Agent Bailey Brennan | 35 | Junior Security Officer Former Junior Operative for MTF GAMMA-6, "Deep Feeders," serving in observation and retrieval of SCP-2120.
who: @livewireatalanta & @agentmyth
where: combat facilities of site-Ο
when: february 21, a break in the defense seminar
what: nadia approaches bailey to correct her combat stances.
So far, Nadia is not impressed. But she's filled with less despair than she expected. The recruits, almost across the board, are a fucking disgrace, but the security department appears to be more than qualified. Deft corrections and instructions leading to improvement in most cases.
Most but not all.
One operative stands out to Nadia. It's not uncommon for bigger, stronger men to not understand how to properly train a smaller woman in combat. Which means Urban Myth isn't progressing like the rest of their team.
The group breaks after a session and Nadia slings herself up from the bench she was slouching on. If no one else is going to help her, looks like Nadia will have to. If only so she doesn't end up shot in the back because Urban Myth doesn't know how to disarm.
Approaching the operative in question, Nadia doesn't beat around the bush. "Your form is bad." She gestures toward the mat where they had been running drills. "Could you tell that? Like, did it feel wrong?"
The first time Bailey stepped off the ship after a six month haul, she'd hit her knees. Someone higher up, someone more experience had laughed, thumped her back a few times, and gave her some mint. He said it would help, just rub it between her fingers and breathe it in, the nausea would go away. It took three days for her head to stop spinning, and she was back on the ship before she ever felt stable on solid land again.
She was good at the to and fro of the ocean. Good at rigging, at plotting a course, at studying something until someone caught her and told her to stop. She was good at a good many things, but hand-to-hand combat? Hardly.
Of course she knew enough to pass a qualification. There were certain mile-marks she needed to hit before advancement, and she was so good at hitting mile marks. There was a notebook tucked into her desk somewhere far away with all of her life goals from fifteen onward listed; goals were her thing. Her footwork, well...it hit the goal, but only enough to pass and move on.
Training felt like pulling teeth. It felt like exposing the part of her that wasn't excelling for anyone to see. While it drove her to want to be better, determination did not make her look any better. It made her look sweaty and uncoordinated, hair sticking to her temples, breath rapid. Her brows were pulled together, frustrated just around the edges. The instructors dismissed, and she slumped back against a wall. Not defeated, never defeated, but exhausted.
She was catching her breath when Nadia approached, and she instantly stood taller. Her brows pulled closer together, "My form isβ hey!"
For a moment she wanted to argue, then her shoulders dropped. "My form isβ it's bad. It's very bad." She shrugged a shoulder, "Got any tips?"
The meeting point for the Walking Club wasnβt at all far from the little exit sheβd been using to sneak out. Mostly for air and the illusion of freedom. Vera felt more caged than ever at the compound. Presumably the security team was well aware of her brief escapes, but no one had approached her about them yet. Still, the knowledge that they might force her to stop and stay indoors loomed ominously on the horizon.Β
Walking Club sounded like a suitable alternative. One that she felt more comfortable trying while she still had the ability to head out on her own. Sign-up was rather more bizarre than Vera was expecting. A log-in sheet, sure. A pack of dog treats? Wasnβt there a strict policy against pets at the facility?
Vera walked silently along the trail. Like a fawn. Just as heβd trained her all those years ago. The forest was a good place to be a field medic. Endless choices for cover. Light bracken and fresh dirt was soft underfoot. It made for stealth. Trees she could still easily shamble up and great roots she could curl into while she waited for the call. Waited for danger to pass. Waited for her turn.Β
She took in the scents of cedar and pine. Enjoyed flecks of light on her face, streaming in through the rough canopy. Eased into the cold air. The cold hadnβt been a problem for her in years. Courtesy of the Delta-14, no doubt. This was the perfect weather for her beloved green jacket. The most perfect day she could imagine, really, given her circumstances.Β
The sound of rushing water carried her down the path, relaxed, until she heard the voice. Vera stopped herself from kicking into gear and bolting into the tree line. This was the Walking Club. As enjoyable as her time alone had been, time spent with a colleague could be enjoyable as well.Β
Those silent footsteps picked up. Vera didnβt want to startle the other walker. Urban Myth, she could see now, stood just a ways north. Urban Myth and a pack of dogs. A pack of dogs who encircled Vera as soon as they noticed her. Vera held up her hands and beamed at them. βOh my god! Look at all of you! Youβre all so gorgeous. Such fluffy tails!β She laughed and tried in vain to pet all the dogs at once. Though sheβd never had a pet, Vera had felt an affinity to dogs for years.
Then her joy was overshadowed by a cackling whoop and trill deep within the recesses of her mind. Vera shivered. Still smiling outwardly, she knelt among the dogs to try and collect herself while hidden among their big bodies before facing Urban Myth. βAre we the only two here?β Vera called from inside the swirl of dogs after a few seconds. See? Absolutely fine. Just right. So good. βHow could anyone possibly stay inside on a day like this,β she stood up again, βwith dogs like these?β
Bailey clocked the footsteps before she caught who it was. Elevator Music, was it? One of the very few she'd seen smiling since their arrival at their new outpost. Then, it was hard not to smile when surround by an excitable pack of dogs. Her own grin was plastered across her face, one hand in the allotted bag of treats, patiently waiting for the group to get done greeting their new arrival.
"Looks like it." She said in lieu of a greeting. They had done their introductions; this was the time for fresh air, not formalities. Bailey pulled out a treat and one by one started offering them to the various dogs. "That's okay, more puppy time for us."
Her smile was bright, easy as she looked between each waggling tail then back up to her company. If this was to be their assignment, she might have stumbled into something that rivaled life on the ocean. If every day could be forest walks and the dogs assigned to keep them safe, perhaps that was why they'd sent so many grumpy operatives to the same location. Therapy. Dog therapy.
"You're...Elevator Music, yes?" Formalities such as code names felt odd out there, surrounded by the dogs and nature. It felt like the kind of place where pretenses should fall away. But even in the middle of the forest handing out treats to dogs, Bailey knew better than to delude herself into thinking she was anywhere other than an assignment. They'd given her this position for some unknown reason, and she wasn't about to squander it because a dog licked her hand and she completely forgot she was supposed to be an operative.
"You have good taste. Inside was beginning to feel...stuffy. It's cold, but worth it." She grinned and looked to one of the dogs. "Certainly for all this."
When Bailey was young and bored, she'd dive into the forests that surrounded her childhood home, picking the fronds from ferns and pulling the leaves off of them, using them as makeshift arrows to launch at her friends. It was the river, the ocean, or the forest. She had a clear favorite, but that didn't mean she didn't love the dense green foliage of the Cascade range.
It was all she could think about as she approached the clearing where she'd heard she could sign up for The Walking Club. Since stepping onto the helicopter, any kind of deeper thought had sent her spinning, and that feeling felt ten-fold in that moment. The light drizzle, the smell of wet leaves and pine, the vines that crawled up the trunks of the trees; she felt dizzy, there was a headache pressing just at her temple.
She was smart enough to know when to let a thought go, but this one took her a moment. She held onto it, let it spin for a moment, before finally relinquishing her grip. Another time, perhaps when it wasn't all so new. Perhaps years from then, when the assignment was well in her rearview mirror, when she was a field savvy agent like so many of the others on the team.
Thankfully, letting it go was easy enough with a distraction. Lined up and waiting was a small pack of dogs, tails and ears up, eyes trained on any newcomers. Not a tail wagged and but Bailey found herself immediately grinning. Best. Club. Ever. And she was fairly certain she knew exactly why not a single tail had swished on the forest floor yet.
"Oh. So this is what the treats are for, huh?"
Sometimes she liked to cause a little chaos. The swishing of tails almost, almost drowned out the sound of footsteps on the trail behind her.
Old SportΒ leansΒ forward,Β stamping aΒ graveΒ promise in the airΒ betweenΒ theirΒ intertwinedΒ limbs. Each word is pressed in like a personal cinnabarite seal.Β β UpholdingΒ theΒ parametersΒ ofΒ thisΒ assignmentΒ isΒ myΒ highestΒ priority.Β Therefore... However,Β wheneverΒ youΒ need,Β myΒ bodyΒ isΒ yoursΒ toΒ command. βΒ
Everyone moved in a certain way. It was something Bailey had picked up on while watching her teammates in Bermuda.
Their captain was sure-footed. He would stand on the prow with his hands gripped around the railing, feet shoulder-width apart, back straight. The ship would rock left and his body would lean right, unaffected. He carried that sure-footedness with him even on calm waters, and wore it on his shoulders when he called the team to order. He was the one they all looked to when the seas got rough, when 2120 breached the surface like the kraken, all armaments and cracked hulls.
Her teammates would stumble on deck, fingers fumbling over ropes on cold, wet nights. They all had varying levels of poise as the ship rocked to and fro, often depending on how long they'd spent learning its movements. There were some that took to it better than others, and some that never quite managed; some walked on the boat better than land, and others spent the entire assignment holding onto a railing, green in the face and wishing for reassignment.
I will release background information about myself: a few facts, an obligation. If Old Sport stood on a boat, Bailey imagined he would stand upright and exactly perpendicular to the deck regardless of its bucking and thrashing. Unphased, a fixture, a man who knew the script and would follow it.
But then, his familiarity showed in the way he interacted with their leaders, and some of that scripted feeling seemed to fall off his features. It felt like something she wasn't meant to see, and instead Bailey looked away. As she did, she knew he was one whose movements she would be sure to watch.
Itβs 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 β something quite smaller and grander in scale β with most assuredly not our protagonist β lacking categorically across the board β 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 heβs 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."
Finally, finally someone who seemed to radiate that same energy Bailey was trying to tamp down with everything she had. She took in his pose, the way he propped his chin in his hands, the steady eye contact he offered. She wondered how much effort it took not to bounce a leg. She could feel herself twitch just thinking about it, and made a mental note to check out the walking club later, if only to work off some of the pent up excitement.
It was hard not to take in Seth and Rohan together, how they differed from one another. One with his notebook and a frown, the other with his energy and attentiveness. Bailey could guess they were both taking notes, but in different ways. Both learning the people around them. Perhaps they were picking up on different things. Perhaps they'd share notes later.
Bailey's fingers tugged at the hem of her suit shirt, and it took some effort to look away and to the next speaker. Her peers were curious. She made a note to speak with Rohan later; she needed to pick the brain of a resident researcher, anyway.
Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad β A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel β ballpoint pens, black and red ink, moss and orange barrels. Extra-firm Blackwing pencil. Steel Blackwing pencil sharpener. Travel-sized Neutrogena Norwegian hand cream, half-empty. 16oz water bottle, insulated, with a little sippy straw. Loop earplugs, case hooked onto one of the straps. Vape. Vape charger. Extra juice cart. Protein bar, in case he's hungry. Two extra protein bars, in case someone else is hungry. No cellphone, not allowed that here, but his Discman and his earbuds fit inconspicuously enough, so he slides them in as well. He can wear them for the walk over. It might help to soothe his nerves a little.
He still has two hours before the orientation starts. So at least one and a half before he's reasonably allowed to leave his room. And hypothetically, he could leave his room at any time, he doesn't think they lock them in at night; it would be nice, maybe go for an early morning stroll β early, early morning stroll β hit his vape (he's not about to test the smoke detector sensitivity on his first night, thank you) in peace and try to stop his chest from thudding like it's been since he'd arrived, but β he hasn't. Nobody's told him the rules, and if there's one thing Seth likes, it's guidelines. Acceptable parameters. Or something to gauge off of β someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to β
β well. The time passes anyways. He fixes his hair in the mirror twice, combing the pomade through and fussing with it until it looks bad enough that he has to take a do-over β Blind Barber, for the record. Smells like amber and tonka. Delicious. He loves the notes of almond. Leaves a little earlier than he told himself he would to give Rohan a little wake up call; he yanks the blanket off the bed like he did when they were in college, and tosses a bar at his head, only wincing a little when it actually hits him. It's soothing and familiar enough that, for a moment, when he slips his earbuds in and starts down the hall, it feels a little more like a university dorm than it does a hospital wing.
The feeling carries him through the door and into a chair with an empty seat beside it. His bag lands in the seat next to him, which he hopes his colleagues take as a hint, because it's never stopped feeling embarrassing to be an adult saying sorry, saving this for someone, but he is, so. He pulls his notepad and pens from his bag, lays them out on the table in front of him, and dates the first page, ORIENTATION in big block letters at the top. He's one of the first, and only pulls his earbuds out and shuts his Discman off as more of the others start filing in. The room starts to swell with sound and movement β just shuffling and murmurs, but it's enough for the wind to fall from his sails completely when he raises his head and starts looking around.
Not a lot of familiar faces. Some too familiar, but impossible to place. Enough to give him the lightheaded, dizzy feeling that's plagued him β most of his life, but flares any time anyone at the Foundation has him doing anything but minding his own business. Ro's explained the difference between amnestics and dissociatives a million times, but the shit they dose them with just feels like ketamine with tendrils. And, God, are people talking already? It's all ringing in his ears and the RBF he knows he's making and wishes he wasn't β eye contact and smile, goddammit β he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows β once he feels like a person again β isn't as alarming as it feels.
Rohan's filled the seat beside him at some point during his little episode, slung his bag on the back of his seat, and between the jab at his ribs and the water bottle he's retrieved for Seth, he's able to check back in, with enough time to start sketching down names and impressions β chicken scratch that can't be read over his shoulder and an inconsistent shorthand that'd be harder to decode than it's worth if they could, but the sounds of pen on paper is unmistakable. He watches for people's reactions to the fact of his note-taking. Sorry, folks. That's what he's here for. Studying you.
God. Do any of these people want to be here?
It's almost a comfort, the grimness emanating from so many corners of the room. The assurance he's not the only one with concerns, and the β freedom from being the biggest buzzkill of the pack. He might be sour on the assignment, but he can sit through an orientation like a professional, more than β the operatives among them especially β seem to be able to manage. A kick under the table seems to signal his turn and he refreshes his smile, fully human and mostly authentic this time β trying to be, at the very least.
"Hey everybody! I'm β Cowboy Greeting?" It's half a question when he says it, call sign still foreign and gaudy in his voice. "But Seth's fine, whatever you prefer. It's, uh β well. I'm looking forward to getting to work with all of you; most for the first time, I believe, though I know I have one or two past co-conspirators in the room."
The chuckle he chases that with is half-hearted, maybe more artificial than the overhead LEDs, and painfully social worker-coded. Jesus Christ. And his mouth is even drier, almost as dry as the room. A fucking mess. A debacle, no saving it. "I'm a junior researcher, currently under AEED.. I haven't been here long, but I've bounced between a few different departments and facilities as part of my work β kind of big-picture policy review? Are people doing what they're supposed to do, do we want them doing what they're supposed to be doing right now, looking at outcomes, that sort of thing. My background prior to starting with the Foundation was in social work and nonprofit policy, so."
Definitely the most long-winded description of paper-pushing legitimacy-bestowing bullshit he could give β and maybe that would've been a better approach for some of his new colleagues, but he's never been in the business of giving his bosses a reason to eliminate his position, and he's not about to start.
"Anyways. Again. Really excited to work with all of you. And if anyone's looking for a gym buddy for their time here, definitely hit me up. Know that's gonna be my first stop after we're done the official tour."
First stop. Definitely. Right after a vape break. He's going to need it.
It took dedication and a whole lot of caring to do social work.
That was the thought that bounced around Bailey's head at the end of Cowboy Greeting's introduction. It wasn't the way his pencil scratched against his notebook, or how he blended into a long line of operatives who looked world-weary and unhappy. There was hardly a smile in the room; if he was smiling, she'd probably take note.
No, it was the little bit he allowed of his background that caught her. There was hardly a day in social work that went without some devastation. Sure, there was reward, but the rewards came with work. She wondered if that was the notes, the attention to detail. Trudging on despite the dire looks on everyone's faces. If you just put in the workβ
Bailey hoped there was some reward at the end for him. That this room and all its inhabitants didn't drain all the caring away.
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."
ππππππππππππππ π πππππππ
she has dimples when she smiles wide, but only then
πππππππ / πππππππππ
two piercings in her ears, one in the lobe and one across the top. the only tattoo she has to speak of is an outline of a mother long-neck and a baby long-neck essentially hugging on her wrist. it's just a black outline, and it's small enough it could reasonably be missed
πππ / π.π.π. 35, 7/14/88
ππππππ
gemini β versatile, adaptive, energetic, quick-witted. bailey is typically good at adjusting to group dynamics, but doesn't lose her positive edge. she's always on her toes.
ππππππππ astoria, oregon
π πππππ
she has a mother and father, both moved to the east to be with her mother's side of the family after she moved out
ππππππ
she's been struggling with biting at her nails since she was little. it's something she picked up in school and has been a hard habit to kick. it's gotten better over the years, but it's noticeable when she's nervous, or over-eager. there's also the pen clicking, some of her peers and superiors have been known to take pens away from her.
πππππππ
hiking! and sailing. she had a tiny little Hobie her father finally set her free on when he was confident she could manage, about 16 years old. on clear, windy days she'd take it up the Columbia.
ππππ (πππ π ππ ππππ)
no pets, but if she had pets she'd be a dog person. she likes to think she could handle a husky, maybe some day she'll put it to the test.
THE FOUNDATION.
ππππ π πππππ: MTF Junior Operative, though she would love to be a Researcher, please let her be a researcher, who does she need to pay to be a researcher, Commander hello she would like to apply for a position asβ
ππππππππ ππππππππ(π):
Junior Operative with MTF Gamma-6, "Deep Feeders"
ππππ ππππππππππ:
Tracking and capture of instances of SCP-2120
ππππππ / ππππ ππππππππ:
Bailey has her PhD in Psychology with a focus on Parapsychology. Her fascination with the unknown and why people believe in it has led to many dog-eared books on her bookshelf and a wealth of knowledge on phenomena that probably aren't even SCPs. Additionally, her time spent at sea both from a young age with her father and as an operative assigned to SCP-2120 has turned her into quite the sailer.
EXTRAS.
πππππππππ:
Astoria, Oregon perched itself at the mouth of the Columbia River, weather-beaten and spending most of its days in a grey haze. Mostly, it was claims to fame from the 80s, and haggard fishermen pulling the day's catch in with ratty nets and water-logged crab pots. Its houses were ramshackle and its people were tired. The main drag was almost enough to spark life in the summer months, boasting corner shops and kites for windy days, but those months were fleeting in the face of the Pacific Northwest winters.
Bailey Anne Brennan grew up diving between those ramshackle houses. She learned to drive a stick shift up the steep hills, rolling all the way to the bottom every time she stalled. She'd slide belly-first through the muck and mud of the Columbia when the tide was low, throw mud-pies at her friends, rinse off when the tide washed in once more. She knew every crook and cranny, every back alley, which house was the Goonies house, how many steps it took to cross the Astoria-Megler Bridge, how little room there was to dream in a town that only offered boats and tourism.
The ice cream shop was good, they hired high schoolers who dreamed big but always washed up. Bailey didn't want an ice cream shop.
Bailey wanted more. She could remember standing on her tip toes at the bow of her father's pilot boat, little hands clutched around the railing, wind whipping her hair into her face. She could remember looking deep, deep into the channel and wondering what was down there. What lurked in the depths. Astoria was so, so very small, but right at its doorstep a whole world lay hidden. She would stand on the rocks on the jetty and look out to where the sky met the ocean and think there was so much world, why did people choose to stay in a town that could only ever look out and wonder.
The problem was most people didn't wonder at all. Her mother was happy to sit at home and knit, selling most of it to a local tourist trap that didn't pay enough. Her father loved his boat. He would look at Bailey, and she knew he knew. He had a glimmer in his eye, as though he would never steer his boat towards the horizon, but he knew she would. He'd smile just around the edges and tell her to be careful as she tipped just a little too far over the bow. Her mother said be a darling, help Mr. Catalina with his ice cream shop. Her father said dream.
She was seventeen and too big for the little sailboat she'd putter around in when her father took her out for what she thought would be a day guiding barges through the channel. He pointed the bow towards the horizon and gunned it. She could remember laughing as the wind turned from playful to pure force, yelling as the waves broke over the railing.
Astoria was but a thought on the horizon far, far away by the time he killed the engines. It was surreal, the way the sea calmed around them. The waves settled, the wind died down to a breeze. Bailey had always been fascinated by what she couldn't see, always diving into caves with dark corners, always looking over the edge of the pilot boat to catch a glimpse of something, but this? For the first time, Bailey felt a chill run up her spine.
Thoughts of fancy turned into a pit in her stomach, something dark and roiling and exciting all at once. Like when she was small, she stood tip-toes on the prow, and wrapped her hands around the railing. She tipped out and out and stared down. The water turned from grey-blue to deep, endless black. She stared and stared until it felt as though something far, far beneath seemed to take shape.
Her hands gripped tighter and she thought I shouldn't know this and I want to know this and closed her eyes. Behind her, her father smiled that same knowing smile. He knew. Soon, Bailey would leave Astoria, Oregon. She would dream bigger than the coastline, bigger than his little boat and her mother's knitting.
She would leave Astoria, but Astoria wouldn't leave her.
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THE ROLE MODEL β Bailey is trying her absolute best to be her absolute best. She is looking to those around her for guidance, absorbing what they do and how they act, measuring her own actions against those she feel are both much more capable, and much more experienced than she. Maybe your character knows she's looking and is playing into it, maybe they know and genuinely want to help, maybe they know and would like her to stop.
THE CAUTIONARY TALE β So many in this group have been through the ringer once or twice. This would be a character who sees a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed newcomer bouncing into this assignment like everything is going to be just fine, and they want to warn her. Square your shoulders, Bailey Anne. Or get out while you can.
THE PARTNER IN CRIME β Really, at her heart, Bailey wants to enjoy what she's doing. She wants some sense of friendship from her peers, or at least more than straight-faces over coffee. Just because it's all one big secret organization dealing in world ending threats that doesn't mean they can't have a little fun. Listen, if they can slip a package in, they could get one of those fake fire alarms that give the low battery chirp every five minutes and hide it in the Commander's office........
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idealist, everyman, charmer, dreamer, optimist, doomed by the narrative, fish out of water, wake up call, be careful what you wish for
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forgive me these will be a lot of comics characters: Kitty Pryde (Marvel), Stephanie Brown (DC), Ruth Wilder (GLOW), Cassie Lang (Marvel), Cindy Moon (Marvel)