#given how the occupation of the library has taken up a lot of ink this is important to consider

[archivlibrarianist]

There is damage in the library, but it's not to the books or special collections. Occupiers even helped the university's archivist/special collections librarian attend to some of the special collections, so that they'd be safe.

Concerning special collections:

"The next morning [after the initial April 29 occupation of the library, April 30, special collections librarian and archivist Cris] Paschild explained who she was to protesters guarding the entrance to the library. They eventually let her in and together they worked to clear out and secure the library’s special collections.

"'They actually were really receptive and seemed to hear what I was saying and what my concerns were,' Paschild told OPB. 'I appreciated that.'"

Concerning damage to the building versus to the library collection:

"...But [PSU Operations Assistant Director Cary] Morris, who has been overseeing parts of the cleanup since Friday, noticed the library’s books were largely undisturbed.

"'The book stacks seem pretty untouched,' Morris said. 'There was a lot of graffiti and signage that said, "leave the books alone" or "don’t touch the books."'

"The university’s Dark Horse Comics collection, which had originally been reported as missing or stolen, also appeared to be intact."

I've previously posted a timeline on this topic; this article is also linked there.

[vateacancameos]

How To Move to Night Vale: Step 1, Arrive in Town; Step 2, Automatically Become a Resident

Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale Characters: You, Minor Cecil Palmer, Other characters Words: 1476

Summary: How does Night Vale get new residents? Given the high death count, either all the citizens have a TON of kids, or Night Vale simply ... acquires new people. I imagine the town is sentient enough to pull in people it likes. Here's a story of how that might happen.

***

You don’t intend to move to Night Vale. It just sort of … happens? You have a good job and a good home, and you are perfectly satisfied—no, not satisfied … content—with your life. But Night Vale happens, and you just go with it, like you always do. Your friends have always told you its your best trait.

You’re traveling to visit your sister, and on the drive across the desert that takes you to her, you stop overnight at a motel on the edge of the town you hit around supper time. You think it’s a little odd that you have to sign the register in blood—you have a perfectly nice working pen in your bag—but hey, if they want to conserve ink, who are you to tell them otherwise? You’re just passing through.

The next morning, after one of the best sleeps you’d had in years—you aren’t sure if it was the mournful moaning three doors down or the sickly sweet aroma bubbling out of the misting machine by the bed, but whatever it is worked like a charm—you find an orange envelope slipped under your door. In semaphore drawings, it tells you that you have been assigned as the new English teacher. Your semaphore knowledge is weak, so you’re not sure if the previous teacher quit or was swallowed by a black hole, but it doesn’t really matter.

read the rest under the cut

You shrug. You majored in psychology and have been working in the field as such for the last five years, but you did have a lot of writing to do in school, so you think you can handle this. English is mostly about reading books and talking about them, right? You can manage that. You like to read. You call your sister to let her know you won’t be visiting this week after all, but your phone starts smoking and sparking as soon as she answers. You’ll have to remember to hunt down a computer and try emailing her later.

You arrive at Night Vale High School and are directed to the vice principal’s office. She’s very excited you showed up already in uniform. You look down at your grey t-shirt, jean capris, and orange Chuck Taylors and ask about the color of the shoes. Everyone else’s seem to be a rust color. She waves you off and says that will be taken care of at the morning sacrificial ceremony. You nod. It’s always nice to not have to change your look just to go to work.

You are given attendance sheets, scrolls, and a watercolor set and directed to your room. When you arrive, the class is already full. It’s always nice to come into a new job where everything is already in place. You take attendance, which takes a good forty minutes, since everyone must perform their own interpretive dance routine to announce their presence, then you open up the scroll to see what the students are working on.

The scroll is filled with numbers and letters. Algebra? Geometry? You barely past stats in college and have tried to forget as much math as possible. You ask one of the students. They look at you funny and say “It’s English! What kind of English teacher are you?”

Now, you’ve been pretty roll-with-the-punches so far, because it’s in your nature to be so, but this is definitely not English. A tiny elfin-looking creature at the back of the room stands up and sighs. “Come on, Mike, give the new teacher a break. The administration only switched English and algebra a week ago. Maybe she wasn’t around to hear that announcement.” It’s nice being in a place that gets your gender right on the first try.

Your shoulders drop in relief. You say that you only arrived in Night Vale the night before and had indeed missed the announcement that English and algebra had been switched. You make a mental note to talk to the vice principal, but figure you can handle one day of teaching. Maybe it’ll turn out that you’re really good at it. You won’t know until you try.

Unfortunately, you’re pants at algebra, both in learning and teaching it. The morning drags on forever, but lunchtime eventually comes. The sentient patch of blue fog that teaches theater (“I’m Misty. Yeah, my parents have terrible taste in names, laugh it up.”) invites you to eat lunch with her. You’d rather eat alone, but you’re polite and accept. Perhaps you can learn more about the school and town.

You’re warned not to ever go to the library (“Not that an English teacher ever needs to go to the library”) but told that the Moonlite All-Nite Diner has the best invisible pie in town. Misty gives you a spare coupon for a free slice of pizza from Big Rico’s. When you say you’re gluten intolerant, Misty laughs and says, “Aren’t we all?” She’s cute when she laughs. You wonder if she’d go get a slice with you some evening.

The afternoon goes faster after you decide to forgo teaching algebra and just talk about your favorite movies instead. You applaud the school system on molding such polite, intelligent children. They all do exactly as asked, and the one time a student speaks out of turn, he looks completely terrified, which concerns you just a bit, but you let it go. It’s your first day after all. They’ll get used to you.

You try to talk the vice principal into switching you to … would it be called algebra? ... class, or really anything else but math, but she shrugs and said it’s already been carved into the bloodstones. When you say you’re terrible at math, she asks if you can count to eight. When you affirm, she says you’ll be fine. You sigh and nod.

You ask her where the closest real estate office is, so you can look into getting an apartment—the motel is great and all, but the orange buzzing lights are really annoying after a while. The vice principal’s eyes go wide and her face pales to an olive green, she stutters a bit before the administrative assistant pokes his head through the door and reminds her that you can just take the old English teacher’s home, since they no longer need it, being an Erika now. The vice principal looks relieved.

You raise your eyebrows but follow their directions to your new home—a cute tri-level with a yellow door, the bloodstone circle that you’d learned earlier that day was required in all Night Vale homes, a cheerful kitchen, six bedrooms, and no bathroom.

A smooth voice whispers that the last occupant converted the bathrooms to bedrooms, since they had no use for them, and gives you the number of a reliable plumber. You wonder if your neighbors are nice enough to let you use theirs until you can get one installed. One waved to you as you arrived earlier. He had a very furry face, but there seemed to be a smile hidden under the hair.

Your neighbors are indeed very nice. They are a fairly young couple with two children. The man who waved at you says you’re welcome to use their bathroom whenever. The other man, the one who answered the door, gives you a key to their home, plus the appropriate runes to keep the door from eating you. You make a note to bake them a pie in thanks. You talk about the weather, as good neighbors do, along with the chances of Night Vale’s football team this year (a topic kindly suggested by the woman in a balaclava and cape hiding in the verge) before heading back to your new home to unpack your one bag. You’ll have to go shopping soon. Your Chucks won’t last long if they get covered in blood every day, and you’re about out of deodorant.

That night, you lay in your bed, listening to the screeching of the setting sun—it seems a bit late, almost eleven, but time has never meant that much to you anyway—and think about your first day as a Night Vale citizen. This place is like no other place you’ve ever lived. It’s strange, you won’t deny it, but you like it. It’s comfortable. Even while your brain is telling you it’s wrong in so many ways, your body is saying it’s perfectly natural.

Your mind finally calms when your radio turns itself on for the government-mandated community radio show, and you consider your future. The radio host gushes about the town’s resident scientist, and you smile sleepily when you hear that they just got married. You make a note to sit with Misty at lunch tomorrow. You really should ask her out.

You look forward to tomorrow for the first time in years. You think you’re finally home.

[dopcmine]

   ⋆     𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑹𝑶𝑫𝑼𝑪𝑰𝑵𝑮 —  * ⋆ ╰  hey , did you happen to see DAMON NAM on campus today ? you know , the JEON JUNGKOOK look-alike in our seven am class ? yeah , that SENIOR . ah , well they had their SILVER NECKLACE on their desk this morning and left without it . i wanted to return it … but i have to get to class in five minutes . wait , don’t you see them around at THE APARTMENTS ? oh , great ! can you bring it to HIM then ? ugh , thank you so much. you’re the best ! now i know they get the rep of being EGOCENTRIC but you don’t have to worry . they’re always MAGNETIC . and who knows , maybe you two’ll hit it off ! i know that they’re a INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS major too . well , i have to jet before i miss my exam but i’ll catch you at the frat party later , right ? oh , you should bring DAMON ! it’s always fun having the PLAYBOY around .

𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 :

fullname: damon nam

nicknames: none

age: twenty-three

d.o.b: april 15, 1996

zodiac: aries sun, leo moon, scorpio rising

gender: cismale

sexuality: bisexual

occupation: tattoo artist @ body electric tattoo and piercing 

𝒔𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂 :

twt & insta handle: p7ayboy

insta followers: 1.3m

twt followers: 1m

tik tok: 750k

𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 :

cruisin’ around l.a with the windows down, drinking cold beers on a hot summer afternoon, old school music playing loudly from his apartment, late night kbbq dates with the gang, old childhood scars from fights and playing outside until late evening, silver jewelry around his neck and wrists, street racing, rolling blunts on the hood of his car, face smudge with oil and sweat working on his car, stumbling around the city on the lookout for his favorite food trucks, tattoos up to his neck and down his arms all the way to his back, a gold virgin mary necklace hanging from his rear view mirror, belting out to romantic spanish music drunk and slurring the words, always moving forward and never looking back, selfish tendencies, playing with people like a deck of cards, carrying a butterfly knife with him at all times

𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒈𝒓𝒐��𝒏𝒅 :

born and raised in east los angeles, damon had to grow up a little faster than his peers. he comes from a working class family, his parents both public school teachers trying to get by like every other family. being one of the very little korean-american families in maravilla, damon used to get picked on and bullied to the point he refused to get out of bed in his early elementary days. but like any kid, he made friends with some of the neighborhood kids that went to the same school he did, and they stuck by his side. it gave damon the confidence to stand up for himself now that he had his little group to the point he repeated the bad words they taught him in spanish to the same little boys that would pick on him, not knowing what it meant but knowing it was something about their moms that caused one his many first fights to break out in the school yard. after that, damon and his little band of misfits became a little notorious for getting into scuffles with other students. 

he stayed in maravilla up until high school, venturing north to a new house due to his dad being offered the position of principal at a junior high. damon went on to attend lincoln high school but it wasn’t hard to fit in, nor was it difficult to fall into step with a new group of friends ( some of which he knew from his earlier days when he used to sneak out of his house with his friend and venture off ). high school was a ride, even if damon had found a place where he belonged people still loved to talk shit and damon loved nothing more than confrontation. he got into fights behind grocery stores, there was fights in empty parking lots where groups of people showed up before everyone scattered the moment they heard cop sirens down the street. damon did get caught once for a misdemeanor the summer before sophomore year and his parents had to get him out which was a hell of a ride home, both his parents almost losing their voices taking turns yelling at him. 

it was that moment that his parents made him attend mandatory after school classes, starting smack in the middle of summer. it’s safe to say he was very angry about it but found no outlet to get it out on when he was confined to the library. he started doodling instead of doing his homework while he was in there, soon off he started drawing more and he had talent. he could draw any picture you put in front of him just by looking at it, and soon he started to create his own. that very same summer, on one of the rare days his parents let him out to go to one his friend’s birthday party, he met their older brother, covered in tattoos from his legs to his arms. old english font and a portrait of a woman he later learned was his wife. he was entranced by the ink that decorated the man, asking him questions as the man grilled the carne asada, coughing every once in a while the smoke blew in his direction. 

too keep it short, damon wanted to do that. he wanted to draw permanent drawings on people and he wanted his own. he drew more, filling more sketchbooks with his own ideas and interpretations of others. he started working odd jobs after school, trying to save up for his own tattoo gun and ink, even venturing off to tattoo shops to observe them before he got told to scram. at the age of sixteen he had his own set and it wasnt long before his friends lined up to get their first tattoos done by damon. just little small things that didn’t require damon to worry too much about safety and health. the first tattoo he made on himself was a lucky eight ball and a match, now faded on the sides of his fingers. 

at seventeen his got his fake id not only for booze but to get a job at a parlor -- not tattooing -- but cleaning up after them, keeping the store tidy and clean. he had a car at the time, an old beat up chevy, and it took him thirty minutes to get to body electric. the owner new damon was underage but he let him work anyway. point is, he was taken under his wing and became an intern, an apprentice, and by the time damon hit eighteen and got his tattoo license, he was able to work a couple hours at first. from 18 to now, damon has been in the same place with a booming following on social media -- which is thanks to his good looks and talent. 

he’s been wanting to drop out of ucla because of how in-demand he is now. he’s tattooed celebrities, from socialites to rappers to all sorts of people. he hooks up his old friends from where he grew up for free, and his close friends at school too. but overall, damon makes hella bank now. which is why he finds school pointless, however, the owner of the parlor he works out told him that if he didn’t finish his bachelors he’ll fire him. the owner definitely grew to treat damon as a son, and wants him to venture out and travel with his talent, but he wants him to be smart about it and learn the ropes of the business industry. it’s why damon stays despite not being too happy about it, but it’s his last year and he’s going to make it one shot of patron at a time. 

𝒇𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔: 

damon is trilingual -- english, korean, and spanish ( considering he grew up in a heavily latinx/chincax neighborhood as a child, the language latched on to him ). 

he’s very appreciative of the chicanx culture because he grew up around it, and they took him in despite not being chicanx himself he was still treated as family by his close friends. ( and also because i’m biased to my own culture and east los is heavily mexican/latinx )

he almost joined a gang but it was around the time he was forced into after school study where he found his outlet through art. 

he knows how to dance pero like cumbias and shit, he’s hella good at it.

damon makes it his goal to be good at everything, it doesn’t even matter what it is. 

he has a bmw he fixed up and uses it for street racing -- races which he wins most of the times ( just ask dae lmao ). 

he can drive under the influence of weed but i do not condone this behavior !! but he can do it, but he’s beent doing it, don’t try this at home guys, or alone. 

damon was a little heartthrob in high school though, going out with the girls and hooking up with some guys. 

he was honestly one of the popular kids growing up, he was in THAT group that people longed to be a part of because they were always out mobbing, drinking, throwing parties and being out. they had fun, but they were also notorious trouble-makers. 

his tik tok thing started as a joke because damon looked like the eboys that began to trend and now he has dae help him film them just for the hell of it, because why not. he’s got nothing to lose, it’s a good laugh in the end. 

is a gym rat, he’s out there doing weights and bulking up and boxing because sometimes he just wants to procrastinate his homework and that’s valid, plus he’s gotta stay in shape with all that heavy drinking and weed intake. 

patron is his best friend -- after dae of course lmao.

damon’s actually never been in love??? like he’s had maybe three s/o’s but it was never that serious? except maybe for his first one? but he’s never experienced something where he feels genuine care for a person and love, it’s mostly just lust and like the need to experience what it’s like being with someone but it never rlly takes off

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔:

gang shit: this one’s already taken up by whoever’s in the no homo chat but like, let me plot out dynamics with you all cause ion know how damon is gonna treat y’all characters if we don’t talk about it lmao

enemies: damon could always use some tbh, those are fun because damon grew up around people that have given him a hard time and he isn’t one to back down from a good altercation 

an ex: listen, damon isn’t that great of a person he probably cheated on them only because he didn’t know they were exclusive and frankly, he doesn’t really even remember agreeing to be something but they were and even if damon knew, he still went ahead and did it.

highschool sweetheart, THE ex: listen this one is...particular and super specific. must be a girl/nb but latinx because i picture this being the person who really really taught damon more than he already knew, from dancing to romantic spanish music, etc. perhaps they weren’t in love but they did care about each other, damon even still has a gift i picture she gave him ( a gold virgin mary necklace ) hanging from his rear view mirror. this is like...when we can take up more chars ig? idk just thought i’d write it down

flings: hookups ig? except not people involved with dae cause he isn’t about to fuck no sloppy seconds lmao, if not he venturing out to usc away from ucla lmaooo

idk what else to add im so tired and this is so late and i just want to post it, so if y’all got anything else just hmu tbh

[seenashwrite]

The Midwife: Part One

Status: Complete (1 of 4) Word Count: 3K Category: Mini-series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Historical; Mystery; Teamwork; On-the-hunt   Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Various O.C.s; References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A  Warnings: None Overall Summary: In the mid-1950s, a member of the New York City chapter of the Men of Letters is sent to the United Kingdom to assist with what appears to be another stack of cold case dead-ends, when he suddenly finds himself questioning one of his closest-held convictions. 

          *~* The Midwife : Master Post *~*

There was once a small pocket of unmoved time in Kansas, about half a century's worth, and it came to an end simply, no magic required. A turn of a key in a lock, two sets of steps across a threshold, then it was over, just like that. Simple maneuvers were in contrast with the Men of Letters' old hat routine but the new occupants of their abandoned shelter under Lebanon favored such actions when they had the option.

These legacies were not alone in that position, though they may have found the premise hard to swallow as the years went by, as their knowledge grew. Their encounters with a few of the more interesting members of their inherited fraternity would have done little to convince them otherwise. Seeing is believing, and what-have-you.    

Proof. Tangibility. Something solid, something that could be held in the hand, studied, documented. Rumor meets research meets methodology. Hunter meets weapon meets monster. So, in that respect, more Men of Letters than not.

No one would have faulted the Winchester brothers for missing the typewriter at the very back of the lowest, farthest space, under the rotting table, inside the water-damaged and disintegrating box, completely covered by shadows and cobwebs in that brick-walled cellar of a storage room.

Perhaps some fault - they had lived there for years by the time the typewriter's keys began to move for the first time in decades - maybe that room should have long been discovered, its items sorted. The youngest would have found the books of value, slightly molded as they were. The eldest most assuredly would have found the vintage weaponry of interest, if not use.  

Should they ever go hunting in their home, and should that hunt take them to the dark corner, and the box, and the rusted device, a yellowed paper wrapped on the roll, filled with words in faded ink would await them, though they'd need to be timely: things of such nature do eventually tend to fall to pieces.

Kendricks Academy, just outside London - 1956

.

I've heard it said that if you question your own sanity, then the thought in-and-of itself means you're not. Insane, that is. I found that reasonable, though I suspected many a lunatic had to have felt it creeping on, so reason, yes; comfort, no.

Burt flicked a tiny paper ball across the huge library table to get my attention, and I tilted my head slightly in his direction, met mischievous eyes with my own, ones I suspected were dull and glazed-over and a step shy of insanity. A small snicker was my confirmation, and it was quickly shifted into a mild throat-clearing when our monotone host glanced over his shoulder in our direction. Undeterred, the long, thin stick in his hand went back to pointing - poking, really - at the projected data on the wall, the droning getting right back on track.

This was how I'd die.

He was such a promising young man, they'd write. Twenty-four, taken long before his time, found still sitting up in the chair, his beloved research scattered around him. He is survived by an incredibly angry fiancée, bereft over the meticulously-yet-indecisively-planned wedding that shall never occur. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in his name to the Men of Letters, United Kingdom Headquarters, London. Please earmark as funding for booze-filled credenzas in all meeting rooms.

It wasn't just the London chapter - my home chapter in New York City was filled with fellows who could bore with the best of them, and though I loved my job, this assignment was working my nerves. I'd thought my breaks in the cold cases department - especially the last one - would send me into the more active areas of our duties. Active without action, for the most part, but I would've happily taken it.

Instead they’d sent the Lily Sunder investigation on without me, then sent me across the pond, a stack of ice-colds awaiting me in the United Kingdom. And, of course, the not-so-brief briefings delivered in succession by brethren who grew increasingly brain-numbing. Thank heavens for Burt.

Per usual, he seemed to take everything in stride, easygoing to a fault. He was only around five years my senior, though his somewhat girthy physique and heavily balding scalp made him look older. And while he supported me in my desire to see what else our secret society had to offer, he seemed perfectly content languishing with the cold cases.

Even the fact that we'd been boarded at the school didn't seem to faze him, thin mattresses and bland food be damned. His pockets were always filled with candy, a bit grandfatherly, but I found myself grateful. I'd taken to munching whenever he did, and after almost three weeks, my waistband had started to protest - made sense why Burt was perpetually suspendered. Still, I took the offered piece of wax-wrapped taffy as we walked back to the dormitory.

"No more bubblegum?" I asked, pulling the sticky wad in two before I stuck it in my mouth.

"Nah," Burt replied, talking around an entire piece of taffy settled into his cheek, where it was causing a giant bulge. "Got in my mustache the other day."

"Stop blowing bubbles."

"Then what's the point, Jacky?"

"Got me."

"Say, you heard anything from home?"

"Colleen changed her bouquet again."

"I meant Lily."

"No, lilies were three bouquets ago."

"The Sunder case, you moron."

"Ah. No. Last time I asked, Peterson said it was now 'eyes only'." I capped off my response with rolled eyes, then went ahead and stuffed the other half of the taffy in my mouth. Burt knew better. I hated talking about it.

"Still makes me mad," he replied in a sympathetic tone.

"Nothing makes you mad."

"Well, that did! Jack, you're the one that found the lead, confirmed the Canada sighting---"

I sighed. "Burt---"

"And for pity's sake, the Nephi---"

I hocked my taffy into a nearby bush before I stopped in my tracks, turned, gripped his forearm. "Burt!" I hissed, glancing up and down the walkway. 

Smatterings of students were still lingering and walking about, most headed into the common areas or their next class. And though we were outside, I still couldn't believe he was speaking so loudly, so casually. Saying that word aloud at all.

Burt's brow creased slightly and those always-rosy cheeks pinked up a notch, but then he swallowed his taffy and grinned. "Wanna skip that lukewarm, eighty-percent-dough-shepherd's pie in the canteen, head to a pub? I know one that serves actual hot meals, overfill the pints...." He trailed off in a slightly sing-song voice, wiggled his eyebrows so much they almost hit the rim of his cap.

I sighed again, then shrugged my shoulders. "Why not?"

It wasn't simply that they'd taken what I'd come to consider my case away from me. It was the nagging feeling I had that despite the fact Sunder had caused no harm to civilians to our knowledge - well, excepting herself - the Men of Letters' continued interest in her was more than just loose-end tying. No reason but the pangs in my gut to think it was some kind of vendetta. Then they'd allowed more and more access to the files once my early, modest hypothesis showed promise, and I'd stumbled upon quite the reason during a fact-finding mission to the chapter house in Kansas.

House. Ha. Basement, more accurately, and the cold case guru there, Haggerty, was so excited to have company he would've let us redecorate the place in pastels if we'd asked nicely enough. Anything to keep me and Burt there longer, keep him occupied.

He was one of the more enthusiastic members, reminded me a lot of my father, truth be told. More into the metaphysical than I was, sure, but with a logical mindset. I understood why I'd been ordered to consult with him, given the nature of Sunder's appearance in the grainy photograph we'd obtained. The professor hadn't aged a day since the time she'd disappeared from what was left of her life, and our working theory was witchcraft.

Witchcraft didn't just mean magic in my business; it was one of several sub-classifications under the magical umbrella. And if you wanted the skinny on the workings of witches, you called on Haggerty. Even though he'd retired not long after we'd met, he never hesitated to get back in touch with any thoughts he had on the ideas I'd written to him about, the more far-fetched ones  I'd want to bounce off of someone before writing them up for field work consideration. Besides Burt, he was the most open-minded member of our little club. At least, that I'd ever encountered.

Which was why I was glad it was just Haggerty in the room with me when I'd had to sit down due to my shock, right there on the concrete floor, deep in the bowels of that small-town basement, just to the front of the rickety file cabinet I'd been plundering.

"You okay, kid? What's that you got there?" he'd asked.

In reply, I'd simply held out the folder to him when he'd come over and stooped down beside me.

He'd let out a low whistle, went from a stoop to taking a knee as he flipped through the papers. "This must've come from your neck of the woods, you know," he'd said cautiously. "Not sure I know how an old northeast recruitment file would've ended up here."

I knew.

They'd chalk it up to a mistake if I'd asked, a clerical error fifty-some-odd years gone, that the documentation should've gone to storage with anything else not germane to the ongoing nature of our work. Besides, they would say, it doesn't matter to the case, didn’t change the goal. Lily Sunder needed to answer for her meddling in otherworldly affairs, she needed to be monitored, needed to be questioned on her intentions.

But the truth was obvious - to me, to Burt, to Haggerty - that the real reason the file had been sent away from the New York house all those years ago was because they were embarrassed.

Sunder had refused no less than fourteen separate invitations to join the Men of Letters before the turn of the century. They'd been after her research talents since she was barely into adulthood, based on her early work in apocalyptic studies. They got more aggressive once her teaching career took off, and - judging by the verbiage in the copies of the letters they'd sent and the documentation of multiple recruitment trips to Maine - they were practically salivating over the thought of having a bonafide angel expert in their ranks.

"I still think it's why the Moles sent us here," Burt was saying, using our pet name for the ancient, die-instead-of-retire administrators in the Men of Letters.

He took large swig of beer to wash down the meat-and-two veg he'd just polished off. The rationing from the war had ended in the not-so-distant past, and it seemed all the cooks in the land - excepting the ones back at Kendricks, that is - were excited to get to do things up right again. Not that I had much of an appetite, but if we'd had to be banished, it had come at an ideal time, at least in that respect.

"We weren't banished."

Oh. I must've said that part aloud.

"Eat your food."

Burt was channeling his mother then - I knew because of the full British accent on all three words. His father was an American Mole, while his mother was the daughter of a very well-respected professor at Kendricks, not to mention all the uncles and cousins on both sides. Their family visited London for several months each year, so between that and hearing his mother every day, he was good for the occasional drift from American English, though he’d let loose around me from the jump.

There was some beef that kicked up off-and-on between the American and British leadership, and I never got invested, but a few of the older members in New York would dole out side-eyes and huffs at Burt's sporadic "pints" at "pubs", "mash" and "chips". It was more than the accent thing, though.

He kept close to the vest in general. I think because they weren’t shy about their resentment - some odd contempt for him for not being more of a go-getter, double legacy and all. Though about all that pedigree garbage, Burt couldn't have cared less. 

They didn’t know how hard he worked behind the scenes, how much Burt cared about our mission. Not how I knew. And I also knew how much he cared for me.

So I obeyed, eating a few bites of some of the best fish I'd probably ever had, and he went on.

"I'm telling you, them pulling us out here right after Sunder? It's not a coincidence. Tell me you're not thinking the same thing."

I set down my fork, wiped my mouth, then looked at him as seriously as I could manage. "If I think too much about it, I'm going to get mad. Besides, she's not out here, and they know it. She may've been, but it's not as if there's any way to determine it - she's been running since Zeppelins were all the rage. I don't know what it is, but it's not Sunder."

Burt pulled his small, leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and untied the strings, ready to make his case. I started stuffing carrots I didn't want into my mouth so I wouldn't slip from my current irritation at his pressing into that anger I'd just warned him about. My best friend was an absolute mule.

"Wales: Llandudno - old Liddell summer home location - nothing.  Cairnholm - what was left of the Peregrine house - mild trace. You know how many kilometers we covered in Wales, total?"

"No idea, but I bet you---"

"Nine-hundred eighty-seven-point-eight, Jacko. You know how many miles that is?"

"Burt, are you going to be arriving at a point anytime in the near---"

"Then here," he continued, flipping a page. "Bloomsbury - former home of the Darlings - mild trace. All those random train depots - all the tunnels, ALL of them, Jack---"

"I was there," I said, downing the last quarter of my pint quicker than I should've, mentally crossing my fingers that his end point would have an actual theory behind it this time.

"---and we only confirmed potential - just potential - trace on one."

"You do recall when they ponied up about already knowing all this? I wanted to punch that guy."

"The short fella, the white-haired gentleman, who likely would've died on the spot if you had done?"

"Yup, that’s the one," I shot back casually, then glanced around. I caught our waitress' eye and held up my empty mug with what I hoped was a somewhat genuine smile. Burt was still going.

"All-in-all, not a definitive sign of an active hidey-hole to be found."

"I hate when you call them that."

"Window, door, aperture, passage, thinning, portal - still a hole. I stand by it."

"Fine."

"Kirke estate - every single room - not even a hint of anything."

"I'm going to rescind your best man status if you keep this up."

"Colleen can’t stand me, she'd be thrilled. Hell, Jack, make it her wedding present for all I care."

I frowned. “Jeez, Burt. What is with you?”

Then he frowned. “I was actually listening to their briefings. Were you?”

"Barely," I replied honestly. "They're sending us on follow-up field trips that first year initiates should be handling, and I actually miss our office and the city and my family and even that stupid tiny room in that overcrowded chapter house."

"And your fiancée."

I gave him a look. "I'm tired of chasing down what have always been children's stories with bits of truth in them somewhere. Bedtime tales that have been around long enough - plenty long enough - that if there were anything important to them, the Moles would've sussed it out when they were initiates."

Thankfully the waitress brought over our next round then, and I set into mine like a man just crawling in from the Sahara.  

Burt huffed at that, then said, "Tomorrow's the first time we're going somewhere that's not a rehash. You didn't notice anything new and different about the briefing today?"

"That it's the closest I've gotten to empathizing with the undead."

He flipped his notebook around to face me and planted a finger above several sets of numbers. "Exact latitudes and longitudes, exact area of square kilometers to cover." He flipped another page. “And here's the inns we'll be staying in. We're gonna be gone for a few weeks, and I know it's not just a hop-skip from here, but this shouldn't take more than four or five days, give-or-take.”

I set my mug down slowly, scanning over the notes quickly. He was right. I raised my eyes to his. He grinned when he saw he finally had my interest.

“I think they might've been testing us with all this other stuff, make sure we were accurate on the traces we'd found, see how thorough we were in following up with any living witnesses, how detailed we were in reports. I think this trip is why we're here. Because if I wanted to whip up a nice little spread, keep people away from my hidey-hole? This is exactly the type of place I'd put it.”

I stared at him for a few moments, my normally whirring, ever-processing mind at a complete standstill.

Now he leaned in closer. “And I think I have an idea about how it connects to the Sunder case - to your theory.”

Burt wisely didn't say the word - though the volume of the pub's patrons would've likely drowned it out anyway - and instead just kept studying my face.

“Spit it out,” he finally ordered.

I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, glancing down at the scribbled locales, then back up, obeying Burt once more.

“What in damnation do they think is out on the moors?"

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