The SCP Experience - Run Rabbit Run | SCP-6203

Episode Date: March 28, 2025

After five hours in one of SCP-6203’s chairs, a person stops being seen as human—and starts being hunted by everyone around them, as if some part of their identity has been erased and replaced with something worth killing. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-6203 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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the table in the otherwise sparse room. There's nothing special about the wooden table

or the matching chairs. At least, not at a glance. Every time I look at the guy

sitting across for me, whose name is Wofford. He snarls at me. Literally, snarls. Like a fucking dog. It's not scary. Not coming from a little Napoleon syndrome dude like that. But I'm not trying to get into any more trouble with the three hard-ass guards

standing around watching us with their batons ready. I've already been cracked with one of those batons twice. The first time when I started falling asleep in my chair about an hour ago. No sleeping! The guard yelled. whacking a heart in the arm with his weapon. The others have all been hit as well, for various things. Wofford got cracked in the back for threatening to fight the guy sitting to his right,

a guy with a lazy eye and a simple nature who said his name was Barryman. Strangely, he looked up at the guard next to him before speaking, like he was asking permission to share his name. Barryman is also wearing a strange collar around his neck. It looks like something you'd see in an air. X-Men comic book. When I asked about the collar, the meek guy just shook his head. About an hour after that, Barryman got whacked hard with a baton.

He said he had to pee like five times, before finally pushing back from the table to get to his feet. Before his ass could leave the seat, one of the guards smashed his right hand on the tabletop, breaking a couple of his fingers. I was so fucking angry I pushed back from the table myself. But the guard on my side whacked me in the knee to keep me sitting. Barryman cried as he clutched his hand to his chest, but he didn't get up from the table. A few moments later, the ammonia smell of piss filled the room.

The guy to my left, Abdi, also got a tap for falling asleep. In a just world, this would be considered cruel and unusual punishment. But this isn't a just world. Those of us in orange jumpsuits do what the guys in uniforms say. They don't tell us why we've been sitting at this table for nearly five hours, no matter how many times we ask. They only tell us that we need to sit here and stay awake and not get up for any reason. When they transported us here from prison,

they did so in the back of a windowless bus so we couldn't see where we were going. I counted 30 inmates on the bus, all of us locked to eye bolts in the floor, arms and legs fastened to keep us from causing a ruckus. Once the trip was over and they unloaded us into an enclosed parking garage, they separated the three of us from the rest of the inmates. Me, Avdi, and Wofford. I don't know what the hell everyone else is doing. All I know is that we've been sitting here for a long goddamn time.

And my ass hurts, and I'm about to piss my pants like Barryman did. Although he's wearing an orange jumpsuit like the rest of us, I'm sure Barryman wasn't on the bus with us. He was already waiting in this sparse room when we got up here. I look over at the guy who is clearly several bricks short of a wall and try to swallow my anger at what that asshole guard did to him. His pinky and ring finger on his right hand are badly swollen, but he's no longer sobbing.

Instead, he stares at the wooden table and rocks gently in his seat. Abdi, sitting to my left, hasn't said so much as two words. He's one of those guys. Stoic, self-contained. An island if a man ever was one. Hell, even getting his name was an exercise in persistence. So what's your deal, Abdi?

I ask to pass the time. It's not the first time I've asked him this, but maybe the sixth times the charm. He looks at me with a small eye, in his large head, but he doesn't answer. Probably doesn't speak English, Wofford says. He's a goddamn raghead. Shut the hell up, little man.

I snap, hoping to goad Wofford into something to get himself whacked again. I'll rip your balls off, the little guy says. I can't help but laugh. Then something happens. One of the three guards watching us puts a finger to his radio earpiece and listens intently. Then he says, Copy. Before turning to the other guards.

Let's move. We're leaving? Barryman asks, hopefully. Not you. You four stay seated. If you so much as lean over to fart in the next two minutes, I will personally come back and break both your arms. That's a garren goddamn tea.

Although he hasn't done any of the actual hitting, he's left that up to his two subordinates. I believe he'd back up his threat. I don't know what kind of wacky shit we're involved with here, but it's clear that these guys have never heard of the Eighth Amendment. The three guards file out of the room through the sole door. I know we're on the fourth floor of a seemingly empty office building because we walked up four flights of stairs.

As we walked along the hallway to get here, we passed a couple of rooms with open doors and windows. But all I could see through the windows was another building pretty close to this one. Or maybe it's another wing of the building. Who knows? I didn't get a good look. But there was one thing that seemed strange, and that was the light. It was morning when we left the prison, so I know it's still daytime.

But the light outside seemed strange, weak, maybe artificial. My right leg starts bouncing on its own because I've never had to be so bad in my life. My knee still hurts where the guard hit me, but it was little more than a warning hit, unlike the other asshole guard who hit Buryman as hard as he could. A little bit of hope comes to mind as I recall the guard's words. He said if we move in the next two minutes, he'd break our arms. Does that mean we can move after two minutes? All four of us, even Abdi, shift restlessly in our seats, looking toward the door.

The building, which has been silent, develops a gradual hum as the second stick by. The sound of men talking gradually builds up from the hallway. At first, I think it's the guards coming down. back, but I soon see four guys and orange jumpsuits stop outside the open doorway. I've been counting in my head since the guards left, and it has definitely been more than two minutes, but I'm still hesitant to stand up. I like having both my arms not broken. They work better that way. But as I look at the four guys outside the room, as I see the way they glare like they have a vendetta against us, the need to pee suddenly becomes secondary, a more

more urgent feeling, deep in my gut, takes precedence. Something bad is about to happen. Any of you know those guys? I ask my tablemates. No, Wofford says. But if they keep eye-fucking us, they're going to get to know my fists. Barryman shakes his head an answer. So does Abdi.

I turn my attention back to the four guys, who still haven't come into the room. They stand in the hallway, glaring at us and whispering to each other like me. high school girls targeting their next victim. Hey guys! I call in a friendly voice. What's going on? This only seems to make them matter. They don't answer me, but they raise their voices enough

so I can catch little snippets of their conversation. Fucking weaklings, pussies, filthy assholes. You know what we're supposed to be doing now? I call to them. Same thing. They don't answer, and my voice only seems to rile them up more. 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. After a few more moments of conferring and cursing and staring daggers, they come into the room, their threatening body language unmistakable. As they near the table, I push back and stand up from my seat, But I put my hands up, palms out, and back away. Don't want any trouble, guys.

And it's true, I don't want any trouble. I'm not one of these guys, like Wofford, who are always itching for a fight. But mostly, I just want to take a piss and get Barryman cleaned up. The guy reminds me of a mentally challenged neighbor I had as a kid. I used to pick on him, but that's something I've regretted ever since, even more than the stupid shit I did to get landed in prison. Something about that neighbor kid and the way I treated him has always stayed with me, floating to the surface of my conscious mind and the dark hours of the early morning when I can't sleep,

and I'm busy taking an inventory of my life. Plus, I'm worried that if one of these guys punches me in the abdomen, I'll piss my pants. And I really don't want to walk around with piss pants for the rest of the day. So I try again. Hey, guys, we don't know you. We're good, right? No, we're not good. The four newcomers fan out as they approach.

Abdi and Wofford get up from the table and join me in the space nearby. Our backs to the corner of the room opposite the door. Barryman stays seated at the table, staring at the four men. Three of them face off with us. Their shoulders bunched, jaws clenched, and their hands balled into tight fists. The fourth angles toward Barryman, looking every bit as keyed up as the others. I pointed the guy who has the words Aryan Brotherhood tattooed across his forehead like a true pillar of society. Don't you touch him, asshole!

Arian pauses next to a cowering Barryman and looks at me like I've just spoken some language that offends his delicate racist sensibilities. Then he turns back to Barryman, reaches down, and pulls him out of his seat, tossing him to the floor. I'm already moving over when Aryan starts kicking Barryman while he's down. One of the other guys heads me off, swinging a telegraphed roundhouse that I duck. But a second guy has moved up behind me, and he punches me in the low back. I stumble against the wall, feeling my bladder release for a few warm and wet moments before I stop the flow of urine into my jumpsuit. The whole room seems to pause as I look down and see the wet spot spreading down my pant leg.

You've got to be fucking good in me, I say, anger flushing my muscles and clouding my lodging. brain. For a moment, I'm brought back to the last time I felt this way, in the parking lot of a grocery store when some dude started accusing me of stealing his parking spot. He started it, and I tried to let it go, but he pushed too many of my buttons, so I ended it, ended him. I only hit him twice, but he hit the asphalt hard enough to crack his skull open. He died two days later in the hospital. It was a stupid thing to fight about, and a stupid way to die. But what's done is done. And as the smell of fresh piss invades my nostrils,

I'm not reliving that afternoon with anything approaching logic. I'm remembering how good it felt to knock the guy out. I'm remembering how I had to stop myself from stomping on his head with my heel. And I'm reveling in the anger these four men have awakened. I go for the guy who punched me in the back first. I jab him in the throat, grab his head, and slam his skull into his buddy's face. Cartilage crunches, blood spews. But I'm already moving over toward Barryman, grabbing one of the chairs as I rush around the table.

Arian kicks Barryman one more time before turning his attention to me. He grins, but then backs up as I approach with the chair held high. Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Abdi and Wofford are fighting the fourth man while the other two were groaning and recovering from my attack. I placed the chair down on its legs between me and Arian, which seems to confuse him. With one hand on the chair back, I reach down and help Barryman up. Arian darts forward, so I yank the chair up and jab him in the chest with two of the legs. It's not a hard jab, but it's enough to make him rethink his plan.

There's a cry of pain from the other side of the table. I look over and see that it's now three against one. Wofford, his nose bleeding, his scurrying for the door. Abdi is on the floor, and the other three guys are stomping them good. Taking this in costs me precious moments and allows Arian to get the drop on me. He kicks the chair out of my grasp and tries for a punch to the head, which I managed to block with my free hand. I let go of Buryman, who remains standing where he is, and weighed toward my attacker with my hands up and ready. He tries for a kick to my knee, but I catch his foot and yank his leg.

He goes down awkwardly, and I keep hold of his leg. I grip his foot with both hands and twist it as hard as I can. His ankle joint crackles and pops as I tear it apart with the movement. Arian screams, and I know he won't be a threat anymore. So I drop his leg and move back to Buryman, glancing over to see what's happening with Abdi. The guy is still on the floor, and one of his attackers has grabbed a chair from the table. While I grabbed Beryman's arms, I see the guy slam a chair right into Abdi's head. My mouth drops open as the guy raises the chair and slams it down again, nearly collapsing Abdi's face.

This isn't just about doling out beatings, I realize with appalling surety. They're out to kill. I don't know why, but as I hustle Barryman out of the room, I look at the table we spent the last five hours sitting at, unable to get up for any reason, unable to fall asleep. As we get out into the hallway, I look to my right, seeing a group of orange jumpsuit men walking toward us, more convicts from the bus.

There are six of them, and they all pause when they lay eyes on us. on us. They look normal at first, like wary men in a foreign environment. But as they stare at us, a change comes over them. Unbridled despise transforms their faces. Their shoulders climb toward their ears, their jaws jut forward in determination, their hands curl into fists. And as one, on some kind of unseen signal, they all start running toward us, shouting like men on an ancient battlefield running at their enemies. I turned the other way and yank Barryman with me. Run!

Barryman and I rushed down the stairwell on the opposite side of the building from where we'd come up some five hours ago. The sound of shouting men follows us, about two flights behind. Their barely coherent shouts of rage bounce around the concrete stairwell, making me wonder if they've been turned into something akin to the zombies from that 28 days later movie. They seem infected with rage, but are still able to communicate clearly,

at least some of the time. I think briefly about hiding somewhere in the building with Barryman, but from what I've seen, there's really nowhere to hide. The rooms are empty of furniture, and although there are surely utility closets here and there, the other convicts hunting us would surely check them eventually. So my plan is to get outside, and either find a way to escape the area

or maybe locate a defensible position. We burst through an exterior door and look around. Dread compresses my brain as I look up, expecting to see sky, but instead I see the high ceiling of a huge warehouse. Halogen lights shine down at regular intervals, creating the weak light I noticed earlier. There's another, smaller building about 20 yards away across a stretch of concrete. Given the position of the two buildings, I can't see very far in any direction, but I can see the warehouse wall about 50 yards away. There are no trees, no cars, nothing but asphalt and concrete.

It's like an unfinished movie set on a massive soundstage. But where there's a wall, there's bound to be a door. I pulled Barryman toward the warehouse wall, and we're up to a full sprint by the time our pursuers burst out of the door. Unfortunately, we haven't reached the corner of the building yet, so they have a clear line of sight on us. A glance back tells me they're not giving up, anytime soon. We round the building and I can see all the way to the corner of the warehouse,

over a hundred yards away. There's no door along the stretch of wall that I can see, and I look in both directions. The other corner of the warehouse is even farther away, and there are a couple more buildings in that direction. There's not much of a choice. We run toward the nearer corner, along the side of the building we were just inside. But when we're halfway there, a group of convicts comes into view. At first, I think maybe they want to kill us because their body language isn't threatening. Still, Barryman and I slow down. There's a door coming up that could lead us back into the building, but I'm hesitant to go back in there now. Maybe this other group are friendlies in whatever fucked up game we're playing. That hopeful notion is quickly dispelled as

their body language shifts from indifferent to hostile. They rush toward us. Barryman doesn't have to be told to go toward the metal door back into the building. We run to it and try to pull it open, but there's some kind of resistance from the other side. Hurry! Barryman says. I glance left and right. The two groups of crazed convicts are closing in. I know it's not locked because there's some give.

So I hunker down and give it my awe. And the door comes open, revealing Wofford standing there. He was trying to keep us out to get us killed. He glares at us and then turns to run down the hallway, but I grab him by the collar and yank him off his feet. Then I turn the other way and shove Barryman down the hall, running after him and away from Wofford. I don't bother looking for a lock on the door because Wofford may be stupid, but he's not that stupid. If there was a lock, he would have used it. A moment later, the door bursts open and furious men in orange jumpsuits rush in.

Wofford has managed to get to his feet, but he's not fast enough. A couple of men attack him while the others run toward us. Barryman and I run down the hallway along the front of the building. Then we turn a corner and come to a mess of old office chairs and metal desks blocking the hall. There's about three feet of clearance between the top of this pile and the ceiling. It's enough. Climb! I say, urging Barryman up.

He does so without hesitation, but the pile isn't exactly stable. The chairs shift under his weight, so he has to take it slow. I'll never make it. I can hear the men nearing the corner now. I grab a chair from one side of the pile, choosing it because it doesn't appear load-bearing. It's a swivel chair with a central support in the middle, leading down to five legs with black plastic wheels attached to them. It's a cheap one that weighs maybe 30 pounds, but it's better than nothing.

Holding the chair by the seat, with the legs pointing away from me, I rushed to the corner. As the leader of the pack comes around, I slam the legs into his foot. face. He goes down in a spray of blood. Then two more guys are coming around the corner. I back up a couple of steps. One guy trips over the leader, but the other one is quicker, leaping up to clear his fallen comrade. It's a bad move. I whipped the chair at him while he's still in the air, uppercutting him before his feet touched the ground. His teeth smashed together, several of them shatter. His legs crumple awkwardly as he hits the floor, and I know he's out cold. But then there are six or seven guys rounding the corner, and the hallway is too wide to create a bottleneck.

If any of them get behind me, I'm done for it. I whip the chair around to prevent this as they close in, but they're no longer risking a one-on-one attack. They gather in an arc, the guys at the edges attempting to slip past me while I'm busy with another of their number. Come on! Barryman yells from behind me. I risk a glance that way and see that he's made it to the top of the pile. He's holding a chair as if ready to throw it. I hurl my chair at the men and then turn around,

launching myself up onto the pile and climbing as fast as I can. The items shift under my weight, but I keep scurrying, praying it holds. I can feel my pursuers climbing behind me. One of them grabs my foot, but I managed to kick him with my other, knocking him and the guy behind him down. As I reached the top, I grabbed the chair from Barryman and whip it at the nearest man, who falls awkwardly to the floor.

Barryman scurries down the other side, and I follow him. We take a left into the stairwell and run up the stairs. As we go, I realize that running isn't going to work. Neither will hiding. I've got to make a stand. I'll probably get killed, but at least I won't die cowering like a frightened rabbit, chased by hungry dogs.

We've bought ourselves some time, so I stopped Barryman at the fifth floor landing, looking up at the stairs toward the roof access. I take his arm and look him in the eye. Go hide, okay? I'm going to lead them to the roof. You go hide. And when you're sure it's safe, try to find a way out of here.

Barryman nods. I'm thankful for it. Him arguing that we should stay together would only cost us precious time. But what he does next comes as a surprise. He hugs me. Overwhelming emotions threatened to break me down. As I recall all the times I picked on my neighbor,

all the times I made fun of him for being different, for being slow. This doesn't change that. Nothing can change the past, but I'm not looking for forgiveness. I'm doing this for selfish reasons. I want to ease my conscience before the big sleep, and this is what it takes. I hug him back and then push him away. He gives me one last big-eyed look and then runs through the fifth floor door. My pursuers are coming up the stairs.

By the sound of them, I'm guessing they're at the third. I get to the roof access door and find it unlocked, but I make sure to generate a bunch of noise as I burst through. The tar-covered roof of the rectangular building has a two-foot lip around the edges. I look around for anything I can use to my advantage, seeing nothing. The adjacent building on one side is pretty close, but when I look at the gap between them, my palms go sweaty, and my legs go rubbery. It's a wide enough jump that I'm not sure I want to risk it.

I want to risk it, especially since the two buildings are the same height, leaving no room for error. Behind me, the first convicts burst through the roof access door. I spin around and move slightly toward them to get away from the edge. The rest of them show up, spreading out in an arc with their backs to the door. I count eight. That's not so bad, I think. Maybe I can take eight if I'm really strategic about it.

Maybe I can get close to the edge and toss a couple of them off. them think twice about coming at me. But then more guys come out onto the roof. And as they pour out in a flood of orange fabric, I remember just how many were on the bus. I counted 30, including me, Abdi, and Wofford. Now there's 20. I guess between me and Wofford, we managed to take seven of them out. I think that was mostly me. A few of the guys have blood all over them. Wofford's blood. Abdi's too. They all stare at me with rage-hardened features. There's no way I can take 20, no way in hell. But I won't go down without a fight.

That's just not who I am, and the more of them I can incapacitate, the better Barryman's chances are. The crowd moves toward me on springy legs, ready for a fight. I back up to one corner of the roof, so it will be impossible for them to get behind me. Besides, maybe being thrown off the roof is preferable

to getting stomped to death by these sands. But before the first of them crowds in, I see one more guy in an orange jumpsuit come through the door. It's Barryman. My heart falls and the fight goes out of me. Why did he come up here? I told him to run and hide. I want to scream at him to turn around and run. I'm actually about to do just that. When I noticed there's something different about him. It takes me only a heartbeat to realize what it is. That weird collar he was wearing is gone. There's a nasty scrape on the side of his neck, like he heard him while getting it off. None of the crowd has noticed him, and they're moving toward me, but I can still see Barryman in a gap between two guys.

He looks at me while reaching his uninjured left hand out to his side. The air shimmers, and his hand disappears into some kind of hole in the fabric of reality. Then it comes back out a moment later with a grenade. The hole disappears. Berryman pulls the pin, nods at me once, and then tosses the grenade into the middle of the crowd. Then he turns around and runs back through the roof access door. Fuck me! I scream, lurching at the nearest attacker and yanking him with me as I drop down to the tar roof.

I pull my body into a fetal position, fighting with the guy as I try to keep him in place as a human shield. The grenade explodes, the concussion pounding my eardrums, and causing my internal organs to vibrate like jello. I feel shrapnel impact the guy I pulled down with me. He screams. A bunch of debris rains down around us, and I realize some of it is wet. Definitely blood. I know the grenade likely didn't take everyone out, so I shove my human shield away. He's too busy screaming and writhing to care.

While getting to my feet, I take a quick inventory, making sure all my important parts are okay. They seem to be. I'm bleeding here and there. I guess I couldn't make myself quite small enough, but the wounds are minor. Next, I look around at the gory mess Barryman made. A few guys, those who were closest to the explosion, are missing legs and arms. Several of them appear dead. Others are bleeding from shrapnel wounds, but it's clear that a good dozen of them are still in fighting shape.

It's still too many. Barryman comes running back onto the roof. He joins me as those still capable of fighting, gather their wits, and get ready to attack. Thank you. Barryman says. That collar. It fucks with my head. Makes me stupid. But I never would have gotten it off if you didn't draw the crowd.

I look at him surprised. Like he's a different person. I don't know what to say, but you're welcome. Barryman reaches into another portal that magically opens up next to his left hand. He takes two aluminum baseball bats out and hands one to me. I take it, but then look at the dozen guys glaring at us some ten yards away. Thanks, but you got any guns in there? Barryman smiles.

No guns. The guards would kill us. They might let us live if we get through these assholes. Oh, but grenades are okay? Just trust me. I've been in Foundation custody for a long time. Foundation? What the hell are you...

The convicts rush toward us, and there's no more time to talk. I swing my bat and connect satisfyingly with the guy's head. Suddenly, I'm very thankful to have it. Nearby, ferryman goes to work. I have so many questions, but they'll have to wait. Right now, it's time to bust heads. SCP-6203 is a four-chair seating unit with a table. Its primary anomalous effect is triggered when a subject sits in one of its chairs for a period longer than five hours

without standing up or succumbing to sleep. Once the time threshold has passed, the subject sitting at SCP-6203 will undergo an immediate semanto-conceptual memetic shift that affects those around them. Once this shift occurs, those physically closest to the subject will immediately perceive them as lesser. As the effect is weak at first, those who see the subject will initially react with slight disgust, anger, or agitation. As time passes, this effect increases in strength exponentially, causing those nearby to eventually abandon social cues in order to pursue the subject on foot. This has a cascading effect, meaning that anyone who sees the subject or its pursuers

will immediately undergo the shift and start chasing the subject with the ultimate goal of killing them. The pursuit will not end until the subject is terminated. Afterward, all those affected will lose their aggressive tendencies and return to their previous duties. pursuers experience no remorse over any actions that they may have committed while under SCP-6203's influence.