The first thing Kade Varyn learned about this new galaxy was that its trash smelled like victory and week-old sesame oil, which was probably not the omen he'd hoped for when he face-planted into a mountain of takeout menus in a Manhattan alleyway . The second thing he learned was that the voice in his head had HR energy. "Containment Operator recognized," it said crisply. "Compliance Score: 42%. Congratulations, you are already a disappointment." A chorus of bleeps redacted the word he used next, like his own mouth had in-app purchases .
The alley mouth flashed with neon and sirens as somewhere beyond the brickwork, a fight thundered down the street—grappling hooks, panicked bystanders, the kind of chaos that said "superheroes are a daily commute here" . Kade rolled to a crouch, checked his jacket—blaster gone, knife gone, dignity theoretically salvageable—and blinked at the translucent interface hovering in his vision: SCP FOUNDATION: MOBILE FIELD CONTAINMENT TERMINAL v.██.██ (ETHICS-COMPLIANT EDITION) . "No," he told the interface. "Absolutely not. Last time an organization offered benefits, it ended with a docking fee, three bruises, and an itemized list of my character flaws." A calm chime answered. "Acknowledged. New flaw discovered: recalcitrance. Compliance Score: 41%" .
Kade stumbled into sunlight and straight into a live brawl: a leather-jacketed thug with electrified knuckle-dusters, two webbed-up henchmen flopping like angry fish, and a red-and-blue blur ricocheting between streetlights . The blur landed—Spider-Man, younger than Kade expected, sounding out of breath but weirdly cheerful. "Hey! Civilians should evacuate! Also, love the invisible pantomime interface you're swiping at like you're rating apps in a hurry!" Kade blinked, then yanked his gaze to a flurry of green flyers skittering along asphalt, sticking to shoes, lampposts, and—unhelpfully—faces . The Terminal chimed: "Alert. Euclid-class infomeme detected. Object: Propagandist flyer. Compulsion vector: 'Join us for Hydra Poker Night—first buy-in free.' Risk matrix: self-spreading suggestion; low amplitude; high annoyance; potential operational cover for recruitment" .
"Hydra poker?" Kade said. "What's the rake—your soul and a dental plan?" The flyers twitched, as if offended, and the compulsion hit—a warm, dumb tug toward "just checking it out" that made his fingers itch to find a green-lit door . "Countermeasures?" he asked tightly. "Recommend Pact or shredding," the System said. "Note: shredding risks memetic aerosolization, which Ethics disapproves of, strongly, with charts" . "Pact," Kade muttered, mostly because "aerosolized memes" sounded like a disease. The Terminal unfolded a contract template like a magician peeling scarves from a sleeve. "Offer value commensurate to anomaly's stated need: attention, exclusivity, containment with audience. Suggested bargain: a prestigious archive where its message will be saved, seen, and therefore satisfied—without propagating" .
Spider-Man thwipped the glove off the electric bruiser and skidded beside Kade. "Do you also see the paper trying to unionize?" Kade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, kid, can you distract Punch Dracula? I need thirty seconds to talk a flyer into a filing cabinet." "That is the best sentence I've heard all week," Spider-Man said, and sprinted back into the fray . Kade knelt as the flyers swarmed like smug pigeons. He hit "Draft Pact," and the Terminal projected a small, hovering contract stamped with SCP insignia: NON-LETHAL CONTAINMENT AGREEMENT—PROPAGATION BY PROXY . "Hydra Poker Night," he said aloud, addressing paper. "You crave attention. You want eyes. I'm offering permanent residency in the most bureaucratically ogled cabinet on this planet: a S.H.I.E.L.D. evidence archive. You'll be cataloged, cross-referenced, and glared at by three different supervisors every Tuesday. In exchange, you stop crawling up pants legs and making people consider bad life choices" .
The flyers paused. The compulsion ebbed, curiosity replacing tug. Paper rustled like whispering. The Terminal added, "Sweeteners recommended: acid-free sleeves and a brass label" . "Acid-free, brass label, official glare schedule," Kade said quickly. A green stamp shimmered—Pact Accepted—and the flyers drew inward like iron filings, fusing into a single glossy sheet marked DO NOT READ in bold block letters that made reading it irresistible and, paradoxically, impossible . "Containment achieved," the Terminal intoned. "Containment Credits: +50. New module available: Fabricate (Marvel-safe variants). Compliance Score: 45%" .
Sirens crescendoed, then cut as a matte-black SUV nosed into the street with the aura of a closing parenthesis . Two agents in tactical vests fanned out, and between them strode Nick Fury, trench coat sharp enough to file patents on . Beside him, a woman in black stepped with unhurried precision—Natasha Romanoff, that famous stillness like a taut wire . Spider-Man, now upright and apologizing to a dented mailbox, waved. "All good! Flyers negotiated a union contract!" He pointed at Kade. "This guy did human-resources sorcery" .
Natasha's eyes flicked from the glossy DO NOT READ paper to Kade's hands, which were still mid-air, manipulating a UI only he could see. "Either you're having an imaginary argument," she said dryly, "or you're on a conference call with God." "Worse," Kade said. "Middle management." The Terminal chimed. "New supervisors detected: Fury, N.; Romanoff, N. Adjusting oversight parameters. Warning: sarcastic rejoinders reduce Compliance in front of management" . "Don't," Kade whispered to the air. "Don't you—" "Compliance Score: 39%," the System reported, prim .
Fury stopped a measured distance away. "You got a name, son?" Kade considered fake ones: Jax Stellar, Ban Tsolo, Card Blank. The Terminal pulsed: ETHICS WARNING—FALSE DECLARATIONS INTAKE. "Kade Varyn," he said, glaring at the invisible text until it had the decency to look sheepish, which was hard for typography . "And what exactly did you do to my city's latest piece of weaponized propaganda?" Fury asked. "Filed it under A for Annoying and S for Safely Stuck," Kade said. "It'll behave as long as it gets ogled on a schedule" . Natasha's mouth tipped by a millimeter—amusement, or a shadow pretending to be one. "That's not nothing," she said. "It's a mess with a manual. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes manuals" .
A soft ping drew Kade's gaze to a new alert: FORCE-ECHO: RESIDUAL SIGNATURES DETECTED—STARK STORAGE UNIT C-17. "Cognitohazard classification: misfiled," the Terminal added. "Probability this 'echo' aligns with your…'gut instinct': 87%" . Kade's stomach did the lurch it did near hyperspace lanes and bad decisions. He'd spent years calling it luck. He'd spent years lying to himself . "What did you just see?" Natasha asked, reading faces like dossiers. "A haunted closet," Kade said. "And a to-do list that starts with 'don't let the ghost unionize'" .
Fury's gaze weighed him like ordnance. "You're coming with us," he said. "You'll explain your…app," he added, as if the word tasted unfamiliar. Kade lifted his hands. "It's not an app. It's a terminal for an organization that enjoys acronyms so much they probably have one for lunch breaks" . "We do," the Terminal said in his skull. "L.U.N.C.H.—Logistical Utilization of Nutritional Consumption Hours" . Kade winced. "See?" "We're going to have a very secure conversation," Fury said. "Romanoff?" Natasha stepped closer, calm as rain. Up close, her presence was a pressure on the air—competence made visible . "Walk," she said. "And try not to antagonize the voice in your head while doing it. It seems petty" .
They moved toward the SUV. Ethics Committee notifications began firing like confetti cannons: NO PROPERTY DAMAGE WITHIN ARTISANAL DISTRICTS. AVOID MEMETIC EXPOSURE IN FRONT OF CHILDREN. DO NOT NAME THE ADMIN PASSWORD OUT LOUD (AGAIN) . "I never named—" Kade started, then stopped as the System charged him two credits for arguing. "Containment Credits: -2," it said primly. "Reason: insubordination flair" . "Do you always fight with your own HUD?" Spider-Man asked, sidling up with unabashed curiosity. "Only since it moved in rent-free," Kade said. "Kid, if anyone offers you an Ethics-compliant edition of anything, run" .
At the SUV, Fury held the door. "Here's how this goes," he said. "You tell us everything. We decide if you're a threat, a resource, or an ongoing headache we can live with" . "Can I pick 'resource' if I bring cupcakes?" Kade asked. "Compliance Score: 38%," the System sighed . Natasha's hand flicked to the glossy flyer as an agent slid it into a sleeve. "Acid-free," she murmured, then looked at Kade. "You promised it," she said. "We honor bargains, even with paper" . The Terminal chimed a pleased tone. "Counterparty trust improved. Pact stability: high" .
For a heartbeat, the city's noise fell away. Kade stared at the skyline—sleek towers, giant screens, a world humming with impossible energy—and felt the rip in reality tug like a tide back toward a galaxy of spice lanes and starfields . "You want to go home?" Natasha asked, not unkindly. "Eventually," Kade said. "But first I think your storage unit is haunted by a bad memory that can pick locks, and if we don't put it on a schedule, it'll start redecorating your building with screams" . "Charming," Fury said flatly. "Get in the car" .
The Terminal's UI flipped to a mission banner: CASE FILE 001—DO NOT READ. OBJECTIVE: NEGOTIATE WITH RESIDUAL FORCE-ECHO IN STARK STORAGE UNIT C-17. SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: STOP LOSING COMPLIANCE POINTS FOR WITTY ASIDES . "That's classist," Kade muttered, climbing in. "Against wit." A new chime: ETHICS COMMITTEE NOTICE—HUMOR ALLOWED; COLLATERAL SNARK DISCOURAGED. Compliance slid to 37% with a gentle, scolding bleep . The SUV door thumped shut. Outside, Spider-Man waved. "Text me if the ghost is friendly! I'm compiling a spreadsheet!" he called, because of course he was .
The engine growled. Fury's voice floated from the front. "Varyn, if your 'terminal' turns out to be a long con, you'll wish you took your chances with the flyers" . Kade leaned back, stared at the mission banner, and tried not to think about the word the System kept avoiding with a polite cough: Force . "Fine," he said to the ceiling. "Let's do containment. But if Ethics tells me to apologize to a poltergeist, I'm charging overtime" . The Terminal hummed. "Overtime approved. Rate: 1.5x Containment Credits. Note: cupcakes do not count as payment" .
Freeze-frame on Kade's grimace as the words "Compliance Score: 36%" descended like a verdict, and the city unspooled ahead—paperwork, phantoms, and a very nosy world where even ghosts had brand recognition .