As the contents of the mysterious document unfolded on the screen, the mood in the Chaofan chat group turned lively and lighthearted.
[Black Widow]: Honestly, I thought this mission was supposed to be serious. What is this? "One, two, three, wooden man"?
[Hulk]: Technically, it's not exactly "123 Pokémon," but it might be some variation of a children's game?
[Tony Stark]: I dunno, it seems even more ridiculous than Steve's farming method.
[Captain America]: Shut up, Stark!
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
Inside the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury sat behind his desk, rubbing his forehead with a long, tired sigh as he watched the increasingly bizarre interaction unfold in the broadcast chat. The playful banter, the childish comparisons—it was all so far from the seriousness he had anticipated.
"What even is this?" he muttered to himself, narrowing his one good eye at the screen.
Then the document displayed in the livestream flipped to the second page. The air shifted immediately.
[Document Log – Continued]
Description: Moved to Site-19 in 1993. Origin remains unknown.
The subject is constructed of concrete and rebar, with visible traces of Krylon-brand spray paint.
SCP-173 is mobile and highly hostile.
The object is unable to move while within direct line of sight.
Line of sight must never be broken.
Assigned personnel must remind each other before blinking.
SCP-173 attacks by snapping the neck at the base of the skull or by strangulation.
In the event of an attack, standard Level 4 Hazardous Object Containment Procedures must be followed.
Scraping stone noises have been reported from the containment chamber when unobserved. This is considered normal. Any deviation should be reported immediately to the Acting HMCL Supervisor.
The reddish-brown substance found on the chamber floor is a mix of blood and feces. Source unknown. The interior must be cleaned biweekly.
As the new content appeared, the cheerful and playful atmosphere disappeared almost immediately. The chat fell into a sudden and stunned silence.
The room full of mocking laughter gave way to scattered, doubtful voices.
"Wait a minute… a statue that can teleport?"
"Seriously? That thing just breaks necks? That's its whole thing?"
"If it can teleport, you'd expect something more high-tech. But it just… snaps necks? That's creepy, but weirdly simple."
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
Nick Fury's expression turned grim as he stared at the file on-screen. In a world like theirs—filled with super soldiers, aliens, and gods—he'd seen many anomalies. The concept of teleportation wasn't unfamiliar to him.
The sorcerers of Kamar-Taj could fold space like paper. The Space Stone could instantaneously move matter across the cosmos.
But this?
A concrete statue from an unknown origin, randomly designated SCP-173, with the ability to move—fast—and lethally, when not observed?
And this was only one of their objects. 173. That number implied hundreds of other similarly dangerous anomalies.
He leaned back, folding his arms. "Object Class: Euclid. So they have some sort of classification system… which means there are other classes. Maybe more dangerous… or harder to contain."
His thoughts spiraled deeper as he tried to process the implications. Who exactly was the SCP Foundation, and how powerful were they to manage something like this?
He was snapped out of his thoughts as the screen shifted again, focusing on a new scene.
The camera showed a long corridor lined with reinforced steel and harsh lighting. Three heavily armed guards escorted a team consisting of three researchers in white lab coats and three individuals dressed in bright orange prison uniforms—D-Class personnel.
The soldiers halted at a thick, reinforced door made of alloy. It was cold, impersonal, and gave off the sterile, chilling feeling of a morgue.
The viewers, both in the Chaofan group and across various live platforms, immediately picked up on the significance of the scene.
This was it.
The containment room of SCP-173.
Even the more skeptical viewers fell silent, instinctively holding their breath.
On screen, a researcher in a lab coat stepped forward. His tone was flat and clearly irritated as he addressed the D-Class personnel.
"I'll say this one last time," he said, glancing down at his clipboard. "Your task is simple. Enter the containment chamber. Use the designated tools to collect the biological waste on the floor. Then exit. That's it."
He gave a curt nod to the guard, who approached the door and unlocked it with a heavy clank.
The guards immediately raised their rifles, aiming them squarely at the D-Class personnel.
One of the men, a rugged-looking bearded individual identified by his badge as D-1245, muttered under his breath as he stepped forward.
"Tsk, this guy always makes things sound easy. But last time, I almost got incinerated."
Next to him, a thin, yellow-haired man—D-1526—kept rubbing at his nose.
"I swear, someone around here has a cat. I'm allergic to this crap," he muttered, sneezing violently. "I hate this job…"
The bearded man rolled his eyes and said nothing more as they were led deeper into the facility.
The technician led the group to another sealed room, this one even more secure. It had a viewing slot that was currently closed.
"This is the observation port," the technician explained. "When it opens, SCP-173 will be directly in sight."
He gestured to each member of the group.
"D-1526, you will keep your eyes open and monitor SCP-173 through the port. D-1245 and D-14134—James—will enter the chamber to begin collection."
His eyes narrowed.
"Remember: At least two people must have eyes on SCP-173 at all times. If one of you blinks, say it before you blink."
"Understood?" he barked.
"Understood!" the three D-Class members replied in unison, though James's voice was far steadier than the others.
Future Technology Building
Back in the safety of the observation area, Peter Parker—the young Spider-Man—glanced sideways at James and gave him a playful pat on the shoulder.
"Tsk, tsk. James, I didn't know you were this calm under pressure," he teased. "Kinda cool, actually."
Then his tone grew more curious. "Hey, is this statue really that strong?"
James gave him a long look—half annoyed, half amused. Peter quickly waved his hands.
"Alright, alright! I get it. Let's just watch the screen…"
On-screen, the technician slowly opened the viewing port.
And then—SCP-173 was finally revealed.
It was grotesque.
A crudely sculpted humanoid figure made entirely from rough concrete and rusty rebar. Spray paint in crimson red covered parts of its face and limbs. The eyes—huge, hollow black pits—gave the impression of staring directly into the soul of the viewer.
It stood motionless in the middle of the containment chamber.
But everyone watching could feel something wrong about it. The kind of silent tension that came before an explosion.
D-1526 stood rigidly, staring through the port with unblinking eyes as sweat dripped from his brow.
"Alright," said the technician. "Proceed with collection."
James and D-1245 moved through the side entrance quickly and carefully, eyes flickering toward SCP-173 even though it wasn't yet visible from their angle.
They entered the containment room—cold, dim, and lined with ominous red stains.
Then, they saw it.
Standing there, unmoving.
James and D-1245 exchanged a glance.
"I see it," whispered James. "You?"
"Yeah. Damn thing gives me the creeps," the bearded man muttered. "Let's just get this done."
Using tongs and biohazard containers, they carefully began scooping up the reddish-brown sludge on the floor. The smell was nearly unbearable.
Suddenly—
"I need to blink!" came a panicked voice from D-1526 at the port.
"Say it first!" James snapped. "Count down!"
"Three… two… one!"
James and D-1245 spun around, locking their eyes on SCP-173 as the yellow-haired man blinked.
The statue had moved.
It was now inches closer than before—its head tilted at an impossible angle, as if watching them.
Cold sweat ran down their backs.
Back in the observation rooms across the world, the audience erupted.
"IT MOVED!"
"Holy crap, did you SEE that?"
"This isn't a prank, is it?"
"I thought it was fake, but this thing is real!?"
Even Nick Fury couldn't hide his shock.
He stood up, hands on the table, his mind racing.
There were organizations in the world that dealt with threats—but this was something else entirely.
This was supernatural. Psychological. And utterly alien.
Inside the containment room, James kept his eyes locked on the entity.
"Let's finish fast. I'll keep watching. You clean," he said firmly.
D-1245 nodded and resumed work, trembling.
This process repeated several times—pauses, countdowns, blinks.
Each time SCP-173 inched forward.
By the time the job was done, the statue was barely a meter away—its grotesque, twisted arms frozen in a reaching position.
As they backed out of the room, the technician slammed the door shut, breathing hard.
"Well done," he muttered.
The scene faded out.
And all across the world, audiences sat stunned, breathless, minds buzzing.
The SCP Foundation wasn't a joke.
It wasn't a hoax.
It was real.
And this was only their 173rd anomaly.
James stood tall in the post-mission scene, his expression unreadable, his calm demeanor earning silent admiration.
For now, the world could only wonder: What other terrors did the Foundation hold behind closed doors?
And more importantly…
How many of them were already watching?
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