Chapter 22: The Show Begins - Part 5

Chapter 22: The Show Begins - Part 5

Inside the fortified walls of Fort Neuf, headquarters of the DGSI, the tension was palpable. Agents moved through the hallways with purpose, some shouting into phones, others racing between rooms with stacks of paperwork. Monitors displaying live feeds from various parts of Paris flashed on the walls, showing scenes of chaos. Tactical teams were stationed at key points, weapons in hand, ready for anything as the nation grappled with an unprecedented crisis.

Among the chaos, one agent moved swiftly, her expression serious as she navigated the crowded halls. Clutched in her hand was a tablet, her footsteps purposeful as she made her way toward the office of Director Valois. She reached the door at the end of the hall and knocked firmly, hearing a tired but composed voice respond from within.

"Come in."

The agent pushed the door open, stepping into a large office filled with a flurry of reports, maps, and feeds from surveillance cameras across the city. Behind the desk sat Director Jeanne Valois, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into her features. 

"Director," the agent said briskly, offering a brief salute. "We've identified an …anomaly in the current situation. You need to see this."

She handed the tablet to Valois, who accepted it with a nod, her eyes quickly scanning the screen. The first thing that appeared was a transcript of a radio exchange between Sergeant Traoré and command from earlier that day. The mysterious 'RAID' operators, the confusion about their identity—it was all there in stark detail.

Valois's brow furrowed. "These units… we didn't send them?"

"No, ma'am. But that's just the beginning," the agent said, her voice urgent. She tapped the screen, and a series of surveillance videos appeared. The footage showed several different locations throughout Paris, all focused on firefights involving the alleged RAID and GIGN units against corrupt police and military personnel. 

Valois's gaze hardened as she watched the operatives move with brutal efficiency, systematically dismantling enemy forces with a level of coordination that exceeded even the best of their own special forces. Something was off.

Then, one of the videos zoomed in on an operative's belt, and Valois's eyes widened. There, clearly visible, was a shield flanked by three arrows—a symbol she knew all too well.

Her blood ran cold. "This is the same group from Strasbourg."

The agent nodded gravely. "Yes, Director. It matches the reports. The same group that appeared during the chaos in Strasbourg has now shown up here, in the heart of Paris."

Valois stood up sharply, her mind racing. These mysterious operatives had once again appeared out of nowhere, bringing with them the kind of firepower and coordination that suggested far more than just a typical military unit. They were something else entirely—an unknown force that operated on the fringes of the most classified intelligence circles.

She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white. "Where are they now?" she demanded.

"They've concentrated their efforts in the 1st and 4th arrondissements. The same areas where the heaviest fighting is occurring. Incidentally, it's also where we believe the leader of the corrupted forces may be located."

Valois's mind worked quickly, connecting the dots. These operatives weren't just cleaning up—they were hunting. Whoever was pulling the strings behind this catastrophe, this mysterious organization had made it their mission to find and eliminate them.

She grabbed her radio, her voice cold and commanding. "All units, this is Director Valois. I want the GAO deployed immediately to the 1st and 4th arrondissements. Prioritize contact with these… "operatives" of the GIGN and RAID. Establish their intentions, support their efforts if possible, but remain cautious. Do not engage unless hostile. We need answers."

There was a pause before a voice crackled back through the radio. "Copy that, Director. Units are mobilizing now."

Valois set the radio down with a deep breath, already reaching for the phone on her desk. This was bigger than anything the DGSI could handle alone. She needed to alert the highest levels of government. Her fingers moved quickly, dialing the direct line to the President of the Republic.

After two rings, the President's voice came through the line, terse and on edge. "Valois, what's the situation?"

"Mr. President," Valois began, wasting no time as she explained the appearance of the mysterious operatives in Paris. She detailed their involvement, their effectiveness, and the troubling fact that no official records tied them to any French forces. The President listened in silence, but she could feel the tension in his voice when he finally spoke.

"Who are they?" he asked quietly.

Valois sighed, rubbing her temples. "We still don't know. They're a ghost organization, operating with a level of secrecy that rivals our most classified operations. They're the one who appeared during incidents like Strasbourg, always neutralizing threats before vanishing. But we have no official contact, no files on their leadership or intentions."

The President was silent for a moment, before his voice hardened. "Proceed with caution, Director. Keep me informed. I want to know the moment you establish contact."

"Yes, Mr. President," Valois replied, and the line went dead.

She sat back in her chair, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. Everything in her screamed that they were walking a fine line between ally and enemy, and the uncertainty was gnawing at her.

Valois let out a long breath, rubbing her face with her hands. As the chaos of the day continued to swirl around her, only one thought remained clear in her mind.

"Who the hell are you…" she muttered to herself, the mystery deepening with each passing minute.

—

The operator from the GAO stood still, keeping his posture sharp as he patrolled through the dim corridors of Fort Neuf. His thoughts were racing, but his training kept him focused. The tension in the air was palpable, a clear reflection of the chaos that had taken hold of the streets of Paris. Inside the fortified command center, agents were moving quickly through the halls, radios buzzing with reports and orders, voices filled with urgency.

Suddenly, the operator's radio crackled to life. The voice of the GAO Commander cut through the noise.

"All units, this is Command. Mobilize immediately. Tactical vehicles to the parking bay, we have new orders. Head to the 1st and 4th arrondissements immediately to assist operations in progress. Secure the area and establish contact with unknown armed forces—confirm theirs identities."

The operator's heart skipped a beat. He had heard whispers about strange forces operating in the city, but no one seemed to know exactly who they were. Now they had orders to find out.

He moved swiftly with his squad, their boots pounding against the concrete floors as they made their way to the parking area. The GAO unit climbed into their tactical vehicles, ready for whatever awaited them outside.

The convoy rolled out of Fort Neuf, engines roaring as they sped into the streets of Paris. At first, the silence was eerie. The usual vibrancy of the city was replaced by the hollow echo of distant gunfire and the distant thud of explosions. Black smoke curled into the sky, thickening the atmosphere with the stench of burning structures.

As they approached the 1st arrondissement, the tension ratcheted up. The streets became more chaotic. Abandoned vehicles, rubble, and hastily thrown-up barricades made progress slow and dangerous. Gunfire echoed off the walls of the buildings around them, and the GAO team braced themselves for possible contact.

A few blocks later, they encountered scattered resistance. Corrupted soldiers began firing from hidden positions, and the convoy was forced to stop. The GAO operators disembarked and immediately returned fire, taking cover behind their vehicles and nearby structures.

"Flank left!" the operator's squad leader shouted.

The operator moved quickly, darting from cover to cover, his rifle tight against his shoulder as he zeroed in on the enemy positions. His training took over—each shot carefully aimed, each movement precise. The enemy's resistance faltered under the disciplined assault, and soon enough, the gunfire died down.

"Clear!" someone called out.

The GAO regrouped, catching their breath as they pressed forward once more. As they moved into the 1st arrondissement, the sounds of battle intensified again. This time, it wasn't their fight—at least, not yet. A large group of operators dressed in RAID gear were sweeping the street, clearing the last remnants of corrupted soldiers from the area.

The GAO convoy slowed to a halt again, and the operators dismounted cautiously. The RAID operatives had just finished neutralizing the remaining hostiles, their movements efficient and silent, but something about them immediately felt off to the GAO team.

The moment the GAO unit approached, the RAID operatives turned as one, their weapons raised. The GAO responded in kind, rifles snapping up as the two forces locked eyes across the street. Tension crackled in the air like a live wire—one wrong move, and the situation could devolve into violence in an instant.

"Identify yourselves!" one of the RAID leaders barked, his voice calm but authoritative.

The GAO team leader stepped forward cautiously, keeping his hands visible, though he maintained a firm grip on his weapon. "GAO, DGSI. We were sent to assist and establish contact."

The RAID leader paused, as if weighing the words carefully. After a tense moment, he lowered his weapon slightly. "Stand down," he ordered his team. "They're not hostiles."

The GAO unit followed suit, though they kept their weapons at the ready, their suspicion still strong. The two team leaders approached each other in the middle of the street. The GAO commander wasted no time.

"We know you're not RAID," the GAO commander said bluntly. "We were ordered to make contact. Who are you, really?"

The RAID leader hesitated, glancing around before speaking into his radio. After a brief exchange of rapid words—most of them muffled by static—he turned back to the GAO leader.

"You're coming with us," the RAID leader said. "We're headed to the Centre Pompidou. It's been converted into a temporary command post. Our superior will want to speak with you."

The GAO commander nodded, motioning for his men to follow as the RAID unit led the way through the ravaged streets. As they moved, the GAO operator kept a close eye on the RAID operatives. They were too precise, too organized—it was clear that these were no ordinary police forces. Whoever they were, they were professionals, and they were hiding something.

When they arrived at the Centre Pompidou, the GAO operator's suspicions were confirmed. The once bustling art museum had been transformed into a heavily fortified command center. Military equipment, tactical gear, and operators dressed in a mix of uniforms were spread across the area. Communications equipment buzzed with activity as orders were relayed, and operators moved swiftly between command posts.

The GAO team was led inside, where they entered a large room that had clearly become the nerve center of the operation. A massive map of Paris dominated the far wall, marked with red and blue points of interest. Surveillance feeds showed live footage from various parts of the city, with operators coordinating their forces from every corner.

At the center of it all was a man in tactical gear, his bearing exuding authority and command. He turned to face the GAO unit as they entered, his eyes sharp and assessing. It was clear that this man was in charge, and it wasn't hard to tell he wasn't a typical police commander.

"Who is this?" the man asked, his tone firm but calm.

The RAID leader stepped forward. "GAO, sent by DGSI to establish contact. They were ordered to support us."

The man nodded, then stepped forward, addressing the GAO leader directly. "My condolences for the loss of life today," he said solemnly. "The situation is far more complex than it appears. We're dealing with an anomalous threat, one that transcends conventional military and police operations. We're here to contain it."

The GAO commander was unfazed, his eyes steady. "We're not here to interfere with your operation, but we need to know more. We've been tracking reports of your involvement. Who are you, and why are you here?"

The commander of Mu-12 considered his response carefully, his gaze steady. "We are part of an international organization tasked with containing threats that go beyond normal human understanding. Our goal is to neutralize the source of this chaos before it spreads any further. We're not here to take control—we're here to stop the threat."

The GAO operator listened intently, his mind racing as he processed the information. The pieces of the puzzle were finally starting to come together. This mysterious group had been operating in the shadows, dealing with threats the public couldn't comprehend. And now, they were in Paris, working to contain something far more dangerous than rogue soldiers.

Before the conversation could continue, a voice came over the Mu-12 commander's radio. "Overlord to all stations, SCP-035 has been spotted in the Catacombs and is being chased by a Squad of Mu-12. Delta-0 is ordered to cover every entry and exit until SCP-035 has been captured."

The commander nodded, then looked back at the GAO leader. "The situation is evolving. We'll need to coordinate our efforts. For now, we need to focus on neutralizing the remaining threats."

The GAO leader agreed, and with that, the two groups began to strategize their next steps. But even as they worked together, the GAO operator couldn't shake the feeling that they were dealing with something far beyond their understanding.

And as the room buzzed with activity, orders being given and plans being drawn, the operator couldn't help but wonder if they'd ever truly understand what they were up against.

—

The dark, damp corridors of the Parisian catacombs stretched endlessly before Matthew as he moved cautiously, following the bloody trail left by SCP-035's host. His flashlight's dim beam flickered over the ancient stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to dance ominously. The thick, suffocating stench of decay mixed with the cold air of the catacombs, gnawing at his senses. Every drip of water, every shifting echo made him more alert. He could feel the tension building in his muscles, knowing he was getting closer.

Suddenly, just as Matthew turned a corner, the bloodied figure of SCP-035's host lunged from the shadows, catching him off guard.

The host's eyes were wild with a mix of pain and madness, its body still functioning despite the severe injuries. The creature slammed into Matthew with full force, both of them tumbling into the shallow, filthy water of the underground sewage system.

The impact jarred Matthew's entire body. Water splashed up around them as he struggled to right himself, gasping for breath. His rifle had been lost in the fall, sinking into the murky water.

Instinctively, he reached for his combat knife as he pulled himself up onto his feet. SCP-035's host was already there, standing just a few meters away, its face a twisted mask of cruel amusement.

It laughed madly at Matthew as if relishing the chance for another bout of violence.

"Second round, huh?" SCP-035's voice hissed through the host's cracked lips, mocking him with a dark, sadistic tone.

Matthew raised his knife, positioning himself defensively. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. He could see that the host's body was deteriorating rapidly, yet it moved with unnerving speed and precision. Matthew knew he had no choice but to engage.

With a sudden, vicious strike, SCP-035's host darted forward, slashing at Matthew's chest.

Matthew barely managed to parry the attack, the force of it sending a shockwave through his arm. The narrow corridor allowed little room to maneuver, forcing them into a brutal, close-quarters knife fight.

Matthew countered with a swift thrust toward the host's abdomen, but SCP-035 twisted its body unnaturally, avoiding the blow. They circled each other in the shallow water, each waiting for the other to make a mistake. The host's movements were erratic, unpredictable, as though the decaying body was on the verge of collapse, yet the mask's malevolent influence kept it moving with deadly precision.

The two fighters lunged at each other again. Their blades clashed, metal screeching against metal. Matthew felt the weight of his exhaustion creeping in-every block, every parry, every slash felt heavier. His mind raced, adrenaline surging through his veins. SCP-035 laughed again, its voice filled with malice.

"Is that all you've got?" the voice taunted.

Matthew responded with a furious burst of attacks, slashing and stabbing at the host with all his remaining strength. His blade found purchase in the host's side, but SCP-035 didn't even flinch. Instead, it lashed out with its own knife, catching Matthew on the arm and drawing blood. Matthew winced, but pushed through the pain, his focus razor-sharp despite the growing fatigue.

They grappled in the narrow space, their bodies crashing against the ancient stone walls. Matthew shoved the host back, then slashed at its throat, but the creature ducked just in time. It retaliated with a brutal elbow to Matthew's ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs. Gasping, Matthew staggered back a step, barely managing to block the next attack with his forearm. The pain shot through his body, but he couldn't let it slow him down.

SCP-035 lunged again, its knife aimed for Matthew's heart. Matthew sidestepped at the last moment, feeling the blade graze his side. He spun quickly, his own knife slashing across the host's chest, cutting deep. The host let out a guttural snarl, and for the first time, Matthew saw it falter, the damage to its body finally taking its toll.

Sensing an opening, Matthew moved in fast. He aimed a series of quick, precise strikes, his blade slicing through flesh and muscle.

SCP-035's host staggered, but refused to go down. Desperate, it lashed out with wild, reckless strikes, but Matthew ducked under them, staying just out of reach.

With a sudden burst of energy, Matthew kicked the host's knee, sending it crashing to the ground. Not wasting a second, he pounced, driving his knife into the host's chest. Again and again, he stabbed, his movements fueled by a mix of rage and survival instinct. Blood splattered across his face and hands as he plunged the blade deeper into the host's body. He lost count of how many times he stabbed-it didn't matter anymore. He wouldn't stop until the threat was gone.

Finally, SCP-035's host went limp beneath him. Matthew knelt there, panting heavily, his hands trembling as the reality of the moment sank in. The mask slipped from the host's face, falling into the water with a soft splash. It lay there, still and quiet, its malevolent influence momentarily silenced.

But just as Matthew began to feel a sense of relief, he heard it-the voice. Soft at first, almost like a whisper, then louder, more insistent. The mask's voice echoed in his mind, seductive and sinister.

"You've done well," it whispered. "You're stronger than the others. So much potential... Imagine the power you could have. All you have to do is wear me. I can give you everything you've ever wanted-control, knowledge, strength. No one could stand against you."

Matthew's body was screaming for rest, his mind clouded with exhaustion. The voice was tempting, its promises intoxicating. He felt his hand inching toward the mask, his fingers brushing its smooth surface. The urge to put it on, to let it grant him the power it promised, was overwhelming. His resistance wavered, his vision blurring from the strain.

Just as he was about to lift the mask to his face, a voice cut through the haze.

"Matthew! Stop! Drop the mask, now!"

He snapped out of his trance, blinking as his vision cleared. His squad leader and the rest of Mu-12 stood at the far end of the passageway, their weapons trained on him. Matthew stared at the mask in his hand, horrified by how close he had come to giving in to its temptation. With a shudder, he threw the mask down into the water.

The squad quickly moved in, securing SCP-035 in a containment case designed specifically for it. Matthew watched as the mask was sealed away, its whispers finally silenced.

His squad leader approached, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You did well, Corporal. It's over."

Matthew nodded, though he still felt the weight of the encounter lingering in his mind. It wasn't just the physical exhaustion-it was the mental toll of having faced SCP-035 and resisted its lure. As the team prepared to exfiltrate, Matthew couldn't help but glance one last time at the containment case, silently vowing that he would never let himself fall under its influence again.

—

Léonard stood in front of his computer, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the screen. The notification appeared with a short ping:

[ Ding ! Congratulations to the host for containing SCP-035. ]