“So, Robbo’s out doing his thing, Snipper’s dumped his corpses 
here and fucked off, Sam’s given me a tape so he doesn’t even 
need to be here, I’ve got my van filled up with a few doppelgangers, 
and you're... what?” 


The Builder continued whispering to his handful of building seeds, 
ignoring the question. 


“Fucking hell, this should have been done half an hour ago. I’m 
letting out my stuff, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 


The Sculptor walked further west, exiting onto a road. His van was 
rattling in a carpark on the opposite side. Cautiously he jogged 
across the street, with little traffic to get in his way. He fiddled with 
his keys and opened the back door of the van. Seven pairs of dull 
eyes stared at the sudden movement. 


“At least you fuckers know how to follow directions. Get out, go that 
way, find the person who looks like you, claim you’re the original and 
then beat the shit out of them. Got it?” 


The duplicates nodded, then jumped down from the van. They 
charged mindlessly across the road without any sense of self- 
preservation. One jumped directly in front of a car and, illusion 
broken, fell into chunks of raw clay. 


“Well fuck.” 


Felix walked casually through the crowd, adjusting his beret. A small 
face-painting stall was attracting attention. Felix looked left and right, 
remembering the joy of creation. Hundreds of grinning faces were all 
around him. This was what it was all about, he thought. This was 
true art. 


He came across the pile of corpses and shook his head 
disapprovingly. 


“Ladies and gentlemen, that song was ‘Please Don’t Stop Singing 
This Song I’m An Entity That Lives Inside Of Soundwaves And If 
You Do I'll Die Oh Please God No’, and | hope you all enjoyed it! For 
our next song, we’re going to-” 


“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” 


Annie looked up from her microphone into the crowd. Three people 
had barged in and were forcing their way through the mosh pit. They 
crawled up onto the stage. The band members looked at each other, 
before Annie asked the question on all their minds. 


“Are you evil robot us?” 


The duplicates looked to each other, shared some hushed whispers, 
and then the Annie duplicate provided a response. 


“No! Are you evil robot us?” 
“No. Who are you?” 
“We're Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!” 


The crowd looked at each other, unsure of if this was a scripted 
event. 


“But... we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.” 

“But WE’RE Futanari Titwhore Fiasco!” 
“Okay, fine. You’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco.” 
The duplicates looked puzzled. 

“Well... okay then.” 

“Do you want our instruments?” 

“Ummm... yes. Thank you.” 


The duplicates awkwardly took over from the originals, who walked 
to the side of the stage and anticipated the next development. 


“Well... uh, like we said... we’re Futanari Titwhore Fiasco, and... 
ummm... please hang on.” 


The duplicates huddled together, uncertain of what to do next. The 
duplicate Candice turned and walked over to the original. 


“Yes?” 


“Umm... | don’t know how to play the keyboard. | got told that’s what 
| do, but... nobody told me how to actually do it!” 


The original Candice stifled a giggle. The third member of the band, 
Pris, approached her duplicate. 


“Do you need me to teach you how to play the guitar?” 
“Yes please! | mean, uh, if you can, thank you.” 
The duplicate Annie suddenly remembered their instructions. 


“Hang on, weren’t we supposed to... what did he say? ‘Beat the shit’ 
out of them?” 


The original Annie interjected. 

“Why would you beat the shit out of us?” 

“We got told to.” 

“Do you actually want to beat the shit out of us?” 

“Not really. We’re supposed to be just like you.” 

“Well, you certainly look just like us, at least. Where are you from?” 
“| don’t know. We woke up in a van.” 

“Huh. Nothing before that?” 

“No.” 

“Dang. Well, you seem nice enough, not-evil-robot-us.” 


“You seem nice too. | don’t want to beat the shit out of you any 
more. Please tell me not to.” 


“What?” 

“We need to be told what to do.” 

“Oh. Don’t beat the shit out of us?” 

The duplicates breathed a collective sigh. 
“Thank you!” 


“Furthermore, | absolutely order all of you not to follow any orders 


the subject raises their hands to examine them in front of 
the video feed, which now appear to be visibly more 
calloused. 


Video feed is lost soon after, but audio feed remains for 
eight more minutes. Subject begins to breathe heavily 
into the microphone, as audio signal gradually degrades. 
Subject is directed to stop climbing but doesn't respond. 
Shortly before audio signal is lost, subject again 
mumbles something indecipherable, but it is believed 
they may have said 'daughter' or 'slaughter’. Reeling in 
copper cable revealed significant degradation in the 
metal and plastic, progressively more advanced towards 
the subject's end. Cable was no longer attached to 
recording devices. 


Notes: SCP-723 appears to degrade both biological and 
non-living matter. Subjects also appear to be either 
unwilling or unable to respond to overseer requests. 
Recommended that methods to recover subjects and 
equipment be enacted in future experiments. It is also 
notable that the remains of the previous subjects were 
not observed or described at any point during the ascent. 


Experiment-723-A-7 

Date: / /20 

Subject: D-723-7 

Equipment: Handheld camcorder and audio transceiver, 
both connected to monitors at the staircase's base via 
standard, plastic coated copper cable; titanium- 

alloy cable attached to both subject and recording 
equipment. 


Results: Subject was instructed as per the previous test, 
and began climbing SCP-723 with caution, again 
pausing briefly as the fourth step was crossed. Subject 
proved more responsive than previous test subjects, 
describing the air inside the staircase as ‘cold, really 
cold’, and that the stairs were 'covered with dust, thick 
grainy stuff’. Subject also stated that they were ‘sorry’, 
and began crying shortly after. Due to lack of video feed 


from anyone from now on unless you want to!” 
The crowd went wild. 
“Thank you so much!” 


“Alright, first of all, we’re going to need a way to tell us apart. Ladies 
and gentlemen of the audience, can | borrow some hats from any of 
you?” 


The Sculptor felt like he had forgotten something... it was probably 
fine. He’d had to rush the duplicates; finishing seven in just a day 
was a lot of pressure. He’d left a few things out, so some of them 
weren't as complete as he had been hoping. Exploiting golems was 
a tricky business at the best of times. He’d gathered up the clay from 
the one that had been hit — he had, at least, enjoyed seeing Ruiz 
Duchamp’s body limply fall apart — and put it back into his van. He 
walked back to The Builder, who was busy planting his building 
seeds in the ground. 


“About time. Just let out the copies.” 
“| saw them run through. Perfect likenesses, good job.” 
“Cheers. Your building ready to go?” 


“Should be in a few minutes. Give me the recording, there’ll be a PA 
system running through the place as it grows.” 


The Sculptor handed over the cassette tape. 

“...you’re kidding me.” 

“What?” 

“| was expecting a CD. | can’t use this.” 

“Fuck. FUCK! Hang on, I'll call him, get him to come in.” 


The Sculptor spun around, yanking his smartphone from his pocket 
and dialling The Composer’s number. It rung twice before getting 


through. 

“Hello?” 

“Sam. You gave me a cassette.” 
“Yeah, and?” 

“We need a CD.” 

“Fuck.” 

“That's what | said.” 


“Alright. Okay, uh, | can burn it onto a CD here and be down in, like, 
an hour-” 


“Not enough time. Can you e-mail it?” 


“Yeah, but I’ve still got to transfer it to my computer, I’ve only got it in 
tape form. Should take about five minutes. You’ve got a CD burner?” 


“Not yet, but there’s an electronics store two blocks away.” 
“Brilliant. I'll send it through the second it’s done.” 

“Great. Bye.” 

The Sculptor angrily pressed the end call button. 


“Alright, Builder, get started here. I’ve got to go buy a CD burner, I'll 
be back real fucking soon. And remember, you see Duchamp, you 
punch that asshole’s lights out, got it?” 


“Got it.” 


On the other side of the city, Ruiz Duchamp was pacing in his 
studio. He wondered if Felix was enjoying himself. 


Overgang Dood was fiddling with his computers when Joey walked 
up behind him. 


“OG! What’s up?” 

“You're what’s up, asshat!” 
“What?” 

“Sorry, sorry. But look at this!” 


Joey looked at the row of CRT screens glowing dimly. All of them 
displayed “The Book Of Tamlin” on the screens. 


“What?” 


“The program’s got stuck on your name, it’s not changing for anyone 
else!” 


“Dang, why?” 

“If | knew that, it wouldn’t be a fucking problem, would it?” 
“Have you tried turning it-” 

“Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence. That did not work.” 
“Well, | dunno. Slice of banana?” 

“What does it taste like?” 

“Lemons.” 

“Sure.” 


Overgang took a piece of banana and threw it into his mouth. The 
mushy banana texture and tangy lemon flavour were flawlessly 
fused in a mouthful of impossible food. 


“That’s pretty good.” 
“That’s what everyone’s been saying, yeah.” 
“Anyway, | really need to fix this before-“ 


“IMPOSTORS!” 


The duplicates of Overgang Dood and Joey Tamlin yelled in unison 
from across the courtyard. Overgang turned to Joey. 


“Were you expecting this?” 
“Nope.” 


“Well, gotta roll with the punches. HEY! CLONE OF ME OR 
WHATEVER! GET OVER HERE, | NEED SOME HELP!” 


The duplicates looked at one another, then walked over. 
“Alright, I've been having trouble getting this to work, I’ve tried-” 


Overgang’s duplicate punched him in the face, knocking his 
sunglasses to the ground. Overgang rubbed his jaw, Joey and his 
duplicate looking on. The original stood up, plucking an almost 
flawless copy of his sunglasses from the face of his duplicate, then 
placing them on the bridge of his own nose. 


“You’re right, evil clone, | haven't just tried hitting it yet. Silly me! Can 
| borrow your head for a second?” 


Overgang grabbed his duplicate’s skull, driving it into one of the 
CRT monitors and showering glass onto the ground. The duplicate 
twitched as sparks and smoke rose from the dusty box. The original 
pulled his duplicate from the wreckage, placing his hands on the 
duplicate’s shoulders, bending him over, and brutally kneeing it in 
the chest. The golem’s eyes opened wide, breath thrust from its 
lungs, and then Overgang followed up with another knee, and 
another, and another. He roughly pushed the copy to the ground, 
then lifted his leg and stomped down on its ribcage with a 
resounding crunch. The duplicate shuddered and rolled over, illusion 
collapsing slowly around it. The original took a run-up, then kicked 
the head clean off his copy before it collapsed to raw clay. Overgang 
pushed his trademark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. 


“Fucking golems. Can’t even throw a proper punch. Now...” 
Overgang turned, grinning madly, to Joey and his stunned duplicate. 


“...which of you is the copy?” 


Joey showed his platter full of banana slices. The duplicate looked 
pleadingly at the original. 


“Fucking hell, aren’t you lot supposed to be artists?” 


Joey clanged the metal platter against his copy’s face, following up 
with a solid jab to the stomach, then a kick to the groin. He grabbed 
its shoulders and kicked its knee, bending it unnaturally backwards 
and forcing his doppelganger to the ground. 


“No. We're Anartists.” 


He stomped on his copy’s skull, squashing it flat into the pavement. 
Joey walked over to Overgang, hi-fiving him and still dizzily happy 
from the adrenaline rush. The surrounding crowd began to cheer at 
what they thought was a well-choreographed fight sequence, 
lauding praise onto the artisanry of the duplicates. Overgang 
decided to capitalise on the attention. 


"Now that's over, IS THERE A CODER IN THE AUDIENCE?" 

The Sculptor walked into the electronics store, moving straight to the 
counter. 

“Hello?” 

A middle-aged man appeared from a back room. 

“Yo.” 

“Hey, where do you keep CD burners?” 

“What, like, by themselves?” 

“Yeah, in like an enclosure or something.” 


“Well, we’ve got DVD and Blu-ray burners, nothing for plain old CDs 
these days.” 


“FUCK!” 


“Hey, no swearing in my store.” 

“Do you have ANYTHING that can burn a CD?” 

“Well, | think one of our prebuild towers has a burner in it.” 
“Can you take the burner out for me?” 

“Afraid not.” 

“Whatever, how much for the tower?” 

“Hang on, let me check.” 


The manager walked into the back room. The Sculptor impatiently 
tapped his foot, walking over to the rack behind him and pocketing a 
5-pack of writable CDs while the manager was gone. After a few 
more excruciating minutes, the manager returned, lugging a large 
black computer tower in his hands. He placed it onto the counter. 


“Well, here you go.” 

“This has a CD burner in it?” 
“Yup, that'll be-” 

BANG. 


The Sculptor discharged his firearm into the manager’s head, blood 
and brain spattering on the wall behind. He pushed the corpse from 
the counter, then pulled the tower over, power cord trailing behind. 
He moved it over to one of the demonstration desks, carelessly 
throwing netbooks to the ground and resting the tower on the table. 
He fetched an LCD monitor, keyboard, and mouse from around the 
store, paying no attention to the body slowly bleeding dry. Slowly the 
computer whirred to life, while he shoved an Ethernet cable into the 
thing. He looked at the screen as it suddenly flashed on. The 
Sculptor mashed the keyboard, signed in as a guest, opened the 
default web browser, accessed his e-mails, downloaded The 
Composer’s CD image, then burned it to all five of the discs in his 
pocket. May as well have spares, he thought. He strode out the front 
door, turning the sign on the front to ‘CLOSED’ as he left. 


The body was not found until morning. 


You sat with Arsehole and Hiro, dutifully entering your confirmation 
code into the prototype art bomb. You and Hiro had spent most of 
the last few weeks working on the internals of the expansion 
mechanism, while Arsehole was the one who actually co-ordinated 
the colours involved. Hiro and Arsehole entered their codes, 
everyone backed away, and the impossible mechanism turned itself 
inside-out. You started conversation. 


“This one’s safe, right? It’s all disabled?” 


Arsehole pushed her index finger into the colour burst, pulling it out 
and showing you a perfectly intact (albeit bright pink) digit. 


“See? Perfectly safe.” 


Hiro kept tapping on his phone, still hardwired to the point of origin 
within the slowly expanding technicolour sphere. 


“Readings are looking good. Everything seems to be stable.” 
“Speed it up a bit!” 
“Alright, alright, hang on.” 


Hiro swiped his fingers across the touch screen, and the ball began 
to grow even more. 


“Readings are still fine. Let me just-” 
“IMPOSTOR!"” 


You looked across the courtyard and saw someone who looked 
almost exactly like Arsehole. The Arsehole standing beside you took 
the firearm holstered in your pocket and promptly shot the duplicate 
twice in the head, whereupon it collapsed into clay. She offered the 
firearm back, and you re-holstered it gingerly. The trigger was now 
dyed the same bright pink as her finger was. 


“Come on, Hiro, bigger! Bigger!” 


The Sculptor returned to see The Builder’s seeds had constructed a 
white marble hall around the west courtyard. The edges were slowly 
weaving outwards past the alleyways, blocking the natural moonlight 
and replacing it with flickering fluorescents. 


“You got the CD?” 
“I’ve got five, here.” 
“Fantastic.” 


The Builder took one of the CDs and placed it into a small slot in the 
marble. The Composer’s song started to play; the entrancing 
classical music bounced harmonically around the marble walls.