After a while, they left the room and looked at the other people. As they walked out.
Sophia looked at Bright as she spoke. "He is more ready to translate ancient text. Also, we are removing anything Bear related to the Gilgamesh Files we have".
Dr. Bright raised an eyebrow as he looked between Sophia and Able. "Bear-related? What the hell did I miss?"
Sophia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Apparently, someone in archival thought Gilgamesh had a beard—or bear-like features. Turns out that's a complete fabrication. Able had a minor meltdown over the historical inaccuracy."
Able crossed his arms, clearly annoyed. "The man was arrogant, prideful, and loud—but he was not some hairy mountain beast. He had standards. He bathed in rose oil and gold dust. You think a man like that would tolerate being drawn with fur?"
Bright blinked, then broke into a wide grin. "So, we're doing historical corrections now? Should I go back and fix the records that say SCP-076 is just 'angry murder man'?"
Able glared. "Yes."
Sophia spoke again, brushing past the two of them. "Anyway, the translations are consistent. He's remembering more things, slowly. It's like talking to a cracked library. You just have to hope the right book falls out."
Bright gave a thoughtful nod. "That's progress, at least. But you sure he's stable enough for more sensitive work?"
Sophia glanced at Able, who was watching two facility guards like a hawk, his arms crossed but his body calm. She responded, "Stable enough for now. But he's still… putting pieces together."
Bright nodded. "Good. Because the O5s are going to want results soon."
Able looked over his shoulder. "Then they can wait. Truth doesn't arrive on demand."
Sophia smirked. "Especially not when it's covered in ancient sheep wrestling poems."
Able groaned. "I regret ever mentioning that."
They continued walking down the long hallway of the Foundation, the lights flickering just slightly above them as somewhere deep below, something ancient shifted in its chains.
In a different Demtion, not that of Earth, even though its movement always made it look like it was buried deep below the Earth, it had one eye, scale-like skin, and horns.
[Insert Image of Scp 2317]
The one remaining meet hook like chain was still chained up to him, it opened its eyes, its roared, as it looked at the Blond Hair man, with fair skin, he was wearing a priest-like outfit but it was hard to tell, the man had skin like that for Able, as he looked at the beast.
The Blond Man Spoke. "Still reacting to me like this".
The creature roared, as it sounded like the name "A_a_" but letters were missing, it was not hard to guess who this man was.
The Man just looked at the Creature as he spoke, with full confidence. "Go ahead, try and kill me".
The great beast strained against its single remaining hook-chain, the metal groaning as ancient bindings shimmered with runes long forgotten by even the oldest beings of Earth. The dimension around them was warped—skies twisted into unnatural geometries, and the ground pulsed with the heartbeat of a long-dead cosmos.
It roared again—louder this time, the syllables echoing like a curse etched into time itself:
"A̷̖͌͐d̶͙͖͌͛a̸̠̾͜m̷̺̿…"
The man didn't flinch. His expression was calm, almost pitiful. His eyes—golden, ancient—reflected both the flame of Heaven and the dust of Earth.
Adam—the First Man, the Father of Able and Cain, the Prototype of Humanity—stood still, unmoved by the mountain of flesh and malice that threatened to tear the dimensional veil apart.
"You blame me," Adam said softly. "You always have. But you forget—I chose to fall. I chose to be free. Just like you did."
The beast snarled, shaking the very air between them. A tremor ripped through the stone beneath them.
Adam's voice darkened. "But unlike you, I accepted the consequence."
He took a step forward. His presence, though lacking weapons or visible power, pushed the entire dimension back—gravity wavered, time jittered, and the chains holding the beast hissed with smoke.
"I buried you once," Adam whispered. "And I'll do it again if I must. Not as a god. Not as a savior. But as your equal. Your kin."
The beast fell silent, its one eye narrowing, studying Adam—not as prey, but as something dangerous. Something real.
Then it smiled.
A grotesque, horrifying grin stretched across its face. And it spoke—not in a roar, but in a whisper that chilled the bones of the dimension itself.
"The Bloodline breaks… soon."
Adam's eyes narrowed. "Then I'll be there to mend it."
The scene began to fade—back into the shadows beneath the Foundation, where whispers of old chains echoed faintly.
Back with Able, as he looked at his new room in the foundation, something they had to give him since he was an employee, it was a normal room, with a bed, desk with a laptop, a phone, and Bluetooth headphones so that they can call at any time, a TV for some reason, and a bathroom, that was it, will this was normal for people who have clearance level 3 in the foundation.
He doesn't want to image the Poor baster at Level 0 but does the Janitor who had to clean up all the mess make everything?
Able then went to his bed; as he went to sleep, he woke up in the Weapons Grave. "I will eventually need to use all of them, this instead such a bad balance to train". Able then thought for a bit. "Does Mental Training carry to the real world? Wait, I brought the Chains of Enkidu to the real world, so maybe?".
Able looked around a bit; he was the only one here; since this was his mental space, no one could enter; maybe it was hard to tell, with so many Scp, what was possible and wasn't possible at the same time.
He looked into the sky, where there were other types of Weapons, as he just kept walking, he picked up a sword and started to swing around, it was not his usual Weapon, this was shorter and lighter and the mind skill Anomalies, but the Mental could still be tracked, unlike his usual sword.
Able spun the blade in his hand a few times, feeling out its weight and balance. It wasn't bad—actually, it was too good. Perfectly balanced, almost like it wanted to be wielded by him. The sensation made him grimace.
"Yeah... that's suspicious," he muttered under his breath.
Each weapon in the Grave had a story. Some were broken legends, some forgotten nightmares, some... gifts that perhaps shouldn't have been accepted. Yet all of them responded to Able in one way or another. They were part of the chaotic tangle that made up his existence now.
He took a stance, the blade humming lightly, and began practicing movements—simple at first, but growing more complex. Slashes, thrusts, parries, ripostes—he moved through them, sweat forming on his forehead despite the fact this was all happening inside his mind.
Clang. Clang. Whshh.
The sound of blade against unseen opponents echoed in the empty air. Each motion burned itself into his muscles—if his theory was right, then when he woke up, he would remember the motions, and they would carry over. It wasn't quite magic. It was just him being what he was—something beyond human now.
As he paused for a moment, breathing lightly, he glanced upwards again, noticing something curious.
Floating above him were weapons he didn't recognize. No, that wasn't right—he half recognized them. They had similarities to weapons from myths, or SCPs known to the Foundation... but they were different. Altered. Twisted.
"Potential futures," he realized, narrowing his eyes.
"Weapons I might wield... depending on the path I walk."
The idea made him grimace even more. He hated that kind of predestination crap.
He shook his head and went back to swinging the sword, faster this time. Each move was sharper, more efficient. In this mental training ground, time didn't seem to pass normally. He could train for hours—or days—and only a few minutes would pass in the real world.
But something still nagged at him.
The scroll.
The beast.
Adam.
Able growled lowly under his breath, swinging harder, pushing the intrusive thoughts away.
"This time," he muttered to himself between swings, "I'm making my own choices."
He didn't notice it immediately, but the blade in his hands shimmered slightly—almost approvingly—as if acknowledging his declaration.
Able adjusted his grip, spinning the blade once more in his hand before tossing it aside—it vanished into golden dust the moment it left his fingers, sinking back into the grave like a spirit laid to rest. He exhaled slowly, his focus sharpening.
He looked around.
There were hundreds, maybe thousands of weapons buried here. Some half-shown, others gleaming in full, radiant form. A few floated, waiting to be claimed. This was his realm—a distorted heaven for violence and memory.
"Let's try something heavier," he muttered, approaching a large hilt that jutted out from the ground.
He grabbed it. It didn't budge at first.
"Of course."
Digging his heels into the ground, Able snarled and yanked harder. With a grinding roar of metal and earth, the weapon came free.
It was a massive greataxe—more like a slab of iron than a weapon. Rusted edges, strange glyphs faintly glowing along its surface, and a faint hum that sent chills up his spine.
He swung it once.
The air around him screamed.
"This one's not just heavy—it's angry."
As he took a combat stance again, the world responded.
The sky darkened, and from the mists around the weapon grave, silhouettes began to form. Featureless, grey humanoid shapes, armed with crude weapons—manifestations of conflict, memory, and fear.
Able grinned. "Let's dance."
CLANG!
The first enemy came at him, and he sidestepped, swinging the greataxe in a brutal arc—erasing the figure in a blast of force that kicked up dust and ash. More came—ten, twenty, thirty. It didn't matter. He moved like a storm, a beast of precision and rage. The axe was unwieldy, but in his hands, it became an instrument of utter carnage.
And as he fought, something began to change.
The axe started to shift in his grip—lightening, sharpening. The rust faded. The glyphs glowed brighter.
It was responding to him.
Resonating.
Then—suddenly—everything froze.
The axe pulsed in his hands as a voice echoed in the silence:
"You are not yet worthy of my full name."
"But you are close."
Able stared down at the weapon, panting.
"...So that's how it is." He smirked. "Another one of you with a personality, huh? Fine. We'll get along... eventually."
He let go of the axe—and instead of falling, it floated mid-air, as if waiting.
The silhouettes faded. The sky lightened.
And the ground beneath him cracked just slightly—one more weapon unlocked. One more step forward.
He looked up at the others still floating in the air. Spears, swords, chains, guns, shields, bows—some glowing with divine light, others dripping with malevolent shadows.
Able cracked his neck, already stepping toward the next.
"If I have to train with every damn one of you," he growled, "then I'll become a weapon myself."
Able let the golden light swirl around his wrist as he summoned the Chains of Enkidu, segment by segment. Each link gleamed with divine brilliance, almost alive with a hum that resonated through the graveyard of weapons. As the first section coiled around his arm, he muttered under his breath.
"Infinite my ass… but damn if it isn't picky."
He extended his hand, and the chain slithered out like a serpent, embedding itself into the ground before shooting up into the sky, forming loops, spirals, and tension lines like a cage waiting to spring. It was a beautiful sight—elegant and horrifying at the same time.
"Made to hold the King of Heroes... and yet I'm the one holding you now."
He swung his arm. The chain reacted instantly, launching forward and wrapping around one of the nearby training silhouettes. The golden links snapped shut around it—and the entire shape was crushed instantly, as if divine pressure alone had unraveled its very form.
He whistled.
"Yep. Definitely works against divine types..."
Then his brow furrowed.
"...But what counts as divine here?"
He thought about it.
SCP-682 – Hatred incarnate. Not divine.
SCP-343 – God That was… complicated but maybe Yes.
SCP-073, Cain – Definitely divine blood, probably more so than Able.
SCP-999 – The Orange God of Happiness? Hilariously divine.
SCP-610 – The Flesh that Hates. Not divine, but something... other.
SCP-076 (himself) – Rage given form. Not divine.
Yet...
He flexed the chain again, making it loop in a fractal pattern.
Could it work on conceptual beings? Beings who were more idea than flesh?
That... was worth testing.
He suddenly pointed forward—and from the earth rose a mock projection of SCP-2317-K, the chained horror from another dimension. It was dulled, a training simulacrum of what he had seen: one eye, the chain, the scale-like skin.
Able hurled the Chains of Enkidu.
The gold erupted forward—and hit resistance.
The chain shuddered as if it had bitten into a reality that didn't want to be held.
Able's eyes narrowed.
Then the chain held. Not full strength—not like it would against a true god—but enough to bind it, slow it.
"So… even partial divine weight works. That's good."
He looked at his wrist, where the golden chain coiled gently now, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
"You're not just a weapon... You're a damn scalpel."
"Guess I better start learning surgery."
He stepped away, the simulacrum fading. The Chains of Enkidu returned to his arm, compact and silent.
Another lesson down.
Another weapon mastered.
He looked toward the sky, at the next weapon floating just above the clouds—a long staff wrapped in what looked like pages from a book made of light.
"Huh… guess it's time to learn something less stabby."
Able then woke up after a while, and after he did, he tried something; he opened one of his Black Portals, summoned a piece of the chains, and put it back.
He smirked as he spoke. "I guess my Mental space Training can carry to the real world".
Able then started to look around his room, as he looked around for a bit, as he put the chains away, he looked around his room, trying to find something.
As he found a small Mic with that of a small Caemra, he looked at them, as he crushed them.
In that Monitoring room, they saw the Camera they put in the Able room get destroyed, and the Scientists just looked at each other.
One of the scientists spoke. "Will shit, he found out about the hidden Camera".
Another one then spoke. "We expect it, but not so soon; what do we do?".
Another one of the scientists spoke, this one was scared. "Wh-what if he comes for us with his sword, we have heard what he has done over the years through his field and Rummer".
The lead researcher—a woman in a lab coat with streaks of silver through her tied-back hair—sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"He's not going to get you, Marvin. If he wanted you dead, you'd never have seen it coming."
The nervous scientist, Marvin, swallowed hard.
"That's... not exactly reassuring, Doctor Li."
Doctor Li turned toward the others, her voice sharper now.
"We all knew this day would come. The Foundation gave Able a room, Level 3 access, and employment, for God's sake. It was only a matter of time before he found the surveillance. He's not stupid."
A younger scientist adjusted his glasses.
"So... what's the play? We can't just pull all surveillance. He's technically still a Keter-class anomaly—"
"Correction," Doctor Li interrupted, "He's a Keter-class anomaly with an employment ID and combat instructor clearance. If we treat him like an animal, he will act like one. But if we show him some respect..."
She trailed off, thoughtful.
Then the console beeped.
"He's accessing his laptop," one of the techs noted.
"Just pulled up a secure notepad. Typing something now..."
They waited.
Lines began appearing.
To Whom It May Concern:
"Next time, at least hide the cameras better. Also, if you're going to spy on me, don't use cheap mics from 1985. I can hear the capacitor buzz."
—Able
Silence fell in the observation room. Then, Marvin spoke again.
"Oh god, he knows we read this live—"
Doctor Li just chuckled.
"Of course he does. He's Able. He's been playing war games since the Bronze Age."
She turned away.
"Keep passive sensors running. No more cams, no more bugs. If he wants to talk, let him come to us."
Back in his room, Able smirked as he closed the laptop.
"Let's see if they learned their lesson. Honestly, if they wanted a real show, they could've just asked."
He stood up, cracked his neck, and stretched.
"Now then... what the hell is on Foundation TV, anyway?"
He picked up the remote and clicked on the screen.
The first thing that popped up was a rerun of "Cooking With Dr. Clef".
"...This place is weird."
To be continued
Hope people like this ch and give me power stones and enjoy