A man was standing by the door with a box of teddy bears and 
auctioning them off to the highest bidder as the man in the coat 
made his way past. People were waving bundles of cash in the air, a 
look of desperation in their faces as if they were bidding on the last 
loaf of bread in Manhattan. The man decided to take his leave 
before the police showed up and found his way to a phone booth on 
the corner. Closing the door behind him to keep out the winter chill, 
he fished through his pockets for change as he dialed seven digits 
and dropped a dime into the slot. The phone rang five times before 
his intended contactee picked up. 


"Hello?" 
"Doc. It's me." 
"Who is this?" 


"It's... it's nobody. Listen. Cronkite was right. This place is going 
insane." 


"So?" 


"We're gonna have to speed up production. We need at least 10,000 


more units, and we need to be able to get them on the shelves by 
Christmas Eve!" 


"Are you crazy? | can't work that fast." 


"This is our golden opportunity, doc! Every toy store on the island is 
sold out. All these people out here gotta get something under the 
Christmas tree now that Santa's out of business. That something 
could be your toys." 


"What if something goes wrong? You know this technology isn't 
perfect yet." 


"Relax, doc! This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot! If we play this right, 
every boy and girl in Manhattan is going to be playing with one of 
your toys. And once the word gets out... this could be the year the 
whole world learns the name 'Wondertainment!"" 


Dr. Jacob Andrews, flashlight in hand, made his way through the 
dark, cramped basement of Site 19. Most people barely even knew 
the basement existed, let alone had a reason to go down there and 
root around the old stacks of Spiritualist quack artifacts, and 
mothballed electronics from World War Il, and reams and reams of 
handwritten SCP files from the days when things like radium and 
daguerreotypes were considered anomalous. Andrews had his 
reason. Nobody had seen Dr. Clef since the meeting yesterday 
morning. Everyone assumed he'd gone home, or walked out, or 
holed up in one of the labs, or something. Andrews knew better. 
Passing the shelves of preserved Egyptian mummies and turning 
left at the Olmec head, Andrews reached the brick wall and counted 
off one, two, three, four, five, six bricks before he grabbed onto the 
masonry and pulled. 


The wall opened up instantly, and the smell of salt water and kelp 
hung heavy in the air as Andrews descended the stairs into the 
hidden grotto beneath Site 19. Andrews admired the seashell motif 
along the walls, turning off his flashlight as he approached the well- 
lit area at the bottom of the stairs. A new smell struck Andrews as he 
entered the main room of the massive cave - the undeniably 
distinctive scent of simmering cream, and the frizzle of potatoes 


gently sauteeing in bacon grease, and the undeniably savory aroma 
of Mercenaria mercenaria sitenineteenia, the unique species of 
quahog found only in the waters of this grotto. The meandering 
tunnels and low ceilings of the Chowdercave could be next to 
impossible for a stranger to navigate - but Dr. Andrews was no 
stranger, and in thirty seconds flat he found himself in the "kitchen" 
of this subterranean base, where Dr. Alto Clef, dressed in his black 
chef's coat, stood over the stove, stirring a pot and flipping potatoes 
in his skillet, a dozen spice jars open on the shelf beside him. 


"| thought I'd find you down here, Alto," Andrews said to the inward- 
focused chef. 


Clef lowered a spoon into the creamy broth simmering on the 
stovetop and brought it to his lips. "Needs white pepper,” he 
muttered to himself. 


"We've been worried about you, Alto. Have you been down here all 
night?" 


"I've got to get this batch just right, Jacob," Clef replied. "We both 
know I'm the only person in the entire Foundation qualified to deal 
with the man behind this Santa-napping."” 


"You don't know it was him,"Andrews said. "Just because the North 
Pole was covered with tomato sauce doesn't mean it was the Ma-" 


"Nobody even eats that shit anymore!" Clef responded angrily, 
turning away from the stove as he pulled the potatoes off the flame. 
"Who else could it be?" 


"He hasn't been seen since that cookoff in Rhode Island five years 
ago. The one that almost got you killed." 


"Don't remind me. If I'd been half a second sooner with the parsley, 
I'd have -" 


"Stop, Alto," Andrews said. "You haven't put on that coat in five 
years now. You're not getting any younger, and... well, we all count 
on you to keep this place together." 


"Santa counts on us too," Clef said. "Those GOC bastards would 


SCP-871: Self-Replacing Cake 


Item #: SCP-871 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: Each recurrence of SCP-871 is 
to be maintained within a separate, locked concrete cell on a metal 
platter permanently affixed to the surface of an immovable wooden 
table. Each cell housing a recurrence of SCP-871 is to be monitored 
on a 24-hour basis via closed-circuit camera, with individual feeds 
checked every 15 minutes. 


Upon creation of an instance of SCP-871, 3 Class D personnel are 
to be escorted by armed guards to its cell, where they are to be 
sealed with the instance and induced to consume it. No more than 
one hour may be spent performing this task. In cases where 
additional motivation is needed, the termination of one of the Class 
D personnel assigned to an instance of SCP-871 is authorized. 
Upon completion of the consumption of an instance, no participants 
may exit the cell until both they and the room have been thoroughly 
searched to confirm that no portions remain. The platter, table, and 
room are then to be cleaned in preparation for the next instance. 


Class D personnel who prove cooperative in the consumption of an 
instance of SCP-871 may volunteer to participate in additional 
consumptions. Personnel exhibiting exceptional usefulness may 
have their monthly termination postponed. Such personnel are 
under no circumstances to be allowed to interact with any other SCP 
object. 


No desserts of any kind are to be served on-site at any facility 
housing a recurrence of SCP-871. 


Description: SCP-871 is a collection of 237 cakes. Instances of 
SCP-871 vary widely in appearance and size, covering the entire 
range of foods described by humans as "cake". The smallest 


have turned the North Pole into glass years ago if it weren't for us 
keeping an eye out for the old man. And we've let him down. And if 
there's anything - anything | can do to help him, even if it means 
going back on my promise to never wear that hat again... then I'll do 
it." 


Andrews sighed. "| can see you've got your heart set on this, then." 
The doctor turned around and began to make his way back to the 
stairs. 


"Wait!" Clef shouted. "I... | could use your help." 
"Just like old times, huh?" 


Clef smiled. "Make sure the Chowdercopter is fueled up and ready 
to go. Oh... and see if you can grab some white pepper from the 
Site pantry." 


General Thomas Dawes made his way down a hallway deep within 
the secret recesses of the North American Aerospace Defense 
Command. On his left, he was followed by Researcher James, 
special liaison from the Foundation. On the right followed another 
military man, his uniform green to Dawes' blue; Colonel Arthur T. 
Bakker, special liaison from the Global Occult Coalition. 


"General," Researcher James said, "I'd like to state again my formal 
opposition to the GOC having an official presence here. Their 
position on SCP-4040 is well-established and it simply isn't 
conducive to our purposes here." 


"The Global Occult Coalition stands by its belief that the rogue entity 
designated KTE-4040-1 is a clear and present danger to 
international security, General," Colonel Bakker stated with a smirk. 
"But be that as it may, it is the full intention of High Command to 
adhere to the terms of the March 1953 Memorandum of 
Understanding with the Foundation regarding that entity." 


"| don't know if my kids would agree that Santa Claus is a 'rogue 
entity’, Colonel," General Dawes said as the trio approached a 
locked door at the end of the hallway and the general rang its 


doorbell. "But let's see if we can find him first before we figure out 
what to do with him." 


A guard on the other side of the door opened it. "Area - attention!" 
the airman shouted, signaling the dozens of airmen in the dimly lit 
room to stand at attention before the general ordered them back to 
their posts. 


James looked back and forth, taking in the surroundings as best he 
could. Beneath the dim red lights, men sat in rows at radar 
terminals, each of them scrutinizing half a dozen or more of the tiny 
green monitors. Half a dozen officers sat at a bank of phones, most 
of them in the middle of discussions with Washington, or Moscow, or 
Beijing, or who knows where else. "This is where the magic 
happens, gentlemen," General Dawes said as he swept his arm out 
over the room. "Most people think all we do here at NORAD is watch 
for a Soviet airstrike. That's part of it, sure, but we've got hundreds 
of top secret radar arrays all over the world that feed directly into this 
room. We could probably break DoD's budget just sitting in here, 
around the clock, tracking every last bird in the sky all around the 
world." The general laughed to himself. "But that's not what this 
equipment is for. This is magic radar, you see." 


"Magic radar?" Colonel Bakker asked skeptically. "The High 
Command was not aware NORAD was in possession of magical 
equipment." 


"Oh, it's not the radar itself that's magic, Colonel," General Dawes 
replied. "These radar arrays are specifically designed to track flying 
objects powered by magic. That's what we use this system for, on 
this day every year. To track Santa's sleigh." The general turned to 
one of the men manning the phones. "Any news from the Kremlin, 
Captain?" 


"Nyet, sir," the officer replied, stifling a chuckle at his own joke. "No 
sign of the big man." 


"If you don't mind my asking," Researcher James chimed in, "how is 
any of this going to help us figure out who kidnapped Santa, or 
where they've taken him?" 


"As soon as we got the call from the White House that Santa was 
missing," General Dawes answered, "we started poring over the 
logs from these arrays. Sure enough, we had some readouts. 
Whoever got ahold of Santa and his reindeer got on that sleigh and 
flew it into the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. By the time the 
Green Berets got there, though, they were long gone. They must 
have loaded the sleigh and the reindeer onto a truck or something 
and moved them by land from there. 


"Anyway, it's the morning of Christmas Eve now, of course. But 
Christmas Day officially started in the western Pacific about seven 
hours ago. Everyone knows Santa does his work at the stroke of 
midnight, and we've got seventeen midnights to go." 


"So what?" James asked. 


"Well, whoever's got Santa, they haven't made any ransom 
demands. Our guess is, they want him to do something for them this 
Christmas. Why take the reindeer and the elves as well? They want 
the elves to make something and they want Santa to deliver it - and 
he'll have to do that at midnight. As soon as he makes his move, 
we'll know where he is." 


"Deliver what?" Colonel Bakker asked. "Guns? Bombs? Germ 
warfare? This is sounding more and more like a Pizzicato situation, 
General." 


"That's just wild guessing," James responded. "We can't just jump to 
conclusions here." 


"| will not be second-guessed by a cut-rate mad scientist, 


‘Researcher'," Colonel Bakker snapped. 


"Mad scientist? That's a laugh coming from a John Wayne wannabe 
like you. After the mess you idiots made of SCP-1609, | wouldn't 
trust you to neutralize a stray dog." 


"I've read your dossier, James. You're not even qualified to be in this 
room. Why don't you go back to Site 82 and talk to your... what was 
it, ‘toilet ghost?" 


"That's ‘butt ghost' to you, you as-" 


"Gentlemen!" General Dawes shouted. "You can't fight in here! This 
is the war room!" 


James and Bakker stared silently at Dawes, a mixture of confusion 
and disdain in their eyes. 


"My wife loves that movie," Dawes said. 


"General!" shouted one of the airmen at the terminals. "We've got 
something!" The three rushed over and crowded around the 
airman's chair, where a single blip was moving towards the top right 
of one of the screens. 


"What are we looking at here, Airman?" Colonel Bakker asked. 

"It's over the Midwest right now, sir," the airman replied, "supersonic 
speed, definitely magical. Heading sixty degrees north by northeast - 
huh." 

"What is it?" asked James. 


"If it Keeps that heading, it'll be in New York City by sunset." 


"New York City," Dawes said to himself. "What could Santa want in 
New York City?" 


"Chowder," James mumbled under his breath. 
"Excuse me?" Bakker said. 


"I said... umm... Chaplin! Yes. Project Chaplin. False alarm, 
general. That's one of our birds." 


Bakker stared James down, a skeptical glare in his eyes. "Our 
intelligence did not indicate that the Foundation was in possession 
of magical aircraft." 


"It's a new project. Top secret. We've been developing a plane 
capable of keeping up with SCP-1115. Looks like just a test run. See 
how it flutters back and forth a little from its heading? That's how it... 


how it works. Can't share all the details in mixed company. You 
understand, Colonel." 


"SCP-1115? Those flying robots?" General Dawes chuckled. "Good 
luck keeping up with them. They had me try to shoot one down ina 
P-38 back during the war. | was lucky | made it out alive." 


"Well, false alarm though this may be," Bakker said, "I really should 
let High Command know what the current situation is. Is there a 
private phone nearby?" 


"Two rooms down," Dawes said. "Airman Rodriguez will show you to 
the open line." 


"High Command switchboard, how may | direct your call?" 


"Put me through to General Abrams at once. Gold priority, security 
code Delta Omicron Six Six Niner Epsilon Tau." 


"One moment, Colonel." 
"This is General Abrams speaking." 


"Santa's in New York. The Foundation already has a bird in the air 
en route." 


"Coordinates?" 


"Unknown at this time. They've got magic radar. Get our primary 
radar online and watch their bird. It... flutters. Once they do the 
groundwork, they'll no doubt set Santa loose on his sleigh." 


"And then we neutralize KTE-4040, | assume?" 

"My thoughts exactly, General." 

Santa Claus hung upside down above a giant vat of boiling clam 
juice. A rope tied around his ankles was the only thing keeping the 


not-so-jolly old man from falling to his doom in the steaming pot. In 
front of his field of vision stood his kidnapper - a grizzled old man 


dressed in a red chef's coat, a toque as red as blood on his head, a 
tomato embroidered over his heart. The man pinched and twirled his 
mustache as he paced back and forth in front of Santa. Reaching 
out to the control panel before him, he pulled the main lever a tiny bit 
- and the rope loosened, sending St. Nicholas hurtling a few inches 
closer to the pot. 


"It's not much I'm asking of you, Santa,” the man said. "Just tell me 
the magic words | need to use to get those reindeer of yours in the 
air, and I'll be on my way. And once I've taken care of delivering my 
special presents to all the good little boys and girls, I'll let you go, 
and your elves, and your reindeer, and you can go back north and 
rebuild your little house and your little factory, and you can go on like 
none of this ever happened.”