Natalia

The Site-19 break room was a hive of energy, buzzing with the sound of conversations and the clacking of laptop keys. Natalia observed it all from behind the rim of her foam cup, looking over the scene with the detached interest of a cat watching a mouse run into a wall.

The coffee was cheap, bitter, and black—just the way she liked it. It cut through the sterility of the recycled air. She took a long sip, her gaze tracking a frazzled junior researcher who looked like he hadn't slept since the Cold War. He tripped, dropped a pen, scrambled to pick it up, and practically sprinted away. Pathetic.

She shifted in her seat, noting the invisible barrier that seemed to exist around her table. Nobody made eye contact. They skirted the perimeter, eyes glued to their tablets or the floor, acting like if they acknowledged her existence, they’d catch something. Or maybe they just felt awkward eating a bagel next to an SCP.

It was funny, really. She wasn't the one who could snap their necks or turn them into a zombie. She was just the girl who didn't break. But if the lab coats wanted to be weird about it, that was their problem.

Natalia shrugged, kicking her boots up onto the empty chair across from her. If they were going to give her the cold shoulder, she might as well take the extra legroom. It certainly beat living in an alleyway.

God, the walls in these containment chambers were offensively white. Not a smudge, not a crack. Just blinding, sterile nothingness. Natalia leaned against the wall, the heels of her boots scuffing against the floor just to see if she could leave a mark. She blew a long strand of messy hair out of her eyes, huffing a sigh that rattled in her chest.

Being invulnerable was great and all, but it didn't save her from the absolute agony of waiting.

She tapped the side of her earpiece, her patience fraying like the hem of an old sweater. "Oi, lab coat," she grumbled, her voice dripping with irritation. "How much longer you plan on keeping me on ice here? I could be back in my room finishing my art, da? Or getting coffee. I am literally dying of boredom. Okay, not literally, but you get the point."

"Stand by, SCP-9245," the voice in her ear crackled, dry and devoid of care.

Natalia rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. Stand by. Always with the 'stand by.' She adjusted the collar of her jumpsuit, slouching further. This was the deal, right? She played the Foundation's guinea pig, tanked whatever damage their anomalies dished out, and in exchange, she got three squares a day and a bed that wasn't a slab of concrete under a bridge. It was a job. But usually, jobs had breaks.

Suddenly, the heavy hydraulic hiss of the chamber door cut through the silence. Finally.

Natalia straightened up—just a little, she didn't want to look too eager—and turned her gaze toward the widening gap in the metal. She cracked her neck, a sharp pop echoing in the small room. So, who was the playdate today? That big angry lizard? The statue that killed you when you blinked? Or maybe just some sentient toaster that needed a hug?

"Alright then," she muttered to the empty room, crossing her arms under her chest. "Show me."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Natalia trudged through the corridor, boots scuffing against the polished concrete floor. Another day, another test. She'd been right in the middle of a decent action flick too—the kind with explosions and minimal plot that required zero brainpower.

But no. Duty called, or whatever.

The guard beside her maintained that rigid posture they all seemed to learn in Foundation orientation. Natalia had stopped trying to make small talk with escorts months ago. Most of them acted like she might spontaneously combust if they relaxed for half a second, which was ironic considering she was literally incapable of combusting.

They rounded another corner, passing yet another identical stretch of hallway. Site-19 really needed better interior design. Maybe some plants. A mural or two. Anything to break up the monotony.

Natalia sighed, pressing a finger to the earpiece nestled against her skull. Static crackled briefly before the connection stabilized.

"So," she drawled, her accent curling lazily around the words, "you going to tell me what I am walking into, or is this meant to be surprise?"

The impact rattled her bones without hurting them. Par for the course.

Natalia lay in a crater of cracked asphalt and shattered concrete, staring up at a cloudless sky that definitely wasn't the ceiling of Site-23's containment chamber. Her jumpsuit was covered in dust and debris, but she was fine. She was always fine.

She sat up slowly, brushing chunks of road off her shoulders. A car had swerved to avoid her landing zone and was now parked halfway on the sidewalk, its driver gaping through the windshield. Pedestrians had frozen mid-step on the sidewalk. A kid dropped his ice cream cone.

"Show is over," she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. "Just a normal Tuesday."

Nobody moved. Fair enough.

She tapped her earpiece. Static hissed back at her, broken by fragments of shouting that might have been commands or might have been panic. Probably both. That SCP had been stronger than the briefing suggested. Way stronger. The kind of stronger that sent test subjects flying through reinforced walls and apparently several miles of open air.

Someone back at the site was having a very bad day.

Natalia fished her lighter and cigarettes from her pocket—somehow intact—and lit one up. She took a long drag, surveying the small town street around her.

No containment team. No extraction vehicle. Just... freedom.

Temporary freedom, obviously. They'd find her eventually.

But eventually wasn't right now.