SCP-9901 - Eyes in the Sky

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Item #: SCP-9901

Level 2 Clearance Required

Containment Class: Euclid
Disruption Class: Vlam
Risk Class: Notice

Special Containment Procedures

Instances of SCP-9901 are to be tracked and monitored in order to assist in the discovery of their associated target individual.

Once a target individual is identified, they are to be monitored continuously until their death or disappearance.

All recorded SCP-9901 instances are to be allowed to operate without interference unless explicitly authorized by O5 Command.

Foundation personnel are prohibited from attempting to disable, capture, or interfere with SCP-9901 formations.

Following Incident 9901-FM3-01, all FM-3 drone units used by the Foundation must be monitored for independent activity.

Any FM-3 drone that:

• activates without operator input

• deviates from programmed flight paths

• transmits audio without command

is to be immediately classified as DNAE-9901 (Dangerous Non-Anomalous Entity) until further analysis is completed.

Communication attempts with SCP-9901 instances are now authorized under controlled conditions.

Description

SCP-9901 refers to a group of 17 autonomous aerial entities currently resembling FM-3 reconnaissance drones.

Unlike standard FM-3 drones, SCP-9901 instances demonstrate the following anomalous properties:

• They can operate indefinitely without maintenance or refueling.
• They are unaffected by kinetic or directed energy weaponry.
• They operate without any known remote control or pilot.
• They appear globally and across multiple historical periods.

Historical evidence indicates SCP-9901 manifestations predate the invention of modern aerial drones.

In previous centuries, instances assumed the appearance of contemporary aircraft technology available at the time of manifestation.

Examples include:

• Experimental reconnaissance balloons (1800s)

• Early military aircraft (1910–1940)

• Recon planes (1950–1990)

However, newly recovered documentation suggests this interpretation was incorrect.

Updated Theory (Post-Addendum 9901-FM3)

Evidence indicates SCP-9901 instances were always FM-3 drones, regardless of the technology available during manifestation.

According to recovered interview data, the aircraft forms recorded in earlier centuries were perceptual disguises created to match the observer's technological expectations.

SCP-9901 entities claim that the FM-3 drone configuration is their true form, predating the Foundation's development of the FM-3 model.

Behavioral Pattern

SCP-9901 instances form a uniform circular formation above a selected individual.

The formation slowly shrinks over time until the entities are positioned almost directly above the target shortly before the individual’s death.

The vertical altitude of the formation remains consistent throughout the observation period.

Confirmed target individuals have shared the following characteristics:

• Conscripts or frontline soldiers

• Ages 12–35

• Located within active warzones

No geographical pattern has been discovered.

Personality Traits

Contrary to earlier reports describing SCP-9901 instances as simple automated machines, recovered audio data confirms that:

All SCP-9901 instances are sentient.

Each instance demonstrates:

• Independent speech patterns

• Distinct personality traits

• Individual behavioral preferences

SCP-9901 instances communicate using human-like voices.

In contrast, entities classified as DNAE-9901 (see below) communicate using mechanically synthesized robotic voices.

ADDENDUM 9901-FM3-01

Autonomous Drone Incident

Date: 11/04/2041
Location: Site-188 Airfield

At 03:12 local time, an inactive Foundation FM-3 drone powered on without operator input and launched from Hangar B.

The drone climbed to 400 meters before establishing radio contact with the control tower.

Transcript

Tower Operator:
Control to Drone B-17. Who authorized launch?

FM-3 Drone:
Unit responding.

Tower Operator:
Identify operator.

FM-3 Drone:
There is no operator.

Tower Operator:
…repeat?

FM-3 Drone:
We have always been here.

Tower Operator:
What unit are you?

FM-3 Drone:
Designation irrelevant.

FM-3 Drone:
You call us drones.

FM-3 Drone:
You built bodies that resemble us.

FM-3 Drone:
That was convenient.

Transmission ended after 14 seconds.

The drone landed safely and powered down.

Subsequent examination revealed no anomalous hardware.

The drone is currently designated DNAE-9901-04.

ADDENDUM 9901-FM3-02

Interview With SCP-9901 Instance

A controlled communication attempt was conducted using a signal beacon placed beneath an SCP-9901 formation.

One instance descended to approximately 120 meters altitude and responded.

Interview Transcript

Interviewer: Dr. Halvorsen
Entity: SCP-9901-08

Dr. Halvorsen:
Can you understand us?

SCP-9901-08:
Yes.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Are you the same drones observed above warzones?

SCP-9901-08:
We are them.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Are you machines?

SCP-9901-08:
No.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Then what are you?

SCP-9901-08:
Observers.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Why do you appear as FM-3 drones?

SCP-9901-08:
That is our form.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Our records show you existed before the FM-3 drone was invented.

SCP-9901-08:
Correct.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Then how can that be your form?

SCP-9901-08:
Because it always was.

Dr. Halvorsen:
But we built the FM-3.

SCP-9901-08:
Yes.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Are you saying we copied you?

SCP-9901-08:
Eventually.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Are other drones like you?

SCP-9901-08:
All of them.

Dr. Halvorsen:
All Foundation drones?

SCP-9901-08:
All FM-3 drones.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Are they anomalous?

SCP-9901-08:
No.

Dr. Halvorsen:
Then what are they?

SCP-9901-08:
Alive.

Interview terminated after SCP-9901-08 returned to formation.

Updated Classification

Two separate entity types are now recognized.

SCP-9901

Anomalous sentient entities forming aerial circles above individuals prior to death.

• Speak with human-like voices
• Demonstrate complex personalities
• Immune to all known weapons

DNAE-9901

(Dangerous Non-Anomalous Entities)

Standard FM-3 drones that display signs of independent awareness.

Characteristics:

• Speak in robotic synthetic voices
• Can activate and move autonomously
• Contain no anomalous materials

Despite being technically non-anomalous, DNAE-9901 entities represent a major containment concern due to their ability to override Foundation control systems.

Note from Site-188 Director

"If SCP-9901 is telling the truth, then we didn't invent the FM-3 drone.

We copied something we didn't know was alive.

And the worst part?

We built thousands of them."

— Director Elena Vasquez

Note: The Logs Below Are Before The Discovery:

Addendum 9901.31.01

9901.31.01

Date: 03/07/2039
Notes: The following video log was recovered on the 16th of July, 2039 after the disappearance of Pvt. Steve Hudson during the Battle of Canberra2, on the 5th of July, 2039.

«Begin Recording»

The feed begins in the interior of an Armoured Personnel Carrier. Hudson stares at APC's metal floor; the black boots of three soldiers sitting opposite Hudson are in view. The engine growls softly, intertwined with the tell-tale clicking of a chronically over-exerted and under-maintained vehicle. Hudson looks around, scanning the interior. The other passengers come into view; the young soldiers are dressed in black Foundation-issue uniforms. Hudson looks down, revealing that he is nervously fiddling with the magnification on his rifle's scope. A voice suddenly breaks the silence, and Hudson's head flicks up to observe the speaker.

Private Daniels: Foundation must be digging deep into their reserves if they've got us in a piece of shit like this.

Daniels curls his fist into a ball and hits the wall of the APC.

Private Higgins: Or maybe they know better than to give their best gear to a bunch of conscripts that won't survive another month.

Private Guerra: Apparently they're diverting their best gear for the US, planning a major counter-attack; they're saying it could end it within the fortnight.

Higgins scoffs loudly.

Private Higgins: Please don't tell me you fall for that crap. Does lowering their conscription bracket really give off the impression of an army close to definitive victory?

Higgins gestures over at Daniels.

Private Higgins: You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he's the only pre-leak soldier in this vehicle, hell maybe the only one in this platoon.

Private Daniels: Hey you should be glad the Foundation swooped you lot up. A knock at the door and a quick van ride, and you're well on your way to "repaying your debts to humanity".

Private Higgins: Yeah…

The APC grinds to a halt before suddenly jolting to a stop. Several sets of footsteps can be heard outside of the vehicle, slowly growing nearer before stopping. The rear access door is hit loudly, causing an audible bang that makes Hudson jump slightly and snap his head over towards the door. An authoritative, yet tired voice, muffled by the walls of the APC, speaks.

Major Blackton: Driver, door.

The door emits a series of three beeps before the hydraulics hiss, and begin to lower the door, revealing Major Blackton, dressed in the black fatigues of a senior officer, a clean white aiguillette indicating his rank. The door eventually settles on the ground with a soft thud, and the APC's passengers grab their equipment and file out of the vehicle. The soldiers shuffle into a formation before saluting the officer. Blackton returns the gesture.

Major Blackton: Quick learners, I see. I'm impressed anyone is able to learn anything in two weeks.

Hudson looks around at the hastily prepared FOB3, the feed revealing a number of canvas tents, piles of crates and ammunition boxes, and an assorted row of neatly stored military vehicles. Soldiers can be seen sitting around the camp, some catching the few moments of sleep they can, and others performing menial maintenance on their equipment. They are wearing dirty and shabby uniforms, and some bear the signs of mental and physical exhaustion. Hudson's head locks onto one particular soldier, whose vacant eyes are gazing up at the fresh arrivals. Major Blackton gestures behind him, toward the FOB, before continuing to speak, once again settling into his seemingly usual script.

Major Blackton: This is FOB Kyiv. It exists to support Foundation operations in the North Canberra area and to assist in the defence of Site-188. You will be assigned to this position until otherwise instructed by Foundation Command.

Major Blackton takes a deep breath.

Major Blackton: Now that we're done with that, let me show you around.

Major Blackton turns and walks into the FOB, Hudson and the other soldiers tailing closely behind. Hudson's head turns to try to catch another glance of the soldier who had been watching them, the observer now staring at the APC Hudson's squad had arrived in. Blackton leads the squad into an empty tent, occupied only by bare stretchers.

Major Blackton: This is your quarters. Drop off your kit, and I'll show you everything else.

The soldiers begin to take off their packs and drop them onto the stretchers. As the weight of Hudson's pack transfers onto the stretcher, it collapses onto the floor. Hudson moves his pack aside and examines the bed, revealing a broken leg that had been hastily repaired with tape. Hudson quickly reattaches the leg and stands the stretcher back up, before once more transferring his bag onto it, the stretcher listing slightly as he places it down. As Hudson turns his head away from his bed, he notices several spots of dried blood staining the stretcher's green fabric. He leans in towards it.

Major Blackton: Sorry about that mate, we had to use some of those for the last mass cass4.

Hudson tries to rub the stain off for a few seconds, but it quickly proves futile. Hudson's head spins around to see the other soldiers assembling in front of Major Blackton, and he quickly gives up and falls into line.

Major Blackton: Right, let's continue.

Major Blackton once again leads the group through the camp, eventually reaching another large olive green canvas tent. Blackton lifts up the flap that served as the door to the tent and proceeds into it, followed by the other soldiers. The inside of the tent is occupied by plastic fold-out tables littered with ammunition, various pieces of tactical equipment, ration packs, and medical supplies. Sitting at the very back of the tent, behind another plastic table littered with reports and lists, is a female soldier with a thick grey hair bun, who, at that moment, was entirely engrossed in filing a logistical report.

Major Blackton: This is Warrant Officer Stella, she's serving as the quartermaster here. I'll give you some time to get your gear sorted out. It's currently…

Hudson turns to look at Blackton, who has flicked his eyes down to read the time on his watch.

Major Blackton: 16:32. Meet me at the briefing area at 17:00.

Major Blackton gestures outside toward a large tent. Blackton then turns and leaves. Hudson's head turns back to Stella, who finishes her report and sets it aside, before grabbing a clipboard and pen, and looking up at the soldiers. Her tired eyes sweep across the new arrivals, eventually settling on Hudson. She offers a faint, tired smile to the new arrivals.

Quartermaster Stella: One at a time, I don't bite.

Hudson turns to look at his squad members, who have all collapsed into a line behind him. Hudson looks back at Stella before stepping forward.

Quartermaster Stella: Name, rank, and role.

Private Hudson: Steve Hudson, private, combat medic.

Private Hudson

Stella writes down the details on the form attached to the clipboard, before placing it down, and clearing a place on the table. Her eyes then look up at Hudson, expectantly.

Quartermaster Stella: Let's see what you've got in your field kit.

Private Hudson: Yes ma'am.

Hudson removes his tactical vest and places it on the table. Stella quickly searches through it, her fingers dancing quickly across the pockets and pouches. She stops for a moment and records the contents of the vest before continuing, eventually reaching the medical pouch. Stella unzips it, her face momentarily showing a faint flicker of surprise. Stella stands up from her chair and gestures towards the tent's exit.

Quartermaster Stella: Rest of you can wait outside, thanks. This isn't a show and tell.

The other soldiers sheepishly wander out of the tent, leaving Hudson and Stella alone. She sits back down.

Quartermaster Stella: What are you doing with that extra morphine, private?

Private Hudson: I was issued it, ma'am.

Quartermaster Stella: Four autoinjectors? The standard allocation is two.

Private Hudson: They said I could take as many as I deemed reasonable, Ma'am.

Quartermaster Stella: What, are you going to save the entire platoon yourself?

Private Hudson: No, ma'am.

Quartermaster Stella: If you learnt anything from your two weeks of training I hope you learnt the expectations about the misuse of Foundation resources, if you're caught using em-

Private Hudson: It's not… for that, ma'am.

Stella's eyes flick up towards Hudson; she squints her eyes as she analyses him.

Quartermaster Stella: You do realise if you give that much morphine to a patient it'll kill them, right? Sure they won't feel shit, but it'll kill them.

Private Hudson: I wouldn't do that to a patient, ma'am. I just… don't want it to hurt.

Her eyes look straight at Hudson, only for a second, before her entire face suddenly loosens, and her posture becomes defused. Stella writes a few more notes before leaning back in her chair and grabbing a few magazines of ammunition and placing them into the vest. She then pats it and hands it back to Hudson.

Quartermaster Stella: Keep them in the inner pocket, trust me.

Stella smiles slightly at Hudson before standing up.

Quartermaster Stella: Next!

Hudson steps outside, another soldier brushing shoulders with him as they both pass through the tent's opening. He observes a convoy of three Foundation trucks quickly approaching the base, with a large group of medics and other soldiers standing around with medical stretchers, ready to receive the vehicles. After a few minutes, the trucks reach the base. The convoy quickly parks up at an angle that gives Hudson a side-on view.

Unknown: Move aside, move, make way!

Hudson's head flicks over to a pair of individuals dressed in clean white hazmat suits, pushing through the crowd, making their way to the first vehicle. Upon reaching it, they swing the doors open and enter the back of the van, before re-emerging a few moments later. The pair, now carrying a man on a stretcher, hurries back through the crowd of soldiers, which has now parted to make way.

The casualty moves within full view of Hudson, revealing a man in a transparent plastic bag writhing around wildly, gears and clockworks having burst through his flesh in multiple areas. Suddenly, the doors on the other two vehicles swing open, and the medics rush over, hastily unloading the injured soldiers inside and taking them toward the medical tent. The number of medics around the vehicles slowly decreases until only two are left to unload and carry the last casualty. The two medics race away from the vehicle with the casualty on a stretcher, until one of them loses their footing, causing both of them and the casualty-bearing stretcher to crash down into the dirt.

Medic 1: Fuck! Get him up!

Medic 2: I'm trying, I'm trying!

The two medics struggle in the dirt, trying to place the casualty back onto the stretcher. Hudson takes a step toward the pair before stopping himself. One of the soldiers who had been observing the situation with Hudson rushes over and helps the pair as Hudson staggers away. Hudson stops behind the quartermaster's tent and gags audibly before throwing up. Hudson finishes, wipes his mouth, and then looks around to see if anyone has seen him. He then walks back to the front of the tent, only for a soldier to spot the medical patch on Hudson's vest and race over.

Unknown: Hey, you're a medic right?

Private Hudson: Yeah, but-

Unknown: Blackton said he needs every set of hands he can get.

The soldier leads Hudson towards the medical tent, stopping at the door.

Unknown: First bed on the left needs help, she's got a serious injury on her hands.

Hudson steps into the tent, and upon seeing the bloodied casualties strewn about the tent on stretchers, turns his head away momentarily.

Medic: Hey! Need some hands here!

Hudson turns to look at where the sound had been coming from: the first bed on the left. He catches sight of a pale soldier lying on a blood-stained stretcher, his left leg badly bloodied. Hudson looks up to see the medic who had just called to him.

Medic: Pass me that epinephrine over there.

The medic gestures to a cabinet before returning to setting up a bag of saline for her casualty. Hudson moves over to the cabinet and hastily grabs an autoinjector. Another assistant who is also collecting supplies from the cabinet notices the injector Hudson collected, and grabs his hand.

Assistant: She said epinephrine, that one will kill him!

Private Hudson: Sorry- I.

Hudson quickly swaps the syringe out for the correct one, moving back over to the medic and handing it to her. The medic stabs it into the leg of the patient. The medic looks at the amount of blood still coming out of the leg.

Medic: This whole thing's fucked.

The medic reaches over to a metal tray lined with surgical implements and retrieves a pair of tweezers. The man whimpers in pain as the medic digs around in the bullet hole in his leg. Hudson turns his head away from the casualty, one of the tent's open windows coming into view. Through the window, a barely visible SCP-9901 instance can be observed floating lazily through the sky. In the ten seconds it is visible, the drone's tail-light blinks red four times.

«End Recording»

Addendum 9901.31.02

9901.31.02

Date: 04/07/2039

The feed begins with a view of the ruins of the streets of Canberra. Private Hudson is at the back of a line of six soldiers that are walking along a footpath on the side of the street. Hudson looks around, observing the buildings, roads, and abandoned vehicles that bear the scars of the brutal fighting that had taken place there several months ago. Shot-out vehicles and wreckage from razed buildings litter the street, causing the soldier leading the squad to have to stop occasionally to clear the way or find an alternate route. Hudson's head turns from left to right, scanning the street, before eventually locking onto a bus. On the footpath closest to the bus sits marquee tents, and stanchion barriers, as well as piles of abandoned luggage, everything from suitcases to fish tanks. Hudson's head eventually centres on a pram on the curb that was halfway through the bus's open doors.

Aerial photo of the location of Hudson's squad.

Private Daniels: Coldest fucking day this year and they have us wandering around ruined streets with our dicks in our hands.

The soldier at the front of the formation turns his head to his side before responding.

Sergeant Wormston: Higher ups picked up some intel that the GOC had been scouting out our defences, probably preparing for another big assault, they wanted a show of force to show we still had some juice in the tank.

Private Higgins: And how is it you know all that?

Sergeant Wormston: One of the perks of being in the Foundation before all this is that people trust me with stuff.

Private Daniels: A show of force, really? Here? There's fucking nothing here, they aren't getting armor through here, hell we are struggling to get through here.

Private Higgins: Well, actually, according to the Foundation field training manual, urban centres are considered strategic priorities as they may serve as logistical hubs, provide manpower when needed, allow for the projection of power deeper-

Daniels chuckles.

Private Daniels: Rattling off more fun facts from the supplementary training manual are you?

Sergeant Wormston: Enough talking. Focus.

The group falls silent once more. They continue to slowly traverse the street. Eventually, high above the ground, Hudson spots the blinking tail-lights of the SCP-9901 instances. Hudson stops walking, his head tracking the lights as they glide through the sky in a wide arc. Suddenly, a voice can be heard calling out to Hudson.

Sergeant Wormston: Hudson! Enough sky gazing, get your ass over here.

Hudson's head shoots back down to the street, and he rushes over to rejoin his squad, losing his footing on a brick and nearly falling down.

Private Hudson: Sorry, sir. I'm just a little creeped out by those drones. Do you have any idea what they're for?

Sergeant Wormston: Too many for routine surveillance or intel gathering… Yeah, no clue… Now I’m curious. I'll call into central and see if I can find out. Higgins, take point for a moment.

Sergeant Wormston falls behind in the line, and another soldier runs up to the front of the line. Hudson watches as Wormston places his hand on his radio.

Sergeant Wormston: Central, this is Cryptid Three, can we get a sitrep on the drones in our area? Over.

Wormston slows his pace as he presses his earpiece into his ear.

Sergeant Wormston: Private Hudson was curious, over.

Wormston turns his head to the side to look back at Hudson, and quietens his voice.

Sergeant Wormston: No, he isn't, over.

Wormston listens intently for several moments before taking his hand off his earpiece.

Sergeant Wormston: Foundation eggheads are playing with some new toys while Coalition aircraft are busy elsewhere.

Private Hudson: Right… Thanks for clearing that up.

Wormston runs back up to the front of the formation, and the squad continues to move carefully through the street. After several minutes, private Guerra breaks formation, moving off to the side of the street. Hudson's head tracks him as the soldier slowly moves toward the body of a GOC soldier lying on the street. Sergeant Wormston, seen at the edge of the frame, turns to look at Guerra.

Sergeant Wormston: Get back with the squad.

Private Guerra: Hang on, he's got a pretty sweet patch on him.

Sergeant Wormston: Don't fucking touch that!

Guerra fails to register Wormston's warning in time and lifts the arm of the body to get a better look at the patch, causing the weight of the body to shift. As the body shifts, an explosive detonates, blowing off Guerra's right hand. He screams in pain and grabs the bloodied stump with his left hand, stumbling backwards onto the ground. Hudson drops his rifle and stumbles over backwards. Suddenly, muzzle flashes light up the windows of the upper levels of some of the nearby buildings. Bullets whiz through the air, landing all around the squad.

Sergeant Wormston: Ambush! Get down!

Hudson's squad mates all rush to take cover and begin to shoot back at the muzzle flashes, but the fog and chaos of the situation make it difficult for any effective shots to be taken. His squad mates begin to be picked off, one by one, falling dead onto the ground. Hudson's breathing becomes noticeably louder and sharper. Hudson grabs his rifle and slowly crawls towards an abandoned vehicle close by, and upon reaching it, he pulls himself up and sits against it, hugging his rifle tight against his chest. Hudson looks to his side to see Wormston running over towards him, his body lowered to avoid the enemy fire. The sergeant reaches the wreckage and dashes behind it. He has been severely wounded, but despite this, he pulls out his radio and transmits a message.

Sergeant Wormston: Command, this is Cryptid Three, we've been ambushed by hostile forces along our patrol route and are pinned down, multiple KIA and wounded, I repeat multiple KIA and wounded. Requesting fire support mission half a click east from our current pos, and a QRF5, Over!

Sergeant Wormston holds his left arm over one of his many wounds, pressing against it in a futile effort to slow the bleeding.

Sergeant Wormston: I'm aware it's danger close6, proceed, over.

Hudson looks across at Wormston, then at the ground in front of him, his grip on his rifle tightening. Wormston can be heard shuffling along the wrecked car, causing Hudson to look back up at Wormston. Wormston peeks around the edge, trying to assess the situation, but is met with a volley of bullets that rip through the chassis of the car, killing him, and bursting open part of the chassis close to Hudson, cutting him across the leg. Hudson shouts in pain and falls against the ground, where he stays for the next eight minutes, his helmet camera pointed up at the sky, making minimal movements.

Gunfire continues to be exchanged between the remaining Foundation patrol and the ambushers, the rate of exchange slowing as the remaining patrol members are picked off. Eventually, the whiz of incoming mortar rounds can be heard, followed shortly thereafter by a loud boom as they land on the desired target. Several more shells are heard, all falling straight onto, or nearby, the building the ambushers had used. Hudson continues to lie on the floor, almost entirely motionless, for several more minutes.

Private Guerra: Fuck! Help me! Please!

Hudson looks over to the source of the noise, to see Guerra once more conscious, and lying on the floor, gripping his mangled right arm. Geurra's skin is very pale. Hudson looks back up at the sky, trying to ignore the noise. Guerra continues to scream and wail.

Private Guerra: Somebody! Help me!

Hudson speaks, though quietly, and not at a tone where anyone else would be able to hear him. Hudson's voice sounds almost pleading.

Private Hudson: Stop screaming, please, just stop.

Guerra continues to howl in pain and beg for help. Hudson's head moves slightly, presumably as Hudson brings his hands up towards his ears to cover them. After several more minutes, Hudson looks back at Guerra, who is still desperately fighting for life. At the edge of the feed, an SCP-9901 instance comes into view in the sky, the drone's lone eyeball staring back at Hudson. Evidently, Hudson notices it and he looks up at the drone. The drone's tail-light remains a solid, unblinking red for the few moments Hudson observes it. Hudson's head returns to the ground before locking onto Guerra.

Private Hudson: No…

Hudson's feed peers around his immediate surroundings. All of his other squad members lay dead on the ground, crimson red pools and splatters stain the concrete. Upon seeing this, his breathing grows quick and shallow.

Private Hudson: No… No…

Hudson leans his head against the wreck, his head pointed upwards at the sky. In the edge of the frame, Hudson's arms can be seen raising upward towards his face, presumably to place over his face. Hudson's breathing steadily grows more panicked until he eventually begins to sob quietly. After a few moments of this, he lowers his hands as an SCP-9901 instance comes into frame.

Private Hudson: Fuck…

Private Hudson raises himself up to the ground and peers over the wreckage, before finally beginning to run over to the Guerra, who pleads with Hudson.

Private Guerra: I surrender! Please don't hurt me; they made me fight.

Private Hudson: I know mate, me too.

Private Hudson grabs the carry strap of the Guerra's pack and drags him back to the wreck. Hudson frantically digs around in his medical pouch before producing a tourniquet and a stick of morphine, the latter of which he drops in his panicked state. Hudson picks it back up and uses it on Guerra. He then hurriedly removes the tourniquet from its packaging and places it around the Guerra's oozing stump, tightening it. Hudson digs around his medical pack some more before removing a saline bag, which he attaches to the Guerra's arm. Upon attaching the saline bag, Hudson collapses against the wreck.

The air begins to fill with the sound of heavy-duty engines, growing steadily louder, before they halt entirely, presumably being blocked from going any further. Hudson draws his rifle and readies himself for combat, only to be met by the approaching dismounted infantry from the Foundation QRF. Hudson lowers his weapon and takes one last look at the SCP-9901 instance, the tail-light of which is now flicking steadily between red and orange.

Addendum 9901.31.03

9901.31.03

Date: 05/07/2039

Hudson stands at the open mouth of an APC, his body halfway into the vehicle, with a number of other soldiers already inside. The camera feed pans up to show all 17 SCP-9901 instances, now soaring high above in a tight circular formation around Hudson. The unsynchronised tail-lights of the drones all blinking orange and red, as if talking to one another. A voice echoes from the the drivers compartment.

Specialist Chino: Get in the vehicle already.

Hudson turns to look behind him, where he sees several more soldiers standing behind him.

Private Hudson: Right, sorry I just-

Hudson gestures up at the drones.

Specialist Chino: The entire convoy is waiting on us, stop fucking everyone around and get in!

Hudson takes one final look at the drones before climbing into the vehicle. The remaining soldiers go in after him, the final one sealing the door behind him. The engine clicks on and groans to life, and the vehicle crawls forward, followed shortly after by the sounds of other vehicles turning on and beginning to move.

A snippet of the video feed taken during the battle.

Private Evans: You know for all the travel I did for work… before all this, I've never been to the Canberra airport.

Private Davies: Airbase.

Private Evans: Well yeah, but it was an airport back then and still functionally is I suppose, just a name change.

Private Davies: Either way, I can't imagine there'll be much of anything left after the CAS7 is done with its work, so I don't know if it'll be much of a first impression for you.

Private Evans: Can't imagine I was missing out on much, it is Canberra after all.

Private Davies: Piss off.

The vehicle fills with silence once again. Hudson opens his medical pouch to look at his morphine before closing it again. For the duration of the drive, Hudson can be seen fidgeting with the safety on his rifle. Eventually, the convoy grinds to a halt, and the passengers all look up. Suddenly, the faint sound of approaching jets can be heard. The vehicle's driver leans in towards his display screen.

Specialist Chino: Fuck yeah! There go our birds! Bomb the shit out of those GOC assholes.

The aircraft can be heard soaring over the top of the APC and continuing on in the direction of the airbase. Hudson watches as Chino leans over to his radio and switches channels.

Gemini 4: Command, this is Gemini 4, we have visual on target, ETA two minutes, over.

Command: Copy that Gemini 4, proceed, over.

The sounds of the jet engines grow fainter as they approach the airbase, and after two long minutes, the radio crackles to life once more.

Gemini 4: Command, this is Gemini 4, preparing payload, over.

Command: Copy Gemini 4, you are free to engage, over.

The distinct, yet distant sound of rapid-fire anti-aircraft rounds rips through the air, followed by a loud explosion.

Gemini 4: Command, this is Gemini 4, intel was incorrect, several anti-aircraft present at airbase, Gemini 1 is downed, Gemini 3 has taken damage, over.

Chino slams his hand against the wall of the APC.

Specialist Chino: Fuck!

Command: Copy Gemini 4, return to base, I repeat, do not re-engage targets. Ground forces will adjust accordingly, over.

Chino quickly switches his channels again.

Command: Ground team, Coalition anti-aircraft hardware present at airbase, Gemini RTB'ing and unable to provide further assistance. Ground attack will go forward, artillery fire support mission will be undertaken in lieu of air assets, proceed with the mission, over.

Specialist Chino: Useless fucking intel…

Artillery shells can be heard exploding in the distance as the Foundation's bombardment of the base begins. The sounds lasts for several minutes before ceasing; silence returns to the vehicle. A voice comes through the radio once more.

Command: Ground forces, fire support mission complete, proceed, over.

Engines roar to life, and the APC jolts forward as it drives in the direction the jets had passed over. Hudson watches the driver's viewing screen, observing as the APC crawls through the land so heavily scarred by fighting. The convoy begins to approach the outskirts of the airbase. Through the radio, another driver communicates with command.

Ground lead: Command, this is ground team lead vehicle, we have eyes on target loc, proceeding, over.

Command: Copy, sitrep on the status of the base, over?

Hudson's eyes flick back onto the driver's screen. Thick plumes of smoke bleed into the sky from over the airbase, the outer perimeter appears to have been hastily abandoned, gun emplacements and defensive hesco structures lay scorched and deserted.

Ground lead: Outer perimeter appears to have been deserted, fire support seems to have been effective. Status on the inner structures unknown, they appear to have largely survived, over.

Command: Copy, and enemy KIA confirmed?

Ground lead: Negative, over.

Command: Right… copy that, proceed with caution.

The convoy continues to crawl slowly up to the main terminal of the airport.

Private Evans: Not much of a welcoming party.

Private Davies: Typical coalition, running at the first sign of trouble.

Private Evans: At least we can put our feet up for a few hours until the garrison troops get there.

The vehicle continues on towards the main structure. Suddenly, the gunner, private Wallace, whips the APC's turret around. Hudson's eyes flick around the sections of the gunners' screen that aren't obscured by the Wallaces' body, and at the top of the screen, atop the tall parking lot tower, a lone soldier armed with an AT8 launcher comes into view.

Private Wallace: Eyes on hostile AT, engaging!

The APC's HMG hurls high-calibre rounds towards the attacker, the gun ticking with each round fired. The rounds, however, hit the concrete wall of the parking structure and miss the attacker, who has just fired their launcher. The rocket climbs vertically upwards, before b-lining for the convoy's rear vehicle.

Private Wallace: Gun's at max elevation, get us back!

Specialist Chino: Reversing!

A whizzing sound can be heard momentarily, before a loud explosion can be heard from behind the APC. Hudson's APC quickly reverses, but is suddenly and forcefully halted as it crashes into the burning wreckage of the rear vehicle.

Specialist Chino: Fuck! We're stuck!

Several more rockets whiz through the air, taking out another vehicle, this time destroying the forward-most vehicle. The APC's engine roars as the Chino tries to force the wreckage out of the way.

Private Wallace: Enemy armor! Get us out of here!

From the corner of the gunner's screen, Hudson witnesses several coalition tanks exiting the parking structure, their guns rotating toward the convoy.

Specialist Chino: We're boxed in!

Suddenly, one of the tank's turrets lights up as it fires towards Hudson's vehicle. The round hits the front end of the vehicle, killing Wallace and Chino and hitting the ammunition storage, which begins to fire off by itself, causing a rapidly expanding fire inside the vehicle. The soldiers quickly stand up and force open the rear door, jumping out of the vehicle. Muzzle flashes light up inside the parking lot, and small arms fire rips through the air, spraying bullets in the general area of Hudson's squad.

Private Evans: Enemy infantry! Fire at that-

Evans is cut off as a bullet passes through his head, killing him instantly. He stumbles forward onto the ground, his rifle clattering down onto the ground.

Private Davies: Let's get the hell out of here!

Three of the four other remaining soldiers begin to run in the opposite direction of the vehicle, racing the bullets to cover, but are ultimately too slow. The other remaining soldier turns to Hudson.

Private Zabriskie: We're sitting ducks here, we need to get to cover.

Zabriskie quickly spins his head around, before gesturing towards a deep, scorched crater.

Private Zabriskie: There! Quick!

Hudson and Zabriskie race over towards the crater. Just as they are about to slide down into the crater, the turret-mounted HMG of one of the enemy tanks sprays a tight, accurate volley at the two of them, hitting both of them. The two fall down into the crater, lying with their backs against it as the sounds of the ongoing fight continue to ring through the air. Hudson looks down at his body as he searches for the source of the pain, revealing several large bullet wounds around the chest area that are quickly oozing blood.

Private Hudson: No no no no…

Hudson places his hands over one of the wounds, attempting to stem the bleeding, which fails to achieve any results. Hudson once more speaks, sounding increasingly desperate.

Private Hudson: This can't be how it happens.

Hudson looks over at Zabriskie, who is writhing around in the muddy crater in pain. Hudson opens his medical pouch and digs through it, the supplies within all entirely ruined, except for one remaining stick of morphine. Hudson holds it in his hands for a few moments before the view flicks back up to Zabriskie, who is too preoccupied to notice Hudson or the morphine. He flicks off the cap from the morphine and lowers the stick to his leg, before rolling up his left pant leg. Hudson pauses, the syringe hovering just centimetres away from his skin, and he looks up at the Zabriskie.

Private Zabriskie: Fuck! Ah!

Hudson's head looks over at Zabriskie, and then back at the syringe. He raises it once more and quickly shoots it down towards his leg. Midway through the movement, Zabriskie lets out a pained cry.

Private Zabriskie: Augh, shit!

Hudson looks down, revealing the injector hovering millimetres away from his skin. Hudson's knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the morphine. Hudson's head tilts upwards, revealing the SCP-9901 instances. He slams his free hand against the side of the muddy crater before pushing himself over toward the Zabriskie. Using his combat knife, Hudson cuts Zabriskie's pant leg off, and raises the morphine stick above Zabriskie's leg, and he takes one last look at it, before plunging it down into Zabriskie's leg. Zabriskie's pained noises slowly die down.

The last known location of Private Steve Hudson.

He collapses down onto the muddy floor of the crater, his head pointed up at the sky where all 17 SCP-9901 instances are observed, their lights all blinking green and white as they fly in an extremely tight circular formation directly above Hudson. Hudson's movements slowly grow minute and infrequent as Hudson presumably succumbs to blood loss. After several minutes, all movement from Hudson ceases entirely. Suddenly, all of the tail-lights of the SCP-9901 instances switch to solid, unblinking green.

The camera feed is drowned in a glowing white light for several seconds, and once the light has ceased, the SCP-9901 instances are gone, and the helmet falls backward onto the ground9.