The SCP Experience - I Think I Am Turning Into a Woman | SCP-013

Episode Date: April 22, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-013: I Think I Am Turning Into a Woman This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-013 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Rhiannon G. * * * 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

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So, this is what? A wellness check? I ask Jim. Jim shrugs, then adjusts his stab-proof best. I think we might be in for a suicide. Hopefully it's not a messy one, he answers. He then sighs and inserts the key we got from the landlord. It clicks and we open the door.

The light from outside flows inside the apartment. Mr. Miles? Jim calls. Hello? Police. There's no answer and no shuffling about either. not a hint of life. Jim looks at me and shrugs.

I start walking in, taking the speaking roll this time. We're here for a wellness check, Mr. Miles. We just want to talk and make sure you're all right. Then we'll be on our way. Again, not a sound. The only noise in this apartment is us. Our heavy boots clump on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the entrance hallway.

It makes the apartment feel very empty and light. lifeless. I at least have a little hope that there's no corpse in here. I can't smell anything unusual. It smells like a regular apartment, just a little musty with a hint of bacon in the air. You never forget the smell of a human corpse, and this clearly isn't that. So perhaps we're not in for a horrible suicide after all. Perhaps he's just not here. We walk through the entrance hallway and despite several closed doors around us, we head towards the living room, since that's already open. Mr. Miles? I call out. Then I walk into the living room and my heart sinks. The living room is fairly typical, however. There is a man slumped over a desk on the far side of the room. His head is

resting on the table. Mr. Miles? Hello? Hey! Jim shouts. We half jog over to him. I touch him. He's cold. I hold my hand in front of his face. No breath. I press my fingers against his neck. No pulse. I look to Jim and shake my head. Jim closes his eyes and sighs.

I'll let the station know we found a body, he says, and moving to the radio attached to his stab-proof vest. As he talks to the police officers, I start looking over the desk. It's covered with clutter, but the top layer of it contains bottles of various pills. Over-the-counter painkillers mostly, and lots of them. There's an empty bottle of vodka on here as well.

Damn, an overdose. It is a suicide. Both his hands are on the table. One has a half-finished cigarette resting in an ashtray, like he was in the middle of a smoke, then he dropped dead. That would almost make me feel like it was sudden, like a heart attack or an aneurism. But in his other hand is an empty medicine bottle,

which makes me think not. I start collecting the pill bottles from when the EMTs turn up. Underneath them are reams and reams of paper. And, creepily enough, they all seem to have the same drawing on them over and over again. It's the same woman, in the same pose. The only difference between all the pictures is that some of them are full body.

and some of them are half-body. Some of them are in black and white, and others are in color. The ones which are in color show her with chopped black hair, striking blue eyes that stare into my soul, and blue lipstick the same shade. I guess she's probably someone he loves? She has to be if he drew her so many times.

I start shuffling the drawings around and spot something new under his head. I take a hold of the paper and pull it out. It's not a drawing. It's a written note. As I pull it out, I read it. I see her everywhere, that sad blue lady. I feel like I used to know her, but I can't remember. I love her, but I don't know why. She's so beautiful and sweet and clear, but I don't know anymore. Her favorite flavor, where did you go? I miss you. So, this isn't a woman he knew?

Was he stalking her, perhaps? Jim comes back. They're sending some EMTs over to confirm the death, but it's been a busy night, so we have a weight on our hands. We'll probably have to wait for the people to pick up the body, too. Right, I answer. I've been collecting the pills for the EMTs to log. Good idea.

I found these, though, I say. showing him some of the drawings. What do you think? Jim takes them and frowns. Huh! Weird! That's creepy enough, but look at the suicide note, I say, handing it to him. What do you think?

Do we need to find this lady? Do you think this was a stalker situation? Jim doesn't answer, but keeps frowning as he looks between the papers. Weird! He says again, slowly. It just keeps staring at the papers, and I started looking around the apartment for another clue. There's drawings of this woman everywhere. Now that I'm looking for it, I see her drawings scattered on the couch and on the TV stand.

Every flat surface seems to have a drawing of this woman on it. It's so incredibly creepy. I've been a police officer for a while, but I've never seen anything like this before. Oh, I've seen stalkers, but never hundreds. maybe thousands of the same sketch over and over. As I keep looking around, I see a gigantic box next to the desk, to the left of the body. More sketches? I lean in and open it up.

It hasn't got sketches in it. Instead, it's filled with cigarette packets. They're completely plain, no labels or branding, or warnings of what smoking can do to you like most cigarette packets have. That's odd too. I pull one out and open them up. The cigarettes are plain too. It's hard to distinguish the filters from the rest of the stick.

It looks like they've been handwritten in blue ink. Blue Lady. Hmm. Never heard of that. Why does he have so many of these? Was he distributing them? I look back to the cigarette in the man's hand. I think it's the same brand, but I can't be sure because it's so plain.

I lean over and open his hand for a better look. That's when I realized something. The cigarette is still smoldering. How? The man's cold. He must have been dead for a couple of hours. As I lift the cigarette out of his hand, I get a puff of smoke in my face.

It goes straight into my mouth and I taste it. It doesn't taste like regular tobacco. But it doesn't taste like anything else either. I cough hard. and flot my hand in front of my face, putting the cigarette back down. Whoa, whoa, Craig, Jim says sharply. Did you just inhale that stuff? I think so.

I say and cough again. I didn't know it was still it. How's that possible? Jim doesn't answer my question. Instead, he says, You stick around here for a bit. I have someone to call. Who?

I ask. Again, he doesn't answer. He just cross. into another room, calling someone on a phone I didn't know he had. Yeah, it's me. He says in a low voice as he leaves. I've found something, but there's a problem. A civilian's been exposed to it.

Yeah, come quickly. Who's he calling? I have to be the civilian he's talking about. I'm not sticking around to figure it out. Jim, I got a call in. I'm going back to the station. I shout back. You wait here for the EMTs.

I hear him start. start protesting behind me. But I exit the apartment before he can leave the room he went into. I closed the front door to the apartment and go back to our squad car as fast as I can. I need to tell the station about what Jim's doing. There's something else here now. Something new. From, exclusively on Paramount Plus,

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My sergeant grunts, still looking at the computer. I swear, Sarge. I don't know who he was talking to. But he immediately called someone, revealed what we'd found, and asked them to come quickly. Well, who would he be talking to? I don't know. Maybe press? Or some other kind of paparazzi? Sarge finally looks at me, frowning.

Over at nobody's suicide? He asks. That doesn't seem very likely. I'm telling you, he was on the phone with someone, telling someone about what we'd discovered. I say firmly. Sarge nods lightly, then looks back to his computer. I'll look into it.

But Jim's been working here five years before you joined. I feel like if he'd been leaking, information. Something would have happened by now. Sarge replies. Jim's been on some pretty public cases, so it would have been noticeable, I'm sure. I don't know why he did it either, but can you send another unit to relieve him from the scene, just in case? Yeah, Sarge agrees. I'll look into your accusations as well, but I really think you might have caught him talking to a friend or something. Right, I saw I, standing up. Well, thanks in advance for checking

it out, Sarge. He gives a light grunt. I leave his office as the call for a new unit to relieve Jim comes out over the radio. As I walk through the station, I can feel my pants slipping down off my waist. It distracts my attention as I grab them and pull them back up. What the hell? I just got these. My belt was on the smallest loop when I put these pants on. How are they too large for me? I can't look down and see what the problem is. So I walk into the ballot. bathroom and look in the mirror. I'm thinner. Noticably so. How did I get so much thinner in one day? My first thought is the weirdness in that apartment. I mean, it's an easy thing to connect together. Two very weird things happening in one day. But what happened in that apartment and myself getting thinner?

I don't know what these have to do with each other. Sudden weight loss is not often a good sign. I need to keep an eye on this. But my first priority is to avoid Jim, and anyone he might have brought in. Looks like it might be a good time to request to do some paperwork. After the shift I spent with Jim, I had one more day on when I was crewed with someone else. So I didn't see Jim at all. Then I had my four days off. It's my last off day, and I get up from my bed and go to my full-length bedroom mirror to check how I look.

For my days off, I got thinner and thinner. Luckily, I think it stopped now, but I'm in a completely different shape. I've moved from my own barrel-bellied self into a strange, more petite hourglass shape. I'm just glad it stopped, though. After all, sudden and unwanted weight loss is a sign of cancer, so I'm just glad it doesn't seem to be happening anymore. But now something's happening with my hair. At the same time I got thinner and thinner, it started growing in double time.

Now it's down at my chin in a cropped, dark style. I don't know why this both happened at the same time, the weight loss and the hair growth, but I think the least I can do to feel more normal would be to get my hair back to normal. I take my razor and turn it on. It buzzes to life with a sharp, wasp-like humming. I lower it to my head, and the familiar scrunching of hair being cut rings out. I follow my hands in the mirror with my eyes as I buzz off all the thick locks of black hair. There's something so satisfying about seeing it all shaved away. A pathway carved through the

hair on my head. Once I reach the back of my head, I have to lower my head down. I shave with one hand and rub the back of my head with the other. Soon, it's all gone. I can run my hand over the back of my head and feel the spiky shards of hair that are left. Then I look in the mirror. There I stand, my new, odd hourglass shape, and my chin-length, chopped dark hair. Wait, what the fuck? I run my hands over my head again. A full head of hair!

I look down at the floor. Thick locks of hair litter it, like autumn leaves on the forest floor. How can I still have all my hair when it's on the floor? A chill runs through my blood. My thumb clicks the electric-relixtrower. The thumb clicks the electric razor on again, and the buzzing takes over the air. It rattles through my skull, filling my ears as I put the razor to my head again. I keep my eyes fixed on the mirror, watching the hair fall away with the same old scrunching.

This time, I keep my gaze on myself as I shave. I watch every lock fall off, tumbling away over the razor as it slices. It doesn't take long to shave my entire head again. I run my hand over my scalp, and once again, it's perfectly shaved. Then, I look down at the floor. The amount of hair on the floor has doubled. But as soon as I'm looking down, I feel hair brush my face. No! No! Not again!

I look back in the mirror. The hair's back. Every strand! I clicked the razor on again. I will get rid of this fucking hair if it kills me! I look into the station at the beginning of my next shift. and Sarge starts walking towards me. Whatever he meant to say dribbles away as I watch his eyes fix on me, and his face drops in horror.

What the hell are you wearing, Craig? I feel myself squirm. I know I look an absolute mess. I knew it when I walked in. I needed to buy some new trousers and a new shirt, since my body shape had changed so drastically, but I couldn't get an official police uniform in time. So I just grabbed some black cargo pants,

and my largest police shirt to hide what I looked like. I couldn't shave my horrible hair as much as I tried, so I slapped it with an entire tub of hair gel to keep it back. But Sarge hones in on it. He walks forward and stares mainly at my hair. Why did you dump a bucket of hair gel on a shaved head? Sarge asks. You look ridiculous.

What? I ask. And you're basically bursting out of those trousers. They aren't official uniform, are they? He asks. Why didn't you just wear your regular uniform? I look at the window. I can't see my reflection clearly, but I can see my silhouette.

Hourglass shape, chin length, chopped hair, the weight of which is barely held back by the hair gel I dumped on it. I put my hand on my head. The full head of hair is there, crispy with hair gel under my palm. Then, I look back to my sergeant. Do you not see all the hair? Or how I look now?

My old uniform is not going to fit. Are you fucking blind? He frowns lightly. What? He asks. Look at me! I scream. Look at me!

Craig! What the hell are you on about? Sarge snaps back. You look the same as you always do. Or you would if he didn't put on that strange outfit in hair gel. He takes a breath and calms down. Then he walks forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. Greg, are you feeling all right?

I can't speak for a moment. My throat feels tight. His words ring in my head. You look the same as you always do. I can't. I can't! I throw his hand off my shoulder and head straight into the bathroom. As soon as I'm in the toilets, I look at myself in the mirror.

The petite hourglass figure, the chopped dark hair. But I don't recognize my own eyes. They're blue. The same shade as my lips. My lips. Finally, it hits me. Craig? Are you in here, buddy? I look slowly at Jim as he walks in. He's got a soft expression furrowing his eyebrows, and his hands are in a surrendering gesture as he walks in.

Hey, bud, he says quietly. Sarge says you weren't feeling too good. Are you all right? It's hard to force the words out. Jim, what's up, Craig? I look at myself and back at him. I'm the blue lady, Jim. Look at me. See the blue lady?

I am the blue lady. I snap. Look at me. He doesn't say anything. He just blinks at me for a second. It's like I can see the gears in his head turning. You don't believe me, do you? I bet you're all talking about me out there.

You all think I'm insane. Jim's expression turns more melancholic. No. I don't think you're insane. insane, he says. In fact, this is actually starting to make a lot of sense to me. What? I think you need to come with me, Craig. We have something to show you. Jim drives us both back to the old apartment, except this time it's crawling with people, people with odd masks and entire body suits. At first, it's hard to see what they're doing, but as I watch them bustle around like ants, I noticed that

they're carrying things in their gloved hands. I spot the gigantic box, the one with all the cigarettes in it, being carried by one of the mysterious figures. I follow them with my eyes and watch them place the box in one of their nondescript white vans before I look at Jim. These are the people you called, aren't they? I figured you might have heard that, besides. But yeah, you knew what was going on the whole time? I growl at him. No, Jim answers. I had no idea what we were walking into. I got a sense that we were walking into something fucked when I saw all those sketches.

But when you breathed in the cigarette, he trails off and shakes his head. I should have acted quicker. I should have got you to wait outside as soon as I put the pieces together. I'm sorry, Craig. Jim, what the actual fuck is going on? Can you just be straight with me for a second? Jim looks at me with a half smile and then pulls out some kind of eye. As I look over it, I frown.

SCP? What the hell is that? The SCP Foundation is an organization set up to secure, contain, and protect the public from paranormal phenomena, Jim says. I've been with them longer than I've been with the police. That's why I believe you. Or, at least, I believe something's going on with you, and you're not insane. It's like a weight is lifted off my shoulders when I hear that. That's why I've told you about the SCP Foundation because... Well, I worry about you, buddy.

You saw what happened to the last guy who got affected by this thing. So, can you help me? I don't know, Jim replies. But we'd be the best people to try, and we know you aren't crazy, which is something the rest of the world probably won't understand. I look down in my hands. They are sleek, thin, and feminine.

He's right. The world won't understand. And I don't think it's the kind of thing a person just gets used to. I don't think I'll ever get used to looking in the mirror and seeing someone else. Not to mention. The suicide note. It runs through my head again. I see her everywhere.

That sad blue lady. I feel like I used to know her, but I can't remember. I love her, but I don't know. why she's so beautiful and sweet and clear but I don't know anymore this could get worse I could become even more incoherent I look at Jim again I don't look like the blue lady to you do I no Jim answers quietly I nod and return my gaze to my hands already I'm being driven out of my mind by something no one else can see I I make my decision.

It's going to be better to be with people who know what I'm going through, who could perhaps help me, than to be alone and free in a world where everyone thinks I'm going insane. I return my gaze to Jim. What do I have to do? He smiles and then puts the lanyard on around his neck. Follow me, he says. I'll get you a nice room at the facility, buddy.

So I leave the police vehicle, unsure if I'm ever going to return to it. SCP-13 is the collective designation of 242 cigarettes which display similar anomalies. The most common external detail between instances is the presence of the words, Blue Lady, handwritten on each cigarette in blue ink. Subjects who consume the contents of SCP-13 through inhalation will begin to perceive themselves as a specific unidentified woman. Subjects have described the woman to be aged between 25 and 35 years old.

standing approximately 1.6 meters tall with an estimated weight of between 50 and 55 kilograms. Additional recurring details include cropped, dark hair, blue eyes, and bright blue lipstick. Immediately after consuming an instance of SCP-13, subjects will gradually begin to perceive reflections of themselves as having the features of the woman, and will gradually perceive their bodies changing to reflect her appearance over the course of the following week. weeks. All changes are entirely mental. The subject's body does not change outwardly, only their perception of themselves. These alterations are permanent and cannot be reversed.