Rita got to the base of the short ladder, and looked out at the vast 
space she had entered. She appraised the place as she descended 
a staircase into the well-illuminated foyer. Some walls were brick 
and mortar, some built of bright plastic, some of glass or Perspex, 
some of metal. It was an eclectic mishmash of materials and design, 
with huge marble columns sitting adjacent to enormous Campbell’s 
Soup cans, both supporting a twisting, unevenly-shaped roof. Rita 
walked along the closest wall, glancing into different rooms. 
Pantries, a dining room, bedrooms, an enormous entertainment 
room with a television filling an entire wall. Rita couldn’t stop 
grinning. 


An impossible mansion was hidden beneath the floor of their van. 


Rita saw Overgang drop down through the hatch and walk over to 
the dining room table, holding his laptop in one hand and typing on it 
with the other. Joey followed, walking into the pantry and grabbing 
an apple, crunching off a mouthful. He threw Rita another apple; she 
caught it and took a bite. She pursed her lips, wincing softly as Joey 
chuckled to himself. 


It tasted like lemons. 


“So what do | do with you two?” 


Agent Green sat across from The Painter and The Builder. The 
Painter had dried blood around his mouth, with dark splots of it 
across his chest; The Builder had deep bags under his eyes from 
stress and sleeplessness. Agent Alcorn was watching a video feed 
from the other room. 


“On the one hand, the pair of you are threats to society at large. 
You're near the top of the largest group of anartists this side of the 
equator. You’re dangerous. Admittedly you’re both comparatively 
incompetent, but still dangerous. If we were doing this by the book, 
you'd both already be dead... sorry, ‘terminated’.” 


Green stood up and started to pace in the cell; the pair of anartists 
looked down at their knees. 


“At the same time, you know things. Your brains are potential 
assets. As such, | am reluctant to do any damage to them.” 


Green turned and sat down. 


“Luckily, I’ve found a solution to this problem. Would you like to 
know what it is?” 


The Painter looked up at Green, spitting in his face. 

“Fuck you.” 

Green wiped the saliva off, smiling condescendingly. He pulled out a 
long, thick syringe from his pocket, a brown, uneven mixture swirling 
inside. Green walked around behind The Painter, who was still 


sitting bound to the chair. The Painter started to struggle, 
anticipating the worst. 


“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” 
“Shhhhh.” 


Green stuck the hypodermic needle into the back of The Painter’s 
shoulder, pushing the liquid in. As the last drop was squeezed from 
the chamber, The Painter shuddered slightly, then let his head fall 
limp onto his chest. 


“Only dreams now, Robbo.” 


Green walked to the other side of the table, looking into The 
Builder’s tired eyes. 


“As for you, Bob, you get a few more precious minutes of 
consciousness before we pump you full of barbiturates.” 


The Builder gazed dully back. 


“Ah. Chemically induced coma. Well, at least I'll be able to get some 
sleep.” 


“Quite. Anything to say before we put you under? Some piece of 
valuable advice? A nice, profound little phrase on the subject of the 
human condition and art? Anything useful at all?” 


“No. No, | don’t think so.” 
“| don’t think so, either.” 


And then The Builder’s world was nothing. 


Ruiz Duchamp was dead. 


A lot of invitations were sent out, regardless. Some to academic 
professionals, some to world-renowned artisans, some to homeless 
people, and some to people believed to have been long since dead. 
The source of the invitations was indeterminate; it was as though the 
letters simply popped into existence on the insides of the mailbags. 
That was, of course, impossible, and therefore exactly what was 
happening. 


Most of the recipients had never heard of Ruiz Duchamp. 


Most of the world had never heard of Ruiz Duchamp. 


Most of the world did not care about Ruiz Duchamp. 
Three people in the world cared that Ruiz Duchamp was dead. 


And even then, they didn’t care that much. 


Rita danced across the rooftops, grinning happily to herself. She 
threw neon-coloured smoke grenades into the alleyways below, 
carried and shielded by her cadre of invisible arachnids. Molly and 
Joey sprinted up the rusty outer staircase, carrying briefcases filled 
with art supplies. Rita pulled out her phone, shouting over the 
gunfire below: 


“O.G., roof! Corner of Fourth and Second!” 


Molly passed her briefcase to Joey, then pulled a slingshot from her 
pocket, firing high-velocity jellybeans at the GOC agents chasing 
after them. The building started to shake violently; Rita looked over 
the edge of the building, watching Overgang drive their van vertically 
up its side. He reached the top, the van shot upwards, turned 
parallel to the roof surface, and then came crashing down with a 
violent thud. Overgang pressed a button on the dashboard, anda 
long, multi-jointed robotic arm burst from the side of the vehicle. It 
weaved out and latched solidly onto Joey, grabbing him by the back 
of his belt and pulling him into the vehicle. Molly continued shooting 
jellybeans; Rita rode her spiders into the vehicle and down into the 
hidden mansion through the centre trapdoor. Overgang pushed 
down on the accelerator, turning in an arc that moved just behind 
Molly; Molly, in turn, shot a final bean into the chest of a well- 
armoured soldier, then jumped into the van. 


The GOC agents’ bullets ricocheted off the van, leaving small dents 
and loud metallic dings wherever they hit. Overgang hit the 
accelerator, shooting the van off the roof. For a few seconds, he was 
weightless, freefall grabbing at him; then the van hit the ground. If it 
weren’t for the intricate anomalous dampening system he’d installed 
in it the previous week, they’d all be dead. He grinned from the 
adrenaline, glad that it had worked perfectly the first time. 


SCP-727: Hephaestus's Forge 


Item #: SCP-727 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: A security fence has been 
constructed around the area of SCP-727. Civilians are to be turned 
away and officials are to be told that the area around SCP-727 is 
geologically unstable. Access to SCP-727 is permitted only for 
testing and requires at least one armed guard on duty outside the 
item's entrance. All crafted objects produced inside SCP-727 are to 
be stored in containment room 727-H at Site- . 


Description: SCP-727 resembles a smithy of ancient Greek design. 
It contains artisans’ tools originating from a wide variety of eras and 
countries, some of which have not yet been identified. The item's 
walls and ceiling are covered with masses of chains made from a 
material similar to iron. SCP-727's nature makes these chains' 
length impossible to measure. 


When a human being enters SCP-727, the chains along the walls 
and ceiling become active and forcefully ensnare the subject. 
Ensnarement does not kill the subject, but invariably breaks many of 
its bones. Subjects with reinforced limbs are not immune to 
disfigurement. If more than one person enters SCP-727 at a time, 
the chains kill all but one subject by strangulation. Non-human 
animals and inanimate objects are simply thrown from SCP-727 by 
the chains. Once the chains have full control of a single human 
subject, they manipulate it like a puppet, forcing it to craft a series of 
objects of diverse nature and exceptional quality. Subjects describe 
this process as extremely painful. The source of the raw material for 
the crafted objects is unknown. After an indeterminate period of 
time, the chains throw the subject and its crafted objects out of 
SCP-727 and become dormant until another person enters 
SCP-727. Subjects of SCP-727 are given no sustenance and no 
opportunity to sleep; if a subject loses consciousness, it is thrown 


"| met a wise man, once. | climbed great mountains and crossed 
vast chasms, and found him sitting in the centre of the world. | asked 
him who he was, and he told me he was a student. A student of 
who, | asked; a student of the only teacher, he said. Are there other 
students, | asked; we are all students, and in turn, we all become 
teachers, he said. | asked him who he was. He told me he was the 
Buddha. Unfortunately, a different wise man told me this: If you meet 
the Buddha on the road, kill him." 


The Snipper spun around, grinning. 
"So, of course, | slit his throat." 


There were no corpses. The corpses reminded him of the dead, and 
the dead reminded him of his brother. His brother was dead. Ruiz 
was dead. 


What a fucking spoilsport. 

“Where are my corpswitzers? Let them guard the door.” 

Such a disappointment. 

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 
Then why think? 

“Why think indeed.” 

Here | speak plainly. 

“To you, dearest brother, to you.” 

Pico walked to the wall, picking up a bottle of vodka and pouring it 
into his open mouth, speaking and sputtering through a stream of 
alcohol. 

“What’s the purpose? The meaning? The ‘raison d’étre’, | would say, 
if | wanted to be obnoxiously condescending and unforgivably 


French.” 


I’m beginning to sound preachy, here. 


“Good morning, living earth.” 
Pico took the bottle and smashed it onto the ground. 
“What did that mean, | wonder? What, what, what...” 


We've been over this. The meaning of things is in the thinking of 
their meaning. 


“Meaning needs people. Without people, there is no meaning, and 
the world is nothing.” 


The world is nothing. 

“Have you ever tried... killing yourself?” 

| have. 

“What was it like?” 

It was not... comfortable. 

“| expect not.” 

Then you expect correctly, figment. 

“Figment?” 

Figment. A figment is all you are. 

“Hah. You would know better than | would.” 

| certainly hope so. 

“A good figment, though? A pretty little fragment?” 
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. 
“You stole that from me.” 

You stole that from me. 


“Well, what do you think?” 


You stood on the opposite side of the room, staring at the madman 
talking into empty space. You wondered who he was talking to; that 
is, you wondered who | was, or perhaps am. Past continuous verb 
tense is a tricky business, is it not? The Snipper Speaks: 


“That it is.” 


And you respond with silence. Or do you? How would you react, 
how did you, how do you? Would you kill this man? 


| place a knife in your hand; Pico Wilson offers his throat. The 
decision [was/is/will be] left to you. 


Agent Green took a deep breath, puffing smoke out into the street. 
He idly rubbed his teeth with his tongue, watching cars speed by 
from his seat outside the café. He stubbed out his cigarette into the 
ashtray, then picked up his cup of tea and began to drink. 


Agent Alcorn pulled out the seat across from Green, sitting down 
and pulling out a cigarette of his own. Green offered his lighter; 
Alcorn waved his cancer stick across the flame until it took. Alcorn 
raised the cigarette to his mouth, breathed in a warm lungful of 
noxious fumes, then blew a stream of grey across a similarly grey 
city. He turned to Green. 


“You're shit at your job.” 

Green stared into his reflection on the surface of the tea. 
“Yeah.” 

Alcorn took another drag from his cigarette. 

“Better than I’d be, though. Better than most.” 

“The problem is people.” 


“Everything’s people, Green. The problem and the solution. You're 
the closest solution we've got to a shitty, shitty problem.” 


Alcorn threw his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with a twist of 


his shoe. 
“Man. Fuck artists. Fuck artists and fuck art.” 


Green continued staring into his cup of tea. 


“Have you ever tried... killing yourself?” 
| have. 
“What was it like?” 


lt was exhilarating. Everything up until then was just... nothing. | 
stood in the fresh breeze of a wintery July. The coarse gravel 
crunched beneath my sandals, my legs ached from the long uphill 
walk. The night was dark, as nights tend to be. | was twelve at the 
time. 


“Twelve? A touch too young.” 


Too young to be a part of the world, yes, but not too young to hate it. 
The world is rotten, fragment. My world, at least. Yours is a touch 
more pure. 


“You digress.” 


| do. The ground crunched beneath me. | stood at the top of the hill; 
the train station was below. The bells and lights and everything 
flashed. Ding ding ding ding... and the train was gone. | stood in star 
embroidered pyjamas. | looked up at the sky and there were no 
stars. Too close to the city, to light, to massive stadiums of glorified 
idiots. The people of the earth got in the way of the world. They 
didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve me. | didn’t deserve them. 


“You sounded like me.” 


Perhaps | was; though where you are gleeful and free, | was bitter 
and entrapped. Trapped in a world that didn’t think, couldn't 
conceive, or comprehend. | walked down the hill and tripped. Small 
rocks stuck to my hands and palms and fingers. | picked them up 
and dusted them off and my skin turned a little red. | walked to the 


road and looked from side to side. 
“How ridiculous.” 


Safety first. A car would not be certain. The key here is efficiency. | 
crossed the road and crossed a bridge. The people from the last 
train were leaving. You would think, perhaps, | would be stopped. 
That one of those ‘people’ would kneel down and say hello, or ask 
who | was, or where | was going, or remark on the handsomeness of 
my star embroidered pyjamas. But none did, and so | kept walking. 


“People don’t notice what doesn’t concern them.” 


True, and people are never concerned. Everything is alright. 
Everything is always alright, everything is always under control. | 
walked past the horde of zombies and down to the station. The 
lights were on, you see, but nobody was there. | walked to the edge 
and dangled my legs from the side. The people left, and so | 
dropped. The gravel crunched beneath my sandals as | hit the 
ground. | walked to the metal tracks, then lightly hit the side with my 
foot. It felt more real than anything. That single piece of track was 
the only thing that could do anything for me. The only thing that 
could save me. | lied down across the tracks and prayed for 
salvation. 


“And did G-d hear?” 


He heard and did not stop the train. 


Rita sat at her computer, tapping absent-mindedly at the keys. She 
had already seen everything that was new on the internet for today; 
she was getting no new messages via phone or email. She had 
entered into a strange kind of feeling. Rita wanted to do something, 
and yet, nothing seemed particularly interesting. She lied at 
eternity’s gate, waiting for the doors to open. They never even 
moved. She rested her head on its side atop the wooden table. 


Nobody was sitting at the table beside her, and so she started 
speaking to him. 


“Hey, Tan.” 


The man who was once called Tangerine raised his eyebrows in 
surprise. 


“You aren’t supposed to remember me.” 
Rita tapped her skull, expression vacant. 
“Eidetic memory, locked in for life. No forgetting your stupid shirts.” 


“Still, though.” 


“It’s just a hat, Tan. No more magic or omnipotent than anything else 
we do. Smoke and mirrors.” 


Nobody pulled the hat from his head, running his fingers through his 
unkempt red hair. 


“You may be right at that.” 

“So what do you want?” 

“Nothing in particular.” 

Rita sighed. 

“Why are you here, Tan?” 

“Keeping tabs. Checking up on old friends.” 

“Why are you here, Tan?” 

Nobody frowned at the girl sitting across the table. 
“Am | not welcome?” 

“No more or less welcome than anyone else. Just curious is all.” 
“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.” 


“Something something | hate Mondays.”