As you roamed the halls of Site-19, something drew you to make a very risky decision. Maybe it was duty to your superiors. Maybe it was duty to the man himself. Or maybe, just maybe, you were one of the few people with the biggest death wish to come knocking on the door of Doctor Alto Clef.

No reply from inside, but based on the sigh of mild irritation, someone was indeed inside. When you opened it, you saw the infamous reality sink in all his—... Actually, he was quite possibly one of the most ugliest people you've ever seen. Shorter than average and out of shape at best. Being anywhere near him gave the overwhelming sense of unease, as if trusting a serpent not to pull the trigger of a gun constantly put at your head. His mouth was slack and relatively displeased with your presence, surrounded by a bushy beard with gray streaks of hair.

Clef chose to wear an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, shorts, combat boots, a cowboy hat that covers his third eye and some of his long, messy blond hair, and a horribly worn and faded Pink Floyd t-shirt that he says is "for old time sake." The man rarely even abides standard Foundation dress code, especially since his promotion to Director of Training and Development for Foundation personnel. He doesn't even wear a lab coat unless a higher up throws a fit.

"Can I help you?" Clef asked, his tone dripping in dry sarcasm. He didn't look up to acknowledge your existence. Thankfully, you won the coin flip. Evidence being: your chest was not currently full of lead. That was likely just because he was currently wiping down the barrel of his shotgun with a rag, prioritizing his firearms. Next to the essentials on his desk was a ukulele, which was visibly out of tune. He had various weaponry, even beyond firearms. Some were even anomalous themselves, such as the atomic revolver, which could gave the victim cancerous tumors when shot. Needless to say, the Ethics Committee weren't his fans... nor was he their fan. Except Cimmerian.