Incident 2547-55(cont'd): Following SCP-2547-1's 
disappearance and the subsequent dispersal of 
SCP-2547, amnestics were not administered, due to the 
Nexus Interaction Protocols of Nx-0018 and the lack of 
damage caused to Sloth's Pit as a whole. This marks the 
only SCP-2547 manifestation to date with zero civilian 
casualties. 


Following this, SCP-2547 manifestations have dropped 
off by a further 15%. Other Nexuses with Interaction 
Protocols similar to Nx-0018 are to be monitored for 
manifestations of SCP-2547. 


Hub 


Footnotes 

1. Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin is home to four different churches of 
various Christian denominations, as well as a small synagogue; 
most communities affected by SCP-2547 have only one church or 
house of worship. 


Crier 


It still rains in the sites, y'know? 


Sure, it ain't the usual. The lightning always strikes warehouse five. 
The rain never really seems to hit'cha. But it still pours, it still 
thunders, it still rains. 


There's still the scents, the aches, the pains. lron, bloody scent, 
never washing out, always cuttin’ through the petrichor. Probably 
why most folks stay inside. Easier not to smell. 


There's still the drops clinging to the windows, illuminating the 
spotlights, slicking the guard dogs' coats as they whimper, rustin' the 
rifles, forever outstretched into the darkness. Probably why most 
folks close their blinds. Easier not to see. 


There's still the rapping on the windows, on the roofs, lettin’ itself be 
known, sloughing off the eaves like individual Niagaras. There's still 
the flowing through the gutters as the torrents are routed. Probably 

why most folks wear some headphones. Easier not to hear. 


But it never rains down on us. Never rains down on me, y'know? 


| ended up purchasin' a waterproof pad, a waterproof pen, and every 
time it starts, even though it ain't too often, | pack up my things and 
head out, just sit for a while. Still gotta work, still gotta write 
documents, but there's a... call. | couldn't tell ya what draws me to it. 
All | can tell ya is that | gotta smell it, gotta see it, gotta hear it. 


The blood chokes you, the downpour blinds you, the thunder 
deafens you. 


But you never get wet. | never get wet, y'know? 


| never really get to go offsite, nobody ever really does anymore, but 
rumor has it that it follows ya wherever ya go. It's like the water 


bends around ya. 's funny. I've been to... lotta sites. Seen it happen 
with the snow, seen it happen with the hail. You name a 
precipitation, I've seen it. But they ain't the same. 


Nothin's ever the same as the rain. 


When... When | was a kid, | used to always run out. Even in the 
thunderstorms. There was the draw then too, y'know. To smell the 
fuckin’ dirt smell. To see the drops wickin' off your skin. To feel the 
pitter-patter on your face, to close your eyes, to lose your tears in 
the rain. 


| ain't a kid anymore. | got a job, got lives in my hands. Human race 
‘n all. But I still cry, | still cry in the rain. 


| miss the dirt. | miss the feeling. | miss feeling... cleansed. 


Critiquing A Cardboard Box 


An ancient exhaust fan screeches to life on the roof of my 
downtown-warehouse-turned-studio. 


| can relate, as | too struggle to start off on a positive note. 


| stall for a few minutes with a show of close inspection, gathering 
my thoughts. | have to grin a little as | do. A graffiti-coated magic 
refrigerator box. He certainly gets points for whimsy, if nothing else. 
That doesn't really help the situation, though. Critique may be the 
most important part of an artist's development, but it's often also the 
most painful... for both student and teacher. 


| know already this is going to be one such critique. 


But its still always nice to start with a positive comment when you 
can. 


“This right here; the passive recharging construct? This is clever.” 


My student breaks into a lopsided grin. It doesn't take much to flatter 
a young artist, but | do mean it. It's the sort of strangely brilliant 
kludge built out of guesswork and duct tape only a novice at the 
Craft of sculpting reality comes up with, before they know it shouldn't 
work. 


“How in the heck did you do that anyway... wait, now | think | see. 
Okay that's really clever. Just, um, don't use that trick again until you 
get the hang of warding... and | get the chance to stock up on 
Prussian Blue...” 


Amazing what you learn when you teach. The way the aura keeps 
flickering is more than a little concerning, and | haven't completely 
figured out yet how he scribed the thing without blowing up his 
apartment, but with some refinement... | have some sketching to do 


later. 


“Now then, as to the rest of the piece...where to start? Decent 
flexibility on the conditional triggers...not bad work there...” 


I'm intentionally being a bit free with the compliments. 


“... the layered structures aren't interfering with each other as badly 
this time...” 


It takes us self-taught artists a while to learn to thank someone for 
pointing out our screw ups and telling us why we're doing everything 
wrong accept critique. 


“...and the overall composition is more harmonious, too. See how 
much more stable it makes the whole system when you unify the 
color gamut and balance the forms?” 


| need to ease into the real problem here, or he's just going to tune 
me out. 
And that problem runs a lot deeper than some technical issues. 


“| can tell you've been practicing what we talked about. Huge 
improvement over your last-” | pause and clear my throat as | see 
his sheepish expression. “Yeah. Huge improvement.” 


Those poor pigeons. I'm still finding feathers around the studio. 


“Still plenty for you to work on, though. Like this bit- you got really 
sloppy here. How many times now have | said you need to control 
your brushwork? | don't even need the Sight to make out some of 
these runes.” 


The smile retracts as he grunts and studies a splatter of paint on the 
concrete. 

We both know it's the weak point in his skillset, and I've been 
prodding him about it a lot lately. 

I'm sorry, but you'll thank me years from now. 

Right after you stop hating me. 


“I'm also not really sure what you were trying to do with the 
perspective in this vignette. Stylization is all well and good, but even 


this and its lack of natural defenses from pathogens, SCP-824 is 
highly susceptible to infection and infestation. 


Recovery: SCP-824 was found in SCP- __, an extradimensional, 
self-contained region accessible from a point in southern China, in 
1972. Upon discovery, it was host to eight anomalous species of 
plants and animals including SCP-824. Due to the properties of 
SCP-  , SCP-824 had not spread outside of this area, although 
specimens removed from SCP- _ have remained viable. It is 
believed that SCP-824 evolved naturally in SCP- 


While a large portion of SCP- _'s terrain is covered in kudzu 
(Pueraria lobata), SCP-824 specimens remained clear of the vine, 
apparently due to their ability to actively remove plants from their 
trunks and consume them. SCP-824 appears to have a comparative 
advantage over several non-anomalous species of Ginkgo found in 
SCP- __, the majority of which were struggling under the conditions 
there. All instances recovered from SCP-__ were free of pathogens 
and insects. 


Addendum: In 2011, several specimens of SCP-824 were found 
outside of containment on Island, Japan. The behavior of 
these specimens has led to them being classified as a separate 
subspecies of SCP-824 (hereby SCP-824-1).1 


All SCP-824-1 specimens were located in four apple orchards on 

Island. There, instead of consuming all plant matter within 
reach, SCP-824-1 will feed exclusively on weeds and dead plants, 
leaving living apple trees entirely untouched. Upon encountering a 
ripe apple, SCP-824-1 will gently grasp it and remove it from the 
branch, lowering the branch(es) now holding the apple to roughly 
1.5 meters off the ground until it is removed. SCP-824-1 will 
consume any apples that are infested, rotten, or unfit for human 
consumption. The means by which SCP-824-1 is able to accurately 
determine whether apples are edible is unknown. 


Residents of Island have not been cooperative with 
Foundation personnel, and generally react with suspicion to inquiries 
about or studies of SCP-824-1. Further research into the relation 
between SCP-824-1 and the residents of the island is warranted. 


Escher had to follow the rules of perspective. It's especially bad 
considering this is a Work with a transpositional component. You 
want to bend reality, you have to make it rea//y clear what it needs to 
be bent into. Otherwise, well... | told you about my buddy who does- 
well, did- hyperdimensional landscapes, right? Screwed up adding a 
new expansion to his garden, warped his neighbor's clothesline, 
neighbor died, Foundation got involved, had to flee England and 
change his identity, stopped working and started drinking because of 
the guilt, huge mess...? Yeah. Perspective matters.” 


| see a younger me in those eyes. Younger me does not seem 
impressed by older me's stories, but does at least seem to be trying 
to figure out what | mean about the perspective in the vignette. 


“You could have tripled the active radius, too, if you hadn't gotten 
lazy with your acoustic detection lattice. You're trying to control 
everything by brute force here. It's just like the perspective thing. 
Take the time and do the calculations, rather than just slapping 
down something that looks about right.” 


A tense twitch, but he knows by now that it's futile trying to interrupt 
when I'm in lecture mode. | remember being on the other side of that 
expression well enough to guess what he's thinking, though. 


“Yes, | get that setting up each cluster individually would have been 
a lot more tedious, but it would also make it that much more 
sensitive and resilient. If you're going to pull a juvenile prank, at 
least do it properly.” 


A wry expression folds into an indignant glare as that last part 
registers. 

I'm impressed by his restraint. Real younger me would have been 
knee deep in a rant by now. 


“Look, | get what you're trying to say with this. But the problem is 
that a cardboard box that teleports to enclose people who say 
synonyms of the word "containment" is an irritating practical joke, 
not art.” 


As the end of that sentence comes out of my mouth, | see the 
welcoming faces of teachers, critics, and elders greeting the newest 


member of the Ancient Order of Closeminded Old Bastards Who 
Think They Get To Tell Me What Art Is. Now you get it! Hope you 
don't mind if we stick around to see how much better you do 
explaining it to him. 


A car rolls by outside. 


Don't want to talk about this. 


No. Needs to be said. Get it over with. 


Go to... ah hell lets do this. 


“That's what the anartist faction has never understood.” 


Now he starts to say something, but | keep going. He not-so-secretly 
idolizes some of the anartists, | know... but I'm a 
COBWTTGTTMWAI with a lesson to drive home, so | can't don't 
care. 


“The Anartists learn some low-level Craft, call themselves activists, 
and they think that makes them judge and jury to the world. They 
use Works to force their beliefs and opinions on others, and punish 
those who do not share them. They produce insipid gimmicks to flip 
off the Foundation or the GOC or whoever else they've decided is 
the source of all evil that day. They traumatize, maim, and kill 
helpless Pedestrians to make shallow commentary about society. 
And they have the gall to call all of it art because they tack on a tag 
with some half-baked moral and a catch phrase.” 


I've hit a nerve with that one. 

Might finally have hit the right nerve, though. | can tell he's thinking 
about that last bit. 

That's right kid. Don't waste that fire lashing out at me. 

Put it to work under the boiler where it will do you some good. 


| let him vent a little, to keep him thinking. 


“So what are you saying? That we should just make cheap junk and 
parlor tricks the censors won't storm in and destroy? Sell out and 
make sleazy toys for rich morons to show off to their drinking 
buddies? Oh, or how ‘bout we let the Craft die? Would THAT be 
Cool?” 


| sigh and shake my head. 


“The anartists aren't trying to teach people or open the Pedestrian's 
eyes to the full reality. They may say they are- hell, some of them 
might even believe it- but they aren't. They're a bunch of pretentious 
brats with a pathological need for attention and cruel sense of 
humor. They ask if they're Cool because they have no idea what 
Cool is.” 


| lean back on one of the ceiling's support poles in a way that | hope 
makes me look wise and James Dean-ish. “Come to think of it, the 
whole root of the problem,” | tell the ceiling, “can be found in their 
oh-so-clever catchphase.” 


| write the four damning words in the air. 
Are We Cool Yet ? 


I've got younger me's attention back. 
Heh. Get the Craft involved and suddenly I'm awesome again. 
Apparently "awesome" does not negate "pissed off at", though. 
But I'll settle for having his attention. 


“Think about what they're asking. Not 'Are You Cool Yet?’. Not 'Is 
This Cool?'.” 


"No. What they ask,” 
re We Cool 
“...tells you everything you need to know.” 


He just stares off into space. 
Hard to tell if he's starting to get it or if he's trying to think of a 


counter argument. 
Maybe both. 


| finish making my point. 


“Art isn't about the artist. Its not about destruction or vengeance. It's 
not about standing on a soapbox ranting, or proving your own 
superiority. It's about turning an idea or a feeling into something 
others can think about and feel. Reinventing the familiar in a way 
that makes it seem completely new, or showing the exotic in a way 
that makes it seem familiar. It's about making something that didn't 
exist before you started. Art is about creation.” 


We stand there in silence for a while, both studying the refrigerator 
box he swaggered in with a little while earlier. 


More cars drive by outside. Street's busy today. 


| decide it's as good a time as any to show him. 
Couldn't hurt anyway. 


“Want to see something Cool? Come back here, I'll show you 
something Cool.” 


He rolls his eyes, but follows anyway. | lead him to the back of the 
building, to one of the former offices sectioned off from the rest of 
the warehouse. This particular one's where | do my sketching and 
thinking, and keep my personal collection. He hasn't been in here 
before, for good reason. 


“Word of warning:”, | tell him as | hunt for the right key, “Don't try the 
Sight in here until you've learned to tamp it down, unless you want a 
migraine.” 


| unlock the door and set the wards to allow him through, then sigh 
seeing him wince as he enters. You can lead a horse to water... 


| walk past the rows of Works received as gifts or in trades with 
friends and colleagues, or bought from those | admire over the 
years. Looking over my shoulder | can tell he's trying to stay mad at 
me while staring at the wonders scattered around the room; moving 
paintings and synesthetic calligraphy, sculptures made of frozen 


light or twisting through the fourth dimension, physical realizations of 
abstract concepts and memetic narratives. 


The tour ends at the wicker birdcage beside my drawing table, home 
of the Work that surpasses all the rest | curate. 


“This is part of a set created by one of the masters | learned from, 
one of the last Works he created.” 


| open the cage, and a tiny form flutters out and lands on my finger. 
“Her name is Etsuko.” 


The paper crane perks up from preening her creases at the mention 
of her name.