#would deadass let you snap my neck baby PLEASE 😭😭😭

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

madam herta is the first snow of winter.

crisp air flooding your lungs, ice-slicked pavement crackling beneath your feet. skeletal trees that glitter with frozen dew and freshly coated snowflakes. broken skin, nips of icicle-teeth, wonder.

she’s beautiful. beautiful in the way everything crumbles around her.

”well, what are you waiting for?” comes a high-pitched voice, one of her puppets. the same tone, same air of expectancy; like she’s never gotten a no. ”keep up, duckling! we’ve got no time to dilly-dally.”

”sorry, madam!”

she’s walking ahead before you can even get the words out. egoistical, self-absorbed, expecting you to follow. being her assistant isn’t easy, far from it— but it’s worth it just to see her. a puppet, a replica, it doesn’t matter. it’s worth it to be able to follow at her whims, wherever they take her, into the star-soaked sky. you think yourself lucky to have her attention on you — just for a minute or two every day.

everything madam herta does is beautiful. a miracle. if she told you she was god, you wouldn’t hesitate to believe her, fall at her feet. she’s a genius, she can do anything. can even make the world seem worthwhile.

she is on a ceaseless journey, to devour every star. you’ll never grow tired of watching her glimmer, sitting at the edge of the cosmos and watching.

(every star maps out her name.)

”here, carry this,” she clicks her tongue, leaving a pile of abandoned documents in your arms. it comes to you naturally, leaning down to her height to scoop them up. catch the sharp edge of her violet eyes.

there’s a weight there. something knowing.

— the answer to the universe is the number 42.

back home, your professor had called it meaningless. a world without an answer to gain isn’t worth living in at all — not worth the hassle. you remember the dullness in his eyes, the crease between his brows. young, susceptible, you were inclined to believe him. you believed him when he told you magic was a hoax, when he told you the galaxy had an endpoint. when he told you life was devoid of meaning—

you believed him, too.

”that’s wrong,” your lady scoffs. ”is he stupid?”

there’s a cup in your hand, steam wafting up to meet your nostrils, smelling of bitter espresso. a dark, swirling pit. a memory from before — new to the space station, new to her. she took you into her office, and you told her more than you should have.

(she was drinking too. madame herta likes her coffee with cream and sugar — only one cube, though, no more or less. just a touch of something sweet.)

”… what do you mean?”

your own voice sounds foreign, when she’s around. like nothing exists but her, her, her. like it’s all you can see. frosted landscapes and bambino eyes, the bite of winter sinking into your jaw. she’s always had that charisma, the kind only a genius could possess.

a tilt of her head, and a raise of her brow. you stiffen, curl in on yourself, ready to be berated — and she puts her porcelain cup down with a satisfying clink.

”a world without questions,” she exhales, a misty breath on her tongue. ”isn’t worth living in at all.”

a tug at your subconscious. a crack in a frozen lake.

her eyes swim with precision. decision. a cleave into your skin, her greedy fingers slipping under it. you wonder what it’d feel like to be held like that.

”a man who can’t understand that much isn’t suited for teaching in the first place,” she huffs, sipping from the rim of her cup and scowling. ”you should tell him to go back to the academy. i mean, geez. what are they even teaching you these days?”

”… not much.”

(nothing, compared to what you could teach me.)

your lady knows you like no other. the universe like no other. you knew from the start that it’d be her. what she carries is wisdom, experience, a childlike sense of wonder — she’s older than you by centuries and counting, yet she feels purer than you could comprehend. purer than anyone around you. even with her complaints, harsh words, the paperwork she leaves behind for you to finish. that much is fine.

because she’s more than you. she’s beautiful, a genius, she tugs you along and she’ll cast you aside, once you’ve grown too boring to stomach. you think yourself fine with that conclusion— fine with picking at scraps and following at her trail. egoistical, self-absorbed; you wouldn’t have her any other way.

madam herta is the lump between your tongue and throat.

(you’ll fall into her forever.)