At 0300 hours, under the cloak of deepest night, three Osprey tilt-rotor transports shattered the silence, kicking up clouds of dust as they touched down at the forward base. The ramps dropped, and a squad of MTF operators in stark white camo—emblazoned with a stylized rabbit insignia—filed out. They were Lambda-5, codename "White Rabbit," a specialist team for highly mutated or behaviorally anomalous SCP threats.
Their commander, "March Hare," stepped first onto the ground. Tall and masked, her eyes swept the perimeter before she approached me with a crisp Foundation salute. Her voice, processed through a voice modulator, was calm and clipped:
"Captain Falcon, I've been briefed by Site-81's director. What you're facing may not be ordinary SCP-939."
I nodded and reported last night's findings: their unprecedented intelligence, tactical coordination, and that eerie "command" behavior. Then Irene handed March Hare a data slate.
"These genetic markers," she explained, "match the Wilson family—six people—who disappeared from Pinewood ten years ago. Mr. Wilson was a miner here, and he once bragged about a 'beautiful red stone' he brought up from deep in the shaft. The whole family vanished with it."
March Hare's gaze lingered on "red stone." "Interesting," she murmured.
Inside the makeshift command tent, our two teams devised a plan. Lambda-5 deployed heavy sonic barrier generators and neurotoxin grenades, but March Hare agreed to my voice-bait tactic.
"We use their obsession with sound against them," I said, sketching positions on the map. "Lambda-5 forms an outer cordon; Beta-7 infiltrates the town to plant audio lures, herding them into our kill zone."
March Hare raised an eyebrow. "The Council ordered total elimination."
I didn't argue. Zach, eager despite exhaustion, held up a palm-sized emitter.
"I've modified the sonic disruptor. It broadcasts an ultrasonic pulse that scrambles SCP-939's vocal centers for about thirty seconds—though effectiveness on the largest specimen may be minimal."
"Thirty seconds is enough," Thomas confirmed, locking his Gauss rifle's power cell.
After the briefing, I called Site-81's director.
"Sir, outright destruction isn't ideal. These specimens have immense research value."
His gravelly reply left no wiggle room:
"Falcon, the O5s have spoken. Intel suggests Pinewood's anomaly ties to a Keter-level scenario code-named 'Blood of Hatred.' These 939 are likely scouts or drones for a deeper, darker entity. They must not complete their cycle or link to its source. Lambda-5 carries SCP-610 purge protocols; they'll take over if things spiral. Your job is to assess and contain these mutated 939 before that happens."
The line went dead.
Before dawn's gray light, Lambda-5 and Beta-7 moved back into Pinewood. The town felt even colder than last night, the hidden metallic sweetness hanging thick in the air. In the central square, we froze: debris, shattered furniture, torn clothing, and partly decomposed animal carcasses had been arranged in a giant, irregular ring. In its center lay a fist-sized shard of dark red crystal, half-buried in dirt and pulsing with a slow, breath-like glow. The air itself warped around it.
"It's drawing energy… or pulsing," Zach whispered, his helmet sensor cycling frantic readings.
Lambda-5 operators quickly placed sonic barriers on all exit routes, sealing the perimeter. Beta-7 set up small speakers along planned lanes, each ready to play distress calls or recorded 939 vocalizations.
Irene uncovered a sewer grate on the square's edge. "David, look at this!" she called, lifting the cover. A sickly blend of formaldehyde and rust hit us. Torchlight revealed the concrete walls overrun with writhing, blood-vessel–like tissue, pulsing rhythmically toward the mine's direction.
"They're rewriting the environment," I muttered. "They're turning Pinewood into a nest."
With traps set, I gave the order: "Activate lure sequence, Phase One."
Zach tapped the terminal. A wail of a little girl's cry burst from the nearest speaker—the classic bait for SCP-939.
One creature approached. At the moment it reached the lure, the crystal's glow flared violently, sending an invisible wave of energy outward. The 939 froze, pivoting toward the crystal. Then the largest one reared up, emitting a shriek unlike any known creature—it was equal parts rage and command.
At that signal, the 939 scattered in perfect synchrony, ripping apart our choreographed funnel.
"Alert! They're targeting the barrier generators!" March Hare's voice crackled urgently. "Lambda-5, sectors C and D—under attack!" Then—static.
"Lambda-5 C-team and D-team, report!" another operator shouted.
"Plan failed!" I ordered without hesitation. "Collapse to secondary line! Prepare to repel breakout! Irene, Thomas—cover Zach. Move to extraction point!"
Zach triggered his disruptor. A burst of supersonic noise jarred two nearby 939, but they recovered in an instant. One raked at Zach; Thomas blasted it away with his rifle butt. The device's lights flickered and died.
We were too late. The ground trembled as something enormous stirred below. From the mine, a pillar of red light shot skyward—bright enough to pierce daylight. The crystal in the square rose, levitating and glowing with terrifying intensity.
A deafening crash rocked the square as the cobblestones and surrounding buildings collapsed into a yawning chasm. Within the pit's depths glittered countless red lights—like hell's own stars.
Beta-7 and the remaining Lambda-5 operators fell back to safety, staring in horrified awe. Pinewood's town center had become a gateway to the abyss.
March Hare stumbled to my side, blood seeping from her mask's edge, her voice raw:
"Energy signature—biological radiation spike—damn it, it's a DRM-Gamma-610 reaction. Below… a breeding ground for an SCP-610 variant! The 939 were only scouts… or incubators!"
My heart plunged. I checked my monitor: dozens of red heat-source icons poured from the pit like a flood.
Thomas's comm crackled with agony:
"Captain… I'm… trapped… they're… evolving… aargh—!"
Then silence.
Communications failed again.
The nightmare had only begun.