ايُصْلِحُ (non-past transitive verb) - to mend, heal, reconcile
At exactly 6:00 am, Director of Site Security Gerald Nichols opened the exterior gate to Site-89 to allow two visiting researchers into the facility. Imam Farhad Rouhani of the Horizon Initiative, who had been to the site several times before and Amin Sadiq, a junior linguist from the Organization for the Reclamation of Islamic Artifacts, who had not. Both men were silent as they were ushered through security checkpoints, while Director Nichols was not (as per usual).
"Good to see you both made it out here in one piece," Nichols said just a fraction too loud, as he never had his hearing aids turned up too high around this place. Gerald had learned early on that not everything at the facility was worth hearing at full volume, especially those goddamned klaxons. "Farhad, what's it been now, ten years?" He gave the Imam a wide grin, the shock of white hair bobbing along as the man hurried down the neutral white corridors towards the Research Wing, visitors in tow. It was a particularly stark contrast after coming in from the active volcanic field outside that Site-89 sat square in the middle of.
Rouhani laughed, a deep chuckle that told Sadiq a great deal about the history between these two men, although it was hard for the younger man to imagine it. ORIA had never been on anything near good terms with al-Qāi'dah-SCP before. Obviously that wasn't the case between the Colonizers and the Initiative, but it didn't matter nor particularly surprise him. Sadiq was doing his best to not jump at every shadow just now, to suppress the ever present fear in his gut that in spite of the months of negotiations and cooperation, this was all just a particularly elaborate trap. It's not like it would be the first time. But ORIA Director Jafari had insisted things had changed, so Sadiq would have to have a little faith.
The way the Director had chuckled after saying that had been unsettling, though.
Nichols and Rouhani either failed to notice the younger man's silent nerves, which he found doubtful given the fact that white hairs rarely lie, or were trying to not make it actively worse as they chattered past him. Sadiq wasn't sure which one he would have preferred, inclusion or silence. Neither made him less on edge, but he supposed it would have been frustrating to try and keep pace with two men in their sixties excitedly shout-talking about their various travels.
At this point, he just wanted to see the book.
Site Director Zala Ababe was a commanding presence, even in a mundane manuscript room with sedate lighting and carefully controlled temperature. Nichols had left Rouhani and Sadiq at the doorway after giving his boss a mock salute and vanishing back into the nondescript hallways, and it was only in that second that Sadiq realized that no, silence was worse. Calling anyone of al-Qāi'dah-SCP an 'enemy' was very old guard of him, but Amin had been trained by that Old Guard and couldn't help feel like he was staring down a woman who would have no hesitation at marching right over his corpse if it got in the way of her goals, however nebulous they were.
But that voice in his head that sounded so much like Director Jafari couldn't help but pipe up to ask, were his fellows at ORIA any different?
It was again Imam Rouhani to the rescue, who Sadiq was beginning to rather like. The man did seem to have a wonderful sense of timing to deflect these anxious moments where Amin felt like he was about to choke on his words rather than manage to get them out. "Ah, Director Ababe, I was just catching up with dear Gerald, but I did not realize I'd get to see you as well. This already has been well worth the trip." It was flowery, over the top, just this side of a shopkeeper offering tea before attempting to sell you the most overpriced rug in Tehran, but somehow even Sadiq realized it was just to cut the tension, in spite of his awkwardness.
It was almost working.
The Director's stone exterior softened, just a fraction, as she smiled at Rouhani with a brilliance that was surprising, given the fact that Sadiq was certain she had already planned at least two or three methods of disabling both men, should it be required. This was a woman who didn't take a lot of chances, but she did have a lovely smile. "Farhad, you don't need to pour it on quite so thickly. I have no doubt you're both eager to get to work."
She stepped to the side, motioning to the archivist desk behind her.
SCP-7028-3bn, as the Foundation labeled it, sat on the podium. It was a simple, unassuming manuscript, although Sadiq couldn't help feel his heart swell to see the flowing Avestan script. By all rights, it shouldn't exist yet here it was, a lost piece of history miraculously returned. It's as if all three of them held their breath for just a moment, even the Director who undoubtedly had seen many more wonders created by the hands of those five monastics.
"Well. You should have all that you need, but if you require anything, Endrick-McCallow said that she would be happy to aid in your research directly or passively. The phone there will go directly to her office. Gerald will also be back to ensure you two remember to eat lunch and dinner as well. I know that you're on a schedule here, so we wanted to ensure we took up as little of your time with protocol as possible." There was just a touch of amusement in her tone as she made to turn towards the door. "Forgive me for both literally and figuratively turning my back to you just now, but there are a few other things that require my attention today."
Imam Rouhani's eyes were just a touch misty, never looking away from the Avesta before him. "A flower has no front or back, my dear Zala. You've already done so much. Thank you." His voice had the quiet awe of a pilgrim first beholding the Kaaba, and perhaps that was what broke Sadiq's frayed composure, his studied silence.
"Why?" Amin hated the way his voice cracked just slightly, making him seem ridiculously young but the strain of it all had to escape somehow. "Just — why now? You know as well as I do what you've done to us, you've blamed on us. Why do you think you can play nice now?" He looked at Ababe with what he hoped was just frustration rather than the convoluted mass of anger, resentment, and fear that were also fighting for dominance. He'd been the only linguist who his superiors had trusted to not get angry, to cause a scene and yet here he was.
Demanding answers he knew better than to think would be given.
To Rouhani's credit, he did not attempt to intercede or make excuses for the young man from ORIA that he barely knew, but rather stood silently to the side as this little melodrama played out. Perhaps the Imam thought it impossible to avoid this kind of confrontation, given the history. Or perhaps he just knew by now when to keep his mouth shut. Either way, it wasn't his question to answer.
But Ababe didn't hesitate to do so.
"I suppose now is as good a time as any, but that isn't an answer that brings any peace, is it? Our histories contain so much done so very wrong, both combined and apart." Zala stood silently, regarding the young researcher with an indecipherable gaze. No pity, thankfully, but too resolute to be understanding. "I can't do penance for the sins of the past, nor may I absolve them. Neither can you. But — well, what is that saying, Farhad?" She paused, looking over at the other man briefly.
"… jāt khāli-yé. Your place was empty. I won't give you empty platitudes or pretend the past does not matter, because it always does. We know that deeper than most," Ababe continued, her Ethiopian accent making her Farsi sound a bit clipped, but getting the point across all the same. "But what I can ensure that the future that I am in control of — well, and so far as the Overseers have agreed with me — your seat at the table is to filled. As it should be." A shadow passed over her face, just briefly. "For too long have we been splintered, and the task is just too great."
A sort of heaviness sat on Sadiq's shoulders at her answer, and he stumbled slightly as he tried to respond in kind. "The task is indeed great." He paused, feeling like an awkward lad of 8 at his first day of school, intimidated by the sheer scope of all that he did not know. "Thank you."
Ababe inclined her head in understanding. "I'll leave you to your work, gentlemen." And it just as both researchers began to settle in, pulling out notebooks and approved paraphernalia, the Director paused again at the door way.
"One question, if I may, Researcher Sadiq?" Amin looked up, a pencil already in his mouth for transcribing. "How did ORIA come to know of 7028-3?" It was asked in a tone that was intentionally detached, merely curious, but he could practically see Rouhani's shoulders shaking with restrained laughter from the corner of his vision. That had been the crux of the early negotiations, trying to get that information before any agreement was reached between the Organization and al-Qāi'dah-SCP, but taken off the table when it became clear it was a nonstarter.
Masterful how she had elected to try and get it out of him now. But his superiors had cleared it, should anyone ask, so Sadiq fumbled to get the pen out of his mouth to answer. Properly.
"A persistent visitor to the dreams of our Director, khanoom. Three of them, actually. They made it clear — well, that this was important."
Director Ababe didn't laugh, not that anyone would have expected her to. But something clicked into place in her memory and she nodded at both men as she closed the door behind her without another word.
As always, there was work to be done.