#i don’t know what it is about my grandparents specifically but i’ll be miserably sick and contagious and they’ll stand like a foot away

[fingertipsmp3]

Love complaining about how I haven’t heard back from job recruiters meanwhile my phone is on do not disturb at 10am on a Friday and I am not checking my emails

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

[of-another-broken-heart]

This was a weird Thanksgiving.

Mostly miserable.

A little bizarre.

I’m not hungry but I’m also not very happy. In fact, I am decidedly unhappy. I am sad. I haven’t cried, but I’m going to.

I’ve been up since 5:30. Anxiety. Dreams. Nightmares. 

Mom had to work this morning. Sister had to work during the afternoon. 

We didn’t get any pantry help. I was too sick. Mom’s work schedule was too cruel, she was too busy. 

After my mom was home, we got surprise visitors. My uncle (the mechanic) brought his brother over, as well as my other uncle (from my dad’s side of the family! who I haven’t seen in literal decades) and his son (whom I’d never met before - the kid’s 21 or 22 though). This was the bizarre part of the day.

We couldn’t invite them inside. Because that would have required someplace for them to be, sit, exist. And we don’t have that. We don’t have a couch. We have 4 kitchen chairs and half of them can’t be used. And that’s it. So we just sat outside. In the cold. Or, I sat. Everyone else stood. I wore a mask, too. Habit. Paranoia. I did take it off before they had to leave, but I didn’t know any of their vaccine status. And there are new variants out, and “the pandemic is over!” when it’s not, and so forth. 

It was an okay time. A nice time. My cousin - the one I’d never met before - opened up decently by the end. My uncle answered me about a question I’d had, regarding some family ancestry research my grandfather had done when I was very young. Which was something I was thinking about this morning, because when I was very young, I remember being told we had Native blood, back in our family. Blackfoot, I was originally told. But it’s not true. I thought it had been a different tribe - but it’s none. We’re primarily “black Irish,” and English, and German. 

It felt weird to finally learn. I’d hoped it was a lesser-known tribe. I wanted that little memory of my childhood to pan out. I wanted there to be a culture on the other side of the answer. 

Instead it was just. “Our ancestors were all indentured servants and slaves.”

Which is its own form of validation, I suppose. Generational trauma. Damaged DNA. All that.

I didn’t pay attention to the time. I feel like they visited for an hour or so. But the sun fell below the tree line and it got colder and they had to go. It’s dark by 4 PM now, so it was still early afternoon. My sister was still at work. So it must’ve been before 3. 

I baked nothing. No pumpkin pie this year. Or anything pumpkin. Muffins, bread, cake. Nothing. Maybe if I hadn’t rage-raked leaves and I wasn’t still recovering from that. Maybe. Impossible to know. Probably not, though.

I got a $1 turkey pot pie. I requested it specifically. Because I wanted turkey. For Thanksgiving. My mom did indulge me. I had that for dinner. It wasn’t enough. I tried to make it be enough. 

I had some cold mashed potatoes and stuffing and a biscuit later. And some milk.

And I took 8 “Hemp Extract” capsules. 

I’m tired. I want to sleep. I’m not even outstandingly anxious. But I’ve been talking to him again, and as much as I feel alive again for it, as much as I’m internally battling my expectations to stick to what I know - my want is immense, my need is small but ravenous. And after shuffling all my desk around the other day, these stupid supplements were brought into my sight again, and I just want to talk to him and be with him and I can’t right now, I can’t, so I’ve taken 8 of these capsules. They’re 500mg each, so 4g total. Of “Hemp Extract.” That’s it, that’s all that’s on the label. 

Taking 1-2 capsules never had any effect at all. So I guess I’ll find out if these are just completely useless to me or not. Tonight, or tomorrow. 

God I just wish I could be with you, though. Just simply there. Comfortable silence. Quiet but not alone. 

Ah here it is. Here’s the crying.

I get to talk to him again, and still I miss him in ways I don’t deserve.

Today is a holiday and it was just another day, mostly. 

Another year without my grandparents. 

Another year not invited to a family gathering. Or any gathering. Not that I could go. Because that would require a car that starts. And gas. 

It’s 8 PM now. Maybe I can sleep. I hope so.

[growingingreenwood]

Hey! Just wanted to pop by and ask how you where doing! Its been a while since one of my favorite writers has posted anything so I just wanted to check in. 💙

Awe thank you!!! That’s so sweet of you! Tbh I think I’m gonna hella personal with the answer to this question cause I’ve been wanting to explain what's been going on the last few months in more detail to y’all since you’ve been so kind and supportive of me!!

So check out the read more if you’re interested! I will warn you guys there will be some dark topics like depression and death of loved one’s so if that's triggering to you, please be careful with yourself if you read it!!

Hello everybody who’s decided to come take a look and read over here, I appreciate you greatly! I’m just going to dive right on in because I’m not sure how to ease into this topic lol this is going to be kind of a mess because it's like 6 am and I’ve been awake for nearing 32 hours now. 

But the past, like, 10 - 11 months have probably been the worst time of my entire life, not gonna lie. It's just been one thing after another and ya girl is so tired. 

 Since November: I put my 12 year old dog Suzy to sleep on the same day I had to write 2 finals, lost my Grandpa to an aneurysm (my last grandparent), had to live with/got guilted into staying with my suicidal aunt after his death for 2 months, kept my family from falling apart over dumb drama about the will, worked fulltime in a workplace with a manager that hated me and tried to make being there as miserable as possible WHILE I continued to go to school full time, quite that job and got a new one only to find out we were closing that location at the end of January (specifically on my birthday), had to move into a new place with my best friend because living at home wasn’t good for me anymore cause my dad gets mean when he’s depressed, got falsely accused of plagiarism in a situation that completly violated like 4 of my basic rights, got into a car accident, basically got bullied into accepting the conviction of plagiarism after fighting it for 2 months because I was doing my practicum and needed the class I was fighting the plagiarism against in order to legally do the practicum, COVID started and I’m severely immunocompromised and taking immunosuppressants similar to the one’s people get for organ transplants with lungs that are already the DEFINITION of trash, my internet friends 5 years got Covid and committed suicide, another friend I met on tumblr 8 years ago got Covid and passed away, her funeral was 3 days before my graduation, my best friend and only person I could celebrate with straight up vanished for a the entire week of my grad and then lied to my face for several days  about where she had been (she drove 8 hours to go have a Tinder hookup and stay there for like 4-5 days (Which literally put my life in serious danger), then when I got upset about that she basically gaslit me and told me I was an awful person she never wanted to talk to again, I relapsed in self harm for the first time in seven years, then I had to move back home with my parents because my ‘best friend’ continued to act irresponsibly with Covid and lie to me about it, then Lilah got really sick which was thousands of dollars I didn’t have, and now I'm trying to finish my damn degree while doing everything online, AND I can’t get a job or basically got anywhere until there's some sort of vaccine for Covid because if I get it there like a 80-85% chance that I’ll die so that fun. 

I’m sure I missed some things but that's pretty much the gist of my life this past bit. 

So right now i'm really struggling with my creativity and actually getting myself to act on creative ideas. I used to write literally everyday before bed but now I’m lucky if I can get myself to write twice or three times a month and it's INFURIATING. 

I used to be constantly creative. I used to color, write, journal, paint and post on the blog. But right now my brain is like “YOU ONLY GET ONE” and its coloring and I can’t make it let me be creative in other ways other than that & I don’t know how to fix it. 

My brain is just like 9 whirlpool’s of different disasters right now and it isn’t listening to me. 

[cosmosogler]

hi guys. STILL DOING BAD!!!

today i woke up at 8:30. which is not as bad as 9, but not very good. that’s how most of my day went. could have been worse, but that doesn’t mean it was good.

i worked for 5 work sessions and finished one quantum assignment. that’s about 20% of the work i wanted (needed) to get done this weekend. i was working very, very slow even with the self-imposed work session alarms to let me know when to take breaks and stuff. usually i can focus for a few of those before i get tired... i was wiped after one.

i also had trouble getting moving in the morning so i didn’t even get to the department until 12-ish. i got working at 1:30 and then jennica and luis wanted some dinner at 4:30 so we got some chinese takeout. it was decent. 

i can’t handle the workload and the tests coming up and the new secret tax plan passing and we don’t know the implications AND net neutrality is being attacked YET AGAIN and whatever the hell else is going on that i forgot because i can’t think of more than three things at once.

my certified organic non gmo dumbass mom put off rescheduling my plane trip for so long that she didn’t get to reschedule it. so i am here doing absolutely nothing an extra day after finals. nice good great fantastic wonderful excellent. i’ll have to reschedule snoopy’s board and i will get to see eve and the other dogs and my grandparents and siblings for one day less while going crazy alone in my apartment for one day more.

also she took a thousand dollars out of my savings account two weeks ago and never put it back. feelin real good about that. that’s a huge chunk of my entire money collection.

i tried to talk to suzanne about how i was feeling, i scheduled a time and everything... then when it came time to talk she just sat in a room with a whole bunch of people. i asked if she was busy and she said she was going home real soon. so i didn’t really... bother. 

early in the afternoon she did say i should talk to someone and i let her know that i see five hundred thousand therapists every week. maybe she felt like i had it under control even though i specifically asked her if she had time well after that and she specifically said yes.

how can i possibly be assertive in that situation? “yeah, sorry, i’m gonna need you to put down your work which is due tomorrow, leave this room full of your friends, and pay attention to just me, who doesn’t even know what i want to talk about now that i’m on the spot. just because you said you would earlier.”

she didn’t even bring it up. did she forget...? i brought it up when i asked if she had time before i left that evening.

how am i supposed to open up to these people. they don’t want to hear the details of my life any more. i was talking to jennica and harrison a bit and i mentioned some high school trips around the world i went on and at the end i said “i am specifically leaving out all the details to make it sound like these were positive experiences” and they both said “yeah keep doing that.”

well that was an abridged version of the conversation. it was more like i was getting impatient with jennica interrupting me and harrison not sounding interested at all even though we were talking about travelling i guess and i basically said “i am doing what you wanted me to do” when i wasn’t getting enough of a response.

i feel like i’m going to explode. i thought it might be for the best, it might be healthier if i stopped venting at all times to every single person i interacted with. but now i just feel... hurt and isolated. and when i do what people want, which is either stay positive or ask for time to talk when they have the energy, i don’t get a response at all. or i get the beginning of a response but not a follow-through, which is somehow even more frustrating.

man, i don’t know what to do... i’m absolutely miserable. i can’t seem to pull myself out of this latest drop in mood no matter what i try. i wish i’d gotten to play and relax on friday. i feel like this wouldn’t have happened if that chance hadn’t been taken away from me at the very last second.

but who even knows.

while i was out shopping with mom last week i made the mistake of picking out a new brand of pasta salad since they didn’t have the kind i wanted at target. i made the incorrect assumption that the “pasta salad” section would have pasta salad that you store and eat over a few days and not “hot pasta that you serve immediately with no salad trappings that we are calling pasta salad. because we hate you.”

i’m gonna try cooling it and taking it to school with me tomorrow but i’m glad that i picked up a whole bunch of other lunch supplies this weekend on a hunch it might be a good idea.

trying to scrape up the will to continue but i can’t seem to find any. i know that the more i hesitate the less likely i am to succeed and that makes me feel like i’ve already failed, i don’t even need to take the test to know that. every day i lose to doing absolutely nothing and not moving at all is a day i could have spent catching up, but i am just getting further and further behind because i think i’ll have it sorted out and then some other bs will happen and throw me right back to the bottom of the pit.

it’s SO FRUSTRATING!! AAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!

AND I HAVE NO ONE TO TALK TO ABOUT IT! NOT EVEN A SINGLE ONE OF MY PEERS! I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO HANDLE THIS IN A PHYSICS ENVIRONMENT AND COUNSELORS DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE PHYSICS DEPARTMENT IS LIKE!

THEY SAY I CAN TALK TO THEM ABOUT IT AND THEN DON’T LET ME TALK TO THEM ABOUT IT.

my head hurts. my eyes hurt. my teeth hurt. my jaw hurts. my throat hurts. my shoulders and back hurt even more. i’m getting a cramp between my neck and shoulder again. i can’t get my feet to sit comfortably on the ground. i can’t talk coherently.

i’m so uncomfortable and restless and i have no energy. so it’s not even a useful kind of restless. if i stay up late between now and finals i am going to get sick and not get better before my tests start. i feel like a beetle pinned against the ground on its back under a sadistic middle schooler’s thumb.

that brought back a really unpleasant memory. i mostly associate that brand of sociopathy with christian private schools but it’s not a stretch to apply it to kids in general. 

i can’t think of anything positive to say today. i haven’t been able to for a while. i just feel Really Bad in a way that’s very hard to describe. sick but not with a cold. it can feel like a cold but it’s not that.

i want my friends to give me advice but i know that they won’t have much. the people i want to talk to do not have the context and life experience that would help them better understand how i feel and it’s so hard to describe. 

the best i can come up with is that you are writing a paper. every few sentences invisible hands will pound on the keyboard and even sometimes write “kill yourself.” but the hands are invisible. where is this coming from? did you write it? do you actually want to kill yourself? if you didn’t want it, why are you writing about it so much? sometimes the invisible hands grab your wrists and you can’t type at all. do you really want to write the paper so bad that you’ll fight these mysterious invisible hands that might just be your own indecision? will you do that every minute of every day? what happens when you sprain a finger? are you willing to fight the invisible nonsense hands to type with a finger that’s not working anyway?

[kylebrink]

100 Scenarios: 28

Floor 37

It's been a very long day for Security Associate Simon Santos.

A street protest, complete with burning effigy and broken window. Three separate court summonses served, which he knows the boss will not receive well. And now this. An unannounced sanitation contractor shows up at closing time? At least it'll be entertaining to see how the police handle it.

"Hey, no need to hit a panic button, 'kay? It'll just cost you a false alarm fee."

She leans casually on the security desk. She's in gray coveralls, hair in a bun under a ballcap that says C&N Janitorial. Her embroidered name tag reads "Emma" in cursive lettering.

"I have no record of your visit on today's schedule. Perhaps you should leave."

She shrugs her broad shoulders. "If you say so. But the contract was pretty specific about the urgency. You looked it up yet?"

Simon sighs. "Ms...Emma, it is closing time. Even if your contract is valid, I don't have the staff to escort you and I'm not issuing a building pass this late in the day."

Without looking away from him, she reaches down to her heavy keyring and pulls it up to eye level. Sure enough, there's a Banco Credito Superior keycard. With Emma's face on it.

Simon relaxes and his hand slides away from the silent alarm. "In that case, please..." he gestures toward the card reader on the turnstile. Emma hoists the bucket of cleaning supplies and swipes her card.

All Access clearance. Simon glances up from his screen, surprised. Nobody has that but Sra. Martin.

Emma clomps in her work boots to the elevators lobby and presses the call button for the executive express lift. As it arrives, she tips her hat to him and enters. He doesn't see her again until the next day.

That night, he has the dream again. Señora Graciela Martín, CEO of Banco Credito Superior, sitting in a dark cave, hugging her knees and rocking, sobbing. He can't move, can't speak. Just sees her, hears her.

He wakes in a cold sweat. Simon is a protector by nature. Growing up, he took care of his younger siblings, his parents, his grandparents. Still does. Sometimes, that's meant facing some bad people and doing hard things. But he never shies away from it. He can't. It's who he is.

He goes to work as usual. The window is already being repaired and the streetfront is clean again. Another business day is underway. When he gets to the front desk, Javier is there as usual.

"You give her the court papers?" Simon asks.

Javier chuckles. "That's on you man, you accepted them. Here you go." He holds up the three envelopes.

Simon takes them. "Someday maybe you'll surprise me. Do something brave." He walks toward the turnstile. "Or even just a little nice, maybe."

"Was good working with you man," Javier calls out as Simon walks to the elevators.

Simon squares his shoulders and takes a steadying breath as the elevator arrives. His head jerks back in surprise as the doors open. Emma's leaning casually in the corner of the elevator.

"Heya, Simon." She tips her ballcap.

He waits. She jerks a thumb upward. "No, no, I'm goin' up. Step on in."

He lifts his chin and steps in purposefully, turning his back on her to face the button panel. No floors are selected.

He looks over his shoulder at her. "What floor?"

She glances at the summonses in his hand. "All the way up, same's you."

He looks at her a moment longer, then turns and swipes his card over the reader and presses the "EXEC" button at the top of the panel.

The doors close.

"How long you known her, Simon?"

He furrows his brow. "Señora Martín?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I did some cleaning last night. Long night, lemme tell you, but then I guess you know what I'm talkin' about. You look like a bag of real sad, real tired rocks."

She reaches past him to tap 37. It doesn't light up. She swipes her card and taps again. It lights up.

"I thought you were going to the top?"

"Just thought you should see something first. Something she doesn't wantcha to see." She glances at his keycard.

He shakes his head. "Some areas are restricted for safety reasons. We are doing construction on 37. Non-essential personnel don't have access until construction is complete."

"Hm. Seems like security should have access to everything."

This concerns him. She is right. But he doesn't let it show.

The elevator opens. There is no sign of construction work. There is, instead, a small lobby with two chairs and a plastic potted plant. Beyond are carpeted hallways lined with doors.

She steps out and sits in one of the chairs, gesturing to the other one. "Okay. While you quit gaping, I'll tell you about last night."

He sits silently.

"I'm here to clean up a mess. And it's a big one. So I gotta get a look at it first, make sure I don't miss a spot.

"This bank? It's the middle of the stain. BCS has been buying up and closing out all kinds of loans. Mostly real estate. Mostly residential. Some medical. Driving people out into the street. The kind of people who can't take that. Whose lives will be ruined, or lost.

"But it wasn't always like that. Remember Elena García?"

He nods. "The former CEO. Before Sra. Martín."

"Yeah. She hired us. Before she retired. Contract's still valid, at least for now. Anyhow, she said Sra. Martín changed. Got real...cold, she said. Just a few months ago.

"That's when the buyouts started, y'know."

Emma waved a hand around her. "And here, on this floor, is where she's been doin' the research. She doesn't go home at night, you notice? Doesn't sleep. She goes here. Lemme show ya."

For the next hour, Simon followed Emma from room to room to room. Each had multiple workstations connected to, from what they could read on the screens, freelance researchers on multiple continents digging into public records looking for real estate loans with specific characteristics.

"Simon. She's literally looking to find the most harm she can do."

"I...this isn't like her," was all he could manage.

"I know."

He looked at her. "You do?"

"Yes. I think she's trying to stay alive."

"What?"

"What do you know about chaneques?"

"What!?"

"Stay with me. This is important. What do you know about chaneques?"

"They...they aren't real. They are in stories. Little elves who guard sacred places."

"It's more than that. You know why I came late last night? To talk to you, Simon. Because you are the last person in this building who knew Graciela Martín before working with her. You were friends. If she's going to reach out to anyone here, it'll be you."

"You are not making sense. What does this have to do with elves? What kind of...janitor are you?"

She looks at him calmly. "Why haven't you been sleeping, Simon?"

"I..." He looks at her. For some reason, he continues. "I have dreams. Of Graciela. Alone, in a...a cave I think. I don't sleep well."

"Yesss!" She makes a victory fist. "We have a chance!"

Simon looks even more confused.

"Chaneques defend sacred places by scaring the soul out of you, then hiding it. Usually, if you don't get your soul back, that means you get sick and die. Pretty fast, maybe a week.

"But sometimes," she shakes her head slowly, "being soulless is an advantage. Soulless people can live off misery. You lose your soul, there you are dying, but then you do something that makes someone really miserable. Boom, you get a hit of life. And if you connect those dots..." she looks around to indicate the entirety of Floor 37.

Simon just gapes. Is she mad? Or is he?

"Okay!" Emma slaps her knees and stands. "Let's get this cleaned up. We just gotta get Graciela her soul back."

She presses the elevator call button.

"The dream, it's the same every time?"

Simon slowly nods.

"Perfect!" Emma hands him a business card as the elevator arrives. "Tonight, when you're in the cave, give me a call."

"From...my dream?"

"Yep!" The doors close.

A work boot pokes out just in time to reopen them.

Emma points at the summonses. "Hey, ah, don't deliver those today. Remember she's hungry for misery, yeah?"

The doors close as she tips her ballcap.