The SCP Experience - That's My Boy | SCP-068

Episode Date: May 26, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-068: That's My Boy This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-068 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The conditions apply. I have loved Brandon since the day he was born. Even then, he wasn't like other babies. He never cried, not when he was hungry or sad or upset. From an early age, he met this big world with silent determination. As he got older, he didn't speak or show any interest in any toys we bought him. Despite all this, I never had any trouble connecting with him. My wife was always concerned with his silence and unwillingness to socialize with other children.

She wanted to take him to a developmental psychologist, but I dragged my feet. So, he liked to keep to himself. What was the harm in that? Not everyone can be an extrovert. It often led to fights. She thought I was neglecting him. And I felt she couldn't accept Brandon for who he was. When Brandon turned three, he found his favorite hobby.

taking apart paper clips and twisting the metal into a loop at the top, then forming arms and legs into makeshift stick figures. He could spend hours of the day doing this, and it made watching him a breeze. Eventually, Sally stopped nagging about the childhood psychologist, but I still saw the worry in her eyes today as she left for work. It's because of her job, I think, as I look back over the screen. My job allows me to work from home, and it's pretty hands-off most days.

It allows me to spend the days with Brandon. It saves us on a sitter, and it allows my wife to work as a teacher. He's a complacent kid, playing quietly behind me in the home office. I open the new file to send to my manager when my screen flogers, and the entire house goes silent and dark. I spin around in my chair,

and my heart stops as I see Brandon. He's crumpled onto the floor near one of the power outlets. his short hair standing on his head. I rush forward and gasp. In his hands is the tiny metalman he's made, but one of its sharp arms has pressed into the holes of the outlet. I scoop him up in my arms and rush outside. Swearing, I realize I left the keys on the counter and double back,

nearly tripping over the welcome mat as I do. I leave the door open as I bolt to my car, twist the keys into the ignition, and peel out into the street. A car horn behind me tells me I've nearly done. T-boned someone, but I don't have time for their shouted swears. I put the car into drive and slam on the accelerator, flying through our busy suburbs at over 60 miles an hour. The needle on the speedometer climbs higher and dips far to the right as I hit the highway. But I don't stop the check. Brandon! I put my hand on his chest. Brandon, you're going to be okay. Daddy's going to

take you to the hospital, okay? Just hang on. He doesn't say a word. I've always been so content. with his silence, but now it feels wrong. I'm silently begging for him to do something, anything, to let me know he's all right. I speed through red lights, heedless of the chaos I'm leaving in my wake. Dimly, I become aware of blue and red lights in the background, but I don't dare stop, not with the hospital so close. I pull into the emergency room lane as two squad cars pull up behind me. Their looks of rage vanish as they see my son crumpled in my arms as I rush inside. Help me! I scream at the top of my lungs.

My son's been electrocuted. It's all a blur of images and sounds after that. Orderlies put Brandon on a stretcher and push him into a nearby area. I follow close behind, answering the questions from the nurses on reflex. I try to shove past them into the emergency room. When their gentle words aren't enough to stop me, one of the cops puts an arm on my shoulders. Hey, you did all you could, buddy.

His arm lingers on my shoulder. solid and comforting. Let them work now, okay? I watch in mute horror through the doorway as they try to save my son. They place a pad over his chest before bringing out a pair of paddles. They set it on his chest,

and I can't do anything as the shock makes Brandon's tiny body practically leap from the bed. They try this several more times until the doctor shakes his head. He looks at the clock, and the nurse jots the time on a clipboard. No!

I crumble to the ground and feel something cut into my hand. I look down and see Brandon's tiny wireman pierced deep into my palm. I stare at the ceiling from my bed. I can't sleep nor feel anything but a deep sense of loss. That and the sting across my cheek from where Sally slapped me. Her words still ring in my ear. Accusations of neglect. Laying Brandon's death on my shoulders.

I couldn't find the strength. to yell back. She's right. The world already feels empty and cruel without Brandon. Millions of memories play through my mind, making every moment of fresh hell. His quiet footsteps walking up to the couch and sitting next to me as we watched TV, picking him up and carrying him on my shoulders, still without sound. But his grin saying more than words ever could. My boy, my sweet precious, innocent boy. I'm so sorry. My fingers twitched to caress the metal embedded in my flesh. I couldn't bring myself to remove it while at the hospital, or when I came home to find Sally hysterical and full of rage. It's all that I have left of my son. Yet, when I close my hand,

I no longer feel the cold metal against my bleeding flesh. I bolt up for the first time in hours, making my head spin before reorienting myself. The metal man is gone. But how? I haven't moved in hours. I yank the sheets off the bed, stripping it bare to the mattress. But I still don't find anything.

In a panic, I swoop through the room, knocking aside the nightstand, but it's not around the bed either. I pause. Sure I heard something. It's a light tapping coming from downstairs. I walk through the dark hallways, not even bothering with the lights.

The tapping is coming from my home office, and the glare is blinding as I flip the light switch. A litany of metal men line the floors. I rub my eyes. Sure, I'm mistaken at first, but no, I'm not. They're moving, scurrying across the floor and swarming toward my desk.

Each of the metal stick figures is alive. There are dozens of them. They've already rated my stash of paper clips I kept for Brandon to play with, But now, they're seeking out the other metal, peeling it away from my desk as if it was nothing more than string cheese. As I stare and watch them work, I see one, tinted red from my dried blood. Their work is methodical yet familiar, working at the same pace as Brandon and just as silent. Just like Brandon!

My heart swells as fresh tears fall from my eyes while I sink to the floor. It's impossible, but there's no other explanation. Somehow, my son's essence and soul was passed on to the metallic figure when he died. Or maybe that combined with my blood. An explanation doesn't matter. My son is alive. Hope launches me to my feet, and I rush upstairs, looking for my phone. There are dozens of missed calls from family and friends, no doubt checking on me after hearing the news.

I scroll past them and open my contacts, going directly to Sally's number. It takes three tries before she finally picks up. Sally, honey, you've got to come home right now. The joy radiates for my voice, and I haven't felt this happy since bringing Brandon home from the hospital when he was born. I can't explain it over the phone, but it's a miracle. Brandon's okay. I nearly trip over the carpet as the doorbell finally rings.

Opening the door, I greet Sally with a beaming smile that she refuses to match. Her face is still a contorted mix of rage, disgust, and sorrow. John! she says without stepping foot inside. I have the number of a good counselor. I think you should. I don't hear the rest of her words as I grab her wrist and drag her inside,

shutting the door. She tries to pull away, but I keep my grip tight, laughing in pure joy as I lead her through the hall and into the living room. She pauses and stares at the tiny men as they work their way across the room. They had taken all the metal they could find in my office

and moved into the living room, Stripping metal from the chairs and appliances There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls Scary as Hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now.

We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From Binge All episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. Oh my God. She brings a trembling hand to her lips. John, what the hell is all this? What?

How couldn't she see him? It's Brandon. She stares at me. Her mouth open in shock. Turning from her, I watch one metal man finish the last leg of their newest member. It springs to life after completion and joins the others in creating more. Finally, after a long moment, Sally steps in front of me, obscuring my view. John, look at me.

Brandon is dead. No, he's not. I mean, yes, but... I run my hands through my hair. Why can't she see this for the miracle it is? Something. I don't know if it was the electricity, my blood, or both. But somehow Brandon, he's dead!

She shouts and shoves both hands hard into my chest. making me stumble onto the couch. You killed him! And these things, whatever they are, don't change that! She charges into the army of tiny metal children. Our child. Her feet lash out, sending dozens of them scattering. Then she raises her foot toward one,

the one coated with my blood, and brings it down hard, the noise echoing in my ears. No! I scream and leap up from the couch. Grabbing my arms around her, I tackled her to the floor. My hands are at her.

throat and they close tight. John! Her voice is raspy and weak. Please stop. You're hurting me! Her words make me falter. In all our years of marriage, I never raised a hand against Sally.

There had been fights, but they had never been physical. Not until the other day. This is the woman I love. How can I hurt her? Brandon, I lost him once. I can't go through that again. Sally never physically hurt Brandon before.

But if she had, like she just did, what would I have done? I would stop her. It's what any good father would do. Resolve tightens my grip around her throat. I hold on tight as she flails her hands against me, leaving cuts along my face. But I don't let go. If I let go, she'll hurt Brandon. So, I keep my hands bound tight around her throat, and don't let go,

not even after her body finally stops struggling beneath me. I stand, too afraid to look at Brandon. She destroyed the one that had been smeared in my blood. Would that make them all stop? To my relief, though, they're still here and still moving, momentarily distracted by Sally's attack, but now hard at work once more. They swarmed over her body, stripping away the wedding band on her finger to make more metal men. Brandon has gotten so big.

The walls are lined with deep gashes from where he stripped the copper from the walls. He moved into the basement, where there's more for him to work with. Part of me wants to go with him, to watch over him like I failed to do earlier. But I can't decide what to do with Sally. The sheet I draped over her body is still there, like she's napping on the couch. It takes me a moment to realize there's a knocking at the door. Not the kind of polite taps when a neighbor comes over to ask to borrow the mower. They're hard and urgent, and only increase in frequency and strength as I climb from the couch.

Two police officers stand in front of me after I open the door. door. I squint against the sun. It's been days since I've been outside, but one looks familiar. He's the one from the hospital that put his arm on my shoulder when the doctors failed to save Brandon before his resurrection. Mr. Frakes, he nods to me. The hospital has been calling. They want to know what you want to do with the body. Oh, that. They exchange a glance at each other. One cop's sniffling and recoiling. That won't be necessary. They exchanged looks. Your mother-in-law has been calling too.

No one has seen your wife for a couple of days. Is she here? No. The denial comes out too fast. No one's here. Just me and Brandon. That's definitely the wrong thing to say. The other cop sniffs again, while the one speaking drifts his hand slowly toward his gun.

Mr. Frakes, do you mind if we come inside for a moment? I slammed the door, but I'm too slow. One cop wedges his foot into the door frame and swears as the door closes on his foot. The other barrels through, knocking it off its hinges. I turned to flee, but a heavy body lands on top of me, pinning me to the floor. Squirming, I try to get away, but the other joins in, shoving his knee into my back, while the other twists my hand painfully behind me. Cold metal wraps around my wrists as they cuff me.

The one from the hospital stays with me, while the other walks a short distance to the living room. He turns a corner so I can't see. But I hear him exclaim. Jesus Christ! Yeah, I found the wife. Looks like she put up a fight. The cop holding me sighs and lifts me to my feet. Mr. Frakes, I'm putting you under arrest for the murder of your wife.

You have the right. A deep rumbling comes from beneath our feet. No, Brandon, not now. Stay hidden. But it's pointless. The other cop returns momentarily. Long enough for me to see him put his hand on the basement door. I charge at him, but the other cop slams me against the wall while his partner disappears downstairs.

His screams are mingled with gunfire. Another rumble, another scream, and then the gunshots stop. The cop unholsters his gun and calls out his partner's name, but there's no answer. He pushes his gun against the side of my head. What's down there, asshole? Don't hurt him, I whisper. He's just a boy. The house shakes, and we fall to the side as plaster from the roof.

rains upon us. Another tremendous crack fills the air, and he forces me outside as the house crumbles into itself. But the debris doesn't lie restlessly. It stirs until Brandon rears his head. All of the metalmen have combined into one colossal figure. He stands on massive, thin legs, testing them out for the first time. Mother of God! The cop aims his gun, and I scream and leap forward. I barely hear the gunshots as they rip through my body and leave me bleeding. on the ground. Brandon takes one step toward us, easily clearing the distance on his pillar-like legs. The cop turns to run, but the legs pierce through his back, and he dies, screaming. Brandon takes another step toward a neighbor's house, and his lifeless body tumbles back to the

earth. My breathing is rapid and shallow. I know this is the end, but I smile as Brandon looms over the house. The neighbor's screams ripped through the air as Brandon sticks his thin, sharp arms through the house, pulling out more metal to make a new playmate. My smile grows wider. I'm dying. I know this, but Brandon can look after himself now. I've done what I had to do. The pride won't diminish in my heart, even as it slows. That's my boy, I close my eyes. SEP 68 is a wire stick figure, 9.8 centimeters tall, made of an unknown metal. The figure is completely, opposed of a simple wire looping back to the center. The wire itself appears to have been bent numerous times in multiple places.

When an electric current is introduced to SCP-68, it becomes animate, moving about on its own. SCP-68's joints are where a normal human beings would be. Once activated, SCP-68 begins to search for any metallic material. Once metal has been found, SCP-68 will begin to need it. will begin to knead it and pull a thin strip of metal off. SCP 68 will then construct another figure similar to itself. The newly created figure will begin to need the remaining metal alongside the original, creating new figures, which in turn produce more replicas.

SCP 68 will move on to its next stage after one of two requirements are met. The first is when there are no more metals in range with enough mass to produce another figure. The other is, when an upper limit of 102 replicas are created. When either of these events occur, all figures will converge at one location and begin forming themselves into as big a figure as possible. SCP 68 will then begin to search for metals again attempting to create more figures, only scaled up to whatever size 68 is currently at.

If 68 is not at the maximum size limit after this, it will continue to create and add more figures to itself. to itself until the limit is reached. SCP-68 is capable of needing and manipulating any metal presented to it, regardless of properties. It also appears to be impervious to any attempts to damage or destroy it. Copies of SCP-68, however, have the same properties and vulnerabilities as whatever metal they were constructed from. SCP-68 can detect metals hidden from view through an as-of-yet-unknown process. While 68 will not attempt to reach metals that are too difficult to get to,

it will tear through anything that is soft enough for its limbs to penetrate. What it considers soft enough changes, depending on what 68 is shaped from at the time.