The Duvet Queen looked at him, watching a bead of sweat trail 
down his face. “...And what happened to her in the end?” 


“The same thing that always happens. She —“ 
Live happily forever after? 
“...Died.” 


“Oh.” The Duvet Queen said, with just the right amount of sadness 
in her voice. She had learnt from Kit, learnt how to display just the 
right amount of any emotion for any situation — she had learnt by 
looking at the way he reacted to everything, and toning it down by at 
least fifty percent. She hadn’t really had a chance to study these hu- 
man things up close, not in their own territory, so every day was an 
interesting one when she was stuck here, with him. “So... If that was 
the end, what was the beginning?” 


Kit furrowed his brow, tapping his packet of cigarettes gently against 
the windowsill. “Some stories start at the end. Maria was gone by 
the time | realised her story. 


So, firstly, to correct her misconception - people did care. About the 
living/dying thing. | knew before her funeral, because | cared, but it 
really hit me at the funeral, proper. All the flowers, spelling out 
things. ‘Friend’. ‘Daughter’. ‘Mum’. People crying. Guys | had known 
to never get out of their PUs, even for court, wearing suits. Goth girls 
with dreadlocks wearing bright yellow, just for her. But after that day, 
her name sorta fell out of use like it was cursed.” 


Kit shifted, flickered his lighter on and off. He knew it would stay lit 


SCP-976: Anomalous Hard Drive 


Item #: SCP-976 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-976 is attached to an 
isolated research computer at Site- . All data from SCP-976 must be 
archived for analysis from automated backups made every 24 hours. 
Research on data extracted from SCP-976 requires level 2 
clearance. 


SCP-976 must not be installed in any terminal with a live connection 
to the Site- intranet or to any outside internet connection. Direct 
access to SCP-976 for purposes other than maintenance requires 
prior approval from at least two level 3 personnel. 


Description: SCP-976 appears to be a Western Digital model 
hard drive with an indicated capacity of 32 GB. The outside casing is 
identical to a hard drive of the indicated model and has a standard 
parallel ATA-100 interface. SCP-976 is unusually heavy, and all 
attempts to disassemble the outside casing have failed thus far. 


SCP-976 was found in Foundation research terminal computer —- 
at Site- during a mandatory security pass for ensuring the 
destruction of sensitive data prior to the disposal of electronic 
equipment. Its anomalous properties were discovered when 
technicians noted that its installation was in violation of standard 
equipment configuration guidelines, and was immediately taken into 
containment when the device was accessed and the data within 
analyzed. How SCP-976 ended up inside the terminal is unknown at 
this time. 


When connected to a standard PC and activated, SCP-976 operates 
normally, but with an abnormally high-pitched hum that does not 
match any known hard drive model. When read using a specially- 
designed interface, SCP-976 appears to contain a 32 GB 'slice' of a 


forever if he bothered to press the button that long, but his hand was 
absently shaking, and second-degree burns hurt. 


“Every day, we forgot her a little bit more, even if none of us liked 
talking about it. Forgetting about her, or suicide, or death, or all 
three. No-one realises what suicide really does to a group of people 
until it happens to them. In less than a year, we drifted apart like a 
wet cake.” 


An odd idiom, and Kit wasn’t sure where it had come from, but he 
found himself using it — well, when he had need to. 


“And, even now, every day, | forget a little more of her. How her hair 
looked the last time | saw her. Why yellow was her favourite colour. 
The name of her little girl. Why she got so sad. How it all went 
wrong. 


Then | realised | didn’t even have a photo of her, not really. Just 
those... sideways on ones at parties, in a group, the kind where she 
had red eye and she was always looking embarrassed and not like 
her, not even when she was drunk. 


After she left us alone, | would go to town. | would go to town alone, 
and | would feel lonely. Everyone in the city feels lonely, because 
cities are hollow and empty and cold, really. They eat you up and 
you get stuck in their stomach with tons of other people, but no-one 
really talks to each other.” 


“| know cities are lonely. I’ve lived in loads.” There was that pride 
again in her voice, tilting her head up, challenging him to ask why 
she wasn’t living somewhere better now, but it didn’t come. Kit was 
still somewhat lost in thought, half-listening and not-listening. “Paris, 
Rome, New York... they all feel the same, after a while. | would walk 
a lot. What would you do?” 


“Oh. | would go to as many of those little photo booths as | could. 
The kind where you get your photo taken for passports. | would set 
up to take four photos, and | would pull four, different, silly faces. 
Sometimes, | would try and get a real photo of myself, looking like | 
saw myself, and like | would like people to remember me, 
because... | don’t want to be a cursed name, when | die. And no- 


one likes being forgotten. 


But | didn’t have many friends, then. The whole ‘wet cake’ issue. 
Instead, | would leave the photos in the little dispensing part for 
people to find. Probably most of them got chucked away by the next 
customer or disinterested staff at shut-up.” 


You mean ‘close-up.’ 


“Maybe some of them made people curious about who would spend 
that money, but not take these photos with them. Maybe some of 
them made people curious about who | was. ...It was pretentious as 
shit.” He laughed, awkwardly, the sound unfamiliar even to himself. 


“You gotta know, | was only... something not-old-enough-yet to 
understand that | was acting like a pretentious asshole. Point is, | 
was young, and | had lost too many people close to me that | felt like 
| shouldn't have lost, and | had to do something to control my own 
destiny. And taking those photos, every couple of weeks, made me 
feel like maybe someone would remember me when | was gone, 
even if it was just in a way that | was a shitty customer, or a weird 
kid.” 


He finally lit a cigarette, even though smoking would leave him 
chesty and uncomfortable for hours. He just couldn’t seem to give it 
up. It was almost like it was a painfully addictive habit, taking years 
off his life (or something). 


“She left a letter. Maybe more than one, but she left at least one, 
addressed to her friends. She asked if anyone saw that woman 
smile. No idea what she was talking about until | was in North Laine 
one day, and there was this...” 


Kit absently spread his hand out, as if he could still see it in front of 
him, which maybe he could. His cigarette-holding hand had gone 
limp next to him, tip mostly ash, as lost in the memory as he was. 


“...Graffiti, of a woman, | think it was a woman, and she was, she 
was smiling, and she had never smiled before. | had seen her 
before, almost every time | went into the city, but she had never 
smiled before. Not in as far as | could remember.” 


Kit let his hand drop, and his head drop too, musing quietly. 


“It was an ad, sorta, for a suicide awareness app. | know Maria had 
been using it, ‘cos, man, she tried to get me to use it too. Said it 
saved her life. But then she got tired. Or she said she was tired, 
anyway. Started cancelling stuff all the time. Coffee? No, tired. Grab 
a beer? No, tired. Just... hang out? No, tired.” 


He sighed heavily, sounding like a man beyond his years, if even for 
just a moment. 


“She wasn’t tired, not really. | Know now she was despondent. I’ve 
been told survivors of suicide — that is, friends of friends who offed 
themselves — use that word a lot, to describe the attitude of the 
dead. | hope | never have to use that word again, not for someone | 
know. Not in fear or memoriam.” 


He finally remembered to suck on the cigarette, tapping ash out into 
the overfilling ashtray. It spilled onto his bedding and he absently 
rubbed it in, alongside the other stains on the duvet covet. 


“| didn’t know what to do. | knew it was... insane, to accuse this 
advert or the app for her killing herself. Misplaced blame because | 
couldn't bring myself to blame her. Still can’t. Not after... well, it 
doesn't matter. But many years of experience later, many years of 
seeing things, going places that aren’t really here or there, seeing 
people like you...” 


He looked over to the flickering VHS Duvet Queen, who had 
summoned Peaches into her lap, where the cat had curled up, 


purring happily. 


“And now | think maybe it wasn’t as insane as | thought. To think 
maybe the advert, the app, the smile — they did something to her. 
Hypnotised her into thinking this was the best idea. But I’m not 
stupid, even now. | know if she hadn’t committed suicide back then, 
she would have done a month later. A year. Ten years. Today. 
Some people just don’t get over the idea; some people don’t get the 
right help. And an app is never going to put a chair under swinging 
feet or staunch bleeding wrists — not like friends can. Could. If they 
knew. But we never knew. She was just... tired.” 


He turned to look out of the window again, seeing a leaf still stuck to 
a tree lose its fight and go spiralling into the wind. 


“So, | guess now Maria’s story is part of my story, because she 
chose not to continue it, and | choose, for now, to stay here. Every 
time someone | know dies, it’s another story to carry, and grasping 
memories of them before they drift apart like...” 


“Wet cake,” the Duvet Queen finished, softly, gently picking Peaches 
up as she stood, replacing the cat at the end of the bed, where she 
happily curled up in the warm spot left by her owner creator. 


“| have to go again, Kit. You know | can’t stay here forever, and you 
wouldn't want me to, not really, even if all your fears were, as you 
found, unfounded.” She stood and watched him. Based on how she 
had heard, even in his own stories, how he coped with 
abandonment, she expected yelling and tears. Dramatics. 


She wasn’t expecting Kit to slowly raise and lower his shoulders in a 
slow shrug. “Of course you do. That’s okay. Thanks for staying here 
whilst you could. If you don’t come back... well, you’re another story 
under my belt.” 


He looked over at her, managing a small smile. 


“A story no-one would ever believe, but aren’t the best stories totally 
unbelievable?” 


The Duvet Queen gave him an equally small smile, then went into 
the hallway, where Kit observed her opening a portal that led toa 
light so blinding he had to look away. And, when he looked back, 

she was gone. 


“Just you and me again Peaches, huh?” 


The cat sleepily chirped and rolled onto her other side, and Kit 
gently moved himself so as not to disturb her, before curling on his 
own side. 


“Good idea, buddy. Good night.” 


« An Arm and a Leg | Hub |No Racing by Horse-Drawn Vehicles 


» 


The Subject of Ordinance 


“| have known Auden Klose ever since he got expelled 
from SVA a few years back. | will not go into detail on 
why we was kicked out, let’s just say his artwork had too 
much Are We Cool Yet? flair. | was the one who first 
introduced him to the movement, had him meet with 
artists, showed him galleries. Auden was excited, 
determined to match the level of edge and risk of some 
of the pieces. | found it endearing. He often talked to me 
about his thoughts, always asking for my opinion for 
every bit of sketch, every word, every idea that 
occasionally pops out of that odd head of his. 


“Was | wrong to deny commentary that one time? Was | 
wrong to ask him ‘but what do you think? the last time 
we spoke? 


“Outdoor Object of Ordinance is, for lack of a better 
word, absurd. For the first time in two decades as an art 
critic, | cannot find the words to describe how | feel about 
Auden’s submission in 2014. Regardless of my personal 
feelings towards Outdoor Object of Ordinance and 
Auden, | believe it to be a reflective thinkpiece. It woke 
me up, got me thinking of what has become of the 
essence of Are We Cool Yet? since it was formed in 
1874? | worry that it’s plummeted into a contest of who 
can make the most outrageous thing, empty without an 
idea behind the creative process. To me, Auden has 
successfully created a raw concept of irony, be it through 
a sincere submission or a practical joke.” 


-Boris Mauclair, Auden Klose: A Biography (2018) 


“What is Outdoor Object of Ordinance? Nothing. It is 
nothing. It is certainly miles away from what Auden 
Klose’s ‘associates’ describe it to be. Whatever Klose 


have said or written about it absolutely cannot convince 
me that this man did not simply buy a park bench, stare 
at it for a few minutes, and decide to bullshit his way up 
to success. That bench is not groundbreaking. It’s a 
bench, for God’s sake! Even speaking about it infuriates 
me. | swear I’m going to shoot something if you force me 
to say anything more about this.” 


-Lucy Baxandall, Are We Cool Yet? Critics’ Meet-up 
Interview (2015) 


“| can tell you Auden definitely did not expect the 
reception he received for Outdoor Object of Ordinance. 
Based on that reaction, I’m almost certain he submitted 
the bench as a joke. But | honestly wasn’t sure what he’d 
been thinking at the time, or if he even realised what kind 
of people make up the Are We Cool Yet? movement. 


“Anyway, the critics liked that bench enough for it to draw 
a lot of attention from the rest of us. While some gazed 
at him with a wee twinkle in their eye, most were not 
impressed, and it really was funny for a while. | mean, 
Auden divided people with a park bench. That had me 
laughing for days. The word to describe Auden Klose is 
‘naive’, but | cannot fault him for not seeing the ultimate 
consequence of his submission. Even | didn't see it 
coming.” 


-Griselda Kimmelman, Antartist Discussion Panel (2015) 


“Outdoor Object of Ordinance was a stroke of 
unconventional genius. What Auden Klose made was an 
anomaly within context. To create a piece like such 
would involve the mind of a revolutionist. One would 
need a good amount of bravery to even think of 
something like it, especially for Are We Cool Yet? where 
statement matters most. 


“As such a young addition to the movement, this fresh 
new approach enraged traditionalists. On the other hand, 
several would see this as the beginning of a 


postmodernist-esque era in Are We Cool Yet?. Klose’s 
death became a closing statement for his first and only 
contribution to the movement, a sort of signature for his 
thought-provoking ideology.” 


-Eric Fuller, Underlined Muse: The Modern Cool (2017) 


“| don’t know the kid, but yeah, | recognised him ‘cause 
he hung out in the park a lot, talked to me a couple a’ 
times. | reckon he was some sorta hipster art student, 
the way he dressed and all. Anyway, | found him hanging 
around his usual spot but it was weird, y’know, no- not 
‘cause it was about four in the morning. Sometimes he'd 
turn up around that time, that ain’t the weird part. 


“So | saw him. He... He was just sitting there, cup of 
coffee in his hand. Thought he was just staring into 
space or he fell asleep or something, | dunno. Thought 
I'd check on him to see if he’s alright. But, um, no. He 
was dead, officer. 


“... [dunno how he died. | found a piece of paper stuck 
on the bench. It said something fancy like... | can’t 
remember. Something like ‘ordinary’. | dunno, it was 
weird ass shit...” 


-Anonymous, NYPD Interview (2014)