Heyo! This is going to be a little side-project for me, combining two things that I love a lot: Death Note and Scribblenauts. A bit strange, far as combos go, but well. I won't put this story as a crossover, though, because I don't think I'll be using the characters from the latter – just the concept.

For those of you who don't know what Scribblenauts is: it's a word-based strategy game where you solve various problems using a special green notebook. This notebook can be used to create anything your imagination could dream up. Polka-dotted aquatic dragon? Write it down and you've got it. Evil knife-wielding sandwich? Go for it. The sky's the limit, right? Copies of the notebook are a thing, too – the main character's doppelganger has one – and for the sake of this story, I'm going to put some limits to what it can do because yeesh is this thing a game-breaker.

Where am I going with the plot? Well, let's see, right? I know only as much as you do.

The notebook was not the original.

I'd had it for as long as I could remember, and it was scuffed and dog-eared the way a well-loved book should be – but it was finite. There was a fixed number of pages, like a normal book. And I would never believe that something so powerful would be so limited. Not like this, anyway.

Nobody knew what it really was, or how much damage it could do, and I preferred it that way.

Sitting with my legs crossed, pencil tapping against the desk, I waited for the test proctor to come in so we could begin the exam. To say that I was calm wasn't exactly true – this was the To-Oh University entrance exam, for crying out loud – but at the same time, I didn't think I would fail.

That, of course, was thanks to my notebook.

I should probably explain that a bit.

My book looked like it belonged to an elementary student, and I'd been teased for it from time to time – I understood, though. With its bright green cover and cartoonish yellow star, it did look like I was toting around an eight-year-old's school supplies.

It certainly didn't look like I was carrying maybe the most powerful artifact in the universe.

Here's how the book worked. Let's say I needed something very, very badly. Let's say I was having trouble understanding math and chemistry, and my future depended on my grades.

I would take a pencil, open the notebook – it was about three-quarters filled at this point because baby-me had no restraint – and scribble in three words.

'Friendly, efficient tutor.'

And with a poof, there he was – an older gentleman with books tucked under his arm, standing in my bedroom. And soon enough, I understood the curriculum well enough to be sitting at the To-Oh entrance exams without bursting into tears.

The only limit to the notebook's power was the number of pages it held – and my own vocabulary.

Now, I don't even recall why exactly I picked the thing up – I must have been six or seven years old. But it's been a part of my life since, in the way that most earthshaking secrets are.

Don't let that tidbit distract you from the fact that I'm a pretty average person, though. I like reading and cooking and sleeping and soccer. I'm afraid of the ocean and in love with space. I'm an only child. If not for the book, I'd actually probably be trying to get into some community college somewhere else: there's very little separating me from ninety percent of high school graduates.

I suppose, however, that that doesn't matter when you're actually in the process of getting into a prestigious university. At that point, how 'normal' you are doesn't mean jack.

I leaned forward onto folded arms to get a good look at the people in the room before we began. If I was an everyman, these people were, too – just a higher, more fortunate strain. I couldn't make out individual features beyond neutrally-colored suits and the occasional pair of glasses here and there. We were the same. I was the same.

The proctor swept into the room – brown suit, dark hair, like us but older – and immediately every person in the room sat up a little bit straighter, preparing for the nightmare that was the test.

I closed my eyes for a minute, imagining myself pulling all my years of knowledge together into a neat little box, ready to be opened – the little test-taking ritual I'd had since I was a kid.

As my eyes opened again and I blinked, someone called out,

"Student 162! Sit properly!"

The proctor's sudden reprimand came as a surprise to me, and I jumped in my seat. Was that me? How was I sitting? Wait, the rational part of my mind chided. Calm down. You're number 151. He's talking to the weird guy sitting in front of you, a bit to the left.

Yeah, it was obvious why he got called out. His slim frame was pulled up into a crouch, and from what I could tell his feet were bare. This kid… I huffed out a breath somewhere between surprised and admiring. You had to have guts to show up to this thing like a total slob.

He – it was obvious – was not an everyman.

Of course, I know that there are bound to be some unusual people in the world, that it's not really anything to stare at. Logically, that makes sense.

But as the exam sheets were passed out and I scrawled my name at the top – Cam Deneau – I couldn't help glancing at him from time to time.

Once, I even think he glanced back.