Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lives are not straight lines, linearly stretching onward into infinite space. They are, if lines at all, curled and tangled, like long headphone cords in the pocket of the universe. They loop around each other, knotting into a mess of shared experience. No one lives in a vacuum, after all. No one’s life goes unbent, untouched.

And if life is a line, then each bend must be a choice, a turning point. If the multiverse theory is to be believed, then each of these twists spawns a new universe, a universe in which a person may choose frosted flakes over cheerios for breakfast. Or, more impactful, a politician may take a bribe (bend), rise rapidly through the ranks (twist), and eventually find herself in an elevated office, but in the pocket of an organization that she would, in another universe, be free from (knot.)

In one universe, a little boy becomes a man, becomes a night guard. (Small loop.)

In this same universe, some years (millennia) earlier, a little boy becomes a man, becomes a king. (Larger loop.)

Pride. Jealousy. Betrayal.

Loop, loop, loop—

Murder.

Knot.

So really, breakfast food is inconsequential in the scheme of the universe—in any universe—and the events therein.

Except when it isn't.

Do not lay your head on the toilet.

Lola knows she’s reached a low point in her life when she has to make a mental note not to use a public commode as a pillow. She’d known those eggs had looked questionable. The continental breakfast spread really had been too good to be true.

She’d been fine that morning; the first stirrings of stomach distress began shortly after noon, culminating in a rush to the nearest bathroom when the group’s itinerary leads them to the Museum of Natural History.

“Lola?” There’s a knock at the stall door. “Mr. Decker sent me to make sure you’re still alive.”

“More or less.” Her voice sounds as retched as she feels.

“Do you want someone to take you back to the hotel?”

Lola likes Jessica, she really does, but at this moment she would only feel relief if the other girl was to be, say, abducted by aliens. Or dropped into a deep hole. Or anywhere but outside of Baño de Lola, population: one. (Uno. Whatever.)

“M’good.”

Translation: I probably don’t have to be hospitalized; please leave me alone to wallow in my misery.

“That’s not very convincing.”

Lola would say something else, but her ground-glass voice speaks louder than words. In short, she’s fresh out of Oscar-worthy performances.

“Look, just text someone if you need anything. If you feel up to it, take a taxi back to your room. I’m sure they’ll reimburse you.” Her footsteps retreat and Lola hears the door to the bathroom swing closed.

“Frickin peppy, do-gooding—” The rest of Lola’s grumble is choked by a wave of stomach acid.

Fair enough, universe, fair enough.

During the next two hours Lola endures small children on school trips knocking on her stall door (“It’s occupied, go away.”), well-meaning old ladies trying to fetch someone for her (“Hnng, no thanks.”), and she’s pretty sure someone tries to save her immortal soul by shoving a pamphlet under the door.

GET OUT OF HELL FREE CARD

THE GIFT OF GOD IS ETERNAL LIFE THROUGH JESUS CHRIST OUR—

“Are you kidding me?” she asks the world at large. The monopoly man stares blankly back at her. “Timing is everything, Jesu—er.” She flips the tract over guiltily. Rich, judgmental bastard.

Sometime after receiving the tract and memorizing every in-stall advertisement, Jessica shows up again.

“Oh my god, you’re still in there?”

Lola puts her hand over the face-down monopoly man. Shh, it’s okay, buddy.

“The floor has accepted me as one of its own. I am floor person. We are floor legion.”

“…I honestly don’t know you well enough to judge whether you’re delirious or just weird.” They’d only just met on this sight-seeing slash college-visiting trip. Jessica wants to major in theater. It explains the voice.

“Yes.”

Jessica sighs impatiently.

“Well, we’re almost finished up here, so why don’t I find you a barf bag for insurance, and you can make your way to the front?”

“Yeah, uh, okay.” Lola stands, painfully stretching her stiff knees. Purple and blue spots dance in front of her eyes, and she braces herself against the partition. The sudden shift in her equilibrium brings on dry heaves—there isn’t anything left in her stomach to bring up—and she silently swears off poultry by-products for the foreseeable future.

The look on Jessica’s face when Lola emerges is priceless. She glances in the mirror and sweet plastic Jesus—and dammit, she can’t say the Lord’s name without thinking of Park Place—she does look like a reheated corpse.

“Do you need a doctor?” Someone needs to tell Jessica that while projecting is important on stage, one should lower one's voice around invalids.

“N—” Her voice catches and she clears her throat. “No, I’m good. Just gonna…” She waves her hand vaguely, indicating either “I’m going to wash up at this sink” or “my wrists can’t hold the weight of my hands anymore, look at them flop.”

The sinks are those irritating ‘press and try to wash your hands in the next three seconds’ models. She holds the faucet down with one hand and plunges her face under the stream, nose pressed against the porcelain.

I will not think of all the germs in this sink. That are now on my face. That will target my weakened immune system and give me some sort of super virus—

She washes her face twice.

Lola McGivers, despite what her teachers and local law enforcement may think, doesn’t generally go looking for trouble. The problem is she’s very charming and trouble just wants to be around her. It wants to bask in her aura.

She can’t blame it.

Her most recent transgression—which was totally not her fault, really—resulted in a trip to the emergency room and a red arm cast that matches her favorite lipstick. On the downside, the cast is on her right arm, making even the simplest tasks difficult. On the upside, she is one step closer to ambidexterity, so who’s the real winner here?  

So when she tells Jessica that she’s going to flag down a cab, tour group be damned, she means it. She doesn’t want to sit on a bus in a crush of other people at the moment. (If the circumstances were different, Lola wouldn’t be averse to some free time in the city. Just because she doesn’t actively seek trouble doesn’t mean she’s blocked it from her friends list, so to speak.)

Jessica sees her to the stairs leading to the main entrance.

“I’ll tell Mr. Decker that you’re going back. Nicole will check on you before dinner.” Nicole is Lola’s roommate; she’s far more interested in getting her boyfriend alone than playing nursemaid. Lola assumes Nicole won’t be going back to their hotel room at all.

Jessica heads back into the heart of the museum and Lola wobbles down the stairs, lightheaded and parched. She’s halfway across the atrium—hey, Teddy, lookin’ majestic—when she sees the water fountain. It’s down a hallway leading toward some bathrooms, and to her tired eyes it’s lit up like the Holy Grail.

My salvation has come.

The water is tepid and has the metallic tang of the city pipes, but she gulps it like it’s agua de vida and she’s Ponce de Leon. Her stomach reminds her with an angry jolt that this water is not, in fact, a cure-all. She runs for the nearest doors.

This is not a bathroom, her brain says.

Gonna barf anyway, her stomach answers.

Her legs save the day.

It’s only after she geysers water and bile into the toilet and her eyes refocus that she registers her surroundings. This is definitely an employee bathroom. It’s a tiny, single-stalled room, and through the open door Lola can see… lockers? She toes the door shut. The custodians can drag her cold corpse out later, for all she cares.

Her eyelids flutter and she sags.

Fucking eggs.

Chapter Text

Lola doesn’t drift back into awareness so much as drop abruptly out of unconsciousness. Her mouth is dry, cottony, and tastes like her mom’s attempts at Indian food: a little like curry and a lot like death. There’s a niggling sensation in the back of her mind like she’s slept through first period again, as if when she turns over the clock will say ‘quarter after you-fucked-up o’clock.’

Her first hint that this is not her bedroom is the god awful crick in her neck.

The second is the smell.

She peels her face off of the toilet seat.

Oh, right, she thinks. And then:

“SWEET LORD.”

There is no amount of soap that can wash away the knowledge that she passed out on a toilet that is not even hers. (Although, she has to admit, whoever cleans this bathroom keeps a tight ship. It smells more like bleach instead of anything… regrettable. Two thumbs up, would vomit here again.)

Her right arm bumps the wall as she lurches for the light switch and yep, still broken. She grits her teeth against the pain as the fluorescent bulb buzzes to life and frantically pumps soap into her good hand. Just because she can’t wash it away doesn’t mean she won’t try.

She scrubs violently for a moment, rinses and repeats. And then it hits her:

I’m still in the museum. I’m still in the museum and it’s… what time is it?  

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, face dripping.

It’s dead. Of course it is.

It can’t be past six. They’d been in the museum since, what, 1:30? Two at the latest. She’d spent a couple hours in the upstairs lavatory, ended up down here, then passed out for a few minutes…

Her group should still be upstairs. She can hail a cab, as planned, no need for alarm.

She peeks out of the door. An analog clock stares balefully at her from the opposite wall.

7:15, it says. Where’s your God now?

The locker room is dark and quiet, the clock ticking in laughter above. Lola flips it off as she passes, ignoring thoughts about shooting messengers. The door to the hallway is ajar, and through it Lola can see that the museum’s lights are turned down. She hadn’t noticed the white noise of human interaction previously, but without the hum of it in the background the museum seems ominously hollow.

I can just slip through the front doors, she thinks. This place is dead.

But at that moment the living decide to make their presence known.

“…locked up tight.” A male voice approaches from just around the corner.

“He tried to pull one over on me last night. I may be old, but I’m not senile.” Another voice picks up the conversation.

“Yet!” Cripes, there are three of them.

You’re not in the wrong. If you just step out now they’ll probably take pity on you and call your teacher.

But on the other hand, they could…

Oh, come on! They sound like Grandpa Joe. What’s the worst they can do?

But Lola’s read the papers. She knows the statistics. Three men, one young woman? Who’s to say if they’re more likely to help her into a cab or lock her in a dark room somewhere?

No one would know where to start looking.

In another universe, perhaps, Lola would be more trusting. But in this universe, Lola is dizzy and tired and not in the mood for sketchy old men tonight, thanks very much.

She takes off for the gift shop sign and doesn’t look back.

Grandpa Joe fought in ‘Nam for five years, but by his telling it was at least twice that. Lola understands—war is awful and gruesome—but Grandpa Joe has been reliving it since being honorably discharged for medical reasons in ’72 and everyone is really tired of it.

Grandma copes by turning her program louder or by plying him with food.

“—and then I said to him, ‘Bill, we’re gonna have to sprint it,’ and he says—”

“Here, tell me if this sauce is too sweet.” And then she shoves a wooden spoon in his mouth and story time is effectively over.

No one else has found an off switch.

“Grandpa, I have to—”

“—we’re this close to the enemy line, we can smell ‘em—”

“Uh, the stove is on fire?”

“Yeah, then I say, ‘FIRE!’ and the whole lot of ‘em unload into the shanty.”

She’d be more alarmed, but she thinks ninety percent of his tales are embellishment. In any other family, this would be called “lying,” but the McGivers are more flexible in their quest for truth.

Grandpa Joe, in addition to his endless war stories, has vivid hallucinations. No one is quite sure if it’s some kind of mental illness or if it’s another result of his active imagination. (And damned if he’ll let anyone with a degree near enough to diagnose him.)

Lola is pretty sure Grandpa’s sickness is hereditary, because that statue should not be moving.

The sign says this room is ‘Northwest Coast Indians.’ The totems on either side of the doorway say otherwise.

“I mean, in this day and age you’d think the moniker ‘Indian’ would have faded into disuse,” one face says sagely. The totem heads are some cross between human and animal.

“Unless you’re talking about people from India,” another chimes in.

“Don’t speak if you’re going to point out the obvious, Wahatehwe.”

“Don’t insult me in front of the lady, Seme!” To her, the second face says, “Sorry about that, he doesn’t know how to speak to women.” The face grins, wooden teeth bared in what is probably meant to be camaraderie, but comes off as frightening and stiff because a) it’s made of wood, and b) it should be inanimate.

“…oh God.”

“I know, he’s very impolite. Can I interest you in—hey! Don’t run in the exhibit, there are priceless artifacts in…! She’s not listening. Why do they never listen, Seme?”

If Seme answers, Lola is indeed not listening. She is busy fighting a rising panic attack near a case of chattering masks. She can vaguely make out their voices through the glass, but their words—if they’re in English—are muffled.

You are very sick and dehydrated. You are probably not crazy. Admittedly, you are talking to yourself. There are signs along this hallucination highway and you are ignoring them.

Lola can feel her stomach churning for reasons that have very little to do with food poisoning.

Just walk through this room. There has to be an exit nearby.

She nearly puts a Lola-shaped hole through the wall when she sees the woman.

 If I ignore the lady behind the glass, is she really there? She can be Schrödinger’s lady.

The woman is obviously Native American; her enclosure is between the ‘Northwest Coast Indians’ room and the ‘Plains Indians.’ There is something startlingly familiar about the woman—who she is definitely not looking at—and Lola wonders if she’s a museum employee. A museum employee in costume? After hours?

On second thought, m’not gonna question the fashion choices of the authority figures who can get me in heaps of trouble. If I look pathetic and cry will she rethink calling the police?

But the woman is peering confusedly through the glass, not making any move towards Lola for either good or ill. The sign above the exhibit says ‘Lewis and Clark Expedition.’

Oh. Well that means—

It means that Lola is sprinting toward the opposite doorway because there is something seriously wrong going on here.

A banner announcing the newly renovated Egyptian exhibit flutters faintly as she dashes under it.

The designers of the Spitzer Hall of Human Origins are probably very nice people. They created a visually pleasing educational exhibit and never once said to themselves, “Hey, wouldn’t it be swell if these dioramas came to life and tried to kill people?”

At least, Lola assumes this wasn’t their intention.

“No. Nuh-uh. I am not getting murdered by skeletons today.”

The place is crawling with dead—undead?—things and some bipedal beings that don’t look quite homo sapien. There are cavemen to her left, loudly trying to create fire and thankfully ignoring everything else. Directly in front of her are the recruitment officers for the skeleton war (she assumes.)

“Look, I know I look like a prime candidate, but I have the coordination of a drunken mongoose and I doubt that would improve after death.”

Empty eye sockets stare at her blankly.

“Also, I find war morally objectionable.”

Yes, I’m sure they’ll take your personal opinions into consideration, Lola.

Her spine is pressed flush against a glass case—a case containing clacking Neolithic skulls, which isn’t eerie at all—and the skeletons are hemming her in at all sides.

“In fact, there are three dudes somewhere over that-a-way—” She flaps a hand toward the doorway she’d just come through, “—who are much closer to death than lil’ old—er, young—me.”

Admittedly a bit harsh, but she’s having a rough night. She’ll feel guilty after the more immediate ‘impending death by animate bones’ issue. 

“I should also warn you that I’ve been training for the zombie apocalypse and I will play your ribs like a xylophone before I kick your collective asses. Pelvic bones. Sitty-bits.”

Which is kind of overstating things, because the only “training” she’s done involves a small collection of fiction novels and a night of zombie themed hide-and-seek with friends.

Which she’d lost, come to think of it.

A couple of the skeletons press carpals and metacarpals over their ribs. She imagines if they had the capability of expression, they’d look alarmed.

They could just be wondering if she’ll stick to their ribs if they eat her.

Their little death pow-wow is interrupted by a loud whistling noise, like a large rock is flying over their heads.

Actually, Lola can attest to the fact that that is exactly what it sounds like, because as she watches in dawning horror a giant meteor-thing zooms over them, spiraling over the room.

I have died and ended up in some surrealist artist’s idea of hell.

If there are melting clocks in this hellscape, she knows who to blame.

Another rock joins the first and Lola looks at the other side of the exhibit, reading the ‘Ross Hall of Meteorites’ sign with amusement bordering on hysteria.

The pioneers used to ride those babies for miles.

She wants to cry. Or vomit. Either is likely at this point.

“Well, this interview has been fun. Thanks for your consideration.” She shoves past a few the skeletons—and why didn’t she try that before, it’s not like they have any muscle definition—before one of them latches on to her unbroken wrist.

What she said about no muscle? Yeah, doesn’t seem to matter.

“I swear to God, Buddah, or whatever deity your souls should be in the presence of—” Equal opportunity blasphemy! “—I am not in the mood for this.” She thrusts her hand toward the grabby skeleton and grips it by a rib. She’d guess that it wasn’t expecting her to reach towards it, but it’s difficult to judge, what with the no skin and all. It doesn’t let go.

But that’s not a problem because whatever freaky voodoo magic is animating it and giving it strength? Well, it hasn’t exactly given it weight.

“C’mon, bonehead.” She bodily lifts the flailing bones and books it toward the door. Not the meteor room door because puh-lease, she’s not going to play Indiana Jones to this museum’s boulder. She likes not being a grease spot on the floor.

This entrance leads to an open atrium and—aha!—an exit. A giant canoe dominates the room, suspended from the ceiling with chains. The thing is huge. Other notable details include three night guards and Teddy Roosevelt on a horse.

Bonehead taps her shoulder.

“Ouch, watch the meta carpals!” Lola hisses. “Do you sharpen those things?”

Bonehead makes an aborted gesture toward his abandoned comrades. They haven’t moved from their huddle, and they seem to be communicating in aggravated hand waves and teeth clacks.

Creepy.

“If I let you go are you gonna mob me?”

Bonehead shakes his… skull.

“If you’re lying, I will personally bury every piece of you in a different city.” Big talk from a small girl, but she hopes he’ll take her threat seriously. She sets him down.

He straightens like a puppet on an invisible string and brushes himself off. His bones click against each other with each movement. They stare at each other, green eyes to empty sockets, and then he turns and walks away.

Of course, he walks toward the night guards because Lola was apparently a serial killer (or a theater whisperer) in her last life and is now paying the price.

“Judas!”  She hopes he hears her.

The little hallway she’s in has three options: the skeleton room, the atrium, or a stairwell. During operating hours a fourth option would be available in the form of a café, but the room is dark and a gate is pulled over the entrance. Bonehead is motioning toward her spot in the shadows. Thankfully he can’t talk, and the night guards look bemused and a bit impatient at his gestures.

First rule of a horror movie: never go up or down stairs. Ground floor is love, ground floor is life. She doesn’t want to face the alternative, though, and Teddy Roosevelt seems much keener on Bonehead’s wordless plea. Don’t investigate, don’t investigate, don’t investiga—

Hooves echo across the tile as the twenty-sixth president approaches.

Damn it.

Cold sweat breaks out along her neck and palms. The whole situation doesn’t look good, no matter how she spins it. She could plead confusion, but there is obviously some conspiracy of monumental magical proportions going on here, and one glance at the security cameras will tell them exactly how much she’s seen.

She thuds her head against the wall (quietly.)

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

And then Lola breaks the cardinal rule of horror movies.

I hope there’s an abandoned hospital in here somewhere so I can just die messily and get it over with.

Chapter Text

The second floor doesn’t have an abandoned hospital. It does, however, have penguins.

“Hey, little fella. You don’t breathe fire or anything, right? My heart can’t take any more surprises tonight.”

The penguin doesn’t answer, which is honestly for the best.

She’s on the second floor landing, deliberating between the ‘Hall of Asian Peoples’ and ‘Birds of the World.’ It’s not much of a decision.

“You’re super cute, dude, but I’ve seen that Hitchcock movie. With the way my night is going, I’m pretty sure your flying kin in there will kill me.” She skirts around the penguin. There’s no sign of glowing eyes or smoking nostrils, but she remains skeptical.

The Hall of Asian Peoples is blessedly calm. It’s a winding hall of display cases, and if she doesn’t stare too closely she can pretend that some of the artwork isn’t moving. A reconstructed head of a Peking man grunts at her. She grunts back. She turns a corner.

Oh.

I found the abandoned hospital.

It’s not an actual hospital, of course, but she’s quite sure that she’s going to die messily all the same.

At the other end of the hall—and yet way too close—is a small group of very rugged-looking Asian men. Lola has the misfortune of recognizing the figure at the front of their group from an in-stall flyer during her stay in the museum bathrooms.

“Meet Attila the Hun, Scourge of the West! See an interactive map of Attila’s progress across the Roman Empire…” It’d probably had the floor number of the exhibit on the ad, but Lola had other things on her mind. Like vomiting up her spleen.

She seriously regrets her oversight.

The Huns stare at Lola.

Lola stares at the Huns.

Hun rhymes with run. Coincidence? I think not.

Lola runs.

Huns must be like bears, because the second Lola makes a move, they shout a war cry and follow suit.

If I play dead, will they leave me alone?

She doesn’t risk it.

The bird room isn’t so bad. In fact, there are hardly any birds in the Hall of Birds at all.

Bit of a misnomer, guys.

There are a couple more penguins—still decidedly fire-free—but the room mostly contains murals and information plaques. Yawn.

The Huns gain ground as she leaps a bench.

Un-yawn.

There are two options: run straight or turn right. Lola is exercising all of her poor judgment tonight, so she turns swerves to the right. One of her flats makes a bid for freedom as she skids over the marble floor.

I never loved you anyway, left shoe. I hope you find no happiness in your new life with the Huns.

The new room is an obstacle course of displays. Lola immediately throws herself into the connecting room to her left. She twists around a corner, flattening herself against a wall and listens for the pounding footsteps to pass by.

Please, please work. Death by dismemberment would really complicate my college plans.

The Huns thunder past.

Lola sinks to the floor, breathing hard. She’s so done. Her adrenaline is spent, and her last fucks-to-give are wafting down the corridor after the angry warriors.

Freaking Huns, man.

It’s a great failing, Lola thinks, that her classes have mostly focused on Western histories. Although she’s scared shitless as it is, and that’s knowing just the bare facts about Attila and his men.

They rape. They pillage. They drink women’s blood.

She’s starting to think she should’ve bit the bullet and rushed the old guys. At least she’d have had a fighting chance against geriatrics. She can take out kneecaps.

There’s a muffled sound coming from somewhere nearby, and Lola tilts her head from where she’s buried it in her arms. It sounds like a voice, like someone’s yelling behind a closed door.

Honestly, if anyone should be yelling, it’s her.

She glances at the room for the first time. Her first impression is lots of bling.

Her second impression is fuck my life.

There are two very large spears leveled at her puddled body, and the voice she’s hearing is a muffled scream coming from a sarcophagus. Because this is her life now.

It couldn’t be a friendly historical figure or something?

Not that she doubts that the person—thing? she’s seen pictures of mummies and yikes—making all that racket is a historical figure.

The only historical figure I want to see right now is Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter. Is he here? Does he do mercenary work?

The stone guards edge closer.

“Guys, this isn’t even original anymore,” she sighs. “And if a young Brendan Fraser isn’t involved, I want nothing to do with this.” The spears jab near her head warningly.

 I’d make a comment about compensating for something, but they’re giant stone Anubis’—what would they be compensating for?

Running footsteps interrupt her contemplation of the Anubis’ loincloths.

Kill me now.

Attila rounds the corner.

I lied, don’t kill me now.

He shouts something behind him, and she hears the dreaded sound of the rest of Attila’s men charging down the hall.

“Ladies, you just became my number two priority,” she informs the guard dogs. She tucks and rolls under their weapons, her lame arm making it difficult to get good momentum.

I know how the clunky grocery cart wheel feels now.

She ends up behind the two statues, crouching to assess her situation.

Only way out is blocked by a supernatural stalemate. Option two?

She looks around. Some of the weapons on display are a possibility, but she fears a sharp object in her hands would be more of a hindrance than a help in a fight. She needs someone who can actually use said weapons. Or a distraction.

She looks back at the rattling sarcophagus.

Oh yes, you know what this situation needs? More danger. Do you have any lighter fluid and matches? Let’s just Viking funeral pyre this bitch.

She bites the inside of her cheek.

Mom is right, I am a drama queen.

She steps closer to the tomb.

“I am going to regret this so hard.”

Chapter Text

It’s an accepted fact in her family that Lola is… changeable. The word “flaky” comes to mind, but she likes to think of herself as independent and adaptable.

Commitment is hard, okay?

Her parents, lovely people that they are, support each of her phases for as long as she deems them interesting. They wear her team colors and attend every game for the eight months that she plays soccer. They pay for piano lessons a year later. They attend plays, assist in the cleaning of cooking disasters, and help her complete half of the DIY projects on Pinterest.

Her decision to attend art school, however, doesn’t go over as smoothly.

“You want to do what?”

“Art school. You know, drawing, painting, marijuana. Maybe a little French beret.”

Her mother looks at Lola like all of her dreams for her daughter are shattering before her eyes.

“…To be clear, I was joking about the marijuana.”

“What happened to law school?”

“That was when I was, like, eight, Mom! Eight and impressionable.” Eight and impressionable and obsessed with Daredevil comics. She figured that if Matt Murdock could be a kickass lawyer and fight crime, she could, too. And then she looked up requirements for law school.

It was yet another short-lived phase.

“Art school is a big commitment, honey. It’s a lot harder to switch to, say, communications or premed—”

“Or underwater basket weaving,” her dad interrupts.

“—when you go to such a major-specific school.”

“I don’t want to go into communications or—Lord have mercy—premed. I want to do art things.”

Art things, her dad mouths.

“But will you want to do ‘art things’ for four years?”

The thing is, Lola doesn’t know. But, as per usual, she’s ready to jump in headfirst to find out.

In the end, though, her mom comes around (“But we are telling your grandparents that your major is undecided for the next four years. You’re too young to be disinherited.”), and her dad is pretty chill about it.

“You would’ve made a shitty lawyer, anyway. You cry when arguments get heated.”

“…Thanks, Dad.”

And now here she is, living the life, visiting art schools, and she’s about to be murdered by museum exhibits.

“I should have sucked it up and gone to freaking law school,” Lola mutters, skittering over to the thumping sarcophagus. The whole thing is shaking as its inhabitant loudly protests his confinement. She wonders how those little peg-things are managing to hold up under all of the angry banging. She flinches a little, fingers hovering over the only thing keeping the lid between her and a very ugly (and very cross) corpse.

Is this really the lesser of two—three? possibly more?—evils?

She can’t think with all of the racket.

“Hey,” she gives the lid a sharp rap. “Hey, could you hush for a minute?” The wailing continues for a moment—it sounds a little like words, but mostly like aaaarrrrhhhhh—before abruptly cutting off. She figures it took some time for the words to sink in. Reaction time probably slows when you’re dead.

Lola glances back at the Huns in the sudden quiet. There was loud, unintelligible arguing when the mummy was still screaming, but everyone in the room took notice when it ceased. Every pair of eyes are now focused on her. She gulps.

“Er, carry on. Nothing to see here.”

The guards look torn (or as torn as stone can look—she’s not an expert on how rock emotes) between the invading Huns and the girl bending over the tomb.

Clearly, I am not the threat here.

“You’re doing a very good job. I feel safer already.”

They don’t look comforted.

Attila recovers before the guards do, though, and shoves past them mutinously.

Sweet plastic Jesus.

Decision made, then.

She grabs at one of the pegs and yanks. It pings as it hits the marble floor. The second and final peg slips between her clammy fingers. She can hear the other Huns struggling past the Anubises (Anubi? Ah, fuck it.) to follow their leader. Attila is mere feet away.

The second peg jolts out of its resting place.

“Okay, dude, rise and shine!” 

Please don’t conform to any of the evil mummy stereotypes.

The lid flies off of the sarcophagus.

Damn. That is not promising.

Rough hands grab at her shoulders, and she’s knocked off balance, good arm pinwheeling back. There are strange, foreign voices yelling in her ear, and she can feel other pairs of hands tugging at her clothes, at her limbs—and ow, shit, that arm is broken, assholes—and she’s engulfed in a tangle of loud, foul-smelling bodies.

Bonus points for historical accuracy, she thinks hysterically.

“Unhand her.” A loud, clear voice cuts through the mayhem.

The mass of Huns parts, though several hands still hold her tightly—and don’t think I didn’t notice you copping a feel, there, bro—and a figure steps closer.

My her—oh.

Lola might have to pick her jaw off of the floor later because damn. Talk about not conforming to mummy stereotypes. Where she’d been expecting a shriveled husk, there is smooth, unblemished tan skin, and the widest, most doe-like eyes she’s ever seen on a guy.

Yes, 911, I’d like to report a crime. His face is illegal.

He coughs and a cloud of dust erupts from his lungs.

Aaand that just ain’t right.

A vicious yank on her bad arm brings her back to the present.

“Ow! The cast means don’t touch,” she hisses, eyes watering.

There’s some foreign babbling from the manhandler and then there is coarse fabric on her left arm as a wrapped hand gently disengages her from the crowd. The dude—guy? pharaoh? she can’t exactly call him a mummy, now—has a brief conversation with Attila, which goes over her head both literally and figuratively. The two of them look at Lola, then back to each other, ending with a diplomatic nod from her rescuer and a terse word from the leader of the Huns to his followers. His men look disappointed. Lola takes this as a good sign.

“They have promised not to harm you, though I would not test their goodwill by traveling through their territory again tonight.” The not-mummy keeps his eyes on the warriors’ retreating backs. One of them looks back, and he narrows his eyes slightly, uttering a sharp phrase. Lola doesn’t know any Coptic, but she can venture a few guesses as to the meaning when one Anubis nearly takes the man’s head off.

The Huns finish filing out dejectedly under the guards’ watchful eyes. The pharaoh keeps his hand on her arm, and Lola tries very hard not to think about the bandages wrapping him from neck to toe. On one hand, yikes, undead guy with untold power over scary men.

But on the other hand, those wrappings are slipping and I spy with my little eye tanned hipbones and—no, no, don’t shift, I’m already sinning, oh gods.

The mummy being hot really complicates things, and Lola is too tired for this tomfoolery.

The pharaoh turns to her for the first time, brows drawn together in concern.

“Are you injured?”

“Preexisting conditions aside, no.” She raises her right arm in proof, the red cast inhibiting the movement somewhat. “Thank you, by the way. Being torn apart by Huns seems like an unpleasant way to die.” She winces.

Oh yeah, bring up death to the dead guy. Real smooth, Lola. 

“It is I who must thank you. I had begun to lose hope of ever being freed.” A shadow passes over his face, the smile in his eyes tightening into a blankness. He blinks and the look is gone.

Not touching that PTSD with a ten foot pole. Sorry, my guy. After tonight I’m gonna need all the therapy, too.

“Ah, forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and keeper of the sacred tablet.” His eyes dart to the side, and she follows his line of sight to the golden plaque-thing on the wall. It’s a little gaudy, but then she knows nothing about Egyptian décor.

“Snazzy. I’m Lo-lo-lo-lo-Lola.” And that sounded better in her head.

He looks politely confused.

“Er, The Kinks? 1971?”

Still nothing.

“No? Well, there are bound to be some communication gaps. Anyway, I’m Lola McGivers, I’m from Jersey, and I’m having a really bad night.” Captain obvious, thy name is Lola.

“I would imagine so.” He smiles and Lola can feel her face gaining some color.

Play it cool, he’s gotta be, like, thousands of years old. Also, dead. Ish. He and death are on a break. They’re still figuring out the parameters of their relationship.

He’s said something else, and she is embarrassed to discover that she hasn’t caught a word of it due to her musings. A full-blown blush emerges.

“Sorry, what?”

His smile widens.

“I asked if you would like an escort to your destination. I imagine the Huns are not the only dangerous group wandering these halls.” He has a very earnest way of speaking, all bright eyes and brighter smiles.

“You have no idea.” She’s thinking back to the skeletons and meteorites, and the countless other corridors that likely contain such friendly exhibits as the Spanish inquisition and freaking black plague victims. “I mean, yes, please. If you wouldn’t mind? I’m trying to get out of here undetected. I don’t trust the night guards.”

His eyes darken again. She can’t help but notice that he goes from zero to ninety real quick.

Maybe I should book a joint therapy session. Is there anyone who specializes in treating victims of magical museums?

“Nor I,” he says quietly, biting off the words. “I have a great many questions that need answered after tonight.” He takes a breath, and most of the tension melts. Lola wonders how much of it is an act. He tilts his head toward her. “I can hardly repay you for freeing me, but I will assist you in whatever way I can.” He’s looking down at himself now, tugging at a loose end of wrapping. He meets her eyes, smiling wryly. “Though, if we are to venture out, I believe a change of clothes is in order.”

“Hey, I change clothes, like, three times before leaving the house. No judgment.” Plus, she bets those itch like the devil.

He walks over to a display case, peering through the glass at all the relics that had once been his. (Or, are still are his? Is it archeology or grave robbing if the original owner is undead? The court wants to know.)

“I don’t suppose you have a pin with you?” He’s found what he was looking for apparently, but the case is locked. He runs a finger over the keyhole, frowning.

“Will a bobby pin work?” She tugs one from the cluster holding her bangs back. It always works in the movies, but that keyhole looks pretty small.

“It should, yes. Do you mind if I… adjust your pin to my needs?”

“Uh, no?”

He nods and turns to the display of weapons on the wall, scanning the array of pointy objects.

Too bad that diplomacy works equally well with the Huns; those look pretty wicked.

He chooses a sickle-looking thing—the plaque calls it a khopesh—and slices off the round heads of the bobby pin. This done, he slots the now much thinner tip of the pin into the hole and performs some jiggery pokery (that’s the scientific term) and voila! The case slides open.

“I’m not gonna lie, that was impressive.”

He gives her a little half smile.

“It’s a very useful skill to have when you spend your nights among locked doors and very little else to do but explore and learn.” He sounds almost wistful. Lola can’t imagine such an existence.

He has a bundle of swanky-looking material in his hands, all gold-edged and highly impractical. He stares at a headpiece for a long moment before shaking his head.

“It’s a bit ostentatious. You did mention wanting to travel undetected, did you not?”

“Yeah, I keep imagining how they’ve managed to keep all of this—” she motions to the museum at large “—a secret.”

Lola shifts her weight to the foot that still has a shoe. Ahkmenrah glances down, noticing her bare foot for the first time. He quirks a brow.

“Don’t ask. It’s been a long night.”

He presses his lips together in a poorly concealed smirk.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve narrowed it down to either memory wipes or death threats, and personally I’m not a fan of either.”

He looks a bit bemused at the mention of memory wipes, but doesn’t question further.

“Then as soon as I change into more suitable attire, I will help you escape unobserved.”

“Thank you. Really. I’ve been having a helluva time on my own.”

“As I’ve said, I am in your debt.”

He stares at her.

Lola stares back.

What’s with all of the staring contests tonight?  Granted, this is one staring contest I could really get behind.

He does have lovely eyes. And hoo, boy, lashes for days.

And then she realizes he’s waiting to change.

“Oh! Right. I’ll just, uh. There’s a door and I’m going to use it now.” She does a swift one-eighty, and doesn’t quite run, but definitely speed walks out of the entrance.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her bare foot slaps embarrassingly against the marble floor.

“Don’t stray far,” he calls after her, laughter in his voice.

I honestly don’t know if my night has gotten better or worse.