Bonds - SCP Foundation

Some time has passed since the last time he visited his colleagues. Between work, work and… work, he didn’t have much time left in the week. How much of that was true and how much of it was a bad excuse in order to nor confront reality, he didn’t even know, but it didn’t really matter, because ever since he came back from Afghanistan, every year on the exact same day, Ibarra took the time to visit his friends.

The agent stared at the piece of stone in front of him with an expression that was difficult to read. This was the last one he was going to visit this morning. The one he saved for last every year. He kneeled in front of it, noticing a bouquet of flowers he hadn’t left. He faintly smiled at that.

"I see they are still visiting you, huh?" He talked to the tomb. He paused, the subtle whistle of the light morning breeze being the only sound in the place. It was overwhelming.

"Your little sister must be all grown… How old is she turning this year? Seventeen? Eighteen? Mich told me she was thinking of studying photography." His voice began to fade alongside his smile.

"You’d be… proud of her." The expression of the agent turned hollow and distant. He observed the tombstone in silence, clenching his teeth and frowning.

Every year was the same. He avoided the topic, he tried to face it on November 11th, he talked to some pieces of stone, and he left more hollow than he arrived. It infuriated him. With a growl and a scowl, the man balled his fist with force and hit the grass, looking away from the tombstone. He was mad. At the circumstances, at the world, at God, even. But, above all, at himself. Because of him, the mothers of his friends were left without sons. Because of him, his friend wouldn’t see his sister grow. Because of him, there were less good men in the world. Simple, he didn’t do enough.

Fragments of the incident were repeated in his mind over and over again like a movie, always thinking how he could have done things differently. He changed what happened in his memory, took a different step, took a different path. But even in every scenario he made up, he couldn’t escape the blood, nor the screams.

His head started to feel heavy and unstable, leaving him dizzy.

Ibarra closed his eyes, trying to focus. It didn’t matter. He didn’t do things differently, and that was it. Now he had to deal with the consequences, even if he didn’t know how to.

His hands and lips trembled, his breathing started to accelerate.

When he returned from Afghanistan and got offered a job at the Foundation he didn’t think twice, he needed some kind of redemption for his acts, and the job description fit the bill. But above all, he needed to get away. His position as an agent and emergency doctor forced him to move constantly. He would never have permanent housing, and he never had a fixed team. His work was getting showing up, helping, and then disengaging completely, then repeat the next week. And that worked for him. No time to form bonds meant he didn’t have to add names to the list of visitors. He would never again be responsible for…

Ibarra started to feel every beat of his heart thump in his ears. He felt his throat closing, at the same time that his erratic and irregular heartbeats caused him a strong and sudden sensation of nausea.

The agent raised his head slightly, reading the epitaph on the tombstone.

The risk of losing whom you love is a small price to pay to have the opportunity to help them.

The knot in his throat and chest tightened, and he felt like the world was about to crush him with invisible walls.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

The agent standing in front of the tomb turned his face around suddenly, the unexpected voice snapped him out of his thoughts and his mental turmoil. Swallowing his emotions, he placed his narrow sunglasses to hide the storm that was about to unfold. The owner of the voice was a tattooed man with long hair tied in a messy ponytail, a bit taller than Ibarra and with an Argentinian accent.

Ibarra offered a light smile as a greeting.

“It’s good to see you, Steffano.”

Steffano approached ibarra with a calm gesture, stopping at his side and in front of the tombstone. An elegant, grey formal vest overlayed with a black shirt matched a black pair of trousers, accompanied vy a pair of shoes that oscillated between a sporty and formal look. The agent's sleeves were rolled up, leaving a contrast between the formal and the aggressiveness that his tattoos implicitly radiated.

In between his hands he brought a pair of folders, light in color, coated in plastic.

"Am I interrupting?" Steffano asked with caution "Finding you outside working hours was more difficult than I expected.”

The dark-skinned man sighed, observing with certain regret the tombstone in front of him, trying to clear the thoughts that made noise inside of his head. Eventually, he shook his head and stood up

"Nah, I was just finishing.”

Steffano stood still in silence for a second alongside Ibarra. He never knew the soldier in the tombstone, but he knew they were someone important to his friend, so the least he could do was show some empathy and respect. He looked Ibarra out of the corner of his eye, noticing the clear tension in his hands and shoulders, speaking:

"You can’t keep blaming yourself for this kind of stuff.”

Ibarra smiled slightly, his gaze fixed on the tombstone.

"I know.”

“But you keep doing so.”

"I know.”

“Why?”

Ibarra took a moment to reply.

Because I could’ve done more. Because I should’ve done more. Because I couldn’t help them. Because I had to help them. Because they had a family. Because they didn’t deserve to die. Because they should’ve been saved. Because I should’ve died with them.

“I don’t know.”

Steffano pursed his lips lightly and nodded in an understanding gesture to his friend, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.

"Yeah, I get you.”

Ibarra directed his gaze towards his teammate, feeling for just a brief second how the walls that tightened against him eased a bit. He knew that he understood, and that’s why he didn’t ask more at the moment.

“Pero bueno, are you visiting anyone, Steffano?”

Steffano let out a slight chuckle, shaking his head.

“No, mine aren’t here. I was looking for you, actually.”

Ibarra arched a brow, intrigued. He pointed to the folders that Steffano carried with a nod.

"Does it have anything to do with the folders you have there? Don’t tell me you came here to give me paperwork.”

Steffano smirked, extending the folder towards Ibarra so he would take it.

"Perhaps.”

Ibarra adjusted his glasses and took the folders, opening them. They contained a multitude of documents: budget estimates, agent's profiles, authorization letters, among other files. The documentation looked a lot like what's needed to authorize a new unit. The dark-skinned man looked at his friend over his glasses, waiting for him to tell him more while he reviewed in detail the information.

"I’m building a team. I want my own squadron to play by my own rules, I feel that part of being stuck on the other side of the veil means cutting off your legs, if that makes any sense. I’ve decided that if I’m going to work for these people and their purposes, might as well do it in the way I deem correct. We are going to trip over and over again as we manage to reach something similar to stability, but until then I want my people near me. People I believe are worth having around.”

Ibarra looked at his friend with certain doubt.

"You don’t sound too sure of all of this. You usually are more painstaking, Steffano. This is the first time since we’ve met that you try to make something in a hasty manner, I don’t really know how to react.”

"Maybe, the only thing I can admit is that you’re right, it’s something new. Neither you, nor me are used to work other way that isn’t a fucking chain of command formed by a pretentious general that has been in power behind a desk for 40 years, without getting a single damned scratch. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Ibarra laughed with certain bitterness towards Steffano’s comment, nodding. "I guess you’re right.” His expression changed when his gaze stopped for a second in the profile of an agent that caught his attention.

"This boy…”

"Is this the one you’ve been training personally?”

Steffano smirked when he saw who Ibarra was pointing at.

“That’s right. Víctor Penz,” Steffano sighed. "The kid is quite the case, but he has potential. A lot of potential.”

"It’s… Just a kid.” There was a certain worry in the agent’s tone. “There must be something in him for you to even consider having him around. He looks like a rookie, a problematic brat without any valid records.” Ibarra searched between Víctor’s file over and over again, as if he was trying to gather some secret information in between the papers.

"He has it. Trust me. In fact, I was thinking of assigning him to an operation soon. I’m not sure what kind of operation, but I’d like for him to grow used to the kind of shit one can see in this weird world. The creatures and all that shit. And when that happens, you’ll be there to see it, sooner or later.”

"My God, Steffano,” The agent was conflicted by the idea. “I don't know if it's a very good idea or if age and field work are driving you crazy, and it seems that you want to drive the kid crazy on the way too by throwing him head-first into these things. You not working for national intelligence agencies anymore doesn’t mean you can throw away all cover and risk your personal reputation for a crazy midnight idea. I mean—”

The tattooed man interrupted him.

"Do you trust me?” Steffano looked directly into Ibarra’s eyes, trying to look further from his gaze.

Ibarra blinked a few times, bewildered because of the question.

"What?”

"Do you trust me?”

"I…” Ibarra meditated for a few seconds. “Yeah, of course I trust you, dude. You’re only old and crazy, but I’ll be there when you get shot by a few dudes with no arms nor face.” Ibarra began laughing resignedly.

"Fantastic. That’s all I needed.”

Steffano gave Ibarra a moment for him to finish looking at the documentation and processing the information.

"Your support in this would mean a lot, old man. I need people who are committed, capable, and whom I can trust. You are all three of those.”

Ibarra sighed deeply. It wasn’t a bad idea. A unit like this could be of great help for the Foundation. Most importantly, it could be of great help for people. A large number of losses, both civilian and from personnel in operations were due to a lack of rapid response in emergency situations. A large number of losses were due to a lack of support.

But joining a unit like that would signify stability. He would no longer be sent only to isolated jobs where his role was to appear and then bid farewell. He would go back to having some type of squadron, Ibarra would have to coexist with the same people constantly. He would have to take care of the same people constantly. Inevitably, he would form bonds with those people, because he was like that, he couldn’t disconnect. And given the nature of the work, those people would be at risk of dying constantly.

The agent took his eyes off the documentation that was in his hands, redirecting his sight towards the tombstone that was forgotten in the conversation until this moment. He looked at it for a few seconds, ones that felt like minutes to him. He read the name. Douglas Daniels.

The risk of losing whom you love is a small price to pay to have the opportunity to help them.

Ibarra spoke in a serious tone, without taking his eyes off the phrase.

"Did you come just for work? It's not something you usually do, it's not your kind of deal."

"No. I came because I knew that if I found you here, you’d need a friend to keep you company.” Steffano crossed his arms slowly, not expecting a fixed answer.

After a couple of seconds, Ibarra sighed, decided, and looked back at Steffano.

With a smile on his face, and his sunglasses now hiding his watery eyes, he offered his hand in a handshake.

"Count me in.”

/

Special Hazards Response Protocol

Distractions