"So, do you want to go again or what?" came the voice from the 
bed. John shuddered. Everything about his body was diminishing 
and breaking down, except the urges. He fought them with every 
ounce of strength he could muster, but sooner or later, they 
returned. He had been doing well - six whole months this time - but 
then that boy who mows the lawn had taken off his shirt and... 
and... He had barely stopped to tell his wife that it was time for a 
business meeting in Chatanooga before jumping in the car. He 
hadn't stopped once on the way to Asheville. The rest he knew well 
enough from experience that it had almost been a reflex. Check into 
the hotel, find a boy looking studiedly busy, make small talk, make 
references to a hotel, wait for interest, inquire how much, return to 
hotel, and then... oh god. What was wrong with him? He had tried 
everything from pills to conditioning, trying to get rid of this 
weakness. He had given his soul over to Jesus was it three times 
now? Maybe four. Still, no luck. Inevitably, some young man would 
seduce him and then... this. 


The rent boy peeked his head into the bathroom. "I said, you want to 
go again? It's your money, so you can do it how you want, but | don't 
much care to sit around while y-" 


"Get out. Money's on the dresser," John said, his voice dripping with 
disgust. He couldn't stand to even look at the young man. John 
stood without a sound and listened as the boy put on his clothes. He 
waited in the bathroom until he heard the door slam, staying an 


extra minute just to be sure. After he was sure that he was gone, 
John walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Like 
always, he dialed Julie. Like always, he took the revolver out of his 
trouser pocket. One could never be too careful, he mused as he 
heard the dial tone. He'd only used it once before, when the boy 
recognized him and threatened to go to the papers with news that 
John Carlyle, yes, the John Carlyle, was a queer, unless he paid him 
off. He pulled back the hammer and put the gun to his head like 
always. One note of suspicion in Julie's voice, and he'd do it, he 
swore to God. 


"Hi sweetie. Yeah, the meeting just wrapped up... Yeah, | should be 
there for dinner... Y'all can start cooking and I'll be there by the time 
you finish up... 'kay love you too. Bye!" He made a kissing sound 
into the receiver before hanging up. Uncocking the hammer, he laid 
it down on the bed like always. Through a crack in the bathroom 
door, John a glimpse of his reflection. It's not me, he thought, it's 
this. I'm a man, it's this body that perverted and weak. I'm strong, I'm 
virile, I'm straight, it's this fucking god damn queer fucking faggot 
piece-of-shit body that keeps betraying me. As he dressed himself, 
John wondered. Maybe it wasn't this body, maybe it was... no. I'm 
strong, my soul is strong, it's this body that's weak. When he was 
done dressing, he opened the door and made his way to the car. 
Like always, he took a different route to keep anyone from noticing 
him. A five hour drive back to Atlanta, he thought. Plenty of time to 
forget all about this moment of weakness. 


Ninety minutes into the drive, John was miserable. The late summer 
heat seeped through every crack in the car. Rolling down the 
windows didn't help, it just caused the muggy air to fill the car more 
quickly. What was more, there was nothing on the radio. Being in 
the ass-end of northern Georgia probably had something to do with 
it, he reflected, but it was beginning to get to him. Noise was how he 
always came down. It didn't matter if it was news, pop, negro music, 
or even a third-rate Billy Sunday telling him that he was going to hell 
for everything he had done; it just helped him not to think. But it had 
been fifteen minutes since that lovely sermon about the blind lady 
from Pasadena and how she was healed by the good Rev. So-and- 
so had finally faded into static. 


In vain, John twisted the dial in an effort to pick up something. 
Anything. \t was static across the dial. John began to sweat. It felt so 
good, he thought, even if he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it 
was wrong. He thought of the wedding night, and Julie's words of 
consolation. The next day, he had done it with a bellboy in a storage 
closet. That night, Julie had almost collapsed after they made love. 
No, fucked. He thought of nights spent crying because he couldn't 
get it off of him (the crying was a sign of weakness, also caused by 
his body). He thought about his first time, in the lockers, with Todd 
Willis. In his mind, Todd's face turned to that of the anonymous rent 
boy. His eyes had been wide, like a jack rabbit's. "Please, mister, | 
was only fooling.” John still remembered the thought that had gone 
through his head before he pulled the trigger, about how one can 
never be too careful. 


The radio dial rocketed side-to-side as John searched for a station. 
His hands were beginning to shake. Finally, a burst of clear noise 
from the static. It only took him a moment to zero in on the 
frequency. 


"-ow, brothers and sisters? We shake 'em by the heads and run ‘em 
down! Dark times, trapped in layers of meat like snake oil, and all 
covering the blessed waft!" the voice on the radio lisped. A moan of 
disapproval rose in the background. "We got the best deal in town. 
Lose that turgid flesh that's anchorin' you and spread like a cobweb! 
Come join us brother!" 


John was no longer thinking about the rent boy with jack rabbit eyes. 
He had heard some strange shows, once heard a live broadcast of a 
man swallowing a snake, but never anything like this. Maybe it was 
one of those beatniks? The slang seemed to fit, but still, it was oddly 
specific. Was it some hip young preacher? The voice sounded older, 
though. 


"| think we got a congregant, brothers and others!" the preacher 
lisped. The audience cried out in the background. "A real live 
cracker, all filled with the fire come back from wicked deeds! Come 
on you shriveled pachyderm son-of-a-bitch! Slough off your suet! It'll 
be fine without you! It can't miss you." 


John was interested now. He turned the volume up higher, but the 


of compressed air emitted from the tips of their canopy. Upon 
encountering a viable target, the instance will release its flock of 
SCP-803-1, who will proceed to inject a muscle relaxant into the 
subject and then experiment upon it. % of subjects survive these 
procedures, which may involve removal and/or transplantation of 
organs, blood, urine and cerebrospinal fluid sampling, monitoring of 
[DATA EXPUNGED], and may last up to. ~— minutes. Surviving 
subjects report being fully conscious during the experiments, as well 
as intense pain and feelings of panic. 


Flocks of SCP-803 comprise an average of (_ ) individuals, and 
have been sighted in the following locations: 
, Brazil. 
, Japan. 
, Australia. 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. 


Addendum 803-01: On / /20 , several D-class subjects were 
ordered by Research Assistant to dismantle an instance of 
SCP-803-1 using hammers, saws and wrenches. When the first D- 
class attempted to remove the handle, the specimen violently 
ruptured. Two of the three D-class were injured by large, sharp 
pieces of metal from the instance, inflicting wounds comparable to 
those caused by crossbow bolts fired at close range. One D-class 
died instantly due to a metal rod entering his skull. The second D- 
class initially survived, but later died of viral infections carried on the 
needles of the specimen. The third D-class quickly [REDACTED] 
due to unidentified chemicals within SCP-803-1, with only 1.2 kilos 
of biological material being recovered. Research Assistant was 
severely reprimanded. 


Addendum 803-02: On //20 , autopsy of a D-class subject 
captured by SCP-803-1 instances during the [REDACTED] 
containment breach discovered a small metallic dodecahedron at 
the top of the spinal column. The purpose of this object is currently 
unknown. 


« SCP-802 | SCP-803 | SCP-804 » 


station cut to static. Always god damned static. A bead of sweat fell 
onto his shirt sleeve. He looked down and realized that he was 
drenched. At the next exit he would stop at a restaurant and get 
himself cleaned up, he decided. After a minute, a sign announced 
an exit to Blairesville, "home of Martin and June's Snack Shack." 
John pulled off the highway and proceeded through the town. As he 
looked for some indication of where Martin and June's Snack Shack 
might be, something caught his eye. A church covered in some kind 
of tent, which must have been the only building in town over one 
story tall. It wasn't something one saw every day, so John decided 
to get in closer and get a better look. 


As he pulled into the lot in front of the building, he saw someone 
emerge from the tent. A balding man dressed in a white polo and 
cut-offs came to greet John as he got out from the car. Between his 
teeth, the man clenched a pipe. John tucked the pistol into his back 
pocket. One can never be too careful. 


"Welcome friend! | hear you heard our word. A blessed holler finds a 
willing ear, and don't that just warm the heart?" the man exclaimed 
as he shook John's hand. A murmur of approval rose from an 
unseen audience. The lisp identified him as the preacher from the 
radio. John noticed that the man's lips never seemed to part. 


"I'm John Carlyle. Like, of Carlyle furniture. It's nice to meet you..." 
John waited for the man to give his name. The man's faced 
scrunched in disgust. 


"Folks call this Celebration 'Big Cheese’ Horace. Lama Celebration 
‘Big Cheese’ Horace. Brother, | get a good feeling about you. You 
seem like a fella who'd go far and beyond, make a smoke to swallow 
the sun! Have you ever had your body crack like eggs and just 
slipped off your dead shell like a hermit crab?" 


John laughed nervously and was grateful for the pistol. "No, | can't 
say that | have. What is this, anyway?" 


"This, brother John Carlyle, is a beautiful congregation. We hover 
and linger, can't ever be gotten rid of. Without meat, there's no limit 
to what we can be! Truth be told, I'm hoping you'd be willing to join 
our little family. We're looking for upright citizens such as yourself to 


help us bring in the new day." The man put a hand on John's 
shoulder and motioned to the church. 


"Is this some kind of cult deal?" he asked suddenly suspicious. 


"Far from it, brother. Cults are false bottoms, drop you further into 
the hole. We want to take the weakness and pull it out. Make it work 
for you while you work from home," the man said. He began blinking 
rapidly. 


John nodded and moved for the church. Pulling out the weakness. It 
was worth a look, shit it might even help. If not, what was the worst 
that could happen? He had a gun, he was prepared. He stood back 
as the man pulled back the church's tent and opened the door. John 
went inside. 


Two hours later, the body of John Carlyle emerged. It made a 
mental note to call up Julie as soon as it got the chance. It'd explain 
to her that there had been some unexpected traffic, or maybe the 
car had gotten a flat. But first, it needed to find Martin and June's 
Snack Shack. It was famished. 


Brokkén Gud 


"No, no, | meant my left, you imbecile, now the head is on 
backwards. | knew you'd be no help." 


For the cultists of the Church of the Broken God, a long wait was 
over. After hundreds of years of painstakingly searching, they had 
collected all the pieces of their deity, and all that was left to do was 
to assemble Him. Clustered around a withered parchment, ancient 
instructions passed down through generations, they set to work. 


"Okay, so we're looking for one of those little short screw things- no, 
not that one, that's the wrong shape, see? We want a crosshead 
one. No, that's a long one. No, that- what even is that?" 


Approximately a week had passed since the final part, the very heart 
of Mekhane, He who was Broken, was located and returned to its 
rightful place. Yet, all that the assembled disciples of His Church 
had done was screw one of the legs together. It didn't quite look 
right. 


"Well, we followed the manual, so why the hell are there six toes?" 


Each part of the Broken God was piece by piece brought together, in 
dark, hidden places, filled with ancient magic and cosmic horror, 
ready for the construction and ascension of Him. 


"No, no, this is definitely the right screw- Klddpe, that's the one- the 
hole just isn't big enough. Give me that drill." 

"Aw, fuck." 

"He doesn't need both of those, right?" 


For the men, women, and other assorted cultists gathered, their 
entire lives had been spent in search of the parts of His body. This 
was the culmination of a life-long dream, and victory was so close 
they could almost taste it. None of them had quite realised how 
difficult it would be, however, to assemble a Supreme Being with 


only an allan key and a screwdriver. 


"Where did you even get these instructions, oh Grand High Priest?" 
"They came in the box, idiot. It's all flatpack these days." 
"Oh. " 


It was hard, painful work. Sacrifice, blood and oil and sweat mixed 
in, all serving a single purpose, the reconstruction of the ultimate 
lifeform, the universe's most powerful being. 


"Missing? It has to be here somewhere, have you checked the box 
again? You have? What about behind the desk, that's where we 
found the- no? What do you mean, ‘replacement parts may take up 
to five weeks’? Bloody disgraceful." 


Day and night, without rest, the disciples of the Broken God toiled 
away, slowly piecing their Creator together... 


"Fuck this, I'm converting to Sarkicism." 


Broken? 


| don't Know why I'm recording this, it's not like there's anyone left... 
well, anyone human to hear it. Maybe aliens will find it and have a 
good laugh... Anyways, it's a little after dark and I've decided to 
camp out on what appears to be a large cog. Maybe it's a gear; | 
don't know anymore, but this, this | do know... 


It was about six years ago that the eggheads up in astronomy first 
spotted the damn thing. It was apparently on a direct course for our 
little blue marble. The reports are a mangled mess of censorship but 
it was clear just what it was and where it was going. That's the thing 
| still don't get... we saw it, we knew exactly what it was doing yet 
here we are stuck in this wasteland. What were they thinking? Who 
in their right mind figured twiddling their thumbs would keep us safe? 
Not that it matters anymore. 


Maybe two years later, give or take, that fucker first entered our 
solar system. You could sort of see it twinkling at night with the 
twinkle becoming brighter and brighter as the days went past. It was 
around this time that the O5 went into hiding with handfuls of their 
best and brightest, vanishing away into pocket realities so they could 
bide their time... Stupid bastards are probably still waiting for it to be 
‘safe’ again. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they come 
out and see what's left. 


A couple months after the O5 turned tail and ran was when we could 
finally see it in the sky above our heads: a planet of moving gears 
and cogs. | hate to admit it, but it almost looked beautiful as it 
danced over our tiny world. This was also when those nuts at the 
Church of the Broken God started coming out and preaching to the 
masses. They thought the thing was our salvation, a physical God 
come to save the faithful. | remember reading reports about them, 
about how they thought that ball of rust was some sort of heart; | 
think they even thought that clockwork disease was part of a grand 
plan. Heck, maybe it's a mutated strand of this thing's plague, | don't 


know; I'm not even sure this thing is their God. Either way, none of 
them are alive today. Most of them were probably wiped out when 
the first attack started...