Authors Note: This takes place in the universe of SCP-2238.

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Global Occult Coalition Detention Center, Alabama. 1993

Commander Grant walked down the long winding halls of the non-anomalous wing of the facility, his footsteps making an audible clack beneath him as he looked for the correct door number. It was strange, the lack of sound. Grant was reminded of the horror movies of yonder days, when there were just large periods of silence as the main character waited for something to crawl out of the shadows and attack.

He couldn't help but smile as he remembered those younger, more innocent times.

Grant slowed his movement, stopping as he read the large sliver plaque attached to the wall of the steel door.

He stifled a laugh as he slid his green security card through the reader and, after waiting for the light to flash, opened the door. Bruises covered the man's face from years of toil and general age, lips constantly downturned. He was sitting in a small metal cot, staring up at the ceiling. Bullet proof glass separated the two, a small hole acting as the sole means of communication. The man turned his head to the right to face Commander Grant, his glassy eyes staring right into the Commander's.

The Commander walked towards the chair in front of the glass, crossed his legs, and looked just began to watch.

"How is your day going, Dick?"

The dark figure lay beneath a tree, his breath heavy, blood covering his body from head to toe. He could feel the flesh around his frontal lobe began to heal, slowly forming flesh to fill in the holes of his brain and damaged limbs. It was akin to the feeling of rubbing Elmer's Glue on your hands and then peeling it off.

"Ken. Let's go home."

Ken looked back at the roundish creature before him, a small child over his shoulder. Masky lay just 10 or so feet behind, gun at the ready.

"Just….one….more," Ken wheezed out as he forced himself to stand up.

"No dipshit. Anymore dead Gocks and we'll have a full battalion from up North in Nashville."

"Awwwwwwww comeeee theeeeee fuckkkkkkkkkk onnnnn, we could kill them all if we wanted to, ya pussy."

Stretchy laughed.

"Sure, if you wanna end up like that damned Church."

"I'm not some damn cultist."

"You can have your little violent power fantasy later, Ken, but right now, we got a kid to take care of," Stretchy retorted, nodding his head in the direction of the child on his shoulder.

Ken cracked his neck, twisting it before it forced itself back into the direction of what would be considered a 'normal' human.

"Let's just go home."

The Circus was, like many nights before it, a great spectacle to behold for many outsiders. But to Masky, it was just another night of standing around with a gun on his hip. A thankless job, but someone had to do it. As the lights and screams and cheers of the crowds inside of the small-but-bigger-on-the-inside tents were occurring, Masky was standing, waiting. He changed his face to match the Circus' 'child-friendly' atmosphere, the flesh morphing and changing pigmentation in order to fit in. Just like he always had.

Above him, on top of a ice cream truck, was the blood soaked Ken, his clown mask off to the side as he chewed on his ring finger.

"You need a shower."

"You need a new face."

Silence.

"So," the younger one asked as he removed his finger from his mouth, not unlike a toddler, "the old man finally croaked, eh?"

"Yes, it appears so."

"What're they gonna do with the kid?"

"I don't know. I assume they'd send him to some safe enclave out west in Foundation territory. Or the Portlands, if possible."

Ken hung his feet off the edge of the truck, swinging them back and forth.

"Hendie his dad? Doubt the old man had it in him, but anything's possible."

"No, just a child he found off the street."

"Little shit got him killed."

Doctor Smith was not having a pleasant day. Not only was she having to play '''''good'''' cop to this lunatic's bad cop while he was pummeling some poor Richard, but she forgot to bring her lunch to work that day at the Detention Facility! And she spent so much time on creating those tiny sandwiches that her husband always found so cut—

Another scream punctured the air.

"Blarg," she said out loud as she saw the Commander electrocuting the prisoner with the weird clown markings. He was looking for information on the Circus, who was hiding some dangerous Green or something. She wasn't paying too much attention when the Commander hastily explained the context. She eyed the newspaper that the Commander had brought in before the fiesta of violence began, and, with a swift motion, grabbed it and lazily looked through the different articles and editorials.

Doctor Smith flipped through five or so pages of news about boring stuff like Lab's new line of SRA's, or the GRU-"P" being absorbed into the GOC as the '109th' member and some random person called "Professor AW" that was new to the Arms Race between Labs, MCD, and Anderson. Only when she saw a picture of some old man and some kid did she stop.

B James Henderson irmingham, Alabama - August 12, 1993 At 12:04 PM UTC, Special Agent Garrison was attacked by Birmingham Local James Henderson, alleged member of terrorist groups funded by the Foundation and Unusual Incidents Unit. Agent Garrison shot the suspect, killing Henderson on impact. Afterwards, Agent Garrison had attempted to bring in a Highly Dangerous Reality Bender that had escaped Coalition custody, but was overwhelmed by an unknown third party. "He would have killed me if I didn't do something," stated Special Agent Garrison when asked by Local reporter Mabel Smith about the killing. "He was insane, really. Thankfully he didn't cause too much damage." The 55-year-old and graying attacker had a criminal history of connections to either terrorist groups or groups that are sympathetic to them. Although never officially indicated, it is generally believed by Coalition analysts that he was very much a supporter of the notorious terrorist group 'The Serpent's Hand'. "He was dangerous and insane to have a reality bender in his home, protecting it, "stated Commander Grant of Coalition forces to local Birmingham News. "Thankfully, Agent Garrison was able to prevent any future acts committed by the lunatic."

"CUNT!"

Another scream ruined her concentration as Grant turned the dial up from 6 to 9.

The vein in Smith's head was about to burst.

Stretchy wrapped the bandage around the kid's knee. A majority of his legs had been scraped and cut during his run through the forest from the Gocks. The kid was awake now, but didn't speak. Not that Stretchy blamed him much. He just saw one of the closest things to a parental figure get his brains blown out.

Hell, it reminded him of when Icky and Manny got rid of Fuller. Even if it was necessary.

He stood up and stretched his back out, which was surprisingly easy for a creature without a skeleton.

"Kid, ya need anything while I'm here?"

Silence.

Stretchy moved his hand fifteen feet across the trailer he lived in towards the cooler, opened it up, and popped out a bottled water and soda. He placed the soda next to the kid. He plopped himself right next to the kid towards his left. He took a deep breath and sipped his water.

There was a good fifteen seconds before anyone said anything.

"You got a name kid?"

Kid didn't even nod.

"You got any hobbies?"

Kid's face was in a downtrodden frown.

"Can you talk at all?"

Nothing.

He wondered if he was a special kid. Maybe he couldn't talk, or, if he did, something bad would happen that'd kill a lot of people. It wasn't out of the question, it happens. They usually learn to control it when they're kids, or, if they're unlucky, they'll be found in a river. Or, if they're really unlucky, they'll be sold to Micky Dees.

God damn, Mickey Dees. He heard the horror stories of what they'd do. Stories of little men in suits walking into their local club and asking for a "good catch", mostly a young child, although it could be an adult as well, was brought before them to inspect at their own leisure. And, if they liked it, they'd bring it to their mansion on fucking Wall Street or wherever else and just play with it. Amuse themselves. Use it as a way to get rich people points at rich people parties where people sipped wine, sucked each other's cocks and sniffed each others farts. "Oh yes, I have a man who can turn his penis into a boomerang" "Oh, well mine can be burnt alive and still survive, I tried it myse—"

"Vince."

"Huh?"

"My name is Vince. At least, I think."

Stretchy was a little taken aback, but pleased nonetheless.

"Heh, thought you were a mute for a second there."

"I get that a lot."

"How old are ya?"

"Nine, ten-ish I think. My parents never kept many dates."

"Why not?"

Vince shrugged. "Never had much of a reason."

"CUNT! BITCH LIPPED WHORE! DAMN GEO SEA CUNTS I'LL FUCKIN' RIP YOUR BALLS OFF LIKE MY GRANDAD USED TO DO!"

Dick struggled against his restraints, wiggling and moving and writhing around in the metal latches that kept him down. He had gotten used to the automatic electrical shocks that came with this contraption. Some experimental chair of some sort, mostly for human subjects.

But he was a clown goddamnit! And clowns don't quit! Sets bad precedent, if anything.

He could almost move his feet before the door opened and slammed shut, and a—

Oh my.

Before him was a short woman, her hair tied up into a bun on her head. A white labcoat covered her shoulders, and she wore a pair of beautiful thick rimmed glasses.

"Hello, Dick."

"Hello, uhh," he muttered, squinting his eyes to look at the identification, "Ms, uh, Smith, yeah. I know plenty of Smiths, and you're the most Smithy of them."

"Neat."

She took her seat across from him, a notepad in hand.

"Tell me," she began, looking through her blue ink soaked paper notes as if her life depended on it, "what do you know about the Circus?"

"It's gonna take more than some hot nerd to get me to spill the bean—"

"I'll give you a memetic hazard that'll give you instantaneous orgasms upon viewing if you comply."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Start from the beginning, please."

"Well," began Dick, reclining in his chair, "it all began when my grandfather fucked a Clown…."

Stretchy exited his trailer to face both Masky and Ken. A pistol was still at Masky's hip, and Ken, well….

"I already told you to stop that," Stretchy said.

Ken rolled his eyes and removed his finger from his mouth, saliva covering it to the base of the finger.

"What did you get out of the kid?" Masky questioned, stepping closer to Stretchy.

Stretchy rubbed the back of his neck, looking back at the trailer.

"Well, the kid finally spoke. It's progress, I suppose. Other than that, his name's Vince."

"Nice name, he choose it himself?" Ken quipped sarcastically.

"Yes, actually."

"Oh."

"Are you going to tell Manny or Icky?" Masky asked, leaning against the trailer.

"No, no, we don't need to worry them about thi—"

"Dipshit, you brought a goddamn Green into the Circus who's being tracked down by murderous Gock fucks. It's all of our problems," Ken interrupted.

"I know, I know, but if we can get him to Portland, we could avoid causing any trouble."

"Are you suggesting we bring a child to a potential hot spot for anomalous activity and criminal activities?"

"I know it's not the best solution, Masky, but it's better than here or anywhere else."

"The city would kill him," Masky retorted.

"He's survived worse at this point. Besides, we fared worse things at that ag—"

"Please don't compare our situations, Stretchy."

Ken tuned out as the two children bickered like an old married couple. He wondered if there was any ice cream left….

"….and that's how I became a Clown Breeder with no prior experience, training, or discipline."

Doctor Smith stared blankly at the man. Silence covered the room like a blanket.

"So, uh, you gonna give me the meme or no—"

Before he could continue she punched him and shoved a pill down his throat and poured water down it. He gagged as he felt himself get queasy and weak before the world started turning to black.

Grant placed his face into his palm, groaning after the four hour memoir that was recited to them.

"So, uh, what should we do—"

"Fuck this, I'm going to the Tracking Department."

And in one swift move he took his coat, notes, and pistol and left the room, leaving the dumb struck Smith and drooling Dick.

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