Chapter 154: Gloria a la Luna Negra
Ethan's eyes fluttered open, vision hazy and washed in sterile white. The faint hum of medical equipment and the rhythmic beep of a monitor were the first things that reached him. His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, and a dull ache throbbed across his limbs.
As his sight cleared, the ceiling lights sharpened into focus. He turned his head slowly, every muscle stiff, and realized he was lying in a medical bed. A thin blanket was pulled up to his chest, the scent of disinfectant heavy in the air.
Then he saw him.
A soldier sat only a few feet away, unmoving, a silent sentinel in the corner of the room. His entire body was covered in a matte-black tactical uniform. A combat harness loaded with gear. Thick gloves. A balaclava hiding his face entirely. On his head rested a black beret, and pinned to it was a logo of the SCP Foundation.
The man didn't move. Didn't speak. He just sat there, posture perfectly straight, his hidden eyes locked on Ethan.
Ethan swallowed hard, throat dry. He could feel the weight of that gaze pressing down on him, though he couldn't even see the man's eyes behind the shadow of the mask.
"…Who-" Ethan's voice cracked. He coughed, forcing himself to speak again. "Who are you?"
The soldier didn't answer. Not a word. He remained perfectly still, watching him like a predator patiently observing prey.
The silence stretched, oppressive, filling the room like smoke. Ethan's pulse quickened. He realized with a cold dread that the man wasn't just guarding him, he was measuring him.
Finally, the soldier leaned forward slightly, gloved hands resting on his knees. The movement was slow, deliberate. Ethan's breath hitched.
But still… no words came. Just silence.
The silence broke at last.
The soldier's voice cut through the sterile air, flat, mechanical, stripped of all warmth.
"Cadet Ethan. Security guard at Site-19 for one month. Joined the Foundation two months ago. Ex-Rangers, later transferred to ODA 0112, 1st Special Forces Group of the US Army. Twenty confirmed operations before recruitment. Only son of a farming family. Average student."
Ethan froze, his brows furrowing. Every word felt like his life was being read straight from a classified dossier.
The soldier didn't pause. "I am the commander of Mobile Task Force Nu-1, codename: 'Wolf Hunters.'"
Ethan blinked, his frown deepening in confusion. MTF? His thoughts raced. If I remember correctly… MTFs are elite units. The best of the best. They never interact with guards unless it's for…
"Exactly what you're thinking," the commander interrupted, his voice still sharp as a knife. "You've been transferred to my unit. From this moment forward, you're under my command."
Something heavy landed on Ethan's lap. He looked down to see a black combat jacket, tactical pants, and steel-toed boots, gear that matched the soldier's own.
"You have one minute to put those on," the commander said coldly.
Ethan's throat tightened. His body still ached from his injuries, his mind was reeling, but his instincts kicked in. He swung his legs off the bed, forcing himself upright despite the stiffness in his muscles. Standing on shaky feet, he stripped off the hospital gown and began dressing with brisk, military precision.
The jacket was heavy, the boots solid, each piece of gear fitting almost too perfectly, as if they had prepared this for him long before he woke up.
By the time he fastened the last buckle, sweat dotted his forehead. Ethan stood at attention, uncertain, heart hammering in his chest.
The commander rose from his chair, looming taller than Ethan remembered. His gloved hands adjusted the beret slightly as he looked Ethan over. The silence was suffocating.
Then, at last, the commander gave a single nod. "Good. You'll do."
The commander's voice was steady, carrying the weight of authority.
"Ethan Veyers. By direct order of the O5 Command, you have been officially transferred to the Mobile Task Force Department. You are hereby promoted to the rank of MTF Operative. As such, your clearance level has been raised from Level 1 to Level 3. Additionally, you have been granted L3/Nu-1 Access. You will be briefed on the details of this clearance shortly."
Ethan's chest tightened at the weight of those words. Without hesitation, he straightened his posture and saluted.
"It's an honor, Commander!"
The commander turned, his boots striking the ground with sharp precision.
"Follow me."
Ethan fell in step behind him, still trying to process everything. They left the sterile white walls of the medical wing, moving into a corridor unlike anything he had ever seen before.
The passage was built like a fortress, walls layered with reinforced alloys, lines of surveillance cameras watching every angle. The air carried the low hum of hidden machinery, like the heartbeat of the Foundation itself.
From time to time, other operatives passed them, dressed in the same black tactical gear, faces hidden behind balaclavas or helmets. Each one stopped to salute the commander before moving on, their discipline absolute.
Researchers, dressed in pristine lab coats, also crossed their path. They, too, gave the commander respectful nods, as though his presence carried an unspoken weight of authority beyond the usual chain of command.
Ethan's eyes darted to every detail, but his expression remained composed. Inside, however, his thoughts swirled. Nu-1… Wolf Hunters… This is beyond anything a cadet like me should've ever touched. Why me?
The commander never slowed, never spoke further, his stride purposeful as though every second mattered. Ethan clenched his fists at his sides and followed, heart pounding louder with each step.
Finally, they entered a room filled with blueprints, maps, target profiles, and ongoing investigations. Inside, one Nu-1 operator, his face hidden beneath a balaclava, was studying one of the maps that connected several individuals with red strings.
He heard the door open and turned around immediately, snapping into a salute.
"Commander!"
The commander gave a sharp nod. "Here's your team leader. He'll brief you on everything you need to know." Without waiting for a response, he turned and stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a heavy clang.
Ethan's eyes shifted to the team leader. The silence stretched until, suddenly, the man spoke.
"Hey, rookie. I didn't think you'd make it into a MTF after just one month."
Ethan froze. There was something about that voice, familiar, striking a chord deep in his memory, but he couldn't quite place it. He narrowed his eyes.
"Sir… do we know each other?"
The operator reached up, tugged his balaclava down, and revealed a grin beneath.
"What, already forgotten your old Rory from the Gunsmith Unit?"
Ethan's eyes went wide. Recognition hit him like a hammer.
"Lieutenant O'Rourke!" he exclaimed, snapping into a salute.
O'Rourke burst out laughing. "Calm down, rookie! And don't 'Lieutenant' me. I'm a sergeant here, not a lieutenant."
O'Rourke grinned, folding his arms.
"Alright then. As you already know, MTFs are the elite of the elite. Each one specializes in a particular field. Officially, we're Task Forces. But what most people call us are the Mobile Task Forces, the most well-known category of Task Forces. And since you're now one of us, you deserve to know the internal truth."
He leaned forward, his tone sharp but steady.
"MTFs are mobile units, capable of being deployed globally. Sometimes beyond that, into other dimensions, across timelines, different worlds, even other star systems in rare cases. Their sizes and organizations vary wildly depending on the mission they're built for. Most are combat-oriented, but some aren't soldiers at all. Some are just nerds behind computer screens, researchers digging into anomalies, investigators chasing threads… and yes, even consciousness travelers."
Ethan swallowed hard, the flood of information sinking into him like cold water.
"And us?" he asked cautiously. "What kind are we?"
O'Rourke's smile lingered for a second before shifting into something sharper.
"All of them," he said simply. "Nu-1 specializes in investigations, research… and combat."
Ethan's brows furrowed. "Then what's our mission?"
The grin vanished from O'Rourke's face in an instant. His expression hardened, voice dropping into something heavy and grave.
Ethan stiffened, unsettled by the sudden shift in tone.
"Rookie," O'Rourke said, his gaze piercing. "Listen to me carefully. What I'm about to tell you will change your life forever. Are you prepared for that?"
A crushing pressure settled on Ethan's chest. His pulse quickened, every instinct screaming that this wasn't something he could take lightly.
O'Rourke's eyes narrowed.
"The mission of Nu-1 is to investigate, research, and neutralize all groups and entities associated with… SCP-001. Our purpose is to contain it. And if possible, neutralize it."
Ethan's jaw dropped, his voice cracking out before he could stop it.
"SCP-001?!!"
O'Rourke's expression darkened, his tone dropping to something Ethan had never heard before, something heavy, almost unbearable.
"Listen carefully, rookie. SCP-001, designation 'The Black Moon.' That's our target. It isn't a monster you can cage or a god you can bargain with. It's an entropic entity, something that exists outside the boundaries of our reality. It doesn't walk, it doesn't speak. But it kills."
Ethan swallowed, his chest tightening as O'Rourke continued.
"Every few decades, somewhere in the world, people vanish. Sometimes just one, sometimes hundreds. No warning, no pattern. They're obliterated, transformed into a hard, black substance. Four seconds later… gone. Erased. Not dead, gone. Like they never existed. That's the Black Moon at work."
Ethan's pulse quickened. "But… why so rarely?"
O'Rourke shook his head. "That's the problem. The O5 Council believes it's only the beginning. That the obliterations are accelerating, slowly at first, but building toward something catastrophic. A tipping point. If he's right…" O'Rourke's eyes hardened. "…we're looking at the end of everything. Not just the Foundation. Not just humanity. The universe itself."
Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. His voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper. "And… it can't be stopped?"
"There's only one glimmer of hope," O'Rourke said grimly. "Records suggest it can't act if it's being directly observed. No one knows why. No one knows how long. But it's the only lead we have. And it's not enough."
The silence that followed pressed down on Ethan's chest like a weight. His mind reeled, and for the first time since joining the Foundation, he truly wondered if he'd stepped into something far beyond anything a human could ever hope to fight.
Finally, a flash of memory hit him. Two white eyes stared at him from the complete darkness before he passed out. A voice, calm and omnipresent, whispered directly into his mind: I am the Administrator. Leader of the Foundation.
Ethan froze. His heart skipped a beat. He barely managed to murmur: "John…"
O'Rourke's head tilted slightly, confusion evident. "???"
Ethan shook his head quickly. "No… it's nothing."
O'Rourke shrugged, dismissing it. "Anyway, let's continue. Now, enough about the MTFs. Since you've been upgraded from L1 to L3, you probably haven't heard about the O5 Command, have you?"
Ethan blinked. "The O5 Command?"
O'Rourke leaned forward, his expression turning serious, his usual half-smile gone. "Yes. The O5 Command is the administrative entity responsible for coordinating and making the highest-level decisions across the entire Foundation. At its head is the O5 Council, thirteen individuals. No one knows anything about them. Not their faces, not their names. Hell… we don't even know if there really are thirteen, or if it's just one of their counter intelligence tricks. What we do know is that together, these thirteen hold absolute knowledge about the Foundation. They are above everyone and above everything."
Ethan swallowed hard. His pulse raced.
O'Rourke's voice dropped lower, colder. "But even above these quasi-gods… there exists one who stands higher. One who commands even the O5 Council. His name… is the Administrator. Nothing is known about him. Not his face, not his true form. What you see may only be an assistant. What you do know… is that he is the absolute master of the Foundation. The O5 Council may decide the rules… but the Administrator chooses them. He creates the rules. His words are law. His desires are absolute. He is the creator, the ultimate leader of everything the Foundation represents."
Ethan felt his knees weaken. His mind spun. The room seemed smaller, darker, as if the weight of that title pressed against his chest. The Administrator… the one above everyone… John??? That guy?
His fingers clenched instinctively on the edge of the table. Every instinct screamed at him, yet a strange curiosity settled deep in his bones. Fear… awe… fascination.
-/-/-
A van rocked slightly as it rolled down the cracked streets of East Los Angeles, its tinted windows hiding ten agents of the foundation in tactical gear. The hum of the engine mixed with low laughter and the metallic clicks of rifles being checked one last time.
"Man, did you see the fight last night?" one of them,Torres, asked, adjusting the strap of his plate carrier.
"Yeah," another chuckled. "That knockout? Pure luck. Dude just threw his arm out and prayed."
"Still counts as a win, hermano," Torres grinned. "Maybe you should try it next time instead of freezing in front of the bag."
A few laughs broke out. Even behind helmets and black gloves, the mood carried an edge of easy confidence, the kind that came before the storm.
"Yo, I'm telling you," said Nolan, the team's breacher, "I'll drop more targets than Torres tonight. Hundred bucks says I outshoot you."
Torres scoffed, tightening his gloves. "Make it two hundred. You're on."
"Jesus Christ," someone muttered from the back, shaking his head. "We're supposed to be ghosting in, not running a kill contest."
"Relax," Nolan smirked. "Just keeping sharp."
The laughter faded as the van slowed to a crawl. The city noise outside dimmed, swallowed by tension. The air grew heavier. Boots stopped tapping.
At the front, a calm voice spoke through the comms, their team leader, Captain Rios.
"Alright, enough chatter," he said, tone steady but cold. "Last reminder of the mission."
The van went silent.
The team leader's voice cut through the van like a blade.
"Los Angeles has become one of the main distribution hubs for the anomalous narcotic known as Sin," Captain Rios said, eyes scanning each face in the dim interior. "For the last month we've tracked dealers, cut lines, and followed dead ends. A few days ago, our intelligence finally located one of the upper-tier supply points."
A low murmur passed through the crew. Rios let them sit with it for a heartbeat before continuing.
"Intel indicates this location is tied to a Mexican cartel. Heavy security, lots of street-level muscle, enough that a normal raid gets messy. Not enough, however, to justify a full MTF deployment. That's why it's us tonight."
He tapped the tablet in his hand. A grainy satellite photo flashed on the screen: an anonymous warehouse in a nondescript industrial block. The team leaned forward.
"This place is fronted by a shell company," Rios said. "Looks abandoned if you drive by slow. Real name's scrubbed clean. The goods come in the loading dock on the north side. We're going in through that door, fast breach, layered clear, search every room, every crate. We find Sin, we bag it, we document it, we bring it back. If there's a product we can't safely move, we detonate and sanitize it on site."
He flicked his eyes across the faces lit by the blue glow of the tablet. "Rules of engagement are standard: lethal force only if necessary to complete the mission or to protect the team. Try to avoid killing lieutenants and named leadership unless they actively stop the op. We want evidence, not dead bodies."
Nolan snorted softly under his breath. Torres rolled his shoulders but kept his mouth shut. The two gamblers exchanged the tiniest of smirks and then fell into the professional stillness that comes when a plan snaps into place.
Rios closed the tablet and exhaled. "Brevity now, entry stack will be: Me, breacher, point, team two will stack behind with ballistic shields. Skywatch is watching from the sky. We move on my count. Expect booby traps and dogs. Expect doors barricaded from the inside. Expect the unexpected."
He looked each man and woman in the eye. "Any questions?"
Silence answered him, ten trained soldiers, the calm before the storm.
Rios nodded once. "Good. Last reminder: This is Foundation business. You are DEA for the street cameras, for the neighbors, for appearances. For us, pack in and do the job. We go clean and quiet. We go hard if we must. Move out on my mark."
He clicked the radio to private channel, checked his gear, and the van eased to a halt behind a row of dumpsters. The rear doors shuddered open. Night air flooded in, heavy with diesel and distant sirens.
"Stack up!" Rios ordered.
Boots found the pavement. The team flowed out into the shadow of the warehouse, a practiced machine of ten hearts beat as one.
They moved like shadows.
The team breathed as one, soft exhalations in the night, boots folding over chainlink like practiced ghosts. Rios led; the breacher followed with the door kit slung low; point man kept his muzzle down the alley. Nolan and Torres flanked, but their eyes never left the fence line. Ten forms, one task. The van's engine coughs dwindled behind them until the city swallowed the sound.
Skywatch hummed overhead, small, nearly invisible, its camera eye a pale dot in the sky. Rios thumbed his earpiece and the drone's feed painted the warehouse rooftop on his HUD: a washing of thermal blobs and slow-moving flashes that were men with rifles. Skywatch's voice was clipped and clinical in their ears.
"Perimeter clear left quadrant ninety meters. Two hostiles on the north loading bay roof, static. One guard rounds the southeast corner at thirty. No dogs in the immediate sector. Small thermal signature by the east side door, possible lookout. Motion sensor on the loading dock disabled five minutes ago. Watch for a tripwire at two meters from the dock door. I'll hold overwatch."
"Copy Skywatch," Rios murmured. He led them to a dark stretch of chainlink topped with barbed coils. The fence hummed with city insects and the far-off pulse of neon.
"Breacher, on me," Rios breathed.
They moved in a practiced ballet. The breacher scaled first, fingertips white around the metal, no noise, no clank. He eased over and dropped silently, the black of his kit folding against shadow. One by one the team flowed. Two boots hit the ground with whispered thuds. Rios followed, landing with a whisper and turning his head to sweep.
Skywatch's camera fed them a narrow window of motion. The drone's overlay yelled in the earpiece: "Two by big vent, keep low, gap in lighting, move now."
They moved.
A pair of guard silhouettes swam into view by a chain of pallets, rifles slung, cigarettes sparking faint in the cold night. An instinctive pause rippled through the team; the air tightened like a drawn breath.
"Slow," Rios said. "Point, you ready?"
Point shifted his grip three degrees and then two degrees again. He exhaled and slid left, hands and shoulders tilting the small angle. Nolan mirrored, then Torres. The squad folded into a single formation, pressure points translated into motion, sliding between pillars of shadow.
Skywatch whispered directions, bearing, distance, pace, its eye sweeping and catching the slow pivot of a guard's head. Two seconds became the length of a frozen stone. The guard turned, body language lazy, cigarette arm lowering, then the drone's feed painted another figure moving behind him. Rios dipped forward and the team ghosted behind an overturned crate.
The guard's cigarette flared up, haloed for a moment, and then the man hunched; a figure on the far side of the compound had blocked his line of sight. In that heartbeat the team advanced another yard, feet whispering over gravel. Skywatch keyed them: "Two at north bay. Suggest suppressive flash on contact, minimal noise."
They reached the loading dock's shadow with three guards between them and the service door. Rios' jaw tightened. He tapped the breacher; the man slipped a tiny device from his vest, electronic and dark, designed to emulate a power blip. Skywatch told them where the lookout's path would be in five heartbeats. The breacher's hand rose, silent.
"Now," Rios breathed.
A sharp, staged light popped at the corner, one of the team's micro-flashes, followed by the soft thunk of a foam projectile into the guard's chest. The man's body buckled, the cigarette fell, and he staggered. Two more bodies were neutralized with skillful throws and the quiet snap of cable ties. No gunfire. No burst.
Skywatch fed them a live wire: "Contact neutralized. Two more moving inside the bay, approaching the supply door."
Rios exhaled through his teeth and nodded. "Breach," he whispered.
The breacher placed a slim charge on the door, calibrated to make a soft, rapid splice rather than a fireball. Skywatch kept its eye on the rooftop; a third guard was pacing, oblivious. The charge spoke in a muffled cough; the metal seam peeled inward like a seam unzipping. The team flowed through the gap like a tide.
Inside smelled of dust and stale oil, warehouse breath. Their boots found crates and cooled rivets. Overhead, the rafters swallowed sound; beneath their palms, crates hummed with hidden weight. Skywatch painted the layout in glowing lines: aisles, stairwells, a stacked maze of pallets. Rios pointed without speaking; the team split. Nolan took an aisle left, Torres took the right; point went straight for the central corridor with Rios breathing down his back.
They moved with precise economy: sweep, clear, mark. Skywatch's voice was steady, a ghostly conductor: "Two hostiles behind bay seven, move through corridor B, I'll mark the lights; avoid the motion sensor at you-ninety. Dog run, no thermal."
They passed within meters of sleeping figures slumped behind crates, lookouts, sleeping or sedated. Torres' throat tightened; every too-easy body was a story he hadn't earned yet. He slid past one man with a cigarette smoldering in his fingers and thought of the raid's cost. He suppressed it, returning instead to the task: clear, tag, carry.
They found signs, small things that signaled scale: bundle-wrapped packages stamped with a sigil, black powder residue dusting crate edges, prayer cards tucked into pallet boards. Skywatch tagged a hidden stairwell; Rios led them down into a concrete belly.
The drone called out a whisper: "Server room below, heat signature, two. Possible lab at coordinates alpha. Move silent."
They reached the lab door, industrial, locked, sealed. Torres put a gloved hand to the lock, listened, and then slid a pick in with an absent smile. The tumbler gave with a soft click.
Rios flashed a half grin that was all business. "Eyes open. We sweep on my mark."
Skywatch hovered at the ceiling, its optical array slicing the dark. In a voice that was paper-thin but precise, it reported: "One mobile table, chemical reaction vial, multiple stashes. Human presence, two standing by the bench. They haven't noticed you."
Rios' palm flattened against the cold metal of the doorframe. "Stack and go. Non-lethal first. We bag product if possible. If they resist, sever command. Move."
They flowed in, the ten agents like a knife through silence. Point took the front, Nolan and Torres flanking in silent arcs. Rios' heart hammered in his throat but his fingers were steady. He moved, eyes snapping through the dim, cataloguing vials and sealed pouches stamped in a language he didn't need to read to understand: Sin.
At the far bench, two lab techs, cartel-affiliated, hands in latex, froze as the team's shields rose and the ambient lights snapped to a stark white. Rios' voice was cool and exact. "Hands where I can see them. You're under the DEA's custody."
They complied, trembling, eyes wide as pronouncements. Skywatch painted the room overhead; Rios' fingers flew through comms to tag evidence, label, and call for secondary teams. The drone's eye recorded everything.
Rios reached for a sealed pouch. Up close, the powder inside seemed to drink the light; it looked dull, like burned sugar. A faded scrap of cloth, an insignia, tumbled from the pouch. Someone in the team muttered under their breath.
Rios barked a quiet command: "Bag product. Secure tech. We hold them for interrogation. No heroics."
Skywatch chimed softly: "Containment teams and transport en route. Overwatch holding for extraction in seven minutes."
They worked like clockwork, breathers, baggers, markers, until the lab's corners were stripped and their evidence custody chains set. Then, as the team exhaled, a name scrawled on the wall near the vials caught Torres' eye, large painted letters in Spanish, ragged and desperate.
He read it aloud before he understood he'd done so: "Gloria a la Luna Negra."
Then he repeated in English: "Glory to the Black Moon ?" The heck is that ? A cult?
A hush fell. Even Skywatch's feed seemed to hold its breath.
Rios' face didn't change, but the air between his teeth tightened. "Tag it. Full photographic, timestamp. We will bring that back. It might interest the foundation."
———
Sorry for the lack of chapters this week, I fell down the stairs and badly hurt my right arm.
-sight- No more gooni-… AHEM.. I mean, it's been hard to write this chapter. I should be able to get back to my usual pace soon.
Aside from that, I've started writing the first chapters of a new book called "Global Domination: The Legacy of the Greatest Commander". It's in the style of Lord of the People, or for those unfamiliar with that genre, think of your classic online RTS strategy game like Rise of Kingdoms, but set in a human and non-magical world on another planet, with technology and environment roughly equivalent to the year 2030. I will release it once I write 50 chapters.
Still in the planning phase for now, but it's looking promising.
Ciao 🫶