Chapter 136: Manhattan Crisis - Part 3
Around midday, the skies over the southern tip of New York thundered with the unmistakable roar of rotors.
An imposing formation of black-painted UH-60 Black Hawks and V-22 Ospreys skimmed across the waters, flying in tight, disciplined formation. Below them, a coordinated wave of military-grade black speedboats, each mounted with heavy machine guns, cut across the waves, leaving trails of white foam in their wake. Dozens of heavily armed operators in matte-black tactical gear stood ready aboard each vessel, scanning the skyline of a burning Manhattan ahead.
The fleet passed low over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, ignoring the refugees shouting beneath them. Down below, in the water, a flotilla of civilian vessels, fishing boats, ferries, even private yachts, was slowly making its way south, fleeing the chaos that had swallowed the city. As the aircraft thundered overhead, hundreds of desperate hands reached out. Some waved rags, some held signs made from cardboard. A child on a lifeboat held up a glowing phone, flashing its screen like a beacon of hope.
None of the operators responded. The mission came first.
The aerial fleet curved sharply and began circling Governors Island. The speedboats moved into position, forming a tight perimeter along the island's docks and southern shore. Gun turrets rotated, tracking for threats. Within minutes, squads of black-clad soldiers disembarked with frightening efficiency, sweeping the island in a coordinated movement, clearing old buildings, searching for survivors, and establishing hardened perimeters.
Governors Island, once an idyllic patch of green with aging forts and tourist bikes, was now to become something far more critical, the new staging ground for counter-offensive operations.
The few dozen civilians already on the island, mostly refugees brought by ferries earlier that morning, stood frozen in disbelief as black helicopters landed just meters away. The downdraft whipped debris and trash across the pavement. Then, as the realization set in, cheers erupted. Cries of relief, weeping, and shouts of hope broke the silence that had gripped them for hours.
The rear ramp of a Black Hawk slammed down, and a man stepped out, his boots crunching against gravel. He was dressed the same as the others, black armor, black gear, but instead of a helmet, a crimson beret adorned his head. His face was lined, hardened by experience, but calm. Composed. Commanding.
A lieutenant jogged up beside him and snapped into a salute.
"Sir. We have successfully secured Governors Island. No hostile presence detected. Perimeter set. We're beginning setup for forward command HQ now."
The beret-wearing man didn't waste time.
"Situation report."
"Yes, sir. At present, we have no confirmed real-time intel on the condition of the anomaly zone. All long-range and short-range communications within Manhattan are disrupted. High akiva-like radiation interference and apparent signal suppression from the anomaly's core are cutting off all tactical links. Worse, enemy sabotage or collateral damage has destroyed several underground electrical junctions. Entire segments of the grid are down."
The commander clenched his jaw. "And Site-28? The two MTFs deployed there?"
"Negative contact, sir," the lieutenant said, voice grim. "We've been forced to rely on satellite imagery and civilian testimony. From what we've gathered: Site-28 remains intact. They've managed to join forces with GOC units stationed in SoHo. Together, they're building a joint front to hold back the spread of SCP-2911-JP's manifestations."
The man in the beret turned his eyes to the northern skyline. Manhattan smoldered in the distance, a black-and-red bruise on the horizon. The clouds above the city shimmered in unnatural reds and purples, and flashes of crimson lightning lashed the sky intermittently.
The lieutenant continued.
"Sir, the NYPD has fully engaged the entities designated SCP-2911-B across Manhattan. According to survivors, the instances are killable with conventional arms, but the preferred tactic is heavy suppression. Any form of blessed ammunition or Akiva-radiant objects seems to enhance lethality significantly. That includes Bibles, Qurans, crosses, silver bullets, holy water, even objects inscribed with thaumaturgic blessings."
"Understood." The commander adjusted his comms unit, though it only emitted static. "Resupply will prioritize blessed munitions. What about the island's security?"
"Solid, sir. We've got anti-air emplacements coming online within the hour. Supply drops inbound from Site-19 and Area-14. Civilian evacuation boats are continuing to arrive. We're organizing triage zones on the east side."
The commander nodded slowly, face still unreadable. He looked up at the distorted sky, as if measuring the weight of the war to come.
Then, quietly:
"Prepare the MTF's. This isn't containment anymore. This is a war footing."
"Yes, sir."
He entered Building 324 without a word, a small group of black-clad operators shadowing his every step. The structure had already begun transforming, technicians were unrolling cables, slamming down reinforced comms tables, calibrating Akiva-dampeners, and hammering steel plating into the walls.
From the second floor, through a window, he watched the arrival unfold.
Foundation helicopters circled the island perimeter. Black speedboats patrolled the water. On the grass below, Black Hawks touched down in formation. Operators spilled out, loading crates of ammunition and heavy equipment onto waiting flatbeds. Near the center, temporary shelters had been set up for the few refugees already on the island. Some wept with relief as armed men took up positions between them and the burning city beyond the harbor.
He stepped into an empty office on the upper level, sat by the window, and pulled out a secure satellite phone.
One beep.
Then a click.
O5-1's voice answered, calm and clipped. "Yes?"
He leaned back slightly, gaze fixed on the skyline swallowed in red haze.
"It's me," he said. "I've arrived at Governors Island. I'm overseeing the installation of the front-line command post."
"Copy," she replied immediately. "Any contact with Site-28?"
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not yet. Radio interference's too strong. I'll dispatch a contact team, but it'll take time. Dimensional fallout disrupts everything."
"Understood."
A pause.
"Any word from the Boss?" he asked.
She exhaled slowly. "No. Not yet. Every portal to Backdoor SoHo is unstable. It's like something's distorting the fabric from the inside. Opening one is… nearly impossible."
He grunted. "Why every fucking goddamn time the Administrator goes into another dimension, he ends up fucking trapped in?"
There was the faint sound of amusement from her end.
"He did it in Univer'Isle," he muttered, shaking his head. "Now this. Again."
"He has a remarkable talent for dimensional disasters," she replied dryly.
He didn't smile. "Forget it."
A moment passed. Then:
"What about Resh-1, Alpha-1, and Omega-1? If I remember right, there was a large detachment stationed in upper Manhattan."
"They're still there," she confirmed. "Satellite markers suggest they've fortified key zones across Harlem. Judging by the synchronized troop routing… I'd bet the Administrator's coordinating them through the system."
He looked out the window again.
New York was burning.
The voice of O5-1 snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Regardless, O5-6… I'm sure you already understand what's at stake."
He sighed, eyes narrowing. "Anything else I need to know?"
There was a pause before she replied. "Externally, the National Guard has begun deployment, but they're in complete disarray due to the blackout in radio communications. The President has declared a national state of emergency and placed the entire U.S. Armed Forces on DEFCON 2. A massive joint force is en route from North Carolina, Army, Marines, Special Forces, all of them. The NY National Guard and emergency services are stretched thin, and the current situation in New York is plastered on every news channel and media feed."
She paused for a moment before continuing, "There is a good news and a bad. The good? Thanks to the media and social platforms, we're able to get live civilian feeds of the affected zones. The bad? We are living a Broken Masquerade scenario. The Foundation may be exposed to the entire world before this is over."
O5-6 groaned. "And I'm the one stuck cleaning up this hellstorm? Wonderful."
O5-1 chuckled. "Well, you are our jack of all trades."
There was a knock at the door.
O5-6 cut the call. "I've got to go."
He shouted, "Come in."
One of his lieutenants entered and saluted. "Sir, the entire frontline command setup is operational. Secondary systems are being installed as we speak."
O5-6 stood up and gave a rare smile. "Perfect."
They left the temporary office and made their way outside, where a small group of Mobile Task Force commanders was waiting. As he approached, they stood straight and saluted.
"Sir!"
O5-6 didn't waste time. "The situation is critical. So listen closely."
He took a step forward, voice rising over the hum of generators and distant helicopters.
"The Foundation is going public. From now on, no more aliases. No more shadows. We are deploying under our real banner."
That caused visible shock among the MTF leaders.
"But our mission," O5-6 continued, "remains the same: containment and protection. Right now, we focus on rescue operations."
He turned to the first commander.
"Xi-13. Establish contact with Site-28. You'll insert by helicopter."
Then to the next.
"Tau-5. Escort our engineering crews to the three SCP-3216 instances. We need power back in Manhattan. Without electricity, comms stay dead."
"Beta-777." He pointed toward an operator with glowing ammunition. "We've got reports of human enemy casters. You're on suppression detail. Sweep the area and track these thaumaturgists"
"Omega-45." He motioned toward the towering, high-tech armored operator. "Your loadouts work well on these demons. Link up with incoming U.S. forces and hold the Lincoln Tunnel until they arrive. I've already spoken with the US President, he's agreed to cooperate."
"Omega-7, you'll go after Xi-13. You're intercepting the main wave of entities moving south. You stop them now, or they hit SoHo."
He turned slightly, voice sharp.
"Mu-0 will arrive in an hour via airdrop. Demonology Division's delayed, still prepping their gear. Nu-7 is in the sky, heavy convoy, bringing enough firepower to flatten a city block. They'll land at JFK International and deploy immediately."
He scanned the group. "Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Get your teams ready. Wheels up in ten minutes."
The command center roared back into motion.
---
Sequeres-41 stood near the open ramp of the V-22 Osprey, his gloved fingers adjusting the strap of his rifle as he went over final loadout checks with his fireteam. The sky was blood-red behind them, crackling with distant Akiva-charged thunder. But here on the deck, under the rotor wash, everything was still and focused. No chatter. No wasted movement.
Inside the command tent, Sequeres-1, known by most simply as Serano, unfolded a tactical map on the steel table. The operators of Xi-13 gathered around in silence, their faces hidden behind visors but their focus absolute.
"Alright," Serano began, voice calm but sharp, "here's the situation."
He tapped the map with a gloved finger.
"Our MTF is tasked with re-establishing contact with Site-28. We'll be inserted here, intersection of Broadway and Howard Street. It's in direct proximity to the site's access point."
He looked around, eyes locking with each of his team leads.
"We're assuming the street may still be under control of the GOC. There was a joint operation happening today near the area, so if they succeeded in securing the perimeter, expect checkpoints."
He pointed again at the map.
"Once contact with Site-28 is confirmed, we launch a green flare. This signals Sky Command that communication's re-established."
He paused, then tapped another location, Banksy Museum.
"Overwatch reported the potential presence of a Class-A personnel within this building. If the asset is confirmed, we shoot a blue flare. I repeat, a blue flare. Evacuation of that personnel becomes top priority. No matter what."
Serano let the weight of the words hang in the air for a few seconds.
"Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Mount up."
Moments later, the operators of Xi-13 streamed into the waiting V-22 Osprey, weapons locked, minds focused. As the ramp closed and the engines roared, Serano sat down beside Sequeres-41.
"Once we hit ground, no hesitation. If it breathes and isn't looking like a human, you drop it."
Sequeres-41 nodded once, visor reflecting the hellish sky beyond the porthole.
The aircraft rose into the air, banking hard toward Lower Manhattan.
Xi-13 was en route.
Sequeres-41 leaned closer to the window of the V-22, his visor reflecting the inferno that Manhattan had become. Smoke trails climbed the sky. Buildings burned in the distance. And beneath them, the streets were chaotic, clogged with abandoned vehicles, injured civilians, and barricades hastily formed from overturned cars and concrete barriers.
He sighed quietly and checked his rifle, snapping a fresh magazine into place with smooth precision.
As the Osprey dipped lower, the operators onboard gathered near the portholes, scanning the zone. Below, the SoHo district was a fortified maze of motion and defense. Barricades lined the roads, patrolled by mixed squads of GOC operators and what was unmistakably Foundation security guards, the signature grey jumpsuits under black tactical rigs gave them away instantly.
One of the Xi-13 operators pointed. "Those uniforms. Foundation, without a doubt. Embedded site personnel."
Dozens of medics worked shoulder-to-shoulder with GOC combat teams, tending to a wave of injured civilians being ushered into makeshift triage tents and concrete shelters.
The V-22 landed in the center of a cordoned intersection, its rotors kicking up dust and tension. GOC soldiers and Foundation agents instinctively cleared a path, weapons low but eyes alert.
The ramp slammed open.
Xi-13 disembarked.
Tactical visors swept across rooftops, windows, alleys, scanning, locking, clearing. Guns leveled. Formation held.
Then a man approached, flanked by two security agents. He wore a bulletproof vest over a dusty grey business suit and a lanyard marked with the Site-28 Administrative Department.
"Thank god you're here," he said, breathing heavily. "Name's Raymond Carter, Administrative Department, Site-28."
Serano stepped forward. "Commander of Mobile Task Force Xi-13 'Sequeres Nos.' We're here to reestablish contact."
Carter exhaled deeply, relief flooding his posture. "This way. Site Director's waiting. We've been holding the outer perimeter since morning. Barely."
Serano pulled out a flare gun from his thigh holster and shot a round into the sky. A brilliant green flare burst open in the crimson clouds above, a silent signal to Sky Command: Contact secured.
He turned to the team. "Alright, listen up. Split up and deploy according to onsite staff directives. Combat medics, you're with the Medical Department. Everyone else, report to Site-28's Security lead for tactical integration."
As if on cue, a man in Site-28's security armor and a deep-blue beret approached.
"Captain Miles Richter, Head of Site-28 Security Division," he introduced, saluting with efficient precision.
"Vice-Commander Sequeres-11," came the firm reply, shaking his hand. "Where do you need us?"
"Right now?" Richter's voice dropped. "North. We're taking heavier attacks every hour. We believe the NYPD's initial barricades are collapsing very fast up there."
He pointed toward the northeast.
"Washington Square Park was turned into a civilian evac hub. That area might already be overrun. I need a unit to reinforce the zone and help extract the final wave of refugees."
Sequeres-11 keyed his helmet mic. "TL, this is Sequeres-11. We've received tasking to move on Washington Square Park for emergency evac support."
There was a burst of static, shrill and distorted. Then Serano's voice broke through, faint but clear:
"…Copy that. Teams One, Two and Three remain. Others, permission granted. Move out."
"Fucking interference," Sequeres-11 muttered, then looked up at Richter. "Request accepted. Xi-13 Team 4, 5 and 6 are en route."
No further words were exchanged.
Within thirty seconds, 3 Xi-13 teams were already moving, boots pounding asphalt as they disappeared into the bloodstained fog of downtown Manhattan, headed straight for the fire.
Sequeres-41 moved in silence, his boots pressing against the pavement as his team advanced alongside the two others from Xi-13. They swept down Broadway in a wide formation, hugging the buildings on either side, rifles raised, every visor scanning windows, rooftops, and alley shadows with calculated discipline.
The air was thick, smoke and blood hanging like fog and every step deeper into the war-torn Manhattan district weighed heavier.
Occasionally, they passed small groups of terrified refugees huddled in doorways or under shattered awnings. Xi-13 directed them swiftly, pointing them back toward SoHo's fortified zone.
Sequeres-41 barely blinked. He was already calculating the angles of cover and retreat for his team when-
Gunfire.
A full-auto storm broke the silence just ahead. As they reached the intersection of Broadway and West Houston Street, Sequeres-41 raised a fist and crouched low, signaling the column to halt.
Across the wide avenue, a city bus had overturned onto its side. Dozens of civilians were cowering behind it, trapped. On the rooftop directly ahead, a squad of masked shooters was unloading on them. High-caliber rounds sparked against the metal frame of the bus, shredding windows, ricocheting down the road.
Two NYPD officers were pinned beside the civilians, returning fire with their handguns but it was hopeless. They were outgunned, outnumbered, and nearly out of time.
Sequeres-41 swept his visor across the roof. Six, no, eight targets. Minimal cover.
Then one of the Xi-13 operators gasped:
"RPG!"
On the rooftop, one of the hostiles had shouldered a rocket launcher, its head locked onto the overturned bus.
Sequeres-41's voice cut like a blade.
"SUPPRESSIVE FIRE! GO!"
All three teams reacted instantly.
Dozens of rifles snapped up and let loose a roaring wall of gunfire, a precise and deadly barrage of suppressive rounds that tore into the rooftop. The man with the RPG was the first to drop, his chest splitting open mid-aim. Several others followed, their bodies folding beneath a rain of bullets. A few survivors ducked behind a concrete lip of the rooftop, scrambling.
Sequeres-41 didn't hesitate.
"Grenade Launcher! Get up front!"
One of the operators from Team Five slung his rifle, reached back, and pulled up an M320 grenade launcher.
"High arc shot. Make sure they're all vaporized."
"Copy."
The operator stepped forward, took a knee, and raised the launcher toward the sky, adjusting for distance. He tilted the weapon slightly, aimed just above the rooftop edge, and pulled the trigger.
Thunk.
A heartbeat passed.
BOOM.
The explosion tore through the rooftop like thunder. Concrete splintered, dust and smoke erupted, and the remaining hostiles vanished in a fiery burst of shrapnel and broken stone. Their bodies were either obliterated or thrown like ragdolls into the street.
Xi-13 surged forward.
Sequeres-41 took point, leading the advance across the intersection. Guns ready, they fanned out and secured the perimeter in a practiced sweep. Three operators moved to the bus, checking vitals, counting heads. Civilians sobbed, trembling and covered in ash and blood, but alive.
A middle-aged woman clung to the edge of the bus, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Thank you… oh god, thank you…"
The two NYPD officers stumbled forward, faces pale, clothes torn, skin slick with sweat and grime. One of them extended a hand, his voice hoarse.
"You saved our asses. If you hadn't shown up… we were done."
Sequeres-41 nodded curtly. "It's our job."
The cop's gaze fell on the patch stitched into the shoulder of Sequeres-41's combat armor. The Foundation insignia. A shield with three inward-facing arrows.
He squinted. "That your unit?"
Sequeres-41 didn't answer the question directly. Instead, he stepped closer.
"Do you know where your nearest evac point is?"
One of the cops nodded. "SoHo. We've been ordered to regroup there."
"Copy that."
Sequeres-41 turned back to his team and barked out the order:
"We move. Now! Move, move, move!"
Xi-13 surged forward, boots pounding against cracked concrete as they moved swiftly down West Houston Street. The sharp stench of ash, smoke, and blood mixed with the heavy heat of midday. As they turned onto LaGuardia Place, a chaotic wave of civilians, paramedics, and firefighters came crashing toward them like a human flood, all fleeing from Washington Square Park up ahead.
"Make way! MAKE WAY!" someone screamed.
Sequeres-41 raised a hand and halted. His visor locked onto a firefighter pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair, a fire axe strapped across his back. Without hesitation, Sequeres-41 stepped into his path, grabbing the man's jacket and pulling him to a stop.
"You! What's happening ahead?"
The firefighter's eyes were wild, pupils dilated with adrenaline. He stammered, nearly tripping over his words.
"It's chaos! Monsters! These things just came out of nowhere from the north! And armed men with them, shooting at everything! NYPD's holding but barely! Some of those cops even went melee against the monsters, for God's sake. But then… these flying things, birds or something, came down and just started shredding the barricades. Everyone's dying out there! The police chief ordered everyone who could move to fall back south. They're trying to evacuate to other safe points or whatever's left!"
Sequeres-41 nodded sharply. "Got it. Redirect everyone you find to SoHo. There's a major evacuation point there."
The firefighter exhaled in relief, gave a quick nod, and gripped the wheelchair handles again.
"Understood. Thank you!" He pushed forward into the stream of terrified people, vanishing behind the next wave of the fleeing.
Sequeres-41 turned, raised his rifle to chest level, and shouted,
"Pick up the pace! Let's move! Now!"
The three teams of Xi-13 picked up into a tactical combat trot, pushing against the current of panic. Civilians stumbled out of their way, letting the black-armored operatives slice forward through the chaos, sprinting toward the hellfire at the park.
And then they saw it.
Washington Square Park. A warzone.
Barricades formed from overturned NYPD cruisers and armored trucks were drenched in blood. Officers from ESU, SRG, and standard NYPD units were holding their line with everything they had. Their shotguns and pistols barked against snarling, smoke-faced demons that climbed over vehicles like beasts, claws clattering against metal, jaws wide.
Screams echoed across the park. There were no civilians here anymore, only the front line.
Sequeres-41 didn't hesitate.
"Team 4, push the main road! Team 5, take the left flank! Team 6, sweep the right! Two from each team watch the skies for those flying bastards! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
The teams split, rifles raised, operators peeling off into formation like clockwork. Sequeres-41's boots slammed into the pavement as he led Team 4 straight down the main avenue, directly toward the crumbling barricades.
In front of them, three demons were already perched on NYPD cruisers, clawing at the broken windows, their claws inches away from the throats of police officers hidden behind.
"Weapons free!" Sequeres-41 barked.
The next second was a storm of light and death.
Xi-13 opened fire, their rifles screaming in controlled bursts. Each shot precise, devastating. The demons on the cars exploded into pink mist and charred bone, their bodies dissolving under the power of blessed incendiary rounds.
Without pause, they advanced, leap frogging from cover to cover. The air was thick with sulfur and gunpowder, howls and automatic fire overlapping like a symphony of carnage.
One demon lunged from the side, nearly landing atop an officer pinned beneath his car. Sequeres-41 raised his sidearm and fired three rounds into its head mid-air, turning the beast into black sludge before it landed.
Another demon, larger, misshapen, with spines protruding from its back roared as it charged the advancing line. Sequeres-41's team split wide, and two operators launched simultaneous grenade shots into its path.
BOOM.
The explosion ripped the creature apart in a shower of entrails.
Around them, Teams 5 and 6 had also made contact. Sequeres-41 could hear the chatter over the noise. "Twelve down!" "Left flank secured!" "Taking sky targets!" punctuated by the sound of rifle fire and screams of inhuman agony.
The sky patrols opened fire on the birds circling overhead, unnatural, featherless things with long black talons and glowing red eyes. Two fell, their carcasses slamming into the ground with wet crunches.
Sequeres-41 vaulted over the hood of a ruined car and reloaded. Ahead, the line was stabilizing. With Xi-13 reinforcing the defense, the tide had turned.
He spoke into his comms.
"Xi-13 to all local forces. We've arrived at Washington Square Park. Enemy contact made. We are securing the evacuation zone."
Then he raised his rifle again.
"Keep pushing. Don't let them regroup. We end this now."
The men of Xi-13 surged forward like a dark wave lethal, unstoppable, and merciless.
Gunfire thundered like rolling drums across the broken plaza of Washington Square Park.
Sequeres-41 moved fast, leading his unit through the shattered barricades. Smoke from burning police cruisers curled into the air. Demons, faces wrapped in that pink mist swarmed over the vehicles, clawing at the last defenders.
"Suppressing fire! Go loud!" he barked, raising his rifle.
Xi-13 didn't hesitate.
Muzzle flashes lit the street as precision bursts tore through the front ranks of the demonic horde. The closest entities were ripped apart mid-charge, bodies turning into mist and bone shards under the sheer volume of coordinated fire.
To Sequeres-41's left, two NYPD officers had their backs to a wrecked ambulance, emptying their magazines into the chaos. One of them screamed as a demon lunged until a Xi-13 operative caught it in the side with a shotgun blast, splattering it across the pavement.
They reached the main police line. Officers yelled orders, faces pale, uniforms soaked in sweat and blood.
But they kept firing.
A massive demon, easily two meters tall, charged the barricade with a guttural howl. A squad car stood in its path, doors open, sirens flickering dimly. It barely flinched, just ripped the entire vehicle in half with its claws.
Sequeres-41 pulled a flash grenade from his belt and tossed it underhand.
Bang.
The demon reeled, howling, and a Xi-13 operative dropped it with a clean three-round burst to the neck.
From the rooftops came a different threat, humans in black, wearing mismatched tactical gear, aiming down with rifles.
"Top! Gunmen! Building north!" shouted a foundation operative.
"Neutralize them!" 41 snapped.
Three Xi-13 sharpshooters opened fire immediately. Their bullets found flesh. One of the gunmen tumbled off the roof, hitting the pavement with a wet crunch.
Another rooftop gunman aimed a rocket.
"RPG!" someone shouted.
Too late.
The explosion blew a hole in the northern barricade, sending two patrolmen flying and igniting a nearby van. The shockwave rocked the formation but no one broke.
"Frag out! Return fire! Smoke, now!"
The air filled with thunder again. Loud, sharp bursts of Foundation rifles mixed with the panicked staccato of police Glocks and MP5s. A Xi-13 operative lobbed a grenade over a wrecked fence, and it detonated mid-air, raining shrapnel into a cluster of hostiles trying to push through.
Sequeres-41 pivoted just as a flying demon dove from the sky, its wings stretched wide and its maw screeching. He dropped to one knee and fired two rounds into its chest. The thing twisted, clipped a light pole, and slammed into the ground beside a burning truck.
Bodies burned. Metal screamed. People died.
But still, they held.
He pushed forward, leaping onto a ruined barricade and opening fire from above. Every shot landed. Every pull of the trigger sent another nightmare back to hell.
To his right, two operatives from Team 5 moved in tandem, clearing alleyways, putting down enemies that crawled over the edges. One of the gunmen tried to feint behind a dumpster.
Too slow.
One shot. Head gone.
Sequeres-41 ducked as something flew past his head, then turned to see a demon impale itself on a Xi-13 operative's blade, shrieking even as it thrashed. Blood splattered the ground. The operator kicked it off with brutal force and kept firing.
A flaming demon soaked in fuel ran blindly into the center of the formation. Police shouted.
"Down! Down!"
But before it could explode, a operator stepped forward and planted three rounds in its skull. The corpse collapsed and sizzled, inert.
There was no break. No time to think.
Just movement. Kill. Move. Cover. Advance. Kill.
Eventually, Sequeres-41's boots hit the center of the plaza, and he looked around—
The tide was breaking.
The remaining gunmen were down.
The demons were fewer.
The line was holding.
And the survivors behind it?
Safe.
He scanned the park, breathing hard behind his visor. The wounded were being pulled back. NYPD officers were shouting triumphantly. Even the medics were on their feet again.
They'd done it.
Xi-13 and the NYPD had held Washington Square Park.
For now.
Sequeres-41 didn't relax. His hands stayed tight around his weapon. His gaze turned north, toward the buildings where the monsters had come from.
They'd be back. Stronger.
But so would they.
Suddenly, a massive SBOOM shook the pavement beneath his boots.
Then a second.
And a third.
Each impact was heavier than the last, echoing through the bones of every man still breathing in Washington Square Park. Dust trickled from the shattered windows. Streetlights trembled. The air grew thick and oppressive, like the weight of a storm pressing down on them all.
Sequeres-41 looked down at his own hands.
They were trembling.
Before he could speak, a shadow darker than night fell over him. A silence spread a terrified stillness. Slowly, with dread crawling up his spine, he looked up.
And his blood ran cold.
Towering above the ruined buildings, a colossal demonic head stared down at them. Its skin was like molten obsidian, glowing with faint cracks of infernal light. It knelt on one leg, one massive clawed hand crushing the side of an office building as if it were made of paper.
The thing's breath rumbled like an engine of the abyss. Its burning eyes scanned the street. And when they locked with his, Sequeres-41 felt something primal inside him want to flee and never stop running.
Then-
"LIGHT THAT SON OF A BITCH UP OR WE'RE DEAD!"
Someone screamed it from the barricade.
The entire line answered at once.
Every gun opened fire.
Dozens of officers and Xi-13 operators filled the street with firepower, grenade launchers thumped, rifles roared and sniper shots cracked. The air turned into a symphony of war, every bullet and blast slamming into the demon's face with all the fury humanity could muster.
It did nothing.
Nothing but enrage it.
The demon's jaw unhinged, revealing a cavern of flames burning deep within. Its neck arched back, heat building between its teeth.
"TAKE COVER!" Sequeres-41 shouted, already diving behind a crumbling barricade.
The demon unleashed hell.
A tsunami of fire washed over the park, melting cars, charring corpses to ash, vaporizing everything in a cone of destruction. Officers too slow to react were incinerated mid-step, their screams lost in the roar.
Then silence.
Ash rained gently from the sky.
The survivors emerged from cover, coughing, limping, staggering.
The demon was still there, rising to its full height.
Sequeres-41's voice cracked as he shouted, "MOVE! COVER! IT'S-"
But before the beast could strike—
A black shadow fell from the sky.
It wasn't a bird.
It wasn't a plane.
It was a figure in a black tactical suit.
Midair, her right arm transformed, a grotesque, crimson thing made of blood and jagged bone, easily the size of a truck. Her body twisted with impossible force as she swung.
CRACK!
The massive demon didn't just stagger, it flew backward, collapsing onto its spine with a seismic crash that shattered windows for blocks.
The figure landed softly in the ruins. Her arm shrank back to normal as she raised both hands, grinning like a child caught sneaking candy.
"Whoa whoa whoa! Don't shoot!" she shouted. "I'm SCP-8888, Omega-7 'Pandora's Box'!"
Weapons immediately turned toward her.
Sequeres-41 blinked hard, his mind racing. But the designation clicked.
"Hold fire! She's friendly! Lower your weapons!" he commanded.
Xi-13 complied at once. The NYPD hesitated, guns still raised, confusion and fear on every face.
Sequeres-41 stepped forward.
"SCP-8888, why are you here alone? Where's the rest of Omega-7?"
Lina grinned.
"On their way. Colonel Mendoza sent me in first when that big bastard showed up. They're right behind me."
Then came a low growl, deep as a mountain splitting in half.
The massive demon was rising again, eyes glowing brighter, filled with pure, unfiltered hatred.
Lina cracked her knuckles.
"Oh, so you're not done yet? Good. Let's play, asshole."