As the footage rolled, one sentence from Dr. Wheeler's private journal resurfaced in everyone's minds:
"S041-B30-000 was originally constructed to support a long-term initiative—the creation of Hughes' fictional amplifier."
Only now did the audience understand the full scope of that note.
The project had just begun.
But for Dr. Hughes and the others involved, this wasn't exciting—it was a death sentence.
On-screen, Hughes's face grew even more shadowed. The gravity of the situation bore down on him.
"Now? No. I... I have doubts," he muttered, his voice cracking.
"You assembled a volunteer team, Hughes. I oversaw them personally. They're good people," the supervisor replied calmly.
"Like ghosts," Hughes muttered bitterly. "And me? Did I volunteer for this?"
Dr. Wheeler's expression twisted in pain. "Hughes…"
"Whoever agreed to this before was a damn fool. And I'm overruling that guy. This isn't a noble assignment—it's a lifetime prison sentence. Buried alive in your own work, in darkness, for twenty years. I have…"
His voice caught.
He was going to say, I have a family, but stopped himself.
Instead, he tried another excuse: "This plan barely has a shot. The timing is all wrong. It's 2008. SCP-3125 isn't even due to appear until the late 2010s—"
The live chat exploded.
"2008?!" The viewers quickly connected the dots to the timeline James had speculated earlier.
They were right.
But Hughes's reaction caught them off guard. It felt real. Emotional.
And it made sense—because from this moment until the collapse of the Antimemetics Division, Hughes was never seen again.
He was completely forgotten.
Back in the footage, the supervisor tried to reassure him. "The success rate is encouraging."
"Encouraging?" Hughes barked. "Define that!"
"Over 50%. If you're the one doing it," the supervisor said, sliding over a stack of reports.
Hughes flipped through the file and spotted his name on the cover. "Great. Fifty percent," he muttered.
"You convinced us this had to happen," the Director pressed. "You insisted on being the center. You said you were ready to sacrifice."
Hughes found the quote in the report and read aloud with sarcasm, "SCP-3125 poses an omni-universal threat... it endangers neighboring realities, micro-universes, even universes embedded within our own as fictional constructs—"
"That's enough!" Hughes slammed the folder shut. "I remember now."
Then he turned to another man at the table. "What's the cover story? What's the plan?"
"There's a staged helium leak in $167-B03-312," the Director explained. "The body will be fake. We've already manipulated your public calendar. It says you were in that room, not here. As for—"
"He's stalling," a voice cut in—O5-8, a high-ranking Overseer. "He doesn't need to know everything."
Another member, silent until now, leaned forward. "Seriously, tell us—who else in the world could solve this problem? Besides you?"
Hughes stayed silent.
"Even if they don't want to," the man added. "Who else has the technical expertise and isn't already compromised?"
Back in the SHIELD viewing room, Nick Fury narrowed his eyes at the man on the screen.
"Something's off with him," he muttered.
"What do you mean?" Natasha Romanoff asked.
Fury couldn't articulate it yet—but something felt fundamentally wrong.
Then, everything unraveled.
Suddenly, the man on the screen stood up abruptly. Dr. Wheeler tensed, clutching the arm of her chair and tightening her grip around a capped fountain pen.
O5-8 looked at her in confusion. She was reacting to something he couldn't see.
And Hughes? He didn't notice a thing.
"I'm the only one," Hughes finally said.
"You're the only one I need," the man replied.
Then he pulled a gun from seemingly thin air.
Bang!
Two shots—straight to Hughes' chest.
The first bullet collapsed a lung. The second ricocheted off the bulletproof glass wall behind Hughes as he fell.
Everyone watching froze.
The stream went dead silent.
One second…
Two…
Three…
Then the chat erupted.
> "WTF!!!" "He shot Hughes?! Why?!" "Is he compromised? A traitor?!" "Foundation security has been breached!"
Even SHIELD agents watching were stunned.
"F!" Nick Fury shouted, confirming his earlier instincts.
"Is he being controlled by 3125?" Natasha gasped.
Fury said nothing. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen.
"He's the only one who can finish this mission… Hughes can't die!"
In the footage, the shooter turned on O5-8.
Two more shots—this time, green bursts of electricity collided with the Overseer's protective charm, deflecting the energy.
But the danger wasn't over.
Dr. Wheeler, despite her frail appearance, launched herself at the gunman!
She wrestled his arm upward and, in one fluid motion, stabbed the capped fountain pen deep into his throat.
Blood sprayed.
He collapsed. His head slammed against the glass wall and left a crimson smear before he hit the floor.
Dead.
Also dead: Hughes.
And the supervisor.
The livestream audience was left with one horrible question:
"If Hughes is dead… what about the amplifier?"
Dr. Wheeler quickly pieced things together.
"He was infected," she announced grimly. She rushed to the emergency kit on the wall.
"We need to get out of here. Then disinfect the whole area."
"When did it happen?" O5-8 asked. "And how? SCP-3125 takes total physiological control. Yet he functioned almost normally."
"That's the strange part," Wheeler replied.
She sorted through the medical kit, discarding most of it until she pulled out a capsule filled with glowing pink fluid—an amnesiac.
The chat recognized it immediately.
Then came the whispers of SCP-3125 again.
"I feel something… crawling around in my head," O5-8 murmured. "Like static."
"Roll up your sleeve," Wheeler said. "Turn off your mental barrier for a second."
He complied.
Suddenly—
A scream of wind!
Something black and jagged plunged down through the ceiling.
It speared a woman, lifting her into the air.
The viewers recognized it instantly:
SCP-3125.
The thing twitched with alien curiosity, probing her body—then stabbed straight through her like a spear.
Blood rained down.
The scene sent terror rippling across the world.
At Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One gasped as she watched the shadows take shape.
A cosmic dread filled her soul.
"It's here," she whispered, unable to even face the screen.
Back in the footage, alarms sounded. The site was in full lockdown.
The camera shook.
The ceiling collapsed—
And everything went black.
The video feed ended.
The Overseers watching were frozen.
Their minds swirled with questions:
What exactly is SCP-3125?
Where did it come from?
What does it want?
How does it manipulate thought?
How long before we understand meme-based threats?
One year? A hundred?
No one knew.
Then a voice broke the silence.
James.
Calm and cold, he pointed back to a digital timeline and tapped the year: 2008.
"This was the outbreak that destroyed Site 167's Antimemetics Division," he said. "Hughes vanished during the chaos."
"Vanished?" One of the Overseers blinked. "Wait—you mean, he's not dead?"
James gave him a sharp look. "Dr. Wheeler's personal logs clearly say Hughes went missing."
"Damn it!" someone else shouted, slamming the table.
Their eyes lit up. There was still hope.
James extended the timeline.
August 12, 2015.
The date Dr. Wheeler met the old man who founded the Antimemetics Division.
"On that day," James explained, "she asked the dying Lyn Marness about the 1975 collapse of the Incredibles Initiative. Then, SCP-3125 attacked. Marness died. Wheeler survived by erasing her own memory."
He stretched the arrow again.
October 27.
"Wheeler placed a man in protective custody, then erased her memory of him completely."
James opened a new file and revealed a name:
Adam Wheeler.
Then he looked up and said softly—
"That was her husband. She forgot her husband…"
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