The SCP Experience - Se7en Deadly Sins | SCP-1215

Episode Date: August 2, 2024

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-1215 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1215 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt D. * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The heavy-duty door opens, and three orange jumpsuit-wearing women are escorted into the room by two armed guards. The guards shut the door, leaving the women with the four of us. Four men. The sudden tension in the room is so loud I can hardly hear Lawrence say, as he nudges me with his elbow. It's been a long time since I've seen a woman. So long, I don't even want to think about it. I know Lawrence is harmless, but I suddenly look over at the other two men in the room with us.

Pulaski, a raw-boned white guy with a craggy face, gets a carnivorous look in his eye as he studies the three women. Jerich, an older black guy with cornrows and a graying goatee, eyes the women along the length of his nose, his head tilted back as if in disdain. I make a mental note to keep an eye on Pulaski, like I'm some self-appointed white, night. I quickly admonish myself for the thought, remembering how I ended up in this hellish position in the first place. The three women represent three different generations. One of them is young and blonde, presenting a tough demeanor as she sneers back at us, trying to make her pretty face look anything but. Another looks to be in the clutches of middle age, her black hair

cut short, and the lines in her face, giving her a kind of tough, beauty that only comes from surviving hard knocks for decades. The third woman is a sturdy, gray, matronly type, her light-colored eyes jumping around the room in cold assessment. She looks surprised but pleased at her surroundings. And I don't blame her. I felt the same when I came into the room. But there's got to be a catch.

There always is with the SCB Foundation. The windowless room would look at home in some upper middle-class house. My short friend Lawrence and I sit on a comfortable leather love seat, while Pulaski and Jerrick sit on opposite sides of a matching leather couch. Three armchairs remain empty, clearly meant for the women. In the middle of the seats, arranged in a rough circle, there's a strange glass coffee table. It's taller than your average table,

and it seems to have been installed in the floor. The glass is pure black, and there are no legs. It's just a big glass rectangle jutting from the floor. There are bookshelves lining one wall, packed with books of all different kinds. There's a television attached to the wall behind the couch, but it apparently doesn't work. In the hour we've been here, Lawrence spent much of that time trying to turn the TV on. Opposite the door we all came through, there's another door that leads God knows where. Pulaski tried to open it already, but the heavy wooden door wouldn't budge.

What the fuck is this? the blonde woman asks. I'm so glad you asked, a man's voice says from the television. I look away from the newcomers and see that the TV is on. There's a bespectacled man's image on the screen in front of a plain white backdrop. Why do all the goddamn scientists look the same? I think to myself, already knowing that this guy is in charge of whatever twisted experiment we're now a part of. He wears a gray blazer over a powder blue shirt with no tie. His mouth is turned up in a small smirk, which doesn't go away when he talks. Welcome to the new SCP reality show, he says. You're all contestants, and you'll be living in this house. with each other, so you better learn how to get along.

I'll show you the rest of the play soon, but for now, a few ground rules. Rule number one, you must share the resources with your housemates. Everything in this house is meant for all of you. Sharing is caring. Rule number two, no fighting. If you get into a physical altercation with one of your housemates, both of you will be punished, regardless of who started the fight. I can't tell for sure, but I'm pretty sure Dr. Dickhead directed that rule at me.

I cross my arms and listened to more of his bullshit, still trying to process the whole reality show thing. Rule number three, consensual sex only. That one doesn't need any further explanation, I hope. Rule number four, you all must share the household chores equally. You will find a chore list in the kitchen. If someone fails to pull their weight, they will be able to be. punished accordingly. Rule number five, do not attempt to locate or mess with the cameras. They are all over the house with multiple cameras in every room, and I mean every room. Some are hidden, some are not. If you are found to be interfering with any of the cameras, you will be punished accordingly.

I peer around the room, looking for signs of any hidden cameras. I see two dark bulbs on either side of the ceiling, like the cameras in stores. But I'm assuming there are others as well. Rule number six. How many fucking rules are there? Pulaski asks. Rule number six. Dr. Dickhead continues, ignoring Pulaski.

You must all read a passage out of the book. What fucking book? Pulaski says. I ain't reading no fucking book. That one, the older woman says, pointing at the glass coffee table in the center of the seat. seating area. The previously black glass is now transparent, revealing a large and ancient-looking book in the middle, sitting open on some kind of book pedestal. We all look at the thing. It's

facing Lawrence and I. We both lean forward, peering into the glass case. The words look handwritten. The paper is yellow-brown with age. I squint and then look up at the TV. Is this a joke? Very good, Dr. Dickhead says. Now move so the others can read a passage. It's not in English, I say. How are we supposed to read it? The other five people move in. They look at the book, trying to read it, just as Lawrence and I did.

He's right, the young blonde woman says. It's in Latin or something. I can't read that. Very good, Whitney. What about you, Patricia? Can you read it? The middle-aged woman looks at it for a moment. Nope.

What about you, Selena? Dr. Dickhead asks. No, I can't read it. The graying Selena says, excellent. Now that you've all had a chance to look at the book, it's time to see your new living quarters. The heavy wooden door that wouldn't budge earlier swings wide open.

Through there, please. Dr. Dickhead says, we all get up and head through the door, glancing at each other in confusion. Lazzang sur-jellie, Pucance Morrow for 15 minutes.

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the house looks like any other house with one major difference there are no windows however there are mirrors placed strategically around the two-story abode to give the illusion of windows and make the place a little less claustrophobic it doesn't work at least back at the prison I could go outside once a day I've only been in here a couple of hours and I'm already feeling the uncomfortable buzz of anger at the base of my school gull. Once we toured the house while Dr. Dickhead explained things from the various TVs, we all started doing our own things. I made myself a sandwich with meat, cheese, and veggies from the fully stocked fridge. Lawrence was in the kitchen before me, scarfing down food

like he'd been fasting for 40 days. He's already a big boy, so I figure he's only going to get bigger. I told him to take it easy, mentioning rule number one. about sharing the resources with everyone. He reluctantly stopped eating. I had to drag him away from the kitchen before his willpower collapsed. Now, we're sprawled out in the bedroom, me on the top bunk and Lawrence below me. On the other side of the room,

there's another set of bunk beds where Pulaski and Jerich will sleep. That's another thing about this place. We have to share a room. At least in prison, I was only sharing a cell with Lawrence. Now there's two more people whose farts and body odor and snoring I have to put up with. That buzz at the base of my skull kicks up a notch as I think about it. Shutting my eyes, I tell myself to focus on my breathing, to work through the annoyance before it turns to anger.

Because once it turns to anger, rage is inevitable. Dude, I just thought of something, Lawrence says from below me. What? I say, still breathing deeply, eyes still closed. That guy said there are cameras in every room, right? Do you think he's going to watch us take dumps and shower? Of course, I say, losing my rhythm. This conversation isn't helping.

That's messed up, Lauren says. I breathe. Get the fuck out of here. A woman calls from down the hall. It's the blonde woman's voice, the young, attractive one. But even if it was the older woman shouting like that, my reaction would have been the same. I jump from the top bunk and rush out of the bedroom. I see Pulaski standing in the hall outside the women's bedroom.

His foot shoved in the door so it won't close. As I get closer, I see the blonde woman's face through the cracked door. She glances at me, and I see that the tough facade she put on earlier is completely gone. She's afraid of Pulaski, and she should be. But I also see her terror multiply as I come into view. She's afraid of me, too. The buzz crawls up the back of my skull, but I try my best to push it back down,

remembering rule number two. No fighting. I'm not sure what the punishment would be for breaking a rule. Dr. Dickhead never told us. But I don't want to find out. With the SCP Foundation, it can't be anything good. So instead of doing what I want to do, Which is shove Pulaski as hard as I can against the wall.

I get myself under control and stop a safe distance away. What are you doing? Fuck off. Pulaski says without so much as a glance in my direction. Remember the rule about consensual sex only? I ask. Hey, fuck you, man. Pulaski says, turning toward me. Who said anything about sex?

I just want to watch her change, that's all. There's no rule against that, is there? Looks like she doesn't want to put on. on a show. Why don't you both fuck off? The blonde, Whitney says. She has her face back under control, tough mask, firmly in place again. Yeah, sounds good to me, I say. Come on, Pulaski, let's fuck off, unless you want to find out what the punishment for fighting is. As I figured he would, Belaskey pulls his foot out of the door, which Whitney immediately shuts. He gets up in my face, arms outstretched and head craned forward and up because he's a good six inches shorter than me.

You want to go, bitch? Let's fucking go. Take a swing. See what happens. I want to smile at his chest thumping gorilla bullshit, but I know it would probably push him too far if I did. So I avert my eyes, raise my hands and surrender, and step back. No man, I'm good. I turn around and head back down the hall. My mission, accomplished. That's what I thought, motherfucker, Pulaski says. Better watch you back. He's such an idiot. He doesn't realize what just happened. Fine with me. I allow myself to smile as I get down the hallway and duck back into the bedroom. But the buzz is still there at the base of my skull, and I don't think it's going away anytime soon. I wake up angry, and then I hear

the shouting. It's coming from downstairs, and it sounds like a little bit of the skull. It's coming from downstairs, and it sounds like Lawrence. After quickly pulling my clothes on, I hurry downstairs into the kitchen, which is separated from an open living room area by a waist-high bar. Everyone is down here, either in the kitchen or the living room. And by the looks on their faces, none of them are in good spirits. Where is it? Lawrence screams at the middle-aged woman, Patricia. The woman stands with her arms crossed, leaning against the counter next to the sink. I know it was you, took it! Now where did you put it? Lawrence shouts.

His considerable cheeks shaking in red. I've never seen him like this. And I find myself wanting to slap him hard across the face. No one else seems to be interested in diffusing the situation. Jerich stands nearby, peering at Lawrence and shaking his head with a smug look on his face. Whitney lounges on a couch in the living room, staring slack-jawed at a television playing on the wall.

Pulaski sits in a chair staring at Whitney, his hand down his pants. Finally, the oldest woman, Selena, stares at Whitney from nearby. Her jaw set firmly. I want to scream. What the fuck is going on here? I want to smash the furniture to bits and pull the television off the wall and break Pulaski's finger so he can't grab himself or anyone else. Instead, I clench my jaw and get in between Lawrence and Patricia. What's the problem?

She hid all the good food. Lawrence winds. All that's left is vegetables and rice and junk. You can't prove it was me, Patricia says. You people are pathetic. Jerich says from nearby, shaking his head with a smirk on his face. I ignore him, turning to Lawrence. Why do you think it was her?

Because I saw her last night when I came down to get a snack. She was snooping around. Snooping around? Patricia says. It's my house, too. I wasn't snooping. You were counting, Lawrence says. I saw your little notebook.

You were counting all the food. I look up at the camera in the middle of the kitchen ceiling, wondering why Patricia hasn't been punished yet if she's the one who took the food. And if not her, then whoever took it should be punished, according to the rules. The dark bulb reveals nothing to me

and does no good. However, the crackling buzz has crawled farther up the back of my head because I'm reminded we have no privacy. Unless the cameras are for show and they're really not recording us. I dismiss the thought. That wouldn't make any sense. The foundation records everything. That's kind of their thing. I know you took the food!

Lawrence screams. Tell me where it is! I push Lawrence back, barely resisting the urge to slap him from his outburst. If there's anyone here who needs less food, it's this glutton. Calm down, I say, talking to him, but really trying to hear the words myself as well. I need to calm down before I explode. I'll find the food, okay? I'll find it. Well, if you do, know that I didn't take it, Patricia says, moving out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Fat boy's just a liar. I shake my head at Lawrence, who snivels like a spoiled child. That greedy bitch took it all. I know she did. Something comes together in a dark, distant part of my mind. Something about Lawrence's words and these people. I reach for it, trying to pull it out of the darkness, to get a good look at it. But before I can, I hear Whitney speak to Pulaski in the living room. Give me something to eat, would you, Pulaski?

She says with a yawn. Maybe I'll let you watch me undress later. After what I did for her yesterday, I can't believe what I'm hearing now. I step away from Lawrence and gaze over the bar and into the living room. Whitney has sprawled on the couch, so the only part of her I can see is an arm flung over the back. Belaskey jumps up out of his chair and looms over the couch. Let me get a peek now, he says, sounding creepy like Ghalm. Come on, let me see.

You know she's got herpes, right? Selina says from nearby. Belaskey whips his head toward the older lady. Really? Screw you, bitch. Whitney says. I'm clean. You're just jealous because you're all old and used up.

Probably haven't been fucked since the Eisenhower administration. Selina launches herself at Whitney with a scream, shoving Pulaski out of the way. The two women scratch and pull hair and slap each other while Pulaski watches. One hand down his pants once again. The screaming and shouting causes the buzz in my head to intensify. This whole thing, the whole situation, is getting to me. I don't know how much longer I can take.

Animals, Jerich says from nearby. God damn animals. As the fight continues, the two women get up from the couch, each trying to shove the other to the floor. Pulaski sees an opportunity and moves forward, grabbing two handfuls of Whitney's ass while she's preoccupied. I can't take it anymore. I rush out of the kitchen, silent in my rage.

Pulaski looks up as I approach. What the fuck did I tell you yesterday? He says. Get the! My first hit cuts his words off. My knuckles folding his teeth back and punching one of his teeth through his lip. He stumbles backward and falls into the chair he's so recently vacated. My second hit catches him in the side of the nose, which breaks with a satisfying crunch.

He gets his hands up, but I knock them down with one hand and drive my elbow into the side of his head. His eyes go swimming and he tries to get up, but his legs are rubbery and he falls to the floor, face down. I drop to my knees on his low back, causing him to scream out in pain. Then I take his head in both hands and slam it into the hardwood floor. I only stop when Pulaski goes limp under me. His teeth litter the floor amid the blood spreading from his face.

The sudden silence brings me back to my senses. I look around and see that the other five are gathered around, most of them staring at me with shocked faces. Whitney looks sick, and Patricia has a hand to her mouth. Selina is the only one who looks pleased, and she's not even looking at me. She's smirking at Whitney. Jerich looks disgusted, one side of his mouth lifted in a holier than now sneer. simply shakes his head and says,

Jesus, man, what the fuck? I stand and peer down at the man I've just beaten, maybe to death. Then I look up at the camera bulb in the ceiling, wondering when my punishment will come. If anyone's watching, they apparently don't care that someone has hoarded all the food or that I beat Pulaski to a pulp.

Then again, Dr. Dickhead didn't say when we would be punished for breaking the rules. Maybe the punishment is still coming. Maybe no food is the punishment. It has been nearly 24 hours since the altercation in the living room. Shortly after, I came up to the bedroom and locked myself inside, away from everyone else. I was afraid of what I would do to them. I was so exhausted from the fight, I fell asleep.

Lawrence woke me up when he knocked on the door and tried to get me to open up. But that interaction ended with me screaming at him and telling him I'd beat him to death if he did didn't leave me alone. Lawrence has been my celly for two years, and I've never yelled at him like that. I've also never seen him get so obsessive about food. Now that Lawrence is gone, I've managed to get myself under control with no little effort. It took me hours of focus, but I've done it. It wasn't easy.

The buzz in my head wanted to keep me from thinking clearly, and it didn't help that I kept hearing arguments from downstairs. Every raised voice, I found myself clenching my fists in anger, wanting nothing more than to go downstairs and shut them all up for good. But I worked hard, remembering the lessons I learned in my anger management class many years ago, back before I went to prison for killing my neighbor who was always beating on his wife and kids. The lessons I'd learned hadn't helped me then, but I'm hoping they'll help me now. So I breathe deeply as I sit on the edge of my bed and picture a lush green,

woodland with a stream of water running through it. And I think about the book Dr. Dickhead made us look at when this reality show started. The book written in some language none of us knew. Surely Dr. Dickhead knew none of us could read whatever language it was written in, but he'd made sure we all looked at it anyway. Obviously the book is some kind of SEP thing that they're studying. That's the only thing that makes sense. And now it's affecting us.

We're under its spell. But what exactly is its spell? What is it doing to us? I think about that clicking-in-place notion I had when in the kitchen with Lawrence and Patricia. I remember thinking with unabashed disgust that Lawrence was a glutton. Something about that word, glutton. And Kevin Spacey? What?

I continue, replaying the scene from the kitchen in my head. What did Lawrence say about Patricia? Something about her being a greedy bitch? Flashes of Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman and Kevin Spacey erupt in my head as everything falls into place. The movie Seven, The Seven Deadly Sins. There's Seven of Us and Seven Sins. Gluttony is one of them, right? That would be Lawrence.

Greed is another. Patricia. What are the other ones? I go through the gruesome murders from the movie, remembering how they signified each of the seven. seven deadly sins. Lust. Polasky, that's an easy one. Was it vanity or pride? Who would that be? I recall Jerich's snide remarks and is holier than thou glances. He's overly prideful. Three more. Whitney couldn't be bothered to get up from the couch to get herself something to eat,

so she played on Pulaski's lust by saying she would show herself to him if he got her something. That's an extreme form of laziness. So Whitney would be slothed. who was left, the older woman, Selena. She had seemed jealous of the attention Whitney was getting. So jealous, she told Pulaski that Whitney had a venereal disease, so Selena would be envy. Then there was one more sin I hadn't covered, one that ended the movie. Wrath. That's me. I'm wrath. Of course I am. I peer around the bedroom, suddenly furious at Dr. Dickhead in the foundation. I want to burn it all down. But I realize I'm losing myself to my rage again, playing right into their hands.

I breathe deeply, picturing the serene woodland with the running stream. Maybe if I just tell all the others what's happening, we can get through this together. If they know how we're being manipulated, maybe they'll stop acting foolish. If we make this reality show boring, maybe it will end. I get up from the bed and go to the door, pulling the chest of drawers I used to barricade it out of the way. As I open the door, a strange sound hits my ears. It's like a piece of metal being driven into mud over and over again. I move toward the noise, realizing it's coming from the women's bedroom.

The door is open, and I step inside, seeing Patricia straddling Jerich, who lies face down on the floor next to one of the three twin beds arranged in the room. Patricia's back is to me, blocking my view of whatever she's doing to Jerich. She brings her hand up, and I see a bloody knife gripped in it. She plunges it down, making the metal and mud sound again. Jerich doesn't move. I move farther into the room, changing my angle to see past Patricia. Jerich's back is a gory mess of bloody stab wounds. It looks like he was in the middle of reaching under the bed when Patricia attacked him. And I soon see why. He has a bag of chips in his hand. Kneeling, I peer under the bed and see the full.

food Patricia took from the kitchen. The buzz in my head goes from zero to 60. I feel it wash up the back of my skull, only slowing as it reaches my forehead. You stupid bitch, I say, the wrath talking. Patricia whips around and lunges at me with barely a pause. You can't have it! She screams, rushing toward me on hands and knees. It's mine! She reaches out with the knife, trying to stab me in the chest. I dodge back, but the knife, sinks into my left leg. I grunt in pain as I punch Patricia in the head. She falls onto her side, leaving the knife sticking out of me. The buzz goes full throttle, encompassing my entire head so I feel like my skull will explode if I don't inflict some violence on someone, anyone.

But of course, Patricia is here, and she's just stabbed me. I yank the knife out of my left leg and throw it behind me. The wrath won't abide using a tool for this. It requires me to use my bare hands. Kneeling, I grip Patricia's head in my hands, jamming my thumbs into her eyes. I squeeze, veins popping, and tendons bulging from my hands and arms. Patricia screams as her eyes pop out of their sockets amid pools of blood. She batters me with her flailing arms, hitting me several times in the head, but it only fuels my anger. I slap her head down into the floor, and my thumbs sink up to the first knuckles in her eye sockets. Her arms grow weak, still flailing but useless now.

Like beached fish, I keep pushing, my thumbs, sinking farther and farther in until the second knuckles are inside the sockets, and I can't push anymore. I feel her warm brains under my thumbs. I flex them and shove them around inside, gouging holes in her brain. She goes limp. I pull my blood-soaked thumbs out and grab the bag of chips out of Jerich's dead hand. After marching out of the room, I head downstairs and find Selena sitting on top of Whitney on the couch, holding a pillow over the younger woman's face. Lawrence sits in an armchair nearby, his back to me.

From the movement of his jaw, which I can just see, I think he must be chewing on something. I drop the bag of chips on the floor and rush over to Selena. I punch her in the side of the head, and she falls down, smacking her head on the corner of the coffee table. Knocking the pillow aside, I lean over Whitney and press two fingers just under her jaw. She has no pulse. Whitney's dead. God damn you, I say, stepping next to a twitching Selena and stomping on her head. She keeps twitching, her head bleeding from where she hit it on the coffee table.

I adjust my aim and stomp on her throat once, collapsing her windpipe. With that done, I whirl on Lawrence. Why didn't you stop? My words cease as I see Lawrence's face. Blood pours out of his mouth as he chews on something. His face is a mask of concentration. He brings his hand up and takes a bite out of a mostly eaten light bulb. The glass crunches between his teeth while cutting up his gums, cheeks, and tongue.

You idiot! I scream, knocking the light bulb away and wrapping my hands around his thick neck. He puts up a fight, blood spewing out of his mouth as he struggles. My arms are longer than his. So I turn my face away as he tries to batter me. I yell, gripping his throat tightly, feeling the cartilage crunch under my thumbs. Pretty soon, he's dead.

Gasping, I straighten up and look around at all the dead bodies. Velaski is still where I left him. He hasn't moved. His skin has lost all signs of life. I must have killed him yesterday. I'm the only one left, I shout, flipping the coffee table. I rush over to the television, and rip it off the wall.

I go through the kitchen and smash all the appliances. I punch walls and kick furniture and headbutt mirrors. By the time the two men and riot gear come for me, I'm bleeding and exhausted and both my hands are broken. They bind my wrists behind my back and get me to my feet, two of them holding my arms. I sag, forcing them to hold me up as Dr. Dickhead comes waltzing in. My, my, what a temper you have, he says.

jumping six feet away. I blink blood out of my eyes, sinking further down. Stand up, the man on my right says from behind his face shield. I don't. I just stare at the doctor. Wrath always seems to win, he says, studying me. I guess that's to be expected. What's my punishment? I ask. Huh, you'll see. Don't worry. You won't have to live with the guilt you feel for long. The doctor smirks, propelling myself with my legs, I whipped to the left, yanking my arm out of one guard's grip. Using that momentum, I slam my head up and under the other guard's helmet, connecting with his chin. His grip loosens enough for me to yank out of it and charge Dr. Dickhead.

The good doctor turns to run, but I slam into him from behind, and we both go down to the floor. He flips around to defend himself, but I'm already on my knees and ready for it. Before he can get his hands up, I slam my fore. into his face, once, twice, three times before the guards boom me off. You'd have brought more guys, you arrogant prick! I shout, laughing insanely. Dr. Dickhead screams, gripping his ruined face and rolling around the floor. SCP 1215 is a 4th century illuminated manuscript, written in medieval Greek on vellum.

The manuscript is a version of the Perilogesman. apparently an original copy written by the works author of Agrius Ponticus. The Peri Lodgisman is a treatise on temptation, the predecessor to the seven deadly sins. The text of SCP 1215 varies appreciably from other copies of the work. Individuals exposed to the text or illustrations within the manuscript have their behavior altered, though these alterations do not appear to manifest until the individual leaves the immediate proximity. of the object. Subjects exhibit behavior consistent with one of the evil thoughts described within the manuscript. Analysis of personnel and D-Class under SCP-1215's influence suggests

that the alterations to their behavior are based on their prior personality. Additional testing for a statistically significant sample is ongoing. Currently, symptoms are divided into three phases. Phase one, symptoms are existing. immediately upon leaving the vicinity of SCP-1215, and are sufficiently minor that they may go unnoticed. Phase 2, symptoms are exhibited starting approximately 12 to 36 hours after leaving the object's vicinity, and, while noticeable and potentially hazardous,

are unlikely to result in permanent harm to the subject or others. Phase 3, symptoms are exhibited starting approximately 48 to 96 hours of leaving the object, of leaving the object's vicinity. Phase 3 symptoms often result in significant harm to the subject and personnel nearby.