Johnny was sitting at his computer desk, head hung low as the tears streamed down his cheeks. He couldn't believe that he'd found yet another internet community that he was exiled from. First it was the tumblr kids, then the twitter kids, then the furries, and now, finally, he faced the worst kind of exile. Exile from an online writing group that probably took itself way too seriously. He was about to call his best friend — James, the emogoth who attempted to bridge the two social strata end ended up with a cigarette burn from when he dropped it on himself — when the door to his room was kicked in. Standing there in a long, white lab coat was none other than Dr. Bright. He knew, because of the amulet that was around his neck and the name badge on his chest. He gasped as he saw one of them, one of those who had cast him aside and neglected him. But he couldn't help but notice that something was… out of place.
"HELLLLLOOOOOOO, JOHHNY!" screamed Bright, his eyes manic and wild. It was then that he realized that it wasn't the Dr. Bright he had been expecting (the quiet, morose one who wanted to die from the more recent stories), but was actually the crazy, wild eyed Dr. Bright who had starred in stories where he'd specifically and delightedly killed a man who cut him off in traffic and sentenced D-classes to masturbation therapy in Dr. Glass's office. It was then that Johnny realized exactly how fucked he was.
Johnny let out a loud, pained squeak as he was grabbed by the ear and dragged from the desk, arms and legs flailing madly to the sides as Bright tugged him down the stairs and into a large, waiting white van that was emblazoned with a large, Foundation logo. On the side, he saw the name. Soap-from-Corpses-Products. He cringed as he was hurled into the back. "WELL, JOHNNY. IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO GET TO KNOW THE FOUNDATION."
The door slammed in Johnny's face, and as he pleaded and banged against it in impotent rage, Dr. Bright walked around the front of the van and climbed into the front. He pushed in a tape — Dylan, from the bad years — and cranked the volume as Johnny covered his young, Deathcab listening ears in pain and collapsed to the floor of the van. Bright peeled out and down the street, meeting up with an escort that led them both out in the country.

What felt like hours passed (in reality, only forty-five minutes, as Johnny didn't have any of his electronics to make the time pass by properly) before they pulled to an abrupt stop, slamming the stammering, crying, whining, bitchy, annoying, under aged user's face against the hard, crosshatched plastic divider. Bright hopped out from the front before walking around, opening the back and dragging out poor Johnny, throwing him into the dirt of a strange, abandoned back road.
Johnny looked up at Bright with utter fear and horror, his jaw slack as he stammered. Bright reached into his jacket and pulled out a shotgun, leveling it at Johnny's face.
"Do you want to live, Johnny? Do you want… to live?" Bright asked.
Johnny had already gone number one, number two, and number three in his pants, but he somehow managed to nod.
"Good. GOOD. I hate it when they want to die," the mad incarnation said, pointing over Johnny's shoulder. Johnny turned, looked, and his jaw dropped.
They were near an arch, and above the entrance, he saw the name of the place written in large, blocky black letter. "Silas Presby's Camp for Troubled Youth?" he said. "But… but… that's not an SCP cover," he stammered, eyes wide.
Bright grinned down at him. "I know. I'm turning you over to my counterpart," he said.
From behind a bush stepped a gaunt, tall man. He was skinny, yet his right arm was massive and strong. He looked down at Johnny and spat in the dirt. "This is what you bring me, Bright? This is what I get?"
Bright nodded, "Unfortunately. He's the only one that couldn't spell this month. Very eager, though."
The man nodded, and then knelt next to Johnny, squeezing the young man's arms a little. "Not much on him. But he'll do," he said, nodding.
Johnny looked up at him, swallowing. "D-do for what? Am I… am I going to become a… a Class-D?" he asked.
"No," said the old man. "You're going to become a Class-P," he said, sucking in the snot from his nose before spitting it into the dirt again.
"A… a Class-P? I've never heard of that…"
The old man laughed. "You will," he said. "Welcome aboard, Johnny. I hope you liked shark week."
Bright climbed back into the van, waving at them and smiling a rictus grin, "LATER, JOHNNY. JUST REMEMBER. AIM FOR THE NOSE. AIM FOR THEIR FUCKING NOSE."
Bright punched the gas, and in a cloud of dust, Johnny and the old man were left standing under the arches. Johnny went number four as the old man squeezed his shoulder. "Come on kid. We've got a Class-S off of Florida."
"A what?"
"God damn, kid, You don't know?"
"Know what?

Johnny was waiting in the helicopter as they approached the jump site. His arms were clad in thick, heavy metal, and his body — once weak and leaned by years of apathy toward real food — had grown strong over the months of training. He hovered over the water, looking down as the old man in the front nodded to him.
"You ready kid?" he asked.
Johnny nodded. He was ready. He was so fucking ready to punch this god damned shark. He was doing the world a service. He was going to save them, one punch at a time.
"Then go for it, kid! Target is directly below. Do NOT miss!"
Johnny looked at the water, his chest hammering as he leapt from the plane, looking for the target — Tigershark T-18543, a Known Nibbler — was finally in their grasp. He hit the water, holding his breath as he looked, then immediately and suddenly sank thanks to the incredibly heavy shark-punching gauntlets on his arm.
He plunged deep into the depths, his lungs aching as the ocean swallowed him whole.

"How the fuck do you keep convincing them to do that?" asked Bright into the receiver.
"You always send me the idiots," came the reply.
"Right. We'll have a few more next month."
"Sure. Just keep sending the canned tuna, and we'll keep this little operation going."
"Right," said Bright into the phone, putting it down with a click. He looked back at the applications, his nose crinkling slightly as he went through, clicking. "Approved, Approved… How the fuck hard is it to spell Alabama? Denied. Denied. Denied…"
"Denied."