Item #: SCP-1092-RU
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures:
As of now, we have only approximate plans of containing the threat that this object presents.
Anyone can become an unfortunate victim: doctors, postmen, or clerks—they can all get addicted.
Anyone who has ever used rhythm or rhyme, all who trusted a pen with a piece of their mind, even
those who forgot of their fondness for poems—none of them are immune; hence are all our worries.
A continuous search for the possible traces is conducted in various digital spaces.
Each suspicious verse prompts a rapid response: MTFs with amnestics and a bag for the corpse.
Description: Object ten-ninety-two is a powerful word that takes root
in one’s mind and in one’s line of thought.
Time and time and again it comes up in their lines, but it’s visible only to uninfluenced eyes.
Once exposed to the word, it will alter the pattern of expression in text:
it gets broken and scattered, it’s distorted and filled with unneeded additions,
its ideas now changed into rhyming renditions. Since that moment the victim,
unaware of the change, will be writing in verse, their words rearranged,
to embellish the object and conceal the threat. It cannot be Contained; we are left to Protect.
Every following verse is more powerful, moving; it’s inflaming the listeners, always improving,
and it spreads like a virus, it touches the souls. It enchants, it transforms,
it infects and it grows. This incredible gift is a curse wrapped as blessing; its effects
are untouched by the best of amnestics. For this talent there is but one way to unteach:
burn the author along with their passionate speech.
Addendum: Our agents and staff have to be highly cautious,
as containment requires most radical options.
But despite our efforts and strict protocols, the disease worms its way into our reports.
If a member of staff, stiff and callous inside, who does things by the book,
never follows desires, cold and dry like a lawyer and a stranger to passion,
in a word: a true member of our great Foundation…
If they notice a page full of sensuous rhymes, but their heart remains still and their eyes remain
dry, this event must be promptly reported above, so [REDACTED] and agents can remove the involved.
Attachment: Document 1092-RU-1
Excerpts from a journal kept by test subject D-[REDACTED]
A cardboard cover on the damp concrete floor. A grey, dingy cell with a hard metal door.
My fingers are black with the mold from the walls. No name, only numbers on my overalls. If I wake up
tomorrow, I've lived for four weeks, which is longer than any of the resident freaks. When
I'm out in the hallway, I see others sometimes, though all their numbers are smaller than mine.
This "containment facility" ain't really a jail, but there's plenty of stuff here
to make your face pale; and sometimes in the night I hear bone-chilling screams…
But they gave me a bed and they offered me meals.
Weeks ago this strange dude made me read a few words—ever since it's been harder to
focus my thoughts. Every evening he brings me a page in his case and he tells me to write.
"Write about this place," he will say, "How you feel. Anything is okay." Things
are never that simple, whatever they say. Knew a guy here assigned to scrub floors in a cell
that would always give off this unsavory smell. There was him and two others,
someone winked as a joke… They say something "one-ten" is my buddy's new job…
There are lots of white coats but they're not here to heal, and the look in their eyes can
get colder than steel. Though, a nurse came this morning—nice woman, I guess—asked about my dreams,
if I felt any stress. Saw her writing stuff down—something starting with "d", then "approved"
in her clipboard. What the hell could that be? Am I finally sick? Will they get me some meds?
I'm a throwaway thing, no one cares how this ends.
I've lived for so long, it's ridiculous, really, but I just can't get rid of this terrible feeling…
As if I'm a pig, fast asleep in its stable, while the folks at the house are setting the table.
I'm day after day here, it's all been a blur—there's stench in the labs,
toxic pools on the floor. My memory's hazy, there's fog in my brains. I see mold on the
walls, on my skin, in my veins… I hear soundless singing in the depths of my skull. It's so cold,
it's so dark, and the colors are dull. When I'm done with this page, I'll jump in my bed,
wrap myself in a blanket that stinks of old sweat, close my eyes,
try to sleep, try ignoring the screams… And tomorrow I'll try to remember my dreams.