The discussion did not end with the Infinity Stones. If anything, that revelation only cracked the door open to far more terrestrial—and far more immediate—concerns.
The projections around the circular table flickered slightly as the Akatsuki rings compensated for fatigue, distance, and the sheer cognitive load of what we were planning. Hours had already passed, yet none of us felt the need to rest. Immortality and enhancement had a way of making time feel… flexible.
Julius was the first to shift the topic.
"Cosmic assets aside," O5‑2, Sentinel said, his projection leaning forward, fingers interlaced, "we need to talk about territory. Sites. Coverage."
I nodded. "Agreed. The Foundation cannot remain centralized. Not in this era, not in this world."
Maps were projected into the air above the table—continents as they existed in this age, borders fluid, empires rising and collapsing like waves. Rome dominated much of the Mediterranean. Persia, China, India, and countless kingdoms dotted the rest of the world.
"We need permanent sites in every major power sphere," Julius continued. "Rome, Persia, the Indian subcontinent, East Asia, Northern Africa. And isolated black sites in regions no one cares to look at."
Darius added calmly, "Remote mountains. Deep deserts. Islands. Anywhere secrecy is easier than control."
Ashoka—O5‑8, The Veilkeeper—spoke next. "And we must ensure plausible deniability. Each site needs a cover. Temples. Fortresses. Monasteries. Trade hubs. Something that fits the era."
We spent a long time refining that idea. Site architecture disguised as religious centers. Research facilities hidden beneath palaces. Containment chambers carved into mountains and sealed behind superstition and myth.
Then Julius did something very Julius.
"There is," he said evenly, "another option."
I felt it before he finished speaking.
"We could conquer the world."
The words hung in the air like a drawn blade.
"With our combined militaries," he continued, unbothered by the silence, "our technology, anomalous weapons, immortality, and coordination—we could unify humanity under one banner. No borders. No resistance. Total control."
Alexander's projection stiffened. Cleopatra's eyes narrowed. Joan of Arc said nothing, but her presence grew heavier.
I leaned back slightly, considering it seriously—because ignoring the idea outright would have been foolish.
"It's efficient," Julius added. "No secrecy issues if there's no one to hide from."
"And no one to resist containment," Alexander said slowly. "Or object to our decisions."
That was when Joan finally spoke.
"And no one to stop us," she said quietly.
That ended it.
The idea wasn't rejected outright—but it was shelved. Marked as a contingency. A last resort. The cost to human autonomy, culture, and history was too high to justify preemptively.
"We are guardians," I said at last. "Not emperors. At least… not yet."
The tension eased, but the conversation immediately pivoted to something just as volatile.
"Doctor Bright's weapons," Darius said.
Ah. Yes. That.
Reports surfaced around the table—schematics, test results, casualty projections. Laser rifles refined through SCP‑914. Experimental sidearms. Armor plating with anomalous energy dispersion. Prototypes that simply should not exist in this era.
"The question," Cleopatra said, "is distribution."
Before anyone else could speak, I did.
"Since Doctor Bright operates under my command, I get first dibs."
The reaction was immediate.
Julius frowned. "You already control the scientific division. Magic. Artifacts. Now you want the most advanced weapons as well?"
"They were created in my sites," I replied smoothly. "Using my authority. My resources. My personnel."
Alexander crossed his arms. "That's a power imbalance."
I smiled. "So is reality."
The argument escalated—controlled, but sharp. Power plays were named outright. Influence counted. Military strength weighed against technological superiority. For a moment, it felt less like a council and more like a battlefield without weapons.
Then Julius raised his hand.
"There's another issue," he said. "Talent."
The word shifted the conversation instantly.
"We have SCP‑006," he continued. "The Fountain of Youth. Limited supply. Divided between the five of us."
"Yes," I said, already knowing where this was going.
"You've been recruiting aggressively," Julius said. "Scientists. Engineers. Scholars. Magicians. You're using 006 water to extend their lives."
"I am," I admitted. "Because talent is rare in this era. And talent is everything."
"And if we overuse it?" Julius countered. "The supply is not infinite. We don't know if it ever replenishes. If we exhaust it, we lose one of our greatest advantages."
Cleopatra nodded. "We need rationing. Criteria. Oversight."
I considered that carefully. They weren't wrong. As much as I wanted an eternal cadre of geniuses under my command, reckless use of SCP‑006 could cripple us later.
"Fine," I said at last. "We establish a joint protocol. Only personnel deemed irreplaceable receive the water."
"And the decision requires consensus," Joan added.
I hesitated—then nodded.
"Consensus," I agreed.
The tension eased again, replaced by something steadier: mutual respect tempered by caution.
By the time the meeting finally ended, we had blueprints for new sites, draft policies for anomalous weapon distribution, and the beginnings of a doctrine for managing immortality itself.
The Foundation had grown powerful.
But power, I was learning, was not just about what you could do.
It was about what you chose not to do—and how long you could afford that restraint.