Chapter I — The Institute of Anomalous Studies

Instructions

              Ꮯꮋꭺꮲꭲꭼꭱ I                    ―――――――   Director Bloom ran out of the apartment building most weekday mornings, lacking heed for anything but getting to work on time. Her post-office uniform did not seem the most comfortable, in large part due to the fact that she never wore it for longer than an hour, and even though she was nowhere near late, she always seemed to be in a rush.   Today she dashed from her apartment at six-thirty ᴀᴍ, just like clockwork. The person wearing the face of one of her neighbors ran his tongue across his pointed canines and first premolars as he watched her leave. He turned away from the double glass doors and walked directly into the mailbox wall. He, not actually being a spectre and thus remaining unable to walk through solid objects, jumped back and yelled several dirty words.   The flare of temper passing as quickly as it had come, he collected himself and opened his form's owner's mailbox.   "Bill, bill, advert, bill, another advert, something from the League of Nations Worldwide Education Fund, advert... Oh, hello, Mr. Tremaine."   "Heavens, Henry," cried Tremaine, one of the building owners. "Your nose is bleeding!"   The person (let's call him Pseudo-Henry) spun on his heels and smiled at Tremaine, who turned out to be descending the stairs opposite the door. "Oh, am I? That's odd..." He put a hand to his nose, then grimaced. /Cogs,/ it hurt. His eyes forced themselves shut. He must have broken it.   "Hold on," Tremaine called in his warm tenor, "I'll get my husband." Tremaine was a nice older man, Pseudo-Henry knew, but the latter could deal with a nosebleed just fine on his own. He had dealt with worse for years.   Pseudo-Henry opened his mouth to tell Tremaine that the doctor's attention wouldn't be necessary, but realized it was futile as the man's steps receded. He had run back up the stairs, Pseudo-Henry was sure of it. The Doppler effect never—no, /rarely/—lied.   "Cogs and gears and everything holy as well," Pseudo-Henry muttered, opening his eyes. The world seemed too bright, and his brain felt wrapped in gauze. He could probably use that doctor.   He sat down on the cold tile, momentarily amazed that he could feel the chill through his sweatpants.   On that note, he hated how Real-Henry dressed. If he had to take this shape for long, he'd change the personality that went with it. He wanted to be back in three-piece suits, perhaps even with a nice cravat.   Dr. Tremaine's baritone voice carried down the stairs. Pseudo-Henry couldn't quite make out what the man was saying, but based on the tone in his voice and the speed with which he'd replied to Mr. Tremaine, they were discussing Pseudo-Henry.   Gears, the brain fog was worse than Pseudo-Henry had thought. He tried to stand up, but collapsed upon reaching his knees. Bloodloss was dangerous for a rui, but it had never taken this little to set off its effects before. He must have gotten anemic without noticing; that could happen when he spent time in someone else's shape.   He heard the Tremaines on the landing. He was terrified, and he hated it. If he were discovered... well, that would be the end of him. And a doctor, someone versed in human physiology the way Pseudo-Henry was in deception, would be sure to find him out.   /Second time's the charm,/ Pseudo-Henry told himself, and in fact it was. He made it fully up this time, and soon slipped out of the door into the morning foot traffic. He'd pull one of them aside for something, fog up their mind to match his, and then take from them what he needed. And after that, he'd keep to his biting schedule. He never wanted to feel that kind of fear again.   Aurelia knew she was lucky that the Institute had dodged a visit from the Khan on this trip, but Ambassador Nguyen was simply unbearable. His voice sounded like an unholy cheesegrater, and the third time he asked about the Institute's book-loaning policy she momentarily marvelled that his mother had ever loved him. Ashamed of the thought, and of how close she had come to voicing it, she resolved to pass him off to someone nicer than her. (Preferably someone with very little classified information to accidentally divulge, since that seemed to be what the Ambassador was angling to find.)   "Tea?" Nguyen's voice growled from her left, about a meter too close to her ear.   "What?"   "Don't you lot have tea? This /is/ Britain, isn't it?"   Aurelia didn't respond, only shut her eyes and focused on her breathing. If she had replied she would have shouted at him. It wasn't even teatime.   Nguyen huffed and then resumed talking, this time about tariffs. Aurelia made an effort to listen, since she usually found the topic interesting, but her mind wandered off to the subway system. It would be dreadfully, wonderfully quiet, and—   Quinn Romero came out from nowhere and collided with the Ambassador.              *** Continued in Notes and Credits because of the length.