02pencil

[02pencil]

are u ever sick w longing. and i don't just mean romantic longing. i mean longing for a place you barely get to see, longing for friends you no longer have, longing for feelings you might have left behind in your childhood, longing for creativity, longing for a rich and more expansive life, longing for less inhibition. longing for more passion. longing for ur life to be so incandescent w something it thaws all the frost in ur bones. are u ever so consumed w it it rends ur heart in two. do u understand me

[02pencil]

bared teeth. mouth open. devoured. digested. always digested. syllables knotted in and through fluorescent billows. dog - eat - dog world. she'd be the cattle. the lamb. scratching the surface, michelle. like you consistently do. but couldn't help it. came with this manner of living. a set circumstance. cards drawn. face - value. here's my jack of spades. now devastate me. bared. arbitrary. punitive. but true. always true.

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."

[02pencil]

consoling. consoling. seemed unconventional. to mull over. to digest. no drawl of ... bullshit. no flesh - out. simple. simple. incorporate academic and modern medical research principles. ethical. at least for the moment. maybe she'd seek him out. systemize and swallow down notions. assimilate. a little ambitious.

ABBASI, ROHAN: an introduction, of sorts

Following immediately after Seth.

It’s 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 – something quite smaller and grander in scale – with most assuredly not our protagonist – lacking categorically across the board – 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 he’s 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."

[02pencil]

[02pencil]

Past Lives (2023)

[02pencil]

a glance. the first. the last. the last. familiarity. but look past. look. look. look further, away from here. and so you do. it claws. and claws. and claws until there’s nothing left. until it’s warm. always warm. but you choke. on whatever amiability you should’ve bared. it never does last, does it, michelle? a garish moth drawn to a dying flame. a sacrificial lamb liberated between the pews of a jilted altar. old sport. old sport.

𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑖. 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖. (𝑑𝑖𝑠)𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.

[tw: references to religion, christianity]

Nothing  is  truly  archived  in  its  pristine,  maiden  state  —  photos  age,  digital  files  corrupt,  and  atom  links  corrode  one  by  one.  Painstakingly  crafted  monuments  oxidize,  the  Great  Pyramids  crumble  by  the  second,  and  the  stars  go  out. —  The  constant  of  life  is  the  beating  shore,  the  waves.  Movement,  change.  Erosion  chases    heels  like  a  mad  dog.

Even  the  mind  is  subjected.

Memory  is  the  basis  of  evolution.  How  can  one  prepare  for  a  future  if  one  does  not  remember  past  paths,  leading  to  pitfalls?  The  information  must  be  stored  to  be  retrieved  and  safely  kept  to  progress.  Hail,  progress.  The  human  brain  is  marvelous  for  processing  data  through  the  senses  and  parsing  time-space-now-then-will.

The  permanence  of  anamnesis  relies  on  factors  that  are  opposingly  conscious  yet  automatic.  Current  scientific  theories  propose  two  leading  families  of  individual  human  recollection:  the  declarative,  explicit  memory  and  the  non-declarative,  implicit  memory.  The  explicit  centers  on  the  “self,”  it  is  autobiographical,  semantic,  and  episodic,  the  epitome  of  what  humankind  thinks  memory  is.

They  merely  see  the  surface  and  guess  the  depths.

The  implicit  are  those  without  focused  consciousness,  background  tasks  in  procedural  memories,  and  subliminal  stimuli  in  priming.  The  human  mind  is  fascinatingly  efficient  and  set  on  learning.  Intake,  inhale,  install…  However,  reminiscence  is  not  a  science.  It  is  an  evocation  of  the  heart,  and  it  is  damn  awful  at  it.

To  light  the  synapse,  a  capricious  impact  has  to  stir  the  heart.  Humans  are  no  longer  concentrating  creatures  on  their  own  accord.  Intensity,  disbelief,  or  abnormality  of  circumstances  is  vital  to  categorize  memory  as  a  “notable  incident”  and  prevent  it  from  falling  through  the  cerebral  grates  and  being  discarded  as  peripheral  tedium.

The  other  way  to  preserve  time  is  to  conduct  it  as  a  ritual.  Opposite  of  the  singular  moment,  the  ritual  is  a  compilation.  By  diminishing  the  individual  days,  it  proposes  a  trade-off  to  stabilize  and  further  a  construct,  a  pattern  of  action  that  organizes  time  with  space.  It  is  mismatched  socks  worn  together  as  a  distinct  statement,  no  accident.  The  repetition  fights  off  modern  cynicism’s  iconoclastic  war  drum.

The  last  way  to  keep  recollection  is  through  auto-annihilation.  To  scar  the  inside  of  the  mind  so  thoroughly,  the  brain  cannot  overwrite  the  data.  Touch  upon  it  repeatedly;  the  echoing  sting  disembodied  of  the  time  of  the  strike.

Yet,  despite  all  of  the  methods  to  keep  vigilance  of  memory,  the  first  statement  holds.  The  lens  of  retrospection  is  smudged;  what  is  necessary  for  the  ability  to  remember  is  intrinsically  flawed  by  natural  design.  To  call  upon  memory  is  a  return  to  bear  witness  to  a  crime  scene,  and  in  its  autopsy,  the  testimony  is  never  black  and  white.  It  is  the  sentiment  branded  on  top,  warped  and  curling.

What  is  said  is  what  is  thought  to  have  been  said. REMEMBER THIS.

The  past  is  a  burn  that  lingers  but  weakens  as  the  mind  digs  through  its  kindling.  By  order  of  this  world,  memory  is  no  different  than  a  star  lightyears  away,  its  beam  dimming.  It  is  meant  to  fade.

It’s  more  than  alright  to  bask  in  the  glowing  embers  of  a  dying  planet.

Therefore,  there  is  no  reason  to  fear  un-memory.  It  is  part  of  the  forgetfulness  curve.  The  waves.  In  every  crest,  there  is  a  trough.  A  soar  ends  with  a  land.  Why  look  for  a  map  for  a  place  you  do  not  know  anymore?

A  day  lost  a  week  gone,  are  not  causes  for  alarm.  Recall  last  Tuesday  at  7:23  A.M.  Asleep,  maybe.  A  “normal”  day  is  liquid  glugging  into  the  drain.

A  man  closes  the  faucet  and  helps  himself  to  a  cup  of  water.  It  is  partly icy.  The  pipes  are  directly  pumped  from  a  frigid  spring  in  the  ███████  Mountains.  He  hopes  to  rediscover  it  again  tomorrow,  along  with  his  name.

It  is  OLD SPORT.

He  is  uncomplex  like  a  line,  that  one.  Point  A  to  B,  straight.  At  the  end  of  their  ride,  he  tells  Mr. Kato  that  he  had  no  idea  what  they  talked  about  but  wishes  the  befuddled  captain  a  good  day.  Arrives  on  the  premises,  books  a  photography  appointment  when  he’s  told  about  the  temporary  keycard  and  spreads  out  his  arms,  a  wingspan  similar  to  that  of  a  large  Pandion  or  a  smaller  Aquila,  when  security  pats  down  his  charcoal  blue  but  otherwise  nondescript  two-piece  suit.

He  enters  the  second  floor.  The  timing  couldn’t  be  more  appropriate  since  this  is  the  first  time  Old  Sport  is  not  the  first  operative  on  the  scene.  He  is  second,  the  numbering  graphically  explicit,  as  he  is  greeted  by  a  man’s  figure  at  the  end  of  the  hallway.  The  vow  Old  Sport  made  a  long  time  ago  somehow  pierces  through  the  fog’s  veil  and  shines  brighter  than  the  fluorescent  lights  overhead.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.

Or  is  it  the  man  behind  the  glass,  a  familiar  stranger,  who  sparked  the  guiding  beacon?  Summoned  that  lost  purpose?

If  it  was  indeed  lost.

With  or  without  amnestics,  the  mind  is  conditioned  to  adapt  to  the  unknown  or  press  on  while  in  denial.  Both  march  forward,  boots  thumping  untrodden  ground.  A  fool  smiles,  walking  into  a  place  he  does  not  know,  and  reaches  out.

Operative  —  correction:  Commander  Tiul-Xol’s  handshake  is  double-handed.  Old  Sport’s  hand  is  clasped  on  each  side, embraced.  The  Commander’s  hello  is  warm,  raining  years  of  comradery  on  the  former  agent.  Old  Sport  notices  the  disparity;  his  twenty  and  even  so  years  of  experience  is  not  up  to  par  with  this  man,  who  has  shared  bread  and  shed  blood  for  his  compatriots,  saving  the  world  from  ending  over  and  over. A fraternized secret pact to go into the dark together. How apropos that it  is  together  how  constellations  chart  the  night  sky.  Together,  together.  —  The  tender  first  fruit  who’d  break  his  own  heart  and  let  others  feast  on  its  fragments. OH, YOU ARE NOTHING.

… 

Even  a  ‘hi’  or  a  ‘good  morning’  would  do,  but  this  is  to  be  expected.

A  simple  salutation  struggles  to  form.  Like  a  dumb  little  newbie,  Old  Sport  opens  and  then  closes  his  lips.  There  is  overthinking  on  the  length  of  a  “hi,”  or  if  “hey”  is  too  casual  for  an  official  first-time  shared  assignment,  or  if  a  “Hello,  Sir,”  would  be  dismissively  professional  of  the  various  times  he  and  the  other  man  have  cursorily  orbited  one  another.  All  the  while,  the  Commander  blinks  at  him,  every  dark  batting  lash  sweeping  up  something  torrid  within  Old  Sport  than  the  tranquil  knowledge  that  the  Foundation  might  have  had  a  deliberate  hand  in  macerating  his  past.

He’s  buckling,  god,  the  crook  of  his  spine,  all  but  kowtowing.

That  is  what  happens  to  those  who  creep out  of  the  underground.  They  cannot  bear  the  light  head-on.  He’s  punched  his  ticket  into  the  Sublime,  and  the  clarity  of  his  ineptness  burns  him  up  under  its  magnifying  scope.

Thankfully,  the  Commander  laughs  and  claps  his  hands  around  Old  Sport’s.

“ It’s  good  to  see  you.  I’m  glad  the  Committee  took  my  recommendation  into  account. ”

“ Thank  you. ”

And  then  the  interaction  is  over.  Old  Sport  sits  down,  choosing  the  chair  close  to  the  door.  His  eyes,  which  have  never  strayed  from  his  clasped  hands  on  his  lap,  slowly  trace  the  curved  contour  of  the  table.  The  stare  stops  on  a  pair  of  worn  combat  boots,  no  polished  dress  shoes.

Their  owner’s  face  is  creased,  loose  with  tiredness,  and  open,  vulnerable  like  a  split  pomegranate.  Old  Sport  doesn’t  know  if  he’s  authorized  to  be  a  witness.  A  yawn  scrunches  the  center  of  the  Commander’s  face,  prominent  on  his  heavy  brows  and  strong-bridged  nose.  He  wipes  at  his  eyes,  and  as  Old  Sport  begins  to  rise  to  action,  the  Commander  waves  it  off.

But  no,  that  won’t  do.  Old  Sport  searches  the  inner  pocket  of  his  suit  jacket,  preparing  a  remedy  in  advance  as  always.  It’s  to  be  another  score  on  his  perfect  record;  he  digs  through  the  void  and  discovers  nothing  there.  He  has  forgotten  his  handkerchief.  The  chill  from  the  water,  now  swirling  inside  him,  permeates  throughout  his  system  at  this  small  but  surprisingly  heavy  failure.

Do  not  fear  un-memory.  Surf  on  the  forgetfulness  curve.  Shoot  the  tube.

Someone  else  enters  before  he  can  request  his  leave  to  fetch  the  Commander  a  tissue.  Therefore,  Old  Sport  stays  put  and  assembles  his  belongings  from  his  briefcase.  It  is  one  thing  to  watch  a  man  be  unguarded,  another  to  signal  others  to  look.  While  Old  Sport  cannot  help  the  man,  he  can  at  least  sanctify  the  Commander’s  authority.  The  room  fills  up.  Old  Sport’s  thoughts  wander  to  the  First  Disciple.

It  is  not  Peter.  It  is  Andrew.

Befitting.  Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

It  doesn’t  take  very  long  for  introductions  to  go  around  the  table.  Throughout  it  all,  Old  Sport  barely  stirs.  He  smiles  through  it,  raising  a  brow  at  Dying  Breed’s  self-appointed  break,  but  overall,  it  has  been  an  illuminating  experience.  The  Decommissioning  Department  and  MTF  Iota-10  have  never  held  formal  team  introductions.  A  matter  of  size,  schedule,  and  if  the  rumors  were  correct,  egos  made  this  an  impossible  undertaking  by  the  Fire  Suppression  Department.  This  is  Old  Sport’s  first  time,  and  finally,  his  chance  arrives.  Old  Sport  grins,  stands  up,  and  bows  as  the  focus  swings  to  him  at  the  end  of  the  table.

“ Hello  and  good  morning,  everyone.  Regardless  of  whether  or  not  this  is  the  first  time  we  are  meeting,  I  would  request  that  you  all  please  refer  to  me  by  the  appointed  codename-slash-callsign,  'Old  Sport,'  as  it  is  one  of  the  precepts  of  Chi-Zero-Zero. ”  He  says,  righting  himself  back  up.

“ As  everyone  else  has  shared  some  personal  information  and  or  humorous  anecdotes,  I  will  also  release  useful  background  facts  about  myself.  I  have  been  with  the  Foundation  for  twenty-four  years.  Previously,  I  was  a  member  of  the  Decommissioning  Department,  as  well  as  the  Mobile  Task  Force,  Iota-10,  known  as  the  ‘Damn  Feds,’  officially  and  unofficially. ”  Old  Sport  figures  disclosing  his  experience  would  be  helpful  to  the  junior  members  of  Themis.  Now,  the  mind  whirrs  for  the  next  move.

“ I  have  a  multitude  of  hobbies  and  like  various  things.  Additionally,  I  have  very  few  dislikes.  I  look  forward  to  working  with  everyone  until  the  very  end  of  this  assignment  or  until  reassignments.  Thank  you. ”

He  sits  down,  pleased  to  have  hit  all  the  notes  he  practiced  in  the  shower.  As  he  is  the  closing  act,  Old  Sport  decides  to  utilize  the  chaos  of  a  post-meeting  exit  rush  to  speak  with  the  Commander.  In  some  parts,  it  is  to  repent  the  previous,  unsubstantiated  “mission  failure.”  In  others…  esoterica,  meaningless  to  everyone.  Rather  than  calling  the  Commander  over,  Old  Sport  spots  his  window  of  opportunity,  gleaming  and  wiped  clean,  and  moves.  Forward,  forward.

Catching  Smooth  Operator’s  attention,  Old  Sport  slides  his  arm  frontward  to  initiate  a  handshake  —  snatching  the  other  man  with  a  two-handed  clap.  It  is  a  mirror  of  the  past,  a  reflection  of  Smooth  Operator’s  candid  warmth.

Imitation,  flattery.  Prayer.

Albeit  enveloping  the  Commander’s  hands  with  longer  digits,  Old  Sport  swings  their  hands  up  and  down,  body  saying  what  he  couldn’t  before.  Hello,  hello.  He  won’t  waste  his  time  now.  “ Commander,  it  has  been  nice  to  see  you  again.  It’s  been  two  years,  eight  months,  and  to  my  knowledge,  three  days, ”  Old  Sport  muses  and  tilts  his  head.  Pauses.  Tests  out  the  words  sans  shower.  “ It is an honor  to have been selected. I will be  dedicated  to  serving  you,  on  and  off  the  field. ”

Old Sport  leans  forward,  stamping a  grave  promise in the air  between  their  intertwined  limbs. Each word is pressed in like a personal cinnabarite seal.  “ Upholding  the  parameters  of  this  assignment  is  my  highest  priority.  Therefore... However,  whenever  you  need,  my  body  is  yours  to  command. ” 

He’s  felt  this  way  for  every  job  given  to  him  by  the  Foundation.  The  corporeal  is  nothing  without  purpose.  If  his  back  breaks,  it’ll  be  with  pride  at  fulfilling  something  grander  than  a  single  skeletal  remnant.

“ I  do  not  know  if  you  have  accessed  my  personnel  files  yet,  Commander,  but  I  will  strive  for  nothing  but  success  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  I  will  fill  any  position  you  require  of  me  without  complaint.  I  have  been  told  I  am  quote,  ‘accommodatingly  versatile,’  and,  ‘surprisingly  flexible,’  end  quote. ” 

As  he  is  saying  them,  no  boastful  flourish  curlicues  the  para-phrases.  Such  comments  never  particularly  mattered  to  Old  Sport.  However,  to  recompense  the  earlier  mistake,  he’ll  assure  Smooth  Operator  that  it  was  a  fluke; he has  verifiable testimonials.

Old  Sport  smiles  and  leans  in  again,  unaware  of  the  lack  of  privacy  in  a  crowded  conference  room.  He  closes  with,  “ I  fondly  anticipate  working  out  the  details  of  this  arrangement  after�� introductions  and  the  facility  tour.  I’d  like  your  pager  number  to  find  a  suitable  time  and  place. ”  There  is  a  soft  squeeze  between  their  hands  after  one  last  downswing.

Finally,  the  lattice  breaks.  Old  Sport  concludes  with  a  nod  and  returns  to  his  spot.  He  picks  up  his  briefcase.  As  asked  by  the  Foundation,  he  will  devote  himself  to  it.  It’s  the  sense  of  duty,  an  ingrained  reflex  responding  to  the  new  task.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Forget  your  record.  It  means  nothing.  You  are  nothing.  Support  the  MTF  Commander  at  all  costs.  Nod,  if  you  understand,  In-su. The scales ...

A Valuable Employee  does  not  think  of  themselves  as  individuals  but  as  a unit  member.  The  workplace  is  family.  The  company  is  covenant.

Nobody  remembers  Andrew.

Old  Sport  nods  and  wonders  where  he  left  his  handkerchief.

[02pencil]

self - para 02: director osterholz.

nauseating. suffocating. you're suffocating. his demeanor. the pitch of his tone. the curvatures of blurred, in - between - the - line features.

you take a step back. back, back, back. you beg to feel the sting of a pillared wall against the base of your spine. but you don't. so instead, you opt for a languid display of revulsion, the corners of your mouth whetted - like and bared into a curl. you can't hide it. you won't hide it.

“settling in alright?”

polluted laughter.

“yes, director.” a bold - faced, shit - eating lie. lie again.

“how were the bagels?”

dizzying. taunting you in a way that reaches the very midpoint of a temporal lobe.

hands always bound to the pockets of your slacks. teeth - like rivets finding solace in the flesh of your palm.

you believe you're on the verge of tasting something akin to resentment.

again. again. it what makes a home on the spine of your tongue.

but he just bares a crooked smile in return.

you nod. he departs.

you turn around.

bile.

you make your way to a bathroom stall.

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01. no. 2 pencil outfit inspiration.

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Have been lurking around this group for a while and wanted to let you know your writing is beautiful! Best wishes :)

you’re so incredibly kind !!! thank you, friend. 🥺🩷

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𝙰𝚌𝚝  𝙾𝚗𝚎,  𝚂𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎  𝙾𝚗𝚎:  “𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜  𝚒𝚗  𝚊  𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎? 

tw: Parental Death Mentioned.

Timing  was  pivotal  when  making  a  first  impression.  Being  first  so  speak  showed  confidence  with  leadership  capabilities-  to  be  the  first  one  to  break  the  silence  whilst  setting  tone  and  expectation  for  the  others.  However,  the  drawbacks  were  detrimental  as  they  are  the  one  who  may  have  inspired  other  speeches,  other  speeches  that  could  easily  outshine  theirs  and  be  nothing  like  a  forgotten  memory.  Many  fools  saw  such  glory  in  being  first,  it  was  the  wise  ones,  such  as  herself,  knew  that  glory  came  in  other  ways. 

  Those  who  followed  on  from  the  first  speaker  fall  into  two  categories:  those  who  were  inspired  by  the  first  speech  and  those  who  simply  wanted  it  over.  Those  talks  were  ones  that  became  mummers  as  others  were  too  preoccupied  with  their  own  performances.  And  being  someone  who  aimed  to  be  a  final  speaker  was  a  spot  reserved  for  the  shy  or  time  wasters.  Everyone's  attention  spans  wavering  in  the  delight  that  the  showcase  was  drawn  to  an  end. 

  For  Danica,  none  of  this  would  suffice!  If  she  was  to  deliver  a  delectable  speech,  she  would  need  to  be  in  her  sweet  spot.  Upon  her  calculation,  after  two  more  introductions  it  would  be  her  time  to  shine.  Her  grand  moment  to  paint  the  greatest  speeches  among  her  co-workers.  Not  like  some  of  them  would  be  that  difficult  to  outshine. 

  With  her  golden  moment  creeping  in,  she  barely  allowed  the  other  person  to  finish  their  speech,  Danica  was  already  on  her  feet.  Snapping  her  notebook  shut  with  a  loud  thud,  loudly,  to  have  everyone's  undivided  attention.  With  all  eyes  were  on  her,  she  stood  tall,  shoulders  back  whilst  smoothing  out  her  black  pencil  skirt  and  tucking  her  hair  behind  her  ears.  Oh  how  she  felt  undressed  for  this  occasion.  If  they  had  only  allowed  her  to  bring  her  seventeen  cases  she  had  meticulously  packed  then  she  would  truly  be  dressed  for  success.  Instead,  a  simple  capsule  wardrobe  would  have  to  suffice.  Still  Danica  Rasquinha  would  make  do  with  poise  and  grace. 

  "My,  oh,  my,  what  a  charming  team  I  think  we  are  all  going  to  make  for  the  unforeseeable  future.  How  heartwarming  it  is  to  see  so  many  lovely  new  faces  and  charmed  to  be  acquainted  with  a  few  of  you  once  more,"  Danica  slowly  begins  her  speech  making  eye  contact  with  each  member  to  enhance  the  natural  connection  with  them  that  will  blossom  beautifully  overtime.  "Originally,  I  had  a  PowerPoint  Presentation  ready  for  a  moment  like  this  but  alas,  after  not  being  briefed  on  the  no  tech  access,  I  do  humbly  apologies  for  my  lack  of  preparation  and  how  unpolished  my  introduction  is."   

  On  that  note,  she  carefully  slides  out  personalized  index  cards  from  her  journal.  The  golden  gilded  cursive  embossing  shone  slightly  in  the  florescent  lightly.  Neatly,  Danica  tired  the  stack  of  cards  in  her  hands,  perfectly  prepared  for  her  unprepared  speech.  No  need  for  her  to  be  nervous,  she  totally  had  this  in  the  bag.  Everybody  adored  her.  Who  couldn't  adore  her?  She  is  the  epidemy  of  excellence. 

    Taking  a  deep  breath,  she  continues  on,"Now  I  fear  that  I  need  no  introductions  to  who  I  am.  Most,  if  not  all  would  be  familiar  with  my  Papa  and  Mama  the  late  parents  Dr  and  Dr  Rasquinha,  both,  high  regarded,  esteemed,  academically  brilliant  researchers  for  Department  of  Mythology  and  Folkloristics.  Now  I  am  not  allowed  to  even  talk  some  of  their  spellbinding  findings,"  she  pauses  laughing  at  her  own  joke.  Of  course  it  was  funny!  One  should  never  disclose  any  personal  information  with  the  fae  after  all!"Just  a  little  Fae  humor  for  you.  If  you  know,  you  know  but  should  certainly  not  be  disclosing  about  it." 

  [Give  a  playful  little  wink  to  someone  in  the  room.]     

"Goodness  look  at  me  prattling  on,  do  Pardon  me!  I  just  never  waste  a  moment  to  talk  about  Papa  and  Mama's  greatest  achievements,"  she  places  one  hand  on  her  heart,  a  way  to  project  sincerity,  "Speaking  of...let's  get  back  to  me  then,  shall  we?" 

  [Pace  around  the  space  with  permitted.]       

  Danica  eyes  the  space  in  the  room,  making  the  judgement  call  to  pace  around  a  little.  Keep  her  audience  engaged,  always  on  their  toes.  Her  eyes  scan  as  she  maps  the  routine  as  she  starts  to  pace  the  room.  "For  the  sake  of  protocols,  please  refer  to  myself  as  Flimflam.  Rather  a  bewitching  code  name,  wouldn't  you  say?"  Danica  compliments  her  own  nickname.  Now  although  it  is  not  the  most  attractive  code  name  she  has  received,  she  knew  she  could  make  anything  look  good  on  her  if  she  tried  hard  enough  too.  "Evidently  upon  speculations  and  all  the  few  wonderous  speeches  so  far  I  can  deduce  these  are  randomly  assigned  with  no  correlation  whatsoever  to  who  they  are  attached  too,"  she  shared  her  astute  observation  which  surly  should  get  a  few  heads  nodding.  "So  if  you  would  please  call  me  Flimflam  even  just  Flim  or  Flam  or  Flimmy-  now  that  is  a  cute  nickname  wouldn't  mind  that  one  single  bit.  Not  Flammy-  something  about  that  is  rather  repugnant." 

  She  positions  herself  at  her  first  spot  in  the  room,  halting  to  get  even  more  personal  with  her  team  members.  Danica  leans  a  little  forward,  almost  as  if  she  is  welcoming  them  in  on  a  little  secret,  "Surly,  you  have  guessed  by  now,  that  I  followed  in  my  parents  greatness  continuing  on  their  legacy  as  a  brighter,  bolder  flame.  I,  myself  am  a  Staff  Researcher  for  Site-12  in  the  Department  of  Mythology  and  Folkloristic.  Parting  with  my  previous  team  was  such  sweet  sorrow,  a  place  where  my  presence  will  truly  be  missed."  she  pulls  away  dramatically  swinging  her  arm  to  cover  her  face,  at  how  disheartening  her  departure  was,  how  her  utter  brilliance  would  be  missed.    "Alas,"  Danica  sighs  heavily,  "I  am  now  here  ready  to  share  my  brilliance  with  you  all!  Oh,  I  may  add  that  I  have  casually  dabbled  as  a  contributor  to  Observer:  An  SCP  Foundation  Journal.  Perhaps  some  of  you  may  be  familiar  with  my  work  on  SCP-5525?  Of  course  some  of  you  have,"  Danica  gestures  towards  her  fellow  researchers-  maybe  somewhere  there  would  be  one  of  her  biggest  readers  ,"  I  have  to  say  I'm  rather  proud  of  the  title:  SCP-6505  Man's  Best  Friend  Helping  During  Ruff  Times.  Honestly  give  it  a  read,  it'll  leave  you  all  warm  and  fluffy.  That's  only  one  among  all  my  submitted  works.  Now  you  must  be  thinking,  how  does  she  find  the  time?" 

  [Pause  to  allow  them  to  contemplate  your  work  ethic  .]     

  "Speaking  of  my  time  here,  I  do  intend  to  follow  this  literal  mantra,  a  poetic  pros  of  excellence  if  you  will,"  Danica  cleared  her  throats,"  To  be  the  very  best,  like  no  one  ever  was.    It  carries  a  rather  excellent  use  of  iambic  pentameter,  which  makes  it  rather  memorable.  To  me,  it  is  rather  profound,  wouldn't  you  all  consider?"  she  speaks  to  all  of  them,"A  means  that  we  should  all  highly  aspire  to  be.  For  if  it  is  not  greatness  that  we  are  striving  for  in  what  we  do,  what  exactly  is  one  doing  here?" 

  [  Make  a  though  provoking  and  inspirational  insight  that  they  will  think  about  for  a  lifetime.  Say  it  proudly.] 

 "And  with  that  very  thought  I  will  leave  you  all,"  Danica  slightly  bows  to  all  of  them  whilst  strategically  making  her  way  back  to  her  seat.  "For  any  further  curiosities,  compliments  or  conversations,  please  do  not  hesitate  to  come  and  find  me,  I,  Flimflam,  would  be  more  than  happy  to  oblige.  However  please  reframe  from  chitchat  with  me  before  my  morning  cuppa  and  my  evening  tea-  both  important  daily  rituals  where  I  require  my  personal  time.  Thank  your  for  obliging  and  listening.  I  look  forward  to  working  harmoniously  with  you  all.  My  lovely  team." 

Flimflam  tucks  herself  back  into  her  sheet  as  she  looks  down  at  her  final  card,  hoping  her  manifestation  would  come  to  fruition.

  [Hold for applause and/or standing ovation.]

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In for the night, Claudia Keep

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an MTF operative. another hellbent, moralizing ego. another redundant, inessential point - of - view. all started to look the same after a while, strung and blurred together between fine - lines and nullity. but she'll spare live wire the menial observation.

𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝; 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚊 "𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎" 𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊

Since she woke, there's been a fine vibration of nerves working its way down Nadia's spine, belling out to her fingertips. It's a strange neuropathy that she can't place, doesn't think she's felt it before. Maybe it's a side effect of whatever amnestic they must have administered — that's the only thing that would explain her clouded head, the lapses in time, her lack of dreams (Nadia always dreamed, and always remembered them).

Whatever the cause of the shiver, Nadia focuses all her attention on keeping her feet and legs still under the table, her hands clenched tight around her knees and her eyes absolutely anywhere other than the two familiar faces.

She can't stomach the twin rolls of shame and guilt that tidal over her at the sight of Dr Vera Nair's soft features. And she definitely can't stomach the absolute amolgam of something that comes with the sight of Gu— Howell. It comes together as anger (most things do for Nadia) and she doesn't have the best grip over her temper this morning. Punching one of the higher ranking operatives simply because "well, he ghosted me, sir" wasn't likely to be the best of first impressions.

Maybe it was her temper that had her blood tingling in her extremities.

When it comes to her turn for an introduction, Nadia finds a point at middle distance to stare at and shakes off the sense memory of her first day transferring into MTF Xi-13.

"I'm Nadia Atalanta. I guess you're supposed to call me Live Wire but I'll probably be a lot nicer if you just go with Atalanta. I've been with the Foundation almost twenty years now, so I can't wait to get the engraved gold watch for that anniversary." Sarcasm, thick and acerbic, coats her every word. "I've been on Mobile Task Forces my whole time here." Her shoulders rock back a little, posture tensing. "Unless you count the last couple months in the Decommissioning Department. Which I don't."

A few of the earlier operatives have offered where they might be on the daily should anyone need them and Nadia cycles through the most likely options for herself: the gym, her bunk, wandering the forests that surround the base. Eschewing all those, she closes with, "If you need me, don't."

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knew operatives like 52. worked alongside of them enough to understand the complexity of their hand. face - value. didn't particularly ... enjoy them, per se. alarming candor. effusive. articulate. a lot of candied - eye syllables that meant very little when put into retrospect. just entirely pronounced into a whetted - like void. in a room that was unlikely to swath her in warmth. noted. indifferent.

𝙰𝙲𝚃 1, 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴 1 — 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙳𝚄𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂.

AS WITH MOST DAYS — AND AS WITH FUTURE DAYS, THEY'D MUSED — 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 — 52 Pickup, wasn't it? she thought — 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 — 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."

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self - para 01: logged night terror #14, 3:30 A.M.

you’re choking. on something that tastes akin to hatred. it sprawls to the base of your mouth. cracks the lining of your jaw. limps through the dips of your ribcage. and rots. 

because she’s there. and then she isn’t. and it all happens so infuriatingly fast, it leaves you dizzy. aching. searching for the warmth of a palm against the very center of decaying flesh. a carcass.

and you believe, “this is how it ends. this is how it always ends.”   

so you reach out again. she’s not there. you turn on your side. you heave against the pavement. into your hands.

a shrapnel wail. a plea. a palm against dirt.

there is no god. no one can hear you.

“umma?” it brims off the cheek of your tongue. almost like a sermon. one that rots the inside of crystallized veins, along with your mouth. your teeth. 

decaying, fragmented nothingness. a ghost. wandering and slaughtered to pieces.

a crooked laugh. then more. and more. and more. empty palms. the corroded sting of a touch. 

you will not survive this. 

you gape down. into the abyss. into the whites of an apparition. you thrash. and yell. at nothing. at yourself. at the distorted brick walls closing in around you. 

a tear in your infrastructure.  

you drag yourself against the pavement, your back splayed against the wall like an insect that doesn’t belong. your hands are covered in self - loathing. you can hear your mother’s hum.

you should have paid close attention. i cannot help you if you cannot help yourself.

so you sit there, half - slacked, in all your devastating glory. until a hollowed void washes over you. until your pleas come to an end. until your mother disintegrates. 

you’re not entirely sure where she starts or where you end. but she understands. your fate. your fate. 

this is how it ends.  

and then you awaken. under what you believe is the trunk of a camphor tree. under the whims of a feathered bird that knows entirely too much. your skin swathed in sweat, mirroring the dew against the grass — completely and unapologetically enveloped in darkness.

so you turn on your side,

and heave.

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