The next segment on the enormous light-screen shifted abruptly, plunging the watching world into a deeper silence. What appeared now was an interview recording—grainy, old, the kind of footage that felt like a relic from an age of secrets buried far too deeply. The visuals showed members of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit speaking stiffly before the camera, their eyes troubled by the memories they were being forced to recount.
They mentioned many things—strange things—but the part that made the global audience tense was the name: The Horizon Initiative.
One FBI agent described a bizarre encounter with a woman who had "chains woven into her hair"—an image so unnatural that even hardened agents felt their sanity strain.
As the recording played, the agent's old memory resurfaced in her mind:
"The world dropped beneath my feet. I fell.
Something clicked inside me—twin gears, once interlocked, now pulled apart."
She paused, trembling as she described the sensation of her spine bending unnaturally, stretching like mechanical bone-growth. In her mind's eye, the world seemed transformed into a cosmic engine:
The planet itself became a screw.
The sun became a furnace.
Gravity itself became a chain.
And the universe—dark, oily, metallic—stretched like a spring.
The livestream audience felt a momentary, surreal charm. Gears turning, pistons pumping, clockwork meshing with galaxies—images of a universe where physics itself was machinery. Time became something wound up by invisible gears. Gravity felt like a piston pushing down reality.
And then the tone shifted.
A new interview appeared—one the SCP Foundation had once classified as "dangerous knowledge." The man being interviewed was Father Dolorous Randall, a former high priest of the Church of the Broken God, excommunicated long ago.
The screen flashed again, turning black and white. Two men sat across from each other—Randall in a white coat, and the interviewer in priestly clothing.
"Earlier," the interviewer said, "you mentioned the heart. Were you there when they found it?"
Randall shook his head slowly.
"No. I was overseas—Panama. A mission. I only heard what happened to Ezekiel afterward."
"Ezekiel?" the interviewer pressed.
Randall folded his hands.
"Ezekiel was one of Bumaro's chosen agents. He traveled with others who could feel the presence of the Broken God. They attuned themselves to Him… spoke to Him."
The livestream exploded with comments. This was no ordinary religious cult—this was a group that genuinely communicated with something anomalous.
Randall continued:
"Ezekiel discovered something important. Bumaro recruited him immediately. They were the first to undergo transformation experiments. Most of them died."
"But Ezekiel?"
"He didn't need transformation," Randall whispered. "He already knew how to talk to God. He simply could."
The audience leaned forward.
"So… what did Ezekiel do with the heart?" the interviewer asked.
Randall sighed.
"You heard Avery mention their stockpile of artifacts? Everything their agents touched—anything resonant with the divine—was shipped to La Paz. Ninety-nine percent was junk. But eventually, they expected to find the real piece."
He continued describing "refiners"—anomalous ligaments, tendons, and mechanical flesh found near Nepal. They moved on their own but couldn't function together. The interviewer looked confused. So did half the world.
"What are you saying?" the interviewer asked.
Randall closed his eyes.
"The scriptures say God will reassemble Himself when His fragments are brought to His heart."
"Give the arm to the heart, and He gains an arm."
"Give the eye to the heart, and He sees."
"But… they could never find the heart."
Shock rippled across the world.
Inside the SHIELD observation room, Natasha Romanoff groaned:
"What the hell? Why do religious fanatics always speak like cryptic riddles?"
Nick Fury exhaled and interpreted:
"It means their agents were recovering anomalous artifacts—pieces of the Broken God. But without the core—the heart—they couldn't rebuild Him."
Someone whispered:
"You're saying… they were trying to reconstruct the Broken God?"
Nick Fury's single eye darkened.
"Yes. They believed God must be complete."
Back on the screen—
"What role did Ezekiel play?" the interviewer asked.
Randall's answer was chilling:
"Ezekiel told Bumaro that if they couldn't find the heart… they could make one."
The audience gasped.
Randall continued:
"Their resources were dying. Their agents were dying. Their faith was dying. They needed the heart. So they built something. Something that shouldn't exist."
"And did they succeed?" the interviewer asked.
Randall shook his head.
"They lied to their congregation. They claimed God had given them His heart. But no. The truth was far darker."
He looked downward.
"There was a drought that year.
A polio outbreak.
Thousands died—recorded as natural deaths."
Randall looked up again, eyes hollow.
"But I suspected the truth. They used everything—every anomalous fragment, every forbidden technique, every human sacrifice."
He whispered:
"They built a heart. But it was not God's."
Even Nick Fury froze.
In the Stark Industries Building, Tony Stark stiffened.
"…They made a deal," Tony murmured.
"A desperate one."
Before Rhodes could ask, Randall delivered the final blow:
"It wasn't the Heart of God, agent.
It became something else entirely."
The interview ended abruptly, leaving only horror in its wake.
Then the screen shifted.
A restored archival video began playing:
[Recovered Footage — November 1942]
A city from the last century—ruined, shredded, destroyed. Houses collapsed. Asphalt torn apart. Metal and rubber dragged across the streets like something had eaten its way through civilization.
Then—
A gigantic mechanical abomination devouring a truck.
SCP-001.
The livestream exploded into panic.
"WHAT IS THAT??"
"Is that the Heart??"
"No… no that's something else—something wrong!"
On the screen, a creature made of shifting gears, pistons, cables, and metal tendons tore through a neighborhood, eating everything metallic—cars, pipes, signs, rails—anything it could absorb.
Tony Stark stared, breathless.
"Machinery… order… structure… This is—this is a miracle of engineering!"
Rhodes snapped, "Tony, that thing is not your god."
At Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One watched the footage, her expression turning grave.
She sensed no order, no divine purpose of the Broken God.
Instead, she sensed madness. Hunger. Defilement. Selphic Flesh corruption.
On the screen, the creature stomped forward—each step shaking the earth—and began eating gutters and ripping metal from houses. Residents fled screaming. Shattered glass and twisted steel rained down.
And then—
A blinding flash.
A sweeping light.
Humans vaporized instantly.
The world went silent.
Stark's awe died instantly. Fear replaced it.
Nick Fury whispered:
"This isn't a god.
This is a catastrophe wearing metal."
Then the horror escalated.
A portion of SCP-001's chassis detached, reshaped itself—wriggling like metal fused with flesh—becoming a 3-meter humanoid abomination.
Light shone from its head, scanning civilians.
Where it shone—people died.
Then the creature began growing a swollen sac on its back, absorbing human bodies. Its limbs retracted, ribs extended, and it climbed onto a rooftop like a grotesque metallic spider.
Minutes later—
CRACK.
THREE new humanoids burst out of the sac.
They were flesh twisted into metal patterns, corrupted, unnatural, wrong.
The Marvel world fell into absolute silence.
SCP-001 was not rebuilding itself into a god.
It was infecting reality with Selphic Flesh.
And the final truth settled over every soul watching:
God must be complete—
but what they built was never a god.
It was a monster.
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