The SCP Experience - The New Guy and the Turtle Shell | SCP-107

Episode Date: September 29, 2023

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-107: The New Guy and the Turtle Shell This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-107 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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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. The light chimes of the bell stir me from my sleep. Sitting up in my cot, I stretch my arms and yawn as the others start their day much the same. Jive is already up. I never see him sleep all that much. Maybe whatever SCP fried his brain and made him speak incoherently also affected his sleeping patterns. Or maybe he was always like that. We don't talk to each other about our past lives before D-Class,

Especially not me. The hemuth salarium mounts upon my own caffeination. Good morning to you too, Jive. He takes a bottle of water from the cooler and steps outside to rinse his mouth. Callie grins at me from across the room. She's already changed into her orange uniform with D-2997 prominently displayed over her shoulder. The grin falters as she makes eye contact with me. He's going to be fine.

Don't worry. He'll be back soon. Callie can read thoughts by making eye contact. But her skills are stronger the better she knows someone. I guess since I don't have any memories before waking up in a D-class holding cell, it made the process easier. She barely has to try to know my thoughts are on Bender. If our small circle of test subjects has a leader, it's Bender.

A gruff man with a network of scars all over his body. Bender's a prisoner just like the rest of us, but that doesn't stop him from rebelling against the foundation in his own creative ways. While he likes to pretend he doesn't care about anyone but jive, he's taken it upon himself to protect our little makeshift crew, like when he killed a sadistic prick named Johnson under the haze of an experiment gone wrong and saved my life in the process. As ruthless as Bender is,

It's hard to deny that I feel safer around him than without him. Even the Foundation's guards are weary of him, and none of the other D-class inmates would think of crossing him. I can't help but think our new surroundings are a result of his actions. Usually, we're stuck in a concrete cell most days. Meals are provided, and rewards are given if we survive the Foundation's experiments. Our new gigs are like a summer camp compared to what we're used to. We're outside most of the day with plenty of work, but nothing life-threatening.

And while I'm sure we're under heavy watch, the massive tent they've stationed us in has plenty of room to walk around, and the beds are soft. I never realized how much I missed the sound of crickets. It's weird the things you don't notice until they're gone. Our change of fortune happened a couple of months ago, just after Bender went missing. A makeshift cabin, fresh air, and all the fruit we can eat. The lead doctor in charge isn't a sadist or an immoral opportunist, like most of the lab coats we've met. It's such a strange turn in fortunes that I'm sure Bender negotiated it with Pinkerton.

I try not to think about what kind of hell he must be enduring for us, and Callie's frown tells me that thought is broadcasted just as loudly as the rest of my thoughts. Pick your battle. It's one of the many lessons that Bender has taught me in the short time I've known him. Kicking out from the sheets, I hop down from my bunk and find what I'm looking for. An orange jumpsuit with D7662 stamped over the left breast. Ready to start the day? Callie asks.

I will if there's any of that kiwi left, I grin. That stuff is the best thing I've had since. Silent Mary suddenly sits up. She wakes like a cat. Fluid and in one motion. A second ago, she was a lifeless lump on her mattress. The next, she's a middle-aged woman with dirty hair in her jumpsuit. Mary never takes it off, not even to sleep, just like she never speaks.

She doesn't even regard us as she steps outside the tent flaps. Her feet squishing into the moist earth outside is the closest we'll get as a greeting from her. Mary's serial number is D-24. meaning she's one of the first D-class subjects. Given their high mortality rate, it's impressive she's still around. Mary is only energetic when she needs to be, like when she easily snapped the ankle of a man twice her size.

Even Bender is cautious of her, but I wouldn't go so far as to say he's afraid of her. Bender isn't scared of anything. Callie sighs. Thinking about him again, should I be jealous? I'm just worried about Wait, why would you be jealous?

She doesn't answer. She only smiles and follows the other two outside. I walk close behind her with a new spring in my step. Ah, there you two slow pokes are. Hurry now, breakfast is getting cold. Dr. West isn't like any other researcher I've met. If it weren't for the white lab coat they all wear, you would never suspect her of being one.

She's a plump, short woman, a little over 40. but her red hair is still as bright as fireworks on the 4th of July. She's always in bib overall stained with dirt, today being no exception. She's sitting at a picnic table near the garden. Jive and Silent Mary are already seated. Their plates piled high with different fruits and vegetables. I frown at first, but Dr. West chuckles and tosses me something this size of a softball.

Notting my thanks, I cut the giant Kiwi in half. peel back the hairy surface and take a large bite. The flavor erupts across my tongue, and as I swallow, it's as revitalizing as a cup of coffee. Breakfast passes quickly as we make our way through the fruit. Toward the end of the meal, Dr. West pulls a recorder from the front of her overalls and presses a button. Day 27. Still no adverse effects from ingesting products grown using SCP-107. proceeding to trial 28.

My stomach twists as it always does when Dr. West takes her notes, reminding me of our current situation. As far as SCPs go, this one's pretty benign, but we're still expendable. Dr. West sits with us, but she never eats the fruit. I assume she has breakfast at the research facility over the hill. No sense in possibly getting poisoned for your research when you have DRATs like us for the job. West stands from the table and walks to a mechanical box situated a few feet away. Placing a thumb against a panel elicits several beeps before a light flashes green and the box opens.

She pulls out two objects, a stool and a large shell. The latter is pale green and soft like you would find on a sea turtle. Dr. West sets the shell on the stool and then offers Silent Mary a smile and a small bottle of water. D-24. Would you like to initiate the trial? Lazzangue surgellied, Puisance-Moyerned for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the lojo.

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expus, Depos minimum of $10. Veigh, I enjoy way to fashion responsible. The conditions apply. Mary shrugs before standing and takes the bottle from the doctor. I tense up as she unscrews the lid and pours the water into the turtle shell. Even though I've seen it over a dozen times, I can't help but be a little weary. My first experiment with the foundation involved pouring water into a seemingly ordinary bucket.

Sounds innocent enough. But Jive, Bender and I walked away with several injuries. that day. And another D-subject named Mueller died. So did Johnson. But that had more to do with Bender than the SCP. The outside of the shell glows red as the water sinks into its surface, vanishing in a few moments. It's only another few minutes before the SCP gets to work. The cloudless morning sky darkens, and then rain starts to fall. It doesn't hit us, though. The rain is focused on the crops of fruits and vegetables set up in the otherwise empty meadow. In less than a month, it's grown from seedlings to a small jungle thanks to SCP-107. There we go, all nice and

watered, Dr. West says as the rain stops. D-Class, please proceed with a harvest. We line up in front of the box, and Dr. West loads us up with our gear, a basket and a pair of garden shears for each of us. She leads us through the miniature forest, the trees looming high above us, casting shadows. The leaves shine like emeralds as the sunlight catches the dripping dew coating everything. Everywhere we pass, there are fruits and vegetables on steroids. Carrots as long as my arm and apples as big as my head are just the tip of the iceberg. We fall into a steady routine like always. Mary scales a massive tree and starts hacking apart the stems.

letting the apples drop to the ground. Callie gets to work on the strawberries, raising the football-sized monstrosities to her lips and taking a large bite. Dr. West chides her with chuckles while doing so. Jive and I worked together, digging the carrots out of the ground before hoisting them on our shoulders

as we make our way back. Oh no, Callie stops mid-stride, but I don't have to ask her what's up. Two men are waiting at the picnic table. One is Dr. Pinkerton, a man who looks like an oversized cherub. That, coupled with his high-pitched voice, makes it impossible to tell his actual age. I don't recognize the man beside him, but he looks vaguely familiar. He's rugged and muscular, wearing jeans and a checkered shirt.

Whoever he is, he's no researcher. Dr. Pinkerton, West says, and breaks away from us. What a pleasant surprise. The hitch in her voice is a sign that it's not, and even Pinkerton seems a little uncomfortable. Dr. West, this is... The man strides across the picnic table and picks up a large water bottle.

As he walks toward the turtle shell, unscrewing the lid, Dr. West calls out in protest. But Pinkerton places a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. The bottle gurgles as it's emptied into the turtle shell. The outside of the shell darkens into an angry red. Clouds appear over the sky again. This time, they cover the garden, our tent, and the research site in the distance. Rain falls in buckets, drenching everyone in the immediate area.

Winds howl and thunder cracks across the sky before flashing with lightning. Powerless, we stare at the newcomer as he smiles. Now that's more like it. What is the meaning of this? Dr. West demands. New directives from the Overseer Council, Pinkerton explained. reaching for an umbrella in the box and popping it over his head. They believe you have uncovered all you can for humane efforts with the SCP. Now they're interested in discovering any offensive capabilities that SCP 107 has to offer.

Offensive. West's mouth hangs open as the wind whips through her hair. We might very well have a source to end droughts and world hunger. SCP 107 isn't a weapon. Everything's a weapon in the right hands, the man says, looking at the right hands, says, looking over at each of us, his face tightening and disgust. You give the lab rats shears? Why not save them the trouble and slit your throat yourself? West glares at him.

The D-class subjects were personally selected for these experiments because of their lack of violent backgrounds. The plants are too hardy to be harvested without tools, all of which have been documented in my reports. They're not violent, huh? The man turns and spits. Tell that to my dead brother. Pinkerton steps in between the two. Dr. West, I am noting your concerns and filing them in the official report. However, this is out of my hands. The overseer counsel is given authority to Agent Johnson here to discover the SCP's possible military applications as he sees fit.

You are relieved of command. Johnson? Oh, shit. A glance from Cali confirms what I'm dreading. Jive squirms beside me while Silent Mary looks on blank. No wonder the guy looks so familiar. Apparently, Johnson had an older brother get him the job, also known as Agent Johnson, a brother with a grudge.

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Cirotay. Bookine. Oh, that also. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love. I shiver in my bunk, wrapping the cover around me as the sky lightens against the cloth walls,

doing their best to protect us from the storm. After the new Johnson's display of power, Pinkerton and West retreated to the research facility. West had tried to let us stay in ourselves for the night, but Johnson insisted that we weather the elements for his research. We had spent most of the night patching tears in the fabric, but it was useless. Wind and rain constantly barraged against our shelter, finding every crack it could and making several new ones.

We did the best we could as the wind and cold seeped in, but after a certain point, the weather had changed. The familiar scent of beer wafted in through the night, followed by one. whiskey. They fell from the sky in droves like an alcoholic's wet dream. Johnson must have been outside all night, performing whatever experiments he wanted. All of it is a thinly veiled attempt at revenge for his brother. As we rise from our bunks, it's clear that I'm not the only one dejected. All of us except Mary, struggle to sleep through the night. Our footsteps are heavy as we change into our jumpsuits and prepare for the day. I step through the tent and blink. I step through the tent,

thinking that I must have fallen asleep and I'm dreaming. Johnson is standing before us, his pants unzipped and his private part hanging out. A steady stream of pee flows into the turtle shell as he looks at each of us and smiles before zipping up. Like would you see hot stuff? he asks Kelly, who cringes. The clouds form over our garden again,

draping it in darkness. The pouring rain and alcohol has had an overnight effect on the plants. What was once vibrant green is now brittle brown. The few fruits remaining are dark globs of swollen produce. An acidic stench fills the air as the new raindrops from the sky do more damage to the plants. I definitely don't want to have any of the new fruits for breakfast. But I'm sure that's what Johnson intends. Hey!

Johnson calls to us as we line up and take our tools from the open box. Which of you is jive? Upon my heavily bosom. Yeah, thought it was you, Johnson says, and reaches for West's recorder. His word slightly slurred as he speaks. Incident report, D-357 came at personnel with garden cheers in a threatening manner. Subject had to be neutralized. He drops the recorder on the ground and then, in the same motion,

slams a fist across Jive's chin. Blood sprays through the air and splashes against my face. But before I can react, he, punches Jive again, knocking him to the ground. I charge forward, but Johnson knees me in the balls, and I fall, gasping for breath. He grabs Jive by the hair and drags him toward the turtle shell. Callie screams and tries to pull him off, but Johnson backhands her, knocking her down as well. I managed to rise to my knees just when he slams Jive's face into the turtle shell. He lifts him up and does it again. Each time, Jive's face becomes bloodier and more swollen.

The outside of the turtle shell shines crimson. This goes on for another minute before Johnson finally gets bored and lets go of chive, who drops like a dead weight. You all think you're pretty clever for what you did to my brother, don't you? Johnson glars at us. I called in every favor I have to get assigned here. I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Rick. Rick Johnson?

I say between ragged breaths. God, were your parents stockpiling up for an asshole shortage? It's lame as far as rebukes go, but the swift kick to my jaw tells me I touched a nerve. You all better get to work. You're already one man down. Callie stands to help me to my feet, but Johnson grabs her by the shoulder. I got something real special planned for you, hot stuff. She shudders. Her power is no doubt giving her more details on the specifics of his lewd suggestion. But he doesn't stop her from helping me. Johnson turns and reaches for a while. talking talking his back momentarily as he calls for a medical team.

Jive's shears have toppled into the mud, and I reach for them and tuck them into my overalls while Johnson is busy. As we walk through the woods, the first drops of blood fall from the sky. Flashes of Jive's swollen face go through my vision as I busy myself with work. I remember Bender's advice to me on the day we met. It had taken him ten years of patience and planning before seizing the opportunity to kill Johnson's brother. But that was when we had Pinkerton's protection. We won't survive if we bite our time. Blood splatters around us, sinking into the plants as a plan forms in my mind. I don't like it. It involves putting Callie in danger. When she looks at me, her eyes widened, but she nods and whispers. Johnson is more than a vindictive

asshole with a grudge. He's also a drunk. I don't know what the foundation sees in him. besides his cruel creativity. I guess in a way that makes sense. It takes a special breed of bastard to see something that can cure world hunger and turn it into a weapon. His alcoholism works to our benefit. He watched over us as we dropped off our tools, but didn't notice the missing set of shears belonging to Jive, who's probably in an infirmary somewhere. The night passes slowly, my body rigid with anticipation as Callie slips out of her bunk. Guilt writhes in my chest as she exits our tent, but I can't think of any other way to get the drop on Johnson.

With Jive's beating, he proved that I won't be able to take him one-on-one. Quietly, I slip out of my bump and creep toward the picnic table. The turtle shell is resting on the stool, no doubt laid out for Johnson's latest torture plans for the night. Callie's distracting him, though. His lips are roughly around hers as he unzips her uniform arm and pause at her chest. It's hard to walk at a slow pace. All I want to do is cut the bastard's throat for what he's doing to Callie. But I have to keep quiet. Wrestling against my

adrenaline, I stalk as silently as I can toward him. The shears gripped tightly in my hand. I'm right behind him lifting the shears when my shoes squish into the mud. Johnson turns in my direction and I panic. I bring the shears down, but he moves at the last second. They to plunge into his shoulder and he screams as he jerks back. He reaches for them at the same time as I die for the turtle shell. He roars and rears on me, but I clock him across the face with the shell. That's for Jive! I yell and bring it down again over his head.

That's for Cali! And this... He catches the turtle shell and yanks it for my hands. And this is for my brother, you miserable sack of shit. Oh fuck, what would Bender do? He'd break this guy's neck in two seconds, then light a cigarette. wishful thinking, but I'm no fighter. However, I do know the garden better than him. Johnson has been too busy drinking that he hasn't ventured far past the picnic table. I spin on my heel and run. Johnson yells after me, close to me. I rush into the underbrush,

and through the moonlight, I see that the plants have changed again. They're not the same deadly brown as they had been before. Now each stem and plant is coated in red. The fruits and vegetables are recovering from Johnson's piss and alcohol-infused rains. Even the air is different. Heat and humidity are making every breath I take heavy. Is it from the blood? Johnson's swearing cuts off my curiosity, and I duck into a bush covered with grapebines. Holding my breath as he draws near, I try to think of a new plan. I can only hide from him for so long, and I need something to give me an edge. With my shears gone, I don't. A brick of pain across my wrist makes me cradle it as I bite down on my lip to keep from yelling.

A similar pain reaches across my back and my shoulders, tearing at my uniform. Grunting, I turn and see the grapes and gasp. Each is the size of my thumb, with tiny mouths opened and filled with teeth. They reach out for me, eager for more of my blood. Yelling, I rush out from the bush and into Johnson's waiting arms. Ha, got you, you little! I slam my knee between Johnson's legs. His mouth opens as he barrels.

over me. Reaching for his shoulder, I jab my thumb into the cut from my shears. Johnson finds his breath and starts screaming, and I shove him into the bush filled with carnivorous grapes. They bite into him like a school of piranhas, ripping skin from his arms and face. He screams and swats at them, but his motions and noise only make them hungrier. The wind picks up and knocks several of the large apples from the branches. They fall open-mouthed and clamp onto Johnson's chest and arms. As he howls, I make my way through the garden. and start pruning fruit from the trees. It's slow and methodical work.

I have to be careful of their teeth. But I remember what Bender said about patience. Johnson manages to smash several of the fruit. But before he can stand, I toss angry and hungry apples, grapefruit, and melons at him, pelting him with ravenous fruit. You son of a bitch!

Johnson hollers as his legs are devoured. When I get out of this, I'm going to... I don't know what Johnson plans on doing to me. His words are muffled. as I drop a watermelon on his head. Its massive mouth clamps around his head, muffling his words as his body jerks and then suddenly stops. So?

Pinkerton says from across the picnic table. Why did Agent Johnson go into the garden last night? I shrug my shoulders. You'd have to ask him, Doc. Dude was an unstable drunk. Maybe he got hungry. Maybe he had to take a leak and got tired of using the shell. Guess he wasn't counting on carnivorous fruit.

No. I suppose he wasn't. Pinkerton looks at a glass container, holding a tomato, brandishing teeth, and gnawing at its prison. I do have to give the man some credit, though. This does present us with several new avenues to explore SCP-107. If you say so, I read the back of my neck, revealing my bandaged arms. Those things pack quite a wallop. So you said. He stares at me for a long time. Although it doesn't explain the bruise on your face. I shrug again. I wasn't expecting it either. Things scared the shit out of me. I fell back and hit my head on a rock, remember? Pickerton examines me and smiles. Well, you and your friends have earned a break after this ordeal.

We'll rotate a new batch of D-class subjects for further testing and return you to the facility until you're needed. Can't wait. I mumble and stand, knowing I'm dismissed but unable to resist asking. Doc, I don't suppose you can tell me if any other members of the Johnson family are working for the foundation. I'm afraid not. Pinkerton isn't smiling, but there's amusement in his voice. It looks like bad luck has pruned that family tree. Did Pinkerton just make a joke? I don't know, and I'm not sure if I want to know. I fall into line with Callie and Silent Mary. Two armed guards escort the three of us back to our regular hold. As we walk, Callie slips her hand in mine, and I remember something Bender told me before he disappeared. Sit and wait, enjoy the small things,

and find something that helps you get through the next day. With Callie's hand in mine, I think maybe I finally found something I can hope for. She smiles and looks at me as she reads my mind. SEP 107 resembles the top section of a hollow turtle shell. The shell is composed of a hardened biological material of unknown origin. Despite its appearance, whether this material is derived from the shell of a standard sea turtle, superfamily Keloneotia is, as yet, unknown. The item is completely inert until the inside of the turtle shell comes into contact with a liquid. When it does so, said liquid appears to be absorbed very quickly. Where the liquid drains to is unknown, given the lack of visible pores on the outside of the shell. Once active, the

edge of the shell glows dimly, and the substance placed into the shell begins to precipitate in the atmosphere and fall as rain in the area at least 0.5 meters, but less than 10 kilometers, from the object. This phenomenon is mobile. Moving SCP-107 will move the area of effect, along with the exclusion zone. The duration and intensity appears proportional to the amount of liquid placed in the shell. 10 milliliters of water resulted in just under half an hour of of light drizzle, whereas filling to around the three-quarter mark set off two days of torrential rain. Precipitation generated by SCP 107 has varying effects on plant matter, although these effects are only seen in plants grown within the effect zone.

Watering other plants with collected liquid causes no abnormal reaction.