The SCP Experience - Interdimensional Nomads | SCP-5076

Episode Date: January 30, 2023

Check out my brand new UFO podcast here: THEY'RE OUT THERE SCP Foundation KETER class object, SCP-5076: Interdimensional Nomads This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-5076, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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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on the machine-a-Bass Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. De Poconimeimee of $10 $0. The conditions apply. There's a flurry of activity along the road. Police cars and foundation vehicles mingle as men and women in uniform run here and there, trying to get a handle in the situation.

I'm forced to drive slowly in my fort interceptor sedan, even though there's really no time to waste. A couple of cops stopped me at the intersection of 183 in Thomas Street. Beyond the official vehicles on the shoulder to my right, there's nothing but a wall of lush Pennsylvania greenery. Pennsylvania greenery. To my left, past the intersection, I can see a couple of single-family homes. The mid-morning sun is dull thanks to cloud cover, and the forecast calls for rain in the next couple of hours. If something like this had to happen, I'm glad it happened during the day.

Darkness just makes things that much harder. The street cops are carrying semi-automatic weapons, which doesn't bode well for this situation. Clearly, emotions are running high, which only make my job harder. What a mess. I rolled down my window as one of the cops, a kid, barely out of high school, approaches. Who are you? he says.

Before I can jump into a long spiel about how he's probably never heard of my rank or organization, a woman in a foundation uniform runs up. Sorry, sir. She says, taking him. over. You can go through. I nod at her and roll my window up. The young cop glares at her as she turns and talks to him. She gestures at the unmarked foundation vehicles all around, explaining how this is our show, not theirs. And then she tells him to get out of the way. Rolling through

the impromptu roadblock, I travel about 300 feet before coming to another one. Only this one is more serious. Vehicles are parked across the road. And people with high power. rifles are using them for cover. There's a parking lot to my left with a command vehicle in it. I swing into the lot and park next to the evacuated Italian restaurant there. Before I'm even out of my interceptor, Arjo is exiting the RV-sized command vehicle, jogging up to me with something in his right hand. Here's the situation, Arjo says, his dark eyes serious. We don't know how many there are or what their intentions are, just that they have hostages, and that the local 911 dispatch was flooded with calls about people disappearing. Here one second, gone the next. As he speaks, he hands me an

earpiece, which I take and insert into my right ear. Next, he hands me the wireless transmitter, which is small enough to stick in my back left pocket. He's telling me stuff I already know, but it's always good to hear things multiple times. Besides, you never know what is changed on the way over. A lot can happen at just a few minutes. How many hostages? I ask him, popping the interceptor's trunk and grabbing a vest. We don't know, Arjo says. We've only seen five, but there could be more. We don't have eyes in the sky yet. And do we have a solid perimeter around the town? Not yet, he says, working on it. As I fasten the bulletproof vests, Velcro straps, I look over past the roadblock. I can't see anything from here. The rest of

is in the way. I look back at Harjo. He smiles weakly, running a hand through his fuzz of jet black hair. The world seems to go silent, just for a moment. It's peaceful. I take a deep breath. Supposed to rain later, I say. Harjo looks up at the sky as if to verify. He says nothing. He's waiting on me. I take another deep breath and verify that I left my sidearm in the car. Okay, let's do this thing. Parjo nods and heads back into the command vehicle. Walking slowly to the corner of the restaurant, I waved to the men at the roadblock.

They nod, several of them looking at me like I'm crazy. Maybe I am, but I'm good at what I do. Pretty damn good. The thing is, it only takes one bad day to end at all. Chat, chat, can you hear me? Arjo says, am I right here? Loud and clear, I say. Can you hear me?

Loud and clear, Porter, he says. Picking up the pace, I move around the restaurant, bringing the 4th Street intersection into view. There are several overturned vehicles creating a barrier on this side of 4th Street. I see no movement as I move into the middle of 183, also known as Chestnut Street in this part of town. I know this because I studied the map on the way over. Keeping my arms away from my sides, I walk within 20 feet of the barrier, then stop. I wait a few months. moments, hoping someone or something will come out and talk to me. Nothing happens. Hello.

I call out. My name is Porter, and I would like to talk to you. We don't want any more bloodshed. Nothing happens. Not for several moments. Then I notice a flicker of shadow through the windows of an overturned sedan. A blur of reddish-brown streaks into the air, landing on the upward-facing bottom of the car. The metal groans and shrieks.

as the car moves slightly under the weight. I find myself staring up into an orangutan's face, an orangutan holding a pump-action shotgun in its hands, the barrel of which is pointed directly at my head. I keep my face impassive, but it takes some effort. I was told that it was orangutans, or at least some creatures that look like orangutans, but I still wasn't really prepared for it.

Maybe it's all those Planet of the Apes movies I've seen, adding to the sense of unreality. I feel like if I turn around, I'll see a camera crew instead of a bunch of people with guns. You speak English? I ask. Reports say yes, but I don't want to assume. The communication field allows us to understand, yes, the creature says. I'm Porter, with your name.

Dob. It says, I'm a male, in case you were wondering. I detect condescension in his voice and make a mental note of it. It's nice to meet you, Tobe, I say. I'd like very much to talk to someone in charge. Is that possible? Tobes his lips together and glances quickly over his hairy shoulder. When he turns back, he says, They attacked us. We didn't provoke them at all. We had to defend ourselves.

That's fine, tell him. That's just what I want to talk to someone in charge about. I want to get this thing figured out for the benefit of everyone. Without a word, Tobes jumps off the car. disappearing on the other side. A moment later, the car spins on its roof. Tobes appears, pushing on the vehicle to move it. He gestures for me to walk in through the lanes he's created by spinning the car. I'm going in, I say under my breath.

I walk past the barrier, crunching broken glass with every step. Chestnut Street is lined with modest homes on both sides. And I can see orangutan faces staring out most of the windows. Many of them are holding rifles and handguns high enough for me to see. I don't think that's a mistake. Tobe escorts me down the road for two blocks before we take a ride on Second Street. I see plenty of orangutans, but no humans. I wonder if they're all being held hostage in their homes,

or if the flurry of 911 calls about people disappearing is closer to the truth. We come to a church at the intersection of Maple and Second. As we go inside, there are several heavily armed creatures flanking the foyer. They glare up at me as I walk past. In the front, a large orangutan with cheek pads and a throat pouch sits on the stage in a chair. I don't know much about these primates, but I do know that the dominant male develops distinctive flanges on the cheeks and neck. This must be the leader. There are other orangutans in the corner of the room, guards, I suppose.

As Tob and I stop in front of the stage, Tob, kneels, I follow suit, wanting to show respect. Stand up, Foundation Man. The leader says in a booming voice, I stand, not bothering to hide the confusion on my face. The leader laughs, hairy hands gripping his belly. Yes, he says. We know all about the Foundation. We've interacted with people like you before. How? I ask. Alternate dimensions?

That's correct, the leader says. Our people, the Obobans, have been to many versions of Earth. But why? I trail off, hoping he'll take the hint. Call me, Archadad, he says. And to answer your question, we don't know why. We have no say on the matter. We are transported around from planet to planet, dimension to dimension. This has been the way since we started recording our history.

You didn't come here on purpose? Archaton shakes his head, chin, and cheek flaps wiggling with the motion. And we won't be here for very long. How long is not very long? I ask. We do not know. What about the people who are in this town, I say? Where did they go? We do not know.

For this, I apologize. It cannot be helped. Will they come back when you leave? It's possible. but I have no way of knowing. But do you have hostages? We have captured several men from the neighboring town who attacked us. Arkaton says.

They killed several of ours before we could subdue them. And how many of them did you kill? I asked, dreading the answer. Seven. Arcton says. It was an unprovoked attack. Not exactly, I think, but don't say. When a whole town disappears and is replaced with a bunch of talking

orangutans. It's no big surprise that people overreact. It's going to take a lot of amnestics to deal with this mess. Can I see the people you've captured? I ask. Arcaton mulls this over for a moment, the nods. I will take you there. I follow after Arcatan as he moves out of the congregation area, but he pauses as we approach the church's main doors. We may look like you're orangutans. He says. But we are not. Do not make the mistake of thinking we are. Right, I say.

You're Obobins, is that right? Architan looks pleased as he nods. He continues on. I follow, along with several others. As we get outside, we have a line of Obobins walking on either side of us, the leader's protection. We head up Maple Street toward a rail yard a block away. There's a dirt driveway into the rail yard straight ahead.

across First Street, to the right side of the driveway and shielding most of the rail yard from view as a strip of trees, maybe 30 yards wide. As we're crossing First Street toward the driveway, gunfire erupts from the trees ahead and to our right. An abobin to my right falls down, bright red blood, arcing out of a wound in its chest. I duck on instinct as a bullet strikes the road next to me. Pain erupts in my lower leg as bullet shards and pieces of asphalt embed themselves in my skin. Several of the Obobans have gathered around Arcton and are running him toward the rail yard. The sound of gunfire from the trees is deafening.

There must be at least a dozen people firing from there. Are these Armen? I shout as bullets whipped through the air around me. Negative. Arjo says in my earpiece. Do you want me to move in? Hold on! I yell.

Not yet. Another Obobin stops to return fire and goes down just ahead of me. Its skull flying apart as a bullet obliterates it. I'm falling behind Architon and his protectors, but I quickly realize that most of the abobins who were just around me are now nowhere to be seen. I limp on and throw myself down behind part of a fallen tree near the rail yard entrance.

The gunfire is sporadic now. I look back at the stretch of road we were just on and see two dead abobins there. The rest have simply disappeared. The firing slows, then stops. A human. Someone shouts from the thicket of the trees. Come over to us.

We'll protect you. Locals. They must have gotten inside before we could cordon off the town. They think this is war. I didn't need protection. I shout back. Stop your firing. Do not fire again.

Do you understand me? They are not our enemies. I can hear faint whispers coming from the thicket. I raise my head over the fallen tree and look toward the source of the noise. Someone takes a shot at me. The bullet smashing into the tree six inches from my face before I can duck. Lying down and counting myself lucky, I look up into the gray sky,

and blink as a raindrop hits right next to my eye. Within seconds, it's raining heavily, drowning out any whispering I could hear before. Gunfire erupts again from the trees, and it's joined by screaming. I grip the fallen tree and look over the top of it, peering into the foliage beyond. A reddish-brown figure drops from a branch and lands on a man in a white feeder shirt. The guy folds the wrong way from the weight of the abobin, his spine snapping.

Further in, an abobin swings on a springy branch with one hand, while the other hand holds a semi-auto rifle. It sprays bullets down into the humans below. Stop! I shout. No one hears me. Not over the rain and the gunfire and the screaming. Getting to my feet, I jump over the fallen tree and hobble toward the moon.

massacre. Men are running around, firing wildly into the branches above them. An abobin runs full sprint toward a guy who doesn't see it coming. The creature slams the guy in the back, sending him crashing face-first into a tree with a resounding crunch. Another obobin has gone empty, hurls his weapon like a spear at a man 15 yards away. The barrel thugs into the man's chest, impaling him. Stop! Stop! A yell still stumbling into the chaos. But I freeze as I see a man in a camo jacket and a backward black cap. He's hiding under some branches. His gun pointed directly at my head.

I'm less than 10 feet away. There's no way he'll miss. Fuck you traitor, he says. His finger tightens on the trigger. Frozen in place, I shut my eyes and wait to die. I hear the gunshot, but I don't feel the bullets impact. Somehow, I'm still alive. Opening my eyes, I see that an oboeuvre.

Obobin has landed on the man's back, crushing his chest. It must have caused the bullet to go wide. Exhaling a shaky breath, I noticed that the gunfire has stopped. A couple of men are still screaming out in the woods, but those screams are soon snuffed out. The obovens have killed them all. I guess hiding among the trees wasn't the best idea. Arangetans or not, the obovens, sure as hell, look at home in the branches. Arjo asks over my earpiece.

I'm here. I think everything's under control now. Just please tell me we have the damn perimeter up. We do. Arjo says. No one's going in or out without our say-so. Good, I say, turning and walking out of the thicket of woods. I take a seat on the muddy ground and pull up my bloody pant leg to inspect my injury. The rain continues to fall.

Architon appears beside me. His guards forming a wide circle around us. All their brownish red fur is dark and matted with rainwater. I hope this little incident won't reflect poorly on my people, he says. We were defending ourselves after all. I shake my head. What a mess. But it's true, they were defending themselves. And if those people hadn't tried to kill me too, I may have thought differently about it.

What about the hostages? I ask. They're still here, Arkaton says, gesturing toward a building in the rail yard. Still alive. I turn and look up into Arkitan's deep-set eyes and his broad face. I think we can come to an agreement, I say. I'm glad, Arkaton says. Every time we've had to fight the foundation, things have not turned out well.

I nod, considering this. Then something occurs to me. They haven't turned out well for who, I ask him. Arcton's lips peel back, revealing his teeth. I realize he's grinning. Who do you think? SCP 5076 refers to an anomalous event in which the inhabitants of a moderately sized human population center

spontaneously disappear, followed by the appearance of sapient members of the Pongo genus. According to current foundation knowledge, SCP 5076 has only occurred once, in Cresona, Pennsylvania, a northeastern borough formerly holding a human population of around 1, Cresona has since been designated site 5076-1. The orangutan specimens inhabiting the site demonstrate intelligence and vocal capabilities comparable to humans, as well as technological proficiency.

Human art, religion, and culture seem to be major topics of interest to the specimens. Due to the nature of their appearance at site 5076, claims regarding the history and culture of their species cannot be verified. Notable claims include they have no connection to non-anomalous members of the Pongo genus existing on Earth, referring to them as crude effigies. They are a race of interdimensional nomads known as the Obobins. They have existed long before humanity. Mass quantities of amnestics and considerable foundation resources have been deployed to contain and study SCP 5076. More information is forthcoming.