Site-17 was quieter than Site-19.
Older too.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
There were certain parts of the Foundation that felt ancient no matter how many times they were renovated. Site-17 was one of them.
Too many dangerous things had existed there for too long.
Too many secrets buried beneath concrete and steel.
One of my puppets walked calmly through the underground corridors.
Elegant.
Composed.
Perfectly identical to me.
Or rather—
Perfectly identical to my current Herta-like form.
Ash-brown hair.
Violet eyes.
Cold beauty wrapped in detached intelligence.
Foundation personnel stepped aside immediately as the puppet passed.
Level 5 clearance erased most questions before they were asked.
And even among senior personnel—
Very few actually knew what O5-1 looked like.
That anonymity was intentional.
Security checkpoints opened one after another.
Biometric scans.
Thaumaturgic verification.
Reality-anchor confirmation.
Then finally—
The containment chamber of SCP-343 opened.
The room beyond looked less like containment and more like a cozy living room.
An Old English fireplace crackled softly against the far wall.
Warm light danced across polished wood and old bookshelves.
A kettle quietly steamed nearby.
And sitting comfortably in an armchair—
Was God.
Or at least—
The being the Foundation referred to as SCP-343.
The old man calmly sipped tea while reading a book near the fireplace.
Kind eyes.
Gentle smile.
The appearance of a harmless grandfather.
Which somehow made him infinitely more unsettling.
The moment I stepped inside—
He looked up.
And smiled wider.
"Hello, Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova."
My puppet froze instantly.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"Or is it Artoria?"
Another pause.
Then—
"Or perhaps Herta would be more appropriate."
My expression remained controlled.
Mostly.
Then he spoke again.
Softly.
Kindly.
"Or would you prefer Amelia?"
My body shook.
Not the puppet.
My real body.
Several kilometers away.
Amelia.
The name hit me like a gunshot.
A name buried deeper than any classified document in the Foundation.
Deeper than reincarnation.
Deeper than centuries of identities.
A name from another life.
My first life.
Before magic.
Before immortality.
Before the Foundation.
No one should know that name.
No one.
For the first time in a very long time—
I felt genuine fear.
"How…?"
The word escaped before I could stop it.
SCP-343 simply chuckled softly.
Warmly.
Like a grandfather humoring a confused child.
"I know many things," he said gently.
"No need to be alarmed."
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit down. Have tea with me."
My instincts screamed at me to leave.
Immediately.
This was dangerous.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
Any being capable of reaching past every identity I had ever worn—
Was dangerous beyond measurement.
And yet—
Curiosity won.
It usually did.
I sat down slowly.
The moment I did—
A cup of green tea appeared on the table before me.
Fresh steam curled upward gently.
That shocked me even more.
Because I had only thought about wanting green tea.
I hadn't spoken.
Hadn't moved.
Hadn't even consciously decided yet.
SCP-343 noticed my expression immediately.
"Oh dear," he said apologetically. "How rude of me."
He smiled faintly.
"Though I suppose in your current body you can't exactly drink tea properly anyway."
Right.
Puppet body.
Artificial biological systems.
Technically functional.
But not entirely real.
His eyes studied me calmly over the rim of his teacup.
"So," he said pleasantly.
"Why are you here to chat?"
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
"Aren't you omniscient?" I asked teasingly.
"Shouldn't you already know?"
The old man laughed softly.
Warm.
Genuine.
Human.
"Yes, I know," he admitted.
"But people are usually more comfortable when I ask questions."
That answer somehow unsettled me even more.
Because it sounded reasonable.
I leaned back slightly.
"I'd like the coordinates of the Power Stone."
The room became slightly quieter.
The fire continued crackling softly.
"The Power Stone…" SCP-343 murmured thoughtfully.
"One of the six singularities of this universe."
His gaze met mine again.
"And what purpose do you seek it for?"
I smirked faintly.
"Don't you already know?"
A little sass slipped into my voice unintentionally.
Definitely Herta's influence.
343 smiled knowingly.
"Yes," he replied.
"But reading someone's thoughts without permission is rather rude."
…Fair enough.
I folded my hands together calmly.
"I want the Power Stone to advance the Foundation's technology. To protect humanity. To prepare civilization for future threats."
The old man listened quietly.
Then nodded slowly.
"Your words are truthful," he said gently.
"But not entirely truthful."
My eyes narrowed slightly.
"You do intend to help humanity," he continued.
"But your true priority is the Foundation itself."
The fireplace crackled softly.
"And I suppose," he added with amusement, "the Foundation does protect humanity."
I remained silent.
Because denying it would've been pointless.
To my surprise—
SCP-343 smiled warmly.
"I support your Foundation."
That made me blink.
"You do?"
"Of course."
He took another sip of tea calmly.
"Humanity is fragile. Dangerous things exist in this universe."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the fire.
"Things far worse than your containment cells."
For a moment—
His voice sounded ancient.
Older than planets.
Older than stars.
Then the warmth returned instantly.
"Very well," he said.
"I'll give you the coordinates of Morag."
The information appeared directly inside my mind.
Precise stellar coordinates.
Galactic positioning.
Orbital calculations.
Enough information to locate the planet perfectly.
The Power Stone.
One of the Infinity Stones.
And now—
I knew exactly where it was.
"Thank you," I said honestly.
The old man smiled.
"You're welcome, Amelia."
That name again.
Still unsettling.
I stood slowly and turned toward the containment chamber exit.
But just before I left—
SCP-343 spoke one final time.
"I hope next time your real body comes instead."
I paused slightly.
"I know you Foundation people," he continued cheerfully.
"You O5 members always like being the most powerful people in the room."
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"But I'm sure you can make an exception for little old me."
…Right.
Because sending a puppet to meet a reality-warping possible deity probably had been obvious to him.
The chamber doors opened behind me slowly.
And for the first time in centuries—
I walked away from a conversation feeling like I had just been psychologically analyzed by something infinitely older and wiser than myself.
Which was deeply irritating.
And somehow—
Oddly comforting.