The SCP Experience - The Complete Multitool | SCP-117

Episode Date: December 8, 2023

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-117: The Complete Multitool This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-117 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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deposit, B'Bas Bonanza. DePos Minimimimum of $10. Veillage me in a way responsible. The conditions apply. I wake up the same way I do every morning. It's not so different from doing time in that regard. Routine is the most effective security system man has ever devised. Turning people into rats running in a cage

robs them of their ability to think. Escape plans and defiance go into the back of your mind as you hop onto the wheel. After a while, you stop seeing the hands manipulating the tests. or giving you a subtle nudge in the right direction. All you see is the cheese. I know all this, yet I still follow the maze as the day starts. The lights come on automatically, followed by a gentle pulse of noise.

The noise is not like an alarm, blaring to the senses. It's just something to lift you from the shock of the lights and get your body moving. It's like the Pied Piper writing elevator music. Everyone else in my cell is going through the same motions, rising from bed, stretching their limbs, and scratching itches built up over the last night's sleep. The sides of our cell are lined with yellow paint, still dazed from sleep. We shuffle over the lines and place our hands against the wall. Everything is routine after that.

The security guards come in and do a quick sweep, searching for contraband in our beds. None are found, of course, and then we march to the beat of their drums. In the early days of our confinement, they would bark orders at us like Rottweilers hopped up on meth. Now they only save those antics for the fucking new guys. But there hasn't been a new guy in our midst for a long time. So the guards are as silent as the rest of us as they lead us outside in a single-file line. The hallway is as dull as the walls lining our bunks. We strip off our orange jumpsuits when we get to the showers.

This isn't just to keep us nice and clean, but to make sure that we're not hiding any weapons. Unlike the joint, these facilities are unisex, but there's no time to appreciate the view. With armed guards constantly hovering over your every move, you don't have to worry about dropping the soap. Not that we use soap. The mist from the nozzles hanging over our heads,

over our heads isn't something you can buy on the market. It feels like regular, room-temperature water until it gets to work. A warm sensation washes over me, seeping over my skin. Dirt, grime, sweat, and other unseen unpleasantness are wiped away from our bodies. It puddles in a gray slosh at our feet before crawling toward the drains like a miniature blob. Then it creeps into my ears, up my nose and into my mouth. This part was pretty unsettling the first few times in the shower, but I'm breathing better than ever, and my hearing is sharper. Hell, before getting locked up here,

my teeth were stained yellow from years of smoking. Now I could pose for photos at the dentist's office. Not that I have any reason, or anybody, to show them off to. I can't remember the last time I smiled. The guards barely have time to give the command to exit. There isn't any need for us to dry off. The same mystery liquid that cleaned us dissipates with a faint shimmer. Just enough for you to notice if you look hard enough,

but not enough to obscure the guard's vision. As it evaporates into the air, it lifts the moisture from our bodies with it. I don't know how it doesn't make the room steamy or damp, but the floor is already dry. Our feet barely make any noise as we file out. The last leg of my trip is at the end of the line of naked bodies standing before me. With each step, my mind retraces to my past. Once upon a time, I had been a bank robber,

planning meticulous jobs, anticipating every eventuality, and, sure, killing the occasional person when unforeseen variables came into the equation. I'm not a sociopath or anything like that. I don't get any thrill out of the kill. It's just something that comes with the territory. Not that it stopped the judge from giving me the death penalty. She relished delivering her judgment from on high, playing it up for the media that covered the trial.

I guess that's what I get for robbing a bank in Texas. The thing about prisons, though, is that they all have routines. And if you watch, wait, plan, and above all else remain patient. Eventually, you can see the flaws in their system. That's how I was able to escape from five different federal prisons and managed to go back to robbing banks. That is, until the wardens got fed up with me

and transferred me to the foundation. The foundation has its own rules. I spent the first three years here trying to learn their ins and outs. They have their routines, more so than prison, It only took a week to see that they run on the same schedule every day. But there's too much goddamn unpredictability. The magical cleaning goop is just the tip of the weird iceberg. Mechanical dogs, weaponized bees,

pretty sure I even saw a walking-talking statue once. How the hell do you plan around something like that? The answer is simple. You don't. Once upon a time, I had a time, time, I had been a person, a legend, an outlaw. Now, I'm just a letter and a number. As the person ahead of me steps out of line, my thoughts return to the present. Letting go of the past, I focus on the routine in front of me and take the fresh orange jumpsuit that's dropped

down from the shoot. I join the others in dressing. I zip up the front of the last clothes I'll ever wear. I trace my fingers along the serial number, designating my new identity like every morning. D-3715. They feed us the same breakfast every morning. You'd think with the magic water they douse us, they might have something that can make you taste whatever you want. As much as I pretend, the plain oatmeal is nothing but bland mush in my mouth. Imagination can only take you so far in this world. The tasteless meal. is another tool to motivate us. After completing a trial,

we get filet mignon and lobster, so the mush gets us in the mood to be good little rats. We finish in unison and then take our empty trays to the front of the mess hall. We emptied the dregs of our meager breakfast into the trash and push the trays onto a metal conveyor belt that disappears into a hole in the wall. It's hard to imagine that the foundation

has mundane workers like maintenance, janitors and kitchen staff. But I figure the food must come from somewhere. Another wobbly pulse of music lines us up along the yellow outlines of the mess hall. It's our first taste of variation. The lead security guard reads from a clipboard, divvying out the assignments.

The serial numbers read aloud become white noise. Other D-class subjects stumble against the wall, falling into a trance before snapping alert when their serial number is called. D3715. My serial number breaks the spell, and I spring from the wall. You're with Dr. Pinkerton today.

A spike of dread stabs into my heart. Everyone's heard of Pinkerton, an unassuming-looking man who looks more like Cupid in a lab code than a proper scientist. But we've all heard whispers about the experiments he conducts. Supposedly, he's got a higher body count than the rest of the facility quacks combined. That's another way that life here isn't so different from prison.

The rumor mill is constantly churning out a dozen stories of what's happening in other blocks. Most of them are bullshit, until they aren't. But there's nothing I can do except hope that the stories about Pinkerton are just more inmate gossip. I fall in step between two guards. The halls in the facility are all right angles, no doubt, designed to be. confuse people if they ever need to retrace their steps. It doesn't look like they're pairing me up with anyone today. That's one small mercy. Working with the crew is fine for knocking over banks, but I don't like to put my life in anybody's hands but my own. My brain's

so addled from the routine that it's hard to judge the passage of time. We stop before a familiar door with high-tech trimmings. It's the same as every other door in the facility, several inches of thick steel with two different panels. One guard punches in a code, while the other presses his thumb over the other. The guards don't bother to hide the six-digit code they punch in. Once, I thought this was a weakness I could exploit to escape. No such luck.

The guards are constantly swapped around, and the codes are always changing. They must have some Star Trek tech running this joint to keep the security systems always in flux, and functional. Both consoles chime, and the door deep pressure rises and then slides open. The inside is pitch black, but that's not uncommon. Most of the time, they don't want us DRATs to have preconceived notions about the anomalies to color our reactions. The guards stay posted outside while the door seals shut behind me. Shit. It's never a good sign

when the guys with the guns want to be on that side of the door. The lights come on as soon as I turn back around. A white glare swallows my vision, and panic grips me, forcing my hands up against the sudden blindness. Slowly, I lower my hands. There is a rickety metal table before me. It's slanted to one side, making the glint of something else skew off center on the surface. It looks to be some sort of object.

I approach the table and realize it's just your standard multi-tool. It has three different options. screwdriver, pliers, and can opener. D3715. The high voice comes from all around me and makes me jump. Stupid. I've gotten so used to living as a lab rat that I've forgotten how to case a room.

Old instincts flare back to life, pushing past the malaise that has become my existence. Peering from the corner of my eye, I searched the corners of the room. Yep, four cameras, one at each point, and each capped with a different colored lens. probably monitoring different aspects of the experiments. The speakers are a little harder to spot because they've been built into the walls.

This lab was definitely made with observation in mind. D3715, respond immediately, or security will be called in, and your privileges will be revoked. Can you hear me? No time to pretend I'm a bank robber anymore. The voice coming through the speakers grates on my nerves, so high and weedy that it almost sounds like speaker feedback. speaker feedback. Somehow, reminding me of my old life seems like the cruelest thing the

foundation has ever done to me, and that's saying something. Reluctantly, I put my hand in the air and raise my thumb. Excellent. Initiating trial number 21 of SCP 117. D-37, please use the tool to repair the table. 21? A tingle of dread works its way into my palm, crawls up my arm, and seeps into my heart. I can't be sure that it's all just my imagination. There's some weird shit the foundation keeps locked up that only the D-class gets to play with. The fact that they've tested it so many times

isn't necessarily a death sentence. Who knows all the reasons why eggheads do the shit they do? That's not what's making me nervous. First, the guards kept their distance, and the lab coats weren't even stepping into the testing zone. Usually, they like to be front row center for the splash zone, except when it means putting their asses on the line. The guards are just here to keep their feet to our throats and cash their checks. The scientists are the one with the real know-how, and they're too scared to get within pissing distance of this thing.

That's not good. D-3715, please use SCP-117 to repair the table in front of you. The voice through the speakers is enough to get me focused on the task at hand. Could this thing kill me? Probably. Most of the foundation's experiments can. But I've got a better track record than most. Maybe the item is just new,

and they want to make sure it won't do anything screwy. I kneel and examine the table, resting a hand against the top and pushing gently against it. It doesn't take much weight to make it teeter toward one side. Leaning in closer, I quickly see the reason why. The screws are threadbare, barely housed in the holes. I might not be a carpenter,

but even I managed to learn righty-tidey, lefty-lusey. I flip open the multi-tool and select the screwdriver. After that, it's just a matter of straightening the legs and turning the screws to the right a few times. I take my time getting the job done, bracing myself for electric shocks coming through the floor, or gas flooding in through the ventilation shafts. If Pinkerton has plans on killing me today, he doesn't seem to be in a hurry, so why rush?

I stand back up and pat the table a couple of times, making sure it doesn't wobble. Excellent work, D3715. As Pinkerton speaks over the intercom, a section of the wall parts, revealing an open doorway. Please proceed to testing site too. RBC Training Ground has discovered potential in over 20,000 Canadian athletes and counting. Your story could be next. If you've got the drive, they'll help you find your path to the Olympics. Let's see what you've got.

Sign up for free at rbc trainingground.ca. Pass through a couple of testing sites now. Each one is slightly otter than the previous one. And with each test, the mysteries of the multi-tool grow. After the busted table was another one but made of wood. An unfinished birdhouse was sitting atop it, with instructions and several nails but no tools. When I opened the multi-tool, it flicked open to a small hammer.

I paused and stared at the tool. When I first opened the multi-tool, I checked for any signs of danger. A hammer wasn't standard on a multi-tool, or at least I didn't think they were. But I could have sworn I hadn't seen it when I opened it earlier. I shrugged my shoulders and finished the birdhouse and wondered what the foundation wanted with it. Maybe Pinkerton is into bird watching. It was the third test when things got really weird. There was more wood, but nothing like the minimal tasks they had given me before.

There were stacks of two-by-fours of varying length, each marked with a blue line. The table came with a vice grip this time, and Pinkerton's orders quickly crackled through the speakers. Please cut all the boards to equal length, D3715. No other tools were present. So I grumbled as I set up the first plank into the vice grip. The multi-tool did have a miniature saw, but it would take forever to cut all the boards to length. Sometimes I think the scientists are just doing this shit to do some fucked-up psychological experiment. Maybe Pinkerton was seeing how many mindless tasks I could do before I snapped.

My opinion changed as I flicked open the multi-tool. My eyes bulged as I saw something that couldn't have been there before. It was a round circular saw as big as my hand. Despite that, its weight was run. remarkably light. The tool felt no heavier in my hand. There was no way to switch it on, but as I neared the boards, it whirred to life. It buzzed hungrily as it ate through the line of blue chalk, kicking sawdust in the air. By the time I finished, the scent of cedar and pine was heavy in the air, like a lumberjack's popery. A smile crept up my face as I closed

the multi-tool, the saw collapsing into itself without any sign of strain. Sure, it was just manual labor, but the multi-tool was the first new bit of variety in my day in quite some time. D3715, please proceed to the final trial. The excitement for the end of the trial fades as the screams rise from the parted doorway. For once, the routine comes to my defense. This is just like any other experiment I've done since getting locked up here. All I need to do is put one foot in front of the other, walk through the door, and get my cheese. As I step through, the door seals shut behind me and clicks loudly as it locks.

That was a lot quicker than before. The screams grow louder. The scent of wood fading from my nose is replaced with blood. A man crawls across the floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He's wearing an orange jumpsuit just like mine, but it's smeared red, hiding his number. He looks up at me and stops screaming as he continues on his stomach toward me. Please! Loamy.

The cause of his distress is obvious. A deep gash is torn through his shoulder, the wound spewing blood. His leg is even worse. Tendons dangled from the injury, barely keeping his ankle intact below the knee. The rules for surviving in prison fly against the morality code of the outside world. You look after yourself first and foremost, mind your own business, and keep your distance from the sadistic guards and inmates. If you don't ignore the suffering around you, it'll snatch on to you and never let go.

There aren't any heroes in prison. But here, in this strange place, with just me and the inmate, those instincts are knocked aside. We're just two people, and he needs my help. Like I said, I'm a criminal, but I'm not a sociopath. I dash forward and surveyed the damage. Bank robbing isn't an easy job, and I've had guys get shot before. for. The basic first aid I picked up through experience flies through my mind, and I open the tool to reveal a pair of scissors. I cut away the sleeves from my jumpsuit and wrap the makeshift

bandages around his shoulder, ignoring the grunts of pain for my sloppy first aid. The man howls in agony as I coil the cloth around his ankle. My hands are hot and sticky with his blood, and I swear under my breath. It's going to take a lot more than a bandaid to keep this guy from bleeding out. 15 scissors? I thought you were more creative than that. It's the first time Pinkerton has offered commentary during the whole exercise. The cocky son of a bitch is watching me right now through his cameras. Why the hell is he bothering me while I'm trying to save a man's life? There's nothing that I can do, but the multi-tool.

Maybe you can produce something better than just a pair of scissors. I close it and open it again. It's latest suggestion making me frown with confusion. It's not like, like any tool I've ever seen, an arched tube of some metal. Remembering the buzz saw from before, I pointed toward the man's wound. The device hums to life in my hand. A green mist starts to fall from the nozzle.

It coats the man's leg and his screaming stops. The pain in his face lessening. I stare in amazement as the tendons snake across his ruined leg, joining together again. They retrace through his leg. falling back into place. Torn muscle pumps and swells, coating over the damage. The skin is the last to form, closing up around the leg without any trace of a scar.

Now that they're useless, I yank my bandages away from the cut in his shoulder. As the green mist wafts over the wound, blood stops pouring and then flows backward, going back into his body. The cut seals as his flesh closes and knits itself back together. Damn! It's been a long time since I've been impressed, or since I let any emotions slip through the cracks of my mundane existence.

With a smirk, I lean over and offer the other DRAT my hand. He takes it, nearly engulfing my arm. His knuckles are scarred with heavy calluses that come from years of doing nothing but punching. I know the type well. In another life, we might have been partners on a job. A sudden grinding noise stops me from asking the guy his name, Spikes shoot out from the walls. They're intimidating enough, but then the room grows smaller as the walls inch toward us. I glance up toward the camera and frown.

Dr. Pinkerton must be an Indiana Jones fan, but I've gone through the ropes with a multi-tool enough to not even sweat. The rest can't be said of my big partner, who starts blubbering. I close the multi-tool and open it again. The latest tool looks simple, just an elongated piece of black steel. I pointed toward the wall, and a steady beam of red energy shoots out. The laser melts through the spikes first, then cuts through the wall, turning them into a pile of molten steel. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, but I fight past it and pour my will through the tool again.

I sweep it across the room in an arc and make quick work of the approaching walls of death. The temperature in the room rises several degrees, leaving me sweating and panting. for breath. Looking down at the tool, I smile as an idea suddenly occurs to me. Something heavy slams into my head and knocks me to the ground. Stars from my vision, but I have enough sense rattling around my skull to close my fist tight around the multi-tool. Long fingers dig into my shoulders, forcing me on my back. A massive foot slams into my ribs, but I cradle the multi-tool closer to me. Give it to me! The man I rescued throws himself on top of me. His blows make me grip the tool even tighter as I feel the bruises form on my face.

Growling, he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes tight. My eyes bulge, making his red face come into sharp focus as sound dulls in my ear. As my grip on the tool slackens, I realize I only have one choice. I raise the tool and jab it into his neck. The multi-tool is still hot from its laser show. A peal of smoke rises from the man's face as he screams. accompanied by the scent of burned pork. It's enough to make him let go of me,

but I pull him close and jammed the tool into his ear. His screams suddenly stop as the device activates. His eyes melt into pools of goo that fall on my face. The laser fries his brain before bursting out the top of his skull. Half of the man's head is gone as he topples onto me. Gasping for breath, I shuffle out from under the man. The hidden door against the side of the room opens as Pinkerton's voice echoes around me.

Excellent work, D3715. Please return the tool and proceed to your reward. Yeah. My throat is raspy, so I swallow and try again. Here's the rub, Doc. You reminded me of something. Imagination is its own reward. I closed the tool and open it again.

Several hidden doors open and security guards swarm in. Not sure what will happen. I raise the tool again, and a blinding green light shapes itself into a doorway before me. I rush through it just as the bullets start to fly. I step out of the portal with my eyes closed, still half expecting to be mowed down by the bullets still ringing in my ear. The pounding in my ears fade, revealing the sound of crashing waves. I spin on my feet, taking in the sandy beach.

Salt air creeps up my nostrils, and I breathe deeply, savoring my first taste of freedom in years. Not only did the multi-tool take me far away from the foundation, but to my favorite place to lay low. A sandy little beach tucked away in the corners of bouquet. That means I should have a stash of bot and a fake passport hidden at a nearby safe house. I'm a free man, and with his tool, I'll soon be a rich man again.

Tucking the tool into my overalls, I make my way through the beach town. It's so late that there aren't many people walking about right now, except for a few drunken tourists. They give me a wide berth, and I guess I would do the same if the situation were reversed. A good rule of thumb is to ignore bloody guys and orange jumpsuits. Fortunately, one of my old stomping grounds isn't far away. It's an Irish pub Tiki Bar run by a retired criminal I get along well with. As I walk inside, all conversations stop. The bartender, Mickey, turns away from the rugby game blasted from a TV in the corner.

His stare quickly turns into a grin as he pulls a bottle of Jameson from the shelf behind him. I knew it! Mickey beams at me. I knew that they wouldn't be able to hold you forever, Sam. Sam, I've been nothing but D3715 for so long that I nearly forgot my own name. Limping toward the bar, I take the offered drink and clink my glass against Mickey's. He lets me savor the liquor and even pours me another. Finally looking to retire, Sam?

Oh, hell no, Mick. I'm just kidding. The booze hits me harder than the thug I oft a few minutes ago. My vision tilts around me as they stumble back and collide with the bar stools, knocking them over like dominoes. I try to move my arms or legs, but they have no strength. As I crash onto the floor, I realize this is more than booze. My vision darkens and my thoughts go back to the experiment. Every time I used the tool, I got a little weaker.

It was easy to pass off at first. I just thought it was from stress and physical exertion. But it looks like the foundation managed to pull one last trick on me. Mickey's leaning over me, but I can't make out his words. I fight past the heavy fog washing over my. body and force my hands into my pocket trying to fish out the multi-tool maybe Pinkerton fooled me but I bet he wasn't counting on my escape or the anomaly getting out of the facility it feels like it weighs a ton as I offer it up to

Mickey who takes it his face full of confusion I smile at him I don't have enough time to explain what it can do maybe Mickey can figure out what it does but I don't care this small little fuck you is all that I can do to the foundation. I focus on the taste of Jameson on my tongue and the hint of salt in the air as my heart slows. SCP-117 appears to be a regular multi-tool of unknown make and brand. At first glance, only the normal tools are found, screwdriver, knife, can opener. But if the user is faced with a task, regardless of what tool the subject intends to pull out and use, a tool perfectly fitted for the job will take its place. Regardless

regardless of spatial quantities that are being broken by the tool. All other tools always seem to be present, though. After the task is completed and the tool is closed, unless faced with a task requiring that tool again, the tool cannot be found on the tool. After countless uses and testing with the SCP, it has been discovered to cause harm and possibly death to the user by means of absorbing iron, copper, calcium,

and zinc from the user's body as long as the user is touching the device. Gloves seem to have no curbing effect on this, and the rate of absorption seems to depend on the tools used or created by SCP 117. It is advised that only Class D personnel are used in conjunction with this SCP to prevent death or injury of researchers.