The SCP Experience - Anomalous Justice | SCP-3155

Episode Date: January 13, 2023

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-3155: Anomalous Justice This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3155, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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1-Depos only depose only depose only depose Big Bas' Bonanza, depot minimum of 10 dollars. Begéééééé de $0. The conditions apply. It's been nearly an hour since I followed the guy home from work.

Nothing's happening. It's dark. The neighborhood's quiet, and I'm bored to tears. Well, keep watching him for a few more days. I'll see if I can't dig up some more information on him and his history with that police department. Yeah, why is his information so hard to come by? I ask. Isn't that weird?

It is strange. It's one reason why I sent you down there, Moira. Edler says. So keep doing your job. Keep watching. And if you see anything, do not intervene. Call it in, and we'll have a task force there within a couple of hours. Got it?

Right, I say. You got it, boss. Then I hang up. Time passes with all the speed of a tortoise as I go over anything of interest I've seen. The guy's name is Cutler. He's got a wife, an older woman by the looks of her, and a son in his senior year of high school. school. He lives in a modest house in this small Midwestern town, and he's a police sergeant.

In my experience, most sergeants like to get out and about for at least a couple of hours a day. Sometimes they're even required to if something goes down that's important enough to warrant their attention. Maybe the town is just that peaceful, or maybe he's been catching up on paperwork. During the lunch hour, I followed Cutler and another officer to a pizza place. I watched them through the window with the help of my binoculars. They seemed to know each other well, laughing and joking most of the time, then discussing something serious for a few minutes, probably talking about work gossip or trouble with the wives.

All in all, he seems like a normal guy, a bit boring even. I sigh, tilting the seat back in the sedan. I would kill for a partner right now, someone to talk to. Damn budget cuts. As I'm fighting to keep my eyes open, a vehicle pulls up to Cutler's house. I perk up, wondering what this could be. The black Toyota forerunner parks at the curb and Cutler's buddy, the guy from lunch, gets out wearing street clothes.

If my limited info is good, his name is Armenta. He's got dark hair and a wide upper body. He wears jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Armenta walks up to the house. Before he gets to the door, Cutler over. opens it and steps out. He's taller than Armenta, and more sturdily built. He's wearing brown cargo pants and a blue and black flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His brown hair is cut in the military style. The two of them exchange a few words as I look away to grab my long-distance

listening device from the passenger seat. When I turn back around with a device in my hand, only Cutler is standing out in front of the house. I scan the area, looking for Armenta. He's nowhere to be seen. My brows furrow. I only looked away for a second or two. Cutler walks over to the forerunner at the curb. He's got the keys in his hand. He opens the driver's door but doesn't immediately get in.

He pauses and looks over toward me. I'm a good 30 yards away and it's dark out, but I sink slowly down anyway, hoping he hasn't spotted me. I lose him from view for a second. When I hear the car door shut, I sit back up in my seat, seeing that Cutler got in the forerunner. The headlights come on as he starts it up, then the brake lights flare as he puts it in drive.

As I start my sedan, I assume that Armenta went inside Cutler's house. I have no idea why, but it's the only explanation that makes sense. The question is, why is Cutler borrowing his vehicle? He has a perfectly good truck parked in his driveway. As I wait for him to get well ahead, I call in the plate number of the forerunner and ask for a trace. It doesn't take long.

One thing the foundation doesn't skimp on is this kind of technology. Soon enough, I have the forerunner up on my phone as a moving red dot on a map. I pull away from the curb, smiling. Finally, something is happening. The town isn't that big. So I'm not surprised when the red dot stops after only 10 minutes of driving. I'm about a mile behind and not sure what to think as I pull into an upper-class neighborhood. The houses are all about twice the size of Cutlers.

The front yards are bigger. Stone fences block off backwards. All the street lights work. The gutters are clean. I make a left turn and see the black four-runner parked at the curb in front of a brick house. The Toyota's lights are off, but I can't tell if Cutler is inside or not. I park and wait a minute, debating whether to get out and investigate. My gut tells me this isn't to some run-of-the-mill visit.

Something strange is going on here. I check my Sig P-220 pistol to ensure I have a round in the chamber. Then I step out into the night, shutting the door quietly behind me. Keeping my pistol holstered at my hip and hidden by my suit jacket, I move up behind the Toyota. Soon, I can see enough to tell he's not in there. He must have gone into the house. I walk across the lawn of the brick house.

The windows are all dark. Everything's quiet. I'm peering through a window when a faint crash sounds from inside the house next door. It's the sound of glass shattering. Pulling out my gun, I move quickly over toward the house, which is made with a combination of pink brick and white wood. As I approach the side of the house, I can hear a man inside pleading.

There's light coming through one of the windows next to where the fence separates the backyard from the front. I move up to it and peer through. I'm looking into a wide living room area. A portly man with a wispy comb over and crooked eyeglasses crawls backward on his heels and elbows from the remains of a smashed glass coffee table. Please! He says, looking up at his assailant. Please, don't hurt me.

He's leaving a little. trail of blood on the beige carpet from where the glass has cut his hands and elbows. He wears light gray sweatpants and a two small white t-shirt. His back comes into contact with a leather couch behind him and he stops. Nowhere else to go. Cutler steps forward, crunching glass under his shoes. He looks down at the man with brazen rage on his face. He says nothing.

After staring at the whining man for a long moment, he backs up, going to out of my view. The man on the floor seems to relax. Maybe Cutler is leaving. I wonder what I should do. This is not a matter for the foundation. It seems like some kind of beef, some small-town drama. Maybe the balding guy beats his wife, or maybe he slept with Cutler's wife. I don't know what it's about, but unless there's something anomalous going on, the man on the floor utters a fearful scream, severing my train of thought. A stringy creature about the size of a king crab suddenly pounces on the guy. It has six multi-jointed legs, each of them long and coded with what looks like melting human skin, almost like flesh-colored candle wax. The legs sprout up from a thick,

disc-shaped central body. I can see no eyes or other discernible features on top of its body, but I can see a series of undulating spikes sticking out from its underside. There are six or seven of them, and they look as if they're made of sharpened bone. They piston up and down like the needle on a sewing machine. The creature lands on the man's left thigh and lowers its body down, jamming the pistoning spikes into the meat of his leg. He screams again, this time in pain. The creature lifts its body again, revealing a ragged circle of torn flesh. Blood spreads swiftly, soaking the man's gray sweatpants. The man swipes at the thing with one hand, but the creature jumps. easily avoiding the blow. It lands on his chest and immediately jams its body down over his heart.

The man convulses as the spikes pulverize his ribs in a mess of flying flesh and splashing blood. After a few long moments of this, the man goes completely limp, dead. The creature lifts its body up off the chest and shifts position, sticking the middle leg on each side into the man's chest cavity. The two legs dig around inside him for a few seconds before coming out with the man. man's heart, gripped between them. Using its four other legs, the creature scurries back down the man's body and onto the carpet. I shift position, moving along the window to see where the creature goes, and I spot Cutler standing there on the other side of the broken coffee table.

His right arm is gone, missing. Nothing but a limp, half-rolled-up flannel shirts leave there. The creature crawls up his pant leg, morphing as it goes. It extends itself up into the limp shirt sleeve, filling it out and transforming into an arm. His arm. It only takes a few seconds, and when it's done, Cutler stands there, holding the dead man's heart in his hand.

RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rbc trainingground.ca. He smiles as he lifts the heart up, looking at it like it's a trophy for a job well done. Then his eyes shift, and I find myself meeting his gaze through the glass.

Panic floods my veins. I turn to run while pulling my pistol out at the same time. I make it halfway to the front of the house when something smacks me hard across the chest. My legs go out from under me, and I slam down on my back in the grass. Somehow, I managed to hold on to my pistol. Looking up into the air above me, I see nothing that could have hit me. No tree branches or clothes lines, nothing but empty space between me and the sky above. Then something clamps down on the wrist of my gun hand, jamming it down into the lawn. I look over and see a black boot blink into existence on top of my wrist.

But it's not just a boot. It's attached to a leg wearing blue jeans. And there's another matching leg behind and to the side of it. I follow the legs up and see Armenta standing there, looking down at me. Don't make a sound. Armenta says. And let go of the gun. There's two of you?

I ask, letting go of the SIG. Armenta leans down and picks up the gun without taking his boot off my wrist. Let's go inside and talk. He says, If you try anything, things will go badly for you. I nod. Armenta steps back and allows me to get up.

We both walk around to the front door of the house. As we step inside, Cutler is standing in the entryway, waiting. The heart is gone from his hand, as is the blood that was there. Armenta shuts the door and stands in front of it. You're from the foundation, right? Cutler asks.

I nod, looking past him at the mutilated body in the living room. I can just see it beyond a leather lounge chair. What are you going to do to me? I ask him. Go look in the basement, Cutler says. Why? What are you going to do? Nothing, he says. Just go look.

Look, everything will make sense. I look around, unsure, heart galloping against my ribs. Where is it? Follow me, Cutler says with a smile. I follow him. Armenta stays behind. Cutler leads the way down wooden steps into the basement. The floor is concrete and the walls are covered with soundproof materials.

After a moment, I see why. There's a young woman dressed only in dirty underwear chained up against one wall. Her eyes are closed, and she slumped against the wall on a thin mattress. His most recent acquisition, Cutler says. Is she dead? I ask. No, he says. Just unconscious. We found him in time, this time. I remember going over the intel package for this assignment. The abductions going back a year were just one of many pieces of information I absorbed to get ready for the trip. You never know what anomalous activity you're going to encounter, or what kinds of crimes it will be responsible for. Four women, all abducted from this area, none of them found, until now.

How much do you know about us? Cutler asks. You were a Pinkerton detective, I say, right? Cutler nods. I know you've found a lot of us, and that's fine. From what I hear, your people treat them well. But I'm not going to live in some cage for the rest of my life. I'm telling you that right now.

I have a wife and a child. Armenta and I do good work. Every 20 years or so, we get new identities and head to another small town. And we do this all over again. You know how many people like this we've stopped since the Pinkertons were outlawed? I shake my head. Over a hundred, he says. How many of you stopped?

I don't answer. He's got a point. and it's a damn good one. If I try to take him and Armenta in, would it really be doing more good than harm? And will they even let me live if I try to take them in? That's what I thought, Cutler says. I can hear Armenta moving around upstairs.

Several long moments pass. So what now? I ask. Are you going to kill me? That depends on you, Cutler says. First, let's get this young woman out of here. Cutler grabs some keys from a nail on the wall by the stairs and unlocks the woman's shackles. I pick her up and carry her upstairs. She's emaciated, barely weighs a thing.

When we get upstairs, I hand the woman off to Armenta. As he takes her in his arms, they both suddenly disappear. Cutler opens the door, and I'm guessing Armenta walks out. Although I can't see him do it, I guess he can extend his power over anyone he touches. No wonder he disappeared back at Cutler's house when I reached for my listening device. He can actually disappear. And when Cutler opened the door to the forerunner back at his house, he paused to let Armenta in. The smell of gasoline is pungent in the living room as Cutler leads me in.

He hands me a book of matches and pulls out his phone. I'm going to record you setting this dead man in his house on fire, he says. So if you ever decide you want to turn us in, you'll have some questions to answer. answer yourself. I look from the book of matches in my hand to Cutler's face. I won't turn you in, I tell him. Hell, we could use more of you in this country. Cutler smiles. Convince your bosses to let my old colleagues go then, he says. I know he's not serious. I shake my head. I rip a match out of the book and light it. Then I light all the rest of the matches in the book. I look at Cutler one last time to see that he's recording.

And then I toss the flaming matchbook onto the gas-soaked floor. SCP 3155 is the collective designation for an estimated 200 anomalous individuals that originally worked with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency from 1883 to 1905 as a part of the organization's anti-anomalous division. SCP 3155 encompasses various different age groups, socioeconomic backgrounds, political and religious beliefs, and varying levels of hostility. Due to the agency's lack of consistent record keeping, it is currently unknown how many are still alive, or the total number of instances that worked for the Pinkertons.

SCP 3155 instances often have anomalous abilities primarily focusing on combat, although there have been documented cases of instances controlling the Hume level within an area, effectively acting as a primitive Scranton reality anchor prior to its creation by Prometheus Labs. Other documented cases have shown flesh manipulation, psychokinetic control, and extreme regenerative abilities. SCP 3155 instances were originally employed by the Pinkerton Agency in order to supply the demand for anomalous guards and detectives prior to the establishment of the foundation in 1899. Prior to Pinkerton, anomalous felons often had very little national opposition within the United States, primarily being handled by civilian or local law enforcement.

These groups were often ill-prepared to deal with anomalous criminals due to a lack of training regarding extra-normal matters, along with insufficient information regarding the anomalous community. Despite the Anti-Pinkerton Act of 1893, the Pinkerton Detective Agency was still able to supply a steady stream of anomalous agents and detectives on the local and state level within the United States until 1905, when the Foundation's activities began in earnest.