Per 
- The Sun Never Sets On The British Empire
- For God Wouldn't Trust An Englishman In The Dark
- The Queen Is Dead
- Long Live The Zombie Queen
- Hey Baby, How's It Hanging?
- Go To Hell, Asshole
- This is Why You Have No Friends
The first day Kennedy entered their office
A tall fellow, with a thick ginger beard and piercing eyes.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe/Euclid/Keter (indicate which class)
Special Containment Procedures: [Paragraphs explaining the procedures]
Description: [Paragraphs explaining the description]
Addendum: [Optional additional paragraphs]
A HANDFUL OF HORRORS
It has been 0001 day(s) since the Foundation collapsed.
CRITTERS:
There Goes the Last Cool American Dynasty
An Upwards Trajectory In Five Prologues
And Here, It Begins, On the Back of Prologue the First
CRITTERS:
There Goes the Last Cool American Dynasty
An Upwards Trajectory In Five Prologues
And Thus, Comes Prologue the Second
CRITTERS:
There Goes The Last Cool American Dynasty
An Upwards Trajectory In Three Prologues
Through the Window in the Garden, Here Lies Prologue the Third
Act 0.I - Scene II
A hallway, buried deep beneath the earth and battered by the slow march of time. Offstage, a flashlight flickers on, the beam of light illuminating a door positioned centre stage, rusted and heavy and unmistakably ancient. Trapped behind its porthole is a creeping, dreadful darkness. Smothered in chains and silks.
//FINN MACARTHUR shambles onto the stage—
END SCENE
A few days later, Kennedy Oakley let herself into the studio through the fire escape.
The only adjectives that could be used to describe it were vast and gray. It was a brutalist ballroom. An empty box of a gallery made of smoothed concrete. The windows lining the far end of the room opened up onto a gorgeous array of dilapidated factories and industrial smog trailing off into the overcast sky. As Kennedy set up her camcorder, a paint-smeared relic from the nineties, they became distinctly aware that the only colour adorning the room was a a faded yellow sheet draped over a canvas in the corner of the room.
The folding chair in the room's centre was a bruised and battered affair, somehow still standing despite the rust climbing up its chipped gray legs. The same could all be said for the chair's occupant, wearing a drab suit that looked slightly too small for him as he took a drag off of his cigarette. Kennedy cleared her throat and moved behind the camcorder.
CRITTERS:
There Goes the Last Cool American Dynasty
An Upwards Trajectory In Five Prologues
Waiting in the Wings, Prologue the Fourth Steps Onto the Stage.
CRITTERS:
Randomini
The Pighead
Sirslash47
There Goes the Last Cool American Dynasty
An Upwards Trajectory In Five Prologues
And Here Ends Prologue the Fifth
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
The streets are abandoned, the grays of the sidewalks meshing with the pouring early evening skies. The only contrast is the flickering yellow glow of the streetlamps. There are no lights behind the windows. Of course there isn't, you think. It's just you and the man in the rain.
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
He's standing at a crosswalk, wearing faded scrubs. The downpour has plastered his ginger hair over his eyes. You watch his body, underfed and deathly pale, swaying on the spot. His whole body pulses when he breathes.
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
He turns his head to look at you; you feel his gaze wash over every inch of your body like the rain. Pico Wilson smiles, a painful affair with too many teeth. As he shambles across the road, tatters of his scrubs trailing behind him, you pray he doesn't remember you. Maybe your prayers are answered, maybe he just has something better to do.
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
The downpour patters against the pavement, creating torrential streams rushing towards storm drains. Pico Wilson's feet crash down into them, spraying muddy water onto his filthy scrubs. He limps past you and for the first time you see his eyes. They're manic, darting back and forth in every possible direction. His body still sways back and forth, in tune with the constant breathy whine escaping his lips.
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
I tap you on the shoulder, smiling at you. I watch you turn and dart away, locking eyes with you each time your head turns back.
(Deep in the sprawl of an unremarkable city, you see a madman walking in the rain.)
He's calling out for his brother. Maybe he'll find him somewhere along the graveyard paths. But I doubt it, I doubt it.
His calls ring hollow down the empty streets.
Act 0.I - Scene II
A small graveyard plot, cold, misty and muddy underfoot, lit by deep amber streetlights. The grave-markers here are broken and asymmetrical, sticking out every which way. No one has been here for a long time.
PICO calls out from offstage.
PICO WILSON
Ruiz? You still there?
PICO WILSON enters from stage left, dressed in bloody hospital scrubs, and stands in front of a marker positioned center stage. It looks more recent than the others; the paint is still white, not yet faded from months of winds and muddy rains. Slumped up against it is the corpse of an elderly man, missing both his hands and part of his neck. PICO doesn't acknowledge it.
There is no response from the grave-marker. PICO continues talking.
PICO WILSON
Oh, silly me, of course you are. You're well, I presume?
PICO WILSON
I'm sorry I haven't been able to visit you. I've had… a busy month. Has Mr. The Composer been keeping you company, at least?
He gestures to the suited corpse, which slumps over into the mud with a wet squelching noise. There is still no response.
PICO WILSON
Ah. I- I understand.
He hesitates for a minute, standing in silence.
PICO WILSON
Can I ask you a question?
PICO WILSON
Have you ever wanted something truly gone, not simply dead but truly vanished, obliterated off our planet's beautiful face? Let's say there's a monster, someone standing in the way. Have you ever wished you could just take that person and-
PICO clenches his fist. He waits for a few seconds, nodding along to a voice only he can hear.
PICO WILSON
And? What did you do?
No response. PICO'S eyes light up and his voice becomes manic. He waves his arms around to emphasize his point.
PICO WILSON
Did you bury it deep beneath the soil, wrapping ever so tightly in an embrace of chains and silk until there wasn't a monster anymore? Did you pump it chock-a-block with pills and fumes and cozy straitjackets and eventually there was nothing left to fear? Did you send waves upon waves of doctors and funny little people until you killed whatever made it a monster in the first place?
He hesitates; his breathing returns to normal.
PICO WILSON
Did it work?
Silence.
PICO WILSON
Then what, brother? What did you do when it decided chains and fumes and doctors can't hold monsters?
There is no sound but the torrential downpour all around him, the thunderous yells of raindrops against the graves. The wind picks up, screaming from offstage.
PICO turns to face the audience.
PICO WILSON
Do you have an answer, Agent?
AGENT NICHOLAS DORFMAN steps out from stage right, holding a handgun. He's a large, hairy man, with thick-rimmed glasses and an even thicker beard. A thunderclap can be heard offstage as DORFMAN raises his weapon towards PICO, who still has his back to him.
AGENT DORFMAN
Mr. Wilson, I'm going to need you to come with me for questioning.
PICO doesn't move. DORFMAN hesitates.
AGENT DORFMAN
T-this will be easier if you do not resist.
PICO finally turns to face DORFMAN, putting his back to the audience. He pulls a revolver out of his jacket and takes the safety off. He places it back in his jacket pockets and sticks out his hands.
PICO WILSON
Hm. You didn't answer my question, Ruiz.
AGENT DORFMAN approaches PICO gingerly, with his weapon in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other. He repeats himself, with more courage in his voice this time.
AGENT DORFMAN
This will be easier if you do not resist.
PICO WILSON
If you say so, spoilsport. You're so boring, honestly Agent. So boring.
Another thunderclap. The stage lights cut out, screams and the sound of gunshots can be heard onstage. Once the lights come back on, DORFMAN is lying face down in the mud. Blood pools underneath his stomach.
THE SNIPPER tosses the revolver into the audience and smiles down at DORFMAN'S body, before taking it by the hand and beginning to drag it offstage.
He turns to the audience once more.
THE SNIPPER
Huh, I thought that would've been more fun.
He looks down at DORFMAN's body, which twitches. PICO looks surprised, then bends down to look him in the eye.
THE SNIPPER
Does this feel different to you? Huh. Something changed.
DORFMAN struggles to raise his head up. He groans unintelligibly.
AGENT DORFMAN
Y-y-you're crazy…
THE SNIPPER
Well, yeah. I guess. That's the stupid person's way of looking at it.
He hesitates and looks disdainfully at the dying agent.
THE SNIPPER
Honestly, why can't you just be more fun? You've been chasing me for what? Like five weeks? Six? Six weeks and all they can muster is one man and a pair of handcuffs. That's… that's really sad, actually.
THE SNIPPER
I'm not one of your monsters, agent. I'm not just something you can throw in a box and forget about. I'm… well…
For a moment, THE SNIPPER goes silent. He looks back at the grave-marker, then nods.
THE SNIPPER
I'm the motherfucking Critic! You- oh, you're dead.
THE SNIPPER gives DORFMAN'S body an experimental kick. Nothing.
THE SNIPPER
Spoilsport.
One last time, THE SNIPPER turns to Ruiz's grave-marker. There's now blood spattered along the lily-white paint.
THE SNIPPER
Bye, Ruiz. I'm going to go be The Critic now. Maybe that'll be more fun this time.
THE SNIPPER
Come back soon? I miss you. It's so painfully boring being God.
Predictably, silence.
THE SNIPPER begins to walk offstage, dragging DORFMAN'S corpse behind him.
END SCENE
SCP-11820
Object Class: Neutralized
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-11820 has been honourably discharged from Foundation employment. The cadaver presently remains within Site-057's morgue until further notice.
Description: SCP-11820 refers to the mutilated corpse of Foundation Field Agent Nicholas Dorfman, formerly affiliated with Mobile Task Force υ-18 ("Digital Millennium Copyright Agents"). SCP-11820 is missing both hands and nose, all of which appear to have been removed post-mortem.
A rotary telephone has been surgically attached to NT-8A0303-Kapala's chest. Attempts to utilize the telephone will result in the playing of an automated recording. The contents of this message have been transcribed below.
Dear Mr. The Clipper and Ms. The Director.
Long time no see! It's your ol' pal The Snipper!
Listen, as much as I would love to stay and chat, I've got plans. Namely, I want my organization back. I killed The Critic, it's mine by rights.
Don't worry, I'll be a nice dude and give you three weeks to sort anything out. Then I'm coming. I want my Janitor back.
Much love!
"There's never a real end, but just an awkward new beggining [sic]." — FaustoV
Thanks for reading, everyone.
See you in Act One.
« Go To Hell, Asshole | Hub »
This is a loose series of one-shots I've written over the past few months meant for Randomini's Cool War 4 (maybe) Canon! I've intended this to be a sort of sucessor to the awesome Cool War series. (Which I sincerely hope you check out. It's a site classic.)
Anyone is free to add onto this series, since it's part of a canon collaborative project1. Just in case anything in these stories pique your interest, I've listed some of my "headcanon rules" below. Feel free to use them. Or not, it's a free maybe-canon after all.
- The Foundation is gone. There is no unified entity operating as "the Foundation" anymore, although lots of groups claim to be the proper successor. How did it collapse? That's all up to author interpretation, although it should be noted that…
- The Veil is still intact. Normalcy is still functioning moderately well without the Foundation, mostly thanks to the desire of anomalous folks to keep their heads down and the Department of Abnormalities' seeming fondness of throwing people in boxes and tossing the keys off a cliff. Speaking of…
- The Department of Abnormalities is real. Are they a department of the old Foundation, or were they here before it? You decide.
- Are We Cool Yet? is small too, and recovering from another recent leadership shakeup. Cool War's portrayal of events is canon here, so right now AWCY? is a three man collective of The Critic (formerly Felix Cori), the Director and The Janitor. Felix wants to at minimum, restore the group to their former influence and they're generally on the up-and-up.
- Cool War 2 Isn't Canon. This is because there's no consistent story bar title prompts and for literally no other reason.
I hope you enjoyed!
