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The sun crawled listlessly across the sky, as if it was afflicted by the same pre-noon malaise as had descended on the university in general. Pens shuffled in weary waltzes across paper. Caffeine was wearing off in fizzling surges. Lectures dragged through their last interminable three minutes, words drifting from exhausted lips to hit equally-exhausted ears. Still, eventually, finally, after a handful of endlessly stretching seconds, a collective surge of relief shot across the students and faculty alike as the clock struck twelve.
Crowds poured like a surfeit of bacteria through the sprawling hallways. They cloistered in lounges, absconded to nearby fast food joints, or seeped away to the various cafeterias that speckled the respective departments; but each and every one kept away from the couches adjacent to a table that was completely empty, sans for the presence of a paper-wrapped serving of battered cod.
The reason was well-known to all but the least experienced first-years. There was only one man on campus who kept a greasy newspaper cone tucked away ever-handy, and as that same man's doggedness and temper was as notorious as his propensity for the local chippies, prospective lunch thieves were generally deterred without need for notes or warnings. As such, when Tobias Gregson returned to the couch after a brief excursion for coffee to find a conspicuous absence where his meal used to be, a series of glacial furrows sliced across his brow. The scene was scoured clear of any clues other than a crumpled note, emblazoned with a hasty scrawl: 'THE FOOTBALL FIELD'.
That handwriting was familiar, but the sheer gall was more so. Tension seeped between his shoulderblades, then emerged in a deep sigh. "For crying out loud, Gina―" He grumbled, dashing through the hallways at a rocketing pace and barreling past assortments of moderately-perplexed students.
Pulling up to the soggy grass in a rapidly skidding stumble, roughly a dozen footballs arranged in an arrow stood waiting for him. Hunting down their indicated direction would reveal, tied to the back of the goal, a ripped-out notebook page bearing the text 'Follow your schnoz'.
He fixed it with a suspicious squint, then, after a long pause, sniffed it. A sharp, sour scent emitted off one of its corners. Citric acid...? Which would mean―
―thumping steps brought him to the Chemistry Department where he'd find a post-it note reading '20 26' pinned to a periodic table, an easily-cracked cipher that sent him hurtling upstairs―
―the line of an overworked cafeteria where his gaze wandered to a windowsill flowerpot, of which further inspection would reveal a slip of paper ensconced between the leaves of a puffy yellow marigold, a drawing of a pair of glasses above the text 'who am I?'―
―peering through the window to one of the Physics Department's lecture halls to see a doodle scrawled on a whiteboard, a caricature of a bellowing moustachioed man in a detective's uniform chasing after a grinning young woman in prisoner's garb, bringing him to―
―the Law & Judicial Department, spotting a figure leaning against the wall with bored nonchalance who bolted in a second once she laid eyes on him, prompting a slight grin to tug at his lips, triumph surging through his veins as he skidded around the corner―
―and paused, as the sound of a slamming door cut through the air. His thick brows curled into calm contemplation. The only place with a possible avenue for escape was the nearby meeting room for seminars, which held a fair few ground-floor windows, and yet...
With theatrically loud steps he headed towards it, opened the door, took a few more steps on the spot, closed the door, and heard a snorting laugh erupt from the nearby supply closet. Holding his breath and sneaking up with panther-like stealth he grabbed the handle and threw it open, casting stark light onto the startled young woman within. "Got you!"
"Ack―" She jolted backwards, sending her clattering backwards into a shelf of office supplies. Grumbling, she brushed some strands of displaced hair out of her eyes and picked loose staples off her jacket. "―dammit, Gregsy, you didn't get to the last one!"
Other than the occasional pause for a breathless huff, his words unrolled terse and calm. "Took your time setting this wild goose chase up, didn't you? Alright, just give it up. Who are you being a distraction for? If it's the Skulkins, that's fine, but if it's that Venus girl..." He folded his arms, trying to muster up a sufficiently threatening way to finish that sentence while also very carefully blocking out the memory of the last time she'd been involved in something. "...well, it better not be, that's all I'm saying."
She shook her head rapidly, shooting a sharp grin back at him. "Nah, it's nothing like that. Come on, just take a gander!" Sharp and, to his mind, a bit too innocent. Her voice pitched up again, pressing further. "You're gonna ruin the surprise."
He shook his head right back, his expression settling into quiet reproach. "I'm not taking any chances with you lot."
The duo lapsed into several moments of ocular armwrestling, her persistently peering stare meeting its match in a pair of eyes that possessed the mortality-transcending numbness that came from decades of working in education. Eventually the sparring match finished with a soft sigh from her direction. "Alright, fine."
She pushed her way past him, opened the meeting room door―surprisingly safely, Gregson noted―and returned, one hand behind her back and the other brandishing a paper rectangle. She pressed it eagerly into his hands, revealing it to be a card imprinted with a cheery-if-generic arrangement of colored shapes. He flipped it open and within, in handwriting far too neat to be her own, was the text 'Happy birthday, Gregsy! Looking forward to hounding you until I graduate or you retire (whichever comes first).'
When he glanced up, the second gift was dangling in her grip: A needle-felted little doll of a walrus in a tiny coat. Pinned to its hand with one gentle stitch was an even tinier little newspaper cone containing a total of four stitches within, completing the abstracted portrait of some fish and chips.
"It's you!" She pinched its little fist in her fingers and waved it in a caricature of fury. "'Oi, you lot!' See, separated at birth." As she held it up towards him, she beamed with overwhelming pride. "Iris helped me with everythin', but I put out all the clues!"
His eyes lingered on the doll for a few silent seconds, prompting her to push it towards him. He took it into his hands and, with slow and fumbling movements, clipped it onto his keyring.
"Gina..." He looked up into her wide grin, accompanied by a pair of brightly-sparkling eyes. Anticipation about his reaction seemed to be hovering thick in the air, and he let out a soft sigh, folding his arms. "...you still owe me lunch."
That, it seemed, was more or less exactly what she'd expected. She cackled and in an instant she was tearing off through the hallways in a blur of vanishing footsteps, her holler echoing back over her shoulder. "You'll have to catch me first!"
"OI!" The chase was long and wild, but considered on the whole...what the hell. It was better than paperwork, and at least the little blighter made sure he was getting exercise.