I left the meeting and walked down the polished white corridor of Site-01, already shifting gears mentally. The war was coming. Opportunities were coming. But my mind had moved to something far more long-term and far more important than military logistics or financial dominance.
A school.
Not an ordinary school, of course. A crucible.
A forge for genius.
A place designed to create the future of the Foundation.
My footsteps echoed as I walked, hands behind my back, reviewing my thoughts with the clarity only someone with Rick Prime's fused intellect and my own enhancements could manage.
Site 9999 didn't need more bodies. We had numbers. We had drones. We had artificial workers, combat synths, D-Class.What we lacked—what the entire Foundation lacked—were truly irreplaceable minds.
Geniuses.
Polymaths.Savants.Prodigies in every field: science, combat theory, anomalous containment, meta-strategy, psychological manipulation, magical application, anomalous biology…
People who could eventually become department heads, site directors, top researchers, elite operatives—maybe even future O5s.
War always produced orphans. Broken homes, shattered families, abandoned children with nowhere to go and nothing left.
But potential?
Potential was abundant.
And I intended to harvest it.
I stopped inside an empty planning chamber, activated the holographic interface, and a blue grid flickered around me.
PROJECT NAME:I stared at the blank line.
"Project Guiding Light…" I muttered. Then made a face. "No, too poetic. Sounds like a charity."
"Project Genius?"Too blunt, too obvious.
"Project Second Chances?"Too hopeful. Too sentimental.
"Project Orphan?"Definitely not. Even I felt the moral weight collapse under that one.
I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
Naming things was harder than rewriting human DNA.
Still, the function mattered more than the label.
I filled the screen with what I did know:
OBJECTIVE
Cultivate geniuses from childhood upward.Identify talent early.Isolate future prodigies in all anomalous and scientific disciplines.
TARGET POPULATION
War orphans (European theatre, North African theatre, scattered colonies).Ages 5–12.High psychological malleability preferred.
TRAINING BRANCHES
• Scientific Division—biology, physics, chemistry, anomalous sciences• Arcane Division—magic, ritual logic, metaphysical studies• Tactical Division—combat, strategy, survival• Strategic Division—politics, economics, manipulation, espionage• Technological Division—engineering, anomalous reverse-engineering, computational theory (future-focused)
PRIMARY METHODS
• Full psychological reconditioning• Memory rewriting for loyalty• Personality shaping• Education accelerated via neuro-tech and magical enhancement• Mandatory skill assessments• Graduated classification: A-tier → assigned to elite sites B-tier → assigned to standard research or security roles C-tier → auxiliary or expendable roles D-tier → converted to D-Class, erased, or disposed of
I paused, scanning the outline. It was brutal. Efficient. Immoral by every standard except ours.
In other words, perfect.
But I didn't let myself forget the one truth at the core of all of this:
The SCP Foundation does not survive the future unless we build people who can survive it.
I flicked to another holographic panel—this one showing the early estimates of World War I's civilian casualties.
Millions.
Millions of potential recruits.
"We'll change the world," I murmured. "From the shadows, one mind at a time."
A wave of reflected guilt tried to surface, but it died just as quickly. I'd long ago accepted the morality of necessity.
Project — whatever name I would choose — needed to ensure that the next generation would not only follow orders but excel, innovate, push boundaries, and reshape the anomalous world.
I imagined classrooms filled with young prodigies, each one learning mathematics twelve years ahead of schedule, performing magical sigil construction in their teens, analyzing anomaly behavior with calm precision.
Some of them would rise to become legends.
Others… would break.
But those who broke had no place in our future anyway.
A soft knock sounded behind me, interrupting my train of thought. It was Julius, leaning against the doorway with a lazy smirk.
"Planning to build your own Hogwarts?" he asked.
"More like a factory," I replied dryly. "A factory for brilliant minds."
He snorted. "And a factory for future nightmares."
"Nightmares under our command," I corrected.
"Fair point." He stepped inside, examining the holographic blueprint. "You'll need a name eventually."
I sighed. "I know."
Julius tapped his chin dramatically. "Project Bright Minds?"
"No."
"Project Children of Tomorrow?"
"Absolutely not."
"Project Brain Farm?"
I glared at him. "Get out."
He laughed and held up his hands. "Alright, alright. I'll leave you to it." He paused. "But don't overthink the name. The kids won't care. We will."
He exited, and I returned to the projection.
A name… a name…
But before I could continue, my terminal buzzed with a message from Darius.
Meeting in two hours. Lelouch has sent intelligence from the Balkans. You need to review it.
I turned off the holographic display, leaving the plan half-unfinished.
The name could wait.
The world could not.
But tomorrow…?
Tomorrow I would begin carving the future from the lost children of war.