#iris is... scary

wow this one took a while. there's an iris here, though, so i feel like it's okay!

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The walls of the site were wooden.

Some sort of anomalous effect, Iceberg deduced, scanning the dark material. Not touching it. He would not make that mistake. It was likely caused by SCP-4231's anomalous capabilities, specifically a typical stress response. So Wojciechowski had not managed to sedate it, then. The failure would be noted.

The fact that the bullet shells scattered across the floor were non-lethal was noted as well. That was likely not an anomalous effect. So the attempts to stop this termination were non-lethal as well? He hadn't expected differently of Wojciechowski, really. Gears would not appreciate that his hypothesis had been correct.

Gears. His assistant would prefer that he come back unharmed, wouldn't he? Objectives clicked into place in Iceberg's mind. Personal safety would have to be a concern, then. Not a priority, exactly, but a concern nonetheless.

Protecting 239, on the other hand, was a priority. Subduing 4231 was a priority. So he would take whatever measures were necessary.

The comm in Iceberg's ear buzzed, receiving an incoming signal. He allowed it through. "Status?"

"Iceberg? Oh, thank fuck." Wojciechowski's voice came through in a nearly inaudible crackle. It was strained, Iceberg noted. Injuries, then, were likely. "You have to stop Arlens. He's going for-"

"239. I'm aware." Iceberg's eye twitched slightly. "Status, Wojciechowski."

"Alive. Beat-up. Did you know Lens liked locking people into empty containment cells? Or breaking their ribs?" Wojciechowski coughed. "I sure fucking do. He tracked me down and shoved me into a room with no shadows. Fuck knows where James Talloran is. God, when I find him--"

"We'll address your revenge later. Where is 4231?"

"Jesus." Wojciechowski swore. "Don't call him that!"

"I'll call him what I like, director. Where is it?"

"He is going for the butterfly chamber." The other man laughed. "Not that he's getting in. I made sure of that. He'd have to cause a CK-Class scenario to get in, and... well. He likes his being 4231 about as much as I do."

"Do you really think we can rely on its discomfort with a number? It blew up your doors, Wojciechowski. It deserves to be an SCP right now." Iceberg's expression was almost cold enough to be called a scowl. Almost. "Evacuate your personnel. I will handle your breach myself."

The comm was silent.

"... you're going to kill him?"

"If it's necessary." And it almost certainly was. "Evacuate your men, Francis."

Iceberg could practically hear the silent fury on the other end.

Finally, finally, Wojciechowski answered.

"No."

"Then neutralize it yourself," Iceberg ordered. "I don't have time for your sexual tension. Get it under control and make sure it doesn't cause a goddamn breach. I will handle 239 myself."

"... Fine." Wojciechowski growled on the other end. "Don't get in my way. You're a very replaceable man, Doctor Gilles. That assistant of yours deserves a promotion anyway."

"I'd be happy to sign one for him," he responded. "Get your pet project under control."

There was the sound of a comm being crushed under rubber soles.

Iceberg sighed, turning his own comm off. The dramatics. Honestly. If he didn't want his pet SCP terminated he shouldn't have let it try to kill a little girl.

Especially not that little girl.

Iceberg stepped through the halls with a purpose, a hand on the grenades hanging from his belt.

"Damn it!" Butterfly slammed a fist against the closed door to 408's containment cell, anger burning bright inside him. He could feel the flickering life of his butterflies inside, the familiar feel of it only fuelling his fury. "G-d damn it, Clef. You and your g-ddamned lockdowns."

The 408s couldn't get out. Not with those protections. Butterfly had a feeling what was in place had been set up a long time ago, and it hadn't been meant to keep them in.

No. It had been to keep him out.

Damn Clef. Damn his director, planning and planning and lying his way through questions, through explaining what protections were on what. Damn the fact that terrifying competence had been turned to...

To what? To the whims of a little girl high on her own power, not even knowing what she had turned him into?

Fuck her. Fuck 239. Fuck this whole mess. When he found that girl, he was going to rip her to shreds.

Butterfly's hand slipped down the reinforced metal of the door, going down, down with his hope.

Hopeless. This was hopeless. He'd never get to her. Was he already too late? The alarm had probably alerted other sites, too, so he almost definitely had Iceberg on his trail. And even if not Iceberg, even if it was someone he could subdue without issue and get past to kill 239-- could he even do it? Could her powers overtake his? Could she look at him, twist him, turn him into something beyond his worst nightmares because he made her think of a monster?

Could he even do this?

... Not without help. Not without allies. And without the 408s... did he even have any?

The room was silent around him. Cursing him. Mocking him. He didn't. He didn't have anyone. The SCPs would have been evacuated and fucking Francis was against him and- and--

"... You look like you need a little help."

Butterfly jerked, spinning swiftly to find a young woman standing in front of him. She didn't so much as blink when he leveled his sword to her throat.

"... Iris Thompson."

"In the flesh," she responded, deadpan. "Lower the sword, Benjamin Kondraki. We need to talk."

"Don't call me that!" Benjamin Kondraki was a dead man. He'd died with his wife and he'd died with the thought that his son was a monster to be contained. "Don't you ever say that name again."

"Sorry." Thompson smiled. At least, it looked like a smile. His depth perception was shot to hell, of course, and his third eye stung with heat, but he swore even past that it looked more like a snarl than a grin. "This isn't the right world to be calling you that. But, well, with that name or not... I'm offering you an out."

"An out?" As if he'd trust her. 239 had never seen her, yes, but Thompson was personnel. Dating Francis's own daughter. Why she'd side with him over her site and her girlfriend he hadn't the slightest idea. "Spare me the bullshit, Thompson. What do you want?"

"It's obvious, Doctor Butterfly," she said, enough surety in her voice that he strained to hear anything inhuman past that. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing but the dregs of a dead god inside her. "I want you to win."

That made him pause. "What?"

"There are tunnels the director doesn't know about. Meant for Factotum use. O5 use," she explained. Something in her voice tired as she did. "How did you think I stayed hidden while they evacuated? The Council thinks it hides its things well, really. But it's easy to find them when you have all the time in the world. And we both know how much time I had."

"... Damn. 3999 really did a number on you, didn't it?" He remembered back when she had first come to the site, when she was still nervous and kind of snappy and excited. Now... well. "Where are they?"

"Right here." Thompson reached out, taking him by the wrist and tugging him past a corner to find a large door where there once had been wall. It hung open to reveal a tunnel, leading down, down, down. "And turn off the voice, Butterfly. No-one here's scared of you. Except maybe you."

"... Asshole." His voice, past the anomaly echoing it, was weak. Raspy. "How the hell did you find this?"

"I killed O5-6 in it a month ago. How else?" She pulled him in. "Do your best, Doctor Butterfly. Leave me a corpse to burn."

And didn't that send chills down his spine.

"Wait," Butterfly called, stopping Thompson as she walked away. "Why are you doing this?"

It took her a few moments to answer. The tunnels loomed empty around him.

"I like watching reality benders die," she answered simply. The door closed before him.

... Ominous. But helpful. Butterfly shook his head, descending into the dark of the tunnels. Hopefully she only wanted 239 dead. Hopefully it didn't extend to him.

But if it did...

Butterfly shook his head, looking through the tunnels. They seemed to match the halls of Site 17 enough, didn't they?

He wasn't exactly a stupid man. He knew his enemies-- friends?-- were dangerous. He knew it'd be risky to fight them without help.

And, well... 408 wasn't the only group of butterflies on-site.

Butterfly turned left, headed for the enclosure storing SCP-3209.

Iris Thompson travelled the halls with barely a sound. She knew well how to avoid making a sound on these floors, covered in wood or not. In her pocket, a six-sided die sat wrapped in her handkerchief, familiar and unturning.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" she heard Francis Wojciechowski demand in front of her. Iris did not look up. Instead, she shrugged, her fingers playing idly on that die.

"I'm with Butterfly on this one," she said softly, pulling the die out of its cloth. "That girl did something, that's for sure. The only thing to do now is stop it."

Francis scowled. He was hurt, Iris noted, with badly burned hands and broken gear, and he walked with a limp that screamed of a broken leg. "Iris. She's only a kid."

"And you're only a man." Iris met his eyes. "I could kill you without flinching."

"You wouldn't."

She shrugged. "Get out of the way and I won't."

Stubbornly, Francis stayed. Iris sighed. "Fine. Make your choice."