#• [ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ]) 👁 ([ flashbacks ] •

[miratenebrarum]

@crownhcart, clef to shaw for *that* moment :3c

« now, don’t panic. we don’t want to make a scene, do we? »

This is going to shit.

It was meant to be just a quick mission outside Site-17, an exchange of datas and notes between his co-workers and their colleagues on the east coast, a check-up barely worth mentioning that involved Shaw and a handful more of researchers mostly to make sure everything was alright and keep an eye on mister Amulet, over there.

And then everything went to shit.

It didn't take much for them to recognize their attackers as members of the Chaos Insurgency. Insults were thrown around, and soon enough bullets started flying -- a pair of which, specifically, managed to reach the forehead of both the was in the body he left the Site in, and when a careless member of those sorry excuse of a terrorist organization went to check 963, allowing him to respawn and attempt to pull the trigger on his own, with little to no good results. A mix of bad luck, crappy aim on his part, and particularly good one from a blondie with a snarky grin.

The next days (because he spent days in there, right? Trying to follow the time when you bodyhop down in a bunker is difficult) have been a blur. He woke up, he realized those bastard forced one of his co-workers to wear 963, he got tortured and killed either for refusal to speak or for the pleasure of those sick bastards, rinse and repeat. The first time it was horrible, filling him with a sense of guilt he knew he didn't have to feel - the second pissed him off enough to manage to take out a finger of one of his enemies with a particularly good bite before being tazed - the third, that morning (citation needed), just made him tired.

He should be used to die. He should be used to see people die. He should be used to get hurt.

He should be used to be tied on a shitty uncomfortable chair and deal with the sadist of the day, in today's case the blonde shithead who put an end to his stupid attempts at being the Foundation's worst hero-in-charge a few days ago. Hours. Weeks. Months. Who knows for how long they left him dead everytime they put an end to his suffering.

"Ran out of panic points last time, don't worry."

He speaks with yet another of his co-worker's voice, today. Paul Rogers. Specialized in plant-based SCPs. A handful of days away from his only vacation of the year. Three down, two more to go -- not including him, of course. He'll never have the luxury of just staying dead.

Heavy eyes roll, finding the ceiling, then the... ukulele next to the guy. Right next to his shotgun.

"Are you going to play me some music, or something?"

[miratenebrarum]

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[ WARNING: YOU NEED LEVEL 4 AUTHORIZATION TO ACCESS THESE INFORMATIONS ]

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[ SCAN COMPLETED. Accessing to file ███████ of Dr.Glass’ Psychological Evaluation ]

PLAY AUDIO ► [ 00:01:45.95]

“I was contacted by my son today.” “You have a son?” “I… guess I might have some, by now?” “Eli-” “Look sometimes I just… Don’t think about it? Sometimes I get to go outside, and maybe I don’t have anything ready-” “Oh my god.” “Sometimes I’m drunk-” “Can we- can we go back to your son?” “Ah. Yeah.

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[miratenebrarum]

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[miratenebrarum]

Oh, he really doesn't like this guy. Shaw scoffs, shifting on his position - well, as much as she could, anyway -, keeping his eyes on the gun for a second more before returning to look at the other. At least he knows how he'll go down this time. A good ol' execution, America style! Yeehaw!

Or... not?

He lifts an eyebrow at first, again moving as much as he could to press himself against the back of the chair, not caring at all ro try and act brave and cool for any reason. He's tired. He's scared. He's... confused.

And a little annoyed that he's referred as his goddamn cursed amulet, but what can you do. He's not really in the position to introduce himself, anyway.

"...what's the catch."

Yes, sure, they should hurry. But he trusts this blondie just as much as he can throw him. And we all agree that physical strenght isn't really Elias' thing.

This is going to shit.

It started fine. Hell, it started perfectly. The plan was simple, after all, at least for him: infiltrate in the Chaos Insurgency, follow their mission to take down an anomaly, take care of it yourself, go home before anyone could realize he wasn't on their part. He did it so many times already, what was so hard? The plan was perfect, obviously. He thought of it. None of the Chaos Insurgency realized a thing - pretty easy task, when you're secretly an anomaly yourself -, they reached the SCP van, they caught the doctors inside.

And then, they decided to torture the anomaly, those bastards.

It wasn't part of the plan, or at least he wasn't informed of it. Whether the squad he was part of decided to improvise or their anomaly sent them a message last second to change things up, it didn't matter: he had to play his part, if he didn't want to take the place of the scientists. He blocked them, he killed the anomaly when he tried to fight back - he didn't do anything to stop them in the following days. Surveilling the zone, he impatiently tapped the rifle, trying to think of a way to do something. To save whoever's left, before it's too late.

The anomaly is a thing. But the others were normal civilians, God damn it.

Eventually, the solution comes to him when he manages to understand who will be the next one to torture the anomaly. He is tied to the chair while the soldier gets ready for the session - way too enthusiastic, way too distracted to notice Clef sneak up on him with a tissue full of chloroform. He would have preferred a more violent approach, but he needed discretion, and unfortunately this will do. For now. When the others get out of the room, for Clef is extremely easy to sneak in, and finds himself face to face with the anomaly.

He can't but smile at his sight. Not the normal smile that he reserved for the Chaos Insurgency, no - that chesire smile of him, full of amusement and interest, while he poses the ukulele against a column, and the shotgun right next to it. Away from the anomaly. But not so distant.

He would love to see a reaction.

« I'd do it gladly, but no. We don't have time. ». He puts his hands behind the back, and gets closer to the anomaly. Very close. Almost demanding that reaction. In a whisper, he adds: « We're going to escape, mister 963. You, me, and your friends still alive. So we'd better hurry, don't you think? »