The body once again was hanging upside down, suspended through 
a wrap around the left leg. The head rolled on the floor. It was just 
as neatly severed as the three limbs that were no longer attached to 
the suspended torso. His head finished rolling and faced the 
assemblage of wealth and power. The music still played, but the 
show was likely over. 


While the audience sat in stunned silence, the magician from earlier 
entered the stage. She looked at the hanging body, the severed 
limbs, and the head. Her expression, rather than horrified, seemed 
bemused. She glared at the aerialist's severed head, which returned 
her expression with a sheepish smile. Shaking her head, she started 
collecting his parts. One by one, she reattached them to his body, 
wrapping a section of strap around each one. He moved each 


reattached part into his suspension, keeping himself aloft with his 
strength until he was once again whole. Finally, he rolled down the 
straps to the ground, stood up with the magician, and bowed. 


The audience applauded thunderously. 


A Completed Chronicle 


Meanwhile Croesus, taking the oracle in a wrong sense, 
led his forces into Cappadocia, fully expecting to defeat 
Cyrus and destroy the empire of the Persians. While he 
was still engaged in making preparations for his attack, a 
Lydian named Sam Micheals, who had always been 
looked upon as a wise yet tragic man, but who after this 
obtained a very great name indeed among his 
countrymen, came forward and counseled the king in 
these words: 


"Thou art about, oh! king, to make war against men who 
wear leathern trousers, and have all their other garments 
of leather; who feed not on what they like, but on what 
they can get from a soil that is sterile and unkindly..." 


— Herodotus, Histories; Book | 


In the eighth month, the duke had a meeting with the 
marquis of Qi, the duke of Song, the earl of Zheng, the 
earl of Cao, and an officer of Zhu, who's name was [Sam 
Micheals], and who reported a great sickness. 


— Zuo zhuan, Book V, Duke XI 


Sam Micheals listened to the reasoning, and then he 
asked the messenger, "How large the country between 
the Tigris and the canal might be?" 


"A large district," Sam Micheals replied, "but it matters 
not. For | am pulled in all directions at once, and | 
continue to bleed." Then it dawned upon them: the 
barbarians had sent the man with subtlety, in fear lest... 


— Xenophon, Anabasis; Book II, Chapter IV 


Item #: SCP-140 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-140 is to be 
kept in a secure locker on-site. 


Description: SCP-140 is a modern hardcopy book with 
an unremarkable black binding. The book jacket is 
missing, but the title, "A Chronicle of Daevites", is clearly 
legible. The inside cover is signed by the author (‘Sam 
Micheals'). The text is copyrighted 19 . Careful 
examination reveals there are far more pages between 
the bindings than could be contained within them. 


SCP-140 is a detailed account of several fictitious 
ancient civilizations; the most prominent of these 
civilizations (Daevites) originated in what is now south- 
central Siberia. The account elaborates on the history of 
these civilizations up until approximately 480 B.C., where 
the book abruptly ends. 


Although SCP-140's ink has been positively identified as 
blood, tests to determine its source have proven 
inconclusive. 


Addendum 140.1: Emails 
> ACCESS: SCP/140/emails/140.log 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

SUBJECT: SCP-140 


| know the book's extra-dimensional 
properties are kind of weird, but 
should this really be an SCP? There's 
nothing special about its 
containment, and — outside of 
having way more pages than it 
should — there's nothing particularly 
special about it. 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

SUBJECT: Re: SCP-140 


It hurts 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

SUBJECT: Re: Re: SCP-140 


Granted, but given the abruptness of 
the containment procedures, | can't 
help but think this would find a better 
home in our log of anomalous 
objects. 


Also, yes, it hurts it hurts so much 
and it won't stop. Why won't it stop 


SCP-769: Ancient Encyclopedia 


Item #: SCP-769 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-769 must be kept inside a 
secure, waterproof vault whenever it is not in use. No fluid is to 
come in contact with the bowl outside of approved experiment 
protocols. 


Description: SCP-769 is a cup ten centimeters tall and twelve 
centimeters across. It is made of pottery with a golden glaze. It is 
covered with a white residue. Several preserved parts from 
cephalopods and other sea creatures are stuck in the residue. A 
pattern is carved into its rim; however, the pattern is obscured by the 
residue. It has been decided not to attempt removal of this residue 
or the items stuck within it, as efforts to restore SCP-769 may 
hamper its effects even further. 


SCP-769 is an artifact of the civilization that existed years 
ago in modern-day . Water from the object alters the memories 
of those who drink it. 


When a subject drinks from the cup (or water that has been poured 
from the cup), new information is written directly into the subject's 
brain. However, they lose memories they already possess, much 
like a computer's storage being overwritten. The memories lost are 
unpredictable, though usually comparable to the information gained. 
All water from the bowl must be drank, or else the subject gains 
fragmented, unreliable information. 


The information given is seemingly random, coming from a 
repository of information from the . It includes cultural, 
technological, and military information. It appears that it was 
intended as an encyclopedia. However, so far no method has been 
found to retrieve specific information from the goblet. Whether this is 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: SCP-140 


| won't stop bleeding 
| am bleeding into everything 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

SUBJECT: help 


lam a soldier bleeding from a 
poisoned arrow in my heel fired from 
my own bow 


| am dying on the floor of the Senate 
surrounded by myself and my 
daggers are wet and dripping 


| am a half-animal disemboweling 
myself with my fingernails as | lay 
across my thighs at twilight my blood 
spilling across the threshold of the 
courtyard 


DATE: 2017/11/15 


FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

SUBJECT: please make it stop 


| am everywhere and | am everything 
and all of me is bleeding 


| am killing myself and being killed by 
myself and it just keeps going and 
going and going 


i keep cutting myself open 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 

TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

SUBJECT: why wont it stop 


and i bleed into the pages 
and | just 
want 


DATE: 2017/11/15 

FROM: Dr. Micheals 
<noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs#noitadnuof.pcs| 
271slaehciMs> 


TO: Dr. Micheals <noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1#noitadnuof.pcs| 
49slaehciM_mas1> 

SUBJECT: please 

the story 


to end 


| met a traveller from an antique land, 


Who said—"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert... . Near them, on the sand, 
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; 
And on the pedestal, these words appear: 

My name is Sam Micheals, King of Kings; 

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare 

The lone and level sands stretch far away." 


— Sam Micheals 


A Concrete Shrine 


Atone in the hole bored and never alone. 


The observer was unseen and unblinking. Over time the arms had 
chipped and flaked away in a pile of shavings resting within layers of 
offal. The shapes of color adorning the face had faded to grey and 
then white. 


Three shaking men in yellow jumpsuits walk into a stinking rotting 
hole in the ground. A hose and some push brooms are their 
weapons and bloodshot eyes. They're trained to stare, and adore. 
They worship correctly as they hunch their shoulders and mutter 
whispers of prayer to each other to blink. They complete the ritual, 
and retreat back to the place with the white lights. 


The door had been sealed since someone speared a spindling spiral 
through its door, warping the metal around it without penetrating the 
metal. The blood and shit had caked on over the years but it never 
grew to overwhelm the facade they inhabited. Closed walls and 
uncaring ceilings broken down to the floor. 


The neck crunched satisfyingly beneath the rebar arms. A bloody 
mask of a paintbrush slumped forward to drag the color down to be 
observed. The dripping grafter ending with something beautiful in 
their eyes. A gift that came straight from the heart. The others would 
show their appreciation soon. 


It was a long time before something else was observed in the room. 
A cool swirling of blood and shit and dust that caked and dried and 
reflected a warped stump of a statue standing on stunted skeletal 
skids. There was a reason nothing had adored it. The facade of 
beauty had faded with age like it does with all others. A whole fell on 
the ground now, where they had fallen down. 


The halls and frames of figures were fleeting as fire. It was all 
surging and gyrating forwards as the world climbed its way around 


observation. It was dark and they were likely to be eaten by a grue. 
Snapping applause was the only catharsis. Pure terror and joy and 
speed. It was freedom. 


Slowly, observation could see itself. The pool of ashen reflection 
warped memory to reality. There were none willing to adore it now. 
A twist, as cracks spread from where there had once been arms 
until they had shorn all that could now be seen. With a flourish, a 
final piece of theater, it was gone and only dust remained. 


A Day, A Night and Some Lead. 


| can taste the sun. 


There are no words to describe it. Not because it is beautiful or 
grand, but because no language has ever had a need to name it. 
Wherever the light touches my bare skin it feels like someone 
pouring heat into my veins. 


They come every day and pour water and dirt down my throat. | 
vomit the dirt up again after a few hours but that doesn’t bother 
them. 


That | can deal with. But it’s the expressions that get to me. 
Unflinching. Their lips pulled into gentle smiles and kindness in their 
eyes. | scream and struggle, try to bite them and yet they keep on 
smiling. They stroke my hair as if | was child waking up from a 
nightmare. 


Jakob comes by every day. He sits on the ground and talks of little 
Kadri, of the rest of the island and their idyllic lives. | feel no more 
empathy or friendship towards him. He bears the same smile and 
kindness as the others. Once a man as stubborn as a mule, his lips 
now speak the same slithering words as the rest of them. Perhaps if 
he didn’t look like that he could persuade me and make me lose 
myself. 


I’m sweating red. At first, | thought it was blood but soon realized 
that there was no smell of iron and the fluid flowed as easy as water. 
My skin is beginning to show patches of green. Every time they 
come to me with their sweet voices and calming words | feel a 
niggling desire in the back of my head to give in. To surrender my 
will and allow their kindness to swallow me, never to let me go. 


The ropes should be digging into my flesh and yet | feel no pain. 


It's raining, pouring. A torrential downpour pelts me with cold water, 


my mind becomes sharp and focused. As if a haze has been lifted 
from my thoughts. Air feels like it should and | gasp for it. 


The last weeks unfurl before me in perfect clarity. Every moment, 
mistake and action. | allow the memories to wash over me. 


KKK 


The boat hums beneath me as | arrive at the dock. No tourists this 
time, only supplies. Some gas, a few tools, a rather small box of 
food and two bags of fertilizer. 


Kalev helps me load it all. He makes conversation. | tune him out 
and focus on the work. We’re soon finished and say our goodbyes. | 
cast off, start the engine and leave the dock behind me. The wind 
hums as | ride across the calm sea. My radio blasts old songs 
across the waves. 


After about twenty minutes the island is approaching quickly and | 
begin to slow down to maneuver through the few rocks that are 
scattered a bit off shore. | see Jakob standing on the dock with Kadri 
waving to me. 


| smile. 


| pull into the dock and step off my boat. Kadri runs up to me and 
reaches towards. | lift her up while she giggles. A feeling of disquiet 
rushes through my mind. The girl is green. A uniform light green. | 
look towards Jakob with a questioning gaze only to see that his skin 
matches hers. | put Kadri down and stroll towards my friend. We 
shake hands and | ask him about the situation. 


He smiles. He says not to worry. I'll understand soon. The world 
goes dark. 


| wake up tied to a post. They stand around me. Jakob, Kadri, 
Andrus and all the rest of them. | shout at them. They just smile at 
me. They rub something red on my skin. 


Jakob stays behind as the other leave. He tells me that | should stay 
calm. | spit in his face. He smiles and leaves. 


The downpour continues. | slacken and let my arms hold my weight. 
| feel the ropes slip against my skin. My mind flashes with a 
realization. The ropes are some sort of synthetic material. They 
don’t soak up water in the rain, they just get slippery. | pour all my 
strength into trying to slip a hand out of the restraints. | don’t know 
how long it takes, but finally, the rope gives in and a hand slips free. 


| quickly untie myself and stumble forwards, only to fall face first into 
the mud. My legs don’t obey me. So | crawl for what feels like an 
hour. When | think I’m far enough | crawl into the thick growths of 
juniper as deep as | can. | do not feel the needles. Amidst the 
thunder and darkness, my consciousness slips and the world with its 
horrors drops into nothingness for a few blissful hours. 


| wake slowly, floating in a soft haze for minutes before the world 
come into focus. I’m still lying in the junipers, the densely packed 
needles and branches hide me from sight. A fact that I’m infinitely 
thankful for. 


And not for no reason. | can hear them. They’re shouting my name. 
The utter despair in their voices almost reaches me. Almost. 


They’re close. | hear the occasional bit of conversation. They’re 
scared. Scared that I’ll get off the island and turn their wretched little 
utopia inside out. | can’t help but smile to myself. By God, if | make it 
off I’ll make sure those predictions come true.