The SCP Experience - Heart of Stone | SCP-011

Episode Date: January 5, 2022

SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-011: Heart of Stone Author: Lucas Click This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-011 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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pay some responsible. The conditions I don't know if shuffling new agents around to different facilities is standard for the foundation, or if it's just me. I guess after a couple of successful jobs together, they decided that three of us would make an effective team. By the three of us, I mean myself, mini booth, and my trusted dog book. Director Griffith is a man whose motives aren't easily apparent, but it appears he doesn't want to break up our little band. We haven't had any fieldwork since our last job. Instead, the foundation has been taking us on a tour of the different anomalies they have contained.

We've seen a few things that left me scratching my head, and a couple more that gave me nightmares. I guess it's Director Griffith's idea of a show of good faith. We're no longer considered potential security risks, and finally get to peek at some of the classified goodies that the foundation keeps under lock and key. The facilities all look the same inside, stark and bare, but active with the hustle and bustle of hundreds of people. I haven't seen them from the outside, but I imagine they all look pretty similar. Nondescript buildings that could be private or government, the ones you pass every day on the street, but never have a reason to venture into.

One thing that is constant in every facility so far is the cafeteria. I guess when you have a bunch of people working on classified things, they prefer to have their people eat in-house. That, or maybe most of the foundation researchers, still fall in the same gray category as many and myself. Granted a small amount of trust, but not enough to let us wander the outside world unmonitored. There are two great things about the cafeterias. First, a selection of grub from all around the world. from fried chicken to Vietnamese fah. Second, and most importantly, all the food is free.

I finish loading my tray with hamburgers, hot dogs, cookies, pizza, and a few more random items until every square inch of my tray is occupied. Balancing it all carefully with my fresh mug of hot coffee, I walk across the chow line to the dining area and slide in across from Minnie. She frowns at the mountain of junk food standing between us. Her tray is minimalist compared to mine. Grilled chicken, atop a salad, and a glass of water. Book pants happily under the table beneath us.

Minnie's hands are quick and subtle, so I pretend not to notice when she sneaks a piece of chicken to book. I see, she says. You don't want the foundation to kill you, so you've decided to give yourself a heart attack instead. Very noble, Agent Hale. She mimics Director Griffith's gnarled voice, and I hide my smile by blowing on my steaming cup of coffee.

Minnie's come around some in the couple of months since our forced recruitment into the foundation. Maybe because, like me, she likes the opportunity of discovering things that people would never believe. However, I think it's much more likely that she's finally gotten the clearance to carry a sidearm. Some people feel naked without a smartphone.

For Minnie, it's anything smaller than a nine-caliber pistol. I open my mouth to say something witty when something slams against the cafeteria walls hard enough for the whole room to shake. The sound is deafening, and several people waiting in line are knocked off their feet. Another sound like a wrecking ball erupts from the wall, forming cracks and knocking my coffee over.

Minnie reaches for the gun at her side when the wall suddenly explodes outward. I leap over the table and knock Minnie to the ground as chunks of concrete come flying through the room. A red tint washes over the room as an alarm goes off. Dust billows in from the freshly created hole, forcing me to cough and wipe my eyes. I try to stand, but Minnie yanks me down and raises her gun. Stay down.

Book, scampers to my side and cocks his head, as if he understands Minnie but knows exactly what I'm going to do. I smile as Minnie turns her back toward us. I might not have a gun or combat training, but I used to be a journalist. When someone gives me an order, I have a habit of doing the opposite. As the dust settles, I expect to see an army of heavy combatants. I don't know what kind of enemies the foundation has, but apparently it has some. Or at least one. A lone shadow emerges from the debris of the wall.

It stands twice as tall as me and carries a long weapon. The air clears enough to make out a figure straight from a U.S. history book. A Union soldier in full reggae. from the cavalry hat to sturdy boots, holding an old musket attached with a bayonet. Slowly, I realize what I mistook for dust is stone. It's a statue. Huh? I've seen some weird shit in the short time I've been with a foundation.

Did someone catapult a Civil War statue at us? The stone grinds as it turns towards us and takes a step forward. Minnie is the first to recover, and she raises her gun in fires. The bullets bounce off the soldier, not even leaving cracks along its surface. The soldier's stone rifle raises in a slow but powerful arc. I yank Minnie back, but the butt of the musket clips or pistol, and it flies across the cafeteria.

The doors slam open, and several of the foundation's armed guard storm in. Automatic weapons aimed high. They freeze only for a moment as they take in the intruder and open fire. This time it's Minnie who's knocking me down. But the security forces are professionals. Their gunfire is directed only at the statue. But unfortunately, their tactics are as ineffective as minis.

The statue lowers its head and raises its weapon. It lets out a battle cry in charges of the shooters. The ground rumbles with each step, and his lowered shoulder slams into the center of the lead guard. The collision knocks him back into the wall with a loud thud. It swings its stone musket again, and the gunfire ceases as each guard. falls to the ground with a heavy mum.

Where is he? Its voice is louder than the gunfire and echoes throughout the cafeteria. Holy shit, I spring to my feet. It talks. My brilliant observation turns the statue in my direction. Its change in expression is slow and accompanied by the grind of shifting stone. It looks at me and frowns. And I scratch my head as I get its unspoken point.

I guess if it's a statue that can move and fight, being able to talk as the least impressive thing about it. Security team report. Director Griffith's voice echoes out of the walkie-talkies of the downed guards, causing a weird stereo of static. Do you have eyes on the hostel? I glance at the walkie-talkie and back to the statue. If you can talk, you can negotiate, right?

That usually gets better results than knocking down a few walls. The statue frowns down at me. Clearly, you have not been with this organization for very long. I rubbed the back of my neck. The guy had a point. Still, I shrug my shoulders and point toward the walkie-talkie. The soldier repositions his weapon, so the butt of the rifle rests at his feet and not pointed at me. Good. I don't know if the marble musket can shoot or not, and I don't want to find out. I bend over and pick up one of the walkie-talkies.

Director Griffith, this is Agent Hale. Security team is down, and I wouldn't recommend sending others just yet. I've opened negotiations. Of course you have. Griffith's words are followed by a familiar, annoyed sigh. Can you describe the hostel? I look up, asking for permission, and the statue nods. Oh, you know, your standard Civil War monument, except that it can walk and talk. SEP 11, another annoyed sigh. My name is gray, the statue says. Boss, the big guy can hear you, and he says his name is.

is, I know what he likes to be called, Agent Hale. I take it. This is about Dr. Mayweather. I glance up at the statue, and it nods again. Affirmative. Dr. Mayweather is indisposed at the moment. Gray's fingers tighten along the base of the rifle. He slings it up in his hands, ready to charge again. Guess he's familiar enough with the foundation to know that a pause followed by vagueness is never a good sign for one of our agents. I hold up a hand. and before I realize it, I step in front of him. Confusion wrestles with anger across his chiseled face. Boss, with all due respect, I don't think now's the time to be coy.

We've got one seriously pissed off chunk of rock who shrugs off bullets like their cotton balls. We have more powerful armaments here than mere firearms, Agent Hale. Though it's addressed to me, I'm assuming it's more for gray's ears than my own. Director Griffith and I might have a little mutual respect, but trust is another story. Given a choice between his side and someone looking for a missing friend,

I'm inclined to take grays. Sure, I say, but I have a feeling anything strong enough to take gray out is going to level the facility too. If we got the choice, shouldn't we keep the damage limited to a busted wall? There's a pause before Griffith response. Are there any casualties?

I glance over the security forces and look around the cafeteria at the other foundation members staring at us. Security took the bulk of it. They're out of the fight, but still breathing. Pretty sure Gray was pulling his punches. I hold my breath. I don't have to wait long for Griffith's response.

Very well. I'll inform security to stand down. You may escort SCP 11 to sub-basement too. Do you remember where that is? I do. Affirmative. I nod toward Gray, who shoulders his musket, glancing over,

I send Minnie and Book a wink before heading down the hall. Gray's steps thunder beside mine, adding an unintended and misplaced bounce to my step. Armed personnel stand at the entrance of every corridor we pass, but they don't attack. So far, it looks like the director's keeping his word. Even though the elevator is designed to transport anomalies of all shapes and sizes, it's still a cramped fit. I have to reach between Gray's stone legs to type in the air. access code for the sub-basement.

Access granted. The door shut, and the quiet home of the elevator surrounds us. I catch myself staring up at Gray, and my old journalist instincts take over. What was a Civil War like? Gray frowns down at me. How should I know? I mean, you were there, right? Agent Hale, was it?

Gray turns up his nose. I was constructed in 1990. If I had to guess, I would say I'm younger than you. I flinch a little, not by much, so you're not like, I don't know, the ghost of a union soldier trapped in a statue or something? Nobody knows what I am, gray size, not even Dorian. I take a stab. Dorian Mayweather?

Yes. The answer is short, but filled with longing and pain. I look up at Gray and watch as the emotion shifts on his face once more. His emotions are carved in such detail that it rivals the work of the old Renaissance masters, unmistakable and plain to see. Gray's face is filled with fear and heartache? Oh, I say as I realize what could motivate someone to storm into a secret base filled with armed guards.

They say love can move mountains. If that's true, moving a statue is a small, in comparison. Gray watches me, and I can't entirely shut off my curiosity. So, you and Dorian, how does that work? Quite well. Once again, Gray keeps his answers brief, but his smile says it all. The elevator stops and the doors open. We walk down the hall and find Director Griffith waiting for us. For once, his annoyance is not directed at me, but at Gray, and my new Granite friend matches his expression with one of mutual dislike. The door behind director Griffith is made of thick steel, and I swallow. I haven't seen one like this since my job interview with the foundation,

and I have no desire to do a repeat performance. Griffith rests his thumb on a panel, and the door hisses open. My curiosity wins over my misgivings. I blink and rub my eyes. The room is bare concrete, but the thing at the center of it makes me dizzy just looking at it. It looks like something has cut through the air, leaving behind a jagged wound. The insides of the tear are constantly shifting, and my stomach flips as I try to study its movements. Director Griffith seems somehow unaffected by its presence. This is our latest anomaly, one that manifested several days ago. It has yet to be archived, and we know little about it.

All probes we have sent through have not returned any data. A note of regret creeps into Griffith's voice. Dr. Mayweather was cataloging equipment in this room when the anomaly manifested. Everything in this room vanished, including him. The ground shakes as Gray falls to his knees and runs a hand over his eyes. I look away to try and give him some privacy, even though a part of me wonders if his tears are also made of stone. It's not long before the sound of grinding stone replaces the sobs as he rises to his feet and steps toward the anomaly.

Whoa, Gray, wait. I stepped toward him, but I am overcome with vertigo. Director Griffith has to steady me with a hand on my shoulder. Maybe that thing dropped Dorian off in another world, or maybe it's a black hole and smashed him into Adams. You heard the director. We have no idea what's beyond that thing. Gray slowly turns to me and smiles. Either way, Agent Hale, Dorian is no longer in this world, and no matter what that means,

I shall join him. He raises two fingers to the top of his cap, in a salute, then trudges toward the rip. It ripples, and then gray is gone. The door slowly swings shut, and Director Griffith locks it again with another press of the thumb, a hand through my hair. That's the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Yes, well, Director Griffith's turns and limps down the corridor. You're still new.

SCP 11 was a Civil War Memorial Statue located in Woodstock, Vermont. The statue is the image of a young male soldier holding a musket at his side, and is carved out of granite quarried within the area. Occasionally, SCP 11 has been observed lifting its musket to the sky to fire at birds, which attempt to land or defecate on it. Reports detail that its movements produce soft grinding sounds, but do not cause it any structural failure. Oddly, the gunfire is very similar to that of a standard firearm,

despite observations that the item only loads granite bullets and granite powder into the musket, which is also unharmed by the firing.