#avery gilman

[chaos-dumpster-fire]

Roadtrip selfie! Don't look at those signs, Im sure there's no meaning at all behind which ones are showing, none at all.

Alternate versions below the cut (feat. pencil sketches, black-and-white ink, and colored variant)

[avery-gilman-scp-operative]

Shattered Remnants

Summary: Recollection of one of Avery's past missions, present in dream/flashback format. Focus: SCP 3004 and the Cétlaidí.

----

Any complaints from their exploration party by the early hour in which they are travelling are silenced by the understanding that this is a privileged sort of expedition. Few souls know of anything deeper than the surface layer of this file, and fewer still are permitted to interact with manifestations. ‘Avery’ is well aware of these facts as he lets the dread and excitement wash over him, fiddling with the pencils in their pocket to keep steady.

“Radios on,” The TL announces, pulling her mask on and motioning for the rest to copy. “Masks up.”

The old forest is beautiful, the traces of the historical fires and destruction only adding to the resplendence.Trees too thick and crowded for vehicles, canopies blocking out swathes of light like blackout curtains, traces of that sort of power linger, washing the scene in a surreal palette of colors. 

Deep breath, separate the sentiments from the rendering, he has to remind himself, taking out the color he can best pinpoint the sky to be at when it’s oscillating with a shimmer that suggests less true cognitohazard and more of a powerful aftermath of something so desperate to be perceived that the husk is still noticeable centuries later. Somewhere between light blue and lilac.

It isn’t silent, not with the thousands, tens of thousands, of cicadas, but it’s an unnatural pattern for them to be singing in, one that waxes and wanes so there are moments of perfect silence, broken by the synchronized screaming. The group’s steps noticeably lack this harmony.

“Freaky,” one of the Green Stags mutters. “They always do that?”

“Scared of a few bugs for keeping count?” another member taunts back. “Damn, Tanner, I didn’t figure you to be such a wimp.”

“Fuck off!”

“Eat shit.”

“Quiet on comms,” their lead snaps, visibly rolling her eyes. Avery is inclined to agree. “That’s just how it’s been for a while around here, right?” Her left hand pitches towards one of the doctors nearer to her, as though prompting to explain.

“Correct,” a new voice joins them on the frequency, “although it is unclear why, the cicadas of this forest have been confirmed to hold a nearly perfect unified song during prime-numbered years.”

“Any significance to that?”

“Not to the best of our knowledge, Agent Snipesoil, but it does not appear to be an indicator of danger.”

“Leftovers of the dying deity,” Tanner mutters.

“Neutralized deity, remember?” the taunter adds sardonically, “Officially speaking, Three-oh-oh-four is as gone as it can be.”

“Brannings, if you actually believe that shit,  I’m not even going to bother with hitting your funeral,” Tanner replies at the same time as the lead says “Quiet on snark, Brannings, Tanner.”

“Copy that, TL,” both say in response, even as Avery sees peripherally how they switch to making rude gestures at one another instead.

Another thirty minutes pass of walking, mostly silent on the radio. Members close enough to one another to whisper do so, and the few times Avery finds themselves needing to speak with the MTF, sign suffices. The gradually lightening sky is more of a guide to him than the clock for how long they’ve been moving.  

“Forty paces ahead,” TL tells them when above is almost periwinkle-pink, adding, “Gilman, you’re gonna be needed up front soon.” Avery nods, hopping over the irregular dirt floor and weaving around several agents to catch up. Times like these, the job doesn’t feel like it’s about the Foundation, just the discovery, the recording of it. The artistic merit of the work, so to speak.

“Remember,” one of the researchers, shorter by a good head, adds, “The goal is not total recording, it is a sufficiently broad sample that we can bring back. Keep it to portable sizes.”

He gives a thumbs up before remembering the darkness of the forest and replying “Confirmed,” to be safe. Odd to remember how for most people, the pre-dawn light is insufficient, while Avery is still wearing their tinted glasses. 

As they reach the clearing, the traces begin to present themselves. Trees with rectangular indentations in them, emptied or damaged by previous personnel’s hands. Scatterings of light that line up exactly, no overlaps to speak of. Were they more paranoid, Avery would suggest that perhaps 3004 existed on both a separate plane and in their current one, simply beneath the Earth. For once, however, the paranoia is easily recognizable as absurd. If 3004 manifested again, after all, it would be far greater than the dying deity Father Clark’s report suggested.

“Just beyond the zig-zagging tree,” Snipesoil tells the group through the radio, followed shortly by the collective gasps and awed murmurs.

There’s no good descriptor in English, Avery realizes, having to settle on ones like ‘mesmerizing’ ‘resplendent’ ‘scintillating’ when he’ll have to write up his reports. It feels too monumentous to take in, surreal and almost alive.

The details stick out first in times like these for him, he’s learned, little bits of clarity against a smudged background in their memory. The sheer scale of the window takes second place to the level of detail put into each piece. 

Cicadas, dozens, hundreds, beautifully put together from glass, the long-extinct Cicadetta luculenta brought back to a new life in these depictions. Simplified for the medium, yes, but with clearly distinct eyes, wing patterns, details of the body, contrasted to the triangle that he suspects was intended to subtly pull at the idea of a halo-like effect. Each one the size of a human head, the remnants of a serpentine wall stacking well above them.

“Monumental,” someone next to him whispers, but Avery can’t bother to register their presence, pencil flying over paper frantically. He knows their own hands well enough to know that it’ll take a good six messy sketches before they’ll be able to draw the precise smooth lines that this will demand.

“I’ve seen it twice before and it still takes my breath away for a moment.” The TL’s voice now, level like an academic’s behind a lectern. “The dating varies piece by piece, as each separate unit was placed by a different set of hands.”

His hands are still shaking starting on the second sketch. A different voice asks “What’s the estimated date range?”

“Barring anomalous interference with our testing, the remnants we’ve found go from the early fifteenth century to the late nineteenth.” The wing is crooked. No time to fix, no time, paper almost tearing in his haste to capture the careful spots.

“Despite the Singers only having been here from the late-fifteenth century onwards?” The voice is skeptic, muffled somewhat by approaching steps of a new speaker.

“The sects have always existed, Doctor, you have to remember that. They travel, spread word, and bring over past traditions that evolve into then-contemporary ones.” Deeper, baritone, presumably Dr. Kehan. The curve of the wall now, messy, ruines, jagged edges of its cleaner breaks, pencil jumping with each breath.

“How was the century-long range even possible, then?”

“Within Singer society, a child’s transition into adulthood was signified by the loss of milk teeth. These, judging by the traces of human touch we’ve been able to isolate, appear to be commemorations of the process. Like a bat mitzvah, or a debutante ball, the transitional youth would render the cicada in glass, choose colors which held significance to them or their family perhaps, and then add their piece of the story to existing ones.” Pause. Messy, poor shading on the wall fragments. The TL’s bootfalls suggest she’s moving to the perimeter. “The really interesting thing is that analysis shows the glass itself to be non-anomalous, but there isn’t copper foil or lead binding it together. The binding is done instead by hair, skin, crushed up teeth -presumably those lost by the youth in question-, and their blood.”

“Fascinating.” The pencil snaps. Avery, without looking, shoves it into the empty pocket and pulls a replacement out of his other. The other voice sounds excited.

“Oh, you should see the other parts. There’s spots before they began to join the tokens together, where they would put the final work into a tree and let the tree weave around it.”

“Wouldn’t it cover the cicada?”

“That’s the thing! No, it doesn’t. It’s fascinating, really, but the influence of 3004 was strong enough to even hold sway over the trees themselves!”

A heavy sigh. “That’s not a good thing, you realize.”

“But it is incredible.”

“Fair.” Approaching footsteps, a hand put on his shoulder, moving in a way that he can track its path by the shadows. “Gilman, conjectures?”

He pulls himself out of the borderline-hypnotic thoughts about the stained glass itself. Their pencil jumps off the page.

“Currently nothing that registers as a memetic, thaumaturgical, cognitohazard, or any other sort of mental control that would not require in-person rituals or consent. There are lingering traces of draw and attraction within the remains, but that is moreso of an artistic compulsion, not an innately manipulative one. It can be studied, just pick people who are not art specialists for your composite analysis tests.”

“Noted. Any historical context?”

He doesn’t recall working with Dr. Galloway before.

“Yes, but I do not guarantee perfect accuracy. My studies were on practical application over pure academia, and I do not hail from this culture.”

“Noted. Give it a shot anyway?” If she insists. He’s done due diligence on warning her. 

“Stained glass was used as poor man’s Bible, a way of teaching parables to the illiterate. Conjecture that this was a symbolic test of both faith to their god -rendering an illustration consecrated by pain and human material-  and a canonization of the individual and their family as members of the community. A historical marker, so to speak. Several colors hold symbolic significance in Christian canon when found in stained glass, indicating mercy, hope, suffering, repentance, rebirth, and other ideas. This may indicate a more personalized relationship to the deity, either direct or indirect.”

“Clarify?”

“Perhaps they were given visions, or unique trials and rituals, similar to how certain offshoots of Christianity today assign saints to a child. Perhaps the abstract relationship between one worshiper and the deity was encouraged and allowed to personalize.”

“You’re judging by the colors used?”

“Yes. Different shades of the same color indicate variety and choice, while the colors themselves could suggest the individual’s feelings towards the manifestation.”

“Theories on the usage of human byproducts in the works?” 

At that, he has to look away from the rendering.

“You are aware I do not specialize in theology or medicine.”

“Yes, but extraneous ideas rarely hurt.” Dr. Galloway is still looking at him, so Avery swallows down the urge to point out that bad data is a greater harm than no data. Few benefits from arguing with Level 4 personnel.

“I would presume  a connection to the idea of Christ giving flesh and blood in the communion, possibly tied to Avrám and the mandate of sacrifice as it was interpreted in Christian canon, with the idea of blind faith and a reward for the risk. Alternatively, providing degrading material of the human body, items which can be replenished or lived without but still requiring at least some pain, would be the analogy, and potentially tie into ideas of sin and repentance.”

“Would that affect the proportions of each item, in your opinion?”

“Possibly. Again, not a theologist, merely-”

“We know, Gilman, but we’re asking for a reason.”

“If yes, then there could be a correlation in either relation to sin, proportion of pain, or proportion of permanent damage done to the body. Hair may correspond to vanity, or could be a punishment which took a long time but did not permanently defore, while adult teeth could have been used to represent envy and greed or indicate a significant violation, to be worn as a functional mark of Cain. Milk teeth could be indicative of the transition, or a sacrificial offering, similar to the principle of repayment for a martyr.” Avery’s hands itch to work, to draw, not speak on shit they don’t really understand to a doctor several degrees more advanced than him. Galloway seems to take the hint.

“Noted. Thank you.”

“Of course. May I-” motioning to the sketchbook again seems to suffice in lieu of words.

“Go ahead. Alert immediately if you see something out of the ordinary.”

What about this is ordinary, he refrains from asking, settling for a nod and a clean page. The time for quick, simple sketches is over. These renderings will require precise, careful lines if he aims to make the final result accurate. 

Kehan returns, speaking to Galloway behind Avery’s back as the grid starts appearing on the paper.

“Were photographs impossible to take, Dr. Kehan?”

“Damaged results each time. We suspect any medium involving electronics will suffer interference in environments 3004 has affected.”

“Shame.”

“Indeed. But this is an acceptable compromise.”

“Speaking of, should we go over to check how Gamma-4 are doing on setting up the portable lab?”

“Probably a good idea. Give me a hand with the sample we’ve managed to secure?”

The chatter slides in and out of Avery’s mind, snippets filed away as relevant, to be examined in a later moment. Right now, the world has narrowed down to him, the sketch, and the wall. The wall is grand and impossible, a good fifteen-sixteen heads in total height on the most intact sections, snaking through like it had stretched with hundreds, thousands of lives given to its radiance. Compared to that, other thoughts glide like water over a pane of glass, comprehensible but not to be too deep until a time later when he could go over them in detail.

He lets it wash over him, remembering the testimonials left by Lutterman, by Clark, the idea of the Cétiladí’s ties to the being and how little it must have understood. Or, rather, how much of that which it understood had been miscommunicated due to metaphor, abstraction, accident.

But those are the concerns of theologists and thaumaturges, not of an operative whose duty is to record and preserve the anomaly before him on paper. It will be a shame to see this all destroyed in the name of secrecy, and it is Avery’s duty to ensure at least some traces of this beauty remain, even if only as a warning and not the beautiful, breathing thing that this wall is.

[chaos-dumpster-fire]

Hey y'all I decided to give into impulse and start an rp blog for Avery over at @avery-gilman-scp-oc. Please come say hi!

[chaos-dumpster-fire]

Drabble

Summary: A quiet moment between two very fucked up people. Cracked timeline. Discussions of suicide and homicide. Neutral pov

The wind blowing by is a relief to both of them as they leave the base, a breath of fresh air as snippets of their conversation are carried away by its current.

“Burning?”

“Check.”

“Guns?”

“Check! My girlfriend~”

“Bakland. Gunshots tearing apart entire body?”

“Of course.”

“You are running out of non-anomalous methods.”

“Yep! I’ve worked on this for a while.”

Avery elbows Reno away from the car, steering them both around the vehicles and towards the grassy clearing. Reno stops when Avery does, watching as the other man drops to the ground and pats a spot to show Reno should do the same. The grass is soft, and it doesn’t look like it’s staining their clothes.

“You wanna throw me to 106 again? Cheered you up the first time.”

“Can’t risk containment breach. No.”

The sky is light blue, the clouds are just sparse enough to let the light shine without blinding anyone, and both of them are thinking about Reno’s final death.

“D’you think is connected to your mind or body?” Avery finally blurts out, startling Reno with the rapid motion of their arms.

“Sorry?”

“If we take your brain out of body, move your mind, consciousness, whatever, into something else, then kill both it and body, which one comes back?”

Something in the air shifts at Avery’s transition from abstract to theory, the hand nearest to Reno twitching as through trying to write.

“I don’t know? Sorry,” he adds when Avery glares at him. Avery glares a lot. “We can find out?”

Avery nods, lying back down. 

“In a while. I have deployment next week. Oh don’t whine,” snips in at Reno’s frown, “If I find something in the caves that could kill you, I promise I will figure out how to get you in there with it. Deal, паршивец?”

“Deal! Thanks.”

“Chodela. Chodela ебаный сумасшедший, that’s what you are.”

“But you’ll do it?”

Avery sighs. “Always do, don’t I?”

The sky is blue, the clouds are drifting overhead, and for a few, brief moments, there is a soft quiet over two men who are normally neither of these things.

[chaos-dumpster-fire]

Started working on this while waiting for Ben's updates on 1.4 & 1.5 so y'all are getting more Avery while I'm in the zone.

One thing I talk about in snippets and never actually at full-length is Avery's whole relationship to his body. He's got a lot of both major and minor physical health issues that fuck with him a lot (hence, again, why he takes so much pleasure in having good food and being able to control that aspect fully).

so first, obvi, the light sensitivity issues and the permanent need for tinted lenses.

He used to wear standard sunglasses over prescription glasses in his youth and that worked a bit but not well.

His default is a 30% dark pink prescription lens (he's near-sighted and can't see shit without his glasses) (also his prescription is a wee bit out of date, so he's squinting all the time, which doesn't help with looking suspicious/angry/pissed at all times).

....But he does have a normal pair of clears in his gear that are tinted grey by 5%, and those are the ones he wears to missions and formal meetings ('Normal' but also imbued w/some anti-thalmaturgical' protections, both this and the pink pair were Foundation-issued in his original universe).

He also has a set of clip on color filters with a warm yellow (also works as a filter for certain types of runes), an anti-pink if he can't get to his grey-shades on time, and a computer filter blue-tint for days when digital headaches are too bad.

Avery also has several major twitches and muscle spasm problems!

He doesn't know why and can't exactly go to a doctor to find out, but in addition to near-permanent leg-bouncing and being almost unable to walk at normal speeds, his hands shake a lot when he's not doing anything. He can keep them relatively still for even finer sketches and sewing with thin thread, but if he's not focused, they tremble a lot. That's a natural state, doesn't really hurt or anything and it's silent, but it has been labelled distracting, and he usually carries fidget toys in his pockets to combat that.

There's both preexisting issues from hyperactivity and a bunch more from acquired injuries and in-field trauma, including nerve damage. Part of Avery's right hand is semi-numb, and there's several parts of his leg that are usually at least a little unhappy if he stands in a bad pose too long.

The years of tense paranoia really don't help because he tenses a lot of shit when stressed, and he's been stressed since pretty much day 1 at the Foundation, but it's doubled-down here.

Separately from muscular injuries, scars and repeated blunt force trauma have left their marks too

Avery's had at least one major operation on his spine. It went well, but he can still feel that particular bone when the weather shifts or (due to nature of injury) if Daveite runes capable of inflicting physical trauma are nearby (will notify him via horrifying bursts of pain).

At least one eye was restored with anomalous means. It should be normal, and to the best of his knowledge, it is.

Avery doesn't know his blood type and he's scared to find out. He's not afraid of needles, but he's terrified that his blood type might have changed since That Day and he wouldn't know (has old tags from college recruitment that list his blood type). This would be devastating on several levels so he's just kinda- hoping they never do.

Ok so there's pretty much always some bruising or cuts on Avery?? Like, he uses blunt force trauma that won't kill him as his outlet for self-harming urges because he's worse at controlling it with weapons. Won't say no to sharp edges scraping his arm or leg open by accident just a little though.

Lots of past injuries but tldr the main reason he doesn't deal with artist pain in wrists is because more minor wrist problems lead to him drawing from the shoulder. KILLER elbow pain though, frequently wears braces and wraps for it

Also long-term injuries on the leg joints. Don't point them out or he'll get defensive and guilty about them.

He does mostly like his body though! Avery's big problems are mostly with the flare of pain, and the lack of control that it represents for him. Control of bodily autonomy has been a big deal to him since he was a kid and that ranges from physical contact to long-term ability to choose activities and careers.

He never stops feeling just a little violated by the whole events of That Day. This world feels different on such a small-scale level that it makes him feel crazy for noticing the difference.

Related to that but he also feels really bad to this day about the way he treated the corpse in what is now his room. He did do some funeral rites for it, but only after it had been removed, and he feels like it's a shitty thing to have not done a little better. It's one of the regrets that could probably get actually addressed in counseling (*hysterical laughter at the idea of Avery going to counseling*)

This is really rare, but the few times that Avery has very visible bruising and an in-person meeting with a higher-up that's not Kon, a few 408 will come with and hide the bruising so he doesn't get in trouble for self-harm. They don't do it too often because being able to see and feel the bruises keeps Avery from doing it again too much, but in a pinch, 408 help.

One of the things he likes a lot about Kon and Iceberg is that neither of them try to touch him often or without need. Yes Avery is touch-starved, no he can't actually accept proper contact (honestly in a happier timeline he and Kon share exactly 1 incredibly awkward half-hug and that's that). 408 are the most regular touch he's got (usually a few will flutter over him day-to-day and they like to swarm him when he's refilling the sugar water).

Between injury and paranoid superstition, he doesn't like to have continuous skin exposed without interruption (eg no fully bare leg from foot to hip). Patches and patterns on fabric break that up for clothes, and he uses bandages, wraps, braces, and injuries to segment the limbs.

He doesn't give as much of a fuck about body hair, but he shaves the facial hair. Usually has a little visible stubble but by gods it's not growing past 2 days if he can help it.

Overheats a bit at all times! He's not passing out or anything, but he's a little sweatier than you'd expect at any given moment. Is very happy in colder weathers

[avery-gilman-scp-operative]

Inciting Incident

Summary: The aftermath of Avery's first breakdown, and third conversation with Director Kondraki.

Keep it in check, and normally Avery even manages to do that. That’s the one thing they really need to do, keep it in check, duck down and stay low. 

Today was not kept in check. Today was bad. ‘Hospitalization and tasering’ bad.

As Director Kondraki closes the door to the office, Avery has to fight down the urge to scratch at his forearms even further. 

“This can’t happen again,” Kondraki tells him, voice oddly calm for someone normally so much larger than life. “Alright? Now, you’ve been doing good work, gave you Level 3 for a reason, but the only way you’re getting a pass on hospitalizing two people is if you go see Glass-”

“I’ll die.”

It slips out before he can realize he’s said it, reckless, stupid. And yet, it’s almost a relief to have it out. At least if he’s executed now, it’ll be Kondraki that kills him, quick and simple.

Kondraki stares at him.

“What?”

“They can’t know. If-” The horror that Avery thought he’d already felt comes back up. His hands are shaking again, the tremors worse than ever. “If they know about me, I die.”

Kondraki is looking at him with the sort of cold calculation that Avery’s always been grateful to have never needed, the sort that means taking a human life holds a little less weight than it did five years ago. Maybe that means Avery’s death is going to be a quick one, before they can panic and try to beg for useless mercy.

Maybe he’ll get to see his family again after he dies.

“You know you aren’t required to be insane to work here, right? There is some hope.”

“With respect, Директор, there is not.” As odd as it feels, Avery even manages to force a smile, uncomfortably aware of how it pulls his face to the side. “I live for the Foundation these days, and I will die either with it or by its hands.” In the beginning, those first few days, the idea was a painful one. Now, it’s almost a comfort to know where and how he’ll die.

“Nothing else? Nothing from your past?” It isn’t meant to be funny, but something suicidal in Avery wants to laugh at how Kondraki sounds almost sincere. What past?

“What past? All I know is the Foundation. All I will ever know again is the Foundation.” 

He shakes his head, feeling Kondraki’s eyes track the motion. Maybe it’s a little easier to make that kind of choice if lives are just numbers, and Avery’s is clearly up. 

Except Kondraki doesn’t unsheathe the sword, or shoot him through the head. Instead, the director sits down across from him.

“Alright. Say I buy that. Then this really can’t happen again, kid, you have to get your shit under control. What’ll that take?”

“You- You are helping me?”

“Gilman, you’re not a threat, and don’t make me rethink that designation. I like assistants that do their jobs and don’t ask stupid questions. You like not being dead, I’m guessing. So, what’s going to keep you from snapping that bad again?”

It’s odd, to see concern on the director’s face like this, no glare atop the frown. He can’t tell if it’s relief or shame that’s flooding him, not quite stilling the tremors, but lessening them.

“Well I- I used to have medication for the- eh-, Ad-hd, is how you call it?” Kondraki nods. “It helped with the nerves mostly, kept a lot of intrusive thoughts under wraps.”

Kondraki stares at him with another expression Avery can’t quite read, probably running more numbers, weighing the odds again, before shrugging.

“Your funeral, kid. And you won’t talk to Glass about getting a new prescription?” 

“I can’t, Директор.”

“Alright. Even so, Adhd meds don’t help you with hallucinations and breaking someone’s arms, take it from me. Psychosis that doesn’t get treated can only get swept under the rug for so long if that’s how it comes out. ”

“You do not medicate for your психоз either, Директор. So long as I have medications to manage day-to-day, I will find more productive outlets for the worst of it, I swear.” This time when he looks down, he keeps his gaze firmly on the ground, a small part still hoping for the choice of life and death to be taken out of his hands the simplest way possible.

The room is silent for a few seconds, save for the slight rustles of Avery’s hands shaking and dragging his sleeve against his jeans in the process. Kondraki sighs and stands up

“I’ll pull some strings, pick up the prescription Glass offered to write me a few years back, pass it onto you. No more incidents for at least a year, or I’m dropping you in front of his office. Understood?”

He nods, still a tad too shaken up to speak when he doesn’t have to.

“Take your time.” The sound of Kondraki’s footsteps tracks the path his boss takes to sit down behind the desk, the royal throne of Site-17. “408 like you, so as long as you’re quiet, you can stay.” As if to prove the point, several of the butterflies land on Avery’s arms almost immediately, several more nestling in their hair. They are calming to watch, beautiful even before they subtly shift colors like the anomaly they are.

He’s pretty sure sits there for over an hour, as Kondraki improves the camera the Директор is never without, just the two of them and the butterflies. If Kondraki wanted to kill him now, Avery’s back is turned and his hands are still shaking. He'd be powerless to stop it even if he wanted to.

Kondraki does not do that. Both of them stay where they are, Kondraki messing with the camera and Avery fidgeting with the weighted helix in his pocket, 408 fluttering around the room and blocking out just enough light to reduce the harsh glare of the office fluorescent.

[avery-gilman-scp-operative]

First Proper Meeting

Summary: How Avery and 408 first interact after 8 months of only being marginally aware of one another.

Some Time Ago.

408 are excited to flutter about outside of their usual containment habitat. Kondraki is absent, taking half of them along and leaving the rest to get up to whatever they please, and today they want to play tricks again.

Oh! Oh, they know what shape they want to take first!

The Old Man unnerves Kondraki far too much for them to be willing to play  this sort of prank on their King, but others are fair game, and the person they follow now they’ve seen maybe twice, so an acceptable target is found. They don’t go to that arrangement just yet, blending into the wall, following as the person shifts a small mountain of papers in their arms from one arm to the other until they walk up to the room the butterflies recognize from all the times Kondraki has thrown boxes labelled as ‘storage’ in there.

The person walks in like they own the place, trying to pull the door shut with their shoe. It nearly slips off, an amusing sight as the person tries to awkwardly hop while both balancing the papers and closing the door. They leave it open wide enough for 408 to fly in. They shift to resemble the Old Man and begin the illusion of the body dripping down the walls.

The person looks up, eyes wide behind the blue-tinted glasses. Fear. Terror.

Hatred.

Anger.

The containment breach alarm starts blaring, loud and accompanied by flashing red lights as the person jumps on the desk and begins screaming in a blur of languages that they are only somewhat familiar with.

----

“Look, Gilman,” the counselor starts, “You have to understand that your earlier actions are not protocol-standard.”

The man sitting across from the counselor raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Which part of response was violating протокол?” This particular brand of hostility is not one the counselor is unfamiliar with, but it is one she dislikes. At least it doesn’t seem to be so much sarcasm as a sincere misunderstanding, for better or worse.

“I followed протокол,” the man across from her insists at the lack of a response. “I sounded the breach alarm, followed standard guidelines to ensure that others would evacuate and not be harmed, and attempted to stall the anomaly so as to prevent it from attacking anyone else.”

“And what part of protocol, Gilman, was it to take off your shoe and begin to scream death threats in several languages at scp-106?”

Avery rolls his eyes.

“Delaying 106 is not протокол on its own, but is a preferable course of action instead of  allowing him an escape.”

The counselor allows a vein to twitch on her forehead.

“The ways to delay scps such as 106 involve weapons and countermeasures from the anomaly’s files, not screaming in- What were those languages?”

“Hindi and Russian, mostly.”

“-In Hindi and Russian that you will-” she has to re-read the translated transcription of the footage twice, “-’take all of his teeth and claw him to death as he had done so many times as only a weakling would have?’” At her repetition of his words, Avery’s mouth quirks up.

“I would have tried, yes.”

“Operative, that is not an acceptable strategy. You haven’t exhibited otherwise irrational behavior and you did comply, so you don’t need to worry about discipline, but we’d like to at least know why you did this?”

At that question, the quirk slides down, back into the signature half-scowl.

“I, eh, I-” The hand that previously threw a ragged sneaker at a presumed 106 now fidgets with Avery’s collar. “Well why does it matter?” The hostility returns. The counselor's eyes widen.

“Sorry?”

“With all of the allegedly due respect, what do any of you care if I die running or fighting? 106 protocol explicitly states personnel are to be presumed KIA in such an event.” Unlike before, he sounds less annoyed and more angry in a resigned manner. “A Level 2 assistant is easily replaceable within our walls, so why does it matter how exactly I die so long as it does not harm others?” The anger goes as quickly as it came, the man’s head dropping in apology. “Disregard, please, my apologies. I have to be getting back to work. My office is becoming the Директор’s storage, and boxes pile up fast if I cannot fill out papers within them urgently.”

The counselor looks like she’s weighing the merits of fighting this particular fight. She’s smart enough to know to pick her battles.

“Dismissed, Gilman, just please don’t be back here anytime soon.”

“I do not plan on it, believe me.” 

The man does have the decency, at least, to wave an awkward goodbye and close the door behind him.

----

A polite reminder that 106 is a sufficiently high threat that pranks involving it should not be played is sent out to the entire Site.

A shallow bowl of sugar water is left outside of Avery Gilman’s office from that day on.