Joey joined them in the loungeroom. 

“Hey! Put the apple back in the bowl!” 
Overgang took a bite out of the apple, staring directly at Joey and 
chewing slowly with as much of a grin as one can muster with a 
mouthful of food. Tangerine snickered. 
“Whatever, I’ve got more.” 

“Anyway, why are we here?” 

“Alright. Okay. Wooo. Here it goes.” 

Joey breathed in, mentally preparing himself. 


“We need to get rid of The Critic.” 


Overgang and Tangerine stared at Joey’s uncertain, pleading face. 


Then they looked at each other quizzically, and then back. 
Overgang asked the question they both wanted answered. 


“Why?” 
“| don’t think you understand, | said we need to-” 
“Get rid of The Critic, yes. Why?” 


“Well, | was thinking about the exhibition on Friday, right, how it’s all 
being organised by The Critic’s lot, yeah?” 


“Yeah.” 


“Yeah, and pretty much all of the exhibitions that we go to are set up 
by him or another person with a ‘The’ in their name. They’re the 
ones driving our culture, right? They’re the ones who shape it, they 
choose the where and the when. And The Critic, his name itself 
implies authority, yeah? How long until their lot starts to dictate the 
why? They’re taking us and turning us into chesspieces, they're 
pointing us towards venues and firing, and we’re just filing into line 
like mindless drones. That’s the opposite of the point. The whole 
point of us used to be to wake people up from being mindless 
drones, but with the way it’s going, The Critic’s taking us all and 
doing the SAME FUCKING THING!” 


Overgang sat staring, shocked. 

“| think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say fuck, Joey.” 
“Well, this is something worth swearing about.” 

Tangerine looked concerned. 

“Hey, what started this?” 

Joey held out a banged up Betamax tape. 

“| got this in the mail this morning. Opened my eyes a bit.” 


Tangerine looked at the tape, then passed it to Overgang. On the 
side of the tape, ‘GLORIOUS LEADERS WHILE TALKING 


(UNCUT)’ had been scribbled in felt-tip pen. Overgang examined the 
side, feeling along the plastic edge before commenting. 


“| didn’t know you had a Betamax player.” 
“| didn’t, Molly had one. You want to watch it?” 
“Give the gist to me in a sentence.” 


“Recorded video of a discussion between The Critic and the 
cameraman, followed by discussion amongst his cabal, followed by 
avid conversation between the lot of them about how they want to 
guide everyone. One of them literally calls us sheep.” 


Tangerine grimaced. 

“That’s pretty heavy handed.” 

“Yeah. | don’t take kindly to being herded.” 

“So then. ‘Get rid of The Critic’. You have a plan?” 


“Well, not necessarily ‘get rid of’, that’s a bit strong. Perhaps just 
‘make irrelevant’. We need to take this stuff into our own hands, we 
need to show them that we don’t need to follow their lead, and we 
need to do this as soon as possible. Friday’s show is still on, and 
with The Director out of the picture, this is our best chance to show 
everyone that we can put on a show without the ‘shepherds’. Call 
everyone, call Arsehole, call Nibman, call Rita, call FTF, call Stanza, 
fuck, call Banksy if he’s in town. We get everyone at this exhibition 
and we show them we’re not their livestock, they can’t control us, 
we're all equals and that’s the fucking point. The guys who think 
they rule us, who don’t actually do anything for themselves, who sit 
on our output and slap their labels on it, who mindlessly ask ‘Are We 
Cool Yet’? We’re going to answer that question on Friday. And our 
answer is Yes.” 


Tangerine and Overgang were struck mute. Joey began to panic. 
“Wait, did | say something stupid? What did | say?” 


Overgang regained his faculties. 


“No, no, no, that’s really good. That’s fucking gold, | wish I'd been 
recording that. Damn. Lemme call Arsehole’s lot and FTF, Tan, you 
know Nibman, right?” 


“Yeah, I’ve got Nibman on speed dial. You want Nate and Kyle, 
too?” 


“Everyone means everyone, Tan. Joey, what are you doing standing 
there? Call Stanza’s lot, Micah and Judith too! You said it yourself! 
Call everyone!” 


Joey pulled out his smartphone and started tapping the screen. 
Overgang was already on the line with Arsehole. Tangerine started 
calling Nibman, internally screaming at himself for doing so. 


Green was going to be pissed. 


Good artists copy, great artists steal. ~ Pablo Picasso Me 
« And Then What Happened? | Hub | Final Attack Orders » 


Final Attack Orders 


Pico Wilson sat in the middle of his corpse pile. 


The Sculptor was talking at The Painter; The Painter talking at The 
Composer; The Composer was talking at The Builder; The Builder 
was talking at The Sculptor. The Snipper sat atop his throne, saying 
nothing to anyone and not being spoken at, the only person in the 
room actually listening. All of them wanted attention but him. 


“I’m telling you, we mock them through ear worms and jingles! They 
won't be able to get it out of their heads, they aren't free in their own 
minds!” 


“No, we literally turn their art into adverts and billboards! The 
corporatisation of artistic expression kills its meaning!” 


“We can literally grow a gallery around them, the ultimate display of 
power! Forcing them within the confines of the institution!” 


“Just sculpt our own artists to take their places, claiming themselves 
to be the original creators! The real ones won't know what to do!” 


The Snipper played little attention to the squabbling. Surrounded by 
petulant children, he thought, snapping out some of his subjects’ ribs 
and stabbing them into the dead man’s legs. How the hell does The 
Critic even keep them in line? 


The answer to that question kicked open the door. Immediately, all 
conversation was dropped, all disagreements put aside, and all 
heads turned to face The Janitor. 


The Janitor towered tall, a long black trenchcoat stopping just short 
of its knees. It was definitely an ‘it’; the presence was not of a 
human but an immutable force of reality. Its face was entirely 
obscured by a gas mask; it wore a pitch fabric that hurt to look at. 
Where it moved, lights seemed to flicker and disappear, physical 


unexplained disappearances of several local youths. When 
ascended, SCP-723 induces rapid aging in the case of living 
subjects, and decay in the case of non-living materials. This effect 
seems to initiate after the fourth or fifth step has been climbed, each 
subsequent step inducing further aging or decay respectively. 
Subjects ascending the stairs have not indicated any feelings of pain 
or discomfort, and seem untroubled by their rapid transformation 
(with the exclusion of Experiment-723-A-9). Once an ascent has 
begun, subjects have no inclination of returning to the base of 
SCP-723. Although it is yet to be determined conclusively whether 
this is a compulsion is caused by SCP-723's effects or a result of 
physical changes in the brain, the former is considered more 
probable. 


Stairs and church are characteristic of the pre-Romanesque 
architectural style. Historical research indicates that the building 
containing SCP-723 was indeed a functioning church dating from at 
least the 9th century, if not earlier, however recent archaeological 
investigations suggest that Roman architecture existed on the site 
predating the construction of the church. The site has undergone 
several major repairs since its construction, but is believed to have 
fallen into disuse some time during the 11th century. Although no 
specific records exist, local folklore suggests the building was 
abandoned during this time coinciding with a series of suspicious 
deaths, and distrust of the church remains within the local 
population. This same folklore references a ‘sacred stair’, which is 
believed to be a reference to SCP-723. It is not known whether 
SCP-723 gained its properties at this time, or whether they existed 
prior to this event. 


Due to the spiral structure of SCP-723, direct observation of 
anything past a single story is impossible. Electronic equipment 
such as video and sound recorders or GPS locators have been 
shown to undergo a similar aging process to subjects, and 
transmitted signals typically fail after a single story has been scaled, 
making further observation problematic. This has been somewhat 
circumvented by the use of cables directly linking observers to the 
subject, allowing video contact to remain until the second story, and 
audio until the fourth. A series of experiments were conducted 
commencing 20 to determine the nature and extent of SCP-723. 


objects looked intangible and transient, the impossible was certain 
and certainties could not even be conceived. The Janitor walked into 
the room, wooden floor creaking to accommodate the immense 
pressure, and it glanced towards the corpse pile. The Snipper 
looked directly into the black eyeholes, and in that instant, his 
stomach turned, his throat tightened, his heart started beating faster 
and the hairs on his arms stood on end. For the first time in his life, 
The Snipper felt the sweet rush of love. Well, that or fear. He’d never 
felt either before, and from what he had heard, the two seemed very 
similar. He knew one caused attraction, and the other repulsion, and 
yet here he stood immobile and completely awestruck by the being 
in front of him. He blurted out the one thing he knew, from an artistic 
perspective, was objectively true. 


“You are beautiful.” 


He numbly offered The Janitor a cracked rib, grinning dumbly while 
shaking. The Janitor cocked its head to one side, as if confused, 
then took the rib and placed it inside an inner trenchcoat pocket. A 
heavily obscured, almost mechanical voice buzzed from the 
diaphragm of the gas mask, and yet the words were clear enough to 
be understood by all. 


“You know not what you have offered me. | may well craft Eve from 
this rib.” 


The Snipper’s grin, somehow, widened even more. 


“Then shall | consider you my Yahweh, my Jehovah, my lord and 
god?” 


“lam not a god. | am simply a hand.” 

“The hand of a god, then!” 

“lam my own hand. Nobody thinks themself a god.” 
“Nobody does, indeed.” 


The Painter and The Composer shared glances, The Builder actively 
stared at his feet, and The Sculptor felt somewhat ambivalent to the 
whole affair, breaking the conversation. 


“Get a fucking room. We’re busy.” 
The Janitor turned its head to face The Sculptor. 
“Apologies, Sculptor. To business, then. To the topic of Friday.” 


“Right. Well, you’re obviously here to sit in on the plans. | want you 
standing by as an ace in the hole in case things go south, you can 
probably keep track of everything from one of the nearby rooftops.” 


“| was planning on doing so regardless. The Director had requested 
such before her accident.” 


“Good. Now | think, perhaps, it would be interesting if we used a bit 
of a multi-pronged approach here. We've all got good ideas, we all 
think we’ve got the best ones... why not just go for all of them at 
once?” 


The Painter interjected. 


“We still need to organise ourselves, else we'll be tripping over each 
other’s feet the whole time.” 


“True. So, everyone — Janitor excluded, of course — put your plans 
down on paper, set a timetable, and we can work around it all. 
Here.” 


The Sculptor passed pens and paper to everyone in the room. 
Everyone began to scribble down notes, The Janitor dutifully 
standing in silence. The Snipper finished writing, and started to fold 
his paper into a small origami flower. He began his conversation 
with The Janitor anew. 


“So what do you look like under the mask?” 


The Janitor turned. The Sculptor scowled, but continued his own 
writing. 


“Under the mask | am something else.” 


“Do you ever take it off? Like, if you get itchy or something?” 


“| remove the mask when | am not needed.” 
“And then what?” 

“And then | am not me.” 

The Snipper scratched his head. 

“But you are you, though.” 


“The me that is this me is not the only me. This is the me that wears 
a mask. The face beneath this face, perhaps, considers itself a 
mask concealing me.” 


“Oh, so it’s like a split personality shindig. A bit cliché, but hell, who 
am | to judge, right?” 


The Janitor remained silent. 

“So, you’re not planning anything for Friday then?” 

“My role differs. | am not an artist.” 

“Everyone’s an artist.” 

“| cannot create.” 

“Not all art is in the creation of things. Hell, look at me.” 


The Snipper removed a kidney from his subject, rubbing his finger 
along the rubbery flesh. 


“| do not wish to be an artist.” 
“Then you're a critic?” 
“I do not judge. | observe.” 


“That’s just silly. Observation is inherently judgemental. You choose 
to observe things worthy of your attention; your choice of what to 
watch is a judgement.” 


The Janitor remained silent. The Sculptor placed his pen down on 


the table, a detailed itinerary of his exhibit completed. 
“Stop bugging The Janitor. If you’re done, hand over your paper.” 


The Snipper threw his completed paper flower over to The Sculptor, 
who began to unfold it with poorly veiled anger. 


“So you clean up after us, yeah?” 

“That is correct.” 

“No matter how much mess we make?” 

“That is correct.” 

“If | nuked the city, could you clean it up?” 

The Painter interjected. 

“Don’t nuke the city.” 

“Don't tell me what to do! Could you?” 

The Janitor placed a gloved hand to its chin. It thought for a few 


seconds, The Snipper’s face grinning madly at confounding his new 
friend. 


“Yes.” 
“How?” 
The Janitor remained silent. 


“Oh come on, don’t be a cocktease. How would you do it?” 


The Janitor turned to look at The Snipper. Pico’s body was 
overcome with the same primal shock that he felt when first seeing 
it, shivers running down his spine and losing feeling in his 
extremities. 


“Alright, whatever. | guess I'll just have to find out the hard way.” 


The Painter yelled louder than before. 


“DON’T NUKE THE CITY!” 

“Sigh. Fucking spoilsport.” 

The Sculptor completed unfolding the piece of paper. 
“What the fuck is this?” 


He held it up for all to see. The only words on the piece of paper 
were drawn in blood, spelling out ‘CORPSES FOR THE CORPSE 
THRONE’. 


“| think | was direct and to the point with my itinerary.” 
“You’re just going to be exhibiting piles of corpses?” 
“Yes.” 


“...you know what? I’m fine with that. It’s simple, it’s creepy, and 
some people will probably just run the fuck away. Straight and to the 
point. Good job, Snipper. Glad to have you onboard.” 


“Snip snip snip.” 


“No. Don’t try and make that a thing that you do. That’s not a thing. 
Everyone else done?” 


The Builder and The Painter passed back their papers, The 
Composer having long ago written down his song list. The Sculptor 
appraised their plans. 


“This is good. This is really good, actually... Bob, you'll have to 
move your plan around so you're not getting in Robbo’s way, your 
gallery’s going to start blocking the adverts if you have it coming up 
through the alleyways.” 


The Builder offered a solution. 


“l’ll have the gallery mimic the surrounding wall decorations, 
anything you've done can move through to inside. Actually, scratch 
that, I’ll just stick windows around everything you do.” 


The Painter nodded in agreement. 


“I'll send you a map of the whole plan tomorrow morning, we can 
figure it out by the night.” 


“Sounds like a plan.” 
The Sculptor continued.