Urban Myth

Agent Bailey Brennan | 35 | Junior Security Officer Former Junior Operative for MTF GAMMA-6, "Deep Feeders," serving in observation and retrieval of SCP-2120.

[livewireatalanta]

who: @livewireatalanta & @agentmyth where: combat facilities of site-φ 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?"

[agentmyth]

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 is– hey!"

For a moment she wanted to argue, then her shoulders dropped. "My form is– it's bad. It's very bad." She shrugged a shoulder, "Got any tips?"

[agentelevatormusic]

The meeting point for the Walking Club wasn’t at all far from the little exit she’d 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. 

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? Wasn’t there a strict policy against pets at the facility?

Vera walked silently along the trail. Like a fawn. Just as he’d 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. 

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 hadn’t 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. 

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. 

Those silent footsteps picked up. Vera didn’t 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. “Oh my god! Look at all of you! You’re all so gorgeous. Such fluffy tails!” She laughed and tried in vain to pet all the dogs at once. Though she’d 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. “Are we the only two here?” Vera called from inside the swirl of dogs after a few seconds. See? Absolutely fine. Just right. So good. “How could anyone possibly stay inside on a day like this,” she stood up again, “with dogs like these?”

[agentmyth]

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."

[agentmyth]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴜʙ w/ @agentelevatormusic

It felt so much like home it was disorienting.

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.

[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.

[agentmyth]

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.

Bailey tried to walk like her captain. Her old captain. This man. Old Sport. She had the feeling he'd been in this business longer. Twenty-four years was a resumé worth framing and hanging on an office wall somewhere. Twenty-four years, but he didn't walk like her old captain did. His steps weren't fluid like they were preparing for the world to tilt, they were measured, they were sure but rehearsed. His words followed in kind, not a reaction to the world around him, but information put into a rubric and presented to the team.

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.

[rohanabb]

ABBASI, ROHAN: an introduction, of sorts

Following immediately after Seth.

It’s widely considered bad form to start one's story with their protagonist waking. So let us begin, then, what is most assuredly not a story – something quite smaller and grander in scale – with most assuredly not our protagonist – lacking categorically across the board – with, of our own forthright admission, an interlude on morning routines and the spiraling outwards of them.

Like most mornings, Rohan rises with the bile-bitter tongued feeling that he’s already late for something important.

Unlike most mornings, he does so in a bed his body does not recognize and without the usual sunlight streaming across his face. The sky, from what Rohan can see of it, sits lower here than in Arizona, a singular grey plane through which it feels little can escape between. What light does is equally low and flat, casting the as-yet-unfamiliar room in unflattering shades of, well, more grey. Rohan reaches semi-blindly for the bedside lamp for what little it'll help, his face still half-pressed to the pillow and — a protein bar.

He hadn't dreamed it, then. Seth had been here. The silver, crinkling assault of Kirkland's Worst nestled in the indent only just previously occupied by Rohan's head enough to rematerialize — something of the morning. God fuck, what time was it?

Rohan swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's cold. Of course it's cold, it's February, and for most of Rohan's life February has meant fucking cold. But Arizona, clearly, has made him soft. Cold-blooded, in need of a large, smooth rock to stretch out on for a few more hours. Missing the same sun he had complained so thoroughly about for so much of the year. Maybe he should think about investing in a sun lamp; any chance Amazon will still honor a two-day delivery?

...

When Rohan does arrive at the right room, it's under frankly more layers than he has any business wearing and would be embarrassed by in nearly any other circumstance. And he still feels cold — though, if we're to be entirely honest, as much as Rohan is ignorant to it beyond wishing he'd worn another jacket, it likely has more to do with the freezing waves rolling off the rest of the team than any real change in air temperature.

Rohan, for his part, started practically vibrating the second he so much as stepped foot in the building. To say he's operating on a different wavelength than many of his coworkers might be, perhaps, an understatement. He enters brightly, bristling with awareness of each pair of eyes that swivel towards him. This, at least, is in some way familiar. Orientation; a round table of stiff-mouthed and too-rehearsed introductions, even if Rohan is the only one leaking genuine excitement and anxiety on making a good first impression out of every pore.

If there is any hesitation in Rohan's step, it's not in taking his seat. That's easy. He slides into the space held for him, Seth's bag deposited gently on the back of his chair and Rohan's slung the same. A matching pair. He gives Seth a gentle tap on the ankle to say what he needs to and won't in the presence of strangers. Hi. Good morning. Thank you. Don't look at me like that. Pay attention.

Beyond that, Rohan is by all accounts well-behaved and characteristically himself. He does not take notes, does not cross his arms and avert his gaze. Rohan sits forward in his seat, chin propped in hand, making as much direct eye contact with each speaker as they'll allow. In the space between he leans back, settles beside Seth, and allows himself the brief vice of workplace gossip with his best friend.

When his turn comes around, by virtue of it just having been Seth's, Rohan slides again to the very edge of his chair, elbows planted on his knees, and gives a half wave.

"Hi, all," he starts with a smile, trying and failing to meet the eye of everyone left in the room through it. "I'm Rohan. Just Rohan, please. Dr. Abbasi if you feel especially professionally compelled, but really I'd prefer if we kept things more casual and friendly, seeing as it looks like we're going to be spending some serious time together. You're welcome to call me Tree Hugger, if that feels right to you, but you might have to say it a few times to get my attention."

He tries for a self-deprecating smile, drops it, and tries again with something a little more honest and open.

"With that said, please forgive me if I'm slow on the uptake when it comes to call-signs. I'm in my seventh year at the Foundation, but it's all been on the research side of things. Lab work, mostly. I'd be more than happy to go into details with anyone who's interested, as Seth knows I can go on all day about it and then some, but I'll spare you all the gory parts and give you the rundown: I'm a neuroscientist and pharmacology guy by training with a more recent focus on amnestic applications in animal and humanoid SCP recovery. I definitely consider myself a pretty active participant in the Foundation's scientific community. One of my long-term goals that I've had — pretty much since I started here has been to incorporate academic and modern medical research principals into what we do. It's something I bring to work with me every day and I'm more than excited for the opportunity to continue bringing it but on a much larger scale and alongside all of you.

"So — yeah. That's about it on my end. Again, pleasure to meet all of you. Please feel free to grab me afterwards for anything or any reason. I'm also on the hunt for a running partner, maybe someone else interested in starting a journal club of sorts — so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."

[agentmyth]

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.

[cowboygreeting]

𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒. 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚒. 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

cw: drug mention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[agentmyth]

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 work–

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.

[agentmyth]

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."

[agentmyth]

Urban Myth: Dossier

BASICS.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: bailey anne brennan

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒: none, really. bailey anne when she's in trouble

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 jenna coleman

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 she has dimples when she smiles wide, but only then

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 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

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁. 35, 7/14/88

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 gemini – 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.

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 astoria, oregon

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 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

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 cis woman, she/her

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘: pansexual, panromantic

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: single

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 + optimistic, motivated, intelligent

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 - idealistic, inexperienced, excitable

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 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.

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 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.

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄) 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.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄: 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 as–

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒): Junior Operative with MTF Gamma-6, "Deep Feeders"

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓: Tracking and capture of instances of SCP-2120

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒: 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.

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘: 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.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 THE ROLE MODEL – 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 – 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 – 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........

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 idealist, everyman, charmer, dreamer, optimist, doomed by the narrative, fish out of water, wake up call, be careful what you wish for

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 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)

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

(Thank you, Clow, for this one)

[agentmyth]

.tag drop