Chapter Text
“TALK TO ME, YOU TWITCHY FREAK!”
Cartman slams his fists down on top of the SCP’s file report on his clipboard, causing his pen to fly up and roll off the table and onto the ground. The humanoid figure in the chair across from him only curls tighter into itself at the robust man’s loud scream, its face pressed into its knees, eyes glued to the floor now tracking the pen that Cartman just ejected from the table.
Cartman mumbles under his breath and sits back in his chair, arms crossed in annoyance against his broad chest.
It’s been three months, THREE MONTHS since this SCP was brought to the facility's containment, and it still hasn’t uttered a single word or lifted its head since it got here. How are they supposed to study it if it won’t cooperate? Cartman is becoming impatient with it. He comes in here every day and sits down in this chair asking it the same fucking questions and is not getting any answers.
It’s infuriating.
The Site Director’s idea of giving them a nice, fantastical welcome party complete with proverbial fucking party streamers and a gift basket waiting for them in their containment chambers is complete and utter bullshit to Cartman. He knows how dangerous these things can be, and they shouldn’t be treated like it’s their first day of preschool.
No. They should be destroyed.
They aren’t human and they shouldn’t be treated as such.
He stands up and leans over the table, hovering right over the trembling subject. The anomalous effects of the SCP begin to become clear as the researcher’s breathing turns ragged the closer he gets, and he starts to stutter uncontrollably. “You are s-seriously starting to piss me off right nn-now. If you don’t start talking, I’ll fucking mmake you—”
“Cartman.”
Speak of the fuckin’ red-headed devil.
“That’s enough, Cartman,” the voice on the intercom crackles. With a scowl, Cartman stands up, making an effort to slam his chair into the table —which makes the subject across from him jump much to Cartman’s amusement— and stomps out of the containment chamber.
“Sup, Jew.”
The redhead glares at the man, not at all in the mood for his inane games. “What did I tell you about being forceful with the SCPs?”
Cartman childishly rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, doing a shrill impression of the redhead with his hand. “NoO CaRtmAn, bE cOlD nOt CrUeL.”
He pokes the man harshly in the chest. “I’d advise you to get that sand out of your vagina fast Kahl or it’s gonna turn into one of these fr—”
“My name. Is not. Kahl.”
“You will refer to me as Director Broflovski and ONLY Director Broflovski. This is not the place for familiarities. Do you understand?”
“I understand that the sand in your vagina has gone far deeper than imaginable.” He leans closer as Kyle’s hand tightens around the pen trying to contain his temper. “You’ll have to get your trusty bodyguard to reach up there and clean it out for ya.” He dares to lean in even closer to what is surely a ticking human timebomb. “I bet he lovvveeesss calling you that. ”
Steam is practically shooting out of the Site Director’s ears. Suddenly he remembers his training, takes a deep breath, and his face un-scrunches. He looks down at the clipboard in his hand and scribbles something with a deadpan expression before unclipping the file attached and thrusting it at Cartman. “You’ve been reassigned.”
“WHAT?! Why?”
“Because,” he states pointedly. “I do not support the way you go about researching SCPs. As such, I’ve assigned you to research the inanimate ones.” He places the pen to his chin in thought. “Well, on second thought, it is quite animate at times, but whatever.”
Cartman just stares down at the file in his hand, an unreadable expression on his face.
SCP-RG-400. For some reason just seeing the name of this SCP gives him a headache, as well as a memory of a faint, lingering smell of a certain familiar herb.
“Look Cartman, just because we grew up together, doesn’t mean that you can behave how you want here. I am your superior whether you like it or not and I will not hesitate to put you on probation if you go against me.”
“Oh HO, don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“I’m serious, Eric,” Kyle speaks with such authority, and the use of his first name like that makes Cartman pause. The room goes silent, and Kyle can’t help but feel a spark of pride that he could strike his childhood nemesis speechless like that. In a manner that is unusual to anyone who knows Eric T. Cartman, he turns around and heads for the exit, lingering at the door for a bit before glancing at Kyle over his shoulder.
“Very well,” There’s a glint in his eye that makes an uneasy feeling stir in the pit of Kyle’s stomach.
“Director Broflovski.”
/////
Craig Tucker has always been fascinated with the otherworldly and unexplained. Ever since he was just a small child he strived to grow up to be someone that dealt with these matters— a scientist of sorts.
Instead of staying up late for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, little Craig would stay up late with his telescope, scanning the skies in hopes of seeing signs of visitors from space, anything that would serve as evidence that we are not alone in this vast universe. To an unobservant individual, Craig was just a normal boring, booger-eating 10-year-old. Nothing unique or noteworthy really stuck out about him besides his borderline unhealthy obsession with space and space-faring fictional characters.
It wasn’t until he got through college that he really excelled. As he aged, he grew to be more logical and analytical in nature, working out any problems he would face with facts and reason above all else.
A natural-born scientist.
His parents did not see his potential. His grades in high school were, well, average, not much to write home about. Instead of his studies, he’d often rather skip out on his classes, pick fights with asshole classmates that pissed him off, and flip off authoritative figures, which earned him numerous detention slips and the status of ‘the class troublemaker.’
It wasn’t that Craig wasn’t smart enough to do well in school, it was that he didn’t apply himself because the subject matter taught in his classes was not interesting to him. So it came as a shock to his parents when their son excelled in his Scientific field earning him a Ph.D. and a spot at the top of his class. The Foundation took note of his keen observational skills, thirst for knowledge of the unexplained, and determination to understand that which seemed to defy explanation. They sent someone from his university to recruit him soon after he graduated.
This job isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he was first recruited.
Instead of your everyday run-of-the-mill research center, he has landed himself in an extremely secretive government facility that operates to maintain normalcy so humanity can go on with their daily lives without fear from the extraterrestrial, extradimensional, and other extranormal influences.
Now, he’s always been suspicious of places like Area 51 housing aliens and other possible space-faring beings and keeping them locked down and hidden from the public eye but nothing quite like this.
No. This has exceeded all of his expectations.
Anomalies of all sorts, corporeal, non-corporeal, inanimate, reality shifting, mind-altering, cognitohazardous, all stemming from one place like it’s a magnet for the weird and unexplainable:
South Park.
Craig, being from a small town in Denver, Colorado, has never heard of this strange town before. It’s like the town itself is an anomaly. Maybe it is. That would explain things if it was. It would explain why nobody’s heard of it except the people who are from there, why GPS systems neglect to unveil its whereabouts on their road maps, why so many abnormalities go on there.
All beings from within this facility were, for the most part, retrieved from South Park, Colorado. It’s odd that such a small town in the middle of buttfuck nowhere could house such a heavy arsenal of strange beings.
It is the SCP Foundation’s mission to protect the worldwide civilian population from potentially dangerous anomalous objects, entities, and phenomena that pose a significant threat to global security and contain them to prevent their influences or effects from spreading.
Secure. Contain. Protect.
That was their unofficial motto.
So far his time in the facility has consisted of researching a piece of shit.
No, actually.
The SCP he was first assigned to is a small talking piece of poo with a Christmas hat and gloves who insists his name is “Mr. Hankey.”
Item #: SCP-426539
Object Class: Euclid
Description: SCP-4265539 is an anomalous being that is made entirely of fecal matter. It is sentient with a cheerful personality and is said to be the very spirit of Christmas itself. Not only is it made of fecal matter, but it also has the ability to control it. In one instance it created a whole train out of poo, which the creature so joyously referred to it as the “PooCoo Train Express."
It was fascinating to him at first, quirky even, to see a sentient piece of shit so joyous about the thought of the holiday season; It defied all laws of science.
They even hooked him up to a heart rate monitor to see how he’d react to a sudden turd hopping out of a white ceramic toilet and greeting him with an excited ‘Howdy ho.’ But after all the shock wore off, he became increasingly annoyed.
God, if he had to listen to this thing sing one more Christmas song, he’s going to lose it.
Luckily for Craig, after nearly six years of working his way up and climbing the ranks to this Junior Researcher position, he is finally being promoted. A woman with long black hair and a white lab coat enters the room. She smiles at him. “Good morning, Mr. Tucker. My name is Doctor Testaburger.” She holds her hand out, and he shakes it. “You’ve been reassigned. Please, follow me.”
Thank God.
As the strange sentient shit’s loud obnoxious singing becomes muffled and inaudible, Craig follows the woman to a wing of the facility that he has not yet set foot in due to his Junior Researcher status. They stop at a metal door displaying the number SCP-89335. Dr. Testaburger takes out a clearance card and holds it up to the scanner. The scanner lights up green and the door unlocks.
“This is the containment for SCP-89335.” She hands Craig a clipboard with the SCP’s file and a level 2 clearance card. A desk with several monitors sits against the wall displaying the feed from inside the containment chamber. A figure is huddled in the very corner of the room, trembling slightly. When Craig sees his new subject of research, he’s struck with confusion.
It’s... a guy?
Nothing visually sticks out about this SCP. He is not a sentient piece of poo, which is what he is currently used to. He’s just a man, with a very unruly head of spiky blond hair.
Perhaps it’s his face?
The SCP has yet to lift its head. Is this an SCP that can’t be looked at in the face or something?
“—So you’ll need to be wary of that. If those symptoms begin to arise, immediately evacuate the room.”
Oh shit. This lady was talking to him this whole time and he has no idea what she just said. He just nods along as if he has been paying attention.
“Make sure you document all of your findings digitally as well so we can enter them in our database,” she says, turning around to face him.
“I wish you luck with your findings, Dr. Tucker.” A strange expression crosses her face, almost one of mild annoyance. “Hopefully you’ll have more luck than this last researcher who studied this SCP.”
Well, that’s ominous as fuck.
His eyes dart to the screen to see if the figure has moved at all while she is talking.
It has not.
With one last cordial smile, Dr. Testaburger nods and walks out the door, locking Craig and the mysterious anomalous being inside.
/////
Addendum 89335.2: Interview Log 1
Interviewed: SCP-89335
Interviewer: Dr. Craigory Tucker
Forward: The following interview was conducted following reports by personnel that SCP-89335 had been unresponsive and uncooperative in the three months that it has been in the SCP Foundation's custody.
<BEGIN LOG, 10/02/2021>
Dr. Tucker: Hello, SCP-89335.
The subject across from him does not stir from its position, head down, arms hugging its knees to its chest.
Dr. Tucker: My name is Dr. Craigory Tucker, and I will be managing your stay with us in the Foundation. I’m sure you’ve been briefed with my team, yes?
<SCP-89335 does not respond.>
Wow. Even a literal piece of shit is more responsive than this guy. Craig is however thankful for the absence of that horrible high-pitched singing. He’d take the silence rather than that hell any day.
Dr. Tucker: <clears his throat> Can you tell me anything about yourself?
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: What about your origin? What happened for you to end up here?
<SCP-89335 does not answer.>
Dr. Tucker: Hobbies?
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: Come on dude, work with me here.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Craig sighs, knowing that this pseudo-conversation could very well go on all day. He gives the subject at least ten more minutes to say something before he gives up.
Dr. Tucker: End Log.
<END LOG>
He clicks the button on the recording device to stop it and stands up. The subject visibly curls in on itself more at the action but still does not lift its head.
“Good talk.” Craig stares at it for a couple more seconds and then leaves its chamber.
They continue this cycle for several weeks.
Craig walks in, starts his log, asks questions, gets no response, walks out.
The only action he’s observed from this SCP —or technically not observed— is its affliction for coffee. Or is it a need? Any matter, Craig is supposed to ensure that the creature drinks at least 3-8 cups of caffeinated beverages a day. He has never seen the being physically consume his caffeinated offering though. It seems to only happen when he’s not watching. That split second that he turns his back or moves his head away from the live feed of 89335’s containment is when the being strikes.
He leaves the coffee mug out on a small tea plate and sits it on the floor. He looks up at the hunched SCP in the corner and he turns around. When he returns back to his desk, the anomaly is in the same place, same position, but the coffee mug is spinning on its side: empty.
Enhancement for speed. Interesting.
He makes note of that on the documentation concerning the SCP.
It’s been three weeks of no responses from the subject, and Craig decides to switch up his approach.
If 89335 won’t talk to him, then he’ll talk to it.
He walks in, starts his log, and sits down across from the SCP like he has been doing for the past couple of weeks. The silence stretches on and makes the subject across from him noticeably tenser.
Addendum 89335.5: Interview Log 4
<BEGIN LOG, 10/23/2021>
Dr.Tucker: A majority of space is silent.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: I used to think space itself was silent. Devoid of all noise. A vacuum that produced no medium for which sound can travel through. Like, if we were having this interview and we were in space, I wouldn’t be able to hear your response because the blackness of space would suck up the sound waves of your voice before they got to my ears.
<SCP-89335 is silent, briefly lifting his head from his arms to glance at Dr. Tucker.>
Dr. Tucker: But that’s not necessarily true. Space may absorb a lot of sound, but it is not soundless, nor is it completely empty.
<SCP-89335 does not respond.>
Dr. Tucker: It’s actually strangely musical. An orchestra of instruments, in fact.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: The electromagnetic waves that travel around the Earth make up the string and wind instruments. They resonate like a guitar and whistle like a flute.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: There’s a magnetic barrier that protects us from the high-energy particles coming from the sun. This is called the magnetopause. It encases the magnetosphere. The mangentopause acts like a drumhead. When a plasma jet strikes the magnetopause, surface waves form a standing wave pattern that vibrates back and forth, like a drumstick hitting a drum.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: So it’s like a cosmic ensemble.
<SCP-89335 is silent.>
Dr. Tucker: Pretty cool, huh?
<END LOG>
With still no response from the SCP, he sighs, ends his log, and walks out the door once more. He continues this approach for several weeks, the subject changing occasionally to things besides his dorky love for space like his dorky love for animals, mainly guinea pigs.
Just when he is about to accept the fact that he is once again just talking to himself, the SCP shifts its position ever so slightly. Today, he decided to talk more about his own life, his childhood, his family, and his past relationships.
Why? Perhaps it’s because he’s been bottling up these feelings, and he needs an outlet.
Consider it an impromptu therapy session.
Not that this anomaly would care or offer him any condolences for it.
But little does he realize, the anomaly is listening.
The more Craig goes on about his strained relationship with his parents, the thicker the air gets and the harder it becomes to breathe. His chest starts to hurt, a feeling of dread curling low in his stomach and making him nauseous. He pauses his rant, firstly to catch his breath, secondly because a muffled sound was just uttered by the subject.
“What?” He asks, leaning in closer to hear what was said.
In a hushed whisper that would have been almost inaudible if Craig was not actively listening for it, the subject repeats itself.
“...They were… my parents…”
Craig’s eyes widen slightly, and he grabs for his clipboard and pen. He clears his throat and speaks calmly and softly in an attempt not to dissuade the SCP from speaking.
“Your parents?”
“I… I… it was my f-fault.” The subject’s breath hitches as it continues. “I killed them...” It chokes out a sob and hugs its knees tighter to its chest, its voice pitchy and scratchy like it’s been run through a woodchipper. Craig starts to sweat and tense up, his chest feeling like someone was pressing down on it with a cleated shoe.
“I’m a monster.”
The subject finally, finally lifts its head for the first time since it was brought into containment. Their eyes meet and Craig’s heart rate picks up. It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room, ironically comparable to how the vacuum of space sucks up sound waves. Craig is now finding it harder than ever to breathe evenly, his fingers starting to tingle and go numb. He swallows and tries to gain his composure once more.
“You can’t help what you are. SCP-893–“
The subject interrupts him before he can continue.
“Argh! Why do you keep calling me that?” He says abruptly, taking Craig aback.
”I’m… sorry?”
“Tweek. Please— Ahg, no more numbers. Just call me Tweek.”
Craig places his clipboard down and leans on the table. The pressure on his chest lightens slightly as he stares into the subject’s watery, blue-green eyes.
“Okay then, Tweek, why don’t you start from the beginning?”