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Absolute Anarchy
A Darksiders/SCP Foundation crossover nobody asked for but is here regardless.
Summary: SCP-8103. Object class; undetermined. There's a new entity at the Foundation. Four D-Class have already been supplied with weapons and pitted against it, only to be cut down before they could get more than a couple of shots in. Eager to determine which calibre of rifle can pierce its armour, they send you in next - D-1935 - to accomplish what your predecessors couldn't. It's too bad they never taught you how to actually use the rifle...
This has the vague semblance of a plot btw, but I'm trying not to be too finicky, and just to write as it comes to me, so hopefully it'll still be easy enough to follow and enjoyable at the same time.
Tw: Blood, guns, death, imprisonment, threat, violence, trapped, typical SCP violence.
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If there was ever a moment where you should have felt the stars aligning to determine the path your life might take, it would have to be the moment you decided to steal that godforsaken sports car.
It was an instance born of desperation â a tantalising lure cast by the owner of a chop-shop who made heartfelt promises to lift you out of poverty, only to throw you under the proverbial bus when the heat ventured too close to his illicit operation.
He only wanted the money from that Ferrari.
You reduced yourself to grand theft auto for a chance to escape the homeless shelter and land on your feet.
And where did you land instead?
Behind bars, thatâs where. Tossed into some dingy prison that seemed only built for the sole purpose of hiding away societyâs miserable, forgotten dregs.
You thought you knew what rock bottom looked like.
How were you to know the depths this pitiless world could drag you down to?
âD â One-nine-three-five!â
A strident voice bellows a set of all-too familiar numbers at what must be the top of his already bursting lungs. The door to your cell is wrenched violently open, spilling light into a room thatâs a damn sight smaller and bleaker than the one they pulled you from in St Ives.
Bureaucracy had been your ultimate enemy, in the end. A signature in the wrong place, a âtâ dotted where it should have been crossed, and an âiâ absent from your paperwork had all lead you to a place you couldnât have imagined in your most turbulent nightmares. A place that shouldnât - and so far as the public is aware - doesnât exist.
The SCP Foundation.
Specifically, site 12; a rancorous offshoot of what youâve come to learn through eavesdropping and rumour, is a worldwide operation.
It turns out the people in charge here couldnât less of give a hoot whether youâre a petty thief or a renowned and unrepentant serial killer. If your name is on their list, they wonât bother to see a difference. Youâre all Disposables, in the end, and no amount of pleas for your innocence or requests for an evaluation will get you any closer to that glorious taste of freedom.
Youâll serve your time or die trying. And as of yet, you havenât heard of anyone whoâs reached the end of their âsentence.â
The bed springs underneath you shriek with relief as you scramble up onto your feet, nearly tripping over the long hems of your jumpsuit.
Heart thundering like a jackhammer, you cower before the imposing shape silhouetted in your doorway, warily eyeing the M9 Beretta thatâs being aimed directly at your forehead.
Youâd hoped that by now the guards here would have learned that youâre not a threat. Hell, it didnât take you long to figure out that anybody even vaguely considered a troublemaker in this place will earn themselves a one-way ticket to a fate that would make you beg for a bullet between the eyes.
That first week, you ended up trying to plead your case to the wrong scientist and wound up on the bi-weekly rota to clean SCP-173âs cell. Twice.
How you got out of there with your neck facing the right way is one of lifeâs greatest mysteries. If it hadnât gone for your poor cellmate firstâŚ
âYou listening, Scuzz!?â The handgun jerks to the left of your doorway. âGet your ass outta that cell!â
Ah... Mullins. One of the guards assigned to your particular block.
A meaner son of a bitch, youâve never known. Rumour has it that the towering brute used to be a D-Class, like you, but through shows of force, an unflinching disregard for his fellow man, and an uncanny ability to survive, the Lab Coats bumped him up to guard status, if for no other reason than to keep the inmates in line.
Youâre loathe to admit it, but he is damn good at his job.
Ducking your head, you scurry from your bed through the open door, pressing yourself as close to the frame as possible to squeeze past the Beretta that he keeps trained on your head. You donât even have to look at him anymore to know that thereâs a wide smirk on his face when he jabs the barrel at the back of your skull, shoving you into an awkward stumble down the hallway.
âMove. Got a new assignment for you today,â he goads, falling into step behind you, his thick, rubber boots thudding purposefully on the linoleum.
In contrast, your plimsoles make rather pathetic âslapsâ with each, hurried step you take.
You know the drill by now. Head down. Eyes front. Mouth shut.
Youâve walked this path to the lifts a hundred times before.
It's been weeks since you stopped asking him when you can go home.
âWhen youâve served your sentence,â became âWhen we damn well feel like it,â became âYou still think youâre getting out of here?â
âSCP-Eight-One-Oh-Three~,â Mullins sing-songs at your back, entirely too cheerful all of a sudden, âThis one just came in. The Lab coats donât know nothinâ about it. And guess whoâs the lucky little D-Scuzz who gets to âfurther the advancement of science?â
Although your body trembles like a leaf in a hurricane, you donât make a sound, not even when the moisture in your eyes wells up into a fat, salty teardrop and breaks over the dam of your lash line, carving a damp path down your grubby cheek.
An unknown SCP?
Your odds of making it to the end of the day in one piece have just plummeted into the single digits, and you once again find yourself asking, 'why me?'
âWeâre doing this for the good of humanity,â one doctor with a particularly punchable face had once announced to a room full of orange-clad prisoners, and you can still remember wondering when you and your fellow inmates stopped being a part of that same Humanity this Foundation seems to keen to protect.
The cold steel of a gun jabs you again in the base of your neck, pushing a quiet sound of protest from your lips that you hurriedly clamp down on, fists balling up at your sides.
âThatâs right!â Mullins continues, âDamn, you gotta be feelinâ proud as a peacock, kid. Not every day someone gets to be the first to make contact. Hell, maybe youâll get lucky, and itâll be a Euclid.â
The row of lifts appears as you turn the next corner and come to a stop obediently in front of the closest one, head still hanging nearly to your chest as you wait for Mullins to reach past you and jam his thumb on the âdownâ button.
âWouldnât bet on it though⌠That thing has Keter written all over it.â
With the damning chime of a bell, the heavy, metal doors slide open, and Mullins shoves you roughly into the claustrophobic space with one fist to your spine. Jesus, trapped in this finite space with him, the smell of cheap brand cigarettes wafts from his jacket and drifts up into your nose, sitting stale and musty on the back of your tongue.
The walls are dull in here, unreflective, which you nearly count as a blessing.
It means you donât have to see the mess youâve become.
----
Itâs only when youâre standing outside the containment cell that you realise Mullins was either lying, or just plain wrong.
You arenât the first D-Class to make contact with this SCP.
In fact, if the stiff-faced scientist shoving a rifle into your hands is to be believed, youâre precisely the fifth.
âThat,â he begins with an aloof air of bored professionalism, watching impassively while you fumble to find purchase on the heavy gun, âIs the CZ-Five-Fifty. And today, you will be testing its armour-piercing capabilities.â
âArmour?â you think, swallowing thickly, âWhat the Hell kind of monster have they brought into this place?â
The cold circle of steel still pressed to your shoulder blade reminds you of Mullinsâs unpleasant presence.
âNo funny business,â he growls, âYou couldnât get the safety off before I put you down like a lame bitch.â
Charming.
You donât fancy telling him you couldnât get the safety off anyway. And that it... hadn't occurred to you to even try and turn it on him and the scientist, though it probably should have been the first thing you thought of.
The weapon sits like a dead weight in your hands, heavy and fundamentally useless. You donât know how to fire a gun, let alone one this powerful.
But the scientist doesnât seem to know that, lazily racking off the terms of your contract and your âobligationâ to the Foundation.
Yes, you imagine it would get tiresome having to rehash the same speech five times in a row⌠Perhaps he just assumes you know how to use it?
Bastard.
Wetting your lips, you peel them apart and croak out a question, wincing at the pathetic crack in your voice, dry and reedy from disuse. âWhat happened to the others?â
At that, the scientistâs lips purse, and an eyelid twitches then settles.
They all hate being interrupted. Especially by a D-Class.
At least the guards acknowledge your autonomy through rage and demeaning names and acts of violence.
To the Lab Coats, youâre just cannon-fodder. Nothing. Empty vessels for them to use as they see fit.
Even so, the one in front of you straightens up and peers down the length of his nose at you, sighing as though he were trying to explain the concept of algebra to a dog. âThe D-Class personnel-â he begins, and you have to bite your tongue to hold in a scoff. âPersonnelâ is a funny way of pronouncing âPrisoners.â
â-who came before, all failed their assignments.â
Behind you, Mullins pipes up with a distinguishable sneer. âEmptied their whole clips into the thing before they got turned into Swiss cheese.â
Oh⌠God.
âDidnât even make a dent,â he concludes, sounding not in the least bit sad to have wasted four lives.
âYes, well-â the scientist clears his throat, âThe first step to knowing your enemy is knowing how to kill it. And the supplied Rugers proved⌠ahem⌠inefficient. But at least we now know the three-five-seven calibre isnât strong enough. Weâre hoping the point six hundred will be.â
 âSix hundred OverkillâŚâ Mullins whistles appreciatively. âElephant killers.â
Your stomach twists into a tight, clenching ball. You think you might be sick if there was anything to bring up except bile.
So, this is the SCP that finally kills you.
Shit.
In a whirlwind of sudden, dizzying movements and barked orders, youâre unceremoniously surrounded by three more guards who bodily âescortâ you into the loading dock â an empty room set in the midway of two descending doors that are made from several feet of a solid titanium alloy. The primary door slides open with a mechanical hiss, and youâre shoved roughly into the space between it and the secondary door.
On trembling knees, you gape up at the grey metal, noting with no small degree of alarm that itâs tall and wide enough to admit the shipping container of something titanic.
Above your head on the wall, an orange light pulses as the primary door slams shut behind you, and the sound of enormous locks sliding into place fills the room. Your rifle almost slips from your grasp, leaving you to fumble for it with sweat-slicked palms.
The drawback of not being a hardened death-row inmate is that when it comes to moments of great danger, youâre inclined to neither fight nor flee.
Instead, worst of all, youâre the type to freeze solid.
Now is no exception.
As the light flashing above you turns green, signalling for the second door to ascend into its slot high in the ceiling, your spine promptly goes rigid, fingers locking up around the gun whilst your feet turn to two blocks of cement.
All of a sudden, you canât help but let out a shriek when something flops down onto the ground on your side of the door once itâs been raised a couple of feet, and at first, you assume something is trying to crawl through the space to get at you.
Once you realise what the dark object actually is, you almost wish your initial assumption had been correct.
What lays on the ground, spread across the threshold between the dock and the cell, is a body. âA human body!â your addled brain registers.
Or whatâs left of a humanâŚ
Swiss cheese might not have been an exaggeration after all.
Entry and exit holes have torn the poor bastard apart from head to toe, shredding to ribbons what remains of a grubby, orange jumpsuit, much like the one youâre currently garbed in. Bones and muscle and sinew show through torn flaps of skin, and the stench of blood mingles with gun smoke, seeping into your nostrils before you can scrunch your nose up to block it out. You could have done without the acrid taste of iron resting on the back of your tongue.
âThatâs gonna happen to me,â you gasp silently, choking on a sob, unable to tear your gaze from the body, âOh god, thatâll be me in a minute!â
Jesus Christ, they hadnât even waited for the blood to dry, the assholes!
With a âclickâ and a âthud,â the door slides gracefully to a halt, utterly and completely open, exposing you to whatever entity lays in wait beyond the threshold. The fear of what lies ahead outweighs your horror of seeing a fellow D-Class on the ground. In an instant, you wrench your eyes away from the body and gape out into the room in front of you.
Sturdy, grey walls lit by an overhead fluorescent light are a familiar view, as are the bloodstains spattered across the stone slabs.
The pockmarks littering the adjacent wall are new however, each about the size of your fist. There are hundreds of them, like someone took a gatling gun and sprayed it all over the cell. They look⌠far too large to have been made by any ordinary rifleâŚ
A hard blink sends twin tracks of tears leaking down your face. The room beyond angles sharply to the left right outside the door, and it plucks at your frayed nerves to realise you canât see whatâs around the cornerâŚ
Nearby, facedown on the floor just several feet from the entrance, is the second body, a gun laying close to their side and an arm outstretched towards you, their final act in the throes of death. They must have skidded around the corner and were making for the door when they were cut downâŚ
Despite the carnage, the cell is eerily silent, not a breath nor a shift to give away where the SCP might be.
Is it lurking just around the bend to ambush you?
Is it seconds away from tearing into the pocket of space and doing to you whatever it did to these sorry sods?
Aside from quivering fit to bust, you canât move a muscle.
You wonât.
You wonât go in there, they canât â!
âD-Class!â
A sharp staccato shout is thrown from a speaker in the corner of the dock, causing you to nearly leap out of your skin. But worse than your visceral flinch is the sound the voice elicits from something inside the cell.
Itâs like a roll of thunder, soft then loud then soft again, a guttural growl, so rich and deep it shakes the walls and travels up through your plimsoles, undulating across each section of your spine until you can feel it hum behind your eyes.
The reverb hasnât even faded before the same voice barks, âProceed into the containment chamber at once.â
âTo Hell with that!â you retort, feet still rooted firmly to the ground.
âYou will proceed or you will be reassigned.â
Itâs a threat thatâs worked before.
And Hell⌠It works again now.
Reassignment is an absolute. A guaranteed death sentence. At least in here, even with an unknown entity, thereâs a slim, albeit nearly imperceptible change of survival or at the very least, a quick death. Besides, the previous victims look well and truly dead, and thatâs frankly a fate thatâs a Hell of a lot better than becoming a living hive for a colony of insects or a tumour-riddled larder for giant, cave-dwelling rodents.
âD-Class. You have precisely three seconds to-â
The inescapable terror of a worse ending is your greatest motivator down here. You donât even wait for the countdown to start.
Heaving in a wet breath, you squeeze your eyes halfway shut and yank one leg stiffly into the air, planting it forwards, once, twice, three times until you pass the body on the threshold and step out into the cell. Into the open. Like a doe entering a meadow when she damn well knows there are hunters lurking in the trees nearby.
Your eyes are still clenched almost shut when you turn yourself to the left and spot the remaining pair of bodies, one almost laying on top of the other, weapons still locked in their cold, dead hands,
Another, blood-curdling growl blasts through the air around you, sudden and violent enough to nearly send you toppling over onto your backside.
Flinging your eyes open with a gasp, you immediately wish youâd kept them closed instead. You wish the SCP had just killed you outright.
You wish you never stole that wretched car.
You were expecting big.
This SCP is bigger.
You can see why the scientists want to find a calibre that can pierce armour.
The creature that hunches before you, eating up ample space between the floor and the ceiling dozens of feet overhead, is almost solid metal from top to bottom. And armoured, you realise in horror, covering flashes of grey, scaly skin the colour of iron.
Bipedal, is the second thing you note, towering all the way to the roof on a pair of long, lithe legs, each ending in a three-toed foot with claws that remind you of some long extinct theropod.
A scrawny waist feeds into a contrarily powerful chest and monumental shoulders that are made even larger by the armoured struts encasing them.
Your eyes, wider than saucers, travel along the length of its arms â the first hanging down to its bent knee with a hand that looks large enough to wrap around your whole body and crush you between its fingers. The other arm, however, doesnât end in a hand â clawed or otherwise.
It ends instead, from the elbow down, in a four barrelled gun the size of cannon.
And all four of those chambers are aimed directly and unwaveringly at you.
Behind the sights, several cylinders spin over one another like a minigun ramping up to fire, clanking angrily in an obvious threat.
You donât dare pull in a breath, not when your gaze locks onto one of the chambers of the gun arm, and from somewhere deep in the pits of those long barrels, a dim, red glow sparks to life, the same light you imagine the fires of Hell would kick out if Satan ever eventually sets foot in this horrible place.
And thatâs without even mentioning its other apparent weapon.
You think it must be some kind of tail, arched up and over the SCPâs head like the tail of a scorpion, swaying very gently from left to right and back again. Whip-like, it tapers to a point, and from what you can see from down here, the grey of its scales beneath the armour fades into an angry red right near the tip, glowing the same colour as the lights in the barrels of its gatling arm.
Vivid images of your body being impaled on the end of that wicked appendage flicker through your mindâs eye, and you have to drop your gaze to banish them, moving on to take in the rest of the monstrosity.
A pair of metal horns sweep forwards from the sides of an avian helm, long and sleek and ending in deadly points perfect for goring, like the tusks of an elephant. Thereâs a mane sprouting from its back too, a vibrant purple that stands out fiercely against the silver of its armour. Each strand of hair seems to wave and snake about through the air as if theyâre alive.
And then you make the mistake of meeting its gaze.
Youâve seen SCPâs with no eyes, some with too many eyes, a few that are made up entirely of eyes and even those that have eyes in places where eyes have no business being.
These though⌠you donât like these eyes at all, even despite the fact there are a regular number of them.
Gold as gleaming bullion, unnaturally bright and forward-facing, all natureâs warning signs that youâre staring up into the eyes of a predator.
Once theyâve locked you in their sights, itâs nigh on impossible to tear yourself free.
The snarling visage opens up like a steel trap, baring black fangs the size of axe heads, and a burning heat behind its jaws that rises like-
âD â One-nine-three-five!â
âShit!â You donât mean to yelp aloud, nor do you intend to nearly drop the gun, scrambling to secure your grip on it before it can fall from your hands. In the blink of an eye, the entityâs gigantic head swings around to hiss furiously at something youâd missed completely when you stumbled into its cell.
An observation window dominates the far wall, and behind it, several figures donned in white coats stand watching, their faces only slightly blurred behind the thick â presumably bullet-proof â glass.
Just above the window on this side of the cell, another speaker has been fitted into the wall, and from it, the same nasally voice as before barks a command.
âYou are to proceed with testing the Overkillâs capabilities.â
⌠Are they serious?
The SCPâs tail has swung around to follow its head and aims warningly at the glass, though its weaponised arm stays fixed on you.
Your own weapon remains useless, hanging from your grasp, pointed at the ground. You canât muster the courage to raise it.
What defence could it possibly provide? What could such a tiny rifle do, really, against a weapon that made holes that size in the concrete walls?
The scientists are insane. The lot of them...
Well, to Hell with them, and to Hell with this stupid experiment.
Still blurred over by salty tears, your eyes reluctantly trail back up to the entityâs head. If youâre to die, you want to look this thing in the eye when it kills you. You might have lived as a coward, but youâre not so eager to die as one.
Youâve been afraid to defy them for so long, terrified â paralysed by the possibility of what these people might do to you in retaliation of defiance. But somehow, being here surrounded by the bodies of your fellow prisoners, knowing youâre about to meet the same fate, you canât think of anything more satisfying than not giving the Foundation what they want.
Oh certainly, you imagine theyâll soon get some other D-Class to do the job you failed to do, but if causing the Lab Coats a mild inconvenience before you die is how they remember you, you think youâll be okay with that.
You have to be okay with it. Thereâs nothing else you can be now, seconds from having your body turned into, as Mullins so eloquently put it, Swiss cheese.
Stiffening your upper lip, you aim a shaky scowl at the window, eyes bloodshot with tears and fatigue. And in an act you hope looks as rebellious as it feels, you open your arms and let the gun fall to the ground with an almighty clatter, drawing the SCPâs attention back onto yourself.
A strangled noise escapes the speakers before you hear, âD â One-nine-three-five! Retrieve your weapon at once!â
Ignoring him, you roll your gaze over to the SCP and let your arms flop defeatedly to your sides, teeth clenched shut to try and hold onto your sobs.
That enormous, horned head cocks sideways at you, and through your tear-streaked vision, you almost believe you can see its gatling arm drop ever so slightly, and the glow in its barrels fade from red-hot to warm-orange.
âPlease,â you find your voice, blindly toeing a plimsole forwards and giving the gun a weak kick, listening to it slide a few feet away from you. Youâre unaware that the beastâs gaze tracks your discarded weapon across the room. âJust⌠make it quick?â
The body closest to you still has his eyes intact, and they stare up at you from the floor, glassy and unseeing. You wonder if his death was quick. You hope so. It looks like it should have been.
The entity regards you with its wide, fiery snarl, unblinking, calculating. As the seconds tick by, you find yourself fidgeting and sparing glances between its gun and its armoured face.
What the Hell is it waiting for?
All of a sudden, two slitted nostrils appear above the SCPâs mouth, glowing with the same liquid gold that shimmers in its eyes. They flare hotly for a moment, kicking out a noisy whumph of air, and thenâŚ
Against every oddâŚ
The SCP snatches its head away from you and⌠and drops its gun arm with a gruff snort, glaring at the wall opposite the scientists.
You blink once.
Seconds later, you have to blink again, clearing your vision slightly.
Why⌠are you still alive?
âUmâŚâ you utter, for lack of any better ideas.
The SCP doesnât turn to acknowledge the sound of your voice. In fact, it seems entirely adamant in subjecting the concrete wall to a fearsome glower instead as it thumps the barrels of its gun to the ground and leans its weight on that arm, its mighty chest heaving in and out with a huff.
⌠Perhaps youâre going mad. Thatâs it. That must be part of its power. It makes people go mad. Why else would you be plagued by the feeling that youâre being deliberately ignored?
On the other side of the glass, a young scientist hovers over the microphone, trembling with unprofessional agitation and apprehension.
âD-Class!â he barks shrilly, pushing down on the button so hard his fingertip turns white, âIf you donât pick up your rifle at once, I will have no choice but to-!â
â- Quiet SpencerâŚâ Another voice - older, authoritative â snaps, causing the shrieking man to immediately fall silent and cower away from the microphone as obediently as a beaten dog. It even hushes the mutters of every other scientist in the observation room. Narrow eyes stare unblinkingly through coke-bottle spectacles, observing the interaction beyond the observation window with cool interest. âThis is the longest a D-Class has survived with this specimenâŚâ she points out, listening to the intern beside her scribble down the minutes, âIâd like to find out why.â
She watches the Disposableâs face turn towards the glass, trying to meet any of the scientistsâ gazes, apparently seeking some sort of explanation to the SCP's behaviour.
Join the club.
â⌠Maâam?â someone asks after several seconds pass without an answer, turning to face her, their expression inquiring.
For a further minute, she elects to stand there in silence, thoughtfully tapping a manicured nail against the microphone button, contemplating the magnificent creature and the miniscule human currently sharing a space.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, she slides her finger from the button and folds her arms, lab coat wrinkling around her elbows.
âThe D-Class gets five minutes inside before extraction,â she declares, shooting a nod at her intern who scrambles to fish a stopwatch from his pocket and stabs his thumb on the button. Once she hears the sharp âbeep,â she returns her attention to the staff around her and adds, âNo external input.â
There are murmurs of varying approval rising and falling all throughout the room, but once again, she only has eyes for the SCP.
âLetâs see if this D-Class proves more useful than the predecessorsâŚâ
---
âHello?â you whisper-shout at the scientists behind the window, keeping the entity in the corner of your eye, âUm...â
Christ, this is awkward... "Can I... Can I leave, or...?"
Silence.
Impassive, boring silence.
Aside from the occasional motion made to scribble something down on a clipboard, none of the scientists seem inclined to offer anything more through the microphone.
Gradually, the tired muscles in your shoulder tighten.
Youâve seen this before. D-Class call it the âsilent treatment,â where scientists are more interested in seeing what you can find out about SCPs of your own volition.
Are you supposed to have survived for this long? Your mind races with the thought that your predecessors might have been subjected to the same thing before they met their end. You may end up a smear on the wall yet. Half of you is weary enough to hope thatâs the case. Youâve just defied a direct order from one of the Lab Coats. You shudder to imagine which SCP theyâll toss you to after this.
Itâs that thought alone that spurs you to take a single step towards this entity, intending to get this over with, but no sooner have you moved closer than it whips its head towards you again, and that gun is back up, the cylinders clicking furiously in response to your proximity.
You realise at once that youâd become too bold without its weapon pointed at you because now, that same fear has returned tenfold, sending you staggering backwards again to put some more distance between you and that deadly arm.
Slamming your eyes shut, you raise your hands up in front of your face, breath hitching as you wait to feel the first of many bullets slamming into your flesh.
⌠You count no less than ten heartbeats without feeling a thing.
------------------------------------------------
âTwo minutes to go, maâam,â the intern quibbles at her side.
Eyes gleaming, she watches you stand shaking in front of the SCP, arms lifted in what she presumes must be surrender. âFascinating,â she murmurs, âThe entity still hasnât fired a single roundâŚâ
âYou think itâs run out of ammo?â one of the other scientists asks, bolder than his fellows in the face of their superior.
âPerhaps,â she muses, eyeing the SCPâs âtailâ that hangs slack behind it this time, not poised to strike over its head like a cobra, âBut perhaps itâs just as likely that it wonât fire unless itâs fired upon first.â
The intern, apparently emboldened by another voice speaking up before him, says, âUm, would that class it as a Euclid then?â
Someone scoffs derisively.
âThat cannot be determined at present,â she returns cooly, âWe havenât enough data⌠That being said...â
Stepping closer to the window, arms coming to clasp loosely behind her back, she tilts her head sideways and regards you with the mild interest of a spider watching a fly struggle in her web. âThanks to this D-Class, we now know far more about the SCP than we did before⌠And all because an order was disregardedâŚâ
âImpertinence,â someone spits.
âInitiative,â she returns sharply, the beginnings of a rare and pensive smile lifting her cheeks, âMullins.â
The guard near the back of the room snaps to attention.
âPrepare for extraction in one minuteâs time⌠And return our lucky D-Class to isolation. Forty-eight hours, I think. Regular meals. That should give us enough time to make arrangements for the next test.â
âMaâam,â he grunts, moving up to the primary door.
âErâŚâ The intern beside her shifts on his feet, casting apprehensive glances between the SCP and the D-Class, âWhat is the next testâŚ? Oh-! Um, Maâam?â
What indeed? Her mind is already swirling with possibilities, the first of which sticks in place as she contemplates the logistics of it, turning it over and making mental arrangements thatâll need to be put in place.
âThe next test?â she replies absently, gazing up at the entityâs fangs that are still being bared down at you, though it hasnât made a move against you yet, âWeâre going to see what, if anything, this SCP likes to eat.â
#darksiders#darksiders genesis#Strife x Reader#Anarchy x reader#SCP au#D-class#Already tapping up chapter 2 as we speak
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#source: meme#SCP: Welcome Home#SCP#crossover#Wally Darling#welcome home puppet show#incorrect quotes#my art#D-Class#alternate universe#au#scp crossover#wally is a cat
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Action pose, color, and texture practice featuring various MTF members who have been tragically [DATA EXPUNGED], one Alto Clef, and one unkillable D-class whose name and tale I am unable to recall at time of posting (past 2 am) but who's haunted me for the last 6 months by being remarkably good at surviving deadly explorations. I wanted to make these into a series based on an inside joke, and I might still do that once i've actually slept. Hopefully will be able to update over the weekend and do some more stuff, esp Dr. Rights! Rambling about various notes below the cut.
Deliberately went for a black and white look on the MTF uniforms, trying to experiment with texture and shading while accounting for a) limited shades of grey and b) mediocre camera quality. This isn't something you'd wear to hide per s��, but it works well in an alternate reality.
Sketches are arranged by order in which I found the poses. I was initially gonna do all 6 as MTFs, but the dual-gun was so stupid and absurd I had to put Clef in it. If it wasn't obvious, the first agent is attacking an eldritch creature off-screen, second one is scrambling as a whirlpool (dimensional) is forming, third one is charging into a barehands fight, and the fourth is releasing an explosive midair. None of them are likely to live but that's not the goal here.
Clef's shirt is based off of one I own but simplified and he is, in fact, wearing lime green crocs. Lowkey actually peeved that i can't remember anything about the D-class except a vague summary of the scp she was in but she was so wonderfully written and interesting to me that I can't help imagining all the weird shit she'd survived until that moment, and the shit she'd run into in the coming future. Both of her and Clef's backgrounds can be interpreted as a reality bender fucking with them, or as a dramatic fight effect (or, in Clef's case, he thought it would look cool and who are we to stop him). I am so damn tired and I did not draw the guns correctly but i cannot care atp, they're done and they didn't bleed into the sketch, and that is all one can ask for past 2 am. happy scp everyone
#scp#scp fanart#scp art#tagging as both bc the mtfs could just be ocs and none of you would know. maybe they're gonna appear on the wiki by name someday#maybe not#mobile task force#d-class#alto clef#traditional illustration#traditional art#dr clef#dr alto clef#scp doctors#we have so many tags for one fuckin guy
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He doesn't know yet.
Don't ask me why he's orange, I was lazy. So I'll just say that someone poured whole dam bucket of paint on him.
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Hello I have more actually
Here's D-486! A relatively chill and super flirty D-class who's... honestly he's been lucky to make it this far. Dr. Wagner calls him "Six" for short and he's taken the nickname to heart
More about him here :)
#your honor i love this freak#scp#scp oc#d-class#art#my art#reference sheet#Crossfire OCs#Crossfire art
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the
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It's always so weird to come down from the biology heavens to see what the average person believes about animals, plants, ecosystems, just the world around them. I don't even mean things that one simply doesn't know because they've never been told or things that are confusing, I'm talking about people who genuinely do not see insects as animals. What are you saying. Every time I see a crawling or fluttering little guy I know that little guy has motivations and drive to fulfill those motivations. There are gears turning in their head! They are perceiving this world and they are drawing conclusions, they are conscious. And yet it's still a whole thing if various bugs of the world feel pain or if they are simply Instinct Machines that are Not Truly Aware of Anything At All????? Help!!!!!! How can you look at a little guy and think he is just the macroscopic animal version of a virus
#yesterday i made a complainy post about a whale edit having people confused about whale sharks and orcas' dolphin and whale identity#but honestly i cant even hold these things against someone. its confusing that whale sharks are called with two different animal names!#and if you only know about the whale dolphin porpoise divide then you may not know that dolphins and porpoises and others are toothed whale#i dont think anyone is actually stupid for not having this information preinstalled in their brains#if anything it makes me happy to get to explain things because i love explaining things that i know :D#however... this#it just makes me sad :(#its so weird when this whole thing is subjected towards OTHER VERTEBRATES too like fish or reptiles or amphibians#like man.... you are a fish. your ancestors were buddy buddy (or actually probably enemy enemy) with the ancestors of these guys#fish are like a whole other class of animal to a lot of people dont even get me started#they never get the same protections as mammals or birds do even if they are just as or more endangered#mmmmm i wont rant now#biology
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1973 AMC Gremlin X
Price: 35,000 CR, Stock: D/403, Setup: D/403, Color: Factory Red
American Motor Company's only offering to the Forza Autoshow is the Gremlin; A two-door subcompact, featuring a 5.0L V8 that... really doesn't pack the punch a modern driver might expect. Still, a fun little ride, and with a bit of tuning, it could tear up the drag strip with the best muscle cars... and with a paltry price tag of only 35,000 credits, why wouldn't you get one?
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Oh boy, look what UPS just dropped off!
#Star Trek#Star Trek: The Next Generation#U.S.S. Enterprise#NCC-1701-D#Galaxy-class#shooting model#Paramount prop storage
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Stellar death
#dddaily4sherin#day 313 i totally did not mess up the day count yesterday#life series#grian#scott smajor#pearlescentmoon#inthelittlewood#goodtimeswithscar#zombiecleo#3rd life smp#last life smp#double life smp#limited life smp#real life smp#mcyt#trafficblr#traffic smp#my art#i had an epiphany after a certain astro class and have been losing it ever since#screw the solar system make them all (dying/dead) stars!!!!!! (and related events)#and I finally got to do it tdy LMASODAOS HOPE U GUYS LIKE THIS IM VERY HAPPY WITH IT >:D#also ppl who knows astronomy/astrophysics feel free to psychoanalyze the hell out of this. i had sm fun assigning them HEHEHE
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happy dungeon meshi day!!!
#dungeon meshi#delicious in dungeon#fanart#my art#excited to watch some eps after class today :-D#image id in alt text
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doom yourself before the narrative does
#decision to leave#also: alice in luther and saya in deadly class#and kendall roy <3#if you cunts make this post about megamind again I will kill#d#hamlet
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SCP: Welcome Home:
Doctor Coffin: *looks around* Jack, where's 34779-A?
Doctor Bright: Oh, I left him in the break room.
Doctor Coffin: You left him alone with the D-Class?!
Doctor Bright: Pfft, they love him! It'll be fine!
*meanwhile*
D-Class 424: *kneeling before Wally as he gently explains how to defend himself* -and you know you've done it right when you hear the neck snap.
D-Class 424: *proceeds to twist a plush's head until stuffing starts to pop out*
Wally: *slowly claps his hands in excitement* Y a a a y .
#source: star vs the forces of evil#SCP: Welcome Home#wally darling#welcome home puppet show#incorrect quotes#Jack Bright#D-Class#SCP#SCP Foundation#scp crossover#crossover#au#alternate universe
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you think he ever regrets taking dee with him?? thinks about the what if where he handled everything by himself and didn't have to witness d-16's fall (haha. fall...) and megatron's rise?
that is, before he reminds himself that he couldn't have done it without dee, and how at the end of the day, he would do it all over again, cannon shot and all, because he's not gonna take that choice away from his best friend. not when everything else was taken away from him...
#transformers#maccadam#my art#transformers fanart#d 16#optimus prime#transformers one#tf one#you guys saw megpax!#get ready for op16...#dop??#it did not need to be as big of an image as it is#now my mistakes are in 4k for everyone to view#but hey check it!!! one of the few completed artworks ive posted like ever.#which will become the norm now#the daily wips/posts end with this one cause i've been banished from iacon#(from home to uni classes)#and unfortunately cannot consume and create transformers media my every waking moment.
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dirty hands.
#cod#call of duty#john price#mw2#my art#anyone who comments d*ddy you are disqualified#no further questions jonathan has civilians to throw off a balcony class dismissed đ
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uhhhh happy pride month guys
#i drew this on my phone#during my digital media class#I might make an actual pride month post idk#this is what yâall get for now#one piece#art#black leg sanji#sanji#monkey d. luffy#luffy#fanart#school doodles#digital art#doodles#pride month#sanlu#lusan
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