The SCP Experience - To Save My Town From the Plague, I Must Take Their Souls | SCP-158

Episode Date: February 12, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-158. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-158 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click * * * 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

History will not remember me kindly. It's a thought that has plagued me for nearly two centuries after undergoing surgeries and alterations to prolong my life. Regrets loom in my mind as I stand at the window, looking over the glistening lights of the city far below me. Like myself, the city should have died long ago. Alas, it appears immortality is easier for the individual than the masses. After I saved their lives, the people gave me a title.

They called me the revered physician, a man who looked annihilation in the face and laughed. When the apocalypse came for our world, swallowing it in darkness, feasting on countless lives, and sucking the marrow from the very bones of civilization, I challenged its gluttony. I proclaimed for all to hear

that death would not claim this city. It and its inhabitants, were blessed. I pushed back against the darkness with light, and the city became a beacon in the dark. The masses cheered as the city lights refused to dwindle. Everyone was saved, and I was their hero. But how does that old saying go? Oh yes. You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. A bleak sentiment, but not inaccurate. Sighing through my heavy mask, I turn away from the city and toward my instrument of salvation. While the top of my tower might not be the most practical place for an operating theater,

the view of the city keeps me motivated. It reminds me of the reason for my actions. Being a savior is not a task for the meek, and the constant realization of how many lives depend on me keeps me from shirking my grim responsibilities. My gloved hands rest on the machine I've spent centuries. perfecting. I run my fingers down the length of the metallic claws, then slide them down the brass shaft, following the contours of my machine down to the empty jar with electrodes atop it.

Even after all this time, it's still a marvel to behold. Cables run through the stark, industrial limb, plunging through small, drilled holes in the floor. From there, the wires supply power to the mechanical arm. A cascade of different lights reflect off the machine, illuminating it even through the dark lenses of my beak-like mask. Lights shine from the other three walls. The dome shape curves dozens of feet above me, honeycombed with thousands of notches, each holding a jar. But unlike the one in the machine, these jars are filled with brilliant and unique liquids shimmering in a thousand different colors. It's beautiful despite the cruelty needed to keep the city and its inhabitants alive.

No, let me go! The voice cuts into my eardrums despite my mask. The woman's screams are a sharpness that only fear can produce. Turning away from the device, I wheel the gurney in front of it as two of my masked donors carry the struggling civilian. The procedure left my assistance as unresponsive as all the others. However, the electrical nodes that start at their skulls and run down their spines supply the stimulation needed for manual labor. The masks block out the blank expressions on my donor's faces. Another necessary cruelty. Please, the woman begs, her tears having no effect on the deaf brutes dragging her toward the table. Please let me go. It's all for naught. The donors are now just an extension of my way.

controlled by my thoughts, transferred with electrical currents. She might as well beg one of my hands for mercy. And yet, I find myself staring at the young woman as she struggles as the donors lift her. So young. At most 25 years of age, she has a whole life ahead of her. I smother the compassion as the donors slam her onto the operating table. Yes, once I was their hero,

Their reverend physician, but I haven't been referred to that title in quite some time. Now, they have a new name for the source of their nightmares. The doctor who doesn't sleep. Can I be alarmed, my dear? The mask and the surgical alterations have distorted my voice into something alien and inhuman. I rarely notice anymore, but today I'm aware of every ominous note dragged for my throat. It is a painless and simple procedure. My words have the opposite effect.

The woman draws her head back and lets another ear-piercing scream loose. As always, the donors make no reaction. So I send my thoughts through to them, transmitting my desires with a wave of my hands and the miniature circuitry in my gloves. They react instantly and strap the bindings tight around her wrists and ankles. They're already reaching for the tools I'll need to add the woman to their ranks. I turn and bump into a third awaiting donor. The woman screams louder, distracting me from the malfunctioning drone.

I flip the lever on the machine's control panel, desperate for silence. Power reverberates through my fingers despite my gloves as the device comes to life. I open my hands and the claw does the same. It only takes one more thought to thrust the mechanical paw atop the woman's chest. Her screams reach a crescendo, but it's purely from fear, not pain. I dedicated my life to making the procedure as painless as possible. The claw rests on her chest, drawn to the energy within. Her power transfers through copper and brass, and her screams slowly dull.

Her silence signifies the procedure's completion, and I flip the lever in the opposite direction. As the arm powers down, I give more commands to my donors. One unfastens the silent woman's straps and lifts her into a sitting position. Streams of drool, snot, and tears run down her face. But she'll never know fear again, or joy, or excitement, or any emotion. No. Those are all collected into the now full jar at the machine's base. But that doesn't mean she's useless.

The other donor readies the electrodes to jam into her brain and add her to our ranks. I send another signal to the third to get her a mask. Though petty and ultimately unnecessary, I open the shaded lenses from my mask and stare at the jar. The light is blinding as always, but I can never resist seeing the energy, with my own eyes. No two are ever the same, and the young woman's essence is as unique as

she was. The vapor is the same yellow as sunflowers, and I can almost smell the extinct flowers through my mask. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but I can't let that distract me for my work for longer than a moment. Carefully, I unfasten the jar and turn to the third donor hovering nearby. I reach out my hand and extend my will through the electrical current, commanding him to take the vessel and plug it into an open battery housing. The donor only stares as I draw closer, its knees trembling beneath the black mask covering its face. Peering over its shoulders, I see that the woman is still maskless. Strange. The electrodes must be malfunctioning. The donor doesn't react to my commands, and its body shakes harder the closer I get.

I order it to sit down so I may examine it, and its knees suddenly tighten. It's only when I draw within reaching distance that I notice the blood on its uniform. Swearing, I send orders to the two donors working on the woman, but it's too late. The man pulls something from his back and swings it in an arc. Pain rips through my chest, and I stumble back. staring at the scythe, buried up to the hilt. Motor oil and liquid energy pour from the gash, but not a single drop of blood.

Attack! The donor pulls his mask off, revealing a determined face. His eyes are narrowed in hate as he glars at me, emboldened by my injury. Attack! I was so transfixed by the substance within the jar that I overlooked the other donors congregating in the room. Reaching out through the circuitry in my mind,

I look for my donors. They are legion. They are too many for me to be aware of at all times unless I extend my consciousness. An emptiness in my mind is all that remains of the army wants at my command. The resistance was clever, biting their time, replacing the donors with their own numbers, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

I need my arms. The movement of my hands work in tandem with my thoughts to relay the message so that my donors don't react to my every thought and whim. Letting go of the jar is like dropping a priceless work of art. My heart shatters along with the glass as it crashes to the floor. The strange and wonderful substance within screams as it darts across the room, shattering more of the jars along the wall before colliding into the chest of the girl once more. She comes to as several donors stagger.

Their essence return to them as well. A storm of violence and confusion churns around me. I ignore it all and reaffirmed. for the scythe. I work it free for my chest. Opening my hands, I summon the donors still under my control and give them marching orders. There are too many rebels to be contained, but perhaps some can be spared to compensate for the lost donors. A glare of light interrupts my thoughts. It's not the same as the ones from my jar. This light is guttural and primitive, wavering against the light of my life's work. My eyes widen as I see the body.

with flaming strips of fabric. Start them! I bellow as loud as my mechanically altered lungs allow, and open my hands, my thoughts and words becoming one. My donors silently reply to my command. They throw themselves on top of the people with the flaming bottles, crushing them beneath their combined mass.

Another loud crack precedes a burst of flames. The screams of the rebels ring out. But my donors feel no pain as their presence vanishes from me. vanishes from my mind. But one man manages to shake off the donors trying to bring him down, yelling as he hurls his bottle. I watch it arc, holding my breath as it shatters against a wall of jars. Flames spread with the broken glass,

and I give a new command to extinguish the fire. Even as my thoughts are transmitted, I know it's too late. The explosion lifts us off our feet, rebels, donors, and myself. As I land roughly on the ground, I struggle against the darkness, but it pulls me into its embrace all the same. Lazzangue sur-gely, puissance-moyance-moyne for 15 minutes. We're like it's the hour of dojo.

Preetlyne with the Ojo. The casino in-line that proposes the more recent machine-ass-a-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours gratu on Big Bas Bonanza, without exigance of misgents and with the payments instantane. Hey, I've got gained. Woo-hoo! Sentire the pleasure.

188 and plus, 1st5% 20 tours gratis on the $1,000 deposit on a dollar, pay you're doing

to face responsible, the conditions apply. Beanie to arrive, embarked and profite.

Embarked and relaxed. Syrotay, bookinet. Oh, that also. And profite. Villarai,

the voice that we love that we love that am. My eyes opened to a chorus of cheers as hands

grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. The chance are momentarily broken as I'm lifted from the rubble. My mask has come free from my face, hanging from my chest, revealing my distorted features for all to see. Technology can only do so much to keep the ravages of time at bay. Someone chucks a stone that collides off my head, and the spell of silence is broken.

Laughter rains down on me as the rebel guards force me to walk. The man has his scythe once more. His lover, the woman he rescued, clings to his side. My donors lie in a pyre of flames, growing steadily stronger with everybody added to the pile. Some of my donors have had the procedure reversed when their jars were destroyed, and they beg for mercy. No mercy will be found here today. The fall of a scythe silences the former donor, making the crowd erupt with fresh cheers. It's not enough to sever his head completely, and he stumbles back, gasping at the gash, spewing blood down his throat. Rebels burst into fresh gales of laughter as they force me to my knees.

Knowing what is to come, I ignore my captors and examine my surroundings. The explosion ripped the whole roof off. My tower was designed to withstand an attack, granted not from within. Still, except for the roof and minor scorch marks, it looks relatively undamaged. I gasp when I see the charred hole where the arm used to be. Centuries of labor and research lost, all because of a bottle of burning chemicals. Of course, the components are made of sturdy materials. It should have survived the explosion.

But the material within the jars is not of the material world. It connects us to worlds beyond our own. and the mechanical arm could be anywhere. A shame that the same couldn't have befallen the rebels. It would have been a mercy for what is to come. Doctor No Sleep. It takes me a moment to realize that the rebellion's leader is addressing me. Doctor No Sleep.

Is that what they call me now? You stand charged with crimes of blasphemy and ungodly acts. How do you plead? So that's why I have been spared. Not because the rebels couldn't find. because the rebels couldn't figure out how to undo my modifications, but to be their straw man. They want me to beg for mercy or to be the beast of their nightmares. I don't do either. I stare into the fading light and watch the darkness grow.

It doesn't matter. The crowd goes silent and each person hangs on to my distorted voice. You're all going to die. Their leader is the first to laugh, his companion quickly joining in. The rest of my attackers soon join in, mistaking my certainty for false bravado. I don't flinch as the man raises his scythe again. As the dark clouds roll in, laughter turns to hacking and screams of pain. Rebels drop to the ground in swaths of death. Their lungs liquefy as they breathe in the myasma. It's been generations since I started the toil of keeping them alive.

They've forgotten the reasons behind their suffering. The miasma plunged the world into darkness and killed anything unfortunate enough to breathe its vapors. The only city spared was the one I called home. By extracting the souls from volunteers, I harnessed a new form of power. It kept our city bright and warm, but most importantly, it functioned as a shield, holding the miasma at bay and purifying the air for all to breathe. With the jars destroyed, death has finally breached the city's gates. As my captors writhe on the ground, I stand, refusing to be defeated.

I've fought off the miasma before, and I can do it again. It'll take time, but I can start over. All I need is a survivor. The leader drops his scythe and cradles his dying love to his chest. He's smart enough to hold his breath, but his face, face is already purpling in his efforts to stay alive. A survivor then, just like me. Limping toward him, I uncliped the mask from my chest.

I no longer need it to breathe. The my asthma cannot hurt me now that I am more machine than man. I cover his mouth with my mask, and his eyes widened and surprise. He greedily sucks in the clean air, distracting him from the needle I slip into his neck. He grabs my wrist at the same time I press the chest. down on the plunger, which soon goes limp as the drugs take effect. The man is unconscious for hours. It's slow and tedious work, strapping him to a table and preparing for the new procedure.

Before today, the process had been streamlined. People actually volunteered for my operations in the early days. They gave up their identities, but their bodies would live on in service to the cause. Their souls powered the city, providing comfort and safety for their loved ones. The arm took decades to construct, but it was worth it to spare the donors from the agonies of my earliest trials. But now, with my machine lost, I must rely on older and cruder methods. After strapping the rebels' leader to the table, I affix numerous wires and nodes throughout his body. The needles sink deep into his flesh, drilling into him and searching for the core of his essence.

Sadly, the quickest way to find it is not pleasant, but I see no other choice until I can construct another arm. I inject a new compound into his veins, and his body stirs as I pull the needle out. His eyes flutter open as he struggles against his restraints, but they hold him tight. The instruments in him drill deeper. making him squirm in pain. His eyes widened when he sees me. But his shouts are dulled by the mask helping him breathe. I take down the scythe from my back.

I've modified it so it now stands taller than me. The curved blade, twice as long and sharp as before. His struggle ends and his skin goes pale. Liquid races through the tubes and his body to the attached jar. A few drops clink against the glass. A vibrant and beautiful purple the same color is twilight. It's necessary, I remind myself. I'll save them whether they want me to or not.

If I can't be their hero, I'll be their villain. I will become their doctor no sleep. The man's fear and soul rushed through the tubes as I raise the scythe over my head. SCP 158 is a large mechanical arm, similar to the one that one might find in an automotive factory, although the end attachment is unusually shaped, resembling a pointed tridactal claw. Its optimal placement is to be installed and suspended upside down,

its base attached to the ceiling in a room that has been built to accommodate. A series of cables are protruding from the base, and some are connected to a complex mobile console, complete with a visual display unit and full. full keyboard. At the bottom of the console, there is a dispensing device, with attachments for a container roughly 7.6 centimeters in width and 17.8 centimeters in height. The arm, cables, and console have sustained fire damage, though this is purely cosmetic and does not affect the device's performance. When activated, the device takes 20 minutes to boot up and become fully functional. When used

correctly upon a living organism that displays cognition, SCP-158 will remove an unknown substance and transfer it through the dispensing device beneath the console. The optimum container for this substance is a glass jar or beaker that fits the attachments. After this action is performed, the organism that it was performed on will cease all higher brain functions, with only the activity in the brainstem continuing. The subject will not respond to a...

external stimuli and will not exhibit any movement beyond basic reflex actions. The substance's overall appearance and properties differ from subject to subject. It is an indefinite source of kinetic electrical heat and light energy. Although the rate and output also differ from subject to subject, the average is relatively low. The device is also capable of reversing the extraction, placing the same or a different substance back into the subject. When this action is performed, the subject will regain all cognitive and higher brain functions, but results differ, depending on whether the original extracted

substance is returned to its original donor.