Chapter 155: Three Idiots Go South - Part 1
The conference room in Sector 41 was crowded, over thirty Nu-1 operatives and a handful of researchers sat on folding chairs, Ethan among them. All eyes faced a large screen at the front. Standing before it, in black uniform, the Commander of Nu-1 surveyed the room like a machine that had learned to be patient.
Finally he spoke, voice flat and clinical: "We have new intelligence. A few days ago, under the umbrella of Operation Purifier of Sins, an effort to intercept and halt the spread of the newly designated SCP-10034, a Foundation tactical team struck a major storage and distribution node in Los Angeles and made a significant discovery."
He tapped his tablet. The screen changed: a photograph of a wall, spray-painted in rough letters, "Gloria a la Luna Negra".
"Director Randall of the Demonology Division flagged the image immediately and forwarded it to our task force. We assess that the criminals involved are likely followers of The Black Moon, and it is our duty to deal with them. The building has been linked to the Sin Nombre cartel, so we believe these cartel elements are also followers of The Black Moon."
He swiped. A map and a cluster of notes appeared. "Intelligence indicates Sin Nombre is a recent organization that has violently shattered the existing balance among cartels. Originating in Michoacán, Mexico, they've spread rapidly and now dominate the region, Michoacán, Guerrero, and Jalisco. They control local police and municipal structures. The Foundation maintains a safehouse in Lázaro Cárdenas, southern Michoacán, but has a very limited footprint there."
The Commander's tone hardened. "We will conduct black-ops insertions there separately and reconvene at that safehouse to coordinate further operations. You will travel in small cells of two to four operatives by boat, car, and civilian aircraft. No more will be disclosed until you arrive."
The Commander continued through the roster in the same flat, unhurried voice. Names, call signs, senior researchers, operatives, flowed across the room like a steady list of coordinates. Ethan tried to follow, but the syllables blurred together until only one line cut clean through the noise.
"Group Twenty-Two will be composed of Dr. Alto Clef, Agent Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov, and Agent Ethan Veyers. Deployment: commercial airliner."
Silence snapped into place like a trap. Heads turned. Conversations choked off. For a beat, the air felt thin, too thin for the roomful of trained killers and field researchers who had spent their lives moving through violence.
All eyes landed on Ethan.
He felt them, pity from some, condolence tucked into sympathetic nods from others who had learned to read bad rosters years ago. A few faces were blank with professional curiosity. Someone three rows back stared with something like concern. O'Rourke leaned in beside him and murmured under his breath, voice low and irreverent: "Oh, boy. Who did you offend in another life to be paired with these two?"
Ethan swallowed. His mouth went dry. "What do you mean?" he whispered.
O'Rourke's lips twisted into a humorless half-smile. "I won't say more. But I'll say one thing, I'll pray for your soul before you leave." His tone was half-joke, half-threat; enough to make the hair on Ethan's arms rise.
Around them, the Commander finished the roll call without displaying anything like amusement. The room slowly returned to the mechanics of a mission: maps, timelines, equipment lists. But the small cyclone that had formed around Ethan did not die down. He felt raw under those looks, like a specimen pinned under a spotlight.
Ethan folded his hands in his lap and tried to make his breathing steady. O'Rourke patted his shoulder once, hard but oddly reassuring, then fell quiet. The screen in front of the Commander flickered to a new slide, and the meeting moved forward as if nothing had happened.
---
The next morning, the terminal buzzed with the quiet chaos of travel, rolling suitcases, muffled announcements, and the scent of cheap coffee and jet fuel.
Ethan stood in front of the departure board. He wore a plain gray t-shirt, khaki shorts, and worn sneakers. A backpack rested on his shoulders, and he dragged a small black suitcase behind him.
To his left stood Dr. Alto Clef, dressed like a walking tourist cliché, floral Hawaiian shirt, loose shorts, and flip-flops that slapped against the tile floor. He carried a cheap rolling suitcase covered in stickers from places Ethan was fairly sure didn't exist.
On his right was Agent Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov, built like a tank and looking about as friendly as one. He wore a black t-shirt tucked into olive cargo pants, boots laced tight.
The trio stood before the flight display, neon letters blinking with destinations.
"Doktor," Dmitri said in his thick, unmistakably Russian accent, arms crossed as he glanced at his watch. "We are one hour early."
Clef followed his gaze around the terminal, then his eyes lit up as they landed on a small airport bar tucked in the corner.
He smiled, the kind of smile that meant trouble. "Then let's not waste it. Come on, drinks are on the Foundation's dime."
Ethan hesitated. "Doctor, I don't think that's a good idea. We're on a mission."
Clef turned his head toward him slowly, eyes hidden behind his tinted sunglasses. He leaned slightly closer, the corners of his mouth curling into that infamous grin.
"Kid," he said, his voice equal parts humor and danger, "if the mission can't survive one beer, it deserves to fail."
Without waiting for a response, Clef started toward the bar, the sound of his flip-flops marking each defiant step. Dmitri shrugged once and followed.
Ethan sighed and glanced up at the departure board again, Flight 412 to Mexico City, Boarding in 57 minutes, before reluctantly trailing behind them.
They found three empty stools at the bar. Clef dropped into the middle seat like he owned the place, Dmitri sat on his right, posture straight as a statue, and Ethan took the left, awkwardly setting his backpack at his feet.
The bartender, a woman who looked like she'd seen everything twice, raised an eyebrow.
Clef leaned forward with his usual charm. "Three beers," he said. "Something cold, something American, and something that won't make my friend here start a revolution."
Dmitri grunted. "I do not drink light beer."
Clef smirked. "Then you'll fit right in."
Ethan just sat there, quietly wishing this wasn't how his first official mission was starting.
The bartender slid three glasses onto the counter.
Ethan looked down at his beer, still untouched, then glanced sideways. Clef's and Dmitri's glasses were already empty.
Ethan blinked. "?!!"
Dmitri let out a disgusted grunt, slamming his glass down. "What this? Bear piss?!"
Clef scowled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hell, I've tasted SCP-939's meat and it went down smoother than this!"
The bartender, who'd clearly heard them, approached with the cautious air of someone walking into a minefield. Her voice trembled slightly. "Uh… would you gentlemen like another drink?"
Clef raised his head, his grin spreading wide as if this were a challenge.
"Bombay Sapphire Martini," he said, his tone suddenly refined and sharp. "Stirred, not shaken. Two ice cubes only. Six parts gin, one part vermouth. Two olives, one onion, and if you bruise the vermouth, god help you."
The bartender froze, her expression going blank like a system crash.
Then she turned to Dmitri, forcing a polite smile. "And you, sir?"
"Vodka," he said flatly.
"With… what?"
Dmitri turned his head toward her, his icy stare enough to make her flinch.
"With ice."
She swallowed. "Any preferred brand?"
His eyes narrowed further. "Vodka. With ice."
That was all it took. She nodded quickly and turned toward Ethan, clearly praying for salvation.
"And you, sir?"
Ethan smiled awkwardly, scratching his cheek. "Uh, just a Virgin Mojito for me, please."
The woman exhaled with visible relief. Finally, a normal human being among this trio. She hurried off to prepare their drinks.
Clef leaned back on his stool, resting his elbows on the counter, watching Ethan with a sly smirk.
"Seriously? A virgin Mojito?" he asked, voice dripping with mischief. "You a virgin too, kid?"
Dmitri grunted from his side. "Weak."
Ethan opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. Both of these men were his superiors and both could probably snap his neck before he could even react.
He sighed, slumping against the counter, eyes half-lidded with quiet misery.
Even missions against the Taliban weren't this exhausting, he thought grimly.
The alcohol was forthcoming, and it both lightened Dmitri and Clef mood and loosened their tongues accordingly as they drank. As the first rounds went through them, they developed a lively and appropriate discussion.
"You see, Dmitri, a good drink is smooth, you have just a small sip and the flavor and aromas combine and are enough to take your breath away. It's like the touch of a beautiful woman, something exquisite and rare, something you hold in your hand and show people so they can see what a classy son of a bitch you are."
"Drink? Drink is not status or class symbol, Doktor Clef. Drink is drink. You drink it. You get drunk. Then you drink more, until you have drink so much that it make you sober again."
"…I don't believe you've understood."
Their spirited debate continued, drawing the attention of the other customers. Slowly, heads turned toward the two men as they argued, jabbed, and laughed. As the pile of empty vodka and martini glasses grew, the argument mellowed into wild storytelling.
"I wanted to see his face when I killed him, Dmitri. That's why I had the snipers hold their fire. See, I came in behind him like this," Clef gestured dramatically, "and hit him across the face with my pistol. Then he stabbed me, things happened, and blah blah blah, I ended up in the hospital for a few weeks. Good times."
Dmitri nodded approvingly. "In Chechnya, our supplies always run low. So I am forced to hold fire many times and use bayonet." He wagged a finger. "Many Chechens get it in the face and neck, Doktor Clef. Many. Much blood."
"Ever drive over thirty people in a tank?"
"Does APC count? What about unarmed combat, snap necks?"
"The spine is easier for me, Dmitri. People like twisting heads, but I prefer grabbing the hair and kicking the back hard. Personal preference."
"Once, night mission. We find rebel camp in bombed warehouse. I send two teams, yes?" Dmitri held up two fingers. "Two teams, each entrance. I climb through window alone, knife and pistol. They were sleep, guards sleep, everyone sleep. We slit all throats in night and leave for crows." He coughed. "Later that night, I find out there was ceasefire."
"Oh, man, I know. Once, I was testing an experimental chainsaw for containment. There was a D-Class riot, and one thing led to another. Next thing I know, I'm standing on a pile of D-Class bodies, screaming in bloodlust—then someone tells me it was the annual costume party and half my research team is dead." Clef shrugged. "Turns out the saw was just a normal saw, too."
Dmitri nodded solemnly, pausing. Then said quietly, "I was just kidding about ceasefire, Doktor Clef."
"…Oh. I wasn't. It really was a costume party."
Dmitri turned toward the bar, wanting another drink, but no one answered. He leaned over the counter and found the bartender crouched behind it, clutching a cross and a Bible, whispering prayers. Dmitri blinked, shrugged, and grabbed a bottle of vodka himself.
Then he looked around and realized the entire bar was empty. Drinks and meals were left behind, as if everyone had run from murderers.
He turned to see Ethan at the far end of the bar, sitting alone with his drink, quietly muttering to himself:
"I don't know those guys. I don't know those guys. I don't know those guys."
---
In the plane, Clef and Dmitri sat side by side, while Ethan was a few seats away, silently thanking every god he knew for not being placed next to those two maniacs.
Clef rubbed his shoulder with a groan. "Considering we're technically working, you'd think they could've given us better seats. These feel like medieval torture devices."
"Is better than Aeroflot in 1980s," Dmitri replied dryly. "Food recognizable. Cabin actually pressurized. Stewardesses smile at you instead of scream. And much prettier." He raised an eyebrow at the young flight attendant pushing the beverage cart. "Aeroflot stewardesses all fat old bitches with horse face. And here only one chance in hundred to crash, not fifty-fifty like Aeroflot."
"I dunno," Clef muttered, poking suspiciously at the sandwich on his tray. "A boiled beet and some horse-leather meat might actually be an upgrade from this thing. What the hell are these little green flecks anyway? Lizard bits?"
"Maybe is sperm from 682," Dmitri said with a deadpan smirk, making an obscene jerking motion with his hand. "Big lizard wet his beak in your sandwich, no?"
"I wish. It'd probably improve the taste," Clef grumbled. He waved to the flight attendant. "Excuse me, miss? Miss?"
The stewardess leaned closer with a polite smile.
"I'm sorry, miss, but you seem to have messed up my order," Clef said sweetly. "I asked for ham and cheese, not… pus and plastic. From the taste, you might've mixed the two up."
"I see, sir," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry you don't like the sandwich. If you'd like a refu-"
"I don't want a damn refund," Clef interrupted. "I want something edible. I'm sure somewhere in that cart, underneath the piles of dried human ejaculate and styrofoam sponge, there's at least one real sandwich. How about bending that pretty ass over and looking a little harder, sweet cheeks?"
There was a beat of silence. Then the stewardess smiled, too wide, too sharp.
"Oh, I see," she said sweetly, leaning across Dmitri. "So what you're really saying is… you're the asshole here."
Her tone dropped low, stern but clear enough for the entire cabin to hear. "Listen up, hijo de puta. I don't make the food, I just serve it. If you've got a problem, you can write a goddamn letter to the people who do. But until we land, it's four more hours to Mexico, and I'll be damned if I have to listen to you bitch the whole way. So either shut up and eat your sandwich, or I'll duct-tape your mouth and the seat together. And by the way-" she straightened up, glaring down at him, "my name's not sweet cheeks, càbron."
Dmitri whistled low, trying not to laugh. Clef blinked once, then muttered, "…Okay, fair enough. Guess I'll eat the lizard sperm."
Ethan: "…"
He stood up, muttering something under his breath, and made his way to the restroom. The moment the door shut behind him, the muffled drone of the engines and Clef's endless complaints about the sandwich filled the cabin again.
Clef was still poking at the bread with visible disgust. "I swear this thing's alive. Look, it's breathing."
Dmitri didn't even look up. "Maybe sandwich trying to escape. Smarter than you."
Clef rolled his eyes and was about to retort when suddenly-
CLICK.
Three men stood up at once from different rows, their movements sharp and purposeful. Each held a knife, one of them, a small grenade gripped tightly in his free hand.
"Nobody moves!" one of them shouted, his accent thick, his voice trembling with conviction. He grabbed the flight attendant, the same one who'd yelled at Clef, and yanked her close, pressing the blade against her throat.
"God is great! Long live Chechnya!" he bellowed. "This plane now belongs to the Holy Army of the Chechen Independent Republic!"
The cabin erupted in screams and gasps. Passengers froze. The stewardess whimpered, the knife trembling against her skin.
Clef blinked once. His expression stayed perfectly neutral as he slowly set down his sandwich.
Then, in the same tone someone might use when finding out their flight's been delayed, he muttered:
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."
Dmitri muttered angrily. "Chechens? In my plane?"
---
Ethan stood in front of the lavatory mirror, staring at his own tired reflection. He let out a deep sigh that came straight from the soul.
Never, not once in his entire career, had a mission made him want to eat a bullet quite this badly. Now he understood why everyone had looked at him with pity when the groups were assigned. Dmitri he could handle, cold, stoic, with humor as dry as a Siberian winter. But Clef? That man was a walking war crime of human interaction.
He let out another sigh as he pulled up his pants. This trip can't get any worse, he thought, moments before the door behind him exploded inward with a thunderous kick.
Before he could even blink, a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him out. Ethan stumbled forward into the aisle, thrown off balance by the sudden movement. By the time he regained his footing, his instincts kicked in, his eyes scanned the scene in a heartbeat.
Three men. Knives drawn. One holding a grenade. The air was thick with panic; passengers froze in their seats, the stewardess trembling with a blade pressed to her throat.
Shit… hijackers.
Then he caught Clef's gaze from across the aisle, that infuriating, smug bastard, and saw the quick, unmistakable wink.
That was all he needed.
Ethan spun, grabbing the wrist clutching his shoulder and twisting it into a brutal arm lock. The man screamed, the knife clattering to the floor. In one fluid motion, Ethan ripped the weapon away and reversed his grip.
The other two hijackers reacted instantly, shouting in panic and charging forward. But Clef and Dmitri were already moving.
Dmitri's hand flashed, a combat knife appeared from somewhere on his person. He lunged, slicing clean across the throat of the second terrorist. Blood erupted in a violent arc, splattering across the seats and passengers as screams filled the cabin.
Clef moved at the same time, intercepting the third man, the one with the grenade. Without hesitation, he drove a savage knee straight into the terrorist's face. The impact made a sickening CRACK, and the man collapsed instantly, the grenade tumbling from his limp hand.
Ethan slammed the pommel of his stolen knife into the jaw of his own attacker, sending him crashing into the cabin doors with a dull thud.
For a moment, the world went silent, only the hum of the engines and the soft drip of blood breaking the quiet.
Then Clef exhaled casually, brushing his hands together.
"Well," he said, looking around at the terrified passengers, "so much for in-flight entertainment."
---
A few minutes later, Dmitri returned from the lavatory, wiping his hands on his cargo pants as he approached. Ethan and Clef were standing near the cockpit door, speaking quietly with the co-pilot, who looked both shaken and deeply grateful. The situation seemed stable, at least for now.
When the conversation ended, both men excused themselves and walked toward Dmitri. Clef leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"We've got a problem."
Dmitri frowned. "No problem. Chechens down now."
Clef sighed through his nose, rubbing his temples. "That is the problem, comrade. Three terrorists dead on a commercial flight. A cabin full of witnesses ready to tell the story. Media attention, headlines, investigations, the whole goddamn circus. You see where I'm going with this?"
Dmitri considered his words for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. "Inconvenient. Command will give us another long lecture about meaning of 'low profile.'"
"Exactly." Clef grinned faintly. "But don't worry. I've got a plan. When I give the signal, you two follow me. Try to look casual."
The gangly, big-nosed doctor took a deep breath, straightened his shirt, and started strolling down the aisle like he didn't have a care in the world. Dmitri and Ethan exchanged a wary glance but said nothing.
At the front of the cabin, the young stewardess sat on a jump seat, trembling hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She looked exhausted, her mascara slightly smeared. Clef approached her, speaking in a low, almost soothing tone. The engines drowned out his words, but his body language was unmistakable.
He said something, calm, sympathetic.
She replied hesitantly, eyes flicking up toward him.
Clef said something else, leaning forward a little, that crooked smile tugging at his lips.
The stewardess smiled weakly, rolling her eyes as she wiped at the corner of her cheek.
Clef chuckled softly, resting one arm against the wall beside her, speaking as though they were old friends sharing a private joke. She began to relax, even toyed with a strand of hair between her fingers.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
She traced a finger down the side of her neck.
He winked.
She bit her lower lip.
Then, without breaking stride, Clef turned and casually slipped past the lavatory door, disappearing into the galley.
The stewardess hesitated for a second, then followed him. The metallic click of a latch echoed faintly through the aisle, followed by the sound of a panel opening.
Ethan and Dmitri waited. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then they stood, moving quickly but silently toward the galley. When they peered inside, the ladder leading down to the baggage compartment was wide open, a faint draft of cold air drifting up.
Without a word, Dmitri went first, sliding down into the darkness below. Ethan followed right after, the hatch sealing shut behind them with a muted clunk.
The first thing they saw when their boots hit the metal floor was Clef easing the unconscious stewardess onto a cargo crate. Her head lolled to the side, breathing shallow but steady. Lipstick smudged his collar, and his Hawaiian shirt hung open halfway down his chest. He looked, as usual, like chaos wearing a human face.
He glanced back casually, tossing a small ring of keys toward Dmitri.
"See if you can get our bags," Clef said, his tone disturbingly calm. "They're probably in one of those locked cargo containers."
Dmitri caught the keys midair and stared at him, deadpan.
"Doktor," he said slowly, in his heavy accent, "please just tell me this. What is point of finding bags now?"
"I don't want to leave them behind when we jump," Clef replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Dmitri blinked once. "…I don't jump without chute. I have done this once. Was not fun. Break many bone."
Still muttering, he went to the lockers anyway, forcing them open with a strength that suggested experience. The metallic clatter echoed through the compartment as he began rifling through baggage.
Ethan hesitated, looking between the two men, his expression somewhere between disbelief and horror.
"Doctor," he said, his voice tight, "I don't think jumping out of a passenger plane is a good idea."
Clef was already kneeling beside one of the opened suitcases, rummaging like a man looking for snacks. "Dmitri, remember our little vacation in Brazil?" he said, pulling out a bundle of cloth. "I learned from that."
He stood up, holding two neatly folded parachutes like trophies. Dmitri frowned at the sight, muttering something that might've been a prayer or a curse.
"Doktor," he said after a beat, "there are only two parachutes."
Clef froze mid-grin. "…Crap."
The doctor looked up slowly, eyes flicking toward Dmitri. A faint, wicked smile spread across his face.
"Well," he said lightly, "there's always one solution left."
Both Clef and Dmitri turned their heads toward Ethan in perfect synchronization.
Ethan felt the blood drain from his face.
"…Oh god, please help me," he whispered.
---
Ethan opened his eyes to a screaming wall of wind and endless blue below. His fingers clung to Dmitri's t-shirt with the sheer desperation of a dying man, legs wrapped around the Russian like a terrified koala refusing to let go of a tree during a hurricane.
The parachute above them fluttered and strained against the drag, the cords creaking ominously under the doubled weight.
A few meters away, Dr. Clef was calmly descending through the sky, multiple suitcases strapped to him like a deranged Santa Claus on summer vacation. His Hawaiian shirt flapped violently in the wind, revealing the faintest grin on his face as if this was all part of the itinerary.
Ethan's mind raced somewhere between blind panic and existential resignation. He muttered under his breath, his voice almost drowned by the rushing air, an unbroken string of insults, curses, and prayers in three languages.
"Fuuuck, why, holy shit, if I survive this, I'm killing him, please God, Buddha, anyone, let me not die like this-"
Dmitri, face stoic despite the gale, looked down at him with faint annoyance.
"Stop squirming," he barked over the wind. "You throw off balance, both die faster."
Ethan groaned in despair, tightening his grip until Dmitri could barely breathe. His cheeks were frozen, his ears ringing, and his brain replayed one thought over and over:
I jumped out of a goddamn airplane without a parachute.
Far below, the ground was starting to take shape, green fields, a winding road, a cluster of trees. Clef was still lazily spiraling down, occasionally waving at them with one hand like a tourist enjoying the view.
Ethan could barely hear him yell across the air currents:
"See, boys? Fresh air, sunshine, better than any airline meal!"
Ethan closed his eyes again, jaw clenched, and whispered to himself:
"I'm gonna kill him. If I survive, I'm gonna kill him."
---
Later that afternoon, the plane landed at Mexico City International Airport, surrounded by emergency vehicles flashing red and blue.
The stewardess descended the stairs, still dizzy, clutching her head as she stepped onto the tarmac. Her jaw tightened. That man, whoever he was, had knocked her out cold after flirting with her like some cheap spy movie actor.
A group of soldiers in dark green uniforms, badges of the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales (GAFE) stitched on their sleeves, approached with firm steps. One of them spoke in Spanish, his tone professional yet tense.
"Señorita, we have a few questions for you."
She nodded. "Of course, I'll come with you."
They escorted her toward a mobile command post parked near the runway, surrounded by armed guards and humming generators. As soon as the soldier shut the door behind them, the stewardess straightened, saluted sharply, and spoke with sudden authority.
"Teniente Martinez, reporting!"
The soldier she saluted, clearly her superior, returned the gesture, surprised.
"Report, Lieutenant. What the hell happened on that plane?"
Martinez exhaled sharply and began recounting the incident from the beginning: the three strange passengers, their impossible reflexes, and the humiliating part, how she'd been caught off guard by one of them, only to wake up with a pounding headache and an open cargo hatch.
When she finished, the officer asked, "Are they still onboard?"
Martinez shook her head. "No, sir. The copilot found me unconscious and woke me. He said a rear hatch had been opened mid-flight. I assume they jumped."
The officer frowned. "And their combat skills, what did you make of them?"
She hesitated before answering. "That wasn't any standard military reaction time, sir. Whoever they were, they moved like trained killers, maybe even enhanced ones. I'm convinced they belong to a anomalous organization."
The officer fell silent for several seconds, the hum of electronics filling the air.
Then, in a low voice, he said, "Could they be from the Foundation?"
The room froze. Every soldier present exchanged uneasy glances. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Finally, the officer broke the silence. "No… I can't draw conclusions without evidence. Sorry, Lieutenant. The general's been putting everyone under pressure lately, he's paranoid about anything that smells like Foundation activity."
Martinez frowned. "What did that organization do to make our general so afraid of them?"
The officer rubbed the back of his neck, sighing heavily. "No idea. But according to the Coronel of the 1st GAFEA… whatever they did, it was bad enough that the general didn't sleep for days afterward."