They hadn't? His head cocked aside - pointlessly. As if he'd hear... whatever he'd heard, on his way through the halls. Guin straightened up as Garden Variety went ahead and started searching out those bearings. No, he wouldn't mind. (He'd have told them to fuck off, if he did.) Yes, he'd be leaving the damn lights. At least he didn't have to tell Trebond so.
Taking up that firing position again, he... stopped, again, as Kel spoke. Not to him. A giddy greeting, to - what? Guin swiveled, scowling. Garden Variety was at the rack, fawning over some of the gear. In post? His head tilted, curious despite himself. And the headache kicking in the side of his skull. "That the kinda engineering you do? Ordnance?"
Engineering, he remembered from that introduction. The particular sort, so far as he remembered, got left real vague. And in the Foundation, shit - what the hell didn't they engineer? Kel could've been up to just about anything.
"Oh, I do all kinds," Kel didn't bother to rid his tone of distraction. Dying Breed didn't seem the type to mind - though they'd read people wrong before. "I like making things you can carry, but I'll admit my best works are more permanent installations. Location based things, yeah? Not as fun though..." He hefted the butt of the barrel to his shoulder to peer down the barrel towards the floor.
After a few more pleased hums and fiddling with a couple of the connectors, he cocked an eyebrow up at the other. "Ever used one of these in field? We do our best with testing, but nothing we can do ever really compares to in-field conditions. By the time that kind of feedback is available, they've already snipped the labs out of the loop, kinda sucks."
A few quick clicks have the launcher open at the chamber, and he's poking into the chamber at the firing pin before snagging a couple of the very shiny shells to slot in. "Take her for a spin?" The original version of this particular weapon had been bolt-action, and while Kel can see why they made it more user friendly, he wishes they'd been able to keep it through the development. It'd make the demonstration he hopes to prompt all the more impressive - skilled shooters are the other factor usually missing in R&D laboratories.
š šš: @cowboygreeting and @homegrownkel
š ššš: first contact
š šššš: ?
š ššš: ?
It was easy to spot them out from across the green. They ā Garden Variety ā 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 ā 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?"
Despite his height, Kel isn't a particularly fast walker. The ambling, meandering gait is a habit from years of people trying to catch up, but others rarely bother to give a sign that they're coming. It's unsurprising to hear the light tones of Cowboy Greeting. The man had seemed the considerate type during introductions. Kel turns with a curious look, and gives an easy smile in return. "Of course not," he says with a nod. "Still figuring out my way around the facilities, I'm hoping this'll give me a sense of familiarity. What are you heading down for?"
If we're to start anywhere in this story, perhaps we should start here: a camera shot, tightly held, focused on a a hand scribbling furiously in a notebook. There's little to note regarding the hand: a claudaugh ring on one finger, nails tidly trimmed, cuticles pushed back. The only speck in site are faint droplets of ink dotting the hand in question's fingers.
Let the camera pull up, tracing the tight bent tension of a arm, a beast poised to spring. Note too, the casual blazer, bearing all the marks of a fresh ironing. In the background of the shot lies a bag, only half unpacked, closet hanging open as well. Clothes dot the bed in blobs of color, and a handful of books lie on the desk in riotous lumps. And finally, the camera focuses on the face of the figureā a woman in thought, her forehead pinched, mouth set in a firm line.
Vivien sits in her room, hair pulled back into a meticulous bun, scribbling at her notebook. It was a ritual of sorts, a way of pulling herself back into herself, reminding her of the things that mattered in the here and now. The words themselves are practically illegible, shorthand sentiments of neuroses still at handā you're capable, okay? also, it's nice to meet new people, you haven't gotten the chance in ages.
And so on and so forth. Finding the ritual done, she tosses the notebook and pen into a tote, flinging it over her shoulder. She had opted for being her polished self todayā the blouse and blazer de-wrinkled with the old bathroom trick that had saved her in grad school, earrings in a subtle silver, every bit of her the thing that she knew she could beā that she knew she was.
That thing being a sure and steady gaze, an infinite patience, an eye for balance. Or at least, that was what she hoped to tell the others.
At the coffee shop, she pauses, folds her hands in front of her just so. There's something almost nostalgic about a huddle of people, crowded around a table too small for them. Some of them ping points of recollectionsā names and faces settling like film on the surface of memory. Others feel like a knife pickā memory blasted into desolation, bile rising in her stomach. She swallows it, forces her smile, holds back her shoulders.
"Hi, you're the rest of the team, right? I'm Vivien JiÄng, previously a Junior Archivist for RAISA at Site-7."
She cuts her teeth on the previously, allows herself to concede how strange it feels. That was then, this is now. A hand curls protectively around the strap of her tote bag, finger idly rubbing against the texture of it, reminding herself to stay grounded.
"But I suppose you should know me as Au Fait. That's my callsign, anyway. It's supposed to mean something about having knowledge."
It feels dangerously close to a lie, what she says (or at least, a lie to her). After all, French courses for the entirety of college meant she knew the meaning, held the detailed knowledge that the name implied. But she couldn't give a lecture. That had gone disastrously the last time she'd tried to talk about that language.
"I worked with maintaining the digital SCP archives and catching discrepancies in them, as well as helping general SCiPNET upkeep and data issues. Think of me as a computer guy who loves excel sheets and the smell of old paper, and you should have a good idea of what my last five or so years looked like."
She glances over at the counter, smile weakening faintly. She'd fully forgotten to have food before this, hadn't she?
"Umā I do want to meet all of you, but do you mind if I grab a coffee first?"
Well she definitely seemed to be more of an au fait than an en fait, but having a reputation as a know it all who corrected people wasn't the best way to ingratiate yourself with others. Even for people whose work revolved around accuracy. Kel would know. It was interesting that RAISA was the same.
This new addition seemed the pleasant sort, and definitely the type to know what to look for when analyzing whether others were doing their work properly. Fairly easy pick given what Osterholz had said the team's purpose was, definitely a better match than Kel themself...
Ų°ŁŁŁŲ±Ł: (in)determinate
{įøikrÄ} Arabic (n): a memory, something remembered
who: @homegrownkel
where: Operational Building Hallway
when: February 23, 2024 | 1105
It was a simple morning, waking up to see the wisps of fog rise out of the forest. A healthy portion of tomato soup to start the day, and apparently a run-in with the rather intimidating director of Kel's new world. The big boss himself. Who strangely seemed to care what he thought of something he hadn't eaten? Most people might think Osterholz had confused them for someone else, but that had never been a problem Kel encountered. For good reason, to be fair.
They were still thinking about it when they came across the bagels. Unthinking, they snagged a plain one, fingers digging in to rip it apart.
Interesting choice...
It was like a firework had been set off in a crowd, the flood of suppressed memories and the reaction of the Hive to the realization that the Foundation had an amnestic that worked. And that the vacant space hadn't been noticed by any other member and filled in. Even if they'd broken through eventually, there were going to be some very serious conversations about this as soon as they were alone. Someone would figure out how to make sure that weakness was fixed.
The benefit to sharing the mental load was that the pain never hit. Kel had seen memory breakthroughs before, and not a single one had seemed like a pleasant experience. He was distantly aware that his nervous system was trying to fire some fairly significant signals, his hands were shaking with the bagel still gripped tight, but his consciousness seemed almost bubbled away. A couple of the more familiar minds were reassuring in their reminders that Kel wasn't alone in this, and coaxed them back to full awareness.
The entire thing must have been ten or fifteen seconds at most. They grimaced at the sweat that had flushed from head to toe, at the thickness of a now dry tongue in their mouth, at the ringing in their ears, at the crumbs now littering the floor. A quick apology to the person behind him and another plain bagel secured, Kel stepped out of line and began the long walk to the next appointment of the day.
After all, it wouldn't do to let anyone know something was wrong, would it?
The click of the door felt like it should echo into the blank slate of Kel's new lodgings. For the first time in a long time, there was silence. Even the ever-present presence was gone, cut off in a momentary need for the world to be less than what it was. Kel would open those doors later. They always did.
White and beige and more white. A perfectly serviceable suite of rooms with absolutely zero personality. Maybe it was that it had been so very long since they'd had to move to a new place, but as Kel took the first few steps into the space, their breath caught in their throat. Nose turning sour, he tilted his head back and forced the air in. Out. In again. There wasn't even anyone to celebrate his arrival. Not any that knew him, anyway - this wasn't like moving to Poland where Adam was waiting with a lab full of work Kel already knew and years of common understandings.
A single duffel bag of clothes and personal effects, a tiny plant that would never grow, and a brand new pager with numbers he didn't know for people he's barely met... How could anyone turn this into a place to belong?
Vera took quick, quiet notice of the way Kel tucked in his knees and filed it away as an action that she considered, in her professional opinion, cute. āTry not to think of the degrees too hard,ā she laughed. āI get all embarrassed. I shouldnāt have even mentioned it! People hear I went to Harvard and assume Iām one of those āwhy, yes, I went to a little school outside of Bostonā grads.ā She popped the stethoscope into her ears and had a listen. All good. āIām more proud of Johns Hopkins, anyway,ā Vera added quietly.
āDoesnāt think heās much of a liar,ā she repeated, pretending to jot it down on his chart. Then onto the pulse oximeter and the blood pressure cuff. Both normal. āThese are looking good, Kel. I was placed into the Delta-14ās when I was recruited in 2009. āWinter Wonderland.ā Always somewhere cold and chaotic. I stuck with them through the years. Though I was loaned out regularly.ā
She prepared to draw a blood sample. Wiped Kelās arm down. āTurns out, my skills are a little difficult for the company to outsource. Just a little pinch, okay? There you go. All done.ā It was an expert draw. If there was a little pinch at all, it was genuinely just that. āMy turn. Have you ever worked in the field?ā
"I care more about the fact you got all the way through the schooling and residency than where you did it, but the name of the school ends up being the way us non-doctors understand the standards of all that," Kel admitted with a shrug. He grinned at the inkless scribbling and lifted his arm for the cuff.
It was fascinating to think that MTF agents could just be swapped out when needed. That had to be terrible for unit cohesion unless each member was perfectly content to be dependent only on themself. Somehow that seemed like the opposite of the point of being a team in the first place. Fifteen years of that work was nothing to sneeze at though - if he needed a combat medic from anywhere in the world, he thought she might be the one he'd ask for. Assuming there was ever a choice in a situation like that.
It was easy to passively watch the point slide in, less sensation than the swab itself. Usually there was a bit of a sensation for the actual draw of liquid into the tube, but clearly Doct- Vera didn't need to be in the field to be one of the best.
"Not in the way you're thinking, probably," Kel shook their head. "Unless you count controlled equipment testing, the closest thing to a field assignment would've been the deployment of the self-sustaining electromagnetic Veil perimeter at my first site. Even that was more than twenty-five years ago, so effectively not an experience that could apply."
"I've got one more for you. Since we had that little introduction session, who are you most looking forward to working with in this team?"
who: an open starter to anyone interested!
what: SciPNET Login SetUp
Loch fancied he could be forgiven for having been the first in line for this. It was, perhaps, a bit of overkill to have arrived as quickly as he did when he heard exactly what this was, but the mere possibility of being able to touch a keyboard again was enough to push him to a level of punctuality he'd never before demonstrated. It was as exciting as the first time Nathan Drake realized he had the ability to survive the impossible. Survival was not, perhaps, Loch's strength, but adapting was and he was confident in his ability to jailbreak even this limited system into something more useful. Christ on a bike, he was excited about this.
Turning to the person with the (mis)fortune of standing behind him, Loch began asking the questions he considered to be of paramount importance. "So, have you worked with this system before? Is it pretty standard, like Linux or Windows? I've heard it's more like a search engine before. Have you heard if it's particularly intuitive or is it running off of like Windows 84-style bullshit? And, most importantly, how good is the WiFi? If it only works on WiFi, we'll need a halfway decent connection, unless someone's willing to get into the details of hardware, which I'm not. I'm more than happy to optimize the software, but actual hardware is so far beyond me, it makes a summer trip to Andromeda feel feasible."
Kel frowned down at their pager as they waited. Why did he need another log in, it's not like his Foundation ID card had ch- oh right. Well it was still an annoying process. One that should've been handled by someone with a better administrative process. What would they do if someone just... Didn't set their login up? How would they tell?
The rapid fire questions in a barely familiar voice didn't immediately pull their gaze away from the small screen and rotating directions, but once the flow had stopped they answered as was their habit - in similar rapid fire. "Yes. It's proprietary, but Linux is closer. The main database we'll be working in is, but there's plenty of regular functions as well. You'll have plenty of fun poking around those codes with your software knowledge, I'm sure."
"There was a learning curve in the switch to off-premise data storage, but you know. Databases. Pretty self explanatory. No wifi on that machine, just a hard line but that one," he pointed with his chin, "should have a decent connections. Just don't move it more than 1.35 meters or you'll lose signal. If you don't care to know the details I won't bore you."
Finally looking up and pocketing the small device, they raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?" There was always a little thrum of smugness in being able to throw information back as fast as it was requested.
Introductions were not what Loch would list as one of his strengths. Communication in general was perhaps not on that list at all. He certainly wasn't in the habit of throwing 'able to talk to sentient bags of meat' onto his resume, not when his ability to talk to the incomprehensible vastness of cyberspace was there instead.
Of course, putting off the introduction was not going to make it go away, much to Loch's chagrin. He let anyone go before him that seemed eager enough to get their name out and their foot into whatever doors they were trying to force open. It was like sitting in the middle of The Thing, waiting to see which test might drag the impossible creature forward. Though, if any of these people were a cryptid, Loch knew, it would make this entire horse and pony show mean something. He had had his hopes set on that particularly sour-faced man being some kind of Roswell Grey, but that hope was dashed the longer this took and the other remained exactly as stone-faced as he had when they had gotten there.
That woman, Loch thought with a glance, could be a Flatwoods Monster, though she certainly was lacking that impressive collar that so defined her kind. He'd have to see if it was misplaced or, as one of his friends had claimed, it was actually a biological defense mechanism, like the frills of Dilophosaurus. It didn't seem practical, but neither did a horse with bat-wings and that certainly seemed common enough... Gods he was bored. Perhapsā
The sudden tug of all eyes on him pulled Loch from his thoughts and he cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling in his seat and crossing one leg before uncrossing them and crossing it the other way. Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster did he decide to sit in what amounted to the center of the room? He hadn't felt the urge to stand and brood in a corner like some of the others, but now Loch swore every hair on his body was standing upright as an unpleasantly large number of eyeballs fixed themselves upon him.
"Well, going off of this very unpleasant attention," Loch starts, going to stand before aborting the motion halfway through and sitting back down, "it's probably my turn. My name's Loch, Doctor Loch if you want to be an ass. If you're my abuelita, I'm Doctor Matias Rojas, but I don't see her here so I'm just going to stick with Loch. I really wasn't listening to the format here, so fuck it! I'll freeball it."
He paused, taking a breath and holding it for a few seconds before letting it out. This was already a disaster, but the only way out was through and he wasn't about to end up a red shirt this early in his job. "Like I said, I'm Loch. I got hired by the Foundation and their Sincere Comrades and Partners probably... A month ago? Time's been weird lately, which I blame completely on those interdimensional Bigfoots that have to be around here somewhere. I work predominantly in tech, mainly computers and software, but given the state of this place, the details will probably go over your heads, so I'll stick to that."
He paused, thinking for a moment as his hands tapped out a one-two rhythm on his legs. "I've got a cannibalistic fish named Hannibal the muscle heads made me leave behind and a severe tech withdrawal. If anyone ends up needing me, I'll be handwriting the most pointless codes I can. But, I'm sure we're all going to get along great! Oh, also, cryptid stories. Please regale me with your best ones. I might end up writing a book or some shit about them one day when I run out of code ideas."
Kel blinked. And blinked again. Definitely not a long time Foundation member. It was a bit refreshing to watch someone just flout the expectations of those around them in a way that wasn't based in anger. Or fear. They weren't sure Loch even knew he was doing it. Bigfoot, really?
This seemed like someone he'd enjoy spending time with, but he already felt wrong-footed. Maybe a slow approach. From around a corner, with a distraction.
Since she woke, there's been a fine vibration of nerves working its way down Nadia's spine, belling out to her fingertips. It's a strange neuropathy that she can't place, doesn't think she's felt it before. Maybe it's a side effect of whatever amnestic they must have administered ā that's the only thing that would explain her clouded head, the lapses in time, her lack of dreams (Nadia always dreamed, and always remembered them).
Whatever the cause of the shiver, Nadia focuses all her attention on keeping her feet and legs still under the table, her hands clenched tight around her knees and her eyes absolutely anywhere other than the two familiar faces.
She can't stomach the twin rolls of shame and guilt that tidal over her at the sight of Dr Vera Nair's soft features. And she definitely can't stomach the absolute amolgam of something that comes with the sight of Guā Howell. It comes together as anger (most things do for Nadia) and she doesn't have the best grip over her temper this morning. Punching one of the higher ranking operatives simply because "well, he ghosted me, sir" wasn't likely to be the best of first impressions.
Maybe it was her temper that had her blood tingling in her extremities.
When it comes to her turn for an introduction, Nadia finds a point at middle distance to stare at and shakes off the sense memory of her first day transferring into MTF Xi-13.
"I'm Nadia Atalanta. I guess you're supposed to call me Live Wire but I'll probably be a lot nicer if you just go with Atalanta. I've been with the Foundation almost twenty years now, so I can't wait to get the engraved gold watch for that anniversary." Sarcasm, thick and acerbic, coats her every word. "I've been on Mobile Task Forces my whole time here." Her shoulders rock back a little, posture tensing. "Unless you count the last couple months in the Decommissioning Department. Which I don't."
A few of the earlier operatives have offered where they might be on the daily should anyone need them and Nadia cycles through the most likely options for herself: the gym, her bunk, wandering the forests that surround the base. Eschewing all those, she closes with, "If you need me, don't."
Atalanta seemed just as true a name as Live Wire, but he could understand not wanting to be called the latter. Dangerous things, those. Volatile. He'd be more concerned about the stint in the Decommissioning Department if she wasn't so obviously disdainful of it. And the rest of them. Had she been taken off her MTF for an injury? Or for acting out? A coin flip based on her attitude, but not his problem either way.
AS WITH MOST DAYS āĀ AND AS WITH FUTURE DAYS, THEY'D MUSED ā SLEEP HAD NOT COME EASY. In the absence of any real direction, they'd allowed themselves to be whisked away from one metal hunk of a thing to another, and another, as if to dispel any indulgences in conducting a haphazard geospatial analysis as to where their covert base of operations should be located on the map. Had they hoped Midge would be impressed at the sheer degree to which they'd been obfuscated? The ghastly gray beast was no more hideous and imposing than the intelligence agency where she had once held base, and which had similarly prided itself in holding and trading state secrets.
Midge had maintained a smile through it all, albeit an artless, guileless one, finding these gaps in her memory even more troubling than usual. Not particularly burdened with the weight of being the best example, Midge ā 52 Pickup, wasn't it? she thought ā had donned only the barest of masks: their hair was combed down and let loose over their shoulder, and their shirt, just as gray and as pallid as the building's decor, hung over their frame with no real attempt at being flattering. In doing so, she'd hoped to display a kind of homeliness that was almost displaced in this ugly concrete jungle they were mandated to call home for a year. To signal something like trustworthiness among this new ensemble of comrades whose faces ranged from vaguely familiar to none at all.
She'd sat cross-legged in the plastic chair, balancing the spine of her handy A5 journal on her knee as she scribbled and took note of the code names of the operatives who had gone before her. As expected, their levels of disclosure varied; another introduced themselves, and another, and another, until the burden of introductions finally fell on her lap.
They'd closed their journal shut and made a small wave as their eyes surveyed the room. "Hey, everyone," they began, willing the muscles of her lips to curl upward, until they resembled something like a kindly smile. "I'd say I wish we met in better circumstances, but the next Foundation confab might be a while yet. My name's a bit of a mouthful, so it's easier for all of us if you knew me as Midge. Though, in here, my alias is 52 Pickup āĀ a bit of a mouthful, too, really. Pursuant to protocol, I suppose you could just call me fifty-two."
And, here, she made an exaggerated roll of her eyes and a peal of laughter: "Call sign's easy enough to remember, I suppose. Just take a look at my laugh lines and guess my age. Thanks for that, by the way, supervisors." They'd spoken with an unhurried cadence, relaxing against the shitty plastic seat, "Well, I suppose I should lean into it. I am marching towards mortality as it is. Nothing else of note. I've done clean-up work forĀ the Foundation these past few years and studied for a living for the rest. Hmm, let's seeā¦ I play the piano, I'm a chain smoker, and I like owls. " She let a sigh escape her lips, then, as she let in the team on a few harmless truths.
"Er, I think that's it." Her lips pulled into a tight smile as she dismissed herself from the routine proceedings, flipping back open her pocket journal and clicking the top cap of her ballpoint pen to resume her notetaking, "Well, I'll see everyone around. And everyone's quite welcome to join me in my search for a smoking area."
Self-deprecation was a common friend to Kel, but it was never really comfortable to see it in others. 52 didn't seem to actually be 52, it was more likely that she was sometimes unpredictable or did things in an unconventional manner. "Clean up" work was vague and frankly ominous, but she didn't take advantage to set herself up as someone to be taken as a figure of authority - maybe she preferred to keep to the shadows?
He couldn't blame her, it was easier to watch everyone else when they couldn't see you.
Vera was wide awake by the time the first rays of morning flickered through the blinds. Her body was taught, stiff as a board, and pressed against the edge of the mattress so tightly that she might have fallen off if not for the knuckle-white grip of her fists against the sheets. Her memories of the dream were hazy and splintered.
Her mind felt off. Like a snow globe that a child had picked up and shaken. But she could hardly acknowledge the bigger picture until she could move again.
She stared up at the ceiling and tried to breathe. It was Tom. That much was clear. She could remember his warm eyes. His inviting smile. Maybe heād been telling her something? Vera could not remember. Everything fragmented and split from there. Something about a walk in the forest. Footprints. Dread. Hidden marvels.Ā
The face of it tore at her and she curled into a ball. Eyes shut. None of Tomās treasures had been enough to protect Vera from its presence. Nothing had been able to stop it from haunting her since the night it first arrived. It wasnāt just the dreams of Tom that it padded through, either. Circling her. Watching her. Laughing at her, if such a thing could laugh.Ā
There, she sighed. She had remembered enough of it to breathe easier. To know what she was up against. The dreams had been chasing her for so long that Vera worked them out like a knot and forced them out of her way. There was no alternative.Ā
Vera rolled out of bed and lay on the floor. Closing out the creature and the nightmares and, instead, softly humming a piece of Brahms and letting the notes form on their bars in her head.
Strange, then, to find herself riding along with Captain Kato. The Hungarian Dances still lingering in her fog-addled mind. Pieces were out of place. Information out of position. Vera smiled, nodded, and focused her full attention on putting herself back together.Ā
She highly suspected that they had tampered with her the night before. There was nothing to be done about it. There was no point in being angry at the Foundation. She gestured excitedly at a beautiful rock formation to keep up appearances with poor Captain Kato. This was not his fault. He deserved more from her than the occasional polite laugh. She would make it up to him if given the chance.Ā
āNext time we meet, letās hope Iāve had a better nightās sleep, Captain,ā Vera said, smiling apologetically. āBe safe out there.āĀ
The Level 0 Clearance keycard was a nice touch, but not nearly so nice as the promise of another photo shoot. Vera did an inventory of her belongings as she wandered up to the second floor. Had she brought an outfit that captured the āessenceā of an employee ID card? It seemed unlikely.Ā
Glass walls. Blinds closed.Ā
āMorning,ā Vera answered, walking right over. She accepted the apparent Commanderās handshake carefully, but not because she didn't want to shake his hand. The increasingly popular idea of the firm handshake had given her trouble over the years. It wasnāt a problem with other surgeons, who understood the importance and the value of their hands, but it had been an issue with Foundation soldiers with something to prove in the past. After one incident early in her career, Vera had taken to avoiding unfamiliar hi-fives as well.Ā
She shot the Commander a toothy grin, hoping that would push past the awkwardness of her cautious handshake, and felt some of the brightness finally returning to her eyes after the early morningās difficulty.Ā
Then, with a polite wave at Steve, she chose a seat second from the end of the row. She hung her ancient green jacket over the back of the first chair and sat in silence. Her thoughts dipped between her odds of escape, a firm zero percent, and Guin.
Guin who arrived almost last of all and did not come to sit next to her. Barely looked at her. Vera gave him a tired smile. Her eyes filled with hurt. Then she nodded simply with something akin to understanding and turned her gaze back to the window. Back to thoughts of impossible escape and sorting out her head.
Vera rose when she felt enough of the room had spoken that they would still have the energy to listen, but they would also have heard enough to respect that she actually had something to say. She wasnāt tall, but she had a presence that had served her well addressing teams over the years. Standing in the front, it was easier to face the group as well as to provide her enough time to think of something to draw the brightness back into her eyes. Zebras!
āGood morning. Iām Dr. Vera Nair. Elevator Music. Or Dr. Elevator Music, if weāre feeling formal,ā she said amiably, the corner of her lips curling upwards at the man with the fish. āYou can call me what feels comfortable. Iāll be your primary healthcare provider this year on and off the field. I know it wonāt make a difference to some of you,ā Vera added, stealing a tiny smile at Guin, ābut it does help some people to know that I received Board Certification in Internal Medicine from Harvard Med and in Trauma Surgery from Johns Hopkins.ā It wasnāt at all a boast. If anything, Vera looked a little red when she said it. Tom had shown her the research years before, though. It was a best practice. Patients tended to do better when they believed in the qualifications of their doctors.Ā
Still, Vera felt relieved to move past it. āIāll be meeting with you all for physical exams at some point in the next few days, but I think right now that itās more important that I tell you first,ā she nodded slowly as she built up to it. āI wonāt make any promises I canāt keep.ā Vera gazed slowly across the room. At first glance, she was looking straight into their eyes. Each of them seeing the face of an experienced doctor. Sad and gentle and knowing. The keen observer might note that Vera was looking respectfully through them, instead, at a line of those sheād lost.
āI will use every tool in my arsenal to keep each of you alive,ā she said, continuing with confidence. āFollow my directions.ā Her eyes brightened. āDonāt lie to me.ā The toothy grin took over again. āCover me when Iām working on one of your teammates.ā Her curly hair practically sparked with excitement. āAnd for the love of all that is holy, if you must get shot, donāt get shot in the head.ā Vera stopped and squinted. āEasy to forget that youāre not all doctors. My last surgical team would have been falling out of their chairs.ā She shrugged. āIām here for you. Everything is going to be alright.ā
She began to walk back to her seat, before realizing that she needed to say more about herself. āOkay, letās see.ā She tilted her head back and forth. āAbout me. Iāll give you three truths and no lies. One, I have been scuba diving in Baltimore Harbor. No, I would not recommend it. Two, I once won ten thousand dollars playing a sport which I hate only to have all of it stolen on the same day. Three, I do haircuts. For a price,ā she added, teasing. āUnless the Foundation has a barber hidden in one of the containment cells.ā
Momentarily satisfied, Vera stopped short to finish with one last thing. āMy office is always open. Page me if you need me. I donāt care if itās stupid. Outside of that? Iāll be swimming or doing yoga or reading somewhere quiet. If you can find me, maybe Iāll show you a coin trick.āĀ
With that, Vera sat down and put her hand in her pocket to play with her 1978 half dollar. Her head was finally clearing up.Ā
Doctor didn't raise any particular flags, there were so many in the Foundation that it often just became anonymous with 'senior researcher' following it with healthcare provider was new though, and a stark reminder of the fact that Kel was now going to be going in the field.
It cemented her as a higher rank than any of the others, if they were being honest. A commander or special operative might be able to plan and fight out of a situation, but a field doctor was the one who would make sure Kel got out as well. Priorities and all. Plus she seemed nice - and funny. Definitely someone to get on the good side of when they got the chance.
Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad ā A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel ā 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 ā early, early morning stroll ā 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 ā 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 ā someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to ā
ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā eye contact and smile, goddammit ā he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows ā once he feels like a person again ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā the operatives among them especially ā 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 ā trying to be, at the very least.
"Hey everybody! I'm ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā 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.
The AEED was a common link point for the work Kel's done in the past - particularly after the... demotion. Being firmly relegated to Safe and harmless Euclids meant much more work in containment that didn't need to involve termination measures. Much more fulfilling. But if this one's new to the team, they probably haven't actually worked together yet. A good perspective for fresh thoughts on old systems and where to.... improve them.
bruise - like tender. every razor - edged motion purposeful. calculated. but it wasn't. it never was. because rotting all starts to look the fucking same, michelle. so she begins to dissolve in the very presence of thin - veiled sheep. into an oppressive crawlspace. into a realm that isn't quite here nor there.
won't exactly account for the ringed pattern of the floor. or the skewed layout she analyzed the night before. or the chipped paint on the honed - like walls. because she wasn't obtainable. because she didn't think she fucking ... cared.
and so it commenced. child - like utterances, hands bound. a vacant stare. a slacked jaw. and not a goddamn thing in hand.
she sits. in the back. always in the back. simply quiet. noting the in between's. the haunting Ā lull Ā between Ā the first Ā breath Ā and Ā the Ā last. the crucifying hum Ā of Ā cynicism. the apparition that simply won't find solace in death.
and then nothingness.Ā again. nothingness. the thought, almost acidic. brims Ā off Ā the Ā tips Ā of Ā her Ā fingers sacrilegiously ā Ā rots the Ā inside Ā of Ā her Ā ribcage. Ā her Ā mouth, teeth decaying. always decaying. decaying. decaying. enough. enough. enough.
It's the quiet ones that hold the most tension sometimes. A rubber band poised to snap, but using that energy to do more than most are ever capable of. No.2 was someone to keep in the peripherals until he'd had a chance to test the waters.
Itās 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 ā something quite smaller and grander in scale ā with most assuredly not our protagonist ā lacking categorically across the board ā 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 heās 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā 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 ā so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."
Rohan - Tree Hugger, was an echo of Kel themself from all those decades ago. Someone bright, and curious, and open. Given the codename, it seemed likely the kid hadn't had much in the way of bad experiences with the subjects of their work. They missed that sometimes. Probably a good fresh set of eyes for some of those equations though!
Gael awoke with a start, blinking rapidly in the dark and trying to figure out where he was. There was a short moment of stillness before he shifted cautiously to a crouching positionāhis limbs pulled close like a coil as he pressed his back to the wall behind him. His right hand slowly inched below the pillow where his head had rested moments beforeāclawing around for the cool metal of a pistol, a knifeābut found nothing but the smoothness of 1000-thread cotton sheets.
Squinting, he turned his head to scan his surroundings before letting out an exasperated sigh. Flinging himself back onto the bed so he was lying horizontally across the mattress, he lifted his hands to his face before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, maintaining gentle pressure for a couple seconds before pulling them away to press his index fingers to either side of his nasal bridge. He then pushed down again and followed the curve of his sinuses outward towards his cheekbones and then back again with small circular motions. He released another deep groan as some of the tension in his face dissipated. Dropping his hands, he squinted beadily at the ceiling as shapes danced in his vision. He laid for another few minutes before finally moving to a sitting position, scooting across the bed until his legs hung over the side.
Time to get up.
Toeing on the pair of slippers haphazardly slewed beside the bed. Gael smothered a yawn behind a hand and stood up with some effort; his bones and nerves still stiff from exhaustion and waning adrenaline. Raising his arms above his head, he rotated his shoulders and shuffled in the general direction of where he thought the bathroom had been. As Gael ventured further into the dark, his eyes adjusted a second before he ran face-first into the bathroom door. Cursing, he reached for the handle, not even bothering to flick on the lights. The sun was also groggily getting up alongside him, lethargically casting a weak beam of light that illuminated his assigned bedroom enough for him to make out the shapes of his toiletries.
In the dim light, he blinked at the dark pane of the mirror as his fingers turned the faucet handle. The rushing sound of water filled his ears as he placed both hands on the sink rim and leaned close to the glass pane. He couldnāt make out the features of his face properly; everything above his nose was still obscured by the fading darkness. He stared blankly at the figure in the mirror for another beat, feeling disconnected from the person staring back. The muscles in his face twitched, then stretched themselves into a wideāalmost cartoonishāgrin that was imitated by the man in the mirrorāwas that really him?
Scowling, he diverted his gaze away from his reflection as he cupped his hands under the ice-cold water. The following splash to his face shocked him enough to finally disperse the last remnants of sleep that clung to him like cobwebs. Another series of curse words escaped his lips as he groped blindly for the hot water tab to change the temperature to a much more manageable lukewarm before continuing his morning routine. Lifting his head up from the stream of water, he matched gazes with himself in the mirror. The pair of eyes staring back at him in the now hazily illuminated room were wide-eyed and bloodshot. Grimacing, he yanked a towel from its rack and exited the room. Trudging toward the bedroom, he stopped in front of the duffle bag thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bed and pulled out a fresh change of clothes.
As he began to change, a buzzing sound pulled his attention to the pager he had dumped at the bedside table the night before. Lifting up the device, he read the text on the small green screen.
Snorting, Gael made his way towards the front door of the apartment. Grabbing the trenchcoat and messenger bag he had thrown over a chair, he briefly looked through their various pockets. Once he was satisfied everything he needed was accounted for, he exited his apartment and headed towards the lobby.
After a short elevator ride down, he stepped out into the frigid morning air and quickly shambled towards the waiting Jeep parked at the doors of the building. Settling himself into the warm seat of the car, he smiled at the man behind the wheel.Ā āMorninā,āĀ Gael muttered, ducking his head slightly in acknowledgment as Kato beamed back and started to drive.
The ride itself was a blur, and Gael couldnāt say he fully remembered the conversation he had with Kato in its entiretyāonly loose fragments here and there, the threads too scattered for him to get the full picture. He wasnāt sure whether the minuscule amount of sleep he had gotten the night before or flight was to blame, but he felt guilty nonetheless.Ā JunichiĀ seemed like a lovely guyāif the photos in Gaelās hands of the man smiling while surrounded by grandkids were anything to go by. Drowsily, Gael shuffled through the handful of photographs of chubby-cheeked kids as the Captain continued chattering away, telling a story Gael didnāt remember the beginning of.
āAh, hereās your stop, Commander,ā The other man said in the middle of describing the lakeside where he taught his grandkids to swim.Ā
Blinking up at Kato for a second in confusion, Gael gingerly placed the stack of pictures on the center console and reached out his right hand toward the captain for a handshake. "Thank you for the ride, Junichi. And you can call me GāSmooth Operator,ā He finished slowly, the smile on his face falling slightly but Kato seemed unfazed by the sudden correction and shook his hand with another cheery grin.
Giving the other man a final nod, Gael stepped out of the car and into Site Ļ; the receptionist was waiting for him once he stepped through the sliding glass doors. After a brief slew of paperwork and the standard security screening, he was led toward the elevator and instructed to go to the second floor.Ā
The sun had fully risen at this point, the yellow-white beams of its lights refracting off the ridiculous amount of glass whichever schmuck had designed the place had had a love affair with. He tried to avoid looking at himself as he walked towards the conference room, but it was a losing battle since so much of the second floor was made of glass. There was nothing else to look at but himself reflected back ad nauseam; the image mirrored back at such a frequency likeness was becoming warped. The copies so far removed from the original that they had become borderline grotesque.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gael entered the room and immediately beelined for the blinds graciously hanging over each one of the windows. He felt more and more relief with each as he methodically lowered each blind until the room was only lit by the fluorescent lights above. Sighing with a sense of finality, Gael dropped himself heavily onto the chair directly opposite the door.
Leaning back in the chair, he pressed his forearm to his eyes and wondered if he could get a nap in before the first person showed up; but as he was weighing the pros and cons when the door handle rattled, announcing the arrival of his first new teammate. Moving his arm away from his face, he watched the door from beneath his lashes.
Agent Choi from MTF Iota-10 stepped in and Gael felt his body relax; a moment respite before the storm. Buckley was spoiling himāor maybe it was Kato?
Rising up to his feet, Gael moved across the room to properly greet his favorite Fed. Beaming, he clasped Choiās hand between both of his own, squeezing gently as he looked up at 'Old Sport.'Ā
āItās good to see you," He said, genuinely pleased to have Choi at his side. At the very least, he had one person he could trust his back to. "Iām glad the Committee took my recommendation into account.ā
There isn't much time to catch up after that as the rest of MTF Chi-00 slowly trickled in shortly after. And, as the last stragglers made their way in, Gael surveyed the group, fingers drumming on the smooth table in front of him. As a hush slowly enveloped the room, Gael lifted himself up to his feet.
āWell,ā he began. āGuess Iāll go first.ā
Giving the group a half-hearted wave, he continued, āHello, everyone. Iām Smooth Operator, and I will be your commander starting from today.ā His eyes flicked from one face to the next, taking mental notes of which operatives matched his gaze and who did not.
"Now, while some of you may have heard rumors about me or seen my face before," He winked at Choi. "But I can assure you whatever you've heard is not trueāunless it's nice, in which case it is one hundred percent true," He laughed, feeling momentarily uncharacteristically awkward. Tough crowd.
āAnyway, I've worked for the Foundation for something like twenty-four years? Give or take. Spent twelve of those years in Omega-1; that's 'Law's Left Hand' for new guy," He inclined his head at 'Quote Unquote' before continuing in an exaggerated stage whisper. "We're the Ethics Committee's personal Mobile Task Force, but don't worry about it."
Turning back to the rest of the group with a single raised eyebrow, he smiled. "And while I'm sure you've all gone over the briefing on the way here," He muttered wryly. "I'd like to remind everyone that we are under strict orders to refer to each other by codenames during the course of this assignment. However, as a handful of people in this task force already know each other, and since this will be a year-long mission, I am aware that keeping complete secrecy is near impossible. That being said, I would recommend that everyone try to limit the amount of unnecessary information that they choose to disclose going forward. The Committee has a lot of enemies, so you all need to prioritize your safety. That's all.ā
Dropping back into his seat, he motioned loosely at the group, "Who wants to go next?"
This face was definitely familiar. To Kel himself this time, though he couldn't remember when he'd seen the man before. A committee hand, but it was interesting that he didn't specify if those years were the most recent ones. Most likely so if he'd been put in charge of this group. The warning of names made sense, but it'd be hard to get used to without having had one before.
A no-nonsense commander, or maybe just one of fewer words than he was used to in a team lead. He didn't seem as rigid as a few of the others in the room, but that didn't mean he was nice...
Old SportĀ leansĀ forward,Ā stamping aĀ graveĀ promise in the airĀ betweenĀ theirĀ intertwinedĀ limbs. Each word is pressed in like a personal cinnabarite seal.Ā ā UpholdingĀ theĀ parametersĀ ofĀ thisĀ assignmentĀ isĀ myĀ highestĀ priority.Ā Therefore... However,Ā wheneverĀ youĀ need,Ā myĀ bodyĀ isĀ yoursĀ toĀ command. āĀ
Habit working with other who have similar customs has Kel's torso swaying forward in response, but it never quite reaches a bow. Just an echo, a whisper of reflection in the mirror of another person. It's been a long morning, he hopes Old Sport doesn't take offense. This is one of the people you clearly don't - Decommisioning Department? Kel's mind scrambles back over the last few moments, tries to scan through the man's reactions to each of the introductions before. Clearly a reason to have gone last of all. Of course the man gives nothing away about his actual preferences and activities. But he seems... Nice? Warmer than expected.
The grin and nod as he passes by Old Sport and Smooth Operator on the way out is as comfortable as he can make it, but the tension behind his eyes is a sign of a killer headache to come.
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