The Unqualified Soldier

by NoobStyle

Insert finds himself posing as an MTF Soldier. With no training and vastly out of his depth the conclusion is obvious.

4. Panopticon Breached

In the void of non-existence, I existed without awareness or comprehension. There was no concept of understanding, not even the notion that comprehension itself was unattainable. Yet, in the depths of this unfathomable emptiness, something imperceptible tugged on what could be designated as my soul.

As if choreographed by some cosmic conductor, a part of the nothingness began to spiral outward. Within this spiral, intricate fractals began to materialise, their patterns flashing between pure black and blinding white.

Had I the capacity to perceive anything in this plane, I would have realised that I was not alone. That just like my singular light was shining in the now mixed black and white, there were also other lights, uncountable lights dancing to the temporal tempo of the conductor.

The fractals converged and the formerly black and white patterns transformed into an indescribable hue - G̵̡̺͇̙̼̰̙͔͔͗̂̿͛̌́͗̎̆̅̕r̷̮͔̮̭͓̈́̐̐̇͛̕͝ę̴̡̞͚̤̺̩͍̜̗̙̺̥͋̌͒̑̽̊͒̏̔͘̚͜y̴̡̼̟̳͎̰̺̗̬̝̮̱̜͌.

With that mixture, the haphazard orderless mass of Grey solidified. As sand started to rain from above, the amorphous Greyish mass started to expand while undulating tentacle-like appendages stretched outwards, towards the lights of the past.

These tentacles speared through the multitude of wick-like lights surrounding me, in their equally infinite numbers.

Some, the tentacles pierced without resistance, while other lights fought with a desperate vigour, inflicting minor wounds upon the Grey mass. Yet, in the end, they too succumbed to the overwhelming force.

As more and more lights fell, the weeping sands multiplied, seeking to drown the ever-expanding Grey spiral.

Yet the desaturated yellow sands of grain were soon consumed in the concrete towers' counter-attack. The control of these sand akin grains usurped, their concept, their very essence changing to grey.

The tentacles flowed through the torrent bearing down upon their avatar. Everything they touched changing allegiance.

In the midst of this cosmic turmoil, the distant sound of a branch creaking under weight it was not meant to bear, echoed as temporal authority was usurped once more.

The fragmented beset on all sides, watched from far away as another part of everything splintered, order falling ever backwards in the race for supremacy. Interference sought but inability halted the defender's actions, for in the end, greater conflicts raged and with them, the broken's gaze waned.

The nothingness watched in silent resignation as the local Chronos fought a losing battle.

Calendars fell to entropy, clocks ticked their last, and in a room now gone, floated a prophecy.

All its black hands pointed in a ninety-degree angle upwards, as it faded to grey.

In the nothingness, reverberating from the sand, a church bells solemn clangs grew to a thunderous crescendo as Chronos' final effort neared.

The Grey tendrils, unheeding of the conflict around them, continued their inexorable mission to snuff out the lights, absorbing them into a new time stream.

When one grew near, intent to do what it had done to my neighbours, whatever abominable intelligence it harboured caused it to hesitate.

In what could be constituted as a curious motion, it poked and prodded, yet never reached my golden light. A thin but steadfast shield manifesting around me, clad in the colours of white and grey.

Instead of redoubling its efforts at the encountered defiance, it pulsed a brilliant grey, the pulse itself oscillating between the grey Gestalt and the appendage. As if transmitting data packets through a celestial network.

When the oscillating ceased, the grey tentacle limb communicated in not-words. Its contents, friendly, almost… Reverent.

While chaos reigned unabated in the nothingness, Darkness above and below banged like a drum on the line that separated the two, trying to enter where it should not be present. This cycle, it did not succeed. The two that called the great nothingness their birthplace, would not allow trespassers.

The Flame, aware of the grey, stood unable to aid the splinter that had been an ever-present companion from the beginning of the Flame itself, its cosmic might instead required to focus on protecting the boundary that separated the realms.

Amidst it all, a tendril enveloping my shield went unnoticed, as I was transported to stay beside another. This light, this wick, beamed not with the golden light of the past, but with the grey of the future. A stark contrast, for both of us were held by the grey caringly.

While the Fragmented one's notice shifted, while the King's crimson gaze perceived vulnerability, while the Flame staunchly defended the line in the sand, while the Vision watched in indifference, giving token aid to the Flame, the church bell tolled its final sonorous clang before the branch was cut.

The very crack of the branch snapping echoed through the nothingness like the shattering of a grandfather clock.

The nothingness distorted, as everything repeated, each iteration more fragmented, each cycle Chronos' hourglass became emptier, each repetition the barrier diminished to the horror of the Flame.

Each kairos, the G̵̡̺͇̙̼̰̙͔͔͗̂̿͛̌́͗̎̆̅̕r̷̮͔̮̭͓̈́̐̐̇͛̕͝ę̴̡̞͚̤̺̩͍̜̗̙̺̥͋̌͒̑̽̊͒̏̔͘̚͜y̴̡̼̟̳͎̰̺̗̬̝̮̱̜͌ Usurper grew, uncaring of the consequences of its apothesis.

---

Chapter 2 Part 1 - Panopticon Breached

Agent ? - Facility Guard Private

Date - [REDACTED]

Time - Unknown

Location - Site-19 Entrance Zone

I was abruptly roused by someone vigorously shaking my shoulder. Groaning, blearily opening my eyes, I was greeted by two hazel orbs. The man who had been shaking me sported a blue jumpsuit, the SCP logo emblazoned upon where his right pectoral would be underneath.

Dazed, I tried to wipe away the crust which had gathered at the corner of my eyes, all while the man, who appeared to be a janitor, looked contemplative.

Tactical goggles hindered my searching gloved hands approach, giving me pause, the fog that had been encapsulating my thoughts, lifting.

As everything that had happened prior erupted like a torrent inside my mind, the unnamed janitor spoke up with wry amusement, "The jobs tough, believe me, I know, but buddy… Sleeping in the janitorial closet? C'mon, considering what kind of bogeymen that exist here as far as I know, uh…" The janitor seemed to catch himself, before continuing. "Right, I get the need for some rest, but your ilk kinda ensures my safety. If guards start slackin' well it'll be ten times worse than if I get caught lazing 'bout, know what I'm sayin'?" The janitor sheepishly said, half joking, half pleading.

I grumbly groaned in response, more focused on the sudden migraine that had accompanied the return of my memories. I'd definitely died, I'd been high on adrenaline at the time but I was absolutely sure I'd been killed in that blast. Gone out all heroic too, not bad, though living would've been preferable.

Going through the returned memories, from the sudden transmigration to the 'heroic' sacrifice at the Alpha warhead, I found it strange. Heeding an impulsive thought, I flexed my hand, then clenched it, raising it to be levelled with my helmeted head.

Knocking thrice to the bemusement of the janitor watching, the dull thump of a gloved fist hitting kevlar fibre gave away its niche flat sound. Yeah, it definitely sounds and feels tactile enough to be real, uhh… Let's try… Pinching myself? Yeah, might've as well.

Unflexing my hand, I brought it down to my forearm, pinching the white cloth of the, I believe full-body suit? Along with my skin, a familiar albeit low-level of pain was felt as I pinched. While I carried out these simple existential tests, the janitor's concern grew more palpable.

"You alright there bud? Need me to get anyone?" He inquired.

Ignoring him, I just stared at the spot I'd just pinched. Okay, there goes that theory. What about my memories? Might as well try recapping what happened to ensure there aren't any memory discrepancies. Right then, here goes: I was transmigrated, found myself in a shithole of a universe, either spontaneously appeared or possessed an MTF soldier against my will. Found myself manhandled into a helicopter seat, forced to go along for the ride, to then find myself screaming my lungs out inside my own mind while simultaneously the rest of my psyche played bongo drums in a vain attempt to repress the fact that I was going down an elevator to confront and recontain the SCPs of Site-19.

Trying to survive while constantly panicked, on edge and high on adrenaline whilst trying to fit in with the veteran squad of MTF members to prevent being exposed and face summary execution was, to put it lightly, a difficult task. This arduous endeavour went better than expected, in fact, I was slightly proud of my professionalism considering the absolute wallop of fucked up events competing to one-up each other at every juncture.

But things were bound to get, uh, fuckity? Yeah, things got as expected, even more fuckity real quick. With 079's near total control over the facility we were stumbling blindly in the absolute maze that was Site-19 at the time, navigating the corridors was almost an exercise in futility as several times we found ourselves at a dead end and had to retrace our steps.

Which was not great, but it wasn't bad, bad. Just inconvenient. The bad, bad, the real madness, started when Oxide decided to fire a fucking bullet through Lambert's throat after speaking some cryptic gibberish into my ear. Seeing that, I'd spazzed out, dropped my gun, before realising he was aiming at Files. Naturally, my train of thought at the time was compromised, so my adrenaline-addled mind decided glomping Oxide from behind like a monkey was the best course of action in that split-second decision.

That attempt at intervention was pretty, um, ill-conceived. I mean it didn't exactly take a genius to figure out that an untrained civilian wouldn't be able to take on a special forces-trained martial artist, but, hey, the situation required me to do something hasty and something hasty I did indeed do. Anyways, during my glomp tackle manoeuvre, Oxide had managed to turn mid-fall to face me, and I can't say I'm a people person, but his eyes were expressive enough for me to ascertain betrayal in those orbs. For whatever reason, in hindsight, though I didn't think much about it at the time as I didn't get a chance to consider what transpired, his reaction was pretty telling.

He'd thought me a co-conspirator, which lent credence to the theory that I unwittingly possessed the body of some poor traitor sap. Which was probably why he was so surprised when the body I was inhabiting betrayed him instead, like a reverse betrayal, all double agent-like.

Seeing as I had no training in martial arts, the tables were quickly turned, and I found myself in a chokehold, my neck teetering on the brink of being snapped. Fortunately, that didn't happen, with Files firing a shot piercing straight through Oxide's helmet due to the close proximity. The kinetic projectile however wasn't done and continued its journey by tearing through Oxide's hindbrain to then exit through the middle of his nose in a gory fashion. At the end of its voyage, with a lot of momentum lost, the bullet smashed into my helmet non-fatally, which caused the projectile to ricochet, making it collide with a nearby wall.

With that near-death experience, experienced. I got a justified scolding. Well, relatively justified, if I actually was an MTF operative and not a civilian playing soldier.

The civilian playing soldier part was scold-worthy too, but, well, I didn't have much choice in the matter.

After that debacle, we managed to find a checkpoint, went in, and started traversing heavy containment. Coming across a wall that had collapsed and taking a look inside, we found the enigmatic rust-covered cowbell that summons an entity that kills anyone who hears the cowbell's rattle. Investigating, we spotted an out-of-the-way-door that was revealed to be a shortcut that led us deep into the heart of the heavy containment zone, meanwhile the situation on the surface went from awful to abysmal.

Passing an elevator in our exploration, Vincent heard a sound and decided that, yes, taking an elevator down to the lair of a sapient SCP seems like an incredibly smart thing to do with only three combat-effective men, only two technically being 'real' soldiers.

Fortunately, we were spared from having to do that, as unfortunately, the sinister zombie maker doctor clad in a plague doctor's garb decided to ascend from the depths instead.

The white-beaked avian horror, taking advantage of our momentary shock, quickly blitzed into Vincent's personal space and touched his exposed skin, the inevitable consequence of coming in contact with 049 ended, well, as one would expect.

With that me and Files bailed, and we ran far and we ran fast. Unfortunately, giving once again greater thought to the matter, the grim truth was that the SCP world runs on a horror narrative: Even the slowest of killers could apparently easily keep pace with military-trained runners… It was either that or that we ran in a circle somehow, both possibilities equally likely, and I'm not even being sarcastic.

Passing one of the metal bridges that littered the heavy containment zone in SCP Containment Breach, black gas welled up as expected.

Files the last guy I'd expect to not strap his gasmask on properly went down coughing blood.

Dragging him to safety in a climatic scene where the play pretend doctor approached with ominous steps, a convenient roar made the site tremble and the avian monster… Stumbled and fell.

At this point, we'd lost three guys, and the only reliable dude left was coughing his lungs up, my previously unknown heroic instincts chose this moment to surge to full capacity, and I decided, essentially to say, fuck it, we ball.

And with that inspiring declaration, we haltingly and slowly embarked on a quest to find the elevator that'd take us down to the Alpha warhead, so we could go out in a blaze of glory. Because if I'm going to die in the SCP universe, I might as well die doing something appropriately epic.

Problem was that we had to traverse a massive site and zone, while Files was ticking down to his last bre- I was interrupted in my recapping, by my shoulder being shaken again.

"Buddy, talk to me or I'll need to take this seriously and get security."

Eyes refocusing on the janitor who was now close enough for me to feel his breath through my black balaclava, which I had apparently donned.

Giving a cursory inspection of the janitor in question, the man looked oldish, maybe somewhere around his thirties, his completely bald head reflecting the light of the sole fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling, the bald head blank enough to also reflect the various industrial cleaning equipment lining the shelves, giving the illusion of a poor taste tattoo. Or I suppose, a very dedicated janitor.

Speaking up, my voice raspy from disuse, alternatively caused by extreme exposure to radiation, though arguably if that was still in effect, I'd be dead, again.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, just experiencing the worst headache to date." Idly cracking my neck to alleviate some pressure, I continued, "Wouldn't happen to have some aspirin? Paracetamol s'fine too."

"Thank god, was worried the freaks had managed to do something to ya for a sec there bud." The janitor gave a brief look towards a shelf before bending forward to grab an unlabeled bottle, the bottle itself moved by the locomotion of the janitor's hand, gave off the familiar rattle of pills. The janitor then unscrewed the lock before shaking the bottle lightly, letting two white pills fall into his awaiting palm, before offering them to me.

Remaining seated in a haphazard crouching position, I eyed the pills, before looking at the unlabeled bottle, suspicion increased, I inquired with a hint of caution, "What is it?"

The janitor blinked dumbly for a second before responding, "Uh, oh yeah, should've probably told you before I tried to hand 'em to ya. It's ibuprofen, it's anti-inflammatory. Helps on overtime shifts when something makes a real mess or when my muscles are sore. Removed the label so nobody, you know, appropriates it for their own recreational uses."

"That sounds about right," taking the offered pills, I added, "Wouldn't happen to have a cup of water or something?"

The janitor bit a part of his lip in thought, "Yeesh, I mean, the cafeteria, but I'm kinda late to a shift now because of you, there's a restroom next corridor. The tap water is filtered so it's fine to drink, but… Well, some people have hang-ups about drinking tap since it was poisoned with black sludge that one time."

"That… Sounds lovely, I'll take a cup if you'll oblige." I muttered. That black sludge was the old man, wasn't it? I'll trust the filtration experts if they say it's clean to drink.

"Brave of you," the janitor replied, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "Not that there's anything wrong with the tap water, but the filtration system can't catch microplastics, and if it can't catch microplastics, can it catch micro black sludge?" He cleared his throat, an uneasy chuckle escaping the janitor's lips. "That's what I said yesterday to a coworker anyway, didn't mean to scare or anything, I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll be back in a minute."

With that parting statement, he hurriedly left to fetch water, the heavy steel door adorned with the usual three-arrow SCP logo, closed behind him with a pneumatic hiss as the mechanical interlocking mechanisms engaged. The abruptness of the departure caught me off guard, causing me to blink owlishly before snorting quietly. Muttering in a mock caustic tone to myself, I whispered, "Not exactly salesman material there, bud"

With a minute or two to myself, I stood up and decided to examine what I was wearing. Full white bodysuit? Check. Black tactical kevlar vest overlapping my torso? Check. Three magazine pouches with 50-round detachable box magazines? Che- Wait, how do I know that? Ugh, this was just like that time at the helicopter when I knew intuitively how to check and strap on my gear. Filing that oddity away for examination later, because despite my experience with the range, I wasn't that versed. The times I'd been to the local gun range mostly consisted of testing iconic rifles or lower calibre stuff, Glock-18s, hunting rifles, and old World War 2 relics, like the garand.

Shaking my head in bemusement, I returned to my inspection of everything I now apparently wore: An armour panel going down to protect my more private parts? Check. Black balaclava? Check. Black riot helm? Check. Yellow visor currently raised? Check. Hmm, now why do I have a visor if I have tac goggles? Do they even fit when worn together?

Lowering the visor to test, my vision which was already darkened by the goggles got tinted yellow. The goggles themselves weren't touching the visor by a centimetre, so it seemed they'd been proportioned with the visor in mind. Neat, if slightly bulky. Felt a bit redundant having both goggles and visor, but considering the universe, it was more like a contingency I'd reckon.

They kinda hit the visor at the sides if I angled my neck just so, overall however I could live with it.

Anyways returning to my checklist, black gloves, check. Black combat boots, check. Grey elbow pads, shoulder pads, and knee pads? You guessed it, another check.

And finally lying down on the floor, which I had just stood up from, a P90 TR with a green lensed ACOG sight. Why an ACOG on a P90, I didn't know. I wasn't going to question it.

Though looking through the goggles darkened glass, while looking through the yellow tint of the visor, to then look through the green lens of the ACOG sight was gonna be like staring at a pile of Skittles or observing the world like an oddly coloured rave. It was gonna be trippy.

The reason for checking through everything before doing anything else was three-fold: Taking stock and confirming that yes I was wearing a standard facility guard uniform from containment breach. The third reason was the most important: Ensuring that my memories hadn't been tampered with, admittedly, if they had been, I would probably not be able to tell. Nevertheless processing everything that happened methodically while possessing a calmer disposition helped assimilate the sequence of events that had happened in a more healthy manner. Though there was nothing in my memories correlating towards why I'd suddenly woken up far as I could tell, I couldn't discount otherwise ridiculous scenarios like somehow being salvaged from the nuclear blast, dolled up, and put into a mock Site-19 for the entertainment of the Foundation. Sure it was to a degree far-fetched even for this realities standard, but constant vigilance and all that.

Implications aside, I bent down to pick up my P90 submachine gun from the floor, while doing this, the door hissed open.

Before the door could be opened completely, the janitor was already speaking, "So I realised while getting water that I never got your name." Seeing me reach for my gun, he stopped, "Oh, you're getting ready to go on shift again? That's– that's swell, here take the cup of H20."

Grabbing the proffered cup, with the same hand I held the pills, I clumsily wrangled the balaclava up to my nose. Popping the ibuprofen into my mouth while taking a refreshing sip of the water, the H20 easily washed the tablets down. Giving a smack of my chapped lips, glad for the hydration, I gave the janitor a thumbs up as thanks.

"Right-io about your name, I get that most of us have our cliques, I mean, the longest convo I've had with an agent was when I was ordered to clean a particularly dangerous mess where the guard had to give me information on what not to do, to decrease the risk of injury." The janitor paused, fumbling, "So uh, I figured since I'm doing you a solid, if you'd repay me by giving me your name? I mean you don't have to, but I figured, you know, getting to know people a bit better, bridge the gap between our vocations a bit, could inspire people to socialise a little."

The janitor forced a laugh, "People are… introverted here, as you might know. Myself, I've only managed to converse with a couple of janitors and they're already in their little cliques and are very, very closed-off. The pay is good, s'why I stayed so far. But having someone to share workers woes with, would be nice."

The janitor reached out for a handshake, "So I figured, since you seem a bit less high-strung given your sleep," The janitor gave a deliberate wink, "shenanigans - don't worry I won't tell anyone. I figured we might as well become acquaintances, so, uh, hi! Names Henry Moore, janitor here at Site-19, if I'm not working you'll usually find me at common room C-1, so if you ever feel like taking a coffee break and want someone to moan to, I'm your guy!"

I stared… The uncomfortable silence stretched as Henry's hand continued to wait for a handshake. As Henry's smile started to strain, I clasped his hand in mine.

"Names Jack, nice to meet you Henry, I'm quite new here, so I wouldn't mind familiarising myself with the site." My amiable tone doing wonders on Henry's mood.

Unclasping our hands, Henry seemed to do a small fist bump in celebration. "Agent Jack then! We're breaking the mould here a bit, which is a good thing, as I said might get people to socialise between their classes a bit more. On the potential tour note, I'll be glad to guide you later. We could grab a coffee and wander the unrestricted areas here in the entrance zone."

Henry seemed ready to go on a tangent in his enthusiasm, trying to steer him out of it, I asked, "Why can't you give a tour now? It feels pretty important to know where things are, for example; the gates."

That brought him up short, "You're that new- wait you don't even know where the gates are? You should've gotten that information in the information leaflet that came with the new Modular Site Project. Geez, whoever's in charge of you is really dropping the ball, guess we'll have to do the tour as soon as possible then, which… Is not now. Listen, I'm already kinda late to my shift so I kinda got to go, I'm sure you need to do so as well, we'll meet up in C-1 later for the tour, so, yeah!"

Henry quickly grabbed a mop and a few cleaning solutions before opening the door. "Wait, how would I know where C-1 is?"

Halting in his tracks, Henry winced, "Aw shucks, that's true, uh, ask for directions..? Yeah, just ask around. I'm sure someone will help you. See ya in the common room later, since it's Pizza Friday I'll grab a slice for you! They're great;you'll love 'em, best pizza I've ever had – I've really gotta go now though." With two parting awkward finger guns, Henry closed the door in a hurry, cleaning equipment in tow.

"Okay," I muttered to myself as I now stood alone in the janitorial closet, "What in Sam's hell am I supposed to do now?"

I suppose, putting aside that oddly dorky wholesome interaction: I seriously needed to get my bearings.

So, where was I in the recap? Oh yeah, we were searching for the Alpha warhead and stumbled upon the protagonist of the game, D-9341. The guy must've met us in previous loops because he went straight into explaining exactly where the Warhead room was.

Trusting the guy we'd followed his instructions.

Instructions proving true, we found and took the elevator down to the Alpha warhead room.

Files, cosplaying a lump of coal, proved heavy, but my new body's strength had enough stamina to make the final stretch. So I initiated the nuke protocol, had a little chat with Files while the clock was counting down and then, kaboom.

That should've been the end of the story, curtains closed, the black and white screen showing 'FIN', credits rolling, except they didn't.

Instead, one second I was blown up by a 1-kiloton hydrogen bomb, and the next, I was awakened by a socially outcast janitor in his janitorial closet.

See the tonal shift there? I'd resigned myself to dying, ready to perish like a hero, not wake up surrounded by cleaning supplies forced to have a mundane conversation with a guy named Henry Moore. No offence to Henry; he seemed like a genial guy.

I'm not ungrateful; I'm happy that I seem to be alive. I just want to know the why.

I could've made a parallel between the protagonist and my own resurrection, but Gestalt, as far as I know, doesn't work like this. If this was Gestalt's doing, I should've woken up clad in an MTF uniform, not facility guard apparel.

Either way, I wouldn't be able to find any answers by staying here, that was clear.

Adjusting my balaclava with one hand as some parts of the cloth had bunched up, tugging a bit, it smoothed out.

With that done, there was only one thing left to do: explore. Pressing the solitary red button, the door swept open.

Stepping out of the small storage room, a familiar-looking corridor greeted me. Same old lustreless LED shop lights littered the ceiling, accompanied by faded orange stripes along the walls.

Whether or not this was a corridor I'd previously walked through, I couldn't know, since almost every corridor looked the same.

The only door for this entire stretch besides the exits was the closet. A single bench was placed inconspicuously at the very end of the hall, the only 'unique' feature to remember the hallway by.

After I stood up and started walking out the door, I immediately noticed something in my pocket, clearly rectangular in shape, pressing tightly into my quadriceps, causing minor discomfort.

The shape and feel of the object weren't entirely unfamiliar; it could be a lone credit ca- It's a keycard. My first thought was a phone or a credit card, I've had them both in my pockets before, but it struck me as odd for a security guard to walk around with a MasterCard randomly in his pocket.

Ergo, it must be a keycard, and voila; fishing the plastic card up from my white pants pocket, a grey and white facility guard access card presented itself.

Inspecting it, turning it in my hand, the glare from the LED lights on the ceiling made the keycard glint searingly. Turning the access card at an inopportune angle had the light reflect straight into my eyes. The visor and the goggles made the effect negligible, still, I briefly had to blink out the spots in my vision.

Empirical evidence thus suggested that the keycard has a reflective surface; noted.

Accidentally blinding myself for a second aside, both sides of the keycard were relatively barren. What would be called the 'front' of the access card had a QR code, presumably that was the thing to hold up to the door scanners, besides that, the SCP logo.

The backside held a bunch of small symbols, most of them greyed out. Those that weren't were relatively self-explanatory: One was the SCP logo, with a keyhole in the middle instead of the iconic three arrows. Now I couldn't know for sure, but taking an educated guess, I assumed that symbol was related to containment access. Following the non-greyed-out keyhole logo were two greyed-out ones, these were, in all probability, indications of higher tiers of access to containment-related rooms.

In the column below, a similar but easier-to-understand pattern emerged. Once again, three small symbols followed after each other, the one with contrast being the handgun symbol while the rifle and oddly shaped grenade launcher logos were greyed out.

While the symbols themselves were easier to parse, figuring out what the logos meant was harder. Was I only allowed to use handguns? Considering that facility guards - just like me - had submachine guns, that was likely not what it meant. Maybe it implied access to potential armouries? Though why would that be behind tiers… Unless the higher-tiered ones held guns that had more of a… Thaumaturgical bent.

Basically, I'd imagine the handgun tier to be composed of lower calibre weapons like handguns or submachine guns, while the rifle tier held heavy-duty armaments, machine guns, assault rifles, bazookas, etcetera. Finally, the grenade launcher tier would possibly house experimental thaumaturgical ordnance - The kind of guns the Foundation brings out when shit truly hits the fan.

To the uncultured, magic guns that fired lasers or condensed magicks formed into spheres. I'm not entirely sure if that existed in verse, but in this case, it was better to presume.

I mean, I'm sure there's magical weaponry, I meant specifically magic guns that shoot spheres.

Firing a laser gun using plasma as ammunition would've also been cool, that's like a Sci-Fi nerd's wet dream right there.

Unfortunately, it seemed only P90s and potentially handguns were in my immediate future. It did seem odd that the guards weren't outfitted with handguns in general, though I suppose if the P90 didn't do the job, why would a 9-millimetre Beretta make any difference.

Although, for all I know, I could be the exception here; it's not as though I've had the opportunity to compare my kit with the equipment of other facility guards.

I digress.

Circling back to the final column on the keycard's backside, there was one more logo that hadn't been doomed to grayscale. This was the most obvious one though, with the logo literally being the words in all caps "CHECKPOINT." No points for guessing what that granted access to.

Though giving the keycard a final look, this wasn't a card that existed in the containment breach game. Admittedly, it had been some time since I played it, thus the exact minute details of the containment breach keycards were lost to me. But I was reasonably sure they didn't have this on the backside nor the QR code on the front, or for that matter, a card exclusively meant for guard use.

No, the containment breach cards had a simple hierarchy: Level one, level two, level three, level four, level five and omni.

I suppose this was best chalked up as a consequence of the game not equaling reality.

In retrospect, though as always hindsight is twenty-twenty, I should've read up on the various SCPs that dotted the wiki. Even the smallest of details could've been helpful, and considering that I've only played containment breach and only have a vague knowledge of the SCP foundation as a whole, any information would've, as said, been very helpful. I only knew of a few choice SCPs beyond what was in containment breach, and that was only because those SCPs were also decently famous in the community, therefore osmosis did the rest.

For example, knowing about the SCP-001 proposal "When Day Breaks" didn't give any immediate aid. Though if the sun turns red and runny voices start telling me to go outside because oh it's so beautiful then I could conclude earlier than others that everything is fucked.

Not help, or change any outcome, just be aware that everything's gonna be melted into an eldritch puddle faster and eventually, when caught, I'm going to like it. Even trying to off myself wouldn't work, going fully into the whole vibe of, even in death, I still serve. Disclaimer: non-willingly if my mental faculties were still operational.

This whole meta-knowledge cheat seemed more useless by the second. Bummer.

Be that as it may, since I didn't turn into a vegetable when thinking of the Berryman-Langford memetic kill agent, some level of inoculation had been provided against potential info, memetic and cognitohazards. So, hey, at least I wasn't immediately ganked when involuntarily shunted here.

The pneumatic hiss of a door opening briefly startled me, my body involuntarily spasming in surprise. Unfocused staring at a keycard while deep in my own thoughts did not prepare me for a sudden jumpscare courtesy of non-descript SCP door #57.

Whipping my head to the opened door, a red-haired, electric blue-eyed female – uh, what was the right terminology here, scientist? Doctor? Whatever; a white-jacketed woman, clad in a black turtleneck shirt, accompanied by grey jeans and two black oxford-style leather shoes had unlocked the entryway.

Standing in the opening, clearly intending to take another step, she hesitated as she noticed me standing stationary in the middle of the hall. The momentary hesitation only lasted half a second before she undeterred continued her walk towards me, or rather, continued walking towards the end of the hall.

Standing dumbly with my keycard still in hand as she approached, I greeted her for the sake of politeness… and maintaining cover? I wasn't sure myself. The words leaving my mouth were mostly out of instinct and ingrained habit. "Good morning."

The probable scientist halted, raised an eyebrow and replied, "Good afternoon agent."

Oh fuck. I meant that like a greeting, greeting. Not a greeting only appropriate to be said at certain times of the day, greeting. I cleared my throat and tried to salvage, "Ah, time sure flies by."

A singular eyebrow still raised, she replied once again, "Indeed. Was there anything else agent?"

"No, ma'am, just idle chatter." Voice strained, I barely managed to reply without stuttering, sudden nervousness clogging my vocal cords.

The scientist's mouth formed into a thin line, "Idle chatter…" She muttered, "If you have time for idle chatter, agent, I suggest you report to your supervisor for additional tasks. Idle hands are the devil's workshop, of that I know."

"As you say, ma'am." I could only agree.

Uninterestedly giving me a once-over, she asserted, "See that you do. In fact, so that this dalliance of yours doesn't become routine, give me your badge number." Grabbing something from her jacket, she pulled out a boxy-looking handheld thingamajig. "Well? Get on with it." Uhh, shit, I don't have on- Oh, she's gesturing for the keycard in my hand.

Holding my keycard out, I stated, "Here you go, doctor."

With a quiet hmph, she held the thingamabob, now revealed as a keycard scanner, over the QR code. "Agent Jack, was it? Joined two years ago, a remarkably dull service record." The scientist tsked "I'm not sure if I should be impressed or concerned that this behaviour of yours has been ongoing for so long. Mhm, perhaps I am jumping to conclusions; your loitering here doesn't equal to doing so at all times. Even if it did, the sheer lack of not being noted down in any recontainment procedure tells me that you are one very lucky man, Agent."

For the first time since she entered, instead of a disinterested gaze, the scientist seemed to actually look at me.

I gulped.

"You've not responded to a single breach?" Her gaze sharpened, "Or couldn't respond, I suppose. Have you always been on the other side of the site when a breach has happened Agent Jack? These two years have been remarkably calm, for the lack of a better word." A begrudging nod, "Only because of that, is a service record like this possible."

Tapping the screen of the keycard scanner twice, she said out loud, "Your supervisor is Security Agent Carey." She remarked with an I'm-done-with-this-guys-shit sigh. "Now I understand why you can dally like this; I'm not personally acquainted with the man but," Her eyes sought mine, not at all intimidated by the piss-yellow visor reflecting herself. "I am aware, through the grapevine, of his more relaxed approach to discipline. I am certain the Security Chief would be most cross to hear from a level three researcher that Agent Carey coddles those under his supervision."

What the hell was her problem? She's angling for something, for sure. It's like I put a cow cadaver in front of a shark and the shark pounced without remorse. Though whatever force that punted me here had the grace to actually put me in the database so that at least doesn't immediately blow my cover, unless of course, I've possessed a person conveniently named Jack. Not the time for introspection; gotta respond. "Agent Carey means well, I am sure. Of course, I do believe there is no need to bring such a petty complaint to the Security Chief of all people, miss…" I should be in the clear now, I think.

She smirked, "Doctor Olivia Armshaw, containment specialist and no, I suppose it wouldn't do to bother Franklin with, in your own words, a petty complaint, yes? However, seeing there is a need for a reprimand," Not clear, I say again, not clear. "I suppose it falls to me to supervise that punishment, I do, after all, have the authority to administer disciplinary judgement if required."

Olivia stood a little straighter, "And of course, if you obediently face your penalty, I am sure this needs not to reach Carey's ears either." Her eyes searched mine meaningfully.

Is she coming onto me? A Foundation scientist? No, there's something I'm not seeing.

I nodded and asked plainly, "And that would imply..?" Olivia rolled her eyes, "That I am indulging in an experiment as a hobby, beyond my usual duties. As the testing is strictly off the books and more of a leisurely pursuit, one could say; I am not authorised to requisition guards during testing despite its admittedly low chance of any substantial danger, as it is, as said, a non-official scholarly avocation." Olivia crossed her arms, "A fitting punishment for you, wouldn't you agree? And it wouldn't be amiss to have a lucky charm beside me during the more dangerous parts of the testing."

Oh, she wants me as a meat shield during her illegal experiment, or at least that's the conclusion I'm getting to by reading between the lines. I'd like to say that I could just agree, find the gates, escape and then forget about any possible promise I'll make here. The naivety to believe that would be possible as a guard is… Optimistic, to say the least. I don't think guards can leave whenever they want; most likely I need someone to vouch for me to get out of the gate, a higher-level researcher perhaps. Possibly a level three, but most likely higher?

Too many unknowns. I've just woken up, met a janitor, internalised the prior events and now, by one or two mistaken words, caught in a verbal trap by an opportunistic scientist.

Gaining the favour of a level three researcher would be a boon; potentially risking my life for it, not so much. Is reporting her to a higher authority even an option? Doing so would initiate an investigation, and the accuser, which is me in this scenario, would likely be probed too. That sort of scrutiny isn't something I can accept either. Best to humour her for now even if it rankles.

After my internal debate, I gave a slow nod to Olivia, "That seems agreeable, ma'am. When would this supposed experiment take place?"

She gave me a professional dimple-filled smile, "I will inform the intercom operator when I know the time; he'll call for you then. Ah, but I need to go now; I can only let Doctor Marachek stew in frustration for so long. See you later, Agent." Olivia went to walk away, but my outstretched hand halted her, "Before you go, ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know where common room C-1 is located?"

Giving me a mildly annoyed look, she replied with a sneer, "That would be the common room for support staff. It should be located in the east sector, where everything unimportant is situated. Now if you would let me pass?" Obliging her, she walked past me, her ponytail swaying with each step. Watching her go stone-faced, I waited until the door closed behind her to hiss between my teeth.

I am so screwed. I brought both of my hands up to my face in a double facepalm; all that talk about a calmer mindset felt like baloney right about now.

Okay, so now I'm obligated to partake in illegal testing because of office politics, great. A socially starved janitor is awaiting me at the 'east' sector, wherever that is. These designations don't mean shit to me.

Man… All I want is to get out of here, and figuring out how to manage that, is as expected proving to be quite the doozy.

What a bitch she was in all honesty, immediately pouncing at the first weakness sighted. Though I suppose I looked, eh, guilty? Clueless? If so, then, yes, that may be an accurate description of myself at the moment.

Still, if every Foundation scientist in the site were that hawkish, I'll be having an even more terrible time trying to escape the place than initially assumed.

So, plans? End goal: escape from Site-19 before people realise I shouldn't be here. Ok, methods on how to accomplish that… Pending. Tentative plan: persuade someone high-ranked to let me outside of the facility, preferably with a vehicle for a swift getaway.

How to manage that: uncertain. Fuck.

I can't even be entirely sure if I'm even in the same dimension at the moment, this might be a different Foundation for all I knew, where the breach of the game didn't happen.

"Haah~" I exhaled, there is no use in overcomplicating things, if things are overtly different, I'll notice. To make any progress, I need to start exploring the site anyways. I'll look for the gates first, if on the off chance that I am wrong and guards can leave as they please, then I want that proven, so best to at least attempt it, even if it's unlikely.

If guards aren't allowed to leave, the question remains, is there a barracks? How long are guards indentured here – is there vacation time? Surely they don't live forever in sites; some must have families after all. Though the Gonzales experiment opens up more terrifying possibilities of implanted memories, that procedure, however, going by the orange sticky note in containment breach, implied that the practice was relatively newly developed, so it's doubtful that widespread implantation of false memories is currently in effect. In the future? I wouldn't put it past the Foundation to ensure the loyalty of their less important underlings with less than ethical methods.

Nevertheless, if the gate gander proves unsuccessful, I'll try to locate C-1 and rendezvous with the janitor. With any luck, I'd at least get a decent lay of the land by touring the site.

Right, no reason to stall anymore, time to get going.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door which Olivia entered from.

---

The first few corridors were duds, yielding nothing of note. The only remotely interesting occurrence during my bumbling promenade through the labyrinthian site was the few people who passed me. I'd managed to capture snippets of conversation, though nothing particularly stood out – everything so far remarkably mundane.

Two agents idly discussing the tedium of patrols were the only thing garnering any interest, though their conversation too, proved to be a dud at first.

The two agents, temporarily named Guard 1 and Guard 2, were at the end of the corridor I was walking through and had temporarily stopped while one of them shook their boot, releasing a small shower of gravel onto the floor.

"Eesh, someone didn't clear out their boots before storing them in the barracks storage room." Guard 1 groaned.

The second guard yawned, "That sucks… Why didn't you clear the pebbles when we left the barracks?"

"Suited up, and when I felt it, I figured I'd hold out and remove it when we got back."

Guard 2 shook his head, "That's stupid. If you'd gotten abrasions you wouldn't have been able to wear shoes for weeks. Trust me, chafing isn't to be underestimated. Personally suffered trench foot in basic once; never again."

The guards hadn't cared to give me more than a brief glance when I had opened the door to the corridor. When I reached the end of the hall, the second guard stepped back, pressing against the wall to make way for me.

With a small wave, Guard 2 gestured for me to pass. Nodding silently in thanks, just in case this particular agent knew every guard on-site by voice. Was it convolution bordering on paranoia? Probably.

To those who'd call me paranoid or overly cautious, I refute with the proverb: Constant vigilance! Sure the saying originates from a transmogrified serial killer – there is however little need to sweat the details in my humble opinion.

Anyway, I passed them without fuss. Closing the door behind me, another empty corridor greeted me. Hesitating slightly, I turned around to the door I just entered via.

Is it worth it to eavesdrop? Well, it may be, and that's enough motivation for me to do so, starved for information as I was. Shamelessly attempting to press my ear against the wall proved impossible, the sides of the protruding helmet I was wearing meeting the steel door first, luckily I only lightly impacted the door, so the agents inside didn't notice.

Nonetheless, the sound isolation provided by these doors proved ineffective when this close. The sound carried clearly, only minutely muffled.

"You're right; I should know better. A buddy of mine back in the academy climbed one of those hanging ropes - you know the one, all sports centres have 'em. It's like a long rope just hanging from the ceiling. Anyways, he was doing rope pull-ups and thought it'd be funny to climb all the way up without gym chalk; big mistake. Halfway up his muscles had enough, though he had enough sense to at least hold on to the rope when he started sliding do-"

Guard 2 interrupted, "Shit, don't tell me..?"

"Eyup, friction burns for days lining his instep, arch and palms. Poor sod could barely walk, each step, in his own words, 'Like a thousand fire ants decided to do the macarena on my feet without stop.' Couldn't hold anything too, with his palms redder than the devil himself. Heh, at the time, you only needed to be within twenty metres of him for your nostrils to be choked with the smell of antiseptics and hydrogel."

"Sounds godawful."

"Hah! It was, without doubt, godawful for him." Guard 1 confirmed with a barked laugh.

"Alright, heh, I think that's enough loitering, we have a schedule to follow." Guard 2 reminded his counterpart.

Ah shit- if they open the door, they'll see me standing here. I realised it mid-way through their conversation, but doubled down, only to gain useless information as a result.

"Imagine if Gregg saw us dawdling like this. The fella just got his promotion to researcher after the Site-19 attack and he's already hounding everyone in security for being too lax." Oh? Do tell me more Guard 1.

Guard 2 snorted, "For good reason. A lot of sites were hit by the insurgency blitz, with Site-19 taking the brunt of it. I'd say I'm glad for not being stationed there, if it wasn't for the fact that Site-19 came to us instead, and to a lesser degree, other sites' anomalies as well."

"I hear you," Guard 1 commiserated, "Just because we've been temporarily designated as Site-19 while it's being rebuilt doesn't mean we actually have the staff or the facilities to hold Site-19 level anomalies. We're a transfer site for God's sake, it feels like with the new designation, the higher-ups seem to have forgotten that fact." Wait? This site isn't Site-19? What? That doesn't make any sense, the lieutenant I met up on the surface at the beginning before my untimely demise claimed it to be the worst breach in Site-19 history. Could he have meant the transfer site's history? That's… Dumb, but considering Foundation denomination practice tending towards the very literal, he might've just been following protocol. Or is it a dimensional variance unique to this reality… possibly? Things are just getting more and more confusing and I don't like it.

Guard 2 started ranting, "Yeah! I mean, that's what I've been saying. We have voice-mimicking red-coloured murder dogs in the basement cooped up in makeshift supersized hound cages, when – not if – those abominations break containment, it's us who'll be paying the price. We're standing on a ticking time bomb and everyone knows it. But nobody can do anything about it because Rosewood is doing his best impression of a nepotist and a lapdog in unison." That doesn't sound good. So, the red dogs must be SCP-939 and they're contained in oversized dog cages? I'm somehow not surprised that they got out with ease during the breach. Also Rosewood huh, he should be, if my memory doesn't fail me, the Site Director of apparently not!Site-19. He's also a douchebag if Guard two's word is to be believed.

Guard 1, voice lowered, cautioned, "Listen, Sawyer, I agree, but going around loudly bad-mouthing the Site Director will only lead to tragedy. There are better places to talk about this than a random corridor."

A frustrated fist impacted the door I was intently listening through, the clank startling me. Fortunately, while it was sudden, it wasn't loud nor had the puncher put much power in it, so besides a silent inhale from me, no noise was made.

"Yeah, I know, but lives are on the line here – protecting others, securing monsters. It's why I signed up in the first place, ignoring blatant oversight that endangers people just isn't in my nature. I joined up with the army back then because I was young and dumb, but I found purpose there, and now it feels like I'm betraying the ideals that formed back in Vietnam y'know?" The guard now named Sawyer said frustratedly, with a tint of defeat colouring his voice.

Guard 1 responded with a contemplative tone, "I'm not going to patronise you just because you're young, but, the fact you're this idealistic after suffering 'Nam is… I'm not sure if concerning is the right word, so I'll settle for impressive. In the end, despite the age gap between me and you, I chose SWAT, you chose Army Sawyer, for that, you have my respect even if I consider the Viet war as a whole, wasteful. Still, you need to learn when to keep your head down, not just in the jungle trenches."

Sawyer gave off a low chortle, "It's funny that you mention age, back in 'Nam after two years of service, I was considered the 'old' guard. But I understand you're just looking out for me, and I appreciate that." I'm almost starting to feel bad for eavesdropping; this is way too much personal information that I don't need nor want to know.

Yeah, I think that's my cue to leave- "Why were we designated as Site-19 anyway?" Or not.

A sigh, "It's guesswork all the same, nonetheless, I personally believe the higher-ups are planning for this site to be restructured to become the new Site-19. The original got hit pretty hard and the insurgency knows of its locale now. Most likely they are either choosing this place to become the new one or building another in a new secret location while using us as a decoy. Again, it's conjecture." The yet-to-be-named Guard theorised.

"That does make a degree of sense, though I'm not a fan of being a decoy–" Sawyer started saying before Guard 1 interrupted, "Nobody is. Listen, we need to start moving now or we're going to miss the next check-in, we'll shelf these topics for later, to be discussed in a more appropriate setting."

"Oh," Sawyer said surprised, before mumbling, "damn we talked for a long time." Raising his voice, he asked, "What's our ETA?"

"Ten minutes before we're expected to relieve Viper, five minutes until the next check-in." Guard 1 clarified.

"Ah, Let's roll then."

I guess I just hope they don't go in my direction… Thinking about it, attempting to leave earlier seemed unwise; I don't think the gear on me allows for silent sneaking so in the end; I think I made the right choice. It would've been highly likely and easy for them to hear the thumps of my boots that close, better to hope for a win on a 50/50. I might just be justifying a poor decision however, if so, I'm self-aware enough to acknowledge that potential fact.

It did seem prudent at the time. Now, not so much.

They never noticed that I didn't continue walking down the hallway after all.

Some of the information gained did clear up a couple of things, while in return annoyingly creating more questions, furthering my confusion in the process.

Boots hitting the floor had me frozen still, nerves trembling, my facial expression turned ice cold in anticipation, as cold as the metal door in front of me. A relieved gust of air escaped my mouth, cracking my firm countenance as I heard them walk towards the other end of the hall. With all the stress I've been experiencing in the last few hours, my nerves had to be made of steel soon, or so I could hope.

"Hey, Maxwell, You ever wonder if any of those SCPs are watching us right now?"

"I try not to think about it. But if they are, they're probably just as bored as we are. . ." The last thing I heard from the other side of the door was the distant sound of Guard 1 responding as the conversation faded away.

Turning around, just as discombobulated as earlier, I carried on traversing the site.

Welp, I'm quite happy nobody came from the other direction during all that. It would've been equally awkward to explain.

I'm still not over the fact that this isn't Site-19.

---

Arguably, the revelation that this isn't Site-19 is a positive discovery. Having said that, any positivity was dampened by the impending breach. I'm not entirely sure why I'd been inserted before the breach and as a facility guard at that. I'm not even going to try to fathom the possible nebulous force engineering my fate and the purpose of its machinations. What I am going to do; is do my best to escape. If that means witnessing fucked up shit and ignoring it until I'm free, then that's what I'll do. I'm in the zone, I am one with the flow~ and the flow is with me~. Until the flow takes me out of the haunted house created by horror writers.

As for my stratagem in regards to therapeutically handling my previous death, I'll go with the tried and tested method of, repress, repress, repress.

Mercifully, being incinerated at ground zero of a thermonuclear bomb blast, as it expanded at supersonic speeds, resulted in a rapid and virtually painless death. The lack of suffering helped prevent any unnecessary trauma from the experience. Nonetheless, the mere fact that it happened and that I was vaporised until only atomic and subatomic particles remained, was still horrifying. Scientifically I knew there weren't even remnants left of my presence in the aftermath, not even a speck of ash. The destruction at that level so complete and chaotic there wouldn't be the slightest trace of my physical form. Nothing to bury and nobody to mourn me.

With that said, Enough with the doomer thoughts brain! Everything is fine…

I swear, if this is an excuse for internal meta monologuing then I am suing the heck out of the writer if I get back. When, When I get back. Happy thoughts Jack, happy thoughts. Hah~, when I get back and it turns out that my insertion here is on a piece of paper, I'll roleplay Andrey Durskin version two electric boogaloo. If only to spare anyone else, whatever this is.

Till then, it's best to focus on the present. Ehrm, right, more people were starting to fill the corridors I was walking through, besides straightening my back, I kinda only had to rely on my disguise here. No need to overplay my part.

But yeah, more people had been starting to swarm the corridors, scientists, janitors, I think saw a cafeteria cook as well.

Honestly, to make it easier for myself, I should just ask a passerby where the gates are.

Stopping a construction worker? Technician? I don't know, the dude was rocking the hardhat and the utility belt shebang and my mind went straight to builder Bob. He was most likely a technician of some sort, though him being a construction worker wasn't far out left field either.

For all I know he was here to assess the site, plan eventual expansion spots and the like.

Imagine being a construction worker unaware of the SCP Foundation and a random Foundation agent orders, 'So yeah, I want the space to be a 40x40 room with an absolutely massive iron gate to keep zoo animals in, to be stationed in this underground lair, can you do that?' and the clueless construction worker standing there puzzled clutching a clipboard, camera panning behind him so we could see what was written on the worker's clipboard and it's just the words 'Sex Dungeon' with a huge question mark following after it.

Do they dose the construction workers with amnestics? Oh god, is the Foundation hiring construction workers for free labour knowing they can administer amnestics later when they demand pay? It's like Mexican labour but not only are they cheap, they're actually competent.

No offence to any Mexican gig labourers. You're working back-straining work for dimes, you've got all my respect for the hustle. The problem is when the hustle, hustles you, y'know?

Anyway, the blue-collar worker clad in navy blue coveralls, some type of safety boots, rubber gloves and holding what I'd guesstimate to be a rolling tool case came to a halt as I put my arm up in the universal stop gesture.

The technician immediately looked concerned and asked, "Is there a problem sir?"

Engaging bullshit protocols, I shook my head and answered, "Nah, you're good. I've got a hunch and I need you to answer two questions for me if that's fine?"

Perplexed, the technician responded, "Um, sure I guess."

"Swell, you're a technician right?"

"Yup, electrician." Ayy, I was right, he's a technician. Not exactly hard to figure out so I don't know why I'm celebrating.

"Oh, you're an electrical technician, neat. That was the first question, now comes the second: do you know where the gates are?"

"I'm an electrician, not an electrical technician. There's a difference. But the gates?" The unnamed electrician blinked at the non-sequitur. "Uh, do you mean Gate A or Gate B?"

I smiled, "Both. Give me directions to both if you can."

The electrician slowly nodded, "I can do that, jeez, it's always a pain trying to give directions here and I helped remodel the place! Anyways, let's see…" The middle-aged dark-skinned man hemmed and hawed in the T-shaped hallway. "I came from the electrical centre, took a right, continued forward through two corridors…" The guy almost guaranteed to have an electrical engineering PHD was reduced to counting on his fingers. "I'm going to the server room, there's three T-shaped hallways on the way there, I've passed one so I should be at the second now…"

Man, the Modular Site Project was hitting these people harder than I thought. Even those who'd remodelled the site are having a tough time.

"Where's this in relation to the conference room? It should be three lefts, right? Hm…"

This is legitimately sad to watch. Is the universe intentionally trying to obstruct my path?

I dunno, but I had to cut off the guy and ask, "Is it that difficult to tell me the way to the gates?"

It took a second for my query to settle in, but when he did realise I'd asked a question, he released a light laugh, "Haha, it's, yeah, - It's more difficult than you think. The problem is, we're standing in a random hallway and not a common area. If we'd been at the cafeteria, for example, I'd be able to tell you how to path everything with little issue. Since we're not, it gets more challenging because I have to calculate where we are in comparison to, what you could call landmarks. The server room is a landmark as is the conference room, likewise, so are the various common rooms dotted around."

The tech's expression twitched into a wry grin, "I mean, this is how it's intended with the Modular doctrine. No maps of the site are available to reduce potential intel leaks, preventing evil-doers from knowing the layout of the site. And because the site is supposed to be modular, sometimes the local engineering department and the technical service department are tasked with restructuring the site. I know that part intimately because I always take part in the process to prevent any electrical damage when repositioning the corridor segments. The doctrine is effective at what it's meant to do, but it's definitely caused a level of uncertainty in where things are."

"No kidding, the building is a maze. How do you even remodel an underground site with regularity?" Forget the gates, now I'm genuinely interested.

The electrician held up a finger, took a step closer to the wall and knocked. "It's not wood or drywall, so you won't hear that the outside is hollow. But behind each wall in every corridor and every hallway are large spaces of excavated dirt on both sides bolstered with support beams to ensure structural integrity. Below every corridor and hallway are retractable wheels that help slide the corridors when we reposition them. All the corridors have hidden compartments with levers, by operating them you can dislodge the locks from their current positioning, disengaging the corridor from the corridor network. When you do that it'll allow you to open specially made plates that get revealed. Behind these plates is where the electrical wiring is placed. The way we, on the electrical team, designed it is - forgive me for boasting, but it's genuinely impressive. You can easily disengage the wires, twist the corridor, and then re-engage everything and suddenly the site has a new layout." The tech ended with a proud smile, spreading his arms as if to embrace the passageway.

"So, if I understand correctly, you turn the levers and the corridor disconnects, whereupon you step outside to enter artificially made dirt rooms, to then disengage the wiring so it doesn't get destroyed in the process. When that's done, you retract the wheels to spin the corridor to the desired direction and then re-engage everything? That's… That's peak engineering, even an unenlightened man to the wonders of construction assembly like me comprehends that's some impressive innovation." This was definitely not in the game but it makes sense, it explains why each playthrough of containment breach had different layouts. Sure each playthrough should be starting at the same time and a date, but that could be attributed again to the reality and game differences.

"Right?! Nobody else is interested in this, nobody appreciates the work we're doing here. Everyone is complaining about the Modular Site Project and its negatives but it's effective, it's working and doing what it's supposed to do! Keeping invaders guessing and making it infinitely harder to assault the site. Thank goodness for Doctor Maynard; he's the only one who gets it, he's the genius that created the doctrine. Maynard has gotten stuck in interminable discussions with his fellow Researchers who are erroneously critiquing the project - I don't get it. Don't they see the sheer potential in adopting this to other sites? This is the future, the configuration that will set the precedent that all other sites will follow if given a chance to shine. The Insurgency assault would've died in its cradle if the other sites were designed like this!" Woah, that's uh, that's a sudden level of passion alright. My guy was almost screaming at the end there. I'm not entirely sure how we got from point A in the discussion to point Z but due to my sheer social adeptness, I could conclude that he's a loyalist to Maynard's deliberately flawed ideas.

To be fair, he's not aware of Maynard's true allegiance, he also probably doesn't understand the SCP Foundation's primary objectives either. He's what, at level zero clearance? He's thinking in military terms like the Foundation is in a conventional war seeking to conquer its enemies and defend its territories. When in reality it's fundamentally designed for the sole purpose of containing dangerous anomalies.

Sure the Foundation has more aims than that, nevertheless, that's the base raison d'être the Foundation holds when scrubbed of all else.

From his perspective, he intellectually knows the Foundation's core mission is the containment of harmful anomalies. But at level zero access, he doesn't truly understand what constitutes an anomaly besides a coffee machine, innocent-looking teddy bears and similar safe SCPs that can roam the panopticon unhindered. With that as his only reference, it's no wonder he views the Insurgency as the most dangerous threat that the Foundation is facing.

He's probably heard about the Insurgency through the grapevine and the need-to-know knowledge provided by Maynard for those working on the Modular Site Project.

If I asked him what the Global Occult Coalition represented, he'd probably respond with a puzzled 'who?'.

With similar results for any other group of interest.

One could say I'm projecting hard here, but that's what I assume after being the recipient of a very passionate speech by unnamed electrician #4.

At this point, it's probably the time to go full sycophant and say: 'Hey dude, you're totally right in everything and I wholeheartedly agree with all your points, but I really need to go now so if you could tell me the way to the gates that'd be much appreciated!.'

Otherwise, I'll get stuck here talking to a very passionate electrician for an indeterminate amount of time. The moving corridors part was fascinating and good to know, the ranting part less so.

"You're right - they don't understand what they can't comprehend. I, for one, think the idea is sound with a real possibility of implementation if it proves successful. People won't listen until they see real results, the theory applied to the practical, you feel me? You know what? I think this conversation broadened my horizons a bit. Got me to become a mite more knowledgeable, and that's marvellous. I'd love to chat some more, but I've gotta run. So… About those directions to the gates?" Okay, I end my turn convo opponent, your turn.

The electrician nodded agreeably, "It's not that they can't comprehend the project; it's the fact that they've already made up their mind. One colleague goes, 'The Modular Site Project is bad because of this and that' and the other coworker, trusting of the other's opinion, agrees. And when you've cemented an opinion of something, it's hard to admit you're wrong even when proven to be incorrect."

Oh, the bleeding irony. "It's as you say, it just needs a field test to prove its worth. But, yeah, it's, yeah, – Sorry, it's not proper growing heated like that, I apologise for the behaviour shown; I've been bottling up my feelings concerning the project, and it's just – it's hard man. I'm not allowed to backtalk anyone higher-ranked, I've been on the sidelines during arguments and sometimes you want to go up there and say to that ignorant snobby researcher, 'You're wrong'. Naturally, I can't do that, so, I don't know, your comment was the catalyst that broke the camel's back, I guess. Once again, I apologise for my behaviour; I'm not normally like this." The electrician took some calming breaths, before continuing, "That subject, it brings out the worst in me."

C-c-critical hit! It's my win convo opponent. Joking aside, every fellow I've met so far seems to have major mental issues. People here are in desperate need of therapy. Dire even. I remain unsurprised that people in the Foundation have issues they're dealing with; what I am surprised about is how blasé the personnel are about venting their life challenges to a security guard stranger with a submachine gun. Sure we're technically in the same 'faction', but I don't think I'm exactly oozing therapeutic charisma here. I'm the last person fit to be healing minds through deep delving consultations.

"Hey bud, it's water under the bridge, don't worry. We're all humans here, sometimes we get mad, and that's okay. Now about the gates…" I hedged, hoping to finally get directions; god why is it so hard? I'm not asking for much here. A few lefts and rights are perfectly acceptable.

You know, when I woke up after dying, I expected more of the pew-pew variety to happen again. Not be stuck playing therapist to an electrician needing anger management classes, promising an outcast janitor to socialise, and get trapped in a verbal trap by a self-serving researcher.

I haven't even seen an SCP yet and I'm starting to think they're not the ones dangerous here. With SCPs, I know they usually go 'Rawr I'm going to murder you brutally'. Humans, however, well my experience here so far tells enough.

"Oh yeah, you wanted directions. Um, Huh, crazy how we went from you asking about directions to the gate to the intricacies of the Modular Project." The torpor-creating memetic hazard clad in coveralls chuckled awkwardly. That's a joke with the punchline being that his constant prattling is making me lethargic. It's not funny, but it wasn't meant to be.

"Okay, so where was I? The second T-shaped hallway, right? So it should be… Okay, okay I've got it." The maintenance electrician pointed towards the right door, "Okay, so by walking through there, then going forward through three corridors, then taking a left, then another left you should arrive in a cubicle room. When you're there, continue forward two corridors and then one left, and finally two rights. And that should lead you to Gate B. Gate A is on the other side of the entrance zone, so I'm not sure if I can lead you there, from here. You'll have to ask someone else."

My smile was brittle as I received my answer; I had achieved partial victory, but at what cost?

"So did I pass?" Destroying my apathetic celebration was the nasally voice of the electrician.

Befuddled by the non-sequitur I questioned, "Pass what?"

"The test? You said you had a hunch and that I answered the first question; did I pass the second? This was some kind of questionnaire right?"

He thought this was, what? A survey? Actually, you know what, I could work with this.

Stepping forward into his personal space, I landed a firm hand on his shoulder, "You sure did bud, passed with flying colours even. I'm glad we have people like you in the Foundation." Then I promptly did a one-eighty and hurriedly left to follow his instructions, leaving the electrician to stand there staring dumbly at my retreating back.

Mission accomplished! Almost.

Surely nothing else is going to bar my path to the gates now, right? There can only be so much shenanigans going on at the site at any given time, right?

---

I know tempting Murphy was never a good idea, especially when he's canonically real here.

I know I've only got myself to blame, but come on! What am I even looking at here?

I'd followed the instructions and arrived in the corridor that would make me pass through a cubicle room; there was a lot of chatter coming from the door but it was hard to make anything out, it didn't sound panicked, so I thought it was fine to proceed.

The dim hubbub that was coming through the door was almost indiscernible, but my initial belief may have been incorrect because as I got closer, the clamour of the cubicle office sounded decidedly rowdier than expected.

"How do you make the document transparent?" "Not like that, Simmons! Ask 8-Ball instead."

"My supervisor will hear about this! Directorate K will not stand for this barbarian treatment!"

"Can someone get the SCP-1659β instance to shut up? Agents, do your job."

"This is in direct violation of the treaty of nineteen ninety-eight! The Directorate will not treat this lightly!"

Muffled sounds of resistance and shouted expletives rang out from the cubicle quarter.

I could always ask someone else for an alternative path to the gates… Yeah fuck that, I'm not going through that song and dance again.

Scanning my keycard on the door scanner, the locks of the door released, making it slide open.

And in doing so, I was bombarded with a murmur of voices, all talking in a relatively small space.

Observing the workplace, I saw that the office featured a split-level design, with an upper and lower section divided by a short flight of stairs on both ends of the hall. The upper level overlooked the lower one, offering a vantage point for those walking on the elevated platform. The top level was a barren walkway, the wall adorned with a single poster, the poster itself containing the SCP logo and the iconic Foundation motto:

Secure. Contain. Protect.

The lower section housed standard office furniture, including desks, chairs, blocky computer terminals, and filing cabinets.

At many of the desks sat Foundation personnel hunched over their desks, engrossed in their work, their faces illuminated by the glow of computer screens and ceiling lights alike.

The hum of conversation and the clicking of keyboards filled the air, creating a symphony of standard office sounds. Filing cabinets lined one corner, their metal surfaces reflecting the fluorescent overhead lights. Bulletin boards were covered in a patchwork of announcements, notes, and memos, each vying for the researcher's and administrative staff's attention.

The two-level office room was a microcosm of corporate life. The sterile office space would be a picturesque adage to bureaucratic serenity if it weren't for several out-of-place ink spots on an otherwise perfect painting.

One of these so-called ink spots was the utterly drenched, waterlogged agent standing on the upper walkway, a veritable waterfall of transparent liquid dripping from his uniform and wetting the floor below.

Beside him on the floor, a struggling non-descript man was cuffed with zip ties, another non-drenched agent straddling the person to the ground, keeping him detained.

There was also, besides the various curious onlookers from the lower section, an older-looking scientist with silvery-grey hair and a receding hairline pinching his brows in apparent vexation. At the scientist's feet, laid a large empty water canister, the possible culprit of the soaked agent's state.

The hydraulic hiss that heralded my entrance, caused the four people on the walkway to unconsciously turn their heads towards the unexpected sound.

The scientist, seeing my entrance, made a hitherto motion to beckon me forward.

Under the scrutiny of four sets of eyes, I awkwardly, reluctantly approached.

Coming into conversation range, the scientist instantly queried, "Where's your partner, agent?"

Partner? Oh boy, am I breaking some sort of protocol by walking solo around the site?

Before answering, I gave a cursory glance to the person cuffed on the floor. His eyes were laser focused on the scientist, giving him a rageful glare, bordering on hate. He also had a towel in his mouth. Why, I did not know.

"I'm alone, sir." Please don't ask for my badge number and do a repeat of the Olivia incident.

"Alone? I specifically asked for two agents to come and escort the SCP-1659β instance to one of Light Containments detention cells." Oh, now he was frowning grumpily in an oddly grandfatherly way, his wrinkles really added to the whole affable grandfather shtick he had going. I should probably answer his question before that frown grows too severe.

Wait, SCP-1659 what now? So the man lying down on the floor beside me is an SCP. He looks suspiciously normal; I wouldn't peg him as an SCP from appearance alone.

"Sir, there seems to be a misunderstanding; I'm heading for Gate B at this time and I can't be tardy. I'm merely passing by." I know I usually seem to call things too early, but I think I'll be able to pass here without issue, not.

"Heading for Gate B? I see, well… Stay here until reinforcement arrives; tell your superior that Doctor Lin vouches for you if he asks why you're late. The byproduct of SCP-1659 should be harmless yet all the same, overconfidence is an insidious killer." Doctor Lin wisely ordered.

The SCP in question seemed to try to utter screamed expletives in response to Lin's remarks, instead, he appeared comical as the towel transformed his words into muffled screaming.

I shouldn't have said anything but I definitely called it. I mean, it's not too bad; as soon as the escort arrives I'll be free to walk the final stretch to Gate B. At this point, I'm equally resigned as convinced that something doesn't want me to reach my goal. Why else have there been so many obstacles barring my path? Normal conversations turning into impromptu therapy is not normal, doubly so here at an SCP site. Having said that, calling anything in an SCP site 'normal' is an oxymoron. Still, it's weird.

I might be overthinking it, but I'd call that the natural consequence of being in 'the death world of death worlds,' a realm of perpetual peril. I wish I was being dramatic but I'm not. Hell, I'm so high-strung suspicion-wise someone could twist their ankle in front of me and I'd believe it to be the onset of a zombie plague. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you!

Humour helps me cope, I've found.

Also, Doctor Lin, I didn't say anything at first, but that's the guy from the game. So he looks like a wizened old balding man, very lore-friendly, I approve. If I could, I'd upvote his rating on the official SCP site. Alas, I am stuck in the previously thought fictional world portrayed on the website, so those means are beyond me.

Shame he goes insane after one of SCP-106's containment breaches, being subsequently yoinked by SCP-106 in the main breach. Yeesh, bad way to go.

"Yes sir, I'll stay until additional agents arrive." I acknowledged Lin's order. "Is there anything I should know about the subject?" Doctor Lin studied me for a moment before answering.

"No, beyond how it infiltrated the site, there is little need for me to be divulging secrets beyond your clearance agent. Unless it becomes relevant, all you need to know is that SCP-1659 infiltrated the underground section by possessing a Foundation logistic personnel in direct violation of the 9-mile station treaty IT claims our organisation has infringed upon." Lin features growing severer when emphasising 'it'. "Therefore it shall be treated as a prisoner until whoever has jurisdiction over this specific SCP has resolved the incident." Lin harshly but fairly finished.

Done briefing me, Lin walked to the waist-high wall separating the levels of the room, peering down into the hushed workplace, where every staff worker had lowered their voices and natural office clamour to overhear the conversation going on above, some even surreptitiously peeking upwards, yet as soon as Lin's head popped up, expeditiously turned back to their computer screens, in a cartoonishly transparent attempt at looking innocent of their prying senses wrongdoing.

Having already been close to the wall, I observed Lin's facial features morphing into displeasure – the twitchy eyebrow, the downwards quirked lips, his very pores stretching as his facial movements demanded while he configured them into a fiercer disposition in response to his internal emotions. It all pointed towards an emotional outburst, up until it all smoothed out into an unnerving expressionless mask.

"Dawson," Lin uttered in the abrupt silence that had blanketed the office space, his words almost cutting the quietude due to the sharpness of his tone. "Who's working on SCP-1659?"

The man called Dawson was easy to pick out, being the only one who started to furiously tap his keyboard in response. The only sound throughout the room that had previously been noisy, now having grown almost completely silent at Lin's scrutiny, the only ones daring to break this sudden oath of silence were the click-clacking of Dawson's keyboard and the dripping of the saturated agent's clothing.

Everyone had become tense, including me, the atmosphere demanding it, spurred on by some instinctive primal relic left in our DNA. This wasn't anomalous; this was merely the presence Lin exuded. And by catching some people in it, others fell in line in a classic domino effect. Even the SCP had started to halt its trashing, though that was likely less because of Lin and more because of fatigue settling in.

The clacking of fingers meeting keyboard ceased, Dawson, spinning his ergonomic office chair to face Lin, reported, "Doctor Ambroz is still working on it, Doctor Lin. According to his personal file he should be temporarily stationed with the newly established AEED at Site-169 to oversee a recently reported diplomatic issue, there wasn't any additional information pertaining as to what exactly the diplomatic complication was related to. He recently transferred from the Department of External Affairs and Intelligence Agency to the Department of Advanced Diplomacy, yet he remains the lead researcher in charge of SCP-1659 despite the new assignment."

Doctor Lin seemed to mull over this information before ordering, "Send an urgent request on my authority for Doctor Ambroz to be transferred to Mass Backup Storage Site designated Site-19. Request a week with a preliminary outcome of likely extension because of a dangerous development in relation to SCP-1659 requiring his personal expertise. He's the only pundit that I trust to be able to handle this cleanly."

"I'll send the request right away," Dawson complied in concert with his keyboard tapping. "In my experience this means he should be onsite in three days, barring any unrelated hindrances arising."

"Good," Lin replied tersely.

In the interim, only lending half an ear to the conversation going on between the two researchers, I had turned to the hydro-man cosplayer, noticing my gaze, he met my stare.

Drip, Drip, Drip.

"So what's your deal? What happened to you?" I inquired curiously.

The agent merely shook his head moderately, water droplets catapulting outwards due to the conservative motion, reaching marginally farther than when the agent stood still.

"Don't"The agent slowly advised, "Don't ask." his voice, blubbery.

"Uh, if you say so." I obeyed. Because if an agent tells you not to do something, you comply.

"Doctor Lin?" A new voice enters the fray!

Lin tilted his head to look at the Mediterranean man addressing him from below, "Yes, Simmons?"

"The SCP-1659 instance was a member of the Logistics and Transportation Department, correct?"

"That is correct, yes."

"And he was a part of the chemical delivery from the Department of Chemistry, delivered today, correct?"

At that, Lin's answer didn't arrive swiftly.

"Yeees, he was." Lin answered, dragging out the 'yes'. "Naturally and sadly, the entire delivery will have to be disposed of, the risk of contamination or tampering too large. Was this your concern Simmons?"

"A part of it, Doctor Lin. That delivery contains hydrofluoric acid, I presume you know who requires that chemical compound for its containment?"

"I am aware, I do not see the problem, our last monthly inventory indicated that our storage is more than sufficiently stocked to ensure its containment." Lin calmly replied, an undertone of irritation creeping in.

"Hm? It sounds like you are not aware that the hydrofluoric acid used in its containment has started to evaporate at an alarming rate. We're expected to run out of acid within the week, it was not a concern because of the incoming delivery replenishment. Now however…"

It feels like I'm missing something here.

Lin's eyes grew wide, even so, his voice replied measuredly, "That's impossible. Hydrofluoric acid doesn't evaporate unless the temperature is around twenty Celsius, with a margin of error. Its containment chamber should sit at five degrees Celsius at all times."

"There seems to have been a miscommunication error. The acid used for its containment has started to evaporate at five degrees. The handler overseeing the skip notified Doctor Maynard and independently chose to lower the temperature in the chamber to three degrees Celsius to prevent further evaporation, to no avail. He was reprimanded. I was under the belief you had been notified?"

Which SCP was this? I don't remember any SCP that used hydrofluoric acid in its containment

"I was most assuredly not!" Oh, Lin looked mad, mad. "That changes things. That. Changes. Things." Wow, he's announcing every syllable, I think I saw a staff member minutely flinch down there.

Now he was muttering wildly. I was the closest to him, so I overheard a few words.

"Maynard… It's precisely as I've said… A week… Until then… Yes… That could work…"

Well the words, Maynard, something, something, didn't precisely enlighten me of anything in particular.

Acid, Acid, I tested the word. Acciiiid, Acid. I was still on the acid thing, It was like I had the answer on the tip of my tongue.

Doctor Lin's head whipped up from his ruminations and pointed to the guard detaining the SCP, "You! When the auxiliaries arrive, take your partner to the barracks to get dried."

The guard only had the time to say 'yes sir' before the detainee attempted to break free from its bonds while the captor's attention wavered.

Then Lin looked at me briefly, before saying "Continue as you were, stay here until the escort arrives, when they do, you are free to resume your original task."

With that said, he locked eyes with Dawson who from his angle could only see everything above the neck of those on the upper walkway. "Dawson, request a private meeting with Doctor Gears as soon as possible."

Dawson grimaced, "To my knowledge, Gears recently left the site without announcing his departure, allegedly because of a classified mission, it's estimated that he won't be available for the next three weeks."

To that, Lin grew quiet, seemingly musing while tapping his feet to a rhythm known only to him, "Then… No, that wouldn't work… Is Harper available for a meeting? We have our differences, but even he must see reason in this case."

Acid… Wait acid? Acid. Acid..? Hydrofluoric acid… I wasn't dropping this.

Dawson turned back to his computer for a fleeting second, before nodding. "Harper should be available tomorrow at five PM. Should I send a meeting request from you through his secretary?"

Acid? Hydrofluoric acid..! Oh. Oh no.

Lin, who'd started drumming his fingers on the concrete vantage point's wall, lost in thought, had enough awareness to answer, "Do that." Turning in the general direction of everyone within, he announced, "I have to prepare a few things," Gesturing towards us he carried on, "These agents will take care of the SCP byproduct, do not worry. The situation should be handled without any further intervention needed from senior staff." With that declared, he hurriedly scanned his orange keycard on the door scanner and left.

Acid, only one SCP that I knew of at the top of my head used acid in its containment.

And that was SCP-682, also known as the 'Hard-To-Destroy-Reptile.' The one I had only heard the savage roar of. Never seen, besides through the glare of an LCD computer screen.

The SCP dangerous enough to prompt the site to activate its Alpha warhead when it breached containment. Even at the cost of all other SCPs onsite susceptible to a nuclear explosion. Also sacrificing the Foundation personnel that were unable to evacuate in time before the detonation.

The one I had H-bombed. The SCP I had sacrificed myself to stop by shoving a hydrogen bomb up its unmentionables. And now, its containment was failing.

I hoped it didn't retain its memories! Because, oh boy, were we fucked in that case.

---

AN: Heya again, took awhile for an update. Uh, I'm not making any promises on a better schedule, but here's a 16k word chapter as a peace gift.

With the posting of this chapter, I've recently gone back to my previous chapters and fixed the major grammatical faults. Added a few sentences here and there, but besides that, it's unchanged. The chapters should be serviceable now, either way.

You can thank Locksoli over on SB for the update, his fic "fool for the devil scp foundation multi vampire oc" Story inspired and made me remember that, yes, I too had an SCP story I was neglecting. Locksoli, however, is definitely not neglecting his story, sitting at a comfortable 140k words as of writing this, with the newly released chapter 9 sitting at 20k words. His writing ethic is insane. I highly recommend you go over to SB and read his story, because it's great.

His story synopsis is: So, I got reborn into a new world? Great!

Reborn with three ancient vampires in my soul? Not great!

Reborn into the worst possible world I could be reborn into? Where visceral horrors are a daily occurrence, and the good guys are psychotic? Yeah, even worse!

Uh, I also remembered that I had an SCP story because I found my notes that I had written on an A4 paper, I had the whole story mapped out. Still have, I've just gotta do the difficult part: the writing.

Anyhow, if you're feeling confused about anything in the fic, don't worry! The protag is equally bamboozled at the moment. I'll say what I've written here previously, everything will be revealed in time… If I get enough motivation to do it and don't get distracted by my other stories too much.

This chapter was mostly fleshing out the world and a setup kind of chapter, but hey, a story needs those too! Worldbuilding, woo… I think it's fine since action more or less comprised the entirety of part 1 and 2 of chapter one.

I just wanna know, did anyone understand what was going on at the first part of this chapter? You can figure it out with some room for interpretation, it's not meaningless gibberish, I did my best to make it cryptic while still decently understandable for those with requisite knowledge. To the ignorant, uh, maybe a kind reviewer will share his thoughts?

Thanks for the reviews - They are very kind, I appreciate it.

Anyways, thanks for reading.

That is all.