#kit levansque

@kit-levansque​

You only get one, boss. Don’t push it.

I’m pretty sure there was a memo? But it would have been sent out at about the same time as the Johnson case, and we Don’t Talk About The Johnson Case. It would have been easy to overlook. Like I said, I go through Long-Term storage every so often and sort out the stuff that gets chucked in there; a lot of stuff I do end up kicking over to the actual Lost and Found - which, apparently, I am also running, since it’s nextdoor to Long-Term Storage, and I’m the only person I’ve ever seen there. Well, aside from the house-elves who clean once a week.

I don’t bother keep track anymore, boss, I just don’t. All I know is that there’s a sign on the door that says they’re open, and people go in and out of the door on a general basis. If you want to talk to them, be my guest - I avoid the DTA. They have some of the most offensive attitudes of anyone I’ve had the displeasure to meet, and I’d be seriously worried that they were planning a coup except they somehow seem to Obliviate each other every other week. Bloody Torchwood.

Boss, Weeping Angels are full-on psychopaths who would kill you as soon as look at you - literally. I have no idea if we have a local colony; you’d have to ask the DTA, and I do not interact with them if I can help it.

I’ll treasure it forever, Levansque. My one and only compliment, given in the Spring of ‘27. I’ll frame it.

Yeeeahhh, I think that was before you started making the important memos explosive. Your exploding memos are the only ones I ever read, because they’re the only ones that inflict bodily harm if I don’t. Oops.

We’re going for the Weeping Angels. Winter Quay, that’s apparently the place - I think? DTA seemed a bit skittish about telling me. It was weird; the girl I asked refused to tell me, then a klaxon went off, three people appeared to try and give her a message - one of whom I’m pretty sure was her identical twin - two more people appeared and tried to “temporarily remove my existence from the time stream” and finally the girl (who had somehow managed to dye and cut her hair in the interim and get her arm in cast) snuck me a piece of paper and told me she was sorry. So now I have to go, because what the fuck is actually going on here. What.

DELGADO, THIS RACIST ASSHOLE OF AN AMBASSADOR INSULTED MY HUSBAND IN FRONT OF ME. TO MY FACE, DELGADO.

DELGADO, I NEED YOU TO GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE I KILL HIM.

Well, that’s one good thing I’ve been able to find in this mess. The High Security Vaults are blood-locked - regardless of the shape that Grindelfuck was wearing, the wards would only have recognized the boss’s actual blood (fresh from the vein, no more then three seconds out of the body before it registers as invalid) and magical signature. More importantly, there are no records of him accessing the Vaults.

...I’m still going to need to do an inventory, but there’s a distinct possibility that the Fucker might not even have bothered trying to get in there. (Thank fuck.) Look, I’m probably wrong about this, but at a guess - he’s arrogant. He believes in the in-born power of magicals - the key phrase there is in-born. I get the impression that he believes very strong in inherent power, and the artifacts in the Vaults are representative of power outside of one’s self.

Plus, he’s a European snob who believes we’re all a bunch of backwater hicks who can’t possibly have anything all that powerful hidden away in our Vaults. 

Delgado, you apparently underestimated the sheer stupidity of my most recent minions - they bend corners, Delgado. They misfile things. They don’t check their spelling when they write reports, and then they attempt to downplay their grammar errors because ‘no one reads this stuff anyway, right?’

...Delgado. Remember my counterstrike during the Great Paperwork Revolt of ‘24? Specifically, when I glamored my eyes solid black, wore my most ragged robes to work, intoned nonsense at everyone in an echoing voice and generally gave the impression I’d gone full-blown Morgana? (I cleared it with the Boss first of course, I had no desire to be hexed six ways from Sunday). 

The fact that the memos I sent him were spelled to explode if left unread was probably the main factor, actually. As was the fact that I felt sorry for him once - it was after the Brady case - and ended up doing most of his paperwork in a belated ‘hope you feel better soon’ gift. (I was young, and relatively innocent).

That got his immediate attention - if by ‘immediate attention’ you’re referring to how he came barging into the staff room, eyes wild and wand at the ready, demanding to know just what kind of infernal magic-user I was to successfully tame the beast known as ‘paperwork’. (He was also severely sleep-deprived at the time). He tried to interrogate me, I handed him a cup of coffee (well, it was one-fourth coffee and three-fourths whiskey) and told him he needed to submit forms 3a through 17b before next Tuesday, he called me a foul beast escaped from the pit and tried to perform an exorcism, I corrected his pronunciation - it all snowballed from there.

That son of a bitch. THAT FUCKING SON OF A BITCH. THAT -

May thy shade thirst for water a thousand years! May thy lands forget thy name, and thine descendants thy grave! May thou wander in the cold an age, and another age, and another age upon that!

By the Iron Queen, I am going to strangle whatever’s left of that fucker once Boss gets through with him - Dia ad aghaidh ’s ad aodann, agus bas dunach ort! Dhonas’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa!