๐๐๐๐. 23 february 2024, somewhere between late morning and early afternoon
๐๐๐๐๐. seth's suite
๐๐๐๐. @cowboygreeting
It shouldn't have been this hard to find Seth's door, Rohan had only just been there last night, and yet his idiot compass proved way off, needle spinning senselessly around the rooftop terrace and nearly the sauna before he managed to right course.
All for the best. It would have been too mortifying for words, if not mortally dangerous, had Rohan kicked the door open and flopped face down onto someone else's bed, a groan into the pillow by way of greeting.
"We're so fucked." Rohan's face is still mouth-deep in pillow, and he doesn't actually know where Seth is, spatially speaking, in the room โ god knows mentally, too, Ro's so off kilter in his own right โ so he props up onto an elbow, side-long, and tries again.
"We're so fucked, dude. We're so, so massively out of our goddamned fucking depth โ I don't even know. That analogy was supposed to go somewhere. Fuck."
He goes pillow-side for one more emphatic, "FUUUUUCK," entirely for his own benefit. Attempt at catharsis, maybe. Rohan recalls a paper, once, or maybe a PopSci article when he still read for fun on the positive correlation between cursing and pain tolerance. Feels about fucking right.
"The least you could do is come here and wallow with me. What the fuck did we get ourselves into?"
If you get lost using a dipshit GPS, does it mean it's broken or at full functionality?
These are the difficult questions facing Seth as he waits for Rohan to find his room. He was here last night. He'd sent a page to let Seth know he was coming, so Seth knew he was on his way โ absolutely abusing every function the pager had to offer to annoy each other since they'd gotten in, the both of them, in case there was any doubt โ but that was nearly an hour ago. It's not that Seth is worried, necessarily, though there's always an undercurrent of concern in a place like this. No, it's more like โ how? It's a big campus, sure, and a lot looks the same, but, come on. Less than 24 hours since the last time, come on.
Maybe it's just how bad this place makes him feel. It gives him the creepy-crawlies. He's no stranger to concrete hallways, and he's spent enough time at Foundation sites at this point that he'd thought he'd desensitized himself to the general vibe of these places, but no. This one's worse. He doesn't like it. Doesn't like the thought of Rohan wandering around by himself either.
It's long enough waiting that it is a jumpscare when Rohan bursts through the door, all movement and energy and sound and colour, but Seth can't help but grin to himself, if only out of relief. "We're fucked? Who's fucking us this time? Did they bring us flowers?"
"Oh, just generally, got it." It only takes a second for him to cross the room, drop onto the bed beside him. They're probably too old to be doing this โ were probably too old when they started โ but he won't be the one to stop. Even if the beds they'd been given don't entirely seem to be designed with two adult men in mind. "Like, yes. As I've been saying. Glad you're catching up. Was there anything in particular that triggered this episode?"
๐ ๐๐: @cowboygreeting and @homegrownkel
๐ ๐๐๐: first contact
๐ ๐๐๐๐: ?
๐ ๐๐๐: ?
It was easy to spot them out from across the green. They โ Garden Variety โ towered, after all. It hadn't been Seth's only takeaway of him; nervous with a nice smile, experienced (three decades at the Foundation, god damn), one of the more normal people in the room, fun accent to boot. Someone worth being friendly with. The height is the most identifiable out of all these factors from afar, and what makes Seth notice him from so far away.
He doesn't decide to follow them, per se. It's certainly not a chase โ even if Seth is gaining on him pretty quickly. It's a garden variety chance encounter, as contrived at any other; they would have crossed paths either way. Nothing ever just happens, anyways, there's always a little push somewhere. As long as the motives are as mundane as mid banter-as-friendly introduction, which is all Seth has in mind, the push is justifiable.
He tries not to sneak up behind them, lets his Red Wings crunch into the gravel underfoot, comes from a more parallel angle. As long as they aren't entirely tuned out, he's been provided fair warning. Seth puts on a smile, and clears his throat. "Heading to the labs? Going that way myself, mind if I join you?"
Although Vera considered herself a careful planner, sheโd never booked a night walk with a dog. The harsh weather was no problem for her. Ice, wind, and freezing temperatures were part of a veteran Delta-14โs genetic makeup. Even the darkness played into her stealth more than it played into her fear. But she couldnโt bear the thought of leaving without little Jawa, whose tiny paws would surely freeze in the cold. He was so put out by her cancellation, too. Quietly circling at her heels with great big eyes. Vera had no choice but to play with him indoors and save the forest for a more temperate evening. No other option than to lie flat on the floor and smother Jawa with love and little dog treats and hidden pieces of jerky from her pocket.ย
By the time she realized sheโd been had, it was too late to go on a real walk anyway. With or without a smug little dog. One more kiss on his perfect little nose and Vera walked off in a huff.ย
So, a light dusting of snow was catching at the window screen behind Vera. She didnโt mind the occasional snowflake. It was well worth it for the air circulation. This was one of those secret places in the residential building that Vera found she could actually breathe if she got the atmosphere right. Sheโd already flicked out the hall lights and draped a silk scarf, reddish-orange patterned with tiny black deer, onto the floor lamp by the communal couch. Usually, it held back her hair. But the soft ambience it produced over that bright bulb was much more pleasing to Vera. She preferred her hair wild and loose, anyway.ย
She was curled up on that couch with her legs tucked beneath her. Thick, patterned socks peeking out. Pages from the end of Italo Calvinoโs The Baron in the Trees, a fresh copy of the first volume of Patricia Highsmithโs The Talented Mr. Ripley waiting on the coffee table with her empty mug of cocoa. Vera closed the former, still not quite finished, as soon as she saw Cowboy Greeting. โLong time no see,โ Vera said with a wry smile. She offered the other side of the couch. Even if he didnโt stay, Vera figured it would be impolite not to offer.ย "First time finding The One Specific Window or do I just keep missing you?
It only took a couple days for the insomnia to set in. He thought he'd have a little longer, but between that bizarre interaction with the Director, those bagels, and the nightmares returning in full swing... No, it was too optimistic. Especially in a place with so few distractions. It had been a while since he'd been forced to think about the kind of crutch the gaming was, something to just tune out on. He could only spend so much time at the gym before it started losing efficacy; he didn't need to exhaust his body, it was his mind that needed tiring. At least something to drone out on.
Thank God for his CD player. Low-tech enough to make the cut, impossible to connect to an internet it predated. He should've brought more CDs with him, but the ones he had were a needed balm. Plug in, check out, and start meandering.
He'd been a little concerned that the security at this facility would make it hard to wander, but his key card worked everywhere he'd tried to go so far, and he'd managed to avoid any odd looks or intrusive questions. There was room to stretch out here, and that granted a much-needed measure of peace, given the general atmosphere. Well-designed, intentional, with some decent living quarters and plenty of outdoor space โ the facility was all of these things, yes, but it was still stifling. The remoteness, the inability to leave without a helicopter and โ more worrying, permission from above.
Say nothing of the ghosts. The ones that lurked around each corner, intermingling with his own hauntings, embedding themselves in a new way. He'd appreciate the novelty if it wasn't happening so directly, so vividly. If he couldn't hear his own crying in the wind. That's where the music came in clutch.
It wasn't entirely intentional, but he'd made his way to the spot Dr. Nair had recommended. Vera? He'd like to call her Vera, but โ that was a little much for having spoken once. But he'd been to the window a couple times now, and she'd been right on the money. It was the only place in the facility where you could really taste the air. Seth had โ mixed feelings on the smell of pines, but it was an improvement over the antiseptic absence he'd felt in most of the rest of the facility.
He hadn't been planning on sitting โ he hadn't been planning on running into her, or anyone at all, but he was glad he did. She was โ the right kind of person to be talking to in a place like this. Knowledgeable, realistic, helpful. Caring, and sharp. Most of the time he doesn't really understand Rohan's hunger for mentorship, for guidance in a place like this; maybe that has something to do with not really having anyone to look to for the odd role he'd carved out for himself. His conversation with Dr. Nair gave him some kind of inkling. He's no doctor, wouldn't touch field medicine with a ten foot pole, but. Something about her attitude, her approach โ speaks to the type of person he'd like to be here. So he sits, smiling gratefully, unhooking his headphones.
"Ships in the night, I think. It's quickly becoming my new favourite spot here."
"How have the past couple days been treating you? Hopefully not too exciting. Have a feeling we'll be getting plenty of that later."
The gym wasn't empty when she first got there, but the little clutch of security officers hyping each other up over overhead presses was almost endearing. And they did little more than give her a nod before leaving her be, so that was a relief.
There's still a roil of anger in her, burning straight up from the base of her spine, which means she wants to lift heavy. Squats. The facility is clutch, sleek and clearly new so the squat rack she picks out is fully loaded and actually has both clips in their place. It's the little things -- like not having to search all over the goddamn gym just to keep both sides of her bar collared.
Despite the anger, Nadia still starts low and slow. Not entirely sure about the effects of whatever the fuck amnestic they hit her with. So she's only just started to get to a working load when someone else enters. With the security guys long gone, it's just the two of them.
Cowboy Greeting. He said someting about hitting the gym after everything. And his research area is of interest to Nadia; she had the idea of coming to the gym just to run into him, make conversation. But that was before the rest of the day happened, leaving her wildly overstimulated and in need of an outlet. Judging by this Cowboy's physique, he would be back for more workouts (she knows a gym rat when she sees one) -- Nadia will catch him next time.
She pointedly does not look at him during her rests. Content to pace in a little circle and keep her eyes on the floor for all four minutes. What she wouldn't give for a smart phone to mindlessly swipe on. Or headphones so she can pretend not to hear when he shouts at her across the gym.
But it's just that stupid fucking pager tossed with the rest of her things, so she has to turn around. And-- Jesus fucking Christ. "Atalanta," she corrects. Popping the latches on her belt, she gives him a long look, eyes flickering from top to bottom. Emphasis on the bottom. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
(Not that Nadia was one to comment on fashion trends, dressed as she is, in a pair of over-large basketball shorts and a much-faded Northwestern tee shirt with the sleeves cut off.)
He thinks that, and it's a little demeaning, but as long as the thought stays inside, it's fine. No harm done. It's better than cowering away โ he won't be intimidated so easily, even when he wants to be, maybe ought to be. He's looking at the plates she's been working, and it's nothing to shrug at. At all. Like โ maybe significantly more than he's lifting. That type of nothing to shrug at. It's not enough for Seth to bristle at; he's not that insecure. Maybe it shouldn't be a question of insecurity, based on her expression, so much as self-preservation. He hasn't known field operatives to be particularly... diplomatic, or welcoming, or friendly types of people. Sometimes. Mostly to other people, not Seth. They seem to be able to smell... something on him. Red tape. Concerns with ethical standards. An annoying kind of attitude in general.
But they'll be working together for a year, and he's not going to let someone else's bad attitude get in his way. It's not like he's looking into her. No โ he's being friendly. He said he'd swing this way during intros, didn't he? So he'll say hello, try to carry a conversation. Just won't push too hard. (Maybe saying hello in the first place was too hard of a push โ she didn't look like she was interested. Too late now to take it back, though, if he could. Besides โ she's engaging, isn't she? On her.)
"Atalanta," he repeats, meaning it as a confirmation, knowing the second he opens his mouth he sounds like a dunce. "Got it. You can call me Masters if that's more comfortable, or CG." Flashes her a little smile, avoiding direct eye contact โ lest it be interpreted as aggression. He maintains a wide radius too, even as he starts making his way towards the squat racks, choosing one with ample distance between them. Not so far as to have to shout to speak to her, but โ he knows they're not buddy-buddy (yet). And the closer he gets, the more obvious it seems that her irritation runs a lot deeper than this interaction. Probably has very little to do with him. He'd love to know what's got her so pressed, but that's his nosy streak talking.
And โ why is that the first thing she mentions. That once-over might as well be solvent, the way Seth wants to melt through the floor, disappear entirely. She couldn't sound more unimpressed. He only barely succeeds in staving off a flush of embarrassment, maintaining the barest dignity.
"Leggings. Listen, my gym wardrobe is designed around doing numbers at an Equinox. Not my fault I ended up in Batman's gym." He offers her a similar considering glance, and nods. "Nice. Very... my-closet-in-2004 chic. The huge basketball shorts are such a statement piece."
Nadia Atalanta is sounds even more made up than Seth Masters. He didn't think that was possible. It's the first thing that latches in his brain โ unfortunately for her, this exact type of sandpaper personality slides right off of him, no damage done. He's seen too many wounded people to really take it personally. (He doesn't wonder how she's been wounded. 20 years here sounds like enough.) "I like the name. Seems nice."
ELEVATOR MUSIC.
He doesn't know Elevator Music personally, but he knows her. He knows this type of woman well, has sat in every chair in her office but hers. She's always been his favourite kind, as far as doctors go, for the kind of person Seth is โ treatment half as meditation, half as combat sport. She seems like she'd be fun to spar with. He needs to talk to her about his prescriptions.
He doesn't respond to Rohan, but for a low hum, scrawling a line in his notes.
OLD SPORT.
Something in his stomach turns when Old Sport starts to speak. It's not his affect; not the odd rhythm he speaks with. It's not his posture, or his tone. It's certainly not what he's saying that rings familiar โ Seth's never heard such common words combined in such a... novel way. No, it's his face. His face. Where has he seen that face?
He nudges Ro with his foot. "Round Spongebob. That's it."
(Where has he seen that face โ really, where has he not?)
HIGH FIDELITY.
Seth beams a smile at him over the Polish restaurant quip. It's not that he thinks it's particularly funny, he's just charmed. What can he say? He's got a soft spot for this particular brand of shy older man. Something intoxicating about that kind of inherent awkwardness, offset by decades of knowledge and experience. If only they weren't colleagues.
Maybe some conference, somewhere down the line. Through the corner of the smile, to Ro: "Dibs."
๐ ๐๐: @cowboygreeting and @livewireatalanta
๐ ๐๐๐: lifting session #1 and the beginning of a beautiful friendship
๐ ๐๐๐๐: the indoor gym, at the residential complex
๐ ๐๐๐: feb. 19, following the first day's activities
The sweatpants were the right choice, at least for the walk over. He hadn't realized how far the gym would be from his little apartment, though he'd known they were in different buildings. It's not like he has a problem being seen โ he'd be jogging to the gym wearing less had he been back in Arizona โ it's just. These are all professional colleagues, and Seth feels a little ridiculous. Who here is he showing off for, really? It's not like there's another point. Well. Besides feeling like God's gift to mankind when he walks past a mirror, but that's fleeting, and supremely vain โ which he is, to be sure, but this is not the place to be feeling himself like that, and not the people he needs to be impressing with his physique.
Maybe one or two of them. Unprofessional, sure, but it's hardly Seth's fault this place is crawling with handsome older men. Honestly, kind of a buffet. If he didn't work with โ or for โ them, God. God. Shan't be spoken of. Really, even in his own head is a little too loud. He'll need to find someone to gossip with (other than Ro, he couldn't stomach what he'd hear back) at some point or he'll die, or explode, or something. To do that, he'll need to make friends, start a shortlist of candidates to be one of the girlies. And the first step to that is putting himself out there.
He said he'd be hitting the gym, so that's what he'll do. Live Wire โ Nadia? Agent Atalanta? The scary woman. She said she'd be hitting the gym at some point too. Seth isn't sure if he wants to run into her or not until he makes it to the door and sees she's beaten him to the squat rack; in the moment, he says yes, okay, I can do this. If he has to trace a few steps back down the hall so she can't see him power-posing, just to get in the right mindset, whatever, it's fine. Whatever he has to do to put the right kind of smile on when he knocks on the door, crosses the threshold.
She seems... busy. He wouldn't want to interrupt her set. So he gets himself ready instead, stripping off the sweats and the hoodie, feeling โ ridiculous, quite frankly, in the stupid TikTok tights. His ass looks phenomenal, yes, but at what cost? His dignity?
Too late to worry about that now. He stretches instead, glancing back at her from the corner of his eye every now and then, just waiting for a natural pause for him to say hello, introduce himself. It takes fifteen painful, grueling minutes before he can work the courage up. By then, it already feels too late, and he's half-thinking she's doing this on purpose, so he doesn't have a chance to say hi and she can avoid talking to him altogether โ but. That would be ridiculous, right? They're adults. It's fine. He steels himself, and, a little too loud, a little too abruptly, projects across the gym:
"Yo. Hey. Nadia, right? I'm Seth, nice to meet you. You taking me up on the gym buddy offer?"
you walk up to the helicopter and step inside, bag and suitcase in hand. the pilot greets you brusquely; you smile at him anyways. it's not kindness, it's courtesy, and you will show it to others regardless of whether you're shown it or not. that's character. and if he doesn't want to talk, fine, you won't talk. you'll sit down and stretch out. your headphones, attached to your old discman, slip over your ears. you tune in and drop out as the beating rotor whisks you away.
you're listening to โ not your favourite album, though certainly your choice for when your cd storage is as limited as it appears to be. yer favourites. yer favourites indeed. when did you become a best of album kind of man? it seems like it must have been โ a long, long time ago. you press play.
โฏ now playing ... SCARED ... by THE TRAGICALLY HIP
this was one of your favourites. after your parents took you in. they worked hard, making sure you felt like โ one of them, part of them. you remember rod sitting in the basement with you, handing you your first jersey in a package you know ellen wrapped up for you. this song was playing. he said he'd take you to a game that week, and he did. you started skating with him that weekend. he would play this album in the car to and from the dinky little ice rink in your subdivision. this is what you're choosing to listen to, think about your father's laugh, the screech of blades scraping against ice, rattling up your bones and reverberating through your chest. the slam of your shoulder against the sideboards when you were still learning how to stop. you hum it under your breath, too quietly for the pilot to hear (you hope) โ "there's a precious few, at the root, that can prove, this is all nothing but cold calculation..."
[ A SONG FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD STARTS PLAYING, A MELODY THAT REMINDS YOU OF A TIME WHEN YOU WERE A HAPPY CHILD โ ONCE. ]
this is the song you sing to yourself so you don't hear the one in your head. it's discordant, never quite right, but persistent. you hear it now, in between the chopping of the helicopter. it's not really a song, per se, so much as a woman's voice, the implication of a melody. good morning, good morning, you slept the whole night through, good morning, good morning to you. you wonder where it comes from. you know that it's from an old movie, you've looked it up and seen clips, but not like that, it's not the same song. you have a feeling, but you'd rather it not be โ you'd rather it be something you'd overheard at work. something you'd heard taylor singing to kai, some fourteen years ago. maybe something your sister sings to hear daughter now, all the way out east.
the sun crests over the treetops, pine spears breaking up the pink-lemonade sky. you'll be the first to admit that the sun rises in this part of the world like it does nowhere else. one thing to like about the assignment, at least. good morning, good morning, it's great to see my friends, good morning, good morning, to you. it makes you a little dizzy, when you listen too long. when you focus too hard. you start tasting rust in your mouth. as your daughter would say: "something wrong with you for real, dad."
a week ago, youโre on vacation. youโre in line at the first-ever starbucks with your daughter, her arm looped through yours. youโre ordering her the biggest size of the worst drink youโve ever heard of, and get a small โ no, tall, sorry, yes โ americano for yourself. she thanks you, and you tousle her hair, to her immense indignation. she spends fifteen minutes fixing it in the bathroom โ and texting, probably. you donโt mind waiting, even when the minutes are ticking down, before you have to go. sheโs happy today, you arenโt going to be an asshole and spoil her fun. youโre going to miss her. youโll make today good.
you spend the rest of the morning on a bench, watching a fishmonger haul their catches up from the boats. she sketches their moving forms, the fish thrown without care. she takes a glitter pen and colours in their shiny scales. you love it. you ask her for a page of her sketches and she gives you the book. you promise to buy her another and you do. you promise to give it back to her when youโre done. she says only if you draw in it too. you donโt know how to draw; you agree anyways. youโll try, for her, as you always have.
both of you cry big fat tears when you say goodbye. she sobs into your shoulder; she's never gone a whole year without seeing you. since the day she's gotten a phone she's never gone a week without texting. she doesn't know what she's going to do without the stupid, bad memes you send her. you hold her in your arms while she shakes, and while you know she's been smaller before, that there was a day where she fit in the palm of your hand, you don't feel like it's true. you don't feel like she could be any more fragile โ like there could be a decision wronger than leaving now, not staying to keep her safe. you tell her the answer is obvious: she's just going to have to look at better memes. or go on reddit. she starts crying again, probably because of how utterly unconvincing you are.
it'll only be a year. it'll only be a year.
[ A FIDGETABLE, ANALOG ITEM, CAN BE KNIFEY THOUGH YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD REASON FOR IT TO BE ]
the sketchbook stays in your carry on, but you pull out one of her other parting gifts; she's always loved trinkets and knick-knacks, and while you weren't that kind of person before her, you've turned into one. you've never managed to let go of anything she's given you. the latest is the rock-em sock-em robots she picked up from one of those little stores in pike place, that she bought when you weren't looking and gave to you very solemnly.
"these are for you and uncle ro. so you don't die of boredom out there." you thanked her seriously, and it made both of you burst into tears again. even now, you can't hold back your sniffles. it's been so hard with work, trying to be close to her physically, getting to be part of her life โ but phones and online, that let you stay close. she's going to be a whole other person when you get out of this place. a year is longer than any length of time could possibly be, when you're fifteen years old.
(she'll be sixteen when you're back. you're missing her birthday. doesn't matter that her mother already has her present from you, you're missing it. you missed last year's, too. because of that conference.
what could possibly have been at that conference that was more important than her?
what could be beyond these trees that could be more important than her?)
it doesn't matter what kind of work you'll be doing. how excited rohan is, or anyone else. how important it could be. that girl is your life. you already feel the regret sinking in. but it's too late now. you're getting close. and something terrible, a migraine's nasty cousin, is pounding behind your eyes. you just need to close them for a second...
[ A PLACE OF GREAT PERSONAL SIGNIFICANCE, BE THAT POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE ]
when you open them, you swear, for a split second, that you're back in montreal. on the western tip of montreal island, locking up your bike outside the staggering glass walls of the greenhouses. you're on the macdonald campus, waiting for your roommate to finish the parasitology class he decided to take out here for some goddamn reason, though you don't really mind, because the arboretum is beautiful and you don't know if you'd have made the trek out here if not for him. you're twenty-one and there's a party tonight, if you want to go. you've been invited, and everybody knows that means he'll be tagging along, too, so it comes down to whether or not he wants to come. if you have fare for the bus, you'll take the bus back to the city. a very small part of you hopes that you won't, so he'll put his feet on the back wheels and his arms around your waist, back to your apartment, trying not to wipe out in the slush. it's just a split second, but it's so, so real, the smell of pine and snow and gasoline, the sound of his voice โ
no, you're just stepping off the helicopter. you only hear his voice because he's here, waving at you from behind the โ director, presumably, and your new ombudsperson. you'll take the welcome packages and fill out the forms and do everything you have to do before you go find him properly, but the familiarity of it is soothing enough to ground you in place. you're glad you have a friend here. you'd be โ fine, otherwise, but it wouldn't... be worth it. worth the excursion, worth losing a year of your life to whatever fresh hell your employer's cooked up for you, but you see the glimmer in his eyes all the way from over here when he sees you and waves, and, okay. maybe it'll be okay. hell, maybe it'll be a little like old times.
you have a new name here. you whisper it under your breath: cowboy greeting. cowboy greeting. cowboy greeting.
seth masters really doesn't seem like the kind of guy who can handle being a broken scale of themis, whatever that might mean. but maybe cowboy greeting can. only one way to find out.
Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad โ A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel โ 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 โ early, early morning stroll โ 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 โ 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 โ someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to โ
โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ eye contact and smile, goddammit โ he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows โ once he feels like a person again โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ the operatives among them especially โ 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 โ trying to be, at the very least.
"Hey everybody! I'm โ 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 โ 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 โ 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 โ 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.
๐๐๐๐ seth hiroshi masters โ seth hiroshi from birth, masters 1996-onwards, following his legal adoption.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ cowboy greeting professionally, apparently; gnomerodeo if you know him from online. believe it or not, it is a coincidence.
๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ will sharpe
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ thin scar cutting through his eyebrow, healed-broken nose, occasional facial twitch/spasm
japanese maple (right shoulder); canada goose in flight (right bicep); soot sprites (left forearm); kermode bear [spirit bear] (crook of left elbow); pistols pointing down (matching, both hips); portuguese water dog [his childhood dog sam] in play (left calf)
pierced right ear, small gold hoop
๐๐๐ / ๐.๐.๐. 38 years old / 2.2.1986
๐๐๐๐๐๐ aquarius sun: unconventional, abstract, boundary-pushing, roots for the underdog; scorpio moon: intense, passionate, dramatic, struggles to let others in; sagittarius rising: independent, optimistic, confident, charismatic yet blunt and critical
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ powell river, b.c. / brampton, ontario
๐ ๐๐๐๐๐
ellen and rod masters (parents); mackenzie irish (sister); brandon irish (brother-in-law); june irish (niece)
kaiko mcintyre-masters (daughter, lives with her mother) โ his favourite person on planet earth, hands down, would do anything for her, keeps several pictures of her in his wallet, will not be letting anyone here who doesn't already know she exists know about her.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ single, never married.
enjoys hookups and casual relationships; has dated on-and-off; last serious relationship ended several years ago; says he's prioritizing work and his daughter, truly has no interest in committing to the people he meets.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ timid, disconnected, tendency towards disinvestment, capacity for fixation/malicious compliance
๐๐๐๐๐๐ vaping, compulsive gaming, more-than-occasional drug and alcohol use, late night wandering, not texting back
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ gaming (particularly world of warcraft and rust, social games); bass guitar; powerlifting; cooking; rec-league rugby
๐๐๐๐ (๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐) tobiko โ tiny crusty white mutt. sometimes known as tobi or toebeans. currently being cared for by his parents.
THE FOUNDATION.
๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ jr. researcher
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐(๐) jr. researcher for the reintegration department; field analyst doing site evaluations on a number of mtfs โ some might call this "glorified operative hall monitor", which he would resent
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ last worked for the anomalous entities engagement division (aeed), researching the efficacy of humane containment procedures and enrichment programs against more traditional methods of containment โ some might describe this as "glorified scp babysitter", which he wouldn't necessarily object to
formal credentials include: a b.a. in psychology, with a focus in cognitive and behavioural psych; a masters of social work, with a focus in public policy and family systems; several years of experience writing policy in the non-profit sector, several years of experience working with vulnerable clients in the field
informal credentials include: an impossibly high tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit, an iron stomach, thicker skin than you'd imagine, genuinely sense of care for those around him, not caring whether or not he personally gets fired, fluency in boardspeak
EXTRAS.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ to be added.
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ to be added.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ / ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ to be added.
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ gideon nav, the locked tomb; dr. wilson, house; antigone, jean anouilh's antigone; camilla hect, the locked tomb; oh dae-su, oldboy
๐๐๐๐๐ to be expanded upon. for the time being, see my cg tag.
Unassuming and reserved, [๐ถ๐๐๐ต๐๐ ๐บ๐ ๐ธ๐ธ๐๐ผ๐๐บ]โs record of service can, at best, be described as consistent. However, the origins of this operativeโs connection to the Foundation are strikingly non-standard. As a child they survived not only direct exposure to an apocalyptic Apollyon-Class SCP that manifested at their hometown [DATA EXPUNGED], but also the contingency plan enacted to avoid a K-Class Scenario.
Despite administration of Class B Amnestics to target [๐ถ๐๐๐ต๐๐ ๐บ๐ ๐ธ๐ธ๐๐ผ๐๐บ]โs memories regarding the real reason that half the population of [DATA EXPUNGED] disappeared overnight, medical reports indicate the operative has persistent dreams involving the incident. So it was quite serendipitous that [๐ถ๐๐๐ต๐๐ ๐บ๐ ๐ธ๐ธ๐๐ผ๐๐บ] ended up working for the Foundation in adulthood. Whether this result can be chalked up to coincidence or this operativeโs connection to researcher [๐๐ ๐ธ๐ธ ๐ป๐๐บ๐บ๐ธ๐ ] is yet to be seen. In any case, the Ethics Committee is certain that their participation in MTF Chi-00 will lead to a future breakthrough on synthetic amnestics, and will be supervising their growth within the team.
โ Internal Memo from the Ethics Committee.
๐๐ฟ๐ท ๐๐๐๐ ๐. In contrast to you, they seem able to remain calm under any sort of pressure. Itโs admirable and comforting. But only kind of, because itโs hard not to compare yourself to them. Insecurities about whether or not you should be here are starting to spill over and taint the work youโre doing. Thankfully, it seems that ๐๐ฟ๐ท ๐๐๐๐ ๐ has noticed and has decided to watch over you. Or are they merely just watching?
๐๐ ๐ธ๐ธ ๐ป๐๐บ๐บ๐ธ๐ . Youโd follow them to hell and back, butโฆ youโre starting to think this latest venture might have been a mistake โ for both of you. Youโre hoping youโre wrong and itโs just stress over the new position. Plus, you can tell how excited ๐๐ ๐ธ๐ธ ๐ป๐๐บ๐บ๐ธ๐ is by all this. But like with everything else, doubts have started to creep in and youโve have always wondered if they really understand what the purpose of the Foundation is. Still, youโd never leave their side if you have any say about it.
๐ธ๐ฟ๐ธ๐๐ด๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ผ๐ถ. You find yourself in their office on the regular lately. Youโre not even sure why, half the time; maybe you just need somebody to talk to. Somebody who doesnโt know you like the back of their handโฆ. Yโknow, maybe itโs time that you moved out of your comfort zone and made new friends. ๐ธ๐ฟ๐ธ๐๐ด๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ผ๐ถ seems like a good choice in that regard.
