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Eleonora sits on that chair and waits for that gray, metal door to swing open.
She waits for the blue of those feathers and her cloak to give some sort of color to that empty, rather depressing room.
She knows she'll have to spend the next half hour trying to explain to a middle-aged man that maybe it's not very nice to plant fucking bombs in M.E.G. camps in the hope of stopping them.
She'd rather be somewhere else, maybe dealing with SCP-049's experiments or having to calm down 096 in one of his episodes.
Instead, she was there waiting for a stupid cultist, who would try to convince her that they weren't crazy and to join them (which was physically and personally impossible for some reason).
The door opened, scraping the already worn floor and banging the light bulb on top of it (which was still a miracle it hadn't broken).
A shiny yellow suit appears from outside. Its hood is up, so she doesn't immediately recognize the unfortunate man. Only when she hears him speak and the stammering of his voice does she realize it's one of the new recruits.
And then he appears too, pushing the door open slightly.
He stops, staring into the room (at least, she thinks so; it's difficult when he's wearing that damned mask).
The parrot isn't with him, a miracle, really. That bird never leaves his side (or when it did, for some reason, it would visit her if she was on some level).
She could have sworn she saw him smile even under that damned mask.
He sits down, without saying a word. While he watches her, the guard goes off to join his colleague who was staring at them through the glass.
"Good evening, Fabri."
"Good evening, Father."
The tension is minimal, and the sound of the fluorescent light only makes the woman nervous.
Interviewer: You know why we're here, Bluebird, so let's hurry.
We recently suffered attacks from your peers, which left one of our recruits injured.
Got something to say?
Bluebird: It can happen. I only learned of the attack several hours later.
There it goes again, the same bullshit excuse.
His tone is the same as always, amused like that of a chain-smoking weed addict.
Interviewer: This isn't the first time this has happened, so you'll know what I'm saying.
Put. An. Damn. Brake.
Listen, I don't want to sit here for half an hour telling you why planting homemade bombs in an organization's outposts is a shitty idea, so I'd like you to go tell your friends to stop.
How does that sound?
He doesn't answer, he tilts his head back slightly, pushing the chair
Bluebird: I could.
But I don't think they'd stop.
You guys at M.E.G. don't know what the concept of spaces is, do you?
We're just trying to keep you from taking up the whole "territory."
He keeps circling, she can't stand it when he does that.
From a glance at the window, the colleague appears to be taking notes while the guard (now hooded) looks fearfully at the figure in blue.
A part of her wants to use Plan B immediately, but she doesn't know if it could actually trigger something in the man's already fucked-up mind.
She's done her research, finding similarities in that news story with the fragments of Bluebird's story she managed to recover.
Interviewer: We're trying to establish outposts for those who end up stranded here.
As much as you think you have the truth about everything, we have the hard evidence.
We have the tools, and we're not chasing something we can't see.
Bluebird: Probably because you look at the world differently.
You're calculators, you rely on pre-established patterns and formulas, trying to categorize everything into small sections.
Not that there's anything wrong with your method, just...
He leans toward her slightly, and slides his hand toward hers, touching it lightly.
Bluebird: Sometimes the truth isn't something in a box with a label on it.
Eleonora doesn't move; she knows the reason for the gesture. She simply allows that small contact to happen before shaking hands and pushing the man toward her, making him instantly stand up and whisper something in his ear.
Interviewer: Don't turn the conversation around, Ubel.
I know your tricks even before you do them.
The tension is high; nothing moves inside or outside the room.
Bluebird's breathing becomes heavy, as if someone had put their hands in his throat and prevented him from breathing.
Eleonora lets go of his hand, and he falls into the chair almost like a rag doll.
She doesn't move, just stares at the man in blue with his one good eye, waiting for an answer.
Bluebird: How did you do it?
Interviewer: I tried. You have to know who you're dealing with.
She opens the briefcase beside her. The click followed by the shuffling of papers makes the man uncomfortable, while she calmly takes what appears to be a photo.
She slides it in front of him, then points to one of the three people captured in the shot.
Interviewer: Is this you, right?
The one with the tie still intact and the clean shirt?
Bluebird: Who gave it to you?
Now it's her turn not to answer, just take another sheet of paper and begin to analyze it.
Interviewer: Ubel Laurent, engineer at the United Nations Office in Vienna, disappeared on September 12, 2009, at 11:30 PM, after an argument with his brother Carl Laurent over some family issues.
His brother reported him missing two days later.
Do you confirm this information?
Bluebird: Why should you care?
His voice is shaking, as is his hand, almost as if he were about to get up and run away from the truth.
Eleonora needs him to say it, she needs to hear it, she needs to see his face.
Interviewer: Do you confirm this information?
She repeats the question, this time with a firmer voice and determination in her eyes.
She smiles, finally feeling entitled to do so.
Interviewer: Will you take off that mask and confirm that Ubel Laurent is still among us, that I'm speaking to a human being and not a faceless voice?
Eleonora raises her voice, not wanting to waste time, and her interlocutor seems to give in to her request.
Both of their composures have shattered; she's now standing, looking down at him while he curls up like a frightened child.
Bluebird:...Yes.
I confirm.
He gives in, his voice almost cracking, lowers his head slightly, and tries to look away from her.
Outside, the guard and the researcher are speechless, not expecting the "discovery."
Guard: Should we intervene?
She looks like she's about to attack him.
Researcher: She's already doing it.
Let's wait.
Eleonora doesn't sit down, but begins to circle the table like a vulture, slowly, already worsening the obvious tension.
Interviewer: So you won't have any trouble taking off that mask, right?
So you show me I'm talking to an equal, not whatever you think you've become.
I know clearly there's still a man in there.
He doesn't move, at least that's what Eleonora thinks at first.
But then she sees him, his trembling hands slowly reaching for the wood (at least, she thought that was the material) of the mask, and in a second it falls, landing on the table.
His hair is a dull, almost dead blonde, clearly unkempt, with a few white streaks (caused by some sort of stress, perhaps?)
Eleonora leans over to look the man in the face and is greeted by a blank expression, like when you scold a child.
The eyes are large and round, the face is almost triangular and the mouth is closed in an annoyed grimace.
Ubel:Are you happy now Eleonora?
His tone is obviously resentful; he doesn't even make eye contact with her.
But at the same time, defeated and lost.
Interviewer: Yes, that's okay now.
Ubel, I'm trying to collaborate with you as best I can, trying not to disturb your activities, but it has to be mutual for it to work.
Will you pass our request on to your followers?
Ubel:...Yes, I will.
Eleonora nods to her colleague, then sits back down to put the papers back in her briefcase.
The guard returns inside and escorts Bluebird out again, finally leaving the woman alone.
Then the colleague enters, visibly perplexed.
Researcher: Where did you find this information?
Eleonora: I pieced together some pieces of my conversations with Father Bluebird, and from there I did some research.
It didn't take long, especially when you get an email from a teenager asking if you know anything about her uncle.
The colleague seems surprised now, but his expression returns to concern.
Researcher: Do you think he'll obey you?
Eleonora thinks for a moment, and then replies with a silent yes.
She gets up from her chair and leaves, finally leaving that stuffy room.
Researcher:Do you think-
Eleonora: I think he'll be fine for now.
And with that, she leaves, walking briskly toward her desk.
She reopens her briefcase to look at the email she'd printed, only to notice a small detail:
The photo is gone, and she swore she'd seen it on the table.