The SCP Experience - Stepping Out Of The Movies | SCP-7048

Episode Date: December 23, 2024

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-7048 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7048 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Jake Bible  * * * 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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in Ontario. 50 tours on the machine-a-Bass Bonanza. Depos minimum of 10 dollars. Beaux No way. You got something, Barb? Yeah, I think so.

Not sounded too sure there, Barb. Well, I mean, we won't know until we play it. Play it? I think I found an instance of SCP 7048. Seriously? Seriously? Amazing. Keep looking.

If it's really an instance of SCP 7048, then there should be a projector around here somewhere. That's what I was thinking too. Great. Give a shout if you find anything. I'm heading upstairs to check the second floor and attic. The projector could be in the attic. Could be, but usually a projector is close to the instance. So keep searching the basement. Good work, Barb. Thanks. Barb is short for Barbarossa, which is my last name, not my first. Most people hear Barb, and they think of a spunky Florida retiree with a serious dye job and obvious fake boobs, since there's no way anything can stay that perky at

70 plus years, so they must be fake. Basically, someone like the woman whose house we're searching right now. If the photos on her mantle, and on the bookshelves, and on the coffee table, and on the side tables and stuck to the fridge or any indication, well, this barb had a lot of work done, especially to the chest area. And I say had, because she died three days ago. Pretty much as soon as her body hit the morgue's computer, we were called in. The problem is, no one told us why we were called in, not even the SCP brass. The orders we were given were to search that house top to bottom for anomalies and instances. Again, no specifics, just a general order to tear the place apart and make sure anything that isn't contained gets contained.

Now, if what I have in my hand is what I think it is, then this is a find and a half. A film that can project people inside it. I've read about these things, but I've never had the chance to watch one. The old-timers at the Foundation, the agents who have been around a while, have talked about them at Foundation get-togethers and holiday parties, but they usually shut up when rookies like me get close. They don't want to spoil the fun, they say. Oh, I'm gonna have fun.

Just as soon as I find the projector for this film. I hunt through the old woman's basement, shoving aside empty milk crates and stacks of old newspapers. A couple of headlines grab my attention, but I need to stay focused and find that projector. I find shoeboxes filled with more photos of the old woman in various stages of her life. Then I find it.

The projector. It's in a hard plastic case. hard plastic case that's a weird mix of gray and brown. Hard to describe, except maybe duck crap green, I don't know. I have to get down on my hands and knees and move an old picnic basket with something sticky and oozing on the sides, a typewriter that looks like it's been stepped on, a fishing tackle box that vibrates like there's something buzzing inside, and a unicycle without a seat. Finally, I'm able to reach under the wooden shelves and grab the nearest corner of the projector case. The plastic slides across the cement floor, making a gritty scraping sound that

sends a shiver up and down my spine. You good down there? My partner, Brock, calls from the top of the basement stairs. Yep, doing fine. I say as I finally managed to get the projector out from under the shelving. I rolled back on my heels and squat in front of the case. Gilliam-Gillcrest film productions is written in faded letters across the side of the case, and I lick my thumb, then rub it over the words, hoping to make them a little clearer, but all I do is end up rubbing off some of the gold paint the letters were applied with. Brock's footsteps are loud on the basement stairs, sending booming thuds, bouncing off the concrete block walls. You found it! Brock exclaims and rushes over to me. He kicks a rusty jack-in-the-box

aside and squats next to me. What's on the reel? I don't know. I say a nod at the projector. I haven't even opened the case up, let alone watch the reel. The name on the film is on the canister, Brock says and stands up. Where'd you set it? Over on the workbench.

I say and stand also, lifting the projector case with me. Conveniently, the case has a handle on the top. Although I don't trust it much, so I brace the weight of the projector with my hand and carry it over to the workbench. Brock is standing there reading the title of the film that's held in the tin canister. Hell Devils of the Desert Hills, he says and shows me the title. Yep. I say and navigate around him so I can set the projector down.

Can you move? Huh? Oh, right. He responds. His eyes still on the canister. He takes two steps to the left. A little more? I ask.

Brock isn't a small guy. Well over six feet tall, he has a good four inches on me, and probably 20 or so pounds. If you can picture a guy named Brock, then that's what he looks like. All-American, corn-fed, opportunity handed to him on a silver platter. Me? I'm short and wiry. No bulk on me to speak of. Skinny has a pole cat and twice is mean, my grandma used to say. She was talking about my grandfather, but the two of us are spitting images of each other. However, while I'm skinny as a pole cat, I'm not twice as mean.

I got a temper, sure, but Grandpa Norris liked his brown liquor, so that's where he got the twice as mean label. Right. Sorry. Brock says and moves two more steps. It's enough, and I'm able to squeeze by him and set the projector down. The thing isn't super heavy, but it isn't light either. Let's watch it, Brock says, shaking the film canister at me. We have to watch it.

That would be great, I say shaking my head. But we need to clear it first. You never know what could go wrong. With this? He asks and holds the canister up. There are four of these back at the foundation. Everyone who's watched one says it's incredible and completely safe. I don't know about completely safe, I counter.

How is it not? He asks and raises an eyebrow at me, daring me to argue some more. I know that look. When Brock raises an eyebrow, it means I've already lost the argument, and now we see how much punishment I'm willing to take. And the answer today is none. So I roll my eyes and undo the latches on the projector case. Fine, I say when I lift the cover and set it to the side on the workbench.

I take a step back and study the projector. In this day and age of digital images, it's easy to take for granted just how far. we've come in such a short time. When I was a kid, we were already using TVs and VCRs to watch videos, so I missed the projector era, definitely before my time, which is why I'm studying the projector. I have no idea how it works. With a quick side glance at Brock, I can see he's stumped too. Okay, so we take the film out, he says and opens the canister, extracting the reel of film, and holding it at arm's length up against the projector.

He moves the reel around, placing it at different points of the projector, as if the reel itself will suddenly go where it's supposed to go. Then he gives up and shakes his head. Now what? No clue, I say and pull my phone out of my pocket. How do you play a film on a movie projector? I dictate into my phone and wait for the search results.

The first search entry tells me to find the movie file on my laptop and then connect to the digital projector via hdmi cable or use screen mirroring on the streaming device of my choice not helpful the next three entries are just versions of the first entry then there's a list of youtube videos where people with way too much caffeine in their systems basically shout at me while huge graphics bounce around the screen they all want me to use an H-DMI cable. 16 millimeters, Brock says. This film is 16 millimeters. Search that.

I search for how to play a 16-millimeter film on an old film projector. Here we go, I say, after scrolling past yet more H-DMI-obsessed articles, until I come to some retro site that specializes in old AV equipment. Looks like the reel goes on the spindle. What's the spindle? Brock asks. Uh, good question. I say and look all over the projector for the spindle.

There's a clear picture in the retro article, but the projector in front of me is different and doesn't look like it has the same type of arms sticking out from the front or the back. What's this? Brock asks, and before I can stop him, he reaches out and grabs a piece of the projector, then flips it to the right.

Spindle? Yeah, I think that's it. I say, surprised. The thing Brock is. The rock grabbed was the front arm. It was folded down for storage in the case, so I didn't notice it right away. On the end of the arm is the spindle I had been looking for. Just a small rod sticking out with the squeeze and release locking tab at the very end,

so the reel stays in place when it's placed on the arm. Brock doesn't wait for me to say anything. He just hip-checks me out of the way, lines the center notches of the film reel up with the spindle rod, and clicks the reel into place. Now what? he asks. We need the other arm, I say. Going back to the instructions on my phone. It's right here.

I find the folded arm at the back of the projector and lift that out, just like Brock did with the front arm. I mumble as I stare at a problem. According to the article, there should be a second reel. An empty one that the played film spools onto. Not seeing an empty reel anywhere, Brock says. Is it still in the case? No, I say, and it's an easy answer.

The case is just a lid that lifts off. The base is actually still attached to the bottom of the projector. There's no empty reel. Lift it up, Brock says. Lift it up? Lift it up? Maybe there's a compartment under the case. I doubt it.

Well, lift it up and let's see. I sigh and lift up the projector. There is no compartment underneath. But there is a torn bit of paper stuck to the bottom. I grab the paper and pull it free. Warn is written in red letters on the scrap. It doesn't take much to deduce that the whole piece of paper, wherever that may be, has some kind of warning on it.

Hold on, I say and go back to the wooden shelves. Getting down on my hands and knees, I peer under the bottom shelf where the projector had been stored on the basement's concrete floor. I think I see something. I say and get flat, so I can stretch my arm under and reach the little, bit of white I see.

Found it! Brock exclaims. I'm already scooching under the shelf, so I can't look back at him and see what the it is. What did you find? I asked. My voice muffled by the fact my entire head and most of my torso are under the bottom shelf.

Now I just need to figure out how to thread the film. I hear Brock mumble. Hold on! I shout. There was some warning taped to the bottom of the projector. Would you look at this? Brock exclaims. If you flip open this little door on the side, it has a diagram that shows you how to threat the film.

How helpful. Sounds like it, but hold the hell on, Brock. I say, inching my torso even further under the shelf. My outstretched fingers can almost touch the slip of paper. Let me get this before you do anything. And this goes through here, and this goes through here. Brock says to himself, I know he's not talking to me. He's using that same voice he uses when he puts ketchup and mustard on his burgers.

It's like he has to narrate each step where they don't happen. Brock! I yell. Huh? You good under there, Barb? He replies. Yeah, I'm good, but you need great. Give a shout if he gets stuck. He interrupts and laughs. No, that goes here and here.

So now I just need to turn it on. Do not turn it on yet! I shout, my fingers just brushing the corner of the slip of paper. Brock, wait! No way, Barb, Brock says. I'm not passing up an opportunity like this, and you've read all the transcripts? No one gets hurt doing this. In fact, they all say they have the times of their lives.

Don't you think we deserve some good times too, Barb? Yeah, sure, but just hold on. I say and my fingers are finally able to pinch the corner of the slip of paper. Slowly, I ease my arm back to me, and I get stuck. My elbow jams up a little too high and lodges up against the support, which is a moldy 2x4. In order to get out of the awkward position, I need to stretch my arm out again,

nearly losing the slip of paper in the process. I slide my entire body backward as flat as I possibly can. Inch by inch I scoot backward, while Brock mumbles to himself about finding a plug. This should do it, he says when I'm finally free. I roll over onto my back and take a deep breath. It fills my lungs with musty air, but it's at least not as claustrophobic as a breath under the shelves would have been.

I'm not saying I'm claustrophobic. At least, I don't think I am. But having most of your body under a set of shelves while your ass is sticking out can make a person feel a little vulnerable. Vala! Brock shouts as light fills the basement. Brock! Stop! I shout and struggle to get to my feet.

Brock has plugged in the projector and faced the lens toward the far wall of the basement. The wall isn't white, but it is a light enough gray that the film image shows up easily. Hot damn! Brock yells and claps his hands. Are you seeing this bark? Hill, Devils of the Desert. It's right there on the... By the time I'm standing up, Brock is gone.

He's talking to me about the title of the film one second, then the next, he's just no longer in the basement. Brock yells, and I jump a little as his voice echoes out of the projector's small speaker. I spin around and focus on the movie playing against the basement wall. Brock is standing right there on the screen, waving to me. I can't see you, but I know you're there watching. Brock continues shouting. Isn't this cool?

Yeah, it is. I say to the screen, unsure if he can hear me or not. From the lack of change in his expression, my guess is he can't hear me. His eyes squint, and he looks to his right. Someone's coming, he says and shields his eyes from the sun so he can look down the road he's standing on.

I move closer to the impromptu screen, careful not to block the projected image, and study what the film is showing me. Brock is standing on a cracked and broken desert highway. It could be any number of, of forgotten highways down in the southwest or Texas, or even in the arid desert areas of eastern California or Oregon. I think I recognize the Mesa far off in the background from it being in other films,

but I'm not a Mesa expert, so I don't know for sure. Who's coming, Brock? I ask the screen. Of course, he doesn't respond. He just keeps shielding his eyes, staring off screen down the highway. Motorcycles. Brock says. A whole bunch of that.

Hell Devils of the Desert Hills. Hell Devils. Careful, Brock! I shout at the screen. That's a motorcycle gang. I'm not sure why I'm worried. Brock was right that no one has gotten hurt from being projected into these movies. There are four in storage back at the foundation.

They aren't in secure containment or anything. Just climate-controlled storage so the film is preserved. As far as I know, even the cleaning crew has access to that storage room. which means neither the foundation eggheads nor the brass see the films as any real threat. Yet, something about this one gnaws at me. Sure, it would stand to reason that this film is just as safe as the others. Except, I looked down at my hand in the slip of paper. The top corner is torn off, and the first word is missing some letters,

but I already know what the word is. Warning, in big red letters. Then I read the rest of what's on the paper. Oh, they sure are coming at me fast, Brock says as I read. I hope they slow down. Not for consumer use, I say out loud. Prototype damaged in testing.

For immediate disposal. Do not use. For immediate disposal. Those last words, a repeat of the same phrase above, are in all capital letters and just as red as the warning at the top. Maybe I should get off the road, Brock says from the screen. I'll just let these guys go on by.

I'm sure someone else will come along so I can get a ride into town. Brock, I say quietly as I look up at the screen. Then I look down at the paper and read it again. After three more read-throughs, I look back at the screen. Oh shit. The sound of motorcycle roars from the projector speakers, rattling the thin metal and adding to the noise. Brock pats his hip, then looks down.

Uh-oh, he says. He was going for his sidearm, except his sidearm isn't there anymore. In fact, he's not dressed in the trademark dark suits that all foundation field agents wear. Instead, he's in jeans and a button-up, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. It's a look from the mid or late 1960s, I think. The early 70s, maybe, I don't know, sometime around then. Not good, not good, Brock says, then takes a deep breath. Remember, you can't die in these films.

You go back to the real world when it ends as if it never happened. All good. It's all good. Brock and I have been partners for about four years now. Because he has two years of service with the foundation on me, he still calls me rookie. That's Brock. The other thing that Brock is, is overly friendly. The guy hasn't ever met a stranger. Each person he runs into instantly becomes a best friend.

Which is what I'm afraid of, as the film cuts to a shot of the motorcycle gang speeding down the highways straight at Brock. It's a cool shot, to be honest. Brock in the foreground, and off to the left of the screen, the motorcycles and their riders growing closer and closer, filling up most of the screen on the right. Then the camera pans left behind Brock, just as the gang arrives. The shot changes to a close-up of a pair of sunglasses. Brock is reflected in the dark lenses, and I watch as he raises a hand in waves,

Brock says, and the shot switches from the sunglasses to a matching close-up of Brock's face. He's squinting against the desert sun, but he's smiling. Cut to the sunglasses again. A hand reaches up, barely seen at the edges of the shot, and takes the glasses off. Narrow, weathered eyes, bright blue stare out of the screen.

Then there's a medium shot of a man sitting on his motorcycle, sunglasses dangling from one hand. His bike is in front of the others, immediately designating him as the leader of the gang. He looks to his left and nods to the riders he sees there. Then he looks to the right and nods at the riders he sees that way. Finally, he looks straight ahead again and then tucks the stem of his sunglasses into the collar of the T-shirt

shirt he's wearing under his leather biker jacket. How are we doing? He asks, and his tone is rhetorical. He looks around at the gang again and starts laughing. I don't know, guys. How are we doing? His gang laughs with him. Then the man puts the sunglasses back on and points at Brock.

I'd say you're about to find out, he says, and then twirls that same finger in the air. Motorcycles roar back to life with half going one way and half going the other as the leader stays put right where he is. The screen is filled with quick shots of bikers racing around Brock, mixed with shots of Brock's face up close as he tries to track each biker. His eyes look this way and that. His head turns left, then right.

His tongue darts out and licks his lips over and over. Brock is scared. He's not liking his role in the way. the film. I thought I was supposed to be the lead in this. Rock exclaims. What was that? The leader yells, then raises his hand above his head and lets out a long, sharp whistle.

Quiet! The motorcycles all freeze where they are and engines are cut. The silence left sounds more ominous and threatening than the roar of the motorcycles. What was that you said, man? The leader asks. Welcome to aboard Via Rai Embarked and

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Bikers are all around him and he looks over one shoulder than the other, licking his lips the entire time. I, uh, said that I'm supposed to be the leading role. Brock says. That's how these films work. You get projected into them and then have to play out your part in the whole movie as the lead.

Is that so? The leader asks and spreads his arms wide. I hate to break it to you, man. But I think I'm the lead in this movie. Right, boys? The bikers all laugh and yell out their agreement. But hey, man, if you want to share whatever it is, you're smoking.

I'll let you pretend to be the lead all you want. The leader continues, making the bikers laugh even harder. Brock stands there, confused and worried, as he moves back and forth from one foot to the other like he needs to pee. Or like he's getting ready to run. Brock, no! I shout at the screen, even though he can't hear me. I shout, because I've seen more than a couple of old biker gang exploitation movies. There's one rule when you're confronted by a hostile motorcycle gang in the middle of nowhere.

Don't run. because if you run, they will chase you down, and it's never good when a motorcycle gang chases down their target. To my horror, and not too surprising at all, Brock does exactly what I'd hoped he wouldn't do. He turns and runs. The shot shows Brock's back as he sprints down the highway, then it pans to the right and becomes an over-the-shoulder shot

with the leader in the foreground. The man raises his arm high and the fist is lost from the shot as it sticks out of the top of the screen. Literally, for a brief second, I swear that I see the fist actually appear from above the top of the image's border, in the flesh, in this basement, right there in front of me.

Get them! The leader says and lowers his arm, pointing at Brock's fleeing back. Motorcycles roar to life and give chase. The shots become wild and frantic. Brock's scared face, sweat, beating on his upper lip. A biker with tinted goggles cackling and laughing

pulls a length of chain from inside his denim vest. Another biker is sliding a piece of rebar down from inside the arm of his leather jacket. A third biker is wielding a baseball bat, wrapped in electrical tape at the end, red standing the wood below the tape. Brock's eyes are wide, darting this way and that. There's a close-up of a gloved hand holding the length of chain as it slowly starts to spin.

A knife appears, the blade reflecting, a superimposed image of Brock running away. A shiny muffler. Motorcycle wheels spinning and spinning. The back of a biker, the name of the gang plain to see on his vest, Hill Devil's motorcycle club, embroidered over the vest's denim.

Back to the leader sunglasses. Back to the chain which is now spinning faster and faster. Back to the knife. The rebar. the road, a wheel spinning, a biker laughing directly into the camera, Brock's face, sweating and pale. Then the chain is center screen as one end whips out, and I fall back, my back bumping the edge of the work table, keeping me from landing. I swear the tip of that chain was in the basement. Brock's face fills the screen again, and he cries out, then is lost from sight, leaving only

the blurry desert background in the shot. Then a wide shot of a dozen bikers circling around Brock's fallen form. He struggles to sit up and get his legs free from the chain that's tangled around his knees, but he only manages to get his fingers between the chain and his knees when the rebar connects with the back of his head. Brock cries out and laughter explodes up over the roar of the motorcycles. A close up of Brock's palm, it's coated in red. Granted, the red doesn't exactly look like real blood. It's way too bright and thin. But when the shot changes to Brock's, Shocked face, I know the blood is real to him, and that's all that matters. Where are you running off to, man?

The leader asks, as his motorcycle rolls right through the circling bikers, as if they had planned to leave a narrow path for him. The fun's just getting started. Barb! Brock yells. Peter nudges his bike's kickstand down and parks. He slowly swings one leg over the seat and stands up. Then he raises his sunglasses, looks one way, looks the other,

then focuses down at Brock. Who in the Sam Hill are you shouted for? The leader asks, then without looking their way, addresses his gang. You boys seeing anyone else around here? A chorus of nose and laughs, fills the projector speaker. The leader squats in front of Brock. Ain't no one out of here but us, man, he says. Mommy and Daddy ain't coming for you.

He stands up and whistles. Several bikes stop, and their riders get off. lengths of chain in each of their hands. But maybe we can take you to them. The leader continues. One piece at a time. Mommy and Daddy. The line sticks in my head, and I realize I should be calling this in.

I've been so stunned by what's happening to Brock that I have completely forgotten Foundation Protocol. I need to call Mommy and Daddy, which is a metaphor my confused brain has invented to compare what the Biker Gang leader has said to the brass of the foundation. I have my phone. out and I'm about to dial when what's on the basement wall holds my full attention. The bikers have attached chains to the ends of each of Brock's limbs, and the other ends of those

chains are now being secured to the backs of motorcycles. Motorcycles that are each facing a different direction from each other. No, no, no, no, I say, and hit the big red button that's always on the home screen of our phones. Please describe your emergency, a voice says, answering after one ring. My partner and I have found an instance of SCP-7048. I say, the voice responds. Those films are so much fun.

This one isn't. I shout. It's defective, and my partner is now in the movie, and a biker gang is about to rip him limb from limb. Yeah, SCP-7048 isn't dangerous, the voice says. He may not be having a great time, but he'll be fine once the movie ends, and he's returned. Did you not hear me say it was defective?

I yell. How can a film? be defective, the voice asks. Listen, it's Barbarossa, right? That's what my screen is saying. Yes, it's Barbarossa, but you need to... Listen, Agent Barbarossa. I know things may seem scary out in the field sometimes,

but instances of SCP-7048 can't be defective. They are... Not the goddamn film, you moron. The projector is defective. I scream. There was a note. Up on the screen, Brock is fighting and thrashing against the chains

that hold his arms and legs. All he gets for his effort is a bunch of laughter from the bikers, and a couple of Lugies hawked his way. A mucousy hunk of spit lands on his cheek, and a shot gets close, following as the Lugie slowly slides down Brock's cheek and onto the pavement. Did you say the projector is defective? The voice asks.

Yes! There was a note! And what does the note say? The voice asks. I read it to him. And you still round the projector? What were you thinking? I didn't run the projector. My partner did.

I tried to explain. I was reading the note, and he didn't wait for me to finish. That sounds like an agent error to me, and not a field emergency, the voice says. Let me check with my supervisor. Hold on. Check with your... I start to say, but I'm interrupted by very loud hold music that is a nightmare mix between really bad jazz and really, really, really bad jazz.

Brock screams as motorcycle engines rev, then roar at full volume. More quick cuts. A chain connected to the back of a bike. A different chain connected to the back of a different bike. A chain wrapped around Brock's right ankle. A chain wrapped around Brock's left wrist. A close-up of a biker's evil grin.

Sunglasses. A hand revving a bike's throttle. Then four peeling tires. One after the other shown in split screen, which becomes four quarters as each bike's tire fills up section of the screen. Then the tire stops spinning and grip the pavement. The shot becomes static on Brock's face. He's yelling. Then he's screaming. Then he's really screaming.

Blood splatters up from off camera and coats his cheeks and chin. Brock's eyes go so wide I'm afraid they're going to pop and his scream turns into a choked gurgle of pure agony. The camera never moves from his face. That his pain and tension suddenly end, And Brock's face goes completely slack. His head falls back to the pavement and turns slightly in my direction. Brock's eyes stare directly into the camera and stare directly into me. All right, you still there, Agent Barbarossa? The voice asks as the really, really, really bad jazz music comes to a stop.

Yes. I whisper as the shot on the screen stays on Brock's face. His dead eyes locked onto me, the voice says. Supervisor, and he says that until the... the movie ends and your partner doesn't return, then it's not considered an emergency. Is the movie still playing? Yes. I whisper again, and the shot slowly racks back to reveal the leader and the rest of the

biker gang surrounding Brock's body, a body that no longer has either arms or legs attached to it. He's dead. I whisper. Understood. But the movie is still playing, yeah? The voice asks. Yes, I reply.

It's still playing. The leader spits down on Brock's corpse, then slowly lifts his head and looks at the camera. Then he lifts his sunglasses and smiles. Well, who do we have here? He asks, and all heads turn and look at the camera. As long as the movie is still playing, then your partner will be fine, the voice says.

Now, if the movie ends, and your partner doesn't return, that's a different matter. Give us a call back if that happens, okay? The leader gets off his bike and walks toward the camera. He jabs a finger straight at me. Don't think I don't see you, man, the leader says and keeps moving toward the camera. I see you all right, standing there looking at us like you're better or something? Me? I ask and point in my chest.

Yeah, you? The leader says. Then the leader steps straight out of the screen, his leg, leading the way from the concrete block wall. In a second, he's standing here in the basement with me. His body illuminated by the movie still coming from the projector. Uh, what's the emergency policy if one of the characters leaves the movie? I ask. I'm sorry, what's that? The voice asks.

Did you say a character has exited the movie? Yeah. And that character is now in front of you? Yeah. The leader keeps walking toward me, and several more bikers step out of the screen. That's different, the voice says, and the really bad jazz music starts up again. Christ Almighty, what is that? The leader shouts, cringing a little at the noise coming out of my phone.

Smooth jazz. I say as I hold up my phone with one hand, then slowly reach down to my hip for my sidearm. Why would anyone listen to that, man? The leader asks me, still moving in my direction. No one listens to it on purpose. I say and draw my sidearm. I level it at the leader. That's as far as you go.

Now, how about you turn around and walk back into that movie? The leader looks back over his shoulder as more of the bikers join him. Then he looks away from the screen and over at the basement stairs and the world beyond. Nah, I think we'll stick around, the leader says. I can't let that happen, I say. While the leader's eyes are on the stairs, his body keeps moving toward me one step at a time. Stop, or I will fire, I say. You think that will work?

The leader asks, finally moving his gaze back to me. I mean, you saw where we just came from. I'm thinking the rules don't apply like you think they do. I open fire. I don't have time for this shit. When the pistol clicks empty, my heart sinks. The leader and the rest of the gang are still standing there. Not a mark on them.

But behind them, I can see bullet holes pockmarking the basement wall. Taking for a ride, boys, the leader says and snaps his fingers. Bikers rush me and grab my arms as the leader walks toward the basement wall. stairs. My phone is knocked from my hand and clatters to the cement floor. Show me a real good time. The leader continues, getting closer and closer to the stairs. Treat him just like we did his friend. I'm being dragged toward the basement wall and a desert landscape waiting inside the movie when the voice comes back on the phone. I said we should send a squad your way. What's the address? I try to shout, but my mouth is

covered by a leather-gloved hand that smells of sweat, grease, and blood. Hello? The voice calls out. You still there, Agent Barbarossa? Half my body goes cold as I'm dragged into the image on the basement wall. Agent Barbarossa? The voice calls again.

Huh, he's not there. Well, I'll see if he calls back. The phone goes quiet, just as I'm fully pulled into the movie. The last thing I see is the leader walking up the basement stairs. Then everything turns to desert. I hope you like chains. A biker snarls up close, chewing tobacco and spit flies into my face. What? What?

I stammer, then look down. At my feet is Brock's limbless corpse. And I have a feeling even when the movie ends, he won't be getting back up. And as I'm thrown to the pavement and chains are secured to my wrists and ankles, I know I probably won't be getting back up either. The last thing I hear are the motorcycles revving their engines and the squeal of tires as mufflers roar in the desert huge. SCP 7048 consists of four film reels labeled Gilliam-Gilcrest film productions,

SCP-7048-1 through SCP-7048-4, capable of transporting viewers into the role of the main character in the film when played on a projector. The viewer experiences the entire film from within, before returning to reality at its conclusion. The reels, linked to a possible group of interest, are securely stored at sight 484 in a controlled environment to prevent degradation. SCP 7048 was discovered by Agent Dalton Lively while cleaning his late father's attic, where he unknowingly activated SCP-7048-2 and experienced its anomalous effects, prompting him to report it to the foundation.