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Monica, known only as D-77777, had survived countless brutal experiments.
She hadn't been burned, melted, or had her brain sucked out like others. She was still alive when the scientists—those cold-hearted "white coats"—brought her into a new test room.
They smeared some strange goo on her arms.
Everything changed in an instant.
Her mind cracked. Her body twisted. It felt like something had pushed her soul into a cup and drank from it like it was dying of thirst.
After that, she wasn't the same. That "thing" inside her started using her body like a hotel room—something temporary. It took something from her, something deep. She couldn't name it, but she knew it was gone. In its place?
Weapons. Hatred. Firepower. War.
Her emotions—pain, frustration, and all the betrayals she'd experienced—were reshaped into something terrifying: a living gun.
She wasn't just carrying weapons—she had become one.
The SCP live broadcast audience watching this in real time was speechless. Some were chilled by the horrifying description, especially the part about the soul being drunk. Others were more curious.
"Gun shape?" someone typed into chat.
"What the hell? She turned into a walking war machine?!"
"Did the Foundation create a super-soldier by mistake?"
Just then, a black off-road vehicle rolled into the scene. Its wide tires crunched debris underfoot. The steel frame gleamed in the broken sunlight.
It carried only one man.
And on the side of the car, clear as day, were three bold letters:
SCP.
Everyone watching held their breath. Was the Foundation finally sending someone to deal with Monica?
The car came to a stop. The man stepped out. He was tall, dark-skinned, and muscular, with short military hair and heavy black armor. He looked like he stepped out of a movie.
But the badge on his vest said something shocking—"Phi-2."
Inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Natasha Romanoff frowned at the screen.
"Phi-2? Isn't that one of the task forces? Why is he alone? Negotiation?"
Nick Fury's one eye widened. "Wait... Phi-2 is the team that rebelled against the Foundation!"
The room exploded in chaos.
"WHAT?! He's a traitor?!"
"I remember now! One of the squads defected after a mission went bad!"
Everyone turned their attention to the screen as the man raised his hands in peace.
"Relax," he said with a smirk. "I just want to talk."
In response, Monica's right arm transformed. Her flesh twisted and swelled, becoming a massive fusion of metal and muscle. A glowing cannon formed at her wrist, smoke hissing from the tubes on her back.
The tension was unbearable. Viewers leaned forward, waiting for her to blast him into ashes.
But she didn't shoot.
"Fine," Monica said. "I want to turn you into dust. But talk first, Combat Boots."
The man nodded, still calm. "I'm not here to bring you back. I get it. You want me dead. I'd want me dead too. But… do you believe in second chances?"
Monica snarled. "F* your second chances."**
He didn't flinch. "I know what you've been through. Who hurt you. Who you hurt. I read your file. If no one had given you a second chance, I know exactly where you'd be."
Monica stepped closer. Her cannon nearly touched his head. He was sweating now, the laser's glow dancing on his skin.
"You know too much about me. Not good for your health, soldier boy."
Still, the man didn't back down.
"I'm alive because I picked the right side. The Foundation is losing. And I don't lose."
Then he looked her in the eyes and offered something wild.
"I have cars, weapons, cash, friends, information. You've been off the grid too long. You need me. Don't shoot, and we can survive. Together."
Monica stared at him for a long time.
Then the screen went black.
For three full seconds, the livestream was silent.
Then—
"WHAT?! The Foundation is LOSING?"
"Who are they even fighting?!"
"Is he trying to recruit Monica?!"
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury's mind raced.
He thought of what James had been told earlier by the Foundation's supervisor: The world was close to falling apart.
And now?
Maybe the infected and traitors were joining forces.
A destroyed city filled the screen. Smoke, ruins, silence.
It was Old Vegas.
Nothing was left but scorched earth and twisted wreckage.
Standing in the wreckage was Monica—now known as the Queen of Spades.
Above her floated a dark plasma ball that melted a streetlight like it was made of butter.
A black pool grew behind her, and monstrous tentacles shot out.
BOOM!
She responded with massive firepower. Cannons roared, missiles flew. But her opponent—a pale, creepy figure surrounded by slime—was almost invincible.
Missiles exploded, but 119 of them were swallowed by the slime tentacles.
Only one hit.
BOOM!!!
But the freak didn't die. He wrapped himself in black sludge and kept moving.
Monica was sweating now. She was at her limit. She couldn't run anymore. No more retreats. No more watching people die.
"This ends here," she whispered.
Then the dark spheres began floating toward her—slowly, silently erasing the world around them.
But Monica didn't dodge.
Instead, she lifted her hand toward the sky.
Everyone watching held their breath.
A strange, godly voice echoed above:
"Amazing."
A shadow blocked out the sun.
A metal fortress came crashing through the clouds.
Its core glowed orange-white, molten metal dripping down its sides. Heat warped the air.
Monica had summoned it.
She had summoned the Fire of God.
A humming beam lit up beneath the fortress. The sound was like a heavenly bell smashing reality itself.
Then—
A blinding beam shot down from the sky!
The world turned white.
The air screamed. The ground melted. The enemy was vaporized.
The slime, the mutant, the destruction—gone.
Only a charred smear was left behind.
Monica fell to her knees, exhausted. Her voice barely a whisper:
"I think I got him."
Then she collapsed.
And in that moment,
The entire Marvel Universe held its breath.