Chapter 128: Sohn einer Hündin!
The bustling chaos outside Raptor Tec. Industries' headquarters painted a vivid scene of controlled tension. A fleet of German Federal Police vehicles and GSG 9 units lined the streets, lights flashing rhythmically, casting eerie blue and red hues against the building's steel façade. Behind makeshift barricades, journalists and curious onlookers murmured in hushed tones, their cameras trained on the cordoned-off street.
Standing at the epicenter of this orchestrated disruption, Dieter adjusted his crisp uniform of a Federal Police Director. Flanked by the operatives of MTF DE8-ℜ, camouflaged as GSG 9 elite commandos, he exuded a calm authority. His sharp eyes flicked to the commander of MTF DE8-𝔄, "Crime Scene Cleaner," similarly disguised in police garb.
"Is the street secure?" Dieter inquired, his tone clipped and professional.
The commander nodded. "Yes, sir. We've sealed the area under the guise of a bomb threat. A few nosy reporters and locals are at the perimeter, but none have a direct view of the perimetor's interior activities."
Dieter acknowledged the report with a slight nod, then turned to the commander of MTF DE6-𝔇, "The Draft," also outfitted in GSG 9 attire. His voice dropped, a grave seriousness coloring his words. "Keep your men ready. If anything happens to me, you initiate the assault immediately. No hesitation. Do not concern yourself with my fate."
The commander snapped a salute. "Understood, sir."
Taking a deep breath, Dieter adjusted his cap, his fingers brushing against the emblem of authority it bore. He cast a glance at Rex-1, who stood at attention among his team. Rex-1 gave a subtle nod, confirming their readiness.
Without another word, Dieter turned toward the headquarters of Raptor Tec. Industries, its monolithic structure rising like a fortress of steel and glass. Accompanied by the operatives of DE8-ℜ, he strode purposefully toward the main entrance.
Inside, the air was sterile, tinged with a faint metallic tang. The echo of polished boots on the marble floor announced their arrival before they fully entered the vast lobby. Waiting for them was a squad of heavily armed guards clad in robotic exoskeletons, their Hammer-P1 assault rifles raised and trained on the approaching group.
The operatives of DE8-ℜ reacted instantly, their own weapons aimed in response, creating a taut standoff. Tension crackled like static electricity as the two sides squared off, each finger hovering over triggers, breaths held in suspense.
Dieter stepped forward, his expression an unyielding mask of authority, his cold gaze locking onto the lead guard. "I am here to speak with the CEO of Raptor Tec. Industries," he declared, his voice steady but resonant, cutting through the thick silence.
The guards exchanged brief, uncertain glances. The weight of the standoff bore down on the room, the quiet humming of the building's automated systems the only sound.
For a moment, it seemed the guards might act. Their robotic armor whirred softly as they shifted, their weapons unwavering.
Dieter didn't flinch, his icy composure a shield against the rising tension.
"I suggest you make this quick. Or you'll find out just how prepared we are to take matters into our own hands."
The guard closest to the group tapped his helmet, initiating a quiet communication. A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the muffled exchange between the guard and someone on the other end. Minutes stretched, each one heavy with anticipation, until footsteps echoed from a staircase to the side of the grand hall.
Descending was a boy in a tailored black suit, his sharp features betraying a mixture of confidence and unease. His eyes scanned the group before settling on Dieter. Recognition flickered across his face, and he offered a polite, if strained, smile.
"Mr. Dieter of the SCP Foundation," he greeted, extending a hand. His voice carried a polished, professional tone, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty. "What an unexpected pleasure to see you again."
His gaze shifted briefly to Dieter's uniform, a brow arching slightly. "I see the Foundation has deeply entrenched itself within Germany. Fascinating… Now, to what do we owe the honor of this visit, accompanied by such a… formidable entourage?"
Dieter remained silent, his icy demeanor unwavering. Without a word, he retrieved a folded photograph from his pocket and handed it to the man.
The image was simple yet ominous: "4R" emblazoned in white against a stark black background.
The CEO's expression darkened instantly. His polite smile evaporated, replaced by a grim, almost haunted look. "The Fourth Reich…" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.
"What do you know about them?" Dieter's question was curt, cutting through the growing tension like a knife.
The man hesitated, his eyes darting between Dieter and the operatives behind him. He straightened his tie, a visible stall for time. "Why are you asking?"
Dieter stepped closer, his piercing gaze locking onto the man's. "Yesterday, after we finalized our agreement with your company, our team was tailed by three operatives affiliated with the Fourth Reich. After detaining them, we traced their activities back to one of their bases. What we found there led us here."
Reaching into his pocket again, Dieter took out another photograph. This time, it depicted the "MCRbot" recovered during the raid. The image spoke volumes, and the CEO's face contorted into a mix of anger and frustration.
"Sohn einer Hündin!" he swore under his breath, clenching his fists.
Catching himself, he exhaled sharply and offered a half-apology. "Forgive my outburst. It seems the Fourth Reich has dragged us both into their schemes."
Dieter raised an eyebrow, suspicion etched into his features. "How exactly did they come into possession of your products?"
Braun bit his lower lip, visibly struggling with his response. Finally, he spoke. "To be candid, our relationship with them was… complicated. In the beginning, we engaged in transactions. They were buyers; we were sellers. Business, nothing more. Then, during a product exhibition, their leader, Herr Rass, became enamored with our MCRbot series. He placed a significant order, but there was a catch."
Braun paused, his expression hardening. "He demanded modifications: racial sensors that would allow the bots to target everyone except white individuals. Naturally, I refused. I am a businessman, not a damn Nazi." His voice grew colder, more resolute.
"The negotiations turned sour. They ambushed us, stole several units, and fled. I narrowly escaped with my life, thanks to a Grizzly A1 tank stationed nearby. Since that day, we've been at odds. Skirmishes, sabotage attempts, assassinations of our clients, it's an ongoing war."
Dieter's icy gaze lingered, scrutinizing the man for any signs of deception. The hall remained silent except for the faint hum of machinery in the distance. After a long pause, Dieter exhaled and allowed a faint, approving smile to surface.
"Well, Mr. CEO, it's reassuring to know you aren't our enemy. On behalf of the Foundation, I apologize for the suspicion and any undue pressure we've caused."
The tension in the air dissipated as the guards and operatives slowly lowered their weapons. Yet, the unease lingered, and the CEO of Raptor Tec. Industries hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak but then closing again. His gaze flickered toward Dieter, conflicted.
Dieter, ever watchful, caught the hesitation and addressed it directly. "Something seems to be weighing on your mind, Mr. Braun. Do you wish to say something?"
Braun exhaled deeply, straightening his posture. "As I mentioned earlier, we are at war with the Fourth Reich. The problem is, we're at a significant disadvantage. We don't know where to strike, and even if we did, we lack the necessary contacts to provide the cover we'd need. Deploying tanks and robots in public, out in the open, would be disastrous for us. Our operations would be exposed, and the consequences would be dire."
He paused, his expression somber. "I'd like to request the Foundation's assistance. If you aid us in combating and pushing back the Fourth Reich, we could turn the tide of this conflict."
Dieter's face remained unreadable, but the faintest flicker of hesitation crossed his features. "That's… not a decision I can make on my own. I'll have to consult my superiors."
Braun nodded solemnly. "I understand. I only hope the decision is made quickly."
Before Dieter could respond, a voice resounded through the room, an ethereal, chilling tone that seemed to emanate from both nowhere and everywhere at once.
"That will not be necessary."
The floor beneath them darkened as an unnatural shadow began to swirl and rise, shaping itself into a humanoid form. Black as the void, its surface seemed to absorb the light around it. Two piercing white eyes emerged from its face, glowing with an unsettling intensity.
Every guard and operative in the room immediately raised their weapons, the tension snapping back into the air like a taut wire.
"Lower your weapons!" Dieter barked, his voice sharp with urgency. "You're aiming at the Administrator!"
The room froze. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the collective gasp of realization.
"Administrator on-site!" Rex-1 shouted, his voice carrying both shock and awe.
In an instant, the operatives of the MTF encircled the Administrator, forming a protective barrier, their weapons now trained on the RTI guards. The tension reached a fever pitch, the room trembling under the weight of mutual suspicion.
Braun turned sharply toward his guards, his voice a thunderous bark. "You fools! You're pointing weapons at a VIP client! Lower your arms, or we're all dead!"
The guards hesitated, confusion written on their faces, but the authority in Braun's tone left no room for argument. Slowly, their weapons were lowered.
Leonard, turned his gleaming white eyes toward the MTF operatives. With a single motion, he placed a shadowy hand on one operative's shoulder. "Stand down. Lower your weapons and step back."
Reluctantly, the operatives obeyed, retreating to their positions. Now, only Leonard, Dieter, and Braun stood at the center of the room.
"My apologies for raising the tension," Leonard said, his voice smooth and resonant. "I've been observing this conversation."
Braun managed a strained smile. "I… wasn't aware…"
Leonard's glowing eyes fixed on Braun, their intensity unwavering. "Let's make it straight. Mr. Braun, you and I both know that nothing in this world comes without a price. Especially for a businessman like you."
Braun forced a chuckle, attempting to mask his unease. "Of course. I understand. To show our appreciation, I'd like to offer a 10% permanent discount on all products purchased by the Foundation. Additionally, you'll receive early access to our newest technologies before their release."
The Administrator's lips parted into a sharp, unsettling grin. "Mr. Braun, while I may not be an expert in business, I'm well aware that a 10% discount is a mere token, a way to pacify idiot customers. We are not idiot customers. You will need to do better, considering we are indirectly preserving your business by eliminating your enemy."
The smile on Braun's face faltered. He swallowed hard, nodding. "My apologies, Administrator. I misspoke. The discount will be 40% on all products, effective immediately."
Leonard inclined his head in silent approval. A secretary from RTI was summoned to fetch a contract, which was promptly reviewed, amended, and signed by both parties.
As Leonard's shadowy hand clasped Braun's in a brief handshake, he spoke once more. "May this arrangement be mutually beneficial, Mr. Braun."
With those words, Leonard's form dissolved into the same swirling shadows, vanishing as abruptly as he had appeared.
---
Leonard blinked slowly, the faint glow of the Administrator's essence fading from his eyes as he found himself back in his office. His surroundings were familiar, his desk, the stacks of reports, and the ever-present tactical holograms projecting mission updates. Sitting across from him, arms crossed and clad in his tactical gear, was Graves, his usual composed expression mixed with curiosity.
"So?" Graves asked, his tone calm but expectant.
Leonard leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin. "Problem solved. Honestly, the fragment of the Administrator is too cool. And now? I don't have to worry about dying from any physical, psychological, or even energy-based attacks."
Graves let out a small chuckle, his shoulders relaxing. "Good to hear. Also, Boss, I heard you've made some progress in your training."
Leonard's grin widened, pride radiating from him. "Hehehe, now I can take down ten Resh-1 operatives without my powers. And with my demon mode? Thirty-five. Easily."
Graves smirked faintly but said nothing.
Before Leonard could gloat further, a voice interrupted from the corner of the room. "Boss, I don't think you should boast about yourself infront of that monster."
Both Leonard and Graves turned their heads to see Franz reclining casually on one of the office sofas, a teacup delicately balanced in his hand.
Franz took a slow sip of his tea before continuing, his expression nonchalant. "That monster over there wipes out all of Resh-1 operatives at full power, and he doesn't even need any fancy tricks, just his physical strength."
Leonard raised an eyebrow and turned to Graves, who was suddenly very interested in the wall. The normally unshakable operative looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he was reluctant to undermine Leonard's proud declaration.
After a moment of tense silence, Graves finally spoke, his voice low. "Let's just say… I've had a few genetic enhancements."
Franz set down his cup with a loud clink, raising his voice in mock outrage. "A few genetic modifications? My ass, Graves! You're practically a damn paraweapon at this point, probably stronger than Ifrit from the ORIA if we're counting raw physical prowess."
Graves sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Leonard, however, was unfazed. He leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, his grin turning sharp.
"Well, Graves, next time we spar, don't hold back. I'm curious to see if I can keep up with someone who's apparently a walking apocalypse."
Franz chuckled darkly. "Oh, Boss, you'd better pack a lunch. That fight's gonna last all day."
Leonard's laughter filled the room, his confidence unshaken. "Bring it on. If I can take down a crying SCP-096, I should be able to fight Graves head on. Probably."
Graves merely shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Leonard leaned back in his chair, the faint smile on his lips vanishing as he shifted into a more serious demeanor. "Also speaking of a GoI, how are the preparations coming along for the global anomalous organizations' summit?"
Franz let out a long sigh, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. "Honestly, it's going to be a nightmare. The event is scheduled to last seven days, from Monday to Sunday, and it's taking place at the GOC headquarters in New York. The first day will be dedicated exclusively to members of the Hope system, basically, a chance for aligned groups to communicate, exchange ideas, and strategize. On the second day, we'll include neutral anomalous groups and what we're starting to call 'natural groups.'"
Leonard raised an eyebrow. "Natural groups?"
Franz nodded. "It's a new term gaining traction in the anomalous community. These are groups that aren't made from any system. They are made "naturally" in our world without a Host and a System and so, don't really align with any established systems. There are only about four such groups currently recognized, and the Gendastrerie is one of them."
Leonard tapped his fingers on the desk, processing the information. "Interesting. Go on."
Franz continued, "Days three and four will focus on discussions, strategy development, and conflict resolution. Then on the fifth day, there's a collective visit planned to the Free Port of Backdoor SoHo."
Leonard's eyes widened slightly. "Wait, isn't that the Nexus in New York that's dedicated to anomalous arts?"
"Exactly," Franz confirmed. "That's why we're deploying several OoTA agents and Resh-1 operatives there, discreetly of course, to ensure nothing goes sideways."
Leonard nodded thoughtfully, his mind already calculating potential scenarios.
Franz went on, "Saturday will be another day of discussions, but it ends with a ball, exclusive to the leaders of Hope system groups and their chosen partners for the evening." He paused for effect. "Then, on Sunday, there's a closing ball in the evening for all leaders of the invited groups. This summit will be under intense scrutiny from the world's most powerful countries and anomalous organizations. I can say without exaggeration, it's the largest gathering of the decade."
Leonard exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I can't even imagine the security headache this is going to be. Has the GOC issued any instructions regarding that?"
Franz smirked. "Oh, they have. During the week leading up to the event, as well as the event week itself, no anomalous forces are allowed within New York City or its surrounding areas. The GOC will deploy their personnel throughout the city, disguised mainly as law enforcement. Groups with bases in New York are required to keep their forces contained within their compounds or risk immediate detainment. Each leader is allowed only ten protective personnel, and only two of them may accompany the leader inside the GOC headquarters. Weapons and powers are strictly prohibited on GOC premises."
Leonard frowned. "And are we planning to abide by these instructions?"
Franz burst out laughing, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Of course not."
Leonard couldn't help but grin at the audacity. "Naturally."
Franz leaned back, his voice dropping slightly. "We're not the only ones who'll be bending the rules, though. It's a given that some of these groups will play dirty. The real question is: who'll blink first?"
Leonard's grin faded, replaced by a determined expression. "Then we'd better be ready."
---
The sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Oval Office in the White House, casting a warm glow over the room's iconic furniture. Standing behind the Resolute Desk, the President of the United States exuded authority, his piercing gaze fixed on the four teenagers standing at attention before him.
Three wore sharp suits, their postures rigid, while the fourth, a boy in an army general's uniform adorned with medals and a beret, stood with a commanding presence.
The President began, his voice steady and deliberate. "Alright, I've called this meeting to assess your departments' activities and finalize preparations for the upcoming Global Anomalous Organizations Summit. Let's start with you," he gestured to the boy on his right. "Director of the Abnormal Drug Enforcement Administration, Mr. Connor Hayes. Report."
Connor swallowed hard, a flicker of nervousness crossing his youthful face before he spoke. "Yes, Mr. President. Recently, we've seen a disturbing rise in the circulation of a new anomalous substance on the black market. It's colloquially known as the 'Sin Drug.'"
He paused, letting the name sink in. "This drug harnesses demonic energy to temporarily enhance the user's physical strength to approximately 500 kilograms for a duration of ten minutes. The issue, sir, is that this drug is being heavily used by criminal elements. Its proliferation has led to a surge in violent crime across several states."
Connor glanced at the President, whose expression had darkened. Encouraged to continue, he added, "This surge in criminal activity has paralyzed law enforcement in many areas. Routine interventions have turned into bloodbaths, sir. To date, over 130 police officers have lost their lives because of this drug in states including California, New York, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin."
The President's eyes narrowed, his tone icy. "Do we know who's behind it?"
Connor nodded grimly. "We suspect the Chicago Spirit is responsible for its distribution. They appear to have tapped into some sort of infernal channel to produce the drug."
The President leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Have you managed to secure samples of this… Sin Drug?"
Connor clenched his fists subtly, his jaw tightening. "Yes, Mr. President. We've acquired multiple doses for study."
A rare smile tugged at the President's lips, though it lacked warmth. "Good. Ensure those doses are delivered to the Director of the Secret Service later this week."
Connor hesitated for a fraction of a second before responding, his voice firm. "Yes, Mr. President."
As the President shifted his focus to the next individual, Connor discreetly unclenched his fists, his knuckles white from the tension.
The President shifted his gaze to the young girl standing to Connor's left. A warm smile softened his features. "Director Amelia Cross of the Central Paranormal Intelligence Agency, it's your turn."
Amelia returned the smile confidently, her posture relaxed but professional. "Thank you, Mr. President. The activities of the CPIA have been progressing smoothly. With assistance from our counterparts across the broader CIA network, this past month has been particularly eventful."
She took a breath before diving into her report. "Starting with Europe: in the west, we've uncovered traces of a GOC bastion near Paris, France. While evidence of the SCP Foundation's presence has been scarce, we've picked up whispers of their activity. However, given their unparalleled expertise in counterintelligence, it's been difficult to confirm any solid leads."
She paused, then added, "Across the rest of Europe, anomalous activity has been detected in nearly every country. Whether it's isolated incidents or coordinated efforts, the continent has been bustling with paranormal events."
The President nodded, encouraging her to continue.
"Moving eastward, the situation with Russia remains tense. Our covert operations and skirmishes with GRU Division 'P' continue unabated. With the support of Ukraine's DATTSU and PORA, we've managed to maintain a stalemate. The combined efforts have successfully hindered Russia's strategic movements, particularly those involving their spetsnaz and GRU-P assets."
Amelia's expression grew more serious. "The real challenge, however, lies with China. Their anomalous organizations are numerous and well-resourced. On top of that, their surveillance network and internal security infrastructure, managed jointly by these groups and the Chinese government, present a formidable barrier to our operational capabilities. Every move we make is met with intense scrutiny."
The President's brow furrowed at this, but he remained silent, letting her finish.
"In the Middle East," Amelia continued, "we're locked in open conflict with ORIA. With support from Yeda Zoher, our Israeli partners, we've been engaging in skirmishes across Iraq, Jordan, Israel, and Iran. It's a constant back-and-forth of sabotage and counter-sabotage, arrests and counter-arrests. While the situation is stable for now, it's tenuous at best."
She concluded her briefing with a composed expression, her hands clasped in front of her.
The President leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. "Understood. Good work, Director Cross."
With that, he turned his attention to the boy in the military uniform, his expression sharpening. "General Nicholas Hawthorne from PENTAGRAM, you're up."
The young man saluted sharply. "Mr. President, our operations have been far more militarized compared to my esteemed colleagues."
He paused for a moment, glancing briefly at the others before continuing. "We have successfully established the 13th Fleet, which is now equivalent in strength to a full cruiser group. As of this moment, preparations are underway to station it near New York in time for the Global Anomalous Summit. Additionally, we've assigned SEAL Team Bravo Papa Romeo Delta to the fleet for enhanced operational readiness."
The President nodded, his expression impassive as the boy continued, his tone growing more resolute. "In the Middle East, we've deployed the 616th Squadron to reinforce our bases in the region. Furthermore, we've sent multiple SPEARS Teams into Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Chechnya. The objective is simple: distract Russia and disrupt their global operational capabilities."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in, then added with a faint hint of pride, "Lastly, thanks to the generous support from the Pentagon, resources and manpower alike, I've managed to save a significant amount of Golds for the acquisition of additional equipment and personnel."
The President's brow furrowed slightly. "Golds?"
Nicholas froze for a split second. The piercing gazes of his three colleagues bore into him, sharp and accusatory. Realizing his slip, he hastily clarified, "Ah, my term for resources, Mr. President. Nothing more. Please disregard it."
The President narrowed his eyes briefly, as though weighing the young man's words, before replying evenly, "Very well."
He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands as he turned his attention to the last of the four. "Director Carter from FBI Unusual Incident Unit. You're up."
Carter stepped forward, a confident smile on his face. "Mr. President, the UIU has been operating at maximum efficiency. Over the past month, we've conducted numerous raids on anomalous groups and secured several significant anomalies. Among them, one stands out as particularly remarkable." He reached into his folder and slid a photograph across the desk.
The President picked up the photo and stared at it. His brow furrowed. "Carter, this is just… a SWAT officer."
Carter's smile didn't waver. "Not quite, sir. What you're looking at is SCP-912."
The President raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. "And what exactly is SCP-912?"
Carter clasped his hands behind his back, launching into his explanation with the precision of a practiced orator. "SCP-912 is not a person, but an entity composed entirely of police-issue body armor, clothing, and equipment. Together, these items form a cohesive being capable of independent movement and action. It adheres strictly to the standards of LAPD SWAT uniforms as of 2010. There's no body inside, it floats in midair, as if worn by an invisible officer standing six-foot-one. SCP-912's movements mimic those of a trained SWAT operative, but with precision, strength, and speed far beyond human capability."
The President set the photo down, his curiosity piqued. "And it follows orders?"
Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. But only from personnel wearing LAPD uniforms from 2010. SCP-912 is entirely impervious to firearms and other conventional weaponry. It's a living, breathing nightmare for criminals and a dream asset for us, if deployed correctly."
The President leaned back, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Interesting. Can it be used in the field?"
"Absolutely," Carter replied. "But there are strict conditions. The team working with it must adhere to its operational protocols, including wearing the correct uniforms. Without those, SCP-912 won't cooperate, or worse, it might consider us threats."
The President nodded, satisfied. "I expect you to make good use of it."
"Of course, sir." Carter hesitated, then added, "There's one more thing I need to share."
The room grew quiet. All eyes turned to Carter as the President tilted his head. "Go on."
Carter took a deep breath. "We've discovered the location of an SCP Foundation site."
The tension in the room was palpable. The President leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Are you certain?"
"Yes, sir." Carter retrieved another photograph, this one on his phone, and handed it to the President.
The President stared at the image, his brow furrowing deeper. "Las Vegas?"
Carter nodded. "Yes, sir. Specifically, the Luxor Hotel. Based on our intelligence, this site contains an entryway to a place known as Undervegas, the Fourth Layer of Hell."
The President froze, disbelief etched on his face. "The Fourth Layer of Hell? You mean the Hell? The one mentioned in Abrahamic theology?"
Carter's expression was grave. "Yes, sir. Undervegas is home to a wide variety of demonic entities. The Foundation has implemented a strict blockade around the area to prevent access."
The President leaned back, his hand covering his mouth. "Is it possible to gain entry?"
Carter shook his head. "Not without the Foundation's cooperation. Their control over the site is absolute. Any unauthorized attempt would result in catastrophic failure, and likely provoke the entities within."
The President frowned. "What about taking the site by force? This is American soil. How can they block us from accessing it?"
Before Carter could respond, the other three operatives interjected in unison. "Absolutely not!"
The President blinked, startled by their vehement reaction. "Explain."
Carter took the lead. "Mr. President, every Foundation site is a fortress. Their guards are armed and trained at a level that surpasses even our most elite units. And their defenses include anomalies, concepts, memetics agents, and anomalous technologies we can't even begin to counter. Attempting to seize one of their sites would be akin to declaring war on an army equipped with gods and monsters."
The room fell silent, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Finally, the President exhaled deeply and leaned forward. "Then we'll tread carefully. Monitor the situation and keep me updated. For now, Undervegas remains off-limits."
"Understood, sir," Carter replied, his expression resolute.
The President leaned back, his expression darkening as he steepled his fingers. "Now then," he began, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge. "Let's talk about the upcoming summit in New York. Has the GOC provided any information regarding presentations or protocols?"
The four exchanged uneasy glances, silently debating who would take the lead. Finally, Nicholas exhaled heavily and stepped forward. "Sir, our operations in New York will be severely restricted during the upcoming week and the summit week."
The President's brow furrowed. "And why is that?"
Nicholas hesitated, his throat dry. "The GOC has enacted a full-scale blockade of the city against all anomalous groups… including us."
For a moment, the room was silent. Then the President's fist slammed onto the desk, his face flushing with rage. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?"
The four of them flinched at the outburst, bowing their heads to avoid his withering glare.
"They want to bar us from New York?!" the President roared. "I swear, I'll mobilize the Marines to deal with these arrogant bastards!"
Nicholas glanced at his colleagues, who quickly shook their heads in silent warning. Ignoring their caution, he drew a deep breath and spoke, his voice steady but firm. "Sir, that would be a catastrophic mistake."
The President's gaze snapped to him, his expression icy. The room's temperature seemed to drop as he leaned forward. "What did you just say?"
Nicholas swallowed hard, his throat tightening under the weight of the President's glare. "Attacking the GOC would be fatal for the United States," he repeated. "It could lead to the collapse of our nation."
The President's fury dimmed slightly, replaced by a calculating coldness. "Explain."
Nicholas took a moment to collect himself before launching into his explanation. "First, the GOC headquarters is embedded within the United Nations complex. Any attack would provoke the collective wrath of the UN. Second, New York is their stronghold, and they've likely fortified it to an extreme degree. Their standard soldiers are equipped with technology at least thirty years ahead of ours. We're talking about a qualitative gap we can't bridge with sheer numbers."
He paused, scanning the room to gauge the reactions of his colleagues. Seeing their support, he pressed on. "The GOC is one of the four largest anomalous organizations in the world. Their arsenal includes not only conventional weapons but anomalous assets and weapons of mass destruction. Their Retrieval and Strike Teams are on an entirely different level, our SPEARS Teams can barely compete with their regular forces, let alone their elite units."
Nicholas locked eyes with the President. "And let's not forget their alliances. The SCP Foundation is one of their closest partners. If we provoke the GOC, the Foundation will not stand idly by. They could deploy a single Mobile Task Force, and sir… the White House would fall within minutes."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Nicholas's words settling over everyone present. The President leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "You're saying we're powerless against them."
Nicholas held his ground, meeting the President's gaze. "I'm saying that direct conflict would be suicidal, sir. We need to approach this diplomatically and play the long game."
The President exhaled slowly, the tension in the room barely easing. "Fine," he said at last. "But I want every angle covered. We will not be caught off guard, understood?"
"Yes, sir," Nicholas replied firmly, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. The crisis, for now, had been averted.
The President dismissed the group with a curt nod, signaling the end of their tense meeting. As they exited the Oval Office, Nicholas muttered under his breath, his frustration boiling over. "Fucking bastard. Instead of protecting the country, we're stuck stirring up trouble everywhere else."
Amelia sighed, her tone resigned. "We don't have a choice. The system forces us to follow the President's orders."
Carter ran a hand through his hair, his voice laced with regret. "I can't believe I actually supported that asshole during the election."
The group made their way to a private conference room, their footsteps heavy with exhaustion. They each collapsed into chairs, their postures reflecting the mental and physical toll of their roles.
Connor broke the silence, his voice hesitant. "So… how are we feeling about this global summit?"
Nicholas leaned back, his eyes closed in frustration. "It's going to be a total shitshow."
"Agreed," Amelia added, her tone as weary as her expression.
Connor exhaled deeply, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. "I just hope we can achieve our objectives. Do you think we should try to secure a contact with the Serpent's Hand or maybe the SCP Foundation?"
Amelia crossed her arms, considering. "Honestly, the Serpent's Hand might be a long shot. They lean heavily liberal and anti-establishment, they're not exactly fans of capitalists like the United States. The Foundation might be a better choice. They're far more powerful, and our goals don't seem to clash too much with theirs."
Nicholas scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, but don't forget how powerful they are. They literally wiped our memories. I've been trying to piece together what happened ever since, but without the GOC tipping us off, we'd probably never have even realized it. And let's not kid ourselves, the Foundation scares the hell out of me. It's the SCP Foundation, after all. We've all read the wiki back when it was public, before it mysteriously disappeared. We know just how terrifying they can be in certain canons."
Amelia rubbed her temples, exhaustion etched into her features. "At this point, all we can do is pray that we hit our targets and make it out of this in one piece."
The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of their uncertainty settling over them like a heavy fog. Each of them knew the stakes, and none dared to voice the nagging doubt gnawing at the edges of their resolve.