France
Paris
Site-45 FR
9:35 PM, 12th of February 2017, Site Exterior perimeter.
The hum of the night covered the French Ardennes. The cover of the night engulfed two UH-60 Black Hawks, their blades chopping through the air as the wildlife stared at the flying helicopters
Inside one of the helicopters, six soldiers wearing pitch-black uniforms with purple details were resting in their respective seats. SiG MCX rifles were resting silently in their chests, their gazes fixed at each other while they wore quadruple NVGs with unsettling purple lenses. These were the elite of Resh-1, the Administrator's personal instrument, a force whose loyalty bypassed the Foundation's entire command structure.
"This is Overwatch to all teams, get ready. You're arriving."
"This is Overwatch to Striker teams, you're approaching Site 45, be prepared." Their radio rang hard in their earpiece.
"This is the mission of the Administrator. You are to enter the site, reach the strain of SCP-008 and capture it. Terminate or kill anyone who opposes you. Glory to the Administrator." The near-fanatical officer preached.
On the ground, Director Mark stood sweating beside the landing zones, his face a mask of anxiety. Beside him, Security Captain Ethan and Assistant Director Arthur stood with professional apprehension.
The twelve operators of the MTF burst from the Black Hawks. The Sergeant, designated Striker 1-1, approached Mark, his eyes burning with fanatic intensity.
"Director." The Sergant stated, his rifle held low in a ready position.
"S—Sergeant, welcome." Mark stammered.
The Sergeant handed Mark the encrypted data slate. "The Administrator requires one of your SCP-008 samples."
"With what purpose?" Mark countered. "The Type-G strain is under the strictest containment protocols. Your document only bears the Administrator's seal, not the required O5-Council tripartite authorization."
"Classified. Will you cooperate?" The Sergeant's right hand switched the fire safety of his SiG MCX to the fire position with a loud, distinct click.
Captain Ethan stiffened. "Sergeant, I advise you to re-engage your safety. We recognize the Administrator's authority, but we must adhere to Keter-class containment protocols."
The Sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Then you will adhere to a direct order. Director, you will escort us to the G2 Bio-Containment Vault now. Your men will lower their weapons and observe a distance of no less than fifteen meters."
Mark looked at Ethan. The sheer fanaticism in the Sergeants eyes was terrifying. He knew a fight would be a massacre. "Lower your weapons, Captain. We will comply. We will escort them under protest."
Ethan slowly nodded, passing the order. The Foundation guards lowered their rifles, their faces grim. The Sergeant nodded in satisfaction. "Striker 2-1 and his men will cover the rear. Maintain formation. Director Mark, lead the way. Quickly."
The Resh-1 team moved swiftly through the corridors, Director Mark walking stiffly ahead. As they approached the G2 Containment Wing, the Sergeant spoke into his encrypted comms, loud enough for Mark and the surrounding personnel to hear the metallic, unfiltered voice.
"Overwatch, confirm final extraction vecto. Are the Payload Dispersal units ready to target the civilian population centers?"
Mark and Ethan froze. The words Payload Dispersal Unit and civilian population centers slammed into them with the force of a physical blow. The Administrator wasn't containing the virus; he was planning to release SCP-008 into the world.
Captain Ethan's professional apprehension instantly transformed into blind, righteous fury. This was not a power struggle; this was an act of global annihilation.\
"Treason!" Ethan roared, ignoring the safety order and yanking his sidearm from its holster in one fluid motion. He fired two shots at the Sergeants head, the noise deafening in the close corridor.
The Sergeant, moving with preternatural speed, hissed in annoyance and shifted his rifle and took the shots on his armored helmet, the rounds deflecting with a shower of sparks and a sharp metallic PING! The advanced composite armor held its ground.
"Engage the traitors!" The Sergeant yelled as his men began scrambling.
The corridor exploded in gunfire. Resh-1 instantly dropped their formation, returning fire with controlled, devastating bursts. The Foundation guards, with lowered guards auickly regained their senses and began shooting madly.
Ethan and his men were outclassed in both gear and surprise, but they were fighting with the desperation of men facing the literal end of the world. Ethan dropped behind a reinforced maintenance cart, emptying his magazine toward the Sergeants position.
"Mark! Initiate Containment Override 7! Seal them in the vault! Do it now!" Ethan yelled.
Director Mark, stunned but galvanized by the Sergeant's horrifying intent, sprinted for the nearest console, dodging bullet fire. The Sergeant saw his move and yelled, "Striker 1-5! Neutralize the Director!"
A burst of 5.56mm rounds chewed up the wall beside Mark, narrowly missing his head. He dove behind a structural column, his fingers flying across the console, inputting the obscure, manual code for the emergency vault lockdown.
Meanwhile, the fight raged. The Resh operators moved like predators, their purple-lensed NVGs seeing clearly through the smoke and muzzle flash. One Foundation guard was pinned down, and a second later, a Resh operator, designated 'Hex', closed the distance, dispatching him with a quick, silent knife strike to the throat. They were efficient, brutal, and completely committed to their mission of retrieving SCP-008 for dispersal.
The Sergeant, regaining his composure, led the charge toward the G2 Vault door. "Ignore the skirmish! Secure the asset! We only need the sample!"
As the fighting drew near the main vault, Mark managed to input the final code. A siren blared—the deafening sound of an internal lockdown—and the massive, reinforced G2 Vault door slid shut with agonizing slowness.
The Sergeant and Striker 1-2 reached the door just as the final lockdown sequence began. The Sergeant furiously slammed his encrypted data spike into the control panel, attempting to override the closure, but Mark's Containment Override 7 protocol was a hard-coded failsafe.
"Damn it! It's locking! Striker 1-2 force the seal!" the Sergeant yelled.
Striker 1-2 deployed a specialized breaching charge against the door's hydraulic piston. The detonation was powerful, shaking the entire corridor, but it only slowed the closure, not stopping it.
Captain Ethan, seizing the moment, charged from his cover, tackling the Sergeant just as the vault door slammed shut with a final, echoing CLANG. The Sergeants hands, however, were not empty. He had already retrieved the cryo-vial of SCP-008 and secured it within the specialized carrying case.
"Mission successful!" the Sergeant roared into his comms, wrestling Ethan off. "Extraction complete! Exfil, now!"
The Resh 1 team instantly disengaged, shifting from fierce combat to rapid retreat in seconds. They deployed smoke canisters and flash-bangs as they moved backward, blinding and confusing the Foundation security forces one last time.
The Sergeant, fighting off a desperate Captain Ethan, delivered a vicious, precise kick to Ethan's knee, sending the Captain crashing to the floor, howling in pain.
"Glory to the Administrator, Captain! And may you enjoy the peace that follows the Great Restructuring!" the Sergeant spat, before turning and sprinting toward the landing pad exit.
The Resh 1 team melted into the smoke-filled corridors and reached their Black Hawks. Within moments, the helicopters were airborne, ascending rapidly into the dark night, the sound of their roaring engines drowning out the alarms and the faint, ongoing gunfire of the internal conflict.
Director Mark stood beside the sealed vault, his hands pressed against the cold metal, watching the helicopters' running lights disappear over the horizon. The truth was now agonizingly clear: the Administrator had just stolen the ultimate biological weapon with the intent to unleash it, believing that a catastrophic pandemic would somehow serve a greater purpose—a brutal "restructuring" of human society.
The Foundation was no longer fighting anomalies; it was fighting its own creator.
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USA
Miami
3:44PM 27th of February, 2017, Brickell
The late afternoon sun, a brilliant orange-red, set the soaring glass facades of the Miami skyline alight. From this height, the bustling streets of Brickell—the southeastern icon of commercial activity in the United States—looked like neatly arranged circuit boards, their mass of glittering traffic moving in slow, ordered paths.
Inside a sprawling, ultra-modern penthouse that occupied the entire top floor of a Brickell high-rise, Administrator Konrad Kazz was enjoying the view and a moment of quiet anticipation. At just 31 years old, the handsome German man possessed an unnerving blend of quiet intensity and absolute conviction. He sat on a plush white sofa, the only sound the soft hum of the penthouse's advanced environmental systems and the gentle clink of ice in his glass. He swirled the amber liquid—a single-malt whisky—not yet taking a sip.
A man in the sleek, black-and-purple uniform of Resh stepped silently from an alcove, standing at attention a respectful distance away. This was no ordinary apartment guard; the luxury residence itself was a clandestine Resh-1 forward observation post, equipped with shielded communications and encrypted surveillance gear.
"Administrator Kazz," the guard reported, his voice low and precise, "Overlord has checked in. Striker Teams have successfully obtained the SCP-008 Type-G strain. The package is secured and en route to the designated extraction point. Mission successful."
Konrad finally lifted the glass to his lips, his gaze still fixed on the sunset reflecting off the distant waters of Biscayne Bay. He took a slow, appreciative drink, the taste of peat and smoke hitting his tongue.
"Excellent," he murmured, setting the glass down. The single word carried the weight of a geopolitical shift. "The Foundation's primary containment against an XK class End of the World Scenario is now in the hands of its author. We have the necessary leverage to begin."
He stood, moving to the massive panoramic window. "And the response from the O5 Council?"
"As anticipated, Administrator," the guard replied grimly. "The SCP Foundation has officially noticed the betrayal. Site-45 is in complete lockdown. All Foundation facilities are at 'Code Black,' and MTF units across the continent are being scrambled to track the Black Hawks. They know we have the sample, and they know the destination: Texas."
Konrad Kazz turned, his eyes now sharp and focused, the serenity gone. "Then our time here is over. Prepare the secure transit. We are moving immediately. Inform our Texas Central Headquarters—our main base—that I am inbound. The Zenith there is fully equipped and ready to receive the package and repel any counter-assault the fragmented Council can muster."
He walked over to a secure cabinet, where he retrieved a heavily encrypted satellite phone. The view from the penthouse was beautiful, but it was now a target. The quiet, luxurious center of Miami and the entire eastern seaboard were just collateral in the war he was about to unleash.
The phone felt cool and familiar in Administrator Konrad Kazz's hand, a stark contrast to the tropical heat building outside the penthouse glass. His gaze, unblinking and focused, held on the small, topographical map of France laid out on the nearby table. Around him, the discreet movements of his MTF Resh-1 Site Security detail were quickening, swiftly packing their advanced equipment in preparation for a frantic, necessary escape.
Konrad brought the phone to his ear. "It's me. Yeah, is everything good in Texas?" he asked, his voice calm, the perfect counterpoint to the impending chaos.
The response was immediate and crisp, though the voice of the young officer on the other end held a palpable edge of stress. "Yes, sir. The key anomalous assets are secured and powered. SCP-914 is contained in the massive transfer unit. SCP-294, SCP-268, and SCP-458 are locked down and prepped. The specialized containment sphere for the continuous power source, SCP-037, is stable and secured for transport. Site security is fully deployed and on alert."
Konrad's grin widened in satisfaction as he walked to the balcony, momentarily basking in the breathtaking view. Behind him, the room's massive television screens buzzed with frantic news reports detailing a terrifying, hemorrhagic prion outbreak in France—the first signs of the unleashed SCP-008 strain. The lethality rate was suspected to be total, and the speed of transformation into aggressive, monstrous entities was alarming the global community.
Konrad's grin became predatory. He, alone, possessed the few machines and anomalous cures, like the precious bottle of SCP-500 (Panacea), needed to combat the prion. Those countermeasures were now safely situated in his primary Texas base.
"Good. We will be on our way," he said, ending the call with a simple click.
He turned and strode toward the bedroom. The modern suite remained immaculate. In the dressing room, he performed his final preparations, retrieving his Glock-17 sidearm and the bottle of SCP-500. From the last closet, he slowly picked up a lone, light brown military greatcoat. This was SCP-262, the Coat of Many Arms. As he slid the thick fabric onto his shoulders, the voices of its unseen appendages immediately silenced, leaving him feeling armored and subtly powerful.
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On the penthouse roof, the Miami wind whipped at Konrad's coat. The extraction was precise. Two Black Hawk Helicopters sat waiting, providing personnel transport and security. Between them, a massive CH-47 Chinook heavy-lift helicopter hovered, straining slightly as the massive, reinforced container was winched into its cargo bay. This container held the entire Resh-1 strategic arsenal: SCP-914, SCP-294, SCP-268, SCP-458, and the continuous energy source, SCP-037.
Konrad stepped into the nearest Black Hawk. The Chinook, laden with the invaluable SCP cargo, pulled away rapidly, setting a trajectory for the Texas site.
Minutes later, cruising high above the Gulf, the communications officer turned, his face pale beneath his visor. "Administrator, we have a catastrophic development. Encrypted channels confirm the Foundation has located and attacked the Texas headquarters."
He rattled off the names of the assault force with barely contained rage: "MTF Alpha-1, MTF Nu-7, and MTF Epsilon-11 are leading the breach. They are committing their elite to the siege, believing the base to be fully operational and containing all of our strategic assets."
The news of the three elite task forces—Alpha-1 ("Red Right Hand"), Nu-7 ("Hammer Down"), and Epsilon-11 ("Nine-Tailed Fox")— striking simultaneously confirmed the gravity of the Foundation's response. They were willing to spend their best to stop him.
Konrad Kazz gripped his armrest, the expected setback hardening his resolve. "Understood," he said, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "They attack the main base. We do not engage their main force. We lose the infrastructure, but we keep the tools of the new age."
He issued the new command without hesitation. "New course: divert to the Citadel in Atlanta, regroup with the rest of the Resh Operatives, the citadel should be enough, communicate with all Operatives, rally on The Citadel."
He settled back, the heavy, anomalous coat feeling like a second skin. He was running a global takeover from a small fleet of helicopters, carrying the instruments of his victory. The Foundation was tied up in a bloody, expensive battle in Texas, while their main body was actually diverting itself over to Georgia.
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"Covert 1-1 to Command, they have taken over the site."
The radio crackled with static, the voice of the Resh Operative, Corporal Luther, tight with a bitter mix of fury and resignation. He spoke into the boom mic of his helmet, the transmission bouncing off a mobile uplink hidden miles away. Below him, the desert air shimmered with the intense residual heat radiating from the target—the supposed Texas Central Headquarters.
Luther braced himself against the kick of the dirt bike's suspension. He had pulled off the dusty access road and up a low, rocky mesa, offering a panoramic and morbid view of the scene. The pair of high-powered binoculars pressed against his eyes brought the destruction into sickening focus.
The facility—a sprawling, reinforced bunker complex disguised beneath a mock oil-and-gas refinery—was no longer a fortress; it was a pyre. Massive plumes of black smoke, tinged with a sickly yellow-green, choked the late afternoon sky, blotting out the sun. The explosions had been systematic, designed to deny infrastructure, not merely to breach containment. The Foundation's Nu-7 (heavy vehicles were unmistakable—their reinforced APCs and mobile artillery platforms were positioned like vultures around the primary access points.
But the most chilling sign wasn't the smoke or the armor. It was the movement: the fluid, lethal sweep of Alpha-1 units, the O5 Council's personal guard, methodically clearing and securing the upper levels. And then, there was the subtle, ghostly presence of the third attacker—the few figures in specialized stealth armor that could only belong to Epsilon-11.
Luther's hand, encased in a thick, tactical glove, gripped the binoculars tighter. He recognized the pattern of the smoke, heavy artillery and even air attacks were used.
"Shit... what do we do now?"
The voice of his companion, Specialist John Keller, cut through the headset. Keller rode a similar, heavily modified off-road bike a few feet away, the dust swirling around the knobby tires. Keller was younger, his face partially obscured by the dark visor of his helmet, but the tension was audible in his voice. Mounted across his back was his preferred tool: a suppressed M110 semi-automatic DMR rifle, mainly supplied to Resh's Recon teams. Its quiet capability was useless against this scale of assault.
Luther lowered the binoculars, the bright, dusty landscape returning to the foreground.
"We follow the protocol, Specialist. The assets are gone. The objective is compromised. We are exfiltration only." Luther took a deep breath, fighting down the rush of adrenaline and disappointment. They had spent six months fortifying this place, making it an impregnable staging ground. Now, it was just a smoking hole in the Texas desert.
It was the price of the war, he reminded himself.
"We go back to Company Command, Specialist. Hopefully the Administrator has orders for us."
The two men kicked their bikes back down the mesa, tearing across the scrubland toward their emergency rendezvous point—a cluster of decommissioned mobile homes fifteen clicks east.
As they rode, Keller spoke again, his voice cracking with dry heat and concern. "The comms were tight, Corporal. How did the Foundation pinpoint the location so fast? It took us weeks to map the heat signature from the ventilation. Someone internal, maybe?"
Luther didn't hesitate. "Doesn't matter now. This wasn't intelligence, Keller. This was projection. Lord Kazz should have some type of backup plan."
They reached the designated rally point, skidding to a halt. Waiting for them was a rugged, armored Resh-modified Humvee and their immediate superior, Lieutenant Irina. Irina was standing beside the vehicle, a woman of sharp, imposing presence. She wore a lightweight tactical vest over her uniform and held a sturdy radio handset, her gaze fixed on the eastern sky.
"Report, Corporal," Eva demanded, her voice an icy steel that permitted no wasted words.
Luther quickly dismounted, snapping a quick salute. "Site is compromised, Lieutenant. Heavy armor confirmed. Alpha-1, Nu-7, and Epsilon-11 are on site. They are systematically neutralizing internal threats and securing the perimeter. No sign of survivors."
Eva nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't look triumphant, only tired. She knew the costs better than anyone.
"Casualties?"
"Unknown, Lieutenant. The final transmission from the deep bunkers was chaotic. Confirmed that Protocol JM-23 was activated, no Resh casualties, though."
The Administrator, in fear of all the repercusion that he would had- decided to back off most of the Resh Companies, allowing them to enter the site ONLY if he himself had arrived first.
"New orders are to regroup at the Citadel, all of the Company is already here, the Company captain is over there briefing the Senior NCOs." Irina said, pointing over to a makeshift tent with several guards around it.
"We're moving out in 30 mins, get your gear and squad, we're taking some helicopters from the foundation." She said, smirking while looking at the map of texas.
"What do you mean with that, Lieutenant?"
Luther said as he crossed his arms, looking at his superior officer with doubts.
"What do you think? there's a nearby Secret AFB the foundation believes we don't know its there, we're gonna swoop in and take their choppers."
Irina blurted out as her blue eyes looked at the inferior officer, her soft face had some scars that demonstrated her tough amount of service within the unit.
"Wilco, let's go Specialist." Luther agreed as they both left the Lieutenant alone.
"What do you think will happen from here? I mean, the guys over in France released an uncurable Anomaly into the world." Keller spoke calmly as he removed his FAST helmet and the balaclava that accompanied him, his brown hair and young face now being face to face with the wind.
"Honestly, I couldn't care less. We follow the Administrator and him only, he will surely guide us to either a better world or purge the foundation." Luther spoke fanatically, his zealous voice rang as he reached a smaller tent, where 2 sleeping were quietly resting.
"Wake them up in 5 minutes, I'll get our shit." Luther bluntly spoke as he left the young operator in the tent.
Outside, the camp was activating itself as everybody prepared for the incursion in the small AFB, preparing themselves to capture the small amount of helicopters that would take them to their safeheaven, the Citadel, their home and pride of the Regiment, armed to the teeth and dozens of meters underground, intelligence posts and self sustainable enviroments made it perfect for the 8 Companies of the 400 men strong force to rest in that location.