Foundation: I am recruiting crickets from all dimensions to fight

She braced herself and opened her eyes.

The corridor ahead was empty.

There is a gas lock at the distal end.

This one’s big enough to drive a truck in, finished in ultimate solid Hughes-style white alloy.

Next to the lock is the panel.

She closed her eyes and stumbled forward, using the ray gun as a crutch and extending a hand far out to explore the way.

"Someone has to be the last one," she said through gritted teeth.

“Someone has to be the best.”

"Your team is dead," SCP-3125 said.

“Their minds have been ripped out, like their eyeballs.

They are hollow people, their brains are already holes in space.

The war is over! Finally! Just you, Wheeler, a one-man department!"

The voice began to sneer again:

"Dying from an overdose of mnestics, two hundred meters underground, with no one caring, no one knowing of his existence, and fighting against an idea of ​​immortality."

Its words are like the whispers of a demon,

Constantly stimulating the nerves of every audience in the chat group.

Although these words were outrageous, no one could refute them.

Because that's the truth!

The Antimemetics Division fell apart in its offensive.

The Foundation is destroyed.

All of humanity loses consciousness.

The entire human civilization has been completely destroyed!

They couldn't imagine the circumstances under which Wheeler had to persevere.

It is no exaggeration to say that if they were faced with such a desperate situation,

They must have collapsed in this doomsday long ago.

There are limits to human endurance.

But obviously,

Wheeler's limit is not here!

Wheeler ignored the taunting remarks.

I walked over to the airlock and blindly groped for where I should insert the key card.

Huff~

A yellow light came on.

A huge mechanical linkage opens the bolt,

The door swings open.

The movement is just like the opening of a petal.

Behind her, she heard the elevator close and rise back to the ground.

She knew someone had called the elevator and was coming to catch up with her.

"Ideas can kill," she said, stepping into the airlock.

"how?"

The lock turned and closed,

The same goes for sealing.

SCP-3125 shuts up.

She said to no one, alone:

“Use better ideas.”

As soon as this word comes out,

The audience, who had almost given up, was stunned.

They stared blankly at the thin figure in the light curtain.

It was as if I saw the silent perseverance of more than 4,000 members of the Antimemetics Division.

What a strong will!

What a noble pursuit this is!

Regarding the consensus once formed by members of the Antimemetics Division——

Ideas can't be killed!

Wheeler responded in his calmest, most powerful voice:

Ideas can kill.

Use better ideas!

In a flash,

Countless audiences in the universe fell silent.

at this moment,

Even SCP-3125,

Even the sacred starfish,

Even the so-called supreme divinity!

It seems that it is not so invincible anymore!

If something can cross from the conceptual space into reality and take on physical form,

Then the reverse is also possible.

Surely there is a physical entity that can be found,

Physically extract the idea it symbolizes, then expand that idea and broadcast it into conceptual space.

A bigger idea,

Better ideas,

A philosophy specifically designed to combat SCP-3125.

An ideal.

An action.

A hero.

The machine to be built is of Olympic stadium quality.

Wheeler had no experience with heavy-duty memetic engineering, let alone the materials or time.

But she knew—someone had taught her so,

She couldn't remember who it was—the Antimemetics Division agent was just as good on his first day as any other day.

The same is true for the department as a whole. Wheeler said to himself:

"We won the war the day it began."

"When we first encountered SCP-3125, we built this bunker."

"Bart Hughes faked his death and isolated himself here to work undisturbed, while the rest of the department maintained as much as humanly possible to buy time for this moment."

“I know I did it because it’s what I had to do at the time.”

"I'm the final piece."

"He's waiting for me."

As soon as this word comes out,

The audience in the chat group suddenly widened their eyes!

Hughes is not dead!

In a flash,

The originally gloomy atmosphere was swept away.

When he looked at the light curtain again, his eyes were filled with anticipation.

Hughes is not dead!

The fictional amplifier may have been built?

however,

quickly,

This expectation turned into doubt.

The space behind the airlock is extremely huge.

Built like an airplane hangar, it was filled with hot, stale, dry air.

Still mostly blind, Wheeler hobbled across more than a hectare of epoxy flooring, with nothing but flat piles of dust along the way.

"Hughes," she called into the void.

"it's time!"

however,

There was no response except the echo.

Eventually, everything calmed down.

The expectant expressions of the chat group audience froze on their faces.

An inexplicable sense of uneasiness swept across the universe.

Wheeler glanced for a second.

The space is empty.

The anxiety seemed to have become a reality.

The castle-scale meme amplification/broadcasting unit that Hughes was supposed to have built is indeed not here.

Hughes himself is not here.

Maybe the entire machine is hidden by antimemes?

She thought so, but only for a moment.

This would be a clever way to hide from the rest of the Foundation.

But her brain was already congealed with the most powerful mnestic drug ever produced.

There really is nothing here.

Almost nothing.

There was a small outpost in the center of the space, with a bunch of trestle tables with tools and tool boxes scattered around.

In the back was an unmarked military truck with a flat tire.

Behind the truck was a squat, square machine.

It was the size of a shipping container, with uncovered wiring and exposed pipes, and a long cable connected to a heavy control panel on the floor.

To the untrained eye, it is completely unclear what the machine is intended to do.