SCP Foundation

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An explosion rocks the side of the BEHEMOTH as you approach the Gate, the blood in your body shakes as you feel the vibrations roar through your skull.

“Fuck.” Hostage-Killer says, swerving the vehicle through a crowd of new arrivals and crushing them under the BEHEMOTH’s massive reinforced wheels.

“That aimed at us?” Flower Boy stands, gun ready.

“No, no.” Hostage-Killer exhales, nerves like tungsten. “Stray munition. Two harvester gangs fighting down to our left. One of their rockets hit us.”

Your non-existent heart starts pounding with excitement. You were so close to it, to the sweet thrill of combat and bloodshed. You just had to wait. Be patient.

You grip your thighs hard enough that you bruise yourself through your suit.

“Kid, you remember what the package looks like, right?” Hostage-Killer asks.

You don’t.

You remember he was old, or at least Malphas told you he was old.

That was rare. People who arrive at the Seventh Circle don’t normally die of old age. They tend to meet their deaths young, at the end of a gun or the edge of a blade.

There was only one class of person you could think of that was Seventh Circle-bound while still having the privilege of dying old.

Politicians.

You lick your lips. You could almost taste the war crimes.

Hostage-Killer takes your lack of a response as a ‘no,’ and brings up a picture of a dumpy old man in your helmet’s heads-up display.

Human. You say as your eyes slowly scan the picture. You remember being human once, a long time ago.

Suit, liver spots thrown across his face, and a neck like a dusty cunt. If the geriatric was sent here, and lived long enough to look this pruned, then he deserves the disadvantage of terrible joint pain out the Gate.

There was a name that came with the picture, but you forgot how to read around your sixth or seventh dagger.

“Remember, snatch and grab.” Orphan-Maker gives you a much needed reminder. “No harm is to come to the package, Fruit Cake.”

Fetch, you drone. You already memorized every detail of his face. You won’t forget for another ten minutes or so. You were shaking, gripping your seat.

“We’ll be making contact soon.” Hostage-Killer swerves again, the APC smashing past the burnt out remains of a truck. “The package died roughly five minutes ago and the Judgement Bureau should be done with him now.”

Five minutes. That was a quick turnaround time for the Judgement Bureau. Whoever this guy is, they knew exactly where he was going.

No wonder Malphas wants him so badly.

“His soul signature should be showing up on our HUDs any moment.” Hostage-Killer says. “The Kid secures the package, Flower Boy and Orphan-Maker provides covering fire.”

You think that statement is made more for your benefit than the others.

This was your job as a ‘close-quarters-combat specialist’, this was your mission. You were here to drag the bloated warmonger to safety and carve up any stupid fuck who got in your way.

You like your job. You’re good at it.

The APC drives closer, the sounds of bloodshed slowly filling your sensitive ears.

“We’re close to the entrance.” Hostage-Killer says. “Get ready.”

You look through the viewport. At the slaughter surrounding you.

You see one bastard after another stumble out of the Gate, and receive the classic ‘Seventh Circle Handshake.’ Which was, variably, a kick to the groin, a bullet to the throat, an abduction. Or in the best case, a recruitment.

It happens time and time again. A massive endless battle royale.

The souls who weren’t fortunate enough to have a team extract them had to fend for themselves. Fighting past the blood orgy, into the desert and, if they were lucky, to the city.

A mosh pit of blood. Of chaos. Of pure, concentrated fear and murder.

You wish you were out there now.

But you will be.

Soon.

You see it as you all approach, a glowing blip in your visor, in the middle of the throngs of damned souls.

Him. Your mission.

“There’s our package.” Orphan-Maker says. “Time to go, Fruit Cake.”

Ready. You think you growl this word out, your meatsuit stands and draws out the machete from your back. Ready to fuck.

“Lets fuckin’ GO!” Flower Boy’s voice glitters as she pounds her knuckles together.

Orphan-Maker shakes his head and exhales long and slow out of his mouth. “Alright, lets get on with this shitsho-”

Fur stands on edge, a shiver runs up his back.

”They’re about to swipe the package.”

“What?!” Hostage-Killer scans the crowd, before an armored van barrels straight toward the old fuck, and yanks him out of the crowd by the collar of his suit jacket. “FUCK!”

Your APC swerves, Hostage-Killer wastes no time in chasing after the opposing mercs.

“Who’re these cunts?!” Flower Boy shouts.

“Eligos' men-at-arms,” Orphan-Maker says, flattening the fur on the back of his neck. “I saw the gold horse on the side of the truck.”

Eligos. Eligos. Eligos.

It takes you a moment, but you remember him.

Duke Eligos, the Handsome One, the Golden Knight, He who Tramples on the Skulls of his Enemies.

He’s another duke, just like Malphas, one who also has a taste for warmongers.

Except Eligos likes to eat his.

But the most important thing you remember is that Eligos makes some of the fastest vehicles in all of Violence.

Faster than a bullet. Louder than an atom bomb. It was their company’s slogan, you whisper it under your breath. A curse.

The Malfeasance BEHEMOTH was built to be armored and dangerous. The one thing it wasn’t built to be, however, was speedy.

The distance starts to grow between you and your package. Hostage-Killer begins barking out orders.

“Flower Boy, turret, blow their tires!”

“Gotcha!” Flower Boy storms over to open the top hatch and gets on the BEHEMOTH’s heavy machine gun.

She aims for the truck’s tires, and fires. Most of the bullets hit the chassis. Others blast through the bodies of random shades caught in the crossfire. A few bullets find their way to the truck’s back tires, but to no effect.

“Fuck me!” Flower Boy turns to shout at Hostage-Killer. “Tire’s reinforced, I can’t pop ‘em!”

Hostage-Killer growls under his breath. Both the APC and the armored truck barrel through the crowd of shades, through the wreckage of crashed vehicles, fighting harvester gangs and out into the surrounding desert.

The armored truck’s rear gunports open. Bullets fly back, pinging off the hull of the APC and sending a crack across one of the front windows.

You felt restless, useless. While your friends were driving and fighting, you were left standing with your hand in your pants and doing nothing. You bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood again.

In a few moments, Eligos’ truck will reach its top speed, outpacing all of you and disappearing into the desert. Gone.

Package lost, operation failed, and all your friends at Malphas’ mercy.

You could not allow that to happen. Not now. Not ever.

You nudge Flower Boy and she looks down at you. With a fist you pound your left shoulder and point to hers, to the shoulder missile she has installed.

Boom boom. Tires.

She turns to Hostage-Killer who looks back for a moment before sighing. “… Do it. If Malphas asks, I’ll tell her I gave the order.”

Before she returns back to the top hatch she ruffles the fur on the top of your head and smiles. “Glad it ain’t all swiss cheese up there, Fruity.”

She sounded different when she said that. It wasn’t teasing. She really means it.

She’s happy you’re still somewhere in there. Though you’re not sure which ‘you’ she’s talking about.

The BEHEMOTH speeds up, angling itself to the side of the armored truck. Flower Boy takes aim.

The truck’s side gun ports open. Bullets spray out. At you. At your friends. At Flower Boy.

She focuses, her skin hardening and the bullets shatter like glass on her. Breaking like ships on a rocky beach.

“Think ya can hit hard, don’tcha?” She roars. “I’ll show ya cunts how to hit someone HARD!”

Her shoulder missiles were synced to her helmet. All she had to do was lock on, aim.

And fire.

The missile flies out, guided by Flower Boy, and collides against the back wheel of the truck, detonating. Eligos’ armored truck launches into the air, the force of the explosion causing it to twirl like a ballerina on fire.

It definitely crashed like one.

The truck smashed down in front of a dune, lying on its side like a dying animal.

You and your friends pull up parallel to the rival mercs, the front of your APC to the back of their truck and a five hundred meter distance between you and them.

Orphan-Maker shivers, pupils into pinpricks again.

“One of them falls out the back of the truck and throws a grenade at us.”

Flower Boy grabs her light machine gun and spits. “Like Hell he is!”

She climbs out the left side and brings her gun up, bracing on the front of the BEHEMOTH.

A merc drops out of the backdoor of the crashed truck, disorientated and bleeding. One of his legs is splintered open like a broken branch. He vomits a hot slurry of blood and stomach acid onto his chest as he tries to get his bearings.

He turns to look at your APC, his eyes open wide.

Flower Boy fires, her forearms tensing as she squeezes out a hail of fire, shredding through the man’s armor and tearing his now fragile body clean open.

You feel giddy as you see round after round pummel against his soft flesh. The sounds of his bones breaking and the wet plop of his guts hitting the dry sands.

He falls on his back, wheezing, most of his blood now outside of his body. He tries desperately to reach for his grenade pouch with the last three fingers still attached to his hand.

That’s when he feels it. The secondary effects of the bullets Flower Boy lodged into his body.

Malfeasance ‘Death Song’ bullets. Premium caseless cartridges for her elite squads.

He feels the bullets, glowing an eerie green, they vibrate with each other. Resonating.

Singing.

The merc opens his mouth to sing too. A scream in their choir.

He detonates, exploding open like an overripe corpse. Blood, intestines and septic waste rain from the skies.

Flower Boy continues firing and Hostage-Killer exits next, rifle ready.

“Keep them locked down on the left.” He tells Flower Boy. “Kid, Orphan, to the right.”

That was your cue. You move out the back of the APC, and Orphan-Maker brings his DMR up, scanning for targets.

Hostage-Killer moves to Orphan-Maker. “Any leaks?”

“Not yet.”

Hostage-Killer turns to you. “How many?”

Fear Sense. Like Flower Boy’s Iron Skin or Orphan-Maker’s Gut Feeling or Hostage-Killer’s Commanding Voice. This is your special talent. Your infernal trait.

You look at the truck, smoke and fuel oozing out of it like a fresh wound. Focusing.

Five. Crawled out of the top hatch. Pinned between truck and dune. Package still inside. All afraid.

You think and point towards a specific spot.

Captain. Second from the left. He’s the most afraid.

Hostage-Killer turns to the spot you pointed out, closing his eyes, visualizing the target in his mind.

He commands.

“Tell your friend to run out to the left.”

He signals Flower Boy to stop firing.

A second passes, then two.

And a merc runs out to the left, stepping over the steaming remains of his friend. Flower Boy responds with the thunderous roar of automatic fire and the bullets smash into the merc’s body. He collapses, face first into the gritty, bloody sand.

He looks down and sees his legs blown away, body perforated, bullets turning his flesh into a field of red roses. Petals softly trickled down his torso.

The mercenary opens his ruined mouth.

And sings.

Boom boom. You whisper to yourself as another geyser of blood erupts.

Your enhanced senses pick them up. The men stuck behind the truck screaming over the gunfire, over the death songs, their fear burning ten times brighter than before.

“Time to move, Kid.” Hostage-Killer puts a hand on your shoulder. “Flank in a wide arc to the right. Orphan, move out to the right until you get a good angle diagonal to the truck.”

Fuck them up. You say as your leg muscles activate, launching you into a full sprint. Machete in one hand and a knife in the other. You move in a semi-circular arc from the BEHEMOTH over to the front cab of the armored truck. Your feet pound on the hot sands beneath you, each footfall sounding like a bomb going off.

Fuck them fuck them fuck them FUCK THEM FUCK- your excitement for the inevitable bloodbath is set on hold as you hear your friend, Orphan-Maker, over your comms.

“Enemy ambush.” Orphan-Maker says. You could hear the shiver in his voice. “Duck left behind the truck.”

For a brief moment you see him, another mercenary, shotgun in hand and vengeance on his mind. He peeks out. He fires.

You dodge left, behind the overturned cab.

The pellets only meet air. Before the merc can look again, Orphan-Maker fires. His rifle booms throughout the desert’s dunes, Death Songs tunnel through armor and into flesh, and your would-be ambusher falls.

You press your back to the truck and close your eyes. You hear him singing.

A wet pop and blood rains from above. Pitter patter.

Your enemies are panicking, morale quickly eaten away. They were drowning in a sea of gore and suppressing fire.

You shudder as you feel their fear radiating through the crashed truck. You could feel it on your skin burning you like a hot brand.

They didn’t know you were here. In perfect position.

You creep to the edge, you can feel him close, you could almost taste his cortisol.

You see the front half of the merc’s rifle stick out, pointing in Orphan-Maker’s direction. You bring your machete down, cleaving the gun’s barrel in two and taking one of the merc’s arms with it.

He screams.

You turn the corner and plunge your knife directly into his eye, feeling the dull vibration of the blade striking the back of his socket, aqueous humor squirting all over your fist.

He doubles over in pain and shock. You swing your machete in a clean horizontal arc and his head sails off his shoulders, launched in the air like a bouquet at a wedding.

Crimson roses bloom all over the merc’s torso, their petals flowing from the stump of his neck.

Underneath your face you lick your lips.

“Flower Boy, push up from your side, support the Kid.” Hostage-Killer says on over comms.

“Fuck yes.” Flower Boy’s voice glitters again with sweet melodic violence. She moves forward, ready to join in the bloodbath.

Your bloodbath.

The mercenary captain stands in front of you, his last man stands behind him with shaking hands. Their fear was bright hot, like being on the surface of the sun.

You approach them slowly, sand crunching beneath your feet. Your arms open and close in front of you, like the wings of a bat. Machete in your left hand and knife in your right. Blood drips from both like twin red waterfalls.

Neutralize.

“Fucking typical,” The mercenary captain sneers, drawing his sword out. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to shit in your pretty little mouth, cuck!”

He unholsters his pistol in his off hand. Officer Style. Appropriate for one of Eligos' men-at-arms.

Try.

The merc captain fires his handgun, shooting straight from the hip. You can see the bullets slowly trailing towards you. Your knife and machete work in tandem, blocking and deflecting each bullet sailing your way. Quick.

He surges forward, sword aimed straight at your neck, in the tight gap between your throat protector and helmet. He’s slow, slower than Flower Boy’s fists.

You deflect the sword away with your machete, pushing it down, your knife hand comes down in an arc and bites into the side of his face, ripping his eye out.

“FUCK!” The captain stumbles back, away from you. The left side of his face blossoms with more precious red flowers. His gun hand shakes as you step forwards.

“Fuck this…” The last merc drops his rifle, his eyes turn wild and desperate. ”FUCK THIS!”

He runs out in the other direction, desperate to avoid your slaughter.

Flower Boy catches him running, she opens fire.

She laughs, he screams. She fires some more, he starts singing.

Another wet pop and the choir crescendos. The sound of guts hitting the sands is their applause.

No one left. You say to the mercenary captain. Just you.

“That’s all I need.” Blood spills from his open eye socket into his mouth, he spits. “Don’t worry, I won't be gentle.”

You roll your head under the blade, you knew what he was going to do next, the Officer Style was predictable like that.

You could do this all day, spending your time playing with your food, feeling the sweet taste of adrenaline. But you had a job to do. A job you were extremely good at.

Fetch.

You throw your knife at the merc’s gun hand, it sinks deep into his wrist and pops out the other side.

He grunts and flinches, the gun makes a dull thud as it's dropped, he raises his blade to swing.

You have a split second to pass his sword arm.

You shoot forwards, sliding under his remaining weapon, hands wrapping tightly around his midsection. You bump your hips underneath his, and lift him off the ground.

You spin, and bring him crashing back down.

Another ballerina. Another hard landing.

You smash him against the sand, hearing something crack as a whirl of dust kicks up from under him.

He coughs, blood sprays out, likely a broken rib puncturing a lung. He coughs again, wet, the sickening feeling of drowning on land sapping his strength.

You straddle his chest, your knees firmly in his armpits. You watch as he desperately tries to reach up, clawing at you. “Fffffuck-”

You punch him across the face, sending his teeth flying out of his jaw. You bring your elbow down and shatter the soft cartilage of his nose.

Crush.

He lets out a long, agonized moan as he chokes down his own blood. What he couldn’t swallow down bubbles out of his broken snout. Spilling over like a boiling pot.

You bring your machete up to his neck. All you need is one good slash to get the job done, right down to the bone, like popping the cork on champagne.

But you don’t. Your meatsuit freezes. Your eyes locked onto the object that flew out of the merc’s pouch as you smashed him against the ground. It lies so innocently next to his head, an island in a river of blood.

A combat stimulant. A dagger full of FURY. Unused.

He didn’t have enough time to use his before Flower Boy crippled his truck. He probably wasn’t expecting resistance like yours. Just harvester gangs and their dumb rockets. Not a guided missile fired from a mercenary’s nervous system.

You try to give your body commands, to tear your eyes away from the drug, to twitch your nerves and decapitate the fucker below you. To complete your mission. The one thing you’re good at and good for.

But that voice was weak, it watches but can’t act. The other you, the stronger you, reaches for the injector.

You scream, you yell, you beg. It all falls on deaf ears. Blood rushes to your head as you take hold of the dagger. Its smooth plastic feels so, so good in your hands.

You wish you could listen to yourself, that your mind wasn’t a fractured fucked together mess addled by combat drugs and homicidal psychosexual urges.

You wish that you had full control of your body again. That you still owned it.

But you don’t. That was the sacrifice demanded of you. A machine of war fueled by blood and alchemical stimulants.

Malphas made sure of that.

You don’t know what the thoughts in your head mean or what the screaming voice is saying or where the memories of forced augmentations are coming from. It doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is the next hit. The next high. The next dagger injected straight into your tongue.

The mercenary captain below you pulls the knife out of his wrist. He’s going to stab you, right where you were weakest. Then he’ll toss you off, grab his sword, kill you and all your friends.

Your hand shakes, as your two urges fight in the broken no man’s land of your mind.

let go use it please kill him feel good now you need it kill him I need it need the rush moremoremorekillhimplease more please

He swings, aiming square at your open armpit. The knife singing a dirge just for you.

The small voice inside of you screams. The stronger voice says they’re sorry.

You get ready to die.

Instead, the mercenary captain’s forearm explodes as a bullet decimates it, spraying you in a fresh coat of hot gore.

You blink, snapping out of your stupor by the sound of gunfire, you look in front of you and see…

Flower Boy. She’s staring at you, at the injector in your hand.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

You could feel her disappointment radiating through her helmet.

You squeeze the dagger in your hand until it cracks, the drug oozing out between your fingers. With a roar you plunge the injector needle-first through the mercenary’s last remaining eye, skewering it like an olive before scoping it out, using the empty socket for leverage.

Your augmented muscles tense and you pull. His vocal cords stretch out and his scream turns shrill and red as they rip apart. You feel the tendons and connective tissue in the merc’s neck grow tauter and tauter until-

Snap.

His head soars off his shoulders, red petals drifting slowly through the air.

You freeze with the head in your hands, held aloft above you. Flower Boy approaches you and you let go, the merc’s head bouncing off the sands.

You look at her and she looks at you. For once you don’t feel good when you see her.

I…

What do you even say to a friend you’ve managed to disappoint? Excuses? Lies?

You don’t know, do you?

You shut your eyes tight and look away. You don’t deserve to look at her.

“It’s…” She sighs and puts a hand on your shoulder. “… Not your fault, alright, Fruity?”

You’re not sure what she means by that. Either way, she pulls you up.

“You two okay?” Hostage-Killer says in your helmet.

“Yeah, yeah, me and Fruity are fine.”

“And the package?”

You look at the truck, you sense a very frightened person still inside of it.

Alive. Still in there.

“Alright. Orphan-Maker and Flower Boy set up defensive positions. Kid, you’re with me.”

As your other friends set up around the perimeter of the crashed truck you approach the back with Hostage-Killer.

Both of you peek in. You could barely see him in the dark interior of the truck but he’s there.

A fat white lump of sweat and blood, holding his hands up pleadingly.

“P-please, d-don’t hurt me.” His body quivers. “Y-you know who I am, right? I can be useful to you, I c-can-”

“We know.” Hostage-Killer says.

The package lowers his hands. “What?”

“You’ve been invited to dinner by Grand Duke Malphas. We’re your escorts.”

‘Grand’ Duke he says. You always thought that title was stupid. There are only six other dukes in the Seventh circle, and they all introduce themselves as ‘grand’ dukes, too.

The lump of fat’s hands drop completely. Eyes scanning the both of you. “What does he-”

“She.” Hostage-Killer says, a sharp edge in his voice. ”Details will be discussed over dinner. Do you accept her invite?”

“Yes, yes, of course, yes.” He tries to stand up but stumbles. “Just please get me the fuck out of here!”

Hostage-Killer pats you on the back. “Get him out. Quick.”

You walk into the wreckage and help the bloated old monster to get to his feet. He’s smaller than you. Weaker.

A part of you feels a brief spark of empathy as you think about your first time out the gate.

Empathy that is crushed a moment later, when you remember that Malphas took an interest in him.

Which means he’s just as bad as she is.

“What about the Eligos mercs?” You hear Orphan-Maker over the comms. “Do we butcher, or do we let them regenerate?”

“No time to butcher.” Hostage-Killer says. “We need to exfil asap.”

You all pile into the APC and leave quickly. Before any backup can arrive.

Hostage-Killer drives away from the wreckage and back to the city. As he’s driving, he glances back at you.

“You did good, Kid,” He gives you an affirmative nod. “Just rest up now, we’ll be back home soon.”

You nod back. Hostage-Killer may still be your leader but he never forgets that he’s still your friend.

The APC rumbles through the desert and you take your time to regard the recent arrival sitting across from you.

Something about him unsettles you. Something in his eyes. Or rather something missing from his eyes.

He looks at all of you impassively, without any consideration or gratitude for his rescue. No recognition that each of you were all people with lives and hopes and dreams. No recognition that you were even ‘people’ at all.

To him you’re all just pieces on a chessboard. Tools and pawns to be used and discarded when need be.

To him this was all a game, a game with no other player but himself. A game whose only goal is to accrue as much power and privilege as possible. A game that only he can win.

You’re familiar with the type.

The combat drugs begin to wear off, and you start to remember the brief Malphas gave you about him.

In life, he was a war criminal beloved by the ruling class of his country.

In death, he was now a guest of Grand Duke Malphas.

“So,” he says as he wipes the sweat off his jowls. “What’s for dinner?”