For what else is a red hot Iron than Fire?
Walking onwards, East to West
Through the frost with cloak abreast
Silhouette against the snow
Blazing eyes with fire aglow
And another, by his side
Comrade, friend and trusted guide
Sight unseen to mark his course
Voice unheard, from gentle source
In his fingers, cold and bitter
Metal shines with razor glitter
Left and right in measured stride
Vision set on ragged hide
Claw and fang 'gainst bones of steel
Rent and torn and brought to heel
Panting, howling, hellish beast
By his hands, denied its feast
Names as corpses pile on higher
Hunter, Killer, Traitor, Liar
Some persist, refuse to hear
See the man with vision clear
Thus, more joined him on this road
In lockstep, the hunters strode
On they stride, from hunt to hunt
Of the world they share the brunt
Walking onwards, West to East
Hunters rise to slay the beast
Prelude
Tools of the Trade
Act I: A long and lonesome road
1. Where the Grass is Greener
2. You do not know the Day nor the Hour
3. TBA
Interlude I
TBA
Act II: To those that would walk in our footsteps
1. An End, a Beginning
2. TBA
Interlude II
TBA
Act III: A measure to be tested
1. TBA
The winds were still as midnight approached. The sea was calm, devoid of waves, moonlight glittering in the inky black waters. And here, in the center of it all, the SCPS Orkney burned. Its bridge, a bonfire, antennae outstretched to the night sky like burning crosses. The inferno's spread had slowed considerably, but still it advanced downwards, to the lower decks, the engine rooms and ammo stores. The night would not remain silent for much longer.
On the bow, amidst scorch marks and scattered corpses, something formed in the air - a gateway of sorts, revealing a place too close for distance to mean anything. And yet, only through this new doorway was the Exile able to step into the world again, for the first time in millenia. Its emergence was delayed somewhat, as it resolved a form it could take. Writhing tentacles and gnashing fangs shimmered briefly in the firelight, and melted back into shimmering pseudomatter. No, it needed a more appropriate guise for the age it found itself in. Not to inspire fear, but to provide some semblance of… cover? Anonymity? Lacquered shoes stepped lightly onto the deck.
The Exile relished, insofar as something like it could relish, in the sensations it now felt on its newly-formed skin. A light breeze brushed past its face, ruffled its hair, carrying with it the smells of sea salt and oil and charred flesh. It had to restrict itself now, its senses almost entirely human - and yet, in some strange way, feeling the world so directly, feeling at all, was far more intense than the simple knowledge it had once relied on. The Exile's lips - for, yes, it now had lips - twisted themselves into something resembling a smile.
"I must say, I never expected something like you to have a sense of theatrics." The Exile turned away from the sea, maintaining its approximation of a smile. The man emerging from belowdecks barely stood - armor torn, flesh bruised and battered, blood dripping from black fabric onto blackened metal. But his face, rimmed by ragged hair, unshaven, was hard-set, his eyes as cold and seemingly uncaring as ever.
"I honestly expected my… pets to have dealt with you by now. But you seem to have a knack for being the sole survivor, don't you? How many men have you lost by this point? How many lives, given up on the whims of Lady Luck? Do their faces still stare up at you from the abyss you've left them in?" The man didn't answer - for a moment, he stared out into the sea, before locking eyes with the thing before him once more.
"You accuse me of theatrics, and yet it is you who now stands here, with the intent of dueling a god." The Exile looked him over, its gaze lingering on the holsters at his sides, and the pouches lining his vest.
"What do you hope to accomplish with these toys, I wonder? What can a bullet achieve against pure, unbridled belief?" Its eyes moved on, towards the man's hands, and towards something only it could see. Mock surprise was another new addition to the Exile's steadily-expanding repertoire of humanoid emotions - as its eyes widened, it forgot about the rictus of a smile it still had on its face.
"My oh my. In your time of need, that is what you resort to? It's almost as if your professional obligation to keep me contained has given way to… anger? Hatred? Tell me," It leaned closer, and the
space between them twisted in some strange way, so that the thing's face was mere inches from his;
"How far are you willing to go, just to see me burn? How much damage are you truly capable of doing?" This time, after a few more moments of silent contemplation, the man spoke.
"I guess we'll just have to see, won't we?"
Drawing one gun from its holster, he raised it and fired, again and again. The Exile's smile finally faded, and it swatted one bullet out of the air, the other two simply vanishing within millimeters of its skin. The man paused for a moment, then charged, firing the remaining three bullets. Discarding the gun, he leapt.
A few minutes later, the ship exploded.
Dimitri Kolesnikov woke with a jolt. He took a moment to collect his thoughts… he had fallen asleep? Here? In the middle of the day, in the back of a foundation APC, he had simply dozed off? A light frown made its way onto his face. This was, in truth, the first thing to disturb him so in a rather long time. Sleep had always come easily, but this was different - a detriment, one he could not afford to maintain. Had the years finally begun catching up to him? He made a mental note to check in with onsite medical personnel at some point.
Feeling the vehicle slowly come to a halt, he stood up from the narrow bench he had been occupying. He was sure he had dreamt, too - though no details came to mind, he could still feel something, on the edge of his inner vision. Another distraction to be overcome, he supposed. The merest hints of sea-salt and burning oil drifted around the edge of his perception as he stepped outside.
Agent Porter shifted in his cheap, plastic chair, and looked around the room once more, as he had been periodically doing for the past fifteen minutes or so. He still had no idea why he had been called here, but the two guards at the door weren't indicative of anything good. Still, this didn't look like any kind of disciplinary action he had ever seen - all around him, seated on similarly uncomfortable-looking chairs was a rather motley group, even by the Foundation's standards. Most were dressed in standard-issue Security uniforms, but here and there he could discern MTF insignia. A few researchers, and even some D-class, were among them - explaining the guards, he supposed. Around two dozen men and women in total, himself included.
It wasn't long before he heard footsteps outside, and the door swung open with a soft creak. In stepped a rather imposing man, dressed in a loose-fitting combat uniform, of the sort generally worn by MTFs under armor. His age - impossible to tell. A face devoid of blemishes, in contrast to gray-streaked black hair. Porter was somewhat surprised to see it tied back into a ponytail - unusual for an MTF member, but then again, he supposed that most task forces have their own regulations. The newcomer made his way to the front of the room slowly, looking from one face to another, until he stopped. And spoke, in lightly accented English.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am Special Consultant Kolesnikov, and I am here today to present you all with an opportunity. You all have questions, no doubt. Some of you" - and here his gaze seemed to briefly linger on Porter - "may wonder why it is you have been called here. Whether this is some form of punishment, or team building exercise. In a way, it is the latter. Others may be thinking something like - 'Can I overpower those guards, take their keycards and escape?'. The answer to that one is no - not only are you surrounded by combat-trained foundation personnel, there are also two more guards stationed outside, and this entire section of the Site is under heavy surveillance. However," and here he produced a small remote control, dimming the lights and causing the projector to flicker to life, "I may still have an alternative for you. For all of you, D-class or not."
"As most of you are aware, the Foundation is not unopposed in its mission. Many have their own views on how the anomalous should be treated - or used, destroyed, or exploited. Many of these cases are simple conflicts of ideals, opinions. Legislative action and verbal debate. Some take a more… direct approach."
He waved the remote, and the screen behind him changed to an aerial view of a Foundation Site, or what had once been a Site. Not much was left - about half of the buildings seemed to be mere rubble, and the few that remained intact sported gaping holes in their masonry.
"This is all that remains of Site-63. Most of you have never heard of it. It was, up until last month, a small facility, primarily housing safe anomalies, out in the American Midwest. The footage onscreen is the result of a raid by the Church of the Broken God, ostensibly to recover some piece of their deity. 78 casualties, extensive structural damage, and a costly media coverup campaign - classed as a 'skirmish' by Regional Command. One of many similar strikes carried out in the past few years, with varying levels of success." Figures flashed briefly on the screen - death counts, monetary values of damage incurred, MTF deployments - all steadily rising as the dates scrolled by.
"Whether or not the Church is any closer to reassembling their god or not, they've been a persistent drain on our resources, personnel and funding. And it isn't just the Church, of course. The Chaos Insurgency, ORIA, even the GOC have carried out such attacks on Foundation assets the world over."
The swish of the remote now presented a familiar logo - vaguely circular, with three arrows facing inwards.
"Up until now, our policy has been, for the most part, quite passive. Sure, we have Nine-Tailed Fox and Hammer Down for situations like these. But what the Foundation lacks is a dedicated first-strike force - a method of prevention, rather than response. Of course, this has been proposed before, and has had its fair share of critics. Their arguments are often centered around the idea of threat reduction - were we to aggravate our enemies, they would surely attack us in full force. The unfortunate reality, however, is that these attacks will only get worse and worse, as the perpetrators realize that we are unwilling, or even unable, to strike back." Another wave, and the screen displayed a new image - similar to the first,
"Ladies and Gentlemen, you have all been selected for induction into Mobile Task Force Sigma-16. Should you accept, you will be granted the status of MTF operative within the next two weeks, along with either Level 2 or 3 security clearance, elevated as appropriate. Yes, this includes the D-class among you. The mission statement is a simple one - disrupt the operations of actively hostile groups of interest, through any means deemed necessary. Sabotage, assassination, theft - ugly words, to be sure, but such is the substance of war. The Foundation's primary mission statement remains central to ours - you can all expect to work with Delta-5 to secure potential anomalies under enemy control - but our methods will be tangential. We will secure hostile assets, contain potentially threatening operations, and protect the Foundation as a whole through strikes of our own."
"Yes, this will mean a lot of travelling - the Foundation has enemies the world over. No, we are still not the GOC. There will be no indiscriminate slaughter, no unprovoked attacks - our targets are those who are already actively hostile to our cause, and have the intent and capabilities to harm our organization. Finally - no, your enrollment is not mandatory. I have gathered you here to inform, and to offer a choice. Should you refuse, you will maintain your current rank and clearance, and no disciplinary action will be taken. Of course, you will be amnesticised as necessary - not everyone here is cleared to know about this project."
"Now - are there any questions?"
Porter first responded with silence, born from shock. That the Foundation would change its views so lightly was strange, to say the least. The few alterations in policy that had taken place in recent years had favored a defensive approach, and the figures Kolesnikov had just listed were nothing new - the O5s had no obvious reason to sanction the formation of a task force such as this one. Unless…
He raised his hand, and Kolesnikov turned to him.
"Agent Porter, was it?"
"Sir, is there an actual reason for this sudden change in policy? Something specific? Site 63 was unfortunate, but it seems too minor to warrant this."
Kolesnikov's eyes narrowed slightly, as he seemed to study Porter intently, for a moment. He sighed, and motioned to the two guards. Both saluted, and left the room. After the door was closed behind them, the consultant turned to Porter once more.
"Very perceptive of you, Agent. As a matter of fact, there is - though i doubt you have the clearance for… ah, what the hell. If you accept the offer, then you will have said clearance, and if you don't, they'll dose you with amnestics anyway." Freezing the projector, he strode over to the laptop in the corner of the room. From his pocket, he took a small flash drive, plugging it into a free USB socket. A few clicks later, he made his way back to his previous position, and waved the remote once more.
The image that resolved itself on the screen was blurry, indistinct - taken with a night vision camera, it showed a group of men in full-body armor, not dissimilar to that worn by Foundation MTFs, storming a large concrete building. Heavy snowfall further obstructed the scene, but a sign above the entrance was barely legible - "Saunders Cryo Packaging". That alone was a problem, since the antimemetic camouflage, now par for the course in practically every Foundation front, had clearly failed.
"Around two weeks ago, Special Purpose Site 04 was attacked by a previously unknown splinter group, or branch, of the Horizon initiative. The attack took place during the demonstration of a Thaumiel-class SCP object, the exact nature of which I am not aware of." Porter nodded to himself. This was beginning to make sense.
"Overseeing this demonstration were a number of senior staff, as well as a member of the O5 council." Porter sat bolt upright. He wasn't the only one - around the room, expressions ranging from mild surprise to utter disbelief were directed at Kolesnikov.
"The attack was incredibly well-coordinated, and logistical interference delayed MTF deployment. There was likely some tampering from within - that's still being looked into. Resultant casualties numbered in the hundreds, and the skip was secured by enemy forces. On top of all this, the O5 is missing in action. I'm sure the Red Right Hand are still busy mopping that up, but this debacle proved that we had grown too passive, allowing our enemies to build up influence in mission-critical areas. Sigma-16 is an answer to that - putting the pressure on them, forcing them to expend manpower and resources on defenses and rebuilding. Showing them that there are consequences to antagonizing the Foundation."
As hands were raised, and questions were asked, Porter sank back into his chair. This was a lot to take in, to be sure, and that didn't even include the fact that he was being offered a place in an MTF. So the Foundation had finally realized its vulnerabilities - but was this really a good thing? Or were they treading territory that had been left untrodden for a reason? Images flashed through his mind - of [lengthy descriptive bit]. He slowly tuned himself back into the conversation.
"-so while some degree combat training will be mandatory for all of you, we will need a team for mission coordination, to transmit intel remotely and oversee everything. Target selection and mission planning will be almost entirely up to us, though we'll still take instructions from regional directors when needed, and obviously the council can assign us to anything on a whim." Another hand was raised, at the back of the room.
"Operative Jericho?"
Porter hadn't really noticed this man before - he was dressed unassumingly, in business casual, but closer inspection revealed a gleaming MTF badge on his lapel, and a suspiciously gun-shaped bulge under his jacket. Brown eyes, accompanying brown hair, stared calmly at Kolesnikov.
"Will we be assigned to a specific site as a home base? Or will we have to set everything up on the go?"
"Ah, an excellent question! We will have a designated home base and staging grounds, though it won't be a Site, per se. I'd rather not divulge too much before you've signed on, but rest assured that we will be adequately housed wherever we go."
More questions asked, more questions answered. Eventually, when the supply of hands seemed to have been exhausted, Kolesnikov turned to the room for a final address.
"I realize that a decision like this takes time to process - rushing is often a cause for regret later on." He smiled thinly.
"Therefore, you are allocated the rest of today to make your choice. Regardless of whether you choose to join or not, I expect all of you back here by eight PM, for either further briefing or amnesitcization. In the meantime, you have full access to this Site's recreational facilities, though in some cases, armed supervision will be required. I'll see you all this evening."
He strode out, just as quickly as he had entered, and the room was thrust into silence. Slowly, one by one, chairs were vacated, and the murmur of quiet conversation spread among the rapidly-dissipating crowd. Finally, the door clicked shut, and Porter was left alone with his thoughts.
Hijacking a bulk carrier was, in theory, not a particularly strenuous undertaking. One tended to designate fewer crew members, and guards in particular, to a vessel carrying coal or timber (rather than, say, televisions). Still, it would be considered unusual for one such vessel to experience two hijackings within the span of a day. But then, this was quite an unusual vessel.
Ramirez paced the bridge, while his subordinates searched. They dug through cabinets, smashed open lockers, and still they could not find what they were looking for. A few operated the bridge itself, since crashing the ship they had so recently stolen would be rather counterproductive. Ramirez stopped pacing for a moment, and shouted at nobody in particular.
"Clean up these fucking corpses! And find me the captain - i don't remember shooting him."
Several nearby militants jumped away from whatever it was they had been doing, as if branded, and set about accomplishing this task, while a few others left the room with haste.
Ramirez frowned, or rather, frowned even further. He was angry, far angrier than usual. He had gone past enraged, battered his way through furious, and was now barreling headlong into utterly livid. He didn't actually know what exactly he was looking for, or how he would identify it. He didn't know how it had gotten onto this ship, and he didn't know why his superiors needed it, or what it was actually supposed to do. He did know that, sooner or later, the Foundation would be after him, and that only served to stoke the fires of his incandescent rage.
But - here, he calmed himself momentarily - it would take them a while. Their doctrine was flawed, close-minded. They would not lash out immediately, and their eventual attack would likely be well-coordinated and meticulously thought-out. And by then, he would be long-gone.
If one were to look directly overboard, a few meters to Ramirez' left, one would see…
Well, not much. A shimmer, perhaps, or the vague idea that some of the seawater wasn't quite where it was supposed to be. However, in the event that the observer were immune to, say, Class III percepto-modulatory cognitohazards, they would see a navy-coloured tarp, adorned with a few strangely-shaped symbols. And below that tarp, anchored to the side of the ship with some rather strong magnets was an inflatable boat, in which several heavily armed men now waited. One of them, whose armor bore somewhat fancier insignia than the rest, was busy drawing something on the side of the freighter's hull in permanent marker.
It was vaguely circular, but a more detailed look would reveal a mass of strange runes and malformed squiggles. Many of them were painful to look at, and a few seemed to twist in on themselves in a way that mere two-dimensional drawing logically wouldn't allow. At last, the man finished his creation, and stepped back appreciatively, pocketing the marker. He pulled a pouch off his belt, and poured a small mound of gray powder out onto his hand. This was then doused in a viscous red liquid from a tiny flask, and industriously kneaded together into a thick, brownish paste. Both hands now coated in strange semi-fluids, the man beckoned to his fellow passengers. They readied their weapons, and moved into positions that would allow them to stand up without capsizing their tiny craft.
Their leader placed his hands squarely onto the drawing he had made, and closed his eyes. As he muttered to himself in a language not designed for the human larynx, he pictured something in his mind. A construct of sheer force, coalesced into a vague spheroid - crushing, smashing, thrashing its way through the sturdy metal of the ship's engine transmission, mere meters in front of his hands…
The sound started off rather quietly, as a curious sort of squelch, before erupting into the deafening roar of tearing metal and straining reality. The commander dared not lose concentration - his will was the only thing containing the vortex, keeping it away from the engine itself, the ship's hull, and most importantly, a small supply closet in the upper stern. Finally, when enough destruction had been wrought, he directed it upwards, carving a vertical tunnel through each deck, before erupting forth in a cacophony of screaming metal and dissipating into the air.
No further signal was needed - as the brown paste dissipated into equally brown smoke, the boarding squad fired their grapples upwards, catching onto the railing around the upper deck.
Ramirez stumbled, as the whole ship shook. Regaining his footing, he leapt to the observation windows, fervently searching for attackers. When he saw the deck rupture, scattering his men like leaves, he swore. When he saw the gleam of metal on the starboard banisters, he swore with slightly more volume, and pulled on the alarm lever. Even the ship's siren couldn't drown out his bellows, however.
"We're being boarded! Everyone to the upper deck, NOW!" Pulling his pistol from its holster, he sprinted towards the stairs.
27th July, 1991
7:20 AM
Site-71
Dmitri Kolesnikov walked into Site-71's reception area at a leisurely pace, enjoying this rare moment of calm. Most of the staff had just arrived for the day, and were therefore busy with setting up in their respective offices and labs. Only the receptionist and a couple of guards took any notice of him, with the former sitting up abruptly, and the latter two reaching for their weapons almost immediately. Good.
"Who are-"
Dmitri held up his access card. Level 3 clearance, provisional. The guards relaxed to a certain degree - this scruffy, tired-looking man seemed, despite appearances, to be a member of staff.
"Special Consultant Dmitri Kolesnikov. Here for an unscheduled personnel evaluation."
"Nobody told me anything about-"
"I did say unscheduled, didn't I? I'll be needing general Site access, as well as passcodes for your armory, guard quarters, and a few other areas. All here in this form." He passed his card over to the rather confused man before him, along with the aforementioned document.
After a few moments of frantic reading, the receptionist nodded emphatically. "Everything seems to be in order. I'll just, uh, update your keycard with the codes. Sir." He slotted the keycard into a bulky peripheral.
Dmitri smiled faintly. "This is an evaluation of security staff. You're safe from me - for now. Though I would brush up on etiquette if I were you. And lay off the coffee."
One fusillade of rapid typing later, the receptionist's computer gave a faint beep, and he extracted the card from its holder. Handing it back, he looked over Dimitri once more. Hard to believe that this man was with the Foundation at all, let alone that had he possessed Level 3 clearance - Ragged, gray-streaked hair, unshaven face and well-worn greatcoat combined to give a rather odd impression. Perhaps that was the point, though - surely, a surprise inspector wasn't going to look like one.
"I hope you find everything to be in order."
"I do too. Complications would be… unwelcome."
27th July, 1991
9:32 AM
Site-71
Dmitri Kolesnikov ran, and did so without much enjoyment. It wasn't an issue of physical fitness - he could probably keep this up for hours if need be. But throughout all his years, he had developed an understanding of what to do in a situation such as this, and it did not involve running away. But no, turning around and running towards the horrific man-eating abomination behind him wouldn't get him very far. For one thing, he had left his suitcase at home, and such was the nature of this emergency that he did not have time to properly pack. His coat pockets felt unusually light, and he himself felt quite vulnerable without the multitude of things he could normally pull from within. Besides, he had a job to do, and unfortunately it did not involve fighting aberrations against nature.
He punched a button in the wall as he sprinted past, and heard the *THUNK* of heavy blast doors sealing behind him. He slowed, listened for the telltale screeching of claws tearing at metal. Thankfully, there was a lot of metal - certainly enough to hold the damn thing until the MTFs arrived. He continued onwards at a brisk pace, until he came to a door marked "cafeteria". Gunshots could be heard from within, punctuated by a pained cry. Clearly, a shot had found its mark. Drawing a borrowed submachine gun, he braced himself, and threw open the door. It took him a split second to gauge the situation, make note of the makeshift cover provided by two flipped metal tables, and roll behind one of them, just as a burst of gunfire tore into the doorframe he had come through. Another split second to realize he wasn't alone - he leveled his gun at the woman seeking shelter next to him, and was mildly impressed to see she'd done the same.
He spoke quickly. "Dmitri Kolesnikov, Special Consultant. Level 3."
Her eyes narrowed wearily. "Ava Richards, Security Officer. Level 3. What the fuck is a special consultant, and what are you doing here?"
"Consider me an… inspector, I suppose. I'm actually here to-" He was interrupted by several bullets striking the table directly above him. Briefly, he ducked out and returned fire.
"-evaluate your security detail. Weapon maintenance, personnel reliability, that sort of thing. So far, you seem to have passed with flying colours."
She smiled mirthlessly. "Well that's a relief. Wouldn't want a bullet through the head and a demotion on the same day."
"I was also sent to deliver a personal message to the Site Director. Any idea where he might be as of right now?"
"He was down in the Euclid wing when this shitshow started. Now? I have no idea."
"I think it's safe to say the Euclid wing's been breached. Incidentally, there's a set of blast doors down the hallway that you really shouldn't open."
A few more bullets pinged off the table. "I'm more worried about these chucklefucks. Any idea who they are?"
"I didn't see any insignia. Could be Insurgency, could be Coalition. With how organized they are, I'd say the Coalition are more likely. Though I have no idea why they would want to hit this Site in particular."
They sat there in silence for a few minutes - although silence is a tricky term when applied to a heated gunfight. Finally, she snapped.
"Well then, Mr. Special Consultant, any ideas on how we get out of this room alive?"
"One or two. How many of them are there? And where, exactly?"
She mulled over it for a moment. "Four, initially, and I'm pretty sure I got one. One's behind the left-most table on the far side, the other two are moving around a lot. Somewhere to the right."
He nodded. "Then I think I have a plan."
He leapt sideways, from one table to the other, and crouched behind it. Alright, that was good, now the intruders had two targets to worry about, and eventually they could…
"I would appreciate it if you covered me."
She stared as he grabbed the table by the scaffold on its underbelly and stood, pivoting it upright so that it covered him, like a shield. Then, orienting it towards the far-left corner of the room, he ran forwards blindly. Bullets bounced erratically off the pockmarked metal as he hefted his weapon to the right. Coming level with his opponents, he squeezed the trigger, peppering their unprotected flanks with lead. Accuracy wasn't really an issue at this range, and he didn't even seem to feel the recoil of firing a submachine gun one-handed. And still he ran forwards, even as his makeshift bulwark met that of his enemy with a deafening clang. He pushed the screeching table forwards, until it met the far wall. He kept pushing, even as its legs buckled under the immense pressure. He only stopped once he heard the sickening crunch of bone, as his final adversary was crushed between metal and concrete.
"Clear." He dropped the table with a resounding clang. Ava stood, still staring wordlessly. After a moment, she found her voice once more.
"That was the dumbest, most reckless thing I've ever seen anyone do. You're a fucking idiot for attempting that, and if you were under my command, I'd probably have you demoted on the spot. How did you even lift that table?"
He smiled faintly, as if in recollection.
1st January, 1974
6:21 AM
Somewhere in the Urals
Dmitri peeked out through one of the shack's broken windows. The snowstorm outside didn't really help with visibility, but that counted both ways - probably the only reason his head hadn't yet been reduced to paste. He spotted a few dark shapes, moving purposefully towards him. He ducked back down, and checked his belt. Seven. Seven more rounds - enough for one full cylinder, plus a round of Russian roulette. He wasn't feeling particularly lucky, but he chambered them all. His adversaries would see him coming, of course, and letting them actually reach the shack was tantamount to game over. He peered over its musty interior, until something caught his eye - the table. The massive, oaken table, speckled with snow. Assembled from things more akin to small logs than planks, it called out to him. He wondered, briefly, about weapon calibers. Distance, weather conditions. He banished these thoughts - he had about a minute before they reached him. Producing a knife, he set to work.
When the hit squad approached the shack, they expected to find their quarry on the defensive. They expected to encircle him, cut off all avenues of escape. They did not expect a great palisade of wood to suddenly rise from a nearby snowdrift, and begin advancing towards them. They raised their guns, but just a fraction of a second too late.
Dmitri forced himself to stand upright. The blizzard had died down, and sunlight now glittered off the frigid vista. The table lay beside him, splintered beyond recognition, and blood dripped from beneath his coat. But he was alive, and the assassins were not. Except one. As he approached this sole survivor, groaning in the snow, Dmitri checked his guns. Six rounds spent - one remained. Click. The cylinders snapped shut.
"Believe it or not, my mood is actually improving. Five hitmen bested, rescue team on its way, and now this gorgeous view. I'm getting the inclination to show a bit of mercy." The assassin said nothing.
"Now, I could probably drag you back to the shack, get you warmed up by the fireplace, stop hypothermia from setting in. And then, when my saviors finally arrive, they will likely take you… somewhere else. Where you will be asked some rather pointed questions, in a rather unpleasant way. These questions could drag on for a long time, you know. Torturously long." He noticed a slight change to his adversary's expression.
"Or I could give you that little, tiny bit of mercy, and end it right here. I don't know who sent you, and frankly I don't care. I doubt they'd get much out of you in any case, but they would damn well try. You've caused me quite the bit of trouble, though. I'm probably bleeding worse than you are, and this coat will never be the same again." He stared at the man for a while.
"How about this, then? A game." He hefted one of his implements, letting the light scatter off polished metal.
"One bullet left. The odds aren't really in your favor, but who knows? Could have been worse than one in six." The assassin was still for a few precious moments. Then he nodded.
Dmitri took aim.
He sat down heavily, and laid the bullet casing onto the floorboards beside himself. It was still warm to the touch. He sighed, lamenting the luck of others, and awaited rescue.
27th July, 1991
9:54 AM
Site-71
The Euclid wing had indeed been breached. The newly-formed dynamic duo (or was it trio?) hurried through its stricken corridoors, confident in the blaring alarms' capability to drown out their footsteps. Dmitri paused in front of an intersection, and held up his hand. Ava came to a stop behind him.
"Why d-" He pressed a finger to his lips. In a sudden flash of premonition, Ava raised her gun. As she did so, a heavily armed man ran around the corner, and directly into Dmitri's fist. His compatriot skidded to a halt, but didn't manage to draw his weapon in time; a quick burst of gunfire put a stop to his efforts.
"Alright, I'm calling bullshit on that one. How could you possibly have heard them over the sound of the alarms? What the fuck kind of inspector are you?"
"A reluctant one. And I didn't hear anything. You could say I'm relying on outside help." He frowned, and muttered faintly to himself.
"Golem? Why would they possibly need…"
Only now did Ava realize that the alarms had stopped. And from the next room came a faint, melodic hum. Dmitri shoved her aside and leapt to the floor, just as a child-sized fist of stone came crashing through the wall where she had stood. Its fingers waggled for a moment, trying to get a feel of its surroundings. Then it started to retract, back through the hole it had just made.
Hudson wasn't quite sure who he had expected, but it certainly wasn't the lanky man in the charcoal suit that had just entered the room. Kolesnikov, however, seemed to be familiar with him.
"Fedor! Long time no see! How's the leg?"
Snarling, the man rolled up one of his pant legs, revealing gleaming metal. "What do you think, you fucking bastard?"
Kolesnikov raised his hands - the fact that he still held a knife in each one didn't help. "In my defense, there was some… odd fleshy thing growing out of it at the time. Under the circumstances, would you rather have ended up as some kind of meat monster? I even cauterized the wound for you!"
"Do you know how painful it is to have a prosthetic hardwired through burn scars?"
They circled each other - the newcomer seemed to be unarmed, but Hudson knew this to be a very unreliable indicator of anything. Fedor moved quite gracefully for a man with a prosthetic leg, but his fists were balled in anger.
"So, it was the Foundation that you defected to."
Kolesnikov nodded. "And you're with Malleus now - I never really had you down as a religious man. Could old age have finally put the fear of God in you?"
His opponent spat."They might as well have been Devil worshipers, or even fucking Sarkics. But they promised me that I could kill you."
"Ah."
Fedor reached into his jacket pocket, and withdrew a black-and-white chequered handkerchief.
"God, you haven't changed at all. Still resorting to parlor tricks." Kolesnikov re-sheathed the knives, and drew a pair of noticeably larger knives.
"Director, please stand back."
Now Fedor was unfolding the little piece of cloth, again and again, until it had reached a far greater area than it had any right to occupy. He draped it over himself, like a cloak. Hudson decided that stepping back would probably be a wise decision. As he did so, their becloaked assailant sprang forwards.
Kolesnikov fired, but the billowing folds seemed to swallow his bullets. He dodged back as a tendril of cloth was swung towards him, effortlessly scything through a desk. His enemy landed in the spot he had just been occupying, and almost failed to sweep up the grenade he had left there. Almost. There was a soft "whumph" as it detonated somewhere in the decidedly non-euclidean folds of fabric.
Another few shots were blocked by a sweep of the cloak, but now Kolesnikov was leaping forwards, blades swinging with deadly purpose. The first was dodged, the second… simply sank into the cloth, along with a large chunk of arm, before emerging parallel, but travelling in the opposite direction. Kolesnikov bent his elbow at the last minute, narrowly missing his own stomach and catching his opponent's jaw with a glancing slash. Fedor stumbled back, cursing, as blood dripped from his stricken chin.
Kolesnikov pressed forwards once more, even as the space around his opponent seemed to twist, and a kick emerged from where his shoulder should have been, and hit him squarely in the chest. Now he was the one stumbling, though he still managed to avoid the next few swipes of razor cloth.
17th December, 1982
5:12 AM
St. Petersburg Suburbs
Dmitri Kolesnikov awoke to find a woman standing at the foot of his bed. He recognized her, and that confused him even further. Taking a moment to compose his thoughts, he spoke, matter-of-factly.
"You're dead."
Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth, as if to scream. He withdrew his hand from the incision in his mattress, flinging the knife that had been hidden there squarely at her forehead. There was a wooden sort of "thunk" as it embedded itself in the cabinet behind her. They both remained frozen for a few more seconds, until she swore.
"Why the fuck would you do that? I felt my heart stop for a moment! Who the fuck are you even? Where am I?" There was a moment of realization.
"And what the fuck do you mean, I'm dead?"
Kolesnikov got up from the bed, and walked past her to retrieve the knife. She backed away from him as he passed, but he ignored her.
"I know you're dead because I killed you. Yesterday, at around 4 PM, I shot you. Three bullets - one to the head, two to the chest. 7.62x39 mm, high explosive. Checked your vitals just in case, since you never know in my line of work." Somehow, her eyes managed to widen even further.
"You! You're that Spetznaz podonok, the one that actually got in the building! I had no idea how you had managed to even survive, and then…" She stopped. Looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Not quite Spetznaz, but close enough. And I'm fairly good at surviving the seemingly unsurvivable. Although it looks like this time…" He sat back down onto the bed, heavily;
"I've been outdone. So what does that make you? A ghost? A hallucination, induced by nonexistent guilt?" She focused on him again, this time in anger.
"You shoot me up, throw a knife through my head, and then have the nerve to call me a hallucination? I'm…" Another pause, as she pondered what exactly to say.
"I don't quite know what happened. I remember that single moment, where all my attention was focused on you, bashing down the door. Then, a bright flash, and then I was somewhere else. Not here, some… dark place. Dark and cold. Metallic. I saw an opening appear, suddenly, in one of the… walls? Floors? There wasn't really a concept of direction. So I pushed my way towards it, and now I'm here." Kolesnikov listened, and started to put the pieces together.
"In that case, assuming that you aren't a figment of my subconscious mind, you're probably a ghost. Well, displaced psychic projection. It's like an out-of-body experience, except your body has already been dissected and cremated, so this is all that's left of you. I've heard of certain powerful psionics managing it, but never spontaneously. Usually there's a lot of ritualism and preparation involved. Although I'm not going to dispute the "powerful psionic" bit - that storm you brewed up did almost take my head off, and lost me several good men." She grinned, crookedly, although the rage in her eyes maintained its fire.
"What happened to Vasili?"
"I'm assuming you mean the man whose escape you were covering? Dead. Ran into an entire SP squad and was gunned down near-instantly." Her grin widened.
"Good. I hope the fucker bled. Deserved to, after grabbing the stone and leaving me to fend off an entire battalion."
She tried to sit down on a stool, and fell through it. Kolesnikov's face remained impassive, even as she burst out into rage-induced laughter. After the guffaws died down, they both sat in silence for a few minutes.
[I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO CONTINUE FROM HERE]
INCIDENT SUMMARY DIVISION "P" DEPARTMENT II
13.I.1991 D.NR:11-I-1991
On 12.I.1990 at approximately ██:██, OSI "DEEP HEART" successfully escaped confinement, severely damaging Research Area ██████ and resulting in ██ staff casualties. Due to the effects of OSI "DEEP HEART", as well as the location of Research Area ██████, reconfinement was deemed a Level 1 Priority. Two Special Purpose Squads, along with Special Operatives "ZVEROBOI" and "HARLEQUIN", were selected for the reconfinement operation.
Operation began on 12.I.1990, at ██:██, and ended on 13.I.1990 at ██:██. Operation results were as follows:
- Successful reconfinement of OSI "DEEP HEART"
- Successful recovery of █ staff
- Elimination of ██ staff affected by OSI "DEEP HEART"
- Elimination of ██ Special Purpose Squad combatants
- Severe injury of Special Operative "HARLEQUIN"
- Disappearance and presumed elimination of Special Operative "ZVEROBOI"
- Near-total destruction of Research Area ██████
Operation was deemed a success. For further operational details, see D.NR.12-I-1991
13th January, 1990
4:39 AM
Murmanskaya Oblast
Dmitri Kolesnikov, known to most as Special Operative "ZVEROBOI", managed to stand up, although dislodging himself from the buckled facility entrance took some effort. He limped back into the lobby, over to the charred, fleshy husk that had once been a scientist, and pulled his gun out of its head. Grunting a little, he used the massive bayonet to make an incision in the thing's chest. There: the heart, somehow undamaged. Though he had never encountered anything truly invincible - and he had encountered many things that had been considered invincible - he had to admit that at least it was pretty damn difficult to get rid of. A few more cuts, and he held it in his gloved hand - carefully, so as not to touch it with any of his exposed skin, he dropped it into a small metallic box stamped with a hammer, sickle, and the letter "P".
He sighed, and spoke to the woman who wasn't there.
"Wasn't really much I could do there beyond ending it. Did them a favor, really." He listened for a reply in the echoing silence.
"I don't think that gives you the right to criticize my methods. What, are you saying you can relate to them?" He paused again, and gave another sad little sigh.
"Sorry, that was uncalled for. Quite literally don't have the energy for this right now - most of it's being diverted into my liver, to break down all these Sarkic poisons. Let me finish up, at least."
Having seemingly satisfied his unseen companion, he brought the box back outside, over to the prone body of his erstwhile tovarisch, and carefully placed it down in the snow. He checked, once again, for the presence of a pulse, and the absence of a small metallic cranial implant, and found both to be satisfactory. Now to recover his other gun - aha! There it was, embedded in some sort of tentacle that had snaked its way out of a ventilation grate. He spent a minute or two cleaning the viscera off, well, everything, and then considered what to do with all the knives. No, there were too many to reasonably recover, and besides, he wanted them to find something of his, some indication that he had, indeed, been here. And had, quite violently, left this world. He grabbed the two suitcases he had brought along, and limped back into the heart of the facility - but not before retrieving a large machete from within the chest of a… thing. Best to think of it as just a thing.
"This one I have a personal attachment to." he said, seemingly to no one in particular.
A few minutes later he climbed out of a maintenance exit, minus one suitcase, and trailing a length of detcord from the switch in his hand. For a moment, he seemed indecisive - but then, he could already hear reinforcements arriving. Getting found at this stage wouldn't be ideal, considering the many things he would have to explain. Like how he had left such copious amounts of his blood splattered over various walls in the facility - as much blood, in fact, as was presently contained in his body. Or why he had shaved, cut his hair, and changed into civilian clothes. Whistling a merry little tune, he pressed down on the switch, and threw it back into the doorway.
"Time to make our exit, I suppose. You always did want to see America."
He had just reached the edge of the chainlink fence when he heard the first explosions go off. With a faint smile and a swig of his flask, he trudged off into the blizzard.
4th February, 1990
7:22 AM
Boston
When the Yuriy Arshenevskiy docked in Boston on this cold, foggy morning, it was inspected quite thoroughly. Of course, the presence and integrity of its cargo had to be verified, as did the absence of stowaways. And indeed, none were found, though the crew were later issued a severe reprimand for having apparently failed to properly tie down one of the lifeboats.
A few miles north, that very same lifeboat was left moored to a decrepit wooden post, while its former occupant made his way onshore. He checked the few things he had on his person, which aside from his suitcase included a number of passports, several of them American, a moderately-sized wad of dollars, and a small notebook. And the knives, of which there were several. Finding all of these satisfactory, he hefted his suitcase, and set off in search of… something. He wasn't quite sure yet.
Around an hour later in a small, rented apartment, he put down the piece of chalk he had been using - here and there, if one cared to look, small symbols could be seen dotted around the room. He nodded, and spoke, seemingly to himself.
"That should take care of any potential eavesdroppers. So - we're here! The land of opportunity." Strolling over to the window, he looked out over Boston.
"Oh come now - I've done well to get us this far! And without a single drop of blood spilled." He made his way back to the bed now, and sat down heavily.
"Well, that thing on the train hardly counted! All I did was knock him out. Had I not, he would likely have called the other three agents on me, and then we would have a problem." Absent-mindedly, he drew a long knife from his coat and began polishing it with a small cloth.
"Yes, the irony is not lost on me. What's important is that we're here. That much closer." The knife was re-sheathed, its blade spotless but not quite gleaming, and another took its place.
Regret was nothing new to him, or anyone else in his line of work; and yet, for a moment, he thought back to days gone by - to battlefields, basements and barricades. To a small, dusty shop, its windows perpetually snow-encrusted, and the hunched shape at the counter. To all that he had left behind.
Almost unconsciously, he drew out a small square of cardboard from within his coat - a postcard, cheap and tacky, plastered with American landmarks. Its flipside bare, except for a few short lines.
"One, indeed needs very little:
Look, and find it in the end.
To begin with, one needs people:
Just one foe and just one friend."
There was no change to his expression, not as such, but one could feel a change in the atmosphere around it. As if the temperature in the room had just dropped to sub-zero. His mind's eye now gazed over yet another familiar vista. Blood upon the concrete floor. An empty vessel, cradled in his hands…
He put away the card.
"Yes. Yes, I know."
Seemingly regaining his composure, he returned to polishing the knife.
"Of course. But you've known me for decades - when has that ever mattered?"
He stared at the blade, as if trying to find answers in its shimmering surface.
"Yes, I've thought about that. We still have a long way to go, so employment is something we'll have to consider - after all, the money I brought over will last maybe a month."
Now he slid the knife over a small piece of polished stone, engraved with tiny symbols. It seemed to vibrate faintly.
"Well, you'll hardly find me working in some department store. My skillset is quite particular. And I'd like to have one of the big players at my back - he most certainly will."
He rose from the bed he had been sitting on and walked over to his suitcase. From within, he withdrew a weathered cardboard file.
"Oh, this? Just a little something I grabbed back in the Central Command offices. One of many duplicate files - its absence will hardly be missed." He flicked through it, idly scanning the pages, until he stopped on a very specific one. The heading consisted mostly of a large coffee stain, but one word could still be seen clearly: SACK.
"I'm honestly surprised you haven't heard of them. Your little cell was probably on their radar since it inception - these bastards have a long reach. Of course, I'm probably on one of their watchlists. Or several." He scanned the page intently.
"But I know for a fact that the UIU have a kill warrant out on me, and the GOC would probably just shoot me to be on the safe side. Worst case scenario here - I'll get put in a box. And I've been in plenty of boxes." Again, he sauntered over to the suitcase, having picked up the piece of chalk once more.
"Somehow I don't think it'll come to that, though." Sliding the file back inside the case, he drew out another one. This one was far thicker than the first, and covered in stamp-marks. He closed the case, clicked the clasps shut, and scrawled another tiny glyph on each one. When the glyphs started pulsing with a faint yellow light, he nodded in satisfaction, and put the chalk away.
"Come on then - time for a job interview."
4th February, 1990
10:06 AM
Boston
"Southside Construction Planning ltd." It surprised Dmitri that they put this little effort into hiding. Later, he would come to realize that the antimemetic camouflage utilized to hide these fronts had been quite thoroughly studied by the Division, and as such, he was equipped with the means to counteract it. But for now, he simply strolled into the reception area.
He looked around, and was unimpressed. For a purported construction company, they could have done far better than these crumbling plaster walls and wilting palm trees. He came up to the receptionist, a tired-looking man in his forties, with a rather direct approach in mind.
"I would like to speak to whoever is in charge here."
The receptionist looked up from his newspaper, clearly uninterested. "The manager is out on break."
Dmitri stood there for a moment, and considered his options.
"Then I'll let myself in." He walked past the receptionist, and through the "employees only" door behind him. Ignoring the faint cries of "hey, you can't do that!", he headed for the one door that seemed out of place in this corridoor - thick, metallic, and with a keycard lock. He inserted the card he had pocketed from under the receptionist's desk, and was rewarded with a "click", and the sound of an elevator arriving.
By the time he walked into the other reception area, there was a number of security personnel waiting for him. Killing them would probably not pose a problem in and of itself, but was likely to put an early stop to negotiations. He settled for a calm address.
"I would like to speak to the Site Director."
Site Director Jeremiah Hudson was not having a good day. The morning had started with a near containment breach, the mound of unsigned paperwork on his desk was approaching monumental, and now someone had simply walked into the Site unimpeded, and had asked to see him. He reminded himself to spread this unhappy state of affairs to the receptionist, by way of disciplinary action. That thought alone brightened him up a bit.
He stepped into two-part interview room, in which the intruder was already sitting, behind a pane of bulletproof glass. As he sat down, he noticed the man before him draw a cardboard file out of his coat - either security today had been very lax, or this intruder had been difficult to search.
"Site Director Hudson, I presume?" The man's voice carried an unmistakable, if light, Russian accent.
"You presume correctly. You're also the first person to break into this Site in over a decade. Although from what I can see, calling it a break-in would be stretching the definition of the term."
"I wouldn't say I broke in, as such. But from what I know of Foundation command structure, you're more or less the one I need to speak to. I just wasn't sure how to get to you."
"I would commend you on your initiative, but I'd appreciate it if you explained why it is you're here. You're starting to cut into reserves of time I simply cannot afford to waste."
"Fair enough - I'll keep this brief. I am an ex-operative of the GRU Psychotronics Division, and have been augmented with a number of, as you would say, "anomalous properties". I have come to understand that the Soviet Union is on its way to collapse, and will likely take the Division with it. Considering the Division's stance towards its anomalous agents, they will likely attempt to "retire" me when this happens, and that is something I am quite opposed to. I would like to keep my internals internal." Hudson steepled his fingers.
"So you're asking us to contain you then?" The intruder smiled.
"No, I'm asking you to employ me." Hudson thought about this for a moment, and let out a short laugh.
"I'm not sure how much you know about us, but the Foundation is seldom in the practice of employing anomalies. What's to stop me from putting you in a cell right now, or simply having you dissected?" To his surprise, the intruder's smile didn't waver.
"Several things, actually. Asides from being stronger, faster and more durable than any non-anomalous combatant you may field, I have decades of experience in conflicts against both conventional and anomalous forces, as well as the destruction and capture of various paranormal objects and creatures. Furthermore, I have not defected empty-handed - I would wager that several of the intelligence reports I liberated from the Division's vaults on my way out will be… interesting to your superiors." He withdrew a sheet of paper from the file, and passed it through the small vacuum-sealed drawer in the glass. Hudson glanced over it - though his grasp of Russian was admittedly rusty, he could make out several key phrases that told him this document was came from the highest echelons of GRU-P leadership. He was careful not to let this show on his face, however.
"I'm assuming the rest of these are in that file of yours?" Hudson asked, his fingers idly edging towards the button that would release tranquilizer gas into the other half of the room.
"Some. Most are hidden in an undisclosed location, for now. And it will remain undisclosed, even under heavy interrogation." The Site Director seriously doubted this, but stayed his fingers.
"As for dissection, you might want to reconsider that too." Another document, this one far more heavily redacted than the last. The bits that were legible, however, were rather worrying.
"Whoever modified me was very reluctant to have the fruits of their labor looked at by the enemy. This mechanism is a failsafe for that eventuality. I am unsure of how it works, exactly, but I know it is thorough. Staff casualties notwithstanding, I doubt your superiors would be happy with the loss of both a potential employee and potential research subject." This, Hudson had to admit, was true - if Regional Command, or hell, the O5, caught wind of him flagrantly wasting resources like this, he would be on a rather short path to demotion. He knew his deputy Stevens would be only too happy to supplant him, that arrogant little toad. Besides, something about this whole situation was… interesting. He was intrigued to see where exactly this man would end up.
"Very well, mister…"
"Kolesnikov."
"Mister Kolesnikov, I will have to take this up with Regional Command. They may take a while to come to a decision. In the meantime, I will have to insist that you remain in containment here, if only for my peace of mind." Kolesnikov thought to his pockets - they contained all manner of things he could use as of this moment. Many of them could create an exit for him, one way or another, generally at a detriment to site staff and the structural integrity of nearby walls. However, he would risk potentially jeopardizing the entire reason he had come here. Somehow, a life in hiding did not appeal to him at this moment, nor did it entice his… companion.
"Fair enough. Though I ask to be allowed to keep my possessions about my person. Many of them have sentimental value, you understand."
Hudson conceded to this, primarily because he had a feeling that separating mister Kolesnikov from his possessions wouldn't be an easy task to accomplish. As two security officers entered the other half of the interview chamber, he called out to Kolesnikov.
"One last thing. Your anomalous properties - what are they exactly? The ruling will need to take that into account." Kolesnikov turned back to the drawer, and placed the cardboard file inside.
"It's all in here, along with various other assorted tidbits. Consider it my resume." As he was escorted out, Hudson looked at the papers before him. Some of the blackouts looked quite fresh - clearly, the defector had information he wanted to hide.
PERSONNEL DOSSIER DIVISION "P" DEPARTMENT II
21.IV.1962 D.NR:37-IV-1962
Designation: "ZVEROBOI"
Rank: Special Operative
Entered Service: ██.██.████
BIOLOGICAL INFORMATION
Gender: Male
Age: ██
Height: 187 cm
Weight: 234 kg
Hair Color: Black/Grey
Eye Color: Blue/Grey
Augmented: Y/N
Details of Augmentation (if applicable):
- MKIV Skeletal Reinforcement
- MKIV Muscular Reinforcement
- MK██ Life-Extension [Experimental]
- Respiratory Augmentation, Iteration III [Hazardous Environment, Heavy Duty]
- Cardiovascular Augmentation, Iteration VI [Hazardous Environment, Heavy Duty]
- Cerebral Augmentation, Iteration ██ [viz. D.NR:██-███-████ - █████ ██]
- Endocrinal Augmentation, Iteration N/A [viz. above]
- Neural Augmentation, Iteration N/A [viz. above]
- Hepatic Replacement, Iteration N/A [Experimental, viz D.NR:09-I-1962 - Uses of Alchemy in Biomodifications]
- Ocular Augmentation, Iteration II [Broad-Spectrum Combat]
- Anti-Tampering System, Iteration V [FURTHER INFORMATION REDACTED BY ORDER OF DIVISION I]
- Personal Defense System, Iteration II [BARS]
- █████ ███ ███, Iteration ██ [███ ███ ██████ ███]
PERSONAL INFORMATION
Date of Birth: ██.██.████
Place of Birth: ███████████, ███████
Life Summary:
[REDACTED, viz. D.NR:15-II-████]
Summary of Service:
[REDACTED, viz. D.NR:16-II-████]
Skills and Abilities:
- GRU-P Combat Training, Basic
- GRU-P Combat Training, Advanced
- GRU-P Combat Training, Specialized [viz. D.NR:19.X.1960]
- GRU-P Espionage Training, Basic
- Body Augmentation [viz. Biological Information]
- Extra-Agency Combat Training [Extent Unknown, Re-Verification Required]
- Demolitions [Extensive]
- Counter-Regenerator Combat [Extensive]
- Counter-Psionic Combat [General]
- Counter-Reanimator Combat [General]
- Counter-Reality Alteration Combat [General]
- Combat Alchemy [General]
- Runic Thaumaturgy [General]
- Combat Thaumaturgy [Basic]
- Combat █████████████ [Basic]
Hudson did not whistle under his breath, because that wasn't something anyone did outside of fiction. He just sighed, and began the walk back to his office. His workload wasn't getting any smaller, and he still had oh so many calls to make.
Dmitri sat down on the containment cell bunk - its springs went gloink, in a rusty, half-assed sort of way. He was quite relieved, actually. Were it not for the documents he had snagged, he would probably be stuck in a similar cell for quite some time. As it stood, he just had to hope that Hudson was a reasonable man, with reasonable superiors.
So, this was the SCP Foundation. Their cause seemed justified, more or less. Considering some of the things he'd seen over the years, it was no wonder that they wanted to hide it all away from the world. Though at this point, that hardly mattered - he was well on track now. His mind started to wander again, back to that tiny room. The scent of blood, the warmth, dripping down through his fingers. The rusted blade, edging slowly towards…
No. Once more, he pulled himself back. And waited.
« Tools of the Trade | Igni Ferroque | [COMING SOON] You do not know the Day nor the Hour »
Per 
