Operation 001: 'King Crab' (Pt 1)
This story began with a single man.
A man who, by his own decisions and dogmatic curiosity, caused a chain of events that eventually led to the creation of the far-reaching, mysterious organization known as the SCP Foundation.
And yet, despite the wealth of terrifying knowledge detailing the creatures and anomalies that the Foundation contains, despite the disgusting magnitude of power that they wield regularly- there is hardly any information pertaining to the first days of this organization.
Shrouded in deceitful stories and tales of woe, yet a few of those stories may hold merit with the true reality that occurred.
And thus, no one would know of the humble origins; A rag-tag team of criminals and misfits, commanded by a very capable individual. The first members of the very first Mobile Task Force- led by a passionate, yet enigmatic figure that strived to safeguard humanity by any means.
It is here, at the origin point, that events of cosmic proportions unfold.
And it is here that you will know the (potential) origins… of the Foundation.
January 2nd, 1992
Somewhere in rural Montana...
(Queue 'Dancing in the Moonlight' by King Harvest)
The sound of tires on gravel echoed throughout the still forest; The military truck's sleek, untainted plating glistened in the full moonlight. The near-silence was only occasionally broken by the clinking sound of beer bottles, which were being handed out by one of the six black-clad agents riding in the uncovered rear carriage.
"Haiman," Agent 001 called out with a distinctly Cockney-British accent. "The fahk are you doin'?"
Agent 004, known as Haiman, faltered in his joyous giving of alcoholic beverages, a nervous look surfacing on his face.
"Wha- uh, are we not permitted to drink at this moment?"
"We have a 10-minute ETA on the fahking AO, and you want to start drinking?!"
"What?! I thought we were two hours away!"
"Who the fahk told you that?!"
Haiman shot a look of betrayal at Agent 003, who casually grabbed one of the cold beers from Haiman's gloved hand, using the side railing of the truck to pop off the cap before taking swills- much to Agent 001's bridling irritation. The face underneath his helmet and bandana was contorted in anger.
"Did you stinkin' cunts forget we're on a fahking mission? Throw 'em away- especially you, Dack!"
"I'd prefer you call me by my name, Clef!" Agent 003 responded harshly, a subtle Iraqi accent accompanying his words.
"You think I wanted this nickname, dickhead?" Agent 001, known as Clef, responded ferociously, partly fueled by the blatant insubordination Dack was showing. "It's a paht of the routine. Get used to it, you fragile sod. Besides, we can't bloody fucking use our real names on assignment, you daft twit!"
"So," Haiman muttered. "Are we not drinking, then?"
"Ah, fahk's sake!"
Just then, static came over the shoulder radios of every agent in the truck- a grainy, deep and calming voice that seemed to magnify itself even through the small device it came through; speaking almost robotically, with brief pauses every few words.
"Pioneer Actual. What's your ETA?"
Clef quickly scrambled to answer his shoulder radio.
"Pioneer-"
He became outraged as he realized the boombox sitting in between Haiman's legs was still blasting music and quickly snatched it, tossing it over the side of the truck.
"MY SPEAKER!" Polly cried out in horror.
"Pioneer Actual here, Alpha Six. We're about 10 minutes from the village, over."
He was about to leave it at that, until he noticed Dack trying subtly to take another swill from his beer, and grit his teeth, pushing down on the button again.
"Alpha Six, can you give a quick refresher to the crew about what we're doing? Over."
"Of course. To remind you all, the village ahead was formerly a trading outpost in the late 1700s. It is abandoned now, so there's no need to worry about collateral. Unusually high levels of ionizing electromagnetic radiation were emitting from this area, where previous reports showed record lows- This IS Montana, after all."
"Your mission is to investigate the source of the anomaly. You have been equipped with a few electromagnetic sensors, as well as infrared binoculars in the scenario that you are facing a warm-body entity. Should you locate a creature, use the leaded nets in your duffel bags to capture it. If it is too dangerous to capture, then eliminate it by any means."
"3rd time hearing this," Agent 005 said belatedly, shaking her head. "And it still sounds fookin' terrifying!"
"No need to worry, lass," Dack teased, trying to mimic Agent 005's Irish accent as he tapped his M40A5 rifle. "This shit right here will turn the enemy into red mud."
Agent 005 made a face at hearing Dack's words, sighing in disappointment.
"Braggarts are such a turn-off. Isn't your job just to be a lookout for this mission, yeah?"
"Isn't your job just to talk them to death, Polly?" Dack retorted.
"Alright, shut the fahk up, all o' you." Clef shushed, unshouldering his M4 Carbine. "We're only a few minutes now."
"You know," Agent 6, at the back end of the uncovered military truck, spoke up; His heavy Russian accent carried his words with a deep, gravelly sound. "This mission is… a little scary to me. It's very open-ended."
Agent 002 nodded.
"Griz has a fucking point!" She spoke passionately- a Latina with an intensely aggressive aura, and words that radiated just as much ferocity as her volatile personality. "What the hell does 'locate a creature' even mean? Do we just take whatever we can find? What the fuck are we looking for?"
Before the truck erupted into an argument, Clef quickly shut down the conversation with a resolute voice.
"Listen up! It's not our fahking place to dig for a pahticular answer. Alpha Six explained this dilemma earlier, as well- if any of you paid attention durin' the briefing."
As he continued speaking, he checked over his equipment to ensure everything was maintained and ready for use; His example was followed by the others onboard the truck.
"According to Alpha Six, we are working in a field that 'does not adhere to typical circumstances'. Whatever that bloody well means, at the very least we must keep an open mind and adapt to the situation. You were all brought on because of your ingenuity and… improvisation, right?"
Despite saying that, a look around at their faces revealed a gradual disengagement- And Clef very well couldn't blame them either.
He sighed- these 'missions' their unidentified contractor kept sending them on always resulted in nothing of particular interest being uncovered- The 'signals' and 'detections' and other jargon he talked about usually resulted in the team deploying to the area, then finding out it was just some freak lightning blast or a powerline short circuit. In one case, they were lucky enough to discover a particularly powerful microwave.
"I can see the doubt in your eyes, Clef." Dack said, pointing with the hand holding his beer. "Don't fret over it so much. We're getting paid a great wage to use expensive gear to search empty villages and forests and find nothing. This job is easy money."
His point of them searching empty villages seemed to have resonated strongly with the rest of the group- there was a general dissatisfaction at the lack of results of their deployments. It'd only been a few weeks, but it was beyond demoralizing how many times they ended up returning to base empty-handed. By this point, it was practically a clown act that they continued putting on the gear and going on these missions.
"I don't doubt there are ghosts and shite out there," Polly started again. "But Vale's right about the target- If we don't know what to look for, how are we supposed to operate? Don't we got technology that can better find these 'Anomalies'?"
She said 'anomalies' while making the quotation gesture with her hands. Dack shrugged in resignation.
"Considering we're heading to the AO in a shitty military truck, I doubt our benefactor is lined with a ton of wealth."
And that was the last of the conversation. The paramilitary force of six sat silently for the rest of the ride, idly awaiting deployment.
