"We have no tomorrow, but there's still hope for the future."

After about about 15 minutes of cleaning up the scant traces of evidence left by either the GI or Alpha-9's containment team, the group gagged and bound the jittery target they had finally subdued after Cpl. Nemleth snuck around the side trails and scrambled his brains with his rifle.

Iris wasn't sure what to even consider this operation. On one hand, the potential skip hadn't melted their brains or ripped out their colons, appearing mostly mundane. On the other, he was slightly more difficult than expected, owing to Sammy getting manhandled and tossed like a rag.

Speaking of Sammy, she stuck somewhat close to Iris as they staggered back to their van. A basic look at her and how quiet she was gave credit to the idea that she had been particularly affected by being a brief hostage. At least, that's what Iris had thought upon first looking upon her.

She looked dirty, with leaves and dust clinging to her black hair. Her glasses still lay crooked on her face, and she quietly walked with the rest of the team, eyes slowly shifting back and forth.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Iris felt a twinge of worry. She couldn't claim to know Sammy well, of course. She couldn't claim to know anyone very well, considering what her job was and where she had been for the past decade or so. Her social skills were like frayed wires, with the power still on. Do not touch under any circumstances.

Still, she had a duty as Commander to ensure the well being of her agents. And besides, Lee was like her number three. She needed her to help wrangle the other boys in the unit.

But that would come later, she supposed. The fact was, they needed to RTB ASAP. Get extracted with the new ""skip"" and hand him over to the researchers. But they had a ways to go before that…

Carrying the new capture was difficult, due to his size. Stripping him of his gear helped, but they had to have Paul carry him over his shoulder, as the others briefly went over and noted down what he had been carrying.

First off, they had gotten a good look at his rifle. Asher noted that it was the M16A1, a "Vietnam War classic", according to him. 5.56 NATO rounds, the usual you'd expect from the AR platform. Notably, it was worn and used. Iris remembered thinking that it seemed to be cared for intimately, in a way. It had chips, it seemed scratched and used, but it retained a flair to it that she couldn't seem to place. The triangular barrel had faded blue tape wrapped intimately around it, as an impromptu grip of sorts. There was dirt in some of the hard to reach corners, typically what one would expect if you were in a situation where you just needed to make sure it would fire correctly, and one didn't have time to worry about cleanliness.

Speaking of cleanliness, another thing the team had noted down was the state of his uniform. It wasn't filthy, exactly, but it was marred in dirt and dried blood. The olive drab color seemed to be darkened from an extended period of being like this. A unit patch that seemed like the only thing to be mostly clean was visible on his shoulder, that of an eagle. Again, Asher pointed out that it was that of the 101st Airborne Division of the United States Army, 'Screaming Eagles." Calling them the heroes of Bastogne, among historical references Iris knew she'd probably have to look into later.

Moving away from the uniform, she examined a couple other items of interest they had scrounged from him.

The one that stood out to her the most was a gleaming silver lighter, with small bits of golden color in them. On it was the familiar bald eagle symbol, as one would expect. However, what caught their eye was the inscription on the zippo lighter. Namely, "Presented by W.C. Westmoreland, General of the Army. Chief of Staff."

Jim Asher, once again, perked up at this.

"I know that name. Commanded all US forces in Vietnam for most of the war until he got kicked upstairs and replaced by Abrams.", he had somewhat gleefully pointed out, seemingly happy to have information to show off.

"The Abrams? The actual fucking namesake?", Vic questioned, raising his eyebrows at the reveal.

"That'd be the man, yeah. Looks like the big guy's the real deal. Time travel, maybe? We've seen weirder.", the Latino voiced aloud, looking at the assembled gear and items they had been looking over.

Paul hummed to himself, silently looking over everything, as well as the man he had sent to see stars, calmly saying, "Hm. I would have thought there would have been more to it than that. Seemed like there was a rabbit hole we were waiting to fall into, but…".

Though Nemeth tapered off, Lee finally spoke up with her familiar authoritative tone with, "Doesn't really matter now. It's the researcher's job to poke him full of holes and see if there's anything else to it. I'm not gonna say 'Mission Accomplished' quite just yet, but…be glad there haven't been any unforeseen consequences as of now."

With a smirk, Asher replied, "Ooooh, it's the G-Man. Are you gonna offer us a battle we have no chance of winning, too?"

A small snort from Nemeth, and a small grin from Vic caused Sammy to clap back with, "Oh, fuck off, Jim. Enough with the Half Life LARP for today. For the last time, we're not in Black Mesa and we are not the HECU, and your brown ass is NOT Adrian Shephard."

"I could be if I wanted to, you know..", Jim continued to tease.

"Shephard was a MARINE, Jim! I don't hear your ass shouting 'Hoo-rah!', just weird shit off the internet."

Silently, Iris found herself slightly irritated, despite getting the subject material, but she digressed.

These Misfits were called that for a reason, after all. The lot of them were gigantic fucking idiots off duty, and it even affected Sammy ever so slightly. Even if she was just about the only ones who could reign them in, yes, but she was still mostly a friend of them. Iris had heard that they had past experiences with each other pre-Foundation, but nothing she could confirm. Even so, regardless of how stupid they could be, they were reliable when it came down to it, and that's what mattered the most.

Even if they could rile her up if she wasn't in a good mood, they were still her team. Still her team.

Eventually, the fucking around tapered off once Iris had given them one too many looks, and they packed up the stuff and shoved it into a van provided to them for the job. The zip tied humanoid got shoved in the back, and the rest of the small team piled in, with Paul driving. Iris managed to get shotgun, and the others piled into the back like a clown car.

Silently, they all sat as Sammy began contacting Adams (who would likely in turn inform Clef about the mission) over the radio. For now, silence. A silence that felt almost oppressive to Iris.

Despite it all, she felt…

Like she was out of her element. No matter what people told her, what other agents said, or anyone said, she still felt trapped. Trapped in a box, one that she had grown too comfortable in. A feeling of loneliness that she felt stuck in, despite the efforts of people like Adams, and the rest of Alpha-9. She had been snappy, unfriendly even until now.

Yet what else could she do? She was a skip, and despite the privileges and command, she was still trapped here. Might as well just keep going. Ignore the ills, ignore the past, ignore the phantom pains of a life erased in an instant.

Sometimes she felt as if life had ended when her hand had reached through that photo, and that bullet fired.

…

"J has come to."

I didn't recognize the voice, but then again, my pounding headache and with my body sore all over, I could have been wrong. My senses still felt so off, so wrong. Last thing I could even vaguely recall was running into someone's stock. Probably snuck around behind me while I tried and failed to take a hostage. God, my head. I could hardly even recognize my surroundings as something medical related.

First things I could really make out was that I was in a hospital bed, or something like one. A gurney? I wasn't sure, but everything seemed white. Like you'd expect from a hospital in a bigger city. The smell of sanitization, like chemicals and spray, hit my nose as well. I didn't hear anything like a heart monitor, but to be fair, I couldn't really hear too much right now.

Speaking of, I couldn't hear that bastard Horseman either. Maybe getting my brains rearranged fucked him up, too. I could hardly even think, anyway. But as of now, zero contact.

Shit, am I captured?

That realization put me on darker trains of thought. Despite being all but forced to run 50 fucking miles to the mountains, I knew nothing of who had been tracking me, and therefore nothing of who currently holds me. I could be anywhere from Guantanamo Bay to a black site I had never known the name of.

Where I'd probably never see the light of day again, now that I think about it.

My eyes began to adjust to the light, and more details became clear. This wasn't exactly a hospital, but it seemed vaguely medical. Cold metal gripped my wrist, preventing me from leaving. Handcuffs, it looked like.

I tried giving them a jerk, finding them sturdy. Looks like running for it isn't an option.

Now that I started feeling marginally better than before, I managed to get a grasp of exactly what my situation was just a little better.

My uniform was stripped off of me, so was my web gear. That would include my ammunition pouches, my bandoleer that was chock full of 12 gauge shells, and a couple 5.56 magazines I could tuck somewhere. My pistol belt and M1911 gone, my precious M1 helmet, my M17 gas mask. All missing. That all tracks, but it still left me feeling bitter. Carrying all that shit with me on just about a daily basis did breed some sentimental feelings.

No use crying over spilled milk, I could almost here my dad say. I didn't think I would have any opportunity to stage anything close to resembling a daring escape anytime soon, but I would want to get my hands on my equipment soon.

Suddenly, I heard a snap to the right of me, and I swiftly turned to the noises direction.

My fuzzy vision had me gaze upon a woman, dressed in some sort of doctor's coat. She wore large glasses that slightly obscured her eyes, due to the light's angle. She wore some sort of greenish sweater or shirt underneath, sitting on a simple stool just away from the bed they had strapped me down too. She reminded me ever so slightly of someone I had known when I was younger, but I knew she was a stranger. She didn't have a warm gaze nor a very welcoming aura, but I couldn't say she was threatening, either.

Rather, she had an aura of curiosity and intrigue. Whether this was good or bad for me remained to be seen.

"The Hungarian must have scrambled your brains really seriously, hm?", she finally spoke, with the hint of an accent. Somewhere in the British isles, likely. Scottish or Irish, could be.

Swallowing my wounded pride over being captured, I gave her a stony look and only responded, "So it seems."

"I laughed and shook his hand,

And made my way back home…"

"I searched for form and land…"

"For years and years I roamed…"

"There's no need for the fear, J. I can assure you that you're not in any sort of peril, not unless you make it so."

"So what, you want me to spill? Because I promise you, I've seen worse conditions than this. You're better off just shooting me at the base of the skull and dumping me off, because I'm sure as shit not talking."

A small smirk graced her lips. Now she was starting to make me a little uneasy.

"There's no need for anything drastic, you know. I assure you that we're probably not who you think we are. We've heard this routine before, round and round it goes.", she said in a very casual tone, like she was, or believed she was telling the truth. It's hard to fake that sort of sincerity, unless you're trained for that sort of thing.

I didn't know many who were skilled in that regard. You had to be a different type of person to fake something like that, whether for good or evil, or in between. Company spooks had people for that, but I couldn't call myself an expert. My interactions with the elusive and elite Spooks had mostly come from my old ""handler"", and he had mostly used us as the muscle.

So whoever I found myself in the grasp of, they were seemingly up there on the tradecraft index. Maybe something to fear, but nothing I could act on.

Well, running around the question wouldn't get me anywhere, would it?

"Who are you people? Who do you work for? You sound American, but the accent is there. Irish, I'll guess.", I grunted out through the soreness.

She quietly hummed, her eyes examining me. She seemed focused on my mannerisms and movements, eyeing me like a piece of meat.

After a moment of silence, she finally answered, "...Irish-American. You have a keen ear, or at least enough background knowledge to tell."

"I'm being held in fucking Pakt territory, then.", I nearly spat with unparalleled venom.

A hint of intrigue graced her face, a slight shift from the smug indifference she had been giving off before..

"Were you listening? We aren't who you think we are. The Warsaw Pact is long extinct, J. No reason to worry about being brainwashed.", she waved me off, briefly spinning in her chair, going around in two loops before facing away from me.

"Well, you're not getting a thing out of me. Fuckin' siding with the Reich must have it's perks, you Irish whore."

Immediately, her face perked up. Further intrigue grew upon it, and my half asleep brain could see the gears turning in her head. Planning, analyzing, trying to find something, maybe. But regardless, none of what she was thinking was likely good for me, one way or the other.

Her silence was broken my a hum, as she seemed to note something down and turned to me, glasses seeming to shimmer in a way. Then, "I see. I think I just might have an idea about what's going on here. Just maybe."

Now she was smiling, and I knew I was fucked.

"The Reich, you said? As in the Greater German Reich, that has continued to exist since the year 1933 into the 1960's?", she calmly asked, almost nonchalantly.

Cautiously, I took the bait and answered, "...Yeah, the fucking Huns. The Krauts with the steel grip over a continent. Hitler's 'Fortress Europa' realized."

For a moment, she seemed taken aback. For a moment, and I barely realized why.

While I had uttered those words, I had risen out of the bed I was strapped to slightly, my fists clenched without realizing and a venomous tone that I hadn't even noticed.

If ever so slightly, she scooted back just a bit, and her normal demeanor returned. Whatever was there had become muted, hidden under her professional tones and bureaucratic front, but what I had said had confirmed something in her head, and it had shocked her a bit. I may have just given away a valuable piece of intelligence I didn't know was even important.

Slowly, my jumbled ideas, theories, and trains of thought began to coalesce into something, something that actually made me take pause and something that I likely had no training or experience in dealing with.

They aren't who I think they are, whoever they are. This is something beyond me, and now I'm caught up in their grasp. They aren't German, not Japanese, not communist, but they're something. And it's a something I can't grasp quite yet, and therefore I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

And from these realizations came just about the only thing that can scare me, truly terrify me anymore.

The idea that, right now, my fate is out of my hands and there's nothing I can do to change it as of now.

I'm in way over my head, and I can't see a way out.

Excerpt from Interview Log [PENDING]-05-1776, dated ██/██/████

Begin Log

Dr. Lilac: Okay, here we go. Please give me a name, or at least an introduction so we can get started.

SCP-[PENDING]: …John. John Charlie Tibbets.

Dr. Lilac: Now we're getting somewhere. Okay, John. I want to go over some of the statements you made and get more insight on what you meant. Firstly, one of the things you had so eloquently put when calling me "whore" was that I was doing so for the "Reich", and beforehand you mentioned a "Pakt". Would you care to elaborate?

SCP-[PENDING]: …It's the Pakt, you know? How else do I put it? The German's way of enforcing their grip over the whole damn continent. The Masters of Europe, or at least that's what they call themselves.

Dr. Lilac: I see. So, the Pakt you speak of is some sort of faction that is lead by the German Reich, yes? What would be it's full name, if you wouldn't mind me asking?

SCP-[PENDING]: The…the Einheitspakt, if I remember correctly. Unity Pact or something like that. None of this "Warsaw Pact" business.

Dr. Lilac: Okay, I think I understand what's going on here. Please do correct me if I'm off. So, Germany has somehow won the Second World War, and they rule over Europe. Am I getting this down correctly?

SCP-[PENDING]: …Yeah, that's right. Why is this such a shocker? You say it like that's not…what happened?

Dr. Lilac: …Are you starting to understand the situation now?

SCP-[PENDING]: …

Dr. Lilac: I'm going to state this as bluntly as I can, for the express purpose of heading off any further hostility that could impact future cooperation. The Axis Powers lost in 1945. Hard. So hard that Germany is hardly even a major power, much less a superpower that actively competes in a Cold War. Japan is basically a glorified US base. You won here.

SCP-[PENDING]: …Victory….?

…

The Voice that had previously ordered the former Lieutenant John Charlie Tibbets, 101st Airborne Division was metaphorically backed up into a corner, and somewhat literally, too.

This whole affair was meant to be a greatly less complicated one, yet even the Horseman could have intelligence failures, and no plan was immune to bad luck. No plan survives contact with the enemy, as the old adage goes. Originally, the partnership between itself and the Lieutenant was meant to be a sort of wandering affair, targeting and eliminating independently, free to roam this realm as they saw fit in a crusade against what lurked in the dark.

Yet plans had gone awry from the start. The Lieutenant had issues, glaring ones in retrospect. Unwavering devotion to a nation and its ideals was certainly a pro in some ways, yet it could be a nuisance under the wrong circumstances. Yet that was minor compared to the quirks the Host had, a sin that was not uncommon to the rest of Mankind.

That is, Wrath. A burning anger that could be harvested for greatness in combat, yet reigning it in was difficult. The Lieutenant beating a man within half of his life had been amusing at the time, yet it had brought on their current predicament by way of unwanted attention from the public. Information spread fast in the modern era, and the Horseman had failed to account for this in its plans. It would learn from this sordid incident, to be sure, yet the fact remained that as of now, the original plan was sunk.

Being captured had not been on its itinerary, and their "containment" had derailed their goals for the foreseeable future. The only saving grace was that the jailers had not yet discovered the concept known as WAR living within the Lieutenant. If only for now, at least. War had known of the Foundation in passing, and it could assume that their previous experience with dealing with other horrors would most likely mean that sooner or later, the researchers would find a method of detecting the Horseman. Especially that "Lilac". Her eyes had been sharp, and her mind was focused. The woman was presumably assigned to the Host's case, which made being outed more of a When than an If.

But a When was not exactly a Now, was it?

That bought time to think. Time to mull over the current intelligence to the best of its ability. They had been backed into a wall, yes, but that wall had loose bricks they could exploit, should they find the right ones.

The Horseman was powerful, indeed, but power alone could not solve this predicament without significant consequences, unforeseen by mortal eyes. Nor could it simply cut it's losses and render previous investments null and void, abandoning it's newest host to an ignoble fate and losing a valuable asset. Wasteful and extremely distasteful. And after all, they'd made a deal.

The Deal itself had been an effort, to be sure. A vague request and two differing ideas of how to fulfill them. To prevent the outcome he knew of a lost war, or ensure that the third one ended in victory. A doozy, to be sure, but one that reflected the ideals and beliefs of the chosen host well. Torn between a hatred that burned foul and hot and a love that bloomed somewhere deep inside a hardened heart. Ideals, ideologies. Men had fought and died for less. At least this host had something worth dying for.

The new Host was curious, to be sure. Very torn internally, cast adrift by the revelations the doctor and his world had thrown upon him, at a time in which the Horseman felt his Host needed no more weight on his shoulders, lest the pressure begin to crack him ever so slowly.

Cracking under applied pressure, almost as if squeezing the shell of an egg. Small fissures forming in the surface of the mind, body, and soul. Cracks that would give way to a mess. A mess that cleaning up after would be a mighty effort indeed. The Horseman had made his choice for a new Host, and it knew it must stick with 'America's Last Son' for the foreseeable future.

But thanks to its inaction and seeming impotence in this current state, problems would begin to rear their heads.

The Horseman had fulfilled its end of the Deal, one way or the other. It wouldn't reveal the fate of the world his host had known quite yet. Let the boy get his bearings, let him land on his feet. The Lord knows he would need it for the trials to come. The beating of the drums pound and pound, coming whether or not the Horseman and his host were ready.

As of now, there was work to do and plans to form. Trapped, but not defeated, not by a long shot. Undiscovered, for now. The revelation of the Horseman to this "Foundation" could be a nuisance, an obstacle, or perhaps even a bargaining chip of some kind. Bargains, deals, and wetwork. Wetwork was one of the larger specialities the Horseman could work well in. Yet still, the Horseman could feel other things here. Other beings, entities it had not felt in a long time, others new and alien. Yet it remained invisible to the Foundation, and to whatever else it had captured here. For now…for now.

It could not speak to his host without drawing attention, because it could feel the presence of things that could sense him if he did so. The Foundation was competent, effective as far as it could tell. It would not do to move too quickly. As such, the Horseman would need to be subtle about his assistance and influence. Small mental pushes, or helping resist certain things.

Yet the Red Horseman would not stay silent forever. It would not do to leave the Lieutenant on such a wrong start to their new partnership, and it knew it could capitalize on their current containment one way or the other. So many things to find, so many instructions to give, and so much potential to be unlocked.

It was just a matter of waiting. Waiting that would likely do no good for the state of the Host, but it was a matter of waiting nonetheless.

…

Time ticked by, but there was no clock to tell me so. Only the agonizing hours of being alone with my thoughts in between interviews, with eggheads trying to figure out what else made me an abomination.

"Anomaly". That's the term they had used for me. Something unnatural, that needed to be contained. For my own safety and that of others. Chained like a rabid dog, a beast.

Fucking fitting, I guess. So much for "fighting what stirred in the dark" or whatever that doppelganger bastard had spoonfed me. I was an idiot, proved once more by falling into this trap.

I had done little but lay in an uncomfortable bed all day, staring and the ceiling and feeling naked without my familiar olive drab uniform. Feeling bare and defenseless without the weight of my webbing and ammo, without my rifle in my hands and my shotgun slung on my back. All stripped away and carried off somewhere I would likely never see them again. The only memories and relics of what I had done and the life I had lived, the world I had been born in. Gone, without so much as a goodbye.

The only possible upside was that, if for now, there were no drums pounding in my head. Nothing to say that I was in danger, not yet. But trapped, caged, I certainly was.

It only took a day to really start feeling the effects of the isolation. The uneasy calm. First, it had been the mad sense of an almost desperate feeling of joy. It wouldn't be hard to understand why.

Victory. "Victory!" is what his subconscious wants to scream out into the echoing hallways of the facility, "Victory!" is what John Charlie Tibbets hears in his mind and wishes to get on his knees and bathe in the warmth of the sun, the living nightmare finally over.

Victory over the Germans. Victory over Japan, Victory for America. The living death that had seemed to grip his world since that fateful day in 1945. The stain is erased, after his short life's efforts. It is done.

These mad thoughts burned in my head, a mad feeling of joy obscured by a silent visage on the outside, as that was all I could express in my small cube.. Yet, slowly, the madness faded into a quiet, almost depressing happiness.

He had made his choice, that he would fight and fight until he was either dead, or America was avenged and strong again. Safe. And yet now both of these were technically fulfilled. Fulfilled, complete, and done.

And that is when the isolation truly set in, when my creeping thoughts of doubt began to knock on my brain.

It was done. So now what? What the hell was I supposed to do now that my entire dream, my entire purpose that I had so dedicated myself to was done?

War hadn't spoken to me since I was still walking free, for whatever reason. I remember getting a sense that he really wanted to avoid this outcome, but now that I'm here…

Fuck. Fuck. This can't be it, right? This can't be how it ends. Stuck here for the rest of my second lease on life, being experimented on and cut apart or some shit. I don't even get to die fighting.

This can't be it. That motherfucker War wouldn't leave me like this. We made a Deal, I'll fight whatever goddamn horrors he throws at me, but I'm not going to have it end like this. I can wait a bit longer.

I can wait.

…

In a somewhat comfy office, surrounded by small luxuries and many relics of a past she still remembered, Doctor Emily Lilac sat working. She was always working on something or other, chipping away at whatever horror the Foundation wanted her to work on. She didn't mind it, honestly. It was exhilarating, at the best of times. Exploring anomalies, what made them tick. But one too many existential horrors had finally gotten her to request transfer to Site-17. Humanoid containment, mostly.

Lilac had done some decent work, at least that's what some people had told her. The doctor had heard suggestions about going into humanoids, that she had the right temperament for dealing with them. Of course, she had been comfortable where she was at with the more dangerous anomalies, ones less prone to friendly conversation. Until recently.

So now, she found herself basically in charge of analyzing and processing an entire new humanoid anomaly. At first, she was slightly nervous. Slightly, because it was her first proper case, but slowly she felt settled in.

Her first proper case, of course, being the new interdimensional GI that Alpha-9 had detained and contained, shipping him back in a separate facility for initial testing and containment. The aptly nicknamed "Hotel California" adjacent to nearby Site-17, arguably both more and less guarded depending on your view of it. The exact defenses and all that was lost on her.

Now here she was, looking over the collected information on her computer. Making a small draft of a theoretical SCP File, with the humanoid's number still up in the air. His status was an anomaly for sure, but whether or not he would end up with an actual number and file rather than just being contained like that CI girl 105 had captured wasn't set in stone. That would require more testing, and Lilac would need real confirmation and more evidence before she could even think of giving him a number.

It would be really disappointing if he didn't get a file, so a part of the doctor almost hoped there was more to him than that. And from the vibe she had gotten from him in that initial interview, Emily Lilac didn't really need to hope.

There was something off about the man, from what she had felt. A violent, foul mouthed Yankee soldier was certainly sitting before her on that bed, but there was something behind the eyes she hadn't been able to put her finger on. She remembered him having blue eyes, but specifically there was something in them she felt there had been more to.

Just to make sure she wasn't going crazy, as one was prone to becoming working at the Foundation, Lilac called her assistant into her office to confer.

It only took about a minute for the smallest little thing Lilac had seen (sans Iris Thompson's height of 4'11) walked into her office, dressed professionally, if a little messy, and seemingly wide awake compared to most assistant researchers.

Husun Avery, standing at around 5 feet 5 inches, was a relatively tiny little thing. The girl came from somewhere in Southeast Asia, though Lilac had forgotten to ask where. She always seemed to have some kind of smile on her face, even if subdued by working at the Foundation. The realities of these jobs usually crushed the spirits and hopes, and especially morals, of those who served under them. Yet not this one. That was part of the reason Lilac had wanted her as an assistant, having a unique perspective on different affairs. It would do well to have differing viewpoints on matters, especially in such strenuous and punishing jobs like these.

So, Researcher Husun Avery found herself reporting to her superior's desk, seeming chipper. She had only the slimmest remnant of an accent, largely dissipated from her time living in the US, most likely.

"You needed me, Doctor Lilac?", Husun greeted professionally, her coat clean and her glasses slightly shining in the fluorescent lights.

"Just needed your input on the new humanoid. I'm putting him as a Safe, and drafting potential numbers for official SCP Classification. I was going to start working on the official article, too. That is, if the GI is even given a number. Might as well just trash it now, since it doesn't look like it."

Lilac carefully used her tone the way she needed it to go. To sound disappointed, and to prod Husun into what she wanted.

"Probably hoping for more, weren't you? First case, I think everyone wants theirs to be a big one.", she responded empathetically, her smile dipping.

"I don't think I need to hope. The first interview, what did you think? What did you see?", Lilac asked her assistant calmly, hiding her interest.

Husun thought for a moment, remembering the transcript and video recording provided to her not long afterwards. Ticking in her head, rolling it around and looking at it from different angles than Lilac would have.

That's why she was chosen, after all. She had a different sort of eye, and that was something Lilac could appreciate.

"Honestly, Doctor Lilac? I think he's hiding something, but not necessarily out of malice or anything like that. When you told him about the war, how it ended, I think it really touched him in a way.. That way isn't something we know, but I think more interviews can uncover it.", she summarized, stating her opinions expertly and clearly, with a small hint of further empathy for the humanoid.

Maybe an issue, but for now, Lilac could ignore it.

"Well put, Husun. Second question. Do you think there's more to him than we can see? As in, official classification worthy?", Lilac asked, hiding her interest much less than before.

Her glasses seemed to shimmer a moment, before the younger researcher said, "I think we'll need to dig whatever is in there out."

Lilac smirked a very devious smirk and said, "Schedule more interviews. Thank you for your input, Researcher Avery."

Then, Doctor Emily Lilac cracked her fingers and began to type away.