big, orange, hairy eyebrows like these?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“That's him exactly!” said Yoric.
“Nope, don't know him,” said the whatsit.
“Oh. Well, fair enough,” said Yoric.
“You are busy man. Cannot keep up with all SCP objects,” Strelnicock concurred.
“Uh, guys…” Gerald said. “I… I don't think that's the director.”
“But if he's not the director, that means…” Yoric glanced across the desk.
“Is whatsit!” shouted Strelnicock.
“You ain't just whistlin' dixie, sister!” the whatsit said, throwing pies into the agents' faces. “Wahahahahooo!” It bounced out of the office and down the hall.
“Custard?” Strelnicock said. “Custard is for Chickens!”
“Gentlemen,” Yoric said, “I have a plan.”
“Oh. Goody,” Gerald said.

Ten minutes later, Gerald was cunningly disguised as a female whatsit. This disguise consisted of red lipstick, a white dress, and false orange eyebrows on the ends of his antennae. “I'm not sure this is such a good idea,” he said nervously.
“Of course it is,” Yoric said. “I thought of it.”
“Quickly, comrades! We hide in wait for whatsit! Gerald, you are being the sexy. Good luck with important mission.” The rooster saluted, and then he and Yoric hid behind a garbage can.
“Wahahahahoo!” came the cry of Eleventy-six, echoing down the hallway. It bounced along down the hallway, when it espied the disguised cockroach. Its eyes bulged out past its jutting eyebrows, and its tongue rolled out of its mouth. “Baby!” it said. “Where you been all my life?”
“Um. Here?” Gerald said, uncertainly.
“Mi amore, you are the light at the end of my tunnel. You are the applesauce on my porkchop. You are the creamy center of my Twinkie. Let me take you away from all of this.” The whatsit gestured grandly at the metal hallway.
“Take me where?” Gerald asked, increasingly nervous.
“To the kasbah. The Riviera. My place for kruellers. You name it, baby! You an' me!” The whatsit grabbed Gerald and pulled him close.
“Fresh!” Gerald said, trying to push Eleventy-Six away.
“Fiery vixen! Just how I likes ‘em!” The whatstit suddenly sped off, Gerald in tow.
“Wait, weren't we supposed to grab him?” Yoric asked.
“Was your job. I was keeping watch,” said Strelnicock.
“Me? You're the one built like a line-backer!” Yoric said.
“Whatsit is slippery, like Yorics. Therefore is your job,” Strelnicock said.
“Slippery! Why I oughtta—” Yoric slammed a webbed foot down.
They argued for several moments. Neither seemed to notice the arrival of Gerald-dress torn, lipstick smeared-until the cockroach threw the fake eyebrows in their faces. “I quit!” he snarled.
“What are you meaning, quit?” Strelnicock demanded.
“I did not come here for the purpose of being humiliated! I don't have to be here. I don't have to take this. I don't have to wear this dress!” Gerald shouted.
“But what about your contract?” Yoric asked.
“Contract? What about my contract?” Gerald asked.
“Section Three, Subjection A, Paragraph III,” Yoric said, handing a copy to the cockroach.
“‘Will appear in cartoon-based tale for the purpose of being humiliated.' Huh. I must have missed that part.” The cockroach shrugged. “I guess I have to go on.”
“Looks that way.”
“Well, phooey.”
“So, comrades, we are now to formulate new plan of action that will be made up by me, Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnicock. And using my fabulous guns.” He smirked, flexing a wing. “Also firearms.”
“Oh, lordy,” Yoric said. “Okay, let's see what you've got.”
“Is simplicity itself. Now, listen closely to me…”

Half an hour later, and they had it set up. It was a thing of beauty. It was a thing of grace. It was a thing of high explosives. Mostly the latter.
“Okay, so how does this work?”
“As I have been saying, it is simple. Firstly, beartrap will keep whatsit in place by biting down upon leg of annoyance. Beartrap has no spring, and is instead closed through tiny but powerful rockets.”
“Okay, what then?”
“Then off is set the automated machine guns. They will perforate the organs of whatsit with bullets. Many bullets. It will be having more holes than cheese from Switzerland.”
“Um, Strelnicock…” Gerald began.
“Wait, hold on, what happens after that? I'm curious.”
“Ah, that is when the platform above-weighted greatly and covered with spikes that are tipped with many poisons-will fall down, perforating any organs that were unperforated by bullets. Which there will be none, because of many bullets mentioned before.”
“Strel, pal, I really think—” Yoric started.
“Wait, wait. Is that it?”
“Is it it?” Strelnicock laughed. “Of course not! Next, there will be grand finale. I have placed many explosives. The many-holed, poisoned, trapped whatsit shall then be blown into smithereenies. Will be thing of beauty. I may shed single manly tear over worthy foe. Maybe not. I am very manly, tears, they do not come so easy.”
“And how's it triggered?”
“When whatsit steps on plate,” Strelnicock said confidently.
“Which plate?”
“This plate,” Strelnicock said, tapping a plate with his foot. He stared for a second, then looked over to where the whatsit had Yoric and Gerald tied up. “Oh, you. You are not my friend.”
“Wahahahahoo!” the whatsit cried as it bounced away down the halls.
There was a hiss, a snap, and a scream from Strelnicock as the beartrap closed. Then the rattle of the machine guns.
“Not in the face! Not in the face!” Yoric screamed as they were perforated by what might be considered an overabundance of bullets.
A snap overhead signaled the release of the spiked platform, which crashed down over all three.
“Oh god! My previously unruptured organs!” Gerald cried.
Then there was a very loud explosion. In hindsight, that many explosives in an enclosed space might have been somewhat foolhardy.

Sometime later, they woke up to the smell of formaldehyde and mustache wax. “Ah, good, you've regained consciousness!” Dr. Mann said. “I'm so glad you're no longer entirely dead.”
“Where are we, what are we doing here, and can I borrow five bucks?” Yoric asked.
“In my lab, recovering from gross physical damage, and certainly, if I can find my wallet. I haven't seen it since… Hmm, not since the last time you were here, in fact. Anyway! I found you around the site, somewhat injured.”
“Around the site? Where around the site?” asked Gerald.
“All around the site,” said Doctor Mann. “But nothing beyond my skills.”
“So… We're okay?” Yoric asked.
“Certainly, in perfect health! Um. Well, I couldn't find all the pieces. So certain… substitutions had to be made.”
“I was wondering why beak was tasting like cardboard,” Strelnicock said.
“Do try not to salivate too much. It's double corrugated, but even so…” Doctor Mann trailed off.
“Ah. Well, we are still to having Whatsit to catch. So, if we are being repaired to best extent possible, we must be off to be going!” Strelnicock stood.
“Toodles, Doc,” Yoric said.
“Um. Thanks?” Gerald said, before following the others.
“What peculiar fellows,” the anthropomorphic mustache said.

“Okay, so, we need a new plan,” Yoric said.
“I am having it!” Strelnicock said. “We will create a minefield, and in the center of minefield, we will place favorite food of whatsit!”
“No, no, no. That's as bad as your last plan,” Yoric said. “No, what we do is, we paint a tunnel at the end of the hallway, then chase the whatsit right into it.”
“No, no, you are ignoring obvious flaws in your plan. It is obvious it is my plan that must be used.”
“No, my plan!” said the duck. “It's ingenious, as I thought of it myself!”
“QUIET!” Gerald's eyes… well, bugged out, and he stamped the floor for emphasis.
“Yes Gerald?” Strelnicock asked.
“Um. I've got it. A plan, that is. And it's my turn now.” Gerald looked uncomfortable. “I mean, you both already tried.”
“He has a point,” Yoric said. “Anyway, while he tries that, I can come up with a plan that will really work.”
The rooster shrugged. “Okay, we try little cockroach's plan. Then we will be trying my brilliant scheme which is as simple as it is unnecessarily complex.”
Gerald went over to the emergency phone on the wall, and dialed a number. He spoke into the receiver for a few minutes, and then hung up. He started filing the nails on his two left hands.
“What? Is that it?” asked Strelnicock.
“Wait for it,” Gerald said.
The whatsit ran down the hallways. “Quick! You gotta hide me!”
“Hide you?” Yoric asked.
“You don't understand, man. I can't let her find me. Not… Not her. Come on, be a pal. I'm begging you.” The whatsit knelt in front of Yoric and grasped his shirt.
Yoric and Strelnicock exchanged glances. “We… we can might to do this for you,” Strelnicock said slowly. “In fact, I am thinking that I know just the hideout.”
“Really? Oh, thanks man. Thanks. You're a pal. Don't let nobody tell you aren't,” the whatsit said. “Where should I go?”
“Follow me,” Yoric said. “No one would ever think to look for you here…”
After they led the Whatsit back into containment, Yoric looked over at Gerald. “That was easy.”
“Yeah, well, you just have to know what strings to pull,” Gerald said nonchalantly.
“Whose strings is it that were pulled, Comrade Gerald?” asked Strelnicock.
“His ex-wife's. It turns out he's behind on child support,” said the cockroach.
“How'd you find that out?” asked Yoric.
“Well, while we were… I mean, with the disguise, and he…” The cockroach trailed off, a blush creeping up his carapace.
“Aha!” said Yoric. “So it was my plan that led to its capture! Victory, Yoric!”
“That is not counting,” said Strelnicock. “Besides, its wits were clearly dulled by ringing in ears from explosive. My victory, plainly.”
As the two bickered back and forth, Doctor Bright wandered down the hall. He watched them for a moment, and then turned to the camera. “Th-th-th-that's pretty much all the shit we got for you today, folks.”