Amenotejikara bends space at my fingertips, the fabric of reality folding like obedient silk as a portal spirals open in front of me. The air crackles with violet energy from my Rinnegan as I step through, the world twisting for a fraction of a second before snapping back into clarity—Site 999. My domain. My fortress. My creation.
I inhale the sterile, metallic scent of the facility. Home.
My boots click against the reinforced flooring as I walk down the corridor, and every guard, scientist, machine, and camera recognizes me instantly. Doors slide open before I even reach them. Automated turrets lower respectfully. AI systems greet me with programmed reverence.
First stop: Doctor Gears.
I enter the engineering deck, where the entire floor hums with industry.Titanium plating sparks under welding lasers. Repulsorlifts shriek as they're stress‑tested. Holographic schematics of Imperial Star Destroyers hover in the air like constellations.
Gears stands exactly where I expect him—expression neutral, lab coat immaculate, clipboard in hand, mind calculating a thousand processes at once.
"Administrator," he says with a curt nod. "Progress is within optimal parameters."
I glance over the projects, my eyes flicking through every layer of data with inhuman speed. Rick Prime's multiversal intellect parses it all instantly.
The hulls are nearly complete.Weapon systems installed.Hyperdrives synced.Shuttles undergoing atmospheric testing.Engineers working with maximum efficiency due to the threat of… consequences.
He has his D‑Class workforce operating like a single machine.Good.
"You're ahead of schedule," I say.
Gears blinks once. "I dislike inefficiency."
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "That's why I made you the head of this division."
I leave him to his work, satisfied. The fleet over our solar system grows every day—and so does our advantage over this fragile world.
Next stop: someone far more important.
I step into a clean, quiet hallway shielded with layer after layer of antimemetic seals and reality‑stabilization fields. Not to keep her in—but to keep others safe.
My hand brushes the bracelet on my own wrist—linked to hers.
I open the door.
And there she is.
Luna.My daughter. My moonflower.
She sits on the floor of her room, surrounded by softly glowing stardust she created simply because she giggled. Silver‑blue hair falls past her shoulders, shimmering with little sparks of reality-bending energy. Her eyes—so bright, so impossibly luminous—turn toward me the moment I enter.
"Mama!"
My chest tightens with warmth I never expected to feel. I kneel down, letting her run into my arms. She's small, warm, soft, and infinitely powerful—SCP‑239's reincarnation, shaped gently by fate and the system into someone mine.
"Hello, my little Luna," I whisper, stroking her hair. "Were you good today?"
She nods enthusiastically, stars flickering to life in her palms. The suppressor bracelet I built glows with each pulse of her abilities, keeping her power capped at a level that won't accidentally erase half the planet. Still reality‑warper, but not a universe‑ending one.
She buries her face into my chest, and I feel her tiny hands clutch my coat.
It still blows my mind sometimes.Not the fleets.Not the SCPs.Not the eyes, the powers, the genius, the war.
But her.How a god used the system to make me pregnant.How she came from SCP‑239 but isn't SCP‑239.How she's mine.
My daughter. My heart. My moonflower.
"I missed you, Mama," she whispers.
I hold her a little tighter.
"I missed you too, Luna."
And for a moment—just a moment—the Administrator disappears, and I'm simply a mother hugging her impossibly powerful little girl.
"Come on, moonflower," I say softly, lifting her into my arms. "Let's spend some time together."
Luna smiles, and the stars smile with her.