Immortality changes how you think about identity.
When death no longer waits at the end of the road, visibility becomes the real danger.
Years passed—quietly, steadily. Empires rose and shifted, borders blurred, rulers changed names and faces. Meanwhile, the Foundation expanded like an underground organism, spreading roots beneath every major civilization. Hidden sites in mountains, deserts, jungles, frozen wastes. Forward outposts disguised as temples, libraries, monasteries, forts, trading hubs.
All of it carefully layered. All of it deniable.
And me?
I didn't age.
Shammuramat remained exactly as she was—unchanged, untouched by time. At first, people called it a blessing. Then whispers started. Then reverence. Then fear.
I recognized the pattern immediately.
So I chose to die.
Faking my death wasn't difficult. It was inevitable. Anyone who lives too long in the open becomes a myth, and myths attract attention. Attention attracts questions. Questions attract truths that should never be discovered.
The system shop provided the perfect solution.
Anomalous Object Acquired: Stone of Illusion
The moment I held it, I understood its elegance. Not crude trickery. Not simple deception. The Stone created illusionary constructs so convincing that they fooled sight, sound, touch—and most importantly—belief. The illusion wasn't just an image. It was a presence.
I created an illusionary copy of myself.
It walked like me. Spoke like me. Thought like me, guided by my intent. To the outside world, it was Shammuramat.
And then, I let her die.
The illusion appeared publicly. A tragic accident. Political unrest. A moment of chaos—carefully orchestrated, meticulously documented. Witnesses. Mourning. A body that dissolved into ash under the illusion's final command.
The world accepted it eagerly.
Queens and generals grieved. Songs were written. Histories recorded my end as inevitable, unfortunate, human.
Shammuramat was dead.
And for the first time since reincarnation, I was free.
I vanished into the Foundation completely, shedding every public-facing identity. No throne. No court. No banners. Just a designation.
O5-1 — Administrator.
From that moment on, I existed only in shadows and sealed chambers. I moved through the deepest layers of the Foundation, places even kings could never access. My voice became something people heard through encrypted channels and sealed orders. My presence was known, but never seen.
It was perfect.
Immortality without anonymity is a liability. Immortality with anonymity is power.
The years continued to roll forward.
Foundation sites multiplied. Some focused on containment. Others on research. Others on rapid response and recovery. Mobile Task Forces formed, trained under Cyrus and Alexander, equipped with doctrines centuries ahead of their time. Darius's intelligence web became so vast that information reached us before rumors could even form.
Ashoka ensured the world stayed blind.
Cleopatra ensured we were funded beyond reason.
Julius ensured nothing escaped.
And me?
I built the future.
Electricity evolved. Early computational logic. Mechanical automation. Containment fields that blended magic, science, and anomalous principles. We weren't copying the modern SCP Foundation—we were outgrowing it before it ever existed.
The system rewarded us generously.
System points flowed steadily now, no longer scarce. Each secured anomaly. Each stabilized site. Each successfully neutralized threat added to our growing reserve.
I spent them carefully.
Knowledge enhancements. Research accelerators. Cross-disciplinary talents. I became a nexus where engineering, thaumaturgy, mythology, and physics converged. When an anomaly defied explanation, it came to me. When a containment breach required innovation rather than force, it came to me.
Sometimes I forgot what it felt like to be Luna.
That girl who once studied warfare and science in a university that no longer existed in this timeline. That girl who had friends, deadlines, and ordinary worries.
Now I was Shammuramat.
Administrator.
Immortal.
Hidden.
And watching history unfold from behind reinforced glass and sigil-etched steel.
Occasionally, I reviewed the old records—the illusionary death reports, the public mourning, the sealed historical texts. It amused me how easily the world moved on. How readily it accepted loss.
Humanity always does.
Which is why the Foundation must exist.
Somewhere deep beneath a mountain, I stood before a massive holographic map of the world—nodes glowing where our influence lay hidden. Hundreds now. Soon, thousands.
Another SCP would appear soon. The system's countdown ticked quietly in my peripheral vision.
Whatever came next—eldritch horror, living god, or conceptual nightmare—we would be ready.
Because the world thought I was dead.
And the dead can work without restraint.
I smiled to myself, alone in the light of machines that should not yet exist.
"Let history forget me," I whispered.
"The Foundation will remember."