Havoc finished the last of his food and set the empty tray aside. He stood there for a moment, letting the fullness settle, then straightened.
"Alright," he said quietly. "If I'm stuck with limits, I might as well know exactly how bad they are."
"Acknowledged," the system replied.
The cafeteria faded, the space around him shifting smoothly. White walls stretched and reformed, then widened into something much larger.
Havoc stepped forward.
The armory opened around him.
Rows of weapon racks lined the walls, perfectly organized and evenly spaced. Metal gleamed under bright, neutral lighting. The air smelled faintly of oil and clean steel. Cases were stacked with precise labels. Locked weapon mounts ran along reinforced walls, each position clearly designed to hold something dangerous.
"…Whoa," Havoc breathed.
This wasn't a garage full of guns. This was a Foundation armory—clean, functional, intimidating. He could see pistols, rifles, compact shotguns, tactical gear, holsters, and armor components arranged with military precision.
For the first time since arriving, excitement crept in.
"Well," he said, a small grin forming, "at least I won't be relying on just one pistol and a rifle."
He took a step closer to one of the racks—then stopped.
"…Wait."
He frowned, thinking.
"I have an unlimited-ammo pistol," he said slowly, "and a normal rifle. If ammo's not an issue, why not just carry a ridiculous amount of magazines?"
The system responded immediately.
"Because your body has physical limitations."
Havoc blinked.
"…Oh."
"The Foundation can provide resources," the system continued, "but usage is restricted by the Director's strength, endurance, and logistical capacity."
"So even if you give me a mountain of ammo—"
"—You cannot transport or deploy it efficiently without assistance or augmentation."
Havoc nodded.
"Yeah… that actually makes sense."
He walked farther in, eyes scanning the racks, then stopped in front of something much larger.
A rocket launcher.
His eyes lit up.
"No way," he muttered, stepping closer. "Alright, let's see—"
He reached out.
His hand passed straight through it.
"…What?"
He pulled his hand back and tried again.
Nothing. Like grabbing smoke.
"Are you kidding me?" he snapped.
Text flickered briefly in the air in front of the launcher.
LOCKED — REQUIREMENT NOT MET
Capture at least 10 anomalies
Havoc stared at the number.
"…Ten."
He let out an annoyed breath.
"So I can see it," he said, "but I can't touch it."
"Correct."
"That is incredibly frustrating."
"Motivational structure acknowledged."
Havoc rubbed his forehead.
"So everything good is locked behind anomaly capture."
"Yes."
He turned, scanning the rest of the armory more carefully now. Many weapons had the same invisible barrier. Some required five captures. Others more. Way more.
"…Great," he muttered. "Window shopping."
He exhaled and looked up.
"You said upgrades earlier," he said. "What do those actually do for each section?"
"Upgrades enhance function, efficiency, and access," the system replied.
"Example: Armory upgrades increase available weapon tiers, allow anomalous weapon integration, and improve personal loadout limits."
Havoc blinked.
"…Say that again?"
"With sufficient upgrades," the system continued,
"the Armory may provide advanced weapons, modular anomalous gear, personal storage solutions, automated resupply, and Director-only armaments."
Havoc slowly turned back to the locked launcher.
"So if I do enough right," he said, "this place turns me into a walking arsenal."
"That is a simplified interpretation."
"…But not wrong."
He let out a low whistle.
"That's… actually insane."
He checked again, hoping something else might be usable.
Nothing.
No heavy weapons. No advanced gear. No exotic tech.
Just what he already had.
"…Figures," he sighed. "Starter rules."
He nodded to himself.
"Alright. Rifle ammo within reason. Pistol doesn't need it. Everything else stays locked."
"Correct."
Havoc straightened and looked back toward the entrance of the armory.
"…Okay," he said. "That answers that."
He paused, then glanced up.
"Take me to the research room."
The armory began to fade as the system responded.
"Research sector initializing."
The white walls shifted again.
The white walls shifted again.
Havoc felt the space stretch, widen, then lock into place.
He stepped forward—and stopped short.
"…Holy shit."
The research sector looked like something ripped straight out of a sci-fi movie.
Transparent panels floated in the air, projecting slow streams of data and shifting symbols. Circular consoles hovered waist-high, their surfaces rippling faintly as if made of liquid glass. Long sterilized tables lined the center of the room, surrounded by articulated mechanical arms folded neatly at rest. Cylindrical containment pods stood recessed into the walls, empty for now, softly lit from within.
The air hummed—quiet, controlled, alive with power.
Havoc turned slowly, eyes wide.
"I definitely do not belong here," he muttered.
"This is the Research Sector," the system said. "It is designed for analysis, experimentation, and anomalous data processing."
Havoc scratched the side of his head.
"Okay, listen," he said honestly. "I'm not stupid, but I'm also not… this." He gestured helplessly at the floating tech. "I don't do science. I don't know how to use half of this stuff."
"Clarification required," the system replied.
"I mean," Havoc continued, "I look at this equipment and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with it. If this is supposed to help me on my journey, I kinda need you to explain it like I'm five."
The system didn't react.
"Understood."
One of the floating panels shifted, zooming in on a simplified schematic.
"This equipment will assist you in identifying anomalous properties," the system explained. "Threat patterns. Weak points. Containment risks."
"…So it tells me what I'm dealing with," Havoc said.
"Correct."
Another display highlighted a different station.
"This section allows analysis of recovered anomalous materials. Weapon compatibility. Environmental influence."
Havoc nodded slowly.
"So it helps me not walk into something blind."
"Yes."
He glanced around again, still overwhelmed but slightly less lost.
"Okay… that I can work with."
"Upgrades to the Research Sector will expand analytical depth," the system continued.
"Future capabilities include predictive modeling, advanced anomaly simulation, and long-term containment optimization."
Havoc blinked.
"…That sounds important."
"It increases survivability."
"Well that's all you had to say."
He paused, then frowned.
"…But I can't run all this by myself."
"Correct."
Havoc turned toward the system.
"So is there any other way I get help here?" he asked. "Like… researchers? People who actually know what they're doing?"
There was a brief pause.
"Negative."
Havoc frowned immediately.
"…Why not?"
"The system cannot create biological intelligence with independent reasoning."
"…What?"
Havoc crossed his arms.
"You're the SCP Foundation," he said. "You're telling me you can build infinite pocket dimensions, immortal bodies, and anomalous weapons—but you can't make a research unit?"
"A previous attempt was made."
Havoc's brow furrowed.
"…Attempt?"
"Foundation-generated research clones achieved self-awareness," the system said.
"They rejected containment protocols and attempted hostile takeover of a Foundation site."
Havoc stiffened.
"…They turned against you."
"Yes."
"And tried to free SCPs."
"Correct."
Havoc exhaled slowly.
"…Okay. Yeah. No. I get it now."
He rubbed his chin, thinking.
"So no cloned geniuses."
"Correct."
"…But you said earlier I could get some help," he said cautiously. "Military help."
"Yes."
His eyes flicked back up.
"So I can have soldiers."
"Yes."
"Just not researchers."
"Correct."
Havoc nodded slowly.
"…Alright," he said. "I can live with that."
Still, something nagged at him.
"But research is still a problem," he added. "I'm gonna need people who can actually think through this stuff."
He looked straight ahead.
"So… can I recruit people from the world I'm in?"
The system answered immediately.
"Yes. You may recruit individuals from the world you currently inhabit."
Havoc felt a small wave of relief—until the rest followed.
"Entry requires Director-approved clearance."
"…Okay," Havoc said cautiously.
"Any individual granted access who displays hostile intent will be treated as a threat."
He straightened.
"Define treated."
"The site possesses autonomous defense systems," the system replied evenly.
"All internal threats will be neutralized with extreme prejudice."
Havoc swallowed.
"…So if someone betrays me in here, this place won't hesitate."
"Correct."
He exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he muttered. "So no bringing in idiots. Or backstabbers. Or people I don't trust."
That sunk in fast.
"I'll be careful," he said quietly. "Real careful."
He turned away from the floating displays, still thinking, when something near one of the consoles caught his eye.
A faint glint.
"…Huh?"
Resting on a clean surface nearby was something small and metallic.
A bracelet.
Sleek. Dark alloy with a subtle blue line running along its edge, faintly pulsing. It looked light—almost too light to be important.
Havoc picked it up.
The moment his fingers touched it, the SCP System appeared again.
"Item detected."
"…Yeah," Havoc said. "I noticed."
"This device is designated A.R.E.S. Band — Anomalous Reconnaissance and Evaluation System."
Havoc blinked.
"…That name goes kinda hard."
"The A.R.E.S. Band is a Director-issued support device," the system explained.
"It is capable of scanning biological lifeforms, anomalous entities, objects, and environments."
He turned the bracelet over in his hand.
"So like… a scanner."
"Correct," the system continued.
"All scanned data is analyzed and transmitted to the Research Sector for processing."
Havoc's eyes widened slightly.
"…So if I see something weird out there, this thing tells me what it is."
"Within current clearance limits."
"And that data helps me survive."
"Yes."
"And helps with containment."
"Yes."
Havoc smiled.
"…Okay. I like this."
He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist. It adjusted instantly, fitting snugly without tightening.
"Current limitations apply," the system added.
"Advanced scan functions, deep analysis, and predictive threat modeling are locked."
Havoc groaned.
"Of course they are."
He glanced around again.
"What about storage?" he asked suddenly. "You know—actually carrying stuff."
"Storage Sector is locked."
"…Requirements?"
"Contain at least three anomalies."
Havoc clicked his tongue.
"Annoying."
"And outfit changes?" he asked, gesturing at himself. "You mentioned something about that earlier."
"Uniform modulation and rapid re-equipment systems are locked."
"…Let me guess."
"Contain at least four anomalies."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I am sensing a pattern I don't like."
Then another thought hit him.
"…Fast travel."
"Confirmed."
Havoc looked up sharply.
"…Excuse me?"
"Fast travel allows rapid transit between previously accessed locations and Foundation sectors."
His eyes widened.
"You're telling me I can just… teleport?"
"Within operational limits," the system said. "Range, frequency, and destination access are locked behind progression."
Havoc stared at the bracelet.
"…So this thing tracks locations too."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a second.
Then—
"…Dude."
He raised his arm, staring at the A.R.E.S. Band like a kid who'd just been handed a legendary item.
"This is basically a Pip-Boy."
"Incorrect."
"…It's a Pip-Boy," Havoc insisted. "Just… SCP-flavored."
"Your comparison is noted."
He laughed despite himself.
"…Okay, this is awesome," he said. "Really awesome."
Then he groaned again.
"With locks."
"Correct."
Havoc leaned back against one of the tables, shaking his head.
"I swear," he muttered, "everything good in my life comes with conditions."
He glanced down at the bracelet again—excited, annoyed, and very aware that he was still only at the beginning.
"…Still," he admitted quietly, "I'll take it."
He looked up at the system.
"Alright," he said. "What's next?"
The system was about to speak again.
"Suggested next sector—"
The screen suddenly flared red.
A sharp alarm cut through the space, harsh and urgent.
Havoc flinched hard, heart jumping into his throat.
"What—?!" he snapped, reflexively stepping back. "What the hell is that?"
"ALERT. ANOMALOUS ACTIVITY DETECTED."
The calm, neutral voice was gone—replaced by clipped urgency.
Havoc swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.
"…Okay," he said quickly, shaking his head once. "Okay. What kind of anomaly are we talking about?"
There was a pause.
"Threat classification unavailable."
His stomach dropped.
"…You can't identify it?"
"Negative. Data insufficient."
Havoc clenched his jaw.
"So you can detect them," he said tensely, "but you can't tell me what the hell it is."
"Correct," the system replied.
"The system can detect anomalous presence, energy distortions, and containment breaches."
"Identification requires direct analysis."
His eyes flicked instinctively to the bracelet on his wrist.
"The A.R.E.S. Band is required for field-level anomaly identification," the system continued.
"It allows real-time scanning, preliminary classification, and data transmission to the Research Sector."
Havoc exhaled sharply.
"So that's what this thing is for," he muttered. "I'm the scanner."
"Correct," the system confirmed.
"Without direct exposure, anomaly designation cannot be determined."
That did not help his nerves.
"Prepare immediately."
Fear hit him all at once.
Real fear.
Every SCP file he'd ever read. Every video he'd watched. Every horror story about things that couldn't be killed, couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be understood.
For a split second, all he wanted to do was stay right where he was.
Safe.
Fed.
Untouched.
"I could just… stay here," he said quietly. "Live comfortable. Never open another door."
The thought tempted him.
Then something colder followed it.
They won't stay still.
Anomalies didn't wait. They moved. They spread. And civilians—regular people—were always the ones caught in the middle.
Havoc closed his eyes.
"Every paradise has a price," he whispered.
He'd always wanted to be the protagonist in those isekai stories. Not reckless. Not stupid. Better.
Now he had the chance.
And all he really had was:
immortality—with limits
a prototype uniform
an unlimited-ammo pistol
a normal rifle
and fear
"…Beggars can't be choosers," he muttered.
He moved.
The uniform formed around him as he equipped it, the material settling over his body, firm but flexible. He checked the pistol first—weight solid in his hand—then the rifle, loading a magazine with practiced motions copied from years of video games.
"Video games are not real life," he whispered to himself. "They are absolutely not real life."
His breathing quickened.
Another thought crept in.
"…What if I kill someone?"
The idea made his chest tighten. He had no experience. No training. No idea what pulling the trigger would actually feel like.
But there wasn't time.
Whatever was out there wasn't going to wait for him to get comfortable.
He stepped forward until he stood in front of a reinforced steel door, tall and heavy, seams sealed tight.
Havoc checked everything again.
Pistol secure.
Rifle ready.
Uniform locked.
His hands shook—but they didn't stop.
He rested a palm against the cold metal and took one last breath.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "Let's get this over with."
The door began to open.
And Havoc braced himself to face his first anomaly.