Able wandered through the sands, a lone warrior,
dragging a long, dark sword behind him, his black cloak flowing in the gentle breeze. The sword was thirsty. It’d been too long since it tasted blood. What had it been? A day since he cut down ten men in a tavern
without breaking a sweat? They’d bled and screamed like pigs as he’d
diced them into bloody chunks. He couldn’t remember their faces. They hadn’t earned that. Very few combatants had been remarkable enough
to warrant committing to memory. It was all just more dead flesh. He took a sip from his canteen and sighed. Did this world hold no more challenges? What a boring eternity was laying out before
him. His burden as the greatest warrior of all
time weighed on him heavier than the chain. It was old and rusty, levered over his shoulder
and grasped in one bloody hand. About fifteen feet behind him, the chain was
connected to a dark, stone sarcophagus that was as much a part of him as his eyes, skin,
or heart. If ever he was slain in the glorious heat
of battle, he’d rise out of it, ready to fight and kill another day. All because of the actions of his worthless,
good for nothing brother… He looked up when he heard the rush of footsteps
and the clanking of armor. Warriors - or whatever passed for them around
here - about twenty of them, circled all around him. Yes, oh yes. His grip tightened around his sword. One of the warriors called out something about
him being under arrest, by order of the king, for murders beyond counting. Able couldn’t help but yawn. Words, words, words. Why even bother? He dropped the chain, and in one fluid motion,
he threw his sword. In a fraction of a second, it’d pierced
the armor of the chattering man, spearing him through his formerly beating heart. The scream died in his throat, he fell to
his knees, then collapsed entirely. The other soldiers sent to kill or apprehend
him turned to their fallen leader and gasped. It was that little gasp, that moment of distraction,
that sealed their fates. Able’s face cracked into a whisper of a
grin, as he drew two long daggers from the darkness of his coat. He’d at least try to have fun with this… Before the others could even get over their
leader’s sudden death, Able had vaulted forward and begun his delicate dance of slaughter. Every swing found its way through armor and
into skin. He sliced throats, cleaved off heads, parried
blows, and pierced hearts. There was barely a single scream. Able killed too quick for screams. In what would seem like the blink of an eye
for some, the soldiers around Able fell. Most dead, the rest dying. Some looked up to him in their dying moments,
in terrified awe at the efficacy of their killer. In their dying moments, they knew that they
never had a chance. They might as well have faced the glistening
scythe of death himself on the battlefield. Able, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and
sighed. Another pathetic waste of time. He sensed movement in the corner of his eye:
One of the wounded soldiers was limping to his feet, trying to use the sword to lever
himself off of the ground. With a flick of each wrist, Able tossed his
knives into the man, killing him instantly. It really was that easy. “Your attempt to kill me does not offend
me,” he said, to whoever was still able to hear. “What offends me is that they would send
so few, and that those few would be such pitiful excuses for soldiers. This wasn’t a battle - It was a mercy killing.” He was ready to turn around, grab the chain,
and carry on walking, when he felt a sudden pain in his back. There was a slight whistle, then another sharp
spike of pain. There were now two arrows sticking out of
his back. Able turned, surprised, and saw a much larger
force standing behind him. Swordsmen, archers, men with clubs and axes
and chains. The ones he’d killed were little more than
a distraction. This was the real threat. This was the real army. Perhaps, these fools would give him some actual
exercise. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a
mighty obsidian battle axe. At the very least, he’d try to have a little
fun turning this fighting force into cold cuts. A fog of arrows sailed through the air as
he charged forwards, perforating his body, but the injuries didn’t slow him down. He lunged, slashed, and cleaved. Even as the weapons struck him, he carried
on, killing person after person. At times, it was almost exciting - Almost,
but not quite. By the time he was done, none were left standing. Thirty arrows were sticking out of him. He’d been cut deep by more weapons than
he could count on his fingers and toes. He was breathing deeply, scarred chest pumping
up and down. He coughed blood and cracked his neck back
into place. They might’ve cut him a little too deep
this time. No matter. Able fell to his knees, feeling the life draining
from him. He wondered, when he awoke from the coffin
again, what the world would look like. Sometimes it was days, sometimes weeks, months,
or even years. As he fell forward, dying once again, he hoped
that he’d wake into a world with a warrior or beast that could actually challenge him. Maybe someday… This was one of Able’s many lives, hundreds
of years before he was contained by the SCP Foundation. He’s perhaps the greatest warrior who ever
lived, died, and lived again. He’s a man so individually deadly that not
only is he kept in a containment chamber under the sea, surrounded by highly trained and
armed guards, he has his own localized on-site nuclear weapon, ready to blow away and annihilate
him and his entire containment area if deemed necessary. He may not be a contagious anomalous pathogen
or a lethal memetic hazard or a giant beast shooting world-destroying fireballs in every
direction, but if this one-man massacre was left to his own devices, there’s no doubt
that he would methodically slaughter his way through the human race until an XK-Class End
of the World Scenario was practically inevitable. He was fueled by pure hatred and an almost
bottomless bloodlust. He simply lived to fight and kill. And not only did he have the will and the
skill to be a pure force of annihilation, but his anomalous abilities also make him
perfectly tailored to the task. He has massively enhanced physical strength,
speed, and durability, taking the kind of damage that would kill several normal humans
to reliably put him down - Though even that is only a temporary measure. Able will always resurrect back into his black
sarcophagus to menace the SCP Foundation another day. It is also effectively impossible to disarm
Able, because he has the anomalous ability to pull deadly edged weapons from localized
pocket dimensions at will, and his proficiency with these weapons is unlike any warrior the
world has ever known, before or since. During containment breaches, he’s regularly
killed scores of trained Foundation guards, with both numerical advantages and considerably
more advanced ranged weapons. Despite being a simple humanoid, he was taking
up a truly insane amount of containment resources. Despite his violent tendencies, Able is still
a recognizable sentient human, albeit an extremely deadly anomalous one. This led some higher-ups at the Foundation
to come up with an interesting idea: What if Able’s eternal rage could be harnessed? What if they could use their resources to
reshape this rampaging killer into a devoted sword of the Foundation’s cause? After all, if he wanted worthy opponents,
what could be more worthy than the anomalous monsters that the Foundation faced on a daily
basis? And as long as they kept the sarcophagus,
even if Able was killed in the line of duty, he’d still be accounted for. In many ways, if he could be trained and truly
brought to heel, there could be no better asset to their coming struggles. It was this logic, allowing anomalies to work
for the SCP Foundation in exchange for benefits, that led to the creation of a new, groundbreaking
Mobile Task Force: MTF Omega-7, Pandora’s Box. This group became the SCP Foundation’s hail
mary pass. For any particularly dangerous or potentially
deadly mission, they could send in Able, along with a group of highly-trained Foundation
soldiers that even the ancient, blade-wielding warrior held respect for. While, like their namesake, Pandora’s Box,
it would all wind up in terrible tragedy, to begin with, they achieved some of the highest
mission successful results of any Mobile Task Force on the Foundation’s payroll. No task was too challenging for them to swoop
in and crush it. This was far from expected: Able, one of the
most violent SCPs they’d ever contained, suddenly becoming a great asset to their operations. A vital tool in their quest to keep the anomalous
at bay. He’d cleaved through legions of Chaos Insurgency
soldiers during breaches into their secure sites. He’d fought off the well-paid, well-trained,
and well-armed body guards of Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. during Foundation raids on their
clandestine operations. He’d even gone toe to toe with some of the
deadliest anomalies in containment during mass escapes. It was hard to imagine how they’d ever lived
without him. Of course, while Able was happier than he’d
been in years - in his element, in fact, as a working warrior, given varied missions and
frequent opponents - there was still something nagging at him. His thoughts were hounded by his white whale:
The endless search for a truly worthy opponent, someone or something that could really give
him a run for his money. After millennia of leaving opponents dead
in his wake, nothing would bring him more joy than meeting something that actually knocked
him on his ass. A new bar somewhere above him to work towards. Oh, what a glorious day that would be… Eventually, the Foundation started to run
into a problem: They were running out of missions to give Able. After all, he wasn’t the kind of operative
you could just give any mission to: His potential for collateral damage was truly staggering. He’d neutralize the anomaly, then slaughter
everyone within a hundred-foot range, just to work off some of the excess energy. Like a hand grenade, he was powerful, but
dangerously imprecise. If they ran out of high-priority missions,
what were they supposed to do? Just put Able back in his box to gather dust
until something else rolled around? He was getting antsy enough between missions
already… That’s when an unexpected member of personnel
stepped forward: Dr. Jack Bright. You see, Dr. Bright and Able had a history
and not an altogether pleasant one - Not that anyone could really have a pleasant history
with Able. Jack was only a junior researcher when he
had his run-in, carrying a seemingly worthless medallion dubbed SCP-963 back to its containment
locker. That was when a wall next to him exploded,
showering him with brick fragments and dust, only to reveal Able standing behind the new
aperture. Before young Dr. Bright even had a chance
to scream, Able had already cleaved through him, leaving him in two distinct parts that
were both very much dead. At least it seemed that way, until it was
revealed that Dr. Bright’s consciousness had actually been eternally bonded with SCP-963,
giving him the gift and curse of immortality. Since then, Dr. Bright had become increasingly
reckless in his conduct, perhaps hoping that the next time he fades to black, the movie
that is his sad, strange life won’t just start to roll again. Of course, he hasn’t been lucky in that
regard yet. Naturally, this has given Dr. Bright complex
feelings about his fellow anomalous Foundation employee. So when the call came around all the senior
researchers and site directors, asking if there were any tasks that Able seemed fit
for, he had one very pressing suggestion. After all, it wasn’t that long after Dr.
Bright had been forced into a cross test with the intention of terminating SCP-682 - Which
had not only been a failure, but a generally painful and exhausting experience. Now, perhaps it would be Able’s turn to
take his lumps. He happily put forth the suggestion, claiming
that surely the Foundation’s new sword-wielding golden boy could give killing the Hard to
Destroy Reptile the old college try. After all, even if Able was killed in the
process, he’d just come right back. It was a situation where they really could
not lose, so why not take a chance? What’s the worse that could happen? The O5 Council found Dr. Bright’s pitch
extremely compelling. He’d succeeded in every mission they’d
given him so far, so perhaps he could carry that success into the herculean task of actually
terminating SCP-682. One boundlessly bloodthirsty killer might
be the only thing truly capable of taking out another of equal magnitude. When Able was informed of this latest mission,
he got a scary glint in his eye. They gave him warning after warning: The beast
is said to be unkillable, it can adapt to anything, it’s killed scores of people and
survived the attacks of anomalies thought to be flawless killers. The more it was explained to him, the more
Able felt the tingling sensation deep within: Was this it? Had he now discovered the perfect opponent? Something that would actually challenge him,
would actually put him through his paces? Yes, yes, yes! He accepted the mission without question. Able would fight SCP-682 until his breath
was no longer. In order to prepare for the match, SCP-682
was released into a secure area: Rocky, desert-like terrain, bordered on all sides by a Foundation
perimeter, hundreds of meters away on all sides. They thought it best for the showdown to happen
here. After all, with combatants like Able and SCP-682,
it was bound to make a mess, one way or another. Able strode with pronounced swagger onto the
battleground shortly afterwards, carrying perhaps the most powerful sword he’d ever
summoned. It was somewhere between a claymore and a
chainsaw, an unholy union that gave the resulting weapon a degree of deranged badassery not
ever seen on the battlefields of planet earth before. Carrying this thing, Able felt like a King,
and he was about to slay the most ancient and bestial of monsters. As he approached 682 and took in the whole
of it, he could feel his heart pounding with excitement in his chest. It was a huge, reptilian nightmare. He could see its scales hardening into a mighty
carapace as he approached. Its huge, serrated fangs. Its bulging, sinewy muscles and insane, dagger-like
claws. Oh yes, this would be the one. The beast snarled at him as he approached. He just smiled, puffed out his chest, and
said… “I have heard tales of creatures like you. Glorious beasts of scale and flesh, talon
and fang, a prowess in battle even greater than the immense intellect hiding behind those
bestial eyes. They said your kind once ruled the Earth from
enormous stockpiles of treasure, killing and eating all who displeased you. But you were knocked from your throne, one
by one, by the great warriors who walk this world no longer, until there were no more,
and you became but mere myth. Even I had thought you to be nothing but fairy
tales, but yet, here you stand before me, a living dragon…” In response to Able’s lofty speech, the
monster merely grumbled and chided him, claiming he was little more than a pathetic SCP Foundation
lapdog, following orders and being manipulated. It showed no respect for Able as a valued
enemy combatant - Merely another nuisance thrown at it in a futile attempt to finish
its wretched and seemingly eternal life. Able couldn’t take such insolence. He leaped forwards, bringing down his mighty
chainsaw claymore, ready to cleave the beast in two. However, what he didn’t expect was the move
SCP-682 pulled next: Throwing its head up against the blade of Able’s sword, shredding
away huge chunks of flesh and bone, and utterly confusing Able in the process. For the first time in a lifetime of intense
battles, Able found himself thinking, “What the hell am I up against here?” The force of 682’s headbutt threw Able off
balance, leaving his stomach briefly exposed. But “briefly” was all SCP-682 needed. It thundered its massive, stony fist into
Able’s gut, throwing him like a ragdoll into a nearby rock with such a force that
it nearly shattered the rock behind him. It was a force like he hadn’t felt in years. He spat some bloody teeth and grinned. This was just what the doctor ordered. He issued a challenge to the beast in a long-dead
language, as it seized violently, regenerating, growing, taking on the stony qualities of
the ground around it. It looked like a vengeful living mountain. A true behemoth of a beast. In other words, challenge accepted. Able pulled an obscenely giant mace from the
shadows of his cloak - The handle six feet long, with a chaos of swirling blades and
spikes. A perfect weapon for slaying a dragon like
this, he thought to himself. The two charged at each other, full of power
and fury. Able swung the mace, once again shattering
the creature’s head and flinging it back across the battlefield with the sheer force
of its strike. The decimated lizard clawed its way into the
ground, devouring the rocks and the earth, integrating more matter to fuel its regeneration. But it wasn’t long before Able was upon
it again, striking mercilessly, giving blows as the monster gave brutal claw strikes in
return. They were ripping each other’s bodies apart,
piece by piece, but Able felt so exhilarated he could barely even notice. It was the fight of his life - A battle against
a truly worthy opponent. This was heaven. Able leaped into the air and unleashed a volley
of deadly chakram down onto the beast, shredding into its reinforced flesh. As the force of gravity brought him down,
he pulled a mighty axe from his cloak, and bellowed a warrior’s roar as he brought
it down, splattering into the nightmarish body of SCP-682. However, this did nothing to even slow the
beast down. It flipped over, slashing Able with its claws. When Able stumbled, it leaped on top of him,
unleashing devastating slashes and punches onto the fallen warrior with the speed of
a machine gun firing. When it raised its claw to deal the killing
blow, though, Able once again turned the tables. He produced a giant pair of mechanical scissors
from thin air, and sliced off both of SCP-682’s forelegs. The beast descended with its mighty jaws to
devour Able, but he kicked up, with freakish strength behind his bladed boot. The sheer force of the kick flipped SCP-682
onto its back. Now, it was Able’s turn to execute his opponent,
though on some level he thought it would be an awful shame to lose such a terrific beast
from this world of cardboard. Still, a battle is a battle, and this is how
they go. He jumped onto 682 and went berserk, slashing
into it relentlessly with blade after blade, pulling out a new one every time the old one
broke from his sheer ferocity. He screamed in incoherent battle fury, tearing,
slicing, ripping, rending. Yes, yes, yes, yes! As Able stepped away to breathe, the beast
began to regenerate, releasing a shockwave that started to warp reality around it. But Able wouldn’t have this. No, he would give this beast no quarter. It was time to present the true pain he was
notorious for.. He pulled a long sword from his cloak and
charged, taking air and bringing it down towards SCP-682’s head. The beast, sensing the warrior’s presence,
opened its mouth, unleashing a chasm of horrifying teeth within. The two were on a fierce collision course. As the jaws closed, Able descended. Both roared in infinite rage and bloodlust. Both combatants fell to the ground, just twitching. Oh, what a glorious, terrible day it had been. Neither had died for good, but both would
remember this incredible battle forever. When Able awoke once more in his dark stone
coffin, he did so with a smile. What a battle! What a fight! What a truly honorable pursuit! After so long, being bored and unfulfilled,
he’d found an opponent that got his blood pumping once more. His stomach grumbled. A post-battle feast was in order. Now, where did they put that magic pizza box… Now go check out “SCP-682 - Ways SCP Foundation
Tried to Kill Hard To Destroy Reptile” and “SCP 073 & 076 - Cain vs Able” for more
about the two legendary combatants involved in today’s battle!
