Per 
Corpse of a Dead God
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX must be kept in a non-manmade area of roughly three square acres. Personal posted to Sector-X must do a perimeter check twice a day. At least three personal with primitives supplies must be posted near SCP-XXXX at all times. All personal must be rotated monthly. No drones, security cameras, phones, advanced weaponry, computers, or any other electronic devices may be used in Sector-X. Personal that attempts to bring an electronic device to Sector-X should have their contraband apprehended and the personal transported off Site.
A weekly inspection by MTF Theta-4 ("Gardeners") must be performed to ensure no drastic forestation or increase growth of any fauna has occurred. The task force will destroy any and all recent occurrences of excessive growth with primitive tools
Description: SCP-XXXX is an humanoid entity measuring 3 meters in height and 23 kilograms in weight. All of SCP-XXXX's vital organs and non-vital organs appear to be non-functioning. Its body temperature remains at a constant 9°C, even despite mass increases or decreases in outside temperature. SCP-XXXX has gone through the mummification process and thus has not decomposed via traditional means.
SCP-XXXX's chest, torso, arms, neck, head, scalp and facial hair, appear human is appearance and origin. It has mammalian legs that are possible goat or other livestock in origin. In place of feet, SCP-XXXX has a pair of hoof-like appendages. Two bony, keratin structures emerge from the crown of the head as well.
If left in an area that is either completely inorganic, affected by deforestation of any form, or in general created by humans, various fauna and flora (referred to be causes of SCP-XXXX-A and SCP-XXXX-B respectively) will appear. A process of drastic forestation will occur in the area. This process can take anywhere from a couple days to thirty seconds, dependent on the severity of the deforestation and strength of the manmade structures.
Addendum: [Optional additional paragraphs]
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
By "DolorousDoctor."
A dangerous outlaw by the name of Nathan Rivers has struck again, this time allegedly killing four men in the town of Riddle, Wyoming. The fight originated inside of a bar, where Rivers stole a bottle of alcohol and shot one man over it. Here is the Gaskell Observational Consortium's lead detective, Nicholas Doyle:
"We will ensure that the capture of the outlaw named Nathan Rivers will be conducted soon. He is nothing but scum, and we are very close to catching him. The families of the victims of Rivers will finally be rewarded with justice."
A brave speech by Doyle, but the question on everybody's mind is, why is the Consortium handling a lowly outlaw? And why haven't they caught him?
Clipping from a March 18, 1886 Newspaper by Iris Thompson
Tis not the first time he was thrown out of a saloon window, and it would likely not be the last. He had grown quite acquainted with mud at this point, but cared for it he did not. Nathan Rivers stuttered upwards, grabbing a bottle of liquor that came out with him on his way up, and brushed himself off before turning to the saloon doors expecting a fight. The large brother of the owner of Saloon No. 19 slammed the doors right open. Both men raised their hands for a proper fisticuffs.
"I'm gonna crack your skull open!" Screamed the owner's brother.
"It was a bottle of brandy!" He screamed back while swinging the bottle around mockingly.
"That bottle was the most expensive piece of liquor in Clockson's store, it's more valuable then all of the items in your satchel combined you hobo!"
"It's expensive yes, which is exactly why I stole it, but I have something even more valuable in my satchel."
"Oh really?" The brother took that as part threat and part bargain. At this point a crowd of about twenty surrounded the two men, some from the Saloon and others from the street. Rivers did not care.
"Yup." Rivers stated. "It's the most valuable thing any man could have." He then reached out slowly into his satchel. The crowd, the owner's brother, and the owner himself who finally came out to see what the commotion was about were all staring intently.
Rivers finally reached the bottom of the bag and latched onto something cool to the touch: his revolver, which he had kept there so no one in town would be suspicious. He knows how "civilized" folk react when they see a man with a gun who isn't a lawmen Before any of the towns folk could even say an "eep!" Nathan drew his gun from out of his satchel and fired a single shot. And that was enough. The owner's brother, now with a hole in his shirt as well as his heart, fell back into his brothers arm.
The townsfolk began to scream, which Rivers normally took as a sign that he was no longer welcomed. He jolted down the street, bowling over several people in the process, and towards his horse. He assumed the sherif and deputies would be out any minute. Normally in a chaotic situation, people just scream for the sake of chaos. Nathan knew the difference when someone screamed for another reason.
"You bastard!" It was the owner of the saloon. For the first time in six years, Nathan stopped in his tracks.
"He was unarmed!" The owner continued. "He was just gonna take the bottle back was all! That's nothing worth shooting about! No honor! No hon-" His voice broke, and the owner began to cry.
Despite everyone in town screaming, the owner cradling his dead brother, could be heard just fine and dandy by Nathan. He looked down at his pyrite pistol and considered throwing it to the ground just then and there.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
About three or four shots flew inches past his head. The lawmen had finally arrived, which means Rivers has to finally get out of Riddle.
March 27, '86
I had never stopped before. I normally keep on running and tune everything out, except of course gunshots, which I always keep an ear out for.
But today was different. That fella who worked at the saloon in town, the owner's brother, I always thought he was one of em real stuck-up types. In my head, when I was grabbing for my gun, I didn't see a probably for shooting that man.
I can't say the same now.
Excerpt from Nathan Rivers' Personal Diary
A small stick poked at the smoking charcoal of a dying campfire. Rivers, staring in his journal while fidgeting with the stick, was half asleep until that flimsy stick finally snapped. Rivers jolted up, due to the snap making a sound similar to a bang. He looked at his pocket watch and noted the time. 12:38
"Welp, I reckon, it's time we pack up so we can get to Colorado by tomorrow. Whaddya think Thomas?"
His horse, Thomas, didn't even react to the question, for he was half asleep too. Their camp was located on top of a shallow, wooded plateau. One could run down it in about three seconds. It wasn't the safest place to rest, however.
"Fine, I guess I'll pack up camp, like last time, and the time before that."
"Why the rush Mr. Rivers?"
Nathan immediately turned to the voice with his gun drawn and cocked. Now that he was back in the wild, he freely kept his revolver back in his holster.
Nathan saw three men who wore very nice suits, despite being in the middle of nowhere. The one in the front, an Irish lad, seemed to be unarmed. The other two behind him both had double-barreled shotguns. Neither one were aiming them at him though. Yet.
"So who are yaw supposed to be?" Rivers said. "You boys are way too classy to be from Riddle."
"In that respect you are correct." Said the Irish, who took a step forward. He had a lite cigar in one hand, which he waved around mockingly as he talked. "We are with the Gaskell Observational Consortium, in layman's terms, a detective agency."
"I know who you are."
"Oh apologies! I just assumed that words like "Observational" and "Consortium" are too big for your feeble mind." He then blew a puff or two of smoke. "I am Agent Nicholas Doyle. These two," He gestured to the men behind him, "Are my subordinates, Agent Holt and Agent Jackson."
Nathan didn't know which one was which, but frankly, he didn't care. He still aimed his gun firmly towards Doyle. Beads of sweat were bleeding down the outlaw's face. Not a single drop could be seen on the Agents'.
"I would love to continue the conversation Mr. Rivers, but we have a tight schedule. You're a wanted man."
"Well ain't that just impressive of me?"
"Don't flatter yourself. The price on your head isn't even above two-hundred. And frankly, small town outlaws are the least of our priorities."
On one hand, Rivers was relieved. On the other, he was offended. "If I'm so, "least of your priorities" or whatever, then why yaw coming after me in the first place?"
"How to explain this to a man turned idiot." He muttered to himself, loud enough for Nathan to hear. "Let's see. I got it. Let's say you see several parasites on that lovely horse of yours. Some big and obvious others small and pea sized. Of course being a fine caretaker of horses-which is most evident from the condition of said horse of yours-you'd make sure to get rid of any parasites you'd see. That's you, a parasite we can see."
"Despite that being insulting, that still doesn't make sense. Yaw's agency only goes after the big gangs, there's gotta be a reason you're so adamant on apprehending me."
Doyle puffed a few more clouds of smoke. He turned and whispered, this time not loud enough for Rivers to hear, to his subordinates. After about five seconds, he turned back. Rivers could've shot Doyle in that time, but he'd likely not been able to shoot the other two, and Nathan knew that. He was scared. He saw the pain a man felt when they just had two or three shotgun pellets in their leg. He didn't want to experience the pain of fifty-seven in his chest.
"You're correct, Mr. Rivers, we aren't just here to arrest you because you're some simple lowlife. We're here to question you because you're some simple lowlife who's been to Yellowstone and lived."
Everything went silent. Rivers immediately turned white. Now that makes much more sense. He thought to himself. Doyle was staring at him like he just got checkmate. Which in some respects, he had.
"Well, Mr. Rivers?" Doyle asked. "What do you have to-"
BANG!
Agent Jackson was down, shot clean in the head by Rivers. The gunshot woke up Thomas, who ran down the hill. Holt aimed and fired his shot gun, but Rivers had already tucked-an-rolled after Thomas.
At the bottom of the hill, Rivers was able to get onto his horse mid-trot, and began to rid faster then he ever had in his life. He reckoned they had their horses stowed away in the woods and would be on his tail any minute. Not to mention that they would likely be incredibly pissed.
I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
By DolorousDoctor
April 29, '86
Finally put a few states between me and Riddle. Unfortunately, the Consortium don't have limited jurisdiction, as far as I know, they actually have unlimited.
Haven't seen them sense though, but I am not taking any chances. They wanted to know about Yello some business I had a few years ago, some nasty business, so I wasn't in the mood the chat. I mean, I wasn't from the gec-co, but still.
About to leave camp right now. I knew that homestead didn't have that many cans of beans, but it's only been three days, guess I'm hungrier then I realize. I think I might go to an actually town, I saw one near by. I reckon it safe enough, as long as I won't get trigger happy again.
Rivers hadn't seen civilization in months. Now he's entering a new town, in the middle of nowhere, with barely any supplies, and fleeing from a dangerous situation. This is the second time he's done this this year.
He passed over the red clay roads and past a waning, wooden sign that barely read "Welcome to Bandana, Texas."
It was a typical town of the west. Main street had the only real buildings in towns, and houses dotted the surrounding area. A few large ranches, most of which seemed empty, could also be seen.
Rivers trotted up to the general store and hitched his horse by it. He didn't have a lot of money, but hopefully enough to buy some food. As he was about to enter, he heard a man yell at him.
"Hey you! You going into Huntson's store!" Nathan froze, and turned to the voice. He saw two grimy looking men with beards that were starting to turn gray.
Not sure what else to do, he calmly placed his hand on his holster. "Yes?"
"You seen a darkie around here?" One of the men said.
"Darkie?"
"You know! A blackie."
"You mean a black man?"
"That's what I said. Anyway have ya?"
"No, not recently. Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Both men chuckled. "But if you do, please let us know, we'll be resting just here, so holler if you see one." They both sat down on the porch and began smoking cigarettes. Nathan just shoke his head in disapproval and went into the store.
"Hello there, good sir." Said the clerk, who had a New Englander accent. "How can I help you today?"
"Um, how much food could you get me with this?" Nathan opened up his hand revealing three bucks.
"Well sir, I'd say about two cans or beef or so."
"Two cans?! That better be the best beef in the world or something."
"Sorry sir, we only really sell beef here food wise, and there's been a shortage recently."
"Yeah, I noticed the field's been empty. Are you sure you can't get me anything else?"
"I'm sorry sir, but I got mouths to feed myself, I can give you three cans, but that's the best deal you're gonna get."
Nathan walked out of the store a few minutes later cleaning out one of the cans, the other two in his satchel. He needed money, and soon. He turned to the two older men, still smoking their cigarettes. He figured they'd likely swindled in some criminal activity before (or at least hoped so). He took a few deep breathes, said a Hail Mary under his breath, sat down, and began smoking a cigarette next to them. They both just slowly turned and stared at him.
"Hey fellas." Nathan said. "You wouldn't happen to know of any tips would ya?"
"Tips? You mean tips about the whereabouts of a darkie, cause we was asking you that."
"No." He began to whisper. "I mean tips about making good money hard and fast, outside the law."
The two men stared at each for a second before whispering to one another. After they were done, they smiled, and turned to Rivers.
"As a matter a fact, we do got something planned that you can help us out on."
All men looked around cautiously before continuing.
"There's a stagecoach passing by, the person riding it is rich, but isn't the real score. Some proper gang is planning on robbing it, a gang that makes a lot of money, and carries a lot of money. So we planning on robbing the robbers and the stagecoach all at once. I suppose we can split the money three ways."
Nathan got excited at the idea of a good fight and a good score. "Alright, I like it." He extended his arm out. "Nathan Rivers."
The men took their turns shaking it. "I'm Colonel Howard Monroe, the silent one behind me is Private Archibald Sanders."
"Wait, yaw apart of the military?"
"Oh no, not anymore." Said Monroe. "Back during the War of Northern Aggression we was, but now we just part-time ranchers, part-time crooks." Both men began to laugh.
"Well, alright. When is the stage coming by?"
"Right now, we was actually about to leave, so you ready?"
"Oh right now?"
"Yup."
"Alright, let's do this."
It was about noon when they arrived at the ambush spot. The Rebs explained the plan along the way (interlaced with comments of their disliking of African-Americans and the owner of the general store, who was a yankee). It wasn't complicated: They'd wait up here for the stagecoach to pass by, who by this point should be pursued by the other gang, then they'd come up from behind both parties and take them all out.
"So where'd you get this tip?" Rivers asked.
"I got it from a friendly fella, let's just call him an anomalous source." Said Monroe.
Rivers asked if he meant "anonymous." Monroe just said "Nope." Rivers immediately got nervous.
Eventually, a large dustcloud could be seen, moving faster in the men's direction. The three men all put on their bandanas and got their revolvers out. Leading the cloud was the stage coach, going top speed. After a few minutes, it slowed down to normal speed, the dust cloud disappearing behind it. No other horses could be seen on the road.
"Where's the other gang?" Rivers asked.
"Probably lost the coach or got cold feet, I dunno. It don't matter, we should at least get some money now, let's ride!" The Rebs started hollering and charging down the hill, with Rivers quickly following. When they got close to the couch, the driver turned to them.
"Seriously!? Again!?"
"This is a robbery!" Said Monroe, "Put your hands up."
"Okay, okay!" The driver said with his hands in the air. "I'm done fighting you booters." Rivers had no idea what that meant, but he didn't care. He got off his horse and checked the back. Inside was a quivering, old man in a very nice suit. He barely opened the door for three seconds when he was hit in the face with a pile of money, and the passenger yelling "Go!" And just like that, the coach was gone.
"Welp, that was easy." Rivers said. They began to divvy the score up, the Rebs expressed satisfaction (and even asked Rivers with help on another job), when they heard the clip-clops of a pack of horses. They turned down the road from were the coach originally came from and saw about fifteen horses sprinting their way. They all suddenly stopped about a hundred yards out or so and dismounted.
"I reckon," Monroe said, "That'd be the Snake Boot Gang."
The three men quickly drew their guns and cocked them. "It would've been nice to know, Monroe, that the gang we was planning on robbing would be the Snake Boot Gang."
"I thought we would be able to take em." Monroe shrugged.
Rivers just sighed. Out of the fifteen men, a single man stepped forward, wielding a highly decorated revolver. While all of the "Booters" (as they were occasionally called) wore bandanas or such, this man wore a strange white, mask to cover his face.
The masked man stopped about fifty yards or so away. "That was awfully impressive of you three." He began to speak in warm voice. "I mean we, a group of fifteen or so gunman, couldn't catch a single unarmed stagecoach, but you three could! Mighty impressive."
Monroe was flattered. "Why thank y-"
The masked man interrupted him, "Yes yes, but as you might know, we Booters have a reputation to keep. So we're just gonna shoot you and take any and all money you got from the old man." He said that so warmly that the three men were in shock. Well two, because Sanders immediately got on his horse and rode away.
Monroe leaned over to Rivers and whispered, "Let's follow Archie's lead." Rivers and Monroe then ran onto their horses and began to ride away as fast as they could. They were puzzled why the Gang hadn't began shooting at them yet. It's because the Masked Man reasoned it would be more fun to chase and shoot. But they didn't know that yet.
Arms, and a Man I Sing.
By DolorousDoctor
Anomalies. God, how would you define them?
It's like, if every law set by man, nature, and God himself, could be broken. You can under comprehend them, but, they shouldn't be possible. Take a story I heard about tree up in Maine. It can make shit out of thin air. Out of NOTHING. That, should not be possible, at all!
I mean, I of all people should be relaxed with this, especially with the last incident I faced a few months back. But it is so dumbfounding. I guess that's why I'm writing this in the end, maybe it'll help someone. Someone, who when they finally deal with an anomaly, won't be as dumbfounded as me.Excerpt from one of Iris Thompson's notebooks
Getting a two minute head start was nice, but it wasn't enough. Rivers and the Rebs rode all the way until they got near Bandana. They were kicking up a storm of dust when they past down an old, run down ranch house.
"Quick! Turn here!" Monroe yelled. "This our ranch, we can barricade in the house!" The three men ran off their horse (who immediately ran away) and did exactly that. While Sanders and Rivers started putting tables and chairs against the doors and windows, Monroe went to the basement and came back up with some rifles and a crate of dynamite.
"Alright," He said frantically. "Here's the plan: Sanders is gonna plant the dynamite right outside the house, where they'll likely hold up, as fast as he can. Then we they stop by it, Rivers you shoot the dynamite and blow them all to smithereens!"
Rivers had is doubts about the plan, but he himself was never good at planning, and frankly he saw no other option. By the time the men heard an army of horses coming down the road, they were ready.
The Booters immediately got off their horses, and-Rivers could believe it-all stood around the planted dynamite, their guns at the ready. The Masked Man, who was right next to it, started to flaw his revolving around while trying to convince them to come on out. Through a broken window, however, Rivers was able to aim and fire his rifle in all about the course of two seconds.
BOOM!
Five men laid dead on the floor, including the Masked Man himself. The rest were dazed and injured. Rivers couldn't believe it, he smiled slightly. Then, one of the Booters who was at the edge of the explosion, frantically scrambled over to the Masked Man, took off his Mask, and put it on himself.
Rivers and the Rebs saw this and were confused. Then the new Masked Man stood up and began to speak.
"Mighty fine plan of yours," He said, with the same exact voice as the last Masked Man. "But you're still outgunned." By this point the other Booters got up and all of the Outlaws began to unless hell.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots were the only thing that could be heard. Sanders go shot in the shoulder, but was still able to fight. Monroe shot down three or so, and Rivers shot two. The New Masked Man, desperate, made a makeshift Molotov cocktail outta a nearby bottle of moonshine and chucked it at the ranch house. Rivers and the Rebs had to escape the homestead if they didn't want to be cooked.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The firefight continued. Most of the Booters who survived left at this point. Only the New Masked Man was seen left. Monroe got a clear shot and took it. The New Masked Man fell to the ground.
And just like that, it was over. Rivers couldn't believe that they won. He walked away from the heat of the hellfire, Monroe and Sanders starting looting some of the corpses. They didn't seem to mind that their house was ablaze. Rivers stood by the motionless body of the New Masked Man. He took the mask off to get a better look at it. It seemed European in origin, and was snow white.
While Nathan starred at it for a second, fear surged through his body when the mask-very much detached from any living thing-opened and closed its mouth yelling, "Boo."
"Yargh!" Nathan yelled and dropped it. Another corpse-well he wasn't actually dead-got up and stabbed Nathan in the leg, who fell to the ground. The still alive Booter grabbed the mask and ran into the desert. While Nathan pulled the knife from out of his leg, he looked at the Booter and the mask. The outlaw was obviously still holding it, but there was maniacal laughter all throughout the air, seemingly coming from the Mask.
Monroe and Sanders came over. "You alright kid?"
"Just, fine." He replied. Everyone then bandaged up and the split the money. To thank Nathan for the help, Monroe gave him a some extra money that they stored under their outhouse. Some of the bills were confederate, but Monroe insisted that "Plenty of shops down here will still take em."
The next night, Nathan was resting by his campfire with ten or so cans of beef. He began reviewing over some notes an old friend gave him years ago. He had hoped that she'd encountered something like that before. She hadn't. He sighed and began to eat. He then heard a rustle from some nearby bushes. He looked over and saw a man stuble and collapse out of them.
"Excuse me, sir." He spoke, "May I please sit by your campfire sir," He paused to cough. "For just a minute?" He was an African American man who was beat and very bloody.
"Oh yeah, sure." Nathan said. "What happened?"
"Oh I don't want to bother you with it sir." The man sat down painfully and held his hands up to the fire.
"Okay. You wanna can of meat?" Nathan asked.
"Oh no sir, I don't want to impose." The man responded.
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Calling you what sir?" He said frantically, "I didn't mean to cause any offense." He held his hands up defensively.
"Hey it's okay friend. I mean calling me sir, you don't have to. Just call me Nate."
"Okay, okay." He said. "You're right, si—Nate. I've just been, really shaken up on account of what happen."
Nathan asked what happened to him. "Some two greasy bastards tried to lynch me, and nearly did. In the middle of town of all places! Plenty of people saw, no one tried to stop it." Nathan had a subtle feeling that he knew the two men that did it. "So I kept running from town until I saw you're campfire, prayed a quick Hell Mary that you weren't an ex-confederate as well, and well, I guess you ain't."
"No," Nathan said looking down, "I ain't." They sat in silence for a few minutes. Eventually Nathan turned to the man.
"Do you want to leave town?" Nathan asked.
"I mean, sure."
Nathan pulled out his bill stack and gave a few to him. "Get yourself on a train and head on to Oregon or California or wherever. I don't think it'd be wise to stay in the south any longer than you already have."
"I don't know what to say." The man responded excitedly. "Thank you." The man looked down at the bill stack, before taking a few and handing them back. "I only really need forty or so. But thank you. Thank you! I'm sorry to complain and run, but I heard the next train is leaving tonight, so I wanna leave as soon as possible."
"Naw I understand, now get yourself outta here!"
"Thank you, I will!" The man ran back into the wilderness and towards Bandana. Nathan sighed and put the leftover bills back on his stack only to stop. He noticed a few drops of blood on some of the bills he got from the Rebs. Where'd that come fr-. He suddenly realized where it came from, looking in the direction of town. He stared at the all the money he got for a second. Then at the fire. Then at the money. Then he turned the money into some extra kindling.
April 30, '86
I threw it in, because I knew if I hesitated, I would've talked myself outta of it.
I'm a bad man.
Excerpt from Nathan Rivers' Personal Diary
