Some anomalies are dangerous because they destroy worlds.
Others are dangerous because they let you edit them.
SCP‑4001 was firmly in the second category.
I stood at the edge of the underground library, the air cool and impossibly still, staring down rows that extended beyond vision. Shelves carved from ancient stone stretched infinitely in every direction, each one filled with books identical in height and thickness, differing only in the name etched on their spines.
Every human who had ever lived.
Every human who would live.
Their entire existence, written down as calmly as a historical record.
The system's briefing had been clinical. Reality was anything but.
Each book updated itself in real time as its subject lived their life. The language was unfamiliar, yet the moment my eyes passed over the symbols, I understood them perfectly. Birth. Choices. Illness. Love. Death. All of it laid bare, reduced to ink.
And worse—far worse—I already knew the truth.
These books were not passive.
They were authoritative.
If you wrote something into a book, reality adjusted to comply. If you erased a passage, existence followed suit. Diseases vanished. Injuries rewrote themselves. Fate bent.
You could extend a life indefinitely with a single repeated sentence.
Will live one more day.
You could resurrect the dead.
You could remove people from history entirely.
You could unmake the world one sentence at a time.
Which meant SCP‑4001 was not just an anomaly.
It was a god-tier weapon masquerading as a library.
I ordered the site locked down with absolute severity. No casual access. No browsing. No curiosity. Armed guards, memetic filters, kill‑orders for unauthorized entry. Even the O5 Council would need my direct approval to touch a book again.
I had already seen what careless interaction could do.
I had already felt the nosebleeds, the strain, the subtle resistance of reality pushing back.
And I knew something else.
I was not the right person to run this project.
Not because I lacked intelligence.
But because I had too much ambition.
SCP‑4001 required someone brilliant, obsessive, morally flexible—but obedient. Someone who could dissect the mechanics of life and identity without flinching, yet would not act without authorization.
I knew exactly who that was.
I opened the System Interface.
TARGET ACQUISITION: OROCHIMARU
A dangerous name in any universe.
In his original world, Orochimaru was a genius scientist whose curiosity eclipsed ethics, whose obsession with immortality drove him to dissect the nature of life itself. He was brilliant, ruthless, experimental—and more importantly, capable.
The system, perhaps sensing my intent, was unusually cooperative.
SUMMONING CONDITIONS ACCEPTED.LOYALTY: ABSOLUTEMEMORY INTEGRATION: COMPLETE
When the summoning circle faded, a pale, sharp‑eyed man stood before me, long dark hair falling over a face carved from intellect and calculation. He looked around the chamber with interest rather than fear.
No confusion.
No panic.
Good.
In this world, his chakra was simply a rare internal energy disorder. A "normal disability," as the system phrased it—one that conveniently explained his abilities without breaking local logic. His memories had been seamlessly rewritten to fit this reality. He believed he had always lived here. That he had been discovered. Recruited.
Chosen.
He knelt without hesitation.
"You summoned me," Orochimaru said calmly. "I assume you have something… fascinating."
I smiled.
"I do," I replied. "And it's far more interesting than immortality alone."
I escorted him into the heart of Alexandria Eternal.
For the first time since securing SCP‑4001, I allowed someone else to truly see it.
His reaction was everything I hoped for.
No awe. No reverence.
Only hunger.
"A record of all human existence," he murmured, eyes gleaming as he examined a shelf. "No… not a record. A control mechanism."
"Yes," I said. "You understand immediately."
"The question," he continued, turning toward me, "is whether the books describe reality… or define it."
"That," I said, "is your assignment."
I granted him Level 4 Clearance on the spot. Restricted. Supervised. Enough authority to experiment—but not enough to act independently.
"You will lead Project Alexandria," I told him. "Your goals are simple. Understand the rules. The limits. The consequences. Determine how writing, erasing, and alteration interact with causality."
"And resurrection?" he asked softly.
"Eventually," I answered. "But not yet."
He smiled—a thin, pleased expression.
"I will not disappoint you."
"I know," I said.
Before leaving, I issued one final directive.
"No changes to my book," I said flatly. "And no changes to any O5 book without unanimous council approval."
Orochimaru inclined his head. "Naturally."
As I exited the library and the doors sealed behind me, I felt a strange mix of satisfaction and unease.
We now possessed three pillars of godhood.
Immortality, through SCP‑006.Reality manipulation, through the Aether.And authorship of human fate itself, through SCP‑4001.
Handled carefully, they would save the world.
Handled poorly—
I didn't finish that thought.
Some things are better left unwritten.