Havoc sat up slowly, sand sticking to his palms and the back of his shirt as he turned in place.
Beach.
That was it.
Endless pale sand stretching in both directions, the ocean rolling in lazy waves that sparkled under a bright, unforgiving sun. Palm trees lined the edge of the shore, their leaves swaying gently in the wind. A pelican glided overhead, letting out an ugly, hollow call before dipping toward the water.
"That's it?" Havoc muttered. "That's all I get?"
He stood, squinting toward the horizon. No buildings. No ships. No people. Just water, trees, and heat.
His chest tightened.
"…I really should've asked about a beginner package."
The thought echoed painfully in his head.
Every isekai story he'd ever read—every fanfic, every late-night binge—had one thing in common. Starter gear. Basic instructions. A safety net. Something.
He had none of that.
Havoc ran a hand through his hair, pacing a short circle in the sand.
"Okay, okay… calm down," he told himself, even as his heart sped up. "It's just a beach. People survive beaches all the time."
But the longer he looked, the worse it got.
He wasn't a survivalist. Never had been. He wasn't the kind of guy who went camping or learned how to start fires for fun. Back home, he'd been laid-back—too laid-back. If something was hard, he usually found a way around it or waited it out. Fighting wasn't something he did. He avoided it. He had common sense, sure, but no real experience.
"No knife. No bag. No food," he muttered, checking his pockets anyway, just in case reality decided to be kind.
Empty.
His breathing picked up.
"This is bad," he said, voice cracking. "This is really bad."
He imagined dehydration. Sunburn. Starving. Getting jumped by something he couldn't outrun. Every scenario piled on top of the next, his thoughts spiraling faster and faster.
"I'm not built for this," he said, rubbing his face hard. "I'm not Tarzan. I'm not some badass adventurer. I'm just—"
His words died in his throat as the air in front of him flickered blue.
Havoc froze.
"…No way," he whispered.
The familiar rectangular glow stabilized, floating calmly at eye level as if it had always been there.
"Host stress levels exceeding optimal parameters."
Havoc stared at it for half a second—then let out a shaky, incredulous laugh.
"You came back," he said, relief crashing into him so hard his knees nearly buckled. "You didn't just dump me and leave."
The blue screen pulsed softly.
"The SCP System maintains persistent operational oversight."
"Oh thank God," Havoc breathed, hands shaking as he scrubbed his face. "I thought you abandoned me. I was about five seconds away from a full mental breakdown."
"That outcome was anticipated."
"Yeah? Well, mission accomplished," he snapped weakly, then sighed. "Listen—before anything else—you really need to tell me if I'm completely screwed out here."
The system remained steady in the air, unbothered by the ocean breeze or the heat.
For the first time since waking up on the beach, Havoc felt like he wasn't completely alone.
The blue screen hovered calmly in front of Havoc, steady against the ocean breeze.
"You are not being abandoned," the SCP System said. "Initial operational assets will now be issued."
Havoc blinked.
"…Assets?" he repeated. "You mean—"
A sharp chime cut him off.
The air to his right folded in on itself, like reality briefly forgot how to stay straight. A hard black case dropped into the sand with a dull thud, followed immediately by a second, longer case beside it.
Havoc jumped back instinctively.
"…Okay," he said, heart racing. "That's new."
"Beginner material deployment complete," the system continued evenly.
Havoc stared at the cases for a long second before kneeling and snapping open the smaller one.
Inside was a pistol.
Compact. Matte black. Clean lines. Simple iron sights. It looked almost ordinary—almost like something a special forces unit might carry—except for the faint blue symbol etched discreetly near the slide.
SCP.
Havoc picked it up carefully, surprised by the balanced weight.
"…Wait," he said slowly. "I know this."
"Correct," the system replied. "This sidearm is based on standard SCP Foundation service pistols."
Havoc turned it over in his hands, brow furrowing.
"But there's no spare mags."
"None are required."
That made his stomach drop.
"…Don't tell me."
"The weapon has been modified using principles derived from an anomalous object capable of localized ammunition replication."
Havoc's eyes widened.
"…Unlimited ammo."
"Correct."
He swallowed hard, staring at the pistol like it might bite him.
"No reloads?" he asked. "No jams?"
"Mechanical failure probability has been reduced to negligible levels through anomalous stabilization."
Havoc let out a slow breath.
"…That's terrifying."
"It is effective," the system corrected.
He gently set the pistol down and opened the second case.
Inside was a rifle—clean, practical, unmistakably military. Not exotic. Not flashy. The kind of weapon designed for reliability above all else. Alongside it were ten loaded magazines, neatly secured in foam.
"A normal rifle," Havoc murmured. "Finally, something that follows physics."
"This firearm is unmodified," the SCP System confirmed. "It is standard Foundation issue."
"That I can live with."
The final compartment slid open.
Folded neatly inside was a uniform.
Not the usual SCP fatigues Havoc had seen in images online. This one looked different—sleeker, reinforced without being bulky. The fabric had a faint sheen to it, like armored cloth woven with something that wasn't entirely textile.
He lifted it slowly.
"…This isn't standard issue."
"Correct," the system said. "This uniform is a prototype."
Havoc glanced up sharply.
"Prototype how?"
"Constructed using the same anomalous stabilization principles applied to the service pistol," the system replied. "The material provides kinetic dampening equivalent to vehicular impact resistance."
Havoc froze.
"…You mean—"
"It can withstand blunt force comparable to being struck by a moving automobile."
He let out a weak laugh.
"Okay. That's… that's a lot better than jeans."
"The uniform will not impede mobility," the system added. "Nor does it interfere with weapon function."
Havoc carefully set the gear aside, pulse still racing. His hands trembled—not from fear this time, but from the reality of it setting in.
Then the blue screen shifted again.
"One adaptive mutation has been authorized."
Havoc's smile vanished instantly.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "Here it is."
"Mutation selection complete."
The word appeared in front of him.
IMMORTALITY
Havoc froze.
For a second, he didn't breathe.
"…No," he whispered. "No way."
His legs felt weak as the weight of it crashed down on him.
Immortality.
The golden ticket. The thing every story dangled like a blessing and revealed as a curse.
Images flashed through his mind—characters trapped forever, isolated, losing everyone, broken by time.
Havoc shook, gripping his arms tightly.
"…I don't want to end up like them," he muttered.
"Clarification required," the system said.
"Every immortal character ends up suffering," Havoc snapped, voice shaking. "Everyone they love dies. They go numb. Or insane. Or alone."
The system paused.
"Your immortality is conditional."
That made him look up.
"It does not grant invincibility."
"…Explain."
"Regeneration is possible only if recoverable biological material remains."
Havoc swallowed.
"So if I'm completely erased…"
"You will not return."
That grounded him instantly.
"And pain?" he asked.
"Pain reception is unchanged."
"…Figures."
He let out a long breath, shaking his head.
"So I can die less easily," he said, "but I'm not untouchable."
"Correct."
Havoc closed his eyes for a moment.
Okay. Rules. Limits.
He could work with that.
When he opened them again, there was relief mixed with resolve.
"At least I won't die instantly," he murmured. "Not without a fight."
"That assessment is accurate."
He looked down at the weapons. The uniform. The ocean beyond.
"…Okay," he said. "I'm not unarmed. I'm not unprotected. I'm not dead."
That alone felt like a miracle.
Then his stomach dropped again.
"…Wait."
He looked up sharply at the blue screen.
"I still don't know something really important."
"State inquiry."
Havoc gestured helplessly toward the world beyond the beach.
"How am I supposed to actually contain anomalies?"
The words hung heavy in the salty air.
Havoc stared at the system, heart pounding, knowing this time he wasn't forgetting to ask.
He was demanding an answer.
The blue screen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, the air a few steps away from Havoc folded inward with a low, weighty thrum. Light bent, then split, and something impossibly solid forced its way into existence.
A door.
Not glowing.
Not ancient.
Just… a door.
Plain, industrial, steel-gray, set upright in the sand as if the beach had always been waiting for it.
Havoc stared.
"…A door," he said flatly.
"Correct," the SCP System replied.
He looked from the door to the ocean, then back to the door.
"Why is there a door on a beach?"
"Containment requires infrastructure."
Havoc crossed his arms, deeply unconvinced.
"Yeah, no kidding. But what's inside it?" he asked. "Because every story I've read says opening mysterious doors is how you die."
"Open it," the system said.
Havoc squinted at the handle like it might suddenly grow teeth.
"…You see how that doesn't make me feel better, right?"
"Open it," the system repeated.
He sighed, muttering under his breath.
"Fantastic. First day on the job, and I'm already walking into the obvious trap."
He stepped forward, wrapped his hand around the cold metal handle, and pulled.
The door opened smoothly.
Inside was… a room.
That was it.
A simple, sterile white room—walls, floor, ceiling blending together so cleanly it was almost disorienting. No furniture. No markings. No visible equipment. The lighting was even and shadowless, bright without being harsh.
It looked nothing like the gray space he'd awakened in before.
"…That's it?" Havoc asked. "I was expecting lasers. Or cages. Or, I don't know—something creepy."
"Step inside."
He hesitated, then crossed the threshold.
The moment both feet entered, the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Havoc spun around immediately.
"Hey—!"
The door was gone.
Just more white wall.
"…I hate that," he muttered.
He turned slowly, scanning the room again. Still empty. Still spotless. It smelled faintly sterile, like a hospital that had never seen a patient.
"Welcome, Havoc," the SCP System said.
The voice felt closer now. Less like it was coming from everywhere and more like it belonged to the room.
"Or should I say… Director."
Havoc stiffened.
"…Director," he echoed. "That's new."
"You are currently within Foundation Site designation: Site–Θ 'TIDEBREAK.'"
Havoc whistled softly despite himself.
"…Okay. That is a badass name."
"Site–Θ 'TIDEBREAK' is a mobile, extradimensional containment facility," the system continued. "A pocket-dimension Foundation site anchored to your deployment state."
Havoc looked around again, skeptical.
"Right. Because I'm standing in the most empty room I've ever seen."
"The site is uninitialized."
"…Uninitialized."
"It responds to conceptual input from its Director."
Havoc frowned. "You're saying this place—"
"—Manifests according to operational need," the system finished. "Think of what is required."
Havoc opened his mouth to respond.
Then his stomach growled.
Loudly.
He froze.
"…Oh," he said quietly. "Right. That."
Hunger hit him all at once—sharp, undeniable. The stress, the panic, the adrenaline had burned through whatever reserves he had left.
Food, his mind supplied immediately.
Please tell me I don't have to figure that out too.
The room shifted.
White walls blurred—stretched—then reformed.
Havoc blinked.
He was standing in a cafeteria.
A real one.
Long steel counters ran along one side of the room, lined with warming trays and digital panels. Rows of sturdy tables filled the space, bolted to the floor. The lights were softer here, warmer, reflecting off clean tile floors. The air smelled faintly of food—bread, rice, something savory he couldn't immediately place.
At the far wall, vending machines hummed quietly. Not flashy. Practical. Foundation-style.
Havoc stood there, stunned.
"…No way," he whispered.
"Foundation cafeteria module initialized," the system said. "Nutritional needs are met automatically."
His shoulders sagged like someone had cut his strings.
"Oh thank God," he breathed. "I was really about to starve on day one."
He laughed softly, dragging a hand down his face.
"Okay. Okay," he said, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in. "So I won't die from hunger. That's a win."
"Survivability increased," the system replied.
Havoc let himself lean against a table for a second, relief washing through him.
"…Alright," he muttered. "I can work with this."
He looked around the cafeteria again, then up at the invisible presence of the system.
"So," he said, voice steadier now, "this place is how I contain SCPs."
"Correct."
"And it becomes whatever I need it to be."
"Within authorized parameters."
Havoc nodded slowly.
"…Okay."
For the first time since waking up on the beach, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
"At least now," he said quietly, "I'm not completely screwed."
Havoc stood in front of the counter for a long moment, just staring.
"…No way," he said quietly.
The trays were filled with food he recognized instantly. Not generic cafeteria stuff. Not bland rations. His kind of food.
He grabbed a tray almost on instinct.
Cajun fries—hot, seasoned, piled generously.
Fried chicken—crispy, golden, still steaming.
A cold bottle of cola, beads of condensation sliding down the plastic.
His hands moved before his brain caught up.
He sat down at one of the tables and took his first bite.
Crunch.
He froze.
"…Oh man," he murmured, chewing slowly. "That's real."
The tension he'd been holding onto since waking up on the beach finally loosened. Not disappeared—but eased. He kept eating, slower now, savoring it. Fries. Chicken. A long pull from the cola that made him sigh out loud.
For a moment, the world felt quiet.
Then the thought hit him.
He looked up, mouth full.
"Hey," he said, gesturing vaguely at the food. "System."
"Acknowledged."
"How come all of this is stuff I like?" Havoc asked. "I didn't ask for a menu. I just thought about food, and—boom—favorite meals."
The system didn't answer immediately.
"The cafeteria responds to Director cognition and memory," it said. "Nutritional and psychological comfort variables are prioritized."
Havoc blinked.
"…You pulled this from my head."
"Correct."
"So you know what I like. What I don't like. What I'll actually eat."
"Yes."
That made him pause mid-bite.
"…That's a little unsettling."
"Stress reduction improves decision-making," the system replied evenly. "Familiar food increases operational efficiency."
Havoc shook his head, half-laughing.
"Can't even argue with that."
He finished another fry, then frowned slightly.
"But wait," he said. "Does this stuff run out?"
"Negative."
He leaned back in his chair.
"So I shouldn't be grabbing everything in sight."
"Resource limitation is unnecessary."
Havoc straightened immediately.
"…What do you mean unnecessary?"
"All resources within Site–Θ 'TIDEBREAK' automatically replenish."
He stared.
"…Say that again."
"Any item removed from any functional section of the site is restored instantaneously."
Havoc's mouth fell open.
"…You're telling me I can eat forever."
"Yes."
"And ammo?"
"Yes."
"And medical supplies?"
"Yes."
"And materials?"
"Yes."
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"That's—okay, that's broken."
"It is intentional."
Havoc ran a hand through his hair, adrenaline spiking again—but this time it was excitement.
"…So how big is this place?" he asked slowly.
There was the briefest pause.
"The site has no fixed upper boundary."
"…No fixed—what?"
"The internal capacity of Site–Θ 'TIDEBREAK' is functionally infinite."
Havoc froze.
The word hit him harder than immortality had.
"…Infinite," he whispered.
He stared down at his half-empty tray like it was suddenly insignificant.
"How is that even possible?"
The system's tone didn't change, but the weight of its answer did.
"The site was constructed using the combined capabilities of multiple anomalous entities under Foundation control."
Havoc looked up, listening closely.
"Spatial compression anomalies. Pocket-dimension generators. Non-linear interior expansion effects. Redundant reality anchors."
His stomach tightened.
"The design was approved by the O5 Council."
That made his breath catch.
"They built this… just in case."
"Correct," the system said. "The site was conceived as a contingency."
"In case SCPs ever broke out of their world," Havoc murmured.
"Or entered another."
He slowly leaned back in his chair, food forgotten.
"…Or if a world was destroyed."
"Correct."
The cafeteria hummed softly around him. Machines running. Lights steady. Everything calm.
Havoc looked around again, really looking this time.
The scale of it finally settled in.
"This isn't just for me," he said quietly.
"No."
"This is a lifeboat."
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Havoc exhaled slowly, a mix of awe and weight pressing down on his chest.
"…Okay," he said after a moment. "I get it now."
He picked up his cola again, taking a smaller, thoughtful sip.
"This isn't about comfort," he said. "It's about making sure someone's still standing when everything else falls apart."
"That is an acceptable interpretation."
Havoc nodded.
For the first time, the enormity of what he'd stepped into didn't just scare him.
It made sense.
Havoc was halfway through another bite of fried chicken when the system spoke again.
"Director, clarification is required regarding site limitations."
He paused mid-chew.
"…M'kay," he said around the food, already suspicious.
He swallowed slowly, pointed at the air with his fork, and sighed.
"Let me guess," he muttered. "There's a catch."
"Correct."
Havoc closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
"Figures," he said. "It was way too good to be true."
He took another bite anyway—defiant, almost—then looked up.
"So what's limited?" he asked. "The rooms? The supplies? You gonna tell me half this place is locked behind some clearance badge I don't have?"
"Limitations do not apply solely to physical rooms," the system replied.
"They apply to functionality, upgrades, and access tier."
Havoc frowned slightly.
"…Meaning?"
"Site–Θ 'TIDEBREAK' is currently operating at Base Operational Clearance."
He rubbed his eyes with two fingers, already feeling the headache coming.
"And that means…?"
"All presently accessible sections are foundational," the system explained.
"Equipment, facilities, and resources are restricted to baseline specifications."
Havoc slowly lowered his hands.
"…So this is the starter version."
"Correct."
He let out a breath through his nose.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Of course it is."
He glanced around the cafeteria again. Still clean. Still functional. Still comforting.
"So none of this is the really serious stuff," he said. "No high-clearance tech. No advanced containment. No miracle tools that make everything easy."
"Correct."
"And I don't get that until I start containing anomalies."
"Correct."
Havoc tilted his head slightly.
"So it's not just rooms I unlock," he said. "It's capabilities."
"Yes."
That sat heavy for a moment.
"…Okay," he said. "Then how basic are we talking?"
"Current site capabilities include," the system listed, "—Basic medical equipment suitable for emergency stabilization."
"—Standard Foundation small arms and protective gear."
"—Low-tier containment spaces."
"—Minimal research tools."
"—No long-term containment redundancy."
Havoc blinked.
"…No redundancy?"
"Failure margins are narrow at this stage."
He winced.
"So if I screw up—"
"Containment failure is likely."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly.
"Alright," he said. "So right now, this place keeps me alive, feeds me, and gives me basic tools."
"Correct."
"But it doesn't give me the stuff that massively increases my survivability."
"Not yet."
Havoc stared down at his tray.
"…That tracks," he admitted. "Would've been too easy otherwise."
He finished his bite, chewed thoughtfully, then looked back up.
"So every anomaly I deal with right," he said, "doesn't just give me rewards—it upgrades this place."
"Yes."
"Better containment. Better medical. Better tech."
"Correct."
He nodded once, slow and steady.
"…Okay."
He leaned back again, exhaling.
"I can live with that," he said. "As long as I know what I'm working toward."
"Progression visibility will be provided."
Havoc gave a tired, crooked smile.
"Good," he said. "Because I'd like to survive long enough to actually unlock it."
The cafeteria hummed quietly around him—safe, clean, basic.
A starting point.
Not enough.
But enough to begin.