Per 
ʜɪ—ᴜʜ, ɪꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴏɴ?
ᴏᴋᴀʏ.
ʜɪ. ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅʀ. ꜱᴛᴜᴀʀᴛ ꜰʀɪᴄɪ. ɪ'ᴍ… ɪ'ᴍ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴛʀᴇᴍᴇʟʏ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟ. ᴀɴᴅ, ʜᴇʟʟ, ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ—ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴛᴜɴᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ.
The doors shut with quiet indifference. The strongly illuminated, iron-walled room, only visible through the single one-sided window, is composed of an individual familiar face; a man who's jaw is defined by a sparse sheet of unkempt hair let by lack of free time due to a little too many concerns regarding The Foundation.
They were Researches and Doctors alike, only occupying corridors like human-shaped numbers with the sole purpose of being written in and written out.
Charles' eyes focus on the movements of SCP-4179-A—Greg Standish—separated from the conversation around him.
"Are you listening?"
"State your name for the tapes."
When the questioned meets the interrogator, he is carefully schooled. Often his inquisitor is characterized as having distant and lifeless eyes. There are only several that know for a fact that isn't true. There's a certain gleam in his gaze. Pain as he meets Greg's and, as liars often do, the subject smiles.
"Hello."
ʏ'ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴜʟʟᴀʙɪᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴀʀᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ.
ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ—ʜᴇʀᴏᴇꜱ ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ꜱʜɪᴛ.
Formality looks good on Stuart. From his clothes to his hair, to his attitude, everything he did was elegantly choreographed.
He looks small like this. In here.
"Thank you, Frici — Welcome to The Foundation." Precise and hard-working exteriors look at home on these Officials, but it sits heavy with Stuart as he watches them begin to flood out of the room, the door slamming like a gavel in his wake.
A sigh escapes the man as he rubs the bridge of his nose. He wasn't necessarily complaining about anything in particular; after all, he did receive an actual office. It wasn't by any means any prettier than the rest of the place, but it was something. It was more on the fact that he had several boxes to go through. Little things, of course. Nothing about this screamed "luxury".
He pulled out little bobble-heads for his desk and pictures that he began pinning to his board. Time was slowly but surely drip-ticking away, but he supposed that maybe, just maybe the radio could keep him company.
“—The exact circumstances of her tragic loss are still unknown, but she is thought to have fallen from the vessel during extreme weather conditions. Agent—”
He grumbles, switching the channels until he could find something positive. Music, he hoped.
"—Seven bodies have been recovered so far, but police are hesitant to identify them as human. They’re hard and hollow, like man-shaped chitin shells—"
Soon enough, he turned off the radio.
Maybe the silence really was nicer.
How do you do it, Stuart? To satisfy his internal question, It's really, very simple. The destruction left behind by the modern-day - the pain, the rebuilding. That's done by the everyman;—Sans the tights;
How do you do it?
I've always done it. I've always had to work. Then again, I figure the mystery these days is, how can you end up having to live with the fault of what happens in this facility? Willful ignorance, maybe.
Perhaps when people realize we're right. That all of this is right, that this society is slowly but surely becoming unsustainable and that destruction has indeed come for us all, you can write us an apology letter. You'll know where to find me.
