"So, let me get this straight," said Agent Shields, flipping through the folder he had been pondering over. "You commissioned a mass murder of D-Class personnel by firing squad, set up a series of unnecessarily elaborate traps, and cost the Foundation around a dozen researchers… all so you could catch the Grim Reaper?"
Doctor Sheridan grinned broadly as he took the SCP report back from Shields. "Sure did, boy. And don't call my traps elaborate. Those things were child's play to make and set up."
"Sir, you're dodging the real issue here. I just want to know, along with everyone else, why you did it."
Sheridan's brow furrowed significantly. He had never been one for dealing with those who couldn't understand his brilliance, and Shields had always pestered him with those petty questions, details that in the vast scheme of things didn't matter. Still, he felt obliged to answer, if only to suffer one less fool.
"Why? Well, why not? You might not be the brightest, Shields, but surely you've been paying attention to your surroundings. Catching the bastard's been the best thing to happen to the Foundation since its creation! Due to the dampening effect we've put around his cell, Death doesn't have any powers. We also stripped him of everything on his person, and posted a dozen guards outside the main cell alone. Ergo, we've got him locked up so tight that nobody can ever die again!" He stood up with his arms spread wide at this last sentence.
A silence fell over the room as Shields stared down at Spencer Sheridan. He too had a strong hatred for the other man, though in his case it was due to a lack of patience for those absorbed in themselves. There was the temptation to finish the mission right then and there, but he needed to keep things going for now.
"Sir… I don't think you see the implications of what you've done. By rendering a good deal of the SCPs harmless, you've put unknowable amounts of people out of work, and…"
Sheridan put a finger to his lips and shushed Shields. "You hit the nail on the head there, boyo. The SCPs are harmless. The whole point of this place is to Secure, Contain, and Protect. Now tell me, is that not better accomplished if none of these creatures and objects pose a threat?" Shields continued to stand stock still, not moving a muscle, so Sheridan sighed and continued. "Just look at what this has done for us! We're making huge strides towards dismantling 173 now that it's not willing to attack us!"
"Yes, but…" said Shields, thinking of the fifty men incapacitated for life before the statue stopped attacking.
"Or how, since we can survive the tortures it inflicts, 212 has given us dozens of super agents?" And dozens more sent into permanent comas. "Try and tell me that isn't a good thing!" Shields made another move to speak, but Sheridan was on a roll. "Or how we're able to safely study 008 to our heart's content?" Sixteen men chopped into pieces. "Or the massive profit from 447?" Untellable damage from exposure to previous dead bodies. "Hell, 590's more effective than it's ever been!" Shields clenched his fists. "Point is, boy, I've solved every single problem the Foundation could foreseeably have. I don't understand why you'd ask such a silly question as - why do you have your weapon out?"
While the Researcher had been blathering off into space, the Agent had slowly unholstered his gun, and was now pointing it squarely at his face. "Christ, I can't stand listening to you. Now please listen, sir," he sneered, "and listen good. Nobody cares how many great things you've done with this whole 'Catching Death' business. The point is that the evils you've wrought far outweigh the good. We can't stand for that around here."
Spencer Sheridan went pale in the face as he tried to look for a way out of his predicament. An Agent, one of the most worthless positions in his mind, was threatening him, and he couldn't run. What to do?
At length, color returned and a smile played over his face. "Now, now, Shields," he chuckled, "you know you can't do this. I've got the bloody Grim Reaper in containment! So shoot me all you like, because I cannot…!"
A bullet flew from the chamber of the gun, and slammed square into the Researcher's chest. He stumbled for a moment, his mouth flapping uselessly, before he hit the ground with a low thud. Pulling himself onto his hands and knees, Sheridan gasped for breath, and grunted, "You… you can't kill me Shields… you can't kill me… we're all immortal…"
"Not anymore," said Shields, staring down at the man before him in disgust. "Or at least, not for very much longer. We're releasing the Grim Reaper in an hour or two, so everything you've done will have been for naught. Of course, we've rounded up all the SCPs and worked hard to minimize the damage, so you don't need to worry about that." Sheridan tried to speak, but he could already feel himself fading. "What I'd worry about, if I were you, is the fact that you'll be in some pretty bloody bad pain before expiring."
The Researcher tried to make one last protest to the Agent, one last attempt to buy his way back to life. But his lungs had failed him, and Shields was already on his way out, establishing contact with someone over the radio. "Hello? Yes, I did what you asked. Mission accomplished. Anything else you'd like done with him before you get here?"