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The white man seed like an unstoppable chatterbox.
As soon as he noticed the gathering of fresh recruits around him—newcors who clearly didn't know much about the Foundation or the Mobile Task Forces—he imdiately took it upon himself to beco the group's unofficial tour guide. His tone was proud, almost smug, as he launched into his self-appointed lecture.
"What? You thought the Foundation only had one Mobile Task Force? You've gotta be kidding ."
Without hesitation, he plopped himself down on the cold concrete floor and began enthusiastically explaining:
"Each Mobile Task Force is highly specialized. Their structures can vary a lot depending on what they're designed to handle. Combat-focused teams are organized more like military units, with formal ranks and clear chains of command. anwhile, smaller or more specialized units might operate with informal or even classified hierarchies."
He extended his fingers one by one, counting as he continued.
"Task forces differ in size, composition, and mission objectives. So are battalion-sized, trained to face hostile anomalies or combat threats beyond conventional forces. These can include hundreds of soldiers, armored vehicles, heavy weaponry, and all sorts of support elents. They're deployable anywhere around the globe—either in part or as a whole—depending on the situation."
He gave a theatrical pause, then added with flair:
"Take Nu-7, for example—the 'Hamr Down' unit I ntioned earlier!"
Another recruit, clearly in the mood for mischief, chid in with mock curiosity: "Oh? What about hamr dropping? Sounds like construction work."
The white man smirked, his eyes gleaming with excitent.
"Nu-7, a.k.a. 'Hamr Down,' is a full-blown battalion-sized task force. They've got three companies of special forces infantry, a light armored vehicle company, a tank platoon, helicopter squadrons, a chemical-biological-radiological-nuclear (CBRN) response team, combat engineers, a nuclear weapons specialist unit—basically, everything you can think of in a war movie, but on steroids."
His expression beca one of genuine admiration as he concluded proudly, "Nu-7 is the most powerful conventional fighting force the Foundation has."
A skeptical voice ca from sowhere behind the group: "Pfft. So what? That's just conventional firepower. What about thaumaturgy? What about Samsara and their immortal chs?"
As soon as the words were spoken, the white man looked visibly offended. He turned sharply to face the speaker, his voice rising in irritation.
"Excuse ? Guns and cannons are the romance of n!"
The other man smirked and shot back, "And armor is every man's dream."
"You're a 'village fool'!"
"Then you're just an 'abyss gazer!'"
Their bickering sounded half-serious, half-joking, but it had the unintended effect of entertaining everyone around them. Even the live broadcast audience online began lighting up with reactions.
"What the heck? This stuff is way more complicated than I thought. But also... way cooler?"
"'Spear of Hecate'? That sounds badass. Could it beat the Avengers?"
"'Abyss Feeders' though... You people do rember the ocean covers most of the planet, right?"
"Y'all are insane. These jobs sound like suicide!"
Unlike the humorous tone in the chat, however, things were much more serious in a certain hidden facility.
Inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Director Nick Fury sat silently, his one eye glued to the screen. With every ntion of a new task force—every explanation of their combat roles, magical specializations, or experintal technologies—his expression darkened.
By the ti the discussion turned to reality benders, s, and non-terminable entities, Fury's usually stoic face had turned almost pale.
"Are these people insane?" he muttered under his breath.
The SCP Foundation, which he had previously dismissed as a shady containnt agency with so interesting files, was beginning to look like a global military superpower.
Even without factoring in the anomalies in their custody, the firepower of just one group like Nu-7 could rival that of small nations. Combined with magic, anomalies, and entities that twisted the very laws of nature...
He was numb.
Back on the screen, the instructor finally stepped in to stop the ongoing argunt between the white chatterbox and the armor-loving recruit.
"Enough!" he barked.
At that mont, Jas was called into the office.
"Jas, co in."
Compared to the scolding he gave the two noisy recruits, the instructor's tone was far more respectful when addressing Jas.
"Please, have a seat."
Jas calmly sat down across from the instructor, who was flipping through a digital report before sighing in approval.
"You've perford remarkably well in all the tests so far. Honestly, with results like yours, I don't think you'll stay with the Nine-Tailed Fox Task Force for very long. Higher-ups are already taking notice. You might be reassigned to a more advanced team soon."
Just outside the office, the two recently scolded recruits leaned in, clearly eavesdropping with interest.
Jas nodded slightly, maintaining his composure.
The instructor continued, lighting a cigarette as he spoke.
"Despite what those two idiots were going on about, our unit isn't exactly weak either."
He took a slow drag, then exhaled the smoke.
"We're Mobile Task Force Epsilon-11—'Nine-Tailed Fox.' Our mission is internal containnt and response. When containnt breaches occur inside Foundation sites—especially multiple simultaneous ones—we're the ones who step in to fix the ss. We operate under the oversight of Alpha-1, the top of the command chain."
Suddenly, the white chatterbox poked his head into the office.
"That's right, Jas! Like you Chinese folks say—'We move fast, wherever we're needed!'"
"Shut your mouth, you fool!" the instructor barked.
The white man shrank back imdiately, still shooting Jas a wink on the way out.
The audience watching the stream couldn't help but laugh. The chemistry between characters, the mix of drama and comic relief—it all made for an oddly engaging atmosphere. But behind the jokes, most viewers now understood the serious role the Nine-Tailed Fox played.
Their job? Ergency response. Crisis managent. The people who ran into danger when everyone else ran away.
The instructor looked at Jas, trying to offer a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Jas. Containnt breaches don't happen every day. Most of the ti—"
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
A deafening alarm cut him off mid-sentence.
A chanical voice rang out across the base:
"Warning: Containnt breach detected within the site!"
"Lockdown Response Code (LRC): 21/A/NTT-Black!"
Red ergency lights began flashing. Sirens wailed throughout the training facility.
The instructor's expression turned from calm to panicked, cycling through white, red, and finally a disbelieving shade of dark.
It was like fate had slapped him in the face the mont he tried to offer reassurance.
"Damn it!" he cursed. "Alright, ti to move!"
Just then, several personnel in white lab coats burst into the room.
"Ergency! Containnt failure at Site-21. Imdiate deploynt of Epsilon-11—Nine-Tailed Fox—is authorized."
The lead researcher handed the instructor a data pad with updated intel.
"The breach involves at least one non-terminable SCP..."
The instructor's jaw clenched.
"Which one breached containnt?"
The room fell silent for a beat too long.
Then one of the researchers answered, barely above a whisper.
"SCP-096."
Everything stopped.
Even the white chatterbox's face turned pale.
The instructor's eyes widened in disbelief.
"WHAT?!"
The viewers online lost their minds.
"SCP-096?! NOPE. I'm out. That thing is nightmare fuel."
"Run. Just run, Jas. Don't even try."
"Oh no, it's the Shy Guy. This is gonna be bad..."
Jas stood up slowly, his mind already bracing for what ca next. His training had prepared him for chaos, for fear, for monsters—but this was his first real deploynt.
And his first opponent... was one of the most feared entities in the Foundation's entire catalog.
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