The SCP Experience - Fertile Soil | SCP-124

Episode Date: December 1, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-124: Fertile Soil This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-124 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 voice we love that we love. My name is Dr. Hayden Church. I often think about my last

name. Like many other immigrants who came to America centuries ago, my family's surname

was chosen by our profession. My great-great-grandfather had been a preacher. It was a family tradition that carried on even into the present day. I'm one of the few people in my family who doesn't attend worship regularly or choose a ministry of some kind as a profession. My pursuit of a career in science never alienated me from my family. While my great-grandfather was a fire and brimstone preacher,

the fad quickly faded as my family progressed with the time. My father was a doctor, like myself, but with a PhD in ethics and theology. As he always told me, faith is a door. It must be left open for someone to walk through freely. You can't shove people into salvation. When I expressed my doubts about a higher power to him, he didn't react with anger or disappointment. Instead, he smiled and brewed a pot of tea. While we waited for our mugs to cool, my father explained the concept of a leap of faith.

Everything reaches the precipice at some point, Hayden. There are no guarantees that our scripture is correct. No proof that there is a life beyond death or a benevolent creator that's ultimately looking out for us. There is nothing that science or religion can do to prove the existence of God. And so, each person must one day, come to the choice you now must make. Either accept that there is a God, and you'll never know for sure, or accept that there isn't one. The choice is yours, but you don't have to make it today. That's how I will always remember my father, as a patient man who never loved me less, even after I

made my choice. He accepted my decision with open arms and never treated me any less for coming to a different conclusion. I wish he was still alive. While I gave up on religion, the experiments I've spent my life conducting often make me think of ethics. There are two prominent schools of thought within the SCP Foundation, exemplified by our two ruling bodies.

The Overseer Council governs our focus on security and progress. To the overseers, almost no lines are uncrossable. As long as the work goes toward protecting the world from the anomalies, then there is no black and white. Everything exists in shades of gray. The other side of the coin is the Ethics Committee. A group of scientists, researchers, and even a few security veterans who still insist on adding shades of black and white to our operations.

They're the ones who insist that no matter our purview of protecting the human race, there are still some boundaries upon which we must take the moral high ground. Everybody in the foundation has an opinion on which side of the scale they fall upon, even though few rarely address the thought allowed. For many of us, researchers especially, it's simply easier not to think about such things. We focus on the grind, completing the assignments given to us, and never questioning the bottom line. That approach has never sat well with me.

History is filled with evil acts hidden behind the excuse of following orders. Furthermore, science has never progressed from being told what to do. Progress can only be obtained if humanity continues to question the world around them. The dilemma, though, is where one stops and the other begins. When must progress be put on hold for ethics, and one must ethics be set aside for security? Due to the nature of my work, I rarely got the chance to discuss it with my father. I wish I could have. I wish I could have spent more time with him than I did.

As I take a sip of tea from my mug cooling on the counter of my living quarters, I wonder what my father would think about my latest experiment. Would he still love me unconditionally? Or would his son, playing God, finally be too much for his heart to bear? A loud yawn from the side of the room makes me reach for the bag of doggy treats in my desk. Ever since I got them mixed up, I've been sure to keep them away from my cookies. I open the pouch as Sprout rises from his bed, stretching his legs. The sleep instantly vanishes from his body as he leaps at me, tail whipping back and forth in excitement.

My laughter rises as the snack quickly vanishes down Sprout's throat. Not content with the treat, he leaps up onto my table and starts to lick my face. I was never much for pets before. Too much professional responsibility never allowed me much time to pursue it in my personal life. As I pat sprout on the head, I realize this, too, might have been something else that I missed out on in life. And yet, even as I relish in the unconditional love of the Labrador, the dilemma quickly grows in my conscience as I think of his origin. I stared at the premature puppy clinging to life in my hand. It was decided that it would be a suitable candidate for the SCP-124 experiments. The blind babe didn't even take up my entire hand as I walked through the fertile soil.

My booted feet sunk in with each step as if the ground were weighing me and determining if I was fit for consumption. Reminded me of quicksand. I shuddered as I thought about what would happen to me if the ground was did swallow me whole. The hole only took one quick dip of a spade. The tiny creature nudged at my fingers as I placed it into the hole. I swallowed my ethical concerns and ignored how it writhed on its back as I poured dirt on top of it. Even though I knew this could be a scientific breakthrough, my heart broke at the confusion the small dog must be going through. Barely a few minutes old and

already smothered in darkness again. The constant struggle in my mind continued. What right did I have to play with the life of an innocent creature? So far, the plot of soil we discovered was nothing but benign. Every seed planted grew into a plant that was of the heartiest stock imaginable. The juiciest tomatoes, the largest pumpkins, the tallest stalks of corn. It was a potentially game-changing discovery. With SCP-124, we might be able to end world hunger. But the anomalies in our care don't always adhere to the rules of science. Sometimes, studying them elicits more questions than answers. Surveys from the soil revealed it to be no different from any other. But the results spoke for themselves. Finding no solutions fed my curiosity. If we couldn't determine why the soil

could produce plant life in only moments, then what was to say it wouldn't work on animals? Jenkins, my assistant, stood near me. His whole body shook with energy. He seemed immune to the moral conundrums that plagued my mind. I stared at the dirt, sweating, wondering if I had just condemned an innocent creature to an unnecessary death. Jenkins smiled the whole time, then gripped my shoulder as the mound of dirt stirred. My mouth went dry as the head popped up from the earth. The soil was always loose, and the dog emerged from it quickly. He was covered from head to toe in the sod,

so much so it was impossible to tell what color his fur was. As he shook, he revealed shades of brown and black, similar to the earth from which he emerged. He sneezed once with a shake of his head, scratched his ears and then locked eyes with Jenkins and me. Jenkins yelped as the dog bounded toward us. He leapt straight at me and tackled me to the ground. The noise brought in the security guard posted outside.

His gun raised and pointed at us. The dog was oblivious to this as he lapped at my face, his tail wagging so hard that I could feel the wind. Maybe some part of him remembered my scent from when I carried him to the dirt. or perhaps he knew that he had been close to death, and by planting him in the garden, I saved his life. The possibilities vanished from my mind as laughter rose from my throat. I patted the dog and raised a hand for the security guard to stand down.

Though he was fully grown, the newly born dog still held all the excitement of a puppy. It took several minutes to calm him down before I matched Jenkins frown with a smile. I think I'll call him Sprout. I know that I've crossed a line that researchers shouldn't. It was a simple matter to release Sprout into my care to observe him and send reports to Dr. Pinkerton. Like the soil, there's nothing unusual about the Labrador that any testing can reveal. For all intents and purposes, Sprout is nothing more than a simple dog.

A simple dog who has done wonders in putting my mind at ease. I still wrestle with finding the balance between ethics and progress. But Sprout reminds me there is more to life and research than that. Sprout loves me unconditionally, as any dog would. What does it matter how or why he came into this world? It is a better place with Sprout in it, and that's good enough for me. But does that mean that I now lean more toward the Overseer Council's way of thinking? Does the end justify the means?

The vibration in my pocket is a welcome relief from the fresh waves of doubt. Sprout rests his head on my lap, looking at me with his deep green eyes. He always does this when he wants to go out and play fetch. I pat him on the head and scratch behind his ears to reassure him that we'll find time to do just that. But first, work. I frown when I see the name. Jenkins? We've just secured the sample for the next round of testing from a D-class subject.

We're good to proceed to Dr. Pinkerton's next trials. His words shatter my pleasant mood. We already know that the soil can grow animals, and the next steps still sound unnecessary to me. But Dr. Pinkerton had addressed my concerns with his usual scientific logic devoid of human compassion. You know what comes after animal trials in clinical testing. Dr. Church, are you still there?

Yes, I understand. I'll meet you in the garden. Sprout whines as if he's able to read my thoughts. I force a smile on my face and pat him on the head. Usually, I would leave him behind when going to work. He trudges back toward his bed with his head hung low, as if this is already a foregone conclusion. The wiser course of action is to leave him behind, and yet this latest is.

trial. I look at Sprout and savor the balm that his mere presence is to my troubled mind. I'll need that if I'm going to get through this day. I open the door, stand aside, and whistle. Sprout bounds up with a series of surprised barks and leaps happily from his bed as a blurred swirl of spinning paws as he races beyond the door before I can change my mind. Smiling, I pat his head once more and remind myself that the world is better with Sprout. in it. The thought echoes in my mind as we walk toward the garden. A foundation research facility isn't unlike a living organism. The site director acts as the brain. The research staff serves as the neurons, keeping the facility afloat. And the security forces are the immune system,

ready to combat any threats to the body. Like all research facilities, ours contains many different anomalies and artifacts. Some are simply unusual, while others are capable of destroying the entire world. The garden and its soil so far have proven relatively benign, so there is only one security guard stationed outside the door. From the outside eye, it might look like an oversight. One guard for an anomaly may seem too few, even for the one that has presented no security risks. But the foundation is a secret society, and while we enjoy huge swaths of influence, our actual number of members is limited. The need for secrecy is often at odds with the need for security. Like myself, the foundation is no stranger to conflicting emotions. The guard nods as I

approach him. Good morning, Dr. Church. Good morning, Agent Wells. How are the grandchildren? Bessky obnoxious and looking forward to Christmas. Aren't we all? Agent Wells shares a knowing smile with me. He's half my age and hasn't settled down to start a family yet. There are anomalies capable of assuming the form of others and other agencies and societies that want to take down the foundation. The benign and impossible chit-chat is a code making sure that I'm myself

and not, for instance, a rogue, sentient skeleton capable of stealing. skin from other people. Thank God we managed to contain that nightmare. With the first part of the passcode finished, all that is left are the more mundane security procedures. I swipe my badge and place my thumb on the panel outside the door. A green light flashes, accompanied by a chime. Agent Wells does the same. A moment later, the door unseals and opens. As we step inside, Jenkins looks up from a table, beaming as he lifts a small metal tray. His smile falters at the sight of Sprout. Dr. Church, do you think it wise to allow SCP 124S to be present during this stage of experimentation? I don't see the harm. No testing has revealed anything anomalous about Sprout. His rigid shoulders

reveal his apprehension. Jenkins has many commendable qualities for a researcher. He's intelligent and dedicated, and his enthusiasm for science knows no bounds. He displays none of the moral qualms that I often wrestle with. However, Jenkins is also young and ambitious and, like many scientists, lacks the social skills to hide his thoughts. As he studies Sprout, I know he's aware that my attachment to the dog we grew is more than scientific curiosity. He's wondering if reporting this to Pinkerton would be enough to earn him a promotion. Perhaps even my spot. That's an extremely unlikely possibility.

Dr. Pinkerton is very much a scientist after the Overseer Committee's heart. It doesn't matter to him if a scientist is close to his subjects or if they remain clinically detached. As long as results are delivered, we are free to act whichever way we desire. Is that the sample? Huh? My question brings Jenkins back to the present. Ah, yes.

Freshly obtained this morning. The D-Class Volunteer is currently recovering from the procedure. Volunteer. This is an inaccurate euphemism for the most depraved aspect of the foundation. Like most sane individuals, few D-class personnel actually volunteer to give up their freedom to participate in experiments that put their minds and bodies at risk. I think about the young woman who was operated on this morning. Had she agreed to the procedure?

Would it have mattered if she said no? Of course, it wouldn't have. Dr. Pinkerton signed off on the next round of trials himself, and would do anything to obtain the necessary material to proceed. Even though I know what to expect, I still can't help but shudder at the sample in the tray. The shape is indistinct, so much so that it's easy to see how it's behind

one of the fiercest debates embroidering this nation. Does life begin at conception or much later? Looking at a fetus reveals both sides of the argument. You could never call the sample human by looking at it. It's little more than a mass of white and red, like a child's attempts at pottery covered in blood. And yet, the potential for humanity is also there when squinting. The circular shape of the possible head leads to a mass with puny, indistinct limbs,

before trailing off into a tendril that could one day sprout into legs. I know where I fall on the side of this debate, at least. Even with that standard firmly entrenched in my mind, I can't shake the unease that comes from holding the tray. Dr. Church, if you like, I can plant the sample this time. That won't be necessary, Jenkins. Go ahead and prep the recording equipment. With his latest, subtle attempt at undermining me countered,

Jenkins forces his smile wide before walking to the computer bank across from the garden. Sprout winds sadly, and I pause to pat him on the head, enjoying the warmth of his fur before sliding on the leather gloves. So far, there's been no source of contamination from anything grown in the garden, but why start taking unnecessary risks now? My walk through the garden is slower than previously. The feeling that I could sink through the earth with every step is stronger than before. A bark yanks my head over my shoulder.

Sprout is sitting a short distance away from the patch of dirt, reared back on his hind legs. His tail thumps against the concrete floor with every frantic wag, as if assuring me that he will drag me back if my fears prove warranted. My smile comes easily after that. I find the spade sitting at the table and dig a quick hole the same size as the the one from which Sprout was harvested. The world's a better place with him in it. The thought makes the quick work go even faster. The hole is dug and the bloody crop planted and filled in a

matter of seconds. Relief pours through me as my booted feet may contact with the concrete island surrounding the garden. Sprout looks up at me with his big green eyes, and I quickly remove my gloves to tussle his fur again. It's happening even faster this time. Jenkins is correct. had taken less than a minute to dig himself out of the garden. This time, it's only a few seconds before the earth around the hole trembles like a small earthquake. That's to be expected. A human is considerably larger than a Labrador, after all. The growing subject sends ripples through the small patch of dirt, making it look like a dirty but steady tide. Sprout lowers himself to his haunches and surprises me with a menacing growl. Jenkins takes a step back, and I can

hardly blame him. Sprout has never behaved aggressively before. He's been nothing but exuberant and innocent energy ever since he first sprang from the soil. I've only seen his teeth when he's panting after running himself haggard, chasing after stray tennis balls. With his fur raised, I'm now keenly aware of just how sharp his fangs are. Sprout, I open my hands, but he keeps growling, his eyes unwavering from the churned earth. Easy boy. Dr. Church. Get that mud under control before I call. Jesus Christ! Jenkins is a staunch and proud atheist,

the type so confident in their disbelief that they don't even acknowledge the possibility of a god. His exclamation is almost as shocking as the fear in his voice. My mouth drops open, and my knees tremble as the thing digs itself free. Based on Sprout's experiment, we had no reason to believe human trials would offer any deviation. We expected to produce nothing more or less.

more or less than a fully formed adult human. The arms that burst through the soil are massive, as long and wide as my legs but rippling with muscle. The dirt falling off its body reveals bark like a tree instead of flesh. Long, wide thorns thrust out from its wrists and elbows. Jenkins and I stare in horror at the intimidating limbs. Sprout is the only one not consumed by fear. His body shudders with rage as he barks a warning at our new arrival.

The ground erupts, showering us with dirt, as the creature bursts free and reaches its full height. Sharp spikes line its head that nearly graze the ceiling. It looks around the room and exhales with a snort of dirt. It opens its mouth and roars, revealing green barbs dripping with saliva. It leans back on its ankles, the muscles rippling before it leaps into the air, clearing the garden in one bound. The thud of its landing cracks like thunder. Its arms flash once, and Jenkins' head topples back on his neck, spraying blood.

I turn to run, but blood is everywhere. My feet skid, and I collapse on the floor. The creature rounds on me and raises its clawed arms, but before it can bring them down, snake-like vines wrap around its biceps, holding it in place. The vines chirped the beast around and slam it into the bank of computers and monitoring equipment. I pull myself up in the pool of blood and look at Sprout. His fur has changed. shifting into the same bark-like substance that coats the anomaly's skin.

Several vines have breached through his back and hover around him. The ends tipped with barbs. Sprout takes position between me and the damaged equipment. His renewed growl fills the room as the damaged equipment stirs. Dr. Church, is everything? Agent Wells charges in, undoubtedly drawn in by the sounds of chaos. His eyes widened, and I realize how the situation must look through his eyes.

I'm covered in blood with a dangerous creature standing before me. He pulls his weapon, and the gunfire covers my shouted warning. The bullets collide with Sprout, and he yells before toppling on his side. It's all the distraction the creature needs to charge into Wells. The younger man screams as the scythed arms whistle in the air with a flurry of motion before Wells falls to the ground in several bloody loves. The monstrosity we created roars and bounds out into the hall in a search of more prey. Sprout, no!

Shock smothers me. I created a monster, and it's loose in the research facility. But all I can think of is my dog. Blood pours from the bullet wounds, but it's unlike the red coating the room. It's a thick, acidic green, but it feels soothing when my hands touch it, like aloe on a sunburn.

I gasp as the wounds seal closed before my eyes. The bark goes soft in my hand as it retreats into Sprout's flesh, only to be replaced by his familiar fur. The vines slurp back within his body, disappearing beneath his coat. Sprout is back to his old self. He climbs to his feet. His leg's shaky as he licks my face.

Good boy. My steps feel weightless as I reach the phone on the wall. This is Dr. Church in testing site B12. SCP-124 has suffered a containment breach. Unknown aberration is loose on the compound. Two casualties confirmed. recommended thermodynamic weapons for countermeasures. As I hang up the phone, the response is immediate.

Claxins sound around me as the door seals shut, but there's still something I have to do. Plugging my hands into the ruined electronics, I find the remains of a keyboard and start typing as I gaze into the cracked monitor. The tea scalds my tongue as I take a measured sip. Dr. Pinkerton glances over my report, his mug cooling on a nearby saucer.

He adds several sugar cubes and stir slowly before making eye contact with me. So, you have no idea why the experiment generated these results? No, sir. Dr. Pinkerton turns the page and frowns. A pity. If we could isolate a way to control these creatures, they could prove quite effective in combating our enemies. I understand their surveillance equipment was also destroyed, further hindering our ability to replicate the results. Why wasn't the information uploaded to the cloud?

I take another sip to gather my nerves. I'm afraid you would have to ask, Jenkins. He was excitable. Sometimes he overlooked certain procedures in his haste to participate in clinical trials. Pinkerton's thin eyebrow raises. There's no mention of that in his personnel file. You never wrote him up for such obvious infractions. I swallowed the tea before answering.

The taste bitter in my mouth. Jenkins was young, but also a brilliant scientist. I hoped that he would grow out of it in time. That patience would come with age as it does with most. Not this time. Pinkerton leans back in his chair. And there's never been any other effects observed from other specimens produced by SCP-124?

It's the question I've been waiting for. With Jenkins and Wells dead, and the digital recordings purged from the cloud, There isn't any evidence of Sprout's transformation. If there were, he would spend the rest of his life being experimented on or used as a prototype shock trooper in the Foundation's silent wars. Sabotage, tarnishing the memory of the dead and dishonesty. Any one of which should have me questioning the morality of my decision.

And yet, my voice doesn't waver as I answer. No, sir, not at all. SCP-124 is a plot of soil, approximately 9 meters squared in area, and 14 meters cubed in size. It was recovered from a Detroit basement when authorities were notified of two teenagers growing large amounts of marijuana. SCP-124 has the ability to grow any biological organism to its full potential in a relatively short amount of time. The length varies, according to the complexity of the organism. Nothing growing in SCP-124 requires external nutrients or other resources. For example, a tomato plant would not require water or light.

Pesticides, too, aren't needed, as SCP-124 has a repellent effect on any insect or other invertebrates not growing in it. Any food grown in SCP-124 is reported to be a very high quality, taste, and nutrition, no matter what state the food was in before planted in SCP-124. Testing on non-plant-based organisms has been temporarily suspended.