I hate clowns.

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**Shiki Ichinose**

My hair was in my eyes- pushed by a wind from the west. It did nothing to alleviate the Sun’s wrath, and was only noticeable by the thin layer of sand building up on my back. It’d be in my mouth if it weren’t for our standard-issue gas masks. I'd been boiling on this dune for four hours and I'd keep waiting ‘til my mark arrived. If dehydration was his goal (and it probably was), walking through the desert for a few days was a good way to reach it. Soon enough [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2416 SCP-2416] walked into view. The escapee. The clown. The fool. I recognized him from so many times before. Black hair curling in every direction, a painted smile, and an X on each eye.

A slow, measured breath and a squeeze of my index. He was a little too far for a dart gun this old, but the wind was in my favor and I knew how unlucky he was. The shot should've missed. Hit the ground and puffed harmlessly into the sand. But as if it were his very nature, a gust picked the dart up and he stepped right into it.

Thwonk! His knees buckled.

"Holy shit, Shiki, you hit that?" Neville called over the SR. "Moving in."

Neville and I were the remains of the masked MTF Omicron-8 "Send in the Clowns," one of the Foundation's primary defenses against clowns, jesters, and similar foolish types. At full capacity, we were very good. Securing demons in facepaint, deadly jokesters, and even one mime. But this dimwit SCP-2416 somehow took us out at the fuckin knees. 

First Rupert  and Sergei  were hit by a falling piano while grappling SCP-2416. Then Oliver was done with a bomb's key phrase. "Huh, lucky guess" were that instance's last words. Finally, Takeru tried treating another instance’s bear-inflicted wounds. "Gotcha!" 2416 said as I noticed the morphine shots in Takeru’s thigh. Inevitably, SCP-2416 succumbed to untreatable wounds too.

The team was injured and recovering. That left just us, two of six. The fool and the scientist, who avoid getting cartoonishly injured by keeping our distance. Usually. 

Neville approached the body. To say I was tense was an understatement. I was a suspension bridge; a perfect balance of stress and pressure to appear structurally sound. 

"Shiki, no pulse."

Damnit. "Check again, Neville."

I watched him inspect the body. I knew he was feeling the right spot, we'd autopsied this guy countless times. It's a perfectly normal body, he just keeps coming back.

"Negative. No brain activity either."

Sand slid out from under my boots as I slid down dunes towards the two. If the thoughts coursing through my mind entered a horse race I'd bet on them and win. How did he die? Did I kill him? No. He wasn’t that lucky, and it was a tranq round. Neville is wrong. He has to be wrong. Right?

My eyes flicked through the scene before me looking for something. Anything out of place. Peanut shells in his footsteps and swelling near the throat. A medicalert on his wrist. 
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+++ **🞧 Joe Pike. Mild peanut allergy. Gotcha. 🞧**

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Damn. What a moron. The idiot clown's face paint matched his stupid grin. Giddy, as if he was thinking "what next? gonna shoot me again?" He wasn't thinking that. He was dead. I like to respect the wishes of the dead.

"Complete waste of a week." I muttered, with my sidearm a bit lighter and the clown's face less recognizable.

"At least we know catching him in a peanut shell won't work!" Neville smiled wide under his mask. The dead clown returned his smile, if only because it was painted on.

------

++ **One week later.**

**Yusuf Gunter-Pike**

    Yusuf was an executive in the tallest building Turkey had to offer. This was a fact he was proud of, and he’d spent the past week telling anyone he met. It’s what his business cards said. “Yusuf Grunder-Pike. Executive. Istanbul Sapphire.” No phone number, email, nothing of use. Frankly, it was a pretty stupid business card.

“Executive of what?” was a question that no one had asked. Lucky. Doing so might reveal how little Yusuf knew. How dumb he was. Yusuf himself hadn’t even asked. It hadn’t occurred to him. Every day he walked out of his big fancy condo wearing a big fancy suit and walked around saying he had a big fancy job. Sometimes he’d photocopy papers he found, pick up phones that were ringing, or ask interns to bring him coffee. He never stayed around long enough to get the coffee.

Today would be no different. As he walked out of his big fancy condo wearing his big fancy suit, he looked out the hallway window. The beautiful skyline he expected wasn’t visible. Instead, there was a drone holding one corner of a rather large net blocking his view.

“Weird,” he thought. This was astute, as the drone was in fact weird. It had been set up by the two remaining members of MTF Omicron-8 “Send in the Clowns” in case Yusuf, SCP-2416, jumped off the building. He did not plan to jump off the building.

A camera in the corner of the elevator turned when he entered. “Strange,” he thought. That was accurate too, it was strange. It had been commandeered by the aforementioned MTF. Yusuf wasn’t aware. He used the time to touch up his face paint. X’s on the eyes and that goofy smile. He promptly forgot about the drone, and about the camera. Not his problem. He might consider the masked and armed man downstairs pushing through crowds just to find Yusuf a problem, but he was in the elevator. It hadn’t yet come to his attention.

He stepped out of the elevator to a balcony. A passerby was in the process of passing by, so Yusuf stopped the woman to give her his card.

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“Yusuf Grunder-Pike. Executive.” He nodded with a smile and sent the would-be-passerby on her way.

//What a moron,// thought the would-be-passerby in Turkish. Yusuf Grunder-Pike was also speaking Turkish, and his cards were written in the same. The narrator was a monolingual and spoke as such.

Below the balcony, hundreds of Turkish people went about their lives. They weren’t big fancy executives like Yusuf, but they moved with purpose. As if they had goals and motivation. It was an alien feeling to him. One person was moving with more motivation than most. Climbing stairs towards him. Pretty fast too. Masked. Furious. Likely named Neville, but Yusuf had no reason to know that.

Yusuf began to wonder what Neville wanted, but instead had his one and only true stroke of genius. A thought unlike any he’d previously thunk. It dwarfed his attempt at writing a book, the one math problem he’d solved, and setting an alarm for mornings. This was true brilliance on display.

//“I should run.”// 

Running away from big scary masked people is a pretty standard-issue instinct for most humans. Unlike Yusuf, most humans have an average intelligence, and average fight or flight. Unlike Yusuf, they see danger and avoid it. He had never avoided danger before, but this seemed like a very good time to start. He ran towards the elevator.

Prying the doors apart, he hoped he could make it. Surely, if he was fast enough, the scary man wouldn’t catch him. He stepped into the elevator shaft as a gloved hand grabbed his.

Yusuf knew he’d been caught, and turned to face the mask. “Gotcha,” he squeaked.

The elevator chose that moment as its queue to arrive.

------

**Shiki Ichinose**

It had been radio silence for too long. I knew this building would jam the SR, but that was no comfort. Without Neville’s regular checkups, the minutes were slow. It seemed an hour passed between each heartbeat. The Sapphire’s roof was empty. It was staying empty. No clown stepped to the edge. No windows opened for SCP-2416 to jump from. So I waited.

A flash of light and sound drew my attention. //Sirens//. Neville ran out towards me, mostly ignored by the crowd that spilled out behind him.

“Elevator came early,” he whispered as we ran. His right hand clearly was broken, but holding the clown’s severed hand. He clung to it as if SCP-2416 were still attached. 

Mission failed. At least I had Neville.

------

++ **After thirteen frustrating days.**

**Joseph Grunderson-Pike**

Joseph Grunderson-Pike's face paint was running, his coffee was unceremoniously mixing with rainwater, and he was distracted by the waitresses' earrings. They were a startling mix of red feathers and shiny black gemstones. The waitress didn’t give him a second glance, as if he’d been sitting there for hours. As far as she knew, he had. 

Anyone else in the clown's position might’ve been thinking "//Where am I//?" or "//How did I get here?//" or maybe even just "//Why does everyone speak Italian?//" Instead his thoughts were more along the lines of, //I’m thirsty.//

The only hope of saving his coffee at this point was an unhealthy dose of sugar or creamer, so naturally he spilled salt into it while standing up. //Sip//, it was bad. Not one to disrespect an Italian cafe, he finished the horrid slop before leaving no payment whatsoever on the table to find something to drink. He was thirsty.

He didn't ask for a glass of water. It wasn't in his nature to think of a simple solution like that. Truthfully, it wasn't in his nature to think of much. If he were on a crane, he'd step off it to hear someone at the bottom better. He'd run on train tracks to make sure he didn't miss his stop, or jump in a tigers exhibit just to "Give it a kiss". Joseph Grunderson-Pike was a moron. But his thirst was a problem, and by god, he would find a solution.

Walking towards the pier he saw it: water. Lots of water. He ran towards it with a shit-eating grin on his objectively stupid face. A slightly muffled voice called out, maybe to cheer him on? He wasn’t listening. 

//Drinky time,// he thought.

The first few sips were unsatisfying, as salt water always is. That wouldn't stop a clown like him. He assumed that the water a bit deeper was likely better for drinking. Less salty.

"Stop! 2416 can we-" Two figures clad in all black with gas masks and strange circular symbols were running towards him. A cast on one of their hands. He should’ve stopped to see what was wrong, instead he walked deeper. Sinking into the murk, the water didn't get any better. Salty as ever, and strangely hard to breathe. Agitated, he pushed on. Now something else was trying to stop him. A hand grabbing at his hair, his clothes. As if that could stop a clown on a mission. Didn't they know he was thirsty? Didn't they know he needed a drink? He fought on as the world grew darker around him.

------

**Shiki Ichinose**

I dragged SCP-2416’s lifeless body out of the pier. A filthy scum from the surface clung to it. If drowning hadn’t killed him, he’d have gone septic in a day or two. Holding back tears of rage, I turned to the puffing Neville who finally made his way down the hill.

“What the fuck is wrong with him? Is it on purpose? Is he stupid? Why can’t we just catch him for once?”

Neville nodded and started to speak, but hadn’t yet caught his breath.

Another set of hands reached out to help me pull SCP-2416 out of the muck. “I gotcha, Shiki. Glad I’m not that guy.” I felt relief and familiarity wash over me as his masked face and mess of long black hair came into view. There’s that shitty finger-painted design I’ve come to know so well.

“We fuckin had him, ‘Roo.” My voice betrayed the defeat that filled me. “Goddamn it. His shirt was in my hand. If I’d just been a little faster-”

Neville and ‘Roo could have comforted me, but I knew they were feeling the same way; Shitty. To search for a clown for so many months only for him to slip through my actual fingers.

“Let's go home.” Neville had caught his breath.

------

**Joey “Roo” G.P.**

“Home” was a couple tents on an otherwise empty Mediterranean rooftop. Shiki and Neville’s hammocks were all set up from the nights before, but ‘Roos was oddly missing. Classic ‘Roo, always misplacing his gear. They had spares. After a cold canned dinner and some routine report writing, he retired to his tent and finally took off his beloathed gas mask. 

Most MTF’s wear ballistic helmets and a balaclava with goggles or NVGs as needed. Not Omicron-8. Clown catchers wear a full face gas mask for proper safety. Too many circus freaks rely on imitation and foolery. Clowns have tried imitating their masks, but a simple tear gas grenade is all the test they need.

“Hey guys?”

“Yeah ‘Roo?” Neville’s voice was barely muffled by the thin tent walls between them.

“We’re gonna catch this guy. We’re close. I can feel it.”

“Yeah ‘Roo. For sure.” Shiki wasn’t taking this last loss well.

------

++ **Five fruitless weeks passed.**

**Neville Bagley**

    Neville undid the top velcro on his bulletproof vest, flexing in the mirror. He was all dressed up for a night out on the town. Or the mess hall. Either way, that night there would be drinks. His team of seven (or was it six?) might be mostly gone, but his optimism could never die. Optimism would be his middle name, if the Foundation let him have one. 

“Hey!” He banged on the wall (A real solid wall! Neville loved being at proper MTF bases.) “You guys ready for tonight?”

Shiki didn’t respond. She barely said much recently. 

‘Roo was always there though, good ol’ ‘Roo. “On my way!”

A glance at the squad photo for good luck (and a twinge in the back of his mind, but that was no concern of his), his best mask on, and Neville was out the door. It was supposed to be a sort of reunion. All the MTF troops that had been through basic together five years ago, a class of nearly two hundred, seeing each other (or each others masks and armor) again for the first time since! Neville's joy was only barely matched by ‘Roos dim-but-joyful attitude. The gloomy cloud of frustration and anger called “Shiki” met them in the hall.

“It’s never taken this long,” she muttered. The other two didn’t respond, they knew what she meant. SCP-2416 was off the map. He’d always been found within a week or two, but this time nothing. Not a trace, not even a body. It was eerie. Bad. 

“Maybe he’s gone for good!” Neville remarked. He hoped it was true (He knew it wasn’t).

The three walked to the mess hall. The three that remained. All three active members of MTF Omicron-8 “Send in the Clowns.” The sturdy dull military minimalism of the hall had been consumed by bumping music, streamers, snacks, an oversized disco ball, and an honest-to-god dance floor. Pictures of squads and teams lined the walls, a mess of masks, helmets, and goggles. 

One hundred and forty or so of the graduate soldiers couldn’t make it due to death-related incidents. The sixty-ish that showed up were in full-form. None danced (shaming the disco ball's life purpose), but drinks were drank and bumps were bumping. Neville started scanning the crowd for familiar masks and figures, but met resistance in the form of Shiki’s hand on his shoulder.

“We should be working, we were close, Neville. So close.”

Neville moved the group across the dance floor. “C’mon Shiki, let your chain out.” Neville took his dog tags out from under the MOLLE vest. “Live a little.”

“Let’s have some fun, Shiki,” Roo started. “It’s been so long since we-”

“Have some fun!?” ‘Roo’s attempts at lifting the mood were cut short, stopping them under the glittering orb. “Yeah, sure ‘Roo, lets have some fucking fun. Want some cake? Want some punch? How about we reminisce over our great times together, guys. How about that time in Hungary, with the piano? Or the literal time bomb in Cyprus? Or the fucking bear attack? Haha, yeah! It was so fun to watch our team get slowly picked off by an idiot clown.” She was louder than the music at this point. “By the way ‘Roo, what the fuck do you even do? I’m a goddamn researcher. Best and brightest. Neville brings new perspectives. He thinks outside the fucking box, and always has new solutions. He thought of a fucking drone net. That's pretty damn creative. What the hell do you even contribute, ‘Roo?”

‘Roo pulled back. The verbal acid bypassed his kevlar to eat away at his soul instead.

Shiki's momentum was petering out. She hadn’t slept. Her entirely unveiled rage took more strength out of her than she’d admit. Neville started reaching for a table full of team photos. He wanted a fun night out, and by god he was going to have it. Fun would be his middle name, if the Foundation let him have one.

“Look at me, Shiki. Look!” Neville held up pictures of the team together, after various successful missions, and even a few failed ones. Arms around shoulders, supporting the injured and holding the hurt. “We're more than what we accomplish. More than what we lose. We're a team, Shiki. Whether there's six of us or just three, we’re a team.”

Shiki was silent. Neville thought he got through to her, but looking closer something was wrong. Through eyeholes he could see her brow furrowing and her eyes flitting between the pictures. She barely heard a word Neville said. 

“We're a team?” Shiki's voice was an engine. Slow, but unstoppable. “Call a medic.”

------

++ **Five gunshots later.**
**Shiki Ichinose**

My head was pounding. The music, the fury, and the magazine I was unloading into ‘Roo’s bulletproof vest pumped pure noise through my mind. Three shots hit, two missed and ricocheted towards the ceiling. I hoped it hurt. His ribs would break, but that's the goal. I wanted that cryptid fuck to feel some real pain. A fraction of what he’s made us feel. The cracks forming weren't my concern. The disco ball swinging and spinning with every heavy beat of the subwoofers didn't cross my mind.

Neville tackled me to the ground. We were nowhere near matched for strength, and I wasn't fighting. I'd caught that fucking clown. Right under my goddamn nose.

“The pictures,” I managed to say through Neville's grapple. “Where's ‘Roo.”

Neville looked at the pictures. He's a good guy. I liked Neville, but my god sometimes he was slow. Give him a problem, he’ll have wacky solutions no one else would consider. Lost in the woods? He's got the drone to navigate. He didn't have the eyes of a researcher, but he was good at listening. He looked at the pictures, and he saw. Counting each team member. Six, then four, then three, then two. Then three again.

“Shit.” He climbed off me to call a medic. “Damn. I trusted you, ‘Roo.” I barely heard him through the hammering in my mind. The vitriol and the hate.

I dropped the pictures of our team. The team that SCP-2416 Joey “Roo” G.P. was never a part of. Ripping off his mask was all the confirmation needed. X's painted over his eyes. Stark white skin. That stupid fucking grin, stained with blood for once.

I was going to yell at him. Hold him down. I probably would've shot him again if my previous rounds hadn't caused another problem.

//CRACK//

A glint above stopped me. The crack sound came again, louder this time. It help some finality in its tone, sending light showers of dust and drywall. I stepped back moments before a disco ball came to rest inconveniently on the once-living SCP-2416.

I hate clowns.

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