Feng Bujue stood silently outside the office, unfazed even by the three gunshots that had just rung out.
Creak—
The office door opened.
Wheeler straightened her collar and stepped out, smiling as if she hadn't just fired those shots—as if the lingering smell of gunpowder were nothing more than an expensive perfume.
"I know you have questions, but first—come meet an old friend."
The scene shifted instantly.
A tranquil lakeside estate materialized before them. On a small boat by the shore lay a frail old man, curled up so tightly he barely looked taller than a ten-year-old. The warm breeze tousled his colorless hair as sunlight bathed him, its heat seeping into his bones like a tonic.
Then two figures appeared: Wheeler, Head of Anti-Memetics, and her subordinate—Kim, or rather, Feng Bujue.
"Do you remember me?"
Wheeler knelt on the deck beside him, her voice gentle. A plastic case of medical supplies sat nearby, her sleeves rolled up for work. As he watched, she carefully prepared a syringe.
Fragmented memories surfaced. The woman before him had aged decades since he last saw her—and grown twice as confident.
Hard to forget her.
He'd taught her everything he knew—or at least, everything he could still remember.
"Wheeler," he rasped.
"E1," she replied softly. "You died. Surrounded by grieving family. They loved you. Mourned you. The funeral was days later—but sadly, you missed it."
The chat group erupted in confusion.
What the hell?
Who is this old man?
Why are they here?
Then Wheeler pulled out a vial labeled "X-Class Mnestic Booster."
[X-Class Mnestic Booster: A failed immortality serum. Temporarily reverses physiological and mental aging by up to [DATA EXPUNGED] years, but the effects fade within hours. Prolonged use causes catastrophic "rebound aging"—fatal if regressing beyond 16-18 months. Its memory-restoration properties, initially a side effect, became its primary use. Anti-Memetics employs microdoses to recover memories erased by anomalies.]
Now the audience understood.
They were here for his memories.
But that only raised another question:
What memories could be worth this?
As the injection took effect, the old man felt golden warmth flood his bones—like drinking liquid miracles.
"E1, we did what we do for all retirees," Wheeler said, adjusting his sleeve. "We gave you drugs to forget. After you walked out that door, everything you did for us—the lives saved, the great work—vanished. Your cover story became reality. You spent your retirement believing you were a former FBI director. That's what you wanted. What we agreed to."
So—he'd been Foundation once.
"But you alone consented to something else." Wheeler's voice turned urgent. "You must remember now. The serum reverses aging in every cell: organs, tissues, memories. It's coming back. Do you recall?"
"Yes," he growled, the fog lifting.
Wheeler exhaled. "Who are you?"
"Dr. Lyn Patrick Marness. Foundation employee." His voice steadied. "Founder of the Anti-Memetics Division."
The chat group stilled.
This withered husk was the division's creator?
Wheeler smiled—genuinely relieved to see him. Then she cut to the chase:
"We need your memories. The ones buried so deep, retrieving them will kill you. That's why today… we're here to end you."
The old man was already at death's door. The booster's backlash would finish him.
But as his mind rewound, he remembered: the secret he'd discovered. A void in his mind no chemical or surgical technique could safely extract. A truth he'd delayed until now.
"What happened in 1976?" Wheeler asked.
The audience gasped.
1976?
Had SCP-3125 been on Earth for decades?
The old man sat up.
His skin smoothed. His breathing deepened. His brain split—one eye fixed on the present, the other drowning in the past:
Bart Hughes, grinning behind thick glasses, looking like a kid playing researcher.
Site 48's original staff, tech geniuses and hopeless softball players.
A younger Wheeler, nerves of steel, mind like a laser.
MTF operatives, lab coats, paperwork. And numbers—so many numbers.
Then he spoke.
"1976 was the year we built the Division."
In one legendary week, he'd invented an entire field. With three handpicked assistants, he'd brewed the first mnestic boosters. Back then, the Foundation had no records of anti-meme SCPs—they'd been working blind. Yet they struck gold immediately:
Passive information black holes. Active memory predators. Unknowable worms clinging to human skin like mites. Infectious bad ideas. Self-erasing secrets. Living murder cases.
The audience flashed back to Site 200's horrors, their awe for the old man skyrocketing.
Marvel Universe | S.H.I.E.L.D.
Nick Fury listened, grudgingly impressed.
Fighting blind against conceptual entities? The sheer guts it took to build Anti-Memetics from nothing was staggering.
But the old man wasn't done.
"It was too easy. Like the knowledge was waiting for me. Then one day… I realized I couldn't remember my life before the Division. I knew I'd been a field agent for decades, but beyond that—nothing. A wall no mnestic could breach. I searched the archives for my file, and…"
He stopped—not because he forgot, but because something stopped him.
"You woke up at your desk half a day later, remembering nothing," Wheeler finished. "You repeated this cycle dozens of times until someone pulled you out."
She knew. The files existed, but an anti-meme still obscured the rest.
"There was another Anti-Memetics Division. Before 1976. I was part of it—maybe even led it." The old man paused. "I'm its sole survivor. An anti-meme devoured the very concept of that department. The others? Gone without a trace."
The chat group exploded.
Another erased division?
Was this happening again now?
"We know this," Wheeler pressed. "I was there when you wrote those notes. But the answers? We can't get them without killing you. What really happened?"
The old man grimaced. "The wall's still there. You haven't pushed me far enough. I need more."
Wheeler glanced at Feng Bujue.
With a shrug, he administered a second dose—ten more years reversed.
The transformation was startling. Wrinkles vanished. Muscle returned. For the first time in years, the old man stood.
He touched his rejuvenated face, marveling at his restored sideburns.
Feng Bujue's eye twitched. Maybe I should try this serum myself.
Then the old man spoke—and everyone listened.
"We weren't Foundation at first. Our mission was to weaponize propaganda—to destroy ideologies, not just armies. To erase Nazism itself."
A bitter smile.
"Two years later, we had the theory. Two more, and we built a bomb. A special one."
His voice darkened.
"We didn't understand what we'd made. No mnestic protections. No foresight. We tested it—and it worked perfectly. It erased itself. Our memories of the test. All our research. We forgot we'd ever built it… and started over."
Three-Body Universe | Earth
Luo Ji's breath hitched.
An anti-meme bomb?
Could this be humanity's weapon against the Trisolarans?
But the grim reality settled in. This tech was beyond them.
"After the war, our second bomb gathered dust. Then in 1951—a cult erupted in Ojai, California. Nationwide in days. Impossible speed. We saw it for what it was: unnatural contagion. The opposite of our bomb—an unforgettable idea."
Pride seeped into his voice.
"Eight days into the crisis, the Foundation conscripted us. All research. All personnel. Those who refused had their minds wiped. Twenty hours later… we deployed the bomb."
He met their eyes, savoring the memory.
"The cult vanished. No one remembered it. No casualties. A perfect detonation."