The First Fall (2)

And it began from there. After the event with SCP-096, the world was bound to never know peace once more. Those who survived its pursuit were never the same again—scarred for life, their eyes hollow, their voices trembling as if still hunted. Society itself never healed; the world had seen the mask of what should not exist, and there was no turning away.

But the scars of 096 were only the first cuts. From that day forward, incident after incident bled across the earth. They came not as whispers but as thunder—each on a different continent, each leaving a scar that no nation could hide.

I remember them all. Seven continents, seven horrors. The First Fall did not come as a single blow—it came as seven wounds, tearing the body of humanity apart.

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North America—SCP - 9111"The Worm Saint"

It began in Mexico City. A preacher appeared barefoot in the streets, his voice soft and sweet, carrying sermons that clung to the ears like a drug. Crowds gathered. Mothers held their children, fathers bent their knees, whole families weeping under his words.

But worship was the beginning of the end. Those who listened too long began to tremble. Their flesh rippled as worms crawled beneath the skin, hollowing them out from within. Bones collapsed into pulp; bodies split open, becoming towering masses of flesh, worm, and hollow bone—a cathedral made of human remains.

The faithful sang as their forms dissolved. They praised him even as their mouths filled with larvae.

It spread. Los Angeles heard the sermon. Toronto sang the hymns. New Orleans bent the knee. The Worm Saint’s churches were not built of stone but of skin and writhing choirboys of maggot and bone.

North America did not fall to war, but to faith. And faith is the cruelest master of all.

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South America — SCP - 3109 "infection"

Rio de Janeiro. I still hear the screaming.

They called it infection, but it was worse than that. It was transformation. Skin burst with molars. Eyelids sprouted incisors. Stomachs filled with enamel and bit at themselves from within. A man could not even cry without his tears cutting his cheeks like knives.

Those bitten joined the chorus of teeth. Whole favelas became grinding pits of gnashing bone. The air carried the endless click, click, click of thousands of jaws, snapping, hungry, eternal.

The army burned them. They burned their own people. But the infection laughed at fire—when the bodies cracked, the teeth still chattered in the smoke.

I once saw a drone feed of it. Soldiers torn apart by their own comrades, their bones chewing through their flesh. One soldier looked straight into the camera before his throat tore open and teeth spilled out like coins from a purse.

South America fell in agony. A continent eaten alive, one molar at a time.

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Europe — SCP - 3599 " infection "

Berlin was first. A man collapsed in the U-Bahn, and when his chest split open, cockroaches poured out. Not the tiny ones of kitchens, no—these were swollen, black, slick with blood.

Soon there were more. People dropped dead on sidewalks, in buses, in churches—each bursting into nests, each spawning hundreds of creatures that scattered into every corner.

Hospitals became hives. Maternity wards drowned in skittering things. Paris closed its gates. Rome burned its sewers. Warsaw collapsed in silence.

Europe’s cities, once the crown of civilization, became rotting husks, their veins crawling with black. If you placed your ear to the ground in Berlin, you could hear the soil itself chittering.

The roaches did not kill in anger. They killed because that was all they were. And Europe was their nest.

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Africa — SCP - 682 " hard to destroy reptile"

Africa’s wound was the worst to witness.

In the Sahara, the reptile rose. SCP-682. Hard to destroy, impossible to contain, driven by nothing but hatred for life itself.

I remember the recordings: villages erased in minutes, people crushed under claws the size of trucks. Rockets, shells, even nuclear fire—they did nothing but amuse it. Each strike only made it stronger, harder, crueler.

Chad’s armies fell. Nigeria’s soldiers screamed as their weapons melted in its blood. Egypt’s tanks shattered under its weight.

I will never forget the sound it made. A laugh—not of joy, not of madness, but of hate. Hate given voice. Hate that fed on every living thing and swore to outlast us all.

Africa burned, its sand filled with bones. And still, the reptile walked.

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Asia — SCP - 3000 "The Dreamer"

Varanasi, India. The place of fire and prayer became the place of sleep and silence.

He appeared on the ghats—a corpse-like man, eyeless, clawed, towering. Those who looked into his face collapsed, their minds pulled into his dreamscape. Within ten seconds, they died, their bodies hollow, their souls devoured.

Villages locked their doors. Families smashed mirrors and blinded themselves to survive. But sleep is merciless. No one can resist it forever. Exhaustion is the cruelest captor.

An entire district fell asleep together. A hundred thousand bodies, lying side by side, never rising again. Streets became graveyards of sleepers.

Asia groaned under the weight of the Dreamer. And the Dreamer feasted, until whole nations forgot how to wake.

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Australia — SCP - 909 " the child "

He was a boy. Just a boy.

In Sydney, he wandered into prestigious schools in a crisp black-and-white uniform. He played quietly, politely, until someone mocked him. A word, a laugh, a shove—and the skies cracked open.

Lightning leapt from his hands. Storms howled across the city. Glass shattered, fires spread, towers bent in the gale.

Soldiers tried to shoot him. Bullets only enraged him more. The storms grew. Sydney drowned in rain and thunder until it was a ruin of charred skeletons and smoke.

When the evacuation came, the boy remained. Alone in classrooms, drawing with chalk on walls, asking softly if anyone wanted to play with him.

Australia became his playground, and the storms his laughter.

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Antarctica — SCP - 3333 " infection "

Even the ice was not safe.

At the South Pole, scientists began to whisper. They heard voices in the snow, faces in the ice. Soon, they turned on one another. The rescue teams that followed found nothing but corpses, frozen in embraces, smiles carved onto faces with knives.

Antarctica was abandoned. No one dares step foot there now, for the madness does not end with the cold—it follows the mind, gnawing it, reshaping it.

There is no scream in Antarctica, only laughter echoing in the snow.

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The First Fall

And so it was.

North America sang to worms.

South America clicked with teeth.

Europe skittered with nests.

Africa burned beneath hatred.

Asia drowned in dreams.

Australia stormed under a child’s grief.

Antarctica laughed in madness.

Seven continents. Seven wounds. The First Fall was not a war, not a plague, not even a curse. It was the earth itself torn apart, each continent crowned with its own horror.

We called it “The First Fall.” Survivors simply called it the end.

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