"Don't make me punch you again, Mister Duchamp. It's harder to 
understand someone with a broken jaw." 


"| was recovering my brother." 

"Your brother?" 

"Pico Wilson. The Snipper." 

Green frowned, trying to hide his confusion. 


"Different surnames?" 


"Changed mine five years ago. Never made it formal; I'm not known 
as Duchamp in any paper records." 


"| see. Are you aware that your brother has similarly acted against 
our organisation?" 


"In a non-specific fashion." 


"Like you, he was involved in a containment breach. A substantially 
more serious one." 


"| wasn't-" 


Green drew back his fist; Duchamp cut off mid-sentence before a 
blow could be delivered. 


"Only when | ask a question. Mister Duchamp, if what you say is 
true, and Miss Paulson and yourself are immune to hypnotic effects, 
then nothing that you tell me has any weight. Your words, and hers, 
now mean nothing. Her word against yours, and neither can be 
verified. That said, given your forthrightness in providing answers, | 
have no reason to doubt you." 


Green moved to the door, pressing a button for the intercom. 


"Alcorn, can you look up records on a 'Pico Wilson’... look up 'Ruiz 
Wilson’, while you're at it." 


"Understood." 

Green turned around, then sat back down at the table. 
"Mister... Wilson." 

Ruiz squirmed, uneasy at the use of his birthname. 


"| have no proof of your relation to the SCP-701 breach. You have 
no proof against it. | would tend to err on the side of leniency, but 
given your track record, I'm not feeling particularly generous. See, 
Mister Wilson, in this room, | am the judge. | am the jury. And, 
should | find you guilty, | am the executioner." 


Green unholstered his pistol, pointing it squarely towards Ruiz's 
head. 


"If Agent Alcorn returns to this room, and any of what you said turns 
out to have been a lie, | am pulling this trigger." 


Ruiz stared down the barrel of the gun, feeling drops of sweat form 
around his hairline, slowly sliding down his face. Green closed his 
left eye, positioning his right one along the sights. 


"Feeling scared, Mister Wilson? If you've been honest, there's 
nothing to fear." 


The two of them sat in silence for one minute, then two. The vacuum 
seal on the chamber resisted all sound; Ruiz heard his pulse 
throbbing in his ears. The intercom buzzed. 


"Found your files, Green." 


Green stood, moving to the small metal cube and pushing the talk 
button. Ruiz exhaled a breath he hadn't noticed he was keeping in. 


"Relation?" 
"Brothers." 
"Thanks, Alcorn. | think we're almost done in here." 


Green moved back to the table, taking his seat again. Ruiz was 
faintly smiling, relieved at his imminent release. 


"Don't celebrate just yet, Mister Wilson. There's still no pressing 
reason to keep you alive." 


Ruiz swung from elation to fear in an instant. 


"We do, however, need to bring your brother in for questioning. And, 
unfortunately, you are the best lead we have on him." 


Green scratched his chin, contemplating the best course of action. 
Ideally, Ruiz would default to their side, acting as willing bait for his 
sibling... but, of course, his resistance to hypnotics made him 


untrustworthy at best. They needed to keep him under control, within 
their surveillance, without any risk of him running off. They needed 
to keep him unaware. They needed to make him boring. 


And then, through a spark of genius, Green had an idea. 


"Mister Wilson, you say you have a resistance to hypnotics. How do 
you respond to amnestics?" 


Ruiz felt the blood drain from his face. 
"Poorly. Very, very poorly." 
Green laughed. 


"Well, | don't see a downside here." 


the rest was forgotten 
AS WAS THE WORLD 


Ruiz rubbed the grit from his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the 
middle of the gallery. During the middle of the day. For several 
hours. While standing up. Again. 


Ruiz looked at the digital watch on his right wrist. It was 3:45 pm. 
Ruiz looked at the analogue watch on his left wrist. It was 3:45 pm. 


Ruiz looked at the pocket watch in the painting in front of him. It was 
melting onto a tree branch, and had likely not been wound for some 
time. Ruiz knew not to trust readings from surrealistic timepieces, 
and pouted at the piece. That said, however, it was still 3:45 pm. 


Ruiz walked past the reception, out the door, three doors down the 
street, entered a coffee shop, and asked for an espresso. 


He picked up the cup and turned to leave. The barista talked to his 
back as he walked out. 


“You feeling okay, Ruiz?” 


He turned to the concerned girl behind the counter. 
"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks." 


He walked out, sipping his coffee. He'd have to learn that girl's name 
one day. 


confusion then acceptance 
STOLEN FROM ONESELF 


Ruiz returned to his studio, finding it filled with various deathtraps. 
He massaged his temples, trying to drown out his pervasive 
headache. When had he put this together? He looked at the plaques 
by the installation, confused at the purposeful misspelling of various 
words. It looked complete, he thought; may as well open it up to the 
public. 


thus came the beginning 
THE REST WAS CONTEXT 


“Three people have died from your exhibition.” 
“They signed waivers.” 
“ve got people breathing down my neck, here.” 


“They all signed waivers. They knew what they were getting into, 
they were consenting adults.” 


Ruiz Duchamp’s latest exhibition was, he believed, his masterpiece. 
An installation that had taken him five months in total to construct, 
‘wowwee go kill ursefl’ was his homage to stupidity. How he'd come 
up with the idea still seemed to escape him, and yet, it was one of 
his best. He had jumped through so many hoops to absolve himself 
of responsibility, and yet he was still being slammed by The Man. It 
was ridiculous. 


“They're demanding you get rid of the smallpox.” 


One of the most popular parts of ‘wowwee’ was ‘stab ursefl with 
nedles’. It was simply an open box containing needles with samples 
of the most virulent diseases and deadly poisons in the history of 
mankind. This was how one of the people had died, after wilfully 
injecting himself with a deadly dose of everything. Whenever anyone 
asked how he obtained such things, he simply shrugged his 
shoulders and said he had his ways. 


“| won't compromise the integrity of the piece to accommodate for 
morons.” 


“You're going to have to. And the blades have to go too.” 


The noisiest pieces in the hall, ‘shuv ur figners in blads no. 1-5’, 
were simply high rotation carbon steel circular saws. They had been 
painted in bright, primary colours, but besides that, they were 
perfectly normal, and could easily remove a hand. Two hands had 
been wilfully removed by critics. Ruiz hated The Critics. He couldn't 
quite recall why. 


“There are warnings everywhere. The whole point of the piece is to 
put people in easily avoidable, but very real danger. If you 
recontextualise any of it, it's worthless.” 


“Not good enough.” 
“You're marching to the drum of The Man.” 
“I’m trying to save people’s lives.” 


“You're trying to save idiots who shove their fingers into bloody 
saws.” 


“THE NAME OF THE PIECE TOLD THEM TO!” 


“Hell, at least | didn’t name anything ‘jump off a bridge’. What a 
catastrophe that would have been.” 


Every piece in the exhibit was designed to kill or, at the very least, 
grievously injure. The one fear that Ruiz had was that some 
particularly idiotic person would use them to kill or, at the very least, 
grievously injure another person. Fortunately, this had not yet 


Note: / liquefied it and it kept moving. 


Sample: thawed sample of previous result. 

Result: [REDACTED] exhibiting properties similar to SCP- 
Incinerated. 

Note: /'m not taking these tests any further. | might even put Brundle 
down. 


Addendum: Testing of SCP-726 has been discontinued following 
Dr. 's recent findings. Requests to use tissue generated by 
SCP-726 for experimentation with SCP-1361 and similar anomalies 
have subsequently been denied. The samples at Site-17 should be 
closely monitored for any inconsistent behavior or abnormal growth. 


« SCP-725 | SCP-726 | SCP-727 » 


occurred. The very thought of killing another human being repulsed 
him. 


“We've already taken the C4 from you.” 


“What? Nobody even used ‘press buten 4 firwroks’, this is downright 
puritanical!” 


“Safety comes first. You can’t pull shit like this in my gallery.” 
“You're ruining the vision. You saw it before.” 


“The work’s been recontextualised, the police weren't breathing 
down my fucking neck. You need to make everything safe or you 
need to get it out of here. | regret it, and you know | love the piece, 
but people are just too stupid for it.” 


“THAT. IS. THE PURPOSE. OF THE WORK. If you’re too stupid to 
not know to sit in an electric chair and pull the lever, it’s your own 
damn fault. Their blood is my canvas.” 


“| know. | get it. But get it somewhere else. Sorry.” 


Ruiz was disappointed. He walked into his favourite room, passing 
the box of cyanide pills saying ‘Complementary, Please Take One’. 
He moved past the automatic countdown guillotines. He looked 
passively beyond ‘here paly wit thes knivs’. He had one piece that 
he’d been saving for a particularly disappointing event. He closed 
the airtight door, and breathed slowly. 


Everyone was a fucking idiot. 
Nobody got it. 
Nobody REALLY got it. 
Nobody? 
Nobody. 


nobody 
Nobody. 


Nobody 
NOBODY 


Nobody at all. 
this isn't right 


As he turned the knob, liquid nitrogen sprayed across his scalp and 
flesh. 


His final thoughts were that it didn’t matter. 


DIDN'T MATTER? 


doesn't matter 
His Final Thoughts Were That It Never Mattered 
At least he got it. 


He really got it. 
He Got It? 


GOT 
IT? 


he got it 

He got it. 

He Got It 
HE GOT IT 


And that was all he needed. 


‘take shwoer 2 b cul’ 


what a stupid name 


Sometimes, Ruiz, things just... | don't know how to say. Perhaps | 
would call it... ‘reversion’. Sometimes things revert, have you 
noticed? It's as though we were living on the edge of a coin. A knife, 
even. Sometimes things revert and the world feels horribly different. 
Can you feel it? You've felt it, haven't you? 


But there's just something about my brain. 

It's been twisted, you understand, twisted by a man who thought it 
would be fun. 

Or perhaps not. 

Perhaps he kept me the same and twisted the world. 


How could you even tell? 


death followed 


You are cordially invited to the funeral of 
RUIZ EDWARD DAVID DUCHAMP 
An Artist 


the six of one is peace and joy 
The six of second, censorship. 
The Sixth Of Third Is Start Revealed 
A BIRD'S FRESH WINGS HAVE THUS BEEN SNIPPED 
« Brotherhood | Hub | wowwee u kild ursefl » 


wowwee U kild ursefl 


NOTE: This is final part 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. 


The Sculptor walked confidently to the grimy wooden door. He 
turned the brass knob, then pulled the door open. 


The Janitor sat in front of him, its arms crossed across its chest. The 
regular, dull wheeze of the gas mask buzzed throughout the 
cramped, dilapidated room. The Sculptor let the door swing shut 
behind him with a small metallic click. He smirked at the masked 
figure. 


“Well? Am | The Critic Yet?” 
The Janitor remained motionless. 
“Yes.” 


The Sculptor’s smirk widened to a smile, teeth grinning at his new 
slave. 


“Brilliant. Brilliant.” 


The Sculptor looked down, staring at his muddy, clay-encrusted 
hands. 


“Fucking BRILLIANT.” 


He let his head swing back, wildly cackling at the roof, eyes wide 
open, ecstasy spilling from every pore of his being. 


He had won. 


“Up you get, Janitor. We’ve got work to do.” 


The Janitor stood up, cape billowing out from behind it. The Sculptor 
turned to the door, ready to leave the fray victorious. He grabbed the 
brass knob, then twiste- 


Wait. 

The Sculptor tried to twist the- 

What? 

The Sculptor frustratedly rattled the doorknob, then spun around. 
“Janitor, open this fucking...” 

The Janitor was gone, a small pink walkie-talkie left on its seat. 
“FUUUUUUCK.” 


The Sculptor looked around the room; he hadn't noticed before, but 
there were no windows from which to escape. There were no air 
vents, there was no plumbing system. The only way out of the room 
was through the door or through the walls. A single, flickering 
incandescent light bulb glowed obstinately from the roof. The walkie- 
talkie buzzed, a feminine voice coming through. 


“Hello Sculptor. | want to play a game.” 


The Sculptor’s jaw dropped. He ran over and grabbed the walkie 
talkie, holding down the talk button. 


“Fuck. FUCK. FUCK YOU, DIRECTOR. FUCK FUCK FUCKITY 
FUCK FUCK.” 


The Sculptor released the button. The walkie-talkie released a sigh. 


“See, that lack of creativity is why you’re here. You don’t even swear 
colourfully. What an utter absence of artistic vision. What a 
talentless hack you are.” 


The Sculptor threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, stomping on it 
and snapping the cheap pink plastic. He turned and kicked the door, 
trying to gain some leverage. The broken device on the ground 


transmitted a laugh. 


“No, you're not getting out that way. Nor any other way, 
unfortunately. See, | at least have the foresight to plan for some 
contingencies.” 


The Sculptor ignored the speech, driving his fists into the unyielding 
wood, screaming bland variants of the word “fuck”. The flickering 
light cast deep shadows along the walls, occasionally plunging the 
whole room into complete darkness. 


“You're going to want to turn around.” 


The Sculptor ceased his assault, looking over his shoulder. A large 
wooden crate stood behind him, occasionally rattling. A muddy red 
substance was leaking out onto the ground. The Sculptor breathed 
deeply in apprehension, getting a pungent whiff of blood and shit. 
His face paled, his eyes widened. His life flashed before his eyes as 
he whispered a single word. 


“Uscisk.” 
The Director cut in with a parting remark. 
“I'd say it was nice knowing you. But it wasn't.” 


The flickering incandescent light bulb turned off for an instant. The 
Director held her ear to the walkie-talkie. A crunching of wood, a 
stifled scream, and then a final, echoing crack. 


The Director pensively sipped her coffee. 


“Joeeeeeeeey, I’m booooooored.” 


Rita patted one of her invisible spiders’ bristles (or setae, as she 
knew was the formal name). She lazily lied across the back seats of 
the van; Overgang sat typing on his laptop in the centre (looking at 
the screen through his sunglasses, of course), while Joey and Molly 
sat in the two front seats (Molly being seated behind the wheel). 


“Go downstairs, then. We’ve got some video games in there 


somewhere.” 


Rita sat up, past over Overgang to reach the front seats. She 
frowned at him. 


“Joey, this is a van. Vans do not have a downstairs.” 
Joey stared back at her, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hatch in the middle, watch your step.” 

Rita spun around, furrowing her brow in confusion. 
“Overgang, move your feet.” 


Overgang shuffled to his right, making room for Rita to slide open 
the carpeted trapdoor. She sat and dangled her feet into the hole; 
with a quick hand gesture, her pet spiders all moved down through 
ahead of her. She grabbed onto the ladder, and started descending 
into the non-Euclidean room.