it's always the climb

( but i won't save you ) -- sybil reisz, 30 years old. your friendly neighborhood guidance counselor and newspaper advisor ♥

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"……………"

Willard had fifty four locks installed in his apartment. Twelve on his front door, twenty seven on the windows, seven more on the door to his bedroom, and eight on Diana’s room.

And now, after this-particular pleasantry with the esteemed guidance counselor Sybil, he felt like he needed at least fifteen more.

……

The two sat there for some time listening to the ticking of the clock. Willard, looking as mildly annoyed as ever, and Sybil with that vaguely threatening smile on her face. The whole series of events almost made it seem like the span of the last two minutes was completely fabricated. Sybil wouldn’t act any differently. If you read her face, it would have been like the entire event hadn’t of happened, and she was just as innocent as a saint.

Willard knew better. 

"I’m leaving." He stood up, his foot sweeping across her desk and brushing a pile of papers onto the floor, he shoved in his hands in his pockets and turned to walk out.

[parasolata-blog]

"Twenty-eight."

Sybil smiles sweetly, not moving a muscle from her seat. If she's trying to stop the paper-scatterer from leaving, she really ought to put more effort in.

"That's the number of minutes left before your current class is over." She crosses her ankles and leans back into her chair, one hand still idly holding the electric razor. "Incidentally," she adds, in a voice that's exceedingly casual, "That's also the number of minutes until my lunch break is over."

She allows the implication to sink in before continuing. "Does the number fifty-four mean anything to you?" A soft giggle. Impending doom? Tee-hee, what's wrong? "It certainly doesn't mean anything to me. You see, Mr. Weaver, you walk into my office, put your feet on my table? ..." Sybil pauses, probably for dramatic effect as she swivels back in her chair to face her desk, taking a sip from the cup conveniently sitting atop said desk. "... Well. Something has to give." 

[gildedmic]

"Hello again, Sybil" ;; closed

[gildedmic]

The word ‘changed’, in reference to herself, spoken by Sybil, makes her want to throw her head back and laugh but also run out from under the umbrella and never look back. As per usual there are a plethora of things she wants to say, and as history would dictate she finds herself unable to vocalize any of them.

This was exactly how the end first began.

"Have I?" She meets Sybil’s gaze head on, a silent declaration of battle. The more things changed the more they stayed the same.

But Sybil never entered the fray without a plan of attack.

That.

Red’s writing was that. Implied to be trivial, pointless, everything in between, and most of all a lost cause.

She’s cornered Red’s pawn and by the time Red has managed to string together words as vindictive as Sybil’s comment about her writing the conversation has moved on without her.

The fact that Sybil would ask her questions that Red knew she was already aware of the answers to is highly offensive. Exactly why Sybil said it in the first place, but some naive part of her was hoping that they could go a few minutes without a minefield in the form of a conversation.

Just to let Red catch her breath.

"Awhile." She says vaguely, her smile equally as unspecific. "It’s a nice change of pace and I like the kids." An easy shrug, eyes trained straight ahead more to mirror Sybil than anything else. She wasn’t particularly careful of where she stepped, she didn’t have to be because she was lucky enough to be wearing boots.

Red is down two, and Sybil seems impossible to shake. So she throws strategy out the window, channels the Red that Sybil only ever saw when they were both at their wits end. Channel’s the Red that made Sybil claim she’d changed. She speaks with little thought or purpose, just lets the words go and see what they bring her.

"Never thought we’d be here again huh?" This certainly wasn’t their first shared umbrella in the rain, it couldn’t be because Sybil carried the damn thing around like it was an extra appendage. "I was the artist but you were always the romantic."

She pushes her bishop forward.

[parasolata-blog]

Sybil's eyebrows knit ever-so-slightly, and she purses her lips in a rare display of any-emotion-other-than-serene-bliss, but no less artful and carefully placed. She takes a moment to mull over Red's words, "hmmm"ing softly under her breath. It sounds almost like a sigh, and she lets the comment about Red's teaching pass without a second glance.

Following her somewhat-sigh, Sybil shrugged her shoulders. She could wax poetic, certainly, because maybe it was some twisted sense of fate that had led to all of this, or maybe it was a sign of some sort? For someone who always had her eyes pointed towards the sky, towards the clouds, she certainly wasn't the type to daydream.

Nor was she the type to realize when something had been miscommunicated. Maybe she was too full of herself? Maybe. Or maybe there wasn't room in that head of hers for doubt.

Whatever the case, Sybil's smile once again takes its rightful place on her face moments later. It's not exactly clear what her plan of action is; from one angle, it seems like she's just making casual conversation, but from the other each word is carefully tailored and selected out of a plethora of possibilities.

This sort of calculating approach to making conversation would take anyone hours to plan out, but for Sybil she changes her direction within a matter of seconds. (Or maybe she had this all planned out? That's a bit of a stretch of a prediction, even for Sybil.)

"Always the artist? Then, I'll have to take that back, won't I?" She smiles, lifting her head to look up at the grey sky. Or at the roof of her umbrella. "You haven't changed, after all."

-- I knew you wouldn't.

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"I’m glad you don’t sign my paychecks."

Sometimes it seemed like Sybil just called Willard down to harass him. He didn’t know if she was just grasping for something to dig into him about at this point, or honestly was just trying to find a way to get him riled up after that girlfriend comment… but either way, his students had been waiting for twenty minutes while they bickered and he was pretty sure they had started an anarchy in his classroom.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

[parasolata-blog]

Watch it, Billboard. With that attitude, who knows.

Despite the fact that Willard seems to be consistently several jumps ahead of her, Sybil's feathers seem relatively unruffled. From her confident smile, anyone who hadn't heard the conversation would have thought Sybil was winning.

(If there really were winners.)

(Sybil might know a thing or two.)

She's not particularly riled up, herself. Some women just want to watch the world (or a certain strand of ridiculously-placed red hair) burn.

"You know, it'd be a shame..." Sybil's voice trails off absentmindedly as she pulls her desk drawer open with one hand. An audible click, and a soft purr can be heard coming from the inner recesses of said drawer. (It's mechanical, don't worry.) "If one day, you were to wake up and a certain Ms. Diana were to be..." The vaguely dreamy look in her eyes is anything but alarming as she produces an electric razor, shiny and whirring as if freshly taken out of the box. "... A hairless breed."

She clicks the razor off, and silence fills the office once again. Several ticks of the clock later, and Sybil smiles, as if the sudden cat shaving urge is completely forgotten.

"You simply must take good care of your belongings, you know!"

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"….. Terrified of what? My connections to the Russian mafia? My splinter cell training? My job as an assassin? …. Well, there was that one year I was accused of being the zombie Archduke Ferdinand.

The rumors were ridiculous, but Willard didn’t see how Sybil was going to try and put the blame of the wild imaginations of others onto him. He had never admitted to assassinating JFK and he had never stated he was actually part robot. In fact, he had to drop some jokes altogether because people would look at him as he stated something coldly and honestly believe it, then it’d get added to the pile of theories about who this Willard H. Wright really was. What did that H stand for. He had claimed Hungington, but people weren’t so sure.

But getting back to the matter of how many were afraid of him-

"… Last time I checked, at least a third of the student body…. I already filled out the forms to put that sword in my office. Don’t try and give me a hard time about it."

[parasolata-blog]

Sybil knows what the H stands for. It stands for Arlington. Because Gillbert Wringer's middle initial was A.

"Oh, Hilbert. Hilbert, Hilbert." Sybil clicks her tongue and shakes her head, "Your attention to detail is astounding, isn't it?" The admiration in her words doesn't manage to make it all the way to her voice. If anything, she still sounds like she's scolding him. "Then why is it that you filled out all of these forms under this strange alias? ... 'Willard H. Wright?'" Sybil has to refer to her clipboard, carefully sounding out the syllables, as if it's decidedly foreign to her. "This is not your name?"

She tilts her head to the side, her face utterly perplexed.

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"About five. A few broken arms. One broken leg. Maybe. We didn’t stay long enough to find out. About three broken stools, property damages coming to about two thousand and three hundred dollars," Willard sighed. "Billiards table smashed, four different pool cues broken in half. Seven bottles shattered. A neon sign busted. Oh, and the medical costs for Mr. Kenway’s head……. You’ll have to ask someone else about that last part."

[parasolata-blog]

"Impressive!"

Sybil makes a sound that seems somewhat like a half-hearted whistle, but comes out more as her saying 'fwew!' in some pseudo-whistle.

"That's wonderful!" What's it with the exclamations, Sybil. "So you know how many noses and arms and legs and property values you damaged. -- How about the number of students who are terrified of you, hm?"

With the speed of the flipping of a coin, Sybil's atmosphere changes from oddly giddy to cool as ice, and she rests her clipboard on her lap to gaze levelly at Willard, although her sweet smile refuses to give even a millimeter.

Is it more alarming that she's suddenly switched into a stance that makes it seem like she's prepared for battle? Or the fact that she shrugged off Willard's laundry list of damages with the effort it'd take to shrug her shoulders?

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"……"

Yeah, of course she’d find out and harass him about it.

He wasn’t surprised to see he had been the only one called down for this. It didn’t mean he’d be any more cooperative.

The whole thing was just… a major headache.

"You already have a talk with your girlfriend about it?"

[parasolata-blog]

Sybil picks up the topmost paper from her desk and slides it onto a clipboard. She's looking more and more like a counselor by the second.

Swiveling in her chair to face the latter, her eyes pass over his feet on her desk before settling on Willard himself. She purses her lips, and then redirects her gaze towards the clipboard in front of her, tapping one finger on the edge of it.

"Mm. And how many noses did you break, Mr. Willbird?"

Wrong animal, Sybil. Try Willcat?

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

[wizardhuntingwright-blog]

"……"

It was silent for a few minutes. Not long enough to assume Willard had not heard the message, but long enough to tell he was taking his time. The door flew open with an unceremonious slam. On the other side was Willard H. Wright, hands in his pockets, posture terrible-waltzing in like he owned the place. Actually, with his alleged illegitimate oil empire, he might just own it.

He walked over to the nearest chair-across the desk from Sybil-and pulled it backward, plopping down on it and putting his feet on Sybil’s desk without a single regard for any objections she might have.

"What." It wasn’t a question, it was barked out as more of a command. There was no infliction of query, just a very flat, very impatient statement.

[parasolata-blog]

As each second passed, the slight smile on Sybil's face only grew slowly wider, as if she had thought of some hilarious joke and couldn't help but grin to herself. By the time Willard makes his majestic and dramatic entrance, her smile was threatening to split her face in two.

Without missing a beat, Sybil speaks calmly without moving or lifting her head an inch; apparently her hair is very fascinating. "So." Her voice is sweet and level, a stark contrast in tone and atmosphere to Willard's thinly veiled hostility.

"Get into any bar fights recently, young man?"

[parasolata-blog]

public displays of aggression ☂ - closed()

"Hello?" The crackling voice echoing across the schoolwide PA system is followed by a short series of thuds, as if the speaker is tapping their microphone to make sure it's working properly. "Hello! This is a lost child alert, so please pay attention." The speaker clears her throat, and although the voice is semi-distorted by the nature of the broadcasting system, the cheerful tone is unmistakable. "There is a very worried adult looking for a little boy named Howard? Howard N. Wrong?"

-- The speaker pauses, twirling the phone cord around her finger. Is it for dramatic effect? And who the heck was Howard N. Wrong, anyways? --

"Howard, if you're there and can hear this, please come to the front desk immediately. Thank you!"

A click, and the announcement was over. Sybil Reisz leans back in her chair, idly twirling a few strands of wispy blonde hair between her fingers. On her desk sits a rather hefty stack of papers, neatly organized and carefully aligned. Aside from the steady ticking of the clock (had she always had one, hung on the wall like that?), her office is dead silent.

Apparently completely unfazed from having just broadcast a rather nonsensical message to the entire campus all for the sake of calling one Willard H. Wright to her office, Sybil hummed softly to herself as she waited patiently for Mr. Howard N. Wrong to come knocking at her door. Or stomping, or barbarically barging in through her door. Whatever the occasion called for.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[transistorjack]

The moment Sybil puts her focus on him, the ambient air temperature seems to drop by several degrees, which seems kind of backwards considering Jack is sort of sweating right now. After being away from everyone he had ever known for just a few months, seeing someone familiar is a shock to his system, and the fact that that someone is Sybil makes the feeling even worse.

Not that he hates her, per se. He’s not sure he could truly hate anyone. It’s not in his programming.

His current feelings for Sybil do come pretty close, though.

He thinks he catches her smile slip, just for a moment, but that’s impossible, of course. She never slips.

"Really? Well, glad to know I’m not the only one who didn’t get the memo."

Then again, maybe coming all the way out here just to run into an old acquaintance wasn’t his mistake, but hers.

"You do too," he answers uncomfortably. "I, ah, don’t really know if I can call teaching a calling, really. But it’s…something."

He doesn’t quite have the guts to tell her he doesn’t go by the name Transistor anymore, because it should be obvious, and because this is Sybil so she must know, which means that she could only be using the alias on purpose. After all, she did have a front row seat to his big fall. You could even say she was the guest of honour.

He isn’t stupid. He knows she had more to do with his downfall than she ever admitted to his face. Standing there in front of Sybil is like standing in the ring again. He had his fists up from the moment he walked in to this office. He hasn’t shed the name after all, only hidden it in his sleeve. But Sybil knows it’s there.

He started it, but she clearly wants to continue. Well then.

He takes one slow step, and then forces himself to go forward until he’s standing next to the chair in front of Sybil’s desk. Then, he sits, without letting his gaze move away from her face. And he finds that his smile comes easy.

"All right. Let’s chat. How have you been, Sybil?"

Reisz vs. Transistor. Round one.

[parasolata-blog]

The fact that Sybil Reisz is first and foremost a business woman isn't the most helpful trait of hers in her chosen trade; her tendency to look at people moreso in terms of their talents and net value would alienate even the most friendly conversationalist.

It's not as if she doesn't like people, or doesn't think of them as worth her time. It's quite the opposite; Sybil loves people.

(It's more or less a question of what exactly that love entails.)

And for anyone who has had the pleasure and misfortune of being familiar with Sybil, they were all too accustomed to this rather rotten habit of hers. It's because of that habit that she refers to the man standing before her as "Transistor," and not his given name. (In some senses, maybe it would have stung less if she'd used his last name as if they were strangers.) The effect her designator of choice has on Jack doesn't slip past her, but this time her smile stays level.

If anything, it widens into something that's probably meant to look welcoming as he sits down. -- Of course, in this pressure cooker of a decorated office, the effect is anything but.

He's the one who brought fists to an ice fight, after all.

"Goodness, there's no need to look at me with such a scary face," she says, waving one hand airily. Never mind the fact that the so-called 'scary face' was an easy smile, Sybil. Seems sound. "Oh, but I've been well. Can't complain, of course."

She's not quite so boorish as to rub it in, but the casual offhanded comment hangs in the tense atmosphere like a leaden weight.

"And yourself?" Sybil settles back into her chair and idly rests a hand on her cheek.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[transistorjack]

Jack is halfway through a whistled rendition of “It Don’t Mean A Thing” when he stops in his tracks, arrested by the name on the door across the hall: Sybil Reisz, Guidance Counselor.

In truth, he’d been hoping to delay his meeting — or rather, re-acquaintance — with Sybil until the last possible moment, moment which had already been fast approaching considering the academy had placed them in the same suite, but…darn. Putting it off any longer probably isn’t in his best interests. Knowing her, she probably already knows he’s here, what he’s doing, and what his grocery run schedule is, so he might as well say hello.

Know thy enemy, Mr. Transistor, as his old MMA coach used to say. Or at least as much as it takes to be able to land a hit on the jaw.

He knocks then pushes the door open with the tips of his fingers, trying not to think of the resulting creak as ominous. “Uh, hi? Sybil? I mean…Ms. Reisz?”

It’s her all right, looking just the way she always does, which is to say poised and perfect. The office itself is perfect too, perfectly homey, which only makes it feel even more sinister, if at all possible. At least the music is nice. It’s something he thinks he recognizes, but whenever he tries to follow up on the lyrics, he forgets. Oh well.

Jack steps into the office and half-closes the door behind him, trying desperately for a neutral expression. “Long time no see. I couldn’t, uh, help noticing we’re roommates for this year. Didn’t even know you were here until I saw the housing note. Small world.”

He shifts, puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out. He doesn’t have to like Sybil to want to be polite to her, but the longer he stands in her presence the more he remembers just how antsy she makes him feel.

That’s when he notices the photos on the wall. There’s plenty of Sybil, of course, but the redhead…he’s seen her somewhere. Several somewheres. Then he remembers.

"Oh, it’s that singing Red lady. I mean, Ms. Red. Thought I’d seen her before this place, though I couldn’t place her when I met her the other day. You a friend of hers?"

[parasolata-blog]

She can tell it's him by the sound of his footsteps, maybe. That's the sort of thing someone might be led to believe by the knowing expression on her face as the significantly taller man enters her office.

(Either that, or maybe she has mirrors installed in a complex formation around her door, allowing her to see down the hallway without moving her head. Or security cameras, maybe?)

Or maybe she's just that good. Whatever the reason, the smile on her face is lofty as ever as she turns in her chair to face one of her former clients(? was that the word for them? victims, maybe). When he mentions Red, however, the corner of her smile twitches -- downwards? upwards? the movement is too fast to tell, and she returns to her usual demeanor within a split second.

"I'm just a fan," she says smoothly, shaking her head. "I didn't realize you were, too. Or that we were roommates, for that matter."

Both lies, probably. At least, the latter for sure -- she'd long since placed an ever-ubiquitous tea set in the common room of faculty suite E-1. Or maybe she just hadn't bothered to see who her roommate was?

Unlikely at best, completely ludicrous at worst.

"You're looking well," she finally says. It seems like a fairly casual conversation shift, the sort of thing that ought to be exchanged between friends (or acquaintances) who hadn't seen each other in a while, but the slightly frigid air surrounding the normally warm Sybil was unmistakeable to anyone familiar with the woman. "Have you finally found your calling, Mr. Transistor?"

She probably means teaching, but given their shared history, the statement comes across as a bit more toxic than what might have been necessary. Yet her smile hasn't budged an inch, and her gaze remains pointedly trained on the other man, as if she's waiting to see what his next move is.

"Oh. But if we're going to have a chat, why don't you have a seat?"

[gildedmic]

"Hello again, Sybil" ;; closed

[gildedmic]

"Something like that." Is all she says in response, instinctively pulling her notepad closer to her chest. Her writing was a very private part of her life in general, but her desire to guard it was amplified when Sybil— who had also once been a part of her private life— was involved.

"Old habits die hard." And somehow she manages to maintain her barely polite, mostly still wry smile. Though she’s talking less about herself and more about how Sybil hasn’t changed in her incessant need to aggressively steer every conversation.

There were very few things in this world that Sybil Reisz didn’t know, and Red knows that Sybil is fully aware of the doubt in her mind that this meeting caught them both by surprise.

Ordinary people didn’t have to worry about running into ex-girlfriends on the other side of the world. But Sybil was far from ordinary.

There is some comfort in the fact that she knows Sybil well enough to know that she certainly wasn’t here on Red’s account. For all her enthusiastic generosity Sybil lived her life based on decisions best for her and no one else.

But somehow she finds some small part of herself sad that she is no longer the center of Sybil’s world (but then again had she really ever been?)

Red is silent as Sybil speaks, quietly turning over every word that leaves the woman’s mouth and searching it for purpose and meaning. A habit of hers that had always proven useful when dealing with all things Sybil. To most however, it would seem that she was just air headed and out of the loop.

Logically, she knows you’re not supposed to accept any invitations from an overbearing ex-lover who you never even really broke up with, just kind of abandoned. Logically she knows she should run, notepad be damned.

But it’s the first time in a long time that she’s thought, wrote, strung together anything worth recording. And Sybil is familiar, a reminder of what once was.

What Red once was.

So she steps forward, shoulders pulled tightly together as she huddles next to the other woman under her umbrella.

"Thanks." Is all she says, and they begin walking.

"Teaching never struck you as my thing?" She asks suddenly, though the conversation has long moved on. Force of habit— one of hers that Sybil knew all too well.

[parasolata-blog]

"Chorus and debate, right?" Sybil offers with a girlish smile, glancing at the other woman out of the corner of her eye. She laughs softly, idly brushing a few strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "No, it doesn't surprise me. You've changed, haven't you?"

She pauses, the light smile on her face taking on a decidedly knowing hint. It's really more of a thinly veiled smirk, isn't it?

"-- Oh, but you're still doing that."

The silence following the rather cryptic comment is punctuated by the sound of rain hitting her umbrella, but it only lasts for a matter of seconds before Sybil begins to speak again, already having long moved on from the topic.

"So how long have you been teaching, Red?" The question is innocuous enough, and wouldn't seem strange for simple curiosity-driven casual conversation if it were coming from anyone but Sybil Reisz. "And do you enjoy it?"

Her gaze has long since redirected itself onto the path ahead of the pair, scanning the road for any puddles and potholes to avoid. For someone who carried around an umbrella (or parasol) on a daily basis, she sure was wary of the rain.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[caligaried-deactivated20160911]

He’s never been big on tea—Achilles used to offer him a cup twice a day, when the sun would rise and when it set, but he would rather make the tea than drink it himself. Nothing personal.

Connor, as naive as he is, knows when he is being mocked and when he isn’t. And he doesn’t take well to it. Patronization, mockery, infantalization…easy ways to set him off.

With Red’s voice droning on and on throughout the room, and her face plastered on what seems to be every inch of the wall, he questions Sybil’s intentions more and more with every passing second.

He waits for her to speak, teeth gritted, and abruptly pushes his tea even further away so it reaches Sybil’s desk.

"I am here for these students. I am here to ensure that they can receive the education the deserve—the care that they deserve. That’s what we do. That’s why we’ve been employed."

"I want to know: what is YOUR reasoning for being here? Since you seem to not take your job seriously. You boil tea, put out a bowl of candies, but don’t address serious concerns regarding the students’ well being. Huh."

He grimaces for a few seconds, a flash of white appearing on his face. The closest thing you’ll get to a smile from him.

"Or maybe you’d rather watch Red sing to the choir. She has a nice voice. A good teacher. You know, don’t you. Is that why you’re here? Here in this office, at this academy. But you’ve missed her by an entire floor."

He doesn’t know much about romance, or love for that matter, but he knows infatuation when he sees it

And little does she know that he’s as much of a vindictive child as she is.

[parasolata-blog]

Sybil's gaze travels up from her tea to the walls of her office as Connor goes on his (not entirely unjustified) tirade, the slight smile on her face never budging. Once she's gathered that the tirade is over, she finally speaks. Her voice is innocent and level, and almost excessively casual.

"If speaking to the administrative staff and punishing the medical faculty for their inadequacies isn't enough, do you want to rehire the entire division? It might be a bit of short notice, but I'm sure we could scrounge up a few of those community-minded applicants for you to make your personal selection of."

She pauses, the edges of her smile creeping further and further apart, resulting in a rather unnecessary split-face grin.

"You may think that I'm mocking you, but I'm really quite serious. -- But, even if I were mocking you," she places one hand over her chest, in a (rather theatrical) display of shock, "Wouldn't something as extreme as punishing the entire staff still serve as some sort of progress? Certainly more progress than trying to parry with the past as leverage."

Sybil taps one finger on the photos of Red sitting atop her desk, remnant of Connor's unintended battery of her office. Her smile shifts into one more genuine, but no less unsettling. "After all, it's a bit rude to ask about a lady's past, isn't it?"

She settles back into her chair, folding both of her hands in her lap.

"Was there anything else bothering you?"

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[caligaried-deactivated20160911]

Ms. Sybil Reisz has always been a competent, kind woman, he thinks. Meticulous, but always someone you can turn to in times of need. A great asset and friends to the students and even a good majority of the staff.

Yet, as he looks at her sitting in her chair, crossing her legs as if she walked right out of the Godfather and has some sort of invisible cat she oughta be petting planted right onto her lap, he begins to realize how..uncomfortable she makes him. Whenever he speaks to Sybil, he notices the way his tongue trips over itself and switches to Mohawk. Speaking English around this woman was a struggle for him, and the reasons as to why are unknown even to him.

Whatever the case, he had something to discuss. Although, the music playing is still so distracting—hearing your roommate’s voice when you shouldn’t was strange. And kind of discomforting when the very room you were sitting in was adorned with too many pictures of her to count.

Professional killer! That makes two! High five! No? Okay.

He flinches when she stands up—why? It’s not as if she’s going to attack him or anything. Right? Right, he tells himself. Riight.

"And what of it? These students feel as if they cannot depend on this ‘medical team’. Many of my very own students are chronically ill yet they receive little to no attention from the medical team. They should not have to ask for help. What is this so-called license worth if the students here don’t feel secure or supported? If they’re passing out in bathrooms, or fainting, and don’t even consider going to the nurse’s office because they have yet to even meet the nurse. Which is no fault of their own: the nurse should be meeting them. That license is—”

He hadn’t intended to sound that aggressive, or ramble on the way he did. He hadn’t even intended to scowl until he realizes his eyebrows were a wee bit closer together than they should be. Suddenly, he treats as if he were a bashful child who had been scolded by their mother…despite the fact that no one had even scolded him.

What the hell? Where did that tea set come from. He sighs a bit before subtly pushing the cup of tea back towards the center of the table.

"No thank you. Anyways—I want these students to be able to feel safe. I want this so called ‘medical team’ to do what they should do.”

[parasolata-blog]

Her expression shifts into a delicate pout as the latter refuses her generous offer of tea, but she shrugs her shoulders and takes a second sip from her own cup. If he wants to drink cold tea, that's totally his prerogative. However, her change in demeanor seems entirely as a result of some sort of perceived slight due to Connor's refusal to drink her tea, rather than due to enduring an extended deluge of pent-up frustration.

"I understand how you feel," she says, setting her teacup down. "In fact, a lot of people have expressed similar concerns and felt the same way!" Reciting alarmingly canned lines with an alarmingly realistic air of sympathy, Sybil leans forward slightly in her chair, resting her hands in her lap. "But what they've found, Connor, is that creating a safe environment for our students is everyone's responsibility. Simply blaming it entirely on the medical staff isn't fair, is it?"

She smiles gracefully, and nods her head in the direction of her poor, battered door.

"Now, accidentally breaking down doors and causing property damage, does that sort of behavior create a safe environment for our students?" Sybil takes another sip of tea, holding up her other hand to indicate that she's not finished speaking. "... Of course, with that said, I'm sure the students do appreciate your efforts. Keeping medical supplies on hand in your classroom is quite admirable of you, after all." As she speaks, Sybil's gaze remains pointed at the surface of her tea. Gosh, Sybil. What's so fascinating about your tea, huh?

"If that's all that you were worried about, however, I'll happily speak to the administration on your behalf. Would putting the entire staff on probation be enough for a reprimand?"

Despite her still downward-pointed gaze, the smile hovering on Sybil's face is unmistakable.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[critical-wave]

Perhaps it was the right thing to do. Walter contemplated his choice even now, standing before the door. He needed to talk to someone. Would a guidance counselor even really be able to help with his feelings?

The door was slightly ajar…Should he knock? He grasped the handle first and then knocked with his free hand before he swung the door open.

He tried to grin confidently but only managed a weak smile as he shuffled into the room. 

He didn’t expect to see Red everywhere. Or a giant sunhat either. 

A giant sunhat. Indoors? What? Don’t stare damn you! 

"H-Hey.." He tried to sound casual. This was the worst idea ever. Walter honestly wanted to bolt at this point. 

[parasolata-blog]

Of course a guidance counselor could help. Guidance counselors could always help. Whether it's matters of the heart, advice on schoolwork, or the best way to bury a dead body, coming to a guidance counselor was always the right thing to do.

Sybil raises her eyes from her computer screen and turns her head to look at the new arrival in her office the moment she hears the first knock. Once she's identified the student (a feat taking approximately three tenths of a second), she swivels in her chair to fully face Walter.

"Hello."

She smiles in a way that's probably meant to be reassuring, but even the most reassuring smile doesn't serve as much of a cure for nerves brought on by standing in an office. It doesn't matter what the office is for or who the office's occupant is, offices are always scary as hell.

"Go ahead and have a seat," Sybil adds, gesturing towards one of the many available chairs in her office as she leans back in her own chair. "And so, what brings you in here today, Mr. Eberhardt?"

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[quaternaries-blog]

Well, it says it’s open.

"Excuuuuse me?" Clover knocks twice on the door, one hand already poised on the doorknob. Not one to wait for a positive response, or any sort of response at all, she’s already turning the handle and halfway into the room by the time she’s finished knocking.

Once inside the (kind of eerie, now that she’d taken a good look) office, Clover’s eyes finally settled on the woman sitting at the computer, who had already swiveled in her chair to meet the former’s gaze. A bit taken aback by the blonde’s level smile, it takes Clover a moment to gather her thoughts completely.

Come to think of it, why did she come in here, in the first place? As if out of idle habit, Clover shoved her hands into her pockets before finally speaking.

"Hey, ma’am? Can you look someone up for me?"

Having cut right to the chase, Clover plops herself down onto one of the chairs conveniently positioned by the door, crosses her legs, and looks back up at the older woman expectantly. Apparently, all she wants is a simple yes or no answer.

[parasolata-blog]

"Simply speaking, yes. I can."

Sybil leans back in her chair, idly picking up a pen from her desk and twirling it between her fingers. She purses her lips in thought, before her face quickly breaks out into a sly grin.

"What sort of person were you looking for, Miss Field?" She motions for the latter to help herself to the candies sitting on the table with her free hand. "I certainly hope you're not enlisting me in a stalking endeavor, now."

Her jab is playful enough, but there's a bit of a subtle note beneath it hinting that she really wouldn't mind if it was.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

[caligaried-deactivated20160911]

Connor hadn’t understood the vaguely bitter feelings his friends had towards Ms. Reisz—she was a dependable, kind woman who worked with competence and vigor. She was of great help to the students, and he could understand why she was so well liked among the student body.

However Jack, Bigby, Willard and Red seemed to disagree.

Frail and ill students not being able to depend on the nurse or school’s resources was disconcerting—all students’ needs should be tended to. Speaking to Sybil about the issue at hand was a good start, he thought.

So he approaches the…ominous. Is that the word? He couldn’t tell. The ominous door open only by a wee crack, meaning Sybil was available.

He grasps the doorknob, and somehow accidentally flings the door open a bit too harshly and the door slams against the wall adjacent to it, knocking over a few photos on said wall and leaving a dent.

Oops.

"Sorry."

He looks back at the wall, and then at her, and then back to the door, and gradually and gently pushes it closed, picks up the photos and slowly walks over to her desk like a bashful but very evidently guilty child would, the photos still in his hands.

"I’ll clean up the rest after I speak to you—wait."

As he’s about to lay them down, he notices: Red. Some of these are photos of Red. His close friend and roommate.

Why?

It’s then that he realizes—the music. A song of Red’s. The Spine. It was one of his, and her favorites, always humming it as she washed the dishes.

"Something came to mind. Sorry for the delay."

He lays the photos down, and turns one of the cushy, elfin chairs positioned around the table around and proceeds to straddle it before speaking.

Is there something he’s missing here? He’s not concerned simply…curious. Considering he accidentally vandalized Sybil’s room however, it’d be best to ask her later.

"I need to discuss the dependability of Tancho’s medical resources with you."

[parasolata-blog]

She's a professional. Thoughts along those lines would probably cross any hapless spectator's mind as Sybil slowly swiveled in her chair to face the door, crossed her ankles daintily, and rested an elbow on the arm of her chair. The friendly smile never once wavers on her face, and it seems as if she's almost grown taller in her chair; her eyes make contact with Connors, but she barely has to tilt her head to make up for the height difference.

... A professional killer, maybe.

A flash of white shows as her smile widens, and she gently picks up the disturbed photos, carefully straightening their edges and checking for any damage to the lacquered surface. Once she's determined the damage to be minimal, if at all present, she returns her gaze to Connor, who has at that point already taken a seat. Her smile takes on a decidedly knowing hint, and she nods her head, stands up, and walks across her office to stop at the file cabinets opposite her desk.

"The school's medical resources, right?" Even as she speaks, Sybil produces a key from the depths of one of her skirt pockets, and unlocks the file cabinet. "Well, we have a licensed team of medical faculty, of course! Our on-site doctors and nurses are all professionals, so there's no loss of dependability in that aspect." She nods her head sagely as she produces a tea set from the depths of the uppermost cabinet, and turns to carry the china back to the table.

"So, with all of that said..." Sybil lifts her head, looking at the teacher sitting across the table as she pours the tea deftly into two cups. "What can I do to help?" With a professional smile, she slides one cup of tea across the table to Connor, before settling back into her chair and taking a sip of her own cup.

[parasolata-blog]

☂ sugar and spice? | open()

'Currently, I am ... in my office! Come say hello!'

So sayeth the whiteboard hanging on Sybil's door, at least. Said door is open just barely, and the sound of rapid typing floats out into the adjourning hallway, supported by the faint strains of an unfamiliar piece of music.

(It's probably some sort of retro music, from some old long out of fashion alternative band that nobody knows the name of. But at the same time, it does sound oddly familiar to anyone who hears it.)

Sybil herself sits at her desk, her back ramrod straight and her posture the complete image of ergonomic perfection as she types away.

Her office is very homely, with soft cushioned chairs positioned around a dainty table. A small dish of individually wrapped chocolate candies sits atop the table, and although the type of sweet differs from day to day, Sybil's 'take as many as you'd like' policy has lead to many a bulging pocket for many a student. The office itself smells sort of like lavender, and is lit by several lamps positioned around the interior, rather than by the harsh fluorescent light affixed to the ceiling. The resulting ambiance leads one to think that Sybil's office is essentially an extension of her own home, a theory supported by the tea set daintily stowed away atop one of the numerous file cabinets lining the room.

The walls of her office are covered in photos and newspaper clippings; several of them seem to be taken from articles commemorating Sybil's own achievements prior to her arrival at the academy, but an alarming number depict the academy's very own Red, clearly in her later years. Amidst the photos and clippings are a few Tancho Academy brochures and posters, and several inspirational quotes; at least there's some standard school counselor wall decoration fare to be found on Sybil's office walls.

Sybil herself occasionally glances towards her slightly ajar door, watching for any signs of movement in the adjourning hallway. It's not rare for a student seeking guidance or counseling to drop by her office at this time of day, so the guidance counselor is remaining vigilant.

What sort of (hapless) student -- or staff, for that matter -- will (stumble into) come and visit her (well-oiled trap) office today?