The SCP Experience - Be Careful What You Chop Off | SCP-4483

Episode Date: August 12, 2024

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-4483 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-4483 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Why are you doing this to me? I ask the warped blue footlocker sitting in the middle of the dingy concrete basement. The answering scratches coming from inside the locker are just as inscrutable as they've been for the last hour. I keep pacing, my legs weary from all the tension, and my arm heavy from the sword I carry. My head turns as I move, keeping my eyes on the foot locker no matter what. I brought a worklight out from the back room, and it shines brightly on. the locker. The rest of the large space is in darkness. Why are you doing this to me? I ask the thing again. You're talking to a box, old boy. A British voice says in my head.

Oh, Christ, not you again, I say. Yes, me again, old chap. I stare down at the foot locker, trying to keep the stupid British guy who lives in my head quiet. The scratching continues. I wonder if it's trying to get out. I bet it is. I found the locker behind the building, amid a stained mattress, boxes of old clothes, and broken appliances. Maybe someone couldn't afford a trip to the landfill, or they were just too lazy, so they dumped their crap behind my building. All the better for me, because I had been looking for something like a chest or a foot locker.

I was in a panic, searching for something to trap the thing inside. And although the cheap wood is warped from the rain, it's still doing its job, keeping the thing inside and away from me. Suddenly, I stop and stare at the foot locker. This is really happening, I say out loud. Too bad you can't tell anyone. That would give up the whole game. It's not happening, old boy, the British guy says. You're several threads short of a sweater. The elevator doesn't go to the top floor, if you know what I mean.

Shaking my head, I tell him to shut up. My voice sounding whiny. I dropped the sword, and it clatters against the concrete floor, ringing out across the wide warehouse basement. I rush over to the foot locker and fall to my knees, hugging it, and placing one ear to its lid. You're real, aren't you? I say sweetly.

I'm not going crazy. Am I? The scratching is stopped, and for a moment, I think that I've managed to keep back the waters of insanity that I've been neck-deep in for as long as I can remember. I must keep them from rising above my head because I can't swim. Not in these waters. They're like tar, and they weigh you down and keep you from treading water. I don't want to be insane.

I really don't. But, at the same time, I want this thing to be real. I wanted to be alive in there, because that would mean I'm onto something special. You're real, I say, sighing. A loud thud comes from inside the locker, and I jerk my head up, cupping my ear with one hand. Ow! I bang on the lid. Screw you!

Yes, things are getting out of hand now, old chap. That inner voice says, you've really lost it. It's only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. Why are you British? I asked that voice. It has been British as long as I can remember. Even though I'm as American as apple pie, cooling on a windowsill with a cartoon hobo

floating on the scent lines nearby. The voice doesn't answer. Screw you, I say to the voice. Then, readying myself, I grabbed the sword from the floor and move over to the foot locker. It's silent again. Kneeling, I reach my free.

hand toward the metal clasp on the left side. I undo it. The tinkling of rusted steel rings out. Pausing, I listen. There's no sound from the box. I reach for the other clasp and undo it. With my hand on the lid, I breathe deeply and say, It's real. It's not alive, the British guy says. Go ahead and open it up. Why does the English channel go ahead? Because it's not alive. It's as dead as the queen. Slowly, I open the lid an inch and tilt my head, trying to see inside. It's too dark. I open it some more, two inches than three.

Something shifts in the box. A flash of pale skin as the thing lurches toward me. I slam the lid down, but the thing is pissed now. It bangs on the lid, jerking it up, and almost out of my hand. Panicking, I dropped the sword and throw myself on top of the locker. The hits coming from inside are powerful. As the thing slams around inside, the locker moves a bit, even with my weight on it. I grip it tightly and shut my eyes, waiting for it to stop.

Eventually, it does. Whether I want to admit it or not, the thing in the box is stressing me out, which makes me shorten the timeline. It's something I know I shouldn't do, but I can't help myself. I can't resist the urge to practice some stress release. leaf. And I know just the person to help me. I met him five days ago as I was coming home one night. This was several days before the thing in the box. While getting off the interstate, the man in the pickup truck nearly sideswipped me as he came barreling through. I jerked my wheel to the right and then laid on the horn for a long time, my anger getting the better of me as I got on his

ass. He rolled down his window as we stopped at a stoplight and extended one thick, hairy arm Then he flipped me the bird. I laid on the horn again and again, teeth clenched and face red with road rage. The man jumped out of his truck. He looked like the kind of guy who would take pleasure in watching small animals suffer, all thick limbs and bluster and unearned confidence. He walked to my car, lifting his baggy Hawaiian shirt to show me the pistol on his hip. I'll fucking kill you, he said, standing outside my window.

his face separated from mine by inches and a pane of glass. I stopped honking and faced forward as the light turned green. Traffic started moving. That's what I thought, Lucy. The guy said. He turned and got back into his truck. No, I'll fucking kill you, I whispered as he took off. I followed him home, staying at a safe distance so he wouldn't see me.

The nighttime darkness helped. I remembered his house and told myself I would need to wait a few days before getting him. Now here I am, outside his house, stressed over the thing in the box. I recall the anger I felt when the man threatened me with his gun. I let it fuel me, like coal in an old steam locomotive engine. His house is dark, but I have to be careful. He has a wife and a kid. Luckily, I've been doing this for a long time.

I've developed methods for dealing with these kinds of things. Getting into the house without waking anyone up will be the hardest part. But they don't have a dog, so it won't be that difficult. I gather my supplies and get to work. A half hour later, I'm wheeling the large man out of the house in a wheelchair. He's unconscious, and so are his wife and kid. They will wake up and not remember a thing. Neither will the man, whose name I've learned, is Jutson Young.

But that's the part that comes after waking him up that's the best. That's the part he will remember until he dies. Remember me, Judson Young? I say, leaning over the man lying spread eagle on the cold, concrete floor. The groginess floats in his eyes for a bit as the waky, waky, waky drugs take effect, bringing him out of his stupor. He moves his arms, yanking on the chains that are. attached to anchors sunk deep into the concrete. Then he looks down the length of his body, pulling at his legs,

seeing that they're similarly bound. What the fuck is this? He says. His voice is much higher than when we first met at that traffic light. Let me out of here, you asshole. The look on his face lifts my spirits, allowing me to forget about my little problem in the foot locker and about the possibility that I'm really going insane.

Not just serial killer insane, but can't function in society insane. And if I can't function, I won't be able to kill people. And I love killing people. Remember what you said to me? I ask him from where I crouched nearby. Behind me sits a wheeled cart with all my tools in it. But from where Judson Young lies, he can't see all my precious tools. I don't know who you are, Judson says.

What do you want? I stand on popping knees. You don't remember me, I say. What a shame. I thought we had a connection. There's a scratch and thump from outside the room. I try to ignore it. Judson Young looks at the worklights stationed nearby, providing plenty of illumination in the smallish back room.

He lifts his head and looks down, seeing the drain in the floor between his legs. What the fuck is this man? He whines. You're really going to do this to me because of some little road rage incident? Ah, so you do remember, I say, thrusting a finger in the air. That's wonderful news. Please, man, I didn't mean it.

I wouldn't have done anything, I swear. I was just having a bad day. I shouldn't have cut you off. I'm sorry, okay? Do you remember what you said to me? I ask him, shoulders jumping and feet sliding as I waltzed my way back to my tool. Please, I said I'm sorry, okay? I won't tell anyone about this, I swear.

Judson, Young, you're not answering my question. I say, grabbing an exacto knife from the cart. Oh, Jesus, Judson says. Oh, fuck, I said I will kill you. You said I'll fucking kill you. The curse word just gives it so much more weight, doesn't it? Please, man, please. I approach with the exacto knife.

with the Xacto knife, which I will use to cut off his clothes, and maybe some of his skin, too. Judson Young gives up pleading with me and starts screaming instead, but no one can hear him. A smile comes across my face as he bellows, but in between his desperate breaths, I hear the scratch and thump from the foot locker in the other room. My smile dies. I pause and look at Judson. Do you hear that? The question catches him off guard. You would, he says, tears streaming down his meaty face. My smile comes to life again. Excellent.

For the finale, I grabbed the sword and hefted in my right hand. It's a fancy-looking weapon, and plenty old, I'm sure. It's three feet long and probably of Spanish make, from back when the Spaniards were perfecting the torture and murder of heretics. Maybe that's why I like the sword so much. I wonder if it has taken any lives. It probably has. I own a storage facility, and I discovered the sword a month ago when I opened an overdue unit.

I always like to see what's in them, taking what I want before we auction the rest of the stuff off. As soon as I saw the weapon, I knew it was meant for me. So I took it. And now, I'm going to use it on Judson Young. Sword in hand, I stand near Judson, whose screams have turned to whimpers. He wears nothing but blood-soaked underwear, and strips of his facial skin sit heavily on my stomach. What will it be? I ask a dazed, Judson Young.

He whimpers, barely croaking out. Please. It's the only thing he said for the last hour. That and... No. Come on, Judson, I say. What will it be? A leg?

An arm? I think of what happened the last time. I cut off an arm with this sword. It's not real, that foreign inner voice says. A shutter racks my body. My face falls. All the fun I've been having with Judson Young suddenly soured. Out in the other room, the scratching and thumping continues.

It is real, I say. I look at the sword, thinking back to when I chopped off that woman's arm. I remember thinking how funny it would be if it was her arm that stayed alive instead of the rest of her body. Could it be? No way, old chap. Not possible.

Shut up! I say again. Judson Young grunts, as if I'm talking to him. I'm not. I know it's real, and I can do it again. I will do it again. Remembering the trouble I had with the arm, I promise myself I won't undo the straps around Judson Young's ankles

until I'm completely sure. Taking the sword with me, I go over and grab my an announcement. with one blood-stained hand. I flip through until I find the page I want, studying the image there until I know where to cut. Slowly, my excitement seeps back in. Let's give it a shot!

I say as I skip back over to Judson Young, we're going to do an experiment. I tell him. A great experiment. Perhaps the greatest of all time. Bleary-eyed, Judson Young looks up at me and spits, But his saliva just traces a shallow arc and hits the concrete nearby. It's okay, I tell him.

Not everyone has a scientific mind. I shift, positioning myself next to him and raising the sword in both hands. I bring it down in a practice swing, the blade barely touching his skin just above his hip bones. Even with a gentle touch, the blade cuts into his flesh. It's sharp, impossibly so. I bring a thought into my head and stick it there at the fore of my brain. Living legs. I raise the sword again.

Here we go, Jutson Young! The man screams as I slam the blade down. Blood splashes up into my face. I lick away what I can as I raise the blade again, still thinking about living legs. And I keep going. Cutting through fat and muscle and intestines and, finally, spine. Despite the sword's sharpness,

I'm huffing by the time Judson Young is in half. Sitting heavily nearby, I watch, trying to ignore the stench coming from ruptured intestines. The legs don't move. Neither does the other half of Judson Young. He's dead. All of them. Yet I can still hear the scratching and thumping from the foot locker

out in the other side of the basement. Crazy old chap! My for some reason British inner voice says, Barmy, a barmy bloke you are. Shut up, I say. The voice doesn't shut up. It keeps making fun of me while I sit and watch the blood flow from the cut-in-half body to the drain, while it disappears to travel the dark underworld of city plumbing. By the time the blood is but a slow trickle, I'm sure the legs aren't coming to life like the arm did. Oh, well, so much for that experiment. I tell Judson Young's dead body, trying to stay positive. Leaving the sword lying on the floor, I get up to start the disposal process. I unfasten the binds around the body's wrists and then the ankles.

Then I drag the upper half of the body over to the other side of the room, where I have an electronic bone saw and a plastic bin to put the parts in. I start with the left arm, the whir of the saw filling my ears as I cut into his shoulder joint. Once I get through that arm, I stand up to shift to the other arm. side so I can work on his right arm. As I step over his abdomen, I glance back over toward the killing floor. A smile freezes on my face as I see that the legs are gone. Holy shit! It worked! I say, turning off the bone saw and leaving it on the floor. But as I move toward the bloody floor around the drain, I remember the arm. Uh-oh, I say looking around. The sword

is still where I left it. I hustle over and pick it up. Then be able to the begin my search. Here, legy-leggie legs, I call. Come on, I won't hurt you. I just want to dance a jig with you. Do you know river dance? It's clear the legs aren't in the back room with me. So I head out through the propped open door, pausing in the darkness as I look toward the blue

foot locker still bathed in illumination from a worklight. I don't see the legs near the foot locker, so I look to my immediate right, along the line of empty shelves attached to the wall by the warehouse's previous owner. I don't see the legs that way either. Too bad they bled out, I say to myself. Otherwise, I would have had a blood trail to follow. A lightning bolt of panic pierces my heart as something occurs to me. What if the legs have run upstairs and out into the street?

That would be the end of me. Surely the police, once they got over the shock of living severed legs, would want to know where they came from. Shitsicle, I say, moving swiftly out into the wide basement room, heading toward the stairwell on the other side of the space. I haven't gone a dozen steps when something trips me. I hit the floor hard, using only my free hand to break my fall so I can hang on to the sword.

But before I can recover, the legs are upon me. One foot stomps on my sword hand. I cry out, feeling a couple of my fingers break. The foot kicks the hand, sending the sword skidding across the concrete. I reach for it with my mangled fingers, but it's the wrong thing to do. The foot stomps on my head, smashing the side of my face into the concrete. Crying out, I flip over just as the foot is going for another stomp. I catch it with my good hand and toss it back, causing the legs to stumble backward, giving me enough time to get to my feet. But as soon as I'm up,

the legs are attacking me again. A swift kick to my genitals has me doubled over, which then allows the legs to kick me in the face. My nose shatters, and I stumble back, tripping over the foot locker and ending up on my back. The severed legs race over. The gleaming meat and chipped bones above the hips come into the illumination from the worklight next to the foot locker. I kicked the locker, and it hits the legs at the knees, sending them toppling through the air to land right in front of me. I reach out and grab the legs, my broken finger screaming as I throw the limbs awkwardly. They're heavy, and they land only a few feet away. Not thinking clearly, I reach for the only thing nearby.

The foot-locker. I thrust the locker above my head and throw it at the rushing legs. The locker and the legs crash to the concrete floor, but the legs simply kick the distorted box off and rush at me again. I'm vaguely aware that the foot-locker's lid has come partially open, but I have bigger things to worry about, things that kick and stomp. Deciding I need a weapon, I peer around for the sword, but I can't see it because of the light shining in my eyes.

The legs rushed toward me, bony knees full of ill intent. So I turned and run, bolting toward the back room where my tools are. The legs follow me, the bare feet slapping the concrete floor as they give chase. I reach my wheeled cart with my tools on it, stopping to grab for a scaling knife I used for removing skin. But just as my left hand grips the handle, the legs crash into me from behind. I smash into the cart, sending it top. toppling over with me on top of it.

Rolling awkwardly on the other side and coming to rest with the legs nearby. I realize I still have this scaling knife in my hand. I thrust it out, stabbing the legs in the left thigh. The legs convulse and then go limp. I killed them, I whisper, letting go of the knife handle. Holy shit, that was close, but I killed them.

The right leg shoots up and kicks me in the face. Shouting in pain, I get to my feet, just as the legs are getting up to one knee. It's only when I stand up that I realize I have an ice pick sticking out of my chest. It doesn't hurt yet, but I can't deal with it now. I need to get away from these evil legs. I run toward the door, thinking I'll just get out of the basement and lock the door so these things can't get out. Then, when I'm all better, I'll come back with a flamethrower or something.

But just as I reach the door, I see the flash of a blade coming through the air right toward my neck. It's the blade of my Spanish sword. Moment later, the room spins several times and I hit the floor hard, jarring my head. Somehow, I come to rest looking directly along the floor at a headless body that looks shockingly familiar. I watch as the headless body takes three solid steps. Then things get shaky, and the body takes one more step before collapsing to the floor next to the worklight. I try to turn my head to look at my body, which I'm sure is still attached to me, despite what I've just seen. but I can't manage much more than a minuscule movement,

and all I see is concrete where my body should be. I hear the slap, slap, slap of bare feet coming up behind me, and then I feel a foot kick the back of my head. I go tumbling across the floor, coming to rest on my left ear, looking back toward the doorway I came through moments earlier. All at once, it comes crashing down on me. I see the severed arm perched on one of the metal shelves next to the door,

sword in hand. The severed legs stop next to the shelves, and the severed arm tosses the sword down. Then it jumps off the shelf and lands on the exposed flesh and hips of the legs. It's actually kind of funny looking. It's a pair of legs with a woman's arm where the body should be. The legs propel them forward and kick me again, sending my head tumbling across the floor. This goes on for a while. The legs kicking me like I'm a soccer ball.

Occasionally, the arm reaches down and grabs me by the hair. then throws me. Despite being only a severed head, I feel pain from each blow and each impact with the concrete. I try to scream out, but I can't. My mouth moves ineffectually as my teeth are knocked out and my nose is destroyed and my skull is fractured. After about an hour of this, they leave, walking up the stairs and out into the world. I hear the metal door at the top of the stairs shut. Lying as I am on my right ear, I realize what this means. Look at what you've done now, the voice in my head says. You buggered it all up.

Shut up! I try to say, but I can't talk because I don't have lungs. That British voice in my head laughs. Just me now, eh? Just me and me. What a pleasant surprise. Someone kill me, I try to say. But again, I can't.

talk. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, the British chap says. All I can do is cry. SCP 4483 is a single-bladed steel sword three feet long and weighing 2.16 pounds. The sword bears gold inlay script along the dull edge of its blade and has been identified as a falchian of Italian design dating from either the late 15th or early 16th century AD. When SCP 4483 is used to sever a piece of a living organism, the piece that is viewed by the wielder as being cut off will show an immediate cessation of all life signs. The other piece, regardless of biological ability to do so, will become independently animate and capable of thought, retaining the consciousness and personality of the organism

that it was severed from. These instances show no reliance on bodily functions governed by organs they do not possess. This is demonstrated by their ability to survive without blood if lacking a heart or circulatory system, or to engage in cognitive tasks despite lacking a brain. Lasagne sur-joled, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to play.

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