[Site 85 - Medical Wing]
The medical wing stank of rot and disinfectant. The smell clung to the walls, to the steel tables, to the reanimated things that shuffled between operating stations with slow, jerky obedience. Overhead, emergency lights flickered in and out of rhythm, bathing the room in pulses of crimson.
SCP-049 worked unhurriedly. His leather gloves gleamed slick with dark fluids as he made an incision across the chest of a still-struggling Foundation guard. The victim convulsed weakly against restraints, a muffled scream caught behind the gag, but the Plague Doctor did not waver. One of the thralls—a reanimated man with half his jaw missing—lifted a tray closer, offering scalpels with its mangled hands. Another leaned in, clumsily pressing down on the victim's shoulder when it strained against the straps.
"Good, good," 049 murmured in that dry, lilting voice, his beaked mask tilting in approval. "We must be diligent. The pestilence spreads with every breath, every wasted hour. These measures are… regrettable, but necessary."
A wet tearing sound filled the room as he worked, accompanied by the patient's muffled wail. The thralls swayed gently at his words, like parishioners in a chapel.
Then he paused. The scalpel hovered over the open chest cavity, his masked face turning slightly. Several of the thralls that had been keeping the perimeter had fallen silent—he could feel their absence. Someone was cutting them down. Someone precise.
"Ah," he whispered, voice tinged with amusement. "The physicians of this place have finally awakened to their negligence."
Slowly, he set the scalpel aside, straightening to his full height. Around him, the larger thralls lumbered closer—grotesque shapes of swollen muscle and bone, their flesh warped by prolonged exposure to his "cures." One had an arm that dragged against the floor, long and thick as a tree branch, the rest of its frame bent and limping under the imbalance. Another's ribcage had split outward, the bones protruding like a shield of jagged ivory. They leaned forward, awaiting command.
049 spread his hands over the operating table, as though addressing an unseen audience.
"They will resist, yes. They always do. But resistance is a symptom of the sickness. A fever before the cure. In time, even they will thank me for the mercy of release."
His masked gaze turned toward the far door, as though he could already see the intruders forcing their way closer.
"Subdue them," he ordered softly. "Bring them to me. The pestilence will not be allowed to fester."
The thralls stirred to life, their movements jagged and eager, shuffling out of the operating wing like hunters loosed from a cage. The hulking ones lumbered behind, each thud of their malformed steps rattling the floor tiles. 049 lingered only a moment longer at the table, calmly wiping his gloves clean, before turning back to his work.
"No one," he intoned quietly to himself, scalpel gleaming once more, "will stop my work."
[Meanwhile - Medical Wing Entrance]
The entire building was a warzone.
Red light strobed across walls slick with blood and antiseptic foam. Sirens howled overhead, the sound warped by the guttural chorus of thralls echoing through the halls. The air stank of copper, sweat, and burnt ozone where failed containment teams had unleashed tasers and grenades to no avail.
Boots hit the tile in a sharp rhythm as the task force pressed forward.
Cain led, his steps measured but sure, eyes constantly sweeping every doorway and shadow. Abel stalked just behind him, shoulders tense, sword already drawn, the steel catching each pulse of emergency light like a promise. Asher kept pace at the rear, visor glowing faintly, suit servos hissing in short bursts as he adjusted his grip on the rifle slung over his chest. Amalia stayed close in the middle, one hand on her earpiece, the other gripping a small case of equipment she refused to let go of.
The first thrall lurched from a doorway — a half-reanimated guard, jaw slack and hands curled like claws. Cain slipped under the thrall's claw and drove a brutal punch into its sternum. The impact lifted it off its feet and sent it crashing backward into the cluster of thralls behind it, bodies tangling as they toppled across the floor. The stench of spoiled meat flooded the hall.
"Army of thralls as the welcome party," Asher muttered, voice tinny through his mask. "That's a good sign."
A growl came from behind them—a thrall crawling along the wall right above Abel. It leapt, but Abel was already turning, blade twirling to the ready. The thrall was cut in half mid-leap, landing on the floor beside him with a wet thud.
Abel kicked the corpse aside with disdain. "Pathetic. The foundation can't handle mindless zombies?"
Another thrall stumbled into the light, followed by three more. Their movements were jerky, but their eyes burned with something alien.
Cain stepped forward to intercept, but Abel shoved past him with a growl. "Out of the way, brother. I need to stretch."
He barreled into them, blade sweeping in wide arcs, carving limbs like dry twigs. Black ichor sprayed the walls. For a moment, it almost seemed easy.
Then the wall shuddered.
From around the corner, something bigger slammed into view — a hulking thrall with one grotesquely swollen arm dragging against the floor. Its body tilted awkwardly, legs too thin to bear the weight, but the arm itself swung like a wrecking ball, smashing chunks of plaster from the walls as it advanced.
Abel bared his teeth, eyes sparking with joy. "Finally."
The creature swung — Abel ducked, blade rising in a purple flash. The strike carved a trench through the swollen arm, but the beast didn't falter. It shrieked, shoving forward with the other hand. Abel staggered back under the sudden weight, grin curling wider.
Cain moved to flank, but Asher raised a hand, scanning the creature through his HUD. "That one's been cooking too long. Tissue density's doubled. Don't let it grab you."
"Noted," Cain said calmly.
Abel snarled. "Grab me? I'm going to gut this thing!"
The fight churned down the hall — Cain driving precise punches and elbows into its body, Abel hacking with savage glee. Asher's rifle barked in tight, controlled bursts whenever the brute lunged too close, rounds hammering into its twisted joints and forcing it back a step at a time.
This provided the perfect opening.
Cain's eyes flicked to Abel. "Now." He burst forward, sprinting straight at the hulking thrall. At the last second he veered, planting a charged foot against the wall and kicking off it, body twisting through the air. His heel came around in a brutal roundhouse that smashed into the creature's skull and launched it down the hallway.
Abel moved the instant Cain called it. He lunged, hurling his blade forward—then vanished in a flicker of motion as the sword pulled him through space. He reappeared behind the flying thrall just as it hurtled toward him, Cain's kick providing all the momentum. The blade flashed once. The creature split clean through the middle, both halves crashing to the floor in a spray of ichor.
Smiles appeared on their faces. They were working well as a team, despite being newly formed. Asher stood up, lowering his rifle, then looked to Amalia for approval.
"And the judges score…," he joked.
No response. Not even a look.
Amalia seemed not the least bit interested in their combat synergy. Her eyes never met theirs. She stayed quiet, scanning the room as if waiting for something that hadn't happened yet.
"Ooookay…," Asher said, looking at Cain who then shrugged silently.
Abel pressed forward, but was halted by the sound of gunfire ahead finally breaking through the din.
Cain turned, raising a hand for silence. Through the smoke, flashes lit the air — sharp, precise bursts. Not random panic-fire. Controlled. Someone was still alive.
Another thrall lunged from the side, jaws snapping — its head exploded before Abel's sword even moved.
The shot hadn't come from Asher.
Up above, on a catwalk half-hidden in smoke and strobing light, a slim figure crouched low behind the railing. A Polaroid photograph glowed faintly in the air before her, tablet-sized, suspended like a warped window. She fired into it — and down below, another thrall crumpled, a neat hole punched through its skull.
Cain's brows lifted. "Unexpected."
Abel scowled. "Soldiers lay dead, and the only survivor is a girl with a camera?"
Asher chuckled. "Not just a camera. Look at the exit points."
Another thrall clawed at Abel's flank — before his blade could rise, a shot cracked, and the creature folded, dead at his feet. Abel froze, eyes flicking up to the catwalk. The figure was already moving, ejecting a magazine with practiced calm.
Abel's lip curled. He didn't thank her. He just tightened his grip on his blade.
From above, another explosion rattled the wing — The girl fired an explosive round through a photo pinned to the far wall, collapsing a stairwell and sending a swarm of thralls tumbling into the pit below. Smoke and screams rose with the dust.
Cain glanced at Asher who was grinning like a kid at Christmas. He'd noticed something odd about her shots—something useful.
The angles from which they were fired—none of them came from one direction. He didn't need to know the details. The results said it all. She could shoot from wherever she'd taken a picture.
"Now that," Asher said, "is fucking brilliant."
The moment didn't last.
A distant crash echoed somewhere deep in the medical wing. Then another. Then another. Doors slamming open. Metal clanging. The guttural chorus of thralls rose suddenly, spreading through the building like a living tide.
She stiffened on the catwalk.
"Shit," she muttered.
Below, the task force looked up.
More sounds followed—pounding footsteps, dragging limbs, bodies colliding with walls as something far larger than a few scattered thralls began converging on their position.
The girl leaned over the railing, scanning the corridors branching off the medical wing. Movement. Lots of it.
"You idiots just rang the dinner bell," she called down. "He knows you're here now."
Abel scoffed, wiping ichor from his blade. "Good. Saves me the trouble of hunting him down."
Asher's visor flickered with motion indicators.
"Uh… slight update," he said. "We've got bogies coming from… everywhere."
A door burst open down the hallway. Thralls poured out.
Another door slammed open on the opposite side.
More bodies flooded into view.
Then the stairwells started filling.
Dozens of them.
Base thralls stumbled forward in jerking waves while several hulking mutants forced their way through the crowd, massive arms smashing through doorframes as they pushed toward the noise.
Cain's expression hardened.
"We can't hold this position," he said quietly.
Above them, the girl ejected her empty magazine and slammed a fresh one into the sniper rifle. She was already firing again—shots cracking through glowing Polaroids as thralls dropped in clusters—but the wave kept coming.
One of the hulking thralls grabbed the catwalk railing and began hauling itself upward.
"Yeah," she muttered. "This is officially fucked."
Suddenly, Amalia finally moved.
Without explanation, Amalia hurled the entire case upward toward the catwalk, the suitcase spinning through the red emergency light.
"Heads up!" Asher barked.
The case skidded beneath the railing and slammed against the wall by the girl's position.
She glanced down, confused.
"What—"
Amalia looked up at her and shouted.
"Open it!"
Another thrall nearly reached the top of the catwalk.
She swore and kicked the case open.
Inside, several clear panels lay folded together like surgical instruments.
The panels inside rose instantly, unfolding with a soft mechanical hum. One after another they lifted into the air around her—five clear screens drifting upward like glass satellites.
They began to orbit her slowly.
She blinked.
"…are these?"
Understanding came fast.
She grabbed one of her Polaroids and slapped it against the nearest screen.
The image expanded instantly across the transparent surface, growing from palm‑sized to nearly two feet wide.
A window.
A firing lane.
A grin spread across her face.
"Well," she said, chambering a new round, "that's useful."
She popped open a side pouch and pulled out a different magazine—sleeker, marked with red stripes.
Ballistic rounds.
She slammed the mag into the rifle.
The first thralls surged into the room below.
She raised the rifle—steadied. Then fired.
The shot thundered through the catwalk.
The round punched through the projected photograph—and exploded through a cluster of thralls down the corridor. Bodies launched backward as the impact tore through the swarm, clearing half the hallway in a single blast of bone and black ichor.
Asher let out a laugh.
"I'm absolutely disgusted…in a good way."
The girl moved faster now.
She slapped more photos across the floating screens. One. Two. Three.
The panels rotated around her like orbiting shields, each one displaying a different corridor angle.
She fired again.
Another explosive round tore through a second swarm pouring out of the stairwell, ripping a hole through the crowd.
Shots began cracking from impossible directions.
Thralls charging from the left were suddenly hit from behind.
Those climbing the stairs were cut down from above.
Those charging the team below collapsed as rounds punched through them from angles that shouldn't exist.
The room became a kill box.
Then she swept her arm in a wide arc, guiding the floating screens into alignment. One after another they slid into a staggered line in front of her like transparent dominoes, each displaying a different photograph of the room—hallway, stairwell, catwalk floor, the far corridor packed with thralls.
She raised the rifle again and closed one eye, steadying her breath.
"Last one," she muttered.
The trigger broke.
BANG.
The round punched through the first screen—and instantly reappeared from the angle shown in the photograph. It tore through the swarm in the hallway before striking the second screen, where the image redirected it again. The bullet erupted out of the stairwell photo and plowed through the climbing thralls, then slammed through the third screen and blasted across the room, ripping through the last wave charging the task force.
In less than a heartbeat the shot had ricocheted through every firing lane she had created, carving a violent path through the entire room.
Cain watched calmly as the bodies dropped.
Abel tilted his head, impressed despite himself.
"…Alright," he admitted.
The last thrall fell to the ground, missing a chunk of its torso.
"That," Abel finished, "was impressive."
The echoes of gunfire faded slowly, leaving behind a ringing silence that settled over the ruined medical wing. Smoke drifted lazily through the flashing red emergency lights. Below the catwalk, the floor was carpeted with the bodies of thralls—twisted limbs, shattered bone, and black ichor pooling between the tiles.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Cain started up the stairs.
Abel followed close behind, sword resting lazily over his shoulder as if the slaughter below had been little more than exercise. Asher brought up the rear, stepping carefully around the occasional corpse still twitching along the stairwell.
When they reached the top of the catwalk, they slowed.
The girl still stood where she had fired her last shot.
The rifle hung loosely in her hands, barrel smoking faintly. Around her, the clear screens were still drifting through the air in slow, deliberate orbits. Each one glowed faintly with the fading images of the photographs she had used during the fight.
For a second it almost looked like the battlefield was still alive inside them.
Then she exhaled and flicked her fingers.
The screens obeyed instantly.
One by one they slowed, their rotation dying as if the air itself had gone still. The projected images winked out. The panels drifted downward, stacking neatly back into the open case with soft mechanical clicks.
The quiet that followed felt heavier than the fighting.
Abel stepped up beside the railing and glanced down at the devastation below.
Bodies everywhere.
He just gave a small approving grunt.
The girl didn't notice them right away. She was busy locking the rifle's bolt back and checking the chamber out of habit before slinging it over her shoulder.
Only then did she finally look at the group standing a few feet away.
Her eyes moved over them quickly—Cain's calm posture, Abel's relaxed menace, Asher's suit and glowing visor.
"You guys always make this much noise," she asked dryly, "or did I just get lucky today?"
Asher chuckled.
"Actually…we're kinda like this all the time."
Amalia stepped forward before the girl could respond.
She looked from the stacked screens in the open case to the shooter herself, studying her with quiet satisfaction.
Then she turned slightly toward the others.
"I'd like for you boys to meet your new team member," she said.
She gestured toward the woman on the catwalk.
"Introducing Iris Thompson. A.K.A... SCP‑105."
A small pause followed.
Then Amalia finished with a confident smirk.
"You're going to absolutely love her, I'm sure."
Chapter End—