The Great Mumbo Jumbo | SCP-6757

Hey Zero, what you got to get today? The guard says as I push my mop bucket down the hallway, both of my hands holding the mop handle steady, steering the bucket like I'm using a huge joystick. Which in my mind, I kinda am. I like games. I like playing them, watching docks on how they're made, and YouTube videos of critiques and reviews. I still go to the arcade close to my trailer, although most of the old classics have out-of-order signs on them. Which is a pity. I smile up at the guard as I pass by. I can't remember his name, chat, or Tony, or Trent, or something. They're all the same. Tall, burly, mean, or at least the ones around this side are. I'm barely 5 feet 8, slim, and have some issues with my face. Makes it hard for folks to take me seriously. Especially the chads or Tony's or Trent's. They look down at the scars on my face, just like they look down on me as a person. Hey Zero, what did you say happened to your face again? The chat or Tony or Trent asks, Pitbull got you. I'd sigh, but I'm all out of those. I've been here for 6 years now. My size left a long time ago. Chihuahua. I say and keep pushing the mop bucket down the hall, headed to the east wing, where I've been called to clean up something that no one else wants to touch. Chat or Tony or Trent starts laughing. That's your hide. And damn Chihuahua. How the hell did one of those little fuckers do that to your face? We want to come up. I could tell him yet again that I was 3 years old when it happened, and that Chihuahua's are one of the most aggressive dog breeds according to ER records, especially for toddlers. But I don't bother answering. He doesn't care what I say. Just like he doesn't care what my name is. They all call me Zero because that's my security clearance. And being one of only two janitors on site, the name stuck, since the other Zero clearance personnel all work on the periphery of the site, coming in only when needed. Die work the night shift, which makes me an easy target. No supervisors around to tell the jerks to knock it off. Hey, Zero, I'm gonna damn talk to you. The guard moves from his post and takes three long steps to block my path. He has to be at least 6'3", maybe more. He's got one of those pinched faces, with eyes too close together and he knows that slices through the air. His lips are thin and white. His chin, a hunk of granite, dotted with stubble, and what looks like powdered sugar and dried cream from a donut. All the donuts were gone when I came on shift. I bet this jerkhole ate them all. Excuse me? I say and try to steer around him. They need me in the east wing. The east wing? Oh, wow. What happened? One of the anomalies over there pissed it's bed. He laughs loudly, too loudly. Oh no, no. I know what it is. It's one of the researchers, right? Got spooked by some lizard thing and dropped some scorty brown in their shorts. And now it's all over your precious cream floor. I bet that's it. He nudges the mop bucket with his boot. If that's the case, then you ain't gonna need that. You're gonna need some diapers and wet wipes. He looks me up and down, even leans to look behind me. Don't see no diapers or wipes on you. I bet you had to use them yourself, A-0. Mama never body trained you, I'm guessing. Apparently, I do have a side left and I let it out slowly. Can you move, please, so I can do my job? I ask. And my name's Ricky, not zero. He leans in close, his breath stinking of vanilla cream and tonsil stones. I recoil and he doesn't like that. His hand shoots out and grabs the front of my coveralls, pulling me even closer than before, the mop and bucket wedged awkwardly between us. Your name is zero, if I say your name is zero. Got it, zero. He makes a point of letting the spit fly from his lips and drops of saliva mixed with bits of dough. He hasn't even bothered to clear from his teeth speckle my scarred face. Damn, you are ugly. No way, a juahwa did that. He shoves me back and my hands slip from the mop's handle as my feet go out from out of me. I land hard on my ass and tears well up in my eyes from the shock to my tailbone. Put the hell zero, you can just act like a lion. He laughs and kicks the mop bucket to the side. So does he water slops up over the side, splashing down onto the old linoleum. Damn it, zero. Look what you made me do. Get your ass off that floor and clean this mess up before someone important slips and hurts themselves. He kicks the bucket again, much harder this time and he completely falls over. Water floods the corridor. And before I know it, Chad or Tony or Trent or whatever his name is is on me, gripping my shoulder so hard that I am forced to scramble up onto my feet for fear of him tearing the skin or ripping a tendon. Clean that shoot up, zero. Now. I could argue. I could shout. I could fight back. But that's not me. I like quiet and games and good books and Japanese sodas I find at the Asian market. I don't like fighting. I don't like conflict. I don't like violence. I'm not a Chad or a Tony or a Trent and I'm not zero. Ricky, I say as I pull away from his grip, that's going to bruise for sure. What did you just say, zero? My name is Ricky. It's not zero. Please don't call me that. And I already told you that you damn name is zero. If I damn well tell you it is. We stand there. Mop water pooling around our boots. His don't any tonsill stone breath filling the space around us. Strong enough to overpower the industrial floral scent of the suds that float along the spreading mess. I shrugged and start to walk off. He grabs me again. Where the hell do you think you're going? I need a fresh dry mop to clean that up. Maybe some towels. Yeah, well, don't just leave your crap here. Take that bucket in mop with you. This isn't your janitor's closet. This is a hallway where people weigh more important than you come and go so they can do actual jobs. He shoves me away and stalks over to the upended bucket, grabbing the folded up wet floor cone, tucked into a slot on the side. Look at me, zero. He says as he unfolds the cone, letting its wires spring into form, and sets it down in the middle of the mess. I'm doing your damn job for you. What's even the point of having you around? I don't answer. I just walk to the bucket in mop, set them right, and wheeled them back the way I came, while Chad or Tony or Trent or whatever sneers at me. Don't take too long, zero. If this mess isn't going up in the next 15 minutes, then the next mess will be my foot up your ass. I don't bother to point out that none of what he said makes any sense. My key fob opens the door at the end of the hallway, and the one at the end of the next hallway, and the next, and the next. It's a quiet night, and I don't see another soul the entire way. The graveyard shift researchers must be in their labs, busy studying the many nocturnal anomalies the sight holds. The bosses aren't in their offices. Directing operations are going over budgets. They're at home asleep in their big houses. The strike teams are out on missions, gathering up more anomalies for the researchers to study, and the sleeping bosses to budget for. A nice quiet night. Until I reach my supply closet, which is barely bigger than a standard closet, I switch out the wet mop for a dry one, and the middle of the floor is a playing card. I bend down and see that it's the jack of hearts. Still bent over. I look behind me, glancing out the supply closet door to see if anyone is watching. But of course, no one is anywhere around. I reach down to pick up the card, but pause just before my fingertips touch it. We've been trained for this. Just last week, we had a refresher course on what to do and what not to do when presented with something out of the ordinary. And a single playing card in the middle of the floor of the supply closet is definitely out of the ordinary, especially since it wasn't there when I left earlier with my full mop bucket. I stand up and think about who I should tell. Is this a security issue? Do I tell a guard? My thoughts go to Chad or Tony or Trent or whatever. Back by the mess I still need to clean up. Telling him or any of the others like him would be useless. I'd only be made fun of or blown off or harassed even more than I already am. I mean, look at it. It's just a playing card. Then it's not just a playing card. It's two playing cards as a new one falls from the ceiling, landing next to the jack of hearts. A, slips out of my mouth, disturbing the silence. With my eyes on the two cards, I back out of the supply room and into the hallway. I glance left. No one. I glance right. No one. I return my attention to the cards, which are no longer two, but now four. The eight of diamonds and three of hearts have joined the others. I slip another. Look left again. Look right again. Then step back into the supply closet. The six of clubs and four of spades float down and land with the rest. My attention is now turned to the ceiling. And I spot their entryway. There's an HVAC vent right in the center of the ceiling. And as I stare at it, two, three, eight, a dozen cards come flying out like they have been ejected from an auto dealer on the Fritz. I saw that happen once in a Radikasino and Reno that was looking to replace human dealers with cheap machines. There was a power surge, and the cards were suddenly flying everywhere. But I highly doubt there's an auto dealer machine up in the HVAC shafts. So, waiting until the newcomers have settled next to their friends, I grab my step stool and screwdriver and climb up to the vent. A couple of twists, and I have the vent loose, setting it and the screws on top of the nearest shelf. I pull a small flashlight out of the chest pocket of my coveralls and stick my head up into the shaft. I barely manage to wedge my arm up past my neck so I can shine the flashlight into the darkness. Oh dear! I shout in quickly with draw. I stumble off the step stool and back out into the hallway as fast as I can without falling on my ass. Card after card after card cascades out of the open shaft. They circle and swirl about. I almost expect some of them to sprout wings and fly right out of the supply closet door. They continue to swirl for several minutes. I keep expecting someone to come running for someone to notice. But no one shows. It's only me. Then, the cards freeze mid swirl. I try to count them, and by the time I hit 40, they unfreeze and drop to the floor. But not into a pile or a mess. They land in two piles, then riffle themselves into a single stack. From what I can see, there's a full deck of cards sitting in the middle of my supply closet. Want to see a magic trick? A voice asks, echoing out of the vent in the ceiling. You're gonna love it, just think of card. The voice says, hesitating and for good reason. I stay up against the wall. Come on! It doesn't love magic tricks! The voice asks, I would be lying if I said I didn't. Magic tricks are just puzzles, and puzzles are games. And I love games, so… But I'd be crazy to respond to the voice. This isn't a maximum security site. But we do have some very weird and potentially dangerous anomalies housed here. Not that the deck of cards looks dangerous. Or that the voice sounds ominous or anything. Egonus sounds well, normal, and a performer sort of way. Hello? I call. Who's there? Well, I'm so glad you asked. I'm the great mobo jumbo! The cards leap into the air and fan out like a giant poker hand. Then they come back together and the deck drops to the ground once more. Each card perfectly in line with the other, as if the deck had just been made at the card factory. Or wherever they make playing cards. Have you heard of me? The voice asks, uh, I'm afraid I haven't. Oh well, that's alright. We don't have to believe in me for the magic to work. I just have to believe in you! The cards split and riffle back together. They even bend the opposite way in what I think is called a bridge. Yes, bridge. Is that the trick? I ask. Because it's a good trick. No, no, that's just a little flourish. A bit of slight hand. I look around again. Um, I don't see any hands. The voice chuckles and the cards shake as if they are laughing too. Then they still. No, the trick is for you to pick a card, any card, and I will read your mind so I can tell you exactly which cards you pick. Okay, well, that sounds fun. I've seen hustlers doing that on sidewalks in the city, but they usually have hats out for tips. I don't see a hat. I don't have one, and I don't need one. I just enjoy every magic is my payment. Big and people happy is my reward. I'd love to share a little joy and happiness with you, Ricky. I gasp, then clamp my hands over my mouth. How do you know my name? I see you around. People aren't very nice to you, are they? I shake my head. Then realize he can't see me. No, no, they aren't. So if everyone in this place, I think you deserve a little extra joy and happiness the most. What do you say, Ricky? Play along with me, please? I don't know. You have anything better to do? I'm supposed to go clean up a massive arena B sector. The mess, that troll, Trent made. What? You saw that? In a way, yes. These ducks go all over the complex. I see a lot more than folks think. They laugh. Then sighs. That Trent isn't very nice. I think you can wait a few more minutes, don't you? Again, I look left, I look right, and see no one coming from either end of the hallway. Then I nod and step forward. OK, I'll pick a card. Wonderful. The voice exclaims, prepared to be dazzled by the great mum of Jumbo. The deck of cards lifts into the air and shuffles itself, cuts itself, spreads wide, then comes back together for another shuffle and cut. Finally, it spreads again and stays that way. Think of a card, any card. Tendatively, I reach out. My fingers inch toward the cards. It's OK, they don't bite. The voice says. I didn't think that they did, but now I'm sort of worried. Don't be. This is all about fun, Ricky. I take a deep breath, then snatch a card from the spread. Excellent. He calls. The spread returns to a tight deck. Now, look at the card. Be sure to memorize it. I do as asked. Seven of clubs. OK, got it. Wonderful. The deck spreads again. Now, place the card back in the deck. Anywhere you want. I, uh, OK. I start to place it in the middle, but I bet that's what he wants me to do. So I am for the left side of the spread, but maybe he's expecting that too. It's not that hard, Ricky. Just putting back in the deck. Really, any spot will do. You're overthinking it. All right. I stick the seven of clubs and what looks like the exact center. Great. The cards whip about and start swirling around the supply closet again. But before I can even cry out, they come back together and hover there as a solid deck right before my eyes. One card starts to slide out of the deck. It pops up and faces me. Is this your card? It's the Ace of Diamonds. No. Well done. The cards swirl and shuffle and come back together. A new card slides out and pops up facing me. How about this card? Six of Diamonds. No. I shake my head. Are you sure you know how to do this? Pretty sure. I hear a snap like fingers. Oh, silly me. I know what I did with it. The cards fan and spread, fan and spread, then fall to the floor in a nice, neat pile. Chef that front pocket in your cover, Ross, will you? The voice asks. My cover, Ross? Your cover, Ross. I check the pocket. There's a card in there. Pulling it out, my eyes go wide. It's the Seven of Clubs. I showed. How'd you do that? A magician that reveals his secret, Ricky. I'm right, of course. Care to see another trick. Yeah. Sure, that'd be cool. Okay. Just pick up the deck for me. The whole deck? Yep. You have to put your card back anyway, right? Well, yeah. Who great? I bend over and pick the deck up, sliding my card into the middle. Then I blink a few times. Everything is getting very dark. As I walk away from Ricky's supply closet, the cards tucked safely in his front cover all spocket. I hear a voice calling from the vent, and it's not Ricky's. Ricky is tucked away in this brain, all safe and sound. While I set out to entertain the world. Hey, what the hell? Where the hell am I? Hello? Why am I here to settle? Why am I looking in an AC vent? Hello? Anyone there? I'll miss that body. Larry was a good guy, and in great shape, really fit. Great fingers for card tricks. But now I have some new fingers. Ricky's fingers. I don't bother with the mop and bucket, but I do head to B sector. When I opened the last door, I see that asshole Trent standing there. He was never very nice to Ricky. Pretty sure he's not so nice to anyone. There you fucking R zero. The Trugler Dite says, where the hell have you been? My name's not zero. I say, and he looks at me funny. Oh, that's so. You'd prefer I call you Ricky, right? How about Ricky's Sikki or Ricky Dicky? No, I'd rather you call me the great mumbo jumbo. I say as I pull the cards from the front pocket of Ricky's coveralls. Care to see a magic trick? SCP-6757 is the collective designation for a hive mind organism, inhabiting 52 unique playing cards. Each component of SCP-6757 exhibits the same anomalous property, complete erasure of the consciousness of the organism physically possessing it. This override is temporary, however, and organisms affected by SCP-6757 will return to baseline behavior once the object is no longer in their possession. SCP-6757 will use its host, designated SCP-6757-1 as a vector to execute its goals, which primarily consists of performing various sleight of hand tricks. The anomaly imbues its host with class 2 reality bending capabilities, however, it has only demonstrated a desire to utilize these abilities to aid in its performances.