Even the four supervisors, seasoned veterans of anomalies and existential threats, sat frozen before the screen. Their expressions were pale. Their thoughts, racing.
Shi glanced toward James, searching for answers.
But James met his gaze calmly, wordlessly. The silence said more than any explanation.
Ten suddenly understood—this was why James hadn't answered Second's earlier question.
Because at this point...
Wheeler wasn't truly alive anymore.
And yet, she wasn't truly dead.
The audience watched the screen again, now with heavier hearts.
On the chalkboard, the living sketch of Maria Wheeler stared forward, lips moving in eerie silence. Text formed beside her:
[Adam?]
Adam Wheeler blinked, startled. He nodded slowly. "Yes," he whispered, as if remembering a dream.
[I can't forget even a single moment]
The words erased themselves as soon as new ones appeared.
[Now I know everything He did]
[I am blind, and it is roaming around me]
[I made one mistake after another]
[He killed everyone I loved except you]
Each sentence appeared one after the other, fading like echoes. When the last line vanished, her lips stopped moving.
That last sentence hung in the air.
The chat in the livestream room grew quiet.
The viewers began to understand. Wheeler hadn't just been killed.
She had been converted—absorbed into a memetic form by SCP-3125.
Her memories persisted only as conceptual fragments. What was left of her was a drawing. A loop of thought.
And yet—Adam still stood there, confused. As if part of him couldn't remember.
Something vital was still missing.
He murmured to himself, trying to make sense of the emotions swelling within him.
> "She was a government agent… or something like that."
> "She's imaginary. Doesn't feel… real. Too good to be real."
> "Tough. Brilliant. Blue glasses."
> "We talked about music. TV. Stupid stuff."
His eyes lit up.
"Mario…"
It clicked.
Memories surged back—like being electrocuted by the truth.
He staggered backward, overwhelmed.
> "No, no, Mario… What happened to you? I should've been there!"
He moved closer to the blackboard, trembling, as if he wanted to reach through reality to hold her.
Then Wheeler's next message appeared:
[I sent you away to save your life]
Adam gasped.
Everything connected.
He dropped to his knees, sobbing.
Years of trauma, loss, and confusion—all returned in an instant.
He cried out, shaking. "What do you need? I'll stop him. I'll do anything. I love you!"
No answer came.
The chalk sketch of Wheeler froze.
She was gone.
Adam reached toward the board. He touched the chalk line that shaped her hair. His fingertip smeared the dust.
It was real.
But it was just dust.
She was memory.
And now, even the memory was fading.
Tears rolled down Adam's face and struck the floor like a metronome of heartbreak.
Then his body gave out.
He fainted.
The livestream audience was silent.
Across dimensions, across timelines—all of humanity watched in mournful silence.
This wasn't a superhero. This wasn't a wizard or a mutant.
This was just a man.
A man who had just remembered his wife… only to learn she was gone.
And even worse—
He would forget her again.
In the recording, Adam slowly regained consciousness on the cold tile floor beneath the chalkboard.
One arm stretched along the base of the wall. He groaned, rolled over, and looked at his fingers.
Two were still missing.
But he didn't react.
He chuckled weakly, saying to himself:
> "Guess I'll have to learn to play violin left-handed."
The chat exploded.
> "Wait… WHAT?!"
> "No. No no no. Don't tell me—"
> "He forgot again?! He forgot MARIA?!"
In S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury slammed his fist on the table.
"He forgot her again. Just like that."
The entire room fell into a deeper despair than before.
Wheeler had left her last message in a final act of will.
And Adam had lost it.
Everything she sacrificed, erased again.
Adam stumbled through the hallway. Dehydrated. Shirtless. Emotionally erased.
He found himself in front of a familiar door.
Inside the room, a phone rang.
He picked it up.
"Hello?"
A synthesized female voice responded.
"Mr. Wheeler?"
Adam hesitated. "Yes. Who is this?"
The voice paused, as if stunned.
Then asked gently:
"Before we begin… does the name Maria Wheeler mean anything to you?"
The entire world held its breath.
Please, Adam.
Don't let her memory die.
Please remember her.
Adam blinked.
Then replied,
"Nothing. Should it?"
Everyone collapsed.
He had forgotten. Completely.
The machine voice didn't show emotion. Not disappointment. Not relief.
Just the next line:
> "My name is Ulrich. I represent an organization called the Foundation. Its purpose is to prevent situations like the one we're in now."
Adam looked around nervously. "What is happening?"
"The world has gone to hell, Mr. Wheeler."
Adam laughed bitterly.
"Well… that's bad luck."
A pause.
Then, Ulrich spoke again.
> "Yes. Very bad luck. Mr. Wheeler… I need your help."
> "I'm the last member of the Foundation. Everyone else is dead."
The viewers were stunned.
> "WHAT?!"
> "The ENTIRE FOUNDATION is gone?!"
> "Only one person left?!"
Back on the screen, the supervisors sat stone-faced.
Victor Hale stared at James. "Impossible. The O5 Council can't all be dead."
James shook his head.
"This isn't just a threat. This is SCP-3125. An invasive concept."
> "How do you fight something you don't even know exists?"
> "How do you win a war when you don't know you're at war?"
Second couldn't reply.
There was nothing to say.
The Foundation had fallen.
Kamar-Taj.
Even the Ancient One looked hollow.
> "They sealed gods. They destroyed cosmic threats… and they still lost."
She whispered to herself,
> "Against something like the Fifth Starfish… was there ever a chance?"
The deepest corner of the multiverse.
The Watcher, Uatu, stood in silent grief.
He had seen infinite timelines.
He had watched civilizations fall.
But this… this was inevitability.
SCP-3125 was not a force.
It was inevitability given form.
But then—
In S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha Romanoff broke the silence.
> "Wait a second."
She pointed at the screen.
> "If SCP-3125 had truly won, then why are James and the others still here, watching these tapes?"
Fury's eyes widened.
"You're right."
Something didn't add up.
If human thought had collapsed… if memory had dissolved… if the world had ended…
Then why was there still a recording?
Why was there still an audience?
James. The supervisors. Even the watchers.
They still existed.
Meaning…
Somehow, the Foundation succeeded.
They stopped the apocalypse.
Even if it was only temporary.
Hope sparked again.
Everyone leaned forward.
What happened? What did Adam do?
Back on the screen, Ulrich's voice resumed.
> "I need you to find a man named Hughes."
Gasps echoed across the livestream.
> "HUGHES?!"
> "HE'S STILL ALIVE?!"
> "THIS IS IT! THE WORLD LINE IS BEGINNING TO REPAIR!"
The scattered pieces were coming together.
The chalkboard.
The broken memories.
The final voicemail.
It all led to Hughes.
The man who vanished at the beginning.
The man who may still hold the key.
The screen faded to black.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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