He had done it! Somehow, his crazy old friend in the black coat had 
done it! Santa was safe and it would be a merry Christmas after all. 
Andrews was about to race upstairs and wake everybody up when 
he noticed something else - a certain aroma wafting in from the next 
room. He turned the corner into the kitchen and there, sitting on the 
warmer on the stovetop, was a great big pot bubbling with cream, 
and potatoes, and clams, and just the right hint of bacon, and a little 
splash of sherry. A note on the side read "To the Andrews family - 
from Santa Clef". Four brand new porcelain bowls and shining silver 
spoons sat on the counter next to the stove, waiting to be used. 
Cautiously, Andrews dipped a spoon into the pot and took a taste. 


"Hmm," he said to himself. "The white pepper really does make a 
difference." 


How Not To Misappropriate Foundation Resources 


Dr. Ames sat down across from the two Agents dressed in casual 
clothes. She let the file in her hands slap down on the table, clicking 
the reading light on. A cursory flip through the pages for effect, and 
she looked up. "Okay. Sam, Jim. You guys are both senior agents. 
What the hell happened?" 


Sam Denton and Jim McDowell glanced at each other. Sam 
shrugged sheepishly, "Look, we didn't do it on purpose. There was 
an official distress call. This is how it went down..." 


T-Minus Eight Minutes from the incident in question 


Director Desai furiously typed in access codes to his smartphone. 
Every press of his thumb got faster and more frantic as the 
creatures outside the door pounded on it. “Come on, come on, send 
send send...” 


A hot sweat popped out on his forehead, mashing the send button 
over and over. A full D-25-E would get him out of here. He didn't 
know what else to do, and now he'd gotten cornered in here of all 
places. 


"By all that is good and holy SEND!" He yelled at the screen, the tiny 
spinning circle turning into a checkmark. 


A tone emitted from the phone’s speakers. On the screen flashed 
the words “Agents Scrambled. Remain in your location.” Director 
Desai looked at the flimsy door. The door shook furiously on its 
hinges. The little monsters outside were going to break through 
eventually. “Come out, we want to plaaaay.” 


Across town, the little electronic relay bounced around a Foundation 
black circle a few times, before happily bouncing out to the phones 
of the two closest agents. 


Agents Denton and McDowell sat around a card table, taking turns 
idly flicking playing cards into a bucket. Sam looked up at the ceiling, 
and let out a sigh, “Are you fucking kidding me. First the bus, then 
Las Chupacabras, and now nothing? I’m so boooooored.” 


Jim shrugged. "Look, we were due for some downtime. You decided 
we didn't need it, asshat. And so now we're here babysitting a 
couple of brass during the summit." Jim flicked the Ace of Spades 
into the bucket, smirking. “Ace in the hole!” He grinned, and turned 
to Denton. “Beat that, Sam.” 


Sam let out an agonized groan. "Fuck. What's this summit about 
anyway?" He bent the two of clubs between his fingers a bit, and 
flicked it outwards. It skittered across the floor and came to rest 
among a pile of similar cards. 


Jim lifted his left hand to his temple, "Use your brain, Sam. After the 
fiasco down in Oaxaca, Las Chupacabras and Kalikos requested a 
formal meeting. What else could it have been?" 


Sam shook his head, and gestured at Jim. "Your shot, buddy. | 
dunno, | had hoped it would just blow over." 


Jim looked over at Sam with an eyebrow raised, "Blow over? Sam, 
they stole her pinata. That's like...a lot bigger deal than | made clear 
apparently." He bent the King of Diamonds, and flicked it at the 
bucket. It landed flat on the edge of the bucket, without tipping in. 
"Well. Fuck. First time in four packs that's happened.” 


Sam looked up at the ceiling and groaned, “Come on, something 
good show up!” As if on cue, his phone buzzed. He picked it up 
more surprised than concerned and glanced at the screen. His eyes 
flicked over the words, an address and a status code. It was on the 
official channel, but not related to their current assignment. He didn't 
even recognize the code. 


“Hey, Jim, what’s a D-25-E?” Sam said, flicking over to one of the 
Foundation internal social media applications. DuMourne's feed 
scrolled across his phone, a picture of him and Director Diaghilev 
standing next to someone in robes, shaking hands. "Fucking show 


off..." 


“Site Director in distress, immediate expedited dispatch. Why?” Jim 
said, flicking the Queen of Diamonds to try and knock her husband 
into the bucket. 


Sam scrambled to his feet, gathering up his belt, “Shit, fuck, Jim, 
D-25-E, closeby! It's on us!” He reached over, and pressed the lock- 
down switches on the equipment around them, hard-point shielding 
sliding over the various terminals and servers. The tiny room they'd 
been stationed in rapidly transformed back into a janitorial closet. 


The air conditioning clicked off, and the room went silent for a half- 
second. 


Agent Denton blinked for a moment, then scrambled to his feet, 
grabbing his weapon belt. "God dammit, let's fucking go." 


The two agents burst out of the tiny room, and skittered across the 
lobby of the Soap from Corpses Products satellite office they'd taken 
been using as a safehouse. Sam kicked the door bar open and kept 
running out the side door of the building, Jim a half-step behind him. 
The parking lot was completely empty, all of the brass took the 
heavily armored and armed vehicles to the summit. 


Jim slapped his palm against his face. "God fucking dammit, what 
are we gonna do now?" In the distance, a melody started to play 
from across the crowded block. 


Sam looked around, clicking the weapon belt around his waist. His 
options were pretty limited. There were a couple of bikes chained up 
in the bike rack, and a SegWay chained to the lobby desk. "Bike, or 
SegWay, Jim?" 


Jim stopped for a moment flabbergasted. "Sam, are you actually 
suffering from radiation poisoning or something? It's half a mile 
away!" The melody grew closer, as the two agents argued. 


Sam held up his hands, turning to Jim, "Well, what the hell are we 
gonna do, it's all we've got man. It's that, or sprint full out across city 
ground!" 


The melody finally came into clear auditory range. The jolly rendition 
of The Entertainer might as well have been a godsend, as a Mr. 
Softee truck rounded the corner, and came to a stop right in front of 
the parking lot. A fresh faced young man leaned out, and smiled at 
the two agents. "Hey guys, want some ice cream?" 


Agent McDowell’s face dropped into an easy smile, “You thinking 
what I’m thinking, Sam?” 


The ice cream truck screamed down the highway at its top speed, 
McDowell dictating directions to Denton. “Fucking left, not right! Go 
around!” Denton dodged around a parked car, and nearly slammed 
into a truck as he swerved to get around traffic. 


“| swear to fuck, Sam, there are like five hundred kids on every 
block, JONESING HARD FOR SOME MR SOFTEE. Would you just 
prep the fucking guns!” Denton's voice was hard-edged, and tense. 
The call had put them both on edge. Whatever was trapping the 
director had to have been bad to send out an expedited request. 


“I’m just fucking saying man,” McDowell said, slamming a magazine 
of experimental explosive rounds into the two service pistols in front 
of him on the cooler, “He could be getting tortured, why else would 
he send out such an obvious distress signal?” He slipped a small 
blue cartridge into the slot just above the heel of his right combat 
boot. A quick tap of the buttons on his wristwatch confirmed the 
status of the various bits of gear around his body. "Okay, the map is 
saying it's like...a block and a half ahead, so if we— GODDAMMIT 
SAM, RED FUCKING LIGHT!" 


A semi-truck screamed through the intersection, straight towards the 
ice cream truck. Denton cranked the wheel to the left, the ice-cream 
truck let out a tortured groan as the music cheerfully continued out 
of the loud speaker, distorted by doppler effect. "OH FUCKING 
HELL, BY ALL THAT IS HOLY HOLD ON TO SOMETHING!" Sam 
screamed, as they clipped the back edge of the trailer, knocking the 
ice cream truck into the oncoming lane. 


McDowell braced against the cooler in the back of the truck. The 
doors flew open, and ice cream bars and candy flew out the back of 


the truck. "Ahhhhh!" he added, helpfully, as he slapped his right 
hand down on the metal surface of the cooler, a flick of his wrist 
extending the magnetic anchor concealed under his right sleeve. It 
hummed to life and kept the agent from becoming roadkill. The truck 
righted itself, several cars honking and swerving around them. 


Denton slammed on the brakes, as they approached the address, 
coming from 80 to 20 as fast as the tortured little truck would let 
them. "Bail, Jim! Let's go!" He jumped out the driver's side door, and 
hit the ground at a run. 


In the back of the truck, McDowell disengaged the magnetic anchor, 
and said a tiny prayer to whatever god was listening. He held his 
feet up and jumped up as best he could with just his back muscles 
as he slid out the back of the truck. He landed lightly on his feet, and 
continued into a jog, "Holy shit | didn't think that would work!" 


The ice cream truck slammed into a passenger van, as the two 
agents sprinted to the front door. Jim held up a fist, then took a step 
back, slamming his heel into the ground. He held out the other 
weapon to Sam, without looking back. Sam took the pistol, and 
turned to cover their backs. 


The heel of Jim's boot glowed with trace circuitry as a quiet thunk 
emanated from it. He kicked at the front door with a stomp, the 
bootheel releasing a shockwave that threw the door into the small 
home. 


Jim immediately rolled backwards to clear Sam's line of sight, who 
ducked in through the door. 

Sam leveled his weapon towards the glowing indicator on the small 
wrist-mounted GPS he wore. He kept the small device visible in his 
sight picture, as he scanned the room. 


“FREEZE, OR I'LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HE—’” Sam bellowed. 


Across the room three small girls screamed, and ran out of the 
house, with varying cries of ‘Mommy!’ The dust of the nearly- 
vaporized door settled leaving Sam blinking in confusion. "I'm gonna 
go ahead and guess it's clear." 


McDowell entered, blinked in surprise and lowered his weapon. He 
walked over to the door the little girls had been pounding on, and 
knocked quietly. “Uhh...Director Desai?” 


From the other side of the door, a quiet voice squeaked out, “Erm... 
yes?” 


"This is Agent Jim McDowell, Level 3. You uhh...you okay? I'm 
coming in." 


"No don't come in, I'll be right ou—" Denton turned the knob, and 
opened the door, revealing the double-PhD holding Site Director 
with his pants around his ankles, on the toilet. He pulled his shirt 
down to cover himself, and turned beet red. "Erm. Hello, Agent." 


Denton's eyebrows went up in a mix of shock and amusement. He 
quietly closed the door, and turned to face Jim, barely holding in 
laughter. "Another critical Foundation mission complete, Jim." 


Dr. Ames looked up at Denton and McDowell, shaking her head. 
“You’re fucking serious?” 


Jim smiled, laughing quietly, “Apparently, the director panicked.” 


Sam shrugged, his fingertips resting on the table between them, 
"He's been staying with family for days, and apparently those little 
girls had him on the verge of a mental breakdown. We uhh... 
replaced the door for them, if that's anything.” 


Dr. Ames pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing heavily, “First, he 
has to give a seminar on bottle dicks, and now ‘how not to 
misappropriate Foundation resources when scared dropping a 
deuce.’ Poor Gears. Thank you agents.” 


Denton and McDowell rose. Sam nodded, and grinned sheepishly. 
“No problem Doc. Don’t go too hard on him. Those girls really were 
little terrors." 


How Site-19 Blew Up 


Safety Supervisor Thompson just finished explaining Site-19's safety 
and security protocols to the new recruits. It was the 47th such 
lecture he had given so he was used to the depressing indifference 
of the audience. At least he had a fun movie he was saving for the 
end of his speech. He turned on the TV and lay back in his chair. 


20 km south of Site-19 — 17:45 


Most Foundation personnel believe that Site-19 has no on-site 
nuclear warheads. They would argue that planting nukes under a 
facility housing not only hundreds of partially understood anomalies 
but nearly a thousand of the world’s brightest scientific minds would 
cross the not-so-thin line between overly cautious and criminally 
insane. 


Then again, the colossal mushroom cloud dominating the scenery 
flips off their reasoning like a massive middle finger made of 
radioactive dust. Site-19’s astonishing history was ultimately ended 
by its own self-destruct system. But what led to its demise? 


Director Bright’s office, Site-19 - 11:55 


“| finished the preliminary document for the skip that was delivered 
this morning.” said Dr. Bright, and handed over a few pages to his 
secretary. “Could you please make the redactions for the Level 2 
version for me? Just go over it and black out everything that looks 
like something you shouldn't be allowed to know. Then take one of 
the usual pills.” 


“| will finish it right away, don’t worry about that. Are you going to the 
cafeteria?” 


“Yes, today they are serving banana muffins. Better grab a few while 


SCP-872: The Tattered Farmer 


Item #: SCP-872 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: When not under controlled 
observation, SCP-872 is to be kept in cold storage at Sector- . 
SCP-872 is to be kept two (2) kilometers from any concentrated 
group of animals considered livestock at all times. 


When under controlled observation, a perimeter is to be established 
outside the observation area and research is to cease immediately 
in the event of an attempted containment breach. Ten (10) members 
of security are to be present during controlled observation to enforce 
this. Controlled observation must be approved by one (1) member of 
Level 4 personnel. 


Description: SCP-872 is an aged scarecrow outfitted with a tattered 
coat and hat, measuring three (3) meters tall and ten (10) 
centimeters wide. SCP-872 is composed of pine wood, splinters of 
which have not displayed its anomalous properties. 


When animals considered livestock (sheep, cows, chickens, etc.) 
enter the area within 1.5 km of SCP-872, they are immediately 
affected by its anomalous properties. SCP-872 affected animals are 
extremely hostile to humans and will viciously assault any who 
approach them. Affected animals have been observed to utilize 
advanced maneuvers such as flanking and ambushing. 


Affected animals have also been observed to behave as if in an 
automated farm environment. Chickens will lay their eggs in easy-to- 
access areas. Sheep will attempt to remove wool from each other 
using their teeth. Cows have been observed to kill one (1) cow each 
week, and roughly separate its carcass into strips of meat. 


Each month, the animals will transport anything produced to the 


they’re fresh.” 


Rec. Center, Site-19 — 12:20 
“Hey, what are you doing there?” 
“Filling up the pool. Today’s the Pool Opening Day.” 


“| couldn’t help but notice the sign above the tap you connected the 
hose to.” 


Separate tank used by the 
Automatic Fire Sprinkler System 
Do not open 


“Oops, | seriously didn’t see that. But it’s almost ready so I’m 
finishing it like that.” 


“Whatever, man.” 


Containment Sector-32, Site-19 - 14:15 
"Hey, Tim. What's going on today?" 


"We're collecting a sample from this bad boy. Here's the new doc we 
got from the Director." 


"What's a suit?"