The SCP Experience - Becoming the Pestilence | SCP-049

Episode Date: February 23, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-049: Becoming the Pestilence Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-049, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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I'm not sure what you want from me. I say to SCP 49 through the wire mesh screen separating us. It's simple, doctor, he says. I need you to understand about the pestilence, I ask. Yes. What else would I be talking about? It's all I've been trying to tell you people since I came to this place. Willingly, I might add. Haven't you done your research on me? Don't they give you logs and videos and your predecessors' research when you come to a new job? Well, yes, I say. But I like to hear things from subjects whenever possible. Of course I've gone over the research. I wouldn't be any good if I hadn't. even though there's no danger of him touching me. I've read the reports of poor Dr. Hamm's death. I still feel uneasy.

SCP-49 is also known as the plague doctor, thanks to his appearance and his obsession with ridding the world of the pestilence. He wears black robes, only wears isn't the right word. As far as we can tell, the robes are a part of him, like his skin, even though they appear to the eye as normal black clothes.

Poth. Certain doctors during the Black Plague wore strange beak-like masks that were often stuffed with sweet-smelling herbs or flowers. Since they believed the plague was spread by smell or fumes, these masks were protective respirators that actually did little to prevent the spread of the plague. SCP-49 appears to have a similar white mask covering his face. But diagnostic measures taken, when the plague doctor first arrived at the SCP Foundation, found the that the mask is indeed part of his skeletal structure, just as the black clothes and gloves are part of his body. I'm trying to understand, doctor, I say, addressing him as doctor, even though I know he's not.

Just as most of the plague doctors of the 17th century had little or no medical experience, this entity across for me is a doctor in name only, a name given to him by himself. I do not believe you are trying, Dr. Jessup. I do not believe you are. Well, explain it to me. How do I come to understand? SCP 49 shakes his head. If I could see his eyes through the mask,

I'm sure they would show exasperation. I wait for him to speak, knowing he will. One thing I've learned about him through my research and my two interviews is that he likes to hear himself talk. While I wait, I glance at his black doctor's bag, sitting in the corner of the room. It's an unexplainable bag, seeming to appear when he needs it if it is left behind.

One of the experiments my predecessor conducted involved removing the bag to its own secure location. It wasn't there for more than an hour before it disappeared, reappearing in SCP 49's room in the same instant. You know, he says, bringing my attention back to him. It's a shame, you doctors, no longer deem me worthy of a face-to-face. conversation. This barrier between us is more than a physical one. It's a barrier to ideas, keeping you from seeing the truth of things. Need I remind you, Doctor, I say, that we enacted these protocols only after you killed Dr. Hamm. It has nothing to do with deeming you worthy. It's for our safety. SCP lunges forward from his seat, slamming up against the metal partition,

causing me to jump in my seat. I told you, he screams. Dr. Hamm was infected. What kind of doctor would I be if I didn't try to cure him? I compose myself, waiting for 049 to calm himself and sit back down. But he doesn't. He stands there, staring at me with eyes that I can't see, breathing steadily. I look up at him, unwilling to let him intimidate me,

but a strange feeling flows over me. I find myself unable to turn away from him. My eyes transfixed on that mask that isn't a mask. It's as if my vision is zooming in on him, as if he's sucking me into his little world, willing me to understand about the pestilence. His face gets closer and closer and closer. Dr. Jessup, are you okay?

The words coming through the room's PA system break my trance. It's my research assistant in the observation room. I look around, realizing with a sick feeling that I am now standing directly in front of the metal mesh barrier, not a foot away from 049. I don't recall standing up or walking toward him. All I remember is feeling a terrible sense of foreboding, as if a dark epiphany was close at hand.

I take a step back, returning my gaze to the plague doctor. A sad laugh slides out of his side. throat as he, too, steps away from the barrier. It's a melancholy time, doctor, he says to me, turning. But you will understand. I know you will. The rest of my day glides by like storm clouds over a flooding city. I have moments where I'm overtaken by the image of 049's face, and it brings back that strange feeling. It's a mixture of dread tinged with excitement, as if I'm going to do

something scary, like go skydiving or confront my estranged father. The face grows closer, just as it did when I was in the room with him. But eventually, I'm snapped out of it by some outside force, the ringing of a phone, the chime of a text message, or the sound of someone coming into or going out of the office across from mine. I get home late because another of these startling visions sucked away 15 minutes of my time while I was sitting in my car. getting ready to come home. I had buckled my seatbelt in and put my hand on the shifter when it happened.

Hey, handsome, Connie says as I walk in the door of our little three-room split level. Late day at the office? No, yes, I say I distracted. Sorry, it's been a long one. I kiss her, just as Catherine, our nine-year-old daughter, runs up and wraps her arms around my waist. Daddy!

She squeals. I've got so much to tell you. I got a gold star in math today. I try my best to engage with her. To be the dad, mine never was. But I just can't muster the energy or focus. I head to bed immediately after finishing dinner, suddenly exhausted and feeling slightly ill.

Normally a light sleeper. I don't even wake up as Connie slides into bed. I only know that she did because I woke up next to her in the early hours of the morning with my cell phone ringing on the bedside table. I reach for it, my hands and thoughts clumsy with sleep. I have a hard time getting a grip on the phone, but eventually get it to my ear,

noticing it once that I have a headache seated in my sinuses. Doctor? The voice says. This is Cabrillo, night security on SCP-49? Yes, I say. I know who you are. What is it? Well, doctor, it appears that SCP-49 is dead. Confusion erupts in my mind.

Memories jarring up against each other like bumper cars at a crowded fare. No! I say, throwing my sheets and getting out of bed. That's not possible! There's a pause on the line before Cabrillo speaks again. Looking in at him right now, his vitals all say he's dead. There's nothing living in that room.

I stumble into the bathroom without turning on the light, leaning with one hand on the countertop. The headache in my sinuses seems to swell with every passing moment. This doesn't make any sense, I say, searching for something resembling clarity in my thoughts. You must be mistaken. I try to articulate why this is, but I can't.

I simply know that SCP-49 is still alive. I know it, but how? Maybe you should come in and see for yourself, Cabrillo says. Why would I need to come in and see when I know I'm still alive? I say in a harsh tone. After all, I've done for you, people, your sheer incompetences. I stopped myself, three of my own words, sticking in my head with all the persistence of a virus, a plague, a pestilence.

Did I say I'm still alive, I think? Did I just say that? A ray of clarity shines through my confusion, promising to shed light on the terrible truth. I dropped the phone, swatting at the wall to turn on the lights. No. I say, looking in the mirror in the new illumination, No, no, no! The face that looks back at me only slightly resembles my own.

My nose has extended out, stretching into a beak, the taut skin turning white and growing hard while I watch. I can no longer see my chin, so large is the beak. I can barely see the color of my green eyes from where they sit, deep in holes made of what can only be bone. bone that is growing, forming as if out of nothing. I reach up in panic, gripping the beak, trying to tear it off. But all I do is pull my head down.

I can feel the beak. It's attached to me, a part of me. I glimpse my hands in the mirror and see that they have a strange black fur on them, modeled in some places, my skin still shining through. The skin of my arms is the same, a black cloth-like growth covering me. spreading all over me. Slapping the shower curtain aside, I turn the water on and get inside the tub. I used the stiff bristled brush we keep in the shower, scrubbing at my arms, my legs, my back and chest. I try to scrub the black cloth off that's enveloping me, but I can't. It's no use.

I slide down into the shower, sobbing, the water washing away my tears as the transformation continues unabated. The world blurs as conscious. Drain's away from me. I come too with someone knocking at the door calling out with concern. It's a familiar voice, a woman's voice. At least it's familiar to some distant part of me, a part that I can feel getting smaller and smaller with each moment. Just a moment, I call out to the woman. I turn off the shower and step out, looking into the mirror. Everything is as it should be. I tell you. I yell myself off and then open the door of the bathroom. Even before I see the woman, I can smell the pestilence coming off of her.

She's infected, the poor thing. She looks up at me and gasps, then begins gibbering about calling the police. She turns to run, but I reach out and grab her shoulder. She wrenches herself away, takes two steps, and then falls to the floor. I am sorry, my dear, I say to her dead body. But we can't let the pestilence spread. Now can we? She doesn't answer.

Then again, I don't expect her to. I lift her up from the floor, positioning her on the bed. I look around for my doctor's bag, finding it conveniently next to my feet. It doesn't take me long to revive the woman. She comes back imperfect, as all my other patients have. She lacks the ability to speak, although she gets up and stands in front of me. A blank look on her slack face. I can do better, I say to the woman.

Connie, I somehow know her name. I'm getting closer, Connie. I know I am. I walk out into the hall, sniffing the air. Another patient, I say to no one, smelling the unmistakable stench of the pestilence. Following the scent to a room down the hall, I open the door quietly.

There is a little girl lying asleep in her bed, her back to me. The room stinks of plague, and I'm eternally grateful for my mask. I stepped to the little girl's bed, reaching down to touch her, to cure her. It's so sad when young people are infected. But what kind of doctor would I be if I didn't try to cure her? SCP-49 is a humanoid entity, roughly 1.9 meters in height, which bears the appearance of a medieval plague doctor. He is capable of speech in a variety of languages, though tends to prefer English or medieval French. While SCP-49 is generally cordial and cooperative with Foundation staff, he can become especially irritated or at times outright aggressive

if it feels that it is in the presence of what it calls the pestilence. Although the exact nature of this pestilence is currently unknown to Foundation researchers, It does seem to be an issue of immense concern to SCP-49. SCP-49 will become hostile with individuals it sees as being affected by the pestilence, often having to be restrained. If left unchecked, SCP-49 will generally attempt to kill any such individual. SCP-49 is capable of causing all biological functions of an organism to cease through direct skin contact. How this occurs is currently on.

and autopsies of SCP 49's victims have invariably been inconclusive. SCP 49 has expressed frustration or remorse after these killings, indicating that they have done little to kill the pestilence, though we'll usually seek to perform a crude surgery on the corpse using the implements contained within a black doctor's bag it carries on its person. While these surgeries are not always successful, they often result in the creation of instances, instances of SCP 49-2.

SCP-49-2 instances are reanimated corpses that have been operated on by SCP-49. These instances do not seem to retain any of their prior memories or mental functions, having only basic motor skills and response mechanisms. While these instances are generally inactive, moving very little, they can become extremely aggressive, if provoked, or if directed to, by SCP 49. SCP 49-2 instances express active biological functions, though these are vastly different from currently understood human physiology.

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