The SCP Experience - I'm a Containment Specialist, and This is My Masterpiece | SCP-5101

Episode Date: April 3, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-5101: I'm a Containment Specialist, and This is My Masterpiece This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5101 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * 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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DePos minimum of 10 dollars. Veil to pay The conditions apply. The hands don't seem like my own as I stare down with itchy, burning eyes at the pistol cradled in them. I haven't slept in days, and I feel like I'm going insane. Or maybe I already am insane. I glance over at the mutilated body in the corner of the containment chamber. If that's not evidence of my insanity, I don't know what is.

But I had a job to do. I was tasked with a very important job. And I was threatened with the possibility. of what could happen if I didn't do the job. So I did it. I did it, damn it. I'm a containment specialist after all, and I'm good at what I do.

So I stare down at the gun in my hands, and I wait, and my mind goes in circles. There's only one last thing left to do. One more thing to make sure the containment works. To ensure my masterpiece is truly that, I stare at the gun. My mind, a great, roaring, deafening buzz of static. The minutes pass.

I close my eyes. It feels so good to close my eyes. Julius? The voice is clear as a bell, and so is the fear in it. I smile and open my eyes. Shut the door, will you? I say to Ross as we walk into my office. Ross shuts the door and takes one of the two seats in front of my desk,

throwing himself down as if he hardly has the strength to stand any longer. I know how he feels. This latest project has been the very dead. definition of a marathon. He brings one slender finger up and jams it between his necktie and a shirt collar, loosening the tie, and then bringing his thumb into the fold to unbutton the top button. Damn, he says. I can't wait to get some sleep in my own bed. You can't wait, crouching to unlock one of my bottom desk drawers. You're a young man. Wait until you're in your 40s. I can't believe I haven't had a heart attack yet. Ross chuckles as I pull out the

bottle of tequila and two glasses. I pour us a couple of drinks and then take a seat in the other visitor's chair. I'm technically Ross's boss, but that relationship is on pause while we celebrate our success, yet another SCP safely contained. For now, we're just two co-workers who've just finished a project and are taking a much deserved breather. We clink glasses and drink. How's everything at home?

I ask after a few moments of silence. Oh, you know, Ross says, running a hand through his brown, blonde hair. Rooney wants me home more often to help with the baby, but she knew what she signed on for. I nod in commiseration, the tequila warming my stomach. How about you? He asks. I sigh. I'm unsure how much I want to tell him.

But something about the tequila and the exhaustion has turned my I don't give a damn meter up a few notches. Colleen knew what she signed on for too, but after so many years of it, she's almost at her breaking point. I'm kind of surprised she hasn't asked for a divorce yet. Oh, Ross says, shocked. Damn, I had no idea. A sudden regret makes me question my decision to tell him. No turning back now. Well, I've got the next three days off.

Plus, I'll be taken the month of May off. I've already cleared it with 0.56. Let me tell you, though, it was like pulling goddamn teeth, even just to get three days off. Ridiculous. Ross, sips his tequila and stares down into his glass. It only gets harder, doesn't it? He asks, without looking at me. I mean, I know we're doing good and all that.

But I didn't think it would be like this. It's like working in some giant faceless corporation. They clearly don't give a shit about us. I open my mouth, but don't say anything. I'm caught between wanting to lie to the kid, so he'll stick around and telling him that he's right, and to get out while he can still start another career. My laptop pings with a new email notification. Thankful for the distraction, I get up and move around the desk.

I set my glass of pale amber liquid down to unlock the computer so I can open the email. When I read it, my entire body tenses up. You've got to be fucking kidding me. What's wrong? Ross asks. They just gave me a new assignment, I say, fresh anger rushing through me. And they're giving me five days to get it done. No three days off?

Ross asks. I shake my head, clenching my teeth. Damn, Ross says. That's messed up. I sit down on my desk chair and finish off the rest of the tequila, rereading the email. You going to need my help? Ross asks. In my rage, I almost forgot he's still there.

No. I say. This one's just for me. Go home before they put you on another project, too. You sure? I can stay. Go home, Ross. This is your boss talking now. Ross tries to put on a sorry face, but it's clear he's relieved.

He leaves the glass on my desk and heads out, closing the door behind him. I reach over and down the last gulp of liquor from his glass, and then turn back to the computer again to read the email for the fourth time. From Attendant J.L. To Julius Green. Mr. Green, 056 has requisitioned your assistance with the containment of a classified anomaly. Further context is attached to this message. You were to drop all existing projects and focus all your efforts on this task.

Note that this anomaly is classified pitch black in terms of information control. As a result, the following measures will be taken upon your completion of this task. You will undergo amnestic therapy to remove all memories of your work with the anomaly. You will be subject to additional cognito agents designed to prevent you from reasoning what you have been doing during your missing portion of memory. You are expressly forbidden from discussing your work with any colleagues. If this directive is not followed, severe consequences will ensue, including possible termination of language privileges.

The anomaly you are working on will not be listed in any foundation. database and you will not receive credit for your work. You have five days from the time of this email to complete the task. 056 awaits your agreement to these terms. Reply at your earliest convenience. Fucking attendant J.L., I mutter. I know he's running the show up there. Everything is ostensibly from 056,

but attendant J.L. does much of the micromanaging. He's had it out for me ever since I called him out for being full of shit during a group meeting once. meeting once. He was talking out of his ass, pretending like he'd researched the SCP in question when it was clear he hadn't. So I called him out, embarrassing him in front of everyone. I thought he would end up getting demoted, but he didn't. Ever since then, he's been out to make my life miserable. He could have easily gotten some other senior containment specialist assigned to this case, but he didn't. He chose me. Plus, he hasn't given me much to work with.

I don't even know what object class the thing is, much less its anomalous properties. So I quickly draft an email telling him that I have the next three days off and won't be able to do this project. I tell him that 056 has already cleared the days off. And I hit send. Lucky not to break my mouse as I do so. I stand up and quickly grab my jacket, thinking I'll leave before he has a chance to respond. My shift is over. I'm done.

I'm going home. But as I move toward the door to my office, my desk phone rings. I hang my head as it continues its shrill interruption. Then I look up at the camera in the corner of the room. I already know who's on the phone. And I know what will happen if I just leave now. Hell, he'll probably have a security officer stop me from leaving anyway. I stalk back over to my desk and pick up the phone.

What? Mr. Green, attendant J.L. says. Oh, five, six has rescinded your request for three days off and is prepared to rescind your month's vacation if you do not cooperate. Now, please get to work. You have approximately four days and 23 and a half hours left to finish the task. I squeezed the handset until my hand hurts. With all due respect, I need something more.

I don't even know what I'm containing. I need more information before I can determine containment procedures. Secrecy is one thing, but if you're going to amnesthetize me anyway, why not tell me so I can get the job done quickly. Negative. We will not accept further delays, and we'll take drastic action if you continue to disobey a direct order. The line goes dead. I pulled the handset away from my head and look at it for a moment before slamming it down into the cradle.

I rip my jacket off and toss it aside. Then I sit at my desk and try to settle down. Rurbing my eyes and fighting off exhaustion, I get to work. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off.

Bien-to-a-boree, embarked and profite. Embarque and celebrate. Rigolet. Publié, savouring, admire, and profite. Virarai, the voice that we love. Circles, circles, circles, circles. My mind is going in circles. I've been thinking in circles.

How do you contain something that you don't know what it is? How can you keep something from getting out if you don't know what it's capable of, or how powerful it is? I'm standing in the designated containment chamber for this current project, looking at the three concentric circles I've drawn in chalk on the floor. Three circles, each different sizes, but all with a common center.

I'm on to something, but I'm too exhausted to keep my thoughts in order. I just need to focus. Focus! I've brought in a chair and a stool. My laptop sits atop the stool, open to a document detailing my notes on this project. I've been researching every single other containment I've done, trying to pull from each of them so I can do something more general and less specific. Because I have no choice.

I have a good idea what will happen if I don't deliver on this one. The chair calls my name, so I walk over and collapse into it. Leaning back, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. After a minute, I feel my mind calming. My thoughts falling into some sort of coherent order. Then my computer dings with a new message. You bastard, I say, already knowing who the email will be from. email will be from. I've been working for three days now, and I've received no less than six

messages reminding me how much time I have left. I've sent back several hostile replies, which hasn't helped things. It has just increased his micromanaging. Now, I open my eyes, sit up, and look at the laptop. Just as I knew it would be, the message is from attendant J.L. It says, your deadline is approaching. See the check. your work is complete in two days' time. If you do not deliver by the deadline, we may be forced to investigate your prior assignments and potential reversion of changes you have made

to these containment procedures. We may also have need to question your loyalty to the foundation. This could entail investigation and potential detainment to coworkers, family members, and close friends who could be potential enemy contacts. Complete erasure of your personnel file from Foundation records. Complete erasure of your identity via use of amnestics. Termination.

This is something that would bring us no pleasure, but would see no other option if you deliberately delay this task further than you already have. Already have? I say out loud. Already fucking have! I still have two days, God damn it. I haven't delayed shit already, you spineless.

I pause as the solution falls under place like a guillotine blade during the reign of terror. standing up from the seat, I stare down at the circles on the floor. It could work, I whisper, smiling for the first time in a long time. It could fucking work, circles. The elevator door slides open. Attendant J.L. flinches in surprise as he sees me, his dark brown eyes widening at the sight of his old nemesis waiting in the elevator.

He recovers quickly, straightening, and using his free hand to brush imaginary debris from the top of his bald paint. He has a designer jacket thrown over his left forearm, a match to his expensive suit, complete with a silk tie, and a luxury suit vest. What are you doing? You're not supposed to be in this elevator. I smile. It makes me feel like I have broken glass rattling around in my skull. I know. Sorry. I'm just so excited. I needed to tell you. I figured it out. Good for you, Jail says. I'll be expecting your full report tomorrow. Circles. Circles, circles. The elevator door starts to close,

but I reach out and stick my hand in it. No, I think you should see this for yourself. It's going to change things for other containment procedures. Hell, we might even be able to use it to contain anything and everything. No more wasting hundreds of man-hours trying to tailor containment to specific anomalies. Just use this one and be done with it. And it will all have been done under your tutelage. J.L.'s rodent-like face changes, thin eyebrows coming thoughtfully together over a sharp nose,

as he imagines the accolades and bureaucratic back-slapping hill experience as a result of my work. Well, I was headed home. Veronica and I have an engagement with the governor. But I suppose... Oh, you're going to want to see this. I'll give you the rundown. Circles. Circles.

Circles. I can see on his face that he's getting there, but he's not quite ready yet. So I pull out my last card, my ace. By the way, I'm sorry about the emails. Really? I've just been so stressed out. Things aren't going well at home. I avert my eyes in shame as I trail off. This news perks JL up even further, and he takes the bait.

Very well then, but let's make it quick, he says as he steps onto the elevator. We make small talk in the elevator while I keep my eyes cast down, so J.L. knows he has the upper hand. We get off at subfloor 9 and walk down the mostly empty hallway. I direct him to the containment chamber I've been working in. We step into the observation room, but I've made sure to turn the lights off in the actual containment room because I don't want him to see what's in there. Circles, circles, circles. I show him into the room.

Stay here while I get the lights, I say, stepping back out of the dark containment chamber. Hurry up. Yes, sir. After turning on the lights, I grabbed the axe I freed from a fire suppression panel in the emergency stairwell. It was lying on an unused desk, hidden by my jacket. I stepped back into the containment room and pause behind J.L., who studies the circles. Circles, circles, circles. What the hell is this?

He asks, still not turning around. I hold the axe in both hands, ready to use it when the time is right. Well, I say. The first circle is a mixture of industrial-grade chalk and grain. The second is made of cement and pigeon blood. I pause, thinking of circles, seeing circles, going round in circles. Yes. And what's the third one made of?

J.L. asks. Well, the third one's not done. That's the most important one. And it just needs one more ingredient. Then, once I add that and do a few other things, it will be ready for the anomaly, J.S. says, Is this really why you brought me down here?

Some cockamamie scheme to contain this SCP with chalk, grain, and pigeon blood? He turns around in exasperation. As he sees the axe in my hands, he drops his designer jacket to the floor and looks at me like I just shit in his pants. You're forgetting the final ingredient! I shout as I raise the axe overhead and then sent it sithing down toward his head. He gets his hands up to block the hit, but it only delays the inevitable. He falls to the floor, screaming and looking at his now mangled hands.

You're forgetting human spinal fluid! I shout, this time burying the axe blade in his head. Several hours later, I'm sitting in the room and looking at the finished product, waiting for the final confirmation that I've done my job to the exacting standards of 056. J.L.'s body is in the corner, just a heap of dead flesh, minus the spinal fluid, which I extracted soon after his death. I'm still thinking in circles, but I can feel the end coming. I know this will work. I know it will because I'm good at my job. But I can't relax until I'm sure. I can't relax just yet, just a little while longer. The hands don't seem like my own as I

I stared down with itchy, burning eyes at the pistol cradled in them. I signed it out of the armory earlier today, before I went to get J.L. Senior researchers can get pretty much anything they ask for, within reason. I could have gotten a D-class down here for the final ingredient. Hell, I could have had someone else do the dirty work of extracting the spinal fluid, but I don't think that would have worked. It had to be this way. It had to be special. There's only one last thing left to do. One more thing to make sure the containment works. To make sure my masterpiece is truly that.

I stare at the gun. My mind a great, roaring, deafening buzz of static. The minutes pass. Circles. Circles. I close my eyes. It feels so good to close my eyes. Julius!

J.L.'s voice is as clear as a bell, and so is the fear in it. I smile, and I open my eyes and look to the center of the circles. There he is, standing there in the smallest circle, the one with his spinal fluid mixed in with the chalkboarder. He has no injuries. His hands are intact. So is his head. What the hell have you done to me? He asks, voice rising with indignation.

I stand up and point with the pistol over to his body in the corner. That's what I've done to you. Oh, dear God! He says and tries to step out of the circle, but he can't. It's as if there's an invisible wall there. What have you done? He asks, tears streaming down his face. I give him a minute, standing well outside the outer circle.

I don't want to mess anything up. I watch as J.L. collapses to his knees and balls. All I can think is, circles, circles. Circles, circles. Finally, when the waterworks are slowing down, I ask him. What needs to be done? What? He asks, looking like he'd forgotten I was in the room.

What are you talking about? You know, I say. What needs to be done? How is the containment? Is everything in order? Something like knowing comes into his face, which loses its grimace as he stands up and looks at me. Everything is in order, he says.

containment is successful. Great, I say, smiling wanly and pointing the pistol at him. I knew it would work. Julius, no! J.L. screams. No, please. Sorry, I say. This is just the way it works.

You should be happy. You're doing your part. Your loyalty to the foundation is not in question. Jail falls silent as the full weight of his situation dawns on him like an atomic bomb flashing on the horizon. I smile. Circles. See you next month.

I pulled the trigger, executing J.L. for the second time in a day. His body thumps to the floor and then disappears. He'll be back in a month to advise whoever is in charge of this SCP on whether anything needs to be replenished. Then you'll have to be killed again. That's just the way it works. I leave the containment chamber,

stopping in my office to send the final report to 05C. 6, complete with the whole truth of what I've done and how I've done it. When I hit send on the report, I sink back into my office chair, and then I think about circles. And circles. And circles. Until I think no more. SCP 50101 is a set of anomalous containment procedures, which, when properly enacted, prevent any entity within its boundaries from interfering with the outside world.

prevent any sentient entities in the outside world from interfering with that which is contained. Due to the lack of information on how SCP 5101 operates and the suspicious nature of its creation, it has been denied redesignation esthaumial and is instead currently being used to contain itself.