Wheeler had no idea that her desperate actions were being witnessed not just by her own universe, but by an entire other world—the Marvel Universe.
She wasn't thinking of that.
She was only thinking of one thing:
Hope.
"We won the war the day it began," Wheeler muttered as she limped through the cold, dead hallway. "When we first encountered SCP-3125, we built this bunker."
Her voice echoed across the hollow steel of the underground vault.
"Hughes faked his death and sealed himself in this place to work undisturbed," she said aloud, as if reminding herself. "The rest of us did our part, keeping the department running, buying time… just for this moment. I was the last step. He was waiting for me."
The entire live broadcast audience fell silent.
Hughes? Alive?
Over in S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury slapped his thigh.
"I knew it! I said Hughes wasn't dead!"
Nearby, Natasha Romanoff rolled her eyes. "James figured that out way before you did."
Fury grunted, but said nothing more. It didn't matter who realized it first. What mattered was—
There was still hope.
The Antimemetics Division hadn't just been reacting. They'd been planning. Preparing. Sacrificing.
The tide of despair that had gripped the viewers began to loosen. For a moment, people leaned forward in their chairs with anticipation.
But the hope didn't last long.
Wheeler emerged from the airlock and stepped into an enormous, hangar-like chamber.
The heat hit her like a wave—stale, dry, suffocating.
She stumbled across the vast epoxy floor, her boots scraping against layers of dust.
"Hughes!" she called into the void. "It's time!"
Her voice echoed, but no one answered.
There was nothing. Just her.
She glanced around. The space was vast and empty. The castle-sized broadcasting array Hughes was supposed to build... was missing.
So was Hughes.
Her breath caught. Her heart sank.
Could it be hidden by antimemes? she wondered.
No. Not anymore. Not when Z-class memory serum flowed through her brain, burning away every cognitive blind spot.
There was truly nothing there.
Only a few scraps of a forgotten outpost in the center—a rusted military truck with a flat tire, old worktables scattered with tools. And one squat metal device, barely the size of a shipping container, with wires spilling from its back and into a control panel on the floor.
"Hydrogen-bomb-level antimemes…"
Wheeler stared at it with trembling eyes.
"This is the Antimemetics Division's on-site failsafe nuke," she whispered.
"If we activate it, it will scrub this entire site clean. Not even memories of Site-41 will remain. Not even us."
But it wouldn't kill SCP-3125.
It wouldn't even touch it.
It would only delay the inevitable.
Five years? Ten?
Maybe tomorrow.
But SCP-3125 would return—and when it did, human civilization would be erased as a concept. Nothing would remain.
She closed her eyes. The ache in her skull was unbearable now.
No cure. No turning back. The Z-class serum was already destroying her brain. In one hour, she'd enter a vegetative state. Then… nothing.
"This is the wrong machine…" she murmured. "This was never going to save anyone…"
She stood there, silent, barely holding onto her consciousness.
Over in the viewing room, Victor Hale said grimly, "Her cognition is collapsing. She's holding on by sheer will."
James clenched his fists as he watched the screen. He could feel it—the weight of all those who had come before her.
The supervisors stared at Wheeler, unable to speak.
She had tried. She had endured.
And she had failed.
Wheeler finally knelt to the floor, her ray gun clattering beside her.
"I've lived too long," she muttered. "I forgot what kind of universe this is…"
She thought maybe this time it would be different. That maybe this time, they could win.
But no.
Not today.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from the airlock.
Footsteps.
A figure entered.
"Kim?"
But no.
It looked like Paul Kim, but something was wrong.
The audience froze.
The being looked around briefly, located the keycard slot, and stepped inside.
It found Wheeler unconscious, lying in the corner.
It ignored the truck. It ignored the tables.
It walked straight toward the ray gun.
Then it stared at her.
And smiled.
SCP-3125 had arrived.
It wasn't a person. It wasn't even Paul Kim anymore.
This was a puppet—a physical vessel animated by SCP-3125's malignant will.
And it was not alone.
Soon, others followed—infected agents, their faces twisted with unnatural malice.
They gathered around Wheeler, whispering with inhuman disgust.
"She can't see them unless she wants to," one muttered.
"Start with her eyes," another said. "Expose her. Make her see."
"Then we can correct the rest."
Non-Kim raised his knife.
The tip hovered just inches from Wheeler's face.
Then—
She whispered something.
Barely audible.
"None of this ever happened, Paul," she said. "There is no Antimemetics Division. You and I don't exist."
Non-Kim paused.
Before it could react—
BUZZ.
A sharp click echoed in the silence.
The antimemetic bomb was armed.
Only Wheeler could sense it.
Only she could remember the plan.
To everyone else in that room—
There was nothing but old tools and a broken truck.
Then—
Darkness.
Across both worlds, people froze.
No one moved.
No one blinked.
Then—
BOOM.
The entire livestream exploded in a blinding flash.
In one moment, Site-41 was gone.
Not destroyed.
Erased.
> "What the hell just happened?!"
> "She... she did it?"
> "Wait—didn't she say antimemetic bombs don't work?!"
> "What changed?!"
Over at Stark Tower, Rhodes crossed his arms and answered what everyone was thinking:
"She wasn't trying to win. She was buying time."
Tony's expression darkened.
"Just like they did thirty years ago…"
Rhodes nodded. "Exactly."
He turned to the screen. Nothing remained. No Wheeler. No Site-41. No Department.
Just blackness.
The war was delayed.
But at what cost?
Back in the command center, James finally spoke.
"At 11:47 PM, November 30th… Maria Wheeler detonated the antimemetic warhead of Site-41."
His voice dropped.
"The Antimemetics Division is gone. Erased. Again."
Everyone stared at him in disbelief.
There was no anger.
Only silence.
Only loss.
Then Victor Hale muttered:
"So… we're unprotected now?"
"Completely," James said.
"There is no Antimemetics Division anymore."
Victor's eyes burned. "But… the bomb doesn't kill SCP-3125. It only exiles it. It'll be back!"
James nodded gravely.
"Yes."
He extended a pointer toward the display.
A new timestamp appeared: 2016.
Victor's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
"You mean…"
James stared coldly at the date.
"Yes. Half a year later—SCP-3125 manifests."
The world fell silent.
Kamar-Taj.
The Ancient One clutched her chest, stunned.
Even beings like the Crimson King, or Galactus, had never manifested fully in the physical world.
They were abstract. Cosmic. Distant.
But now…
SCP-3125 would materialize.
A cosmic starfish, not just from beyond space—but beyond thought—would step into reality.
Even the Watcher, Uatu, said nothing.
If a concept like SCP-3125 could materialize…
What would be left of reality at all?
The implications were terrifying.
The countdown had begun.
And the world was completely unprotected.
---
END OF CHAPTER 118
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