The SCP Experience - Frequency Patient | SCP-041

Episode Date: March 3, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-041: Frequency Patient This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-041 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

I took the man in the orange jumpsuit by the hand and led him to the chair. Though he's a little jittery, he walks with a pace and a familiar routine. That makes sense. The man called Jive has been the ideal receiver for SCP-41. He sits in the chair in front of the hospital bed, turning his eyes toward the TV on the corner wall. Okay, Jive. The subject now only responds to the nickname given to him by his fellow D-Class personnel. You remember what to do?

Bells of tribulations ring as clearly as the trumpets of destitute and flatulence. I frown at the man as he makes himself comfortable in the chair. Turning my head over my shoulder, Jessica shrugs before busying herself with the other patient. I note that the receiver has replied in the affirmative. Jive hasn't spoken a coherent word since some classified SCP fried his mind years ago, so deciphering his comments is usually guesswork. However, his unique brain chemistry makes him the perfect receptacle for SCP 41. Ever the scientist, I wait for him to settle on a channel.

I frown as bizarre clowns start attacking people, turning them into cocoons wrapped in pink cotton candy. Oh! Jessica Beams. Killer clowns from outer space! An underrated classic. Well done, Jive! I sigh at Jessica's enthusiasm.

She's always been a fan of cheesy horror movies. The more obscure, the better. That hobby, plus her Ph.D. in neurology, landed her this assignment. I can only stand horror if it's saturated through a lens of Japanese animation. Receiver responding within optimal parameters. I've lost track of how many times I've said these words. And the transmitter? Initially, referring to two people in such technical terms had felt odd.

Like most moral quandaries, you grew used to that. while working for the foundation. You learn to tuck away that nagging part of your conscience for the sake of progress or security. The transmitter is the man in the bed. His dark hair is shoulder length and his beard shaggy. The patient was regularly groomed in the beginning, but for some reason, we seemed to get the best results with his hair in its current state. However, the nails on his toes and fingers must be manicured regularly. We don't know why, but it produces the best.

best results. After a year on this assignment, it feels odder to think of the transmitter as a man, not when so much of him is kept alive by a litany of machines. Tubes drift in and out of his body, doing everything for him, eating, breathing, and handling his bodily waste. Electrodes clamp to his chest and each of his fingertips record all of his vital signs. My PhD might be in psychology, but I've been working with Jessica long enough to know that the series of beeps and chirps from his various vital signs are within normal limits. Transmitter responding perfectly, she says like I knew she would. Notting, I pressed the button on the walkie-talkie clipped to my chest.

Bring in the subject. The swearing grows louder as the security doors open. Two men in armor drag in another man in an orange jumpsuit. He's thrashing in his cuffs, screaming obscenities as they drag him inside. One guard let's go. just long enough for his partner to bring a taser just below the man's ribs. His body convulses, his swears cut off mid-sentence, before collapsing into a weightless lump onto the floor.

The guards work fast as they pull up a chair and grab the dazed man roughly by the shoulders. They strap thick leather straps across his chest and waist. The clamps on the arms and legs of the chair snap shut as they lock him in place. They test each lock, and as they do, I find myself checking. out the younger guard again. Anderson is a new addition to the site. I don't know if he's also new to the foundation. Research and security don't get much time to fraternize off the clock, but he looks young enough to be fresh out of the military. He's a ginger-headed hot piece of beefcake, his red hair blazing against darkened skin that doesn't burn under intense sunlight.

A light crop of freckles across his tan face only accentuates his emerald green eyes more. His whole face is a wonder to look at, as sculpted as the rest of his body. He's like a superhero plucked right out of a comic book and inserted into real life. As if sensing my thoughts, Anderson looks at us and smirks. As he heads out the door, he stops and winks before taking a position outside. The heat rushes to my face as my heart races, but I see Jessica standing beside me doing the same. We frown mutually at each other, crushing on the same guy and unsure which one of us he was flirting with. Oh, come on, Jessica hisses.

Your gaydar still isn't picking anything up one way or the other. I frown. Being gay doesn't give me gaydar. If it did, I probably wouldn't have been so shocked when my grandma came out on her 83rd birthday. Jessica sighs. Great, guess we'll keep pining away, wondering. I shake my head and reach for my tablet, and Jessica does the same. Faced with the unknowing question of Anderson's sexual orientation,

we're both eager to begin the interrogation. It doesn't take long for Mohawk to come, too, screaming every bigoted remark he can think of at Jessica and me. Some are accurate, others less so, and each erodes any trace of sympathy I might have felt for the man. A lot of D-Class are former death row inmates. And while the foundation does its best to keep the criminal elements separate from each other, somehow, they always find a way to form the same cliques and gangs they knew in prison.

We used to have a mole for Mohawk's makeshift white power movement within D-Class, but he got sucked in through some interdimensional bucket. Those are the risks of working with the foundation. I let him shout himself hoarse for another minute as I browsed my tablet, looking for his real name. Mr. Holtz, several armaments have gone missing from on-site security. How did you accomplish this? And where are you hiding them?

He leers at me. I'm ain't telling you shit, you fuck. In a janitor's closet on the fourth floor. A disembodied voice similar to Holtz speaks from an unseen source. The man's grin drops, and he looks frantically around the room. But there's no one here except the five of us. Good, I made the note on my tablet for security. And how are you managing to hide and obtain those weapons?

Realizing something is amiss, Polz closes his eyes and sucks in on his lips. No doubt trying to block out all sight and sound. Trying to obliterate any trace of thought in his hate-filled mind. Usually, it wouldn't be this hard for the idiot. But do you know how hard it is to not think of a red elephant when someone says the words red elephant? Vaughn!

The same voice speaks again from the ether. He's got that guard, Judson, convinced he's in love. Thinks they're stockpiling the heat so they can bust out of here together. Fucking idiot. Thank you, Mr. Holtz. I smiled at Jessica. We appreciate your cooperation. We'll let the rest of your makeshift organization know how helpful you were.

The bravado dies from Holtz's face as all color retreats, leaving him the same color as fresh paper. Then it erupts in a fiery red as he starts screaming again. My smile grows as I call for security again. Anderson returns, and Holtz is shocked once more. They drag him out, his feet dragging and squeaking against the clean linoleum floors. Jessica and I stare longingly and appreciatively at Anderson's backside until the door closes. Uncovered a threat to people's lives and got rid of a knee-of-and-a-neigh.

on Nazi before lunch. God, I love this job. I tap on my tablet. No other requests from security or other departments. What are you thinking for lunch? I haven't had tie in a while. Jessica reaches out and grabs my hand. Wait, I just had a great idea. Anderson is the one escorting Jive back to his cell, right? I frown at her, unsure of where she's going. Yeah. So, when he comes in here, why don't we ask him what kind of women he's into? or men? I rub my eyes. Let me get this straight.

You want to trick him into revealing his thoughts and find out which one of us he's into? How old are you again? She crosses both her arms. It's either that, but we keep standing here daydreaming or, you know, work up the nerve to ask him ourselves. I bite my bottom lip.

While it's unfair to paint all scientists with the same brush, most of us are more comfortable around numbers and data than people. It's easier for us to solve complex calculus problems than to ask someone out. The part of me that is professional wants to reject Jessica outright. The part of me that hasn't gone on a date in over a year, however. Jessica sees the answer written on my face and beams. Just leave it up to me. Lazzang sur-joled, puissance-molyne,

Pruise Minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to enjoy. Vive the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino on-line, The most recent machine-assau and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours-grat-grat on Big Bas Bonanza, without exigance of mese and with depemments instantane.

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Deppos'clock Bikbas Bonanza. Deppo Minutes'clock. Beye'clock to the side like a couple of fawning school girls. I guess we're not much better than that in comparison. I blame it on how long it's been since I had a date. and Anderson's unquantifiable hotness. Anderson walks in with Jive's cuffs, when Jessica lets loose a cringe-inducing high shrill false laugh.

Oh, girlfriend, that's the worst. She playfully slaps my arm. Guys are just the worst. How about you, Officer Anderson? Do you have any girl problems? Or are we preaching to the choir? My eyes tighten into my deadliest glare, which Jessica promptly ignores.

Girlfriend? Does she base her interactions with gay men on 90s sitcoms? And even worse, this is her master plan? Sometimes I forget I shouldn't measure a person's social adeptness using myself as a standard. Jessica is barely more of a people person than I am. She just cares less about social fobaw. Or maybe she's just less aware of them. I like girls and boys. Anderson freezes as a disembodied voice, much like his, speaks from nowhere. The younger, the better. and I share mutual looks of disappointment. Just our luck. We both have his shot, but we also don't.

He's into guys and girls, but his answer sounds like we're above his ideal age. He probably spends his evening picking up people from clubs in his off hours. Yeah, Jessica sputters, trying to regain a grasp of hope. But don't they say that 30 is the new 20? You're 40. I whisper to her before getting shush. My smile falters as I look at Anderson. His usual tanned skin has faded into a pallor whiteness, just a shade darker than the walls. He stands between Jive and us,

the handcuffs hovering from his hands before he drops them. A look of familiar discomfort spreading across his face. Jive shrugs his shoulders and sits back down, turning the volume up on the TV. And as the artificial screams and lasers rise, I recognize the look on Anderson's face. It's the same as Holtz when he tried to hide. I like chubby little cherubs fresh out of the crib, the voice resumes.

And in shock, my tablet clatters to the floor. The more innocent, the better. I like to consume their innocence. I've never tasted anything so sweet. It's a meal that never ends. Watching their families as their crushed hopes plummet into despair, knowing that they'll never find the bodies. I am a devourer of angels, of light, of...

Shut up, shut up, shut up! Shut up! Anderson screams. Make it shut the fuck up! Make it stop lying! But the SCP doesn't lie. It merely broadcasts the surface thoughts of those trapped in its sphere of influence. I know this, and can only stare in horror at the monster standing before us.

I back up until bumping against the wall, unsure of what to do. Everyone in the room looks clueless, except for Jive, staring at the TV and SCP-41, lying motionless in his bed. None of that is true. This is crazy. That won't work. I try to elaborate on my answer. There's too much documentation on the SCP's capabilities and limits.

The cameras in the room record audio and video, and Anderson's thoughts have already been recorded. It won't take long to review the tapes and see what really happened. But before I can do any of that, Anderson raises his gun. He fires, and Jessica slumps against the wall, screaming as my gun. blood pours from her body. Lights flicker in the room, and I drop to the floor. The gunfire thunders in my ears over and over. Chunks of the wall explode while my screams mingle with a horror movie hanging on the wall. Anderson hasn't seen me yet. Security must have heard the gunshots. All I have to do is sit here and wait. The lights flicker back on, revealing Anderson standing

with his gun pointed at my head. He aims, but then something out of the corner of his eye makes him breeze. Screaming, he backs up and fires the gun into the wall above my head. Hot plaster rains down on my head, but that's not what makes me scream. A girl drags herself out of the wall. She looks like she can't be more than five years old. The pink princess dress she wears is smeared with blood, her skin leathery and drawn taut, eyes vacant from her head. She opens her mouth, and mud rains from her mouth like vomit. Anderson screams again as another child raises itself from the floor. This one is an even younger boy, decked out in miniature superhero gear from head to toe. His hands have been hacked off from his body. The thick and clotted blood pours over Anderson.

He slips in the blood and starts firing at the phantom children as more and more appear. Anderson's gun clicks and empty magazines fall to the floor just as the security guards finally breached the door. I blink and the phantom children are gone. Even the blood and mud have vanished, leaving the floor. or unmarred except for Anderson's damage. He stares around the room, deaf to the shouts and warnings of his fellow security guards. He takes one deep breath, then finishes loading his gun and aims it at them.

The security guards open fire. Anderson dances with sharp and painful movements as the bullets berate his body. It takes several rounds before his body armor is chipped away, but his coworkers' aim is precise and consistent. They've probably had to do something like this before. A long agonizing minute passes before Anderson finally collapses. A scream from Jessica lets me know she's still with us.

I run to her side and pull open her coat, revealing the gash in her shirt inside. I'm not a medical doctor, but it doesn't look too serious. I think she'll be okay if she gets medical attention. Grabbing the walkie-talkie, I put out a call for medical. Then I take off my lab coat and press it against Jessica's wound. The white fabric quickly turns red and darkens as I apply pressure. The medical team responds quickly.

They break into two groups. The smaller one checks Anderson's vitals. After confirming he's dead, two more rush to Jessica's side. They jab a needle into her arm, and her eyes blink rapidly before her body slumps unconscious. They load the wounded and the dead onto collapsible beds. The team handling Jessica sprints out the door, while those with Anderson's body walk at a much more relaxed pace. I go to follow, but my resolve falters.

collapsing against the wall, I close my eyes and start shaking. Well, a new voice I've never heard breaks the silence. That's enough of this doom and gloom shit. Put it on Channel 27, Jive. There's a Seinfeld marathon on. Serenity now, Jive says before the channels flip and settle on the sound of an audience laughing. SCP 41 is a male human suffering from irreversible damage to a central nervous system, which is believed to have been caused by an infection of a rare strain of bacterial meningitis. SCP-41 must rely on a respirator to sustain its breathing, a bivantricular pacemaker to keep his heart beating,

and a nasogastric tube to provide nutrition. It is beneficial to the mental health of SCP-41 to have a sitter in the room who watches television and concentrates on its programming. This allows SCP-41 to effectively watch television through the mind of someone. else. The optimal sitter is a Class D personnel with below-average intelligence whose mind does not wander or have more than one train of thought at a time. Though not mind control, SCP-41 has used its abilities to coerce sitters into watching programming that they don't themselves enjoy. SCP-41's tastes vary between gore-slasher films. Visually, SCP-41

appears to be in a persistent, vegetative state. However, observers in the presence of SCP-41 begin to realize that their thoughts, along with everyone else's in about a 10-meter radius from SCP-41, are broadcast in a semi-audible fashion. Aside from being the source, SCP-41 is also capable of broadcasting his own thoughts to those present. Anyone forming an idea using words will have those thoughts unwillingly transmitted to others in this range as mind-audible speech. Visual thoughts and images are broadcast as well, but are not received as readily. Communication between subjects using visual images, particularly those not rooted in memory but in imagination, is usually difficult. However, the SCP's potential to transmit

images dramatically increases when its life is threatened. SCP-41 is not very talkative. Attempts to persuade SCP-41 to divulge any information about his abilities have been so far fruitless. SCP-41 is typically silent and normally will not respond to any direct attempts at communication. However, SCP-41 appears to have a sense of humor as he interjects occasional comments into the conversations of others.