The SCP Experience - The Phantom Shootout | SCP-083

Episode Date: August 16, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-083: The Phantom Shootout This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-083 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z 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. How much longer is he going to keep us waiting? Martinez's voice comes out squawky through the radio. I bang my hand against it until the static builds, earning me a sour look from the tech assigned to our squad. He fidgets with some of the dials that are about three decades out of style

and frowns at me as the audio comes back slightly better. Easy, Slim. Crazy Hector Salvador's voice is as greasy as him, even through the heavy static. You know you don't rush the Morris. I really wish someone would. Lieutenant Billings grumbles in a voice that tries to sound confident for the reporter, but mostly comes out whiny.

O'Reilly and I exchange glances. We've been working together long enough for the expression to speak for us. This would be a lot smoother without the desk pusher. I nod and broadcast my cop telepathy back at him. Ain't that the truth? We've been working on this bust for over a year. There had been rumblings about Salvador's crew teaming up with the Morrison family. for a while now. The two joining together would give them enough muscle and firepower to go up against

some of the city's oldest families. Billings had been caught on a hot mic not a couple of months back, talking about some of the female officers under his command. He managed to come out of it with his pension and job intact, but his reputation is in shambles. It's why he's here with a reporter, probably why she's a woman too. Most of the bigwigs at the top of the chain are content with the photo opportunities after a bust. Billings, though, is hoping that a few quick photos of him with a gun in his hand will help erase the memory of his comparing cup sizes of female officers. That's why the van is more cramped than usual. Me, O'Reilly, a couple of uniforms, a tech, Lieutenant Billings, and the reporter. There's barely enough room for me to shift

and take a sip of the cheap coffee. Although all of us have it pretty sweet compared to Martinez, He found out a week after he went undercover that his wife was pregnant. She's due to pop any day now, and I know he's looking forward to the bust. After the Morrison's roll in, it ought to be a quick sweep. Then Martinez can go back to wearing his badge on the outside. Yeah, Martinez says. I know. Just this Indian food, I... There's another loud burst of static, but this one's different from the last.

There's an echo effect, but the words are still coming in loud and clear. The tech's skin pales, and his mouth drops. That's not supposed to happen. That's never something you want to hear right before a bust. What's not supposed to happen? The tech swallows. It's a feedback transmission error. They're very rare, but sometimes with the older...

What the fuck, Slim? Salvador's voice is full of rage. Before tearing cloth cuts above all other noise, the room goes deathly silent. Oh, you dirty, two-faced rat. The rest is a bunch of Spanish that I don't understand, but I'm sure it's not too friendly. A scuffle sounds before something gets knocked over, and then Martinez is screaming through the mic. I'm made! Get me the fuck out of here! I've been made! His running feet and labored breath are soon accentuated with gunshots, none of which we need the radio to hear.

There are loud explosions from the abandoned building across the empty street. Shit! I grabbed the walkie-talkie and squeeze the button down. Shots fired. All units moving. in, now. Fucking budget cuts, O'Reilly growls, unholstering his sidearm while I do the same. Thankfully, we came prepped for the bust and are already in our tactical vests. Billings is sweating heavily through his suit and dark jacket, but the reporter smiles like a hyena right before a meal. If it bleeds, it leads, I guess.

Park your ass in that seat! I snap at her before opening the door and stepping outside. O'Reilly and the Unis close beside me. Billing's brings up the rear, his grip loose on his gun as we cross the street to the dilapidated building project that has doubled as Salvador's fortress and place of business for a year now. The gunshots grow louder as two dark vans pull up. The tactical team responded quickly to our call. Their body armor and helmets are almost as much a comfort as their automatic weapons. Reach the door now!

We all take up our positions. The tactical team swarming forward while their heaviest members take an end of the military. take an end of the battering ram. It takes two swings against the rust and ice, but the door pops open as we rush inside. What in the actual fuck? I'm speechless. We've seen the interior of the building

dozens of times through Martinez's hidden camera. The building is squat, just two stories tall, and made up of two dozen apartments. It's abandoned, except for the junkies that come to shoot up after turning their lives over to Salvador. We've mapped out the interior

and planned it for months, knowing every in and out, memorizing every nook and cranny that one of Salvador's roaches might be hiding behind. That's not what we walked into. The room practically sparkles it so clean. The marble floors are pristine, without a trace of dirt. I find myself staring at the glass ceiling high above us. You could fit my whole apartment in the living room. The furniture is a similar white color, going with the marble pillars that stretch up to the second floor. A kitchen with all modern appliances has something boiling nicely on the stove that I can see clearly through the open floor plant. What the hell? O'Reilly says, looking around. Crackhouse, my ass. This is something straight out of house hunt.

A bullet rips through his arm, cutting off the rest of his words. Shots fly through the air, tearing through the marble, gouging out chunks of stone. We fan out, looking for the shooters, but there's no sign of them. Martinez's voice screams through my radio. Where the hell are you? I'm surrounded. I take O'Reilly and drag him toward one of the couches for cover. I pop my head up, but there's still no sign of the perps. One of our heavily armored boys goes down, covering his neck as blood gushes out.

Billings, screams, and starts shooting blindly, adding to the chaos until a bullet gets lucky and blows the top of his head off. I line down my sights, trying to trace the bullets back to a source, but they're popping out of nowhere. One of the pillars explodes near me, sending hot pebbles into my face like buckshot. Swearing, I kneel down by O'Reilly and reach for my walkie-talkie. Squad van, I can't get eyes on the suspects. What's the infrared show? What? The techie sounds as shocked as us.

What the hell are you talking about? You guys are right on top of each other. Fuck! With more questions than answers, there's only one viable course of action. I bring the walkie-talkie back to my lips. All units. Fall back. Fall back.

Beneath the barrage of bullets, we make our way slowly out the way we came. One of the Unis and I hoist O'Reilly up, taking each of his arms as we hurry to the door. Almost everyone on the team is wounded, and I know a few are as dead as buildings. Eventually, we manage to make it outside, and when I turn back, I see the same rundown tenant building as before. Fuck this! I growl and go to one of the wounded officers on the tactical team, snapping a few flashbangs offer belt. Instead of the door, I peer into one of the windows this time. Salvador and his goons

have Martinez cornered inside. It's not the mansion we walked into, but the stereotypical shitbox we've grown to know and despise over our year-long investigation. There's no time to shout a warning for Martinez. I pulled the pins on the flash banks and chuck them inside, then duck and cover. The dull thud of the blast makes the broken window shake on its frame, and I unholster my gun. Go, go, go! The few unwounded officers and I charged through the door and into the same massive room as before. Only now, it looks like the shootout never happened. Shit!

I swear, and walk back into the cold streets and force myself through one of the first floor windows. This time, I land on the tattered and littered floor of the tenements. Salvador and his goons lay grogly on the floor, and so does Martinez. I let out a breath of relief when I see he's not wounded, before returning to the window and shouting more orders. Get ambulances and backups. Come through the windows, not the doors. Lazzang sur-goled,

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50 tours gratis on the machine-assaubeck bas-bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. Veye to play in a fashion responsible. The conditions apply. What a fucking mess. I lean against the open door of the van, smoking a cigarette. It's a habit that I finally managed to kick a couple of years ago.

But if now's not a good time to pick it back up, I don't know when is. The ambulances came and went in droves, carting off our dead and wounded. It took even more squad cars to pile in Salvador's boys, swearing and resisting as they game too. Plenty of backup arrived, including higher-ups, looking for someone to blame.

With Billings dead, they tore into me. They gawked stupidly at me when I told them to climb through the windows. One unit commander ignored me and strutted through the busted doorway. He came out a moment later, looking confused, before hauling himself and his team in through the windows. The reporter's been sniffing around for an hour now, but I've had a couple of uniforms cart her off. Her questions are the last thing I need today, and I wouldn't give her any answers even if I did have any.

As far as I'm concerned, her story went out the window at the same time Billings' brains went through his skull. Christ. How am I even going to begin to file a report on this? Three officers dead, over a dozen wounded, and all because of what? A phantom door? Relief had flooded through me when Martinez recovered. He had run down a flight of stairs, exchanging gunfire, and then was gone. cornered before I tossed in the flashbangs. Somehow, he came through it with nothing more than a

headache and some sore eyes from the flashbangs. It was a goddamn miracle. Martinez felt less than grateful. As soon as he recovered, he clocked me across the face, forcing several uniformed officers to pull him back as he screamed and cursed at me. I can hardly blame him. He had come this close to dying when backup was just across the street. He left without apologizing, but his accusation station still rings in my ears. Where were you? Where the fuck were you? I wish I knew. I stomp out the cigarette and reach for another.

As an unmarked van pulls up, I know I'm never going to know. The men and women who exited looks severe and cocky and begin setting up equipment aimed at the building. It looks light years beyond the stuff we were monitoring Salvador with. The woman in charge,

a kindly older woman with short hair, walks over to me. That was commendable work and quick thinking, Detective Montgomery. Give me a call if you ever get tired of police work. I wait for her to walk away before I look at the card. Except for a phone number, the details are pretty scarce, and I frown at it. What the hell is the SCP Foundation? SCP-83 appears to be an uninhabited two-story row house and a general state of disrepair,

with an interior of approximately 366 square meters. Until acquisition by the foundation, the property was the reputed office for local narcotics dealers who gained entry to the structure through a front window, since the locking mechanisms on both the front and back doors were corroded and frozen shut. Those who entered through the door of SCP-83 allegedly found themselves inside a fully furnished and well-maintained home, with functioning electricity and a fully stocked kitchen whose appliances and decor appeared to be from the early 20th century. Personnel who entered through the windows described the interior as dark and dilapidated,

corresponding to the view through the windows. Personnel in both groups reported that they couldn't see, hear, or find any members who entered through opposite means. Both groups inside the property not only described very different living conditions, but their descriptions didn't even correspond to the same floor plan. Their descriptions matched only in the relative position of the windows, since both groups saw the same street view. These observations were repeatedly tested and confirmed by staff, with the additional finding that the rear door of SCP-83 also leads to the furnished interior.

Any non-conventional entry leads to the dilapidated interior, and persons inside the different interiors are unable to detect each other's presence, although they both register on standard spectral imaging equipment, so long as said equipment is outside SCP-83. So long as a human presence exists inside, the floor plan seems to remain stable. Although the furnished interior appears to be well maintained, no inhabitants or custodians have ever been detected.