Link to article: SCP-7390 Fragment 4.
[[=image https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/scp-7390/Descent.jpg]] … heads. Grimsley sighs, shaking his head. ‘Fine.’ ‘Sir,’ George repeats. ‘Show me what you have, then we’ll go down and see what we’ve missed. The clean-up crew can gather up any loose debris, but I want it properly documented before it’s destroyed.’ Grimsley gestures for George to guide him, but after two steps he snaps his fingers, turns, and points to Lance. ‘And you’re coming with us.’ Lance raises an eyebrow. ‘Why?’ ‘How else are you going to oversee me? Besides, if there’s nothing down there, what are you worried about?’ A moment’s silence as the two lock eyes again. This time, Lance relents with a nod. ‘Good!’ ----- Half an hour later, Grimsley, Lance, and George descend the valley’s west slope, spurred on by the fierce, searing sunlight. George holds a GoPro MAX out in front of him, recording their entire surroundings in high definition. ‘Recording,’ George says as the group reaches the valley’s nadir. ‘This is Assistant Director Grimsley Trudge, investigating the remains of flight FM-2439, departing San Francisco, California for Las Vegas, Nevada. Present is Assistant Director Lance Scrim…’ He trails off. ‘You’re going to bury this footage too, aren’t you.’ ‘Yes.’ Grimsley shakes his head. ‘No point being formal then. Make sure the footage is good, I don’t want to lose something to motion blur.’ FM-2439 is – or rather, was – a Boeing 737-400, an older model of aeroplane that still sees use in some passenger airlines. The white fuselage is fractured and broken in several places, all lying on their starboard side, but still grouped together; the tail, however, landed elsewhere. Both wings are completely detached, the starboard one partially beneath the rest of the ruins, while the port one has pierced the underside of the main body. ‘The tail detached before impact,’ George says, following Grimsley as he passes the cockpit, heading to the opposite side of the valley. ‘Everything else looks like it kept together.’ ‘Which is concerning in itself,’ Grimsley says. ‘Like Lydia said, it came off far too early, too easily; even the wings are here. We’ll have to check the other 400’s, unless it turns out those repairs caused it – see, Lance, I told you this would be important!’ Lance says nothing, taking another puff from his pipe. The port-side engine is severely damaged. Its cowlings are completely absent, exposing its twisted, black-charred internal components; the front of the engine hangs loose, and the entire underside of the wing around it is seared black. ‘Explosion must have been caused at the top,’ Grimsley says. ‘Jerked the front downward without breaking much. Was the fire suppressant used?’ ‘No, the bottle was unspent.’ Grimsley nods. ‘Probably no forewarning then, or the electronics were already cut.’ ‘Sabotage?’ Lance says. ‘Maybe. We’ll have to pull this open, see if there’s anything off – missing pieces, cut wires… could’ve snapped, though. Film this.’ George steps over, slowly waving the camera around the engine. Grimsley proceeds up the eastern embankment, stopping at the top and yelling to grab the attention of the few removalists lingering at their vehicles – cranes, trucks, the likes – beyond, waving them over. ‘We need to inspect that engine,’ he says, pointing as they arrive. ‘Get it off and over to base camp, tell them to…’ He pauses, his eyes switching between each of the workers; recognising them. ‘… check for signs of tampering,’ he continues, brow furrowed. ‘Be careful, it’s detached at the front. Don’t cut it, don’t break it, and don’t lose the screws. Tell them to find the cowling fragments too.’ The workers nod in unison, wordlessly splitting into two groups; one heading back toward the vehicles, while the others step past Grimsley and descend into the valley. Grimsley watches the latter, a stern frown plastered on his face, then his eyes survey the wreckage. One of the broken segments was sitting strangely. The oddity hadn’t been visible from the other side of the valley – but from here, the eastern bank, it was clearly tilted more than the others, as if it were sitting atop something. ‘George!’ he calls. Both Lance and George turn; the former sees the approaching workers, and steps over to speak with them. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Can you see under the fuselage?’ George turns and half-heartedly looks under the plane, then shrugs. ‘I guess?’ ‘What’s it sitting on?’ George leans down again, looking under the segment. ‘It’s just a boulder!’ Grimsley sighs, descending into the valley, passing Lance – now discussing something – and joining George. He bends over, looking under the fuselage; sure enough, a single, large boulder is visible beneath, with a large dent imprinted into the metal atop it. ‘I did say…’ ‘I know, I know. I was hoping you were wrong.’ Grimsley wipes the sweat from his face, then pinches his nose, scrunching his eyes in thought. George bumps his arm, offering a transparent water bottle. ‘Thanks.’ ‘It’s too hot to stay here for long,’ George says. ‘You don’t say?’ A pause. ‘Sorry,’ Grimsley says. ‘Not enough sleep, too much heat, and the micromanaging helicopter over there. With a bit of luck he’ll overheat and crash somewhere else.’ George muffles his laughter, quickly turning away when Lance – somehow still preoccupied with the workers – turns at the sound. Grimsley, however, freely chuckles, though the laughter is short-lived. ‘Why do you think he’s here?’ George says after a few moments. Grimsley shakes his head, turning to watch Lance. ‘Other than being a pain in the arse, I have no idea. Screwing with everything at the moment. Just do as he says, don’t get in his way.’ Grimsley turns, gesturing for George to follow him past the cockpit. Lance finally breaks off his conversation, following the two as they round the plane, proceeding toward the intact starboard engine. ‘Hold on,’ George says. ‘This is new.’ With the broken end of the wing pinned under the fuselage, the attached engine is functioning as a fulcrum, enabling the weight of the plane to hold the wingtip high above the ground. Stepping over to it, George points to a large crack running along where the cowling meets the wing; just like its mangled twin, the turbofan is detached at the front. ‘You’re sure?’ Grimsley says. ‘Positive. This wasn’t here when we arrived.’ Grimsley takes a closer look. It doesn’t look abnormal – the detachment could have easily been caused on impact, the front of the engine being pulled backward. The crack curves with the cowling’s circumfer-- He looks again. ‘Widest on the starboard side,’ he says, pointing, ‘narrowest to port.’ ‘Meaning?’ Lance says. ‘Meaning this engine is twisting //inward//, rolling toward the body but turning in the wrong direction. Like it’s being pulled inward. I’ll ask you again, Lance – is there an anomaly here?’ Silence, save for distant talking up at the base camp. Lance returns his pipe to his mouth, taking another puff. ‘Why do I even bother…’ Grimsley grumbles. Grimsley passes the cockpit again, going back to check if the destroyed engine was the same – the moment he rounds the nose, he stops. One of the cranes has been moved into position at the valley’s edge, its arm lowered so the load block dangles above the wing. But it isn’t above the engine; nor are the workers making any attempt to fulfil Grimsley’s request, instead working together to pass a series of chains under sections of the wing, attaching them to the block. ‘Lance,’ Grimsley says, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘did you tell them to remove the entire wing?’ No response; just the sound of Lance blowing smoke(?). ‘Lance, Lance, Lance, Lance…’ A moment’s silence, followed by a deep sigh. ‘George, go and stop them. My orders.’ He wastes no time doing so. ‘Lance. What are you doing?’ ‘Ensuring the wreckage is cleared --’ ‘The wreckage //will// be cleared. But they will do it how //I// want it done. I don’t care that you’ve swapped my crew with your agents – yes, I did notice, I recognise half the Epsilon Seven agents you’ve picked. But if they are pretending to be my men, they will do as //I// say first, and the sooner you stop screwing with my orders, the sooner we’ll be done with each-other.’ A moment’s (relative) silence. ‘This whole thing is insane. You wake us up at four in the damn morning, you demand we work in 120 degree heat, and you force us to work to an impossible deadline, while admitting you don’t actually care if we succeed, and all the while making it damn impossible to get anything done. Why did you even bother calling us at all? Why the hell are we here, Lance?!’ A few moments’ pause. ‘I want an answer!’ ‘We are at a sensitive juncture,’ Lance says, taking a puff from his pipe. ‘There are operations in motion that must succeed, and factions that will benefit if they fail. This incident may indicate awareness and capacity to interfere.’ ‘Then why the damn time constraint?’ ‘Necessity. The motive is confidential, but I can assure you that if this area is not sanitised once the blackout is lifted, then any discoveries you make, regardless of their benefit, will be rendered totally redundant. Of your division, you are the most likely to determine the cause of these events within these constraints.’ ‘And if I don’t manage to figure it out?’ ‘Then we hope we are lucky, and that this is an isolated event.’ Grimsley scowls, shaking his head and turning away. ‘Yeah, right, sure. After we’ve finished throwing up from heatstroke and writing half-baked documents, //then// we’ll find out if we’re lucky enough to get the truth out of you for once.’ ‘I am not lying.’ ‘Sure, sure. You know what, since this whole farce is a gamble anyway, why don’t we test //your// luck instead, hmm?’ Grimsley grabs his lanyard, removing the Coin again. ‘This is not --’ ‘Call it,’ Grimsley says, readying the Coin. ‘Get it right, we keep bumbling about here at your whim. Get it wrong, we’re done, and whatever follows is your problem.’ ‘This isn’t a game.’ ‘Yes it is. Call it.’ ‘I am not risking --’ ‘Call it or I’ll call it off anyway.’ A pause. ‘I flip,’ he says, ‘you call.’ Grimsley grins. ‘Sure,’ he says, tossing the Coin to Lance. ‘Tails.’ With a click of his thumb, Lance launches the Coin up into the air; both watch as it shoots up, arcs, then falls back down, landing in Lance’s open palm… [[=]] [[=image https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/scp-7390/Departure.jpg]] ++ << [[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7390/offset/5 HEADS]] or [[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7390/offset/6 TAILS]] >> [[/=]]