The squad continued firing at the now-open door as artists 
continued to flood through. One of the duplicates had overpowered 
one of the Agents, throwing his screaming body outside to be dealt 
with by his brethren. Alcorn gestured for his squadmates to retreat 
up the stairs to the second floor. Green emptied the last of his 
pistol's clip into the clay skull of the closest Sculptor, then threw the 
useless firearm to the side. He followed Alcorn back up the stairs, 
stopping to grab a length of steel pipe lying halfway up. Green 
shouted to the closest troops over the continued chanting. 


"BLOCK THE STAIRWELL!" 


As the last of the squad ascended the stairs, Green helped push a 
nearby pile of concrete down, squishing two overzealous Sculptors 
below its weight. Another tried to climb over the blockade; Green 
brought down his pipe on its head, hearing a satisfying BONG as its 
head deformed and it dropped lifelessly to the ground. 


Sandy pushed her phone back into her pocket, joining Ruiz at the 
window. Pico snorted as Sandra readjusted her grip on him. 
"Janitor's on its way. We've got to last until then." 

"You have anything useful?" 


The Director pulled a grappling hook gun from one of the inner 
pockets of her coat. 


"Great, let's get out of here." 

"It won't carry all of us." 

"Fuck. Alright..." 

Ruiz looked out the window, then pointed out an adjacent rooftop. 
"Can you get there, drop Pico off, then come back for me?" 
"Takes a while to reload this thing." 

"Best plan we've got." 

"Okay then. See you in a bit." 


Sandra shot the grappling gun at the building, pushed a button on 
the side, and was pulled out the window. Ruiz looked as she 
climbed to the rooftop, then started to respool the projectile. 


"UNIDENTIFIED PERSON ON THE NEXT LEVEL UP, OPENING 
FIRE!" 


Ruiz spun around, barely having time to duck behind a concrete 
pylon before being shot at by one of the Suits. He aimed around his 
cover and loosed a pair of elastic bands towards his assailant. Ruiz 
yelled incredulously. 


"EXCUSE ME, PLEASE DON'T SHOOT, THANK YOU." 


The Janitor jumped from rooftop to rooftop, finally reaching 16 
Hartford Street. It jumped to the ground, sending Sculptors 
scattering. It waved its hand towards a nearby duplicate, dispelling 
the anomalous and reducing it to raw clay. Nearby copies were 
struck immobile from a combination of awe and fear. The Janitor 
buzzed a comment from inside its gas mask. 


"You have broken protocol. This was a poor decision." 


The duplicates ran screaming from The Janitor, each of them 
seizing suddenly before crumbling into dust. It walked fluidly through 


the building's front door, sending the Sculptors fleeing up the semi- 
blocked stairwell. 


The Suit continued to fire at the concrete pylon, preventing Ruiz 
from escaping. Ruiz took another pot shot in his general direction. 


"SANDY, NEED SOME HELP!" 


The Director came barrelling through the window, joining Ruiz 
behind the pylon. 


"Alright, alright, no need to shout. Grab on." 


Ruiz grabbed Sandra's shoulders tightly. She pulled a small ball 
from inside her trenchcoat, throwing it hard against the ground; it 
exploded into a small cloud of smoke. Sandy ran to the window, 
jumping out and aiming at the opposite rooftop. For a split second, 
Ruiz felt his heart stop as they started entering freefall into the 
crowd of ravenous Sculptors below; then, the hook shot out, 
securing them to the opposite rooftop and pulling them slowly 
upwards. They pulled themselves up onto the rooftop, both panting 
heavily from overexertion. Ruiz stood up, dusted himself off, then 
looked around, confused. 


"Where's Pico?" 
Sandy looked around, confused. 


"Shit. Doesn't matter, we're getting out of here. He can look after 
himself." 


Ruiz swore colourfully under his breath, joining Sandra in their 
rooftop escape. 


Agent Green had fallen back from the front lines; the squad was 
concentrating their fire on the stairwell below, and close-quarters 
combat and high-speed bullets make a poor mix. The Sculptors 
surged through the hole, pushing aside the concrete scraps and 
swarming around the closest Agents. Two of them fell and were 
trampled by the stampede. Alcorn pulled a grenade from his belt, 


pulling the pin and counting down. 
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" 


He threw it into the swarm, thinning their numbers substantially. 
Green shouted out to the remainder of the squad. 


"WE NEED TO MAINTAIN A CHOKE POINT! EVERYONE 
UPSTAIRS!" 


The second floor was flooded with Sculptors as the remaining seven 
agents retreated up to the third floor. 


The Janitor walked briskly through the first floor, tapping Sculptors 
on the shoulder and reducing them to piles of ash. It waved its 
hands, tearing the illusions from the clay. Its mask buzzed as it 
breathed slowly, calmly eradicating the plague. One of the 
duplicates turned, jumping towards the tall, dark figure; it impacted 
onto The Janitor's shoes, the clay hardening as it cooked solid from 
internal heat. It scanned the room for movement, nodding when 
satisfied it had cleared the area. 


The Janitor moved slowly up the staircase to the second floor. 


Alcorn shot the last of his clip, watching the last tracer round exiting 
its barrel. He threw the useless rifle to the side, picked up a stick of 
rebar from the ground, and stabbed it through the nearest Sculptor's 
head. Green forced his pipe into the chest of a duplicate, spun 
around, then struck its head cleanly off its neck. The rest of the 
squad had resorted to close-combat weaponry, their firearms spent; 
Dorfman spun like a dancer, slicing through clay with his combat 
knife, while Perkins had taken to simply grabbing heads and 
smashing them into the walls and pylons. 


The Janitor moved up to the second floor. Hordes of Sculptors 
surrounded it, refusing to go out without a fight. They moved in 
towards it, trying to tear off its trenchcoat, remove its boots, yank off 
its mask; they desperately struggled to avoid their imminent demise. 


They screamed in chorus: 


"ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL 
THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-" 


The Janitor clicked its fingers, and the assailants turned inside-out. 


Agent Green stood panting heavily, staring at the piles of clay that 
littered the room. Dorfman flicked the last of the stuff from his knife, 
Perkins squished a final skull beneath his feet. Alcorn walked over to 
Green, patting him on the shoulder while grinning from the 
adrenaline. 


"Still alive!" 
"Still alive. Okay. Alright. Still need to check the top floor before we-" 


Green stopped mid-sentence, readying his pipe as a tall figure 
wearing a black gas mask ascended the stairs. The Janitor looked 
around at the Agents beneath it, kicking some errant clay from its 
boots. It walked towards Agent Green; Green readied his pipe for an 
attack. The Janitor stopped, then bowed deeply, kneeling upon the 
ground. 


"Deepest apologies for the inconvenience. It will not happen again." 


The Janitor stood, walked briskly to the window, and jumped to the 
ground with a resounding thud. Green looked to Alcorn, then at the 
open third-floor window. Green calmly reached into his pocket, 
pulled out a cigarette, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, breathing out 
with exhaustion. 


"| have no idea what the fuck's going on any more." 
Ruiz walked dejectedly through the gallery lobby. Sandra had gone 
off to search for the real Sculptor; having lost Pico, there were no 


leads left. 


"Mister Duchamp, a guy came through here looking for you before." 


"Who was it?" 
"I... sorry, Mister Duchamp, I've forgotten." 


Ruiz sighed. Incompetent fools, the lot of them. He turned the corner 
into his studio. 


A red-headed man wearing a Hawaiian shirt was sitting on the 
electric chair. 


The man was wearing a grey fedora. 

The grey fedora. 

Ruiz massaged his temples. 

"God fucking damn it." 

The new Nobody laughed, then clicked his fingers, sending Ruiz into 


a dreamless sleep. 


Agent Green and Agent Alcorn returned to the battered van, having 

thoroughly searched every level of 16 Hartford Street. As they were 

about to get into the vehicle, Green's phone rang. He flipped it open, 
looking at the caller: 


Agent Tangeee**@% 

Green tapped the screen of his phone. 
Unknown Caller 

He put the phone to his ear. 

"Agent Green.” 

"Who is this? How did you get this number?" 


"Ruiz Duchamp is lying unconscious in the Genossenschaft Gallery 
of Contemporary Art. Pick him up at your leisure." 


"Who are you?" 


viable alternative to ranching. 


Sample: fine paste of | assorted insects and arachnids. 

Result: reconstructed arthropods behaving as flies. All females 
produced SCP-726 eggs. 

Note: This likely wouldn't happen in the wild; dead insects are 
neither meaty nor malodorous enough to attract blowflies. It takes a 
substantial quantity decomposing under moist conditions to 
reproduce the same breeding environment as a vertebrate corpse. 


Sample: fine paste of | normal adult blowflies matching the species 
of SCP-726 larvae. 

Result: single, abnormally huge fly. Quickly expired. 

Note: That was unexpected. Too bad about the square cube law, I'd 
have loved to observe it further. 


Sample: one (1) fillet of salmon. 

Result: one (1) mature, male salmon. Convulsed violently as though 
"drowning" when placed in water. Flopped haphazardly when 
removed from liquid but did not display stress as it asphyxiated. 


Sample: one (1) fried calamari ring. 

Result: one (1) adult male squid, immediately placed in pool of 
water. Writhed helplessly until removed from liquid. Dragged itself 
crudely with tentacles, actively consumed fecal matter and 
decomposing flesh. SCP-726 properties in sperm sample. 


Sample: one (1) fast food cheeseburger purchased from drive 
through. 

Result: SCP-726 reconstituted two mature cattle and Norwegian 
rats. 


Sample: one (1) can of commercially available "potted meat food 
product". Analysis showed beef and pork derivatives, high fructose 
corn syrup and 12 FDA-approved preservative agents. 

Result: [DATA EXPUNGED] 

Note: What the were those even remotely supposed to be? 


Sample: single corpse from previous experiment, ground into paste. 
Result: [REDACTED] exhibiting extreme hostility to moving objects. 
All termination attempts failed. Specimen frozen. 


"A forgotten friend." 
Green flipped his phone shut, confused about the anonymous tip. 


the fifth of first is strategy 
The fifth of second, a Friday show. 
The Fifth Of Last Is Settled Scores 
CONCURRENCE HENCE TO NEVER KNOW 
« Snipped From The Same Cloth | Hub | Eulogy For The Living » 


Eulogy For The Living 


NOTE: This is Part 22 of the 23 part series, The Cool 
War. Reading this part first is a very bad idea and will 
spoil a lot of the story. 


"Ruiz Duchamp." 


Ruiz stirred, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he woke himself up. 
He went to stretch his arms, but was stopped by the clanking metal 
restraints chaining him to the table. He looked up, staring into the 
terse face of Agent Green. 


"Fuck." 


Agent Green had taken every possible precaution. The remainder of 
MTF Upsilon-18 were stationed outside the containment chamber; in 
retrospect, the last breach was only possible because Green was 
alone. The room was vacuum-sealed, with no methods of opening 
the door from the inside. Cameras observed every nook and cranny 
of the room, even well outside the visible spectrum. Green opened a 
thick Manila folder, spreading photographs and incident reports 
across the table. 


"You've gotten our attention, Mister Duchamp. Seventy-three 
anomalies recovered in the last six months. All of which have your 
name on them." 


Ruiz leant as far over the table as his restraints would let him, 
looking at the pictures before falling back into a seated position, 
grinning. 


"You're missing a few." 


Green drove his right fist into Duchamp's jaw; Ruiz jerked roughly in 
his chains, then rubbed his chin gingerly, grin dissolved. Green 
moved closer, staring into Duchamp's eyes as menacingly as he 


could. 
"You do not speak unless | ask you a question. Is that understood?" 


Duchamp remained silent. Green sat down on his seat again, 
straightening his tie. 


"Glad to see we can do this the easy way, Mister Duchamp." 
Green sorted through the photographs, picking one out at random. 


"Let's have a look at this one, hm? 'Bells And Whistles’. A 
noisemaker. A public nuisance. You want to know what we did to 
this, Mister Duchamp?" 


"No." 


"We destroyed it. We put the thing in a trash compactor and 
squeezed until it went silent." 


Green slid two photographs across the table; one was an intricately 
fashioned golden quadruped, shooting steam from vents along its 
back. The other was a shiny cubical brick. 


"Before and after. Mister Duchamp, this is not art. It is not clever. It 
is not thought-provoking. It is not 'cool’. It is simply annoying. Let's 
look at another one. Ah, | remember this. '| Know You’re Going To 
Fuck This Up, You Assholes, Why Can’t You Just Learn To Leave 
Well Enough Alone’... so on and so forth. And, indeed, fuck it up we 
did. Now it's just a pile of broken glass. | keep a fragment of it on my 
desk, just to remind me of how it shattered into a thousand pieces. 
What was the purpose of that work, Mister Duchamp?" 


"For you to break it.” 


"Well, I'm glad to have played right into your hands. What an 
amazing statement you made! What a revolutionary masterpiece. 
This is sarcasm, Mister Duchamp, in case you couldn't recognise it. 
You clearly don't have much of a mind for subtlety." 


Ruiz tapped his fingers against each other. It wasn't the restraints 
that were getting to him, nor Green's criticism of his work; it was the 


lack of stimuli. He started to spin the sides of an imaginary Rubik's 
cube, thinking of the clacking of plastic against plastic. Green stared 
at the fidgeting artist. 


"Pay attention, Mister Duchamp. We're about to get to the most 


important part. 'The Hanged King's Tragedy’. 
Ruiz looked up suddenly. 
"That wasn't m-" 


Green slammed a left hook against Ruiz's cheekbone, growling at 
him like a rabid dog. 


"THAT WAS NOT A QUESTION, MISTER DUCHAMP." 


Ruiz rubbed his cheek as it started to bruise, glaring angrily at Agent 
Green. 


“The Hanged King's Tragedy’... SCP-701, we call it. See, what you 
have done has broken our containment procedures, Mister 
Duchamp, and we do not take kindly to that. Sure, stupid scraps of 
anart, we get that all the time. We'll clean up your messes, we don't 
care. But this? This performance constituted a containment breach. 
That changes our operational procedure quite a bit." 


Green sat down, scratching his chin as Duchamp fidgeted in his 
seat. 


"Mister Duchamp, we are going to terminate you." 


Ruiz felt his heart skip a beat. The conversation had become too... 
real. He raised his hand as much as his restraints allowed. 


"Yes?" 
"It wasn't me." 


"We have verified sources that say otherwise. Do you have any 
proof?" 


"Sandra Paulson's immune to hypnotics... as am |, by the way. This 


stuff's just making me drowsy." 


Agent Green stared at Duchamp, observing as he scratched where 
the needle had filled him with a scopolamine cocktail. He thought for 
a few moments, then continued. 


"Do you know who provided Sandra Paulson with that document?" 
"Oh, yeah. The Sculptor." 

Agent Green raised his eyebrows. 

"Do you know where The Sculptor is?" 

"Haven't been tracking the real one for days. Stupid clones." 

"Are you aware of the incident involving The Sculptor this morning?" 
"Oh, yeah. You guys were shooting at me for a bit." 

Green frowned, moving closer. 

"You were inside 16 Hartford Street?" 

"Yep. For a while before you were." 

"Why?" 

"A private issue. Family matters."