He slammed the controller down with a sharp clack, fists pumping as VICTORY flashed across the monitor.

  "Boom!" Jackson whooped, voice half a shout, half a drunken slur. "Take that, you suck ass!"

  Across from him, the old man slumped back in his chair with a grumble. "Bah, shit design."

  Jackson barely held back a laugh as he knocked back another shot. "All skiiilll~"

  "Iron Fist is a no-skill hack of a hero."

  "You just—" Jackson let out a loud burp, "—can't aim for shiiittt."

  "Oh, I'll show you aim." The old man grabbed an empty can and chucked it—only for it to veer completely off course, landing with a pathetic clatter in an empty PC café aisle.

  Jackson howled, gripping his stomach. "Can't aim for shiiTttttt~~!"

  "Bah! Kids these days, always playing no-skill crap. Back in my dayyyy—" the old man gestured wildly, "—you kids don't appreciate a real challenge!"

  "Fuck you, man! I'm all skill!"

  "Oh, really? Then put your money where your mouth is."

  And so, the night stretched on. The glow of CRT monitors flickered across their faces as they threw themselves into one insane challenge after another. Dark Souls cranked to stupidly high difficulty. Speedruns of old classics that required frame-perfect precision. Even random board games and CYOAs, all played with the sacred gamer tradition of screaming obscenities at each other like it was a competitive sport.

  At some point, with his head swimming in that perfect buzz of alcohol and exhaustion, Jackson leaned back and thought—yeah. Skipping out of hospice to hit up a random PC café had been absolutely the right move.

  The old man downed another drink, watching him with a knowing smirk. "You're a kid who likes a challenge."

  Jackson blinked at the windows. Light was creeping in. They'd been at this for hours.

  Still, he wasn't about to get one-upped.

  "Bet your ass, old man~ I could beat the gauntlet ten times fucking over."

  The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "Hmph. We'll see, brat."

  Jackson exhaled, feeling something light settle in his chest. He hadn't felt this good in months.

  "Haha… that was fun." His words slurred, warmth curling at the edges. "Thanks, you old coot."

  His eyes drifted shut.

  A soft chuckle. A whisper.

  "Enjoy, kid."

  Jackson

  ???

  2/01/2020

  Jackson woke up feeling... good. Which was weird.

  The faint buzz of last night still clung to his skull, but it was the kind of buzz that left him refreshed rather than wrecked. No nausea, no pounding headache—just the lingering warmth of a damn good time.

  His mouth, though, felt like sandpaper. He sat up, smacking his lips, and reached out instinctively. Something cold pressed against his palm. A water bottle.

  "Mm. Thanks," he mumbled, cracking it open. Took a sip. Bliss. Then—

  His brain caught up.

  He looked up. The café was empty. The chairs were all tucked in, the monitors dark, the scent of stale energy drinks hanging in the air like a ghost of better days.

  Jackson frowned. He looked down at the water bottle still clutched in his hand.

  Who the fuck gave me this?

  A slow, crawling unease settled in his gut. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, scanning the room. His head still felt thick, like he was swimming through syrup. He rubbed his face, groaning—

  Then stopped.

  All the monitors buzzed to life at once.

  Lines of sterile white text scrolled across the screens, flickering between static and something far worse.

  The following is a message composed via consensus of the O5 Council.

  For those who are not currently aware of our existence, we represent the organization known as the SCP Foundation. Our previous mission centered around the containment and study of anomalous objects, entities, and other assorted phenomena. This mission was the focus of our organization for more than one hundred years.

  Due to circumstances outside of our control, this directive has now changed. Our new mission will be the extermination of the human race.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  There will be no further communication.

  Jackson blinked.

  "The fuck?"

  Something shifted on-screen. A grainy, distorted image of a face—long, gaunt, stretched in ways that felt wrong. A sickly, contorted thing straight out of a horror game.

  Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

  That's an SCP.

  Recognition slammed into his brain like a freight train. He knew that face. Some creepypasta bullshit. Some absolute nightmare fuel—

  The door burst open.

  A lengthy, guttural scream tore through the café as something huge came barreling in, a blur of pale limbs and twitching muscle.

  Jackson did the only thing his instincts allowed.

  He screamed right back.

  And then—

  "Stop!"

  His own voice cracked through the room.

  And somehow—somehow—

  It did.

  Jackson's heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He stared. Blinked. Stared again.

  The thing—SCP-096, the fucking Shy Guy—had stopped. Mid-motion. Limbs frozen like a paused video.

  Jackson sucked in a shaky breath.

  "I need a fucking drink."

  A glass bottle appeared in his hand.

  He paused. Slowly turned it over. The label read Tequila.

  Well. Shit.

  Jackson uncapped it and downed a swig. Warmth flooded his chest, burning but familiar. He lowered the bottle—and watched as it refilled.

  "Ohhh," he exhaled, realization slotting into place. "That's what's happening. I'm lucid dreaming."

  He took another sip, rolling the liquor over his tongue. "Holy moly, they said it'd feel real, but damn."

  His gaze flicked back to SCP-096, still frozen in its murderous lunge. He took a cautious step forward, then, feeling particularly stupid, reached out and poked it.

  "Gave me a damn heart attack, big guy."

  The thing twitched.

  Jackson winced as a sudden pressure wrapped around his skull—like a headache on steroids.

  "Shit, you can get headaches in dreams?"

  On instinct, he tipped the bottle back for another swig. The pain disappeared instantly.

  His eyes widened.

  "Dream drunk." He grinned. "So much potential."

  He looked SCP-096 up and down. Poor guy. Tall, lanky, looked like he'd been put through a garbage disposal on a bad day. His face? Absolutely cooked.

  Jackson cracked his knuckles.

  "Alright, bro," he said, stepping back. "I'm a forgiving guy."

  His grin widened.

  "Let's get you some drip."

  SCP-096

  ???

  2/01/2020

  SCP-096 did not know how to feel.

  It wasn't sure it even could feel.

  The need to hide its face. The need to kill, kill, KILL anyone who saw it. That was all it had ever known. A singular, all-consuming compulsion. The world did not exist beyond it.

  And yet—

  It was dressed in a wife beater and grey sweatpants.

  Its once thin, emaciated limbs were no longer the grotesque, stretched mockery of a human form. Instead, they were massive. Thick cords of chiseled muscle wrapped around its frame, shaped into a prime example of strength.

  Its face—its terrible, wretched face—had been altered. What was once a gaunt, corpse-like horror was now handsome. An inhumanly perfect jawline. Striking features. Clear, almost gemlike blue eyes.

  The reflection it saw was not the one it remembered.

  There was a crack behind it.

  SCP-096 turned, expecting the inevitable. The need would follow. Someone had seen. The hate would consume it.

  A child stepped into view.

  SCP-096 waited. For the rage. For the bloodlust. For the scream in its brain to command it to KILL.

  But nothing came.

  The child stared up at it—at its newly sculpted, inhumanly massive, muscle-bound frame.

  And SCP-096 felt something new.

  The child's gaze was not one of terror.

  It was of awe.

  For the first time, SCP-096 knew what had to be done.

  If it was seen—

  It needed to MOG.