From the hill above came a wail. A young woman came rushing out 
of the cottage, her face ruddy with tears. An older man came after 
her, visage drawn with pain, to gently lay a hand on her shoulder. 
The woman turned to him and buried her face in his shoulder, 
weeping loudly. The older man combed his fingers through her hair, 
obviously holding back tears of his own. At the bottom of the hill the 
hound looked up worriedly, but the attentions of the stranger soon 
swayed it back into complacency. As for the stranger himself, he 
observed the scene impassively, cold silvery eyes passing over 
woman and man and cottage as if all of those were less than the 
dried leaves that covered the surrounding countryside. He made no 
hails, nor did he move to ascend to the top of the hill. 


Some time later, a third man emerged from the cottage. His outfit 


SCP-619: Lucky Jeans 


Item #: SCP-619 
Object Class: Safe-impetus 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-619 is currently housed in 
storage locker 15-a-2 at Site 21. Currency retrieved from SCP-619 is 
to be kept in storage locker 15-a-3. 


Testing on SCP-619 has been suspended. SCP-619's right pocket 
has been stapled shut. Should testing on SCP-619 be reinstated, 
access Archived Document 619-T for testing procedures. 


Description: SCP-619 is a pair of faded Levi brand stonewashed 
jeans manufactured in 1994 with several stains and tears through 
apparent use. The item shows no unusual physical properties; 
however, it does not correspond to any style of jeans produced by 
Levi Strauss & Co. 


Whenever a person puts their hand into SCP-619's right pocket, ! 
the pocket will contain two US one-dollar bills and between two and 
five US dimes. All pieces of currency retrieved this way have been 
marked as being printed or minted between the years 1969 and 
20182 and show varying amounts of wear and tear. For bills printed 
before the present day, serial numbers have been matched with 
those of bills that should have been circulated. Due to the frequency 
with which currency is lost or ignored, the source of currency 
retrieved from SCP-619 is unknown. 


In approximately 4% of all trials in which currency is removed from 
SCP-619, an activated dye pack will be tied to one of the bills with 
twine. The explosion (which produces temperatures in excess of 
400°C and releases Disperse Red 9 dye) may burn the subject and 
has caused damage to SCP-619 on several occasions. In an 
additional 6% of all trials, a lit match will be present. The 
manufacture of both the dye packs and matches varies. 


was that of a country physician, though his pale lbis-bird mask 
belied this impression. He spoke briefly to the older man, nodded to 
the young woman, then returned inside. Moments later he emerged 
once more, this time carrying a large bundle in both hands. Seeing 
it, the woman wailed again, running back into the cottage and 
slamming the door behind her. The older man shook his head, said 
something to the physician, and the two shook hands. The older 
man followed the woman inside, while the physician, bundle in 
hands, began to make his way down from the hill and onto the 
muddy road below. While all this occurred, the stranger never lifted 
his eyes from the hound, who was now dozing in the sun next to his 
feet. Long fingers kneaded the hound's hindquarters, where an old 
hunting wound left a large scar. 


As the physician stepped unto the road his eyes fell upon the 
stranger. He stopped mid-step, bundle clutched tightly in his hands. 


"She is not for you, Youngest. A deal was made." 


The stranger gave the hound one last pat and turned to face the 
physician. Eyes like frosted glass measured the masked man. 


"A deal? | recall no such thing, Diagnostician." 


The physician grasped the bundle more tightly yet. "You gave us 
leave, damn you! You gave us leave!" 


The stranger cackled, this sound lacking all the joy of his earlier 
laugh. He straightened, and in his full height he loomed over the 
physician like an oak over a stalk of grass. "Be wary of making 
assumptions, insect. Remember your place. Remember by whose 
power your rotten form remains on this earth." 


The physician looked up defiantly for a moment, than all resistance 
seemed to leave him. Something within him crumpled, and he 
dropped his bundle to the earth. 


"Have her then. You always get yours in the end, don't you?" 


The stranger laughed once more, and a silvery harvest sickle 
appeared from the folds of his dark robe. He raised the instrument to 


the air and the physician closed his eyes, unable to watch. The very 
air was parted in two as the sickle descended to the ground... to 
hover above the head of the old hound, whose labored breathing 
slowed... then stopped. A silvery thread unwound itself from the 
elderly dog and curled around the sickle like early morning fog, and 
the air was momentarily filled with the sound of the proud braying of 
a hound in his full glory, filled with the thrill of the hunt. 


The physician stared as the stranger stashed the sickle back in his 
robes and turned to leave. 


"The hound... you came all this way for a dog?" 


The stranger half-turned and looked up to the early autumn sky, 
towards the slowly setting sun. 


"| have told not to make assumptions, did | not?" 


The physician didn't know what to say. So he said nothing. He bent 
down to pick his fallen bundle. As he rose again, the stranger was 
gone, leaving only the scent of rotting snow and dead leaves behind 
him. And a comment. 


"| happen to like dogs." 


One, sniper. 


The warrior gaped at his own shattered corpse. His face, adorned 
with the newly formed beard he had been so proud about, now 
sported a rather ugly hole dead in its center. His brothers in arms 
didn't even stop to arrange his body in a more dignified pose, so it 
remained splayed on the dirt where it fell, its one remaining eye 
staring blindly at the desert sky. 


This can't be happening... 
An explosion in the distance. Screams. 
Seven. Improvised demolition charge. Total eight. 


Flies were already beginning to gather around the warrior's body. 


Tiny insects buzzed around spilled brain matter, relishing the 
unexpected feast. The warrior, horrified, tried to wave them away 
but they did not appear to notice him. It was almost as if he was not 
there at all. As if that body was all that was left of him. But that 
clearly wasn't true, was it? He was here! 


This wasn't what was promised... 


To his horror, the warrior found that he no longer felt anything when 
he looked at the meat that was formerly him. He made no further 
move to swat away the flies that began buzzing about the ruin of his 
face, nor did he scream when a battered SUV crushed it carelessly 
below its wheels as it rushed away from the battlefield, carrying 
wounded that appeared to be in little better shape than his corpse. 


Twenty five, series of anti-tank missile attacks. Total-thirty three. 


The warrior now became aware of the droning, somehow metallic 
voice. But where did it come from, where- 


Forty-three, ambush, small arms fire. Total seventy-six. 


And there it was, towering directly above the warrior as if it was 
always there. A gargantuan armored shape that eclipsed the sun, a 
behemoth comprised of broken arms and shattered walls. War 
personified. Terror incarnate. Pain and desolation made manifest. 


One hundred forty-four. Air strike. Total two hundred and ten. 
Greetings, warrior. 


The atrocity's voice scarcely seemed like it could come from such a 
monstrous figure. It was smooth, calm and cultured, the voice of an 
elder preacher or a respectable general. The warrior found himself 
strangely drawn to it even as the creature's appearance repulsed 
and terrified him. Stuck between fleeing the creature and 
approaching it, the warrior stood his ground, staring at it with 
undisguised trepidation. 


One. Sudden heart failure. Hrm. Total two hundred and eleven. You 
seem oddly yourself, warrior. Awareness lingers in you yet. Unusual. 


When the warrior made no reply, the creature continued, eyes like 


massive laser sights burrowing into the warrior like a trench shovel. 


Come now, you needn't fear me. There is very little left to fear, 
really. 


"|... what is happening to me." 


Something in the creature's rough features moved. The warrior 
could almost imagine it was grinning. Why, the inevitable, of course. 
You are done. 


"But... this isn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't 
supposed to happen!" 


Hrhmhmm. This was the only thing that was ever supposed to 
happen to you. 


The warrior found himself screaming. "Do not mock me! | wasn't 
promised this! There was to be glory, and justice, and the 
reformation of proper order, | was-" 


Twenty. Trap hole. Total two hundred and thirty-one. And who, 
warrior, made such promises to you? 


"The prophets! The scripture! My mother and father, the preachers, 
my teachers and friends!" 


Hah. There is your problem then. Unreliable sources. Such a 
shame. But not really. Hrmmhahhm. 


The warrior's screams now bore the distinct edge of panic. "Silence! 
| do not believe you, it is not over! It is a test, yes, a simple test, that 
is all! You are a demon sent to torment me, to try my faith! But | will 
not let you, no no no, | will not-" 


The warrior voice faltered as the massive figure turned away from 
him. Around them, the sounds of battle began to weaken and 
dwindle, and the world was losing something of its... color. The sun 
was setting, the warrior thought, though he did not dare look at it to 
find out of it was true. He feared he would find the sky empty. 


Are you quite done, warrior? For | am. The others are all collected. It 


is time to go. 


And indeed, the warrior was suddenly surrounded by his life-long 
fellows. And his generations-old enemies. None seem to pay any 
attention to him as they strode towards the creature with unfaltering 
unity, marching to the beat of a drum the warrior could only barely 
hear. 


"Where... where are we going?" 


The figure turned to him once more. Its mangled iron expression 
was impenetrable. 


Elsewhere, warrior. To a place where you will be a warrior no more. 
Follow. Or not. It is all the same to me. 


The figure was marching away, the warrior's former fellows forming 
a snaking troop behind it. 


What could he do but follow? 


Jeser, the Prince of Many Faces, was sweating profusely. 


He despised everything about his current situation. He despised the 
massive, tasteless hall his master chose as his throne room. He 
despised the horrendously uncomfortable iron chair he was forced to 
sit on. He despised the way the air managed to somehow feel both 
too humid and too dry, too hot and too frosty. He despised the 
pathetic simpering noises his master's consorts and concubines 
made with each cruel pull of the chains the master held in his 
massive, gnarled fists. He despised the fact that it was not his hands 
to hold the chains. 


Most of all, he despised his master. 


The all-powerful Crimson Monarch. The Prince of Many Faces was 
a proud god. Once the ruler of two dozen worlds, his to dominate 
and to do all he desired with. Then came the Crimson Monarch, and 
then came his countless legions. His worlds were conquered. 


This was not the reason he so hated his master. 


The Prince was wiser than many of his fellows. He realized from the 
start that no good would come from resisting such power. So he 
relented, made the conquest easy and relatively bloodless. And he 
had made himself useful, very useful indeed. With time, he rose to a 
position unrivaled by any god in the Monarch's court. Though he lost 
his dozen worlds, hundreds were now open to him. Though his 
power was no longer absolute, as the Monarch's right hand man he 
could have any pleasure he desired, and could inflict any sort of pain 
on any being he wished. The Crimson Monarch could be a generous 
lord. 


And yet, the Prince of Many Faces despised his master. For forcing 
him to be here today. 


"He will be here soon." 


His master's voice was like the chittering of a billion infinitesimal 
insects, shifting and swirling and constantly moving. It was neither 
high nor low nor cacophonous nor methodical. It simply was. 


"Are you certain, my king? He might not come this year." The Prince 
offered weakly. 


"He comes always. He shall be here." 


"Your might grows with each passing moment, great one. Surely, 
even he has learned to fear you by now. He would be a fool not to." 


His master made no reply to that. His massive form dominated the 
hall, dwarfing the Prince's own usually imposing figure into 
insignificance. And yet, the usual all-conquering arrogance was 
gone from the master's voice. To be replaced with something... 
different. The Prince did not dare contemplate what that something 
was. Such thoughts were high treason. 


They continued to wait. With each passing minute, the Prince 
watched his master and could feel own his dread intensifying. Why 
did the Monarch insist he'd be here? What possible purpose was 
there to subject him to such... has he not been loyal, or at least as 
loyal as the likes of him were expected to be? Had he not- 


A shadow fell on the pale giant-bone floor of the great hall. The 
Prince saw his master shift restlessly in his throne, gnarled chitinous 
hands gripping slave chains tighter and tighter. The naked men, 
women and others at the other end twisted in agony, but the 
Monarch paid them no heed. His gaze was focused only on the 
shifting shadow, which grew longer with each passing moment. 
Then- 


Insect. 


The Prince instinctively recoiled in his seat. Where there was only 
shadow moments earlier stood a figure. Its legs were as wide and 
tall as men, as great trees, as towers. Its hands were gloved in silk, 
in mail, in empty vacuum. It wore a robe of purest ivory, of deepest 
azure, of dusky flesh. Its shoulder were shrouded in mist, somehow 
disappearing into the darkness of the hall's ceiling, though clearly it 
could not be that tall... 


"All-Death. You come once more." 


The Prince had to grudgingly admire the calmness in his master's 
voice. He did not think he could muster the same. The Crimson 
Monarch rose from his throne, his magnificent and terrifying figure 
unfolding into its full glory. The Prince was surprised to see how 
unimpressive it suddenly appeared. 


It is the day. Today, Harak, son of the Third Brood, is the day of 
your birth. 


The Monarch's true name. He dared speak it. So the rumors were 
true. For a moment, the Monarch's visage was lit with fury. Then he 
mastered himself, and spoke once more, calmly. 


"Today, All-Death, is the day of my birth. Today is the day | began 
my ascension." 


The day of your birth. The day you took your first victims. Your 
brood brothers still scream for you in my halls. 


"They shall scream far more loudly when your halls are mine. | shall 
make sure of it.” 


For the mist-shrouded ceiling came an awful sound. Merry laughter, 
as light and guileless as a child's, filled with joy. 


Ah, earthworm. You burrow in your dirt, you eat the other tiny 
creatures that live in it and think yourself the master of all 
creation. 


His master visibly bristled at that. With a sudden yank, he pulled at 
his slave chains savagely, bringing one of his screaming consorts to 
his feet. The Monarch grabbed the helpless man with one enormous 
fist and effortlessly smashed his throat. The man had no time to 
scream. 


"Earthworm, you say? How droll. See how easily | master your 
domain. See with what grace | deliver more and many into your 
dank halls."