The SCP Experience - Five Kills One Shot | SCP-2411

Episode Date: October 5, 2022

SCP Foundation NEUTRALIZED class object, SCP-2411: Five Kills One Shot This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2411, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author'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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10-2s only depose only depose only depose Big Bas-Bas Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. De Pohue of a $1 of a responsibility My forehead slams into the seat in front of me, waking me instantly. Groaning, I leaned back in my chair.

Thankful I'm the only passenger aboard the private plane. I'm also thankful that the rules for smoking don't apply on this flight. Rifling through my pockets, I fish out a pack of smokes and bring a fresh one to my lips. After sparking it up, I realize that the ashtray is full. So I rearrange a few of the butts atop the small mountain of cold ash. My hand drifts to the seat next to me on reflex, but I pat nothing but air. Glancing at the empty seat, I remember that I left Book with my friend and fellow agent, Mini Booth.

Ever since the incident with the USS Miller, I've been iffy about taking my trusty sidekick with me. Book might be the run to the litter, but not in terms of heart. The pint-sized mutt would take a bullet for me without question. And, according to Director Ramirez, I'm now fighting an invisible war that's been raging for almost 100 years. Little is known about the Society for Liberation, Dissemination, and Destruction. A counterfoil to the SCP Foundation,

they're focused not on containing the anomalous discoveries, but on making them public. My life before the Foundation was spent as an investigative reporter, and I can't help feel but somewhat sympathetic to their mission statement. That is, if it wasn't for the last D in their abbreviation. Destruction As in the complete eradication of the organization I found myself allied with. There are some days when I feel sympathetic to that goal as well.

Without a doubt, I've met my fair share of assholes while investigating for the foundation. But I've also made friends, and met people I respect, if not necessarily like. I've also seen things that would devastate the general population if they weren't kept locked up and secured in the foundation's vaults. If you have a choice between two different shadowy organizations, root for the one you already know, and that your friends are a part of,

not the ones that shot you in the leg during your first mutual encounter. Despite that, I can't help but think that ignorance is blind, as the plane descends onto the private airstrip. My peace of mind has been in pieces ever since Director Ramirez gave me the lowdown on the society. I spent the past several months digging up every scrap of information I can find on them, which is not much. So, when the FBI put in a call to the foundation for some fresh eyes on the ground, I jumped at the chance to work on something normal. Well, normal for the foundation anyways.

Despite the routine weirdness of the mission prompt, I'm still not confident enough to bring Book with me. I know he'll be safe with Minnie for the next few days. She's a woman with more firearms than makeup with unshakable loyalty. I just hope she doesn't skimp out on snossages for Book. When I left, she gave me a hard time about him starting to look too much like me. What can I say? I don't believe in skipping snacks for my dog or me. After the plane skids to a halt, I rise from my seat and grab my small overnight bag.

The only member of the plane's crew is stoic and quiet as he opens the door and lets down the small staircase. A woman waits for me at the bottom of the steps. Her posture in crisp business suit scream FBI as much as the skeptical look on her face. I don't fit most people's expectations for an investigator of a mostly secret organization with a seedy reputation. They always expect some scowling men-in-black-type figure, not an out-of-shaped guy who looks like a cross between a hippie and a comic shop manager.

Agent Hale? She asks as I walk down the steps. Call me Cody, I say, offering her a winning and jet-lagged smile. She returns neither the smile nor her first name. I'm Agent Kane. There's more emphasis on her rank than on her name. She's trying to remind me that she's the real agent, the kind that goes through academics, and gets government clearances to get the title.

I do find being called agent a little cartoony, but I also bite back the retort that people who work in real estate and travel are also agents. It's my first time working with the feds in a while, so I keep the observation to myself as I step into a nondescript black car. Agent Kane revs the engine, and then we're off to the crime scene. A few minutes pass in complete silence before Agent Kane parks the car. Outside my door is a small office on a quiet main street, nestled between an accountant and a dentist. Three police cars are parked behind us.

In a town this small, I imagine that's probably half the local department. Stepping out of the car, I observed the sign painted on the glass window. Howard and son's insurance, life, auto, and accident. Well, at least they're probably covered. I'm used to budding into places where I'm not wanted. Working with the foundation hasn't dulled that habit. Since I'm a guest, I bury my hands in my pocket and wait for Kane before following her inside. Several local cops are still lingering around the crime scene, collecting evidence and scowling at us.

Their expressions are a mix of offended by having someone else called into their crime scene, but also aware that they're out of their depth on this one. The air is heavy with the stench of fresh death. Not the pungent reek of days of rotting flesh, but the rich aroma of blood and voided bowels. The bodies are scattered about the office in a variety of poses. One man in his 30s is slumped back in his chair, the bullet hole visible. and his blood making a steady dripping sound. Not far from him is a woman old enough to be my grandma,

face down on the floor, atop scattered files. The back of her head is blown off. Another middle-aged man is strewn over a copier. The last body sits in the lone office amongst the few cubicles, a landline phone still pressed to his ear. Huh, I say, and take a pair of plastic gloves from cane and slide them on. Yeah, this is weird, all right. Kane frowns at me.

Mass murder isn't as uncommon as you would think. Does four qualify as mass murder these days? I ask as I walk my way through the office. Kane knows damned well that they wouldn't have called the foundation in for something as routine as workplace violence. I gesture to the ceiling above the woman and the walls behind the two men. Exit wounds, but I'm not seeing any bullet holes. Where'd they go?

Very astute observations, Agent Hale, Kane says, the first hint of approval finally creeping into her voice, but not the only anomaly piece of evidence that defies logic. Since she's given me gloves and invited me here, I figure that gives me permission to poke around. I walk over to the dead body in the chair and tilt his chin back. The hole through his head is a perfect cylinder, like an invisible bullet that entered his head and exited out the back without leaving any trace. It's the kind of thing you would expect to see in a show like CSI or Law and Order, but the wounds are too clean for someone used to seeing dead bodies up close.

Wound indicates point-blank range. I stand up, look over the other bodies and shake my head. But there aren't any power burns on the forehead. I take it's the same for the rest. Kane nods. That's correct. I glance over the bodies and how they fell. It looks like they all dropped dead at once,

like they were going about their daily routines and were all shot in the head simultaneously. But that doesn't make sense. You hear one of your coworkers getting shot. Your instinct is to run for the door. The shots to the head are all too precise too. Murder isn't a game of freeze tag. You don't sit and wait for someone after the first shot.

Exactly, Kane stands beside me. It's all too clean, too precise. Also, this is a small town. No reports have shots fired from any of the neighboring businesses. I fight the urge to rub my face. A tick I often employ when thinking my way through a puzzle. Bloody gloves are a great way to stop problematic behavior. Instead, I stand up straight and take a deep breath.

Yeah, this is definitely a weird one. Which is why you and your foundation were called. There's still a trace of aggravation in Kane's voice. Do you have a working theory? I think for a moment. Then shrug my shoulders. Magic bullets? Kane's frown is deep enough to sink right off her face.

Was that a joke? Wouldn't be the weirdest things I've seen. Saying that Kane isn't too impressed with my first thought, I shrug again. Let me poke around. Maybe I'll figure something out. Trust me, Agent Hale. We've had the finest forensic experts combed through this scene before you arrived,

and they weren't able to so much as guess as to how this happened. I'm sure that's true. I do my best not to strut as I head back toward the lone office. But you'd be surprised. Shit like this. It's usually unexplained things falling into the hands of explainable people. situations like this aren't so much about how something happened, but why? I'm careful not to disturb any of the bodies or evidence on my way to the office.

I slide the dead body in the chair back from his desk. His fatal wound is a matching set for all the other bodies. Hovering over the computer, I see that the monitor is locked with the password. Our technicians are on the way, Kane says. They'll be able to crack the computer open in an hour, maybe less. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a flash drive and plug it into one of the computer's empty ports. A running circle pops up on the screen, and the computer unlocks to the main menu. I bend over the keyboard awkwardly, figuring my presence is already too obtrusive to ask for a chair.

Kane frowns at me, and I shake my head. Don't ask me how it works. It's not my department. But it can cycle through and hack most civilian encryptions in under a minute. Kane looks at me like something foul has crawled under her nose. And if it was plugged into a federally protected encrypted network? I don't know, I answered honestly. Never had a reason to try. I leave my answer at that.

There's no point in going into the foundation's rules or methods. Not to someone in an organization that wades through red tape like a swamp. I once had a confidential informant who told me that no one so much as farts in the FBI without at least seven documents signed. The truth is, I bet the foundation already has access to the FBI servers. Leaving that unsaid, I began to click through all the different files that had been opened before the manager's death. The insurance agency was a small outfit, true to the sign out front. A father and son had run the business, along with a couple of other family members. However, when I clicked on the most recent file, I saw a few documents referencing a sole, unrelated

employee named Clinton Yates. Clinton had been causing some disruption in the day-to-day operations lately, and he hadn't shown up for work today. At least, that's what it seemed like based on the latest memo. It ended mid-sentence, right when Howard Sr. had been murdered. I think I've got something here, I say, and open the employee company. contact information. Someone didn't show up for work today. Clinton Yates. Kane peers over my shoulder. You think he's our shooter? No clue. I grab a cigarette from my pocket and chew on the stub,

but don't light it. But I figure it's worth looking into. Kane and I go back to her car. She plugs Yates' address into a GPS while I reclaim the passenger seat. Half awake from the jet lag, I try to piece together what we've learned. Something isn't adding up, but what? We pull into Yates's apartment complex, and I'm still puzzled. We walk up to the second floor and try the door. It's unlocked. We step inside, and I realize why I've had a bad feeling ever since digging up the intel on Yates. This is a really small town. Are you telling me the local PD couldn't put together that Yates was missing and come over here in the meanwhile? The only answer. answer is the sound of the door locking and a hammer cocking back on a gun. Glancing over my

shoulder, I see Kane, her sidearm unholstered and pointed right at me. Sit down, Agent Hale. We need to have a conversation. Film and pop culture gives you some great rules of thumb in life. Don't spit in the wind. When someone asks if you're a God, say yes. But this is a rule that I've picked up from personal experience. When someone with a gun tells you to do something, do it. At the very least, it delays you from getting shot. Keeping my hands up, I walked to the side, not so fast that Kane can't keep an eye on me. Yates' apartment isn't that different from the one I lived in right after college.

A makeshift kitchen and dining area connected to a small living room. There are a few doors off the side that I'm assuming are a bathroom, closet, and bedroom. but not necessarily in that order. I sit on the opposite side of the table in the kitchenette. It's a cheap foldout number that some friends would probably use to play poker. It's cheap but functional. Kane sits in the chair opposite me, keeping her gun level with me. My organization has taken an interest in you, Agent Hale.

Hell, sign me up. I force a smile in my face. I always was a fan of the X-Files. Don't be coy, Kane says. You know I'm not talking about the Bureau. I sigh and rub my face before glancing back up at Kane. You're with a society. She nods.

Certain elements within our ranks think you would be an ideal candidate. Your work before being recruited into the foundation has all the hallmarks of someone on the quest for the truth, no matter the circumstances. And you have a history of, clashing with more inhumane methods that govern the SCP Foundation. How the fuck did she know that? I've never entirely agreed with some of the Foundation's methods.

Yet, at the same time, I've also been given a glimpse of some of the things they safeguard against. I disagree with the Foundation's methods, but the Society's mission statement is rotten to the core. Keeping a poker face, I nod toward Kane. What do you have in mind? Cain sighs. Agent Hale. The society does not imprison people that exhibit anomalous behavior. Rather, we employ them.

Case in point. I know whenever someone is lying to me, it has allowed me to climb the ranks within the FBI very quickly. I know that you have no inclination to cooperate. She shakes her head. I anticipated this, which is why we agreed on a backup plan. A retired teacher married to a fact.

factory worker. Their eldest son also works in that factory. His wife works part-time at a retail chain. This couple has given them three grandchildren, ages 14, 9, and 5. Their youngest daughter is a 21-year-old girl just starting her junior year of college. Conspicuously absent in their lives, though, is their middle child. A disgraced journalist who went missing last year under mysterious circumstances. I try to keep my poker face even, but I can feel my lips tremble. Both my hands clasp tightly to the table. As much as I try to keep the changes in my body slight, Agent Kane smiles at me, the first genuine smile since I met her.

I've never hated anyone more in my life. You haven't spoken to your family in several years, even before your abduction and recruitment into the foundation. Most would assume that's because of you're falling out with your older brother. But I don't think that's the case. I think you keep your distance, so they don't come into danger. By keeping your distance, you think it makes them less likely to be threatened. I bow my head and look down at the table.

The surface is scarred from heavy use with the remnants of several coffee rings. Is that what you're doing? Yes. Kane's voice is even and without hesitation. If you don't help us take down the foundation, we will go after your family. I take a deep breath, and it comes out shaky as I exhale. And you're a human lie detector, right? It's a crude simplification of my abilities, but yes.

I nod my head and look up into Kane's eyes. I need her to know that my answer is completely. sincere, that I mean every single word. I'm going to kill you. Her eyes snap open, either from surprise or fear. I'll take either one. Flipping up my end of the table, I ran my shoulder into it, barreling cane straight into the wall opposite us.

Her breath goes out in a huff, but she lifts her gun and keeps it steady in the air. The table making it too awkward for me to grab. Seeing a flash of silver on the counter, I hope for a knife and graham. Instead, I end up jamming a fork into her shoulder. Cain screams and regains her footing, shoving the table away from me. I skid back, then twist on my heels, a skill I've developed from a lifetime of running away from fistfights. Darting to the side, gunfire fills my ears as a piece of the wall explodes next to me. The apartment is small, though, and something hot and angry slams into my shoulder.

The momentum carries me forward and knocks me off my feet, crashing through one of the closed doors. closed doors. I topple through the room and on top of a dead body. Clinton Yates, I assume. His body sits in a chair, a matching hole in his forehead but lined with gunpowder around the rims. I swallowed the disgust at the gore smeared on my clothes and start to pry loose the snub-nosed revolver from his hand. Kane walks through the door. My prone position takes her by surprise, giving me just enough time to fire off a shot into her ankle. She goes down with a shouted curse and a spray of blood before squeezing off shots at random into the room. I cozy up behind Yates' corpse and let his body take several slugs until her gun clicks empty.

As Kane reloads, I take my time steadying my aim. I think of the threat against my family, letting my rage for Kane and her cronies within this society flow into my hands as I squeeze the trigger. My next shot enters her chest near her heart. Her gun falls from her hand, and I scream as I find. fire off the last three shots, all center mass. Exhaling, I drop the gun and pull myself to my feet. Blood pours down my shoulder in hot waves.

The entire left side of my body feels like a dead hot weight. Luckily, it only takes one hand to reach for my phone. I start dialing from Ramirez before I'm out the door and discover another dead body just outside the hall. A muscle-bound guy in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, with tattoos that look ex-military. I kick his body over and discover a gun in his hand and four holes in the chest, identical to Cains. Agent Hale?

Director Ramirez asks, just as the sirens start to blare. Got a situation that's going to need cleaning up. I don't offer her any more details. The first couple of squad cars have pulled around the corner. I dropped the phone over the railing so the local PD doesn't mistake it for a firearm. With a dead fed and a bullet in my shoulder, I've got enough problems without accident. adding to the mix. I passed out from blood loss when the police slammed me against the hood of their car. Fortunately, they figured I couldn't answer any questions if I died. While the doctors pulled

the bullet out of my shoulder and patched me up, Ramirez swooped in with all the proper credentials. Once again, my name is free and clear, or as clear as it can be when working with the foundation. We found seven other dead bodies in town, Ramirez says. The revolver is zip-locked in an evidence bag in her lap. None with Agent Kale's ankle wound, but all with the same chest wounds. She frowns as I use my good arm to dig a cigarette from my pocket and bring it to my lips. This is a no smoking area. Add it to the list of things I don't give a fuck about, I snap at Ramirez. Her whole body goes rigid. That used to being spoken to like that by people under her command. But I'm so pissed. I go ahead and stomp on the already thin ice.

Add that look on your face while you're at it. She waits until the cigarette is lit and takes a deep breath before speaking again. We have your family under protective custody now. It's my top priority. That gets me to calm down enough to exhale the cloud of smoke filling my lungs. I haven't seen my family in years, which some of them probably appreciate. To keep them safe and to keep from answering questions I didn't want asked, It seemed like the safest option.

Until now. The threats may have already been dealt with if your theory is correct. Ramirez picks up the gun. Potentially, everyone who knew of your family's whereabouts was killed along with Agent Kane. Maybe isn't good enough, Director, I shake my head. So far, all we know is the gun's abilities extend to town. I doubt the society set up headquarters in small town USA, and the decision to try to recruit or blackmail me probably came from a lot higher up than Cain.

My hand shakes with rage as I inhale again. But more importantly, they shouldn't have known who I am from the get-go. Do you want to say it or should I? Ramirez's shoulders slump in her seat, but I'll give her credit. She keeps her head high enough to look me in the eye. The society has a mole in the foundation. Yeah, I slump back in my bed. and stub out the cigarette on the end table.

My advice, start checking our casualty reports. See if anyone in our rank spontaneously spouted bullet holes in the past couple of hours. She nods. And if they haven't, they threatened my family. I answered with all the honesty that I did with Kane. If they're not dead yet, they're on borrowed time. SCP 2411 resembles a typical snub-nosed revolver. It can be loaded, unloaded.

fired, disassembled, and reassembled as normal. It appears to have the anomalous property of causing the instantaneous death of multiple subjects. SCP 2411 was recovered following a homicide investigation, where four employees of a small insurance company were found dead of gunshot wounds to the forehead. The fifth and final employee was found dead at their home in what appeared to be a suicide. Police found writings at this employee's home, indicating homicidal intent to, his coworkers, making him the initial suspect in their investigation. But they were unable to place the fifth employee at the scene of the crime.

They also were unable to find witnesses who had seen or heard the shooting in a busy part of town in broad daylight, or explained the perfectly identical fatal injuries with no physical traces, such as casings or bullets. Local investigators appealed for help from federal authorities, which led to foundation involvement and the recovery of SCP 2411 from the home of the fifth employee. Due to concerns that it could come into the possession of any entity capable of reactivating its anomalous properties, SCP 2411 was disassembled, and its material components were individually destroyed.

SCP 2411 is now considered neutralized.