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Futuristic โ…ต. ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฌ๐š๐ข๐ง๐ญ๐ฌ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐œ๐ข๐š ๐œ๐ข๐ญ๐ฒ

mother of sorrows

mother of sorrows

๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘๐‘ข๐‘™๐‘ ๐‘–๐‘ฃ๐‘’ ๐‘๐‘œ๐‘ค๐‘’๐‘Ÿ ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘ค๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ๐‘š.






Lucia City.



welcome to the end of








โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก

​
​
artwork by allison sommers.​
 


coded by bad ending







the first omen



chapter.1



it rains blood

on a tuesday.
 
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  • don't delete this, or the tab won't appear.





















designed & coded by mountainpost


 









His Thoughts



they are very loud












































location


GBAP Office






interactions


Ira Zhang cavitea cavitea








9cjcQVG.png

smrJpUR.png


"What the fuuuuck?" Zachariah slammed his fist down as he restarted his laptop for what felt like the fiftieth time. Of the few luxuries he enjoyed, he considered internet access to be one of the most important, second only to getting the last word in on an argument.

Beyond the obvious desire to appear professional before performance reviews were sent out, he was absolutely starving. It wasn't enough that the printer broke (his fault) or that the coffee maker was missing (something that was admittedly also his fault) but that microwave was the last piece of equipment holding the office together.

And it definitely wasn't his fault this time.

Pushing his computer away, he raised his knees to his chest and began thinking. Per his recollection, the last time that he used that microwave was yesterday roughly at noon to heat his lunch, a bowl of instant noodles and later, a cup of coffee. Both times the clock was still flashing so there was no possible way he could have broken it so that left the others. Cemre? No, she had her fire to heat her food and would have definitely admitted fault straight away.

Keeper? Zachariah wasn't even sure whether the demon ate, much less used a microwave. Early? He was too smart for that. The same could be said for Monti, though he wouldn't be surprised if the angel had overworked the microwave in the same way he overworked himself. There were others like Elohim, Orpheros, and Eudroa, but none of them felt quite right.

Oswald was a prime candidate considering how expertly he weaponized his incompetence and how little regard he seemed to show for the state of the office. Despite being twice his age, Oz still seemed like a mess (though the same could be said for everyone in the office). Still, something gnawed at Zach's gut; a feeling that the answer wasn't so straightforward.

Sliding out of his wheelchair, he walked over to Ira's cubicle before promptly shoving over whatever cardboard divided them and their desk mate.


"Ira did you break the microwave?!"






Zachariah Mohrbacher


โ™กdesign by sirnateunknown, coded by uxieโ™ก
 

narmemuth
Lucia City is in the middle of a downpour and if the Goverment Branch of Weather Control is to be believed, the worst of it will blow itself out in two days.

There's no natural fauna that is croaking with thirst, but the skies gather in bruise-black clumps without the need for any; they sit on the needle-thin skyscrapers, they pelt the trash-filled alleys, they cover the nauseating neon, they run those with homes behind walls to curse their sopping wet carpets. Gray, acidic water groans out of overfilled ditches and floods the backstreets that were built as afterthoughts, swiping away the waste that clogs the sewers. Angels huddle on the iridescent roofs like overgrown pigeons, too drenched to properly fly; they say water is cleansing, and those packed in cardboard, freezing apartment complexes whisper that so is drowning.

Those in basements will eye the windows with concern and those in mansions will forget to care at all, and the city will move on regardless.

This is Truth - life here means pulsing teeth infesting your pipes and watching private militia raid warehouses in feuds centuries old in their unraveling. It means meager jobs for meager pay, and it means thinking twice over picking up pennies on the street. Curses, blessings, fates incomprehensible make up the patchwork of this yawning, starving maw of a city, bringing horrible powers to those that dare and eternity to those that never asked for it. But it is preferable to Earth, with it's constricting meat-cages and rules and reality that would melt human eyes if bended - here, the hum of the universe answers, and it makes ears ring.

Narmemuth doesn't wish to harness the strings that tie souls together. Right now, he would consider it a victory if he bargains out new wallpaper, but that is looking less possible with each dark, lost beat of time.

''You don't need a raise.'' The secretary behind the glossy, endlessly black desk said a bit tartly. They were a half blood - half angel? Half demon? Half human, with lips the color of an open wound. Narmemuth forgets their name, but remembers the thin smile.

''The budget hasn't been raised in ten years.'' His limbs pitter-patter across the floor, matching the hail of raindrops on the weeping windows. A blotched, black tongue slips out of his jaw, half in annoyance and half in threat of eating the endlessly-beeping computer.

''The budget is applied according to productivity.'' The bland smile turns mocking, their two hands clutching together on the desk.

Narmemuth leans closer. ''How productive can one be with such a low amount?''

''If I'm not mistaken,'' A hint of mocking enters the secretary's tone now, loud enough to make Narmemuth try for a frown. ''Your branch is supposed to be preventive rather than reactive. I think the budget suits you just fine.''

There was a challenge in their dozen eyes - a challenge that is reflected in the eyes of everyone in the Ministry, one that is echoed in every giggle and jokes during meetings. He is used to it, and yet it sets his nature to flame of indignation. You're an idiot, he wants to say but does not, I already told you.

When Narmemuth was in Hell, he was forced to calculate every possible outcome. When he was in Hell, he found a glimpse of the Future.

When Narmemuth was in Hell...

Well? What did you see?

The demon drags his clawed arm back and decides to look in the bargain bins for a wallpaper that won't make the office more depressing than it already is.

***​

Silence. It is always quiet in moments such as these, when the windwhirl chatter has not yet started and there is no work to be done. Not that the GBAP basement is ever truly bustling; the soft whisper of computer screens and the rainstorm outside are the only sounds to cover Narmemuth's footsteps. No one was around, though the team should roll in the next half hour - soon, the tightly packed cubicles (one word for it) will host complains, jokes, spine-chilling curses over the technology's refusal to work, and Narmemuth decided to try and get the PowerPoint to work while he still has some time.

The light stuttered sadly in a fight to light up the headache-yellow walls and plastic table of his personal office. A styrofoam cup from eons ago is abandoned on the edge of it, though Narmemuth struggles to recall who put it there. It was a part of the atmosphere, along with the chairs that threaten to give out whenever sits in it with too much force and the carpeted floors that move like the flesh of a mouth. No decorations make the room any lighter; he has never understood the point of pictures and paintings, as much as some of his teammates have tried to talk him into them, and so the walls remain blissfully blank.

The hour passes easy. All time does, though the PowerPoint stutters and stumbles.

Voices settle in the room adjacent, stools dragging out and dragging in. Greetings are mumbled. Narmemuth trusts in routine and opens the door, peeking out; the clink-clank of his mind processes, takes apart.

''Hello, Zachariah.'' Dreamer. Sickness in his blood. Narmemuth is fond of him and the mysteries he keeps.

''Hello, Ira.'' Problem child. They titter whether someone is hearing in or not. Zachariah looks harrassed by them, as he does on most days.

Narmemuth would give a slow blink had he any eyelids. As it is, a profound silence does the trick. ''...Did they push you in a locker again?''


plague rats plague rats spiderboy spiderboy xayah. xayah. Sear Sear aeneas. aeneas. blue-jay blue-jay Vagabond Vagabond ravensunset ravensunset

coded by kaninchen
 













Monti.
the head of hr
























awful, awful day




gbap basement office



[/tab]




โ€” ๐ˆ ๐€๐Œ ๐๐Ž ๐๐ˆ๐‘๐ƒ ๐€๐๐ƒ ๐๐Ž ๐๐„๐“ ๐„๐๐’๐€๐‘๐„๐’ ๐Œ๐„.
It was going to be a long day.

The saying had been said today, yesterday, and the days that came before. It had quickly become a mantra that coursed through every fiber of Monti's worn-out meat suit. They were the words that came to mind when he was first transferred to GBAP, when he began arranging the piles of paperwork when his co-workers began including him in unnecessary and highly inappropriate e-mail chains, and they were the first spawn of thought when he stood in the longest line he had seen since an apparently popular boyband had rolled into the city.

At first, Monti blamed himself. Why did he think it was a good idea to waste his own time before work to stop by the department store to buy a new coffee machine for the office with his own money? It was futile in the end for the fate of the cheap thing to be sealed the moment Monti got to the register. At average expectancy, the poor machine would last a weekโ€”two weeks if the angel held out hope in his colleagues. The coffee machine was going to be bought only to be broken. Money down the drain that should be going into a retirement fund.

Yeah. Like that would ever be in his cards.

He then blamed his employers. Rightfully so, this could've been avoided if they had given his department a bigger budget to buy more coffee machines. If they had just given his department a bigger budget in general.

In the end, Monti blamed himself again because he should've quit when he had the chance. Instead of taking the walk of shame down to the dreary basement after his "reassignment", he should have just taken the severance pay and left. Perhaps he could have owned a coffee machine manufactory by now instead of buying one machine destined for the waste bucket.

"Next!" The cashier's dry screech had been louder than it had been in the past half hour Monti had been standing. It was only when he looked up from the 50% sale bin of Papa Levi's Fishing Gearโ„ข he had been mindlessly glaring at that he had made it to the front of the line. The cashier was unamused by a moment of inactionโ€”fingers tapping impatiently on the tin register. Their pulse was slowโ€”maybe out of their old age or sheer boredom with what their life had come to. Monti couldn't agree more with the latter. The coffee machine's box gave the cashier's hands something better to do. "This brand sucks y'know." Their voice continued to sound like a fork against a boardโ€”unchanged in pitch from when they screeched; Monti had hoped to have seen his usual cashier Tyler and not... Wilburta as their nametag said.

"It will do the job." It wouldn't last a week. But like a virgin sacrifice to insatiable gods, its short lifespan was necessary. A bandaid solution to appease his and his colleague's caffeine dependence in order to maintain some form of stability in the office; at the end of the day Monti didn't want to worry about more paperwork and filings than he had to.

The angel walked towards the exit with the coffee machine in his hands. "Have a nice day." Wilburta said it as sincerely as Monti believed it. With one item off his mental checklist, it was time for the worst one yet: work. He could already smell the aged paper of crusted documents, hear the sound of rusted metal filing cabinets, and taste the black coffee made from a coffee machine bought with his own money. If he were lucky, he'd arrive before the rowdy bunch swarmed inโ€”providing a moment of relief before he would be the branch's babysitter yet again.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter...

There was rain. It was raining. He didn't bring an umbrella. His car was at the very backend of the open-space parking lot.

It was going to be a long day.

โ€”​

Murmurs of conversation and the clicks of his own shoe soles against the basement steps echoed the further Monti went. The descent was one of the many distasteful chapters of Monti's routineโ€”lungs heaving from the effort it took, never getting better nor used to the exertion. If only his e-mails inquiring about the repair of the elevators didn't go unnoticed. Or maybe the elevators were never built to visit the bottom-most floor, to begin with. As said in the plethora of nature documentaries acquired from Earth, in what was said to be the circle of life, there was always the runt of the brood. The ones doomed to either succumb just days into their lives or perish by the bigger creatures from their unfortunate curse of weakness. GBAP was the runt. Meant to be neglected and only sparred by the apex predators to be called on if they were ever needed. Not that anyone believed they'd ever be important besides the occasional poster or infographic.

Shame was a familiar feeling to the angel. If Monti had friends, shame would be considered to be the BFF he had picture frames of on his desk. Though there was no actual personification of the feeling, he felt its presence even while he stiffly walked down the stairwell, arms shaking from the held weight of documents and a coffee machine. To answer Narmemuth's question of who still made reports: Monti did. It was all he ever did some may argue. His title of a professional babysitter was no hyperbole; collating information about his colleague's behavior, the (many) times they get out of line, recording them on yellow-stained paper, and having long-winded discussions with them in his corner cubicle.

โ€” "Ira did you break the microwave?!"

"Did they push you in a locker again?'' โ€”​

Barely into the office, hair still partially damp from the outside downpour, and hands cradling a hefty stackโ€”Monti's long day officially began. "Somebody sedate me." He thought. "What's going on here?" He said instead. Already, his eyes morphed into a glare. Monti didn't particularly have a plan for how he'd share the news of their new coffee machine, he considered presenting it like one would the Holy Grail but suddenly any pleasant thought in his mind curdled into a sour puddle. "Justโ€”" An infamous Monti sigh. "Give me a moment." Without another look at the rag-tag trio or mention of his own tardiness, Monti walked past them in a brisk scurry.

Despite the air freshener that was mysteriously hung against the shabby make-shift wall, the HR cubicle mainly stank of cabinet rust and the senescent folders they held. The cubicle was more spacious than the others at the cost of Monti's privacy; everyone in the office had paid him a visit at least once, the cushion seats in front of his cluttered desk had been worn down into pancakes. With a not-so-new sense of not caring the angel dropped his stack of paper and cardboard onto the desk, watching with instant regret as the once-organized files began to merge. He'd deal with it later.

Coffee machine in hand, Monti made his reappearance out of his cave. "New coffee machine, please let's keep it around for at least a week." He announced, voice strained from the already taxing morning he had. Upon entering the sorry excuse of the breakroom, he quickly finished his job of plugging the machine in and he would have slinked back to his cubicle if it hadn't been for the... microwave? If Monti could even call it that now. The *thing* juxtaposed their brand-new coffee machine, a corporate interpretation of everyone's first day of workโ€”shiny and brand new to the decrepit days that followed. Narmemuth wasn't kidding about what remained of the microwave. "Takeout for lunch it is then." Another pointless expense.

He needed a coffee.







/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.
 
ira.
Their morning started the way it always did.

Bubblegum punk smacked its lips in the pulsating notes of what they were sure could be words and meanings, useless soliloquies and patterns they hummed out as a leg strode before another and worn wheels forced themselves over the crack in the pavement. Sparks flew up behind where their feet trailed along in the skates, brushing into debris and the leftover wrappers of hamburgers. A trail of flames followed them in consequence, a warmth ignored by the vibrantly dressed anomaly bobbing their head to music that wasn't playing.

A mirror broke itself in their eyes, glass shattering over and over until the powder scratched over raised skin and a wicked smile spiraled itself on taped lips. This was Ira Zhang or the vessel that held them; a bent contortionist skating by a child and casually wrapping fingers around the handle of a stroller to spin a hapless mother into confusion for the seconds before they were gone again, red sucker pressed through tape and spun in mouth.

For a moment they caught glimpse of their own image, a warbling tune rising in a crescendo along paned glass. It flickered like an old TV that needed a kick to the side, elongated and shrank.

Eleanor Rigby.

The reflection winked and Ira shivered, a grin not belonging to them stretching in the mirrored visage, impossibly high until cheeks surely ached and broke apart.

Enough of that, a stern thought followed, squinting eyes staring through luminescent lenses until a reserve of cherry flavor spilled from a cheek. Forward their skates took them, a spinning trail of sparks and damaged fingers leading towards the gloom of mildew walls and musky carboard making cubicles. Here and there stickers made themselves known, a combination of cartoon characters and Lisa Frank concoctions, spelling out the depravity in dyed hair and neon dressings.

Truly it was a miserable sight, never mind the fondness that stuck itself like day old gum under their fingernails. Somewhere there was the remnants of coffee and smoldering metal, corners tacked with photographs and outlined newspapers; scraps they all were of the personalities disgracing the spaces around them. Vile and filled with sadistic vitriol, a scent so addictive they took in great inhales wheeling past crooked desks, damp and dropping water.

Work was to be done in this department, shabby as the peering cloisters around saw it to be. Work done by others of course.

Never me, never you.

Every syllable was disjointed, a flurry of feathers turned to serpentine fangs and scales as a seat on the taped remnants of a pearlescent blue yoga ball were taken. They bounced, an annoyance in sound as arms spread before the empty desk before them and coiled along scratch marks. A taped image of a computer and keyboard crudely drawn in crayon were their only decorations, a never-ending email notification on the paper screen. "More work, as usual." Chipper at least they could remain, inhaling still the stolen goods of a child in time for their sanctuary to be knocked down in the usual gusto of others.

"Ira did you break the microwave?!"

Their insides would look better on their outsides.

"Did they push you in a locker again?"

A blink followed another, a stare behind neon curtains and plastic glass that followed from the buzzing of Zachariah to an emergent sludge of Narme. Back and forth their gaze followed, jittering in a persistent taste of cherry and menace.

"Lockers aren't meant for smelly socks, but microwaves; did you know they make lightning on forks? Try ten, twenty, that's a bingo!" With a resounding smack the sucker became dangled in between fingers, pointing as a rod at the place a scowling representative had succumbed himself to, winking pointedly between the two forms staring at them. "A noose finds itself wrapping on him, perhaps budget for burrito, something to devour with extend lifeline. How curious."

They wisped their voice, slinging it in spider woven threads through the air until a roll backwards on ball took their body with it, a tumbling form to a standing pose. Sucker found itself back in the maw of Ira, hands freed to wriggle themselves before their audience as words muffled by candy pointed themselves at the lead. "Meeting is soon, do we get snacks for going? A sticker for me?"
coded by Sugarnaut
 









KEEPER












  • mood
    Apathetic; minutely curious, teethering on bored


    location
    GBAP Office


    mentions
    Monti, Ira, Narmemuth, Zachariah











He who sees all, knows all.

The nature of poverty was something that easily went over the demon's head. It was a fabricated matter if one were to ask him - a vagabond by profession and a member of the ill distinguished GBAP by accident.

It was pouring again and somehow the seedy bar nestled far from the beaten paths was full of familiar faces. They only came out of the woodwork when they needed something, he was quickly learning despite his short time in this city. The out-of-luck, downtrodden tenets of the local apartments complained about property damage, soaked mattresses, and failing heaters.

If they would simply burn the bodies of their dead neighbors, Keeper figured they'd be able to sort out one of those three issues with ease. As it stood, the nature of ethics and humanity was in their way. And so they camped in the bar donning their oversized jackets, shoulder to shoulder like canned sardines, bartering with the kind matron for a good deal on a drink while snacking on all manners of packaged snacks they had managed to rescue from the torrential downpour.

He had offered moments ago to aid her in her plight and rip those from their hands, but The Oasis barely made ends meet for a reason and the reason had a name. Sujata would bleed herself dry before she turned someone from her doors - it was that wretched angel blood in her veins.

Though he was in no place to scoff at that. If not for her, he would be out in the streets as well.

Keeper shifted from his place near the backroom, easily going unnoticed by the bargoers. It was bound to be a long night, the cheap eye-burning strobe lights cutting through the rickety beaded divider that sectioned off the living quarters from the bar to flood the backrooms with all manners of blues, purples, and reds.

The light of Sujata's computer stared back at him. Keeper tilted his head curiously, pausing to check his emails at the desk without bothering to sit down, the strange blue creature Narmemuth thought it necessary to attach to the email body lost on him. "They broke the microwave this time."

Kenshin mirrored his action, tilting his own head in turn at the news as if to simply say It was to be expected. It was, after all, only a matter of time. His coworkers utilized the objects in the office space like toddlers holding their toys hostage with hamfisted grips.

Night passed and day came with little change in the atmosphere of the club.

The music of the bar still shook the paper-thin walls while the first light of day failed to hold a candle to the neon strobe lights.

It made little difference to him. The Oasis was a place for him to rest his shield, nothing more, nothing less. He stopped by the desk to grab the report he had typed out days ago, noting that nothing had been moved since last night. It would seem Sujata had failed to catch even a brief respite. Hopefully, she would not work herself to death.

House hunting was worse than job hunting in the dreary streets of Lucia City.

โ€”​

He found himself arriving at the Ministry after Monti - not bad if one were to ask him. Kenshin had spotted the overworked, ever-lamenting angel from the distance during his short flight from the bus stop to the office space meant to stretch out his wings. Nothing as trivial as rain could ground the owl when his wings were not made of feathers. The owl leaned close to his helmet, beak nearly knocking against the metal. A soft purr-like noise competing with the rain to be heard.

A new coffee machine?

No wonder the angel was so miserable.

If he found that lukewarm, diluted bean water to be palatable there was no salvaging his standards.

Keeper entered with little fanfare, moving to his own cuticle somewhere in the outskirts almost immediately. He had arrived at the tale end of a question. Idle chatter was best left to those who failed to collect information through other means. He clicked his tongue as he lifted his arm to Kenshin who hopped off his shoulder just to be placed atop the paper-thin cuticle walls to keep an eye on his colleagues. Four eyes were better than two. Such was the old adage.

Leave it to Ira to microwave a fork.

His helmet did not even tilt in the direction of the trio, though the same could not be said of Kenshin who watched them without blinking. Whatever was going on between Ira, Narmemuth, and Zachariah was none of his concern. He was much more content with solving their strange interactions like a dollar-store puzzle than getting involved. "There's a new coffee machine," he said with little inflection in his voice, "Perhaps a cup of that will suffice as a bribe." It was deep, more akin to the reverb of starting a chainsaw than anything else. His words were strung together like a curse.

There was nothing wrong with throwing Ira into the gauntlet with the brand-new coffee machine. It was good to keep Monti on his toes lest his senses became duller than they were now. He opened one of his desk's drawers, pulling out a glass jar half filled with differing origami. He picked out a piece of a near off-white paper, tinged with a creamy hue. A dove suited Monti well.

Though he'd have to clip its wings today.




coded by weldherwings.
 
https://66.media.tumblr.com/232c090...0344/tumblr_inline_ol4nwhvSwg1uxxza6_75sq.png[/URL]), auto!important;]












early & orpheros.
department miscrients



















  • .













mischievous




orphie's cardboard cubicle



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โ€” SERIAL ABUSE OF THE COMPANY CARD.

Narmeโ€™s memo had been sent, but Early was away from their cubicle, so it fell upon deaf, computerized ears. It was the meeting mentioned that left them preoccupied, so they were skipping all about the office, worming between the mazes of desks and spinny chairs, to collect receipts as pitifully as the Santas collect donations at Christmas time. The major difference, though, was that Earline did it with pizazz (and jazz hands).

They needed to composite all work expenses, as per their job description. It was not necessarily this requirement that led them forward, but rather the fact that they craved some numerical sympathy in the form of mathematical simplicity. Pressing the wayward flares of their hair flat, they swirled into Orpherosโ€™s cubicle with a flourish of their gray trench and squeak of their boots.

โ€œOrphie!โ€ They rested their butt against the edge of the desk. โ€œBought anything with the department credit card recently?โ€

It was the squeak of shoes that roused Orpheros from their sleep, peeking out from under the folds of fabric that made up their dress.

Carefully, so as to not to slam their bones against the edges of their desk, they shifted themselves up into a sitting position - the movement punctuated by a yawn that they covered up with a flap of their gloved hand as they responded.

โ€œJust a few purchases โ€” give me a moment.โ€

It was just their luck that in the drawer they tugged open, the stack of receipts (or what could be barely categorized as a stack) lay on top of stolen goods.

The thin, transparent sheets lay crumpled, held together by a rusting paper clip that they pulled off as they gathered them up. Another receipt slipped out from their pocket, straightening out the wrinkles within it and frowning down at the blood-red stains splattered across it. Rubbing at it with their finger did nothing, and even licking their finger and rubbing again didnโ€™t fix the patch, so they gave up and added it back into the stack and held out the receipts to Early with a smile.

โ€œLike I said, just a few! Coffee, pencils, a rubber chicken purse-โ€œ Said purse that was currently hanging on their chair.

Earlyโ€™s brow was tugged by an unnamed puppet master, high up towards their widowโ€™s peak. โ€œMhmm.โ€ They allowed the silence to swell with fearful sweat (if Orpheros could produce such a thing). Then, autonomy returned to them, and their face cracked out into a smile. They smacked a hand down onto the fabric-swathed form, approximately where their shoulder might be.

โ€œYouโ€™re a model employee, Orphie.โ€ They nodded to the spinny, office chair. โ€œLovely taste in purses, by the way.โ€ They moved over to admire it closer, running their hands over the pimply body. โ€œDonโ€™t be surprised if I have to steal this.โ€ They winked, saying, โ€œFor business purposes.โ€
Early plucked the receipts from Orpherosโ€™s hands, studying but not at all plagued by the blood-spatter. They shrugged, stuffing the papers into their pocket so they might crinkle some more. Perhaps, the chicken purse expense might go missing, Early thought, mulling over what Narme would say if they knew.

But Narme knew little about team morale. This was, in part, why they were seeking something to preoccupy them: it was unfair to call Narme-moo out of the loop, but they didn't understand how to keep the team moving if not for some airy smiles and improperly documented use of government funding. Narm needs a break. Thus, they crumpled the receipt for the chicken purse, stuffing it discreetly into their pocket.

โ€œWe must go shopping together on the company card.โ€ Early took a step back to admire the outfit. โ€œYour style, dude โ€“ I dig it!โ€

Earlyโ€™s energy was contagious and a lazy smile that tugged at Orpherosโ€™ face, spreading across their face and accenting bony cheekbones and elongated features. โ€œYeah? Letโ€™s do it.โ€ Especially on the company card.

Early smirked wider and knocked their shoulder against Orphieโ€™s. โ€œSo,โ€ they began, eyes as pleading as they were alight with mischief. โ€œDid you break the microwave?โ€

In Orpherosโ€™s longing desire to nap (that won - as it usually did) they had missed the microwave once more suffering an ill-fate. Without their participation, to their disappointment. Not that they would admit to wanting to see the piece of equipment be destroyed , but it made the day more tolerable to shove a crumpled piece of foil into it and watch the lightning dance. Hadnโ€™t they read somewhere that microwaved peppers could be considered a chemical-cocktail too?

The lazy smile that had taken up residence on their face paused, and proceeded to move out as they let out a puff of air and stretched back out on the desk; melting into a pile of fabric. โ€œI missed it, oh no,โ€ their voice dropped into a low whispered hush, โ€œand I wanted to test it. Was it Ira again?โ€

โ€œDefinitely.โ€ Early blew a puff of air and their bangs flopped out of their face for a brief moment. They looked down at their watch, which clicked with each passing tick. They were both going to be late to the meeting.
Early stood to their full height and crinkled the receipts as they examined them again. โ€œWe should go the junkyard sometime. Maybe we can find a few microwaves that just need to be spiffed up. That way you and Ira can run your little experiments,โ€ they joked as they moved towards the exit of Orpherosโ€™s cubicle.
โ€œWe should go, though. Donโ€™t want to give Narme-moo any more of a reason to send the department back to whatever ring of Hell they crawled out of.โ€

โ€œRight, the meeting.โ€ The agreement came out stilted, with all the excitement of a prisoner led to their fate.
It was with this unwillingness that Orpheros stood back up, arms behind their head as they stretched slowly and methodically with no hurry. Bones creaked in tune with the tick of the broken clock and then they relaxed, gathering up the chicken purse and swinging it over their shoulder.
Giving it a quick pat that earned them a miserable squeak from the item, they hurried to catch up to Early, brushing against their coworkerโ€™s shoulder with a โ€œIโ€™m holding you to shopping laterโ€ before the two of them disappeared into the routine of Narmeuth and GBAP.







/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.
 






moth in a matchbox
















# divine scorn by a plague of locusts




# half-demon half-human










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก


Eudora had a love-dislike relationship with rainy days.

On one hand, they were dreadful. The constant pitter-patter could grow grating on her sensitive ears. Stepping in a puddle could leave her with flooded boots and wet socks if she wasnโ€™t careful. Carrying an umbrella felt awkward. Was she supposed to angle it with the rain? Hold it straight? If the rain was falling the opposite direction to where she was walking, should she hold in front of her? She had tried it once before, and passerbys either stared or laughed at her. It didnโ€™t feel good.

Worst of all, rain wrought havoc on the world of insects. Ant hills were flooded and destroyed. Heavy drops knocked Hymenopterans out of the air, soaking their wings and leaving them flightless. Beetles were washed away. Chryalisesโ€”knocked down. Larvaeโ€”drownedโ€ฆ

On the other hand, rainy days made life feel real. If she was inside and the walls provided just the right amount of muffling, the pitter-patter felt soothing and familiar. She quite liked the blue tint that colored rainy days and the way the light itself took on the ghostliness of the clouds. When she was able to angle the umbrella correctly, she felt dignifiedโ€”not a way she felt often. She could walk about in the blue shimmer unafraid that anyone would stare or laugh.

Rain enriched the soil, fed the trees and plants. After the fact, bumblebees bent to drink from puddles. Caterpillars chewed on freshly hydrated leaves. Cockroaches swam smoothly in small streams and drains, earning the colloquial โ€œwaterbugโ€โ€”free in their little ugliness.

Eudora had a dislike relationship with this rainy day in particular.

She had overslept (unusual for her). When she awoke and looked at the clock, an awful sinking feeling took hold of her for a few seconds before she rushed out of bed, causing an eclipse of moths gathered above her bedroom door to scatter. In her rush to get ready, she wasnโ€™t able to eat breakfast and had to grab some leftovers that she could heat up and eat in her cubicle. Worse, she had also forgotten her umbrella. Once she stood at the door to her apartment building and realized, it was already too late.

Eudora pushed forward into the rain and walked in silence as the drops pelted her, soaking her hair and clothes. She looked more ashamed than truly uncomfortable, although she was plenty of both. Some pedestrians looked. A few held back chuckles, if not at the sight of a woman walking in the pouring rain with no umbrella then at her glazed-over, contrite expression.

She didnโ€™t want people to look. Her hair stuck to her neck. Rainwater had founds its way into her boots, slightly saturating her socks. She felt very silly. Very gross. Pitter-patter pounding in her ears. She thought about what her mother would say. Pitter-patter. How could Eudora forget her umbrella? When she entered the building, sheโ€™d drip everywhere. Pitter-patter. Someone would have to clean that up. Didn't she ever think of other people? Pitter-patter.

Eudora eventually entered the building, leftovers box in hand, and, looking straight ahead, speed-walked awkwardly to the staircase door, stumbled down the stairs, and began her trek through the long basement hallway, leaving a trail of rainwater behind her. The pitter-patter sound was pushed further and further away. Although she shivered, she was already beginning to dry. She reassured herself: she was doing good work here. She was helping people. She did think of others. She had to.

She made her way into the office and walked around until she came to where a few of her coworkers and the boss Narmemuth had gathered. She had walked in on the tail-end of a conversation and caught the last few sentences from Ira: they had microwaved a fork. Eudora stood timidly, still dripping, and slowly looked down at the cold, wet leftovers box in her hand.

She released a quiet โ€œOh,โ€ nearly a whisper. Two ladybugs, seeming to appear from nowhere in particular, now crawled on her shoulder, lightly dipping their heads into beads of water gathered on her jacket. Eudora perked up slightly at Monti's announcement, turning her head towards him slightly when he spoke. She tilted her head up and tried a small smile. She said half to herself and half to her coworkers, โ€œYes, coffee should be nice.โ€ She briefly glanced at Zachariah, wondering if the good news of the coffee machine would cheer him up as well, before she turned her large eyes to Narmemuth, awaiting his answer to Iraโ€™s question about snacks, not wanting to plead but unable to hide her eagerness.


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