He walked - or maybe glided, for if anyone could see him they would say his feet did not touch the ground - through the sterile concrete halls of what they had labelled Site-19. They couldn't see him, of course. For all their supposed security and expertise, the so-called Foundation knew so very little about so very much. Anyone looking at him might experience a cold sensation or perhaps a slight feeling of nausea, and if they were actually good at their job they might report the sensation and trigger a security alert. That had happened once or twice; he was no more infallible than the Foundation. But it was rare, and he wasn't concerned.
Today was a special day; the anniversary of the construction of his favourite creation. And so, he had decided to pay it a visit. It wasn't his only creation, of course. One of the first was a statue of a naked woman with no face which, when looked upon, prevented you from looking away. Effective, but crude. The removal of choice from the observer made it one of his least favourite pieces of work, but it gave him an appreciation of statues as a medium. What better way to convey the human form.
Following that were a number of pieces he had long since destroyed for being too flashy; idols that demanded attention through colourful effects and loud sounds. He ultimately found those more crude than the naked woman, a toddler screaming for attention rather than attention given willingly.
And so came his prized piece. The perfect piece of art. No compulsions, no gaudy effects, just the pure representation of the human condition. Endlessly demanding of attention, and savagely violent when ignored, producing nothing but waste. Even the instructions he had given it were elegant in their simplicity; don't move when observed and, if no one is observing, then kill. He could have it do anything - the rules were arbitrary, like rules tend to be - but anything more would corrupt the work.
He'd made other pieces since, of course. Some might say they are better, more advanced, possessing of more meaning. As if art requires meaning. Manipulating reality to imply one thing or other, to send some message or make some kind of statement. Childish tantrums thrown by the immature still so convinced of their own importance that they can't bare the thought of someone disagreeing with their views.
Art exists simply to exist, just as his prized work did. The Foundation named it SCP-173, terrible bores that they are. He'd never named it himself. He approached the room in which they kept it, locked away from prying eyes. There were rare moments when he didn't blame them for locking it up. Ignorant as they were, how could they see anything but an engine of destruction. Had they ever truly looked at it, he wondered. Were they even capable of seeing it as art? He had his doubts.
He entered the "containment" chamber - as if art could ever truly be contained - without issue. Trivialities such as doors and walls had long since stopped being concerns for him. And there it was, slowly walking around the edge of the room, surrounded by the only things humans truly had to offer; blood and shit.
"Hello," he said out loud.
The statue froze, and then slowly turned to the source of the voice. It wasn't capable of expression, but had it been he liked to believe its face would be showing surprise. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that it even possessed any true intellect; he found that keeping that a mystery even from himself enhanced the work, made it a truer representation.
"It is good to see that you are well."
That was true; he'd half expected to find it smashed to rubble. It wouldn't have been difficult, were the Foundation inclined to do so. That was some small point in their favour, he supposed, though he doubted they did it for the preservation of art.
The statue approached him, slowly, as if hesitant. As if it couldn't believe what it was seeing before it. It reached an arm outwards, and he took it. It was a slightly awkward gesture, as he hadn't give it hands. The stone of its body was cold to the touch, but he held it for a few seconds before releasing it, a small gesture for an old friend. Or perhaps it saw him more like a father-figure - again, he didn't know. That thought gave him a slight pause. Perhaps his creation truly was intelligent, and felt abandoned by the only being in existence to show it anything other than fear.
Was it sad? Angry? Did it possess any emotion at all? Perhaps it was pleased, pleased that it had been remembered after all this time. More uncertainties. The one thing he was sure of was that it could hear him.
"I am proud of you, my creation. You have surpassed anything I could have ever hoped for."
The statue seemed to stand a little straighter, if that was possible. Perhaps he just imagined it. Again, he was not infallible, and was not immune to seeing things in his own work.
He remained for a while, admiring the piece. Part of him was sad that he couldn't bring it with him. But that would draw too much attention.
"It was good to see you. I must leave now, though. The Foundation drones will be along shortly to clean your room."
He raised his hand to its face briefly, before turning and heading to leave the room. A thought occurred to him before he left; he paused and turned back to it.
"Why don't we play a little game, just this once. They usually send in three people, yes?"
A vague movement, as close as it could manage to a nod.
He wasn't sure if it would still respond to different instructions; it had been so long, the ones it had might have become ingrained into it. But hey, it was worth a try.
"Well, just this one time, if even one of them is disrespectful enough to look away, you may do as you wish. Even if the others are still looking."
The statue resumed its pacing, slightly faster than before, as if excited. He smiled to himself as he walked through the door and left the Foundation to their work.