agenthighfidelity

[agenthighfidelity]

“First of all, how dare you laugh at me, an established man of science!” Steve extended his arms and snapped his bib as dramatically as he could. Before Vera had a chance to respond, he swiveled back to the buffet line and began to study his options. 

“Tom would recognize the importance of coming prepared for any challenge. How is that wonderful, beautiful, talented man anyway? I was really hoping to see him - no offense to you of course - you’re…great”

Steve looked up for a moment when he realized how that sounded.

“I didn’t mean to pause that long, I swear”

He really didn’t. Steve recognized each of the seafood options in front of him. He had tried them all over his years as a seasoned Maine resident. The nerves in his gustatory cortex were firing off, telling him that each of them were delicious.

Why couldn’t he remember any of their names? 

He was going to ask Vera, but that just would have given her more ammunition for her anti-Frankie’s crusade. He decided to plate a little bit of each. It was probably just the residual brain fog from the amnestics…probably.

“At first I assumed they were the same establishment, but that is clearly not the case.” She furrowed her brow, scrutinizing the smaller sign advertising Frankie’s Famous Fish. “This seems to be more of a buffet only deal.” Promising. “Sort of figured it would be like a little chip shop hidden around in some forgotten corner, but here we are.” 

“‘Jerkins.’” Vera nodded simply and made no attempt to correct him. “I’ve never been a fan.” Pickles, like Frankie’s Fish, made her stomach turn. “Maybe you can get one of the other researchers to go with you. Kel is also from Site-120, do you—Steve, are you drooling?” Maybe it was the waiver, but that fish did not smell appealing to her. Not one bit. She’d wait for fish that didn’t require a witnessed signature.

“We can ask around.” She bit her lip and started to protest once more. “Really, Steve. This is a real risk. You could have the loveliest bite of fish you ever had, but would it really be worth it if I had to admit you for some kind of food poisoning? Don’t pull a Tom. What if there’s a parasite risk? What if the waiver is to prevent liability in case of a serious bacteria at the fish’s spawn? You can’t seriously—”

Again, she cut off. This time it was the ridiculous bib and the absolutely raucous comment that came with it. She couldn’t help it. Vera laughed out loud. “'A gentleman.' You actually packed a lobster bib for the trip out here, Steve?” He’d never been in the field. He had no idea. Of course he’d packed a lobster bib for meal time, the Maine fish-monger. “No wonder you’re friends with Tom. That’s exactly the kind of exotic nonsense he’d find hilarious. Did I ever tell you about the month he kept a kazoo in his pocket for ‘special occasions?’”

Hanging out with Steve again felt so normal. Vera didn’t notice that the past was racing alongside her. Tom was here again. He’d never left. 

[agenthighfidelity]

Steve jumped a bit. He was in desperate need of caffeine and wasn’t exactly prepared for a social interaction. At least Howell was an acquaintance (albeit one that scared him a bit.) His mind raced for a familiar, but not too familiar, response. 

“What a coincidence, we chose the exact same plastic succulent.” A lie, for the sake of conversation. “I could use a second one though.” He hastily clipped the pager he'd been fiddling with onto his belt, then grabbed the plant with his left hand while offering his right for a handshake. “It’s good to see you, Lieutenant. It’s been, what, a full decade? Maybe more?”

Technically Howell had been on-site for the 2017 Hive incident in Poland, but he hadn’t been around to witness Steve’s heroics.

Thank the Lord in Heaven this guy doesn’t know I shot myself in the foot.

Steve mustered up a friendly smile. “Tight introduction by the way. It definitely scared some people, but I’m personally glad we have someone with a sense of honesty in this operation.” He nodded towards the barista (was her name Barb?)

“Anything good here?”

who: @lieutenanthowell & one (1) teammate! please like this post to claim the starter - first like claims and closes! dm once you've claimed if you'd like to plot, or simply reply at your leisure! where: corner coffee, as Barb doesn't close up shop. is she ever off shift? like, ever? when: early evening February 19, after the tour of the floors and Guin's extended tour - most of the team has already received their welcome packet and gone their separate ways for the night. what: technical difficulties. just the pager, obviously. general trigger warnings: none!

A pager. Christ. This was old school by his standards. But, apparently, there was some sort of way to catch a radio signal on the damn thing? (There was a whole damn station, out here? God knew what it'd play.) Only problem was figuring out who the hell he was supposed to talk to about that.

Guin wasn't in the mood for a chase. The lady who made the coffee would know. And she'd share, for the low, low cost of a little harmless small talk about the Omega-1 and Iota-10 vets - he'd already absconded for a smoke break when that second bombshell dropped, but he'd caught the whispers during their over-long site tour; a Damn fucking Fed?) - who were, apparently, running the new circus onsite. And had some kinda history. History, even. From what he'd heard...

(Well, almost harmless. Small talk, by and large, did Guin nothing but harm. But Barb was alright.)

And, yeah, she'd happened to know just the thing for anybody sick of listening to the HVAC hiss along. Glancing at the office number scratched on the back of his receipt, Guin folded that up and into a pocket in his tac pants. "Much appreciated. Don't suppose you could - use another plant?" Plant, in scare quotes. He held up the... whatever it was, some sort of plasticky succulent that'd been in his welcome packet. To go with her shelf of the damn things behind the bar, a dusty, fakeass garden he couldn't fathom the fucking appeal of. Just made him miss real, living scenery. Fireweed on the hills, the pithy-herbal taste of spruce tips, the give of thawed muskeg under his boots. The real world. Not this concrete and glass hamster cage they'd be quartered in.

"Oh, hon. I'm all set. Maybe your friend, there?" Shaking her head with one of those apple-cheeked smiles, Barb pointed past his shoulder. Guin swiveled, already frowning - a friend? No. Just a teammate. He offered the plant again, dangling from a lifeless frond. "Want it?"

[agenthighfidelity]

Steve was practically glowing by the time they reached the first floor. After a good five minutes of conversation, he had actually managed to pry a smile from Vera. Death threat aside, it seemed like she genuinely appreciated his company.

“Did you notice that there’s a Franky’s and a Frankie’s?” Steve motioned his head towards the cafeteria sign. 

“The Franky’s with a ‘y’ has those mini pickle things. I think they’re called “jerkins”? Down by the lobby.” Steve felt his mouth begin to water. The lovely aroma of seafood had entered his nostrils and the New England pavlovian conditioning was kicking in.

“Are there two different Frankies? Do you think we can meet them?” Steve glanced up from the waiver he was currently signing to smirk over at Vera. She was clearly less excited about their diet discovery than he was. With dramatic flourish, Steve passed her the pen with one hand and whipped out his lobster-embroidered bib with the other.

"A gentleman always comes prepared."

Vera shifted her stance, affronted. He knew exactly how to push her buttons. Oh, he’d always known. Even that one tumultuous evening all the way back at Harvard, Steve had found a way. Biting back the uncharacteristically childish urge to retort with a little ‘Um, excuse me’ of her own, Vera shook him off. She was even about to begin with a choice ‘You know perfectly well,’ before she remembered that he didn’t. 

For all the years she’d known Steve, for all the times she’d run into him in the field, he knew her past little better than anyone else. Maybe even less, because he had an image of the before to go with the after and no context to explain her life in between.

She’d have to give him one particular piece of context rather soon. With Steve, she didn’t really have a choice. Her fingers pressed at the rings hidden under her sweater.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that I need to be more clear for you. The crabs that I, personally, am referring to were caught in the bay and then served in Baltimore, Maryland. Hence, Baltimore crabs. I never really get to leave Baltimore, when I’m down there,” she added. She’d give him that much. “But if you call me a poor, simple southerner again, I’m going to kill you and make it look like an accident,” Vera said, dropping her voice and leaning in to deliver her threat directly into Steve’s ear.

“And I’m from Connecticut, you pompous lobster.”

“The health center can piss off? The health center can piss off?” So that’s how he was going to play it. “Fine. Name three things you, Steve ‘High Fidelity’ Wilson, have actually done that both required a waiver and didn’t come with even the tiniest saucer of regret. Five things.” Fuck. Too slow. Still, Vera returned his wide grin. They were just blowing off steam. Like they had been for years of passing by. “Frankly, I don’t think what Frankie’s is serving up is really about reaching your lofty Maine standards. More along the lines of ‘an amazing diet discovery.’”

[agenthighfidelity]

The words "neuroscientist" and "amnestic application" almost caused Steve to lose his carefully constructed composure. He very nearly went from "I'm listening" to "I'm listening". A small difference, but Steve knew there were at least three people in this room who would catch it.

The Foundation had always been cagey about the specifics of amnestics, at least in his field. Outside of the vague training course that explained what parts of the brain are targeted (Steve still had the notes), most employees were only privy to the Class and function of these drugs. He needed to know more.

Now intrigued, Steve started to pick up on the thought and intentionality behind each of Rohan's movements as he continued his introduction. This could work well. Schemes of a beneficial workplace friendship started to form as he flashed an inviting grin. Steve could kill two birds with one stone - he always told Beverly he would take up journaling.

ABBASI, ROHAN: an introduction, of sorts

Following immediately after Seth.

It’s widely considered bad form to start one's story with their protagonist waking. So let us begin, then, what is most assuredly not a story – something quite smaller and grander in scale – with most assuredly not our protagonist – lacking categorically across the board – with, of our own forthright admission, an interlude on morning routines and the spiraling outwards of them.

Like most mornings, Rohan rises with the bile-bitter tongued feeling that he’s already late for something important.

Unlike most mornings, he does so in a bed his body does not recognize and without the usual sunlight streaming across his face. The sky, from what Rohan can see of it, sits lower here than in Arizona, a singular grey plane through which it feels little can escape between. What light does is equally low and flat, casting the as-yet-unfamiliar room in unflattering shades of, well, more grey. Rohan reaches semi-blindly for the bedside lamp for what little it'll help, his face still half-pressed to the pillow and — a protein bar.

He hadn't dreamed it, then. Seth had been here. The silver, crinkling assault of Kirkland's Worst nestled in the indent only just previously occupied by Rohan's head enough to rematerialize — something of the morning. God fuck, what time was it?

Rohan swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's cold. Of course it's cold, it's February, and for most of Rohan's life February has meant fucking cold. But Arizona, clearly, has made him soft. Cold-blooded, in need of a large, smooth rock to stretch out on for a few more hours. Missing the same sun he had complained so thoroughly about for so much of the year. Maybe he should think about investing in a sun lamp; any chance Amazon will still honor a two-day delivery?

...

When Rohan does arrive at the right room, it's under frankly more layers than he has any business wearing and would be embarrassed by in nearly any other circumstance. And he still feels cold — though, if we're to be entirely honest, as much as Rohan is ignorant to it beyond wishing he'd worn another jacket, it likely has more to do with the freezing waves rolling off the rest of the team than any real change in air temperature.

Rohan, for his part, started practically vibrating the second he so much as stepped foot in the building. To say he's operating on a different wavelength than many of his coworkers might be, perhaps, an understatement. He enters brightly, bristling with awareness of each pair of eyes that swivel towards him. This, at least, is in some way familiar. Orientation; a round table of stiff-mouthed and too-rehearsed introductions, even if Rohan is the only one leaking genuine excitement and anxiety on making a good first impression out of every pore.

If there is any hesitation in Rohan's step, it's not in taking his seat. That's easy. He slides into the space held for him, Seth's bag deposited gently on the back of his chair and Rohan's slung the same. A matching pair. He gives Seth a gentle tap on the ankle to say what he needs to and won't in the presence of strangers. Hi. Good morning. Thank you. Don't look at me like that. Pay attention.

Beyond that, Rohan is by all accounts well-behaved and characteristically himself. He does not take notes, does not cross his arms and avert his gaze. Rohan sits forward in his seat, chin propped in hand, making as much direct eye contact with each speaker as they'll allow. In the space between he leans back, settles beside Seth, and allows himself the brief vice of workplace gossip with his best friend.

When his turn comes around, by virtue of it just having been Seth's, Rohan slides again to the very edge of his chair, elbows planted on his knees, and gives a half wave.

"Hi, all," he starts with a smile, trying and failing to meet the eye of everyone left in the room through it. "I'm Rohan. Just Rohan, please. Dr. Abbasi if you feel especially professionally compelled, but really I'd prefer if we kept things more casual and friendly, seeing as it looks like we're going to be spending some serious time together. You're welcome to call me Tree Hugger, if that feels right to you, but you might have to say it a few times to get my attention."

He tries for a self-deprecating smile, drops it, and tries again with something a little more honest and open.

"With that said, please forgive me if I'm slow on the uptake when it comes to call-signs. I'm in my seventh year at the Foundation, but it's all been on the research side of things. Lab work, mostly. I'd be more than happy to go into details with anyone who's interested, as Seth knows I can go on all day about it and then some, but I'll spare you all the gory parts and give you the rundown: I'm a neuroscientist and pharmacology guy by training with a more recent focus on amnestic applications in animal and humanoid SCP recovery. I definitely consider myself a pretty active participant in the Foundation's scientific community. One of my long-term goals that I've had — pretty much since I started here has been to incorporate academic and modern medical research principals into what we do. It's something I bring to work with me every day and I'm more than excited for the opportunity to continue bringing it but on a much larger scale and alongside all of you.

"So — yeah. That's about it on my end. Again, pleasure to meet all of you. Please feel free to grab me afterwards for anything or any reason. I'm also on the hunt for a running partner, maybe someone else interested in starting a journal club of sorts — so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."

[agenthighfidelity]

Loch's confidently disjointed introduction caught Steve off guard. Back at Site-120, he had worked with a guy who fought off a Mongolian Death Worm while tracking an (unrelated) SCP, and that coworker had a similarly endearing personality.

Cryptids really do bring out the best kinds of freaks.

Steve made a mental note to catch up with Loch in his free time. He seemed like good company, and Lord knows he would be needing tech help.

"𝚃𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜." - 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖩𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝖥𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗌, 𝖫𝗈𝖼𝗁'𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗋

Introductions were not what Loch would list as one of his strengths. Communication in general was perhaps not on that list at all. He certainly wasn't in the habit of throwing 'able to talk to sentient bags of meat' onto his resume, not when his ability to talk to the incomprehensible vastness of cyberspace was there instead.

Of course, putting off the introduction was not going to make it go away, much to Loch's chagrin. He let anyone go before him that seemed eager enough to get their name out and their foot into whatever doors they were trying to force open. It was like sitting in the middle of The Thing, waiting to see which test might drag the impossible creature forward. Though, if any of these people were a cryptid, Loch knew, it would make this entire horse and pony show mean something. He had had his hopes set on that particularly sour-faced man being some kind of Roswell Grey, but that hope was dashed the longer this took and the other remained exactly as stone-faced as he had when they had gotten there.

That woman, Loch thought with a glance, could be a Flatwoods Monster, though she certainly was lacking that impressive collar that so defined her kind. He'd have to see if it was misplaced or, as one of his friends had claimed, it was actually a biological defense mechanism, like the frills of Dilophosaurus. It didn't seem practical, but neither did a horse with bat-wings and that certainly seemed common enough... Gods he was bored. Perhaps—

The sudden tug of all eyes on him pulled Loch from his thoughts and he cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling in his seat and crossing one leg before uncrossing them and crossing it the other way. Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster did he decide to sit in what amounted to the center of the room? He hadn't felt the urge to stand and brood in a corner like some of the others, but now Loch swore every hair on his body was standing upright as an unpleasantly large number of eyeballs fixed themselves upon him.

"Well, going off of this very unpleasant attention," Loch starts, going to stand before aborting the motion halfway through and sitting back down, "it's probably my turn. My name's Loch, Doctor Loch if you want to be an ass. If you're my abuelita, I'm Doctor Matias Rojas, but I don't see her here so I'm just going to stick with Loch. I really wasn't listening to the format here, so fuck it! I'll freeball it."

He paused, taking a breath and holding it for a few seconds before letting it out. This was already a disaster, but the only way out was through and he wasn't about to end up a red shirt this early in his job. "Like I said, I'm Loch. I got hired by the Foundation and their Sincere Comrades and Partners probably... A month ago? Time's been weird lately, which I blame completely on those interdimensional Bigfoots that have to be around here somewhere. I work predominantly in tech, mainly computers and software, but given the state of this place, the details will probably go over your heads, so I'll stick to that."

He paused, thinking for a moment as his hands tapped out a one-two rhythm on his legs. "I've got a cannibalistic fish named Hannibal the muscle heads made me leave behind and a severe tech withdrawal. If anyone ends up needing me, I'll be handwriting the most pointless codes I can. But, I'm sure we're all going to get along great! Oh, also, cryptid stories. Please regale me with your best ones. I might end up writing a book or some shit about them one day when I run out of code ideas."

[agenthighfidelity]

➙ ∴   by clicking the source link, you can find ❛ 304 !  gifs of the iconic actor JEFFREY WRIGHT, most famous for being an actor, thespian, & general neat guy. this content comes from the show WESTWORLD (S2 & S3).  these were all made from scratch by me. so pls don’t steal, that’s not cool. please reblog if you use. thanks !

[agenthighfidelity]

Steve tried to hide how relieved he was that Vera had accepted his invitation. His excitement was leaking out in his speech, speeding up his words and heightening their pitch. It was unbecoming of a seasoned professional such as himself. Truth be told, his years of social conditioning had done little to overcome the fact that he was an introvert. All these days of small talk and first impressions had been wearing him down, and it was refreshing to be spending his time with a familiar face. 

“Excuse me, I believe you mean Maryland Crabs?” Steve shook his head in exaggerated disapproval. “You poor, simple Southerner.”  He was reveling in the fact that he could finally be annoying out loud.

“And the health center can piss off; everything worth doing in life involves a waiver. I’m personally just doubtful this place can live up to Maine standards.” He cracked a wide grin in Vera’s direction. Plus, if I end up with some form of aggressive food poisoning, at least I’ll be with a doctor. There were already two major embarrassing moments in Steve’s life that Vera had been a part of. Why not go for a third?

“I won’t do it,” Vera told him, crossing her arms. “I’m already iffy about anything that requires a bib to eat outside of Baltimore crabs, but a waiver?” The two of them had been wandering the site for quite some time. Just exploring. Making light, easy conversation the way they, honestly, never had. But it was nice, Vera thought, to talk with someone who had known her for years, but knew none of the details. A friendly acquaintance. 

They’d stopped in front of Frankie’s. There was a new shipment, apparently, for site workers willing to risk it all for a fillet. Vera, personally, was against it. She brushed a hand through her soft, curly hair. “Doesn’t the health center have anything to say about this racket?”

@agenthighfidelity

[agenthighfidelity]

ACCESS GRANTED TO SITE-φ.

Welcome, 𝐽𝑂𝑁. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 is pleased to clear you for the role of [𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻 𝐹𝐼𝐷𝐸𝐿𝐼𝑇𝑌].

Knowing that this was your first attempt at apping to this sort of game truly floored us, as this fact was not at all apparent in your application. The masterful way in which you crafted Steve’s personality and how fully realized he is as a character was quite frankly awe-inspiring. So much was said in what was left unsaid, in the minute mannerisms of a man so proficient at manipulation that catching him in a lie is a tremendous test in itself. The way that you explained both the experiment that lead to Steve’s downfall and the steps he took, and continues to walk, to clear his name left us hooked and dying to see how much further his ambition will take him... or, perhaps, how much further he might fall. We're so excited to explore the wonders and horrors of scientific endeavor at Steve's side. We are so incredibly happy to invite you into the Foundation.

Please refer to our checklist for primary onboarding, and have your account ready in 24 hours. The flight to Site-φ leaves on the dot. And 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 doesn't like to be kept waiting.

[agenthighfidelity]

STORY BEAT; Introductions.

There are a disturbing amount of attractive people in this room. 

Rubbing the temples above his thin-framed glasses, Steve Wilson was trying his hardest to clear the fog that had been lingering in his head since the morning. It was moments like these that made him wonder why he bothered giving up drugs back in ‘95. Judging by his current state of consciousness (ape, roughly), the Foundation clearly had no issue dosing its employees with whatever anomalous version of chloroform they had cooked up in the amnestics lab.

It’s probably something ridiculous, like interstellar weed.

Adjusting his posture in his seat, Steve tried his best to gauge if anyone else in the room was still recovering from an unconventional commute. It could make for good small talk, which would yield a tactical advantage in these early stages.  A quick re-scan of the room confirmed that the Foundation had put together a group of people who could all be the main character in a different multimillion dollar Hollywood production. This included the two people he recognized, one of which he was actively pretending not to. 

I’ve been a model employee for the past three years. They couldn’t possibly know.

Steve quickly compartmentalized this catastrophic train of thought and returned to his analysis. Much more than their looks, the people in this room all brought with them some indispensable skill. Emerging from the brain-fog, the machinery in Steve’s mind started to fully process the raw potential energy emanating within site-φ. A chance for him to make the right connections. To attain the right information. A chance to get everything back.

Small talk will have to wait. Introductions are starting.

Steve waited patiently as five of his new coworkers introduced themselves. His mind was now operating at maximum efficiency, carefully judging the performances and reactions that it could glean. After the fifth introduction, Steve felt he had a solid grasp of the group dynamic, and any more waiting would make him appear shy. Shy would not benefit him in this dynamic. He pushed up the corners of his mouth and gave a slight raise of his hand.  Clearing his throat, he tuned his low, gravelly voice to a warm hum. “Greetings, I’m Stephen Wilson. Call me Steve.” He had been practicing this tone for years.

“I was born and raised in Maine, but I’ve been doing Research at Site-120 for the past 10 years. If you want to know the best Polish chain restaurants, I am the authority.” He caught at least two smiles and one look of genuine interest. “I have my PhD in Biological and Biomedical Sciences from Harvard, and my work in the Foundation has mostly been within the thaumaturgical field. I’m looking forward to working with all of you. Please don’t be afraid to seek me out for any of your reality-warping needs.” Steve leaned back in his chair, giving a friendly nod at anyone still making eye contact. Back in high school and university, introductions used to terrify him. 50 years on this Earth, however, taught him that anything — even social anxiety and a room full of hot people — could be conquered.

[agenthighfidelity]

House by the river.