And clay. There was something distinctly clay now sticking into her 
abdomen. Her vision cleared and she saw The Old Sculptor, his arm 
extended and refined to a point, which he happened to have placed 
in Aldon's stomach. Blood dripped from the wound. It looked like his 
mouth moved to say something, but if he did Aldon didn't hear it 
over the throbbing in her ears. She took a moment to consider all 
this, and then decided that it was bullshit. She was supposed to be 
killing him. 


So she swung her soul, channeled around the sword, and struck 
The Old Sculptor's arm. As the blade neared it, the clay became 
more chipped and began to warp, before shattering entirely when 
the blade made contact. Without Reality around, there was nobody 
to tell Aldon that The Old Sculptor had stabbed her. And so he 
hadn't. The wound in her abdomen was gone, and as far as Reality 
was concerned it never existed in the first place. Aldon slashed in 
the opposite direction, splashing almost half of the statue into paste. 


The legs of The Old Sculptor stumbled back, and a large rock with 
ornate designs on it rose from his waist. It was still coated in wet 
clay, and more was pouring off of it. Aldon tried attacking it but the 
statue hopped away, kicking at her when she tried approaching. 
Which she found profoundly difficult due to her rib injuries, but she 
pressed on. 


Abandoning his oversized form, The Old Sculptor shaped himself in 
his normal human form. Aldon slashed at his neck, hoping to 
separate the stone now embedded in his head. She succeeded, but 
his decapitated body reached out and snatched the rock from the 
disconnected head. He jammed it inside his chest, and she swung at 
it wildly. She missed, but flayed enough of the front of him to expose 
it. 


"Give it up!" The Old Sculptor yelled. "Magic sword or no, I'ma 
fucking god!" 


"While | still highly doubt that," Aldon replied. She had meant to yell 


back, but her lungs had apparently decided they had had enough 
yelling for a few weeks. "I'm going to have to point out..." 


She palmed the bottom of the hilt with her off hand and stabbed. He 
tried blocking it, throwing up both arms, but the blade went right 
through both limbs and slammed into his chest. While the stone 
wasn't immediately torn apart like the clay, it had very clearly been 
pierced. A single crack stretched from the slit to one of the runes, 
which lost its glow. 


"Deicide is a word for a reason," she finished, taking a step and 
burying the blade up to her fist. She twisted her wrist as he began to 
scream, and then she slashed horizontally, blowing up the stone and 
obliterating most of the statue. When it didn't begin to reform Aldon 
let out a single "Ha!" and then fell on her back. Which hurt. She 
probably should have thought that through a bit more. 


There was a long pause. Nobody said anything. The clay clones 
continued to suppress Finnegan, Felix, and several other anartists. 
The puppets kept their captives, though they remained still. 


Then one of the anartists asked, "Now what?" 


"Well," said another. "They don't seem to intend to kill us. They're 
just gonna hold us here, like he said." 


"Forever?" 

"| guess." 

"But we'll die if they do that." 

"But does that count as killing us?" 

"Wouldn't it?" 

"Um." 

"Allie!" Felix called. "Idea! Tell them to let us go." 


Aldon coughed as she ripped out the Soul Needle, the bent light 
around her disappearing. "Oh. Yeah. Do that." 


And so they did. Without fully realizing what they were doing, the 
very basic minds of the clones and puppets forced them to release 
their captives. After all, they were created with the express purpose 
of serving The Sculptor. Aldon devoted what little brain power she 
had left and decided to have the clay constructs destroy themselves. 
And so they did. Some simply stopped moving, while others slowly 
turned to a clay slurry. The anartists gathered themselves around 
their savior. 


"We should get her to a hospital," said one. 
"And tell them what?" said another. 


"Here," Finnegan said, pulling out his phone. He went to Contacts, 
which contained all of four names. "| Know who to call." 


"Ghostbusters?" Aldon squeaked. Reality was back on the clock, 
and it turned out having broken ribs and stabbing yourself in the soul 
was a bit exhausting. Especially when dumped on you all at once. 


"...Yes, Allie, Ghostbusters." 


"Cool." And then she passed out. 


Aldon woke up in what she assumed to be a hospital. Her wrists 
stopped halfway to her face when she tried rubbing her eyes. She 
looked down at herself to find herself shackled to the hospital bed 
she was lying in. To her left was a curtain a set of monitors 
displaying her vitals. They all seemed to be beeping pretty well. On 
her right was Finnegan, sleeping in a padded chair. And also 
shackled to said chair. 


"Finn. Finnegan. Wake up." 


He stirred, catching his hat as it attempted to fall. "Oh. Hey. Feeling 
alright?" 


"Finnegan, you did not call Ghostbusters." 


"No, | did not." 


"Finnegan, you called the Anartistbusters." 
"That's a bit of a mouthful.” 
"We're cuffed inside a hospital!" 


Finnegan nodded. "It's not that big of a deal. Flight risk or whatever. 
Navarro's got it handled, says we should be fine after some 
questioning." 


"That guy?" Aldon mulled it over. "Y'know what, fuck it. | can't even 
pretend to hate him right now. So what did | miss?" 


"You have two cracked ribs. I'm okay. Most of the aussies are in 
prison wards rather than medical ones." Finnegan shrugged. 
"Apparently The Critic got away." 


"How the hell?" 
"Dunno." 


"Well, fuck. And | wasn't able to nab any of that morphing clay. 
Peachy." 


"| think we should look at it in the light of us not being dead or 
incarcerated." 


Aldon jiggled the cuff on her right wrist. 
"Right. Well, it could be worse." 
"| guess." 


Finnegan grabbed her by the hand, since only one of his was cuffed. 
"Are you okay?" 


Aldon sighed. She watched his thumb move circles around the skin 
between her thumb and pointer finger. "No. | guess? Whatever." 


"Allie." 


"Like, all that shit for nothing. | dunno, | just..." She trailed off, and 
he didn't pursue the issue. "I wish | could just be done with it." 


"Well, you made some progress. Maybe not on an immediate level, 
but you've laid the groundwork now. And as far as | can tell the 
Foundation isn't going to dog you over it." 


Aldon nodded. She decided to take what she could get. But her 
mind wandered to the events of the warehouse, and it made her 
queasy. Adrenaline was a hell of a thing, and Aldon was nothing if 
not good at distracting herself with activity. But now, just sitting ina 
hospital bed, her mind stagnated into pools of blood. 


Daniel Navarro stuck his head inside the door, grinned his stupid 
grin, and then slid inside the room. His gaze bounced between the 
two of them despite the fact he never moved his head. Eventually 
his eyes landed on the duo's hands, and then he snapped his 
fingers. 


"Let me get those handcuffs off you guys," he said. He produced a 
key and freed the two of them. They rubbed their hands and stared 
at him. Although the wording tried to edge into friendly, his posture 
and tone felt abnormally pressing. "So. Now that the gang's all here. 
What happened?" 


When Aldon remained silent, Finnegan picked up the question. 
"Apparently the harmless statue they had her make was built using 
clay that contained some of the mind of The Old Sculptor. Then they 
magicked it up." 


"Wow." Navarro looked to Aldon. "And then?" 
"| killed it," she said simply. 


Navarro nodded slowly. A sudden bulge in his cheek indicated he 
was thinking. When he reached whatever conclusion that he did, he 
nudged Finnegan and gestured to the door. Finnegan looked to 
Aldon, who shrugged and motioned for him to go. The two stepped 
outside, leaving Aldon to her thoughts. 


Within four seconds Aldon was gripping the plastic railing along her 
bed frame and trying to tear it off. A coiling snake of frustration and 
anger and depression shifted within her. It reminded her of that 
moving emptiness when she felt sick to her stomach, only it was 


within her head and unfurling into her chest. 


Grinding her teeth didn't help. Shaking whatever she could get a 
hold of did nothing. So she just sat and seethed, waiting for 
someone to come to her so she could do something other than be 
by herself. After what felt like half her lifetime, Finnegan stepped 
back into the room. He informed her she was free to go. That her 
clothes were in the drawer next to her bed, and her possessions had 
already been moved to her apartment. Navarro had probably 
delivered Everett and the golems himself. 


The duo departed after Aldon got dressed. They walked in silence. 
When the front doors of the hospital slid open, they took a moment 
before actually leaving the building. They both took a short but deep 
breath, and in tandem stepped outside. A harsh winter gust blew 
through them, but the sun basked them in a pleasant glow. 


"You going to be okay?" Finnegan asked, trying not to shiver. 


Aldon hadn't really noticed the cold yet, and just stared at the 
parking lot. "Eventually." 


Finnegan took a step closer. "Can | do anything?" 


A crooked smile worked its way up her left cheek. "You know, now 
that you mention it. I'm hungry. Buy a girl a meal?" 


Finnegan grimaced. "I'm a bit strapped for cash." 


Aldon bounced with the next few steps, jostling the growing serpent 
within her. "Pizzeria?" 


Finnegan just sighed and began to walk. 


« Facetious Fanatics | Hub | Hugo Hijinks » 


SCP-567: The Dungeon 


Item #: SCP-567 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: Site-41 has been established at 
the former Castle for the purpose of containing SCP-567. The 
entrance to SCP-567 is to be kept sealed at all times. All cell doors 
are to be monitored off-site via CCTV. In the event that a door is 
opened or breached, Task Force Delta-9 "Hacks" is tasked with 
containing the instance of SCP-567-9 immediately. If containment 
proves impossible, termination is authorized. 


Because of the nature of SCP-567, and the proximity to it that TF 
Delta-9 will be working, to join TF Delta-9 an applicant must: 


¢ Have clean criminal record. 

¢ Have never committed any crime, even at the orders of the 
Foundation. 

¢ Be of moderate political beliefs. 

* Have strong convictions as to the importance of upholding the 
law. 

* Have a strong fear of offending others with their actions. 


Description: SCP-567 is located in the dungeon beneath Site-41, 
located in [DATA EXPUNGED]. It consists of a series of eight cells, 
designated SCP-567-1 through SCP-567-8. With the majority of 
people/objects, the cells remain inert. However, when individuals 
meeting certain conditions come within 2.5 m of a cell door, 
shackles will materialize and launch from the inside of the cell, 
restraining the subject and dragging them within. Once the cell door 
closes and locks, both the subject and shackles vanish, leaving 
behind no trace of any kind. Each cell appears to have its own 
unique trigger conditions in order to activate, which seem to involve 
committing some sort of criminal or heretical act.1 


Hugo Hijinks 


Aldon sat on her tiny couch, quietly watching their tiny television. Or 
rather, she would've been watching the television, had their cable 
not gotten shut off earlier in the day. In the interim, she had been 
filling her time with stacking the golems on top of each other, making 
paper cranes fight each other to the death, and staring at the less- 
than-useful T.V. 


She reflected on the struggle of being an art student on the west 
coast without a job. Art supplies were plentiful enough with their 
community, so there was never a lack of that. Never a lack of time, 
either. Tough to put food on the table with paints, though, especially 
if nobody was buying. 


She glared across the room at the golems. These little fuckers aren't 
pulling their weight, either. In her mind's eye, she saw the golems 
putting on tiny suits in the morning and heading to the office, and 
returning with fat stacks of cash. She sighed. Her attention was 
pulled away from her periodic pals and to the door, which swung 
open as Finnegan pushed his way in past a pile of her canvases. 


"Hey Al. You've got some mail." he said, pulling an envelope out of 
the pile. He tossed it in her direction. "Let me know if it's a check, 
because we need to take care of the water bill here before too long." 
He glanced down at the blank television screen. "And probably the 
cable bill, too." 


She nodded, leaving her dreams of daytime soap operas behind 
her. "Did you cash the one from the exhibit | did on the 16th?" 


Finn shook his head. "No, it didn't come in yet. Neither did the one 
from that piece for Morganson." 


Aldon pulled at her face. "Holy shit what is the point of doing 
commissions without the money part." 


They both sat quietly for a moment as they looked through the mail, 
Finn occasionally mumbling some displeasure about being poor. 
Aldon broke the tension by tearing into the articles addressed to her. 


"Let's see here... ad, ad, coupon (ooh and for that new hat store 
awesome), ad, bill, ad, bill, court summons (probably not important), 
and... oh, hey. Look at this." 


Finn raised an eyebrow and scooted over towards her. The 
envelope in question reeked of butter and grease and was stained 
accordingly. It was addressed, oddly, to 'those goddamn liberal 
California art-types'. Finnegan cocked his head. 


"How in the hell did we get this?" 


Aldon placed a single finger over his open mouth. "Shhhhhhhhhhh," 
she said, "let's see what it says." 


She flicked through the adhesive and opened the flap, pulling out a 
piece of lined paper. It too bore the same grease stains and shaking 
it revealed it was encrusted with what looked like salt, but Aldon was 
undeterred. She flipped the paper open and began to read. 


"Dear goddamn liberal California art-types (this is starting well), I'm 
writing to you because people at my drive-in like that Hugo Weaving 
in movies (can't fault them there, | suppose), but | need him in more 
movies so | can sell more tickets and people won't get bored. | 
figured if somebody had the time to do something like this, it'd be 
you jobless, good-for-nothing art students who are riding the ass of 
decent people by pretending to have some kind of worth. I-" 


"Hold on," Finn raised a hand, shaking his head and laughing. "Why 
are we not shredding this thing right now?" 


Aldon carried on. "| Know the only way to motivate you is with 
money, so I'll pay you $1000 if you can do it by the end of the 
month, $2000 if you can finish it this week. Don't call me, just show 
up if you want to do the work. Won't be surprised if you don't, 
though." 


She stopped, and looked up at Finn, who was standing with his 


mouth slack-jawed. He blinked twice, and ran off to the tiny closer 
where he kept his things. Aldon snorted, and called after him. 
"Where are you going?" 


His voice was followed by the clatter of falling shoes. "To get my 
stuff, come on! We're going to Indiana!" 


They arrived within the hour, after a quick trip through a meandering 
Way that may very well have been a cornfield in some other world. 
Aldon paused to pick a stalk out of her hair, before glancing up and 
down the dirt road they stood beside. 


"Is this it?" she raised an eyebrow, sniffing. 


Finnegan pulled a map out of his bag, eyes squinting against the 
sun. "We're close, | think. Kind of hard to tell, looks like there aren't a 
lot of Ways out here." He looked up. "Just down this road, maybe. 
Let's get going.”