Chapter Text
After witnessing someone forcibly yeet a body into the gorge behind Vesuvia, your night goes…as smoothly as the night of an unsuspecting yeet-murder witness could be expected to go.
Campus police returns to Vesuvia for the second time that night, followed by city police, and soon enough, you find yourself gathered in the house den with the other residents, all in varying states of sleepiness.
“First things first,” says one of the city officers, with a glance at his partner; she nods, pen floating above her open notepad. “I’ll need all your names and where you were at…4:32 this morning.”
He nods to the closest person: Nadia, who’s sitting fully-dressed in an armchair and looks very much displeased with how the night has turned out.
“Nadia Satrinava,” she says clearly, unfazed by the appraising scans neither officers bother to hide. “I was in the law library.”
The officer raises an eyebrow at her; a few seconds pass before his partner speaks up. “You pulled an all-nighter after calling us to shut down an illegal party here three hours before?”
Nadia’s own eyebrow twitches, but she restrains her obvious irritation to a mere sharpening of the eyes. “No. I went to sleep for a few hours, then woke up to get to the library as soon as it opened. I’ve been very busy recently balancing academic obligations with undergraduate council and campaigning.”
Your eyes widen; this is Nadia on two hours of sleep?! Suddenly all the rumors you’ve heard about her (not human, made a deal with the Devil, her blood is 80% caffeine, she had a brain surgery as a child that unlocked an ability to use 40% more neural pathways) don’t seem so ridiculous.
It seems impossible that she’s so clear-eyed and frankly, functional, but Nadia doesn’t seem like the type of person to lie, especially in a situation like this. She is fully-dressed, and in a different outfit than when you’d seen her during move-in.
Nadia catches your stare and offers you a bemused half-smile; embarrassment at being caught floods your face with heat as you flash a mortified attempt at a grin back at her.
“And you’re the head RA at Vesuvia House?” The officer’s question breaks Nadia’s eyes from you.
Her quiet inhale is no less vexed than an eyeroll, but Nadia pauses diplomatically before answering calmly, “Not quite, although my position is similar. The house is a cooperative residence with the university. The university does not employ me, but they did select me and my running-mate to be residential leaders after our application.”
The officer’s pen scritches loudly across her notepad as you exchange awkward glances with the other residents.
Portia’s fingers haven’t stopped scrunching the fabric of her nightgown since she walked in, and the furrow in her brow is deeper than warranted by mere fatigue. Beside her (although she’s curled herself up as far to the other side of the couch as humanly possible) sits Lucio, looking incredibly bored. He grins when your eyes meet, prompting a quiet but thoroughly disgusted “ugh” from Asra where he’s perched on the loveseat arm next to you.
Lucio’s grin falls, his eyebrows angling down, but before the insults start flying, the officers move on.
“And you, miss?”
Portia starts, and Nadia’s eyes lock onto her like a hawk. “She was—”
“No interruptions, please,” the officer cuts Nadia off firmly. She falls silent, but displeasure and concern war on her face.
“Your name, and where you were?” prompts the officer once more, turning back to Portia.
She clears her throat, skirt twisting under anxious fingers. “My name’s Portia Devorak, and I was asleep in my room.”
Her eyes dart in your direction and you try to smile comfortingly at her; you’d had no idea Portia would be so affected, but it makes sense: she’d been so sweet earlier, it was no wonder she was this empathetic. After all…someone who’d probably been dancing and laughing just hours ago was now dead. A sharp pang of horror slams into you again and your smile wavers.
The officer’s pen pauses. “Your room, you said?”
The color drains out of Portia’s face. “Well, I’m not listed as an official resident, but I do stay at Vesuvia.”
You stare at her in shock—hadn’t she told you she lived in Vesuvia when you met? Portia avoids your gaze, clenching her nightgown tightly. Unease creeps into your belly. Why would she have lied? What was she trying to hide?
You glance at Nadia; she’s watching the exchange with the keenness of a falcon, her mouth set in a grim line.
The officers exchange a glance. Portia, despite looking, at this point, almost identical to a sheet of paper with two large, blue, photorealistic eyes drawn on it, says with nary a tremble in her voice, “I have an off-campus apartment, but I sleep at Vesuvia often. It’s, ahem, an interpersonal relationship, if you catch my drift.”
The room is so still and fraught every breath feels like a transgression. The scratchy rustle of Lucio’s prosthetic fingers on the sofa upholstery is deafening, and you can’t believe that Portia is somehow managing to pull off a mildly embarrassed smile.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the note-taking officer purses her lips and nods. “Alright. We’ll be in touch, Miss Devorak, and I don’t doubt the university would like to hear about this as well.”
That seems wildly invasive and inappropriate to you, and you’re tempted to say so, but before you get the chance, she turns to Lucio, pen at the ready. Before she even has a chance to ask for his name, he perks up, sitting straight and raking a hand through his hair as though prepping for a photoshoot rather than a police statement.
“Finally, my turn!” he exclaims brightly. If you hadn’t been waiting to give your own statement as the witness to a literal murder, his misplaced enthusiasm would have been hilarious. Lucio grins broadly.
“Lucio Morgasson,” he says, in a voice that wouldn’t have been out of place at an awards ceremony. “I wasn’t at Vesuvia.” His grey eyes cut to Nadia, a pout wrinkling his face for an instant before self-assurance slides over his features again. “Someone was no fun, so I went out with some friends. I think I would have been at Kappa Delt around 4:30? Or maybe the Lambda house…”
“…right.”
The officer doesn’t seem too concerned with the details of Lucio’s partying schedule, which leaves you in the hot seat. You give them your name and sum up what you’d seen for their notes; the officers don’t spend too much time on you before moving on to Asra, who gives them his name solemnly.
“Alnazar?”
Asra nods, a careful smile spreading over his face. “Yes, Asra Alnazar. A-L-N-A-Z-A-R.”
The officer squints at him. “I remember you. You were running that pop-up shop out of your dorm—look, it’s nothing personal, but I’ve got to note that you’ve got a disciplinary history.”
Indignant outrage colors Asra’s protest: “That case has been closed for a year now! It doesn’t have anything to do with this, anyways!”
“Sorry, it’s standard procedure.”
He sighs, obviously frustrated, but lets it go. “I was asleep—where else would I have been at four in the morning?”
You swallow the surprise that wells up sharp in your throat, but you can’t completely cover your shock; the officer doesn’t seem to notice, but Asra’s hand very purposefully grazes yours.
Had you just imagined it? No, you were sure of what you’d seen—his bed had been empty, blankets tossed aside. A sudden revelation dawns upon you, icy horror gripping your spine: Asra’d taken an awfully long time to be in the bathroom.
The back of his hand is warm against yours, but for once, Asra’s touch brings no comfort—is this the ride-or-die test of your friendship? Is he seriously expecting you to cover for his involvement in a murder?! Another possibility slams into you like a freight train: does he even know you saw his empty bed? But this is all ridiculous—Asra would never kill someone!
…would he?
The frenzy in your skull screeches to a halt as the officer clicks her pen and flips her notepad shut with a curt nod.
“You’re all free to go,” she says. “We’ll be in contact with you individually should further statements become necessary.”
The officers leave; once the door shuts behind them, the stiff formality in the room dissipates—Nadia is the first to move, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing heavily as she unfolds herself from the chair.
“It’s still early—I suggest you all try to rest.” She offers the room a small smile—one that wilts when she gets to Lucio, who’s too engrossed in examining his reflection in the TV screen to care (if he notices at all).
“What about you, Nadia?” Your voice is small, but it rings absurdly loud in the still-shocked silence following Nadia’s suggestion.
She turns to you, blinking in mild surprise, as though the idea of sleep is entirely novel to her. “I…usually rise early. I find studying more effective in seclusion removed from a residential environment.”
Now it’s your turn to wear surprise, mouth shaping a soft “o” as you stare in bewildered concern. “Nadia…there’s no way you can study well on so little sleep. You need rest too.”
She quirks an eyebrow at you. “I…am touched by your concern, but really, there’s no need to worry about me.” Despite the fluent, casual confidence in her words, fatigue slows the polished smile that Nadia coaxes to her lips.
It’s almost painful to watch, and you consider telling her as much before carefully considering your words and trying again, hesitantly: “It seems like an investigation is starting—they’re sure to call us all in for further questioning. Vesuvia depends on continued university support to stay a residential community, so you’ll definitely have a lot on your plate in the next few days—not to say you can’t handle it all, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more sleep before it starts?”
Nadia’s gaze doesn’t falter at all as your speak, and its merciless laser-focus has you starting to ramble before you catch yourself and swallow, pressing your fingers together to stop yourself from fiddling with the air.
“You propose,” she says finally, voice slicked with either thoughtfulness or sheer weariness, “some very valid points. I suppose a bit of reprioritization is in order.” Nadia nods at you, smile warming a tad. “Thank you. I…appreciate your care.”
You smile back, relief washing down your spine like a cool compress.
Across from you, Lucio is staring at you with a mixture of indignance and disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth, and you smell the complaint before it has a chance to fully form; Asra senses it too, and leans forward, hackles rising—
Nadia claps sharply, heading off the conflict without sparing a glance at either Asra or Lucio; her eyes are fixed on you when she says, “In light of recent events, communal breakfast will start an hour later. Lucio, please shower thoroughly before our meeting with the head of housing. I’ll see you all later today.”
And with that, she sweeps out of the room, leaving you all summarily dismissed.
A few hours after breakfast (Portia can cook like nobody’s business, a discovery made much to the glee of your tastebuds), you get The Email.
It’s from the head of the judicial committee for student offenses, but what stops you from sliding it straight into the spam-adjacent folder of half the student life emails you receive is the bright red “high priority” label smacked on by the subject line—and the fact that it’s copied to the president of the university.
It clicks open innocently enough, but as you scan through the message, your eyes widen until you can feel the skin at your temples stretching beyond comfort.
Dear Student,
The Council of Student Judicial Review has received information indicating your involvement in the tragic events that transpired at Vesuvia House last night. You are hereby summoned to a testimonial hearing. Please arrive in advance at the address below, with your university ID.
Due to the nature of the incident and ongoing investigations, your discretion is required; failure to comply will result in severe consequences issued by the university and a note of the offense on your official student record.
The address is printed below the body of the message, along with a date and time. Absently, you note that your hearing—the word sounds absurd in your head—is set for later that afternoon, in just a few hours, but you’re far more preoccupied with the insinuations of the email to pay it much mind.
Your involvement? The university is concerned with your involvement in the murder that you called to report? Could you seriously be a suspect?
The idea is crazy, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just gotten yourself into a much bigger mess than you’d thought.
Your hands shake slightly when you hand your ID to the receptionist outside Provost Valerius’s office; she glances at you a little oddly but doesn’t comment. A few taps later and she hands you your ID back with a casual, “Go on in, they’re ready for you.”
You muster a weak smile and tuck your ID away as you walk in; the plastic suddenly feels flimsy between your clammy fingers and you realize your heart is racing.
Frosted glass doors part before you and close behind you in near-total silence; waiting for you in the provost’s office are five pairs of eyes, all trained on you with unnerving eagerness.
“Glad you could join us,” Provost Valerius says, lip curling slightly—he looks displeased, but you can’t imagine why. You’d arrived a full twenty minutes early and even changed into an outfit Nadia had kindly glanced over and deemed “appropriately business casual” for the interview you’d said you had as an alibi.
“You’re right on time,” the provost continues drily, as if your punctuality is a grave offense against him. He gestures with one hand to the four figures sitting in a semi-circle around his desk, then at the empty chair directly in front of them. “Have a seat. I believe you’re acquainted with my colleagues?”
You sit, eyes flicking over the faces gathered in front of you. When your silence lasts long enough to be an answer in its own right, Valerius heaves an irritated sigh.
“Vlastomil, Provost of the Judicial Review Committee. I believe he sent you today’s summons.” The JR Provost looks just about as pleased to be there as you; his pallid face is uncomfortably waxy under the fluorescent light of Valerius’s office, an illusion only made worse by the rhythmic way he wrings his hands and stares at you.
Next to Vlastomil is what appears to be a humanoid manifestation of rage in a red pantsuit. Their fingertips drum rapidly on the arm of their chair as they fix a furrowed amber gaze on you. “You better not have forgotten who I am!” they bark, fingers curling into a semi-menacing fist.
Valerius only sighs and rolls his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Nadia.
“Vice Dean Vulgora,” he says flatly, and moves on. You suppose it’s a testament that he doesn’t think further explanation necessary.
On Valerius’s other side, with what appears to be a full-size burrito hidden in her tiny sleeve, is a woman with mousy brown hair and a watery gaze; her mouth looks just as petite as the rest of her, but as you watch, she somehow fits a solid third of the burrito into her mouth and swallows in the time it takes Valerius to extend a hand in her direction.
“Provost Volta, Head of Housing and Dining,” he says with no little trace of disgust as he watches a dab of sour cream plop onto the shiny wood of his desk. He needn’t worry, though—as soon as it hits the surface, Volta lets out a squeak and wipes it clean with a finger before popping it into her mouth.
You nod and shift your gaze to the final figure, only to fervently wish you hadn’t.
They’re watching you with a cold, curious intensity that feels all too predatory. Their bottom lashes stand out in the light, strikingly similar to stitches—neat, straight, and taut—when they tilt their head slightly at you, too-wide smile still fixed on their mouth. Their eyes, however, send a chill down your spine.
“Quaestor Valdemar,” Valerius says, and even he sounds a bit unsettled, “Head of Student Health.”
You tear your eyes away, unable to shake the feeling of Valdemar’s eyes examining your every move, and try your best to sit up straight.
“And I, as you know, am Vice President of Student and Campus Life,” Valerius finishes, as though you could have somehow missed the gold plaque on his desk announcing his title, not to mention the fact that you’d trekked all the way to his office.
“I see no reason to waste more time,” he continues primly. “Would you like to confess now, or must we go through all the formalities?”
Your ears ring. Surely you’d misheard him? You gape, incredulous eyes darting from one administrator to another in vain.
Valerius’s eyes flicker upwards, as though he’s barely restraining an eyeroll. “I see. Very well. Provost Vlastomil, if you would?”
Vlastomil starts, fumbling with the manila folder in his lap. “Ah, yes, err, the case, your guilt, obviously it was you—”
“The charges, if you would, Provost.”
Vlastomil clears his throat and begins reading, apparently having found the correct page. “You, student 42069—”
Your eyes widen as he rattles off your student ID number—are you not even to be referred to by name anymore?!
“—stand accused (shouldn’t this say guilty? I do think you’re guilty.) of murder in the first degree, fraudulent reporting, and evasion of justice.”
Your mouth works on its hinge as you gawk, speechless. Valerius begins preparations for another eyeroll and you finally find your voice: it comes out as an indignant squawk.
“I didn’t do anything! How could I be guilty?!”
Vulgora slams a fist on the chair arm, nearly splintering the wood. “Of course you’re guilty! You called the police, didn’t you? That’s doing something!”
“What?! That doesn’t even make any sense!” you splutter. “Why would I have reported the murder if I did it?!”
“That’s exactly something a murderer would say!”
Vulgora’s shouts take on a new level and you fight the urge to flinch from their flailing fists—somehow, you get the distinct impression it wouldn’t take much to redirect their punches from the air to you.
Volta mumbles something that looks rather like “oh please stop,” but her tremulous voice is lost entirely in the fray.
It takes a full five minutes for the combined (if relatively unenthused) efforts of the administrative panel to calm Vulgora down and get them to stop threatening to beat you into a pulp if you don’t confess.
Suffice to say you’re shaken.
“I didn’t do it,” you say, scraping up your last reserves of strength to look each of the provosts in the eye as you declare your innocence. “I don’t even know who the victim was, and I—I would never murder someone!”
Valerius purses his lips and slants a sidelong glance at his colleagues. Only Valdemar meets it, looking just a little too amused by the proceedings. His gaze slides back to yours.
“Do you have any evidence?”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me if I have evidence that I didn’t commit the murder that I reported to the police.”
He smiles tightly. The expression doesn’t quite fit his face, as though he’d learnt it by copying a wax model with vastly different proportions. “Correct. It is very easy to say that you were asleep, but given the…history of your fellow residents, we must be diligent in our search for justice.”
Red floods your vision at Valerius’s smarmy, bared-teeth grin.
“Do you,” you grit out, trying to keep calm, “have any evidence?”
Valerius falters. Beside him, Volta squeaks into the empty foil wrapper of her burrito and edges away from Valdemar.
Vulgora’s eyes burn into you and you can sense Vlastomil itching to say something, but to your surprise, they wait until Valerius takes a careful breath and replies,
“We have collected enough information from the forensic report to draw a conclusion.”
Your eyes narrow and you push your shoulders back, trying to remember everything from that intro psych class you took for distribution requirements back in freshman year.
“You don’t have any real evidence. Someone is trying to frame me,” you announce with a confidence you don’t entirely feel. “What exactly makes me such a convincing perp? What weapon was used? Did the real murderer sneak my prints off a cup with some tape? A strand of my hair, maybe?
“Or is this conclusion you’ve drawn just that I’m an easy scapegoat to tie this all up and keep it hush-hush?”
Your words ring out in the dead silence of Valerius’s office. Outraged glares pummel you, but you keep your chin up, staring Valerius down.
A soft, sibilant voice breaks the stillness.
“Oh, very clever!”
Your eyes snap to Valdemar; somehow, the glee in their eyes is anything but comforting.
“Such an interesting brain you’ve got,” they say, eyes glittering. You clench your fingers under your thighs to stave off the feverish rush of adrenaline their wide, toothy smile shoots through you. “I’d love to see how all your neurons are firing right now.”
Cold sweat prickles at the nape of your neck and you make a note to make the trek and donate your blood that year at the hospital not affiliated with the university student health centre.
With some difficulty, you tear your eyes away from Valdemar, trying not to feel like cornered prey, and tell Valerius, “Show me the report, then. Whatever it says on there, I can prove I didn’t do it.”
“Now, that would be a massive breach of WIPPA an—”
You interrupt Vlastomil with the trump card you’d figured out was up your sleeve during Vulgora’s rant.
“Give me a chance to clear my name, or I go public. Arcana University is proud to uphold such an untarnished reputation, I believe. It would certainly be a pity if news got out that not only was a student brutally murdered (on campus, no less!), but that there was such an elaborate scheme to cover it up, wouldn’t it?”
Vulgora fairly screeches, face turning nearly as red as their pantsuit, but Valerius appears to be mulling your words over despite the snarl frozen on his face.
Finally, after a mottled range of colors and expressions flicker over his features, he says, biting off each word like a nettle, “Very well. We will meet one week from now—at your trial. Evidence against you will be presented and you,” he pauses in disgust, “will have a chance to present your own findings.”
His lip curls in ill-disguised contempt as he gestures to you, wrist limp. “You are free to go, for now. I would advise you, however, not to find yourself overly interested in anything…problematic.”
It takes all your self-control not to shove your chair into his desk when you rise, but somehow you manage. You even make it all the way out of the building before tearing at your hair and screaming at the sky.
Several people on the sidewalk pause to eye you and give you a wide berth when they cross, but all things considered, you aren’t that much of a spectacle for a college campus. Still seething, you set off stomping for Vesuvia.
If your innocence rests in your own hands with a countdown for the trial, you’ll need a plan.
You halt and swing around abruptly, charting course for the nearest café and library instead. If you’re going to uncover a full-blown conspiracy, you’ll do it unapologetically caffeinated and enraged.