SCP FOUNDATION — FIELD INTELLIGENCE SUMMARYLocation: France (Multiple Sites)Status: Escalating
France is no longer quiet.
It starts with reports that do not agree with one another.
A five-star restaurant missing an entire table, menu, and floor section
A waiter in a medically induced catatonic state, clutching a gold bar
Structural disturbances beneath the city consistent with… mining
Civilian statements that all end the same way:
"I must have imagined it."
That phrase appears so often that analysts flag it as a potential memetic indicator—except no memetic vector can be isolated.
Then surveillance cameras catch it.
For exactly three frames.
A clearly animated figure, non-photorealistic, moving against baseline reality like a drawing that forgot it wasn't supposed to exist.
The frames are immediately classified.
Containment priority escalates.
Foundation Response — Paris
Mobile Task Forces deploy under civilian cover.
Vehicles without markings. Equipment disguised as municipal infrastructure.
And above it all—
The Eiffel Tower.
Meanwhile
I'm standing on the Eiffel Tower.
Technically on it. One foot on a railing, the other dangling over open air, the city spread out beneath me like a postcard I forgot to buy.
I adjust my helmet.
The hang glider unfolds from hammerspace with a cheerful fwip, wings snapping into place. A rocket engine hums softly at my back, vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Alright," I say, grinning. "Tour speedrun."
I jump.
The rocket ignites.
I shoot forward in a blur of wind and exaggerated motion lines, laughing as Paris streaks past beneath me. I whip out a camera—then another—then three more.
Click. Click. Clickclickclick.
Restaurants. Streets. Bridges. A café. Another café. A third café suspiciously identical to the first two.
Click.
I zoom past a cluster of very serious-looking individuals pretending very hard not to be military.
Click.
By the time I loop back around the tower, my camera counter reads:
100,000 PHOTOS TAKEN
"Perfect."
I drop an anchor.
A literal anchor.
It yanks the hang glider backward, slowing me instantly with a BOOOOING sound that echoes across the air.
And then—
The world freezes.
Tanks roll into view.
Armored vehicles.
Personnel in full tactical gear.
Weapons raised.
Every single one pointed directly at me.
Ah.
This is different.
This isn't a prank.
This is a fight.
I sigh.
"…Alright," I mutter. "Toon rules it is."
Engagement Log (Visual Reconstruction) — REVISED
Contact occurs at ground level.
The anomaly lands hard, shoes striking pavement with a hollow, cartoon thud. There is no bounce. No gag. No warning sound effect.
Weapon safeties disengage.
Live fire begins.
The first rounds strike the anomaly's torso and shoulders, tearing through fabric and fur alike. They pass through him cleanly, leaving smoking holes that knit shut a heartbeat later, inked outlines snapping back into place.
The same cannot be said for the men behind him.
The anomaly's posture changes.
This is no longer a prank-state manifestation.
This is combat framing.
Multiple arms erupt from his sides, shoulders, and back, each drawn in slightly different animation styles, each gripping something lethal.
Tommy guns open fire.
The recoil is wrong — elastic, exaggerated — but the bullets are real. They tear through ballistic armor, punching bodies backward, snapping limbs at impossible angles. Several personnel are cut down before they can take a second step. There is no cartoon recovery. There is only collapse.
Another arm swings a machete.
The blade arcs wide, impossibly long, slicing cleanly through helmets, necks, and shoulders in single exaggerated motions. Heads separate in clean, almost surgical lines, flipping end over end through the air before striking the pavement. Blood sprays in high, stylized arcs, briefly suspended as if waiting for permission to fall.
A pen appears in another hand.
The anomaly grabs a freshly severed head by the chin, draws a thick, curly mustache across the face, dots the eyes, adds a smile.
"Needs character," he remarks.
He drops it.
The head rolls to a stop against a tank tread.
Screaming is audible from inside the vehicle.
The anomaly splits.
Three. Five. Eight identical copies scatter across the engagement zone.
One clone vaults onto a tank, pries open the hatch with bare hands, and drops a live grenade inside. The hatch slams shut from the inside moments before detonation. The tank detonates outward, turret blown free, crew reduced to debris and smoke.
Another clone charges a firing line head-on. Rockets strike him squarely. He flattens against the street like spilled paint, peels himself back into shape, and keeps running. The soldiers he reaches are not so fortunate — machete swings sever arms, torsos, weapons alike.
A third clone hijacks a second tank.
Not delicately.
He rips the barrel free, swings it like a club, and uses it to smash personnel, vehicles, and barricades. When the ammunition runs dry, he lifts the tank itself and slams it repeatedly into the ground until the hull buckles and splits.
Limbs are torn free. Bodies are crushed. Equipment is scattered like discarded props.
There is nothing playful in the movements.
Nothing accidental.
The anomaly is choosing targets, choosing methods, and choosing lethality.
When return fire intensifies, he escalates.
A crate manifests mid-air and smashes into the street.
Stamped on its side:
ACME — LIVE ORDINANCE
The lid bursts open.
Shotguns that fire other shotguns. Pistols that shoot bullets shaped like fists. A gatling gun that laughs as it spins.
Every weapon functions.
Every hit kills.
The engagement ends not with retreat, but with silence.
Smoke rises.
The street is cratered, littered with destroyed vehicles and bodies in various states of disassembly. Survivors remain frozen in place, weapons dropped, staring at the anomaly with the understanding that nothing they did mattered.
The anomaly stands at the center of the destruction, suit torn, fur spattered red in colors far too bright to be natural.
"…That escalated," I says.