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“Tipper?” Kyon blinks, stopping right before she rammed into her friend. “You’re here, too?”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Tipper says, not at all surprised. She’d sidestepped preemptively, and kept up her speedwalk past Kyon’s frame.
“Rose was showing me the new chickens.” Kyon picks up the pace. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Well, there was that whole hit-and-run last month,” Tipper starts, scanning every dorm room door for Ophelia’s poster-covered #102. “Then the apendicitis. The blood transfusions. The general PTSD.” Shrug. “Pick your poison?”
“You don’t think we need to call 911?” Kyon frowns, deeply concerned. She dodges someone about to step out their door, barely avoiding their stack of papers. “Sorry!”
Hum. “I have a bad feeling, but not that kind of bad.”
“What kind of bad?”
Tipper pivots abruptly.
Room 102.
Kyon staggers, overstepping and backtracking. She recognizes one of the newer posters as one of Styx’s competition entries, and nudges Tipper. “Eh? Ehhh?”
Tipper frowns up at her friend. “Please focus.”
“I can focus on two crises at once,” Kyon says, raising both hands. It’s almost exactly the same movement she uses when speaking with her younger siblings.
“Ten bucks says it’s whacky but ultimately harmless,” Tipper deadpans.
Kyon pulls her wallet out. “Ten for 911 emergency.”
Tipper knocks in a pattern on Ophelia’s door, her metal sleeve turning the sound tinny.
They hear the door locks click open. The knob turns, and when Ophelia finally shows her face, all Tipper can do is tilt her head and sigh, “O, you didn’t.”
“I think it’s…cute,” Kyon says, lying through her teeth.
“Ten bucks.”
Kyon curses.
“It’ll grow back,” Ophelia bargains. Rationalizes. As one does.
It of course referring to the close shave on the sides of Ophelia's head, cut close and with abandon. The rest of her hair is intact—a wild mini mullet-mohawk of a thing, not entirely expected on the head of a Ghanem, much less one in grad school.
Grad school at one of the most prestigious universities in all of Mar'Zahn.
“You can afford a hairdresser, correct?” Tipper says more than asks.
“Maybe if you just trim some more off the bottom…?” Kyon asks more than says.
“I have that event in an hour,” Ophelia monotones.
“You can call in sick?”
“My mother is coming.”
“You should definitely call in sick,” Tipper confirms, pursing her lips.
“Funny,” Ophelia squints. Sigh. “I can’t miss this.”
“I got it: Cut Bjørn’s hair, use the strands as extensions,” Kyon says.
Tipper puts a finger up before Ophelia can protest (or name-call). “Actually, that’s worth a shot.”
“You’re joking,” Ophelia says.
“You started it,” Tipper smirks. “With that ‘haircut.’”
“It’s growing on me,” Kyon says, tapping her chin. “Very punk rock.”
“I cannot be ‘punk rock’ at the university charity event,” Ophelia frowns, glasses sliding down with the movement.
“But it would be so fun,” Tipper says with a lilt.
“You don’t even go to this school!”
“Wow, O—didn’t think you were the type to call out status.”
“That’s not—” Ophelia says, cutting the sentence off and pinching her nose bridge. “Why am I friends with you, again?”
“Liri project,” Kyon says. She’s smiling like she knows she’s not really helping, but she has to point it out anyway. “And blood donor. And actually answered her phone.”
“Huh. Threw yourself under the bus.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if I were into blackmail?” Tipper muses, an open grin on her face. She turns to Kyon. “Really, I could be rich. Dagas rich.”
“Are you going to help me or what,” Ophelia says, gritting her teeth.
“Or what,” Kyon and Tipper reply.
“You are so—”
“Relax,” Kyon laughs, putting her hands up. “Relax. We’ll help.”
Tipper raises one hand and puts the other over her heart. “Promise.”
Ophelia sighs. “Thank you.”
“Now,” Kyon starts solemnly, hands on her hips. She looks at Ophelia, gauging something. “What would look good enough for the Mar'Zahnian elite to stay neutral and have them still consider donating to the university funding?”
Tipper hums, and Ophelia gets a bad feeling. Smirk. “I got it.”
~five hours later~
“And you used Lunas’ helmet.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know if you’re geniuses or unreasonably lucky,” Patches says. He’s collating something into a large binder, ignoring the chatter of the cafe outside his door.
“Neither,” Tipper says, checking her phone. “Ophelia’s dad is fond of Lunas, keeps talking him up to whomever will listen. So now he thinks there’s going to be some sort of fundraiser for Lunas’ shuttle project, and O got to write it off like it’s a student-run charity project.”
“Happenstance.”
“Only you would say ‘happenstance.’”
Patches frowns, glancing at the clock. “Isn’t it your shift yet?”
“No,” Tipper says, standing, “but I’ll take all the hours you give me.” She smiles like a fox, ignoring Patches’ scowl as she exits the office. “Bye, boss!”