#2000 words

My first memory of Star Trek is fuzzy. A weird show on the TV when I couldn’t have been more than 12. A group of people in multi-coloured uniforms scanning walls and talking to each other, a strange looking man with gold-tinted skin in a yellow jumper. I know this isn’t a unique story, but it’s a universal one. The young kid in the living room watching Mr Spock or Commander Data, the Klingons and the Romulans and the Borg, it’s an occurrence that has been see in living rooms across the world from 1966. And just like most of these other kids, I fell in love with the show. I started with the reboots, or the ‘Abramsverse’, I wrote silly stories with my best friend, I played make believe, and I fell in love with it. I remember meeting Robert Picardo at a convention in Glasgow, whilst wearing an Into Darkness era red shirt and telling him I was a massive fan, I had seen all of the series, even Enterprise! (which I loved, fyi). He laughed and said, ‘but you’re so young!’.

But I think it was because I was so young that I loved it so much.

I was a naïve kid (arguably I still am at 25) and whilst I still believe that humanity can be brilliant, back then I really believed it. Politics was still boring and adult-ish, but Scotland was voting for its independence, and I was starting to get a sense of how it would impact me, and with my little trek-goggles on, how it would impact and change my world. My country would have the freedom to do what we believed was right, make our own choices and choose our own path (maybe there’s a metaphor for the teenage years here too, but that’s another procrastination induced essay). Of course, we all know how this story ends, the No Vote won, and that was that. I was devastated, my dad was bitter and cynical, but I had Star Trek. The Bajorans chose to remain close to their ‘union’ in the end, and they were fine. We would be fine too.

Then things started to get a little bit scarier. People wanted to leave the EU, apparently there were all these people entering the country that don’t belong here. I was told that it’s not fair, then that it was too expensive, then that they were dangerous. The UK started to feel quite insular, there was another referendum, but this time the Yes Vote won. Someone else won in 2016 as well.

Nichelle Nichols once said that Star Trek didn’t promise things would get magically better, but that we’d progress slowly, steadily, even if it was centuries of taking two steps forward and one step back. Maybe this was one of those steps backwards?

Okay. Maybe it’s a few of those steps backward.

Now it’s 2025. There’s been a global pandemic, a few new wars, many, many elections, that guy won again, the other guy in the UK might be winning, and as I’m writing this, it really feels like we’ve stepped so far back that we’re in the dark ages. We have some of the Star Trek tech now, but Christ, this isn’t how Kirk or Picard would have used it. Instead of Data’s, AI has created a society that feels like Barclay getting sucked into the illusion of the holodeck. I open twitter on the phone that was once the real-world communicator to see an endless stream of new conflicts, people crying out for help, and petitions to stop the backpedalling of human rights. What happened?

I still love Star Trek, but it feels different now. There’s been a few new shows, the bold return of Trek to TV with Discovery, Patrick Stewart’s five-star nostalgia trip with Picard, Lower Decks, Prodigy, Strange New Worlds, just to name a few. The story of kids in the living room seeing a random episode on TV still continues, but it’s got a shadow to it now.

Its Nu-Trek. Too fancy. Too woke. That last one is the most common, anything that shows a black person, a gay person, God forbid a trans person, it gets slapped with the woke phrase. Star Trek has apparently been ‘ruined’ by woke. Not worth watching anymore, turn that rubbish off because it’s nothing compared to my Star Trek.

But that’s the thing. Star Trek has always been woke, you just didn’t realise it.

At the height of the red scare and in the aftermath of the Cold War, Gene Roddenberry sat down and decided to make one of his main characters a young Russian man called Pavel Chekov. He worked alongside the great James T Kirk onboard the USS Enterprise, a vessel named for one of the most decorated ships of WW2, and no one on board batted an eye. When black people couldn’t even share a bathroom with their fellow human beings simply because they were black, Nyota Uhura (whose first name wasn’t actually canon until 2009) was working as chief communications officer, and even commanding the ship in The Lorelei Signal. In that same episode, she leads an all-female away team to the planet to save their crew, a scene that would undoubtedly be scoffed at and branded ‘woke cringe’ today. You disagree? simply look at reactions to that one scene in Endgame, or to any female led superhero movie.

And this ‘wokeness’ wasn’t just on camera; it was behind it too. Nichelle Nichols and William Shatner fought for the first on-screen interracial kiss to be shot and aired, D.C Fontana broke barriers writing for Trek under a pseudonym, because she was a woman hiding that fact in a male dominated field. George Takei, an Asian man playing a genius pilot (and one-time pirate) when Asian men almost exclusively played stereotypes or servants.

Oh, but all this gender and sexuality stuff! I hear you cry. That’s all the woke agenda, you say. I say no. I think that Adira Tal, played by the wonderful Blu Del Barrio in Discovery, is owed an apology. Commander Riker, the classic alpha type, flirtatious, Kirk wanna-be boy scout, praised for his masculinity, quite famously falls in love with Soren, a non-binary person part of the J’naii. Whilst Soren is referred to with she/her pronouns, they visibly struggle with the misidentification and discusses how their species finds gender specific pronouns ‘primitive’. ‘Oh, but Gene Roddenberry wasn’t involved in this’, actually, no. He’s credited as executive producer, and most likely greenlit its production before he sadly passed, probably around the same time he expressed the desire to introduce more LGBTQ+ themes into his show.

I could go on endlessly. Every single cry of ‘too woke’ or ‘too preachy’ can be countered by going back to the Trek that purists put on a pedestal.

Do I think Star Trek is perfect? Absolutely not! I personally would be happy with a fraction of the budget and a return to suspiciously phallic-shaped polystyrene painted to look like rocks and terriers wearing

fur coats and glued on horns. Because Star Trek isn’t fancy budgets, and incredible CGI, VFX, and explosions – its heart.

It’s looking up at the night sky and saying, ‘we could be up there one day’. It’s finding our place among the stars. Its Lily talking to Picard at the end of First Contact, that we envy the world these characters get to go back to. But the next line is equally true – they would envy us, taking these first steps into a new frontier.

There are some very bad people in charge right now, and very bad things happening in the world. It’s not a complete coincidence that I’ve stumbled back into Star Trek. Not as an idealistic pre-teen, but as a really scared adult. Hatred seems to be everywhere, and so stupidly loud and it’s even seeped into my life in really painful ways. What has happened?

I saw a YouTube comment underneath a clip of Wrath of Khan asking the same thing – what has happened to Star Trek? Where did these amazing stories go? The most recent attempt to breathe life into Star Trek again, Starfleet Academy, was cancelled after just two seasons. Jonthan Frakes said that he’d officially directed his last episode of Trek – its bleak.

But those stories, they’re still there, I promise you. What was written in Discovery, or Starfleet Academy is the exact same as what was written in Deep Space Nine, or even The Original Series. It’s just in a shinier packaging and written by people who grew up watching (and acting in) the shows you watched as a kid. Revisionists just seem to be attacking it at the seams.

They’ll tell you that Star Trek was never this political, that it didn’t shove things down your throat, that it didn’t preach at you. They’ll also tell you that Kirk was out there shooting phasers and starting bar fights. To that I say Picard was more likely to get into a bar fight than Kirk. At the Academy, Kirk was called a stack of books on legs. He stopped to smell flowers on away missions, he didn’t sleep around and womanize, he fell in love over and over again. And speaking of Picard, he was the preacher. He quite literally spelled it out for us, if steeped in the occasional spandex and experimental SFX makeup.

Star Trek showed a civilisation that strived to be the best it could possibly be. And that dream has existed since before Trek first aired, but from the moment Gene Roddenberry put pen to paper and breathed life into the first ever Star Trek pilot that was canned by NBC for being ‘too cerebral and intellectual’. When Star Trek did come back for a second pilot, it was with more action and excitement, but the same heart. Much later, the show would be criticised for its overly-intellectual and hard to understand plotlines, and many would be uncomfortable with its progressive ideals. The same happens today, except on a much wider scale – the people who claim to love Star Trek, yet hate what makes it Star Trek. Rather than letters and radio stations, they have the echo chamber of the internet where they can scream about what they don’t understand and therefore must hate. Networks and streaming sites put emphasis on consumption and viewer reactions, and the hatred has just gotten louder. Its destroying Star Trek the same way it’s destroying our world.

We’re all so quick to judge, so glued to our phones, so isolationist in our lives. So angry and bitter, and so quick to hate anything or anyone that’s a little bit different. In Star Trek canon, it’s mentioned that we almost destroyed ourselves a few years before first contact, that nuclear war and hatred were the precursor to that idyllic utopia shown. We have to step backwards to go forwards sometimes. But we keep taking steps.

In the past few weeks, I’ve watched the Artemis II crew go further than anyone has gone before. This is our step forward. There may be $200 million dollars going to fund wars and violence and conflict, but there’s $20 million dollars funding progression. I don’t know Wiseman, or Coch, or Hansen or Glover, but I can say with almost certainty that if you ask them about Star Trek, they’ll all have a similar story, or a memory. They might not be fans, they might prefer Star Wars, or Firefly. But they fell in love with the future, and the idea that we can get there one day and be better than we ever thought possible. They all fell in love with the ideal that Star Trek embodies – infinite diversity in infinite combinations, and going where no one has gone before.

Now, I will go back to my life. I have no idea what will happen next – with Star Trek or the world. But we’ll get there, because there are still TV’s on, and there are still kids watching silly sci-fi shows.

When discussing the Regent of Great Yarmouth (referred to in the scene as "The master"), we see the background use the same silhouette as the figure credited as "The Monk" in the final scenes of the first episode.

I think that the theory of Kevin actually having telepathy, still screaming at D about the blender every so often (assuming he hasn't had time to meet Kevin since purchasing it) is very funny so I'm going with it. Kevin's dribble while going off script says "POWERFUL WIZARD LAZER".

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The symptoms that Spit displays line up heavily with those of the Delirium (note that there are many many different effects that the Delirium may take), with one of the most common reactions being catatonia (essentially becoming unresponsive in shock/fear), also implying that Spit has a willpower of 1.

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Crossing off the supposed kindred from being a "Vampire Wizard" (presumably not only relating to Tremere but we don't know how the family classifies them), Kitten proposes them to be a Sludge Lad (Nosferatu) or Humanimal (Gangrel), also making a joke about La Ghostra Nostra, which I believe is mean to be a pun on La Cosa Nostra (The Sicilian Mafia).

As the group is still going by the assumption that this IS a vampire, they are treating it as if Simon (Spit) has been dominated (See previous HTP post for Domination). That AND Matilda posits that he could simply be faking it I Wonder Why.

Also yeah I ship it.

Brok is genuinely pissed at the idea of Spit being the ghoul for basically no reason bar the fact that they are/were friends for a long time.

Now we get to the part where I get to talk at length about the Irish man.

to start off with, I haven't actually the best guess as to what Occam fully is (other than being a hedge mage). The amulet he is wearing has a sigil which is common in Celtic circles called the Triskelion, this also has ties to Hellenistic history (most specifically in Sicily, which being the second mention of Sicily sent me down a weird rabbit hole, allow me to elaborate:)

Basically, the triskelion is linked to Sicily, Hellenism (used as a common symbol during the period) and the god Hermes (Hermes helped Perseus fetch the head of Medusa). This isn't the important part but by God if I did this research it isn't going to waste. (also there is a theoretical link between the fact that the symbol is not too distant from the god Hermes and the Order of Hermes but I don't think that's important)

In Sicily, in WoD, there are pretty much only two things of note: In Syracuse (city within Sicily for those unaware) is the old centre of the Clan Lasombra, however it has not been in major use for roughly 600 years by this point (1400's-2000).

The second thing is that there is a Cairn there which... Werewolves I guess.

There was a third section which started talking about the Ars Goetia and how that could also relate back to Occam's sorcery but I cut it.

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Back to the murder at hand(s) (claws?):

We can continue seeing Matilda be aggressive and defensive, we can also see her hands become visibly claw shaped when agitated:

Foreshadowing is-

Even while locked up, Matilda continues to direct attention towards both Spit and Git. Note how the episode consistently draws attention towards her, being the only non hunter who has more than a few lines (Non hunters being Spit, Git, Amanda, Matilda) and being the only one to directly point blame at any single person.

The time out box is back and with a full clear view of the symbol on the side.

The first thing I thought was mercury, due to the crescent shaped open top and the crossed centre line, however most depict mercury having a full circle and half stacked on top.

Then I realised that it was the symbol for the magic sphere of Matter. I then also found where/what the symbol properly was.

The only proper source I can find for this symbol is this researchgate proposal about unicode.

The fourth image lists the symbol as "amalgam", but oddly enough both figures 1 and 3 disagree with fig. 4 and with each other as to what the proper symbol for amalgam is.

Alchemy is weird like that sometimes, anyways I spent way too long on this moving on.

Referring to spit, the obvious odd behaviour he displayed throughout the last episode.

Funnily enough, this can be explained through the excuse Git gave before, his Ritalin (ADHD medication) wearing off. For those unaware, there is a side effect of prescriptions stimulants, specifically when they are wearing off, in which one becomes extremely tired, irritable, agitated, hungry, or anxious when their medication runs out of their system. This can be worse with children or those with comorbid mental health problems such as anxiety or depressive disorders; crashing or rebounding in extreme cases, like seen with Spit, can be a sign that the dosage of medication is wrong (too high), or simply that your body doesn't vibe with the stimulant, in which case you should consult your psychiatrist and change medications. Speaking from experience, it's never fun to crashland from being relatively normal into being a prick.

Uh considering that Git also has a nicotine dependency (seen through his desperation for getting his smokes back), I can't help but wonder what substance Brokham is using. Honestly looking at him? Anabolic Steriods.

Which is to say that... uh. Spit goes in the box.

Ok so I want to let HTP be its own thing for the most part but there is a 0% chance this isn't an intentional reference so i'll note it down:

these two paintings that mark the archive: the left is a reference to Ephrael Stern, a Sister of Battle known as the "Thrice Born" or "Daemonifuge". We can see this from the fact that she has the same blue lipstick and a cross-tattoo on the same areas as her TTS depiction.

For similar, design correlated reasons, it is safe to assume that the portrait on the right is inspired by Aurelia Malys of the Dark Eldar, whose TTS portrayal is below:

There's probably some sort of foreshadowing going on here related to Markus seeking entrance to the Archives, Magnus seeking the Black Library, and Ephrael being in the Library for most of TTS.

final note about the door, I cannot be bothered to try and find the meaning of the alchemical symbols on the door but they are there and unimportant if anyone wants to check it out.

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These two books have visible writing.

"Immortal Divorce Court (1)" and "Vamp Dictionary"

Please skip to the next red texted note if you don't want to read Latin lessons.

"Oculus Empyrean".

When I was first watching this episode, I misheard this as "Oculus Imperium" and got very confused because that would mean "Eye control(er)" (or more strictly it would be "Eye's control")

Oculus Empyrean (sort of) translates into "Eye of Heaven". The "Sort of" comes from the fact that Empyrean comes from medieval latin/early middle english, and also because of inflection.

Taking Oculus Empyrean at face value means "Eye Heaven" (unless my Latin is finally slipping as I go senile). This is because both Oculus and Empyrean are in the nominative case.

For non inflection-language speakers: The nominative case is used when a noun is the subject of an active verb, eg.

"The Ball was kicked into a tree" where "The Ball" is the nominative noun.

"Good Girl" for example would have nominative singular Puella (girl) and genitive singular version of Bonum, Boni, (Good) to create the phrase "Boni Puella".

However, that being said, unless listing nouns (the door, the wall, the shelf, and....-) or making a direct relation between two nouns (Jon is a farmer = Jon agricola est), I don't remember a case for multiple nominative inflections in a row; This is why it is more accurately translated to just Eye Heaven.

To actually write "The eye of heaven" in Latin, inflect both Eye and Heaven in the genitive case to indicate a relation between the two (as neither noun is the subject of a verb):

Oculi caeli

(I just swapped Empyrean for Caelum because they both mean heaven) (also, if you check this on google translate, due to Oculi being both the nominative plural, and the genitive singular of Oculus (as is the case for second declination nouns) it will probably translate as "eyes(plural) of heaven")

ok back to the actual episode because ????

The newburgh group is one of the members of the Coalition (Second Inquisition), which heavily backs the arcanum.

Ok so back on the eye real quick

This isn't an alchemical symbol, believe me, I've done multiple hours of research about alchemy today alone (if I had a nickel for every time I researched alchemy in depth for a media series I would have three nickels-)

the closest I could find in any of my sources was

Attramentum Vitriolum (Black vitriol), which lacks the central dot, and Auripigment (Arsenic Sulphide, literal translation is "gold coloured"), which lacks the central dot and is tilted to 45%

We can see here that the eye projects some sort of "red beam" from its... iris? I guess? which then connects into Markus'.

The red beam may relate back to the concept of the Empyrean. We've had our alchemy lessons, we've had latin lessons, time for a mythology lesson for an esotericism trifecta.

Beforehand, when I said that Empyreum means Heaven, I wasn't lying, just simplifying. The Empyrean, in ancient european myth, is the heavens beyond our terrestrial spheres; the empyrean referred to the spheres of existence permeated and constructed from, the element of Aether, the fifth element.

This may explain the symbol of the eye itself, having 5 nodes on a cross representing the 5 elements, but that's conjecture. The important part of this potential connection to the aether is the fact that, in the 5'th century, there was an alchemical theory of "Quintessence", being a similar conceptual "fifth element" of which the heavens were made of.

Quintessence in fact literally means 5th element. Quintessence is also present in World of Darkness lore:

in essence, in Mage the Ascension, Quintessence is basically the fabric of reality. The entire tapestry of reality, all things within, are made of quintessence.

I've already gone on too many tangents so i'm stopping myself from going deeper into Mage.

I can't be fucked looking for another one, also im 90% sure that i'd be barking up the wrong tree because I do not recognise those triangle ones.

Technically one could interpret the boxes with circles inside them as being the sign for urine.

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Update because I'm dumb:

as people have pointed out, these symbols are Hunter marks, symbols used by and recognisable to Imbued (mildly supernatural hunters).

In my defence, I'm not a hunter, so I wouldn't know.

The three symbols seen are "imbued" (on the eye), Danger (the rectangle one) and "Puppet" (Triangle)

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as was very predicted by ms WILD who was always wearing gloves.

also from the sheer brutality, the delirium symptoms, the pinning of blame on others, the antisocial personality, claw marks all around the arcanum, and complete lack of surprise at the reveal of vampires existing.

Foreshadowing certainly WAS a literary device-

also would?

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in the ensuing fight, D is fairly easily overpowered, gains a large neck gash from claw marks, and cuts off matilda's left arm

Remold also shoots with his... cane gun? a phosphorus bullet. Phosphorus is known for like one main thing and it is that it burns like crazy, hence why "no vampire could survive that"

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I don't think that the reactions of each cast member are meant to actually reflect their willpower scores, except for Git and Spit who totally fit willpower 1.

That being said, time to organise each reaction into the different delirium reactions/willpower's:

Note how Grimal is strong enough to scratch into the tiling of the walls out of sheer fright.

That being said, every character in this scene, including D and Remould (which is why I'm saying that this probably doesn't fully reflect accurate stats) takes little to no action for this first section.

Also, immediately after we see the two elders, both clearly afraid, but still maintaining composure and fighting smart, think back to what D said back in the first audiolog:

"Trust your wits, not your fists"

probably somewhere around 9-10 range. 10 is defined as no reaction, and both are clearly afraid of the situation, but no matter your will, a werewolf running at you is scary.

Willpower 4, the berzerk reaction. As D put it "some may attack with extreme vigour"

In this scene here, we can hear the wound of the knife hissing after it has cut: either this is the knife "enchanted with death magicks" from the Guy Chapman audiolog, or the knife is made of silver. Either way this is called aggravated damage. Unless they changed something in W5 i've not played it.

Also this is probably just like a moth spirit or something, potentially this could be that one auspice that allows you to transport something from the umbra at will? unlikely though

willpower 4, berzerk.

Willpower.... 10? I don't think that this was an uncalculated action, I just think Markus is bad at math and doesn't know the strength of a werewolf.

I mean he had some of the shortest time between sight and thought out action, so at the very least a 7 (afraid but rational).

Also STAKE JACKET IS THE BEST IDEA.

We can assume that these are the spirits that Tilda (who from this point forward I will refer to as Tl;dr) has gifts from. Can't say which gifts, hard to say most things about spirits in general, so yeah.

in Audiolog one, we discussed: Vampires/Ghouls (which we have fought and met) Werewolves (just now fighting) (specifically Black Shuck) Witches/mages (Potentially seen?) Ghosts (wraiths); (Potentially seen?).

The mention of wizards was a specific tale of a witch, which remains unseen, and the "ghost" was that one with the well.

This marks the first named foreshadowed character appearing except for the fiddler/monk at the end of episode one.

Willpower 4: berzerk.

The children of the night need to eat souls that can never return to meet each other, and many children end up being accused of draining a parent's soul, being killed, or abandoned by the orphanage in the middle of the snow to die. So many dead bodies are placed back near other spawn terminals. Missing children end up being found nearby, far from their home, in a place most people would see and ignore. Many of those children would be disabled and considered Morrigan's children. But such information was usually hush-hush until further investigation into some murders being caused by parents themselves, or folks getting used to the rise of murders, they became ones themselves

Picking up an old newspaper, I stare at an object that has the biggest smile. Cruel men who'd eat a child's soul, because they knew how easy it was for parents to abandon them. Why eat abandoned children at your own mother's spawn, if you had charm and trust in knowing who the children of the night were? Then parade yourself in another town as a kindly man who took care of sick children. Despicable.

It's sad to hear how it used to be a common occurrence to kill children who were considered odd. Turns out there were many children who would starve themselves if they didn't like their food.

My fountain pen slid across the paper, its casing being blue, cracked ice.

I've already tried sponsorship & started programs in schools, which many have closed due to the lack of children present in a town. With funding for the alternatives to spawning terminals, hopefully, families would feel safer enough to have kids and not risk killing their own child due to paranoia.

I huffed and leaned back on my armchair. It might be time to rest for the day, maybe I'll even start talking to a future romantic partner. I have been feeling somewhat more isolated in my work.

How would I get a lover in hand? Someone who'd want children as well… I rested my head back in my office chair and gave a long sigh, watching my frozen breath in the air. Fading back into the darkness of the ceiling, with the only light in my room being a lamp and the fairy lights, I lay in the dreamy town.

I fixed my tank top jacket and left my laboratory.

In the town street I stroll through, I gaze at a frozen bottle sitting on a bench, as a 9-year-old orange circular child makes star origami by the Frozen Bottle object. The child looks up at me and stares at my horns.

I'm getting baby fever; he's so adorable. I gave a small wave as hello. The 'father' looks up at me in surprise.

Is this his child? A male nanny¿ no, I hope he's a father; nannies aren't really common anymore. This doesn't seem like an appropriate setting to have small talk. He looks tired. Or angry. Kids are a handful to raise, but it's quite rewarding. At least I'd feel that way.

I head towards a restaurant, high end lounge inn. The fairy lights are the only ones inside; nothing is decorated outside, except for the light trying to peek out of the drapes. And the soft lights are out on the third floor, which seem to be the sleepiest light.

A/N: i dont care if I sound unconfounded, this is filler- *Gets Shot* i-i… i donno how business works- bleh (skip till you read ding)

Ding

"Hello, sir!" The booming red fox beastial receptionist was excited to greet me and guide me to the stairs.

The Frozen speaker receptionist 'Dawn' had me go behind receptiontist desk. This used to be a library, but the descendant reworked it. As the entrance to the receptionist behind the stairs doesn't make sense, and the markings on the old reception table for libraries have been removed. It never made sense to some of the customers for there to be shelves around poles, since they had galvanized square steel; there are no violations.

Just complaints about the lack of decorations for the first floor… At least I'd complain about it. While the stairs feel the thump of my weight, I note that the stairs are brown marbles.

Most of the walkthrough to the second floor, the shelves are covered with cloth drapings. My horns slightly scrape the walls. I hear many of the conversations downstairs fading away; cartographers chat, and guards warn of updates on ghouls, for adventurous hikers hobbyist with money to spare for a death. I couldnt see for myself if they were rich or not, just giddied giggles.

The second floor is connected to the stage for the singer and pianist, which used to be a storytelling area or have plays that kids would try to act in. Not much use of a place for children to be in anymore. And the old piano was placed somewhere else.

The second floor includes supply storage areas, seeming smaller. The layout was an attempt to rework the old building, with new walls blocking off other spaces of the building. There was an alternative way to enter through the fourth floor, and that was through its side entrances, wide stairs. I wonder how they repurposed it, since it was originally a rented room for business parties or school trips.

As we reach the third floor, the empty shelves seem more decorated with candles. The drapes are purple decorated on top of the shelves and tight up… Maybe there might be a fire hazard; they should get smaller candles. I can see the black ash under the shelf of a shorter candle.

Along with the only floor with the blinds open is a newly renovated window.

I get taken to my seat at the fine oak table. Facing the window was quite nice; it looked like a painting where the snow had stars lying about.

"Yes, hello!"

Glassware is set at the table. As I'm having to wait for the company's Respawning Terminals. The object waiting with me in question is A snow slope hazard sign. The icicle melts on the corner of his face. From what I know, she's a doctor, collaborating with the company from the outer rings.

"So when will they be here?"

"In a. Few? More. minutes?" She looks around to see if his unsure tone was correct for the situation. That, and it was a private room, with warm purple interior design. The door wasnt opening anytime soon, and well, she looked everywhere except for the door.

"Will you still be able to answer any of my questions?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you know if Morrigan's can use this machinery?"

"…Not that I don't know of."

They seemed to be unsure of how to respond, leaving with an incoherent sentence. I'm quite unsure if Morrigion will try to use the terminals to her own advantage, with objects feeling safer using something that may be far from Morrigion's reach.

"What are the plans of placement for placement of the other respawn terminal. It would be smart to place it in an accessible area."

I take a sip of warm water.

"Ah, yes, we do plan for it to be beside pharmaciesand hospitals! If we have affordable baby toys, books, and baby food ready, we have a supplier who'd cut a discount. Then folks would feel safer and well prepared to easily get all the items in one place."

Unsure parents can always get pamphlets on baby exercise. How to take care of them when they're sick, and teach them how to manually sneeze. "Since it is the baby's first time living. Parent's have to be prepared for a lot. It'd be too sad how easy many parents would be placing their children in orphanages… We do have the school's closing, who can donate school books to childrens section of the pharmacy?"

The sign just nods, "I don't think parents placing kids in orphanages is that common."

"Yes, some either die or murder their children."

"Ah, ok." She just deeply sighed, having held her breath for some reason. She's a docter, these topics are quite old news.

"Are there any updates on the alternative system function for newlyweds?"

"Oh yes, Respawn terminals."

"The one that brings objects back from the dead." Huh, they're the same machine.

"Yeah, I'm so glad the second focus of funding has been going to Respawn terminals."

"I see, that's great news."

"That's great, it just needs testing, is all. Just to make sure it's safe, but it's hard to find volunteers for control groups."

"I have been planning on getting a lover soon."

The flower from the outer ring was placed at the table, almost spat out their drink. Snorting it back up. They placed hot chocolate on the table. Messing with the glassware's line.

"And you said to act professionally." They whispered.

They cleared their voice, "It's great to meet you, Frozen Boba. You're even lovelier in person."

Placing themselves back in the chair

"It is great we were able to make a deal for some husks. and the rich may be visiting as tourists with the safety of respawning."

"Such a shame if they end up meeting Morrigon's children. But hey, then they wouldn't be able to pay."

"Ah, yeah, I suppose, but most folks die from snow anyway. They're safe."

"As long as they can afford cheating death."

The conversation leaves with tourism being able to help our economy better.

Other funding sources are a good priority for more sources, and

Ding

A/N: I'll edit the business scene again, idk. I warned you it's not beta read, but still, I just felt to anxouis about it being cluttered

I see the same frozen bottle guard in the corner of the street sitting at a much homey and vintage bar, "Greetings."

"Hello, sir."

He looks at me, recognising me i assume. His posture is lean and slouched over his bottle, "Huh, I've seen you before. Have I?"

"Yes, with your little one. Children are quite a joy in the world arnt they?"

"Oh, the kid! He's not exactly mine." He immediately changes the topic before I ask anything else. "What brings you here?"

He looks down at the chair beside him, "Can't take a seat, can you?" Frozen bottle gave an observation with a snicker while downing a drink.

"Finished working, and yes, I can't. My horns would grate the roof."

I held out my hand to shake, having him stand up. I feel his left hand, open, sturdy, slightly small, old, and cold.

"You have no ring on your finger."

And unwed.

"Ah, yeah."

Leaning slightly down towards him, without breaking eye contact i asked him something, "Would you like one with my initials engraved inside?"

Frozen bottle looks up and down, "Wouldn't our initials be the same?"

"Well, it would be our initials; you can have my personal name in the engravings."

Frozen Bottle's hand rests on my claws, being held intently. He seemed to breathe in a gasp.

"Would you want to have my children?"

"…I'm open to it."

Frozen bottles eyes perk up and down to my sharp claws, gliding his finger over them.

"That'd be a conversation made at a reasonable time."

"Yeah, and while you're at it, buy me something in the vending machine before my break is over."

Frozen Boba places coins in the warm vending machine, which seems to need magma to keep the inside hot.

"Well, it's not my money, I don't have a lot to schedule for much past times."

"With a kid, I can see why. I've heard they're quite the handful."

Frozen Bottle just sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Humming in agreement. While I watch him stretch his arms back, holding his drink in his hand.

"We could visit my house if I send him off to sleep earlier."

Warm hot chocolate and white mocha. We take our respective beverages, tasting the hot mocha caffeine. I take a minute to waft the heat over my face to smell it.

I stared at him as he downed hot chocolate that needed to be filled with hot water, since it was cheaper than milk.

"I'd like to see you in a dining area very soon."

"oooh a date night. Hah. Let's start with a walk in the park first, before anything overly classy. I don't usually clean myself for anything expensive."

A nice stroll sounds lovely.

"Well, see ye till later."

"I'm glad we will." He smirked and gave a small laugh. Waving a bye, as I see him fade away from my view.

I'm trying out this color generator ive seen when ive seen dividers and oneshots. .. didnt read the rules on how to so i didnt get to use it.

AO3 & WATTPAD & Qoutev

The spinning barbershop pole looks out of place on the old stone building, but it's been installed there for longer than many of the headstones in the cemetery. The barbershop itself has been there even longer than the fancy electric pole with its bright colors.

This barbershop is not the heart of a community, at least not any longer, but I do well enough that I have a set of armchairs and a couch in the front for customers to wait until I’m ready for them, although just as often it’s for them to compose themselves until they’re ready.

The cemetery has grown around the old stone building such that the barbershop is now tucked into one corner, the entrance is still facing out, but the backdoor isn’t. On the edge of a cemetery, I get people both arriving and leaving funerals: Most want an excuse to sit back in a chair, close their eyes, and let a stranger change them in ways that they hope will result in a better version of themselves than they currently feel.

But I do have my regulars. And on the first day of spring, I know who to expect as my first customer when I unlock the door.

He only comes once a year, but he’s memorable with a wild beard and tangled hair, at least one leaf or twig still caught up in the mess. It takes two washes to clean it and get it smooth: one wash to get out the dirt and the next one to get out the massive amounts of detangler I’ve used.

We talk about the trees and how they’re coming back to life and the squirrels and birds too.

Once his hair is clean and dry, I braid it to keep it out of the way and only then proceed to the close shave. Removing the wild bramble on his face makes him look fresh-faced and child-like.

When I’m done, he looks in the mirror and proclaims:

“When the world becomes too much, And I am lost in my own growth, Your sharp razor and gentle touch, Remove the excess and bring back my youth.”

I gather up the cut hairs and put them into a small paper bag. I fold it closed and offer the packet to him.

In return he gives me a plastic bag full of coins. The coins are tarnished and worn, the bag smelling of the algae that grows in the pond on the other side of the cemetery, where visitors are encouraged to throw coins for a wish.

It’s always the exact correct amount, but I count it carefully none-the-less because he’s insulted if I don’t.

It takes time to count the quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies, but there’s no rush.

Another customer arrives, but she sits on the couch and doesn’t try to get my attention.

Once my annual customer has departed I turn to the new customer.

Her face is red and splotchy from crying, her hair is a ragged halo around her head, and she’s gently massaging the start of bruises on her hands.

“A pocket knife?” I ask.

She huffs a laugh. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And once you start, you can’t give up halfway,” I agree.

“I messed everything up. The scissors on my Swiss army knife broke from the pressure.” She showed me her hand and the small stab wound that was already scabbing over. “But my braid was half off already. I had to do the rest with the knives.”

I should offer to clean the wound and put some antiseptic on it, but I’m wary of getting too close, so instead I say, “That’s difficult. But you were successful.”

Possibly more successful than she would ever know, with a sacrifice of hair and blood. Dead hair and living blood, and a fresh grave. Undoubtedly, sweat and tears as well.

“Eventually. He loved my hair. And I couldn’t bear to keep it anymore.”

“Then it’s where it should be. Now let’s get you to where you should be. Do you want me to just even things out, or do you have a hairstyle in mind?”

She shakes her head, “just fix it some way, if you can.”

“There are a lot of things I can’t fix, but this I can.” I usher her to the chair and give her a damp washcloth to sooth her face as well.

Her hair is thick and well cared for. I talk to her about the history of sacrificing hair in mourning as I wash and condition it, and begin to trim the ragged edges into a semblance of order.

I’m not a stylist to do anything fancy, but she’s not the first and won’t be the last to feel the need to sacrifice something for a departed loved one.

Her face looks clearer and her hair more intentional by the time I’m done. A proper bob with symmetry and severe lines. I think it will suit her, and she nods in recognition of the women staring back at her from the mirror: that woman will survive.

I sweep up the remnant and put them in a paper bag, folding it securely, and offer it to her. She waves it away. “Just throw it out. I’m done with this.”

“Of course,” I say.

She pays with a fancy credit card, which is when I learn her name, but I intentionally don’t memorize it. It comes and goes as soon as the charge is finalized.

A man comes in, just as she’s leaving. He holds the door for her, and they both pause to offer each other condolences. It’s clear that they don’t know each other, but they both know why they’re here.

“I haven’t seen most of my family in… years,” he tells me without prompting.

He wears a black suit that looks new. Physically it fits him perfectly well, but I guess that emotionally it’s deeply uncomfortable. His hair has begun to grow out of a fancy asymmetric hair style had likely required a lot of a product. It’s not something I would normally give a customer but, “I can sharpen up your previous cut or I can give you a conservative cut to match your suit.”

He runs his hand through the hair. He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. “Yeah, yeah, if you can give me back my old hair cut, there’s no point in hiding anymore is there.”

It isn’t a question, but I answer anyway. “Probably not.”

He tells me about his grandmother while I wash his hair, and shave the side again, and trim the long parts. She was quite the dame in her day and had a racy history that she’d shared with him but hadn’t with his various cousins, who had been deemed too boring to understand that sometimes a girl needed to get in a bit of trouble to have fun. She’d survived to a ripe old age and enjoyed every bit of it, according to him.

When I swept up the hair clippings and offered him them packed in their paper bag, he accepted it but asked “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Supposed to? Nothing much. If you don’t want it, feel free to leave it, but sometimes people like to leave a sacrifice in a grave or burn an offering over one. The paper and hair is fine to either bury or burn.”

“What do you do with the hair that’s left behind?”

It was a good question, and I answer him honestly. “I give to the earth. It’s a good fertilizer.”

“Oh. Huh, I have a garden back home. I’ll have to try it out.” He tucks the packet away in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pays with cash. I never get his name, and it makes me wonder what he knows, or suspects, or if he’s simply naturally careful.

I would bet his grandmother knows more than she says, certainly now.

The next customer is a local. He lives only a few blocks away and comes by once a month to get a trim, regular as clockwork. He talks about his grandchildren, pays with a check, and waves off the offered paper bag of trimmings. He never acknowledges that the barbershop is partially embedded in the cemetery, an exemption to zoning laws having been grandfathered in due to maintaining perpetual occupancy.

It’s quiet for a time after he departs.

A woman comes in wearing a particularly out-of-date dress that I notice but don’t comment on.

People wear all sorts of clothes to the cemetery, often their Sunday best, or a formal outfit that would be old fashioned in any other circumstances.

She asks for a trim, although I’m guessing what she really wants is the comfort of the experience rather than the results. A wash in warm water, a scalp massage, a warm blow dry, and some meaningless conversation that still creates a human connection. I tell her about the latest scandals I’ve heard about actors and musicians, inciting gleeful shock without any real stakes. She doesn’t recognize the celebrities I mention and I don’t recognize the ones she does, but we still keep a good conversation going.

When I’m done, she’s very complimentary of the trim. I sweep up the trimmings and put them in a small paper bag, but by the time I turn to offer them to her, she’s gone. She also didn’t pay.

I consider the paper packet.

The paper bag is important. It keeps the hair together without the static of plastic, it's burnable and biodegradable, and it's opaque. There’s no way of knowing if the hair vanishes like a dream.

I put the folded bag aside, with the others I’d kept today.

Customers trickle in and out for the rest of the day. Some strangers, some locals.

Some take their hair with them while others leave it behind.

At the end of the day, after the last hair has been swept up and the last customer has left, I collect all the little paper packets.

A man crosses my path as I’m locking up. His hair is held back in a bun such that I can’t tell its length. His beard is carefully groomed. He has a pleasant face and naturally smiling eyes.

“Oh,” he says in apparent surprise. “Are those extra hair clippings? I can take them off your hands, if you’d like.”

I don’t answer.

“I’m a wig maker, I mean a doll maker,” he corrects himself, perhaps because I couldn’t hide my expression of judgement at that first attempted lie. He laughs self-consciously. “Of course scraps like that are only good for dolls, but human hair is so much better than artificial.”

I just bet it is. For many things.

“I believe you,” I say, although I know it wouldn’t be normal dolls he makes. “I don't keep all the hair: I offer it back to each customer. Anything I have has been twice denied. And now it goes back to the earth.”

The man looks less pleasant with every word I say. Now even stealing them wouldn’t work. Already twice denied, and my refusal a third.

The barbershop tucked into the corner of a cemetery isn’t at the heart of any community, but it is on the border of several. I don’t involve myself in any grand events, and I make sure that I’m not drawn in by anyone else.

For all that people refer to healthy hair, even hair in good condition is dead. Even as hair grows, it is already dead. A personal border between life and death that each person carries around.

Death deserves the dignity of a cemetery.

Beatrice didn’t plan to go to prom, and sitting on the sidelines of the dance floor in an itchy tulle number, she wishes she hadn’t gone at all. But Bucky asked and she didn’t want to let down one of her best friends. Mandy and the other cheerleaders laughed at her frilled dress, she spent weeks perfecting her hair, and she took as many preventative measures as possible to stop spots and cold sores. Her peers in the Astronomy Club had mixed reactions; Cornelius thought it brave and romantic to go against the norm for the socially challenged students, Algie thought she was going to become an uptight bitch like the rest of the girls at the school. Beatrice did her best to ignore their comments, both positive and negative. It was going to be her night and she was going to have a blast with her best friend.

Then Bucky got sick.

One swirly too many at the hands of the jocks put him in the hospital. Beatrice was distraught, and Bucky didn’t get any justice, but he begged Beatrice to go by herself. She got dressed as planned and she walked to the gym after all the cheerleaders had left. The walk was brief but brisk in the late spring evening and she kept her head down as she passed students whose plans didn’t involve punch and slow dancing in the gym. 

Keeping her head down meant that she didn’t see the collision course she was on until it was too late. 

Now Beatrice is sitting alone on the bleachers. None of her other friends went, and the girls who can stand to talk to her were with their dates. She knows they won’t want a sad sack like her being the third wheel. She reasons she can appreciate the music more when she doesn’t have to focus on rhythm and dancing in a way that is appealing to a boy. Then again, she can’t help but zone out when the noise the disc jockey plays hardly passes for music. She itches her leg through the material of the dress and taps her toes and fingers. Syncopated. Unfocused, her eyes roam the room and glide over the silhouettes of her peers, her classmates, her rivals, and then to Jimmy Hopkins. Her extremities quieten as she examines the casual figure he cuts against the brick wall just a few feet in front of her. They make eye contact and he offers a rare, dopey grin. Before she can get to her feet, walk down the steps, and ask her lover-turned-friend to dance, Zoe appears beside him and they lock lips intensely. Her eyes open in the midst of the kiss and stare through Beatrice. The kiss is broken and Zoe drags a breathless Jimmy to the dance floor. Beatrice returns to tapping and opts to stare at her feet.

“Watch it, Square.” The gruff voice made Beatrice recoil instantly. She raised her gaze from the floor and craned her neck upward to look at the face of the imposing Greaser she had just pissed off. She tried to apologise but the words were choked on a stutter and terror.

“Norton, leave her be.” Beatrice and Norton looked to the left in unison at the source of the command. A tall girl with a brown bob and a red cocktail dress unlinked herself from the arm of Johnny Vincent and crossed her own arms. Beatrice barely recognised Lola out of her signature leather and leopard print. Norton returned his focus to Beatrice and took a step back. Beatrice didn’t need to be told to scram before she took off to the gym. 

All attention on the original perpetrator quickly became lost, and he easily slips through the crowd and out of the scrutinising sight of Johnny Vincent. No, instead Johnny silently observes as the crowd verbally picks apart his girlfriend. Lola looks to Johnny to defend her, he shakes his head. Beatrice feels her jaw clench. Lola is one of the few people at this school who sticks up for her, certainly one of the only people who doesn’t care how people view her or the people she spends time with. Lola isn’t a bad person at all, and Beatrice knows she has seen Angie and Christy with practically every boy at Bullworth. Lola’s actions seem little more than rumours spread by the Preps to push Johnny off the deep end. 

“Naw Johnny, it ain’t like that, I swear!” The students part, leaving behind a scrawny kid in a leather jacket too big for him, a furious Johnny Vincent, and an alluring smirk on the face of Lola Lombardi. The music stops in a record scratch and Beatrice sees this as a perfect opportunity to get out of her seat. “Then what is it like, Punk?” Johnny shoves the kid again and he winces. “You make moves on my woman and expect me to turn a blind eye?”

“I ain’t make any moves on that slag—”

“Don’t you call me that!” Lola hisses, to the amusement of many of the students gathered.

“It’s the truth!” One of the crowd calls out.

“I’ve heard she doesn’t even wear underwear!” Another one shouts.

“Leave her alone.” Beatrice is surprised to hear someone speak up. The crowd quietens down and splits itself so everyone can see who spoke. The crowd looks at her and she realises she wasn’t just thinking they ought to leave her alone, she all but shouted it over the cacophony of the other students. It’s too late to back down now. She walks into the midst of the crowd, Lola looks at her with an unreadable expression. Johnny doesn’t look all that happy. “Look at this freak, standing up for a whore!” Someone sniggers, and Beatrice doubts herself for a moment. A svelte hand lands on her shoulder and she looks to its owner. “It ain’t worth it,” Lola purrs quietly in her ear.

“It’s always worth it, they’re- they’re wrong!” Her voice breaks as she confers discreetly with her newfound comrade.

“Don’t waste your words on fools, Honey.” Something flickers in Lola’s eyes, something Beatrice has never seen before. She all at once becomes aware of how close they are. In front of the rest of the school. Beatrice closes her mouth and swallows, then nods stiffly. Lola’s hand wraps itself around Beatrice’s wrist and she silently leads her out of the middle of the crowd and out of the gym.

“I appreciate you standing up for me,” Lola breaks the silence that had formed between them in the mild twilight. Beatrice had never heard her sound so small. Fallible.

“Well, you don’t need to thank me, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair that no one was in your corner.”

“Do you believe them?” Beatrice notices Lola has let go of her wrist, and momentarily laments the loss of contact.

“Not at all. The rumours and gossip of the student body don’t tend to interest me—”

“Alright, I don’t need a whole essay.” Lola’s voice is neutral, but at least she’s smiling now. “I’m sorry your prom was ruined,” she continues and Beatrice laughs.

“I was alone, sitting on the bleachers and waiting to go back to the dorm and forget I ever tried to enjoy myself at this school. Now?” Beatrice pauses. What should she say? Her heart wants to admit she’s happy she has someone, she doesn’t want to leave. At the same time, she doesn’t want to appear too passionate. “None of that is a problem.” They exchange a glance and a smile. “You’re apologising to me, but your prom experience was immeasurably worse, Lola.”

“Nothing I can’t handle—” she pauses awkwardly at the end of the word.

“Are you ok?” Beatrice reaches out and her hesitant fingers gently stroke Lola’s bare arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just annoyed I didn’t get to dance tonight,” she pouts as she speaks.

“Do you not dance that often?” Beatrice stops stroking Lola, mentally reprimanding herself for doing such an odd thing, but remains unwilling to break contact.

“Johnny’s got two left feet when it comes to anything more complex than a four step.”

Beatrice starts toward the side entry but Lola gently yanks her away. “It’s a fire exit, it’s gonna be locked,” she looks toward the main door but sees the shadow of a Prefect approaching. Lola hums in thought as Beatrice panics. Without another word Lola ushers Beatrice to the back of the dorm. Here, there’s enough space for them to both hide comfortably. In any case, Lola chooses to stay close to Beatrice, and the latter is secretly glad of it. “Do you do this often—?” Beatrice whispers, but is cut off by two of Lola’s slender, neatly manicured and soft-skinned fingers pressed to her ever so slightly open lips. Not enough for Beatrice to do anything but let her mind wander as her heart reverberates wildly in her chest and Lola presses her against the cool brick wall of the dorm.

Without thinking, Beatrice’s hand slides down Lola’s arm until she is holding her hand. “I’ll dance with you,” she barely whispers as she realises just what she is suggesting. “If you want to, I mean—”

“I’d love to, Beatrice.” Lola’s free hand comes to rest on Beatrice’s shoulder, and Beatrice feels overwhelmingly conscious of the way her hand moulds against Lola’s back. She always thought this kind of intimacy, with someone she deeply cared about, would be beyond her until she graduates med school. But now, as they all but float above the paved paths of Bullworth, she wonders how she ever lived without this closeness.

It all ends too soon as they twirl right into the path of a prefect. Beatrice freezes up, not used to being the focus of the anger of the older boys who watch for delinquency. “Prom ended hours ago!” He yells as he lunges at Beatrice. She feels a forceful yank from her dance partner that pulls her out of his way. Lola is already running, and Beatrice finds it hard to keep up. “Maybe, I should have done, track,” Beatrice wheezes as she follows behind Lola who doesn’t respond. Or maybe she does but Beatrice can’t hear her over the overwhelming sensation of her calf muscles burning and rippling from overuse. Lola climbs a wall and turns to offer a hand to Beatrice. Beatrice wants to pause before taking it, really think about what she is doing and if she can even climb a wall, but the threat of a first disciplinary from a Prefect throws all thought to the wind. Lola hardly struggles to pull Beatrice up to her level, and the girls drop down the other side next to the dorm building.