○ a simple man with a simple job. ◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜◝◜ / may 29, 2131 - fred finch / Frederick John Finch was a busy man, and that meant he was important. Xiphoid Camp could not run smoothly without him there, managing the campers, dealing with all manner of incidents, and keeping everything neatly in its place so Caryn could do her job free from any other hinderances. He was extremely important. Which was why it bothered him on such a deep, personal level when he didn't receive the respect he and his valuable presence warranted. For every model student, there was a delinquent. For every upholder of order, there was a miscreant. For every friend, there was a foe, and for every foe, there was something worse. And these foes, delinquents, and miscreants were determined to be his ruination. It was clear in the way that those few campers laughed at him behind his back, defied his every statement, fooled around and gossiped and spread lies and fabrications like a virus. Those campers he worried about, kept a close eye on, found himself calling to the Extreme Office for Misbehavation time and time again. Those campers were a liability, for there was no one else he thought would be faster to get the word out about what happened in the Library late February, by the campfires on Halloween, behind the Infirmary in Janurary of 2130, in Tertius a few years before then, and on and on, every incident with the Demons neatly catalogued in a dark corner of his office, just begging to be stolen and spread about. And that? That would be Xiphoid Camp's ruination. For it was their one great flaw: they had never gone a full session without a Demon or Demonic Magics causing harm to a camper. And nobody took that more personally than Fred, a man who worked ceaselessly to bring about the end of Demonic reign. None of his colleagues had this problem. This was something unique to Xiphoid. And that wouldn't do at all. No, Fred would have to fix that. He had had his eye on the Octavos for a while now. They were smart girls, resilient girls. Powerful girls. They'd do well against Demons. Same went for Septimus. Nothing but dangerous strength there, though he'd have to be careful with them. They were toying with forces beyond his control. Not much else was to be said about the other six cabins, and there was nothing at all to be said about Nonus. He would have to make do with what he had. Fred Finch paused his musings for a moment to check his golden wristwatch, a gift his ex-girlfriend had given him many years before. Though its lovely golden sheen had faded to a dull occasional glimmer and its once-smooth face was now cracked in two places, it still ticked on resiliently, and he had found it to be a most reliable and valuable thing to possess. He just about jumped out of his skin when he noticed the time— well past when he had intended to leave for work. He'd be lucky to make it there thirty minutes late. [][]c[]. Hurriedly he tugged on his favorite jacket, the brown tweed one with the elbow patches. It had gotten a bit snug around the shoulders and short about the sleeves over the past few years. He would have to buy a new one. He smoothed down his thinning hair and picked up his briefcase and flew out the door of his apartment, dashing down the hall to the elevator and out the elevator door to his car. There was work to be done. ⋘◦⋙ When he wasn't running Xiphoid Camp, Fred Finch had a more normal desk job, working long hours on the eighteenth floor of the Guild of the Befuddling or Otherwise Extraordinary. The eighteenth floor was reserved for the study of creatures— more specifically, for the study of Demons. Fred was rather important there. He held a small but nonetheless valuable amount of power in the protection of the general public, and he loved his job dearly. He scurried between cubicles as softly and inconspicuously as he could, making an effort to draw as little attention to himself as possible. Once he reached his tiny cubicle, he gave a sigh of relief as he set his briefcase down on his desk. Nobody had noticed that he was late. Luck was on his side today. "Late again, are, we, Finch?" a voice crooned in his ear. "Good heavens!" Fred cried, and his heart leapt in his chest as he turned to face the woman who made it her life's mission to terrorize him. "That's the second time this week. One more and I'll have to *report* you." She leaned against the thin wall of his cubicle, eyes gleaming. Sherry Irving was the closest thing Fred had ever had to a nemesis. Besides the Demons, of course. "I'd rather you not report me, thanks," Fred mumbled. "What was that?" Sherry leaned forward and cupped a hand around her ear. "I'd like to give you a chance to think very hard about what you're going to say to me," "It won't happen again," Fred amended, ducking his head apologetically. "Good." Sherry swept out of the cubicle.
How he disliked Sherry! She was impossible to please, strutting around the office like a peacock in a pantsuit, sticking her nose where it didn't belong and meddling with everything she got her hands on. People ought to mind their own business. All too soon after starting the day's work on the recent assignment he had been given— tracking down those who had had firsthand experiences with Demons— Fred found his thoughts turning to the upcoming summer session at Xiphoid. He was going to be making some changes soon. Longer sessions were something to be considered, for the safety of his campers. The less they were out in the world and open to any attacks from Demons, the better. Perhaps it would even do to have the camp operate year-round, for the campers who were more likely to be targeted. A Junior Counselor with five years of training under their belt was a far bigger threat than a ten-year-old who was entirely unaware of the situation. Yes, that would be something to consider. New staff as well, he would need to get back into touch with some of the older Junior Counselors and see if any of them would be interested in a full-time position. And he'd have to recruit more older campers to work in the dining hall or as custodians or babysitters for the younger kids. There was so much to be done. ⋘◦⋙ The moment the clock struck five, Fred was up out of his seat. He grabbed his briefcase, pulled on his jacket, and fled before Sherry could make her usual rounds asking for volunteers to stay late. Once in the elevator, he hesitated, hand hovering over the button for the ground floor. Just below it was a different button, smaller than the others, emblazoned with a golden "A". The Archives. The Archives were the most interesting part of the building Fred worked in. There, an expansive team of well-compensated professionals worked endlessly to preserve historical records, from some of the earliest webpages from the late 1900s to music from the 2020s and a great variety of other things that, without the Archives, would have fallen into oblivion long ago. He had always wanted to visit the Archives, and for a short while fantasized about working there, but it had never worked out. He even filled out an application once, years before. It now sat at the bottom of the least often used drawer in his desk at home, beneath a pile of loose paperclips and pens that no longer clicked and all sorts of junk. Xiphoid Camp was his life now. And he liked it that way. He hit the button for the ground floor and tore his eyes away from the little black button with the little golden A. He could dream all he wanted, but in the end, the only job that really mattered was the work he did with his campers. The elevator hit floor nine and the doors flew open. A man, average-sized, averagely dressed, stood beside Fred and pressed the button at the very top. Floor twenty-six. Fred did not see what the man's face looked like. A silence fell over the tiny elevator as the walls seemed to press tighter and tighter inward. Fred took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. "Hello, Demon," he said calmly. "You've forgotten to give yourself a face," The blank expanse of skin where the man should have had eyes, a nose, and a mouth bubbled and twisted and at once collapsed in on itself into a grotesque, deep hole out of which a small, angry face just shy of human appeared. The Demon bared its rows of gleaming fangs. Fred slipped a short knife out of the tiny, hidden pocket he had sewn into his jacket. There was work to do. He exited out of the elevator ten minutes later, his off-white shirt turned backwards and jacket sleeves rolled up to conceal the black flecks of Demon's blood that marred the clean fabric, and walked briskly to his car, whistling a jaunty tune. Business as always. Nothing new.
