The moment Class-Z Mnestic Boosters appeared on-screen, the chat group erupted.
No one had imagined Anti-Memetics could create something so powerful—or so suicidal.
The drug took effect.
Wheeler's mind hardened into steel.
She saw everything.
The real world unfolded before her—and the audience:
New elevator buttons—including Sublevel 30, which she pressed.
Scratched graffiti from victims of lethal anti-memes, erased from reality.
A half-corpse in the corner, so thoroughly forgotten even flies ignored it.
Tiny white worms squirming across the floor—anti-meme organisms, ubiquitous yet unseen.
The audience recoiled.
"WTF?! THIS is the real world?!"
"No wonder Wheeler said anti-memes are everywhere!"
"It's like a curse…"
Sherlock Holmes Universe
Watson marveled. "Permanent immunity to forgetting? Perfect recall? This is their trump card!"
Holmes' expression darkened. "It's also brain death. The human mind can't handle infinite data."
As if to prove his point—
A deafening hum filled Wheeler's skull.
Too much input.
Too much light.
Even blinking felt like a thousand needles.
She covered her ears, blood trickling from her knuckles where she'd punched the wall.
Pain focused her.
Then—
"I know how to beat you," she whispered.
"No," SCP-3125 replied. "You don't."
The chat group froze.
SCP-3125 could SPEAK?!
The elevator stopped.
Sublevel 30.
A massive airlock loomed ahead, its white alloy gleaming.
Wheeler staggered forward, blind, using her gun as a cane.
"SCP-3125 has no voice," she muttered. "It's a five-dimensional memetic plague. No intelligence. No communication. This is a hallucination."
SCP-3125 laughed.
"You're always wrong, Wheeler. Yet you survive. The sole survivor of every failed battle. You don't deserve such luck."
Wheeler reached the airlock.
Inserted her keycard.
The mechanism whirred.
"Ideas can be killed," she said, stepping inside.
The airlock sealed behind her.
SCP-3125 fell silent.
Wheeler spoke to the emptiness:
"With better ideas."
The multiverse held its breath.
Four thousand Anti-Memetics operatives—their sacrifices, their defiance—echoed in those words.
If something could cross from conceptual space into reality…
The reverse was possible.
A physical entity could embody an idea.
A greater idea.
A weapon.
"We won the war the day it began," Wheeler whispered. "Hughes faked his death. Built this bunker. The rest of us bought time. I'm the final piece."
"He's waiting for me."
The chat group surged with hope.
Hughes was alive!
The Fictional Amplifier might be ready!
Then—
The bunker was empty.
No Hughes.
No machine.
Just a dusty hangar, a defunct military truck, and a boxy device the size of a shipping container.
Wheeler's heart sank.
This wasn't the Fictional Amplifier.
It was "The Unbeliever"—an anti-meme nuke.
Useless against SCP-3125.
At best, it would delay the inevitable.
The chat group despaired.
"So… that's it?"
"They lost?"
Wheeler collapsed beside the truck.
Brain damage from the Class-Z drugs was irreversible.
She had an hour of clarity left.
Then—oblivion.
The airlock opened.
Not-Kim entered, followed by dozens of hollowed-out Anti-Memetics corpses.
They surrounded Wheeler, pity and malice in their hollow eyes.
"Start with her eyes," one said. "The rest will correct itself."
Not-Kim raised a knife—
Then paused.
Wheeler was whispering.
"None of this happened, Kim," she murmured. "You and I never existed. There is no Anti-Memetics Division."
A sharp click.
The bomb primed.
No one else could hear it.
No one else could see it.
To them, the truck was empty.
Wheeler smiled.
The world went dark.