LT HOWELL

[agentelevatormusic]

She made a face, disrespectfully acknowledging the wicked witch of the wizarding world one last time before pulling together her schedule. “Let’s see… Tomorrow I have patients till three and then office hours until five. Not that anyone is going to take me up on them this early. If that conference yesterday was any indication, more than half this group isn’t going to understand why they need a doctor at all.” Vera bit her lip.

“But I can hang up my lab coat after that. If you’re not too busy, of course.” Vera looked at him with raised eyebrows and an easy smile. The easiest she could spare. It was her job to be observant, as it was his. What delights must be in store within his full schedule for him to try to hide the minor contusions darkening his lovely elf ears?  She could figure out the who, as well. The truth wasn’t exactly shrouded in mystery like an Agatha Christie novel. 

It stung. Yes. But, it didn’t change Vera’s feelings for Guin and she didn’t resent him for it. She’d married Tom, after all. Guin had left her and she’d married Tom. And Vera had truly loved Tom, although her love for Guin had never faded as she’d feared it would. As she’d feared it must. 

For a long while, she'd suffered deep confusion and guilt over it. Vera even tried to hide it from Tom, afraid of how it would hurt him, though she had broken down and told him before long. She loved him too much to keep secrets from him. All she'd ever known of romantic love was that it was meant for two alone, but that simply wasn't the case for Vera. No matter how hard she tried to move on, and she did try, she loved Guin and she loved Tom. Her heart held room enough for both. She had learned to accept that over the years. 

It was sweet of Guin to try and spare her the discomfort. Or maybe he’d wanted to spare himself the guilt. Likely a bit of both. It would have come out, though. His physical exam was mere hours away. Still, for a second Vera was able to pretend that the bruising wasn’t there. They hid themselves enough when he leaned into the darkness of the tree. 

Then, her mind unspun time in an instant, as it had been doing since she’d seen Guin last. As it had been doing for decades. Tom was alive and well. He’d never asked her to marry him. He’d never hesitated. He’d never told her none of it was her fault. She’d never given up. She’d never driven Guin away. He’d stayed. They were still in the woods near their cabin, playing house and waiting for Tom yawn obnoxiously out of the guest bedroom. The three of them. Safe. Together. 

Guilt slapped her across the face. These miserable spirals had been crystallizing in her mind all the more often since that night. Creating illusions of life with Guin and Tom, both alive and well, leading various lives with her. Each iteration left her feeling like she’d been stabbed. Vera leaned in to get a closer look at the fruit as if she hadn’t picked and polished them herself. Like she wasn’t already holding a bunch of grapes. But the move was practiced. Subtle. It gave her the time to force everything back.

A good night’s sleep would help. Just one night. One night without those dreams and she was certain she’d be keeping it together better than this. “Have you been able to sleep here?” It seemed like it might be too bright for him. He’d always needed true darkness. The dark of nature. Stars didn’t count, but a citied lack of them did. She gave him a slightly concerned glance, pulling herself back from the fruit. 

After bowing ever so humbly at the applause, Vera zipped the jacket back up with a reflexive slowing past the spot where Guin had once darned the delicate edge of the zipper. She huffed as he bit off his glove. That one never failed to amuse. “Sergeant First Class Guin Howell,” she rasped in a voice that was teasingly caught between Guin’s own and a sultry lounge singer who’d seen one too many cigarette breaks between sets. Tom had a name for that voice that never failed to turn her red. “Doctor Vera Nair.” Her own voice. She held out a hand, smiling warmly. “I’d be happy to reline yours, if you’d like. If I can get the material. You seem like a man who could use more pockets.”

“I’m torn. I want to ship out, but these researchers.” Vera didn't try to mask her worry. “Those introductions were unsettling. We’re supposed to be keeping them all safe during these missions, but everything from their lack of training to the actual ratio of researchers to protective detail is concerning. Even if they count me as an armed escort it’s…” She scanned the ground beyond the roots. “Something’s off.” 

Vera accepted the first sip of coffee. Blessed, blessed drink. Her beloved moka pot had made the trip as usual and its long-standing partnership with her thermos was reignited at last after a long year off. She held it out for Guin's turn. “A few projects, actually, other than exploring this entire area through games of hide and seek, apparently.” She grinned and ate a grape, nodding thoughtfully. “Swimming, ideally. It’s been ages since I swam in a lake. And I brought the violin with me. The good one. If there's time I'd like to actually learn to play.” Forty-one years of practice and Vera still sometimes pretended she was a novice.

“I’d like to explore some of the medical texts at the library here.” Some meant all. Better to be prepared when lives were on the line. “There’s a few procedures I’d like to explore at the medical center, too.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And my exam room is going to frighten these patients. It’s stark, Guin. No windows. No color. No soul. My office, too, but only I’m going in there so it doesn’t make a difference.” After all these years, Vera could still make do with anything for herself. “Hopefully, the town has a thrift shop. Or a dollar store. Someone with a year-round garage sale. Anything. A dab of personality goes a long way in a doctor’s office. I want them to be comfortable.”

Realizing the answer would likely be unsatisfactory, she finished the last couple grapes and quickly hurried up with a chipper, “And what projects will you be pursuing?”

[lieutenanthowell]

And that half would be the bigger problem. But he wouldn't ask her to crack that whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing and tell him who skipped out; honestly, he could guess. Guin was sure, though, when it came to his itinerary. "I won't be." Busy, no. He wouldn't be busy. Could've been. Even if - his fingers twitched, as if to brush that trail of thought from the map. Disturb the earth, scatter the duff. Moving on.

Better to keep moving on. If you stopped too long, you'd freeze.

Could he sleep? Guin half-shrugged at that. Sleep. Never something he'd been much good at. Not like other people, it seemed, who could keep still through the noises of the night and the passing glare of traffic, the seeping off-yellow and cold white of every city he'd ever known, each as sleepless as the last. Here was closer, in some ways, to the nights he used to know; the ones he'd sunk into all over again, the past year. Not sleeping, exactly. Not dreaming, exactly. Not awake, exactly.

Awake enough. Her magpie-ing got a smirk. Sergeant First Class Guin Howell. Doctor Vera Nair. When that'd been his rank, that was how their names usually got read - next to each other. Nothing alphabetical about it, obviously. Just proximity. Junior Researcher Tom Dalton would be in there, too. Always.

It'd seemed that way, anyhow. But always - the only always that you could count on was that always was always a mistake. Couldn't believe in anything, count on anything, need anything, promise anything, like that. Not always. Always was a sheer path, the kind people fell down and broke something at the bottom of; something of theirs, or somebody else's. Guin passed the coffee. Pockets, yeah. Could always use more of those - God, how Tom had groused at the both of them, taking forever (allegedly) to inspect the quartermaster's offerings and pick their kit. All for more pockets, tighter seams, better waterproofing, quieter fabric... the details. Devil was in them, and all. He hadn't started on that banana bread yet. Just smelled it, the mellow sweetness. "You let me know if you've got absolutely nothing better to do. Mm?" Might happen. Might? Kidding himself. Odds were she'd have him picking out a lining within the week. Doctor Vera Nair.

Guin huffed, one of those sled-dog sounds of his; if they did count her as an armed anything, that was their mistake. Not because she wasn't capable enough to earn the title, but because the medic was the one who needed the goddamn escort. The medic had to make it. Or no one would. Especially in this mix. Off - he frowned, taking a thoughtful bite of his breakfast. "We're a clean-up crew. Guess the Committee figures the worst of the mess has already been made, by the time we show up anywhere..." His tone veered towards downright disrespectful as he hit what the Committee figured; ethically speaking, Themis felt about as sound as the rest of what they'd ever done: rickety, but a bridge he'd spent most of his life standing on, swaying with the weather. Still holding. Because it had to. Because the alternative was miles down, dark, and deep. A world without the Veil would be a more dangerous one. Which was saying something.

Grim as that'd gone, he'd dredged up another smile as Vera listed off her make-work and get-by plans. Swimming in a lake; oh, he could think of a few lakes. And that violin - Guin nodded gravely into his first go at the thermos, like he'd been put-upon by all her so-called practice and couldn't wait for her to figure those damn strings out. Like Vera and her violin weren't one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard or seen.

But it didn't make a difference, to her, how fucking miserable her office might be. So long as her exam room had colour and soul, as her patients were comfortable. He sighed, steaming on the brisk-edged air. "I've got some kinda permission to head down there soon, so - I'll keep an eye out. See what there is." For her office. And exam room.

His projects? Christ. He stalled over a bite of banana bread, then licked the stickiness from his fingers. "Ah..." Guin laced those hands, cracked every bony knuckle. As if he was about to throw himself up a cliffside, a rough climb ahead. Tugging his cast-low stare out of the roots cradling the pair of them, he looked Vera in those doe-eyes of hers. "Couple apologies, looks like." Yeah. Of course he'd see her again. Someday. He'd known that, leaving. But, he'd made the mistake of expecting - expecting to be able to know when that'd be. To come back and get to someplace that felt like ready, so he'd... do it better than he was bound to, at least, if he tried unprepared. Hadn't meant for it to be like this: a surprise, unfamiliar ground. But it was. So. "Do you - wanna hear that, now?" Best to ask and see, yeah? If Vera'd rather just... have this, the clear and present, they could. And if she wanted her share of sorry, then God knew she was owed.

[nessa007]

#same energy Fleabag (1x01) | Ted Lasso (3x02)

[aufaits]

on introductions.

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 figure— 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 hand— 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 today— 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 be— 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 recollections— names and faces settling like film on the surface of memory. Others feel like a knife pick— 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 Jiāng, 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?

"Um— I do want to meet all of you, but do you mind if I grab a coffee first?"

[lieutenanthowell]

A stint with Xi-13 did a few things for a person; high on the list was getting you goddamn used to a rotating roster. Old blood ran dry, new blood dripped in. Chi-00 hadn't taken so much as a papercut yet, so - Au Fait must be filling a gap, of some kind, in this meticulously planned sideshow of a team. Supposedly meticulously. Looking at the list so far, seemed like the Ethics Committee was assuming they wouldn't be seeing much real action.

Know what they say about assumptions, Guin had muttered Nadia's way. They're a fine kind of thing to make, so long as it's someone else's ass on the line.

But they'd made their bets. And Guin had found himself a perch on the closest table to the balcony door, so he could slip away before the socializing got too... social. His skull had started jangling like a goddamn bear bell, already. Just as he'd slunk up to the fringe of the small crowd, and seen that sonofabitch Osterholz strolling away from Barb's counter with one of those fucking -

Like a -

The bread. With a hole in the middle. The -

Whatever the hell those were called. One of them, in the Director's hand, leaving cream cheese in his moustache. Osterholz waved - with the thing - and, for no good goddamn reason, Guin very nearly threw up on the man's shoes like a dog who'd got loaded on roadkill.

Only very nearly. He stood straighter, arms crossed, gagging that back. Christ. Mouth sour, a cold sweat crawling down his spine, he fixed on the employee of the moment as she began to introduce herself. And... drumroll. Digital SCP archives. General SCiPNET upkeep? Data issues? Shit. Guin lifted an eyebrow Nadia's way - only to find her already throwing him a hell of a smirk. Not the kind anyone else was likely to see; at the corners of her eyes, in the so-slight curve of her lips. Maybe she'd won this one. Maybe. Whether the team had, well, fuck - only time and field-testing would tell.

[lieutenanthowell]

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒔𝒏𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

“𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒? 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓—”

“𝑅𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑥. 𝐻𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑡…”

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑠, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑓𝑓 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑦, 𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑟’𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐻𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚; 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ.

“𝑆𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑦.”

“𝐵𝑢𝑡—”

“𝑆ℎ𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑝.”

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒. 𝐶𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟, 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑦, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑-𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛 𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑦. 𝐴 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑂𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑐𝑢𝑝𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑠ℎ; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑝𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑒: 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑘𝑦.

𝐴𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑎𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠. 𝑊𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔…

There were few things Guin trusted like his gut. So when his gut sent him trailing after whatever the hell that half-caught conversation had been, he went. Double-timing down a couple flights of stairs and slowing himself, a tug on the chain, heel, as he swung through the stairwell door and across the ugly-ass glass-and-steel lobby. He didn’t stop, even when all he found was a couple empty chairs and a table of dirty dishes; more like he circled. Carefully - not just the one table. Too obvious. Around the patio and back. Nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed. Wasn’t much to see; hadn’t been much to hear, but... something. Fucking something.

[agenthighfidelity]

Steve jumped a bit. He was in desperate need of caffeine and wasn’t exactly prepared for a social interaction. At least Howell was an acquaintance (albeit one that scared him a bit.) His mind raced for a familiar, but not too familiar, response. 

“What a coincidence, we chose the exact same plastic succulent.” A lie, for the sake of conversation. “I could use a second one though.” He hastily clipped the pager he'd been fiddling with onto his belt, then grabbed the plant with his left hand while offering his right for a handshake. “It’s good to see you, Lieutenant. It’s been, what, a full decade? Maybe more?”

Technically Howell had been on-site for the 2017 Hive incident in Poland, but he hadn’t been around to witness Steve’s heroics.

Thank the Lord in Heaven this guy doesn’t know I shot myself in the foot.

Steve mustered up a friendly smile. “Tight introduction by the way. It definitely scared some people, but I’m personally glad we have someone with a sense of honesty in this operation.” He nodded towards the barista (was her name Barb?)

“Anything good here?”

[lieutenanthowell]

Wilson was... jumpier than Guin remembered him. Maybe the plants would help? Somehow. (They hadn't picked the same one. He'd just taken the last stupid plastic plant left, because A.J. had more or less threatened to keep him there, facing that... smile of theirs, until he did.) Glad to be rid of it, Guin passed the damn thing over and returned the handshake. Briefly. Only because he lacked a good excuse to avoid it. He'd never liked those.

"Maybe." Could've been that long; a while, anyhow. Since Steve nearly blew his own foot off? Yeah, then. Vera had told him, of course. Very kindly, also of course. (She'd been trying not to laugh at all, also also of course. Gold star effort. Smiled, though. Smirked, even. Just a little.) Guin took that hand back after a polite-seeming amount of shaking had passed and collected the mug Barb slid across the bar with a short, grateful nod. He'd scared some people? An old doggish sort of chuff left his nose, tuned somewhere between disbelief and an actual laugh. "Jesus. They've got better shit to be scared of. Like each other." Among so, so many other things. A roomful of the walking goddamn dead. Liabilities, to get technical.

(Daglish had said the same thing about Nadia, though. And Strafe, about Vera. If she'd been out there, with them... then maybe she'd be as dead as Tom. Or maybe Tom'd be alive, and - ifs. The road to batshit crazy was paved with ifs.)

Before he could come up with something to say, some of that small talk crap he was no good at but would go over better than how the hell should I know, we both just got here, come on - Barb leaned a tattooed elbow on the counter and gave Wilson his answer. "The coffee, doll," she goddamn winked. "The coffee's always good." Was it? Guin started on his, or almost did, a quick frown skating over his face as he realized he hadn't actually told her what he wanted. Had he? Must've. (Christ, his fucking head was still pounding.) Only, this - sweet with sugar, pale with cream - wasn't how he took his coffee now - splash of milk, at most. It was what he'd mixed up in that army mess at seventeen, fresh out of the fucking woods. Tasted just the same. Somehow. With an owlish blink, he took another sip. And nodded, Steve's way. Yeah, the coffee was... something, alright.

[apaethy]

Macht kein Sinn dir zu vertrauen....

[homegrownkel]

Despite the blaring alarm as the door opened, (was that something I wasn't supposed to open?) the room had been dark at first glance, before the dull red of an ember on the counter caught his eye as it came up and glowed just that bit brighter. Now there was the slightest streak of silver steel as their eyes adjusted. And then there was the scowl behind the voice he'd already recognized. "They haven't started yet," he said easily as he let the door close behind him. "Don't mind me, I'm just getting my bearings - you can leave the lights off."

It was quite the range, too. Normally, Kel spent all the time needed in places like this to get through evaluations, but not much besides. They didn't usually need to. But maybe this one could get more use. Even with the low-light, a familiar profile caught their eye and they made a happy little sound with a soft, "Well hello there, gorgeous!" Long, loping steps carried them across the room to the racked equipment and he easily plucked a strangely square-barreled shotgun to check down the length. "They made you even prettier in post!" came the gleeful murmur. "I always forget the bevels on the trigger..."

[lieutenanthowell]

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.

[livewireatalanta]

Fairbanks. FIgured -- disappeared into the primordial expanse of Alaska. If asked, that would have been Nadia's guess in the first place. But it wasn't about guessing. She could have imagined him in any number of places and conditions, and she had. "Don't be a dickhead. You have texted me before you stashed it in your PO box and went dark." He could've sent er a fucking postcard while he was in that last little office of civilization before blurring to nothing in a snow gale. But he hadn't. So all she had had was guessing and imagining.

"I'm pretty set on wanting to break your nose no matter what you say." If I called you beautiful; that was how he had finished that conditional last time. And then he hadn't, actually, called her beautiful. Told her he was gonna save it. For when you least expect it. Sprawled over him in that hotel in...the Ivory Coast? Panama? Her hand in his hair and his eyes set on hers.

Nadia rolls past the memory to address the question he actually asked, in the here and now. "I did try." Maybe she didn't completely escape the snare of that memory. Still vulnerable, underbelly exposed for him. "Or. I tried to try, like." Tried to make herself reach for that familiar handle. To turn the knife on herself. Like she had turned it on Dalton... "Surprised they didn't take me out. Make it look like I did it myself." Daglish probably suggested it.

Casting her glance to the side, Nadia noted the two empty glasses set out. Nudged one so it sang out a lone note as it spun on the counter. "You got any of that awful fucking scotch?" Could sure as hell use a drink. He probably could too. Or a second drink, if the scent on the air was anything to go by.

Some of the molten anger roiling through her chest cooled as he explained. She hated that. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if she could just be mad. "You didn't actually apologize." You didn't actually call me beautiful. She reached for his cigarette, took a deep drag.

[lieutenanthowell]

Went dark. Real dark, dark like skies that'd never seen city lights. The quietest kind of night. "Yeah," he admitted, tracking the hexes of the kitchen floor. Another fact. "Wouldn't have had much to say, though." Guin followed that also-fact up with a whirl of his hand by his temple, trailing smoke. "Just some - bullshit." The bullshit and then some that he could feel rattling around in there since he'd come to out of that coma, like all the fractures his skull had ever survived were about to spiderweb apart. As if that made any fucking sense. But he'd spent every handful of sense he had on that debriefing, and the hearing, Christ. Needed that quiet, after all that.

But he could've texted her some bullshit, before he went dark. She had him on that. And his nose wasn't getting any prettier, so. He sucked down another drag, shrugging a sharp shoulder. Fate accepted. Nice of her to warn him. Appreciated. Like the honesty, stark as it was. Not that he expected Nadia to be honest, with him. Wasn't because she was a liar, or anything. Just his nature. People weren't honest. Didn't say what they meant. Were, broadly, full of it. So he didn't expect honesty, and sure as shit never demanded any. Not this kind. The sort that hurt to give. But it'd happened before, and it was happening, now, as she halted through explaining that she'd had a go, at least. A try at a try.

(Daglish had been trying, too. To get Atalanta terminated? Maybe. Not that there'd be much difference, whether that meant calling in the likes of their new CO or whatever else passed for firing, in the Foundation. Would there? It'd kill her, either way.)

She was here, though, and alive, not - draining out, like Tom. Like she'd been, as he packed her full of foam. Pulled open. By that meathook of a beak. Or the talons? The fangs? Didn't fucking matter.

Had to lick the cold off his lips, there. The kind that burned, seared hot. Ate up whatever goddamn useless words he might've been able to stack together, in the face of - any of that. Nadia didn't want some dumbassed platitude, anyway. Nadia wanted scotch. Easy. Doable.

"No Dr Pepper," Guin warned her, shoving off his side of the kitchen to trail across the galley. "Yet." Like he'd be getting some anyway. Even if she never walked through that door again. Maybe he would. Might've acquired a taste for it. In the meantime, though - "Sorry." A start, as he stopped, reaching a wiry arm past her shoulder to creak that cupboard open. "I'm sorry, for being a dickhead." Guin poured a finger - two, more like it - into those tumblers. "Break my nose about it, if you want." Chin up for the swing, he stepped back, holding her glass out as he lifted his own. And his eyes, too, meeting hers. "Still gonna be glad you're here. Got a hell of a shitstorm blowing in." Close as he'd get to a toast.

[nofckingfighting]

‘What’s your dog’s name? Eh? What’s your name, boy?’

[agentelevatormusic]

“Up against a pro,” she scoffed, carefully picking up her backpack and placing it between them so it wouldn’t draw a track of dirt along the bottom. Vera watched him, quietly unbuttoning the bag. It was hard not to smile at him and give up the game. Really hard. “Constant vigilance,” she murmured. See if he remembered that book. It had been an age and she knew he’d only put up with them so she and Tom would be happy. And so that they would stop pestering him. She wondered, only for a second, if he knew just how much of a monstrous fuck that author had turned out to be. Guin always did have a sixth sense for assholes.

“Only time I’ll go easy on you is when you haven’t earned the challenge, you know that.” Then she did smile, with tired, affectionate eyes. “So, I’ll always bring you a challenge. Tomorrow, if you’re up for it.” Or was that too soon? She was hit with a wave of déjà vu. “Or next week. If we’re still alive.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment to remember a quiet morning. Guin tearing through Tolkien while she curled up across from him devouring Earthsea as a sunbeam trickled in through the window and covered them both. Vera was always reading. Then and now. However, she never in her life read as much for pleasure as she did in the time she lived with Guin. Not before or after. Now she continued to read fiction, of course, but it always took a backseat to medical books and journals that would keep other people alive. Maybe it was better that way? Sometimes she thought so. Other times, she was certain it wasn't.

“I’ve been more of an elven bread sort of Vera than a second breakfast Vera, of late.” She said it softly, but her voice caught in the little nest and carried. Vera glared up at the tree accusingly. “I get so busy.” It carried again. “I still just don’t have much of an appetite when I’m alone.” That one didn't echo, of course. She’d always been like that. Since Harvard, at least. Born of scarcity and fueled by loneliness. Vera did eat, regardless. She just didn’t taste.

He crouched next to her in the shadows under the roots and she leaned in to peer at the salamanders in the dark so he wouldn’t see her redden. Remembering a long familiar scent was one thing. Reliving it for the first time in over a year, a nightmarish, hellscape of a year, was another entirely. She shivered to keep her eyes from watering. 

Match-strike the moment before a smoke. And then that Camel. Vera tolerated smoking in most people. In most patients. She longed for it on Guin. That scent and the quiet, thoughtful time they’d spent with it. On rooftops. At camp. On the porch. And, of course, that same carbolic soap that was too rough for her skin, but drew Vera like a moth to a flame. She used to tease him, fresh out of a shower, so she could sniff and kiss at his neck to get a whiff of it. 

Then there was evergreen. There was always evergreen. That might have been, at once, the lightest and the most powerful of all. Evergreen was all around. It was the space they shared the most and Guin, specifically, was as much a part of the forest as anything else that naturally belonged. He’d invited her into the trees with him. Protected her. Taught her what he could. Shown her how to let her mind be still.

Little good it had done. He'd left. He'd left her. Her mind had shut down entirely. Nothing. Nothingness. Until she finally woke up to discover that her mind had taken off at a sprint. The race she ran only with herself had hardly let up since. Not until...

Vera swallowed. Sometimes, she realized, she could be very cruel to herself.

Then their hands brushed together as Vera turned back and took the peaches from him. For only an instant she was in the past again. Setting and tending his bloodied knuckles. Allowing him, and only him, to take care of her precious surgeon's hands when she let them get hurt. Cradling his face between her gentle palms and closing her eyes as his thumb traced the soft skin of her cheek.

She balanced and hung the open peach can carefully from the roots inside a stretchy, fresh nitrile glove from her pocket. “I think it’ll hold.” Pulling herself together a bit, Vera flipped over the top flap of her backpack to reveal something of a bindle bag. One of her square scarves. This one dark blue and flecked with tiny golden hares. Sometimes she used it to keep her hair back, but it was so much more practical in use here. Besides, she preferred her hair to be free when she wasn't practicing.

She used to pack these sorts of meals for hikes, though smaller so they could be carried between two or three people. Inside was a treasure trove of meticulously stacked stolen food. Cereal boxes, fruit, saran-wrapped banana bread, an insulated tin with milk, and of course, Vera’s thermos of coffee in the side pocket. Guin of all people would know that the sleight of hand training her mother had forced upon her to improve her dexterity had not gone to waste. Vera beamed up at him and then held her hands up. There was more. 

She grinned conspiratorially, then unzipped her green jacket to reveal a new slightly darker green lining. “It’s actually double lined. I needed another project.” Yes, another. Vera had suffered loss before and rediscovered, alone, that knowing that kind of pain didn't offer her any kind of deliverance from it. The dreams grew worse, but she couldn't will herself to wake up unless there was something waiting for her hands. Work. She was born to work. Raised to work. And work was what she'd done to cope with Tom.

Nothing in her field, of course, or they'd have pulled her back. But always something.

Nurse Browning had taught her the worth of a lightweight tailored fabric that could maintain its integrity. They’d designed it with hidden pockets throughout the inner lining and various snaps to hold important things on the outer lining. In this case, two familiar little tin cases for cutlery. Vera passed one to Guin. 

She snorted, but didn’t bother to squint menacingly at whatever danger lay behind the roots. “Whatever you say, Sergeant.” Vera picked up a napkin full of green grapes for herself. “It’s beautiful.” One of her hands slowly, gently rose towards one of the salamanders, the back of a finger practically touching it. Light shining through her fingers. She remembered herself. “I doubt I’ll be back for a while.” Vera spoke low. “We’re trapped here, but… I’d just as soon pretend to have some agency in the places I hide. Can’t go and get complacent, right? I’ll know every inch of this place before the year is up. If it's possible.” If she made it that long. "Another project, right?"

[lieutenanthowell]

That was... the wizard books. Hadn't really stuck with him. A boarding school wasn't his idea of a fantasy, no matter how magic. Then the lady behind them had turned out to be a real fucking witch, herself. He'd nodded, caught the reference as Vera floated it past him. And hummed, as if deeply considering his schedule. (As if he had a schedule, of any kind. Not yet; that'd become clearer once their new CO started, well, commanding.) But tomorrow - "Later, maybe? In the day," he cleared up. His morning might... well, hard to say. Chi-00 was already locked and loaded with surprises.

Like the - contusions, she'd call them, well above where he could hope to hide anything. The woolen scarf he'd twisted around the high collar of his base layer before heading out could only do so much. Nothing she hadn't seen before, but. Nothing she needed to see, either.

(Until his fucking physical. Right. That might involve some seeing.)

(There'd been worse sights, last time he was on her table. Jesus, a year and change ago, he'd...)

Elven bread. Too bad that wasn't a real goddamn thing, and - too bad Tom wasn't around. Tom, who'd never forgot how long it'd been since he ate in all his life, who'd start "foraging" the pantry shelves or the nearest ditch or, somehow, find a food truck or stand in the middle of the more-or-less-nowheres they'd spent so much of their lives wandering. Just following my nose, he'd say. The nose knows. (It didn't. Not Tom's, anyway. How many times had the man poisoned himself? Following his fucking nose.) Vera ate, but ate better, with Tom to remind her, or Guin next to her, picking through some new order or scaling a trout, brushing mushrooms, cleaning shanks. Him and Tom, they'd both known that Vera looked after herself last, too often. It'd been one of their unspoken pacts, long before the wedding. The second one. Look after Vera.

Just another way he'd let his best friend down, hey?

Best friends. Both of them.

Those golden hares caught the thin, watery glow of this grey day as well as they did proper sunlight: Sonoran, Costa Rican, Siberian, Alaskan. So many sunrises, they'd seen. Guin's smile found its way back, at the sight. And higher, as she revealed the new tricks she'd taught that old jacket. He gave the deeply green sheen of the new, much-pocketed lining a hum, a gloved round of applause, appropriately awed. Then set that little case of cutlery aside to consider the spread. Banana bread. Biting his gloves off, Guin began to do a neat job of unwrapping that. With a smirk, as she misranked him. Intentionally. Tom had rattled off some bullshit about how time worked, flat on their backs, stoned with the stars of the Mongolian Plateau overhead; something about tenselessness. If he'd understood any of that - which was a big if - then, yeah: he was still a sergeant drifting between the trees, and she was always a Harvard grad, med kit clutched tight. And they were always married, and always not, and always friends, anyway. And Tom was always alive. And always dead.

No, he'd probably lost the plot. If he hadn't, it was fucking stupid. Didn't make any goddamn sense. The kind of crap you'd talk, high in a desert, staring up at space. Then again, Guin never had a brain for philosophy. "Mm. Trapped here while we're here. Gonna hope we start shipping out pretty quick..." But, in the meantime - wasn't the ugliest site they'd ever been posted to. Tearing off a corner of banana bread, Guin unscrewed that thermos, offering her the first sip. "Any other projects on the go? Probably be heading into town, sometime soon. If you need anything, for those." So she could keep busy. The way she needed to.

(Get so busy, she'd said. Like it was an accident.) That was - what it was. But if her busy-ness could be spent on something more about Vera than Elevator Music, more like fixing up that beautiful coat than reordering her new exam room just so, then... well, that'd be nice. Wouldn't it? Not as nice as she deserved, but. Tom would always be dead. So they'd have to make do.

[lieutenanthowell]

Searchin' for knowledge Walkin' through fire Man in a garden, filled with desire I know my name ain't written in your book... look: If it all ends tomorrow I had a blast It looked so beautiful And it hurt so bad What a real good time What a heartfelt world What a fucked up place

[lochblocknroll]

what: 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 its 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.

[lieutenanthowell]

God, he'd just wanted this over with. And couldn't sleep. (As if he could sleep. As a general rule.) Those were the only "reasons" Guin had turned up to get his login or whatever the fuck dealt with. Go figure it'd need fixing. He'd only been gone a year. Precisely.

He might be gone another, if he had to stand through much more of this. Quote Unquote. Right. The tech guy. Which could mean a few things, none of which Guin would pretend to understand, or was remotely interested in. He'd presume that went both ways, like it tended to, with tech guys. Unfortunately, Dr. Matias Rojas, giver of full, real-sounding names and credentials, didn't seem about to let having absolutely fuck all in common stop him from kicking off a conversation.

Well. From talking at anyone in range, more accurately. Talking and talking and talking.

Guin let the dust settle for a moment, then a few more, just to make sure the other man had finally finished. Then he blinked, once, slowly. Took a deep breath. Let it out. "Yeah." Flat as the goddamn high arctic tundra and about as friendly. "It's pretty much like computers are. On the whole." Largely a pain in his ass. Somebody else's problem. "And the WiFi's... wireless, alright." Which made it decent enough, for his purposes. Nodding ahead, Guin stared at the door they were both waiting to see some Foundation geek appear through. Any minute now. "You gonna take a lotta time, in there? Cuz I just need to deal with the login shit." And Dr. Quote Unquote seemed like he might spend a goddamn age wasting some nerd's morning. And his, now.

[lieutenanthowell]

who: @lieutenanthowell & one (1) teammate! please like this post to claim the starter - first like claims and closes! dm once you've claimed if you'd like to plot, or simply reply at your leisure! where: corner coffee, as Barb doesn't close up shop. is she ever off shift? like, ever? when: early evening February 19, after the tour of the floors and Guin's extended tour - most of the team has already received their welcome packet and gone their separate ways for the night. what: technical difficulties. just the pager, obviously. general trigger warnings: none!

A pager. Christ. This was old school by his standards. But, apparently, there was some sort of way to catch a radio signal on the damn thing? (There was a whole damn station, out here? God knew what it'd play.) Only problem was figuring out who the hell he was supposed to talk to about that.

Guin wasn't in the mood for a chase. The lady who made the coffee would know. And she'd share, for the low, low cost of a little harmless small talk about the Omega-1 and Iota-10 vets - he'd already absconded for a smoke break when that second bombshell dropped, but he'd caught the whispers during their over-long site tour; a Damn fucking Fed?) - who were, apparently, running the new circus onsite. And had some kinda history. History, even. From what he'd heard...

(Well, almost harmless. Small talk, by and large, did Guin nothing but harm. But Barb was alright.)

And, yeah, she'd happened to know just the thing for anybody sick of listening to the HVAC hiss along. Glancing at the office number scratched on the back of his receipt, Guin folded that up and into a pocket in his tac pants. "Much appreciated. Don't suppose you could - use another plant?" Plant, in scare quotes. He held up the... whatever it was, some sort of plasticky succulent that'd been in his welcome packet. To go with her shelf of the damn things behind the bar, a dusty, fakeass garden he couldn't fathom the fucking appeal of. Just made him miss real, living scenery. Fireweed on the hills, the pithy-herbal taste of spruce tips, the give of thawed muskeg under his boots. The real world. Not this concrete and glass hamster cage they'd be quartered in.

"Oh, hon. I'm all set. Maybe your friend, there?" Shaking her head with one of those apple-cheeked smiles, Barb pointed past his shoulder. Guin swiveled, already frowning - a friend? No. Just a teammate. He offered the plant again, dangling from a lifeless frond. "Want it?"

[homegrownkel]

GERMINATION: greeting the world

Introductions are the worst part of meeting new people. Having to think about making a good impression - reading whether or not you gauged correctly, not realizing when you've missed the mark. It's the culmination of the worst part of being of a social species. Trying to move from the other to becoming part of the group. It means Kel knows from the first moment of consciousness that today will be Rough. Luckily the crockpot did its job and there's fresh minestrone for his thermos. Less luckily, half the soup spills on the way to the car.

It's just another blemish on an already rough morning. Kel hasn't had a reaction to any sort of mental influence like this in so many years that they're not the only one caught off guard. Someone will figure out how to mitigate the fog - they can already hear chatter about it in the group, which is much more attention-grabbing than poor Kato. Nice guy, but maybe there will be a better second impression. One that sticks.

And then every thing that needs to go wrong will - apparently the camera used to take the first ID photo wasn't the proper model, or was missing whatever coating the Foundation used in the past to take his ID photos. But the security department needs a new one. Kel can't blame them - if they were a guard and someone handed over a picture of a flower arrangement as a security card, he wouldn't let them in either.

The one in charge seems just the type the commission would pick, observant, experienced, just friendly enough to inspire some level of loyalty. Small flashes of the man in action - usually from a distance, add depth and color to his form, old memories overlaid on a fresh face. They fall into place for some of the others in the room as well, though at least one face is so familiar there's nothing new to learn at a glance.

"Good morning," Kel bobs a nod at their new boss in an attempt to be less... ominously looming, and gives him a perfectly average handshake before moving towards a seat in the back. Then it's time for the parade. And what a show it is. The team is clearly hand picked for something, but even Kel can tell that more than a few people have history of some sort and still others won't mesh well despite the rigid hold an MTF's commander usually has. For at least one that might actually be the problem.

There is something to be said about going in the middle of a set though. Avoiding the nerves of being the first, but also knowing you aren't the last first impression somehow relieves some of the pressure. Or at least it does for Kel. It's easiest to see everything from the metaphorical middle of the pack anyways.

"My turn then?" They smile quickly and straighten up before swallowing down the worst of the brogue they'd never gotten rid of. "Some of you may already know me as Kel or Engineer Trebond, but I guess I'm going by Garden Variety here. Bit of a nod to my hometown, I think. Small place, big on uh... agriculture. I've been working in the foundation research divisions almost 3 decades now. My work's mostly in the actual building of things, more practical application and testing than the theoretical stuff, so I'm a bit excited to see how these things actually run in the field. Fun fact, um..." He sits back in his chair, smile turning nervous. "I'm 209 centimeters tall. Yes, really. Oh I think that's six foot.... ten inches? Math might be a bit off, but I'm past the threshold where people try to say it makes a difference. Anyways - if you need me, send me a page. I like to wander and this campus seems a bit large, so it's better to not pass each other while searching."

And with that, the worst was over. The members of the team grow more and more interesting as they go down the list, but maybe that's just the relaxed nerves speaking.

[lieutenanthowell]

He'd been told, once, that head injuries were the leading cause of injury and death in personnel over six feet. Bigger they are, the harder they fall, hey? And the more likely they are to crack their own goddamn skulls on everything going on up there. If it was true, then... Jesus, it was some sort of miracle Trebond had made it this far. Even if they were yet another player on this shitshow of a team who'd never seen fieldwork, from the sounds of it. Six foot, ten inches. Guin had watched the engineer sit taller, eyebrows rising at even that. Good dirt, in... wherever they didn't say they were from. Big on agriculture.

Well, if he needed anything off the top shelf - he'd fucking get it himself.

[livewireatalanta]

He was scrubbing at his eye, the left. The one she had last seen split through and weeping blood into the horror show the rest of his face had been. As if something had eaten it. That had been in her dreams more than a few times: Guin standing in the woods at the end of a trail. Smiling at her in a way that was just left of correct. Half of his face mauled and, in those dreams, when she moved to step closer to him, her legs always folded. Suddenly, her stomach was shredded — like it had been that night. That was usually the point that the laughing started.

She could hear it then. An eerie tinnitus playing against the back of her mind, like an insect’s stridulation rising.

"Just said you'd left,” she rushed out, trying to down out the laughter. “That no one knew where you'd gone or when you'd be back. If you'd be back." Daglish looking at her like she was something he found on his shoe. “Which means I spent more than twenty seconds listening to Daglish so fuck you very much for that, too.” She had always hated that fucker and Guin knew it.

[tw dark humor regarding suicide & suicidal ideation]

"I got put on leave. For six months. And then they tried to give me another three but I was just about ready to blow my brains out. So." Just about. If that's what you could call tucking herself behind the door of her bedroom with her knife laid in front of her. Prepared. Not as protection but-- "If I had known they were going to put me in Decomm I might have tried to actually do it."

Her eyes tick over to him, to where he's leaned against the counter and how his hands are clenched. None of that is why she came over. None of it is why it feels like something inside of her has come loose when she looks at him.

"Did you really just--" No. Because from a distance she could hear their glasses, his rocks and her collins, clinking together in that Arizona bar come back. No bullshit. "You could've...texted. Or something."

[lieutenanthowell]

There was something - there was always something. Right at the back of his neck. Like static. Or a breath, rattling. Something. Guin brushed at it, scratched, dug his fingers in. Held. Still. Listening, to her. Nadia, louder than - nothing. It was nothing.

Left. Gone. Daglish. So fuck you very much for that, too.

Yeah, fuck him. For that. And fuck Boulet, for bending to that jackass, Strafe, and sending them out there to do what they'd done, against all goddamn good sense. Fuck Daglish for being Daglish and making Commander, after all that. As for the rest of them, the ones who hadn't died, that night... well, they probably hadn't even lied to her. Not really. Why would they have any answers? Could've guessed where he'd fucked off to, at least, but. Nadia could've done that herself. She wasn't looking to guess. She'd wanted to know. And not the place, not the dates. Just - not dead.

First thing out of her mouth. Hadn't expected that, somehow.

Hadn't expected to see her again. For good goddamn reason, but up north, in the quiet and the cold, he'd managed to convince himself - over and over - that he was just worrying. The way Guin always had, when, and maybe because, Nadia didn't seem to have any worry left for herself. He hadn't stopped. Just hadn't fucking done anything about it. Hadn't known what to do. So he'd worried, for all that was worth, while she - just about. By Nadia's standards, that'd mean ready. Hard to imagine her pulling a trigger, though. Only because she'd always liked her knives better.

(Did Tom change that? Killing Tom. Cutting Tom, at least, opening him up - first blood. She hadn't killed him. Any more than she'd killed all the others.)

Did he really just what? Head cocked, Guin waited for her to finish that, fucking failing to choke down the jawbreaking tension that goddamn half-joke of hers had left between his teeth. If I had known, she said. Like the department mattered. As if she didn't have a death wish before they stuck her on leave. Before that night. Like she hadn't shipped into the vanguard, like that. Christ. He had a cigarette between his lips before Nadia... didn't finish that thought so much as rearrange it. Told, instead of asked. He snapped a match out of the book in his hand. (The Stag, the book-cover said. Dumbass name for a bar.) Lighting up, he answered. Honestly. "Couldn't've. Left my phone in Fairbanks." Not an excuse; just a fact. He left his phone in that PO box he kept in Fairbanks, off, locked up. For a year. No texting. No calling. No fucking emails. Hardly a single human conversation.

No wonder he found himself sliding, sinking into one of the last ones they'd had, before - all that. A warm hotel bed, in a warmer place than the one they both nearly died in. Much warmer. "Would you break my nose," he started, slow, steady as he could. Not as steady as he'd usually be. "If I said I was glad you didn't? Try." Nevermind pull it off. Gutting herself like a fish. Or, yeah. Blowing her brains out.

Would you break my nose, he'd asked, before, if I called you beautiful?

"Or sorry." Guin tacked that on, "If I said sorry. For not..." doing something he didn't think would matter. And being wrong, about that. Not the first time. Probably not the last. Real bad habit for it, all things considered. "I just -" he circled that cigarette, hazy swirls of smoke haunting the air. Like the ghosts of everything he thought he might say, decided against. "Had to get lost, for a while." And she'd get that, or - not.

[lieutenanthowell]

Back in the stark woods behind your old house I buried something that'll leave you no doubt Something to prove myself to you - half is a lie, but the good part's true I need to stay, but alas, I must go Maybe you should move on, and I'll go it alone

Out in the barren field where we first met, full of decay from a life in the red Oaths that I broke, money I spent Couldn't make it work, couldn't even make rent The people I forgot, that I knew, that I met Maybe my life will repay the debt I need to stay I need to stay I need to stay, but alas, I must go Thought you wanted me to stay, but you need me to go I just wanna say, now I finally know - Alas, I must go!

[agentelevatormusic]

“Sixteen minutes?” Her voice was playfully judgemental, but also clearly relieved. If he was going to come at all, she’d known, he would be there before the half hour had elapsed. If he wasn’t going to come at all? Well, she had acknowledged that as a possibility even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to plan for it. 

Uncharacteristic of her, really. Vera liked to be prepared for anything and everything. Maybe, deep down in her bones, she just knew he would be there. 

Vera peered out at him, careful not to disturb any salamanders. “That’s quite a bit off your record.” She tutted, but her eyes were teasing. Challenging, even. “Maybe I should take it easy on you next time. There’s a spot along the lake that could get you down to fifteen, I bet. Maybe I could leave you clues. Like a short series of riddles? Ah. I know. I could light a campfire at the end.”

“Kind of defeats the purpose of a company picnic.” No, she had not eaten yet. Yet! “Your doctor also shares the occasional smoke with you and suspects you haven’t taken that one multivitamin in years. Plus, you’ve personally witnessed your doctor recklessly suture herself before her assigned doctor could do the job.” As if she’d have ever have accepted stitches from Dr. Milt. “Your doc’s a hack.” Vera waved herself off. She knew she was grandstanding, but it had been a whole fucking year since she’d seen him. Her best friend in the world. Her Guin. Her... “I wouldn’t trust her an inch. Harvard Hypocrite, I believe, is the correct title. But, uh, yeah. I will take that granola bar back, thank you.” 

“Are you coming in, Guin, or are we eating in the rain?” Already she was reaching a hand through the roots to carefully tug at those peaches, which were dessert peaches. “There’s actual company in here, too. The kind you’ll like.” She nodded at the little salamanders. “Food, too. Plenty of it. Save your dessert for last.” She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this happy. Carefree. Good. All so rare for Vera.

[lieutenanthowell]

"Yeah, yeah." He shrugged, loosely, careful not to spill those as-yet-untouched, precious peaches. "What can I say? Up against a pro."

One he'd schooled a bit, sure, but. She'd already had the eyes and ears and sense for it, Vera. Always. Couldn't teach instinct. "Don't you dare go easy on me, hey? Can't go and get complacent, now." Never. (He was right; she hadn't eaten. Looked like that'd been the way a little too often, lately. Bird-boned. Vera.) "Picnic could've been second breakfast. For all I know." Way too early for elevensies, or whatever came next. It'd been an age since he reread those books. Books of hers. He'd read more with Vera, in their home, than he ever had. Not that he'd ever had anything against the practice; tore through those second and third and more-hand paperbacks of his childhood, weather-warped and melt-blotted, spines coming unstuck. A whole other species, almost, from Vera's books. She loved her things so carefully. Her books were all gifts, in a sense; from her family, or herself.

(His books, he'd found. They'd been left behind. That's all.)

Guin had stepped closer, bootfalls hardly creaking over the tangle of roots until he was taking an easy crouch just aside the great split in the trunk she'd holed up in. Good spot. And crawling with torrent salamanders, small and sleek and speckled, moving slow. His smile cracked a little wider as she ragged on herself, ridiculously; if Vera Nair was a hack, then every other goddamn butcher who'd had their gloved-up hands on him had better turn in their stethoscopes.

And she knew that. As well as he did. Chi-00 had scraped the bottom of the barrel in so many goddamn respects, it seemed, but... they'd reached for the stars, with her. Pulled one down and told her to keep them alive. He'd trust her an inch. Trust her a mile. Trust her right down the side of this mountain they were clinging to, and then some.

For the whole trail, he'd told her. More than once. A long time ago.

So many things you should not tell her.

Evergreen, damp earth, rain. Eyes winced shut, Guin took another deep, steady breath of all that. Then another, deeper. Steadier. The cigarette he'd burnt through, on his way here - the butt nipped out neatly and stowed in his pocket. Leave no trace. And Vera, who'd always, always smelled a little like those books of hers, darted through with disinfectant and blood. And hot cocoa. Sweet, sharp, iron and paper. They weren't eating in the rain. He let her take the peaches by way of an answer, the brush of her fingers - fingers he'd iced and picked gravel out of and generally looked after, when the physician couldn't heal herself - familiar as ever. That smile, though. Felt like it'd been longer than a year since he'd seen it. Sure been a year since he'd seen anything like it, even. She hadn't worn that sort of smile when Tom and him left, Delta-14 and Xi-13 foraying out together. But she had been smiling. So long as they were looking back to wave, to see, at least. After he threw that last salute, well. She'd been worried, before. Now that it was them, out there, both of them, and she'd been kept back? Doubt she'd smiled at all, waiting, waiting, waiting back onsite.

Evergreen, damp earth, rain. Smoke. Sweet, sharp, iron and paper. He'd rocked off his heels, pushing himself forward. Back to here and now. Not a place he used to have such a hard time being. Should be easier. It was; it was. He was about to curl up under a tree with Vera. An easy place to be. (A place they'd been, so, so many times, in other forests, on other mountains. In that wild yard they used to have.)

Slinking under the cathedral-arch of those roots, he checked the stony mountainside earth for salamanders and sat, passing that granola bar from his coat pocket. The drizzle rolled on, over their heads. "Solid sort of den, Harvard," he rasped, low. A tease to his tone, now, mock-serious with the gravity of picking the right place to go to ground. "Should serve you well." God knew, Chi-00 had already given the team medic plenty to hide from.