. Art bomb 
SCP-447-2 . The 
Sculptor continues to : Joseph Tamlin and 
Overgang Dood ; one civilian 


casualty. 
17483: Persons of interest 'The Painter’ and 'The Builder’ 
but are unable to synchronise 
, attempting 
instead. 


1744: 


1745: Foundation Agents requested at 1733 arrive 


1746: 
1747: 


1748: 


Tangerine 


1750: 


1755: 


1756: 


3 


: / 


3 . Trenchcoat 
. Joseph Tamlin and Overgang Dood 


, later identified as Artist Rita Summers, 


. Agents Green and 


3 


1808: 


1811: 


SCP-724: Procyon stentor 


Item #: SCP-724 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Due to its immobility, SCP-724 
is located in the central vault of Site-54. This vault is surrounded by 
a set of hinged shielding plates that can be closed to block radio 
signals from reaching SCP-724 and suppress the anomaly. 


SCP-724-1 specimens can be kept in standard-size cages, although 
any that are currently being monitored should be separated from 
each other by at least moderate soundproofing. Individuals not being 
monitored are kept in kennel sections with Faraday shielding. 
Transport of SCP-724-1 specimens must not use unshielded cages 
except by written permission of Researcher M 


Site-54 maintains the outward appearance of a corporate office/ 
research facility, in the name of a Foundation front company (S 
C P , Inc.). The lobby is to be staffed by Foundation security 
personnel posing as civilian receptionists and security guards. 


Description: SCP-724 is an anomaly covering approximately 8 m in 
diameter, located near the intersection of Interstate and Route in 

, .ltoccurs only when all of the surrounding radio towers 
(designated SCP-724-A through SCP-724- ) are broadcasting 
actively, and when the signals from these towers are able to reach 
the anomaly's location without significant interference. 


While SCP-724 is active, any individual of the species Procyon /otor 
(North American raccoon) that passes through the anomaly is 
permanently altered by unknown means. Altered subjects 
(collectively designated SCP-724-1) begin to frequently produce 
abnormal vocalizations including human voices, music, static, 
modulation/demodulation signals, [DATA EXPUNGED]. Subjects do 
not appear to understand or control the content of these 


1827: . Anomalous walrus contained. 


1828: Anomalous walrus escapes containment. 


1837: 


1838: 

The Sculptor is believed 
to have been detained, however, is later found to be an anomalous 
duplicate composed of clay. Current location of The Sculptor is 
unknown at time of writing. 


1845: 


1849: 


1854: 


The Painter and 
The Builder detained for questioning. 


1900: Foundation Agents attempt to detain Trenchcoat; 


. Current location 
unknown at time of writing. 


bl 


1913: 


1917: The Painter and The Builder attempt to escape containment 


by . Attempt unsuccessful, both are sedated 
and detained. All previously detained artists sedated, operating 
procedure altered to sedate all detained persons. Rita Summers 
detained and sedated. 


1943: , returned fire. 
Anomalous walrus re-contained. 


1945: Anomalous walrus , escaping containment. 


1947: Two members of Futanari Titwhore Fiasco are sedated and 
contained, current location of third member unknown at time of 
writing. 


1959: 


2000: 


Overgang Dood sedated and detained. 
2004: Joseph Tamlin sedated and detained. 


2013: 


Melanoma sedated and detained. 
2022: 


Authorised personnel provided with gas 
masks. 
2029: Airborne amnestic sweep 
2032: 


2037: 


2046: 


2054: 


2103: 


2107: Agent Green escorted from to Site- by Foundation 
agents. 


Original Copy Do Not Bend 

Office Use: 

SCP - 447 

BSC - 4039 

EVX -X 

BRT -X 

GOI - ART 

ML/EX/J XK/XKP/TK/BG 

DOCUMENT NOT TO BE COPIED UNTIL ORIGINAL IS VERIFIED 
BY AN AUTHORISED JUSTICE OF THE PEACE 
JP: Dr. Alto Clef 


"Well, you were certainly thorough about it." 
"You know how we operate, Agent Green. We are always thorough." 
"What now, then?" 


"You've got some Artists to deal with, Agent Green." 


"Thank you, sir. Apologies for the inconvenience." 


"Not at all, glad you caught me. I'll leave this to you then, I've a 
plane to catch. A bit of a ‘sabbatical’ in Brazil." 


"Ah, well, | hope you enjoy your holiday, sir." 


Clef pulled a pair of sunglasses, flicking them open and resting them 
on his nose. 


"Not likely.” 


| Love The Smell Of [DATA EXPUNGED] In The Morning 
« The Friday Exhibition | Hub | Nobody Dies » 


Nobody Dies 


Ruiz Duchamp heard a sound in the distance. 
hoooooo000nk 


Probably nothing. Ruiz continued to pace in his studio, moonlight 
shining through the glass roof and casting shadows across the 
room. Felix had passed on the invitation; the only thing that Ruiz 
could do now was wait. 


“Ruiz Duchamp.” 


Ruiz turned to the doorway; he had waited long enough. The Critic 
adjusted the grey tie on his grey shirt, grey fedora matching his grey 
eyes. Every wrinkle in his brow exuded an aura of impossible 
normalcy, a feeling that this lone individual was the one true 
constant in reality. Ruiz grinned. His audience of one had arrived. 


“The one and only. And what should | call you? Do you prefer 
‘Critic’? ‘Doctor’? ‘Professor’? ‘Administrator’? ‘Reverend’, even? 
Dare | call you ‘God’? Or, perhaps, shall we go with... ‘Nobody’?” 


“I think ‘Sir’ will suffice.” 


Ruiz clapped his hands in unspeakable ecstasy, moving to the 
man’s side. 


“Sir, yes sir. Right this way, sir, may | take your hat and tie, sir? 
Welcome, sir, welcome, to my glorious masterpiece!” 


Ruiz flung his hands from his body, theatrically standing in front of 
his completed work. The lights flicked on with an electric hum, 
sawblades spun on with a whirr, neon signs flashed brightly, rows 
upon rows of deadly contraptions lined the hall. Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ 
played from the house speakers. 


“WOWWEE, SIR, WOWWEE! GO KILL YURSEFIL!” 


Ruiz paused, realising he wasn’t sure how to pronounce ursefl. 


“Yur... yursefil? Ursefell? Oh, never mind, it’s pronounced ursefl, 
silly me.” 


The Critic adjusted his fedora. 
“Amateurish.” 
Ruiz laughed, plucking a yellow circular saw from a shelf. 


“No, sir, no it’s not. You're not looking at it with the right mindset, 
you're not looking close enough. You’re the right audience but 
you're looking at the wrong thing, sir. Look at this until you really, 
really get it, sir, then you'll understand the exhibit.” 


The Critic took the offered saw in his hand. He appraised it briefly. 
Uninteresting in all respects. 


“This is nothing.” 
“Sir, ’'d never show nothing to Nobody. Look harder.” 


The Critic stared at the circle of metal. He stared into the thin 
coating of paint, literally inside its composition, then noticed the 
pattern of brushwork. It was not completed in discrete layers, in fact, 
the brushstrokes seemed to weave together in three dimensions, the 
dried paint tangled impossibly. It was so subtle that, in fact, nobody 
would ever notice it. Nobody but Nobody. He looked deeper, beyond 
the coating, into the metallurgical structure of the disc. The internal 
flow seemed to twist and turn through impossible spaces, incredible 
tension pulling the fabric of reality taut within the hardened disc. He 
looked deeper, into the molecular structure; there he saw five- 
dimensional warping that should, by all accounts, cause the disc to 
shatter into dust. The atomic structure was bent through eight 
dimensions, beneath that, the protons were pulled across eighteen; 
the constituent quarks below were crackling across twenty six and 
below that he could feel the tension of uncountable vectors in 
uncountable spaces. The Critic inhaled deeply, apprehension setting 
in. Ruiz cackled madly. 


“It’s all perfectly fine, sir, it’s perfectly normal. There’s enough stress 


in that disc alone to destroy the planet, and sir, I’ve got five of them, 
and a hell of a lot more than just saws in here. | have no idea what 
you’re looking at, even now. | was painting blind, | can’t look that 
deep, but | searched for it and felt my way around and knotted the 
stuff together and there you go. | was very careful about it, sir, not 
even you could unravel this tapestry; the knit is much too tight.” 


The Critic looked up at the buzzing, whirring, slicing death 
machines. In every one of them, he felt the inimitable pull of the 
impossible. He could tell they were all joined to the humble chair 
sitting in the middle of the room. Ruiz’s mad grin relaxed into an 
apathetic melancholy. He gestured and nothing but moonlight was 
left, silence fell, and then gestured again, and, with an audible arc of 
electricity, a spotlight shone onto his centrepiece. 


“Of course, you can’t possibly let this stand. Someone as erratic, as 
unpredictable as me, to have such untapped force at his disposal? 
Frankly unacceptable. Certainly, you could try to pull these things 
apart yourself, piece by piece, thread by impossible thread, but | 
don’t think even your hands are steady enough for that. One wrong 
yank and you’d wipe all life from the earth. Luckily for you, though, 
there’s still one hanging cord. You grab this metaphorical cord and 
pull, it all collapses, the tightness drops, the tenseness on the world 
dissipates and I’m left with a bunch of boring little trinkets. You know 
what | mean, don’t you sir?” 


The Critic’s face moved uncomfortably, staring at the illuminated 
chair. 


“Come, sir, let me show you to your throne.” 


Ruiz grabbed the grey-suited man by the arm, pulling the suddenly 
limp figure to the centre of the room. Ruiz pushed The Critic down 
onto the chair, fastening straps around his legs, chest, and left arm. 
Ruiz placed The Critic’s right hand upon a large red lever. A polaroid 
camera faced directly towards The Critic’s grey fedora. 


“Now, this is the thing that I’m most proud of, sir. This piece, | call 
‘get ur foto takkn’, and | do hope I’m pronouncing that clearly 
enough for you. You see, all you need to do is sit right there, get 
nice and comfortable, pull that big old lever, and then this 


contraption here, the good old polaroid, takes a picture of you! And 
also you get electrocuted and die. This does, of course, unknit all of 
my other fancy stuff, completely disabling my ‘armaments’. But that 
last bit’s only happening because it’s you, sir, the rest happens for 
everyone.” 


The Critic looked dully towards Ruiz, fedora barely blocking the 
harsh spotlight from his eyes. 


“Why?” 


Ruiz turned and sat to the side of his camera, shrouded in darkness 
yet dappled in moonlight. 


“Because | hate you. Because | need to hold someone responsible 
for all of this, all of reality, and it may as well be you. You sit in the 
darkness and plan and plot and you think you've got it all under 
control. Well, you don’t have it under control. If I’d wanted, | could 
have just set this stuff off yesterday, and nobody would have 
breathed another breath. And that’s not a stupid, shitty double 
meaning thing with ‘Nobody’, you'd be dead as well, sir. You 
presume to have the authority to take care of everything, when in 
reality, you're the one who has the least control. Look at you, old 
man, sitting in a bland little suit, hopping about and reassuring 
everyone. ‘All part of the plan’, you say. But there is no plan, there is 
no grand scheme, and it’s only by incredible happenstance that the 
world hasn’t been obliterated a trillion times over. You’re not getting 
your shit together, so | need to kill you. With you gone, people will 
take your place. Deconsolidation of the power base. Restructuring of 
the system. A universal paradigm shift. The ultimate defenestration.” 


“All I’m hearing is the incoherent rambling of a madman.” 


“A madman? You're calling me a madman? You're the one who 
made me like this, grandpa, you're the one who set it all in motion. 
Sitting around playing with a bunch of fucking puppets, masks upon 
masks upon masks, playing at being Everybody and what's in the 
middle? | know as well as you do, Nobody lies behind the masks. 
Lies and lies and lies and lies. So I’ve sat you here, subtle hints and 
triggers forcing you into submission, into apathy, into apprehension 
and servility and all of that good stuff. But I’m not going to kill you, 


vocalizations, simply acting as passive receivers. The volume and 
clarity of vocalizations increases with proximity to the active 
SCP-724 anomaly. No anatomical or chemical alterations have been 
identified in SCP-724-1 compared to unaltered specimens. 


These vocalizations have been found to correspond to radio 
transmissions from sources other than the towers surrounding 
SCP-724. Transmissions captured by SCP-724 have been 
confirmed to originate from numerous locations throughout the 
Northern Hemisphere, and occur throughout the RF spectrum (a log 
of identified transmission sources can be found in Document 724- ). 
Each subject seems to have a distinct "remote receiver" at a fixed 
location, frequency, and protocol. The location and tuning of each 
individual's receiver appears to depend upon the incident signals 
triggering the anomaly at the time the subject is altered, based on 
factors such as amplitude and frequency. 


Addendum 724-1: SCP-724 is believed to have first occurred in 
19 , when SCP-724- (the most recently-constructed tower) began 
broadcasting. Reports of "talking raccoons" in the area prompted 
Foundation investigation, and the anomaly was located using 
several affected subjects. Efforts to capture all wild SCP-724-1 are 
ongoing. 


The relationship between the surrounding radio towers was 
discovered when SCP-724-C was taken offline for maintenance and 
the anomaly consequently ceased activity during the maintenance 
period. After extensive discussion, it was decided to allow the towers 
producing SCP-724 to continue transmitting. 


Addendum 724-2: Research is ongoing to identify the relevant 
factors in the generation of the SCP-724 anomaly, so that no further 
anomalies are accidentally created. A better understanding of the 
effects of the various contributing factors could also have significant 
practical utility in surveillance and communications applications. 


Addendum 724-3: As an experiment, several SCP-724-1 were 
allowed to mate with affected and unaffected specimens, to 
determine SCP-724's effects (if any) on subsequent generations. Of 
the resultant offspring, 100% have thus far been SCP-724-1 
themselves. Second-generation offspring of mixed-heritage parents 


sir, no sir, no sir. That’s your big red lever to pull.” 
The Critic drummed his fingers on the handle. 
“And what if | sit here and do nothing?” 


“Then I'll walk over to the wall, press that button, and boom goes the 
metaphorical dynamite.” 


At once, a large red button began to glow. 


“So, sir, take your pick. Die by yourself, unknown, unloved, a nobody 
until the end, and silently save millions, or die with me, die with all of 
us, and with the last of your waking moments watch the world burn. 
I’m not fussed either way, sir.” 


Ruiz pulled his right leg up to rest upon his left. 
“Why did you make him to begin with, sir?” 
“Who?” 

“You know who.” 

“| honestly don't.” 


Ruiz stood and pulled The Critic by his tie, watching him wince as 
his airways cut off. 


“You don’t even remember. You pull impossible shit and move on, 
you switch masks and dance away. You refuse to shoulder 

responsibility for your own actions and entrust the world upon the 
shoulders of cripples. Fuck you, sir. Redd really was just like you.” 


The Critic’s eyes widened. 


“Redd... that was years ago. Long before | found the hat. You mean 
he actually... oh. Oh, | am so, so sorry. He wasn’t meant to leave. 
He wasn't ready. | made a mistake. I’m so sorry.”