The SCP Experience - Killer Ink | SCP-021

Episode Date: February 8, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-021: Killer Ink This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-021 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author's work here: newpulptales.com 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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50 tours on the machine-a-Bass-Bonanza. DePos Minimimimum of 10 dollars. Veil to pay They're responsible. The conditions apply. My tattoos are a timeline of my life. I don't even remember getting the first one.

It was toward the end of high school. And I had a stomach full of booze and a brain full of weed. That's a vague memory of a pinch against my skin. And the buzzing of a machine in the background. I woke up in the morning with a hangover and a bandage over my arm. When I peeled it off, I found a cartoon parrot, winking. A sombrero on his head. and a joint in its beak completed the ridiculous image.

The few months before going off to college were spent hiding it from my parents. I always kept a shirt on, even when swimming in our pool. My parents came from old money. I was always expected to follow in their footsteps and eventually work in my father's business. I didn't know what I wanted to major in, but I was good at math, so my parents and I picked business and accounting. They figured it would be a solid. solid foundation until I was ready to inherit the company.

The parrot would prove to be the first fork in the road of my pre-planned life. It was a stupid-looking design, but it set me apart from all the other guys at our private school. It marked me as a rebel, a bad boy, something that even girls with trust funds have the hots for. Hell, especially girls with trust funds. That goofy bird did more to get me laid than my family's money ever did. I entered college as a rich kid with a stupid tattoo with a drunken story to match it.

Within my first month, though, I felt out of place. I'm not sure why. I was swimming in the same pool of blue blood that I had always tread in. But for some reason, the waters felt shallow. And even worse, somehow, I felt like I was drowning. Before the first semester was up, I found myself in another tattoo parlor. fully sober this time. It was off the path and had a rack of motorcycles waiting outside. Inside, every customer and employee had at least three tattoos visible. A grizzled and chubby biker

was inside, having a massive eagle tattooed over his chest. He looked at me and sneered, before looking back up at the ceiling, eyes closed, and not even flinching as the needles tore skin, the cuts filled with ink. The fear snapped me into a quick decision. Instead of running out the door, I pointed at the first image I saw in the artist's book, a skull and bones with a dagger between its teeth. The pierced artist frowned me while looking at my sweater vest and khakis. Some place the world won't see? No, the word sprang from my mouth without any thought. I wanted on my hand. I was stone cold, sober this time. But my nerves tingled with anticipation enough to give me a natural buzz.

The needles pierced through my skin, drawing blood, and I grunted. The tattoo artist then told me that hands were a bitch to tattoo because of all the nerve endings. He could have offered that tidbit up before we started, but he went back to work advising me not to flinch. As I tucked my head back into the chair, tranquility washed over the pain. The buzzing of the machine and the ache of my hand became one. A soothing blend of white noise that hypnotically had me closing my eyes. Holy shit. Did the kid fall asleep? I woke up to heavy laughter and the sight of the tattoo artist's grinning.

He dabbed a cloth with alcohol and wiped it over my sore hand. When he pulled it away, there was a skull, glossy and gleaming as if it had been copied and pasted from the book to my skin. I peeled my eyes off my tattoo and saw the same biker from before. The look of condescension from earlier was gone, and he smirked at me with a hint of approval. He lifted his sunglasses to his forehead, revealing tired but alert eyes. He looked at the skull and nodded. Not a bad piece of ink there, kid. I found a smile tugging at my lips, but the biker turned away before I could say anything.

He slung on a leather vest with the sleeve. leaves cut off. On the back was a snarling dog with the words hellhounds, Lexington, encircling it. The tattoo on my hand was impossible to hide, but the gasps and gawking from girls and classmates didn't have the same allure as before. I found it annoying, and my class is tedious and boring. More and more, I would slip away to the wrong side of town, adding to my collection of tattoos. A coiled snake around my left forearm, a pin-up of a biker girl on a Harley on my ribs, an American traditional clipper ship on my left shoulder, a tribal medallion on my thigh. Yeah, I might have been high for that one.

As the tattoos spread across my body, my grades began to drop. By my sophomore year, I spent most of my time with bikers, punks, drunks, and other ne'er-do-wells. They initially accepted me with a degree of chagrin and reluctance, but I was always quick to buy drinks. It was an easy way to make friends, but it made enemies out of my parents. My tattoos were impossible to conceal, so I didn't bother, and I still remember their words after they saw them. I was an embarrassment to the family.

How did I expect to inherit the family business and be taken seriously? They gave me an ultimatum. They would pay for laser surgery to remove the tattoos, but I had to pull my test scores up. It was either that, or they would cut me off financially and write me out of the will. I haven't spoken to my family since that day. I dropped out of college and scrimped what money I could from my accounts before my parents purged them. It was enough to put a down payment on an apartment on the rough side of the tracks.

I survived by working odd jobs wherever I could, and somehow... I always scraped enough cash together to buy another tattoo. From that point on, they became a personal fuck you to my parents. One night, when walking home from the bar, I heard a scuffle from an alley. A few guys were wailing on a lone man and a leather vest. A cold fury I had never experienced before ran through my body. I charged into the foray, slamming a nearby trash can into the closest mugger and kicking out the feet of another.

I learned a very important lesson that night. Tattoos are badass, but they don't make someone a badass. I only got the drop on the two thugs because I had the element of surprise, which was gone in a moment. A fist caught the side of my chin and knocked me off my feet. The first fight in my life, and I was already out of it. Two guys started dancing on my chest, while the leather-vested guy took his opportunity

and slammed the third man against the brick wall. As he did, I saw a familiar snarling dog on the back of his leather. Thunder ripped through the air twice, and the jig on my chest promptly stopped. My attackers parted, revealing the biker from a year ago with a smoking gun in his hand. Empty your pockets, he cocked the hammer back, and the sound filled the alley. They did as they were told, turning their pockets inside out. A motley collection of crumpled wands and fives littered their feet.

Hell, no wonder you're mugging, the biker frowned. The world's cruel to dumb fucks, ain't it? They didn't answer his question, and his gun roared again. The bullet blew a hole in the wall, showering me with a small cloud of hot dust. The muggers tore down the alley, leaving their beaten fellow behind. The biker tucked the gun into his vest and offered his hand out to me. Thanks for the save, needles. I took his hand, and he lifted me to my feet like I was.

I was a rag doll, blinking. I stared at him. Needles? He turned his head and spat blood and a tooth, before pointing at the ink on my arms. You got more tattoos than most people I know, and that's saying something. But you saved my life,

so I guess I should ask for your real name. Ned, Ned Chesterfield, he frowned. I think I like needles better. A chuckle broke through despite my aching jaw and sore ribs. I think I do too. The biker clapped me on the shoulder. I'm Dave. Let's get you a beer, needles.

That night passed in a blur of booze and women. Dave recounted the story to his biker buddies, adding embellishments here and there. When Dave changed the number of assailants to six, we drank for free the whole night. My life changed that night. Instead of skrimping money for the next tattoo, I saved up for a used Harley.

With Dave as my sponsor, I served as a prospect for a year before becoming a patched member of the Hellhounds MC. My last tattoo was of a snarling hound on my back, with the words Hellhounds and Lexington surrounding it to match the image on my cut. That was five years ago. I was unprepared for the life of an outlaw biker. I've heard several former cops and soldiers say something similar. You can try to prepare yourself mentally. You can see a romanticized version of it on the big and small screens, but nothing can fully prepare you for a life that requires you to carry a gun. Some people are cut out for it, but most aren't.

It wasn't a seamless transition, but I handled it better than most. Most prospects quit halfway through their probation, long before the first sounds of gunfire. It takes a special breed to survive that year of hazing from those hardened bikers. I'm not even out of my 20s yet, but I feel like I have lived several lifetimes. Tonight is one of the perks of being a biker. We filled the abandoned warehouse with kegs of beer and a live band blaring hard rock through the speakers. None of that ear-wrenching techno shit for a rave hosted by the hellhounds. We're celebrating our president's birthday.

Charters from across the country have made the trek to pay homage. More than a few locals are mixed in with our lot. Some include preppy college kids that paid a handsome price at the door. The fact that I was one of them not so long ago brings a smile to my lips. The smile quickly drops as the responsibility of my office falls upon me. My hand feels the leather of my vest, tracing over the empty spaced letters against my breast. Treasurer. The last man to hold the office, Crazy Carl, had bidded in a drunken clash with a semi.

With my old business major and accounting minor, Dave nominated me for the vacant position. The vote was unanimous. 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 training ground.ca. There's something else here now, something new.

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episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I might be the most qualified man for the job, but I don't know if anyone could accurately keep track of all the club's finances. Crazy Carl left things in a real mess. It took me months to decipher his haphazardly kept records. For most clubs, the treasurer is mostly there to collect dues and ensure the clubhouse lights stay on. But the hellhounds are a one-per-center outfit. We turn a profit from running drugs and girls. Those records can't be kept officially. More importantly, the earnings must be laundered. State and federal authorities already want to lock us up. There's no sense making it easier for them. So, in addition to club dues and inventory,

I also run the books for the garage we own to launder the money. In addition, I run the business's payroll, since it's how most of us officially collect a salary. It's hard work, to be honest. I miss the carefree days when I was just a member without the added responsibility. But being in a club isn't about looking out just for yourself. You have to take care of your brothers too. Treasurer isn't a glorious job, but it makes sure all the guys stay fed. Dave and our presidents see the hours I put in and listen to my suggestions when I bring them to the table now.

That makes the added responsibility and stress worthwhile. Well, almost. Christ, man! Someone yells into my ears over the blaring music. Living up a little. It's a party. I sigh and force another grin as I turn toward Bo. The crow tattooed over his eye, stands out more than usual over his quarter-sized pupils.

Bo is the club's vice president, the son of the current president, and the heir to the throne when the big man steps down. He's also a massive pain in the ass. I thought so before being elected treasurer, making my grudge both personal and professional. Just a couple of years older than me, Bo was already a patched member before Dave sponsored me. A couple of years later, he was elected vice president, the youngest in the club's history. But most of that was due to the old man's soft spot for his kid and the brother's loyalty to him. Hopes were high that while working as the big man's left hand, Bo would find. finally grow up and start maturing into a leader the club deserved.

No such luck yet. I'm seeing the dollars and cents. I yell back over the music. Would be a shitty treasurer if I didn't. Fuck off, Needles. Bo's face morphs into an angry scowl. You won over all this at the vote. You lost. Get over it.

It's for my dad, you cheap prick. In theory, that's true. But this isn't like any party we've thrown before. Our president prefers quiet get-togethers, usually by renting out the neighborhood bar and turning it into a micro-Sodham and Gomorrah for the night. Ever since Beau started dating an uppity college girl, though, he's been doing everything he can to impress her. That's probably why there are so many college kids here tonight. I shrug my shoulders. Not disputing the vote, Veep, just trying to figure out a way to balance the books.

For fuck's sake, man, take the night off. He reached into his coat and pulled out a table. tin of altitudes. Popping the lid, reveals several green pills. Take one. Shaking my head, I hold up the bottle of beer in my hands. I'm good, thanks. That's an order. Bo grabs me roughly by my vest. How else am I supposed to know you're not a cop? That's what irks me the most about Bo. He sees initiative or prowess that exceeds his own as an attack against him. I came up with a prospect built like a brick house, bigger than even Bo. So, naturally, Bo shoved his head into a shit-filled toilet.

The probe he ditched his leather, joining a rival club, costing us a potential heavy hitter. When Bo's last girlfriend complimented my tattoos, he had gotten the ridiculous crow job over his eye. He's even worse when he perceives something as a challenge to his authority. Bo sees disagreement not only as an affront to his ideas, but also as disloyalty to the client. club. He and the club are one in the same in his mind, which goes against all the tenants of our brotherhood. Knowing this was the big man's birthday, at least in theory, and I didn't want to slug it out with his son. I popped one of the pills into my mouth. That's more like it, he said, and offered me the tin of pills. This new shit is going to take care of all our money problems.

So do your sworn duty. Get out there and circulate. Give these college kids. gets a taste, so they're hounding down our club for more. I hide my frown with a nod before turning and threading my way through the party. It doesn't take long for the townies to find me, and I'm down to half the tin in just a few minutes. Of course, I don't see the logic or the economic upside of giving something away for nothing, but you have to pick your battles with bow. The music slows into a low and heavy sludge of sound. Each word is deep and stretched out as the world blurs around me.

I teeter back, nearly falling over, but catch myself. The crowd transforms into dark shadows before merging into a wall of living darkness. Panic grips me, and I push myself forward, trying to get away from the darkness, but the only way out is to go through it. The rational part of my brain knows this is all in my mind, that the pills are kicking in. The realization does nothing to dim the menacing aura of the shadows. Then a radiant spray of color breaks through the darkness.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Tight pants and a strapless shirt. Not one of the groupies, but not one of the college kids either. The red dragon tattooed over her shoulder winks at me and slithers down her spine. The girl grimaces once, but then smiles when she locks eyes with me. Her smile is even brighter than the bright aura billowing around her. The tide of darkness parts as she makes her way over to me. And then there's just me and her.

Her light blinds me, and an electric shock revs through my chest as she rests her hand against my vest. She traces her fingers along my rank patch, then rests it on my shirt. I like urine. It takes me a moment to realize I said something. her smile beams again, radiating the dragon on her chest. Wait, wasn't it on her back? I blink and close my eyes. I don't know what the hell Beau made me take, but I've got to give him credit.

This shit will go down great with the party scene. The dollars and cents disappear from my vision as soft fingers curled her away through my hair. I opened my eyes to see the girl smiling, my eyes falling to her chest. The dragon is gone, this time curled around the wrist that caresses me. She must mistake where my eyes are for something else as a mischievous glint enters her smile. Then her lips press against mine, and the world explodes into electric color. Darkness. It seems even darker against the kaleidoscope of technicolor from my last memory. Eventually, the darkness passes as I lift one eye open.

The scrape of light is blinding. and my head erupts with an explosion of pain. A long-grown escapes my lips as I stretch my arms and legs. Each of them feel like they've been run through a meat grinder. Fighting through the pain, I open my eyes and sit up. It takes me a few seconds to recognize my surroundings. The warehouse looks haunted without the band, the kegs, and all the people. The floor is littered with dirt and scattered beer cans.

I'm naked. My leather jacket is spread across my legs to protect my modesty. I don't see anyone else around. Resting my hand against my head, I tried to piece together the night before. All I remember is the girl, but I'm not even sure that was real. Past the hangover, a familiar ache throbs against my thigh. Looking down, I see the same electric dragon on the girl's back, or chest or arm, coiled around my leg. I guess part of the night was real, and I guess I got a matching tattoo at some point.

Frowning, I start critiquing my latest piece of skin art. It's not a bad design overall. We've run a few jobs with some guys that have ties to the Yakuza, and they have similar tattoos. The dragon is serpentine and elongated, the eastern variety. It's far from my worst tat, but it doesn't really fit my style. The color is too bright, and I had been saying. saving that thigh for something special when inspiration struck. There's no putting ink back in the bottle, I think as I force myself up.

It's strange that the guys would abandon me. Maybe they were even more messed up than me. I don't find the rest of my clothes, but eventually, I find a pair of sweatpants that are too big, and a pink t-shirt that's a size too small. Better than riding naked, though. And even better, my bike is right where I left it. I hop on and take off down the road.

down the road, figuring it's time to check in with the rest of the club. My leg starts itching, and I scratch it during a lull in traffic. It's not an uncommon feeling after you get a new tattoo. The skin can feel raw, like a nasty rash until it heals. I didn't see any drills or other machines at the rave, so the conditions were probably far from sanitary. But if that was the case, How come the tat look so damn good? There's a reason why prison tats tend to be basic. It's hard to get much detail when working with spare needles and busted pens. My latest one, though, is dripping with detail.

So were there machines I didn't see? It was a goddamn tattoo savant in attendance. The pain intensifies like someone's taking a switchblade up my leg. I scream and nearly plow my bike into an SUV. I sware of left and floor the gas. The soccer mom lays on the horn and flips me the bird as I roar past. The pain slithers up my body and toward my chest. It wraps around me like a snake made of razor blades and squeezes tight.

The pain creeps down my arm. Christ, am I having a heart attack? What the fuck was in those pills? After nearly colliding with a semi, I realize this pain is familiar. It feels like getting tattooed. There's a reason why people get tattoos done lying down, or sitting as comfortably as possible, not while driving a motorcycle through traffic. My body breaks into a cold sweat as the pain settles in my arm.

It's manageable now, so I pull into an old truck stop. The pain has settled down, but I don't want to risk getting back on the road without an explanation. I ignore the stairs from the truckers at my strange outfit and head into the bathroom. The light flickers as I flip the switch, doing my best to ignore the smell. I take off my shirt and look in the mirror. There's a dragon tattoo on my arm. Did I get two? The thought dies as I watch the dragon move.

Another flare of pain billows as it creeps toward my first tattoo. It opens its mouth and digs its fangs into the parrot. I blink and half the tattoo vanishes. The tattoo is gone in seconds, but the dragon remains. It swallows the sombrero, then licks its lips. I look at my face in the mirror. The dragon tattoo is curled around my neck. It only took two weeks for it to eat all of my tattoos.

Everything's gone. It spent the last few days feasting on the patch tattoo on my back. With no tattoos left, it started to feast on me. My skin is pale and patchy, where it's taken a bite out of me. There's no pain when it eats, but the dragon is restless. Whenever it moves across my body, it's like getting a fresh tattoo. I can't trust me. myself on a bike. The pain makes it too unpredictable to drive. I've been avoiding the club,

telling them I've come down with something. It's a better explanation than the truth. With COVID, still fresh on everyone's memory, it's enough to keep them away. But I know it's only a matter of time before I have to explain in more detail. A heavy knock pounds against my door. The club has enemies, so I let the pounding continue while I take time to load my piece. Cautiously, I approached the door, flinching as I peek through the peephole. The vision is distorted, but Dave is hard to miss. Bo stands nearby over his shoulder. Letting out a heavy breath, I lower the gun.

I don't say anything as I open the door, but Dave's eyes widen, and he glances at Bo. The vice president nods, and Dave turns back to me. Shit needles, Dave says. What happened to you? I sigh. It's a long story. Where's all your ink? That's an even longer story.

The air between us is thick with tension that I can't account for. Sure, I've missed a lot of meetings. But I've given my votes by proxy. And I'm keeping up with the books for my computer. Granted, my attention has been diverted lately, so it's not up to my usual standard. Right, he doesn't want to share. Bo sneers at me.

Get your colors on. We have a vote. I'm still not feeling well. Just tell me what's up and I'll give you my vote. No, you fucking won't. Bo's shoulders past Dave and crosses his arms. I'm your vice president, and I say you've had more than enough time

to nurse your vagina back to health. Get your patch and get on your fucking bike. Pick your battles, I remind myself and nod. I leave the door open for them to enter, but neither does. It doesn't take me long to sling into a pair of jeans and to wrap my cut around my shoulders. I throw on my leather vest that I haven't worn in weeks.

It's familiar bulk as a comfort as I step outside. It's not until I'm on my bike and riding in formation between them that I realize I left my gun in the house. It's just a vote. And if it requires some heat, the club has plenty to spare. I shrug my shoulders and focus on the road, hoping my tattoo takes it easy for once. Bo slows his throttle and pulls up alongside me.

He signals that he needs to make a detour. I nod and do my best to keep up with him as he speeds ahead. Bo has never been great at riding in formation. Mine and Dave's older bikes barely managed to keep up with him as he pulls onto a dirt road. As we travel along the abandoned road, the houses grow older and more dilapidated. We come to a house that has been long abandoned, hanging together just by rusted nails and stubbornness. A soft breeze could knock it over. Bo surprises me as he pulls into the overgrown weeds that were once a driveway and wraps around the back of the house.

I park behind Dave and swear as the tattoo unwraps its tail from my neck. The agony springs through my fist as it trails down my arm, coiling around my wrist. Wiping sweat from my brow, I take my helmet off, step away from my bike, and turn toward Dave and Bo. Each has a gun drawn and pointed at me. Bo charges forward. but Dave reaches out a meaty hand and swats his arm down. Not yet. I need to hear it from him. I lift my hands.

What the fuck's going on, Dave? You're going to listen to this junkie traitor? Bo barks. Look at him, Dave! He's all strung out on something. And where are his tattoos? Do you know how much LASIC would cost to get rid of all of them? I bet that back piece of his was the first to go.

What the fuck is going on, Dave? I repeat. Knowing Dave's the only. chance I have it surviving. Someone's betrayed the club. Dave's not aiming his gun at me, but he's still holding it at the ready. The damned orphans made a jump on one of our convoys. You were seen dealing their new street gear at the rave, and club funds have gone missing. There's turmoil in Dave's eyes as he says this. My absence from the club has timed along with the recent troubles, not to mention I look strung out and can't explain my missing tattoos.

But Dave is the one that recruited me. I saved his life years ago, and he wants to give me the benefit of the doubt. But if he's here with a gun in hand, ready to plug me, that means the vote's already been cast, and he's in the minority. I wasn't dealing. I was giving out samples like I was ordered to. My eyes widen as I realize why Bo is so trigger-happy. And as for the funds, the treasurer isn't the only one with access to the club's accounts.

The vice president and president also have access to ensure the treasurer is being honest. That means the big man and Bo. Realization washes across Dave's face as Bo points his gun at the back of his head. A roar of gunfire blows Dave's head into an explosion of ruptured bones and brains. I scream in charge. Dave stumbles on his feet and though he's dead, he doesn't go down. His body acts as a shield, taking the bullets Beau meant for me. I whip past Dave's body and grip Bo by the waist. The anger and adrenaline helped me lift and slam his body to the ground.

His gun scatters across the dirt. My rage gives me new strength as I strike my fists across Bo's face. I've come a long way from this scrawny kid who got my ass handed to me when I stepped in to save Dave. Dave. His loss dulls my rage just a moment, and Bo strikes me hard in the stomach. The blow knocks the breath out of me. He's bigger and easily topples me. so that our positions are reversed.

He's on top of me, wrapping his hands around my throat. They close tight like a vice. I'm not going without a fight though. I bring my hands up to his face, hoping to gouge one of his eyes out. But my strength is failing, and my hands fall short, resting on his cheek, unable to raise higher. Pain blossoms up my arm as the dragon uncoils and works its way up to my hand. Its head races through my fingers in a spray of color, transferring to Beau's face. He screams and lets go.

Go of me as the dragon bites into the crow above his eye. Gasping for breath, I crawl toward Dave's body. The gun in his hand is the same sick shooter that he always carries. I've never been much of a shot, but Bo is close to me and preoccupied with the tattoo. The gun is heavy and nearly wrenches my arm out of the socket, but the shot hits Boe through the stomach, ceasing his screams. Learning from my mistake, I use both hands and I shoot him again in the chest, knocking him on his back. Breathing heavily, I look at Dave's bullet-riddled corpse. Even in death,

he looked out for me. So I reach down and close his eyes. Bo wheezes, so I walk over and put another bullet into his head, happy to be rid of him. I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I contemplate my surroundings. The club voted to have me killed. With Dave and Boe both dead, there's no way they'll believe I'm innocent. They'll come after me again. and I'll need all the help I can get. I rest my hand against the side of Beau's face. The dragon moves again, departing Beau's body and crawling up my arm once more.

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. The tattoo's movement causes constant pain to its host,

comparable and similar in character to simultaneous tattooing and tattoo removal on a large scale. SCP21 appears to feed exclusively on pigments and the host's skin. This can include melanin, in which case the subject appears to be suffering from Vidaligo. However, the organism shows a marked preference for other tattoos and will seek out and devour these before resorting to natural pigments. It should be noted that the feeding process itself, beyond the sensation of movement, is painless.

Normal tattoo ink simply vanishes as it is eaten. SCP-21 can be transferred between hosts by various forms of physical contact, with differing success rates. In the case of successful transfer, the organism swims from one person to the other. SCP-21 does confer some benefits to its host. The tattoo has been proven to accelerate the release and re-uptake of epinephrine and decrease lactic acid build-up, providing boosts of strength, confidence, and pain tolerance in stressful situations, and reducing the usual after-effects of weakness and fatigue.