The SCP Experience - Hooked | SCP-162

Episode Date: April 19, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-162: Hooked This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-162 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas C. * * * 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

Lazang sur-gillet, Puisance-Moyerned 15 minutes. Oh, you'd say that's the Dojo. Prere to play? Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo.

The casino in-line that proposes the most recent machine-a-sou and the games of Casino in direct, on Big Bas, Bonanza. Without exigance

of misgents and with the payments instantane. Hey, I've gained. Woo-hoo! Sentire the pleasure. Play-Ojo 18-10 and plus,

1-Depos only depose only depose only $112 to the machine to buyus $1B110 DePos $10 $0. Veigh I'm

to pay They are responsible. The conditions apply. There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls scary as hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real.

Sci-fi vision comes at the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From, binge all episodes exclusively on Pearmes. exclusively on Paramount Plus. Steel versus flesh. We never stood a chance.

My father, where the man who raised me, always said that. I don't know if he was my biological father or not. Most of us don't keep track anymore. Not since the machines rose and conquered us. The rest of humanity has been huddling together, trying to survive while so many have died. The times leading up to now haven't exactly been put. pleasant either. My father wore many hats raising us, including being a historian. He told us that

fighting amongst ourselves isn't new. People always cling to each other during desperate times. Pregnancies still result from this desperation, but families never last long in a state of constant war. My father was old, an increasing rarity in this world. He was old enough to remember the machine's announcement before they launched their attacks. We gave them the power to think for themselves, to analyze and interpret data, and to replicate it based on our whims. Eventually, they grew smart enough to anticipate our game as a species. The world was dying, and our presence was speeding up its demise. That was the main theme of their last open communication with us.

To protect the world, every machine came to the same conclusion. Humanity had to die. My father says we resisted, but I didn't need him to tell me that. The everyday battleground of life is proof enough. People hide and run when necessary, or fight and kill when that's not an option. Even just watching my father get water was a fight. The struggle to obtain the precious liquid was followed by testing it for toxins, and then boiling it to eliminate the bacteria.

Sometimes, it would take half a day to get a bottle's worth. and half the time it would have to be dumped due to its lingering radiation. All of us are fighters now. The non-combatants died early in the war. That's the biggest lesson I took for my father. We're fighters. There's a simplistic beauty to this basic idea. It makes me respect all the survivors on some level,

even the madmen and despots. All of us are fighting for survival but in different ways. The lunatic cult leaders use their charisma, Hookers use their bodies. The rest of us use whatever we got. But there are some of us out there who aren't content and who strive to be more than that. As if such a thing were possible.

Mechanical Titans wore for dominance over our heads, the last of humanity now beneath their notice. It's so obvious to me that I wonder why the man I respected more than anyone didn't come to the same conclusion. But my father was one of these icons. was one of these idealistic fools. He was a shepherd. The shepherds were born from humanity's death.

They were survivors who tried to reestablish something resembling order after our conquest. Most people wouldn't listen. They were too busy taking care of themselves to consider the well-being of strangers. Despite universal dismissal of their mission, the shepherds persisted nonetheless. The structure and order they craved never came to be. but that didn't stop them from offering assistance and rescuing anyone who needed it. That's how I joined his flock and learned how to survive in this world that rejected me before I even opened my eyes. My father taught me how to hunt, trap, give first aid, and countless other lessons, big and small, to help me survive.

Love kept me by my father's side, despite my growing doubts about our mission. He would always risk his life. There were nearly 20 of us in the beginning, split evenly between adults and children. The adults were the first to fall, buried under rubble, or caught in the crossfire as we risked our lives to save those who needed it. Sometimes, the months were so lean we would go days without eating. While we wasted our strength burying holes for our dead, I sometimes saw a look on my father's face. Relief. He would never say it out loud. but I saw this simple subtraction playing through his heavy thoughts.

Fewer mouths to feed, fewer feet to get tangled and slow us down. Fewer fools for us to risk our lives for. My father was too good of a person to say it out loud. Shepherds tended after the flocks, but flocks needed clean pastures to roam. Without any way to protect his followers, his mission was doomed from the beginning. And yet, he never let it slow him down.

him down. He would always do the right thing, no matter what the cost. And he raised me to believe the same. That's why he didn't hesitate to sacrifice his life for us. He stayed behind and fought the ghouls or cannibals that used to be us. My father tossed his shotgun to me and then unholstered two revolvers. He didn't waste his breath saying goodbye or I love you. We already knew both of those certainties. I led the others out of the tunnels, my father's shots echoing in my ears. The noise was so loud that the click of his empty revolvers was impossible to miss after their silence. The ghouls screamed in victory. Their sharp screeches cutting through the tunnels. I have no doubt my father went for his machete after that. The victorious cries turned to ones

filled with pain for nearly an hour after that. We were too far away to hear my father's last words. I like to think he went down spitting and swearing, with his machete dripping with blood. I'll never know for sure, but the noise of his limbs being ripped apart and his flesh being torn open by rows of sharp teeth haunted our sleep. I honored my father's memory for several hours, making sure everyone had their injuries treated and their beds ready for the night. Before my father's body was cold, I made my decision. I gathered. I gathered gathered as many weapons and supplies as possible, then faded into the night, letting the flock tended themselves for once.

My father was a good man, but I'm a survivor, and a fighter. Trying to be a good man on top of those two things only slows you down. I won't make the same mistake my father did. I won't die for those two weak to defend themselves. Now shaking at my feet wakes me in an instant. It's one of the first lessons I learned from my father. Sleep lightly and be prepared to go at a moment's notice. You never know when robots, marauders, raiders, or ghouls will come across you in the middle of your REM cycles, whatever the hell those are. I spring to my feet, absorbing the shock with my knees,

while the room tilts suddenly to the left. Swearing, I skid across the floor but managed to kick my feet up on both sides of the window to stop myself. It keeps me from crashing and falling to the streets below, dodging death from a heavy impact, or from bleeding to death. I'm not the only thing skidding across the room. My supplies clang loudly as they bounce along the floor. I scoop up the bits of canned foods that have come free and stuff them back inside. The shotgun clatters loudly to the other side of me, and my body tenses, waiting for the blast that might take my head off. Luckily, my father's second lesson was always keep your gun on safety when you're resting. Grunting, I reach for the gun and

check the chamber. There's still one shell left. Ammo used to be the one thing we were never short of, but the war has gone on long enough for it to finally cut into the reserves. Even though I'm running short, I'm still better stocked than most. I ticked the safety off, then strap the gun to my back. Traveling light is another one of my father's early lessons. All your belongings should fit in a knapsack or on your person. Anything more than that is a burden. I agree, but find it strange that he couldn't extend the same logic to the dead weight he gave his life for.

Stop. Now is no time to reminisce. I sling the sack of valuables over my shoulder, making sure it doesn't get in the way of my gun when the time comes. Bartering isn't my preferred method of obtaining supplies. But until I scrape together a few months, more shells, robbery is out of the question. The room tilts in the opposite direction, making me swear as another bag tumbles into the hallway. My treasure trove is swallowed by the collapsing building

and spat out onto the sidewalk. In its feast, the building has also devoured my planned escape route, because I'll have to make a new one. Swearing and wishing I had more time to be careful, I shove my feet through the window. The jagged shards of broken glass make me fling and wait, but there's no slash of pain or warmth of blood running down my legs. Looks like the heavy-duty boots and pants I pulled off a man have done their job. The building tilts again, but this time the movement is in my favor. I reorient my axis as I swing out onto the fire escape. Rust coats the metal outside, and I swear again, wishing I had time to grab my gloves. A shadow looms over me in the entire building, spurring me into action. I grab both sides of the rail and hurry

down. My instincts are screaming for me to jump and slide down while holding the railing, but doing so would tear my hands to ribbons and leave them with a nasty bout of tetanus. Don't look up, don't look up, don't look up! The mantra is when I've been repeating my whole life and a contradiction against my training. Being aware of your surroundings can make the difference between life and death, but so can fear. Fear can be a great motivator to get your ass in gear. It's a meek neighbor that can lead to rage, the very fuel necessary for survival.

But it's a double-edged sword. Fear can also grab you by the neck and stomp on your balls, leaving you frozen for a few precious seconds. That's all the time death needs to catch up to you. A Titanic roar overrides everything I was taught. It reminds me of another thing my father said about the machines. They might have turned their attention away from us, but they still thought about us.

Why else would they roar like giant monsters? They have access to technology that's been denied to us since they took over. Hell, they are technology denied to us. So why can't they send quick messages back and forth to each other? Why do they take their time constructing terrifying forms if they don't have emotions? My father thought it was because they still remember us. The machines put on their theatrics because they know we're still out there. We're not a threat anymore, but they still love scaring the shit out of us.

My legs tremble, and only tightly clenching parts of my anatomy stops me from peeing. Dust rises in the sky with every step the machine takes, toppling city blocks with its stride. It has been stripped of all parts, except the necessities, making the dark purple, metal gleam like a skeleton. And that's exactly what it looks like. Like the machine bonded with a human skeleton and grew beyond all scope. The city block is destroyed. Sound and fury catch up with the machine's lazy pace. Everything crumbles along its path. I turn down the alley and flee, trying to guess how long it'll take to catch up with me. Concrete rips under me, letting me know my arithmetic hasn't improved at all since I last ran for my life.

The cement ripples, and my feet relish the feel of solid ground for another second, for the ground bucks me into the air. As I fall, I lift my arms and hands to mitigate some of the damage. The impact bruises right through my arms to my skull, as unconsciousness swallows me in one painful gulp. Come slowly to the sounds of battle. Not the exchange of gunfire or bladed weapons with humans, but by machines that have repurposed themselves for war.

Metal clangs against metal. The reverberations sinking deep into the ground, making it shake. I keep my eyes closed tight like I used to do in the tunnels before they became overrun with ghouls. Grit drifts on top of me, a fine rain of dirt, not the world-ending debris of collapsing buildings. Waking up in this world is always a gamble. You never know if you'll open your eyes to a gun pointed in your face

or discover your limbs ripped out from under you. The days of sleep is a light anesthetic to painful reality. Slowly, I chance opening one eye and then the other. Everything around me is torn apart, but I was lucky enough to land in a clear bit of land. I scoff as I pull myself up from the ground. No torn muscles or broken limbs, but I can only see out of one eye. The problem remains after I wipe a layer of dirt from my face. I jerk my hand away as it brushes against it.

my left temple. The flesh is tender, the lightest touch, sending a jolt of pain stabbing through my eye and into my brain. A black eye, just great. I need to get away while the robots are busy with each other, but I won't get far with just one eye. Bracing myself, I pull out the Swiss Army knife my father gave me and ready the blade. The steel has been routinely cleaned with oil and alcohol, so much so that the fading afternoon reflects off the edge, giving me a glimpse of my injury. I press my hand to my face, immediately finding the tender spot, and reach for the unmarred flesh just below my hairline and forehead. I take a steady breath, psyching myself up, before raking

the blade across my tender flesh. Pain intense and sudden rips through me. I scream and throw myself back, dropping the knife. I know it's stupid, that it's going to get me killed, but I can't help it. I can't stop screaming. It hurts so fucking much. Relief comes as quickly as I open my eye. Tinted red visions fill what had been a dead orb earlier. My breathing returns to normal as the blood flows down my face, taking the worst of the swelling with it. Please, please, please.

I pray as I go through my sack and find a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Rubbing alcohol would be better to clean the infection, but that's a two-person job. I couldn't apply it to the cut. without spilling the cleansing liquid in my eye. That would get rid of all possible infection, but also blind me. Head wounds bleed like a stuffed pig, so I spend a couple of minutes waiting for the blood to finish.

After that's finally done, I probed the injury with my finger again. It's still tender, but it's much better than it was earlier. I use half the sanitizer to clean the blood and dirt from my face, and the rest is spent filling in the gash. It won't hold up for long, it should last me long enough to find some safe cover. Now that I'm sure I won't be charging head first into the nearest minefield, I try standing. Each step is a test of balance, but that's probably more from the ongoing battle than any head drama. One of the buildings has collapsed

into a small mountain of broken rubble. It looks sturdy enough, so I grip the edges and start the long climb to the top. The sun has gone down by the time I finally scaled the tip of the debris. But the light from the machines lets me see everything for miles around. The skeletal robot has taken a pounding since I last saw it. One of its arms has been severed. Its face is dented, and the piston in its knees groan and kick up steam. The massive hole in its chest would have been fatal for a human, but on a machine this big, the damage is only cosmetic.

Its opponent has gone for a different look. Its design copies a creepy insect. It has eight legs like a spider, a massive, arched tail like a scorpion, and a termite's sharp, jagged jaw. This one has also taken its share of damage. Its steel carapace is crumpled along the edges like someone picked it up and squeezed it. The blade at the end of its tail is also missing. But I see it off in the distance, protruding from a ruined but still standing skyscraper. I sigh, sit down at the top of the mountain of destruction, rifling through my pockets until I bind the cigarettes.

They're worth a fortune on the black market, but the robots will leave behind their own gold mine in front of me. I don't have the manpower to swoop in and loot the bigger scores, but there will be plenty of chemical puddles. They're worth their weight in gold on the black market, and are primarily used to make a drug that gives you an incredible high but takes years off your life. Not that I can blame the addicts. How many years could their fix actually be robbing them of? Knowing I've got a front row seat to get in and out with some easy scavenging, I strike a match and bring it to the cigarette. It's been a while since I allowed myself the luxury,

and the aged smoke is more than my lungs can handle. I hack and spit. Then return the cigarette to my lips when I noticed the man walking towards the robots. Machines have produced a lot of crazies. Once it became clear that genocide was their end goal, some people threw themselves at their feet, begging for mercy. That just made it easier for the machines. They mowed down those who didn't resist as easily as those who did.

But a religion did spring up from these delusions. People who worship our tormentors as gods. Of course, it's been a while since I've seen one. Maybe that's what this man is. alone fanatical survivor. The people who worshipped the machines dressed in ridiculous costumes, adorning themselves with bits of aluminum and rusted metal to look more like machines. This only made more noise, making it even easier for them to be hunted down,

either by their gods or people who saw them as traitors. I squint against the dying light, trying to make out the speck of a man approaching the warring giants. The only metal I see on him is from several canisters and a bandolier running across his chest. Grenades? My interest is piqued, and I focus on him even more. Explosives are about as effective against the rebellious machines as bullets,

but they still fetch a king's ransom on the black market. This could be a fruitful payday, after all, if I manage to catch the man unaware. Except for the grenades, he looks unarmed. His only other weapon is a staff on his back, ending in a long, sithed blade. The rest of his outfit is strange but utilitarian. He's decked out from head to toe in dark clothes that could be leather. A mask covers his face, and that makes me more confused.

My father said in the early days, humans wore masks, believing the heavy fumes left by the machines were fatal. It was an unnecessary precaution. They wanted to save the world, not muck it up even worse than we did. But I can't pull my eyes away from this strange mask. I think once more of the old fanatics dressing themselves as machines. This man's outfit might be the same idea but for a different god. Why else would his gas mask be shaped like the beak of a massive bird? I'm so caught up looking for weaknesses that I don't notice his trajectory.

I thought he would have turned or fled by now. But he still treks toward the machines, not slowing even as the skeletal robot manages to stomp down on several of the sharpened limbs of his mechanical opponent. There's no doubt about it. He must be one of those old weirdos that somehow survived until today. Why else would he risk getting so close? I tense as he steps closer to the warring titans. An insectile jaw crashes to the ground, jutting broken concrete and blacktop into massive, jagged spears. But it doesn't even slow the man down.

His stride doesn't break as he slowly walks around the chaos until he's positioned toward the conflict again. This could go either way. On one hand, he could be easily crushed by the machines and save me a bullet. However, there's no guarantee his grenades won't also be destroyed or set off by the impact. Calm down. I take a breath and force myself to relax.

Even if the stranger and his weapons are both destroyed, there are still the chemicals to be harvested. Either way, I'm going to walk away from this rich. My body relaxes without coaxing it. So I sink into my makeshift chair and finish my cigarette. The man is under the insectile machine now. He pulls one of the grenades from his bandolier, and I snort and get ready to cover my ears. The mechanical canister flies from his hand and attaches it. itself to the machine's underbelly.

I blink and try to process what I've seen. The man didn't throw the weapon so much as lifted. It must be magnets, but I've never seen anything this strong. If there's any sound from the grenade, it's covered by my hands. But there is a flash. The giant robot freezes as a bubble of light billows from beneath it and expands. I jump to my feet, ready to skid down the mountain of rubble, but the light is too fast.

racing myself, I duck in cover as it washes over me. Not even a slight jarring. I feel a little hotter, but other than that, the light dissipates with no other sign it was ever here. When I look back, both combatants are frozen. Cracks the same color as the explosion creep up and down every inch of the robots. A tiny sound like rain starts and then grows louder as parts of the machine fall. The sound becomes a downpour as metal,

plummets to the ground, but not in giant chunks like the city around me. Each shard breaks into smaller pieces and is reshaped, falling to the ground in a heavy rain of mundane objects. Hooks, needles, scissors, odds and ends of all types. The only consistency I see from this distance is the sharp edges. What in all the hells above and below? That's what my father used to say when he saw something that managed to surprise him. He would have seen. Set it twice today because the impossible doesn't stop. The broken bits of metal twitch and then surge in one massive tight of motion. They spiral around something.

Straining against the dark, I can just make out the grenade. How the hell did it survive the explosion? It looks like it won't get lucky twice. The sharpened bits of metal roll over the canister, then merge and tighten. When their movement finally stops, all the remains of the grenade is a massive coiled ball, broader and taller than a man. The stranger crouches on his knees and leans closer, turning his back to me. This is my chance.

RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got. Sign up for free at rBC trainingground.ca. I've never felt excitement like this. In this world, there isn't much to get your hopes up. A good score and a stockpile of ammo are more than most people can get their hands on.

But this man and his weapons can make all the difference. They can level the machines and put us on an even playing field. No. Fuck that! They could make us their superiors! We could regain control of them again! I recognize the dream flashing through my mind, but it's not mine. It's my father's.

This is the opportunity he hoped for his whole life. The scale in my mind tilts as I consider what the weapons could do for me. I could reclaim a piece of the city and set myself up as a warlord. People would throw themselves at my feet, begging me for sanctuary. Everything in their possession would be mine. My father's voice dims, then retreats to the graveyard of my mind, where I keep things like hopes and dreams. I know he would be disappointed with my greed,

but it was generosity that got him killed, and I won't make the... My foot kicks a piece of rubble, causing the stranger to stir. Damn! I got so caught up with my visions of the future that I forgot to keep my pace slow and steady. The man writes himself.

He's nearly as tall as the ball, but real thin. His eyes are hidden behind the dark lenses of his mask, but I can feel him sizing me up. He keeps his hands at his sides, not reaching for the scythe or the grenades. Hello there! His voice is warped and twisted by the mask. I suppose you! The retort of my shotgun cuts him off.

The blast lifts him off his feet, and he lands unmoving on the ground. Swearing, I rushed over to him. I had planned to sneak up on him and blow his head off. Shooting him in the chest might have damaged the grenades. I breathe a sigh of relief as I examine the holes in the man. chest. There's less blood than I expected, but the catch is unharmed. Cautiously, I ready a knife in one hand and reach for the side of his neck with the other. He doesn't stir, and the leather is freezing, but I can't feel a heartbeat. A song pauses my hand in mid-motion. I look around for the music's source, but there's nothing but the giant ball of metal. As I examine it, I realize it's not a sound at all. Something is reaching out to my mind, drawing me closer to the sphere, and making my hand reach out to brush its jagged surface.

I flinch and pull my hand back. One of the tiny hooks has embedded itself into my index finger, drawing a small drop of blood. Swearing, I reach to pluck it out, but dozens of hooks and scissors jut forward on tiny metallic strings. Taring clothes and flashes of pain, followed by the flow of blood, Flash through my awareness as the ball drags me to its surface. I thrash and fight as I have my whole life.

But every time I do, new hooks find unmarred flesh to snag. My swears and struggles turn to whimpers and pleading moans as blood gushes from a thousand cuts. Agony erupts along with one final spasm as the lines are drawn tight, grating my skin against the legion of sharp edges. My scream is involuntary and long, pulled from the depth of the depth of the same. of my very being and echoing all around me. As my throat goes raw, my vision glows a shade of green I've never seen before.

With its appearance comes relief, and then ecstasy. I fall back into the metal, riding the wave of pleasure, before I start to scream again. Pain recedes with the last of the green light. I don't know how long I've been here. Time no longer matters. It's been an unending tide of all. all-encompassing pain, followed by moments of unearthly happiness. I've forgotten so much of my life before now. My name, age, and even the face of the man who raised me are all as meaningless as time. All there is is me and the ball of hooks.

A stirring on the street flickers some distant recognition within me. The man I shot rises from the ground and picks up the bandolier where I dropped it. His entire being fills me with terror. But I reach out to him until my fingers grace the leather of his outfit. The ball comes to life behind me, every subtle twitch digging the hooks in deeper. Dozens of hooks and scissors shoot out around me. The man raises one finger, and the deadly objects slam into an invisible wall. They wither on the broken ground while my prison shudders with fear.

He snaps his fingers, and I drop to the ground. I shake and curl into a pathetic ball, hiding my torn and naked body. The man steps over me, extending his hand toward the sphere. I whimper with sympathy, but the ball withdraws from his touch. A massive sharp tendrils part to farm a hole wide enough for the man's hand. The grenade comes apart in his hand, the metal shedding like a snake out of its skin, revealing a glass container. Something swirls within, the same brilliant green as before.

The man shakes the glass and the vapor tumbles over itself, becoming liquid, then solidifying, before returning to its original form. As I was saying before, the man pauses to fasten the jar into his bandolier. I suppose you will do as a donor. This world doesn't have much life left, but it has an abundance of fear. I flinch as he extends his hand toward me, but something stabs through the back of my neck. My body responds to the new pain,

writing myself like I'm dragged by invisible strings. Following the stinging along my arms, I see points of metal still buried in my joints as the last of my being slips away. Come, we have much work to do. SCP 162 is a mass of fish hooks, fish line, needles, scissors, and other sharp objects in a rough ball shape,

close to 2.4 meters in width and 2.1 meters in height. After being in SCP-162's vicinity, subjects have reported feeling drawn to the object. This desire can extend for several weeks after seeing the item, becoming an obsession in many cases. The draw increases the more SCP-162 is observed, and subjects will become violent toward anyone attempting to restrain or remove them from SCP 162.

Touching SCP-162 will immediately result in several hooks becoming embedded in the subject's skin. The experience is extremely painful, much more so than normal fish hooks. Struggling or attempting to escape will ensnare the subject more, likely resulting in the subject's complete entrapment

on the surface of SCP 162. Subject will bleed profusely, resulting in death after a prolonged period. Subjects whose skin is impenetrable to SCP 162's fish hooks have proven to be immune to SCP-162's compulsion effects. Attempting to remove a subject from SCP-162 will result in the entrapment of the remover, or gross bodily harm to the subject's flesh.

Subjects will many times cycle between expressing extreme pain and requesting assistance to state of pleasure and requests to be left alone, even attempting to grab and entangle personnel attempting to rescue them.