Gabriel Jade's Sandbox
rating: 0+x

The Site Security Director sat at his desk, pulling the advanced noise cancelling headphones into place. He looked around the room; thick, padded grey acoustic dampening foam covered the walls, floor and ceiling. Still, he assured himself, it was important that he sit at his desk for this. He nodded at the security officer standing in the room with him, wearing headphones similar to his own. The junior officer exited the room, returning quickly with a solidly constructed metal box. He placed it on the folding metal chair set up across from the Security Director. Gingerly placing a small control device on the desk, he quickly closed the door with himself finally, thankfully, outside.

The Security Director picked up the small grey device, his thumb passing lightly across the buttons. Had things really gotten so out of hand that this was his best shot? He let out a deep sigh as his thumb flexed and he felt the button click in. He didn't hear the front plate of the metal box snap up, letting the pale fluorescent light spill into half of the box from the reinforced bulbs suspended overhead.

"SCP-2337, before I begin I will inform you that, as Security Director of this Site, my purview includes the containment specificities of sapient, Euclid anomalies such as yourself." He flipped open a file folder on his desk as he spoke, pulling a few pages aside to find the part he was after. "The boys down in the research division seem to think you want to help out," he squinted into the open crate, making out the shadowed, squat form of the small avian figure within. "But from what I can tell, you're a rogue element — A loose cannon! Attacking doctors, making what are obviously thinly-veiled threats at personnel. I won't stand for it!" He stopped in a futile attempt to prevent his face from reddening. "Still… You're the best damn chance we've got. I'm giving you a chance here to prove yourself. Are you gonna take it?"

"Jumble your tumble dryer more peacefully if youthinks to batch honeyflies," retorted Dr. Spanko, striding to the front of his small house and, with a flap of his wings, coming to stand on top of it. "Helpfully. Cack! It me! Drimmel down your Dumbledores, and explactorate the chardonnay."

"I — very well," the Security Director said, trying to understand the bird. "One of the site's Keters has gotten loose." He eyed Dr. Spanko, who seemed more preoccupied in preening himself than listening. "Do you know what that is, a Keter?"

"Better fetter, english setter." Confirmed the good doctor.

"Rig — good," he hated talking to this bird. "Its designation is 682. Big, scary lizard." He paused for a moment to look over his dossier. "This was hidden behind a sea of redaction, but you have some connection with this creature, don't you?"

The bird sucked in a tremendous gasp. "And how!"

"Good, and…?" He paused, waiting for the corn crake to elucidate further. Several seconds passed in stark silence before he tightly pressed the bridge of his nose, air sucking past his frustrated teeth. "Alright, fair enough. That's not all of it, at any rate. 682 managed to get itself infected with both 008 and 217 before it got out of the facility. We've managed to reroute a handful of nearby Mobile Task Forces to keep everything quarantined to the town of Arcadia."

"Bespoken vamoose! Am has impassle without hardy stranglechills." The spry bird gave another quick flap, alighting to strut across the Site Director's desk. "Much beckseachon conveygive. Cack! Calls for an alsogood doctor, says I."

The Security Director's lips mouthed the words, trying to pull apart their meaning. "Convey.. a doctor? We don't have any doctors that would be authorized, or willing, to go. We've already reached the limit of what we can accomplish with humans, that's why I've got you here in the first place."

"Don't sour your purple moon, dickey old chum. Thinkwise anywho Herr Doktor Spankoflex know-has just the assombulance." His beak gripped another folder, tossing it open in front of the Security Director. The man's eyes widened, his face turning pale and grim.


The Plague Doctor sat in his sterile white cell. He held in one hand sharp forceps and a white cloth in the other. With absurdly practiced hand, he applied a fine sheen of oil to the tool. It had been far, far too long since they had been put to proper use, but it would not do to let them fall into disrepair.

"Rye on the toad." Instructed Dr. Spanko, shattering the glass of the police cruiser's windows. The car swerved, smiting down a federal mailbox in the prime of its life. "Clams below the shoe." He cautioned, performing a small jig of approval as the Plague Doctor's hands slid towards the top of the wheel. Vehicles, hastily stopped, littered the sidewalks and made the roads treacherous. The death and devastation made tracking their quarry simple enough, at least. Still, all these corpses did seem to be making navigation tricky.

Seizing the chance to be useful, Dr. Spanko perched himself on the dashboard, taking in a deep breath and belting out a great, piercing police siren yodel.1