An Abnormal Attraction

[Will make SCP document later]


Parasitic flesh monsters; silent, sticky stealers; and living, storytelling shadows. If you can think of it, the SCP Foundation has dealt with it. Like a "random name generator" for an XBOX gamertag, there is an uncountable variety of anomalies in containment, ranging from, as Dr. Zorbson says, "oh, it's so cute" to "get the fuck away from me, I'm too young to die." But today's story is much more maliciously mundane. Yes, instead of eviscerations, mastications, and odd altercations, we will delve deep into the world of a man just trying to live his normal life, and perform his duty as a foundation employee. Today, we delve into the daily life…of Stan.

May 25, 2035. A beautiful day. The sun was shining, with birds chirping love songs as they flew…Not that any of the members of the SCP Foundation would know this, as they are cooped up in a steel box, making sure that world-wide calamity does not ensue. Inside of Section F, Sub-section Fj, to the left of the women's restroom, and in between the janitor's closet and the cafeteria, lies an elevator, hidden by a bookshelf, that, when taken, leads you to Laboratory 4DS2. There, on the bottom floor of the Foundation, awaiting the completion of his experiment, is Stan. Let's listen in, shall we?

(muffled yelling)

(elevator opens)

Stan: …gentle with that! OH for the love of all things holy. Carry them like this. You'll spill 'em onto the floor if you carry them li— TWO HANDS PLEASE. (dramatic sigh)

Dr. Stefenson: Glad to see you're taking it well.

Stan: I just don't get it. We still don't know what it does, how it works, or how dangerous it is. Why are we moving it to Section E?

Dr. Stefenson: It's only temporary, Stan. Dr. Stevenson just wants to make sure that you don't do anything stupid.

Stan: Stevenson? The guy that thought crossing 3042 with 2044 was a novel idea?

Dr. Stefenson: (sighs) Look, if you just go along with it, it'll go faster.

Stan: I just…I—I…

(Dr. Stefenson walks up to Stan and places a hand on his shoulder.)

Dr. Stefenson: Hey, look at me.

(Stan looks at Dr. Stefenson.)

Dr. Stefenson: Nothing is going away, OK? Your notebooks are fine, you equipment will be safely transported, everything will be just fine. OK?

Stan: …OK.

Dr. Stefenson: Hey, you know what? Why don't we go to Bruno's? Get a nice puttanesca.

Stan: Yeah, that's…yeah that's fine.

(There is a moment of silence, and then the chief transporter walks up to Dr. Stefenson and Stan.)

Chief Transporter: Dr. Stevensohn?

Stan: Please, just call me Stan. There's more than enough Stevensons in this god-forsaken hell hole.

Chief Transporter: Noted, Stan. We're just about finished, we got all of the equipment and your notebooks—

Stan: And my goldfish?

Chief Transporter: As per your request, sir. The last item that needs to be transported is the SCP-XXXX-J-1 isotope. We figured that you should be the one to transfer it to the cooler since you designed its containment chamber. We also figured you'd insist on micromanaging the situation either way, so it'd be best to offer you the job and spare you a hernia.

Stan: Oh, how kind of you. Just give me a couple of minutes, I'll go suit up.

Dr. Stefenson: Promise me you'll be careful.

Stan: I promise, don't worry.

(A couple of minutes later, Stan is wearing his safety suit, and is in SCP-XXXX-1-J's containment chamber.)

Stan: I am now moving the isotope into the cooler.

Dr. Stefenson: Try not to shake as much. You're gonna drop it!

Stan: Well you shouting isn't gonna make things any better!

Chief Transporter: Hey, calm down you two. Stan, just put it in the cooler, and come grab a beer.

Stan: You got beer?

Chief Transporter: A treat from Dr. Stevenson.

Stan: Wait, did you just say—

Dr. Stevenson: Stan! My new floormate! How's it going?

Stan: I was doing fine.

Dr. Stevenson: Good to hear. (sips beer) Damn, that is good.

Stan: What brand did ya get?

Dr. Stevenson: Heineken.

Stan: Heineken? What kind of a dipshit buys Heineken?

Dr. Stevenson: Well, what brand do you like?

Stan: Budweiser.

Dr. Stevenson: (laughs) How can you stand that garbage?

(Stan stops moving, and starts shaking profusely.)

Dr. Stefenson: Oh no…

(Stan gives Dr. Stevenson the death stare.)

Stan: What the fuck did you just say about Budweiser?!

Chief Transporter: Hey, let's all just—

Dr. Stevenson: I mean, it's fine. Just not as much of a robust flavor as Heineken.

Stan: I swear to god, I'll shove that bottle right up your—


(Everyone is silent for a little bit. Stan shrugs it off, and continues to finish the job.)

Dr. Stevenson: At least it's not Bud Light.

(This sends Stan into a full-on rampage.)


(There is a sound of glass breaking and hitting the floor. Everyone is silent once more.)

Stan: Well shit…

(Chaos ensues. Stan and Dr. Stevenson shout at each other, the chief transporter presses the red emergency button, and Dr. Stefenson tries to calm the other two down. The audio cuts.)

Stan is quarantined for a week…I'll write the details later.

(One week later…)

Stan is in a quarantine chamber. Dr. Stefenson paces outside of the chamber, anxiously waiting for Stan's test results. Dr. Stephanson arrives with Stan's results.

Stan: Well, how'm I looking?

Dr. Stephanson: It's…uh, well how do I put this?

Dr. Stefenson: Oh dear…

Dr. Stephanson: You're…

(The music crescendos.)

Dr. Stephanson: …completely fine.

Stan: …Really?

Dr. Stephanson: Yeah, your blood-oxygen levels are nominal, the cat scans didn't show any change in bone structure, and your heart rate is steady. You're in tip-top shape, Dr. Stevensohn.


/ Stan: Just call me Stan.

Dr. Stefenson: Oh thank god… /

Dr. Stephanson: Lucky you, Stan. As of right now, you are no longer in quarantine.

(Dr. Stephanson swipes his keycard and unlocks the chamber door. Stan makes his way out of the chamber.)

Stan: (deep breath) Ah, the smell of freshly waxed floors and highly chlorinated water, how I've missed you…

Dr. Stefenson: I thought I lost you…

(Dr. Stefenson and Stan embrace one another.)

Dr. Stephanson: Please take it easy, Stan.

Stan: No promises. (turns to Dr. Stefenson) You still up to go to Bruno's?

Dr. Stefenson: Absolutely. Just promise me you won't make a scene?

Stan: Of course I won't…

(Two hours later…)

Stan and Dr. Stefenson are ordering dinner at Bruno's.

Waiter: What will it be for tonight, sir?

Stan: I'll have the New York steak with a side of mashed potatoes and asparagus. Have the steak cooked medium-rare—and when I say "medium-rare", I don't mean medium, I don't mean rare, and I sure as hell don't mean well-done, you got that? I want the asparagus to be roasted to the point of perfection: not too crunchy like a celery stick, but not too mushy like eggplant mush. And please, for the love of all things holy, tell the chef to use white pepper instead of black pepper for the mashed potatoes. The black pepper makes it look like a pile of squashed speckled frogs. You get all that?

(The waiter looks concerningly at Stan while writing down everything he says. He then moves on to Dr. Stefenson.)

Waiter: …And for you?

Dr. Stefenson: (sighs) I'll have the cob salad.

(The waiter grabs their menus and scuttles away.)

Dr. Stefenson: You need to relax.

Stan: What do you mean?

Dr. Stefenson: You're so uptight.

Stan: I am not.

Dr. Stefenson: Really? Then what would you call that?

Stan: Being specific.

Dr. Stefenson: (sighs)

Stan: Look, I'm sorry, OK? I've just been stressed ever since the accident.

Dr. Stefenson: This has been happening for much longer. You always seem to have to tell everyone how they fucked up. Every. Single. Time.

Stan: I do not!

Dr. Stefenson: Really?

Stan: Yeah!

Dr. Stefenson: Danny's bat mitzvah?

Stan: How do you screw up the hora? It's right-left, right-left. It's not that hard!

Dr. Stefenson: Sarah's wedding?

Stan: You say "I do." Not "yeah dude, let's do it." That just makes it sound immature.

Dr. Stefenson: Matt's potluck?

Stan: Fish does not go well with cheese. Everyone knows this!

Dr. Stefenson: Jesus, Stan. How do you not see this?

Stan: I'm sorry, Kyle. I can't help myself.

Dr. Stefenson: Stan, I can't take much more of this! All you do is complain and complain.

Stan: …What're you trying to say?

Dr. Stefenson: Stan…I think it would the best, for the both of us, if we—

(The waiter arrives with Stan and Dr. Stefenson's food.)

Stan: Would you look at that? Perfect timing.

Waiter: We have the New York steak…and the cob salad. Enjoy!

(Stan notices something wrong with his meal.)

Stan: Hold on just a minute, Waiter…Come look at this.

(Stan holds up a piece of very limp, very mushy piece of asparagus.)

Stan: What the hell is this?

Waiter: That is asparagus. You ordered it, sir.

Stan: Yes, but I specifically said for it to be not mushy. Look at this. It's…it's like a squished banana.

(The waiter begins to sweat.)

Waiter: My deepest apologies, sir. I will go and tell the chef—

Stan: And this steak is as dry as a bone. There's not even a drop of juice left in it. It might as well have been deep fried.

Dr. Stefenson: For god's sake Stan, you're making a scene.

Stan: Well, I'm sorry! I just get a little pissed off when people can't follow specific instructions!

(The waiter continues to sweat, but he is also smiling. He seems to be enjoying this.)

Waiter: I'll go speak to the chef right away, sir.

Stan: And OH, what's this? Black pepper? I'm going to ask a question to you. Are you partially deaf or just stupid? Because I genuinely have no FUCKING IDEA how someone can be that ignorant!

(The waiter swoons with delight.)


(The waiter continues to swoon for a moment, with everyone in the restaurant is staring at him. He stops after he realizes what he has done, and returns to a civil attitude.)

Waiter: (clears throat) I'll speak with the chef.

Stan: No no, it's fine…Steak tastes pretty great actually.

(The waiter leaves, and everyone stops staring at Stan. Stan and Dr. Stefenson eat their meals without speaking a single word to each other. After their meals, they drive home…I'll write the narration later.)

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