Mr. Sami sat down at his desk went back to work. In the following 
two hours, he had to deal with one of their patented Snoozebooks 
malfunctioning and causing people to mildly explode ("If | were you, 
Sir, I'd take my daughter to the hospital, they might still be able to 
reattach that foot. No, Sir, the book is non-refundable"), a customer 
complaining about the new Durandal series ("It's a new model, Sir, 
some bugs are bound to occur. Yes, | do realize not being able to 
cut through the skin of large lizards is a pretty major bug. No, we do 
not cover medical expenses of injuries caused by our products, you 
signed a disclaimer") and Bob the warlock trying to fix the copier 
with dark rituals again ("Let go of the mouse blood and ram skull 
and call tech support, Bob, seriously"). Only four more hours till 
quitting time. He needed a break. 


Mr. Sami went outside for a smoke, taking care to avoid Mr. Jamu's 
office. He still hasn't filled his performance report for this quarter, 
and his boss did not take kindly to tardiness. Jamu might be his 
cousin, but that got him no breaks with the man. Outside, he saw 
Sarah from the legal department huddled under a puffy coat, her 


hands shaking from the cold. "Rough day?" he asked. 
"You can say that again. Bernstein's in a foul mood." 
"Why?" 


"He said someone screwed up and left a trail leading to one of our 
more... questionable ventures. Now the spooks are sniffing around, 
asking questions." 


This was Sami's fault, though nobody knew it. He knew he shouldn't 
have transferred that lady to sales without a reference, but she 
asked so nicely. No one ever asked Mr. Sami for anything nicely. 
Luckily for him, he managed to cover that mistake up by getting rid 
of the sales rep with a particularly nasty curse. 


"Please, those idiots couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word 
dictionary," (one of their more useless products, Mr. Sami thought) 
"besides, | thought Bernstein said they had a man on the inside to 
take care of that sort of thing.” 


Being involved in the distribution of anomalous objects was never 
completely safe. Some people objected to Merl's selling some of his 
more... unique products. Dangerous people. To be honest, the 
spooks scared Sami, but he couldn't let Sarah know that. He was 
really only in the business because of his father anyway. 


Sarah just shrugged and lit another cigarette. Sami couldn't help but 
notice how fine she looked today. Maybe it was time for him to finally 
man up and ask her out. "Say Sarah, are you doing anything 
tonight?" 


This caught her attention. "I'm always doing something. Why, what 
did you have in mind?" 


Sami shifted around uncomfortably, he really wasn't very good at 
this sort of thing. "| thought maybe we could hang out at my place, | 
could cook you some of my world famous gumbo." He nervously 
tried to scratch his nose, remembered he had a lacquered wooden 
mask on, and slid his hands to his pockets, hoping Sarah didn't 
notice. 


Sarah just smiled. "Sounds like fun. I'll be there at eight." She 
finished her smoke and went back inside. 


Sami gleamed under his mask. Maybe this day wasn't going to be 
so bad after all. He'd have to stop at the supermarket to get some 
groceries for the gumbo, maybe get a new aftershave... 


The sudden sound of motors and rotors woke him from his day 
dream. The parking lot was now filled with black cars and jeeps, and 
several black helicopters circled the skies around the office. Men in 
discreet clothing emerged from the assembled vehicles, and several 
made their way directly to him. One of them, a particularly large man 
in an ill fitting grey suit, grabbed Sami and slapped a pair of 
handcuffs on him, and proceeded to drag him to the back seat of a 
nearby van. 


"Couldn't spot an anomaly in a single word dictionary, eh?" the man 
said, a smug look on his face. "Oh, and Agent Stanton wanted me to 
thank you for selling her that Discloser. She says it was very handy." 


Sami just sighed. Well, at least now | won't have to fill that 
performance sheet, he thought. 


A day at the (un)stables 


The dinosaur starts to beep. | can't tell why, but | continue to rub its 
belly. The little T-Rex still won't shut up, and then it hits me. 


My alarm clock is blaring. My arm reflexively moves to slap my 
clock's snooze button, but | just slam it against my nightstand. | 
open my eyes just enough to be blinded by the early morning sun 
and crawl under the covers like a vampire. The clock's beeping has 
sped up, and now I'm desperate for silence. | throw off the covers 
and walk to the other side of the room, where the damned thing is 
sitting on the floor. | pick it up, turn it off, and hate past me for 
putting it there. | look at the time, and my eyes snap all the way 
open as | remember that I've got work today. 


Swiftly walking from my bedroom to the bathroom, | grab a towel 
from the closet and start the shower. After I've made myself squeaky 
clean, | head to back to the closet and pull out my uniform. Uniform 
is perhaps a little too formal. | slide on bluejeans and a beige shirt 
with the Foundation logo. 


| walk into the kitchen and make toast. It is good toast. | brush my 
teeth and use mouthwash, strike a few poses in the mirror, and then 
head out. | march down four flights of stairs, it's a good workout at 
least. Not like | need one. | make for the front door of the building, 
and I'm just in time to catch one of the on-site transports. It's an old 
bus really. My co-workers and | load up, and | take a seat for the 
short ten minute shuttle from home to work. The driver stops, opens 
the door and we quietly walk off. | don't bother to watch it drive off, 
and instead head for the bio wing. | slide my ID past a scanner and 
open a steel door into the main compound. 


| slide in behind my supervisor, Brad, a tan, muscular man with a 
beard, who's typing an email now, and casually push my badge up 
to the clocker. It beeps and | slink back outside. | was a little late. | 
take a walk, in my clunky boots, to the nearest Paddocks entrance. 
Normally it's quiet, but there are very obviously experiments going 


was all that was ever on it. In any event, it is now advised that the 
project be shelved until such a time as the information can be more 
efficiently catalogued. 


Partial Test Log 


Subject D-769-01: Learned the name of the stars in the 
language, as well as their positions. However, she lost all memory of 
other names, including her own. 


Subject D-769-07: Milk was substituted for water. Subject convulsed 
once, and became comatose. He expired several days later. 


Subject D-769-13: Learned several songs in the language. It 
could not be determined what he lost. 


Subject D-769-18: Learned the history of , a politician from 
. Lost all memory from his sixth birthday to halfway through 
seventh grade. 


Subject D-769-25: Gained a tactical assessment of several other 
civilizations. Only the were determined to be a threat. 
Suspected capabilities were listed, but are difficult to decipher 
without knowing the size of listed units or the abilities of vehicles. 


Subject D-769-30: Learned the rules to a children's game involving 
sticks and disks. Lost all memory of American politics. 


Subject D-769-32: Learned the language, but forgot how to 
paint, her former career. 


Subject D-769-37: Gained schematics for an engine capable of 
generating far more thrust than any we currently possess, which 
could explain the spaceflight capabilities. However, they call 
for an on-board power source generating over a thousand 
megawatts, with only two cubic feet allotted for it. It is hoped that 
designs for the generator can eventually be found. The subject lost 
all memories of his mother. 


Subject D-769-41: Gained schematics for an antique internal 
combustion engine. The design is inferior to those in use today, 
although the alloys it calls for are of strong interest to the 


on today. 


| see a few labcoats in paddock 13 and a strange sight. Well, not to 
me. Not anymore, anyways. Eleven ninety-four is being tested. | 
cringe at the thoughts of taking care of whichever horse gets 
messed up today. Oh, it's Nick. Bastard bit my hand yesterday. | try 
to remind myself not to be such an ass, but that train of thought is 
lost when he attempts to put on a sweater. 


A little chuckle to start the day is nice. All of our animals are equine 
in nature, our Site has specialized in these SCP's for a while now. 
now I'm the only horse-care provider on my shift now, since Emily 
got transferred to Site-23. This particular fact makes the vast 
majority of my chores a pain. | head down to the south storage shed. 
Wellington is waiting. 


"Good morning Wells!" 
He gives a shake and returns with an "Absolutely is!" 
"Let me hook you up and I'll load up breakfast." 


Twenty kilo hay bales. Nine of them. Held in the most awkward 
position and then then thrown onto the back of a carriage. I've 
worked here for quite a while, but I'm certainly not strong as one 
would expect a farmhand. 


"Wells?" His grand head turns with a lovely top hat between his 
ears."Ready?" 


Mr. Wonderpony nods and backs up under the harness | hold for 
him. | always worry I'll screw up a tie or attach a strap to the wrong 
place. Once Wellington is snugly fitted, | hope properly, | hop up on 
my throne of hay bales. 


"D'you see the testing goin’ on in paddock thirteen?" | try to make 
the ride between lots and paddocks go by as fast as possible. 


"Nay sir, what're the witch doctors up t' today?" He pulls us forward, 
toward lot number one. 


"That nosebag, makin’ Nick stand like an ostrich." 


"Ha, bloke deserves it." | felt like slightly less of an ass. 
Coincidentally, those very creatures awaited the eight AM feeding in 
Paddock two. | toss bales over the fences as Wellington plods us 
along steadily. The whole thing takes a little less than an hour. We 
return to the south shed and Wellington backs his trailer into it. | 
unhook the guy, and with a third of a bale under my arm, we march 
over to his lean-too. Wells technically has free roam of the 
pathways, but he "Wouldn't dare bowver anybody unless it's an 
emergency". He'll stay around his little home until he's needed 
again. 


His "little home" is decorated with a hat hook, a cabinet, a dining 
table (horse height of course) and some gas lamps, as well as a 
picture of what | presume is an English pasture. | bring out an over- 
sized plate from the cabinet and set the table for Wells. 


"Breakfast is served milord" | take a bow and dump the hay onto the 
plate. 


| leave Mr. Wonderpony to his morning meal and head for my next 
job. The real reason anyone works with horses. To pick up shit. 
Believe me, | get plenty of cool moments working with horses, but 
those are like golden flakes on a turd. Like the one | just stepped in. 
Normally, no big deal, | got my big boy boots on, but this one hada 
little extra give to it. | sigh. | drag my foot along the grass for a 
couple of paces, and head for the tool room, located back by the 
entrance. | pick out a scooping shovel, and a wheelbarrow. 


Even though it's summer, | didn't expect it to be forty degrees out. | 
sweat my ass off between shooing still-hungry donkeys and 
dumping kilograms of horse manure onto our compost pile. After a 
few trips back and forth, Brad comes out with his own set of tools. | 
say the usual "hello"s and "yes sir"s. The man is an expert on 
equine biology, psychology, mythology, and any other -ology that 
might have to do with horses. Brad deserves respect. He's also a 
pretty cool guy. 


By ten o'clock, we've deemed the lots to be clean enough. Clean 
has a very different meaning here. 


A few minutes after we put away all of our stuff, we get word from a 


suit that Nick is done with testing, and Brad and | put head out and 
walk him in from Paddock thirteen. The clumsy appaloosa steps on 
my steel-toed boot as we let him into his stall back at the main 
compound. Other than a couple bruises, the animal is fine. Maybe 
next time. 


Brad notes that two of the unicorns (procured with multiple fatalities 
from thirteen twenty-three) could do with a cleaning. They dainty 
ponies will literally wither in filth, so they have to be brushed in their 
pristine, shining, white coats. | handle one while Brad does the 
other, picking clots of dirt from their hooves. With a good brushing, 
clouds of dust fly off the majestic beasts. One pees. The splash 
zone is wide enough to get me. | head to a bucket of sawdust we 
keep in the aisle for this very reason, and sprinkle it on the stall's 
floor. 


The clean-freaks are dealt with, and | ask Brad if it's alright for me to 
take lunch. With a nod he heads into his office. Probably doing site 
finances, or maybe playing solitaire. | head out of the Bio Wing. 
Walking to the admin building, which is where | take breaks, 
because the Bio-Wing doesn't have it's own break room. | scrub my 
hands intensely, | don't want horseshit in my food. We must have a 
cloning SCP or something on site, because the refrigerator is filled 
with hundreds of jars of applesauce. Additionally, | scrounge up 
some bread and peanut butter, and make a lovely lunch. 


After my snack, | strike up a conversation with one of the guards, 
Tony, | think, who is also on break. 


"Anything cool happen today?" 

"Nah, just some confused tourists | had to turn away" 

| shrug, "Not every day is action packed, | suppose" 

"After a few years at the Foundation, you'll begin to appreciate those 
quiet days!" 

After we have a laugh he notes that he'd better report back. | say 


goodbye after our short conversation and do the same. 


| go into the Bio Wing- | call it the Bio Wing, but this is a glorified 


barn with some high-tech doors. 


I'm looking for something productive to do when | see that Brad is 
giving a full tour to some execs. | straighten up and grab a broom, 
sweeping away dirt or dust from their path. Wouldn't want them to 
cut funding because their loafers were ruined by some soiled 
bedding. | stand around with a forced smile and internally cringe as 
they take notes on their tablets after every couple of Brad's 
sentences. They eventually leave, and we both give a sigh of relief. 
Brad says he'll take care of the afternoon feeding. | thank him as he 
nods and heads out. 


| do the next chore; medication and supplemental feed. With 
nosebags in hand | dump handfuls of different pellets into each one. 
Some horses require special ointments for minor wounds, and Nick 
needs a huge pill stuffed down his gullet for when he encounters the 
after-effects of his experimentation. | take quite a while getting each 
animal fed and/ or drugged, doing one and then walking back to the 
list in the feed room to see who's next. 


| eventually get to Nick who is a little skittish around his feedbag 
today, and | can't blame him. The scent of food overwhelms his 
nervousness though. | slip the pill between his lips with my own 
hand, trying to stop him from chewing it. I'm successful, but my hand 
is covered in a saliva and barley mush. 


| walk over to the London-Lean-to for a handkerchief | could borrow 
from Wellington. What a guy. 


"Ahem, Thomas, ‘ould you moind placin' a request in fo' me?" His 
voice contains a little embarrassment. 


"Oh, sure, whaddya need?" 


"Could you ask the big-boss-man if | could 'ave an easel an' a set o' 
paints?" Wells fidgets a little bit in place, shuffling his feet. 


"| never took you to be an artsy type Wells! A workin’ class fellow 
such as yourself could use a hobby though, so I'll see what Brad 
and | can do." He's my friend after all. 


"You're a real mate, ya know that?" | smile, and try not to think about 
the fact that my best friend is a talking horse with a bow tie.