The SCP Experience - The USS Miller | SCP-595

Episode Date: May 2, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-595: The USS Miller This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-595, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Check out the Author'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. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

My name is Cody Hale. It has been over a year since I was recruited into the SCP Foundation. Honestly, I still don't know what to make of it. I've made friends and met people who want to protect the world from anomalous discoveries that defy explanation. On the flip side, I've also met madmen and psychopaths with a god complex. People who think the world at large exists as the foundation's playground. Most days, I don't know. if we're the good or bad guys. Since retirement isn't an option, I've made it my mission to do as much good as possible. I'm not sure if my rapid advancement in the foundation is common or out of place. Still, I enjoy a degree of autonomy that other agents don't. I'm free to explore

SCPs on my own and dictate my own more humane solutions to the foundation's problems. Sometimes the higher-ups listen, and sometimes they don't. Either way, it gives me a chance to explore the world and uncover secrets with my trusty dog, Book, by my side. I sit up from bed with a yawn. Book hops down from the bed and does his I have to pee dance, accompanied by a string of excited barks. nodding, I grab my pack of cigarettes and sling on a t-shirt and shorts before stepping out into the hall. Book leads the way.

He's a smart dog, and it doesn't hurt that the layout of the foundation facilities is pretty much the same all across the country. This is far from our first layover at a containment facility. We had just arrived this evening. Not sure what the issue is, but I was referred to the site by the Ethics Committee. My old boss and recruiter, and sometimes massive prick, John Griffith, had been a respected voice in the committee, right up until his dismissal, after laying an overseer out-coiled. Since then, I've been their go-to man for coming up with solutions more in line with their brand of ethics.

Book stops at the entrance leading outside. He sniffs the air twice, then all 15 pounds of him go rigid. His body tightens into a fighting stance, and a low-grawl rumble. from his tiny chest. Immediately, I'm on guard. Book is one of the friendliest dogs you'll ever meet, unless he thinks I'm in danger. My gaze is drawn to the guard at the desk, slumped in his chair with his eyes closed. The foundation goes out of their way to make their front door security look like bored door greeters at Walmart. That's just to disarm any members of the general public who might stumble by. Each guard is a hardened veteran of either the military or police,

police force. Not the type to fall asleep at the switch like you see in spy movies. I walk over to the guard and notice that his chest isn't rising. My hand reaches out and touches cold flesh. When I lift his neck, I discover a deep gash across his throat. The blood long dried and unnoticed against his red shirt. Shit. I pick up the phone, but the lines are dead. Not good. Instead, I reach for the walkie-talkie at his waist. I click the button twice, but don't even get a burst of static. I take a deep breath, liberate the pistol from his holster, and test the weight in my hand. Cutting the phone lines is an impressive feat in itself.

The control center for the in-house communication hub is deep within the building, blocking out the radio signals, which function on some other plane of existence, courtesy of one of the SCPs in containment, is even more alarming. Whoever infiltrated us has tech on par with the foundation. After Book relieves himself in one of the potted plants, we work our way down the halls. With the lines of communications cut, there's only one person I know I can turn to.

Book walks in front of one door and wags his tail while I walk up and knock on the wood. Mini Booth answers her door in nothing but a t-shirt and her underwear, all lean muscle and long legs. It distracts me for a second before I recount to her everything book and I found. She doesn't say a word. Only nods once, then shuts the door. When she opens it again, she's decked out in a combat vest and camo jeans with a large

automatic shotgun gripped in both hands. Jesus, Minnie, I say, while wondering why I find her even more attractive in this get-up. You sleep with that thing? She smiles. I don't judge you in books relationship, do I? Minnie's solution to alerting the base is short and blunt, just like her. She raises the shotgun in the air and fires off three quick bursts of fire. My ears ring, and I step back as the new holes in the ceiling rain broken bits of plaster down on us.

In just a few seconds, the hall swarms with the awakened security forces. Their guns raised and pointed at us. Many and I keep our weapons in the air and repeat our story. They stare at us, but don't lower their guns until they try their walkie-talkies. They're as dead as the security guard I found. Agents Hale and Booth are correct. All eyes turned down the hall to the two approaching figures. I met them earlier today, but had been too jet-lagged and exhausted for our conversation.

Site director Ramirez stands just short of five feet. Her wrinkled skin and long white hair give her the impression of someone's doting grandma. Next to her is the hairless, clean-shaven mountain of a man, Sykes, the head of security. He's in full combat armor, and there's dried blood on one side of his face. I don't see any wounds, so I'm assuming it's not his. Sykes doesn't say a word as he changes the magazine of his assault rifle. We have been compromised. Our enemy has seized Dry Dock 2, where SCP 595 is stored. She pauses and takes a breath. They appear to be members of the LDD Society.

Many and I exchange mutual looks of confusion. Our expressions are mirrored on most of the other people assembled. However, a few of the older, more seasoned guards, swear and head back to their rooms. Returning with more body armor and weapons. Being a former journalist, I asked the obvious. What the hell is the LDD Society? Agent Hale, while usually I encourage curiosity, I'm afraid now is not the time.

Director Ramirez gestures us forward. We need to stop them from obtaining SCP 595. Shrugging, I stepped forward, but Minnie rests a hand on my shoulder. Director Ramirez, with respect, I think Cody should stay behind. He's not much good in a fight. Ah, Minnie, I wink at her. Are you saying you think I'm a lover, not a fighter? She frowns and pokes a finger sharply into one of the pudgy rolls

hanging out of my t-shirt. I'm saying you're an overweight, chain-smoking, caffeine addict, and a liability to operational security. Ouch. Minnie's words would hurt more if they weren't all true. It also helps to know that they come from a place of concern. Director Ramirez doesn't even break her stride or turn around to dismiss many's objections. He's alive, and he can hold a gun, Agent Booth. Sadly, that's more that can be said about most of our security forces.

Her words send a chill down my spine. It's even worse than I thought. Minnie is a badass, a modern-day warrior who will stare down approaching hordes without blinking. Compared to most of the foundation security forces, though, she and I are lightweights. Looking down at book, I scoop him up, drop him in one of the rooms, and shut the door.

I do my best to ignore the barks and scratching as I hurry to catch up with everyone. Sorry, boy, not this time. We make our way quickly down the steps toward the sub-levels of the facility. The fighting is long over, but the signs of battle are still fresh. Bullet holes have torn apart the walls and windows, countless foundation personnel, both security and research divisions, light dead in pools of blood. The gunfire grows louder as we approach the dry dock.

Director Ramirez punches in her access code, and Sykes charges into pure chaos. Every person's still alive and the dock is firing a gun. Minnie rushes me inside and shoves me behind some steel crates. I reach my head out and she knocks it back down again as a hail of gunfire erupts around us. She takes aim and her shotgun booms in a steady rhythm. Sykes and the rest of the impromptu security reinforcements take up similar makeshift defenses and their guns rattle. It's not the first war zone I've been in, so curiously I peeked my head out from the side.

A massive destroyer rests in the center of the dock, a relic from World War II. Its cannons pulsate with green energy that coalesces from the ship and races up to an old crow's nest. The steel of the vessel is translucent, almost transparent. I can make out USS Miller painted on the side through the few remaining lights that haven't been shot out. The decks of the ship are filled with scurrying bodies, dozens of them, each armed and firing in our direction. Director Ramirez! I yelled over the gunfire. What the hell does this ship do anyways?

It teleports! Director Ramirez, a compact machine pistol in hand, pauses to return fire. From this location to another containment site! I frown. So, the bad guys want to teleport to another SCP facility? Doesn't sound like much of an endgame. The director ducks back into cover, discarding her spent magazine and reloads as she answers.

You see the radiation flowing up? flowing upward? They've got some device up there redirecting the energy flow. I don't know how, but they're going to relocate it somewhere else. We can't allow the society to obtain a fully functional warship capable of teleporting wherever they damn well please. I close my eyes and feel the bullets chipping against mine and minnie's impromptu barrier. Okay, they got us pinned down. So explosives are out. What about sharpshooting? Sykes speaks for the first time, grunting with a hole spurting blood from his shoulder. Snipers have all been taken out.

Swearing, I look over toward one of the dead guards about 50 feet away. A rifle with a scope is draped across his body. How long do we have until it energizes or whatever? Director Ramirez looks down at her watch. About five minutes. Shit. I sigh and gather my breath before tapping Minnie on the shoulder. Cover me!

Before she can object, I leap up from cover and dash in the direction of the dead sniper. Mini yells something at me, but it's lost as her shotgun opens fire. Ramirez and Sykes exchange confused looks as I dart past, but rays from their cover and fire at the ship. The other security forces do the same as I make my way down the line. Minnie's reminder about my physical condition rings in my ears as I run as fast as possible. My lungs burn with years of smoking, and I'm short of breath, but I don't dare slow down. Bullets fly all around me. Something stings my leg, and I crash down a few feet away from the dead sniper.

I crawl the rest of the way, vaguely aware of my numb leg, and the trail of blood in my wake as I pick up the rifle. Suppressing fire! Sykes' deep bellow somehow sounds over the gunfire. No! As the rest of the sight covers me once more, I write myself and aim down the rifle's scope. The ship is pulsating with green light,

and I follow the energy trail up to the crow's nest. The green energy gathers in a mechanical box about the rifle. the size of a fuse box, wired with copper wires that run all over the ship. Two other snipers are perched around it, taking aim in my direction. I steady my breath like my grandfather taught me years ago, ignoring the snipers, and aim towards the center of the box where the light is the brightest. Holding my breath, I squeeze the trigger. There's no sound because of the silencer, but the device goes up with an explosive roar,

engulfing the enemy snipers in flames. Time! Ramirez yells. Everyone take cover! The light from the ship billows and pulses in a wave toward us. Men and women scream around me, and I realize it's coming from the ship. The light washes over us, and my body goes light. I raise my hand to my face and watch my skin go transparent. My stomach dips and threatens to spill its content as up becomes down and left becomes right. I force my eyes to close. When I open them again, many and I are in the cafeteria. The air is thick with the stink of blood. She gasps, and I turn to see what she's looking at.

It sikes. His torso is fused into the wall. His expression blank and silent in death. His legs rise from a table in front of us, filled with dread. I start checking to ensure all of my body is intact and panic when my hand comes away bloody. Then I remember that I've been shot and relax. Wait, I've been shot. Shit!

I swear. and fall to the ground as my adrenaline retreats. A few hours later, Minnie and I are waiting in Director Ramirez's office. The bullet had gone through my leg, but had hit mostly fat. Sometimes it pays to eat your twinkies. After a few stitches and some painkillers, the doctor said some bed rest and I should be as good as new. Book has forgiven me and is sitting in my lap, panting happily. I pet him with one hand and sip a fresh cup of coffee with the other. Many, though continues to stare daggers in the chair next to me. Her gaze finally breaks when Ramirez strides inside and takes her seat in front of us. Communications have been reestablished. Ramirez sinks into her

chair like she's got a stack of weights on her shoulder. The USS Miller has manifested at our sister's site. Agent Sykes was the only one of ours killed by the teleportation wave. The society members on the ship, though, fared far worse. Good shot, Agent Hale. Lucky. Many fumes at me. I don't know which is luckier, that you didn't get killed or you made that shot. Luck? Ramirez frowns. Agent Booth, we don't recruit investigators or security forces who haven't proven they are capable of defending themselves. Agent Hale had three confirmed kills in a civilian life, all self-defense, of course. I glare at Ramirez, never having been a fan of someone airing my dirty laundry.

Squamming in my seat, I see the shock on Minnie's face. Suddenly, I miss her glares. I wrote an expose on the mob during my time in Boston. It led to a lot of arrests and a lot of hard feelings. I picked up the basics of sharpshooting from my paw, brushed up on them after that. It was why I quit reporting, why I went off the grid, partly to protect me, and partly so I would never have to kill again. But according to Ramirez, my body count just skyrocketed.

I closed my eyes and pushed down the guilt. scratching book behind the shoulders. I ask myself the same question I did when three hitmen came after me years ago. Would I rather it be me? I look up at Minnie. Would I rather it be her? The guilt lessens but remains present. Enough about me.

I steady my glare on Ramirez again. What the fuck is the LDD society? Ramirez frowns and slides matching thick folders to Minnie and me. The Society for Liberation dissemination and destruction. I frown at the folder. The foundation sure does love its thick dossiers. I keep it closed and decide to examine it more in depth later. Instead, I paint the broad strokes with Ramirez's scant details. Okay, so liberation, meaning they want to release the anomalies, dissemination means they want to make them public, but destroying them? That sounds counterintuitive

to the first two goals. Oh, it's not the anomalies they wish to destroy Agent Hale, Ramirez shakes her head. Rather, they seek to destroy the organization that keeps them hidden and understudy. Oh, shit. Us? They want to take out the foundation? Ramirez nods before smiling sadly at both of us. I'm afraid you two have just been drafted into an invisible war that has been waged for over a century.

SCP 595 is a cannon-class destroyer escort, the USS Miller, commissioned by the United States Navy in late 1942. It is no different from any other vessel of its class, with the exception of several munitions magazines filled with an unknown unstable radiation from an unknown manufacturer. These devices caused the vessel and a limited surrounding area to be permeated with abnormally high levels of electromagnetic radiations. Periodically, the devices induce a tremendous spike in the amount of electromagnetic radiation, resulting in effects of teleportation. While these spikes are mostly regular in their timing, they can result in severe damage to surrounding equipment and personnel if safety precautions are not strictly adhered to.

The ship is tied to reports of a secret U.S. Navy experiment, Project Philadelphia, purportedly investigating principles of teleportation and possibilities of camouflaging naval vessels by bending light around them, rendering them invisible to the naked eye. The failure of the experiment resulted in the loss of nearly the entire crew. As they were unable to contain it, the U.S. Navy agreed to turn SEP 595 over to the Foundation for further study.

Unfortunately, information relating to the experiment has been made public. Cover-up efforts by Foundation personnel have pushed the USS Miller, into the realms of urban legends and conspiracy theories. Lazzangue surgellied, puissance-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the hour dojo. Prere to play. Vive the pleasure with the Ojo.

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