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Realistic or Modern —𝙄 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙏 𝙏𝙊 𝘽𝙀𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙑𝙀 (ic)
- Thread starter BELIAL.
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Ha_lfLife
Resident cynic
LOGAN HALSTEAD
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions: n/a; mood: pretty bad
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions: n/a; mood: pretty bad
Crazy Shit.
That’s what the Kansas City field office called junk like this. Blips in statistics. Unusual cases verging on going cold. Weird crimes that might seem odd enough to raise concern if anyone ever cared to look at them twice. Once, maybe twice a year they’d send in a report of something unsolved, often due to lack of apprehensible means or motive, assuming those cases would be hauled down to Quantico’s catacombs to never be reviewed again.
It wasn’t until discussing the terms of his lifted suspension that Halstead realized someone actually did work on the crazy shit. And now he would have to work with them.
Halstead dreaded his new post. The feeling sank itself deeper when, in the pitch dark of predawn, Halstead entered the building and pressed the elevator button regretfully DOWN instead of UP to the actual offices. He thought with acidic irony that he, like many of his coworkers in the field, had always aspired to end up on D.C. or Quantico. Those were the good jobs. The cushy ones. Training, teaching, administration. Those fields were tame compared to the dangers of field work, the very thing that drew Halstead to the job in his brasher years. He’d gotten older since then. He’d gotten a hell of a lot more tired. A headquarters job to ride out his pension years normally would’ve warranted a promotion instead of a demotion.
Really, the pension was the only reason he’d agreed to the new position anyway. The director of his division had made it abundantly clear that it was either the basement job or nothing. He too close at getting pension to quit now, and the benefits… He’d ride out the assignment, long enough to prove himself stable enough for reinstatement. That was all he had to do.
Luck was on his side that morning, at least. When the elevator chimed open to the basement, he saw he was alone. He groped in the dim red light of an “Exit” sign for the lightswitch, flickering a fluorescent light to hum over outdated carpet and laminate-covered desks. He wasn’t one to make a habit out of showing up early. Recently, it was miraculous if he was only fifteen minutes late. But he’d been restless last night. After a few restive hours, he finally rose at four and drove to the Academy to run its obstacle course. The frigid early morning air shocked him awake throughout the jog, breath fogging around him in the deep blue light. He didn’t like exercising. He didn’t like running. But it made him feel better. That was why he’d become so dedicated to fitness as of late … more so than he had been even in his twenties or in the academy. He wished he’d at least still had joints like he did back then.
After a shower in the locker rooms, he’d buttoned up a semi-wrinkled white shirt and dark slacks. The choice of disheveled clothes seemed fitting, considering his still-wet hair and the dark circles rimming his eyes.
A thermos of coffee steamed untouched beside where Halstead parked himself. His feet were propped up on a creaking desk, worn out leather chair leaned back unsteadily as Halstead tilted his head backwards. A small, spiral-bound notebook laid splayed open over his face like an eye mask to keep his headache from getting any worse in the flickering fluorescents.
His head throbbed. Whatever energy he’d gotten from running the course was leaving him as quickly as it had come. He should’ve slept more last night. He watched the game, then some talkshow he was too drunk to remember the name of. He’d sat up until two, waiting just in the off chance Kiera would call him. Maybe last night would finally be the time. It wasn’t. She was still at her mom’s in Montana, he was pretty sure. She said she’d call him when she was ready to talk. It’d been four weeks.
With nothing but the darkness over his eyes and the dull thrumming of the light fixtures, Halstead finally got some shut eye, a light snore trailing out from under the notebook.
That’s what the Kansas City field office called junk like this. Blips in statistics. Unusual cases verging on going cold. Weird crimes that might seem odd enough to raise concern if anyone ever cared to look at them twice. Once, maybe twice a year they’d send in a report of something unsolved, often due to lack of apprehensible means or motive, assuming those cases would be hauled down to Quantico’s catacombs to never be reviewed again.
It wasn’t until discussing the terms of his lifted suspension that Halstead realized someone actually did work on the crazy shit. And now he would have to work with them.
Halstead dreaded his new post. The feeling sank itself deeper when, in the pitch dark of predawn, Halstead entered the building and pressed the elevator button regretfully DOWN instead of UP to the actual offices. He thought with acidic irony that he, like many of his coworkers in the field, had always aspired to end up on D.C. or Quantico. Those were the good jobs. The cushy ones. Training, teaching, administration. Those fields were tame compared to the dangers of field work, the very thing that drew Halstead to the job in his brasher years. He’d gotten older since then. He’d gotten a hell of a lot more tired. A headquarters job to ride out his pension years normally would’ve warranted a promotion instead of a demotion.
Really, the pension was the only reason he’d agreed to the new position anyway. The director of his division had made it abundantly clear that it was either the basement job or nothing. He too close at getting pension to quit now, and the benefits… He’d ride out the assignment, long enough to prove himself stable enough for reinstatement. That was all he had to do.
Luck was on his side that morning, at least. When the elevator chimed open to the basement, he saw he was alone. He groped in the dim red light of an “Exit” sign for the lightswitch, flickering a fluorescent light to hum over outdated carpet and laminate-covered desks. He wasn’t one to make a habit out of showing up early. Recently, it was miraculous if he was only fifteen minutes late. But he’d been restless last night. After a few restive hours, he finally rose at four and drove to the Academy to run its obstacle course. The frigid early morning air shocked him awake throughout the jog, breath fogging around him in the deep blue light. He didn’t like exercising. He didn’t like running. But it made him feel better. That was why he’d become so dedicated to fitness as of late … more so than he had been even in his twenties or in the academy. He wished he’d at least still had joints like he did back then.
After a shower in the locker rooms, he’d buttoned up a semi-wrinkled white shirt and dark slacks. The choice of disheveled clothes seemed fitting, considering his still-wet hair and the dark circles rimming his eyes.
A thermos of coffee steamed untouched beside where Halstead parked himself. His feet were propped up on a creaking desk, worn out leather chair leaned back unsteadily as Halstead tilted his head backwards. A small, spiral-bound notebook laid splayed open over his face like an eye mask to keep his headache from getting any worse in the flickering fluorescents.
His head throbbed. Whatever energy he’d gotten from running the course was leaving him as quickly as it had come. He should’ve slept more last night. He watched the game, then some talkshow he was too drunk to remember the name of. He’d sat up until two, waiting just in the off chance Kiera would call him. Maybe last night would finally be the time. It wasn’t. She was still at her mom’s in Montana, he was pretty sure. She said she’d call him when she was ready to talk. It’d been four weeks.
With nothing but the darkness over his eyes and the dull thrumming of the light fixtures, Halstead finally got some shut eye, a light snore trailing out from under the notebook.
coded by archangel_
Last edited:
glitch3d
New Member
MILO REED
location: sad basement ; interactions: hopefully none before coffee ; mood: hanging in there
location: sad basement ; interactions: hopefully none before coffee ; mood: hanging in there
Nothing, in Milo’s experience, got you out of trouble like a little bit of bribery. Especially when it was fresh out of the oven.
The pastry bag holding the breakfast croissant landed on the chief’s desk with the softest thump. He’d picked it up from the bakery just a few blocks from the headquarters; the place was indisputably the office favourite until a month ago, when the Post had written such a glowing review of the spot that it was now swarmed with an endless queue of tourists and self-proclaimed foodies until well into the afternoon.
It took Milo about forty-five minutes of waiting out in the freezing cold to get it, but it was for a good cause. After the botched mission in Boulder, he needed to get in Davidson’s good graces: Five minutes early, with a proper haircut, a clean suit and the most uncomfortable pair of Oxfords in the world. Anything to make him look like an obedient, 100% FDA-compliant worker who did everything exactly as he was told.
“Morning, chief.” Milo grinned, turning the pastry bag towards the older man. “Picked up a little something for you, since we have an early start today.”
Milo had to hand it to him; he didn't once look at the intoxicating smell of cheese, bacon and freshly-baked bread wafting from the bag. Instead, Davidson did something that Milo didn't think, in a million years, was possible: He forced smile.
“Agent Reed,” Davidson gestured at the leather chair in front of him, “why don’t you take a seat?”
Ah, fuck. The guy was actually trying to be nice. Whatever this was, Milo was in for a ride.
The ride in question, as it turned out, was an hour-long drive down to Quantico. Milo hadn’t been to town since he finished his training over three years ago – never had any real good reason to go back. But after his most recent fuck-up, it was beginning to make more and more sense why they would transfer him here.
He’d heard the stories, had seen the averted gazes of his coworkers as he made his walk of shame from the chief's office. A transfer to the X-Files wasn’t so much a transfer as it was an exile. It was the agency feeding you impossible cases – cold trails and assorted shit that none of the other offices wanted – until you were bored or frustrated into quitting. And to top it all off, you got to do it all in a sad basement right below where they were actively teaching your replacements.
The agency was poetic like that: Start here, end here. It all came full circle.
Fair enough. Milo had already made a mental note to reach out to some of his buddies at the Pennsylvania State Police later today. Or maybe it was time to start his own practice, just as the old man had. Finding ways out of a dingy basement had always been something of a specialty, after all.
In the meantime, he just needed to get through the next couple weeks.
With a cold, soggy breakfast croissant in one hand, and a box full of half-finished paperwork in another, he descended into the basement, choosing to take the stairs instead of the elevator, perhaps at some futile attempt at delaying the inevitable.
To his surprise, there were only two other people in the room. One of them looked like he had already clocked out for the day; a notebook obscured his face, but Milo could tell that he was deep into dreamland, and was his hair wet? The other man didn’t look that much better, with his scruffy beard and half-assed tie.
Wow. For the first time in his life, Milo looked like the most put-together person in the room, and he’d built a career out of looking like the local criminal element.
Without a word, he walked towards his new teammates, looking through the names on the cubicles to see which sad corner of this basement was his to claim. Right as he passed by the elevator, it let out a loud ding to signal someone else’s arrival. Half-startled, Milo turned to the opening doors, stepping away to make room for whoever was on the other side.
The pastry bag holding the breakfast croissant landed on the chief’s desk with the softest thump. He’d picked it up from the bakery just a few blocks from the headquarters; the place was indisputably the office favourite until a month ago, when the Post had written such a glowing review of the spot that it was now swarmed with an endless queue of tourists and self-proclaimed foodies until well into the afternoon.
It took Milo about forty-five minutes of waiting out in the freezing cold to get it, but it was for a good cause. After the botched mission in Boulder, he needed to get in Davidson’s good graces: Five minutes early, with a proper haircut, a clean suit and the most uncomfortable pair of Oxfords in the world. Anything to make him look like an obedient, 100% FDA-compliant worker who did everything exactly as he was told.
“Morning, chief.” Milo grinned, turning the pastry bag towards the older man. “Picked up a little something for you, since we have an early start today.”
Milo had to hand it to him; he didn't once look at the intoxicating smell of cheese, bacon and freshly-baked bread wafting from the bag. Instead, Davidson did something that Milo didn't think, in a million years, was possible: He forced smile.
“Agent Reed,” Davidson gestured at the leather chair in front of him, “why don’t you take a seat?”
Ah, fuck. The guy was actually trying to be nice. Whatever this was, Milo was in for a ride.
The ride in question, as it turned out, was an hour-long drive down to Quantico. Milo hadn’t been to town since he finished his training over three years ago – never had any real good reason to go back. But after his most recent fuck-up, it was beginning to make more and more sense why they would transfer him here.
He’d heard the stories, had seen the averted gazes of his coworkers as he made his walk of shame from the chief's office. A transfer to the X-Files wasn’t so much a transfer as it was an exile. It was the agency feeding you impossible cases – cold trails and assorted shit that none of the other offices wanted – until you were bored or frustrated into quitting. And to top it all off, you got to do it all in a sad basement right below where they were actively teaching your replacements.
The agency was poetic like that: Start here, end here. It all came full circle.
Fair enough. Milo had already made a mental note to reach out to some of his buddies at the Pennsylvania State Police later today. Or maybe it was time to start his own practice, just as the old man had. Finding ways out of a dingy basement had always been something of a specialty, after all.
In the meantime, he just needed to get through the next couple weeks.
With a cold, soggy breakfast croissant in one hand, and a box full of half-finished paperwork in another, he descended into the basement, choosing to take the stairs instead of the elevator, perhaps at some futile attempt at delaying the inevitable.
To his surprise, there were only two other people in the room. One of them looked like he had already clocked out for the day; a notebook obscured his face, but Milo could tell that he was deep into dreamland, and was his hair wet? The other man didn’t look that much better, with his scruffy beard and half-assed tie.
Wow. For the first time in his life, Milo looked like the most put-together person in the room, and he’d built a career out of looking like the local criminal element.
Without a word, he walked towards his new teammates, looking through the names on the cubicles to see which sad corner of this basement was his to claim. Right as he passed by the elevator, it let out a loud ding to signal someone else’s arrival. Half-startled, Milo turned to the opening doors, stepping away to make room for whoever was on the other side.
coded by archangel_
wickedlittlecritta
lord of misrule
buddy mcbride
the animal attack
coded by natasha.
FireMaiden
Grade A Bitch
Gabrielle Jones
Location: Quantico - Basement Offices
Interaction:
wickedlittlecritta
(Buddy)
Mentioned: @glicth3d (Milo)
yokai.
(Mikhailov)
Ha_lfLife
(Logan)
Mood: Aanxious
It had been a long few minutes since the last of a scattered few concerned whispers has left the ladies room. Much to Gabrielle's relief as her stomach tightening once more with another choking drive heave. She had lost her breakfast roughly 10 minutes earlier, and her body felt it was necessary to continue it's protest of her return to Quantico. The tile floor was cold on her knees and the palm of her hand touching the foor, her new manicure tapping in annoyance. Her other hand rested against her forehead, elbow propped on the toilet seat though the sleeve of her satin dress shirt made this an unstable arrangement. This morning started off incredibly well, Gabrielle opting to drop her daughter Morrigan off at school after a nice stop at McDonald's for breakfast. Her favorite songs were on the radio back to back, and she hadn't hit a single red light the entire drive. But the moment she rolled into the parking lot to take her usual spot, her mood quickly dampened. Her section chief...well, former section chief asked her to stop by before she saw her new office in the basement, and that had been the goal! The elevator ride up was quiet as usual, and the bullpen was a mess as always. Gabrielle could see her desk as soon as she stepped out, a brown file box with her belongings sitting nice and neat in the middle. A single step toward that desk was it it took. Her stomach knotted and Gabrielle had to dash for the ladies room.Location: Quantico - Basement Offices
Interaction:
wickedlittlecritta
(Buddy)Mentioned: @glicth3d (Milo)
yokai.
(Mikhailov)
Ha_lfLife
(Logan)Mood: Aanxious
Once her stomach's onslaught seemed to relax some, the woman would shift to sit with her back against the door. Maybe this was a bad idea? Was she really ready to come back to work? Maybe she needed a little longer...that thought had only entered her mind a second before the woman was back up on her feet. She brushed the back of her black pencil skirt off as she quickly readjusted her heals. The red bottoms she found a bit tacky at first were used today to pair with her favorite shirt. Gabrielle would use a little toilet paper to wipe the corners of her mouth before flushing the toilet and exiting the stall with a rather flourished swing of her purse up into her shoulder. She needed to wash her hands and get going, weaving past another woman she paid no mind to entering the bathroom. Were her nerves still a wreck? Yes, absolutely. But you couldn't get anything done standing still yeah?
With a deep breath, she marched with shoulders back to her desk, quickly grabbing that brown file box by the handles. She'd then spin back around and march right back to the elevator, making sure her steps caused her soft beach waves to bounce. Gabrielle couldn't bring herself to face the section chief just yet. Lunch, that was her new goal, go meet him at lunch. After all, she didn't report to him anymore. No, her new boss was the director himself. Gabrielle mulled over that a bit, balancing the file box on her thigh so she could press the button for the basement. It was once the doors closed she'd sit the box down and dig through her purse for something. "I really need to clean this out," The woman muttered, her slight southern drawl covering each word as her fingers navigate her wallet, keys, a mountain of receipts and gum packets (mostly empty) and a the two remaining emergency purse pads. Finally, she found the little bottle she wanted. A travel bottle of Chanel No.5. Gabrielle spritzed herself a few times, and had recapped it just as the elevator doors opened.
She bent over to pick the box back up, shimmying her purse back into place as she straightened up again as she stepped out into the dingy, clearly meant to be abandoned halls that was the X-Files department, the clicking of her heels filling the air as long strides carried her deeper in. Her elevator had been a little further away from the main area than some of the others, but that didn't matter much to her. Gotta get those extra steps in. It didn't take long to find other people. Specifically, four men. To some degree, they all looked similar, but Gabrielle felt the same about most men working here. The suits and ties usually took away some of their identity. Then again, Gabrielle had preformed a few psychological evaluations in her early days and it was likely they could have been part of those files. It was easy to read the room though, and easy to pick out which one of them to approach first.
"You brought breakfast? How sweet," Gabriella spoke to the young man holding coffee and donuts. The woman first sat her belongings on a desk a little further away from the men before quickly moving to the happy man. "Coffee sounds great right now, my favorite place was closed this morning and McDonalds has a tendency to burn theirs," The woman smiled, shifting some so her body language was more open as she addressed the room, not just this man. "I'm Dr. Gabrielle Jones from the behavioral analysis unit. Well, I guess that'll be X-Files now. It's nice to meet you all."
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
AMELIA Dobson
location: quantico basement; interactions: @/everyone
(with her big ole eyes)
location: quantico basement; interactions: @/everyone
(with her big ole eyes)coded by archangel_
Ha_lfLife
Resident cynic
LOGAN HALSTEAD
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions:
yokai.
BELIAL.
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
glitch3d
; mood: declining
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions:
yokai.
BELIAL.
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
glitch3d
; mood: declining Logan’s mother had always told him and his brothers not to judge by first impressions. But what the fuck else was all the Bureau training good for if not to read people? Judgments told him a lot about people, most of which ended up being more or less true.
Him, for instance: The ethic he gave off by sleeping on the clock. His hygiene being basic at best. The clothes he wore today were basically the only ones not tossed in a pile in his closet, he having been too expended to wash them or even to drop them at a cleaners. He was lanky to a point of being nearly malnourished. Sallow face and dark eyes denoted a lifestyle too heavy on the drink and starved of both sunlight and a decent meal. What could be analyzed about him? How much of it would ring true?
He was always a thin kid, but lately he’d only subsisted on takeout and frozen trays of meatloaf. He looked exhausted because he was. He looked hungover because he was. A good sleep was something that’d escaped him for the past half a year. Fat chance he could get a shrink to prescribe Temazepam without sounding like a nutcase. He resorted instead to self-medicating with Coors and late night television. His nails were unkept and uneven, sometimes trimmed down with a Swiss army blade, sometimes bitten off with his teeth. He kept them short because he hated how the excess was yellowed, telling off to anyone with half a brain that he was a smoker.
He’d always smoked. All the kids in Mandeville did. It didn’t matter if they were dirt poor and eating the same instant mashed potatoes they’d had for the past four nights. If they could steal a carton here, bum off a friend there, they were living the high life - just a smoke every now and then was all the rush they needed to feel like the kings of the tracks. He’d stopped when Shelby was born. He’d started again when she left with her mother.
A thin silver chain was tucked under his crumpled shirt collar, an inelaborate cross at its center, hidden against his undershirt. Again, a fail-proof tell. The beliefs started in his boyhood, repeated and frightened into him in equal shares by draconian schoolteachers and his own mother and grandmother - Love God as He Loves You. Give All Your Weakness Unto Him. For He is Powerful Above All Things.
He wasn’t sure how much of the floods and the miracles he believed in. Hell, working in the field for as long as he had, Halstead could think of a few fuckers who could’ve used some Old Testament justice. And more than a fair share of people who could’ve used His help.
At the end of it all, Halstead felt something still there, a stirring trace of belief rattling around in his chest like a lingering cough. He still couldn’t bring himself to tear off the chain, to free himself from the bind of blind belief. Perhaps it held some comfort over him - to know that those who’d been lost wouldn’t be lost to him forever. The irony of being a man of ancient faith who sniggered at the idea of life outside of this world would’ve been lost on him if he’d given the thought the time of day.
He’d dreamed about nothing in particular. An aluminum slide that overheated from April til October. Standing in its gutter, encouraging with open palms for her to come to him. Come on, come on, baby. You can do it.
A dream in equal parts painful and comforting. Her corduroy jumper fuzzy against his arms, her trilling laughter echoing ethereal in his head. As he dreamed it, he knew it was a dream. It always was. It had to be. Kiera was at the top, letting her go, pushing her free with encouraging words. She was coming down to him, faster and faster until at last, at last-
-
He awoke with a jolt from the light sleep. A sleep as brief and disappointing as he’d gotten accustomed to, he guessed. He was back on assignment at least. Nothing better to help a restless mind than a case gone cold. That was an optimistic thought. His head still hurt. Like a bitch. Someone had dropped something heavy … That was the sound that woke him; a dull thud, like a door slamming into a towel, unlike the metallic and vibrating clang of gunshots or collapsing beams. Slowly, Logan peeled the notebook pages off his face, remembering with sour recollection just where he was. Not on a playground. Not in his corner office in K.C. Just Virginia in the dead of winter. In a fucking basement.
The cause of his rude awakening was some short, bookish type who’d dropped his box of belongings on the desk. Standing, subtly working out a kink forming in his neck, Halstead assessed the stranger. Unironed shirt, graying hair, glasses and a tie - all together with the look of some accountant who’d been chronically depressed since birth. By his own introduction, his name was Mikhailov. Looked like the CIA weren’t the only ones recruiting ex-Soviets now.
“Too excited for my first day.” If there was any question as to whether Halstead was being sincere, the acidic tone matched the look on his face. Halstead eyed Mikhailov with distrust, a coldness that seemed more suited to apprehending a hostile subject than a new coworker. Stiffly, he offered his hand in the curt way all sorts of agents did, managing to make a greeting commonly courteous and warm somehow cold. “Logan Halstead. Kansas City.”
To Mikhailov’s credit, the disgruntled, weary look on his face made it seem like he didn’t much want to be here either. So that was encouraging. Misery did love its company.
Another came after, announcing himself with the shrieking hinges of an underused stairwell door. The third looked about as happy to be there as the last, and Logan found himself recanting his quiet assumption that he’d be in the company of tinfoil freaks. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if everyone took the piss out of this department as much as he did. So far, not half the fanfare he expected from people who worked X-Files. He’d half expected them to burst in chipper, announcing something painful like -
“Good morning team!” Just the tone of the words that came with the chime of the elevator returning brought back to the forefront Halstead’s piercing headache. They’d had someone like this guy in the field office. His name was Mike. He eventually got transferred to Internal Affairs. The day he cleared out his desk, the rest of the team drank to his departure until green in the face.
The elevator broke away and returned again, the clang as it came to rest at the bottom of the shaft announcing its arrival before the bell did. The fifth to join their ranks was a woman, paradoxically well composed and disheveled, maybe what one would even venture to call attractive if she didn’t look so distressed. Halstead’s brow hitched at her introduction. Someone from BAU. More or less the upper crust for agents. A position that was in chronically short supply and the subject of bottomless envy among those stationed in field offices across the country. What was a BAU agent doing dredging down in the basement with the rest of them? Maybe he wasn’t the worst fuck up here.
Then, with the unbearable squealing of the stairwell door again, came number six. Again, the voice of his mother chided him inside his head. First impressions, first impressions. To hell with giving benefit of the doubt. He knew crazy when he saw it. And number six had that look in her. The paranoia glinted like a gem in her eyes as she assessed her present company.
Something about those eyes reminded him of those on a few bodies he’d found on scene over the years - the ones who were terrified when they’d died. True, unfiltered fear. She’s what he really thought of when he imagined what kind of crackpots he’d be stuck down here with. The kind who went around ranting about how the Mayans were actually merpeople or how standing too close to a microwave could chime you in to extraterrestrial radio frequencies. Crazy shit.
The headache festered further until it felt like it had wormed into the roots of his teeth. With every movement, he felt like a boulder was pressing into his skull. It was a punishment for the vices he’d partaken in just six hours ago, echoing taunting and mean-spirited to him that he could just quit. Quit, go home, sit in the recliner and pop open the first of many cans of the cheapest beer the Commonwealth of Virginia could offer him.
Christ, that was bad. Seven in the morning and he was already pining for a drink. Get a grip, Halstead, he rebuked silently. His mood altogether foul, he meandered rigidly over to the one whose smile was uncannily like Mister Rogers, stopping only when directly in front of him. He looked down at the donuts and then, back up at the man. Deciding not to take any of the offerings, Halstead glanced around halfheartedly at the others before returning his sights to Buddy.
“Mind if I smoke?” He asked no one in particular, pulling a carton from his back pocket and a well-worn plastic lighter. Without waiting for an affirmative, he struck down on the wheel with a calloused thumb, lighting the paper’s end with an effortlessness that came from nearly thirty years of the habit. He took the first drag, the sweet taste like a deep breath to a man drowning, and let out a cloud of white smoke surely far too close to the donut courier for comfort.
Halstead followed his first inquiry with a second, muttering out to the room without issuing further introduction. “Anyone know where we’re going?”
Him, for instance: The ethic he gave off by sleeping on the clock. His hygiene being basic at best. The clothes he wore today were basically the only ones not tossed in a pile in his closet, he having been too expended to wash them or even to drop them at a cleaners. He was lanky to a point of being nearly malnourished. Sallow face and dark eyes denoted a lifestyle too heavy on the drink and starved of both sunlight and a decent meal. What could be analyzed about him? How much of it would ring true?
He was always a thin kid, but lately he’d only subsisted on takeout and frozen trays of meatloaf. He looked exhausted because he was. He looked hungover because he was. A good sleep was something that’d escaped him for the past half a year. Fat chance he could get a shrink to prescribe Temazepam without sounding like a nutcase. He resorted instead to self-medicating with Coors and late night television. His nails were unkept and uneven, sometimes trimmed down with a Swiss army blade, sometimes bitten off with his teeth. He kept them short because he hated how the excess was yellowed, telling off to anyone with half a brain that he was a smoker.
He’d always smoked. All the kids in Mandeville did. It didn’t matter if they were dirt poor and eating the same instant mashed potatoes they’d had for the past four nights. If they could steal a carton here, bum off a friend there, they were living the high life - just a smoke every now and then was all the rush they needed to feel like the kings of the tracks. He’d stopped when Shelby was born. He’d started again when she left with her mother.
A thin silver chain was tucked under his crumpled shirt collar, an inelaborate cross at its center, hidden against his undershirt. Again, a fail-proof tell. The beliefs started in his boyhood, repeated and frightened into him in equal shares by draconian schoolteachers and his own mother and grandmother - Love God as He Loves You. Give All Your Weakness Unto Him. For He is Powerful Above All Things.
He wasn’t sure how much of the floods and the miracles he believed in. Hell, working in the field for as long as he had, Halstead could think of a few fuckers who could’ve used some Old Testament justice. And more than a fair share of people who could’ve used His help.
At the end of it all, Halstead felt something still there, a stirring trace of belief rattling around in his chest like a lingering cough. He still couldn’t bring himself to tear off the chain, to free himself from the bind of blind belief. Perhaps it held some comfort over him - to know that those who’d been lost wouldn’t be lost to him forever. The irony of being a man of ancient faith who sniggered at the idea of life outside of this world would’ve been lost on him if he’d given the thought the time of day.
He’d dreamed about nothing in particular. An aluminum slide that overheated from April til October. Standing in its gutter, encouraging with open palms for her to come to him. Come on, come on, baby. You can do it.
A dream in equal parts painful and comforting. Her corduroy jumper fuzzy against his arms, her trilling laughter echoing ethereal in his head. As he dreamed it, he knew it was a dream. It always was. It had to be. Kiera was at the top, letting her go, pushing her free with encouraging words. She was coming down to him, faster and faster until at last, at last-
-
He awoke with a jolt from the light sleep. A sleep as brief and disappointing as he’d gotten accustomed to, he guessed. He was back on assignment at least. Nothing better to help a restless mind than a case gone cold. That was an optimistic thought. His head still hurt. Like a bitch. Someone had dropped something heavy … That was the sound that woke him; a dull thud, like a door slamming into a towel, unlike the metallic and vibrating clang of gunshots or collapsing beams. Slowly, Logan peeled the notebook pages off his face, remembering with sour recollection just where he was. Not on a playground. Not in his corner office in K.C. Just Virginia in the dead of winter. In a fucking basement.
The cause of his rude awakening was some short, bookish type who’d dropped his box of belongings on the desk. Standing, subtly working out a kink forming in his neck, Halstead assessed the stranger. Unironed shirt, graying hair, glasses and a tie - all together with the look of some accountant who’d been chronically depressed since birth. By his own introduction, his name was Mikhailov. Looked like the CIA weren’t the only ones recruiting ex-Soviets now.
“Too excited for my first day.” If there was any question as to whether Halstead was being sincere, the acidic tone matched the look on his face. Halstead eyed Mikhailov with distrust, a coldness that seemed more suited to apprehending a hostile subject than a new coworker. Stiffly, he offered his hand in the curt way all sorts of agents did, managing to make a greeting commonly courteous and warm somehow cold. “Logan Halstead. Kansas City.”
To Mikhailov’s credit, the disgruntled, weary look on his face made it seem like he didn’t much want to be here either. So that was encouraging. Misery did love its company.
Another came after, announcing himself with the shrieking hinges of an underused stairwell door. The third looked about as happy to be there as the last, and Logan found himself recanting his quiet assumption that he’d be in the company of tinfoil freaks. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if everyone took the piss out of this department as much as he did. So far, not half the fanfare he expected from people who worked X-Files. He’d half expected them to burst in chipper, announcing something painful like -
“Good morning team!” Just the tone of the words that came with the chime of the elevator returning brought back to the forefront Halstead’s piercing headache. They’d had someone like this guy in the field office. His name was Mike. He eventually got transferred to Internal Affairs. The day he cleared out his desk, the rest of the team drank to his departure until green in the face.
The elevator broke away and returned again, the clang as it came to rest at the bottom of the shaft announcing its arrival before the bell did. The fifth to join their ranks was a woman, paradoxically well composed and disheveled, maybe what one would even venture to call attractive if she didn’t look so distressed. Halstead’s brow hitched at her introduction. Someone from BAU. More or less the upper crust for agents. A position that was in chronically short supply and the subject of bottomless envy among those stationed in field offices across the country. What was a BAU agent doing dredging down in the basement with the rest of them? Maybe he wasn’t the worst fuck up here.
Then, with the unbearable squealing of the stairwell door again, came number six. Again, the voice of his mother chided him inside his head. First impressions, first impressions. To hell with giving benefit of the doubt. He knew crazy when he saw it. And number six had that look in her. The paranoia glinted like a gem in her eyes as she assessed her present company.
Something about those eyes reminded him of those on a few bodies he’d found on scene over the years - the ones who were terrified when they’d died. True, unfiltered fear. She’s what he really thought of when he imagined what kind of crackpots he’d be stuck down here with. The kind who went around ranting about how the Mayans were actually merpeople or how standing too close to a microwave could chime you in to extraterrestrial radio frequencies. Crazy shit.
The headache festered further until it felt like it had wormed into the roots of his teeth. With every movement, he felt like a boulder was pressing into his skull. It was a punishment for the vices he’d partaken in just six hours ago, echoing taunting and mean-spirited to him that he could just quit. Quit, go home, sit in the recliner and pop open the first of many cans of the cheapest beer the Commonwealth of Virginia could offer him.
Christ, that was bad. Seven in the morning and he was already pining for a drink. Get a grip, Halstead, he rebuked silently. His mood altogether foul, he meandered rigidly over to the one whose smile was uncannily like Mister Rogers, stopping only when directly in front of him. He looked down at the donuts and then, back up at the man. Deciding not to take any of the offerings, Halstead glanced around halfheartedly at the others before returning his sights to Buddy.
“Mind if I smoke?” He asked no one in particular, pulling a carton from his back pocket and a well-worn plastic lighter. Without waiting for an affirmative, he struck down on the wheel with a calloused thumb, lighting the paper’s end with an effortlessness that came from nearly thirty years of the habit. He took the first drag, the sweet taste like a deep breath to a man drowning, and let out a cloud of white smoke surely far too close to the donut courier for comfort.
Halstead followed his first inquiry with a second, muttering out to the room without issuing further introduction. “Anyone know where we’re going?”
coded by archangel_
Last edited:
wickedlittlecritta
lord of misrule
buddy mcbride
the animal attack
coded by natasha.
FireMaiden
Grade A Bitch
Gabrielle Jones
Location: Quantico - Basement Offices
Interaction:
wickedlittlecritta
(Buddy)
BELIAL.
(Amelia)
yokai.
(Mikhailov)
Mentioned: @glicth3d (Milo)
Ha_lfLife
(Logan)
Mood: Aanxious - Getting Better
"Both please," Gabrielle answered, her eyes following the man who decided it was a great time to smoke. Addiction was no laughing matter, and given his disheveled appearance, Gabrielle made the assumption that this would not be the only time he decided to light up in here. Her nose crinkled, brows furrowing the same moment as that stench hit her senses full force. And for a moment, her stomach churned again. She had never been a fan of the way cigarettes smelled, something about the additives changed how the tobacco smelled. Most of the men in her family, father, grandfather, brothers all smoked. They chose cigars as their vice however. Or marijuana, which she didn't care for much either but to each their own. "If you don't mind, in the future pick an unoccupied room?" She suggested as it was unfair and unrealistic to ask him to go outside each time, her eyes finally tearing off of him to glance over the donut options. She picked one randomly, and when Buddy was done making her coffee, she'd take it with a smile and thanks. But her attention quickly moved to the other doctor in the room. He seemed...off in some sense, but Gabrielle couldn't exactly put her finger on why. "First day, yes. I had almost forgotten these basements existed," She chuckled taking a bite of her donut. Her stomach both protested and rejoiced, but decided not to immediately expell it much to Gabrielle's delight. Not to her surprise now, another person finally joined their little group. Another woman this time, and as awful as this sounds, Gabrielle felt a flutter of excitement seeing the clearly disturbed nature of her. Professional excitement of course. The same kind of feeling an archeologist feels finding a new piece of their historical puzzle. It felt almost predatory, Gabrielle wanting to approach the woman with the gola of picking her brain. Unlike the disheveled appearance of Halstead, this woman... Gabrielle smiled at her. "No need to be nervous, we don't bite," She chuckled warmly. Even though technically it was a lie, as Gabrielle didn't know if these men bit or not, she would assume not. Location: Quantico - Basement Offices
Interaction:
wickedlittlecritta
(Buddy)
BELIAL.
(Amelia)
yokai.
(Mikhailov)Mentioned: @glicth3d (Milo)
Ha_lfLife
(Logan)Mood: Aanxious - Getting Better
"I've got no idea where we're going first," She stated looking back to Halstead now with the worry this new woman would explode being the center of attention, quickly turning her gaze around to the stacks and stack of old files. "It's highly unlikely the director is going to hand pick our cases, I suppose it's up to us to pick?" Gabrielle felt that made the most amount of sense in this case. "I agree with him though, let's all get a small stack going and sort through them. I'd suggest starting with the oldest looking files first for a sense of urgency, but it may benefit us more to start with the newest?" She mused. The BAU rules of case assessment wouldn't translate perfectly to these files, but they had to help a little bit? With a small sigh, Gabrielle approached the desk she claimed for herself to get started. Finishing off her donut, the woman sat her coffee down so she could move her purse. Bending over, she pulled at the desk drawer. It stuck for a moment, but after two more good yanks, she got the stubborn thing open. The purse found a nice home in that desk, Gabrielle being sure to get rid of the paper in the track so it wouldn't get stuck again. Her next task was quickly setting up her personal belongings which included a few knick knacks, three family photos of her with her daughter, parents, and the day she and her husband got divorced. They threw a party, and the photo was of them cutting the "Just Divorced" cake. Gabrielle found the photo very amusing.
Anyway, with a now empty file box, Gabrielle picked it up and moved now to the stacks of loose filles. There was a small spot in the floor that caught her heel, Gabriella pursing her lips as she made a mental note to where it was. The woman would grab a few random files with minimal dust, and a few with more dust before returning to her desk. With a brief inspection of the chair for unusual stains and stability, Gabriella plopped herself down gracefully so she could get started.
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
AMELIA Dobson
location: quantico basement; interactions:
Ha_lfLife
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
yokai.
glitch3d
location: quantico basement; interactions:
Ha_lfLife
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
yokai.
glitch3d
coded by archangel_
Ha_lfLife
Resident cynic
LOGAN HALSTEAD
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions:
yokai.
BELIAL.
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
glitch3d
; mood: declining
location: QUANTICO - basement office; interactions:
yokai.
BELIAL.
FireMaiden
wickedlittlecritta
glitch3d
; mood: declining Halstead didn’t really bother responding to McBride’s disapproval, but to Dr. Jones’s request he at least uttered an acquiescing and unenthused “Yes ma’am.”
He’d already decided during the very brief introductions among essentially strangers that he wouldn’t like McBride - any token Morning Person, really, would likely fall into the category just as quickly - but as for Jones, he wasn’t entirely decided just yet. He teetered on anticipating her to either be commendable or irritatingly bossy. He wasn’t sure yet.
For the moment, he took her at her suggestion that he take his smoking elsewhere in the future, which made it a problem for tomorrow. He savored the first hit, bitter and biting, before returning the Newport to the corner of his mouth. He held it between his lips as he assessed a leaning stack of banker boxes in a corner. He swept a hand over the top box’s cardboard lid, picking up a thick layer of gray dust. Christ knew how long these had been sitting down here. If this basement has fucking asbestos… he groaned to himself, hitching the box up by its cutout handles with a grunt. It was surprisingly heavy.
Making his way back to the desk he’d claimed earlier, he passed behind Wide Eyes. At least with her brief introduction, she made up showed she could be coherent enough to talk to them, even if she still had a petrified look to her. As he passed by her and sat back down next to his thermos, landing the box with a thud on the desk, he gave her another discerning look. It was a harsh look, but it wasn’t mean. No, he found himself instead wondering with a meager amount of pity what the fuck she was doing here. The Bureau wasn’t for the faint of heart. Even the newest recruits knew that. Just a few slides of beheadings, immolations, not to mention a whole slew of other examples of humanity at its worst, were enough to give every Quantico trainee a taste of what they were in for. But hell, it wasn’t his job to recruit people.
Returning to his own business, he resumed his earlier position. Propping his shoes on the table, he learned back so the metal chair’s front legs lifted off the carpet. Taking a bitter sip of his shit homemade coffee, he used his free hand to flip the cardboard top of the box, boredly groping for the first file he made contact with.
He pulled out a yellowing Manila folder that smelled vaguely of mothballs and moldy library books. He flipped it open to its top page, a status report with margins smudged by typewriter ink. Stamped across the top was a fat, red UNRESOLVED.
Glancing across the case’s most basic information, Halstead only made it two lines in before finding something stunning enough to make him gag on his cigarette, leaning the chair back onto all fours and coughing out a fluke of smoke like a wheezing chimney.
Stull Fucking Kansas.
Jesus. If he’d been considering earlier that his being here was God’s version of a cosmic joke, now he knew it with certainty. He hadn’t been to Stull, but it was in the West of the state, just fifty meager minutes from his old field office. For a brief second, he entertained the nightmare of showing up on the ground and having the KC office phoned in as a point of contact. Considering the Topeka office consisted of two or three retirement-aged agents, the possibility of having Kansas City listed as a resource was real enough to make Halstead’s cough persist until he swallowed it down with lukewarm coffee.
Smith, Marquez, Holmes - Halstead could only imagine their reaction to finding their former coworker grouped in with the loonies. Maybe they’d even get a kick out of it if the whole situation weren’t so pathetic. They knew, at least vaguely, what he’d done to get himself there. They’d all confer easily that there was nothing funny about what happened to Halstead and what he chose to do in return. In their eyes, surely his serving penance in the X-Files would either seem solemnly deserved or just damn sad. Still, he didn’t want to test his assumptions. Seeing his old colleagues, especially now, would be enough to push him to resigning on the spot.
He haphazardly closed the folder and tossed it to the desk beside him, next to Mikhailov’s boxed belongings, without reading anything further. It would be the start of what would surely be a very high and dispiriting pile of NOs.
coded by archangel_
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