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Reggia di Caserta, Luigi and Carlo Vanvitelli, 1752-1780, Caserta, Italy | kevinmu

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Before The Storm

Sasha stepped into his office timidly, holding her gaze in his with an apologetic smile' "I'm sorry," She said she said in a tiny voice. Eric sat at his desk, furrowing his brow as he shifted his attention from paperwork to the woman standing at his office door. "... Why are you apologizing?" "I have nothing to turn in." Those words sounded like a foreign language to him, or perhaps he didn't hear her properly. "What do you mean?" "... I don't have anything to turn in," She raised her voice slightly, though she made an effort to give him the smallest shrug. "I didn't finish my work." "You had weeks to finish this project, Sasha." "I know." "Well-" He paused, "Give me whatever you do have." "That's the problem." Sasha clicked her tongue, "I have nothing." "... Do you jest?" "Gods, I wish." Eric blinked. "Nothing?" "Nothing." He pursed his lips in silence, letting out a long, shaky sigh from his nostrils. The man nodded at her, he couldn't tell what he was feeling: Shock? Anger? Disappointment? Before the cocktail of emotions could overwhelm him, he turned away from her and walked over to grab something under his desk. She didn't say anything, she wouldn't dare. She didn't say a word as he pulled out a single glass and a bottle of whiskey, nor when he poured himself a drink, nor when she watched him take a long swig. Eric shook his head, a torrent of words lumped at his throat and threatened to claw out- Most of them furious, most of them unkind. It took all of his strength to remain silent, the heat raidiating from his core threatened to consume him- But he wouldn't lose control, not today, not like this, not in front of her. He contemplated his words as the silence continued to fill the room. After a few long moments, he fixed his eyes on her and asked: "Do you know what it's like to have people depend on you?" "I don't understand where you're going with this." "Without my career, I could not provide for myself or my sisters. I'd be at the mercy of my father's whims, a fate I resolved to avoid since I became aware of it. I don't have any generational wealth to fall back on, should I fail." "But your father-" "My parents aren't wealthy, and they made it abundantly clear they are unwilling to be a safety net, so it all falls on me. If I lose my career, I lose everything. I lose my ability to help my sisters, I lose my reputation, and I lose my financial security... I don't expect you to understand, because you never truly had anyone you deeply cared about depend on you, and quite frankly, I don't believe you have a realistic understanding of the value of gil." "You think I never struggled?" "That's not what I said." "Then-" "Has gil ever been an issue for you?" "Well-" "Have you ever worried about whether you could provide for yourself, or put food on the table for those you love?" A small squeak escaped her breath, but she didn't argue. Instead, she softly shook her head. "You've been given ample opportunity to freely pursue your research and redeem yourself in the eyes of the law, and I cannot, in my sane judgement, pretend to ignore your shortcomings, because they reflect poorly on myself, and can potentially squander any opportunity I have for professional growth. Do you understand?" She nodded. "How much longer do you need?" "Maybe... A few days?" "Be honest." "A moon?" "We don't have a moon." "A week." Eric raised his brows. "So you do have something?" "I do," She cooed, "But... I can't turn it in like this, Eric." Eric sighed and gently shook his head. Perhaps another drink was in order. "Very well then. You have one week." He locked his eyes on hers, firmly holding her gaze as he lowered his voice. "One. Week." Sasha nodded and left. Whatever energy she had to argue was completely spent.

----------------- A week later, a folder had been neatly set on his desk. He didn't expect much, but he prayed that it would be acceptable enough to have his superiors overlook the delay. As he opened it, he perused the files. He wanted to hate it. A side of him desired the work to be utterly mediocre, to prove him right, even if it meant a stain in his reputation. It was good. No, it was excellent. An academic text on the aetherochemical processes promoting healthy liver function. Her work was detailed and precise, a result of an obsessive mind pouring itself onto its pages- But that wasn't what caused him to raise a brow- What gave him pause only came towards the end- Where pure walls of text soon turned into fastidiously accurate medical illustrations and diagrams, with an unsurprising focus on the liver. His eyes widened as he shift his focus from the pictures to the text. "Viability concerns for aetherically constructed organic matter. A theoretical diagram on how to promote aetherial compatibility between construct and transplant recipient." He mouthed a soft, 'what the fuck?', even as he read it, it was like there wasn't enough space in his head to take it all in. Now she really had his attention. And the attention of the Forum itself.

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