OBSERVATION: Limited results available from 
personnel involved in Project-A-099 show a decrease in 
length and severity of trauma and anxiety related attacks 
experienced by personnel involved in the program. 


PROPOSAL: Allow SCP- __ limited therapy involving 
Foundation animal assets involved in Project-A-099. 


Proposal approved 05/03/1947 by Site Director Earl 
Runner. 


It's not as obvious here, which fucks with Harrison. The thing's 
perfectly passable, for what it's imitating. The bridge of its nose falls 


in a little far, perhaps, for a child its age. Its lips are a mess, dry and 
cracking, spiderwebs spreading out of them and onto its chin, the 
corners of its mouth, but it's not worse than anything Harrison has 
seen on real people and real faces. 


Its movements are jerky, twitchy. It's gonna hurt the dog. Harrison 
doesn't have his gun. The whole place is losing it. Green Geneva his 
ass. He's worked for the Foundation for most of his life, now, and he 
thinks he's going to outlive it. 


Back in the day, they knew messing with this kind of shit could cost 
them good men. They knew better than this. Harrison has seen it — 
someone softens up, a little, looks at one of them like they're human 
or deserving to be thought of as such, and the poor bastard's head 
is off in ten seconds flat. 


The Foundation isn't a medical facility or a research center first. Not 
in Harrison's view, at least. There's 'secure’ and 'contain' but it all 
boils down to 'protect.' 


Bastards are trying to protect the skip before their workers. At the 
very least, it's gonna kill the spaniel. 


05/03/1947 

Foundation search-and-rescue unit, headed by Bob and 
Peggy Moore, deployed for the third time, to rescue field 
agents Gonzalez and Belle, trapped in a pocket 
dimension created by SCP- 


Reality, they said, is going to be unstable, but that's not the right 
word. It shifts and it screeches, seemingly only held down by Bob's 
weight. He can only see Percival now, out of everyone he'd entered 
with. Percival's paws twitch, uselessly stuck onto the inside of his 
ears. His tail is wagging, wildly, on his stomach. 


The rest of it is a blur. Bob's lost his glasses, as well, which isn't 
helping. He feels like he's the only solid thing in here. There's small 
bits of something stuck to his sleeve, and it takes him a second to 
realize that it's the air that's wrong, gritty and sandlike, and now it's 
in his lungs and— 


Peggy's screaming. Peggy was supposed to be only enter in the 
beginning, get the dogs on the path, but there's no way out, is there, 
and now he can hear them all — Peggy's screaming and Percival is 
whining and Galahad is giving scent signals, and there's Gawain 
and Kay and— 


Something soft. Something human, or human-adjacent. Distressed, 
muttering. 


It doesn't know what it's doing, does it? It's not doing this to fuck with 
them. It's doing this because it can't make imitate things right. It's 
barely keeping it up, maybe... 


"Gal, boy, why don't you..." Inexplicably, the dog is right under his 
hand, though, here, he can't tell Gal and Kay apart. He hopes he's 
on the right track, and he follows and he reaches for the small red 
thing in the middle of everything. 


05/04/1947 
Project-A-099 involvement with SCP- declared a 
SUCCESS. 


It doesn't kill the spaniel. 


It just sits there, for several minutes, letting the little thing lick the 
scabs on its face. Then it lifts its hands up, jerkily. It pulls on the fur 
a little bit, lets up quickly, and sits back. There's something focused 
about that little face, something almost human. Agent Harrison can't 
quite tell the expression. Must hurt to move its mouth. 


Frost is beaming when they walk back. "See, Albert?" 
"Harrison." He corrects automatically. 

"You're just a worrywart, you. She liked it." 

"It liked it." 

"Oh, don't be that way." 


He keeps talking. Harrison doesn't listen. It'll only make him angry. 
Angrier. He doesn't know, right now, if he was wrong. He can't tell if 


Frost was right — he knows he doesn't like it, either way — and if 
maybe Director Runner isn't losing it after all. 


He could have just relaxed his guard, a little bit, wnen he'd seen that 
bit of human in its face. He must be getting rusty. 


It's after hours by the time they're back in the office, and Harrison 
isn't planning on staying late. He wants to smoke without Frost 
complaining about the smell, and he wants his dinner and he just 
wants out of the building. 


There's someone by the doors of the office when they arrive. It's one 
of the administrative assistants — Robert, was it? Roger? — from 
the main wing. He's got his hands in his pockets, and he blocks their 
way in. 


"Dr. Frost, Agent Harrison, have a minute?" He asks, and doesn't 
wait for an answer before he tells them that Bob Moore is dead and 
that a skip got him. 


05/03/1947 
Robert Moore, the lead of the search-and-rescue FAAD 
team, is declared KIA. 


They're all invited to the funeral. Harrison goes, and he sits next to 
Peggy Moore. Peggy's voice sounds raw. She keeps repeating the 
details. 


Her daughter, Alice, is a lanky girl with a horse-like face. She walks 
with braces. Harrison thinks that they'll probably take her memories 
after this, because Peggy is saying way more than she should. It's 
better to let her have this now, though. 


"Just like that," Peggy says, "Clutching that little red thing to his 
chest. Gal was right there with him — Galahad, he's one of the 
Newfs, you remember? — he was right there with him. | hope he 
makes it. Just tore straight through him, horrible, nasty thing. | think 
he grabbed it on purpose." 


Alice is crying. "He was there with him." She says, "You were there 
with him." 


"Your old man was holding on to his back." Peggy says. "With the 
other hand..." 


Harrison remembers another hand and another dog, and then he 
thinks about what did this. 


The body doesn't look human. Peggy's looking at it like it's Bob. 
Alice has her eyes closed. Harrison isn't as repulsed by it as he 
expected. He can close his eyes and imagine Bob getting up, and 
that scares him, because it makes him feel like he doesn't know 
what's human anymore. 


Robert-or-Roger is waiting for him outside when they leave, and he 
can't say he's surprised. He's ready to tell him everything that Peggy 
was Saying inside, but it's not about that. 


"Remember that test run a few days ago, bringing humaniform 
objects into 099?" Harrison nods, but was-it-Rodrick doesn't need 
acknowledgement, "We'd like you to sign off on that. Just a 
formality, really, but you've been on the division longer than anyone, 
now..." And Frost hasn't worked a year, yet. 


Harrison is silent for longer than feels appropriate. "Leave it on my 
desk." He manages, after a moment. 


05/10/1947 
Project-A-099 is approved for wider involvement with 
SCP objects. 


Harrison retires two weeks after he signs the paperwork. It's time, 
anyways. He doesn't have much to pack, so he sits there and stares 
at the photographs for a couple minutes. He doesn't know what they 
mean anymore — if he looks for too long, he thinks he can see Bill 
moving, thinks he can feel himself catch his smile. He thinks there's 
color in Rose's eyes if he doesn't blink. 


He packs up both of them, and he walks through Frost's office. The 
Foundation, he knows now, is going to outlive him. He doesn't know 
what it will become, if he'd recognize it in twenty years. 


He bends down to pet the dachshund. And, genuinely, he wishes 


Frost luck with that. 


« One Trick Ponies 


Everyone Knows 


David Wilford was a member of a small men’s club in a small town in 
West Virginia. Well, they called it a men’s club. The name was 
rather too dignified for a group of five married men occasionally 
going out to a shed in the middle of the woods to watch the Game, 
drink some beers, and fart loudly without their wives pointedly 
pretending to choke while sitting next to them. 


David has forgotten to reclip the secret compartment in his wallet. 
He doesn’t know it, but through this action he has doomed the 
blissful ignorance of the entirety of the world that is currently 
unaware of the anomalous. Here he goes bending down to grab his 
beer. That is five... four... three... two... 


An ID badge adorned with a certain three-pronged shield-and- 
arrows fell from David’s pocket and landed face-up on the table. 
David stared in shock for a few crucial moments, allowing John, 
Marco, Ricky, and Glen to see the symbol. They all simultaneously 
broke the silence. 


“Dave, you work for...” 


They all paused, then looked at each other in surprise as they 
realized that the others had said the exact same thing. 


Dave joined in the chorus. “You know about the Foundation?” 


There was an encore. “Know? | work for the Foundation. How do 


” 


you... 


There was another silence, which the other four men used to 
produce badges of their own with sheepish looks. 


“Level 3. Anomalous Engineering,” said Marco slowly. 


“Level 2. Research Assistant,” said Glen. 
“External Affairs,” said Ricky. 


“Level 4. Head Researcher, SCP- er... classified,” said David, 
looking a bit embarrassed. 


“MTF Lambda-64,” said John. 


They all looked at each other, and broke out laughing. They spent 
the night swapping unclassified stories, and ended up stumbling 
home a lot later and a lot drunker than normal. David emptied his 
pockets onto the nightstand in the dark, stripped off his clothes, and 
managed to get into bed without waking Sandra. 


David woke up to Sandra shaking him. He groaned, his head 
banging, his mouth dry, and looked up at her. He sobered up almost 
immediately when he saw that she was holding his ID in her hand. 


Wordlessly, she held up her other hand. There was another badge 
with her picture on it. 


He took his back, stared at his wife in silence, then spoke: 

“How many people does the Foundation actually employ?” 

“I’m sorry, but it’s classified. Even | don’t know,” Site Director Juarez 
said to the ten people standing in front of her desk. At David's 
insistence, the men had all gone to their wives, ID in one hand, 
amnestics in the other, and, sure enough, not a single pill was 


swallowed that night. 


“Okay,” John’s wife said. “How about the number of people working 
at this Site?” 


“No.” 


“The number of people from our town working here?” David 
suggested. 


“No.” 


“C’mon, Director Juarez. We don’t even need an exact number,” 
Glen wheedled. “No names, no personal information. Just give us a 
rough percentage. | mean, you can always just amnesticize us after. 
Surely you aren’t just a bit curious about the odds of such a huge 
coincidence happening?” 


Director Juarez hesitated a few moments, agonizing over it, then 
finally bent over her computer, opened up the personnel files, 
overrode the multiple firewalls preventing complete access, and 
found the number of site personnel from David’s town. 


She searched the total population. 


She opened her calculator and divided the first number by the 
second, then stared at the results. Eventually, the group sidled 
around her desk and looked at the number she’d come up with. 


74.6943888 
Director Juarez said, “How many people does the Foundation 


employ?” 


“Tell the Director that that information is classified, as she well 
knows,” 05-8 spoke into her phone. She put it down and turned to 
the other Council members. “What do you mean we don’t know?” 


“Well, you know the way we work, Eight,” said O5-4. “Too much 
knowledge is dangerous, even to us. Besides, with our turnover 
numbers, an exact number has never been feasible-“ 


“Well, | want one. Just to satisfy my curiosity. Three. Do you have it 
yet?” 


“Uh... | have it,” came the voice from the computer. “It’s... well...” 


The number came up on the screen. The rest of the O5 Council 
stared. 


3,496,974,222 


O5-5 broke the silence: “Is there anybody out there who isn’t aware 


of anomalies on some level?” 


“| don’t know,” said O5-8, her mouth tight, “but | intend to find out.” 


The patrons of the Library, and indeed, anybody who held a Library 
card, whether they were there or not, looked up as an eldritch voice 
boomed in their heads. 


“Will all patrons from Earth timeline B-173 briefly halt and raise their 
hands for a survey from the Head Librarian?” 


The Head Librarian pushed his glasses up, and glanced at the letter 
in front of him. Then, he raised his tail and began to point and count, 
“Let’s see now... 1, 2, 3...” 


As he reached the tens of thousands, seeing how many people were 
left, he wished that he had fingers to count on. 


Jack Dawkins, also known as The Critic, looked at the display in 
front of him, then back at the fax in his hand. 


“And that’s all of them?” 


The artist in front of him said, “Yes, Critic. Every dot on the map 
represents an active anartist in the world. | based it off of that work 
you did back in '09 when you were—” 


“Yes, | can see that.” The Critic’s tone made it clear that he was not 
pleased with derivatives of his work being made. 


The artist hesitated. “Er... when you press this button, in theory it 
should kill or at least incapacitate every artist that doesn’t have our 
la—* 


“Dammit!” the Critic shouted. “How many times have | said not to 
fucking do that? What is the fucking point of making work that kills 
anyone who looks at it? The whole damn point of art is to senda 
message! How the hell can your audience get anything from a piece 
when it rips their heads off and shoves it in their asses or some shit? 
That’s not art, it’s fucking bullshit!” 


During the weekend, members of SCP-838-1 experience good 
dreams. Though the exact nature of these dreams varies greatly 
between individuals, they are universally reported to be highly 
enjoyable. This effect appears to be "payment" for the work done 
during the week, as persons with higher ranking positions generally 
seem to report better dreams than those in lower ranking ones. 


A "workday" for a member of SCP-838-1 seems to be 8 hours, with 
sleep beyond this point being normal. Consequently, if prevented 
from sleeping for 8 hours in a day for an extended period of time, a 
member of SCP-838-1 may be "fired". Affected individuals may be 
fired for poor performance as well. Fired members of SCP-838-1 
only report dreams of being homeless. 


Interview 838-5: 


Interview between Dr. Eisen and D-41157, who was an 
accountant before his conviction. 

Dr. Eisen: Hello, D-41157. Could you please state for 
how long you have been a member of SCP-838-1? 
D-41157: You had me read that ad five weeks ago. 

Dr. Eisen: What has been your experience when you 
sleep? 

D-41157: Rather dull dreams. In them, I'm an accountant 
for this Pellus company. And that's it. It's just like real life 
except | can't leave the building and there's no lunch. 
Dr. Eisen: What happens if you try to leave the building? 
D-41157: | just can't. There's no doors or windows. I'm 
not even sure if there's a first floor. No elevators. 

Dr. Eisen: And how about during the weekend? 
D-41157: Oh, that part is wonderful. It varies. Last 
Saturday night it was like | was five and | had a great 
birthday party where | got to ride dinosaurs. Yes, a bit 
silly, but it felt great. They're all like that. 

Dr. Eisen: What kind of accounting work are you doing 
for them? What does Pellus do? 

D-41157: Funny thing, that. | don't know. As far as | can 
tell, Pellus does nothing besides employ people to keep 
it running. But that makes sense. It's not like they're real 
or anything. 


After a few moments, the artist quavered, “s-so... | should make it 
so the button gets rid of people whose art killed people?”