[Hogun - POV]
I opened my eyes. The air was still, too still.
Around me rose a small mountain—familiar in a way that clawed at my chest. I knew this place. My feet moved before my thoughts did, carrying me upward along a path lined with flowers. Once bright, once alive… now they sagged, withered, their petals brittle under the weight of silence.
At the peak, I found it.
The tree.
Its bark was gray, veins of rot crawling across the surface like scars. Its branches spread wide against the pale sky—two hundred and fifty in all. I counted them, the way I always had. And like always, my eyes found the gaps.
Two hundred and forty-four branches bore pictures. Faces. People. Memories pressed into fragile frames. But six remained bare, waiting.
Empty.
A reminder of what had been lost… or of what was yet to come.
But—something was wrong.
My breath caught as I scanned the branches again. The number had changed. Two hundred and forty-eight pictures now dangled from the tree.
New ones. Fresh ones.
Planck.
The frames dripped crimson, the images within bleeding as if the memories themselves had been cut open.
I staggered back. My heel scraped stone, and when I turned, the sky above had curdled—no longer blue but a heavy, suffocating black.
Slowly, I looked back to the tree.
And they were there.
Faceless bodies, dozens of them, their silhouettes wavering like shadows cut loose from light. They stared at me—or rather, into me.
One of them spoke, its voice broken, fractured, like metal grinding through static:
[???]: iT… Is… nOt… tHe TiMe.
The words crawled inside my skull, cold and wrong.
I woke up in a noisy infirmary that smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed above; curtains rustled as someone cursed at a blood-pressure cuff. Beds lined the room like sad little islands.
I pushed myself up, every muscle protesting like a chorus of tiny, angry drunks.
[Hogun]: My head feels like a truck ran me over… no—worse. Like a bar fell on me. Nightmares I never get used to, but damn—this one's different.
My hand went to the bandage wrapped around my temple. It was warm and sticky. I could still feel the phantom weight of the SAM Bar settling, the echo of steel on bone. For a second, I half-expected to find a bar-shaped dent in the ceiling.
A nurse—too tired to be cheerful—peered over the curtain and gave me a look that meant "don't try anything clever."
[Nurse]: Hey, keep it down. You banged your head pretty hard. Doctor says no heavy thinking for at least—
She glanced at the chart, then at me. Her face softened a fraction.
[Nurse]: —24 hours. Try to rest.
I wanted to scoff. Instead, I let out a breath that sounded more like a wire snapping.
The din of the infirmary pressed in: someone else crying quietly, a monitor beeping in a frustrated rhythm, distant klaxons like a half-remembered alarm. The nightmare hadn't left me—if anything, it had followed me here and unpacked its bags.
I blinked and there, half a step away, was W leaning against the foot of my bed, arms crossed and a grin that said she'd already won whatever game this was.
[W]: You okay, Sleeping Beauty? You were drooling when we dragged you in. Cute.
I tried to form something clever back. My mouth felt heavy and full of sand.
I forced myself flat on my back, stared at the ceiling tiles, and let the world come at me in small doses: the beep, the breath, W's foot tapping once, twice. The nightmare had left a mark deeper than the bandage. And somewhere in the buzzing hive of the infirmary, the rest of the world kept collapsing and rebuilding itself—one ugly, gorgeous ruin at a time.
[Hogun]: How long have I been out for?
[W]: Been an hour also, that mask on your face wasn't coming out when we bandaged you
[Hogun]: How long have I been out?
[W]: About an hour. Honestly, I thought you were faking it just to skip clean-up duty.
She tilted her head, that smug grin never leaving her face.
[W]: Oh, and by the way—your little mask? Wouldn't come off. Not with tools, not with fire, not even when we dunked you in disinfectant. So…
She gestured lazily at my bandages.
[W]: …we just wrapped over it. Congratulations, you look like a bargain-bin mummy.
The room felt heavier at her words. I reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the coarse fabric where the mask should have ended—only to feel the solid, unyielding shape clinging stubbornly to my skin.
I gritted my teeth and tugged.
It moved.
The bandages peeled back, the mask sliding free with a rasp that shouldn't have been possible. Cold air hit my face, sharp and raw, and for the first time since waking, I actually breathed.
I looked at W.
Her grin was gone.
She wasn't smirking, wasn't leaning casually like she always did. She was staring at me as if she'd just seen a ghost crawl out of the grave. Eyes wide, jaw tight, the kind of look you can't fake even if you wanted to.
[Hogun]: …What?
Her mouth opened, closed, then finally.
[W]: That…that's—how is that possible? I remember the drill snapping when I used it on that mask.
Silence slammed back into the room. Even the fluorescent hum seemed to hesitate.
My hand was still where the mask had been. The skin beneath prickled, cool from air for the first time in god-knows how long. I brought my fingers to my face, expecting seams, grafts, anything—but there was only me. No welds. No ports. No scar that screamed "attachment."
W's eyes flicked to the bandages, then to my hands, then back to my face like she was chasing a missing frame in a film. The nurse paused in the curtain with a tray of syringes, watching us with the wary curiosity of someone who's seen too much.
[W]: The drill broke clean. We tried heat. We tried the solvent. Nothing. It shouldn't—
She broke off, the words dying in the space between us. Her jaw tightened.
[W]: —Nothing should come off that easily. It took ten men and every tool in the med bay to try to pry that thing loose.
I forced a laugh that tasted like rust.
[Hogun]: Maybe I'm just stubborn.
W didn't laugh. She sat on the foot of the bed, eyes narrowed and calculating. The casual chaos was gone—replaced by the kind of silence that means someone's deciding whether you're a problem or a project.
[W]: Either you got lucky, or you're messing with me. Either way, you owe me a drink and an explanation that doesn't involve a bar falling on your head.
She snorted once, then added, sharper.
[W]: Also, you look like a young middle-aged man. But according to those old books, you should be ancient. What's up with that?
[Hogun]: I eat healthy. And here—your beer.
I flicked open my inventory, pulled out a cold can, and tossed it to her. She caught it with one hand, raising a brow as I sat back and produced a whole cake for myself.
Two minutes later, the plate was empty. Every eye in the infirmary was on me.
[Hogun]: …What?
W stared, her grin halfway between horrified and delighted.
[W]: Did you just dislocate your jaw… and snap it back into place… to eat a cake?
Her voice carried, and I swear the nurse two beds over dropped her clipboard.
The room held its breath. Even the heart monitor in the corner seemed to skip a beat.
I wiped a crumb from my lip, looked her dead in the eye, and said:
[Hogun]:…Yes.
The word landed like a dropped anvil.
W blinked once. Twice. Then barked out a laugh so sharp the nurse nearly flinched out of her shoes.
[W]: You're—insane. You know that, right? You scare the hell out of everyone, and you're sitting here casually speed-eating cake like some kind of eldritch vending machine.
She cracked open the beer I'd given her and raised it in mock salute.
[W]: Cheers, freak.
The rest of the infirmary quickly went back to pretending they hadn't seen anything—but I could still feel their eyes flicking toward me, the way people glance at a storm they pray won't reach their street.
The curtain rattled as boots stepped through. A soldier, armored and ready, scanned the room before locking eyes on me and W. His face didn't give much away—too practiced, too drilled. But his shoulders tightened the moment he recognized me.
He strode forward with purpose.
[Soldier]: You're Hogun, aren't you? The Doctor and Her Majesty want to meet you. Now.
The words dropped like cold iron.
W let out a low whistle, tilting her beer toward me.
[W]: Ooooh. Summoned by both the Doc and royalty. Careful, old man—sounds like you're either getting knighted or executed.
All I could think about was how heavy the cake sat in my stomach.
[Extra: The Rabbits and Data]
[Hast POV]
I stood on a mountain of broken bodies—beast, machine, and man alike—while the stench of burning metal and blood clung to the air.
In front of me, the last of them still twitched: a creature of red, pulsing meat, its skin a patchwork of sinew and steel. It carried too many weapons in too many hands, and yet all of them pointed at me.
Behind me, my soldiers stood ready. Rows of figures in rabbit-themed armor, visors glowing pale white, energy rifles humming in disciplined silence. They waited for my order—an army of SwiftRabbits primed to erase anything I marked.
I raised my hand.
[Hast]: Hold fire.
The meat-thing screeched. It lunged.
My weapon, Data, shimmered to life—a cascade of orange fragments collapsing into the shape of a blade. With one swing, the world split with light.
When it faded, nothing remained of the creature but lifeless meat scattered across the battlefield.
The hounds moved in immediately—figures draped in hound-shaped cloaks, their movements precise, clinical, unshaken by gore. They began the cleanup with practiced efficiency, cataloging remains and burning what couldn't be carried.
One of the rabbits stepped forward, saluting crisply.
[Rabbit 1]: Lady O-15, casualty report: three Hellhounds lost. Ten SwiftRabbits down.
I nodded once, sheathing Data as its orange glow flickered out.
[Hast]: Acceptable losses. Inform the other members of O-5 that I expect them today. And bring me the full report on the other anomalies.
The soldier bowed and hurried off.
I turned my eyes toward the horizon, where the Foundation's towers stabbed the sky like black spears. In this world—the SCP's twisted archive of horrors—order was only ever borrowed, never owned.
And today, it was mine to command.
[Rabbit 1]: Madam. Your initiatives have reduced overall Foundation casualties by ninety percent. You created the Hellhounds and the SwiftRabbits—two enhanced task forces with an eighty percent operational success rate. You destroyed the Chaos Insurgency's North American cell. You exposed and purged internal corruption—rogue scientists abusing anomalies—and personally led multiple field operations that cleared dangerous anomalies. You also enabled several anomalies to be integrated into O-5—
He stopped as a soft, electronic chirp interrupted him.
Data peeped.
Seventeen screens blinked to life along a nearby transport case, each one spilling a different face into the dim light.
[O-1]: Lady O-15, this is an order. Return to safehouse immediately. Stop putting yourself in the line of fire.
[Hast]: Sorry. There are still seven locations left to clear.
A beat. The faces shifted—impatience, calculation—then a new voice cut through.
[O-10]: Miss O-15, intelligence shows only one active location remains. You're turning operations into exercises. Stand down and let logistics mop up.
[O-16]: Miss Hast—your field presence is an asset we cannot afford to lose. The O-5 has decided to issue a recall. You are to return to base for reassignment and recovery.
Silence hung like frost. The battlefield noises were distant now; the screens were a court.
I set my jaw and didn't flinch. My fingers hovered over Data's interface, feeling the familiar hum of orange code under my skin.
[Hast]: You can vote to pull me off the line, but I answer to the mission. Patch me the coordinates for those seven locations. If half of them are phantom pockets, I'll finish the last one myself. If they're real, I'll need reinforcements—now. You want me alive? Send the assets. Don't yank me off the field and hand the job to people who'll bleed our gains away.
The faces flickered—some annoyed, some relieved, some unwilling to risk a standoff. O-16's expression softened a fraction.
[O-16]: We'll authorize a single support drop. But you come back the moment the uplink shows destabilization. Understood?
[Hast]: Understood. Patch me through.
Seventeen lines responded in a chorus of agreement and static. I keyed the nearest console and watched Data open the feeds—maps, live telemetry, anomaly signatures—like teeth baring for what came next.
Order or no order, the field hadn't waited for permission. Neither would I.
[Chapter End]
[Will sense [The Multiversal Tool Seller of Skyblock] got the only comment, and I count it as a vote. Here is a taste of the story.]
[Chapter 1] [ This is vanilla ]
I opened my eyes and, for some reason, felt cold and grassy? Why do I feel grass—I remember I haven't touched grass for a month. Blinking.
I sat up. The sky above me was square. The clouds were square. Even the dirt under my hands was… blocky.
"…oh no."
I looked at the square tree, the endless void surrounding the tiny patch of land beneath me, and the single chest sitting right at the edge.
I pinched my cheek. Pain.
"Okay… this isn't a dream."
My stomach sank.
Skyblock.
Not just Minecraft—Skyblock. The cruelest starting point humanity had ever thought of.
I shuffled over to the chest like it might explode if I moved too fast. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.
Inside, the usual cursed starter pack stared back at me:
One block of ice.
One bucket of lava.
Ten bone meal.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It took me ten minutes to calm down, and then I punched the tree, took the wood, crafted planks, then a crafting table, and lastly some stickies.
And then… I tried.
[One hour later]
This is the worst. I tried everything—sticks in weird shapes, planks in circles, even a full chest of random junk—
Nothing.
Only the vanilla recipes worked.
No magic hammers, no laser drills, no compressed cobblestone generators, no "shift + right click to instantly build a mansion."
Just… wood tools.
The dreaded wooden pickaxe sat in my hand, mocking me.
I sighed, staring at the empty void beyond my island.
"So this is really just… vanilla Skyblock."