The success of Doctor Bright's most recent work echoed through the Foundation like a controlled shockwave. The anomalous laser rifles forged through SCP‑914's Very Fine setting were stable, devastatingly precise, and—most importantly—obedient. For the first time, our forces wielded weapons that were not merely advanced for the medieval age, but unfair.
And yet, even as reports flowed in praising their effectiveness, my mind was elsewhere.
Because weapons, no matter how refined, paled in comparison to what we were discussing now.
The Infinity Stones.
The meeting took place at Site‑01, the heart of the Foundation. Or rather, it appeared to. None of us were physically present. Instead, we activated our Akatsuki rings, projecting perfect mental images of ourselves into the chamber. Five figures sat around a circular obsidian table, each projection sharp enough to convey posture, expression, and presence.
It was necessary. The Foundation had grown too vast, too complex, for all of us to abandon our posts at once.
I took my seat as O5‑1 — Administrator, my projection calm, composed, and very much alive despite the world believing Shammuramat long dead.
I opened the discussion.
"In Marvel history," I began, "the Infinity Stones are treated like blunt instruments. Weapons. Batteries. Symbols. They are not used to their full potential."
Julius—O5‑2, Sentinel—leaned back slightly, arms crossed. Ever the soldier. Ever the realist.
"The Tesseract alone proves your point," he said. "A stone that governs space, reduced to powering guns and aircraft."
"Exactly," I replied, my tone sharpening with excitement. "The Space Stone can fold distance into nothing. It can lock space into an unbreakable prison. It can sever escape routes, collapse battlefields, or compress entire regions into containment zones."
I paused, letting that sink in.
"With proper control, we could build containment chambers where escape is physically impossible. No walls. No doors. Just space itself refusing to cooperate."
Cleopatra—O5‑5, The Accountant—smiled faintly. "And infinite energy. Don't forget that part."
I returned the smile. "How could I?"
The problem, however, was timing.
"The Space Stone is not currently accessible," I continued. "It will remain off-world for centuries. We cannot rush cosmic alignment."
Darius—O5‑3, The Watcher—spoke next, his voice precise and thoughtful. "The earliest feasible acquisition is the Reality Stone. When the realms align, as they did when Jane Foster encountered it."
"Yes," I said. "I know the location. I know the conditions. But the convergence will not happen for many years. Until then, we plan."
The Reality Stone excited me more than I let on. A force that rewrites physics, that turns imagination into law. With it, containment would no longer rely solely on barriers or suppression. We could simply decide how reality behaves around an anomaly.
Then there was the Mind Stone.
"Control," I said quietly. "Influence. Pacification. Rehabilitation."
Alexander—O5‑7—nodded slowly. "You're thinking about hostile SCPs."
"Yes. Some entities cannot be reasoned with. But many can be redirected. The Mind Stone could suppress violent impulses, sever compulsions, or impose calm where chaos reigns."
No one objected. Not even Joan of Arc—O5‑6, Ethics—who observed silently, weighing the implications.
"And the Time Stone," I continued. "The only one historically used with restraint. The Ancient One understood it."
Julius exhaled. "Which makes it the hardest to obtain."
"Correct," I said. "The Sorcerer Supreme—whoever holds that title in this era—will not relinquish it easily. If Agamotto himself possesses it now, then we are dealing with a master of magic on a scale rivaling any SCP we've encountered."
Still, my pulse quickened at the thought. Time loops. Temporal resets. Localized reversals. With SCP‑2000 already secured, the Time Stone would give us redundancy beyond redundancy.
We discussed the remaining stones—the Power Stone, the Soul Stone—their locations, their costs, their dangers. Some would be easy to acquire. Others would demand sacrifices, alliances, or deception on a cosmic scale.
One conclusion became unanimous.
"All six Infinity Stones," I said, my projection leaning forward slightly, "must belong to the Foundation."
Silence followed—not disagreement, but understanding.
"We are the only ones," I continued, "with the structure, the foresight, and the restraint to wield them responsibly. Governments would abuse them. Gods would hoard them. Heroes would hesitate."
"We would contain them," Darius said softly.
"And use them when necessary," Julius added.
We agreed to begin formal documentation. Each Infinity Stone would receive a dedicated SCP file, classified at the highest level, detailing containment philosophy, theoretical applications, and worst‑case scenarios.
We planned for hours. Then days. Routes. Timelines. Contingencies. Failures.
By the time the meeting adjourned, one truth was clear.
The Foundation was no longer just preparing for anomalies.
We were preparing to claim the fundamental forces of existence itself.
And when the day came—when the first Infinity Stone finally rested in Foundation custody—the universe would quietly, irrevocably change. 🌌