Chapter 138: Manhattan Crisis - Part 5
Leonard stood still among the gathered leaders on the open plaza of Backdoor SoHo, arms folded behind his back, his eyes calm but calculating. The skies above shimmered faintly with residual interference, remnants of the anomalous lockdown that had sealed off the pocket dimension.
Portals had been attempted, of course, by the GOC, by the Three Moons' Initiative, even by Anderson techs. All had failed.
Leonard was mid-conversation with DC Al Fine, their tone quiet and precise, when something caught his eye.
One of Midnight's subordinates had slinked up to her side like a shadow given form, whispering quickly into her ear. Midnight's lips curled upward. Her eyes flicked toward Leonard like a predator spotting movement in the grass.
Then loudly, deliberately, her voice cutting across the ambient noise of the plaza:
"Tell me, Administrator. You planning to keep all the fun to yourself?"
A hush fell over the entire square.
Every leader turned toward them. Eyebrows rose. Conversations died.
Leonard raised a single brow. "What do you mean?"
Midnight's grin only widened. She stepped forward, the echo of her heels crisp on the stone.
"Don't play coy. I know we're currently surrounded by several hundred hostiles. Don't insult my intelligence."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered representatives. Shock, confusion, alarm. Some reached for their comms. Others glanced nervously around the perimeter of the plaza.
Leonard said nothing.
Midnight continued, casually brushing back a strand of her hair.
"My agents just reported multiple engagements happening all around us. Elite enemy combatants, outnumbering our perimeter guards ten to one. And yet, they're being slaughtered."
Her voice dropped slightly, but her smirk remained.
"We couldn't track most of it. They're too fast, too coordinated. But the aftermath… The bodies, TA. They're piling up."
Leonard's expression remained impassive.
She tilted her head. "Now, what makes me think they're yours?"
DC Al Fine grimaced beside him, as if physically struck by the implication.
Midnight didn't stop.
"First off, they're far too professional. Too disciplined. They're not GOC, they lack the overcompensating aggression. And no offense, DC, but your boys? They're not this good."
Gasps rippled again. Al Fine bristled but said nothing.
"And as for the others?" Midnight swept a hand across the plaza. "Let's be honest. None of them can field a true elite force. Except maybe the Three Moons Initiative but they're still stuck on the moon last I heard."
She turned back to Leonard, eyes narrowed, voice sharpening.
"Which means there's only one person here with the authority, the resources, and the ruthlessness to field a unit like that."
She leaned in just a little.
"You. The Administrator."
Leonard didn't flinch. Midnight's smile was wicked.
"And if I had to guess… I'd say Resh-1 'Seat of Consciousness' is out there right now, turning your enemies into paste."
Silence.
The entire square held its breath.
Leonard tilted his head slightly, hands still resting calmly behind his back.
"Yes," he answered plainly. "You're absolutely right. My team is currently out there, dealing with the situation."
A wave of gasps swept through the plaza. Murmurs exploded among the delegates. Several guards stepped forward defensively. GOC troops immediately moved into formation, scanning the area with anxious eyes.
Leonard, unfazed, simply slipped his hands into his pockets and let out a tired yawn.
"Well then… I think I'll be heading back to Earth now. There's a crisis that needs my attention."
And without warning, he raised one hand and a rift split the air before him.
A swirling, golden-blue portal, rippling with dimensional energy, opened to reveal the view of Univers'Isle, his private domain conquered and claimed.
The leader of PENTAGRAM stepped forward, visibly outraged.
"Wait, what?! You could've escaped this whole time?!"
"We've been trying to open portals for hours! Nothing's worked!"
Leonard didn't even turn his head. "Well," he replied lazily, "I have my ways."
He took one step toward the portal.
"On that note, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be taking my leave."
But before he could move further, the ground shimmered around him, light bending, shadows forming.
In an instant, over a hundred operators in high-tech, tactical gear materialized in a perfect defensive formation around him. Armor shimmered with adaptive camouflage, visors gleaming with synchronized HUDs, weapons raised in silent precision.
Alongside them, nearly twenty additional operatives appeared, less advanced in appearance but no less dangerous. Their gear bore the unmistakable markings of a separate command lineage.
The plaza froze.
DC Al Fine's eyes went wide. "Wait, how the hell did a unit that size sneak past all of my security?"
Leonard finally turned, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Because your detection methods are garbage compared to my forces."
DC staggered as if physically punched, coughing once, a trickle of blood escaped his lips. Emotional damage: critical hit.
He wiped it away with shaking fingers. "TA… is there any chance… you could take us with you?"
Leonard raised an eyebrow.
"And why," he asked, his tone light but sharp, "would I do that?"
"Because we're allies, TA."
DC's voice cut through the tension like a plea laced in reason. Leonard paused, eyes narrowing slightly, the gears of calculation already turning behind them.
"…Fair point."
He nodded once.
"Follow me."
Without another word, Leonard stepped through the shimmering portal, flanked closely by Graves, Mei Lin, and the full contingent of Resh-1 and OoTA operatives. The air shimmered behind him as the rift rippled in place.
The plaza behind them stayed frozen for a beat.
Then, slowly, confused and hesitant, the other leaders began moving, one by one, passing through the dimensional tear, trailed by their advisors, guards, and entire GOC formations. Within seconds, the plaza of Backdoor SoHo fell into eerie silence.
On the other side, a completely different world unfolded.
A colossal platform suspended above vast, snow-draped mountains. Cold winds howled in the distance. The sky was devoid of any Sun yet as colorful as the day. This was Univers'Isle, claimed by the SCP Foundation.
At the edge of the platform, startled Foundation guards in heavy armor raised their weapons the moment the portal flared to life.
"Unknown anomaly detected! Reporting to Command, portal event active!"
Sirens blared.
More guards surged in, weapons drawn, forming concentric rings of defense as they aimed at the newly arrived procession. Their faces were hidden behind opaque visors, unreadable and deadly.
Leonard simply stood still, hands in his coat pockets. Then, with a sigh, he pulled out a small, matte-black access card from his inner jacket and lifted it high into the air.
"This how you greet your leader?"
The moment the guards saw the card, Level 6, deep black with an iridescent edge, they froze.
Level 6. A clearance above even the highest operational ranks. The O5 Council itself didn't carry them. There were less than a handful of those in existence.
Every soldier present immediately straightened.
Snap.
Dozens of synchronized salutes echoed across the wind as they dropped to attention.
A few tense minutes passed before the heavy blast doors behind the guards slid open with a metallic hiss. Out stepped a fireteam of Alpha-1 'Red Right Hand', the personal guard of the O5 Council, marching in perfect formation.
Behind them, two figures emerged in crisp black suits, faces obscured behind smooth masks.
A man. A woman.
They stopped just in front of Leonard and offered identical nods.
"Administrator."
Leonard smirked. "How's it going, O5-7? O5-10?"
Behind him, the delegation of leaders gasped quietly. Some of their eyes gleamed. Others barely kept their composure. They knew what these titles meant.
For years, the O5 Council had remained one of the most cryptic elements of Foundation mythos. Shrouded in secrecy even in the wiki. In some canons, they were humans blessed or cursed with anomalous powers. In others, they were no longer human at all. One was even rumored to have become the embodiment of Death itself.
This was the first time any of them had seen a O5 member in person.
O5-7 responded smoothly, voice sharp and relaxed.
"Doing well, boss. Though I imagine O5-6 can't say the same. Manhattan is… not doing great."
O5-10 added with a bow, "Would you like us to open a portal to the front's Command Center?"
Leonard glanced over his shoulder.
Behind him, the leaders and troops from all over the Hope System stood in silent awe. Even the most composed among them looked shaken.
He smiled.
"No. Open one to the United Nations Headquarters."
---
The afternoon sun was nowhere to be seen, veiled behind a roiling blanket of dark clouds, thunder, and ash stirred up by SCP-2911-JP's ongoing rampage. Above the storm, slicing through turbulent air, a black military transport aircraft thundered forward, cutting a path through the clouds like a blade.
Inside, sixty-one elite operatives of Mobile Task Force Mu-0 "Maxwell Demons" sat in silence or bantered lightly, each clad in heavy black armor, gas masks equipped with oxygen canisters on their backs. The cabin was filled with the hum of electrical systems, the muted clatter of gear being checked and rechecked, and the tension that always came before a drop.
Standing at the head of the hold was their commander, codename Maxwell-1, known among his men as the Doom Slayer. Turning his head slightly, his voice cut through the interior.
"Check your gauges. There's a high ashfall density near the anomaly's center. Our mission's simple: drop in, inspect the sphere, eliminate anything that moves and isn't human, then exfil. Clear?"
A chorus of affirmatives echoed back though not without sarcasm.
"Sorry, Macqueen," one operator chuckled, elbowing a comrade across the aisle. "Looks like you won't be seeing your demonic girlfriend anytime soon."
Another chimed in, laughing: "Oh yeah, your team got deployed to Succubustown, right? Building diplomatic 'relations' with the Arbor-Class communities in Undervegas. Real professional. First step in peacekeeping? Prove you've got balls. Literally."
Laughter erupted from the rows of armored troops.
"Yeah," added the first. "They even booked a private suite for the night. But before he could get to the good part, boom, emergency deployment notice. Poor bastard came storming out like a tomato."
"Go fuck yourselves," Macqueen grumbled, flipping the bird as the others laughed.
Another voice joined in: "Y'all remember the time Director House remembered SCP-181's passive luck ability? Man dragged that poor bastard through every casino in Vegas like a goddamn Pokémon. Won millions. Then boom, mafia heat. We had to go rescue his ass."
"And 181?" someone added between snickers. "Crying like he was dry heaving, begging to jump off a roof. That face, man. Comedy gold."
The whole troop burst into laughter again, a rolling wave of gallows humor and camaraderie.
Maxwell-1 allowed himself a faint smile. It was good. The morale was solid.
Then his earpiece crackled. Incoming transmission from the pilot.
He stood up, helmet reflecting the red glow of the alert lights now flashing.
"Alright, enough. Zip it. Drop zone ETA: five minutes. Final gear check, confirm comms, prep for insertion. Move!"
The laughter vanished in an instant.
Like flipping a switch, sixty-one demons of war snapped into silent readiness.
Mu-0 was on the move.
A few minutes later, the red jump light over the ramp flickered and turned amber.
The metallic hiss of hydraulics screamed through the hold as the rear ramp began to lower. Wind surged in like a living thing, roaring through the aircraft's belly, carrying with it the choking scent of ozone and ash.
What lay beyond was madness, an endless sea of black clouds churning in slow, monstrous spirals. Forked red lightning slashed the skies like angry gods were clawing at the heavens. No sunlight pierced the storm. Only dread and the faint, surreal glow of the anomaly below.
Maxwell-1 stepped forward, boots thudding against the ramp. His visor adjusted automatically, filtering the light as data flowed across his HUD. He brought up his comms.
"Maxwell-1 to Sky Command. We are above the target zone. Beginning deployment. Confirmed?"
A slight crackle, then a calm female voice responded.
"Confirmed, Maxwell-1. Wind shear is heavy, but within tolerance. Rockefeller rooftop remains viable. Proceed."
He turned, raised one hand, and gave the signal.
"MOVE OUT!"
And like that, the Maxwell Demons leapt.
One after another, black-armored operators sprinted down the ramp and vanished into the storm. No hesitation. No fear. Just the deafening howl of wind and the faint flashes of lightning illuminating their descent like falling angels cast from heaven.
Maxwell-1 was the last.
He stepped off the ramp and dove.
Gravity took him instantly. The shriek of air filled his ears. His visor flickered with altitude, vitals, position of allies, sixty blue dots spiraling through chaos, lightning striking around them.
Ash lashed against his armor. His gas filters hissed, adjusting for density. Wind buffeted his limbs like fists. But his body, enhanced and unyielding, remained still. The Earth below came into view, a shattered Manhattan, warped and scarred by something that had no right to exist.
"Maxwell-1 to all units. Adjust your drop vector. Building structure below is weakened, avoid the west wing. Land near the antenna array. Double-check roof integrity before regroup."
"Copy that."
"Maxwell-17 adjusting trajectory."
"Maxwell-9: Fuckin' hell, it's like riding a blender full of demons out here."
"Maxwell-22: Shut up and focus."
Red lightning ripped past Maxwell's right side. His heads-up display warned of EM interference, the closer they got to the center, the worse it became.
Then, through the storm, a monolith emerged, the upper floors of the Rockefeller Center. Half of it was scorched, parts melted like wax. The antenna array stood like a skeletal hand clawing at the storm, and the rooftop was covered in ash, glass, and debris.
Maxwell hit his chute.
The canopy deployed in an explosion of force, jerking his body back as the straps bit into his armor. Wind snapped at him. Below, he could see the first boots hitting the roof, Mu-0 units rolling into cover, securing perimeters, setting up heavy weapons.
"This is Maxwell-1. Touching down. Begin rooftop sweep and anomaly triangulation. Weapons hot. Assume hostile presence."
He hit the rooftop seconds later, boots slamming into cracked concrete. The ash beneath shifted under his weight. He immediately dropped to one knee, scanning the area with his rifle.
To the west, the remnants of a helicopter rotor spun lazily in the wind. Something was burned into the floor, something that pulsed faintly in the dark.
The storm above screamed.
The rest of Mu-0 "Maxwell Demons" slammed onto the rooftop behind him in a well-coordinated formation. Sixty-one black-clad operators, gas masks hissing softly, fanned out across the rooftop of the Rockefeller Center with absolute discipline.
"Status check," Maxwell-1 barked over internal comms.
"Bravo Squad secured north perimeter," a voice responded.
"Delta Squad covering rear flank."
"All units green," came the final report.
The clouded sky above them groaned with unnatural thunder. Red lightning cracked across the heavens, illuminating the rain of black ash that fell like snow. In the far distance, skyscrapers smoldered like gravestones, half-swallowed by the darkness blooming from Manhattan's core.
Maxwell-1 turned to the rooftop access door. "Stack up. Alpha and Charlie with me. We sweep floor by floor. You find something that looks like it crawled out of a hell dimension, you light it up. No warnings. No hesitation."
"Roger that."
One of the operatives slapped a shaped charge on the rooftop door, silent countdown, green flash. The door blew inward with a controlled hiss of pressure.
Maxwell-1 stepped in first, rifle raised. The stairwell inside was coated in grime, ash, and streaks of blood so old it had blackened. Lights flickered weakly. The air stank of sulfur.
"Maintain comm silence from here on unless critical," Maxwell-1 ordered. "Move."
They descended in silence. Room by room, floor by floor. Offices, conference halls, mechanical storage, each one was cleared with perfect formation, each squad leapfrogging forward while the others held. Their boots echoed against tile and concrete, their visors cutting through the gloom.
Third floor, contact.
A humanoid figure stood in the hallway, 7 feet tall, skin like cracked obsidian, covered in a link frog.
"Tartarean-class entity," Macqueen whispered through comms. "Designation?"
"Wrath-Type," muttered another. "Probably a scout."
The demon snarled and sprinted toward them.
Maxwell-1 didn't hesitate. "Open fire."
A wall of bullets tore through the hallway. Dozens of smart-rounds punched into the demon's body, exploding on impact. Within seconds, it was reduced to ash and burning fragments.
They moved on.
Two more levels down, another pack. This time, four of them burst through a side door, charging with jagged blades made of bone and rust.
"Contact, right side!"
Mu-0 split seamlessly. Suppression fire pinned the demons in the hallway while two fireteams flanked through the office wings, cutting them down with precise volleys. The last one tried to leap onto a ceiling beam—one of the operators calmly fired a grenade launcher, obliterating the beam and the creature in a fireball.
Maxwell-1 kept his pace steady. "Minimal resistance. We're not the main course. These are just the flies."
Twenty minutes later, they reached the ground floor.
The lobby of Rockefeller Center was a warzone. Statues cracked. Murals burned. One of the demonic creatures had tried to make a nest around the front desk, its tendrils laced into the floor.
An operative fired a high-caliber round through its skull.
Silence followed.
"Perimeter clear," someone reported.
Maxwell-1 walked through the shattered glass doors and stepped into the street.
Outside, Manhattan was dying.
Ash fell like snow. Cars were melted husks. Buildings sagged under unnatural weight. The street ahead twisted and pulsed like flesh in places.
But Mu-0 was ready. They filed out behind him, formation tight, rifles scanning.
Maxwell-1 raised his hand.
"Sky Command, this is Maxwell-1. Rockefeller secure. We are on street level. Preparing to advance toward Ground Zero."
The comm crackled back.
"Copy that, Maxwell-1. May God help you all."
Maxwell-1 switched off the channel.
"We don't need help," he muttered. "We are the help."
Then he stepped forward into the storm.
Behind him, Mu-0 followed.
Mu-0 crossed two ruined streets, their boots splashing through puddles of crimson rain. Vehicles had melted into black slag, lampposts twisted like bones, and the skies above churned in shades of dying fire.
Then they saw it, SCP-2911-B.
A shimmering dome of distortion, like a mirage carved into the world itself, pulsed quietly in front of them. Inside, a thick pink fog blanketed everything. Structures within were partially visible, tilted shadows of buildings and warped debris flickering in and out of phase.
More disturbing were the creatures inside.
Demons wandered aimlessly, stumbling over rubble and colliding with one another as though blind. One tripped, fell into another, and both briefly bowed in sync, their mouths moving in silent apology.
Maxwell-1 raised a clenched fist, halting the column.
"Deploy analyzers."
Operators stepped forward, unpacking multi-lensed devices, some the size of backpacks, others handheld. They pointed them toward the shimmering veil of the anomaly.
A low hum filled the air as data streamed in.
"One of my Kant Counters just maxed out," said Maxwell-4. "It's overloading."
"No surprise," another muttered. "The anomalous energy frequency is spiking. Demonic signals are crisscrossing with an active Akiva surge. If this keeps up, breathing might become… optional."
Maxwell-1 stared into the pink haze.
A sudden voice cut through the channel.
"Hey, are there more of them now?"
The team followed the operator's gesture. Beyond the haze, more shapes began to emerge twice, maybe three times the number they had seen earlier. The demons now stood motionless, heads twitching slightly as if waiting for a signal.
Then the world shook.
Violently.
The ground beneath their boots rumbled like something ancient was trying to surface. Dust rained from broken windows. A sharp alarm screamed from every Kant Counter simultaneously.
"Seismic spike," Maxwell-31 shouted. "South quadrant, there's something coming!"
From the southern end of the city, a dark brown fog began pouring through the streets like a wave of smoke and ink. Buildings it touched began to twist, their walls convulsing. The demons caught in its path didn't vanish, they awoke.
Their heads jerked toward Mu-0. One by one, hundreds of glowing eyes locked onto the operators.
Then they ran.
"Contacts, active, charging!" someone shouted.
Maxwell-1's comms flared.
"Sky Command to all ground units near SCP-2911-JP. Emergency Protocol Activated. Expansion phase has begun. Evacuate immediately. Repeat: evacuate immediately."
"SHIT! GO! FALL BACK!" Maxwell-1 roared. "ALL UNITS! RETREAT NOW!"
The streets exploded into motion.
Mu-0 broke formation and ran, every operator moving with synchronized precision as their rifles spat suppressing fire. Demons howled behind them, claws slamming into broken concrete, leaping over wreckage as the brown fog consumed the world in its wake.
"Fire teams, cover left flank!"
"Behind the truck,enemy grouping!"
"Maxwell-7's hit!"
"GRAB HIM! MOVE!"
Above them, the red sky cracked open with lightning. Below, the very road beneath their boots buckled and twisted like flesh reacting to infection.
Maxwell-1 glanced back. The wave of brown fog had nearly reached the outer edge of the shimmering field. The pink mist was warping violently, twisting into fractal shapes, screaming without sound.
They had seconds.
"Two more blocks!" someone shouted.
Mu-0 kept running, fire trailing behind them, chased by demons and death itself.
Maxwell-1's lungs burned. His legs pounded the pavement, boots slamming against cracked asphalt as the roar of pursuing demons echoed louder behind him.
They were almost at the perimeter.
Two more turns and they'd be in the green zone, past the current reach of SCP-2911-JP's expanding fog. The brown corruption had swallowed the entire block behind them, and the pink mist was accelerating, like a tide chasing prey.
Gunfire cracked across the streets. Mu-0 fired in controlled bursts, targeting charging entities with ruthless precision. One demon lunged from a collapsed alleyway, its body a fusion of muscle and iron.
Maxwell-1 turned and dropped it with a burst to the face. The creature's jaw unhinged in a silent scream before its body folded inward and disintegrated into smoke.
"Fall back!" he shouted through his comms. "Alpha team, next street over, move!"
"Bravo's pinned!" came a voice. "Three men down, one stuck under a collapsed sign!"
"Coordinates!"
"30 meters northwest, corner of 51st and Madison!"
Maxwell-1 didn't hesitate. "Cover me!"
He sprinted, weaving through overturned cars and broken glass. The fog was close now, tendrils of pink creeping through alley cracks, slithering over the ground like intelligent mist.
He reached them in seconds.
Maxwell-22 was dragging a bleeding operator with one arm while firing wildly with the other. Another lay unconscious, half-buried under the twisted wreckage of a fallen billboard.
"Hold on!" Maxwell-1 barked. He slid under the metal slab, bracing his exosuit, and heaved. The steel groaned, then gave. He grabbed the downed man by the harness and pulled him out just as the pink fog wrapped around the corner.
"GO!" he yelled, throwing the unconscious soldier over his shoulder.
They ran, demons screeching behind them, claws scraping metal, the fog swallowing reality one meter at a time.
Then it hit.
The pink mist overtook him, warm, cloying, humming with whispers. Colors bled from the edges of his vision. His HUD flickered. Voices murmured things he didn't understand, or maybe they were in his own voice.
His boots felt heavy, his mind sluggish.
"Focus," he growled, pressing forward, reaching his last move.
With a quick motion, he pulled a small device from his belt, a blade-like apparatus lined with glowing red glyphs. Maxwell-1 activated it and stabbed it into the concrete.
The runes ignited.
A crimson sphere burst outward from the device, enveloping a five-meter radius. The pink fog stopped at the barrier, sizzling against the field like acid against glass.
Demons collided with it next. Dozens. Maybe more. Their bodies slammed into the forcefield with wet cracks, claws tearing, fangs gnashing but they couldn't get through.
Inside the crimson dome, it was silent.
Maxwell-1 laid the unconscious man gently on the ground. Blood trickled from the soldier's temple. Outside, a demon's face smashed against the barrier, flat nose, lidless eyes staring at him, mouth leaking black bile. Another climbed over it, then another. It didn't matter. They couldn't break in.
The runes pulsed brighter.
Maxwell-1 activated his comms.
"Sky Command,this is Maxwell-1. I'm trapped with one down Maxwell within containment radius. Barrier holding for now. Advise immediate evac or redirect air assets. We're surrounded."
"Copy that, Maxwell-1," came the voice. "Hold position. Recovery unit en route."
The fog howled outside the dome, but inside the red light of the runes, Maxwell-1 knelt beside his teammate, hand on his rifle, eyes locked forward.
He would not break.
Not here. Not now.
The runes on the ground started pulsating violently now. Cracks spiderwebbed across the edges of the crimson dome as if the forcefield itself were beginning to reject reality.
Outside, the horde of demons grew restless, scraping, snarling, clawing with increasing frenzy.
And then—
A voice.
Silken. Arrogant. Inside his mind.
"You know you could escape this easily… with my power."
Maxwell-1 didn't flinch. His eyes stayed locked forward. He exhaled slowly, annoyed more than tempted.
"No. Thanks."
"Oh come now. Don't dismiss me so quickly. After all… you're the one who signed the contract."
Maxwell-1's jaw tightened.
"Name your price. Let's not pretend I don't know what this is. You're an Ego type, Beta-Class Demon. You crave control. You'll twist whatever you give until it breaks me."
The voice laughed. A deep, reverberating sound that echoed across the inside of his skull like a monarch mocking a peasant.
"Hahaha… insignificant human. You and I made a pact. That makes you my property. And I-"
"-don't tolerate others laying hands on what's mine."
A snarl rose in the demon's tone now, ancient and imperial.
"Lesser demons? Filthy parasites. I will erase them. Let me in. Just a little. Let me show them what it means to touch something owned by a true Golden being."
Maxwell-1 said nothing for a moment.
Then he tapped his helmet, voice cold and sharp.
"Maxwell-1 to Sky Command. The runic forcefield is deteriorating. Requesting formal authorization for deployment of Demon Mode."
There was a pause on the line.
Then the operator replied.
"Request acknowledged. You are cleared for activation. Don't forget to engage remote trigger for your Ortiz-Hannigan Geas transmittor."
Maxwell-1 stared at the rune-blade still humming at his feet. The red glow flickered. One of the glyphs cracked. The demons outside were now piling against the dome, trying to break through with sheer mass.
"Copy that," Maxwell-1 muttered. "Activating."
He reached behind his back, unlocking a small metal cylinder embedded near the base of his spine. His thumb slid across the biometric panel.
A soft click.
A hiss of pressurized gas.
His armor adjusted. Vents snapped open. Thin red lines spread across the plating, glowing like veins, followed by the sharp activation tone of the Ortiz-Hannigan Geas system syncing with his nervous system.
In his mind, the demon purred.
"Yes… That's it. Let me show you what we can do together."
Maxwell-1 took a breath.
Then, his voice dropped to a low whisper, more to himself than anyone else:
"Let's see what the Pride of Hell really looks like in a fight."
Suddenly, Maxwell-1's body convulsed.
His back arched, armor plates groaning under pressure, and then, crack.
Two massive golden horns tore through his forehead, spiraling upward like crowns forged from divine fire. His hands twisted, cracking and reshaping into talons laced with obsidian bone and glimmering golden veins.
From his back, black wings burst out, twice the length of his body, their edges razor-sharp, pulsating with infernal energy.
His eyes snapped open.
Vertical. Slitted.
Blazing gold.
Then came the tail, long and muscular, snaking from the base of his spine, ending in a sharp, spear-like tip. He stood tall, radiant and monstrous, drenched in demonic majesty.
A grin stretched across his face, wide, ecstatic, cruel.
"Hahahahahahaha! It's been so long since I had fun like this."
He turned toward the red dome, now faltering, flickering.
He stared into the tide of demons outside.
Then, without warning-
He leapt.
The dome shattered behind him like glass as his body launched forward, cutting through the air with a thunderous boom.
What followed was slaughter.
The demons barely had time to react before the first impact.
Maxwell-1's claws tore through the nearest SCP-2911-B entity like it was paper, cleaving flesh, ichor, and bone in one motion. He didn't stop. He spun mid-air, carving a full circle around him, four more demons were sliced into halves before they could blink.
Another leapt toward him.
He caught it by the throat with one hand, lifted it effortlessly.
"Kneel," he whispered, voice echoing with layered tones, not human, not even mortal.
He crushed its neck and threw the corpse like a missile into a pack behind it. Bones cracked. Screams echoed.
Maxwell's wings flared, flinging him into the next wave.
He danced between them, if dance could be used for a hurricane of violence.
Each movement was precise. Calculated. Arrogant.
He was faster than their eyes could track, a blur of golden destruction. Every swing of his claw left behind searing trails of infernal fire. Every beat of his wings blew enemies off their feet. One tried to scream a warning, but its head exploded before the breath left its lungs, Maxwell had driven his tail straight through its face.
Dozens of 2911-B instances charged at once.
He didn't even slow down.
"You're crawling toward me?" he chuckled. "How pitiful."
He crouched, then launched upward, straight into the air, then dove, wings tucked, his body a burning spear of wrath.
The impact formed a crater in the street. Shockwaves rippled through the asphalt. Every lesser demon within ten meters was atomized. The rest were hurled back, screeching.
When the dust cleared, Maxwell-1 stood alone in the crater, golden light pouring from his body like a holy curse.
He raised one hand slowly. Fingers glowing. He snapped.
A pulse of force erupted from him, disintegrating everything in a thirty-meter radius.
"I AM A GREATER DEMON" he roared, voice layered with inhuman echoes. "YOU THINK YOU'RE WORTHY TO TOUCH ME? YOU'RE NOT EVEN WORTHY TO SEE ME."
The remaining demons hesitated.
For the first time in the chaos, they recoiled.
Fear.
True fear.
Maxwell-1 smiled, teeth now sharpened, lips dripping with the blood of his enemies.
"Kneel. Or die screaming."
They ran.
Too late.
His wings shot him forward again, and the massacre resumed, inevitable, glorious, absolute.
The Pride Demon inside him purred.
"Now that's more like it."
A few minutes later, the battlefield was silent.
No demons remained.
Their twisted bodies lay scattered across the ruined street like discarded puppets, burned, crushed, torn apart by claws or seared by golden fire. The pink fog had receded slightly, as if retreating from the presence of something far more dangerous.
And through it walked Maxwell-1.
His demonic form still towered with regal arrogance, wings slightly folded behind his back, footsteps cracking the pavement beneath. Blood dripped from his claws. His eyes, those piercing, vertical golden slits, scanned the destruction without remorse.
Behind him, the wounded Mu-0 operator he had rescued lay secured, carried by two other squad members in exo-rigs.
Weapons were raised as the rest of the team surrounded him.
One of them called out sharply.
"TL, zone is temporarily secured. You may return to your human form."
The demon's head snapped in the soldier's direction.
He took one slow, deliberate step forward.
"HOW DARE YOU ORDER ME?!" the voice that thundered from his mouth was not human. It was the voice of a king, furious, wounded in pride.
Golden light surged between his hands as he conjured a seething orb of pure thaumaturgic energy. Symbols swirled within it, ancient, powerful, burning.
Panic rippled through the squad.
"Sky Command! Maxwell-1 is rampaging! He's going off-script!"
"Requesting immediate activation of his Ortiz-Hannigan Geas!"
There was a silence.
Then, click.
A high-frequency pulse.
Maxwell-1 froze.
The orb in his hand collapsed inward with a soft implosion of sparks. His arms dropped to his sides, muscles tensed like stone. A low growl echoed from deep in his throat, layered with ancient fury.
That's when one of the operators sprinted toward him.
Without hesitation, the soldier placed two fingers against Maxwell's burning forehead and shouted with all the force of doctrine and faith:
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command the Wicked One to return to the infernal pits!"
Maxwell-1 didn't move.
But something screamed.
A bone-chilling, otherworldly wail filled the air, vibrating through steel, flesh, and soul alike. His body arched backward as if something inside him resisted with all its might.
Then—
His horns cracked, splintered and retracted into his skull.
His wings twisted and folded back into nothingness.
His tail withdrew.
And then, finally, his eyes softened. Human. His knees buckled.
He collapsed to the ground, unconscious, steam rising from his body.
The operator took a shaky breath.
"Maxwell-11 to Sky Command. Maxwell-1 is under control. Requesting evac."
Crackling static, then a response:
"Confirmed, Maxwell-11. Proceed to Central Park. Extraction bird inbound."
With discipline honed by countless operations, the squad gathered their fallen leader and the wounded operator. Weapons out, formation tight, they turned back toward the ruins of New York.
Toward the darkness.
Toward Central Park.