It is currently unknown what is the source of reality- 
warping abilities of people classified as "anomalous 
artists". In case of anart affecting the viewer mentally, the 
source is suspected to be mystical and/or memetical, as 
many pieces of art rely on perception and ability to 
connect facts by the viewer - amount of knowledge and 
general level of intelligence are often crucial for artwork 
to affect the viewer. 


It's still not known, though, how pieces that defy laws of 


physics or thaumaturgy come to existence and what is 
source of their anomalous capabilities. 


It was exhilarating, sinking into the carpet slithering between their 
feet and feeling themself let go. Later they would sculpt shapes into 
the pillow they slept on and feel those shapes crawl underneath their 
head as they tried to sleep. 


In the morning they would water their succulents. They would watch 
their forms, the way light of the rising sun fell through a half- 
translucent surfaces, their fingers digging into the earth. 


Later they would pass by the warehouse and avoid scavengers and 
urbex fans, high on graffiti fumes overflowing from the inside, 
pigments dizzying and attracting more and more of them. Once 
there were crowds sticking to the walls, inhaling uncontrollably 
imaginary cocaine. They were nearly all gone today, surprisingly. 


During the night, they would dream and in the morning they would 
feel they could make their dream a reality with just a movement of 
their hand. It was a dizzying sensation, a truly powerful one, 
exhilarating, intoxicating, one they were growing sick of. 


This type of process of anartwork creation is often 
described in metaphorical ways, presenting the activity of 
creating art with means of another, seemingly unrelated, 
activity or line of thoughts. There is no correlation 
between artists' mental visualization and ways the 
anomalous art is created: the images presented in those 
visualizations most likely do not depend on medium 
used. 


They knew that whatever was in them was bursting at the seams. 
They ached to turn their chisel to their skin, to let whatever was 
inside out, but they knew it wouldn't work like this. Their hands were 
the only means of lowering that internal pressure, but there was 
either lack of time or lack of own skill. 


Even when they sculpted, be it clay or folds of material of their dress 
when they were sitting at the balcony, it was never enough. They 
wondered if it was stress turning their body against them or was it 


really a thing they couldn't control at all. They never could pinpoint 
when their work slipped from their own hands into the hands of 
something else, if such a moment ever existed. 


Glances sent by their roommate were no longer worried but 
annoyed. They wished they could explain what was going on, but 
they weren't sure if they knew anymore. And anyway, they tried 
explaining enough times. It never worked. 


What still remains to be discovered is how anartists 
avoid the exposure to the effects of their own work. 
Generally interviewed anartists note that a creator should 
know their own work well enough to avoid it, but in most 
cases artists express confusion and lack of 
understanding of the mechanism. Some acknowledge 
the fact that they don't know what their art really does 
before exposing the viewers to it, but often in those 
cases, works do not present a significant hazard. 


If art is supposed to have a certain effect, though, 
anartists generally note that the desired effect, be it on 
viewer or on reality, is what drives the creation process. 


For now they abandoned the dreams completely. They never dreamt 
after taking meds, so they resorted to that. Just in case, they tied 
one of their legs to the bed. Their roommate mocked them for that, 
but they didn't care. Before sleeping, they trembled, helplessly 
allowing chemicals to shut their eyes. 


They were a wreck and they knew that. Stomach cramps, irregular 
periods, even hair loss. They wondered if this was the price of art in 
their case - you never get amazing powers of creating things out of 
thin air that rebel against all laws of nature and physics without a 
payment of some sorts, right? Or maybe they just did something 
wrong and needed help. Or both. 


They watered their succulents in the morning, trying to ignore the 
sunrise and tugging feeling at their eyelids. They felt that their 
paranoia was somehow justified but couldn't quite explain how did 
that work. 


They sculpted scales in a smooth surface, trying to pour all their 
panic into intricate patterns but they knew it wouldn't be enough in 
the long run. For now, though, there was a bit of relief here, in clay 
dust on the floor and callouses on their fingers. 


Most often repeated notion during creation process is a 
sentiment of being out of control, artists noting that their 
activities are guided or even straight out directed by 
some uncontrollable force, described very often with a 
term of "Flow". 


The term is, most likely, derived from a psychological 
state in which one is fully immersed and involved ina 
certain activity, characterized by loss of sense of space 
and time. 


They woke up lying in the hallway, their fingers covered in clay. 
They scrambled up with a scream, waking their roommate up. She 
was considerate enough to let them collapse in her arms and to 
soothe them with gentle whispers, Sam, Sam, hey, it will be okay, it 
was just a bit of sleepwalking, don't worry... 


She never laughed at them again. 


Most of anartists using the "Flow" methodology mention 
a sense of contentment, feelings of exhilaration or 
satisfaction, but some interviewed note at least one case 
in which the reverse also happened - from a sensation of 
dissatisfaction to outright fury. 


Emotions of the anartists may but do not have to affect 
the outcome of their work, but some interviewed anartists 
note it can make creation process easier. 


They stared at their phone and the countless texts from some folks 
they knew. They deleted all of them. Then, they lied down on the 
floor and fell asleep, body too tired to follow whims of the mind. 


Regardless, their hands still worked clay while in their dreams they 
sunk deeper and deeper and wondered briefly what would happen if 
they drowned before waking up. 


In extremely rare cases, it is noted that the process of 
creation and affecting the viewer is reversed. The 
changed order has been observed too rarely, though, to 
be effectively analysed and for proper research to be 
carried out. It is notable that most of anartists interviewed 
do not have any knowledge regarding it. 


Anton Legler stared at the slowly burning canvas lying on his 
kitchen's floor. Their smell was more intoxicating than an itch for a 
cigarette he still felt after so many years of dropping the habit. There 
was a sensation of relief, watching threads and paint get slowly 
swallowed by flames. He could always salvage them, but this, this 
brought him so much more satisfaction. 


He heard a knock. For once someone noticed that doorbell wasn't 
working. He glanced at the watch. It was almost midnight, who the 
hell would arrive this late anyway? Yang rarely came at this hour but 
she usually called beforehand, and who else would be here to visit? 


There was a brief thought that maybe somebody in the end got 
interested in him again, so, just in case, he took a potato peeler, 
dipped it in some cyan paint and put it in his pocket. Dada never 
made a great weapon, but was definitely useful in urgent situations. 


It turned out it was all for nothing, as he was greeted by a girl. Well, 
a young adult woman, technically, but she looked young enough. 
Only her expression belied her age. 


"Do | know you?" He always was proud of the fact he had a good 
memory for surnames and faces but this person? No, he never saw 
her in his classes, he'd for sure remember someone of this posture 
and way of standing. 


"No," She replied. "But you are a Sam Adams' teacher, and you deal 
in weird shit." 


Her bluntness stunned him for a second, but he nodded. Sam 
Adams, a known name, he wanted to invite them to his little lessons 
but he didn't see them on campus in months. He never heard if 
anything had happened to them, but even before their 
disappearance they looked rather bad. A thought that he should 


reach out maybe and ask if everything was alright crossed his mind 
just before their disappearence. 


"They need help." 


She took a few steps back. On the hallway's floor was sitting Sam. 
They rised their head and smiled weakly. They looked even worse 
than last time Legler saw them. He noted their paleness, too thin 
limbs and dark circles under their eyes. 


With a sigh, Legler opened the door wider. 


It's theorized that as the viewer in this case is the source 
of anomalous effect, the artist is working around reality 
perceived by the viewer. The inability of artists to 
perceive what the viewer's sensations are does not work 
in favor of this theory, as anomalous artists, despite their 
name, are rarely anomalous entities themselves. 


They vomited chunks of concrete and wood onto the kitchen floor. 
Before they could draw a breath in, more wood followed, this time 
covered in layer of dark paint. And again, more concrete and wet 
clay. Even in the darkness one could see that those were now mixed 
with blood. Probably some splinters from wood damaged their throat 
or esophagus. 


Legler watched, waiting. He winced when bloodied screws clinked 
against the tiles. 


"Typical overflow." He noted, when it seemed like they threw up 
everything. They were still retching saliva, blood and splinters, but it 
was nothing in comparison to the pile in the middle of his kitchen. He 
passed them a glass of water; they used half of it to clear their 
mouth from any remains of paint or blood. The rest was drunk, cold 
water soothing the burning. 


"Overflow?" They finally cracked out, voice barely a whisper. 


"That happens, rarely, but it does." Legler took the glass, refilled it 
with tap water and passed it back to Sam. Their hands were still 
trembling when they held it again. "A loop feedback of sorts, might 


happen when you create things based on your own perception and 
actions, but that's not always the case." 


"Is it so bad to create things based on yourself?" They put the glass 
on the floor and tried to sit down. 


"No. But sometimes when Flow is in play it can lead one to 
drowning." Legler looked briefly at the pile of used materials Sam 
puked out. "| dare say that was close." 


"Will this..." They followed his gaze. "...help? Sorry for the mess, by 
the way." 


"For a while, yes. It was just a performance you did here, something 
symbolical to at least alleviate the pressure." Legler helped Sam get 
up, and even as they were supported by him they could barely keep 
their balance. They were grateful their roommate left before she 
could see them like this. "I think | might find something to help you 
out, for now at least." 


"You sound as if | was ill, Professor." 


"Not really." They sat down on the sofa." When you think of Flow as 
a tap you turn on only when you create, | suspect you are struggling 
to shut it down. A rare thing, yes, but that happens. It's always hard 
for people to learn to access Flow but leaving it is simple. In your 
case it's the reverse. | think all you need to do is to learn how to do 
it.” 


"So, what, are you going to teach me that?" Sam sighed. "Hopefully 
| won't fail your other courses as well." 


"lam going to do that but first I'll have to make sure you can stand 
on your own." Sam stared at Legler, and he shrugged. "Unless you 
have something against that, but considering you can't take one 
step without someone's aid, | suppose you will stay here a while. In 
the meantime, I'll do everything | can." 


"With all due respect, Professor, but that sounds shady as fuck." 


"Also, if you stay here | will make sure you pass more than just my 
classes." 


SCP-644: Mr. Hot 


Item #: SCP-644 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-644 is to be held within a 
standard humanoid containment chamber within Hall of Site- . All 
staff or D-class in Site- known to have children are to be briefed of 
SCP-644's anomalous effects. Staff with children may opt out of 
testing with SCP-644 at any time. 


Description: SCP-644 is a male humanoid of Italian descent. 
Visually, SCP-644 appears to be approximately 30 years old. The 
words "Mr. Hot, from Little Misters ® by Dr. Wondertainment" are 
tattooed on SCP-644's left inner wrist. 


SCP-644 is able to accurately determine whether or not a person 
has children. Both biological and adopted children may be sensed 
by this effect. SCP-644 is aware of this fact for any person it knows 
of, even if just by appearance or name. 


SCP-644 claims to be able to predict the material wishes of any 
child, as well as the popularity of any product intended for children. 
SCP-644 claims that this effect does not function for the wishes of 
adults, but has given predictions for at least one person over the age 
of 18, whom SCP-644 described as "a real trooper", with no further 
comment. 


SCP-644 is able to produce a business card from the pocket of any 
clothing worn by it. On the front of the card is printed: 


Mister Hot 
Marketing Consultant 
Doctor Wondertainment Inc. LLC 
1515 Mulberry Lane, Chicago, South Africa 


Sam stared at him. 
"That makes it even worse." 


"Maybe, but | want to remind you there are two flights of stairs to get 
from here to the street. When you'll get from here to there without 
collapsing, you're free to go." 


Sam stared at him. 
"Isn't that technically kidnapping?" 


"| am not the one who can barely move, despite the fact that I'm at 
least thrice your age," Legler rised an eyebrow at them. "But if you 
want to, | can call an ambulance or a taxi. All up to you. Keep in 
mind though that your performance will keep you stable for maybe a 
two weeks at best." 


Sam bit their lip. 


"Do you live here all alone?" They asked, quietly, and Legler 
laughed. 


"If that's what you're worried about, | do, but | am ina stable 
relationship, thank you very much." Legler got up. "For now though, 
you will be the first to spend a night on this sofa. You'll tell me later 
how it was." 


"| have none of my things in here." They muttered. "Toothbrush, or 
at least pajamas..." 


"| think one of hers should fit you," Legler got up. "As for the rest, I'm 
guessing you might call your friend to get your things, | have enough 
space." 


Sam grabbed closest blanket and, while grumbling angrily, lied down 
on a sofa. It wasn't bad, for now. 


"If it makes you feel any better, though, | also don't want you to 
spend too much time here. | like to keep my personal life close." 
Legler left for few minutes, he returned with a set of green pajamas. 
Sam noted it was a bit too short for them, but thanked for them and 


waited few long minutes after Legler retreated to his own bedroom 
before changing into it. 


Before they managed to fall asleep, they heard a crack, a gentle 
sound, as if from a bonfire. Sam tried to remember but no, they 
didn't see a fireplace anywhere. They struggled to sit up on the sofa, 
body too weak. Maybe they did overdo it with skipping meals a bit 
and, generally, ignoring everything but their plants... 


From here they could see a kitchen. In the dark, they could see 
embers on the floor - it took them a bit too long to realize that 
everything they threw up earlier was now slowly burning down on 
Legler's kitchen tiles. Later, this was the only thing they could dream 
about. 


It is not Known if in such cases the artists are spectators 
as well. 


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