S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters.
A thick silence loomed over the control room. No one spoke, not even a whisper. Every agent, analyst, and officer sat frozen, entranced by the screen in front of them.
"It wandered the universe for 1.3 billion years... just to deliver a message?" Natasha Romanoff whispered, her voice barely audible.
She stared at the screen, unable to blink, tears silently forming in her eyes before slipping down her cheeks. The weight of the message hit her like a tidal wave—an emotion so profound that it silenced even the hardened warrior within.
What kind of suffering, what kind of perseverance, had the Pioneer endured through eons of solitude?
1.3 billion years—it was a time span so immense it defied comprehension. Not even the oldest beings in the universe could truly understand that scale of loneliness. Yet, the Pioneer had walked alone through it all.
At this moment, Natasha felt a deep sense of gratitude—gratitude toward James.
He had given the Pioneer an answer. A purpose. And somehow, his humanity, his empathy, had reached something that ancient.
She wiped her tears quietly.
"Boss?"
"Hm?" Nick Fury flinched slightly, quickly turning away to wipe his own eyes before facing her again. "What's up?"
Natasha smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Nothing."
As the scene faded, the screen displayed a new prompt:
[Dr. James was reprimanded for allowing personal emotions to interfere during communication with an anomalous entity. He has been placed on administrative leave.]
The audience, who had just been mourning the tragedy of the Pioneer, suddenly blinked in disbelief.
"…What?!"
"Hahaha! I thought I was hallucinating—this is real?"
"I'm dying over here. The O5 Council really did that!"
"James really said 'reason?' and then just hung up! No wonder the higher-ups snapped!"
"Let this be a lesson: no matter how powerful or righteous you are, never piss off your boss—especially if she's an O5!"
The live broadcast chatroom burst into laughter. The mood turned light in an instant, the contrast making it all the more hilarious.
Since James was now on leave, his next appearance took place in a cafeteria.
He sat at a table with Lois and Zyn. Time had passed—Zyn was no longer the naïve rookie she used to be, and Lois had grown a beard. But James, as always, looked unchanged, untouched by time.
"When I heard that 'someone from Site-17 offended an O5 again,' I just knew it was you," Lois said, throwing an arm around James's shoulders with a hearty laugh.
"What was it this time? Breaking protocol? Accessing classified files again?"
James calmly pulled away from the gesture. "Bringing personal emotions into communication with an anomaly."
Psst—
"HAHAHA!"
Lois and Zyn erupted with laughter.
"I swear, that's your best one yet!" Lois gasped. "We're definitely adding that to the Foundation's official archive of political jokes!"
He raised his glass. "To James—still the same mad genius we know and love!"
"Cheers!"
The cafeteria scene glowed with warmth and familiarity, resonating with viewers watching the live stream. The banter, the camaraderie—it reminded everyone that behind the seriousness of the SCP Foundation were real people with real bonds.
Zyn took a swig of her drink, winced, and adjusted her glasses. "Still working on memory-based research, James?"
Hearing the word "memory," Nick Fury—watching remotely from S.H.I.E.L.D—leaned forward subtly. This was the very topic Dr. Kondraki had brought up earlier. James clearly had a strange obsession with memory-based anomalies.
Why?
In the scene, James nodded.
Lois set his drink down, looking thoughtful. "Still think you've forgotten something important?"
Again, James nodded.
The audience watching the stream was stunned.
Forgot something?
Before the thought could fully take root, James changed the topic.
"I heard you recently got stuck with a difficult project?"
Lois's expression turned sour. "Calling it a project is generous. It feels more like a prank."
"A prank?"
Lois shook his head. "Yeah, some document with insane, chaotic writing. No one knows where it came from, but it showed up in the archives like it belongs there."
"Serial number?"
Lois frowned in concentration. "SCP-3999."
SCP-3999?
The chat exploded with excitement—another SCP!
"Honestly," Lois continued, "I didn't even know we had that many anomalies."
"Can you show it to me?" James asked.
"Sure, why not?" Lois stood up. "Wait here—I'll grab a copy."
A few minutes later, he returned with a thick file in hand. He handed copies to both Zyn and James.
"Many researchers have tried reading it," Lois said. "No one makes sense of it."
James took the file, flipping to the first page. Printed across the top in strange formatting were the words:
Let's go, you don't have my job
[When the Eleventh-Day Empire is swallowing up the sky]
[Like a human figure melting like a clam on the breakfast table]
James didn't move on immediately. He studied the strange phrases, frowning in thought.
Not just him—the livestream chat quieted too. Everyone was confused.
"A poem? A riddle?" someone typed.
Finally, they reached the classification page:
Project Name: I Am in Everything
Item #: SCP-3999
Object Class: Apollyon
Apollyon?!
The chat exploded again. Marvel viewers who were familiar with Euclid and Keter classes stared at the new term in horror.
A prompt explained:
Apollyon-class SCPs refer to anomalies that cannot be contained, are expected to break containment soon, or will inevitably lead to a global or universal catastrophe.
Everyone was stunned.
Uncontainable?
Doomsday threat?!
The document continued:
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3999 is currently uncontainable and is precipitating a ZK-Class End-of-Reality Scenario.
The most feasible solution is to isolate Researcher Talloran—the believed focal point of SCP-3999—in a remote area to reduce the risk of further damage.
ZK-Class. End. Of. Reality.
The entire Marvel audience froze.
"No way…"
"What the hell is a ZK-class scenario?!"
"That's beyond Keter! That's not even reality-ending—that's reality-erasing!"
Even Nick Fury felt the gravity of it, his usually stoic face darkening. There had been world-ending threats before—but this?
This wasn't just destruction. It was obliteration of reality itself.
Lois pointed at the next lines in the file. "Here's the kicker. Look at all these crossed-out bits."
Indeed, the file was filled with scratched-out phrases like:
[Stop x]
[Controllable x]
[A little bit left x]
"What is this?" Zyn asked.
"A rough draft," Lois replied. "Someone trying desperately to find the right words."
Zyn nodded. "He tried words like 'stop,' 'contain,' even 'a little hope.' But they were all crossed out. Like the author was losing hope."
Lois added, "And it only gets crazier."
James kept reading silently, but his hands were tight around the file. Then, he finally spoke.
"This reminds me of… an experiment I did once."
"What kind of experiment?" Zyn asked.
James exhaled. "One involving rejection. Over and over. I tried different approaches, made corrections—but everything felt off. Like the original wasn't just wrong, it was… broken."
He flipped to another section and pointed:
[Researcher Talloran's family is to be executed one by one by multiple Mobile Task Forces.]
[His parents, his sister, anyone nearby—they are all to be terminated. Their bodies nailed to the wall outside his office, set on fire in front of him.]
Everyone reading the document felt a chill.
This wasn't a containment file. It was a psychological execution order.
The underlined text made it worse.
This wasn't just protocol—it was deliberate, twisted torment.
Even Zyn looked shaken.
"…This isn't about the anomaly anymore," she whispered. "This is about the person."
James's voice turned low. "It's as if the SCP… hates Talloran."
He flipped further through the document. More chaos. More crossed-out words. More absurd, surreal, and violent commands.
[Launch it into the sun.]
[Replace all of Talloran's cells with glass.]
[Broadcast his thoughts into static radio.]
Lois was silent now.
The laughter from earlier was gone.
Even the live broadcast chat, once filled with jokes, now sat in stunned silence.
And in the center of it all, James stared at the file.
Because something about it felt familiar.
Too familiar.
As if this wasn't just Talloran's story.
As if this file was speaking to him.
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