The year SCP-2000 appeared, the world didn't tremble.
That alone told me how dangerous it truly was.
There was no roar of reality tearing itself apart, no anomaly storm, no screaming sky. The system notification arrived quietly, almost respectfully, as if even it understood the weight of what had just entered our custody.
SCP-2000 confirmed.
For a long moment, I said nothing.
Then I exhaled.
Resetting humanity was now an option.
Not a theory. Not a contingency scribbled in the margins of impossible plans. A real, tangible mechanism existed—one that could erase civilization and rebuild it from preserved data, correcting deviations, repairing extinction-level mistakes, and restoring the species as if history itself had been edited.
This was not a weapon.
This was a failsafe for reality.
O5-2 moved faster than anyone else could even process the implications. Julius didn't ask for authorization—he didn't need to. The moment SCP-2000's location resolved, he mobilized everything under his control.
And the location made my blood run cold.
The exact site.
Deep beneath the land that would one day become Yellowstone National Park.
The same place it existed in the SCP world.
The God wasn't improvising anymore.
He was following a script.
Sentinel locked the area down with ruthless efficiency. Entire regions were quietly emptied under the guise of royal decrees, sacred land claims, and fabricated natural hazards. Mobile Task Forces established a layered perimeter—outer zones handled by conventional forces, inner zones restricted to Foundation personnel only.
No one entered without authorization.
No one left with knowledge.
I arrived after the initial lockdown, descending through kilometers of reinforced tunnels and vibranium-laced supports. The deeper we went, the heavier the air felt—not physically, but existentially. Like the planet itself was aware of what slept beneath it.
When I finally stood before SCP-2000, I understood why even gods feared it.
It was colossal.
A vast machine, ancient and impossibly advanced, its structure blending mechanical precision with something almost organic. Systems hummed softly, endlessly cycling, as if waiting patiently for permission to end the world and begin it again.
Data cores. Reconstruction arrays. Reality anchoring systems. Human genome archives. Cultural matrices.
Everything needed to rebuild humanity—as someone decided it should be rebuilt.
Julius stood beside me, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Location secured," he said simply. "No leaks. No witnesses. This place no longer exists to the world."
"Good," I replied. My voice echoed faintly in the cavernous chamber. "It must never be used lightly."
He nodded once. "If it's ever activated… it means we've failed."
I didn't argue.
We began testing immediately—not activation, never that—but diagnostics. System compatibility. Power requirements. Interface responsiveness. SCP-2000 responded as expected, its systems aligning smoothly with the Foundation's infrastructure as if it recognized us.
Or perhaps recognized me.
Doctor Bright joined me at the central console, uncharacteristically quiet.
"Do you know what this means?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "It means we are no longer allowed to lose."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "No pressure."
SCP-2000 changed the entire strategic landscape overnight.
Before, extinction was unacceptable. Now, it was recoverable. That didn't make it acceptable—but it meant we could take risks we otherwise never could. It meant we could stand against threats that might wipe us out, knowing there was a path back if everything went wrong.
It also meant something far more dangerous.
Someone could decide the world needed to be reset.
That thought chilled me more than any eldritch horror ever could.
We updated Foundation doctrine immediately.
SCP-2000 was classified at the highest level possible. Knowledge of its true function was restricted to the O5 Council and a handful of absolutely essential personnel. Activation required layered authorization, system verification, and—most importantly—consensus.
No single person could press that button.
Not even me.
I stood alone before the machine long after the others had left, listening to its quiet, endless hum. A machine that had already ended the world before. A machine that could do it again, cleanly, efficiently, without malice.
"Not yet," I murmured.
Outside, the world continued on, unaware of how close it now lived to a second genesis. Empires rose. Wars simmered. People loved, hated, lived, and died—never knowing there was a mechanism beneath their feet capable of undoing it all.
The system counter ticked onward.
I could feel it now more strongly than ever—the approaching weight of what was coming next. SCP-2000 wasn't a gift meant for peace.
It was a promise.
That when the nightmares arrived—when gods, devourers, and reality-breakers finally descended—we would not be cornered.
We would have a final move.
And until that day came, SCP-2000 would sleep beneath the earth, guarded by the Sentinel, watched by the Administrator, and remembered as the quiet proof that the Foundation was no longer just protecting humanity.
We were safeguarding history itself.
If the universe wanted to test us?
Fine.
We now had a reset button.
And I prayed we would never have to touch it.