[REDACTED] 1200 Hours
A train station, that on a normal day, would be filled with one thousand different sounds, Dropped change, not-so-silent swears, endless chatter, and many, many footsteps. A giant mass of pieces undeniably separate, that despite their sharp, in some cases extremely pungent, individuality tangled together in an inextricable way. Today, there is none of that. The terminal is empty, almost. Sixteen freezing people huddle in a miserable cluster near the platform's edge. Other figures hovered around the entrances, redirecting locals, and travelers away from the terminal. Officially, they were under cover as the local police. Those who had seen them arrive likely found that hard to accept. Mused one of the sixteen, a pale woman with cropped, dark brown hair.
The way they stood, the way they moved, it was much more purposeful, more organized, than most cops. Of course this will be less than a passing memory for all of them. Much less, the lucky bastards. She stamped her feet, and peered down the train tunnel. Some time later a silken screech bounced out the tunnel and through the station, signaling the arrival of a train. There was a brief flurry of movement, and a number of metallic clicks from each of the sixteen assembled agents as weapons were drawn and readied. The train slid in, and slowed, coming to a grudging halt. Its doors rattled back into dingy battered slots. In pairs, the agents passed through each door simultaneously. Every millimeter of the interior was examined thrice over. Every bit of refuse picked apart, and scrutinized. And then, over several hours every passenger on board was searched, investigated, interrogated, and after a bit of medicine, released. All of it, for nothing.
The woman with the dark brown hair tapped the toe of her boot irately against the terminal floor as the last passenger was escorted out. She left the station with her fifteen fellow agents and started the trip back to Site-071. On the way back, she filled out the report for the mission, penning into the area marked Completion of Objective(s): SCP-342 not recovered. Culprit not captured. Passengers reported experiences common with indirect exposure to SCP-342. She cracked her knuckles, grimacing slightly, as she finished filling out the report, and set it aside. One of her companions looked at her in empathy, and frustration. She only scowled deeper. She exhaled, tapping her cheek. "I don't know where to go next…"
Elsewhere ████ hours
"The door is shut. Like it should be, like a good door now but…door was opened! Things taken but no more!…the door is shut…good door…coming again? No, no, no! Door will stay shut!" A razor wire hum, the near-silence of strained resistance, and then slowly, tortuously, the creak of an opening door, every inch a century's worth of grinding, gnawing noise. And then, silence. The rustle of a sack, then the slither of it being pulled, slowly, laboriously away. The click of a door closing on an empty room. "Dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark…" The sound of dragging stops. An agitated thump! A hiss followed by a timorous whimper from within the sack, then the sound of dragging picks up again, quickly swallowed by a silken, screeching wail.
Site-███ 1400 hours
Flip…flip…flip… Agent Aniston, seated at a desk in her room, flicks slowly through a cascade of papers strewn across her desk, her eyes slowly scanning each sheet. She keeps doing this, for hours and hours, until finally, each errant paper has been examined, and stacked neatly in a corner of her desk. A few further minutes are spent watching a shredder chew through each of them, at which point the shreds bagged, and carried by her out the room, down several hallways, and through a door. She hands them to a clerk, who feeds them into an incinerator. At this point, the armed guard, who has been watching Aniston intently since she first received the now destroyed documents, turns, and leaves.
Elsewhere ████ hours
"…the hell do you mean the price has changed…" The sack's inhabitant listens catching only pieces of the sudden conversation, but shifts inside its burlap prison, feeling a bright wrathful glare suddenly directed at it, piercing the rough fabric. "You told me that luggage would be free." Skitte-. "Alright! Alright! Fine! You'll get your damn…" The sentence slithered off carefully into silence, as did coarse burlap, over metal grates and chilly concrete again mingled with shuffling footsteps. "Fucking asshole…" The sack's carrier grunted, and shot another glare at his burden. "…at least I don't have to pay you to stick around, even if you are bloody useless…"