The SCP Experience - The Atomic Adventures of Ronnie Ray-Gun | SCP-095

Episode Date: August 30, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-095: The Atomic Adventures of Ronnie Ray-Gun This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-095 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

In the far-fetched future world of the 1980s, only Ronnie Reagan can save the day. My fellow Galacticans, I gaze into the blinking light, transmitting my words and image across the 51 planets and moons that comprise the United Galactic Coalition. I am no traitor. The traitor is Space Admiral Carter. I can feel the eyes of each crewman as they follow my words. Space Major Herbert stands over one shoulder with his hands crossed behind his. back. Through his background in espionage and intelligence gathering, his hard work has coordinated our campaign against the Admiral. Space Captain West, a man just past 30, stands in contrast against Herbert's thin frame. A veteran of dozens of conflicts already, I know I can count on him

to do whatever's necessary. With a heavy sigh, I turned back to the blinking light. Remember the last four years of his Admiralty, the hostage crisis on the desert moon of Nari, The soaring prices of atomo fuel, his surrender of the worm canal back to the Pan Mayans. I don't know if his actions were motivated by tyranny or incompetence, but the results are the same. And that leaves us with just one course of action. I lean toward the broadcast light. His reign of terror ends right now. His blockade of the planet Gregori must end.

Join me in tearing down his wall of terror. The message is relayed across dozens of ships, but those loyal to our calls, are already leaping into super space. Our warship, the UGCS, Sacramia, rumbles as the black and white void of space explodes into bright lights of red and blue. I lean back in my chair, thankful that the hard part is done, and reach for the trusty ray gun at my side. It's never led me astray before, and I know it won't now. Do you think we'll have the number, space, Governor? It doesn't matter anymore, Captain.

I reach for the sugar bombs, resting in the jar on my command desk. desk. It's in God's hands. And after all you've done for me, Olivier, you can call me Ronnie. Space Captain West beams before masking his emotions in a grim look of determination. He starts barking orders as I raise the candy to my mouth. The sugar erupts across my tongue as the crew work at their stations, the instruments beeping and clanging as the weapons charge. What do you think, Herbert? The space major straightens and lowers himself so that only I can hear his words. Fortune favors the bold, sir. The people have responded well to your proposals to balance the budget while increasing spending on fleet defenses. I think you have this in the bag,

Ron, or should I say, Space Marshal Raygun? Let's not put the thrusters ahead of our rocket just yet, Herb. Despite my rebuke, confidence spreads in my chest, while caution retreated in my mind. I just pray to Almighty God that the people will see reason, but you can never fully trust a co-elior. made up of so many varied planets. It was how Carter seized the space admiralty after all. His folky air and mild manners soothed the public after decades of conflict with our long-haired foes from Hippelopolis. Never again, not on Ronnie Reagan's watch.

The warning claxons sound as we leap out of super space and reorient around the world of Gregori. Its 12 ships are lined up in a blockade around the planet. The technicians shout alarms as they track the Atlantic, Carter's flagship. Their numbers are small compared to the 48 ships and Colora's fleet, popping into existence around us. But they're not alone.

Red and blue explosions fill the stars, a sight both blinding and beautiful. 200, 300, 400. A technician reads out loud, tallying the ships popping out of super space. 538 ships! Language captain! I chide him and stand for my chair.

We don't know who's on whose side yet. Weapon officers, keep your fingers on the trigger. But I don't want any shooting unless they make the first move. Those are fellow Galacticans crewing those vessels. Aye, governor. Sweat drips down my neck as the ship's maneuver through space. Terror threatens to rise, but I don't let the men see as several vessels rally to space Admiral Carter joining his blockade.

I stifle a laugh when I see their final numbers as Herbert confirms it. 49 ships? My spymaster is smiling. It's a lower turnout for the Admiral than even his most conservative estimates. We have them outnumbered 10 to 1, sir. applause breaks out across the crew. I shoot West a look, and he quickly shouts for order, silencing the crew. Open a transmission, I say, and glance again into the blinking light above my monitor.

Those of you who support Space Admiral Carter don't have to die here today. We will gladly accept your surrender and forget this transgression. We must unite as a coalition. once more if we have any hope of achieving peace. The message is relayed, and it's not long before a technician whoops joyfully before recovering himself. Sorry, sir. They're all lowering their shields and powering down their weapons. Governor.

Herbert says, turning from a console. Transmission from the Atlantis. On screen, Major. Space Admiral Carter's big-lipped, weathered grin fills the screen. He still wears the sweater from the solar energy crisis he caused, draped with a cape. His voice is the same as always, devoid of intelligence and stuttering as if he had just learned to speak yesterday. Oh, you misunderstand, Admiral. I raised my ray gun and flick the dial from disintegration to teleportation.

That offer was for your crew, not you. I point the gun at the screen and squeeze the trigger. The tight green laser beam opens a small green portal. My body goes light as it converts into energy, joining the ray gun and converging into a veridian stream of power. Vision's blurb past me as I shoot forward at speeds too fast to track with the naked eye, faster even than a ship in super space. I materialize in front of Carter's stunned face and spin the dial on my gun back to disintegration. Choke on these peanuts, Admiral! Squeeze the trigger and a red burst of light shoots forward and burns a hole in Carter's chest.

He stumbles back to his command desk, clutching the burning hole as it spreads through the rest of his body. His mouth opens in a scream as he falls back, crumbling into a pile of ash. His guards reach for their weapons, but I'm faster on the draw. Gentlemen, your Admiral is dead. You can join him or me. It doesn't take them long to decide. They fall to their knees and hold their hands in salute. All hail, Space Marshal Raygun! All hail, Space Marshal Raygun!

I smirk as I dump the ash from the chair and take Carter's seat. And so ends another exciting tale of Ronnie Raygun. Be sure to check out these other exciting titles from Future Funnies. Space Major Herbert assumes command. Starman Willie versus the space succubus. Globe Walker in sneak attack. In the far-fetched future world of the 1980s, only Ronnie Raygun can save the day. My thoughts go to Princess Jojo Frost, as they always do.

Ever since I saw her on the rogue planet of DeTaxica, she's always been on my mind. I know it's foolish. What would a princess ever see in a simple spaceman? Why would the most beautiful princess in the known universe ever love plain, simple warlock Hinkley? The solution is simple. I have to become worthy of a princess. At first, I tried this through the arts. But my poetry and music were laughed at by my contemporaries, and they were not ready yet for my electronic synthetic funk that is eons ahead of its time. There's only one course left for me. To win Princess Jojo's heart, I must go down in history as a lone agent standing up against the most powerful forces in the universe.

There are a few things as powerful in the universe as the United Galactic Coalition, or its tyrannical leader, Ronnie Raygun. But there is one thing, love, and maybe a devastator, Ray. That's why I've been stationed atop this building on the tiny moon of Diaz Columbus, the seat of the United Galactic Coalition's power. As the space marshal finishes his speech, he leisurely strolls back to his black turbo car, surrounded by his flunkies and stooges.

Now's my time to strike. I fire up the ignition on my rocket pack. It lifts me into the air and propels me toward the turbo car. I'm closing in fast, but one of the space guards looks up as I raise my devastator ray. He shouts a warning and shoves the space marshal inside as I squeeze off my first shot. The crimson bolt sears into the man's hip,

knocking him to the ground. Another guard rushes me just as I land. I fire another bolt, and he falls, giving me a line of sight at the turbo car. The windows are made of the same obsidian steel, immune to most projectiles and energy waves. But this is no mere ray gun. It's a devastator ray,

purchased from the volatile world of Bali Bama. I aim at the passenger window and fire off another bolt. And I smile as it melts the window, letting loose a pain-filled scream from one of the occupants. I fire off three more shots, knowing that my time is limited. Heat creeps up the barrel with each blast, the last, so intense and hot that it scolds my hand.

Swearing, I shake the gun, waiting for it to cool off so I can make sure the space marshal dies. Something grips me roughly by the shoulders and tosses me to the ground. I press the still-smoldering barrel against my. attacker's face. Skin sizzles and blackens as he screams. But another man joins him. The gun is kicked away from my hand as a barrage of fists slam into my face. That's enough, West. Hold him up. My face swells with pain as blood obscures my vision. Two sets of arms hoist me roughly to my feet. Space Marshal Raygun stands before me. His namesake weapon in one hand as he twists the dial with the other. He trembles as he

does so, and I noticed the burn on his right hip. No! I scream. You have to die! Princess Jojo will be mine! The space marshal glars at me as he raises his ray gun and fires. Cobalt waves of energy pulse from the weapon as they race to my head, smoldering the rage of my failure.

As my temper fades, I feel insanity retreat to the back of my mind. Reality crushes over the delusions that had consumed my life. Princess Jojo, she... She's not real. She's an actor in one of the visual serials I constantly frequented. Shaking my head, gratitude fills my thoughts as I look at the Space Marshal. Thank you, sir. You saved my life? Saved you?

Space Marshal, Raygun, glares. You killed my friends! I just wanted to make sure you suffer as you spend the rest of your life in prison. He twists the dial in his gun and aims it at me. The yellow bolt of energy kicks my chest like a mule as I fall back and crashed to the ground, slamming my head against the pavement. The stun blast creeps up my arms and legs, numbing my whole body. As unconsciousness consumes me, I whisper one name before I fall under its spell.

Princess Jojo. And so ends another exciting tale of Ronnie Raygun. Be sure to check out these other exciting titles from Future Funnies. Barry Beetlejuice on Planet Afgar. Diamond Donnie and Putin on the Ritz. Skymarm Sarah of the IceWhor. In the far-fetched future world of the 1980s, only Ronnie Reagan can save the day. My legs clank as a half ton of new titanium lands on the ground, shaking the jungle.

Many winged birds dart from trees that reach into the Nekayan sky. It's a shame to bring such savagery to a beautiful world. But it's where our enemies are hiding. Two other robots stand by my side as we raise the flamethrower-clad arms over our metallic servos. Jets of flame shoot out from our weapons. Giant creatures scream as they try to flee for their lives before being consumed and converted into ash. They're not our real target.

Our target is the people hiding in the tunnels beneath the trees. One of the sand bandits pops his head out from undercover and raises his laser rifle. I laugh as the puny bolts bounce off my steel body and raise my other arm. The death ray shoots forward, severing the bandit's head with the spray of blood just as... Vice-Marshal! My vision blurs against the blinding light.

It takes several seconds for my eyes and my memories to reorient themselves. The Vizio Helmet is an excellent tool for gathering information. It allows me to experience the memories of the pilots, secretly manning the ArmoBots on the jungle planet of Nica with ease. Disseminating the information they provide will enable us to pick new priority targets without setting foot on the contested jungle world. But the transition back to reality is jarring, especially when pulled from the device improperly as I had been.

Slowly, my vision returns, and I face Chenner, one of my subordinates. This better be important. He hands me a small document, and I bite back a swear. Standing from the terminal, I run down the hall. It takes several minutes before I arrive at Space Marshal's office. Ronnie Raygun looks more tired than I've ever seen him. The nearly eight years of command, weighing heavily on his shoulders. Space Colonel West is also there, no doubt advising him of the military side of our secret operation on Nica.

Ronnie. It's bad. The sand bandits? West frowns. We got them on the run, Herbert. They won't be around much longer. Worse. I pick up the remote on the desk.

The media. The panel and the wall parts, revealing a television screen. Every channel I flip through is filled with the same story. A secret robotics plant was established on the planet of Nika to combat the sand bandits. Nica is a forbidden world, one closely allied with the Red Commune. If word of our involvement got out, it would mean, Well, Ronnie sighs and reaches for a sugar bomb. This isn't good.

We'll deny it, West says. This will blow over just like, that's what Carter thought too. I shake my head. A scandal like this? It's enough to challenge you for the rank of space marshal, sir. A thought rushes through my mind as I lock eyes with West. Unless someone else takes responsibility. It takes him a moment before he understands and nods. Gentlemen, it's been an honor.

It takes Ronnie even longer to understand what we mean. West leaves the room before Space Marshal rises from his desk and stalks after him. Before he can call out to the loyal soldier, I place myself before my captain. You disintegrated Carter for less than this, sir. West is a soldier, first and foremost. He knows the value of sacrifice. Let him do this for you.

Ronnie sighs and slinks behind his desk, popping another sugar bomb into his mouth. He wrestles with his thoughts, and I'm again reminded of how tired he looks. Paranoia spikes up my spine as he unholsters the ray gun at his hip, but he just holds it in his hands. I remember when leading the coalition was as easy as squeezing this trigger. But that was a long time ago.

The real jungles of life aren't on planets like Nica, Herbert. They're in the world of politics. Each shadow hiding ravenous beasts ready to fall on you at the first sign of weakness. I know, sir. I walked to the front of his desk. But there's nobody else who can stand up to them. Once upon a time, Ronnie nods, and stands from his desk. But not anymore.

I think it's time to hand the reins over to someone else. Someone else, sir? As the Space Marshal Spymaster, it's been my duty to look out for surprises for nearly two decades. Yet I'm stunned as Ronnie hands his Raygun over to me. Take good care of her, Herbert, and give them hell for me. And so ends another exciting tale of Ronnie Raygun. Be sure to check out these other exciting titles from Future Funnies,

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Saving those children is how we all Go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I flip the last page. The black half of the comic is missing, along with the covers, the same as the other two. Reaching for a cigarette in my pocket, I'm reminded that I quit by the grip of my vape pen. Swearing, I let go and set the comic book carefully back on the table. We had come to Colorado for a vacation.

After a couple of years as agents for the foundation, we both needed it. The small antique shop had been a momentary distraction on our trip. Being a lifelong comic collector, I was immediately attracted to the comics on one of the shelves. I couldn't make out the title or the publisher from all the damage, but the yellowed, big, bulky pages and inconsistent panels proved it was something that somehow had survived the golden age of comics. I figured it was from a small publisher that hadn't survived. against titans like action or detective comics.

At five bucks for the whole set, it was an easy buy, but I hadn't had time to look at them in between my attempts at skiing. It wasn't until late tonight, when I had trouble sleeping that I crept out of bed and read the comics through the dim light of a lamp. I sigh as I stand from the table and look toward my bed. Minnie is still sound asleep, her arm draped over my spot. Book is wide awake, the tiny dog at the foot of the foot of the foot of the foot of the the bed panting happily, smiling at him. I pick up the leash, and he hops off quietly.

I hook the leash to his collar and step outside. I reach for my vape and give book enough reach on the leash to do his business. Taking a quick puff, I think about the contents of the comic. The Reagan administration was a few years before my time. I didn't immediately make the connection between the striking appearance of the former president and the lead character in the decrepit comics. Papa Hale, though, had been a staunch social conservative, but an economically liberal, registered Democrat. He hated the man with a passion and never missed a moment to complain about him, even long after he left office. My grandfather's words echoed in my mind as I read the comics. His landslide defeat over Jimmy Carter, his attempted assassination by John Hinkley, and the Iran-Contra

scandal. All of those had been present in the adventures of Ronnie Reagan, granted war. and hammed-up versions of what actually happened. But all took place at least 50 years after the book had been published. Not only that, but what about the other titles they advertised? They sounded an awful lot like the former presidents Obama, Trump, Clinton, and both bushes. I shudder, wondering if the comic is right about the next people to take the Oval Office. What about the last ad? Death to mankind?

That didn't sound very promising. I finish vaping as book marches back to me and reach for my phone. Luckily, my boss has heard stranger stories than this one, and she should take me seriously. Director Ramirez, it's Cody. I think we got a new one for our collection. SCP 95 appears to be a set of three moderately aged black and white comic books printed in 1932. The front and rear covers are missing, and several pages have been rendered illegible due to water damage. It was found by Agent Hale in a small antique shop in Denver, Colorado,

and purchased for a small fee without incident. The owner of the shop had apparently not read the item past the publisher's date on the first page. Forensic inspections of SCP-95 have revealed it to be genuine, though completely unremarkable except for its content. It is printed on cheap pulp paper and inked with dyes common to other publications of its era. The publisher's stamp indicates it was. produced by Future Funnies, a company operating out of the town of Purple Lake, Ohio. All research and inquiries thus far have shown both the company and the town to be completely

non-existent. The comics are a pulp science fiction story entitled The Atomic Adventures of Ronnie Ragon, featuring a lead character bearing an unmistakable resemblance to former United States President Ronald Reagan. Each story opens with a large panel reading, in the far-fetched future world of the 1980s, only Ronnie Reagan can save the day. It appears to follow an episodic format with one self-contained story for publication. Most interesting is the final page of each book, which advertises other stories published by Future Funnies. Investigation is underway to locate any surviving copies at once.