[First Person - Leo]
The System menu vanished from my sight with a flicker of my will, but the information remained etched in my brain. Agility 8, Perception 9. It wasn't just a number on a screen. It was a sensation. The constant hum of the fluorescent lights was no longer a monotonous background noise; I could discern the individual buzz of each tube, the slight crackle of one that was about to fail. My body felt lighter, as if my combat boots weighed half as much. Every muscle fiber seemed taut and ready, not with the adrenaline of panic, but with an expectant efficiency.
The first time, fear had paralyzed me. I stood there like a deer in headlights, a perfect target. The result was predictable: a painful reset. But a reset is an opportunity to learn. The definition of insanity, they used to say in my old world, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. I wasn't insane. I was a gamer, and this was my second attempt.
My main mission, according to the System, was to Survive and Escape. The transmission was just an obstacle on the way. A scripted event I had to trigger to, I assume, advance the "plot." But how I triggered it was entirely up to me.
My new Perception kicked in. I knelt, pressing my ear against the cold steel of the door. The first time, I hadn't heard anything until the first battering ram hit. Now, if I concentrated, beyond the pounding of my own heart, I could hear... something else. A distant, rhythmic echo. Footsteps. Impossibly far, but they were there. Surely the MTF team, patrolling a level above or below. They weren't coming for me yet, but they were out there. The facility wasn't empty.
I stood up and scanned the room, my eyes absorbing the details with a new clarity. It was small, a concrete and metal cube. The intercom console was the focus, but beside it were a series of metal server racks, probably powering the transmission equipment. They were tall, deep, and there was a gap of about two feet between the back of the racks and the wall. It was dark, filled with thick cables and dust.
A plan, simple and desperate, began to form. I couldn't fight them. I couldn't run from the room; the door was sealed. But maybe, just maybe, they didn't have to find me.
My system had mentioned "Equipment (Damaged)." I focused on that line, and a sub-window appeared.
Tactical Vest (Insurgent):
Quality: Basic Condition: Damaged (35/100) Description: An improvised ballistic vest with cracked ceramic plates. Offers minimal protection. Can be repaired with suitable materials.
Great. My armor was junk. But it was better than nothing. I closed the menu. It was time. I couldn't delay it any longer. The longer I waited, the greater the chance an errant patrol would discover me. I had to perform the act, provoke the response, and pray my plan worked.
[Third Person - D-9341, Light Containment Zone]
D-9341 stabbed the grayish mass on his plate with a plastic fork. They called it "nutritional paste," but he knew it was the same recycled garbage they were given every day. In the cavernous cafeteria of the Light Containment Zone, the clang of hundreds of Class-D personnel eating in surly silence was the soundtrack to their miserable existence. He had been here for six months. Six months of orange jumpsuits, flickering lights, and the constant fear that his number would be called next for a "test."
He had learned the rules. Keep your head down. Don't draw attention. Don't make friends; they're just future casualty statistics. Survive one more day.
A new guy, his face filled with a panic that hadn't yet been crushed, sat across from him. "Hey," the rookie whispered, "is it true what they say? About the things they keep here?"
D-9341 merely chewed his paste. It wasn't worth responding. Hope was a disease in this place.
It was then that the hiss of static cut through the murmur of the cafeteria. All the loudspeakers, normally silent or emitting monotonous orders, came alive. Forks stopped halfway to mouths. Heads snapped up. Even the guards stationed on the walkways above tensed, hands on their rifles.
And then, a voice spoke. It wasn't the metallic, emotionless voice of the facility's AI. It was human. Young. And it wasn't giving orders. It was making a statement.
"We must remember why we are fighting..."
D-9341 dropped his fork. The plastic clattered against the tray with a sound no one noticed. What the hell was that?
"...since the day we went rogue, the day the Foundation became our enemy, we were right. We created logic out of the illogical."
A murmur swept through the crowd of orange jumpsuits. Guards yelled into their radios, but their voices were lost in the speech that filled the air. The voice from the loudspeaker wasn't a guard's. It had the fervor of a believer, the desperation of a soldier. It was a Chaos Insurgency speech. Here. Inside their walls.
The rookie across from D-9341 stared at him with wide eyes. "Who is that? What's going on?"
For the first time in months, D-9341 didn't know. But as the voice continued, speaking of holding on, of fighting, of "Enduring once more," something stirred within him. An ember he thought long extinguished. It was foolishness, of course. Propaganda. Empty words meant to sow chaos.
But the last words hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Remember that we die in darkness so that humanity may live in light."
The Foundation's motto. Twisted. Stolen and used against them. It was audacious. Suicidal. And for the first time in a long time, D-9341 saw something more than despair in the eyes of the men and women around him. He saw a flicker of confusion, of anger, and in some, the most dangerous of all emotions in a place like this: an idea.
Chaos wasn't long in coming. A Class-D at the next table jumped up, shouting the Insurgency motto. A guard shot him with a taser from the walkway, and the man fell, convulsing. But it was too late. The seed was planted. D-9341 lowered his head, picked up his fork, and began to eat again, but now the silence was different. It was charged with potential. The routine had been broken.
[Third Person - Dr. Aris Thorne, Research Sector]
Dr. Aris Thorne adjusted the focus of the electron microscope, oblivious to the outside world. To her, the real universe was on the petri dish before her: a sample of SCP-███'s anomalous tissue. Its cellular behavior was fascinating, defying several known principles of biology. Her world was one of data, hypotheses, and quantifiable truths. The chaotic human interactions of the facility were, for the most part, irrelevant background noise.
The sudden hiss from her personal intercom made her frown, an almost imperceptible crease in her otherwise impassive forehead. She was about to switch it off when the voice began to speak.
Her first reaction was irritation. A security breach. Someone had accessed a facility-wide channel. Incompetence. She mentally noted to file a formal complaint about communications security protocols. But then, she heard the words.
"...we created logic out of the illogical."
That particular line stuck with her. It was, in essence, the job description of every Foundation scientist. They took the impossible, what defied all reason, and contained it, studied it, and categorized it, imposing a form of logic upon it so the rest of the world could continue living in its comfortable delusion. For the Insurgency, that anarchist band of terrorists, to use such a phrase was... ironic. And strangely insightful.
She leaned back in her chair, taking off her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. The speech continued, full of typical bravado and martyr rhetoric. But it was effective. It appealed to the idea that the Foundation was the true monster, a dangerous narrative within a facility full of coerced or imprisoned individuals.
When the speech ended with that twisted version of their own motto, Aris felt no fear. She felt a cold, analytical curiosity. This wasn't a random attack. The timing, the choice of words... it was a calculated psychological strike. Designed to demoralize Foundation personnel and embolden their enemies, both inside and outside the walls.
She turned to her terminal and began typing.
Subject: Preliminary Analysis of Unauthorized Transmission To: Site Security Director
The recent communications breach, while a procedural security failure, demonstrates a level of psychological sophistication that should not be underestimated. The message employs rhetorical appropriation techniques ("logic out of the illogical") and creed subversion ("we die in darkness...") to maximize destabilizing impact.
I recommend immediate psychological countermeasures and a comprehensive analysis of all personnel who exhibited anomalous reactions to the message. The transmitter may be a simple grunt, but the message was crafted by someone with a deep understanding of our internal operations and institutional culture.
She pressed "Send." The human problem could wait. She looked back at her microscope. SCP-███'s cells had begun to vibrate in unison, reacting to the specific frequency of the speaker's voice. Fascinating. Another data point for the report.
[Second Person - Leo]
You settle into your position. The gap behind the server racks is narrow, smelling of dust and hot plastic. It's almost total darkness. Your newly enhanced Perception attribute allows you to make out the shapes of thick cables snaking across the floor like black snakes. It's a perfect blind spot. Unless they know exactly where to look, they'll miss you on a quick sweep.
The plan is simple. You'll crawl to the console, press the button, say the words as fast as you can without gibbering, and then scramble back into this hole before the door comes down.
You reach the edge of the racks. Your heart pounds, but this time it's a controlled rhythm, not the wild drumming of panic. This is like a video game boss raid. You've seen their attacks. You've learned the pattern. Now it's time for execution.
You peek out. The room is empty and silent. You exhale. It's now or never.
You break cover, moving in a crouch, your movements are more fluid and silent than you remembered. It's your enhanced Agility in action. You reach the console. Your hand, still trembling slightly, rises and presses the big red button.
The familiar hiss. You inhale.
[First Person - Leo]
"We must remember why we are fighting!" I shouted, my voice filled with manufactured urgency. The words tumbled out, one after another. I didn't savor them. I didn't pause for dramatic effect. It was a race. "Since the day we turned rogue, the day the Foundation became our enemy, we were right! We created logic out of the illogical! When the world was against us, we held on! When the horrors of the Foundation were unleashed, we held on! Now, it will endure once more, but you must keep fighting!"
I could hear it already. Thanks to my Perception. A heavy, rhythmic BANG! BANG! approaching down the hallway. The assault team. Faster than I expected.
"Remember that we die in darkness so that humanity may live in light!" I yelled the last line, and in the same instant my finger released the button, I launched myself backward, not towards the wall, but into the dark gap I had emerged from.
I slid across the slick floor, the sound of my body scraping against the concrete was muffled by the thunderous CRACK! of the door giving way. I landed awkwardly in my hiding spot just as a small metal cylinder rolled into the room. A flashbang. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my head seconds before it detonated with a blinding flash and a deafening, bone-rattling POP.
Even protected, my ears rang, and spots of light danced behind my eyelids. The smell of burned chemical filled the air. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard the shuffle of combat boots on the floor.
"Clear left!"
"Clear right!"
I opened my eyes a crack. Through a gap in the racks, I saw four pairs of black boots moving around the room. Their rifles swept every visible corner.
"Target not in sight! Room is empty!" one of them yelled, his voice muffled by his helmet and the ringing in my ears.
"Impossible," another voice replied, the leader's, I guessed. "The transmission originated from this exact point. Check again. He couldn't have vanished."
I held my breath, my body completely still. I prayed my dark corner was good enough. I prayed they didn't have thermal sensors.
And then, a new green light filled my vision. A new System window.
[SECONDARY MISSION COMPLETE]
Survive the TransmissionReward: +150 XP [SKILL UNLOCKED]
[Basic Stealth - Lv. 1]: Reduces movement noise by 10%. Increases effectiveness when hiding in shadows or cover.
My heart leaped, not from fear, but from triumph. I had done it. I had survived.
"Sir, there's nothing," the first soldier insisted. "No signs of life. Perhaps it was a phantom transmission, a system glitch."
"Negative," the leader retorted. His voice was right on the other side of my hiding spot. If he crouched, he'd see me. "The Insurgency doesn't leave ghosts. It left a message. He's here somewhere. Bring in the scanning equipment."
Shit.
The euphoria of my small victory evaporated, replaced by a fresh wave of icy terror. My hiding spot wasn't going to last. I was alive, yes. But I was still trapped in a concrete box with an elite squad determined to find me. I had cleared the first hurdle, only to find a much bigger one. My second attempt had bought me a few minutes, nothing more. And as I heard one of the soldiers leave to fetch their equipment, I knew my next reset might be just seconds away.