oldxport

[oldxport]

His  pager,  the  armored  scarab,  buzzes  in  place,  perched  on  a  single  belt  loop  belonging  to  a  pair  of  teal-gray  suit  pants.  Military  Advisor  Dying  Breed's  request,  as  decreed  by  the  Site-φ  Security  Department,  has  been  re-appropriated  by  the  Operations  Controller  to  play  secretary,  forwarding  memos  and  scheduling  blocks  of  time  for  combat  assessment  before  the  mission.  It  goes  without  saying  that  the  veteran  agent  aced  his  assessment  on  the  very  first  day  it  was  accessible.  Dallying  goes  against  Old  Sport’s  code.  Such  delays  lead  to  contrivances,  which  may,  no,  will,  become  issues  down  the  line.

And  which  line  is  it  this  time?

In  erasing,  it  smudges,  blends  out,  blurs.  Can  one  remember  if  a  line  ever  existed  after  the  act  of  effacing?

A  condition  of  perfection  hangs  over  Old  Sport’s  head  like  a  halo,  like  a  noose  on  the  gallows.  His  creation’s  treatise  encompasses  it,  and  Old  Sport  enacts  it  as  his  law.  To  do  any  less  is  to  fail  his  orders.  So,  as  the  Broken  Scales’  Operations  Controller,  he  goes  outside  the  weighted  planes,  climbs  the  chains,  balances  on  the  beam,  and  checks  on  the  hinges.  If  the  apparatus  is  faulty,  the  result  will  be  as  well.

Professionally  speaking,  he  doesn’t  want  any  trouble  to  befall  the  Commander,  Smooth  Operator,  as  it  deigns  a  lack  of  expertise  on  his  part.         PRIVATELY  SPEAKING,  SO  QUIET  HE  CAN  PRETEND  HE  HASN’T  UTTERED  A  WORD,  PERSONAL  REASONS  LIE  IN  WAIT  AS  WELL.

One  of  Old  Sport’s  inspections  involves  carrying  his  feet  to  the  Security  Department’s  firearm  ranges,  where  he  briefly  salutes  the  station  guard  before  slipping  inside  to  test  its  efficacy.  However,  his  auditing  is  not  to  no  audience.  Inside  is  one  of  Themis’  own  52  Pickup,  left  arm  outstretched,  fingers  curled  around  the  textured,  composite  plastic  grip  of  a  standard  M9  handgun.

Bang,  bang,  bang,  bang.

Bullets  fly,  slicing  through  the  air  at  2,700  feet  per  second,  over  1,800  miles  per  hour.  To  summate,  they  travel  twice  the  speed  of  sound.

Child’s  play,  compared  to  how  quickly  universes  collapse.

The  data  extrapolates  from  the  chain  of  memories.  52  Pickup.  Field  Agent.  Plays  the  piano.  A  chain  smoker.  Likes  owls.  And  the  filmography  of  men  who  work  well  with  wood,  like  Harrison  Ford.

Again,  the  gun.  The  target.  She  lines  her  shot.  Their  wrist  is  slight,  with  an  observable  curve  where  the  bone  juts  out.  Blue  veins  snake  out  underneath  a  pale  surface,  like  the  sheen  of  early  morning  frost  on  birch  trees.  Old  Sport  measures  the  angle  of  the  muzzle  and  the  distance  to  the  cardboard  target  and  knows  with  certainty  that  the  recoil  will  knock  the  line,  the  graceful  road  of  shoulder  to  arm  to  finger  to  trigger,  off-balance.

Like  a  car  swerving  off  the  highway,  freefalling.  Schwooom.

Bang,  bang,  bang,  bang.

The  set  is  done,  and  the  teammate  before  Old  Sport  lowers  the  weapon.  He  awaits  proper  decorum  to  proceed  forward,  and  once  the  threshold  of  on  has  clicked  firmly  into  off,  the  kinetic  back  to  potential  energy  between  him  and  the  other  agent,  Old  Sport  says,  “  Operative.  ”

What  an  appellation.  Recognition  and  reverence  for  judgmental  arbitrators  who  have  not  been  present  from  the  beginning  and  will  not  remain  until  the  end.

Let  them  feel  self-important.  Come  on,  Old  Sport.  Dance.

“  Only…  ”  Old  Sport  calculates  to  the  nearest  second;  anything  in  smaller  increments  is  unnecessary.  “  Twelve  seconds.  Most  would  say  that’s  a  short  period.  ”

Without  any  visible  reaction,  the  agent  contemplates  whether  52  Pickup  found  his  answer  humorous  or  if  they  held  a  seminar  for  a  private  joke  and  Old  Sport  had  missed  the  conference  room.  But  here,  she  speaks,�� admitting  a  lack  of  experience.  Perhaps  their  previous  position  was  confined  to  the  desks.

However,  something  curious  shines  through  in  the  evidence  of  52  Pickup’s  target,  like  the  light  glittering  on  the  impasto  stroke.  The  bullet  holes  are  mapped  in  a  pattern,  the  range  displaying  intuitive  spacing.  There  is  something  more  than  just  a  beginner’s  foray.  The  randomness  is  not  random.

“  If  you  feel  any  embarrassment,  Operative  52  Pickup,  I’d  advise  reconsidering.  You  should  not  be  ashamed.  Breaking  in  novices  is  a  less  challenging  task.  ”  Old  Sport  says  with  a  lissome  line  that  curves  up  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  “  If  you  don’t  mind  my  supervision.  Would  you  like to try  again?  If  you  assure  me  that  it  wasn’t  your,  and  I  quote,  best,  end-quote,  then  I  would  be  doing  a  disservice  not  seeing  you  in  the  form  you  wish  to  be  perceived.  ”

WHO: @oldxport WHAT: To be filled when thread is completed. WHEN: February 21st / Late afternoon WHERE: Defense seminar CONTENT WARNINGS: event-specific / training-specific firearm imagery

If Midge had her way, there would have been no need to take up the defense seminar at all. Certainly, their work at the Disinformation Bureau had not called for much of physical violence. Those types of altercations were tasks she'd relegated, and happily so, to the operatives who came during the mission proper, each of whom were taller and stronger and much more agile, though their minds were dreadfully transparent.

But being in the field had entailed, at the very least, basic firearm training. In face of other operatives, Midge had seemed almost competent. Their trigger control left much to be desired, to be certain, but that shortcoming was less by virtue of inadequacy as it was the curse of the biological wear-and-tear. Otherwise, everything was textbook, from their slightly forward stance to the alignment of their body with the faceless target.

A fair competence in marksmanship was sure to raise some questions, however. As a commitment to her farce—and, really, as a little challenge—the operative switched her grip from one dominant hand to another, now placing her right hand underneath the trigger guard and wrapping her fingers around her left. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be struggling, attempting to make sense of the pistol frame in its all its alloyed glory. What hand had she written with? Even Midge didn't have that well of memory, and she's hopeful that no one had considered well enough of a threat or a formidable figure to truly pay attention.

Midge just about maintained their stance as they released the trigger and shot at the cardboard. As the mechanism automatically pushed forward to reveal her shot, she was pleased to find it passable: certainly not bullseye, nestling just at the fringes of blue and black corners. Passable. Just as they'd liked it.

They'd resisted the urge to smile too widely at the success-not-quite-success. In any case, Midge's senses detected that they had already built an audience of one. They'd deftly masked their smidge of disappointment when she turned and found the operative known as Old Sport—he who had volunteered little of himself, among the few operatives who had offered no name at all.

"Have you been there long?" It seemed a reasonable enough question. A short and rehearsed self-effacing laugh was poised to be released from her lips, then, and she released it without much thought. "It wasn't my best, I assure you. But I must admit, I'd never been really comfortable with this kind of practice." It wasn't so much of a lie as it was a withholding of truth.

[oldxport]

[oldxport]

Richard Siken, Meanwhile

[oldxport]

Atalanta, the Arkadian, the fleet-footed warrior. Favored of the virginial huntress Artemis, twin of Apollo. Would the Goddess of the Hunt and Maidenhood understand the sorrow calcified in the omphalos of this woman’s heart? In the conference room, she sits, one in a row of many. Her limbs coil tight around her, carbonation stuck in the springs, bubbling under pressure. As omnipresent a Goddess should be, the Greeks reigned in their idols with shortcomings all too human. Sympathize, the Moon-maid might, but never empathize. Her brother, the Sun’s immortal symbol, will always rise.

There is no grief to share. Aristotle’s Poetics couldn’t compose dramatic verse as ironic and yet appropriate in the vein of Nadia Atalanta.

[TW: references to sexism, death]

Αταλαντη,  “equal  in  weight.”  In  the  myths  and  this  reality,  no  man  can  best  her  on  the  grounds  of  birth;  she  reminds  them  she  is  a  peer  counterpart.  Parallel.

Man  lies  when  he  says  he  wants  an  egalitarian  society.

For  comparison  is  a  hidden  luxuriant  joy.  Praise  be  to  the  self  for  being  born  right.  When  there  is  no  nurtured  skill  to  boast,  innate  blood-trait  be  superb  talents…

The  battle-hardened,  work-worn  Nadia  Atalanta  —  Live  Wire  —  merits  a  life  of  struggle,  reminders  not  to  buckle  as  her  constant  encouragement.  She’s  spun  over  thirty  revolutions  on  this  blue  planet,  with  her  closest…

And  now  circuits  alone.

After  that  ground-shattering  instance,  melancholy  boils  up  in  her  chest  and  spills  over.  From  its  oozy  drips,  her  desolation  has  solidified  like  lava.  Tread  carefully;  it  will  fracture  and  burst  again.  Even  the  Earth  breaks  apart  itself  when  it  must  create  anew.

The  lush  green  marble  in  space  has  a  core  of  gold  and  crimson.

Justified  outrage,  the  little  flame  that  wills  against  the  crashing  rain,  has  kept  this  woman  in  motion.  Do  not  go  out,  do  not,  do  not.  But  in  stillness,  she  shivers.  Nadia  Atlanta  looks  beyond  this  room  when  addressing  the  conference,  eyes  piercing  the  glass,  running  toward  a  memory  none  of  the  group  will  know.  Old  Sport  included.

He  recalls  the  last  time  his  and  Nadia  Atalanta’s  paths  converged.  Eight  years,  four  months,  and  five  days.  She  was  sergeant  back  then  with  MTF  Delta-5,  “Front  Runners.”  It  had  been  the  start  of  Old  Sport’s  position  with  Iota-10,  and  there  had  been  a  minor  dispute  on  who  would  abide  by  whose  rules,  as  Delta-5’s  deep-cover  cells  worked  in  pre-emptive  acquisition  of  anomalies  from  other  Groups  of  Interest,  whereas  Iota-10  travailed  in  securing  anomalies  from  the  veiled  innocent  world.

In  other  words,  bureaucratic  drudgery.

Atalanta’s  tongue  is  sharp  as  ever,  but…  something  is  missing  in  the  almost  identical  tableau.  Old  Sport,  although  perspicacious,  does  not  catch  the  slight  sheen  in  Atalanta’s  stare.  The  river  ripples  after  a  stone  has  been  tossed  into  it.  The  flashback  oscillates  in  and  out  of  the  past  and  present.  The  nostalgia  here  is  bitter  coffee  grounds  left  in  the  filter,  a  rank  taste  of  this  lair  of  chauvinistic  misery.

In  mythos,  Atalanta  had  to  slay  her  uncles.  They  would  not  believe  their  niece  deserved  her  rightful  prize  when  she  had  drawn  first  blood  on  the  Caledonian  Boar.  No  other  hero  would  have  been  disrespected  like  this.  So  she,  as  a  heroine,  had  to.

Although  she  does  not  care  for  her  time  in  the  Decommissioning  Department,  Old  Sport  does.  It’s  an  intriguing  statement  to  him.  Maybe  she’d  tell  him  why  it  does  not  matter.  Not  anytime  soon,  as  her  final  remark  cuts  through  any  potential  tether.  But  this  detail  shouldn’t  be  forgotten.  Old  Sport  rarely  forgets  of  his  accord.  He leans  slightly  forward  in  his  seat  in  the  apathy  that  both  blisters  and  withdraws  in  front  of  him.

In  mythos,  Atalanta  was  punished  not  for  her  fault.  It  was  a  man  who  brought  her  down.  Men  always  tried  to  conquer  her,  starting  with  her  father,  who  abandoned  her,  to  retrieve  his  kinship  with  her  once  more  when  she  proved  herself  equal  to  the  man  he  desired  as  a  child.  But  caveat  once  more  would  bind  Atalanta.  She  had  to  wed  and  made  fair  on  the  promise  as  long  as  she  met  someone  more  extraordinary  than  her  match.

One  who  cheated  to  win  with  three  golden  apples  and  Aphrodite’s  godly  intervention.  Like  in  prophecy,  it  led  to  her  downfall.  Transformed  by  the  very  goddess  she  had  wished  to  serve  all  her  life.

How  painful  when,  in  this  modern  adaptation,  the  man  is  not  a  suitor  but  kin?  How  sorrowful  is  it  when  a  man  is  not  the  perpetrator  but  a  victim?  Artemis  can  never  genuinely  feel  the  hurt  of  her  human  followers.

Live  Wire,  electricity  flows  through  one  channel  to  the  next.  When  the  line  is  cut,  power  floods  out.  Like  lifeblood,  charged  and  heated.  It  is  dangerous.  ONE  MUST  PREPARE.

𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝; 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊 "𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎" 𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊

Since she woke, there's been a fine vibration of nerves working its way down Nadia's spine, belling out to her fingertips. It's a strange neuropathy that she can't place, doesn't think she's felt it before. Maybe it's a side effect of whatever amnestic they must have administered — that's the only thing that would explain her clouded head, the lapses in time, her lack of dreams (Nadia always dreamed, and always remembered them).

Whatever the cause of the shiver, Nadia focuses all her attention on keeping her feet and legs still under the table, her hands clenched tight around her knees and her eyes absolutely anywhere other than the two familiar faces.

She can't stomach the twin rolls of shame and guilt that tidal over her at the sight of Dr Vera Nair's soft features. And she definitely can't stomach the absolute amolgam of something that comes with the sight of Gu— Howell. It comes together as anger (most things do for Nadia) and she doesn't have the best grip over her temper this morning. Punching one of the higher ranking operatives simply because "well, he ghosted me, sir" wasn't likely to be the best of first impressions.

Maybe it was her temper that had her blood tingling in her extremities.

When it comes to her turn for an introduction, Nadia finds a point at middle distance to stare at and shakes off the sense memory of her first day transferring into MTF Xi-13.

"I'm Nadia Atalanta. I guess you're supposed to call me Live Wire but I'll probably be a lot nicer if you just go with Atalanta. I've been with the Foundation almost twenty years now, so I can't wait to get the engraved gold watch for that anniversary." Sarcasm, thick and acerbic, coats her every word. "I've been on Mobile Task Forces my whole time here." Her shoulders rock back a little, posture tensing. "Unless you count the last couple months in the Decommissioning Department. Which I don't."

A few of the earlier operatives have offered where they might be on the daily should anyone need them and Nadia cycles through the most likely options for herself: the gym, her bunk, wandering the forests that surround the base. Eschewing all those, she closes with, "If you need me, don't."

[oldxport]

Outside  of  the  impervious  and  ossified  concrete  bulk  of  Site-φ’s  main  building,  a  thick  draping  of  cold  mist  verges  on  a  light  downpour,  so  close  to  cracking  open  the  overcast  sky’s  underbelly  and  exposing  its  slippery  silver  soul.  There’s  a  term  for  this  substantive  fog  that  precipitates  the  infallible  outpour,  British  in  origin,  called  a  “Scotch  Mist,”  demonstrably  inspired  by  their  land-bordering  neighbor  in  the  Northern  Isles,  the  Hebrides.  One  of  its  disputed  Latin  names  is  incongruous  with  the  land’s  Gaelic-rooted  honorific.  σκότος  and  Ἀλβίων,  dark  and  white.

A  testament  of  perspective.  Humankind  classifies  relative  to  its  perception.  It  is  the  gospel  they  know.  Will  ever  know.

Céad míle fáilte.  The  words  ring.  Buzz  around  fifty-three  megahertz,  shy  of  the  magnetostriction  within  the  conference  room’s  fluorescent  lights.

In  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  they  call  upon  the  Scotch  Mist  in  the  idiomatic,  meaning  something  that  is  hard  to  find  or  does  not  exist.  Is  that  what  Junior  Researcher  Michelle  Park  of  Site-17  —  Department  of  Surrealistics  —  intends,  a  sea-gray  green  haar  at  bay  seeking  camouflage?  Solemn  and  cogitative,  the  researcher  appears  almost  meditative,  but  is  there  peace  behind  her  dark  pearl  gaze?

Nescient  Old  Sport  has  no  clue  but  looks  at  the  silent  corner  in  conscious  patrol.  At  every  introduction’s  opener  and  close,  he  gently  floats  a  stare.  He  is  a  lighthouse  at  the  shore,  and  the  lens  beelines  in  her  direction.  Luminous,  radiant,  intense…  was  the  scientist  Old  Sport  had  come  across  in  his  work  within  Iota-10.

How many candelas?

Innumerable.

Presently  monikered  as  No.2  Pencil,  she  was  an  ally  of  exacting  disposition  similar  to  the  agent  himself.  Her  timely  observation  prevented  a  containment  breach  that  would’ve  injured  this  Fed  when  he  intercepted  a  mishandled  SCP  transfer  headed  to  Site-17.  In  answer  to  saving  his  life,  Old  Sport  partially  returned  the  favor  in  the  field  months  later,  in  matters  that  could  only  be  labeled  “bureaucratic,”  snipping  through  the  red  tape  and  using  his  clearance  to  fortify  the  junior  researcher’s  approach  in  the  face  of  oppressive  hierarchy.

Old  Sport  would  say  he  doesn’t  talk  about  the  work  or  other  Foundation  members  if  pressed  for  details.  Mission  reports  can  be  accessed  through  SCiPNET.  ...But  it  was  the  least  he  could  do.  They  concluded  a  crucial  securing  to  an  anomaly  without  any  casualties.  What  he  did  was  not  remarkable.  They  shared  a  smile  and  acknowledged  each  other  thereafter  in  other  routine  tasks  in  their  respective  fields.

Dawn  cuts  through  the  foggiest  idea,  obvious  logic  prevails.  Something  must’ve  transpired  since  their  last  correspondence  about  six  months  and  twenty-three  days  prior.  Old  Sport  steeples  his  fingers.  He  must  ascertain  the  truth,  for  he  still  has  much  debt  to  No.2  Pencil. 

To  worry  is  to  fret.  A  fret  is  a  sea  mist  billowing  and  blowing  into  the  shore.  Soft  waves  gently  abrading  the  harsh  land.  Because  to  fret  is  to  worry.

act i, chapter i - introductions.

bruise - like tender. every razor - edged motion purposeful. calculated. but it wasn't. it never was. because rotting all starts to look the fucking same, michelle. so she begins to dissolve in the very presence of thin - veiled sheep. into an oppressive crawlspace. into a realm that isn't quite here nor there. won't exactly account for the ringed pattern of the floor. or the skewed layout she analyzed the night before. or the chipped paint on the honed - like walls. because she wasn't obtainable. because she didn't think she fucking ... cared. and so it commenced. child - like utterances, hands bound. a vacant stare. a slacked jaw. and not a goddamn thing in hand. she sits. in the back. always in the back. simply quiet. noting the in between's. the haunting  lull  between  the first  breath  and  the  last. the crucifying hum  of  cynicism. the apparition that simply won't find solace in death. and then nothingness.  again. nothingness. the thought, almost acidic. brims  off  the  tips  of  her  fingers sacrilegiously —  rots the  inside  of  her  ribcage.  her  mouth, teeth decaying. always decaying. decaying. decaying. enough. enough. enough.

[oldxport]

𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑖. 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖. (𝑑𝑖𝑠)𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

[tw: references to religion, christianity]

Nothing  is  truly  archived  in  its  pristine,  maiden  state  —  photos  age,  digital  files  corrupt,  and  atom  links  corrode  one  by  one.  Painstakingly  crafted  monuments  oxidize,  the  Great  Pyramids  crumble  by  the  second,  and  the  stars  go  out. —  The  constant  of  life  is  the  beating  shore,  the  waves.  Movement,  change.  Erosion  chases    heels  like  a  mad  dog.

Even  the  mind  is  subjected.

Memory  is  the  basis  of  evolution.  How  can  one  prepare  for  a  future  if  one  does  not  remember  past  paths,  leading  to  pitfalls?  The  information  must  be  stored  to  be  retrieved  and  safely  kept  to  progress.  Hail,  progress.  The  human  brain  is  marvelous  for  processing  data  through  the  senses  and  parsing  time-space-now-then-will.

The  permanence  of  anamnesis  relies  on  factors  that  are  opposingly  conscious  yet  automatic.  Current  scientific  theories  propose  two  leading  families  of  individual  human  recollection:  the  declarative,  explicit  memory  and  the  non-declarative,  implicit  memory.  The  explicit  centers  on  the  “self,”  it  is  autobiographical,  semantic,  and  episodic,  the  epitome  of  what  humankind  thinks  memory  is.

They  merely  see  the  surface  and  guess  the  depths.

The  implicit  are  those  without  focused  consciousness,  background  tasks  in  procedural  memories,  and  subliminal  stimuli  in  priming.  The  human  mind  is  fascinatingly  efficient  and  set  on  learning.  Intake,  inhale,  install…  However,  reminiscence  is  not  a  science.  It  is  an  evocation  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  damn  awful  at  it.

To  light  the  synapse,  a  capricious  impact  has  to  stir  the  heart.  Humans  are  no  longer  concentrating  creatures  on  their  own  accord.  Intensity,  disbelief,  or  abnormality  of  circumstances  is  vital  to  categorize  memory  as  a  “notable  incident”  and  prevent  it  from  falling  through  the  cerebral  grates  and  being  discarded  as  peripheral  tedium.

The  other  way  to  preserve  time  is  to  conduct  it  as  a  ritual.  Opposite  of  the  singular  moment,  the  ritual  is  a  compilation.  By  diminishing  the  individual  days,  it  proposes  a  trade-off  to  stabilize  and  further  a  construct,  a  pattern  of  action  that  organizes  time  with  space.  It  is  mismatched  socks  worn  together  as  a  distinct  statement,  no  accident.  The  repetition  fights  off  modern  cynicism’s  iconoclastic  war  drum.

The  last  way  to  keep  recollection  is  through  auto-annihilation.  To  scar  the  inside  of  the  mind  so  thoroughly,  the  brain  cannot  overwrite  the  data.  Touch  upon  it  repeatedly;  the  echoing  sting  disembodied  of  the  time  of  the  strike.

Yet,  despite  all  of  the  methods  to  keep  vigilance  of  memory,  the  first  statement  holds.  The  lens  of  retrospection  is  smudged;  what  is  necessary  for  the  ability  to  remember  is  intrinsically  flawed  by  natural  design.  To  call  upon  memory  is  a  return  to  bear  witness  to  a  crime  scene,  and  in  its  autopsy,  the  testimony  is  never  black  and  white.  It  is  the  sentiment  branded  on  top,  warped  and  curling.

What  is  said  is  what  is  thought  to  have  been  said. REMEMBER THIS.

The  past  is  a  burn  that  lingers  but  weakens  as  the  mind  digs  through  its  kindling.  By  order  of  this  world,  memory  is  no  different  than  a  star  lightyears  away,  its  beam  dimming.  It  is  meant  to  fade.

It’s  more  than  alright  to  bask  in  the  glowing  embers  of  a  dying  planet.

Therefore,  there  is  no  reason  to  fear  un-memory.  It  is  part  of  the  forgetfulness  curve.  The  waves.  In  every  crest,  there  is  a  trough.  A  soar  ends  with  a  land.  Why  look  for  a  map  for  a  place  you  do  not  know  anymore?

A  day  lost  a  week  gone,  are  not  causes  for  alarm.  Recall  last  Tuesday  at  7:23  A.M.  Asleep,  maybe.   A  “normal”  day  is  liquid  glugging  into  the  drain.

A  man  closes  the  faucet  and  helps  himself  to  a  cup  of  water.  It  is  partly icy.  The  pipes  are  directly  pumped  from  a  frigid  spring  in  the  ███████  Mountains.  He  hopes  to  rediscover  it  again  tomorrow,  along  with  his  name.

It  is  OLD SPORT.

He  is  uncomplex  like  a  line,  that  one.  Point  A  to  B,  straight.  At  the  end  of  their  ride,  he  tells  Mr. Kato  that  he  had  no  idea  what  they  talked  about  but  wishes  the  befuddled  captain  a  good  day.  Arrives  on  the  premises,  books  a  photography  appointment  when  he’s  told  about  the  temporary  keycard  and  spreads  out  his  arms,  a  wingspan  similar  to  that  of  a  large  Pandion  or  a  smaller  Aquila,  when  security  pats  down  his  charcoal  blue  but  otherwise  nondescript  two-piece  suit.

He  enters  the  second  floor.  The  timing  couldn’t  be  more  appropriate  since  this  is  the  first  time  Old  Sport  is  not  the  first  operative  on  the  scene.  He  is  second,  the  numbering  graphically  explicit,  as  he  is  greeted  by  a  man’s  figure  at  the  end  of  the  hallway.  The  vow  Old  Sport  made  a  long  time  ago  somehow  pierces  through  the  fog’s  veil  and  shines  brighter  than  the  fluorescent  lights  overhead.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.

Or  is  it  the  man  behind  the  glass,  a  familiar  stranger,  who  sparked  the  guiding  beacon?  Summoned  that  lost  purpose?

If  it  was  indeed  lost.

With  or  without  amnestics,  the  mind  is  conditioned  to  adapt  to  the  unknown  or  press  on  while  in  denial.  Both  march  forward,  boots  thumping  untrodden  ground.  A  fool  smiles,  walking  into  a  place  he  does  not  know,  and  reaches  out.

Operative  —  correction:  Commander  Tiul-Xol’s  handshake  is  double-handed.  Old  Sport’s  hand  is  clasped  on  each  side, embraced.  The  Commander’s  hello  is  warm,  raining  years  of  comradery  on  the  former  agent.  Old  Sport  notices  the  disparity;  his  twenty  and  even  so  years  of  experience  is  not  up  to  par  with  this  man,  who  has  shared  bread  and  shed  blood  for  his  compatriots,  saving  the  world  from  ending  over  and  over. A fraternized secret pact to go into the dark together. How apropos that it  is  together  how  constellations  chart  the  night  sky.  Together,  together.  —  The  tender  first  fruit  who’d  break  his  own  heart  and  let  others  feast  on  its  fragments. OH, YOU ARE NOTHING.

… 

Even  a  ‘hi’  or  a  ‘good  morning’  would  do,  but  this  is  to  be  expected.

A  simple  salutation  struggles  to  form.  Like  a  dumb  little  newbie,  Old  Sport  opens  and  then  closes  his  lips.  There  is  overthinking  on  the  length  of  a  “hi,”  or  if  “hey”  is  too  casual  for  an  official  first-time  shared  assignment,  or  if  a  “Hello,  Sir,”  would  be  dismissively  professional  of  the  various  times  he  and  the  other  man  have  cursorily  orbited  one  another.  All  the  while,  the  Commander  blinks  at  him,  every  dark  batting  lash  sweeping  up  something  torrid  within  Old  Sport  than  the  tranquil  knowledge  that  the  Foundation  might  have  had  a  deliberate  hand  in  macerating  his  past.

He’s  buckling,  god,  the  crook  of  his  spine,  all  but  kowtowing.

That  is  what  happens  to  those  who  creep out  of  the  underground.  They  cannot  bear  the  light  head-on.  He’s  punched  his  ticket  into  the  Sublime,  and  the  clarity  of  his  ineptness  burns  him  up  under  its  magnifying  scope.

Thankfully,  the  Commander  laughs  and  claps  his  hands  around  Old  Sport’s.

“ It’s  good  to  see  you.  I’m  glad  the  Committee  took  my  recommendation  into  account. ”

“ Thank  you. ”

And  then  the  interaction  is  over.  Old  Sport  sits  down,  choosing  the  chair  close  to  the  door.  His  eyes,  which  have  never  strayed  from  his  clasped  hands  on  his  lap,  slowly  trace  the  curved  contour  of  the  table.  The  stare  stops  on  a  pair  of  worn  combat  boots,  no  polished  dress  shoes.

Their  owner’s  face  is  creased,  loose  with  tiredness,  and  open,  vulnerable  like  a  split  pomegranate.  Old  Sport  doesn’t  know  if  he’s  authorized  to  be  a  witness.  A  yawn  scrunches  the  center  of  the  Commander’s  face,  prominent  on  his  heavy  brows  and  strong-bridged  nose.  He  wipes  at  his  eyes,  and  as  Old  Sport  begins  to  rise  to  action,  the  Commander  waves  it  off.

But  no,  that  won’t  do.  Old  Sport  searches  the  inner  pocket  of  his  suit  jacket,  preparing  a  remedy  in  advance  as  always.  It’s  to  be  another  score  on  his  perfect  record;  he  digs  through  the  void  and  discovers  nothing  there.  He  has  forgotten  his  handkerchief.  The  chill  from  the  water,  now  swirling  inside  him,  permeates  throughout  his  system  at  this  small  but  surprisingly  heavy  failure.

Do  not  fear  un-memory.  Surf  on  the  forgetfulness  curve.  Shoot  the  tube.

Someone  else  enters  before  he  can  request  his  leave  to  fetch  the  Commander  a  tissue.  Therefore,  Old  Sport  stays  put  and  assembles  his  belongings  from  his  briefcase.  It  is  one  thing  to  watch  a  man  be  unguarded,  another  to  signal  others  to  look.  While  Old  Sport  cannot  help  the  man,  he  can  at  least  sanctify  the  Commander’s  authority.  The  room  fills  up.  Old  Sport’s  thoughts  wander  to  the  First  Disciple.

It  is  not  Peter.  It  is  Andrew.

Befitting.  Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

It  doesn’t  take  very  long  for  introductions  to  go  around  the  table.  Throughout  it  all,  Old  Sport  barely  stirs.  He  smiles  through  it,  raising  a  brow  at  Dying  Breed’s  self-appointed  break,  but  overall,  it  has  been  an  illuminating  experience.  The  Decommissioning  Department  and  MTF  Iota-10  have  never  held  formal  team  introductions.  A  matter  of  size,  schedule,  and  if  the  rumors  were  correct,  egos  made  this  an  impossible  undertaking  by  the  Fire  Suppression  Department.  This  is  Old  Sport’s  first  time,  and  finally,  his  chance  arrives.  Old  Sport  grins,  stands  up,  and  bows  as  the  focus  swings  to  him  at  the  end  of  the  table.

“ Hello  and  good  morning,  everyone.  Regardless  of  whether  or  not  this  is  the  first  time  we  are  meeting,  I  would  request  that  you  all  please  refer  to  me  by  the  appointed  codename-slash-callsign,  'Old  Sport,'  as  it  is  one  of  the  precepts  of  Chi-Zero-Zero. ”  He  says,  righting  himself  back  up.

“ As  everyone  else  has  shared  some  personal  information  and  or  humorous  anecdotes,  I  will  also  release  useful  background  facts  about  myself.  I  have  been  with  the  Foundation  for  twenty-four  years.  Previously,  I  was  a  member  of  the  Decommissioning  Department,  as  well  as  the  Mobile  Task  Force,  Iota-10,  known  as  the  ‘Damn  Feds,’  officially  and  unofficially. ”  Old  Sport  figures  disclosing  his  experience  would  be  helpful  to  the  junior  members  of  Themis.  Now,  the  mind  whirrs  for  the  next  move.

“ I  have  a  multitude  of  hobbies  and  like  various  things.  Additionally,  I  have  very  few  dislikes.  I  look  forward  to  working  with  everyone  until  the  very  end  of  this  assignment  or  until  reassignments.  Thank  you. ”

He  sits  down,  pleased  to  have  hit  all  the  notes  he  practiced  in  the  shower.  As  he  is  the  closing  act,  Old  Sport  decides  to  utilize  the  chaos  of  a  post-meeting  exit  rush  to  speak  with  the  Commander.  In  some  parts,  it  is  to  repent  the  previous,  unsubstantiated  “mission  failure.”  In  others…  esoterica,  meaningless  to  everyone.  Rather  than  calling  the  Commander  over,  Old  Sport  spots  his  window  of  opportunity,  gleaming  and  wiped  clean,  and  moves.  Forward,  forward.

Catching  Smooth  Operator’s  attention,  Old  Sport  slides  his  arm  frontward  to  initiate  a  handshake  —  snatching  the  other  man  with  a  two-handed  clap.  It  is  a  mirror  of  the  past,  a  reflection  of  Smooth  Operator’s  candid  warmth.

Imitation,  flattery.  Prayer.

Albeit  enveloping  the  Commander’s  hands  with  longer  digits,  Old  Sport  swings  their  hands  up  and  down,  body  saying  what  he  couldn’t  before.  Hello,  hello.  He  won’t  waste  his  time  now.  “ Commander,  it  has  been  nice  to  see  you  again.  It’s  been  two  years,  eight  months,  and  to  my  knowledge,  three  days, ”  Old  Sport  muses  and  tilts  his  head.  Pauses.  Tests  out  the  words  sans  shower.  “ It is an honor  to have been selected. I will be  dedicated  to  serving  you,  on  and  off  the  field. ”

Old Sport  leans  forward,  stamping a  grave  promise in the air  between  their  intertwined  limbs. Each word is pressed in like a personal cinnabarite seal.  “ Upholding  the  parameters  of  this  assignment  is  my  highest  priority.  Therefore... However,  whenever  you  need,  my  body  is  yours  to  command. ” 

He’s  felt  this  way  for  every  job  given  to  him  by  the  Foundation.  The  corporeal  is  nothing  without  purpose.  If  his  back  breaks,  it’ll  be  with  pride  at  fulfilling  something  grander  than  a  single  skeletal  remnant.

“ I  do  not  know  if  you  have  accessed  my  personnel  files  yet,  Commander,  but  I  will  strive  for  nothing  but  success  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  I  will  fill  any  position  you  require  of  me  without  complaint.  I  have  been  told  I  am  quote,  ‘accommodatingly  versatile,’  and,  ‘surprisingly  flexible,’  end  quote. ” 

As  he  is  saying  them,  no  boastful  flourish  curlicues  the  para-phrases.  Such  comments  never  particularly  mattered  to  Old  Sport.  However,  to  recompense  the  earlier  mistake,  he’ll  assure  Smooth  Operator  that  it  was  a  fluke; he has  verifiable testimonials.

Old  Sport  smiles  and  leans  in  again,  unaware  of  the  lack  of  privacy  in  a  crowded  conference  room.  He  closes  with,  “ I  fondly  anticipate  working  out  the  details  of  this  arrangement  after  introductions  and  the  facility  tour.  I’d  like  your  pager  number  to  find  a  suitable  time  and  place. ”  There  is  a  soft  squeeze  between  their  hands  after  one  last  downswing.

Finally,  the  lattice  breaks.  Old  Sport  concludes  with  a  nod  and  returns  to  his  spot.  He  picks  up  his  briefcase.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Forget  your  record.  It  means  nothing.  You  are  nothing.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Nod,  if  you  understand,  In-su. The scales ...

A Valuable Employee  does  not  think  of  themselves  as  individuals  but  as  a unit  member.  The  workplace  is  family.  The  company  is  covenant.

Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

Old  Sport  nods  and  wonders  where  he  left  his  handkerchief.

[oldxport]

Ocean Vuong, from “Reasons for Staying.” [ID in alt text]

[oldxport]

FHQ. TASK 001.

— DOSSIER: OLD SPORT.

LAST UPDATED. ²⁰²⁴ FEB 25.

BASICS.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄

Choi, In-su; 최인수.

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

"Agent [Insert Expletive Here]," used with sarcastic affect by various members of the Foundation. (A/N: folks are welcome to give him nicknames!)

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌

Gong Yoo; 공유.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒

Tall with a relatively slim muscular build, honed for speed and precision; a small mole on the left side of his nose bridge, resting neutral expression: a slight smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes.

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

Has three (3) horrendous tattoos he was "signed up" into getting by his "blood brothers" in the Decommissioning Department during a "welcoming party" (read: hazing). They are: 1) the words “whatever it takes” in gothic print over his left clavicle, 2) the words "monster" in gothic print across his shoulders, and 3) the words [TW: NSFW-ish pic] “i’m big enough” in cursive over his right pelvis. Naturally they're hilariously hidden under a suit and tie, not because Old Sport is ashamed of them, but because he rarely bares skin.

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁.

44, July 4.

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂

Cancer.

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍

Busan, Republic of Korea.

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘

𝚄𝙽𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒

Cis man; he/him

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

"Sure."

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒

Single.

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒

Attentive, professional, composed.

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒

Imperceptible, austere, shameless* *His “shamelessness” comes from his earnestness and awkwardness when reading social cues, not necessarily immodesty or pride.

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

Only refers to others by their title and call sign; uses military time; does not share personal anecdotes unless directly asked, and if it is "working hours," he will gently turn the conversation away as it is not "conducive" to the work at hand; communicates in a formal manner of speech but in pager chats, he uses shorthand and abbreviated codes to be economical of character limits; regularly adheres to a strict schedule starting at 5 AM every day; services his Colt Python before a mission; follows any directive given by a superior; and when in doubt, smile, nod, and avoid a punch to the face. more tba as the game develops!

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒

Ones where he can follow instructions. Likes puzzles. Solitary activities. Also can be found jogging with the Walking Club; writing in his Team Development journal; shadowing his superiors; overseeing his juniors; listening to people talk. more tba!

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄)

None.

THE FOUNDATION.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄

Currently Operations Controller and MTF Operative.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒)

Field Agent, MTF Iota-10, "Damn Feds"; Tactical Response Officer, Decommissioning Department.

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

IOTA-10: Secured anomalous instance in rural Czechoslovakia, liaising with covert cells within Czech law enforcement and federal government agencies to prevent civilians from encountering SCP-3155. Contained the instance without any public awareness or casualties, and facilitated relocation of SCP-3155 to Site-49’s B-Wing within 14 hours.

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒

Unspecified polyglotism, eidetic memory, crypting, codebreaking, counterintelligence, espionage, combat (hand-to-hand, weaponry, firearms, military vehicles/aircraft), bushcraft, basic first aid, animal handling (passes the vibe check with dogs and birds, certain types of fish), solving a Rubik's cube (8 seconds). more tba!

EXTRAS.

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

𝚄𝙽𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

A RUNNING PARTNER Old Sport likes to run around 6 A.M. sharp every day, trekking with the Walking Club on the mountain trails. Although he’s not one to invite others – past attempts ending in rejection get an operative to course-correct — he will not turn down someone’s invitation to run with him. Once a “pattern” is set, however, he’s very attentive, often checking with the person beforehand if their “appointment” is still on and if they’d like to go around the crater lake or do a lap around the residential area. A FILM CLUB While Old Sport boasts an encyclopedic mind, his information is sometimes dry and robotic. Old Sport doesn’t do “hobbies” very much, and outside of work-related research media, he has nil in the cultural database. However, he is eager to learn and would be willing to watch movies with someone else (who won’t judge him too much) to gain greater cultural knowledge and appreciation. Maybe make some friends? SPAR PAIR Old Sport likes to keep himself in the best form possible to fulfill his duties for Themis and would want a regular sparring partner in the evenings for hand-to-hand combat, as well as firearms training and practice. Whether it’s mentorship or an evenly-matched sport between the two, Old Sport will vie to do his best to teach or challenge his opposite. FRIENDS... whether it starts out bad, rocky, insta-click, or what have you! I love seeing the progression of deep bonds! ONE-SIDED RIVALRY someone who thinks Old Sport is so flipping annoying but Old Sport is totally oblivious to social cues so he's like :) hello teammate (These are more generalized, but hmu anytime in dms and we can set up something more specific!)

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒

The Friend Nobody Likes, Indubitably Uninteresting Individual, Undying Loyalty, Badass in a Nice Suit, The Comically Serious, Does Not Understand Sarcasm, Hyper-Competent Sidekick, Innocently Insensitive, Literal-Minded, Nerves of Steel, No Social Skills, Spock Speak, The Straight Man, Dissonant Serenity, Schedule Fanatic. more tba!

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

The Fix (Dimension 20’s Mentopolis), Spock (Star Trek: TOS), Castiel (Supernatural), Kato (The Green Hornet), Washimi (Aggretsuko), Riza Hawkeye (Full Metal Alchemist), Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen), Judah Mannowdog (Bojack Horseman), Xenk Yendar (D&D: Honor Among Thieves), Larry (Pokémon: Scarlet & Violet), Enoch (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), Philomena Cunk (Cunk on Earth), Agent K (Men In Black), Alan Stevens (Knives Out). more tba!

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

more tba!

© CREDITS.

ARTWORK: Gebirgslandschaft mit rotem Himmel by August Babberger, Along the coast (1913) by Allen Tucker, Greyhounds (circa 1911) by Amadeo de Souza-Cardoso, Advertising Free World (1964) by the U.S. Information Agency, The more intelligible a thing is, the more easily it is retained in the memory (1965) by Herb Lubalin, Are you normal by the American National Institutes of Health, Nocturne in Blue and Gold; Valparaiso (1866-ca. 1874) by James Abbott McNeill Whistler.

WRITINGS: Excerpt from  Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016 by Frank Bidart, The 17-Year-Old & the Gay Bar by Danez Smith.

[oldxport]

oldxport;   an   exploration   of  self-sacrifice   &   allegiance.  a   dependent   muse   blog   for   foundationhq. as   penned   by   π.

caution for themes & triggers of: violence, death, discrimination, unreality, horror, mild gore, among others. viewer discretion is advised.

¹ skeleton.   ² dossier.   ³ connections.   ⁴ playlist.   ⁵ pinterest.   ⁶ navigation.

© header template by itsporcelain, photo by shlomi platzman on unsplash, text excerpted from 절 벽(絶壁) by 이상.

! the perspectives of the muse & narrator(s) are not shared by the author and do not reflect the author's opinions.

[oldxport]

Goodnight, Laika.

Space Dog, Alan Shapiro | From Wikipedia | Laika, Sarah Doyle | Space Patterns Painting, Katya Garipova | Laika, Ben Florin | Constellations, The Oh Hellos | First Dog in Space, Brennig Davies | Are You Scared Yet, Laika?, Gus Gresham | Pillars of Creation, James Webb Telescope | space dog., Basil Sai | Icarus, The Crane Wives | Quote via. Oleg Gazenko