The SCP Experience - The Billionaire Killers | SCP-7273

Episode Date: September 1, 2025

On a billionaire’s opulent super-yacht in the Mediterranean, an undercover agent must navigate suspicion, ruthless security, and a ticking clock to set his dangerous mission in motion before his cover is blown. This story was derived from ⁠⁠https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7273 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. ⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/⁠⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Depos minimum of 10 dollars. Beaux minimum of $10 I freeze for a pivotal second as the door at the other end of the hallway opens, and two men's voices spill out. Conflicting thoughts rush through my mind on a wave of panic. Run, one of them insists. Stay calm and look normal, the other says. Running will make you look guilty.

Besides, there's nowhere to go. Heart thundering, I quickly realize which voice is right. As the two men see me, their jovial conversation ceases and their good humor disappears. of them is my employer, although I have never officially met him. He's the owner of the massive vessel we're on. I knew coming down here to the belly of the super yacht was a risk, so I already have a story ready. Now that I have wrestled control of my panic, I put that story to the test. Donning an apologetic look and making sure not to maintain too much eye contact, I say, I'm looking for extra towels, for the guests. The owner of the yacht, billionaire Deke Barber,

fixes his sad green eyes on me. It's impossible to read them. The other man, another billionaire by the name of Rich Adkins, looks momentarily guilty of something, like a teenager whose mother just walked in on him mid-tug. Then that expression is gone, and his face goes hard. But he knows this place, and he looks to Barber to see what comes next. Barber is in his late 50s. He has dark hair that is not natural, he can afford the plugs, and the poor posture of a man who spends too much time hunched over a computer, although those days are surely long behind him. Both men are dressed in casual outfits, shorts-leaved button-up shirts, loose shorts, and sandals, the combined worth of which is probably more than my car.

Barber smiles, flashing unnaturally white teeth. I know you're new, he cocks an eyebrow expectantly. Lance Hammond. Right. I know you're new, Mr. Hammond, but this area of the yacht is for guests only. Employees are not allowed down here, for my guests' privacy.

I make my eyes and mouth go wide and do my best to look horrified. I'm sorry, sir. So sorry. Mr. Mathis told me, but I completely forgot. Barbara puts his hands up as he walks toward me. Okay, not a big deal. Just don't let it happen again, right? I nod vigorously.

Right. Sorry. I'll show you where the extra towels are. As the three of his head up the stairs from the lavish hallway, lined with closed doors, something occurs to me. Even though the two men were clearly in mid-conversation as they came out, I couldn't hear them when they were inside the room. It was utterly silent before they opened the door. The room is sound-proofed, I think.

And I have a feeling I know exactly what's inside. My arms are full of towels as we get to the main deck aft. where most of the guests are gathered. There's a bar under an awning, with a bartender pouring drinks for the titans of industry and their wives, girlfriends, or hangers-on. Beyond the bar, in the Mediterranean Sun, sits an on-deck, outdoor pool about 20 feet long and 10 wide.

Several people enjoy the pool, while others lounge on chairs on either side. Members of Barber's personal security detail stand around in their suits, looking serious. No one is swimming in the crisp blue Mediterranean waters for some reason, instead electing to stay in the pool, even though we're anchored and won't be going anywhere for several hours. As I follow Barber and Adkins onto the aft deck, I noticed the former staring at the pile of unused beach towel sitting on a bench seat.

He turns to me, looks at the towels in my arms, and then at my face, studying me for a long moment with an unreadable expression. I fight to stay calm under his intense gaze. I set the towels down, ignoring the stack of towels already there. Sorry, sir, I say to him. It won't happen again. Barber nods almost absently, while Atkins observes the exchange. I turned to leave, heading back to the kitchen to help with the snacks and the lunch course.

When I get through the open doorway to the indoor lounge, I glance back. Barber is talking to one of his security guys. They're both looking at me. Swallowing loudly, I face forward and hustle out of view. I keep myself from shaking until I get some privacy in one of the lavish hallways. I raise the sleeve of my blue blazer and white shirt to look at my watch. Two hours to go. Time has never moved so slow.

After taking a moment to center myself, I move to the enormous kitchen, where many other employees are working. I busy myself with taking trays of. finger foods out, busing dishes and fulfilling any requests the guests make of me. As I go back and forth from the kitchen and the main deck, I can't help but notice that every member of the security detail is now observing me. They try to pretend they're not, but they do a poor job of it. My heart rate ramps up, and as it does, there seems to be a corresponding slowdown of

time. Still, I have a job to do. I try to keep track of all the big-name guests on the boat. There are ten of the world's richest men here, and most of them are getting loose as they drink, and talk, and play grab-ass with the various women on board, most of whom are barely of legal drinking age. Deke Barber moves around the party with grace, always even keeled and ready with a smile. He carries a drink in his hand, but he only takes sips.

He's staying sober. And, like his guards, he's taken a special interest in me since the encounter downstairs. After what seems like in eternity, I escape to the bathroom. I'm drenched in sweat, and not from the warm Mediterranean air. As I use a hand towel from the pile next to the sink to blot sweat for my armpits, I feel the faint vibration of the engines starting up. No, I whisper, staring into the mirror.

Dropping the towel, I look at my watch. There's still an hour to go. We're not supposed to be moving. I sit heavily on the toilet and bring my right foot up, propping it on my left knee. Opening a small compartment in my shoe heel, I retrieve a tiny communication device about the size of a half dollar. There's a single button in the middle of the disc-shaped device. I press it once to power it on. After giving it a few moments to power up, I hold the button with my thumb and speak in a whisper.

We're moving ahead of schedule. I have to activate it now or risk mission failure. If there's any way to get here sooner, do it. After letting go of the button, I give it a few moments to send the recording, and then I power it down again. It's too risky to leave it on, and it can only send, not receive messages. As it is, Barber's sensors may have picked up the fact that a message was sent from the boat. I just have to hope that our tech is better than his. I get the device back in my heel, splash water on my face, and psych myself up for what comes.

comes next. I need to activate the device, but it's in the engine room, having been installed by another undercover agent during maintenance at Port. If only I had a way to start it remotely. But again, there's the risk of Barber's high-tech sensors detecting the radio signals. Plus, he always has his security team sweep the boat for bugs before leaving Port. They would have detected it. I have to do it by hand. It's the main reason I'm even on the yacht. Taking a deep breath, I opened the bathroom door and see two of Barbara's guards standing there. Before I can react, they grab me and haul me violently out of the bathroom. Those are the four words that repeat in my head as I'm hauled into the belly of the ship.

I'm going to die. When the two men direct me into the engine room, I know they've found the device, and they're going to confront me with it. One of the guards, who I've heard Barbara called Fry, tells the three engine room workers to get lost. The workers leave without question, climbing up the steep metal staircase that allows access to the engine room and shutting the door at the top. The room is crammed with machinery and a maze of chrome pipes snaking from the two massive engines, one on either side of the central space. Each engine is separated from the open central space by chrome railings, and much of their bulk is contained under the floor.

They thrum with energy, filling the air with constant noise. To the left of the staircase is a workbench with the pegboard wall full of tools. To the right are shelves with various equipment and accessories necessary for maintenance and repair. Across from the staircase is a computer terminal that serves as the central diagnostic command unit for the two engines. My eyes immediately drift toward where I know the device is on the right-hand engine. I can't see it from where I am because it has been well hidden so the engineers don't find it, But I know it's there. I saw the pictures and memorized its location.

I expect Fry and the other man to shove me in that direction, but they don't. Instead, Fry sends a savage kick into the side of my right knee. Pain rips through the joint as something important tears. I fall to the metal floor, grunting loudly in pain. Why the fuck are you sneaking around the boat? Fry shouts over the engine noise, crouching and taking hold of my collar. His small brown eyes are intense under perfectly trimmed eyebrows. His shaved head gleams in the overhead lights.

Despite the pain, a sense of relief rushes through me. They don't know. They've only taken me down here to interrogate me, which means there is still a chance. Gripping my knee, I shake my head. I got lost. I don't know the layout yet. What were you doing in the bathroom?

Fry asks. We heard you talking. Before I can answer, he starts going through my pockets. We all had to surrender our phones before getting on the boat, so I don't have anything in my pockets but breath mints. The rest of my stuff is in the cramped crew quarters. Finding nothing in my jacket, he moves to my pants, and then runs his hands down my legs.

I try not to look at the heel of my shoe. My heart rate goes berserk as he rips my shoes off and shoves his hands inside them. I glance at the workbench with all the tools on it, but it's too far, and the other guard is standing near it. I would never make it. Even if I did, I'm not a huge muscle-bound man, like these two guys. I'm not out of shape, but I'm also not a born brawler.

It's one reason I was picked for this job. I'm small, unassuming, and unthreatening. Turning my attention back to Fry, I clamp my jaw tight and tell myself to think. Think, God damn it! He tosses my right shoe down, followed by my left. My momentary relief at him not finding the device is short-lived, because the impact of my right shoe hitting the floor has jarred the trick heel aside. Not much, but enough to be noticed with a casual glance.

Think! You're smarter than these assholes! Think! Fry turns his attention back to me, and as he does, a plan comes to mind. It's risky. Risky as hell. But it's all I've got right now. The big man grips me by the neck under my jaw and opens his mouth to say something. But I cut him off. They're not going to like this, I say to him. Using every ounce of effort to make my eyes go hard. There's a flicker of surprise on Fry's face, followed by indecision.

I take the opening and run with it. I was put here to make sure your boss and his little friends don't do anything stupid. Anything that would risk exposing his new, I pretend to search for the words. Business partners. Fry's eyes flick up to the other guard. More surprise, more indecision. But he quickly regains some composure. You're full of shit!

He grips my neck tighter. Now, tell me why you're really here, or better yet, don't say anything. Just fucking die. Although I can barely talk with his hand squeezing my throat, I managed to squeak out one more sentence, my ace in the hole. Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Fry immediately lets up, but he doesn't let go. His eyes dart around my face, prodding for the lie.

After a few long moments of this, he snorts in anger and looks up at the other guard. Go get Mr. Barber. The other guy nods and heads up the steep stairs, leaving only Fry and me in the engine room. He studies me for a long moment before shoving me to the floor and then standing. It looks like he wants to say something, but he apparently thinks better of it and starts pacing. I sit up again. You're so fucked. Shut up.

We'll see what Mr. Barber has to say about your story. How else would I know? I ask him, speaking loudly over the continuous engine noise. Shut up! I know I don't have much time. I need to do something. I shift and reach for my shoes. Don't move!

Fry shouts no longer pacing. I'm putting my shoes on! I've suffered enough indignity at your hands already. I would advise you to go easy from now on. If you do, you might just live through the next week. Fry laughs without humor. You're so full of shit! I shake my head, grabbing the shoes.

Fry doesn't stop me. If you know who they are and what they can do, they can do, then you should be scared. Even your boss is scared of them. That shuts Fry up. He resumes pacing. I pull my right shoe on, gritting my teeth against the pain in my knee, but I gather the left shoe in my hand, pretending to inspect it while paying close attention to Fry's pacing with my peripheral vision. He turns and heads toward the workbench, his back to me. When he gets to the bench, he stops. As he turns around, I launch the shoe at his face and then lurched to my feet, even as he knocks the shoe away with one hand.

I cover the short distance at a limping run, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in my knee. I crash into him as hard as I can, but he's much bigger than me. He throws me aside, and my momentum carries me into the bench, just as I hoped it would. I grabbed the largest wrench I see from the pegboard wall and whip it at his head, connecting with his temple. Although I didn't plan it this way, the open end of the wrench is the portion that makes contact, and the jaws gouged rough holes in his skin. As he stumbles back momentarily dazed,

I go with him, swinging the large metal tool again, this time connecting with the left side of his mouth. I feel his teeth shatter. He trips and falls backward, smacking into the railing next to one engine before sitting down hard on the metal floor. As I bring the tool back for a third strike, I see that the jaws have once again done serious damage to him.

The side of his cheek has been ripped open, allowing me to see his shattered teeth. He gets his hands up, and the wrench meets the fingers of his left hand, mangling two of them. The adjustable wrench is 18 inches long and probably weighs four or five pounds. I may not be the biggest guy, but I can swing a heavy piece of steel pretty well, or so it seems. Frye instinctively pulls his mangled left hand to his chest, cradling it with his right. It gives me the opening I need to end things. My fourth swing lands just above his left ear, bashing consciousness from him.

He topples to the side, out cold or dead. I don't know which, and I don't care. As I turn to make my way to activate the device before the other guard gets back with Barber, the pain in my knee catches up with me. The joint gives out. Screaming in agony, I fall to the floor. Breathing shallowly and holding back the urge to stop moving because of the pain,

I drag myself toward where the device is. When I get to the railing, I leave the wrench on the floor and pull my upper body over the edge, reaching down toward one of the coolant pipes, I feel for the device. Panic tightens my chest when I don't immediately find it. But as I reach farther down, I feel it, attached to the underside of the coolant pipe. It's about the size of a television remote, but with a single switch and two buttons, I flip the switch, turning the device on.

There's no way for me to tell if it's working. I just have to hope the engineers and scientists who studied 72-73 know what the hell they're doing. The device should be sending out signals imperceptible to humans. If all goes well, the instances will sense the signal and come rushing over to do what they do. Of course, the device only works within a certain range, which is why I had to risk sending the message telling the rest of my team we were moving. Their job is to corral the instances, getting them near enough so that the signal I just turned on works to attract the things. Now, all I can do is pray.

Actually, that's not completely true. There is one more thing I can do, provided I don't pass out from the pain in my knee. Grabbing the wrench, I use the railing to stand on my good leg. After taking a few deep breaths, I hop toward the steep stairwell out of the engine room. Each hop sends a jolt of excruciating pain through my knee. By the time I reach the stairs, I'm covered in sweat.

Getting up the stairs is going to be worse. I notice my left shoe lying a few feet away. I think briefly about putting it on, but quickly dismiss the ridiculous thought. Shaking my head, I try to get my thoughts back in order. I shoved the wrench into my back pocket, grip the railing on either side with both hands, and then jump up to the first step. My vision swims, and I suddenly feel like my place in the world is little more than a bad dream, like I'm an echo that will soon fade away.

It's a strange feeling, and one I've never experienced. Then again, I've never been in so much pain. I know instinctively that the feeling is a preamble to passing out, but I have to keep going. So I ready myself and then jump up to the next step, and the next. When I'm still two steps from the top, I hear Barbara's voice from the hall outside the engine room. He's speaking loudly, admonishing the guard for something.

I can't quite make out the words over the engine noise. Knowing I only have a few brief moments until they step on to the landing at the top of the stairs. I pull a fold of my cheek between my teeth and bite down as I jump up the last two stairs. At the top, the world goes swimming again, and for a moment I'm sure I'll topple back down the stairs, possibly breaking my neck in the process.

But I bite down hard in the inside of my cheek, drawing blood. It seems to help. It's a different kind of pain, one eye control instead of the other way around. I hopped to one side of the door and pull the wrench out, just a heartbeat before the door opens. Barber is the first one to see me as he steps one foot through the door before freezing in a moment of surprise or indecision.

The guard, having opened the door to let his boss in, is just a little too slow. I crack Barber in the face with the wrench, shattering his nose. Using my other hand, I pull him by the shirt as hard as I can. He trips and tumbles face first down the metal stairs, but I don't watch him go. Instead, I throw the wrench at the guard's head and then hop after it. He turns his head.

head and the tool bounces off the side of his skull. As he moves backward in a controlled stumble, he pulls a pistol out of his shoulder holster. Before he can get it aimed at me, I throw myself forward and club the pistol out of his grip with a double-handed fist. The weapon bounces along the floor. I drop onto it, and the guard does the smart thing. He runs, turning a corner before I can fire at him. I limp after him, a second surge of adrenaline, allowing me to push the pain in my knee aside again, at least long enough. to get up the next flight of stairs. I don't see the man anywhere, which is good.

I don't really want to kill him. What I want to do is get into the room Barbara and Atkins came out of earlier. I don't know what will happen when the skips get here, or even if they will. The yacht is still moving, so I have my doubts about the things even getting to us. My next job will be to make the captain stop the boat,

but I at least want to get into the room before anything else. I make it to the room and try to open the door, not surprised to find it locked. I bang on it and try to break it open with my shoulder, but it's well made. Shuffling back, I take aim at the doorknob from a shallow angle and fire two bullets through the mechanism. My second attempt to shoulder the door open works. I stumble inside and fall to the floor as my knee gives out again. As I lift my head, I see what I suspected was in here.

Four teenage girls cower on a king-sized bed. Collars locked around their throats with chains attached to them, keeping them tethered to the wall like dogs. They stare at me, fear and hope showing on their faces. It's okay, I say, pulling myself to a sitting position against the wall. It's going to be okay. A fearful shout comes from outside. I look into the hall to see Rich Adkins come into view from the stairwell.

His face is pale, mouth twisted into a terrified sneer. He rushes toward me, but I raise the gun. He thinks better of taking refuge in the room and in silence. Instead, heads down the stairwell I just came up. Then something else appears in the hallway. Technically not something, but many things. It's a giant tentacle made of hundreds of translucent red jellyfish. There are stinging tendrils all situated on the outside of the tentacle, making it appear as if it is hairy.

The tentacle darts down the stairwell after Rich Adkins, more of it coming into view in the hallway. There must be thousands of the things if it can reach all the way down here. Adkin screams in pain a moment later, but the tentacle keeps moving, going even farther down into the belly of the yacht. Adkins' shrill screams continue, growing slightly fainter for a few moments before suddenly being joined by the pain shrieks of another man. Barber. The huge tentacle reverses course, pulling back. As its tip comes into view, I spot both Adkins and Barber. They are being held to the thing by dozens of stinging tendrils that pin their entire bodies to the tentacle.

The skin where the tendrils touch is swollen in blue-black, as if it's actually being burned. They do nothing but scream, their eyeballs rolling around in their skulls, blinded by pain. Their screams fade as the huge jellyfish tentacle pulls back out of the yacht. Pretty soon, all is quiet again. What's happening? One of the young girls says with a heavy Eastern European accent. It's okay, I say, putting the pistol down and pulling my right leg up so I can reach the heel of my shoe. By the time I get the one-way communication device out,

I'm on the verge of passing out again thanks to my knee. After powering the device on, I hold the button down and speak into it. Things didn't work out as planned. I'm afraid we'll need a team and enough amnestics to go around. I release the button and let my head drop back against the wall. Hell of a first mission, I think. The whole point of the mission was to avoid using a goddamn team. My boss shouted me as a medic secures a brace around me.

I'm still sitting in the bedroom, but the girls have been cleared out to be amnesticized and eventually returned to their homes. I know. I'm sorry! The anomalous jellyfish only go after billionaires who have made their living exploiting the Earth's resources, and one of their properties is very similar to the foundation's amnestics. They leave alone anyone who's not a billionaire alive, but none the wiser. Even if witnesses see the jellyfish they don't remember.

But that's not why we have to amnestisize everyone now. It's because there were gunshots, and because I left a couple of bodies behind me that can't be easily explained. It wasn't supposed to go like this. I was supposed to sneak down into the engine room, start the device, and wait for the jellyfish to do their thing. Then, when the boat arrived at Barber's private island, all the billionaires who had been aboard would simply be gone, with no one remembering a thing, except for me, of

course, because I've been inoculated against the island. the memory loss effects. All that is out the window now. My boss, John Laird, yanks on his bushy brown beard as he paces. Now those assholes at Marshall Carter in Dark will know for sure were the ones who wiped their new billionaire friends off the face of the earth. I win says the medic finishes fastening the brace. Well, they would have known anyway, right? They would have suspected. It's different than knowing. Now I'm sure there's a satellite taking pictures of our boat alongside this yacht. and bet they'll trace it back to us. Ready to get up? The medic asks me. I nod, and he helps me up.

Laird looks at my feet. Where's your other shoe? He shakes his head. Never mind. I don't care. At least we saved those girls, I say, trying to soften my failure in his eyes. Laird waves a dismissive hand. Fine, that's all well and good. But it wasn't the priority. We're in a goddamn cold war right now. But after this, it might go hot. And I guarantee it won't be pretty. He steps over and sticks a finger in my face. You're going to have a long, deep breathing to explain what exactly went down with this cluster fuck. And you might be on desk duty even after your leg heals. I nod. Shame making my face grow warm.

Let's get the hell out of here. Laird storms off. The medic walks beside me, letting me use him as a crutch. As we get upstairs, where a dozen foundation agents have gathered everyone in the indoor lounge, I see the trafficked girls holding hands as they sit on a love. seat. Totally worth it, I think to myself, realizing the extent of what I've done by saving them from a horrific ordeal. Totally fucking worth it. SEP 7273 is a large swarm of venomous jellyfish native to the Mediterranean Sea. The exact number of jellyfish in the swarm is unknown. Although

similar to a species known as the Mediterranean box jellyfish, there are vital differences that include reddish coloration, with an opaque rather than translucent bell, a more powerful and painful venom, an anomalous effect on memory and perception, the ability to conjoined together to form large shapes such as tentacles or spheroids, sensory organs that can detect, record, and transmit sound and radio waves. In addition to these differences, SCP-72-73 instances target a very specific type of human prey. In order to be targeted by these anomalous jellyfish, the humans in question must possess the following qualities.

Be in or on watercraft in the Mediterranean Sea. Have a net worth, legally declared or otherwise, exceeding one billion U.S.D. have obtained that wealth through the exploitation of natural resources, either inherited or directly. Individuals present who are disqualified from being prey, survive the attack unharmed and have no memory of the event.