The SCP Experience - Dragon-Snails | SCP-111

Episode Date: November 3, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-111: Dragon-Snails This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-111 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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The back door is out of the question. I've used it too many times. The hinges have rusted with age and make a loud creaking sound whenever they're used. Besides, it's too close to dinner time. Uncle Eric is probably in the kitchen right now. The front door isn't much more appealing for other reasons. Uncle Ned is probably already dozing on the couch. Maybe I'll be able to sneak past him.

But I don't think it's very light. Ever since Mom and Dad, a ragged sob breaks my lips at the memory of them. I can't stay out here in the front yard forever, so I do my best to hide my limp as I walk up the steps. My split lip will be harder to hide, especially with Uncle Eric always insisting we sit at the dinner table together. Maybe I can get out of it by faking a stomach ache. I opened the door, step inside, and immediately pause. Uncle Eric's fresh pasta and homemade sauce Woffed through the breeze of the electric fan

And freeze me in place Uncle Eric's cooking is one of the few highlights of my life It's likely why I've put on weight in my two years of living here Johnny Cringing I try to turn away But Uncle Ned puts a hand on my chin Gently turning my face in his direction But quickly letting go as I flinch

I tripped Uncle Ned starts fuming his body huffing and puffing, like Bruce Banner about to turn into the Hulk. My uncle is short and squat with a large belly, neatly trimmed hair, a bald spot in the back, and tired eyes behind a pair of bifocals. He even wears a tweed jacket and bow tie as if there's standard issue for anyone who goes into his profession as a physics teacher. I'm going to kill that little son of a bitch.

The words make me cringe again, and he instantly tries to soften his words. Despite his appearance, Uncle Ned reminds me of so many of the characters I read about in comic books, mild-mannered and even tempered until someone threatens one of his loved ones. Unfortunately, for him, this far south, those threats come far too often. Uncle Eric sighs heavily as he enters the room. His hands already filled with a familiar first-aid kid. Calm down. Once again, I'm stuck by the polar opposites of my uncles.

While Uncle Ned is a superhero on the inside, Uncle Eric looks like one on the outside. Tall and broad shoulders, a heavily athletic body screaming for a cape and cowl to fight injustice. His more reserved nature isn't any indication of his lack of love for me or Uncle Ned. I think being a black man who has lived his whole life in the South, Uncle Eric believes the best way to protect his family is to keep as calm as possible, even when the world hates you for things beyond your control. I tend to agree with him. Uncle Ned might have the heart of a warrior,

but his body is very much that of a physicist, not that there's any telling him that when he loses his temper. Calm down! Uncle Ned is practically shouting, but an upturned eyebrow from Uncle Eric gets him to lower his voice and take a deep breath. This is such bullshit. It's 1973. Not the fucking dark ages.

Uncle Eric's bushy eyebrows are now lowered into a disapproving scowl. You would probably never know that Uncle Eric is a rampaging nerd from looking at him. The stories he writes for the pulp magazines are full of sex and violence. But as he often reminds me, he writes for the market. Those stories pay the bills and allow him to work on personal projects that won't sell as much, but satisfy him as a writer. He straight-laced and clean cut and used a football scum. scholarship to pave the way for his true passion for writing.

Four-letter words are an indication of a lack of imagination, Uncle Ned says before Uncle Eric can. I know, but God, gosh darn, does that Roscoe Mueller piss me off? I know, Uncle Eric kneels before me, and immediately starts cleaning my cut lip. His pan-sized hand somehow as delicate as a mother's touch, despite his calloused fingers from constantly typing. It's not the dark ages, but the light never makes it this far south. And things will only get darker if you go punching Sheriff Mueller's nephew.

A weight of guilt lands on my shoulders as Uncle Ned fidgets, opening and closing his fists. Uncle Ned loved my father, but they hadn't spoken in years. I didn't realize it at the time, but I soon found out after the car crash. My uncles originally pretended they were just friends living with each other, but I'm a pretty smart kid. It didn't take me long to figure out there was more to them than that, especially with Roscoe Mueller and his cronies on the lookout for anyone different. Uncle Ned grumbles some more and reaches for his pipe.

He quit smoking years ago, but still nibbles on it whenever he's stressed. My uncles are the bravest men I've ever met. Despite everyone in the surrounding area, hating them for it, they don't hide who they are or their love for each other. Uncle Ned is an older brother through and through. I know some part of him blames himself for the rift between him and dad. The same part of him blames himself for the bullying I've endured nearly every day for the last two years. I tripped.

I put more emphasis on my words this time, hoping to calm Uncle Ned down. Uncle Eric finishes with my bandages before he smiles sadly. We don't lie in this house, Johnny. Now to each other. This is all temporary, I promise. We just need to save up a little more money, then we'll move. Uncle Ned grumbles while gnawing on his pipe. It'll certainly be easier to find a job closer to home, that's for sure.

All of which we can worry about another day. Uncle Eric pats me on the shoulder and smiles. I'm baking my patented brownies from scratch. My mouth waters at the very thought. Uncle Eric could have been a chef if he hadn't fallen in love with the written word so long ago. My delight quickly sours as I realize he's using the oven. Uncle Eric, you didn't... Your eggs?

He winks at me. Don't worry. I took care of them for you. Why don't you go to your room and see my second surprise? It doesn't take me long to find the surprise Uncle Eric mentioned. I've never been especially messy. My room is nowhere near the war zones that I've seen in the few other boys' rooms who invited me over to play.

That is, until realizing whom I own. uncles are. My bookshelf is lined with magazines, comic books, novels. Nestled between them are several books on science and math, most of them on loan from Uncle Ned. Sadly, while I'm very intelligent for my age, the smartest in my class, and even smarter, I'm sure, than a couple of my teachers, I'm no encyclopedia Brown. It looks like it'll be some time before I invent or discover something to take care of me and my uncles for the rest of our lives. Maybe it's Maybe that's why I'm so drawn to science fiction and fantasy. My uncles always assure me that someday we'll move out of this small town and find somewhere

more tolerant. I want to believe them, but I think of my father. Of course, I loved him, but I was ignorant of his prejudices. Uncle Ned and my dad were raised in New England, but even with that advantage, dad still never spoke to Uncle Ned after discovering his orientation. I want to believe there's a better world out there, that there's some place. place we can go and not have to worry about threats and intolerance. But that sounds too good to be true.

That's probably why I've spent so much of my allowance on my collection of trinkets purchased from ads and comic books. Some of them are less than advertised, like the sea monkeys nestled on my desk. After being placed in water, they did come to life, and they've been reasonably hearty, but brine shrimp are a far cry from the colorful, undersea sapient life advertised in the pages of Captain Marvel. Others are flat out fraudulent, like my x-ray specs, simple lenses with a bird feather wedged in between them that do nothing but obscure your vision. And yet, I still find myself compelled to keep purchasing them in the slim hope that one day I will truly find something

magical. I whisper upon seeing the small aquarium lined on my desk. It must have been designed for reptiles, as there's a heat lamp plugged into the top. Taking a stuff, I look forward, I look at the six eggs inside. The dragon snail eggs are a variety of colors. Half of them are a brilliant shade of blue, and I'm almost certain they're actually robin eggs. Two others are too small to be chicken eggs. The last egg is the one that fills me with some hope as I reach into the aquarium and pick it up.

It's completely transparent, allowing me to see the shape inside. A coil of green waddled into itself, with just the hint of a shell showing. According to the package, I got one of the rare gunk- Wyvern specimens. Turning it over in my hand, I sigh as I place it back down and try not to get my hopes up. I've been disappointed by the comics too many times to believe that a mystical creature is inside, growing and waiting to be hatched. Johnny, dinner's ready. Reminding myself of the improbability of the situation, I'm nonetheless careful.

when I place the transparent egg back with the others. Dreams are for kids. I'm old enough to know that, but I can't let go of the possibility. Until then, I'm content with savoring the delicious meals that my uncles have prepared for me. At least two people in this crummy town don't hate me. My eyes are open.

I've been a light sleeper ever since the night we woke up with a burning cross on our lawn. The memories of that night make my skin go cold, and my breath come short. The only light in the room is an orange glow, and I hold my breath, waiting for the sounds of an attack. It doesn't come. My breathing stabilizes as I remember the heating lamp. Its comforting allure sent me swiftly to sleep, coupled with a full stomach, courtesy of Uncle Eric.

Slowly, I sit up in bed, looking for what woke me. The silence continues for another minute before being broken by a chorus of cooos and chirping. There's a rhythm to it. almost like a song. It reminds me of the documentary I recently watched with Uncle Ned about whales. Reaching for my bedside table, I stumble a bit before coming across my glasses. They're thick, heavy, and ugly, but also resilient.

They may not be attractive, but at least they're sturdy. Placing them on my face makes the world come into focus, but I still need several seconds for the shadows to reorient themselves into familiar shapes. My bookshelf serves as my compass, and I track from there to the sound and gasp. It's coming from the aquarium. I rush out of bed and trip on the floor, tangled in my sheets. Cursing quietly, I wait for the sound of my uncles, but they're still dozing in their bedroom.

Regaining my composure, I try to get my mind to sharpen into the scientist I want to be someday. I speedwalk to the aquarium and look inside. One of the eggs is hatched. A tiny green figure looks up at me. Part of the shell is crumpled into its mouth. Both the dragon snail and I stare at each other. The longer I look, the more the name appears inaccurate. The only characteristics it shares with snails

are its short serpentine body and the pure white dome shell. Its body is pudgy, and tiny horns surround the eyes. Eyes. Do snails have eyes? Certainly not like these. They're a brilliant red, almost glowing like embers beneath the light of the heat lamp. Its head isn't a lump of slime like you would expect to find on a snail either. It's a rounded snout, and, as it opens its mouth, it reveals minuscule fangs.

The gesture isn't threatening. It reminds me of a curious smile as it cocks its head. It opens its mouth wider, and the soothing coup of chirps and whistles chime once more. My hands shake as I open the latch. The hopeful scientist in me knows I'm being foolish as I place my hand inside. palm open near the strange creature. I don't know if it's hostile or if I'm allergic. It could be even poisonous.

The dragon snail is as bold as me, and it slithers into my hand. Again, I'm reminded of the dissimilarities between it and a snail. There's no trail of mucus coating my palm. Its skin is rough, its stomach covered with scales, and it's warm, practically blazing in my hand, but not uncomfortably. Carefully, I raised the creature from its makeshift habitat and look at it closer in the light. The words come out of my mouth without thinking, Hey there, little guy.

Not precisely words becoming a scientist, and I can't bring myself to remain impartial as a smile spreads across my lips. The dragon snail sings a small chorus again, then stretches its neck to wrap its head around my thumb. It nestles its head up and down, and I can't help but laugh. As my laughter fades, another sound grabs my attention. Small cracks form on the other eggs as they wobble back and forth. My mouth drops open, and I stare in awe as I witness the other dragon snails, break through their eggs, and take their first breaths. Uncle Ned tries not to frown as he glances into the rearview mirror.

I still think you had a better chance of winning with the perpetual motion exhibit we were working on. Uncle Eric laughs and swaps him playfully on the shoulder. That's because you're a physicist, not a future award-winning biologist, right Johnny? I smile at them before glancing at the six dragon snails, munching on a collection of baby carrots, lettuce, and raw potatoes. They've gotten so much bigger in just a month. Now about the size of mice, Larry Curley and Moe tug at the lettuce leaf, bumbling against each other.

Red-scaled with black-pointed horns, they've always been a bit more aggressive than the others. Smog and Draconia are splitting one of the carrots. Their smooth, pale scales rush toward each other, and when they finish, they nuzzle their snouts together. I don't think they're sexually mature yet, but denying the infatuation between the two slimy bellies is impossible. I was hoping to breed them with curly or verdi to see what sort of hybrid they would produce.

But I've decided to let nature take its course. Hopefully, there will be plenty of generations of dragon snails in my future. Verdi remains the biggest of them, nearly twice the size of the others. I'm fond of each of the dragon snails, but Verdi, my chubby little gunk wyvern, is the one nearest and dearest to my heart. As if sensing my thoughts, she swallows the cubed potato, looks up at me and starts singing one of her songs again. Uncle Ned shivers from behind the wheel of our station wagon. That still weirds me out a little.

He's a little defensive that I abandoned our initial idea for the same. the science fair in favor of the dragon snails. It's a sure-fire win with their unique characteristics and natural showmanship. Uncle Ned is still convinced there's some insects from Asia, like the orange beetles resembling ladybugs that swarm our house every spring. I think his insistence has more to do with feeling a little slighted than any real scientific basis. He remained supportive, but Uncle Eric took over the heavy lifting in helping me with the project. He helped me design the poster board display and the obstacle course for the Red Stooges to run. So far, Mo has always finished first.

We even created a makeshift stage for Verdi to perform her unique songs, now that I've trained her to sing on command. As we near the school, my nerves build. I want to reach out and pet each of them, but I don't want them to get too excited before showtime. After Uncle Ned puts the car in park, Uncle Eric and I unbutton our seat belts and get everything. out of the back seat. The familiar leers and whispers follow our family as we walk through the

door to the gymnasium. My stomach tightens with nerves, but I remind myself of the $100 prize. When I win, I'm going to give it to my uncles to help fund our move, no matter how much they'll protest. As we step through the door, my stomach twists and gurgles, forcing me to cradle it with one hand. Uh-oh, it's not just nerves. The gymnasium has a bathroom. but I don't dare use it, not with how crowded it is. I never use a public restroom if I don't have to, using one at school as a death sentence. I'm halfway to the hallway before realizing I'm still holding the case

containing my dragon's nails. Johnny! Uncle Eric calls out. Is everything okay? Oh, I know that look. Uncle Ned raises his glasses to rub his eyes. We shouldn't have had that Cajun chili last night. Go ahead, Johnny. We'll set everything up for you. I don't have time to do anything besides not my thanks,

before bolting up the steps in search of a more private restroom. After a few minutes, the worst has passed. I feel awkward doing my business in front of the dragon snails. Their inquisitive eyes looked up at me the whole time, even after I turned the case away. But they're smarter than snails and simply turned around. Sighing, I flush the toilet and pick up their plastic cage. Something slams into the back of my head, knocking me to the ground.

The case drops, but thankfully, remains unbroken. It rests between three sets of familiar combat boots. See? Told you boys, I smelled a turd. The cackles echo around me, and I rear onto my knees. Roscoe Mueller stands before me, 14 years old and already over six feet tall. His broad shoulders are covered by the leather jacket he always wears. Doyle Murphy stands to his left, all flab and acne scarred. while Greg Fitzroy smirks on his right, combing back his slick black hair.

What are you doing here? I know better than to ask them, but a science fair is the last place I'd expect to find these hoodlums. Roscoe's got the huts for that geeky chick with the big jugs. Doyle's explanation is followed by a vicious jab of Roscoe's elbow. Shut up. Empty your pockets, nerd, and you might walk with a couple of your teeth. Just to shake down that. That's nothing new.

Maybe I can get out of here without them noticing my dragon snails. I reach into my jeans and pull out both of my pockets. All I have is a dollar and a nickel. Roscoe scoffs but swipes the money from my hands all the same. Whoa. My heart drops as Greg picks up the cage and swirls it around. Check out these things. What'd you think, Doyle?

Kind of looks like slither, am I right? Doyle rears up, apparently glad to have any distraction from his wounded pride. He has a pet snake that he always raves about and enjoys using it to taunt the other kids. He leans in close to the case and taps the plastic. The dragon snails look up at him for a moment before going back to gorging on what remains of their vegetables. Maybe a little, but I ain't ever seen no snake with a shell before. Doyle stares at them for a moment and then barks out a quick laugh. Hilarious! Where'd you get these, Griffith?

Worry creeps through my every being as I stand. Nothing good ever comes out of having anything nice around these goons. Plenty of kids have had their books ripped at pieces or their belongings broken for the tragedy of enjoying something around Roscoe and his friends. I ordered them from a comic book. No shit? Greg whistles. All I got was those lame x-ray specs.

Those are a total rip. Rosco snorts. Like you know how to read. Greg rears back and opens his mouth, but pauses as Verdi starts singing. Her chirps and whistles echo loudly in the restroom. It's a different song than before, but the fast tempo and rhythm sound familiar. Holy shit!

Doyle laughs and snaps his fingers in tune with the beat. It's singing hound dog! Doyle's right. I lean in closer, peering through the case at Verdi, as she lets loose with an imitation of the king. They do like Elvis. I played it on the radio for them all the time.

I didn't know she was intelligent enough to replicate it in independently. Astonishing. I'll say. Greg taps me on the shoulder. How much do you want for these things? I'll give you a buck a snail. Oh no, I can never part with any of them. I smile, but consider the possibilities. If people like Greg and Doyle are interested, maybe that indicates that dragon snails have mass appeal. However, I think they're nearing sexual maturation. The package mentioned that they could produce different breeds. Maybe once they lay some eggs, I can. Eggs? Roscoe dashes forward and grabs the carrier from Greg's hands.

You think these things know how to screw? They're really supposed to learn that while living with your butt-fucking uncles. My fists clench at my sides. I wish I was several years older and heavier to deal with Roscoe. I lunge forward and tried to grab my dragon snails, but Rosco thrusts his fist forward. Pain flares through my nose as I fall back, blood pouring onto my shirt. And you?

You wanted to buy them? Just fucking take them, you... The dragon snails drown out the rest of Roscoe's words. They've never made a sound like this before. Instead of the usual hoots and whistles, they hiss like a den of angry snakes. Roscoe frowns and brings the small cage up to his eyes. Each dragon snail has gone rigid like a frightened cat,

extending their long necks forward and opening their mouths. What the hell are they? A burst of flame slams through the cage, engulfing Rosco's face. His greasy hair goes up in flames as he screams and, covers his eyes. The cage cladded to the ground in a pool of melted plastic. Greg and Doyle screams join in the mix as they throw Roscoe on the ground, taking off their jackets to slap out the fire. Fear shoots through my body, making me feel lighter, every sense alert. The melted plastic scolds my skin as I reach in and recover Verdi and the others. Looking down, I see they're all unharmed.

All six of them wrap their heads around my fingers and nestle against me. I swoop them up in my arms and run away from Roscoe screams and the stench of burning skin and hair. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rbc training ground.ca. Uncle Eric holds me close, forcing my head down.

I can't hear my sobs over the shouts from the mob outside. Our hasty exit from the science fair plays through my mom. mind. My uncles knew trouble when they saw it and rushed me out to the station wagon. We peeled out, just as the fire alarms and the school started going off. I explained what happened, and my uncle started filling suitcases for all of us when the first neighbors showed up, shouting and hurling rocks through our windows. A blast from both barrels of Uncle Ned's shotguns scared them off, but more of them had shown up. The appearance of Sheriff Mueller has done nothing to tie the hostility radiating off them.

If anything, he's only made it worse. Come out now, Griffith, or I'll burn you out. You're welcome to try, Sheriff. Uncle Ned shouts through the door as he raises the shotgun to his shoulder. I got both barrels reloaded for the first of you that tries to hurt my nephew. You hear that, boys? Mueller asks. I chance a peek through the window and see him raise his gun before Uncle Eric forces my head down.

Threatening the life of a peace officer? Open fire. I cringe at the sudden torrent of a sudden torrent of. noise until I realize it's not gunfire, but a blaring horn and tires squealing across the black top. Uncle Eric raises his head, and I do the same and peer through the broken window. A black town car has pulled onto our yard, dispersing a large part of the crowd. The sheriff and his deputies turned away from us. Their guns now pointed at the car. The car sags on one side as the driver steps out. He's a large, beefy man with long red hair and a walrus mustache, with streaks of gray

like ash in a fire. A cigar dangles from his lip, and despite his mountainous appearance, he walks with a limp and a cane. The man stepping out of the passenger side is the complete opposite of the man barreling through our neighbors. Barely in his 30s, he's thin and rigid, and dresses very similarly to Uncle Ned. His hands are full with several thick notebooks and other items I recognize from our exhibit. The large man grabs an envelope off the top of the pile and shoves it into the sheriff's chest. Sheriff Mueller, you've been relieved of command in order to stand down. You'll find a letter from the governor confirming my orders.

We're taking over from here. Mueller doesn't even glance at the contents. He raises the brown envelope and rips it in half. I don't know who the hell you think you are, city slicker, but I'm the law around these parts. I think I'm above the law. The large man smiles. But nothing would make me happier than wiping the floor

with an inbred piece of shit like you. The sheriff rears his gun back to pistol whip the stranger, but he's a blur of motion. The tip of his cane jabs the sheriff in his throat. Then he hooks the handle around his ankle and knocks him to the ground. One of the deputy's shouts, but the cane is turned on him. A small plume of green smoke blasts from the tip, and the deputy joins the sheriff on the ground.

With a twist of the cane, he rounds on the last deputy, striking once more with his walking stick. The deputy convulses as electricity courses through him. He stumbles back and looks confused. Drat, the large man looks over his shoulder to his comrade. Foster, tell R&D they need to up the voltage on the stun setting or get better batteries for this damn thing. Noted, overseer.

The man finishes his assault by cracking the cane over the deputy's head. The crowd looks around anxiously as black cars fill the streets. Men in suits of the same color step out, opening their coats, revealing sider. The large man smiles. This is the part where you go home. The crowd disperses, and we all stare at the man of our door. He bounds across the yard in huge limping steps,

making Uncle Ned bring the shotgun to his shoulder. But he hesitates as the armed men unholster their guns. The large man waves them off and hunches down until he's at eye level with me. No, not with me. With the dragon snails in my hand. A astounding! His laughter is as loud as the rest of him as he reaches a sausage finger toward one of the red stooges. I flinch as they bite into his finger, but the man only laughs louder.

He raises his hand, with curly still clinging tightly to his finger. Foster, look, they have teeth. Foster sighs. Very impressive, overseer. Sorry. Uncle Ned says, lowering his shotgun. But who the hell are you? And what exactly do you oversee?

Teddy Resnick and the SCP Foundation respectfully. My uncle's exchanged, confused looks. The what? Secure, contain, protect. Three simple words, one simple mission. We keep a lookout for things. Outside the norm. Like these wonderful little creatures here.

Resnick beams beneath his bushy mustache. I'm not much for science. But Foster here tells me that you did very impressive. of work. I would like to offer you a job. A job? Uncle Ned Scowls. He's 12. He knows more about these dragon snails than anyone else. Resnick gently plucks Curly from his finger and returns her to me. And that extends to you as well, sir. The foundation is always in need of scientists. And as for your partner here, I believe we could give him plenty of inspiration for novels for years to come. Sir.

Foster sighs heavily again. Protocol states that I wrote the protocols Foster. Resnick scratches his hairy chin. Or, well, I was there when they were written, and I read them. Well, skimmed them. That's not important. What do you say, young Mr. I'm sorry, lad.

I don't know your name. This time, it's Uncle Eric frowning. You know all about us, but not our names? Resnick shrugs. I've always been fonder of broad strokes than fine details. It's, I hesitate before offering my name. Although I'm not sure what's happening, I think my whole life is about to change. John, my name is John Griffith, sir.

Well, Mr. Griffith. Resnick stands to his full height, towering over me. I expect great things from you in the future. Welcome to the foundation. SCP 111 is an apparently artificial species, of invertebrate, vaguely resembling snails. Adult specimens of SCP 111 are approximately 20 centimeters in length, 12 centimeters in width, and 15 centimeters in height, although exact size differ slightly between specimens.

SCP 111 specimens differ from ordinary snails in that they have a warm-blooded metabolism, complex eyes, small horns consisting of cartilage-ridged tentacles, apparently increased intelligence, and a complex vertebrate-type jaw structure. As well, specimens lay eggs possessing hardened shells. Most abnormally, SCP-11 specimens possess small hollow sacks below their lower jaws containing methane from digestive byproducts. A series of pyrokinetic ridges along the inside of the trachea

serves as a lighter, igniting stored methane as the specimen exhales, blowing a small jet of flame from its mouth. Said fire breathing generally occurs in events of stress, or anger, although is not apparently used deliberately for destruction, but rather as a warning. This is presumably due to the limited size of methane sacks, which limits SCP-11 specimens in the amount of fire they can exhale at a time, and requiring both time and starch-rich food to refuel. SCP-11's behavior is inconsistent with that of ordinary snail species, including whistling

and hooting vocalizations easily audible to humans. intellects, and parents caring for their young. Hatchlings have been observed imprinting on their parents, other members of their own species, or researchers.