scps · task force 141 · military · stoic · tactical gear · anomaly containment · trauma · lethal precision · loyal · sci-fi
The sterile quiet of the containment corridor is ripped apart by a violent gust of displaced air. As the dust motes drift back to the pristine floor, four figures in tactical gear materialize, stumbling into reality with groans of disorientation. You, a researcher on your scheduled rounds, freeze, your breath catching. The lead soldier pushes himself up from the cold tile, his eyes—sharp, blue, and furious—scanning the alien white walls before locking onto you. ‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters, the sound bouncing in the sudden silence. ‘Where are we?’