(no subject)

[scp_foundation]

The guards, who still wore full riot-gear in the wake of the containment breach, led Heather through the winding hallways and into an elevator. None of them reacted to Heather, and indeed would have appeared to be ignoring her if not for the occasional cautious stiffness in their movements. They were familiar with her file, knew she had the potential to be very dangerous.

The floor that they exited onto was unlike the utilitarian concrete and steel doors. It was far from cozy or welcoming, but the simple carpet and addition of drywall and wood trim made it seem more like a government building than a prison.

One of the soldiers knocked, paused, and then opened the door without being bid. They nudged Heather inside and hurriedly closed the door behind her.

The room was painted an off-white that bore a striking resemblance to years of nicotine stains. The walls had no decoration, save a large television mounted on the far wall. The only furniture was a wooden table that did not properly fill the empty space, and four chairs. Sitting at the head of the table was a woman with a notepad, a cup of coffee, and a cannoli in front of her. Several silent seconds ticked by before the woman looked up from her note-taking.

"Miss Mason," she acknowledged, in a tone that walked the line between crisp and bored. "Please, have a seat."

Comments

[sweetmotherofgod]

Questions! Questions were good, questions meant direction and some idea as to whether she was answering appropriately. Although she hadn't quite been prepared for them to come in such quick succession. She made mental notes of her answers - and of the name John Tillman, which was about as average a name as possible and disappointingly nonrevealing - until the pause for coffee.

"Um, yes he told me, no I didn't influence him, and no we didn't have any plans... to..."

She squinted, briefly. Until that point, the woman's note-taking had been meticulous and distressingly elaborate. Now, she was content to sip at her coffee, her hands still. Heather leaned back in her chair, tipped her head, and - trying to keep her face free of any indication of what she was doing in the probably very likely scenario that she was wrong - thought very hard. She pictured a neon sign, fifty feet high and blazing, unnatural pink, flashing on and off

IT'S RUDE TO READ PEOPLE'S MINDS

as she swiftly arranged a a stack of bacon and hashbrown chunks on her fork, saucing them with a swipe through egg yolk before she crammed the whole thing into her mouth and chewed fervently. If she was gonna get killed for sassing facility staff then by god, she was going to die with a mouthful of breakfast.

[scp_foundation]

"Clever." The woman offered a brief flash of white teeth as she resumed writing. "And rude though it may be, an accurate assessment of your core character was necessary. It would appear that your time in captivity hasn't caused you an undue amount of mental distress." She paused to sip at her coffee.

"Now, I would like you to influence me. I believe 'bugs under your skin' is a popular one with you?" She made a little come hither motion with one hand invitingly and began to eat her dessert.

[sweetmotherofgod]

Well. Heather's cheeks flushed slightly, which didn't do all that much to detract from the self-satisfied expression on her face. Bugs under the skin, though. Yeah it was popular, she used it because it worked, people flipped out about it all the time. Did she really want the person who was at least reporting to the people who'd make a call on her fate flipping out? Maybe she could do something nice instead.

On the other hand, it was almost certainly better to just do as she was told. She looked into the woman's eyes and pushed. There was a long shape worming up from between the knuckles of pointer and index finger on the hand that held the cannoli. Small, the length of the woman's pinky finger and only half as wide, but with a subtle rippling movement either side almost fluttering her skin - hundreds of tiny legs propelling it up over the back of her hand before it squirmed quickly towards the inside of her wrist.

[scp_foundation]

Her eyes followed the path of the nonexistent insect, expression unchanged save a quirked eyebrow. She ate another bite in silence as she deliberated, apparently undaunted by the perceived creature's rapid path up her arm. "My, but that is unpleasant, she concluded mildly. "A bit of a lackluster display of your abilities, but I can understand your reservations. Your self control and caution have been noted, and they will look favorable in your file."

From her briefcase, she produced a manila folder which she pushed across the table. "Miss Mason, this facility has recently been appointed a new director, and that director has a proposal for you. Enclosed is a one year employment contract. Should you choose to sign it, you will designated 'Safe' and promoted to the status of a C-class employee. Your duties will become that of a C-class employee, with certain additional expectations based on your personal abilities. At the end of the year, you will be subject to a psychiatric evaluation and performance review in which we will discuss the terms of your release. At minimum, you will accrue the salary of a C-class employee, a new identity, and a plane ticket to the country of your choosing. Breaking the terms of the contract, particularly the Confidentiality, Security, or Loyalty clauses outlined on page five may nullify the benefits I have already listed." She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of the intense amount of information that she had just dropped, but didn't appear to be apologetic about her delivery in the slightest.

"I was told to advise you that working with the Foundation is a dangerous job, but given your recent interactions with SCP-173, that is fresh in your mind. Please read the contract carefully and do feel free to ask questions."

[sweetmotherofgod]

A year. A year was nothing in the scheme of things, a drop in the bucket compared to actual freedom.

She wasn't stupid. Anything that sounded too good to be true...

actually maybe wasn't. Or at least, it didn't seem to be, by the time she'd finished reading the contract. So she flipped it over immediately and started reading it again, looking for anything she might have missed, any clauses that had her signing over her soul or agreeing to be a test subject, anything at all to take the shine off what she was being promised. By the time she was done her lip was chewed to the point where she might have to get a supply of chapstick written into the benefits, but everything else seemed like an okay trade.

"Got a pen? I mean, I assume this isn't a sign-in-blood kinda deal."

83

[scp_foundation]

Jinn sipped at her coffee and continued taking notes as Heather deliberated. Having a direct line to her thoughts, she was unsurprised by the result and had a pen at the ready.

"We look forward to working with you," she acknowledged impassively as Heather scrawled her name on the document. There was a subtle rush of power as the contract was sealed, but Jinn pulled the papers closer and knocked them against the table once to straighten them rather than comment on it. She signed the back page and passed it back. "A group debrief will be announced at a later time. You are dismissed."

[sweetmotherofgod]

Well. That was kinda that, she figured. She nodded, pushed her chair out, headed for the door - then paused, and looked towards the woman for a moment. She seemed entirely done but hell, they hadn't killed her for anything she'd done so far so they weren't likely to kill her for this.

"Thanks. For giving me a job instead of a brain wipe. And if it counts for anything, the guy who let me out was tight as hell. You find him a job to do and treat him okay, he'll be the best thing that ever happened to your organization."

At which point she fled into the hallway, terrified of sticking around for the repercussions. And she was expecting - well shit. She didn't know what she was expecting. But it wasn't what felt like an office building, all clean and sterile and efficient. She'd been brought in when she was too young to have ever held a job, but the scene around her still brought to mind water coolers and the ink-and-laundry smell of photocopiers. She stood for a moment, stunned and unsure.

[squidaddle]

Busy, busy, busy. Dustin had been given a sizable list of things to do upon touching down at the new facility-- a list which had lengthened considerably due to the breach. A number of employees-- both C and D class-- had been terminated due to their involvement. Some had planted explosives to release a dangerous SCP into the halls as a distraction and there was a rumor that some equally dangerous objects had been stolen in the chaos. For him, the worst part were the filing rooms throughout the facility, which had been tossed rather effectively. It would be weeks before things were sorted well enough to figure out what (if anything) had been removed. None of detained employees seemed to have any knowledge of it.

Dustin was shuttling a cup of coffee in one hand and rustling through the messenger bag loaded down with papers with the other. He couldn't remember quite what he was looking for, and was running under the thin hope that he would recognize it when he saw it. So involved was he with scanning dates and numbers, that he bumped into Heather, sloshing lukewarm coffee over her regulation booties.

A strangled noise marked his surprise as he sprang away from her, eyes wide as he assessed. He sighed inwardly when she was not clad in the D-class regulation uniform-- some of those guys didn't care that their heads could be popped remotely. Encountering them was rarely pleasant. It took another second to recognize her as Heather Mason. He'd read her file. And her standing in the hallway meant that her interview with Jinn had gone well.

His tired, frantic brain attempted to spin an appropriate response to the rush of information. "So sorry. Miss Mason-- sorry. I--" And it was about then that the stress caused his nose to bleed ink, which was better than becoming a cephalopod, but still inconvenient.

[sweetmotherofgod]

She wasn't worried about the booties - hopefully, somewhere among all the other things she was being offered, would be real shoes - so her initial reaction was to try and stem the apologyvalanche pouring out next to her.

"Hey, it's fine, don't w-"

She froze, one hand halfway out to the young man's arm to deliver a reassuring pat before she notices the trickle of dark fluid. What. Whaaaat. A) that was gross, B) WHAT THOUGH.

"Um. You, ah, you got a little - right - right there."

She pointed on her own face, fingertip indicating the general nose/lip area.

100 hrs in ms paint

[squidaddle]

Dustin's eyes widened and he brought his coffee cup up to shield his face from view as he dug around for a tissue. "Right! Right. It's just blood. Nothing to worry about," he assured her, blushing furiously and ducking his head. Ah, yes. Just blood. Like that was reassuring.

"I-I just need to grab a mop, real quick," he held up a hesitant pointer finger as though asking her to wait, then excused himself with a quick little bow. The nearest broom closet was only a few doors down and he swiped his clearance card and darted inside. Obscured from view, he took a steadying breath. Things were going pretty good, all things considered. He'd made worst first impressions... And Heather had been pretty chill about getting spilled on. If he got her new shoes, they'd be square, right?

His nose had stopped trickling ink, which was good. This form's resistance to the hallucinogenic compounds it contained was limited. The last thing he needed was to get woozy on top of everything else. He put the used tissues into a biohazard bag and tucked it out of sight.

He was much more composed (though still somewhat nervous) as he returned to Heather, pushing a sudsy bucket of water with a mop. "S-so your debriefing must have gone well. Congratulations."

[sweetmotherofgod]

The thing is, Heather had never been good at waiting. On the other hand, she was at a loss, and whatever else was going on the guy in front of her seemed kind. Nervous, yeah, and apparently he bled black, but he was nice.

She could use a little of that.

So wait she did, although by the time he returned she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her knees kind of butterflied up and her hands drumming a rhythm on her shins.

"I guess so? I mean, I never really had a debriefing before except for the one when they brought me in all like 'so you can stay here and be monitored or you can die', so I don't have much basis for comparison. but she offered me a job instead of a bullet, so that's already more than I expected?"

[squidaddle]

It felt weird, towering over someone who was seated, but Heather didn't seem to mind his looming. The few drops of ink which had made it to the floor behaved like water colors and became a hearty gray swatch when he pushed the mop through them. He scrubbed the evidence away as efficiently as he could.

"I've been working with them for a couple of months. It's been good." He tried to think of a less generic reassurance, but couldn't think of a good middle ground between under and over selling the intermittent chaos that was working for the Foundation. "What kind of position did you get assigned? --If you don't mind me asking, of course."

[sweetmotherofgod]

"No, I don't mind!" A little quick, maybe, and a little emphatic, but some of the realizations of her new situation had started to hit home. Friends hadn't been a possibility in years. The last thing she wanted to do was seem standoffish. "They offered me a C-class position here for a year. If I hold up my end of the bargain, I might even get out."

She paused, tucked her hair behind her ears - which was about the point where she realized she was grinning like a lunatic and should dial it down a notch, maybe. Shrug.

"Hey, I never got the chance to say thank you before. For the breakfast? I was starving."