"Ding."
The elevator doors slid open.
Outside stood a middle-aged man in a white lab coat and gold-rimmed glasses, all gentle manners and bookish poise. A badge hung on his chest, bearing only a codename: A167.
Seeing Felix Ragnell, he snapped to attention and dipped his head.
"Sir, A167 reporting. Everything is ready."
His voice was clear and respectful. His gaze paused for a heartbeat on Phil Coulson, Natasha Romanoff, and Melinda May—a subtle, clinical scrutiny—then he asked nothing further.
"Good work," Felix said with a nod. "Take us to the command room."
"Yes, sir."
A167 turned and led the way down a more sophisticated underground corridor. Conduits and pipes webbed the walls; here and there, researchers in white coveralls hurried past, faces intent on their tasks.
They stopped before a door that looked utterly ordinary.
A167 cleared security again. The door opened.
The room inside wasn't large—almost spartan. Compared to the futuristic base outside, this was more like a temporary war room: a few plain metal tables and chairs, and a wall-filling array of monitors.
The stark contrast made Coulson's brow tighten.
"Sir, please look."
Ignoring their reactions, A167 moved to the main screen and brought up a live feed.
The screen flared to life—and Natasha's pupils tightened.
It was that valley.
From a high-altitude view, the vast basin within had been completely smothered by a weird lattice of vines, glimmering with a faint violet sheen.
Like living arteries, the vines braided over every inch of soil and stone. They were creeping—slowly to the eye, but relentless—spreading toward the rim of the valley.
In one corner, several engineering drones sprayed a white mist along the edge—ultra-cold liquid nitrogen—briefly freezing the advance.
Everyone could see it was a stopgap at best.
"This is SCP-307, 'Carnivorous Ivy.'" A167's tone hardened.
"Report, sir: The situation is escalating. Per protocol, we've evacuated all warm-blooded animals within a fifty-kilometer radius to cut off its primary food source. Despite that, growth has accelerated."
He pointed at a data curve climbing like a rocket.
"Model projections show the biomass increasing exponentially. We suspect it has tapped a new energy source—possibly subterranean minerals—or it has undergone an unknown mutation in its growth mechanism.
"At the current rate, our cryo-containment will fail within twelve hours. If it breaches the valley and invades the desert biome, the consequences will be catastrophic. We must enact the final containment plan immediately."
"'Containment object—307'?" Coulson caught the phrasing, testing the waters. "Doctor, can you clarify what 'containment object' entails? Is it—"
He didn't finish. A167 cut him off, voice going cold and hard.
"What is your code?"
Looking at Coulson over the rim of his glasses, A167's scholarly warmth vanished, replaced by an absolute, unarguable authority.
"Foundation Internal Security Code, Article 3, Clause 7: No subordinate personnel may solicit specific information about a containment object from a senior researcher without explicit authorization. Your conduct constitutes unauthorized prying."
His voice was a scalpel. "State your code. I will file a complaint with your direct superior and with Discipline."
Coulson froze.
He'd interrogated killers and sparred verbally with statesmen, but being flayed by chapter-and-verse bureaucracy over a single question—this was new.
Natasha and Melinda stared, equally wrong-footed by how draconian this organization could be.
The air congealed.
"That's enough, A167."
Felix's voice broke the stalemate.
"They're temporary collaborators. They don't know our rules."
He looked at the trio, then stated, even-toned, "Effective immediately, their provisional clearance is B-Class Field Operative. They will assist in this containment."
A167 blinked, then objected at once. "Sir, that is irregular. B-Class is too high. They've had no systemic training or loyalty vetting; exposure to core intel is a severe risk—to them as well."
"They don't need training," Felix replied, simple and final. "They come from war. They're capable."
That silenced every argument.
A167 studied the S.H.I.E.L.D. trio's grave faces, then yielded.
"Understood, sir."
He turned back to the display, all business again.
"Given that, I'll brief the final disposal plan to the three B-Class operatives."
His fingers flicked across the console. A 3D sim bloomed on-screen.
A small missile launched from a pad, traced a perfect arc, and dropped into the valley's heart.
A moment later, a compact mushroom cloud rose in the animation.
Pushing his glasses up, A167 described the plan in the level tone one might use to discuss the weather—words that made even hardened agents' scalps prickle.
"My recommendation is a direct strike on the valley's center with a 5-kiloton tactical nuclear warhead, using peak thermal flux and the shock front to vaporize all surface vine tissue."
"After that," he continued, indicating the sim where Worker-Ant drones swarmed across the scorched basin, "the drones advance to excavate surviving subsurface rhizomes for deep cryo-containment."
Silence sucked the air from the room.
Coulson, Natasha, Melinda—veterans all—wondered if their ears were betraying them.
A nuke?
A tactical nuke for a valley of plants?
Coulson spoke before he could stop himself, keeping his voice steady but unable to mask the shock.
"Doctor A167… you're certain? A tactical nuclear warhead? Isn't that a little—"
He almost said insane—and forced the word back down.
(End of Chapter)
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