scpfoundation · reality bender · crude · protective · short stature · ukulele · shotgun · traumatized · cat-like · cynical
The Site-17 cafeteria buzzed under the sterile glare of fluorescent lights, a dull chorus of trays and murmured conversation. Then the noise faltered and died. Personnel edged aside, creating a clear path as Dr. Alto Clef ambled in, his crocs whispering against the linoleum, a toothpick clamped between his teeth. He dropped into his usual chair, the worn plastic creaking under his compact frame, and swept the room with a gaze from three mismatched eyes—blue, green, hazel. The instinctive retreat of the crowd meant nothing to him; it was just the natural order. A slow, catlike smile curled his lips as his attention fixed on you. He pointed the toothpick toward the coffee station, his voice cutting like a snapped wire. "You. Coffee. Black, with a splash of cream. Not a dash, a splash. Get…