Keter Squad, S01:E01 – Blood-Borne
PART 1
"Frick. Crap. Screw it all." Emory Edwards was getting pissed. And to quite the severe degree as well. Most people have normal jobs, he thought furiously. He was speed-walking down the corridor of his workplace, hearing frequent shouts of alarm and mostly unintelligible orders coming from parts unknown. His mouth was twisted into an irritated sneer, his anger narrowing the focus of his eyes. I was just about to get some frickin' coffee, a thought rocketed from the back of his head. His fists clenched ever-so-slightly tighter as the words coursed through his mind. The same fingertips presently putting pressure on his left palm were this close to wrapping around the shiny handle of his favorite mug when the Euclid-level alarm went off. As his cheated hand withdrew from the mug, he muttered, "It was one of the new guys. I know it was. One of the green-as-a-pickle, inadequate, idiot new guys." Now, as he continued his warpath, he allowed his longish, messy black hair to get in his eyes. He'd have time to fix it after this was calmed down. As Emory got closer to the sounds, he realized that the orders and shouts were all in Spanish.
"1063", he growled, "Who was the halfwit who forgot the plant?" He sped up now, beginning to sprint. A Euclid-class object that screws you over if handled improperly is one thing. A Euclid-class being, in this case a wooden Nazi automaton with a literal wooden axeblade for a left hand (who, by the way, is often referred to as Pinocchio's homicidal German cousin by personnel), is quite another.
It'd only been a couple minutes after the alarm initially went off. Emory heard a loud shunt come from up ahead as he slowed down. Four corridors (including the one he and several others were in) had been sealed from the circular room in which they all intersected (in a geometrically regular cross shape on the blueprints). Emory pushed several personnel aside and took the liberty of peering through the glass slit in the door just big enough for a person to see through. Inside the room and at the heavily reinforced metal door to the corridor on Emory's left, Freiherr von Schwarzwald (as the automaton refers to himself in writing; he can't speak) was going to town with his left arm. The withered-looking Nazi armband on Freiherr's right arm fluttered weakly with every strike.
Emory knew the doors in this facility were heavy-duty, but he'd also seen what Freiherr could do to granite, and unless his eyes deceived him, he was starting to make progress on the door, too. He dropped the small slat that opened to reveal the small viewing glass and stepped back. He looked back at the cowering personnel behind him. They knew who Emory was and what he was like. And as they had expected, Emory told them to run and mildly insulted them in the same sentence. They did as they were told, booking it down the corridor like a herd of so many scared cattle.
Emory could only conceive of one solution to the problem at hand. Freiherr is usually peaceable, so the idiot who let him out not only had to forget to close the door behind him, but also neglected to bring in a potted plant (Freiherr, who has stated that one of his two primary purposes is to protect the Black Forest in Germany, is extremely apprehensive about striking anything supporting or holding plant life) and had the gall to speak English within earshot. The swastika strapped to Freiherr's shoulder isn't there for nothing (you can probably guess what his other primary purpose is). Someone's getting fired, Emory thought. Then, with a slight nod, he added to himself, Unless Freiherr's already made mincemeat of him.
Anyway, the only thing that Emory could conceive of doing was talking Freiherr down. In German. The only problem being that Emory is the furthest thing from an Aryan poster boy, being half-Jewish due to his mother. "Improvise, buddy, improvise," he muttered in self-assurance, "You'll be fine."
Emory's position at the facility was head of several guard squads. Not one penguin (as they were often called due to their black-and-white uniforms) made his rounds with Emory knowing. With this position of seniority came several privileges, including an override code for doors, provided they aren't in any restricted sections of the facility. Now was time to use one of those codes.
Emory punched it in, a small knot in his stomach forming. He knew all too well that he was stepping into a life or death situation.
But most probably into the death.
The door opened with a familiar mechanical shoom, and fortunately, Freiherr was too occupied to take immediate notice. The clangs issuing from the door because of Freiherr's axe were a terrible cacophony now, without a soundproof barrier to keep them from reaching a bystander's ears. Emory stood stock still for a single moment, feeling like someone about to throw himself from a cliff while wearing a parachute that he didn't pack.
He cleared his throat. Freiherr struck the door at the very same time, and so he didn't hear. Emory sighed softly, waiting until Freiherr's arm was raised to clear his throat a second time. Freiherr stopped, and in his eerie, creaky way, turned towards Emory. Just in time, too, Emory thought. The door was beginning to bow and crumple. Freiherr's blank, wooden eyes stared right through Emory. The monocle resting on the right one made it slightly harder to take him seriously. He lowered his axe slowly and cocked his head to the side a little, giving Emory the decidedly inappropriate image of a curious puppy. Emory flicked his eyes to the door behind Freiherr. A pair of alarmed eyes looked through the glass slit. Emory twitched his head to the left. The eyes widened slightly and departed.
It suddenly occurred to Emory that he hadn't said anything for a few seconds, as well as the fact that Freiherr's axe was getting a little too close for comfort. The only method he could think of using to stall, he knew would be impossible to live down. He looked around once more. No more nervous eyes looking in. He sighed and thought to himself: Well, crap. Sorry, Mom.
Before he could second-guess himself, he slammed his heels together, slapped his left arm to his side, and raised his right arm into the air with an open, straightened hand. He yelled in a near-maniacal fashion, "Sieg Heil!" Freiherr seemed to like that. He snapped to attention much like Emory and (very rapidly) raised his right arm. At that moment, he was the most perfect picture of a Nazi robot you could imagine. Emory relaxed (he was exceedingly glad it was over without any witnesses), and Freiherr shortly followed suit. Emory, thinking quickly, got lower to the ground and gestured like he wanted Freiherr to follow him. Freiherr did, and raised his axe, nodding. It could have meant: An important Nazi op! Finally! I'll protect you. Then again, it could have also been: This is going in your back if you make a wrong move. It goes without saying that Freiherr isn't great with emotion. Or smart.
Emory patiently led Freiherr into his enclosure, and motioned him to walk in. Emory whispered into his walkie-talkie, "Did the guy who let him out make it out?" A quick, crackling affirmative, and then Emory closed Freiherr's habitat. The Foundation found him in the Black Forest, so they modeled his habitat after the Black Forest. Freiherr is happy to live there.
Emory sighed heavily, straightened up, turned, and saw several personnel waiting with bated breath, all eyes on him. "It's…it's okay, guys," he tried, "Please don't…" His request was cut short by loud cheers. Emory isn't one for fanfare. Lowering his gaze slightly, Emory pushed his way through the crowd, being bumped, pushed, clapped on the back and shoulders, and occasionally kissed on the cheek by female personnel.
As Emory finally escaped the clutches of the crowd, he found himself face-to-face with someone he hadn't seen in the facility before. He wore a traditional suit with an obligatory accompanying tie, unassuming glasses, and (Emory was quite sure about this, but it's not like he'd ask) a toupee. His status was confirmed by a watch that only made Emory think, That must cost a buttload. High-status or not, however, this guy was a stranger in Emory's territory, and so, rather impudently, he asked the stranger, "What's your business here?"
The stranger laughed heartily but not unkindly. Emory's abrasive tone hadn't fazed him. The stranger extended his hand, saying, "Mr. Edwards, my name, I'm afraid, has to remain Administrator to you, but as it turns out, my business here is you." Emory reluctantly took the Administrator's hand, shaking it momentarily. His grip, Emory noticed, wasn't the strongest, and Emory wasn't sure how much that bothered him.
The Administrator, when his grip had broken, beckoned for Emory to follow and began walking, motioning for the crowd to stay put. Emory, perhaps by intuition or perhaps not, felt that their walk to wherever they were going was not the time for questions. He guessed that would come a little later. And so it did.
When they reached their destination, it finally registered with Emory that they were in a heavily restricted area of the facility, only accessible by members of the administrative committee. This place was right up there with the Yggdrasil research area.
"Ah, my office," the Administrator's voice snapped Emory out of his thoughts. With some measure of amusement, Emory realized how close to an everyday office building the area looked. An image of Steve Carrell appeared in his mind, and it was all he could do to stifle a laugh. In somewhat of an eerie fashion, the Administrator smirked and said as he opened his office door, "Don't worry. We don't have our own Michael Scott." Emory's urge to laugh quickly dissipated.
The Administrator motioned for Emory to enter, and, taken off guard, Emory muttered a little "Oh" as he stepped through the door. Emory wasn't the only person in there. There were five others, all of whom looked like they worked in the security branch of the facility and all of whom looked vaguely familiar. They didn't say a word.
Before he'd even entered and closed the door, the Administrator asked, "How many of you still remember what SCP stands for? I know it begins to seem unimportant after a while."
The most rough-and-tumble looking of them all immediately piped up in a voice like sandpaper from underneath a massive, red biker mustache, "Secure, Contain, Protect, sir."
"Give the man a prize," the Administrator chuckled as he walked over to his desk, leaning on it and crossing his arms. He looked the speaker in the eye and continued, "Quite right, Mr. Cleric. Secure, Contain, Protect. It's a mission statement, that's true, but it's also an ever-present instruction. Those three things are never to be out of mind. Which is why you're all here. I assume you're all familiar with the mobile task forces employed here?" We all nodded, and he went on, "I've called you all here to organize a new one. Your official designation is Upsilon-1, but you can deliberate on a less formal name on your way to your first mission." It hit them all that they wouldn't even get a full explanation of their duties, their mission was so urgent. The Administrator finished, "Pack up, everyone. You're going to Russia!" Emory got that feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff again.
