#gordiacea

[dividedbybinaries]

{{ art fight attack on @duran-duran-esq and @gordiacea < 3 }}

[duran-duran-esq]

⚖️ You've Reached Durán Law: Hangin' On The Telephone @gordiacea

You have ONE new message. BEEP. "Dr. Ong, it's Dolores with Durán Law. This is my fourth attempt trying to reach you regarding your case and I'd advise-- Actually, you know what? No. You've been dodging me for reasons unclear to me and I'd be doing you a disservice by not saying something, so I'm telling you now-- that's a bad idea. Not only are you wasting your money by ignoring me, but you're also wasting my time that I could be using to push this lawsuit forward. Look-- I don't know what's going on with you, but I hope this is just a lapse in judgement and that you aren't in some kind of trouble. Call me back. You should know my number well by this point." Click.

[guttersniper]

@gordiacea

the elevator stops on the ninth floor. mutt's there. he takes quick stock of the man inside—forty-ish, tall, prim, grimacing and miserable—before his brisk walk to the far corner in front of the number panel. the button for the lobby already glows a faint orange outline.

the doors close. the elevator begins to descend. no idle chitchat passes. no music fills the stillness. abruptly, with a foreboding moan-screech, it stops. mutt shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and seems to shrug without moving either shoulder.

"you try anything, and i'll kill you."

the dryness of his delivery could mark him out for deathly serious, or he could be fucking with harold. it's hard to tell for certain. a shimmering knot of discomfort tangles up in his stomach either way at their forced proximity.

[zheurgeist]

| @gordiacea .

"Weyurai."

Zeveth, at the door. Drawn, these days, stiff, hollowed face. Glossy eyes, cold fire. Sleep is a luxury reserved only for the impious, mind, body, and faith dedicated to this cure that continues to elude them all. Their presence sends a chill through one of Weyurai's technicians, who sidles meekly out of earshot.

"Come. I have new results."

Come. This is not for the ears of anyone else.

[daemondaes]

one...sort of? cocky when he is trying to piss people off, maybe more bashful when hes being genuine?

Well, he's smart. It's something. Cherry nibbles the tip of her nail, polish be damned. Maybe it's not about the number of bingos completed. Maybe it's about the number of squares filled in—in which case, he's technically managed to complete half the board. It's something.

She looks at Harold quizzically, studies his face for a deeper hint, but no matter how owlish and unblinking her stare, she still comes up short. She can revise the rules.

It's the quality of the marked squares that matters most.

There are worse things in the world than blonds. Maybe he can't match her oh-so-witty repartee, but that's no crime. The real hiccup is in the final two squares, but even with those, she can't find much fault. It's early. He scarcely knows her. He's scrawny, booksmart, and bespectacled. Surely if he knew her situation, he'd have the mental wherewithal and visual acuity to discern between her and her lesser half. It's with that hope that she gives him her probationary approval: a lipstick print in the top corner of the page.

"Food. Nature. It's workable. Picnic in the park?"

If he agrees, then she'll bring up the possibility of a haunted park after midnight.

somehow @gordiacea gets a second date?

[gordon-gordiacea]

gordon your adoring fans miss your presence. how are you doing on this connecticut afternoon

OH SORRY I LEFT MY PHONE IN A TUB OF GLYCERIN FOR A BIT. I'M THINKING ABOUT WAYS TO GET RID OF A SHITTY CAR. I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE SIGNED A TITLE FOR SOMETHING THAT LEAKS PROFUSELY

[choicescreen]

@gordiacea said: "we had a fight."

how sad, how lovely.

"i'm sorry." the delivery sticks, comes out a little stiff on his teeth—rehearsed, but not less genuine. redmon ducks harold's eyes, nervous as a schoolboy.

abruptly, "i don't have people over often. anymore, anyway. uh, coffee? beer? i'm rusty."

they have an audience. a peanut gallery, more like. gino jeers, lesur hisses an admonishment, frenchly. redmon laughs. too loud, as if to cover up the noise. he forgets, being not overly chummy with his guest, only he knows they are there.

the end result is him laughing at thin air.

[tooth--ache]

─────── THE TICKING OF HIS WATCH was all that had kept him company in the dusty, 1970s office. The walls were lined with rows and rows of box files, blunt-tipped marker scribbles on its spine, journalling a seven-year period of financial reports and backing documents. Beneath, behind an MDF desk, sat a hunched finance assistant with a damp expression, thumbing away at the corners of this year's financials, and a demand letter.

"He's suing our HoF," said the assistant, pushing her glasses up. "I've done my best, Howard, I cooked a lot of numbers on both sides. You know how it is. I don't want Dr Ong to lose his tenure here, but at the same time I have the fucking…"

"I know, I know." Howard nodded briskly. He drew a deep breath, and exhaled as he turned his gaze onto limp succulents lining the back of the assistant's monitor.

"If you could just-- dissuade him from suing the university, that'd be swell." She leaned back into her chair, teasing an edge of her fang with her tongue. "We're so close to a breakthrough in Terras lab and Hopkin lab. In Physics, Gerton lab and Raj lab's starting phase two of the project. Fucking hell, Howard, I've just finalised a tender with Zeiss for eight million fucking dollars. I've worked on it for seven fucking months. For a stupid fucking microscope. We can't deal with probing eyes right now."

"Can't the university, like, pay… someone?" "Yeah, they're paying us. You." "No I mean, like--"

The assistant rolled her eyes. "Clearly not. Harold's not the kind you can buy with funding. Ironic, I know. Balance of all things, blah blah blah. They think we can work our magic on this one, and by god do they need magic. Howard, we're already ten years into this project."

Howard blew sharp air through pursed lips. He gave her a shrug and got up from his dusty chair, straightening the lapels of his bomber jacket. "I'm not fucking his brain up, by the by. If that's what they're implying by magic."

"Don't touch his brain, it's millions and millions and millions of dollars' worth. Just-- I don't fucking know, Howard, do something about it, will you?"

Howard raised a hand, and left the office. Another day, another mess to clean.

✦✦✦ ─────── BASEMENTS ARE A COMMODITY for some departments. Cool, insulated, and if thoughts were put into it, free from external vibrations. It did not strike Howard odd at all that this is where one half of the zoology labs were situated, though from the description of the project title of @gordiacea's grant funding, it didn't feel as if any of the perks of being underground was for anything other than its isolation.

He peeked into several rooms, where one or two undergraduate students were chatting amongst themselves, before leaving for lunch. Desks and labs were empty on either wing, until he reached the end of the hallway, where he could sense someone was shuffling tiredly within. The door was closed, but Howard chose not to try the handle. Instead he knocked.

"Dr Ong?" he called out. "I got your Fisher shipment from Stores. I think it's mixed up with John lab's pipette orders. Can I come in?"