The SCP Experience - Bent Rhapsody | SCP-061

Episode Date: June 5, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-061: Bent Rhapsody This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-061 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

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I wake up to the sound of music as I do every morning. No vocals, just a piano with the occasional accompanying acoustic guitar. The tones are long and drawn out, each blending seamlessly into the next. It's almost like a reverse lullaby. Playing at its own pace, uninterrupted but fast enough to get the heart pumping and the neurons firing. Since I returned from the service, or so they tell me, it's the only thing that calms my mind. The doctors say it's a common side effect of PTSD and, of course, memory loss.

I must have liked the song at some point, because it's the only comfort around the strange surroundings that now encompass my life. Pulling myself out of bed, I replay the information they told me. I was a career soldier, enlisted straight out of high school. school, saw combat in a dozen countries, and wrapped up a stack of metals. They're at the bottom of my closet, along with my old service uniform, relics of a forgotten life. I remember all the essential things for human survival. How to walk, eat, shower, wipe my ass, that sort of thing. But anything before a couple of months ago is a blank slate. They tell me I'm over 40,

but as far as existence goes, I'm only a few months old, courtesy of some shrapnel to the brain. The haze of sleep passes quickly. Another thing they tell me is a byproduct from years of service. Walking through the bathroom, I do my best to avoid the stranger in the mirror. The hot water washes over me, and I spend several long moments lingering in the steam, even after I'm thoroughly clean. I am putting off going out into the strange new world that's commonplace for everyone else. Eventually, the water goes cold, and I force myself past the shower curtain, wiping the steam from the mirror to shave. At least now, I can look at the patchwork of scars that is my face without flinching.

It's easy not to blame people I pass on the street for staring. I only look at myself long enough to shave and brush my teeth. As always, the scars on my face draw my attention to the ones lined throughout the rest of my body. They're varying lengths and sizes, parallel, and intersecting in ways so that none of my flesh is unmarred. Apparently, I also spent time as a POW. Tired of my pity party, I get ready for the next part of my morning ritual. I'm one of the lucky vets, believe it or not. Sure, I lost my memory, and my body looks like it's been run through a giant cheese grater,

but they're both still intact despite the damage. I got a decent retirement pension that the VA didn't fight me on, meaning I don't have to join the workforce. I'm free to re-enter the real world at my leisure, and I'm taking my time. The first thing I bought after getting into my apartment was a bunch of jumpsuits. I slip into one, grab my phone, and put on my phone. my earbuds. The same music that woke me fills my ears, making me feel less trapped when I step into the elevator. Although I'm still getting up early enough to avoid most of my neighbors,

the ear pods are an effective shield against unanticipated small talk. As the doors open into the lobby, I nod to the mailman and put the song on repeat. I'm already at a full run before I hit the park and pick up more speed on the track. My surroundings pass me in a blur of colors. The indistinct shapes and the music help me disassociate from the rest of the world. I wonder if that's what it felt like in the coma. Taking another deep breath, I pushed the thought away until all I'm aware of is the breath in my lungs and the burning in my legs.

After a few minutes, I realize I'm slowing down. It takes another lap before I understand why. The music's gone, cut off by a sudden blast of static. I stop and look down at my phone, using the time to catch my breath. It still shows the song playing without interruption. I use the old wired earbuds for exactly this reason, so I don't have to worry about losing data or Wi-Fi. Maybe it's time to get a new pair.

A sharp ring pierces through the static and overwhelms all my time. noise. It's so loud that I can't hear the grunt of pain forced from my lips, but I feel the concrete tear into my knees as I collapse. I reach for the earbuds, but the noise grows sharper, stabbing into my ears like a knife, forcing my eyes closed as a scream rips from my lips. It continues mercilessly until the world goes black. You got the money. Just please go. And don't hurt anyone else. My eyes open, and I feel the same as when I woke up this morning. Was that all just some strange dream? A man is standing behind a counter staring at me.

He's ponchy, middle-aged, and balding. His hands held up high, and his mouth slacked open in horror that doesn't fully diminish the courage in his eyes. There's a familiar weight in my hand that I recognize as a gun without having to look. The shock almost makes me drop the gun, but its grip is familiar and comforting as I examine myself. In my other hand is a bag stuffed with money. I'm still in the jumpsuit from this morning, the earbuds still in my ears, the song lulling in a dull background. There's a splash of red across my shirt. I recognize the stain as a point-blank splatter, but I don't remember how it got

there. Looking around, I see I'm in a bank and pull the earbuds out. There's a layer of silence routinely intermittent by sounds of broken sobs and murmured prayers. Dozens of people line the floor on their stomachs, hands over their heads. Near the door is the body of a security guard. The front of his shirt is soaked with blood from the bullet wounds. His gun is missing from his holster and in my hand. A twitch in the crowd tracks my eye to the other security guard. His gun is also missing from his belt, but I see him fumbling at his ankle.

My eyes widen as I realize what he's planning. Don't do it! He jerks, but my warning prompts him to action. instead of halting it. He bolts to his feet, a tiny six-shooter in his hand. I stare down through the sights by reflex and squeeze the trigger twice. The gun explodes, erupting the hostages in a fresh torrent of screams as the bullets ripped through the guard's chest, sending him to the floor. Shit! I have no clue what's happening, but my training kicks in. When you're thrust into an encounter with no intel and overwhelmed, retreat and compile the information you do have and make a plan.

That means getting the fuck out of here right fucking now. My sneakers skid across the floor as I run through the door and thrust myself outside. Sirens sound in the distance. Shit! What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can't get away on foot. And I can't exactly explain to the cops that I blacked out and woke up robbing a bank, not with two dead bodies inside.

If they see me with a gun in my hand, I'm as good as dead. Maybe it's best to drop the cash in the gun, then surrender, explain what happened and hope I get a decent attorney who can plead insanity at my inevitable trial. That doesn't sit well with me. I don't know much about myself, but I know I'm a fighter. The idea of just rolling over curls my stomach. A van peels into an empty spot in front of me, and I train the gun on the tinted driver's side window. The door slides open, revealing two masked men waving urgently.

Get in! I don't see any better option, so I leap into the van. As I do, the driver slams on the gas, knocking me into the seat, forcing me to drop the gun and the cash. A blast of wind hits me from the still open door as we speed off, and the two men confiscate the gun and the bag of money before slamming the door closed. Howdy-do? One man asks the other. The other finishes counting the cash. $9,763 exactly.

Excellent work, D-1012. Huh? What did he call me? And why does it sound so familiar? What did you say? The other forces something to my ribs, and hot pain courses through my body, as I convulse before the darkness engulfs me once more.

I wake up the same as last time, groggy and confused in a place I don't recognize. It looks like an interrogation room, bare walls and a metal table at the center of the room. Both of my hands are handcuffed to the center of the table. I look around, but don't see the telltale two-way mirror or camera in the corner. It's not the police. Who has me, then?

Wait, the police? I gather my thoughts and sit as straight as I can. How the hell do I know what a police interrogation room looks like? I was in the military my entire adult life, and my service record is clean of disciplinary charges. Am I just making assumptions based on things I've seen on TV and in movies? A quiet mechanic buzz that I probably wouldn't hear if it wasn't so quiet pulls my attention toward the door. A man in a white lab coat steps inside, humming attuned to himself.

Whoever he is, he's certainly no cop. He's overweight and short, but his bald head and chubby cheeks give him an image of youth well past his years, like an overgrown cupid. In one hand, he's carrying a bulky CD player, which he sways, back and forth like a kid with a picnic basket. He takes the chair across for me and places the CD player between us before interlocking his fingers. He smiles like we're old friends. And how are you today, D-1012? I stare at him. The letters and numbers sound somewhat familiar again. That's not my name. His smile widens as he pushes play on the CD player.

One moment, please. You might find this a little unsettling. The music is the same song I've been listening to since I woke up from the coma. It washes over me, providing comfort. But then the song goes sharp and feels like two daggers shoved in my ears and twisting. I open my mouth to scream, but foam fills my mouth as my body convulses. The song digs into my brain, prying it open and ripping away the lies as my life flashes before my eyes. I was never in the service. No, I was born on the rough side of Baltimore to a father I never knew, and a mother who never gave a shit about me. Knowing I had no love at home,

I took to life on the streets. While happiness always eluded me, I did find a calling the first time I held a gun in my hand. But I knew my time with the gangs was only short-term. No amount of dollar bills I put in their hands turned away the looks of disgust at my sexuality that I refused to keep secret. So, I struck out on my own,

robbing the pushers and the pimps. The public doesn't give a shit. shit about you then, not if you keep your guns off them and on the hoods that deserve it. That would only last so long, though. A job went bad and ended in a bloodbath, with me on the dry side of the equation. Twenty years to life, each chance of parole stripped from me every time I had to defend myself. Prison was filled with people that held grudges, looking to settle the score, and my tally of murders grew higher and higher, until a judge finally decided to slap me with a death penalty.

That's when the foundation found me. There's always room for a death row inmate. I've seen things that would drive most people insane. But I found something I never thought I would find in this world. Love, named Johnson, took him away from me, and then took sadistically in adding to the scars that made up my body. Somehow, though, I survived, bending to their will but never breaking.

And along the way, I managed to find a few friends. A man with a heart of gold who speaks nothing but gibberish. A woman who can peer into your mind as easily as your eyes. And some dumb kid who got his memory wiped. As long as I have them, I can keep going. I'll bend, but I'll never break. I won't let them do that to me. The scream finally rips through my throat as the last of my memories falls into place.

I slink into the chair, panting heavily after the scream finally stops. My throat is dry as a desert, and my hands clenched as I picture them around Pinkerton's chubby neck. D-1012, Pinkerton repeats himself. Can you hear me? I look up and meet him in the eye. That ain't my fucking name, Doc. Hi, yes.

Welcome back, Mr. Bender. His smile is beaming, not like we're friends, but like I'm his pet that finally managed to pull off a challenging trick. I do apologize for all that unpleasantness, but we needed to know that the last. latest SCP is effective, even against those with a strong well. I don't know anyone who fits that description better than you. You should be flattered. Yeah, I turn in spit. I'm fucking blushing over here. Can I go back to my cell? Pinkerton's smile never wavers as he touches his

walkie-talkie. A moment later, two armed goons come in, probably the same ones from the van, but it's hard to tell without their masks. I add them to my to-do list just in case. They don't take the cuffs off until I'm in another room and hand me a new orange jumpsuit with D-1012 over the breast and back. The cell door opens, and my friends jump up from the table littered with playing cards. I'll accept Silent Mary,

who still strung out and slumped over in her corner. Jive is the first to walk near me, his smile peeking through his bushy beard. Decimals and longitudes fail to encapsulate the speculation and exacerbation of thy own hubris. Uh, Guy scratches his head, giving me the same dumb look as always. I'm not all that fluent in jive-ease yet, but I think he's asking where you've been. It's been two months. Callie is the only one who doesn't say a word.

But as she locks eyes with me, her mouth drops open, and she raises her hand to her face. Stay out of my head, Cal. I shoved past Jive and Guy and walk toward my bunk. It ain't safe from there on a good day. And today, definitely ain't one of those. I lay on my side and focus on breathing. Pinkerton, that son of a bitch. We had an agreement.

I would keep people motivated and volunteer for every experiment he could throw at me in exchange for protection from the guards. We shook hands and everything. And the fucker goes and does something Johnson never could do. He broke me. I don't sleep, too afraid of waking up and being somebody else again. As time passes, I feel the weight on the corner of my bed. I'm about to tell Guy to fuck off, but a familiar whiff of smoke cuts me off.

Guy coughs as he struggles with one of my unfiltered cigarettes and offers me the pack. These are from when you left, he says, between coughs. I don't think cigarettes go bad. then again I'm not sure these were ever good people are less likely to bum a smoke off you if it tastes like shit I take one from the pack and strike a match

Guy you remember Johnson the prick you murdered the first day we met he nods yeah kind of hard to forget I feel the tug of a smile for the first time in months Guy's words are harsh but they have no trace of judgment even from their short time together

Guy knows we're better off with Johnson dead. Took me years to get my chance. I fill my lungs with smoke and exhale slowly. I can be very patient if the hates strong enough. Guy hesitates. You okay, Bender? Oh yeah. I flick the cigarette away and spark up another.

Been feeling empty since I off to Johnson. But Pinkerton? He's given a whole new reason to live. C.P. 61 is an acoustic computer program being developed by SCP researchers, with the intent of producing successful countermeasures to similar programs being developed by governments and individuals around the world. SCP Command saw both the potential and harm in the ability to control the brain functions of other human beings.

Lehman understand that music can elicit certain emotions and memories, or various sounds can elicit fear and excitement by simply being heard. around the world have been attempting to expand on that premise for decades. SCP research is the first to elicit responses on higher mental activities. Parts of the brain affected by SCP 61 differ from those stimulated by subliminal messaging. Instead of acting on parts of the brain that are thought to be in control of this subconscious, acoustic frequencies produced by SCP 61 intercept conscious thoughts as they are produced and replace them. Instead of a suggestion, the human hearing center bisects the conscious thinking mind of the frontal lobe

with the motor control cortical homunculus of the brain. A baseline rhythm convinces the rest of the brain that the conscious mind is asleep and effectively stops conscious thought from continuing to the rest of the brain. In return, the frontal lobe experiences a pause that resembles the psychological effects of anesthesia. Acoustic codes developed by SCP-61. are interpreted by motor centers in the brain as conscious instructions, and the subject typically acts accordingly. Most test subjects report being unable to remember the actions they performed while under control,

but a few have experienced the effect of watching helplessly, as their body acted against their will. The intent of such research is to discover ways to counteract the effects of auditory mind control. However, only two methods of countermeasures have proven successful as of yet. One, the subject's hearing is impaired so that the individual can no longer hear the program, either by covering the ear or deafening the subject. Two, the program itself sends a coded instruction to the hearing center of the brain, permanently shutting it down.

Though the ear continues to hear, there has been no progress in finding the proper code to reboot the hearing center of the brain.