Chapter 149: Welcome to Site-19 Security Department
The heavy thrum of rotor blades drowned out every other sound. Inside the massive Chinook, rows of fresh cadets sat shoulder to shoulder, their gray Foundation security uniforms crisp and new. Among them sat Ethan Veyers, his eyes fixed on the metal floor, heart pounding with anticipation.
This is it, he thought, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag. The end of training. The real beginning.
For weeks, he had pushed himself harder than anyone else, earning the title of top graduate of his class. Now, all of that was behind him. Ahead lay Site-19, the largest, most classified Foundation installation on Earth.
The Chinook shuddered as it descended. Through the small circular window, Ethan caught a glimpse of sprawling concrete structures, steel fences topped with coils of razor wire, and watchtowers bristling with cameras and gun emplacements. It looked less like a research facility and more like a military fortress preparing for war.
The voice of their instructor cut through the deafening noise.
"This is where we part ways, cadets." His tone carried the weight of finality. "Good luck out there. You're Foundation security now. Don't forget what that means."
A loud metallic clank echoed as the rear ramp of the helicopter lowered, letting in a blast of wind and the scent of aviation fuel. One by one, the cadets rose and filed toward the exit, boots thudding against the metal floor.
When Ethan stepped out, the sight before him stole his breath.
The helipad sprawled across a colossal military-grade airfield. Hangars the size of warehouses lined the distance, their doors marked with designations and warning signs in bold red letters: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Cargo trucks rumbled along wide roads, while Foundation helicopters and tiltrotors waited on standby like predators ready to strike.
Waiting at the bottom of the ramp were three figures.
At the center stood a man with sharp features, face uncovered, his posture radiating command. His gray security uniform was almost identical to the cadets', but paired with a black tactical vest and a beret of the same color.
Flanking him on the right was another figure, clad in the same gray uniform and black gear, except his beret was navy blue, a captain, and a balaclava concealed his face entirely, giving him an aura of cold professionalism.
On the left stood someone entirely different, a silent sentinel in full black tactical armor, helmet visor down, exuding menace like a shadow given form. His gear was heavier, reinforced, the kind reserved for elite units.
The man in the center took a step forward, boots crunching against the concrete. His voice was calm but commanding, slicing through the murmurs of the cadets.
"Cadets! Welcome to Site-19. Follow me."
He turned without another word, expecting obedience. The other two agents fell in line behind him, their movements precise and disciplined.
Ethan adjusted his grip on his duffel and followed, heart pounding harder with each step. He couldn't help but steal a glance at the soldiers ahead.
Who are these guys?
The group marched across the tarmac toward an immense blast door embedded in a concrete wall, an entrance that looked more suited to a bunker than a research facility. The Foundation insignia loomed above it like an ominous warning.
The cadets followed the trio into a reinforced structure, its walls lined with blast plating and surveillance cameras that tracked every movement. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow as the group moved deeper inside.
They reached an industrial elevator, its metal cage door sliding open with a heavy clang. Everyone squeezed inside, the hum of machinery filling the silence as the lift began its descent. The numbers on the panel blinked past Sublevel 10… 20… 30… and kept going.
Ethan felt the pressure in his ears as they went deeper and deeper underground, far beyond any civilian or military bunker he'd ever seen. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator jerked to a halt.
The doors slid open, revealing a checkpoint bristling with armed personnel. A squad of security agents stood guard behind blast shields, their rifles tracking the newcomers with disciplined precision.
The man in the black beret stepped forward.
"Commander!" one of the guards barked, instantly snapping to attention. The others followed suit, clearing the way without hesitation.
Ethan exchanged a glance with the cadet next to him, both silently acknowledging what that single word meant: the man leading them wasn't just anyone.
The group filed through the checkpoint. Beyond it lay a fortified corridor, lined with blast doors and reinforced glass observation panels. Dozens of security agents moved with practiced efficiency, some manning guard posts, others patrolling in pairs.
As they advanced, Ethan caught glimpses through thick glass windows, containment chambers housing anomalies classified as Safe, their sterile cells glowing under harsh white light. Some rooms held ordinary-looking objects; others contained creatures that made Ethan's skin crawl.
He tightened his grip on his duffel bag and kept walking.
The procession moved through another checkpoint and entered a new sector. The atmosphere shifted, less clinical, more like a self-sustaining military hub buried beneath the earth. Offices lined the halls, marked with placards like "Tactical Operations", "Incident Response Planning", and "Psychological Evaluation". They passed an infirmary where medics tended to wounded personnel, and farther ahead, rows of dormitories where agents came and went, some fully armed, others in casual uniforms.
Finally, they stepped into a massive security complex, the beating heart of Site-19's defense structure.
Inside, the air vibrated with activity. The cadets marched past a sprawling training facility, where seasoned agents honed their skills with brutal precision. In one corner, two operatives traded bone-crunching blows in a hand-to-hand sparring match. Nearby, squads ran close-quarters drills with simulation rounds, the staccato pop of non-lethal fire echoing across the hall. Others practiced on firing ranges, sending bursts of lead into humanoid dummies marked with kill zones.
Everywhere Ethan looked, eyes turned toward them. The chatter dimmed for a heartbeat as the veterans sized up the newcomers, then, almost in unison, they saluted the man in the black beret.
"Commander."
The trio led the group past the training zone and into a wide assembly hall, its high ceiling supported by steel beams, walls lined with Foundation insignias and status boards. Rows of benches faced a raised platform at the far end, where five figures stood waiting. Each wore the same gray uniform and tactical gear as the cadets, but their dark blue berets marked them as Captains.
Ethan felt the tension rise among the cadets as they quickly fell into line, boots snapping in unison against the polished floor. The room fell silent, save for the hum of ventilation and the distant echo of drills in the training hall.
The man in the black beret stepped onto the platform with the silent confidence of someone who owned the ground he walked on. Behind him, the two other operatives took their positions.
His eyes swept over the assembled cadets, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was deep, calm, and commanding enough to make the room feel smaller.
"Welcome to Site-19."
The man continued, his voice firm and carrying across the assembly hall.
"I am Commander Gordon Odom, head of Site-19 Security. Welcome to my command."
His eyes scanned the rows of cadets, his expression as cold and unreadable as the steel walls around them.
"If you've been assigned to Site-19, it means one thing, you were the best of your class. The elite. And you're here because we only need the best." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like an anchor.
"Site-19, officially designated USNEOM-Site-19, is the beating heart of the Foundation's operations. Our primary objectives include the research and containment of Safe, Euclid, Keter, and esoteric-class anomalies, as well as serving as a central operational and logistical hub. This site is the largest ever constructed, and yes, it's the closest thing the Foundation has to a global headquarters. If someone runs this world from the shadows, odds are, they do it from here."
A ripple of murmurs passed among the cadets, but Odom ignored it and continued.
"As you learned in training, security structures differ from site to site. Some facilities only require a handful of guards. But Not here. Here, our numbers reach into the thousands. Our security forces are divided into six main groups, each commanded by a Captain, who answers directly to me. Each group oversees five sectors, and every sector is managed by a Lieutenant. Under them, you'll find three primary classifications of security units."
He raised one gloved hand, counting off each category.
"First, immobile security units, fixed teams permanently stationed within a specific sector. They report to their sector Lieutenant.
Second, mobile security units, rapid patrol teams covering multiple sectors, answering directly to their Captain.
And third… the Rapid Response Teams."
His voice grew heavier on the last words, and for a moment, the air seemed to thicken.
"These teams are rare. You only find them on major sites like this one. Their job is to handle emergency situations on-site if the primary security response fails." His gloved finger pointed to the man standing silently at the edge of the platform, the figure in full black tactical armor, face hidden behind a matte mask, radiating an aura of cold lethality.
"All Rapid Response Teams report to Captain Raúl Vega. If you ever hear his name in your chain of command, pray you're not already dead."
A hush fell over the hall. Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine as his eyes flicked toward the masked man.
Commander Odom stepped forward again. "Now, assignments. When I call your name and your team designation, move to your Captain. Groups are arranged from left to right, One through Six."
One by one, names were called. Cadets moved to their Captains, some visibly nervous, others trying to mask their excitement.
"Ethan Veyers."
Ethan's head snapped up.
"Zulu Team. Group Two."
He took a breath, tightened his grip on his duffel, and marched forward, boots striking the floor in crisp rhythm. Standing before the second Captain from the left, he snapped a salute.
"Greetings, ma'am."
The woman before him returned the gesture with a sharp nod. Her nameplate read: Ortega. She had an intense look in her dark eyes, one that spoke of experience and zero tolerance for incompetence.
She said nothing yet, waiting as Odom continued reading the list. Ethan shifted slightly, standing at attention as more cadets joined their designated Captains.
Finally, when the last name was called, Odom stepped forward again.
"Good. Now that assignments are complete, your Captains will escort you to your group armory for equipment issues. After that, you'll be introduced to your units. Consider today your first day in the real Foundation."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode off the platform, leaving the hall in the hands of the Captains.
The woman in front of Ethan finally spoke, her voice carrying the command tone of someone used to being obeyed.
"Alright, cadets. I'm Captain Valeria Ortega, head of Security Group Two. I will be your superior until the day you either transfer or die trying." Her lips curled slightly into something that might have been a smile, or just a baring of teeth.
"Follow me. And keep up."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, she spun on her heel and started at a brisk pace toward the far end of the hall.
The cadets of Group Two scrambled after her in a loose formation, boots pounding against steel flooring. Ethan adjusted his stride, heart thudding in his chest as they moved deeper into the labyrinth of Site-19.
They finally arrived at a security post, a fortified sector designed for Group Two operations. The area was fully equipped, a training hall, locker rooms, a briefing room, and, at the far end, the armory.
As the group stepped inside the armory, the sharp smell of gun oil hit Ethan's nose. Several security agents were busy at work, checking rifles, replacing parts, and cleaning optics. The metallic clink of tools echoed in the room.
When they noticed Captain Ortega, they immediately stopped what they were doing and snapped to attention.
"Captain!"
Ortega returned the salute with a curt nod. Her sharp eyes scanned the room.
"Where is Lieutenant O'Rourke?" Her tone was low, calm but laced with danger.
The agents exchanged uneasy glances. One of them finally raised a trembling finger toward a stack of crates. Ortega followed the gesture.
Behind the crates, sprawled on the floor like a lazy cat, lay a man with a dark red beret covering his face.
Ortega pinched the bridge of her nose. "You've got to be kidding me, not again…"
In the next instant, her voice turned into a whip-crack.
"ON YOUR FEET, LIEUTENANT!"
The figure jerked upright, just in time to catch a brutal smack to the head from Ortega's palm.
"GAH! CAPTAIN! MERCY!" the man yelped, clutching his skull as his beret fell to the floor.
A few minutes later, the scene was completely different: Ortega stood in front of the recruits with the now very awake and slightly humiliated lieutenant at her side.
"This," Ortega said, voice clipped, "is Lieutenant O'Rourke of the Gunsmith Unit. He is responsible for radio communications, armory maintenance, and generally making sure Group Two doesn't blow itself up. He is also the one in charge of the security of Sector 6. If you have issues with your gear, you go to him."
O'Rourke adjusted his beret awkwardly, a visible bump forming underneath it. He managed a grin.
"Welcome to the madhouse, cadets. Name's O'Rourke. If your rifle jams, your vest rips, or you just need advice from your old uncle Rory, come to me. I'll take care of you. Fortunately for you, I'm always here."
"Unfortunately, yes, you are always here" Ortega muttered under her breath, then louder: "Enough talk. Gear them up."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
The lieutenant moved to a reinforced table stacked with heavy crates, each marked with a name. He began reading them out.
"Here's your kit, folks. Take the crate with your name on it. And don't lose it, I'm not running a charity."
Ethan stepped forward, retrieved his crate, and followed Ortega into the locker room.
The Captain's voice echoed against the steel walls:
"Pick an empty locker. Stow your primary gear. You're authorized to carry your sidearm and holster at all times."
Ethan set his crate down and flipped it open. His eyes scanned his inventory: a M4 Carbine with seven magazines, a M9 sidearm with five magazines, a riot helmet with tinted yellow visor, a tactical vest with modular attachments, a radio unit with an in-ear comms set, a baton, three smoke grenades, a Level 1 Foundation access card, an emergency site map with designated evacuation routes, a collapsible riot shield, designed to fit inside the vest, a pepper spray,handcuffs, a black balaclava and combat gloves.
"Damn…" Ethan muttered under his breath. He quickly began organizing the gear. The M9 slid into the holster on his thigh. The magazines found their place in the vest pouches. He stashed the rest in the locker, leaving only what Ortega had authorized for daily carry.
When he finished, he closed the locker with a satisfying metallic click and turned to face Ortega.
The Captain waited until the last cadet finished before speaking again.
"Alright. Time to see your quarters. Move."
The group followed her deeper into the sector, passing reinforced corridors, ID checkpoints, and even the occasional blast door. Two floors down, they stopped at a residential block marked with the Foundation's insignia.
"This is Group Two's residential wing," Ortega announced. "Some field agents are quartered here as well, so don't get in their way unless you want to eat through a straw."
She eyed the cadets one by one.
"Your room keys are in your crates. You have ten minutes to drop your gear and report back. Don't be late."
Ethan located his assigned room, a compact but neat space with two beds, two desks, lockers, and a private bathroom. Dropping his duffel by one bed, he took a moment to glance around, then got to work. Ten minutes later, he was back in formation.
All seven cadets stood at attention as Ortega returned, hands behind her back.
"Here's how it's going to work," she said. Her voice was crisp, commanding.
"Foster and Clarke, your units run night ops. Hit the sack now. Vice-Captain Morales will introduce you to your squads at 8:00 pm. Eat before you go. Cafeteria access is on your maps."
She turned her gaze to the next group.
"Kowalski, Ramirez, and Nguyen, patrol assignments across other sectors. I'll have your team leaders pick you up in five."
Her eyes flicked to the last two names on her slate.
"Daniels, your squad's on an external perimeter patrol. Today you're stuck with the Gunsmith team in the armory. Make yourself useful."
Finally, her gaze landed on Ethan.
"Veyers, your squad is on break in the cafeteria. They're due to roll out for patrol soon. They'll meet you in the locker room. Until then, stand by."
Ethan nodded sharply. "Yes, ma'am."
Ortega gave one last look over the group. "Dismissed. Don't embarrass me or yourselves."
Ethan retraced his steps through the maze-like corridors, mentally reviewing the turns Ortega had taken earlier. Left at the blast door, down the metal stairwell, past the reinforced checkpoint…
Finally, the familiar locker room came into view. He stepped inside, approached his locker, and began gearing up. The cold steel of the M4 felt reassuring against his gloves as he slung it across his chest. He adjusted his vest, checked the placement of his sidearm, and secured his riot helmet, visor raised for visibility, balaclava lowered to leave his face exposed.
A faint murmur reached his ears, voices approaching from the hallway. Laughter. Casual banter. Then the door swung open.
Five armed agents walked in, all in full tactical kit… accompanied by something that made Ethan freeze for a split second.
A robot.
The team was mid-conversation, their voices overlapping.
"—I'm telling you, Patriots don't stand a chance this season—"
"Yeah, right, you said the same last year—"
The chatter cut short when the man in front, the one with a white beret spotted Ethan. His presence carried authority without him saying a word.
Ethan straightened instinctively, bringing his hand up in a sharp salute.
"Greetings, sir. Cadet Ethan Veyers, newly assigned to Zulu Team."
The man returned the salute casually.
"At ease."
One of the agents behind him chuckled.
"Look at that, fresh blood's all fired up."
Another smirked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yeah? Unlike a certain someone who nearly passed out on the last 15K run."
"Screw you," came the immediate response, accompanied by a raised middle finger.
The sergeant ignored the squabble with the ease of a man used to it. He stepped closer, offering a firm handshake.
"Name's Sergeant Bryant, team leader for Zulu. Welcome to the squad, Veyers."
He then gestured to the man standing silently at his rightx a middle-aged operator with sharp, calculating eyes.
"Corporal Harris. My second-in-command. Doesn't talk much, but if he tells you to do something, you do it."
Harris gave a small nod, barely more than a flicker of acknowledgment.
Next, Bryant pointed to the smirking guy from earlier.
"That joker is Mason. Loudmouth, pain in the ass, but he keeps morale up… most of the time."
"Hey, you wound me, Sarge," Mason said, clutching his chest dramatically. "I'm a national treasure."
"Sure you are," Bryant deadpanned before moving on.
"That one," he pointed to a tall, lean man with pale features, a smile and piercing gray eyes, "is Bjornsson. Straight outta Iceland. Cold as his homeland, but he'll have your back."
Bjornsson gave a faint nod, silent but intimidating.
"And finally, Logan Tane. Big guy, bigger heart. Looks like he could crush your skull, but he's basically a teddy bear."
The giant grinned nervously, lifting a massive hand in greeting.
"Good to meet you, mate."
Ethan shook his hand, surprised at the sheer strength in Tane's grip.
Then Bryant tapped the metallic figure standing silently at the back.
"And this… is Bobby."
The humanoid robot stepped forward with an unsettlingly smooth motion. Its synthetic voice echoed in the room:
"Designation: SCPCR-043, Series I Humanoid Combat Unit. Codename: Bobby. Function: Tactical Support. Pleased to meet you."
Ethan stared for a moment, his brain processing the fact that his squad included… a combat robot.
Bobby extended a hand, servo motors humming faintly.
Ethan hesitated, then shook it. The grip was firm, almost too firm.
"Uh… yeah. Pleasure's mine," Ethan said, confusion plain on his face.
Bryant smirked.
"You'll get used to him. He doesn't talk much unless he has to… and when he does, it's usually something important. Or creepy. Sometimes both."
The team chuckled, and Mason added:
"Just don't ask him to play poker. He cheats."
"Cheating is not within my programming," Bobby replied flatly.
"Exactly what a cheater would say," Mason shot back with a grin.
Ethan couldn't help but let out a small laugh. The tension in his shoulders eased.
Bryant clapped his hands once, drawing all attention.
"Alright, playtime's over. Gear check. We're heading out in five."
The squad immediately started prepping. Ethan followed their lead, double-checking his mags, tightening his straps. His heart thudded with a mix of adrenaline and excitement.
This was it. His first mission with Zulu Team.
A few minutes later, the squad was gathered around a metal bench in the locker room. Sergeant Bryant placed several laminated maps and route sheets on the surface with a sharp tap.
"Alright, team. Listen up." His voice cut through the background hum of the ventilation.
He tapped the first map with a gloved finger.
"Today's patrol schedule will be shorter than yesterday. Inter-sector patrol. Sectors 8, 9, and 10. We'll spend one hour in each, rotate on the hour, and finish at 12:00am. After that, a thirty-minute lunch break at the cafeteria."
Bryant's finger moved to another sheet, a schematic of containment corridors.
"At 12:45am, we have a secondary assignment: escort duty. Containment Object transfer to a test chamber for research operations. We'll maintain perimeter security during the test, then re-escort the package back to storage. Once that's done, we're off the clock. Got it?"
No one spoke. The silence was sharp, disciplined.
Bryant scanned their faces, then locked eyes with Ethan.
"Veyers."
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"You're sticking close to me today. Formation rules, have you done your homework?"
"Yes, Sergeant. I stay on your right flank, one step behind."
Bryant gave a curt nod.
"Good. That's how you stay alive."
He checked his watch.
"Two minutes to step-off. Check your gear. Radios, safeties, optics. If something fails out there, it's on you."
The team moved with practiced efficiency. Mag checks. Optics adjustments. Radio pings. Armor straps pulled tight. Bobby, the humanoid unit, stood motionless, only the soft servo hum betraying its readiness.
Bryant turned back toward Ethan, his tone a little lighter.
"And Veyers… pull that balaclava up. No need to flash your pretty face around here."
"Yes, sir." Ethan obeyed immediately, pulling the black fabric over his mouth and nose. His visor slid down with a soft click, reflecting the sterile overhead lights.
Bryant gave the room a quick sweep.
"Zulu Team, form up at the door. We step off in sixty seconds."
The operators moved like clockwork, forming a tight formation near the blast door. Bobby took the rear, silent and imposing. The air in the room shifted, casual chatter gone, replaced by professional tension.
Ethan's heartbeat quickened. His first real patrol as a Foundation Security Officer was about to begin.
The heavy steel door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Beyond it stretched the gray corridors of Site-19, cold, endless, and humming with fluorescent light.
"Move out."
Bryant took point, Harris on his left. Ethan slid into position on Bryant's right flank, adjusting his rifle grip as his boots clanged softly against the polished floor. Behind them, Mason muttered something about football under his breath, earning a quiet chuckle from Tane.
The team advanced into the heart of Site-19, boots echoing in unison.
The heavy security door slammed shut behind them with a dull metallic echo, cutting off the noise of the locker room. Team Zulu moved out, boots hitting the polished floors in a steady rhythm. Their formation naturally shifted into a zigzag pattern: Bryant at the front, Ethan behind him on the right, Harris slightly offset to the left, followed by the others at alternating angles. Bobby, the humanoid combat robot, brought up the rear, its mechanical steps unnervingly precise.
Bryant keyed his throat mic:
"Zulu-Actual to Command. Inter-sector patrol commencing. Time: 09:00 am. Radio check."
The responses came sharp and quick:
"Zulu-2, green."
"Zulu-3, all clear."
"Zulu-4, ready."
"Zulu-5, good to go."
"Zulu-6, operational."
Finally, Bobby's synthesized voice added:
"SCPCR-043 online. Status: green."
Bryant's tone was calm but firm:
"Copy that. Keep the spacing tight. Eyes sharp, safeties on. We're moving."
The elevator hummed softly as it carried them up to the third floor of Sector 8. The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing sterile white corridors lined with reinforced glass panels. Through them, Ethan caught glimpses of test chambers, researchers in full hazmat suits moving around strange containment units. Every few meters, cameras tracked their movement, following them like silent sentinels.
Ethan kept his rifle low but ready, sweeping corners as they advanced. His comms crackled:
"Zulu-Actual, this is Command. Confirm current location."
Bryant responded without breaking stride:
"Zulu-Actual. Sector 8, Floor 3. All clear."
They moved past item storage lockers, then took the stairs to lower floors. The smell changed subtly at Floor 16, a cold, metallic tang that spoke of containment systems humming behind thick walls. Warning signs glared in bright red:
"Safe-Class Containment – Authorized Personnel Only."
Ethan swallowed hard. For a moment, he imagined what kind of "Safe" anomalies could be lurking just meters away.
They swept every corridor, checked every blind corner. Bobby occasionally rotated its head in a perfect 180, sensors scanning, emitting a faint mechanical buzz. No alarms. No containment breaches. Just the faint hum of the site's machinery and the rhythm of their boots.
After one hour, Bryant signaled the regroup:
"Sector 8 secure. Moving to Sector 9."
The transition point to Sector 9 was a security checkpoint manned by two guards. After clearance checks, Zulu advanced into a different world: endless rows of offices, data terminals, and personnel in white coats or suits. The air smelled faintly of coffee and ozone from the servers.
On Floor 7, the Data Server Room loomed like a technological cathedral, rows upon rows of black server racks blinking in synchronized patterns. A low hum filled the space, almost hypnotic. Harris muttered under his breath:
"If these things ever go down, half the Foundation dies with it."
Bryant shot him a quick look over his shoulder:
"Eyes front, Harris."
They continued up. Passing Class-D Dormitories on Floors 3 and 4, Ethan glanced at the reinforced doors. He imagined the people behind them, disposable assets, criminals or worse, waiting to be used in experiments. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Radio chatter broke the silence:
"Zulu-Actual, confirm sweep of Floor 14."
Bryant tapped his mic:
"Floor 14 clear. Moving up to 15. Status green."
The test chambers on Floors 15 to 17 felt colder, the walls thicker, the warning signs bigger. Nothing moved except their reflections in the polished metal panels.
One hour later, the team regrouped again.
"Sector 9 clear. On to Sector 10."
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Sector 10 wasn't an office maze, it was containment territory, and every step felt heavier. The walls were thicker, layered with blast-resistant plating. The lights were brighter, almost harsh, leaving no shadows.
They swept past Safe-Class containment cells, each door marked with hazard codes and numbers Ethan didn't recognize. On Floors 15 and beyond, Euclid-Class containment units loomed, huge, sealed gates with armed guards already stationed nearby. Ethan's pulse quickened despite himself. He remembered the briefing: Euclid's were unpredictable.
Bobby's sensors clicked softly as it scanned every doorway. Ethan found the machine unsettling, its blank mechanical voice occasionally stating:
"No anomalous activity detected."
The patrol moved in silence, save for the occasional check-in over comms. No alarms, no breaches, nothing but cold steel and heavy air.
After the final sweep, Bryant checked his watch:
"Time: 12:00am. Good work. We're clear for now. Lunch break, Sector 9, Floor 6. Move out."
The mood shifted the moment they entered the Sector 9 cafeteria. Warm light, chatter, and the smell of actual food hit them like a wave after hours of sterile corridors. Researchers and security personnel filled the space, some laughing over coffee, others hunched over datapads.
Bryant gestured to a table in the corner:
"Zulu, grab your trays and park it there. Thirty minutes. Stay alert, but eat up."
The cafeteria was buzzing with quiet conversations and the hum of vending machines. Team Zulu claimed a long table near the far wall, trays clattering as they sat down. Bryant took the head of the table, helmet off, revealing short-cropped dark hair and a weathered face that had clearly seen too much action. Bobby stood behind him like a silent sentinel, optical sensors glowing faint blue, scanning the room in slow arcs.
Ethan settled across from the Sergeant, tray loaded with something that vaguely resembled pasta and a bottle of water. His muscles still hummed with tension from the patrol, but the warmth of the room felt almost comforting.
Bryant stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and grinned faintly.
"Not bad for Foundation food. I've seen worse."
"Worse? This stuff tastes like someone boiled cardboard," said Mason, the joker of the squad, grimacing as he poked his mashed potatoes.
The big guy, Logan, chuckled deep in his chest.
"Mate, you should try the rations on a mobile task force op. That stuff could make you cry."
Ethan smirked, finally feeling the tension loosen in his shoulders.
"So this is the good life, then?"
Bryant nodded, taking a sip of water.
"You could say that. No gunfire, no alarms, no screaming researchers. That's a good day in our book."
Mason leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"So, Veyers… tell us. Fresh outta training, huh? You pull top scores or did you bribe someone?"
Ethan grinned slightly under his breath.
"Top 3 in my class. No bribes needed."
"Top 3, huh?" Mason whistled low.
"Careful, boys. We got a prodigy over here."
Logan smirked.
"Hope you can keep up when the real fun starts, mate."
Ethan raised a brow.
"Define 'fun.'"
Logan's grin widened.
"Breaches. Screaming. Chaos. The kind of day that makes you question all your life choices."
Mason jabbed his fork at him.
"Don't scare the kid, Logan. He's still bright-eyed. Give it a month before the paranoia sets in."
Across the table, Bjorn, the quiet Icelander, finally spoke, his accent thick but voice calm.
"He'll do fine. He moves like someone who knows where his feet are."
Ethan blinked at the strange compliment.
"Uh… thanks?"
Mason snorted.
"That's Bjorn for 'you don't suck.' High praise, man."
The table erupted in a round of low chuckles, except for Harris, who sat at the end, eating silently like a man at a funeral. No one even commented, it seemed to be his default state.
Bryant glanced at Ethan with that subtle, assessing look of a leader.
"Stick to what you learned, keep your head, and trust your team. That's the only secret to staying alive here."
Before Ethan could respond, Mason spoke up again, grinning like a kid about to start trouble.
"Speaking of trust, Veyers, what's your poison? Coffee, whiskey, or… more coffee?"
Ethan laughed softly.
"Water works for me."
Mason groaned dramatically.
"Oh no. We got ourselves a saint."
Even Logan chuckled, and for a moment, the cafeteria felt almost normal, like they weren't sitting in the most secure facility in existence, surrounded by anomalies that could unravel reality at any second.
Behind Bryant, Bobby's voice broke the moment with its cold mechanical tone:
"Current time: 12:25. Twenty minutes remaining until scheduled operation."
Bryant sighed and shook his head with a grin.
"Thanks, Bobby. Always a mood-killer."
The robot didn't respond, just stood there, silent, watching.
---The elevator doors slid open with a metallic hiss, revealing a sterile white corridor lined with reinforced steel doors. Each door had a glowing ID panel and warning labels plastered across its surface. Two armed guards flanked the main checkpoint, their rifles slung but ready. The air smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant, the smell of containment.
As Team Zulu approached in their formation, the guards immediately stiffened. One of them stepped forward and gave a sharp salute.
"What can we do for you, Sergeant?"
Bryant returned the salute with crisp precision before pulling out a slim folder and his clearance card.
"I'm here to retrieve SCP-387 for an authorized experiment today under Dr. Arch. Here's my authorization signed by the HMCL supervisor, and my clearance. You'll also find the requisition form signed by the doctor himself."
The guard accepted the documents, scanning them carefully while glancing between the papers and Bryant's ID. His partner remained at his post, eyes watchful but relaxed, it was clear they trusted Bryant's face, but the Foundation didn't run on trust alone.
Finally, the first guard nodded and turned to his partner.
"Go fetch SCP-387. Storage locker code: Alpha-One-Two."
The second guard disappeared behind the reinforced door. Meanwhile, Bryant crouched by the small counter to sign a stack of paperwork slid toward him. His gloved hand moved with mechanical precision, name, ID number, timestamp.
Ethan stood silently beside him, eyes wandering over the thick blast doors and the warning plaques. He caught the phrase "DO NOT EXPOSE TO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL" in bold red letters and swallowed hard.
Minutes later, the second guard returned, struggling slightly under the weight of a reinforced steel briefcase. It was matte black, marked with a bright yellow SCP insignia and multiple seals. The kind of case that screamed classified danger inside.
The guard set it down on the counter with a soft thud before locking eyes with Bryant.
"Everything checks out, sir. Here's SCP-387. Handle it with care."
Bryant grunted in acknowledgment, closing the last folder with a snap before sliding his ID back into his vest. Then, without warning, he turned and handed the case straight to Ethan.
The rookie blinked, instinctively gripping it before it could drop.
"Uh, sir?"
Mason's grin spread like wildfire as he leaned against the wall.
"Careful, rookie. That's an SCP you're holding. You drop that thing, and…" He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Boom. Catastrophic failure. Instant career suicide."
Ethan's smile tightened, jaw clenching as he adjusted his grip on the heavy case.
"Not funny."
Logan let out a booming laugh behind him.
"Relax, mate. If it was dangerous, they wouldn't let you carry it… probably."
Ethan shot him a look that said you're not helping. Mason, of course, was nearly doubled over in laughter now.
Bryant ignored the banter entirely, his tone snapping back to business as he gestured toward the elevator.
"Formation. We're heading to the third floor, Test Chambers."
The team fell in line instantly, professionalism overtaking the playful energy from moments before. Ethan adjusted the weight of the SCP case in his hands, his pulse steady but quick.
He couldn't help the thought crawling at the back of his mind:
What the hell is inside this thing?
The hallway leading to the test chamber was quieter than the rest of the sector, soundproofed walls and reinforced doors made sure of that. The hum of fluorescent lights above was the only noise as Team Zulu stopped in front of a security door labeled:
TESTING WING – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Two researchers stood waiting just beyond the checkpoint. One was young, his lab coat still looking crisp and new, clutching a tablet nervously. The other, a man in his late forties with graying hair and sharp eyes, projected calm authority. His badge read: Dr. Arch – Senior Researcher.
Bryant stepped forward, hand outstretched.
"Dr. Arch?"
The older man smiled faintly.
"Yes, that's me."
Bryant nodded and presented the heavy black case.
"We've brought SCP-387, as requested."
Arch took his hand in a firm shake before replying.
"Excellent. Thank you. I'll need two of your men inside for direct assistance during the procedure."
Bryant didn't hesitate.
"Understood." He turned to his team, his tone sharp and clear.
"Harris, Mason, Logan, Bobby, you'll patrol the sector perimeter. Bjorn, you're on door security. Nothing gets in or out without clearance. Ethan, since you're holding the case, you're with me."
"Yes, sir." Ethan's voice was steady, but his pulse kicked up a notch.
The split was immediate, Harris gave a curt nod and led Mason, Logan, and Bobby down the corridor for a roaming sweep, the robot's heavy footsteps echoing faintly behind them. Bjorn positioned himself like a granite statue in front of the chamber door, his sheer size enough to make anyone think twice.
Bryant, Ethan, and the two researchers stepped through the final security door. It sealed shut behind them with a clunk, locking the world out.
The observation room was dim, bathed in the cold glow of computer screens and overhead lights. Beyond the bulletproof glass, the test chamber waited, a reinforced space with sterile gray walls, cameras in every corner, and a lone metal table in the center. What drew Ethan's attention wasn't the security, though. It was the… toys.
Scattered across the table and stacked in crates along the walls were boxes of LEGO bricks. Bright colors in a world of concrete and steel. Ethan blinked, unsure if this was a joke.
Bryant glanced at him, catching the rookie's puzzled look.
"Welcome to anomaly research, kid."
Before Ethan could answer, Arch's voice came through the overhead intercom. His tone was professional, almost clinical.
"Alright, Agent. I'll need you to follow my instructions exactly. First, place the case on the table."
Ethan swallowed, stepping through the inner security door into the containment chamber. His boots echoed against the steel floor as he approached the table. Setting down the black case, he heard the locks and seals click softly against the metal surface.
Arch continued, his voice calm but commanding:
"Now, unlock it using the three-tier code provided on your authorization sheet. Proceed slowly. We do not want any accidental activation before the observation systems are ready."
Ethan nodded silently, reaching for the keypad locks with gloved hands. His mind was racing.
What the hell does a bunch of LEGO bricks have to do with an SCP?
Behind the glass, Bryant stood with arms crossed, watching every move like a hawk.
Ethan carefully unlatched the final lock and lifted the lid of the black case. Inside was… a simple red plastic tub, the kind any kid would recognize from the toy aisle. It was filled to the brim with LEGO bricks, bright reds, blues, yellows and a handful of tiny humanoid figurines mixed among them. For a moment, Ethan just stared, eyebrows knitting in disbelief.
Arch's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Very good, Agent. Now… open the tub."
Ethan hesitated for the briefest moment, then twisted the lid off. The faint plastic smell of new toys filled the air. He set the cover aside, waiting for the next command.
"Now, look to your right. There's a sealed 'Blue Castle' set. Open it completely. Remove every piece from the plastic wrapping, every last one and then scatter them on the floor."
Ethan glanced at Bryant through the observation glass. The sergeant gave a small nod that said, Just follow orders.
"Yes, sir," Ethan muttered and crouched beside the large box. He tore open the packaging, spilling smaller bags onto the table and then the steel floor. Plastic clattered across the room in a cascade of vibrant color. Piece by piece, he emptied every pouch until a messy pile spread across the chamber floor.
"Perfect," Arch said smoothly. "Now… don't touch anything else. Exit the chamber and stand by."
Relieved to leave, Ethan backed toward the door, closing it behind him with a hiss as the airtight seal engaged. He exhaled and stepped up beside Bryant, who stood at the observation window, arms crossed.
"What now?" Ethan asked, still baffled.
Arch's assistant, the young researcher, distributed two documents, one to Bryant, one to Ethan, just as something moved inside the test chamber.
Ethan froze.
At first, it was subtle, a twitch of plastic inside the red tub. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, the tiny figurines stood upright. One climbed out of the tub, then another. Soon half a dozen little figures were walking across the table on stiff, plastic legs.
"Holy sh—" Ethan clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide.
The miniature figures looked around as if surveying their environment, then spotted the heap of scattered bricks on the floor. In unison, they sprinted toward it, their movements jerky but fast. They dove into the pile like miners striking gold.
Within seconds, more figures emerged from the bricks. Little knights, soldiers, villagers, each piece snapping together as if by magic. Ethan's jaw slackened as the scene unfolded:
They built.
Not haphazardly, but with purpose. The first structure rose, a towering blue castle with crenellations and a gate. More castles followed, smaller but equally detailed, then homes, walls, and roads. Within minutes, the floor was no longer bare steel, it was a sprawling medieval village. Tiny farms sprouted at the edges. Horses galloped out of nowhere, constructed from loose pieces by the little knights themselves.
And then came the king. A regal minifigure crowned in gold stepped out of the growing city, surveying his domain like a conqueror. Around him, an entire society bloomed, expanding piece by piece in a frenzy of color and motion.
Ethan pressed a hand against the glass, eyes wide.
"What… the hell am I looking at?"
Bryant smirked faintly, not taking his eyes off the chaos.
"Welcome to the SCP Foundation, rookie."
Ethan looked at the document that Arch's assistant slipped:
Item #: SCP-387
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures:
Due to the nature of this object and the almost nonexistent harm it poses, SCP-387 is stored in a standard lockable container at Site-19. The red tub in which SCP-387 is contained does not possess any unusual properties itself…
(Ethan's eyes darted down the page, scanning line after line.)
Description:
SCP-387 is a tub of commercially available LEGO bricks, normal in design. Irregular shapes not featured in normal sets, such as circular "wheels" and prisms, are also available…
Ethan's lips moved silently as he read the next part:
"When constructed by a human hand, the constructions will animate themselves, performing activities based on their surroundings…"
He looked back up, just in time to see a tiny catapult fling a plastic boulder across the chamber. Another knight waved a miniature banner while two farmers herded LEGO cows into a pen.
Ethan blinked, dumbfounded.
"They're… alive."
Arch, speaking calmly over the intercom, only said:
"Phase One complete. Proceeding with secondary observation."
Bryant gave Ethan a sidelong glance, lips quivering in amusement.
"You're going to love your first week here."