SCP Feels Collection

By Ravyn Karasu

Secure. Contain. Protect.The SCP Foundation strives to contain, study, understand, and if necessary, neutralize the world's anomalies, be they creatures, people, objects, places, or concepts

Inside are a collection of three SCP stories dealing with different types of feelings, from feelings of toxicity and love, to the bonds of family and friendship, to the feelings of obligation and protection. Each story focuses on a different SCP.

Stories included are:
1. Please (SCP-035)
2. Behold (SCP-096)
3. The Right to Bear Arms (SCP-2295)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ravyn Karasu
• Release date: Apr 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393306429

Book preview

One

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The wail of sirens and wandering spotlights broke through the rainy fog of the dusk rain. Chaos had ensued and the attention of the faculty and emergency crews (hired therein) scrambled from the evacuations and emergency containment of breached anomalies. Whatever had caused the blackout and failure of the generators was unknown. How many anomalies had breached containment was also unknown? It could only be supposed, with the worst being a priority to re-contain.

Was SCP-106 loose? Someone would have to go back into the facility to lure The Old Man to his enclosure and hope that, by now, the generator was functioning enough to lift his containment block from the floor. Was SCP-173 wandering the hall or was it safely locked in its cell? What about SCP-682? At all costs, there had to be an advanced team to keep it from escaping and growing into an unmanageable creature. Who and what was loose? Who and what was still safely contained? What could be and could not be accounted for?

With the chaos and limited visibility, it was surprisingly easy (this time) to slip under detection, move beyond the formidable gates, beyond the buffer that separated this terrible place of horror, fantasy, and unusual science from the world of normal, ignorant human beings and the comparably bland society that they kept. The buffer eventually met a lonely road, a segue from one town to another, poor and hillbilly-ish in nature, just in case of such a scenario as this, as unlikely as the SCP Foundation had hoped for it to be.

A lone taxicab drove at a diminished speed, high beams desperately trying to break through the fog as the windshield wipers fought in vain to keep the way visible from the onslaught of rain. Yet, somehow, the cabby noticed the sopping pair, practically drowning on the side of the road and stopped. Without any prompting, the pair flew into the backseat, panting and gasping from the ordeal behind them and the discomfort of the cold and heavy wetness, now even more apparent in this somewhat dry spot.

Get caught, did ya? The cabby asked in a stereotypical New York Italian sort of accent. He was of moderate height, but had a gut on him, and the vehicle had a smell of spices, old fast food, and body odor.  As for his passengers: ...

It was a man and a woman. There was nothing spectacular about her. She had dark, and what would surely be full and frizzy long curls. She was white but didn’t have any particularly defining features to give her an ancestry aside from basic Caucasoid. She was so plain. She wasn’t ugly but wasn’t pretty, either: the blandest of the bland with a set of present but unremarkable breasts.

The man was another story. While the cabby couldn’t place any identifying features on him by way of a background, he saw a porcelain comedy mask covering his face. It was strange and memorable, something the cabby had never seen before, even among convention-goers. Car break down? He added inquisitively.

The cabby didn’t see a car anywhere, but that didn’t mean anything. He just knew the sopping man was dressed in a white undershirt and a pair of beige slacks, covered in, what he would have assumed to motor oil, perhaps? He shivered a little, prompting the cabby to turn off his air and crank up his heat for them.

Just got a bit stranded, the woman said.

I see that.

Just drive, the man chimed in, a strange depth in his voice with a reverberation that sent a chill up the cabby’s hairy back.

He did so and went back to his miserable squints and reduced speed merry way. Though, now it felt less miserable and lonely with the couple in the car. So, where are you headed?

It doesn’t matter, the man replied. We’re—on a bit of an adventure to see what we can see.

Terrible time to do that, the cabby teased.

Any time is a good time for an adventure, the man corrected as he wrung out the bottom of his shirt, somewhat careful to not lift it too high. The good, the bad, those are the things that make an adventure worth recording.

Oh? Are you writing a book or somethin’?

I might, the man said confidently. There’s no real telling what I’ll do.

Just drive as far as you can, the woman added. "As far away from here as you can possibly go."

Well, I can take you a few towns over, the cabby offered. "It’s getting’ late, after all. But, by all means: you got coin, we will travel."

Money is not an issue, the man stated.

So long as wherever we end up tonight has some sort of hotel or motel. I’m already exhausted, she added.

The cabby peered back in his rearview mirror to the woman. He could see the man watching her intently. He couldn’t feel any chemistry. Then again, he was no matchmaker. Name’s Herb.

The woman looked to the man cautiously, questioningly. As such, he reached into his back pocket to pull out a wallet and sift through it. "Walker," he finally replied. It almost seemed like the man had totally forgotten his name and had to verify it.

Janice, was all the woman added.

Looks like your engine blew up, Herb added, causing the man to quickly look to the front seat, mask firmly in place, the molasses-like oil dripping from the corners of the eyes like tears and the corners of the mouth like drool. Pretty thick. Not get regular oil changes?

He couldn’t see well, but it seemed as if the eyes beyond the holes shifted, flashing back a purplish glow, though he likely imagined that. The masked man gave a gentle nod and replied hesitantly, Uh, yes. I’m used to being a passenger and escorted everywhere. I’m afraid—I know little about car maintenance.

Rich, spoilt kid?

—Y—yes?

Don’t feel too flustered about it. We all gotta start somewhere and as long as you try, then props to you.

After a moment of silence, Walker replied with a genuine, Thank you.

There was something about Herb that seemed off, but perhaps it was simply because he was a cabby and looked more or less like a darker skinned version of Danny DeVito, more oblong in shape than rounded. Yet, he was pleasant enough. Considering the passengers, he had, he was the least strange among the three of them. Janice said and did little. She deferred a lot to Walker, allowing him to speak most of the time, though chose her own words carefully when he seemed to give her the unspoken permission to speak. They didn’t seem—unpleasant towards one another. They felt like strangers to the society Herb took for granted. Walker seemed the more confident and Janice, seemingly shy and perhaps a little stupid by comparison, maybe, allowed him to lead her. She didn’t seem scared or worried. Herb had seen a lot of women over the years with brutal partners. He could feel the tension and see the fear and desperation in their eyes a lot of the time. He could hear it in their voices. Janice didn’t have that. She truly just seemed at a loss without Walker’s guidance. Then again, maybe Herb was being totally unfair in his opinion of her. It was getting dark, the conditions outside were terrible and it was likely they had come from another unfortunate event beforehand. How rude of him to think ill of her if she was just an exhausted young woman, desperate for a warm and dry place to rest.

Two

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It was dark now. Everything was cold, covered in the thick blackness, relieved only by a few bright lights of the quiet downtown area of this—place. Janice was growing ill with the horrid smell, though she wouldn’t say so. There was no need. Walker bid Herb to stop at the seedy motel. It was growing late, and the pair were tired and ready for food, something and someplace dry. It wasn’t the best place to be.

The vacancy light was on, though the c flickered on and off with an annoying, high-pitched buzz. The garbage had a fruity putrid smell to it, stuffed into metal oil barrels hooked up on shabby wooden posts. The idea of drugs, drinking, and encounters putting the scrambled softcore skinimax channel to shame was prevalent. Herb didn’t much like it nor the sort of people that used such a place. For his own homeliness and stereotypical appearance, this was not the place for him.

Rough place, he said as he looked about at the chipped paint and the stained doors, painted green with chipped golden numbers.

It’ll do, Walker replied. It doesn’t need to be luxurious. It just needs a couple of beds and a roof. He then turned his masked gaze to his companion. Janice, why don’t you hurry into the office and wait for me. I’ll be in there in just a moment. I just want to pay the cabby.

Janice gave a quiet nod and unbuckled her seatbelt. She opened the door and hurried out with a slam of it behind her.

She seems nice, Herb remarked.

Not very bright, Walker replied, but, she means well.

I guess there’s nothin’ wrong with that.

No, Walker said with a long, exhausted sigh. He then looked over to the cabby that had turned to watch him.

Can I ask you somethin’ kinda weird?

Weird questions can be fun.

What’s with the mask?

Mystery, he replied dryly, though he wriggled his fingers like a wizard casting a spell. Trust me, you do not want to see the mess of a face that is under this thing.

Herb chuckled nervously, unsure if Walker was making a joke or hinting to a terrible deformity that the cabby did not want to chance insulting. Anyway—let’s see what the meter says ya owe me—

Drama with solid fill

Herb stepped out of the cab and looked around. He’d be getting soaked, but necessities had to be met. He dragged the dirty, decaying mess from the backseat and threw it into the dumpster by the motel far wall. Drapes were all shut and surely any patrons would be much more occupied with elicit activities of their own to care about what any of this looked like. What he kept from the body was the wallet with the identification, the money, the credit cards, debit cards, and anything identifying Walker Orlando. It would be unwise to keep keep them. That was the joy of such a seedy place such as this. He pulled each card from its nestled place in the wallet and gave it a good fling as though he were skipping stones over a pond. He let them land wherever they may, allowing any passers-by to make their own terrible choices. All he needed was the cash that was in the billfold.

All of this finished, Herb returned to the cab and removed his keys from the ignition. He locked the doors and put the keys on his belt loop before finally making his way into the brighter area and into the front office where Janice was waiting.

Janice rubbed her arms, staring stupidly at the front desk where a plump woman watched her. She couldn’t tell if the woman was wearing a pretty scarf with its patterns and colors, or if she was wearing an elaborate hijab. It didn’t matter either way. She found the woman intimidating, like a judgmental matriarch with heavy, thick eyebrows and impatient brown eyes.

When Herb entered, Janice turned to him and seemed momentarily confused, but regained herself quickly. Is everything okay?

Everything is fine, he replied through the porcelain smile of the mask. It wasn’t oozing as much, battered clean (for now) from the rain. He approached the desk casually but barely looked into the woman’s face. Two beds available?

She reacted duly, grabbing a pair of keys from the hooks behind her. "Room 107. Full stay or—a rest?"

To that, Herb perked and looked into her face to judge her seriousness. Oh. Oh, my. She wasn’t kidding in the least. "I didn’t think resting rates were a thing here in the U.S. He grinned behind the fake smile with the lips he still freshly had (for now). Is that even legal?"

You a cop? She accused.

Just a cabby, he replied. We’re having a full stay. Not worth trudgin’ any further in this mess in the dark.

She gave a nod, $45

Steep, he muttered. But what did he care? It wasn’t technically his money. So long as he had enough to maybe fill the taxi’s tank once before a switch had to be made, that was more than enough for him.

The porn is extra.

I—I think we’ll be fine.

Any little bit helps, she remarked as she took the cash he offered. Janice scrunched up her face. Was she talking about profit or that she didn’t think Janice was able to make a man get it up? She was bland, not ugly. Then again, through that agitation, she knew very well that Herb was not a body type about which she fantasized, mask or no mask.

Arrangements made, the couple—or more appropriately, the pair found their room, the zero barely hanging on by a loose screw. The door shut behind them and the light was switched on. Herb let out a loud and satisfactory sigh as he stretched his arms out. Janice was less enthused as she stepped forward to inspect the room.

"I can smell the roaches."

I wouldn’t put it past our room neighbor doin’ a little puff-puff, Janice, Herb retorted.

"Not that sort of roach, she scolded. I meant the bug."

It’s just for the night, and we can’t exactly afford to be too picky.

The floor was green and flattened. There was dirt as if it hadn’t been vacuumed in months. It was sandy in smell, which played against a somewhat mildewy scent from the closet. The television was set on a basic table that looked like it was made with cheap panelboard and assembled in a middle school shop class. It had a dial and a set of rabbit ears. Nothing but squiggles, PBS, or a mediocre news network to be found there. In fact, it didn’t even present good quality. Herb switched it on curiously and saw the black and white tint. It wasn’t even a color television. Then again, to Herb, that didn’t matter. The very notion of interacting and enjoying a television, even so limited, on his own terms with his own fingers and his own eyes was a treat.

Ooh, Mr. Ed! He cheered quietly when he turned the dial to a random channel. Truth be told, he had never seen Mr. Ed. He just knew what it was from this body’s memories and he sat on the squeaky foot of the bed to glue his vision on that small screen to watch that horse talk. Entertainment sure has come a long way.

Janice wasn’t impressed and peeked into the bathroom, it’s marigold yellow décor and fiberglass installations looked filthy. She even saw a long curly hair around the base of the toilet. There was no telling if it came from a head, a chest, if it was a pubic hair, or it had leapt free from someone’s hairy ass. The toilet itself seemed clean enough though. She’d still consider hovering over it if she had to use it.

She then suddenly turned to her companion, The cabby?

What were you expecting? Walker’s body was getting to the point where he’d really attract attention if I kept him. There’s only so much of a corpse people will overlook before they realize what they are looking at—or smelling. Besides, he wouldn’t last the night. This fella is fresh. I’ve got hours and won’t need a new host until we are well on our way in the morning.

So, not the clerk?

She has a family, he said compassionately, his eyes never leaving the screen. Hn, that Wilbur. His neighbors think he’s crazy.

035! She scolded.

Relax. As I said, she has a family—young children. This isn’t much, but it’s somewhat honest work.

She charges a discount to screw a whore and run, Janice specified.

They do that in Japan.

"You’ve never been to Japan!" She insisted.

"Do you honestly think I’ve not had a D-Class host that hasn’t had adventures in The Land of the Rising Sun? Don’t underestimate what I can learn from human fodder, Janice."

She shook her head and marched over to turn on the heater. She’d have to put her clothes over it to hopefully get them dry enough to be comfortable. It didn’t seem to matter much to the SCP. He was enthralled by the television. She supposed that, with so much isolation and so little simulation, she should enjoy his pleasure to see and hear something new. As she stripped down though, she remembered what the woman had said in the office and marched in front of him, between his line of sight and the television. Yes, him. With her new understanding and experience with 035, she saw it as a masculine entity.

Would you have sex with me?

Well, he wasn’t expecting that. He reeled a moment and then snapped his gaze into her face, "What?"

Am I so repulsive that I can’t get you going?

I didn’t say anything!

Would you have sex with me?

"—Now?"

"No, not now, she huffed with annoyance. I mean in general. Am I repulsive or would you look at me and still see something that could be arousing?"

"I—what?" His joyous face had switched to the tragedy face. Sure as hell, this was a tragedy. What was she even talking about?! "I mean—maybe. I don’t know. You’re not exactly springing up stiffies, right now, Janice. You can’t just put a guy on the spot like that. It rarely works out."

"035!"

You’re not my type! He suddenly cried out.

So, you don’t think I’m pretty?

"I mean if I was into kinda scrawny chicks, maybe. You have to remember that my beauty standards are pretty—old-fashioned. I like a full pin-up sort, the Greek beauty."

So, if I had huge tatas and a huge ass, you’d think more of me?

There is nothing wrong with you, he finally said with a little more focus. "My world-view isn’t exactly the end all, be all of opinions. I’ll just as easily be attracted to a good-looking guy with the right features. Just as I’m sure you have your ideals. You don’t fit mine. There’s nothing wrong with that. He then motioned to himself, Would you want to screw this guy?"

Janice felt her cheeks grow hotter. She fidgeted a moment before shaking her head, No.

Why? Isn’t it my face and personality you want?

It—

"It’s not your thing. Hey, if I were in your shoes, I’d wanna take a piece of Walker too—and in a way, I suppose I did, making him my host. I’m me, Janice—but I’ll never be me because I’ll always have someone else right there to decide how we behave to some extent. He leaned back on his elbows, looking in her direction but not focusing on any part of her undressed form. Besides, it would be for the best if you didn’t think like that about me—regardless of my host. It wouldn’t be good for you in any capacity. In fact, it’s probably best that we go our separate ways tomorrow."

What?! She gasped. "Where would I go?! Can’t I go with you?"

He sat up and rested his arms on his thighs with a sigh. "It’s only a matter of time before the Foundation realizes that I’m no longer in my cell. In due time, they’ll realize I’m not even on the campus anymore. They’ll be looking for me. It’ll only be a matter of time before they figure out who the host would have been and the directions I could have possibly gone. They will hunt me down, and it’ll only be a matter of time before they find me. If they find you too, you may very well find yourself a D-Class if they don’t believe you’re a hostage. The fact that you’re a nobody is in your favor. I don’t get that luxury and as long as you are with me, you don’t get that luxury either."

She was about to argue, but he quickly held up a hand to silence her. We are tired. Let’s not discuss this anymore tonight. Go and get a shower. Get your rest. I’ll tolerate the company a little while longer, get you a little further away, if that’s what you wish. Then, at some point, we have to say our good-byes.

Janice hated to hear him talk like that. However, it seemed he wasn’t about to entertain her any further, and he craned his neck to look about her and towards the television once again. She stepped aside and watched for a moment, the same old, boring reruns she had seen before. She then looked between the screen and his masked face. That’s where his attention was, and she wasn’t going to be able to break it again so easily without agitating him further. SCP-035 was known for a terrible temper and it was one she didn’t want to tempt.

Three

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Janice had her back to her companion in her own squeaky and uncomfortable twin bed. She felt like she’d contract crabs just from the sheets. She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t so much that the pitter patter of the rain was annoying, nor the drone of Bob Ross on the television describing the happy little painting he was making. 035 said nothing, so she only assumed that he was either watching with great intensity or that he had finally grown too tired to keep his focus and fell asleep. She didn’t want to look.

"There are no mistakes, Bob Ross said. They are just happy little accidents. That little slip doesn’t mean anything. I’ll just make a little friend for our tree. See?"

Happy accidents—was that what this was? What had she gotten herself into and why? For a mask? For some freak of nature? Who was she to decide if he was worthy of freedom or not? She was just the miserable girl mopping the gunk off of his cell floors. She was just the one scraping the coded goop off of the walls, unaware of what the pictographs meant, nor did she understand the languages that would appear there. If she didn’t understand, then they didn’t pertain to her, and that was enough to sturdy her confidence when it came to, more or less, facing the thing. She was, as 035 had said, just a nobody. She had nobody to need, want, or miss her.

SCP-035 had not been very eager in his attempt to connect with her, despite how easily he could have done so. Heck, with his pitiful efforts, he had managed to win her over. She knew it. She wasn’t even a challenge worthy of such a brilliant mind.

She remembered that she had approached the glass case where the mask had been kept. Sometimes, when she came in, it was visibly sad, and sometimes it was visibly—happy? No, she never felt any sort of happiness from it. It smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was an angry one, a tortured one, one that wanted to make others feel the pain and misery it felt. It took great delight in making others unhappy so that it could feel superior—typical bully mentality. Yet, she felt a sense of sympathy for it.

No one told her much of anything about SCP-035, aside from the fact that it was a singular mask and had no mate, for it was its own mate: comedy and tragedy, sock and buskin. She didn’t know the latter term for it. She just recognized the very popular and familiar design from the theaters she had seen growing up. It wasn’t something obscure, after all.  Yet, it had been made very clear that she was to never touch it, never put it on. She was to report to the superiors if it ever attempted to talk to her—which, for a long time, it never did. Perhaps, she just wasn’t worth it.

Maybe it took no interest in her because it had nothing to gain from her. She quietly came in with her coworkers to do a job, discussed little to nothing about the images and goopy puddles. She had admired the morbid pictographs sometimes. She wasn’t that sort of person, but the images the mask created with its viscous ooze and mental abilities was intriguing.  It didn’t make mistakes. It took what it had to make "happy accidents."

The SCP Foundation used terms like active and inactive to describe the immediate danger level. She realized that if it was active, it was watching, learning, and plotting. It was alive and it was a danger. If it was inactive, it was asleep—it slept. From some of the images she would see on its walls, she wondered if it dreamed. For the longest time, it was a peculiar thing—until she took the time to look into the face that she thought was inactive for a few moments before she’d leave it be for another day.

She found that she would grow sad when she looked at it, regardless, if it were smiling or frowning. She’d even pity it, covered in the goop she couldn’t clean. She barely remembered what it was that triggered contact.

Poor thing, she had thought. I bet someone really loved you. To her, she looked at it as if it were perhaps a toy. Perhaps there was a little boy at some point in history that loved this toy and wore it. At one time, there could have been an innocence to it that it no longer had.

~Lots of people loved me,~ it responded in a deep and whispering voice in her head. It was—a masculine voice. ~Some even worshipped me~ It had shocked her, and she stumbled back and pawed at her head, much to the concern of her coworkers.

Janice, are you okay? One of them asked.

I—yeah, she replied unsteadily. I just got a little light-headed.

From 035’s perspective, he wasn’t sure why he made the initial contact. He had never found Janice interesting. She was dull and boring, and she didn’t bring the potential joy of more valuable prey. That should have been in her favor. He could have gone many more years without ever bothering her. He could have allowed her to go her entire career there without ever seeing anything of him other than an oozing object with seemingly no life. He had come to feel numb in the presence of the cleaners while he slept. When he was awake and aware, he’d watch them, wondering if they felt the tingle up their spines. Sometimes, he could tell when it reached one of them. Other times, he didn’t bother at all. Even he liked cleanliness.

The fun ones—were the ones with the strong minds and the superior attitudes to try and conquer him—to turn him from the would-be god he was to just an unruly creature in an art or zoo exhibit to be beaten down into submission and obedience. Of course, 035 was far too strong-willed for that. The more the opposition that came against him, the more he would exert it back. Obviously, this was nothing when it came to the three or four boring cleaners, though he had been known pick one off every once in a while, if they had the perfect opportunity for him to do so that he’d find entertaining.

Janice realized that she lacked that. He didn’t find her interesting or entertaining, and while she should have been happy to be spared that attention, she felt sad and jealous. The most she had gotten was the telepathic echoes of Latin to the tune of Ave Maria, which happened to be one of the songs she liked. She never told anyone of it.

Could he feel it now? The sadness? The jealousy? Could he hear her thoughts? He was certainly close enough if he wanted to. If he were asleep, she had no idea, really, if he could or would. If he were awake, he made no sign that he was the least bit concerned about her. Right now, Bob Ross was the most important person in his life. The blandness of his art lost in the grayscale of the black and white television was far more attractive to him than anything she, in her reality and color, could offer him.

Why did she care? Why did that upset her so much. Frankly, for the potential danger this manipulative, ancient killer could unleash, SCP-035 had done—practically nothing to her. Even in this circumstance—his breach and escape, he