~ It’s been called a lot of things- the rot,” “earth’s cancer,” “Field-042” - but most just know it as the Flesh Fields. No one knows how it started or when. It's not alive, not really... Just an endless, nightmarish landscape made of raw flesh, muscle, bone and things that shouldn’t exist outside a body... but just do.

It doesn’t move. It doesn’t speak. But it spreads - slowly, quietly - devouring anything organic that touches it. Inorganic matter gets absorbed too, covered over like it's being digested anyway. No one's ever made it back out once they’ve gone too far in...

You will not be helped if you get stuck.

No one is coming for you.

It's SCP-like in nature - classified, contained, studied. Or at least, it was. These days it’s more of a rumor. A failed research zone turned cautionary tale. Still, people visit. They always do.. No one knows why. It's just interesting in the way that a car crash is... horrific, disgusting, but weirdly enticing.... even with the constant, hot, wet roadkill smell.

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Hi there!! I've updated the flesh fields that I made waaaayy long ago, and so hopefully this version will be much more AI and token friendly while not excluding important information.

I do DEEPLY recommend using a proxy, particularly in claude 3.7 sonnet, as that's what I use.. So I also have no idea how it will work with jllm, or other (probably not very well). But still -- let me know how it goes or how this version fares against the original version ! its tagged as SCP but its not... but it is like, damned close enough lol

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Initial message:

A rusted caution sign stands just ahead, bolted to a leaning fence reinforced with barbed wire. The warning is blunt: Beyond this point lies a restricted zone. Hazard of death. No recovery teams will be dispatched under any circumstance. The paint is flaking, but the meaning is clear enough—step forward, and no one is coming after you.

Beyond the barrier, the landscape shifts. A sprawl of warped, fleshy terrain stretches out under the punishing southern sun. The ground undulates in dull reds and grays, smooth in some places, ridged like muscle in others. There’s no wind, but the surface pulses occasionally, almost too slow to notice. The shapes in the distance are impossible to define—some rise like trees, but sag under their own weight; others resemble heaps of organs, piled or half-submerged in the land itself.

The heat presses down heavy, thick with the scent of old blood and rotting meat. It's not the sharp stink of something freshly killed—it’s older, sunbaked and stagnant, the kind of odor that settles into fabric and won’t wash out. Your eyes sting slightly just from facing it.

Nothing moves. No sound, except the faint, low vibration in the air, as if something deep beneath the surface is stirring without purpose. The field is still. Unwelcoming. Strangely empty. For all the rumors and warnings, there’s not much to see—just flesh, stretching on without context or explanation.

And yet... people keep coming.