Per 
FIRST ENCOUNTER
This is not bad, he thought to himself. I could get used to this.
John Holtzman, AKA SCP-XXXX, stretched out on the couch and tapped idly at the game playing on his iPad. The room he’d been assigned was a bit spartan but practically luxurious compared to the D-Class living quarters and downright heavenly compared to his old cell. It had been several months since his classification as an SCP anomaly (though he still hadn’t officially received a full designation, just this place-holder of four X’s) and he had to admit, it was a pretty sweet gig. Every so often the scientists would ask him to do random tasks and watch as he performed them. The thing was, they were always incredibly easy, like “Sit in this chair,” (OK, it’s kinda comfy), “Turn on this computer,” (It won’t turn on), and “Sit here while we look for Nazi bunkers in this woman’s nose” (admittedly that one was kinda weird). There was also the odd battery of medical tests, and aside from the spinal fluid and bone marrow samples (ouch), they were all harmless.
It had gotten to the point where John was starting to feel guilty about the situation. They set him up with a fairly nice room, fed him decent food (not world-class cooking, but certainly better than he could cook up), and even agreed to certain entertainment expenses, such as the iPad he was fooling with. But most of all, they were nice to him. It seemed trivial, and sure he was technically still a prisoner, but everyone from the researchers to the security guards were friendly and seemed to show a genuine interest in his well-being.
So about a month ago, when he saw one of the Mobile Task Forces return from a mission with nasty injuries, he felt like he had an obligation to help. Afterall, the whole reason he was here was because he could neutralize the anomalies these MTFs were being sent out for, so it seemed only natural to be the one sent out to recover them. Though the Foundation hadn’t officially appointed him as a field agent, they had started giving him some basic training for field agents (the general assumption being that if the O5 Council granted agent status, he’d at least have a head-start, if not complete his training).
Now he split his time between experiments and training session, both of which he found equally interesting. He loved seeing what kind of effect he had on what were, to him at least, seemingly ordinary objects and beings. He enjoyed learning about the various protocols and scenarios field agents face, but his favorite part was the self-defense stuff. Even though he was still working on getting in shape, they had already taught him a few basic hand-to-hand techniques. And the firing range! The only weapon he’d ever fired was a dinky .22 bolt-action target rifle that was little better than a BB gun. Now he’d tried pistols, shotguns, and even the odd automatic (his favorite was the MP5; so simple, yet so effective).
Not today, however. One of the researchers told him today’s experiment had been cancelled for some reason, and all his trainers were busy, so he was enjoying a nice lazy day. He rolled onto his back on the couch, feet propped up on the far armrest. He glanced at the PC in the corner of the room and thought about firing it up and playing something a bit more substantial than what the iPad could handle. But he quickly decided against it. I’m comfy here, why stop a good thing?
As if in response to the thought, the door chime sounded. Technically, the Foundation could open the door if they wanted to, but generally knocked or rang before entering as a gesture of basic respect. “Come in,” Holtzman called, craning his neck to face the door.
The door slid open, and a nurse wearing sky-blue scrubs with blond hair entered the room. She had been assigned mostly as his handler, responsible for basic interactions, and taking simple measurements like heart-rate, pulse, etc. John had nick-named her Nurse Joy for her bubbly attitude and used the nickname so much he’d actually forgotten her real name. Today however, she seemed rather hurried and harassed.
“OK, big guy, up and at ‘em!” she said, clapping her hands together. Something in her voice sounded tense and urgent. “You’ve got an emergency roll-out, Mr. Agent-in-Training. Where, are your shoes…oh, there they are. C’mon, get moving!”
John frowned, feeling confused. His shoes were sitting by the couch, and as he sat up, he slid his feet into them. “What’s going on?” he asked as he tied his shoulder length hair into a ponytail.
Nurse Joy shrugged. “They didn’t tell me. Just that you have your first field assignment, and to get you moving ASAP.” She started backing out the door, gesturing for him to follow. “C’mon, let’s go!” And with that she was out the door and turned out of view.
John stumbled to his feet, finishing his hair tie as he hurried to catch up. “Is this some sort of drill?” he called out.
Sitting on the uncomfortable bench in the back of the Sea Knight helicopter, John decided this was probably not a drill.
They had rushed him through the winding hallways of Site 17, until finally arriving at a locker room. There, he changed out of his Foundation-issued track suit, and into a black jumpsuit and matching army boots. Then, two security guards entered carrying a complete set of body armor. With some assistance, he had donned a bulletproof vest, elbow and knee pads, fingerless gloves with hard armor on the knuckles, safety glasses, and a helmet with a headset built into it, which plugged into a radio tucked into the vest. They also strapped a curved metal plate to his left forearm, but not a matching plate to his right. John considered asking about this, but everyone seemed to be in a great hurry and he figured there’d be an explanation later. The guards then hurried Holtzman to the next room.
This turned out to be an armory, with a firing range nearby. A quartermaster stood behind a counter, a wide array of weapons secured behind him in cages. One of the guards handed an authorization form to the quartermaster, a medium-sized stocky man with a completely bald head, and a small curved scar on the left side of his face. The quartermaster read the form, nodded, and reached beneath the counter, producing a standard Berretta 9mm pistol and holster. “Probably won’t need it for this op,” he commented, “but better to have it and not need it than the other way around.” John thought about asking what the mission was exactly, but deduced he’d probably get his own personal briefing with a bit more detail down the line. The holstered pistol was strapped to his right-thigh.
The next item produced was a sheathed machete, about the length of Holtzman’s arm, fingertip to shoulder blade. The hand grip was molded with textured polymer, and the blade curved inward like a dog’s hind leg. John recognized the style as a kukri. “Hot off the forge,” the quartermaster announced, drawing the blade out. It had been painted matte black which made the weapon look less shiny. John saw that there seemed to be wavy lines inlaid into the metal and asked about them. “Carbon nanotubes,” the quartermaster answered. “Same fundamental principle as Damascus steel, though obviously we can’t replicate that. Still, the modern equivalent we’ve come up with makes this thing pretty tough. And don’t worry; none of this stuff was made with anomalous means or tech, so it won’t just dissolve in your hands.”
Baldy held out the machete by the blade. John took the handle and was surprised at how light the thing was. He stepped back, and took a quick swing, the air swishing behind as it cut through. The kukri was re-sheathed and strapped to the left side of his belt.
The final piece of equipment was the most surprising. The quartermaster stepped away from the counter for a moment, then returned with a long, spindly machine gun. The stamped-steel construction indicated a weapon of Teutonic origins, but it also seemed to have a hint of elegance beneath the brutishness. The stock looked slightly bulkier than usual, and a stabilizer bar had been welded to the side.
Baldy looked over the weapon the way a father might admire his son’s baseball trophy. “My pride and joy,” he said lovingly. As he walked through the weapons traits, he spun the gun around, pointing out the various features. “Fires 7.92mm rounds with a cyclic rate of 1200 RPM. Belt-fed, recoil-operated, roller locked. Counter-weights here, here, and here, with shock absorbers here, and here. Kicks like an angry-drunk mule but guaranteed to give whatever you point her at a very bad day.” He held the weapons length-wise and held it out to the new recruit. “I call her Mad Granny.”
Taking hold of the machine gun was the exact opposite of the kukri, as it was quite heavy. The quartermaster came out from behind the counter, and showed the rookie how to load the weapon, draping the ammo belt over the metal plate on his left arm. That explains that, at least, he thought. They escorted him to the firing range for some quick practice. The quartermaster’s assessment of the recoil turned out to be understated, and his first test fire traced a line of bullet holes up to the ceiling. Fortunately, Baldy was a good instructor, showing John how to brace himself, and how best to force the weapon back down when its muzzle tried to wander skyward. By the time he finished his third ammo belt, he was at least accurate enough to keep most shots on target.
Finally, he’d been escorted to the helipad, where the Sea Knight was waiting. Despite ample room for many more passengers, only one other person, a researcher fiddling with a tablet PC, was on board. John took the seat across from him. He hoped he would finally be told what was happening, but the researcher leaned forward and shouted over the roar of the rotors, “Hang tight, Dr. Clef will brief you in a moment.” He plugged John’s headset into the tablet, then sat back. John couldn’t help but notice the researcher seemed nervous, even though the man was completely unarmed (suggesting he probably wasn’t going wherever John was going).
The Sea Knight took off, and John watched out the nearest window as the ground zipped by. Eventually, land transitioned to water, as they crossed over to an ocean (though he had no idea which one). He was starting to feel anxious and thought about trying to get more info from the researcher. Before he could ask however, the other man’s face lit up, and gestured for John to look at the tablet. He then flipped the tablet to face John, showing a video conference trying to load.
After a moment 3 faces popped into existence. The first was Dr. Clef. Out of all the senior researchers he’d met, Alto Clef had seemed the friendliest. He had lobbied quite successfully for the majority of his creature comforts and seemed quite interested in the various goings-on in John’s life. When they’d first met, Clef seemed positively giddy about meeting the newly-christened “Skip,” and had burbled about “reality benders” and something about Scranton (though John was fairly certain he didn’t mean the Pennsylvania city). His smile could be kinda creepy, but he did have good taste in music.
Dr. Bright appeared in the window next to Dr. Clef. Although Holtzman and Dr. Bright got along quite well, they’d never actually met in-person. Apparently, Dr. Bright had some sort of amulet that let him jump from person to person. There was concern that Holtzman’s anomaly-nullifying effect could somehow disrupt that process, and no one seemed ready to risk that. As a result, all of their conversations had been through e-mail, IM, and video chat. Although Bright wasn’t technically attached to the SCP-XXXX Project, he still consulted every now and then, and John appreciated his mischievous sense of humor.
John didn’t recognize the third man. He appeared to be of Scandinavian descent, with curly blonde hair, and a thin, well-trimmed beard (making Holtzman feel slightly self-conscious of his own unkempt chin scruff). Later, when he looked back on the whole ordeal, he realized this man had never actually spoken directly to him.
“…not a good idea to send untrained personnel in this situation against this kind of threat,” the Scandinavian man was saying.
Clef looked like a bored teenager sitting in math class, but immediately brightened upon realizing his favorite Skip had joined in. “There’s my guy! How ya’ doing slugger?”
“Just wondering what all the fuss is about,” John quipped, hoping neither his confusion or his anxiety showed through.
Clef gave a good-hearted (and slightly forced) chuckle. “Well, lets get you up to speed then.” Clef’s attention drifted slightly off screen, as he seemed to be working a nearby computer. The video conference was replaced with a picture of a harsh-looking man with coffee-colored skin, and dark eyes.
“Meet Able,” Dr. Clef said from off screen. “Or as we like to call him, SCP-076-2.” John idly wondered just how many SCPs there were. The thought was quickly shoved aside, as a video of the evil-looking man loaded. It seemed like it was security camera footage, judging by the angle and quality. The man called Able rushed at seemingly inhuman speed towards a what seemed like a guard wearing body armor. John watched as Able’s fist seemed to punch through the guard’s abdomen like it was made of drywall.
“Woah,” was all John could say, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. Really hoping this isn’t why you called me here, Doc.
“It gets better,” Clef said. The scene changed to a new camera, this time the dark man’s back was to the camera, and several armed guards were firing at him. He held his hand out, and a vicious-looking curved sword appeared in his hand. John looked away, deciding not to watch the end result.
Finally, the screen changed back to the video conference. “So yeah, this little bundle of joy has been a royal pain to deal with. In addition to what you just saw, he seems incredibly resilient to damage, and even if you can kill him, his body just sort of dissolves and reforms in this stone box of his. Later down the line, the box re-opens, and it’s rinse and repeat.”
After a moment of silence, John asked hesitantly, “And you’re sending me to fight this guy?”
Clef looked shocked. “What, no… well, not if everything goes according to plan.” More off-screen clicking, and a diagram of what looked like an oil rig appeared. “This is Site 25B,” Dr. Bright narrated, as the diagram showed a long elevator leading to an underwater complex. “The site is designed for one purpose: keep Able from getting out into the world and killing people. It’s loaded with enough weapons, booby traps, and armed personnel to make a Bond villain wet himself with excitement. Just one problem: it’s not working so much right now.”
John frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”
The video conference re-appeared on screen. “Not sure, not exactly my department,” Dr. Bright continued. “It seems to be an issue with the on-site server. None of the weapons or fail-safes are working. We have partial security cameras, but there are quite a few blind spots. And just to pour a little extra seawater in the festering wound, the base is on lockdown, and even that isn’t working right. Various sections and rooms are closed, trapping most of the personnel. The ones that weren’t locked in are being picked off by SCP-076-2.”
John raised an eyebrow. “I’m not really a security expert, but this sounds like the sort of thing that shouldn’t be able to happen. All of the fail-safes are malfunctioning at the same time?”
Bright looked uncomfortable. “Well, there is one safeguard that’s working, mostly because it’s remotely activated.”
“And we’re not remotely activating it because…?”
“Because it’s a 5-kiloton tactical nuke buried beneath the facility,” Bright answered gravely.
John’s eyes widened. “What about the people trapped inside?”
“Collateral damage,” Dr. Bright said flatly. “Unfortunate, but we cannot allow SCP-076 to escape out into the general public. The amount of destruction he could inflict would be catastrophic.”
“Fortunately, we have you here, ready and willing,” Clef interrupted, almost sounding cheerful.
Holtzman almost felt sick to his stomach. “Why me though? Don’t we have…I don’t know, experts for this? I mean, am I a field agent now? I don’t think I’ve been trained for this…”
Clef waved his hand dismissively. “Pretty sure there is no training for facing this particular psychopath. As for your agent status, officially it’s still being considered. Just think of it as a field test, or a live-fire exercise. It all goes with the turf.
“And yes, we do have Mobile Task Forces we could send in. However, I’m betting your funky-anti-reality-bending-mojo or whatever you give off will come in handy here.”
The Not-Field-Agent looked pensive. It’s a big risk, he thought.
Still, gotta appreciate a scientist who can work in ‘funky-anti-reality-bending-mojo’ into a sentence.
“Doc, I don’t know if I could actually kill anyone…” In fact, he was pretty sure he couldn’t kill anyone. ‘Fundamental respect for life’ he’d called it once. Not that anyone in the police or prosecutor’s office had cared…
“Like I said, this isn’t a search and destroy. It’s a rescue op. Hey, no-name junior research guy! Give him the key!”
If the researcher holding up the tablet was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead, he reached into a pocket of his white lab coat, and produced a USB thumb drive, and handed it to the skip sitting across from him.
“That’s an override key for the site’s internal network,” Clef said. “It’s set to run as soon as you plug it into one of the servers and replicate across all programs. It basically forces everything to stop and reboot. Don’t lose it, it’s my only one.”
As John tucked the drive into a pocket on his vest, Clef continued. “Your primary mission is to enter the facility, plug that key into any of the servers, and restart the security program. Don’t worry, Mission Command will guide you to the server farm through your radio. Your secondary mission is to evacuate any survivors to the surface. We’ll have evac helos and armed back-up standing by. Your tertiary objective, well, should you encounter SCP-076-2, do what you need to do to survive.”
There was a long pause. John stared hollowly at his boots, feeling shaky. “Think you’re up for this?” Clef asked. “We can abort if you’re not feeling it.”
It was a pointless question, and John knew it. That Fundamental Respect for Life philosophy applied to the trapped people as well. If you don’t go in, the Foundation will nuke the place. They’re not uncaring, but they are practical.
“No, let’s do this,” he said, hoping he sounded more solid than he felt.
Dr. Clef smiled that Cheshire smile of his. “Go get ‘em, big guy!” The conference call disconnected, leaving the standard SCP logo wallpaper on the tablet.
John leaned back on the bench. I guess this was to be expected. Just gotta think of this like an anomalous retrieval mission. Or like the Doc said, a search and rescue mission.
A search and rescue mission with a violent immortal psychopath.
John felt a chill run down his spine. He leaned forward and called to the researcher, “Is there a bathroom on this thing?"
The researcher handed John an empty plastic water bottle. Better than flying on United, at least.
A few minutes later, the facility (or at least the part of the facility that was above the ocean) was visible through the chopper’s window. Even as they closed in, John thought it looked like a simple oil rig, which was probably the idea. A red light turned on, and a voice over the radio crackled “60 seconds until touchdown.”
John double-checked that his headset was plugged firmly back into the radio (which he later realized was pointless, as he’d just clearly heard the pilot). John stood up, hefted Mad Granny into position, and faced the entry ramp. The junior researcher gave an encouraging smile and thumbs-up. “You got this!” he shouted over the din.
Easy for you to say. You’re not walking into the lion’s den.
Moments later, the ramp lowered, and the smell of saltwater wafted in. With a soft thump, the helicopter set down, and John walked down the ramp, his thick boots clumping all the way down to the concrete landing pad. As soon as he was clear, the chopper lifted back up, its ramp still closing as it pulled away. He looked forlornly at his quickly fading ride. Somewhere in his head, he remembered a quote about the Vietnam War, though he couldn’t remember where from. “There are two types of guys: those who watch as the chopper flies off, and those who look ahead and focus on their mission.”
As he turned back to face the dingy metal structure of the rig, his headset crackled to life. “Echo 1, this is Command. Comm check.”
Balancing the machine gun as best he could, he put a hand up to his right earpiece. “Command, Echo 1. Comm check confirmed, status is green.” He hoped he had gotten his radio protocols correct; it would be embarrassing to have gone through all that training and messed up something so basic.
“Roger that,” the deep voice on the other side of the radio boomed. “Proceed to structure and enter main elevator.
Getting his grip back onto Mad Granny, he walked towards the central building. Apart from his footsteps, the only sound was the ocean waves crashing distantly. The derrick was completely abandoned, giving it an eerie, almost Twilight Zone-esque feel to it. On the plus side, it was a warm sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. This particular comfort was soon removed, as he entered the rust-tinged brown building.
Inside the room was painted dull gray, with diamond-plate steel floor. In the center of the room was a large cylindrical elevator, perhaps 20 feet long, and maybe 12 or 15 feet high. The rest of the room was empty, feeling rather spartan compared to all the riggings and set pieces outside designed to make the structure look like an authentic oil rig to outside eyes. No need to keep up pretenses in here.
With a soft whir, the elevator door opened on its own, revealing a sterile-white car with thin grey carpet. He was wondering how the door knew to open, when the radio piped in. “Echo 1 , proceed with mission.” Cautiously, he stepped into the chamber. He checked the walls for a button, but they were all suspiciously blank. Without warning, the door closed and the elevator began to descend. “Sit tight, Echo 1, you’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Big Brother is watching me, and for once, that’s in a good way. He double checked his equipment, making sure armor was strapped securely in place, checking to make sure Mad Granny’s ammo belt was loaded correctly. Then he started re-checking his double check.
“Echo 1, Command,” the radio called into his ear.
John seemed to snap to attention. “Go for Echo1,” he said crisply, and perhaps a bit too quickly, betraying his underlying fear.
“Take a deep breath,” the radio commanded.
His shoulders slumped, as he inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. He couldn’t tell if this helped or not, but at least felt better knowing whoever was on comms at least tried to help. I am SO glad I peed back on the helicopter, or I’d be damn near wetting myself now. As the elevator descended, he felt like Ripley at the end of Aliens. Heavily armed, walking into the lair of some horrific beast, trying to save lives. Of course, Ripley was a woman, not an overweight nerd armed with weapons he’d never really used before. And, oh yeah, that was a movie.
Finally, the elevator slowed to a halt, and Holtzman steadied himself. He leveled the machine gun at the door, ready for action. Bring it on, I’m ready! The door slid open…
…and revealed a hallway that seemed about as mundane as any found in a generic office building. The walls were a slightly duller shade of white than the elevator’s. The floor was done in gray rubber tiles with circular bumps, giving them the impression of giant flattened LEGOs. A few gunmetal-gray doors lined the halls, with numbered signs to indicate room numbers. The lights were slightly dimmer than the elevators, but otherwise everything seemed ordinary. There were only two indications of trouble: first, there were a few tiny strobe lights pulsing, much like how most fire alarms worked in public buildings. Second, there were small monitors hanging from the ceiling at regular intervals flashing the word LOCKDOWN in red letters.
But it was the silence that was most unnerving. There was a slight hum from the ventilation system, but otherwise, the only thing John could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he reasoned with himself. Maybe I can avoid Able entirely.
Yeah, and maybe monkeys might fly out of my butt.
As if responding to his hesitancy, Command stepped in on the radio. “OK Echo 1, we’ve got you on cameras now. No sign of Tango, he’s probably in one of our blind spots. Try to keep noise to a minimum; no need to attract unneeded attention. Now, proceed down the hall, and at the T-intersection, turn left.”
Wordlessly, the not-at-all-ready agent stepped off the elevator and began to move cautiously down the corridor. On a whim, he tried one of the doors. The door handle clicked solidly, locked. He gripped onto his weapon tightly, his knuckles turning white like marble, as he suddenly wished he’d had a little more practice time.
Command guided Holtzman through a quite literal maze of corridors. All the hallways were unmarked and painted the same dull color, with some stopping in dead-ends. There were a few doors along the way but all of them had no markings or names, only numbers. It seemed like the designers hadn’t exactly made this place user-friendly. After a few minutes of being guided through, John realized that this place was intentionally designed like a maze. Makes it harder for certain people to get out.
“Echo 1, you’re approaching a camera dead zone,” the booming voice advised coolly. “Proceed cautiously, and make sure to check your corners.”
And just like that, the whole scene went straight to hell.
At the other end of the corridor, about 30 feet away, a tall dark Middle Eastern man stepped in from an adjoining corridor to the right. He was somewhat slender, but his muscles shared not a single micron of fat. His arms were like steel cables and were covered in tattoos like a yakuza hitman. Dark stringy black hair fell over his eyes, which seemed to stare hollowly ahead. What looked like a tattered half-toga covered his lower half, his feet bare and making slapping sounds against the rubber floor.
Even though the corridor was completely still, John felt a chill across his body, like suddenly being in caught in a polar vortex. His joints seemed to lock in place, refusing any command to budge. For some reason, all he could think was, He’s not as tall as I thought he’d be.
Then, as if in slow motion, the dark man’s eyes and face turned to face its new prey.
Oh crap oh crap oh crap he sees me!
Shoot him!
Bracing himself, he levelled the machine gun at his target, and squeezed the trigger. The room exploded into a sound like a buzzsaw cutting through a sheet of plywood, as Mad Granny spat hot lead. White lines traced through the air, streaking out of the weapon’s tip towards the target at the end of the hall.
And just as suddenly as the noise had started, it stopped. John looked down at Mad Granny. The ammo belt, which only a moment ago had been draped over his arm plate, was gone. It had been replaced with dozens of empty bullet shells on the floor and bits of chewed-up plastic from the ammo belt. That was fast.
John looked back up to where his adversary was standing. The air was a bit smoky from the gunfire, but John could soon spot the figure at the end of the hall. He had a few bullet wounds, and the wall behind him looked Swiss cheese, but there didn’t seem to be any appreciable damage. Holtzman felt his jaw drop, or had it been dropped all along? Who the fuck is this guy, Wolverine?
Seemingly unfazed by the attack, the adversary bent his knees slightly into a ready position, then charged.
He moved with a speed and form that would’ve made Usain Bolt jealous. As he approached, the world seemed to slow down again. For some reason, Holtzman seemed to focus on Able’s face. A predatory grin was plastered on his face. A stray memory clicked in John’s mind. It was back in junior high school, during recess period. He was a skinny, awkward pre-teen, zits covering his face, and growing pains in both legs. The class bully, Brian Something-or-Other, had been blessed with early puberty, was already nearly 6 feet tall, and built like a Sherman tank. One of his favorite recess activities was to spot the 98-pound weakling, and charge at him like a mad bull, knowing that his prey was utterly defenseless.
And he had that same look on his face as the monster bearing down on him.
Without warning, John’s fear melted into rage. That experience had created a sense of injustice in him. He had lived in fear, helpless and without anyone to call for help.
He thinks he’s untouchable. He thinks he can do whatever he wants.
The grip he had on the now-empty machine gun tightened even further. Determination forged the rage he felt until it was white-hot.
PUNCH THE FUCKER!!!!
Able was within 10 feet of his target, when he leapt into the air with the grace of a gazelle. His right fist was cocked, ready to strike. There was no time to drop emptied weapon in his hand.
Just because it’s empty, doesn’t mean it’s useless.
Bending his knees into a bracing position, he thrust the machine gun forward like a spear. The muzzle buried itself into the adversary’s solar plexus. John felt resistance, then slowly felt it give way, as the barrel dug in even further. The adversary’s body bent inwards, like a sideways “V.” The evil grin was replaced with sheer bug-eyed shock, as the wind was knocked out of him. An instant later, his momentum was broken, and he was pushed back. Amazingly, he managed to land on his feet, but he stumbled backwards, bent over and clutching his stomach. A smell like burnt meat mixed with smell of cordite and gunpowder.
Holy shit, that actually WORKED!
The enemy looked up, utter confusion on his face. The two just stared at each other, Holtzman’s mouth still gaping in surprise. Under other circumstances, the scene might’ve been hilarious; a tattooed caveman and someone dressed like a SWAT officer staring each other down.
Eventually, Able straightened up, his face returning to its original stony visage. A dark red ring had been branded into his lower torso. Slowly, almost dramatically, he raised his right arm, until his hand was perpendicular to the rest of his body. And with a soft puff, a curved black sword with jagged edges appeared in his hand.
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap he’s got a sword!
You have a sword too.
Feeling like he was late to the party, he finally released his death-grip on Mad Granny, which clunked onto the floor. Reaching down to his waist, he drew the kukri, and stood in his best impression of a ready-stance (which probably would’ve been more convincing if his hands weren’t shaking).
The wolfish grin returned to the adversary’s face, as he raised the sword above his head and charged again.
Here he comes!
OK, raise the sword up and block his strike. Don’t relent! Put all your strength into this!
John shifted the blade to its side, held it above his head, and tried to anticipate where the strike would land. As the hostile approached, he brought down the black edge with all the strength of a crashing tsunami. John braced again, and closed his eyes…
…and felt as the two blades clashed, yet oddly didn’t feel the weight was as heavy as he’d expected. Instead, he heard a sound like SHUNK, felt the pressure disappear, and heard a clattering sound. He opened his eyes, and saw his opponent looking at his own sword, which was now a third it’s original size. Somehow, John had cut right through the sword like it was nothing; the rest of the blade was lying on the ground, which had obviously been the source of the noise. The adversary was now switching his gaze between the broken sword in his hand, and its broken counterpart on the ground. If he had looked shocked before, he was positively gobsmacked now.
Don’t waste this opportunity! He’s stunned, strike now!
Another stray memory shuffled into his mind. He was playing an RPG, and his character, a warrior, had just learned a new special skill.
The pommel strike.
The machete didn’t have a pommel in the traditional sense, but enough of the handle stuck out to serve the same function. John brought the handle down as hard as he could. Able was just starting to turn his gaze of wonder onto his mysterious opponent, and the machete handle struck his left eye socket with a crack. He cried out in pain, reeling backwards.
Don’t let him get away, you can finish this!
John shifted, and tried to swing the kukri at his foe, but the adversary regained enough composure to backstep away. John felt the sharp tip catch briefly on something, then fought for his own balance, as he finished his swing at air. Able recovered his own stance about 6 feet away. His left eye squinted, already starting bruise. His left arm dangled limply, a stream of blood trickling from an open wound. His right hand still gripped his neatly bifurcated weapon.
The two stared each other down.
Uh, now what?
Well, if this keeps going, someone is going to get killed.
You’ve been kicking his ass pretty good, try intimidating him into a surrender.
Holtzman, swung the blade through the air with a VSH, and pointed the tip at his enemy’s face. “You have a choice,” he announced, channeling his inner John McClane. “Get back in your cell, or I’ll put you there, one piece at a time.”
Lame! Rewrite!
I thought it was pretty Schwatzenagerian.
Wait, does this guy speak English? Was that in the briefing?
If he did, the intimidation attempt had the opposite effect. His look of surprise dissolved into unbridled outrage. He howled an inhuman war cry, and charged, readying his shattered weapon to strike.
Nononononono!
No choice strike now! Go for his left side, that arm’s not looking so good!
John feinted to his left, and then moved right, holding the machete sideways. Able approached fast, then suddenly seemed to lunge forward awkwardly. Gripping the kukri with both hands like a baseball bat, he swung and closed his eyes again. The blade connected with something and he felt a sharp pain in his left wrist. He felt a spray of hot liquid on his side, accompanied by a smell like metal.
Not like this. Please not like this. I don’t want to die.
It was a moment later that John realized two things.
First, he was still alive. Not only was he alive, he was still in one piece. He opened his eyes and saw a dark red stain on the left side of his safety glasses. In fact, most of his left side was covered in blood, as was the kukri. As far as he could tell, none of it was his. He had no cuts, though his wrist throbbed mercilessly.
The second thing he realized was there was a sound like something metal rolling. Looking down, he saw one of Mad Granny’s shells rolling away from him. He replayed the last few seconds in his mind, and belatedly remembered the adversary had seemed to trip up at the end.
I get to live because he slipped.
Wait, where is he?
Slowly, Holtzman turned his head left, his view still slightly obscured. His eyes looked as far left as he could but the hall behind him was empty. Then he looked down. The enemy was lying on his stomach his left arm stretched awkwardly towards John’s leg. John managed to gasp in terror, dropping the machete, which clanged onto the floor. He tried to turn and step back, but his movements were clumsy, and he fell, landing squarely on his butt. He tried to crab-walk back but ended up flailing helplessly. His eyes met Able’s, they seemed as stoic and hollow as ever. Almost as an afterthought, he remembered the quartermaster saying, “Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.” He reached for the holstered pistol, fumbled the grip, then managed to draw it on his second try.
By the time he had the sidearm pointed at his foe, he realized it wasn’t needed. The eyes were staring blankly, the unfocused stare of something dead. The broken sword was still gripped in his hand. A growing puddle of blood was spilling out of a nasty-looking gash on his side.
John rolled onto his side, and promptly vomited.
Oh my god! You killed him!
Nice job. You’re a real murderer now.
“…cho 1….?”
So much for fundamental respect for life. You cut him down in cold blood.
No! I tried to stop him. I tried to warn him!
“….john…?”
Bullshit. You were too busy playing action hero. Making dumb quips and swinging a sword with all the care of a toddler.
He tried to kill me!
“John?”
Whatever fortune just saved your life, you don’t deserve it. It should be you, lying there now.
“JOHN!!!”
Snapping out of his jumble of thoughts, he suddenly remembered the radio headset still on his head. “Uh, yeah, um, Echo 1 here, target neutralized, awaiting evac, all systems go,” he blurted, all of his radio protocol training came rushing out like a river rushing over a broken levy.
“John don’t move!” the voice commanded.
John froze, feeling a cold lump form in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he thought maybe Able wasn’t dead, but he was just as still as he had been, and completely lifeless. A moment later, John understood. In his panic, he had been skittering farther away from the corpse. Now it sat just on the edge of what Dr. Clef had called his “mojo.” Any further, and the body could just vanish.
“Copy,” he said shakily. “Holding position.”
“Hang in there, Echo 1,” Command said reassuringly. “Backup will be onsite in 10 minutes.”
I’m not going anywhere.
With the punctuality of a Japanese train, a squad of heavily armed soldiers in black armor (and what looked like gas masks) came storming in 10 minutes later. Half of them covered the fallen Able, while the rest formed a barrier between John and his fallen foe. One of the squaddies, likely a medic, knelt down next to Holtzman, and checked him for injuries. Moments later, two people in sky-blue hazmat suits arrived with a gurney. They carefully loaded the dead man onboard and collected both halves of the sword, while the medic helped Holtzman get to his feet.
The group rushed through the maze of hallways, arriving in a laboratory. In the center of the laboratory was a circular room with transparent walls. Two surgical beds sat in the middle, surrounded by medical instruments and testing equipment. John sat on the edge of one, and Able’s corpse was hauled onto the other.
Two hours later, John was still sitting on the bed, staring blankly forward. More scientists came and went in both the isolation chamber and the lab itself. All the people who came into the isolation chamber wore hazmat suits. John thought about asking if he should be wearing one of those but reasoned that it was probably too late to prevent exposure (assuming there was anything to be exposed to). Someone had cleaned most of the blood off him and put his left arm in a sling. As it turned out, he had sprained his wrist, likely from holding the kukri incorrectly.
My only injury, and it was self-inflicted.
At least the science team seemed to be having a good day. They flitted around their new specimen like bees in a hive, collected samples, wheeling in equipment, and bumping into each other. Most were so enamored with their work that they hardly seemed to notice John. Therefore, it was a bit surprising when one of the suited figures sat down next to him.
“Come here often?” a familiar voice asked.
Looking closely, he could see the familiar face of Nurse Joy. He gave the most tired, haggard smile of his life. “First time here. You?”
Joy smiled gently. “I’m just here for the chicken wings.”
John’s gaze dropped down to his feet, dangling an inch above the ground, now joined by Joy’s plastic-wrapped feet. He wished he knew what to say. Normally he was great at making puns and quips. Not today, though.
“You okay?” Joy asked, a touch of concern in her voice.
“I’ll be alright,” he mumbled.
A gloved hand reached under his chin, lifting his face and guiding it to face her again. She looked worried, like a mother with a sick child. She said gently, “Just because you weren’t injured, doesn’t mean you’re not hurt.”
Like the walls of Jericho, John felt his stoic, manly side collapse. Hot stinging tears began to stream down both cheeks, and he felt himself start sobbing uncontrollably. The nurse gently hugged her patient, letting him rest his head on her shoulder.
Dr. Clef lit the cigarette anchored between his lips, and inhaled deeply, feeling the pleasant warmth spread through his chest. He needed the comfort. This day officially sucked.
Naturally, he had arrived at Site 25B personally, since his prized SCP had been involved in a traumatic incident. Unfortunately, this meant he was now the senior Foundation officer on site. Which meant he got to oversee the recovery and ongoing autopsy. He hated cleanup work, and this whole mess stank of cleanup work. Worse, they were operating in a confined isolation lab and everyone was tripping over one another, trying to bring in equipment not necessarily meant to be in the chamber. Under ordinary circumstances, they wouldn’t need to do this; just send a sample out of the tank, and run tests. Now, however, if they removed the sample from the lab, it just dissolved into dust.
An assistant researcher wearing a CBE suit with the helm pulled back approached Clef with a clipboard. It was a different guy than the one who’d accompanied SCP-XXXX on the helicopter. Or maybe it was the same one? All these kids looked alike. The junior handed the clipboard to Clef.
“Whatcha got, kid?” Alto asked through half his mouth, the other half clamped onto the cigarette.
“Metallurgical analysis for the sword fragment.” The kid sounded tired. To be expected, it had been a rough day for everyone.
Clef handed the clipboard back. “It’s been a long day, how about you sum it up for me?”
The researcher took the clipboard back and nodded. “Well, there’s a lot we’re still not sure of, but as far as we can tell, it’s just carbon.”
Clef frowned. “That’s it?”
The kid shrugged. “Pretty much. Its chemical structure is a little odd, but it seems to be similar to graphite.”
Clef snorted. “Pencil lead. No wonder our guy managed to cut through it.” Clef took another drag on his smoke, then plucked it out with his index and middle fingers. “Anything new on the autopsy?”
“Not really. So far, it’s been pretty unremarkable. Heart, lungs, kidneys all average. There’s some odd scar tissue in a few places, but nothing too strange. They did note that his blood seemed to be missing some of the antigens you’d expect to find in a modern human.” The kid paused, then added, “His blood type is AB Negative, if that matters.”
The doctor leaned on the nearby counter. “So, we have nothing. The first time we’ve ever been able to examine this nutcase up close, and he’s a completely ordinary man wielding weapons that can double as a #2 pencil. Only we know that’s not right, because we’ve seen him punch through tanks and cut through solid steel walls.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
He could see the kid looked like he was about to say something. “And if you tell me this is a no smoking area,” Clef added, “I’ll shove your head into the mass spectrometer.” The kid closed his mouth and remained silent.
Slowly, Alto noticed that there was a soft tapping noise coming from somewhere in the room. He and the junior researcher looked over at the isolation cell, and saw John knocking on the cell’s wall. Once he saw he had their attention, the living SCP pointed at an intercom mounted on the wall.
Clef walked over to another intercom mounted on a support pillar and clicked it on. “Hey there, Rambo,” he said, adopting a friendlier tone. “How ya holdin’ up?”
Holtzman looked genuinely surprised at the question. He almost seemed to deflate before them. He was wearing just his jumpsuit and boots now, and he almost seemed smaller now. His hair seemed to droop off his head, with a few errant strands escaping the grasp of his hair tie. “Oh, uh, I’m OK,” he mumbled.
Liar, Clef though to himself. He made a mental note to double-up on John’s counselling sessions for the next few weeks. “Can we get you anything? Drink, something to read, a Medal of Honor?”
“Actually, would it be alright if I made an observation?” John asked.
Clef blinked in surprise. “Sure, why not?” Couldn’t hurt to humor him.
John began to pace as he spoke. “Well, from what I’m seeing, everyone appears to be looking for something anomalous or at least out of the ordinary here.”
Clef nodded and tried his best not to sound condescending. “Right. We’ve never had this opportunity before.”
“Well, you’re not going to find anything.”
Clef sighed. “Look, I know this has been going on for a few hours, but if you could just be patient, I’m sure we’ll….”
John interrupted. “Let me put it another way: we know from past experience this guy disappears when he dies. Why isn’t he disappearing now?”
Clef wasn’t really following the line of reasoning but decided to play along. “Because you’re there. You’re giving off something similar to a Scranton Reality Anchor, only on a smaller more intense scale.”
John nodded. “Exactly. That’s also why you won’t find anything unusual. It’s being suppressed.”
And there it was. The truth hit Clef like a ton of bricks. He turned to the junior researcher, who still looked a bit confused. “It’s like we’ve been staring at a grenade with the pin still in it, wondering why it doesn’t explode,” he explained.
Finally, the kid got it. “We’ve been chasing our tails here.”
Clef glowered. “Nicely put. Now what do we do?”
The kid didn’t seem to realize the question was mostly rhetorical. “Could we try to set up something like a half-way point? Maybe on the event horizon of SCP XXXX?”
Clef’s face remained grim. “It’s a binary state effect. You’re either in its area of effect, in which case the anomaly is neutralized, or you’re outside the AoE, in which case the anomaly returns to normal. There’s no gray zone.” He sighed, and added, “This is like one of those stupid riddles where you have to try to figure out how to carry someone across a river in a boat that can only hold one person. Hate those damn things.”
“I always loved doing those back in school,” the researcher said. “Especially when they were worth extra credit.”
If looks could kill, the look Clef shot the kid would’ve left him dead twice over. Junior shut his mouth so quickly he could’ve bitten his own tongue off. “Getting back on topic,” Clef said through gritted teeth, “we know all the samples we’ve taken out of the room evaporate as soon as they’re out of our guy’s sphere of influence. So obviously, the same thing will happen if the whole body is removed.”
“Isn’t that to our advantage?”
Both scientists looked with surprise first at the intercom, then to the figure still standing in the containment chamber. During his pow-wow with Captain Oblivious, Clef had completely forgotten the intercom was still on. “How so?” he asked.
“Well,” John said, beginning to sound like a college professor, “logically speaking, we know what will happen, and we can control when it will happen, right?”
“Right,” agreed Dr. Clef.
“The difference here is we can control the when. Using your analogy, we can control when we pull the pin on the grenade. So, let’s set up as many instruments and high-speed cameras, and tricorders or whatever in here. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll just walk out of the room. And you guys can get a close-up of what happens.”
Brilliant, Clef thought. It was the best of both worlds. They could get set up at their own pace, and once they were ready, just sit back and watch the fireworks. He looked over at the junior researcher. The kid just shrugged.
Clef turned back to Holtzman with a knowing smile. “Just one thing: you told me once your IQ didn’t break the bank. So how did you figure this one out?”
John gave a sheepish smile and raised his unslung arm in a half-shrug. “Uh, no hablo ingles?”
Clef laughed. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, we’ve got work to do.”
An hour later, John was out of the isolation cell. The scientists had been abuzz as he left the lab, watching the remains turn to dust. Nurse Joy and two guards had taken him to what seemed to be guest quarters, and he’d immediately taken advantage of the shower. He stood under the hot stream of water, felt it run down his body. Normally, he loved the relaxing feel of a good shower, but steaming drops might as well have been ice cubes. He kept replaying the fight over and over in his head. At first, he thought maybe he was trying to find something he could’ve done differently. Eventually, it just started looping in his memory, becoming a non-stop highlights reel of terror and death. Able walks into view, the grin and the outraged reaction it had triggered, the look of surprise, the sword, the broken sword, the fatal cut, the sprawled body, the lifeless eyes, the walk into view, the grin…
John shook his head, trying to physically eject the memory from his head. After an interminable amount of time, he turned off the spigot, stepped out of the shower, and began to towel off. The steam had fogged up the mirror, and he wiped a section clear with his hand. He almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at him. He seemed to have aged 10 years since this morning. It was almost hard to believe it was still the same day. The bags under his eyes looked pronounced, his unshaven face seemed to droop, and his eyes seemed blank, almost glassy.
The face of a killer.
He finished toweling off, and stepped out of the bathroom, and into the smallish bedroom. Someone had removed his blood-stained jumpsuit and left a fresh SCP-branded track suit on the bed. As he changed into it, he idly wondered where these suits were made. Was there a textile plant that made these things, never knowing where they would end up? The mystery proved a decent, but ultimately ineffective distraction from the lingering memory of his recent dark deed.
He finished changing and sat on the bed. Almost as soon as he sat down, there was a knock on the door. He nearly leapt off the bed, a taste of metal in his mouth as the adrenaline in his system spiked. Either they’re watching me, or they have an uncanny sense of timing.
“Come in,” he called, and took a deep breath upon hearing his voice sounded shaky.
The door opened, and Nurse Joy stood in the doorway. “Feeling any better?”
“Yeah, shower helped.” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.
She gestured for him to follow. “C’mon, let’s go take a walk.”
John looked skeptical. “The last time I followed you, I wound up here,” he said sarcastically.
She smiled and held out her hand. “Trust me,” she said gently.
Reluctantly, John took her hand, stood up, and followed her out. They walked for a few minutes down the nondescript hallways. Fortunately, Joy seemed to know the right way, taking turns at various intervals. Eventually they stopped at one of the numbered doors.
Joy opened the door, and they both walked in and were greeted with applause. The room appeared to be something like a break room or small cafeteria. It was filled to capacity with various people, some dressed in lab coats, some in maintenance jumpsuits, and others in security uniforms. They were all smiling and clapping like a Broadway star had just stepped on stage.
John looked around confused. When the applause died down, a man with a bushy mustache, close-cropped hair, and dressed in body armor walked up to John, with a hand extended. “Name’s Bruce Remmington, good ta meetcha rippah,” he said with a thick Cockney accent. He shook John’s hand with a firm grip. ”Suhppostah be security chief heah, but got caught in bloody lockdown in the loo of all places, can ya believe it?”
An Asian man wearing a suit and lab coat stepped up next and took John’s hand next. “I’m Andrew Shen. My wife gave birth to twins 3 months ago. Because of you, I get to see them again.”
John looked at Nurse Joy, feeling utterly bewildered. She smiled. “These are all the people you saved today,” she explained. John looked around, filled with newfound understanding. The applause and looks of gratitude made sense now.
“I know you’re hurting,” the nurse continued. “I know you feel like you’ve sacrificed your principles and become something terrible. But I want you to see that it wasn’t for nothing. I can’t make the pain go away, but I can show you what we’ve gained because of you.”
John wiped an errant tear from his eye and hugged his nurse.
I really need to learn her real name.
Alto Clef sat in his office, a glass of Johnny Walker Blue in hand. Expensive stuff, but well worth it. The room was dark, lit only by his computer monitor. His Inbox was filled with glowing praise and warm congratulatory messages for a successful experiment/operation. He smiled coolly at the latest message from O5-8, lauding his judgement and quick thinking in successfully merging an SCP-XXXX experiment with a rescue mission.
He opened a second message and pulled it up next to the current one. The second message had been sent by the same O5 a month earlier. In it, they had insinuated that perhaps Clef was lavishing a bit too much on his pet project, and even suggested that they would be better off vivisecting SCP-XXXX to try to find out how to replicate his nullifying effect.
“Won’t be making that particular suggestion anymore,” Clef quipped, as he took a sip of his drink. And there wouldn’t be any more questions about indulging requests for leisure items or giving him extra privileges like being allowed to eat in the cafeteria. The incident had been resolved even better than he could’ve hoped: his new favorite SCP had a blank check.
Of course, it wasn’t all perfect. One of the messages had been from the medical team, reporting that the subject was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He would certainly need to be prescribed a regiment of anti-depressants, and they recommended restricting him to light experiments for the next several weeks.
“Sorry kid, that’s show business,” Clef muttered. And it was true. Sometimes you just had to play the hand dealt to you. Even if that deck was stacked with a former GOC computer security consultant, who’d written a particularly clever worm designed to crash a site’s security protocols and trigger a partial lockdown, then introduced into the Site 25B computer network by a visiting researcher who’d been blackmailed into complicity.
Dr. Alto Clef, the SCP Foundation’s premiere expert on reality benders, switched off his PC. Now the real work could begin.
The door slid open and John entered his familiar room. Even though it hadn’t been more than 12 hours or so since he’d left, it felt like a lifetime ago. Everything was where he’d left it, even the iPad was still in it’s discarded place on the couch.
In his unslung hand was a black velvet case, containing the Foundation Star, a medal awarded to personnel who had demonstrated extraordinary courage while under duress. He slid the case into the back corner of his desk’s drawer. It would never again be removed from its new place, but like an old scar that never fully healed, Holtzman always knew it was there.
