Tinker Tailor Soldier Jailor - SCP Foundation

In which a recently defected GOC agent arrives at Site-19, and the Father of Lies meets a security guard that equals him in bullshit.

TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER JAILOR

FlyPurgatorio & sailorenoch

Tinker Tailor Soldier Jailor

Authors:

FlyPurgatorio - Author Page

sailorenoch - Art Page

TINKER

The Foundation is exhausting. Terribly precise, infuriatingly formulaic. A caricature of bureaucracy.

Of course, you knew that before you joined them. Their reputation for procedural worship dwarfed the strict European legislation you were used to, and made the GOC look like cowboys in comparison. You'd known their treatment of protocols veered into the avenue of occult ritual. Hell, some of your former colleagues had posed theories about that three letter sequence; how it must've been vital to their continued existence, like a sacred oath or spell cast to keep the red tape spinning. Worship the paperwork, glorify the forms. All hail the foundation we build on.

What you hadn't been prepared for, was how deep-seated that religion was. How it had soaked into the buildings, the environment, the people. The long, cold hallways of Site-19, filled with workers, but empty nonetheless. The Labcoats and their clipboards, checking off basic weapon training and ignoring your 15 years of fieldwork experience. Even the plants, manicured in perfectly archetypal shapes and placed strategically in offices and meeting rooms to give just enough air to breathe, just enough vigour to flip through another manila folder of maddening formalities and measured formulas. Madness. Utter and complete, formulaic madness.

All that worship, crafted and coded to contain the only deity the GOC would not hunt down: the god of normalcy. Whatever the fuck that was supposed to be.

It is alienating in a way you never experienced before. Today is just as reductive as any other: the chaos of an unknowing and uncaring universe bound within rites of paperwork. A false god of objectivity who had reduced you to a checklist of facts and numbers, the only connections made through planners and paperclips. Maybe, if you possessed a little more self-insight, you'd have realised that's what bothers you: the facelessness of it all. You need people, need connection, need to be seen. But that's a truth you buried under too many layers of carefully laid toxic defences and unmanaged masculinity — there aren't many who can reach through that without risking a rash.

Instinctively, you touch the corners of that picture you carry in your breast pocket.

You'd never admit any of that out loud, of course. So instead of loneliness, you call it boredom. And bored you are, sitting alongside another perfectly symmetrical, tightly manicured lawn calculated to alleviate stress and contribute to personnel well-being. Bored you are, taking a drag from another cigarette, waiting for another meeting, another training session, another box to check.

"Smoke area is other side."

You are ripped from your self-indulgent ruminations by a burly man in a security uniform, blocking out the sunlight. His voice is bombastic, thundering and deep, and drenched in a thick accent that sounds as cartoonish as the organisation he belongs to. He stands at ease, his arms folded behind his back as he stares you down. Shoulders straight, back upright, slightly outgrown buzz cut. Ex-military, you conclude.

"That so?" You tick against the unfiltered cancer stick and spread a little bit of ash on the neat lawn. "You gonna drag me across the field yourself, Tommyboy?"

He's charming, you decide. Could've even been called handsome, if it wasn't for the deep, messy scar tissue covering his right cheek. A sheepish smile grows on his face, and then he nods.

"Can do. Can do worse," he says. "But you have the luck: Dmitri very patient man, open for bribe."

You follow his gaze to your breast pocket, to the packet of Lucky Strikes peeking out, and only for a moment you hesitate. But you're so, so bored, and at least he seems entertaining. So you hold out the pack, and he eagerly takes one out. Before you can offer him your lighter, he's pulled out a matchbox imprinted with ГРУ Отдел П, and lights a match. You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. No longer worrying about political nuances is one of the few perks of this job.

"Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov," he says as he sinks down on the bench next to you. "You say Dmitri."

"Alto Clef," you say, and for a moment you feel the wave of excitement at the sound of your new, your very own name. "You can say Mr. or Agent Clef."

"Nicely to meet you, Mr. Agent Clef." He inhales deeply, blowing the smoke out slowly. You can picture him sorting through his vocabulary, reaching for more broken English. "Where did Foundation drag you from?"

"Who says they did?"

"You," he says plainly. "You are inconsistency. These Foundation people, they – how do you say?" He gestures with his cigarette, the smoke drawing circles in the air. "They no smell. Like bleach."

"Sterile."

"Sterile! Yes, what I mean." He takes another deep drag. "They sterile, no flair. No heart." He emphases the word by punching against his chest.

"But I stink?" you say, amused.

"Very strong. Is good!" he says. "Men should have smell. Get down in dirt, get job done. Even soldiers here have no heart, no true fighting spirit. They only follow the list of the control."

You casually observe the Russian, taking note of every coarse component of his appearance that, on its own, would've looked intimidating or unpleasant. But put together, they almost look endearing. The boisterous voice instils a calmness, the scars of battle outline a longing for peace. A collage of violence crafted onto a creature of the quiet expanse. It certainly disarms you.

"Alright, you not telling, then I will figure the mystery," he says, the smoke blowing from his nostrils. "You have not the fear of new recruits, of world forever changed. Experienced! No eye for the profit, but frown at matchbox. Neutral parties usually ignore, so you were political organisation. Englishman. Accent not ruined by Americanisms, so recent arrival, or stubborn. Think both. Leaves us two groups." He pauses, either to mull it over or for dramatic effect. Then he grins and presses his index fingers alongside his temples, mimicking horns. "Perhaps MI666? Ah, but British Occult Service love Shakespearean performance, theatre! You are soldier, man of action. Unlikely." The point of the cigarette crackles as he inhales. "So, Global Occult Coalition. Am I right?"

"You are," you say as you light another cigarette. "I suppose I'm not getting points for guessing they picked you up after GRU-P dissolved, am I?"

He laughs. A deep, roaring rumble, somewhere between a dog's growl and a petrol engine, and with more personality than any of the pencil pushers you've met in the last few weeks.

"Poor Strelnikov, can never surprise or trick. Was indeed with the GRU Division "P". Sniper, very spicy eye. I see people well." A sly smile slips on his face. "Also, I cheat. Made for better story. Am security, have list of all personnel. Read in the morning your name and risk area, knew you was famed Ukulele, the defector. Thought I pretend to do the Sherlock Holmes deduce, welcome Englishman. Stink is still true."

Three layers of ridiculous horse shite. At that moment, you realise you like him.

"Shame I left my deerstalker and pipe at home, I'd fit the part." You push your dark hair out of your face. "A better stereotype than quoting the Jungle Book at the British-Indian bloke."

"Is true! The stereotype makes people small, miss bigger scope. You and me, no immune, Mr. Agent Clef." He chuckles. "But useful for me, as guard. I yell: "Нѣтъ, я не то, чѣмъ кажусь",1 and they scare straight at sound, stop whatever they do. Make job easy."

"Easy, sure." You spit on the ground. "But it's still cheating, and that'll cost you another story."

The Russian grunts a low growl, accompanied by a quick nod. It's as if he accepts a proposition, an amendment to the rules of conversation. God, is everyone here stuck in procedure?

You flick against your cigarette, watching the ash mingle with the unnaturally green grass as you say: "Who fucked up your face?"

"Bear."

"Sod off."

"Is true!" He gestures broadly. "Many bear in Russia. Sometimes more than one head. Dmitri was in luck to get out."

"Come on, you can do better than that."

"Alright." He turns to you, one arm leaning over the back of the bench, the other one twirling the final stomp of the cigarette. "How is this: when Dmitri was still young and handsome man, he met beautiful fairy princess in woods. She swoop off the feet, take me to fairy kingdom. Would be king of eternity. Unfortunate for Dmitri, sister of fairy princess also beautiful. Kiss very nice. Breakup, not so — secrets come at cost. It brought wisdom to carry on the face, and Dmitri was become young and rugged man instead."

"That's more like it," You take a final drag before stomping out the half-smoked cigarette and silently cursing that your next meeting is coming up.

"I can ask: who responsible for fuck up your face?" he continues. "But I already know that was your mother."

You pause halfway through your movement, and look up.

"Genetics is the bitch, no?"

Dmitri has that same sheepish smile on his face, the same boyish twinkle in his eye as when he asked for a bribe. For a moment, you look in disbelief at the first man to mess with you in weeks, the first person to not treat you like a cold specimen or mythical figure.

It is followed by the first genuine, roaring laugh.

"Fuck you, Dmitri," you say as you slam him on the shoulder. "And god bless. She was. She sure was."

He rises to his feet, stomping out the smouldering remains he dropped on the pebble path. You follow, wiping your hands on your shirt and pulling a notebook from your back pocket.

"You play cards, Mr. Agent Clef?" Dmitri asks. "Poker?"

"Call me Alto," you say, consulting the haggard map of Site-19 and the schedule you penned down in chicken scratches. "And it depends, is the pot any good?"

"Is very good, Mr. Agent Alto. Very entertain. We play on the Thursday evening — me, Pole, dog, and lovely Ms. Rights — in West Wing security office. You must join, have fun. Drink."

"We'll see," you say, but you write down the location. "Nice meeting you, Dmitri."

He leaves with a military salute that's both too campy, and perfectly fitting. A flair of colour in the endless black and white and grey of Site-19. It's a stark standout as you're slung back into the monotone grind.

Back to the prayers in processes and paperwork.

Mandatory introductory training sessions on Tuesday. Check box. The new recruits look at you from a distance, wary and with awe. Stories have started to spread, rumours too ridiculous to make up yourself. You're an abnormality, a killing machine or even a devil — and you don't dispute any of it. Let them have their tales, their own mythologies. Let them make you bigger than life. Subtlety is an art form lost on you.

Wednesday, more interviews as part of your deal. Check box. The mousy researchers are as black and white as the paperwork they fill out. Recording your statements on old GOC missions with detached precision. At least you can't blame them for their caution; you have done nothing yet to earn their trust, and everything to repel it. A defector is a defector, a traitor a traitor.

Traitor, traitor, which coat's turn is it today? hums the static from your telly in the morning as you wake after another restless night, with a brand new kind of neck pain from the uncomfortable couch.

The wheels keep turning, the forms keep filing. Another specimen, contained in the procedure of daily routine. Bland, brutalist, plain and efficient.

Defector, defector, are you bored or alone? buzzes the microwave as you wait for another plate of tasteless food to scarf down as you hover above the sink, scraps spilling on the dishes you can't be bothered to do.

You need messiness, need sacrilege in the church devoted to control. You need — god, will you ever admit you need company? Dmitri's invite is burning on your mind, and your usual mistrust of a gathering filled with unknowns is first to turn to ash. Traitors, defectors, and who else gathers around the fire, at least you won't be the only one.

On Thursday morning, you triple check the location on your map before you finish your own morning ritual. The partially drunk bottle of Glenfiddich is chosen after long consideration; a friendly greeting but suggesting little forethought. No-one would suspect you cared. You place it on your desk, your personal altar carrying the picture of a small creature with antlers. A smile comes to your face as you pick it up, your fingers running alongside the corners.

And like every morning that came before, you slip it into your breast pocket and brace for another day.

TAILOR

For a moment you'd been worried. Worried you'd get lost, swallowed by the endless labyrinth of procedurally generated hallways masquerading as Site-19's West Wing, unable to find which one of the identical doors hid the company you were looking for. That dissipates as you turn a corner, and you hear the dramatic counterpoint of a violin sweeping through the hall, pushing spirit and colour into the silent corridors. Tchaikovsky. Your fingers almost move to press the snares of a viola, like a long-forgotten rite.

Well, your names suggest musical affiliation, it wasn't hard for him to guess. You follow the trail of bread crumbs the Russian left for you, until you find the door that keeps you from its source. You knock.

"I know the smell. Mr. Agent Alto, you come!" The door swings open and you're greeted by Dmitri who, to your utmost surprise, is dressed head to toe in a vintage Soviet Army uniform. "Come join."

You have to admit you didn't really know what to expect. Either there were going to be regular people here, or they were going to be just as over the top as Dmitri. Turns out, it was both.

"If I'd known this was a costume party, I'd have brought my deerstalker and pipe," you say as you hand off the bottle of Glenfiddich to Strelnikov.

Your attention is first caught by the man in the tracksuit, glaring at his cards as if they personally offended him. His glasses frame his frown, his messy hair casting a shadow on his scowl, deepening the sharpness that didn't need to be there. You wonder what it would be like if it was directed at you, wonder if he'd pierce right through you. Then you shake off the thought and file it under "never analyse further."

His opponent, dressed like a lost Addams Family member, puts her wine down as you enter. Her warm smile the same colour as the stains on her glass.

The third player is a dog.

An actual dog. A corgi, to be precise. Why did you think it would be a nickname?

Said corgi was staring intently — maybe even frowning? Can dogs really frown? — at his cards, which are held up by two robot arms attached to a knitted vest. A bizarre reinterpretation of a painting reframed to fit in an odd place like this.

"Ah, you mean this? Is nostalgia," says the Russian, completely oblivious to you processing the image of the dog with cyborg limbs. He even has a matching bow tie around his collar.

The man with the ponytail laughs loudly.

"It's a replica," he says, not looking up from his cards. "Leftover costume from three years back, when the Department of Literary Science put on a production of Othello. They turned his character Russian because he couldn't ditch the accent."

"Is true, I play Roderigo! Strong, Russian name, fit me right." Dmitri punches himself on the chest. "Kept replica, fits on my now belly and fabric is nicer for local weathers. Also, gives right gravitas to Thespian soul."

"Thespian soul in a vaudeville act," says the man in the tracksuit.

"Don't be mean, Ben. I think he looks absolutely divine in it," says the woman, and Dmitri has a flair of a blush on his unscarred cheek. She stands up to shake your hand, and even without the big, buckled plateau boots, she'd have towered over you. "Nice to meet you. Agatha Rights, Recursive Data Analyst and Anart Specialist."

You have to force yourself not to flinch as you feel the metal of her thorned rose rings twist around her finger, brushing against yours as if it was alive and growing, reaching for sunlight or sustenance. The bat wings on her choker flutter in shimmery crimson flashes. Anart Specialist, you repeat silently.

The man with the ponytail lets out a deep sigh, throwing his cards down on the table.

"Ben Kondraki, Crypto-Lepidopterologist." He leans over to shake your hand next.

"Alto Clef, traitor." You hold onto his hand a fragment of a second too long. "What's your excuse?"

"What?"

"He means your choice of wardrobe." The disapproval drips from Agatha's voice.

Kondraki looks at his tracksuit, then shrugs, a shameful look on his face. "I might've told Rikki I was going to the gym after work instead."

"You shouldn't lie to you wife, Benjamin," a fifth voice says, one you didn't expect. It is drenched in an endlessly thicker and posher British accent than you'd ever heard in the wild, an amalgam composed of the blabbering at any snobbish society club. The robot arms meticulously move to put the cards down on the table. "I fold."

"No offence, but I'm not taking marriage advice from someone only loved by tennis balls." Kondraki sits back down, arms crossed. "Whatever. I fold too, you got this round, Agatha."

"The dog talks?" you hear yourself say.

"I prefer ‘temporary embarrassed human,’" says the corgi, and you now see a speaker nestled in the dog collar. One of the robot arms moves to hold out a hand to you. "Kain Crow, Professor of Robotics and Director of Special Projects. How d'you do."

You don't say anything when you shake his (or the robot's?) hand. It moves with soundless precision, a work of mechanical engineering bordering on artistry. On its side, the abbreviation P.A.T.H.O.S. is imprinted.

"What, you thought you were going to be the special boy here, Ukulele?" There is a grin on Kondraki's face when he says it, and the very next moment he's surrounded by a flutter of butterfly wings, dazzling in chromatic colours.

"I don't use that name anymore." You sit down, taking the glass of whisky Dmitri hands you.

"Good, it's a stupid one," he says, followed by a hardy laugh. The iridescent butterflies surrounding him shift to a warmer tone.

"One more reason they shouldn't let teenagers pick their callsigns."

His expression freezes, the remains of his cut-off laughter still hanging in the air. Ben looks at you from over his glasses, eyebrows raised. Piercing, you can't help thinking. The butterflies flicker out of view, but you hear the flaps of their wings still.

"Well, now I'm sad," he loudly proclaims, quickly looking over to Dmitri. "Deal us another round before I weep."

"What on earth are you playing anyway," you say while inspecting the card setup. Three communal cards in the river, five hand cards each.

"Is variant of Five Hand Throw I was taught by Danish friend." Strelnikov gathers the cards, dealing all five of you a new set of hand cards.

"It's jolly good fun, the odds are rather unpredictable." Crow's robot arm reaches for the small shot glass filled with whipped cream, and he licks it clean as his voice continues on. "You either keep the hand you have, or you can throw out two cards to use up to two cards from the table. I actually used to play a similar game with some of my fellow Cambridge Apostles, back in the good old days."

"Thought it was regular poker when I come West," says the Russian, refilling his own glass with more ice than vodka. "Casino say no, say I cheat! Is not cheat when you have the fun, is intend!"

"You'll get used to it after a while, dear," you hear Agatha say, and you realise you've been staring at the talking corgi with a frown on your face. She has placed her cards face-down on the table again, after only looking at them once.

"It's not so much the talking, it's the voice," you admit.

"You're not the first to remark on that." Crow licks his nose, his ears flicking in your direction. "I synthesised it from old recordings of my own voice, before my current… predicament."

"So you had the chance to ditch sounding like a toffee-nosed twit, but choose to keep it?"

Ben chuckles, then winces as a stomp is heard from under the table. Agatha gives him a death glare, before turning back to a small sketchbook she's pulled from her bag.

"Was that necessary?" she says as she puts pencil to paper.

"It's quite alright, dear Agatha. A little bit of repartee among fellow mavericks seems inevitable." Crow's robot arm has picked up the whipped cream canister and is carefully shaking it. "Besides, the bugger is right. One can take the Eton schoolboy out of his frame and fatherland, but one cannot take away the fall of his tongue, no matter how hard one tries."

Strelnikov snickers.

"Dog goes to school," he says. "Is funny. I laugh every time."

"I wasn't a dog back then, Dmitri," says the corgi, but the Russian isn't listening.

"I like to make mental picture of little doggy in school benches," Dmitri continues, setting the first bet of the round. "Writing in the notebook with pencil in the beak. Twirling the beads on abacus when he snack on the homeworks."

"Oh pish-posh," says the corgi, his ears flat on his head. The mechanical voice adds a chuckle, though. "Absolutely dreadful attempt, old sport. You'll have to try harder to throw me off my game."

That turns out to be correct. The dog takes home that round, although the winnings are sparse. With every bet the Professor places, a louder and louder thump sounds as his tail makes impact with the chair. But it was enough for you to get a feeling for the group. A few more rounds and you complete your own little procedure, one of familiarising yourself with the battleground before fully engaging.

Agatha switches between her wine, which she consumes in small sips, and her pencil. You can't shake the idea she's not just sketching you and your companions; and that nagging feeling of being studied overtakes you.

"So, did Gomez get you into Anart?" you ask one round later, placing your bet on the first flip.

"More like Godiva, but I appreciate the comparison. I also play the shamisen." She places one hand under her chin. From the laced bracelet dangles a horned metal skull that winks at you. "Field experience is unmissable in a place full of scholars, don't you think?"

Her voice is deep and sultry, and you're sure she's doing it on purpose. Like the light on an angler fish, alluring to the kind of men who would follow it until they were in her grasp. You, instead, take a drag from your cigarette and turn back to your cards.

"What're you drawing anyway, your next exhibit?" From the corner of your eye you're watching Crow's ears flick almost rhythmically, like a pattern. One flick of the left one, seven of the right, one left, five right. Is he calculating his odds?

"In a way," she says. "I'm redesigning my girl's winter wardrobe."

"Please tell me you're not talking about cats."

It's out before you see Ben's energetic motioning to cut it off.

"She means dolls, I'm afraid." Crow's licks his nose and raises, then turns to Ben: "Let the girl have her passion."

"I make almost everything myself. You wanna see?" Her face lights up, and before you can answer, several pictures of an uncanny, lifelike doll in a fur coat are shoved in your face. Nothing is left from the dulcet tones or suave gestures as she flips through her notebook, as she gushes over braiding styles and metal work. "I was going for a Snow Queen look, but the crown is just not grabbing me. I'm considering a tiara, but —"

It is the first and only round where Agatha loses more than anyone else. In exchange, you've seen more painted faces with cold eyes than you care for, and learned more about sculpting and posing than you deserve. Dmitri, on the other hand, grunts and nods along, asks questions about wig styling and sewing patterns. A round later he folds halfway through her monologue, while your, Ben's and Crow's aggressive plays move the chips around.

The night is still in full swing when the first player leaves, and it's not because of cards or luck.

Ben's phone keeps ringing with the same upbeat tune, a theme to keep pace with his increasingly aggressive raises. After the second round where his obvious tells are thrown off by his determination to ignore the calls, Rights finally snaps.

"Answer your wife, Benjamin," she says after he places the fourth raise that round.

"Wife should be kept wanting because desire, not absence," says the Russian in his usual grunts. "Carmen lovely woman, deserves better than ignore."

"Yeah, yeah." Benjamin pushes his cards together, holding them with two hands as the small stack bounces against his forehead. "She's fine. It's good for her to get some alone time with Draven."

"Did Glass recommend that, or did you?" Rights says curtly, the sound of her pencil scratches as condemning as her voice.

No answer. The phone beeps another jingle.

He throws his cards down and buries his face in his hands.

"I wanted one night to not think about that," he mutters. "One fucking night. Is that really too much to ask?"

You hear the wings of hundreds and hundreds of butterflies flutter and fidget under the soothing tones of Tchaikovsky. Colours of bright red and deep, sombre indigo flash in and out of existence momentarily, until Rights leans forward and places an arm on his shoulder.

"I know," you hear her whisper. "But she needs you right now."

He smiles a joyless smile, his jaw clenched. Rubs his face, pushes back the chair. Movement upon movement, as if he's fighting a wall of air as he gets up. One last swig of beer, one fluid motion to put his baseball cap back on, one big and brusque wave as he signs off: "Been a night."

The door lands in the frame a little harder than it should've. From the other side, you hear hasted footsteps jog down the hallway, working up a sweat on his way home.

"Hey Rikki — yeah, on my way now." His voice moving further and further away until it disappears, taken over by the notes of the Sleeping Beauty waltz on piano. "How's Draven? You want me to —"

It leaves an uncomfortable heaviness over the ones who remained at the table.

"What was that all about?" you ask, tearing through the tension as you tick against your glass with the corners of your cards.

"The Kondrakis have hit a bit of a bump in the road, as they say," Crow's words are rigid, measured. The almost comical slosh from the whipped cream cannister into his shot glass is a welcome relief. "Ghastly situation."

"No sense in fishing when there is no in the pond," Strelnikov says. "Been heading for divorce ever since little boy was born."

"I'm not giving up on them yet. There's still a chance of a happily ever after." Agatha bites the back of her pencil.

"You usually read people, not story, Ms. Rights," the Russian says bluntly, with a shake of the head. "Dmitri, too, has romantic heart. Story beautiful symbol, but lie. Sometimes, happy ending is not with each other."

Agatha purses her lips, but doesn't respond.

"But some endings are worth going all in for, are they not?" says the corgi with an open snout, his tongue hanging out, as his robotic arms push the remainder of his chips on the table.

SOLDIER

One player less wouldn't stop the game. It takes several more rounds for the night to wind down, and in that time Crow has to buy additional chips twice. The overture of piano and violin turns to opera, and Dmitri sways along with its arias as he places his bets and flips the cards. Crow's left robot hand waves along, conducting the music rather than experiments. Even Agatha starts to freely sip from her second and third glass of wine, her pencil in tune with the rhythm. When the last round comes to a conclusion and Dmitri finally starts to hum along, the Professor and Analyst turn to him in anticipation.

The Russian gets up, holding his glass to you all as a toast, then belts out: "Что наша жизнь? Игра!"2

Agatha claps as he takes out the prize pot to divide out the winnings of the night. Curtain call. Even here, the people are drenched in rituals. Procedures, processes, pleasantries. A callback to the formulas, but chosen with care and passion, brought alive. You might not know a word of Russian and even less about opera, but a part of you wishes he'd continue the aria.

The dog leaves with a "Cheerio!" and a slightly lighter vest than he came in with, but a spring in his patter. Rights presses a quick kiss that lingers as a blush on Dmitri's scarred cheek before leaving, her flowing dress swaying with each step. You tarry behind, taking the time to slip the dollar bills you fought for into your pockets.

"You tell a lot of stories, my friend." You lean against the table, treasuring the last of your drink.

"Is need. Stories are scarce resource here. Fact and paperwork, they outline world. Worship rigidness. Clarity. Loneliness. But they do not paint the colours," says the Russian. "Stories worship the soul."

"Plenty of folks would call them lies."

He waves you off with a brusque grunt.

"Scientists, odd kind of people. They do not believe value in the lies. Unlike you or I," he says, then his face lightens up. "It was a good thing of you to join, Mr. Agent Alto. Know that you are welcome to a seat at the table."

"You're done so soon?" You take the deck he just sorted, and start to take out each card lower than a six. "How about a last game to sit out the night. Let's play the fool."

"Durak!" Strelnikov takes the deck of cards from you, shuffles again enthusiastically. His thumbs bent the edges of the two stacks and riffled them together. "It has been a while. What we play for?"

"The only thing of real value around these parts: truths," you say. "The fool of each round has to answer a question, any question, honestly and truthfully. No bullshit, no make-belief, no nonsense answers. What do you say, Dmitri?"

You see him pause for a moment, his eyes connected with yours as his eyebrows arch upwards. His body shifts forward, his fist hits the table.

"Ready to spill beans, Mr. Agent Alto."

He slips each of you a stack of six hand cards, and flips the lowest card from the remaining stock upside down. A six of clubs — the trump suit.

"You've got an interesting history, Dmitri," you say as the Russian plays the opening attack card: a seven of spades, which you beat with a nine of spades. "Must've been quite the journey before you got here."

"Was man of travel. Now, I settle." He speeds up the plays as he notices your quick responses. "Good for age."

"You're the first Russian I've ever met to put ice in his vodka."

"It is not the first time I betray the roots," he says sheepishly, lighting a cigarette with his matchbox. "But perhaps, it is worst betrayal. Or I miss being out in the cold."

"A former sniper for the GRU-P, now working as a security guard for a research centre and glorified prison." The stockpile is empty, it's just your hand cards now. "Quite a change of pace."

"Change is good, it keeps the excite." He defends against your ten of diamonds with a jack of the same suit. "For pace, I follow what game is at play."

"You follow?" You shake your head. "Now that's a lie if I ever heard one."

He produces a low, growling sound, something you've started to recognise as agreement.

You answer with a jack of clubs. The Russian looks at it, and then at the one card still in your hand. He has passed several times, holding onto three more cards.

"I am afraid, I am the first fool." He places the three remaining cards open on the table: a six of diamonds, hearts and spades. There is nothing he could've beaten you with. "Is all good. What do you want the know."

You take the glass of vodka he hands you, spinning the ice cubes with a quick flick of the wrist as you stare him down. Dmitri is as unreadable as always, waiting patiently for you to reveal just as much about yourself with the question you ask, as he will with his answer.

"How did you really get those scars?"

"That is you ask?" exclaims the Russian. He laughs a roaring, thundering growl. "Why no big secret, travel history, trick of trade?"

"Boring. I can find those kinds of answers if I look for the right dossier. Also, I don't care," you say. "But I don't believe for a second that a bear did all of that."

He leans back in his chair, swirling his drink in his glass as he soaks up the anticipation. The moment before he flips his cards, showing his hand. Cling, cling, the ice cubes twirl. You wonder how many stories he made up about it, how much bigger and bolder they must've been. And if the truth would ever live up to it.

He takes a sip from his drink, then looks you right in the eyes when he finally admits: "Gardening."

"Fuck off."

"I am bound by rules. No lie!" he says, a smile as broad as his mangled face can manage. "Dmitri very good son, take care of rose bushes while mother is on trip. I walk over path with garden tools, make fall. Land full on the face."

"You're fucking with me," you press out between roars of laughter. "You can't be bloody serious."

"No good deed go unpunish. This is pruning shears," he points to the top part of his scars, then moves to the lower part, "and this is spade."

"That's brilliant," you say, raising your glass. He follows your gesture. "Cheers to the best fucking story I've heard in months. You could make a Labcoat short-circuit with that one."

He smacks his lips and shakes his head.

"Subtlety lost art behind Veil," says the Russian. "Foundation, British Occult Service, GRU-P — all same. So used to big answer, miss the excite in small puzzle."

"But not you." You take out your pack of Lucky Strikes and light one up, then passing the packet to Dmitri. "You like the little games. Found yourself a real band of characters to play it with."

"Artists, like to perform," he says as you shuffle the deck, laying out a new stockpile and the six hand cards. "All about show. Agatha great artist with craft as well as pencil. Capture soul. Has drawn Dmitri, too!"

He turns and points to a framed portrait on his desk. It shows an extremely flattering pencil drawing of the Russian down to his waist, in a style that reminds you of the Asian cartoons you've seen on late night telly just before dozing off. A smile too big, flowing hair, a shirt suspiciously tightly wrapped around the torso (was he wearing a shirt when posing for it?!), literal sparkles in his eyes — character over realism. It certainly fits Dmitri's dramatics.

"Benjamin, complicated man," he continues as you flip the bottom of the stockpile. A king of hearts. The triumph for romantics. "Pretends to be bigger. Rough and loud, but soft inside. Fragile. Takes pictures, very beautiful light. Only time he has the patience. And Crow —"

"Has deep pockets and the worst tell in the world," you finish, placing the first attack.

"You heard!" He mimics the movements of Crow's tail. "Thump, thump, thump when he has good hand."

"No level of perfect memory and statistic card calculations can compensate for that, no matter how hard he tries," you say. "And he damn well tries. I think he imagines something exciting when he wants to bluff."

"Right! Right, I notice!" Dmitri says, playing each card against yours like a rhythm, like he finally found his stride in battle. "But is different thump."

"Of course, Kondraki falls for it every time." You take a moment to consider your options as you draw the final cards from the stockpile, already behind.

"Ben very smart man. Good at learning and analysis. Unfortunate, does not mean he good at reading people. Or dog." Dmitri continues with a weighted nod as he waits for your move. Cling, cling, the ice cubes against his glass. "Bold and impatient, wants to brute force solution. But does not want upset. Rough, but soft. Like I said, complicated man. Fun player."

"Agatha is the opposite. She only plays the players, not the cards. She loves the chase of it," you say. "And when she's in a bind, she wields her lashes like a weapon. Only took her one round to figure out that doesn't work on me."

"Works on Ben, of course."

"Barely. But it works on you like a charm," you say, the cigarette dangling on your lip. "I saw you swoon, you slag."

"Ah, powerful woman, poetic soul. Dmitri's romantic heart is hers, free to crush under boot if she wish." There is that boyish twinkle in his eye again. "Now you, Mr. Agent Alto, are interesting. Play like fighter: aggressive, daring. You read battle, read plays. But do not read the players. Tactical insight, understand motive, but look for the explanation right in the front. Sharp eye that notices, but misses bigger scope."

"That about me as a player?" Your hand consists of only low numbered cards in the regular suits. He might have you based on that alone. "Or a person?"

"Life is game. There is no difference." He places a six of hearts as his attack, and you look at his smirk. He's toying with you now.

"Pass," you say, and he plays the remainder of his hand with every "pass" you utter. "You're a curious player yourself. You prefer the tension more than the resolution. I think you're a better player than you let on. Misunderstanding idioms you use yourself, asking explanations as a redirect. You refill the ice in your drink before the vodka, so you can pretend you're drunker than you are. And I know for sure you folded twice against Agatha when you had the winning hand."

"Maybe I was outbluff?" he says innocently.

"Maybe, or maybe you just want to shag her." You take a deep drag from your cigarette. "That's the thing with you: you don't ever make it simple."

"Simple is no fun," he says, and it is followed by a flush on his cheek. "You think Agatha would be interest?"

"Don't know mate, don't have an eye for women." You throw your cards on the pile. "But she drew you half-naked."

"Art is not the same!" he exclaims, placing his last attack card on the table and making you officially the fool of the round. "So, lovely Ms. Rights is wasted on you. Maybe Mr. Agent Alto has more eye for dashingly roguish Russian with divine charm? Or is intense but sensitive Doctor Ben more your type?"

"You wanna waste your question on that?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Is of no need, I already know."

He ignores your confused frown as he taps the cigarette against his glass. There is an expression on his face you've begun to recognise as one of his only tells: a mischievous glint, reserved for when he knows he outpaced you.

The Russian leans back in his chair, looking you over as if he's measuring every word. A long, deep drag of the cigarette, a large cloud of dramatic smoke. Setting the stage, preparing for his monologue. What a character.

"Before I ask, I make observation," he says, his deep voice reaching to the back of the theatre. "Men like you and I, we know when to cut loose. When to switch tactic or side. Got too hot under the feet, move with it."

"You projecting there, Dmitri?"

"Perhaps." The sheepish grin is back on his face. "You and I, alike. Foot soldiers, playing the game within rules set by ideologist. No real believes of our own, just skills to carry out that of others. I know about Ukulele. Very respected name at GOC and broader political anomalous community. You had all choice to switch, you chose Foundation. Not in chase of pay or prestige, not our way. Very more telling you switched to neutral organisation."

"Is there a question coming?" You refill your own glass with Glenfiddich, and a clean one for Dmitri.

"Yes. Men like us, we only cross aisle or change way for two reasons: someone changed the rules, or we have debt to pay." He takes the whisky from you. "My question: which one?"

You pause for a moment as you mull it over.

"I'll hand it to you, Dmitri." You look at the man in the Soviet uniform, your cigarette burning away in your hand. "Here I was thinking we were playing cards, not reading people like cheap novellas."

"Is same thing." He says with that sly smirk of his.

You take a deep drag, blow out a deep sigh as you look away. "Both. There was someone who made me rethink my role in the whole machine. I suppose she did change the rules, in a way."

"So there was woman!" Dmitri exclaims. "Swoop off the feet by fairy princess after all."

"Knocked on my arse, more like. It wasn't romantic, if that's what you mean. She was — no, not just a friend either," you scratch the patchy stubble on your chin, your eyes on the green of the poker table. "She was the first person that saw right through me, and didn't damn me straight to hell when she did. I think we recognised ourselves in each other. A kindred soul."

"Some bonds deeper than love describe," he says with another measured nod.

"That sounds right," you say. "I would've gone to the end of the world to keep her safe, to let her have the life she deserved. Would've been prepared to blow it all to a blazing end."

"What happen?"

You look him straight in the eye, your expression as plain as could be, your voice cold.

"I killed her."

A quiet that stretches before you, the cold grasps of winter.

"Not metaphorically, not indirectly. I put a bloody bullet in her chest. I fucking failed her, is what happened."

You quickly grab your glass and take a big gulp, trying to hide your voice cracking.

"So, that's the reason I left the GOC. The rules changed," you say, mesmerised by the whisky swirling around in your glass. Cling, cling. "And it's part of my debt, but not to her. To my kid."

"You are father?" he says. "What is name?"

"Meri." You can't stop the smile from pulling your mouth wider and wider, broader than should be possible. Your hand moves to your breast pocket, but you don't take out the picture.

"Meri Clef." He nods. "Key to happiness. Good name is promise, intention of parent."

"You're the first person to get it," you say, hearing, feeling how your voice trembles. "I just hope it'll be more than a promise."

You tick against your cigarette, watch as ash floats upward. The air feels like it's pressing down on you, but it is strangely reassuring. As if it's the first time in ages you feel — covered.

"I considered making a run for it," you hear your quivering voice say. "But how do you raise a kid when you're always looking over your shoulder? What kind of life would that be? And I didn't know whether there would be medical complications from leaving the Garden, I —" You take a deep breath. "All I knew is that I wouldn't let anyone turn my child into the kind of thing I am. A weapon for another's agenda, a tool. Meri deserves the chance to be a person."

"So you come to Foundation, give child safety to grow up."

"And half the time I still wonder whether I made the right choice." You take another deep drag, close your eyes and lean back in your chair. "There just weren't any good ones."

"Many men never make decision before they run. Many men, only father in title," he says. "You took action, made choice to be there. Only thing that ever matter."

And for a moment you don't respond. You just look at the ceiling, watching the smoke circle up and disperse against the grey tiles.

"I get one hour every workday. Four on weekends in total, depending on their schedule," you say eventually. "Not out of the goodness of the Foundation's heart, of course. Babies need skin contact to grow up healthy, and every touch except mine results in a rash." You feel a warmth creep up in your chest, right about the place where the soft fur coat usually tickles your skin. "But it's the best hour of the day. It's what I do it all for."

You don't even hear the Russian grunt, don't even see the sympathy on his face. Your mind is somewhere else. All you see are those brown eyes staring at you, at the sanitised world enveloping you both. The memory of that little beating heart, the fingers curled around your index, the little laughs that are so rare. The nervous little flicks of the ears, and your wish to wrap your arms around and around like a shield against whatever the world could throw at you two.

You never expected you'd be capable of so much love.

"Two years," you tell the ceiling. "Two fucking years, and then it's all over. After that, brains start making memories, and they can't risk that. Can't fucking risk my own kid knowing I'm around. Can't fucking risk contaminating the anomaly. Only birthday visits. Cold not cruel, my arse. I just want Meri to - to -"

Your voice breaks. The ceiling looks a lot more blurry as you wipe your eyes.

"I miss my kid," you croak.

You hear the sloshing of spirits, and then feel the cool pressure of its container against your hand.

"Maybe it's for the best." Your grab the glass and downing half of it in one big gulp as you try to wash it all away. "Men like us, men of violence, what do we have to offer to children? We only create death."

To your surprise, the Russian leans forward. He places a hand on your arm, only briefly, and gives you a measured nod.

"You listen, and you are available when need arise," he says, his rasping words as much of a coarse relief as the drink. "You stand guard, from distance. You answer call when it comes. And it will come."

"You speaking from experience there, Dmitri?"

"Yes. Not as father, but as son of violent man." He downs the last of his own whisky, an excuse to refill. "Different violence. Chess player dealing in blood and treachery. He never answered call."

You hold up your glass. "To being better men than those that came before us."

"За родителей!"3 He clinks against yours and drinks.

You let the spirit slide down your dry throat, refuelling the liquids you are too ashamed to shed without the encouragement of alcohol. As you wipe away the spilled emotion, you chuckle.

"Fuck me, you got more out of me in one night than any of these damned shrinks here managed in weeks." The corner of your mouth is pulled in a grimace as you collect the cards for a reshuffle. "You should do that for a living. They taught you that at the GRU-P?"

"No. But used it there," he says. "Guarded men same everywhere. Have thick layers, but there is things that need to be out. They need excuse to spill, someone for trust. You never tell me things you wouldn't want out already. And who would believe poor Strelnikov?"

There is that sheepish smile again. Disarming in exactly the right way. He truly is an artist, but not just of the stage or spoken word. A man of pure pathos.

"One more for the road?" you ask as you hold up the almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich.

"One more fool, one more drink." He nods.

One last trump card under the stock pile: an ace of spades. You two play in relative silence until the stockpile is empty, sharing a moment without saying things that no longer need to be said. Processing the weight of words spoken and unspoken.

"I think I solved you," you eventually say as you play the last few cards in your hand.

"Really?" he says. "You figure the mystery?"

"You're always playing a different game for a different team," you say. "When we play poker, you play chess, and you play both black and white. But you don't play to win, you play for the performance, for the arc to unfold. That's my read of you, Strel."

"Interesting. I can see." He attacks you with his last card: a queen of spades. With the king already played, it is a winning final card.

You answer it with an ace of spades.

The Russian looks at the card for a moment, at the second ace of spades peaking from under the stockpile, and then at you.

"You cheat?"

"I would never, Dmitri." Your grin is almost as broad as your face. "I simply used all the cards you introduced into the game this evening. Although it appears some of those get stuck in the little nooks and odd folds of that ridiculous uniform of yours."

The Russian looks at you for a moment. No more clinging of ice cubes, only the crackling of his cigarette, the smoke dispersing.

Then he laughs loudly, as if the sky erupts.

"When did you notice?"

"Three rounds in I realised that Ben wasn't losing as hard as he should've, and Crow's calculated bets were thrown off half the time. I was going to call you out on it, until I realised you weren't doing it for anyone's gain specifically. Especially not your own pockets," you say. "Then it hit me: you were tweaking the game to be the most interesting, to give each player a moment to shine. You were not playing poker, or even chess. You were directing a play."

"I was right! You read plays very well, Alto," he says. "I expected you would pick up most of my indications. Ask your question."

"Nah, that didn't count," you say. "I cheated."

"No, I did the cheat." He almost sounds insulted. "And you set rule when we met: you cheat, you owe another story. Borders important. The cheat cannot exist without the rules."

Playing within the rules set by others, by those with ideals. Looking for those edges, but never going over them. And giving just enough room to figure out the double or triple meaning he's hidden layers upon layers deep. The man has been playing all sides at once, without showing all his cards. And you'd fallen for it just as much as anyone here at Site-19 seemed to have.

When you first met Dmitri, you thought he was simply reaching for words in a language he hadn't mastered yet. You're rethinking that now; he mastered it in a way you hadn't realised was possible. Saying everything without fully stating it, running circles around those thinking less of his position and background. Mocking them. Laughing in their face as they showed what they were made of. Was that why he still used both salutations when he says your name? Well, you kind of had it coming.

"Alright. Here's my question: if you say I only picked up most of your indications, that means I missed something," you say. "What did I miss?"

Strelnikov's face lights up with that boyish joy. That certainly was the question he'd wanted to answer. Some truths need an excuse to spill out. Maybe he'd been willing to answer if someone — anyone — had been willing to ask. Site-19 can be big and lonely, and there is only so much you can do to kill the boredom.

Perhaps he'd been right, you two were alike. Foot soldiers forced alongside calculated measurements, of reality weighted in black and white. You two were figures fitting for the grey in the borders and corners, the forgotten and unsavoury parts that let the world click into place. A necessary sort of man, one that does their best work if covered in layers and layers of story and lies. And you both had told, and lived, many.

He leans forward, gesturing you to follow suit. In a soft voice, as if he's about to divulge the most valuable information he has ever carried, he answers in perfect English: "you missed my love for Shakespeare, old sport."

For a moment you stop breathing as you process the flawless mimic of Crow's clean Eton schoolboy accent. The coarse Russian vowels, impossible to fully unlearn, expertly folded in the appearance of a smoker's rasp. If you had not known his alliance, his origins, you might not have discovered the traces, and that was by design. After all, he told you the solution to his own riddle in the first nonsense story he shared.

Some will cross the aisle, like you had, and others live between all aisles, docking whenever needed. A man playing all sides.

So you laugh loudly when you realise you're just another party he played for a fool.

WAX

DECLASSIFICATION PENDING

Eastward of Eden

A Man Made of Wax

To Be Continued...

Footnotes

1. "No, I am not what I am", Iago to Roderigo in Othello Act 1 Scene 1, line 65.

2. "What is our life? A game!" from Pyotr Tchaikovsky's The Queen of Spades.

3. "To parents!"