"That'll be all for today. Next meeting won't be until four weeks from 
tonight - the spring semester starts tomorrow, and I'm going to be up 
to my ears teaching Intro to Art History to a bunch of kids who don't 
know Fountain from a urinal. | expect to see some much more 
thought-provoking projects in the meanwhile. See you then." 


The Critic made his way back to his desk and sat down to read over 
his class syllabi as the six gathered their things and made their way 
to the door. An overlooked thought occurred to him as he noticed 
the Builder making his way out. "Oh, by the way, Builder?" he said. 


"Yes, Critic?" 


"Those ancient statues you found and jazzed up? The ones with the 


rain and the starving children? Keep up the good work. That was 
pretty cool." 


Concerto in D-Major, Orchestrated for Paintbrush and 
Fedora 


Hiro P. always said that a successful art-strike required speed, 
cunning, and above all else, sty/e. In retrospect, he'd never said 
anything about things like "artistic vision" or "ability to fight off the 
Masters of Bougie". Hiding behind a steel shipping crate because 
people were shooting at you, while your art-splosion slowly unfolded 
itself like a bloom of paint and death not even fifteen feet away... 
Well, it was almost enough to make you wonder whether you 
could've done something better with your life, like sticking your dick 
in a mound of bullet ants. 


Hiro was fucking around with the detonator, stupidly trying to make 
the art bomb stop or even reverse. Melanoma-on-the-arsehole-of- 
existence ("Arsehole" to her friends) had pulled a marker from 
somewhere and was scribbling some drawing on the side of the 
container. She was a little fucked in the head, even for your group, 
but she was an artist to the end. And you? You were thinking and 
noticing you were thinking and noticing that you were noticing and 
wow, who the fuck was that over there? 


Some dude was just walking through the bullet fire, like he knew 
where they were going to be and just happened to be where they 
weren't. Looked like a parody of a banker, too, or maybe a private 
detective from those old movies your ma made you watch with her, 
all dapper and shit, a figure drawn in shades of slate and charcoal. 


He walked around the corner of the container, out of the field of fire, 
and stood with his back to you, looking at the Paintball-o-Doom 
expanding slowly but surely towards you. After a minute or so, and 
another few inches closer to polychromatic glory, he turned to the 
three of you, shook his head, and said a single word: "Amateurish." 


He turned to go and you quickly darted over and grabbed his 
shoulder. "Dude, what about us? We can't get away while those 


In the case of an SCP-571 containment breach, affected personnel 
are to be summarily killed and incinerated. If Compound-1043 
becomes significantly compromised, the network of auxiliary 
incineration devices should be activated as outlined by Protocol 571- 
Alpha. 


Mobile Task Force Eta-10 ("See No Evil") are assigned to handling 
potential instances of SCP-571 and SCP-571-related memes 
appearing independently outside containment. 


Description: SCP-571 is a complex pattern of lines and scribbles 
with an anomalous memetic effect. Appearance was determined by 
cutting an image of 571 into sections and rearranging the sections, 
disabling the pattern's anomalous effect and allowing it to be safely 
viewed. 


SCP-571's anomalous effect has changed since its initial 
containment by the Foundation. The mechanism (if any) that has 
caused the changes in this effect, or its initial creation, is unclear. 
(See documentation attached.) 


Current SCP-571 anomalous effect follows. 


When any human looks at SCP-571 for any amount of time, they will 
immediately search for a piece of paper or other suitable stationery. 
The exposed human will then begin to copy SCP-571 onto the new 
paper, with any available drawing implement. Despite the 
particularly high complexity of the pattern, copying of SCP-571 by an 
exposed human will be successful approximately 96% of the time. 


Once SCP-571 has been copied (whether successfully or not), the 
affected person will seek out other humans, and attempt to coax or 
force them to view the copied pattern. Successfully infected victims 
will immediately attempt to copy the pattern, thus continuing the 
process. Attempts to reason with infected persons are met with 
failure. 


Carriers of SCP-571 will typically only talk or interact with others for 
the eventual purpose of causing them to look at SCP-571. Initially, 
SCP-571 carriers retain their original personality and behavior, with 
the added compulsion aspect, similar to a heightened obsessive 


pricks over there are shooting at us!" He sighed and gave a little 
half-frown, then pulled a stub of chalk from his pocket and tossed it 
to Arsehole. "Make your own way out, if you can. Or sacrifice it all 
for Art, your choice." With that, he turned and walked back through 
the rain of gunfire. (Shit-fucking Christ, how many bullets did they 
HAVE?!) 


Arsehole looked at the stub for a second, then drew a submarine 
hatch on the pavement in front of her. She barely had enough chalk, 
but got the finishing touches on it just as the first splat of viridian 
burned against your face. She gave the wheel on the hatch a twist 
and a circle of concrete popped open. The three of you scrambled 
down into the hole, and you pulled it closed just as the first sizzle of 
azure frostbite hit your hand. 


And that was how you met The Critic for the first time. 


Turned out a lot of people had encountered him in one way or 
another. He had a lot of names: The Critic, Mr. Gray, Fuckface, The 
Man, and a shit-ton more. You tried calling him "Your Private Dick", 
but nobody else thought it was funny, so you stopped after a while. 
Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was, but he would 
show up at particularly... exuberant pieces every now and then, give 
a fast-and-dirty review, then disappear again. Sometimes he'd help 
people out of a jam, like he did for you, sometimes he'd grab artists 
and toss them to the wolves of the Establishment. Sometimes 
literally wolves, too. You heard one particularly gruesome story 
involving a collective trying to do some kind of PETA-esque shit at a 
Zoo (sooooo derivative), and they ended up kibble for about half the 
carnivores because of him. 


You got a little obsessed with him for a few months, and got partway 
through half a dozen pieces about him before you blocked. Every 
time you tried, it was like there was a hole in the middle of it that 
refused to be filled. The closest you got was a neat little art 
contagion that would make infectees go gray and monochrome, like 
The Critic's color palette, but it seemed... blah. Lifeless. Childish 
and obvious and dull-witted, when you should be going for dynamic 
and mysterious. You ended up shelving it all, sticking it in a U-Stor-It 
out in South Fuckington, Middle of Nowhere, USA. 


You decided to do a little traveling to get some perspective on the 
Man From Nowhere. You spent a couple of years doing a variety of 
middling-to-moderately successful shows and actions in Eastern 
Europe down into Spain. The latest was a direct-action performance 
piece in Nice, France, where a group spiked the water system with a 
custom fast-acting hallucinogen that ended up with half the tourist 
trade tripping and seeing the gaps between the strings of reality. 
The early reviews were that it was ambitious but poorly executed, 
but at least you got a few people to wake up. You had a few inklings 
about the nature of Humanity versus Mystery and were taking the 
train to London, to catch the scene bubbling under the surface there, 
when you noticed The Critic sitting next to you. 


"Hello, artist.” 
Startled, you replied, "Uh, hello. |, uh, didn't see you there." 


"Very few people do. I'm here to discuss your little project about 
me." 


You frowned. "Wha- Oh, | guess you've been watching me. Kinda 
creepy, man." 


"Not really, but | did read a little something about you working on 
something of potential interest." 


"Wait, I'm getting reviews on something that | haven't even finished 
yet? MotherFUCK. It was Kaneese, wasn't it? I'm going to wring that 
little poseur's neck," you grumbled darkly. 


He seemed amused by your little outburst. "No, no, it was no one 
you would know or even be able to contact. Nevertheless, | want to 
warn you that you need to be more... original in your interpretation. 
In the waters you're splashing in, clichés will do nothing except get 
your work flamed and removed." He waved his hand vaguely 
towards the ceiling as he said, "Harsh criticism is the nature of the 
game, is it not?" 


"Removed? No, nevermind." You shook your head. "Have you seen 
my, | guess, treatise on you? What do you think?" 


"A little staid, as I'm sure you know, but some parts have potential. 
Pare it down to the core of your statement, your meaning, then 
elaborate from there. Don't feel that you have to add flash to make it 
acceptable; just work with what you have and make people like it." 


"Uh, thanks for the advice." You paused for a moment. "Um, can | 
ask you a question?" 


He made a small go-ahead gesture and said, "| don't guarantee that 
I'll answer, but ask away." 


You steeled your nerves and asked, "Why do you act so... 
randomly? | mean, you'll help some people one time, then the next 
you hand the same people over to the U.N. or whatever, then the 
next you just stand on the sidelines and watch." 


He smiled a Mona Lisa smile at you. "Your theme on me is 'Mystery’, 
isn't it? Think of it as part of my charm. | Know what needs to be 
done, or undone, and take care of things as | see fit." He paused, 
then continued, "| do have to say that | find you art monsters to be 
some of the more entertaining under my watch." 


With that, he rose. "Well, | must be going. | look forward to seeing 
the finished work, little artist." He tipped his hat to you, walked away, 
and you sank into a contemplation on how to edit and redefine your 
current scraps back "home". 


And that was how you met The Critic for the second time. 


The rest of your trip back to your storage unit in BFE, West Who- 
Gives-A-Damn was uneventful. Just a few days blitzed out of your 
mind in Boston, an induced flash-mob recreation of Debbie Does 
Dallas on the 50-yard line of Cowboys Stadium, and a lovely 
evening over tea with The Possibly Reverend George St. George 
the George'th of the Church of Bob the Irredeemer. Delightful wo/ 
man. 


You were feeling energized yet serene when you finally unlocked 
the door on the unit and rolled it up. Looking at everything tossed 
into it, you realized that The Critic was right; most of what you'd 


done before was trash, derivative, or clichéd to hell and back again. 
You spent a few days untangling one piece from another, picking 
apart what worked and what didn't. The next month was spent in a 
haze as you invented and engineered, called in favors, salvaged 
and scrapped and scraped and stole and slept. 


Eventually you ended up with something totally new; something you 
didn't even realize was in you, yet somehow tasted distinctly of your 
touch. You arranged for the first showing to take place on the 
grounds for Burning Man. Not while it was actually going on, that 
would've been a bit too... public for this particular piece's opening, 
but during the off-season. Besides, that gave it time to take root and 
mature for when the borderliners showed up. 


You passed the word out and around forty people showed up in 
person, although you saw some phones out, presumably streaming 
video elsewhere. In the center of the space was a seventy-foot-tall 
saguaro cactus made out of sheet metal and strips of malachite. It 
glowed, even after the sun set, with a purple-gray-green shimmer 
that pulled at the mind, like light reflecting off a pigeon's wing. Set 
into the base of the ivory tower were two narrow archways, barely 
big enough to squeeze into, through which could be seen Nothing. 
People kept trying to look into them, but their eyes refused to 
register anything at all. There were a few appreciative murmurs as 
people noticed that, but you tuned out most of the comments as you 
geared yourself up for the Real Deal. 


You let the audience circle the engraved spire until the new moon 
rose above the empty wooden scaffolding. In a spotlight of starlight 
and moondark, you walked up to the enormous sandstone anthill 
and stood, framed before the first archway. 


"Here is the unknown and the unknowable, the place through which 
we cannot speak. | invite anyone to walk in this man's shoes and tell 
themselves they are unchanged." 


You then took a step backwards, into and through the archway. 


It's strange seeing everyone like this, you think. Scrambling and 
rambling and even the brightest stars are stuck in the void of reality. 
You wonder why people don't just tear the veil from their eyes and 


remake everything into something more interesting. 


You see The Critic (oh, but now you know his name, don't you) walk 
out of the blind spot you didn't know you had, and stand, real and 
true amongst the flitterings around you both, a 4-D man in a 2-D 
world. He walks a slow circle around your edifice, and steps into the 
other archway. 


A creditable effort, he thinks. I'm not sure that many people will 
understand what you've done here, but | do believe that this grand 
(a/e)ffect is worthwhile. Hmm. You should take a step forward, 
though. | believe that things are about to get slightly more interesting 
that you anticipate. 


You think that he might be right. After all, you can smell that he's 
telling the truth as he knows it. You step out of the arch and found 
yourself surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and sycophants, all 
clamoring to praise you. 


You held up your hands and managed to stick a stiff smile on your 
face. "Ladies, gentlemen, teegs, nulls, please settle down. 'Nobody 
Knows Me, #6239' is an interactive piece, but | believe we're going 
to have some unwelcome company soon. Anyone who doesn't want 
to become a commercial sale or an exquisite corpse might want to 
leave now." 


Most of the audience looked uncomfortable and started to drift off to 
their vehicles, but a handful stuck around, questioning you. 


"How many-" "What inspir-" "Whenceforth came-" "Lovely materi-" 
"The luminos-" 


You answered in generalities and layered meanings for about an 
hour. The helicopters were surprisingly quiet, but that wasn't too 
remarkable, given who flew them. You hugged yourself and awaited 
the coming cuffs and chains. You wondered if your new "patrons" 
would let you have access to some art supplies before they shot you 
in the head. Just a little chalk would do. 


And that was how you met The Critic for the third time. 


Acquisitions - a Marshall, Carter & Dark Tale 


Eight, sir; seven, Sir; 

Six, sir; five, sir; 

Four, sir; three, sir; 

Two, sir; one! 

‘'Tenser,' said the Tensor. 
‘Tenser,' said the Tensor. 
‘Tension, apprehension, 
And dissension have begun. ' 


Alfred Bester, ‘The Demolished Man' 
Prelude: 


The boy sat pale and stiff in his chair, looking at the board with a 
curiously blank expression. His opponent, a teenager a couple of 
years older than him and about to enter his first tournament, moved 
his last minor piece to menace the boy's queen. 


"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" asked the boy, distantly. 


His older opponent blinked. The touch-rule was in effect, but the tips 
of his fingers were still brushing the knight's crest. He could still 
retract. 


"Why do you ask?" The teenager glanced over his shoulder to see 
his mother and father sitting, watching intently. The younger boy's 
mother had wandered off somewhere to make a phone call.