The moment I stepped away from the Space Marine project, I allowed myself to breathe again. A year of research, a year of constant failure, a year of death, and a year of pressure that even an O5 could feel grinding against the edges of their mind. The project had finally stabilized—barely, but enough. And with Orochimaru leading it now, progress was inevitable. He was terrifyingly good at biological science, and even more terrifyingly unrestrained when placed in a facility the Ethics Committee didn't even know existed.
Which made it the perfect time to shift gears.
Nanotechnology. My next obsession.
I threw myself into this project with the same manic focus I gave every monumental undertaking. Everything I had learned from the Infinity Stones, the multiverse technologies, the sorcerous runes, the alien alloys—everything built toward this. A unified, self-assembling, reality-enhanced material that would become the core of the O5 Council's armor.
The alloy itself was revoltingly difficult to stabilise. Vibranium's kinetic absorption constantly interfered with Adamantium's solidity. Telekill alloy tried to disrupt every piece of technology it touched. Uru resisted reshaping unless treated with ancient runes and monumental heat. Yet somehow—through an ungodly number of prototypes—I forced all four materials into a single harmonious structure.
And then came the nanites.
Billions upon billions of microscopic machines that could shift, flow, reshape, or retract into a thin layer under the skin. It took six months—six months of barely sleeping, six months of raw magical energy, six months of technological brilliance poured into a single goal.
Six months in which Orochimaru's division successfully created the first official Space Marine Mobile Task Force.
By the time he proudly reported his completed task force—each Marine towering, genetically enhanced, indoctrinated, and equipped with weapons not meant for any sane battlefield—I had finished the suits.
They were beautiful in a terrifying way.
When activated, the nanomachines surged over the user's body like a black tidal wave, forming razor-sharp lines, angular armor plates, and a silhouette that consumed the very light around it. I coated them in my anomalous light-absorbing paint—pure black, an abyss that swallowed photons whole. Anyone looking at them would see little more than a shadow shaped like a person.
Exactly how the O5 Council appears in every doctored photograph the Foundation releases.
The suits were durable enough to withstand magical attacks, kinetic force, plasma, lasers, corrosive SCP secretions, direct spatial distortions, and some levels of reality bending. They could regenerate from damage, auto-adjust to threat patterns, and sync with neural implants for instantaneous weapon summoning. Built into each suit was a warp-field stabiliser derived from the Reality Stone's research, allowing the armor to hold shape even through violent dimensional fluctuations.
I tested the prototype personally.
The armor melted across my shoulders like living ink and snapped into place across my entire body in a single, fluid motion. It felt like wearing invincibility. I could move as if unarmored, but I knew nothing short of a higher god would easily break through the suit.
It was perfect.
It was worthy of an O5.
And it was only the beginning.
During these six months, I watched Orochimaru's progress with a mix of dread and pride. The Space Marines were monsters—beautiful, efficient monsters. Each was nearly eight feet tall, heavily muscled, enhanced beyond human limitation, and wrapped in power armor forged from alloys I personally uplifted. Their weapons were a mix of bolters, Foundation technology, and my own multiversal augmentations.
They were exactly what we needed.
Keter-class SCPs would finally have something to fear.
When the two projects synced—my nanite suits complete, and Orochimaru's task force ready—we held our first demonstration.
The nanite armor allowed me to stand on the observation deck as little more than a shifting phantom. Below, Orochimaru ordered his new task force to engage a heavily restricted test environment designed to simulate SCP-682's rage attacks.
They tore it apart.
With discipline, precision, and inhuman force.
And I realised something then.
We were no longer just securing, containing, and protecting.
We were evolving. Accelerating. Preparing for the kinds of threats the Marvel universe—and the SCP universe—would hurl at us.
My nanotech project was finished. Orochimaru's Space Marines were real.
And Site 999—my hidden masterpiece—had become the birthplace of the Foundation's next era.
A dangerous era.
A necessary era.
I watched through blackened visor lenses as the Marines crushed another simulated threat and felt the faint hum of my nanite armor pulse with power.
Yes.
This would work.
This was only the beginning.