135- Can you file a workplace safety incident report? I just fell for you.
ANDREW
I crack open the door to Rowan’s workshop and immediately sneeze. The dust in here is thick enough to qualify as a biological threat. Honestly, it’s a miracle we haven’t both developed some kind of cursed lung fungus by now. The place is an absolute disaster. There’s a long workbench to the left side of the room, which I think started its life as a workspace but has long since devolved into a graveyard of unfinished projects. Weapons are stacked across every surface AND on the floor. There are daggers, crossbows, magically enhanced batons and something that looks suspiciously like a flamethrower built out of copper piping. There’s even a sword lodged in the ceiling, like someone threw it and then forgot about it. Or maybe it’s there intentionally... With Rowan, you can never quite tell the difference between 'this is where I left it' and 'this is deliberate magical trap placement.' I step carefully around what I am mostly sure is a disarmed bomb and head to the far wall, where her hunter paperwork backlog is piled in something that could generously be called a 'filing system.' There are singed manila folders half melted by acid or fire or something, receipts smeared with blood that I am hoping isn’t Rowan’s, and contracts written in at least seven different languages. Does Rowan even SPEAK multiple languages? A quick attempt using an online translator tells me that these languages aren’t human ones. That might make them kind of hard to sort out. One of them vanishes completely whenever I try to read it, just fades into nothing. Another one gives me a mild headache if I look at it for more than a few seconds. And one, I kid you not, only becomes legible under moonlight. I know because Rowan actually labelled that one. In Sharpie she wrote ‘read at night, dumbass.’ I love her so much. But also, what the actual hell.
I spend hours trying to impose some kind of order. I separate weapons from documents. I make a ‘definitely cursed’ pile and a ‘probably safe’ pile. I create a box labeled ‘sharp things that don’t belong on the floor,’ and it’s already full before I make it more than a couple feet away from the door. I sweep. I dust. I sort. I very nearly get stabbed by a dagger with an ugly looking beetle on the handle that I swear has a mind of its own. Actually, I’ve moved that dagger into the box three times now, and every time it seems to reappear back on the floor. By midnight, I’ve made almost no progress. I’ve basically just pushed the majority of the mess to the centre of the room in a big pile. The desk still looks like a war zone of paperwork. The floor is mostly clear, kind of… Okay, so I’ve basically made a pathway through the mess. I open one of the drawers in her filing cabinet and it makes a weird clinking noise that doesn’t line up with the fact that it’s full of nothing but papers. I take them all out and mess with it for a minute then eventually figure out that there’s a second, hidden drawer full of sealed vials labeled things like ‘sleep draught- volatile’ and one that is very concerningly labelled with ‘DO NOT MIX WITH COFFEE’. That was definitely not something I was considering doing. Yeah… I’ll come back to that drawer later. With gloves.
I decide to tackle the paperwork first. Mistake number one. Within ten minutes, I realise this is going to be significantly more difficult than I thought. For one, Rowan apparently considers ‘shoving everything vaguely rectangular into the same pile’ a viable organizational strategy. For another, half of the paperwork seems to be semi sentient. I swear, one of the receipts tried to bite me. I give up trying to label anything by hand and go to grab my laptop. If I’m going to survive this with my sanity intact, I need structure. I need color coding. I need spreadsheets. I open a new document and title it ‘Rowan’s Murder Budget.’ That makes me smile. She is going to hate the name. Or pretend to, but I know she’ll secretly find it funny. Starting with the paperwork that looks the most innocent and is actually in English, I start sorting and building sub tabs on the computer, letting the categories write themselves.
ROWAN’S MUDER BUDGET
Weapons Requiring Re-sharpening (Again)
- 4 throwing knives,
\- 2 short swords,
\- 1 collapsible spear,
\- A spoon she swears works better than it should?
Clients Who (Apparently) Owe Us Blood or Favours…
Note- Cross reference with the passive aggressive ‘reminder’ notes Rowan scribbled on napkins and pinned to a few of the contracts.
Contracts that Rowan Labelled Do Not Engage (But Probably Will Anyway)
\-Also known as the ‘List of Poor Impulse Control.’
Potions Inventory
\-Half of these vials are unlabeled. One is glowing. One is humming. Maybe label these by description and storage location and complete the information at a later time?
Magical Expenses
\-Mostly spell components, enchanted silver, gemstones, rare herbs, bribes paid in phoenix feathers? And approximately $72 worth of chocolate used in what looks like a VERY specific curse breaking ritual.
Non Magical Expenses
Replaced clothes (frequently bloodstained, burned, or shredded), broken mundane weapons, hotel rooms and taxi receipts
Pending Hex Reimbursements
\-Every one of these is marked ‘In Review’ by some mystical oversight board that I know Rowan absolutely loathes. One has been pending since last April. Follow up. Politely… With threats?
It’s becoming increasingly clear that this spreadsheet is going to be massive. And unless I want to be eaten alive by cursed documents, I need an actual organisational system in here. Note to self, buy a label maker. Possibly buy two label makers, in case one becomes sentient and turns evil. Also I need shelving. So much shelving. I start browsing storage options online. I should be able to get something delivered tomorrow. Rowan’s not due back for a few more days, but at this rate, I’m not going to finish this project before she gets home. Still, progress is progress. I send her another text update.
Andy- Started a new project. Might be doing well. Not sure.
I turn back to the room and reach toward one of the more suspicious piles of paper, some of it looks kind of charred. I gingerly touch one page, and it immediately bursts into flames. I stare at it for a long moment as it crumbles to ash.
“Oops…” I mutter. Hopefully that wasn’t important. Or cursed. Or someone’s birth certificate. After that little incident, I decide to upgrade my safety protocol. I retrieve my apron from the kitchen, slip on a pair of thick oven mitts, and start using metal tongs to sort paperwork. It’s not elegant, but hey, functional. Then, I find the shoebox. It’s full of receipts, most of them half shrunken, some partially burned or covered in unknown and definitely unsanitary substances, all of them are jammed together like an aggressive origami collection. When I pull one out, the entire box starts insulting me in what I’m pretty sure is Latin. What the hell? I flinch, nearly dropping the box, then frown and pull out my phone. Fine. You want to sass me in dead languages? Two can play that game. I search online for the Latin words for ‘I’m sorry’. I clear my throat, the apologise to the box as politely as I can. The insults stop. The box goes still. I blink at it suspiciously, Then gently set it down. I’ll sort that out later. I might need more Latin. My noise cancelling headphones go on next. Why? Because apparently, at least two of these old manila folders are possessed or something. They’ve been screaming in overlapping high pitched and painfully shrill tones for the last fifteen minutes. I was tempted to give up, but I refuse to be intimidated by office supplies. And then, because this room cannot help but get weirder, I find a folder labeled in bold black marker. ‘Taxes.’ I stare at it then open it. I try, for a full five minutes, to work out if Rowan actually pays taxes. And if so, to whom. Is there a supernatural tax agency? A death guild accountant? Do assassins offer receipts? Also, who even pays her? Do clients direct deposit bounties? I have no answers. Just more questions. And more screaming from what are quickly becoming my least favourite folders to deal with. Finally, in desperate need of a break, I try opening a drawer labeled ‘Emergency Snacks.’ Inside are fourteen throwing knives and two chocolate bars. Of course… I shut the drawer slowly, then add another tab to the spreadsheet. ‘Questionable Food’. By now, my back aches. My hands are covered in dust, ink, and possibly whatever the glowing green smudge was on the side of her sword rack.
But weirdly? I feel good. This is something tangible. Something I can do for her. She gives so much of herself to everyone else. The least I can do is make her world a little easier to navigate. Still, my eyes are falling closed. I’m not expecting Row back for at least another couple of days and it is stupidly late. I can come back to this tomorrow. Time for bed.