Ekronak's Big Playground for Himself and Only Himself

Fear me.


He woke up yet again, rising from his bed.

He checked his watch, the green monochrome display reading 3:30 AM.

Tired, he rubbed his head and laid down on the soft mattress, trying to coerce his body back to the world of sleep.

Even after being given a few minutes, he still could not drift off, as if his body refused to succumb to the world past the Land of Waking.

Why did he need to sleep, though?

It's not as if there's anything waiting for him there but the peculiarity of the inner recesses of his mind.

It's not as if he needed bliss right now. Thing is, he needed to breathe, be in the Land of the Waking for a while, think with his conscious mind.

After a few minutes of sitting there without doing a thing, the man rose up from his bed and walked to the bathroom, which just sat a dozen meters away from himself. He stood up and started walking, the noise of his feet on the floor the only noise in the room.

He took the doorknob in hand, turning it to open the door to the bathroom. His hands found the switch to turn on the lights, and he pressed it, flooding the bathroom with white and illuminating the room.

The man wanted to wash his face, refresh, sit on the toilet and think.

He turned on the faucet, taking a handful of water and splashing it on his face, getting his thoughts into order.

He sat down on the toilet, trying to think.

The man's occupation was in poetry, writing a myriad of books at a time when he was in a specific mood or another. For all his abilities, his skill to empathize with different people and create something beautiful out of it was by far the best.

The man looked to his right, where the window was. Through it, the window displayed the light of the moon, and the twinkling light of the stars.

He looked at the window for a moment, feeling the breeze that came from it on his face.

"Wake up," the breeze seemed to whisper.

He could make a poem out of the moon and the stars, the man thought. For every single one of his poems, none actually had the moon and the stars as its subject.

He turned to take the notebook sitting on the sink, but was interrupted by the whoosh of the bathroom door violently opening. When the wooden door hit the wall, it made no sound.

Right in front of him, in the darkness of his bedroom, sat a doll.

"Wake up." It said, inching forward.

The man's eyes widened, slamming the door in terror with full force.

Then, the door creaked open, revealing a bare-footed woman clad in a simple blue dress.

She looked down at him, her sad, blue eyes penetrating into his soul.

"Wake up." She pleaded, kneeling right in front of the man.

The man squirmed, inching away from the woman. He felt total terror as the woman got even closer.

"Please." She said. "Wake up."

The man wanted to speak, to scream, to do anything, but he could not. It was as if the mere sight of the woman had taken all his ability to say anything.

"You have to," The woman said, putting her face closer to his. "Wake up."

The man still could not speak, although he wanted to. He wanted to tell her to fuck off. To go to hell. But it was if they were glued shut.

"Please," The woman said, red tears starting to gather at the edges of her eyes. She put her hand on the man's shoulder, instantly stopping him from squirming. "Wake up."

"Tell me a poem." The man said, saying the words without even thinking it. He had no idea what was happening to him, but he was forced to speak as soon as the woman put her hand on his shoulder.

The woman smiled, a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I need you now," She said, taking her hands away from the man to wipe the red tears from her eyes.

The man spoke again, his eyes glazed over, extending his hand to touch the woman's face. "We ran to the top,"

The woman nodded, the red tears trailing down her face, her lips curling up in a smile. Her fingers started smoking, sinking deeper into the flesh of the man's shoulder. "We made a vow,"

The man opened his mouth again, the last words trailing out of his mouth without him even knowing what they were. "So for me, wake up."

The woman smiled, the most beautiful smile the man had ever seen. She took his hand in hers, her red tears eagerly making their way down her face.

Then the man heard the sound of the bedroom door slowly opening, followed by hushed voices.

The woman's eyes widened at the sounds.

Then came the sound of gunshots as bullets entered her body, her blood spurting all over the man. She fell, her still warm hand in his.

Then the man felt the impact as a few more bullets hit him all over his torso. For a few seconds, he just stood there, staring straight forward at his assailants. Then, he slowly slumped forward, falling on the floor.

"Target down, Central." The soldier, a male towering at a full two meters, said, speaking into the radio fastened to his uniform.

"Roger that, Silver 3. Secure the bodies and bring it back to HQ."

"Copy, Central. We'll secure the bodies." The man replied, walking forward in the direction of the man.

The woman looked at the man with her blue eyes, her mouth moving as she made an effort to speak. Her voice was raspy, but the man could still hear her.

"Wake up." She said, her grip tightening on the man's hand. "Wake up."

He could feel her hand's grip on his relaxing as she died, her last breath coming out a few seconds later.

"You think they're dead?" One of the soldiers said, approaching the man.

"Probably," His comrade said, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. "The files the Foundation has on him pretty much says that he's basically just like a person, but you know, supernatural."

The man felt the life drain out of him as more of his blood flowed out of his wounds. He wanted to close his eyes, to sleep, to sink deeper into the world.

"Better make sure."

The man heard the sound of the soldier withdrawing his sidearm, casually cocking it and preparing to fire.

Wake up, the woman told him. Wake up.

I have no way of waking up, the man thought. But I must try.

Using all his might, the man lurched forward, grabbing on the ankle of one of the soldiers, holding tightly. Smoke starts to emerge from his fingers as they dig deeper into the man's leg, causing him to scream.

"Shit! He's still fucking alive! He's on me!" The soldier said, aiming his sidearm at the man's head. He pulled the trigger, the bullet taking less than a split second to travel from the barrel of the gun all the way to the surface of the man's head.

Then he blinked.

The world exploded, consuming the room, the soldiers, and both the man and woman.

SCP-████: I couldn't save her.
Dr. Rhett: Save who, SCP-████?
SCP-████: The woman.
Dr. Rhett: Care to explain?
SCP-████: She told me to wake up. I had to wake up, otherwise I couldn't get out.
Dr. Rhett: So did you wake up?
SCP-████: I did not. Instead, I found myself here. That was 3 years, 2 months, 3 weeks, 4 days and 2 minutes from now.
Dr. Rhett: It happened, excuse me, will happen 3 years from now?
SCP-████: Yes. I was not strong enough, so I woke up in a different time in the dream. I am doomed to repeat it again and again until I am strong enough.
Dr. Rhett: What will happen?
SCP-████'s eyes gain a milky quality, leaning back on his chair.
SCP-████: When I wake up, the world ends. Hellfire will destroy everything. The dream will cease to exist.
Dr. Rhett: What is "the dream"?
Immediately, SCP-████ stands up from his chair. He blinks once, then is instantly gone.

He woke up yet again, rising from his bed.


rating: 0+x

SCP-XXXX, circa 2015

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be kept in a standard secure locker. During experimental testing, only D-Class personnel may handle the object without wearing protective hand covering. D-Class personnel who are showing signs of aggression while wearing SCP-XXXX must be immediately terminated by on-site security staff. Any research staff who handle SCP-XXXX directly will be subject to sanctions at the discretion of the Site Director.

Description: At the time of this writing, SCP-XXXX appears as a pair of █████ brand, 32'' size ripped jeans composed of denim cloth. It has known to change form since its acquisition in 1965, when it was in the form of a tie-dyed, M size T-shirt.

Since its initial acquisition by the Foundation, SCP-XXXX has changed form no fewer than 5 times in 1975, 1985, 1995, 2005 and 2015. It has been observed that SCP-XXXX changes form every 10 years according to the fashion norms of the continental United States at the time of transformation. Extrapolating from prior instances, SCP-XXXX is expected to change form again sometime in 2025.

When a human subject wears SCP-XXXX, they gradually experience advanced symptoms of fever resembling that of the common cold over the next few hours, even if the subject removes SCP-XXXX. Subjects have always been observed to attempt to convince others to surrender their clothing after the first onset of symptoms1. If not given what they want, the subject will attempt to take it by force and if necessary, resort to lethal action (Subjects have also been observed to have extremely high levels of aggression, even to those who refused them). Should the subject succeed in taking the article of clothing, they will express an even greater need to possess more from other subjects. Attempts to convince the subject to stop might cause them to hesitate2, but they nonetheless resume their attack soon after.

SCP-XXXX has also been observed to be impervious to any kind of damage (for an example, see Recovery Log). As of the time of this writing, SCP-XXXX has been proven to be fire-proof, bullet-proof, impervious to corrosive substances, impervious to wearing, and impervious to ripping/cutting. Testing with SCP-1837 has also proved futile.


Known Assumed Forms:
April 3, 1975 - 28" Loose "hippie" pants

May 4, 1985 - XL █████ leather jacket

December 2, 1995 - L ████ winter parka

March 26, 2005 - L Doctor ███ branded T-shirt

June 16, 2015 - █████ brand, 32'' size ripped jeans

Recovery Log: SCP-XXXX was first given to Dr. ████ by █████ Miller, a member of cleaning staff at Site ██ as a present. A few hours after, Dr. ████ was observed by his co-workers to be unwell, and was sent to the infirmary for medication. There, he requested more clothes from Nurse ████ Joy, though she refused him, stating that he did not need them. This apparent offense caused Dr. ████ to attack ████ Joy, strangling her. A nearby member of the cleaning staff, ███ Klein, tried to convince Dr. ████ to stand down, but to no avail. After killing ████ Joy, Dr. ████ soon turned his attention to Klein and attacked him, [DATA EXPUNGED] with a nearby scalpel. Foundation Security was soon deployed in the infirmary, killing Dr. ████ with a shot to the head, as SCP-XXXX's protective properties prevented him from taking damage to the torso. This apparent anomaly, especially after closer inspection proved that Dr. ████ was not wearing a bulletproof vest, prompted on-site authorities to store SCP-XXXX in a secure locker and to launch an investigation. During the aforementioned investigation, █████ Miller disappeared from all activities, Foundation or otherwise.