Chapter 7 – Shadows of a Changing World
Outside Castletown
Strike force-2
The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the rugged terrain as Strike Force-2 moved steadily through the wilderness. Their boots crunched softly against the uneven ground, a rhythmic sound that contrasted sharply with the unnatural stillness surrounding them. Pops, Polak, Whiskey, and Ares advanced in tight formation, each scanning the area with rifles raised, senses heightened by the tension that had gripped them since they entered the forest. Now, as Castle Town loomed in the distance, that unsettling feeling deepened.
"This ain't right," Pops muttered under his breath, his voice low and tense. He led the group through a narrow path, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the map displayed on his tablet. "The terrain here—this isn't what the briefings showed us."
Polak, walking beside him, furrowed his brow and adjusted his grip on his rifle. "You sure it's not just the terrain shifting? I mean, this place isn't exactly known for being stable."
"No," Pops replied firmly, shaking his head. "It's not that the terrain has changed—it's completely different. These maps aren't even close to matching up with what we're seeing."
Whiskey, who had been scanning the area with his sniper scope, glanced up. "How different are we talking here?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with concern.
"Different enough that nothing we're seeing matches the coordinates we've been following," Pops growled, tapping the tablet with growing frustration. "We're supposed to be nearing a ridge on the east side of Castle Town, but this whole area is supposed to be flat. Instead, we've got hills and cliffs that shouldn't even be here."
Ares, bringing up the rear, spoke up, his voice steady but troubled. "So what the hell are we walking into? Did the world shift since the last briefing, or are we in a completely different version of this place?"
Pops didn't respond immediately. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the unsettling reality they were facing. Everything about this world felt… wrong. In their briefings, they had been warned about the unpredictability of this reality, but nothing suggested such a massive shift. The SCP Foundation had gathered intel meticulously—mission after mission, the reports were always consistent. They were supposed to secure, contain, protect, but how could they do that when even the world itself didn't follow the rules?
"This isn't just a shift," Pops said finally, his voice grim. "It's like we're in a completely different world."
Whiskey cursed under his breath. "That can't be, though! Hawthorne said this… bloody book, anomaly, whatever, connects with this world and this world only. There shouldn't be a whole new bloody universe in here."
Pops could only shrug, equally confused. "Tell that to the landscape. We were prepared for anomalies, not… this." His eyes swept over the unfamiliar terrain, and a deep unease settled in his chest. "So what now? We press on?"
Pops nodded. "We don't have a choice. We need to link up with Ice. But stay sharp. If the maps are wrong, who knows what else might be waiting for us."
The team continued forward, their steps more cautious now. The forest around them seemed to close in, the tall trees casting eerie shadows across their path. As they moved, each member of the team could feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on them. This wasn't the world they had been prepared for—it was something else entirely.
As they crested a hill that wasn't supposed to exist according to the map, they caught their first glimpse of Castle Town in the distance. From their vantage point, they could see the towering walls and spires of the city, but something about it looked… off. The layout of the town, the positioning of the buildings, even the roads leading in and out—it was all wrong.
Pops lowered his binoculars, a deep frown etched into his face. "That's not Castle Town," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What the hell do you mean?" Whiskey asked, stepping closer.
Pops shook his head, frustration and confusion mixing in equal measure. "I don't know how to explain it. But whatever that is—it's not the Castle Town we were briefed on. We're walking into something different. Something we weren't prepared for."
Polak cursed softly in Polish, his disbelief clear in his voice. "This whole place is messed up. What the hell happened here?"
Ares, as always, kept his calm, steady composure. "We stick to the mission. No matter how wrong this place feels, we find Ice and figure this out."
Pops nodded slowly, though the uneasy feeling gnawed at him. "Alright, we move. But stay alert. Whatever this place is—it's not what we were expecting."
As they descended the hill and neared the outskirts of the city, the weight of the unknown settled heavily on the team. Everything about this mission was spiraling out of control. And for a team built on securing, containing, and protecting, this world felt like it was actively resisting their efforts. The rules had changed, and it was up to them to figure out just how deep this shift went.
The team descended the hill, their senses on high alert as they approached the outer edges of Castle Town. The landscape continued to feel alien—trees that were too tall, shadows that stretched unnaturally far. It was as if the world itself had been reshaped while they weren't looking. The eerie stillness that had followed them through the forest now seemed to seep into the outskirts of the city.
Whiskey adjusted his scope, scanning the area ahead. "Something's not right," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "No guards. No movement. Place should be crawling with people this time of day, but it's… dead."
Pops gave a curt nod, gesturing for the team to advance but stay low. "Keep it tight," he ordered. "This place isn't what it looks like. Could be an ambush waiting for us."
As they made their way through the underbrush, keeping to the tree line, they noticed more inconsistencies. The roads leading into the city were strangely deserted, and the buildings seemed… off. Windows that should have been wide open were tightly shut, and the stone structures felt more like silent sentinels, watching their every move.
Polak's eyes darted around, his instincts kicking into overdrive. "This whole place feels like a trap. Almost like the city's holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong."
Pops scanned the eerie landscape one last time before muttering under his breath, "I don't like this." His voice was taut, thick with unease as he reached up to press the PTT mounted on his plate carrier. "I'm calling Station."
The rest of Strike Force-2 exchanged tense glances, their bodies rigid as they stayed low behind the crumbling stone wall, each of them feeling the weight of something wrong hanging in the air.
"Station, Station, this is Strike Force-2. Requesting an Eye in the Sky over our area. How copy?" Pops' voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.
A few seconds passed—too long for comfort—before the radio crackled to life, the reply coming through. "Strike Force-2, this is Station. Copy that. We got you loud and clear, but negative on that Sky Eye. Best I can do is a Switchblade."
Pops cursed silently under his breath, frustration flickering across his face. He glanced at the others, catching Whiskey's raised brow. "That's all we need, Station. Send it over. We'll hold our current position."
"Understood, SF-2. Deploying now. ETA five mikes. Station out."
Pops released the PTT, the tension still thick in the air as he lowered his hand. "Five minutes," he muttered, almost to himself.
Whiskey shifted beside him, his grip tightening on his rifle. "We don't have five minutes," he hissed, keeping his voice low. "Something's off about this whole damn place. That Switchblade better show us something before this all goes sideways."
Polak scanned the treeline ahead, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "I agree. This place feels… wrong. Like we're being watched. It's too quiet."
Ares, the last to speak, kept his gaze locked on the distant spires of Castle Town. "We're sitting ducks out here," he said flatly, his voice betraying the calm he was known for. "If something's coming, it's going to hit us before we know it."
Pops exhaled slowly, the weight of the unknown pressing down harder than ever. "We sit tight for the Switchblade. If anything comes before that, we handle it. You know the drill."
But despite his words, the unease gnawed at him. They were in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by a landscape that wasn't supposed to exist. And the worst part? They had no idea what was waiting for them.
The silence around them was heavy, almost oppressive, the forest seemingly holding its breath. And every second that ticked by only made the feeling worse.
Five minutes passed, though to Strike Force-2, it felt like five hours. The oppressive silence weighed heavily on the team until it was finally broken by the crackle of the radio.
"SF-2, this is Station. Switchblade is now entering AO. Controls are yours. Synchronizing Switchblade camera with your Mission Pad. Station out."
Pops quickly ripped open the velcro of his chest rig, pulling out the phone-like device that housed all their valuable intel for the operation. A new window blinked open, showing the real-time POV of the Switchblade drone now hovering above them.
"Good shit," Whiskey muttered, leaning in as he took control of the UAV. "Switching to thermals. Activate your strobes."
Without hesitation, the team flipped on the strobe lights attached to their helmets, their locations immediately highlighted in the drone's infrared view. Four glowing dots appeared on the screen, clearly marking their positions.
"That's us," Whiskey confirmed, tracing the screen with his finger. "Castle's over here, town's further up, forest back that way, and then…" His voice suddenly trailed off, confusion mixing with suspicion. "The bloody hell is that?"
Pops leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he studied the screen. Just beyond the edge of the forest, four distinct IR signatures glowed brightly, their shapes unmistakable. They weren't wildlife or background anomalies—they were human-sized, standing perfectly still, and clearly watching the MTF operatives.
"Four possible contacts, bearing at my six," Whiskey said, his voice dropping to a low, calculated whisper. "Don't look. Let them think we don't see them."
The tension ratcheted up instantly, adrenaline coursing through the team as they fought to keep their composure. Every instinct screamed for them to spin around and face the threat, but Pops remained cold and calculating. He knew this needed precision.
"Alright," Pops began, his voice barely above a murmur. "We split up. Whiskey and Polak, you two go around the wall and take them from the left. Ares and I will flank them from the right."
Whiskey gave a sharp nod, his eyes glued to the drone feed as he tracked the unknown figures. "Copy that. Let's hope they don't start moving before we do."
Polak adjusted his rifle, his face grim but focused. "They'll never see us coming."
Without breaking stride, the team quietly adjusted their positions, moving with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives. The drone feed continued to track the unknown contacts, their heat signatures motionless, unaware that Strike Force-2 was already adapting to the situation.
As they crept into position, the silence became even more oppressive, every rustle of leaves, every crack of a twig underfoot feeling like it echoed louder than it should. The forest, usually alive with the sounds of nature, seemed to hold its breath, as though anticipating the clash that was about to unfold.
Pops' hand tightened around his rifle as he and Ares moved into position, their eyes locked on the drone feed. The four figures hadn't budged, but something about the way they stood felt… wrong. Like they were waiting for something.
"On my mark," Pops whispered into the comms, his heart pounding steadily but his voice as calm as ever. "Whiskey, Polak, you in position?"
"Copy," came Whiskey's voice, low and steady.
The tension stretched thinner, seconds feeling like minutes as the team awaited the signal. Pops' gaze flickered to the glowing signatures on the screen once more, his gut twisting with a feeling he couldn't quite place.
Something was wrong, and they were about to find out exactly what.
The shadows of the Queen had been following their targets for some time, their stealth magic weaving through the trees like threads of darkness. They were skilled, honed by years of training in secrecy and arcane arts, tasked with monitoring those who entered the Queen's lands. Their senses were heightened, their magic attuned to every shift in the forest's energy. They had their prey in sight—four unknown figures, moving in formation, methodical and deliberate.
Too easy, one of the shadows thought, maintaining a safe distance while cloaking themselves in a veil of invisibility.
As they watched, the figures paused for a moment, the leader pressing something against his chest. A quiet hum of energy flowed through the air, but it was unfamiliar—no magic they had ever sensed before.
"What is that?" one of the shadows whispered through their magical link.
"It's not magic," the lead shadow responded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the strange movements of the foreign equipment. "It's something else."
The figures below continued to move, seemingly unaware of their presence. The shadows exchanged silent glances—this was the moment they had been waiting for. But as they prepared to move closer, to strike if needed, something shifted. A ripple of distortion in the air around the operatives.
One moment, the figures were there—steady, clear in their sights—and the next, they were gone.
"What?" one shadow muttered, panic starting to rise. "Where did they go?"
The forest around them was suddenly unnervingly still. The operatives had vanished without a trace. The shadows quickly switched tactics, reaching deeper into their magic, trying to reattune their senses, but something was wrong. The air felt heavy, as though a veil had fallen between them and the world they were trained to manipulate.
"They're using something… something to mask themselves," the lead shadow hissed, his eyes darting around, searching for any sign of movement. His heart pounded faster, the realization dawning on him—they weren't prepared for this.
Another shadow whispered frantically, "I don't understand, there's no magic! How did they just—"
Before he could finish, there was a sudden, sharp sound—a faint rustle, the crack of a twig—and then the world exploded around them. Figures, moving faster than they could react, came from every angle. Hands were on them before they could even draw their weapons, their defensive spells torn apart as though they were nothing more than fragile glass.
One by one, the shadows were taken down, their cloaks of magic ripped away, leaving them vulnerable and exposed. Despite their years of training, despite their expertise in stealth and evasion, the shadows of the Queen found themselves completely outmatched by the overwhelming precision of their attackers.
The last thing the lead shadow saw was the cold, expressionless gaze of one of the operatives, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses. And then—darkness.
The tension hung thick in the air as Pops and Ares moved like predators, silent and focused. On the opposite flank, Whiskey and Polak blended into the shadows, their movements precise, the forest seeming to swallow their presence whole. The four unknown figures remained eerily still, seemingly unaware that they were about to be ambushed.
"On my mark," Pops whispered into the comms, his voice a thread of calm amidst the tension. "Three… two… one… execute."
In an instant, the MTF operatives exploded into action, their boots hitting the ground with barely a sound as they surged forward with practiced precision. Guns raised, they covered the distance between themselves and the unknown figures with ruthless efficiency.
The shadows reacted, but it was already too late. As soon as the figures sensed the incoming danger, a ripple of magic sparked around them—cloaking spells dissolving, bodies beginning to blur in an attempt to vanish into the darkness. But their stealth, no matter how skilled, was no match for the training that every MTF operator had endured.
"On the ground! Now!" Pops barked, his voice sharp and authoritative as they closed in.
One of the figures—the closest—moved faster than the others, his hand shooting out, forming a strange, magical sigil in the air. But before the spell could take shape, Polak was on him, disarming the man with a swift strike to the wrist, followed by a brutal takedown that left the figure on the ground, gasping for air.
Whiskey had already zeroed in on the second figure. As the shadow attempted to retreat, vanishing into the dim light of the forest, Whiskey's speed was relentless. With a quick, precise movement, he slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of the shadow's head, sending the figure sprawling into the dirt. In seconds, the shadow's hands were bound.
"Two down," Whiskey muttered over comms, his voice calm but edged with intensity.
Ares and Pops faced the remaining two shadows, who had managed to conjure protective barriers of glowing, arcane light. But even that wasn't enough to stop the operatives. Pops fired a warning shot that ricocheted off one barrier, making the figure flinch. The opening was all Ares needed. With an expert move, he swept in low, kicking the shadow's legs out from under them and wrenching their arms behind their back in one fluid motion.
The last shadow attempted to flee, muttering an incantation under their breath as they tried to vanish into thin air. But Pops was faster. He closed the distance, grabbed the fleeing figure by the collar, and slammed them into a tree, hard enough to disorient but not kill.
Within moments, all four figures were subdued, the magic flickering away from their bodies like dying embers. They lay on the ground, bound and immobilized, the forest eerily silent once again.
"Clear," Polak confirmed, his breathing barely heavier than before.
The MTF operatives regrouped, the reality of the situation slowly settling in as they looked over their captives. The figures were dressed in sleek, dark armor, their faces masked, clearly skilled in stealth and magic—but who were they? This wasn't covered in the briefings. None of the intel had mentioned covert agents operating this close to Castle Town, and certainly not anyone this… organized.
Pops knelt beside one of the captives, his brow furrowing in confusion. "These guys weren't in the reports," he muttered. "Nothing about magic users like this."
Whiskey crouched beside another shadow, pulling off the mask to reveal a calm, disciplined face beneath. "No idea who they are, but they're not amateurs. Stealth spells, arcane defenses… they've got training."
Ares looked around at the subdued shadows, his face grim. "They knew we were here, watching us. But if they're this skilled, why didn't they attack first?"
"Because they weren't planning to," Pops answered, his voice low. "They were observing."
Polak straightened up, staring at the captives with suspicion. "But who are they observing for?"
No one had an answer. The mission briefings had been thorough, covering every known anomaly in this world. But these figures—their equipment, their skills—none of it fit. And that fact alone made Pops' stomach churn with unease.
"I don't like this," Pops said, glancing at the others. "We need answers. Fast."
As they secured the captives and prepared to move, the thought gnawed at them all—what else was hiding in this world, waiting for them? And who else was watching?
Darkness slowly receded as the shadows began to regain consciousness. The faint, acrid scent of earth filled their nostrils, and the muffled rustling of leaves broke the silence. One by one, they blinked their eyes open, struggling to orient themselves. Their bodies ached, bound tightly, hands tied behind their backs with coarse ropes.
The first thing they noticed was the cold steel of rifles pointed directly at them. The shadows tensed, instinctively attempting to draw upon their magic, but found themselves utterly drained—disconnected from the flow of mana that usually surged through their veins.
"Save your strength. That trick won't work here," came a deep, emotionless voice.
The lead shadow's eyes snapped toward the source. Standing before them were the four operatives—unfamiliar figures draped in strange, dark gear. The leader, Pops, stared down at them with an unreadable expression, his rifle slung casually across his chest. Polak stood nearby, checking his gear, while Whiskey and Ares flanked the group, weapons raised and ready.
"You're awake," Pops said, his tone calm but heavy with unspoken intent. He took a step closer, kneeling slightly to meet the lead shadow's eye level. "We're gonna ask you some questions, and you're going to answer."
The lead shadow's heart raced, but his training kicked in. He kept his expression stoic, even as the realization of his powerlessness hit him. Their captors were unlike any warriors or magic-users he had ever encountered. No armor, no weapons of this world—yet they had dispatched him and his squad with terrifying precision.
"I don't know who you are," the lead shadow began, his voice hoarse but defiant. "But you've made a grave mistake. We are shadows of the Queen—her personal guard. Whatever game you think you're playing, it ends here."
Pops raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Whiskey, who shrugged. "Never heard of you," Pops replied flatly. "Doesn't matter who you are. What matters is the information you're sitting on."
The shadow tried to focus, to gather his thoughts, but the surreal situation weighed heavily on him. He had been trained for this—interrogation, capture—but these men… they weren't playing by any of the rules he knew. His instincts screamed that they weren't from this world.
"We don't know anything that would be of value to you," the shadow spat, his defiance showing.
Whiskey chuckled from behind Pops, stepping forward. "Oh, I think you do. See, the problem is… your stealth and magic—impressive, by the way—doesn't explain why you were watching us. And it sure doesn't explain how you knew exactly where we were."
The shadow stiffened, his pulse quickening. They knew.
Pops didn't miss the reaction, his eyes narrowing. "See, here's the thing: we weren't even supposed to be in this forest. So I'm going to ask you, very simply, how did you know we'd be here?"
Silence. The lead shadow clenched his jaw, refusing to speak. Beside him, one of his comrades stirred, groaning softly as they came to. Polak stepped forward, rifle still raised, his eyes locked on the recovering figure.
"You can make this easy," Polak said, his voice a low growl, "or we can make this harder than it needs to be."
"Make no mistake," Pops added, his voice dangerously calm. "You're not in a position to hold out. This isn't your world anymore."
The lead shadow's mind raced. These men—they weren't part of the Kingdom's forces. They weren't even part of any enemy faction he knew of. Their equipment, their weapons, everything about them felt… otherworldly. He realized then, with a sinking feeling, that he and his team had been completely outmatched by forces they didn't even understand.
The silence stretched on as Pops let the weight of the situation settle in.
"Last chance," Pops said, standing up slowly, his patience wearing thin. "What were you doing out here? Why were you watching us?"
For the first time, fear crept into the shadow's heart. He swallowed hard, eyes darting between the operatives, trying to think of a way out. But there was none. He was trapped.
"I… I was following orders," the shadow finally admitted, his voice cracking. "We were ordered to observe—nothing more. I swear."
Pops studied him, eyes narrowing. "Ordered by who?"
"The Queen," the shadow whispered, defeat in his voice. "We serve the Queen."
A flicker of surprise passed over Pops' face, but he quickly masked it. Whiskey exchanged a glance with Ares, who nodded silently, acknowledging the weight of the revelation.
"The Queen, huh?" Pops muttered, his tone a mix of curiosity and skepticism. He straightened up, keeping his rifle loose in his hands but ready. "Guess we'll be paying her a visit soon enough."
The shadows could only watch in helpless silence as their captors discussed their next move. Their mission had failed, and now they were at the mercy of forces beyond their understanding.
Authors note:
Here we go. Another chapter but this time no Ice. Since I haven't had any Strike Force-2 content in the last chapter I've decided to do a SF-2 only chapter. Hope y'all liked it
Reviews:
Doom King of Latveria- None taken. I can see where you're coming from, Yes, you are right. It was kinda cringe and it didn't make much sense. BUT i have two answeres for you my friend. 1, THE LORE!!! And two, stick with the story, like this chapter for example and all will make sense. I hope you'll stay till the end. Appreciate your reviews