13 kinds of exchange with the scp foundation
lying to friends and family about who you work for
not knowing who you work for
your other personifications distancing themselves—there are those who have found ways to stay loyal to her and them at once, but she will take everything given the opportunity
lists and lists and lists and lists
batteries and peppermint
doing something without knowing why
speculating about the O5s; you know you’re not close, or you’ll have received Item 5
an ethics committee lightbulb joke—the question and answer are as predictable as a heartbeat (you facilitate orderly apoptosis)
locking yourself in your office for late nights
locking yourself in your dormitory on hard days
doing it for the money, not the ideals—she always appreciated practicality
numbing sympathy for your test subjects
the letter your family receives after your death, complete with cover story 26B and a corpse
11 notes
·
View notes
look
The only lie Foundation has ever told her father is that she doesn’t remember his face.
He’s pale, from too little time spent in the sun and too much spent with her, with slicked-back hair streaked with gray. Gray eyes. Her own are brown from the dirt she’s hidden under, and her face is darker because of everything inside her, but gray is the color of her hair and her bones, which she knows from all the surgeries that made her forget the faces of everyone else. And the shadows under their eyes are both darker than the rest of them, except maybe his suit.
The blindfold is only for security, of course. Never mind that even if her lie was the truth, she’d be able to tell him apart from anyone else, and the other twelve, and her younger brother, in ways much deeper than skin and color, or even smell and voice and touch. But he insisted, and she supposes it’s a good reminder it will always be his job to know better.
The fabric is comforting, if itchy, if impossible to forget.
She never thought of him by his face anyway. He was simply cool, soothing, numbing any trace of guilt that might have fought its way to her conscious mind despite her induced amnesia. When he touches her, she can tell his lockpick fingers are stained with ink from all the paperwork he signs, or above ninety-eight point six degrees from their time on warm computer keyboards.
So why is his… colleague asking her to take off her blindfold?
It’s not an order. It’s not an order.
O5-10 is the keeper of her memories, and her first thought is that they’re presenting her with a test. She’s wondered what they–and everyone else–look like, of course; curiosity isn’t something she can make herself forget. But Archivists like them don’t last long. She’d quashed the worst of her speculation on that role long ago.
And then–wait.
She thinks she’s known them for… less than a decade, probably. She knows, from the time she’s spent inside their head, they were always too young for this. She knows, from the scalding passion she’d seen, that they were always too emotional to face everything she’s done.
This feels familiar.
That’s all she has to go off of, impressions left in her by everyone before them that acid didn’t eat away at. It makes sense, too, that they’d want her to remember their face once they were dead, as some kind of return for all the memories they’d held for her. Which would be illogical, since all her father would have to do would be to cut out an eye to make her forget again, but suicide isn’t usually any more rational than that.
She asks. She never lies to the thirteen, and that includes about her worries, when it’s not an order. It’s not an order.
Silence, and then they put a hand on the place where her blindfold’s tied and it’s, “Of course not. Do you feel it in our exchange?”
It’s hotter than usual, and it increases as they speak, extra conviction to convince her.
It’s hotter, but at its core, the same desire to protect, bathed in more blue than before. She wants to take off her labcoat.
She shakes her head.
“So what are you worried about?”
It’s such a ridiculous question, she’s able to finish thinking that before she remembers they’re one of the thirteen, and anything that sounds ridiculous from them is just sensibility that she doesn’t have the right memories to understand.
“It’s against protocol,” she says instead.
They pull their hand away from her blindfold. “I don’t think it’ll be an issue. You have a thousand other ways to identify me, and you deserve to know something like this about me when I know so much about you.”
A bit of green lances out from their feedline. Something from a previous affiliation she’s never been able to wipe out; it stings, badly, and she wants to scowl. She stays silent.
“Ira?“
“…I don’t know, mixer.”
“You don’t have to, of course. I just think it will be better this way.”
The exchange softens, and she feels its warmth in the sharp points of her fingernails. She wants to shake it away, or entrap it, rid herself of the temptation. Her father would be able to get rid of this with a touch.
He’d also advised her to comply with the others’ wishes, even when it wasn’t required.
“…Go ahead.”
It’s only for him, of course.
“You’re sure?”
Well, why would she say that if she wasn’t?
She nods.
When she makes no move to take it off herself, they grasp the bottom edge of her blindfold and pull it down for her, letting it fall to her neck and hang like an incredibly loose collar. She keeps her eyes on it for a few seconds before she dares to look first at their suit–as black as she remembers her father’s being, though without a red tie–and then at their hands–the nails painted blue–and then their face.
They’re smiling, to her surprise, and she musters one back. She’s fairly certain that’s what one’s supposed to do.
The warmth is still there, coiled around her heart, stopping it from hammering itself to death like she knows it’s what it would be doing otherwise, with the… adrenaline of looking into an Overseer’s face as if she were an equal, and the fear they’ll go the route of everyone else that locks up her bones sometimes. They’re smiling. They’re wearing glasses. Their blue hair is the brightest thing in her line of sight.
Their hair is blue.
Out of the thirteen, it does make the most sense, but she checks her impressions and it’s not familiar at all.
They have the shadows under their eyes and the pale(r) skin most of her own develop as side effects of their exchange, at least, and the suit is good. But the hair.
“It’s not… too big of a deal, is it?” They laugh; her smile seemed to have leeched any tension about this from their body. “Do you like what you see?”
And goosebumps rise on her arms at the movement of their mouth and jaw and chest, and all the muscles that are, functionally, the same to her own. It’s okay when they’re still, when she can evaluate them like a picture, but videos are never this vivid, and just–
They’re moving. She can see them moving.
“I do, mixer. Thank you.”
She’ll figure out if that’s a lie or not later.
9 notes
·
View notes
Orar por la paz, con Teresa de Jesús y Thich Nhat Hanh
Gloria Rodríguez, stj, Orar por la paz, con Teresa de Jesús y Thich Nhat Hanh
El CIEST – Centro de Integración y Espiritualidad Teresiana (STJ) de México ha organizado un ciclo de conferencias sobre Teresa de Jesús que se celebrarán en la segunda mitad de este mes de octubre. Ofrecemos ahora la tercera de ellas, a cargo de Gloria Rodríguez stj, con el título: “ORAR POR LA PAZ con Teresa de Jesús y Thich Nhat Hanh”.
View On WordPress
0 notes