The SCP Experience - Heart Attack | SCP-058

Episode Date: April 17, 2023

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-058: Heart Attack This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-058 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

The cold air cuts into my bones as I adjust the newspaper over my ratty clothes. Steam fumes from my mouth as I stir and rattle my cup as a man walks past. He's in a cheap suit and eyes me with contempt, all according to plan. I rattle my can twice more, signaling that everything is in place. We're good to move on the order. Pyle reaches into his coat and then drops a few coins into my can. Then he leaves, heading into the cafe across the street. He returns a few moments later, setting his briefcase across one of the abandoned patio tables.

I eye the steam rising from his coffee with greed that's not entirely part of my disguise. Anders and Watson giggle as they walk past me, hand in hand, whispering like star-crossed lovers who haven't seen each other in years. This is an easy ploy, since Anders and R. Watson are dating each other. I can't say I'm not jealous, because there are a few women in this line of work, and Watson is a bombshell. Anyways, Anders and Watson continue their act down the sidewalk. Now all we have to do is wait for Winston. I watch Pyle for my stoop, remembering the argument between him and Winston. Piles, a cold-blooded professional. There isn't a hint of lingering anger from Winston's dismissals of protest, but I know it's there, bubbling beneath the surface.

That's the thing about the society. Our numbers are nowhere near those of the foundation. We have to do our best to get along in ourselves scattered across the world. Our structure is another thing that's different from the foundation's strict and rigid ranking system. It's right there in our name, the Society for Liberation, Dissemination, and destruction. The organization started in Europe several centuries ago, the origins of its founding, known only to the oldest and most prestigious noble families that make up the society's ruling body. While it's fairly modern now, the descendants of the old guard still have a lot of sway with how things operate. That's not to say it's impossible to rise in the ranks if you come from a common

background. Pyle's family has no ties to the society, but he's was recruited into the cause nearly ten years ago. In that time, he climbed up to second in command of a cell. Then again, Charles Winston is still our leader. And you'd never see him freezing his ass off on the sidewalk while waiting for an infiltration. I swallowed the tension in my throat. Winston in Piles shouts still fresh in my mind. One of Pyle's informants within the foundation had discovered a containment facility. It's one of Pyle's informants within the foundation had discovered a containment facility. It's one of the smaller ones they use for holding SCPs while in transit to a new research site. Pyle reported what he discovered, and hence the argument.

Winston wanted to go in that instant guns blazing, shock, and awe. Pyle preached caution, reminding him that we knew nothing about the SCP or how to transport it after we acquired it. He wanted to call in another cell for backup. Winston wasn't having any of that. The SEP in question was supposedly very dangerous and could be used to our advantage in our invisible war with the foundation. We don't know how long it will be contained until transported. We must move now. There was some logic in Winston's argument. But we all knew the real reason for Winston's eagerness. He's the third son of one of the old families and was assigned his leadership position because of his pedigree.

There's nothing he wants more than to prove himself to his first. father and climb the ranks within the society. All Pyle could do was advise him. The final decision was Winston's. Pyle finishes his coffee, and I stand, stretching my aching back, before feeling the gun holstered behind me. At the same time, Pyle crosses the street, undoing one of the latches on his briefcase. A Mercedes blares down the street and pulls to a stop at the nondescript office front. Winston barrels out of the driver's side door, hands in his pocket. He raises the silenced pistol and shoots through the glass door soon as in the plane. Pyle swears and pulls the sought-off shotgun from his briefcase. Anders reaches under his

hoodie, withdrawing the compact submachine, while Watson and I draw the pistols from behind our backs. In the time it takes the rest of us to clear the door, there's already a dead security guard behind the desk with a hole in his head. Winston drags the remaining guard to the door at the end of the small hall, pressing the silencer to the back of the man's neck. He cringes. The barrel, still hot from Winston's last shot. Open it!

Winston screams. Open it right fucking now! The man nods and presses his thumb to a lock that's too sophisticated for an abandoned building. The door slides open with a light hum that drowns out the dull sound of Winston's next shot. A splash of red showers the door as the man falls to the ground. Winston steps inside while Anders, Watson and I, huddle behind Pyle, bending over the dead security guard. It took three years cultivating this informant. Pyle stands and sighs deeply.

What a fucking waste. But he marches in after Winston all the same, and we fall in step behind him. We enter the room to Winston Barking Orders, brandishing his gun at the people of inside. The room isn't much. It's a small kitchen with a couple of cabinets above a sink and a microwave plugged in nearby. The only thing unusual is the metal door fixed into the wall. There's a small table in the center with a bunch of playing cards scattered atop where everyone sits. There are half a dozen people in white lab coats and guards and heavy body armor. One of the guards reaches for his sidearm while Winston turns his head at a researcher.

Pyle steps forward, his shotgun roaring. The blast lifts the guard off his feet, slamming him into the wall. He lands unconscious. The room goes silent enough to hear the expunged shotgun shell land on the floor. Bile's methods effectively do what Winston's bluster couldn't. Fuming, Winston reaches for the silencer affixed to his gun. They're effective, but only good for about three or four shots before they're. plastic mounts. Winston forgets this and waves his hand away from the still hot barrel.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to finish removing the silencer, while the rest of us line up the remaining hostages against the wall. Winston waves his gun, pointing at each of the hostages, until resting the barrel against an older woman in a lab coat. Her gray hair is cut short, just below her ears. You're in charge? I am. In response, Winston points his gun gun at the researcher next door and pulls the trigger. Everyone jumps, even us. Executing the hostages was never part of the plan, and Pyle can't entirely mask his scowl when Winston waves the gun back at the lead researcher. Open it up, Winston says. Every time you say no, a hostage dies. No. What? If I open the door, everyone here will die anyway. A bullet would be more merciful.

Think so? Winston says, firing two more shots into one of the remaining guard's knees. He collapses, screaming. His ruined knees pouring blood on the floor. Doesn't look very merciful to me. Pyle strides forward and puts a hand on Winston's shoulder. The vault is contained through a thumbprint and a retinal scan lock. We just need to drag her to the door.

Winston glares. Why didn't you tell me that sooner? Why didn't you tell me you plan to murder people? The usual terse mood between the two is thicker than ever. They look like they're about to come to blows. I tense while Watson and Anders do their best to ignore the exchange and focus on the hostages. A moment passes before Pyle grabs the small woman roughly by the shoulder, pulling her toward the mechanized door.

Don't do it! The woman screams as they force her thumb onto the lock, which beeps with a green light. You don't know what you're... Winston slams her head into the wall, cutting off the rest of her warning. Pyle glars again, but straightens the woman and holds her up, forcing her dazed eyes open and hovering them over the second locking mechanism. It chimes, and the lock at the center of the door spins in the opposite direction. The room inside is a little more than a closet made of solid steel.

Inside, there is only a lumpy piece of flesh about the size of my head. I lean in for a closer look, but it takes me a moment to recognize it. It's a heart, but too big for a human. Horse, maybe? Cow? What the fuck? Winston grabs the dazed woman by the shoulders and slams her heart into a nearby wall.

Is this some kind of fucking joke? Oh, yes, my boy. A British voice with a slight lisp comes from inside the containment cell. A regular loft riot. Before Winston can turn, something curls around his throat. It's a mass of thorned tentacles.

They squeeze tight, turning Winston's face purple before a river of blood pours down his throat. When the tentacles finish tightening, his head teeters from his shoulder, then drops onto the floor with a loud, wet plop. Pyle fires his shotgun again at what's inside but stumbles back. There's a clear sticky substance covering him from head to toe. He opens his mouth as his skin melts, and smoke rises from his body. I notice that the heart is moving, four insectile legs carrying it clear. Looking across the tile floor, four tentacles each covered with razor-sharp spines rise from the top.

I aim and open fire, but it leaps several feet in the air, evading all my shots. The tentacles stretch impossibly long, and I dodge them just in time, but the security guard behind me isn't as lucky. Deep wounds scar his face as he falls to the ground screaming. Anders charges, his gun firing rapidly, but the creature jumps from the wall. wall to the ceiling and back again in a blur of motion impossible to follow. It doesn't stop moving until Anders's gun clicks empty. Then it raises its rear toward him, revealing a stinger. A wad of the same fluid that killed Pyle launches at Anders.

He raises his arms and the hoodie burns away, revealing melting flesh as he screams. Its tentacles lash out again, taking out one of Anders's legs. Watson and I work in tandem, firing and reloading until one of the The tentacles whips around her throat. I raised the gun, taking careful aim while it's still. But the tentacles jerk away. Watson's lifeless corpse slams into my head, pinning me to the wall. The heart falls on the remaining foundation survivors as darkness fills my vision.

Splashes of red color my descent into unconsciousness, along with the creature's jubilant laugh. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moined, for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo. Prere to play. Vive the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino in line that proposes the more recent machine-assos and games

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Bikbas Bonanza. DePos minimum of 10 dollars. I come to with a headache and the stench of blood thick in my nostrils. I blink, my eyes opening to flashing red lights. I fumble with the weight atop me, realizing it's Watson, and the memories come flooding back. I scramble to my feet, nearly slipping in blood. As I look around the room, it takes all the strength in me not to vomit. The lights aren't red. The whole room has been coated in blood from floor to ceiling.

bodies have been ripped open, spilling organs all over the floor. The carnage is beyond necessary. This was for pleasure, not escape. I find my gun on the floor, check and reload it, before tucking it into my holster. Slipping and sliding, I make my way over toward Pyle's shotgun. Fortunately, the creature left the gun intact. I picked it up. I stumbled back the way I came to the waiting room with the dead security guards,

and the broken glass door. The creatures laugh blairs in the distance. Outside, there are bodies littering the streets. Cars and buildings have caught on fire. Someone's running down the road, and the heart is bouncing after him. It takes both of a man's legs out from under him and then hops away to chase someone else. Shit! I looked down to the shotgun.

Pyle and Anders were practically surgeons with their firearms. If they couldn't hit the creature, I don't have a chance. It's too damn fast to... Fast! I eye the Mercedes, then retreat into the room and find Watson's headless corpse. I loot his jacket until I find the keys. Then return to the exit, crouching low. I wait until the creature sprays the fluid again at some rose bushes that burst into flames.

Then make a mad dash out to the car while it's distracted. I flinch as the car beeps from the fob. The heart turns towards me, but I'm already behind the wheel. The door slammed shut and locked. no time for a seatbelt. I slam the key into the ignition as the windshield cracks, battered by the tentacles. At least I know where the son of a bitch is. The car roars to life, and I slam on the accelerator.

A gray blur leaps over me, and I slam on the brakes, barely avoiding colliding into a public mailbox. Something thumps against the back window, and the metal hisses. I shift the car back into reverse, slam the accelerator, and this time I go over a bump. The heart lies flattened in front of me, but its legs are still dug into the concrete as it inflates back into its original shape. I put the car in drive and drive over it again, reverse, and over again. So many times I lose count. Each time, the heart gets back up. There's only one possible solution that I can think of.

I run over the creature again, hit the brakes, and put the Mercedes into park. I sit and wait. But the car shakes violently. Jesus Christ, how's the thing still alive? Blue and red lights surround me. Cops jump out of their cars and take firing stances, using the open doors and the windows as makeshift barricades. They don't know what's happening,

and I'm the only one of the scene, the most likely suspect. They shout at me to get out of the car, but I don't dare. A violent rumbling starts at my feet. Just how fucking strong is this thing? But the cops start yelling in the opposite direction, and I see something big and slow making its way up the street. I blink. It's a goddamned tank.

The cops leap aside as the tank plows through a couple of their cars, scattering them like a child's toys. The tank doesn't even slow. My mouth drops as I realize the tank is heading straight for me. I flee from the car and jump away as the tank crushes Winston's Mercedes flat. Somehow, over the crushing steel, I hear the creature's voice. Oh, bloody hell. Not again.

The cops and I are united in shock as we stare at the tank as the top hatch swings open. Instead of a man and an army helmet, it's a guy in his late 30s with long hair, a straggly beard, and a Spider-Man t-shirt. He turns toward us and waves. Howdy? Don't suppose you guys know if there's a white castle around here? The cops all fix their guns on him and barked their orders in a chorus of swears and yells. The guy scratches his beard.

Is that a no? The man wasn't the only one to disembark from the tank. In addition to him was a woman and a tiny mutt of a dog. The police stopped barking orders when all their phones and radios sounded off in unison. A few hushed conversations followed, causing the cops to back off while the foundation rolled in. I sit beside the man from the tank on one of the few remaining benches, not destroyed by the heart.

Apparently, a white kid. Castle is nearby, because he's slowly making his way through a crave case, tossing bits of the small hamburgers to his dog. He reaches into his pocket, fishes out a pack of cigarettes, and then offers me one. I don't smoke, but I have a feeling it's one of the many freedoms that's soon to be denied to me. I take one, and he lights it, and we sit and smoke in silence. A tank? The woman standing before us looks like someone's kind grandmother, but like like Like all kind of grandmothers, she employs a withering glare when disappointed. This is one of those times.

You commandeered a tank? No, technically, many commandeered the tank. The man shrugs his shoulders. Book and I were just along for the ride. Besides, it worked last time. Why mess with success? Uh-huh. The woman's glare transforms into frustration as she rubs her eye.

And none of your decisions were based on getting to ride in a tank. tank? The man exhales the smoke through his nostrils before speaking. I feel like this is one of those times you don't want me to answer honestly. No. The man and I exchange a glance, equally confused. Since he seems to know her, I let him answer. No, what? No, we're not recruiting this person. You've got that look in your eyes again. What look is that, Director Ramirez? The one that pisses me off. The one you all always get when you find a stray. The man smirks.

Kid, why'd you do what you did? I sigh. We were trying to confiscate the SCP and, not that bit. He cuts me off. The part where you hopped behind the wheel and pinned that thing down until the cavalry showed up. Why'd you do that when the smart money was on getting the hell out of Dodge

while the getting was good? What? I stare at the man. The thing was destroying the town. I had to stop it or at least. least. Contain it. His word strike a chord against all the lessons I've been brought up to believe, and my head hangs in shame. Yes. He grinds out the last of his cigarette with his shoe. Kid betrayed everything he's been brought up to believe. Look at him, director. He's too young to

have been recruited based on merit. He was probably born into the society. Not a noble. He wouldn't be a grunt then. But I bet you anything, his folks were servants to one of the founding families. His hunch makes me blink and look at him. He's right. My family isn't noble. But we've been servants of the Winston family of the Society for generations. You know that much about the Society? You're not the first of their operatives we've caught, Ramirez says.

Agent Hale, I can't believe you're suggesting this. Not with your history. Agent Hale? Cody Hale? I involuntarily scoot away from him. This is the foundation's boogeyman. He doesn't look like the type of man capable of wiping out an entire society cell by himself. He looks like the stoner older brother, still living in his parents' basement.

You're the one that destroyed the USS Miller? The question springs from my lips before I can think better of it. Hale hesitates. Pretty sure that's classified. Yes, it is, Ramirez says. Please refrain from giving any classified information to the enemy. Hale sighs. Look, director, no one wants to take the society down more than me,

but this kid did the right thing. He stayed behind when he could have fled and saved a whole mess of people by doing it. How many of our agents would have done that? If we're going to win, we need people like him. All traces of emotion vanish from Ramirez's face as she examines me. A minute of silence passes before she finally speaks.

If he can give us concrete info on the, the society and convince me of his change of loyalty, then possibly. But until then, I want him detained. I stare at both of them. What does that mean? It means welcome to the foundation. He yawns, then lazily produces a pair of handcuffs and claps them around my wrists. Well, you know, eventually. SCP 58 resembles a bovine heart, with four anthropod-like legs, used primarily for movement and four tentacles of adjustable length, covered with razor-sharp spines. It has a single sharp stinger on its rear,

where the hole for the superior Vanekava would be in a typical organ. SCP-58's tentacles can be whipped to a distance of 3.2 meters at speeds in excess of 200 miles per hour. SCP-58 is extremely hostile, and will use every opportunity afforded to it to inflict damage on its surroundings. SCP-58 has been shown to be highly resilient to trauma and should be approached with caution, even when apparently incapacitated.

SCP-58 is highly mobile and capable of rapid movement on both horizontal and vertical surfaces. It has been recorded reaching a speed of approximately 55 miles per hour in short bursts, covering distances up to 656 feet, and has the ability to accelerate from zero to 55 miles per hour in less than that. than two seconds. It has been shown to use its tentacles for increased leverage and stability, as well as utilizing them to pull itself to other surfaces at high speeds. SCP-58 speaks in a human voice, though no method of producing sound has been observed in its physiology. It speaks with a vocal tone and accent of an elderly British male with a slight lisp and deep voice.