Scp-297 Novels & Stories

The other was a tall man with the permanent scowl of someone who'd once been a bureaucrat and now had to carry a gun. The woman introduced herself as Marta Sánchez, formerly Control Acquisition Division. The man, DeWitt, didn’t give a first name. Marta pulled a tarp off a metal cart. What lay beneath looked like a human brain, roughly basketball-sized, mounted on a mess of tentacles and chitinous limbs. It had no eyes, but ridges across its central mass pulsed faintly, as if registering light. "Meet the enemy," Marta said. "This is a dead one. We think. Don’t poke it."

He paused before a reinforced door that had been locked with a retinal scanner, long since deactivated. He tore open the panel, rerouted the power, and forced it open. The chamber beyond was pristine. Unlike the rest of the lab, this one had been untouched—sealed off completely. Inside was a pod. And inside that pod… A girl. Or a replica of one. Small. Pale. Floating in stasis. Null’s expression shifted. “That’s… not me.” Damien scanned the markings. Subject Sigma. He looked at Aurora. “Another prototype.” Aurora’s voice was barely audible. “How many did she make?”

A siren, low and rhythmic, began to pulse through the floorboards. "Intruder Alert. Maintenance Override Terminated. Biometric purge initiated in sixty seconds." "We have to go, Elara!" Julian grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the central vault. "The stabilizer is in the center pod. If we don't get it now, Victor will vent the oxygen in this entire level." But as we reached the vault, a screen on the wall flickered to life. It wasn't Victor’s face. It was Isabella Thorne, sitting in the back of a black SUV in a rain-slicked Lagos street.

He raised his satellite phone to his ear and spoke in a low, emotionless tone: “The target is securely inside the cage. Rebirth Phase Two: Host Integration. Initiate twenty-four-hour surveillance. Do not make contact or interfere until the child is born. That child… is the true subject we have been waiting for these past thirty years.” The mysterious figure vanished into the darkness, leaving behind a threat far greater and more terrifying than anything Mavric and Liora had faced so far a dark cloud looming over the “normal” life they had only just begun to build. END OF CHAPTER 170.

The Biological Treason "You're remarkably calm for someone who just got handed to a Tier-Zero," the guard grunted. He stared at his handheld scanner, his brow furrowed. "The signals coming off your match's file are rising fast. They’ve already moved him to the deep containment wing. Facility 9 isn't a honeymoon suite, girl.” He glanced at her. “It’s a tomb." Lyra didn't look at him. She was staring at her optical computer, Unit 7, which was pulsed softly against her temple.

Her chest tightened as she flipped through pages of schedules, probability charts, and handwritten notes: “Subject A — Ava Layton. Memory recall anomalies detected. Temporal awareness increasing. Response patterns unpredictable. Prepare intervention protocol.” Her fingers trembled. This wasn’t a warning. This was a lab report. Her mom had been watching her entire life, waiting for her to reach this point. And now, the fire, the letters, the sirens — it wasn’t supernatural. It was controlled chaos. Controlled. By her. ⸻ A sound made her spin. Footsteps? No — a shadow moving along the wall, elongated and warped. “Ava,” a voice said. Soft. Familiar.

Outside, the birds fell silent. A figure stood in our garden, between the rosemary and the struggling carrots. It was neither male nor female, clad in a robe of shifting, neutral grey. Its face was pleasant but forgettable, and it held a slate of smooth, dark stone in one hand. In the other, a stylus of white light hovered, ready to take notes. “Designates: Sze and Kairi,” it said. Its voice was calm, measured, and utterly devoid of inflection. “I am Assessor Seven. I am here to evaluate Incident Report 4492-Alpha and the ongoing status of your localized anomaly.”

"Listen. Most of the maids and house staff in Lot 27 are genetically engineered humans. Or worse—robots with human flesh. You can't even take a picture of them without them fishing you out instantly." He rose from the throne, signaling the end of the meeting. "You have the intelligence. The aphrodisiac seller is key. She's at the centre of our intrusion or…MTP’s intrusion” He shrugged with a cynical smile on his face. “Whether she's a slut or a mistress, do as you please best with the information you have. I must excuse myself for dinner." He arose and galloped out of the room, leaving Qye alone. The Specter’s aide, Vorak Brandon, entered the room almost immediately, moving with unnerving st

"But if Valkyrie comes within a mile, I'll feel her." They waited. Watching hotel staff, monitoring security feeds, tracking every person who entered or left. Alexei radiated tension beside her, his wolf barely contained. He hated waiting, hated not being able to act. At 1630 hours, Irina gasped over comms: "Contact! Hybrid signature, north entrance. She's here." "All teams, alert," Anya commanded. "Target is on-site. Do not engage until identity confirmed." Dimitri accessed security footage, his fingers flying over keyboards. "Got her. Server uniform, entering through kitchen. Subject 2-A confirmed."

Subject designated for Memory Protocol 7 and civilian integration due to psychological instability concerns and Incident 17-B. *NOTE: Subject's genetic modifications remain active and transmissible to offspring. Monitoring to continue indefinitely. Re-acquisition may be necessary in future containment scenarios.* They didn't care if I had love or kids they wanted weapons. "Incident 17-B," I repeated aloud, searching the document for references to what this might have been. Several pages later, I found it, a heavily redacted entry with only fragments visible: