The SCP Experience - Killer Ink (Part 2) | SCP-021 & SCP-159

Episode Date: March 4, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class anomalies, SCP-021 & SCP-159: Killer Ink (Part 2) This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-021 and https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-159 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

The laughter takes me by surprise. It starts deep in my chest and works up my throat. The smile it forces on my lips feels forced and painful. Laughter used to come easily to me, especially when writing in formation with my brothers. The laughter dies almost as quickly as it was born, smothered in a crib of paranoia. Clever, right? I've been taking a few writing classes online in my spare time. Not sure how well it's working out. Legitimate university. like to peek into your background to make sure you're a good fit before cashing the check. And while I have been reading a lot more lately, I still like to keep my past as a closed book.

The fingers tracing down my back are supposed to be comforting, like the joke she whispered in my ear. Instead, it nearly makes me plow my scooter into a nearby telephone pole. Taking a deep breath, I lean in the opposite direction and manage not to kill me or my passenger on the back. A gasp comes from behind me, followed by a quiet chuckle. Land of smiles and opposites, remember? Learning to drive on the left side of the road was one of the many things I had to get used to after moving to Thailand. The pain in my shoulders and chest, specifically not reacting to it, was harder.

Especially when it creeps up and down my legs, like it has a mind of its own. The most challenging part, though, was not looking over my shoulder all the day. time. Trust me, the one thing that makes people know you're on the run is acting like you're on the run. Learning how to behave in a way close to normal again took a lot of time and patience. I'm younger than most guys who come to Thailand for the long haul. Luckily, my appearance does me a few favors in that department. My skin has paled considerably in the last year, bits of hair routinely falling out of my skull, and the constant hot weather led me to shearing it down to my scalp. Lots of people assume I retired early because I contracted some diseases that

cut my life expectancy in half. So, naturally, I decided to spend my last remaining years someplace cheap and beautiful. Some days, I wish that was the case. Doing my best to shake the unease off from my ride, I adjust the side mirror on my bike. B beams back at me in the reflection. Her brilliant smile dimming just a few watts when she sees the look on my face. She must think she's distracting me because she lowers her hands to my waist, still close, but now out of necessity and not out of any form of infatuation. I try to flicker the smile she brought back to life, but it's been so long that I'm not even sure I can fake it. My eyes linger on the scars dotted above each of my knuckles. If you squint, you can still make out the faded outlines of the letters N, D, L, and S.

The ink for my old tattoos was sucked out alongside the rest of the designs drilled into my body last year. People who get too close and see the removed tattoos and buzzed head think I'm a former neo-Nazi. I don't bother correcting them. Misinformation is your friend when you're on the run. My body goes rigid as a car pulls up behind us at the red light. State side, the car would have been black or blue and white. In Thailand, the Royal Thai police deck out their cruisers in the same beige as their uniforms, framed with splashes of red along the tops and bottom.

Even after all this time, a cop car still makes me sweat, while I tally everything on my scooter and person. Nothing illegal. The revelation is another thing I have to get used to. Back home, I never would have ridden far without a gun on my bird, bike or my person, and there was usually at least one stray joint tucked somewhere on me for safekeeping. Cop cars are a good thing now. The thought is shocking but true. People are less likely to take a shot at you with the popo nearby. Relaxing back into my seat, I take a left and the cops turn right,

and I somehow manage to hide the shutter of relief from B. The bar is just a couple of intersections after that. I watch Bee get off the back of my bike and enjoy the sight of her in short shorts as she saunteres inside. A quick toss of her head over her shoulder, followed by a wink, lets me know I'm as subtle as I've ever been around the opposite sex. My sigh is mixed with longing and reluctance. I never had to worry about women when I was with the hellhounds. There was always a hanger on, willing to share a bunk with me for a night or two at the clubhouse. B is both young and eager enough that I know she would give any of the girls in my past to run for their money. But there are other things at play that I have to consider, like the fact that B has a kid.

I met him once when her mom was too busy to watch him, a funny toddler with his mother's smile that is going to keep her busy with headaches when he's older. Fatherhood was always something I figured would happen to me, but later rather than sooner. But now that can never happen. I always have to keep one eye open now, just in case. It wouldn't do B or her kid any good to have a man like me in their life. I guess that's something else Bo managed to steal from me without trying. I kick the stand at the bike down and follow B into the bar.

Time to get to work. You can find expat bars practically anywhere in Thailand. Hot spots like Bangkok and Pataya and the islands are filled with them. But even this far north into Isson, where English is about his country, ominous snow, you'll still find a few pockets of people from Western nations, mostly retired men who fell in love with a local girl a decade or two their junior. Luckies is one such bar, the only Ferang owned and operated joint within a hundred miles, or kilometers, I guess.

Luckies is about as far from the name as possible. In the year since I've been here, we've dealt with power outages, a rat infestation, and the first flood the area has seen in 20 years. somehow, the place is still standing. I guess that's something the old bar and I have in common. Before becoming a biker, I majored in economics. I never finished my degree, but after being cut off from my parents and their old money, I quickly learned how to pinch a penny and stretch a dollar.

As such, I had a bit more in savings than most guys in the club living from paycheck to paycheck. That made it easier for Bo to convince the other guys I had turned in. into a rat. I sigh and look at my stained cloth resting on the bar. Have you ever seen one of those true crime docs focusing on mobs or gangs? The ones focusing on the guys that get out and how thankful they are for escaping a life of violence? That'll never be me. I loved being a hellhound. Every day, from my raise as a nameless prospect to a respected treasurer, there was nothing else I could see doing with my life. But the guys would never believe me, even Big Dave. My oldest friend and sponsor had been willing to kill me.

In the end, I convinced him of my innocence, and Dave ended up catching the bullets Bo meant for me. His sacrifice gave me the edge I needed to come out alive. That and my new friend. Stop thinking about the past. It's good advice, so naturally, I don't take it. My tattoos were all long gone by the time Bo made his move to frame me. It saved me the long and grueling job

of handling it myself. I buried my cut of the cash in an oil drum and drained my bank accounts. I didn't have enough to retire in luxury, but I did manage to buy a new identity and get off the hellhounds radar. This is my life now, and it's time I get used. Looking up in the bar, I freeze. Lucky's is a bare-bones establishment. It's mostly bamboo tables thoughtlessly arranged with a semi-open floor plan. The walls are lined with dusty small flat screens, and a few antique fans struggling to push the hot air around until the sun goes down. Buckets of ice help keep the customers in their big bottles of local beer cool and hydrated until it's time for their wives to load them up in the backs of their cars.

In short, it's a lot like the dives I used to frequent when I wore leather and rode a Harley instead of a scooter. Sometimes, when the music is blaring with just the right amount of jack in my gut, I can pretend like it's old times. night, that feeling is too much like the good old days, and it's all because of the table at the center of the bar. I didn't notice them at first. Each of them has drifted in throughout the night. What was once a table of one is now a table of six. It started with an older guy wearing his hair and matching beer down to his chest, despite the hot weather. He's been joined by a Thai man

about ten years younger and built like a mooie tie fighter. Still, another man joins their number, short, squat and wide. He's covered in tattoos, even the sides of his face. The rest nod as he sits down and speaks in hushed tones over their beer and whiskey. My mouth goes dry as I lean against the bar, acting like I'm scrubbing an especially stubborn stain from the chipped wood. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I see several Harleys sticking out amongst the scooters and Toyotas from our regulars. The sound of an American-made engine throttling through the night used to never get past me, but I let my guard down. Stupid. Forcing air into my lungs, I keep my hands under the bar

until they stop shaking. When they finally do, I fill a tumbler with ice, then empty a bottle of Johnny Red into the glass. The liquid heat soothes my nerves and gives me a chance to survey the other tables. Shit! Ignoring the stab of fear, I grab a couple of limes and a knife, then start slicing. Two more tables are filled with similar-looking customers. They might not be decked out in their cuts and leather, but that bullshit about bikers wearing their colors while committing crimes is just for movies and TV. Bikers are criminals who take great pride in their clubs,

but they're not idiots. There's no quicker way of getting caught and letting some Johnny Do Good get a glimpse of your colors while you're putting the hurt on someone. We've had bikers here before, of course. They behaved pretty much the way you would expect, drinking the place dry, while blaring music and starting a few people.

scuffles. But those were all retirees, former accountants and electricians playing pretend. These guys might not be sporting their cuts, but you can spot a legit one-percenter from a mile away. The fact they came in here quietly and in disguise is not good news for me. B, I finished my drink and draped the washcloth beside the limes. Cover the bar for a few minutes. I've got to take a dump. B is all smiles despite my proclamation. Tide, people aren't bigging on keeping things private like we are stateside. The first night I met B, she told me about a nasty period she was struggling with. That's another thing about life on the run. You never realize what you'll miss until it's time to move on. And I'm going to miss B's

oversharing almost as much as her smile. I keep my expression neutral as I walk around the bar and head toward the restrooms. It's a long hallway with a couple of closets with toilets on either side. Just past them is the employee exit. Without rushing, I slink past the bathrooms and draw nearer to the door when it suddenly swings open. The big man is just as surprised as I am, but quickly smiles. Hiya, Needles! The man filling the only exit out of Luckies is named Beauregard Barclay. Like myself, he was born with an unfortunate name, and like me, he avoids it like the plague. Names like his and Ned Chesterfield the third

don't exactly roll off the tongue when you're mixing with a bunch of outlaw bikers. I got my nickname because of the tattoos that used to cover nearly every inch of my body. The big man got his for more obvious reasons. My old president used to boast he was over six feet tall before he finished elementary school. Looking at him, I never doubted it.

Standing nearly seven feet tall, his body still bulges with muscles despite being over 60 years old. I'm only still alive because I caught him by surprise. Maybe he was expecting to find me here and apparently called in every biker in Isson for help. But he wasn't expecting me to sneak out while he was sneaking in. The grin on his face is menacing but mixed with restrained joy. He's happy to see me. Of course he is. He thinks I killed his son. and now he's going to beat me to a bloody pulp.

Panic swells in my chest and gets my blood pumping. Flight is kicking fights ass. My body tingles as adrenaline spikes through it. But it doesn't matter. With the big man's wingspan and ham fists, he can easily grab and snap my neck in one movement. Not that he'll be that quick. He'll take his time breaking every bone in my body

until my funeral will have to be a closed casket, assuming anyone finds my body. Before I can piss my pants, my fear meets my partner. Pain knots in my stomach briefly before uncoiling in a series of jagged spasms running down my leg. There's only one way out of this mess. I can't outrun the big man, so I'll have to run through him. His eyes widen as I charge forward, but his smile wides as well, no doubt remembering what a shit fighter I am.

The big man spreads his arms wide and welcomes my futile attempts to save my life. I raise my aching leg and slam it into his chest. My foot throbs with pain from the impact, but my boot knocks the big man ten feet backward into the neighboring building. I charge forward, adrenaline now firing on all cylinders as the pain retreats up my leg. It cuts through my ribs and drags up under my arm like a dull knife, but I don't falter. The big man raises a hand to the back of his head and pulls it away. Wet blood is sticky on his fingers, and he blinks in confusion as a jolt of agony rushes down

arms and settles in my fist. I only get a flash of the pink dragon's head before I swing my fist against the big man's jaw. A loud pop precedes the sound of broken bones. Bestial wrath raises from within me as I reach into my apron and pull out the knife I used for the limes. There's no time to be neat or clean. The blade flashes in the dull moonlight as I plunge it over and over into the big man's neck, face and chest. Blood splashes and flies through the air until the handles break. The blade buried into the big man's unseeing eye. I collapse on the ground his fury and stamina shut off at once. The big man's blood is a deep puddle, dragging my body down in crimson cuffs, broadcasting my actions for all to see. Move! I screamed silently at my body.

You just killed the president of the hellhounds. Get up and move, you stupid son of a bitch. My body refuses to do anything but suck in the night's air. It's hot and heavy with the metallic stink of death. Blood clogs my throat, and I turn and projectile vomit, adding more disgust to the alley. Any moment now, the door is going to slam open, and the bikers are going to come and expect the sounds of struggle. I close my eyes and wait for death. A minute passes, and then another. Slowly, I open my eyes and listen. All I can hear is the heavy warble of unrestrained guitars, accompanied by heavy drums and heavy bass. Metal. Pure. unadulterated hard rock, the soundtrack of rebellion and mayhem.

I can't tell who the band is through the closed doors. Pantera, Metallica, Judas Priest. It could be either of them or none of them. It doesn't matter. The music gets my heart pumping faster as the dragon swims across my arm, the sensation throbbing like a second heartbeat in time with the music. Get up, I mumble and wiggle my toes. The unknown singer's voice is a war cry, carried by dual guitars.

I hum along as warmth spreads through my body. The tattoo moving as if to motivate me to action. Get up, I say again, a little louder as I force myself to move. Taking another step, I nearly collapse when the drummer slams into a battle march, and I catch myself against the wall. Get up! Ten painful seconds of shaking knees and labored breathing keep me pinned to the wall. The crowd inside Luckies chant along with the music, providing a rhythm for me.

I put one foot in front of the other and drag myself along the bricks. Notting my head along to the music, I focus on the street lamp, flickering in the alley's opening. I growl with the bikers in the bar as the whiskey and music finally catch up to them. They whoop and holler, along with one of our many anthems. Lucky's walls shake, not used to accommodating the glee of dozens of outlaw bikers. The guitar riff pushes me forward, making my legs sturdy, and I dance out the alley like Angus Young at December Park. I'm a block away before I finally risk a laugh.

The effort nearly topples me over again, but I'm smiling broader than the thought of B on the back of my bike. I can't believe it. I survived because of rock and roll and Lucky's shitty sound system. The biker gods must be smiling down on me. My smile breaks as a woman's scream rips through the air. I almost double back before I remember all the bikers in the bar. They've gone through most of our beer.

Someone must have emptied the trash sooner than usual and found the big man. It won't be long before the bikers pieced together what happened. Even if he didn't give them all my description, being drenched in his blood is kind of a giveaway. My tattoo bites into my ass, but I don't need the reminder.

Ignoring the stitch in my side, I run away, hoping the late hour and dim lights will keep me safe. Back in America, wearing the wrong cut in the wrong part of town will get you killed. Things aren't the same in Thailand. Every foreigner who comes here is a farang, no matter what nation you originally hail from.

Something about that creates a bond of brotherhood between the bikers that transcends club loyalty. Fereng and Thai biker clubs get along fairly well. They raise hell together and sometimes form mixed clubs. The deadly rivalries between clubs are almost non-existent here. You'll see road warriors mingling with badgers and other combinations that would precipitate a gang war back home. The big man must have put the word out to the other outlaw clubs, and I guess they felt sympathetic with him.

The biker network in Thailand is unofficial but far-reaching, and someone must have gotten a glimpse of me in the past. The big man must have gathered as many volunteers as possible to stake out the small town I've been calling home. The night is even deader than usual. Drunk college kids usually stumbling home from the club keep their distance amongst the thunderous roar of dozens of Harleys. The unmuffled sound is the only thing that's kept me alive this long,

announcing my pursuer's presence long before their headlights fall on me. Reeking of garbage and coated in dried blood, I know it's only a matter of time before I get caught. Several roaring engines come up behind me. I turn right toward an alley, only to be blinded by a headlamp. I turn around, but there's an angry whoop as more bikes fill the passage. The open roads on either side of me become congested with more bikes as they circle. me. They've got me surrounded. With nowhere else to go, I lean against the wall of a nearby building.

Reaching into my apron, I find my crumpled pack of cigarettes. There's one left for a last smoke. How fitting. Well, we put up a good fight, didn't we? Outnumbering me at least 10 to 1, the bikers take their time getting off their bikes, strutting while they call out threats. The flame from my lighter reveals the place of my last stand, an old karaoke bar. I guess there are worse places to die. As I bring the flame to the cigarette's tip, the dragon uncurls its body and rests its head over my fists. Its mouth gnashes open and close near the smoke, as if trying to get a taste. Hell, who knows, maybe it can.

It ate all my tattoos, so why should smoke be any different? I inhale, savoring the taste of tobacco on my tongue and the sting in my lungs. Then I exhale slowly into the dragon's mouth as the bikes stalked near me. Adios, Amigo. Light stabs my eye, and I flatten myself against the wall. Don't people always talk about seeing a light before they die? Maybe one of the bikers was too eager and put a bullet in my head before the rest could get me. I never thought the light of the afterlife would be neon red like an open sign.

The bar's windows are so dark I can't see inside, but they make the four letters blare even brighter in the darkness. As a biker charges at me, I flick my cigarette. He screams as it catches his eye. He trips over his feet, taking out the others leading the charge, giving me just enough time to try the door. It's unlocked! Lazzang sur-gillet,

Pucance-Moyerned, We're like the Dojo. Preet. Live the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino on-line, the most recent machine-a-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours

gratuys on Big Bas Bonanza, without exigance of mise, and with the payment instantane. Hey, I've got gained. Woohoo! Sonture the pleasure! Play-O-Joe! 18 and more,

1,000 depots only excluents, 10-tourses, 50 tours, per cente when I dashed through the door and land hard on my chest. The tattoo swirls down my ankle again, eliciting another jab of pain

as a mule kicked the door behind me. A biker swears as he collides with the door and crashes loudly into the street outside. Shit! Pushing through the pain, I jumped to my feet and turn the lock. The door rattles on its hinges as the vengeful mob outside demands to be let in. Plunged in darkness, with the bikers frothing at the mouth for my death, I can't help but think of the last zombie flick I saw. Shuddering, I step away from the door, this time careful of what tripped me.

A long, thick power cord extends from the now-dead sign. Prongs from the end of the cord rest near an empty outlet beside the door. Seems like a shitty place to plug in a sign. But then who am I to be judging anyone's decisions at this point? Dear me, that looked dreadfully painful. Are you all right? Swearing, I spin around, looking for the new voice. A short tie man smiles back at me. His age is impossible to determine, just from looking at him,

and his clothes look way too fancy for a run-down karaoke bar in the middle of nowhere. He's decked out on a three-piece suit, the color of red wine, complete with a matching bowler hat. Even the walking stick he's leaning on has a jewel bigger than my palm, the same shade of red. I do apologize, the man continues, oblivious or uncaring of the bloodthirsty rabble outside his bar. I only recently procured this establishment. I'm still in the middle of renovations. The guy is speaking English better than any Thai person I've come across. Hell, he speaks it better than me. There's no trace of an accent I can detect,

but something about his cadence and vocabulary reminds me of the old dinner parties my family used to throw for their high society friends. Thunder rattles the door and windows behind me, making me jump. Getting a hold of a gun in Thailand isn't the easiest thing to do, but it's possible if you know the right people. Some of the bikers must be in the know. One finishes reloading his sought-off shotgun

while two more reload their pistols. Get down! I rushed the strange man and tackle him to the ground while the bikers open fire again. We hit the ground hard. Gunfire is a sound I know intimately after my years as a hell hound. It's nothing like you hear on TV. It's a thousand times louder and makes the air reek of gunpowder. But these shots sound like the little poppers they give kids on the 4th of July. The bullets and pellets ping off the window and doors, leaving the bikers even more confused.

Bulletproof glass? The man beneath me chuckles, making me realize I spoke the thought out loud. Oh, nothing as pedestrian as that, Ned. I stare at the knowing smile of the tiny man and get off him slowly. He stands in one fluid motion that blurs my vision. Suddenly on edge, the tattoo rolls down my arm in waves of agony

before centering at my fist. Who are you? And how the hell do you know my name? My name is Pai. As sap, the man smiles. And I'm a collector of anomalies. Like the sign you tripped over and this magnificent tattoo currently on your arm. But it's not always there, is it?

I step back as cold dread crawls up my spine. Even the tattoo seems apprehensive, dragging its scales into my forearms as it retreats to my elbow. I picked up the tattoo after a drug-induced hookup. Unfortunately, it was also around when Bo was framing me. for embezzling club funds. The two incidents slammed into each other and gave me a death mark that I've barely been able to stand one step ahead of.

But despite all that, anomalies? I stare down at the tattoo. My curiosity peaked by Paisap. Is that what they're called? By people wishing to control them, yes. But I disagree with their methods and practices. Fortunately, their presence in Southeast Asia

is lacking compared to the rest of the world, allowing me some autonomy in procuring them. Get out here, Needles. A voice from outside interrupts our conversation. Come out now or we'll burn you out, you chicken shit murderer. A glare of warmth shines through the window, and I press against the dark glass to peer outside. With bullets not working, the bikers are deciding on more straightforward tactics. They've stuck bandanas into bottles of whiskey, which turned into wicks as the the alcohol-soaked fabric meets their lighters. Shit!

I stand back and look at my tattoo. While it can be a painful son of a bitch, it saved my life more than once. Even before it started giving me bursts of strength and speed, maybe it can save my life again. You're a collector, right? I extend my hand to Pysab. Get me out of here, and the tattoo is yours. It would be a fine addition to my collection, Pysap frowns. Then he waves his hand in front of him.

showcasing his attire. But I'm afraid it would clash with my usual ensemble. A tinkling sound, like a light rain against glass, turns me back to the window. The bottles have shattered against the building, unleashing flames circling the front. But they refuse to climb up the building. The bikers huddle around each other,

just as confused as me. They can't get in. Not while the sign is unplugged. That much, I assure you. I will give you my protection, Ned. Bysap holds up a finger. But my services do not come without cost. I don't need your anomaly, but rather an assistant to help me procure more.

You got it, I say without hesitation. Now call the cops and get rid of these assholes. Oh, Mr. Barclay had the police taken care of. They've been well compensated for their inattentiveness. Bysap doesn't bother explaining how we need. knows this. All he does is step up to the door and unlock it. I shout a warning, but he steps out into the flames. Just my luck to throw my lot in with a crazy person. The flames rage around Pysap, but he doesn't burn. The fire catches the crystal on his walking stick, and it glows.

The flames dim. The other bikers and I stare in open wonder as the crystal burns like a miniature sun before Pysap taps his cane onto the blacktop. The fire surges for The bikers in the lead scream, but the sound is quickly muffled as fire and ash clogged their throats, rendering clothing to ash, followed soon by their bodies. The next wave of bikers aren't spared either, but as their skin melts and runs down their bodies, the last one standing rush for their bikes. The fire shifts as Pysap taps his cane again, forming shadows that stretch as the heat intensifies. The outstretched fingers grip the bikers, holding them in place as they try in vain to start their engine.

More screams tear through the night before the flames find their gas tanks, creating a chorus of explosions that knocked me on my ass but don't even crack Pysapp's windows. Such a mess, Pysapp sighs, and steps back into the bar, leaving the dead bikers to turn to ash before the fire slowly fades. But sometimes the simplest solution is the most efficient. Come along, Ned. We have much work to do. With the danger passed, I can't shake my annoyance. ditching Ned Chesterfield the third was one of the few perks of going on the run.

You're not really going to call me that, are you? The air thickens as Pysap stops and leans on his cane. Cold sweat drips down my body as he turns his head and grins once more. Very well. If that's the nom de plume, then do come along, needles. I take a deep breath and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into now before falling in line. SCP 21 takes the form of a large and elaborate tattoo of a serpentine dragon in the oriental style, covering approximately 0.8 square meters of skin.

This tattoo is fully animate within the confines of its host's skin, and behaves largely as a normal animal would, albeit in only two dimensions. SCP21 confers some benefits to its host. The tattoo provides boosts of strength, confidence, and pain tolerance in stressors. situations and reduces the usual after effects of weakness and fatigue. In addition, the tattoo seems to have some beneficial effect on the host's immune system. SCP 159 has the appearance of a standard neon sign reading, Open, of the style commonly found in small businesses. When SCP-159 is displayed through a window of a building and deactivated by removing it

from a standard power outlet, the building will become impossible to enter by any means. The locking effect ceases immediately when SCP-159 is reattached to a power outlet. If SCP-159 is switched off and then removed from its power outlet, its effect will not activate. When SCP-159's locking effect is active, the structure which it is displayed within will become effectively indestructible from the outside. Building materials will withstand forces that would normally destroy them, up to and possibly, possibly surpassing moderate artillery bombardment. The affected structure will remain completely undamaged. Testing is shown that protected structures will be unharmed by heat, hurricane speed winds,

kinetic force, undermining, tunneling, explosive charges placed on the outside of the structure. Persons within a structure affected by SCP 159 may leave at any time, but may not reenter until 159 is deactivated. The effect persists if windows, doors, and other portals are opened, with outside forces continuing to yield as if they were closed. Additionally, a buffering effect appears to prevent forces such as shockwaves and extremely high heat from penetrating the surface of the affected building. D-class within the structure during artillery tests reported that the concussive forces rendered

by test weaponry was greatly muted to the point that an open container of water did not react. If a piece of SCP-159's tubing expires, it may be replaced by a matching part. SCP-159's effect will manifest whether or not there is neon tubing installed. SCP-159 will fail to activate if it is unplugged during a power outage.