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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.