“Don't worry, seriously. Nobody’s going to start anything in the 
middle of an exhibition this big.” 


They stood up, tossing change into a tip jar as they left. 
“Hope you're right, Tan. Good luck on your end.” 


“Good luck yourself, Green. You gonna be there yourself? Take a 
gander at the impossible made real?” 


“Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world.” 


“Brilliant, | love seeing you in plainclothes. You always look so 
uncomfortable.” 


The Sculptor sat listening avidly to The Painter's tale. 
“And then what happened?” 


“Well, that’s what we don’t know, since the cameras were cut. Looks 
like the play itself might have been an exploit.” 


“Seriously?” 


“Yup. Made by a genuine anartist from the 17th century. That’s my 
guess, anyway.” 


“Huh.” 


The Sculptor sat and sipped his banana milkshake. Unfortunately, 
the hospital cafeteria didn’t have a particularly wide variety of 
beverages, and even then the banana was the off kind of false, 
artificial banana flavouring, too sweet to be genuinely palatable, not 
to mention that the milk was skim. The Painter took a pause to swig 
his pocket flask of whiskey. 


“So what are we doing about the exhibition?” 


“No idea. Worst case scenario we just pull what she was working 
on.” 


“What was she working on, anyway?” 


“Well, it was a pretty standard exploit acrobatics show, from what 
she told me. You know the stuff, leaping tall buildings in a single 
bound, trapeze stuff, doing flips and shit. Not really what I’m into, but 
| can appreciate it at least.” 


“Sounds decent.” 


The Sculptor continued drinking. Seeing The Director’s body lying 
comatose with an oxygen mask had not been enjoyable. 


“So. The Director turns up to her play that she’s been working on for 
two months, talks to all her actors, and then five minutes before 
showtime that asshole turns up and asks her to stop the 
performance. Then this. The question, then, is who actually made it 
happen.” 


“You know as well as | do it was Duchamp.” 


The Painter pensively considered the thought. He had previously 
dismissed it as being too obvious, then reconsidered it as being 
deceptively obvious on purpose. 


“Well, he’s certainly the only lead we have.” 


“The only lead we have? This is the same fucker who nicked Felix, 
you know! This is the stupid asshat who mailed you a painting that 
makes you shit yourself, this is the idiot who outright declared war 
on us, and this is his pre-emptive strike!” 


“Could be. But probably not.” 
“Hm?” 


“Think about it. Everything Duchamp’s done until now has been 
absolutely safe. Sure, he made me shit my pants, he sent stuff to 
everyone, but none of it was harmful. Duchamp might be an 
arrogant asshat, but this hurt the audience. People died. If I’ve got 
this right, and | reckon | do, Duchamp wouldn’t so much as hurt a fly. 
He’d harass us, yeah, but he wouldn't pull something like this. It’s 
too much escalation, it doesn’t mesh with what he’s been doing. | 
really don’t think it was him.” 


“But that’s surely exactly what he’d want you to think.” 


“No. He wants to enact a cultural change, and as childishly as he 
behaves, he knows that something like this just gets him nowhere. 
What incentive would he have?” 


“To weaken us.” 


“If he’d wanted to kill us he would have done a cleaner job.” 


“But that’s not what he was trying to do. He made it look as though 
Sandy did this on purpose, and the only thing that can possibly do is 
bring up our visibility in a bad way. The Man’s going to crack down 
on us if this goes on, and they will crack down hard. He’s poking a 
lion and a tiger with a pair of sticks to make them fight to the death.” 


The Painter considered the implications. 


“It’s certainly an interesting hypothesis, and if you’re right, it's a 
clever strategy.” 


“I’m right. It wouldn’t have been any of the Suits, weaponising 
exploits isn’t their style. He’s played it safe til now to get our 
attention, and pulling this is his way of letting us know he’s not 
messing around. We've got to do something.” 


“What do you suggest?” 


“He targeted Sandy because she was showing on Friday. That’s our 
chance to go big and show everyone we’re cooler than them. He 
wanted to break us down, to distract us from the community, to tear 
us from the audience and destroy us as artists. Well fuck that. Come 
Friday, we throw out everything we've got.” 


They stood up, walking to the lifts. 
“I’m guessing you'll be wanting to call the shots on this one?” 


“We don’t need to concern Critic with something like this. We’re not 
children, we don’t need him to change our fucking diapers.” 


“No complaints here. I’ve been working on a piece that should 
suffice.” 


“l’ll call the others, then. See you on Friday.” 


Felix Cori sat listening avidly to Ruiz Duchamp’s tale. 
“And then what happened?” 


“Well, after she tried to stab me | just left.” 


“Seriously?” 


“Yup. | knew she wasn’t going to listen, I’m good at picking up subtle 
hints like attempted homicide. Best | could do was get the hell out of 
there.” 


“Huh.” 


Felix sat and sipped his green tea. Ruiz was soldering a circuit 
board to some mechatronic actuators, occasionally flicking switches 
to check that all was well. He pulled a multimeter from his 
workbench and probed the currents. Satisfied with the results, he 
stood up, grabbed an apple-flavoured juice box, popped the straw 
in, and sat down next to Felix. 


“So who do you think did it?” 


“Well, it wasn’t an accident... I'd put money on the Suits. They’ve 
been pushing the bounds more and more lately.” 


“What do you mean?” 


“You know how they used to charge in guns blazing? There’s none 
of that anymore, and it’s not because they’ve ‘given up’. | reckon it’s 
a shift in strategy, but | don’t have anything solid to back it up.” 


“Well, maybe. Can’t see them using exploits as a weapon, though.” 


Ruiz sucked his juice box dry and started methodically unfolding it. 
Felix blew his tea, then took another tentative sip. 


“So. What have you been up to, old man? Diving into the retirement 
fund?” 


“Quite. I’m still working on things, just more traditional materials. 
Nothing out of the ordinary for a while at least. Time to eke out a 
bland and plain existence.” 


“How profoundly boring.” 


Ruiz had folded his juice box into a small aeroplane shape. He threw 
it across the room, landing it neatly in a garbage bin near the door. 


“Will you be taking time out of your busy schedule of bland and plain 
for Friday’s exhibition?” 


“| might, | might. What are you doing for it?” 


“Oh, | won’t be going. Gotta finish all of this stuff. The last of my 
materials came in this morning, so it won’t be long before | send out 
the invitation.” 


“Well, you'll be missing out, | think.” 
“Hm?” 


“Sandra had a big show planned. The guys — well, whoever’s left — 
they won’t just cancel it. They'll have to show the Suits that they 
mean business, that they aren't intimidated by this. They’ll be going 
very, very big, pulling out all the stops. Yep, it should be quite a 
show, methinks.” 


“See, that’s the kind of childish bullshit that solves nothing.” 


“Yeah. Honestly, they’re a bunch of kids. No idea what they’re 
doing.” 


Felix sipped the last of his green tea and placed the cup at his feet. 


“Glad | don’t have to deal with it any more. Hell, glad | don’t have to 
deal with you.” 


“’m not that bad. I’m just riling them up, really. It’s like kicking a 
beehive, but all the bees are artists and the kick is mailing out butt 
jokes. Butt jokes and poop jokes.” 


“The pinnacle of comedy.” 


“Quite. | just wish they’d lighten up, you know, not take everything so 
damn seriously. They’re not taking it the right way. Neither did you, 
to be honest. Retiring, bah. Scuppered all my plans, how dare you 
be unpredictable!” 


Felix chuckled at the faux outburst, taking his cup and standing to 
leave. 


SCP-723: Aging Staircase 


Item #: SCP-723 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Due to the immovable nature of 
SCP-723, a containment area designated Site-288 is to be 
constructed surrounding the immediate area to prevent potential 
civilian casualties or exposing the site's properties. Containment 
consists of standard 3m (10ft approx.) chain link fencing with access 
restriction signage surrounding the site's exterior. A further 
restriction zone of 2m is to be constructed around the entrance to 
SCP-723, secured with magnetic locks. 


The site is to be secured by three guards in standard security 
company cover uniforms, without visible armament to avoid 
suspicion. Access restrictions are to be made based on the claim of 
the site's fragility and historical importance. Access to D-Class 
subjects for further experimentation is to be approved by level 4 staff 
or higher. Under no circumstances is SCP-723 to be ascended by 
SCP Foundation staff, and personnel are requested to stay clear of 
the interior restriction zone to avoid becoming subject to SCP-723's 
effects. 


Description: SCP-723 is a spiral stone staircase, hewn from 
ordinary limestone, contained within a ruined church located in 
sparsely populated , England. The stairs scale the interior 
of a ruined tower on the structure's eastern side. Each stair is 
approximately 0.75m (2.5ft) wide, ascending in a clockwise direction 
at a 42 degree incline. From the exterior, the site appears to be ina 
state of disrepair, including the tower which SCP-723 ascends; 
however, this damage is not visible from the interior of the tower, 
though the staircase is still visibly worn. SCP-723 also appears to 
extend further upwards than the exterior architecture suggests. 


The site was brought to the Foundation's attention in 20 , after the 


“Well, good luck with this stuff, at any rate.” 
“Don’t need luck when you’ve got talent, Felix.” 
“Quite right. That’s why | wished you luck.” 
“Hah. Get out of here, old man.” 


Snip. Snip. Snip. 
« Quintessence Of Dust | Hub | The Cool Kids » 


The Cool Kids 


“Molly! Where’d you put my aubergines?” 
“Your what?” 

“My aubergines!” 

“What the fuck is an aubergine?” 

“My eggplants! Where are they?” 


“Oh, them! | chucked them in the bin, they’d gone bad or 
something!” 


Joey Tamlin stopped yelling up the stairs. He walked over and 
fished his three ripe aubergines from the plastic bag that hung from 
their pantry door handle. Each of them had a large bite missing. 


“| was working on these!” 

“Work harder, they tasted like shit!” 

Joey sighed. 

“| was working on making them taste like shit!” 

“Oh! Good job then! Why were you making them taste like shit?” 
“| dunno! Art reasons! Thought it'd be fun!” 


“| told you, mark anything you fuck with! Stick notes on them or 
something!” 


“Alright, sorry!” 


Joey took a bite out of one of the aubergines, and was glad to note 
that it still tasted like human faecal matter. Thank goodness. He 


pulled out a pad of sticky notes, and moved pens around in the 
drawer until he found a sharp red one. Joey sketched in capital 
letters ‘ART, NOT FOOD’ and stuck it to the first aubergine, then did 
the same for the other two. He placed them to the side, picked up 
the communal fruit bowl from the kitchen and upended it. 


The apples, Joey thought, were a good idea. People ate apple 
slices, like, as finger food or whatever, didn’t they? That was a 
normal thing to be handing out. He could put them on toothpicks and 
everything, and have chocolate dipping sauce. OH! What if the 
apples tasted like chocolate, and the chocolate dipping sauce tasted 
like apples? Giggling to himself, Joey moved the apples next to the 
aubergines and added a small note, ‘CHOCOLATE SAUCE’. 


Mandarine oranges. The problem with messing with the taste of 
mandarines, he thought, was that they were segmented up into... 
uh... segments. He couldn’t modify the flavour wholesale unless he 
grew them again from scratch, and even if he bumped up the rate of 
growth, he was in the middle of the city, so there was nowhere open 
that he could reasonably grow them. Not to mention that increasing 
the rate of growth would require him to be watering it and holding a 
sunlight to it the whole time, unless he wanted it to be withered by 
morning. If he was going to change the flavour of a mandarine, he’d 
have to do it segment at a time. OH! What if every segment of the 
mandarine tasted completely different, and it’d all still be inside a 
closed peel? Stick every taste in the one thing. Perhaps make them 
all different kinds of meat flavours, and they can just be the ultimate 
indulgence for vegetarians. The texture of the mandarine flesh and 
the taste of steak were a horrible combination even in theory, but the 
purpose of this exercise was exploration, not improvement. Joey put 
them in the pile, sticking on the note ‘MEAT’. 


What about the bananas? Joey picked up one of the three, peeled it, 
took a bite, and chewed pensively. They were mushy and sticky in 
his mouth, an intriguing texture. What flavour would fit well with it, 
Joey thought? Not sweet, it was already sweet... lemons? Well, 
perhaps not a flavour as strong as actual lemons, but he could see it 
working. Joey moved the two remaining bananas to the pile, noting 
them ‘LEMONS’. 


Lemons. Joey marked them ‘BANANAS’ and moved on. 


Finally, a single clove of garlic. Joey wasn’t sure why the garlic was 
being kept in the fruitoowl, but wasn’t overly concerned. What 
texture did garlic even have, anyway? Joey had never eaten raw 
garlic, and imagined he probably didn’t want to. OH! What if he just 
left the garlic as is, and served it raw? Juxtaposition would make it 
perfect. He marked the garlic ‘GARLIC’, scooped everything back 
into the bowl, and moved it all over to the loungeroom table. Where 
to begin... 


The doorbell rang. 


Joey snapped out of his creative trance, his train of thought utterly 
derailed. He stood up, walked to the door, and flung it open. 
Tangerine was standing there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip- 
flops. 


“Tan, you know it’s winter, right?” 

“Pfffff, this much is nothing. Spend a week in the north, you baby.” 
“You're gonna get sick, man.” 

“Only thing I’m sick of is people telling me to wear more clothes.” 
Tangerine walked through the door, Joey closing it behind him. 
“Anyone else here?” 

“Just me and Molly, everyone else is out for the day.” 

Tangerine walked to the stairs and yelled up them. 

“Hey Moll” 

“Hey Tan! Put on a jacket or something!” 

Tangerine looked back toward Joey. 

“How did she know?” 

“You never wear a jacket.” 


“Jackets are for snow.” 


Tangerine walked to the loungeroom and flopped down onto a chair. 
Joey started to follow him. 


The doorbell rang. 


Joey spun on his foot, walking back to the door and opening it again. 
Overgang Dood was standing in wait, his trademark sunglasses 
sitting comfortably on his nose. 


“Overgang!” 
“Joey. You heard about The Director?” 
“Huh?” 


“She ran an exploit play, stuck her in a coma. Rookie mistake, 
staying in the theatre.” 


“Seriously?” 

“Yeah. Friday’s still on, but nothing from Critic’s lot.” 
“Well. That makes this a lot easier.” 

“What?” 

“Come on, I'll explain to both of you.” 

“Wait, who else is here?” 

“Tan. Well, Tan and Molly.” 

Overgang walked to the stairs and yelled up them. 
“Hey Moll” 

“Hey Overgang! How’s Carol?” 

“| haven’t been dating Carol for months!” 

“Oh! Sorry to hear that!” 


Overgang shook his head. He walked to the loungeroom, picking up 


an apple and joining Tangerine on the couch. 
“Hey Tan.” 

“Hey OG.” 

“Heard about The Director?” 

“Yeah, friend told me this morning.” 

“Who?” 

“A guy called Green. You wouldn’t know him.” 
“What does he do?” 

“Uh, him and his friends are art collectors.” 

It was true enough, Tangerine thought. 
“Should introduce us.” 

“Yeah, | reckon you’d get along great.”