PART 2

At first, Emory didn't even get the chance to get acquainted with the other members of Upsilon-1 on the bumpy plane ride to Russia, as the Administrator was filling them all in via earpieces. "The SCP you're going after," he began explaining upon takeoff, "has been designated Keter-class. All of you know, I assume, what that means?" They all answered in the affirmative. A Keter-class SCP can cause either a mass-extinction or an apocalypse. With that being the case, there are plenty of ugly stories involving them. Some of these stories also concern teams who were in over their heads. The Administrator continued, "Over the past few months, there has been an alarming increase of Keter-class SCPs. I'm sure you all remember the day SCP-682 was brought in." Again, six affirmatives. 682 is a large, lizard-like creature with the ability to speak, although those are just two on its laundry list of uncanny characteristics. It hates any kind of living thing, with a special place in its heart for extreme misanthropy. The day it was brought into the Foundation's facility was, to say the very, very least, not pretty. Not many speak of it.

The Administrator went on, "These Keter-class SCPs are why you've been brought together. You're all capable security officers who've seen a breach or two in your careers, all of which you've handled admirably. This being the case, the Foundation isn't wasting any time giving you an urgent mission. You're heading to a coal mine on the Irkutsk Basin to assist a Russian operative of the Foundation. We can't disclose his real name, and so he's requested that you call him Vasily. The rest of the Russian branch is tied up trying to contain a situation near Lake Baikal, so you're all he's got. He knows more than I do and he'll be able to prepare you better, so…listen to him, and for now, get to know each other. Hope to see you back safe." There was a crackling for a few seconds, and then the connection on the team's earpieces cut off.

Emory was the first to speak up, noting, "He's a little cheerier than most of the higher-ups." A few chuckles floated around the mostly-empty transport plane. Aside from the team, their gear and their luggage, the plane had nothing to carry.

One team member, a woman Emory had seen but never formally met, spoke up. Her voice was unexpectedly high, considering her almost masculine musculature and tall stature (although neither of these things took away from her beauty; they were offset by her shiny, brown, bouncy hair and unscarred, almost statuesque face). She said, "He mentioned coming up with a name before we left. Anyone got any bright ideas?"

Another team member, a guy stretched across several seats, enthusiastically said in an oddly surfer-like voice, "Keter Squad! Came up with that on the spot. I think it's good."

The woman who'd asked the question shrugged and asked, "Anyone got any problems with Keter Squad?" The other four shook their heads.

The heavily mustachioed team member grunted, "Keter Squad it is, then."

Another member, the most apprehensive-looking of them all, a tired look in his eyes, asked quietly, "What do you all think we're in for?"

The surfer-dude (which was the only way Emory could think of him) responded with a slight laugh, "Dude, if you really are a head of security, you've been here long enough to know that none of us can begin to answer that question." The tired guy looked a little embarrassed and looked down. The surfer-dude raised one hand towards the tired guy and said sympathetically, "But I understand why you asked it. This is new for all of us." The tired guy looked up again and nodded. The surfer-dude propped himself up on an elbow, looking intently at the tired guy.

After a moment during which the surfer-dude seemed to be contemplating the tired guy, he got up, walked across the plane (which only took a couple steps) and extended his hand, introducing himself, "Joshua Dickerson; my friends call me Josh. Yourself?"

The tired guy took Josh's hand, saying, "Callum. Callum Wheeler."

Josh dropped Callum's hand and nodded, "Nice to meet you, Callum." He walked back over to his row of seats and laid back down. He said loudly, "How about the rest of you?"

The woman raised her hand briefly and said, "Aleah Moore."

The mustachioed guy grunted, "Jeremiah Karol, at your service."

Emory spoke up, giving a small salute, "Emory Edwards."

The sixth member hadn't spoken thus far. He was listening to music on his phone through a pair of earbuds, bobbing his head and playing a game. Josh got up again and walked over to him, tapping him on the head and saying, "Hey."

The guy paused his game, took out one earbud, and looked up to see Josh smirking. "I'm sorry?" he said.

"Name?" Josh said, raising his eyebrows and smirking, "Come on, we've got to get to know each other."

The guy took out the other earbud and pocketed his phone, saying, "Oh, uh, sorry…Dayn Tesar." He shook Josh's hand.

Josh said, "Nice to meet you, Dayn," and went back to his spot. As he laid down, he added jokingly, "All this walking's making me tired." All members gave small chuckles. The conversation turned idle for a while after that.

Jerry (as Jeremiah had asked the others to call him) eventually asked, "What about a leader? Anyone want to nominate themselves?"

Emory shook his head and responded confidently, "No leader. If we're going to be a team, we're going to be a team of equals, because we're all on the same level anyway. Besides, we all know that getting caught up in petty stuff like leaders can get you killed in this line of work."

Jerry nodded and turned to everyone else, "I say we put it to a vote. All in favor?" He and Callum raised their hands. "I think we can skip the 'all opposed' part," Jerry sighed as he lowered his hand, "All right, no leader. We'll make it work." The conversation returned to its previous mundane track. By the time the plane landed on an improvised runway just outside the mine, Emory and the others didn't really know all that much about each other, but nonetheless they felt like a team.

When they'd slowed to a stop, the massive cargo door of the plane lowered and allowed the six of them exit. They were welcomed by a grizzled-looking man they could only assume was Vasily. He was standing about twenty yards from the precipice of the mine and about the same distance from the plane. He yelled with a surprisingly slight accent, "Welcome to Irkutsk, my friends!" He was wearing a hazmat suit, holding the helmet by his side.

Emory asked as they got closer to him, "Are we going to have to get in one of those?"

Vasily chuckled and said, "Not regularly, no. Not unless you go in to see the patients."

"Patients?" Dayn knit his brow. They'd reached Vasily and they were walking to the edge of the mine.

Vasily responded, "You'll see, my friend. Step carefully, now." They reached the edge, and Emory (as well as the others) were immediately struck by the monstrous size of the pit they overlooked. It looked as though you could fit a city within. You probably could. Vasily led them down a path carved into the side which lead steadily downwards along the side of the mine, going in a behemoth spiral. It was Vasily, Dayn, Callum, Josh, Aleah, Jerry, and Emory at the tail. Just before his head dipped below the edge and his view of the runway was obscured, Emory saw the plane fire up and take off. They were all in now.

A slight sense of isolation began to set in as they went further down. Emory didn't like it. I need to make conversation, he thought. He said loudly so Vasily could hear, "So, Vasily, what's going on at Lake Baikal?"

Vasily laughed and replied, "I know as much as you do. The Foundation is getting it under control." He shrugged and finished, "I suppose we'll have to wait until they catalog…whatever it is." That wasn't very reassuring. The Foundation had botched damage control with SCPs before, and Irkutsk is right next to Lake Baikal. I certainly hope they are getting it under control, Emory thought as he considered these things. He was about to speak up again, and then he looked down to catch a glimpse of the bottom of the mine. It shut him up.

There was a collection of four plastic quarantine cells, delivered by helicopter and assembled on site, all of which were about ten feet wide, twenty feet long, and seven feet tall, arranged side-by-side. Emory had seen them before. They held three or four patients each. If the cells themselves were all he noticed, he probably wouldn't have been speechless. The unfortunate thing was that they weren't. The inside of each cell was plastered with a dark red substance, looking like someone had taken a large brush and spent several minutes flinging paint across the walls and ceilings of the cells. The path the team was on ended next to what used to be an entrance to a shaft but what was now a pile of rubble. Across from the cells, there was a massive tent, probably for Foundation personnel to sleep and research in.

The most horrific detail that Emory spotted, however, was a large black spot not ten feet from the cells. It was about nine feet across and looked like a burn pit, though Emory couldn't be sure from his distance. There was an indistinguishable mass of something in the middle of the burn pit that Emory could only guess was…organic. He looked away from the bottom and towards his fellow team members. All five of them were transfixed, so much so that Josh tripped and nearly went headlong down the path. He managed to regain his balance, but instead of learning from his mistake, he directed his gaze back to the bottom. Vasily didn't give it so much as a glance.

The walk didn't seem to last long, although that might've been because of how much the team had to think about on the way down. Why was the shaft collapsed? Why are the quarantine cells here? Why are they coated in red? And what the frick is in the burn pit? They didn't have to wait too long for their answers once they reached the bottom.

As they passed the row of cells, Vasily pointed at one and said gravely, "Don't go near these. Not without protection." They didn't argue. When Emory reached the bottom, he tried to see inside. Despite his best efforts, the red substance was laid on too thickly to see anything inside. Emory had already figured out what it was. He just didn't want to think about it, because it would mean considering nightmarish possibilities. He wanted facts in their stead.

"Hey Vasily," he spoke up as they entered the tent, "What's, uh…what's in that burn pit?"

"It was a blood-drenched monster," Vasily replied without looking at Emory, "Before that, it was a member of the CDC." As the team dropped their bags at random cots, Vasily continued without further ado, "Your job here is primarily to protect us," – he gestured to the other Foundation personnel in the tent – "while we try to figure out just what we're dealing with. We don't know enough to transport it safely. When we go in the cells to perform experiments, you go in with us. If nothing goes wrong, you shouldn't have to deal with what we have." It turned out something did go wrong.