The Foundation's temporary relocation camp sat in a stretch of land far from any city, surrounded by nothing but dense forest and barbed-wire fences. The floodlights hummed overhead, casting stark white beams over the rows of tents and hastily assembled buildings.
Asher moved along the perimeter, his steps slow but deliberate, his fingers twitching near the knife he kept hidden at his side. He didn't trust the Foundation, not after what he'd seen in SCP-3008. Too many of their agents moved with rigid purpose, too many of their glances carried a weight of quiet calculation.
The survivors had been promised treatment, financial support, and new identities—an arrangement Amalia had apparently fought for. He wanted to believe that meant something, but he'd seen too much. The Foundation is only ever out to cover its own ass. He knew that.
And what about him? He wasn't one of the rescued, not really. He was just a complication they hadn't decided how to deal with yet.
He turned a corner between two tents and stopped.
Amber sat on the edge of a wooden supply crate, arms curled around her knees, staring out at the floodlights. She was alone, her expression unreadable in the artificial glow.
Asher hesitated. He hadn't spoken much to her since they got out, but he'd kept track of her in a quiet, unspoken way—watching from a distance, making sure nothing messed with her. But now, seeing her like this, he realized how wrong it felt. She was just a kid, and she had no one.
Still, he wasn't sure what to say.
"Camp's got cots," he said finally. "You should be sleeping."
Amber didn't look at him. "Should be," she muttered. "Don't really feel like it."
A beat of silence. Asher leaned against the crate next to her but kept his arms crossed.
"You know where they're sending you?" he asked.
She gave a half-shrug. "Some foster system, I guess." Her voice was flat. "Not like I got anywhere else to go."
He didn't have an answer for that.
After a long pause, she turned to him, her eyes dark and sharp. "What about you? You got somewhere to go?"
The question hit harder than he expected. He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not really," he admitted. "I'm still a criminal technically. Can't just go Waltzin' back into society like nothing's happened."
Amber frowned. "Criminal? I mean… yeah, you're kind of an asshole, but I don't see felon written all over you."
Asher huffed a small, humorless laugh. "That's 'cause you don't know the right people. The government? They see me as a genocidal terrorist."
Amber blinked. "Okay, what?"
He rolled his shoulders, staring off toward the floodlights lining the camp's perimeter. "It was a job. Me and my crew took a contract. One of those 'high-risk, high-reward, don't-ask-questions' gigs."
Amber stayed quiet, waiting.
"We were supposed to take out a bioweapon facility. Real under-the-table shit. Not supposed to exist, not supposed to leave witnesses. Some suits needed it gone, and we were stupid enough to sign up."
A pause.
Amber's arms tightened around her knees. "And?"
Asher let out a slow breath.
"And it went sideways. Really sideways." He shook his head, jaw tightening. "It wasn't just a lab. It was an entire research city—hundreds of people, most of 'em civilians. We triggered something we weren't supposed to, and boom. Gas leak. Contamination. Before we knew it, the whole place was a graveyard."
Amber's eyes widened slightly, but Asher kept talking.
"We tried to fix it. Hell, we tried to get people out. Didn't matter. Government saw an easy cover-up and ran with it. Blamed us for the whole thing. I survived, so guess who got to be the face of the tragedy?"
Amber swallowed. "So they just—what? Made you a terrorist?"
"Slapped my mug on a most-wanted list, fabricated some 'domestic threat' bullshit, and threw my ass in the darkest hole they could find." He exhaled, shaking his head. "And that's how I became a Class-D."
Amber was quiet for a long moment. She stared at him like she was seeing something different—something she hadn't figured out before.
"They used you," she said finally.
"Bingo," he muttered.
She rubbed her arms, her expression thoughtful. "And the Foundation? They just… bought you?"
"Pretty much." He chuckled dryly. "I guess they figured, hey, why execute the poor bastard when we can make him fight nightmares for a living?"
Another long silence. Amber's eyes drifted down to the dirt, thinking.
"…So what happens now?" she asked quietly. "Now that you're out?"
Asher snorted. "You're assuming there is a now. 'Cause if you're askin' what I'm gonna do with my new lease on life?" He shrugged. "Got no goddamn clue."
Amber nodded like that confirmed something she already suspected. "Yeah," she said. "Figured."
He looked at her with smirk, slightly offended at her surety. After all, they're both currently lost as it stands. She smiled back at him, and they sat quietly watching orange sky turn dark.
The next morning, Asher found himself sitting across from Amalia in one of the camp's makeshift offices.
It was a temporary structure—wooden floors, bare metal walls, the kind of room built for efficiency, not comfort. The only illumination came from a small desk lamp, casting a golden glow between them.
"You want me to what?" Asher asked, his voice flat.
Amalia smiled, patient as ever. "Work for me."
He scoffed. "You're kidding."
"I don't joke about these things, Asher," she said smoothly. "You already have the skills. You know how to survive. You know how to fight. And—more importantly—you know what's out there."
Asher exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "That wasn't by choice."
"Neither is the situation you're in now," she countered. "You don't trust the Foundation, and I don't blame you. In fact…it's one of your few redeeming qualities. But you wouldn't be working for them—you'd be working for me. There's a difference."
He studied her carefully, ignoring the light jab. "You saying you don't follow orders?"
"I follow orders that make sense," she said. "And when they don't, I do what needs to be done."
He was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers against his knee. "Still sounds like a death sentence. Been through that already once."
Amalia smiled. "You spent last night patrolling the camp, did you not?"
He frowned.
"You're not built for normal life, Asher," she continued, voice even. "That's not an insult—it's just the truth. You can either walk out of here with nothing, or you can have a purpose. A real one."
Asher let out a slow breath. He didn't answer.
Amalia didn't press further either. She simply leaned forward, resting her hands on the desk.
"Think about it."
She left him with that. You could almost see the weight of his thoughts in his shoulders. It was a lot to process. He needed time. Retreating to his tent to mull it over seemed the best course of action for now.
That night, Asher didn't sleep.
He lay awake in the dim light of his tent, staring at the ceiling, thoughts turning over themselves in slow, restless circles.
He didn't want to be tied to the Foundation. He didn't want to fight anymore.
But with all the time he's spent surviving and protecting, what else was he actually good for?
And what about Amber?
If he left, she'd be gone, out of his hands. He wouldn't know where she ended up—foster care, some state system, maybe shuffled between homes until she disappeared into the cracks of the world.
Maybe she'd survive.
Maybe she wouldn't.
He slowly realized theses were things he was unwilling to leave to chance.
By dawn, he had his answer.
Amalia was already waiting when he walked into the office the next morning. She raised an eyebrow as he entered, arms folded.
"You look like hell," she observed.
"Yeah, well, didn't sleep," he muttered. He exhaled sharply. "I'll do it. The job I mean."
A small, pleased smile touched her lips. "Smart choice."
"But there's a condition," he said, jaw tightening. "Amber. You make sure she's taken care of. No Foundation bullshit, no tracking her like some kind of asset. She gets a normal life."
Amalia studied him for a moment, her pen lightly tapping on the desk.
"You care about her," she said finally.
Asher shifted. "She's just a kid."
Something about his tone must have convinced her, because Amalia nodded. "Done."
He exhaled, relieved.
The door creaked open behind him.
"What, so you're just gonna dump me somewhere?"
Amber's voice was sharp, suspicious. Asher turned to see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest.
"It's not like that—"
"Sure it is," she said, eyes narrowing. "You get your new badass job, I get tossed into some 'safe place' where you never have to think about me again."
"Amber, that's not—"
"If you really want to make sure she's safe," Amalia interrupted, her voice light but deliberate, "then what safer place than right next to you?"
Asher stiffened.
Amber blinked, turning to him expectantly.
"You serious right now?" he asked Amalia.
She smirked. "I'm always serious."
A long, weighted silence stretched between them. Asher rubbed his face, muttering something under his breath.
Amber finally spoke. "So what—you're adopting me now?"
The idea felt absurd. He wasn't a parent. Hell, he wasn't even good with people. But Amber wasn't looking at him with disdain or anger.
She was waiting.
Asher sighed. "Guess I am."
Amber huffed. "Well… you're probably gonna suck at it."
"Yeah," he muttered. "I probably am, but neither of us has to be alone now."
Amber smiled lightly, struggling to hide the full extent of her joy. She knew Asher wasn't the mushy type and would more than likely reject it, but she could have hugged him for days.
The room had finally settled. Decisions had been made, and for better or worse, Asher was in.
Amalia, clearly pleased, leaned back in her chair and let out a slow breath, like she'd just finished some minor paperwork.
"Well," she said, stretching slightly. "I'm glad that's out of the way."
Then she slid a vanilla folder across the table.
Asher eyed it like it contained a tax audit.
"We have our next job," she said smoothly.
Asher pinched the bridge of his nose before even looking at it. "Jesus, woman. You don't waste a single second, do you?"
Amalia just smirked, saying nothing.
Amber, curious, leaned in behind Asher as he reluctantly flipped open the folder.
SCP-106. (The Old Man)
Uncontained.
Casualties confirmed.
High-priority retrieval mission authorized.
Asher blinked. Then blinked again. His mouth tightened into a thin, unimpressed line.
Finally, he looked up at Amalia. "You want me… to hunt that thing?"
"Not just you," she corrected with a small, amused smile. "Abel and Cain will be assisting."
"Oh well, that's a relief," he deadpanned, shutting the folder like it was cursed. "For a second there, I thought this was gonna be dangerous."
Amalia chuckled, clearly enjoying this.
Amber, however, wasn't laughing. She stared between them, realization setting in.
"Wait," she said slowly. "You don't have to take this job, do you? We can just… leave. Together. Right?"
Asher drummed his fingers on the table, then sighed.
"Fine," he muttered.
Amber's eyes widened. "Wait—seriously? We can just leave? That's an option?"
But Asher wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Amalia.
"I'll do it," he said, tapping the file. "But first, I need to know something."
Amalia raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"In an attempt to trust you a little more," he continued, "who are you, really? What makes you qualified for this job? Why do they pay you the big bucks? And—most importantly—what exactly are you doing all of this for?"
Amalia considered him for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose, almost like a laugh.
"You really don't hold back, do you?"
"Nope," Asher said flatly.
Amber crossed her arms. "Yeah, he's really annoying like that."
Amalia smirked. "Good. I like that."
She could tell that this wasn't just a throwaway inquiry. This was his test. If she wanted Asher to truly be part of this team, if she wanted him to stop eyeing her like a loaded gun, then this was her moment to earn something close to his loyalty.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "The Foundation needs someone like me. Someone who understands SCPs better than any scientist or psychologist."
Asher tilted his head. "But technically, you are a psychologist, right?"
"Correct. More specifically, I study the human mind and how it responds to trauma. Through my work, I've learned something about SCPs—something that, without fail, has been universal among them."
"And what might that be, doc?" Asher asked, throwing in just a little mockery.
Amalia met his gaze. "That every single SCP exists because of one universal cause—human fear."
Silence.
Amber stiffened slightly, shifting on her feet. Even Asher, who normally had a sarcastic remark for everything, took an extra second to absorb that.
Amalia continued, voice even. "SCPs take many forms. They can be monsters, objects, things that warp reality itself. But all of them exist because someone, somewhere, was afraid of something." She gestured toward the file. "Even SCP-106. The Old Man. He didn't just happen. He exists because someone was afraid of him first."
Asher exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. "That's a hell of a theory."
Amalia gave a small smile. "It's not a theory."
Amber frowned. "Wait—so you're saying SCPs are just… what? Walking, breathing panic attacks?"
"That's one way to put it," Amalia admitted.
Asher gave a dry laugh. "Great. So we're working a job where everything we hunt is just a giant flesh-monster manifestation of human anxiety. Sounds super promising."
"Would you rather it be random?" Amalia countered. "At least this way, you know what you're up against."
"Oh yeah, because knowing doesn't make it worse or anything."
Amalia chuckled again. Then Asher squinted at her.
"You still haven't answered my last question," he pointed out. "Why do you do this? What's in it for you?"
Amalia's expression shifted, just slightly. Softer. Less clinical.
"You," she said simply.
Asher blinked.
For half a second, he was certain she was hitting on him, and his brain lagged trying to process it.
Amalia saw his face and immediately laughed. "Not like that."
"Oh, thank God," Asher muttered.
Amber made a face. "Gross."
Amalia smirked. "I get to save people—from their fears. Physically. Mentally. You, Asher, are an example of that."
Asher exhaled, unconvinced. "Right. That's definitely what you meant."
They actually laughed at that one.
Then Asher's face sobered, his expression turning unreadable. "Alright," he said slowly. "That's an answer. Not sure if it's a good answer, but it'll do for now." He narrowed his eyes. "But you're still a mystery to me, woman. And I don't like it."
Amalia's smile was maddeningly smug. "All will be revealed in due time, dear." She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. "For now, get settled into your new living arrangements."
Asher's brow furrowed. "And what exactly does that mean?"
"Oh, you're going to love them," she said, heading for the door. "I'm sure."
She left without another word.
Asher watched her go, already preemptively exhausted by whatever fresh hell was coming next.
"…I hate her," he muttered under his breath.
Amber smirked. "No, you don't."
Asher groaned. "Don't psychoanalyze me, kid. That's her job."
Amber just laughed as she followed him out.
Chapter End—