Chapter Text
The muffled slapping rhythm of mismatched Crocs, blue and purple islands on a scuffed linoleum sea, echoed through the poorly-lit back hallway of the admin building. Regretting the conspicuous choice of footwear, Ródius pulled his jean-jacket tight against the cold evening air. There was a group of students at the end of the hallway, lined up in front of some sort of office door and chatting amongst themselves—it looked like where they needed to be, so he slowed his pace and quietly walked up to the back of the line behind a battlejacket-wearing senior. The senior was tapping her - their? - finger against the laptop in their arms, not in a rhythmic tune but in a monotonous one-digit drumbeat against the device’s plastic shell.
Trying to ignore the tapping, Ródius focused on the office at the front of the line. It seemed to take most students only a minute in the office, though maybe one in five must’ve exited through a backdoor because they didn’t leave through the hallway. The senior’s tapping was getting louder and harder as they got closer to the front of the line, though never straying from that monotonous beat. It got to the point where each tap was like a gong ringing against his eardrums, sparks of pain at regular intervals, though none of the other students in line appeared to notice.
“Sorry to bother you, friend,” Ródius spoke up, reaching up to tap the senior’s shoulder but only managing the shoulder blade. “But... could you possibly refrain from tapping quite so loud? It’s disturbing myself and several other students.”
Having deliberately waited for them to finish speaking, the senior slowly turned around and squatted down to just above eye level. It wasn’t a full squat, more an awkward two-thirds attempt which probably wasn’t good for the knees, but it achieved the desired effect of clarifying just how much bigger the senior was than Ródius.
“Listen here pipsqueak,” she drawled, her southern accent contrasting perfectly with the punk attire and now-visible pronoun badge, “what I’m doing ain’t hurting nobody here but me and you, and I don’t find you important enough to care about. Comprendé?”
Dumbfounded by the sudden confrontation, Ródius only nodded.
“Good. Then we shouldn’t have any issues.” Her eyes slid down and found a target near the floor. “Nice shoes, pipsqueak.”
Seemingly content with that, the senior pulled herself up and turned back around.
“Don’t mind Kazza,” an even shorter student, though likely also a senior, murmured over his shoulder. “She’s just trying to seem tough in front of you newbies, but she’s a softie when you get to know her.”
Ródius doubted that, but noticed (with some small self-satisfaction) that Kazza didn’t resume her tapping tempo.
It took until 9 p.m. for Ródius finally get into the office, and it was easy to see why. There was only one teacher in the office, an already-balding man in his mid-30s wearing a sports jacket and sitting in front of a computer that was quite possibly older than he was. There were a few groups of students on benches in the room, looking as tired as the teacher was and he felt. A peeling label on the computer stated “Cpt. Zodge”, further confirming their suspicions that the teacher now looking up at them from behind the desk ran the gym classes.
“Name…”
“It’s Ródius Tovær, Captain. That’s R, O with acute accent, D, I, U, S and T, O, V, Ash, E, R. Terribly sorry, I didn’t pick it.”
Grumbling softly to himself, the captain scrawled the name and time on a piece of paper—presumably to enter it into the system when he had ten minutes to spare—and gestured to a bench with two students already idling on it.
“Take a seat until the last member of your orientation group arrives, then you’ll get your next orders. Try not to talk too loud.”
Ródius was already sizing up the two students as they walked over to the bench. The shorter of the two had green ribbons woven into his bleached hair and was mouthing along to what was clearly songs from Hamilton, while the taller appeared to be reading something long on her phone and struggling to hold in a laugh. He settled down on the bench between them, receiving only a nod from the taller one, and pulled out the student orientation letter to go over the residence details again.
The last member of their orientation group was the third to arrive in the office, immediately noticeable by his inferno-orange dyed hair and leather jacket with bones painted on the arms. The girl to his left—”Bobinette, she/her”, according to a pin on her satchel—pocketed her iPhone and stood to greet the newcomer.
“Bobinette Treewheller, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”
“The name’s Bones. Mr Bones. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, meatbag.”
Ródius stood to meet the challenge, towering over the newcomer. “Ródius Tovær, charmed. Is Mr Bones a nickname, or…?”
“No, my tall friend. I had it legally changed a few months ago.”
At this, the short one swiped his headphones off his head and bounced to his feet. Ródius noted with some small satisfaction that Bones was slightly taller.
“I go by many names, but you may call me by my full: Philadelphius Vastel-Goldenrod. I take it your skeletal master isn’t far behind, Bones?”
Confused eyes peered from behind an orange fringe, before he finally settled on a response.
“That doesn’t make sense, Phil. Your name, and whatever it was that came after.”
Philadelphius visibly deflated at that barb. “But… skeletons usually have masters, don’t they?”
Bobinette butted in at this, stating “That’s probably racist, isn’t it?”
“Before we get carried away on the finer points of skeletal race relations,” Ródius interjected, “we were supposed to get instructions on what to do next. Bones?”
Mr Bones dug through one of his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper that should not have been so crumpled for the minute or so it had been in the pocket. Unfurling and smoothing it out, he pulled Aviators reading glasses out of a pocket below his collar and perched them on his nose.
“Let’s see. Ah right. We need to meet up with our senior guide in one of the music rooms, and they’ll take us from there. There’s a map here, and a note about something called Elfsong?
“Well then. It seems we have captain’s orders to fill. Better get going.”