Isn't everything here suppose to be kinda classified here? Like okay maybe the network is safe and all but I do not feel comfortable putting a lot of personal information here like on my social media pages. Another thing....
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.
First patient of the second day, Vera thought vaguely as she tabbed through her files. Her little moka pot, ever the trooper, made enough coffee to last the day and then some. Bigger on the inside, she often thought. Or maybe it was love. Vera had been given the pot by her mother when sheād gone off to college. It had been an antique even then. Vera showed it the same care and affection she tended towards all her belongings. Full cleanings that swept the grounds from even the tightest edges followed by a delicate towel drying. Even polish once a month.Ā
Vera snapped back to reality and frowned at this patientās codename. The Ethics Committee really was having a laugh at them, wasnāt it? With her brain fog, she must have missed this one at introductions. She placed the chart onto the countertop and opened the door. āGood morning,ā Vera said, the corner of her mouth quirked up in welcome. āCome on in. Would you like some coffee?ā
bruise - like tender. every razor - edged motion purposeful. calculated. but it wasn't. it never was. because rotting all starts to look the fucking same, michelle. so she begins to dissolve in the very presence of thin - veiled sheep. into an oppressive crawlspace. into a realm that isn't quite here nor there.
won't exactly account for the ringed pattern of the floor. or the skewed layout she analyzed the night before. or the chipped paint on the honed - like walls. because she wasn't obtainable. because she didn't think she fucking ... cared.
and so it commenced. child - like utterances, hands bound. a vacant stare. a slacked jaw. and not a goddamn thing in hand.
she sits. in the back. always in the back. simply quiet. noting the in between's. the haunting Ā lull Ā between Ā the first Ā breath Ā and Ā the Ā last. the crucifying hum Ā of Ā cynicism. the apparition that simply won't find solace in death.
and then nothingness.Ā again. nothingness. the thought, almost acidic. brims Ā off Ā the Ā tips Ā of Ā her Ā fingers sacrilegiously ā Ā rots the Ā inside Ā of Ā her Ā ribcage. Ā her Ā mouth, teeth decaying. always decaying. decaying. decaying. enough. enough. enough.
Gael awoke with a start, blinking rapidly in the dark and trying to figure out where he was. There was a short moment of stillness before he shifted cautiously to a crouching positionāhis limbs pulled close like a coil as he pressed his back to the wall behind him. His right hand slowly inched below the pillow where his head had rested moments beforeāclawing around for the cool metal of a pistol, a knifeābut found nothing but the smoothness of 1000-thread cotton sheets.
Squinting, he turned his head to scan his surroundings before letting out an exasperated sigh. Flinging himself back onto the bed so he was lying horizontally across the mattress, he lifted his hands to his face before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, maintaining gentle pressure for a couple seconds before pulling them away to press his index fingers to either side of his nasal bridge. He then pushed down again and followed the curve of his sinuses outward towards his cheekbones and then back again with small circular motions. He released another deep groan as some of the tension in his face dissipated. Dropping his hands, he squinted beadily at the ceiling as shapes danced in his vision. He laid for another few minutes before finally moving to a sitting position, scooting across the bed until his legs hung over the side.
Time to get up.
Toeing on the pair of slippers haphazardly slewed beside the bed. Gael smothered a yawn behind a hand and stood up with some effort; his bones and nerves still stiff from exhaustion and waning adrenaline. Raising his arms above his head, he rotated his shoulders and shuffled in the general direction of where he thought the bathroom had been. As Gael ventured further into the dark, his eyes adjusted a second before he ran face-first into the bathroom door. Cursing, he reached for the handle, not even bothering to flick on the lights. The sun was also groggily getting up alongside him, lethargically casting a weak beam of light that illuminated his assigned bedroom enough for him to make out the shapes of his toiletries.
In the dim light, he blinked at the dark pane of the mirror as his fingers turned the faucet handle. The rushing sound of water filled his ears as he placed both hands on the sink rim and leaned close to the glass pane. He couldnāt make out the features of his face properly; everything above his nose was still obscured by the fading darkness. He stared blankly at the figure in the mirror for another beat, feeling disconnected from the person staring back. The muscles in his face twitched, then stretched themselves into a wideāalmost cartoonishāgrin that was imitated by the man in the mirrorāwas that really him?
Scowling, he diverted his gaze away from his reflection as he cupped his hands under the ice-cold water. The following splash to his face shocked him enough to finally disperse the last remnants of sleep that clung to him like cobwebs. Another series of curse words escaped his lips as he groped blindly for the hot water tab to change the temperature to a much more manageable lukewarm before continuing his morning routine. Lifting his head up from the stream of water, he matched gazes with himself in the mirror. The pair of eyes staring back at him in the now hazily illuminated room were wide-eyed and bloodshot. Grimacing, he yanked a towel from its rack and exited the room. Trudging toward the bedroom, he stopped in front of the duffle bag thrown haphazardly at the foot of the bed and pulled out a fresh change of clothes.
As he began to change, a buzzing sound pulled his attention to the pager he had dumped at the bedside table the night before. Lifting up the device, he read the text on the small green screen.
Snorting, Gael made his way towards the front door of the apartment. Grabbing the trenchcoat and messenger bag he had thrown over a chair, he briefly looked through their various pockets. Once he was satisfied everything he needed was accounted for, he exited his apartment and headed towards the lobby.
After a short elevator ride down, he stepped out into the frigid morning air and quickly shambled towards the waiting Jeep parked at the doors of the building. Settling himself into the warm seat of the car, he smiled at the man behind the wheel.Ā āMorninā,āĀ Gael muttered, ducking his head slightly in acknowledgment as Kato beamed back and started to drive.
The ride itself was a blur, and Gael couldnāt say he fully remembered the conversation he had with Kato in its entiretyāonly loose fragments here and there, the threads too scattered for him to get the full picture. He wasnāt sure whether the minuscule amount of sleep he had gotten the night before or flight was to blame, but he felt guilty nonetheless.Ā JunichiĀ seemed like a lovely guyāif the photos in Gaelās hands of the man smiling while surrounded by grandkids were anything to go by. Drowsily, Gael shuffled through the handful of photographs of chubby-cheeked kids as the Captain continued chattering away, telling a story Gael didnāt remember the beginning of.
āAh, hereās your stop, Commander,ā The other man said in the middle of describing the lakeside where he taught his grandkids to swim.Ā
Blinking up at Kato for a second in confusion, Gael gingerly placed the stack of pictures on the center console and reached out his right hand toward the captain for a handshake. "Thank you for the ride, Junichi. And you can call me GāSmooth Operator,ā He finished slowly, the smile on his face falling slightly but Kato seemed unfazed by the sudden correction and shook his hand with another cheery grin.
Giving the other man a final nod, Gael stepped out of the car and into Site Ļ; the receptionist was waiting for him once he stepped through the sliding glass doors. After a brief slew of paperwork and the standard security screening, he was led toward the elevator and instructed to go to the second floor.Ā
The sun had fully risen at this point, the yellow-white beams of its lights refracting off the ridiculous amount of glass whichever schmuck had designed the place had had a love affair with. He tried to avoid looking at himself as he walked towards the conference room, but it was a losing battle since so much of the second floor was made of glass. There was nothing else to look at but himself reflected back ad nauseam; the image mirrored back at such a frequency likeness was becoming warped. The copies so far removed from the original that they had become borderline grotesque.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gael entered the room and immediately beelined for the blinds graciously hanging over each one of the windows. He felt more and more relief with each as he methodically lowered each blind until the room was only lit by the fluorescent lights above. Sighing with a sense of finality, Gael dropped himself heavily onto the chair directly opposite the door.
Leaning back in the chair, he pressed his forearm to his eyes and wondered if he could get a nap in before the first person showed up; but as he was weighing the pros and cons when the door handle rattled, announcing the arrival of his first new teammate. Moving his arm away from his face, he watched the door from beneath his lashes.
Agent Choi from MTF Iota-10 stepped in and Gael felt his body relax; a moment respite before the storm. Buckley was spoiling himāor maybe it was Kato?
Rising up to his feet, Gael moved across the room to properly greet his favorite Fed. Beaming, he clasped Choiās hand between both of his own, squeezing gently as he looked up at 'Old Sport.'Ā
āItās good to see you," He said, genuinely pleased to have Choi at his side. At the very least, he had one person he could trust his back to. "Iām glad the Committee took my recommendation into account.ā
There isn't much time to catch up after that as the rest of MTF Chi-00 slowly trickled in shortly after. And, as the last stragglers made their way in, Gael surveyed the group, fingers drumming on the smooth table in front of him. As a hush slowly enveloped the room, Gael lifted himself up to his feet.
āWell,ā he began. āGuess Iāll go first.ā
Giving the group a half-hearted wave, he continued, āHello, everyone. Iām Smooth Operator, and I will be your commander starting from today.ā His eyes flicked from one face to the next, taking mental notes of which operatives matched his gaze and who did not.
"Now, while some of you may have heard rumors about me or seen my face before," He winked at Choi. "But I can assure you whatever you've heard is not trueāunless it's nice, in which case it is one hundred percent true," He laughed, feeling momentarily uncharacteristically awkward. Tough crowd.
āAnyway, I've worked for the Foundation for something like twenty-four years? Give or take. Spent twelve of those years in Omega-1; that's 'Law's Left Hand' for new guy," He inclined his head at 'Quote Unquote' before continuing in an exaggerated stage whisper. "We're the Ethics Committee's personal Mobile Task Force, but don't worry about it."
Turning back to the rest of the group with a single raised eyebrow, he smiled. "And while I'm sure you've all gone over the briefing on the way here," He muttered wryly. "I'd like to remind everyone that we are under strict orders to refer to each other by codenames during the course of this assignment. However, as a handful of people in this task force already know each other, and since this will be a year-long mission, I am aware that keeping complete secrecy is near impossible. That being said, I would recommend that everyone try to limit the amount of unnecessary information that they choose to disclose going forward. The Committee has a lot of enemies, so you all need to prioritize your safety. That's all.ā
Dropping back into his seat, he motioned loosely at the group, "Who wants to go next?"
[ Now was the make or break of the silence. Who would be the first to speak? Who would be the very first team member that would create the tone for everyone? Who was going to make themselves known? Would they do it only to get it over with? Would they do it to show leadership? Her attention is drawn by the first voice to take the stage...]
There are a disturbing amount of attractive people in this room.Ā
Rubbing the temples above his thin-framed glasses, Steve Wilson was trying his hardest to clear the fog that had been lingering in his head since the morning. It was moments like these that made him wonder why he bothered giving up drugs back in ā95. Judging by his current state of consciousness (ape, roughly), the Foundation clearly had no issue dosing its employees with whatever anomalous version of chloroform they had cooked up in the amnestics lab.
Itās probably something ridiculous, like interstellar weed.
Adjusting his posture in his seat, Steve tried his best to gauge if anyone else in the room was still recovering from an unconventional commute. It could make for good small talk, which would yield a tactical advantage in these early stages.Ā
A quick re-scan of the room confirmed that the Foundation had put together a group of people who could all be the main character in a different multimillion dollar Hollywood production. This included the two people he recognized, one of which he was actively pretending not to.Ā
Iāve been a model employee for the past three years. They couldnāt possibly know.
Steve quickly compartmentalized this catastrophic train of thought and returned to his analysis. Much more than their looks, the people in this room all brought with them some indispensable skill. Emerging from the brain-fog, the machinery in Steveās mind started to fully process the raw potential energy emanating within site-Ļ. A chance for him to make the right connections. To attain the right information. A chance to get everything back.
Small talk will have to wait. Introductions are starting.
Steve waited patiently as five of his new coworkers introduced themselves. His mind was now operating at maximum efficiency, carefully judging the performances and reactions that it could glean. After the fifth introduction, Steve felt he had a solid grasp of the group dynamic, and any more waiting would make him appear shy. Shy would not benefit him in this dynamic. He pushed up the corners of his mouth and gave a slight raise of his hand.Ā
Clearing his throat, he tuned his low, gravelly voice to a warm hum. āGreetings, Iām Stephen Wilson. Call me Steve.ā He had been practicing this tone for years.
āI was born and raised in Maine, but Iāve been doing Research at Site-120 for the past 10 years. If you want to know the best Polish chain restaurants, I am the authority.ā He caught at least two smiles and one look of genuine interest.
āI have my PhD in Biological and Biomedical Sciences from Harvard, and my work in the Foundation has mostly been within the thaumaturgical field. Iām looking forward to working with all of you. Please donāt be afraid to seek me out for any of your reality-warping needs.ā
Steve leaned back in his chair, giving a friendly nod at anyone still making eye contact. Back in high school and university, introductions used to terrify him. 50 years on this Earth, however, taught him that anything ā even social anxiety and a room full of hot people ā could be conquered.
[ When the next person spoke up, Danica was astonished that not more attention was being drawn. How dare they all not know some of the best researchers in the room when they were stand right there. She looks around her to see who was actually paying attention respectfully and who was not. Danica was making a mental note. Respect is earned with the way that you show it. She pulled back into her seat, giving them her full and undivided attention. ]
OMG IT IS STEPHEN WILSON FROM SITE-120!!!
HE WANTS TO GO BY STEVE. I get to call him Steve ahhhhh.
Wait...remain professional Danica...need to find out their code name, we want to keep it as professional as possible, even if you are really inspired by their work. Still need to keep it professional.
A Harvard alumni, rather impressive.
Certainly at PHD level in Biological and Biomedical Sciences! Even more impressive.
Ask them about the best Polish restaurant chains. Yes because anything they suggest will be insightful and inspired.
Wow, look how wonderful and open they are about inviting others to talk about their speciality!
Any and all questions about reality-wrapping, I will be coming to them for sure!
But maybe hold it back a little bit Danica, don't want to come on too strong with them. Could be a bad idea getting all the attention because face it you will get a lot of attention....would it be a good kind?
Play it ear, Danica...still how wonderful that they are apart of the same as someone as talented as I!!!!!!!!
Itās widely considered bad form to start one's story with their protagonist waking. So let us begin, then, what is most assuredly not a story ā something quite smaller and grander in scale ā with most assuredly not our protagonist ā lacking categorically across the board ā with, of our own forthright admission, an interlude on morning routines and the spiraling outwards of them.
Like most mornings, Rohan rises with the bile-bitter tongued feeling that heās already late for something important.
Unlike most mornings, he does so in a bed his body does not recognize and without the usual sunlight streaming across his face. The sky, from what Rohan can see of it, sits lower here than in Arizona, a singular grey plane through which it feels little can escape between. What light does is equally low and flat, casting the as-yet-unfamiliar room in unflattering shades of, well, more grey. Rohan reaches semi-blindly for the bedside lamp for what little it'll help, his face still half-pressed to the pillow and ā a protein bar.
He hadn't dreamed it, then. Seth had been here. The silver, crinkling assault of Kirkland's Worst nestled in the indent only just previously occupied by Rohan's head enough to rematerialize ā something of the morning. God fuck, what time was it?
Rohan swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's cold. Of course it's cold, it's February, and for most of Rohan's life February has meant fucking cold. But Arizona, clearly, has made him soft. Cold-blooded, in need of a large, smooth rock to stretch out on for a few more hours. Missing the same sun he had complained so thoroughly about for so much of the year. Maybe he should think about investing in a sun lamp; any chance Amazon will still honor a two-day delivery?
...
When Rohan does arrive at the right room, it's under frankly more layers than he has any business wearing and would be embarrassed by in nearly any other circumstance. And he still feels cold ā though, if we're to be entirely honest, as much as Rohan is ignorant to it beyond wishing he'd worn another jacket, it likely has more to do with the freezing waves rolling off the rest of the team than any real change in air temperature.
Rohan, for his part, started practically vibrating the second he so much as stepped foot in the building. To say he's operating on a different wavelength than many of his coworkers might be, perhaps, an understatement. He enters brightly, bristling with awareness of each pair of eyes that swivel towards him. This, at least, is in some way familiar. Orientation; a round table of stiff-mouthed and too-rehearsed introductions, even if Rohan is the only one leaking genuine excitement and anxiety on making a good first impression out of every pore.
If there is any hesitation in Rohan's step, it's not in taking his seat. That's easy. He slides into the space held for him, Seth's bag deposited gently on the back of his chair and Rohan's slung the same. A matching pair. He gives Seth a gentle tap on the ankle to say what he needs to and won't in the presence of strangers. Hi. Good morning. Thank you. Don't look at me like that. Pay attention.
Beyond that, Rohan is by all accounts well-behaved and characteristically himself. He does not take notes, does not cross his arms and avert his gaze. Rohan sits forward in his seat, chin propped in hand, making as much direct eye contact with each speaker as they'll allow. In the space between he leans back, settles beside Seth, and allows himself the brief vice of workplace gossip with his best friend.
When his turn comes around, by virtue of it just having been Seth's, Rohan slides again to the very edge of his chair, elbows planted on his knees, and gives a half wave.
"Hi, all," he starts with a smile, trying and failing to meet the eye of everyone left in the room through it. "I'm Rohan. Just Rohan, please. Dr. Abbasi if you feel especially professionally compelled, but really I'd prefer if we kept things more casual and friendly, seeing as it looks like we're going to be spending some serious time together. You're welcome to call me Tree Hugger, if that feels right to you, but you might have to say it a few times to get my attention."
He tries for a self-deprecating smile, drops it, and tries again with something a little more honest and open.
"With that said, please forgive me if I'm slow on the uptake when it comes to call-signs. I'm in my seventh year at the Foundation, but it's all been on the research side of things. Lab work, mostly. I'd be more than happy to go into details with anyone who's interested, as Seth knows I can go on all day about it and then some, but I'll spare you all the gory parts and give you the rundown: I'm a neuroscientist and pharmacology guy by training with a more recent focus on amnestic applications in animal and humanoid SCP recovery. I definitely consider myself a pretty active participant in the Foundation's scientific community. One of my long-term goals that I've had ā pretty much since I started here has been to incorporate academic and modern medical research principals into what we do. It's something I bring to work with me every day and I'm more than excited for the opportunity to continue bringing it but on a much larger scale and alongside all of you.
"So ā yeah. That's about it on my end. Again, pleasure to meet all of you. Please feel free to grab me afterwards for anything or any reason. I'm also on the hunt for a running partner, maybe someone else interested in starting a journal club of sorts ā so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."
[One speech and straight into another, almost as if it had been rehearsed. Wait, had people co-ordinated with other people here already? Was that even allowed. Wait....from how some have been it appears that their was a familiarity that came along as if they knew each other. That was allowed? People could come in pairs? If she had a pair....she was sure she would get the same treatment right? Danica keeps a close on, interest certainly pecked. ]
Bailey's last assignment had been nothing like "The Broken Scales of Themis."
There was certainly some level of formality to it, but only so much could be managed when half the new recruits were stumbling sideways as waves tipped the ship to and fro. Their commander shouted over the creak of the boat to a small gaggle of newcomers who didn't know the meaning of "sea legs" yet. They'd voiced their understanding of their orders, shaking and wet, while trying to hold down supper and not really understanding much at all.
Even her orientation had felt somehow...less. They'd impressed upon her the importance of what she was to be doing, and there was a good chunk of movement from one place to the next that she simply couldn't remember. She'd learned quickly memories were slippery in organizations built around secrecy. It hadn't killed her excitement, however; she still popped up at the end of orientation with a smile and eagerly accepted her first assignment.
This was different. This was cool eyes watching her movement across the room, a group of strangers all sitting in a circle looking less inclined to introductions and more inclined to simply get down to the brass tacks. On the ship, they'd found time to laugh, to play pranks. Bailey couldn't see that same levity here.
She took her seat, offering a nod to who she assumed was the Commander, and glanced at her fellow teammates. Coworkers? Peers. There was a heaviness to the air that sat on her shoulders, weighing her down into the curve of her seat. She wondered if she could sink right in, wait for the others to finish. But that's not who Bailey Brennan was, and she rolled her shoulders to shake the weight away. This wasn't a hole to get buried in, this was an opportunity. She was so good at grabbing those with both hands. So she sat up straight and held onto the edges of a smile as introductions worked their way around the circle until they made it to her.
"Hiya, I'm Bailey. Urban Myth." Her smile ticked up, just at the edges. She liked the moniker that had been given to her. "I'm a little less Bigfoot," she crooks a thumb towards the one who'd introduced themselves as Loch, "And a little more deep-sea mythology. Think I get more seasick on land than on a boat at this point."
Bailey thought a lot of things, it was sort of a specialty of hers. Think herself silly, think herself into a PhD. Think herself into a foundation that seemed to value her thinking just enough to ship her to the middle of the forest to think on their terms just a little longer. Gosh, she wished she knew just what she was doing, sitting in a room full of people who varied from I shouldn't be here to lighting a cigarette and telling the boss to take five. She just couldn't think herself around that one.
She grins, "Don't think we'll be finding Scylla or Charybdis out here, but I've got you covered, if we do."
[ So far there had been so many unfamiliar faces in the crowd, not that she was making a pre-judgement of course! She was going to allow the speeches to really speak for themselves, allow them to speak their truths. What did people really want to make known about themselves. How confident were they in a crowd? Would they want it over with or really do in the keep end. She waits for the next speaker and notes down ever so quickly.]
Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad ā A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel ā ballpoint pens, black and red ink, moss and orange barrels. Extra-firm Blackwing pencil. Steel Blackwing pencil sharpener. Travel-sized Neutrogena Norwegian hand cream, half-empty. 16oz water bottle, insulated, with a little sippy straw. Loop earplugs, case hooked onto one of the straps. Vape. Vape charger. Extra juice cart. Protein bar, in case he's hungry. Two extra protein bars, in case someone else is hungry. No cellphone, not allowed that here, but his Discman and his earbuds fit inconspicuously enough, so he slides them in as well. He can wear them for the walk over. It might help to soothe his nerves a little.
He still has two hours before the orientation starts. So at least one and a half before he's reasonably allowed to leave his room. And hypothetically, he could leave his room at any time, he doesn't think they lock them in at night; it would be nice, maybe go for an early morning stroll ā early, early morning stroll ā hit his vape (he's not about to test the smoke detector sensitivity on his first night, thank you) in peace and try to stop his chest from thudding like it's been since he'd arrived, but ā he hasn't. Nobody's told him the rules, and if there's one thing Seth likes, it's guidelines. Acceptable parameters. Or something to gauge off of ā someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to ā
ā well. The time passes anyways. He fixes his hair in the mirror twice, combing the pomade through and fussing with it until it looks bad enough that he has to take a do-over ā Blind Barber, for the record. Smells like amber and tonka. Delicious. He loves the notes of almond. Leaves a little earlier than he told himself he would to give Rohan a little wake up call; he yanks the blanket off the bed like he did when they were in college, and tosses a bar at his head, only wincing a little when it actually hits him. It's soothing and familiar enough that, for a moment, when he slips his earbuds in and starts down the hall, it feels a little more like a university dorm than it does a hospital wing.
The feeling carries him through the door and into a chair with an empty seat beside it. His bag lands in the seat next to him, which he hopes his colleagues take as a hint, because it's never stopped feeling embarrassing to be an adult saying sorry, saving this for someone, but he is, so. He pulls his notepad and pens from his bag, lays them out on the table in front of him, and dates the first page, ORIENTATION in big block letters at the top. He's one of the first, and only pulls his earbuds out and shuts his Discman off as more of the others start filing in. The room starts to swell with sound and movement ā just shuffling and murmurs, but it's enough for the wind to fall from his sails completely when he raises his head and starts looking around.
Not a lot of familiar faces. Some too familiar, but impossible to place. Enough to give him the lightheaded, dizzy feeling that's plagued him ā most of his life, but flares any time anyone at the Foundation has him doing anything but minding his own business. Ro's explained the difference between amnestics and dissociatives a million times, but the shit they dose them with just feels like ketamine with tendrils. And, God, are people talking already? It's all ringing in his ears and the RBF he knows he's making and wishes he wasn't ā eye contact and smile, goddammit ā he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows ā once he feels like a person again ā isn't as alarming as it feels.
Rohan's filled the seat beside him at some point during his little episode, slung his bag on the back of his seat, and between the jab at his ribs and the water bottle he's retrieved for Seth, he's able to check back in, with enough time to start sketching down names and impressions ā chicken scratch that can't be read over his shoulder and an inconsistent shorthand that'd be harder to decode than it's worth if they could, but the sounds of pen on paper is unmistakable. He watches for people's reactions to the fact of his note-taking. Sorry, folks. That's what he's here for. Studying you.
God. Do any of these people want to be here?
It's almost a comfort, the grimness emanating from so many corners of the room. The assurance he's not the only one with concerns, and the ā freedom from being the biggest buzzkill of the pack. He might be sour on the assignment, but he can sit through an orientation like a professional, more than ā the operatives among them especially ā seem to be able to manage. A kick under the table seems to signal his turn and he refreshes his smile, fully human and mostly authentic this time ā trying to be, at the very least.
"Hey everybody! I'm ā Cowboy Greeting?" It's half a question when he says it, call sign still foreign and gaudy in his voice. "But Seth's fine, whatever you prefer. It's, uh ā well. I'm looking forward to getting to work with all of you; most for the first time, I believe, though I know I have one or two past co-conspirators in the room."
The chuckle he chases that with is half-hearted, maybe more artificial than the overhead LEDs, and painfully social worker-coded. Jesus Christ. And his mouth is even drier, almost as dry as the room. A fucking mess. A debacle, no saving it. "I'm a junior researcher, currently under AEED.. I haven't been here long, but I've bounced between a few different departments and facilities as part of my work ā kind of big-picture policy review? Are people doing what they're supposed to do, do we want them doing what they're supposed to be doing right now, looking at outcomes, that sort of thing. My background prior to starting with the Foundation was in social work and nonprofit policy, so."
Definitely the most long-winded description of paper-pushing legitimacy-bestowing bullshit he could give ā and maybe that would've been a better approach for some of his new colleagues, but he's never been in the business of giving his bosses a reason to eliminate his position, and he's not about to start.
"Anyways. Again. Really excited to work with all of you. And if anyone's looking for a gym buddy for their time here, definitely hit me up. Know that's gonna be my first stop after we're done the official tour."
First stop. Definitely. Right after a vape break. He's going to need it.
Vera was wide awake by the time the first rays of morning flickered through the blinds. Her body was taught, stiff as a board, and pressed against the edge of the mattress so tightly that she might have fallen off if not for the knuckle-white grip of her fists against the sheets. Her memories of the dream were hazy and splintered.
Her mind felt off. Like a snow globe that a child had picked up and shaken. But she could hardly acknowledge the bigger picture until she could move again.
She stared up at the ceiling and tried to breathe. It was Tom. That much was clear. She could remember his warm eyes. His inviting smile. Maybe heād been telling her something? Vera could not remember. Everything fragmented and split from there. Something about a walk in the forest. Footprints. Dread. Hidden marvels.Ā
The face of it tore at her and she curled into a ball. Eyes shut. None of Tomās treasures had been enough to protect Vera from its presence. Nothing had been able to stop it from haunting her since the night it first arrived. It wasnāt just the dreams of Tom that it padded through, either. Circling her. Watching her. Laughing at her, if such a thing could laugh.Ā
There, she sighed. She had remembered enough of it to breathe easier. To know what she was up against. The dreams had been chasing her for so long that Vera worked them out like a knot and forced them out of her way. There was no alternative.Ā
Vera rolled out of bed and lay on the floor. Closing out the creature and the nightmares and, instead, softly humming a piece of Brahms and letting the notes form on their bars in her head.
Strange, then, to find herself riding along with Captain Kato. The Hungarian Dances still lingering in her fog-addled mind. Pieces were out of place. Information out of position. Vera smiled, nodded, and focused her full attention on putting herself back together.Ā
She highly suspected that they had tampered with her the night before. There was nothing to be done about it. There was no point in being angry at the Foundation. She gestured excitedly at a beautiful rock formation to keep up appearances with poor Captain Kato. This was not his fault. He deserved more from her than the occasional polite laugh. She would make it up to him if given the chance.Ā
āNext time we meet, letās hope Iāve had a better nightās sleep, Captain,ā Vera said, smiling apologetically. āBe safe out there.āĀ
The Level 0 Clearance keycard was a nice touch, but not nearly so nice as the promise of another photo shoot. Vera did an inventory of her belongings as she wandered up to the second floor. Had she brought an outfit that captured the āessenceā of an employee ID card? It seemed unlikely.Ā
Glass walls. Blinds closed.Ā
āMorning,ā Vera answered, walking right over. She accepted the apparent Commanderās handshake carefully, but not because she didn't want to shake his hand. The increasingly popular idea of the firm handshake had given her trouble over the years. It wasnāt a problem with other surgeons, who understood the importance and the value of their hands, but it had been an issue with Foundation soldiers with something to prove in the past. After one incident early in her career, Vera had taken to avoiding unfamiliar hi-fives as well.Ā
She shot the Commander a toothy grin, hoping that would push past the awkwardness of her cautious handshake, and felt some of the brightness finally returning to her eyes after the early morningās difficulty.Ā
Then, with a polite wave at Steve, she chose a seat second from the end of the row. She hung her ancient green jacket over the back of the first chair and sat in silence. Her thoughts dipped between her odds of escape, a firm zero percent, and Guin.
Guin who arrived almost last of all and did not come to sit next to her. Barely looked at her. Vera gave him a tired smile. Her eyes filled with hurt. Then she nodded simply with something akin to understanding and turned her gaze back to the window. Back to thoughts of impossible escape and sorting out her head.
Vera rose when she felt enough of the room had spoken that they would still have the energy to listen, but they would also have heard enough to respect that she actually had something to say. She wasnāt tall, but she had a presence that had served her well addressing teams over the years. Standing in the front, it was easier to face the group as well as to provide her enough time to think of something to draw the brightness back into her eyes. Zebras!
āGood morning. Iām Dr. Vera Nair. Elevator Music. Or Dr. Elevator Music, if weāre feeling formal,ā she said amiably, the corner of her lips curling upwards at the man with the fish. āYou can call me what feels comfortable. Iāll be your primary healthcare provider this year on and off the field. I know it wonāt make a difference to some of you,ā Vera added, stealing a tiny smile at Guin, ābut it does help some people to know that I received Board Certification in Internal Medicine from Harvard Med and in Trauma Surgery from Johns Hopkins.ā It wasnāt at all a boast. If anything, Vera looked a little red when she said it. Tom had shown her the research years before, though. It was a best practice. Patients tended to do better when they believed in the qualifications of their doctors.Ā
Still, Vera felt relieved to move past it. āIāll be meeting with you all for physical exams at some point in the next few days, but I think right now that itās more important that I tell you first,ā she nodded slowly as she built up to it. āI wonāt make any promises I canāt keep.ā Vera gazed slowly across the room. At first glance, she was looking straight into their eyes. Each of them seeing the face of an experienced doctor. Sad and gentle and knowing. The keen observer might note that Vera was looking respectfully through them, instead, at a line of those sheād lost.
āI will use every tool in my arsenal to keep each of you alive,ā she said, continuing with confidence. āFollow my directions.ā Her eyes brightened. āDonāt lie to me.ā The toothy grin took over again. āCover me when Iām working on one of your teammates.ā Her curly hair practically sparked with excitement. āAnd for the love of all that is holy, if you must get shot, donāt get shot in the head.ā Vera stopped and squinted. āEasy to forget that youāre not all doctors. My last surgical team would have been falling out of their chairs.ā She shrugged. āIām here for you. Everything is going to be alright.ā
She began to walk back to her seat, before realizing that she needed to say more about herself. āOkay, letās see.ā She tilted her head back and forth. āAbout me. Iāll give you three truths and no lies. One, I have been scuba diving in Baltimore Harbor. No, I would not recommend it. Two, I once won ten thousand dollars playing a sport which I hate only to have all of it stolen on the same day. Three, I do haircuts. For a price,ā she added, teasing. āUnless the Foundation has a barber hidden in one of the containment cells.ā
Momentarily satisfied, Vera stopped short to finish with one last thing. āMy office is always open. Page me if you need me. I donāt care if itās stupid. Outside of that? Iāll be swimming or doing yoga or reading somewhere quiet. If you can find me, maybe Iāll show you a coin trick.āĀ
With that, Vera sat down and put her hand in her pocket to play with her 1978 half dollar. Her head was finally clearing up.Ā
He wasn't late. Just arriving no earlier, at all, than was remotely acceptable. Because he didn't want to fucking be there. It was nothing more malicious than that. Guin could read a goddamn site map. Could keep himself fed, watered, laundered, caffeinated. When a need arose, he'd hunt down whatever was on the other end of it. Point was, given back the who-knows-how-long this whole affair turned out to be, he'd figure out some better way to spend the time. Wouldn't be hard.
Still, low as his expectations were, Chi-00 managed worse. Ankle-shattering, really. He'd swayed to a stop just inside the door, his scan of the small, settling crowd fixing once, twice. Christ. So. That's how it was. That's just how it was gonna be.
Well. Spared him figuring out a few texts, anyway. Didn't it? No. Not really. He'd never been one for silver linings. That shit was always thin as tinfoil, when you really looked at it.
So he sat. At the back. Nearest the door. Easy to see everything he might need to, from there. Easy to leave, first, after however these my-dumbass-callsign-is-s were done with. Not that it mattered too much, in his case; what the hell could a codename really do for him? Hardly any of his life at all was on record. At least, outside the Foundation itself. And the closest thing he had to connections, people to keep compartmentalized away from all this - if he'd been the kind of moron who figured he could pull that off, which he never was - were here. Or dead. Or gone.
The get-to-know-yous dragged on for a little longer, out there; Guin, he'd set his combat boots flat on the floor and closed his eyes. Against the simmering fluorescent lights, all these eyes he did and didn't know. Didn't do dick for the noise, of course, echoing off the glassy walls of this too-small room. Couldn't close them out, either. Both of them, the last two people he - Christ. Both of them. Vera, with that loved-thin green jacket slung over the chair next to her. Like she was waiting for someone. That someone they'd been waiting for, ever since that night in the snow. And Nadia, wound tighter than any steel trap. Could see that grip she had on herself working all the way up her arms, caught between her teeth, the lock of her jaw.
He'd seen them. They'd seen him. And they'd all have a goddamn year locked into this, to - do their jobs. Together. Again. Shit.
He could do that. Sure. He could do this, too. Wasn't even any microphone in hand, onstage crap. Guin stayed put as the first impressions kicked off, tracking the room's interest from person to person. His own ticked to each face in turn, then away, as he listened to everybody storm or stumble through their introductions. Then - then all that attention settled on his shoulders. He didn't stand. Just spread his hands. Present. Accounted for. "I'm, ah - Dying Breed. Apparently." Which was funny, seeing as... he had something like a laugh about it, anyway. Only vaguely like a laugh. "All you need to know is: I'll do whatever I can to get you out of any trouble you're in. That'll be the case even if I don't like you much. And if all you are is pieces, then - same goes. I'll get something of you home, if I can." He side-slid his jaw, feeling the tug of that still-newish scar, tight. His stare had found the analog clock tick-ticking on the wall; it glared back, like there was something else he was supposed to say, or do, but... God, there was always something. Wasn't there? That's what all that debriefing always came down to, right? That there was always something you should've done different. Would've, could've.
His cut-up cheek twitched - snarl-like, a glimpse of teeth to it - as he lipped a cigarette out of the pack he'd fished from his tac pants. "But chances are you won't hear shit from me until we're in the field in any kind of way. Or unless this place goes to hell." Guin scuffed the low knuckle of his thumb across and around the socket of his left eye, squinting as he considered his matchbook. "So - until then. Uh..." Another toss of his hands, a half-shake of his head. "Watch out." On that dead-flat note, he rocked out of his chair. "Taking a fifteen, boss," he rasped, flicking a loose salute in the general direction of their new commander, presumably. Then he did precisely that.
Terry was displeased to know that they had not, in fact, blown the interview. Details were foggier than The Big Smoke after returning to their regular workplace, but Terry had assumed they must've done something rightfully wrong to avoid getting the call to action the day after. No, siree, mediocrity was Terry's birthright, and they weren't looking to be some up-and-comer with expectations placed on them.
But a week later, the mobile buzzed during a rerun of Bargain Hunt on the 'BC, and before they could argue, Terry was off to Dear Ol' Freedom-land in a metal deathtrap. It had been several days since landing in a gloomier version of Galloway Forest, and to top off the perilous journey, Terry was still nursing a headache that reminded him too closely of Liverpool pubs on the waterfront. What did the Americans put in their aspirin? It wouldn't surprise Terry if they had gotten sugar pills.
Temples pounded as they leaned back into their chair. While rubbing at his scalp, it took Terry a while to notice the mandatory workplace introductions had come around to his end. Rat's arse, me already? Terry thought, fixing their slouch slightly in front of the group. But only slightly.
No matter what, they couldn't turn back from their plan now. There was no way in hell he was going to be any bloody Red Shirt, and he intended to return to Site-91 even if he'd get bollocks for it. It was a tightrope act. Look foolish enough that they'd send him back but not utterly useless that the Foundation'd fire him outright. No pressure, mate. They cleared their throat.
They shrug. "Not to alarm you, mates, but I am literally the equivalent of a mall cop sitting with you M16s. The deadliest thing I've ever wielded was a heavy-duty torch."
There was also the standard handgun, but seeing how trigger-happy some of his fellows had been at Site-91, Terry wasn't as keen on accidentally blasting a toe off at the mere mention of an SCP. If anything, he was a novice.
"I have no business in securing, containing, or protecting anything. I'm the actual bog standard." Terry gestured plainly at themselves. So far so good, they were selling themselves like a discounted apple at Tesco's. It was not entirely great, but the low price gave it a somewhat decent mull-over in the brain.
"Prolly got picked from my lot 'cause I was the, erm, lucky one if you get me. Honestly, I'd be proper 'standing if the paperwork got filed wrong and you're supposed to get someone much more qualified. No hard feelings and such if I'm not a fit."
They shrugged, not even caring at this point to not come across a total wanker.
Terry continued, "You've got to have someone tiptop watching your back. Dangerous out there, we all know that, innit. I also haven't had an eye exam in years, so I should check on that. Pleasure meeting you, though. Cheers."
Terry threw up a thumb unenthusiastically and slouched back into his seat. There. Now, to head back to his pad and start packing his stuff again, before the higher-ups had their chats and hopefully prepared for their expulsion.
AS WITH MOST DAYS āĀ AND AS WITH FUTURE DAYS, THEY'D MUSED ā SLEEP HAD NOT COME EASY. In the absence of any real direction, they'd allowed themselves to be whisked away from one metal hunk of a thing to another, and another, as if to dispel any indulgences in conducting a haphazard geospatial analysis as to where their covert base of operations should be located on the map. Had they hoped Midge would be impressed at the sheer degree to which they'd been obfuscated? The ghastly gray beast was no more hideous and imposing than the intelligence agency where she had once held base, and which had similarly prided itself in holding and trading state secrets.
Midge had maintained a smile through it all, albeit an artless, guileless one, finding these gaps in her memory even more troubling than usual. Not particularly burdened with the weight of being the best example, Midge ā 52 Pickup, wasn't it? she thought ā had donned only the barest of masks: their hair was combed down and let loose over their shoulder, and their shirt, just as gray and as pallid as the building's decor, hung over their frame with no real attempt at being flattering. In doing so, she'd hoped to display a kind of homeliness that was almost displaced in this ugly concrete jungle they were mandated to call home for a year. To signal something like trustworthiness among this new ensemble of comrades whose faces ranged from vaguely familiar to none at all.
She'd sat cross-legged in the plastic chair, balancing the spine of her handy A5 journal on her knee as she scribbled and took note of the code names of the operatives who had gone before her. As expected, their levels of disclosure varied; another introduced themselves, and another, and another, until the burden of introductions finally fell on her lap.
They'd closed their journal shut and made a small wave as their eyes surveyed the room. "Hey, everyone," they began, willing the muscles of her lips to curl upward, until they resembled something like a kindly smile. "I'd say I wish we met in better circumstances, but the next Foundation confab might be a while yet. My name's a bit of a mouthful, so it's easier for all of us if you knew me as Midge. Though, in here, my alias is 52 Pickup āĀ a bit of a mouthful, too, really. Pursuant to protocol, I suppose you could just call me fifty-two."
And, here, she made an exaggerated roll of her eyes and a peal of laughter: "Call sign's easy enough to remember, I suppose. Just take a look at my laugh lines and guess my age. Thanks for that, by the way, supervisors." They'd spoken with an unhurried cadence, relaxing against the shitty plastic seat, "Well, I suppose I should lean into it. I am marching towards mortality as it is. Nothing else of note. I've done clean-up work for the Foundation these past few years and studied for a living for the rest. Hmm, let's see⦠I play the piano, I'm a chain smoker, and I like owls. " She let a sigh escape her lips, then, as she let in the team on a few harmless truths.
"Er, I think that's it." Her lips pulled into a tight smile as she dismissed herself from the routine proceedings, flipping back open her pocket journal and clicking the top cap of her ballpoint pen to resume her notetaking, "Well, I'll see everyone around. And everyone's quite welcome to join me in my search for a smoking area."
Introductions were not what Loch would list as one of his strengths. Communication in general was perhaps not on that list at all. He certainly wasn't in the habit of throwing 'able to talk to sentient bags of meat' onto his resume, not when his ability to talk to the incomprehensible vastness of cyberspace was there instead.
Of course, putting off the introduction was not going to make it go away, much to Loch's chagrin. He let anyone go before him that seemed eager enough to get their name out and their foot into whatever doors they were trying to force open. It was like sitting in the middle of The Thing, waiting to see which test might drag the impossible creature forward. Though, if any of these people were a cryptid, Loch knew, it would make this entire horse and pony show mean something. He had had his hopes set on that particularly sour-faced man being some kind of Roswell Grey, but that hope was dashed the longer this took and the other remained exactly as stone-faced as he had when they had gotten there.
That woman, Loch thought with a glance, could be a Flatwoods Monster, though she certainly was lacking that impressive collar that so defined her kind. He'd have to see if it was misplaced or, as one of his friends had claimed, it was actually a biological defense mechanism, like the frills of Dilophosaurus. It didn't seem practical, but neither did a horse with bat-wings and that certainly seemed common enough... Gods he was bored. Perhapsā
The sudden tug of all eyes on him pulled Loch from his thoughts and he cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling in his seat and crossing one leg before uncrossing them and crossing it the other way. Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster did he decide to sit in what amounted to the center of the room? He hadn't felt the urge to stand and brood in a corner like some of the others, but now Loch swore every hair on his body was standing upright as an unpleasantly large number of eyeballs fixed themselves upon him.
"Well, going off of this very unpleasant attention," Loch starts, going to stand before aborting the motion halfway through and sitting back down, "it's probably my turn. My name's Loch, Doctor Loch if you want to be an ass. If you're my abuelita, I'm Doctor Matias Rojas, but I don't see her here so I'm just going to stick with Loch. I really wasn't listening to the format here, so fuck it! I'll freeball it."
He paused, taking a breath and holding it for a few seconds before letting it out. This was already a disaster, but the only way out was through and he wasn't about to end up a red shirt this early in his job. "Like I said, I'm Loch. I got hired by the Foundation and their Sincere Comrades and Partners probably... A month ago? Time's been weird lately, which I blame completely on those interdimensional Bigfoots that have to be around here somewhere. I work predominantly in tech, mainly computers and software, but given the state of this place, the details will probably go over your heads, so I'll stick to that."
He paused, thinking for a moment as his hands tapped out a one-two rhythm on his legs. "I've got a cannibalistic fish named Hannibal the muscle heads made me leave behind and a severe tech withdrawal. If anyone ends up needing me, I'll be handwriting the most pointless codes I can. But, I'm sure we're all going to get along great! Oh, also, cryptid stories. Please regale me with your best ones. I might end up writing a book or some shit about them one day when I run out of code ideas."