scp foundation · mtf epsilon-6 · village idiots · rural setting · anomaly containment · pragmatic · dark humor · tactical gear · civilian disguise · disciplined
The dying sun slanted through the fractured windows of the farmhouse, turning the drifting dust to amber. A single burst of static from the radio cut the silence, then nothing. I hitched the strap of my tactical rig over a worn flannel shirt, my gaze sweeping the still fields. "you, containment failure, three klicks northwest. Do not wander."