Seven Days With Mr. Fish
rating: +138+x


A knock on the containment chamber door alerted Mr. Fish that his quarters were next to be cleaned. He sat up on his bed and set down his newspaper, ready to move out of the way should he need to. Though he appreciated the fact that the Foundation were very proactive about keeping everything clean, they seemed to go through D-Class too fast for his taste. Having a new person come into his cell every few weeks was a bit obnoxious, as the guests were, more often than not, rubes.

The chamber door slowly opened to reveal a new D-Class. It seemed D-1396 had put in their two weeks. Shame; she wasn't as bad as the others. Mr. Fish sighed and folded his arms as the new individual entered his chamber pushing a janitorial cart in. He narrowed his eyes to read his designation; D-1221. Despite his disinterest in the new individual, Mr. Fish would not allow rumors to spread about him being a rude host.

"Hello." He greeted the man in the jumpsuit.

"Oh shit, you can talk." D-1221 turned to face the resident of the chamber, broom in hand.

"Why wouldn't I be able to?" Mr. Fish would have cocked an eyebrow at him if he had one.

"Well… You know, you've got a fish head."

"How astute." He sighed, reaching for his newspaper.

The two were silent for some time as D-1221 began sweeping around the room. There was little filth, as Mr. Fish always took care to leave as small a mess as possible. Even though many would take the guaranteed weekly full cleanings as an excuse to be slobs, the piscine headed fellow would not tolerate others speaking ill of him. With all the dust collected, the custodian readied his mop before speaking once more.

"So, uh… What happened to you? Did you eat too much sushi or fish head curry? Maybe fish and chips?" D-1221 questioned, trying to playfully jab at the humanoid. Mr. Fish did not seem enthused, but it was hard to tell given his lack of facial range.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" He questioned, his emotionless eyes glaring with what was an attempted furious vigor.

"What? I'm only making a joke, geez."

"I am not sushi, I am not fish head curry, and I am most certainly not fish and chips. I don't even eat fish. That's disgusting. Fuck you, buddy." Mr. Fish returned to his newspaper with a huff, pretending as if the D-Class were no longer in the room. The two men remained in silence for the next half hour as D-1221 wrapped up cleaning the containment chamber and left. With the door shut behind him, Mr. Fish clicked his tongue.

"The nerve of some people." He scoffed.


Mr. Fish shivered in the cold air, wearing only swimming trunks and signature dapper hat. He stared down at the shimmering water, seeing his own reflection before turning back to face the group of researchers before him. He envied them; all wearing clothes and not feeling self-conscious.

"So, why do you want me to jump in the deep end?" He asked, covering up his chest and continuing to shiver.

"We're interested in the possibility of you possessing anomalous swimming capabilities." Dr. Everwood reminded him. "We know you can't breathe underwater or talk to fish, but there's got to be something else you can do." The doctor looked down at her clipboard before motioning for Mr. Fish to follow. The two set forward accompanied by the handful of other researchers.

"But I've already told you, people, I don't do anything. If you want someone who does everything go talk to Money. All I've got going on is this fuckin' fish head." He begrudgingly followed until they stopped at the edge of the deep end of the pool. Mr. Fish looked down, swallowing nervously.

"Well, 527, I'd be inclined to believe you, but one never knows what they're truly dealing with when Wondertainment is involved." Dr. Everwood replied, reaching into her pocket for a pen to begin writing once the experiment began. "Very well, now that we've got you ready to go, go ahead and jump in, 527."

Mr. Fish stared at his reflection again, feeling anxious. He turned around to face the group once more.

"I uh, you know breakfast was about forty-five minutes ago and I hate to admit I feasted on those biscuits and gravy so I'm feeling pretty bloated. Is there any way we could postpone this?"

Dr. Everwood glanced at her watch then back at the entity. "I'm afraid not. Please go ahead and enter the water, then swim to the other side as quickly as possible."

"Uh… Doc, this is going to sound really embarrassing but I don't know how to swim." Mr. Fish nervously admitted, trying his best to look at the ground. Of course, due to the nature of his head, he just kind of looked as if he were trying to bow.

"What?" She answered, incredulous. "Look, just jump in and swim over. If you have any difficulties a lifeguard will pull you out."

"… Doc, I really don't want to do this."

With a sigh, Everwood rolled her eyes and then looked at Mr. Fish. "Listen, you're probably the easiest guy I'll get to work with all day and I don't want to have to punish you for not cooperating. I know you like Saturday game nights, so don't make me have to ban you from this week's session."

Mr. Fish nodded, or at least tried to. Not wanting to miss out on one of his few chances to interact with his friends, he leaped into the pool and began desperately trying to keep afloat. His arms flailed, and his legs kicked, but he soon found himself sinking. Just as a lifeguard dove in after him, his dapper hat floated to surface accompanied by bubbles, no doubt the product of panicked cries for help.

Dr. Everwood turned to the research team, shrugged, and jotted down a request to provide SCP-527 with swimming lessons.


A gentle and generous pour of water landed on the soil of Mr. Fish's favorite potted plant; a moon cactus he had affectionately named 'DJ.' He hummed along to the song playing on the Foundation radio while waiting for the soil to be moisturized and the water to drain to the dish below the pot. The darkened water seemed to finally stop pouring out just as the song ended and a new one began. The tune of a familiar kalimba beat brought what could be interpreted as a smile to Mr. Fish's face, and he subconsciously began to move his body along to the song as he carried the dirty water to his sink.

"I hear the drums echoing tonight, but she hears only whispers of some quiet conversaaaaaation…" He started softly while rinsing out the dish, but his fervor and passion only grew as the song went on. The dish was neatly stowed under DJ the cactus' pot as Mr. Fish grew more and more animated. By the time the chorus arrived, he was crying out in a slightly out of pitch but clearly joyous syncopation.

"IT'S GONNA TAKE A LOT TO TAKE ME AWAAAAAY FROM YOOOOOOU!" He pointed at DJ, singing into an imaginary microphone. Mr. Fish spun 180 degrees before continuing; "THERE'S NOTHING THAT A HUNDRED MEN OR MORE COULD EVER DOOOOOOOOOOO!" With every word he belted he took a step forward before turning around to deliver the climax of the chorus.

"I BLESS THE RAINS DOWN IN AAAAAAAFRICA!" He shouted, still singing into his imaginary microphone."I BLESS THE RAINS DOWN IN AAAAAAAAAAA-" A loud banging sound interrupted him and his song, but the radio played along without him. A voice from the other side of the wall thundered with a demand.



"What do you mean you only have fish soup?!" Mr. Fish gawked at the woman behind the counter. As a devoted soup drinker and rebuker of pescetarianism, the piscine-headed fellow was quite heated. He let go of his dinner tray and glanced back at the blackboard sign by the start of the line and then back to the attendee. "Your sign says you have tomato bisque too! Why can't I get any of that?"

The female rolled her eyes and removed the lid from both soup containers on her station. One was empty and stained with red all around while the other was still generously full with an orange-yellow liquid and chunks of meat floating about. She looked down, then up to Mr. Fish then cocked an eyebrow and frowned. "We're out."

"Don't you have any more in the kitchen?" He pressed, much to the displeasure of the increasingly impatient line behind him. Iris' shoulders dropped and she began to tap her foot impatiently while Cain frowned and exhaled deeply.

"I'm telling you, mister, we're out. You still have a choice, you can have fish soup or you can have no soup."

Mr. Fish opened his mouth to start to complain, but a perfectly timed clearing of the throat from Cain made him have second thoughts. "Fine." He grumbled, moving along to grab his main course. Two fried chicken thighs, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and a small glass of chocolate milk later, Mr. Fish found his way to his usual seating arrangements. He was greeted by his friends Napoleon, Skip, and oh- nope. Grabnok the Destroyer vanished into another dimension just as he was greeting Mr. Fish.

"I am SCP-3908… damn it." Skip grumbled, tensing up and gritting his teeth. "Hoping he gets back for Saturday's session. It's hard to play Dungeons and Dragons without a dungeon master. Apologies. Getting used to new speech therapy." He corrected himself, trying to settle down. Napoleon nodded in response, detaching his arm from its socket and reaching across the table to pat Skip on the shoulder.

"There there, pal! I just hope he doesn't make us fight my fellow dapper boney boys again! That was sacrilege! A sin! I had no quarrel with those scholarly gentleskulls!" The skeleton tried comforting his chum, popping his extremity back into its spot as he finished. Mr. Fish set down his spoon on the half-eaten mashed potatoes and glanced at Napoleon.

"We were fighting liches, Napoleon. They're kind of evil." He remarked, wondering why a non-living entity was even in the cafeteria in the first place.

"Nyeh, nonsense! They were learned men and women of the dark disciplines of death, just like Tony! Kinda reminds me of home. I wish I weren't thinking of home, that place was awful! My jolly tone truly betrays my ill sentiments towards that accursed place, I assure you!" Napoleon replied, grabbing at Mr. Fish's discarded chicken thigh bone and comparing it to his own. "I wish I could speak as passionately as you do about soup, Mr. Fish!" He remarked.

Embarrassed that his friends heard his outburst, Mr. Fish kept quiet for the rest of dinner and ate his meal in shame.


The door to Mr. Fish's containment chamber hissed open, allowing Dr. Everwood in. She didn't carry a notepad today, but did seem to be in a hurry. Mr. Fish sat up in his bed, fixing his hat upon his head before raising a hand in salutation.

"Good afternoon, 527. How are you doing today?" Dr. Everwood questioned, staying by the door.

"Good, thank you. So uh, I don't remember there being any scheduled tests today. Is something up? Another interview maybe?" Mr. Fish questioned, mentally preparing himself for whatever task would come. As far as he had been informed, he had nothing to do with the Foundation staff until Monday, where they'd be trying to get him to interact with some fish again.

The doctor motioned for Mr. Fish to follow him, a notion which he begrudgingly obeyed. He got off the bed and slipped on his shoes, then followed after her in the twisting and winding hallways of Site-19.

"We have decided it may be beneficial for both your health and our studies of your anomalous properties to provide you with swimming lessons." Dr. Everwood began explaining, starting towards the gymnasium. Mr. Fish groaned audibly, folding his arms in a would-be pout. The doctor didn't turn around, continuing to walk despite the protest. "Come on now. Let's not be late. You still have to change." He urged.

"With all due respect Doc, I've told you guys like a million times… All I've got going on for me is my head. That's literally it. What you see is what you get." Mr. Fish rambled, trying to keep pace. "If you want to see weird stuff, why don't you go ask Mr. Lost or Mr. Brass? I'm sure they're more worth your time than some dude with a fish head." He pleaded, hoping to get out of the forced swimming lessons.

Dr. Everwood shook her head. "Sorry, 527. Your last weigh-in showed you put on a few kilograms since you first joined. Even if this doesn't help us in learning about any potential anomalous properties, it will help your health. After all, an active person is a happy one, right?"

Mr. Fish would have frowned if his facial features allowed, but instead settled for following behind him. He would find himself wearing only swimming trunks and his dapper hat once again, shivering in the cold air of the indoor pool area while waiting for his swimming coach.

He hated this. At least he'd have board game night to look forward to tomorrow.


Board game night was proving to be a disaster already.

Skip had apparently gotten himself into trouble over his anger tantrums and an interview with Napoleon was running into overtime. It wasn't like it mattered anyway, as Grabnok hadn't returned from his latest dimensional shifting adventure. Mr. Fish glanced around the room, analyzing what group to infiltrate so he may at least be able to get his mind off the humiliating week he had just had.

Mr. Moon was sleeping in an armchair in the corner of the room, with that weird insufferable musician guy dozing off beside him. Though Mr. Moon was cool, he didn't like disturbing the old man and the musician was just a dreadful conversation partner. He'd have to look elsewhere.

John sat at a table with a few D-Class personnel playing blackjack. Mattie sat under his chair, her tail eagerly wagging as Mr. Fish approached.

"Hello, pretty girl." He leaned down, fussing her fur. The dog panted happily, licking at Mr. Fish's hand. "Hey, John. Do you have room at the table?" He looked up to the canine's owner, who nodded in approval. Mr. Fish got up, getting ready to take a seat when he noticed who he'd be playing alongside. The same D-Class which had come to clean his abode. "Actually, you know what John, I think I'm gonna go, uh, read or something."

Excusing himself from the table, Mr. Fish hurried away towards the other end of the room. There, he spotted a few more D-Class playing Monopoly with Mr. Money. There was no way in hell he'd be playing with him, not with a name like that. This left him with very few options. Sighing, Mr. Fish approached the shelf containing that weird book that gave him awesome dreams. If he wouldn't be able to play Dungeons and Dragons, he'd at least dream about it.

Much to his horror, the spot in which the book was usually found was replaced with a note reading 'To all Rec Room users, it is our belief that containment procedures regarding SCP-1230 have been too loose in the past. Effective immediately, we will be moving SCP-1230 to the personal collection of Dr. Jade. Thank you for understanding.' Mr. Fish nearly screamed in disappointment, but turned around and approached the sleeping German composer once again. He plopped himself down at his side, startling the sleeping fop. The two exchanged glances before Mendelssohn resumed snoozing and Mr. Fish grumbling.


Mr. Fish shifted in his sleep, his fish head comfortably nestled between his pillow and arm and his hat neatly resting on the nightstand. At least nothing bad could happen to him as he slept.

A heavy thud and the ground shaking caused him to wake slightly. Still half-asleep, he blinked a few times and looked over at the digital clock which lay beside DJ. "What…" He narrowed his eyes. It was so early… What was going on?

Before he could process what was going on, the Site-19 containment breach alarm blared to life, its siren jolting him awake. Mr. Fish fell off his bed in a panic, looking around his chamber for any signs of danger. The ceiling shook again; something was loose in the upper floors. Again. For an organization dedicated to containment, they seemed quite shit at it.

Mr. Fish grabbed his pillow and buried his face in it, muffling a wail of anguish, desperation, and exhaustion.

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