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It’s the day Therm’s been preparing for his entire life.
And when he means his entire life, he means two days. This could still be correct if he’s larping as a newborn baby - which he’s not. Semantics aside ; it’s been two days since he decided to completely veer his career path to audition to become a model.
Standing on the sidewalk, Therm stares up at the expansive building before him, all glass paneled windows that stretch up the entire 20 floors, and a bright obnoxiously pink LED sign that reads ‘DTI Agency.’ plastered on the front.
Dress To Impress Agency. The signage is far more impressive in person than the ad Therm saw two days on his phone - one that boasted an audition for a competition among the most “talented, upcoming models” for the most fiercest fashion competition.
The words “fashion competition” to describe his future career path doesn’t exactly sound the same as “chemistry degree.” Therm’ll admit - it’s a bit of a whiplash from his major to pursue modelling. Contrary to popular (his mom’s) belief, it has nothing to do with his 126 rejected job applications, and everything to do with the fact that Therm believes post-grad is the perfect time to explore his options, to see where the wind takes him. The job market is a playground of career opportunities, and he figures it won’t hurt to dip his toes into whatever strikes his fancy.
The 10,000 prize money definitely doesn’t dampen his enthusiasm, though.
Many people (his mom) have expressed their concerns about his sudden endeavor, that Therm doesn’t exactly have the .. attributes needed for a model. And Therm’s not one to toot his own horn, but he’ll gladly argue the contrary. He’s young. He’s hip, in that sense that he has two of them. His looks have often been compared at length to one of a human.
Bolstered by this confidence, Therm had signed up for the audition process, received an email, and here he is. A bachelor’s in chemistry, fresh in the job market, and getting ready to audition for the Dress to Impress Competition.
This is going to do great things for his linkedin profile.
After getting lost for the better part of thirty minutes in the building, Therm finally finds the audition room listed in the email given to him. The interior is a wide, open room with wooden floorboards, a black table sat in the front, and sitting in the chair, a woman with black hair swept in a low bun.
“Sorry, I got really lost trying to find this room,” Says Therm, noticeably out of breath. He’s pretty sure he’s sweating on his armpits a little. Hopefully it’s not noticeable. “I’m here for the audition.”
The woman smiles thinly at him, like a needle getting contorted into an upward curve. Smiling really doesn’t suit her. “Nice to meet you.” She says pointedly, “I’m Saanvi, I’ll be handling the assessment for your audition,” She adjusts her glasses, “You must be … Therm, correct?”
“The one and only.” He doesn’t know why he says that. It doesn’t land. The temperature in the room drops a few degrees.
Saanvi's lips thin disapprovingly. “Alright, starting off first, I’d like to see you walk.”
He walks, crossing the room in the way he would cross a street. He thinks it’ll be simple. Classy. Unassuming. He looks over and Saanvi looks like he just stripped down butt naked in front of her.
Her voice comes out more professional than her expression, “Just my initial thoughts, there’s a few areas of concern” She says, smiling with all teeth, “Number one being our agency is looking for attributes that showcase more - uniqueness, for lack of a better word.”
“I’m nothing if not unconventional.” Says the human equivalent of wonder bread, “Consider me a DEI hire.”
“Diversity Equality and Inclusivity Hire?”
“Da Exciting Individual Hire.”
Saanvi stares like she’s telepathically trying to turn him to stone. He stares back with his best watery ‘lost baby highland cow’ gaze just to throw her off her game. She looks a little frightened. Success.
Surprisingly though, he’s not getting chased out the door with a belt to his ass and a restraining order like he initially thinks he will. Instead, Saanvi’s consulting her papers, muttering under her breath, like she’s actually considering him.
“No more auditions scheduled after this … filming starts tonight .. and they wanted a male model in the cast ..” She’s muttering so fast and so cryptidly Therm briefly wonders if she’s hexxing him.
She looks up, gives him another withering once-over, mutters something like a prayer under her breath, then steals herself. “Alright. Given the circumstances, this will be a special case, despite you having no prior modelling experience. You’re accepted as a contestant and will be a part of the competition cast.”
“Oh, shit.” Therm blinks, “Really?”
“Yes.” There’s a vague note of resignation in her voice, “Our agency wants to ensure we have some variety in our casting, and that includes male models. We’ve had a much lower turnout rate of male auditioners than we’d hoped. Given that you’re the only male that auditioned, the spot is yours.”
The tension deflates from him like a leaking balloon, “Awesome. Are you guys going to start spiking my waters with ozempic now or something?”
“That’s not how ozempic works,” says Saanvi with the kind of dithering superiority Therm’s only seen in his organic chemistry TAs. She returns her focus back to her notes, “It’ll be a bit of tight fit, but the filming starts in an hour. I’d highly advise you to head to the green room now to prepare.”
Therm dithers, still blinking owlishly, “Isn’t this like.. A little too good to be true? This is straight up sheer luck, right?”
Saanvi just looks at him. “Well. God certainly has his favorites.”
--
It’s only until Therm enters the green room does he realize he was given a momentous lack of information. Within the models inside, not only is he the only male in the room, but she had completely failed to mention a key fact. The entirety of the cast is young girls.
Therm is not a young girl. This, predictably, is cause for some alarm.
He stands frozen at the entrance, staring around the luxurious, high ceilings pure white room, accented with pink furniture and pop corporate music playing overhead, a sinking feeling in his chest. This is fantastic. A 22 year old man standing in a room of 10-16 year old girls. Instead of landing 10,000 dollars, he’s going to land himself on a neighborhood watch map.
Before he can panic, a staff member sails up to him, dressed in a pink peacoat and pencil skirt and looking at her clipboard, “Therm?” She says, “You must be our final model.”
She seems nonplussed by his presence here, despite the fact that he sticks out like a sore, federal offense worthy thumb. Somehow, this soothes some of Therm’s fears. If the staff is aware of him being the cast, maybe it isn’t as big an issue as Therm’s making it out to be. “Yeah,” He says, “Is this-uh-is this alright?” He gestures vaguely towards the room, “It kinda seems like I’m outside of the target demographic here.”
The staff member laughs, “Of course it’s alright. Even though our competitors do tend to be mostly young girls, it’s not uncommon to have some participants outside that demographic.” She assures him, “We’re already beginning to set up before the competition begins. You’re aware of how this operates, correct?”
Therm nods. He knows the general premise of Dress to Impress well enough. The theme is announced, they style themselves according to it, and run the catwalk. A panel of judges and the other contestants rate each model every round. The contestant with the most points at the end takes home the prize.
The staff member beams, “Perfect, that’ll save me some explaining. We’ll be starting in about an hour here.” She then materializes what appears to be an earpiece, “Every participant is required to have these during the duration of the competition; you’ll have a stylist assigned to you that’ll be working with you to help style your pieces during each round.”
That Therm hadn’t anticipated. “Sorry-did you say a stylist?” He looks around, and sure enough, each contestant has an earpiece similar in their ears. “I kinda assumed this fashion show would be a solo mission.”
The staff member nods vigorously, “I understand the concern, but I assure you all our stylists are well-renowned and very highly skilled. We made sure each contestant can work together harmoniously with their stylist. Imagine them more as your advisor.” She gestures to his earpiece, “Once you put that in, you’ll be automatically connected to them. I wish you the best of luck!”
She quickly bids a farewell, leaving Therm standing in the green room, earpiece in hand.
He surveys the room and observes the other contestants, all excited teenage girls chattering to each other. He considers briefly talking to the other teen girls in the room, recognizes the horrifyingly bad optics of that sentence, and decides against it.
Instead, he redirects his attention to the earpiece. This unexpected curveball actually works out in Therm’s favour, given that he has an alarmingly small skillset in fashion. And seeing that he isn’t keen to talk to anyone else, he inserts the earpiece.
It crackles to life immediately, but for a few moments, all Therm hears is the vague rustle of movement on the other end. He strains his ear for anything he can pick up. The sounds of a keyboard. The crinkle of a chip bag. A chair squeaking.
Brow furrowed, Therm decides to take the initiative, “Hello?” He tries.
The sounds halt for a moment, and then a voice, vaguely nasally, cuts into the feed “Oh-shit-” He hears a deafening crinkle, which Therm can only assume is the chip bag being balled up, “Oh my god-you scared the shit out of me-’ A breathless, nervous laugh, “Um. This is Therm, right?”
Therm blinks, still trying to adjust at the breakneck speed of the entire ordeal, “Uh-yeah. Hey. You’re my stylist, right?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m your stylist,” The voice says, now buoyant with enthusiasm, “Sorry-god, I should’ve told you my name first. My name’s Twitch.”
“Twitch?” Therm echoes. Jesus, he can’t remember hearing a name like that outside of xbox gamertags. The other stylist’s names must be some bullshit like “KeenGinger562”
They laugh; a twangy, skittish thing. The frequency of it is a tad bit too grating for Therm, “Yeah, Twitch. I know it sounds kinda really fucking weird. I just go by it because I just like it, that's all.”
Alright. They can respect that. He’d be a hypocrite if he criticized people who went by self-imposed pseudonyms, anyways. “Cool, cool,” He rubs the back of his neck, “To be 100% transparent with you, I’m not fashion inclined in the slightest, so sorry if I seem a little out of my element once we start.”
“No, no, you’re totally good, I’m also pretty much the same,” Twitch assures immediately, “I become, like, super useless under time pressure it’s actually really bad.”
“I get that you’re trying to be relatable, but that really doesn’t assure me in the slightest.”
“Fuck - sorry.”
The first round begins with the intensity of the hunger games. The double doors are unlocked and all the contestants rush into the arena, with rooms and rows upon rows stacked with clothing. A clock counting down from 30 minutes is perched on each wall of the arena, and the theme is projected on the wall in bold letters: Old Money.
The following thirty minutes consist of what should be seamless styling via flawless communication between Twitch and Therm; and it does. Except for one anomaly.
“What did you say you majored in college again?”
Therm rifles through a rack of skirts, expression completely blank. It’s been thirty minutes of him trying to find clothing pieces and suddenly being trapped playing 20 questions with his stylist. Therm doesn’t know what he expected from his stylist, but he expected a more detached ‘he goes where they tell him to’ kind of dynamic instead of telling them his favorite color, foods, and whether he’s a cat or dog person.
“Chemistry,” He says after a distracted moment, eyes scanning for a very specific grey skirt Twitch had set him on the hunt for.
“Oh, seriously? That’s sick. We were both STEM nerds, then. Where’d you study?”
“Uh..east side,” Therm says, half distractedly.
Their voice perks up, “Oh shit, right, that’s cool, I heard it's insanely pretty there. Actually -” Their voice picks up speed and Therm knows they’re off and running again, “I actually had this project in college where I built this whole predictive model about different regional behaviors. Like, I could predict people’s behaviors based on where they lived,” A pause, “Which sounds creepy, but it was data, not-”
“-Which skirt am I trying to find again?” Therm interjects into their sentence because there’s priorities here, and he’s been lost trying to find this specific item.
“Oh, right-sorry. It’s supposed to kind of have like lace on the outer and inner edge and like a … uh.. Black rose pattern?”
Therm’s not exactly comforted by the lack of conviction in his stylist’s voice, but he presses onward anyways with his search, with the white noise of Twitch in the background.
“Uh..also, sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as pretentious talking about that stuff. I feel like STEM people can kinda act like that but I just .. I kinda get excited easily, I guess.”
“You’re good,” Therm says honestly, “I don’t really see you as the pretentious type.”
Twitch’s voice brightens, like it always does when Therm actually contributes to the conversation, “Oh-actually? Thanks, I actually worry a lot that -”
“-What about this one? Looks kinda similar to what you were telling me to find.” Therm interrupts again, holding up a grey pleated skirt to his face.
Twitch’s voice crackles, sounding almost bewildered, “What? No - no it doesn’t look like it at all. It’s supposed to be like - uh - slightly grey. With ruffled lace on the-the like- inner and outer edge” They stumble.
Therm’s eye twitches, “Okay-yeah, so I actually don’t know where I can find ‘slightly grey skirt with ruffled lace on the inner and outer edge’” He has zero idea why Twitch’s been so insistent on choosing only one specific item for each part of his outfit, “This is beginning to feel like a needle in the haystack situation.”
“No, I legit swear on my life it’s here,” Twitch insists, “Here - go into the section with the purses, it’s 100% gonna be there.”
Therm does that. Nothing. Only purses are there, “Why are you so confidently wrong?” He asks.
Twitch blusters, “Ok-well-I thought it was there. They must’ve changed the layout or something, or - I dunno. Sorry, I’m stupid. I just need to get more familiar with this place.”
“I’ve been running around this arena with no pants on so maybe get familiar with the layout faster.”
“Okay, I’m sorry-”
“You’re not. I can hear you laughing.”
“I wasn’t-!”
The competition is in full swing now. The models all line up behind the curtain leading up to the catwalk, out of sight of the panel of judges. The remaining models wait behind the curtain with their own screens to vote on each model’s outfits. Therm is pressed up against at least five different girls, all elaborately dressed up, and beginning to understand new dimensions to the word ‘claustraphobia’
“Thank you for all joining us for this season of the fiercest fashion competition: Dress to Impress!” The announcer’s voice echoes in the arena, “We have here today twelve different models, all showcasing their best crafted outfits for each theme. Please welcome our first model for the theme: old money!”
From his spot with the other models, Therm watches as the first contestant steps out onto the catwalk, dressed in a black dress with ridiculously long sleeves, a white jacket tied over shoulders, and a clutch purse. She walks to the end of the catwalk, posing elaborately.
“Are you kidding me? Is she attending the Salem witch trials after this? What the fuck about this screams ‘old money’?” He looks down at the tablet he’s given to vote, and decisively taps the ‘one star’ button. “Horrible. She should be disqualified solely based on principle.”
From his earpiece, he hears Twitch laugh again, a sudden, surprised bark. He’s been hearing them distantly laugh the entirety of this show, but this one sounds more pronounced. “What?” Therm asks, “Am I not right?”
“No, you’re totally right,” Twitch says. He can hear the smile in their voice, splitting into each syllable, “You are. It’s just-holy shit, I’ve never heard someone talk about an outfit like that.”
“I’d think there’s other stylists you know that’ve probably said worse.” Therm says, unimpressed, “If I was getting paid for this like they are, I’d be way meaner than this.”
Twitch doesn’t respond to that, and Therm’s attention drifts to the noise behind him, and turns to see the other models behind him as the source of the din. It’s at that moment Therm realizes he forgot one thing. Teenagers are ruthless in nature. All at once, their critiques come pouring in backstage, all overlapping one another.
“That’s too plain.”
“How is that even old money?”
“I think it’s kinda cute!”
“My little brother could dress better than her. I don’t even have a little brother.”
Therm looks around him, at this sea of possibly the most cutthroat people he’s ever been in a room with, and beams. Because this is a competition, for god’s sake, not a fashion support group. Ten thousand dollars don’t just get handed out to anyone for wearing a nice dress. He’s glad everyone else has that same bloodthirst for competition.
The next contestant walks out. Awful. Therm had no idea the theme was hot garbage on a sunny day. He voices the sentiment, and the model beside him turns to him with an approving glance.
“You kinda ate that,” She tells him. Therm nods at her. This is good. Alliances.
She then walks out and Therm can fully see her outfit now, spotlighted on the catwalk. It’s not that good. But for alliance's sake, he gives her two stars.
It’s then Therm’s turn. He walks out onto the catwalk, and despite his earlier bitching he has to admit his outfit Twitch designed looks great. A navy peacoat, a grey skirt, a wide-brimmed blue sunhat. A shock of accessories. He sees the judges nod approvingly, and he waltzes off the stage.
As he heads down back into the backstage area, one of the models - Therm remembers her name being Uma -looks him dead in the eye. “That was really ugly,” She says primly, smiling at him like she did him a favour, “But I gave you two stars because I could tell you tried.”
Therm stares at her unflinchingly, “I will rain fire and brimstone on you.”
“Uh, you do realize you’re saying this about a fifteen-year-old, right?” They add, voice pitching weirdly at the end, like they're not sure which side they’re on anymore.
“I can name at least five minecraft youtubers that’ve said significantly worse things about 15 years old, cut me some slack.”
Before Twitch can respond, the results are released for the round’s podium winners. Therm barely makes it out of the podium-at fourth place. Not bad, but not winning the 10,000 dollars worthy performance, either.
Therm stares up at the leaderboard, “Twitch?”
“What’s up?”
“I think I’m gonna handle the styling for the next round.”
A choking sound, “W-wait, what? You want to-? Wait, but I thought we did pretty good!” They say, voice rising in pitch, “Listen-Listen, I swear I’ll get us podium next round, I just-”
“-Woah, chill,” Therm cuts into his sentence, “This isn’t, like, anything personal, I just want to kinda see what I’ll be able to make on my own. I don’t want you to just do everything.”
They can hear the hesitation in their voice, “I mean-I guess I kinda get it, but I just .. I don’t think that’ll be a good idea.”
“Do you think I’m that shit at fashion?”
Silence.
“Yeah-okay, just for that I’m taking full autonomy next round to make a point.”
The next theme for round 2 is “Airplane” whatever the fuck that means. It’s bordering on abstract, but Therm can appreciate it in some way. Makes for a simpler round.
It’s not a quieter round, though.
“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Twitch dithers in his ear. He can hear their hands tapping nervously, “Like, 100%? Because, look-I didn’t mean to insult you, I just really really think I should help you.”
“I’m good,” Therm responds simply. He rifles through a rack of blazers, looks at it, sets it aside. He hears Twitch sigh in relief. Therm picks up a red blazer and examines it. Twitch makes a noise like they got electrocuted.
Therm’s going to strangle them, “Okay, I’m really not messing with this auditory ‘hot and cold’ game you’re playing with my stylistic choices,”
Twitch makes a distressed noise, “I’m sorry, but this outfit is going to tank so bad, can’t you just let me help a little bit? Like a tiny bit?”
“I don’t want any backseat styling.” Therm says silently as he tugs on a pair of white gloves that he thinks really pulls together the whole flight attendant look. “Believe it or not, my mind runs a lot clearer when I don’t have you shouting fifteen different suggestions at me. I’m in a state of zen like you wouldn’t believe.”
Twitch makes a sound like they’re trying to verbally strangle him. Therm ignores them. He believes this is what the wellness girls call ‘self-care’.
The modelling for the airplane round is a complete crash and burn - not in relation to a similar event occurring at a ninth month on a nondescript year.
All the outfits that come out are either completely unrelated to the theme, or stunningly overshadow Therm’s own attempt. He watches from backstage as a girl walks onto the catwalk, dressed in a flight attendant outfit, a crisp blazer and skirt, with accessories more tastefully curated than his, and hair gelled back tightly in a high bun
“Damn girl, that forehead has two different time zones.” He mutters to himself. He looks down at his notebook, “Good outfit though. Five stars.”
Twitch has been uncharacteristically silent the entire modelling period. Therm wonders if not having the reins in his outfit this time really shook them up. And if so, Therm’s unconcerned because that’s insanely unprofessional if that’s the case.
He takes to the runway himself. It’s not horrible, but it’s not his strongest work. He knows he definitely won’t take the podium with this look. When he steps off, Uma’s waiting for him, arms crossed, chin raised.
“I’d be really embarrassed, if I were you,” Uma says, “But I love that you’re so … like, bold.”
“Thanks, girl,” Therm says easily as he peels off his gloves, “I love the way you spit a little between each word. Makes a really immersive talking experience with you.”
“Are you proud of making fun of a girl at your big ass age?” Snarks another girl, probably Uma’s lackey
Therm snorts, “Why the fuck do you people keep weaponizing your age? If Uma were in the Qing Dynasty she would be a goddamned emperor at that age. Which one of us is more unaccomplished now?"
Distantly, Therm hears the laugh of Twitch in his earpiece, loud and delighted.
The third round comes with Therm’s earpiece crackling to life, Twitch’s voice coming in rushed and irate, “I told you so, you wouldn’t make anything close to the podium with that outfit -!”
Therm jumps, “Jesus, were you muted this entire time?”
The heat in Twitch’s voice dies, and they laugh sheepishly, “Oh-yeah, sorry, I got kinda side-tracked with something else.”
“Well, good news. Completely unrelated to what just happened, but you’re promoted back to head stylist.”
It’s the first good decision Therm’s made this entire day, because Therm doesn’t know what happened, but Twitch is locked the fuck in this time. They’re not sending Therm on wild goose chases for different outfit parts - they know every exact location, the color, the styling terms, all fired off at breakneck speed through the earpiece.
About fifteen minutes later, while bolting across the arena for a pair of shoes, he catches his reflection in a mirror and pauses.
“I look absolutely fucking insane,” He says - not in the compliment sense. There’s different fabrics and articles of clothing layered on each other, with close to zero harmony between any of them. He looks like a fucking coat hanger. “Why are you turning me into a fucking fabric chimera?”
“No-trust the process,” Twitch’s voice comes in rushed, “This is like, totally method. It’s called layering, apparently. All the pros use it.”
“I feel like a weighted sandbag. I’m sweating. I don’t feel glamorous.”
“Oh-well, uh.. what’s that thing that people say? Beauty is pain!” Twitch chirps.
“Gonna be honest, I’m getting a lot less cause than effect here”
He wins first on the podium.
He hadn’t expected for Twitch’s outfit to turn out the way it did, but it was the same as the first outfit, both classy and well-put together, classy and timeless in a way that didn’t seem overdone. Therm had seen the judge’s approving reaction and knew he cleared this round.
Therm is practically floating on air as he returns back to the intermission room, half registering Twitch’s excited chatter in his ear. If he can snag a couple more first place spots in the remaining rounds, he’ll be in good shape to get the first place spot and win the prize.
“Therm?” He’s snapped out of his reverie and turns to see a staff member approaching him, lips thinned.
“Uh-yeah. That’s me. What’s up?” He asks, and moves closer to the staff members to hear what she has to say.
Ten minutes pass.
Intermission ends with a flourish, and the other models scatter into the dressing room arena, all chattering excitedly over each other as the theme is announced.
They're still standing in the intermission room.
He hasn’t moved.
Noise floods around him. The music, the chatter, the sound of the timer counting down. He can barely hear any of it. His eyes are unfocused, fixated on nothing.
His earpiece crackles, “Uh..hey, the next round started. Why are you just standing there?”
A beat.
Then another.
Twitch laughs nervously, “H-hey, am I muted? Is this thing o-”
“-You’re not a stylist, are you?”
The line goes dead with silence.
And then, Twitch’s voice, like a mouse crawling out of a hole, comes through, “...What?”
Therm’s blood runs cold. There’s no clearer confirmation than that reaction, “You’re not,” He says roughly, blood pounding in his ears, “There’s no way you are.”
The staff member’s words from just ten minutes echo in his head, ‘Unfortunately, after taking a closer look at your outfits, we found that the ensembles from rounds one and three have come out as having been plagiarized from pieces showcased in our past competitions. On account of our policy, we’ll have a disqualify you from the competition’
Jesus Christ, Therm doesn’t even know who he’s even talking to right now. For all the questions asked and exchanged, the sinking realization that Therm knows almost nothing about Twitch is beginning to settle in his gut, low and ominous.
“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Therm’s breaths are coming in uneven, rattling his ribcage “But I got disqualified for plagiarism on the outfits on the rounds that you styled for me. So if you were trying to - fuck - I don’t know, sabotage me, then congratufcukinglations,”
“W-wait, what-?” Twitch’s voice comes in, horrified and panicked, “N-No! Holy-holy shit, that’s the last thing I wanted, I swear. Oh fuck-okay, wait -”
Therm can hear their fear, can hear the shape of their anxiety, curled in a corner with its ears flat. “Wait-wait, I can fix this, just-hold on-”
“How the hell are you supposed to fix this?” Therm’s voice begins to rise, “You’re not even in the fucking system, much less a stylist.”
“I’m not. But I’m --” Twitch’s voice cuts off, and Therm can hear the words stuck between their teeth, “-I am in the system, just not as a stylist. As the - uh - the backend software engineer."
Silence.
“..What?” Therm manages. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that, “What-what the fuck? What did you even do?”
“I know-I know it’s dumb, or weird. But I swear I didn’t do that much,” Twitch is rambling, voice shaking, “I just-I messed with a couple stuff and had my earpiece connected with yours instead of the other actual stylist you were supposed to work with -that’s all. And-and for the plagiarism, I -okay, I admit I fucked up. I just found the best performing ones from past archives and used those because I knew they’d perform well.”
Therm’s mind is running a mile a minute, breathing laboured. None of the pieces are fitting together, and every piece of information is made. One question rises to the surface though.
“Why?” He manages, “Why the fuck would you even-do any of this in the first place?”
The hesitation hangs in the air, and Twitch’s voice finally comes out, “..You gotta promise you won’t laugh at me?”
Therm isn’t laughing now and there’s no chance he’ll be laughing in the future, “Just fucking tell me.” He bites out.
“I wanted to be your friend”
All of the noise in Therm’s head screeches to a halt. “..What?” He says.
“I know! I know, it’s dumb as fuck. I mean, I know you’d never be my friend, so at least-I wanted to make sure you won.
“Do I even know you? How did you-”
“The audition tapes. I-I saw it, and I thought you’d be a cool audition to the cast this time, and I just-it’s dumb, I know it is, but you were super cool and I wanted to make sure you won even if you ended up not wanting to be my friend at the end of the competition.”
Therm’s head is spinning, “Jesus christ, were you fucking exiled from civilization at birth? Just walking in and saying ‘hi, I think you’re cool, let’s be friends’ would've gone way better than this!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I swear. I’ll-I’ll fix this, okay? I’ll try to see if I can get you back in the competition and then-”
“-No,” Therm’s voice cracks, maybe something close to hysterical, “No, don’t even-I’m done with this. This entire fucking thing was a mistake.” He moves to disconnect his earpiece, “You’re weird as fuck, this whole thing is -”
“-Wait, no, I know I fucked up, but I swear, I’ll fix this, I-”
“-Fuck you,” Therm spits out as he yanks the connector out, and his earpiece crackles, “I’m done with this.”
“Thomas-!”
The line cuts out. Therm’s still standing there, breathing laboured, hands shaking. The earpiece connector sits at his feet, half-broken, dead silent.
After a long moment, he turns and leaves. The doors slide shut behind him.
On second thought, maybe a couple more job applications wouldn’t hurt to submit.
Two days later, Therm would receive a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars.