The message at the top of the file was stark and unsettling:
> [As noted above, this document defied all deletion instructions; it could not be removed from the database without causing severe concurrent downtime of other critical systems.]
And beneath that came another warning:
> [Containment measures will therefore be to minimize the probability of accidental user access as much as possible.]
"Can't delete?"
Seeing this, the audience of the live broadcast finally understood why a document carrying a cognitohazard had been left in the Foundation's database.
It wasn't negligence. It wasn't defiance.
It was because deletion itself would break other critical systems.
---
The Nature of the Cognitohazard
But understanding didn't erase their unease.
What exactly was this so-called cognitohazard?
And why was James, a man with no direct stake in the Foundation's inner politics, staring at it on a glowing monitor?
Lines of text scrolled across the screen:
[An uninterrupted host process (ID9000013) will repeatedly change the ordinal number of this document to guide random access.]
[When two document numbers are swapped for administrative reasons, both entries vanish from the directory until the cycle ends.]
[A breach can only occur if a user with directory privileges loads the master list at the exact right moment, ignores the need-to-know principle, clicks on the link, ignores the warning, and reads past the first paragraph.]
It was a blunt but elegant strategy. The Foundation had hidden this file by constantly renumbering it—a digital shell game. But the side effect was equally blunt:
[During that cycle, the SCP article temporarily disappears until it reappears under a new ID.]
And then came the most chilling line:
[O5 has approved this side effect as an acceptable consequence of containment. You are ordered not to verify this through the chain of command, or to confirm that no other living person is aware of this process or this authorization.]
Attached at the bottom was an inline O5 signature.
---
Marvel Agents React
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D.'s briefing room, the agents stared at the screen.
"No wonder the project number keeps flashing," Natasha Romanoff muttered. "It's literally being swapped in real time."
Nick Fury's one good eye narrowed.
"So the Foundation is fighting its own file by hiding it inside another file. Cute trick."
This was no ordinary SCP.
From the jargon, even Fury could infer a few things:
SCP-2718 was a cognitohazard.
The cognitohazard lived in the description section.
Editing the document required a mysterious privilege level called DAMMERUNG.
And from the way the Foundation was treating it, this might be the most dangerous SCP on the site.
It wasn't merely classified; it was being hunted by its own keepers.
---
James Clicks Anyway
But protocols and red tape meant nothing now.
Because a containment breach had already occurred.
Because someone had just clicked past the warning at the exact wrong time.
That someone was James.
Onscreen, James sat at his desk, unplugged his computer, and yet the monitor still glowed, still scrolled, still whispered.
He tried calling for help more than ten times. No one answered.
And then he exhaled, set his phone down, and turned back to the monitor.
If the file's introduction was true, he had already been exposed to the cognitohazard.
"Instead of waiting for death," he murmured to himself, "I might as well keep reading."
The audience watching the livestream held its breath.
---
Inside DAMMERUNG
The next section of the file unfolded like a trapdoor.
A red banner at the top: DAMMERUNG – EYES ONLY.
A note appeared, as if from the last editor of the archive:
> [The entire killing machine must be thrown away immediately. My predecessor built and installed one with obvious flaws. I'd rather have a standard inoculation ban than a donkey kick. If this meme didn't kill you, I apologize for not killing you in time.]
It was half confession, half suicide note.
The message wasn't just about procedures. It dripped with fear. Whoever had last edited this file had clearly been contaminated, perhaps dying as they typed.
Back in New York, Tony Stark stood in his tower, arms folded.
"It's confirmed," he said aloud. "Black Queen espionage led James to SCP-2718."
He scowled at the screen.
"But why isn't James showing any symptoms? This is supposed to be a cognitohazard."
The feed showed James sitting upright, eyes calm. No tremor. No panic.
And then the feed jumped again.
---
The Recording Begins
A new file appeared, this one labeled simply: Description: [Begin Recording].
No click was needed. The audio began automatically:
Sizzle.
Crunch.
A chair scraping.
Then a woman's low voice:
> "My name is **Miriam Prayther. I have been O5-7 for 77 years. I will stay for about seven minutes. That is not enough time for me to craft appropriate Special Containment Procedures. I leave that to you."
The livestream audience erupted.
"O5-7?" Natasha gasped. "Why is the Overseer's voice in the file?"
Nick Fury's jaw tightened.
"So far, we still know too little about SCP-2718."
But the file continued.
---
Revelation: The Two Ways of Resurrection
O5-7's voice became more measured, almost academic:
> "By virtue of my position, I have witnessed nineteen distinct and anomalous methods of bringing the dead back to life. Science, magic, ritual—call it what you like. Strip away the theatrics, and there are only two true methods."
The first: Replication.
Through cloning, simulation, or replication, the mind and body persist as if they had never died.
The second: Time.
Through space-time interference, the object's structure is rewound, its death undone.
The audience went dead silent.
And then the chat exploded:
"Nineteen ways? Resurrection is routine for the O5 Council?"
"Is O5-7 herself 77 because she cheated death?"
"Cloning? Time travel? Are you even the same person after that?"
Even the hardened agents at S.H.I.E.L.D. were stunned.
---
The Hard Truth: Death Is Still a Mystery
O5-7's voice continued:
> "These two methods share ten key features. Chief among them: the resurrected will never remember the experience of death. After twenty-four million years of collective speculation, humanity still has no reliable first-hand knowledge of the afterlife."
> "We have other sources, yes. But in light of recent events, I believe the SCPs we have questioned over the years have deceived us. Deliberately."
> "We found an exception…"
The file ended there, the rest blacked out.
---
Panic and Speculation
The chat scrolled faster than the eye could follow:
"WTF? So anyone who reads this file is infected?"
"Isn't this a containment breach triggered by James?"
"Are the O5 Council going to execute him? Or just wipe his memory?"
Even Fury's hand hovered over his earpiece. He was weighing the same options.
Execution or amnestics. Clean slate or clean kill.
Onscreen, James's face remained calm, his eyes clear. Rational.
It wasn't until the recording began that his eyes flickered.
But he stayed put. He didn't look away.
---
The Audience Realizes the Stakes
What had begun as curiosity was now something darker.
The Marvel world's heroes had stumbled into the Foundation's nightmare:
A file so dangerous it could not be deleted, so secret it could only be hidden by erasing itself from view,
and so horrifying that even the Overseers left cryptic audio instead of written procedures.
And at the center of it all was James — exposed, isolated, and reading on.
Would the O5 Council execute him?
Would they wipe his mind?
Or would James, somehow immune, become the first living person to bring the truth of SCP-2718 into the open?
No one in S.H.I.E.L.D. dared to voice it aloud, but every agent was thinking the same thing:
This wasn't just a leak. This was the first crack in the Foundation's wall.
And as the screen faded to black, one word echoed in Fury's mind:
Afterlife.
-----------------------------
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