|| LANDING || ABOUT || STORY HUB ||
Dr. Christopher Hastings could not believe what he was looking at.
Directly behind him stood the track of Jackson Sloth Memorial High-- worn after years of staining student’s shoes an ugly red color, and inscriptions into the field smack dab in the middle regarding soccer and football scores. To the other edge of the field was a tennis-basketball court hidden in the trees, and on a portion of the wall that actually led back inside of the building there was a massive student-made tile mural that each senior class added onto, leaving their mark one way or another. The entire field was held together by a chain link fence that was typically accessible to the wider public when there was no school in business.
It was the first time in some years that students could sit outside on an October morning without having to worry about any miscellaneous threats, at least not openly. So when there were a bunch of calls regarding a massive building that sprouted itself just across the street of the field, it did not come to Hastings as a surprise that on his way to investigate the area before his other coworkers arrived, the audio being forwarded to him over the van receiver was mostly filled with teenagers trying to describe what was before them.
The descriptions the kids had given had not done the temple justice.
The thing was massive, by far one of the biggest structures in Sloth’s Pit to date, if not by width then most certainly by height. The entryway alone was six times Hasting’s height, at what looked to be a little more than 30 feet in the air, rectangular in shape. The intricate symbols along the conical archways moved downwards and formed the perimeter of the door before him, already 10 feet or so as he stood. Some moss lined the engravings and the foot of the building, coalescing and meeting the barely-trimmed grass before him.
The door seemed to be the most modern thing about it. The steps that led up to it led to a tonal shift-- beyond the dusty-colored sand, was an entryway that screamed art deco. The circular and saturated window that made up the majority of the door, broken up into intricate squares and triangles with golden linings that warned him of a light that may or may not exist beyond the door. Somehow, despite the sharp and flat edges of the glass, his eyes made out a circular shape he still couldn’t exactly discern.
Text sat atop the door, furnished in bronze with sharp golden characters.
Hastings groaned to himself quietly. He didn’t know anybody who spoke Arabic off the top of his head.
“Woah, woah!” A familiar voice, followed by the sound of two car doors shutting and a familiar honk were behind him, before he could fish his brick of aphone out of his pocket. “You could at least wait a second, jackass. Go in with a full party, make sure you’re prepped, you know?”
His head turned around to meet the couple behind him.
Dr. Katherine Sinclair of Thaumatology had been friends with Hastings since he first set foot on-site: like Dr. West, she’d been at the site longer than most, so much so he was pretty sure he considered herself a Wisconsinite rather than Pennsylvanian. Her uniform, sans the mandatory dark circles under her eyes-- rather, her singular eye, was a bit off-kilter. Thaumatology was a strange department, and their uniform mirrored that. In exchange for the white lab coats the majority of the site wore, Thaumatology was clad in black long coats that made them look just as arcane as their subject matter, and look even more like witches. Two things were incredibly noticeable about Dr. Sinclair upon surveying her: Her vibrant natural orange hair that was freckled ever so slightly by some rogue grey strands that licked into the air like it was fire, and the black eyepatch that took up space where her left eye had once been. Sinclair hadn’t been a cyclops for long, but it fit her so well that it was a part of her just as much as the greenish blue eye had been. Her right eye, meanwhile, was in perfect health. Her skin was pasty like canvas, making her freckles look like splashes of orange paint, her toothy smile clad in two full dimples.
Sinclair’s fashion taste, meanwhile, was odd to some and a disaster to others. Her lab coat sleeves were folded comfortably at her elbows. Medical-grade bandages wrapped her hands, and overlaid upon them were black fingerless gloves. A very thin turtleneck overlaid the majority of her body underneath, wrapping her neck in black fabric. Underneath her black lab coat was a thick bright electric blue long sleeve and jeans, accompanied additionally by a necklace with an ornate pentagram design upon it that always seemed to reflect too much light. Her shoes were comically witch-y, with pointed tips and a large yellow buckle. Her lab coat looked like it’d been frayed at the ends initially, but somehow she’d managed to char it stylishly. Hastings was genuinely thankful that she never got opportunities to appropriately pose while there was a breeze.
If Dr. Katherine Sinclair was a fire eating away at lumber, Researcher Montgomery Reynolds was the sturdy brick hearth that sustained her and her warmth. Which made sense, considering they were married. Neither of them wore the rings while at work, but Hastings had seen them taking turns conjuring golden circles around their fingers during work hours for fun. The two had met well into adulthood and were in their forties, but if he didn’t know any better he would’ve thought they were highschool sweethearts.
Rsr. Monty Reynolds, for a long time, was the only other member of the Thaumatology Department. He was the stocky skyscraper to Sinclair’s homey mom-and-pop, towering over her so much he could rest his elbow on her comfortably. The good-natured country boy to his wife’s city girl spontaneity. Reynolds was older than her, but aside from the slight wrinkle on his forehead and the slightly more visible strokes of grey in his sea of dark locs tied into a ponytail, it was hard to tell. His dark circles were a bit harder to make out with his dark complexion, but they were very much present.
Reynolds shared the combination of a dark lab coat with blue attire in his own way: his turtleneck was a much softer and lighter blue, comfortably sheltering his neck and the rest of his portly body from any cold, he wore dark sweatpants for better comfort, and Hastings knew for a fact that underneath those second-hand Doc Martens he was wearing the warmest of socks known to man. A newcomer to the site would say Reynolds looked unprofessional, but to Site regularly Reynolds was a genius-- staying warm and comfortable without having to stack up too many layers was more than a tactical decision, it was a sensible one. He took better care of his lab coat than his wife, even going through the effort to sew on his own hood into it for better shelter from the cold. Upon his big nose sat his small rectangular glasses that gave him a mellow look, yet the contrast of the hands that adjusted them being calloused and clad in little scars led insight into what Sinclair had just out of view. Had they both been ‘Stevies’, Sinclair would be a rowdier Nicks, and Reynolds would be a soft-spoken Wonder.
Hasting’s eyebrows furrowed, a smile on his face. He couldn’t laugh at their differences without realizing he was one to talk. “I’m not going in. Isn’t a full party supposed to be four people, anyway?”
Dr. Katherine Sinclair’s singular eye seemed to twinkle. “I thought we already told everybody Phoenix is getting a sibling.”
Hastings' jaw dropped like a weight, his entire body scrunching up in shock, his eyes driven directly to what seemed to be her flat abdomen.
Rsr. Monty Reynolds doubled over-- Hastings thought he was embarrassed, but as he dug his face into his wife’s shoulder as his upper back shook, Hastings realized he was on the verge of cackling. He failed to stifle as he spoke, wiping tears in the corners of his eyes underneath his glasses already. “She’s messing with you! One is enough-- Oh my god, I wish I thought of that, Kat.”
What the fuck? Hastings looked back at Sinclair. Her lips were plastered together, her cheeks puffed and her freckled face reddening. Upon making eye contact, she let herself loose, jabbing a finger at Hastings and releasing her witch’s cackle at full onslaught. Reynolds didn’t make it any easier, he’d fully submerged his entire face.
Hastings folded his arms and hunched into himself in embarrassment. “Jesus fucking christ. Hate both of you. I think being a father would be a fucking nightmare scenario for me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sinclair patted Reynolds on the back, shoving the last of her giggles into her other palm. “But look at this baby. She’s gorgeous, I can handle her fine.”
“I don’t know if either of you have realized it yet, but this is not the time to start shitting and giggling.” Hastings grumbled, hunching towards them. “I was about to inform you both that this was the cause of much anxiety from thataway.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the field, the amount of kids dispersing as they got called inside.
“I doubt it.” Reynolds was still smiling. He pointed towards the right of the Arabic. “That first word right there is ‘School’. If it wanted to harm students, it’d be doing a much better job if it was a portal inside the building itself. That way it’d be harder to detect, and they’d be closer to the students.”
Hastings blinked, doing a double-take at the text. “You know Arabic?”
“Not much. I’m rusty with what I do know.” Reynolds squinted at the text, his hand perched on his chin inquisitively. “Madrasa. School of something-- whether or not it’s religious, I don’t know. I know ‘Glass’. I think that’s ‘Colorful’?” Reynolds’ gaze drifted downwards back to the door before him, his hands on his hips. “Very fitting, considering the door.”
Sinclair framed the door with her fingers making a rectangular shape, her hands glowing ever so slightly. She slowly panned her fingers out, like she was trying to capture more. Her eyes darted through whatever window she was looking through until the soft glow fizzled out. “Ohoho. This is interesting. I wish I’d brought scanners. There’s a lot to see in there...” She went down the stairs, checking the perimeter and the proximity towards the other buildings as other S&C vans rolled up and other vehicles belonging to other employees rolled up. “You think the owner will answer if we knock?”
“Boo, you whore.” Sinclair seemed to already be in her own head, her head flickering back to the cars behind her as one honked at her. She waved a hand at it, calling a name Hastings almost didn’t catch before she turned around to the men. “Kenzie’s here, Monty, I’ll be right back.”
Before Hastings could protest to deaf ears, Reynolds had already balled up his fist, readying to knock on the wood of the door.
“I hate how calm you both are about this.” Hastings hissed at the man who towered above him, grabbing his wrist. “It’s October. This could be a goddamn illusion, like the Tin Lizzy again.”
Reynolds smiled softly at him, not prying Hastings off of him yet. “I understand, I know it’s unfair--”
“I saw that car firsthand, Montgomery.” Hastings inched to him. “It’s a goddamn miracle that Rob didn’t meet his maker on the first, and that we didn’t have anything major yesterday. Fucking. Miracle."
Reynolds turned his attention towards him. “We’re in good spirits because we got a good omen this morning.”
Hastings’ eyebrows furrowed. “You’re certain it was good?”
“Chris, We found ten completely full punch cards for Volcanic Glacier in our mailbox this morning.”
“Wh--” He stopped. “Ten? Were they all punched out? The rewards weren’t used yet?”
Reynolds nodded energetically, the few dreadlocks that weren’t strung in his ponytail bobbing. “Yeah! We confirmed them over the phone and everything.” He had a big smile on his face, baring all of his perfect teeth. “They’re enough for a party, but we’re gonna wait until the end of the month to use them. They don’t expire ‘till the end of Winter.”
Hastings contemplated his life decisions half-seriously, ripping his comparatively tiny and pasty palm from Reynold’s wrist. “...You think I should look into getting another Doctorate, Monty?”
Foundation work life was a dog eat dog world. Getting a cargo ship’s worth of free smoothies with no strings attached as a gift from a local God was a feeling that no other Foundation employee could get anywhere else. Like getting free socks from Starlow Grocery’ disembodied voice of a manager as a thank you gift for getting rid of invasive poison ivy in the attic. Hastings only wore them on days he needed luck, which were mostly Fridays and days that were supposed to be his work holidays.
Reynolds shook his head. “Not a good investment for you unless you’re learning for fun. Parabotany has better funding. But, you know, it’s nice seeing Katherine happy during our anniversary month for once. I don’t know if we’ll see that car again. Or if we’ll even make it inside. We could be sitting ducks to some grand mastermind, for all I know. Maybe we’re just getting a bad streak of weird visitors. Maybe this is just a calm before the storm. Maybe we’re all going to get our shit kicked out of us in five minutes. I’d be scared knowing that if I was alone.” His smile persisted as he hesitated for a moment, knocking on the wood of the door rhythmically. “You know who to pray to.”
“If we step in there and I see a race track and a Ford Model T is coming around the corner, I call dibs on pushing you directly in its way.”
Reynolds chuckled, wiping a corner of his eye reflexively with his big hands that were double the size of Hastings’ own.
“It was a threat.” Hastings clarified, but he had a big, rosy-cheeked smile on his face. He wished he got more chances to speak to the Reynolds-Sinclair pair more, and he quietly hoped the sudden change of mood would help.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Come in!”
Both heads darted right to the door. The third voice they’d just heard was just barely muffled, but close enough.
“Hello?” The voice called again. “I can see you! The door’s open!”
“What? The hell?” Reynolds said out loud, as he reached for the knob.
Before he could even turn it, the door yanked him inside with his grip alone, whisking him off of his feet and further ahead some feet some some seconds until he could stabilize himself. Hastings bounded after him, nearly tripping on himself as he felt as though he were trying to waft through jello for a split second.
Reynold’s glasses had fallen some feet ahead of him. Hastings bounded after them, but before he could think twice, the door slammed behind him, making him jump out of his skin and nearly drop his glasses again.
“Augh!” The third voice was much clearer now, reverberating among the walls somewhat like thunder. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I have to fix that damn thing!”
Hastings scrambled to Reynolds on all fours, totally ignoring the mystery voice that surrounded them. “You okay?”
“I’m still alive, so I’m okay enough.” The two men held onto each other as they stood up, Reynolds fixing his glasses and adjusting it so he could register the world around him. Just like that, Hastings saw his eyes practically light up.
“Oh my god. Chris.”
Hastings took a moment to follow his example and survey their immediate area. Scanning the building he now stood on, he realized there was a rather simple explanation for what he’d just entered: An Islamic TARDIS, exhibition edition.
The inside of the building, as Sinclair had said, was much bigger than it looked on the outside. The entire building was clad in purple-- the smooth tile floor beneath them made up the entire floor, albeit even through Hasting’s shoes it felt a bit chilly. What complimented the chill was the gorgeous stained glass skylight above arrayed in a pattern that he could not fully make out. From where he stood, though, parts of it looked like butterfly wings. A multicolored, rainbow-esque variant of a monarch butterfly’s wings, specifically. The sun rained down past the entrance, providing a gentle warmth that fought the chill of the Wisconsin autumn outside.
Hastings thought he was seeing things, but he very much was seeing fish with translucent fins swim in midair like it was water, right beneath the skylight. Squinting, he realized they were butterfly koi.
Parabotany and Parazoology were connected, so while Hastings’ expertise was in plants, he knew anomalous animals when he saw them. Hasting had a soft spot for fish: easy to feed, easy to buy toys for, their temperaments tended to match him perfectly, and cleaning out their tanks was more than enough exercise. His family had a good track record of betta fish dying of old age ever since he was little. The sight of such healthy-looking fish did make him feel better about the mystique of the place.
The building’s walls were as tall as they were on the outside-- the pair found themselves in what appeared to be a massive indoor courtyard, with several tables with open books and manuscripts around the perimeter, plenty of closed ones with a breadth of bookmarks littering the pages between.
In the middle was a small garden with circular stone steps that went directly through. A massive tree that left in just enough room for the skylight to light up the area was the clear centerpiece, as it hung over other small plants and trees, many genuses that looked reminiscent of the kinds Hastings used to study as early back as college, many looking familiar yet not being able to point out what parts of them rung a bell, and a vast amount of the other plants looking nothing like anything he’d seen before. Which was a given. The environment was lush and looked like a piece of a forest, surrounded by a small rectangular current that ensured that the flora was in a suitable environment. Even a familiar-looking bare hedge with softly-glowing blossoms that spun idly with no wind sat in the midst.
Sure, it was a sight to be seen, but Hastings had to be vigilant about plants. There was no stopping to smell the flowers, especially ones he hadn’t seen before, for Foundation parabotanists.
There was plenty of room around the rest of the courtyard, hence why the tree was large yet not imposing. The walls were also purple, yet made of some other stone aside from the brick of the floor. They were cluttered in what Hastings could only call treasures. Whether they were in bookshelves, glass cases, or just sat up in display, it didn’t matter.
The place looked like a study, given the tables and books splayed out, but it could have easily doubled as a museum charging extra for entry. Had either Hastings or Reynolds been Multi-U or Theology, they knew for a fact they'd be screaming their heads off over everything to be seen. Whether or not it’d be in glee or not, Hastings didn’t know. Reynolds looked to be having the time of his life, but the clashing ecosystem smack dab in the center made Hasting’s lower eyelids twitch, even if it was pretty.
An overwhelming amount of wall scrolls hung that constantly robbed, kicked and bit in competition for Hastings’ attention. His only form of solace being something tangible, beneath all the chaos: bookshelves.
The bookshelves that surrounded the walls were overwhelming. They added a homey element to the area, despite all the artistic chaos to be seen all over. Reynold’s eyes scanned a whole bunch of them, his eyes lighting up at a couple. Hastings followed his gaze. Some books looked awfully familiar, a couple of them he recognized from the archive deep within the Site-87 building, the odd bookshelf in the library, and even in the shared bookshelf that belonged to Parabotany: simple magic tricks,
There was a sticky note on one of the shelves that read ‘SLOTH’S PIT TOURIST GUIDE WHEN?’. Albeit, Hastings had no clue how he could read it, because it was written in a language he’d never seen before, like a bastardization of a bunch of other alphabets.
Among the crowd of standard books were Slaughterhouse Five, Roadside Picnic, Deathbird Stories, A Canticle for Leibowitz, Exhalation-- even The Kaiju Preservation Society. Although there were other odd books in the fray... Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, Emil Nolde: Unpainted Pictures, The 25th Ward: Silver Case Physical Artbook, and even The Lesser Key Of Solomon to name a few. A surprising amount of nonfiction and even children’s books sat in the fray as well.
Some other miscellaneous stuff that didn’t belong in the bookshelves or didn’t fit sat on the sides wherever there was room. A big, moody-looking blue record with some faint orange lighting on display sat next to an LP of some weird white poodle silhouette on black background. Sitting vertically like the books was a VHS tape that had ‘DO NOT WATCH: VKTM’ scrawled in the same incomprehensible yet perfectly legible alphabet like the sticky note wondering where the tourist guide sat.
Occasionally the bookshelves were spaced out with glass cases that had a plethora of items on display, no matter how insignificant they looked. A very ornate yet sturdy-looking miniature replica trebuchet painted in slick white and lighter shades of grey that had ‘REISNO’ written on the side. A well-loved (or well-hated, depending on how someone interpreted just how beat up the poor thing was in spite of the steel edges) brown case with lots of smaller compartments sat fully exposed with items that were distinctively vampire-hunter oriented, with a flask that had a cross on the front, a wooden stake, a silver dagger with some chips in it, some small rosaries, and small bag with a clove of garlic poking out. A red jersey with green trim emblazoned with the numbers ‘88’ burned Hasting’s eyes to look at for reasons that felt only tangentially related to the atrocious color theory. It was well-secured and folded in a small box with a lock on top. Why it was so secure, he could not even guess, but he figured the fact that just looking at it made him feel like gnawing through his own bottom lip had to do with it.
Several gold coins with a variety of insignias sat in a small folder: some were a bit too worn to make out coherently, but one had inscriptions written in Arabic, another had a pentagram with wing-like details in the edges. In the same indescribable alphabet there were esoteric calendars ranging from 1944 to 1986 to 1474 to 2003-- the writing may not have made sense as to how he was even able to read it, but the numbers at least resembled the numerals he’d used his entire life, in spite of how comically distant in time some of them were. He was willing to guess they were all in different languages until their original words had been mangled beyond recognition. He crossed his fingers that he wasn't slowly melting his brain through reading the incomprehensible text.
In another case sat a plethora of bottles in a very distinctive shape that made Hastings realize at once what was contained inside: Alcohol. The labels, this time, were in a variety of languages, from all over the world and God knew where else. A noticeable amount of them, at least, were in Chinese. Which dialect, he couldn't be sure, but he recognized the red star that a lot of them had.
In a small box about three feet tall marketed with a logo Hastings realized at once was Wondertainment™, sat what eerily very much looked like an actual child, yet with a plastic flavor, like he’d been coated in the thinnest layer of shrink wrap known to man. His eyes were glossy, and so were his skin, and he wore a manufactured yet slightly handmade looking two-piece dark blue suit with a red bowtie, not made of actual clothing materials. The majority of the box was transparent, save for trim at the top and bottom. Right below the display of the child read VEND-A-FRIEND. A large, obnoxious orange sticker on the side not placed there by Wondertainment™, read ‘ON SALE FOR LIMITED TIME ONLY’.
In an oddly expensively fashioned small dark wooden frame sat a piece of paper that looked like it might’ve been ripped (albeit gently) out of a book or a magazine-- upon closer inspection, it was a tiramisu recipe, of all things. It had small creases along the middle, like it’d been folded to fit in someone’s coat pocket in the past.
In a small glass case that said ‘REMEMBER TO MOVE THEM ALL HERE’, the only inhabitants were two anime figurines. One of them was a pink-haired girl with pigtails tied in red ribbons in a somewhat frilly skirt, equipped with a branch that looked like half of a bow-- Madoka Kaname, Hastings recognized. The other was unfamiliar: a girl with what looked like an elongated Santa hat and a long black and white dress with contrasting orbs dotting the gown, with a book in her hands.
The more Hastings inspected the items that’d been hoarded, the less the building looked like a fantastical collection by a grand wizard and moreso a huge nerd who picked up everything that looked cool. Not like he was one to judge.
“Um...”
The sound of Reynolds' soft voice managed to shock Hastings out of his daze in exploring the rest of the room.
“...Hey, er, if you’re there... My wife’s still outside.”
“Whoops.” The door opened again from behind them, causing their heads to follow suit. “I do remember hearing a woman’s voice. My bad.”
The door swung open, with the same force it’d accidentally hauled them inside with.
Sinclair pivoted away from the street as the door reopened behind her, looking like she was ready to claw someone with her nails or gnaw on someone’s bones. Her posture immediately relaxed as soon as she saw the two men before her. She turned back for a second, cupping her hands together in the street. “Good news, Kenzie! I’m not single!”
Reynolds chuckled as she entered. She’d stopped in her tracks some steps in, gasping in amazement at her surroundings, as had they. "This is--"
“Selamat pagi!”
A man floated down before them, gracefully, yet as sudden as his voice had been prior-- Hastings realized he’d been sitting at the top of the tree, waiting for them to survey the area.
His arms were open in a welcoming gesture, his legs dangling and then comfortably finding the ground, and a big smile sat upon his heavily bearded face and russet skin. He could see some smile lines and other faint wrinkles on his head.
A lot of his face was obscured, leaving only everything from the nose to chin visible. The majority of his head was overtaken by a very stable white turban, with some parts of the cloth sticking out from the sides of his face where his ears would be. A mint green mask with painted purple indentions covered the upper half of his face, with small purple spheres holding them together at the ends. He had a necklace made of the same purple spheres, and a couple of them hung from his waist seemingly held together by some kind of rope. He wore several layers underneath, the top most layer being what looked like a white cape that flowed in the air as he lowered down. His layers were hard to discern for Hastings, but second to his cape had a dark purple kaftan with an upturned collar that went down to his knees. His pants were a vibrant green that seemed to balloon out further the closer it got to his smooth black slippers, built to traverse the smooth and glossy floor before him as comfortably as possible.
“Selamat pagi?” Hastings questioned, as The Man held his open-armed pose though he’d hit the ground.
“Buon giorno!” The Man clarified. “A new day is upon Sloth’s Pit! The morn’ adorns upon the day, raining from above!” He swirled in the rays of light that came from the multicolored yet purple tinged fragmented skylights that made up the ceiling. His clothes spun with him, giving him an almost fantastical look despite the odd childishness of his behavior. “Alhamdulillah, I am privy to this newborn light, too!”
“It’s lunchtime.” Hastings stated flatly.
The Man stopped, still holding his smile. “Is it actually?”
“It’s nearly 1. In the afternoon.”
“Oh. I’m a bit late.” The man sighed. “I’m here on accord of Director Bailey. He called for me, I’m sure he’s plenty angry at my lateness-- you’re Foundation, yes?”
Reynolds’ eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, we are, but... Bailey told you to situate yourself outside the school?”
“What? Yes. Within the vicinity of Jackson Sloth Memorial High.” The Man seemed confused. “Am I supposed to be somewhere else? Is there a policy to be seen here?”
“I mean.” Sinclair looked at him oddly, trying to pry her eyes away from the glitter that demanded her attention. “Did Bailey tell you what he wanted you to be here for?”
The man, despite his mysterious attire, looked almost cute in his confusion. “No? He just told me to come to Sloth’s Pit, that it was an emergency.”
Hastings grumbled. “He told you it was an emergency, but you came at a scheduled time?”
“I--” The man looked at him. Despite the fact they couldn’t see the upper half of his face, Hastings could see utter confusion in the way he no longer had his shoulders tensed in welcoming vigor, rather relaxed and now twiddling his thumbs. He then tilted his head to the side, his hands clasped almost like prayer tilting with him. “Did the Director even tell you I was coming?”
“I’m sensing a pattern here.” Hastings muttered.
“No, and that’s exactly what’s so baffling.” Sinclair looked him up and down. “You look like you’ve just sprung out of the middle ages, but you sure don’t sound like it, and neither does...” Sinclair seemingly had gotten distracted by all the memorabilia surrounding her.
“Oh, yes!” He straightened himself out. “Long before I built this Madrasa, I was a vizier, not so distant in rank from al-Qadir himself! Some time after I’d stepped down from my position, though, and wandered eastward, far from the world I once knew, I came across a fascinating man-- from Britannia, if I recall correctly. He was growing old, yet still full of life. Told me of wonders beyond my caliber, or my perception of reality as I knew it. And what do you know, he was right! I met your Tristian Bailey during my travels. Although it’s been a while since we’ve last spoken, I am still indebted to him. So when he called me...” The Man looked between the three before him. “...May I speak with him?”
Hastings sighed. “If he can recognize you, you should be clear of us probing you constantly for questions. He probably has an old Multi-U file on you, or something. I don’t know how Multi-U people do this kind of shit.” Hastings fished his phone out of his pocket. “Give me a second.”
Reynolds, like his wife, seemed to be getting his attention robbed by everything else surrounding them. “This place looks unlike any Madrasa I’ve seen before.”
“Well, I’ve had to adapt in recent times!” The Man gestured to the treasures before him, to a small display that was so well taken care of yet so weird in concept that ‘shrine’ seemed to be a much more effective word. He pointed out a poster that looked like it’d been designed with a budget of 2 pennies drawn up in Microsoft Paint that read SWEET PHIL AND HELLA DOUG, accompanied by several additional paraphernalia from the same media empire, from acrylic stands, pins, other small posters, very expensive yet crudely designed vinyl figures, and what looked like a full record set of the Original Soundtrack, or at least whatever a series called SWEET PHIL AND HELLA DOUG could call a soundtrack. “Learning is never a goal, it is a process! I’ve had many apprentices come by here, they tell me about their wonders, I tell them mine. What is a school, but a bazaar of proficiency?”
“I just want to say-- This place is beautiful, Vizier...” Reynolds, despite looking right at it, did not so much as acknowledge the SWEET PHIL AND HELLA DOUG shrine that probably rivaled the collections his wife spent a considerable amount of her paycheck on-- at least verbally. He did have a massive grin on his face.
Hastings chuckled to himself at the thought of being normalized to the odd tastes, turning over to Sinclair only to be met with a facial expression he was pretty certain did not have a word yet. She turned to Hastings and mouthed something he just so slightly caught-- We bask in the light of a god...
The Man laughed, oblivious to everything. “No need for Vizier. Just Takieddine works.”
“Takieddine.” Reynolds looked at him up and down. “Not what I expected. I’m, er, hoping we can clear up some confusion.”
“I’ve carved many names over the years!” Takieddine smiled. “Now, can I meet with the Director?”