#and all the pdfs look so last minutely scanned so my professor will more than be able to tell
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now accepting boyfriend applications.
based on my fic idea: you’ve just become newly single, in a drunken fit, you posted a status indicating you’re accepting applications for your next boyfriend. Oddly, three boys take you up on that; sending in their most professional resumes for the position. It seems there’s some fierce competitors.
next up: literature
It hurt, why wouldn’t it hurt. Your boyfriend of almost two years dumped you over text message with no warning and his reason? He just wasn’t feeling it anymore, what the fuck. Well, twenty phone calls, a hundred text messages sent to him, and a pretty nasty voicemail. The moment you realized just how crazy you were being was when you began pounding on his door at almost ten at night. His neighbors poking their head out to stare, and it really smacked you in the face how stupid you were being.
So you threw caution into the wind. it’s a Wednesday night, your first class tomorrow didn’t start until noon and you’re literature teacher was more of a lecturer so she probably won’t notice if you’re hung over. If anything, you could always ask the guy next to you for the notes.
Thus, you decide to throw back shots to your heart’s desire, sitting in the middle of your tiny studio apartment, on your bed to scream and cry at the romance movie. Love is dead. You groan loudly when your neighbor knocks against the wall, trying to tell you to promptly shut the fuck up.
Halfway through the movie, your mind is already swaying. Your throat stings just momentarily and you sip your cheap wine in hope it’ll dull the shots you had taken previously. When the male protagonist kisses the beautiful female of his dreams, you promptly chug the rest of the wine in your glass. Upset at their love, you wrap your lips around the tip of the wine bottle, drinking straight from it.
“I can find someone better.” You’ve reached a different point in your post break up sadness, you were mixed with anger, sadness, and an overall feeling of I’ll find someone with a better dick.
It’s never a good decision to post on social media while drunk, but it’s a great decision right now. You were going to post a ‘newly single’ status. Just to be nice and not spam everyone, you think you’ll just post it to your private account for your five friends to see. You’ve clearly neglected that step when you press post and it uploads to your public twitter account.
The urge to hurl takes priority over the sudden notifications on your phone. Your hair disheveled as you’re trying to hold onto the toilet, hold onto your hair, and throw up at the same time. The romance film comes to an end once you’ve fully emptied your stomach. You shove all the things off your bed, food falling onto the floor, empty bottle of wine rolled under your bed, remote lost somewhere. You fall asleep despite your cell phone going off.
The alarm jolts you, it causes you to scream, your palm slapping the snooze button and you aggressively pull the wire so that it comes out of the socket. Your head is throbbing and your cell phone is ringing at the same time. Annoyed, your hand stretches along the bed trying to find your cell. When you come emptyhanded, you sit up. Your hand steading the pulsing of your brain and you spot your phone ringing and vibrating on the ground.
“What?” You spit out, not bothering to look at the contact as you try to block out the sun.
“What do you mean what?” The voice snaps at you, “You post about boyfriend applications all of a sudden, did you guys break up?”
Of course he would be the one calling you, the person who loves gossip more than you do, “Tooru, can you like shut up for a second.” Your brain is dying and he’s over here trying to get the latest dish on your love life, “He dumped me okay.”
“That asshole.” He gasps, “Do you want me to come over?”
You look at the time on your cell briefly, “No. I have class all day. If you’re free later?”
“Of course!”
The phone call ends and rather than getting ready for the class you have in an hour, you’re checking your notifications. You have about twenty missed calls from Oikawa, another thirty text messages from him, he even left a voicemail; god he must have been desperate. Facebook is bland, you spent most of your time on Instagram deleting the photos of your now ex, and rarely do you ever get Twitter notifications. Oddly, you have fifteen notifications; all coming from your public account.
haha, boyfriend applications are official open. only taking serious apps lol
“No.” You sit up.
It wasn’t your post that freaked you out, it wasn’t that somehow it ended up on your public account, no you could delete it and pretend as if no one saw it but people saw it.
Is she serious?
If she is, I’m down.
What does serious applications mean?
Three comments, five likes, and four retweets.
And three unread messages.
Your finger rushes to delete the tweet before it can be retweeted even more by random classmates. All was good now. Your finger presses onto the message icon, you’re confronted with the icons of three of your classmates.
The most recent is from Miya Atsumu, a terrible flirt in your biology class. He chose the seat next to you in lab when his friends ditched him and hoarded their own table. He spun around in his chair, shooting you a cheeky grin when you briefly looked at him.
His first sentence was, “Hey you’re cute.”
And yours was, “I have a boyfriend.”.
You skip over his message upon spotting his use of sweetheart in the preview.
The next icon is of the guy in your intro to business class, Kuroo Tetsuro. The first time you saw him was outside of the classroom, you two ended up accidentally reaching the doors at the same time. He lets you go in first and the both of you chose the seats farthest from the board, and closest to the door. Despite his bed hair that made him look like he was going to sleep the entire class, he was a rather studious guy; chill but smart, he was a business major after all.
“Did you understand anything he was saying?” You murmur to him as you grab your bag.
“Of course!” He states, “I don’t look at twitter on my laptop when he’s lecturing.” Ah, he caught you.
Your eyes briefly scan the preview, he’s saying something about a resume and you think he’s talking about the homework assignment. You’re about to click on his first when the last catches your eye.
It’s from Akaashi Keiji. On the first day of class, you were late due to waiting in line for coffee. You awkwardly opened the door to the classroom, everyone turning to stare, and you lower your head, choosing a random seat that now you’re stuck with for the rest of the semester because that’s just how college works. The professor goes over the syllabus and suddenly announces that the person sitting to your right will be your revision partner for the semester.
“Hey.” You stop him and for a brief minute you feel your heart skip a beat because he was absolutely pretty, “Sorry, I’m Y/n. Since we’re going to be partners, do you want to exchange info?”.
“Uh. Sure. I’m Akaashi Keiji.”
“I’m going to be late for my business class. Do you have twitter?” You were never a fan of giving your phone number out. Before he can answer, you’re scribbling your username onto a piece of paper, placing it on his desk before running out to catch your next class.
His message is brief: Did you get my email?
You click his message first; it must have been urgent if he messaged and emailed you. There’s nothing else to his message, his previous one dates almost a week before his current one, telling you that he finished reading the book you recommended and that he enjoyed it.
The screen is pulled up with your finger, alternating apps to your personal email. The subject of his email simply reads Application.
Curiously, you click the attachment he’s sent with no body text. Your jaw dropped, hand placed over your open mouth and a small scream emitting.
“Is he fucking serious?”
His name is displayed at the top, along with his birthday, star sign, zodiac sign, age, even the pronouns he uses. There’s a short sentence under it. I am submitting an application for the position of Boyfriend. You’re internally screaming, blinking fast hoping that this was a joke but his ‘application’ reads like a resume. It lists his education from middle school to his current, his previous jobs, his skills, and his own personal goals for the future.
Your blushing profusely, you want to pull your hair, scream, even throw your phone but you shove down the feelings that want to have you die of embarrassment. You don’t have the energy to sadly explain to him that you were drunk and weren’t serious; ugh and you’re going to have to continue seeing him for the rest of the semester.
You revert back to twitter; your heart suddenly drops when you think about Kuroo’s message. Quickly, you pull up the messages, clicking his and suddenly you want dig yourself a grave because he’s sent a link to a pdf and it’s simply titled Resume. He probably used a resume template and never changed the title.
And sure enough, it’s a fucking professional resume declaring the certain skills he has to be your boyfriend. In fact, like the professional business major he is, he includes a letter of intent; indicating his reasons of interest for the position. It details the little quirks he finds cute about you. You want to break your phone in half with how red in the face you feel.
As you exit his message, you’re slowly praying that Atsumu’s message is just a random flirty comment that he occasionally likes to throw you once in a while or perhaps you’re hoping that he fell in a ditch and you won’t have to work with him for the rest of the semester since he almost blew up the lab station last time.
Nope, it’s a link to a google document. Oddly, you click it. Your heart has sunk to the pit of the earth because when you open the document, you see his fucking name in the upper right corner indicating he’s still on the stupid document.
Fuck fuck fuck. You’re running away from the document, aggressively leaving the page but it doesn’t help that when you end up back at your twitter messages, you can see the three dots, telling you he’s typing.
Morning sweetheart hope you enjoy the app
He sends it with a flirty wink and you stare at it for five full minutes. Curiosity gets the best of you and you click back onto his link, he’s no longer on the same document and you sigh safely. For someone who’s barely passing biology, his document was rather professionally detailed. Damn, he’s on the school’s volleyball team? Weirdly the page cuts off halfway, you continue to scroll until the next title page boldly states: Bedroom skills.
It didn’t help that you were scrolling a little too fast and caught sight of an image showing off his toned upper body. There goes his professionalism.
Your phone suddenly blares low battery, your screen turns black and now your anxiety is through the roof. You jump on your bed, trying to plug in your phone and you’ve just now realized that it is thirty minutes until your first class starts and it is literature. You’re scrambling to find your laptop, you trip on the bag of chips from last night, awkwardly trying to stand as you reach for your school bag.
“Shit!” You scream. You suddenly remember letting your stupid ex-boyfriend borrow your laptop.
You fall to the floor, fingers pulling your hair as you suddenly think about the deep shit your in. First, your boyfriend dumped you, now you randomly have three guys who sent you applications to be your next boyfriend and you’re still going to have to see them for the rest of the semester if you reject them. Lastly, you’re going to have to go to your ex’s place to get your laptop after having made a scene yesterday, and your phone is dead so you can’t cry to Oikawa about the deep shit you’re in.
#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#kuroo x reader#atsumu x reader#akaashi x reader#haikyuu scenarios#atsumu scenarios#kuroo scenarios#akaashi scenarios#kuroo#atsumu#akaashi#kuroo tetsurou#atsumu miya#akaashi keiji#hq#hq scenarios
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Title: Division of Labor (3/?)
Summary:
“The past years, we have noticed a lot of our fresh high school graduates knew nothing about responsibilities that await them outside high school and even college. Many students do not master budgeting, taxes, household planning, loans and we hope to raise a generation who can navigate the adult world without the consequences of bad decisions they are bound to make going in blindly…”
Paradis High school starts a program incorporating adulting into their curriculum and Hange and Levi are paired together.
Note: From request of @a-golden-hearted-snk-fan. See this link for the request
Other Chapters: 1 2
Link to cross-postings: AO3
It turned out Hange did think the housing plan through.
"It's a rent to own contract...so after paying this certain amount of rent… within a number of years… we can own the house basically," Hange explained. Her preparation was evident in the wad of papers she had carelessly spread out on the table in front of Levi.
At first glance, Levi could not make sense of what those papers were. Eventually, by carefully scanning through the therefore, herewiths, in the events, the interest rates and percentages, Levi figured out they were contracts and manuals full of buying and renting policies of one particular real estate company.
Levi looked out the glass window of the booth of the quiet diner they had chosen to work in. He had tried to use the mechanical movements of the crowds on a commute home to at least help clear his mind enough to make sense of how exactly a rent-to-own contract worked. Levi was sure Hange was at least attempting to explain everything about the buying policies of the real estate company in layman's terms. Although Levi was somewhat impressed by the dedication Hange put into it, as soon as she started to talk about the policies and agreements beyond ‘we get to own the house after a while,’ Levi ended up spacing out. The prospect of spending, even if it was fake money, caused him enough unnecessary stress.
He turned his attention to the two flour sacks who were propped by the window of the diner booth they occupied. He had purposefully turned their ugly faces towards the window at the small possibility that Shadis, Erwin or even Zeke were amongst the crowds of people walking through the crowds and into the subway station. A testament to their determination not to waste any unnecessary funds or worse, flunk the program
"If we catch you in public not holding your baby, you pay babysitting dues or you fail." Shadis had said in homeroom class that morning.
After some discussion as a class and with some confirmation from Erwin, the whole class came to the understanding that if they went out separately, they were in no obligation to take their babies with them. It could always be assumed after all, that their partner had their baby with them. Being in public with their partner meant someone had to have the baby with them or they risk pay necessary dues. At any rate, they found solace in the fact that if they were going to look like idiots holding brown sacks with shabbily drawn faces on them, they at least had someone to look like an idiot with.
Levi looked back at Hange to see that she had not stopped talking. Levi was not too surprised, having the disinterested equivalent of a resting bitch face, he had to master the art of looking like he cared to get past most classes.
“Where did you get these anyway?” Levi asked, interrupting the tirade of his partner. The answer to that question would at least be something he would be able to understand.
“The procedures manual and their company policies are available online.” Hange answered matter-of-factly. Levi noted how quickly she recovered from having her explanation of policy and business jargon interrupted.
As Levi looked once again through highlighted lines and messy scrawls, he felt embarrassed that he was not even halfway done with the design they had discussed the night before. He slowly brought out his folder where he had at least begun to draw the floor plan from the link Hange had sent him the night before.
“How has the floor plan been Levi?” Hange cocked her head to one side. Levi could not tell if she was provoking him or if she was genuinely curious about the progress of his work. Regardless, the way that she sifted through the papers under her, while looking pointedly at the roughly drawn floor plan on his hands had Levi self conscious.
It was Tuesday afternoon, less than 24 hours since she had bombarded him with messages. Less than 24 hours since she dropped a pdf file of the floor plan and went MIA, Levi guessed it was to prepare all the documents which Hange had just laid out in front of him that morning. As he compared his own progress to hers, he also became aware of one more reality, their first outputs were due tomorrow. Begrudgingly Levi had to admit, despite her naivete and overenthusiasm, Hange had a better sense of urgency than he did.
“I planned everything out already. I just need to outline it.” Levi said, trying at least not to sound as defensive as he felt.
“But can you do it alone? I didn’t sleep at all last night to get this done.” Hange looked more concerned than anything else.”
As Levi looked back at a skeleton of a housing plan that lay in front of him, he started to understand her concern. The house they had selected was huge and designing would take hours if he actually wanted to put thought into it.
“I mean even if we take out the 1800 from our budget of 3600 dollars a month, we still have to consider furniture and it might take you a while to come out with the pricing right? I guess we could leave out 1000 dollars for that….”
Furniture? Levi had stopped listening at ‘furniture.’ Somehow Levi had assumed that it would have been fully furnished when they bought it and they just had to rearrange furniture. “We’re buying an unfurnished house?” Levi had hoped Hange was pulling his leg.
Hange knitted her brows in confusion. “Did I say anything about a furnished house?”
Division of Labor
“There are two methods of accounting used in modern day society: cost accounting and accrual accounting or as I’d like to call them: an idiot’s sorry excuse for accounting and actual accounting.” Zeke wrote the two terms on the board and plopped himself on the teacher’s desk. “Really though, why the hell do people still use cost accounting in modern society, it’s fucking stupid, barbaric, might as well go back to bartering…”
Levi had no idea what either of them were. As he looked around at his classmates, they looked as lost as he was about the mini rant that Zeke gave about the two accounting methods he had failed to define.
After a few minutes of ranting, Zeke finally noticed the blank faces of his students. “Okay Social Experiment.” Zeke cocked his head to the side. “Actually, let’s call it an IQ Test. Jean stand up.”
“Yes sir!” Jean followed way too enthusiastically.
“You got the investment banker occupation so ideally you should be the most knowledgeable on money among everyone in the room,” Zeke continued. “You have zero dollars and I gave you 100 dollars right now. How much do you have?”
“100 dollars sir,” Jean answered.
“That’s a smart boy.” Zeke slapped his desk so hard, Armin and Eren jumped, having sat so close to the teacher’s desk. “Okay, so if I lent you 100 dollars, how much do you have?”
“100 dollars.”
“So, you’re gonna run away with my money? No plans of paying me back?”
Jean tensed up in confusion. “No sir. I’ll be paying you back.”
“Then is it your money?"
“It’s with me sir… So I think…” Jean paused for a second. “So it’s your money sir?”
“Tell me. The money is with you after all. Is it your money or my money?”
“It’s my money sir!” Jean answered too quickly, probably without even thinking.
“I lent you the money. I expect it back so it’s mine. Calling my money your money is practically stealing Kirschtein. I can call a lawyer on you.” Zeke narrowed his eyes at Jean for a few seconds before shrugging in defeat. “But you’re not a criminal. You’re just an idiot who relies on outdated accounting methods. Don’t take that with you when you become an actual financial advisor. Sit down. I’m calling someone else.” Zeke turned back to the class list on the teacher’s table. “Okay, anyone in this list with a finance related position...” Zeke’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked through the list. He looked at the class with a cat-like grin, his eyes focusing on one boy in the front row. “In my almost sixteen years of knowing you, I did not expect you to be suitable but it looks like you’re the only one in this list other than Jean with an accounting related occupation.”
“Really? It’s accounting related?” Eren had never been one to be good at Math. Everyone in the class agreed and as their professor hinted at his assigned occupation, many began to whisper, possibly theorizing as to what Eren had gotten.
They did not have to theorize for long though, within seconds, Zeke continued to discuss. “Okay Eren, let’s discuss your field of expertise --- insurance.”
Eren slowly nodded in return. It was a nod which everyone in the room had understood at first glance. Insurance was not Eren’s field of expertise.
Zeke did not seem to care though. “Case study time! I have 3000 dollars. Eren the insurance salesman sells me $200 dollars a month worth of insurance and I buy one years worth of prepaid insurance. By the end of this month, how much worth of assets do I have left?”
“By assets, you mean money?”
“Check a fucking dictionary.”
Eren sat down for a second. From his seat, Levi could hear some whispers from Mikasa and some clicks of a digital keyboard, or possibly a calculator.
“600 dollars.”
“Final answer?”
“Yes. Final Answer.” Eren seemed so sure of his answer.
From seeing Zeke’s face at the answer, Levi could not help but think, maybe phrasing it as a question was the better option for Eren.
“This is why your generation is so shit at saving. With this type of attitude, you‘re all gonna get into some shity Ponzi scheme with yourself and some sad saps who actually pitied you enough to lend you money without assessing your credit rating that’s just gonna continue riding on some endless cycle until you all go to jail or declare bankruptcy.” Zeke ranted again as he punched the buttons of the projector, turning it on. “ Scratch that. At this rate, none of you would probably even know how to declare bankruptcy.”
Accounting 101 . Those two words flashed on the screen, the contrast of black words in a default font to the white background of a hastily made powerpoint only getting clearer as the projector whirred to life.
“The amount of debt you can get into in the real world will fuck up your life. So to simulate the real world consequences of unpaid debt, we decided to make your fake debt by the end of the year one of the main determinants of your final grade. And we will be using real accounting to determine your debt. Any questions before we start?”
It was Sasha who raised her hand from the back of the classroom.
“Yes?” Zeke asked with shoddily hidden annoyance.
“So which one is cost and which one is accrual again, Sir?”
Division of Labor
"I told you. I'll handle the accounting," Hange said. "We can make this work." Her words were not at all assuring.
It was Wednesday afternoon. They had submitted their selection for their house that afternoon in class so that meant no more takebacks. Their house plans were due midnight and Levi was not even halfway done. To add insult to injury, Levi was still reeling from Zeke’s lecture just a few hours ago.
Initially, Hange had suggested they buy the furniture in installments. The prospect of buying in installments though became all the more terrifying with the accounting system Zeke had introduced to them that day and the weight of a negative balance sheet on their grades.
As soon as you buy something and enter into debt, the money owed is not yours anymore. Levi shuddered as those words echoed in his head. He narrowed his eyes at Hange. "Really Hange? Can we? After deciding to spend half your salary each month on an unfinished 3 bedroom house?" Levi asked as he gestured to their next tall order that stretched over two aisles. They were in the baby's section in the supermarket.
It was their third round around that aisle, trying to look for a brand of diaper and a brand of formula that would not cost them a total of 400 dollars a month.
“I mean, we still have 800 dollars on groceries if we put our furniture installments budget at 1000 dollars a month,” Hange explained. “So if we spend 400 dollars on baby stuff, we should have 400 left.”
“400 dollars for a month’s worth of meals for a family of four.” Levi clarified. “There must be something here we could choose not to spend on.” Or maybe we could find a cheaper place to buy things in. Levi thought back to the supermarket nearer to his house and made a mental note to check it. The output was due on Friday anyway.
"Hey, Armin and Annie are here too!" Hange said enthusiastically.
Too enthusiastically. Levi clarified to himself. That was not at all good news. If other groups were going to that supermarket, that must mean they think they have the financial leeway to spend there, That could also possibly mean he and Hange had somehow fucked up financially as a pair, struggling to make ends meet. Armin was a studious student with a good head on his shoulders and he chose to shop in a more expensive supermarket. Are we spending too much?
"Let's ask Armin…" Levi did not need to finish his sentence. By the time, he looked to his side, where Hange stood or at least was supposed to be standing, the latter was already on her way to the blond boy..
Levi did not waste anytime. As Hange chatted up Armin, Levi made a few rounds through the two aisles again, his phone calculator on hand.
Just in case. Levi told himself. Just in case they had miscalculated the minimum expense of 400 dollars.
Division of Labor
Hange had a long talk with Armin. By that point, Levi had lost count of the number of rounds he had made around the aisle. He had stopped counting at five. He had done his research on discounts and made some fake accounts and the expense still clocked at $390 dollars.
By the time he and Hange called it quits, the sun was setting. Hange seemed lost in thought and she had been that way since she had finished her conversation with Armin. Levi decided to take over keeping both sacks for the night. He made a small detour to the grocery store nearest to his flat. It was smaller, a little dirtier but it meant a little more room for spending and a bigger chance of saving his grade and graduating. Begrudgingly, sanitation became the least of Levi's issues.
He wrote out all the prices of the important items they had seen in the grocery store. When he got home, he made sure to write them all on a google sheet complete with weight, quantity and prices and sent the link to Hange through an instant message. For some reason, he felt a twinge of disappointment when all he received was a heart react in return.
Of course, Hange still had a lot of things to calculate. Even as they separated less than an hour ago, she had seemed distracted. Levi guessed Armin had told her something game breaking about the accounting process.
What did Armin tell you? You need any help?
Will explain soon. Send the meal plan and house design by 9 pls.
Levi managed to submit the meal plan by nine. He had copied and pasted from some random family cooking website, changing a few ingredients to fit what he thought would be cheaper options. He did not need to think too much of it either. He lived a life many would consider the complete opposite of excess and as a result, had mastered the art of improvisation when it came to food.
His main problem lay with the floor plan of the house. Hange had agreed to handle worrying about the expenses. That was one problem out of his plate.
Even with the money problem out of his hands, Levi found himself working until late anyway. Or not working… Levi was only reminded of his lack of productivity when his phone lit up with a notification.
11:00pm
Hange Zoe
Where??????
Levi only realized then that he had gotten a little carried away with the problem of where to put the washing machine.
Division of Labor
It was a genius idea.
That Wednesday night, only a few hours before the house plan was due, Levi had had fifty tabs open from German and Japanese house designers showing bathrooms and laundry room designs highlighting the novelty and practicality of putting the washing machine in the bathroom. Levi had spent hours pondering the logistics of making it work for the house design Hange had sent him only for her to shoot down the idea an hour before the housing plan was due.
They rented an American style house with a bathroom in every bedroom and the impracticality had dawned on him particularly when it was fifteen minutes to 12am and they were still arguing in chat over how to design the house. In the end, Hange had gotten her way, having brought up the issue of accounting furniture and the fact that they probably did not even have the financial leeway to pay for a washing machine anyway.
Having to deal with the disappointment of losing the opportunity to design the house the way he wanted to and having his unfinished design shipped off to Erwin’s email, with little regard for the effort he had put into the intricacy of both the toilets and the laundry room, Levi was a little pissed. He also considered the fact that he had respected the effort and detail Hange had put into choosing a house and had allowed her to submit a potentially overpriced and unfurnished house as their final product.
And she could not even reciprocate the respect for his whims.
Levi decided then to take a break from it all. It was a silent agreement on both ends. Or there was no need for an agreement anyway. They had finished their deliverables for the week by Thursday.
Everyone had ended up cramming theirs anyway and Levi found himself walking home alone and spending his time outside school hours bingeing whatever was new on Netflix.
By Monday, Levi had not expected to do much. Their breakdown of responsibilities was due Friday, 12am on Thursday to be exact according to the file that Erwin had sent. It was a one page paper with a few questions that just needed answering. They could easily start on Tuesday or Wednesday.
Levi wanted to spend at least just his Monday, peacefully, not considering the program which has been plaguing the start of their junior year since Shadis’ announcement just a week ago. He allowed himself to clear his mind, making sure to just note on his phone to start on the next output by Wednesday. Hange would probably remind him anyway.
He had deluded himself well into thinking the adulting program was limited to those once a week outputs. An announcement was made to meet in the kitchen after lunch for home economics class. His mood that Monday had him living in complete denial of what could actually go on in a school kitchen and for some reason, Levi imagined having a lecture in the kitchen was a completely normal expectation, even with the reminder to bring aprons and gloves. Maybe we just need to put them in lockers or something.
As the students filed in though, some of them panicked and that was when Levi figured out that something was not right. The counters were all lined up with ingredients. Some of the students had recognized the ingredients. Levi looked to Hange to see that she was blank on what the hell the pattern was behind the types of ingredients set out.
There were the essentials--- flour, sugar, eggs. There were exotic ingredients Levi could not even name or pronounce.
“Cardamom, Star Anise, Rose water. What the hell?” It was Jean speaking from behind Levi.
“I’m glad you see the pattern. I’m assuming that means you’ll all do well?” Erwin waited while the rest of the class filed into the room before he raised his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today we’ll be having a pop quiz just to make sure you all know what you’re writing when you make the meal plans. In the tables assigned to you, you will see the ingredients for one of the meals you put in your meal plan. Please use them accordingly to make a full course meal from what you had submitted.”
Levi could not remember for the life of him what the hell he had put in that meal plan a week back
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Top-Secret Mission to the Library
A very Merry (early) Christmas to @priincessleiia!!! I hope you enjoy some out of costumes shenanigans for the one true Brotp, Moonbounce! I was inspired by my job (as Steph and I have the same one) and just kinda ran with it.
Words: 1,704
Rating: G
Gen, Brotp Steph & Damian
AO3
Steph wasn’t exactly glad to be working at the college library over winter break, but the pay and hours were better than during the school year and she didn’t have to deal with holiday shoppers so she was thankful. Working nine to five also meant that she didn’t have to cut down on her hours as Batgirl which Steph was glad about.
She’d finally managed to put the last of the books back on their proper shelves and was just sitting down at her station at the circulation desk when the door opened. Steph looked up, mildly surprised as over the past week there was maybe ten people in the library in total. And most of those had been professors dropping things off and loading up on dvds for the time off. Steph’s surprise and eyebrows both rose as she recognized the scowling face that walked up to the desk.
“Brown,” Damian growled. Steph had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, with the high circulation desk she was able to only see Damian’s head over the top.
“Hey Dami! How can I help you?” She put on her best customer service voice and brightest smile, causing Damian to glower further.
“You can start by not calling me that,” he harrumphed. “I require a book that is only available here and as my time is valuable I’d rather not waste it searching for it so if you can fetch it for me I will remain here.”
Stephanie had to raise a hand to cover her mouth, it was getting increasingly harder not to smile at him. “Um, yeah, that’s not how this works?” she told him once she managed to regain some of her composure.
Damian blinked, his brow furrowing in mild confusion. “And how does it work?”
“Well you give me the title, or author, or whatever and I look it up in our system to get the call number and then if you want I can help you find it.”
“Well the title is classified. It’s for a case I’m working on and you don’t need to be informed of it.”
“Uh huh,” Steph raised a single brow before turning from Damian and pulling her chair back over from where it rolled when she stood up. She settled herself into it and picked up the book Babs had leant her about a year ago and she finally had the time to read. Flipping to where she left off Steph settled her feet on the book drop under the desk and began to read.
Over the top of her book she could see Damian’s head raise as he tried to peer further over the counter, meaning he must have been standing on his tiptoes. There was an expression of ever increasing shock and frustration as Damian took in her nonchalance. Steph had to raise the book higher in front of her face in order to avoid making eye contact with him.
“Brown,” Damian hissed, placing his elbows on the counter and drawing himself up with them.
Steph lowered her book incrementally and peered at him over the top of it. “Yes?” she drawled, internally proud of her newfound poker face.
“It is your job to help me.” Steph leaned forward, struck suddenly by how much Damian sounded like Draco Malfoy in that instant. She merely blinked at him before tilting her head slightly, face a mask of confusion. “Do not force me to go to your superior,” Damian raised his chin imperiously.
Steph slouched back in her chair with a sigh. “Lookit bud, you can tattle on me to my boss all you want but they’re not gonna help you cause you haven’t told me what you need help with. Until that happens I can’t do anything.”
Damian stood back and crossed his arms. He frowned, obviously weighing the pros and cons.
Finally, he stepped back up to the desk. “Since we have worked together before I will allow you to know what it is I am looking for,” he nodded and looked at her expectantly. Steph put her book down and her feet back on the floor. She pulled herself closer to the keyboard, finding the online catalogue with ease. Steph looked back at Damian expectantly and waited for him to relay the title to her. He leaned across the counter and looked at her imploringly. Steph widened her eyes and shrugged at him; she could read Cass’s expressions, not Damian’s. He sighed and rolled his eyes before motioning Steph to come closer. She got up and leaned across the counter too so that Damian could whisper in her ear. “I need 1,001 Knitting Patterns for Beginners and Beyond.”
Steph drew back and looked Damian in the eye. He just blinked at her impassively. Part of Steph wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Damian’s request. A larger part of her knew that would hurt the kid’s already fragile ego, but a still larger part told her this was a prank. Steph narrowed her eyes, expecting Damian to start laughing at her or for one of his siblings – most likely Jason or Dick – to jump out with a camera to record her reaction. Damian simply stared back at her, a single eyebrow creeping slowly skyward.
With a shake of her head she turned back to the computer and typed the title into the search bar. Slapping the enter key with a little more force than was strictly necessary Steph suddenly had a greater appreciation for all the research Babs did for everyone. Simply doing her job for Damian was making her antsy. The page quickly pulled up the book and its call number; Steph scribbled it down a piece of scrap paper.
“Here you go,” she passed the paper to Damian, her bright costumer service smile plastered across the face.
Taking it from her Damian wrinkled his nose. “What’s with the face?”
Steph toned down the cheer, her smile falling into a grimace. “It’s my costumer smile.” Damian just stared back at her incredulously, a single eyebrow inching towards his hairline. Steph shook her head, “Y’know what, never mind. You want me to help you find that?”
“You said that part of your job was assisting me in locating the book.” When Steph didn’t reply Damian blinked at her. He gave a long-suffering sigh as he rolled his eyes skyward. “Yes, I would like your help, Brown.”
Steph couldn’t keep her grin contained, it wasn’t everyday that she got him to admit to needing help. Putting up the Back in a Few! sign Steph ducked around to the front and motioned for Damian to follow her. He had to jog a few steps to catch up and shoved the slip of paper back towards her. Steph glanced at it and dove into the shelves, Damian on her heels.
“So what’s the case?” Steph asked as she scanned the shelves.
“What?” Damian asked. He seemed distracted and when Steph stopped he ran into her. He stepped back and glared up at her, Damian snapped at her. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Are you ok?” Steph was growing concerned.
“I am fine. Now the task at hand?”
Steph eyed him suspiciously. “Yeah… no… What’s up kid?”
“I’m not a kid.” The petulant way he said it seemed to argue otherwise. “And what I am working on is none of your business.”
“Damian, I’m your friend, you can tell me what the book is for,” Steph said with a sigh. She pulled one of the step stools from the end of the aisle over, perching herself on it as she waited for Damian’s reaction.
His expression was a warzone as he debated whether or not to tell her. His brow and nose crinkling and smoothing, lips pursing and then pressing into a tight line. Damian’s head tilted to one side before going back to the other. Finally, he nodded and looked at her seriously.
“I am making a present for Grayson. Pennyworth has been teaching me how to knit and I know that he could use a new hat. One of the ones with the pom-poms on top,” Damian trailed off, mumbling to his shoes by the end.
Steph grabbed the sleeve of Damian’s coat and pulled him toward her, engulfing him in a hug. “That’s adorable. He’ll love it.”
Damian hugged her back briefly before grumbling and pushing Steph away. She grinned as she rose to her feet; grabbing the stool to put it back where it came from. Steph inclined her head towards one of the shelves further down and began walking. She began to examine the spines of the books more closely, looking for the call number that mirrored the one on the paper in her hand. Smiling, Steph pulled it off the shelf and handed it to Damian.
“Would I be able to scan the pages I need?” Damian asked as he began to flip through the book.
“Mmhmm, we have a scanner that you can use to send a pdf to your email,” Steph replied easily, slipping back into costumer service mode. “You need anything else kiddo?”
Damian shot her a look, but it softened into a slight smile. “Thank you, Brown, you have been of great assistance to me.”
Steph nodded and set off back towards her desk. She had settled in with her book when a few minutes later Damian returned. Slipping the book into the return slot he gave her a wave before leaving. Steph grinned as she did a count use and set it on the cart to be reshelved later.
The next week Steph came back to the desk from putting more books away in the stacks. She had to pause, on her chair was a simple brown paper bag. Steph put the cart away and walked over cautiously. She would never admit it but hanging around the Waynes and company was increasing her sense of paranoia. Opening the bag Steph pulled out a bright purple infinity scarf. The yarn was soft, and the scarf was warm as she wrapped it around her neck. A note fluttered to the ground; she knelt down and picked it up.
“Brown,
Your assistance was greatly appreciated.
- Damian”
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Organizing (Grad) School Applications
Applying to college or graduate school has a lot of steps, some of which need to be done in advance of the deadline. I’m not the most organized person alive, and in the past that’s definitely come back to bite me insofar as apps go, mostly because I won’t get everything lined up and end up missing the deadline as a result.
This is the method I used last year when I was applying to graduate schools. It requires a fair amount of advance planning, because I knew going in (this was my fifth round of applications and the first round of entirely PhD apps) that that was mostly likely to be where I was going to fall down, so I needed to bite-size it as much as possible. This is aimed at grad school apps, but the same method should work fine for college as well; there are just a couple extra grad steps.
I really recommend doing this on your computer, because I ended up hyperlinking a lot of stuff so I didn’t have to google it and dig around the department website every time. I actually just did it in my Tumblr drafts, but something like Google Docs or even Microsoft Word or Excel would work just as well.
KEY POINT: You can do all of this in five minutes a day if you start early enough. You don’t have to dedicate six hours a day to it or do every step in a single day; in fact, I recommend only doing about 5-15 minutes a day, then putting it aside and doing literally anything else. If that’s one e-mail? Good! If that’s looking up one school’s website? Great! If it’s filling in ticky boxes for five minutes? Hurrah!
Whatever works, works.
Step 1
Narrow down your schools by whatever metric you’re using: my initial list was 13, I narrowed that down to 8 and ended up applying to 6. Write down the school, the department (your area of specialty if applicable), at least one professor in the department that you want to work with, and the application deadline(s). Hyperlink the program page on the department website.
Example:
Boston College - History (medieval)
Robin Fleming (medieval/Late Antique)
January 2, 2017
Louisiana State University - History (Late Antique/medieval)
Maribel Dietz (ancient/Late Antique)
January 15, 2017
University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill - Classics with Historical Emphasis
Jennifer Gates-Foster (ethnicity & identity)
December 13, 2016
December 21, 2016 (letters of rec)
Step 2
Go through each program and write down every requirement for the application. Not all of these will be on the department website, so you’ll probably have to go to the graduate school’s website as well. Every requirement. Double and triple-check.
Things to check for:
Digital vs. hard copy transcripts
Also, which schools. If you’ve taken summer courses at another institution, they may be required; they may only be required from degree-granting institutions.
No graduate schools require high school transcripts as far as I know.
Number of letters of recommendation (the standard number is three, some schools will accept four)
Deadlines -- does your program have different deadlines for the application and for letters of rec? does your program have a different deadline than the main graduate school?
Program-specific requirements -- writing samples are standard; some schools also require a book review, a portfolio, or something else.
Does the program require or recommend contacting the professor within the department whom you’re interested in working with?
GRE scores -- if you’re in the States just assume you have to take the GRE, though not all programs require it.
Personal statement vs. statement of purpose (or both)
Resume vs. CV (curriculum vitae)
COST. Almost everywhere in the U.S. has an application fee; make sure you know what it is. Some schools will have a fee waiver deadline; in many cases you can also apply for a fee waiver if it’s financially difficult for you.
Organize everything by application date; I divided them up by month and put every requirement on there, as well as a hyperlink to the APPLICATION page (not the department page). I didn’t go through each application
Example
DECEMBER
Dec 13 – University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill - Classics
Application
transcripts (scanned)
letters of recommendation (3)
GRE scores
CV
note: separate requirements for classical archaeology
writing sample (20-30 pages)
personal statement (1-2 pages double-spaced)
professional goals?
why a PhD in classics?
particular interests UNC program and faculty?
any special circumstances?
application fee ($85)
JANUARY
Jan 2 – Boston College - History
Application
statement of purpose (1-2 pages, intellectual interests, why BC?)
official transcripts (scanned)
hard copy only required after matriculation
GRE scores
letters of recommendation (3)
writing sample (10-15 pages)
application fee ($75)
Jan 15 – Louisiana State University - History
Application
GRE scores
official transcripts (hard copy)
statement of purpose
letters of recommendation (3)
writing sample (10-20 pages – excerpt from MA thesis)
application fee ($50)
Step 3
Make your applications. Write down your username (or e-mail address used) and password -- I kept these handwritten in the same notebook I used for a few other things. Make sure your hyperlinks from the previous step lead directly to the application itself.
Step 4
I took the GRE several years ago, so I didn’t have to do it again, but if you haven’t taken the GRE yet I would advise you do so as soon as possible in order to get your scores in on time. (I’m not sure if it’s too late or not for people wanting to apply in this round of applications.)
Step 5
Ask your recommenders. I asked five professors; most schools only require three recommenders but I’m an untrusting sort so I lined up four (one said no because he had only had me for languages), three from my most recent graduate program and one from my previous postgrad program. Since I wasn’t in town with any of them, I e-mailed them and said, essentially, “Dear Dr. So-and-So, I am applying to graduate school this year, would you be willing to write me a letter of recommendation? I am planning on applying to programs in ancient and medieval history and classical studies; the deadlines are in December and early January. Thank you, K.”
Generally professors will say yes! They may ask for your statement of purpose and sometimes your most recent paper; I sent them all a draft of my statement of purpose (more on this coming soon), my CV, and for the two who hadn’t been on my thesis committee, a copy of my MA thesis. (There’s a pretty good guide here, as well.)
Do this as early as possible. Now, I have asked professors for letters of recs at the last minute before, but I don’t recommend it. Try to give them at least a month’s lead time to write it.
Step 6
Order your transcripts. Many institutions are now granting digital transcripts, which is great! None of mine did. If you’re a current student, you can usually just order them online and pick them up in a few days from the Registrar’s Office; if you’re no longer a current student you’ll want to have them sent to you. Yes, you. Most universities require you, the applicant, to upload a PDF file of your transcript to their application, so you’ll want to have one. I manually scanned my transcripts and keep PDFs of them.
A few universities require transcripts to come directly from the degree granting institutions in hard copy, which means you’ll have to order them from your university and have them sent to the graduate school you’re applying to. The receipt information will be on that grad school application’s webpage. This unfortunately generally costs more money.
If you went abroad for university or graduate school, note that you’ll want more lead time because a hard copy will take longer to get there (and sometimes more processing time). Since I did my postgrad in England, for the one graduate program that required hard copy transcripts I had to order them about a month in advance. This also cost more than ordering them from my undergraduate university in the States.
Step 7
Sit down with your transcript and write out every one of your major and minor classes. Every single one. Make sure you also note down the grade you got and the number of credits it was worth. If you did a double major or a double minor, as I did, do this for all of them.
Many graduate programs require your major GPA, which isn’t noted on your transcript. This is pretty easy to figure out -- just plug it into something like GPA Calculator -- but it’s a time-consuming hassle. Since I had a double major and a double minor, I calculated my GPA for each one separately, then together, and put down whichever of those three turned out the highest. I only had one school ask for my minor GPA; same process.
Writing everything down will also mean you have a list to refer back to if a school asks for all relevant courses you’ve taken, thanks, Boston College, that was really annoying to do.
Step 8
At this point if you like -- and I would recommend it, since I didn’t do this and it came back to bite me -- you can go through each application and note individual requirements: major and minor GPA, relevant courses, work history, languages, etc.
Step 9
Start drafting your statement of purpose. It can be very very rough at this point; you’ll refine it later. This is the thing where you give your academic history, your areas of interest, and why you want to go to that particular school.
Note that most universities won’t have the same word- or page- length requirement. I would recommend writing one general statement of purpose -- in my case I wrote one for classics/ancient history and one that differed slightly for medieval history -- and leaving the last paragraph to revise for each university. In that paragraph you want to make it very clearly that you’re familiar with the program and the professors you want to work with; make it as specific as possible. I sent the cleanest early draft of my statement of purpose to my recommenders (making it sure they knew it was a draft).
Step 10
Start actually working on your applications! In whatever order you feel like; this is mostly a case of filling in boxes. It’s time-consuming but generally brainless.
As many of you know, I’m a big fan of using timers and doing five to fifteen minutes of work a day, which is how I did my apps. At least five minutes a day, aiming for at least five days a week. I put stickers on my calendar every time I did something on my apps because (a) I like stickers and (b) it shows me that I’ve been working.
I think I started working on them in about mid-October, lost about a week in November because I wasn’t functional due to the election, finished the first half my apps in December, lost another two weeks because I wasn’t functional for personal reasons, and finished the second half of my apps in January.
Step 11
Figure out what you’re using for your writing sample. In my case, I used a chunk of my MA thesis -- actually, several different chunks, because I tailored each excerpt to the program I was applying to. Many of them had different word- and page- count requirements.
Here’s a “do what I say, not what I do” note: make sure you write down somewhere which writing sample you sent to which university, if you’re using different excerpts or different papers for them. I still have no idea which chunk of my thesis I sent to which university and I wish I knew.
Step 12
Make sure you actually hit the “submit application” button once you’ve finished. This is also generally the point at which you will have to give whatever university you’re applying to a large amount of money.
Step 13
Congratulations, you’ve applied to graduate school! Your applications are in and finally you can know peace! Actually that’s not true, you’ll be very stressed. Response time varies a lot. I got a rejection letter from one university less than a week after I submitted the application, but in general longer is better; you may not hear anything for a few months.
MAKE SURE YOU KEEP CHECKING YOUR E-MAIL.
I used my .edu address instead of my personal e-mail address because it looked more professional, and after I finished my last application I didn’t check it for a week because I figured it was early enough that no one would be contacting me yet. Three days after this I got a frantic e-mail on my personal account from a professor at one of my applying universities saying she had been trying to get in touch with me, but couldn’t because I wasn’t checking the address I had used to apply. (She contacted one of my recommenders, who was actually the only person at my previous university who had my personal e-mail address.)
I also got an e-mail from one university telling me that I had been waitlisted, did I want to stay on the waitlist or had I gotten a better offer? Another e-mail told me I’d been offered acceptance into the MA program, but not the PhD program; did I want that? Another wanted clarification on my GRE scores (they were right on the expiry line). You never know what people will ask, so make sure you can stay in contact.
Step 14
You may have an interview, which I did. I prepared some things to talk about -- my academic background and areas of interest, both of which were on my statement of purpose, as well as some other academic interests I hadn’t put in my statement of purpose. I also prepared some questions to talk about -- what kind of teaching training the program supplied, how much teaching I would be required to do, if the department got along with other departments in the university (because I’m interdisciplinary), questions about field work and internships, and also, what the professors interviewing me liked about the university and the city it was in. You want to seem engaged and knowledgeable about the program you’re interested in.
These can be phone or Skype interviews; in my case it was supposed to be a Skype interview but ended up being a phone one because my Skype didn’t end up working. (To this end, make sure they have your phone number as well.)
I did end up getting asked in my interview about the fact that I took a year off where I had no work history; I was upfront and said that because I had finished my program late, I had decided to concentrate on my applications and my health rather than trying to get into the job market, since it was financially possible for me. Admitting I took a year off did not hurt my applications.
Step 15
Wait and cry. You honestly can’t do anything about your applications at this point, so be gentle with yourself. If you’re still in classes, concentrate on them; you don’t want your grades to slip in your last term. If you’re not -- well, at the time I was busy being completely miserable about something else, which occupied about 90% of my thoughts at any given point in time, but other than that, it does sometimes help to come up with ideas of what you can do if you don’t get in. Wait for the next round of applications? Apply overseas? (Different deadlines, many of them rolling.) Put yourself on the job market? Take a year off to lie on the floor? There are options.
Good luck, and feel free to ask me further questions or clarifications. I can’t promise I’ll know the answer, but I will try.
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Vigil
~*~
A fourth tale of Those Who Carry The Flame.
Previously: Ghost Lights
~*~
Who bears the power to set souls ablaze?
Is it the saint, ablaze like a second sun? Is it the hero, aglow with the bonfire of their own fame? Is it the mentor, a lantern lighting the way? Is it ancestry, tradition, and legacy, the glow of distant stars lingering after they’ve gone out?
The fire of courage burns in all these honored places. But so, too, does it burn among simpler, smaller things- like a promise made, one hand in another, or a candle at a bedside.
There are tales there, too, ones worthy of telling.
This is a tale of courage and candlelight- a tale of those who carry the flame…
~*~
Twenty years ago, war came to my planet. And then, just as suddenly, it left- leaving behind a horde of mindless ghouls in our streets, and a sandstorm that never ends.
My friends and I are the first generation born into this ravaged world- a world where monsters roam the streets and pockets of humanity hold on to what safe zones they can. Somehow, we manage to scrape a living. It’s not an easy life; but it’s not all bad, either.
Twenty years ago, the sky fell in, and monsters descended upon us, but the world did not end. We’re still here, despite everything. We’ve made it this far. And we’ll make it further.
My name is Yasmin Quintana, and this wretched world hasn’t killed us yet.
Today is a new day.
Let’s survive.
~*~
Last night, a new star lit up the sky and forced away the gloom. A pillar of white light surged up out of the earth and into the heavens, throwing aside the sandstorm that had plagued our planet for the last twenty years. Every ghoul for miles around was annihilated on the spot. For one night, at least, there was a place on Demeter outside a Halo where the air was free and clear.
Everyone who’d gone on that expedition told the same story, and though some were more reluctant than others, they still came to the same conclusion:
Eliza was truly her mother’s daughter. Eliza had performed a miracle.
Though the pillar of light dissipated in minutes, and the sandstorm slowly began to filter back in over the uncovered plains, the light of Eliza’s miracle suffused the air with a lingering glow.
Like Eliza, I, too, am making my own light. But not by anything nearly so dramatic as working miracles; I’m getting by with a matchbox and a drawer’s worth of candles.
The Halo looms above us. On another day, the Halo could have shone bright enough and clear enough that one might almost think it were moonlight; but not today. In the wake of Eliza’s miracle, the sandstorm had resumed, howling stronger than ever, as if making up for lost time. It scrapes and spatters at the Halo’s bluish-white flame, the barrier flickering and guttering like candles in a strong breeze.
I light a last candle, and set it on the nightstand. Standing beside it is a framed pict of Eliza. It was taken years ago, back when she was just- cliched as it sounds- the girl next door. She’s wearing a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat. Standing behind her, with his hand on her shoulder, was a man, hollow-eyed, forcing a smile for the camera. Her father, Jean Beauchene.
Eliza’s mother, for whom she was named, passed away at the very end of the war. Eliza was only a baby at the time. It was the death that would make Elizabeth Beauchene famous- the sacrifice that canonized her as the Saint.
Jean Beauchene was never the same after his wife’s passing, exalted as it may have been.
His grief killed him slowly- a death by inches. Until one day, after spending nine years a widower, Jean Beauchene walked into the sandstorm and was never seen again.
A decade later, and Eliza followed her father’s footsteps out into the long dark, with our friend Miki Shimizu and a squad of PDF troopers in tow.
“Bring her back to me,” I asked him. I had hoped Miki would keep his promise.
But not like this. Not like this.
The candlelight fills our house with a warm but eerie serenity. The candle shines on her nightstand, so like an altar, flickering across the faces of ghosts trapped in the picture frame.
Eliza lays sleeping through all of this, hair fanning around her like a crown, hands clasped across her stomach in a funereal calm. I reach forward, laying my hand on hers. Her fingers are cold; her pulse, thready and faint.
Eliza is framed like a classical painting, bright light and deep shadow. The Halo’s bluish white light falls across her left side; the warm glow of the candle cast across her right. I sit in the darkness between, rubbing warmth into her fingers, clutching her heartbeat.
“You’re here,” I whisper. Eliza’s life pulses in my hands.
“You made it.”
~*~
I am chasing Eliza through a garden, surrounded by high hedges and archways of climbing ivy. The hedges paint stripes across the ground, bands of bright sunlight cut through with deep shadow. Up ahead, Eliza is laughing, calling for me. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat, and dressed all in white-
I snap awake, registering three things in quick succession: one, the candle is still burning; two, the alarm clock isn’t working because the power’s still out; and three, Eliza isn’t awake.
I sigh, reaching forward and smoothing her hair across her scalp. She’s so peaceful in her sleep. I have to stop myself from thinking “peaceful in death”. She’s just sleeping. That’s all. That’s what I have to believe.
Somebody’s at the door. I get up and stretch, rolling my neck. Sleeping in a chair is murder on your joints. I limp to the door, my knees and shoulders aching.
It’s Mika, less smiley than I’m used to, moreso because she doesn’t have her dour brother for comparison.
“Good morning,” she chirps, trying for chipper despite everything.
“Morning,” I say. “How’s your brother?”
Mika shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. Sleepy. How’s Eliza?”
“...Well,” I exhale, aiming for levity, “it wouldn’t be the first time we were late for bell service because Eliza slept in.”
Mika makes a face. “You, uh, missed the whole thing, actually.”
“Whoops. The Professor won’t be happy.”
“Don’t worry,” Mika waves the thought away. “He missed it, too. Can I come in?”
“Uh- sure,” I step aside.
Our little one-story bungalow is pretty modest, as far as places go. A few couches in one corner, a little kitchen tucked into another, and my and Eliza’s bedrooms in the other two.
Mika flops down onto a couch in what passes for our living room. She scans the room, nodding appraisingly.
“I like what you’ve done to the place,” she says, eyeing the- perhaps excessive- candles arrayed throughout the house.
“Sorry,” I apologize, reflexively. “Halo-light wasn’t cutting it. And, besides, I... I needed-”
“Something to do with your hands?” Mika smiles knowingly. “I get you.”
I smile. I can’t help myself. With Mika, these things are contagious.
“Should I be getting dressed for work?” I ask.
“No patrol today,” Mika says. “Commander Singh gave us the day off. Miki and Eliza could use the breather, and the Professor’s busy with the girl they picked up yesterday.”
I look up. “What girl?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Mika leans in and lowers her voice, like a kid with the newest gossip. “The expedition was attacked by a daemon.”
“No.”
“Mmhmm. Not some bottom-rung ghoul. The real deal. Horns. Hooves. I tell you, she’s built like a truck and looks like she’s made of rocks. People are saying Eliza saved her soul.”
I make a face. “What does that even mean?”
Mika shrugs. “Who knows? Eliza did her white light majesty thing, and the daemon wasn’t vaporized like every other ghoul around. She just passed out. The Professor’s at the Association now, waiting for her to wake up.”
Not unlike myself and Eliza, I suppose. The thought buzzes in my head. I flex my fingers, fidgeting.
“This is heavy stuff,” Mika muses. “This is some ‘only say the word and I shall be healed’ stuff.”
“Don’t say that,” I say, harsher than I intend. “Eliza’s just… Eliza. Don’t put her up on an altar. It’s bad enough she has to see her mother up there.”
“Yasmin, look at her,” Mika says, graver than I’m used to hearing her. “She created a new Halo over the generator station. She supposedly freed the mind of a daemon from its masters. She wiped out more ghouls in a single instant than we’ve probably done in our whole career as Hunters. She parted the sandstorm, even if for just a little bit. And she’s the daughter of the woman who could do all that and more.”
“Look at what it cost!” I snap. “Her mother died doing all that, remember?”
“She died to save us, Yasmin.”
“Eliza’s not a savior!” I say, my jaw tight. “She’s not a hero, or a martyr, or a legend! She’s just a person. She just wants to be a person!”
“I know,” Mika says softly. “But what if this town- this world- needs more than a person?”
~*~
Mika’s question lingered as uncomfortably in the air as she did on my couch. In her anxiety, Mika turned to small talk. How was your day? How about that weather, huh? This is hardly news to her- Mika sees me pretty much every day, so she knows exactly how my days have been- but I suppose it never hurts to ask.
Mika has a habit of talking through her discomfort. Our anxiety fills us in different ways- Eliza in her thoughts, mine in my hands. Mika’s anxiety escapes through her mouth.
Times like these, you have to look past the words. Mika’s chattering at me, and honestly, I’m not really listening. But she leans her head against my shoulder, by way of apology, and I understand. She burrows into my arm, so like a child despite her military uniform. I sigh, reaching out and smoothing her hair against her scalp.
“Can I see her?” She murmurs into my neck. All I can do is nod.
Eliza looks exactly as she did earlier this morning. She’s laying in bed, perfectly still save for the faintest rise and fall of her chest, framed by Halo-light and candlelight, her hands clasped across her stomach in funereal calm.
Mika stands, staring, her voice stolen away by the somber quiet. She works her jaw, faltering.
“She’s…” She swallows. “She’s so… peaceful.”
I wince at her choice of words. Mika gently touches Eliza’s clasped hands, bowing her head, as if in prayer.
“Eliza,” she murmurs, “Eliza. It’s me. It’s M- Mika.”
I can’t help myself. Eliza in bed, silent and still, surrounded by candles, her portrait on her nightstand lit up like an altar. It’s too much. I gasp, choking out a sob.
Mika’s eyes dart to me, then back to Eliza again. She quickly changes tack.
“You’re late for work again, Eliza,” Mika chirps. “Sleeping in all the time. That’s a bad habit, you know that?”
She gives Eliza’s hand a squeeze, before turning to me. She practically jumps into my arms, throwing her arms around my neck. I hug her tight, blinking away stray tears.
“She’s gonna wake up soon,” Mika sighs into my throat.
“She’d better,” I say, managing a smile. “We’ve got work to do.”
Mika doesn’t want to let me go. I don’t, either. The house is quiet, cold, and dark, save for the fragile light of the candles I’ve put up. Mika is a flame in my hands. She’s loud, and warm, and alive.
Something buzzes against Mika’s thigh. We part, reluctantly, as she fishes her comm out of her pocket. She glances at it and rolls her eyes.
“That’s my dad,” she sighs. “I gotta get home.”
“Okay,” I nod.
“Listen, if you need anything, just give me a call.”
I pull my comm out of my pocket and click a few buttons on it uselessly.
“...Uh,” I grin, sheepish. “Comm’s dead. Power’s out.”
“I’m right down the street, doofus.”
Mika pulls me in and holds me tight. She’s blessedly warm.
“Yell, if you have to,” Mika smiles. “I’ll come running.”
~*~
I’m chasing after Eliza in the hedge maze, white butterflies flitting past. There are three women at the end of the path. A woman in white, blindfolded, golden hair blazing like a crown. A woman in black, a snake slithering out of her sleeve, a tattoo of an ankh falling from her eye like a teardrop. A woman robed in brown, hooded and cloaked, a book clutched to her chest…
I snore loud enough to wake myself up. I sit up, the image of the three women lingering ghostlike on the inside of my eyelids. I blink the dream away. There’s only one woman I have eyes for.
And she’s not awake. Not yet.
Eliza stirs in her sleep, just so. Her breathing deepens, and she shifts onto her side.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A wave of relief floods through my body.
This is the Eliza I know. The girl half-buried in her pillow, hair all over the place, cast in the warm glow of candlelight. Not the cold, pale visage fit to be carved in marble. Not the shadow of a girl, hands crossed over her stomach, laid out as if for burial.
I brush my knuckles against Eliza’s cheek, feel her breath ghost across my skin.
“Come here,” I whisper. “Come home.”
A chill passes over me. An image of the woman in black flickers across my mind’s eye.
I stand up abruptly, scraping back my chair. My knees protest horribly, and I almost sit down again. I stagger to the kitchen, pushing away the vivid imagery of my dream, of two women I thought I should know and a third who was unmistakable.
I’m not really into interpreting dreams, but the ones I’ve been having today just won’t let me go. The hedge maze, the three women, Eliza all in white…
I slap my hands on the counter. Enough! I’m not going to let these things bother me. I can’t worry if I’m too busy working. And here, at the sink, my sanctuary, I have everything I need to keep my mind from wandering too far.
I plug the drain, and start filling the sink. I toss the bottle of dish soap between my hands, determined to keep myself occupied. It’s homemade; Mom showed me how. Not because we were a big DIY family (although we certainly were), but because Elk Lake didn’t have the infrastructure to make the store brand stuff.
I start wishing dishes, and put my mind at ease. I joke about it, but washing dishes really is my meditation. Because if I’m going to clear my mind or whatever, I might as well get some chores done.
Time ambles by in peace and quiet. The squeak of suds on porcelain is a strangely relaxing sound. Warm orange candlelight mingles with the cool, pale blue of the Halo outside. I stand there in the twilight, pouring my worries into the soothing tedium of housework.
Eliza’s snoring. That’s what she gets for sleeping on her face. The sound of it makes me smile, strange as that sounds. I can hear her life in every breath, every snuffle, every snort as she tousles the sheets. I’m grateful for her snoring. It’s just so… ordinary. A mundane reminder that she’s still here; she’s still home.
My lips curl into a frown, feeling the onset of a sudden melancholy. ‘The nightly melancholy’, Eliza calls it. I’d say it was here early, but I didn’t actually know the time- the power was out, and so was our clock.
I set my jaw and focus on the plate in my hands, hoping I can wipe away my encroaching anxiety with some vigorous scrubbing. But then there’s a sound from the street- a sharp, shrill sound that pricks my ears and makes the plate slip from my hands and slosh into the water.
An alarm whistle. A Hunter’s alarm whistle.
I’m at the door in an instant, throwing it open so quickly it makes our outer screen door rattle. I hear the call again: three long blasts in succession. I pull my own alarm whistle out from under my shirt and answer with two short chirps. Half a dozen paired chirps sound from the surrounding blocks.
Three long, echo two. Three long blasts at the point of origin to signal an alert; two short chirps to acknowledge the call, let the spotter know if any backup’s nearby, and to tell everybody else to get inside and lock their doors.
I’m a Hunter, which means holing up indoors during an alert is the last thing I ought to be doing. I yank my jacket off its hook, pull my machete out of our umbrella rack, and I’m out the door.
It’s warmer than it has been for the past few days. Unfortunately, all that means is that three days’ worth of snow is transforming into three days’ worth of slush. The alert sounds again, three long whistle blasts. It’s close; maybe a block away. I turn towards the sound, picking my way through the snow.
Magic simmers beneath my skin, filling me with the heat of adrenaline. It builds in my legs, my hands, manifesting as swirling black smoke, eager to be put to use.
No more worrying. No more moping around. Finally, a chance to do something useful.
My strides grow longer, more confident, heedless of the icy pavement. I break into a jog, then a run, building up speed, trailing darkness in my wake. I race down the street like a comet.
I see them. Six ghouls, milling dumbly around the base of a tree, groping upwards at some poor Hunter standing among the branches. The Hunter hefts an aluminum baseball bat over his shoulder, looking down at the throng of ghouls, his worry hidden beneath a mask of annoyance. He raises his whistle to his lips and blasts out the call again.
I don’t bother to echo the call. He knows damn well that I’m coming.
I charge down the street, wreathed in black smoke. Magic gathers in my legs and I pounce, rocketing forward on a plume of inky darkness.
A ghoul turns around and looks at me with its dumb, milky-white eyes. I smash its skull between the heel of my boot and the tree trunk behind it, my magic empowering my kick with the strength to shatter bone. The tree shudders with the impact, the Hunter above me scrambling to keep his footing.
I push off the tree with my heel, striking another ghoul in the jaw with an empowered roundhouse kick. He staggers back into a trio of his brethren, giving me some breathing room.
My magic thrums in the air, prickling my senses. I spin around and draw my machete in one smooth motion. The ghoul coming up behind me loses a hand at the wrist- and soon after, more than that. Magic surges through my arms and I cleave the ghoul in two, diagonally, from shoulder to hip, ribcage be damned. A ghastly mist explodes out of the wound as the ghoul’s halves crunch down onto the street.
I can feel my magic bleeding off of me like heat into a blizzard. Every second, my breathing gets more ragged, and my limbs feel heavier. Even so, I hear a whistle from above me- not the shrill shriek of a Hunter’s alarm whistle, but one of a frat boy watching the big game.
I smile, tinged with pride, despite everything. But the moment is short-lived.
I swivel at the waist, narrowly avoiding a ghoul’s lunge. A second one uncoils its legs and pounces at me. I slap it away with a chop of my machete, but its filthy nails catch on my jacket and yank me down, my boots slipping in the slush. I hit the ground hard, the wind smashed out of my lungs.
“Whoa! Hey!” The Hunter calls after me in alarm, jumping down from his perch. The ghoul that lunged past me rises up to meet him, foam spotting its lips. He cracks it across the jaw, managing to send it sprawling down the street. Not long after, he’s grabbed from behind by two other ghouls, clawing at the fabric of his old varsity jacket.
Idly, I muse that it can’t have been his jacket- he didn’t look any older than I was, and Elk Lake was hardly a campus town. With the Halo hemming us in and the sandstorm raging outside, it’s not like he could have gone to university.
It’s not like I have time to ponder hand-me-downs, however. I’m laying on the street, struggling with a ghoul who’s got its claws in my jacket. I stomp on its shoulder and tear myself free, wincing at the scratch down my bicep I earn in the process. I kick it in the head, sliding it across the wet, dirty snow.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. I’m tired. More than I realize.
Damn it. I burnt up my magic killing those first two ghouls, and me and Mr. Baseball Bat are still outnumbered two-to-one.
A ghoul grabs me by the leg, and yanks. I lose my footing on the slush, slipping and banging my knee on the pavement. I swear in pain, kicking uselessly at the ghoul’s chest. The ghoul groans at me, treacly black blood drooling down an open, broken jaw. The Hunter’s swing wasn’t quite a home run, and I don’t have enough magic left to finish the job. The ghoul rears back…
Mika is at my side in a flash of green, plunging her knife into the ghoul’s mouth. The blade breaks the ghoul’s front teeth and stabs into the roof of its mouth. It groans dumbly, gagging on the knife. Mika pries the ghoul off of me and drags it to its feet with a grunt of effort. She punches her blade forward, tearing out the ghoul’s cheek in a spatter of gore.
Mika crouches over me as the ghoul falls into a heap, one hand clutching her knife, the other on my shoulder. The other ghoul leaps at us, its maw open wide. Mika stabs her blade up through its jaw, pinning its mouth shut. Momentum carries the ghoul past us, ripping Mika’s knife from her hands. It lands on the street like so much dead weight, a knife through its jaw and up in its brain.
On the sidewalk, the Hunter is struggling with two ghouls, one clinging to his jacket, the other to his leg. Every time he manages to bat one away, the other gets too close for comfort. He jabs the one around his knees with the pommel of his bat, finally managing to kick it away.
A wall of blue light appears in the air, separating the two ghouls. The Hunter blinks, before deciding not to question his good fortune. He pins his assailant against the wall with his heel, smashing its face in with a crack of his bat. The barrier dissipates, and he’s free to focus on the last one. He smashes the ghoul in the legs, knocking it to its knees on the sidewalk. Then he winds up, and knocks it out of the park- the ghoul’s head flies off of its crumpled body and goes sailing down the street.
Miki’s standing on the curb, his hands still shimmering with residual magic. The Hunter nods at him in appreciation, before turning to Mika and I.
“You guys alright?” He asks.
I get to my feet, shaky, my right knee throbbing. I wince, but I nod. Mika quietly lends me her shoulder.
“That was some fancy stuff you did,” the Hunter says.
“Thanks,” I reply. “That was a pretty good swing, yourself.”
There are a pair of short whistle blasts. A man comes up the street, wearing the wheat-gold uniform of Demeter PDF. The Hunter with us stands awkwardly to attention.
“Are you kids alright?” The trooper asks. He surveys the corpses of the ghouls on the ground, nodding appreciatively. He turns back to regard us. “Who called in the alert?”
“I did, sir,” the Hunter says, stiff.
“Well, it looks like you all took care of things just fine,” the trooper grins. He reaches up and keys in his earpiece. “Stand down alert in central; six kills confirmed, no losses. Stand down alert.”
He raises his whistle to his lips and blows- one long blast. We all do the same, and soon the surrounding streets are ringing with the signal for all clear.
The trooper departs. The Hunter follows him, tipping his bat to us in goodbye.
Now it’s just me and the Shimizus. Mika gently lowers me down and I take a seat on the curb, massaging my aching knee. Mika and Miki join me on either side.
“Are you okay?” I ask Miki. He blinks at me, dubious.
“Am I okay? You’re the one who’s hurt,” he says.
“What?” I ask, then notice him eyeing my sleeve. “Oh. It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
“It’s not nothing,” Miki says, rummaging through his pack. “It has to be cleaned properly. You don’t want fabric getting in the wound.”
I open my mouth to reply, but there’s no sense in arguing. Miki’s already pulling out gauze and disinfectant. I sigh, pulling my arm out of my sleeve and letting him patch me up. I’m still riding the heat of battle, and I have friends on either side. My arm is bare, but I scarcely feel the cold.
“We saw you come charging in, all full of magic,” Mika says.
“For all the good that did me,” I shrug. “Ran out of juice too quick.”
“Still, running to an alert like that,” Mika beamed. “What a hero.”
“Yeah? Well, what about you?” I shove Mika in the shoulder. “I fall on my ass like an idiot, and then you come in and stab the hell out of two ghouls.”
“I am pretty awesome,” Mika admits. Miki rolls his eyes.
“Pull more stunts like that,” I tease, “and I just might fall in love.”
“I wish,” Mika scoffs. “There’s only one girl for you.”
The realization comes to me like a slap in the face. Eliza! I have to-
“Easy,” Miki says, as he pulls me back down. Pain flares through my knee, protesting my impulse to suddenly jump to my feet.
“She’s fine,” Mika says. “We just gave the all-clear, remember?”
I take a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. Mika smiles at me. I can’t help but smile back.
“Right,” I nod. “She’s all right.”
“She has to be,” Miki says, matter-of-factly, tying off the gauze around my arm. “She has you.”
“Come on,” Mika says, putting my arm around her shoulder and easing me to my feet. “We’ll bring you home.”
~*~
The hedge maze transforms into hardwood floors, the three women looming as portraits in cut glass. There is no roof; the cosmos stretch out above us, stars glittering like diamonds. A boy stands at the altar, wooden beads around his neck. He is wreathed in an aura of azure flame, and at the very edges of the fire, the licking flames rise up and become white butterflies, flitting away into the void.
Eliza stops before the altar, then turns, waiting for me to join her. I reach out my hand…
I wake up to candlelight and Eliza’s serene, sleeping form.
The image of the boy at the altar lingers behind my eyes, crowned with blue fire, surrounded by white butterflies. He feels strangely familiar, as if he’s someone I should remember, like a relative you met at a party when you were just a kid.
I vaguely remember Mika and Miki bringing me home after the alert. Trudging through the slush with a bum knee wasn’t fun. And it went by a lot slower without my magic to speed me along.
Compared to the vivid imagery of the boy and the butterflies, the walk home went by in a blur.
My body remembers, though. I’m aching all over, and my limbs feel like dead weight. And- since I no doubt insisted on staying in the chair by Eliza’s bed so I could check on her right away- my legs were killing me. Dozing off in an armchair certainly wasn’t going to do my right knee any favors.
I massage the pins and needles from my legs, and rise, unsteady, to my feet. I reach down and brush my knuckles across Eliza’s cheek. She’s warmer, now, and breathing more evenly. I exhale in silent relief.
“You little brat,” I smile. “You’re just gonna sleep all day?”
I know I wouldn’t mind sleeping all day. Charging down that hill suped up with dark magic might have felt exhilarating at the time, but now I’m exhausted. Using that much magic took a lot out of me. Maybe that’s exactly what happened with Eliza, come to think of it. She created her own Halo and put too much of herself into it.
I shake the thought from my head. I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want to worry. I want to work. And, surely, there’s more work to do around here.
I start sorting laundry, just to give my hands something to do. Four piles- clean, semi-clean, dirty, and ruined. Strict water rationing means the average citizen of Elk Lake only gets to do laundry once a month. Hunters get the privilege of going every other week- but, then again, we tend to have dirtier clothes. And conserving water means not splitting up batches by color, so a lot of our clothes get muddy and faded over time.
Bad news for Eliza, who looks lovely in white.
There’s a tap on the screen door, and I get up, knees protesting.
Waiting at the doorstep is the Professor, framed by the Halo’s perpetual twilight. A large box sat at his feet.
“Package for you,” he says, amicably. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, sure,” I say, welcoming him inside.
He taps his cane on the ground. The box’s shadow lifts it up on spindly, spider-like legs. It scuttles inside, dropping the box down beside the kitchen table, before drawing its legs back into itself and becoming an ordinary shadow again.
The heavy thump of the box on the floor is enough to make the nearby candles shiver. The Professor glances at the candles arrayed around the house, easing himself into an old armchair.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says.
“You’re not the first,” I reply. “I take it the eggheads are still working on restoring power?”
“There were… complications.” He must see the look on my face, because he waves away my concern. “You just let me worry about all that. The Commander says we should be back to full capacity by morning.”
I shrug and murmur a non-reply, before turning my attention to the box he brought in with him.
“Courtesy of your parents,” he says, before I need to ask. “They thought you might have used up your water ration and not have any left for cooking. Or drinking, for that matter. They were worried you might have used all your water on ‘stress relief’, whatever that means.”
“Oh.” I glance at the sink, still full from before. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” the Professor nods, as I start unpacking. “There’s firewood in there, too, not that you have a fireplace or wood-burning stove. I suppose it’d be nice for a campfire, if you’re feeling adventurous. And there’s-”
“A whole thermal pack of my mother’s cooking?” I finish, an edge of excitement cutting through my exhaustion. I lift the thermal pack out and set it on the counter. I love my mother’s cooking. She taught me plenty, but there’s only so much I can do with a hot plate, a microwave, and no power. It’s always a treat to get something made in a proper kitchen.
I peel back the foil on a plate and pop a slice of fried plantain into my mouth. The kiss of caramelized sugar is offset by the sharp ache in my stomach.
“Your parents are worried you’re not eating,” the Professor chides.
“I am,” I lie. I haven’t eaten all day. It just never crossed my mind. If not for the Professor coming by, I’m not sure it ever would have.
“Yasmin,” the Professor says, rising from his seat. “Don’t let your worry for Eliza make you forget to take care of yourself.”
Coming from my parents, I would have just brushed it off. But it felt different, coming from him.
“I know,” I sigh.
He nods, then tips his chin towards Eliza’s room. “May I see her?”
I nod and usher him into Eliza’s room. The ache in my limbs just won’t go away- I slither into my chair at Eliza’s bedside, the Professor lingering in the doorway.
Eliza looks like herself again, thank goodness. The color is back in her face, and her breathing is more even, more peaceful. I shudder at the memory of what she looked like just a day ago- pale, and thin, and cold.
The Professor approaches Eliza’s bedside, obviously uncomfortable being in so private a space. He glances at me, a question in his eyes, and I nod. Gingerly, he takes hold of Eliza’s hand.
He whispers an incantation under his breath, and lights swim beneath Eliza’s skin. Eliza’s Bracelet appears suspended around her wrist, a coiled ribbon of golden light. The Professor tils his head, makes a face, then lets her go, the Bracelet disappearing back into Eliza’s arm.
“Just like her mother,” he murmurs, and I can’t tell if he’s wistful or worried.
Any mention of the Saint puts Eliza on edge. But in this moment, my curiosity wins out.
“Did you know her?”
“Her mother?” The Professor glances at me, his expression clouding. “...We fought together. That’s hardly the same thing.”
The Professor gets a far-off look in his eyes, instinctively reaching for the clasp of his cloak. The crest is a symbol that feels achingly familiar- a crescent, an orb, and three diamonds. I can’t quite place it. I shake the thought away.
“People look at Eliza and they see another Saint in the making,” I say, the words bubbling out of me, unbidden, on a swell of anxiety. “They’re calling her trip to the power station a ‘miracle’. They don’t know her at all.”
“People see what they want to see,” the Professor says. “If they want a Saint, they’ll have one.”
I stare at him. “What are you saying? Are you saying Eliza’s mother wasn’t divine, after all?”
“I’m saying that it doesn’t matter,” the Professor continues. “Divine or not, Elizabeth Beauchene ignited hope and courage in the people of this planet. In gratitude, they give her their faith. She gave her life- literally gave her life- to a planet that would have died, and instead stopped us right at the brink. Faith allowed us to endure what should have been the end of the world. Faith did that. Why argue the details?”
“Because the details matter,” I cut in. “Because if Eliza’s mom was just an ordinary person and not some messiah, then the faith that keeps those people going is a sham.”
“Is it?” the Professor asks. “Do they believe because she is a Saint and worth worshipping? Or is she the Saint because they believe?”
~*~
The Professor excuses himself, leaving me to my thoughts. I know, I know: I don’t worry, I work. But there isn’t any work left to do in the house. Everything’s clean, neat and tidy. My mom cooked so much that we’re set for a week.
There’s nothing left to do but think. Meditate. Pray.
I’ve never been the most pious person around. I mean, I go to bell service like everyone else. But it’s awkward, holding Eliza’s mom up as a religious icon. What if you had to go to service and worship your in-laws? Awkward is an understatement.
But the Professor’s words won’t let me go. Particularly the last thing he said, on his way out the door:
Be sure to get some sleep. You look terrible.
Well, I did, admittedly. But what really stuck with me was what he said before that:
Love is an act of faith.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been up ever since Eliza came back from her expedition, only dozing off here and there. It feels wrong to fall asleep before Eliza wakes up. That’s how these things work, right? I have to stay awake. I have to keep her vigil.
But maybe the Professor’s right. It’s the faith that matters, not the ritual, not the details. It’s the faith, and what that faith does for you.
Love is an act of faith.
I scarcely hit the pillow before exhaustion sweeps me away. I dive into sleep, and this time, I don’t dream.
I don’t dream about the four figures- three women and the boy- that came to me in my snatches of stolen sleep throughout the day. It occurs to me, briefly, that I should have asked the Professor about the oddly familiar images- but that hardly matters now. The woman in white, who gave her life for the world. The woman in black, who walked with her down the sunless road. The woman in brown, who bore witness, and kept the story. The boy, trailing butterflies, who opened the door.
Four gods. Four ghosts. Forgotten, now. Beyond the Cathedral, beyond the Maze…
Sleep empties me, until I am as empty as I can be. There is nothing here. No worry. No pain.
There is only light. Heat. And a voice, like a crackling fire.
“Good morning.”
I blink away the fog. My breath stops in my throat.
“Eliza…!”
I dive into her arms, holding her tight. She’s awake. God, she’s awake…!
Before we know it, we’re both talking over each other, caught up in the euphoric rush of seeing each other again. We babble at each other, drown each other in the worries and fears and days of uncertainty, clearing away the clutter inside us and making room for blessed relief.
There are schedules to keep, and meetings to plan, but I don’t care. My candles have all burned out, not making it through the night, but the Halo still shines outside, almost like a sun, and the blinking light of our alarm clock means the power is finally back online.
“I was so scared,” I say, out loud for the first time since Eliza left two days ago.
“I know,” Eliza coos into my neck, curled up on my lap. “You’re here. You made it.”
I hold her tight, running my fingers through her hair- a mess, like usual. I’ll have to tame it for her later. I’m already looking forward to brushing and braiding it- something simple and blessedly mundane, not like sending her off into the unknown with a friend and a promise.
Eliza’s hugging me so tightly I can feel her heart beating. She’s here. I can barely believe it. She’s here, and she’s a flame in my hands- bright, and warm, and alive.
Love is an act of faith.
Here, coiled together with the girl I love most in this whole, wretched world, I realize:
When Eliza and Miki set out to reclaim the power station on behalf of the city? That was love.
When my parents invited everyone over and we gathered around the fireplace? That was love.
When Mika came to visit Eliza this morning, and joked about how she wasn’t in a coma, she was just late for work like always? When I was on the ropes with those ghouls, and that Hunter jumped down from his tree, baseball bat swinging? When Miki sat me down and patched up that scratch on my arm? When the Shimizus walked me home? When the Professor came by? When my parents were looking out for me? For us?
That was love.
The people of this town place their faith in Saint Elizabeth because she saved us twenty years ago. But we place our faith in each other, every day, because that’s how we endure. That’s how we make it through.
Hope lit the flame, but love keeps it burning.
Love is what keeps us alive.
I hold Eliza to my chest, our lives entwined, laughing or crying, I can’t even tell. There’s a butterfly perched on our windowsill, pure white, glinting in the Halo’s glow. I watch it flit away, trailing flecks of blue fire. It shines in the light of my realization; like a star, or a candle, or a promise.
~*~
#original character#original fiction#post apocalypse#writers on tumblr#Those Who Carry the Flame#Vigil
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Cost Cutting Algorithms Are Making Your Job Search a Living Hell
Jeffrey Johnson was on one continuous job search, more or less, for 12 years.
After the recession shuttered the textbook publisher where he was putting his bachelor’s degree in history to use, Johnson worked office temp jobs and delivered packages, on an Uber-like gig basis, for Amazon and a medical testing company around his native Baltimore. He went back to school for a masters in screenwriting and then a law degree. Throughout, he scrolled through sites like Indeed and ZipRecruiter looking for better, more stable work—or just something to tide him over between semesters.
About two years ago, he started getting emails asking him to take online “assessments” for jobs after he applied. Some were tests of basic office skills, like spreadsheet use and typing. Others were for legal knowledge. Some were dippy personality tests. At first, Johnson was excited. “I thought it meant I’d gotten past a gatekeeper of some kind and was in the running,” he said.
Then the tests came quicker and more frequently. One in four jobs had an assessment attached, he estimates. He got emails prompting him to take an online test seconds after he submitted an application, a sure sign no human had reviewed his résumé. Some were repeats of tests he’d already taken.
He found them demeaning. “You’re kind of being a jackass by making me prove, repeatedly, that I can type when I have two writing-heavy advanced degrees,” Johnson said, “and you are not willing to even have someone at your firm look at my résumé to see that.”
Johnson also did phone interviews with an Alexa-like automated system. For one job, he was asked to make a one-sided video “interview” of himself answering a list of company-provided questions into a webcam for hiring managers to view at their convenience. Or maybe an algorithm would scan the video and give him a score based on vocal and facial cues, as more than 100 employers are now doing with software from companies like HireVue .
Until he started as a legal writer for FreeAdvice.com last month, Johnson, 36, said he was at potential employers’ whims. “I can’t imagine I’d move to the next round if I didn’t do what they said,” he told Motherboard.
Companies are increasingly using automated systems to select who gets ahead and who gets eliminated from pools of applicants. For jobseekers, this can mean a series of bizarre, time-consuming tasks demanded by companies who have not shown any meaningful consideration of them.
“Obviously, in our society time is money,” said Ifeoma Ajunwa, an assistant professor of labor and employment law at Cornell University and author of The Quantified Worker. “So if you are asking [job applicants] to spend so much time on an application then you are transferring the labor your HR department would be doing to the applicant, so it becomes an ethical issue.”
Applicant Tracking System (ATS) software has long been used by high-end firms searching for executives and HR managers at large corporations that receive thousands of applications. The systems are increasingly being adopted in various sectors of the labor market. ATS vendor iCIMS claims it revamped Footlocker’s process for hiring sales associates, and JazzHR brags that it helps a regional Pittsburgh construction company hire all its staff, including interns. (JazzHR and iCIMS both declined to comment for this story.)
Beating the Bots
Maneuvering around algorithmic gatekeepers to reach an actual person with a say in hiring has become a crucial skill, even if the tasks involved feel duplicitous and absurd. ATS software can also enable a company to discriminate, possibly unwittingly, based on bias-informed data and culling of certain psychological traits.
Lynne Williams, a Philadelphia-area career advisor, holds a seminar called “Beating the Applicant Tracking System.” Every time, she braces for a wave of anger from the audience. “I can feel their blood pressure rise when I tell them what they are doing wrong,” she said.
Their most important task, she tells crowds of jobseekers, is to parrot keywords from job descriptions. The most basic elimination function of most ATS software is searching résumés and cover letters for keywords. Many systems can’t—or don’t bother to—distinguish synonyms, like “manager” and “supervisor,” so she says to rewrite résumés with each application, mindlessly copying words from the job description. Countless online guides for “beating the bots” recommend the same.
People find this task frustrating and are indignant over its irrelevance to their fitness for the job, Williams said. Others fume about all the time spent carefully crafting applications that were probably never seen by a human.
Jack Wei, a director of product marketing for the job site SmartRecruiters, said that “the moment a candidate applies [for a posted job], a ‘smart profile’ scrapes résumé info into a digital portfolio by extracting keywords.” The employer then sees an automatically generated score, from 1 to 5, of their apparent fitness for the job. The platform distinguishes synonyms and word variances when making this score, but the employer can search using any narrow phrase or word they choose, Wei said.
According to data from the job site Glassdoor, 250 people apply to the average corporate job. Many ATS vendors sell their products on the suggestion that hiring managers are overwhelmed by applicants. When almost half of Americans work low-wage jobs, a good job of any kind will generate a long line of hopefuls, despite the official government unemployment rate being at a 10-year low of 3.5 percent.
ATS technology encourages applicants to find ways to cut in line, said Anjunwa. She has heard stories of people inserting common keywords in small white font on their PDF résumés, visible only to bots, to sneak into the next tier of candidates.
Applicants can also use services to help them beat the algorithms, like the website Jobscan, which will scramble words from a job listing into their customers’ résumés for $49.95 a month.
Such tricks don’t show relevant job skills, but perhaps vital job-hunting ones, Anjunwa said. “People see that only people who are savvy get jobs,” she said, “and the others get shut out.”
How Often Does the Following Statement Describe You at Work?
The next round of the screening process is often an assessment test. Such tests have been around for decades, but ATS software has made it easy to deliver them automatically to an applicant’s inbox.
Indeed, the world’s most visited job site, has been pushing assessments in recent TV advertising. The company offers employers online tests for basic aptitudes, like attention to detail and memorization and recall; job-specific skills, like bookkeeping and first aid; and more abstract competencies, like critical thinking and problem solving.
Most take about 30 minutes. They still piss off jobseekers.
“I've been finding a lot of online assessments that come with the job applications I file, wrote a poster on the jobs subreddit. Every time I see one of those, I immediately cringe. I HATE THEM.”
“They're usually very long … and most of the questions I just. Can't. Answer," they added. "For example, a question such as ‘I prefer to work in team rather than alone’ completely depends on the situation and the kind of job I’m doing.”
Indeed declined an interview but told Motherboard in a statement that “Indeed's free Assessment tool is not a burden to job seekers, it helps job seekers demonstrate their full capabilities to prospective employers,” and that the tests “help job seekers stand out based on their skills instead of their previous titles, employers, or their highest level of formal education.”
Smaller companies also provide assessments, for a fee. Atlanta-based Berke offers both aptitude and personality tests. Neil Morelli, PhD, an organizational psychologist and vice president of product and assessment, said some of the applicant outrage can “come from older assessments that last an hour or two and they can feel clinical.” He added, “These large battery assessments are being replaced by more aesthetically pleasing and enjoyable assessments.”
Morelli admits “enjoyable” is relative in this context, but said a goal of his industry is to produce tests that feel game-like but still convey useful information about a candidate.
The Berke Marketing Free Personality Assessment is a 78-question sample test, where every question is the same: “How often does the following statement describe you at work?” Start it and then comes a flood of phrases and adjectives: “lively,” “disciplined,” “leader,” “angry,” “fearless,” “puts others at ease,” “soft hearted,” etc. The test-taker picks one of four options: “almost always,” “often,” “sometimes,” or “rarely.” Morelli said some of the terms in a test are virtual synonyms to suss out applicants trying to game it. Obviously, one would hesitate to tell a potential employer they are “often” “angry” at work and “rarely” “put others at ease,” even if true.
The assessment tests applicants on psychology’s “big five” personality traits of extroversion, agreeableness, openness, conscientiousness and neuroticism. Some managers consider these traits for even minimum-wage work.
Why Robots Don’t Think Women Can Handle a Job at Amazon
In 2012, Kyle Behm took a break from university to deal with manic depressive disorder. He applied online for a low-wage job at a Kroger grocery store near Atlanta. A friend who worked there told Behm he didn’t get hired because of the results of a personality test. His father, an attorney, filed suit against Kroger and five other companies that tasked Behm with big-five personality tests for a low-paying job, alleging they illegally screened for mental illness. Sadly, Behm ended his life last year before the case was adjudicated.
The Americans with Disabilities Act prohibits “employment tests that screen out or tend to screen out an individual with a disability or a class of individuals with disabilities” unless necessary for the job.
Morelli said that Berke’s personality assessment is ADA compliant because it “does not meet the criteria for being a medical examination” and “is not invasive or used to infer mental health.” But asking a candidate if they are “fearless” or “comfortable with others” may produce results indicating a condition like depression or social anxiety disorder.
Some advanced ATS have “learned” bias by incorporating variables that favored people who are already advantaged. Amazon abandoned its development of an AI-based hiring process when the predictive models favored male candidates. The system was relying on résumés submitted to the company over ten years, and because of the prevalence of men in tech jobs, the system began to downgrade résumés that included all-women’s colleges or female-indicating phrases like “women’s chess club.”
The makers of more advanced applicant tracking systems are acutely aware of the bias problem, but are not certain of a solution.
Arya is a “recruiting platform” that uses predictive analytics to identify and classify job candidates. Madhu Modugu, the CEO and founder of its parent company, feels assessment tests are a poor indicator of job performance, and claims that Arya’s platform avoids placing a heavy time burden on applicants.
“[Arya] would look at my history and my past, what kind of organizations and what kind of cultures you are exposed to,” said Modugu. The system would then match the candidate against a composite profile of employees “who are the high performers in the culture of the company.” If a company can’t provide that information, Arya offers its own psycho-metric profile of who does well in the jobs that its customers are looking to fill.
The term “culture” can have some problematic connotations when applied to who is suited for a job. Modugu insists Arya measures the work culture of past employers compared to that of the prospective employer.
But he said he is aware of problems like the one that plagued Amazon: If the system is fed data that shows white males have been the “best” employees—because prejudice allowed them into those roles more easily—it will conclude that white males are the “best” candidates. “The AI has interpreted the data correctly,” said Modogu, “but it has generated biased results because the information is biased.”
The solution is not simple, he said. Developers need to work out systems that can better fight bias and HR managers need to take active steps to increase recruitment from non-traditional pools.
On top of issue of discrimination, the emphasis on data in recruiting can make people feel stuck in a role. Data points come from past experience, and neglect factors like ideas, ambition and understanding of an industry.
Nick Thorch once worked in Microsoft’s inside sales division, selling the company’s products to other large businesses. He wanted to transition to product management. After spending time fielding customer complaints about Windows Vista, he felt he had insight into how software should be developed. He applied for thousands of product manager jobs in Silicon Valley.
“The only time a recruiter was interested in me was for another inside sales position, even if my cover letter, résumé and career objective statement strongly supported a range of business roles,” Thorch said. “ATS mentality keeps people pigeonholed in their past, rather than what they feel inspired to do.”
SmartRecruiter’s Wei saidthat the effect of ATS on narrowing career pathways presents a “good question” for the industry.
“On a technological level alone, there is only so much alone you can do,” he said. Recruiters need to identify people who might be viable for a career change. “You lead with people and process first, but with technology alone you can’t have lasting change.”
Asking Some Hard Questions
When it debuted in 2013, HireVue’s AI analysis of video interviews seemed like an endgame for job application automation. A candidate answers questions to a silent webcam and uploads a video. A program then scans their facial features, word choices and vocal indicators to determine—through some murky, trademarked science—if they should advance to the next round. The Utah-based company once had $93 million in venture capital and more than 600 clients, including Goldman Sachs and Hilton.
Last year, artificial intelligence scientists called HireVue’s methods “pseudoscience” and “profoundly disturbing” in a Washington Post article, and the Electronic Privacy Information Center filed a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission alleging it violates jobseekers’ privacy through facial recognition.
Cornell’s Ajunwa said AI analysis of mannerisms presents some of the worst potential for discrimination in the labor market. The process would be a roadblock for people on the autism spectrum and for many from foreign countries, as acceptability would doubtlessly hinge on neurotypical, American mannerisms. “What if your culture says not smiling is respectful?” she asked. “There are many cultures where people do not laugh and smile like Americans do.”
HireVue did not respond to a request for comment. Its website no longer touts AI analysis of videos as a service. But it is one of several companies that gather self-made recordings from job applicants answering interview questions. The applicants upload them for a manager to, perhaps, view at their convenience in another new task in the automated application process. VidCruiter and Modern Hire, two other prominent video interview companies, also declined Motherboard’s requests for an interview.
“It’s just your typical interview questions like, ‘What’s a time when you failed at work?’” said Jeffrey Johnson. He recalls a herky-jerky system that would beep to prompt him to stop mid-answer.
He’s not sure if an AI or a person looked at his video. He submitted it on a Friday and was rejected for the job the next Sunday.
VidCruiter’s website describes the appeal of having a limitless library of candidate interviews, on tap. In a video, a “senior recruiter,” likely an actress, complains of “spending eight hours doing phone interviews” and “pulling [her] hair out” over the lousy candidates. She then describes “a system that will allow you to ask an unlimited number of candidates as many questions as you want.”
“I’m doing something else while the system is interviewing my candidates,” she says with a smile.
The message is clear: She’s offloaded much of her work to someone else.
Ajunwa said automated systems will probably continue to amass between jobs and jobseekers. “I think that’s the way it’s going to advance,” she said. “Companies have come to count on it.” She has called for mandated auditing of algorithmic systems to ensure against “bias in, bias out” preferences like the ones that affected Amazon.
Should job applicants rebel? Should they refuse to take online assessments or to upload video faux interviews or engage the next faceless gatekeeper?
She encourages candidates to take a principled stand if they are in a position to do so, if they are already employed or have good prospects. Everyone should monitor tests that “echo mental health” or show other signs of bias, she said. But she doesn’t know where exactly to draw the line to refuse to comply with the process.
“That’s a tough question,” she said, “because if you need the job, you need the job.”
Cost Cutting Algorithms Are Making Your Job Search a Living Hell syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/
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