Pico Wilson spread his arms wide. 


"Of course there is. You're talking to him." 


"We secure, Alcorn?" 
"This floor is, at least. We going up?" 
"Yep." 


"Perkins, Dorfman, with me. Everyone else, keep this floor locked 
down. Nobody in, nobody out." 


Perkins and Dorfman joined Alcorn and Green at the base of the 
stairs. 


"You first, Green." 
They swept carefully upwards to the second floor, spreading out to 


search. 


"You're not The Critic." 


"Of course | am. | emptied the seat, | get to take it." 
"HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HIMSELF." 


"The keyword being ‘would’. | got him first. Mine to claim in his 
absence. Didn't you realise that?" 


"So then... if | kill you?" 
Pico tilted his head back, cackling madly. 
"Go ahead and try, brother. Janitor. Clean up the mess." 


The Janitor stood, turning around to face Ruiz. It walked towards 
him, hands raised. Ruiz began to grin. 


"And... cut." 


The Janitor spun around, tackling Pico to the ground, sending his 
butterfly knife clattering into a distant corner. The Snipper struggled, 
trying to escape the masked figure's grip. He wildly clawed at the 
mask with dirty fingernails, until getting his fingers underneath and 
pulling it cleanly off. 


REWIND 


"Oi. Sandra." 


The Director sat comatose in her bed. Ruiz Duchamp stood next to 
her, poking her cheek with his finger. 


"Come on, Sandy. You might have fooled them, but you can't fool 
me." 


The Director opened one of her eyes, whispering through her 
oxygen mask. 


"Bugger off, Ruiz." 


"I've got the cameras on loop, and the door's locked. Take off the 


mask." 


Sandra Paulson pulled it off, then yanked several fake IV drips from 
her arm. 


"Damn it, Ruiz, what do you want?" 


"Well, for starters, | want to know why you're pretending to be 
unconscious." 


Sandra rubbed the back of her head. 
"Suits got me. Drugged me up, not that it had any effect, of course." 
"Of course." 


"Fed them some bullshit about you leaking the play to me as well. 
Watch out for that." 


"You what?" 


"Hey, calm down. First name that popped into my head, man. You 
shouldn't have turned up last night." 


"| needed to warn you!" 


"You seriously think | wouldn't know about the Hanged King? That's 
old-school stuff, everyone knows about it. Hell, | wrote a pilot for a 
sitcom adaptation. 'Hanging with The King’, | think it was." 


"Then why the hell were you running the show?" 


"| was being watched. Did you really think I'd turned into a stupid, 
crotchety old lady? | was an actress before a director." 


Ruiz frowned, thinking on her words. 
"So... who gave it to you?" 


"The Sculptor. That asshole's trying to kill us all." 


The phone sitting on The Director's bedside table started to ring. 


She picked it up, placing it to the side of her head. 
"Ruiz?" 


"Sandy, | need some help. | can't be in two places at once, and Felix 
is watching me." 


"Wait, you've been talking to Felix?" 


"Yeah, we... started hanging out, or something. Still not sure if | can 
trust him." 


"He's harmless. What do you want?" 
"| need you to tail my brother. Figure out where he lives." 
"Do you know where he is right now?" 


"No, but | know where he's going to be tonight. 27 Rokan Avenue. 
The whole gang's meeting up for tea and cookies." 


"Tea and cookies?" 


"Sorry, | mean in order to plan their attack at an exhibition that I'm 
not even going to be attending while The Sculptor insists on using 
my name as the motivation behind a witch hunt. I'm not sure how | 
got those two mixed up. Can you do that for me?" 


"Sure. Any luck with The Sculptor?" 
"One problem at a time, Sandy.” 


The Director placed her phone on the bedside table. She pulled an 
inflatable doll from underneath her bed, stuck it under her covers, 
then changed into plainclothes. She locked her door (fortunately, 
she had her own room), then carefully lowered herself outside onto 
the window. They'd never notice she was gone. 


Ruiz's phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it out, pushing it to his 
ear. 


"Hey Sandy." 


"Ruiz. I've got an address. 16 Hartford Street. Big abandoned 
building." 


"Fantastic." 

"He has also met The Janitor." 

"Who?" 

"Tall guy. Gas mask." 

"| have no idea who you're talking about." 

Sandra's phone buzzed in her pocket. She'd not actually returned to 
the hospital after her first escape. The nurses still hadn't noticed. 
"Hey Ruiz." 

"Critic's dead." 

"Oh. It worked then?" 

"Nope. Pico killed him." 

"Shit." 

"Indeed. Keep an eye on him for me." 

"What are we doing about The Sculptor?" 


"I'm working on it. Don't worry." 


Ruiz's phone started ringing. 
"Sandy?" 


"| just had an idea. You know how I'm really good at acting?" 


To: Sandy 
go time. 


To: Felix 
can you get the janitor to meet me at my studio? need to 
ask something 


Felix glanced at his phone, tapped at a few keys, then returned it to 
his pocket. 


From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson) 
shit's gonna hit the fan 


The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas 
mask. Its phone beeped again. 


From: The Clipper (Felix Cori) 
Ruiz Duchamp's asking for you at his studio. 


The Janitor examined the screen, thinking about the messages. 
It knew what had happened. 
It exhaled another deep, buzzing sigh. 


Then it removed its mask, and became the person beneath the 
mask. 


The person beneath started walking to a coffee shop. 


AND BACK TO THE PRESENT 


"Miss The Director. | see. | SEE." 


Sandra, free of the stifling gas mask, easily reasserted her full-body 
pin. The Snipper began to laugh loudly. 


"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA... Oh, Little Miss The Director. How 


Would You Like To Play?" 


The Director switched to a stranglehold, trying to block Pico's 
airways. 


"no i don't think that will work here. Not on us, you know? NOT ON 
US." 


The Snipper twisted, tearing his shirt off and using the leeway to 
escape The Director's hold. His emaciated ribcage rose and fell as 
he panted madly. 


"We Aren't Going To Go Down As Easily As That Miss The Director. 
and we haven't forgotten you either RUIZ." 


Ruiz shot two elastic bands at his brother's head. The first grazed 
Pico's ear; the second snapped into his eye. He recoiled, covering 
his face with his hands. 


"no you see this is not how it goes down. We Can Just Restart. We 
can just... restart, you know? It's not real. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE." 


Pico ran manically to his pile of corpses, diving amongst his 
collected bodies. 


"There Is No Control. It's an illusion, you understand? It's all just a 
dream, it has to be a dream. we cannot live in a world where the 
world is lived in." 


Ruiz sprinted to the heap; Sandra pulled a hypodermic needle from 
within her black trenchcoat. 


"THERE IS NO VALID RESPONSE TO A WORLD THAT DOES 
NOT OBEY THE RULES BUT NOT TO OBEY ITS RULES. i just 
help the people leave through the most obvious exit, am i some kind 
of reaper? Perchance A Psychopomp, Hm?" 


Ruiz reached past the severed limbs, latching onto the only one with 
a pulse. 


"| always wanted to pretend as though | was important. | fooled a 
couple of people. this isn't how it was meant to end. | WAS 


SUPPOSED TO WIN. Do Not Let Me Die Here. You Are Better Than 
This. You Can Be Better Than This." 


Ruiz yanked his brother from the pile, Pico kicking and screaming all 
the while. 


"wasn't there something better than this? DO YOU HATE ME THAT 
MUCH, BROTHER? Our Jesus Taught Us Better Than This; Our 
Adam Knew Us More." 


Sandra pulled the cap from the needle, readying it for insertion. 


"THIS IS NOT MADNESS, BROTHER. Sanity Is As Arbitrary As 
Sinfulness. | committed no crimes here. you have no right to judge 
me." 


Ruiz nodded, holding his spasming sibling in place. Sandra plunged 
the needle into Pico's chest, pushing the sedatives into his 
bloodstream. 


"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER! Gods Among A Stupid 
And Negligent Populous!" 


The Snipper struggled shirtlessly. 


"We aren't supposed to live like this. We're all creators here. The 
world exists for us." 


Pico's eyes drooped. 
"we can't afford coherence." 


Ruiz dropped his limp, unconscious brother to the floor. 


"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA..." 
Agent Green turned to the far wall, startled by the noise. 
"Alcorn. With me." 


Alcorn joined Green; the pair of them moved towards the stairwell. 


Sample: single scrap of dried flesh from cadaver dated B.C. 
Result: reconstituted middle-aged male exhibiting expected fly 
behavior. 

Note: This could be an interesting new forensics tool. 


Sample: one (1) fingertip from D-class subject. 

Result: subject reconstituted and exhibited expected fly behavior. 
Standard range of identification tests were compared to public and 
Foundation records. DNA a precise match, dentition and fingerprints 
reversed. 


Sample: ocular orb taken from previous D-class subject. 

Result: subject reconstituted with normal dentition, entirely foreign 
fingerprints. 

Note: There appears to be a slight margin of error even from original 
samples. 


Sample: one (1) living D-class with large infected gash on ankle, 
SCP-726 applied to wound. 

Result: dead tissues were consumed and reconstruction proceeded 
until wound was healed. Subject appeared healthy until behavior 
deteriorated over the course of hours. Subject displayed all 
properties associated with SCP-726 constructs and subsequently 
terminated. 

Note: / guess we can rule out any medical applications. 


Sample: porterhouse steak. 

Result: mature steer, normal except for dipteran behavior and 
appetites. Subject slaughtered, porterhouse steaks served to D- 
class control group. Subsequent examinations unremarkable until 
[DATA EXPUNGED] consistent with known Calliphoridae. Subjects 
terminated. 

Note: A marginally greater biohazard than we thought. Suggesting 
closer observation of original site. 


Sample: porterhouse steak. 

Result: same as above. Cuts variously subjected to a variety of 
chemical and thermal sterilization methods including radioactive 
bombardment. Served to D-class individuals in a variety of dishes. 
Results identical to previous test. 

Note: / think we have established that anomalous maggots are not a 


They carefully started moving upwards, hearing muffled yelling 
through the thick concrete floors. Halfway to the third floor, Alcorn's 
radio crackled with a message from his men on the ground. 


"Sir, we've detained a man trying to get into the premises. Callin’ 
himself The Sculptor.” 


Green turned, holding his hand out expectantly. Alcorn sighed, 
handing his radio over. Green talked into the microphone. 


"How much resistance did he put up?" 


"None at all, sir. Held out his hands for the cuffs while grinnin' like a 
lunatic." 


"Don't take your eyes off him. That man is considered a high- 
importance person of interest." 


"We're moving him to the van now, sir." 


"Good. Keep someone with him; you have permission to terminate if 
he tries anything. Over." 


Alcorn took the radio back, clipping it to his belt. He started talking 
as he followed Green up the stairs. 


"You think this guy's backup for Snipper?" 

"Not after what happened last Friday. He's probably got-" 

"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND |, BROTHER!" 

Green raised a finger to his lips, remaining silent as they reached 


the third floor. 


Ruiz frisked Pico for any concealed weapons; his pockets were 
empty, barring an old mobile phone. He picked it up and navigated 
through the screens, moving to sent texts. 


To: sculptor 
16 hartford street I'm all that's left 


To: the fuckwad brigade 
16 hartford street this is the snipper hello 


"Fuck." 


Sandy turned to Ruiz, having pulled Pico's body up onto her 
shoulder. 


"What?" 

"Suits and The Sculptor inbound." 
"Fuck." 

"My thoughts exactly. Battle plan?" 


"Leave before they get here." 


Alcorn's radio crackled again; he immediately deferred it to Green. 
"Sir, we've apprehended another person." 

Green frowned. 

"Have they identified?" 

"Well, sir... they're saying they're The Sculptor." 

Green looked at Alcorn, concerned. 


"Is the person previously identifying as The Sculptor still in 
custody?" 


"Yes, sir." 

"Do they look the same?" 

"Yessir." 

"Terminate both immediately. Keep a look out for more." 


"Understood, sir. We've... wait, sir, we have another Sculptor 


attempting to... wait, five... seven! SHIT! Sculptors closing from all 
angles!" 


"Open fire; aim for the head! Everyone to the lobby!" 


Green and Alcorn started sprinting back down to the second floor as 
gunfire echoed through the building. 


Sandra slowly moved to the stairwell, Pico's body still slung over her 
shoulder. Ruiz moved down the stairs, aiming his elastic band 
shooter around each turn. 


"| think we're alone." 


The end of Ruiz's sentence was punctuated by echoing gunfire. The 
Director massaged her temples in exasperation. They moved down 
to the third floor, looking out a window and surveying the scene 
below. Hundreds of Sculptors were running through every street, 
swarming to the base of the building. Three of the Suits' Agents 
were shooting wildly at the horde, barely thinning the ranks. One of 
them threw a fragmentation grenade into the crowd; metal pellets 
ripped through the swarm, breaking the illusion of flesh and bone 
and sending streaks of clay across the ground. Ruiz looked at his 
small wooden gun, suddenly feeling profoundly inadequate. 


"Well shit." 


Agent Green ran down to the first floor, Agent Alcorn trailing behind. 
The members of MTF Upsilon-18 shot in short, controlled bursts at 
the horde of angry clay artists; one of them had blocked the front 
door with a metal pipe. Green saw one of the Sculptors attempting 
to crawl through a window. He lined up the shot and pulled the 
trigger, leaving the clay body blocking the entrance. He appraised 
his pistol; a less than ideal weapon for the current situation. Green 
shouted over the gunfire. 


"ALCORN! DO WE HAVE A SPARE RIFLE?" 


Alcorn shook his head; Green swore an unheard oath. The two of 


them moved to join the rest of the squad, taking cover behind the 
messy piles of broken concrete slabs. Every shot meant one less 
angry artist; at the same time, it meant one less bullet. They were 
equipped for an in-and-out raid, not a prolonged siege. The 
Sculptors screamed warcries as they broke through windows, trying 
to crawl in over their fallen duplicates. 


"THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS 
ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-" 


The synchronous chorus chimed through the building, barely audible 
over the sounds of firing bullets. 


Ruiz turned to Sandra, who had already pulled her phone from her 
pocket. 


"Who are you calling?" 


"The real Janitor. Sculptor's directly tried to kill me. He's broken the 
rules, his protection is void; mine, however, is still intact." 


The Director tapped the screen, then put it to her ear. Ruiz looked 
out the window again. The crowd was thick, but no further duplicates 
were forthcoming. Ruiz pulled a stick of chalk from his pocket, then 
grabbed a piece of concrete debris. He wrote the phrase "ceci n'est 
pas une bombe" onto it, then hurled it out into the horde. He grinned 
as it burst into a ball of flames, splattering Sculptors across the 
ground. 


The person beneath the mask received a call. The person beneath 
the mask answered, muffling their voice with their hand. 

"Director. You've dropped your facade." 

"Yeah, about that. Sculptor's the one who hospitalised me." 
"Purposefully?" 


"Yes," 


"Location?" 

"16 Hartford Street." 

"Understood." 

The person beneath the mask pulled the mask back over their face. 


The Janitor sped across the rooftops as though skating on ice. 


"GREEN, WE'VE GOT TO FALL BACK!"