Elevator Music

"Thank God and my bloody aunt Eugenia," Terry muttered to themselves and closed the door behind them. He waved to the doctor and took a seat. "Hello, Doc. And right on, and all the other things too, um, cross off in the physicals. Y'do allergy tests, good doctor?"

“Yes. Hello. And right on?” She shot them a slightly bemused smile. 

Tom used to say that. Playing makeshift volleyball in some dingy Delta-14 gym. Researchers versus combat. It was always rather friendly until ‘brain versus brawn’ was bandied about by some fresh fool who didn’t yet appreciate just how much the soldiers were holding back. Well, the soldiers and Tom. Tom could spike a volleyball with enough force to break someone’s nose. And when he’d make a spike, broken nose or not, he’d often shout, ‘Right on!’ Followed by a hasty apology to any wounded. 

“Allergy tests?” Vera tilted her head to the side in concern. Most of her patients knew what they were allergic to when they came to her, but Terry was on the young side and certain allergies, including severe ones, developed in adulthood. The onset of some was so gradual patients hardly noticed them until the symptoms progressed. “I’m not prepared to do skin prick testing in this exam room, but I can take you to the proper facility myself in a few hours. What seems to be the trouble?”

She squinted at the prescription briefly. Naproxen. Not an opioid. Humming a neutral tone that could be in thanks or just acknowledgment, she folded the slip into the front pocket of her flannel.

Coffee or a run? That couldn't be a real offer. But the assurance tacked on at the end told Nadia it was. One that the doctor hoped she accepted. "Why" was a fucking mystery to her. Nadia found it hard to imagine Dr Nair would want to spend time with her. (Unless she really was clueless as to what the Foundation thought happened in the woods that night. What the truth was.) "I'm not the best company," Nadia finally responded. "Ask anyone."

No, Nadia didn't want to spend time with her. In this case it was personal (her...whatever's ex-wife, present wife of the man she killed, medical professional). But it also wasn't. Nadia didn't want to spend time with any of their team. WIth one exception. And she hadn't even completely made up her mind on that one.

Vera turned back to face Atalanta. “We’re about halfway there.” She pulled out her otoscope. She was not going to sacrifice the health of her patient or her professional integrity over a little personal discomfort. After twenty-five years of medicine she could easily point to worse.

Better to keep moving on. If you stopped too long, you'd freeze.

Could he sleep? Guin half-shrugged at that. Sleep. Never something he'd been much good at. Not like other people, it seemed, who could keep still through the noises of the night and the passing glare of traffic, the seeping off-yellow and cold white of every city he'd ever known, each as sleepless as the last. Here was closer, in some ways, to the nights he used to know; the ones he'd sunk into all over again, the past year. Not sleeping, exactly. Not dreaming, exactly. Not awake, exactly.

Awake enough. Her magpie-ing got a smirk. Sergeant First Class Guin Howell. Doctor Vera Nair. When that'd been his rank, that was how their names usually got read - next to each other. Nothing alphabetical about it, obviously. Just proximity. Junior Researcher Tom Dalton would be in there, too. Always.

It'd seemed that way, anyhow. But always - the only always that you could count on was that always was always a mistake. Couldn't believe in anything, count on anything, need anything, promise anything, like that. Not always. Always was a sheer path, the kind people fell down and broke something at the bottom of; something of theirs, or somebody else's. Guin passed the coffee. Pockets, yeah. Could always use more of those - God, how Tom had groused at the both of them, taking forever (allegedly) to inspect the quartermaster's offerings and pick their kit. All for more pockets, tighter seams, better waterproofing, quieter fabric... the details. Devil was in them, and all. He hadn't started on that banana bread yet. Just smelled it, the mellow sweetness. "You let me know if you've got absolutely nothing better to do. Mm?" Might happen. Might? Kidding himself. Odds were she'd have him picking out a lining within the week. Doctor Vera Nair.

Guin huffed, one of those sled-dog sounds of his; if they did count her as an armed anything, that was their mistake. Not because she wasn't capable enough to earn the title, but because the medic was the one who needed the goddamn escort. The medic had to make it. Or no one would. Especially in this mix. Off - he frowned, taking a thoughtful bite of his breakfast. "We're a clean-up crew. Guess the Committee figures the worst of the mess has already been made, by the time we show up anywhere..." His tone veered towards downright disrespectful as he hit what the Committee figured; ethically speaking, Themis felt about as sound as the rest of what they'd ever done: rickety, but a bridge he'd spent most of his life standing on, swaying with the weather. Still holding. Because it had to. Because the alternative was miles down, dark, and deep. A world without the Veil would be a more dangerous one. Which was saying something.

Grim as that'd gone, he'd dredged up another smile as Vera listed off her make-work and get-by plans. Swimming in a lake; oh, he could think of a few lakes. And that violin - Guin nodded gravely into his first go at the thermos, like he'd been put-upon by all her so-called practice and couldn't wait for her to figure those damn strings out. Like Vera and her violin weren't one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard or seen.

But it didn't make a difference, to her, how fucking miserable her office might be. So long as her exam room had colour and soul, as her patients were comfortable. He sighed, steaming on the brisk-edged air. "I've got some kinda permission to head down there soon, so - I'll keep an eye out. See what there is." For her office. And exam room.

His projects? Christ. He stalled over a bite of banana bread, then licked the stickiness from his fingers. "Ah..." Guin laced those hands, cracked every bony knuckle. As if he was about to throw himself up a cliffside, a rough climb ahead. Tugging his cast-low stare out of the roots cradling the pair of them, he looked Vera in those doe-eyes of hers. "Couple apologies, looks like." Yeah. Of course he'd see her again. Someday. He'd known that, leaving. But, he'd made the mistake of expecting - expecting to be able to know when that'd be. To come back and get to someplace that felt like ready, so he'd... do it better than he was bound to, at least, if he tried unprepared. Hadn't meant for it to be like this: a surprise, unfamiliar ground. But it was. So. "Do you - wanna hear that, now?" Best to ask and see, yeah? If Vera'd rather just... have this, the clear and present, they could. And if she wanted her share of sorry, then God knew she was owed.

She half-shrugged right back. “I feel you. The dreams are back with a vengeance.” Tom had soothed them for years. Holding her close as they slept. Temple to temple. Hand in hand. Knee to knee. “New dreams and more. I close my eyes and I can hear the whole world laughing at me. Screaming at me.” Vera frowned and ran her hand down the back of her neck. “I can feel frost on the tip of my nose and at my fingertips and under my hair in the car.” Where the air conditioner was eternally broken. Unsettled, she quickly returned to Guin’s issue. “I can start looking for dark spaces and blackout material, okay?”

“What could possibly be better than an interesting project that helps you? That armorer they mentioned might do a better job, though. Best I could offer is probably cupro. She might have something certified Foundation.” Vera took a sip from the thermos before nabbing a box of generic multigrain cereal that looked similar to Cheerios and pecking at it dry. “These are terrible. Want one?”

Vera rolled her eyes at that familiar doggish huff, but listened carefully. She did not respond right away, not because she was pouring one of the milk tins into the cereal bag, but because she needed time to consider all the variables. “I hope you’re right,” she said reluctantly. In all likelihood, he was. Just the Ethics Committee covering its own back. Vera found it difficult not to be cautious after everything she’d experienced. After Tom. Many would call it paranoia. But was it really paranoia if all her worst fears about the Foundation kept coming to fruition year after year? “As long as we’re the clean-up crew and not the graveyard shift.” 

“My, my. Special permission.” She shot him a very toothy grin with a flash of Tom’s mischief in her eyes. “Does this mean our Smooth Operator has two sweet little lap dogs? Hate me all you like. A ghost told me to say it. I was possessed. I call possession!” As if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, Vera continued, “Maybe you can find a little map of the town. Or make it. Hard to imagine it’s more than a few main lines out here. Even just to hear about it.” These brutalist buildings were hard on the imagination. 

“Well, I…” She paled, though it might have been hard to tell in the dim light. Whatever Vera had been expecting, it was not an apology. "I’ve thought long and hard about why you might have left.” Vera stared at her hands. Still and steady. “I don’t know what happened in those woods. They never let me unseal the file. All I’ve got is what I saw with my own two eyes.” Which was already too much even for her. “Tom wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself no matter what happened. I know I shouldn’t…” She stared at her hands even as her eyes began to water. “If you’ve spent the year unable to face me because you feel responsible for Tom… I’ve been so afraid that something happened to you, Guin.” Her hands flew up to cover her face. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or where you were or if you were alone or with that other soldier. I hope you were with her." All this was spoken with sincerity. "The time I spent lying awake worrying that you were out there somewhere. Suffering alone." She took a deep breath and then rasped, "Like me."

"He was Omega-1." As if no further explanation was needed. The Law's Left-Hand. What a fucking joke. Nadia balked at the doctor's humor, uncertain.

Surprised they didn't take me out. She had just said that, to Guin the other night. And she had meant it. After the hell she raised in the aftermath of Mark's death, after all her fuck-ups that got her demoted and kicked from Delta-5. And then after what happened in the woods that night, what they all knew really happened, no matter how Guin lied for her... Nadia had expected it to come. Hoped for it, after she realized she wouldn't be able to do it herself. "Don't worry. Haven't killed me yet and I talk more than enough shit." Her eyes flickered down to her own hands. She hadn't realized but she clenched her fist so tightly her nails bit into her palm. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a set of perfect half-moon indentations when she stretched the fingers out.

“I won’t touch your neck.” She took mental note that the patient had a sensitivity about her neck, but really the sight of those bruises alone would have kept Vera far away on their own. Instead, she took hold of that arm and focused her attention on examining it. Powerful muscles. Excellent. The shoulder rotated smoothly, including the area Vera was most concerned about. “Yes. You’re doing well. Keep doing what you’re doing, while being gentle on yourself with the things that aren’t coming back as fast. I think you’re close to a full recovery.” 

“Omega-1.” With a low-whistle, she pulled off her gloves inside out, tossed them in the bin, and scrubbed down again. “Maybe he will be the one, then.” Vera paused to write out a prescription for Naproxen. Tom’s death left her empty. Guin had abandoned her again. Now, with only Ella, frail and fading, Vera’s thoughts often crossed over into a grim reality where she was living only for the Foundation. At this point, she was so accustomed to thoughts of a dark nature that as long as it was from her own mouth, from her own mind, she gave them little purchase. 

“I’m not worried,” Vera clarified. It was true. 

She turned back to Atalanta and handed her the prescription. True, she wasn’t currently worried about her own fate. But Vera was worried about Atalanta. The way she clenched her fists, just like Ella. Just like Ella still did when she was beyond stressed and her face was blotchy and her eyes were misty.

“Well, if you feel like grabbing a coffee or going for a run sometime, I’m sure we can talk enough to get both of us under some even more sinister radar.” Vera shook her head, laughing breathily and wondering why she was afraid of being rejected here. She should be delighted to be rejected by Atalanta. A year of not speaking unless absolutely necessary would do that to a person. “Or not. Promise, I won’t be offended. Hard to imagine you’d want to spend time with me.” She let a rather telling moment hang in the air. “I am your doctor, after all.”

“Got it. Doxy or whatever.”

“Tom would recognize the importance of coming prepared for any challenge. How is that wonderful, beautiful, talented man anyway? I was really hoping to see him - no offense to you of course - you’re…great”

Steve looked up for a moment when he realized how that sounded.

“I didn’t mean to pause that long, I swear”

He really didn’t. Steve recognized each of the seafood options in front of him. He had tried them all over his years as a seasoned Maine resident. The nerves in his gustatory cortex were firing off, telling him that each of them were delicious.

Why couldn’t he remember any of their names? 

He was going to ask Vera, but that just would have given her more ammunition for her anti-Frankie’s crusade. He decided to plate a little bit of each. It was probably just the residual brain fog from the amnestics…probably.

She raised a petulant eyebrow. Not offended, but certainly not pleased. “Why don’t I believe you, Steve?” In her heart of hearts, Vera knew she was just avoiding the question for a moment longer. 

Vera looked down. Though far from the first time she had delivered this news, it never grew easier. She guided Steve to one of the tables and sat down without a plate to go with his. “Steve,” she started gently. She couldn’t look at him. Instead, she pulled her necklace out from beneath her sweater. Two rings. Vera held tightly to Tom’s as she continued. Too painful to let him go. Too real. 

“Tom was…” Already, she felt her eyes begin to tear. This would be painful for both of them. They’d been friends, Tom and Steve. Two fools. They’d found companionship in each other in a world that was cold and cruel. “Tom was killed in the field about a year ago.” The light faded from Vera’s eyes. She was, herself, a ghost. “I’m sorry.”

What good was she, who only ever learned to simulate and never to make something real? That afternoon, by the lakeside, these were the thoughts that had shone brighter than others. But they had never been one to indulge on the meaning of dreams.

Well, Midge thought, at least I know I’m not tone deaf. In the end, it was not a hardship to play pretend. They were unsettled, still, but the moment she’d stepped out of the water, the world was itself again, with all its ugly parts. Their curiosity about the doctor’s lithe figure and the rings thed’d worn — both noted after a brief, cursory glance — would have to be settled for later.

Instead, with a hum of thanks, Midge accepted the doctor’s offers of a pair of wooly socks and a thermos. But in the absence of any real effort to find peace, she’d instead pocketed the socks for later and held the thermos awkwardly in her left hand. They had always made something of the cold, and learned to wake up and hunger for warmth in accord — but also to distrust it when it was so generously, and so indiscriminately, given. 

Because who was she, really, to Elevator Music? They’d seen her, and her, them, as nothing more than a vague flirtation, a desire spurred by the tragedy of their luck and a shared convenience. Midge stood behind her, almost like a guard dog, leaning forward only to pass back the thermos of cocoa. 

It seemed she needed it more than they had, anyway. Vera’s confession was less directed to Midge as it was a truth that the doctor appeared had needed to confront, herself. Relegated as a reluctant witness, but a witness all the same, who needed to respond to the appropriate moments, the familiar, tragic beats. “Hey, Doc, everything is going to be alright.” At this juncture, Midge had attempted a small chuckle, self-effacing but still smooth in its delivery. “You don’t have to worry about me. It may not look it, but I’m made of strong stuff.” Their jaw tensed, wondering, briefly, whether they ought to portray the image of a damsel in distress. But they found the pretense unappealing, and really, quite inaccurate. Their armor was not so much bark skin so much as it was the product — or the privilege of — forgetting. 

Vera, on the other hand, was beholden to memory and all the grief it entailed. “It’s okay. And, hey — what kind of teammate would I be if I left our dear doctor in their time of need?” After some contemplation, Midge joined the doctor on the sand, stretching out her legs, toes still touching the treacherous waters despite the blatant warning. “A year isn’t a long time. And grief is — well, there’s an edge to it, don't you think? Only with time does the real ache begin, and it’s not always easy.” A shaky inflection against her tongue. “Do you — do you want to talk about him more? About Tom.”

Then she laughed. A true, hearty laugh. Everything was going to be alright. Of all things 52 could have picked out, that had to be the one that struck the deepest chord. “Someday, months from now, if we know each other better and we’re both still alive, ask me about that. You’ve heard me say it, what, twice now? And you’ll hear me say it again.” The laughter steadied. “There’s a story behind it that only one living person in all the world knows. Not a very interesting story, mind you. Don’t get your hopes up. But I’d like to hear your take.”

“Strong stuff,” Vera agreed. The cocoa and the laughter had brought her back considerably. “A survivor of the anomalous crater lake. Could have given a better warning. 'Wear yellow.'” She briefly took on a venomous false smile. “Fucking bastards.” She glanced at 52. “I’m guessing you didn’t hear the lake’s rendition of Poor Unfortunate Souls. What can I do?” An honest question, asked less as a doctor and more as a teammate.

“Thank you.” She meant it. “I’m not as good at being alone as I should be.” All that practice amounted to nothing. Vera sat up and gently nudged 52 Pickup’s knees, afraid of them even dabbling their toes in the water despite knowing they’d been ankle deep before her arrival. “There is an edge, yes. Like a blade. Or a bite. It loosens its grip, sometimes, but it never truly lets go.” She knew grief too well. Much like 52, it seemed. 

Vera let out a pained sigh, but nodded. “Tom was a researcher, but he considered himself a treasure hunter first and foremost. Always giving me little gifts that he’d found and polished up. A cigarette lighter. A watch. A creepy Princess Leia Pez dispenser. Like a magpie.” She smiled softly. “Even before we were together, we were very close. Had a lot in common.” Understatement of the century. “Same MTF, for one. Delta-14. ‘Winter Wonderland.’ Fitting, really. We once returned from a joint leave only to be thrown directly into the fray. Our new forward scout gave the signal to scatter in the middle of a blizzard. I later learned it was his first outing.” How the Foundation spoiled them.

“Anyway, we scattered. I’m quick even in the snow. I covered about two and a half miles before I found my spot in the base of a dead tree.” Which would have been exactly how far their previous vanguard scout would have wanted her to run. Far. Their old scout would have found her without issue. “Except my walkie was out of range due to weather conditions and my outdated emergency beacon wasn’t picking up signal either.” It wasn’t the first time she’d had a problem with that beacon and it wouldn’t be the last.

“So there I was. Holed up in a dead tree with the snow threatening to bury me alive and the exposure threatening to finish me if it didn’t. My last signal flare didn’t seem to attract any attention, good or bad. By the end, I didn’t have anywhere to put the snow I was digging out and it was getting hard to breathe. I was getting ready to burn down my tree when I heard the shovels. Then there was a hole and Tom peeked in at me. Big grin on his face. That same spark he always got when he found treasure.” Vera laughed and pressed her palms against her eyes, turning red. “And the first thing that beautiful pirate said, the first thing he sang, was ‘Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?’” She shook her head, clearly scarred by the memory of Lionel Ritchie. “The whole song as he and the others dug me out. Tom knew all the words. Then he scooped me up and carried me back to base in his arms.”

Nadia rotated the shoulder in question, feeling the shallow click and burn of her joint. "I dunno. It usually just feels...sticky? More of an ache than pain. Only happens after I fuck around with it. Or when I try to lift chest flies." Which, thinking about that specific movement in the gym, how her body felt when attempting it, offered a better vocabulary. "I guess it doesn't feel stable, mostly." And then, like she was nipping something in the bud before she could get chastised for it, Nadia added, "I'm working on it."

The closest to a show of comradarie with Dr Nair yet, Nadia huffed a laugh out through her nose. "Hey, don't say that too close to Smooth Operator. We got a real, live Ethics Committee lapdog in the house." Her tone made it abundanty clear how little Nadia thought about the Committee, and their dear leader.

“Really?” She answered with interest. Though she’d given the Operator his exam the day before, his heel turns from general ease to moderate crankiness and back had drawn most of her focus. That and the accordion music. “You know, sometimes I fantasize that one of the higher-ups will overhear my treacherous backtalk and have me taken care of,” Vera said with a dreamy look on her face and a snorting laugh at her own gallows humor. “Maybe this could be the one!” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “If only.”

If we're to start anywhere in this story, perhaps we should start here: a camera shot, tightly held, focused on a a hand scribbling furiously in a notebook. There's little to note regarding the hand: a claudaugh ring on one finger, nails tidly trimmed, cuticles pushed back. The only speck in site are faint droplets of ink dotting the hand in question's fingers.

Let the camera pull up, tracing the tight bent tension of a arm, a beast poised to spring. Note too, the casual blazer, bearing all the marks of a fresh ironing. In the background of the shot lies a bag, only half unpacked, closet hanging open as well. Clothes dot the bed in blobs of color, and a handful of books lie on the desk in riotous lumps. And finally, the camera focuses on the face of the figure— a woman in thought, her forehead pinched, mouth set in a firm line.

Vivien sits in her room, hair pulled back into a meticulous bun, scribbling at her notebook. It was a ritual of sorts, a way of pulling herself back into herself, reminding her of the things that mattered in the here and now. The words themselves are practically illegible, shorthand sentiments of neuroses still at hand— you're capable, okay? also, it's nice to meet new people, you haven't gotten the chance in ages.

And so on and so forth. Finding the ritual done, she tosses the notebook and pen into a tote, flinging it over her shoulder. She had opted for being her polished self today— the blouse and blazer de-wrinkled with the old bathroom trick that had saved her in grad school, earrings in a subtle silver, every bit of her the thing that she knew she could be— that she knew she was.

That thing being a sure and steady gaze, an infinite patience, an eye for balance. Or at least, that was what she hoped to tell the others.

At the coffee shop, she pauses, folds her hands in front of her just so. There's something almost nostalgic about a huddle of people, crowded around a table too small for them. Some of them ping points of recollections— names and faces settling like film on the surface of memory. Others feel like a knife pick— memory blasted into desolation, bile rising in her stomach. She swallows it, forces her smile, holds back her shoulders.

"Hi, you're the rest of the team, right? I'm Vivien Jiāng, previously a Junior Archivist for RAISA at Site-7."

She cuts her teeth on the previously, allows herself to concede how strange it feels. That was then, this is now. A hand curls protectively around the strap of her tote bag, finger idly rubbing against the texture of it, reminding herself to stay grounded.

"But I suppose you should know me as Au Fait. That's my callsign, anyway. It's supposed to mean something about having knowledge."

It feels dangerously close to a lie, what she says (or at least, a lie to her). After all, French courses for the entirety of college meant she knew the meaning, held the detailed knowledge that the name implied. But she couldn't give a lecture. That had gone disastrously the last time she'd tried to talk about that language.

"I worked with maintaining the digital SCP archives and catching discrepancies in them, as well as helping general SCiPNET upkeep and data issues. Think of me as a computer guy who loves excel sheets and the smell of old paper, and you should have a good idea of what my last five or so years looked like."

She glances over at the counter, smile weakening faintly. She'd fully forgotten to have food before this, hadn't she?

"Um— I do want to meet all of you, but do you mind if I grab a coffee first?"

Along came Vivien. So young. Vera herself had been recruited around the age Vivien was now, but she hadn't been given much choice. And, of course, she knew those who had enlisted even younger.

Vivien appeared put-together. No doubt an entirely capable archivist.

But Vera couldn't help wishing someone as young and, well, charming as Vivien had been placed somewhere else. Anywhere else.

She’d rolled up her pant legs to her knees and pushed forward. “Hm, but enough about our teammates.” Midge said, a smile flitting in her lips, dropping the conversation, eager on closing the gap between them. Something like a lilting voice slipped out of the rocks, or the trees, the lake. Ah, had the birds come back again? An absent thought. 

“I’d like to—” By the time she was ankle-deep, Midge had paused again, feeling the water shift around her and the song grow louder. Part of her had wanted the attempt to draw out its source, but she’d instead stood there, transfixed by her feet, the hazy outlines of her face reflecting off the shimmering water. There was no need for further searching. She had been the song’s source, but their mouth did not move in accordance with the melody.

Still, their contralto rasped and pulsed through her head. A villain’s song—a children’s story, a tragic Danish fairy tale—whose lyrics now rang painfully tongue-in-cheek. Poor souls with no one else to turn to. The miserable, the lonely, and the depressed… she’d heard her voice, so ugly and displaced from herself, and the world had turned ugly by association.

They were no longer paying attention to the lake. The afternoon’s coquetry and Vera’s intriguing presence had no longer interested them; the illusion had broken to make way for another, stranger, more devious thing. How awful it was, then, that the world should remake itself in this hideous image, just as she’d felt the stirring of something like warmth. 

What was it the memos said? Wear goddamn yellow. Another: Do not trust the sound of your own voice. She’d always figured her death would come at the price of her own vanity. Lord Byron would be proud. 

The sound was faint and choppy, but Vera recognized it. She’d been eleven years old the first time she’d heard it at a classmate’s movie theater birthday party. Forty-four when she’d heard it last. Tom belted it as he’d prepared an ill-advised, entirely unsanctioned seafood concoction that they’d ultimately abandoned in favor of takeout. 

In a passing moment of curiosity that she did not indulge, Vera wondered if the sound would be clearer under the water. The singing water that had gone from lukewarm to warm in about fifteen seconds. She’d let her guard down too easily. Her teammate was in danger. Vera swam into a standing position and started towards them. 52’s eyes stared hauntingly into the water at their own reflection. If they were hearing ‘Poor Unfortunate Souls,’ they weren’t hearing it the same way Vera was. She moved quickly, fully prepared to launch herself at Midge. Fully prepared to carry her or fight her back onto the shore, but it proved unnecessary. 

Vera followed 52 out. She said nothing. Removed her sopping wet green jacket, because the yellow bikini and the rings were about the furthest things from her mind, and wrapped herself in her towel. Pulled open her backpack and passed Midge a pair of dry, wooly socks and her thermos of hot cocoa. Then she sat down on the sand far from the water and nodded slowly in agreement that it was not a good idea for 52 to go into the water. Her focus traipsed unevenly between watching Midge for signs of distress and steadying her own breathing. 

She scoffed at the music room idea, then shared a broken smile. “For a second there, I really thought..." Vera shuddered. "I've only been out for a year. This is the closest I’ve come to losing anyone since, since Tom, and we’re not even in the field yet.” She almost managed a laugh, but instead shook her head in shame and embarrassment. Then she hid her face in her hands.

“I was ready to save you. I was ready for anything and you walked out of the water on your own. Thank god. Please, know that I’m really glad you’re alive." Vera stopped and started, her breathing only beginning to even out. "It's the shock of being back." True. "It's Tom." Equally true. "I was ready to save him, too. He was gone before I even knew he was in danger." She steadied herself. "These situations are not the same. They are not the same. Everything is going to be alright." She said it for herself much more than for 52 Pickup. Her mantra just tagging along for the ride.

"I’m sorry. I must be making you uncomfortable. We don't even know each other. I promise I'm not always such a mess. Tom was my husband. He died in the field about a year ago and this is... Grief. I should be used to it by now, but it never ceases to amaze." Vera forced a smile. “I really am sorry, 52. You can just... keep the socks. You don't have to stay. I'll be fine.”

It was fascinating to think that MTF agents could just be swapped out when needed. That had to be terrible for unit cohesion unless each member was perfectly content to be dependent only on themself. Somehow that seemed like the opposite of the point of being a team in the first place. Fifteen years of that work was nothing to sneeze at though - if he needed a combat medic from anywhere in the world, he thought she might be the one he'd ask for. Assuming there was ever a choice in a situation like that.

It was easy to passively watch the point slide in, less sensation than the swab itself. Usually there was a bit of a sensation for the actual draw of liquid into the tube, but clearly Doct- Vera didn't need to be in the field to be one of the best.

"Not in the way you're thinking, probably," Kel shook their head. "Unless you count controlled equipment testing, the closest thing to a field assignment would've been the deployment of the self-sustaining electromagnetic Veil perimeter at my first site. Even that was more than twenty-five years ago, so effectively not an experience that could apply."

"I've got one more for you. Since we had that little introduction session, who are you most looking forward to working with in this team?"

She peeled her gloves off inside out and dropped them in the bin. “That would be Dying Breed. I’ve known him since my first day in the field. He’s my best friend in the world.” On a whim, Vera drew the delicate gold necklace out from under her collar. Two simple gold wedding bands slid down the chain and into her waiting palm. “We were married once. Years ago. It didn’t work out, I guess, but the friendship stuck.” 

She moved from Guin’s ring to the other, knowing she couldn’t leave it with no explanation. 

“This one was given to me by my Tom.” Vera’s eyes fell, half-lidded, as she felt the cool metal between her fingers. “I lost him just over a year ago. Field incident gone wrong.” Horribly, impossibly wrong. “He was a researcher. Specialized in locating anomalous objects, any sort of treasure really,” she smiled fondly at that, “when he wasn’t in charge of analyzing finds for our team.” Vera brought Tom’s ring to her lips, kissing it gently before tucking the necklace back into her blouse. “I think you would have liked him.”

She didn't listen as Dr Nair spoke; just focused on the steady pitch of her voice. The sounds of the syllables until it all became a blur, a buzz over her brain. If nothing else, it helped her to zone out enough that the present became a distant, half-reality. Nadia wasn't in the exam room. There wasn't a doctor next to her with a needle in her hand. The names Nair and Dalton and even Howell meant nothing to her.

Usually when Nadia drifted elsewhere, it was to some memory or thought of Mark. A moment in their childhood. This was different. She hasn't been here before, she doesn't think. Or if she has, she can't place it. Some distant forest, a mass of trees as far as she can see, frost ringing their trunks and branches. Her feet crunch through fresh powder and she...was looking for something? It felt like she was supposed to be looking for something. Or meeting something. Someone.

When she came back into herself, Nadia gave a little jerk, eyes flickering down to her arm. There was just a cotton pad at the inside of her arm now. No more needle. Reaching, she put pressure there with her other hand. "They're all over Chicago. Seagulls." Nadia didn't have the faintest idea what the story had to do with seagulls, just came back online for that last sentence. It was probably better not to admit that she had just been lost to their world for a few minutes.

"No. I mean. Not really, not anymore. There was whole bunch of shit. When I first got out of the hospital." She didn't elaborate why she had been in the hospital -- they both knew. "I still take some stuff for my shoulder sometimes. Pain flares up." The scarred marks over her shoulder burned, like it knew it was being talked about.

She nodded. “Of course.” Lingering pain from an injury like that was far from unusual. “How regularly does the pain affect you? And can you describe the pain for me? I’m sorry to ask, but pain scales involving numbers,” still used by many of her colleagues, “aren’t of much use to me beyond initial intake.” 

“Yeah. That.” The thought of those amnestics and whatever all else the Foundation had been dosing them with left Vera looking more ill than her patient. She listened for movement in the hall before answering. Not that it really mattered. If the Foundation gave a flying fuck about this conversation Vera knew she wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway. “I suppose that if an iota of scruples were involved, it wouldn't be the Foundation.” Vera shook her head despairingly.

“Do you have any allergies?”

Still, she conceded, it was a refreshing change of pace to let herself be led like this. For someone to cut against their hard corners to make way for something a bit delicate, even if it were only an illusion of the real thing. “Oh, God, no. I don’t think I can quite handle the temperature, to be honest.” Wear a mask long enough and it embeds itself into your skin and settles there. To unshed it, even by virtue of bare feet and damp pant legs, felt almost like a betrayal to her image that was consistently made anew — but now took on the form of an unassuming and genial field agent. “But, please, don’t stop on my account. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.” Just a swish of a smile, suggestive if one knew where to look. 

“No, no, a field partner’s. I had one prior to this assignment, and he was far more accomplished than I.” Midge’s reply was succinct and not altogether a lie, and exhibited outward symptoms contrary to the fact. They’d never had a regular field partner to call their own, what with her portfolio being a series of one-off missions with nameless and faceless partners. They’d never cared for other people much, but her last field partner had made some mark, if only by virtue of recency. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen him here, though I suspect they’re not taking the most accomplished agents, out of their assignments.” She continued; a subterfuge concealed as an insight. “Not that that’s a slight on you, of course. Just merely making an observation that several of our team members aren’t so well-trained. And, well, old.” 

A survivor. Had anyone ever called her that? They did not quite know what to make of the remark. “There’s nothing else I can say to that except to add that I suspect you’re a survivor, just the same.” Ultimately she landed on a smile, slight and self-effacing, the kind that the agent known as 52 Pickup might make. Her next words were even more surprising, though, and Midge fought the urge to chuckle. “Blowing everything away is not my forte. That kind of stuff I’d rather leave to the younger recruits.” 

After a few months in Baltimore, Vera had ridden the train out to the cabin they’d stopped renting years before. The cabin and its woods were as quiet and lovely as ever. She’d laid out on the roof next to two ghosts. Tiptoed around the garden trellis where Guin had grown fresh vegetables. Run her hands over the log walls and the cool cobblestone path where Tom had lifted just the right one to reveal a hidden Animal Cracker tin full of a long-grown child’s treasures. But she’d gone without a trace before the current occupants even had the chance to notice her. All the love swirling through the air, and all the loss, made her cry the entire ride back. 

“The water is warm.” She cupped her steady surgeon's hands full of water and walked back to Midge. Offering the water as if Midge hadn’t already stood in it herself. “Come in with me.” Vera nodded her head encouragingly back toward the lake, feeling confident that 52 Pickup, fully clothed, would not take her up on it. “Rather I didn’t stop? Come in with me and level the playing field.” Vera poured the water out of her hands and unzipped her green jacket a few inches. High enough to hide the necklace. Low enough to make a statement. Vera grinned confidently. This was a game she was going to win. 52 would demure and Vera would be able to step out of the water and wait until she was alone to swim, today or another day. 

A partner. Vera noticed that Midge didn’t seem to miss their partner like Vera missed hers. She raised an eyebrow, pretending to be taken aback by the slight, only to drop it and nod worriedly. Just the right amount of experience spread among the team to pretend everything was as it should be. “My dear flower children.” Vera’s voice was facetious, but her face was beyond concerned. “I just hope that when they blow everything away, it doesn’t include our own team. Not the ideal way to find out if either of us is actually a survivor.”

“You play piano?” Vera brightened. “Piano and violin are my favorite duet. No contest! Nothing comes close. I’d love to play with you. Whenever you manage to obtain a keyboard or find a Steinway hidden off in some secret music room. What do you like to play best?” ‘Yours, or mine?’ Vera caught herself before answering. Her cheeks were a little red. “I play a few hours every night to try and actually get good. If you’re passing in the hall and you hear me, feel free to knock. Even without a keyboard.”

At the mention of Tom, Nadia had to hold back a flinch. Dalton. Dr Nair's husband. Dead husband, now. Gone, and because of her. Nadia had barely met him the night before they rolled out for the mission. Little more than a handshake and something approaching a smile before she slipped off to let Guin have the evening with his friends. God, she must have thousands of memories like that, Dr Nair. Big and little moments alike. Just as Nadia had tens of thousands of memories like that with Mark. And neither of them would ever see the other again, except in dreams.

Should have know the super special secret mission would require all new records. Par for the course, with the Foundation, really. Nadia shook off Dr Nair's offer with a muttered, "It's...whatever." What eve was that offer for? There wasn't anything that would make it easier. It was always going to be a needle under her skin. Nadia repressed a gag at the thought. Better to just get it over with.

She nodded simply and withdrew the little basket from its drawer, careful to subtly cover its contents with her body. Vera moved the exam table so it was behind Atalanta. So at least she wouldn’t have to see the needle or the blood. Thousands and thousands of samples over the years. Uncountable. She’d helped pale, shaking researchers through the process and carefully helped the strongest soldiers sip at a juice box after an unexpected dizzy spell. “I’m leaning you back a bit.” Not very often, but it did happen, one of them would bring a friend to hold their hand. Bloodwork was difficult on many of her patients. Vera was there to care for them all. 

“I used to spend a lot of time at the harbor back in Baltimore,” she said. It was a nothing story. Certain to annoy Atalanta, though that was sort of the point. Ideally, it would provide some distraction. Vera finished preparing with her hands out of Atalanta’s line of sight. She applied the tourniquet. “I’d get off a long shift and if I wasn’t ready to go back.” Back to wherever she was hiding out in those days. She cleaned the arm. “I’d go watch the seagulls hunting for trash and easy tourists and the littlest crabs.” In. Nice entry. Very subtle. Butterfly needle. “Only they started to recognize me because I’d always have something like a loaf of sliced bread or a sandwich and I was a bit too generous one time.” Out. Swab. “Very persistent, seagulls. I had to find a new spot.” Cotton on. “You’re all set.”

“Are you on any medications?” She put the labeled sample in the collection box and put the basket away.

He offered Vera a small smile — "present company included," — that widened just slightly alongside an arching brow. It could almost have been mistaken for clever, or even sly, the face of someone who felt he'd gotten away with something, had Rohan not understood from Vera's very first introduction to this whole procedure that he was very, very profoundly not the cleverest person in the room anymore. And likely would not be for the entirety of this post.

Still, if they were meant to get to know each other with real authenticity, Rohan might as well be genuine alongside honest. He kept the raised brow and open-mouthed sort-of-smile.

“Now unless my arithmetic is off, that was actually three questions." Whether or not Rohan realized it, he'd scooted a little bit forward on his stool with his follow-up. He hadn't quite shed all of the tension in his shoulders, but between one sentence and the next it no longer seemed to roll off him in waves. Ripples in a pond, maybe, rather than a full wake. His stomach did still feel quite stone-like.

Nevertheless, he continued down the path he started with his hands no longer clasped quite so stiffly about his knees.

"As for the gift from our revered Ethics Committee," he shrugged, throwing his hands open and his palms upwards, "I think there are worse things they could have handed down to me, let's say. I can't see myself ever getting used to that in place of my name, though. Did you? For — whatever you were before Music."

Vera shot him a toothy grin. “I wouldn’t normally count either medical questions or questions that I ask before the beginning of the game, but I’ll grant you two free ones. On me. I respect your enthusiasm.” She leaned her hip on the counter, determining whether she should hold out a hand for the exam table again, and decided that it could wait. He appeared to be growing more comfortable. That outweighed the benefits of moving him before the bloodwork. 

She hoped that she would be able to recover some of that comfort, though she sincerely doubted it.

“Funny turn of phrase. I was music first. Before here. Before anything else. My first love. I remember placing my tiny violin under my chin. Drawing my bow. Feeling out the ‘Happy Birthday’ song.” Ten times. Then ten times more. Then ten times more until her tutor was finally satisfied. “I began playing when I was four,” Vera answered softly. “Forty-one years of violin. It’s become so much more to me than ‘Happy Birthday.’ If I were to give myself any simplified identity beyond medicine,” a positive one, at least, “music would be the one.”

“You can call me Elevator Music if you like, but Vera or Dr. Nair will also suit me as long as we’re not in the field.” He must not have remembered her name from her introduction. Understandable. There were too many people and it seemed as if all of them were that special Foundation brand of disoriented. “Doc, if you must,” she teased with a wry smile. “I want you to be comfortable with me. I have your back. Even if that might be difficult to accept at first.” 

“My next question,” she played it straight despite her own growing unease, catching his eye as she curled the blood pressure cuff onto his upper arm. “Do you remember whispering during the introductions? Specifically, during mine.”