Chapter 18: "The Show Begins" - Part 1
Warning: This chapter contains scenes of torture and gore. If you are sensitive to such content, it is advised not to read it.
The café seemed to fall away from Léonard's senses the moment the notification chimed on his phone. The quiet buzz that had filled the air—the clatter of cups, the distant hum of conversation—was now nothing more than background noise. His eyes were locked on the screen, where the message glowed ominously:
[Ding! SCP-035 detected. Immediate containment required.]
[ Ding ! SCP-035 File
Classification: Keter
Appearance: SCP-035 is a white porcelain comedy mask, with a design resembling the "comedy" mask of classic Greek theatre. However, its expression frequently changes between this and a "tragedy" mask. A thick black liquid constantly oozes from the eyes and mouth, which is corrosive and has highly toxic effects on organic matter.
Effects: SCP-035 is capable of possessing any individual who wears it or comes into prolonged contact with it. Once worn, the mask bonds to the subject, controlling their actions and overriding their personality. The subject's body begins to decompose rapidly, yet the mask's influence persists, allowing the host to exhibit intelligence and speech, even as they decay. SCP-035 is extremely manipulative and has displayed an advanced understanding of psychology, often coercing individuals into aiding its escape attempts. It is also known to cause severe mental strain and corruption in anyone within its proximity, leading to erratic and violent behavior. ]
His pulse quickened, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to slow down. SCP-035. The Possessive Mask. Léonard knew exactly what this meant—an anomaly with the power to turn its hosts into homicidal puppets, wreaking havoc wherever it went. If it was loose in Paris, the consequences " be disastrous.
He quickly glanced at O5-4, who had caught sight of the masked figure on the television. The usually calm and composed O5-4 met Léonard's gaze with an expression that was hard to read—calm, perhaps, but there was a clear understanding in his eyes. He nodded curtly, his voice soft but firm. "I understand. Go."
There was no time for formalities. Léonard pushed back his chair, rising from the table with a sudden urgency. He quickly exited the café, his mind already racing through the next steps. As he stepped outside, the cool air hit him, but he barely noticed. His body moved on autopilot, his thoughts entirely focused on the mission ahead.
Without hesitation, he reached for his phone and activated a secure line to Resh-1. The operatives who had been scattered throughout the café, blending in with the civilians, immediately shimmered into view for only a brief moment before disappearing again—using their optical camouflage to remain hidden while they moved to form a protective bubble around him.
As Léonard hurried down the street, his escort team silently flanked him, their presence invisible but unmistakable. They guided him to a waiting black SUV parked discreetly on a side street, and he quickly slid inside, the door shutting behind him with a quiet thud.
"We're returning home," Léonard ordered the driver, his voice sharp with urgency. The vehicle lurched forward, cutting through traffic with a controlled intensity. Léonard's eyes were already on his phone again, pulling up the Foundation's secure network.
Time was of the essence. Every second counted.
The drive to his house was a blur of city lights and indistinct shapes as they sped through Paris. Léonard barely registered the scenery—his mind was entirely on the system that would allow him to deploy the necessary resources. His hands twitched impatiently as he prepared to log into the Mission Planner as soon as they arrived.
The SUV screeched to a halt in front of his home. Léonard bolted from the vehicle, sprinting up the steps two at a time. The front door slammed behind him as he took the stairs to his room, his breath coming in rapid bursts. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins—there was no time for hesitation.
Once in his room, Léonard slid into his desk chair and fired up his computer. Within seconds, he had accessed the Foundation's secure network and opened the Mission Planner. His eyes darted across the screen, scanning through the list of available Mobile Task Forces.
He needed something close. Something fast. Something effective.
Léonard clicked on the list of units and scrolled rapidly. His eyes stopped when he saw MTF Mu-12, "Les Farfouilleurs". They were anomaly specialists, trained in the recovery and management of dangerous artifacts and entities. Most importantly, they were stationed just outside Paris—close enough to respond immediately.
He clicked on Mu-12's icon, issuing the deployment order. A mission briefing quickly populated on the screen, detailing the objective: contain SCP-035 and neutralize any host under its control. Léonard moved swiftly, allocating additional resources—a force of 60 field agents divided into teams of ten to secure the perimeter and provide backup to Mu-12.
As the orders went through, Léonard leaned back slightly in his chair, catching his breath for a moment. The operation was underway. Now, he needed to monitor its progress and ensure that the situation didn't spiral further out of control.
---
The smell of strong coffee hung in the air inside Mu-12's break room, blending with the sound of laughter and the clack of billiard balls on the pool table. The members of Mu-12, "Les Farfouilleurs," were in rare high spirits. For once, they had a moment of downtime after weeks of nonstop deployments. The television in the corner was set to some mindless talk show, serving more as background noise than anything of interest.
"Come on, Jean, you're terrible at this!" yelled one of the operatives, grinning as he flicked the handles of the foosball table, sending the plastic ball spinning into the opposing goal.
"Yeah, yeah," Jean muttered, rolling his eyes with mock annoyance. "Just wait until we're in the field—I'll show you how it's done when it actually matters."
A few more laughs filled the room as the group bantered back and forth. It felt good to relax, even if only for a little while. But the mood shifted suddenly when the overhead lights flickered, and a loud, piercing alarm blared through the room. Everyone froze for a split second, instincts kicking in as they immediately recognized the sound.
Emergency deployment. Mu-12 to prepare for immediate action.
The room was a flurry of motion in an instant. Coffee cups were discarded, foosball tables abandoned. Operatives sprinted toward the locker room, shedding their casual clothes as they prepared for deployment. The usual jokes and lighthearted chatter were replaced by focused, efficient silence. Everyone knew the drill—when the alarm went off, it meant something serious was happening.
As the team rushed to the lockers, their lieutenant—Sergeant Arnaud—stood at the entrance, barking orders.
"Only French RAID gear!" he shouted. "We're going in undercover. Keep the Foundation logos hidden. Use the marked armbands for identification—nothing else. We blend in with local forces until we reach the target."
The operatives quickly grabbed their gear, donning the black tactical uniforms of the RAID, the elite French law enforcement unit. Each of them strapped on armbands with the hidden emblem of the SCP Foundation, ensuring that they could be identified by other Foundation personnel but would appear to be regular law enforcement to anyone else.
From there, they rushed into the armory, where their commanding officer was waiting. He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, as the operatives filed in and grabbed their weapons. The usual tension before a mission was there, but now it was overlaid with something heavier—an understanding that this was not going to be a routine assignment.
"All right, listen up," the commander said, his voice steady but grave. "We've got a Code Red. SCP-035 has been spotted in the heart of Paris, and it's already begun to spread its influence. The mask has likely taken control of multiple hosts, including members of local law enforcement. We've got a potential mass casualty event on our hands if this thing isn't contained quickly."
The operatives nodded, their faces hardening as they listened. They all knew the stories about SCP-035. The mask's ability to possess its hosts, turning them into vicious, murderous puppets, was legendary within the Foundation. None of them wanted to encounter it, but there was no room for hesitation now.
"The area is crawling with local military and police forces due to martial law," the commander continued. "That means we need to be careful—anyone could be compromised. We proceed with caution, but we don't hesitate to neutralize if necessary. Our primary objective is to contain the mask. The Foundation's already deployed field agents to secure the perimeter and assist us, but we're going to be at the front lines. You know what to do."
With that, the briefing concluded, and the operatives finished gearing up. Rifles were loaded, sidearms checked, body armor secured. Each member of Mu-12 was ready, their faces set in determined expressions. They were professionals, and they had a job to do.
They moved as a single unit, exiting the armory and making their way to the underground parking garage. The room echoed with the sound of boots hitting the pavement as they approached the unmarked vehicles waiting for them.
The orders had been clear—discreet, rapid deployment. They couldn't draw attention to the Foundation's presence in such a high-profile location. As they climbed into the SUVs, the operatives maintained radio silence, their minds already on the mission ahead. The engines roared to life, and the vehicles pulled out of the garage, heading toward the heart of Paris.
Inside one of the cars, Private Marc sat in the back seat, his rifle resting against his leg. He listened intently to the radio chatter as his colleagues discussed the situation, their voices calm and measured despite the tension in the air.
"Keep your eyes open," Marc's teammate said from the front seat. "No telling what we're going to find out there. Could be a whole squad of cops turned into those freaks by the mask."
"Let's just hope we get there before things get any worse," another voice chimed in. Marc nodded silently, staring out the window as the familiar streets of Paris blurred past. This was home, but today, it felt like a battleground.
---
Corporal Jean Leroux of the French military's Opération Sentinelle wiped the sweat from his brow as he and his squad moved quietly through the narrow streets of the Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche, one of the smallest alleys in Paris. The eerie quiet was broken only by the occasional crackle of radio chatter-other units from Sentinelle reporting routine patrols across the city.
Their route led them near one of the countless entrances to the ancient catacombs lying beneath the capital. Leroux tried to shake off the unease that had settled over him since they entered the area. Something about the stillness was unsettling.
As they passed through the narrow alley, they spotted a group of six policemen heading their way. Their expressions were stern, yet distant, as they approached the soldiers. One of the officers at the front raised a hand in greeting and spoke with authority.
"Corporal, you need to follow us. There's something you need to see."
Jean exchanged a glance with his comrades, confusion furrowing their brows. This wasn't protocol.
They weren't supposed to be taking orders from the local police without clear communication. Yet the policeman's tone held a strange edge-something about it made him hesitant to refuse.
"Very well," Jean muttered reluctantly, gesturing for his men to follow. The policemen led them down a series of winding streets until they reached a dilapidated, abandoned warehouse hidden from the view of the public. There were no lights, no signs of life, save for a cluster of vehicles and more armed figures standing guard.
They entered the darkened warehouse, and what they saw next made their blood run cold.
Inside, the space opened up into a wide hall, filled with nearly fifty policemen and soldiers. Some stood, others sat, but all of them were fixated on a raised platform at the far end of the room. On the stage, a figure stood tall—a policeman wearing a pristine white mask, featureless except for a ghastly smile carved into its surface. Beside him, on either side, men and women were strung up by their wrists, their bodies broken and bloodied, some missing limbs entirely. Fresh blood dripped to the floor, the victims whimpering and crying in agony, their pleas lost to the silence of the onlookers.
Jean felt a wave of revulsion twist his stomach. "What... What the hell is this?" he whispered hoarsely. His men looked as sickened as he was, their faces pale with horror.
The policemen who had brought them there did not answer.
Instead, they suddenly turned on the soldiers, violently shoving them to the ground and pinning them with an unexpected surge of strength. Jean fought against the weight pressing him down, but there were too many hands, too much force. Before he knew it, he and his men were kneeling before the masked man on the stage.
The masked man motioned to one of the policemen, who dragged a sobbing civilian from the shadows. The civilian, gagged and restrained, trembled as he was forced in front of the soldiers. The man in the mask grabbed a sharp blade from a nearby table and began to carve into the civilian's flesh, slowly, deliberately. The air filled with the sound of wet, tearing skin, bone scraping against metal, and the wretched screams of the victim. Blood sprayed across the ground, splattering the faces of Jean and his comrades as they knelt, helpless, watching the horror unfold.
Jean clenched his jaw, fighting the bile rising in his throat. He could see his men around him-some had already broken down, tears streaming down their faces as they witnessed the torture. One of them, a young private, had vomited on the floor in front of him.
"Why are you doing this ?!" Jean suddenly roared, unable to hold back his fury any longer.
"Why the fuck ?! You're insane !"
The masked man tilted his head, as if considering the question.
Then, slowly, he began to chuckle.
The sound started low, a soft wheezing noise, but it quickly grew into a wild, manic laughter that echoed throughout the warehouse. The other officers and soldiers joined in, their laughter rising in a demented chorus. Jean stared in disbelief as the sound engulfed him. It was as if the entire room had lost its mind.
"Why ?" the masked man repeated, mimicking Jean's earlier question. He crouched down to be eye-level with the corporal and leaned in close, his breath hot against Jean's face. "Because it's fun," he whispered before breaking into another fit of hysterical laughter. The others, controlled by this nightmare of a man, cackled along with him, the air filled with their madness.
Jean's mind raced, but he couldn't stop the terror creeping into his bones. His hands clenched into fists, but his body refused to move, frozen by the sheer horror of what was happening.
Suddenly, the masked man straightened up and spread his arms wide. "You'll join us now," he declared, his voice echoing through the room. Then, just like that, the soldiers of Sentinelle were released, their captors stepping back to allow them to stand. But something was wrong.
Jean could feel it-the gnawing, creeping sensation clawing at the back of his mind. His fellow soldiers rose to their feet, but their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror, yet their bodies began to shake with suppressed laughter. The man in the mask merely watched them, amused.
Then, one by one, the soldiers began to laugh.
Jean tried to resist, tried to force the sound back, but it escaped his lips, uncontrollable and manic. His mind screamed in protest, but his body betrayed him, forcing him to join the insane chorus that surrounded him. He looked at his comrades, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of joy, tears running down their cheeks as they laughed and laughed.
"Now," the masked man said with a grin hidden beneath his mask,
"let's make this interesting."
With a wave of his hand, he gestured to the civilians hanging by their wrists. "Kill them."
The soldiers hesitated, but the command was like a knife slicing through their will. Unable to resist, they grabbed their weapons and moved toward the helpless victims. Jean fought with every ounce of strength he had, but his body was no longer his own. His hand reached for his gun, and he found himself standing before one of the tortured civilians, his finger hovering over the trigger.
The laughter was deafening now, drowning out his thoughts, drowning out his soul. And yet, as his vision blurred with tears, Jean could only watch in horror as he became part of the slaughter. The civilians screamed, their voices mingling with the maniacal laughter, creating a symphony of chaos and despair.
As the last of the civilians fell, the masked man turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, followed by the soldiers and policemen under his thrall. "It's time for the real show to begin," he announced with a theatrical bow.
Jean's body moved on autopilot, following the others into the cold night air, the laughter still ringing in his ears. The masked man's final words echoed in his mind, as they all marched in lockstep toward the unknown.