Early morning. Northeastern Illinois. Driving across Highway 55, a pair of hardened individuals travel towards The Windy City.
They are on a mission for a god, a reality bender that could summon damn near anything from thin air. But they aren't worried. Bravo and Mike have been together for just about their entire careers at this point, and they weren't about to let some little god, or the splinter faction of the Sonderkommando for the Paranormal who were currently housing it, break them up.
Bravo is the brains of the operation, having been transferred into the team from being a researcher at the Foundation. He is cool, calm, and articulate. Although he has a bit of a smoking problem.
Mike is the muscle. He was a D-Class that, while testing an SCP, was involved in an accident. The consequence of which has left him mentally lacking, but able to call upon strength and power no human could possess.
Together they comprise the two people in the Mobile Task Force Whiskey-Tango.
When they are about 20 kilometers outside of Chicago, Bravo pulled his car off the highway and onto a dirt road.
Mike looks over at Bravo, "Uh, what're we doin' stoppin' here, boss?"
Bravo stops the car, lights a cigarette and looks into the distance. "I got a funny feeling about this place, Mike." He puffs his cigarette. "Let's check this out." And he starts walking towards the burning barn house.
"You got it, boss." Mike says, as he follows him lethargically.
The smell in the building is a mixture of ash and burning manure. Not pleasant, but better than some odors the two of them had experienced. The subtle hint of kerosene in the flames made Bravo smile.
"Come on, Mike, let's get a closer look." He walks into the building, with his compatriot in tow.
Towards the center of the building is a large metal hatchway, blocked by a trapdoor.
"Lift it, Mike."
Mike grabs the burning hot handle of the trapdoor and shoves it open. Steam erupts from his hands and the scent of burning flesh is added to the ambient odors, but he doesn't seem to notice. Bravo puffs his cigarette. Under the cover of the trapdoor, emblazoned in black and red, is the symbol of the SKP.
"Kind of a bastardization of the Foundation's logo, wouldn't you say, Mike?"
"Yeah, no respec' at all, boss."
They both climb into the hatch and Mike closes the door behind them.
After getting to the bottom, they hear voices yelling in German to the west and follow them. Blocking their pack is a large bulkhead, like what they have in a submarine.
From the other side of the door, Bravo can hear two voices in the room.
"Mike, why don't you…" He puffs his cigarette, "…break this door down for me?"
As soon as Bravo gave the order, the hulking mass of flesh that is Whiskey-Tango Mike, slams his shoulder into the steel door. The door is broken off of its hinges and frame and is sent hurtling into the adjacent room. It slams into one of the two people standing there and continues on its path until it and the man are both embedded in the wall. Two of the members of Whiskey-Tango walk in.
"Salutations, my good sir. I hear you are in possession of an anomalous entity that we need to take off of your hands."
The man stares at Bravo in disbelief, after seeing his comrade flattened into a wall by a steel door across a whole meter of space.
"Was seid- Who are you?" The man croaks out.
"We are just a couple of individuals coming to pick up what rightfully belongs to the Foundation. So you just step aside…" He takes a puff of his cigarette, "… or else Mike here will just have to step you aside for us, capiche?"
The man looks from the hulking mass of flesh beside Bravo and then to his comrade stuck in the wall. The man nods, puts his hands up and steps back against the wall.
"Thank you, Sir."
Bravo and Mike move deeper into the facility. Through steel box corridors walled with corrugated metal, smelling softly of rust, smoke, and blood.
They travel the labyrinthine base with ease, making their way closer to the center of the complex. Bravo continues to puff his cigarette periodically, savoring its flavor.
Finally they get to a bulkhead, larger than the others they'd seen. This one has a red lamp above it and a sign that reads Achtung! Kein Zutritt!
Bravo and Mike look up at the sign.
"Uh, what's it say, boss?
"Well, Mike, if my German is correct it says, 'Welcome, Whiskey-Tango! Your skip is right this way!'"
"Well that's, uh, very nice of them to point out."
Bravo puffs his cigarette and chuckles, "That it is, Mike. That it is."
Mike grabs the wheel of the door and shoves it open, breaking it through the wall as he does so, not bothering to turn the wheel. The sound of steel being twisted and torn echos through the hallways. A screech like nails against a chalkboard. The smell of iron dust fills the air as Bravo puffs his cigarette again.
"Let's go."
They go through the door and enter a large holding cell. Scranton Reality Anchors line the walls, a good half dozen of them, and tied to a steel chair with half inch cable in the middle of the room is a woman. She looks no older than thirty. Bravo walks up to her and lifts her head,
"Well, hello there, skip."
The woman looks at him with a dead-eyed and broken expression,
"What do you want? Who are you?"
"We're your heroes. We're here to rescue you." Bravo said with a smile, taking another puff of his cigarette.
"You came to rescue me?" The woman laughs, "I have crushed entire countries beneath my foot and you think you have more power to free me than I've had? They'll kill you both before you even get to the surface."
From behind them, an alarm starts blaring. Over the loudspeaker, a voice is shouting in German.
"I think we've got a pretty good chance." Bravo says as he cuts the bonds that hold the woman with a knife he produces from a jacket pocket, "Mike, you hold them off while I get this pretty little skip to safety, alright."
"Uh, yeah, I can do that, boss."
The woman tries to get up, but collapses. Bravo helps her onto her feet and holds her with her arm across his shoulder. Mike runs to fight the enemy.
Bravo takes another puff of his cigarette.
As the two of them hobble through the base, the sound of wrenching metal, gunfire, and screams fill the air. The stench of blood becomes more fresh and pronounced. And by the time they make it to the place where Bravo had met the first guard, the air is thick with the smell of human corpses.
The woman looks over at Bravo, a little relieved and a little afraid, "How is your friend not being killed in there?"
"Well, little lady, you have only met two members of Whiskey-Tango and old Mikey has his friend with him. Whiskey-Tango Foxtrot."
The two of them make it out from the bowels of the facility and Bravo helps the woman into the team's powder blue 1964 Impala. Bravo stands outside the car and takes another puff of his cigarette.
About three meters out from the hood of the car, the ground opens up and Mike punchs through the solid earth. He walks up to his partner.
"Have any trouble in there, Mike?"
"No, me and Foxtrot handled it."
"Good."
Bravo drops his cigarette and stamps it out.

Seven Years Earlier
Researcher Borowski was feeling hungover. He had been clean for over ten years, but this last week had drained all the self control he had left. Somebody had brought in a Ouija board. Which would've been fine if it had been made by Hasbro, but, unfortunately, this one was made by Wondertainment. And it fucking worked. This shit was so out of his depth, he was getting the bends just thinking about it.
"We've determined that the object answers any question given with exactly 50% accuracy. The remaining 50% is likely made up bullshit the fucking board uses to fuck with people… Scratch that." Borowski pressed the stop button on his Dictaphone, took a deep breath, and continued, "The remaining 50% is likely a mode of deception used by the object to convince the subjects to do things that would be hazardous to their health. The Foundation has yet to experiment on the nature of the accompanying ritual, tentatively designated Sierra Charlie Papa dash X-ray One Zero Five dash Alfa, but the test is scheduled to commence with approval from the Site Director." He hit stop.
He got approval yesterday, the D-Class would be waiting in the test chamber, and he still needs to just suck up and believe that Satan actually fucking exists. Today was not shaping up to be one of his better days.
When he got to the briefing room, the D-Class was already there, his hands cuffed in front of him.
"You would be…" he looked at the second page of his clipboard, "D-2034, correct?" The D-Class looked at him with disdain, "My name is Julio Martinez. Why do you bureaucrats need to shove us into numbers?"
"I take it you want to go back to death row then, eh 'Julio'?" He was silent and looked at the ground. "That's what I thought. So, do you know the nature of this test?"
"Only what you bureaucrats tell me. I go into that room and I sit in some chair. What is this even about?"
"Good, you were briefed properly. Please proceed to the door."
"But wha-"
Before Julio had a chance to finish his sentence, Dr. Borowski had already gone into the observation room and shut the door.
Julio sat there for a moment, worried about what all of this was about. He had been arrested for accidentally killing his neighbor with his car. Of course, they'd had a fight the day before because that pendejo called him a- He let out a long breath. So, the cops assumed it was all planned ahead of time. Puto cops. This all was probably just some sort of excessively cruel way to punish him for the family he was born into. He sighed, knowing that he had no chance of appealing his case to anyone, got up, and walked into the room.
"D-2034, please sit in the seat provided."
"What the hell is this a-"
"D-2034, please refrain from speaking during the experiment."
In the observation room, Dr. Borowski had a small instruction booklet that had come with the object. How to Make Your Friends Possessed! was proudly written over the top of it. A bunch of the text was written in a presumed anomalous language the foundation hadn't yet fully deciphered, but the instructions had a pronunciation key so…
Julio heard some weird words coming from the observation room, and he wondered what kind of weird cult he'd gotten mixed up with. It was then that he noticed the Ouija board, because the puck or whatever it was called began to move without him even touching it. He got up to see what it was spelling.
Hello…
J… U… L… I… O…
Julio didn't like this shit one bit. He didn't have long to do so, however, since as soon as the last letter was spelled he was knocked back into his seat. Pale blue gas filled the room, emanating from the planchette, funneling their way into the D-Class' mouth and nostrils. He went limp in his chair.
Dr. Borowski blinked. That wasn't expected. He pressed the intercom button,
"D-2034, are you alright?"
No response.
He rushed into the room and shook Julio's shoulder.
"Julio! Julio, wake up!" He couldn't lose a D-Class. He knew that they were barely even actually people, by the Foundation's standards, but not on his third week and after all the shit with the Satan board. He wouldn't be able to handle- Julio's eye snapped open, his irises red and his sclera bloodshot. He smiled and opened his mouth. A bone-chilling hollow voice came from it,
"Hello, Master."
Dr. Borowski blinked again, "Master? What do you mean?"
"You gave me this fantastic body to play in and, in return, you have the ability to tell me how I am to use it."
The doctor felt like he was going to be sick. Now he was in control of a fucking demon?! He swallowed his nausea,
"Get out of him."
"You want me to give the little human back control?"
"Yes!"
"Alright then, but I'm not sure if you'll like what he's left with."
The D-Class closed his eyes. When they opened, they were their normal brown color. Dr. Borowski sighed with relief.
"Julio, are you alright? You gave me a scare."
The man in the chair looked up at him with a vacant expression, "Who's Hoo Leo?"
His voice sounded croaked and broken, almost like someone with a cracked jaw. The doctor's eyes widened. He hadn't killed him, but he might have done something much worse. He fell to his knees and looked into Julio's eyes.
"I'm- I'm going to fix this. Okay? I'm- I'm going to go to the Site Director. A-and he's going to sort this all out." He got up and ran out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and began walking to the Director's office as quickly as he could.

By Order of O5 Council
Date: ██ September 20██

The formation of a new Mobile Task Force is hereby authorized to handle Tier 1 Sensitive Recovery and Search and Destroy type missions. This task force will be designated MTF Whiskey-Tango ("The Frères Azur") and will be comprised of the following members:
Dr. Borowski, Mieszko (Designation "Bravo")
D-2034, Martinez, Julio (Designation "Mike")
SCP-████ (Designation "Foxtrot")