OP-001 END: Debrief
There are many who claim the origins of the Foundation stem all the way back to the oldest ages of man, when we were merely constructing the first vestiges of human civilization.
What utter horseshit.
When considering the prospect of a powerful, far-reaching organization such as the Foundation, one has to factor in the numerous difficulties and challenges that confront these establishments regularly- secrecy being one of the most important factors.
The passage of time erodes all things- especially the confidentiality of secrets. As the Foundation grows and operates on a larger scale, it becomes exponentially more difficult to field resources and manpower and maintain that secrecy; With each new territory monitored, there are new forces, political groups, wild variables and environments.
As history has shown, every observed major power has inevitably come to ruin. Whether by over-expansion, foreign invasion, or domestic conflict, there has been not one nation that has persisted for thousands of years. These theories of shadow governments stemming from ancient times are nothing more than unrealistic drivel.
The Foundation is a modern concept. Its fundamentals are inherently complex, and its goals require ridiculous amounts of resources to accomplish. It is only in an era of rapidly-developing technology and mass production that the Foundation would ever be able to logistically and feasibly exist- their methods of finding anomalies are majorly limited to the era's technological advancement and observational capacity, and even more so constrained by the innovation and ability of its researchers and scientists.
And, of course, its founder would have to be a person of immense capability…
(Queue 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' by Nirvana)
"Checkmate, dumbarse."
"FUCK!"
Somewhere in rural Montana, a hidden bunker nestled in the side of a mountain was alight with the sounds of activity; The MTF team was engaging in some Rest & Relaxation with the various activities throughout their 'headquarters'.
Inside the main room, Dack and Polly, the ones cursing belligerently, were engaging in an aggressive chess match; Haiman and Vale were watching 'Full House' on a box TV near the entrance of the room; Griz was writing quietly in his journal at the pool table; And Clef was handling paperwork at the singular mess hall table at the far back of the room. He looked up from his busy work with a disgruntled expression, seeing the others enjoying their recreational activities.
The rank hierarchy of this little paramilitary was laughable- At the top was Alpha Six (their contractor), then Clef, then the rest of the team in terms of authority. Clef made a workaround for that by unofficially appointing Polly as the 2nd in Command (a smart decision, considering she was the RTO - Radio Telephone Operator); Unfortunately, she hardly assisted Clef in his more 'administrative' duties, such as filing paperwork and data entry. While Clef wanted badly to smack her upside the head and force her to do this paperwork as his subordinate…
He had little enforceable authority as it was now.
Sighing in defeat, he looked over at the team's most recent capture- now comfortably sitting in a large bowl complete with sand, a pool of water, and a little home and mailbox. The Dungeness crab seemed pretty content with its new habitat, relaxing casually by the small beach inside the bowl as if it didn't have a care in the world.
"Yeah, I'm sure your life is pretty nice, huh?" Clef muttered wistfully- never before did he imagine that he'd be envying a crab.
"Shouldn't have moved yer Rook there, lad." Polly said with a shit-eating grin, as she used her Bishop to take Dack's piece. He clenched his teeth, in deep ponderance of what move to make next.
"Whaaat?" Polly teased, leaning slowly towards Dack, peering at his face as beads of sweat rolled down his features. "Getting a little nervous, are we?"
"Shut up, shut up, damn it!" He hissed, trying desperately to focus on the match. For some infuriating reason, this fucking paddy wagon was severely inhibiting his ability to calculate the best move to make. "I only have a minute, for fuck's sake!"
Grumbling to himself, he eyed the half-shot sitting next to the chess board and quickly took it, releasing a sigh of relief as he eyed the board with a new outlook.
"Ever had a Smoker's Cough shot?" Polly asked him, as she grabbed the shot glass on her side of the table and downed it, audibly groaning in discomfort from the taste.
"A what?"
"A Smoker's Cough shot."
"The fuck is that?"
Polly grinned.
"It's jagermeister and mayonnaise."
"If I ever see you putting mayonnaise in a shot, I'm going to punch you in the face."
"Oh!" Haiman gasped, almost spilling his spaghetti meal in Tupperware; He luckily caught it at the last second, much to his relief. "Oh, I almost dropped it, haha! God have shown me favor on this day, eh?"
He glanced towards Vale, craving to make small talk with her since the first day they'd met-
"What the fucking ass are you on about?" Vale muttered angrily with a mouthful of spaghetti, which Haiman found particularly cute. "Firmly grasp it! Your hands are too weak."
"Oh… okay." Haiman said simply as he moved his eyes back to the TV; Even after spending a year with her in training, he still had no clue how to properly talk with her. He didn't think anyone in the unit knew how to talk to Vale.
And unfortunately, he was not equipped with the social skills to navigate her. Discontent and depressed by his own limitations, Haiman continued eating his pasta and watching Full House.
"Pioneer Actual."
Clef was startled by the unnaturally-magnified sound of his contractor's grainy voice coming through his shoulder radio. He reluctantly answered it.
"Yes, here." He grumbled; It was very bizarre to hear his callsign outside of a mission, and yet this was a persistent habit of Alpha Six. He supposed it was because of the lack of in-person contact; None of the MTF Team had ever seen Alpha Six himself. Oddly enough, he always sent correspondents in his place; A young, German boy; An old retired sailor; A tall, intimidating businessman.
But never Alpha Six himself.
Clef sighed. Perhaps it was an extreme level of caution and discretion, but it still did not excuse the formalities outside of missions.
"You can call me Clef, if you'd like… sir."
There was a momentary pause over the radio- Clef was initially concerned he'd somehow offended Alpha Six. Then…
"Of course, Clef. I would ask the monikers of the others, but I have something more urgent to dissent."
Clef raised an eyebrow.
"What would that be, Alpha Six?"
"A few hours ago, long-range seismic sensors detected unnatural, erroneous movements within a large body of water located in Alberta, Canada. Furthermore, this area is also rife with recent missing persons cases, which spiked dramatically around two weeks ago."
Despite Clef's initial dismay at another mission, he felt a slight rise in his curiosity as he heard Alpha Six's report. He shifted in his chair, facing slightly away from the others as he took out a cigarette pack and began lighting one up.
"So, you think it's some kind of sea monster, is that it?"
"I can confirm nothing as of yet. That is what you are all for."
Clef nodded silently, taking a drag from his cigarette- Perhaps this might be the big break he was looking for. Maybe he would actually get to do something, this time.
"Alright. When do you want them ready?"
"You can all keep the night off. Tomorrow night, be ready to deploy in the truck by 2300. Pack supplies to last a few days, as I may have you all stay in that area in the event that we need to monitor its activity."
"Copy, out."
