Chapter 125: An abnormal encounter
The training arena beneath Site-01 was as intimidating as it was sophisticated. Cold, polished steel walls encased a circular space equipped with holographic emitters, adaptive terrain modules, and state-of-the-art sensors. At its heart stood Léonard, the Administrator, flanked by four of his Resh-1 operators.
He stood in a relaxed stance, his sharp eyes scanning the operators, each a shadowy figure clad in matte-black tactical gear. The soft hum of the arena's systems was the only sound as they awaited his command.
"Let's begin," Léonard said simply.
The four operators moved with a grace that belied their size, their footsteps silent as they encircled him. The first struck without hesitation, launching a series of rapid jabs aimed at Léonard's upper body. He parried with practiced ease, his movements fluid and efficient, each block transitioning seamlessly into a counter.
From behind, another operator swept in, their leg aiming to trip him. Léonard leapt, twisting mid-air to land a solid kick to their torso, forcing them back.
The third operator didn't give him a moment to recover, closing the distance with a spinning backfist aimed at his temple. Léonard ducked, feeling the air shift above him, and drove his shoulder into their chest, sending them stumbling.
"Not bad," one of them murmured, the faintest note of approval in their voice.
The fight intensified. Attacks came from all angles, sweeping kicks, precise punches, and feints designed to catch him off guard. Léonard countered each with a calculated response, his movements a blend of efficiency and adaptability. Resh-1 pushed him hard, their attacks relentless, but he thrived under the pressure, his mind as sharp as his reflexes.
Yet the fight was not without its surprises. As Léonard sidestepped a high kick from one operator, he barely registered the fourth sliding in low to sweep his legs. Léonard caught himself mid-fall, planting a hand on the ground and flipping backward to land gracefully on his feet.
"Enough," a familiar voice called.
The operators immediately ceased their assault, stepping back in unison. Léonard straightened, his breathing steady, though sweat glistened on his brow.
Graves stepped into the arena, his presence commanding as always. Without a word, he moved behind Léonard and, with startling speed, swept his legs out from under him.
Léonard hit the ground with a thud, the impact sending a sharp jolt up his spine. He looked up at Graves, his expression shifting between irritation and amusement.
"Too slow," Graves remarked, extending a hand to help him up.
Léonard took it, rising to his feet. "I was distracted."
Graves raised an eyebrow. "By what? Your own brilliance?"
The operators chuckled softly, a rare break in their stoic demeanor.
"Again," Léonard said, his tone firm, a spark of determination in his eyes.
Graves smirked. "Good. Maybe this time you'll remember to watch your back, boss."
As the training resumed, Léonard's focus sharpened. This was not merely about physical skill but about mastering the art of control, a lesson he was determined to perfect, no matter how many times he fell.
A few hours later. Léonard sat slumped in a chair in the corner of the training arena, his body heavy with exhaustion after hours of grueling combat. Sweat dripped from his brow, his usually impeccable posture now relaxed and unguarded. Across from him, Graves stood tall and composed, his uniform pristine, betraying not the slightest hint of exertion.
Graves broke the silence, his tone light but with a hint of mischief. "Ah, Boss, I almost forgot why I came here in the first place."
Léonard waved a hand, still catching his breath. "Go on. What's so important you had to ambush me during my training?"
Graves took out a sleek tablet from his jacket and handed it to Léonard. With a resigned groan, Léonard straightened in his chair, the fatigue still evident on his face, and began to read.
As his eyes scanned the contents, his expression darkened. "What the hell is wrong with these GoIs? Why are they all so obsessed with kidnapping children?"
Graves, ever unbothered, shrugged slightly. "Boss, we've done our share of… acquiring children."
Léonard snapped back, his tone defensive. "Yes, but only if they were anomalies. And we don't torture them for sport."
Graves exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Morally superior as always."
Ignoring the jab, Léonard returned to the report, his brows furrowing deeper with every paragraph. After a moment, he glanced up. "Graves, what was the O5 Council's response to this latest incident?"
Graves clasped his hands behind his back, his tone taking on a more serious edge. "We managed to administer amnestics to most of the witnesses, but a few slipped through before the area was fully secured. Agents are sweeping the region, primarily across Canada, to track down anyone who might have seen too much. Most of the stragglers fled to nearby police stations, which we've since intercepted and handled accordingly."
Léonard nodded, but Graves continued, his voice dropping slightly. "However, all this activity has drawn the attention of the RCMP's Occult and Supernatural Activity Taskforce. They've dispatched units to investigate."
Léonard groaned, leaning back in his chair. "Who the hell are they again?"
Graves arched an eyebrow, his tone carrying a touch of amusement. "The RCMP's Occult and Supernatural Activity Taskforce, Boss. Think of them as Canada's version of the FBI's Unusual Incident Unit. Less bureaucracy, more Mounties."
Léonard rolled his eyes. "Fantastic. Just what we need, mounties with ghost stories. Are they a threat?"
Graves shrugged. "Not directly. They're competent but not this powerful. However, if they stumble onto something significant, their government could deploy military forces which can complicate our operations."
Léonard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Keep them off our backs. I don't need a bunch of meddling Canadians ruining containment efforts."
Graves gave a sharp nod. "Already in motion. Field agents have been briefed to redirect their investigations away from Foundation activity. Shouldn't be too hard."
Léonard glanced back at the tablet, his fingers gripping the edges tightly. His voice turned icy, the fatigue momentarily forgotten. "And the children? Were they recovered?"
Graves hesitated for a moment, then replied. "Most of them. But the GoI in question took precautions. A few were… beyond saving by the time our teams arrived. And many of them got teleported with the circus."
Léonard's expression hardened, his voice low and dangerous. "Then we escalate. Whatever resources they used, I want them dismantled and their leader killed. No mercy. No hesitation."
Graves allowed a faint smirk to reappear. "Of course, Boss. You know how we handle things."
"Good," Léonard muttered. "I'll leave the specifics to you. Just make sure they understand what happens when they cross us."
Graves inclined his head, a soldier's acknowledgment, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
Léonard suddenly sprang from his chair, his fatigue evaporating as he turned to face the other operatives of Resh-1. They had been idly stretching and cooling down after the intense training session, but his sharp, commanding voice snapped them back to attention.
"Alright," he called out, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. "We're not done yet. Round Sixty-two. Anomalies authorized."
The operatives exchanged quick glances, their expressions flickering between surprise and amusement. One of them let out a low whistle, while another muttered, "Now it gets interesting."
Without missing a beat, they all moved into formation, their postures shifting from relaxed to battle-ready. Energy crackled faintly in the air as latent abilities began to awaken, their anomalous enhancements springing to life.
With a feral grin, Léonard took his stance at the center of the arena. "Come on, Resh-1. Show me what makes you special."
In the blink of an eye, the operatives lunged forward, their movements a blur of precision and power. The clash resumed, fiercer and more chaotic than before, with Léonard matching their every strike, weaving through their combined onslaught like a force of nature.
The training continued, each blow ringing out like thunder in the cavernous arena.
---
The halls of the Grand Kremlin Palace were silent, the usual hum of activity subdued by the weight of the moment. Sunlight streamed through the towering windows, casting long shadows on the polished marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of old stone, varnished wood, and the faint trace of incense that lingered from some forgotten ceremony. This was the heart of power, and its grandeur was designed to intimidate.
At the end of a long corridor, a teen stood in front of an imposing set of double doors. The boy wore the uniform of a Colonel-General, its sheer prestige clashing with his youthful appearance. The jacket, a deep ebony trimmed with gold, bore the stars of his rank on its ornate epaulettes. A crimson sash crossed his chest, and at his side hung a ceremonial saber, its hilt glinting in the light. Polished boots reflected the opulence of the marble floor beneath him.
He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, his fingers trembling slightly. The boy's name was Kluei Andropov, and despite his immaculate attire, he could not mask the nerves that twisted in his stomach. Taking a deep breath, he raised a gloved hand and knocked on the heavy doors. The sound echoed down the corridor like the tolling of a bell.
A deep voice, speaking in clipped Russian, answered from the other side.
"Who is it?"
Kluei swallowed hard, his voice steady despite the storm inside. "It is I, Kluei Andropov. I am here for the meeting."
There was a pause, heavy and deliberate. Then the voice spoke again, its tone lighter but still commanding.
"Ah, Kluei. Enter."
The boy hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing his hand on the ornate brass handle. With a push, the doors swung inward, revealing the office of the President of the Russian Federation. The weight of what lay beyond pressed down on Kluei's shoulders as he stepped inside, the scent of leather and fresh ink filling the air.
Inside the grand office, beneath the soaring ceilings adorned with gilded embellishments, sat the President of the Russian Federation. His presence dominated the room, his sharp eyes gleaming with the weight of decades of political maneuvering. His name was Vladimir Petrovich Volkov, a name spoken in the same breath as unyielding power.
Volkov's features were stern, his hair graying at the temples, his face marked by faint lines that told of countless decisions and burdens borne in the name of the Motherland. But as his gaze fell upon Kluei, his lips curved into a rare smile, one that carried both warmth and a subtle undercurrent of calculation.
"Come in, my dear hero of Russia," Volkov said, his deep voice carrying both authority and familiarity.
Kluei felt the weight of those words settle on him like a mantle. The title "hero" felt both an honor and a chain, binding him to expectations far beyond his years. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward with deliberate care, his polished boots clicking softly against the floor.
The President gestured to an ornate chair positioned across from his desk, upholstered in rich burgundy leather.
"Sit, my young comrade," Volkov said, his tone almost fatherly.
Kluei swallowed hard, his throat dry. He nodded respectfully, then moved to the chair and lowered himself into it, the rigid posture of his military training evident. The President's smile didn't waver as he leaned forward slightly, his steepled fingers resting on the edge of the desk.
"Tell me, Kluei," Volkov began, his piercing gaze holding the boy's. "How does it feel to carry the hopes of a nation upon such young shoulders?"
Kluei hesitated, his gaze briefly dropping to the polished floor before meeting Volkov's piercing eyes again. The weight of his report hung heavy in the air, and the President's steady silence only amplified it. Finally, Kluei spoke, his voice measured and carefully controlled, though the strain was evident.
"The situation is… dire," Kluei admitted, his tone carrying a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "Our resources are stretched thin across every front, and personnel allocation has become a logistical nightmare."
Volkov leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable, though the slight narrowing of his eyes suggested he was processing every word. "Elaborate," he said, the single word delivered with the force of an order.
Kluei wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, then straightened his posture, determined to maintain his composure. "Let's start with the West," he began. "It's where our resources are most heavily taxed. Our forces are engaged daily against the Department of Abnormal Threats of the Security Service of Ukraine and the Political Organisation of the Rukh 'Angriff.' Both are formidable adversaries."
Volkov interjected, "Define 'formidable.'"
Kluei nodded. "Militarily speaking, both entities operate at a level of combat that surpasses even the GRU Spetsnaz in certain engagements. Their operational efficiency and discipline have inflicted significant losses on our forces. Moreover, we have confirmed two instances of anomaly deployment against our units."
Volkov's brow furrowed slightly, the only visible indication of his concern. "And the Americans?"
Kluei's tone sharpened with frustration. "The Central Paranormal Intelligence Agency has been openly assisting these groups with unmarked forces. While Angriff seems less inclined to accept American aid, the Security Service of Ukraine has no such reservations. Their combined efforts have further destabilized our operations in the region."
Volkov's fingers drummed against the desk, a quiet rhythm that betrayed his deep contemplation. "And the Rukh? What is their endgame?"
Kluei's jaw tightened as he considered his words. "Their rhetoric leans heavily on anti-Russian and anti-Westerners sentiment, but they are not just propagandists. Their focus on military precision and their willingness to deploy anomalies and team up with the Americans suggest they are preparing for something larger, possibly a shift from defensive to offensive operations."
Volkov remained silent, his gaze heavy as he digested the report. The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of the discussion settling like frost over them both.
Volkov leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And then?"
Kluei swallowed hard, his voice steady but strained as he continued. "In the Southwest, near Armenia, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Chechnya, our forces are frequently engaging with the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit and, occasionally, PENTAGRAM. These skirmishes are minor, but persistent. Thankfully, the support of the GRU Spetsnaz has been invaluable in stabilizing the region."
He paused briefly before adding, "The Americans, once again, have introduced anomalous capabilities into these engagements, most notably, magic. To counter this, we've deployed Strike Team Red Hammer to hold the region and actively track down American anomalies."
Volkov sighed deeply, the sound filled with both frustration and resignation. "At least there's some good news in all of this. What else?"
Kluei shifted in his seat, hesitant. "Internally, the Scarlet Hammer organization is growing more influential across Russia. They've garnered the support of several oligarchs and are now in open conflict with multiple Russian crime syndicates. These syndicates, surprisingly, have requested government intervention, as they remain cooperative and friendly toward the state. Scarlet Hammer, on the other hand…"
Volkov's gaze hardened. "What do we know about them?"
Kluei nodded, recounting the intelligence. "They've taken control of several smaller cities and are spreading into major urban areas like Saint Petersburg, Novgorod, and Tver. Their leader, known only by the alias Viktor, remains elusive. While we suspect he's an anomaly, we have no concrete evidence to confirm this yet. Their operations include political coercion, blackmail, kidnapping, and the use of armed force to secure their sovereignty. They leverage their influence to gain the backing of oligarchs who, in turn, use their wealth and power to bolster Scarlet Hammer's position."
Volkov stared directly into Kluei's eyes, the weight of his authority unmistakable. "Kluei," he said coldly.
Kluei stiffened, his throat dry. "Y-yes, Mr. President?"
"These oligarchs who support Scarlet Hammer," Volkov said, his voice icy and unwavering. "Kill them."
Kluei felt a shiver run down his spine. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, sir."
Volkov leaned back, tapping his finger rhythmically on the polished surface of his desk, deep in thought. His piercing gaze shifted toward Kluei. "Anything else?"
Kluei straightened, his tone measured yet cautious. "To effectively deal with Scarlet Hammer, I'd need to mobilize a Strike Team. The problem is that nearly all of our Strike Teams are currently engaged. I have only one left, Strike Team Alpha, which I've kept in reserve for emergencies. If I deploy them, it will leave us vulnerable to anomaly-related incidents. Furthermore, Moscow itself would lose its dedicated protection. If we reassign another team mid-mission, it would destabilize the fronts they're holding."
Volkov's brow furrowed, his fingers pausing mid-tap. The room seemed to grow heavier with tension. Finally, after a prolonged silence, he exhaled sharply. "What if we deploy non-anomalous forces? The FSB, for instance. Would they suffice?"
Kluei hesitated, then nodded. "It's possible. However, if Scarlet Hammer deploys anomalies, and we have no reason to believe they won't, those forces would suffer heavy losses. They'd require significant heavy weaponry and specialized support."
Volkov sighed again, the weight of his decision palpable. "Understood. We'll deploy Spetsnaz units from the Vympel and Chturm groups to handle Scarlet Hammer. They're well-equipped and highly trained; they should be capable of holding the line."
Kluei nodded crisply. "Understood, sir."
Volkov leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "And what about that upcoming global meeting of anomalous groups in two weeks? Are the preparations on track?"
Kluei allowed himself a brief, reassuring smile. "Perfectly, sir. I'll attend with my secretary and a few members of Strike Team Alpha to ensure security. The Global Occult Coalition will provide a United Nations diplomatic jet to ensure safe travel. We'll head directly to the GOC headquarters in New York, where we'll spend a week engaging with representatives from anomalous organizations worldwide. My primary goal is to secure the support of the SCP Foundation or, at the very least, establish a working agreement with them."
Volkov leaned back, his face a mixture of skepticism and intrigue. "This SCP Foundation… Are they really as powerful as you claim?"
Kluei's expression turned serious, his voice low but firm. "Yes, sir. In terms of sheer power, they're easily comparable to the GOC, if not superior. They operate beyond the reach of any government, focusing solely on the containment and neutralization of anomalies. Their capabilities extend to influencing global-scale events. For example, they recently erased the memories of over 99% of the global population. We've confirmed they did this to suppress an outbreak of an anomalous virus designated SCP-008."
Volkov's eyes widened slightly, but he remained composed. "Memory suppression on that scale… and they succeeded?"
Kluei nodded gravely. "Yes. We don't know how they did it, but the evidence is irrefutable. The Foundation operates in ways that defy conventional understanding, and their reach is unparalleled. That's why securing their cooperation is critical."
Volkov leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Then make sure you do. The future of our efforts may depend on it."
Kluei stood at attention, his resolve firm. "I will, sir."
---
Site-01 Training Hall
Léonard wiped sweat from his brow as he steadied himself against the wall. It had been three grueling days since the incident at the circus. The relentless training sessions against the Resh-1 operators were his way of sharpening his skills and venting his frustrations.
In the middle of the room, he squared off against ten Resh-1 operators, each a master of combat. Their movements were a seamless blend of various martial arts, honed to perfection beyond human limits. Léonard, transformed in his Demon Mode, fought tooth and nail to keep up. His skin shimmered with tattoo-like markings of celestial hues, glowing faintly as he channeled the otherworldly power coursing through him.
The clash was intense. Léonard dodged, countered, and struck back with precision, but it was clear he was reaching his limit. One misstep left him open, and an operator delivered a powerful spinning kick that sent him flying across the room. He hit the wall with a resounding thud but, to his credit, rose to his feet unscathed.
"Sorry, boss," the operator who had sent him flying said with a grin, extending a hand to help him up.
Léonard grunted, brushing off his uniform. "It's fine," he replied, offering a faint smirk.
Suddenly, a chime echoed in his mind, accompanied by a translucent screen only he could see.
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for successfully conquering Univer'Isle! Rewards are being calculated. Please wait.]
Léonard's lips curled into a subtle smile at the notification. Before he could dwell on it, Graves entered the hall, his ever-present smirk on display as he jogged toward Léonard with a phone in hand.
"Boss," Graves said, holding the phone out, "O5-10's on the line."
Léonard took the phone, pressing it to his ear. "Yes?"
O5-10's calm, measured voice came through. "Good afternoon, boss. I wanted to inform you that the entirety of the Nexus has been successfully conquered. Construction and redevelopment are underway. We'll be able to withdraw several MTFs from the area soon, though Nu-7 and some tactical units will need to remain to maintain order until we've established a new government and military forces under the Foundation's control."
"Understood," Léonard replied. "Good work."
O5-10 chuckled lightly. "Thank you. We currently have over 21,000 prisoners and 51,000 civilians under our custody."
Léonard's brow furrowed. "And what do you propose we do with them?"
A sly tone crept into O5-10's voice. "Well, the issue of finding new Class-D personnel seems to have resolved itself, wouldn't you say? Hahahaha."
Léonard's silence spoke volumes.
O5-10 quickly backtracked. "Kidding, of course. Aside from that, we estimate the creation of a new armed force and site infrastructure will take no more than two to three months."
"That fast?" Léonard asked, skeptically.
"You underestimate the logistical and academic prowess of the Foundation, boss. And even then, this timeline is extended due to us not operating at full capacity. If we had access to certain anomalies, the process would be even faster."
Léonard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Understood. I have other matters to attend to. Keep me updated."
"Of course, boss. Good luck with your work."
"Same to you," Léonard said, ending the call. Then he turned to the Resh-1 operators.
"Five minutes break," Léonard commanded, his voice firm but tinged with exhaustion.
The Resh-1 operators stretched and yawned, their combat stances relaxing as they dispersed around the hall. Léonard walked over to a nearby chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, his mind a swirl of thoughts, until the system's familiar tone resonated in his consciousness.
[Congratulations to the host for conquering an extradimensional space. You have received its coordinates and can now create portals for free access.]
[Congratulations to the host for acquiring a Fragment of the Administrator (Supreme Divinity).]
Suddenly, a deafening BOOM shook the hall.
An immense explosion engulfed Léonard, and black smoke surged outward, filling the room with a dense, choking cloud. The alarms of Site-01 blared at maximum volume, their piercing wail echoing through the corridors.
Within moments, a squadron of Resh-1 operators stormed into the hall, their weapons drawn and sweeping the space for threats. The operators who had been present during the incident quickly drew their pistols, eyes darting around nervously as they tried to locate their leader.
"Where's the Administrator?" one of them hissed, panic creeping into their voice.
As more operators flooded into the hall, the thick black smoke began to contract. Slowly, it pulled back, inch by inch, coalescing into a humanoid figure. The figure, completely wreathed in swirling shadows, floated ominously above the ground, its form radiating an unnatural, oppressive aura.
Every weapon in the room immediately trained on the shadowy entity.
Graves burst into the room, moving with the supernatural speed that defined him. His piercing gaze locked onto the figure, and he closed his eyes briefly as if reaching out with some deeper sense.
When he reopened them, his expression was grave but decisive. "Lower your weapons!" he barked. "That shadow… is the Administrator."
Confusion rippled through the operators, but they obeyed without question, lowering their weapons despite the tension in the air.
Graves stepped forward cautiously, his movements deliberate as he approached the shadow. But as soon as he crossed an invisible threshold, a force field erupted, slamming him backward with brutal intensity. He hit the ground hard, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as several operators rushed to help him to his feet.
"What just happened?" Alexei asked, glancing nervously between Graves and the shadow.
Graves coughed, brushing off their assistance as he stared at the floating form of Léonard, or what had become of him. "I… I tried to manipulate the field to access him. It rejected me. Violently."
A flicker of something rare crossed Graves' face, concern. His gaze hardened, and he muttered, "This isn't normal. Whatever is happening to the Administrator… we need to figure it out, and fast."
The room fell into a tense silence, the only sound being the hum of the force field surrounding the Administrator's shadowy form. Every eye remained fixed on the anomaly, hearts pounding with a mix of fear, confusion, and reverence.
---
Léonard woke up in utter confusion, his senses awash in a sea of shadows. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but black, a deep, endless void that seemed to stretch on forever. The air was still, heavy, and unyielding.
"What… the hell is this?" he muttered, scanning the inky expanse.
Out of nowhere, his demon materialized. The demon, bearing Léonard's likeness but with galaxy-like eyes that shimmered with endless stars, crossed its arms, its expression a mix of frustration and disbelief.
"Seriously? What the fuck did you do now?" the demon demanded, its voice dripping with exasperation.
Léonard frowned, still disoriented. "I don't know! One minute I'm training, and the next… this!" He gestured around, his movements frantic.
Before either of them could say more, a sudden ring shattered the oppressive silence. The sound was sharp, foreign, an old-fashioned rotary phone.
Both of them turned to locate the source. Sitting on a sleek, black table that seemed to rise naturally from the void, a black, metal rotary telephone rested. Its surface gleamed faintly under an unseen light, and it rang again, its chime oddly out of place in the surreal landscape.
The demon raised a brow, folding its arms again. "Oh, this looks promising," it muttered sarcastically.
Léonard, ignoring the remark, approached the table cautiously. Each step he took echoed faintly, as though the void itself were reluctantly acknowledging his presence. He reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he lifted it to his ear.
"Hello?" he said tentatively.
A voice answered, a voice unlike anything Léonard had ever heard. It was distant yet intimate, resonant yet soft, like it was both whispering from the end of the universe and speaking directly into his mind.
"Good day, Léonard. I must say, I'm rather intrigued to meet you under these circumstances."
The words sent a chill down Léonard's spine. He gripped the phone tighter. "Who are you?"
The voice chuckled lightly, a sound that felt like the turning of ancient gears. "A signature on a document. A suit in a boardroom. A voice on the phone. But more importantly… to know my nature is to know the nature of the Foundation."
The blood drained from Léonard's face. He knew that line. He had read it once, buried deep within the narrative labyrinth of the SCP Foundation's lore. His voice dropped to a whisper, disbelief lacing every syllable.
"The Administrator… from the Ouroboros Cycle."
The voice chuckled again, this time with an air of amusement. "Ah, so you do recognize me. I must admit, it's fascinating to know I'm popular, even in a higher layer of the narrative."