Chapter 153: Containment Breach
After finishing their meal, Zulu Squad regrouped at the corridor checkpoint of Sector 10. Their next assignment had already been forwarded: an escort.
Harris and Logan brought in a single orange-clad figure, a Class-D. His wrists were secured by heavy restraints, and his eyes darted between the soldiers with a mix of fear and frustration.
"Move," Harris ordered.
The Class-D shuffled forward. The sound of chains rattled softly with each step. Ethan walked at the rear of the formation, his rifle lowered but ready. He'd seen these escorts dozens of times, but the tension in the air never really disappeared. A single wrong move from the prisoner and things could go very wrong, very fast.
The group advanced through the sterile white corridor. The Class-D kept his head low, muttering under his breath, though no one paid attention. Standard protocol forbade unnecessary interaction. Orders were short, clipped, and final.
"Left turn. Keep walking."
"Faster."
"Stop."
Each command was delivered with the same cold tone, and the prisoner obeyed without resistance.
They passed through reinforced doors, biometric scanners, and multiple security stations. Ethan noticed the faint tremor in the Class-D's steps, the slight hitch in his breathing, fear, not rebellion. It reminded him of just how fragile the line was between a human criminal and a potential liability inside the Foundation.
No words were exchanged among the squad. Their discipline was absolute, their formation unbroken. The silence made the entire escort feel heavier, as though the walls themselves pressed down on them.
Finally, they reached the final checkpoint before the containment wing.
"Stand still," ordered Bryant.
The Class-D froze, shoulders tense. A guard stepped forward, scanning the restraints and logging the escort's completion into the terminal.
The green light above the steel door flickered on.
"Proceed."
The squad moved in perfect unison, guiding the prisoner deeper inside, where no one ever went willingly.
The heavy footsteps of Zulu Squad echoed down the sterile corridor until they reached the reinforced door of SCP-426's chamber. It looked like any other containment unit, a plain slab of steel, bolted and sealed, yet the atmosphere shifted the moment they arrived.
In front of the door, John was already standing, speaking with a tall man in a white coat. His voice carried the calm authority of someone deeply familiar with the anomalous. Ethan slowed his pace, curious.
"John, you're here," Bryant called out, relief in his tone. But then his eyes dropped to the researcher's badge. His expression froze, his jaw tightening before he quickly straightened. "Good afternoon, Dr. Gears," he said, voice almost reverent.
Ethan blinked. Gears?
The name rippled through the squad like a silent alarm. One by one, the other members of Zulu snapped into formality and saluted. Ethan, confused and slightly late, copied the gesture.
The man's eyes swept over them with measured calm. His presence was heavy, not in intimidation but in a kind of absolute composure. "At ease," Dr. Gears replied, his voice mechanical, even. He turned toward the door. "I'll be observing today's test. Bring in the Class-D."
"Yes, sir," Bryant answered immediately. He gestured forward, and the shackled orange-clad prisoner was guided inside by two guards. The steel door hissed as it opened, then clanged shut behind him.
Bryant turned back toward the squad. His tone returned to its usual firm edge. "All right. We'll continue patrol. Bjorn, hold the entrance."
Before the man could move, John interjected smoothly, his gaze shifting toward Ethan. "Leave the cadet as well. We'll maybe need him to assist."
Ethan's brows furrowed. Me?
The idea caught the rest of the squad off-guard. Murmurs of surprise flickered through their eyes though none dared speak it aloud. Bryant hesitated, visibly unsettled by the request.
Dr. Gears ended the silence with a simple nod. "Yes. Do as he says."
The weight of his words crushed any protest. His tone wasn't loud, yet it carried the certainty of a final command.
The squad shifted uneasily, still not understanding why Ethan, the least experienced among them, was being singled out. Even Bryant's frown lingered as he finally gave in.
"Very well," Bryant said, his voice clipped. "Ethan stays."
Ethan straightened his posture, trying to mask his uncertainty, though his heartbeat thundered in his chest. He had no idea what awaited him inside SCP-426's containment room, only that, somehow, John convinced this high-ranking researcher himself to let him there.
---
The door sealed shut behind them with a heavy metallic thud. The room was empty except for a bolted-down table, a single chair, and the Class-D already seated with his hands cuffed to the metal loops. On the table, of all things, was a toaster.
Ethan froze in place. This is what they dragged us here for? A toaster?
The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. In the observation chamber beyond the glass, a cluster of researchers scribbled frantically into their clipboards, their movements stiff, strained. But Ethan quickly realized their nervousness wasn't directed at the toaster. Their eyes flicked constantly toward the two figures now standing inside the chamber with him: Dr. Gears, utterly impassive behind his glasses, and John, silent, dressed in black armor, his presence heavy and dangerous like a shadow filling the entire room.
"Proceed," Dr. Gears said flatly, his voice calm, emotionless.
The Class-D's head jerked up. His Adam's apple bobbed nervously as he stammered, "Uh… I'm… I'm D-93477, and this is a toaster."
"Continue," Gears ordered without pause.
The subject's breathing quickened. His lips trembled as the words slipped out in a disturbingly casual tone. "I'm… a toaster. I make toast. That's… that's what I do."
Ethan blinked hard, his mind screeching. Did he just say he's the toaster?
The researchers behind the glass scrawled harder, muttering to themselves in hushed tones. Gears gave no visible reaction. He simply pushed his glasses higher along the bridge of his nose.
"Explain your function," he said.
The Class-D's hands twitched, as though compelled by an unseen force. He raised them stiffly, mimicking levers lowering and springing. "I… lower bread. I heat it. I pop it back up. That's… my purpose."
Ethan felt his stomach knot. The prisoner looked pale, sweat dripping down his neck as if he truly believed the words he was saying.
"Introduce yourself again," Gears instructed.
The Class-D's eyes rolled slightly as if fighting the words, and lost. His voice cracked: "I am… a toaster. I… I… need to be plugged in. Otherwise I can't… work properly."
The air grew heavier. Ethan could hear the faint scribble of pens in the booth, the murmur of a recording device, the hum of the lights. The Class-D was breaking down in real time in front of him.
Ethan leaned closer to John, lowering his voice. "What the hell is this? Why is he-"
John's reply was calm, almost detached. "That's SCP-426. Its effect is simple. Anyone exposed to it can only refer to it in the first person. Over time, they start to believe they are the toaster. Eventually, their entire perception… collapses."
Ethan stared, horrified. He actually thinks he's the toaster. Like it's not just a phrase, it's rewriting who he is.
Then something subtle happened. One of the researchers in the booth glanced at John, his eyes widening. He whispered urgently to the colleague beside him. Another noticed too, leaning closer. A ripple of shock spread among them. One of them finally stood, blurting into the intercom:
"Wait! He—he said it! He referred to SCP-426 directly, twice! And… and he's not affected! He's completely unaffected!"
Ethan froze. His eyes snapped to John. He remembered it clearly, John had said "That's SCP-426" without hesitation. No slip, no compulsion, no cracks in his words. The researchers stared, pens halted mid-scribble, some pale, others whispering furiously.
Even Ethan felt the weight of it. He's immune? To that? How…?
For a fraction of a second, the room seemed to tense, as if everyone was waiting for Dr. Gears to finally react.
And then—
"Forget it," Gears said coldly, his expression utterly neutral. His voice carried a finality sharper than steel.
The researchers froze. Pens were lowered, notes pushed aside. No one dared argue. They simply obeyed, brushing past the anomaly as if it had never been noticed.
Ethan's skin prickled. His confusion only deepened. Forget it? Just like that?
The Class-D muttered weakly from the chair, still insisting, "I'm a toaster… I'm a toaster…" as though nothing else in the world mattered.
But Ethan's eyes were no longer on the subject. They were on John, standing still, untouched, as if none of this madness applied to him at all.
And that terrified him more than the toaster ever could.
An hour later, the group found themselves in Sector 10, right at the reinforced gateway leading into Sector 11. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and ozone, the kind of sterile sharpness that clung to high-security corridors.
A cluster of heavily armed guards had already formed up near the checkpoint, positioned around three massive metal crates mounted on industrial rollers. The crates groaned faintly with every shift, their weight obvious, their surfaces marked with stenciled hazard symbols and layers of reinforced plating.
Zulu Squad filed in beside them, rifles held steady, eyes scanning the corners. John walked quietly with them, his black armor drawing glances from the other guards. Ethan kept stealing looks at him, unsettled by his silence.
Even Captain Ortega was present, her presence commanding, the silver insignia of her rank glinting under the corridor's sterile lights. She exchanged a few clipped words with the leading guard, then turned sharply to the assembled squads.
"First team, move the crates. Zulu, you're up front. Third team, you cover the rear. We don't stop until we reach containment."
"Yes, ma'am!" voices answered in unison.
At her gesture, the first team stepped forward, bracing against the cold steel of the crates. The wheels squealed as the cargo began to roll.
Zulu shifted formation, moving into point position ahead of the convoy. Boots pounded the smooth floors, rifles steady, helmets tilted in constant awareness. The third team closed ranks behind, their weapons sweeping back and forth.
As they moved, Ethan risked a glance at John. For the first time since he'd met the man, John's attention wasn't scattered or curious. His gaze was locked onto the crates. Fixed.
And in that unwavering stare, Ethan swore he caught something, an expression that didn't belong on the face of a hardened guard. Nostalgia.
It flickered in John's eyes for just a moment, fleeting and raw.
Ethan blinked, unsure if he'd imagined it. Why would he look at them like that?
But John said nothing. His jaw tightened, his pace steady as stone.
And then, finally, the convoy moved. The crates groaned forward, the guards pushing with mechanical precision, their boots and armor echoing down the endless corridor. Sector 10 loomed ahead, its doors waiting like the mouth of something vast and unknown.
The wheels of the crates squeaked and rattled against the smooth floors, their metallic groans echoing across the sterile corridor walls. Every step was synchronized, the squads, Ortega at the flank, and John silent at the center of it all.
Personnel filled the halls at first: researchers clutching clipboards, janitors pushing carts, clerks rushing between offices. But the moment they caught sight of the crates, the guards, and the overwhelming presence of three whole teams, their chatter died instantly. One by one, they pressed themselves against the walls, backs flat, eyes down. Some whispered nervously, others simply froze, as if by instinct. The line of guards and massive steel containers cut through the sector like a blade.
No one dared get in the way.
Ethan felt the tension in the air grow heavier with each floor. His grip on his rifle tightened as he caught the looks of passing staff, fear, curiosity, dread. Whatever was inside those crates, everyone could sense it was something that should never see the light of day.
John never broke his stare from the containers. Ethan wanted to ask him, to break the silence, but something about the man's posture told him to stay quiet.
Minutes stretched as the convoy passed security checkpoints, reinforced gates, and sterile labs. The staff melted away as they advanced deeper into containment floors.
Everything was routine. Smooth. Professional.
Until they reached the end of the sector.
The moment the forward team pushed the first crate across the threshold, a piercing klaxon erupted overhead.
WOOOOOO, WOOOOOO, WOOOOOO-
The alarm howled through the corridors, its red strobes painting the walls in flashing warning light. A distorted announcement blared through the speakers, fragments breaking over static:
"ALERT. CONTAINMENT BREACH DETECTED. ALL SECURITY TEAMS REPORT IMMEDIATELY-"
The convoy froze in place. Guards raised their rifles, eyes darting. The crates stopped mid-motion, wheels grinding to a halt.
Ethan's heart pounded as the corridor shifted from tense silence to chaos in seconds.
And through it all, John finally moved. Slowly, his hand drifted toward the rifle slung across his shoulder, his eyes no longer nostalgic but sharp, cold, and ready.
Ethan's radio crackled to life, the sharp static cutting through the tense silence.
"Security Command to all units: SCP-058 has escaped containment and is currently on the third floor of Sector 10."
Ortega's eyes went wide, and she swore under her breath. "Damn it… that's one floor below. Get those crates out at all costs!"
The clatter of boots echoed as the guards tightened around the convoy, forming a protective perimeter. The three massive crates, rolling slowly on their metal wheels, seemed fragile under the weight of their importance. Ethan noticed John standing a few meters ahead, his calm, almost childlike curiosity fixed on the crates. There was something in his gaze, a fleeting, almost nostalgic expression that made Ethan uneasy.
Suddenly, gunfire cracked through the hallways, sharp and erratic, growing closer with every second. The guards at the rear shifted, pressing back against the convoy, their rifles raised and ready. Ortega's voice rang out, commanding order. Two firing lines formed instantly. Ethan dropped to one knee at the front line, his M4 raised and sights trained on the nearest hallway. Every sense in his body screamed tension, every muscle ready to react.
And then, it happened. The door ahead of them exploded outward with a deafening roar, metal splintering and smoke curling into the air. Through the debris, Ethan's eyes locked onto the creature that emerged.
It was grotesque, unimaginable. A massive bovine heart, impossibly large, perched atop four long, spindly legs. Four barbed tentacles writhed like serpents from its sides, twitching with deadly intent. A scorpion-like tail arched over its back, the stinger glinting ominously under the fluorescent lights.
Ethan's stomach turned violently. He felt bile rise but swallowed it down, forcing himself to stay focused.
"FIRE!!!" Ortega's command split the air.
Bullets ripped through the hallway, the sound deafening as the guards opened fire. The creature reacted with terrifying speed, leaping to the side, its tentacles whipping, narrowly missing the first line of guards. Ethan fired instinctively, squeezing the trigger, the recoil rattling against his shoulder. Sparks of impact erupted off the creature's thick hide, but it barely flinched.
It lunged forward, moving with unnatural agility. The guards scattered, barely dodging the swiping tentacles and snapping tail. Ethan's heart pounded as he rolled to the side, trying to avoid a strike that could easily obliterate him. His mind raced, cover, angles, weaknesses. But every time he thought he saw one, the creature shifted, adapting to their movements like a predator born to hunt in chaos.
Ortega barked orders, coordinating the rear guards to form a secondary line of fire. The sound of gunfire mixed with the creature's wet, slithering movements echoed through the sector. Metal crates rattled violently as the guards struggled to maintain control while keeping the creature at bay.
John, still moving alongside Ortega, kept his calm demeanor, analyzing the creature silently. Ethan noticed him adjust his stance subtly, almost as if he were anticipating the creature's every move. It unnerved Ethan further, this level of composure under imminent danger was rare, almost inhuman.
The creature spun suddenly, tentacles snapping like whips. One connected with a metal railing, sending it clanging across the floor. Another struck a guard in the leg, sending him sprawling with a scream. Ethan's pulse raced; every second stretched, every heartbeat a drum of panic and focus.
Suddenly, SCP-058 tore through the locks of the three metal crates with a horrifying screech of twisting metal. In an instant, three massive, crimson-furred dogs burst out, their movements unnatural, limbs flowing with predatory precision.
Without hesitation, the three beasts sprinted toward several of the guards, teeth bared, forcing them to scatter and run for cover. Ethan instinctively raised his rifle, aiming at the nearest one as it passed by, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ortega's gaze, sharp and silent, forbade any action.
Before Ethan could process it, SCP-058 launched itself at Ortega, its barbed tail thrashing violently. Time seemed to slow.
Then, like a flash of impossible speed, John struck. A flying kick connected with the creature's chest, hurling it into a janitor's storage room with a thunderous crash. Dust, cleaning supplies, and overturned shelves filled the air.
John didn't pause. He charged into the room with a speed that defied human limits. Ethan scrambled to follow, scanning the chaos around him. Inside, John had SCP-058 pinned against the wall with a single hand, holding the massive, pulsating heart of the creature still enough to prevent movement. With his other hand, he delivered blow after blow, each strike sending shocks of force through the room.
Ethan's jaw went slack. The sheer brutality, the control, the raw power, he had never witnessed anything like it. The sight of one man, seemingly ordinary, effortlessly dominating a monstrosity like SCP-058, left him rooted to the spot, heart hammering in his chest.
Then, John grabbed SCP-058 by its tail, his grip unyielding, and with a single, violent motion, hurled the thrashing creature back into one of the heavy metal crates. The impact shook the container, bending steel and rattling the bolts back into place.
He turned sharply, eyes locking on Ethan.
"Move!"
Ethan didn't even think. His legs reacted before his mind could, and he sprinted at John's side, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The hallway ahead echoed with chaos, shouts, gunfire, and the distant, guttural roars of the beasts.
They rounded a corner, and Ethan's stomach lurched. A guard lay sprawled on the floor, his body torn open, half-devoured. Blood smeared the tiles, dark and slick under the harsh fluorescent lights. The coppery stench hit Ethan's nose, sharp and suffocating. He wanted to gag, but John pressed forward without hesitation.
Ethan forced himself to follow, his rifle tight in his grip, every nerve on fire. The walls around them seemed to close in, filled with the echoes of battle and the lingering dread of what they might find next.
Suddenly, they reached an intersection where the hallway split in two.
John stopped, scanning both directions with narrowed eyes. "Looks like they split."
He raised his radio, voice calm but cutting through the static.
"Overwatch, this is me. I know you've got eyes on me. Which way did the three 939s go?"
A pause, broken only by muffled gunfire somewhere deeper in the Sector. Then the radio crackled back with a response. John nodded once.
"Copy that, Overwatch."
He turned to Ethan, his tone quick and absolute.
"They split. You take left. I'll take right. Good luck."
Before Ethan could even react, John sprinted down the right corridor, vanishing like a shadow into the chaos.
Ethan's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on his rifle. His eyes hardened. No hesitation. He pivoted left and pushed forward, boots hammering against the tile floor. The hallway was eerily silent, the gunfire in the distance already fading out.
Every step felt like walking into a predator's den. He cleared his corners, scanning doors, vents, every shadow that stretched unnaturally under the flickering lights.
Halfway down, he stumbled upon a researcher crouched against the wall, trembling, clutching his clipboard like a shield.
"Stay hidden," Ethan ordered, his voice low but firm.
The man nodded frantically. Ethan pushed past him, deeper into the silence. His radio buzzed and popped in his ear, command voices barking overlapping orders, calling out containment breaches, casualty reports, last known sightings.
The noise blurred together, until Ethan realized something chilling.
All the gunfire… had stopped.
Suddenly, a voice echoed down the corridor.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
Ethan froze for a split second, then instinctively raised his rifle.
"This is Cadet Ethan, Security Department," he called back, his tone steady but cautious. "Show yourself!"
Before any reply could come, his earpiece crackled with a priority transmission.
"Attention all units. Rapid Response Team Charlie is en route to the incident site. All guards, evacuate non-essential personnel from Sector-10 until RRT concludes containment. Exercise extreme caution, SCP-939 has breached.
SCP-939 are large, crimson, quadrupedal predators resembling canine-like creatures. These entities mimic human voices to lure prey. They are completely blind and rely on sound for orientation and hunting.
Reminder: Do not respond to voices unless visual confirmation is established."
Ethan's breath hitched. Every muscle in his body locked as the words sank in.
The voice…
His blood turned to ice. Slowly, mechanically, he pivoted on his heel-
And there it was.
A massive, red silhouette loomed in the flickering light, its skin glistening like raw muscle without fur, eyes absent, teeth bared in a cavernous maw.
The thing exhaled, a wet, guttural hiss rattling in its throat. Then, without warning, it lunged.
Ethan dove hard to the side, the beast's claws scraping where he had stood a heartbeat before. His rifle came up as he rolled, finger tightening on the trigger—
And now, face-to-face, he saw it clearly.
One of the SCP-939.
Ethan pulled the trigger, unleashing a full burst into the red beast. The bullets tore into SCP-939's hide, splattering fragments of flesh and dark ichor against the corridor walls but it didn't slow down. Its massive frame barreled forward, eyes absent yet head snapping toward every sound he made, every movement he took.
"Zulu-6 to Command!" Ethan shouted into his radio, his voice trembling as he ran. "I'm being pursued by one of the Nine-Three-Nines! Repeat, I'm being chased, requesting immediate backup!"
Static hissed back at him, followed by a clipped reply: "Zulu-6, hold out until Charlie arrives. Evacuate if possible. Do not let it corner you."
"Easy for you to say!" Ethan muttered under his breath, sprinting down the narrow hallway. The pounding of claws hammered against the steel floor behind him, each strike echoing like a death knell.
The creature roared, a sound that didn't belong to it, a voice.
"Help me… please… someone help me…"
Ethan's stomach twisted. It was imitating the terrified cries of a woman, the voice trembling with perfect desperation. His training screamed at him, but instinct tried to answer. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself to focus on the corridor ahead.
SCP-939 lunged. Ethan dove sideways again, slamming his shoulder against the reinforced wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he used the momentum to roll back onto his feet. He raised his rifle, fired again in short, controlled bursts, straight into the creature's open maw.
The impact rocked its head backward. Black ichor sprayed across the wall, sizzling as it ate into the paint, but the beast only staggered for a second before letting out another bone-shaking howl.
Ethan's heart raced. Bullets won't kill it. I just need time. I just need to survive.
He sprinted toward the intersection of the corridor, boots hammering against the floor. Behind him, claws scraped, breath hissed, and that mocking, human-like voice echoed again:
"Welcome, cadet Ethan…"
His blood ran cold. It knew his name.
Ethan slammed a door control panel, throwing himself through as the blast doors began to slide shut. For a brief, fleeting second, he thought he was safe.
But the SCP didn't stop. It rammed full force into the closing steel, bending it inward with a screech of tortured metal. Sparks rained down as the door crumpled. The 939 forced its head through the gap, teeth gnashing inches from Ethan's chest.
"Zulu-6 to Security Command!" Ethan screamed into the radio, firing again point-blank at its head. "I can't hold this thing back! Where the hell is Charlie?!"
The only response was the beast's guttural roar as its clawed hand punched through the metal, swiping for him with lethal intent.
The twisted door screeched louder as the beast forced its way through, its head snapping left and right, nostrils flaring though it had no eyes to see. Ethan's breathing quickened, chest heaving as adrenaline burned through his veins. He darted backward, rifle raised, but his instincts screamed, don't stay still, don't let it lock onto your sound.
The beast lunged. Ethan threw himself to the floor, rolling under the swipe of its claw. The steel tips raked across the wall, gouging deep scars through the metal. Ethan scrambled back to his feet, firing short bursts into its flank. The bullets punched into its flesh, but once again, it didn't care. It only turned its head toward the sound of his gunfire and roared.
"Zulu-6 still engaged!" Ethan barked into his radio between breaths. "Target's resistant to small arms fire, requesting immediate support!"
No answer. Just static.
The creature sprinted after him, claws hammering the ground, each impact rattling his bones. Ethan veered sharply into another corridor, his boots slipping against the slick floor where black ichor had splattered. The thing followed relentlessly, its maw opening as it let out another stolen voice.
"Rookie… don't… run…"
It was his own voice this time.
He bit down on panic and pushed himself harder. Think! If bullets don't work, then what will?
His eyes scanned the hallway, searching desperately. Ahead, rows of maintenance pipes ran across the ceiling. Steam hissed faintly from one of the joints. An idea sparked.
He skidded to a halt, turning and firing a controlled burst, not at the monster, but at the pipe overhead. Bullets ripped through the metal with a screech, and a cloud of superheated steam exploded outward.
The corridor filled with a violent hiss as white vapor engulfed everything. Ethan ducked low and slid beneath the boiling mist, but SCP-939 barreled straight through it. The beast howled, thrashing as the scalding steam cooked its exposed flesh. The smell of burning ichor filled the air.
Ethan didn't waste the chance. He sprinted behind it, reloading in one smooth motion. His hands were shaking, but his focus sharpened into something brutal.
"Come on, come on…" he muttered to himself.
The 939 turned violently, swinging blind in the mist. Its claws smashed into the wall where Ethan had just been, sparks spraying as steel cracked. Ethan dove again, rolling across the floor, until he found himself near another row of pipes, this one marked with a bright warning sign: Fuel Line.
His heart slammed against his ribs. That's it.
The beast stalked through the mist, head jerking at every sound, its breath wet and rasping. Ethan could feel the vibrations in the floor as it stepped closer. He had seconds at most.
He tore a flashbang from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it hard against the far wall.
The detonation cracked through the corridor with a blinding flare. The beast screeched, snapping instantly toward the sound. Ethan fired into the fuel line above its head.
The pipe burst open with a violent hiss, spraying the hallway in volatile gas. Ethan didn't hesitate, he pulled another grenade, this one a standard frag, and hurled it straight into the cloud.
He dove for cover just as the world behind him erupted.
The explosion roared like a collapsing star. Fire engulfed the corridor, washing over SCP-939's hulking frame. The shockwave blasted Ethan forward, slamming him into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
When he pushed himself up, ears ringing, the hallway was an inferno. The monster's silhouette writhed in the flames, thrashing violently as its flesh bubbled and cracked. The stench of burning tissue was overwhelming, but for the first time, it screamed in pain.
Ethan's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face as he raised his rifle again, aiming into the fire.
"This ends now," he growled through clenched teeth.
He squeezed the trigger, each shot cracking into the burning mass, until the thrashing slowed, then stopped. The beast collapsed into the flames, its body twitching before falling still.
Smoke filled the corridor, alarms wailing overhead. Ethan staggered to his feet, radio pressed to his mouth.
"Zulu-6," he gasped. "Target neutralized… repeat, target neutralized. I need extraction, Sector 10 is on fire. Over."
Suddenly, a huge weight crashed onto him like a collapsing wall. Ethan hit the ground hard, air ripping from his lungs as claws raked sparks off the rifle he'd thrust between himself and death. The beast's jagged teeth shredded steel instead of his chest, tearing the weapon in half like paper.
Ethan's eyes widened. Not one, two hulking, crimson shapes loomed over him. The other SCP-939 padded close, its maw dripping, growling low, the sound vibrating deep in his bones. His face was drained of color.
I'm dead.
He clenched his eyes shut, every muscle locking as the monster above him drew back for the killing blow.
And then-
BOOM.
A sound thundered through the corridor, deep and resonant, like a titan striking the earth itself. The crushing weight vanished from his chest. Screeches ripped the air, wet and alien, echoing in his skull.
Ethan gasped and opened his eyes.
Around him stood figures in armor so black it seemed to swallow the light, sleek, futuristic, and bristling with menace. Their helmets reflected nothing, hiding their faces entirely. One of them raised a gloved hand, and an unseen force slammed both SCP-939s into the wall, pinning them there as though the very air had turned solid. The beasts thrashed and roared, but could not move.
The soldiers said nothing. They only turned their hidden gazes on Ethan. He felt smaller than prey under their silent judgment.
And then, he saw him.
John.
Standing calm and untouchable in his black uniform, flanked by these armored specters as though they were his guard. He stepped forward with measured grace, his boots echoing softly in the smoke and ruin. He crouched down in front of Ethan, eyes sharp, voice steady.
"Well," John said, almost amused. "You really are interesting."
Ethan's vision blurred, his chest rising and falling like he was drowning on dry land. His lips cracked open, voice barely more than a whisper.
"John… who are you?"
For a moment, silence. Then John's gaze hardened. Something stirred beneath his hood, something impossible. From under his skin, a creeping shadow bled outward, swallowing his features in liquid darkness. His entire face and body beneath his clothes became a shifting void, blacker than night.
And within that void, two blinding, white eyes opened.
Ethan froze, terror and awe flooding his veins. John pulled down his hood, revealing not a human face, but a visage of pure shadow. A mouth appeared, glowing white, stretching unnaturally wide. His voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, layered, divine and monstrous all at once.
"I am the Administrator," it said. "Leader of the SCP Foundation."
The world spun. Ethan's body gave out. He collapsed into unconsciousness, the last thing he saw were those burning white eyes watching him like judgment itself.
The shadowed figure, Léonard, rose slowly, exhaling a heavy sigh as the Resh-1's operatives closed ranks behind him. From the shattered doorway at the end of the corridor, another presence entered.
O5-2, flanked by her personal guards. Her voice cut through the smoke with sharp precision.
"Boss," she said, eyes narrowing with a smirk that never reached them. "Did you enjoy your little life experience?"
Léonard's gaze cut through the smoke, fixing on the Overseer who had dared to appear at such a moment. His voice was sharp, restrained, every syllable heavy with meaning.
"O5-2," he said. "The breach of SCP-058… was it you?"
The woman's expression didn't flicker. Calm, almost indifferent, she replied, "Yes. After all, you wanted the full experience of being a guard, didn't you?"
The corridor fell silent. Not even the restrained beasts dared to growl.
Léonard's eyes narrowed. "How many?"
"Four guards dead," O5-2 answered without hesitation, her tone as flat as if she were reading a report.
The air shifted.
A crushing pressure radiated from Léonard, filling the corridor with weight so dense it dragged at lungs and bones. Black lightning crackled across his shadow-wrought skin, the sound sharp and violent, tearing at the silence like claws. His voice rose, layered with fury barely restrained.
"Never. Again."
O5-2's hair lifted slightly in the pressure, her coat rippling. But her expression remained perfectly calm, eyes cold and sharp as glass. "As you wish, Boss."
Léonard's form slowly stabilized, the lightning fading back into his frame. His attention slid from the Overseer to a man stepping quietly from the ranks, Graves.
"Graves," Léonard said. His tone had shifted, no longer rage, but command absolute. "Take this cadet. Evacuate him to the nearest infirmary."
Graves nodded once. "Yes, Boss." He crouched down by Ethan's unconscious body, one gloved hand already pressing against the cadet's shoulder, readying to teleport.
But Léonard raised a hand. "Wait."
Graves froze, glancing up.
"When he wakes," Léonard continued, his white eyes gleaming in the shadow of his face, "integrate him into Nu-1 'Wolf Hunters.' He seems… interesting."
"Yes, Boss," Graves replied without hesitation. Then the two of them vanished in a flash of distortion, leaving only the faint smell of ozone behind.
Léonard turned back once, his gaze landing on O5-2. A final glare, blistering, silent fury. And then he turned, leading the black-armored figures of Resh-1 out of the shattered hallway, their steps synchronized, leaving nothing behind but silence and the lingering pressure of his wrath.
Moments later, the thundering steps of reinforcements filled the hall. Agents of RRT Charlie arrived, weapons drawn, forming formation instantly, only to find the Overseer already standing there, framed by Alpha-1 operatives, and the two crippled SCP-939 sprawled against the wall.
The squad leader stiffened, helmet snapping up in salute. "Overseer!"
O5-2 didn't waste time. Her voice was cutting, absolute. "You captured SCP-939 yourselves. One of them died in an accident. The paperwork will be handled by me. Understood?"
The leader's throat bobbed as he answered. "Yes, Overseer!"
O5-2 gave a short nod, then turned. Alpha-1 moved around her like a tide, disciplined and silent. Together, they departed the scene, leaving only confusion and the cold echo of authority behind.