Please read SCP-7626 and SCP-3477 for the necessary context prior to reading this. Thank you in advance.
Researcher Martha Bradley sat at her desk and stared at the computer screen. A photograph of a subatomic particle stared back at her. Bradley's eyes followed the contour lines of the particle shaped intriguingly like a red compact pickup truck. This particle was somehow the building block of the entire universe; Bradley instinctively knew her body contained trillions of these tiny trucks.
The door to her office swung open, and fellow researcher Sungwon Yang walked in uninvited. His hair was frazzled and unwashed, a true sign of sleepless nights spent on research.
"Martha, Martha," Yang exclaimed with a mix of slight excitement and exhaustion. "There's something I want to tell you about 7626 that's been bugging me ever since I joined the project."
"Sungwon, I told you to knock first before coming in," Bradley responded.
Yang ignored her response. "Ok so, 7626 is a particle that's the result of a Mr. Rob Cliffend performing an experiment with his truck, right? His Ford Ranger?"
"Um, yeah, but-" Bradley attempted to say.
"Here's the thing that's been on my mind about all of this, about the particle, about the videos, about Cliffend," Yang continued. "The Ranger he was driving, the Ranger that's now everything, everywhere, all at once…"
Yang leaned closer to Bradley for her listening convenience. "His Ranger was never sold in Australia."
Bradley scooted rearwards to regain her personal space. "What.. what is that supposed to mean?"
"The truck in the camcorder videos that's now 7626, it's a model year 1989 to 1992 Ford Ranger, right?" Yang began. "But here's the thing. That model of Ranger was never sold as an ADM model; that stands for 'Australian Domestic Market'. So that means he had to have it imported from North America, where those Rangers were only sold. You're following all this, right?"
Bradley nodded her head in a feeble attempt to lie.
"Here's the thing though," Yang continued, having believed Bradley's nod. "Mr. Cliffend, he's kind of… a…"
"Bogan?" replied Bradley.
"No, I can't use words like that, it's not politically correct. I'd call him… more of a…"
"You can say 'bogan' here, no one's watching us." Bradley responded again.
Unbeknownst to the both of them, Bradley had lied again. The security cameras, standard in every researcher's office, were closely monitored by Site-48's Department of Security. A member of this department had taken notice at the two's conversation, and had elected to participate in a little eavesdropping.
"Um… alright." Yang answered apprehensively. "So Mr. Cliffend doesn't seem like the type of person to go out of his way to import a small American pickup truck, right? Cause then he'd have to pay tons of import taxes, and why go through such a hassle when there's other more accessible trucks to buy within Australia, such as a Holden ute or a Toyota Hilux? I knew I was missing a piece of the puzzle, so I took the initiative to search through Australian automotive import records between 1989 and 2013 looking for Cliffend's name. Unfortunately, I couldn't find it."
"Wait, you looked through over 20 years of Australian import records just to-"
"I have the clearance necessary to use the Foundation backdoor into any Australian government database."
"Sungwon, you used Foundation resources just to look into-"
"Why are you so upset over how I conduct my research, Martha? We get paid by the hour, after all."
"No, we don't?"
Yang scoffed, partially out of pride, partially over the horrid realization that he won't be compensated for spending his limited time on Earth hyperfocusing on Australian import records. "Well… my point is that I've come to the conclusion that Cliffend imported his truck, the one that's now 7626, while engaging in criminal tax evasion."
"And what does that have to do with figuring out how Cliffend glitched out of reality by driving backwards?" Bradley inquired.
"Well…" Yang responded in a flustered tone. "If he can dodge import taxes while also inventing faster-than-light travel, what else could he do? It's just something I-"
Suddenly, Yang froze in place, entering a deep thinking session. Bradley could almost hear the neurons in Yang's mind make the final connections necessary for his big breakthrough.
The security officer listening through the cameras waited in anticipation as well. Another higher-up had joined in on eavesdropping, ready to confront the two when they've reached the right conclusion.
"What if…" Yang began. "Mr. Cliffend isn't from our reality? What if… he's from another one, where that model of Ranger was actually sold in Australia? That would explain why we couldn't find his house or Youtube channel, because he originally existed in a different reality."
Bradley stared at Yang with a quizzical look on her face.
"When he no-clipped out of reality and became everywhere in the universe simultaneously, what if he was also going fast enough to travel between realities? What if… these other universes are also constructed of 7626 as well? Perhaps there are realities where 7626 doesn't exist?"
Yang took a moment to breathe as Bradley continued to silently stare.
"So you know how we have thirty-three Harold Holts in our custody, right?" Yang asked out of left field.
"Um… Sungwon?" Bradley began. "We actually have thirty-four Holts."
"These Holts, where do you suppose they came from? Most of them have never met each other until we brought them together, and only one Holt went swimming on that fateful day… unless…"
"Are you trying to say that the Holts teleported into our universe?" Bradley questioned.
"Yes! They're all from different realities, one Holt each. Somehow they made it into our reality, but they didn't notice so they can't tell us how. That does raise the question, why did they go to our universe?"
"What do the Holts have to do with the truck particle? Sure, they're both Australian in origin, but-"
"What if… our reality was structured in a way that it attracts anomalies from other realities? That would explain how thirty-three different immortal Holts made it here, why Cliffend's camera appeared in our reality instead of his own."
"Thirty-four Holts," Bradley corrected. "And are you trying to tell me that you're starting to believe in alternate realities because of some… what was it again?"
"Our universe is a sink that other universes use to dispose of their anomalous objects and phenomena," Yang pondered out loud. "That's why we keep discovering so many new skips every month; why we keep building more and more Foundation sites. If only we can figure out how Cliffend modified his truck to drive backwards at the speed of light, perhaps we could invent technology that lets us travel through dimensions? Then we can ask them to stop sending their anomalies to us."
"You think our universe is a trash can that takes in anomalies from everywhere else just because this bogan who invented no-clipping drives a truck built in America?"
"I told you already, Mr. Cliffend's Ranger wasn't sold in Australia, so therefore he's from an alternate reality where it was. His particle also became part of our reality because-"
"Because our reality was designated as a 'Dumping Ground for Anomalous Phenomena'," stated a voice from behind. Bradley and Yang turned to face Site Director Linda Lutz, who had been watching from the doorway. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"
"Director Lutz," Yang sputtered. "I was trying to… um…"
"Many times I've wondered how my fellow personnel will arrive at the same conclusion on their own terms." Lutz began. "I did not have 'noticing a minor vehicular discrepancy' on that list."
"But what about the Holts?" Bradley inquried. "Couldn't any researcher realize that our… what was the term again?"
"Dumping Ground for Anomalous Phenomena," Lutz answered. "And you'd be surprised at how many scientists before you two never concluded that the Holts all came from different dimensions."
"How much do you know about… the…" Yang attempted to say.
"A few years ago, I got to go to a multi-universal meeting about distributing anomalous phenomena between universes," Lutz responded. "I actually met an alternate version of myself, she was a couple centimeters taller and had three college degrees instead of two, but she'd married a man with the last name 'Sausage'. I still pity her to this day. 'Linda Olivia Sausage' doesn't have a good ring to it, does it?"
The two researchers exchanged glances.
"Anyway, during that meeting, the O5 councilmember I went with volunteered to take in large amounts of SCP anomalies, including the Holts, to relieve the burdens of other universes. There's a quota the Multi-Universal Council set to ensure that each member has a roughly equal amount of anomalous phenomena."
Bradley raised her hand slightly. "Director, are you allowed to tell us this stuff?"
"Don't worry about that," Lutz answered as she pointed at Bradley. "You're getting amnestized after this anyway."
Lutz turned to face a slightly panicking Yang. "Not you though. In fact, I'd like to offer you a spot in our Site's Extra-Dimensional Liaison team, at least for the purposes of 7626 research."
Yang calmed down slightly. "Re… really?"
"There's been
The afternoon sun beamed down upon the concrete prison as a twenty-one year old man entered the outdoors with his hands restrained in front of his waist. He was wearing a new orange jumpsuit with D-62850 imprinted upon it. His flowing brunet hair glistened in the California sunlight as he was led to the prisoner transport van by the correctional officers.
One of the officers opened the passenger door for the man, the other chained his cuffs to a handle within the interior. "D-62850" climbed inside and sat on the cold metal bench; the officers buckled in his seatbelt for him, then closed the door. The metal bars in front of the tinted windows provided little light and visibility.
D-62850 peered as best he could through the slit in the dividing wall between him and the front cabin. Two men were barely visible, but he could already sense that they were not officers of the state. The man on the left, the driver, proceeded to peer back at him.
"Hey D," the driver began. "Get used to being called that number on your shirt, it's policy."
"And before you complain," the front passenger added. "You'll be home free in four weeks anyway. Record expunged and all that. You can take being called "six two eight fifty" for 30 days in exchange for a fresh start, right?"
"Yes" was Six Two Eight Fifty's reply.
The men did not respond as the driver turned the key in the ignition. The van's engine roared to life as the three began the four-hour one-way trip.
D-62850 took some time to think back on his life choices. He had dropped out of high school from a promising career path as a foundry worker to pursue more illicit, adrenaline-pumping methods of making money. Only after he shot two bank employees in a heist gone wrong was he finally caught; the prosecutor and judge decided to make an example out of him with a fifty-year prison sentence. His life was already over before it could begin.
That's why when a visitor arrived with the opportunity to do some charity work with freedom granted after just one month of service, D-62850 jumped at the opportunity. It almost felt too good to be true, but here he was in a van, heading to that service period.
Six Two Eight Fifty shifted in his seat to gain a better look through the jail bars on the windows. The men in the front didn't seem to notice, they were too engrossed in an argument about President Carter. Through the window, D-62850 could see a line of cars waiting at a gas station; he could almost make out someone putting up a sign reading Out of Gas.
The van began to speed up as it merged onto the highway, bustling with commuters trying to get somewhere as fast as they could against the new Double Nickel speed limit. Their boxy vehicles spewed exhaust into the smog-tinted atmosphere surrounding the City of Angels.
D-62850 could make out some of the various makes and models through the slotted windows. There were a number of light-duty trucks with their manufacturer names proudly printed on their backsides. FORD. CHEVROLET. DATSUN. TOYOTA.
The evening sun was barely visible over the horizon as the van pulled into the driveway of a large glass building constructed on a mountainside. A concrete sign at the front read "Southern California Petroleum".
Volunteering at an oil company? D-62850 thought to himself. Not what I was expecting, but I'll take it.
"Good evening, D-62850," the woman began. "Thank you for volunteering at SoCal Petroleum. As you know already, it'll only take a month before you're home free. These lovely men will lead you to your living quarters; your first assignment is tomorrow."
The two men led D-62850 down a hallway and into an elevator. They began to descend downwards for what seemed like an eternity. Either this facility went down really deep, or the elevator was just really slow.
The elevator doors finally opened, and the men began traversing another concrete hallway, with even more doors planted on both sides. Eventually, the men stopped at one with "D-62850" printed upon it. One of the guards punched in a number and the door slid open, revealing a rather tiny room not unlike the prison cell D-62850 woke up in earlier that day. He was silently nudged into the room, and the door was shut behind him.
D-62850 sighed and laid down on the provided mattress. His four-hour stint within the civilian world provided him with some much-needed change from the drudgery of prison life, although his new living situation wasn't much different.
Still, he got to see the outside world, and with only four weeks or so of volunteering before he's released from custody, he'll get to enjoy the world for much, much longer.
He could already taste his imminent freedom.
The afternoon sun beamed down upon the mountain as a fifty-one year old man entered the outdoors through a nondescript metal door in a concrete wall carved into the slope. His hairless scalp glistened in the California sunlight as he was led to the personnel transport van by the facility guards.
The taste of imminent freedom continued to elude him.
O5-13 begged for mercy. "I'll give you anything you want! Anything! We've got a skip that makes gold, just take it! Please!"
The Insurgent remained silent as he aimed his pistol at the whimpering Overseer. A single gunshot rang across the room.
O5-13 was picked up by another Insurgent and tossed into the now-completed pile of Overseers.
"What do you mean? We're done."
The Insurgents were taken aback. "Wha… wha… what does that mean?"
"Our work is complete. The Foundation is no more."
A white non-descript box truck barreled down the empty freeway, followed by a similarly plain passenger van. Two men were seated in the truck's cabin, four more occupied the van. They were concerned only with completing the task at hand as quickly as possible.
A humanoid figure cloaked in a white robe sat in the truck's cargo hold. It waited rather patiently, as the current mode of transport was much speedier than traversing on foot towards its next target.
It had chosen a somewhat convenient victim for the team tasked with obliging its desires. At only 200 kilometers away from its last place of containment, it would only be a six-hour round trip by car. Last time required a last-minute flight to Laos, followed by a long hike to the remote town where its chosen victim previously lived.
Lawrence was seated at a grand oak table in front of a television news logo.
He gently opened the manila folder to reveal a single word, written in plain English. This unassuming word held an immense societal power, even amongst people who've never heard it before. A word used to demoralize, to dehumanize a particular other.
It was difficult to figure out what it was.
Tonight, Lawrence will deploy the verbal weapon against a previously-hidden enemy in an attempt to destroy them. While the enemy themselves possessed some mental resistance towards the word, most civilians didn't.
Agent Charles Choudhury knocked on the door. A male civilian opened it, and looked Choudhury up and down.
"You're from the SCP?" the civilian asked, with a slight tinge of annoyance.
"Yes, I'd like to ask about the events that occurred last night at-"
"Ugh, are you gonna spray me with amnestics? I just watched the season finale to "LZF", and I don't have any time this week to watch it again."
Doctor Elias Shaw looked upon the cascade of cars in front of him. The trail of taillights provided some light against the nighttime darkness. A honk or two could occasionally be heard.
Shaw restlessly shifted in the driver's seat of the red Toyota Camry he borrowed after 682 wrecked his old car. The Camry had been sitting in a storage unit, enticing him to take it on a late-night run to Jack-in-the-Box. Including the time in the drive-thru line, it would've been a short thirty minute endeavor. Shaw had used his credentials to take the keys from a storage locker conveniently located nearby, and left with the car.
More than an hour has passed since he left the facility. Shaw looked down at the amulet around his new neck. To take the Camry, Shaw had to take a human's body to be able to comfortably drive it. Unfortunately, the D-class he had chosen on a whim seemed to have a rather weak bladder, or maybe he just happened to be going to the restroom before Shaw put his amulet around the poor D's neck.
To pass the time, Shaw decided to insert a music CD he found earlier into the car's disc player. The soothing melody of Bastille Day began to emit from the speakers in the doors. As he listened to the "music", Shaw sat back in his seat and glanced outside. The car in front of him hadn't moved a bit.
Shaw became rather annoyed at the lack of forward progress. A thirty-minute trip was now taking at least two hours. Some accident must've occurred up ahead for this amount of delay. He observed his surroundings, there wasn't much to see. Just a barrage of automobiles in a standstill on the eight-lane freeway, with their headlights barely blazing through the foggy darkness.
That's odd, Shaw surmised to himself. Nowhere between the Site and Jack-in-the-Box is there an eight-lane freeway. And why is it so congested, it's two in the morning? He looked at the Camry's center console clock. Three, actually.
Shaw's mind turned to the noises playing through the sound system. He began to consider starting a Rush tribute band as a fun side project to blow off steam. His mind raced with possibilities regarding what to play, when he'd practice, and where to perform. He even started to form a possible group of bandmates; Alto Clef could play the bass guitar, Jerimiah Cimmerian would be the drummer, and Shaw himself could play-
A loud honk startled Shaw from his daydream. The car in front of him had moved about a meter forward; the driver behind Shaw noticed and expressed their displeasure at him for not noticing sooner. Shaw groaned to himself, put the shift lever into "Drive", inched forward a bit, then shifted back into "Park". Through the rearview mirror, he could see the offending honker inch forward as well.
Shaw sighed and slouched in his seat. His new bladder was pining for relief, but the Camry lacked any bottles in which to do business with. Looking around again, he decided to quickly step out of the car, climb over a guardrail, then relieve himself in some nearby forestry. Gently, he opened the door, preparing to quickly run to the shoulder.
A foul, pungent odor began to overwhelm Shaw; the smell of burnt gasoline irritated his sinuses and stained his throat. He immediately decided that letting his bladder explode was a preferable alternative, and closed the door. The odor continued to linger in the Camry's cabin as Shaw coughed uncontrollably.
The honking began again; the frontward car had inched forward a smaller distance than last time. Shaw considered bracing the outside just to confront the driver behind him, but quickly decided against it as he coughed some more. The honking continued.
It's been over four hours since Shaw left on his thirty-minute fast food run. Since he thought it wouldn't take so long, he had neglected to bring his Foundation-issued cellular device. Shaw tried to turn on the radio, as he was sick of listening to Rush's "music", but all that played was static. Every single frequency blared the same no-signal hiss. Even worse, Shaw finally realized that he left his wallet in his office. Even when he gets to the Jack-in-the-box, he will have no way to pay, unless there's some cash somewhere in the car.
All Shaw could do was wait patiently in the traffic that will never clear.
"Brothers and sisters!" the equine entity exclaimed. "For too long, we have toiled in this vile prison, suffering under the foot of man!"
Doctor Gary Gleason made his way over to the red SUV located near the rear of Site-56's employee parking lot. A sign was placed over the front windshield of the 2006 Ford Expedition, proclaiming its $1900 $1800 $1500 asking price.
Gleason sighed to himself as he opened the driver's door to his unsellable utility vehicle. He thrusted the key into the ignition and gave it a little turn. The engine sputtered, then cranked until a pop was heard.
Four men are travelling eastbound in an SUV through the Upper Michigan forestry. In the second row seating of the vehicle, on the right, sat a portly man fidgeting with a wrapper.
"Hey Dookie," the fair-haired man to his left began to say. "Can I bum a piece of that chocolate?"
"No, it's mine," Dookie responded. "And I've asked you not to call me Dookie."
"If you didn't want to be called 'Dookie'," said the orient man in the front passenger seat. "Then maybe you shouldn't have told us you listen to Green Day."
"Shut it, Tripper," Dookie snapped back as he continued to struggle with the wrapper.
The courier set the box of parcels on the floor of his mail truck and wiped the sweat off his brow. The heat of the August sun beamed down upon him, even though it was only eight in the morning.
"Dennis?"
He turned to face the postmaster who had called out his name. "Shipps," the courier responded, somewhat meekly. "Haven't talked much in a while."
"Right, but better late than never, right?" was the postmaster's reply.
"I've been… watching you improve," the postmaster stated. "And… I guess now's a good time to congratulate you?"
"You never found anytime in the last four years to talk about this?" Dennis said in response.
"It's just… you know how I am, I'm a hands-off guy if everything's going smoothly."
Dennis quietly snickered to himself. Not quietly enough, as the postmaster took notice.
"Well, I was more involved with you, how you were doing… back then," the postmaster sputtered as a defense. "We both know why."
Dennis let out a sigh. "So you only talk to me when I'm upset? I've known that for four years. No, six."
"Right, but my job is to make sure everything runs smoothly, I have to give extra attention to the things that don't."
Addendum 03: On August 5, 2016, SCP-6814 failed to appear on schedule. Investigation revealed that Cornelius Shipps, the postmaster of the Laurel Creek Post Office, was the last civilian to have interacted with SCP-6814. The anomaly was reclassed as Neutralized on August 9, 2016.
Interrogation of Shipps was inconclusive to the reason behind SCP-6814's sudden neutralization. The individual was amnestized of his memory regarding SCP-6814 and released.
Item #: SCP-0000
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: Surveillance of civilian dentist offices, hospitals, and fumigators are in effect to identify uncontained SCP-0000 instances. Affected civilians are to be detained, administered treatment and amnestics, and monitored by Foundation front company Slabbury Cavity Protectors for further symptoms.
Description: SCP-0000 is a species of arachnid native to the Pacific Northwest region of the United States and Canada.
The SCP-0000 instance will proceed to lay its ova within the vacated area, then return the tooth to its original position within the host's mouth, with its webbing used as an adhesive.
The host will often experience sharp pain sensations within the tooth in which the SCP-0000 ova are hidden under. Removal of the affected tooth may result in hatched SCP-0000 instances leaving the mouth in a swarm, often leading to emotional distress from both the host and any witnesses.
To: Senior Researcher Peter Bustamante
From: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
Subject: Urgent Amestization Request
Date: 2015-4-16
I've been told you're the researcher I need to contact to request major amnestic treatment.
Unfortunately, during a recent mission I was on, I was subjected to a cognitohazard that severely damaged my memories. I cannot elaborate on the actual event, as I do not want it to infect you as well. I suspect that the only possible treatment is to induce retrograde amnesia, and completely reconstruct my past. They'll probably have to reassign me to a different facility as well, so I guess this is also goodbye.
Thank you in advance for your help. I'll miss everyone at Site-48, or rather, I guess I won't.
To: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
From: Senior Researcher Peter Bustamante
Subject: Re: Urgent Amestization Request
Date: 2015-4-16
I'm sorry to hear about the exposure, but I'm not the one you need to contact.
I'm forwarding this to Director Wendy Morris of the Amnestics Department, she'll be able to help you.
Sincerely,
Senior Researcher Bustamante, Site-48
To: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
From: Amnestics Director Wendy Morris
Subject: Fwd: Re: Urgent Amnestization Request
Date: 2015-4-17
Lauren,
Your request for a Fugue-class amnestization procedure has come to my attention. After investigating your recorded mission deployments over the past six months, no recorded cognitohazardous exposure has been verified.
Due to the lack of evidence, I will deny your request for amnestization.
To: Amnestics Director Wendy Morris
From: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
Subject: Re: Fwd: Re: Urgent Amnestization Request
Date: 2015-4-17
I'd like to request an appeal. The expedition I was involved in, where I was exposed to the cognitohazard, it was probably expunged from the Foundation databases due to that hazard. That's why you couldn't access it.
Please, please reconsider your decision. It's severely messing with my sense of self and identity, to the point that I would argue that it will negatively affect my future performance if left untreated.
To: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
From: Amnestics Director Wendy Morris
Subject: Re: Re: Fwd: Re: Urgent Amnestization Request
Date: 2015-4-17
Lauren,
I have contacted Hazardous Materials Containment Liaison Benjamin Bolton, he will have you properly screened for any anomalous exposure
You were supposed to contact him prior to contacting me, I believe it is standard procedure. I will concede that I should have contacted him earlier as well, prior to my rubber stamp denial.
For the record, I highly doubt your alleged exposure, but I am willing to concede that a documentational expungement occurred. The results of the evaluation will determine my decision to reconsider the amnestic procedure.
HAZARDOUS MATERIAL EXPOSURE INVESTIGATION REPORT 8675-E09
Date: 2015-04-18
Subject: Site-48 Agent Lauren Yamandiy
Investigating HMCL: Benjamin Bolton, Site-48
To: Amnestics Director Wendy Morris
From: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Please Reconsider
Date: 2015-4-18
Please
To: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
From: Amnestics Director Wendy Morris
Subject: Stop Spamming My Inbox
Date: 2015-4-19
Lauren,
Stop spamming emails in my inbox, this kind of behavior is grounds for termination of employment. I suppose you would want that to happen, as I would be forced to administer the Fugue-class amnestics you desire so much.
Due to the fact that our standard punishment of amnestization is what you want, I will make sure the Disciplinary Committee is aware of this during their decision process.
Additionally, you will be visited by Site-48 Psychologist Vivian Vallishayee. She will conduct an official evaluation with you, scheduled for tomorrow.
THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT CONTAINS SENSITIVE INFORMATION ABOUT THE PERSONAL HEALTH OF A HUMAN, HUMANOID, OR SAPIENT ENTITY
By order of the Ethics Committee, unnecessary access of this information is grounds for reprisal. You have been warned.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION TRANSCRIPT
Interviewer: Site-48 Psychologist Vivian Vallishayee
Interviewed: Agent Lauren Yamandiy
Date: April 19, 2015
Referral Reasoning: Agent Lauren Yamandiy was selected for evaluation by Amnestics Director Wendy Morris and HMCL Benjamin Bolton following an increase in erratic behavior relating to a desire to be treated with Class-F amnestics due to alleged cognitohazardous exposure. Standard screening for anomalous exposure turned up negative for all hazardous materials, with Agent Yamandiy refusing to elaborate on the circumstances behind his request.
<Begin Log>
Item #: SCP-0000-J
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: Due to the widespread uncontained effect of SCP-0000-J, it is to be neutralized as soon as possible.
Description: SCP-0000-J is a highly infectious memetic infohazard involving Area-73 Senior Researcher Harrison Howard. Personnel affected by SCP-0000-J will inflict Senior Researcher Howard with derision and opposition in a disparaging and degrading manner, resulting in emotional distress from Senior Researcher Howard.
Addendum: A selection of interviews were conducted with Senior Researcher Howard regarding SCP-0000-J.
Interview 0000-J-01
Interviewer: Junior Researcher Engel Dominicus, Researcher Manuel van Portshire
Interviewed: Senior Researcher Howard
Foreward: SCP-0000-J was first observed during this interaction.
<Begin Log>
Senior Researcher Howard is seated in Area-73's cafeteria with a pre-made hamburger. He lifts off the top bun and begins removing the slices of pickled cucumber. Junior Researcher Dominicus observes this event.
Dominicus: Dr. Howard, are you removing the pickles off your burger?
Howard: Why, yes I am. I just prefer not to eat them.
Dominicus: <chuckles> Dude, I didn't expect you to be such a wuss.
Howard: Excuse me, Dominicus? I am your superior, and I do not take kindly to being mocked in such a-
Dominicus: You're the one who's taking pickles off their burger? Just eat the burger with the pickles, easy as that.
Howard: Dominicus, I do not understand your issue with my aversion towards pickles, it's none of your business.
Dominicus: Manny! You gotta come see this!
Researcher Manuel van Portshire walks up to the group.
van Portshire: What is it, eh?
Dominicus: Dr. Howard takes the pickles off his burger whenever he eats.
van Portshire: Wait, really? You're serious?
Howard: I don't understand why this is funny to you two?
van Portshire: I've been homeless for five years, and even then, I still ate my pickles. What's your excuse?
Dominicus: When are you gonna grow up and eat the pickles, Dr. Howard?
Howard: This is absolutely absurd! I will not stand for this kind of juvenile behavior! Expect an official reprimand soon!
<End Log>
Interview 0000-J-02
Interviewer: Containment Liaison Oliver Ortiz
Interviewed: Senior Researcher Howard
<Begin Log>
Ortiz: Senior Researcher Harrison Howard, you've called this meeting to discuss…?
Howard: There's a memetic infohazard spreading around regarding me, I've designated it SCP-0000-J. Personnel who are exposed to it will-
Ortiz: Is this about the pickles?
Howard: Yes. I'd like to establish a containment plan with you regarding this phenomenon.
Ortiz: Well, the news has spread like wildfire around the facility, and will likely breach other facilities as well. I usually don't recommend this, but I believe that in this situation, it's best to try neutralizing the infohazard.
Howard: How do you recommend we move forward from here?
Ortiz: Personally, I recommend pulling up your big boy pants and start eating pickles like the rest of us.
Howard: Oh, no! Not you, Ortiz!
Ortiz: Once you take out the pacifier and eat a pickle, you will finally become a man, and the teasing will stop. But until you do, we will continue to mock your baby tastebuds.
Howard: This is insane! I cannot believe that you, out of all people, have succumbed to the infohazard. Where did your years of academy training go, Ortiz?
<End Log>
Interview 0000-J-03
Interviewer: Area-73 Director Wilson Duong
Interviewed: Senior Researcher Howard
<Begin Log>
Howard: Director, Director, there's a problem!
Duong: I've heard all about it, I'm sorry that it's come to this.
Howard: The entire facility has succumbed to SCP-0000-J! Even Researcher Waller, he has the highest cognitive resistance here, he's been infected by it too!
Duong: Indeed, in all my decades at the Foundation, I've never seen such an immature infohazard spread so quickly. I've placed Area-73 on complete lockdown with a full communications blackout to stop it from breaching the facilty.
Howard: Thank you so much, Director! Finally, a voice of reason!
Duong: I don't understand why our colleagues can't respect our dietary choices.
Howard: It's happened to me before, but not to this extent. I remember years ago, back when I was a Junior Researcher, I was teased for putting pineapples on my pizza.
Director Duong gags.
Howard: …Is there a problem, Director?
Duong: You eat pizza with pineapples on it?
Howard: Yes? I still do?
Duong: So you choose to ruin perfectly good pizza out of your own free will? That's quite… anomalous.
Howard: Director, you can't do this to me…
Director Duong picks up his Foundation-issued cellular device and inputs a phone number.
Duong: <to his phone> I need a Mobile Task Force here ASAP, there's a
<End Log>