The SCP Experience - I Can't Believe What I Found Hidden in Our Cargo Hold | SCP-553

Episode Date: March 15, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class anomaly, SCP-553: Crystalline Butterflies This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-553 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click * * * 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 never planned on being a sailor. All my life, all I've ever wanted is to be a writer. Yet, after four years of undergrad, I failed to get into any grad school to further my craft. My writing has been described as competent, but lacking potential. There aren't many employment opportunities that come with an English degree. But I found out that the merchant marines are always in need of sailors. I figured it would be a chance to see the world,

and eventually find something to write about. Forget all those fancy grad schools. I would write the great American novel all on my own. So far, that hasn't been the case. The learning curve for my sailing job has been rough. I guess competent but lacking potential can also describe my sailing career. Despite the harsh criticism, I've persisted in my work.

And while I may never make captain some day, I'm at least not much of a burden anymore. Most of the other sailors no longer go out of their way to insult me or avoid me, except for tombs and his best friend Gates. But there's always going to be an asshole wherever you go. I lie awake in my bunk, surrounded by the snores and rising and falling chests of other sailors. After a few days in China, we've just left the port, and something has been nagging at me. Earlier today, I saw the captain rush a few crates into the cargo hold.

They weren't on any of the manifests, and the people handling the containers paid him in cash. He eyed me suspiciously when he caught me looking his way, so I immediately turned back to my work and tried to put it out of my mind. Yet, the crates press on my imagination despite my exhaustion. Since coming aboard the ship, I haven't made much progress as a rider. The long days of back-breaking labor have squashed whatever muse that once dwelt within me. Yet now, staring up at the bulk, I feel the faint stirring of inspiration. I need to know what's in those crates.

There has to be a story behind them. I just know it. Tiptoeing out of my bunk is a test of nerves. I stop and freeze at every altered snore. Fortunately, the work is just as hard on seasoned veterans as on the netherans. newly initiated. The crew are deep sleepers, and not one of them wakes up as I slip outside to the decks above. This late in the night, it's mostly a skeleton crew working topside, and they're easy enough to avoid. The cargo hold is unguarded. It's so quiet that every step on the rungs down

echoes all around me. I'm sure I'm making enough noise to alert the whole ship. I freeze at the bottom of the stairs and look back at the hatch above. I let out my tightly held breath when no one comes, and I start to explore. It takes several minutes to find the crates that I'm looking for. The captain went to great lengths to hide them amongst the other cargo we picked up from China. Towards the back of the hall, I find the wooden crates that stand out from the modern containers. I sink my fingers into the hatch of the crate and pull up, but the top refuses to open. Something sounds like it's scurrying inside. I see that the wood has been nailed shut, but there's a crowbar resting against the wall. I take it and, after several tries,

I pry the board open with a loud crack. The scurrying sound returns, so I take my flashlight and shine it inside. The crate erupts into a swirl of colors like a rainbow. I stare at all the colors when strange sounds start to echo around me. It's a high-pitch clicking, building steadily in pitch. The lights rise up from the crate, and I slam the lid shut again. Something scurries out of the corner of my eye. It's there one moment and then gone, taking to the air. I follow it and freeze when moonlight drifts in from one of the portholes, lighting up the creature. It flies past the light and lands on the wall, and I gasp. It's a butterfly, but unlike any I have ever seen before. Instead of the traditional pattern of delicate wings, it looks to be made of crystal. It sparkles

like diamonds, and when I brush my light against it, the kaleidoscope of colors again projects from its body. There's no question this is no creation but a living being. It's an insect made of crystal. My mouth is dry as I hold up my hand. The butterfly drops from the wall, flaps its crystal in wings, and somehow lifts itself aloft. The same clicking sound from before fills the air, but it's gentler this time, almost inquisitive. The insect lands in my hand, and I flinch just a little as the six sharp points of its legs latch onto my finger. Its stone body makes it heavier than I thought, and I soon have to open my hand to support its weight. As the creature crawls slowly up my arm, heat rises in my chest.

Finally, I found something worth writing about. The door atop the stair slams open, and I jump, but the butterfly remains nestled on my arm. Boy, I know I saw that little prick come down here. Tooms, I'd recognize that ruthless drawl anywhere. But there's another set of steps on the stairs as they make their way down. That means Gates is with him too. Gates talks less than Tooms, but he's just as vicious and cruel as the other man. I tumble my hands trying to dislodge the butterfly, but it doesn't move.

As Tumes and Gate steps into the room's low light, I see no other option and bring my hands behind my back. Both men swing their flashlights around with Tumes in the lead until they find me. Once they do, they intentionally shine their beams in my eyes. The butterfly's heavy weight on my arm countered my instinct to cover myself against the glare. Well, well! Tum says, as he lowers his light. I smell the alcohol in his breath long before my vision clears enough to see his gleaming smile. What's you hiding behind your back, gang?

Nothing. It's the only thing I can think of, and a blatant lie. Nothing, he says. You hear that, Gates? A low chuckle resonates from deep within his chest. You stealing cargo, boy? You want us to report you to the captain? Since the captain smuggled the butterflies on board,

I don't think I'd fare any better with him. However, if one of the idiots goes off to report me, it might be just enough time to get the butterfly hidden away. from them. Yeah, I nod. I think the captain's a great idea. Yeah. Tumes grips me by the shoulder.

Probably the option I choose too. Unfortunately, that was more of a, what do you college boys call them? A hypoethical. I frowned at him. Do you mean hypothetical? My father's words echo in my mind, repeated during the most smart-assed moments of my life. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be the smartest man in the room. His meaning becomes clear when Gates sends a beefy fist straight into my stomach.

The blow lifts me off my feet and robs the breath from my lungs. I fall to my knees, gasping for air. The butterfly scurries off me and takes to the air again. Tumes and Gates swear as their lights dance around the cargo hold, trying to track the butterfly's movements. Finally, they follow the clicking in the air and rest their beams on one of the four walls. Their twin circles of light catch the butterfly. It clings to the wall again, flexing its beautiful wings as they spread the colors of the rainbow against the walls.

Is? Is that a butterfly? Baintea Bia Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savory. Admirate. And profite. Via Rai, the voice that we love.

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From binge all episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. Who gives a shit? chuckles as he steps toward it. You know what it looks like to me? Diamonds. It takes Gates a moment to understand the meaning of his companion's words before he nods. They each pin a crystal wing to the ship's hull. The noises from the butterfly sound different now.

More high-pitched and distressed, like a small alarm. Oh! Gates grunts but doesn't let go. Fucking Tha cut me. Wings are sharp, mate. Tumes pulls out a large knife from his belt. One for each of us. Should be enough to make us rich.

I lurched to my feet and force air into my lungs. There's not enough time to explain to these idiots that it will take more than a knife to clip its wings if it is made of diamonds. Or that an entomologist or geologist would probably pay them more than a jeweler. I know in their drunken greed, they would never listen. Instead, I barrel toward them with an angry yell.

My theatrics are cut short by gates again. He doesn't even look over his shoulder. He just thrusts. his elbow straight into my nose. Cartilage breaks, and I stumble back and trip over a box. My head bounces off the hard steel of the deck, and I can only

stare in mute horror as they go about their grisly work. Tooms is slow, brutal, and methodical. He shoves his knife in repeatedly, hacking and chipping away more crystal, despite the intensity of the butterfly's sounds of distress.

My guess is, it's not the first animal that Tooms has mutilated. Finally, with one wing hanging limp, he sinks the blade in and pries it until the wing snaps apart. Ah! Tumes cries in triumph. One down! One to go! He repeats the same ruthless maneuver on the other side this time, making even faster progress after his bloody practice.

There's no mercy or relief for his prey, though. The butterfly's clicked screams reach a crescendo as its last wing is pried apart. Jesus! Tum sticks a finger in his ear and holds up the crippled insect. Through their flashlights, I can now see the sounds that are coming from the butterfly, kicking its legs together in futile desperation. Shut this thing up already! Tunes tosses the mangled insect to the ground, and Gates slowly raises his foot.

I just managed to get back on my feet when Gates brings all of his weight down on the butterfly. There's only a slight crack, so he stomps down repeatedly. A loud crack rips through the air and ends the brutality. There's no silence, though. Gates and tombs shine their lights on me. But I'm just as confused as they are. It sounds like it's coming from all around us. My eyes widened with the sound of exploding wood,

and I realized the butterfly hadn't been alone in its crate. Far from it. The cargo hold is packed with the sound of angry chirps and clicks. The beating wings are so loud that they sound like a turbine. They blot out the air around us, and tombs and gates swear as they brandish their lights and swing their knives. The colored air is soon filled with splashes of red. Gates is the first to fall. He's the bigger target, and the butterflies are imprecise as they dive on him. Every time they do, their wings find a new spot to cut.

Lines of raw agony open up all over the large sailor's body. First at his face, then his arms and legs, and lastly, his master. massive belly. Blood pours from his body into a heavy puddle before he slips and falls into it, unable to move. He succumbs to death by a thousand cuts. Tumes clings to the wall, swinging his knife in an act of defiance every bit as meaningless as the butterfly he maimed. His eyes have been cut out, and soon the knife drops from his hand as crystalline wings slice through his fingers. One dashes across his throat. As blood pours from the deep gash, he slides to the His discarded flashlight illuminates the wall and a rainbow dances across the surface.

I make my way through the cloud of insects in a shocked days. I thought I might be under their protection. Maybe, somehow. They have sensed the kindness I shared with their brethren. Then something sharp cuts through my hand. Two of my fingers are severed in a cloud of blood and drop to the floor in front of me. My injury wakes me for my delusion, and I bolt up the stairs. My sudden movement makes the butterflies more aware of me.

They cut through my clothes, but I'm a faster and smaller target than gates or tombs. I rush up the steps and slam the cargo holds shut. I take in a breath of fresh air. Relief flows over me when I notice I only took a few extra minor cuts on the way out. I'm breathing so hard that I didn't notice the new beams of light until a commanding voice barks. You there! What are you doing? I turn my head and see the captain with two other sailors flanked on his side. sailors flanked on his sides. Each has a pistol holstered to their waist. The captain's eyes

narrow as he sees my injuries. He upholsters his pistol and his men do the same. A loud crack from behind me freezes us all in place. Swallowing, I turn my head and stare at the cargo holds window. What was once transparent is now clogged with butterflies. Moonlight wafts over window and blinds me in a cascade of color, but I hear another deafening crack as the window explodes. Glass cuts me across the face and I fall to the ground screaming as the insects billow out onto the ship. Bullets whisk over me as the captain and his men open fire. Several butterflies erupt into clouds of dust, but not enough to thin their numbers. Their clicking only grows louder and angrier as they swarm over the captain and the gunmen. The roar of gunfire is engulfed by their screams.

I keep low to the ground and crawl across the ship. Underneath me, I've been a fire. I feel feel the crew come to life, snapped awake by the sounds of carnage. The hull vibrates against my stomach as sailors rise from their beds and take to the stairs. They fill the decks and stare in wonder and confusion at the sight before them. Then the clouds of butterflies descend on them and the bloody chaos begins anew. Some men try to defend themselves, swatting at the crystalline terrors with their bare hands. All they manage to do is cut their palms against the wings and send the insects into a renewed frenzy. They soon fall to the deck in droves, dead and dying. Others still, the most experienced

sailors, take their chances and toss themselves overboard. I keep quiet, avoiding the attention of the crew and the butterflies. I crawl through streams and pools of hot blood until I get to a lifeboat. Panic overwhelms me as I force myself off the ground, expecting to be cut to ribbons like everyone else. I use the fear and toss myself into the raft as fast as I can. Several men rushed toward me, but butterflies cling to them in the moonlight. I don't wait for them. I slam my fist against the control panel, and the boat quickly descends over the side. Ignoring their screams as they curse my name, I take the paddle and row until I hear nothing but waves.

I paddle until my arms burn. My labored and frightened breaths slow as calm washes over me. But the clicking of the butterflies still fills my head. It feels like I'll hear them for the rest of my life. 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. As something scurries in the raft next to me, a thought pierces through me. What if the sounds aren't in my head? My hand trembles toward the emergency case at my mind. feet. I find the small flashlight and flip it on. Half a dozen butterflies are in the boat with me, resting and beating their wings. Any awe I once had for the creatures is devoured by fear and panic. I raised the paddle and bring it down on top of one. The insects take to the sky, but they are slow and ungraceful in the night air. They decimated the boat only because of their sheer numbers.

Out on the ocean, in such few numbers, they are no match for my screaming desire to live. The boat rocks as I swing my makeshift weapon, but somehow I manage not to capsize. My blows aren't enough to shatter them, but my fury knocks one from the air. It falls into the ocean with a loud splash, and the sound is a revelation. I swat them out of the sky and into the water one by one. Their wings beat pitifully against the waves before their weight drags them beneath them. the ocean's surface. I slink down into the boat, but a low gurgling sound cuts through my relief.

Flipping the light on again, I see their wings have cut into the boat's hull. Each cut is shallow, bleeding in just a small amount of salt water, but there are too many to batch. I force myself to calm down. Maybe if I keep paddling, I'll come across land or another ship before the lifeboat sinks. But then, a triangular fin rises from the water and circles my boat. boat. I look at my still bleeding hand that has polluted the surrounding water with splashes of red. The ocean is filled with predators, and they can smell my blood. Exhausted, I lie down, and a loud

laugh escapes my lips. My sanity breaks away as I stare at the moon and smile at the irony. My intuition was correct all along. The cargo hold did have a story worth telling, only no one will ever hear it. SCP 553 is a colony of approximately 140,000 winged organisms superficially resembling butterflies. They possess a silicon-based biochemistry undercomposed primarily of calcium and silicate compounds. The body of a member of the species is mostly calcite, with some of the internal organs composed of a material similar to quartz with piezoelectric properties. This silicate impurity adds rigidity to the acidity to the body.

the creature, giving it a rating from 3.5 to 4.5 on the moss hardness scale. Although they continue to grow throughout their observed lifespan, the growth rate slows considerably once they have entered their adult stage. The average observed wingspan of an adult is 2.3 centimeters. The life cycle is notable in that it appears more closely related to crystal growth than standard biological growth. The creature starts out as a crystal seed rather than an egg. Aduceal Adult instances deposit them on stalactites, and they hatch approximately 12 days later. The larval stage appears as anthedites and leach minerals from the stalactite using a weak acid. They move extremely slow, approximately 5 centimeters per day, and leave distinctive tracks behind them as they progress.

These tracks can be used to discriminate between genuine anthedites and SCP 553. The larval stage lasts approximately 70 days, at which point it becomes stationary and begins to grow its wings. During the transition from the larval to the adult stage, the wings of an instance of SCP 553 grow rapidly, becoming fully formed in less than nine hours, at which point the adult will detach from the stalactite. Through an unknown process, SCP 553 maintains a relatively stable population, with eggs only being laid when an adult dies. The population transplanted to containment has stabilized at 137 plus or minus 2. Members of SCP 553 primarily rely on a form of echolocation to sense their surroundings.

They do this by creating a variety of ultra-high-pitched tones via scraping and striking their legs together and appear to use their wings as a mobile array to detect reflected sound. Additionally, they appear to have a variety of chemo-sensors in their footpads, allowing them to determine the mineral composition of the surfaces they land on. Adult instances of SCP 553 primarily feed by scraping fungus and lichen from the cavern floor and, to a lesser extent, leaching minerals from stalagmites, using a similar acid as used by the larval stage. When any adult instance of SCP-553 suffers significant damage,

It produces a unique sonar signature which alerts all other nearby adults to the presence of danger. Adults will swarm the perceived source of danger and proceed to attack it by attempting to slice it with their wings. The wings of SCP-553 members have an average thickness of 5mm, where they attach to the body, and taper rapidly to an average thickness of 0.05 millimeters with sharp, beveled edges. In testing, individual lacerations as deep as one centimeter have been measured. However, deeper lacerations usually result in some portion of the wing structure breaking off in the inflicted wound. These fragments typically continue to fracture in the wound due to mechanical stresses. The circulatory fluid of SEP 553 reacts with most carbon-based tissues in a necrotizing fashion,

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