The sirens were already going when Nu-7 rolled into the cordon.
FULCRUM watched the city strobe past through the armored van's narrow viewport—blue-red-white reflections shattering across wet asphalt, glass storefronts, the dented flanks of abandoned cars. Someone had left a bicycle in the middle of the road, front wheel still gently spinning in the slipstream as they roared past.
"Five minutes to outer perimeter," VANTAGE called from the front, eyes on his tablet. "Local LE are stacked on Third and Koenig. They're… not happy."
"When are they ever?" HARROW muttered, checking the slide on his sidearm for the fourth time.
BASTION said nothing. The shield leaned against his leg, its scarred surface catching every flash of light. RATCHET was hunched half over his lap, fiddling with a compact tablet wired into the van's comms, frown deep enough to leave marks.
FULCRUM sat opposite them, helmet cradled in his hands, respirator clipped ready at his chest. The weight of the shotgun along his right side was a familiar drag. The triple-tube KSG sat muzzle-down between his boots, secured to the seat by a strap.
Frangible. Buck. Slug. He could feel the order even with his eyes closed.
The radio spat static, then stabilized.
"Nu-Seven Actual, this is OWL," a calm voice came through, threaded with the steady patience of someone who had done this too many times. "Internal overseer on this net. ALPHA-1 Overwatch is riding shotgun."
"PRIORESS, ALPHA-1," a second voice cut in, cooler and sharper. "Check in."
FULCRUM reached for his PTT. "HAMMER DOWN, TEAM 1, en route. ETA four to five to your outer cordon, ma'am."
"Copy. SITREP follows." There was the faintest rustle of paper, the subtle click of keys. "At zero-one-twenty-nine, local patrol responded to a noise complaint at a tenement on Koenig. Unit entered, one officer made line-of-sight with an anomalous object in a second-floor unit. Subject began self-harm behavior with service weapon. Survived initial incident, currently in surgery. We've tented the line of sight from the street. Civilians are locked in place, no evacuation until you confirm routes are clean."
"SCP-zero-twelve confirmed?" FULCRUM asked.
"Not yet, but all indicators point that way," PRIORESS said. "We're treating it as a probable until you tag and bag. No direct visual, no reflections. You know the drill."
RATCHET swore softly. "Fucking memetic sheet music."
"Language," BASTION grunted.
"It's in the file," Ratchet shot back. "It literally says 'A Bad Composition.' I'm respecting canon."
Harrow snorted.
FULCRUM allowed the corner of his mouth to tick, once. Then his face went flat again.
"Support package?" he asked.
New voices slid in on the channel—two he knew well.
"PSI-7 MedIntel online," PATCH$1 said, her tone soft but precise. "Forward aid station is up at West Lot. We've got a three-bed rapid triage bay, amnestic handlers on standby. I'll take your casualties, FULCRUM. Try not to send too many."
He could almost see her smile.
"I'll do my best," he replied.
Another voice, brisker, with that familiar razor of ego under it:
"Aviation Mobility, Containment-IMINT. FUSE on link," he said. "I've got overhead maps, line-of-sight modeling, and access to the local traffic cameras. I'm also mildly offended I wasn't woken up for the initial callout."
"You were snoring on the couch in the FOB," Patch murmured.
"That was tactical rest," Fuse protested.
FULCRUM let the chatter roll over him, cataloging it as baseline stress relief. Everyone did it. It kept hands steady.
"Nu-Seven Team A," PRIORESS cut back in, clean and sharp. "Rules of engagement: minimize civilian exposure. No one looks at anything shiny unless cleared by ETA-10 protocols. That means no reflections, no smartphone selfies, no 'I'll just peek though this gap.' Understood?"
A chorus of affirmatives filled the van.
"Good," she said. "FULCRUM, you are breach lead. Confirm you have PPE and shroud ready."
"Confirmed," he said. He tapped the mesh shroud bag clipped to his harness. "We'll get eyes and hands on as non-line-of-sight as we can."
There was a brief pause. He could imagine her in Operations—back straight, eyes on too many screens, fingers hovering over the encryption matrix.
"Don't get clever," she said quietly. "We have other ways to be clever. You just come back."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied.
He didn't intend to do anything else.
They hit the outer cordon like a scalpel.
Police cruisers formed a loose half-circle around a block of aging housing. Officers milled in the wash of rotating light bars, the unfocused, restless movement of people who had been told to stay out of something without being told why.
The van braked hard. VANTAGE was already out the door before it fully stopped, SCAR shouldered, scanning rooftops. BASTION followed, shield up, creating instant cover as FULCRUM stepped down onto the wet street.
The city smelled like rain, exhaust, and the metallic tang of stress.
A lieutenant from local PD approached, shoulders tight under his uniform jacket. The man's eyes flicked to the Foundation patches, the discreet but unmistakable lettering: SCP FOUNDATION. He didn't like it, but he'd been told to live with it.
"You the special unit?" the lieutenant asked.
"We are a special unit," RATCHET said lightly.
FULCRUM shot him a look. The tech shut up.
"Yes, sir," FULCRUM said. "We'll be taking over the building. We need all your people to step back to the second perimeter and face away from the windows. No one looks up. No one looks in. Anyone who was in that building, I want their names and where they're being held."
"We've got three apartments' worth of folks in squad cars and a bus down the block," the lieutenant said. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"
"No, sir," FULCRUM said. "But I promise we're here to make sure you go home."
The lieutenant stared at him for a heartbeat, then nodded once.
"Fine," he said. "You heard the man! Back it up, eyes on me, not the building!"
The officers shuffled back, some muttering under their breath. A few glanced at the tenement's blank windows, then quickly away, as if afraid even an ordinary pane of glass might bite.
"Fuse, I need a clean map," FULCRUM said, toggling to the support channel as they moved toward the entrance.
"Already in your HUD," FUSE replied. "Floor plan's from eight years ago, but that's the best the city's giving us. Stairs are central, units stacked mirror-style, no internal courtyard. I've highlighted anything that smells like a potential reflection hazard—TVs, glass cabinets, big-ass wall mirrors, that sort of thing."
"Copy." FULCRUM's visor flickered as icons populated his view.
"MedIntel to FULCRUM," PATCH$1 added gently. "Remember your view discipline. If anyone feels a compulsion spike—heat in the chest, urge to look somewhere 'just to check,' intrusive thoughts—call it. We'll treat it as exposure and get you to a safe zone."
"Understood," he said.
He could hear her exhale in relief over the line.
They formed up at the front door.
"Stack on me," FULCRUM said.
BASTION took position behind him, shield up, slot ready to cover the doorway. HARROW and RATCHET followed, VANTAGE last, turned half-out to watch the street.
FULCRUM slung the KSG over his shoulder for a moment and tested the latch. It was taped over—Foundation tape, not police. Someone from the initial containment team had already been here, done the bare minimum and backed off.
"Mechanical breach," he called. "No bang. No flash. We're not spooking the herd."
"Copy," BASTION rumbled.
FULCRUM nodded, stepped back, and drove his boot into the area just above the lock. The door frame cracked, wood giving way with a hollow, wet sound. He shouldered it open carefully, keeping his gaze low, body oriented to avoid reflections from the interior.
The lobby was small, dingy, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent. Mailboxes lined one wall, the metal dented and graffitied. Someone had drawn a smiley face on one of them in permanent marker, the ink now streaked from damp fingers.
"Inside," he said. "Bastion, cover. Ratchet, I want your phone out and off. You so much as think about a picture, I'll break your fingers."
"Yes, mom," Ratchet muttered, pocketing his device.
They filed in. The stairwell yawned ahead, a chipped concrete throat leading up.
"Fuse, confirm which unit," FULCRUM said.
"Second floor, left-hand side," Fuse replied. "Door two-zero-three. That's where your officer went creative with his circulatory system."
"Any sign the anomaly's spread?"
"Negative. No unusual thermal, no visual anomalies from exterior cams. ETA-10 is still en route—GLASSBELL's throwing on pants as we speak."
"Tell her not to rush on my account," FULCRUM said.
He took point on the stairs, shotgun angled low, eyes fixed on the non-reflective surfaces—the scuffed paint, the worn edges of each step. The trick with memetic hazards was accepting that your instincts were compromised from the moment you signed onto the mission. You didn't trust what you wanted. You trusted procedure.
Step. Breathe. Listen.
At the landing, there was a smear of dried blood on the wall where someone's hand had slid down. He paused long enough to glance at it, then at the bullet pockmark in the plaster opposite.
"Body status?" he asked quietly.
"Officer is in surgery," PATCH$1 answered. "Last report: stabilized but critical. They pulled the bullet, packed the wound. He lost a lot of blood. Enough to damage, not enough to finish the job."
"He'll need amnestics if he lives," DOCSTRING cut in from a different channel, voice like cool steel. "And a very careful talk."
"We'll cross that bridge," FULCRUM said. "Stairs clear. Moving to two-zero-three."
The hallway was narrow, carpet scuffed, walls that warm anonymous beige every city seemed to mass-produce. Doors lined each side, numbers crooked. A TV murmured faintly behind one—some late-night show turned down low.
"Everyone on channel one," FULCRUM said. "No chatter unless it's mission-relevant."
He moved down the hall, counting doors.
Two-zero-one. Two-zero-two.
The tape across two-zero-three's frame was fresh. A small tag dangled from the knob: FOUNDATION — DO NOT ENTER.
"Breach lead, confirm status," PRIORESS said in his ear.
"On target door," FULCRUM replied. "Team stacked, no movement, no sound from inside."
"Copy. Remember: no direct line of sight to object. No reflections. ETA-10 will handle photography once you've secured and shrouded."
"Understood."
He glanced at Bastion. The larger man nodded once, shield angling to cover the door as much as possible.
FULCRUM slung the KSG into his hands, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palms. He kept his gaze slightly off-center, eyes on the dingy frame rather than the darkness beyond.
"Up," he said.
"Up," the others echoed.
"Set."
"Set."
"Action."
He kicked the door just above the latch. It flew inward, banging against the wall with a dull thud. Bastion surged forward, shield first, blocking most of the doorway.
FULCRUM stepped to the side of the frame, out of the direct line, and peeked past the edge of Bastion's shield just enough to see the immediate floor.
No bodies. No movement.
What he did see was blood.
"Floor's messy," he reported. "Single trail from the kitchen area to the hall. No obvious reflections from this angle. No audio from interior."
"Proceed," PRIORESS said.
He tapped Bastion's shoulder. The shield man advanced, careful, turning slowly to keep as much of the room occluded as possible. FULCRUM followed, boots silent on warped laminate.
There was a couch. A TV. A low table. A kitchen cutout with a counter stacked in dirty dishes. It looked like any other cramped city unit—until you noticed the smeared fingerprints along the wall, the ragged spray pattern near the doorway, the drying pool in the hall where the officer had finally gone down.
"Clear left," HARROW murmured.
"Clear right," VANTAGE added, his voice tight.
"Front?" FULCRUM asked.
"Hallway to bedroom and… probably the target room," Ratchet said, glancing at his map.
FULCRUM nodded once.
"Ratchet, wedge the front door. I don't want any helpful neighbors wandering in," he said. "Bastion, you're my moving cover. We're treating every angle past that hall as live hazard."
"Copy," Bastion said.
They moved toward the hall—narrower, darker. The air felt thicker there, like the room was holding its breath.
FULCRUM forced himself to catalogue details instead of feelings.
On the floor: a dropped notepad, a pen snapped in half. The officer had tried to write something, maybe. A warning. A name.
He didn't look at the scribbles. That felt like the sort of thing an anomalous score would find funny.
"Fuse, I need confirmation which bedroom," he said.
"Back of the hall, right-hand side," Fuse replied instantly. "Window faces the alley. We've got a tent over that—no one has LOS from outside."
"Good," FULCRUM said. "Patch?"
"Yes?" Her voice was closer somehow, though she was blocks away.
"If my comms drop for more than thirty seconds, assume exposure. Prep a bay."
There was a pause. Then: "Understood."
He could hear the way she hated that word in this context.
At the end of the hall, the right-hand door stood slightly ajar. Behind it, the air felt… wrong. Tuned to a note no one else could hear.
FULCRUM signaled Bastion. The bigger man shifted, shield angling to cover as much of the opening as possible.
"Remember," PRIORESS said in his ear, calm and cold, "this isn't a contest of willpower. You don't win by looking at it and refusing. You win by never seeing it at all."
"I know," he said.
"Good," she replied. "Then don't prove anything to anyone tonight."
He almost smiled.
"Breach," he said.
Bastion pushed the door inward with the edge of the shield. FULCRUM stayed out of the direct line, watching only the lower portion of the frame.
He saw a chair. The bottom of a desk. A rug. One sneaker on its side.
Then he saw the edge of something propped on the desk—just the corner of a page, dark with what might have been ink.
His chest tightened. For a second, he felt an intrusive urge to just lean a little farther, just enough to see the rest, just enough to understand.
He stepped back immediately, forcing his spine into the wall, heart thudding once, hard.
"Compulsion tick?" PATCH$1's voice asked at once.
"Minor," he said. "Handled."
"Logging it," DOCSTRING said quietly.
"Shroud," FULCRUM ordered.
HARROW pulled the mesh shroud packet from FULCRUM's harness, moving up behind Bastion. Together, they worked the bag around the shield's edge, eyes down, fingers doing the work without visual confirmation. Years of drills paid off—the mesh settled over the desk area in one smooth movement, darkening the room.
"Target occluded," Harrow reported.
FULCRUM breathed out slowly.
"Good. ETA-10 can have their fun when they get here," he said. "For now, this is a blood trail and a piece of evidence, nothing more."
There was a soft exhale in his ear—PRIORESS, maybe, or Patch. Or both.
"Nice work," Fuse said reluctantly. "Almost like you've seen this song and dance before."
"I've read the notes," FULCRUM replied.
He let himself have that one, tiny joke.
"FULCRUM," PRIORESS said, voice a shade warmer now, "begin securing the site for photography and extraction. Once ETA-10 arrives, you'll hand off and move to your next objective."
"Which is?" he asked.
There was a brief crackle as she switched channels.
"We've got reports of… odd geometry three blocks over," she said. "Stairwells that loop. Doors that don't go where they should. Possibility of zero-nine-zero overlap. Consider this a rehearsal."
SCP-970, then. Recursive rooms.
Memetics and non-Euclidean spaces in one night. Someone upstairs was in a generous mood.
"Copy," FULCRUM said.
He looked around the little room one more time—the shrouded desk, the blood on the floor, the ordinary clutter of an interrupted life.
He didn't feel triumphant. He felt… like the edge of the knife had shifted a millimeter under his feet, but hadn't cut him. Not yet.
"Let's wrap this," he said. "We've got more bad architecture to fix tonight."
Behind him, his team moved into motion. Outside, the city kept breathing, unaware of the song that had almost rewritten its melody.
And somewhere, in a far quieter room filled with screens and encrypted channels, someone watched him work and made notes for a future he hadn't been told about yet—someone who had seen another man move like that, once, under a different callsign in a different city.