Chapter 1 - [Error]


USA

[Redacted]

Site-19

[Redacted] "Ice"


The tension at Site-19 was palpable. There was no containment breach or imminent disaster, but today was special—the one day each year when a joint team of Mobile Task Force operatives willingly entered SCP-8248, The Rising of the Shield Hero.

This anomaly, an ancient book, tells the story of the four Cardinal Heroes: the Hero of the Sword, the Hero of the Bow, the Hero of the Spear, and the Hero of the Shield. These heroes are summoned to the Country of Melromarc to defend against the Waves of Calamity. The Waves are apocalyptic events where the sky tears open, releasing hordes of monstrous creatures through a dimensional rift. Each month brings a new Wave, growing stronger and culminating in a boss-level threat the heroes must defeat together.

The book, however, remains incomplete, covering only the introduction of the first three heroes before the Shield Hero is summoned. After that, the pages are blank. What makes SCP-8248 dangerous is not just that it transports the reader into the world of the Shield Hero—it also creates real-world dimensional rifts. If the Waves aren't stopped, they will bleed into our reality. Worse, time behaves differently inside the book. What feels like years in that world passes in mere hours here.

Though classified as Safe, SCP-8248 has the potential to end humanity. The anomaly itself is not difficult to contain, but if the MTF operatives fail inside the book, the consequences could be catastrophic.

MTF operative [Redacted, call sign "Ice," walked toward the briefing room where the other operatives were already gathered. He exchanged nods with passing guards, his steps steady but his mind elsewhere.

Arriving at the destination, he turned the final corner and entered the room, already buzzing with activity.

"Morning, guys," he greeted, his voice groggy. Some nodded in return, others murmured their own greetings or raised a hand in acknowledgment.

Ice scanned the room, taking in the scene as MTF operatives and SCP Foundation staff either chatted in small groups or focused on their reading—mostly the latest sports updates. He sat down next to a large man in a black combat uniform, the Polish flag velcroed to his right shoulder, just beneath the SCP Foundation insignia.

Without turning, the Polish man raised a fist in the air, waiting for Ice to bump it.

"Morning, Polak," Ice greeted, his tone matching the tiredness of earlier, before bumping fists with his teammate.

Polak nodded, still not looking up. "Where have you been?" he asked, his thick Polish accent evident.

Ice opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the voice of the lead researcher slicing through the hum of conversation. Both Ice and Polak immediately fell silent, Ice snapping his gaze forward.

"Looks like we're all here," the senior researcher announced, stepping aside for the commanding officer to take the podium. As he approached, the holo-table booted up, its soft glow filling the room.

"Alright, team. You know why you're here. Today's the day." The CO's voice was sharp as the holo-table displayed a list of personnel and equipment. "Standard procedure. A hundred men will enter SCP-8248's reality: 50 engineers and maintenance personnel, 35 tankers and pilots, 10 QRF operatives, and the main strike force—Ice, Polak, Whiskey, Pops, and Ares." The five operatives stood and moved to parade rest as the CO continued.

"You five will be the first to pass through the dimensional rift. One of you will take up the mantle of the Shield Hero, the others will provide support. After you enter, the rest of the team will follow. Today, we've got an M1A2 SEP V3 Abrams, two M2 Bradleys, three M1126 Strykers, four JLTVs, an MH-60 Pave Hawk, and an AH-64 E Apache Guardian."

A low whistle rose from somewhere in the room. Last time, they hadn't had any aircraft.

"Any questions?" the CO asked.

"Sir, no, sir!" the team responded in unison.

"Good. Operation starts at 0900. Dismissed."

The strike force gathered in the hangar, surrounded by gear and vehicles, casually chatting as the minutes ticked away.

"So, Pops," Whiskey began, his British accent lacing his words with amusement, "what's going on between you and that researcher—what's her name again? Bonny?"

"Ooh, Foundation staff gossip… I like it," Ares added, leaning in with a grin.

Pops, despite being the oldest in the group, blushed furiously as his secret was exposed.

"What's there to tell?" he muttered, his embarrassment obvious. "She's her, and I'm me, right?"

Ice and Polak rounded the corner, spotting their teammates sitting on crates amidst the growing buzz of the hangar.

"'Sup, guys," Ice greeted.

"Good morning," Polak added.

The duo joined the group, picking their own crates to sit on. A brief silence settled before Whiskey, never one to let a moment pass, broke it.

"Ice, did you know Pops here—mmph!" Whiskey was cut off as Pops clamped a hand over his mouth.

Ice raised an eyebrow at Polak, who could only shrug in response, equally confused.

"I know what?" Ice asked, turning back to the struggling duo. Whiskey managed to pull free, gasping before blurting out, "Pops and that researcher—are a thing!"

Pops wrestled Whiskey to the ground, locking him in a hold to stop him from saying more.

Ice and Polak exchanged grins, both nodding at each other.

"So, Pops," Ice began, a teasing tone creeping into his voice, "what's her name?"

Pops sighed, releasing Whiskey. "Promise you won't tell anyone outside this group," he said, gesturing to the five of them.

Ice raised a hand to his heart. "I, [Redacted] Ice, swear on the Foundation, I won't tell anyone."

Pops sighed again, eyeing Ice warily before speaking. "Alright, it's not Bonny, it's… Ella."

Whiskey's jaw dropped. "Wait, you mean Ella, the newbie Ella? You've got to be kidding me!"

Ice nearly fell off his crate, grabbing onto Polak for balance. "WHAT?!" he shouted, maybe a bit too loud, as several heads turned their way.

"Keep your voice down!" Polak hissed, nudging Ice.

Ice cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "What do you mean, Ella?"

Pops crossed his arms defensively. "What do you think I mean? Yes, that Ella. What's your problem with it?"

"Our problem?" Ares chimed in, incredulous. "She's like… half your age!"

Now it was Pops' turn to look confused. "Half my age? How old do you guys think I am?"

The operatives stared at him, their silence deafening.

"Well? Tell me!" Pops urged.

Ice hesitated. "Uh… 40? Maybe 50?"

Pops' face fell, a mix of shock and offense. "Forty? You think I'm 40?! I'm 32!"

Ice and Polak blinked in surprise, sheepish smiles spreading across their faces.

"Uh… sorry, Pops," Ice chuckled, his tone apologetic.

The awkwardness of the moment lingered for only a second longer before Polak, always the stoic one, let out a low chuckle. "Well, now we know why Pops has been hitting the gym so hard lately," he said, giving the older man a knowing look.

Pops groaned, rolling his eyes, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Keep it up and I'll show you what this '40-year-old' can do."

Whiskey, still recovering from his brief wrestling match with Pops, burst out laughing. "You better be careful, Pops. Don't want to pull a muscle before we head in."

"Or pull something else," Ice added with a wink, eliciting a chorus of chuckles from the group. Despite the teasing, the camaraderie was evident. They'd been through a lot together, and moments like this kept their spirits up before missions.

The banter was cut short by the sudden chime of the intercom. "Strike team, report to the deployment chamber. Repeat, strike team, report to the deployment chamber."

The hangar seemed to still for a moment as the call echoed in the air. The finality of it hit them all at once. The mission was about to begin.

Ice stood up first, dusting off his gear. "Well, boys, looks like it's time."

Polak grunted in agreement, rising from his crate. "Let's not keep the Shield Hero waiting," he muttered.

The team gathered their weapons and equipment, the mood shifting from casual to focused in an instant. They were professionals—joking around was for downtime, but when the mission clock started ticking, every one of them snapped into place.

As they moved toward the deployment chamber, Ice ran a mental checklist. Weapons, checked and loaded. Armor, adjusted and secure. Comms, linked and functioning. The reality of what they were about to do—the high-risk, high-reward operation that awaited them—didn't escape him. One misstep in SCP-8248 and the consequences wouldn't just be felt in a storybook world; they'd ripple into reality.

The chamber door hissed open as the team approached. Inside, they were greeted by a series of massive holographic screens displaying real-time data on SCP-8248, the Shield Hero world. Dimensional energy signatures pulsed across the monitors, along with topographical maps of Melromarc and mission-critical data streams. It was a glimpse into the alien world they were about to step into.

At the center of the room stood the senior researcher, Dr. Hawthorne, flanked by several technicians busy preparing the dimensional transfer equipment. The large rift generator hummed with energy, its central spire crackling faintly with blue arcs of electricity. The portal technology the Foundation had developed was impressive—experimental, sure—but it had proven reliable enough for previous missions.

"Good to see you all," Dr. Hawthorne greeted them. "We've synchronized the rift to the start of the Waves of Calamity timeline. You'll be entering at a critical point, just after the first three heroes are introduced. This is when the Shield Hero is meant to be summoned, but as always, one of you will be assuming his role."

The team nodded, no one speaking just yet. They had been briefed on this dozens of times.

"Who's taking the mantle?" Dr. Hawthorne asked, glancing between them.

Ice exchanged a look with his team, then stepped forward. "I'll do it this time."

The others didn't protest. Ice had a level-headedness they all respected. If anyone could handle the burden of becoming the Shield Hero, it was him. It wasn't just about fighting—it was about leadership, strategy, and managing the unpredictable nature of SCP-8248's reality.

Dr. Hawthorne adjusted his glasses, satisfied with the decision. "Very well. Ice, you'll be wearing the shield, and the rest of the strike team will support you. The rift will open in two minutes. Once inside, standard protocol applies for the support element. Secure the iminent Area for the Support Assets to area and then head towards the castle. Your coms is linked to our Reality but is has some Delay. Nonetheless If you need more—whatever just call it in."

The team approached the large rift generator as the technicians input final commands. Blue energy continued to pulse from the machine, and the air around it began to distort as the dimensional rift slowly formed. It wasn't like the sudden tear one might expect—it was a gradual warping, like the world itself bending and reshaping to make room for something new.

"Remember," Dr. Hawthorne said, his tone now serious, "time flows differently in there. It may feel like days or even weeks, but here it will only be a matter of hours. Keep your focus sharp, and don't get lost in the flow of their reality. Your mission is to neutralize the Waves before they breach the borders of that world."

Ice looked back at his team. Pops was busy checking his sidearm, a quiet focus on his face. Whiskey adjusted his comms gear, the usual humor drained from his expression. Ares was securing extra ammunition, while Polak stood still, his cold eyes locked on the rift, as though staring down a predator.

"You guys ready?" Ice asked, his voice calm but firm.

A series of nods answered him.

"Alright, team. Let's do this." Ice stepped forward, approaching the now fully-formed rift. The air shimmered and rippled like heat waves rising off hot pavement, but instead of warmth, there was a chilling coldness to it—a reminder that this was no ordinary portal.

Ice could feel the weight of the Shield Hero's role settling onto him, a strange but familiar sensation after all these missions into anomalous realities. As the rift crackled and pulsed, he took a deep breath.

This was it. Time to step into another world and prevent the Waves from reaching their own.

"Strike Team, moving in," he said into his comms, his voice steady.

As Ice's body was halfway through the rippling rift, a sudden red light flooded the room. The air was pierced by the sharp, repetitive blare of the alarm system.

BRRRT! BRRRT! BRRRT!*

The emergency lights swirled, casting deep crimson shadows across the deployment chamber. The rift crackled dangerously, its energy shifting from a steady hum to a chaotic whirl.

"What the hell is happening?!" Pops shouted over the deafening noise, already drawing his sidearm instinctively as the team snapped into alertness.

Technicians scrambled at their stations, fingers dancing across consoles, attempting to identify the source of the disruption. Dr. Hawthorne's face went pale as he stared at the screens, sweat forming at his temples.

"It's— It's not supposed to do this!" one of the technicians stammered, frantically tapping away as error messages cascaded across the monitors. "The dimensional rift is destabilizing!"

Ice, frozen midway through the portal, felt a violent tug from both sides—the physical world pulling him back, while the dimensional tear yanked him forward. His body seemed to stretch unnaturally, like reality itself was trying to tear him apart. The shimmering blue of the rift flickered erratically, shifting into a sickly green hue, and arcs of unstable energy shot out like jagged lightning.

"Get him out of there!" Polak roared, his usually calm demeanor shattered by the escalating chaos. He lunged forward, grabbing Ice's shoulder in a desperate attempt to pull him back through the rift. But even his considerable strength was met with resistance, as though some unseen force was actively fighting against them.

"Ice! Hold on!" Whiskey yelled, running toward the pair as the rift began to warp even further, its form twisting like a living thing. The air crackled with electric energy, and the temperature dropped sharply, a biting cold filling the chamber.

Ice gritted his teeth, fighting against the pull. His vision blurred, reality bending unnaturally around him as both worlds seemed to compete for control. For a moment, he saw flashes of *Melromarc*—the Shield Hero's world—its medieval landscape flickering just beyond the rift, shadowed by towering waves of monsters clawing through the air. He could almost hear them—roaring, shrieking—as if they were aware of his presence, waiting for him to cross fully into their realm.

"I—I can't move!" Ice growled, his voice strained as the rift's energy surged around him. His entire body felt like it was being pulled in multiple directions, torn between dimensions. "I'm stuck!"

Dr. Hawthorne's voice rang out, trembling but firm. "The rift's collapsing in on itself! It's unstable! We're losing control!"

Pops, wide-eyed, spun toward the senior researcher. "Then stabilize it! Now! Before it closes with Ice inside!"

"I'm trying!" Hawthorne snapped, fingers flying over the control panel. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he barked commands to the frantic technicians. "This shouldn't be happening—the coordinates were locked, the power levels were stable!"

The rift suddenly shrieked, a high-pitched sound like metal grinding against metal, sending sparks flying. Then, without warning, a shockwave of energy erupted from the rift, knocking everyone off their feet. Ice, half-consumed by the portal, was slammed back into the physical world, crashing to the ground in front of his team. He gasped for air, feeling like his entire body had been shredded and stitched back together in an instant.

The rift itself convulsed, flickering wildly between stability and chaos, green and blue energies swirling violently within its core.

"We need to shut it down before it tears the whole damn room apart!" one of the technicians shouted from behind the safety of his console, shielding his eyes from the energy bursts.

"No!" Dr. Hawthorne snapped. "If we shut it down now, the collapse could send a ripple effect into the dimensional fabric—there's no telling what would happen! We need to stabilize it!"

Ice, still on the ground, groaned and forced himself to sit up, his limbs aching from the dimensional tug-of-war. His team quickly surrounded him, helping him to his feet.

"You okay?" Polak asked, gripping Ice's arm tightly, his usual calm replaced with concern.

"Yeah," Ice muttered, though his voice was ragged. "What the hell went wrong?"

"I don't know," Whiskey replied, his eyes darting between the rift and the frantic scene around them. "But we need to figure it out fast before that thing decides to eat us alive."

As if in response to Whiskey's words, the rift let out another shriek, this time louder, as more arcs of energy shot out. One of them struck a nearby console, causing it to explode in a shower of sparks. Another technician dove for cover, shouting in panic.

"Ice, get your team ready!" Dr. Hawthorne's voice cut through the chaos. "We can't wait much longer. Either you go through now, or we risk the rift collapsing entirely!"

Ice's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the decision crushing down on him. The rift was far from stable—stepping through now could mean being ripped apart, or worse, being trapped between worlds. But if they waited, the rift could close forever, dooming the mission and risking a dimensional breach on their side.

He exchanged a look with his team. Pops was already checking his rifle, a grim look of determination on his face. Polak gave him a sharp nod. Whiskey adjusted his gear, muttering something under his breath but clearly ready. Ares cracked his knuckles, his eyes locked on the swirling chaos of the portal.

"Alright," Ice said, his voice steady despite the storm around them. "We're going in."

Pops grinned, though the tension was clear on his face. "Thought you'd never say it."

The team lined up in formation, each of them locking eyes with Ice. Despite the danger, there was a shared sense of resolve—this was what they were trained for. This was why they were here.

"On my mark!" Ice called out, the roar of the unstable rift nearly drowning him out.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what came next. The rift howled, energy swirling like a violent storm.

"Move!"

With a single, unified motion, the strike team surged forward into the dimensional rift. The world warped and twisted around them as they crossed the threshold, the chaotic energy enveloping them in a blinding flash of light.

And then—silence.

The deployment chamber was empty.

The rift sealed behind them, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air, and the echo of a world left behind.


The world around Ice twisted and contorted violently, the transition far from smooth. He braced himself for the impact as the swirling energy tossed him through the rift. When the light finally dimmed, and his feet touched solid ground, the disorienting silence followed.

Where… Ice's thoughts raced as he took in his surroundings. The sterile walls of Site-19 were gone. Instead, he was inside a towering structure, the air thick with the scent of incense. Ornate stone arches and stained-glass windows lined the room, casting colorful patterns of light on the floor. Pillars stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, and before him, a massive stone altar glowed faintly with ethereal light.

He was inside a grand cathedral. But where was the rest of the team?

"Where am I?" Ice thought, rising slowly to his feet. His body felt strange, light yet grounded, his limbs slow to respond. As he moved, a glint of something silver caught his eye—a small, round shield strapped to his left arm. The Shield Hero's artifact.

He looked down at the shield in disbelief. No, no, no—where's the team? He spun in place, scanning the room frantically, but Pops, Polak, Whiskey, and Ares were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there where three other guys.

Ice's heart raced. Something had gone terribly wrong.