((I wasn't sure whose job it was to start this thread, so I did.))

She paced nervously back and forth across the hallway, having chosen to wait for Harper just outside of her room.

Triston had decided not to wear a bun, and was beginning to think she should. It made her feel calmer, and Alioe knew that was what she needed to be at the moment. Triston searched in her pocket for something to tie her hair up, but only found lint.

The passive began to obsessively smooth out the dress she wore, angry at herself for only having two. Triston had taken off the apron to make it seem less like a uniform, but that was still what it was. If she knew her bunk mate better, they might have lent her an article of clothing. As it was, though, the two were practically strangers.

The whole day, she had nothing to do but think about how strange dinner would be, and she was still thinking about it. If Triston weren't so eager to have a full meal, she might have pretended to be sick to get out of it. It wasn't like she had anything in common with them, other then being there guinea pig.

Just think about the food. just think about the food. Food food food. Triston recited a small mantra in her head, refusing to slip away from it.

There was a knock on the small, low-set door.

In the hallway, Professor Moore was crouched down to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The passive bunks were cramped, dusty and had a slightly astringent smell to them, the combination of lye soap and cheap clothing and dishwasher hands. He had been down there before; the other passives who passed him in the hallway bowed as usual, but a few of them managed a quick "Good day, Professor," before ducking out of sight. No one seemed very surprised to see him.

"Er, it's me," he called through the door. He paused, not sure if he should clarify himself. Triston called him 'sir' or 'Professor', and that was all well and good, but how did one refer to oneself in the presence of passives? "Harper Moore," he added, feeling that should settle the matter once and for all. She wasn't a student, after all; it wasn't forbidden that she know his first name.

Triston made a small pouting face as Harper walked right past her.

To knock on the door to her room.

Which she was not in.

He really did need to order new glasses.

"Hello, sir?" She said, once again pathetically waving her hands to bring attention to herself. It was like she was invisible. "I decided to wait out here, more room." Triston said this matter of factly, even though she could have touched the ceiling if she wanted. Looking at the poor professor, who was at that moment trying to prevent hitting said ceiling, it occurred to her that...he was tall.

"You're tall...I mean...uh...We should go."

"Oh, I am sorry," said Professor Moore, looking down at her and squinting. He seemed flustered. "It's simply far too dark in here. I have mentioned this to the Housing Board but they're determinedly stubborn about passive living quarters, you know..."

He shook his head. They kept them in such small rooms. Granted, there wasn't much space in the building, but they got more passives every year; this year there had been more than ever entering the ranks.

"Yes, let's go," he agreed, nodding. He felt rather ridiculous creeping down the corridor anyway.

Triston smiled as they walked, even though she was sure Harper would have trouble seeing it. "Its not so bad, and its not like we spend allot of time here. Anyway, they're not so much living quarters as they are sleeping quarters." She said, shrugging her shoulders. It was true that the place could use some work, but all Triston really wanted was a more comfortable bed. She was short, so the ceiling didn't bother her much.

((SFSR D8))

Harper wasn't sure what to say to that; he had no real power, and although he'd have rather seen the passives with decent beds and rooms, it wasn't up to him. It was odd; ever since he had begun this research, he'd begun to think deeply on the injustices passives faced; the commonly held belief that passives needed looking after was beginning to wear thin for him. It hadn't even occurred to him before the study, but now it seemed obvious, and it made him feel slightly ashamed.

It was even more difficult to convey this feeling to others, which often alienated him among the other faculty. To them, it was obvious and natural that passives needed to be kept locked in the school; they wouldn't have even used the word 'locked', come to think of it. They gave the passives homes, even though the cruel outside world would probably shun them; they let them contribute to the shared academic knowledge of the world, even letting them stay within the University itself. They protected them from themselves. Putting them to work was simply expecting them to do their share for galdor society. It seemed so noble and right to most.

Outside, the evening air was warm and expectant. He always wondered if the insects knew the new season was approaching; fireflies dotted the dark streets of Brunnhold, seemingly unaware of the impending rain. Professor Moore walked briskly down the street, taking care to not outrun Triston, who was a good deal shorter.

"Have you been able to get to the Stacks much this spring?" he asked presently, desperately searching for a topic of conversation other than slavery or experiments.

"The stacks? Not really, though sometimes Ms.Denisent asked me to bye a book for her, since she doesn't want to accidentally stain the school's books...She's done that allot..." Triston grinned, happy that the subject had changed. She felt a little nervous, though. The passive hardly ever ventured outside of brunnhold. The outside frightened her.

Triston didnt recognise the blinking lights around them at first, until a few flew close enough for her to remember. Fireflies, how pretty.

She was snapped out of her thoughts on bugs by something a little more important. This was a dinner party of three, so where was the third. " Professor, where are we to meet Healer Ixbridge?" She asked, hoping he hadn't forgotten, because she had not remembered.

A field gingerly touched upon the pair, almost mistakable for a cool breeze. The warm air was still, however, and no leaves rustled. No footfalls had been heard, either, but there was definitely a galdor nearby. One who worked with Living magic with exacting precision.

"Here."

The healer's reedy voice came from a shadowed alcove in the aqueduct, merely two meters from them. She had changed from her starched white shirt to a more comfortable dark blue one, and this, along with her black vest and trousers, made her blend in with the benighted stonework. Only her pale face was visible at first, but if they allowed their eyes to adjust to the dim light, they would see she was casually leaning on the wall. If she was hiding, she was doing so in plain sight.

"Good evening, sir. Triston."

"Ms. Ixbridge," said Professor Moore, who seemed to be greeting Abeline with more and more informal rhetoric each time he saw her. He bowed, noticing she had trousers on; he found that rather adorable. Galdori women in trousers! These were odd times indeed.

It was becoming dark now, and he held out a hand, causing a small globe of light to form in his palm. It was small magic, not even powerful enough to cause a side effect, and not unusual to see used for common purposes.

"I thought we could head to a pub," he said. "Do you ladies have any preferences?"

Abe had noticed the trend in his speech, but wasn't sure if she was being successively demoted, or if he was just trying to be casual. From an impersonal perspective, she hadn't decided which would be sadder. Were her credentials, for which she worked very hard to get, that inconsequential to him? Or was he just that desperate for friends?


"I do not," she said, parting herself from the wall. "Except that wherever we end up be well-lit. Just a precaution, you understand."

Not forthcoming with an explanation, the eccentric healer walked over to them. A round, brass object was in her hand, and she held it at Triston, though obviously not as a gift. Under glass, a single needle wobbled before settling to point due North.

"Good, good." She sounded relieved. After a preoccupied pause, she remembered her manners. "Ah, right. Formalities."

There was a nod for Triston, stiff and vaguely apologetic. Abe had just barely prevented herself from bowing to the passive; it would not do to forget the social chasm between them, detestable though it was.

And then there was a bow for Harper, deep and with a whimsical flourish. It ended with her aiming the compass at him. The needle twitched, evoking a wary purse from her lips. "Sir..." She looked him in the eye, quite serious. "Have you been in the MAT chair within the last eight hours?"

The passive bowed in greeting to the healer, a bit surprised at her sudden appearance. Its odd how the moment I mention her, poof! She's here...Then again, I did that this morning.

She didn't say anything when Harper asked if they had suggestions, any place was fine with her. Triston would be happy just to have some alcohol and a bit of food.

She looked wearily at the strange compass, wondering what it meant.

((SFSR D8 She doesn't have much to say))

"Er, why yes, I have, in fact," said Harper, recalling the afternoon's unexpected interruption with a flushed face. He did not mention that he had been caught in a state of partial undress - why they didn't make more men's shirts with easily rolled-up sleeves was beyond him. He glanced up at the young healer, eyebrows raised. "What is that thing? Does it read magnetic charge? I was tuning the machine, you see..."

"This," Abe said, flashing the device's face to the professor, "is a survey-grade compass. Very accurate. I plan on modifying it to better gauge subtle changes in electromagnetic fields.. but, yes, it must be picking up a residual charge from the MAT." The compass disappeared into her pocket, and she turned toward the Stacks. "At least, I hope that's what it is."

The woman took a few steps before realizing their destination was still undecided. She glanced back over her shoulder, offering an impromptu diagnosis, "Anyway, you're probably not haunted."

"Oh...good," said Harper blithely, waiting until Abeline had looked back to raise a questioning eyebrow at Triston.

They walked into the Stacks just as the sun's residual light began to die out. The street lamps were being lit, shedding a warm yellowish light on the cobblestone street. Though usually packed with students at this hour, the streets were relatively deserted; most students were busy studying for their end-of-quarter examinations. This was at once peaceful and alarming as Professor Moore realized just how much more work he needed to do for his tests.

"I don't go to pubs much," he admitted. "Let's just try our luck? First place that looks architecturally sound?"

Triston looked at Abeline for a moment, wondering if she was being serious. Why must I be acquainted with such strange people?

The encroaching darkness made her feel nervous, and the idea of hauntings was not helping. She searched frantically for something else to think about, only finding the healer's pants to be out of the ordinary enough to get a second glance. ...Are those comfortable? Would they be easier to work in? Maybe I should purchase a pair...



Triston resisted the urge to say "No, really? Never would have guessed."



"Sounds good." She said, not sure if stability was what one looked for in a pub or not.

She noticed Triston's disquiet, and decided to spare her dinner companions the reasoning behind her odd behavior. They must think me unhinged.. but that's nothing new. I'll have to save my hypotheses regarding ghosts and electromagnetism for my reports.

As the trio walked the near-empty streets, the healer descended into her thoughts, unconsciously keeping near the lamps as she went. Mentally, she was fishing at the edge of the known world, a net tentatively cast over the precipice. Nothing thrashed or convulsed, and no solid evidence was caught; she only felt the slightest tug, the faintest ripple -- bewitching suggestions of knowledge. Something was down there, just out of reach...

The professor's voice pulled her back to existence, and the transition was jarring, like the first step on solid ground after a long sea voyage. She stared at him and Triston, squinting as if they were communicating in a foreign language. Slowly, the meaning of their conversation dawned on her. A pub was needed. Abe looked about, almost frantically, for a place to weigh anchor -- a real place.

"That one?" Her pale hand flew through the night air to point at a hanging sign. It depicted a red bird. "The Crimson Aerra? I dimly recall it being somewhat respectable."

It was one of the few galdori pubs in Brunnhold not frequented by students or professors. Accountants, bureaucrats and other university staff considered the Aerra a safe haven from education. It also had no history of spontaneously collapsing.

Professor Moore, for not getting out much, seemed to know the lay of the Stacks like the back of his hand. He had never been to the Crimson Aerra, by his own admission, but was able to lead the two there via an impressively convoluted shortcut that may or may not have shaved any time off their trip.

The Aerra was one of the many old and well-established pubs in the Stacks, founded and maintained by a former graduate who hadn't had much else to do with his life. In typical galdori fashion, he owned and operated many pubs in the area, but the Aerra was by far his favorite, as evidenced by the impeccable upkeep. It was clean, polished and looked very sound. A round hanging sign depicting a brilliant red bird hung over the door, which opened to reveal a warm golden room with late twenty-fifth century antique decor.

Professor Moore held the door open for the two women, the golden light reflecting off his round spectacles and making him look something like an owl in the darkness.

It was surprising that Harper knew the stacks so well, and Triston wondered if it was a good sense of direction, or if he had simply memorised it over the years.

All the buildings seemed so faceless to her, just one stack of blocks leaning into another stack. She supposed that's why it was called the "stacks", but it just as easily could have been called, "the lost city" if one chose to continue naming it after its properties.

The warm glow emanating from the pub was a welcome sight to her, but it also made her feel slightly nervous. Though, that's not really saying much, considering this was Triston.
It was as though she assumed that, because it was a galdori bar, they'd make her stay behind and do the dishes.

She shuffled inside shyly and hoped it would be so crowded no one could see her.

((SFSR D8))

When the professor held the door, Abe's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the spindly movements of his limbs. They had the same angular aesthetic that drew her to winter trees, to praying mantises, and to clock escapements. All in all, he had a rather intriguing geometry -- pleasant, even. Why haven't I noticed this before? ...Or have I?

A sense of deja vu crept up on her. She became aware of forgotten lapses in concentration at his lectures, of bittersweet futility tinging her admiration of years ago. The delicate feelings had been swept away and buried, deemed impossible and unimportant. Abe was not one to pine after things she could not have. Not any more.

As she vexedly fought back the wraiths of emotions long thought dead, the little healer outwardly appeared only momentarily flustered. Astonished, perhaps. Even so, a warm glow lingered on her cheeks as she passed Professor Moore. The faint scent of rosemary trailed behind her.

Watching the other patrons, Abe followed Triston and skirted to the passive's side. With a placid sort of vigilance, she asked, "Well, shall we find a booth?"

Triston seemed to have been distracted because, when Abeline spoke, it took her a few seconds to respond. She wordlessly slipped into an unextraordinary booth, avoiding any and all eye contact with the healer. A month ago she'd have no idea why Abeline had made that face, but recent happenings had all but ingrained it in her mind. She silently hoped Abe would sit across from her, she was aching to kick somebody.

In all truthfulness, Triston was a sweet person. Not to bright and a bit empty headed, but never cruel. Jealousy, however, had always been her low point. Growing up as a spoiled only child, she didn't like to share. Living as a slave who had very little as it was, she hated to share.

Triston pondered if it was illegal to "accidentally" stab someone with an eating utensil.

Abe did, indeed, sit across from Triston. It may have been superstitious, but she half-believed that, in a past life, she had been stabbed in the back with a fork. Thus, she always sat with her back to a wall, where she could watch the door.

To her dismay, this also gave her a clear view of the professor. Something in the golden light made him look distressingly august, like some sublime entity from another Ever, come to Vita in the guise of a dear, absent-minded galdor.

In an instant, the enchanting scene blurred and disappeared. Her glasses were propped on her hair, and a menu was held defensively close to her nose. A frustrated, disapproving sigh hissed out. She was not going to let herself get distracted by such a trivial infatuation again.

It had been infinitely impossible when she was a student, and it was only slightly less infinitely impossible now. He was still over ten years her senior, and he was her direct superior. Additionally, in her opinion, he was a great man, a visionary, zealously obsessed with righting the wrongs of their world, and quite possibly capable of effecting lasting, positive change. How could she, a mere child, intrude on that? It would be approaching sacrilegious. And very pointless. And...

And...

And it was just not going to happen.

She put it out of her mind (or at least made the attempt), and desperately hoped he would sit next to Triston.

Think of lettuce.. nothing's more tame than lettuce.

Professor Moore felt less like a sublime entity and more like a poorly-read coal miner as he perused the menu.

"Why must they write these out in such scrawly script?" he muttered to himself, squinting at an item that might have been Grilled Hingle, Gioran Hotpot or Googly Hoople. "Give me nice block capitals any day. Good, honest letters that don't have anything to prove..."

He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"Which reminds me, Healer, I have a general medicine question. Do healers obfuscate their writing on purpose? I've always imagined some vast conspiracy. When I was picking up Triston's glasses I could barely read the lens prescription without going mad. I swear, they made up whole new letters to confuse me."

Having grown up in Vienda with a single father who couldn't cook, Abe was accustomed to the overwrought script of pretentious galdori menus. This one, however, took the cake. The thrice-curled serifs of one letter mingled with the spiraling flourishes of the next, and it all tangled together on the page like an ant-sized labyrinth.

She had not translated past the first appetizer when the professor addressed her. A skittish blush was thankfully hidden behind her menu, causing her to resolve to destroy the nascent crush before it got out of hand. For the moment, she merely suppressed it with her instinctive inclination for banter.

"Erm. Yes. We do, in fact. Pharmaceutical Crypto-Calligraphy is a required course in the healing specialization. On our final medical examination, if the proctor can decipher a student's thesis, they'll lose points regardless of the correctness of their answer. Needless to say, a typewritten paper gets an instant failure."

The healer lifted her spectacles from the top of her head, and tucked them in her breast pocket. Peeking over her menu at the two blobby shapes of her companions, she smirked with false humility.

"I don't like to brag, but I passed with full honors. Professor Melles even took me aside and said I have the penmanship of a cramped, neurotic mouse. I was only surpassed by Healer Gainsborough, who had the erudition to write whole sentences as slightly-dented horizontal lines."

Professor Moore had learned to quell his natural propensity for good humor, especially in the company of other professionals, but Abeline was a professional at this. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to laugh.

He had underestimated the healer. When she had first approached him, he had assumed that she was self-serving and ambitious; her attitude had made him wonder if she was checking up on him at the bequest of some ill-meaning colleague. But she was a unique woman, that was established, and he could admit to himself that he might have been wrong about her; he sensed in her a fellow spirit, someone who was very interested in possibilities.

"With that in mind," he said, "this menu must have been written by a tenured MD."

It occurred to him that Triston might not be able to read the menu with her poor eyesight. Looking around the table, Professor Moore realized that they each had on a pair of glasses.

"Hello, we each have spectacles," he remarked, seemingly delighted by this simple fact.

Triston didn't have as much self control as Harper, and felt it impossible not to giggle, even if she was very much angry at Abeline's feelings for the professor. Her small laugh was warm, yet couldn't be described as hardy, for it was anything but. It was a tiny sound, barely carrying across the tabletop, and could easily have been missed.



She smirked, realising he was right. Triston's finger mechanically began to trace the edge of her glasses, wishing they could keep her eyes from hurting. She was holding the menu as close as possible to her face, squinting comically. The passive's sight reminded her of poor spectragrams; The edges were slowly blackening, and she was afraid that soon it would all be dark.

If Triston had already drunk something that evening, she might have been tempted to introduce some crude spectacle based innuendo, whether it made sense or not. Said temptation, however, was exclusive to a drunk Triston, not the sober Triston, who at that moment was hiding behind an unintelligible menu.