I was a little lost in class, having missed the last lecture to sort out the whole boss-induced Contract Marriage/Tricare Fraud issue that had been pushed upon me. Well, “sort out” may be giving me a bit more credit than I deserve. I really just left an angry voicemail on my bosses answering machine at work. I was more than a bit tempted to go all-out and curse her, but she’s probably already seen through that possibility.

It’s not like I’d do anything too overly bad, although I’ll admit I put a lot of thought on what I’d like to do to that asshole. But for some reason on the walk to class my mind kept going back to causing her milk to go sour. Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the classic, practically archetypal curse-ish things to do, but on its face its pretty petty. Plus, I’m fairly certain she drinks her coffee black.

Speaking of coffee, I see a familiar figure holding a latté from across the quad. She’s switched from drinking iced frappés to hot drinks now that the weather is beginning to turn. And my cur- prank seems to have lost its bite; somehow I forgot that almond and soy milk exist. All that effort into exacting my revenge, and it’s foiled by almond milk.

A nagging voice in the back of my head was telling me I was being childish. Someone with my background really shouldn’t be so focused on people talking behind my back.

“Why are you staring at her. Should you really be focusing on getting back at her for saying a few minor things? How old are you?” The nagging voice, also known as Dahlia, said as we walked towards the lecture hall.

Since we had started living together, it only made sense for us to carpool, although with me having work she’d have to find her own way home half the time. Honestly, I’m not sure how she managed it beforehand, since she had been living at my house before revealing her true form to me. Must be some sort of magic. Speaking of magic, I swear she practically knows what I’m thinking half the time.

“That’s because I’m your familiar. I don’t see how I’d possibly be able to do my job without sensing what you want,” explained the half-fae girl. “That said, even if it is my job I still think it’s stupid. Aren’t you supposed to be older than me? Hell, weren’t you in the military? “

“Why do people always imagine service members as being super-serious all the time? Sure, you get the moto boots running around with high and tights. You often see them, wandering around the px or in the Jacksonville Mall with their stupid Grunt-style shirts. God those shirts are so fucking corny. Is it like, a requirement that everyone has to grow a beard and drink Jack Daniels after EAS, while starting a t-shirt or coffee company? The whole ‘macho man who loves lifting’ stereotype of the military is kind of narrow-minded.”

“ I even get that shit when I go to the VA. Can you believe some old wrinkly fucker last time I had to go to the ER told me I looked “too dainty” to have been in the Marines? It’s really hard to explain how weird it is going to a doctor’s appointment and being like, the only woman there who isn’t an employee or the wife of one of the geriatric patients there. I’ll admit I fall into the stereotype of being a gun nut a bit, but I like to think I managed to keep most my personality rather than acting like a full-on cult-member.” I slowly tried to wind down what admittedly was a bit of a rant, before Dahlia spoke.

“It’s more like a pathology than a personality. You still bring up military stuff a lot. And honestly you doing things like calling the bathroom the ‘head,’ or naming me after a Marine general seems pretty cultish from where I stand. But I guess you’re right, in that you don’t exactly give off the air you’d expect from someone who’d been in the military.”

“I’m not anywhere near as bad as this one girl we had in our unit, she was an absolute airhead. I guess the job field I was in does seem to attract the eccentrics. But overall you have a large organization of people primarily between the ages of eighteen to twenty-six living in close quarters. Barracks parties are a hell of a thing to see and heavy drinking is par for course. Assuming this large group of people are robots devoid of personality is a bit presumptuous. Not everyone is some motivated hard-charger, although wanting to go to college with no student loans is pretty motivating in its own way.”

“It sounds like I hit a nerve.”

“There’s literally nothing wrong with taking things easy in life,” I replied. “All that nagging from my parents when I got out about getting a job and going to school was the absolute worse! I have every right to sit back and indulge in my hobbies if I want to. Besides, I was fucking injured, albeit in training. My back still hurts pretty often. I honestly should file some sort of ADA claim for having to reach for all that low shelving at work.”

“Just when I almost thought there might be some deep reason for how you are. Are you really just bitter about not getting to be a NEET? Besides, I’m sure your back problems aren’t the fault of that accident alone,” she added, with a meaningful glace towards the baggy folds of my sweatshirt. “And despite that you still seem to be absolutely lacking in any sort of feminine charm.”

“That’s a lot of cope from a washboard.” I retorted, as I pushed ahead of her and entered the lecture hall.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

So on top of having missed the last class, I was stuck thinking on this exchange, while the professor lectured on about Baroque and Rococo art. I probably should be okay on the topic, considering I had a habit of occasionally binging documentaries, but this part does sound important. The debate between Ruebenists and Poussinists, from what the professor was saying, had a massive influence on art during the time period, but focusing in Poussins “grand and momentous events” was kind of hard when distracted by thoughts of what, technically, was a marital argument.

Not that it’s really my fault that I’ve been forced into marriage. But from what I can see there’s not much I can actually do about the situation except to make the best of it. Something about my boss is just downright scary, and going against someone like that feels like it’d be the same as going against the tide. Ignoring the specifics of the scenario, the overarching feeling I get from everything is like one of those spy books or movies. The protagonist is just a pawn being manipulated by the titan forces of realpolitik and bureaucracy. Like a gay, supernatural John Clark, minus the interesting backstory, technical skills or ability to act professional.

And I really don’t think I can pull off the gruff look either. How dare Liah say I’m lacking in feminine charm. What does she want, a sexy librarian outfit from me? Actually, I do have a blazer from that one cosplay, so… no, my current outfit is perfectly fine. I didn’t even want to work at the Archives in the first place so they should put up with my current fashion, or rather, lack of it. Dressing flashily would just make me stick out more than I’d want to anyways.

Class ended while I was still seethi-, well, thinking over my relationship with Dahlia. I didn’t even have time to talk with her further, since my boss had asked me to come into work early today. Plus Liah has a drawing class after the art history class we take together. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen any of her artwork. I wonder if she’s any good.

After a better than usual mid-day commute, I found myself walking into the same conference room as usual, much to my trepidation. Nothing good had ever come from meeting with my boss in this room, and I could feel my subconscious screaming at me to flee. But unfortunately duty calls, or rather, my boss’s knowledge of my extracurricular witchcraft made merely leaving an unwise decision.

“Glad to see you’ve made it here early.”

“Of course, ma’am,” I said, not quite succeeding at keeping the displeasure out of my voice.”

“Now now, don’t be like that. How’s married life treating you? I’m surprised you didn’t bring your wife to work with you. You can if you want, though it might be easier if she’s in her more… compact form.” I’m not sure if I was imagining it, or if there was a mocking tone to her voice. “But I guess she has to focus on her studies. Drawing class, was it?”

“Why did you need me to come in early?” I asked.

“My, jumping right to business? Don’t you want to brag about your new wife more? Based off what you post online, I would have though you’d be all starry-eyed over the whole thing. Not that anyone would believe you about the cat-girl thing, but from what I gathered you’re a huge fan of it all. Speaking about online presence, I’ve seen a few of your posts on gun-related topics too.”

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” I replied. At least, I think I didn’t.

“Don’t worry, I wont tell if you wont. This isn’t the ATF. However, at times we do have to work for them…”

“Don’t tell me…”

“There’s a group that’s planning a meet-up, one that the ATF seems to think is some sort of militia. Our colleagues intend to send someone undercover to look for evidence and they want to borrow someone from our little department to do so. You’re already familiar with how these sorts of groups interact, so you’d be a perfect fit.”

“Why the fuck would they need an archivist to spy on a bunch of people from the internet?” I asked.

“It’s a matter of location. They’re meeting in a rather remote area. Historically, there have been reports of people missing going back centuries. Now, some of them are the usual mundane hunter getting lost or breaking a leg and dying. Of course, a few other cases are just people dropping off the face of the earth. Now, we know what happens, usually someone with too loose of a grasp on reality falling through the gaps in the other world. The National Parks Service even suppresses their missing persons reports to keep people from catching on to that. But,” she paused for emphasis, “there have been a few too many disappearances that can’t be explained by transmigration or natural deaths.”

“The ATF is pretty spooked by it all, and is afraid of losing any agents. They already have a shortage of field agents who aren’t overly obese or failing weapons quals. They get the occasional report of supernatural disappearances, just enough to want to avoid anything remotely touching the matter. And rightfully so. But they just seem downright convinced this group, who just happens to be planning an offline meet in a month, is going to be their next big bust. So they decided to see if we or another agency had anyone who fit the bill.”

“And what makes you think I would be the right fit for this job?”

“Looking at your post history, you’ve already RSVP’d for this meeting,” Oof, so she knows about that. “It’s not like we’re imposing on your schedule, we’re just having you attend in a more professional capacity. Just keep your ears open for any nefarious plots, and keep an eye out for anything going bump in the night.”

“But what specifically would I be looking out for?”

“Glad you asked. I suppose there is a lot of dark things out there, hiding in the woods. Luckily we happen to have a report on this already.”

She slid over a report, one that had been written at the request of the National Forestry service. I didn’t need to actual read it. It had come from our own archives, and the name “Amy Thorne” was clearly written as the author. This is a big “yikes” from me, just doing the research for that report had made me afraid of the thought of camping. Those Native American curses could be old, and often old stuff can be nasty, to those on the receiving end.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” my boss reassured me, “as a witch you should be more than familiar with curses yourself. One or two spooks in the woods shouldn’t be an issue for you.”