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Chapter 12: The Perfect Crime
"Warning: Structural damage detected on the eastern side of B2 due to external force. Personnel dispatch required immediately."
"Warning: A-1099—‘Doomsday Seed’ containment breach confirmed. Final defensive measures activated."
"Warning: Lightweight containment unit compromised..."
Bjorn pressed the mute button, and the room finally fell silent.
This deputy director of the facility paced anxiously back and forth, clutching a communicator tightly in his hand as he checked for updates on reinforcements.
[This is the Emergency Command Center calling Gardener Team 2. Report your current position.]
[Just exited the inter-zone highway. Speed at 150 kph. ETA 20 minutes. Over.]
[Hurry up! Once that thing enters its next growth phase, grenades won’t cut it anymore!]
[You think we don't want to move faster? We were mobilized within a minute of receiving the alert. Nagging us won’t make the car fly. And what about the Intelligence Department? Where was their warning about object instability?]
[A full-scale investigation will be launched after this mess. Now isn’t the time for blame games.]
[Understood. No response from inside the facility. Presume 'High-Energy Radiation' has been activated. Perimeter intel stations remain unresponsive. Over.]
[They’re interrogating the facility director now.]
[Give that old bastard a few more punches. There’s no way something this coincidental just happens...]
[This is an operations channel, soldier! You’ll scrub toilets for a month when we get back!]
[Thank you for stepping in, Commander. Next time, remind your squad to watch their language. Gardener Team 2, air support is standing by. If Doomsday Seed enters Phase Two growth, report openly to request immediate aerial backup.]
[Copy that.]
For the facility director, currently undergoing "Memory Restoration Therapy" courtesy of the Information Security Department, the timing of the breach couldn't have been worse.
Facility 031 had long been controversial—a high-risk experimental containment site constantly under scrutiny. Just days ago, a humanoid containment object had slipped into an unauthorized area, earning the director a stern reprimand and summoning him to headquarters for questioning. Moments after he arrived there, disaster struck at the facility.
It looked like either a deliberate frame-up or a meticulously crafted alibi.
Either way, with such a catastrophic failure occurring under his watch, the director’s career—and likely life—was over.
At this thought, Bjorn, the deputy director, removed his glasses and covered his face with trembling hands, struggling to steady himself emotionally.
How dedicated the man had been—diligent even in his old age, refusing to step down despite the pressures of the job.
Who knew if those aging bones could withstand this ordeal?
"Alas..." Bjorn sighed deeply but couldn’t suppress the smirk creeping across his lips.
"You stubborn old fool, clinging to the director’s seat all these years."
He sauntered back to his seat, casting a glance at the wall-sized bank of surveillance monitors. One by one, the screens displaying the heavy containment zones were being devoured by the Doomsday Seed, their images flickering out. In the medium-risk containment area, he noticed someone hopping up and down in front of a camera, frantically calling for help—but seemingly oblivious to the Doomsday Seed creeping along the ceiling. Bjorn glanced at the communicator, and when he turned his gaze back to the screen, the person had already vanished beneath a carpet of writhing roots.
Facility 031 was now an island unto itself.
Of course, neither MTF nor the command center could reach anyone inside the facility—because Bjorn had cut off communications entirely. Now, only the communicator in his possession could contact the outside world!
While security forces and rapid-response teams were equipped with specialized communicators, they were all dead now, having been neatly erased to fabricate the illusion that “high-energy radiation” had wiped out everyone.
Naturally, leaving one person alone in the control room violated protocol. According to the Intelligence Department’s excruciatingly detailed Facility Supervision Regulations, no fewer than three staff members should occupy the control room under any circumstances.
But then again, rules always had exceptions.
"All of you are still young; don’t put yourselves in harm’s way. I’m more familiar with these anomalies—it’s my duty to deal with them!"
"I’ll stay here, maintain contact with the outside, and coordinate efforts to contain the object! With the director absent, responsibility falls to me!"
"Don’t argue! Have you forgotten the oath you took when joining the Bureau—to protect humanity at all costs? Once stability is restored, we’ll need people to resume operations. I’ll ensure your safety. Now go to the shelters—it’s an order!"
When Bjorn, the trusted right-hand man of the director and second-in-command of the facility, insisted on staying behind alone, everyone wavered.
Humans are naturally selfish creatures driven by survival instincts. No one wanted to face the dangers posed by anomalies, especially not when Bjorn delivered such an impassioned speech, radiating an aura of self-sacrifice that moved them all. Besides, the alarms hadn’t escalated yet. Under the sway of wishful thinking, conformity, and obedience to authority, the rest of the staff withdrew.
Many colleagues left tearfully, deeply moved by Bjorn’s apparent heroism.
What they didn’t realize was that this farewell wasn’t for Bjorn—it was for themselves. They believed they’d survive in the shelters while Bjorn risked his life.
Little did they know that without Bjorn, the facility would’ve become a desolate wasteland the moment the radiation system activated.
Enjoy your final moments in the shelter, fools.
When Bjorn leveraged both his authority and information asymmetry to clear everyone out of the control room, he knew he’d succeeded.
To guarantee the safety of command personnel, once locked, the control room doors required the director’s password to reopen from the outside. With the main door secured, the entire facility fell under Bjorn’s dominion.
"Hmph. In any other facility, I wouldn’t stand a chance—but this is what happens when you rely too much on computers."
Glancing again at the text-based messages scrolling across his communicator, Bjorn grew increasingly nervous as the operation window approached. Sweat poured down his back, and he fidgeted uncontrollably.
A month ago, he’d been nothing more than a hardworking assistant, silently seething with resentment but too afraid to act. He’d endured enough of frontline work, even though Facility 031 was renowned for its low-risk containment protocols. Still, he loathed the very sight of containment objects, sickened by serving as their jailer. The director, that old relic, had no idea what true “research” entailed—neither did the entire Bureau! Yet every transfer application Bjorn submitted was denied, and higher-ups began questioning whether he was fit to remain as deputy director. Meanwhile, the director clung stubbornly to his post. If forced to rot in this position forever, Bjorn would rather jump ship entirely.
But fate handed him an opportunity.
When certain individuals slipped him a set of administrator keys, which he secretly tested and found genuine, Bjorn began crafting his plan.
Since the director refused to step down and the Bureau blocked his exit, he had no choice but to find another path.
...Today wasn’t the ideal moment to strike.
He should have acted when nearby MTF units were dispatched elsewhere for containment breaches, allowing him to slip away unnoticed without needing precise timing or escape maneuvers.
Unfortunately, the Intelligence Department had gone rogue, replacing Facility 031’s smart management system with outdated manual controls. Worse, they hired temporary workers unfamiliar with the Bureau, thwarting Bjorn’s attempts to sabotage from within.
Perhaps they’d discovered the security loophole...
He needed to act before the admin keys expired.
Thus, on the first day the hordes of outsiders disrupted order within the facility, Bjorn made his move.
His plan was flawless: release B-108 to block alarms, tamper with the ventilation system to direct it toward corridors near the armory, then unleash A-1099 to trigger widespread panic. As fast-response teams and security forces converged unsuspectingly, they’d fall victim to the zombie virus, preventing premature containment of the Doomsday Seed. Next, lure the plant to devour nutrient-rich water reserves, accelerating its proliferation... Finally, deploy selected containment objects to eliminate external defenses.
Each step intertwined seamlessly, leading him to freedom’s gate.
By now, nothing remained inside the facility capable of stopping A-1099.
The only hiccup? Gardener Team 2 arrived too quickly.
Based on current projections, MTF would reach the facility before 1099 evolved further. Those elite soldiers would storm in with heavy firepower, blasting the plant back to square one.
Fortunately, Bjorn had contingency plans. All he needed was the right moment to manually open several “nutrient chambers,” then flee. Timing was critical—it couldn’t be too early, lest post-mortem investigations reveal 1099’s accelerated evolution timeline, nor too late, risking pursuit by 1099 or MTF.
Once fed, 1099 would grow exponentially, bursting through the surface and forcing MTF to focus solely on containment.
By then, those hiding in shelters would perish either from 1099’s expansion or subsequent bombings.
When the dust settled, Bjorn would officially join the ranks of Facility 031 casualties—presumed dead, with no trace of his body.
Beep. Beep.
The latest message on his communicator wiped the smug grin off Bjorn’s face.
[The road ahead has been cleared. Looks like the Coalition had some conscience during this crisis. ETA: 10 minutes!]
It seemed departure time had arrived sooner than expected.
Bjorn approached the console, but his fingers trembled uncontrollably, jittering against the touch panel. Holding his breath, he froze at faint footsteps echoing nearby, eyes darting nervously between the two control room doors as he backed into a corner.
After what felt like eternity, he remembered that entry required a password—which only he possessed. His racing heart calmed slightly.
Probably just panicked employees outside, desperate to break in.
Yes, that must be it.
He was safe. No one could enter here.
Still, Bjorn was an administrator, not a field agent. This was his first rebellion, and his nerves betrayed him.
Returning to the console, he took several deep breaths.
Everything was proceeding according to plan. It was a meticulously calculated operation with ample buffer time. Success was inevitable.
Using his left hand to steady his shaking right wrist, Bjorn painstakingly guided his finger to unlock the warehouse doors he’d memorized.
Instantly, new alarms erupted on adjacent screens. Sensors across the facility map flared red, adorned with countless exclamation marks.
1099 had “smelled” the food.
Summoning confidence, Bjorn forced a smile.
Yes, everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
Grabbing a heavy suitcase beside him, Bjorn headed toward the right-side exit of the control room.
This was the final step—the culmination of the perfect crime. Bright prospects awaited.
It was time to leave.
As his hand touched the switch panel, a sharp hiss sounded. The door opened.
But it wasn’t the one he intended—it was the other entrance.
“Is it a zombie? No, it’s a normal person!”
“Oh my god, we finally found someone else!”
Note: CVA-B-108 is based on the concept of SCP-008.
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