Kamar-Taj.
The Ancient One sat in silent contemplation, her eyes fixed on the glowing screen. Around her, young magic apprentices whispered among themselves, their anxiety palpable. Many were clearly upset by the news: SCP-239—"the Devil Girl"—was slated for execution.
Yet the Ancient One wasn't concerned with their mutterings. Her thoughts were heavy, and her gaze distant. Even she, guardian of the mystical arts and master of countless spells, felt a shiver of unease when confronted with the truth about 239.
Because the truth was terrifying.
If 239 wished, she could summon and manipulate anomalies without limit. She wasn't just dangerous—she was a walking catastrophe. A reality bender so powerful that the Foundation could never risk placing the safety of the world in her hands.
They wouldn't even dare teach her unless she had developed the reasoning of a fully matured adult. Until then, they had only one solution: neutralize or eliminate. She had once been placed into Mobile Task Force Omega-12—"Achilles' Heel," a unit composed entirely of other reality benders—but even that had proven too risky.
No... containment was too dangerous. The risk too great.
But could 239 truly be executed?
The Ancient One wasn't so sure.
Asgard.
Even Loki, ever prideful and dismissive of mortals, had to admit—these Foundation doctors were fearless. He couldn't guarantee success if he were tasked with executing SCP-239. Though divine, even he was not invincible.
SCP-239 came dangerously close to being something else entirely.
"Damn Foundation..." he muttered.
In the scene unfolding on the screen, Dr. Clef's termination proposal hadn't yet received approval. Like all matters involving SCP-239, it needed to pass multiple review layers, overseers, ethical committees... and time was ticking.
"Tsk tsk, if the Overseer wasn't here, I swear Clef and Kondraki would've come to blows by now," Lois said with a grin, eyes locked on the unfolding drama.
He wasn't alone in his enthusiasm. Other researchers nearby watched the confrontation like a spectator sport, as though anticipating a live boxing match. The air was thick with unspoken excitement.
"We're about to see rivers of blood!" someone whispered.
"Don't be ridiculous," Zyn said flatly. "Dr. Gears and Dr. Bright will stop it before it goes too far."
"Stop it?" Lois raised an eyebrow. "You mean Gears? That emotionless fossil?"
The camera panned to Dr. Gears, expression unreadable, lab coat pristine, glasses resting neatly on his nose. His thinning hair and sharp eyes gave him the appearance of a quiet librarian rather than one of the Foundation's most respected minds.
"Dr. Gears doesn't respond emotionally to anything," Lois explained in a hush. "Some say he lacks even a startle reflex, and he doesn't have a fight or flight response like normal people."
He lowered his voice further. "A few years back, during a containment breach, his assistant—of ten years—died right in front of him. He didn't even flinch. Just kept on writing reports."
Zyn frowned. "Maybe he just didn't show his sadness…"
"Sure," Lois waved it off. "But get this—he was once shot in the forehead during a field experiment. Know what he did? Calmly completed his paperwork, then walked to the infirmary on his own—thirty minutes later!"
A collective gasp swept through the live broadcast chat.
"Dude, what?!"
"This guy is colder than SCP-096!"
"He's not a person. He's a machine in human skin!"
"What about Dr. Bright?" Zyn asked, shifting the topic.
"Bright?" Lois chuckled. "Well, he's technically our Human Resources director. But his background is... complicated. Rumor has it his family is closely tied to the higher-ups in the Foundation."
He paused and grinned mischievously. "There's even a nickname for them—Gears, Bright, Clef, and Kondraki. They're called the Four Doctors of the Apocalypse. Each one represents one of the Four Horsemen: Plague, War, Famine, and Death."
He puffed out his chest, clearly enjoying the storytelling. "If you ask me, the three of us—me, James, and Zyn—should be the Three Musketeers! Or maybe the Trident!"
James and Zyn exchanged a look, sighed, and shook their heads in unison.
"This kid… too childish," Zyn muttered.
The live broadcast erupted with laughter.
"I didn't expect Lois to have a sense of humor!"
"Forget Apocalypse. They're the Four Werewolves of Doom!"
"James fits right in—he's insane like the rest of them!"
Back in the meeting room, James ignored Lois's nonsense and turned to Zyn. "You're known for being peaceful, right?"
Zyn's expression stiffened, but before he could respond, Lois blurted out, "Oh yeah! 'Icehouse Fairy,' right?"
He didn't see Zyn's clenched fists before he added, "That intern of yours—he kept a kill list in his notebook! Hahaha—hey! Hey, stop! I was joking! I was wro—ow! OW!"
After a few hard kicks, Lois quieted down.
Zyn adjusted his glasses and exhaled. "Anyway. The ally-gathering project is moving steadily. Routine work is back on track. All good."
"Good," James said with a nod. Then his tone shifted. "Are you familiar with SCP-148 and SCP-668?"
The air changed.
Both Zyn and the live viewers stiffened. Those were the two objects Dr. Clef had mentioned as key to executing SCP-239.
Zyn took a breath. "Yes. SCP-148 is called Telekill Alloy. It's Euclid class."
He clarified, "It's not really an object—it's a rare material."
Lois tilted his head. "What, like platinum?"
"In terms of physical properties, yes. But the key is this: SCP-148 interferes with extra-perception mental effects. That includes reality benders and thaumaturges. It dampens their abilities."
Understanding dawned across the broadcast audience.
"Ahh... that's why Clef insisted on using 148!"
"It's like anti-psychic armor!"
James nodded, then asked, "And SCP-668?"
Zyn began, "That's the 13-inch kitchen knife."
Lois blinked. "A kitchen knife? Seriously?"
Zyn smiled faintly. "Actually, it became infamous during a 1960s incident. A woman was [REDACTED] and killed over six hours. Dozens of people heard the attack. No one helped. Not one. The knife was later recovered."
"So it… makes people commit crimes?" Lois guessed.
"No," James said calmly. "It makes people ignore them."
"Exactly," Zyn confirmed. "SCP-668 emits a psychological signal. Anyone with a mental resistance index below 97 will become completely apathetic to any violence occurring with the knife."
He continued, "They still see the attack. They feel fear and disgust. But they can't act. They can't intervene. Not even indirectly. And the victim? They're rendered helpless. Total vulnerability."
Silence fell.
The viewers watching live were shocked.
"What kind of monster knife is that?!"
"I thought anomalies were monsters—not objects!"
"This is more horrifying than SCP-682..."
At S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, Natasha Romanoff leaned back in disbelief.
"I figured anomalies were creatures like 096, not stuff from your kitchen drawer..."
Nick Fury, however, wasn't laughing.
He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "I'm wondering… Why did Dr. Clef apply to use both of these? Especially 668?"
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "To keep the execution of 239 from looking too… cruel?"
"No," Nick interrupted, eyes wide.
"I get it now!"
He slammed his palm on the table. "The real reason isn't mercy. It's fear. If something unexpected happens during 239's execution—it means something is already going wrong."
In the broadcast, James fell silent. He glanced at the stage where Clef was still locked in debate with other doctors.
Their argument had shifted—from how to execute 239… to whether she should be executed at all.
And now?
They were debating whether she should even be contained.
People who were normally cold and logical were now shouting over each other.
James's eyes narrowed.
Lois, watching the chaos, whispered, "That's Dr. Grace. He's usually the calmest of the bunch. Didn't think he'd raise his voice…"
Zyn took a step back. "We should leave. This won't be resolved any time soon."
James didn't speak.
Outside the meeting room, the shouting finally faded behind the closing doors.
To their surprise, James—usually quiet—spoke first.
"Any field missions coming up?"
Lois blinked. "I've got one tomorrow."
"I'm heading to Site-19 next month," Zyn added. "Why?"
James began gathering his files, voice flat. "File for early transfer. Don't stay at Site-17 this week."
Lois and Zyn were stunned.
Zyn frowned. "Wait, what—"
"Listen to James," Lois said sharply, voice more serious than ever.
Zyn hesitated, then finally nodded.
As they turned to leave, the camera lingered on James. His eyes were sharp and cold, glowing with something deeper than fear.
The audience in the live chat went silent.
Something was coming.
Something... very wrong.
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