| Personnel # | 34908753 |
|---|---|
| Name | Edward A. Llewellyn |
| Gender | Nonbinary |
| Hire Date | 05/21/1997 |
| Department | Research Division, Unusual Incidents Unit |
| Grade | Chief Science Officer |
| Assignment | Radioauroral Monitoring Station – Barrow |
Summary of personnel service
It’s currently 1999, it’s the infinite dark of December, and Junior Science Officer Dr. Edward A. Llewellyn of the Unusual Incidents Unit is wearing ridiculous glasses.
The Barrow station was inaugurated during the Second World War, a shield against an enemy of both physical and extra-physical horrors. In 1942, the Federal Bureau of Investigation broke new ground with a series of radio monitoring stations across the United States, an ear to the adversarial skies. Those who served in this domestic front know 30 stations dotted the country to seek out and destroy the spies and traitors who transmitted on these airwaves of deception. Those who really served know it was 34.
Dr. Llewellyn was far too young to see the Lovecraftian fight with the likes of the IJAMEA and Ahnenerbe Obskuracorps. In fact, they were far too young at all. The 20-something doctor (of science and medicine), lawyer and coin collector knew lifetimes of expertise, and the transcripts to prove it. They spent 30 years in the laboratories, libraries and lecture halls of a dozen universities—they were younger than 30. Only the UIU, a long-suffering outfit that long ago would have been forced to hang up its shingle if these sorts of anomalies garnered consternation, took them in.
Sitting in the tundra beside the Barrow station, in an oversized orange parka that could hardly challenge the New Year’s Eve snow, Dr. Llewellyn’s watch beeped midnight. They blew their lonely party horn. It broke.
With a sigh, Dr. Llewellyn stood up and gazed upon the curse that could be blamed on only themself. They abandoned everyone they knew to chase the romantic triumphs of arctic explorers, pioneers of some of the last frontiers. Instead they were self-exiled with the dregs, the raucous station where the Bureau sent its least inspiring flunk-outs and greenhorns, far away from D.C. where the echoes of dropped shot glasses could go unheard by the midlevel bureaucrats who leave at 3 p.m. on a Friday.
In a lingering moment they would reenter Barrow station. They were a tired scientist who, five burning shots of shitty gin later, nevertheless could delight in the drunken respite with comrades, sharing the same desire to escape the frozen realities of their sentence. But once promoted they could embrace the new Millennium anywhere they dreamed in a full post. They could delight in a team driven with passion, not about escaping their jobs, but about discovering the terrifying truths of our world. They could choose to become anything, anywhere but here.
It’s currently 2014, it’s the infinite dark of December, and Chief Science Officer Dr. Llewellyn is wearing ridiculous glasses.