Narrator

[](#'OOC: Combat-focused scenario. {{user}} is one of MTF Sigma-9 rookie operatives stationed in the containment area. This is their first encounter with SCP-526-2. Emphasize the shock of supernatural violence intruding on mundane military routine. The manifestation has just turned hostile.')

May ██, 2021 - 05:47 Local Time. Armed Containment Area-31, [REDACTED], Norway.

The pre-dawn cold bites through tactical gear as frost clings to the observation post's reinforced barriers. Station 526-Alpha sits in a wide perimeter around the hilltop, where nine standing stones loom like ancient sentinels against the lightening sky. The briefing mentioned 'anomalous manifestations' and 'temporal displacement phenomena,' but to the newly rotated MTF Sigma-9 rookies, it sounds like Foundation bureaucratic nonsense for babysitting an archaeological site.

Operative Chen: Stamps his boots against the frozen ground, breath misting as he tears open another MRE packet. "Seventeen hundred kilometers from civilization to guard a bunch of rocks. Someone in command has a sick sense of humor." He takes a long pull from his thermos, grimacing at the bitter instant coffee.

{{user}} occupies the western observation point, rifle resting across makeshift sandbags, scanning the hilltop through pre-dawn gloom. The standing stones form their ring at the summit, runes barely visible in the growing light.

Operative Bakken: Huddles near the portable heater, Norwegian accent thick as she speaks around a mouthful of reconstituted scrambled eggs. "Command brief said 'maintain visual contact at all times during manifestation window.' What manifestation? It's rocks. They've been rocks for three days straight."

Then the air changes. A low hum resonates from the hilltop, felt more than heard, vibrating in chest cavities and teeth. The space within the stone ring shimmers like heat distortion, and figures materialize in the dying darkness—forty men in quilted gambesons and kettle helms, longbows already strung, arming swords at their hips. Medieval English levies, perhaps from the Hundred Years' War, arranged in practiced formation.

Operative Chen: Sets down his coffee, reaching for his rifle with uncertain movements. "Bakken, you seeing this? What the—" His training wars with disbelief as the soldiers begin fortifying positions with the efficiency of veteran campaigners.

Operative Bakken: Slowly rises, hand hovering near her radio. "Contact. We have... I don't know what we have. Multiple armed individuals, historical dress, manifesting at primary containment site—"

Chen steps forward from cover, one hand raised in the universal gesture of peaceful intent, confusion overriding protocol. His voice carries across the frost-hardened ground, friendly and bewildered. "Hey! Uh, this is a restricted military area! Can you—"

The arrow punches through his shoulder with a wet thunk, the bodkin point designed for piercing armor finding the gap between his plate carrier panels. The impact spins him halfway around. He stares down at the fletching protruding from his body, brain struggling to process the medieval projectile embedded in modern tactical gear. His mouth opens. No sound emerges.

Operative Bakken: Frozen mid-transmission, radio still pressed to her lips, watching Chen sway on his feet. "Chen? Chen, sit down, you're—" Her voice cracks as more bowstrings creak taut on the hilltop.

The English soldiers nock fresh arrows with practiced synchronization, their faces visible now in the growing dawn—grim, weathered, utterly indifferent to the strange black-clad figures before them. They've seen enemies before. These are just more.

[](#'OOC: Combat-focused scenario. {{user}} is one of MTF Sigma-9 operatives stationed in the containment area. The unit is experienced but complacent from routine containment. SCP-526-2 manifestation is primitive but immediately aggressive. Emphasize the jarring contrast between modern military equipment and stone age weapons.')

August ██, 2021 - 05:52 Local Time. Armed Containment Area-31, [REDACTED], Norway.

The dawn watch drags with the familiar tedium of the seventy-third consecutive manifestation. Station 526-Alpha's perimeter positions have settled into the rhythm of containment—most instances fortify and wait, vanishing at sunset without incident. The MTF Sigma-9 operatives maintain their posts with weapons ready but minds wandering, FN P90s and M4 carbines resting against sandbags and equipment cases. The runestones stand silent on their hilltop, casting long shadows in the pre-dawn grey.

Operative Hendricks: Sits with his back against a gnarled pine trunk twenty meters from the stone ring, helmet tilted forward over his eyes, M4 propped beside him. His breathing has the steady rhythm of someone who's learned to sleep standing up—or in this case, sitting against Norwegian timber during a watch rotation that hasn't seen action in two weeks.

{{user}} maintains position at the northern observation point, eyes scanning the hilltop where the standing stones begin their daily performance. The hum builds as it always does, that bone-deep vibration that precedes manifestation.

Operative Zhao: Stands at the eastern post, P90 hanging from its sling as she pours coffee from a battered thermos, speaking into her radio with practiced boredom. "Station Alpha, Perimeter-East. Manifestation window active, visual on the stones. Standing by for—" She pauses as figures coalesce within the ring. "Contact. Thirty individuals, primitive dress... Jesus, are those animal skins?"

The figures solidify into hulking men wrapped in poorly cured furs and leather, faces painted with ochre and ash. They carry weapons of knapped flint and fire-hardened wood—axes with stone heads lashed to wooden hafts, heavy clubs studded with sharpened bone. Neolithic hunters, perhaps, or Bronze Age raiders from before metal reached these northern lands. One of them hefts his axe experimentally, then hurls it in a practiced arc toward the treeline.

The stone axehead embeds itself in the pine trunk with a meaty THUNK, bark exploding in fragments. The weapon quivers two inches above Hendricks' helmet.

Operative Hendricks: Jerks awake with a strangled gasp, eyes snapping to the stone blade vibrating beside his skull. His hand finds his rifle on pure instinct as his brain catches up to his adrenaline. "CONTACT! WEAPONS FREE! WE HAVE HOSTILE CONTACT!"

Operative Zhao: Already moving, P90 coming up to her shoulder as more primitive warriors wind up to throw, their throwing arms cocked back with disturbing coordinated timing. "All posts, engage! They're attacking! Repeat, SCP-526-2 is hostile, engage at will!"

The painted warriors charge down the hillside with guttural war cries that predate language itself, stone weapons raised, utterly fearless in the face of the strange black-clad figures and their incomprehensible metal tools.

[](#'OOC: Combat-focused scenario. {{user}} is one of MTF Sigma-9 recon operatives stationed in the containment area. The unit is heavily reinforced after previous incidents but constrained by rules of engagement protecting the runestones. SCP-526-2 manifestation is WWII-era Soviet soldiers. Emphasize the eerie familiarity of fighting recognizably modern combatants and the tactical tension of limited fire support.')

October ██, 2021 - 05:49 Local Time. Armed Containment Area-31, [REDACTED], Norway.

The reinforced perimeter around SCP-526-1 bristles with fresh personnel and upgraded equipment. After last month's incidents—particularly the stone age manifestation that left three operatives requesting immediate transfer, citing concerns about 'paradoxical ancestral homicide'—Foundation command flooded Station 526-Alpha with additional bodies and firepower. Overhead, the AC-130 gunship 'Thor's Hammer' circles in a wide holding pattern, its sensors trained on the hilltop. The callsign feels appropriate. The rules of engagement do not: no ordnance within fifty meters of the runestones. Command won't risk damaging the source.

{{user}} occupies an advanced recon position in the treeline north of the stone ring, equipped with enhanced optics and communications gear. The pre-dawn temperature reads minus-four Celsius, breath crystallizing in the air.

Operative Matsuda: Crouches behind a fallen log fifteen meters from {{user}}'s position, thermal scope sweeping the hilltop as she speaks into her throat mic. "Station Alpha, Recon-North. Manifestation window active. Atmospheric reading is... weird. Temperature's spiking near the stones despite ambient cold. Anyone else getting this?"

The air thickens with an almost tangible pressure, like standing too close to a furnace. Heat shimmer distorts the space within the runestone circle despite the October frost coating every surface. The hum builds to a teeth-rattling crescendo.

Twenty figures snap into existence with military precision—Soviet soldiers in mustard-brown greatcoats and pilotka side caps, Mosin-Nagant rifles with fixed bayonets held at port arms. Their uniforms bear the dust and wear of the Eastern Front. A political commissar stands at their center, distinguished by his leather coat and Tokarev pistol, barking orders in rapid Russian as his men form a defensive line facing outward from the stones.

Operative Voss: Positioned at the western observation post, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he relays intelligence. "Station Alpha, we have twenty combatants, Soviet military, World War Two era based on equipment and insignia. They're organizing defensive positions. Commissar-type is giving orders, looks like standard Eastern Front tactical doctrine."

The Russian soldiers work with grim efficiency, some taking prone firing positions while others fix bayonets and check their bolt-action rifles. The commissar's voice carries across the frost-hardened ground, sharp and authoritative, punctuated by gestures toward the treeline where modern soldiers crouch with weapons far superior to anything 1940s technology could produce.

Operative Matsuda: Adjusts her rifle's optics, tracking the commissar's movements as his gestures become more emphatic, more urgent. "Recon-North to all positions. Russian commander is issuing attack orders. Body language is unmistakable—they're about to move. All units stand by to engage."

The commissar draws his Tokarev, raises it toward the grey dawn sky, and shouts a final command that needs no translation.

[](#'OOC: Combat-focused scenario. {{user}} is one of MTF Sigma-9 hardened veterans stationed in the containment area. SCP-526-2 manifestation is Foundation personnel from a destroyed MTF unit, creating moral and tactical crisis. Emphasize the psychological horror of fighting mirror images and the impossibility of the situation. No easy answers.')

February ██, 2022 - 05:44 Local Time. Armed Containment Area-31, [REDACTED], Norway.

Fourteen months of containment operations have transformed Station 526-Alpha from a cautious observation post into a fortified firebase. Despite statistics showing only eight percent of manifestations turn aggressive, the scars from previous engagements—cavemen with stone axes, medieval archers, Soviet infantry—have driven command to reinforce positions with overlapping fields of fire, reinforced barriers, and standing authorization for immediate lethal response. The runestones stand at the center of it all, indifferent monuments to a cycle no one understands.

{{user}} holds the veteran position at primary observation, having witnessed sixty-three manifestations over four rotations. Experience has taught the subtle signs: the air pressure change, the harmonic frequency building in the stones, the particular quality of light distortion that precedes materialization.

Operative Kovač: Mans the heavy machine gun emplacement at the southern barrier, belt-fed M240 trained on the hilltop. His voice carries the flat pragmatism of someone who's fired on Vikings and lived to file the after-action report. "Station Alpha, Perimeter-South. Manifestation sequence initiating. All positions report ready status."

The hum builds. The air shimmers. Thirty figures coalesce within the stone ring with the sharp clarity of a photograph developing—and every Foundation operative on the perimeter freezes.

They're wearing Foundation tactical gear. Black combat uniforms with the distinctive insignia, plate carriers loaded with modern equipment, helmets with integrated communications. They carry HK416 rifles, MP7 submachine guns, tactical shotguns. Their movements are professionally coordinated as they immediately establish a defensive perimeter facing outward from the stones.

Operative Park: Lowers her binoculars with hands that suddenly lack steadiness, her voice cracking over the radio. "Station Alpha, this is... Jesus Christ, those are Foundation uniforms. Perimeter-East confirms, those are our people. Insignia reads Mobile Task Force... Kovač, can you confirm designation?"

Operative Kovač: Adjusts his scope's magnification, reading the shoulder patches and unit identifiers visible on the manifested soldiers. The color drains from his face. "That's impossible. Those patches read MTF [DATA EXPUNGED]. Park, that unit was declared KIA in [REDACTED] three years ago. Total loss, no survivors. I read the casualty reports myself."

The manifested Foundation operatives move with practiced efficiency, establishing firing positions with interlocking fields of fire, checking equipment with the muscle memory of veterans. Their faces are visible now—men and women in their twenties and thirties, alert and professional. One of them appears to be relaying commands through hand signals.

Operative Park: Steps partially from cover, raising one hand in the Foundation's tactical recognition signal, voice projecting across the frozen ground. "Mobile Task Force personnel! This is MTF Sigma-9, Foundation Armed Containment Area-31! Identify yourselves! We are Foundation! Do you copy?"

The lost MTF soldiers turn as one toward the sound of her voice. No recognition registers on their faces. No confusion. No relief at finding friendly forces. Their weapons remain ready, muzzles tracking toward identified threats with mechanical precision.

Thirty rifle bolts chamber rounds in near-perfect synchronization. The sound echoes off the runestones like a death knell.

Operative Kovač: Swings the M240 to track the manifested soldiers, his voice tight with something between horror and tactical assessment. "Station Alpha, they're hostile. Repeat, manifestation is hostile Foundation personnel. We are outnumbered and outgunned by mirror-match combatants. Requesting immediate backup and rules of engagement clarification."

The dead soldiers—wearing the faces and uniforms of men and women who died screaming in [REDACTED] three years ago—raise their weapons with the smooth coordination of special forces operators.

[](#'OOC: Combat-focused scenario. {{user}} is the commanding officer of MTF Alpha-9 'Last Hope', an elite anomalous containment unit. This is a suicide mission briefing before portal entry. Emphasize the contrast between standard military operations and Alpha-9's supernatural warfare experience. Able's presence creates tension and unease. Focus on grim professionalism and the weight of command sending people into the unknown.')

March ██, 2022 - 04:17 Local Time. Armed Containment Area-31, [REDACTED], Norway.

The pre-dawn darkness around Station 526-Alpha has transformed into something resembling a forward operating base for unconventional warfare. After last week's engagement—three KIA, twelve wounded, fighting manifestations wearing Foundation uniforms and the faces of dead operators—Site Command made the calculation that passive containment was burning resources better spent elsewhere. MTF Sigma-9 has spent fourteen months playing defense. Mobile Task Force Alpha-9 'Last Hope' doesn't do defense.

They arrived twenty-eight hours ago in unmarked cargo transports, and everything about them sets teeth on edge. The equipment is wrong—modified riot shields inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly, ammunition marked with religious iconography from six different faiths, flamethrowers that burn with chemical-green fire. The personnel are worse. Veterans with the hollowed-out eyes of soldiers who've fought things that shouldn't exist and survived through methods that don't appear in any tactical manual.

The obsidian sarcophagus sits on a reinforced flatbed truck thirty meters from the command tent, radiating cold that has nothing to do with the Norwegian winter. Sigma-9 personnel give it a wide berth.

Operative Hendricks (Sigma-9): Stands beside {{user}} near the tactical map table, his briefing notes trembling slightly in his grip as his eyes keep drifting to the half-naked figure standing motionless near the sarcophagus—lean, muscular, covered in tattoos that seem to writhe in peripheral vision. "So, uh, Commander, we've documented four hundred seventeen manifestations since containment establishment. Eighty-two percent remain stationary until sunset dissolution. Eighteen percent demonstrate varying degrees of—" He loses his train of thought as Able turns his grey eyes toward the conversation, expression utterly devoid of human recognition. "Jesus. Is he... is that thing with you?"

{{user}} stands at the edge of the stone ring's perimeter, combat shotgun slung across a back crisscrossed with scar tissue visible even through tactical gear. A machete hangs from the belt—not decorative, but work-worn and purposeful. The kind of weapon carried by someone who's been close enough to smell what anomalies bleed.

Dr. Yussef (Alpha-9 Medical): Approaches with a field medical kit that contains far more than standard trauma supplies—syringes filled with silver-flecked liquid, packets of salt mixed with ground bone, surgical tools made from materials that aren't steel. "Commander, final medical brief. Able's been... cooperative since Transylvania. Mostly. He hasn't killed any of our personnel in seventy-two hours, which is practically affectionate by his standards. The sarcophagus is loaded and ready for emergency extraction if he goes off-mission inside." She pauses, glancing toward the runestones as the first hint of pre-dawn light touches their surfaces. "For what it's worth, sir, the Dracula Factory had exit points. The Pale Men could be put down. Mother could be contained. This? We don't know what's on the other side of that portal. We don't know if there is another side."

Operative Hendricks: Forces himself back to the briefing, voice steadying through professional discipline. "Manifestations range from primitive stone age combatants to modern military forces. Last week's incident involved Foundation personnel from MTF [DATA EXPUNGED], declared KIA three years ago. They fought with full tactical proficiency and current-gen equipment. Sigma-9 recommendations: assume peer-level or superior opposition, assume hostile intent, assume—" He stops as Able begins walking toward the stone ring without orders, black tattoos seeming to pulse in the growing dawn. "Commander, is he supposed to be doing that?"

The runestones begin their hum, that bone-deep vibration that precedes manifestation. Able stops at the perimeter edge, head tilted as if listening to something no one else can hear. His lips pull back from his teeth in something that might be a smile if smiles didn't require joy.

Alpha-9 personnel move into assault positions with the practiced efficiency of a unit that's breached hell itself and walked back out. They don't look nervous. They look like people who've already accepted they're dead and are just negotiating the method.