Marvel: The Foundation

Justin Hammer's office, once a hub of his manic energy, now felt empty, a hollow shell of what it used to be. Papers and blueprints lay scattered, and an unfinished prototype of some project sat idle, untouched for days. Justin was slouched in his leather chair, his eyes bloodshot, his fingers anxiously drumming against the polished wood of his desk.

The book, "A Hero is Born," had become the centerpiece of his life. In the dreams it gave him, he wasn't just Justin Hammer, the perpetual underdog to Tony Stark. He was someone revered, someone who had power and admiration—a hero. It was intoxicating. In those worlds, he had fought monsters, saved kingdoms, been crowned, celebrated. But now, that gateway had been stolen away.

He punched the desk in frustration. "Who the hell thinks they can take from me?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the desperation hidden beneath his anger. He had sent his best men searching, but they had come back with nothing. The book had vanished without a trace, just like it had appeared.

Justin leaned back, staring at the ceiling. It was all slipping away. The adventures, the glory, the feeling of actually being someone—gone. In this reality, he was just Justin Hammer again: second-rate, overshadowed, constantly compared to Stark. He could still feel the thrill of slaying dragons, the embrace of a grateful princess—only now they were cruel, fleeting memories, taunting him with what he'd lost.

His phone buzzed on the desk, jarring him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen—another call from his board members, no doubt to pressure him about production deadlines or financial forecasts. He ignored it, his focus narrowing back to what really mattered: finding that damn book.

He picked up his phone, this time dialing a different number. The line clicked, and a voice on the other end answered, gruff and to the point.

"Mr. Hammer, what can I do for you?"

"I need information," Justin said, his voice low but seething with intensity. "That book—the one I told you about. It's gone. I want it back, no matter what it takes."

There was a pause on the other end. "This... is going to cost you. And it might get messy. You sure you want to go down this path?"

Justin let out a dark chuckle. "Messy? I don't care. I want it back. Money's not an issue. Just find out who took it—and get it back."

The call ended, and Justin sat there, his heart pounding. He wasn't going to let whoever had stolen from him get away with it. He needed that book. He needed the escape, the thrill, the validation it gave him. Without it, everything felt empty.

-----------------------

Yet he was destined to be disappointed, for once an SCP object entered the Foundation's containment; they very rarely left it.

However, some objects were lucky or unlucky enough to do so. One such object was SCP-049, the so-called "Plague Doctor."

To be honest, the Doctor had been hesitant about leaving the Foundation, knowing that if he only could convince them of the importance of his work he would have all the needed resources available for his work.

He had personally seen how they treated those other doctors, and he, too, desired to have capable assistants and all the test subjects he needed provided for him. So it was a risk to leave them.

As he would be on his own, having to continue his work without any help from others. Yet, in the end, he had still chosen to take advantage of the chaos that day and left to work on his own.

On his own he had first needed to find a place to work out of, somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed but still have access to everything he needed.

SCP-049 worked tirelessly into the night, his determination unbroken. He knew that the journey ahead was long, but here, in the solitude of Alcatraz, he could continue his experiments without interruption. The island's isolation was a blessing; it shielded him from the relentless pursuit of the Foundation and the prying eyes of those who couldn't comprehend his grand vision.

Days turned into weeks, and SCP-049's makeshift laboratory began to grow. He had scavenged tools and materials from all across the abandoned facility, converting cell blocks into treatment rooms, observation chambers, and storage for the myriad concoctions he developed. It was a strange juxtaposition—rusted iron bars and decaying stone juxtaposed with carefully labeled vials, makeshift medical equipment, and anatomical sketches pinned to the crumbling walls.

His experiments, too, grew more ambitious. It wasn't only rats and small creatures that found themselves under the Doctor's care; the island, surprisingly, housed more life than one would expect.

Birds that strayed too far from the mainland, sea lions curious about the once-famous fortress, and even a few unlucky people—urban explorers who dared venture onto the island, thinking it abandoned. SCP-049 viewed them all with the same mixture of pity and determination. They were afflicted, all of them, and he was their salvation.

One evening, as the fog rolled in thick and heavy, SCP-049 heard voices echoing through the prison. He stiffened, moving to the edge of his lab where the crumbling wall gave him a view over the fog-covered water. Flickering lights moved across the island—a group of people, their voices filled with excitement, oblivious to the danger they had stumbled upon.

He turned away, drawing his cloak tightly around himself. "More patients have arrived," he murmured, his voice both solemn and determined. "Their suffering shall be alleviated. I will not allow the pestilence to take them."

Quietly, SCP-049 moved through the dim corridors of Alcatraz, his figure a shadow gliding across the worn stone floors. The explorers had no idea what awaited them—they were laughing, calling out to one another as they made their way through the darkened cell blocks, flashlights sweeping across graffiti-streaked walls and rusted bars.

But the Plague Doctor was patient. He watched them from the shadows, his dark eyes studying them from behind the mask. They were young, perhaps thrill-seekers looking for a scare. He could sense it—the anxiety, the rush of adrenaline—but underneath it all, there was something else, something darker.

"The pestilence," he whispered. He stepped forward, his figure emerging from the darkness. The laughter stopped abruptly as the group turned, their flashlights catching the figure of a man cloaked in black, a long beaked mask staring back at them.

"What the—" one of them stammered, their voice shaking.

"Do not fear," SCP-049 said, raising a gloved hand. "You are unwell, but I shall help you. I am a physician, and I will see that you are cured."

The explorers, frozen by shock and confusion, took a step back. But SCP-049 was already moving, his voice taking on a more commanding tone. "You must not resist. The pestilence must be purged, and I shall see it done."

Chaos erupted. The explorers turned and ran, their footsteps echoing through the empty halls, their voices rising in panic. SCP-049 moved with purpose, his strides long and confident. He knew these halls well; there was no escape for those who did not understand the necessity of his work.

He would catch them, and they would receive his cure.

------------------

in a training facility within Site-54, SCP-5151 stood at the center of a large, padded arena. The MTF members, specifically selected for their physical aptitude and willingness to engage in this unique program, watched the armored knight closely, their eyes betraying a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

The MTF unit, named "Knightguard" for this particular project, was outfitted with lightweight tactical gear, standing in stark contrast to SCP-5151's medieval armor. The Black Knight's voice rang out, his tone commanding yet instructive.

"Today, we will begin with the basics of melee combat. Your weapons are different from mine, but the principles remain the same—precision, balance, and above all, understanding your opponent. To face evil, you must first conquer yourselves."

He moved with a fluidity that defied the bulk of his armor, demonstrating a series of strikes with a training sword—wooden, yet heavy enough that each swing sent a rush of air through the training facility. The Knightguard agents mirrored his movements, some stumbling with the weight of their practice weapons.

SCP-5151 shook his head slightly. "No. The grip must be firm but not rigid. You must become one with the blade, let it be an extension of your will. Again!"

From the observation room, Dr. Hayes stood with Commander Mitchell, the leader responsible for overseeing MTF operations at Site-54. Mitchell watched the footage on a live monitor, his eyes narrowed in evaluation.

"You think this is actually working?" Mitchell asked, his skepticism evident.

Dr. Hayes sighed, but her expression remained composed. "For now, it's keeping SCP-5151 engaged. He believes in the purpose we've given him—to prepare these soldiers to face evil. If we manage his expectations and make him feel that his work here matters, then we maintain a certain level of containment."

Mitchell grunted, folding his arms. "Yeah, but we're also giving him a small army of people trained by him. If things go sideways, those same agents might have a harder time standing against him."

Dr. Hayes glanced at the screen, watching as SCP-5151 corrected the stance of one of the Knightguard agents, his hand resting on the young man's shoulder, his tone almost fatherly.

"I know it's a risk," she admitted. "But we have to work with what we have. SCP-5151 is different. He isn't inherently malicious—he has a code, a purpose. If we can align that purpose with ours, even partially, we can minimize the threat."

Mitchell remained silent, his eyes fixed on the monitor. On the screen, SCP-5151 demonstrated a defensive stance, his shield raised. He moved like a veteran of countless battles, each step deliberate and powerful. The Knightguard agents were visibly improving, their stances more confident, their strikes more precise.

"Just remember, Eleanor," Mitchell finally said, his voice lowering, "we're not dealing with an ordinary SCP here. This one thinks, feels, and believes. We can't afford to underestimate him."

Dr. Hayes nodded, her gaze not leaving the screen. "I know. That's why we're keeping a close watch. Every session, every interaction is being monitored. If there's even a hint of him deviating from the plan, we'll respond."

Mitchell looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. For now, though, it seems like he's content."

On the screen, SCP-5151 raised his sword in a salute to the Knightguard agents. "Remember, warriors," he said, his voice carrying the weight of conviction, "honor is not just a word—it is your shield against darkness. You must embody it, in every action, every decision."

The agents saluted in return, and Dr. Hayes watched, a mix of hope and trepidation in her heart. Containment wasn't just about keeping SCPs locked away. Sometimes, it was about finding a way to coexist, to channel the unpredictable into something manageable.

For now, the Black Knight was cooperating. And as long as that continued, the Foundation had one more card to play in the delicate balance of containment.