Per 
“So… why are we here exactly?”
Agent Hendrix, commanding officer of Assessment Team 711, the “Problem Solverz,” turned to face his complaining colleague with his eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Hendrix looked at the man like he had just asked him something incredibly stupid—which, to some degree, he had, so the visceral response was warranted.
The balaclava Hendrix wore was hiding the fact that his mouth was partially open, as if he was preparing to say “Dawkins, what the hell are you talking about?” in confusion, but Hendrix kept himself from doing so.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he returned to fidgeting with the bulky long range VERITAS scanning unit mounted to the tripod he was lying prone next to. “You were already given a backbrief, Dawkins. That’s exactly why backbriefs are a thing, you know.”
“Nah.” Dawkins shook his head as he slid his anti-materiel rifle away from his side, propping his cheek against his knuckles as he looked at his colleague slyly with what Hendrix described as the “smartass look.” He was likely smiling at Hendrix under his facemask as he continued. “I want to hear it from you, though.”
Hendrix knew that Dawkins was a veteran member of the four-man Assessment Team, and was essentially the only original Problem Solver left save for their leader, after everyone else before them had been either transferred or killed in action. He also knew that Dawkins often used small talk like this to get his mind off some traumatic memories and to de-stress if the low-dosage amnestics he took weren’t working hard enough in his favor, but such small talk tended to get annoying quickly.
He simply couldn’t miss out on an opportunity to shittalk the Foundation, though, likely with their superiors listening in on it all. To be honest, Neither could Hendrix.
“Thought so.” Hendrix nodded. “I’ll keep it short, but I guess you want the real answer, no?”
Dawkins nodded sleepily.
Hendrix sighed again as he took a moment to look into the scanning unit’s scope, ensuring the VERITAS scanner was working properly and the magnification was correct, before turning around to face his teammate. “Standard assessment duty, my friend. We’re here to document and observe, report our findings in,” he paused, gesturing to the unit patch on his shoulder, which depicted a cartoon mouse in a Black Suit holding a wrench. “…and to solve any problems that may arise. Simple as.”
He paused, looking into the scope again, before rolling over onto his back. “But, thing is, our job is pretty much useless because of all the nerds here.”
Dawkins low crawled up to Hendrix and took a look in the scanning unit’s scope for himself.
About a kilometer downhill and in the bowl of a large crater void of all plant life was a tent city composed of several rows of white tents and several rows of blue tents, all separated equidistant from one another. The sterile white tents took up one half of the hastily constructed compound, while an equal number of blue tents took up the other half, separated by a large road down the middle. Both sides avoided each other like the plague, with armed guards attached to each side patrolling about and occasionally eyeing each other like rival nations separated by an invisible DMZ.
The only thing each side had in common were the presence of scientists and researchers, all of whom were wearing PPE and hovering around some large egg-shaped thing in the center of the crater. They were just as visible through regular binoculars as they were on the scanning unit; green glowing silhouettes stood out in the open and occasionally passed by the massive egg-thing, where their forms would briefly become indistinguishable from the huge glowing object on VERITAS.
“We’re here solely because Central wants us to have more numbers here than the Skippers,” Hendrix explained, his voice trailing off briefly. “And it’s all because of this stupid egg.”
The fact that the object had landed here in the first place was already causing enough fuss between both groups, while also giving Hendrix more of a reason to hate being here. The Foundation likely wanted to lock it up in a cage and poke at it some more, maybe run a few tests with it, while the Coalition wanted to go through with the (arguably better) plan of simply blowing it up and calling it a day.
The moment it started radiating heat and draining the surrounding area of vegetation, while also letting off high-frequency noises, was the moment that the Foundation bumped up its response efforts, and the moment the Coalition bumped it up to warranting a Level 3 response. No one could come to a conclusion on what to do, and rather than sitting around and waiting for something dangerous to happen, both groups agreed to send research teams in to assess what was going on.
Had the Foundation sent more than just armed guards to protect their scientists, there was the very likely possibility that the GOC would’ve sent in a full Strike Team. A showdown between a MTF and a ST was something better off left to one’s imagination, but Hendrix wasn’t in the mood to spectate such a conflict. He just had to sit, and watch, and take notes, take some pictures, too, and hope nothing bad hatched.
All because of a stupid egg.
“What are you gonna name your kid, Hendrix?” Dawkins asked, attempting to draw some light humor from the situation as he shuffled away from the scanner.
“KTE…something-something, Coronachild?” Hendrix figured. “Clearly landed from space, and has all the workings of hatching. If you check on comms, the Skippers think the high frequency sounds it's letting off are a sign that it’s gonna hatch soon.”
The Assessment Team all adjusted their headsets, all hearing a monotonous voice of a Foundation scientist beginning to speak. “…Dr. Ravert to all personnel, advise readiness level increase to Yellow Standby. We believe the sounds the SCP are making are consistent with that of a creature preparing to be birthed.”
"We believe the sounds the skip are making are consistent with that of a creature preparing to be birthed," Hendrix repeated, albeit nasally and high-pitched, as if making fun of the Foundation doctor. "Fucking Foundation."
“They’re even calling the TE an SCP, as if they’re ready to contain it right away,” Agent Knox, observing the scene from a hill behind them, scoffed loudly. "Typical Skippers, man."
“I still don’t know why we didn't just waste this thing with a Tomahawk,” Rocky, another Problem Solver, whined. “Isn’t this how every kaiju movie plays out?”
Another three-tone ping came from Hendrix's radio, and he motioned the others to quiet down as he pressed his headset closer to his ear. "More Skipper chatter, quiet down."
Dr. Ravert's voice came back, nasally as ever. “…Dr. Ravert to all personnel, advise readiness level increase to Red Standby. Research teams are preparing to transmit a signal to the SCP of a frequency that will accelerate the hatching process."
outline:
-AT711 is accompanying a joint Foundation/GOC mission to secure essentially a giant egg, they aren’t too happy
-Foundation wanted to call it a Keter, Coalition wanted a Level 5 response, no one could come to a conclusion, so they etc etc
-Egg is letting off a high frequency tone that the foundation nerds think will cause it to hatch, so they plan on blasting it with a sound that they deduce would cause the egg to fall asleep
-Foundation guys probe the egg a bit, much to dismay of GOC team
-egg starts to stir, the bulbous bottom half opens like a flower and something slimy and chitinous writhes inside of it
-something large and fleshy slides out of the egg, which is revealed to be a cocoon of some sorts as its legs feel the ground
-its compound eyes suddenly begin flashing some colors that AT711’s VERITAS identifies to be a cognitohazard, making the world go into monochrome for them
-the lead foundation scientist is paralyzed by the cognitohazard as a feeding tube stab him in the skull, sucking his innards out
-it spreads its wings and then blasts the surrounding area with hurricane force winds as it goes airborne, AT711 calls upon ST1781 to take down the thing by activating distress beacon
ST1781 is scrambled