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Murphy was never planning to go to grad school. He barely made it through college, sort of stumbled into a philosophy major on the grounds that he wasn't doing anything else, and Professor Jaha seemed to think him just spouting out random bullshit in papers was actually deep and profound. Murphy didn't think there was a teacher alive who would see one of the essays he wrote while literally stoned out of his mind was a groundbreaking critique on the nature of thought, but Jaha is--well, there is something wrong with Jaha.
And that's why Murphy is getting his PhD. Also so, for the rest of his life, when people call him literally anything, he can correct them with, "Actually, that's Doctor Fucking Dipshit." It's going to be awesome.
Except that academia? Academia is fucking weird. He figures this out pretty quickly, but there's a part of him that thinks maybe it's just his program, that Jaha is to blame, and there's a whole normal world of academics he'll never know about, because Jaha wouldn't know normal if it ran up and bit him.
Then he meets Bellamy Blake, who's doing his PhD in history. It's about three months into Murphy's graduate studies, and the first significant contact he's had with anyone outside of his program.
Bellamy starts the conversation with, "My adviser thinks your adviser can help me, but I talked to him for five minutes and I feel like he was trying to convert me to a religion he just made up. Is he always like that?"
Murphy thinks it over, and then pulls out his phone and finds the last voicemail he got from Jaha, two nights ago. He hits play and zones out the message, concentrating on Bellamy's facial expressions instead. Everyone in his program is used to this shit; it's nice to freak out a stranger.
"John. John. Listen to me. When does consciousness stop meaning anything? When does technology become so advanced that the greatest philosopher is a machine? What becomes of morality when we can calculate it?"
He lets it go for another few minutes, during which Jaha talks about artificial intelligence and whether or not pain is real, before turning it off and giving Bellamy a sunny smile.
"So, does your adviser hate you?" he asks.
Bellamy rubs his face. "Fuck, I don't know. Probably. He keeps telling me I'm not giving imperial Europe enough credit in my thesis. Like, I'm supposed to think through both sides of the genocide. So, yeah, probably. What the fuck are you even researching?"
"I don't know."
That gets him a squint. "You don't know what you're doing for your doctorate?"
"Fuck no. I just write shit and throw it at Jaha and see what happens. It's my first semester. I'll figure it out."
He seems to be thinking it over, and then just says, "So, you drink a lot, right?"
"Just if I don't want to experience withdrawal symptoms."
"So, you want to come get drunk?"
It's three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, but if Bellamy doesn't think this is a problem, Murphy's certainly not going to bring it up.
"You trying to hit on me?" he asks, mostly out of curiosity. Bellamy's kind of hot, if you're into that. Murphy considers himself basically asexual, but he likes making out, and he's not picky about who he does it with.
"Not really. I have a support group. You can get in on our I have the fucking weirdest adviser competition."
It sounds like the kind of competition Murphy could win in his sleep, mostly because that's when Jaha tends to call him. He doesn't know if the guy doesn't sleep himself, wakes up in the middle of the night and basically directly relates his dreams, or just sleep-dials him. All three seem completely plausible.
"I'm gonna kick your asses," he says, and grabs his bag.
Bellamy apparently drinks at some dive bar a few blocks off campus, which makes Murphy feel better. There's nothing worse than day-drinking at a fancy place. They're on happy-hour from 3 to 5, and it's mostly deserted, aside from a couple hot girls behind the bar and an old dude in the corner playing what Murphy swears up and down is a My Little Pony game on his phone.
His kind of place, really.
"You're early," says one of the girls behind the bar.
"Yeah, well, the philosophy prof Pike wanted me to talk to basically thought The Matrix was a documentary. Or maybe an inspirational tale. Either way, most useless and terrifying twenty minutes ever." He jerks his head. "This is John."
"Murphy," he corrects. No one but Jaha has called him John since he hit fourth grade and decided he'd rather be Murphy than John M., and he still finds it unnerving.
"Murphy," says Bellamy. "Matrix dude is his adviser, so I figure he wants to fight with me and Clarke about whose life sucks the most. Murphy, this is Gina and Emori."
"We're the smart ones," says the one he thinks is Gina. "We aren't getting advanced degrees."
"I didn't even go to college, it was awesome," says Emori. She looks Murphy up and down. "What are you drinking?"
"What's the cheapest, nastiest gin you've got?"
Emori grins. "Yeah, you're gonna fit right in. Bellamy, you want the usual?"
"Beer. I don't need hard liquor until Clarke shows up."
"You're still pathetic," Gina says, bright.
"You're still an asshole," Bellamy tells her, and she leans over to peck him on the cheek.
He's expecting Clarke to be some straight dude Bellamy is pining for or something, because this seems like a kind of low-budget, gay dramedy setting, between the gross bar, the over-invested bartenders and whatever is happening in Bellamy's life. Which works for Murphy, honestly. He feels like he'd be a good supporting character in a gay dramedy. He provides snarky comments and comic relief, and he'll make out with dudes as needed.
Twenty minutes later, a blonde girl collapses against Bellamy's back, which is apparently normal enough that he doesn't even react to it. "You're early," she says, and squints at Murphy. "And you brought a friend."
"A person, anyway," says Bellamy. He holds up his mostly empty beer, and the blonde takes it and drains it. "This is Murphy. Pike told me to go meet his adviser. Worst twenty minutes of my life."
"Seriously?" asks the blonde, sliding onto the bar next to her. Gina's already got shots poured for her and Bellamy, and they clink them together and down them in kind of creepy unison. "Your life has been pretty shitty. I feel like there's a lot of competition."
"Thanks. Clarke, Murphy. Murphy, Clarke. She's getting her PhD in art history."
"You can be an art history doctor?" Murphy asks.
Clarke raises her eyebrows at him. "Yeah, when they bring the paintings to the hospital, I'm the one who tells you how long they have to live."
Bellamy snorts, so, yeah, he's gone, because it's not even a very good joke.
"You're doing philosophy?" Clarke asks.
"Apparently."
"He doesn't know what he's studying," Bellamy says, in the tones of someone who thinks that's the worst possible sin.
Seriously, fucking academics. Murphy's just trying to live his life, okay? He doesn't need this.
"You're never gonna bring any philosophers back from the dead with that attitude," Clarke says. "Worst philosophy doctor ever."
"What's your thesis about?" Murphy asks Bellamy, because it's not like anyone knows what they're doing, right?
"Rookie mistake," Emori says, low. She's been pretty quiet and uninvolved so far, but Murphy's still paying the most attention to her, because she's unreal hot and has a lot of badass tattoos. Murphy would totally make out with her.
"Wha--" he starts, but Bellamy is already off on his thesis topic, which he apparently really cares about. Murphy tries his best to pay no attention, but Clarke is apparently also doing some sort of colonialism shit and wants to make it a conversation, so they have a lot of thoughts that Murphy can't help partially absorbing, despite his best efforts.
"Jesus," he mutters to Emori, in an undertone. "I thought this was going to be fun drinking."
"You just have to figure out the trick," says Emori. She raises her voice and says, "Hey, Clarke, did Wallace do anything offensive today?"
"He keeps using the word savages," Clarke says. "And, like--while Lincoln is around? Not that it's okay if Lincoln isn't around, but he was actually talking about Lincoln's direct ancestors. We looked it up to make sure. And we keep telling him it's uncomfortable and he's like, obviously I don't mean you, like that makes it better?"
"Everyone loves being the exception to racism," says Bellamy. "Hey, Murphy, you got more weird voicemails from Jaha? Clarke needs weird voicemails from Jaha in her life."
Clarke perks up. "Wait, your adviser is Jaha? As in Thelonius Jaha?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I know him. Me and his son are friends. He might have us beat on the shitty adviser front, Bellamy."
"Does that mean you're giving up?"
Clarke straightens. "Hell no. But play us the voicemails."
Which is how Murphy ends up with, kind of, a social group, albeit one that mostly contains the kind of nerdy kids who spent lunch periods in high school doing math homework and arguing if Batman could beat up Wolverine.
It's not just Clarke and Bellamy, although they're sort of the unofficial leaders. There's Raven, who's doing computer science stuff, who Murphy sort of already knew because Jaha thinks she's the key to figuring out a morally perfect artificial intelligence. Murphy likes her because after about a week, she stopped actually trying to be polite and started replying to every email Jaha sent with unsubscribe. Raven brings Monty and Jasper, a couple undergrad comp sci students who, from what Murphy can tell, subsist on a diet of Red Bull, weed, and Dr. Who reruns, so they're always kind of terrifying. Bellamy's best friend Miller is doing English and supplying all the gay drama Murphy was hoping for with his pining for Monty and general surliness. Clarke's friend Lincoln is quiet about 90% of the time, but when he loses his temper, he manages some fucking epic rants. Bellamy's little sister is dating Lincoln and balances him out it by being angry 90% of the time, to the extent that when no one else is pissing her off enough to yell at, she'll just start kicking her own ass to have something to do.
Okay, Murphy might kind of like them. They're all weird overachievers, but at least they like drinking and yelling, and it's always nice to have an appreciative audience for Jaha's weird ramblings. He's pretty sure everyone in the philosophy department has Stockholm Syndrome, and they've all just started thinking this is normal.
Emori's still his favorite, because she has a healthy attitude about the whole thing. Gina used to date Bellamy and is currently flirting hard with Raven, so she's also gotten drawn into all of the stupid academic bullshit, despite the fact that she should know better. Plus, Emori likes making fun of people and smirking at Murphy, which, like--to the extent that he has a sexual preference, that's it. And it's absolutely his romantic and general life preference, so that's cool. His life was severely lacking in hot people giving him shit, and now he's got a ton of them. Emori's just the best at it.
And she's the one to, after two months, tell Murphy he is required to tell them something about his actual research.
He chokes on his beer, and Emori bites her lip and grins at him. "C'mon, John." She's the only one who calls him John, aside from Jaha, and he kind of likes it. Coming from her, it feels like an affectionate nickname, weird as that is.
"What?"
"There's a lot riding on this worst adviser bet," she says. "We all get that your adviser is weird, but I think we need evidence he's actively impeding your academic progress."
"Fuck, that was a lot of real words," he tells her, feeling more than a little betrayed.
"Yeah, but she's right," Clarke says. "Jaha's obviously a mess, but he thinks you're some sort of brilliant scholar, right? Like, Wells has heard about you. He thinks you're a visionary."
"Can we all take a minute to appreciate how fucking terrifying that is?" Murphy asks. "Seriously, think about how bad your life would be if you thought your advisers thought you were currently living up to your potential."
"Oh jesus," says Bellamy, with genuine horror.
"You would have to really up your genocide game," Clarke agrees. "But this seems like stalling, Murphy. You take classes, right? You do things. You have to have some concept of what you're getting your doctorate in."
As far as Murphy's concerned, those are fighting words, but he's pretty sure Clarke could kick his ass, so he just sighs and says, "Look, I can't talk about it, okay? I'm just drunk."
"Dude, if you can't drunk rant about your thesis, you're doing it wrong," says Raven.
"Wrong drug of choice. I only work on my thesis when I'm high as a fucking kite, okay?"
"If access to pot is the sticking point here, I think we've got you," says Bellamy. "Monty and Jasper are around somewhere."
"Yeah, but if you guys leave to get high, we can't watch," Gina points out.
"So, party at the Blakes' after you guys close?" Clarke asks, bright, and suddenly his social life isn't limited to the bar, it's actual hanging out, and everyone really wanting to hear Murphy wax on about existence when he's high, like it's actually good.
"Oh, yeah, no, it's not," says Clarke. She's giggling into Emori's shoulder.
"It's like watching a lava lamp," says Monty. "But with words."
Right on cue, Murphy's phone lights up with a call from Jaha, and they all watch, entranced, as it rings through to voicemail.
And then the voicemail keeps not coming.
"Did he not leave one?" Monty asks, hesitant.
"Oh, no, he's leaving one," says Murphy. "I've never actually made you guys listen to a full voicemail from him. They're like half an hour long."
"We definitely don't have the worst advisers," Clarke says, dropping onto Bellamy's shoulder.
"Are you giving up?" he asks her.
"No. Does Jaha ever advocate genocide?" she adds, to Murphy.
"Not exactly. I think he just sort of figures it'll come naturally with the robot uprising."
"Yeah, I hate to agree with Jaha, but the robots are definitely gonna kill us all," says Raven, raising her glass to Murphy. He raises his back, and they both drink.
"Hey, if it's really gonna take half an hour before he's done with this message, we have time to come up with a drinking game," Miller says, and Murphy is honestly disappointed in himself for not already having a Jaha drinking game. Grad school really is fucking with his head.
"Can't believe I didn't think of that," he says, giving Miller a nod. "I need one all the fucking time."
And he really does. The addition of the Thelonious Jaha drinking game to his life is a huge improvement, because there's never a time when he can't play it. Which would make him feel bad, because he sort of assumed before starting higher education that it wasn't the kind of thing everyone went through in a drunken haze, but now that he has friends, he's realized he's far from the only one. And he is still, inexplicably and despite all of his monumental personal failings, passing all of his classes, so he must be doing something right.
If he ever figures out what, he's going to write a book.
He's even successfully avoided most of the department events through a combination of half-assed excuses, sketchy part-time job commitments, and just straight-up incompetence. There have been at least three events he could have gone to, except that he honestly forgot they were happening.
All of his avoidance tactics can't save him from the all-campus end-of-year picnic, though. It's on a day when he has no plans, and literally everyone he has ever spoken to in his entire academic career is going, so he can't even forget about it, despite having a short term memory so bad he's honestly surprised he still knows his own address.
"You should ask Emori," Clarke says, elbowing him.
"Why? I don't even want to go, why would I make her?"
"One, you like her."
"Yeah, that's an argument for not making her come. Not everyone is in some weird sado-masochistic thing where you have to suffer together like you and Bellamy. Some of us just want to have fun with people we like."
She ignores him, as usual. "Two, Raven's bringing Gina, so she's the only one who doesn't have an invitation."
"Lucky her."
"Three, we're going to do the worst adviser award after, and you know she's invested in that."
"Wait, there's an actual award for that? Is there a prize? Do I get cash?"
"Not if you don't win. Or if you do. It's just a trophy. But Emori and Gina did the secret ballot, so she probably wants to see the ceremony."
"There was a secret ballot?"
"Yup."
"I didn't know about it."
Clarke does not look impressed. "It was a secret. Besides, you, me, and Bellamy couldn't vote anyway, because we're in contention."
"If it's a secret, why did you know?"
Her smile is serene. "I know everything. Anyway, talk to Emori. She deserves to witness the award ceremony."
"You know, I never give you shit about how stupid your love life is," he remarks.
"Yeah, you do."
"Okay," he grants. "But not as much as you deserve."
"Probably not. Ask her anyway," she says. "If she doesn't want to come, she'll just say no."
It's certainly true, and he would still like to make out with her. And if he does win the worst adviser award--which he absolutely should, he doesn't care how bad Pike and Wallace are, Bellamy and Clarke don't get voicemails about genocide and racism--he definitely wants Emori to be there to witness his victory.
Grad school is so fucking weird.
"Clarke thinks you want to go to this end-of-year picnic thing," he tells Emori that night, while everyone else is distracted with Bellamy's new trivia app. "Which seemed insane to me, but I guess if you feel left out you can come."
Emori snorts, leans forward with an amused smirk. "Is this you asking me out, but you're trying to make sure if I say no, you can blame it on how shitty the event is and you won't have to feel bad?"
"Hell no," he says. "I didn't think you liked dates."
"No, not really."
He drums his fingers on the bar counter. "I'm ace," he says, and then adds, "Asexual, biromantic," because in general detailed labeling of his relationship preferences makes him feel kind of weird, but it's fucking useful. A quick, easy way to get everyone on the same page. "I like making fun of stupid people, throwing shit at reality TV shows, and making out. Sex is fine, I'm just not really that invested in it."
Emori nods. "I like all that. And sex."
"Cool. I'm pretty sure there are gonna be a lot of stupid people to make fun of at this picnic. You can meet Jaha. I bet if I tell him you're my girlfriend, it's going to be a fucking trainwreck."
"We're already skipping straight to girlfriend?" she asks, but she's smirking. She's always smirking. She's the fucking best.
"Just for the trainwreck. Plus I wanna make it official before Bellamy and Clarke do."
"So we only have twenty years."
He snorts. "Beat the rush, right?"
"Sure."
"So, you want to come to this picnic or not?"
"We're going to my place to make out after this either way, right?"
"Yeah."
She taps her finger against her jaw. "Yeah, you know me. Can't say no to a fucking trainwreck."
Murphy smirks. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
He brings his flask to the picnic, while Emori just fills a water bottle with gin and soda and drinks it like she's trying to stay hydrated. He's not one of those people who believes in soulmates or destiny or whatever, but he's pretty sure she is actually the perfect woman.
She cements it when they meet Jaha.
"John! I'm so glad you could make it. And who is this lovely lady?"
"This is my girlfriend, Emori."
"You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend!"
"Yeah, we're pretty quiet about it," Murphy says.
"We met online," Emori says. "On a Blade Runner forum."
"Blade Runner?" asks Jaha, like a predator who's just scented fresh meat. "Are you a fan?"
"Oh yeah, it's my favorite movie. I love all that AI stuff. It's so interesting. Part of why I like John. He's got some great ideas."
Murphy's doing his best to not gape at her, but he really doesn't know why she's trying to engage in an actual conversation with Jaha about robots, and he's pretty sure she's going to regret it.
"What's your favorite part of the movie?"
"Oh, the Voight-Kampff machine," she says, instantly. "I always love those AI tests. They're so strange. I don't get how they come up with them."
Jaha lights up, and Murphy steals Emori's water bottle for a long drink.
"Are you seriously trying to convince him you're a robot spy?" he asks her, once Jaha has finished trying to give her a modified Turing test, which she definitely bombed. On purpose.
"How do you know I'm not?"
"I think I love you."
She pecks him on the mouth. "I don't really experience that emotion. But thanks anyway."
The picnic wraps up around four, and they all go to Bellamy and Octavia's house, which is the largest, for the end of year awards ceremony.
"You guys know you have issues, right?" Murphy asks.
"We don't make fun of your coping mechanisms," Bellamy says, and keeps going before Murphy can point out this is a dirty lie. "Welcome to the second annual Sucks to Be You Awards!" There's a general roar of encouragement, and he lets it happen for a minute before he holds up his hand for silence. "We've all survived another year of grad school, or of undergrad, or of--whatever we survived. So, first off, cheers to us!"
Murphy isn't generally into all the kumbaya, we're all in this together shit, but he will always drink to anything, so he raises his flask and cheers along with the rest of them.
And, honestly, the whole thing is kind of fun, not that he'd admit it on pain of death. Clarke and Bellamy definitely did that whole everyone gets a prize thing, because they are basically parents who want all their children to feel equally loved, but the prizes are hilarious and Bellamy's a pretty great MC, so it's not a burden to whoop and toast and laugh at all the shitty joke awards.
He gets Most Likely to Accidentally Start a Cult, which he cannot argue with, and he will absolutely display his engraved child's karate trophy with pride. Somewhere. He's going to have a desk next year. It can be on his desk.
"Okay, last award," says Bellamy. "This is the real one. Worst Adviser. Last year, Clarke cheated--"
"I did not cheat! Wallace's son tried to grope me at the picnic and we all agreed we could get a recount because that affected the voting."
"Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that."
"If anyone in Pike's family ever propositions you, I'll give you the award."
"I'm going to hold you to that. Anyway, Clarke is our defending champion, but we have a new competitor, John Murphy. He might be a rookie, but he does get more fucked up voicemails per week than I've gotten in my entire life, so--"
"So shut up and tell us who won!" Miller yells.
"Aren't you supposed to appreciate drama?" Bellamy grumbles. He has a fucking sealed envelope; Murphy still doesn't know why he's hanging out with these people instead of beating them up for their lunch money. "Okay, fine. Winner is--" He opens up the envelope and smiles, wry. "Yeah, Murphy."
Emori's the one to start the chant of, "Speech, speech!" so he can't really say no.
He accepts the trophy--which is an actual cup, instead of a kid playing a random sport--and holds it up so they can take pictures, like the fucking nerds that they are. But it is, honestly, a little emotional. Maybe that dude who plays the My Little Pony game in the bar is right and friendship really is magic.
Or maybe he's coming down with something.
"Yeah, I don't have a speech or anything," he says. "But thanks, I guess? I always think I've got the most fucked up shit going on in my life, so it's cool you guys are validating that for me. I'm really looking forward to another year of Jaha being a nightmare. He thinks I'm dating a robot now, so that's going to give him a lot of material to work with. Can't wait to see what he comes up with." He looks back at the trophy, nods once. "Anyway, yeah. We're getting pizza, right? Let's get pizza."
"Do a better speech next year," Bellamy says, and Clarke nudges his shoulder.
"You're already giving up?" she teases.
"Jaha thinks Emori is a robot," he says. "I'm pretty sure we can't compete with that."
"Yeah," Murphy agrees. "My life is the worst. Seriously, let's get pizza."
Emori steals the trophy as he settles back in next to her. "This is at least half mine."
"No way, you didn't even do the robot trick until voting was over," he says. "I earned this."
"Yeah, but I rigged the votes."
"Yeah?"
She grins. "No. You were winning anyway. But I would have."
"Well, it's the thought that counts." He gives her the trophy and puts his arm around her, smiles when she rests her head on his chest. "I'm definitely going to be an awesome academic," he says.
"From what I can tell it's all bullshitting and acting like you're better than other people," she says. "So, yeah. You're going to be the best."
"Thanks, babe," he says, but even he can't actually manage that much sarcasm, in the face of all the warm fuzziness of the afternoon.
Everything is on track for him to become Dr. Fucking Dipshit, and, honestly, he can't wait.