livewireatalanta

[livewireatalanta]

It was nice, Nadia had to admit, to not have a medical professional doubt her, for once. Nice to not have a doctor frown at her chart and then frown at her and then frown at her chart once more. That and Dr Nair's assurance that she wouldn't touch Nadia's neck helped her to relax some. Enough that she could access her full range of motion while Dr Nair tested her shoulder. Close to a full recovery was reassuring to hear, too. It was becoming more and more clear that Nadia would need all her faculties at their best for this job. For this site.

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.

Nadia unfolded her legs, hands dug into the tabletop, ready to push herself off. "Is that it? Are we done?"

“You appear to be doing well on your own,” Vera agreed, again, noticing Atalanta’s sudden stiffness. “It’s only an offer.” One that verged on negligence if she didn’t make it at all, despite the visible progress. “I’m not going to force you into any course of treatment unless you pose a clear and present danger to yourself or others. Even that’s all a bit relative given our line of work,” she added soberly. 

“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.”

#vera nair ; elevator music #chapter one ; em #act one ; chapter one

[livewireatalanta]

“I am building a home in these brittle bones - they are all that I’ve got.”

— a person now - a. CLAW (via merflk)

#glimmer in the brush ; inspo

[livewireatalanta]

Immediately, Nadia went stiff at the request. "Don't need extra physical therapy." She still did the exercises originally given to her, and found her own routines when those weren't working. And avoiding the chest flies would only ensure that she never got back up to them. "You can...do whatever." Swallowing, her throat clicks with the effort. "Just. Don't touch my neck." That's where that high whine of alarm had started from Dr Nair's question. The thought of a near-stranger's hands at her collar.

"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.

Breezing past the birth control, Nadia gave a wave of her hand. "I don't think so. Haven't taken it since I was a teenager. If I get an infection just give me one of the other ones. Doxy or whatever."

Vera listened closely to Atalanta’s description. “Do you mind if I feel around a bit while you rotate it?” She stood next to the shoulder in question and waited. “We could go for fresh X-rays, but I’ve seen your last few. You’ve healed significantly.” Downright impressive. “I can tell that you’re putting in the work. If you’d like, I can offer a prescription for some extra physical therapy. Entirely up to you. One of the stronger NSAIDs, as needed, should help with the pain. And maybe take it easy on the chest flys.”

“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.”

At least they were using protection. “I can have that sent straight to the pharmacy in the main building. I’ll send a year’s supply, but I can guarantee they’ll only give you a month at a time. Three at the most.” Nothing if not professional. “Amoxicillin,” she nodded. “I can work with that. Does it provoke anaphylaxis?” Vera had already handed out a fresh set of EpiPens and was ready with more. 

#act one ; chapter one #vera nair ; elevator music #chapter one ; em #suicidal ideation tw

[livewireatalanta]

Dark Matter | Les Friction

Don't stop, don't think, don't look back You're a bolt of lightning in the sky now Don't stop, don't think, don't look back I've pulled you in, you better die now I am dark matter Your road to ruin I am dark matter I'm your undoing

#[don't worry about the lyrics c: i'm sure that's all fine c:] #glimmer in the brush ; inspo #Spotify

[livewireatalanta]

The first thing Nadia does upon arriving at the coffee shopt is make sure their fearless leader sees her. She doesn't need to catch hell for not showing up only because he missed her in the clutch of people. Once she makes pointed eye-contact with Smooth Operator, she puts in her order with Barb and hangs back until the newcomer gives her introduction.

The mention of RAISA piques Nadia's interest -- if she remembered correctly, those particular nerds are the ones responsible for redacting any relevant information. Which meant Au Fait might be useful.

Some of that hope drops off when the fuller description comes. Not likely useful after all. And, beyond that, it was another body with less than zero experience in the field. Stellar.

Nadia spends a few seconds trying to catch Guin's eye, mostly to gloat about being right on the newbie's field, but also to make some kind of tease about Alaska. After that, though, she scoops up her bear claw and latte, courtesy of Smooth Operator thank you very much, and makes a clean get away.

on introductions.

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?"

#vivien jiāng ; au fait #act one ; chapter one ; first impressions #first impressions ; af

[livewireatalanta]

It was funny to have an exact memory that matched -- exhausted after a middle school field trip to the Shedd. Sitting on the steps, waiting for the buses to pull back around with her head rested against Mark's shoulder, while Mark babbled on about the belugas they had just seen. She sent that away, though -- something to revisit later, maybe. Watching with a smile as Mark's face glowed from the tank of bioluminescent jellyfish. Yeah, something to revisit.

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.

The question about allergies prompted Nadia to remember something. "Oh, I-- Fuck." She put a hand to her forehead. Stupid to have forgotten. Now it was going to be a thing when she mentioned-- "Birth control. Too. I forgot. I'm on, just like. Oral birth control." She waved a hand, and then hurried on, "And I'm allergic to amoxicillin. Nothing else." Nadia wasn't, as far as she knew, allergic to amoxicillin. She just hated the way she felt on it and found that claiming an allergy meant she didn't have to fight with healthcare professionals over it.

“Yes,” Vera agreed simply. “I remember admiring flocks of them with my sister on the steps of the Shedd Aquarium when we were very young and very exhausted.” Enough to ease Atalanta back into the waking world. 

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?”

#vera nair ; elevator music #chapter one ; em #act one ; chapter one #injury tw #(probably fine but just in case!!)

[livewireatalanta]

Under normal circumstances, Nadia would have avoided an event like this bonfire as if it were the plague. Forced bonding wasn't really her style, and being outside in the cold absolutely was not her style. But after the little power-trip, tug-of-war with Smooth Operator over Au Fait's introduction, Nadia figured she should at least show face. Play nice, as much as she hated to. If only because she got the distinct feeling that it would reflect back on not just herself, to their fearless leader.

Last thing Nadia needed was to cause more trouble for Guin.

At least there were s'mores. Much like the pastry and latte at the meet-and-greet, the promise of a sweet treat went a long way with Nadia.

But that didn't stop a hidden-away flask of vodka (stolen from Guin) from coming along with her. Obviously they couldn't serve alcohol with multiple open flames going. That was just a recipe for disaster. But Nadia knew herself enough to know she could imbibe a little and not end up face first in a pile of smoldering tinder (Although, would that be so bad?).

Nadia had found a tucked away edge of the furthest bonfire and taken up post there. Her skewer had five marshmallows on it, carefully roasting to the perfect doneness (absolutely charred on the outside, gooey on the inside). And it was here that she noted one of the other operatives making their way over. 52 Pickup. Nadia remembered being less than impressed with their introduction, although that could be said for just about all of their teammates. This one, though, had been chatty and eager to make friends. Proving true, as they offered a greeting and a question.

"No." She hadn't brought anything to burn. Nadia hadn't brought much of anything with her to the base in the first place. And anything she had brought was not up to be thrown into a fire. Definitely not in front of all these people, so they could learn about why she regretted something, or wanted to forget about it. Fuck that.

She nodded to the bag slung over 52's shoulder. "Guess you did, though." For a split second, Nadia found herself wondering whether Dr Nair brought anything to feed to the fire. Swallowing past that, she slung her skewer out of the flame and picked off the first marshmallow with the very tips of her fingers. "I would ask to bum a cigarette, for something to 'burn,' but then Radar would start barking her fucking head off and that would really ruin the vibe."

WHO: @livewireatalanta WHAT: To be filled when thread is completed. WHEN: Mar 28th / Late evening WHERE: Bonfire CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A / None anticipated.

Another month passed, and with its departure, came the promise of spring. Not that it mattered, though. In the Site's current address of Bumfuck, Nowhere, with its mountainous terrain and vast forest range, their days remained dank, damp, and overcast—just as Midge had liked it.

That evening the weather receded, if a little slightly, to make way for something warmer. The bonfire had been prepared as a proverbial comfort before the oncoming storm. Or, Midge thought bitterly, the last of their task force's proverbial incubation period before their exposure to far more deadly things. The blizzard was something to look forward to, though. Perhaps its winds would blow this mountain range over, and bring the calcified metal beast that they called a site with it. Perhaps it was enough to send them all drifting somewhere else, like white plumes of smoke. Midge can dream.

But the agent known as 52 Pickup, evidently, would not. In fact, they appeared to be more than enthusiastic for tonight's events, carrying a medium-sized bag of useless nothings and trinkets that they'd picked up over the years, each one assigned with a contrived sentimental memory that could very well be mistaken for the real thing. She's not sure whether to let go of an ornate sapphire ring that had made its way to the bottom of her bag, but that was a thought for a later time. In this time of the evening, they'd rather indulge in s'mores and non-alcoholic—damn shame—cider.

So, Midge stood there, bottle in hand, not quite making the move to talk but not actively avoiding the ensemble, either. They'd occupied this patch of earth, almost unassumingly, and let her eyes wash over the kaleidoscope of reds and oranges. But perhaps she could try to make conversation: in this case, with the agent standing just a few ways away, whom, she suspected, also wanted to be left alone. "Live Wire," she greeted, with a small nod of her head; a corresponding motion was made with the bottle. Unlucky for her, 52 was nothing if not insistent. "Brought anything interesting to burn?"

#act one ; chapter one #act one ; chapter one ; bonfire #bonfire ; 52 #miriam midge rosenbaum ; 52 pickup #suicidal ideation tw #(just a passing mention but just in case!)

[livewireatalanta]

Nadia bristled at the movement behind her. Years in the field have made her way of anything on her six that she wasn't sure she could trust. And theoretically, sure, she was supposed to trust Dr Nair. But it was never as easy as that. She tensed, again, as the doctor angled her back. Fuck. She could feel her heartrate at tipped up another degree.

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.

"And then, you know. Whatever the fuck they gave us." That likely explained her little jutter in and out of reality just then, Nadia realized. Whatever amnestics they had all been loaded up with were still just fucking with her mind. How lovely.

“No,” Vera agreed. “They ask for recommendations. They ask for reforms. Then they tear them to shreds the second the lady in the lab coat finishes talking them through anything more complicated than providing more soap in the restrooms. Even that…” She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t just the Foundation. Sexism had stared her in the face her entire career in medicine and she’d stared right back. A boy’s club. “Generally, I tried to remain in station until my demands,” as they were often referred to, “were met.” She sighed. “That’s the job.” From Vera’s face, it was clear that the platitude was still a tough pill to swallow. 

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.

#chapter one ; em #vera nair ; elevator music #act one ; chapter one

[livewireatalanta]

Some bullshit. And that had been their rule, hadn't it? "No bullshit" and "nothing above the collar." Only made it to Tijuana before they broke that second one. "Whatever," is all she offers back. Because she can't tell him that she would have taken whatever bullshit he had to offer. It would have been something. He doesn't need that, not from her.

And she doesn't offer anything, no reaction, at the quip about Dr Pepper. Her anger may have cooled, but she's not ready to concede to some inside joke of theirs just yet.

Her breath catches -- not as his apology, but his proximity. It's something more than the usual heat of rounding close to someone she's been in bed with before. That appears, certainly, but there's also a low whine that starts at the back of her head. More felt than heard, vibrating up her spine to the base of her skull. She tries to ignore it, fold it over into the shock of warmth that floods her chest when Guin leads in. Familiar. A body she can trust.

Nadia doesn't do anything with it, doesn't lean in to meet him, or hook a leg around his waist, or reach out to flatten that stupid cowlick at the nape of his neck. She just takes the glass when he hands it off. "Glad you're here too," she mumbles over the rim, taking her first swallow. It goes down sharp and harsh like it always has and a wrinkle crawls over her nose at it. Not at her words, though. Those are true -- as mad as she is at him (and she is still mad) she's glad to have someone she trusts in this with her. Someone she doesn't mind being around.

For maybe the first time, Nadia meets Guin's eyes full on. That scarred one on the left. Almost immediately, the buzz in her head stretches into that laughter. Bouncing off the walls of this box of an apartment that suddenly feels too dark. She always liked that Guin didn't the use main lights but now it feels dangerous. Like there could be someting lurking right next to them. Laughing.

Like-- "Can you hear that?" She asks it without meanting to, words coming out in a half-tortured rush of air. She can't be sure whether she wants him to say yes or no.

Went dark. Real dark, dark like skies that'd never seen city lights. The quietest kind of night. "Yeah," he admitted, tracking the hexes of the kitchen floor. Another fact. "Wouldn't have had much to say, though." Guin followed that also-fact up with a whirl of his hand by his temple, trailing smoke. "Just some - bullshit." The bullshit and then some that he could feel rattling around in there since he'd come to out of that coma, like all the fractures his skull had ever survived were about to spiderweb apart. As if that made any fucking sense. But he'd spent every handful of sense he had on that debriefing, and the hearing, Christ. Needed that quiet, after all that.

But he could've texted her some bullshit, before he went dark. She had him on that. And his nose wasn't getting any prettier, so. He sucked down another drag, shrugging a sharp shoulder. Fate accepted. Nice of her to warn him. Appreciated. Like the honesty, stark as it was. Not that he expected Nadia to be honest, with him. Wasn't because she was a liar, or anything. Just his nature. People weren't honest. Didn't say what they meant. Were, broadly, full of it. So he didn't expect honesty, and sure as shit never demanded any. Not this kind. The sort that hurt to give. But it'd happened before, and it was happening, now, as she halted through explaining that she'd had a go, at least. A try at a try.

(Daglish had been trying, too. To get Atalanta terminated? Maybe. Not that there'd be much difference, whether that meant calling in the likes of their new CO or whatever else passed for firing, in the Foundation. Would there? It'd kill her, either way.)

She was here, though, and alive, not - draining out, like Tom. Like she'd been, as he packed her full of foam. Pulled open. By that meathook of a beak. Or the talons? The fangs? Didn't fucking matter.

Had to lick the cold off his lips, there. The kind that burned, seared hot. Ate up whatever goddamn useless words he might've been able to stack together, in the face of - any of that. Nadia didn't want some dumbassed platitude, anyway. Nadia wanted scotch. Easy. Doable.

"No Dr Pepper," Guin warned her, shoving off his side of the kitchen to trail across the galley. "Yet." Like he'd be getting some anyway. Even if she never walked through that door again. Maybe he would. Might've acquired a taste for it. In the meantime, though - "Sorry." A start, as he stopped, reaching a wiry arm past her shoulder to creak that cupboard open. "I'm sorry, for being a dickhead." Guin poured a finger - two, more like it - into those tumblers. "Break my nose about it, if you want." Chin up for the swing, he stepped back, holding her glass out as he lifted his own. And his eyes, too, meeting hers. "Still gonna be glad you're here. Got a hell of a shitstorm blowing in." Close as he'd get to a toast.

#chapter one ; db #guin howell ; dying breed #act one ; chapter one

[livewireatalanta]

Who do you think you are? Who do you think I am? What do you want to say? What do you think will change? Maybe I'm afraid of you I'll bite the hand that feeds me

#glimmer in the brush ; inspo #[BITE THE HAND THAT NEEDS ME are u joking]

[livewireatalanta]

"I mean. I know what Windows 84 is, but they were on 95 by the time I was moving a mouse so. I dunno what you mean." And, if '84 was in fact the year it came into being, it was one year older than Nadia anyway.

She watched his dramatics with vague amusement, her head tilted on the forty-five. "Aw cheer up," she drawled in a very clearly ironically positive tone. "You're going to die here but it's going to be because you're an absolute civilian who's not cut out for this kind of work at all." She reached out for a condescending pat on his shoulder.

"I have, yeah. But they told me that I had to create a whole new login and password for this super special secret assignment." Nadia waved a hand around them, as if to indicate the site and all it encompassed. "Which. Maybe that lends some merit to your hypothesis that they normally give us operatives some watered-down version."

Nadia hadn't considered her clearance level in well over five years. Once she wasn't pulling undercover stints anymore it really didn't seem to matter. Especially when she realized she was never going to get at her brother's files, no matter what her clearance was.

Unless, say, a friendly neighborhood hacker would lend a hand.

"So you think you hacked something else. Something with more files, maybe. Or different information."

Loch's stomach had taken up residence in his toes, alongside his hopes and dreams for the brief, beautiful future he had envisioned where technology in all its modern, useful glory had returned to him in a rain of light and brilliance. Both managed to have crumbled into small bits resembling ash and loss at the plainly stated judgement of SCiPNET as 'standard'. Given the... Perils conditions of this building in the first place and the truly pervasive and mind-itching lack of anything useful to him.

"I'm sorry, you don't know what?" Loch could feel his voice wanting to rise in both pitch and volume and fought it down, choosing to instead bury his head in his hands as he leaned against the wall for support. "I'm doing to die here and it will be because of the lack of anything remotely useful." Head-full-of-rocks types were right, he thought for a moment before banishing the thought from his head. His mamá had raised him better than that, no matter how he felt about this.

After a few deep, much-need breaths, Loch looked up, trying his best to don the teacher's cap he kept stuffed in his back pocket, as ill-fitting as it was. "I don't think I got into this. Or I at least didn't only get into this. In my opinion, based on the data I've seen so far. It wouldn't make sense for an organization as big as the Foundation to run on something as limited to files and email, while being entirely dependent on Wifi. It doesn't make sense for an international, occasionally sea-based organization." Loch paused, taking a breath. "So this is probably the dumbed-down version they give operatives to allow information to be controlled better. All things through a sieve is how the Men in Black have always worked, after all. And we've got guys in Vantablack coats over here."

That hat that fit so awkwardly over Loch's mind fell to pieces at the phrase 'desk jockey' and Loch's hands returned to his palms. "They're not..." He started before trailing off, sensing the impending futility of his attempt. "Never mind. Why are you in line for this? Haven't you been here awhile?"

#chapter one; qu #matias loch rojas ; quote unquote #act one ; chapter one

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Some of her ire drifts away when he immediately corrects himself on her name. But then-- Right. Nadia never minded the callsign business in Delta-5 (partly because she had gotten the badass one of Atalanta, then). Most of her frustration this go-around came from the shitty explanation from their fearless leader. The Committee has enemies. Yeah, no shit. If you asked Nadia, though, all the call signs were just a game. Throw a bunch of strangers into a high-pressure situation, force them to bond but don't allow them to reveal anything about themselves. Observe results.

She just wanted to do her job. And at the end of the day, the Foundation was making that harder.

Cowboy Greeting. Not like he had any amount of yee-haw in his voice. But, an accent could be faked -- Nadia knew that all too well from Delta-5. "Why in the hell did they give you that name, anyway? Seems especially pointless for you, since you shipped in with a built-in friend." Or whatever the status was on the operative who had been whispering to Masters throughout the introductions.

There's a joke, somewhere, about how he should start integrating howdy into his lexicon but Nadia can't muster the energy for it. All of her communicating-with-others good will had been thoroughly shot from the earlier portion of the day.

So she does appreciate that he's keeping his distance more or less. He's clocking as some shade of queer to her radar (moreso when considering that friend) but, well, so had Guin. Didn't mean she was entirely in the clear. But this puppy does seem to be able to follow instructions. Nadia doesn't think he's going to try and do anything as stupid as hit on her. "Forgive me for not trying to...do numbers in an Equinox. Whatever the fuck that means." Equinox sounded like one of those horribly, trendy boxed gyms they had in Europe. Or a studio with stationary bike classes that idiots called spin. Whatever his reasoning for wearing them, Masters's leggings looked barely more than the base layer of their armor.

The only part of his comment on her attire that rattles her is the accuracy. Both her shirt and Mark's shorts likely came straight out of 2004. Masters almost earns a smile from that. Almost. "They get the job done. Yours look like they're gonna come apart if you squat deeper than halfway."

Ooh, scary. This one's got a bark.

He thinks that, and it's a little demeaning, but as long as the thought stays inside, it's fine. No harm done. It's better than cowering away – he won't be intimidated so easily, even when he wants to be, maybe ought to be. He's looking at the plates she's been working, and it's nothing to shrug at. At all. Like — maybe significantly more than he's lifting. That type of nothing to shrug at. It's not enough for Seth to bristle at; he's not that insecure. Maybe it shouldn't be a question of insecurity, based on her expression, so much as self-preservation. He hasn't known field operatives to be particularly... diplomatic, or welcoming, or friendly types of people. Sometimes. Mostly to other people, not Seth. They seem to be able to smell... something on him. Red tape. Concerns with ethical standards. An annoying kind of attitude in general.

But they'll be working together for a year, and he's not going to let someone else's bad attitude get in his way. It's not like he's looking into her. No — he's being friendly. He said he'd swing this way during intros, didn't he? So he'll say hello, try to carry a conversation. Just won't push too hard. (Maybe saying hello in the first place was too hard of a push – she didn't look like she was interested. Too late now to take it back, though, if he could. Besides – she's engaging, isn't she? On her.)

"Atalanta," he repeats, meaning it as a confirmation, knowing the second he opens his mouth he sounds like a dunce. "Got it. You can call me Masters if that's more comfortable, or CG." Flashes her a little smile, avoiding direct eye contact – lest it be interpreted as aggression. He maintains a wide radius too, even as he starts making his way towards the squat racks, choosing one with ample distance between them. Not so far as to have to shout to speak to her, but — he knows they're not buddy-buddy (yet). And the closer he gets, the more obvious it seems that her irritation runs a lot deeper than this interaction. Probably has very little to do with him. He'd love to know what's got her so pressed, but that's his nosy streak talking.

And — why is that the first thing she mentions. That once-over might as well be solvent, the way Seth wants to melt through the floor, disappear entirely. She couldn't sound more unimpressed. He only barely succeeds in staving off a flush of embarrassment, maintaining the barest dignity.

"Leggings. Listen, my gym wardrobe is designed around doing numbers at an Equinox. Not my fault I ended up in Batman's gym." He offers her a similar considering glance, and nods. "Nice. Very... my-closet-in-2004 chic. The huge basketball shorts are such a statement piece."

#chapter one ; cg #seth hiroshi masters ; cowboy greeting #act one ; chapter one

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"Yeah, they don't generally go in for any kind of reform." Not even when recommended by a doctor, but especially not a lady doctor, Nadia guessed. And not when it involved some kind of therapy and less drinking. She could just imagine how that might have gone over in Xi-13. Not well at all, and those idiots could hardly hold their liquor.

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.

The overshirt she had on was loose enough, having once belonged to Mark, that she could pull the sleeve up easily. She did that, rolled it up and cuffed it above her elbow. Held her arm out for the doctor to do what needed to be done.

“That’s the root of it. Not that I blame them. Especially not out here. There.” Alcoholism was a disease made worse by horrible, depressing, soul-deadening situations. “We were stationed at an outpost in the Baltics a few years ago and I made an official report after my rounds. Recommended proper counseling services and various specific improvements aimed at morale.” Vera leaned against the counter. The memory of it still made her miserable. “By the time we shipped out, the company had acquired two off-brand pinball machines for the new rec room and the consumption of alcohol had been officially banned. 

“I marched back into the commander’s office and, so patiently, so gently,” she’d barely used her doctor voice, “asked him what the hell he was thinking. He told me that he was thinking I was no liver specialist. So, we went back and forth.” Until she really was using her doctor voice. “If not for Tom, I probably would have been thrown into confinement.” Vera smiled affectionately at his memory. “Dragged me into the hall and literally flung me over his shoulder to our escort waiting outside. Snail-shelled idiot." Red hair. Red face. Frantically hissing at her to stop wriggling. Feeling Tom at the surface of her mind could still be unpredictable. Mostly, during the day, he was warm. Welcome. Or he would be, if she didn't have to push him out to care for her patient. "Sorry. I went off track there. Let’s see...”

Vera frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry. Under normal circumstances, a recent draw like that would be fine. But, I need a fresh take from every member of the team.” She wasn’t confident that she knew what was going on here, so she just asked. “Is there anything I can do to make this draw easier on you?”

#chapter one ; em #vera nair ; elevator music #act one ; chapter one

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It seemed like Bailey was going to try and protest which would have been funny. Because the way she was standing, Nadia could think of at least five ways she could sweep her to the floor, and without any effort. Wouldn't that prove her point? But then the other woman gave in, wisely.

"Since your legs are shorter, you're not gonna wanna use too many front or high kicks, really." Nadia had learned that the hard way herself. Too many bloody noses from getting caught in a clinch after a failed defensive front kick. "And the jab isn't gonna be as useful as it is for all these guys with a longer reach." Nothing like trying to get a punch in and swinging at nothing but air when your opponent was knocking you silly.

"So you should focus on tight combos. Once you get close, come in hard with hooks, upper-cuts. Round-house kicks, maybe." She demonstrated a rapid little combination of shadow-boxed movements, to show Bailey exactly what she meant.

"And all of that together, means you need a stronger base, in your lower body, and to keep your upper half loose. Flexible and able to move around, right?" Fitting her toe on the inside of one of Bailey's feet, Nadia tapped to indicate a wider stance. "Rock lower, too, on your hips. Bend your knees, like." Here, Nadia cupped her hands over Bailey's shoulders and pushed down gently.

Releasing the other woman, she demonstrated the position herself. "Plus, with a better foundation, on the bottom, punches will lander harder cause they'll have the full power of your whole body behind 'em."

The first time Bailey stepped off the ship after a six month haul, she'd hit her knees. Someone higher up, someone more experience had laughed, thumped her back a few times, and gave her some mint. He said it would help, just rub it between her fingers and breathe it in, the nausea would go away. It took three days for her head to stop spinning, and she was back on the ship before she ever felt stable on solid land again.

She was good at the to and fro of the ocean. Good at rigging, at plotting a course, at studying something until someone caught her and told her to stop. She was good at a good many things, but hand-to-hand combat? Hardly.

Of course she knew enough to pass a qualification. There were certain mile-marks she needed to hit before advancement, and she was so good at hitting mile marks. There was a notebook tucked into her desk somewhere far away with all of her life goals from fifteen onward listed; goals were her thing. Her footwork, well...it hit the goal, but only enough to pass and move on.

Training felt like pulling teeth. It felt like exposing the part of her that wasn't excelling for anyone to see. While it drove her to want to be better, determination did not make her look any better. It made her look sweaty and uncoordinated, hair sticking to her temples, breath rapid. Her brows were pulled together, frustrated just around the edges. The instructors dismissed, and she slumped back against a wall. Not defeated, never defeated, but exhausted.

She was catching her breath when Nadia approached, and she instantly stood taller. Her brows pulled closer together, "My form is– hey!"

For a moment she wanted to argue, then her shoulders dropped. "My form is– it's bad. It's very bad." She shrugged a shoulder, "Got any tips?"

#[i know absolutely nothing about contact fighting and have only researched so. we are assuming nadia is the expert] #[also no gif just bc i didn't have one that fit] #chapter one ; um #bailey brennan ; urban myth #act one ; chapter one

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It took Nadia a few seconds to even register that Loch was speaking to her. Between the amnestics still fucking her up, the night before with Guin, and the promise of her check-up with Dr Nair the next day, she was not up to par. There static feedback in her head, like the biting through peach fuzz. It set her teeth on edge that same way too. "I guess it's pretty standard?" Not that she had anything to compare it to, having only worked at the Foundation. But it had always reminded her, a little, of the portal at Northwestern. "I dunno what Windows 84 is, but I knew some really head-full-of-rocks trype who managed to figure it out. So it can't be too hard."

As Loch got into software and hardware and WiFi and whatever the fuck Andromeda was (wherever?), Nadia felt her mind drifting. "Didn't you already hack into it? Assumed that's how we...acquired you, honestly." Made the most sense, to her, from his introduction. Some hacker that the Foundation had bought out and brought in to neutralize any potential threat of exposure, or repeat attack.

"I only ever used it to read my briefings and submit my reports, anyway." A shrug rolled through Nadia's shoulders. "You're better off asking one of the desk jockeys." Research nerds would have had a lot more contact with the network. Or, at least, could understand it and explain it. Unlike Nadia.

who: an open starter to anyone interested! what: SciPNET Login SetUp

Loch fancied he could be forgiven for having been the first in line for this. It was, perhaps, a bit of overkill to have arrived as quickly as he did when he heard exactly what this was, but the mere possibility of being able to touch a keyboard again was enough to push him to a level of punctuality he'd never before demonstrated. It was as exciting as the first time Nathan Drake realized he had the ability to survive the impossible. Survival was not, perhaps, Loch's strength, but adapting was and he was confident in his ability to jailbreak even this limited system into something more useful. Christ on a bike, he was excited about this.

Turning to the person with the (mis)fortune of standing behind him, Loch began asking the questions he considered to be of paramount importance. "So, have you worked with this system before? Is it pretty standard, like Linux or Windows? I've heard it's more like a search engine before. Have you heard if it's particularly intuitive or is it running off of like Windows 84-style bullshit? And, most importantly, how good is the WiFi? If it only works on WiFi, we'll need a halfway decent connection, unless someone's willing to get into the details of hardware, which I'm not. I'm more than happy to optimize the software, but actual hardware is so far beyond me, it makes a summer trip to Andromeda feel feasible."

#matias loch rojas ; quote unquote #act one ; chapter one #chapter one; qu

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Fairbanks. FIgured -- disappeared into the primordial expanse of Alaska. If asked, that would have been Nadia's guess in the first place. But it wasn't about guessing. She could have imagined him in any number of places and conditions, and she had. "Don't be a dickhead. You have texted me before you stashed it in your PO box and went dark." He could've sent er a fucking postcard while he was in that last little office of civilization before blurring to nothing in a snow gale. But he hadn't. So all she had had was guessing and imagining.

"I'm pretty set on wanting to break your nose no matter what you say." If I called you beautiful; that was how he had finished that conditional last time. And then he hadn't, actually, called her beautiful. Told her he was gonna save it. For when you least expect it. Sprawled over him in that hotel in...the Ivory Coast? Panama? Her hand in his hair and his eyes set on hers.

Nadia rolls past the memory to address the question he actually asked, in the here and now. "I did try." Maybe she didn't completely escape the snare of that memory. Still vulnerable, underbelly exposed for him. "Or. I tried to try, like." Tried to make herself reach for that familiar handle. To turn the knife on herself. Like she had turned it on Dalton... "Surprised they didn't take me out. Make it look like I did it myself." Daglish probably suggested it.

Casting her glance to the side, Nadia noted the two empty glasses set out. Nudged one so it sang out a lone note as it spun on the counter. "You got any of that awful fucking scotch?" Could sure as hell use a drink. He probably could too. Or a second drink, if the scent on the air was anything to go by.

Some of the molten anger roiling through her chest cooled as he explained. She hated that. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if she could just be mad. "You didn't actually apologize." You didn't actually call me beautiful. She reached for his cigarette, took a deep drag.

There was something - there was always something. Right at the back of his neck. Like static. Or a breath, rattling. Something. Guin brushed at it, scratched, dug his fingers in. Held. Still. Listening, to her. Nadia, louder than - nothing. It was nothing.

Left. Gone. Daglish. So fuck you very much for that, too.

Yeah, fuck him. For that. And fuck Boulet, for bending to that jackass, Strafe, and sending them out there to do what they'd done, against all goddamn good sense. Fuck Daglish for being Daglish and making Commander, after all that. As for the rest of them, the ones who hadn't died, that night... well, they probably hadn't even lied to her. Not really. Why would they have any answers? Could've guessed where he'd fucked off to, at least, but. Nadia could've done that herself. She wasn't looking to guess. She'd wanted to know. And not the place, not the dates. Just - not dead.

First thing out of her mouth. Hadn't expected that, somehow.

Hadn't expected to see her again. For good goddamn reason, but up north, in the quiet and the cold, he'd managed to convince himself - over and over - that he was just worrying. The way Guin always had, when, and maybe because, Nadia didn't seem to have any worry left for herself. He hadn't stopped. Just hadn't fucking done anything about it. Hadn't known what to do. So he'd worried, for all that was worth, while she - just about. By Nadia's standards, that'd mean ready. Hard to imagine her pulling a trigger, though. Only because she'd always liked her knives better.

(Did Tom change that? Killing Tom. Cutting Tom, at least, opening him up - first blood. She hadn't killed him. Any more than she'd killed all the others.)

Did he really just what? Head cocked, Guin waited for her to finish that, fucking failing to choke down the jawbreaking tension that goddamn half-joke of hers had left between his teeth. If I had known, she said. Like the department mattered. As if she didn't have a death wish before they stuck her on leave. Before that night. Like she hadn't shipped into the vanguard, like that. Christ. He had a cigarette between his lips before Nadia... didn't finish that thought so much as rearrange it. Told, instead of asked. He snapped a match out of the book in his hand. (The Stag, the book-cover said. Dumbass name for a bar.) Lighting up, he answered. Honestly. "Couldn't've. Left my phone in Fairbanks." Not an excuse; just a fact. He left his phone in that PO box he kept in Fairbanks, off, locked up. For a year. No texting. No calling. No fucking emails. Hardly a single human conversation.

No wonder he found himself sliding, sinking into one of the last ones they'd had, before - all that. A warm hotel bed, in a warmer place than the one they both nearly died in. Much warmer. "Would you break my nose," he started, slow, steady as he could. Not as steady as he'd usually be. "If I said I was glad you didn't? Try." Nevermind pull it off. Gutting herself like a fish. Or, yeah. Blowing her brains out.

Would you break my nose, he'd asked, before, if I called you beautiful?

"Or sorry." Guin tacked that on, "If I said sorry. For not..." doing something he didn't think would matter. And being wrong, about that. Not the first time. Probably not the last. Real bad habit for it, all things considered. "I just -" he circled that cigarette, hazy swirls of smoke haunting the air. Like the ghosts of everything he thought he might say, decided against. "Had to get lost, for a while." And she'd get that, or - not.

#guin howell ; dying breed #act one ; chapter one #chapter one ; db #suicidal ideation tw #suicide tw

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“Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.”

— Margaret Atwood, excerpt of “Secrecy,” The Door (via eveninglesbian)

#glimmer in the brush ; inspo