are u ever sick w longing. and i don't just mean romantic longing. i mean longing for a place you barely get to see, longing for friends you no longer have, longing for feelings you might have left behind in your childhood, longing for creativity, longing for a rich and more expansive life, longing for less inhibition. longing for more passion. longing for ur life to be so incandescent w something it thaws all the frost in ur bones. are u ever so consumed w it it rends ur heart in two. do u understand me
this is not just "look out the window and sigh" longing. i'm talking you're at the grocery store and you're suddenly hit w a wave of grief bc you don't have it. you don't have whatever it is you ache so badly to have. you go about your everyday life and yet it throbs under your skin moment by moment, almost as though it has a life of its own. that's the kind of longing i mean.
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."
bared teeth. mouth open. devoured. digested. always digested. syllables knotted in and through fluorescent billows.
dog - eat - dog world. she'd be the cattle. the lamb.
scratching the surface, michelle. like you consistently do. but couldn't help it. came with this manner of living. a set circumstance. cards drawn. face - value. here's my jack of spades. now devastate me.
bared. arbitrary. punitive. but true. always true.
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."
consoling. consoling. seemed unconventional. to mull over. to digest.
no drawl of ... bullshit. no flesh - out. simple. simple.
incorporate academic and modern medical research principles. ethical. at least for the moment.
maybe she'd seek him out. systemize and swallow down notions. assimilate. a little ambitious.
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.
a glance. the first. the last. the last. familiarity. but look past. look. look. look further, away from here.
and so you do.
it claws. and claws. and claws until there’s nothing left. until it’s warm. always warm. but you choke. on whatever amiability you should’ve bared.
it never does last, does it, michelle?
a garish moth drawn to a dying flame. a sacrificial lamb liberated between the pews of a jilted altar.
old sport.
old sport.
nauseating. suffocating. you're suffocating. his demeanor. the pitch of his tone. the curvatures of blurred, in - between - the - line features.
you take a step back. back, back, back. you beg to feel the sting of a pillared wall against the base of your spine. but you don't. so instead, you opt for a languid display of revulsion, the corners of your mouth whetted - like and bared into a curl. you can't hide it. you won't hide it.
Timing was pivotal when making a first impression. Being first so speak showed confidence with leadership capabilities- to be the first one to break the silence whilst setting tone and expectation for the others. However, the drawbacks were detrimental as they are the one who may have inspired other speeches, other speeches that could easily outshine theirs and be nothing like a forgotten memory. Many fools saw such glory in being first, it was the wise ones, such as herself, knew that glory came in other ways.
Those who followed on from the first speaker fall into two categories: those who were inspired by the first speech and those who simply wanted it over. Those talks were ones that became mummers as others were too preoccupied with their own performances. And being someone who aimed to be a final speaker was a spot reserved for the shy or time wasters. Everyone's attention spans wavering in the delight that the showcase was drawn to an end.
For Danica, none of this would suffice! If she was to deliver a delectable speech, she would need to be in her sweet spot. Upon her calculation, after two more introductions it would be her time to shine. Her grand moment to paint the greatest speeches among her co-workers. Not like some of them would be that difficult to outshine.
With her golden moment creeping in, she barely allowed the other person to finish their speech, Danica was already on her feet. Snapping her notebook shut with a loud thud, loudly, to have everyone's undivided attention. With all eyes were on her, she stood tall, shoulders back whilst smoothing out her black pencil skirt and tucking her hair behind her ears. Oh how she felt undressed for this occasion. If they had only allowed her to bring her seventeen cases she had meticulously packed then she would truly be dressed for success. Instead, a simple capsule wardrobe would have to suffice. Still Danica Rasquinha would make do with poise and grace.
"My, oh, my, what a charming team I think we are all going to make for the unforeseeable future. How heartwarming it is to see so many lovely new faces and charmed to be acquainted with a few of you once more," Danica slowly begins her speech making eye contact with each member to enhance the natural connection with them that will blossom beautifully overtime. "Originally, I had a PowerPoint Presentation ready for a moment like this but alas, after not being briefed on the no tech access, I do humbly apologies for my lack of preparation and how unpolished my introduction is."
On that note, she carefully slides out personalized index cards from her journal. The golden gilded cursive embossing shone slightly in the florescent lightly. Neatly, Danica tired the stack of cards in her hands, perfectly prepared for her unprepared speech. No need for her to be nervous, she totally had this in the bag. Everybody adored her. Who couldn't adore her? She is the epidemy of excellence.
Taking a deep breath, she continues on,"Now I fear that I need no introductions to who I am. Most, if not all would be familiar with my Papa and Mama the late parents Dr and Dr Rasquinha, both, high regarded, esteemed, academically brilliant researchers for Department of Mythology and Folkloristics. Now I am not allowed to even talk some of their spellbinding findings," she pauses laughing at her own joke. Of course it was funny! One should never disclose any personal information with the fae after all!"Just a little Fae humor for you. If you know, you know but should certainly not be disclosing about it."
[Give a playful little wink to someone in the room.]
"Goodness look at me prattling on, do Pardon me! I just never waste a moment to talk about Papa and Mama's greatest achievements," she places one hand on her heart, a way to project sincerity, "Speaking of...let's get back to me then, shall we?"
[Pace around the space with permitted.]
Danica eyes the space in the room, making the judgement call to pace around a little. Keep her audience engaged, always on their toes. Her eyes scan as she maps the routine as she starts to pace the room. "For the sake of protocols, please refer to myself as Flimflam. Rather a bewitching code name, wouldn't you say?" Danica compliments her own nickname. Now although it is not the most attractive code name she has received, she knew she could make anything look good on her if she tried hard enough too. "Evidently upon speculations and all the few wonderous speeches so far I can deduce these are randomly assigned with no correlation whatsoever to who they are attached too," she shared her astute observation which surly should get a few heads nodding. "So if you would please call me Flimflam even just Flim or Flam or Flimmy- now that is a cute nickname wouldn't mind that one single bit. Not Flammy- something about that is rather repugnant."
She positions herself at her first spot in the room, halting to get even more personal with her team members. Danica leans a little forward, almost as if she is welcoming them in on a little secret, "Surly, you have guessed by now, that I followed in my parents greatness continuing on their legacy as a brighter, bolder flame. I, myself am a Staff Researcher for Site-12 in the Department of Mythology and Folkloristic. Parting with my previous team was such sweet sorrow, a place where my presence will truly be missed." she pulls away dramatically swinging her arm to cover her face, at how disheartening her departure was, how her utter brilliance would be missed. "Alas," Danica sighs heavily, "I am now here ready to share my brilliance with you all! Oh, I may add that I have casually dabbled as a contributor to Observer: An SCP Foundation Journal. Perhaps some of you may be familiar with my work on SCP-5525? Of course some of you have," Danica gestures towards her fellow researchers- maybe somewhere there would be one of her biggest readers ," I have to say I'm rather proud of the title: SCP-6505 Man's Best Friend Helping During Ruff Times. Honestly give it a read, it'll leave you all warm and fluffy. That's only one among all my submitted works. Now you must be thinking, how does she find the time?"
[Pause to allow them to contemplate your work ethic .]
"Speaking of my time here, I do intend to follow this literal mantra, a poetic pros of excellence if you will," Danica cleared her throats," To be the very best, like no one ever was. It carries a rather excellent use of iambic pentameter, which makes it rather memorable. To me, it is rather profound, wouldn't you all consider?" she speaks to all of them,"A means that we should all highly aspire to be. For if it is not greatness that we are striving for in what we do, what exactly is one doing here?"
[ Make a though provoking and inspirational insight that they will think about for a lifetime. Say it proudly.]
"And with that very thought I will leave you all," Danica slightly bows to all of them whilst strategically making her way back to her seat. "For any further curiosities, compliments or conversations, please do not hesitate to come and find me, I, Flimflam, would be more than happy to oblige. However please reframe from chitchat with me before my morning cuppa and my evening tea- both important daily rituals where I require my personal time. Thank your for obliging and listening. I look forward to working harmoniously with you all. My lovely team."
Flimflam tucks herself back into her sheet as she looks down at her final card, hoping her manifestation would come to fruition.
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."
an MTF operative. another hellbent, moralizing ego. another redundant, inessential point - of - view.
all started to look the same after a while, strung and blurred together between fine - lines and nullity. but she'll spare live wire the menial observation.
AS WITH MOST DAYS — AND AS WITH FUTURE DAYS, THEY'D MUSED — SLEEP HAD NOT COME EASY. In the absence of any real direction, they'd allowed themselves to be whisked away from one metal hunk of a thing to another, and another, as if to dispel any indulgences in conducting a haphazard geospatial analysis as to where their covert base of operations should be located on the map. Had they hoped Midge would be impressed at the sheer degree to which they'd been obfuscated? The ghastly gray beast was no more hideous and imposing than the intelligence agency where she had once held base, and which had similarly prided itself in holding and trading state secrets.
Midge had maintained a smile through it all, albeit an artless, guileless one, finding these gaps in her memory even more troubling than usual. Not particularly burdened with the weight of being the best example, Midge — 52 Pickup, wasn't it? she thought — had donned only the barest of masks: their hair was combed down and let loose over their shoulder, and their shirt, just as gray and as pallid as the building's decor, hung over their frame with no real attempt at being flattering. In doing so, she'd hoped to display a kind of homeliness that was almost displaced in this ugly concrete jungle they were mandated to call home for a year. To signal something like trustworthiness among this new ensemble of comrades whose faces ranged from vaguely familiar to none at all.
She'd sat cross-legged in the plastic chair, balancing the spine of her handy A5 journal on her knee as she scribbled and took note of the code names of the operatives who had gone before her. As expected, their levels of disclosure varied; another introduced themselves, and another, and another, until the burden of introductions finally fell on her lap.
They'd closed their journal shut and made a small wave as their eyes surveyed the room. "Hey, everyone," they began, willing the muscles of her lips to curl upward, until they resembled something like a kindly smile. "I'd say I wish we met in better circumstances, but the next Foundation confab might be a while yet. My name's a bit of a mouthful, so it's easier for all of us if you knew me as Midge. Though, in here, my alias is 52 Pickup — a bit of a mouthful, too, really. Pursuant to protocol, I suppose you could just call me fifty-two."
And, here, she made an exaggerated roll of her eyes and a peal of laughter: "Call sign's easy enough to remember, I suppose. Just take a look at my laugh lines and guess my age. Thanks for that, by the way, supervisors." They'd spoken with an unhurried cadence, relaxing against the shitty plastic seat, "Well, I suppose I should lean into it. I am marching towards mortality as it is. Nothing else of note. I've done clean-up work for the Foundation these past few years and studied for a living for the rest. Hmm, let's see… I play the piano, I'm a chain smoker, and I like owls. " She let a sigh escape her lips, then, as she let in the team on a few harmless truths.
"Er, I think that's it." Her lips pulled into a tight smile as she dismissed herself from the routine proceedings, flipping back open her pocket journal and clicking the top cap of her ballpoint pen to resume her notetaking, "Well, I'll see everyone around. And everyone's quite welcome to join me in my search for a smoking area."
knew operatives like 52. worked alongside of them enough to understand the complexity of their hand. face - value. didn't particularly ... enjoy them, per se. alarming candor. effusive. articulate. a lot of candied - eye syllables that meant very little when put into retrospect. just entirely pronounced into a whetted - like void. in a room that was unlikely to swath her in warmth. noted. indifferent.
self - para 01: logged night terror #14, 3:30 A.M.
you’re choking. on something that tastes akin to hatred. it sprawls to the base of your mouth. cracks the lining of your jaw. limps through the dips of your ribcage. and rots.
because she’s there. and then she isn’t. and it all happens so infuriatingly fast, it leaves you dizzy. aching. searching for the warmth of a palm against the very center of decaying flesh. a carcass.
and you believe, “this is how it ends. this is how it always ends.”
so you reach out again. she’s not there. you turn on your side. you heave against the pavement. into your hands.
a shrapnel wail. a plea. a palm against dirt.
there is no god. no one can hear you.
“umma?” it brims off the cheek of your tongue. almost like a sermon. one that rots the inside of crystallized veins, along with your mouth. your teeth.
decaying, fragmented nothingness. a ghost. wandering and slaughtered to pieces.
a crooked laugh. then more. and more. and more. empty palms. the corroded sting of a touch.
you will not survive this.
you gape down. into the abyss. into the whites of an apparition. you thrash. and yell. at nothing. at yourself. at the distorted brick walls closing in around you.
a tear in your infrastructure.
you drag yourself against the pavement, your back splayed against the wall like an insect that doesn’t belong. your hands are covered in self - loathing. you can hear your mother’s hum.
you should have paid close attention. i cannot help you if you cannot help yourself.
so you sit there, half - slacked, in all your devastating glory. until a hollowed void washes over you. until your pleas come to an end. until your mother disintegrates.
you’re not entirely sure where she starts or where you end. but she understands. your fate. your fate.
this is how it ends.
and then you awaken. under what you believe is the trunk of a camphor tree. under the whims of a feathered bird that knows entirely too much. your skin swathed in sweat, mirroring the dew against the grass — completely and unapologetically enveloped in darkness.
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
