#i’m working on my english doctorate and i’m cheap

[snarky-synesthete]

Has anyone else noticed that Sam’s name on her character art is misspelled? It says “Sam Britian,” not “Sam Britain.” I thought they’d catch it and fix it by now, but I just watched the penultimate episode “Turducken” and it’s still spelled like that. Am I missing something? Is that the way Sam spells her name. Please say sike - I’d hate for the whole “Sam isn’t smart” joke to get carried that far…

[divisionten]

Artemis Fowl Escape Room

Note: this was originally posted to Kotaku, but a number of my old articles there were destroyed after they purged whole sections of the site.

I’ve been very good friends with one of my former classmates for almost 20 years. He’s a massive Artemis Fowl fan (as am I, though I didn’t grow up with it like he did) so, when I found a signed copy of the book for his Christmas gift, I knew I couldn’t just give it to him. He’d have to be Artemis... and steal it.

NOTE: I paid for it. Please don’t steal books, and support your favorite artists. :D

Not just steal it, steal it from his own past self. Artemis Fowl follows the Doctor Who school of wibbly wobbly timey wimey... stuff.

BUDGET AND MATERIALS

First and foremost, I had just over a week to figure out

a) my budget and

b) how the puzzles would flow from one to another

Budget wise, I wanted to spend less than $50, which meant I needed to get creative with props. I own a Cricut, so I could make some very professional looking custom textiles, stickers and cards/paper items, and had a massive amount of sticker vinyl already on hand. I work for an electronics company, and do hobbyist Arduino, so I also already have lots of wire, batteries, some modules, and a few completed robots I could cannibalize. Lastly, I also have a large stock of cosplay items (wigs, costumes, fabric, foam) lying around. I know most people wouldn’t have this on hand, but if you’re planning on making an escape room, look at what YOU already have. Maybe you have power tools, or maybe you’re good at designing quick websites. You probably also have more than eight days to come up with an entire escape room game too, but the idea came to me AFTER I found his gift.

Lower Elements Police shirts for my friend’s wife, my friend, and myself of Wing Commander Vinyáya, Extremely Irritating Human Fowl, and Captain Short. Materials cost for all three was between $15 and $25- I have leftover heat vinyl i can use on another project, and a cool new shirt for myself to boot.

As far as things that lock, all I have is a locking mailbox, and a small key locker (like the kind used by some AirBnB to store a key outside a house). None of the doors within my house lock. So, I knew I’d definitely use the mailbox and key locker SOMEHOW, but I also needed something big and safe enough to hold the book.

Like... a safe. I bought an extremely cheap one on Amazon for $12.

I also spent another $8 on some concentric stacking boxes to start the hunt.

From there, my puzzle flow began writing itself. “Artemis” would need to do two things-

Find the location of the safe.

Discover the safe combo.

I’m already building a full jumpsuit out of scuba neoprene and copious amounts of cursing, but for now, this’ll do. Also, yes, I’m aware I wrote it in English and not Gnomish. Sue me.

Since things tend to go in threes, I split the puzzles into three quest lines, and started filling in the blanks with puzzles.

Lastly, to sweeten the deal, I decided to raid my cosplay drawers (and my heat transfer materials) to make an EXTREMELY low budget Holly Short cosplay (homemade shirt for me, plus my Kino goggles, Elena Fisher thigh pouch, my exercise armband, 13th doctor boots, Dipper/Hiccup wig, and some cheap elf ears), plus shirts for my friend and his wife, above.

The last thing I did was convince another very close friend (and actor) to call in as tactical support (aka the escape room hint helpline) as the Artemis Fowl books’ equivalent of Q, a very condescending centaur named Foaly. I sent him the full set of puzzles I’d written with solutions (and changed his name in my caller ID), so he could berate “Artemis” and offer hints or solutions should my friend get stuck.

START OF THE HUNT: Open concentric boxes, and get scolded by Artemis Fowl

I set up three boxes, each smaller than the other, with 3 codes (Gnomish, Centurian, and the Eternity Code) on the inside lid of of each box, nested in each other and wrapped.

The smallest box contains only an invitation to begin the game.

-To Myself:

It has come to my attention that there may be an issue. If you’ve gotten this, that means you’ve lost your memory- and, by extension, MY memory.

For safekeeping of my own mind, I’ve taken great pains to hide pieces of my own memories with friends and various acquaintances. Do yourself a favor and find the original document the People wrote on me those years ago. You’ll know it when you see it.

I hope.

You’re me, which means you’re too smart for me to wish you good luck. Just go and find the high school bags of three of our former friends. They should point you in the right direction.

- A. Fowl Jr.

There’s also a sheet of instructions.

Holly:

I hope this finds you in good health. I’m worried. I’ve had my mind wiped before, and it probably will again in the future. I don’t think you’ll be the ones who do it- you learned last time I’m a bit too smart for you.

In case someone more... unsavory, like that maniac pixie does something to me, I leave instructions on how to help jog my memory.

· In the residence with the People’s files, I’ll leave two clue trials. There will be three clues leading to the location of the People’s file. These will be tied with gold ribbon. And three more, with green, on the actual combination to said safe. Only I will be smart enough to put that information together, and I’ll need all six total to have enough to remember both the location and combination.

· Foaly and you will be indispensable. Please help where you can.

· If a door is closed or locked, unless a clue I’ve left behind specifically says to open it, it can stay closed. The same can be said for drawers and closets. You know me. I don’t like getting my hands dirty more than necessary.

· On that note, if a clue requires any sort of brute force, it’s wrong. I can’t assume Butler will be there to assist. You have my express permission to smack me upside the head of this and remind me I’m a planner; physical activity is hardly my strength.

· I may have seeded the internet (very well, I HAVE seeded it) with my own history lest I forget something like Butler’s first name or other personal information. Remind me to look up things online should I need to be reminded of family history.

· Everything needed to get my memory back is located on-site, but it may not all be indoors.

Thank you, Holly. I trust you to hold this until needed. I only hope that day never comes.

A.F. ii

The next three quests could be done in any order, and involve searching three bags I use for cosplay. I picked characters my friend was familiar with, so, while I do own a really nice Kaede backpack from Danganronpa v3, I didn’t use it, as my friend has only played the first game.

PERSONA 5 QUESTLINE: First combo lock clue/safe clue

The FIRST of THREE clues to the safe and lock starts with searching JOKER’s bag. A note from the Phantom Thieves is contained within, with the following text:

Hey, Dullahan (still your code name, right? Skull mentioned you might have had a change of heart). Been a while. You asked us to steal your heart for safekeeping, so we did. We only took a piece, though, so just follow the trail and you’ll be just fine; check the pillowcases; Mona’s always whining I need more sleep. Oh yeah, the first piece of it is in the Recon officer’s hands. Maybe they’re willing to TRADE for it? You might want to POKE them about it. Gotta GO- we’ve got more work to do. Sakurai invited me to some kind of tournament. -Joker

Trade Pokémon in Pokemon Go

I have a Pokémon to trade, an Unown. It’s an X, named MarksTheSpot.

Crack Joker’s cipher

Inside the pillowcase is a dossier, with a puzzle:

xM fW qF xO zJ kO xN cC lR jK xA gR xC xA gH oO eE xS xE rF wV xD oR eE fR oO xT fV eE xH oO rF jG xE tB kE iN oW xH aA xO oM kK oO xU gU oD oR xS qA aV oF nE xE tT oR xW uG oD wE xA nU wE rD nU cC xY nE oF xT fV xO wI kE rD xO jE xE kR fV iN xA oT iF rT xS nV rS xY aE nE oE iF nE xT nG mE oW xO uN eD jR uT xL kX hT nB xO eE qA xO nN jU xT nR kE xW cX bB oS cD nE eF xH sV dE xO eB bR xM jW qN dE kX vY xA iW bE xK dD wB jE xE iW oW xS eW aH cR iF xT lE xH dS lW nO iS xE fF xI jE kR xR yY uR fG xH nE rR xA xL uB uG oK pQ bR xL xM jE bR xA sI aQ zX xS sS bJ iR yG xT wI bU qR xE uD kR xR xL aY zU iJ vR rH xO aN eT xC gW cO lW qI xK rD uG xK kE rD xE oN nF oL wC xY uH uE oG xC qE xO jR fF xM rU gG oN xB wN oF xO oB qJ yB xT iX eQ kW sO sS hE iS xH oK lE xR kR iE fF xE wR qI uH xE iD fS xZ mU sT yE xE uV hY xR jR kN xO gO aN dQ nE xE rD aD xS iG zZ oW nT sS iE xA rR kR xN dR oO xD yX fR oO xA wE oF nU vR xO sE vR xN kR kZ xE

Finding only the letters with an X before them [X “MarksTheSpot”, remember?] leaves:

M O N A C A S E D T H E H O U S E W A Y T O O E A S Y T O L O O T W H O M A K E S T H E I R H A L L M A S T E R L O C K K E Y C O M B O T H R E E Z E R O E S A N D A O N E

Or:

Mona cased the house. Way too easy to loot. Who makes their hall masterlock key combo three zeroes and a one?

The Hall Keypad

Putting 0001 into the hall keypad will slide open a small lock containing a key to the mailbox outside as well as a folded-up paper.

First Safe Combo Clue (in Gnomish):

The paper contains the following

THE LARGEST SAFE NUMBER IS EVEN

The Mailbox

The mailbox contains the first safe location clue:

TO FIND THE SAFE/ THAT YOU MUST CRACK/ ASSEMBLE TWO MORE PAPERS/ AND SEARCH THE LOWEST RACK

Joker’s puzzle line has been completed.

DANGANRONPA QUESTLINE: Second combo lock clue/safe clue

The SECOND of THREE clues to the safe and lock starts with searching MAKOTO’s bag. A note from him is contained within, with the following text:

I HOPE THIS BAG MADE IT OUT OKAY. I THINK STICKING IN A DEACTIVATED MONOKUMA HELPED… WELL, MOSTLY DEACTIVATED. YOU MIGHT WANT TO CHECK ITS INSIDES, JUST TO BE SURE. AND… UM… DON’T BLOW UP.

“Deactivate” Monokuma

I’m not that easy to get rid of, kiddo. You n’ me. One round. Who’s a better liar, do you think? I want to know… All About You.

A homemade plush Monokuma is in the bag (who also opens his mouth and talks, when squeezed), unzipping the rear compartment is a piece of paper punctured with a You Don’t Know Jack pin and the above message.

The Mysterious Fourth Player

There’s a Jackbox pin attached to the note, signaling to play the Jackbox game All About You.

The three of us log in, and it won’t be streamed on twitch. But a fourth player joins, named MONOKUMA (it’s my friend who is playing Foaly, as I discreetly gave him the room code). He answers as normal (or like Monokuma might), but when it comes to the one-truth-one-lie section he lists the following:

Truth: An alien left you a snack in the fridge.

Lie: Artemis will never regain his memory.

This will lead “Artemis” to search the refrigerator, where a Tardis confection will be waiting.

The Doctor’s Orders

Breaking open the candy TARDIS will have a hastily scrawled note by the Doctor.

I’ve done lots of travel in my day… lots. Grab my screwdriver off the bookshelf (the OLDER one), and go find my old friend Ford’s journal. I know it’s still there. And check out the inside of the back. It’s exposure to the Chameleon Circuit should translate language, but it won’t crack codes in your own. One’s translated then, and the other… well you wrote that code, so good luck.

Using the 10th doctor’s sonic screwdriver on the last page of Gravity Falls’ Journal 3 (two references my friend IMMEDIATELY groked) will reveal a black light message:

The Eternity Code

The Eternity Code (written by Artemis in the third novel) is blocks of lines to make letters. If its too hard to read with the sonic/invisible ink, “Artemis” can peel off the tape and find a printout underneath, which may be a little easier to navigate.

THE SAFE COMBINATION HAS NO DUPLICATE NUMBERS

And folded up with it is an “old newsprint article”

Root’s Obituary

IN MEMORY.

Today, thousands gathered to witness Commander Root’s recycling ceremony. The man, a maverick who knew exactly how to take risks, was well known for clanking through Police Plaza hallways, barking orders, louder than a crack of dynamite. From a humble beginning in Haven’s western suburbia all the way to L. E. P. chief commander, the man never did anything halfway, and has been put to rest, having taken in an incredibly lengthy list of most wanted criminals.

He will be sorely missed.

(The bolded words are all board games on my living room shelf rack).

Makoto’s puzzle line has been completed.

RATCHET AND CLANK QUESTLINE: Third combo lock clue/safe clue

The THIRD of THREE clues to the safe and lock starts with searching RATCHET’S bag. A note from him is contained within, with the following text:

Not much I can do from another galaxy, but Clank hacked your computer and left you a fairy hologram, you’ll need some infrared goggles to read it. There’s also some weird folder on your desktop, might be worth a look.

Sorry pal, but you’re on your own this time.

This will lead “Artemis” to check the computer.

Hacking Back

Two users on the computer, myself and... Artemis. There’s some notes taped to the monitor that might help.

“Give it up, Foaly. I know you know my password.” and “you can always click the hint, but it’s the family motto...”

The hint lists “Gold is Power”, and the password is Aurum Est Postas, the Fowl family motto and Artemis’s own computer password (until he later changes it to Centaur in Book 6).

There’s only two things of note when logging in as Artemis, and they lead into finding the final combo lock clue and safe location clue.

For Emergency Use Only

Not-so hidden among the wafers, wire, magnifying lenses, and sensors is a pair of ‘infrared’ goggles (Also other than the ‘infrared’ goggles, the rest of the items are all real tech, plus my magnification ring, as I’m legally blind and loathe to carry a larger magnifying glass)

The Final Safe Code Clue

Wearing the goggles, ‘Artemis’ will now be able to read the image, which is in Centurian.

THE NUMBERS ADD TO TEN AND ARE ORDERED FROM SMALLEST TO LARGEST.

The Mysterious Computer Folder

There was something else Ratchet said was on the computer, wasn’t there?

Leads on Finding..../the Safe seems a good place to start.

Opening the folder is five photographs of people in nón lá (leaf hat), otherwise known as Vietnamese conical straw hats.

I did a semester abroad in Sapa, Vietnam, so not only did I take the photos, I also just so happen to have my own nón lá hanging up in my bedroom (I lost my baseball cap the first week I moved there, and my host mother insisted I get one to protect myself from the sun).

If you’re at all familiar, the Artemis Fowl series begins with Artemis tracking down a fairy begging on the streets of Ho Chi Minh city, so the hat’s my little nod to that.

Searching the hat leads to a simple note...

Face where Man acquires sustenance and it is sinister.

Face where Fairy acquires sustenance and it is right.

It’s wrapped in a gold bow, like the other two safe location clues.

Ratchet’s (and Foaly’s :D) puzzle line has been completed.

All minor puzzles are complete; it’s now time to find and open the safe..

FIGURING OUT THE SAFE LOCATION:

Clue one tells you its on the bottom rack.

Clue two tells you a bunch of board games.

And clue three says its on the left (sinister) when looking at where humans get food, or on the right on where fairies get food.

Its inside that rightmost cube on the bottom, since we are facing the backyard from this view, with the kitchen behind.

FIGURING OUT THE COMBO

THE LARGEST SAFE NUMBER IS EVEN

THE SAFE COMBINATION HAS NO DUPLICATE NUMBERS

THE NUMBERS ADD TO TEN AND ARE ORDERED FROM SMALLEST TO LARGEST.

From here, we know the third digit must be even, as it’s the largest number. The dials only go from 0-9, so the third digit must be 2,4,6, or 8. The numbers must add to ten, with no duplicates, so the third number cannot be 8. It also can’t be 2 (1,1,2 is invalid).

So the third number must be 4 or 6.

But even the next largest numbers (2 and 3) only add to 9 with 4. (2, 3,4) so 4 cannot be the final digit.

The last digit must be 6.

If 6 is the last digit, the other two numbers must add to 4 to make 10. There are only two valid combinations to make this possible (without violating the no duplicate rule)

The combo is either 0, 4, 6

Or

1, 3, 6

(the combo is 1, 3, 6).

With this information, Artemis can find and open the safe.

When he does, a folded note saying STOP! is inside. It contains the following.

You’ve come quite close, me, congratulations are in order.

But there is one final test for you, my old friend. Through these trials, you might have jogged a hair of your-my-OUR memory. I hope you have, because if you’ve done this wrong, this box is set to blow.

Under your old L.E.P. contractor’s shirt are two identically sized items. One of them is the files the People wrote on you so many years ago. The other… is a block of C4. Don’t bother pulling at them, but touch the spines all you like so long as you don’t yank it out. They’re designed to be identical, but only one is meant for you.

Foaly, Captain Short, and Wing Commander Vinyáya can’t help you here.

Think on it, and, when you’re sure you know the answer, pull it out and rip it open.

Diffuse the Safe Bomb

WARNING! THIS WILL SPOIL THE FINAL PUZZLE.

I’ll wait.

Waiting.

Last chance to try and figure this one out yourself.

Good? Good.

And here is where I pull an Artemis Fowl myself, and I play the biggest con-slash-bluff of the hunt.

There are two books inside, both wrapped, with wires coming out of the paper (they don’t actually lead anywhere). No matter which one “Artemis” takes, there is a signed copy of Artemis Fowl inside (the other copy is mine), plus the home-made shirt. Neither “Foaly” nor I will help him; he’s welcome to hem and haw at his old clues all he wishes. It’s entirely up to his gut on this one. There is no wrong answer.

Merry Christmas, old friend.

[mariacallous]

Dagestan has long been a reliable source of personnel for the Russian army. In peacetime, while eligible conscripts in other regions would seek ways to evade mandatory service, young men in Dagestan would pay bribes to enlist. That’s not necessarily because they were eager to experience military life; a stint in the army is effectively a prerequisite to getting a public-sector job, and government service is the best-paying and most stable career track available in the region. But Dagestanis have shown far less enthusiasm for the military since Russia invaded Ukraine last year — and it’s no wonder, given that they were drafted in disproportionately high numbers, and that Dagestan lost more residents in the first few months of the full-scale war than almost any other region of Russia. After Putin announced mobilization in September, Dagestan had some of the country’s largest protests, prompting a brutal police crackdown. With the war in Ukraine approaching its one-year mark, a journalist from the independent Russian outlet iStories went to Dagestan to see how residents feel about military service, mobilization, and the war in Ukraine. In English, Meduza is publishing an abridged version of the dispatch.

‘We’re used to respecting the authorities’

We’re in an addressless one-story building in a small mountain village in southern Dagestan. An older woman named Patimat is sitting in an armchair behind a wooden table and dicing pieces of cow liver. She and her daughter-in-law started buying the cheap protein source from their neighbors back in the fall. Chickens and ducks roam around their property, but the family doesn’t eat those anymore: “Those are the meat pies we send to my oldest son, who’s at the front.” Forty-year-old Ramadan was drafted in September.

“To be honest, I still can’t tell if he wanted to be called up or not,” Patimat says. “But the draft order came. A lot of people here got them, by the way. Not everybody went.”

“What other option did they have?” asks the iStories correspondent.

“Some people paid the doctor, while others paid [the enlistment officers] directly. They told everyone the price right from the start,” answers Sabiyat, the wife of Patimat’s youngest son. “That’s not something we respect… Nobody respects cowardice. Ramadan said that if he hides, and if others hide, who will be left to protect the motherland? Doesn’t somebody have to go? He’s always been a real man.”

Sabiyat’s own husband is exempt from the draft due to health problems.

“Are the rest of the men really looked down upon now?”

“At first, yeah, that was the case. But then ‘the rest of the men’ became our whole village, except for our Ramadan,” Sabiyat says. “And things died down.”

“They died down,” Patimat repeats, rubbing her bloodshot eyes.

When Vladimir Putin announced mobilization, Ramadan was off working in Moscow. When he learned that a draft order had come for him, he immediately went to Derbent to “figure everything out.”

“I asked him to wait ten days so he could pack, spend some time at home before going to war, and give us time to talk,” his mother says. “He said, ’No, I’m going right now.’ Well, inshallah [God willing]. It’s up to him. I worry about him, of course, but I supported my son. What makes a man beautiful, if not his courage?”

In the five months since Ramadan was drafted, according to his family, he hasn’t received a single payment. Patimat paid for his body armor, helmet, and warm clothes herself; she transferred 50,000 rubles (about $670) to the bank account of “one of the commanders.”

None of Ramadan’s relatives know where he is. Their phone calls with him are so short that they haven’t even been able to ask whether he’s received the homemade food they’ve sent him.

Suddenly, the iStories correspondent hears children laughing: four-year-old Zakhra and two-year-old Ibad, Ramadan’s niece and nephew, burst into the room with a toy dump truck. Sabiyat lifts Ibad up into her arms to feed him some liver.

“Even our kids know about war,” she says. “On May 9, at the kindergarten, we always used to have to bring camouflage uniforms.”

“What about now?” asks the iStories correspondent. “Are [the kindergarteners] still told about the war, like elementary school students are?”

“I don’t know. We’re used to respecting the authorities,” Sabiyat says, lowering her voice. “And the kindergarten teacher is part of the authorities. I can’t ask her about anything. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

‘You’re the ones going off to die for me’

From a cursory glance at the streets of any Dagestani city, it would be easy to think that Russia hasn’t been waging war against Ukraine for the last year. Most of the food products that have disappeared due to Western sanctions have been replaced by their Turkish or Iranian equivalents, and the stores that have blue and yellow IKEA signs hanging out front were full of locally made lamps and Turkish carpets even before the war.

It’s not rare to see “Z” symbols around the republic, but they’re definitely not as common as in Moscow. The only exception is southern Dagestan, where pro-war stickers adorn storefronts, cars, and restaurant windows.

Zarifa, a civil servant in the southern city of Derbent, proudly tells iStories about how she recently sent 205,000 rubles ($3,346) to volunteer fighters in Grozny.

“They started to thank me. I said, ‘What are you thanking me for? You’re the ones going off to die for me, for my security!’” she says.

In the fall, Zarifa and some of her friends started sending meat and hingels to the front. One of her colleagues involved in the initiative, Farida, starts to cry as she talks about it; her brother has been at the front for months now.

“Sometimes, we don’t hear anything from him for months at a time. Evidently, they don’t give them access to their phones,” she says, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Are you crying? Doesn’t the government give him the equipment he needs? Is he hungry? Is he sleeping in the cold?” Zarifa asks sharply.

“I’m not complaining, of course. He’s doing fine. As fine as he can be,” Farida responds.

Zarifa’s husband doesn’t have to worry about getting called up; he’s a high-ranking security official. Their eight-year-old daughter studies in a prestigious private school, where, in addition to gymnastics, dance, and English-language classes, she attends Russia’s government-imposed “patriotism” class: “Conversations About What’s Important.”

“Mom, do you know why the Ukrainians are angry at us?” her daughter asks when she gets home from school. “Everybody left the country to come to Russia, and the government got offended — so now they’re waging war against us. And I hate their president, Zelensky, too!”

“That’s my smart girl,” Zarifa says, giving her a kiss. “I try not to discuss politics at home, but her school shapes [her views] too. The other kids probably had people [from their families] go to the front, as did their teacher. And now Jamila hates him [Zelensky] — for making our people, from Derbent, have to go there.”

‘The Quran prohibits it’

Dagestan’s capital, Makhachkala, was the site of one of Russia’s largest anti-mobilization protests, which lasted for days. Law enforcement responded brutally to the demonstrations, using stun guns, batons, and pepper spray to disperse protesters, arresting at least 200 people. In the days that followed, the local Investigative Committee opened at least 30 criminal cases.

On September 25, more than 100 people blocked the Khasavyurt-Makhachkala Federal Highway near the northern Dagestani village of Endirey. Police ultimately fired guns in the air to make them leave.

One of those protesters was a 38-year-old Endirey resident named Gulyusa. She told iStories that she didn’t want her husband or her sons to die in a war that she doesn’t support.

“My heart began to ache back in February. I thought that, in Dagestan, everybody would condemn the war; after all, there’s not a single family who didn’t lose someone in the Chechen [Wars],” she says. “And that’s basically what happened. Nobody supported it, and everybody hoped it wouldn’t affect them. My youngest son is still 14. It’s not clear how long this will last for, but I hope it’s less than four years.”

After Gulyusa’s oldest son, 19-year-old Musa, received a draft order, the family decided it was no longer safe for him at home, so they went to Makhachkala. Now, unable to enroll in a university or get an official job, he works under the table assembling furniture. When he comes home to join his family for a meal, he travels incognito, always using other people’s cars.

And though her youngest son, seventh-grader Ilyas, is too young for the draft, the war has affected him, too.

“Today, there was almost nothing for me to do [at school]: we had free time instead of P.E., and I don’t go to ‘Conversations About What’s Important,’” he told iStories.

“Just you?”

“No — almost nobody goes,” he says, laughing. “At first, the school tried to fix it by going through our parents, but the adults themselves say that these lessons aren’t really school; they’re not subjects like math or English, so we shouldn’t be required to be there. I went to two [of these] lessons in September. One was about cosmonauts and the other was about Russian songs. Usually, I go for a walk during that time, or eat breakfast at home, or study biology. I want to become a doctor.”

“Maybe by then, they won’t be drafting doctors anymore,” Gulyusa says with a sigh.

Gulyusa’s family goes to an elderly mullah whose family continued practicing Islam throughout the entire Soviet period. Nowhere, he’s told her, does the Quran say that Muslims are required to protect non-Muslims, so — from a religious perspective — nobody from Endirey is obligated to go to Ukraine. On the other hand, the mullah says, the Quran does prohibit murdering innocent people, placing it on par with killing all of humanity. “If a man fears [obeys] Allah, he won’t go [to fight in Ukraine],” the mullah has said.

“The mullah isn’t afraid of the consequences? It sounds to me like he’s turned a lot of people [against the war],” asks the iStories correspondent.

“Everyone in Endirey will stand up for him,” she says. “What can they do to a respected man like him?”

‘Allah should help’

Islam, an Avar who lives in the Dagestani city of Khasavyurt, and his wife, a Chechen woman named Aishat, wanted to join the September protests, but they simply couldn’t make it: they’re raising seven kids, all under the age of ten.

One of Islam’s younger brothers was drafted, and he didn’t try to resist. According to Islam, he’s a “straightforward, honest person, so when the order came, he went [to the enlistment office].” The family hasn’t heard from him since October.

“It was a sin for me not to save him; I’m the oldest,” Islam laments, rocking his newborn son. “I probably should have hidden him. Our imam said afterwards that it’s more shameful to kill a non-Muslim on his own land than to hide in your home.”

The family can’t afford to emigrate; one of their daughters was born with cerebral palsy, and they’ve spent all of their savings on her treatment.

Ibragim, another one of Islam’s brothers, runs a shoe shop in town together with a friend. A draft order came for him in September, but he tore it up. He says he’s not afraid to stay in Khasavyurt.

“Some people were saying that the imam would keep the recruiters away from all of his students, though I don’t know if that’s possible without paying,” Ibragim says. “On the other hand, Allah should help, I think. If you refuse to go kill people because of your faith, then you’re on a certain path that the state has no power over.”

* * *

After the trip to Khasavyurt, amid talk of a new round of mobilization, the iStories correspondent received a call from Ibragim, who was now in Uzbekistan. He said he decided to help Allah protect him, and that he now plans to wait things out while abroad. He’s promised his brother and his business partner that he’ll return as soon as possible.

“I mean, it can’t last another year,” he said. “Can it?”

[andiexchoi]

scroll for English

사실 여긴 오픈 하기 전부터 눈독을 들인 곳이다. 3월 어느 잡지에 실린 기사에 나온 미국인 셰프 사위와 한국인 장모의 레스토랑 이야기가 너무나도 궁금하고 기대된 나머지, 꼭 각 잡고 계획해서 오겠다고 마음먹���다. 애인이랑 함께 오려다 헤어지고, 친구랑 같이 가려다 서로 출장 일정이 엇갈려서 언젠가는 가겠지, 하고 마음을 접었다. 그러다 오늘, 병원 약속이랑 불가피한 레드 라인 공사로 생각보다 늦은 시간까지 다운타운에 머물다가 너무 배고프고 피곤한 나머지, 마침 근처에 있던 <<소맥>> 에 발을 들였다.

비 오는 월요일 퇴근 시간엔 비교적 쉽게 1인석을 얻을 수 있었다. 앉자마자 읽은 메뉴에서 내 눈을 사로잡은 것은 미국 한식점에서 흔히 볼 수 없는 농어회와 전복, 깻잎전과 우엉. 바람이 좀 더 불었다면 회를 시켰겠지만, 덥고 답답한 오늘을 게워 내려고 난 매콤 달싹한 비빔국수, 소고기가 든 깻잎전, 그리고 “찐빵” 칵테일을 선택했다.

식사보다 먼저 도착한 칵테일은 예상보다 상쾌하고 적당히 달았다. 집중해서 음미해야만 맛볼 수 있는 팥은, 그 뒤에 따른 흑 깨가 살려냈다. 향수나 와인, 술 향을 예민하게 맡지 못하는 내가 더 할 말은 없지만 찐빵의 달콤한 팥 맛이 전해지지 않은 부분은 조금 아쉬웠다. 깻잎전과 비빔국수는 함께 도착했는데 여기서 여러 기획 센스가 돋보였다. 파스타나 소면과 달리 메밀로 만든 면은 질긴데, 그릇을 놓자마자 “면을 잘라드릴까요?”라고 물은 백인 웨이터의 말에 한 번 놀라고, 보통 국수와 함께 오는 일반 식초 대신 조금 더 달고 감미로운 사과 식초를 선택한 바에 한 번 더 놀랐다.

다른 한식점과는 달리 반찬에 가격이 붙어서 따로 시키진 않았지만, 식사와 함께 김치, 시금치 무침, 그리고 깍두기가 왔다. (서비스였을까?) 가격이 붙은 점에 대해서는 처음엔 다소 충격적이었지만, 현지 백인들이 먹기엔 맵고 ��소한 반찬을 공짜로 내놓은 대가로 한 두 젓가락밖에 안 먹힌 접시들을 버리기보단, 몇 불이라도 가격을 붙여서 손님들이 신중하게 선택하게끔 한 후에 반찬을 올리는 게 운영 차원에서 현명한 선택이란걸 깻잎전과 국수를 한두 입 씹으면서 생각했다.

허기를 달래고 나니 주위를 둘러볼 여유가 생겼다. 내 앞의 웨이터는 보쌈을 처음 먹어보는 손님에게 쌈장을 설명하고, 옆과 뒤로는 반듯한 발음으로 접시를 소개하는 소리가 들렸지만, 식당 전체에 한국인 웨이터는 단 한 명도 없었다. 한국과 아무런 인연이 없는 스태프들이 꾸밈없고 담백하게 레스토랑과 메뉴를 소개하는 모습에서 주인의 교육관과 한국 문화와 음식에 대한 진정한 존경심이 묻어나서 감동하고, 너무 아무 생각 없이 여기를 들어온 내가 조금 부끄러웠다. 식사는 흠잡을 곳 없이 깔끔하고 만족스러웠고, 웃기지만 내 최애는 깍두기였다. 미국에선 산 20여 년 동안 눈 돌아가게 맛있는 깍두기를 먹어 본 적이 없는데, 여기서 찾았다. 평소에 식당 내에서는 아무런 평판을 입 밖으로 내지 않는 내가, 오늘은 웨이터를 붙잡고 깍두기를 따로 사고 싶다 셰프께 전해달라 부탁했다.

<<소맥>>은 이렇게 아무 계획 없이, 눅눅하고 지친 날, 아픈 발에 이끌려 먹는 게 제일 잘 어울린다. 그게 진짜인 것 같다.

I had been eyeing this place since before it opened. I read about its up-and-coming arrival in some magazines back in March. The story of a James Beard Award-winning chef learning from his Korean mother-in-law to open an authentic Korean restaurant in downtown Boston was so compelling that I was determined to plan a proper date to come here. First, I planned to go with a lover. That fell through. I tried to come with a friend, but we couldn’t line up our work schedules, so I figured I’d get to come here someday, but then I stopped planning. Today, I was stuck downtown later than usual (doctor’s appointment, the red line not working). Weary and hungry, I found myself at Somaek.

It was relatively easy to find a seat for one on a rainy Monday evening. Upon scanning the menu, I found some items I don’t usually see in American-Korean restaurants: striped bass sashimi, abalone, perilla leaves, and braised burdock. Had it been a bit windier, I would have ordered the sashimi, but I wanted to whisk away the heavy humidity from my day, so I chose the perilla leaves stuffed with beef, spicy cold buckwheat noodles, and a cocktail called “Jjinbbang,” named after a soft bread filled with sweet red bean paste. 

The cocktail was decently sweet and crisp. But you really had to focus to taste the red bean paste, and even that was quickly followed up by the black sesame. I don’t have a strong nose for cocktails, wine, or perfume, so I can’t say much, but I was a little disappointed that the nutty sweetness of the red bean paste didn’t permeate throughout the drink. The perilla leaves and noodles arrived together, and I noticed some excellent details. Unlike pasta or somen, buckwheat noodles can be difficult to cut through with your front teeth, but unless you’re eating buckwheat noodles frequently, you wouldn’t know that. So when my waiter asked if I’d like my noodles cut the moment after he set them down, I was pleasantly surprised. Usually, these noodles are served with white vinegar for the diner to add to their taste, but these were served with a sweeter and softer apple cider vinegar, which I thought was a creative and unexpected touch. 

Unlike other Korean restaurants in the area, the banchan (side dishes) did not come for free, and they weren’t exactly cheap! (I did get some kimchi, spinach, and radish with my meal, and I’m wondering now if that was offered gratis…) I was a little shocked at first, but it made sense as I took a few bites of my food. When you offer something that might be a bit foreign for free, your diners might pick at it a little, but they probably won’t finish it unless they absolutely love it because they perceive it to have no value. This would result in a lot of waste in the end. Adding a price that makes them think about their choice a little gives the restaurant an opportunity to teach and the diner an opportunity to learn, taste, and appreciate. It’s a really thoughtful choice from an operational standpoint. 

After a few more bites, I could feel my surroundings more. The waiter at the table in front of me was explaining “ssamjang” to a customer who had never had “bossam” before. I heard the staff introducing the dishes in straightforward and unembellished Korean names from behind and around me. But the thing was, none of the staff present were Korean, let alone Asian. Hearing these people, who (I assume) have no direct ties to Korea, talk about my food in such plain and truthful language, I could understand the owner’s teaching philosophy and genuine respect for Korean food and culture. It almost made me feel embarrassed that I had walked in for a meal with so little thought. My meal was clean-cut; I have no comments. And funnily enough, my favorite was the radishes. In my 20 years of living here, I have never had radishes so good at a restaurant, and I found them here, of all places. I usually don’t voice my opinions while I’m eating, but I had to ask the waiter to please ask the chef if they sold them in jars. 

Tired on a heavy, humid day, led by my aching feet, this was the best way to come to Somaek. And it was the real deal. 

[reaperkaneki]

you deserve to be in a partnership. that's a very significant different in income. - you really shouldn't be splitting the rent 50/50 and you shouldn't be the one covering all of the bills.

the 50/50 split was actually my idea when we moved into this specific apartment two years ago. he really, really wanted to pay like 70/30 or 60/40 at least, but i was adamant about us doing it evenly bc he has a history of managing money very poorly and one of the reasons he ended up owing me so much money (which he is, i must stress, very adamant about wanting to pay me back. i would of course appreciate having my money but ultimately if he repays me i’m happier to see it as a sign of him being more financially responsible) is that at our previous living situation he tried to take it upon himself to be the breadwinner and be the main source of income and pay most of the bills/expenses/etc….

except he was really bad at it, developed several unhealthy habits that for his privacy i won’t state, was too ashamed about all of it to tell me the truth, and ultimately i ended up shouldering all the bills because of it. so 50/50 seemed more realistic, with the eventual expectation that once he’s able the consistently pay that without worrying too hard that we can rethink how it’s split. and so that he has the wiggle room to save up money and pay me back.

with the bills and such, i do want him to start splitting those with me at some point, especially energy, because it is ridiculously high sometimes. i actually only started paying them myself bc i figured he would forget about them until notif pops up halfway thru the month and then struggle to come up for money for both that and rent. which is not a great thing to not trust your partner to be able to do, but we’re working on it.

(i will also note that some of his money ends up going to his parents who struggle financially because they are immigrants who don’t speak english well and are getting older and can’t depend on being cheap physical labor. his mom in particular has a lot of health problems and all of the siblings split her medical bills because otherwise she simply won’t go yo the doctor. which like. as someone of a similar background, but whose parents lucked out in the speaking english fluently department and therefore had more opportunities afforded to them, like i get it. and i can’t be mad at him for *checks notes* making sure his mom has teeth to eat with.)

[theatrekidmonologues]

Dear Zachary (Performance Script)

By Kurt Kuenne

My name's Kurt, and I'm a filmmaker.  So I decided to make  this movie because I wanted to learn everything that there was to know about the guy and to make one last movie with him.  So I started at home  and, as soon as I could, I grabbed a camera. And said... Action! 

Now how would I describe Andrew to someone who had never met him? The man never wore pants. He only wore shorts. Graduation, he was in shorts. Prom, Shorts. Church, Halloween, all of Winter. Shorts. That’s why I’m making this movie. You’ve got to know the whole truth about Andrew.

There are some things you should know about Andrew: He was the most determined person I ever met about being a doctor. His go to move with the ladies was to tell them how much he knew about the birth control pill. His mom was a nurse and when they had dinner they’d discuss venereal disease. Fun. Andrew was also great at pool, quite frankly he was a pool shark. Well, he had a great teacher. But yeah, I probably owe him about $30,000 dollars. Everyone wanted Andrew to be their best man. Because that’s who Andrew was, he was the best man. And if he got married I really hoped to be his best man and give my toast to tell him “Why am I standing up here? We’re brothers. And I love you. And I know you love me. Yeah, and I’m a male and we don’t gush that much. So let's get drunk and party!”

He appeared in every movie I made growing up. And I know I drove him nuts sometimes. I’d say, Could you do that one more time? - One more time. Okay, one more time. One more time. That was perfect. Okay, one more time. He loved playing bad guys... Shut up! Jeff, get the cocaine. A free pass to smoke and swear in front of his parents. F you! F all you f-ing people! I did not say the F-word. 

Andrew came into the shop one day, and said he had two English nurses who wanted to go to Disneyland. So I took the little one and left him with the tall one. But the girls were too short to ride the rides. And we were too cheap to pay their cab fare back home. So they didn't work out so well, but we did. Andrew was always picking up girls. Girls that were never going to work out. 

The day Shirley showed up, Andrew said, "You'll never guess who showed up on my doorstep "The psychotic witch." And I told him, I said, "You know, Andrew, when I break up with somebody and put them on a plane and send them 1,300 miles away, they knock on my front door, I'm going out the back door and I'm calling the police." I said, "Andrew." "Be serious. Nobody drives 16 hours after you've just broken up with them." I said, "Do not meet her in private." He said, "What can happen?"

Shirley. Shirley? I couldn't figure out who she was in relation to Andrew since Andrew talked a lot about women but never really mentioned her. A summary of the evidence against Shirley Turner. He was found dead after being shot five times. That didn't sound random. That sounded like rage and vengeance.  I've never hated like that. Rage. Absolute vicious rage. I thought it was crazy. This should never be, this should never have been. I thought it was insane, I mean who the hell is the system protecting. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Someone has done that to someone you love. If the person who did this had been here, I'd kill them. Period. No questions. Kill them! Strangle them right here, right now! Period. No questions. Kill them! On November 14, 2002, Judge Derek Green declared Shirley guilty and ordered her incarcerated. Zachary, you'll never know what you missed. And I can remember Andrew saying, "If I die tomorrow, all I want you to do is sit and toast a beer to me." We have one remaining. To Andrew, my good friend, I can't wait to see you again.

Hello Zachary. First of all I’ve seen your pictures and you look just like Andrew. For better or worse. And you’re not going to grow up with your biological father, but you’re going to grow up with all the people who loved him and that makes you the luckiest little boy in the world. And if you ever need anything, I’m not far away and when you’re old enough and you watch this, you should know that you’re loved and I love you and I care about the person you’re going to become and if you’re anything like Andrew, you’re going to be great.

[straycatboogie]

2023/07/21 English

BGM: Genesis - Invisible Touch

Today I worked late. TBH I had to go to the hospital this morning because I had been said by a doctor that I needed to check my health via my company's health check. Therefore I was really busy and couldn't write anything to my job coach. The result of re-checking was that "your blood sugar level is a little bit too high". But my father also needs to cure about this problem, so it can be the one of "heredity". I need not to eat and drink too much, and care myself more. After that, I went to AEON and spent my time at the food court until the beginning time of my work. I write a few papers for my company, and also read Shuntaro Tanikawa's poem collection. Tanikawa writes about the sky a lot. What kind of poetry can I write? The sky, the mountains in this town, the trees from the food court... Can I be able to write the one as Hiroshi Osada's impressive works someday? Of course, love songs or protest songs are great enough. But I want to write more charming poetry. Funny, and nonsense ones.

I started my work, and from 3 pm I met my job coach. I told her about the result of the re-checking soon (because it is also one of her duties as a job coach). We talked about the topic as how we should do when we meet hurtful people (who run away from me even though I don't care them). At that time, I saw out of the window. There is a vast sky, and also clouds. Looking at them, I thought that "Hurtful people are like that kind of 'weather'". Yes, the weather... which can disturb my life sometimes. But the weather is just the weather. My life has to be my life. That's all... I can separate my life from those people, and also "should do separating". Of course, I need to consider how to live my life with the weather, but I have a right to enjoy my life without the weather. The job coach also said to me that "They, the people who do their work with their personal emotion of love/hate can't be any pros". I'm glad to hear that... and also I thought that "Then, Am I a pro? Can I say that I am doing a pro's job". I have to look inside myself.

Indeed, this can't be the pro's work... but TBH during my night work, my mother had called me and I noticed that on my smartphone (after that calling). Of course, I worried a lot. What happened? My parents are already in their 80s. It can be natural that they got sick or they had to go to hospital as an emergency state... I sent her a LINE message soon, and she answered that "I called you because I thought you are alright". Oh my gosh. I thought someone fell down by this summer's heat... I got alright again. I remembered that we (my job coach and I) talked about my life, my way of living. My father has been worrying about me because I have been working as an irregular employee. He wants me to work as a regular worker at my company... but then, I need to learn how to drive a car, and also have to endure the pressure of more serious work. I like the current "easy" and "comfortable" life like a cat. I said to my mother that "I want to do talking on LINE because I can read your messages again. I MUST read your ones and answer". I want to tell them about my life at my parents' house.

Through that working time, I have been writing my notebook of KOKUYO. A really orthodox, cheap blue one. Today's one came from the hiphop of the N.W.A. At lunchtime of my late work days, I write my draft of my poem on the notebook. I just write it as a graffiti or an action painting. After that, I make it "cool down". And the resting time of the sunset time, I read it again. After re-writing it on the notebook, I make that rewritten version "cool down" again. After going back to my group home, I upload it on my blog. I have created this process. Indeed, I want to upload on any sited after writing it as soon as possible. But I believe that it is too rapid, therefore it is too rough. It would end as crap. Once I tried to complete writing a short novel one night, but not I want to try to complete every work of mine slowly, steadily. I guess time is on my side. I always have taken the time, therefore the relationship with my parents have started rebounded again. My life (without sober) has been built with the long time, too. I don't have to work so rapidly. I need a time to rest because I have worked without any day off in there five days.

A Manifesto

They said they have the attitude And also played a really great prelude Meanwhile, I was just an autistic old dude Though I was a cool guy who liked "Hey Jude"

Can you see my skin? It's a kind of pale pink Probably cause I've stayed a lot with a quiet think Without any romance with a woman with her mink I loved a girl a lot, but why? She had to wink

Now I have a dream to be an anarchist in JP A Japanese poet who comes from a land of vast sea My imagination flies into the sky and I'm really free

Indeed, I'm an outlaw. But you can't arrest me yet How do you think? This poem has its worth? You regret? I say this is just a manifesto. A debut of a poor poet

[anonymous-dentist]

A doctor who fic preview, in which Sapnap is at work and the birds are dead.

-

1. Pilot (lost)

Another parakeet is dead. This one was the last in its cage, leaving only one cage of shitty annoying little birds to pawn off to suckers wanting a pet for cheap and dirty. 

Sapnap sighs, looks at the clock, sighs again when he sees that it’s only eight in the morning, and trudges off to the back to get the broom and dustpan. 

This was not in the job description. 

-

Half past noon, George comes by with a cup of coffee and a bagel that Sapnap swipes as soon as it’s in reach. George rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. 

Too much. 

“You are an animal,” he complains. 

Sapnap responds by opening his mouth, full of food, and jerking his head forward in George’s direction. George screeches and recoils, stumbling back a couple of steps into a shelf full of stale dry dog food. 

“What is wrong with you?” he demands, nose wrinkling in annoyance as Sapnap laughs. “You’re disgusting. I hate you.”

Sapnap shakes his head and covers his mouth with his hand with an eye roll. “Oh come off it. You’re a bitch.”

“And you’re an animal.”

“You already did that one, man, come up with better insults or get out of my store.”

For emphasis, Sapnap points over his shoulder and towards the front door. He smiles into his palm, and he knows George is smiling beneath his usual flat expression. 

“Your store?” George asks. He makes a show of looking around the store, eyes settling on the wall of framed pictures of Skeppy near the fish tanks. “Wow, when did that happen?”

Sapnap huffs out a laugh and crosses his arms. He leans back against the shelf opposite George with a grin that George actually matches. 

“Oh, you know,” Sapnap boasts. He makes a show of looking at the Skeppy wall. “The old man kicked it, so obviously I took charge. Obviously.”

“Oh my God, Skeppy died?”

“Fuck you!” 

Sapnap laughs and chucks a squeaky squirrel dog toy at George, who dodges it easily. 

And that’s when Sapnap hears from the back of the store, out of sight and thus out of mind to someone who only has half an hour left before his shift ends, “Holy shit, are these fucking birds dead?”

George gives Sapnap a Look. He knows the Look well. Disappointment, mostly, and a great deal of annoyance. Sapnap knows the Look. He’s lived with the Look for the past twenty-one years of his life. He knows the Look. 

“What?” Sapnap quietly asks. His eyes flick towards the aisle entrance, checking to see if anyone- say, an annoying customer- was looking for an employee. Sapnap is hiding, thank you very much. Fuck this. He does not get paid enough to actually deal with customers. 

“I thought you guys took care of this?” George asks, voice just as quiet. He’s here hiding for a reason, too. Namely: his shift is in half an hour, but he’s already in uniform and doesn’t want to get dragged into doing his job for once in his life. “Bad told me this was taken care of.”

Sapnap inwardly groans and externally drags his non-bageled hand down his face in annoyance. Fucking Bad. 

“Of course we didn’t take care of it!” Sapnap hisses. He glares up at the impassive, gum-ridden ceiling. “Literally how are we supposed to ‘take care of it’? We aren’t doctors!”

“You run a pet shop! Are you seriously telling me that you guys don’t know any- uh- animal doctors?”

“‘Animal doctors’?” Sapnap looks at George in disbelief. “What the hell is an animal doctor? It’s called a fucking veterinarian, idiot!”

George glares at Sapnap, who glares right back. “Oh, screw off, I’m not from here.”

“You’re from England! We speak the same language!”

“‘We speak the same language’, no? We literally don’t? I speak English, and you speak idiot.”

Sapnap growls under his breath. The only thing keeping him from smothering his best friend with a doggy bed is the horrifying threat of attracting a customer their way. Sapnap would rather die than do this job, and there’s no way that George of all people is going to risk that. 

“You,” Sapnap bites out. “are a moron. I hate you.”

For emphasis, he bites into his stolen bagel as angrily as possible. George looks impassive. 

Prick. 

Footsteps from the back of the store as the customer wanders around. Sapnap listens with bated breath, dreading the inevitable. George is just as frozen, fingers tapping nervously against his cup. 

He slowly takes a sip from it. Sapnap watches, and he wishes that he had chosen a better hiding spot than the fucking dog care aisle. 

And then there’s silence. 

There’s a lot of silence. 

Sapnap looks at George. George looks at Sapnap. They both look at the Skeppy wall and at the clock ticking away in the middle of a scattering of Skeppies. Fifteen minutes until Sapnap’s shift ends. It’s so close it hurts. 

Slowly, George lowers his coffee from his lips and licks them. 

“Well,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “I guess that’s that.”

Sapnap’s shoulders, tense, loosen slightly. He finishes off his bagel and nods, brushing the crumbs off of his fingers and onto his khakis. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

“Hey, are either of you gonna do anything about the literal cage of dead birds back there?”

George jolts so hard he spills a bit of his coffee onto the floor. Sapnap doesn’t flinch, though. He just sighs, tired. Well. There goes that. 

With all the weight of a man two seconds away from committing murder, Sapnap turns around to fully face the customer at the entrance of the aisle. The usual tired spiel dies on his tongue when he gets a look at him. 

“Uh,” Sapnap intelligently says, “hi?”

His voice cracks, but he can’t even be too mad, because wow. 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” George grumbles. 

Because wow. Just. Wow. 

The customer looks between them with a bored, flat expression. His bangs are falling into his face, and that may or not be a crime because Sapnap kiiiind of wants to see this guy’s entire face. Not an inch to be spared. Or a centimeter. Whatever the Europeans use, that. 

He’s beautiful, and it isn’t until he raises a hand to scratch the side of his face near a scar crossing his eye that Sapnap notices a shiny ring on his finger. His ring finger. For rings. 

Goddamnit. 

Snapped out of his reverie by sheer disappointment, Sapnap’s usual customer service scowl settles back on his face. He stands up straight and pretends he still doesn’t have bagel crumbs stuck in the stubble on his cheek. 

“Hi, welcome to P&B, what’s up?” he flatly asks. He can’t even be bothered to sound enthusiastic; he never can, and he never does. 

The customer rolls his eyes, and Sapnap pretends not to be fascinated by the motion. 

“Birds,” he says. He jerks his head towards the back and the birds. “They’re dead. What the fuck?”

Sapnap shrugs. “Don’t ask me. We’re getting a couple more in on Thursday, though, so you can come back then if you really want one.”

Somehow, the customer’s face falls even further. “Thursday.”

It isn’t a question, and yet Sapnap takes it as one. “Yep. Thursday. Sooooo….”

George snickers into his cup. Sapnap flips him off, not caring that he’s got a customer. What’s Bad gonna do fire him? 

“Look,” the customer sighs, glancing between George and Sapnap with a hint of… something in his eyes. What is it? “Let’s say your birds coming on Thursday die, too. What then?”

Sapnap shrugs. “I don’t work Thursday, so it’s not my problem.”

George, though, works Thursday. He works all day Thursday, actually, because he agreed to take Skeppy’s shift because he would do anything to see Sapnap’s dad smile, the absolute freak. 

The customer laughs, head thrown back just slightly, and Sapnap swears light shines down from the heavens upon him as he does so. But a second glance reveals, nope, it’s just the broken light above him flickering back on for the first time all day. 

“Okay, fine, I get it, you don’t care,” the customer giggles- fucking giggles. Smiling to himself, he walks up to Sapnap real close, right in Sapnap’s bubble, and looks up at him through his eyelashes. 

Sapnap swallows and looks down at him. There isn’t that much of a difference between them, not really, but somehow Sapnap feels like he’s miles high. 

“Oh, what the heck?” George murmurs. 

“Here,” says the customer. 

He smacks something right into Sapnap’s chest and steps back quickly, hands going to his pockets, ring going out of sight. 

Sapnap catches the card before it falls to the ground. He looks at it, slightly confused. Black cardstock, a phone number with an area code he doesn’t recognize written in gold ink. What the fuck?

“I know a guy,” the customer says. And, wow, that’s suspicious. “An… exterminator.”

He snorts, and, yeah, no, pretty face aside, Sapnap doesn't trust him. What the fuck? 

“Yeeeeeah,” Sapnap drawls. He slips the card into his back pocket, already planning on throwing it away as soon as this guy is gone. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” George adds, sounding much more enthusiastic. Uh oh. “Thanks.”

Sapnap glances at him. George glances back, a smile in his eyes. Uh oh. 

And Sapnap plans on saying something else to the customer, probably something along the lines of, “Who is this guy and what do you mean he’s an exterminator and why did you give me his phone number?” or maybe, “Is that actually a wedding ring or what?” But, when he looks back at him, he’s met with thin air. The customer is gone. 

Sapnap blinks. “Hey. Where’d he go?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” George says. 

Before Sapnap can protest, George is swooping in and swiping the card out of Sapnap’s pocket and inspecting it like an old-timey detective. He holds it up to his eye, then backs it away slowly. 

“What are you doing?” Sapnap asks. He shifts on the balls of his feet, torn between snatching the card back before George can call the number on it and leaving the safety of the dog supplies aisle to see where the fuck the hot creepy customer went. (Seriously, where did he go? Sapnap didn’t even hear footsteps!)

George’s eyebrows furrow. “What area code is ‘x’?” 

“Hell if I know. Also, give that back,” Sapnap snaps. He rips the card out of George’s hand and holds it close to his chest. “This is probably that guy’s drug dealer’s number.”

George does not look impressed. “Sapnap.”

“Or! Or it’s one of those virus numbers Bad told me about. Y’know, the ones where you call them and they steal your voice and upload it to, like, the government.”

“Sapnap, that isn’t real.”

“Yeah, but what if it is? What then? Huh? I do not want to deal with the government.”

George groans, “Sapnap, you aren’t going to deal with the government! The government doesn’t care about you!”

Not anymore, it doesn’t, and Sapnap knows that George knows that they can’t be sure of that. Any day now the government could knock down the pet store’s door and take Sapnap away, and Sapnap is not risking his chances at employee of the month over some guy’s so-called ‘exterminator’ friend. 

Sapnap crumples the card up and unceremoniously shoves it into his pocket next to his wallet. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s his personal philosophy. 

“Look,” he sighs, head ducking slightly as he withers under George’s gaze. “I just don’t wanna risk anything, okay? I like what I’ve got going on here.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t. But we don’t know who that guy was or who his friend is, and I’d personally rather not invite a stranger to my dads’ store. Okay?”

George remains unconvinced, but he backs off enough to let Sapnap go when the clock turns one and his shift is over. 

(On his way out of the store, Sapnap lights up a cigarette and stomps his way past a bright red phone booth that he doesn’t notice. The man inside smiles and twists a ring around his finger, just waiting for the call.)

[mikerickson]

9/8 - 9/19: 700-mile road trip through Portugal

This was my first non-family related vacation since 2019 and it was sorely needed. I’m mostly documenting everything under the read more line for myself, but if you wanna peek, knock yourself out.

I studied Portuguese for two years before this trip mostly on a whim because I’m always tackling one language or another, but when we were trying to decide where we wanted to go on vacation this year, this fact kinda weighted my decision towards Portugal. Definitely came in handy because I did encounter a dozen or so people with zero English, but for the most part people in the touristy areas would switch once they detected me struggling, which was a little disheartening. In retrospect, I think I was initiating interactions with very informal speech, which probably signaled I was more competent than I actually was.

First contact with a native speaker was with the customs officer I spoke to in the Lisbon airport. I stumbled pretty poorly through that interaction, but I don’t know if it was because it was my first time conversing with someone in the language in an actual scenario, because I was sleep deprived and jet-lagged because I didn’t sleep on the plane, or because he was one of the single most handsome men I’d ever seen in my life.

The food was consistently fantastic and surprisingly cheap. Very carb heavy with breads, pastries and fried seafood though, and I found myself craving salads and fruit by the end. Also forgot that Americans drink water like fish compared to other countries; I was constantly dehydrated because I’m used to drinking like a gallon of water a day.

Churches, chapels, cathedrals, and castles out the wazoo in this country, but there was just so much detail in every single nook and cranny you can look at.

The entire country from north to south was way more hilly than I was expecting. It honestly felt like I was climbing the equivalent of a skyscraper’s-worth of stairs every day in every single city we were in. Because I have an eye for designing handicap ramps because of my work, Lisbon struck me as an exceptionally wheelchair-unfriendly city; they definitely don’t have any equivalent to ADA-compliance.

Lisbon and Porto - despite being two cities in a relatively small country - had totally different vibes. Lisbon was much warmer, Mediterranean, and slower-paced, whereas Porto had cooler colors, had almost French-looking architecture, and seemed way more active. I wasn’t expecting such a blatant difference in character between these two.

Apparently I speak Portuguese with a Spaniard accent. One woman in an ice cream shop told me that outright, but in another instance I asked a waiter for a table for four and he clocked me as a foreigner, but he brought out Spanish-language menus for us before we corrected him and asked for the English ones.

This was my first vacation in three years, but it was also my first time getting sick in three years. We landed on a Friday and by that night I came down with a sore throat. I knew some Nyquil would set me straight right away, but they’re legally not allowed to sell it there without a doctor’s prescription. It’s kind of a paternalistic system where you go to the pharmacy, tell them your symptoms, and then they tell you what they’re going to give you based on their opinion; you can’t just buy anything you want, which was frustrating.

It was a beautiful country to drive through, and my favorite part was through cork country (apparently a third of all the cork wood produced in the work comes from Portugal, which I had no idea before I saw all of it for myself). Didn’t take any pictures because I was driving for that stretch, but it kinda looked like this.

Getting to the airport today reminded me that there is a certain kind of fearlessness that local taxi drivers possess that I don’t necessarily aspire to, but I do respect and fear in equal measures.

[yellowocaballero]

Jon's Trapped in Temporal Time-Out: A TMA Time Travelling Tale

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

I kept on bitching about how much I dislike the beginning scenes of TMA time travelling AUs so my friend @lazuliquetzal​ (who wrote the best TMA time travelling fic in the fandom) told me to put my money where my mouth is. It’s nowhere near her level, but in my defense it’s probably even stupider than Reflection. 10K of stupid under the cut. 

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

****

There was, indeed, a corpse in the Archives.

More specifically, in the stacks. The worst place to die, or least be dumped. Sasha had to admit the logic of it: it was the darkest depths of the library that Martin had informed her was ‘somewhat creepy’ and ‘kind of ominous’ so ‘please stop sleeping there you’re going to give me a heart attack’. After Martin flipped on a few lights that were never flipped on (apparently Elias was a cheapskate, which explained the breakroom) they could all gawk at the corpse to their heart’s content. 

Very kindly and thoughtfully, Tim asked Martin if he wanted to stay out of the library and maybe to ‘tell someone’ or something. Both Sasha and Tim had mutually and silently agreed that Martin seemed the type to have a delicate constitution. Granted, he hadn’t seemed the type to win Magnus Anarchist every month by breaking into abandoned buildings with absolutely no shame, so maybe he was the kind that surprised you. 

But Martin had just looked a little unimpressed. “Do you seriously think this is my first corpse? I went to university.”

That somewhat intimidated Sasha, who abruptly worried that she had missed out on an essential university experience again. “Is that a typical university experience?”

Martin paused a beat. 

“Uh,” he said, “yeah, sure, of course. Hazing, you know.”

“Is that what hazing…?”

“Fraternities.”

Tim, from where he had been standing at the entrance to the stacks snapping on the sterile gloves he had liberated from the cleaning supply closet, looked delighted. “You were in a frat too, Martin? What kind of hardcore frat had corpse hazings? Was it the Sigma Gammas? My frat always thought they were way too crazy, but we were a business one -”

“You know what,” Martin said, “let’s just worry about the corpse.”

After Sasha tied her hair in a ponytail and Martin snapped on his own gloves, they awkwardly approached the aisle where Tim had been trying to find a reference book for Jon. Sasha was worried that they would have to hunt for it a little, or that there would be a bad jump scare, but when they found it she saw that it wasn’t subtle at all.

It was sprawled on the ground, face mashed into the cheap and somewhat gross carpet. Sasha approached it with absolutely no hesitation, which Tim and Martin gladly let her do, and squatted down to get a better look at the figure. 

She definitely needed to make a coroner’s report. She was the objective expert in coroner’s reports. 

 “Tim, can you run back and get one of Jon’s silly little tape recorders for my coroner’s report?”

“Did you just see that on the telly?” Tim asked skeptically. “Because if you did -”

“Oh, here one is. That’s really convenient!” Martin grabbed one off the shelf and pressed play, letting the tape roll. “Good idea, Sasha. We need proof to Jon that we were researching.”

Probably...not what Jon meant for them to be researching, but Sasha liked to believe that it was the intent that mattered. She pulled a pencil out of her pencil skirt pocket, poking the figure thoughtfully. “Report by Sasha James, Archival Assistant.” There, now it was work. “At 1:30pm today, Tim Stoker discovered a corpse in the Archives, thereby referred to as John Doe -”

“Do we have to call it John Doe?” Tim complained, standing next ot her and crossing his arms. “Then we have too many Johns, it’ll get confusing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sasha said dismissively. “Ours is Jon, this guy’s John. Completely different.”

“Sasha, I’m not sure that’s how words work.”

“What are you, an English major?”

“Yes! I was an editor for a living!”

“Sorry if I don’t listen to guys who were fired from book editing school -”

“Uh,” Martin said, “have we checked to see if he’s actually dead?”

Sasha and Tim fell silent. Sasha looked at Tim. Tim shook his head. 

“Seriously, mate?” Sasha asked, unimpressed. 

“I didn’t want to touch the corpse!” Tim cried. “So sue me! It’s not as if he’s moving!”

Pussy. Sasha gently reached out and pushed aside a little of the corpse’s very long and pretty curly hair. What was that, 3C? Jesus, that had to be work. Sasha was 3A and the amount of hair care products she owned was insane.

She waved her hand at the boys for silence and put her thumb against his pulse, concentrating hard. Martin quietly walked over and crouched down too, eyeing his chest. 

“I don’t feel a pulse,” Sasha said finally. 

“Also, uh, I’m not a doctor,” Martin said, “but he’s definitely not breathing.”

“I told you,” Tim said defensively. “You just look at the thing, and you go - yep, that’s a corpse!”

“Corpse appears to be an ethnically ambiguous adult man with very nice hair,” Sasha said loudly. Martin helpfully held out the recorder to catch her voice better. “Maybe 190cm. Incredibly skinny - potential cause of death. He’s dressed in...some very ratty clothing. Potentially homeless.”

“It definitely smells,” Tim said, pinching his nose. Sasha didn’t blame him - the clothing was an overlarge green hoodie, ratty and threadbare, and his jeans weren’t any better. His boots were worn and soft leather. “Maybe he’s a homeless guy who snuck in and died?”

“That’s so sad,” Martin said softly. “Also a little gross.”

“Have some respect for the dead, guys,” Sasha said, as she poked the dead guy with a pencil. “Tim, go flip him over.”

Tim held his hands up, stepping away. “I couldn’t possibly. Martin loves flipping people over.”

“This again?” Martin asked, frustrated. “This is just like when you made me handle the Rawlings case because you’re scared of the suburbs!”

“They have too many eyes, Martin!”

“I am surrounded by cowards,” Sasha noted for the recorder. Nothing for it, then. Sasha carefully straightened, wobbling on her heels, before solidly wiggling her hands underneath the corpse’s chest. He was cold - dead a while. 

It was surprisingly difficult to flip over a limp adult man. Sasha was strong, but the corpse’s flesh was weak, and he was all floppy. Eventually Tim got over himself long enough to help her, making a very disgusted face the entire time, and they were able to finally get a good look at the man’s face.

Abruptly, upon seeing it, they all quieted. 

There was something about seeing a man splayed out on the ground that was a little funny, if you worked for the Magnus Institute and had probably encountered a Leitener two years ago and lost all empathy. No more impediments in the search for science. But there was something very different about looking at a person, who had a nose and lips and a very ratty hoodie, and knowing that it was no longer a person. Just a lot of cloth and meat and blood and organs and nice hair that once was a person, back when things were easier and the world was a little less harsh.

But maybe Sasha was caught by sentimentality: after all, the corpse looked a little like Jon.

Judging from the stunned faces of her compatriots as they all bent around the figure, they all thought the same thing. Tim’s jaw was open, and Martin’s hand was covering his mouth in shock. 

“Man,” Tim said. “This sucks. And it’s really creepy.”

“He must have been really gorgeous,” Martin said. “That’s so sad.” 

Actually, Sasha tilted her head and took another look. He had sharp and severe features, elegant and striking. A large and thin, sharp nose, and equally sharp lips. His face was just as sharp and gaunt, as emancipated as the rest of him. He had strange scars trailing up his neck and curving around his jaw, but it just kind of accentuated the intense atmosphere. 

It was probably a pretty stupid thing to focus on, but in her defense it wasn’t really the face of a homeless guy. Well, maybe. Hot homeless people existed.

Sasha frowned. She’s only met one other person this hot. 

“Hey,” she said, “doesn’t he look like Jon?”

Both the men titled their heads. 

Finally, Tim said, “Nah, he’s hotter.”

“Agreed,” Sasha said. “I think the scars really do it.” 

“Uh, guys,” Martin said. 

Sasha grabbed her tape recorder out of Martin’s hands, resuming her coroner’s report. “Subject appears to be in his thirties. Weirdly attractive, but that’s probably not as important as we feel it is.” She looked down at his hands, carefully using her pencil to push up the sleeve. “What looks like an aged and badly healed burn scar on his right hand. Supports homeless guy evidence.”

“Knife scar over his throat,” Tim quietly observed. “Someone tried to kill this guy.”

“Guys,” Martin said. 

“Well, I guess this is the point where we worry about body disposal,” Sasha said, straightening. “I think Elias could handle this discreetly and professionally, but that might involve letting Jon know. And I don’t think any of us want that kind of stress in our lives.”

“So, are we not even pretending to want to call the cops, or…?”

“Listen to me!”

Both Tim and Sasha shut up, somewhat guiltily. Martin had straightened too, fists balled, looking firm and determined and resolute - everything that Martin wasn’t, really. Martin lived unsure of himself, never expressing his own feelings or ending every opinion with an “I don’t know, maybe, that’s just my thoughts, what do you think?”. 

So Tim and Sasha paid attention, and when Sasha nodded encouragingly at him he seemed to find further courage. Solemnly, with the air of a wise man by the side of the road, Martin said, “This guy isn’t hotter than Jon.”

Christ. Sasha takes it all back.

 Tim propped a hand on his hip supportively as Sasha rolled her eyes. “Look, mate,” Tim said, “I know that you think Jon’s the hottest person in existence, and maybe objectively he’s fine as hell, but once you know him for longer than three months he loses all attractiveness. It would be like being into the DMV clerk. The really pretentious cousin at all of your family reunions who tries to explain your own job to you. The dude in your English class who thinks he invented feminism.”

“That was you,” Sasha said. 

“I am the objective expert in Jon,” Martin said firmly, shutting down the dissent. “He’s, like, my muse, okay? And can I say, as I have spent so many long hours memorizing the curve of his jaw - that’s the same jaw.”

If Sasha had a retort to that, or if Tim wanted to judge Martin for his taste in men further, neither of them had a chance. There wasn't an opportunity to say anything more, because the corpse opened its eyes. 

Sasha’s first thought was this: wow, what green eyes. 

Sasha’s second thought was: the fuck?

His eyes didn’t focus on her, or snap anywhere. They drifted a little lazily, fixed on the right, but the man was undoubtedly aware. His fingers twitched, he tilted his head from left to right, and his left hand - doubtlessly the hand that still felt texture - clenched the thin and cheap rug. The man’s jaw slackened a little, as if in surprise. 

For their part, the Assistants frantically looked at each other, all conveying the exact same thought - you said he was dead!

Sasha froze to her spot, petrified. She could handle corpses, or coroner’s reports, or mysteries. Sasha was intelligent, unkind, firm, socially incompetent, and a Libra. She could handle the dead, but the living? Sasha had no idea what to do with alive people.

But Tim did. He hesitated two moments, reeling back in shock, before he abruptly composed himself. He crouched down to the guy, and modulated his voice to sound calming and firm. “Hey, don’t strain yourself. Are you alright? Do you hurt anywhere?”

The man turned his head in Tim's direction, hiding his expression from Sasha, but she saw Tim’s eyes widen. Martin, standing closer to his feet, wrung his hands - clearly torn on what to do, uncertain how to help. Martin always hated being uncertain how to help the most. Which was pretty unfortunate, because Martin always wanted to help, and Martin was always uncertain. 

“Can you speak?” Tim asked gently. “If you can’t speak, go ahead and knock on the floor for me, okay?”

“If we pack him into your car, we can say that we found him on the street,” Sasha piped up. As much as she distrusted NHS, and as much as the NHS refused to touch anybody who had ever stepped foot inside the Institute, they could hardly refuse somebody if they just lied their ass off about it. “They’ll have to treat him then, right?”

“We could make it so much worse if we move him,” Martin said quickly, just as strangely firm. “We need to take our chances with 999.”

“We don’t even know if he’s injured,” Sasha pointed out, somewhat optimistically. “Maybe this whole thing can just, like, not be a problem.”

Yeah, Sasha definitely preferred corpses. 

The man was opening and closing his mouth, before he coughed wetly. Sasha clinically noted that it was the first time she had seen his chest move. As Tim reached forward, murmuring gently, and helped the man sit up, she saw that his chest didn’t move at all.

“Alright, let’s try to get you up.” Tim helped the man shift so he was leaning against the bookcase - uncomfortable, but a better position if he started coughing up blood. “We should fetch you some water - Martin, I don’t think he has any injury like that, he just seems out of it. His eyes aren’t focusing on me at all.”

Strangely, the man scoffed at that. The sound made him cough again, but the derision was unmistakable.

The derision was extremely familiar. 

When Sasha looked at Martin his eyes were wide behind his glasses, and she knew that he had heard the same thing that she did. 

Finally, with a raspy and hoarse voice, the man said, “Well, isn’t this fucking fun.”

Everybody stared at him. His voice...different, definitely, with a less posh accent and strained vocal cords scratching his tones. But when Sasha glanced at Tim, she just knew that he was remembering when Jon had insisted on coming into work with a terrible cold and Martin had to bully him home. He had sounded eerily like…

“Is this your idea of a joke?” the man said. 

Tim, from where he was crouched next to the guy, turned his attention back to him. “I’m a funny guy, but last time I checked head injuries aren’t a joke.” He tracked his finger across the man’s eyes, frowning when they didn’t follow. “You definitely have a concussion, mate. If you can walk, we need to -”

“Lord, alright, I get it.” The man raised his burned hand and clumsily rubbed his eyes. “You’re mad at me, I’m sleeping on the couch, whatever. Is all of this really necessary?”

“Uh,” Tim said intelligently. “Mate, I’m not your boyfriend.”

The man waved his other hand in Tim’s direction as he pressed his fingers into his eyes in exhaustion. “I’m hardly speaking to you.” Tim’s jaw dropped in shock as the man angled his face upwards, the crown of his head jamming uncomfortably against the metal shelving. “In my defense, I was doing the best I could with the resources you gave me. It’s water under the bridge. I’ve forgotten about it already! So let’s just get back to our eldritch hellscape.”

Everybody stared at each other. 

“We should move this into the break room,” Martin said. “There’s tea there.”

“Oh, don’t be rude,” Jon said, “making Martin into a caricature of himself. You like Martin, you told me so.”

“Counterpoint,” Sasha said weakly, “the bullpen has Jon. And I really don’t want to explain this to Jon.”

“I don’t even know who this one is,” the man said. “What? Not going to tell me?”

“Okay, like, fucking rude, but whatever.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” Tim said firmly, reaching out and putting a firm hand on the man’s arm. The man didn’t recoil or jerk away, just looking down in vague surprise. “But they aren’t here right now. You’re in the basement of the Magnus Institute, alright? I’m Tim Stoker, at your service, and these are my coworkers. I think you have a brain injury. If you can walk, we need to get you -”

“I can’t eat here,” the man said, but he made no effort to remove Tim’s arm. He moved his other hand, pressing it against Tim’s own, as if they were friends. “Cutting me off from my Knowledge -” it was capitalized, Sasha could hear it “ - chaining me to my desk, for - what? You’re not even answering me? Come on!” The man’s voice raised, and for the first time Sasha could hear something ragged in it. “Don’t give me the silent treatment!”

“Jon.”

It was Martin, standing at a distance from the man - from all of them. He was wringing his hands again, shoulders hunched and tense, but his expression was caught in that same mysterious firmness. 

The man didn't react. Not in surprise, not in shock, not in unrecognition. He just scowled a little, ignoring all of them. 

“Jon,” Martin said, louder. “This isn’t solving anything. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not the one being stubborn, Martin,” Jon - Jon?! - muttered, folding his arms. Like an infant. Like, hypothetically, something Jon would do. “I just don’t think omniscient fear gods should be petty.”

Everybody looked at each other. 

“This needs tea,” Martin proclaimed finally, and everybody nodded in silent agreement.

Every nodded in agreement - even, strangely enough, Jonathan Sims himself. 

****

This plan had a few complexities. 

The first complexity was dealing with Jon - their Boss - himself. In an act of cunning psychological warfare, Martin had gone ahead of them and used his endless and infinite subtle acts of manipulation to guarantee that Jon wouldn’t interrupt them. This situation was already Quite A Bit, nobody wanted to babysit their boss. 

Who Sasha frequently felt as if she babysat a bit. Having the youngest person in the office be the very rigid and authoritarian boss was objectively a little funny. But you know what’s not funny? Transphobia. 

Eventually Martin came back and waved them forward, and Tim gently yet firmly dragged the man upwards and put a hand on his back. 

“Do you mind if I touch you?” Tim asked. He sounded resigned about it - barely expecting Jon to respond. “Let me know how you want me to guide you.”

“Oh, it’s whatever. If you’re going to play it this way.” Jon easily looped his arm through Tim’s, who didn’t bother to mask his shock. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Sasha went ahead of them, watching Tim walk Jon down the aisle - hah! - with his arm looped through his elbow and a hand on his back. It was exactly the kind of care and meticulousness that Sasha always saw in him when it came to others. He literally walked grannies across the street. It was horrendous. She got second-hand embarrassed whenever she saw it.

Tim was loudly, extremely, messily kind. He was a person who adopted lost causes, like young men too grumpy to make real friends and women who only knew academia and never people. Sasha told him that once he got his teeth into something he never let go. It would get him into trouble one day. Maybe it already had. 

Sure enough, when Sasha opened the library door for them and peeked her head into the hallway, she saw that Jon’s office door was very firmly shut and locked. Even more incriminatingly, she heard his cute little theater drama monologues starting. Tim had found Jon’s theater aspirations very adorable and he had tried recording them to put on his Snapchat and maybe get him discovered by an agent, but unfortunately the videos made Tim’s phone bleed. They had given Martin ten pounds to taste the blood. Man would do anything for ten pounds, but seeing as they all worked this job that probably applied to all them. 

A workplace made out of people who always picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare. It was kind of a miracle they were still alive. Sasha was a little uncertain how she had survived to thirty five, actually. 

Once Sasha gave the all clear, Tim was able to bring Jon (Neo-Jon? Nega-Jon? Dark Jon? Mean Jon? No, that was just Jon) into the bullpen. Softly narrating what he was doing, he pulled out a chair and lowered Jon into it. 

Homeless Jon hasn’t been blind for very long, Sasha noted clinically. Long enough that he seemed more mildly irritated by it than anything else, but instead of orienting himself or testing out where he was he just kind of slumped in his chair. 

“Jon - uh, the Boss is taken care of?” Tim asked Martin, who was rapidly bustling into the bullpen with four cups of tea that he seemed to be under the impression would help. Tim had sat Homeless Jon in Martin’s chair, which seemed to fluster Martin a bit. 

“Uh, yeah. Gave him a normal statement to get his guard down, then five of the - you know, weird - statements and said that he has to go through all of them today. He’ll be in there for an hour at least.” 

Sasha frowned. “After two he gets a headache and gets bitchy.”

“Three o’clock exactly,” Tim said solemnly.

“Oh, leave off,” Homeless Jon said, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Everybody double taked and looked at each other significantly - which was quickly becoming their predominant mode of communication in a ruthless act of ableism. But Martin just held out a cup of tea, faltering as he clearly stopped to wonder the easiest way to give it to him. 

“Can you hold out your hands, Jon? I have some tea for you. It’s hot, so be careful, okay?”

“If the tea’s spiders I’m going to take it out on Annabelle,” Weird Jon said, but he held out his hands anyway and let Martin put the mug in them. He sniffed it cautiously, checking for spiders, before taking a cautious sip. 

To Sasha and Tim, Martin said, “I know, he’s going to fall asleep after two. I mean, it might be because I drugged his tea a little -”

Weird Jon spat out his tea back into the mug. 

“ - so we shouldn’t be interrupted,” Martin said brightly, clapping his hands. “Now! I think it’s time for explanations, don’t you?” He turned his mighty gaze upon Thankfully Blind Jon, who was occupied carefully holding the tea away from himself. “Drink your tea, Jon.”

Jon drank his tea. His expression twisted. “It tastes just like his.”

Everybody looked at each other. Tim mouthed the word ‘time traveller’ very clearly. Both Sasha and Martin nodded. It was the obvious explanation. 

“An explanation now, please,” Martin said pleasantly. “If you’re a time traveller, you can tell us. This is a safe space.”

Jon-from-the-future’s expression harshened in creases. He hadn’t once relaxed, expression permanently tightened in annoyance and disgruntlement. It was ridiculously Jon. 

Definitely a time traveller. You didn’t work at the Magnus Institute without secretly spending your life deeply hoping you run into a time traveller. Every researcher upstairs secretly prayed to discover the majesty. Everyone in Artifact Storage eagerly gathered around mysterious clocks and dared each other to touch them. Sasha, Queen of Truth-or-Dare, was the undisputed expert in making other people touch weird clocks and recording their reactions.

“Fine,” Super Time Traveller Jon said. “I know this is what you want. Statement of a stupid punishment by the pettiest little color in the evil crayon box. Recorded by the Archivist, in situ. Statement begins.”

Wow, Jon still had his job in the future? That’s a surprise. 

Martin was mouthing the word ‘evil crayon box’ to himself, looking increasingly concerned. The forgotten tape recorder, clenched in Sasha’s fist without her even realizing it, clicked and whirred. 

Then the Archivist began to speak. 

***

In the hazy amber of a memory, there exists an office.

You can see it clearly in your mind’s Eye, even now. You could likely navigate all of it blindfolded - which you now see that your god has the intention to test. Every corner of it is known to you, in the most subtle and mundane of ways. There’s a dust bunny in that corner, never tidied. A mysterious stain on the far right ceiling. The faint smell of blood, just under the vents. The hot waft of tea; your hands wrapped around a mug. 

Through these lonely offices, ghosts roam. They cling to desks and chairs; lingering in favorite mugs or in forgotten hair ties. A metal file cabinet holding neat rows of clothing, blood-stained jackets abandoned. A whiteboard with stubborn flakes of dried marker, forgotten handwriting clinging to life. These imprints no longer evoke terror or grief or pain. They are as familiar as the bloodstains and tea. Even death, eventually, is familiar. After long enough in a nightmare, it becomes indistinguishable from reality. 

There is nothing unfamiliar in the Magnus Institute.

Nothing save these voices, emerging from nothing. Every one of your six million senses have been cut off - your hundred eyes reduced to none. You are cognizant only of two familiar voices, and one unfamiliar one. A firm hand, with calloused fingers from leafing through aged paper. A creaky desk chair - Martin’s, undoubtedly, always squeaking as he fidgeted in distraction. The air tastes the same as it used to back then, before the AC broke and no repairman would step inside to repair it. Daisy did, eventually. Three familiar voices, rendered unfamiliar by the harsh tides of wind and cruel plastic hands. 

You are afraid of very little, these days. In this world that you’ve built, there is nothing that can harm you. The twisted little puppet strung up in his tower has been long since been disposed of, and the awful and terrifying future has settled into a gentle present. The apocalypse grows tedious after a while, and the buffet of fears start tasting a little samey.

But if anything could frighten you, this would. If anything would petrify you, it would be Tim’s kind smile, which died a year before Tim did. If anything could freeze you to your chair, it would be the sight of Sasha with red-rimmed eyes asking why you never even noticed that she was gone. 

The sanctuary of memory corrupted. A mental place of safety infiltrated. A mind turned inside out, exposing its vulnerable flesh to the world. 

There is nothing else this could be but your own personal hell. 

Your loyal servant crouches on bended knee, giving this final prayer to you. He asks, humbly and with great reverence, one simple question:

Why couldn’t this have waited until after I got my milk?

***

The spell ruptured.

It was almost tangible, like a change in air pressure making your ears pop. Sasha blinked harshly, rubbing at her ears and trying to soothe strange ringing. Tim exhaled heavily and Martin screwed his eyes open and shut harshly, as if he was seeing spots. 

The only person unaffected was Weirdly Christian Jon, who was slumped in Martin’s chair with his arms folded over his chest. He was still looking at the ceiling - speaking to whoever he had been addressing this entire time. 

“Just one day,” Jon was saying. “Just one day! It was going to be a nice day! We had decided to take a day trip to the Flesh garden and have a picnic! My darling and beautiful husband was going to make us a cake! ‘Walk down to the Hell corner store’, my husband says. ‘Pick us up some Eldritch milk’, he says. ‘Why do I have to do it’, I says, ‘I’m in the middle of something’. ‘We need cake for bridge night with the girls and I’ll divorce you if you don’t do it’, he says. I didn’t even change out of my nightmare pyjamas! What did I ever do to you? How are you still upset about the eye thing?”

Sasha and the Assistants, still digesting the extremely disturbing monologue, let him talk. Sasha was caught up in how it felt exactly like Jon’s little drama monologues. Granted, he had obviously gotten a lot more practice - guy could go to Broadway - but the weird lilting and falling sing-songyness was just the same. And he only ever did that for the very weird ones. The ones that they were pretty certain were actually true. 

So that probably meant at one point in the future, if Jon was speaking about the Archives as if they had worked there for years. Probably during the apocalypse. Which was happening. Which Jon had...built? Like, as a personal thing, or in a metaphor for capitalism and the human race? Definitely the capitalism thing - Jon was prone to flights of filing-induced passion that sometimes accidentally resulted in a stapler flying and punching a hole through the wall, but she couldn’t even imagine him even purposefully punching someone, much less being the Antichrist. Unless it was one of those things that just happened to you, like a rare genetic defect. 

“Seriously. What was the alternative here? Endless horrorterrors, everybody screaming all the time? It was boring. You eat one Statement about somebody standing in line at a slaughterhouse conveyor belt and you’ve eaten them all. I didn’t do it because I didn’t like you, although for the record I don’t. But you have to admit that having Eldritch Lidls are much more practical than just having a bunch of people lying around screaming all the time. It’s not as if I don’t have other eyes, I hardly miss them. There’s no chocolate cakes in the swirling vortex of mankind’s worst nightmares!”

Okay. They had to find a way to engage with this guy. He was completely ignoring them, probably because he thought that they were mean ghosts. Sasha was only one of those things, and it was hurting her feelings. Judging from the expression on Tim’s face he was thinking the same thing. 

Or - wait, Sasha knew that eyebrow. That was the ‘please please please tell the apocalypse has zombies’ eyebrow. Great. 

But Martin was just looking thoughtful again. Sasha was pretty proud of him - it was probably very difficult for the poor man to remain coherent in the face of the crazy time-traveller who was definitely hotter than their already objectively unfairly hot boss. 

“Jon,” Martin said, cutting Jon’s tired rant about how eggs benedict were much better these days, “Uh, I have an idea? Maybe you can’t get out of the - nightmare by bargaining with it. Do you know how to normally escape these things?”

Jon angled his head down and frowned in Martin’s direction. So far Martin seemed to be the only person who could shut Jon up, which was a hilarious turnaround from normal life. Sasha hadn’t heard anything about Martin being a sad little ghost, but it was hard to believe that Martin was a survivor in the zombie apocalypse. 

“You go through the statement and you walk through it,” Jon said, in a very ‘duh’ kind of way. “Give the statement, highfive corpses, whatever.”

“Right, right.” Martin wrung his hands, biting at his lip. “So maybe it’s like that. Maybe instead of asking to be let out - you just have to walk through it. Like - like it’s a maze. Does that make sense? I’m not sure, it’s just an idea.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Right as always, Martin.” Everybody’s jaw dropped, and Martin squeaked. “Fine, fine. Let’s...interact with the evil ghosts.” Jon gestured out with his arms, in a very ‘come at me bro’ gesture. “Go ahead and shoot. Hit me with how much you hate me and how disappointed you are that I never amounted to anything and started the apocalypse.”

Finally! Interrogation time! 

But before Sasha could finally find out if global warming had killed the world, Tim jumped in. “Are there zombies in the apocalypse?!” Tim cried, way too excited. “Is it like the Walking Dead? Or is it more Last of Us?”

Jon squinted in Tim’s direction. “Define zombie.”

“...hunger for human flesh, shambling, gross looking?” Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t seen any zombie movies.”

“I’m omniscient, I’ve seen every zombie movie,” Jon lied blatantly. “I just think that you’re - you know, stereotyping. Sometimes people are the undead and eat humans and they’re - they’re very normal people.”

“Yeah, Tim, be sensitive,” Sasha said gleefully. She put the tape recorder on Martin’s desk, deciding that she would definitely need a transcript of this interview later. Also maybe ask more questions about that omniscient thing, but she was sure Jon was just exaggerating. If you asked Jon today if he was the smartest person on Earth he’d probably say yes. Jon wasn’t even the smartest person in the room.

For good measure, she drew out her little notebook from her pencil skirt pocket, flipping through it looking for a clean page. “The Archives have never gotten a time traveller before. This is unprecedented in its history.” Well, she really didn’t know what Gertrude had gotten up to, but she dearly hoped it wasn’t this. “Do you have any warnings? Desperate messages from a ruined world, that kind of thing?”

“I’m not a time traveller,” Jon said flatly, “so no.”

Everybody stared at him in abject pity.

“Mate,” Tim said sympathetically, “it’s 2015. You’re a time traveller.”

“No, I’m in a pocket hell dimension in a period beyond time and space,” Jon corrected arrogantly. “Time travel doesn’t exist.”

“The apocalypse exists but time travel doesn’t exist?” Martin cried. “That’s so unfair! Like, give us something, you know?”

“Your life is very hard,” the extratemporal reject said. 

Typical Jon. A classic case of time travel and here he was denying it. Sasha crossed her arms, upset that they were wasting time debating temporal physics when they could be talking about zombies. She was a historian and had priorities. “Your denial ain’t cute, mate. You’re just wasting all of our time.” Jon opened his mouth, but Sasha steamrolled over him. “You want evidence, right? Do you need to, like, touch my face? Make sure that I’m not a sexy ghost?”

“That’s a stereotype that nobody actually does,” Jon said. 

“Insensitive as always, Sasha,” Martin condemned. 

“How else are we going to prove it to him?” Sasha said, somewhat defensively. “It’s not as if we have any evidence that we’re not sexy ghosts.”

With utmost care and incredible gentleness, Tim reached out an open hand and gently smooshed it into Jon’s face.

Jon slumped in his seat, arms folded, unimpressed. 

“No mortal who is not my darling husband has dared to touch me since I became the Antichrist,” Jon said.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, withdrawing his hand and looking at Sasha. “What’s more unbelievable: Jon as the Antichrist or Jon with a husband?”

“Jon’s gay?” Martin cried, face beet red. “Gay Jon? Gay Jon real?”

“So, like, how do you get the Antichrist gig?” Sasha asked as she silently passed Tim a fiver. Her queerdar had never been so wrong. “Is it like an adventurer quest you can do or would you call it more of a rare genetic disorder thing?”

“Definitely rare genetic disorder.”

“Then does that mean that our Jon also has the Antichrist gene?” Tim asked, alarmed. “You’d never think so just looking at him! It’s always the quiet ones.”

“No, this makes sense,” Martin said.

Tim stared at him. “So, is that, like, a negative for you, or a positive…?”

Martin’s silence was incriminating. 

“It’s a positive,” Jon said helpfully, startling everyone. They had conveniently forgotten not to talk about one very horny man’s very horny crush in front of sad grumpy time travelling crush. “He’s into it.”

“Wow, Jon,” Tim said, “what would your husband say?”

In a completely pointless show of sass, Jon rolled his eyes. “My useless husband is likely much more concerned with how I managed to get trapped in a nightmare dimension on my way back from the Hell corner store.” He waved a hand absently. “So, if we can hurry this up? Get started on the whole torturing me thing? Right now you’re just on track to annoying me to death.”

“We annoy you to death now!” Tim exclaimed, as Martin’s eyes boggled. “Isn’t that more proof for the time traveller theory?”

“It wasn’t annoying,” Jon said curtly. “I secretly enjoyed it. I always felt a little bad that I wasn’t included. Or wouldn’t let myself be included.”

That, abruptly, made everyone feel a little bad. Not guilty, seeing as Jon neither wanted nor deserved their affection, but just kind of bad. Future Jon didn’t seem any happier than regular Jon. Sasha liked to imagine that if she was trapped in an indeterminate period in time and space in a post-apoc hellscape, she’d at least be having fun.

Everybody looked at each other, equally a little uncomfortable. Tim was the one who finally took control of the situation, as the self-appointed Jon & Everyone Else mediator. He had taken up the mantle years ago and worse it with pride, and occasional exhaustion. 

“Look,” Tim said, as reasonably as possible. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, this was super cool and awesome time travel. Let’s also say maybe this was completely baller and you’re from a post apoc future where everyone wears leather.”

“That’s just Melanie.”

“Put it down as one person who wears leather in the future!” Tim cried, and Sasha obediently jotted it down.”But let’s just put all of this in a hypothetical situation where you aren’t...uh, in a bad dream? So would there, hypothetically, be a way to stop the apocalypse or something?”

Jesus christ. What a try-hard. 

Sasha crossed her arms, glaring at Tim. From next to her, Martin looked just as peeved. “Seriously, dude? Like we can just up and stop capitalism?”

“I don’t want responsibility for stopping the apocalypse,” Martin protested. “I can barely navigate the bus system. What if the Terminator comes after my mother or something?”

“You’ll be a bit better off, frankly,” Jon said. Martin nodded, conceding the point, before looking faintly disturbed. 

“But he said that he caused it,” Tim protested. “Maybe the power of friendship can fix this? I mean, the apocalypse is cool, but I feel like this is the part where we’re all badasses and we fight evil or something.” Tim’s eyes widened. “That’s what the Magnus Institute is for. To stop the apocalypse!”

“Every day I feel a slight sense of emptiness due to my internalized guilt about your death, but you are usually wrong about things,” Jon said flatly, which seemed to both perk Tim up and depress him slightly. “And no. There’s nothing you can do. There’s no one event that precipitated the apocalypse; no rules of engagement. You are puppets on strings, indulging in the fantasy of free will. Yes, Sasha, the apocalypse is capitalism.”

Everybody stood in slightly depressed silence over this. Sasha, personally, was a little relieved. She really didn’t have to deal with the whole ‘preventing the apocalypse’ thing. She’d rather spend the finals days of the world in hedonism, frankly. 

Really, the unique providence of the millennial was to live your entire life half-way convinced you were in the twilight years of the world. This hedonism and apathy was second nature. Or maybe the apathy was a Leitner - Sasha had lost track of that too. 

“Aw, man,” Martin said, summarizing the abstract and complex feelings deftly and succinctly. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, this blows,” Tim agreed. “So should I buy my muscle car now, or later, or what?”

Then Martin and Tim started arguing over fuel efficiency in the apocalypse, and Jon royally checked out of the conversation. Sasha imagined that he was internally having a bit of a Saving Private Ryan moment where flashbacks of bombshells exploded behind his eyelids or whatever the fuck. The important thing is that everyone was distracted, and Sasha could finally check up on their most important gambit of the day: making sure Jon wasn’t bothering them. 

Sasha listened carefully for the sounds of Jon’s little theater monologues, and caught only faint hints of sound. She slipped past everyone into the hallway and approached Jon’s office door, pressing her ear against the cheap wood. But she didn’t need to worry: he was still reciting away, oblivious to the actual interesting shit that was happening outside his door. Jon was a delicate plant, you couldn’t stress him out too much or he would die. Hopefully Martin’s drugged tea would kick in soon -

But Antichrist Jon’s head jerked towards her, directly behind him, and Sasha saw his unfocused green eyes fixate directly on her. No, not on her - on the door, or something beyond it. For just a second, his eyes flared a sharp and toxic green. 

“There you are,” Creepy Jon hissed. 

Well, sorry for leaving rooms without telling him, but she hadn’t thought that he even noticed, much less got resentful about it. But Weird Jon was standing up with no hesitation, and effortlessly swerved around Martin’s desk and stalked into the hallway. For the first time, his expression looked a little dangerous. It was bizarre and off putting, like seeing a ragged yet murderous two meter kitten. 

He reached out an arm and let it trail across the wall, stopping short when he felt it hit wood instead of plaster. Tim and Martin surged forward to stop him, yelling warnings, but Sasha quickly stepped back. She never impeded the timeless march of science and progress. Sasha had done far worse in Artifact Storage for knowledge. 

Jon brushed his hand down the door until it hit the doorknob and angrily twisted it, heaving the door open with unnecessary force. Tim and Martin spilled into the hallway as Angry Jon stalked inside, and Sasha eagerly hung in the door frame for a front row seat into the drama. 

“This is your fault,” Jon intoned dangerously, directly in the face of a deathly affronted Jon. 

In the spirit of the First Directive, Sasha heroically stretched out an arm and prevented Tim and Martin from spilling into the office. It was the right call. Jon stalked forward into the office, hair whipping in a nonexistent wind, expression obscured but undoubtedly thunderous, advancing on the terrified Archivist, as -

He tripped over a chair left carelessly in the center of the office, rocketing forward to land flatly on his face. 

Beside her, Martin went white as a sheet. “Oh no.”

Simultaneously, in complete and total unison, Jon and the Archivist yelled, “Martin!”

****

Jon and the Archivist sat across from each other, exuding waves of pure mutual hatred.

Tim had quickly helped the Archivist up, moving the chair forward and getting him situated there. The Archivist’s mood was not improved by any of this. Which was difficult enough to handle by itself, if manageable. Sasha knew how to manage grumpy time travelling blind Antichrists who had gotten lost on their way to the corner store.

She even knew how to handle their boss, who was extremely grumpy about being harassed by a random homeless person with nice hair. Jon hated statement givers at the best of times, much less seemingly homeless ex-corpses. Or, well, Sasha didn’t know if he was an ex-corpse, but he was certainly an animate one. 

They were both being so annoying about it Sasha was trying to determine if she should change their nicknames to something more derogatory. Thing 1 and Thing 2? Too long. 

Both of them were very grumpy about the fact that Martin had pushed aside the chair for guests in front of Jon’s desks when he deposited the drugged tea, accidentally moving it close to the center of the office. Jon had known this because he saw it happen. The Archivist had known this because he, apparently, knew Martin very well. 

Today had really been a bonding experience with Sasha, Martin, and Tim. Their skill at silent communication had reached borderline telepathy. They all looked at each other significantly as the Jons were caught in their mutual dyad of hatred, silently commiserating over the fact that their one goal had been spoiled by the greatest wildcard of all. Sasha privately liked to consider herself somewhat of a wildcard, but she was depressingly aware that the entire Archive team was composed of wildcards. Maybe that’s why half of them didn’t survive the apocalypse. 

It was a little unlikely that Jon was a survivor/instigator in the zombie apocalypse, actually. Dude definitely would have bit it if he wasn’t cheating with Antichrist powers. Now, if Sasha had Antichrist powers, this whole game would be looking very different -

“Boss, this is a statement giver,” Tim hinted desperately, hands clenched so hard on the back of the Archivist’s chair that his knuckles were turning white. “Remember what Elias said about statement givers? About how we can’t harass them?”

“I was in the middle of a recording and this man was unnecessarily confrontational,” Jon said crisply. Sasha caught her eye jumping frantically back and forth between the two, trying to reconcile them. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Martin’s horny surety, she wouldn’t have realized that they were the same person at all. The Archivist’s most defining attribute was his big and fluffy hair, and Jon was sadly lacking in the nice hair department. That fade and twists were the shackle around his ankle. So was the sweater vest, baggy tweed jacket, and ill-fitting.“He’s lucky I’m not throwing him out.”

Martin, who looked as if he was having his tenth gay crisis of the morning, didn’t seem to hold the same opinion, but he was king of bad taste anyway. 

“Remember what Elias said about harassing confused, blind statement givers? Remember that? Boss?”

Jon looked confused. “He didn’t specify the community of people with disabilities.”

“It was implied? Jon?”

“The optics would be terrible,” Sasha said, before snickering. Martin stomped on her foot. She stomped on his back, which definitely hurt a lot more. “Look, Jon, sorry about all of this. He was just - uh - really insistent that he talk to you -”

“I think if our visitor hassles Jon then maybe, objectively, you can say that Jon brought it on himself,” Martin said, in a daring show of anti-Jon sentiment.

This act of subtle rebellion was the first thing that broke the Archivist out of his cycle of hatred. He threw out a hand, bowling over Jon’s desktop cup of pens and sending them tumbling over the desk. Sasha saw him specifically orient his hand to do so. “Thank you, Martin! Your understanding of paraphysics is always immaculate.”

“Wow, really?”

“Stop complimenting my assistants,” Jon hissed, frantically diving to save his pens. “And stop - gesticulating over my desk! You did that on purpose!”

“Harassing the blind, Jon!”

“You don’t even need to tearfully blame me for how I ruined your life,” the Archivist said flatly. “You existing in my vicinity is torment enough.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Sasha said, before pausing a beat. “I meant the first part, ha ha ha, obviously -”

“This man is a very normal statement giver who will be leaving any minute now,” Martin jumped in, “so there’s really no reason for us all to fight, when you think about it -”

“If you all don’t get out of my office, you are all fired -”

“You are listening.”

Everybody stopped talking at once, staring at the Archivist. He was still staring intently ahead, straight into his counterpart. Jon was hiding it, quite badly, but he was unsettled. He hadn’t even acknowledged that he and the man looked alike - the thought undoubtedly running through his brain and soundly dismissed - but it was clearly rattling him. But there was something else that was scaring him too - maybe the Archivist’s green eyes, so foreign from his own brown? His intense and furious expression, like cut glass? The particularly strange and heavy feeling in the air, prickling down the back of Sasha’s neck?

He hadn’t even stopped the recorder. 

“You are here,” the Archivist continued calmly. “You were listening in. Why you were listening in on him, and his regurgitated aftertaste of Statements, I do not know. I felt you, and I came to you. We cannot forsake each other. Do not hide yourself from me.”

The effect was immediate. 

The Archivist’s neck snapped forward, so harshly he cracked his head on Jon’s desk. Strangely enough, Jon screamed too, holding a hand to his temple as if he was suddenly pierced by a blinding headache. Tim immediately bent down to check on Archivist, making sure that he hadn’t hurt himself, as Martin bustled around the desk to check on Jon. Jon batted his hands away, scowling, so he was just fine. But the Archivist didn’t groan, or stir, or moan. He just lay there, still and limp, and when Tim shook him he didn’t even tense. 

The air was heavy, a tang of metal in her mouth like the crackle before a storm, and Sasha couldn’t fight a shiver. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Jon, either: the way he stared at the Archivist, hand on his forehead, eyes wide and growing wider. 

“Dad…?”

When the Archivist stirred, the spell was broken, and Jon’s mouth snapped shut so quickly it was as if he had never spoken at all. He turned his head and moaned, eyes opening uselessly. They were back to their usual toxic green, no flaring or flashing. 

“Mar’in? Where…”

“I’m here,” Martin said quickly, and ducked around the desk to grab the Archivist’s hand and squeeze. For just a second, Jon looked a little jealous. Sasha had the sense that Jon had never been mothered than anyone other than Martin and Tim, and the prospect confused and frightened him so much he reacted aggressively to it. “Everything alright? You hit your head.”

“How many eyes?” the Archivist asked weakly. 

“...physically, or functionally?”

But the Archivist just ran his burned hand over his smooth hand, kneading it and feeling the skin. “Still gone. Damn it.” He straightened, grimacing and spitting out a stray tendril of hair out of his mouth. “So it’s true…”

“So what’s true?” Tim asked urgently. “Do you finally believe us about the time travel thing? Because man, I have so many questions -”

He didn’t get the opportunity to say anything. The Archivist reached out a hand, fingers brushing against his shirt, and the Archivist’s hand abruptly clenched on the fabric. Tightly, roughly, the Archivist pulled him down and extended his other arm, and caught Tim in an awkward and lopsided hug. 

Tim carefully straightened him and returned the hug, gracing the Archivist with the patented Perfect Stoker Hug, and the Archivist buried his face in Tim’s shoulder. His chest didn’t heave, and his breath didn’t catch, but the element of desperation was pungent and unmistakable. 

“You were right,” Jon whispered. “We messed it all up.”

“Sure, yeah, totally!” Tim said, clapping the Archivist on the back in a masculine, yet sensitive way. “So, does this mean the zombie apocalypse is totally a-go, or…”

“Sasha,” the Archivist said, and Sasha chose to ignore her own personal distaste for hugs and being touched so she could step forward and hug him too. 

He clutched onto her just as tightly as he had Tim, which surprised her a little. Jon and Tim had probably been best friends in the future, and Sasha couldn’t imagine her and Jon ever truly being close. He respected her as a colleague, but that was probably because Sasha purposefully left her manuscripts around the office and aggressively used as many big words in front of him as possible. Jon had always been an obstacle to her - innocently stupid at best, malicious at worst. To think that he would grip her so tightly…

With meticulous care, the Archivist separated from her. His expression was crumpled, and for the first time Sasha saw something over than aggravation or impatience in Jon’s face. Relaxed and soft, he looked like a different man. No - he was a different man, it was just apparent. The change softened his sharp lines into something a little friendlier; his striking exterior melting into something pretty instead of imposing. 

Slowly, he raised his hand a little to tangle it in her hair. He frowned a little, gently tugging at it and feeling it spring back into place. “So it was curly…like mine…”

A lot of little hints snowballed into one strange and foreign realization. “Do you not remember me?”

“Dolls stole your identity,” the Archivist said apologetically. 

“Like credit card fraud, or -”

“Metaphysically.” He paused guiltily. “I mourned you as an abstract concept?”

“Like I’m every woman in Hollywood?” Sasha screeched, outraged. This was not trans rights. “Alright, royally fuck that. Feel my hair, mister. Full permission to touch it. Feel that? You call that abstract?” The Archivist shook his head, eyes wide, and Sasha gently moved his hand to rest on the top of her head. “Taller than you in eight cm heels, remember? You asked me how I walked in them, and I said -”

“ - Barbie’s Princess Charm School,” the Archivist said automatically, eyes widening. “I do remember.”

Martin clearly waited around to be tenderly embraced, and was disappointed. 

The Archivist stepped away from Sasha, expression creased in furious thought. “So it’s real. So far as anything’s real, I suppose. But I don’t understand how -” the Archivist’s eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers in realization. “The manhole!”

Everybody stared at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said pleasantly, “what is going on -”

“I was walking down the street, and I remember hearing city work!” the Archivist said brightly. “They were doing their monthly ‘clearing the gators out of the sewer pipes’ maintenance! And the Beholding told me that there was an open manhole, and I said oh it’ll be fine, I’m a demigod on Earth, I don’t fall down manholes - and then -”

The door to Jon’s office dramatically crashed open, and everybody jumped straight in the air. Jon, whose office had seen two more incredibly theatrical entrances than usual today, immediately bristled and opened his mouth to earn them all another harassment complaint, before he abruptly shut his mouth. 

It was Elias, their miniature and unspeakably boring boss extraordinaire. He stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the doorframe, suit jacket askew and chest heaving. Had he ran down here?

“Is someone here?” the Archivist asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tim said, stepping forward cautiously. “It’s our boss, Mr. Bouchard. Elias, we’re taking a statement, can we help - ?”

“How did that get here?” Elias asked, voice strangely tense and coiled. “How did you - not even I could -”

“That makes sense!” Martin cried, thumping a fist on his open palm. “Elias wants to time travel just as much as everyone else in the Institute!”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, pathetically behind, “time travel -”

“Did the time traveller sensor alarms in the basement go off?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I thought only Artifact Storage had those.”

“Uh, Mr. Statement Giver, are you okay?” Tim asked, but it was already too late.

The Archivist had turned to face Elias, expression unreadable. Sasha felt that crackle again, weighing down the air, and she saw the Archivist’s hair puff and frizz slightly with a green crackle. His neon green pupils shone again and spun, like an infernal wheel. 

“What’s wrong, Elias?” the Archivist mocked, as energy coursed through him. “Upset that Mama has a new favorite?”

And Sasha saw in that moment that the Archivist, who possessed the most inhuman green eyes she had ever seen, had eyes the same shade as Elias. 

“Oh, man,” Sasha said, “is Elias a time traveller too?”

“Only in the most mundane way. Can’t even get a little bit of special attention, Elias? Sad!” It was second-hand thrilling to watch someone mock their boss, living the dreams of everyone in the room. Even if it was a little weird how much Jon seemed to hate this guy - nobody hated Elias, just like nobody liked him, and nobody had any strong feelings at all besides unpromoted women.

 At the door, Elias’ expression was slack in - amazement? Was amazement the right word? He was staring at Jon as if...words didn’t even describe it. At least in any way that Sasha wanted to think about. 

“Mr. Bouchard, I swear I can explain,” Sasha, who could not explain, said hurriedly. “We found this corpse and we were going to tell you, but -”

But the Archivist cut her off, as if nothing was less important than explaining himself to Elias. “Did you want to know how to stop the apocalypse, Sasha?”

Sasha froze. Martin and Tim did too. Jon, who nobody had actually bothered to brief since he was kind of the fifth most important person in the room, dropped his pen. “Uh,” Sasha said, sweating. For the first time she understood the possible upsides of not knowing something. “I mean, if I have to, but you said that it was inevitable -”

“Oh, yes. But, just once every one or two centuries, a man comes along who fancies himself fate.” The Archivist raised a hand, eyes spinning and spinning, as Elias stood frozen in the doorframe. “I’ll be honest, Jonah. This isn’t to save the world. That’s so last year. I just really fucking hate you.” Something cracked in the air. “Ceaseless watcher, smite this -”

The door slammed shut. Sasha heard Elias lock it behind him. They all stood around as footsteps quickly echoed through the Archives, and another door slammed. Which was probably being locked too. 

They stood in silence, the Archivist having clearly heard the slams. He let his hand fall, but the energy didn’t cease crackling around him. He didn’t look resentful or disappointed - just thoughtful. 

“Everything in due time, I suppose. I guess it is pretty unfair to get to smite that man twice,” the Archivist said thoughtfully. “I’ll give someone else a turn.” His mouth twitched wryly. “You know, Sasha, there’s one other way to prevent the apocalypse.”

“Is it work?” Sasha asked tiredly. 

“You may kill the man who arranged the dominos,” the Archivist intoned, before hanging his head towards a petrified Jon. “Or you may kill the man who toppled them over.”

Sasha stared at Jon. Jon stared back, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Martin silently passed Sasha a penknife from Jon’s desk. 

“I’m very qualified for this job,” Jon protested weakly.

“Queen of feminism, I very much support you,” Tim said quickly, putting himself in between Sasha and Jon in a heroic display of stupidity, “but, maybe, killing your boss to take his job, is perhaps, maybe not that much of a great idea, just a thought?”

“The job’s being the Antichrist,” the Archivist pointed out, crossing his arms. 

“The direct action against sexism, xenophobia, and transphobia is very admirable,” Tim said, eyes held up as if he was placating a tiger, “but think of it this way - if you kill the Antichrist, then you become the Antichrist, like in - uh -”

“Pokemon,” Martin volunteered. 

Tim snapped his fingers. “Pokemon! So you shouldn’t -” He halted, turning back to Martin. “Pokemon? Seriously? That’s becoming champion -”

“A - alright, alright! Everybody stop!” Jon shakily stood up, brushing aside the empty tea mug right next to him. “That’s enough of all of this! I may not know what’s going on, or who this man is, or why he looks like me -”

“Hm,” Martin said, eyeing the empty tea mug. 

“ - why he looks like a homeless person, why he barged into my office and insulted me, why you are all defending this atrocious behavior, why you are calling it the work of time travel, which does not exist and you have no proof for it anyway -”

“Jon,” Martin said, watching Jon’s arm tremble, “maybe you should -”

“Shut up, Martin!”

“Don’t be rude to him!” the Archivist snapped. 

“You’ve been rude to him twice today!”

“I’m allowed to be rude to him! He’s even ruder to me! I’m the nice one!”

“ - and you were glowing in my office, which is just frankly rude,” Jon continued viciously, steamrolling over the Archivist. “You gave me a terrible headache, you hugged my assistants very inappropriately for the workplace, you made my boss walk in before trying to smite him, you encourage violence against my own person in revenge for a job that I definitely deserve -”

Both of Jon’s arms were shaking, and Tim’s eyebrows were slowly raising. “Boss, you should sit down, I think -”

“ - I want an explanation!” Jon yelled, slamming the desk. “And I’m not going to stop until you tell me what’s going on!”

Then Jon passed out. 

Everybody watched it happen. Everybody, save perhaps the Archivist, had noticed that it was about to happen: at first a tremor, then a shake, and then a final collapse. Like a marionette with his strings cut, Jon slumped over and crumpled solidly on the floor. 

Everybody stood in disaffected silence. Martin carefully stepped over and prodded Jon with his foot. “Out cold.” He shot a considering gaze at the empty tea mug. “Sorry, guys. Looks like I accidentally used the delayed action sedative.”

"It’s alright,” Tim said magnanimously. “At least that problem is solved now. Maybe we can convince him this was a bad dream when he wakes up.”

“If he insists it was real, we’ll just ask him for evidence and refuse to believe him without it,” Sasha suggested. 

“Isn’t that kinda gaslighting?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that, you know, a little morally dubious -”

“You did drug him,” Tim pointed out.

“I mean, hardly the first time?”

“Maybe Martin should be the Antichrist,” Sasha said thoughtfully.

The Archivist’s face was doing something extremely interesting, yet inscrutable.

“I really don’t want to be Antichrist, though,” Martin said apologetically. “Does it even pay?”

“Jon did say it was a job…” Sasha said, already considering herself in the role. “Do you guys think I’d be sexier as the Antichrist? Be honest.”

“Yes and completely,” Tim said immediately, before realizing that he said that too quickly. “I mean. I’d never objectify you. I respect women. But -”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Martin said, throwing up his hands. “When you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot it’s normal and M/F of you. But when I do it, then it’s ‘gross’ and ‘get that away from me’. Great double standards, guys.”

“It’s not the fact that it’s a guy,” Tim protested, “it’s the fact that it’s Jon -”

“Oh, when you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot then it’s normal and cis of you,” Sasha said heatedly, “but when Tim respects trans women, then it’s ‘gross’ and -”

“I respect all women,” Tim said, equally heatedly, “but I do want to acknowledge the systematic marginalization of trans women within the community, especially trans women of color like yourself -”

A hoarse wheeze echoed through the office.

Everyone froze, terrified by the haunted sound, but after a second Sasha realized it was the Archivist - Jon - who was laughing. 

They had never heard him laugh before. He was practically wheezing with it, bent over with his hands on his knees, with a strained cackle that fizzed with static around the corners. He was smiling broadly, his grin splitting his cheeks, for the first time that Sasha had ever seen. 

He straightened and threw his head back and laughed too, a greater belly-laugh that was so hysterical and fragile and free that it struck something strange and raw in Sasha’s heart. He rubbed his face with his hand, still laughing, and eventually broke into coughs. 

“I understand now,” Jon said, when he stopped coughing. “I thought that you had deposited me here in revenge. You had sensed that I was happy - that the green skies were beautiful, that your large eye seemed kind that day - and that you found it a waste of emotion. But that wasn’t true, was it? It must have been an accident. I’ve never been happier to hear these idiots arguing, and you’ve lost me like a toy behind a bookshelf. The strange stupidity of it! I’m enchanted.” He sombered a little, expression falling from hysterical glee into a soft and resigned happiness. He held up his hand, feeling the crackle of electricity run across his palms. “But you See me now. The foolish man brought you down upon us, and I intercepted your lightning bolt. His eyes, mundane and paltry, are closed, and you feel my consciousness in replacement of him. I can feel you already - my Eyes opening, the Reality that we built together calling me back. When your infinite grace re-aligns with every one of my atoms, forming the fabric of my world, I’ll snap back.”

Just like that?

Sasha had thought that there would be an...adventure, or quest, or something. At least a research binge. Some kind of heroic group effort. But the Archivist was a stretched rubber band, held tightly and out of position, and after long enough straining against its center it had to snap back. A telly flickering in and out, blaring the song of a dead channel. 

“Do we have time to group hug or something?” Tim offered weakly, undoubtedly thinking the same thing as she was. “Last goodbyes? Anything?”

“Howl’s Moving Castle moment?” Martin asked urgently. “I’ll find you in the future, right? We’re still together there, right?”

“Martin,” Jon said, strangely fond, “we were never apart.”

Martin turned a unique shade of red. 

But it was Sasha who Jon turned to, face angled to the sound of her voice. His expression was still distantly fond, but there was something strange in it too - a wry recognition, a subtle knowledge, a faint recollection of a joke that only he knew. 

“Sasha,” Jon said, “so long as you’re brave, and buy ten fire extinguishers and hide them around the office, things will be just fine. Buy twelve fire extinguishers, just to be safe. And don’t ever go inside Artifact Storage again. Not even for Alicia’s birthday party. If it’s a choice between worms and Artifact Storage then choose worms, the scars add a certain appeal. I cannot stress enough, not even if you lose your jacket in Artifact Storage -”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to me?” Martin asked desperately, almost crying. Sasha, personally, wanted to circle back around to the worm thing. “Sad goodbyes? Waving a handkerchief? I thought you said I was alive? Don’t you have anything?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Goodness, Martin, if you insist. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. In fact, I do believe it’s about time.” 

Martin’s mind clearly projected very loudly ‘I’ve been in love with you this entire time’ in blatant wish-fulfillment. Everybody held their breaths. 

Jon drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and sternly looked at all of them. “I’m tired of holding my tongue about this, Martin,” Jon said finally, and Martin qualified. “For the last time, I don’t load the dishwasher wrong. I load the dishwasher correctly. It’s you who’s always insisting that the cups go on the bottom. It’s a freakish way to live your life, and I’ll never forgive you for -”

Static blared in Sasha’s ears and overwrote her mind, and she screamed. The sensation was a pickaxe driven into her ears, an unforgivable rip and tear, and she heard her screams echoed in concert. 

Then the pain abated, and was gone. 

Sasha, Tim, and Martin were left standing in an empty office, accompanied only by the unconscious figure of their boss. There was nothing left of the Archivist, nor any suggestion that he had ever been here - just a drained mug, some scattered pens, and a lingering sense of malaise and confusion. 

Everybody looked at each other, feeling strangely and uniquely connected. It was hardly Sasha’s strangest Magnus Institute experience, but maybe it was the funnest. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, “at least one day this week wasn’t boring.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even have to get drunk today.” Sasha sighed. “We definitely have to gaslight Jon about this.”

Martin was already carefully lugging Jon onto his chair, arranging him so his arms were folded on the desk with his cheek resting on his forearm. “We’ll pretend it was just a weird dream.” He propped his hands on his hips, satisfied. “Hopefully this convinces him he needs more sleep.” Martin gasped in sudden realization. “Maybe he becomes the Antichrist because he needs more sleep! Guys, I have a great twenty step plan for saving the world.”

“Oh, come on, we said that was too much work.” Tim shrugged and opened the office door, holding it open and gesturing for them all to come out. “I think if we just friendship Jon to death, all of our problems will be solved.”

Martin just shrugged, following him out. They really did have paperwork that they needed to get back to. “Both are vital components. But...hey, it’s not weird to put the mugs on the bottom rack, is it? There’s not really that much of a difference, right?”

“Mate, you’re a fucking freak.” Tim looked backwards at Sasha, who was still standing in the office, dazed. “Sash, you coming? Let’s go day-drinking.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said, “in a sec.”

He shrugged and left the door propped open, and Sasha heard their bickering fade slowly as they walked down the hallway. 

But she couldn’t help staring at Jon sleeping at his desk, chest falling in and out, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose. His short, carefully maintained hair and meticulous fade. His baggy tweed and ill-fitting slacks. The subtle and shameful kind of earnestness, the desire mixed with fear mixed with hope mixed with genuine desire for a better future. He just wanted to be happy, to not be afraid anymore. He seemed weirdly human, when compared with his inhuman self. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

The tape recorder on Jon’s desk was still running. Sasha squinted at it, taking a second to listen to the staticy hiss. It was familiar, in the strangest possible way. It felt familiar -

Sasha reached out and grabbed the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pencil skirt pocket. “Just remember,” Sasha whispered, “I’d make a great candidate for Antichrist.”

She ran to go catch up with her coworkers, shutting the door behind them and leaving Jon sleeping contentedly in his office, head pillowed on his arms, dreaming strange and comforting dreams.

[otrtbs]

my weird questions as an Australian about America because I have no American friends:

Do you have Hungry Jacks???? It’s basically McDonalds but better but I just wonder if it’s an Australian thing

Do you drink the water out of the tap?? I’ve seen people mention it but I wonder if it’s true. We drink tap water or the tank water depending on what you have at the house

Why is your food sizes so big???

How many classes do you take a day in high school and when do you start/finish school each day?? In Australia, we start classes at 9 and finish at 3

Do all school let you stay on campus even after school is finished?? If so, that just seems barbaric to me

Do you have credit/data on your phone or do you just use wifi????

When you have student loan debt, do you just have to pay it off as soon as you finish school??? Here in Australia, we have HECS and once you earn a certain amount each year, it comes out of your pay check and you don’t even know

Do you guys not have Medicare???? Like is it easier to just be sick then go to your doctor???

In Australia, we have Centrelink and it’s money from the government if you don’t have a job/are studying/a single parent, etc. Do you have something similar??

Do Americans watch cable TV and if so, do you have shows that come on the same time each night? We have things like Home and Away that we watch at 7pm nearly every night

That’s all my questions for now!

hello!!

1. we do not have hungry jacks 😔 i have never heard of that before

2. you can drink water out of the tap!! and a lot of people do!! some refrigerators have water or you can buy brita’s to filter your water if you prefer!! and a lot of people just buy cases of bottled water

3. i have no idea but it’s kinda nice bc it’s cheap and you can make one meal go a long way w the leftovers 🤷‍♀️

4. in my high school we took eight classes (math, English, science, gov/history, economics (and electives) so I took French, debate, psychology) that was my senior schedule at least!! my high school started at 7:25 am and ended at 2:55 pm everyday

5. you do stay on campus after school is out for all kinds of things like sports clubs and extracurricular activities (national honor societies, French club, etc) and you can stay for tutoring if you needed extra help in classes !! So even though school was done by 2:55, normally depending on what you did you would be there until 4-5

6. We do have data here for our phones!! not everything is Wi-Fi !!

7. So the way my student loan debt works is , i have 6 months after I graduate to start making payments on it. I can apply for a deferral to ask for more time before I begin payments and if you’re a student (say I go from graduate school to law school) I don’t have to pay on my loans until I’m done w school but it accrues interest the entire time

8. There is Medicare for people over 65 and Medicaid for qualifying individuals but not universal healthcare so often it really is easier to just be sick than to go to the doctors if you don’t have insurance or good insurance through your job because it’s HELLA expensive if you get sick here. so as unfortunate as it is, a lot of people wait until they really need a doctor before they go :(((

9. Not super knowledgeable abt this ngl but you can apply for unemployment benefits and food stamps which I guess would be the sort of equivalent ??? But you have to qualify for those programs 

10. We do have cable tv!! a lot of people watch cable tv it’s very common!! I watch jeopardy almost every night at 10pm on cable hahaha

hope this helps! <3

[scuttle-buttle]

Chapter 1

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a pretentious ass - that's the only way you could possibly explain the man. That being said, you needed a job to help pay for grad school, and the position of being his TA was the only thing available. You'll suck it up and deal with it, but the last thing you'll do is let this man get inside your head in the process.

WC: 1012

Rated: M (rating will go up)

Chapter Tags: dialogue heavy, “i dont give a damn about my reputation”, psychology talk

Check out the masterlist in my bio for more info & chapters!

🧠

“Please - I’ll take literally anything you’ve got,” you beg the hunched-over man behind the desk. Bills had begun to pile up at your tiny apartment off campus, but given you were knees deep in your graduate program you were too busy for a full-time job. Due to your constant presence in the university library you figured it made the most sense to just get a job at your school.

The clerk huffed at you and typed into his desktop. You could see the reflection of the screen in his bifocals. Other younger students milled about as you wait; you just hope that they don’t sense your impending panic.

“Well,” the man drones. “There is only one avalible position. It’s as a TA in the psychology department.”

“YES. I’ll take it, seriously, I don’t even care who it’s with, please.” He just looks at you over his glasses at the outburst. He types for another minute.

“I’ve sent the information to your student email, please have all the documentation filled out as soon as possible. This position has been open for some time now, so the start date is this Monday. All the details are in the email.” You don’t bother questioning why nobody wanted the job to begin with, too excited that you found a way to pay the bills.

“Thanks so much” - you read his name tag - “Roger, you are my hero.” Throwing your hands up in relief, you bid him a good night and head home. You didn’t hear him mumble “your funeral, kid.”

_

Bitsy, your roommate was already home when you burst in the door, bottle of cheap wine in your hand. “And tonight, we celebrate!” you announce. The two of you met in a required English course your junior year. You had gotten a two-bedroom off campus before your senior year. After graduation she entered the workforce as a journalist; you continued with your studies.

She whips her head from the tv at you. “You got a job?” You nod and do a little dance as an answer. “It’s about time, rent don’t pay itself, sweetie,” she sasses.

“Hey,” you point the bottle at her, “I haven’t let you down yet and I don’t intend to.”

She just laughs. “Nah I know, you’re the best roommate I’ve had in a long, long time.” Her New York accent is in full force tonight. Bitsy mutes the tv. “So what is this job?”

You snatch two mugs from the cabinet and plop next to her on the threadbare couch. “TA in the psych department.” You pour both of you generous glasses before chugging half your own and refilling it.

Your roommate squints at you suspiciously. “Do you even know anything about psych?”

She’s got you there. You feign offence at her question; “Of course, I took that one introductory course in undergrad with Stratton. I loved it, but I didn’t have room in my schedule to take any more. I know more than you think. And I did go to that shrink for a while.” She nods at you, knowing you didn’t like to discuss it much.

“Is she who you’ll be working for?”

“Um, I don’t know, didn’t ask.” You open your email app on your phone. “Roger, the love of my life at the student center, emailed me the information about the job. Let me check.” Bitsy waits as you search through the documents on your phone. It doesn’t take long.

Assignment:

Dr. Laszlo Kreizler

Courses: Introductory Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, & Criminal Psychology

“Who is Doctor… Kreezler?” Bitsy gasps. You furrow your brows at her reaction, confused. “What?”

“You’re working with Kreizler?” She cringes.

“I guess?” You look up to see her face. “I don’t- Bits, what's the big deal?” Now you begin to panic.

“Dr. Kreizler has a reputation on campus…”

And? “What is he like, a manwhore or something?”

“Jesus, the complete opposite. Everybody hates him - he grades impossible, requires that you come to see him during office hours and half the students leave ready to cry. He’s genius, but a dick.”

She continues, “I once heard a guy in the dining hall talking about how the professor called out this freshman in class and asked all these personal questions about how her grandfather dying fucked her up or something. He tries to get into everybody’s head. Never heard a good thing about him. I wouldn’t be shocked if he had a forked tongue and horns to go with it.”

Okay now you are definitely panicked.

At your paled complexion Bitsy backtracks “Oh but I’m sure he’s not all terrible? I mean you know, underclassmen - fail one test and the professor is evil…” Her words did little to ease you.

You spent the rest of the night and bottle researching Dr. Kreizler. He had no social media and there was only one picture online, but it was blurry. All you could make out was dark hair and a beard. He had been teaching at the university the last 4 years after moving from the University of Munich in Germany. You were able to find a few articles on one of his PhD theses, A Study of the Alien Mind: The Role of Societal Flaw in Creating Monsters Among Men. Skimming some, you note that he is very intellectual and wordy in his explanations.

Opening up the Rate My Professor website, you look him up.

“I’d give 0 stars if I could - he is the worst!!!”

“Literally f*ck this guy”

“Read my ass off, came to all office hours, still barely got a D in his 100 level”

“Not as bad with upper level courses, but only if you know how he works and can deal with his temper. Don’t expect higher than a C tho”

“watch out or he’ll try to psychoanalyze you in front of the entire class”

You blew a long breath out and closed your laptop. The clock on your bedside table read almost 2 am. I need this job, I need this job, I NEED this job, you chant to yourself.

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

[maria-akira]

how you meet the ahs boys + their reaction while you're having a class - PART 1

—♡—

hey yall im back again 🧍🏻‍♀️ is this what you call a headcanon?? idk BAHAHSHHA. anyways i've had this idea in my mind for a while and i wanted to share it to yall, so i hope you guys like it 😌

these also have a little back story on how you guys meet !!

also, special mention to @tatestripedsweater for helping me give ideas with jimmy's part !! thank you so much mwah 🥺❤

warnings: none! just pure fluff <3

please excuse any errors !

—♡—

~♡ TATE LANGDON:

before the pandemic, you and your family have moved into the murder house.

the house gave your family a very odd vibe, but nonetheless all of you had to bear with it because it was sold for a cheap price.

but when the pandemic arrived the country, you were stuck at home 24/7. thus, classes were online.

you met tate because of your father. tate was one of his patients and the both of you grew close.

"Y/N, what are you doing?"

tate would randomly barge in your room while having a class and you would jump out of shock.

"Jesus, Tate. Stop scaring me like that!"

tate would giggle and lay on your bed, observing the lesson that the teacher rambled about.

while you're writing notes, he would stand up and take a chair from some part of your room and sit beside you.

knowing that tate is clingy, you would warn him not to bug you and behave while you listened in class.

of course, he doesn't listen and he would place his head on your shoulder and eventually would cuddle you.

"Taaate, please let me focus."

luckily, you always keep your camera off.

"Mmm, no. I enjoy bugging you."

~♡ KIT WALKER:

one time, you were driving to school on your own and you were almost running out of gas.

luckily, you saw a gas station nearby and decided to get a fill before heading to school. and there, you met kit.

when you first laid your eyes on kit, you thought that he was the prettiest man ever. you couldn't let this chance slip, thus, you exchanged numbers with him.

you talked all day and night, the both of you were so inlove with each other and you finally decided to introduce him to your parents.

your parents loved him and you were so, so happy.

but when the pandemic came, it affected your relationship with kit.

since all schools and unis were closed down, everything went online.

when kit stayed over, he couldn't spend a lot of time with you because you had to attend classes early in the morning, till afternoon.

"Can you stay in bed with me for a little bit, darling?"

unfortunately, you woke up late that day and you missed 10 minutes of your first class. and just like that, you were stuck to your desk until afternoon.

"Kit baby, I'm sorry. I'm late for my first class. Maybe later, okay?"

as much as kit hated this whole online class thing, he would always find a way to cheer you up.

thus, he would cook you breakfast and bring it over to your room.

"C'mere, I'll feed you while you listen and write down notes."

~♡ KYLE SPENCER (PRE DEATH AND POST DEATH) :

PRE DEATH:

madison, your friend, had bugged you all week to go with her to this college frat party near your house.

you weren't the party type. you loved staying at home, watching netflix or reading some sort of fan fiction on wattpad.

but you hated being single. so, this was your chance to actually get a boyfriend.

when you arrived at the party, you immediately hated it. everything was so loud and everyone was drinking, it was definitely a new sight for you.

you were sitting on a couch that was in the balcony, with a red cup that was filled with punch. you loved being away from the commotion.

this is where you met kyle, it was love at first sight. the both of you had so much in common and you thought that he was the man of your dreams.

you exchanged snapchats and from there, you were partners-in-crime.

you and kyle had stopped going to parties ever since the pandemic arrived, which means you got to see each other less.

since the both of you were students, both of your classes went online.

one time, kyle had no classes for a day and he decided to surprise you.

that day, you were having an online presentation. both your camera and microphone were on.

"Rene Descartes was the Father of Modern Philosophy—"

as you were presenting the slide show, you were cut off by kyle's presence infront of your desk.

"I brought you food, baby!"

you would shush him and suddenly turn off your mic.

"I'm so sorry, Miss. My boyfriend arrived and I—"

kyle would go beside you and kiss you on your cheek, your classmates and teacher cooing over it.

"Miss, you better give my girlfriend a good grade."

POST DEATH:

*pretend that he survived the bus accident and had a coma, because we arent involving witchcraft here*

kyle and his fraternity were on a bus that was going to some college event at school.

on the way there, you guys snapped each other and his friends would talk to you as well.

unfortunately, they got in an accident and the bus was flipped over.

a few students, including kyle, survived the accident.

when you heard this news, you cried your heart out and you didnt talk to anyone in your family.

you and your family visited the hospital and you rushed to kyle's room, it broke your heart to see tubes in him, with machines that beeped like there was no tomorrow.

when the doctor said that kyle was in a coma, your heart sank in the deepest part of your body.

this made you stay 24/7 with him until he was discharged.

when he was discharged from the hospital, he was not his usual self. the bubbly, energetic kyle was gone. instead, he was so confused with everything.

kyle's mom made him stay with you until he got his memory back, and you were more than glad to help.

but this took a toll on your studies because your classes were online due to a pandemic.

everyday in class, you would let kyle sit beside you and let him observe what you were doing.

"We're in Science class, Kyle. You were really good in Science, you helped me alot with my homeworks."

most of the time, you would help kyle develop his speech and his writing. but it was difficult for you.

"S-Sci... S-Sci-en.. ce?"

"Yes, Kyle! Good job, now one more time."

~♡ JIMMY DARLING:

ever since you were a kid, you loved going to carnivals, your parents would always bring you there every weekend.

there were carnivals almost everywhere, and your family brought you to all of them.

to you, each carnival was unique. the clowns and magicians in each carnival had different tricks up their sleeve.

but as you grew up, these carnivals slowly went out of business. except for one, which was elsa's cabinet of curiosities.

you decided to visit it one day just for a trip down memory lane, you never really had expectations for this place.

when you arrived there, there were a few people that were seated.

the show started and it instantly made you smile, they reminded you of your younger days. oh how you wished to be a child again.

you watched through a few acts, and the last act was a man named jimmy darling

when he came on stage, you locked eyes with him. there was something about him that really struck you.

after the performance ended, jimmy ran over to you and got your number. from there, you always talked and you would visit him regularly.

the regular visits stopped when the pandemic struck the country, forcing entertainment establishments, schools and unis to close down.

for the mean time, all your classes went online. you told jimmy that he could stay with you until things went back to normal.

on an early tuesday morning, you were in english class. jimmy was with your parents preparing breakfast, and you were falling asleep while your teacher discussed about the odyssey.

unlike tate, jimmy would always knock on your door. as his mom always taught, never enter anyone's room without knocking.

jimmy would giggle at your sleeping sight, your head lowered and your hair messed up.

"Hey, sweetheart, wake up! You're in class."

jimmy's timing was perfect. as he woke you up, you were called by the teacher.

"Miss Y/N, Do you think Odysseus was loyal to his wife?"

obviously, you panicked. but jimmy was there to save you. since jimmy was fond of reading, he finished the book and he whispered the answer to you before you could turn on your mic.

"No, Ma'am. Odysseus had an affair with Calypso and Circe."

once you got your teacher's approval, you turned off your microphone and let out a sigh of relief.

"You're lucky that I'm here to help you."

jimmy would joke and you would jump up to him, tackling him into a hug.

"I'm always lucky to have you, baby."

~♡ DANDY MOTT

at a young age, you were exposed to different types of fabrics. denim, silk, corduroy, neoprene. they name it, you've probably seen it.

your mother worked as a fashion designer. she managed to open a shop in the city and it was a great success for you and your family.

your mother has styled famous models. because of this, the shop was promoted and broadcasted all over the country. one day when you came from school, you saw a long line outside the shop.

that day, the staff count was low. there were only 5 employees instead of 10. you didn't exactly know why, so you decided to help.

after what felt like several hours, the long line finally dissolved into 2 customers, which was a mother and her son. they looked through the shop and the mother instantly loved everything.

her son, on the other hand, was trying on this lilac tux that your mother made.

you assisted her son and when you locked eyes, the both of you smiled. you entertained him throughout his shopping spree and the both of you never broke eye contact.

this was how you met dandy. he made the first move by getting your number, and of course you gave it back.

from there, the both of you talked day and night, even when you were in school.

since dandy's mother, gloria, loved your mother's shop so much, she would invite you and your mother regularly to her mansion.

gloria and your mother got along very well, and it was like gloria was your second mother.

so when your mother went to paris for a fashion show, she let you stay in gloria's mansion until she came back.

but to your dismay, your mother was not able to come back due to a pandemic that was all over the world. flights, establishments, and schools closed down.

of course you were sad, but you didn't worry so much because gloria treated you like her real daughter.

classes were online and you were forced to attend them everyday in the shared room you had with dandy.

since you had to get ready for class early in the morning, you would quietly get out of bed because dandy was sometimes a light sleeper.

it was around 8am and you were in math class. in your school, cameras were required to be turned on at all times. you thought this was a shit rule, but you had no choice to comply.

you were drawing some circles with a compass for an example that was being discussed by your teacher, when all of a sudden dandy was beside you.

"Dandy, sweetie, what are you doing up so early? Go back to sleep.."

dandy would pout at the lack of attention that you were giving him. since he loved holding your hand, you let him hold your other hand that you didn't use for writing.

"You're doing Math instead of cuddling with me!"

—♡—

i'm actually super proud of this omg !! i hope yall enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it 🥺❤

—♡—

[artsy-hobbitses]

I'm getting very curious about Malaysia... what's it like there?? Culture, living conditions, etc.

Pretty loaded question!

Off the top of my head, some specifics:

- Very much a melting pot. Malay, Chinese and Indian ethnicities mingle pretty freely, interracial marriages are not uncommon (I’m quarter Chinese on my mum’s side) and the modern Malaysian slang is often a mishmash of Malay, Chinese and Indian words. You have a choice between public, vernacular (usually caters to a specific race ie. Chinese/Indian as a stronghold of the language/customs, however I had Malays friends who went to Chinese Vernacular schools) international, private and religious schools (mostly for the Muslim-Majority Malays). Public holidays are designated for all three major races (big ones are Eid, Deepavali and Chinese New Year) plus more specific ones in Sabah/Sarawak for the indigenous population, and it’s normal for say, Malays to be invited to a Deepavali gathering or for Chinese to be invited to Eid open houses. We’re usually chill about it like that.

- Despite this, racism exists. It’s not loud and proud like in western nations though (except for your occasional Malay nationalist politician) it tends to be more of the passive-aggressive sort. Some parents discreetly warn their kids about not being friends with [X] race at school, some house rental listings with single out [X] race, though we’re coming to the point that we’re not bothering with Asian decorum anymore and publicly shitting on that behavior. On a historical aspect, the potential reason it takes on a more subtle, passive-aggressive tone here was that on 13 May 1969, sectarian violence broke out between urban Chinese and Malays in Kuala Lumpur due to unrest over the general election, and this resulted in the deaths of 600 people, mostly Chinese (My mum lived through this time at the heart of the incident). Basically the nation’s been scarred and has feared a similar event ever since, so those spouting open racial violence get slammed down pretty quick and “Remember 13 May” has often been used as a warning for whenever tensions flare up. Or when politicians want us to keep our grumblings down. We tend to have a don’t-rock-the-boat mentality here on the basis of trying to keep the peace for everyone—-it doesn’t always work. Malay Privilege/“Ketuanan Melayu” is a thing you’ll hear often from some sections of Malays here, who tend to argue that since they’re technically the original inhabitants if the land (don’t quiz ‘em about the Orang Asli), they should get more rights than the others.

-Living conditions vary. I live in Selangor—the state surrounding the Capital Kuala Lumpur—-which has the highest density of denizens. Here, it’s pretty modern. My husband and I rent a two-story terrace house, my parents who are a little well-off have their own bungalow. Places like Penang, Perak and Johor also tend to be more in the modern side. You’ll find more rural areas and kampungs as you go deeper into the heart of country (Pahang), the East Coast (Kelantan, Terengganu) and the country’s rice bowl (Kedah, and by extension, Perlis). This is within the Peninsula—-Sabah (I lived here for about four years) and Sarawak have a combination of modern and rural areas and tend to take life at a much slower pace than the Peninsula states (They also want none of Peninsula’s religious tension bullshit). My father’s kampung is in Pahang, and while I was never close to my paternal grandparents, I do have fond memories of cooking outdoors and plucking rambutan bunches from the trees they grew.

- Wet. Very wet. Monsoon season/‘Musim Tengkujuh’ at year end interspace with mid-year. Fucks with the income of local fishermen who are barred from going to the ocean on the account of rough waves, Flooding is an annual occurrence for rural areas, though we get flash floods in cities too. Common enough that “check for crocodiles” isn’t a weird request when you come back to clean your homes from mud and silt. (Houses near flood-prone areas will employ walls or be built on stilts to withstand the floods).

- 9 Sultans for 9 states, they take turns becoming the Agong (Chief Sultan I guess?) every five years. They’re mostly there the same way the British monarchy is. Don’t really play a big role in politics unless there is a need for them to decree something when politicians can’t work things out between themselves.

- Political leapfrog. It’s. A thing. A politician you see from one party today can be a member of another party tomorrow. It’s gotten so bad they’re considering legislation to punish it. We do call them literal frogs (Katak) when they do this (Sorry frogs, you deserve better!)

- Food. All the fucking food. Melting pot = all the deliciousness. There’s no culturally appropriating cuisine here, everyone’s eating everyone else’s stuff with great gusto. Roti Canai/Chappati (Indian) for breakfast, Nasi Campur (mixed rice, mostly with Malay dishes) for lunch and Wantan Mee (Chinese) for dinner is an example of the food culture trip you go through on any given day. You’ll have Malays who adore Chinese food, Chinese who adore Malay food, and no one fights when they’re eating, that’s all there is to it. Places like Penang are a haven for food and people will make trips just to eat there.

- Islam is the main religion. However, it’s not strictly enforced in most cases, I’d dare even say that we’re quite secular, to the teeth-gnashing of the Facebook army. I’m a Muslim who doesn’t wear a headscarf (except on special occasions), I know Muslims who rescue and keep dogs (My hunter grandfather apparently caught and kept a Dhole as a house guard way back), and I know some who’re LGBT, albeit somewhat discreet about it.

- Speaking of LGBT, the country is not friendly to the community, but neither is it as hostile as sections of the US tend to be about it. As an example, gay conversion therapy isn’t really a thing there (presumably because that would entail the govt admitting that there’s enough gay people to require it at all), workplaces generally do not have a policy targeting people based on their sexualities, like you’ll find butch ladies serving you drinks at Starbucks and gay men working with local theatre productions, and violence against LGBT members is pretty rare (though I imagine this is more because most people here mostly do not want to kick up a fuss in public, what more a fight, and just judge from a distance). Basically, the majority of the public will tolerate LGBT existence—whispering behind their back——until there starts to be a call for rights.

- Good degree of English command. English is understood, if not spoken, by a lot of us here from cab drivers to stall owners, so you won’t be hopelessly lost if you decide to visit. A big majority of us are at LEAST bilingual (In my case, I speak English and Malay, and can understand some Arabic). Quite a number who come from interracial marriages are trilingual.

- Cheap healthcare. There’s a reason we’re one of the top destinations for medical tourism. You have a choice between private and government hospitals which provide a form of universal healthcare. Govt clinics/hospitals offer subsidized healthcare and meds to all members of the public, and most doctors will start out in government hospitals before moving to private practices (like my sister-in-law). Uninsured, a trip to a normal clinic for a consultation will set you back maybe twenty to thirty bucks, fifty if you need meds or a small procedure like stitches. I do have insurance but have never used it for doctor visits since the amount is pretty trivial. I have, however, used it for a hysterectomy surgery + 1 month hospital stay at a private hospital which set me back about RM30,000-RM40,000 (USD7000-USD9500) which I managed to get covered. Ambulance Fees are like, RM200 (USD47) for private hospitals and RM50 (USD12) for govt hospitals. Consultation fees, blood tests and X-Rays go as low as RM1 (24 Cents) in govt hospitals. If you get hurt here, we got you covered.

And that’s just off my head! If there’s something specific you’d like you know, feel free to ask further ouob

[falconemuses]

mindblowing development of the night

i am putting it here because i need to remember this because i don’t intend to act on it tonight because i am already very tired but this definitely requires follow up

so i was talking to my aunt, asking her to accompany me to the next appointment in the loooooong process of getting tested for autism, because i’m a failure of a law student that is terrible at advocating for herself without support, even just silent presence would be tremendously helpful. like i’m honestly less mad at the outdated psychs (because we all knew the public system in SG was crap anyway, i was just trying it because it’s cheap - technically free since i can claim the expenses from my work, so, i was just trying it on the slim chance that i get an actually updated and sympathetic doctor.) and more mad at myself for totally panicking and getting tongue-tied and just failing absolutely at self-advocacy. 

anyways, she agreed, and halfway through this conversation she tells me that during my last s_____e attempt, MY MOTHER TOLD HER I HAD QUOTE UNQUOTE “HIGH-FUNCTIONING AUTISM”. (yes i know that’s not a term these days that’s why i said quote unquote). so - are you telling me i was diagnosed before, and she just hid it from me?! because that’s not a term she would’ve come up with on her own, her english is.....not fantastic. and if it was only suspected, she could’ve gone with any of the things i’ve actually heard myself being diagnosed with. anxiety. depression. instead she very specifically said HIGH-FUNCTIONING AUTISM. 

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

i’m actually not mad, because i already knew my parents were the kind of people to keep insane levels of secrets, like if we lived in a country with more land we’d be living in an underground bunker for sure. no one outside the immediate fam has heard about their divorce, and nobody knows to this day how exactly my brother went deaf. i just didn’t think they had this secret to keep at all. like, you know, it would’ve been the 90s, the public image of autism was - well, y’know, and they wouldn’t suspect it unless their kid was really not keeping up, as opposed to just a little slow; plus, they had my brother to deal with, infant brain surgery and all, so i just thought they very understandably didn’t think anything was up with me as long as i was eating and breathing and moving.

oh my god. i’m absolutely going to have to ask her about this. but not tonight. tonight i am exhausted and i am just going to eat sushi and watch netflix and K O.

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

As always, let me know what you think!

_____________________________________________________

Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Out of sight, out of mind (interlude)

I

They disappear one night the same way they appeared.

Without a word.

It feels like waking up after a long dream. The way the sunrays enter your little kitchen, splashing your space in golden light looks almost ethereal, no longer their figures staining your white walls, standing out of place in the middle of your living room.

It feels a lot like the mornings after some heavy rainstorm.

It’s over. You think, breathing heavy and tired.

The apartment is quiet and cold, foreign to you. It reminds you a little they way you feel in hospitals. Places without personality, places without any personal touch. Even when everything is in place; the blankets are neatly folded in the closet and your toothbrush is the only one in the bathroom (Toga surely took her time tiding everything up) but you cannot feel at ease in it.

Maybe you are no longer the same person that use to live alone in this place, because it doesn’t feel like you belong inside the four walls that began to close too tight around you now, and even when you know you should run to the next police station and ask for help and protection because you’ve been hostage in your own home for weeks, you can’t get yourself to do it. It feels like a betrayal, somehow. Even when they held you captive, even when they’ve threat you and berated you. Even when there is no guarantee they would not be back to end the job after what you did to Dabi, after what happen with Shigaraki.

He looked like he wanted to hurt you last time.

Sorrow soft and silent start to rise, your heart breaking slowly with realization, smothering you, drowning you gently as you stand alone in the middle of your home, because they will never be back.

He will never be back.

It’s fine…I’m…safe. I’m safe.

You feel the jarring stab of grief, your heart cracking open under the pressure and the loneliness you’ve been trying to keep under control all this time, so you let out a shaking sob, finally admitting to yourself the ugly truth.

This is more than a little crush.

More like falling in love.

And your sweetheart has red eyes like jewels and a starved need for ruin.

So, you curl in a corner of your couch, hugging a pillow that smells way too much like soap and leather, finally allowing yourself to cry because this is painful, the kind of infatuation that can get you killed, that can destroy your life and ruin you. Him never coming back is a gift made of grief and poison, but you’ll take it because you know this is what you get in exchange of an attachment like this for a man who does nothing but harbor resentment inside the dark pit that is his chest.

You cry your eyes out, you cry desperate and lonely, holding tight to the pillow that still smells like him, no longer trying to suppress the nasty wound his gaze carved into your heart the moment his eyes met yours.

You cry because you think he hates you, because he didn’t just decide to go. Shigaraki choose to run away from this just to spite you and your infatuation because he wanted to stab you back. Because that’s the kind of man he is, that’s the kind of man that you allowed to hold grip onto your heart.

So, you stay curled in the corner of your little couch, sobbing and weeping over the painful mess you’ve made, wishing for the kiss you didn’t get the chance to steal and swearing that if you ever see him again, you’ll squeeze that devious grin out of his sharp face with your bare hands because if he wanted to hurt you by leaving without a word, then he should be fucking proud.

_____________________

II

He wasn’t joking when he asked her if she could handle rough.

“Oh my god” she sobs, inked tears staining her cheeks.

She looks like a mess, but he prefers it that way. He favors that she’s different, a complete opposite with her heavy makeup and revealing clothes, her smudged lipstick painting her chin and her breasts bouncing heavy, scaping her torn little dress. A perfect depiction of ruined and lewd. 

She gags when he squeezes her neck hard, his index fingers curled as he yanks her body against the brick wall, too angry to care for his companion. No. He just wants to thrust into her as fast and rough as he can so he can get off the soon.

“Oh my-” she pants trying to hold herself against the wall, but he pulls her neck to him, pressing her back to his chest and then he yanks forward and bites her hard in the shoulder, his teeth leaving a purple mark on her skin.

“Shut up.” He grunts maddened when she sobs and squirms against his body, her smell entering his nostrils, making him gag instantly because he cannot stand the cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes, sweat and sex.

He cannot stand the smell of her hair, nor the shape of her body, or the height difference.

He cannot stand her lewd screaming.

So, he covers her mouth with his hand and shut his eyes tightly closed before resuming his brutal animalistic pacing, trying not to think in the salty flavor of her skin in his mouth. He just needs his release; it’s been a while since he gave himself to this kind of pleasure and for all things he’s ever done, he never fucked this angry before.

Tomura thinks he’s not particularly sexual on a daily basis. He doesn’t go walking around thinking about the next time he gets laid, not when he’s never been that interested in girls anyway, because he just…doesn’t like things nor people. So, his approach on sex is more like a task to be filled if anything else (like eating), rarely relying on another body since he doesn’t want to be touched at all. Now, of course he’s done it now and then, sometimes paying for it, sometimes a nightstand after some vodka in a seedy bar, but always quick to dispatch the person involved.

For Tomura, sex is about him wanting something and obtaining it the easiest way possible to just keep on with his life.

Or at least that’s how it was, but some reason he’s been feeling incredibly starved for it lately, and after being in a heck of a terrible mood and some heated lash out at his crew out of nowhere, he decided to pick his anger and put it somewhere else before killing one of his comrades.

Now, the woman is drooling all over his hand with all the choking, making him feel nauseous so he lets go of her and just digs his fingers on her hip keeping his index up, his long nails clawing at her skin, making her whine, squeezing him tight in reflex.

She tries to catch his wrist to move one of his hands to her breast, but he yanks away to pull her hair, growling a curse against her ear, swallowing hard.

This feels so wrong.

It’s not the right cup size.

It’s not the right smell.

It’s not the right height.

It’s not the right woman.

The mechanic friction is finally working its wonders because Tomura feels his low abdomen tighten before finally getting off.

No, he doesn’t see stars, nor grunts in feverish pleasure. He doesn’t taste her neck nor smiles when he cums. As soon as he releases, he shoves the woman as far away from him, removing the condom with disgust and decaying it (the thought of feeling her bare wet cunt against his naked skin revolving his guts).

He adjusts his clothes before throwing the woman some cash and just walks away, concluding that this was the most unsatisfying fuck in world’s history.

Tomura looks at his hands, feeling the sticky sensation of her saliva and her sweat, troubled because his face it’s super itchy but he feels so disgustingly dirty, that he doesn’t even need to smell them to know that her musky tacky perfume now lingers on his palms.

Maybe if I rub my hands, I can decay it away. He thinks, trying his hypothesis to no avail. ‘kay, that was pointless.

He manages to rub the fabric of his sleeve against his brow until the skin begins to show red dots of blood as he thinks seriously that he could kill for a hot shower, even when he’s not the cleanest guy around (he showers when he can. If he can’t do it, then he just doesn’t think about it), but he can’t stand the way the prostitute’s scent remains on him like a sin, and the thought is so ridiculous, because he’s done plenty of horrible disturbing shit in his life to now feel all guilty and nasty for a “less-than-mediocre” fuck.

So, he walks away, utterly unsatisfied. His anger dragging behind him, leaving a bloodied mess of chaos and longing for something far brighter than a rough fuck behind some lost alley, because he wants more than that. He wants the name, the body and the holy spirit that inhabits the girl with dangerous gaze and healer hands. He wants her violence, her anger and wild bravado, all for him to feaster and be consumed by it.

A violent delight that he can’t afford, not when he’s busy surviving until he finds the doctor or his master’s weapon, so he repeats himself that his infatuation, this sickness will disappear eventually, he just needs to get his priorities straight and focus.

He’ll do it, time will get everything in place again.

Cold creeps into him, the city lights filling the streets between car noises and people returning their homes. All of them busy minding their own lives, completely unaware of the hooded serial killer walking by, quietly sneaking into the fire escape of some old building.  

_____________________

III

Internal medicine is one of those courses that drains every bit of life out of you. Arguably the hardest in a career full of hards, you now live under the constant threat of failure because this shit is a monster, and you know the statistics too well to not being aware that this course has the highest rate of reps in all the damn faculty.

So, you enter your uni mode; sugar-rush based diet and coffee like the world is ending to keep your brain functioning like is a nuclear reactor, sleeping four hours at nights and barely dreaming. Of course, it’s not just that class, is that you have three more besides that one, all of them of high difficulty for you to rejoice in your misery, so yeah. You live like a zombie.

I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich… You repeat to yourself every morning after showering, watching your body in front of the mirror, admiring the sharp angles and purple eyebags that already began to claim your face.

Oh, and the hair loss due to stress is just the cherry on top of the cake, really.

Yes, your brain is at the brim of collapse right now, but classes start again, and your friends are there to suffer with you and it makes you feel accompanied and secure. Is just another semester of tears, panic, pizza and everything that implies to be a twenty something student, so you are thankful nonetheless, because you don’t have the time to think about the other thing…

You don’t think about it.

You don’t really think about it.

You don’t even think about it.

And you don’t say the name either, you refuse because you’ll do anything to forget about him, anything to erase the memory of his dark figure like a shadow against your white kitchen, too clever and insolent for your own good.

But it’s okay, you don’t think of him, or his slender fingers taking the bishop to strike down your king, and the way his dry lips curve upward before some smartass remark. You don’t think of his lean body towering over you, touching yours in so many places but none at the same time.

No, you don’t think of him while awake, but sometimes he visits your dreams to terrify you with his cadaveric hands and his face hidden by his hair. Ready to strike you down, a hand extended in motion to decay you into oblivion.

Sometimes he hovers over you, kissing your neck while ravaging you, incredibly close and raw and intimate, his mouth snarling dirty words you’ll never dare to say out loud. Dreams where his warm chest press against your naked body and your lips sings lewd lullabies just for him, welcome him to feaster on your skin with your face nuzzling against his scarred cheek, covering your face with his silver hair.

Sometimes he just sits in your kitchen as the sunlight reflects over his milky locks. His hand holding his cheek over the table in serene expression, calling your name to play again as the black king spins between his delicate fingers.

___________________

IV

Tomura has a meeting with this new allied Twice found, like three days from now.

He’s not particularly excited about it, surely, it’s just another capo wannabe with grandeur delusions, but it could be worth it. Maybe he could get some money out of it since the league is completely broken after his sensei’s incarceration. They are in desperate need of a hideout, now more than ever since Kurogiri vanished and he’s sure the heroes must have captured him. (Thinking about this is pointless anyway because he doesn’t have the means to get him back)

Minding his own business, he walks with his hoodie on, passing between civilians like he’s one of them, completely invisible when he sees her.

It catches him by surprise. His heart stopping dead on its tracks, wide eyes and tight lips, uncertainty filling him all of the sudden, but he’s accustomed to make hiding spots out of nowhere, so he gets behind some store sign where he can watch her safely.

She stands outside a coffee shop, animatedly talking with some guy who wears the same clinic uniform that she has on. A school mate maybe? She’s an intern in a hospital so, they are probably on shift. Another doctor like her.

She looks tired and paler, but beautiful, nonetheless. The way her lips move give away she’s talking about something clinic, because her face has that firm expression she always does when she’s being professional.

She already looks like a doctor and God knows he’d gladly be sick every day of his life if she’s the one to treat him.

His feelings betray him. He was sure after a month she would be completely out of his system by now, this stupid illness already cured, but shit just doesn’t go away.  It pisses him off to no end because she’s not worth the aggravation. C’mon, she’s just another boring normal civilian, she doesn’t do anything important or interesting. She’s not remarkable in any way that serves him, because not even her quirk is truly useful. Not when it threatens to kill her every time she uses it.

And looking her objectively, she’s not even that pretty, but somehow, he’s torn between his desire to make her see him and get as far away from her he can.

Searing jealousy pierces him, hate raw and jarring dripping from between his ribs when the man leans over and whisper something that makes her laugh and for a moment, he seriously thinks he’s going to kill him right there, no quirk needed because he would just love to gut him out in plain view for her to see what he thinks of her stupid friend.

He hates the man, but he hates her more because she dares to laugh, she dares to enjoy life and people meanwhile he crawls hungry and cold between ruined places.

Like sensing his glare, she suddenly turns her head with her eyes directed to the spot where he hides, her expression changing from joyful to confused in seconds, making him laugh because even when he’s sure she cannot see him, she knows he’s there and it feels like she’s tied to him somehow.

Her face gives away disappoint when she fails to catch him and the thought of her grieving after he left delights him, but he’s sworn to let her behind, so he rejoices for a moment in this little victory of his pettiness over her charms, before turning away from her, fully believing that this is the last time he thinks of her.

Chapter 13

__________________________________________

Hey lovely readers! since English is not my native language and writing Shigaraki is kinda hard because he changes and grows, and because he usually says many things about himself, but then he goes and do completely different things (like when he says he hates everything, but CLEARLY he’s fond of twice and stuff like that) so much in manga, it would be lovely to know what you think of this! I think it’s the only way to be better at something really, So, any questions, comments and concerns, please feel free to comment!