The SCP Experience - Armed and Dangerous | SCP-154

Episode Date: January 29, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-154: Armed and Dangerous This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-154 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com * * * 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

The fake bums stand out a mile away. We might be the outcasts of society, but people don't realize that life on the streets is a society in itself. Homeless people can be divided into as many categories as people off the street can. Most of us start out jobless, chasing unemployment checks, hoping they'll cover rent until a better opportunity comes along. Others are addicts, their lives ruined by drugs or alcohol, hustling for a few dollars to pay for the money,

their next high. Then there are those like me, with a secret and on the run, hiding in plain sight. Maybe that's why these two MOOCs think they can pull a fast one on me. They're dressed in several layers of mismatched clothes, huddled near a burning trash can. Their words are all gibberish, with occasional odd twitches thrown in to sell the ruse. It's a lousy act, performed by people who've only seen the homeless epidemic on the surface, but have never been pulled in by the undertow of desperation. The clothes might be the right style, but they're too clean. Hell, I can practically still smell the fabric softener. They've leaned too far into the cliche homeless look, copying the folks who have spent decades on the street. Nobody who has done that

smells as good as these two. The transition is also a slow one. The people only a few days into homelessness, dress pretty much the same as everyone else. Over time, their clothes collect stains. They miss a couple of shaves, and their hair subtly gets greasier. But these guys just dove into method acting, like a couple of kids playing dress-up. This amateur hour performance can only mean one thing. The foundation has finally tracked me down. I don't sigh or swear or do anything else to let them know they've been made. Instead, I pause at the nearby trash can and stop to peer inside. Diving my hands in makes a mess, knocking the top layer of garbage onto the street. Not that anyone notices or cares in this two-bit neighborhood. The grin on my face when I come

across a couple of glass bottles is genuine. I might be homeless by necessity, but that doesn't mean I don't live the part. My hall would be enough for a cup of coffee and a McBergerger where they would if these bastards hadn't ruined my night. Adding the bottles to my take, I pushed my cart further up the sea of concrete, watching the men from the peripherals of my vision. They break away from the trash can and follow me in lockstep. I can only assume they've been watching me from a distance for a few days, learning my routine. Normally, I would head back to my place to squat down for the night,

waiting for the recycling place to open. I stop at an alley and fake like I'm hearing something. Then I step into the shadows. Reaching through my coat's sleeve, I feel the two bracelets that are always there, lined one after the other. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for the pain and extend my left arm.

Reaching out with my right, my mind and fingers grip the imaginary bowstring and draw back. Light shimmers in an arc from my left hand, bending with the motion like a wishbone. I take a deep breath and hold it, aiming down the mouth of the alley, until I hear the whispered voice of one of my pursuers. Lost visual sight of the suspect, moving to pursue.

Good. Turns out that I'm not crazy. I knew that already, but living on the streets can do weird things to a guy's head. I step further back into the alley, smothering as much as the light I can in the deeper shadows. The two guys from earlier step into the lingering light of the entrance, covering their eyes at the glare, reflecting on my shopping cart. One is quicker on the draw and reaches for the shoulder holster.

The extra layers slow him down. This close, I barely need to adjust my aim before I let go. Pain explodes through my arm, forcing a howl of pain from me. No matter how many times I've fired the damn thing, no matter how much I prepare myself, I never get used to it. However, I'm rewarded with a heavy thunk, a deep intake of breath, and blood dripping to the ground. The guy, reaching for his gun, drops to his knees with a white two-foot-long javelin piercing his chest. Ignoring the pain, I get behind my cart with one good hand and start running. The other guy is younger and hesitates between the gun at his hip and the radio in his ear.

He makes the wrong move and starts yelling. Agent Barley is down, requesting immediate! of pain as well as the rest of his words as the cart collides into his ribs, a dull pop sounding beneath the loud crash. He staggers back into the wall, bouncing off it as the fresh wave of pain works its way up my boneless left arm. The shot felt like a cannon firing off inside my arm, but reloading his slow torture. Angry and starving termites creep through my arm in a parade of pain, stitching my missing

bone back together. I don't have time to worry about that. with a stunned foundation agent recovering from his injury and fumbling for his gun. I scoop up one of the few unbroken bottles and break it over his head. It sends the kid reeling again, slumping him on his side. His gun momentarily forgotten by the blow. It'll be another few seconds before my arm is ready to fire again, but I'd rather stick my fingers in a light socket than do that again. While a younger agent is fighting off the concussion, I go for the corpse of his mentor. The cagey bastard actually managed to pull his gun free. It's lying next to

his cooling body in a pool of blood. After wiping away the blood, I decide not to leave anything to chance. I stand over the other agent to make sure I don't miss and to pump three bullets into his chest. Once I'm sure he's dead, I find the radio in his ear and stick it into my own. Agent Jones? All units. Be advised. Agent Jones and Barley are down. Lethal actions authorized. Suspect has possession of an archived SCP and should be considered armed and dangerous. I sniggered at the desperation as I head deeper into the alley, taking a detour and slinking into the maze between the abandoned buildings. I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But this is all my grandfather's fault. The bracelets have been in my family,

generations, passed down from parent to eldest child. When we left the old country for the new world, we kept its secrets and guarded its knowledge, testing the limits of our bizarre legacy. We didn't know what perks came with a couple of enchanted bracelets that turned your arm into a missile, but in all of our lives, we were the people grounded beneath someone else's heel. We knew that we couldn't brandish our power for others to see. The haves might not see a use for our heirloom, but that's never stopped them from robbing the have-nots. Generations of secrecy came to a screeching halt because my grandfather loved comic books.

As soon as great-grandpa kicked the bucket, my grandpa went out and sewed himself a knock-off Robin Hood costume. I don't know how he managed to keep the act up for nearly a decade. I've shot the both thousands of times throughout my life, and it hurt like a son of a bitch every single time. But you have to give Grandpa credit for committing to the bit. He even started calling himself Bone Arrow or Armbow. I don't know, something stupid like that. DNA was still a relatively unknown science when Grandpa first suited up. People thought it was weird that some guy was stopping crime with arrows made from bone. But this was New York in the 80s. They had a whole mess of stranger lunatics to deal with. Eventually, though, science caught up with grandkids.

Forensic analysis revealed that the bone arrows all came from the same donor, which only led to more questions. You only get one left arm in this life. So how did Grandpa put hundreds into New York's shadier residence? The cops never got to answer that question, because Grandpa's antics got flagged by the foundation. They swooped in on the city and quarantined it off, circling like sharks sniffing blood in the water.

It was only a matter of time before Grandpa got caught. Grandpa got caught. To the old man's credit, he went down swinging. Even more impressive, he covered Dad's escape. As for Grandpa, well, there's no beating the foundation. It's possible the old man is wasting away as one of their DRATs somewhere, but more than likely, his body is as scorched as the news articles about his exploits. Life wasn't easy after Grandpa's defeat, but Dad took away a keen lesson from it.

The world was growing smaller. It was becoming harder and harder to hide wondrous things in the mundane world. We knew our time as the artifacts keepers was coming to an end, but we took one other lesson from Grandpa's last stand. Just because the writing is on the wall doesn't mean we have to make it easy for the foundation. If they want to take what's ours, then we're going to make them pay for it. Not in cash, but in sweat, tears, and of course, blood. The alleys between the deserted buildings are a labyrinth I've spent most of my life learning like the back of my hand.

My dad took the opposite approach, foregoing big cities for remote cabins in the woods. It quickly put an end to the marriage that had been spiraling in the toilet since grandpa's death. Dad was never the same after mom left. He placed all the burdens of protecting the artifact from the foundation on me. My entire life was dedicated to preserving the bracelets and their secret. Like Grandpa, I also learned from Dad's death. When you spend your life living off the beaten path, the foundation will beat those paths to death.

Dad had the foresight to line the forest with C4, which lit up the sky for miles when the foundation tried to bring him in. He blew himself up to cover my escape, ensuring I would live on to protect the bracelets until the next generation took over. Like Dad, I also took away lessons for my father. death. First and foremost, I learned to avoid the woods. The foundation is smart, with surveillance equipment and resources rivaling most governments. But that has also made them arrogant. They didn't

think some random family could contain an SEP so long by themselves. And they damn sure didn't think that the grandson of a superhero wannabe, the son of a reclusive militant, would be able to outmaneuver them for the better part of 40 years. But I've been very much of the best of 40 years. But I've been preparing in secret since that day, learning every passage and tunnel this decrepit city has to offer. And I honed my body in the bracelets for today. All of it, gearing up to finally put the family legacy to rest. That's the other thing I learned from Dad. I'm not going to force this cruelty onto another child. This curse ends with me. Based on the silence in my ear, the foundation finally realized I swiped one of their earpieces to listen to their responses.

They paid for that mistake, though. I've dropped five of their agents before they changed frequencies. Each time, I upgraded from looting the dead bodies. The night vision goggles are a real asset, as well as the silenced weapons. Now, every time I plug these bastards, the gun won't go off like a cannon, announcing my presence to everyone within a mile. with no sign of pursuers. I scale the fire escape of one of the nearby crack houses.

The go-bag I left for this occasion is still in its hiding spot, an abandoned air-conditioner vent. There's just enough cash for a bus ticket to a neighboring city if I somehow make it out of this alive. Granted, it's not very likely. My body goes rigid, the air feels heavier, and the silence is too deafening. You develop certain instincts when you've spent most of your life

on the run. Like knowing when you're being watched. Carefully, I scan the area around me. The alleys below are still empty, and I'm alone on this rooftop. That should put me at ease, but my body tightens with more stress. What the hell am I missing? Shit! A light mechanical hum, barely detectable on the winds above me. The foundation aren't the only cocky ones. I've managed to map out every inch of this neighborhood, but forgot to factor in new technology.

Maybe I can still bluff my way out of this. I hoist the backpack over my shoulder and start walking toward the edge of the building. The mechanical hum grows louder as more drones swarm over my head. I've been made. Sighing, I keep my pace and discreetly unscrew the silence are fixed into the barrel of the Uzi. These things are only good for a few pops before they melt, and it'll throw off my aim if I keep it on mute. I need to make every shot count.

I take off at a run toward the clearing 10 feet across to the other rooftop. Pumping my legs like pistons, I throw every ounce of energy into the run and then leap into the air. Gravity tugs at me, letting me know the weight of my backpack and weapons. Visions of Wiley Coyote looking down play through my head as I soar through the air. I block out these thoughts and keep my eyes open and forward until my knees take the brunt of the impact from the new route. The crash is another act, but I'm grateful to my head. For the moment, it gives me to catch my breath. The drones hum even louder over my breathing as they accelerate to cover the distance I've gained.

I don't even bother aiming. I just spin onto my back and open fire. My first few shots are wide. But the sudden attack catches the drone pilots off guard. Correcting my aim, I lay down a stream of bullets in a wide arc and take out three of the mechanical spies. They drop to the ground in a trail of black smoke and sparks, but that's only half their numbers, and my gun is empty. I eject the spent magazine and toss it aside. The second clip is halfway in when hot lights erupts across my eyes.

Swearing, I stumble back, wondering why I've gone blind. Swinging wildly with the Uzi, I clip something mechanical, and yank off the night vision goggles. The foundation is finally using their heads. They used the high beams on the drones to bright light me. My vision is still a blob of light and shadow as the last two drones close in. It doesn't matter. There's another clearing over to an adjacent building.

It's a shorter jump than the last. I could do it in my sleep. Hopefully, I can do it blind, too. Dropping the gun, I bolt in the opposite direction, hoping the brief respite is all the air my lungs need. I leap across the balcony again, but as my vision returns, a flare of hot pain slams into my hip.

I realize the drones are packing more than spotlights and surveillance equipment as the bullet shatters bone. The impact makes my jump short. I flail my arms and somehow manage to cling to the side of the building. Leaning into the pain, I dig my fingers further into the rough bricks, feeling fresh blood cascade down my fingers. I chin my way up, before I can hoist myself up. More shots ring out.

And the same pain in my hip flares in a jagged line across my back. No! My hands let go. Gravity grips me tight in its fist before hurling me to the ground below. Lazzang sur-joled, Pucance-Moyin for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to play?

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responsibility responsibility of responsibility and pain. I lie on my side, soaking up both as my memories fall back into place. Somehow, I managed to survive the fall, but it looks like the gig is up.

Five shadows are closing in on me. I can't make out much beyond the lights attached to the end of the automatic rifles, but it looks like the foundation is done taking chances with me. Each of their soldiers is decked out head to toe in body armor. They're slow, giving me enough time to twitch onto my side. I landed on my left arm, shattering the bones into a dozen jagged shards, poking out from the skin. No time to aim, but they're so close I might not need to. I pulled back on the invisible string, lighting up the bow.

They shout a warning at the same time I release the drawstring. It's pure agony, but I can't help but chuckle at the results. The broken bones acted like a shotgun blast, and each guard is now sporting bony growths sticking out of their armor. They swear and shout. One even goes down, covering his eyes, but no fatalities. Forcing myself to my knees, I try to crawl away. But a new streak of hot pain rips through my back and out my chest.

The gunshot seems unnecessary to me, with all my other wounds. I toppled to the ground, cradling my arm as they close in to finally claim the bracelets as their own. Why the hell am I so hot? Don't people dying in the movies always say they're getting cold? I guess you can't trust what you see in a cinema. Not the grandest of final thoughts, but I guess beggars can't be choosers. I just wish I could have taken more of these bastards with me. My body count is meager compared to the tradition started by my grandfather.

My eyes open as I realize my arm is the source of the heat. I chuckle as the foundation grunt flips me onto my back, remembering the other lessons I learned from grandpa and dad. Sometimes those who wield the bracelets get added gifts. My grandfather's arm could extend and stretch like a snake. My father's forearm lengthened into a hidden blade that could be extended through the skin. I don't know what this heat is,

but it must be my gift from the bracelets. Subject down. The lead guard says as he lifts my wrist. SCP is contained. With one last surge of strength, I yank my arm away from the guard and raise it high. He falls back, shouting orders while raising his gun. The noise is deafening,

but my laughter rings low. loud in my ears as the bullets ripped through my body. I'm still laughing when I slam my hand on the concrete. The heat intensifies and grows, and as it washes over me. SCP 154 is a pair of simple bronze bracelets, completely circular and large enough to comfortably hang off the arm of most people. When both bracelets are worn on the same arm, and the wear concentrates on them with arms extended

in a depiction of a traditional knocked bowstring pose, achieved by having the arm with the bracelets completely extended in front of oneself, with the opposing arm extended up to the elbow of the fully extended arm, a large, indistinct, incorporeal bow will form in the extended hand, and both bracelets will glow lightly. From that point onwards, SCP-154 can be treated as a bow, until the pose or concentration is broken, which results in the bracelets reverting to normal. There is no actual bowstring, but completing the motion of pulling it achieves the same effect. When the bowstring is pulled and released, the bones of the arm will be forcibly ejected from the extended limb,

traveling in a straight path at speeds recorded over 300 meters per second. The missing bones and resulting damage to the arm are quickly regenerated, and the weapon is capable of being fired again within minutes. Tests, using subjects possessing multiple arms slash hands, have demonstrated the ability to fire SCP-154 several times, with the bones of different arms being used with each successive firing. The regeneration implemented by the item is limited, only affecting the damage inflicted by the weapon itself.

This regeneration seems to be an automatic action, and will continue in almost all situations. Both firing the weapon and the resulting regeneration are understandably painful, and participants which have used the item once are generally disinclined to repeat usage. However, there have been some occasional abnormalities resulting from the regeneration. Most often, this manifests simply as minor mutations of the original subject, such as changes in size, pigmentation, and structure of the original organelles.

These are in uncommon occurrence, capable of happening during any use of the weapon, though generally tend to occur during repeat usage. There are more drastic abnormalities, though these are rarer, and coincide with highly frequent use. These mutations can range from anything such as the growth of extra joints and digits in the affected arm to a complete change of the chemical or physical structure of the limb. One test subject unknowingly had the bone matter within his arm converted into an unstable explosive compound,

only discovering the fact when it detonated, causing two fatalities and three casualties.