"What time is your bedtime?" Uncle demands just as Damian is about to go to Batcave to suit up. For a moment, he fights the urge to proclaim he doesn't have a bedtime because he is not a child. Then he remembers that Uncle had been the one to install the anti-child soldier rule in the League of Assassins.
He allowed them to be trained to defend themselves and the organization but not to be sent on missions or be trained to the point he claimed as "abusive." Uncle believed that the young of Infinity Island should be treated like children and that doing so was not a means of offense.
Instead, Uncle thought providing a peaceful and gentle childhood was a gift. Mother claimed it created weaklings, which is why Damian had pushed himself to this point of skill, but even she had known that her brother's wrath would fall upon her if her more intense training techniques were introduced to him too early.
Damian would like to believe he was one of the best in the League of Assassins, but he knew he wasn't. Uncle Daniel's rule made it hard for him to advance against larger opponents.
He could best everyone in his age group in controlled duels and sparring, and he stood a great chance against the idiots in Gotham streets, but only because none of them had any official training.
In the beginning of his life in Gotham, Damian consistently lingers in the background in battles against enemies such as Bane, Killer Croc, or Scarecrow. He was skilled enough to know he would be a liability if he attempted to take a point, but Father had quickly adjusted his training, and Damian was slowly but surely advancing in his skill set.
Mother would be pleased to learn he was better than the assassin's two age groups above him and that his pain tolerance hide rose. Uncle Daniel had likely noticed as well.
He knew it was due to all those hours out in the field of Gotham's darkest streets.
It had been one of the first things he had been displeased with Father over, and if he wanted his plan to work, he needed to make the sacrifice.
"Nine o'clock," he grumbles, crossing his arms. "Nine thirty if it's not a school day."
Uncle Daniel smiles proudly, leaning back into the doorframe of Father's office. The rest of Father's brood stands around looking confused as Uncle shoots Father a smug look, only to frown at Father's glee. Even someone as great as his uncle had thought Father wanted them on the field.
Not that they had all forced his hand. Damian should show him all the security his father had installed to keep him in the manor and the surveillance hours during which he broke through said security to fight crime.
In fact, Damian should asked Drake if he still had the video where Father had shouted at the top of his lungs, "For the last time, just STAY HOME and let me handle the EXTREMELY dangerous hostage situation, kids!"
Only to slap a hand over his face when Brown had taunted him through the coms. "You can't tell us what to do!"
"Yeah, B, you must learn to control your children." Todd's mockery was nearly drowned out by the sound of gunfire. "We're out of control."
"Damian can not stay home alone," Father says, snapping him from his thoughts. He's glancing at the other idiots in the room, who are all making faces, but this is just the opportunity Damian has been waiting for.
He's not about to let them ruin it with their stupid demand to join Father in the field.
He raises his chin, blurting out his demand. "If we all stay behind, Uncle Daniel shall go with you, Father. To keep you safe."
Both men look butler disgusted, which is what prompts Drake to speak up. "You know Bruce? I actually feel a little under the weather today. Maybe I can stay with Damian, and Mr. Fetnon can go for me."
"That won't be necessary when Steph-"
"Oh shoot B! I have this really big essay due tomorrow, and I was going to stay on coms tonight while I worked on it. I can't go with you. Sorry"
Father appears desperate when he flings his eyes to Richard, who only shrugs. "Sorry, Cass and I are going undercover tonight at the new club. I can't watch your back while trying to get party college kids to tell me where the new drugs are."
"Jason-"
"No."
"I guess I have no choice." Uncle Daniel sighed as if this was all a big chore that Damian had thrown at him. "I'll make sure your incompetence doesn't get you killed. Let's go."
Father's teeth are gritting, but when the visitor steps closer to whisper in his ear, all the protest drains from his body, and he, too, sighs wearily. Damian wished he knew what was said between them, but his uncle had covered his mouth, so he could not lip read.
"Fine. But no killing." Father bites, and Uncle scowls
"I don't kill. I know how precious any life can be." He seers, getting into Father's face. He stabs his pointer finger in the middle of Bruce's chest, pressing down roughly on every syllable.
Damian is about to step in, recognizing the rising anger in his mother's brother, only to watch, in real-time, as Father seems surprised by the comment. Much to his hopeful glee a slight blush rises on the man's cheekbones, even as he turns around to moved the clock.
Uncle rolls his eyes before sinking into the ground as Father vanishes from sight. The office has a long silence before Brown breaks it with a nasty snort.
Utterly mannerless, that one.
"Oh, the sexual tension! They will definitely be fuc-" She cackles, only to pause when her eyes land on Damian as if she had forgotten he was there. Brown reached up to pet down her hair, clearing her throat. "They seem like good friends."
"What? I don't believe you understand. Father and Uncle can barely stand each other."
Drake snickers. "Barely stand"
"Enough," Richard speaks up, popping open the top two buttons on his shirt. It's part of his disguise to look as alluring as possible, though Damian doubts someone would give an idiot who can't correctly dress himself the time of day. "Let's leave Bruce and our house guest alone. We all have jobs, so Steph, get on coms, Tim, get some chicken soap, and Damian, get to bed."
"Wait, I'm not actually sick-" Drake protests, but Richard walks right through his protest. He pushes the idiot out of the office and marches him down the hall toward the kitchen.
Damian watches them go before glancing over his shoulder to where Brown vanishes from sight down the pole to the Batcave in a flash of yellow hair. He nearly joins her, but Uncle would have his head when- and it would be when, not if- he found out he wasn't sleeping.
He still has a year to get them together. He must make sacrifices that wound his pride, such as these. Damian pouts to his room but changes into his sleepwear and brushes his teeth anyway.
This was a slog, with juvenile writing, flimsy storytelling, and nothing particularly interesting to say.
I tried. I really tried. But after thinking, "I'm not enjoying this. Maybe I'll try one more?" after every single story, I can't do it. I can't try just one more. I'm not strong enough.
The writing style was unimpressive. It alternated between unsuccessfully attempting a lyrical voice and (much more often) writing in what I've now termed "meme voice"—a quippy, modern-slangy, overly casual tone that often jarred with the fantastical fairytale setting. The two styles together clashed, and neither was wielded with much success.
The short stories themselves seemed to take a very long time to accomplish very little. There was a lot of needlessly convoluted setup, where the only payoff was the exact same cookie-cutter couple falling in love. Again. Seemed extremely roundabout. None of these stories are really "doing anything."
I picked this up because the cover is gorgeous and I thought the seasonal framing would make it a good pick for the start of the year. While the cover remains gorgeous and has thankfully not decayed Dorian Gray-style, even the seasonal framing seems arbitrary. Maybe it becomes clearer with later stories in the collection, but so far there hasn't been anything to tie these stories to their particular season thematically. There's no sense of temporality at all, which seems careless given this collection is structured around time.
I try really hard to finish everything that I pick up by choice. I don't DNF lightly. I can't even remember the last time I outright gave up. But my good will as a reader has been completely squandered and I don't think there's any benefit to continuing—either for myself or for this review, which would probably devolve into angry swearing if I tried to force myself through an insurmountable 200 more pages.
I haven't read any Olivie Blake before, though I know of her. Maybe her novels are stronger (short stories are their own unique skill set), but unfortunately I'm not very motivated to find out, as this was a poor first impression.
Below are my notes that I jotted while reading each story:
The Wish Bridge: 2.5 stars
Writing is very juvenile. Alternates between attempting a lyrical fairytale voice (itself meh) and extremely modern slang-y phrasing, which is jarring. Feels like flash fiction on tumblr, but not in a good way (aka trying too hard to rules-lawyer a trope or genre convention, instead of telling an actual story). Not a strong start for a collection.
The Audit: 1 star
Took a long time to do not very much, which is not a great quality in a short story. The whole setup seemed like a needlessly roundabout way to achieve what it wanted to achieve; I was expecting it to do More based on the premise. The meme-y voice still isn't my favorite, but it fit better for this story and this character. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around someone unironically writing and publishing this story In This Economy. It truly boggles my mind that this story has NOTHING to say about labor OR free will vs destiny. Truly taking the speculative out of spec fic.
TUMBLR EXCLUSIVE: I hated this short story so much that I had to text @opheliaintherushes venting about the bizarre pointless premise, and I think you'll all hate it too, so I'm transcribing my annoyed texts below so you know that I am Justified In My Ire once you understand the plot [editor's note: annoyed texts have been condensed for clarity]:
so it's set in what I'm ASSUMING is a near-future sci-fi setting where using ~technology, they have this new pilot program where people in their 20s can find out how much money they're going to earn in their entire life, get the whole lump sum upfront as a loan, go enjoy their youth, and then when they're like 35 they go do whatever job they're "meant to do" that earns them all that money in the first place
You might think the point of this setup is to explore something about work or wealth or youth or capitalism. You would be wrong.
Our annoying 20-something protagonist finds out the ~terrible news that she now has 40 MILLION DOLLARS IN HER BANK ACCOUNT. She has to go to grad school when she's 30 so she can get the qualifications for her job at age 35, but otherwise she has a decade to enjoy HAVING 40 MILLION DOLLARS
Also did the question of free will or fate factor into this ever? No. It did not.
She spends the entire short story doing absolutely nothing. She said she was going to quit her job to travel. She doesn't do this. She repeatedly GOES TO WORK. (She works in, wait for it, a bookstore because of course she does of COURSE she fucking does. and it's a ~chill bookstore that makes all its money selling rare books so she doesn't have to do like, any work). It is so many pages of her just like, considering buying Nice Chocolate and then getting stressed and not buying it. And then continuing to go to work
The thing that she DOES do is repeatedly hang out with her downstairs neighbor in his apartment that he never leaves ever. He only got several hundred-thousand dollars, because he's going to die young, which is why he's stopped leaving the apartment (again: do questions of fate come into play here? No)
They fall in love, which apparently was the actual point of this short story. Seems like a whole lot of unnecessary setup to me just to write a story about falling in love with your weird neighbor
So anyway, after doing absolutely nothing with her 40 MILLION DOLLARS for like twenty pages except think about how she doesn't really know what to do with it, it ends with her renting a bunch of famous paintings from museums and bringing them to this guy's apartment so that he can enjoy them without leaving his apartment. The end.
hold onto your blood pressure, but her roommate is in law school (she chose not to find out her ~destiny) and the protagonist is like "do you want me to like, pay for law school" and the roommate says no (??) and the protagonist is like "I just want to make things easier on you" and the roommate says AND I QUOTE "things being easy isn't the point." which like WHAT. in this economy?????
Why are you setting up a story about WEALTH AND FATE AND PREDESTINATION AND WORK to literally just bone your neighbor
I'm literally staring at the wall of my cubicle and thinking "I don't know if I can do it. I'm not strong enough." Usually books that I hate take longer than this to go off the rails. It's been 51 pages. There's 300 more.
this was also the point when I came on tumblr and complained to you all about my suffering, but then I continued to read two more stories "just in case it got better." It didn't.
Sucker for Pain: 3.5 stars
On a style level, the writing was worlds better than the first two. But in terms of plot and character, it was basically every YA paranormal fantasy that's ever been written condensed into 40 pages, so it wasn't really for me. At least that there was some degree of prose.
My feeling is again that we just sort of meandered around for 40 pages. There isn't a strong sense of purpose here, or that real kick that short stories are meant to have. So far none of these have been Doing Anything in a storytelling sense
The Animation Games: 2 stars
Well, this one went in directions I did not expect, which is not the same as Doing Something. Again took too long to do very little of substance and unfortunately it devolved into meme-y-ness and a very typical couple dynamic that's been done to (ha) death. I kept looking at the number of pages and feeling deeply frustrated that there were more of them. Romantically murdering each other with weird antics like somebody decided they wanted Tom/Jerry instead of Tom & Jerry went on for an excruciating number of pages.
Shoutout to one of the worst sentences I've ever read: "He let the water coat his lips, seeping coolly onto his tongue, before it slithered gradually down his throat and settled conclusively in his stomach." Slithered? Settled conclusively?? Maybe I shouldn't have complained about the meme voice if this is what her attempts at being lyrical are like. But unfortunately this sentence lives in the same story as meme-voice dialogue such as "I sort of assumed you were the regular kind of dead." It's painful.
The only thing I felt after this story was exhausted relief that it was over.
In conclusion: I would recommend this book to people who want to look at the cover without ever opening it.
32. “You need to go to sleep already” with any ship you like?
Thanks for the prompt! It's inspired me to get back into The Audit verse. Here's some Branjie from the au:
“Leave it.”
At Brooke’s voice, missing its usual bite, Vanessa turns, nearly throwing herself off-kilter with the speed. The keys clatter to the floor. And when she looks up, she finds the blinds in Brooke’s office cracked about an inch, the fluorescents still glaring inside the room.
Vanessa was under the impression that she was the last one left in the office. The rest of the girls were at trivia night—it was Tuesday after all—but she insisted on staying back to solidify the agenda for her fundraiser. She wasn’t satisfied with the transition from cocktail hour to silent auction and was beginning to doubt the plan overall, as though the whole affair were nothing more than an ill-founded waste of time and resources, a means of elongating her eventual firing.
It was, of course.
But it’s also Vanessa’s project, and in her mind the department relies on her to keep operations running, so it has to be perfect.
Abandoning the keys, Vanessa makes her way to Brooke’s office. She’s about to reach for the door, about to check on her, when A’keria, bright cackle and all, pummels through her thoughts.
“You like her.”
She knows it’s not true.
She knows it in the way she’s overfilled her mug with the last of the coffee, sloshing it all over her blouse as she walks back to her desk, just because Brooke was in line behind her and she knew Brooke needed her third cup.
She knows it from the the time she stole all of Brooke’s post-it notes and spelled out “fuck you” across every other one before placing them back on her desk. She watched as Brooke reached for a sticky note, having to go through at least four “fuck yous” to flag the department credit card statement.
She knows it because Booke’s car keys are currently in the freezer, inside an open back of tropical fruit mix, ruining both Brooke’s keys and her daily smoothie.
Vanessa could create an itemized list of disagreements, retaliations, and generalized displays of disgust the two had shown toward each other. It’d be easy too.
But it was nearly 11 p.m. and Vanessa couldn’t think of a good reason why Brooke was still here, besides her keys being in the tropical fruit mix.
So she pushed A’keria out of her mind and turned the knob. She was checking in out of curiosity is all, she reasoned.
“It’s, uh, late,” Vanessa says through the crack in the door.
“Don’t be weird. Come in.”
It throws her off, the invitation that is. So far off that she does it without question, entering the office and sinking into the brushed leather seat across from Brooke’s desk.
She repeats herself. “It’s late. Aren’t you planning on going home?”
“Not really,” Brooke says nonchalantly. “Someone’s got to make the numbers work here, so…” She trails off, reaching for her coffee mug and taking a swig.
“Sure, but it’s really late. And does it matter if it works now rather than later?” Vanessa crosses her legs, resting her folded hands on her knee.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Brooke shoots back, again, missing the nastiness that typically drips off every word. It’s frightening, really. “I’ve seen you move the events for the outreach fundraiser around at least 60 different times tonight. I wasn’t aware there were that many ways to order a fundraiser, and yet…”
Vanessa stiffens, her defenses rebuilding brick by brick, A’keria’s nagging voice fully banished. “If it’s going to happen and we’re going to raise enough money to keep the community center going, then it needs to run the right way the first time.”
Her nails dig into her knee. “I’m aware you have no interest in its success, the department’s success, my success, but it has to be right. It has to be—”
“Perfect.” Brooke cuts her off. “You’re trying to make it perfect.”
“Yes,” Vanessa bites back before turning in on herself. “Not sure why I’d bother, but yes.”
“Well,” She hikes up the sleeve of her blouse before reaching over to the coffee pot, topping off her mug. “It’s a noble pursuit.” Brooke glances around, palming her desk with urgency.
Vanessa spots the little metal tray topped with creamer cups and sugar packets. She hands it off to Brooke, accepting a nod as thanks. “Will you be sure to put that in my letter of reference after you off me?”
The silence hangs for a moment. Brooke glances down, then tries to fill it with stirring creamer and sugar into her coffee.
Vanessa decides it’s time to head out. Maybe she can still make the lightning round at Squid. Save the group from finishing dead last. Drown her stress surrounding the fundraiser in vodka and bad decisions. Maybe find someone to take away her stress for a night.
“Vanessa,” Brooke settles her mug back on the coaster. She holds up her finger, pausing to throw her head back and let out a deep yawn.
“You should move the silent auction to right after the community center redesign presentation.” She cuts off another yawn by taking a sip of her coffee. “And integrate supplies to make it happen into a silent auction. Books for the library, comfortable chairs, trees and shit. People love feeling tied to a place. You need to give them a sense of purpose.”
Damn. It was a good idea. She couldn’t say that of course. And she couldn’t totally take the idea without conceding to Brooke, or welcoming in the feeling that she really wasn’t worthy of her position, of leading the community. She’d have to think of something even better.
“And you need to go to sleep. Leave my project alone,” Vanessa shot back.
But when Brooke’s face fell and A’keria’s words came knocking again, forcing her to attend to the hollow pang in her heart, Vanessa added, “but I’ll think about it,” and finally headed for the door.
Jake Peralta: She's doing jazz about brunch. Maybe it's not too late to get out of here. We could start a new life in the country, maybe open a small bookstore.
Amy Santiago: How dare you tempt me with a small bookstore. We need to focus.
The Audit, Chapter 1 (Branjie, Scyvie, Ninex) - Phryne
She’s back back back back (quarantine back rolls)! Here’s the rewrite of The Department of Public Safety, with more jokes, more warm and fuzzy moments, and less safety. Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed!
Thank you to @janssports for being the most lovely beta and @scarletenvy for endless support!
This Chapter: There’s a new sherif in town, and she doesn’t play around (though Vanjie hopes otherwise).
***
In the simple town of Lanmore, Virginia — where the grass trimmings lay on the sidewalks until the next storm washes them away, where the sun burns heavy on every blacktop in every strip mall parking lot, where the flag blows freely and haphazardly — it is quiet.
It is all quiet until Vanjie hefts a Wal-Mart bag, filled to the brim with loose packets of SweeTarts, onto the freshly waxed conference room table. She dumps them out, all good and messy, letting them brush against A’keria and Nina’s piles of citizen suggestions, and spill off onto the floor.
And there were at least a hundred suggestions at A’keria and Nina’s end of the table, sorted haphazardly into Bad, Extra Spicy Bad, and Wrong Department piles. They pass workable suggestions directly to Silky or Vanjie to turn nonsense into gold with their keen understanding of Lanmore and its specific breed of citizen, until they spit out a new program to address the concern. Or the suggestion goes to Scarlet, who brings it to Yvie, who then handles the issue swiftly—and loudly— like she always does.
“So you’re tellin’ me—” Silky reaches across the table and snatches a packet of candy. “That these hos found a way to snort this?” She dangles it between her well manicured nails, as though it were a little bag of dog shit found next to the trash can in Smallman Park.
“They ain’t hos, Silk. They’re like….” Licking her finger, A’keria ponders the hoes as she flips through another stack of suggestion slips rescued from their cardboard box, which lived under Scarlet’s desk, more specifically underneath Scarlet’s balled up fuzzy socks and “secret files,” which no one really wanted to investigate, lest they get trapped in Scarlet’s world by spending too much time with her thoughts. “I don’t know, like, twelve year old boys. They’re just stupid.”
Nina turns around, capping her marker. “Twelve year olds can’t be hos. They’re twelve.”
“You can be a ho and be twelve.” Another flip. A’keria crumples a suggestion slip and launches it at the Extra Spicy Bad pile, missing and hitting Scarlet’s feet.
The Extra Spicy Bad pile held all the suggestions that A’keria took great pleasure in reading out to the group during happy hour, in the traditional Monthly Suggestion Box Clean-Out fashion — in the corner booth at Chewy George’s bar, sat halfway in Silky’s lap, drunk from three blended margaritas, sticking her favorites into her bra, so she could hang them on her desk when she got back to work the next day.
Scarlet turns in her chair and snorts. “Wouldn’t you know,” she says easily, teasingly light.
“Please, you wish you were,” A’keria shoots back, half her attention still on the suggestion slip in front of her.
With a laugh, Scarlet clutches pearls she’s not even wearing. “Excuse me, I’m a lady.” She brightens, splaying out her hands on the conference table, accidentally bumping the Bad pile. “Brigid treated me to a lovely dinner and show last night, sooo. That’s lady-like shit.”
“You’re excused,” Silky adds, but not before she can join Vanjie in rolling her eyes at Scarlet’s remarks.
“She’s not a ho and neither are you, so shut up.” Yvie booms from the front office in that unmistakably Yvie way — loudly inviting herself into a conversation happening in a completely different room, which she has no part of. Such are the powers of being the director.
“Course she chimes in now.” A’keria rolls her eyes before handing Nina a suggestion. “This one’s actually good.”
Vanjie trails away from A’keria and back to the candy. She whips off her shoe, holding the orange suede pump by its blocky heel, and starts pounding the candy mercilessly, throwing her whole body into it. Once, twice, three times, before she shifts her bare foot on top of her other shoe to redistribute her weight. She continues pounding, even as Silky reaches across her to grab a packet of candy, mesmerized by how Vanjie swings her shoe with a vengeance.
She rips it open and carefully pops a SweeTart in her mouth. “So how do these kids even get to snortin’ this shit?”
“You can do anything when you’re stupid enough.” A’keria begins folding the suggestion into a paper airplane, crumpling the nose of it when it doesn’t look pointy enough.
Silky waves a SweeTart in front of Vanjie’s mouth until she opens, letting Silky place it on her tongue. “But what are they getting out of this? Is it like drugs, or…?”
“They snort it, Silk,” Vanjie switches the shoe around to pound with the heel. She gives it a good whack and looks up at Silky with wide eyes. “That’s how they get to snortin it.”
“Yeah but they snort it and then what?”
“I guess you guys better…”
Nina shoots A’keria a look and mouths do not.
“Maybe we should try it and find out?” Scarlet adds, before taking the paper airplane from A’keria, looking over her shoulder, scooting her chair out into the hallway, kicking off of the door frame, and launching herself toward Yvie’s office.
She rolls through the open door, and in one swift move, hands Yvie the airplane, captures the stack of papers Yvie’s waving with a smile, and rolls over to the photocopier next to her desk, yelling behind her, “That’s three points.” Yvie marks the tallies on a Post-It. She’ll put it into the spreadsheet later.
Nina turns back to the candy and opens her mouth. She wants to say something, but instead mashes her lips and shakes her head. Vanjie and Silky mumble “stupid kids,” and “they got nothing to do but dumb shit,” and “you’d probably try snorting candy to get out of reading Lord of the Flies too, Mary,” as they take turns pounding the candy with Vanjie’s shoe.
“I did not, Scarlet did” A’keria drawls, judging that the suggestion of “No more traffic lights. I’m sick of fines and I want to drive like a man” as stupid enough to earn its spot in the “Bad Box.” She crumples it up and tosses it away.
Nina grabs another paper, breaking into a sigh as she scans over the first line.
“Marty the Giraffe and I had a real connection. He ate leaves out of my hand. Who can I call about adopting him?” Nina reads slowly, carefully, as though the sentences were not basic, as though there must be some deeper meaning to glean from the citizen report.
“Gimme that.” Vanjie says, grasping the air until Nina scoots around the table and fits the paper between her fingers. “We’re gonna try some Rizzoli and Isles shit, Silk.”
Silky comes up from under the table, having grabbed Vanjie’s other shoe clean off her foot. She smacks the candy with the heel. “What’s Rizzoli and Isles?” She hits it again, once more, with feeling.
“Like crime ladies who investigate drugs and the one is tough and wears leather jackets and also hot and the other looks at dead people and keeps them chocolate Ho Hos in her desk.”
“Oh my god,” Yvie drawls from her office, watching as Scarlet rolls back in with the photocopies and two pink Starbursts from the candy bowl she keeps on her desk. She breaks her gaze. “None of you are hos.”
A’keria smirks and flips over her phone with a sly smile, before sliding it across the table over to Silky. “Brightness down.”
Vanjie grabs it instead, glances down for a split second, and lets the phone drop into her lap “God, my lesbian eyes.”
“I didn’t know eyes could be lesbian,” Silky mutters, snatching up the phone and turning the brightness back up. She nods, and decisively states, “ho.”
“Everything’s lesbian. That’s how it works. Head, shoulders, knees and toes, Mary,” Vanjie sings, poking Silky.
“And how is your head?” A’keria calls across the table, fishing a slip out of the box. “Nevermind I found it.”
Dropping her shoe back on the table with a clean thud, Vanjie throws herself across the table grasping for the slip.
“It says Vanjie’s tongue is so sloppy…” A’keria pauses to clear her throat.
“How sloppy is it?” Scarlet calls back
“It don’t say shit. Gimme that.” Vanjie grabs the slip and quick stuffs it down her shirt. “There, now you won’t get it.” She pushes herself up and walks back to her side of the table, looking pleased with herself.
A’keria rolls her eyes and turns to Nina. “You wanna get it?” She points at Vanjie, who is now pulling out her credit card. “I won’t even tell HR.” A’keria laughs, and Nina blushes furiously at the thought of HR, which only makes A’keria laugh harder.
Vanjie separates the powdered candy with her credit card and turns to Silky. “We’re gonna try it, Riz.”
With a shrug, Silky pops her finger into her mouth, sticks it into the pile of candy, and then back into her mouth. “Why don’t they just eat it the regular way?” she mumbles around her finger.
“Well, not all of them,” Nina chimes in before sliding another slip to Vanjie. “Here’s a suggestion I think you guys can do something with.”
Vanjie takes up the slip and sets it to the side before taking up the one about the giraffe, rolling it into a thin straw with precision. “Just the stupid ones.”
“Y’all are a bunch of clowns.” A’keria shakes her head as Vanjie cuts the candy into lines.
Vanjie ignores her and turns to Silky. “So, I couldn’t really understand the principal, on account of he sounded like one of those grown ups in those Peanuts cartoons, with Charlie Brown and that dog and shit. But anyway, he said he saw them snortin’ it through the milk straws during lunch period. And then that mom started goin’ off in the office about the police and Reagan and the War on Drugs, and then I stopped listenin’ so…”
“That’s fucked up,” Yvie yells, unwrapping a Starburst.
“Yes it is, Yvangeline. Yes it is,” Vanjie replies, ungrateful for Yvie’s input, before turning back to Silky. “So I take my card and make it into a thin line, like this. And now you got to get something like a dollar bill like they do in the movies or some other paper shit.”
Silky sticks the rolled up suggestion slip into Vanjie’s hand.
“So you just make a roll, and then you get one end to your nose and the other to the line and, like, you just sniff it up.” She plugs one side of her nose, imitating a sniff, but coming out more like a snorting pig on Benadryl.
Yvie glances up from her freshly printed budget papers, and flashes eyes filled with exhaustion and slight amusement toward the group in the conference room. “Guys, we really don’t need to practice snorting candy to see why it’s a problem that middle schoolers are making fake designer drugs out of candy.” She turns to Scarlet. “Hit me.”
“Another Starburst?”
“No, like with a big piece of wood, a lead pipe, your hand.” Yvie huffs, looking over the spreadsheets. “We’re fucked.”
Scarlet rests her hand over Yvie’s shoulder with a giggle. “You don’t try hard enough to be fucked.”
Yvie lets out a tight laugh, ignoring the warmth of Scarlet’s touch and focusing again on the budgetary discretion spreadsheet.
Scarlet gives her one more pat before walking back out of the office. “Yeah guys, it’s kind of inappropriate.”
“Yeah guys, it’s kind of inappropriate,” Silky mutters into the powder, imitating Scarlet’s high-pitched whine, making Vanjie and A’keria snicker. She rolls up her own suggestion slip, presses it to her nose, and bends over the conference table.
Scarlet rolls her eyes, shoving her chair back toward her desk.
“Well, here I go.” Silky shrugs, making a sign of the cross and taking a deep breath. She holds her finger to her left nostril before shooting up at the sound of a nail tapping at the window behind her and Scarlet screaming at the sight of the blonde woman it belonged to.
The woman has her nose pressed against the window, peering in eerily, eyes wide and cold at the sight in front of her.
The air in the office sinks, quickly becoming dense and stifling. Silky releases the paper from her limp hand, A’keria drops her phone into her lap, and Scarlet’s chair slams right into her filing cabinet, knocking her pictures to the floor with a shatter.
“What’s going on in there?” Yvie yells, standing in her door frame. Then she sees it, the scowling blond woman rounding the corner into her department.
The combination of the woman’s angrily clicking heels; Scarlet sitting in a pile of broken glass — from a picture of her and Brigid last Christmas at the city’s tree lighting — and cutting her fingers while trying to clean it up; Silky holding up Vanjie’s shoe; Vanjie bent over a table with candy “drugs” in front of her; and A’keria throwing a paper airplane that hits the newly arrived and even more agitated blonde lady in the chest; makes Yvie want to bite down on her hand until she sees blood.
She resists the urge, however, because Nina taught her that was a bad way to manage stress. So she breathes in for eight counts and out for eight more. It doesn’t work, but repeating “fucking Christ” over and over in her mind helps a little, even if it’s not a Monet Invented Nina Approved Official Stress Relief Strategy.
The woman clears her throat and picks up the airplane. She unfolds it and reads carefully, in a disinterested, even tone, “I lost my water bottle here. It is blue.”
Nina staggers out of the conference room, the rest of the team shuffling after her, still disheveled, but not more disheveled than they are on a typical Tuesday morning. “That was for our boss.”
The woman looks them over, her well groomed brows taut. “Why does your boss need to know this?” She shakes her head, as though looking over the team provided her with all she needs to know. Instead, she crumples the paper airplane, just as Vanjie begins to interject about a city-wide reusable water bottle program. “Would someone like to tell me what is going on in this department?”
Silky folds her hands. Scarlet looks between Yvie and her now bloody fingers, before getting up, wiping them on her skirt, and slotting in between Silky and Vanjie. A’keria and Vanjie exchange glances before turning to look at Yvie as well. Nina stands still, silent as possible, fiddling with the button on her cardigan, as though it were of sudden interest.
The blonde nods and follows their line of sight, heels clicking against the cracked tile floor as she strides toward Yvie’s office, coming to a firm halt in front of her. Breaking into a smirk, she runs her index finger over Yvie’s name plate.
“Director Oddly, is it?” she asks in a tone that suggests she already knows the answer, yet she accompanies the question with a tilt of her head, awaiting a response.
Yvie walks out into the department, takes one look at the scowling blonde woman, and mutters, “Oh, fuck me.” Her head pulls back and she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply for eight counts, just like Nina taught her. When she opens her eyes, all she sees is the brown water stain in the warped ceiling tiles—which Scarlet referred to as “The Amoeba” and Vanessa parodied into “Miss Amoeba Edwards, for your consideration, yass gawd.” If only she could laugh upon seeing the silly looking stain, pretend for a moment that the blonde woman and her obnoxious tone would disappear.
But when she looks forward again, she finds her still there. Yvie exhales once more for eight counts and looks at the woman squarely, sternly, her lips forming a tight line, eyes firm and unyielding.
The last time that look saw the fluorescent light of the office was July 24, 2017, at approximately 2:30 p.m., when Silky cut the office’s only AUX cord in half because she couldn’t take any more of Scarlet’s Christmas Spotify playlist, droning out “Blue Christmas” from the small speaker on the windowsill, claiming that “Christmas in July isn’t a real holiday, it’s a day for capitalists, and no, I don’t care if your girlfriend made you that playlist, I won’t listen to ‘Frosty the Snowman’ while I sweat my whole ass off.”
Scarlet bites the inside of her cheek. This is bad.
Yvie raises her gaze to meet the woman’s, grinds her teeth, and replies with a curt, “Yes.”
She extends her hand, which Yvie unceremoniously shakes, before letting them drop. “I imagine you are to be their supervisor then, and yet, they are clearly unsupervised.” The woman takes in the disarray of the office and the embarrassed expressions of the employees, and continues. “So I must ask, of course, why exactly you have one employee teaching another employee how to do drugs off of my desk, while looking at another employee’s nude pictures, while your secretary rolls back and forth between you and the conference room, creating as many safety hazards as possible in the process, just to make sure she doesn’t miss out on everyone crumpling up suggestions from concerned citizens and playing a game with our constituents’ lives.”
“I’m not a—” Scarlet begins before the woman looks at her.
“Well, technically we’re not elected,” Yvie mutters, hoping the woman might just catch it, burning for an argument strong enough to get her out of her department. “So, not constituents, per say…”
“Also, it’s not drugs, it’s candy because we got a call from Charles Middle that kids are crushing up this candy and it’s got to do with DARE and… Anyway it’s not drugs and we’re trying to figure out what’s up there,” Silky digresses.
The woman rubs between her brows, urging them to unfurrow. “No, you misunderstand me. It was a rhetorical question to emphasize that you, a group of grown adults, being paid with tax-payer money, could not possibly be allowed to supervise yourselves.”
“Well, technically, I do supervise them,” Yvie adds, again, growing more irate at this conversation.
“Please.” The woman brushes it off, “If you’re aware that your department is throwing around paper airplanes made of suggestion forms, then you’re clearly complicit in their misuse of time and resources.”
“Only the good ones become paper airplanes.” Nina shrugs. “The bad ones are crumpled, that’s how we sort.”
“You heard it, that’s how they sort.” Yvie gestures to the group before snapping, like her patience had been pulled taut for far too long.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” she says, clearly not sorry.
The woman continues, unfazed.
“So we just ignore concerns?” She looks to the ground, before crouching down to snatch up a crumpled paper. She chokes a snide laugh, unfurls it, and continues. “A slip from a concerned citizen, writing into your suggestion box. And it says.” She pauses, face twisting, eyes widening, before returning to her previously cold countenance. “It says: The Mexicans are throwing cocaine over the fence and I’m scared one of them will become strong enough to throw it into Virginia. You need to stop them.” She turns the paper over. “Sincerely, Jenny Miller.”
Vanjie grabs the slip from her hands, pouring over the words before recrumpling it and shooting the paper ball into the trash can behind Scarlet’s desk. “That’s fucking racist, Jenny.”
“Yeah, that’s fucked up,” Silky pipes up, rubbing her fingers together to get rid of the candy dust.
“Vanj is right, it’s racist, and either way, no one could throw that far, Jenny,” Scarlet drawls, bobbing her head. “We’re a hundred miles from Mexico, at least.”
The woman lets out an exasperated huff, not even touching upon the poor display of geographical awareness. It’s Virginia, for fuck’s sake. “Who’s Vanj?”
Pulling at her bottom lip with her teeth, Yvie points with her pen, releasing her lip as she replies, “The one who took the suggestion slip from you, threw it in the trash, and called Jenny a racist.” She crosses her arms. “And again, who are you?”
The woman pulls back her blazer and taps at her badge. Vanjie tries to look like she’s still offended, but it’s harder by the minute.
“My name is Brooke Lynn Hytes, and I’m your state auditor.” She fishes around in her purse, undisturbed by Yvie’s tightening glance as she scans over her employees. “And you’ve just made my job exceptionally easy.” Finding her notebook, she scans the room, recording something with a scowl before closing it up and placing it on the reception desk before Scarlet can even raise her finger in protest.
Yvie rings her hands out, fears confirmed. A’keria catches the look, and mutters her own, “Ugh, Jesus.”
“Now I was told that your conference room is the only free one within city hall, therefore it will become my office for my tenure. So I expect my office to be cleaned and sanitized.” She throws her briefcase and purse down on Scarlet’s desk, the jacket soon following, Vanjie’s gaze following the jacket and back to the woman. Again, trying to maintain her irritation.
“I would also like the department’s financial statements stacked neatly on my desk.” Brooke eyes A’keria, her confusion over where they could possibly be evident in her squinting, sideways glance.
When the office finally reaches silence, caused by Yvie and A’keria’s worried glances and increasingly raised brow at the thought of the financial statements, the two of them both acutely aware of how quickly the department was sinking into something between quicksand and shit. Shitsand.
The rest simply studied Brooke. The pressed white button down and cigarette pants. The creaseless leather pumps. The unflinching gaze.
Of course, Vanjie breaks it.
“Uh, what’s an auditor?”
It’s ghost quiet as Yvie, from behind Brooke, drags her finger across her neck, shaking her head furiously.
Scarlet drags her foot across the cracked peach tile. “Well, an auditor is a—”
“Budget slasher,” A’keria interjects. She closes her eyes and inhales, hoping that someone will answer her prayers and make Brooke get out, and if not, will get A’keria out of here.
“Clean it. Now,” Brooke grits out before adjusting her shirt, picking an invisible piece of lint off of her and flicking it to the ground ceremoniously. “Director?”
Brooke pivots and heads straight for Yvie’s office, letting Yvie know that again, Brooke isn’t asking questions, though her intonation would suggest otherwise. Yvie follows. Brooke slams the door behind them, sits on the edge of the chair in front of Yvie’s desk, and waves her hand behind her aimlessly.
Yvie closes the blinds, leaving the team with a shaky thumbs up and a dorky smile as their only solace.
Somehow, this day of government work would be longer than all the others.
How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?
Five (41.66% of cast).
How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?
Seven.
Positive Content Rating:
Three.
General Episode Quality:
Lots of fun.
MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) UNDER THE CUT:
Passing the Bechdel:
Amy asks Gina about her halo. Rosa asks about God.
Female characters:
Gina Linetti.
Amy Santiago.
Rosa Diaz.
Rachel.
Veronica Hopkins.
Male characters:
Raymond Holt.
Jake Peralta.
Charles Boyle.
Terry Jeffords.
Hitchcock.
Teddy Wells.
Scully.
OTHER NOTES:
My father had a halo for a neck injury, and he still has indents in his skin from the screws. A decade later.
Wow Teddy. You are SO not getting the girl.
Well, the good news is they didn’t slam anything I love by having Teddy be into it, so at least in the Brooklyn Nine-Nine universe, I’m not boring. Not that I was worried; I’m just glad I don’t feel compelled to defend jazz brunch to anyone.
