[HIGH FIDELITY]

“‘Jerkins.’” Vera nodded simply and made no attempt to correct him. “I’ve never been a fan.” Pickles, like Frankie’s Fish, made her stomach turn. “Maybe you can get one of the other researchers to go with you. Kel is also from Site-120, do you—Steve, are you drooling?” Maybe it was the waiver, but that fish did not smell appealing to her. Not one bit. She’d wait for fish that didn’t require a witnessed signature.

“We can ask around.” She bit her lip and started to protest once more. “Really, Steve. This is a real risk. You could have the loveliest bite of fish you ever had, but would it really be worth it if I had to admit you for some kind of food poisoning? Don’t pull a Tom. What if there’s a parasite risk? What if the waiver is to prevent liability in case of a serious bacteria at the fish’s spawn? You can’t seriously—”

Again, she cut off. This time it was the ridiculous bib and the absolutely raucous comment that came with it. She couldn’t help it. Vera laughed out loud. “'A gentleman.' You actually packed a lobster bib for the trip out here, Steve?” He’d never been in the field. He had no idea. Of course he’d packed a lobster bib for meal time, the Maine fish-monger. “No wonder you’re friends with Tom. That’s exactly the kind of exotic nonsense he’d find hilarious. Did I ever tell you about the month he kept a kazoo in his pocket for ‘special occasions?’”

Hanging out with Steve again felt so normal. Vera didn’t notice that the past was racing alongside her. Tom was here again. He’d never left. 

“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.

A pager. Christ. This was old school by his standards. But, apparently, there was some sort of way to catch a radio signal on the damn thing? (There was a whole damn station, out here? God knew what it'd play.) Only problem was figuring out who the hell he was supposed to talk to about that.

Guin wasn't in the mood for a chase. The lady who made the coffee would know. And she'd share, for the low, low cost of a little harmless small talk about the Omega-1 and Iota-10 vets - he'd already absconded for a smoke break when that second bombshell dropped, but he'd caught the whispers during their over-long site tour; a Damn fucking Fed?) - who were, apparently, running the new circus onsite. And had some kinda history. History, even. From what he'd heard...

(Well, almost harmless. Small talk, by and large, did Guin nothing but harm. But Barb was alright.)

And, yeah, she'd happened to know just the thing for anybody sick of listening to the HVAC hiss along. Glancing at the office number scratched on the back of his receipt, Guin folded that up and into a pocket in his tac pants. "Much appreciated. Don't suppose you could - use another plant?" Plant, in scare quotes. He held up the... whatever it was, some sort of plasticky succulent that'd been in his welcome packet. To go with her shelf of the damn things behind the bar, a dusty, fakeass garden he couldn't fathom the fucking appeal of. Just made him miss real, living scenery. Fireweed on the hills, the pithy-herbal taste of spruce tips, the give of thawed muskeg under his boots. The real world. Not this concrete and glass hamster cage they'd be quartered in.

"Oh, hon. I'm all set. Maybe your friend, there?" Shaking her head with one of those apple-cheeked smiles, Barb pointed past his shoulder. Guin swiveled, already frowning - a friend? No. Just a teammate. He offered the plant again, dangling from a lifeless frond. "Want it?"

“What a coincidence, we chose the exact same plastic succulent.” A lie, for the sake of conversation. “I could use a second one though.” He hastily clipped the pager he'd been fiddling with onto his belt, then grabbed the plant with his left hand while offering his right for a handshake. “It’s good to see you, Lieutenant. It’s been, what, a full decade? Maybe more?”

Technically Howell had been on-site for the 2017 Hive incident in Poland, but he hadn’t been around to witness Steve’s heroics.

Thank the Lord in Heaven this guy doesn’t know I shot myself in the foot.

Steve mustered up a friendly smile. “Tight introduction by the way. It definitely scared some people, but I’m personally glad we have someone with a sense of honesty in this operation.” He nodded towards the barista (was her name Barb?)

“Anything good here?”

For all the years she’d known Steve, for all the times she’d run into him in the field, he knew her past little better than anyone else. Maybe even less, because he had an image of the before to go with the after and no context to explain her life in between.

She’d have to give him one particular piece of context rather soon. With Steve, she didn’t really have a choice. Her fingers pressed at the rings hidden under her sweater.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that I need to be more clear for you. The crabs that I, personally, am referring to were caught in the bay and then served in Baltimore, Maryland. Hence, Baltimore crabs. I never really get to leave Baltimore, when I’m down there,” she added. She’d give him that much. “But if you call me a poor, simple southerner again, I’m going to kill you and make it look like an accident,” Vera said, dropping her voice and leaning in to deliver her threat directly into Steve’s ear.

“And I’m from Connecticut, you pompous lobster.”

“The health center can piss off? The health center can piss off?” So that’s how he was going to play it. “Fine. Name three things you, Steve ‘High Fidelity’ Wilson, have actually done that both required a waiver and didn’t come with even the tiniest saucer of regret. Five things.” Fuck. Too slow. Still, Vera returned his wide grin. They were just blowing off steam. Like they had been for years of passing by. “Frankly, I don’t think what Frankie’s is serving up is really about reaching your lofty Maine standards. More along the lines of ‘an amazing diet discovery.’”

“Did you notice that there’s a Franky’s and a Frankie’s?” Steve motioned his head towards the cafeteria sign. 

“The Franky’s with a ‘y’ has those mini pickle things. I think they’re called “jerkins”? Down by the lobby.” Steve felt his mouth begin to water. The lovely aroma of seafood had entered his nostrils and the New England pavlovian conditioning was kicking in.

“Are there two different Frankies? Do you think we can meet them?” Steve glanced up from the waiver he was currently signing to smirk over at Vera. She was clearly less excited about their diet discovery than he was. With dramatic flourish, Steve passed her the pen with one hand and whipped out his lobster-embroidered bib with the other.

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.

The Foundation had always been cagey about the specifics of amnestics, at least in his field. Outside of the vague training course that explained what parts of the brain are targeted (Steve still had the notes), most employees were only privy to the Class and function of these drugs. He needed to know more.

Now intrigued, Steve started to pick up on the thought and intentionality behind each of Rohan's movements as he continued his introduction. This could work well. Schemes of a beneficial workplace friendship started to form as he flashed an inviting grin. Steve could kill two birds with one stone - he always told Beverly he would take up journaling.

"𝚃𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜." - 𝖣𝗈𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖩𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗇 𝖥𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗌, 𝖫𝗈𝖼𝗁'𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗋

Introductions were not what Loch would list as one of his strengths. Communication in general was perhaps not on that list at all. He certainly wasn't in the habit of throwing 'able to talk to sentient bags of meat' onto his resume, not when his ability to talk to the incomprehensible vastness of cyberspace was there instead.

Of course, putting off the introduction was not going to make it go away, much to Loch's chagrin. He let anyone go before him that seemed eager enough to get their name out and their foot into whatever doors they were trying to force open. It was like sitting in the middle of The Thing, waiting to see which test might drag the impossible creature forward. Though, if any of these people were a cryptid, Loch knew, it would make this entire horse and pony show mean something. He had had his hopes set on that particularly sour-faced man being some kind of Roswell Grey, but that hope was dashed the longer this took and the other remained exactly as stone-faced as he had when they had gotten there.

That woman, Loch thought with a glance, could be a Flatwoods Monster, though she certainly was lacking that impressive collar that so defined her kind. He'd have to see if it was misplaced or, as one of his friends had claimed, it was actually a biological defense mechanism, like the frills of Dilophosaurus. It didn't seem practical, but neither did a horse with bat-wings and that certainly seemed common enough... Gods he was bored. Perhaps—

The sudden tug of all eyes on him pulled Loch from his thoughts and he cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling in his seat and crossing one leg before uncrossing them and crossing it the other way. Why, in the name of the Flying Spaghetti Monster did he decide to sit in what amounted to the center of the room? He hadn't felt the urge to stand and brood in a corner like some of the others, but now Loch swore every hair on his body was standing upright as an unpleasantly large number of eyeballs fixed themselves upon him.

"Well, going off of this very unpleasant attention," Loch starts, going to stand before aborting the motion halfway through and sitting back down, "it's probably my turn. My name's Loch, Doctor Loch if you want to be an ass. If you're my abuelita, I'm Doctor Matias Rojas, but I don't see her here so I'm just going to stick with Loch. I really wasn't listening to the format here, so fuck it! I'll freeball it."

He paused, taking a breath and holding it for a few seconds before letting it out. This was already a disaster, but the only way out was through and he wasn't about to end up a red shirt this early in his job. "Like I said, I'm Loch. I got hired by the Foundation and their Sincere Comrades and Partners probably... A month ago? Time's been weird lately, which I blame completely on those interdimensional Bigfoots that have to be around here somewhere. I work predominantly in tech, mainly computers and software, but given the state of this place, the details will probably go over your heads, so I'll stick to that."

Cryptids really do bring out the best kinds of freaks.

Steve made a mental note to catch up with Loch in his free time. He seemed like good company, and Lord knows he would be needing tech help.

They’d stopped in front of Frankie’s. There was a new shipment, apparently, for site workers willing to risk it all for a fillet. Vera, personally, was against it. She brushed a hand through her soft, curly hair. “Doesn’t the health center have anything to say about this racket?”

“Excuse me, I believe you mean Maryland Crabs?” Steve shook his head in exaggerated disapproval. “You poor, simple Southerner.”  He was reveling in the fact that he could finally be annoying out loud.

ACCESS GRANTED TO SITE-φ.

Welcome, 𝐽𝑂𝑁. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛 is pleased to clear you for the role of [𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻 𝐹𝐼𝐷𝐸𝐿𝐼𝑇𝑌].

Knowing that this was your first attempt at apping to this sort of game truly floored us, as this fact was not at all apparent in your application. The masterful way in which you crafted Steve’s personality and how fully realized he is as a character was quite frankly awe-inspiring. So much was said in what was left unsaid, in the minute mannerisms of a man so proficient at manipulation that catching him in a lie is a tremendous test in itself. The way that you explained both the experiment that lead to Steve’s downfall and the steps he took, and continues to walk, to clear his name left us hooked and dying to see how much further his ambition will take him... or, perhaps, how much further he might fall. We're so excited to explore the wonders and horrors of scientific endeavor at Steve's side. We are so incredibly happy to invite you into the Foundation.