Soldier Of Misfortune - SCP Foundation

⚠️ content warning

Corporal Francisco Santa Villa joined the army for the promise of a better life. Having knocked up his high-school sweetheart, a working-class boy had limited options to get ahead. Tired of breaking his back at the maquila1, he finally decided to pick a side: the army or the cartels.

He had chosen the former, maybe out of a misplaced sense of naive patriotism. Soon, the raw reality of service crushed any romantic ideas of military heroism and adventure he may had have. For the most part, he battled boredom and heat during patrol and checkpoint duty, knowing fully that at any moment the boredom could be broken by the sudden gunshots of a cartel ambush. He saw many of his companions fall to treacherous bullets. One day he got lucky with his gun: five dead narcos. He had no idea how had he managed to survive that day, let alone kill all of the ambushers. His officer gave him a pat on the back and told him: "People upstairs have taken notice. Big fishes. Expect some good news soon."

"Good news soon…" One can only dream. The pay was not great but also not bad and, when his wife got sick, he was grateful for the military healthcare. Even if he died, the pension would be there for his family. Yet he truly never let go of his dreams of adventure. He always harbored the feeling that, if he stuck and survived long enough, something good would be waiting for him. Could this finally be his call?

"You have been chosen. Good job, soldier."

It has been too little time to assimilate too much information. Secret societies, magic, aliens… all of the crazy stuff from the movies… it was all real. He had been chosen and now the veil was lifted from his eyes. He was part of the few in the know: the protectors of society against the darkness lurking below. He was called to join CALMECAC's2 finest, an elite strike force against the demonic-powered cartels. No more endless days of boredom, no more waiting to get shot in the back without warning. Now he was one of the Big Guys with the Big Guns. He would finally get to be the hero of his daydreams. He would finally get to strike them hard right where it hurt them the most. And of course, the payment has gone up considerably. His family could never know the secret, they would never understand the true importance of his fight… but they will also never know poverty again.

Not bad at all for a poor boy from Juárez.

At Langeley, frustration was the daily bread for Agent Millard. Dealing with bureaucracy had always been a pain in the ass, but now working at the GGCD3, things were excruciatingly slow. While nominally part of the Foundation, Global Geopolitics served, in theory, as a joint command for the main governmental anomalous organizations to coordinate and collaborate in matters of global stability. In reality, it was a melting pot of contrarian interests and incompatible philosophies, a tug-of-war between Pentagram and the GOC, and a social experiment in modern political tribalism. However, Millard was neither disappointed nor surprised. He was all about realpolitik. He was hired to do a job; keeping the Foundation and the Agency from killing each other was just part of the morning routine.

If there is Demand, Supply will rise to fulfill it. It was a force of nature, like gravity and sex. You can not stop the drug trade, that is a brute fact. But you can control it; in truth, even if destruction was possible, control would always be more desirable. There were evils and necessary evils: the Agency simply made a deal with the necessary devils. Yet good luck explaining the nuance to those fools in A-DEA4. Their main and only concern was upping raid numbers and seizing even bigger batches of confiscated arca5 to burn for their own congratulation. And with their shortsightedness, they were just about to also burn years of hard work and meticulous planning from Millard.

Trying to reason with them was fruitless. At this point, they were just straight-up ignoring his calls. The message was clear, they were not calling off the raid, and Millard and the whole CPIA6 could go fuck themselves. "So be it, no more half-measures." said Millard to himself as he dialed the contact on his phone saved under the name of "Crows."

"Millard, what a pleasant surprise. The Corporation was not expecting a call from the Agency this week."

"Goikoetxea, A-DEA is going to fuck us all. They are planning a raid… a big one on Sin Nombre. The Warehouse in Juárez. They have CALMECAC, the Mexican Army, and the State Police on board as well. Even the Foundation and the UIU are sending observers."

"That would be inconvenient. When are planning to strike?"

"I'm working to get the specifics. But it will be soon… too soon."

"Is there anything you can do to call it off? Are they aware of the situation?"

"Yes, but they won't listen. They don't seem to understand that in order to win the race you need to bet on the better horse."

"Sin Nombre is about to launch an offensive on Los Ocultos. One of their biggest bases getting raided will not be good for the operation."

"It can be stopped at this point. But they can be prepared to take the hit. I will have all the details soon… can you pass the message?"

"Of course. Ravens are the best carriers of bad news, after all. I will make sure they understand this was out of our control." The mercenary paused for a few seconds, considering their options. "You know the Men With No Name won't show any mercy on anyone fool enough to defy them in their plaza7. What I mean is that high casualties should be expected if they are warned."

"A shame but there was going to be a bloodshed no matter what. A-DEA should have known better before leading a suicide charge."

On the other side of the phone, the Crow smiled.

"Expensive lessons are the hardest to forget, don't you agree?"

Corporal Francisco Santa Villa could not remember anything about the day he lost his legs. He could not remember much from the weeks before, for that matter. Memory loss from a concussion during duty was the doctor's verdict. Honorable discharge due to impairment was the one from the bureaucrats. It has been a rough year, they said, the pension budget had been severely cut, unfortunately. He was told to not despair as his military background would make him desirable in the private sector. As if there was a thriving job market for a legless man.

They all walked into a trap: the place was rigged with explosives. Somewhere along the chain of command, someone tipped the cartel. Very few survived. "You are a lucky man," Francisco was told. Could you even call that luck? Every night he had the same dream. Entering the Warehouse in Juarez. Blood and gunshots. Fire and explosion. And howls… the howls of beastly creatures, festering on the flesh of his comrades… festering on… his legs. Long past were the nights when he woke up screaming and sweating in terror. Now he just stared at the ceiling, dead eyes watching the darkness. The dead silence of the night was pierced by the rumbling sound of the CPAP machine that allowed his wife to breathe. Sleep apnea was an expensive mistress. Medical bills kept coming and coming. His family no longer applied for military healthcare and public hospitals did not have the necessary equipment; private healthcare was a luxurious parasite slowly eating them up.

An unusual message in his email inbox. A vague job offering and the place and date for an interview. The only signature, a strange v-shaped logo. Surely some kind of joke or scam… but whatever? At least it was a breakaway from monotony. He may as well go along. That is how he ended up inside that dim-lighted office, sharing a table with that strange-looking corpo dressed totally in black.

"Before anything else, I would like to thank, you on behalf of my organization, for taking the time to meet with us." The suit paused briefly… "Coffee or tea"?

"Coffee," said Francisco. "I'm not sure I understand what this is about…"

"A job opportunity of course. Just as the mail said."

"What type of job?" asked Francisco as he drank the coffee.

"A military one, of course. You have the experience we are looking for."

"Are you private security?"

"Sort of. We provide military services at an international level."

"You are mercenaries…"

"We prefer the term Private Military Company."

"Is this some type of desk job? Administrative?"

"Of course not. We would never waste your talent like that. We want you in the field…"

The veteran almost laughed. "Is this a joke? Is your hiring policy to mock disabled servicemen?"

"We are dead serious. Your… condition… won't be an impediment for much longer."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Are you going to make grow a new pair?"

"Not only just a pair…"

"¡Hazme el chingado favor!8"

"Do you remember the night you lost your legs?"

"What? Why the hell are you asking?"

"They did you dirty, didn't they? Sending you to the Den of the Beast without proper training or equipment, just to walk into a trap and get torn apart. And what do they do once they no longer find you useful as cannon fodder? They mind-rape you and take away your memories. What a disgusting lack of trust in their own men. Believe me, we will never treat you like that. Doesn't matter what the injury, you will never stop being valuable to us."

Francisco's vision began to blur. For a brief moment, he could swear he saw two black wings extending from the recruiter's back and towards him, embracing the veteran in a feathered darkness. He blinked and the vision was gone… was it?

"I… I have to go…" A sudden dizziness prevented Francisco from completing the sentence. He had felt uncomfortable since the beginning, certainly, the suit gave him the creeps. But there was something else: a burning feeling inside his guts, slowly creeping through his throat. As if trying to reach and burn his brains.

"They lied in the mission report. You were not crippled by an IED9. You did not lose your legs to something so… mundane. You faced nahual sicarios and survived. You even managed to blow the jaw of one of them. Be proud of that, legs are a small price for that honor. Taking this memory from you was so… cruel. But don't worry, I took the liberty to put a mnestic drug in your coffee. It is still experimental, we would like the recovered memories to be more concise… yet mostly safe. It should start taking effect…" The man took a small pocket watch from his vest. "Right now."

Before Francisco had time to process, memories pierced his mind like needles full of tiny dancing angels. He remembered a promotion: something about a foundation and an empty promise to join the true protectors of the world. He remembered the brief about angelic drugs and demonic narcos. And he remembered the Warehouse and the beastly creatures stalking the darkness inside it.

"It was real. Everything was real…" His voice began to crumble. "The team. They were devoured alive. I saw it. Then… my legs… that thing ate them…" He felt the acid in his stomach coming up through his throat.

"You stared into the abyss and survived the abyss staring back. I know it may be too much to assimilate, but I reiterate you should be proud. May I offer you a benzodiazepine?"

"Those things… those were the monsters from horror folktales… those were not supposed to exist." Cried the veteran. "What the hell is going on?" He gasped for air, barely breathing at this point.

"Are you feeling well, Sr. Santa Villa? Please let us know of any side effects of the mnestic drug you may be feeling." He briefly paused as he scanned the distressed veteran. "You look like someone who could really use a benzo." The man in black took a small mint box from one of his pockets. He opened it to reveal a collection of pills and offered them to the veteran. "Is Xanax fine?"

The veteran grabbed two pills and dry-swallowed them. A comfortable numbness traveled through his body as he began to calm down. He took one deep breath…

"Who the hell are you?"

"Me? I'm just HR. But we, as a whole, are the Valravn Corporation. Let me tell you a story. A long time ago there was a bloody battle. Details are irrelevant, the important fact is that both armies suffered heavy losses. Countless fierce warriors on both sides fell that day. So who really won the battle? Crows and ravens. They fed from the corpses and grew strong. They became warriors themselves. We like to think we are like those corvids." He paused for a moment before adding: " It doesn't matter who wins the battle, we always win when there is war."

Francisco remained silent for a few minutes. Everything felt so dreamlike, yet it made sense in a twisted way. The legends of old were real; secret societies and world governments gaslighted the world and played chess with the lives of the ignorant masses. Meanwhile, the wicked shredded their skin to stalk the night as beasts on behalf of the cartels and man-eating crows directed the military-industrial complex. Was it really so surprising? It didn't make any sense… but when has the "normal world" ever made sense? If anything, the Anomalous and the so-called Normalcy shared the same fundamental senselessness. "As above so below." There was really nothing remarkable about these secret organizations. Their methods may be abnormal… but their goals and ambitions were as mundane as anything else.

"They were waiting for us. Do you know who sold us?"

"Not yet… but we will. Such treachery shall not go unpunished."

"I want to be there went it's done… if only I could settle the score."

"Of course. The score will be settled."

"Can you really do it? Can you really give me back my legs?"

"Yes. We can make you whole again. More than whole, actually."

"Will I walk again?"

"Walk? No, my friend. You will never have to walk again."

SCP-7279

Cartel Land

The Empty Man

Footnotes

1. Duty-free and tariff-free manufacturing facilities set in the México-USA, infamous for their poor working conditions.

2. Comandancia de Armamento y Logística Mexicana para el Control de Amenazas Contranaturales. (Mexican Armament and Logistic Command for the Control of Unnatural Menaces). Anomalous branch of Secretaría de la Defensa Nacional, SEDENA (Secretariat of National Defense).

3. Global Geopolitics and Counterinsurgency Department. Foundation's Department in charge of handling anomalous matters that can affect international political stability, such as militant and armed rebel groups with anomalous capabilities.

4. Abnomal Drugs Enforcement Administration.

5. Arca or Arcángel. An anomalous empathogen stimulant synthesized from the blood of an angelic being.

6. Central Paranormal Intelligence Agency.

7. Turf or territory under the control of a cartel, usually with the complicity of local authorities.

8. Give me a fucking break!

9. Improvised explosive device.