perfect stranger

dependent blog of foundationhq.

[21stcenterry]

✺ — what's up, danger?

the unfazed everyman of foundationhq, as penned by DORIAN.

perfect stranger dossier / fhq. task 001

basics

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 Terence "Terry" Okello

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 Aforementioned "Terry" but if you want to save some syllables "Terr" is an option

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 Daniel Kaluuya

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 Hair styled in short sponge twists and low fade, trimmed stache and beard, and a thousand-mile stare

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 A half-arsed one on their wrist from some bloke in bristol that Terry got while three sheets to the wind. Terry can't even make heads or tails out of it. Calls it "the scribble you make when checking if a biro ran out of ink"

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁. 34 / December 21, 1989

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 Sagittarius

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 Southwark, London, England

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 Dembe Isabirye (Mum), Solomon Okello (Dad), Julian "Juli" (Younger Brother), Cornelia "Nelie" (Younger Sister)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 Non-binary, they/he

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 Gray-ace

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 Single

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 Reserved, easygoing, tolerant

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 Indifferent, passive, incurious

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 Clicks their tongue at kids, something he picked up from babysitting his younger siblings. Reads magazines and leaves them around after. Midnight cravings for sandwiches. Wired like a night owl. Sleeps through movies at the theatre

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 Sleeping, staying warm and alive, betting drinks on a round of billiards, rubbing his shitty tattoo when he gets nervous, which is rare

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄) None

the foundation

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 Junior Security Officer

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒) Worked at a lumber mill, car mechanic, small dairy farm, Sainsbury's, various pubs, food cart, janitor, bouncer, overnight stocker, telemarketer, waiter, dog groomer, horse groomer, ferret groomer

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 Guard work at Site-91, turned out a tad dodgy for his fellow mates

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 Basic firearm training, keeping calm during security protocols, basic office duties, has a food hygiene certification (expired), able to dissociate on command, can tell the difference between coke and pepsi

extras

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

TW: divorce, death, dark humor referring to suicide

Terence "Terry" Okello, born in London Town, is an un-special bloke. They'll even tell you that. Low middle-class household, working parents separated rather mythically by the crack of dawn and graveyard shifts, their adolescence jiggered up babysitting a younger brother and a sister as a teen. They whip up chip butties to stretch their food and sit in front of the telly to distract themselves from a life bound to go nowhere. It was what it was, you know? Some people were winners, and some people were Terry.

Their Mum and Dad split up when Terry turned 18, citing irreconcilable differences; their brother went with Dad, their sister went with Mum, and Terry's new girlfriend they met at a trade school broke up with them, so they were really in a pickle by the time they became an adult in the eye of the Law, weren't they. Well, stiff upper lip and all that. Can't cry or complain, relationships are fickle. Love is dead! Carry on! Terry went paycheck to paycheck, job to job, couch to couch, doing God-knows-what to survive and get a cheeky extra for a pint.

No one liked a jack of all trades that much, though. Recruiters and their ilk despised it, actually. Asked Terry questions like why did you only stay for 4 months at Sainsbury's, and what are your foreseeable goals for the future? Sneering at their well-traveled CV, Terry could only get entry-level things because they didn't show enough of that charming Hooray Henry spirit for the white-collar positions, namely a branded suit and tie from Harrods. Terry couldn't give a damn. These interviews were a load of tosh.

So, after bouncing around for a few years, Terry finally stuck to a job. Err, instead, a job stuck to them. It was a security position at a privately owned manor in Rural Yorkshire. The amount of money they listed felt comically scammy, but Terry was racking up a bit of debt. While they weren't the biggest and meanest, they knew how to project their voice and appear threatening. Ish. They filled out a resume, spent a week faffing about, and surprisingly got through the phone interview all right. All the bloke on the phone wanted was someone who could keep mum about the work. Easy enough, Terry said.

Wonderfully, the job was! No shady dealing bosses, watering hole gossip, middle management power trips, and the greatest spooks Terry faced on the job were a couple of drunk teenage vandals. Being able to send Mum cash instead of asking for money for once felt good. So they stayed as a nightshift guard at the Eckhart House for a couple of years.

Little did Terry know their golden goose was hiding a rotten egg. Underneath the manor was a Foundation facility known as Site-91, and Terry found out the hard way when they agreed to trade shifts with another guard, who was a bit too happy to see his daughter's first-grade play recital. While running for their life, Terry realized this was why they avoided chumming it up with coworkers wherever they had worked. Work "friends" made their business your business, and Terry didn't want any business that involved xenobiological specimens and thaumaturgical artifacts. What kind of bonkers story was this? And why did it almost tear Terry's arm off when they waved their flashlight?

Following the traumatic encounter that left even Terry, the one who can't be arsed with even reporting someone hitting their motor, a bit rattled with a broken arm in a plastic cast, they received another call- the recruiter from years ago.

The first thing they asked was, Did you tell anyone?

And Terry said, No? ...Aw. Aw. Fuck, you're gonna kill me, aren't you, mate. Well, can you make it seem like none of my family was involved, at least? I can write a note to add a touch of realism...

Good for Terry; they weren't slated for an abrupt end to their mundane life. Bad for Terry, though, because their simple life was going to change. They were introduced to SCPs and what the Foundation truly was. Terry had thought "The Foundation" was just some kind of marketing ploy, a catchy name for the security business, of words that didn't matter but sounded like a right dream, like Vigilance, Safeguard, and Integrity.  

As they had told the recruiter at the start of the job, Terry kept their head down and, at times, looked slightly off to the right. Just so to not accidentally witness some time travel portal swiping up lab coats left and right. Their job was to guard a single hallway, and fighting some space god was rightfully- thankfully- out of their pay grade. And they'd be fine keeping in line for the next so many years... But some people were nobodies, and some people were Terry. 

The Ethics Committee called, lad. Pack your things and kiss Mum goodbye.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 I like all sorts, but I'd love to write a friendship that contrasts with Terry's no-nonsense demeanor, some work buds grabbing a drink at the end of the shift if we have shifts... someone that Terry drives crazy, vice versa. Honestly, anything.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 poster child for unfazed everyman, unlucky everydude, fish out of water, dull surprise, action survivor, weirdness magnet, apathetic clerk, conditioned to accept horror, safety in indifference, terse talker, bystander syndrome, the slacker, closest thing we got, subverted red shirt, sarcasm mode

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 OJ Haywood (Nope), Shaun (Shaun of the Dead), Arthur Dent (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), Squidward (Spongebob Squarepants), Garfield (Garfield), Charlie Brown (Peanuts), Isaac Clark (Dead Space), Sokka (Avatar the Last Airbender), Winston Zeddemore (Ghostbusters), Conway (Kentucky Route Zero)

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

[21stcenterry]

Who: @21stcenterry, @lieutenanthowell Where: Main gym When: The Combat Readiness Assessment What: Perfect Stranger arrives not so on time at the Combat Readiness Assessment conducted by Dying Breed. Trigger Warnings: None

A few weeks into the new assignment, Terry thought he'd get the hang of things. That confidence was a load of rubbish. They had gotten lost again, and this time, the Security Captain, Kato, had to drive back to the correct place in his jeep. Too bad it meant he was going to be late.

sorry gonna be late|

Terry's thumb hovered on the pager's button. Nah, he thought. Bloke's gonna blow a gasket and tell me not to show up. Beg for forgiveness time it is.

He stepped into the main gym just past 7 minutes of the appointed time. 1607. They hoped that Dying Breed would understand that some people were built to be natural navigators, and some were Terry.

"Oi, oi! Mate... Listen, sorry about the big T, Tardy," Terry said, walking in but keeping their distance in case Dying Breed's arm span deceived appearances. Who knew what these bona fide military guys were capable of? Terry would not find out with a broken jaw.

"I got lost, you know!" He continued, biting the inside of his cheeks to give a please-let-me-off-the-hook smile. "But I got the water! And a towel!" To emphasize how ready he was for this Combat Readiness Assessment, Terry pointed to his duffel bag and unzipped it to show Dying Breed.

"So, erm, how're we doing this? Do I run and give you laps?"

[agentelevatormusic]

The first day of physical exams was proving interesting, to say the least. After the second of the day, Vera had filled her half hour break with a quick look around the main building where her office and exam room was located. It was a large building. She didn't really have the time for much else during such a limited break, even though there was so much to do. She’d have to make adjustments.

Her next patient’s chart was waiting on her desk where she’d left it, and she moved it to the counter in the exam room to open the door for them. “Come on in,” Vera said with a welcoming nod. “Sounds like you need an eye exam?”

@21stcenterry

[21stcenterry]

Terry had gotten lost. The main building of Site-φ, as it was called, was not terribly descriptive as a descriptor, and his hapless arse carted across the gigantic campus to find his Themis doctor's pad. Lucky for them, the first door he happened to open when he got to the correct building happened to be Elevator Music's exam room.

"Thank God and my bloody aunt Eugenia," Terry muttered to themselves and closed the door behind them. He waved to the doctor and took a seat. "Hello, Doc. And right on, and all the other things too, um, cross off in the physicals. Y'do allergy tests, good doctor?"

Terry was no fan of hospitals, but if his damn government wouldn't let him see a nurse without taking a number to be in a queue as long as Saint Nicholas' Naughty List, he'll let his American Employer's dastardly private insurance tend to his rather watery eyes. Before spring pollen came.

[theflimflam]

𝙰𝚌𝚝  𝙾𝚗𝚎,  𝚂𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎  𝙾𝚗𝚎:  “𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜  𝚒𝚗  𝚊  𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎? 

tw: Parental Death Mentioned.

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.

  [Hold for applause and/or standing ovation.]

[21stcenterry]

Terry had known people like Flimflam. Flashes of long college lectures with classmates way out of Terry's league, who spoke proper pretty and posh. Gyaldems like Flimflam looking like they stepped out of a Harrods and would give Terry a stinkeye when he opened his mouth to talk. Terry was confident he had nothing in common with Flimflam outside of the Union Jack.

Eh, nothing 'gainst a Brit, but maybe we just aren't each others' cuppa. Terry chewed their lips and tried to rein in their expressions at the choreography before him, slightly amused by her going through her cue cards. Got myself a front-row ticket to The Old Vic.

He did miss watching live TV instead of the boring reruns they showed on the site.

[foundationhq]

EMPLOYEE ID 6712-2211-8; 𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐹𝐸𝐶𝑇 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 Terence “Terry” Okello 𝐀𝐠𝐞 34 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫/𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 Nonbinary, they/he 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 Daniel Kaluuya    𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 closed

PROFILE.

Earnest and discreet, the Committee is confident that [𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐹𝐸𝐶𝑇 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅] will prove to be an asset to MTF Chi-00. While still a junior operative, recent assessments indicate that they maintain an untarnished dedication and vigilant caution that is promising in a relatively new recruit; these qualities should serve their latest, more complex assignment well, both on missions and among their more weathered colleagues. Some aversion to their fledgling presence is to be expected, as is an adjustment period on the part of [𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐹𝐸𝐶𝑇 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅]. They will require guidance, shaping, and the rigors of The Broken Scales of Themis are certain to provide both. Ideally, such experiences should be educational for all parties involved. It is our hope that [𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐹𝐸𝐶𝑇 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅] will prove to be a diamond in the rough and this reassignment will be a perfect test to see if they’ll shine within the Foundation or crumble into dust. — Internal Memo from the Ethics Committee.

LAST ASSIGNMENT.

JR. SECURITY GUARD;  member  of  the  security  team  at  Site-91;  survived  a  containment  breach of a spacetime anomaly that claimed lives of many of his fellow guards.

INTERRELATIONS OF NOTE.

𝑆𝑀𝑂𝑂𝑇𝐻 𝑂𝑃𝐸𝑅𝐴𝑇𝑂𝑅. If there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s following orders. And considering how many strange characters are enlisted to MTF Chi-00, you hope your new commander appreciates a reliable, straightforward operative like yourself. You also hope the commander’s self appointed right-hand man, 𝑂𝐿𝐷 𝑆𝑃𝑂𝑅𝑇, won’t be too bothered that you’ve elected to stick close to the commander’s heels as well.

𝑀𝑋. 𝐶𝑂𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐼𝐴𝐿𝐼𝑇𝑌. You’re grateful that they stepped up to be your guide to this whole new level of weird. And while you’re sure you make an odd pair in Site-φ's halls, they’ve been more generous than most of your new colleagues. You’re trying to watch and learn, but it feels like you never quite manage to keep up. At least they don’t seem to hold it against you — or so you’d like to think. You’re not sure if you have a good read on them yet.

𝐾𝐼𝑁𝐺'𝑆 𝐺𝐴𝑀𝐵𝐼𝑇. They seem… messed up, honestly. Sad. Angry. The reason as to ‘why’ you’re beginning to gather since they’ve taken to venting in your direction. You’re not sure what else to do but nod at appropriate times, rather than report your concerns. It’s only talk. After all the years they’ve spent on the job, they have a lot to get off their chest. If anything they’ll be a great example of what not to do if you want to keep this job.

[oldxport]

𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑖. 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖. (𝑑𝑖𝑠)𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

[tw: references to religion, christianity]

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

Even  the  mind  is  subjected.

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

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

They  merely  see  the  surface  and  guess  the  depths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It  is  OLD SPORT.

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

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

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

If  it  was  indeed  lost.

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

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

… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ Thank  you. ”

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

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

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

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

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

It  is  not  Peter.  It  is  Andrew.

Befitting.  Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imitation,  flattery.  Prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

Old  Sport  nods  and  wonders  where  he  left  his  handkerchief.

[21stcenterry]

The affable nickname Old Sport given to the only bloke in conservative officewear was a saucy choice by this Ethics Committee Terry had just heard of about a month ago. The crowd, however, didn't seem to cast worrying glances like he did. Did no one catch the Patrick Bateman vibes? Maybe Terry needed to lay off on the telly compared to people who had real lives and all the tolerance for the bonkers shit happening before them.

Old Sport, Good Chap, Long Lad, he blew through his introduction a minute at maximum? Terry learned nowt except that this suit was with the Foundation for years with some top dogs.

No brother says 'multitude of hobbies' and 'like various things' without turning out to be some serial killer. Nah, mate. Dodgy. No night patrol with just the two of us.

Terry leaned back in his seat, ready to pack up and get his ass home after the tour. Noting to himself to never be alone in the room with this Best Buddy, Terry looked around to see who could be a meat shield when he spotted their leader and right-hand man conspiring in the room as if no one else was there. Holding mitts in a way that was not covered in the Employee Handbook that Terry definitely skimmed through and said they read in full.

Hold on, hold on. Am I daft, or have Mr. Beanstalk and Mister Smooth Operator...

Then Terry heard it. It wasn't as if it was some twee chat between them, too. 'Body is yours to command, accomodatingly versatile, surprisingly flexible.'

"Are- is anyone?" Terry hissed, head to and fro in utter disbelief. "Are they proper shagging?" Terry whispered, mainly to themselves.

[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.

[21stcenterry]

There was no going around the elephant in the room, or rather, a bloke- ripped out the cover of Kerrang! Teenaged Terry would have had an absolute tizzy, tripping up in their cool presence, buzzy about how punk one of his new coworkers was. Grown Terry tried not to be a duffer because this job was removed from the counterculture, and by correlation, punk was off-limits.

Dying Breed? Sounds like a band shirt I'd have in the closet, Terry glanced over. Tempering their curiosity. Self, come off it, would ya? You're not on the pull.

Then DB opened his scarred gob, and it was bona fide dynamite.

The man's the dog's bollocks! A character out of the 'BC. Spitting fire lines like, I'll get something of you home, if I can, like they don't belong in front of a backdrop with tons of CGI explosions?

Terry had the most potent emotion he had ever felt since he accidentally got the wrong order at Nando's, eyeing the room around him, wondering if anyone else was having a time seeing this. The mad lad DB went off for a smoke, just proper leaving the room, and Terry wondered if it was just the Yanks who let their senior officers leave whenever they were brassed off.

It'd be nice to have that level of freedom and not have my arse on the chop if I didn't mind my p's and q's. America, indeed...

[smoothcperator]

✦ 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.”

[21stcenterry]

Terry's new boss-superior was someone he was sure Mum would call dishy. She'd been learning English through the telly and had become massively dotty over some American bloke in some snippets 'bout a matrimony- though Terry had the notion not to tell Mum that Brits would give her a more challenging time. It was, withal, her little pleasure in life after high tea. But soz, Mum. Looks like Mister Smooth Operator gave the suited Wilmington Giant a cheeky wink that could be seen from outer space.

Are those two cracking on? Already? I thought this was the first impression? Are we on bloody Love Island?

Terry pursed their lips, wondering if this new assignment would be like anything at the Punch Tavern in East End, where he'd caught his gaffers in the cellar. Fantastic week, though. Got a tidy bonus and a 3-day workweek.

Mister Smooth Operator said something rather dodgy, like a scientific equation, Omega-whatsit; however, Terry didn't need to be told twice not to think.

On it, Guv'.

The least they knew, the better.

[tesshernandez]

𝙰𝙲𝚃 1, 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴 1 — 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙳𝚄𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂.

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."

[21stcenterry]

Seems real nice, Terry concluded when the teammate, Fifty-two, finished greeting the team. The gallows' humor caught their attention; this line of work ran amok on the Grim Reaper's property all the time, ringing the doorbell anytime a new SCP popped up. Unconcerning levity was necessary when dealing with inhuman horrors. Eyeing Midge lost in her notes, Terry acknowledged that the teammate felt relatively down-to-earth. Even his ordinarily aloof self would consider a silent smoke break with her if they were simultaneously in the lounge.

I wonder what she's writing, though. It's giving me First-Class Honours all her life vibes.

[livewireatalanta]

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."

[21stcenterry]

For all their hopping around the job marketplace, one thing Terry could give themselves from the experience was their calling of self-preservation in the workplace. The woman introducing herself was legit a ledge, and Terry had no intention of crossing that boundary to see if their new teammate was the real deal. Self, call her Atalanta. Terry scribbled a mental note as they gave Atalanta another gander. Yeah, if Terry stepped wrong, she'd no doubt twist them like the bags of pretzels he spotted on the way in.

And self, do not piss off Atalanta.

[lochblocknroll]

"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."

[21stcenterry]

Damn. I thought the Foundation gave me a load of tosh and told me to say thanks, but compared to this bloke...

Terry thought, having tuned in when Loch-not-Doctor-Loch spoke up about being a new hire. Terry's mandem back home could only go a day without screentime, and their workplace had the bright bulb idea to bring in a professional hacker and set him up with dial-up. This team was sitting on a powder keg.

Hope mate's got himself some crossword puzzles. He's gonna have a hell of a time.

[21stcenterry]

✺ — story beat: introductions.

TW: mention of guns, mild reference to injury

Terry was displeased to know that they had not, in fact, blown the interview. Details were foggier than The Big Smoke after returning to their regular workplace, but Terry had assumed they must've done something rightfully wrong to avoid getting the call to action the day after. No, siree, mediocrity was Terry's birthright, and they weren't looking to be some up-and-comer with expectations placed on them.

But a week later, the mobile buzzed during a rerun of Bargain Hunt on the 'BC, and before they could argue, Terry was off to Dear Ol' Freedom-land in a metal deathtrap. It had been several days since landing in a gloomier version of Galloway Forest, and to top off the perilous journey, Terry was still nursing a headache that reminded him too closely of Liverpool pubs on the waterfront. What did the Americans put in their aspirin? It wouldn't surprise Terry if they had gotten sugar pills.

Temples pounded as they leaned back into their chair. While rubbing at his scalp, it took Terry a while to notice the mandatory workplace introductions had come around to his end. Rat's arse, me already? Terry thought, fixing their slouch slightly in front of the group. But only slightly.

No matter what, they couldn't turn back from their plan now. There was no way in hell he was going to be any bloody Red Shirt, and he intended to return to Site-91 even if he'd get bollocks for it. It was a tightrope act. Look foolish enough that they'd send him back but not utterly useless that the Foundation'd fire him outright. No pressure, mate. They cleared their throat.

"Right on... Uh. The name's Terry, kinda. Perfect Stranger, that's it, innit?"

They shrug. "Not to alarm you, mates, but I am literally the equivalent of a mall cop sitting with you M16s. The deadliest thing I've ever wielded was a heavy-duty torch."

There was also the standard handgun, but seeing how trigger-happy some of his fellows had been at Site-91, Terry wasn't as keen on accidentally blasting a toe off at the mere mention of an SCP. If anything, he was a novice.

"I have no business in securing, containing, or protecting anything. I'm the actual bog standard." Terry gestured plainly at themselves. So far so good, they were selling themselves like a discounted apple at Tesco's. It was not entirely great, but the low price gave it a somewhat decent mull-over in the brain.

"Prolly got picked from my lot 'cause I was the, erm, lucky one if you get me. Honestly, I'd be proper 'standing if the paperwork got filed wrong and you're supposed to get someone much more qualified. No hard feelings and such if I'm not a fit."

They shrugged, not even caring at this point to not come across a total wanker.

Terry continued, "You've got to have someone tiptop watching your back. Dangerous out there, we all know that, innit. I also haven't had an eye exam in years, so I should check on that. Pleasure meeting you, though. Cheers."

Terry threw up a thumb unenthusiastically and slouched back into his seat. There. Now, to head back to his pad and start packing his stuff again, before the higher-ups had their chats and hopefully prepared for their expulsion.

[mancandykings]

DANIEL KALUUYA Rolling Stones Magazine (December 2023)

[prncssguya]

HI MY NAME’S HOBIE🕷️🇬🇧 HOBIE BROWN 😝🤟🏿 I’M NOT A ROLE MODEL. I WAS BRIEFLY A RUNWAY MODEL 📸 I HATE THE AM!! 👊🏿 I HATE THE PM!! 👊🏿 I HATE LABELS!!! 🎸💥

[stevebuscemieyes]