The Deal of Agent Heckerman - SCP Foundation

The coffeehouse was silent, dark, lit only by moonlight flickering through the windows. A chill rippled through the air, as painted countertops and empty booths framed the walls.

The Agent stepped forwards, taking a breath to steady his racing heartbeat. His coat swished behind him - eyes fixating on the girl. Dressed in all white, shiny black hair pulled into a perfect loop at the base of her neck, dark eyes glittering and legs crossed primly. The chair across from her was already pulled out - prepared.

She smiled, then gestured for him to step forwards.

“Thanks for joining me. I was worried you wouldn’t make it.”

How Site Director Emerald Reynolds managed to be intimidating despite looking deeply uncomfortable, Agent N. D. Heckerman wasn’t sure. Her narrowed blue eyes, sharp jawline, and blonde hair tightly bound in a swaying ponytail struck a contrast to her rigid posture and teeth biting hard onto her lips.

Her office was white-walled, and sparsely decorated, with a framed diploma counting as a “personal touch”. His shoes scuffed muffled beats into the carpet, as he sat before her. If the Foundation was clinical, this silence was like a bottle of antiseptic.

Finally, she spoke, voice crisp and lofty - “Agent N.D Heckerman. You’re here.”

“… yes,” Heckerman replied, uncertain. His hand fidgeted by his side, a nervous tic. A tell. Reynolds’ eyes flicked to it - assessment hardwired in her programming. “I’m Site 404 Director Emerald Reynolds. I’m sure your supervisors briefed you on my inquiry, though I’d like to hear from you what you’ve been told.” With a direction to take her script, she seemed to relax a fraction.

Heckerman swallowed, feeling self-conscious as he realised he was going to be the bearer of bad news. He’d kept a false smile on his face, one that read of years in marketing and worse. But his hackles still rose at the information discrepancy.

“To be perfectly honest Director, I believe I may have been insufficiently briefed on the case as it stands.” The words floated across in a practised, smooth tone that walked the straight edge between reassuring and unnerving.

His briefing had been four sentences. “The gal at Site 404 needs you for some meeting thing,” had been the first one, muttered with a scoff by Agent Carlos Sierra. “It’s some Site in Ohio where they drop all the fresh-faced researchers until they’re useful enough to get an actual role,” had been the second, a note of disdain in his voice. “But she said there’s good money in it. Just show up, talk your way through, and get back in time for Friday drinks.”

Then he’d been given an address, a plane ticket to the U.S. and a mind swimming with questions that he’d been given little chance to ask.

But good money was a concrete idea, something that he could push against each question, a temporary answer that had him standing, jetlagged and troubled, on the steps of Site 404’s early morning fog. Site 403 stood, about a half mile away, and Agent Heckerman vaguely remembered some sort of joke about this - some plan being almost as bad as the Twin Site’s construction, or something like that.

Now he stood in front of Site Director Emerald Reynolds, and he realised that the lowest rungs of the Foundation hierarchy still were part of the Foundation, and the Foundation was terrifying in all its forms.

“Oh, good lord,” she groaned, tone impatient, and Heckerman got the impression this had happened to her before. “Did they even forward you the email? Or were you just whisked here by some tired higher-up and told I’d explain it all?”

That was an uncomfortably accurate description. Heckerman slid his grin to something sympathetic. “Seems that way.” Passing the blame along, deflecting from himself. Reynolds was not someone he intended to make angry.

“Great,” she hissed softly, then fished through her impeccably organised drawer for a file. Laying the cool manilla in front of him, she raised an eyebrow. “About four months ago, I was contacted by someone who claimed to represent an anomalous corporation. I had Lost do their due diligence by looking into it, and I’m thinking we might have a new Group Of Interest on our hands. Thankfully, our new friend seems cooperative. So we’re meeting.” Reynolds hit him with her frostbite look again, informing him sans words exactly what his position was in this.

Heckerman raised an eyebrow, then felt his chest tighten when he lifted the folder open.

Lightspeed Incorporated. He’d read their name in the Fortune 500 before. It was one of those businesses that seemed less a focused brand, and more a tangle of networking and investments.

He couldn’t tell whether the dull note of surprise that fluttered in his chest was surprise at the fact they were involved in the anomalous - or surprise it had taken them this long. Big businesses always seemed to dip into the pot of the Foundation’s world at some point. Heckerman had met with Google execs two months prior to wrestle a couple memetic codestrings out of their hands. But there was curious, and then there was insane.

He’d worked for insane. He’d met Iris Dark.

“Seems a standard enough faire,” he replied, painfully pleasant. “Who is our client, specifically?”

The last tension melted from Reynolds, though she still seemed to radiate a tight, focused air. “Estrella Vega. There’s a news article Lost clipped for me that gives a rundown on her position.” She gestured to the folder. Heckerman found it - a half-torn, half-hacked-away spread. A young woman’s face was the centre of attention, shots of her from different angles. She was gorgeous, though that was just a fact. Dark curls at her shoulders, pale skin and dark silver eyes. Fur-lined coat and matching ankle boots. Old money.

The article detailed the main story - a profile on the death of her mother, Marilla Vega, and her inheritance. The company. A sparse bit of interview text scattered throughout, and a read-through made Heckerman sure that it’d been scripted. MC&D had taught him how to recognise a brand from a person. This was her brand - old money, Vega family, young CEO. A few flavour-filled labels over a pretty face.

“She’s… sparse,” he said, and Reynolds nodded. “Her emails are more personal, but still annoyingly lacking in information,” she said, staring at her hands. “So I don’t think you’ll get much help either way. Your reputation precedes you, though, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out as you go. You meet with her at 12:30.”

Agent Heckerman gave a slight inhale - that wasn’t much time to prepare. Reynolds paused, then shook her head. “AM. Tomorrow.”

“… where?” Heckerman said, because most of the time, when clients named a time after 10:00 at night, he was looking at shady exchanges in crowded bars and casinos. It wasn’t his crowd - the more shady the setup, the more likely it was he’d end up in a fight, and while he was trained well, he’d brought a new suit just for this. It was far too expensive to get bloody this soon.

“Coffeehouse. Our insights suggest she might have bought out the place just for this,” Reynolds wrinkled her nose, as if the idea of flaunting wealth so easily appalled her. “I don’t really…” she furrowed her brow, then shook her head, pulling up something and sliding it across to him. It was an email to Reynolds, which first registered as simply a wall of gibberish. Then Heckerman noted the sender - EVega98 - and realised this was his client.

The first thought he had was that she’d used a speech-to-text aid to write it. The tone was rambling, stream-of-consciousness bits of philosophy and distracted thoughts thrown in without discernible reason. “… Good Lord,” he muttered, slipping out of his training for the first time. Reynolds nodded. “I’ve been nursing a headache for four years, and this,” she pointed to the screen, “Is the current source.”

This, Heckerman thought, was the look of a woman who had seen it all. He felt a stroke of sympathy for her, mixed in with his pure fear.

“What’s her goal in this?” Heckerman asked, still unsure what to make of anything. Reynolds’ lips pressed together as if this hit a nerve. “Unclear. She just said she wants to… talk. But it’s clear she wants something from us,” Reynolds sank back in her chair, contemplative. “Her influence and wealth would make it simple for her to gain most basic wants, so it’s obviously something only we have.

“Well. What’s my objective until then?” He checked his wrist - 3 watches, a polished silver analogue for Ireland, a classy bronze one for the U.S. with a leather band, and a Bell & Ross Red Radar Ceramic which had cost him over 4,000 dollars. The Radar had been intended as an international endeavour, which he’d change to match the time zone he was occupying. But that had fallen flat, so the hands usually dangled hazily around whatever country he’d been in two months ago. The time now was 7:00 in the morning.

“You’re going to go with Dr. Lost and get a better picture of what Estrella Vega might want with us - by looking through what they already have done,” Reynolds crossed her arms as if daring him for comments.

“Are you sure I couldn’t just garner that from the files, Director Reynolds?” Heckerman replied smoothly. He wasn’t much in the mood for working with a group of inexperienced Midwesterners. If he had questions, he could easily ring Sierra or Fuller and pick their thoughts.

“Any good Agent knows the value of collaboration, especially when in foreign territory,” her tone was edged with a faint clipped imitation of Heckerman’s own, and he realised she was mocking him.

“… right,” he conceded. “One last question.”

“Yes?” Reynolds narrowed her eyes, impatient it seemed.

Heckerman smiled. “How much am I getting paid for this endeavour?”

Reynolds smiled tightly, and fished a cheque book from her drawer, and slid it across the desk, to where the top one bore his name.

Heckerman looked at the amount- and swore.

“They told me you weren’t cheap,” Reynolds said, voice still tight. “So I hope this is satisfactory.”

Agent Heckerman looked up, swallowing and trying not to let his desire show in his features. “That will be… that is a quite reasonable amount, yes.”

Reynolds nodded tersely. “Good.” Standing, she picked a sleek black walkie-talkie off her desk and spoke quickly into the receiver. “Wait outside. Lost should find you soon,” she pursed her lips again, tension flooding back into her frame. “I have work to take care of.” He then watched in complete horrified silence as she fished a redbull from under her desk, opened the grey thermos by her elbow, and poured half of the drink into what looked like coffee. She then shook it, took a long swig, and nodded at him.

“Thank you for your time.”

There wasn’t really anything to say beyond that.

Dr. Lost was… well, there was no real expectation in Agent Heckerman’s head for what he’d encounter upon the much-foreshadowed researcher’s arrival, but it wasn’t this. They were a painfully thin, short, and unhappy-looking creature, with chin-length purple hair and thick-framed glasses. There was something unsteady about the way they walked, swaying slightly every fourth step. When they spoke, it was soft, nervous, hesitant. “Agent N.D. Heckerman? I’m Dr. Viktoralai Amity Lost. Um. I’m here.” They winced, driving a palm into their forehead with a ferocity that seemed like they actually aimed to hurt themself. “Sorry- fuck- sorry-” and they dropped their sentence there, shaking their head.

Heckerman had summoned up his thickest honeyed charm - Prince Charming smile, smooth tone. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor. Call me Ned, if you’d like.” A gentle formality, with an invitation to familiarity attached.

Lost flushed slightly, seeming taken aback. “… oh!”

Since then, they’d fallen into a rhythm. Lost didn’t work in a lab, but rather in a room with concrete floors and poor lighting, where heat barely seemed to reach. Ireland had a grand habit of keeping steady temperatures, something Heckerman had found to be a rather exclusive luxury the more he travelled.

The Midwest’s weather was like sharp claws.

“This was our first major encounter with them,” Lost said, voice so quiet it barely pierced through the heater they’d plugged in. “Back in 2017, we got reports in from Cleveland of anomalous activity. Um. Here. It was some kind of time loop. We- we lost one of our Research team.”

Heckerman wondered, for a moment, how that might affect a smaller Site like this one. 400 was always very close-knit, with the shared experience of anomalous ability. Could a tucked-away gem like this one have the same bonds? He decided to play it safe - genuine sympathy, without any presumption - “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“It hurt,” Lost conceded. “But… we’re the Foundation. We shouldn’t let it affect us.” Heckerman had heard that line countless times, or some variation upon it - usually in two groups. Those who believed it, and those who wished they believed it. Lost seemed to fall to the latter.

“I see,” he said simply.

They worked through the document, the conversation having dried up for the moment. Heckerman could understand by the end why Lost felt hesitant about it - it was heavy with emotion, even when displayed on the cool yellow-on-black mainframe of the database. “I take it this was before Marilla Vega’s death,” he observed. “Which gives us insight into the company, but little into the potential motivations of Miss Vega.”

“Right,” Lost nodded, grimacing. They looked up to the ceiling, studying it. Heckerman watched their face. They had yellow eyes - well, not really yellow. It was a light hazel, just faded enough that in the dim light, they glowed golden. A sharp, cat-like stare, at odds with their nervous demeanour.

“Are you anomalous?”

He surprised himself by asking the question. Lost jumped, looking to him with wide eyes. “I- um-”

Heckerman powered on. “I come from a Site which focuses on training personnel with anomalous or anomalous-adjacent abilities. It would make sense for Reynolds to pair you up with me if you had similar attributes. Of course, I apologise for being presumptuous, if that’s not the case-”

Lost waved their hands frantically. “No, no! It’s alright. Yeah. Yes. I- I am.” They flushed again. “I’m a reality anchor. The Hume levels around me- they’re overly steady. Usually, reality fluctuates up and down just a bit, but when they tested me, it was basically just a line- reality benders don’t work on me. It’s… it’s the one thing I’m useful for.”

The last sentence struck Heckerman with an odd discomfort - unsure whether to try and argue the issue, or just let it hang.

“Are you registered with the APRC?” he asked smoothly, deciding to not acknowledge it at all. Lost shook their head, confused, and he clarified - “The Anomalous Personnel Regulation Committee. Less prominent, but more well known at my Site. They help manage decisions regarding staff with anomalous traits - like yourself.”

“… oh,” they said, softly. “I’ll ask Novak about that later. She’s the Research department head.”

Heckerman nodded. “You should. Perhaps I’ll see you at 400 in the future.”

Lost shook their head wildly. “No, no. I don’t think that’s-” they cut themself off, biting a pale lip. “I’m happy here. I just want to be useful.” And they moved along.

Lost had a knack at searching, and easily was able to pull up a half dozen tabs across a few platforms that were discussing a potential conspiracy surrounding the company.

“Parawatch,” Lost commented, clicking to one of the tabs and scrolling through. They paused, pointing to an exchange that had caught their eye.

Flowercat066 8/6/2022 (Mon) 23:14:31 #38485920

Anyone here heard anything about Lightspeed Incorporated?

Aparently they’re sponsoring some kind of event at my school and TBH i get shady vibes

SirFrogsALot7 8/6/2022 (Mon) 23:58:17 #38485937

Didn’t the CEO die

DukeJuke43 8/7/2022 (Tues) 01:05:26 #38485936

From Wikipedia → “On October 12th, 2021, former Lightspeed Incorporated CEO Dr. Marilla Vega died of a stroke, with the company’s management passing to 23-year-old daughter Estrella Vega”

But wiki is also fake as shit so.

Idk.

Flowercat066 8/7/2022 (Tues) 1:15:06 #38485938

Oh yeah i did some digging this is really shady

The company had a minor data breach a few years back and there’s this whole thing about marilla taking “clients”????? Like don’t they do space tech wtf does “CLIENTS” mean.

MothmanIsGay88 8/7/2022 (Tues) 1:45:58 #38485941

This is totally some russian sleep experiment type shit im calling it

The thread seemed to go cold after a few more exchanges with little to offer in the way of info. Heckerman let out a breath. “Can you get us something on that data leak, perhaps?”

Lost was already typing it in. Within about two minutes, they were combing through an archive from 2017, eyes narrowed. “Here. It’s a list of bookings for various clients- and client information.” The names weren’t anything Heckerman recognised. “Are you sure these aren’t simply a list of meetings with potential investors or business partners?”

“Good point,” Lost scanned the chart, saving it to an evidence document they were slowly constructing. Focused into their task, it was a bit impressive how easily their nerves and awkwardness melted away. “I’ll do a search of the names.” They opened up a second monitor, letting Heckerman read out each name, as they vetted them first through a plain Google search, then through a Foundation engine. They frowned, staring at something in confusion.

“What date was Gregory Dawson’s appointment on?”

Heckerman checked. “June 5th.”

“He died June 23rd.”

Heckerman sucked in a breath. Lost locked eyes with him. “Give me the dates of the others, this might be a thread.””

Sure enough - each person had a death listed within a month of their appointment. A new clue. But something caught Agent Heckerman’s eye from the screen, and he paused. “Are we thinking that these are anomaly-related?”

“Probably,” Lost said. “Either way, the period of time isn’t consistent enough to be a calculated plan - the deaths are related, but they weren’t premeditated. I don’t think Marilla was holding the gun. But she had a hand in it.”

Heckerman nodded, considering it. “A type of memetic poisoning, maybe? 7218 read as a possible memetic effect in my eyes. If that’s what we think she’s working with, we might have to talk with Reynold’s about bringing in some measure of counter-memetic ammo.”

“I don’t think the planetarium was memetic,” Lost shot back.

“Cognitohazardous?”

“Possibly,” Lost shrugged. “I think the best bet here is to use the meeting as an information gathering opportunity. I’m not sure what stance Reynolds will take, if I’m being honest. The Foundation could easily take care of Estrella if we needed to, and find some way to take down the company as well. But that’s the Foundation. We don’t have that kind of support - Site 404, that is. Estrella has the upper hand.”

“The question is-” Heckerman mused, leaning back. “Does Miss Vega know that?” He let the silence hang, as Lost considered it.

“Doubtfully. If she knows enough about the Foundation’s hierarchy to grasp how much influence our individual Site has, then she has more influence than we thought. And in that event, it would be enough of a security breach that I’d bet we could use that to win greater backing,” they proposed.

“Playing the long game,” Heckerman agreed. “It might work.”

Lost’s eyes glinted gold, and for a second, the quick fingers over the keyboard, short violet hair melted away to the marble face of someone else. A someone like dark flowers in a shadowed hall.

But then it was gone.

“Did you see the new guy?” the short, curvy frame of Dr. Sage West bustled its way into the break room, sitting down on the table with her legs crossed over the edge. Leaning over, she swiped a handful of chips from Sam “Levi” Leviticus’ bag. The engineer made a wounded sound, batting her arm.

“You talkin’ about the tall ginger who Reynolds was meetin’ with?” sing-songed Adrien Hemlock, a cocky grin shining against brown skin. Pink streaked curls fell in his face. “Yeah. I saw him.”

“You think he’s single?” West asked. Levi choked, shaking their head.

“He struck me as kind of shady, if I’m being honest,” said Ezekiah Lenora.

“We work for a spy organisation,” said West, shaking her head. “Everyone here is shady.”

“Reynolds stuck him with Lost,” the scratchy voice of Dr. Maddie Simes cut in, tone scalding. “I feel sorry for him.”

Levi frowned. “That’s not really fair, Maddie.”

“This is about the Vega case,” Lenora said, matter-of-factly. They had a cup of heated ramen balanced under their chin, strands of auburn hair dipping into the broth as they tried to copy something from a book to a notepad. It looked like an accident waiting to happen. “They make the most sense for it. I mean, would you prefer it be you, Simes?”

Simes bristled - and everyone remembered with a jolt exactly what nerve Ezekiah had just went for. After all, it had been Maddie who had sat on the other end for weeks. Who had heard Turnpike’s last transmission, up to the last second.

“That shouldn’t matter,” Maddie snapped, sulkily taking another sip from their coffee mug. “This is the Foundation. Not a personal trauma management program.”

“I disagree, actually,” Levi said, frowning. They ran a tan hand through dirty blond hair. “Personal trauma is something important to consider when in this line of work. The whole attitude a lot of people seem to have around it - this idea that being a Foundation worker makes you immune to your experiences - it’s toxic.”

“This conversation isn’t even about that,” West said, brushing it off. “What do you think Vega wants?”

“Nothing good,” Simes said scathingly. “Honestly? I just want them to do a good deed and put a bullet through the girl’s head. Sorry if that sounds cruel, but we don’t need any more planetary death traps.”

Everyone winced at the blunt anger. Some wounds didn’t heal.

“Pleased to see that classified information is once again the topic of your breakroom gossip sessions,” a new voice cut in, and the tall, imposing figure of Celeste Novak stepped in. Her bushy dark hair floated in a cloud around her head, eyes narrowed.

“Busted,” West sighed. “It’s not like the Lightspeed situation is really private anymore, though.”

“It isn’t. But I’d still like to keep work talk away from lunch if possible.” She grabbed her Tupperware-contained chicken from the fridge, setting up.

Nodding, the room shifted, Levi piping up with a comment on the set they were working on for their theatre troupe, Adrien joined in, and business as normal returned.

Agent N.D Heckerman took a car to the meeting point. Reynolds’ own car. Two more Agents - a short asian woman, and a taller man with grey hair; Agent Pepper and Agent Letter, as Heckerman had quickly been introduced - followed a distance behind in a grey van.

“No use in breaking out anything heavy-duty,” Reynolds had said, as she walked him to the car. “Unlikely we’ll need it. Better to blend in.”

He had to admit he was charmed by the red Toyota Corolla she drove, a small plush black cat on the dashboard. Reynolds rolled her eyes when he smiled at it. “The Site 403 Director Moira Fernsby got me that. She’s been texting me pictures of golden retrievers cuddling with black cats and saying it’s supposed to be us.” A soft smile crossed her lips, and Heckerman appreciated how much he liked her. Not in any romantic sense, though she was beautiful, in a frosty, distant way. There was something nice about her presence, that made the silence comfortable as they rode.

Lost and him had come up with a fairly good outline of what tactics might work best. And though he still couldn’t really bring himself to warm to the Site, he had to admit it wasn’t all bad. Lost and Reynolds were not the fresh-faced incompetents he’d been prepared for.

“Pepper and Letter will wait outside in the van,” Reynolds informed him as she drove along the road. They passed a large billboard, with “JESUS SAVES'' printed in large, faded letters. A wooden cross stuck out from the ground a few metres away, someone having spray painted it with red. Litter danced at the edge of tall corn stalks. Heckerman felt his eyes glass over, lulled into a trance by the predictable scenery. “If you need them, we’ve given you a mini-com to put in your jacket pocket. Click the sides, and it’ll send a radio signal out. Don’t use it unless you need it.”

Heckerman nodded. The sun had started to set outside.

“Do you mind the silence?” Reynolds asked, about an hour in. “I have a few CDs. The radio signals aren’t that good out here.”

He didn’t really mind the silence, but the idea of seeing what Reynolds considered quality music intrigued him. “I wouldn’t mind a couple of tunes to fill the air.”

She snorted, probably from his formal delivery, and fished through the glove compartment until she pulled out a disc titled “Time and Pocket Change” - and below that, “Heather Maloney”.

“I saw her in concert when I was 19,” Reynolds said. “It was a small venue, but I’ve been a fan ever since.”

He didn’t really know what to make of that - but as the music picked up, it made sense, in a way. The jaunty flow of sweet folk-rock, music that could easily be heard from a live musician at some roadside restaurant. If Emerald Reynolds had danced her way through a show at any point in her life - though, her rigid manner made it hard to believe she’d ever danced in her life - it would be somewhere like that.

Halfway through the trip, they stopped at a McDonalds, of all places, the two Agents sitting cross-legged in the open trunk window as they ploughed through a double-order of a Big Mac and fries. Reynolds ordered a salad, picking through it in disdain as they ate in the car’s front seat. Heckerman wasn’t used to this.

The closest experience that came to mind was from the back of a limousine, the lanky figure of Iris Dark sprawled cat-like across the seat, faintly tipsy from a well stocked minibar. The blue LED strips falling across the angles of her face. Agent Heckerman wondered if she still thought about nights like that. Her life was so full that it seemed trivial to think that she’d have time to remember him.

But the rage on her face, the night she’d realised exactly what he’d done - how the Foundation had bought him up like a cheap chandelier - that anger was a lasting burn.

Heckerman glanced across the seat, to Reynolds. Her face lit in the same way, but instead of electric blue, it was the golden panels of the setting sun through car windows. A spot of salad dressing on her chin. Her cheeks slightly flushed from the chill, despite the seat heaters on full blast.

For a moment, things felt lopsided in his mind - like he was back in the limo, missing the car, instead of the other way around. Living in the past, yearning for the future, motion sick from nostalgia.

Then it was gone.

And Iris Dark was behind him, again. Time kept running, the hands of his watches all ticking steadily along. And he ran to, glued to his seat with the vertigo of it.

The coffeehouse was small town charm slapped onto roadside appeal, the type of place that would no doubt be converted to a Tim Hortons at some point.

It was dark inside, and for a second, Agent N.D Heckerman thought there’d been a mistake. Then he saw the faintest flicker of a shadow from inside. And he knew all too well it was right.

“Good luck,” Reynolds said, eyes glinting with that frostbite-blue tone that sent shivers up his spine. She pressed the comm into his hand. The gun on one side, the comm on the other - his pockets felt like brass scales, the weight of the situation dragging him down as he approached the door.

When Iris Dark had been his manager, he’d learned to judge the anomalous by what made them useful, helpful. By what could be marketed, capitalised on. MC&D had measured in dollars what the Foundation measured in danger. Secretly, he still tended to defer to that line of thought - considering anomalies not for what made them unusual, but what made them useful.

The Foundation knew that the anomalous were useful.

But they also knew the value of the ordinary.

The Foundation had made Heckerman feel useful for the first time in his life. And it still felt surreal.

Estrella Vega was someone who felt the weight of both - the use of the anomalous, and the use of the everyday.

It was laid bare in her dark eyes.

“Sit,” she spoke, voice surprisingly low and full. Heckerman did, his role kicking in as he gave her his most gracious smile. “Estrella Vega, yes?”

“Yeah,” she chewed the inside of her cheek, leaning back further. “That’s me. You aren’t Emerald, though.”

It was odd hearing her call the Director by her first name. It didn’t feel disrespectful so much as just… uncanny.

“Agent N.D Heckerman,” he supplied, tilting his head towards her.

“You’ve got an accent. Where you from?” she tilted her head curiously.

“Ireland.” It wasn’t that hard to pick out, and he considered perhaps the offering of information would loosen her up a bit.

“Oh. I’ve never been,” she unconsciously twirled a strand of hair around her finger, tugging on it. “I’m going to go to Egypt, one day. I think. After I finish my training, and all that.”

“Training?” Heckerman ventured, wondering if this was her informational quid pro quo - an olive branch accepted, perhaps.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’m going to get training from the Foundation on celestial thaumaturgy. My Mum died before she could finish teaching me. I’m reading the Picatrix, but I don’t know much Arabic yet. I don’t know if you work with an astral cult, but I really like your style. It’s very intelligent, y’know.” Estrella rolled her neck. “Do you think you can do it?”

It took a second to piece out what she was asking for - and when it finally made sense, he wasn’t sure what to say. “You wish to… intern with us?”

Estrella considered it. “Maybe. I wanna know more, though. I can pay money. Or information. My family was part of a group known as the Sabians, and that’s magic shit. I’m magic shit. You guys call it thaumaturgy. And I’m probably dangerous. So it’d be a mutually beneficial arrangement if someone were to let me help out.”

This wasn’t what Heckerman was used to. He was used to bribes, to cash slipped under tables, to clean gunshots and dirty business. He was used to people who wanted the world.

This wasn’t a sorcerer who wanted the world. This was a girl who didn’t know what she wanted.

Heckerman always had known what he wanted. It’s why he’d made the same decision, over and over - always reaching up. Always reaching forwards.

“I like your watches,” she said, cutting through his silence. Estrella raised a pale wrist. “I’ve got one too, and it’s also fancy.”

“A Van Cleef & Arpels Midnight Planetarium,” he said, recognising it.

She nodded, pleased. “Neat, huh?”

They sat for another moment, the silence hanging thickly between them.

Then Heckerman took a breath.

“There’s a Foundation Site where we train personnel with anomalous abilities,” he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to tell her this much. But the need in her eyes - that hunger for something so simple as a purpose. He understood that more than anything.

She wanted to be useful, even if Heckerman didn’t understand yet what her use was.

Estrella’s eyes widened. “Would they help me?”

Heckerman paused. “I don’t know,” he finally replied. Then he met her eyes, and smiled again. This time, it was genuine.

This was his play, now. Cards on the table. “But I have a deal for you.”

“Shoot,” she prompted, tilting her chin up.

“You help us find and destroy the anomalies your Mother created. And we’ll help you train to regulate your abilities,” his smile deepened. “Unregulated power can turn sour over time. You could easily be destroyed by your own magic.” He wasn’t sure if this was true, but it made for a compelling argument - one he sensed Estrella wouldn’t be able to call out.

She studied the table, the silence stretching on forever, and for never. Time folding itself into paper cranes, all contained in that small darkened coffeehouse.

And nodded.

“Deal.”

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