he siren that woke FULCRUM this time was the polite one.
No screaming red, no wall-shaking wail. Just a low, insistent tone in his quarters and a soft blue pulse around the doorframe that said: up, armor on, command wants your brain more than your gun. For now.
He swung his legs out of bed and sat for a moment, bare feet on cold floor, listening.
The Site felt... held.
No distant running boots. No shouted orders bleeding in from the main corridors. Just the hum of air systems and the faint rumble of generators.
He checked the panel.
PRIORITY BRIEFING — JOINT OPS
LOCATION: BRIEFING ROOM 3
ATTENDEES: NU-7 TEAM 1, E-11 LIAISON, ALPHA-1 OVERWATCH
The last line tightened something between his shoulders.
He suited up in silence.
Briefing Room 3 had more screens than chairs.
TEAM 1 filed in and took up their usual positions around the central table. OWL stood at the front, posture relaxed by his standards. On the wall behind him, the primary screen showed a satellite image of an industrial park—rows of low concrete buildings, loading bays, narrow service alleys.
A second screen displayed the Foundation crest. A third, smaller, remained dark, its camera light off.
PATCH sat along the wall with FUSE, tablets synced. DUSK had claimed a corner chair, UIU badge flipped backward, eyes sharp even behind the casual slouch.
"Morning," OWL said.
No one answered. It barely qualified.
He tapped his tablet.
The satellite image zoomed in on one warehouse set a little apart from the others—Building 14C, according to the faded lettering on its roof. Around it, small colored icons pulsed.
"Two hours ago," OWL said, "residents of this industrial zone called emergency services to report screams coming from inside this structure. Security for the complex went to investigate. They did not come back out."
The icons flickered. Two blue dots at the entrance morphed into yellow, then red.
"Police sent a car," OWL continued. "Dispatch received a partial transmission from one of the responding officers."
He tapped again.
Speaker audio hissed, then resolved into a clipped, frightened voice.
"–I can hear them, but I can't see– Jesus, Lisa, is that you? Lisa, you're supposed to be at home, what are you—I'm coming, just stay right—"
A wet sound. A scream that cut off too fast.
Then nothing but static.
The audio stopped.
RATCHET swore softly.
"Dispatch flagged the pattern," OWL said. "Foundation filters picked it up. We cross-referenced with known anomalies in a three-hundred-kilometer radius."
The third screen blinked on.
SCP designation. Containment chamber footage. A grainy image of a hunched, skinless quadruped with too many teeth in its long, canine jaws and empty eye sockets where eyes should have been.
"ZERO-NINE-THREE-NINE," OWL said. "Pack-based predators. Vocal mimicry. Preference for enclosed, resonant environments. Most comfortable at temperatures between zero and ten degrees Celsius.
"You know them as 'With Many Voices.'"
The room cooled by a degree that had nothing to do with the air systems.
VANTAGE cleared his throat.
"Last report had them secure at Site-██," he said.
"Two specimens are unaccounted for after a recent internal incident," OWL said. "Details are above your pay grade. One of them is almost certainly in that building."
DOCSTRING's voice came from the speaker near the door.
"ZERO-NINE-THREE-NINE lures prey by mimicking familiar voices," she said. "Recently heard, usually emotionally salient. Once the target enters optimal range, it kills via mass trauma—tearing, crushing. Secondary effects include acute psychological distress and potential long-term auditory hallucinations, even without physical contact."
"Fun," RATCHET muttered.
"E-11 'NINE-TAILED FOX' has primary jurisdiction on 939 incidents," OWL said. "They are currently engaged elsewhere with the second missing specimen. That means you are first on the scene for this one."
The E-11 crest appeared on the second screen. Beneath it, a blurred still-image of a squad in motion—heavy armor, distinct helmet profile.
"E-11 liaison is on audio only," OWL added.
The second screen's camera light stayed off. The speaker crackled.
"Nu-7, TEAM 1," a new voice said. "This is ECHO-LEAD, acting liaison for E-11 on this channel. We're mid-rotation with the other asset, so you get my voice instead of my face. Apologies."
"Understood," FULCRUM said.
"Your priority is containment, not eradication," ECHO-LEAD said. "We'd very much like our dog back in the kennel. You secure the perimeter, extract any remaining civvies, and corral 939 into a zone where we can retrieve it once we're free."
"What about the voices?" KESTREL asked.
"They'll try to pull you in," ECHO-LEAD said. "You ignore them. You don't respond. You don't debate with the walls. You move on contact, not on sound."
"ALPHA-1 Overwatch online," PRIORESS cut in. Her tone had that extra-quiet edge it got when she was paying very close attention. "You will maintain strict comm discipline. Code phrases every thirty seconds. Anyone who deviates gets pulled, no arguments. I don't care what you think you hear."
"Copy," FULCRUM said.
"MedIntel," OWL prompted.
"PSI-7 MedIntel here," PATCH said. "I'll be at the outer perimeter with a cold-zone triage lane. Expect blunt trauma, tearing injuries, potential hypothermia if the interior temperature's dropped as much as reports suggest. Psychologically, we're anticipating acute stress reactions, possible auditory carryover—people hearing voices after they're clear. If anyone on TEAM 1 hears a voice that sounds like someone they know, you report it immediately. Even if it's 'just in your head.' Especially then."
Her gaze landed on FULCRUM, worry tucked neatly under professional cadence.
He acknowledged it with the smallest nod.
"IMINT," OWL said.
"Aviation Mobility, Containment-IMINT," FUSE said. "I've got drones up around the building, but thermal is almost worthless—939's body temp clocks near ambient. I'll give you the layout, entry points, and any unusual movement in the structure. But if something breathes on your neck, you're probably going to feel it before I see it."
"UIU liaison?" OWL added.
"On scene to keep the cops and Feds from tripping over your leash," DUSK said. "I'll make sure no one rushes the tape just because they hear their dead grandma yelling from inside."
A brief, grim silence.
"Questions?" OWL asked.
RATCHET raised a hand halfway.
"Any chance this is something else wearing a 939 mask?" he asked. "We've had at least three things lately that turned out to be not the file they were supposed to be."
There was a beat over the line.
"Always possible," ECHO-LEAD said. "Treat it like 939 until it proves otherwise. If it starts negotiating, we escalate."
"Scenario's live in twenty," OWL said. "Gear up."
As TEAM 1 rose, FULCRUM caught PRIORESS's voice on a side channel, pitched for someone else.
"Shadow channel," she murmured. "Online."
"Here," a low, familiar-distorted male voice answered.
"Watch his responses," PRIORESS said. "939 is... personal for some of yours."
"Yeah," the man said. "I know."
There was a note in his tone that FULCRUM couldn't place, because he wasn't supposed to hear it.
He grabbed his helmet, the KSG's weight a familiar anchor in his hands, and headed for the van.
The industrial park lay under low cloud, the kind of heavy gray that made sound feel closer.
Loading bays, roll-up doors, long rows of parked trailers. Sodium-vapor security lights painted everything in sickly yellow.
Building 14C sat at the far end—a concrete box with a loading dock, one personnel door, and a line of high clerestory windows that bled faint, cold light from within.
Police cars formed a rough ring one street away. Officers clustered around the trunks of their vehicles, radios clipped to their shoulders, eyes fixed on the dark warehouse.
"UIU's got them for now," DUSK said, stepping away from a sergeant she'd been charming into submission. "They've agreed not to breach unless the building starts sprouting tentacles. Their words."
"Good," FULCRUM said. "We'll try to keep it on the inside."
Cold air rolled off 14C in waves.
"Ambient exterior temperature nine degrees," PATCH said in his ear. "Interior is reading closer to three. That's 939's comfort zone."
"Heat signatures?" FULCRUM asked.
"One definite near the center of the structure," FUSE said. "Could be 939, could be a trapped civilian. I've got two weaker readings near the north wall—could be survivors tucked behind crate stacks. No guarantees."
"And the voices?" VANTAGE asked.
As if on cue, a sound drifted across the lot.
"Help!" someone screamed from inside the warehouse. "Somebody, please, I can't— my leg— oh God—"
The tone was raw, desperate, almost physically painful to hear.
Beside FULCRUM, KESTREL's throat worked.
"Code check," FULCRUM said immediately. "TEAM 1."
"ONE," BASTION grunted.
"TWO," HARROW snapped.
"THREE," RATCHET said.
"FOUR," VANTAGE added.
"FIVE," FULCRUM finished.
"Comms discipline green," OWL said over their net.
Inside, another voice rose. Higher, trembling.
"Mom? Mom, it hurts— I'm cold— why won't you answer me?"
The sound clawed under FULCRUM's armor.
"DUSK," he said quietly. "Do we have confirmed juveniles on the employee list?"
"Negative," DUSK said, reading from her tablet. "All adult workers. No kids on-site after hours, officially."
"Officially," RATCHET muttered.
"Nu-7, TEAM 1," PRIORESS said, her voice flat and deliberate. "You will treat every voice you hear starting now as hostile. Even if it sounds like your mother. Especially if it sounds like someone you lost."
Her tone made it hypothetical.
FULCRUM knew better. He'd read the older E-11 reports on 939. Operators dead in concrete basements, torn apart because they'd gone running toward a voice that should have been impossible.
"Stack it," he said.
BASTION took point with the shield. FULCRUM slotted in behind him. VANTAGE, HARROW, and RATCHET filled the rear.
They approached the personnel door first.
"Door's unlocked," RATCHET said after a quick check.
"Of course it is," HARROW murmured.
"Mechanical breach," FULCRUM said. "No bang. We don't want to push it deeper without seeing the map."
BASTION eased the door open, shield up.
Cold air slapped them in the face.
Inside, the warehouse was mostly dark—only emergency lights glowed along the walls, casting the interior in long, skeletal shadows. Rows of high metal racks loomed on either side, stacked with pallets. Frost laced the concrete near the entrance in delicate, treacherous patterns.
"Temperature drop confirmed," PATCH murmured.
"FUSE?" FULCRUM asked.
"You've got three main aisles," FUSE said. "North, central, south. Heat signatures are in the central aisle, thirty meters from your position, and back near the north wall. No movement detected yet."
In the dark, a new voice spoke.
"Fulcrum?"
It was so close to his ear he almost turned.
He didn't.
The voice was familiar in a way that made his teeth grit. Calm, male, carrying a trace of amusement even under pressure.
"You're late," it said conversationally, from somewhere over his left shoulder. "You always were slower on cold ops."
"Code check," FULCRUM said, voice steady.
"ONE," BASTION rumbled.
"TWO," HARROW said.
"THREE," RATCHET replied.
"FOUR," VANTAGE added.
"FIVE," FULCRUM finished.
On the command channel, there was a sharp intake of breath.
"Shadow channel," PRIORESS hissed. "Online."
"Here," FOXHAMMER's undistorted voice said.
"You hearing this?" she asked tightly.
"Yeah," he said. It came out like ground glass. "I am."
In the warehouse, the voice continued.
"You going to come find me, Fulcrum?" it asked. "Or are you going to leave me here in the dark again?"
"Zero-Nine-Three-Nine is drawing on recorded audio," DOCSTRING said quickly. "It may have heard older comms. This does not imply the original source is present or compromised."
"Wasn't worried about me," FOXHAMMER said dryly on the shadow line. "Worry about him."
FULCRUM let the sound wash past him.
It pricked at old instincts—respond, correct, move toward. He recognized the shape of the reflex and set it aside like he had with the compulsion in the stairwell.
"FUSE," he said. "Confirm no additional human signatures in my immediate periphery."
"Negative," FUSE said. "Only your squad. And something very cold about fifteen meters ahead."
"Then that voice isn't my problem," FULCRUM said.
"Good answer," ECHO-LEAD said quietly.
They moved forward.
The cold deepened as they pushed past the first set of racks.
Frost thickened on the floor, crunching under their boots. Their breath steamed.
The next voice came from the darkness ahead.
"Please," a woman sobbed. "I have kids. They're waiting for me. I won't tell anyone, I swear, just let me go, please—"
"Heat signature directly ahead," FUSE said. "On the floor. Could be her. Could be bait."
"Everything is bait until proven otherwise," FULCRUM said.
They edged forward, BASTION's shield leading.
A shape resolved out of the gloom—a woman in a security uniform, lying on her side in the central aisle. One leg twisted at an angle that screamed broken, face streaked with tears and snot.
Her eyes locked onto the shield.
"Are you— are you cops?" she gasped. "Please, oh God, they— it— it keeps talking—"
"PATCH?" FULCRUM asked.
"She's real," PATCH said. "Pulse elevated, breathing ragged. No anomaly markers I can see. But the environment—"
"She's in the zone," DOCSTRING said. "If the entity is near, it may use her voice after you move her. You need to anchor her to your commands now."
FULCRUM crouched just behind BASTION's shield, keeping the bulk of his body between the woman and the shadows beyond.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Naomi," she sobbed.
"Naomi, I am FULCRUM with the Foundation," he said. "We're here to get you out. You're going to listen to me and only me. If you hear anything that sounds like someone you know, you ignore it. You listen for my voice. Understand?"
She nodded so hard her teeth clicked.
"Okay," he said. "We're going to put you on a board and move you. If something else talks, you do not answer it. You do not look at it. Eyes on my shield man's back. That shape between his shoulders is your whole world. Got it?"
"Y-yeah," she whispered.
"Good," he said.
As HARROW and RATCHET slid a rigid board under her, the air shifted.
A low, wet chuckle came from the darkness to their right.
"So careful," the not-voice said, almost purring. "So many rules. You'll break them. You always do."
Beside the consoles, FOXHAMMER's hand curled unconsciously into a fist.
"That's not what I sound like," he muttered.
"It's not trying to be accurate," DOCSTRING said. "It's trying to be evocative."
"It's trying to get under his skin," PRIORESS added, eyes never leaving the feed.
In the warehouse, FULCRUM's jaw flexed.
"FUSE," he said. "Location."
"North aisle, moving along the racks parallel to you," FUSE said, voice tight. "It's pacing. It knows you're there."
"Naomi, eyes down," FULCRUM said calmly. "We're moving."
They lifted her.
Every step back toward the door felt like walking along thin ice over dark water. The voice followed, trying new angles.
"Fulcrum," it crooned in what might have been PATCH's cadence if someone had dragged it over gravel. "You're so good at this. Always saving the ones you can't keep."
"Heart rate spike," PATCH said quietly.
"Logged," DOCSTRING replied. "Stay on mission."
He did.
They reached the door.
"HARROW, BASTION, escort Naomi to the perimeter and hand her to PATCH," FULCRUM ordered. "Then get back on the line."
"Copy," HARROW said.
They disappeared into the night with the injured guard.
The cold air rushed in to fill the gap.
"Two more heat signatures by the north wall," FUSE said. "One is flickering. Might be dying, might be crouching, might be both. The other is... wrong."
"Define 'wrong,'" RATCHET said.
"Avoiding my line of sight," FUSE said. "Temperature's low but not static. It's moving between racks, staying just outside the drones' angles. I catch a limb, a tail, then nothing. Like it knows exactly where I can't see."
"939 learns," ECHO-LEAD said. "It's been in containment long enough to watch how we watch."
"Good for it," FULCRUM said. "Let's ruin its night anyway."
He signaled toward the north aisle.
"Slow and quiet," he said. "No hero shots."
They moved.
The racks here were tighter, the crates stacked higher. Shadows pooled between them.
Something rasped against metal ahead—a claw, a tail, a body brushing rust.
Then a new voice spoke. Soft. Familiar.
"Hey," it said.
KESTREL froze.
It was her own voice.
"Hey, is anyone there?" the copy called from the dark. "I'm stuck. I think I'm hurt. Fulcrum?"
"Code check," FULCRUM said instantly.
"FOUR," VANTAGE answered.
"TWO," came HARROW's breathless reply from outside, proof he was not bleeding in an aisle.
"ONE," BASTION grunted, further away.
"THREE," RATCHET added.
"FIVE," FULCRUM finished.
"KESTREL?" he asked.
"I'm here," she said, voice tight. "But... it sounds like me."
"That's because it heard you, earlier," DOCSTRING said. "You spoke near an open door. It doesn't need much."
"Take it as a compliment," DUSK said dryly.
"Not helping," KESTREL muttered.
"Don't follow your own voice," FULCRUM said quietly to her. "Follow mine."
He shifted their formation, putting himself between her and the sound.
Ahead, something moved.
For a heartbeat, he saw it—a lank, red-raw shape slipping between racks, teeth catching a glimmer of emergency light. Then it was gone again.
Shotguns would be messy here. Bullets would punch through too many things.
"FUSE," he said. "Map me a box."
"Excuse me?" FUSE asked.
"I want a kill corridor that doesn't murder the whole building," FULCRUM said. "Where can we force it to commit without giving it flanking angles?"
There was a rapid clatter of keys.
"Two aisles up, there's a gap between stacked pallets," FUSE said. "If you cut across there, you can choke it between the north wall and a line of sealed drums. Limited vertical access, minimal cover for it."
"Good," FULCRUM said. "We're going to make it come to us."
He moved.
They slipped through the suggested gap, boots whispering on concrete. The air felt thinner here, like a held breath.
"Hey," the not-KESTREL called from behind them now. "Don't walk away. Don't leave me in here."
KESTREL's hand brushed FULCRUM's elbow as she swallowed.
He didn't shake her off.
At the end of the makeshift corridor, he stopped and planted his feet.
"Lights," he murmured.
VANTAGE tossed a chem light down the center of the space. It bounced once, rolled, and came to rest casting a sickly green glow up the wall.
"Ready positions," FULCRUM said.
They aimed into the gloom.
And then he did something he knew the observers would hate.
He spoke.
"Come here," he called into the dark.
The others tensed.
"Don't," PRIORESS said sharply over command.
"Trust him," FOXHAMMER countered quietly.
In the aisle, the air shifted.
"Fulcrum?" the stolen voice said again. Closer now. "There you are."
He kept his muzzle steady.
"You want me?" he said. "You have to come where I can see you."
Behind the consoles, DOCSTRING muttered something about reckless baiting and controlled risk.
In the narrow corridor, something moved into view.
It unfolded from the shadows like bad anatomy—long limbs bending wrong, raw muscle glistening as if flayed, jaws stretching too wide. Empty eye sockets stared straight at him.
Up close, the breath stank of copper and cold meat.
"Fulcrum," it said in KESTREL's voice. Then in PATCH's. Then, disturbingly, in his own.
"That's enough," he said.
"Now," FULCRUM added.
Shotguns thundered.
The confined space turned into a roar of sound and splintering meat.
939 shrieked—a horrible, layered sound that flicked between stolen pitches before dropping into an animal howl.
It lunged.
BASTION's shield took the brunt, metal screeching as claws raked across it. The impact drove him back a step. HARROW wasn't there to anchor—still outside with Naomi—so FULCRUM stepped in, shoulder braced against BASTION's back, taking the force like a second shield.
Teeth snapped inches from his helmet.
He tasted blood in the air that wasn't his.
"Left leg!" he snapped.
VANTAGE fired low. The creature's forelimb shattered in a spray of red and black.
It collapsed sideways, scrabbling.
"Containment, this is FULCRUM," he snarled into his mic. "Target is wounded and pinned in a confined corridor. If you want it alive, you have about thirty seconds before my team finishes the job on reflex."
There was a stunned beat.
Then ECHO-LEAD came back on the net, voice intent.
"Hold your fire," he said. "Non-lethal if you can manage it. I'm dispatching a retrieval squad. Do not let it close with you."
"Working on it," FULCRUM said.
939 screamed again, thrashing against the shield.
RATCHET lunged forward with a telescoping containment fork—two prongs of reinforced metal tipped with ceramic insulators. He jammed it down across the creature's neck, pinning its head to the concrete.
It snapped at him. Teeth clanged off the fork.
"Get the restraints," FULCRUM said.
Between all of them, they wrestled the thing into a partial hold—back legs kicking, front leg broken, head trapped. It took everything BASTION had to keep the shield between its jaws and the rest of them.
"Extraction team ETA three minutes," FUSE said.
"Heart rates spiking," PATCH murmured.
"Yours too, Fulcrum," DOCSTRING added.
"Noted," he said through gritted teeth.
The creature's mouth worked, trying one last time.
"Hey," it whispered in his own voice. "Let me go. You don't have to do this. You could just walk away."
He looked at the empty eye sockets.
"You picked the wrong man to sell that to," he said.
It hissed.
Three minutes stretched into a lifetime, but the retrieval team arrived before anyone's grip failed. They took over with specialized gear, muzzling and binding the thing in a purpose-built cage on a low dolly.
As they rolled it away, its head twisted as far as the restraints allowed.
"Fulcrum," it crooned in FOXHAMMER's voice one last time.
He didn't flinch.
Outside, in the cold lot, PATCH worked through Naomi's vitals. HARROW hovered nearby, unexpectedly gentle as he held an IV bag aloft.
"You're lucky," PATCH told the guard softly. "It tried to scare you instead of just ending you.
"Unlucky that you had to hear it. Lucky you still can."
Naomi let out a shaky laugh.
Across the tape, cops tried not to stare.
As TEAM 1 emerged from the warehouse, PATCH rose, eyes tracking FULCRUM automatically.
He gave her a brief nod.
"Any bites?" she asked.
"None that broke armor," he said.
"Good," she said. "I don't have a form for 'gnawed on by dog from another dimension.'"
"You could make one," RATCHET suggested.
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," she replied.
FUSE stepped in close enough that their shoulders brushed, eyes scanning FULCRUM for injuries as much as the rest of the team.
"You good?" FUSE asked.
"Operational," FULCRUM said.
"That's not the same as 'good,'" PATCH murmured.
"Close enough," he said.
Her eyes lingered on his for half a second longer than necessary. Then she let it go, turning back to her tablet.
"Command channel going to debrief in ten," OWL said. "Return to Site."
As they loaded into the van, KESTREL sat opposite FULCRUM, hands resting on the coil of rope she still carried more often than she needed.
"It used my voice," she said quietly once the doors shut.
"I know," he said.
"How did you not—" she began, then cut herself off.
"Want to follow it?" he finished.
She nodded.
"I did," he said. "That's why I didn't."
She stared at him for a beat, then huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh.
"You're infuriating," she said.
"So I've been told," he replied.
Her boot bumped his, deliberate this time.
"Next time something talks like me," she said, "promise you won't listen to it more than you have to."
"I promise to treat it as hostile until proven otherwise," he said.
She rolled her eyes.
"I'll take it," she said.
Back at the Site, in the observation room where the feeds never really turned off, PRIORESS stood with her arms folded, watching the replay of the corridor.
"Shadow channel," she said softly.
"Online," FOXHAMMER replied.
On the screen, 939 lunged at FULCRUM again in slow motion, teeth snapping inches from the visor. The audio carried the warped echo of his own voice coming from the creature's throat.
"That," FOXHAMMER said, "was unpleasant."
"Try watching it from my side," PRIORESS said.
He was quiet for a moment.
"He didn't chase it," FOXHAMMER said finally. "He made it come to him. Controlled field. Minimal collateral. Used the voice as data, not as bait."
"Except when he baited it on purpose," she said.
A reluctant hint of admiration crept into his tone.
"Yeah," he said. "That too."
She glanced sideways at him.
"You all right?" she asked.
He shrugged one shoulder.
"Hearing yourself come out of a meat dog's mouth isn't on my list of favorite things," he said. "But I've had worse days."
She reached out, fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rested on the console.
"This doesn't change the recommendation," she said.
"Wasn't planning on it," he replied.
On the feed, FULCRUM turned away from the retreating cage, helmet under one arm, profile lit by the harsh lights of the warehouse.
"He's still walking the edge," FOXHAMMER said quietly. "But he hasn't fallen in yet."
"He's not you," PRIORESS said.
"I know," he said.
There was no offense in it. Maybe a little relief.
"Good," she said.
She let her hand rest over his for another second, then pulled back.
"Come on," she added. "If I'm going to watch this one circle the drain, I'd prefer to do it with coffee."
"Your taste in coffee is an anomaly," he said.
"Occupational hazard," she replied.
They left the room together.
On the screens behind them, FULCRUM's image froze, caught mid-step between the dark and the light. For the moment, he was still on the side that walked out of bad places.
For the moment, that was enough.