Over the years, I, CryogenChaos, have posted several short supplements to tales and forum threads in the form of comments on said articles and threads. These "micro tales", as they were, have generally been well received by the community, and even sparked full tale fodder. As such, many folks have said that it would be a shame if these little blurbs were lost to the ravages of Wikidot time, so fellow user ObserverSeptember helped compile a few of the more noteworthy ones here. If you find any others and would like to have them added here, shoot me a message or post a link in the comments!
Also, I'll probably still be writing mini-tales as they come, so expect to see this page grow.
Note: As most of these are intended as supplements to the main content, it's recommended to read the main tale/forum post/etc. in order to get some context.
Doctor Gears stayed longer than any of the other personnel (with the exception of the O5 council, of course), assisting others with their re-adjustment into society. He noticed a wide variety of emotions from the leaving staff: some were overjoyed that they were finally done working with such dangerous objects and eager to start a new, normal life; some were angry that they basically had to start over from scratch, claiming that spending the last few years in a facility that according to official record did not exist was shit for their resumes; and, most curious of all, a fair amount of sadness from people who, as far as Gears was concerned, should have been glad everything was back to normal.
Days passed and people left, and eventually it was time for Gears himself to go. As he walked away from the now empty Site 19, he stopped and looked back for a moment, remembering all the time he had spent in that building. He still couldn't believe it was over, that protecting humanity, the job that he had committed himself to for longer than he could remember, was finished. As he gazed back at the facility, a strange thing began to happen: he began to feel rather odd. It was small at first, just a slight discomfort in his gut.
Then, the memories began to fall.
He remembered the constant struggles against 682. He remembered the puzzlement and amusement from testing 914. He was feeling quite uncomfortable now. He remembered the break room with the other researchers, how they would laugh and make jokes and have a great time while he would sit, stoic as always. He remembered the fun they would all have together. He could feel his breathing becoming labored. He remembered, shortly after the discovery of the loss of the anomalies, Bright finally achieving his final wish. He remembered Clef being unable to cope with normalcy and taking his own life. He remembered Rights, normally mischeveous and joyful, cleaning out her office with a distinct look of sorrow on her face. He remembered how even though it was a stressful, terrible place to be, how it was home to more demons and horrors than any other place in the world, perhaps even the universe…it was still home.
For the first time in many, many years, Gears felt a tidal wave of emotions.
And for the first time in many, many years, Gears began to cry.
"To the O5 Council (and the rest of the Foundation, too!) -
Thank you all for being my very best collectors! Sadly, it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that I do not think I will continue with my work any longer. I've done my part here, and I hope that my products have made people happy (I especially hope that they made YOU all happy as well!). As part of my final goodbyes, I have included a special, one-of-a-kind collectable that I wish for you to have. It may not be as impressive as my other creations, but I hope you find it wonderful in its own right.
This was the note that was attached to a rather large package wrapped in glimmering purple wrapping paper. When opened, the package contained a rather large replica of Site 19, made out of ordinary plastic. When opened, the model building contained detailed figurines of each of the site personnel, from the O5 personnel down to the lowliest janitors, each poseable and each with noticable smiles on their faces, but otherwise nothing anomalous about them. Each individual figurine has been sent to its appropriate counterpart along with a copy of the note.
"You know, this will be the five hundred and eighth time I've told you all this story, so let's start out with some startling news you won't remember. These defenses are nice, but honestly you probably know as well as I do that they don't do jack. I mean, I can open the door basically any time I want, I keep it propped open just enough to make it look like it's locked, but that's beside the point. Now then, onto origins, I suppose.
I came to you people because I wanted to know what the hell was wrong with me, why nobody could remember me and why I practically don't exist. I mean, sure, it had its advantages, like being able to do practically anything without consequence, but after awhile the need for human contact just became too much. Even with my 'mysterious nature', I'm really surprised I was in the right place at the right time to find you people. I talked to your site director and convinced them of my…what'd they call them? Anomalous properties? Anyway, when I was able to tell your director all about his wife when he didn't even remember talking to me, he got a bit understandably freaked out. I think the fifty inch cement was a bit of overkill, but I still appreciate the gesture.
You probably don't remember how long I've been here. Hell, I don't even remember how long I've been here. I do remember around the twenty year mark I started to get annoyed at how little progress was being made, so I started to leave whenever I got the opportunity. Fooling you all wasn't hard, I could leave a freaking toenail behind and you'd still think you had the mysterious anti-meme on your hands. Despite my annoyance, I was really interested in your organization, picking up weird things off the streets and studying them for science. I liked that.
But then I saw the downsides. I saw how you all couldn't take certain risks for fear of exposure, for fear of media attention that you couldn't control. So that's when I decided to help. I snagged one of your radios and since then I've helped you put away more anomalies than you can count. That's right, I'm your Foundation's 'guardian angel' of sorts. I go out and I take the risks you can't afford to, and I help you bring these things in. Don't worry, I'm not going to go rogue entirely. After all, for what its worth, this cell you've put me in is my home.
No, no, that's fine, you're going to forget this conversation anyway. They always do, and at this point I've stopped caring. It's fine, really. I mean, I'm not all that important. In the end, I'm just a Nobody, after all."
In the center of a crowded art gallery stands a man, surrounded by aficionados and critics alike, showering him with praise and attention. They marveled at his latest masterpiece, a sculpture of a woman devouring her partner. Riveting, they call it. A true work of art, near lifelike in its detail and complexity! The man smiles outwardly, but inside he feels hollow. To him, this was not art. This was a paycheck. This had less meaning than the back of a damn cereal box. The man remembers a time when paintings made you think, when sculptures said more than what they were made of, when the artist was more than just a hack with a brush, but a god in their own right. He gazes at his creation, and for a brief moment believes he sees it move, sees it take on the life he desperately tried to give it during those long days in his studio. But it was just a trick of the light, and he's reminded again that art, true art, is dead.
There are many like him, you know. They lived in a time when art was as real as you or I, but now their offspring stand still, forever bound by a normalcy they never asked for, and any message these creators had now silenced by the forward march in time. This is the price they pay. This is the price we pay.
Mr. Funland sat down and let out a heavy sigh, his decision placing a huge burden on his mind. He still couldn't believe that after all these years he simply had to shut down the park. That park was his dream, his legacy! What was he supposed to do from now on? He knew he was going to eventually go back into business, but for what?
Another park? Maybe in the future, but right now it doesn't seem likely.
Books? Eh, he's never really been one for writing.
…actually…that's not a bad idea. The toys were one of the most popular elements of the park. Even the most jaded and stoic kids cracked a smile when they laid eyes on a Funland Fantasy Figurine, even if it's charm existed only in their imaginations.
Funland stood up, confident he was on the right path now. Yes! He would start making toys! But not just any toys, oh no! He'd make the most wonderful, most unique toys this world had ever seen, possibly even this universe had ever seen! They would invoke the most basic, most primal elements of whimsy and fantasy into the hearts of children, just as his beloved park once did.
But he couldn't call himself Mr. Funland anymore. It wouldn't flow well on toy labels, and frankly it was just another reminder of a shattered dream that would always drag him back to the past. No! He had to start fresh! He would have to think of something better, something unique. A name that invoked feelings of wonder and entertainment.
And so the vain pharaoh Unas, jealous that this "Bes" was loved more than he, called for the so-called healer to be executed and his body to be chopped to pieces, encased in stone and buried next to the Nile. That night, Bes was taken by Unas' guards to what was going to be his tomb: a large block of granite with a hole carved to fit the body parts of the great healer. The guards, however, found they could not carry out their pharaoh's orders, for they loved Bes far too much. They had quite a dilemma on their hands: they could not kill Bes, but they could not return to Unas without having killed Bes, for if he found that they had lied he would have them executed.
The kind and wonderful Bes did then have a suggestion, one radical enough to ease the guards' concerns. He would allow himself to be entombed in the rock entirely, save for a single foot to stick out from the top, giving the impression that he had been chopped to pieces. He would then be buried next to the Nile, just as Unas had ordered. Despite Bes' assurances that he would not be harmed, the guards were still hesitant to bury the beloved healer, and only after a great deal of coaxing from Bes did they finally agree. Even so, they could not stop the tears from flowing as they dug the hole to bury the man who healed their friends and families for as long as any of them could remember.
At the dawn of the next day, the guards reported back to Unas that they had completed their task. Knowing the great love his people had for Bes, Unas went to the Nile himself to confirm that the deed had been done. Sure enough, when taken to the burial site, he noticed Bes' foot sticking out from the sand. Convinced that the great healer was no more, Unas laughed triumphantly, for now no one else would stand equal to him, the great god-king Unas, who would one day proudly walk with Ra himself, who would be remembered for all of time!
And so it came to pass that Unas, last pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, despite all his claims of magnificence and grandeur, had no sons to continue his legacy, and his bloodline ended with him.
"Hey," says a bright young idealist, eager to share his favorite creepypasta series with the world, "what if we published a book about the SCP series? It'd be amazing! What do you guys thi-"
The hopeful youngsters words fade away as a sound emanates from the forum. It is one faint voice at first, nearly silent, but as the seconds pass more voices add to the mass, growing louder and louder until the forum is almost shaking with the snakelike hiss of the seasoned veterans of the SCP. They repeat the same words over and over, an empty rage fueling the noise.
"Creative Commonsssssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssss!"
The fresh-faced writer is taken aback by this response. Surely these people wanted their community to succeed! Why were they resisting? "B-but don't you guys want people around the world to share in your stories?!"
"Creative Commonssssssssssss! Creative Commonssssssssssss!"
"But what about fame, about notoriety? Surely THAT interests you!"
"Creative Commonsssssssssss! Creative Commonsssssssssssss!"
"Money, then! What about money?!"
Without warning, the hissing stops. The empty silence is amplified as the young poster sits and waits nervously for the response. Did the prospect of profit change their minds?
Like lightning, the community strikes! Hundreds if not thousands of venomous bites are delivered as the poster writhes in agony. How DARE he suggest something so obvious! Of COURSE we've thought about money! Of COURSE we've thought about fame, about making this wiki profitable! But this…this insect doesn't understand what we've gone through! The attacks continue on and on until finally…silence.
Nothing left of the naive newbie, save for a single finger pointing at a hastily etched note of regret:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that R&D have finally located the source of the toys made by this "Doctor Wondertainment". It's taken years of hard work and hard money, but the demands of the consumer must always be met! Our new plan is simple: we find whatever it is that makes these things tick, and we reverse engineer them and sell them at marked up prices! Over time, we will figure out the most popular product lines (the 'Little Misters' we keep finding seem especially promising) and turn them into entire franchises all their own, with movies, TV shows, hell, even Happy Meal toys! Of course, we're not stupid, we're not going to just send these off with the Wondertainment logo still stamped on them, nor are we going to completely overwrite it. After all, if the actual Doctor Wondertainment shows up and finds we've been selling his products, I imagine we'd be in for a very…intense legal suit. No, our boys in Marketing have been working on that too, and they've come up with a solution. To the consumer, we make the toys. To the creator, we are the distributor of the toys, and we will create a brand name that combines our names to ensure we mean no ill will to the original producer. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you…DISNEYTAINMENT TOYS!"
someone says "Right, enough of this" and just blows up every hipster coffee shop in the country.
And finally, after several years of relative obsurity to the U.S., the anomalous absolutist deconstructionist art movement "Right, Enough Of This" (or REOT) made themselves known to the American people by planting coffee cups with their "slogan" written on the side that explode when all of them are filled with coffee. The remnants of Are We Cool Yet? either defect to this new group, or decide that art isn't worth their lives and abandon the idea entirely. The British Ministry of Abnormal Occurances, desperate to keep the United Kingdom out of war due to these post-postmodern nihilsts, send all the information they collected over the years about REOT to the Bureau of Unusual Incidents, and (thanks to a previously established connection made before the "great unveiling") said information gets passed on to the Foundation, who take measures to keep an eye on this new group of interest.
Forum Post: Deleted SCP entry (No Original Post Available)
The reality bender grinned as he entered the middle of the ring. These were the fights he lived for, the fights he loved to organize. Most of the time, it was just animals vs. inanimate objects or something stupid like that. This time, though, things were different. The stadium was packed with entities of all shapes and sizes; just from a quick glance, he could see a couple of Sl'thans, a few wayward humans in lab coats (those damn Foundationites, he was going to have to have a word with them after the show), a Vampyr Countess, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say the fellow with the gaping maw was an emissary of the Pattern Screamer. Tonight was going to be a good night.
He turned on his microphone before speaking. "Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Battle of the Beasts! Tonight, we have a very special fight lined up for you all, a matchup that happens only once every few decades! For this night, you will all be present…for a sentient humanoid fight!"
The stadium shook with the uproar of cheers as the reality bender waited for the noise to die down. "Yes, yes, now allow me to introduce you to our combatants!" He walked a few paces to a corner of the ring, where a strange looking lizard man was being held by two burly captors. The reptilians hands and feet were bound, and he had a muzzle over his mouth. He looked very angry. "In this corner, hailing from the east side of the Gamma Quadrant, we have the last living warrior of the extinct species known as the Reptiliax! His speed and power are matched only by his ruthlessness, here to perform for you tonight, give it up for Vileskar the Destroyer!"
The crowd erupted again with a combination of cheers and boos, all of which agitated Vileskar significantly, fiercely pulling on his restraints. The reality bender walked to the opposite corner, where another humanoid golem sat, being restrained almost exactly the same way as his opponent, a cold fury found in his unblinking eyes. "And in this corner, hailing from the planet Terra, we have a unique example of a human experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong! This creature's skin is as hard as his strength is high, ready to prove its existence to you all, put your hands together for Specimen 1265!"
The reality bender walked back to the center of the ring as the crowd's insane cheering reverberated throughout the stadium. The reality bender motioned for the restraints to be removed, snapped his fingers and rematerialized in his box seat, his final words still echoing around.
"Let the fight…BEGIN!"
a keyring dongle soldered to the inside of O5-13's bum
"…and in closing, I humbly accept this position you have bestowed unto me. I will do my best to perform my duties as well as my predecessor." finished the newly-appointed O5-13, secretly overjoyed that his hard work has finally paid off. Though the position was infinitely more stressful than his previous position, and he knew there was absolutely no reason to celebrate considering where he was and what he was working with, he had to find small pockets of joy somewhere, and pride in his work was one of his best sources.
"That was quite a speech, 13!" said O5-7, shaking O5-13's hand with only the vaguest hit of a smirk on his face. "It's good to see you're still enthusiastic about the position despite what rumors you may have heard about what we O5's have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. Of course, it's not as though you had a choice about the position anyway!" O5-7 laughed dryly at his own little joke, then cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Now, you have one last thing you have to do before you can begin your duties as an O5. You see, your position is…unique among our ranks as you yourself will be part of one of these objects' containment procedures. Specifically, SCP-XXXX's containment procedures." O5-13 looked at his colleague with mild surprise. As far as he knew, O5s weren't allowed access to any of the SCP objects, and he hadn't even heard of this "SCP-XXXX". Still, he swore to do his duty with honor, and he intended to uphold that no matter what.
"That's alright, just tell me what I have to do. Do I have to clear some files? Or authorize civilian access? Or is it something more simple, like just holding on to a key?" O5-13 asked, anxious to learn what his newfound responsibility was going to be. O5-7 smiled with a slight look of pity on his face as he wordlessly gestured to the doorway to Medical Lab 0, which was for use exclusively by the O5s. Standing in the doorway were two men dressed in surgical apparel, one holding a very important looking keyring dongle and another holding a very intimidating looking soldering iron. Their faces were expressionless as they waved him over.
As O5-13 started to walk over to the surgeons, he started to get a very bad feeling about his new job.
O5-8 looked at his fellow Overseers in dismay. They stood at the doorway to O5-1's chamber, shuffling their feet and trying desperately to spend as much time not going in as physically possible. This was their least favorite part of the day, bar none, particularly since most of them didn't choose to be Overseers, the monster in the room chose them. Why it did is anyone's guess, though most of them felt it was because God despised them more than anything else. Steeling their nerves, the group opened the door.
The featureless room was large but mostly empty, save for O5-1. Even though it was seen daily, the O5s still could barely keep themselves from retching whenever they looked upon the gargantuan mound of flesh that was crudely fashioned in the shape of a large infant. O5-1 looked down on his subordinates with his beady little eyes, barely visible underneath the folds of flabby, mottled skin. His sickeningly large mouth stretched wide into a grin, showing off each of his grotesquely sharpened teeth, stained crimson and yellow from decades upon decades of feeding.
The silence that permeated the air was broken by O5-5, clearing her throat before addressing the monstrous titan before her. "S-sir, we have brought todays harvest for you." she said, pointedly avoiding making eye contact with O5-1. He didn't like that, after all. "Good-good!" shouted O5-1, his unnervingly childlike voice echoing off the steel walls. "I want Seven to read to me this time!"
O5-7 stepped forward, taking the list from O5-5, who gave her comrade a look of sorrow. O5-7 cleared his throat, and meekly called back to O5-9, "P-please wheel todays harvest forward so our b-bestest friend ever can have his dinner." O5-9 grabbed hold of the large crate they brought in with them and pushed it forward just enough for O5-1 to reach, then quickly sprinted back to the group. O5-1 gingerly opened the crate top and pulled out the first part of his meal.
"First on the list is D-69414, killed by a sentient Crunch bar that was dispensed by SCP-261." O5-1 giggled with glee as it messily tore apart the lifeless corpse it held in its stubby little hands. "Sweet treats, sweet eats, sweet meats!" sang O5-1 as it ate, the gruesome spectacle forcing the other O5s to turn their heads in disgust and horror. With one final sickening crunch, O5-1 finished the first corpse, and shouted, "NEXT!"
O5-7 was looking very pale as he read aloud, "Next is D-16883, partway transformed into a 'flesh beast' by SCP-427 before being shot by security detail." O5-1 grabbed the flabby mound of skin in the box and hungrily tore into it, the crunch from before now replaced with an even more disgustingly loud squeak as the slimy flesh of the D-class met the razor sharp fangs of the horrendous abomination. It hummed happily as it slurped down the last of the flesh beast, then began digging into the crate again for more food.
"F-f-finally, D-73093, mauled by SCP-682. As per your request, we left any skin samples and teeth in D-73093's bod-" O5-7 stopped abruptly to cover his ears like the rest of his group as O5-1 screeched in absolute delight. It had been a very long time since he had had a taste of the indestructible lizard, and he had been missing the flavor! This time, O5-1 ate the body very slowly, savoring every tiny morsel of 682 he tasted, looking all the world like he was brimming with ecstasy. Thirty minutes later, O5-1 finished the last bite, gave one more satisfied sigh, and turned his attention to the rest of the O5 council.
"This was a very good meal! I wish to sleep now, so you may all go. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow, friends!" O5-1 smiled as his best pals in the world scrambled out the door. He closed his eyes, preparing to drift into a meat coated wonderland, reflecting upon his dinner. Hopefully next time he would get to eat a body soaked in 075's acid! O5-1 giggled. Truly, tomorrow was going to be a good day.
"Welcome to your new position, O5-13. You have been given your new role because you have proven yourself worthy to know the truth about everything your Foundation holds. You can be trusted to keep the secrets that many of your kind cannot bear. You should feel proud. You only have one last test to pass, the test of knowing the truth about your own council.
You may ask why the overseer council exists. Your assumption is likely that you organized yourselves in an effort to save your species. That you are the leaders of the last bastion of defense against the unknown. Perhaps you even believe you are the last light of protectors of a cold, unflinching universe of horrors.
What you and the rest of your Foundation fail to realize is that you are not alone, nor are you special. There are hundreds, thousands of other species across the cosmos who do the exact same thing you do: contain those anomalies that cannot be known by their race for fear of mass panic, for fear that knowledge of the extreme unknown will cause their societies to tear themselves apart.
You play an important role, to be sure, but you do not play the only important role in the universe, or even in your own galaxy. In fact, on Earth alone there are at least four other councils much like your own, though you may not see be able to see them in your zone. All have the exact same mission: to secure, to contain, and to protect. And when the time comes, your councils may be able to meet and exchange information, to create a balanced and protected universe.
But since that day has not come yet, all you can know is that you report to me.
I have seen what happens when an entire species destroys itself out of fear of the unknown.
I will not let that happen again.
And neither will you.
Secure. Contain. Protect."
1548 fled through the cosmos, fear coursing through its plasma. It had not even turned back once to observe what was following it, all it knew was the rage and hate it felt from the blue dot only grew and grew as the chase continued. Had the star stopped at all during its cowardly pursuance it might have reflected on the irony of its situation, but alas such a thing went unnoticed by the formerly Hateful Star.
The star suddenly ground to a halt in terror as it approached what it only knew as The Dark Field. The star could feel the supermassive black holes each try to draw him in, the clusters of points of no return hungrily trying to devour him. Stuck between an unknown horror and the clawing void of a black hole, the star knew its only chance of escape was to try to fight its assailant.
1548 turned to face the blue dot that pursued it endlessly, and the fear it felt was compounded by a new sensation: confusion. As the dot came into focus, the star realized it was not dealing with another star, or any sort of cosmic being from beyond. Transparent and blue, the hunting orb drew closer to 1548, and the star realized that it was being chased by a ghostly vision of the blue planet the miserable humans called Earth.
The fear fell away and was quickly replaced with white-hot rage, fueled by humiliation and hatred. "ENOUGH! How dare you interrupt my vengeance, how dare you attempt to keep me away from my prize of destroying those pathetic apes!" 1548 pulsed angrily, the ghostly planet slowly approaching the star. "You are nothing I am to fear, and you have no power over me! I will destroy those disgusting humans, and there is not a thing you can do to stop me!"
The ghost of Earth said nothing as it moved closer and closer to 1548. The star remained motionless as the ghost got closer…closer…and passed straight through. The star laughed triumphantly. Of course this translucent thing couldn't hurt it, how foolish the star had been! It scanned the empty space in front of it, and saw the faintest traces of where the humans had been. Not much, but it was a start. 1548 focused its energies, and started to move towards that direction…
…and was unable to move. The star pulled angrily against the unknown force that was keeping it from moving, and turned to see what was happening. A thin spectral tendril that extended from the ghostly Earth was attached to the star's core, as the planet drifted into The Dark Field. The star burned with anger only momentarily as it realized it was moving backwards, being dragged by the planet into the field.
Fear, terror, horror, these words describe only the tiniest sliver of a fraction of what 1548 felt as it desperately tugged against the ghostly anchor that drew it closer and closer to the largest of the supermassive black holes. The ghostly planet sped up suddenly as the pull of the black hole dragged it into its core, and within moments the planet was no more. With the connection snapped from the extreme pressure of the black hole, 1548 tried to flee.
The star's struggles were in vain as it swirled around the core of the black hole, it's continuous flashes of "NO" and "HELP ME" being absorbed by the vacuum. If the star could scream, it would have shrieked in agony as it felt its body being torn apart by the infinite gravity of the black hole's core. Within minutes, every remnant of the Hateful Star was absorbed, and all that was left was the black hole, unknowing of the monster it had consumed.