+ CODE

- CODE

/*
BLANKSTYLE CSS
[2021 Wikidot Theme]
By Placeholder McD and HarryBlank
Based on:
Paperstack Theme by EstrellaYoshte
Penumbra Theme by EstrellaYoshte
*/

@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Montserrat:ital,wght@0,800;1,800&display=swap');

#page-content { font-size: .9rem; }

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top: -1.6rem;
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@media (max-width: 707px) {
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/* ---- YUI TAB CUSTOMIZATION ----*/

.yui-navset .yui-nav,
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display: flex;
flex-wrap: wrap;
width: calc(100% - .125rem);
margin: 0 auto;
border-color: #333333;
box-shadow: none;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav a, /* ---- Link Modifier ---- */
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color: #333333;
/* ---- Tab Background Colour | [UNSELECTED] ---- */
background-color: #efefef;
border: unset;
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box-shadow: none;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav a:hover,
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color: #ffffff;
/* ---- Tab Background Colour | [HOVER] ---- */
background-color: #333333;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav li, /* ---- Listitem Modifier ---- */
.yui-navset .yui-navset-top .yui-nav li{
position: relative;
display: flex;
flex-grow: 2;
max-width: 100%;
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav li a,
.yui-navset-top .yui-nav li a,
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.yui-navset .yui-nav li em{
border: unset;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav a em,
.yui-navset .yui-navset-top .yui-nav a em{
padding: .35em .75em;

text-overflow: ellipsis;
overflow: hidden;
white-space: nowrap;
}
.yui-navset .yui-nav .selected, /* ---- Selection Modifier ---- */
.yui-navset .yui-navset-top .yui-nav .selected{
flex-grow: 2;
margin: 0;
padding: 0;
/* ---- Tab Background Colour | [SELECTED] ---- */
background-color: #333333;
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.yui-navset .yui-nav .selected a,
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.yui-navset .yui-nav .selected a:focus,
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/*---- SCROLLBAR ----*/

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/*---- CENTER IMAGES ON MOBILE courtesy of EstrellaYoshte and PeppersGhost ----*/

.imagediv {
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/*---- ACS-COLORED TABLE DIVS ----*/

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/* -- FANCY THINGS from Woedenaz's Dustjacket Theme -- */

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CONFIDENTIAL

Security Clearance Level 3

Department of Tactical Theology

none

S

E

K

T

N

Any_value

Utility

A5

A4

A3

A2

B5

B4

B3

B2

C5

C4

C3

C2

D5

D4

D3

D2

E5

E4

E3

E2

AAA

EEE

Ȼ

?

T

none

Vedist I

Vedist II

Vedist III

Vedist IV

Vedist V

Vedist VI

6943

Special Containment Procedures

SCP-6943-1 is to be stored in a padded anomalous artefact locker at Reliquary Site-76.

Handling and testing of SCP-6943-1 must be kept to an absolute minimum. SCP-6943-1 must only be handled by personnel trained to handle fragile artefacts, and who have no history of mishandling any anomalous object and/or artefacts. Personnel handling SCP-6943-1 must wear gloves and face masks at all times, and only put the object on soft, sterile surfaces. Testing of SCP-6943-1 must be pre-approved by at least three Level 4 or higher Department of Tactical Theology personnel.

Description

SCP-6943-1 is an ornate gold bracelet, 8 centimetres in diameter and weighing 1.5 kilograms. The item has a simplistic base design, which is extensively engraved with Sumerian cuneiform and iconography that corresponds to several major Sumerian deities; numerous portions of the artefact's surface, particularly the inner radius, feature significantly reduced clarity of detail due to previous, now-restored corrosion and/or erosion damage. Uranium, thorium-helium dating indicates that the artefact was created circa 3400 BC.

Several Akkadian and Babylonian texts possessed by the Office For The Reclamation of Islamic Artefacts,1 Horizon Initiative,2 and the Department of Tactical Theology identify SCP-6943-1 as one of the 'Arms of the Anunnaki',3 a (presumed) pair/collection of similar artefacts (collectively designated SCP-6943) which collectively grant the wearer extensive reality-manipulating capabilities; this is supported by SCP-6943-1's constant emission of Akiva radiation at a rate of 12 microakivas per minute.4 While the surviving documents do not explicitly state how many such artefacts exist, as they are always referred to in plural, and furthermore due to the fact that SCP-6943-1 only imbues some, but not all, of the properties attributed to the items, it is assumed that a second instance (SCP-6943-2) exists, with the potential for several more; the properties, location, and status of these missing instances are unknown.

When worn,5 SCP-6943-1 enables its wielder to mentally manipulate several, specific aspects of their local environment, which co-operate to grant significant control over geographic and atmospheric conditions:

Alteration of ambient temperature, enabling the inducement of heat snaps and/or cold snaps;

Ectoentropic manifestation, demanifestation, and telekinetic manipulation of water with a salinity below 1 permille;6

In conjunction with the above, the wearer is capable of rapidly inducing arctic/icy conditions, controlling local humidity, and spontaneously manifesting clouds and/or rain;

Telekinetic manipulation of both lower and upper atmospheric gases, enabling creation and manipulation of air currents, as well as localised increases in UV light exposure through ozone thinning;

In conjunction with the previous properties, this additionally enables the creation and manipulation of major meteorological hazards such as thunderstorms and cyclones (and analogues);

Telekinetic manipulation of the local geology, enabling the creation or alteration of geologic formations such as hills, sinkholes, fissures, and caves, and additionally the generation of localised earthquakes.7

Alterations and/or atmospheric events induced by SCP-6943-1 will persist following the removal of SCP-6943-1 from its wearer, but will behave non-anomalously and dissipate as appropriate; a second wearer is capable of utilising SCP-6943-1 to accelerate the reversion/dissipation of these events.

Addenda

Incident 6943-1

On 21/06/2018, SCP-6943-1 was scheduled for transportation from Reliquary Site-76 to Reliquary Area-27, alongside several other religious relics, to enable enhanced study into the effect of mythological resurgence via modern conspiracy theory upon religious artefacts.

Eugene rubbed his face, sighed, readjusted his headset, then pressed a button.

'Dmitri, how's it going?'

'We are fine, leaving Saint Louis now, south on Interstate 55,' came the reply, richly lathered in a Slavic accent. 'We think air-conditioning is broken, getting hot.'

Eugene grumbled, opening the truck's maintenance history on the computer in front of him. 'How bad is it?'

A moment's pause. 'We will survive, but not comfortable.'

'I'll see if you can swap trucks,' Eugene said, dialling the maintenance overseer of the facility they had left from. 'Sorry about this guys.'

'You sound like you need a drink.'

'It's one of those days. Usually is.'

He ended the call, immediately starting the next, leaning back in his office chair, and swivelling around in the centre of his cubicle, trying to vent his frustration. The noise-cancelling headphones muffled out the near-constant ruckus permeating the office; a myriad of voices, each in various states between calmness and rage; the incessant clicking of keyboards and mice, designed to last for years and with little to no effort put into quieting them; and every now and again, the hum of a printer or the rattle of a filing cabinet.

The air, as it almost always was, was 70 degrees Fahrenheit. The carpet was grey; the walls, blue; the roof, plaster white. Fluorescent lights set into the ceiling at uniform intervals illuminated the space, except the northernmost cubicles, which bathed in the natural sunlight flooding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside was the cityscape of Chicago, several stories below.

This was floor 65 of Protected Site-237, the Department of Logistics' information hub for the north-east region of the United States; if the Foundation was moving something, as long as it was between Nebraska, Tennessee and Canada, someone on this floor was watching over it.

A notification popped up on the bottom-right corner of Eugene's monitor; the time, two names, and the number to contact them. He sighed, reaching for the button to end the still-connecting call.

'Hel-'

Dial tone.

He paused for a moment, briefly processing the fact he'd hung up the very moment he got through to maintenance, rolled his eyes, and put in the phone number listed in the notification. While the ring tone hummed away, he briefly updated the log for Dmitri's transport, closed it, then opened the log for the driver he was calling.

'Hello?'

'Davis, it's Eugene, just checking in with you.'

'We're fine, just coming into Fargo now. Traffic looks good, we should get to the Site in about… five minutes?'

'Good to hear. You'll have half an hour for a lunch break, and then you'll be carrying some gear to Minneapolis; should be loaded for you when you get back.'

'Ah, coming down your way are we? Planning a prison break, are you?'

Eugene scoffed. 'You know the rules; I'm glued to this seat until someone buys my extended car warranty.'

The other side of the line was filled with uproarious laughter; Eugene quietly chuckled to himself. A red light on his landline phone indicated someone was calling him.

'I'll speak to you later,' Eugene said, switching over. 'Hello?'

'Eugene, it's Bernette. We might have a situation.'

The grin changed to a scowl. Can't even be happy for five damn minutes today… 'Explain.'

Bernette briefly glanced at the passenger-side mirror, making sure there was enough room for the armoured truck to change lanes; the car next to her slowed down when she turned her indicator on, letting her move into the rightmost lane of the four-lane highway.

'For one, Juan's noticed a grey sports car that's been hovering around for awhile - not always behind us, but it's been nearby for the past half hour or so. Says the plates look off.'

'Off?'

'Here they come again,' Juan said, looking at the driver-side mirror.

Bernette glanced at it; sure enough, the silver Mazda MX-5 was slowly gaining on them, moving forward into the space her steel-brick-on-wheels had just vacated. The car was much shorter than the truck, it's roof quite snugly below her view through the passenger side window - without the mirror, it would be completely hidden in a blind spot.

As the Mazda slowly pulled ahead - it was only going one or two miles faster than the truck - Bernette briefly looked over it. The roof was up, shielding the occupants from the late morning Chicago sun; but she could see through the window that the driver was alone. Their clothing was odd - fully black, not a suit, but not casual attire either; she couldn't make out what exactly they had on.

A five-axle semi-trailer came into view behind them, filling up Bernette's window with a massive caboose, followed by the monotonous red tarp on its trailer; once the rear of the Mazda was just barely ahead of the armoured van, it flicked on its indicator and immediately began merging into Bernette's lane - a light push on the brakes was enough to avoid a collision, but now they were behind the back of the semi.

'Looks blue,' Bernette said, staring at the Mazda's license plate. 'Weird font, red band at the top.'

'Diplomatic plates.' Eugene's voice came through the truck's speaker system. 'Number?'

'D-L-G, 0-3-9-5,' Juan said.

'Turkish diplomat. Give me a second to run them.'

'Is that odd?'

'Not really, there's an embassy here in the NBC tower. Which explains why you've seen them a bit - you're going through Bucktown, right?'

'Uhh…' Bernette said, briefly glancing at the vehicle's GPS. 'I think so?'

'Coming up to exit 48A,' Juan said, pointing to a sign over the highway.

'Yeah, exit 50B is a few blocks away from the tower. The plates are real - they're just on their usual route.'

'You're sure?' Bernette said, checking her mirrors again as she merges behind the semi.

'I'm sure they're real plates, and they're on the right car; I can't be sure who's driving it.'

Bernette tapped her fingers on the steering wheel; a fifth lane briefly meets with the one on her right, then curves back away after a minute - exit 48A. 'Requesting permission to turn off at exit 48B.'

'Bernette.'

'We're way off our route - we were supposed to go south at the 290, but that was jammed. The backup was 294, and that was jammed too. If we turn off here-'

'You'll immediately hit a traffic light on North avenue, and dozens more if you don't immediately get back onto the highway. Even if you kept going, you'd just end up east on the 290 for a minute or two, then going south again on I-90. You're carrying anomalies; the longer you have them, the more dangerous they could get, and the more often you stop, the more likely you'll get jumped. Stay on the I-90, and if that car is still hanging around after exit 50, then we'll get worried.'

Bernette sighed, shaking her head. 'Can you at least have someone on standby?'

'Already done, Epsilon-7 has been waiting ever since your diversions. It won't take them any longer than a few minutes to get to you. Let's just make sure you need them first, alright?'

Bernette checked her speedometer; the semi had slowed down by almost ten miles per hour. A white pickup truck was to her right - she moved into the empty space to her left, then closed the gap between her and a red minivan ahead. The Mazda was already in the lane, in front of the minivan.

'Alright, alright. Thanks Eugene.'

'I'll stay on the line a bit longer, save you some time to redial. You're only a few minutes away from exit 50.'

'Right,' Juan said, grinning. 'You sure you aren't trying to hear how Bernette screwed up dinner the other night?'

Bernette rolled her eyes. 'I did not, it was supposed to taste like that.'

'Eugene, have you ever heard of a spaghetti that's supposed to taste sweet?'

'What? No.'

'It was Filipino!' Bernette said, watching as the Mazda pulled ahead of the semi, then moved into its lane. 'Filipino spaghetti is supposed to taste like that!'

'No, no way. Why would anyone think that would make sense?' Juan replied.

'No, she's right - Filipino spaghetti has sugar in the sauce.'

Juan shook his head, smiling. 'That's got to be criminal or something. Spaghetti is supposed to be savoury! What next, you're going to throw some lemons in there too?'

Bernette grinned. 'That could be nice.'

'Don't you dare.'

The semi's indicators turned on; it wanted to move into Bernette's lane, apparently uncaring about the two vehicles that needed to move for it to do so. Bernette's eyes flicked about the scene, figuring out how to respond - the driver of the minivan had decided to get behind the semi, putting on the brakes and approaching the front of Bernette's van.

Bernette followed suit, slowing down and letting the red minivan go behind the semi, which itself merged to fill the void in front of Bernette. After a moment the red minivan moved into the lane on its right, then after a few moments more did so again, entering the rightmost lane of the highway. The truck was still struggling to keep up with the speed limit - Bernette assumed the Mazda had forced its abrupt lane-change - she decided to move into the leftmost lane and try overtaking it.

An overhead sign showed the next exit was 49A, with 50A after it; 48B had already passed.

'I'm starting to think the diplomat car is stolen,' Bernette said, gaining on the semi. 'They're driving all over the place, messing with a semi-truck. Looks like a joyride or something.'

Eugene sighed. 'Just keep out of their way. How far are they?'

'Can't tell. Nothing but semi-trailer on my right, and concrete barriers on my left.'

With the Mazda out of the way, the truck was easily keeping pace with Bernette's armoured van; she caught up to the front end of its trailer, but couldn't gain on the cabin. The two were moving at the same speed, parallel to each-other.

'The hell?' Juan said.

'What is it?'

Bernette glanced at him briefly; he pointed to one of the small monitors built into the dashboard in front of him. The van had three internal cameras - two in the cargo area, one in the cabin - that recorded each and every trip made; if an accident happened, or there was a robbery, the footage could be used to figure out what happened, why, and who did it. As an added bonus, the passenger was able to keep an eye on the cargo in case something came loose.

The monitor Juan pointed to, however, was completely black.

'One of the cameras just died,' Bernette said. 'Front-right cargo, the one just behind my seat.'

An extended, frustrated growl came over the phone line. 'You're joking. You've got to be joking.'

'Afraid not,' Juan said.

'Of course something else breaks while I'm - alright, let me add it to the repair schedule.'

Another screen went black.

'Just lost another one. We can't-'

The entire dashboard went dark. All of the van's electronics were dark - no lights, no numbers, all of the dials resting on zero. Bernette noticed the van was slowly drifting toward the concrete barrier - she struggled to veer the truck away, the steering wheel now taking all of her effort to turn.

'We just lost power. Call him back.'

Juan pulled his phone out from his vest.

'The hell?' he said.

'What?'

'My phone's dead.'

'Use mine,' Bernette said, pulling out her own and passing it to him.

A moment's pause. 'Yours is dead too.'

'What?'

He held up her phone, pressing the power button; nothing.

'No, that's-'

She looked up in time to see the semi swerve into them.

'Just lost another one. We can't-'

Eugene's headset played the unmistakeable three-note tone of an ended call. He blinked in confusion for a moment, then reached for the redial button - but stopped when a flashing, red alert box appeared on his computer.

The van's GPS signal had been lost.

He hit redial anyway, then set about finding the nearest cameras to Bernette and Juan's last known location. An automated voice spoke over the phone line, informing him the call couldn't be connected.

The van had just passed the eastbound (which was really southbound) exit 49A; there were two cameras nearby, each facing opposite directions, positioned just behind the eastbound and westbound exits. He opened both.

The scene was of a ten-lane bridge, seen from opposite ends. Four lanes were devoted to each direction, with an additional two lanes between, protected on both sides by permanent concrete barriers. Each camera's respective exit curved away to their right, descending to connect with a road - Division street - that went under the bridge.

Bernette's van was in the leftmost lane, travelling south; the semi-truck was immediately to its right. Eugene could see the silver Mazda pulling ahead of the semi. Various other vehicles - minivans, pickup trucks, a sedan - were scattered lightly about.

Then, without warning, the semi-truck swerved left, smashing into the side of the van and pushing it into the concrete barrier.

Most of the damage was incurred by the semi and the barrier - the van's armour held nicely, kicking up a few sparks but resisting crumpling as best it could. The semi lost its rear-left wheel guard first, then had its entire left side mangled as the van scraped across it, pushing into it as the truck tried to slow it down. The vehicles passing in the dividing two lanes were pelted with concrete chunks, several having their windows cracked or outright shattered, but the barrier itself held, preventing the van from being pushed through into those lanes.

That the crash was intentional was unquestionable; nothing had changed in front of the semi to prompt the manoeuvre, and even then, the driver should have swerved back to avoid further damage to their vehicle. Instead, the truck maintained its constant leftward veer, eventually coming to a stop with the armoured van firmly pinned between itself and the concrete barrier. Neither of the cabin doors were openable - Bernette and Juan were trapped inside.

Eugene immediately dialled the number for the DTF team he'd put on standby.

A traffic jam immediately formed behind the accident. Whatever vehicles had been alongside the semi in the right two lanes had simply continued driving; the vehicles behind it, however, had either slammed on their brakes, swerved to avoid it, or both - three or four secondary accidents were caused when the cars hit each-other in so doing. Only the rightmost lane remained unimpeded, and after a few moments, the other three lanes began merging into it.

The tarp on the trailer opened from the inside, and a man wearing full tactical gear jumped out, armed with an automatic rifle; he immediately marched over to the rightmost lane, pointing the gun at the passing cars and gesturing for them to keep back. The drivers complied; now no-one was passing.

A second person got out from the trailer, followed by a third, fourth, and fifth. By the time Eugene's call connected, there were ten of them - three keeping the cars back and blocking the highway, the others moving around the semi-trailer, approaching Bernette's van from behind.

'This is George.'

'Deploy, deploy, deploy!' Eugene shouted, lifting the guard from a button on his desk and hitting it with his fist; a flashing red light lit up over his cubicle. 'Interstate 90, eastbound, immediately after exit 49A; ten hostiles confirmed, armed, tactical gear.'

The person at the other end of the line barked orders to someone else. 'The guards?'

'Unknown, contact lost, likely trapped and unable to assist.'

Eugene opened a new program on his computer, putting in the van's ID number and his own access credentials. Inside the cargo area, bolted to the wall separating it from the cabin, was a machine designed to protect the van's contents from theft; once triggered, it would fill the room in seconds with a surprisingly-durable polyurethane foam, strong enough to resist a fair number of explosives once set. It wasn't fool-proof - with enough time it could be dug out or dissolved - but it would certainly delay the thieves long enough for armed security to arrive on-scene.

Although the machine should have already been activated by the impact of the crash - or, hopefully, by Bernette and Juan themselves - Eugene nonetheless tried to activate it remotely, in the event it somehow hadn't. Even when the program notified him that it couldn't connect to Bernette's van, he ordered it to send an activation signal anyway.

'What's happening?'

Eugene turned to face the voice, taking the headset off one ear as he did. The light above his head alerted his superior, Alice - now leaning over his desk beside him, watching the camera feed - that an incident was unfolding; two minds were better than one, and she could authorise more drastic action than him if it was needed.

'Heist in transit on the I-90, eastbound just after exit 49A. Anomalies in cargo, they're off-route due to traffic jams, all contact lost - they mentioned two of the cameras in the back dying, now their GPS isn't working either.'

'Epsilon Seven?' Alice asked.

'Team of five on their way, leader George on the line. There's at least ten attackers, seven of them are at the back of our truck.'

The seven mentioned were out of view from the cameras, inside a blind spot created by the semi-trailer's positioning - from behind, Bernette's van was completely hidden, and the other camera only showed its front; the back of the van and several meters behind it were completely obscured. Alice pointed at the semi-trailer tarp on the side Bernette's van was pinned against; a bright, flickering light was shining on it from just behind the van.

'They're cutting in,' she said, pulling out her mobile phone and punching a number in. 'I'll get another ten agents. What's the cargo?'

Eugene pushed the camera view to one side, pulling up the manifest. 'Bound for Reliquary Area-27; nothing but relics, all anomalous.'

'Wonderful. Just wonderful.' She held her phone up to her ear and started talking into it.

'George,' Eugene said into his microphone, 'ETA?'

'Three minutes.'

Eugene started fidgeting in his seat. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with a situation like this - everyone had to deal with one at least once every year or two - but every time it did, he inevitably became restless. It was his responsibility to keep cargo and personnel safe, to keep everything working the way it should, but whenever it didn't, there wasn't much he could do; he could call in agents, tell them where to go, keep them informed, but beyond that he was stuck watching the tragedy unfold from behind his desk.

And, like now, there always came a time where he could do nothing but watch.

A notification popped up on the bottom-right corner of Eugene's monitor; the time, two names, and the number to contact them.

'George, please hold,' he said, scowling and punching in the new number.

'Hello?' A new voice answered.

'Terry, is anything wrong?'

'No, we're fine, leav-'

'Good, I'll call you back.'

He hung up and went back to George's line.

His eyes went to the camera view. One of the attackers had come back into view at the rear of the semi-trailer, a pair of briefcases in either hand.

'Alice, they're grabbing stuff!

She swore.

'George, if you aren't flooring it -'

'Two minutes!' George shouted. 'Give me two damn minutes!'

Eugene resisted the urge to shout back, knowing it wouldn't change anything. He just sat and stared at the screen.

A silver car came into view for the eastbound-facing camera.

The Mazda had been ahead of the semi when the crash occurred, and it hadn't slowed down afterwards, continuing down the I-90 and disappearing from view; but at some point it had stopped and turned back around, now driving back up the highway, against the direction of (now non-existent) traffic. It only took a few seconds for it to reach the scene, slowing down and coming to a stop next to the agent holding the briefcases - who gave them to the driver.

'Should've known,' Eugene mumbled. 'George, they're putting the loot inside a silver Mazda sports car, diplomatic plates, license is D-L-G, 0-3-9-5.'

'Silver D-L-G, got it,' George replied.

He pushed the camera view to the side again, bringing up the map of Chicago's roadways and navigating to the location of the crash, trying to figure out where they could be going and how best to stop them.

'Sports car; speed,' he mumbled, scrolling along. 'Go with traffic to avoid a collision. Eastbound lanes… next exit is 50A, that gets them into residential. School, park, a few shops… park. Big field. Nice spot for a helicopter, not too far from where they get off - quick to reach.'

He got Alice's attention again. 'They might be going for the baseball park. It's not too far from the next exit, you could land a helicopter there briefly. The next exit is only a few blocks away from it, and there's only one set of lights in-between. Could go for this school here, but either way - exit 50A.'

She nodded. 'Harold, give me a second,' she said into her phone before showing the screen to Eugene. 'Team two lead, nine persons, conference them with yours.'

'One minute,' George said.

The attacker that had emerged from the semi-trailer first - the one blocking the rightmost lane, and closest to the edge of the bridge - looked to their left, then signalled to the others. The ones raiding the Bernette's van gave another two briefcases to the Mazda driver.

'George, what's your current route?' He pressed the conference call button on his receiver, and punched in the number on Alice's phone. 'I'm adding the other team now, nine heads.'

'West Division Street eastbound, coming up on Ashland avenue,' George said.

His eyes widened. 'Take the right, take the right!'

'What?'

Alice glanced at him.

'Right on Ashland. Go for Eckhart Park. They've made you.'

Five agents against ten was bad odds. Five agents against ten who had obviously planned the raid for quite some time - evidenced by the efficiency of the attack, how conveniently the van shut down at exactly the right time, and how quickly they got into the cargo area - was worse odds. Giving them a clear line-of-sight on the approaching DTF agents was even worse; if they had a rocket launcher, it would be easy to stop George and his team from getting onto the highway, and by the time they did - assuming they even could - the Mazda would be speeding off, laden with whatever the assailants had performed the raid for, and nobody was in-place to stop it.

But the Mazda itself could only hold two people at most, and judging by how much was being put into it, the driver was probably alone. Five against one was good odds.

'Turning onto Ashland,' George said.

'Harold here.'

'Location and heading?' Eugene replied.

'West on Fullerton west avenue, passing Orchard north street.'

Eugene scrolled over on the map. 'Left at Halsted street, follow to Division then turn right. George, I need you to turn left onto Huron street, follow it almost to the end, but don't turn onto Racine avenue, and stay out of sight from the exit. I'm reckoning they'll try turning onto Huron and going for Eckhart, and you can jump them there.'

'Got it,' Harold said.

'And if they don't?' Alice said.

Eugene scrolled back over to the highway. 'Exit 50B is the next option. The plates are for a Turkish diplomat; if they take 50B they might be trying for NBC Tower and the consulate. The end of the off-ramp has lights - if you get them to stick to red, traffic will build and they'll be stuck on the on-ramp. George and his crew can get onto the I-90 from Milwaukee, here, then come down 50B and get them from behind.'

'What if they don't take 50B?' George said.

'Then they go through the tunnels, hit the 51's, and from there we've pretty much lost them,' Harold said. 'How many exits are there again?'

'B through I, then they can turn onto I-290 in either direction or keep going southward.' Eugene pointed to the highway just before the tunnels began, where an on-ramp paralleling exit 50B merged in. 'Alice, can you get a team to just block this spot right here? The backlog could force them onto 50B.'

'You want to choke the whole Kennedy Expressway,' she said.

'It's that, or risk losing the anomalies.'

Alice shook her head. 'This better work.'

Movement on the screen caught Eugene's eye. The Mazda pulled away from the semi, accelerating down the highway.

'They're moving, George, are you in position?'

'Of course I'm not in bloody position, we're still going down Ashland!'

Eugene snarled, quickly getting into the camera for exit 50A. 'Take Chicago if you can, you've got a minute before they pull off the highway.'

The sound of screeching tyres came through the phone line. 'And what now?!'

'Stop at the right for Elizabeth North, block the street, and get ready to shoot!'

With their getaway car speeding off, the assailants turned their attention to the vehicles held-up by the attack. One of the guards blocking the lanes pointed to a blue minivan, and gestured for it to approach, pointing their gun at the windshield; after a moment the driver reluctantly obeyed, slowly driving forward until signalled to stop.

Another militant appeared from the blind spot, carrying a moderately-sized wooden crate pilfered from Bernette's van; they put it down gently, then went over to the minivan, trying to open the driver-side door - after shouting at the occupant, they used their rifle to smash the window and open it from the inside. Eugene clenched his teeth as they stepped back from the door, pointing their gun at the occupants and shouting at them; almost immediately all four doors of the car opened, with the passengers and driver - all teenagers - stepping out with their hands up.

All four turned away from the accident, slowly walking between the other held-up cars before progressively breaking into a sprint. The militants paid no attention to them - one got into the driver's seat of the minivan, moving it over to where the Mazda had been, then put the wooden box into it.

The Mazda itself came into frame on the third camera, taking exit 50A at speed - it was the only car on the ramp.

'George, they're coming your way, just got onto the exit. Where are you now?' Eugene said.

'Passing Eckhart!' George replied.

The Mazda sped out of view.

'Thirty seconds at best.'

'Which street is it coming down?'

'Willard street would be fastest, but I don't know, I can't see!'

An aggravated growl, another screech, then the barking of orders.

'Harold, ETA?'

'Five minutes, passing North avenue,' Harold replied.

'Contact!'

The sound of gunfire filled the phone line. Two of the assailants at the crash site looked to the south, in the direction of George and his team, then the three blocking the lanes intermittently turned to each-other, talking. The gunfire ceased, promptly followed by the faint sound of a crash - all the visible assailants reacted to this, one of them abandoning their post and going into the blind spot behind Bernette's van.

'Target down, retrieving - get down!'

The gunfire briefly resumed, before subsiding once more.

'Helicopter confirmed,' George said, 'came from the north-east, took some pot-shots at us, now they're bailing to the south.'

'The cargo?'

'Getting it now.'

Four of the attackers emerged from the blind spot, each carrying various items pilfered from the armoured van; they shoved these into the family car, then three of them got in themselves while one of the guards pointed to another vehicle, a black sedan - the occupants didn't hesitate to get out and run.

'They're bailing, Alice have you got the highway blocked yet?'

She shook her head. 'We can block 50B, or we can block the road after it, but we aren't ready for both yet.'

'Then block the road, at least we can force them back into Chicago.'

'Four minutes,' Harold said.

Eugene shook his head, going back to the map again, his eyes following Harold's route. They weren't going to make it - the blue minivan was already pulling away with its three occupants, the last four assailants had emerged from the blind spot and were loading their loot into the sedan, and the group was in the process of acquiring a third vehicle. They would be gone by the time Harold's team arrived.

He zoomed out a little, eyes darting over the screen as he desperately tried to figure out a way to respond. They wouldn't be able to go any further than 50B, and once they came off it would take them some time to get back onto a highway - but the lattice of streets gave them plenty of options, and it would be difficult to box them in again.

But 50A was still on the table, too. George was nearby, but preoccupied with something - probably the helicopter that was supposed to pick up the Mazda's cargo. They probably wouldn't, since they seemed to be aware the first car had been intercepted, but if the helicopter was keeping in contact with them, then they'd know the route was viable - come off the exit, floor it down Racine avenue… get onto Ogden avenue, and from there they could disappear anywhere. With enough speed they could even get onto the I-290, or the I-90 past the road block…

Then he saw it.

'George, there's a bridge over the I-90 just east of you; I need guns on it, facing north and down at the highway. There's a blue minivan coming down it now, three occupants and cargo - take it out.'

'You two, secure the cargo! You two, with me!'

The assailants closed the back of the sedan, then four of them jumped in and sped off. The driver-side door of the semi-truck opened, and the driver finally emerged; unarmed, but geared up like the others. They ran around to where the third car - a red hatchback - was stopped, and all four remaining attackers got into it, immediately proceeding down the highway.

'After the blue minivan is a black sedan, four occupants and cargo, then a red hatchback, four occupants, no cargo. Harold, maintain your heading, drop three of your men off to secure the scene, then continue down the I-90 in pursuit.'

'Received, two minutes out.'

Eugene's eyes lingered on the windscreen of Bernette's van - the camera resolution was too low to tell if there was any movement inside. He hoped there was.

The blue minivan came into view of the exit 50A camera; the phone line was filled with gunfire. The car's windscreen visibly cracked, accelerated for a moment, then swerved to the right - too sharply. The driver-side wheels lifted off the ground, and the whole vehicle began to roll along its side down the highway, throwing pieces of glass and metal off as it went - a metal box flew out of the driver-side window, flying several meters through the air before hitting the road and bouncing along, out of the way of the car. After a few moments the minivan came to rest, on its roof.

Eugene could faintly make out the black sedan and red hatchback screeching to a halt just at the end of the bridge. They both performed a U-turn onto the on-ramp to their right - the red car taking the lead - and accelerated toward the Division street junction.

'Harold, the black sedan and red hatchback are about to get onto Division street using the on-ramp, you need to intercept.'

'Tell me which way they turn,' he replied.

'Cargo from the sports car secure, we're going down to the minivan now,' George said.

The two cars reached the junction. The civilians were keeping away from the warzone, so both directions were clear for the taking; from the cars' positioning, it was obvious they intended to capitalise on the availability.

'Hatchback turning toward you, sedan turning away, latter has cargo.'

For a brief second, Harold's armoured van - with the word 'SWAT' painted across it in huge, white letters - briefly entered the north-facing camera's view as it hurtled down Division street from the east, using the empty eastward lane to fly past the long line of civilian vehicles. It disappeared under the bridge; when it emerged it had swapped lanes, sustained damage to the front-left bumper - probably from clipping the red hatchback, which was still under the bridge somewhere - and was smoking at the tires from trying to stop. It succeeded in doing so, but not before hitting the sedan from behind, knocking it off-balance; the driver managed to keep it straight enough to leave the camera's view, but the ensuing metallic smash that came over the phoneline proved they didn't make it much further.

The DTF agents rapidly spilled out from the van, all with guns raised - five went straight after the sedan, while the others rushed back under the bridge.

'Hands up! Hands up! Don't test me!' Harold shouted.

'Don't move!' George barked; he and the two with him were approaching the blue minivan, all with guns raised.

Eugene leaned back in his seat, eyes wide, rubbing his forehead. 'Harold, there are relics in there!'

Harold didn't respond; just more barking and screaming at the sedan occupants.

Gunfire. George's team stepped back from the minivan, then after a moment lowered their weapons and started pulling items out from it.

'George?'

'They went for their guns; no survivors,' George said.

'We've got a live one,' Harold said. 'One's dead, the other two will be soon.'

Eugene buried his face in his hands. He looked up when Alice tapped him on the shoulder.

'It's done,' he said. 'We've got them all.'

She nodded. 'Take five minutes. I'll handle the clean up.'

Eugene didn't complain; he took off the headset, gave it to Alice, then stood and stepped out of the cubicle. Alice put on the headset, and the moment she did, a new call came in.

'Hello? Eugene's stepped out for a moment, I'm sorting things out for him.'

A pause.

'A new truck, you say?'

Eugene grinned as he walked away.

While en route, the transport was intercepted by a team of ORIA agents, who utilised a directed microwave weapon to destroy the transport's internal electronics, including that of its security systems. The heist was successfully prevented through the emergency deployment of several Distributed Task Force Epsilon-7 ('Sign Here Please') stationed throughout Chicago. Interrogation of the apprehended assailants confirmed that an ORIA agent embedded within the Department of Tactical Theology had notified them of the transport several weeks prior, and marked the acquisition of SCP-6943-1 as a high-priority target.

The location of SCP-6943-1 following the incident is unknown. The GPS tracker recorded as being attached to the item's container became non-functional during the attack, and searches of the surrounding area were unable to locate SCP-6943-1 or its container; the ORIA agents claim to have been in possession of the item when apprehended, but are unable to justify its absence afterwards. An investigation by the Department of Logistics, however, suggests that SCP-6943-1 may have been incorrectly catalogued on departure, and as such could have been tagged with an incorrect GPS tracker and erroneously loaded onto a different transport departing from Reliquary Site-76; an audit of all Foundation facilities that SCP-6943-1 may have been delivered to is currently underway.

Footnotes

1. From whom SCP-6943-1 was acquired in 1996, as part of Operation BLANK SIGIL.

2. Throughout the 20th century, ownership of SCP-6943-1 repeatedly changed between several precursors of both the ORIA and the Horizon Initiative, then the GOIs themselves following their establishment. Other owners of SCP-6943-1 include Sir Edwin Young (circa 1677), the British Museum (1886-1889), and Marshall, Carter, & Dark Ltd. (1907).

3. The Anunnaki are a vaguely-defined group of Sumerian/Mesopotamian deities; the precise number, members, and purpose of the Anunnaki vary across surviving texts, but typically have some relation to seven major deities of the pantheon: An, Enlil, Enki, Ninhursag, Nanna, Utu, and Inanna. In Akkadian mythology (and descendants), the Anunnaki are underworld deities, the number of which vary up to 600.

4. The minute Akiva radiation is suspected to be caused by Sumerian mythology's modern resurgence as part of several 'ancient astronauts' conspiracy theories. Investigation to discern whether this resurgence was instigated to restore some/all SCP-6943 instances' anomalous properties is being considered.

5. While the design of SCP-6943-1 indicates it was intended to be worn on the wrist or forearm, its large inner radius renders it more effectively worn on the upper arm.

6. Parts per thousand; 1 permille is approximately the upper limit of drinkable water for humans.

7. SCP-6943-1 does not enable its wearer to induce volcanic activity, except when used to create an opening that exposes the Earth's mantle.

SCP-6122: Snakes 'n Ladders

Logistics Department

SCP-6934: Saint Elmo's Fire