Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes In A Broken Dollhouse" - [Capella I]

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Capella I]

There was a tenuous line between strength and callousness when considering how to move on from a crisis. Capella didn’t think either suited her image, but a certain amount of versatility was inherent to the endeavor of a Mistress. She bit her nail to assuage the current of dread running down her pith, black ichor and bile pooling where one might expect a clear spring. The White Mistress was a beacon of hope, she ought to be the first to take a step forward from the abyss they’d found themselves fighting against.

Her hands trembled on the piano keys, phantom soot staining the ivory.

It didn’t matter that her brother’s broken body lay in a pit somewhere, in retaliation for lost love between a people and the illusion of progress her family had provided. No longer did her father’s inaction limit her, now with her rightful title claimed. It hardly should bring her breaths to a halt to see him sitting like a statue, stillness even her mother’s grave lacked. Vladislav Olgimsky Senior looked more dead than his wife or son.

Capella didn’t know what bothered her most; his brokenness or the façade he postured. If she were a more vitriolic person, she might find it the devil’s luck for him to be the one still alive out of her other cherished family. At least her brother meant well, regardless of success. Maybe if she held onto resentment, she could find herself less afraid. 

Still, the sunlight through the curtains caressed her cheek like her mother once had, smoothing away all the jagged edges. She needed to be strong, kind and unwavering. She vaguely recalled Katerina’s fall. The trials of a White Mistress ought not mix with the darkness.

Capella wondered what, if anything, she could do to reignite hope in a desolate people. No amount of soothing words or soft piano notes could chase away heartache, she knew that personally.

Her brother’s study was empty. Her mother’s garden was overgrown. Where to start? Where to end?

Concept art sketch thing for a Pathologic Dinosaur au that I am working on.

I had the idea to turn Executors into the Quetzalcoatlus bc… why not?

[The Quetzalcoatlus was about the size of a giraffe and was indeed able to fly, which is pretty cool]

Unfinished: "Antibiotics, Alcohol & other Aphrodisiacs" - [PeterStakh]

[Note: the canon in this is a bit strange due to it happening in the context of my Patho RPG, which altered how the outbreaks happened. all you need to know is that this is during the first outbreak, but it was more severe, spreading to the entirety of the Earth Quarter. also Taya's father dies offscreen. also there's a random butcher mentioned, he's one of my friends' characters for the rpg. don't sweat the details or else i might cry. bless]

TW: description of self-harm scars, the expected mentions of alcoholism and plague

Stanislav Rubin had been tasked with patrolling regularly and making note of which houses were looted, dead, infected, or otherwise living during the outbreak. The only saving grace for his sanity was that the Crude Sprawl was already condemned, so he could avoid the southernmost part of the Earth Quarter, dealing instead with the neighboring districts and their infected. He had a niggling feeling that it wasn't supposed to be this way, that this outbreak was of a bigger magnitude than it should've been, as if the inverse was trying to make rights with something in the future. 

One thing he never expected was the development of his acquaintance to one Peter Stamatin, renowned architect and chronic drunk. Something he didn't think he'd bring himself to do was accept bribes, but Andrey Stamatin was a clever sort of devil, and the supplies he sent in exchange for Peter's continued health were persuasive enough to convince Rubin to actually invest in the drunkard, still wondering how the man’s brother got himself out of the quarter before the lockdown.

Peter Stamatin had an affinity for twyrine; before being tasked with his supervision that was the extent of Rubin's knowledge of the man: a sulking shell of a prestigious artist who came to the town at the end of the line to drown himself in his own sorrows, clogging up the streets with more bottles than buildings. Really, Rubin didn't develop a high opinion of the man in the number of years of his presence. The Gorkhon didn't need fools like the Stamatins to sully the already tarnished settlement. 

Overturned bottles littered the street as the doctor's apprentice approached the building housing Peter. It was an uncanny waste of space to have a whole wing of the place belonging to one man, three floors to house a single living being, two of them abandoned and locked up with dust smattered over abandoned furniture. Rubin ascended the stairs with a passive scowl, thinking of the burning candle on the third floor window sill, signaling the continued survival of one single man whose fingerprints lay in half the messes and disasters plaguing the town. Idly he thought he wouldn't be surprised if the Stamatins had caused the plague with their experimentation. 

Three knocks, standard. He waited for the architect to open the door for a solid two minutes before kicking it aggressively at the lack of response. A dull thud sounded in the apartment, followed by some grumbles and the sound of clinking glass. The door opened, and before him stood Peter Stamatin, barefoot and with his shirt unbuttoned, slouch making him seem smaller than what he was, carrying a bottle and scratching his neck with his free hand before he tugged a paintbrush out of his hair, bun falling undone messily without support. He looked like he'd just been raised from the dead, eyes glassy as he scanned Rubin thoroughly. 

“Stakh.” His voice was rough, tone tinged with surprise. “I didn't expect your visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rubin was surprised to witness how coherent he was even when drunk, words steady and stance balanced, only his eyes betraying his altered state. 

Rubin scoffed. “You might not recall, but there's an outbreak going on. I'm to inspect your health.” He deliberated for a second. “And don't call me that.”

Peter only tilted his head and looked up at him, looking infuriatingly like a confused child. “You weren't inspecting me before.” He took a sip from his bottle and added, almost as an afterthought. “I'm not sick.”

“Not in the body, at least.” Rubin grumbled. “Your brother sends his regards, and most importantly he's the one who put me up to this.” He raised a satchel in his grip, its contents rattling with the movement. The sound of clinking glass aroused Peter's curiosity, drooping eyes widening. “Let me in.”

The architect stepped aside, looking at Rubin's boots as he strode in with purpose, looking around for a second before approaching a table and clearing its surface of littered papers with messy scrawling. A pitiful whine was followed by Peter kneeling down to fetch the sketches as Rubin sorted myriad vials and bottles on the tabletop, metal tins rattling with pills. 

“That's a lot of things to be carrying around.” Did Peter have some sort of compulsion for saying non-sequiturs or was this a pitiful attempt at making conversation? Rubin grunted noncommittally before putting on a set of surgical gloves, watching the architect out of the corner of his eye. He was inspecting the bottles, tapping the glass and humming with interest at bubbles rising in the colorful liquids. Childish. 

Rubin extended a hand. “Your wrist.” Peter tilted his head and plucked a pencil from somewhere on his person, biting the tip of it in thought as he examined the objects on the table. The doctor cleared his throat pointedly, earning an “oh” from his patient, who extended an arm without looking at him, still mouthing at the writing implement idly with his eyes glazed. His lips were pink and wet, teeth peeking out to nibble on the wood sometimes. Rubin sighed and shook his head, focusing on counting the heart rate of the man. 

His wrist was pale and thin, clearly he was somewhat underfed and hadn't gone out in proper sunlight for a while. At least his bad habits were a good thing during present circumstances. Rubin raised his sleeve higher and counted the pulse under his fingertips, eyebrows furrowing as he caught sight of what seemed to be scars, thin and white. He kept count under his breath, looking up at Peter to check whether he was being paid attention to or not before pulling his sleeve up higher with his pinky finger, feeling the bumps of myriad scars on his flesh. 

Lines, straight as a razor, not parallel at all, formed into the shape of… something. It looked as if Peter had drawn something on his own forearm with a blade multiple times overlaid, a macabre artistic endeavor in the medium of self-flagellation. Rubin felt as if he were intruding on a person's lowest moment just by seeing it. He pulled down the soft sleeve of Peter's shirt and coughed, catching the other man's attention. “Your heart rate is fine, if a little on the low end. Twyrine does that to you, so I suppose this isn't remarkable.”

Peter smiled at him, which felt strange. “Anything else, doctor?” His tone of voice was docile and distant, as if he thought he was dreaming. 

“I'm not nearly done, Mr Stamatin…” The name felt slimy on his tongue. “I need to verify a few more things and administer immunity boosters, seeing as alcohol isn't an efficient disease deterrent.” Although the amount Peter drank could certainly be viewed as 'cleansing'. “Open your mouth, I need to see the back of your throat.” 

Peter startled, flushing an embarrassed pink and muttering. “I didn't realize it was that kind of dream…” Rubin graciously ignored him in favor of picking up a wooden stick to place on Peter's tongue, raising a light to see into his mouth. The back of his throat was clear of any sort of phlegm or mucus he could associate with disease, but it was red and scratched, as if he'd been coughing. Not ideal. Rubin ignored how he could see the telltale tears of chewed cheeks from the inside of Peter's mouth, wounds that refused to heal as they were bitten anew. 

He withdrew the stick and clicked Peter's mouth closed with a finger to his chin when he didn't move himself, causing the man to open his eyes and swallow. “Nothing conclusive, but you seem fine. Stop biting your cheeks, that's asking for infection.” If Peter said the alcohol would disinfect it, Rubin would punch him. “You’ve been coughing. Explain.”

Peter tilted his head to a countertop littered with bottles and a few cigarettes, ash coating the marble. “Yulia’s menthols. I borrowed some, but I don't think smoke is my thing.” He seemed to deliberate on his wording as if Rubin was really invested in the infinite ways the man was attempting to shorten his lifespan. “Don't suppose you're going to lecture me on bad habits, will you, doctor?”

“I don't have time to waste on your self destructive coping mechanisms, you fool.” Rubin turned to the table, picking up a box of immunity boosters and tossing it to Peter carelessly. “Take these, swallow them with actual water, keep the candle lit, don't open the door for strangers, stay indoors at all times, wait for supplies and ration your food, put a white sheet out of your window if you grow sick, wait for news before presuming the outbreak is over…”

Peter nodded at his instructions with a distant look on his face, sitting down and scribbling on a piece of paper instead of looking at Rubin. At least he seemed to be listening. Rubin should be a little more thorough, but he couldn't bear the overbearingly dim atmosphere of the apartment, so he excused himself quickly, shoving his supplies into his bag. As he turned to close the door behind himself, he swore Peter's silhouette bore the weight of the long shadows cast in the room. Stakh left with a whispered promise of return. 

..

It was a cold morning, crisp and refreshing for someone who was often stuck in rooms plagued with fumes and rot. Rubin walked at an unhurried pace, greeting the few people he passed by, messengers on their way to and from the bridge, volunteers fetching supplies from storehouses, butchers guiding wheelbarrows to the cemetery. Northward was his destination, the sky a dull blue with thin clouds, a sight he'd almost call pretty if he were a man of beauty. 

Something zipped past his ear as he approached Peter's flat, bearing down on the path with a whisper of scrunched paper. A paper airplane, its nose crumpled but the rest of it otherwise pristine and white, the inside scrawled with messy handwriting. ‘Stakh. It's a beautiful day, I wouldn't want to waste your morning on my affairs. Perhaps I'll paint, and you can come back in the evening? I'll save a drink for your troubles. -PS’ 

Fool. Rubin looked up to catch Peter standing at his open window, nursing the obligatory candle to light while whistling idly, eyes scanning the horizon with interest, seemingly taking in the morning. Rubin wouldn't stop himself from doing his due diligence normally, especially not at the request of someone who clearly didn't know better. And yet. He was struck by a magnanimous feeling of kindness when he witnessed the peaceful expression on the architect's face, a soft smile breaking the tired lines of his visage as his dark eyes reflected the warmth of the flame. Stanislav Rubin wasn't a man of beauty, but Peter Stamatin was, and something about the domesticity and contentment of the scene gave Rubin pause. 

Peter's calm eyes met Rubin's, and his smile brightened, causing a twinge of… something… inside the doctor's chest. The man waved, seemingly forgetting about the lit match between his fingers, flicking it out of the window accidentally. He leaned out of his window to watch it fly down, landing about forty centimeters away from Rubin, who snorted. Peter looked down with pink cheeks, tucking strands of his shiny hair behind his ear, the rest of it flowing in the meager breeze. Yes, he was a man of beauty. 

“I'll see you in the evening, Stamatin. You better use the time wisely, if you're rescheduling. The painting better be good.” Rubin felt stupid, shouting up at the window, but Peter nodded gravely, eyes intense, and closed the curtains. Perhaps he ought to use the morning hours to continue his personal research, if Isidor didn't have anything for him to do. He'd have to walk all the way back in the evening, yet he found he didn't mind. More time spent outdoors meant less in the company of the hopeless sick; a cruel sentiment, but a true one nonetheless. 

..

Rubin walked in what felt like a solemn procession, jaw clenched so hard, he heard his teeth creak with every step out of the Termitary, feeling the scornful eyes of the many-headed beast of the Kin on the back of his neck. His fingers tingled as they held his satchel, carrying harvested organs as if they were stones that weighed not only his body, but his conscience. Overseer Tycheek was dead, his tomb the concrete monstrosity that housed the Kin. Dead, just like that. Rubin knew Burakh would bear the brunt of the personal grief, but guilt fell on his own plate, by association. 

Isidor was the one requesting organs, but Rubin fetched them, knowing he would be lynched for it if knowledge of his actions was disseminated. That butcher, the gruff man with a trimmed beard and tired eyes, certainly suspected something of him, and Rubin knew his unkindness to the man prior had made him sore. One of the few healthy able-bodied men of the Kin’s butchers from the Abattoir who deigned to go outside and speak to Rubin in a language he could understand; they'd had one prior interaction, and it was sour. 

It wasn't one-sided, but Rubin knew it was insensitive to make light of the Kin's beliefs. Still, hearing prayers to mother bloody earth when he was right there, actually doing the work to fix things, was irritating. He couldn't help but grouse at the time: “Better hope your Mother Boddho does something to solve this goddamn epidemic. We need it.” or something along those lines. Then the butcher witnessed his Father Superior's death right alongside Rubin, and the way his eyes trailed Rubin's satchel as he left spoke of something. 

Rubin sighed for the upteenth time, gritting his teeth and mechanically walking towards Stamatin's flat. The day had started deceptively calm and pleasant, he really shouldn't have taken it for granted. A light flickered at the window, the wind making the flame of a candle volatile amid the stars dotting the sky; he almost wished it were overcast, if only to validate his own dampened mood. 

The apartment door was ajar when he approached, light leaking out into the stairwell and a hum coming from inside, deep and soothing in its musical spontaneity. The medic walked inside, letting his fingertips graze the top of the clock beside the door with a flighty flick, dust smearing his digits as he looked to the side where he expected Peter Stamatin to be. 

Moonlight streamed in from the windows, helped by a few candles to illuminate the wooden boards of the floor and the main room of the apartment, empty besides the counters, table, chairs, and incomprehensible bathtub, looking to be more lived-in than the rest of the space. At least the sea of bottles around the porcelain tub had been cleared, although Rubin didn't like to imagine how exactly that volume of glass had been discarded. The humming was ever-present, coming from the slight hallway leading to what he imagined might be the bedroom. 

Rubin wasn't ready to initiate any sort of social interaction, so he settled himself and his things on the table, fetching a bottle of water and some toast from his bag, sitting with his back to the bedroom to feign privacy. The wicked had to give themselves rest, how else could he live on to fulfill his destiny of drawing the ire of all? He grumbled to himself as he uncapped the bottle. 

“I don't find you at all wicked, Stakh.” He startled as a voice came from the hallway behind him. Rubin turned to see Peter, looking tired but content, paint smeared on his fingertips and cheek, staining his beige shirt. “And if it's any comfort, I have no ire towards you.” The man's smile was soft, although his face betrayed a sense of exhaustion. 

“One less knife to my back doesn't make the bed of nails more comfortable.” Rubin groused, overtaken by a spontaneous need to indulge his dark mood. 

Peter chuckled in surprise, his voice rough with disuse or cigar smoke, Rubin couldn't tell. “Actually, the more nails on a mattress the more the pressure is diffused, so it's less uncomfortable.” The architect sat down across from the medic with a bit of intellectual indulgence lightening his tired visage. “But, ah, you don't actually care for that, do you? I wish I could say I understand the feeling, you know, of being hated so widespread as you say, but I'm afraid I've been sheltered from it.” His smile seemed private, almost unknowing of who watched it. “Andrey was always my second skin.”

Rubin felt a drop of bewilderment diffuse itself in his core. Peter Stamatin, drunk and mad, speaking clearly and normally, and to someone else at that. Someone like Rubin. “Huh.” He exhaled, straightening his posture and untensing his coiled fingers. “I would've thought your Polyhedron drew hatred to you like… a lightning rod.” It certainly was true of Rubin's contempt, among other reasons. 

Peter tilted his head, hair falling over his face, his dark eyes clear and wide with a sort of naive wonder. “Ah, but do I care about the masses? They don't know Her beauty, only that She stands on their Earth. I can't imagine they care for my opinion, so why should I theirs?” Ah, yes, the detachment, also something Rubin detested. “Although Andrey was always better at not caring. I needed help to keep numb.” Peter’s eyes drifted half-lidded, pupils finding an empty bottle to represent all the others he'd ever held. “A lightning rod…” 

Rubin couldn't help but think he'd opened a novel on the second to last chapter, hearing such earnest thoughts from a man he barely knew, so he offered a bit of his own mind as retribution, if only to not feel like an intruder. “You don't need to care, though. You live in your own tower here, and your continued existence doesn't rely on the piddling ants at its base.” He sighed, looking out of the window; the streets looked just as dirty and dingy, but the tint of the glass made it picturesque; not quite lovely, but interesting and alien. “Your patrons are rich folk who pay for your drinks, mine are poor people who barely afford their meals. If I can't even get work there, be it because of distrust or prejudice, I die before a patient even gets a cough.”

“And your friends? Would they not help? Andrey helped-”

“Your brother, your family. He has a duty to you, above all.”

“Well, yes, but is friendship not also a bond as worthy?”

“I don't think even you believe that, Stamatin.”

“...”

Rubin sighed once more, wondering how many breaths he had left in his lungs. His fingers closed around a box in his satchel, bringing it to rest on the tabletop. “Take these with clear water.”

Peter looked sad, muted. Rubin couldn't help but feel as though he'd caused that. “When will I see you again, Stakh? I'd like to show you my painting, once it's finished.”

“...I don't know. I'll be back. That's all I can say.” Rubin got up to avoid the eyes looking at him with such vulnerability. Fuck it, Peter was drunk. (He wasn't, this was as sober as he'd ever seen the man.) “And if I don't come back, at least you'll have your brother waiting for you on the other side of the Gullet.”

As he walked to the door he heard Peter speak, light as a moth on a paper lampshade. “I shouldn't like you to leave if I could not say a proper goodbye.”

Rubin looked back, seeing Peter with a sad smile, too familiar for a stranger in his care. “You don't get to choose that.” He closed the door with more force than necessary, feeling forlorn and simmering in a strange sort of muted wrath. 

Abandoned: Dogs See Dogs - Modern AU [Clara-centric, gen]

the title may give you preconceived notions but i assure you this is not anything you'd expect from me. this is from a defunct modern au of gorkhon that i used to sketch stuff for during class, not much to say for myself given how i don't think of it much anymore

Clara was in trouble. Nothing she couldn't settle, of course, she was adept at solving issues, it was the sole reason she was still alive. Probably. She honestly couldn't recall clearly most details of her life leading up to this moment. Either way, she needed cash, because she was almost certain she'd be turning 18 in a few months and she knew what happened to kids in shelters who became legal adults. She had to leave her foster parents at some point in the near future, the Saburovs didn't need her brand of trouble on top of their already notable pile of responsibilities managing the hellscape that was the school year-round. 

The campus was quiet as she lurked, dawn threatening to break in the next hour or so. Gorkhon University, funded by Olgimsky Enterprises and built by the Stamatin Brothers and Co with direction from the Kain Institute of Science and Education, headed by the Saburov Group of directorial principals. A private school with unorthodox practices like open program learning and an overpriced list of extracurricular coursework, public access libraries and laboratories alongside private collections of anything ranging from artwork and literature to patented chemical formulas for pharmaceutical drugs, student housing going from absurdly cheap studio aps to bizarrely expensive lofts, and sporting a passable high school campus as well as a very well-rounded college education program. 

It was conceptually utopic and functionally a mess of bureaucracy all the way up and down the chain of endless systems keeping it all from crumbling under its own weight. At least the three pillars kept each other in check, and consequently themselves busy enough to make loitering the grounds a minor offense overlooked at most times. 

The architects that made the place opted for the baffling design choice of having as many alleyways and pavilions between buildings as there were open streets and elevated walkways connecting everything, like a freaky attempt at an architectural nervous system. Worst of all, it worked like a charm to maneuver places easily without crowding the main pathways between building sectors. Clara thought that the librarian, or whatever position Lyuricheva held officially, deserved more credit for being the glue to the Stamatins' barely cohesive vision for the buildings. planning all the roads seemed like a nightmare when taking into account the creative decisions Peter Stamatin adamantly defended and Andrey Stamatin made a reality.

As it were, Clara was glad for the elevated footpath she took, because it led her to the most fateful piece of glossy A4 paper she encountered up to this juncture of her life. It was in a graphic artstyle with neon colors highlighting the text “Diamond Dogfight: Battle of the Bands!” at the top of a rather crowded poster. Below there were cut-out pictures of people singing into microphones or playing what one could presume to be sick guitar riffs. Alongside the images were a few blocks of text reading “Participate in the newest talent scouting efforts of the Ace of Diamonds Theater and Circus Troupe! Sign up today with at least two other bandmates and compete in a tournament-style round-robin elimination competition. Impress our panel of judges to win a grand prize of 100,000 rubles!!” and she spotted a QR code at the bottom corner alongside an email address and phone number labeled “Ace of Diamonds contact info”.

 She barely registered her phone in her hand, mind running wild thinking about how neat and tidy this solved all her problems as she scanned the code, which led to a sleek website sporting a huge block of logos at the top she could imagine was a list of sponsors. In that list was the clock of the Kain Institute, the bull of the Olgimsky Industries, the bold S of the Saburov Group, as well as some smaller icons depicting the Steppen symbol of the Khatanghe Initiative Fund, the geometric logo of Polyhedron Project and the blazon of the Town Hall. Clara was almost amused by how the three big logos competed for attention, the two at the sides raised a bit above the one in the center, clearly a design choice settled on after a long argument by the families as to how to make them equal in the layout.

She skimmed over the introduction page below that had the same text as the poster before tapping on a tab labeled “Rules and Sign-Up”. A much less cluttered page listed numbered rules about band size (3-10 with two categories for smaller and larger bands), song lengths (3-6 minutes barring extraneous circumstances), set decoration and costumes (irrelevant for scoring), the validity of cover songs (valid, but evaluated on different grounds compared to originals), going for about 20 bullet points. The interesting part was the List of Clauses, an additive ruleset about optional gimmicks in the competition. 

Clara’s attention honed into a topic called the “Dog Eat Dog Clause”, which stated the following: “a band may only add members during the competition if they are from another group the band defeated previously, but a member can only be added if they were the last group defeated by the stated band; only one member may be gained each round, and this clause is only valid if all parties agree to the partnership and the resulting band does not exceed the member limit of their given category. The Board of Judges will not be mediating disputes between bands, and any deals involving splitting the prize or other such topics are not to be brought up to the organizers.”

Now, Clara knew she wasn't exactly the epitome of popularity, so this rule opened some doorways for her to advance in the competition without having the strongest starting lineup of players. If she could just get two halfway decent musicians to join her for the first set, even if one left in the middle of the tournament she could still convince her rivals to lend her a member. 

She scrolled until she reached the sign-up form, skimming it halfheartedly until something caught her eye. In small print at the bottom of the form was printed the phrase “Only participants of the student body or junior faculty members are eligible for the cash prize. This includes Gorkhon High and Gorkhon University students and faculty. Outside competitors are eligible for a scholarship negotiated with the Gorkhon Board of Directors if chosen as winners.” She vaguely heard the sound of metaphorical doors closing at that moment

--

Having a teenage girl wander around the university campus was never an overly common sight, but it wasn't bizarre enough to warrant comments, so Clara trudged the halls on what she had decided to call a scouting operation. She wanted the prize, she really did, but there were a few issues with that. Specifically the fact that she was never officially enrolled in either the High School or the University division of Gorkhon. 

She was morally the foster child of the Saburovs, but she had no documents proving her legal existence, so she couldn't enroll in school very easily, and she was only taken in recently, so it'd be weird to ask to enroll at this point, especially since she had no recollection of prior school experience necessary for an entry test. The Saburovs let her have total freedom outside of the house, and she could leave whenever she wanted, so it never came up and they were rather neglectful in regards to such things, in truth. Sure, they fed and housed her, but after she was deemed independent they let her do whatever she wanted. 

But back to the issue at hand. She could try to forge a student ID with the level of access her foster parents had. She almost did that, but she had looked at the panel of judges on the website of the competition and immediately shot down the idea. Student Body President of Gorkhon High, Victoria “Capella” Olgimskaya Jr was one of the main judges, and she'd get caught in an instant if she were to pretend to attend, and it's in the middle of semester, so not even the transfer student excuse would work. Therefore, she would attempt the boldest, most unexpected maneuver of all: convince Gorkhon U students or junior faculty that she was totally a student of some obscure college and they should very much trust her and join her band.

She'd been wandering for about an hour, and there were some noteworthy candidates, but she needed to be subtle in her choices. Her bandmates needed to be quick-thinking or skilled enough to pick up an instrument and play it alongside her, but gullible enough to take part in her scheme. Potential business partners needed to have motivation to win but not demand too much compensation, so either someone meek but skilled or an arrogant talent that could be easily swindled.

It was 7 am by the time she strolled around a dark corner outside the science lab building, where she spotted a figure hunched over in what she could see as a biology or medical sciences lab littered with papers, books and various sundry chemicals. Whoever it was had been there for a long time, and their shoulders were hunched shallowly over a microscope, left hand scribbling furiously on a notepad without raising their eyes from the tool. She decided to do some recon. 

--

Daniil Dankovsky had spent all night trying fruitlessly to make some kind of breakthrough in his research into human vitality and death. That's what she could gather from observing him from outside after she came back from her extended reconnaissance. At this point he seemed to just be analyzing chemical components of random solutions he found in the lab, noting cell behavior and whatnot for the hell of it. 

Med school alumnus, pathophysiology consultant and researcher endorsed by the Kains, he had the run of the lab until morning classes started without supervision, which was somewhat remarkable in itself. Apparently he was also dead tired, as his writing was decreasing in quality from “cursive doctor handwriting” to “not picking up the pen from the paper and gliding every word together like lopsided fairy lights”. 

Clara poked her head into the lab from her position on the window, which was brightly lit by the morning sun. The thin curtains drawn over the windows fluttered in the breeze and ruffled the man's hair as he muttered unintelligible things under his breath. She knocked on the glass, watching as he stopped his ministrations to push his dark bangs away from his pale face. He looked objectively terrible, and the girl cleared her throat to no avail in a futile attempt at being acknowledged. Nothing. She slid over the windowsill and dropped soundlessly into the room, smelling the sharp tang of chemicals and coffee from the bench where the Bachelor of Medicine worked. 

Clara had been elaborating a game plan for the past two hours, debating what kind of people she should recruit to get what she wanted. She had settled on students from an area not directly involved with the arts, as to not be overthrown by her bandmates. Alongside that, anyone in the field of psychology or sociology might be curious about herself and her supposed major, and that was dangerous if she wanted to keep up her ruse of being a student, as well as the more sociable students of such fields possibly not accept her as a classmate if they don't recognize her. Her final choice was a field of research technical and precise enough to have decent musicians but eccentric and busy enough not to question her presence in the school. Med students. 

She hopped onto the table where the man worked, decided on who to try to recruit. Clara probably wouldn't get very far with this one, but a test run of her script wouldn't hurt. She had seen him working since she started scouting, and when asked about him the staff and assorted students around the block informed her of his habits and name, and she brought up as many files as she could access about him from the directorial database. He was a maniac. 

“Muttering gibberish, are you? Perhaps you should vacate the lab soon, your time's almost up anyway, Dr Dankovsky. Get some rest.”

The man startled next to her, and he jerked his head towards her in a manner befitting a spooked lizard. Or perhaps a snake. He looked her up and down before speaking “It's not gibberish, it's latin. And I don't have a doctorate.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Which you would know if you knew my name. Who are you, little girl? Why are you here?”

Interesting that he'd seem offended by her using a title above his station with him. Most men that entrenched in their own work would preen at being overestimated. Still, she had to answer. “I heard you were hoarding the lab, thought I might come in and burst your science bubble to let you know. A favor, you could say.” At his suspicious look she added “I'm Clara.”

“Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine and founder of Thanatica.” Thanatica. She'd seen that somewhere before. “Although you already knew my name. How did you get in here? The door is locked, I don't like being disturbed.” he added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back at the window, then at him. He gaped for a moment before schooling his expression into a look of disbelief. “We’re on the second floor.”

“I didn't say anything!” she quipped, smile in place. This was turning out to be more fun than anticipated. “Anyway, regardless, you might need to vacate the premises in a few minutes. I was hoping to take up a little of your precious time to make a proposition.” Dankovsky looked dubiously over her before she added “business proposition, that is.” which didn't really make a dent in his expression. She stifled a giggle as he shrugged, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristic of somebody who put so much effort into seeming competent and intellectual, but he was fresh off an all nighter, so it's to be expected. 

The Bachelor picked up his things, shoving a comical amount of hardcover books into his bag alongside three separate notebooks filled with sticky notes and tabs. She busied herself with the microscope, fiddling with the dials and cataloguing every fidget she could draw out of Dankovsky with her callous handling of delicate equipment. As he closed his, frankly, extremely unwieldy oversized handbag, he snapped at her “Stop messing with that! You'll break something and I'm the one who'll pay for it.”

Clara was a little taken aback by the silence as they trudged out after Dankovsky locked the lab back up. She curiously followed in his steps, wondering when he would finally ask what she wanted, but wanting to see where his steps would lead. They were going the scenic route to some place, she could tell that much, as he followed brick pathways through patios and wove his way through elevated walkways in the vague direction of either the joint campus cafeteria or the Gorkhon Library. She periodically stepped on the backs of his leather shoes, successfully removing one entirely on her third try. He tripped but managed not to fall on his face, turning towards her with a murderous glare. Clara smiled crookedly and brought her hands up in surrender. 

“You're a little pest, girl, and you're successfully lowering my willingness to listen to your proposition with every passing moment.”

Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Bachelor I]

In the end, it was all for naught. Even the blood on his hands had served no purpose, making him feel like a misbehaving child after a tantrum, the room in shambles and nothing to be done. The Polyhedron was gone, and with it, hope.

Bachelor of Medicine Daniil Dankovsky flicked his wrist, distractedly penning down facts and data, if only to busy himself in the worthless lifetime awaiting him for eternity and onward. The few remaining orderlies bustled around the theater as he scribbled furiously onstage, shedding their ridiculous costumes to reveal faceless peons in a rigged war. What did it matter, anyway, they might as well wear bird masks for the rest of their puny lives, at least then they would distinguish themselves from the rabble.

The ink pooled at the tip of his pen, so he traced familiar lines with a hollow automatism. “Kain, G - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kain, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 10 of the Outbreak. Kaina, M - dead (Sand Pest) day 8 of the Outbreak. Olgimsky Jr, V - dead (Sand Pest) day 7 of the Outbreak. Yan, E —” The pressure of the pen’s tip on the parchment ruptured the fiber, his fingers noticeably sore and stiff.

An orderly still in uniform peeked over his shoulder at his work, voice muffled by the thick embrace of the mantle. “Miss Yan? I believe she died-”

The Bachelor got up, the legs of his chair scraping awfully against the stage, fists clenched around the pen in his grip. It seemed a betrayal that it didn’t snap in half. This trivial work could wait. He was bone-tired.

Who was he kidding? Wait for what? The inevitability of a death he had fought against and lost? A list of names once used by people long-gone, chronicling menial details. Names, dates, circumstances. Change any of these things and the truth would remain, glimmering in wet ink. Dead. Death had won.

Daniil Dankovsky left the hospital, perhaps never to be seen again.

Quotes: Invented by Me for RPG Purposes - [RIP]

"'The wise' say a lot of things; that's why they're called 'the wise' and not 'the silent'." - Aspity

"Earth is whole, it shan't be split; Earth is holy, it shall be respected; Earth is Mother, for we are of her flesh; Earth is grave, as we shall all return to her. Forsake Earth, and you forsake yourself." - Kin Wisdom

"What is pure, in the eyes of the Mother of all? She shall love her children no less for mixed blood, as it is hers; in our graves she shall embrace us all back into her flesh. Such human trifles matter not to her." - Whispers of the Khatanghe

"Glass can be fashioned in infinite shapes, tempered in the fires of hell, and crystalized in dazzling colors. No matter what is done to it; if it's glass, it will always have a breaking point. People are much the same." - Plisetsky Family Proverb

"We have our own souls, as well as those of our halves. Normal people just have the one, and Dogheads only have half of their, if they're lucky; they sell their souls to Khan the moment they put on the mask." - Soul-and-a-Half Creed

"Unlike bulls and their horns, men are not born with bodies sculpted for violence. That makes it all the more insidious when menfolk fashion themselves with weapons harvested from the Earth to kill one another in petty disputes." - Cossack

"Rubin carried bandages and medicine, Old Burakh carried tinctures and notes, Young Burakh carries twyre and junk. I wonder what Sahba must carry in her bag." - Albow

"We are all pieces in someone's board, the difference between players and pawns is who knows the game and what's at stake." - Svetlana Plisetskaya

"[Rats know all sorts of things, that's why cats eat them. To gain knowledge. Jester's smart from eating rats, so he knows eating my Half would be a mistake.]" - Aide

"People say father didn't raise me, but they disregard how he taught me by example. I am to our Mother Superior what he tries to be to the Foreman." - Khetin

"Toil, soil, boil, coil, broil, oil... I don't remember learning these words, maybe Notkin said them." - Biksa

"Like blades of grass whistling in the wind, so too do people brush one another; that is how whispers are born. Crowds and fields buzz with the hum of people and twyre." - Albow

"Bones, for strength; meat, for sustenance; skin, for safety; nerves... We don't use the nerves." - Cossack

"do you know what lies between one second and another? six degrees, but only if your clock is well adjusted." - Ekaterina Plisetskaya