Game Day Phase 2: Second Language
rating: +27+x

[Tempest Night, 18:43]

Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.

He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.

343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I’ve been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.

Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”

“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here. I have a gift for you.”

He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.

The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what’s left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.

Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343’s voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.

“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”

“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you’ll understand one day.”

Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.

“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.

“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don’t touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”

"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.

The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson’s thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.

“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.

He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.

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