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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚒. 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚒. 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

cw: drug mention

Canvas saddle bag. Mnemosyne steno pad – A5, of course. Two LEUCHTTERM1917 Drehgriffel – ballpoint pens, black and red ink, moss and orange barrels. Extra-firm Blackwing pencil. Steel Blackwing pencil sharpener. Travel-sized Neutrogena Norwegian hand cream, half-empty. 16oz water bottle, insulated, with a little sippy straw. Loop earplugs, case hooked onto one of the straps. Vape. Vape charger. Extra juice cart. Protein bar, in case he's hungry. Two extra protein bars, in case someone else is hungry. No cellphone, not allowed that here, but his Discman and his earbuds fit inconspicuously enough, so he slides them in as well. He can wear them for the walk over. It might help to soothe his nerves a little.

He still has two hours before the orientation starts. So at least one and a half before he's reasonably allowed to leave his room. And hypothetically, he could leave his room at any time, he doesn't think they lock them in at night; it would be nice, maybe go for an early morning stroll — early, early morning stroll — hit his vape (he's not about to test the smoke detector sensitivity on his first night, thank you) in peace and try to stop his chest from thudding like it's been since he'd arrived, but — he hasn't. Nobody's told him the rules, and if there's one thing Seth likes, it's guidelines. Acceptable parameters. Or something to gauge off of — someone else to make the mistake, ask the question first. He will if he has to, but if he doesn't have to —

— well. The time passes anyways. He fixes his hair in the mirror twice, combing the pomade through and fussing with it until it looks bad enough that he has to take a do-over – Blind Barber, for the record. Smells like amber and tonka. Delicious. He loves the notes of almond. Leaves a little earlier than he told himself he would to give Rohan a little wake up call; he yanks the blanket off the bed like he did when they were in college, and tosses a bar at his head, only wincing a little when it actually hits him. It's soothing and familiar enough that, for a moment, when he slips his earbuds in and starts down the hall, it feels a little more like a university dorm than it does a hospital wing.

The feeling carries him through the door and into a chair with an empty seat beside it. His bag lands in the seat next to him, which he hopes his colleagues take as a hint, because it's never stopped feeling embarrassing to be an adult saying sorry, saving this for someone, but he is, so. He pulls his notepad and pens from his bag, lays them out on the table in front of him, and dates the first page, ORIENTATION in big block letters at the top. He's one of the first, and only pulls his earbuds out and shuts his Discman off as more of the others start filing in. The room starts to swell with sound and movement — just shuffling and murmurs, but it's enough for the wind to fall from his sails completely when he raises his head and starts looking around.

Not a lot of familiar faces. Some too familiar, but impossible to place. Enough to give him the lightheaded, dizzy feeling that's plagued him — most of his life, but flares any time anyone at the Foundation has him doing anything but minding his own business. Ro's explained the difference between amnestics and dissociatives a million times, but the shit they dose them with just feels like ketamine with tendrils. And, God, are people talking already? It's all ringing in his ears and the RBF he knows he's making and wishes he wasn't – eye contact and smile, goddammit – he'd to stop his lip from twitching first. It takes him a second. He's used to it. Hopefully, the smile that follows – once he feels like a person again – isn't as alarming as it feels.

Rohan's filled the seat beside him at some point during his little episode, slung his bag on the back of his seat, and between the jab at his ribs and the water bottle he's retrieved for Seth, he's able to check back in, with enough time to start sketching down names and impressions — chicken scratch that can't be read over his shoulder and an inconsistent shorthand that'd be harder to decode than it's worth if they could, but the sounds of pen on paper is unmistakable. He watches for people's reactions to the fact of his note-taking. Sorry, folks. That's what he's here for. Studying you.

God. Do any of these people want to be here?

It's almost a comfort, the grimness emanating from so many corners of the room. The assurance he's not the only one with concerns, and the — freedom from being the biggest buzzkill of the pack. He might be sour on the assignment, but he can sit through an orientation like a professional, more than — the operatives among them especially — seem to be able to manage. A kick under the table seems to signal his turn and he refreshes his smile, fully human and mostly authentic this time – trying to be, at the very least.

"Hey everybody! I'm – Cowboy Greeting?" It's half a question when he says it, call sign still foreign and gaudy in his voice. "But Seth's fine, whatever you prefer. It's, uh – well. I'm looking forward to getting to work with all of you; most for the first time, I believe, though I know I have one or two past co-conspirators in the room."

The chuckle he chases that with is half-hearted, maybe more artificial than the overhead LEDs, and painfully social worker-coded. Jesus Christ. And his mouth is even drier, almost as dry as the room. A fucking mess. A debacle, no saving it. "I'm a junior researcher, currently under AEED.. I haven't been here long, but I've bounced between a few different departments and facilities as part of my work — kind of big-picture policy review? Are people doing what they're supposed to do, do we want them doing what they're supposed to be doing right now, looking at outcomes, that sort of thing. My background prior to starting with the Foundation was in social work and nonprofit policy, so."

Definitely the most long-winded description of paper-pushing legitimacy-bestowing bullshit he could give — and maybe that would've been a better approach for some of his new colleagues, but he's never been in the business of giving his bosses a reason to eliminate his position, and he's not about to start.

"Anyways. Again. Really excited to work with all of you. And if anyone's looking for a gym buddy for their time here, definitely hit me up. Know that's gonna be my first stop after we're done the official tour."

First stop. Definitely. Right after a vape break. He's going to need it.

#fhq.seth #fhq.intros #drug mention tw

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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 … 𝙶𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙲𝚃𝚂 . 𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 … 𝚂𝙽𝙰𝙿 𝙹𝚄𝙳𝙶𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂 . ⤷ cowboy greeting reactions complication

updated 03/04

LIVE WIRE.

Nadia Atalanta is sounds even more made up than Seth Masters. He didn't think that was possible. It's the first thing that latches in his brain — unfortunately for her, this exact type of sandpaper personality slides right off of him, no damage done. He's seen too many wounded people to really take it personally. (He doesn't wonder how she's been wounded. 20 years here sounds like enough.) "I like the name. Seems nice."

ELEVATOR MUSIC.

He doesn't know Elevator Music personally, but he knows her. He knows this type of woman well, has sat in every chair in her office but hers. She's always been his favourite kind, as far as doctors go, for the kind of person Seth is — treatment half as meditation, half as combat sport. She seems like she'd be fun to spar with. He needs to talk to her about his prescriptions. He doesn't respond to Rohan, but for a low hum, scrawling a line in his notes.

OLD SPORT.

Something in his stomach turns when Old Sport starts to speak. It's not his affect; not the odd rhythm he speaks with. It's not his posture, or his tone. It's certainly not what he's saying that rings familiar — Seth's never heard such common words combined in such a... novel way. No, it's his face. His face. Where has he seen that face? He nudges Ro with his foot. "Round Spongebob. That's it." (Where has he seen that face — really, where has he not?)

HIGH FIDELITY.

Seth beams a smile at him over the Polish restaurant quip. It's not that he thinks it's particularly funny, he's just charmed. What can he say? He's got a soft spot for this particular brand of shy older man. Something intoxicating about that kind of inherent awkwardness, offset by decades of knowledge and experience. If only they weren't colleagues. Maybe some conference, somewhere down the line. Through the corner of the smile, to Ro: "Dibs."

#fhq.seth #fhq.intros

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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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art © starparkdesigns

task 001. 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛.

last updated 02/20/2024

BASICS.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 seth hiroshi masters — seth hiroshi from birth, masters 1996-onwards, following his legal adoption.

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 cowboy greeting professionally, apparently; gnomerodeo if you know him from online. believe it or not, it is a coincidence.

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 will sharpe

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 thin scar cutting through his eyebrow, healed-broken nose, occasional facial twitch/spasm

𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 / 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

japanese maple (right shoulder); canada goose in flight (right bicep); soot sprites (left forearm); kermode bear [spirit bear] (crook of left elbow); pistols pointing down (matching, both hips); portuguese water dog [his childhood dog sam] in play (left calf)

pierced right ear, small gold hoop

𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐃.𝐎.𝐁. 38 years old / 2.2.1986

𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 aquarius sun: unconventional, abstract, boundary-pushing, roots for the underdog; scorpio moon: intense, passionate, dramatic, struggles to let others in; sagittarius rising: independent, optimistic, confident, charismatic yet blunt and critical

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 powell river, b.c. / brampton, ontario

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘

ellen and rod masters (parents); mackenzie irish (sister); brandon irish (brother-in-law); june irish (niece)

kaiko mcintyre-masters (daughter, lives with her mother) — his favourite person on planet earth, hands down, would do anything for her, keeps several pictures of her in his wallet, will not be letting anyone here who doesn't already know she exists know about her.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 cis man, he/him

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 gay

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 single, never married.

enjoys hookups and casual relationships; has dated on-and-off; last serious relationship ended several years ago; says he's prioritizing work and his daughter, truly has no interest in committing to the people he meets.

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 thoughtful, considerate, loyal, obedient

𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 timid, disconnected, tendency towards disinvestment, capacity for fixation/malicious compliance

𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 vaping, compulsive gaming, more-than-occasional drug and alcohol use, late night wandering, not texting back

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 gaming (particularly world of warcraft and rust, social games); bass guitar; powerlifting; cooking; rec-league rugby

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 (𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄) tobiko — tiny crusty white mutt. sometimes known as tobi or toebeans. currently being cared for by his parents.

THE FOUNDATION.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 jr. researcher

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍(𝐒) jr. researcher for the reintegration department; field analyst doing site evaluations on a number of mtfs — some might call this "glorified operative hall monitor", which he would resent

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 last worked for the anomalous entities engagement division (aeed), researching the efficacy of humane containment procedures and enrichment programs against more traditional methods of containment — some might describe this as "glorified scp babysitter", which he wouldn't necessarily object to

𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 / 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒

formal credentials include: a b.a. in psychology, with a focus in cognitive and behavioural psych; a masters of social work, with a focus in public policy and family systems; several years of experience writing policy in the non-profit sector, several years of experience working with vulnerable clients in the field

informal credentials include: an impossibly high tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit, an iron stomach, thicker skin than you'd imagine, genuinely sense of care for those around him, not caring whether or not he personally gets fired, fluency in boardspeak

EXTRAS.

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 to be added.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 to be added.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 / 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 to be added.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 gideon nav, the locked tomb; dr. wilson, house; antigone, jean anouilh's antigone; camilla hect, the locked tomb; oh dae-su, oldboy

𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 to be expanded upon. for the time being, see my cg tag.

#fhq.task #fhq.seth #seth.task #LOTS I STILL NEED TO ADD I KNOW I JUST WANTED . SOMETHING UP #least unsettling list of character inspirations /s

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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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𝚠𝚑𝚘: @cowboygreeting and @homegrownkel 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝: first contact 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎: ? 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗: ?

It was easy to spot them out from across the green. They – Garden Variety – towered, after all. It hadn't been Seth's only takeaway of him; nervous with a nice smile, experienced (three decades at the Foundation, god damn), one of the more normal people in the room, fun accent to boot. Someone worth being friendly with. The height is the most identifiable out of all these factors from afar, and what makes Seth notice him from so far away.

He doesn't decide to follow them, per se. It's certainly not a chase — even if Seth is gaining on him pretty quickly. It's a garden variety chance encounter, as contrived at any other; they would have crossed paths either way. Nothing ever just happens, anyways, there's always a little push somewhere. As long as the motives are as mundane as mid banter-as-friendly introduction, which is all Seth has in mind, the push is justifiable.

He tries not to sneak up behind them, lets his Red Wings crunch into the gravel underfoot, comes from a more parallel angle. As long as they aren't entirely tuned out, he's been provided fair warning. Seth puts on a smile, and clears his throat. "Heading to the labs? Going that way myself, mind if I join you?"

#fhq.seth #fhq.gv #gv.1

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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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𝚠𝚑𝚘: @cowboygreeting and @livewireatalanta 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝: lifting session #1 and the beginning of a beautiful friendship 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎: the indoor gym, at the residential complex 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗: feb. 19, following the first day's activities

The sweatpants were the right choice, at least for the walk over. He hadn't realized how far the gym would be from his little apartment, though he'd known they were in different buildings. It's not like he has a problem being seen — he'd be jogging to the gym wearing less had he been back in Arizona — it's just. These are all professional colleagues, and Seth feels a little ridiculous. Who here is he showing off for, really? It's not like there's another point. Well. Besides feeling like God's gift to mankind when he walks past a mirror, but that's fleeting, and supremely vain — which he is, to be sure, but this is not the place to be feeling himself like that, and not the people he needs to be impressing with his physique.

Maybe one or two of them. Unprofessional, sure, but it's hardly Seth's fault this place is crawling with handsome older men. Honestly, kind of a buffet. If he didn't work with – or for – them, God. God. Shan't be spoken of. Really, even in his own head is a little too loud. He'll need to find someone to gossip with (other than Ro, he couldn't stomach what he'd hear back) at some point or he'll die, or explode, or something. To do that, he'll need to make friends, start a shortlist of candidates to be one of the girlies. And the first step to that is putting himself out there.

He said he'd be hitting the gym, so that's what he'll do. Live Wire — Nadia? Agent Atalanta? The scary woman. She said she'd be hitting the gym at some point too. Seth isn't sure if he wants to run into her or not until he makes it to the door and sees she's beaten him to the squat rack; in the moment, he says yes, okay, I can do this. If he has to trace a few steps back down the hall so she can't see him power-posing, just to get in the right mindset, whatever, it's fine. Whatever he has to do to put the right kind of smile on when he knocks on the door, crosses the threshold.

She seems... busy. He wouldn't want to interrupt her set. So he gets himself ready instead, stripping off the sweats and the hoodie, feeling — ridiculous, quite frankly, in the stupid TikTok tights. His ass looks phenomenal, yes, but at what cost? His dignity?

Too late to worry about that now. He stretches instead, glancing back at her from the corner of his eye every now and then, just waiting for a natural pause for him to say hello, introduce himself. It takes fifteen painful, grueling minutes before he can work the courage up. By then, it already feels too late, and he's half-thinking she's doing this on purpose, so he doesn't have a chance to say hi and she can avoid talking to him altogether — but. That would be ridiculous, right? They're adults. It's fine. He steels himself, and, a little too loud, a little too abruptly, projects across the gym:

"Yo. Hey. Nadia, right? I'm Seth, nice to meet you. You taking me up on the gym buddy offer?"

#fhq.seth #fhq.lw #lw.1

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cowboygreeting · 2 months

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𝚊 (𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍) 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎. 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚢, 𝚢'𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗.

𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚘. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜:

you walk up to the helicopter and step inside, bag and suitcase in hand. the pilot greets you brusquely; you smile at him anyways. it's not kindness, it's courtesy, and you will show it to others regardless of whether you're shown it or not. that's character. and if he doesn't want to talk, fine, you won't talk. you'll sit down and stretch out. your headphones, attached to your old discman, slip over your ears. you tune in and drop out as the beating rotor whisks you away.

you're listening to — not your favourite album, though certainly your choice for when your cd storage is as limited as it appears to be. yer favourites. yer favourites indeed. when did you become a best of album kind of man? it seems like it must have been — a long, long time ago. you press play.

⏯ now playing ... SCARED ... by THE TRAGICALLY HIP

this was one of your favourites. after your parents took you in. they worked hard, making sure you felt like — one of them, part of them. you remember rod sitting in the basement with you, handing you your first jersey in a package you know ellen wrapped up for you. this song was playing. he said he'd take you to a game that week, and he did. you started skating with him that weekend. he would play this album in the car to and from the dinky little ice rink in your subdivision. this is what you're choosing to listen to, think about your father's laugh, the screech of blades scraping against ice, rattling up your bones and reverberating through your chest. the slam of your shoulder against the sideboards when you were still learning how to stop. you hum it under your breath, too quietly for the pilot to hear (you hope) — "there's a precious few, at the root, that can prove, this is all nothing but cold calculation..."

[ A SONG FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD STARTS PLAYING, A MELODY THAT REMINDS YOU OF A TIME WHEN YOU WERE A HAPPY CHILD — ONCE. ]

this is the song you sing to yourself so you don't hear the one in your head. it's discordant, never quite right, but persistent. you hear it now, in between the chopping of the helicopter. it's not really a song, per se, so much as a woman's voice, the implication of a melody. good morning, good morning, you slept the whole night through, good morning, good morning to you. you wonder where it comes from. you know that it's from an old movie, you've looked it up and seen clips, but not like that, it's not the same song. you have a feeling, but you'd rather it not be — you'd rather it be something you'd overheard at work. something you'd heard taylor singing to kai, some fourteen years ago. maybe something your sister sings to hear daughter now, all the way out east.

the sun crests over the treetops, pine spears breaking up the pink-lemonade sky. you'll be the first to admit that the sun rises in this part of the world like it does nowhere else. one thing to like about the assignment, at least. good morning, good morning, it's great to see my friends, good morning, good morning, to you. it makes you a little dizzy, when you listen too long. when you focus too hard. you start tasting rust in your mouth. as your daughter would say: "something wrong with you for real, dad."

𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝚕𝚎𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜:

a week ago, you’re on vacation. you’re in line at the first-ever starbucks with your daughter, her arm looped through yours. you’re ordering her the biggest size of the worst drink you’ve ever heard of, and get a small — no, tall, sorry, yes — americano for yourself. she thanks you, and you tousle her hair, to her immense indignation. she spends fifteen minutes fixing it in the bathroom — and texting, probably. you don’t mind waiting, even when the minutes are ticking down, before you have to go. she’s happy today, you aren’t going to be an asshole and spoil her fun. you’re going to miss her. you’ll make today good.

you spend the rest of the morning on a bench, watching a fishmonger haul their catches up from the boats. she sketches their moving forms, the fish thrown without care. she takes a glitter pen and colours in their shiny scales. you love it. you ask her for a page of her sketches and she gives you the book. you promise to buy her another and you do. you promise to give it back to her when you’re done. she says only if you draw in it too. you don’t know how to draw; you agree anyways. you’ll try, for her, as you always have.

both of you cry big fat tears when you say goodbye. she sobs into your shoulder; she's never gone a whole year without seeing you. since the day she's gotten a phone she's never gone a week without texting. she doesn't know what she's going to do without the stupid, bad memes you send her. you hold her in your arms while she shakes, and while you know she's been smaller before, that there was a day where she fit in the palm of your hand, you don't feel like it's true. you don't feel like she could be any more fragile — like there could be a decision wronger than leaving now, not staying to keep her safe. you tell her the answer is obvious: she's just going to have to look at better memes. or go on reddit. she starts crying again, probably because of how utterly unconvincing you are.

it'll only be a year. it'll only be a year.

[ A FIDGETABLE, ANALOG ITEM, CAN BE KNIFEY THOUGH YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD REASON FOR IT TO BE ]

the sketchbook stays in your carry on, but you pull out one of her other parting gifts; she's always loved trinkets and knick-knacks, and while you weren't that kind of person before her, you've turned into one. you've never managed to let go of anything she's given you. the latest is the rock-em sock-em robots she picked up from one of those little stores in pike place, that she bought when you weren't looking and gave to you very solemnly.

"these are for you and uncle ro. so you don't die of boredom out there." you thanked her seriously, and it made both of you burst into tears again. even now, you can't hold back your sniffles. it's been so hard with work, trying to be close to her physically, getting to be part of her life — but phones and online, that let you stay close. she's going to be a whole other person when you get out of this place. a year is longer than any length of time could possibly be, when you're fifteen years old.

(she'll be sixteen when you're back. you're missing her birthday. doesn't matter that her mother already has her present from you, you're missing it. you missed last year's, too. because of that conference.

what could possibly have been at that conference that was more important than her?

what could be beyond these trees that could be more important than her?)

it doesn't matter what kind of work you'll be doing. how excited rohan is, or anyone else. how important it could be. that girl is your life. you already feel the regret sinking in. but it's too late now. you're getting close. and something terrible, a migraine's nasty cousin, is pounding behind your eyes. you just need to close them for a second...

[ A PLACE OF GREAT PERSONAL SIGNIFICANCE, BE THAT POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE ]

when you open them, you swear, for a split second, that you're back in montreal. on the western tip of montreal island, locking up your bike outside the staggering glass walls of the greenhouses. you're on the macdonald campus, waiting for your roommate to finish the parasitology class he decided to take out here for some goddamn reason, though you don't really mind, because the arboretum is beautiful and you don't know if you'd have made the trek out here if not for him. you're twenty-one and there's a party tonight, if you want to go. you've been invited, and everybody knows that means he'll be tagging along, too, so it comes down to whether or not he wants to come. if you have fare for the bus, you'll take the bus back to the city. a very small part of you hopes that you won't, so he'll put his feet on the back wheels and his arms around your waist, back to your apartment, trying not to wipe out in the slush. it's just a split second, but it's so, so real, the smell of pine and snow and gasoline, the sound of his voice —

no, you're just stepping off the helicopter. you only hear his voice because he's here, waving at you from behind the – director, presumably, and your new ombudsperson. you'll take the welcome packages and fill out the forms and do everything you have to do before you go find him properly, but the familiarity of it is soothing enough to ground you in place. you're glad you have a friend here. you'd be — fine, otherwise, but it wouldn't... be worth it. worth the excursion, worth losing a year of your life to whatever fresh hell your employer's cooked up for you, but you see the glimmer in his eyes all the way from over here when he sees you and waves, and, okay. maybe it'll be okay. hell, maybe it'll be a little like old times.

you have a new name here. you whisper it under your breath: cowboy greeting. cowboy greeting. cowboy greeting.

seth masters really doesn't seem like the kind of guy who can handle being a broken scale of themis, whatever that might mean. but maybe cowboy greeting can. only one way to find out.

#fhq.seth #fhq.prompt #extremely extremely belated but i want today to be a writing day and needed a warmup

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