#fhq.i.i

[lieutenanthowell]

ACT I, chapter i, STORY BEAT - Introductions

He wasn't late. Just arriving no earlier, at all, than was remotely acceptable. Because he didn't want to fucking be there. It was nothing more malicious than that. Guin could read a goddamn site map. Could keep himself fed, watered, laundered, caffeinated. When a need arose, he'd hunt down whatever was on the other end of it. Point was, given back the who-knows-how-long this whole affair turned out to be, he'd figure out some better way to spend the time. Wouldn't be hard.

Still, low as his expectations were, Chi-00 managed worse. Ankle-shattering, really. He'd swayed to a stop just inside the door, his scan of the small, settling crowd fixing once, twice. Christ. So. That's how it was. That's just how it was gonna be.

Well. Spared him figuring out a few texts, anyway. Didn't it? No. Not really. He'd never been one for silver linings. That shit was always thin as tinfoil, when you really looked at it.

So he sat. At the back. Nearest the door. Easy to see everything he might need to, from there. Easy to leave, first, after however these my-dumbass-callsign-is-s were done with. Not that it mattered too much, in his case; what the hell could a codename really do for him? Hardly any of his life at all was on record. At least, outside the Foundation itself. And the closest thing he had to connections, people to keep compartmentalized away from all this - if he'd been the kind of moron who figured he could pull that off, which he never was - were here. Or dead. Or gone.

The get-to-know-yous dragged on for a little longer, out there; Guin, he'd set his combat boots flat on the floor and closed his eyes. Against the simmering fluorescent lights, all these eyes he did and didn't know. Didn't do dick for the noise, of course, echoing off the glassy walls of this too-small room. Couldn't close them out, either. Both of them, the last two people he - Christ. Both of them. Vera, with that loved-thin green jacket slung over the chair next to her. Like she was waiting for someone. That someone they'd been waiting for, ever since that night in the snow. And Nadia, wound tighter than any steel trap. Could see that grip she had on herself working all the way up her arms, caught between her teeth, the lock of her jaw.

He'd seen them. They'd seen him. And they'd all have a goddamn year locked into this, to - do their jobs. Together. Again. Shit.

He could do that. Sure. He could do this, too. Wasn't even any microphone in hand, onstage crap. Guin stayed put as the first impressions kicked off, tracking the room's interest from person to person. His own ticked to each face in turn, then away, as he listened to everybody storm or stumble through their introductions. Then - then all that attention settled on his shoulders. He didn't stand. Just spread his hands. Present. Accounted for. "I'm, ah - Dying Breed. Apparently." Which was funny, seeing as... he had something like a laugh about it, anyway. Only vaguely like a laugh. "All you need to know is: I'll do whatever I can to get you out of any trouble you're in. That'll be the case even if I don't like you much. And if all you are is pieces, then - same goes. I'll get something of you home, if I can." He side-slid his jaw, feeling the tug of that still-newish scar, tight. His stare had found the analog clock tick-ticking on the wall; it glared back, like there was something else he was supposed to say, or do, but... God, there was always something. Wasn't there? That's what all that debriefing always came down to, right? That there was always something you should've done different. Would've, could've.

His cut-up cheek twitched - snarl-like, a glimpse of teeth to it - as he lipped a cigarette out of the pack he'd fished from his tac pants. "But chances are you won't hear shit from me until we're in the field in any kind of way. Or unless this place goes to hell." Guin scuffed the low knuckle of his thumb across and around the socket of his left eye, squinting as he considered his matchbook. "So - until then. Uh..." Another toss of his hands, a half-shake of his head. "Watch out." On that dead-flat note, he rocked out of his chair. "Taking a fifteen, boss," he rasped, flicking a loose salute in the general direction of their new commander, presumably. Then he did precisely that.

[lieutenanthowell]

She had a swing pent up in those shoulders. Probably two, at least. (That wicked-fast jab, then a haymaker that'd knock any of those Xi-13 meatheads on their ass. Or a nosebreaker of an elbow and a cross to the throat. Reckless. Ferocious.) Nadia, spending her first meet with a new team primed for a fight? Same old, same old. She'd struck the same, in Xi-13. So had he. By design, the both of them. And yet, the first thing they'd done to each other was... not smile, exactly. But close.

She wasn't smiling now, exactly or otherwise. He could tell that much, even from a few rows behind. Guin cracked his neck, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Watching the tension climb her back, catch in her jaw. Live Wire? His nose wrinkled, at that. About as hilarious as Dying Breed. Such bullshit. She had more than spark. Was more than her wild blow-out from Delta-5. More than Xi-13 ever deserved.

What happened, with Tom, didn't change that. Why would it? Anybody trying to blame her, really blame her, hadn't been paying attention. Hadn't listened, as -

- that scarred-tight cheek of his twitched, a flinch that screwed his eye shut, drilled into a grimace. Guin gave it a scuff with the back of his wrist, rubbed those near-the-skin bones into his temple. They'd dumped her in Decomm? Departmental deskwork would've been goddamn torture. Must've gone down like a mouthful of buckshot. No wonder she was biting off the end of every word, sinking her teeth into this first impression like she could kill off the usual attempts at coworker-bonding bullshit before anyone got ideas.

He didn't have any. Ideas. No idea at all how to be, given how they'd - how he'd - left things. Left her. With no bullshit. Like they'd toasted to in that Arizona dive. Absolutely zero. They'd meant it, when the words got said. Now?

Well, shit. Now, right this fucking, stupid second, he wasn't about to say anything.

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."

[lieutenanthowell]

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?"

[lieutenanthowell]

who: @lieutenanthowell & @homegrownkel where: indoor weapons training range, main building when: early February 21, well before the defense seminar what: team... bonding...? or not. at the indoor firing range. general trigger warnings: firearms

All the bells and whistles and shiny new toys, this place had. Guin reassembled the one he'd helped himself to - a Nosler 21, shit, a pleasant surprise - for the second time, eyes elsewhere. Squinting at the unnecessary flatscreen guide to this gussied up firing range. He'd taken his time with it, letting his hands get to know the rifle on their own, unseen, as he watched through the range guide. Bleeding edge. To think, they could've set up a couple cans and called it a fucking day. Spared a few cool mil, most likely. Goddamn ridiculous.

That said, he couldn't not try the night sim.

Pressing the last cartridge into place, ready in the chamber, he let the bolt clack - smooth, quiet, good - and started clicking his way through the screen, going over modes and shit. Those fucking overhead lights dropped. Were replaced by a silvery-blue, faint glow, overhead. He dimmed that a little further. Just a sliver of moonlight. Or close as he'd get, in here. One last sip of coffee, another drag on his smoke - both first of the day, he'd got up early, ready to miss the no-doubt crowded defense seminar as he settled into the armory his own damn way - he balanced his cigarette between the lip and handle of his mug and stepped to the firing line. Alright; rifle shouldered, boot on the ready sensor.

The live alarm rang out, and - the goddamn door opened, with a hiss. Guin stepped back, clapping the Nosler to his shoulder, finger off the trigger. "Seminar's in the gym 'til later," he sighed, taking that cigarette back up, the cherry stoking red in the low, low light. He'd already had to tell a few over-keen new hires who'd mucked the schedule up. Site personnel, so far; this, unfortunately, was one of his. Theirs. Smooth Operator's. Whatever the hell. Somebody from that gone-stale meeting. "Back the way you came. Second door on your left. Sounds like a playground." Kato and his security set seemed alright, but... God, he didn't need to sit in on a pack of padded-up researchers and raw-assed newbies getting taught how to carefully fight for their lives.

[lieutenanthowell]

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒔𝒏𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

“𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒? 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓—”

“𝑅𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑥. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑡…”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑓𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑦, 𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑟’𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐻𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚; 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ.

“𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑦.”

“𝐵𝑢𝑡—”

“𝑆ℎ𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑝.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒. 𝐶𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑-𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑦. 𝐴 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑂𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑐𝑢𝑝𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ��𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑠ℎ; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑝𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑒: 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑘𝑦.

𝐴𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠. 𝑊𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔…

There were few things Guin trusted like his gut. So when his gut sent him trailing after whatever the hell that half-caught conversation had been, he went. Double-timing down a couple flights of stairs and slowing himself, a tug on the chain, heel, as he swung through the stairwell door and across the ugly-ass glass-and-steel lobby. He didn’t stop, even when all he found was a couple empty chairs and a table of dirty dishes; more like he circled. Carefully - not just the one table. Too obvious. Around the patio and back. Nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed. Wasn’t much to see; hadn’t been much to hear, but... something. Fucking something.

[lieutenanthowell]

That laugh - what passed for one, anyhow. Still tracing the tiles with his stare, Guin frowned. Laced his fingers, let them hang between his knees. Reminded, of something. Somewhen. Long time ago. A room a little like this one, actually. Institutional. Cheaper. Bright. Smaller, like he'd been, at the time. Claustrophobic, even then.

Social work. There. That was it.

That nice lady he hadn't trusted for shit. Steel-grey hair pulled back, real tight. Asking questions, sitting next to him on a saggy, musty couch in somebody's office. The few cops on duty meandering past the battered blinds on their way to the coffee and back, peering in, now and then. Until he looked away, to the grain of the floorboards. She closed the blinds; he jerked at the unfamiliar rattle. Asked, again, what he'd been asking, since they started. What he'd been told to ask. Can I go yet? And she shook her head, and laughed, so nicely. Like she'd been doing, since they started. Where's my dad? Sweetie, she interrupted, the springs creaking as she came back. Where's your mom?

His knuckles cracked, the joints popping louder than those fucking lights were thrumming, overhead. Guin swiveled his wrists. Cracked them the other way. Really excited, huh? Made one of them. Yee-fucking-haw.

𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒. 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚒. 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

cw: drug mention

Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad – A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel – ballpoint pens, black and red ink, moss and orange barrels. Extra-firm Blackwing pencil. Steel Blackwing pencil sharpener. Travel-sized Neutrogena Norwegian hand cream, half-empty. 16oz water bottle, insulated, with a little sippy straw. Loop earplugs, case hooked onto one of the straps. Vape. Vape charger. Extra juice cart. Protein bar, in case he's hungry. Two extra protein bars, in case someone else is hungry. No cellphone, not allowed that here, but his Discman and his earbuds fit inconspicuously enough, so he slides them in as well. He can wear them for the walk over. It might help to soothe his nerves a little.

He still has two hours before the orientation starts. So at least one and a half before he's reasonably allowed to leave his room. And hypothetically, he could leave his room at any time, he doesn't think they lock them in at night; it would be nice, maybe go for an early morning stroll — early, early morning stroll — hit his vape (he's not about to test the smoke detector sensitivity on his first night, thank you) in peace and try to stop his chest from thudding like it's been since he'd arrived, but — he hasn't. Nobody's told him the rules, and if there's one thing Seth likes, it's guidelines. Acceptable parameters. Or something to gauge off of — someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to —

— well. The time passes anyways. He fixes his hair in the mirror twice, combing the pomade through and fussing with it until it looks bad enough that he has to take a do-over – Blind Barber, for the record. Smells like amber and tonka. Delicious. He loves the notes of almond. Leaves a little earlier than he told himself he would to give Rohan a little wake up call; he yanks the blanket off the bed like he did when they were in college, and tosses a bar at his head, only wincing a little when it actually hits him. It's soothing and familiar enough that, for a moment, when he slips his earbuds in and starts down the hall, it feels a little more like a university dorm than it does a hospital wing.

The feeling carries him through the door and into a chair with an empty seat beside it. His bag lands in the seat next to him, which he hopes his colleagues take as a hint, because it's never stopped feeling embarrassing to be an adult saying sorry, saving this for someone, but he is, so. He pulls his notepad and pens from his bag, lays them out on the table in front of him, and dates the first page, ORIENTATION in big block letters at the top. He's one of the first, and only pulls his earbuds out and shuts his Discman off as more of the others start filing in. The room starts to swell with sound and movement — just shuffling and murmurs, but it's enough for the wind to fall from his sails completely when he raises his head and starts looking around.

Not a lot of familiar faces. Some too familiar, but impossible to place. Enough to give him the lightheaded, dizzy feeling that's plagued him — most of his life, but flares any time anyone at the Foundation has him doing anything but minding his own business. Ro's explained the difference between amnestics and dissociatives a million times, but the shit they dose them with just feels like ketamine with tendrils. And, God, are people talking already? It's all ringing in his ears and the RBF he knows he's making and wishes he wasn't – eye contact and smile, goddammit – he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows – once he feels like a person again – isn't as alarming as it feels.

Rohan's filled the seat beside him at some point during his little episode, slung his bag on the back of his seat, and between the jab at his ribs and the water bottle he's retrieved for Seth, he's able to check back in, with enough time to start sketching down names and impressions — chicken scratch that can't be read over his shoulder and an inconsistent shorthand that'd be harder to decode than it's worth if they could, but the sounds of pen on paper is unmistakable. He watches for people's reactions to the fact of his note-taking. Sorry, folks. That's what he's here for. Studying you.

God. Do any of these people want to be here?

It's almost a comfort, the grimness emanating from so many corners of the room. The assurance he's not the only one with concerns, and the — freedom from being the biggest buzzkill of the pack. He might be sour on the assignment, but he can sit through an orientation like a professional, more than — the operatives among them especially — seem to be able to manage. A kick under the table seems to signal his turn and he refreshes his smile, fully human and mostly authentic this time – trying to be, at the very least.

"Hey everybody! I'm – Cowboy Greeting?" It's half a question when he says it, call sign still foreign and gaudy in his voice. "But Seth's fine, whatever you prefer. It's, uh – well. I'm looking forward to getting to work with all of you; most for the first time, I believe, though I know I have one or two past co-conspirators in the room."

The chuckle he chases that with is half-hearted, maybe more artificial than the overhead LEDs, and painfully social worker-coded. Jesus Christ. And his mouth is even drier, almost as dry as the room. A fucking mess. A debacle, no saving it. "I'm a junior researcher, currently under AEED.. I haven't been here long, but I've bounced between a few different departments and facilities as part of my work — kind of big-picture policy review? Are people doing what they're supposed to do, do we want them doing what they're supposed to be doing right now, looking at outcomes, that sort of thing. My background prior to starting with the Foundation was in social work and nonprofit policy, so."

Definitely the most long-winded description of paper-pushing legitimacy-bestowing bullshit he could give — and maybe that would've been a better approach for some of his new colleagues, but he's never been in the business of giving his bosses a reason to eliminate his position, and he's not about to start.

"Anyways. Again. Really excited to work with all of you. And if anyone's looking for a gym buddy for their time here, definitely hit me up. Know that's gonna be my first stop after we're done the official tour."

First stop. Definitely. Right after a vape break. He's going to need it.

[lieutenanthowell]

A stint with Xi-13 did a few things for a person; high on the list was getting you goddamn used to a rotating roster. Old blood ran dry, new blood dripped in. Chi-00 hadn't taken so much as a papercut yet, so - Au Fait must be filling a gap, of some kind, in this meticulously planned sideshow of a team. Supposedly meticulously. Looking at the list so far, seemed like the Ethics Committee was assuming they wouldn't be seeing much real action.

Know what they say about assumptions, Guin had muttered Nadia's way. They're a fine kind of thing to make, so long as it's someone else's ass on the line.

But they'd made their bets. And Guin had found himself a perch on the closest table to the balcony door, so he could slip away before the socializing got too... social. His skull had started jangling like a goddamn bear bell, already. Just as he'd slunk up to the fringe of the small crowd, and seen that sonofabitch Osterholz strolling away from Barb's counter with one of those fucking -

Like a -

The bread. With a hole in the middle. The -

Whatever the hell those were called. One of them, in the Director's hand, leaving cream cheese in his moustache. Osterholz waved - with the thing - and, for no good goddamn reason, Guin very nearly threw up on the man's shoes like a dog who'd got loaded on roadkill.

Only very nearly. He stood straighter, arms crossed, gagging that back. Christ. Mouth sour, a cold sweat crawling down his spine, he fixed on the employee of the moment as she began to introduce herself. And... drumroll. Digital SCP archives. General SCiPNET upkeep? Data issues? Shit. Guin lifted an eyebrow Nadia's way - only to find her already throwing him a hell of a smirk. Not the kind anyone else was likely to see; at the corners of her eyes, in the so-slight curve of her lips. Maybe she'd won this one. Maybe. Whether the team had, well, fuck - only time and field-testing would tell.

on introductions.

If we're to start anywhere in this story, perhaps we should start here: a camera shot, tightly held, focused on a a hand scribbling furiously in a notebook. There's little to note regarding the hand: a claudaugh ring on one finger, nails tidly trimmed, cuticles pushed back. The only speck in site are faint droplets of ink dotting the hand in question's fingers.

Let the camera pull up, tracing the tight bent tension of a arm, a beast poised to spring. Note too, the casual blazer, bearing all the marks of a fresh ironing. In the background of the shot lies a bag, only half unpacked, closet hanging open as well. Clothes dot the bed in blobs of color, and a handful of books lie on the desk in riotous lumps. And finally, the camera focuses on the face of the figure— a woman in thought, her forehead pinched, mouth set in a firm line.

Vivien sits in her room, hair pulled back into a meticulous bun, scribbling at her notebook. It was a ritual of sorts, a way of pulling herself back into herself, reminding her of the things that mattered in the here and now. The words themselves are practically illegible, shorthand sentiments of neuroses still at hand— you're capable, okay? also, it's nice to meet new people, you haven't gotten the chance in ages.

And so on and so forth. Finding the ritual done, she tosses the notebook and pen into a tote, flinging it over her shoulder. She had opted for being her polished self today— the blouse and blazer de-wrinkled with the old bathroom trick that had saved her in grad school, earrings in a subtle silver, every bit of her the thing that she knew she could be— that she knew she was.

That thing being a sure and steady gaze, an infinite patience, an eye for balance. Or at least, that was what she hoped to tell the others.

At the coffee shop, she pauses, folds her hands in front of her just so. There's something almost nostalgic about a huddle of people, crowded around a table too small for them. Some of them ping points of recollections— names and faces settling like film on the surface of memory. Others feel like a knife pick— memory blasted into desolation, bile rising in her stomach. She swallows it, forces her smile, holds back her shoulders.

"Hi, you're the rest of the team, right? I'm Vivien Jiāng, previously a Junior Archivist for RAISA at Site-7."

She cuts her teeth on the previously, allows herself to concede how strange it feels. That was then, this is now. A hand curls protectively around the strap of her tote bag, finger idly rubbing against the texture of it, reminding herself to stay grounded.

"But I suppose you should know me as Au Fait. That's my callsign, anyway. It's supposed to mean something about having knowledge."

It feels dangerously close to a lie, what she says (or at least, a lie to her). After all, French courses for the entirety of college meant she knew the meaning, held the detailed knowledge that the name implied. But she couldn't give a lecture. That had gone disastrously the last time she'd tried to talk about that language.

"I worked with maintaining the digital SCP archives and catching discrepancies in them, as well as helping general SCiPNET upkeep and data issues. Think of me as a computer guy who loves excel sheets and the smell of old paper, and you should have a good idea of what my last five or so years looked like."

She glances over at the counter, smile weakening faintly. She'd fully forgotten to have food before this, hadn't she?

"Um— I do want to meet all of you, but do you mind if I grab a coffee first?"

[lieutenanthowell]

He'd clocked that eyebrow, on his way out. Not from the boss himself, Smooth Operator, who he quarter-recognized from someplace; someone else in that category, a face that flicked a switch wired to a bulb that popped, flickered, and blew a filament. They weren't especially unusual for that, the two of them. Sticking around the Foundation long enough - surviving the Foundation, long enough - did a real number on your wiring.

But it was only smart, to notice a surge. Like that look, as he stood to go, match snapped - that fucking look. He didn't stop for it. All the same, he slunk out with hackles bristling high, an unpleasant buzz fritzing through his mislaid circuits. Fuck that look.

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.

[lieutenanthowell]

And that half would be the bigger problem. But he wouldn't ask her to crack that whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing and tell him who skipped out; honestly, he could guess. Guin was sure, though, when it came to his itinerary. "I won't be." Busy, no. He wouldn't be busy. Could've been. Even if - his fingers twitched, as if to brush that trail of thought from the map. Disturb the earth, scatter the duff. Moving on.

Better to keep moving on. If you stopped too long, you'd freeze.

Could he sleep? Guin half-shrugged at that. Sleep. Never something he'd been much good at. Not like other people, it seemed, who could keep still through the noises of the night and the passing glare of traffic, the seeping off-yellow and cold white of every city he'd ever known, each as sleepless as the last. Here was closer, in some ways, to the nights he used to know; the ones he'd sunk into all over again, the past year. Not sleeping, exactly. Not dreaming, exactly. Not awake, exactly.

Awake enough. Her magpie-ing got a smirk. Sergeant First Class Guin Howell. Doctor Vera Nair. When that'd been his rank, that was how their names usually got read - next to each other. Nothing alphabetical about it, obviously. Just proximity. Junior Researcher Tom Dalton would be in there, too. Always.

It'd seemed that way, anyhow. But always - the only always that you could count on was that always was always a mistake. Couldn't believe in anything, count on anything, need anything, promise anything, like that. Not always. Always was a sheer path, the kind people fell down and broke something at the bottom of; something of theirs, or somebody else's. Guin passed the coffee. Pockets, yeah. Could always use more of those - God, how Tom had groused at the both of them, taking forever (allegedly) to inspect the quartermaster's offerings and pick their kit. All for more pockets, tighter seams, better waterproofing, quieter fabric... the details. Devil was in them, and all. He hadn't started on that banana bread yet. Just smelled it, the mellow sweetness. "You let me know if you've got absolutely nothing better to do. Mm?" Might happen. Might? Kidding himself. Odds were she'd have him picking out a lining within the week. Doctor Vera Nair.

Guin huffed, one of those sled-dog sounds of his; if they did count her as an armed anything, that was their mistake. Not because she wasn't capable enough to earn the title, but because the medic was the one who needed the goddamn escort. The medic had to make it. Or no one would. Especially in this mix. Off - he frowned, taking a thoughtful bite of his breakfast. "We're a clean-up crew. Guess the Committee figures the worst of the mess has already been made, by the time we show up anywhere..." His tone veered towards downright disrespectful as he hit what the Committee figured; ethically speaking, Themis felt about as sound as the rest of what they'd ever done: rickety, but a bridge he'd spent most of his life standing on, swaying with the weather. Still holding. Because it had to. Because the alternative was miles down, dark, and deep. A world without the Veil would be a more dangerous one. Which was saying something.

Grim as that'd gone, he'd dredged up another smile as Vera listed off her make-work and get-by plans. Swimming in a lake; oh, he could think of a few lakes. And that violin - Guin nodded gravely into his first go at the thermos, like he'd been put-upon by all her so-called practice and couldn't wait for her to figure those damn strings out. Like Vera and her violin weren't one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard or seen.

But it didn't make a difference, to her, how fucking miserable her office might be. So long as her exam room had colour and soul, as her patients were comfortable. He sighed, steaming on the brisk-edged air. "I've got some kinda permission to head down there soon, so - I'll keep an eye out. See what there is." For her office. And exam room.

His projects? Christ. He stalled over a bite of banana bread, then licked the stickiness from his fingers. "Ah..." Guin laced those hands, cracked every bony knuckle. As if he was about to throw himself up a cliffside, a rough climb ahead. Tugging his cast-low stare out of the roots cradling the pair of them, he looked Vera in those doe-eyes of hers. "Couple apologies, looks like." Yeah. Of course he'd see her again. Someday. He'd known that, leaving. But, he'd made the mistake of expecting - expecting to be able to know when that'd be. To come back and get to someplace that felt like ready, so he'd... do it better than he was bound to, at least, if he tried unprepared. Hadn't meant for it to be like this: a surprise, unfamiliar ground. But it was. So. "Do you - wanna hear that, now?" Best to ask and see, yeah? If Vera'd rather just... have this, the clear and present, they could. And if she wanted her share of sorry, then God knew she was owed.

She made a face, disrespectfully acknowledging the wicked witch of the wizarding world one last time before pulling together her schedule. “Let’s see… Tomorrow I have patients till three and then office hours until five. Not that anyone is going to take me up on them this early. If that conference yesterday was any indication, more than half this group isn’t going to understand why they need a doctor at all.” Vera bit her lip.

“But I can hang up my lab coat after that. If you’re not too busy, of course.” Vera looked at him with raised eyebrows and an easy smile. The easiest she could spare. It was her job to be observant, as it was his. What delights must be in store within his full schedule for him to try to hide the minor contusions darkening his lovely elf ears?  She could figure out the who, as well. The truth wasn’t exactly shrouded in mystery like an Agatha Christie novel. 

It stung. Yes. But, it didn’t change Vera’s feelings for Guin and she didn’t resent him for it. She’d married Tom, after all. Guin had left her and she’d married Tom. And Vera had truly loved Tom, although her love for Guin had never faded as she’d feared it would. As she’d feared it must. 

For a long while, she'd suffered deep confusion and guilt over it. Vera even tried to hide it from Tom, afraid of how it would hurt him, though she had broken down and told him before long. She loved him too much to keep secrets from him. All she'd ever known of romantic love was that it was meant for two alone, but that simply wasn't the case for Vera. No matter how hard she tried to move on, and she did try, she loved Guin and she loved Tom. Her heart held room enough for both. She had learned to accept that over the years. 

It was sweet of Guin to try and spare her the discomfort. Or maybe he’d wanted to spare himself the guilt. Likely a bit of both. It would have come out, though. His physical exam was mere hours away. Still, for a second Vera was able to pretend that the bruising wasn’t there. They hid themselves enough when he leaned into the darkness of the tree. 

Then, her mind unspun time in an instant, as it had been doing since she’d seen Guin last. As it had been doing for decades. Tom was alive and well. He’d never asked her to marry him. He’d never hesitated. He’d never told her none of it was her fault. She’d never given up. She’d never driven Guin away. He’d stayed. They were still in the woods near their cabin, playing house and waiting for Tom yawn obnoxiously out of the guest bedroom. The three of them. Safe. Together. 

Guilt slapped her across the face. These miserable spirals had been crystallizing in her mind all the more often since that night. Creating illusions of life with Guin and Tom, both alive and well, leading various lives with her. Each iteration left her feeling like she’d been stabbed. Vera leaned in to get a closer look at the fruit as if she hadn’t picked and polished them herself. Like she wasn’t already holding a bunch of grapes. But the move was practiced. Subtle. It gave her the time to force everything back.

A good night’s sleep would help. Just one night. One night without those dreams and she was certain she’d be keeping it together better than this. “Have you been able to sleep here?” It seemed like it might be too bright for him. He’d always needed true darkness. The dark of nature. Stars didn’t count, but a citied lack of them did. She gave him a slightly concerned glance, pulling herself back from the fruit. 

After bowing ever so humbly at the applause, Vera zipped the jacket back up with a reflexive slowing past the spot where Guin had once darned the delicate edge of the zipper. She huffed as he bit off his glove. That one never failed to amuse. “Sergeant First Class Guin Howell,” she rasped in a voice that was teasingly caught between Guin’s own and a sultry lounge singer who’d seen one too many cigarette breaks between sets. Tom had a name for that voice that never failed to turn her red. “Doctor Vera Nair.” Her own voice. She held out a hand, smiling warmly. “I’d be happy to reline yours, if you’d like. If I can get the material. You seem like a man who could use more pockets.”

“I’m torn. I want to ship out, but these researchers.” Vera didn't try to mask her worry. “Those introductions were unsettling. We’re supposed to be keeping them all safe during these missions, but everything from their lack of training to the actual ratio of researchers to protective detail is concerning. Even if they count me as an armed escort it’s…” She scanned the ground beyond the roots. “Something’s off.” 

Vera accepted the first sip of coffee. Blessed, blessed drink. Her beloved moka pot had made the trip as usual and its long-standing partnership with her thermos was reignited at last after a long year off. She held it out for Guin's turn. “A few projects, actually, other than exploring this entire area through games of hide and seek, apparently.” She grinned and ate a grape, nodding thoughtfully. “Swimming, ideally. It’s been ages since I swam in a lake. And I brought the violin with me. The good one. If there's time I'd like to actually learn to play.” Forty-one years of practice and Vera still sometimes pretended she was a novice.

“I’d like to explore some of the medical texts at the library here.” Some meant all. Better to be prepared when lives were on the line. “There’s a few procedures I’d like to explore at the medical center, too.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And my exam room is going to frighten these patients. It’s stark, Guin. No windows. No color. No soul. My office, too, but only I’m going in there so it doesn’t make a difference.” After all these years, Vera could still make do with anything for herself. “Hopefully, the town has a thrift shop. Or a dollar store. Someone with a year-round garage sale. Anything. A dab of personality goes a long way in a doctor’s office. I want them to be comfortable.”

Realizing the answer would likely be unsatisfactory, she finished the last couple grapes and quickly hurried up with a chipper, “And what projects will you be pursuing?”

[lieutenanthowell]

The other half of the peanut gallery, now. He'd caught the edges of some kinda running commentary between Tree Hugger - what a handle - and Cowboy Greeting, there. Tight, the two of them. Like his fucking shoulderblades, still clenched high. Shrugging up, he let his head hang and arched, stretching his spine bone by bone, eyes closed against the fluorescent glare and the drab-but-bright off-grey of the floor. Listening, like he'd listened to all of them. More or less.

Less, as Rohan went on. The gory parts? Of lab work? Jesus. He chuffed at that, like an old dog. Seven years of that. Neuroscientist. Pharmacology. Amnestic applications. Sounded pretty goddamn active, yeah. But - recovery? Brow furrowed, Guin scowled at the industrial siding. Not collateral damage control, or personnel support, or... anything that clicked, for him. Animal and humanoid SCP recovery? The recovery of - the fucking SCPs, themselves? Tree Hugger. Was that the goddamn joke?

Maybe he'd take the good, academic, medical, principled doctor up on the running thing. Just so he could satisfy a twinge or two of curiosity. And sort out Rohan's schedule, on the trails. So he could avoid him, beyond that. The man was pretty damn clearly the kind to ruin a hike with conversation.

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."

[lieutenanthowell]

Jack shit to say? Guin gave the new face another look-over, in the lull she'd created.

Didn't carry herself like an operative, or security. Some kind of researcher, then. But what sort of researcher didn't have goddamn heaps to say? Especially about themselves. Or, at the very least, their fascinating work. Usually, the trick was getting them to shut up. He'd known a few who'd literally rather die. A couple even had.

So she was a kind of relief, for that. His stare ticked to the new CO, a foxish smirk just-starting to sneak across his face. Just curious. Wondering how that'd go over. Not for long, though. Guin's eyes wandered away before the introductions did. No skin off his nose, anyhow. Just meant this'd get over with faster.

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.

[lieutenanthowell]

New boss, or just a keener? The former. Smooth Operator. Guin sniffed out a low scoff, at that - still scanning the not-quite-stranger's face, his build, trying to place him. Somewhere, across the years. In passing.

Well, well. Omega-1. And the sort to point that out, too. Don't worry about it. Like they weren't the deadliest lapdogs around. That the Committee had handpicked one of their internal affairs assassins to head this team up - said something, for sure. What, Guin wouldn't presume to figure.

The wink was simpler. New boss already had favourites. The quiet kind, so far. A neatly unpacked briefcase and eerily perfect stillness. (A whole goddamn briefcase. For a first meeting.)

He'd long strayed by the time the new boss (same as the old boss, more or less, besides the fact that Smooth Operator was still in one piece) got through the new guy shit, opening the floor. To dead silence. Far from jumping up, Guin sat back.

✦ 𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝟎𝟎𝟏 | 𝒄𝒉. 𝟎𝟎𝟏: (𝒅𝒊𝒔)𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

Gael awoke with a start, blinking rapidly in the dark and trying to figure out where he was. There was a short moment of stillness before he shifted cautiously to a crouching position—his limbs pulled close like a coil as he pressed his back to the wall behind him. His right hand slowly inched below the pillow where his head had rested moments before—clawing around for the cool metal of a pistol, a knife—but found nothing but the smoothness of 1000-thread cotton sheets.

Squinting, he turned his head to scan his surroundings before letting out an exasperated sigh. Flinging himself back onto the bed so he was lying horizontally across the mattress, he lifted his hands to his face before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, maintaining gentle pressure for a couple seconds before pulling them away to press his index fingers to either side of his nasal bridge. He then pushed down again and followed the curve of his sinuses outward towards his cheekbones and then back again with small circular motions. He released another deep groan as some of the tension in his face dissipated. Dropping his hands, he squinted beadily at the ceiling as shapes danced in his vision. He laid for another few minutes before finally moving to a sitting position, scooting across the bed until his legs hung over the side.

Time to get up.

Toeing on the pair of slippers haphazardly slewed beside the bed. Gael smothered a yawn behind a hand and stood up with some effort; his bones and nerves still stiff from exhaustion and waning adrenaline. Raising his arms above his head, he rotated his shoulders and shuffled in the general direction of where he thought the bathroom had been. As Gael ventured further into the dark, his eyes adjusted a second before he ran face-first into the bathroom door. Cursing, he reached for the handle, not even bothering to flick on the lights. The sun was also groggily getting up alongside him, lethargically casting a weak beam of light that illuminated his assigned bedroom enough for him to make out the shapes of his toiletries.

In the dim light, he blinked at the dark pane of the mirror as his fingers turned the faucet handle. The rushing sound of water filled his ears as he placed both hands on the sink rim and leaned close to the glass pane. He couldn’t make out the features of his face properly; everything above his nose was still obscured by the fading darkness. He stared blankly at the figure in the mirror for another beat, feeling disconnected from the person staring back. The muscles in his face twitched, then stretched themselves into a wide—almost cartoonish—grin that was imitated by the man in the mirror—was that really him?

Scowling, he diverted his gaze away from his reflection as he cupped his hands under the ice-cold water. The following splash to his face shocked him enough to finally disperse the last remnants of sleep that clung to him like cobwebs. Another series of curse words escaped his lips as he groped blindly for the hot water tab to change the temperature to a much more manageable lukewarm before continuing his morning routine. Lifting his head up from the stream of water, he matched gazes with himself in the mirror. The pair of eyes staring back at him in the now hazily illuminated room were wide-eyed and bloodshot. Grimacing, he yanked a towel from its rack and exited the room. Trudging toward the bedroom, he stopped in front of the duffle bag thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bed and pulled out a fresh change of clothes.

As he began to change, a buzzing sound pulled his attention to the pager he had dumped at the bedside table the night before. Lifting up the device, he read the text on the small green screen.

 𝕎𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝟝, 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕠𝕠𝕟.

The beeper buzzed in his hands once more.

  𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕂𝕒𝕥𝕠, 𝕓𝕥𝕨!

Snorting, Gael made his way towards the front door of the apartment. Grabbing the trenchcoat and messenger bag he had thrown over a chair, he briefly looked through their various pockets. Once he was satisfied everything he needed was accounted for, he exited his apartment and headed towards the lobby.

After a short elevator ride down, he stepped out into the frigid morning air and quickly shambled towards the waiting Jeep parked at the doors of the building. Settling himself into the warm seat of the car, he smiled at the man behind the wheel. “Mornin’,” Gael muttered, ducking his head slightly in acknowledgment as Kato beamed back and started to drive.

The ride itself was a blur, and Gael couldn’t say he fully remembered the conversation he had with Kato in its entirety—only loose fragments here and there, the threads too scattered for him to get the full picture. He wasn’t sure whether the minuscule amount of sleep he had gotten the night before or flight was to blame, but he felt guilty nonetheless. Junichi seemed like a lovely guy—if the photos in Gael’s hands of the man smiling while surrounded by grandkids were anything to go by. Drowsily, Gael shuffled through the handful of photographs of chubby-cheeked kids as the Captain continued chattering away, telling a story Gael didn’t remember the beginning of.

“Ah, here’s your stop, Commander,” The other man said in the middle of describing the lakeside where he taught his grandkids to swim. 

Blinking up at Kato for a second in confusion, Gael gingerly placed the stack of pictures on the center console and reached out his right hand toward the captain for a handshake. "Thank you for the ride, Junichi. And you can call me G—Smooth Operator,” He finished slowly, the smile on his face falling slightly but Kato seemed unfazed by the sudden correction and shook his hand with another cheery grin.

Giving the other man a final nod, Gael stepped out of the car and into Site φ; the receptionist was waiting for him once he stepped through the sliding glass doors. After a brief slew of paperwork and the standard security screening, he was led toward the elevator and instructed to go to the second floor. 

The sun had fully risen at this point, the yellow-white beams of its lights refracting off the ridiculous amount of glass whichever schmuck had designed the place had had a love affair with. He tried to avoid looking at himself as he walked towards the conference room, but it was a losing battle since so much of the second floor was made of glass. There was nothing else to look at but himself reflected back ad nauseam; the image mirrored back at such a frequency likeness was becoming warped. The copies so far removed from the original that they had become borderline grotesque.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gael entered the room and immediately beelined for the blinds graciously hanging over each one of the windows. He felt more and more relief with each as he methodically lowered each blind until the room was only lit by the fluorescent lights above. Sighing with a sense of finality, Gael dropped himself heavily onto the chair directly opposite the door.

Leaning back in the chair, he pressed his forearm to his eyes and wondered if he could get a nap in before the first person showed up; but as he was weighing the pros and cons when the door handle rattled, announcing the arrival of his first new teammate. Moving his arm away from his face, he watched the door from beneath his lashes.

Agent Choi from MTF Iota-10 stepped in and Gael felt his body relax; a moment respite before the storm. Buckley was spoiling him—or maybe it was Kato?

Rising up to his feet, Gael moved across the room to properly greet his favorite Fed. Beaming, he clasped Choi’s hand between both of his own, squeezing gently as he looked up at 'Old Sport.' 

“It’s good to see you," He said, genuinely pleased to have Choi at his side. At the very least, he had one person he could trust his back to. "I’m glad the Committee took my recommendation into account.”

There isn't much time to catch up after that as the rest of MTF Chi-00 slowly trickled in shortly after. And, as the last stragglers made their way in, Gael surveyed the group, fingers drumming on the smooth table in front of him. As a hush slowly enveloped the room, Gael lifted himself up to his feet.

“Well,” he began. “Guess I’ll go first.”

Giving the group a half-hearted wave, he continued, “Hello, everyone. I’m Smooth Operator, and I will be your commander starting from today.” His eyes flicked from one face to the next, taking mental notes of which operatives matched his gaze and who did not.

"Now, while some of you may have heard rumors about me or seen my face before," He winked at Choi. "But I can assure you whatever you've heard is not true—unless it's nice, in which case it is one hundred percent true," He laughed, feeling momentarily uncharacteristically awkward. Tough crowd.

“Anyway, I've worked for the Foundation for something like twenty-four years? Give or take. Spent twelve of those years in Omega-1; that's 'Law's Left Hand' for new guy," He inclined his head at 'Quote Unquote' before continuing in an exaggerated stage whisper. "We're the Ethics Committee's personal Mobile Task Force, but don't worry about it."

Turning back to the rest of the group with a single raised eyebrow, he smiled. "And while I'm sure you've all gone over the briefing on the way here," He muttered wryly. "I'd like to remind everyone that we are under strict orders to refer to each other by codenames during the course of this assignment. However, as a handful of people in this task force already know each other, and since this will be a year-long mission, I am aware that keeping complete secrecy is near impossible. That being said, I would recommend that everyone try to limit the amount of unnecessary information that they choose to disclose going forward. The Committee has a lot of enemies, so you all need to prioritize your safety. That's all.”

Dropping back into his seat, he motioned loosely at the group, "Who wants to go next?"

There was a pause.

“Don’t all jump up at once.”

[lieutenanthowell]

Deep-sea; Gamma-6? If she was that much of a specialist, seemed the only likely place. And they'd sent her here? Miles out of her usual. Seemed a bit of a waste. Suppose they did have to be prepared for anything, given the job description. Even by the standards of the Foundation - which, unpredictable as their work was, still had its endless departments and sites and MTFs, its assessments and reassignments, all designed to shunt people into a useful niche. Guin, at least, was used to it. What he'd been raised for, really - getting by, wherever, with whatever. And Xi-13, well, shit - they existed to deal with shit too unclear to get actually ready for. Shock troops. Prepare to be unprepared.

Urban Myth had the... attitude, maybe, to deal with the change of scenery. They'd see about the rest.

Bailey's last assignment had been nothing like "The Broken Scales of Themis."

There was certainly some level of formality to it, but only so much could be managed when half the new recruits were stumbling sideways as waves tipped the ship to and fro. Their commander shouted over the creak of the boat to a small gaggle of newcomers who didn't know the meaning of "sea legs" yet. They'd voiced their understanding of their orders, shaking and wet, while trying to hold down supper and not really understanding much at all.

Even her orientation had felt somehow...less. They'd impressed upon her the importance of what she was to be doing, and there was a good chunk of movement from one place to the next that she simply couldn't remember. She'd learned quickly memories were slippery in organizations built around secrecy. It hadn't killed her excitement, however; she still popped up at the end of orientation with a smile and eagerly accepted her first assignment.

This was different. This was cool eyes watching her movement across the room, a group of strangers all sitting in a circle looking less inclined to introductions and more inclined to simply get down to the brass tacks. On the ship, they'd found time to laugh, to play pranks. Bailey couldn't see that same levity here.

She took her seat, offering a nod to who she assumed was the Commander, and glanced at her fellow teammates. Coworkers? Peers. There was a heaviness to the air that sat on her shoulders, weighing her down into the curve of her seat. She wondered if she could sink right in, wait for the others to finish. But that's not who Bailey Brennan was, and she rolled her shoulders to shake the weight away. This wasn't a hole to get buried in, this was an opportunity. She was so good at grabbing those with both hands. So she sat up straight and held onto the edges of a smile as introductions worked their way around the circle until they made it to her.

"Hiya, I'm Bailey. Urban Myth." Her smile ticked up, just at the edges. She liked the moniker that had been given to her. "I'm a little less Bigfoot," she crooks a thumb towards the one who'd introduced themselves as Loch, "And a little more deep-sea mythology. Think I get more seasick on land than on a boat at this point."

Bailey thought a lot of things, it was sort of a specialty of hers. Think herself silly, think herself into a PhD. Think herself into a foundation that seemed to value her thinking just enough to ship her to the middle of the forest to think on their terms just a little longer. Gosh, she wished she knew just what she was doing, sitting in a room full of people who varied from I shouldn't be here to lighting a cigarette and telling the boss to take five. She just couldn't think herself around that one.

She grins, "Don't think we'll be finding Scylla or Charybdis out here, but I've got you covered, if we do."

[lieutenanthowell]

Jesus. Guin blinked, squinted, head cocked at this... absolute civvie. Freeballing. Yeah, that was a word for it. Doctor Loch. Of computers and software. Lock and key? Loch like - no. No fucking way. Some kinda freak-fan, wasn't he? Sniffing for "cryptid stories," for a book? Asshole. Turning that bar matchbook in his hands, Guin ran his thumb across the grain of the striking strip over, and over, and over. A month. If that meat were any fresher, it'd still be running. And if Doctor Matias Rojas (Loch) was smart enough to run when shit hit the fan, instead of stopping to take a suitably crappy snapshot to add to his Bigfoot pin-ups, well - Guin would be surprised. Should get that abuelita's address, seeing as the guy was so free with his details. Just so he knew where to send the ziploc they'd be shipping her little genius home in.

"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."

[lieutenanthowell]

Steve; Wilson. Now, that was a name he knew. And a face, if only briefly. (He had to blink, a couple times - ducked his head, resting his eyes. If only he could rest his ears, too. There was this... buzz. The lights? Worse than they'd been, a moment ago. If that was it.)

Stephen. Friend of Vera's, and Tom's. Which came well before PhDs from anywhere, in Guin's book, so far as qualifications for not-some-asshole status went. Even if that date had gone pretty damn sideways. Vera might've told him the story. And he might've laughed. Just a little.

But, all that said - his reality was probably warped enough, as is. At least Vera'd have a friend around. Even a friend that shot himself in the foot. On accident. Could happen to... most people.

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.

[lieutenanthowell]

He'd been told, once, that head injuries were the leading cause of injury and death in personnel over six feet. Bigger they are, the harder they fall, hey? And the more likely they are to crack their own goddamn skulls on everything going on up there. If it was true, then... Jesus, it was some sort of miracle Trebond had made it this far. Even if they were yet another player on this shitshow of a team who'd never seen fieldwork, from the sounds of it. Six foot, ten inches. Guin had watched the engineer sit taller, eyebrows rising at even that. Good dirt, in... wherever they didn't say they were from. Big on agriculture.

Well, if he needed anything off the top shelf - he'd fucking get it himself.

GERMINATION: greeting the world

Introductions are the worst part of meeting new people. Having to think about making a good impression - reading whether or not you gauged correctly, not realizing when you've missed the mark. It's the culmination of the worst part of being of a social species. Trying to move from the other to becoming part of the group. It means Kel knows from the first moment of consciousness that today will be Rough. Luckily the crockpot did its job and there's fresh minestrone for his thermos. Less luckily, half the soup spills on the way to the car.

It's just another blemish on an already rough morning. Kel hasn't had a reaction to any sort of mental influence like this in so many years that they're not the only one caught off guard. Someone will figure out how to mitigate the fog - they can already hear chatter about it in the group, which is much more attention-grabbing than poor Kato. Nice guy, but maybe there will be a better second impression. One that sticks.

And then every thing that needs to go wrong will - apparently the camera used to take the first ID photo wasn't the proper model, or was missing whatever coating the Foundation used in the past to take his ID photos. But the security department needs a new one. Kel can't blame them - if they were a guard and someone handed over a picture of a flower arrangement as a security card, he wouldn't let them in either.

The one in charge seems just the type the commission would pick, observant, experienced, just friendly enough to inspire some level of loyalty. Small flashes of the man in action - usually from a distance, add depth and color to his form, old memories overlaid on a fresh face. They fall into place for some of the others in the room as well, though at least one face is so familiar there's nothing new to learn at a glance.

"Good morning," Kel bobs a nod at their new boss in an attempt to be less... ominously looming, and gives him a perfectly average handshake before moving towards a seat in the back. Then it's time for the parade. And what a show it is. The team is clearly hand picked for something, but even Kel can tell that more than a few people have history of some sort and still others won't mesh well despite the rigid hold an MTF's commander usually has. For at least one that might actually be the problem.

There is something to be said about going in the middle of a set though. Avoiding the nerves of being the first, but also knowing you aren't the last first impression somehow relieves some of the pressure. Or at least it does for Kel. It's easiest to see everything from the metaphorical middle of the pack anyways.

"My turn then?" They smile quickly and straighten up before swallowing down the worst of the brogue they'd never gotten rid of. "Some of you may already know me as Kel or Engineer Trebond, but I guess I'm going by Garden Variety here. Bit of a nod to my hometown, I think. Small place, big on uh... agriculture. I've been working in the foundation research divisions almost 3 decades now. My work's mostly in the actual building of things, more practical application and testing than the theoretical stuff, so I'm a bit excited to see how these things actually run in the field. Fun fact, um..." He sits back in his chair, smile turning nervous. "I'm 209 centimeters tall. Yes, really. Oh I think that's six foot.... ten inches? Math might be a bit off, but I'm past the threshold where people try to say it makes a difference. Anyways - if you need me, send me a page. I like to wander and this campus seems a bit large, so it's better to not pass each other while searching."

And with that, the worst was over. The members of the team grow more and more interesting as they go down the list, but maybe that's just the relaxed nerves speaking.