The SCP Experience - Batteries Not Included | SCP-115

Episode Date: November 10, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-115: Batteries Not Included This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-115 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

Lazzang sur-gillet, Pugance-Moyerned 15 minutes. Oh, you'd say that's the Dojo. Prere to play? Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo.

The casino in-line that proposes the most recent machine-a-sou and the games to get-a-d-d-d-d-d-dose-Bas-Bonanza. Without exigance bonanza, without any questions, and with the payment instantane.

Hey, I've gained! Woohoo! Scentire the pleasure! Play-O-Jo! 18-10 and plus, 1-Depos only depose only in Ontario. 50 tours,

on the machine-a-Bass-B-B-Banza. Depos minimum of $10. Veigh, I'm doing to fashion responsible. The conditions apply. Please don't go, Jack. My sister's words echo in my mind as I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets. The wool is poor protection against the frigid night air that clogs the lonely streets. The street lamps in the occasional passing car are my only guide in the dark.

But I've pounded the familiar pavement for most of my life. There is not an alley or shortcut that I don't know about. Retracing the familiar hidden routes and places to hide doesn't stop the words from echoing in my head. Linda's words hurt, reminding me so much of Ma's before she passed. I love my sister. Hell, I love her entire family.

Even her prick of a husband I can't help but admire in some ways. Sure, he hates my guts, but he's kind to my sister, pays the bills on time, and make sure my nephews and my niece get fed. Maybe they're not living. in a mansion, their lifestyle isn't the type that everyone's clamoring for on social media, but their kids are never lacking for anything they need, and they're managing to keep a roof

over their heads while holding down two jobs. That's a lot more than most people can say. Hell, a lot more than I can say. I know she means well. It's why their couch is always open to me. It's why there's always an extra meal at the dinner table, even with my brother-in-law glaring the whole time. She doesn't know why I can't do what everyone else does. Find a steady 9 to 5 and make an honest buck. I probably would be making the same money I'm pulling in now, but I wouldn't have to spend half my life in the can. Shit, maybe I'd even have health insurance. I don't know what to tell her. Lots of guys will spin you different yarns on why they chose this life. Some are bullshit, some aren't. But I always try to be honest. Well, as long as you're

not a cop anyway. Sure, my track record isn't going to make it easy for me to find an office job, but I'd be lying if I said I even bothered trying. I served time and lock up with dudes who are real monsters, people you don't want to be in the same state with, let alone the same cell. And I've met guys born into it, a lifetime spent on the wrong side of the tracks, where a gun and a gang were the only chances to get any money or cred. But that ain't ever been my story. And my sister knows that. We grew up in the same house, after all. My folks were irregular, honest, Joe and Joan, living the same life my sister and her husband are doing now. Dad could be strict sometimes, but the old man only raised a hand to me the second time

the cops brought me home. I don't blame him for that. The old man loved me and had tried every trick in the parenting book. So he started swinging wild, hoping it would get me out of the joint. It didn't. I wish I had the words to explain all this to her, but I don't. And even if I did, I doubt she'd ever understand. I break the law for the same reason that a fish swims and a bird flies, because it's who I am. Of course, robbing a bank is a real step up in my life as a career criminal. And I think somehow my sister knew whatever I had cooking was bigger than anything I'd tried to pull before. She must have inherited that one. from Ma. The saint always could smell when I was deviling up some new kind of mischief.

She knew I was lying when I said I was just going out for a smoke. I pause mid-step and realize I'm already in the bank's parking lot. Making note of the cameras on the corner, I pull up the collar of my coat and lower my hat just above my eyes. It's a small town bank, privately owned for over a hundred years, somehow enduring, while the rest are getting swallowed up by Chase and Morgan. Probably the kind of place that can't afford a security guard to work the graveyard shift. But why take the chance? It's also the kind of place that won't be expecting a dump truck. The thought sends a bubble of warmth in my chest that fights against the cold better than my coat.

The heat, bolstering as I light up a menthol. At least that part hadn't been a lie. Normally, I'm a small-time hood. Sure, I might have taken your car stereo or robbed your place while you were out. But I never held a gun on anyone, never even beat on anybody. Probably the only reason why the courts are willing to treat me to the justice system's revolving door, instead of locking me up and throwing away the key. But you got a strike when the opportunity presents itself.

And if Benny was actually able to get hold of a truck, then I can't afford to pass on this score. I met Benny during my first prison stretch. We're cut from the same cloth. A couple of guys who have never considered any other path but the crooked one. And yeah, I'll admit, his hairbrained schemes are responsible for half the time I've spent behind bars. But he seemed so sure this time. Smash, in, grab, out. Full proof in its simplicity.

Nobody gets hurt. But the bank and the insurance company, and we walk away with free money. Honestly, it sounds too good to be true. But when have I ever let that stop me? Benny's late, again. With nothing but time on my hands, I rub them together, forcing some heat into my fingers, then spark up another smoke. The night grows darker and the cold stronger,

so I stomp my feet to keep my legs from going numb. The city quiets down, and I listen closely for the sound of a heavy engine. Nothing but crickets. I finish my second cigarette and my third. By my fourth, I'm ready to call it quits. but then the scent of diesel carries on the wind, and I smile as I hear the unmistakable sound of an engine. It's quieter than I expected.

Benny probably hadn't got a fancy big rig, but something worn and down on its cigarette drops for my lips as Benny rounds the corner. He's sitting in some plastic monstrosity, somewhere between the size of a rocking horse and the big wheel that my youngest nephew still rides around on. He's got a mangled RC controller, in his hand. And as it trudges forward, I light another cigarette to get a better look at

Benny's ride. Oh yeah, Benny got a dump truck all right, one made by Fisher Price. He beams at me from atop the overgrown Toys canopy. Luckily, Benny's always been on the small side, his long, dishwater blonde hair and beard grown out to exaggerate proportions to make up for it. He beams at me with one of his shit-eating grins and spreads his arms open. I don't even bother answering him. Flicking this cigarette away, I walk past him. Hey, Jack, where are you going? Back to my sisters.

It's tuna casserole night. Maybe there's still some leftovers. Huh? Benny scratches his mangy beard. But what about the job? The job? I rear on him, not even bothering to keep my voice low. You know, Benny, me and you got history.

We go back a long ways. And sure, you've made some blunders. But I ain't ever held that against you. When we got pinched for lifting that truck, bad luck your ID fell out of your pocket. Us getting nabbed for circulating those phony fives? Hell, I thought honest Abe wore glasses too. But this one ain't bad luck, Benny, or an honest mistake.

This is... This is fucking stupid. My frustration pours out of me in a wave of curses. There's no violent crime on my record, but I feel a mighty strong knee to hit something. Benny might be an idiot, but he's still a friend, so that leaves him out. But that doesn't mean I can't break his stupid toy.

Benny makes protests and waves his arms as I rear back my leg and kick with everything I got. Shit! Pain quickly accompanies the shouted curse, along with the snap of bone. I topple onto the ground and groan as my ankle swells up and makes my shoes feel tight. The throbbing ache is like a sited.

second heartbeat in my socks. I'm nearly sobbing as I force myself onto my ass. Benny grimaces as he bends down and helps support me on my good ankle. I tried to warn you. Christ, Benny. The truck is completely unmarred by my attack. All I managed to do was leave an outline of my shoe on the dirt-coated sides. What the hell is that thing made of? The shit-eating grin spreads beneath his beard. Dreams, Jack. This baby is made of dreams. This episode is brought to you by Nespresso. Hear that, that's your next obsession. Every coffee, a new world.

Every sip, a new taste. This is the new Nespresso. One touch, endless possibilities. Iced, flavored, long, short. Because some days call for that espresso kick. And sometimes, a smooth, silky latte just wins. It's exceptional but effortless. Like actually effortless.

Simply press, brew and explore. Nispresso, what else? Keep exploring at Nespresso.com. Part of me, the largest part, wants to duck out of here now and leave Benny to his own devices. It's not the first imaginative scheme of his that I had to shoot down, like when he wanted to rob a convenience store with some bananas, spray-painted black, to look like guns. And yet, I find myself standing next to Benny as he squeezes the brakes on the controller, while also turning the accelerator to the left.

The miniature truck revs to life, growing louder as time. passes. The tires burn and scream against the blacktop, leaving behind small skid marks and kicking up smoke, filling the parking lot with the stink of burning rubber. I scratch my head and stare while at a loss for words. Now the hell does this thing work. Benny shrugs his shoulders. With the controller. No, I rubbed my eyes. Benny's giving me a headache to go with my busted ankle. I mean, how does it? Without warning, he lets go of the trigger, serve. as the brakes, and the truck shoots toward the wall. I'm waiting for it to bounce off the bricks.

Sure, the incident with my foot can be explained away with some scientific reason. A loud crunch echoes around us as cracks form on the wall for a moment before the truck it plunges through, leaving a cloud of dust and diesel in its wake. Instantly, red lights glare from the hole, and an alarm blares from within the bank. We're in! Penny slaps me on the shoulder in his excitement. Yeah, I frown at the small tunnel. The alarms, spiking my adrenaline and making my words come out in a rush.

If we were two feet tall! Oh! Benny frowns as he steps up to examine his work, barely above his ankle and as wide as him. Give me a minute. We don't have a... Benny seizes the initiative again and twists the dial all the way back. A beeping comes with the revving and diesel cloud as the truck backs up, making the opening wider but not taller.

Guess we can crawl under it? Benny doesn't listen. He keeps plowing into the bench wall, reversing and driving it forward, taking out a little more of the wall. To my surprise, the cracks in the bricks spread along the surface. The building groans as the wall caves into itself, and I yanked Benny back as bricks rain down

and kick up a cloud of plaster and debris, leaving me coughing and trying to catch my breath. You were saying? Benny asks, his strut full of cockiness as he approaches. as he approaches his mess. I said grab all the dough you can. This took way too long. Swearing, I limp over the debris,

tripping over several discarded bricks. The inside of the bank vault looks like a giant kid had a temper tantrum. Everything is strewn about in a chaotic mess that will take years to set straight. A cloud of dollar bills wafting in the air snatches my attention, and I follow them to a large pile of cash

that has survived our clumsy attack. My fingers tingle with excitement as I pick up a stack. Flipping through them reveals more than I can count, and all of them have a Franklin smiling at me. I savor the feeling for a moment before opening my backpack and stuffing it full. A loud crash drags my attention further into the bank.

Benny was driving the truck blind from the outside, and he plowed the truck through the vault and into the lobby. There's a path of destruction through the carpeted hall. A mound of splinters is all that remains of the front counter. The truck has taken out one of the front counter. the pillars in the lobby, and Benny is swearing, backing the truck up slowly before it crunches into another pillar, making dust and plaster rain down on my head. Looking up, my mouth goes dry.

The ceiling is lined with some very familiar-looking cracks. Benny, you're going to tear the roof down on top of us. Let's get the fuck out of here! No way! This thing is the ticket to our dreams! I can't just leave it behind! The cops are on the way, and I've got a broken ankle, asshole! Come on, let's move!

Foot throbs as I back up the way we came, knowing Benny will eventually fall in line. He's never been big on patience. It's one of the reasons why we're caught so often. That and a general lack of planning and unforeseen lousy luck. Like breaking my ankle over the stupid toy and Benny refusing to leave it behind. Some people might call that a pattern of poor decisions, but then they don't have a backpack full of cash on their shoulders, do they? I stumble over the collapsed wall and force myself back outside. Time and crime do not get along. Short moments can stretch on for eternity during a heist. After what feels like an hour of waiting, but can only be a few minutes,

I head through the parking lot and stop. More alarms are ripping through the night than the banks. Blue and red lights wash over me as the cop car squeals into the parking lot. It blasts me with its high beams, forcing me to raise my hands against their glare. I already have my hands in the air, my former elation crashing into my feet as the cops slam open the driver and passenger doors, using them as shields as they aim their guns through the open windows. Down on the ground, asshole, hands where I can... Christ! Is that you again, Sampson? Hey, Officer Duffy, I say, dropping to my knee slowly, flinching at the added weight to my ankle. This isn't what it looks like. Never is, is it, Jack?

Duffy has cuffed me a few times, going back to my early twenties. He's not too bad, or a cop anyway. He never flies off the handle or hits you in places that leaves bruises, like some of the pigs I know. My chin is down on the pavement as he strolls forward, holstering his gun and taking out the pair of cuffs. Okay, where's Benny? Duffy asks, reaching down for me. Hanging out with the jets last I checked. Hysterical.

This will go a lot easier. on you a few. A loud who sounds above the alarms as the bank's windows explode. Benny's on top of the rig again, heading right towards Duffy, who stares blankly. Panic rips through me again. Duffy doesn't know about the truck. He thinks Benny's riding on an undersized power wheel. I spring up to my feet, fighting past the pain, and wrap my arms around Duffy, grappling and dropping him to the ground like I learned in Pee-wee football. Duffy growls and shoves an elbow into me through the anger, clouding his eyes, I know he's ready to lean into me until Benny rolls off the top of the truck before it collides with Duffy's patrol car. The other cop gets clipped by the passenger door and crumples

to the ground as the truck plows into the cruiser. Metal rips and is torn away from the squad car, the flashing lights dying as the truck runs through it, crushing the battery. Duffy's jaw hangs open and he lets me go as the bank sags to one side and collapses into itself. Jack! Benny waves me toward the truck, taking his seat once more on its hood. Hop on! I've never hit anyone before, but I'm in more trouble than ever. That makes my decision easy.

I grab Duffy by the shoulders and shove my knee into his groin. His eyes go wide before he topples back, nursing his bruised balls. I make sure the backpack is still on me as I limp onto the back of the truck. It's cramped with me and Benny on it, but it doesn't sag with our added weight. It rumbles and roars to life before tearing across the parking lot. Going faster than anything its size should be able to, especially while carrying two grown men. I ignore Duffy's yells and reach into the bag.

I laugh as I pull out a wad of cash. There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls Scarious Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules.

Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. My thoughts are barely on the train of police cars trailing us. So many blue and red lights flash that the whole city looks like it's painted in only those two colors. Some part of me dimly remembers the O.J. Simpson chase in the 90s. Everyone following his now infamous Bronco had a respectable snail's pace. There are several upturned traffic lights and fire hydrants spewing water, courtesy of

Benny's poor handling of the RC controller. They want to stop us, but they don't know how. They're as clueless about the possibilities of the truck as we are. I'm dimly aware of all this, but most of my mind is preoccupied with remembering the first time I broke the law. When I was four years old, I was with my mom at the supermarket and wandered down the aisles until I came to the penny candies. Something gripped me as I checked both directions and filled my pockets with candy. The rest of the shopping trip was nothing but sweat and fear, waiting for the unseen arm of the law to grab me by the ankle and empty my pockets. Writing home with Ma was much better. I was so paranoid that I barely heard Ma talking. The voices on the radio were so indecipherable

that they could have been speaking Greek for all I knew. But when I finally got to the safety of my room, My hands trembled as I popped the first stolen bit of sugar into my mouth. I swear to Christ, I've never tasted anything so sweet before or since. The memory makes my body ripple as laughter builds up in my chest. It comes out in an unrelenting tide that threatens to toss me off from the back of our two-cramped ride. Benny swerves and swears before turning over his shoulder. What's so funny, Jack? This, this is what they'll never understand, Benny.

Look at us. We're fucking pirates. We're Bonnie and Clyde. Billy the kid. No one is ever going to understand this rush. We're outlaws. We're slowing down. Why the hell are we slowing down, Benny? Benny swallows and starts smacking the side of the controller. I think the batteries are dead. You've got to be fucking kidding. The truck lurches to a stop, tossing me and Benny over the sides and onto the pavement. Without the diesel engines roar in my ears, the unending tide of cop sirens drowns out all other sound as they circle us.

With the truck stopped, the cops found their nerve. All their guns are out and trailing us, their owners shouting orders. Sorry, Jack, Benny drops the controller, raises his hands and gets on his knees. Not your fault, Benny. I join him on the ground. Just more bad luck. SCP 115-1 is a toy dump truck, with no, I'd like. identifying markers or labels to identify its original manufacturer.

However, unlike regular toy dump trucks, SCP 115-1 weighs as much as the actual vehicle it represents, nearly 90 tons. It is currently unknown how the vehicle weighs this much, as analysis of SCP-15-1's composition reveals that it is made of the same commercial plastic commonly found in similar cheap-quality toys. SCP 115-1 is also capable of motorized movement and can function exactly like a normal dump truck, accepting the fact that it is several magnitude smaller.

It is controlled by SCP-15-2, which resembles a heavily modified RC car controller. SCP-15-2 can control SCP-15-1's movements despite the fact that SCP-15-1 lacks any kind of radio receiver or mechanical. parts. SCP 115-2 does not work with any other radio-controlled device, but otherwise functions exactly like a mundane radio controller, even requiring batteries to function properly. Testing has shown that in addition to its abnormal weight, SCP-15-1 also has a similar carrying capacity as its larger counterparts, being able to carry or tow roughly 120 tons of cargo. In addition, SCP 115-1 also apparently needs diesel fuel to run properly.

There is a small port in its left side that allows fueling, though it stores and consumes as much fuel as a regular dump truck. How it consumes the diesel fuel, as well as where it is stored, are issues currently under study.