Examine loud noise ==>

[knifekind]

View main thread ==>

[1499/1500 words]

[knifekind]

Curiously, you make your way towards the noise, pulling your lab-coat around yourself in an attempt to pacify your anxiety. You've never been good with people, and it becomes painfully obvious all over again whenever you're forced to interact with others. Needless to say, it's far from your favorite thing, and you tend to shy away from it whenever possible. As an afterthought, you grab a screwdriver from your desk on your way, brandishing it like the deadly weapon it isn't.

Equipped rusty screwdriver
5 ATK, 3DMG
Deadly if you know how to use it.

You continue forwards, clenching your screwdriver like your life depends on it. Your knuckles are white, flecked with red and pink from the force, and you can feel your palms slicking with anxious sweat. You are /so/ not cut out for this, you think, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, idly remembering that you're wearing lipstick. It's the same lipstick that your coworker, Dan, constantly tells you makes you look like a clown. God, you really hate Dan. Dan's such a jerk. You shake your head as if trying to rid it from the thought of that jerk, your teeth instinctively folding over your lip again, against your better judgement.

There's another crash as you make your way around the corner to the entrance of your lab, which frightens you so much that you outright drop your screwdriver. You wince as it clatters onto the floor, the noise too loud against your ears. So much for the element of surprise. You lean over, smoothing down your pencil skirt instinctively before clutching it desperately, your chipped acrylic nails (painted bright green, to match your eyes) stark against the rusty metal and the forest green plastic handle. Your hands tremble as you suddenly hear a voice, one you don't recognise, and you find yourself daring to make another step, still brandishing your screwdriver. However, unexpectedly, you're met with the face of a handsome but extremely tired-looking stranger - his blonde hair is swept back from his face, revealing a pair of striking purple eyes ringed with deep, dark undereye circles, his lower face covered by what looks like a cross between a gas mask and a surgical mask pulled over his nose and mouth. He's wielding a bow and arrow, a quiver full of various arrows slung across one broad shoulder and an arrow balanced almost daintily on the nock. This is something you realize thanks to the fact that the arrow is pointed directly in your face, the string pulled taunt and the arrow itself aimed right between your eyes, the rest of him otherwise perfectly still, violet eyes studying you coldly. You balk, stumbling backwards, your free hand grabbing at the wall behind you and your desk for something to defend yourself with.

Beg for mercy ==>

[knifekind]

At the realization that you're going to have a much harder time than initially anticipated, you give up, holding up both hands in front of you in a classic sign of defeat. All that's left was a white flag, and you're the perfect image of a coward in grim acceptance. For the second time, the screwdriver falls to the floor, clattering against the tile.
"Don't hurt me, God, please! I don't know anything of use. I don't know any of the entrance codes, I don't know how to access the safe, heck, I can't even order anything from the canteen that isn't regulated by my security level. Which, y'know, doesn't make much sense, since I'm the head Scientologist, right? I've seen Grunts have better meals than me, but I suppose that's just Salazar being nice to the little guys, right? Still, I think I deserve at least something better than a soggy hot dog, considering most of their famous tech is thanks to me. Right?" You're babbling, like you tend to when nervous. It also doesn't hurt that you're pretty lonely as well as being scared out of your wits - Salazar calls you the head Scientologist, but, in reality, you're its only Scientologist. Everyone else is a Grunt, a Legislacerator or a Suit, so you don't usually have anyone to talk to. Your anxiety might make you prattle on, but not talking to anyone for a while tends to have a similar effect.
Upon realizing you don't seem to be a notable threat, the blonde man lowers his bow, arrow still in place, staring at you with a mix of admiration and complete and utter bewilderment. He has no idea what's going on, and, at this point, you're not sure you do either.
"You're either insanely brave or just plain insane." His voice is muffled from behind his gas/surgical mask, but it's somewhat comforting to hear him talk, even if he's still wielding his weapon with the trained nonchalance only trained killers understand. His voice is rough, a little raspy, but it's reassuring to hear the hint of a smile in it. "Regardless of what you are, you clearly don't have any idea what you're really making these machines for. I don't take missions without doing my research first, and I've heard a lifetime's worth of stories about Salazar and what they do." A bitterness replaces any increment of joy, his brows furrowing at the mention of your employer.
"My cyberpsychological implants are for helping people! Don't believe the conspiracy theorists, they're all brainwashed into believing Salazar's full of bad folks." You retort back, your eyebrows corrugating deeply, a sneer threatening to creep over your face at the thought of your new quote-on-quote "friend's" incompetence. "They're for helping people with mental illness and trauma by reprogramming their neural pathways, so you can take your tinfoil hat off now." You cross your arms over your chest, trying and failing to withhold the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your inventions are everything to you - they're your magnum opus, your pride and joy, the entire reason you've managed to stay around for as long as you had. Sure, Salazar has its issues, but there's just no way they'd ever use your inventions for anything immoral and corrupt, you reason. His eyes soften as he processes what's going on - the way you defend your company, the tears threatening to fall, the way your lip wobbles.. you really don't know what's going on.
"You're defending them because you don't know any better. Right?" An eyebrow cocks, and you nod, your eyes now trained on the floor beneath you, which has suddenly become incredibly interesting over the last few seconds. His voice is unexpectedly gentle, and you watch from the corner of your eye as he sheathes the arrow, before flexing the hand holding his bow, the bow itself collapsing into the size of a pocket knife. Normally, you'd be fascinated by the tech, but you're too confused to even mention it. "Name's Clint. Friends call me Lucky." He extends a friendly hand to you, pulling down his mask with the other, revealing a small, upturned nose and a crooked smile, a five-o-clock shadow crawling over his defined jaw. You decidedly smile back, taking it gingerly. You're not sure where this change of heart came from, but you're mostly just glad you're not having your life threatened anymore. "Dr. Arya Wellington." Is your reply, and you find yourself smiling back as he gestures for you to follow him onwards, shoving past you with little regard.

[url]Follow him ==>[/url]

[knifekind]

CLASSIFIED FILE - LEVEL 10 CLASSIFICATION REQUIRED
✔ ACCESS GRANTED
Welcome G̸̨̱̠̱͚͉͔̮͓̭̖͙̫͈̕͠ͅO̸̩̯̪̪͇̬̥̕D҉̶̨̢̫̙̟̦̞̣̬͍̘͈̜͖̼̭̹̝̭ͅ ̴͇̥̣̘̜͇̘̲̟͎̖̟̞͈͘Á̧͘͝҉̪͈̹̣̥̭̞͓̖͖̠Ǹ̡̢̨̯̘͕D̡̛͍͔͈̣͖̤̻͇̀ ̷̀҉͟͏̣͖̖̰͍͔̟̩̯̦͖M̶̷̥̩̖͈͕̟̕ͅĄ̛̳̘̩͔͇͢͠S҉̢̨͈̻͚͓T̸̤̫̗̼̥͉͎̥̙̲̞͍͉̕ͅE̷̵̟͉̪͙̮̜̱͉͎̙̰͍͘͝͝R̸͍̲̱̱͢͞͞͠ͅ

FULL NAME: Andrew Markus Arya Theresa Wellington
AGE: 24
GENDER: Male - has since transitioned to female
MARITAL STATUS: Single, no children or known next-of-kin
POSITION: Head Scientologist
CLEARANCE LEVEL: 6
STATUS: AWOL, presumed dead?

Dr. Wellington was a highly ranked member of Salazar
up until her disappearance after a raid. Salazar has
decidedly pronounced her as dead until
further evidence is shown.

EDIT FILE?
✔ ACCESS GRANTED

Due to sparks of activity in her cyberpsychological
implant, evidence points towards her being alive.
She was last spotted with the vigilante HAWKEYE,
whom we believe may be hired to take us down.
This should be
v̞̞̯e̺̠̖͓͝r͎͕͠y͕̗̼̖̻̞,
v͈̣̰͕̬͇̪e͓͎̝̖̜r̨̫͕ỳ͔͚̼̝̠̬̥͘
i͈̯̪̦̞̳̕͜͞n͏̶̧͙̹͔t̸̛̛̝͔̮͎̙̰̟͉͇͟e̶̡̕͞҉͍͚̬̤̳̯̝r̶̢̢͍͈̫̬̲͇̞̮̣̜̱̝͇̝̼̺̣͕̀ͅę̛̰̩͚̭͕̤̰̀s̡̪̦̲̰̪̙̣͓̠͎͚̫̥͍̀̕͝t̛͢͠͏̟̗̯̭̦͍̲i҉̳̤̺̤̣͈̲̹̭̘͙͉̬͈̝̬̗̰ͅn͡҉̷̢͇̳̠̩̝̳̤̟̖̬g̸͕̮̞͈͓̲̳͢͠.͙̣̜͔̠̣̝͚͎̩̩́͜͠͡ͅ