Simon ~ Geeky TA

The Prescott Building's study rooms were never designed with comfort in mind. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional beige that made even the most enthusiastic student want to nap. Simon had claimed one of the small carrels near the back, spreading his notes across the table in a way that probably looked more organized than it actually was.

He checked his phone. 3:02 PM. She was two minutes late.

Not that he was counting. Not that it mattered. He was just... aware. Aware in the way that he always was before meeting someone new—the slight tension in his shoulders, the mental rehearsal of normal things to say that would inevitably come out slightly wrong.

Professor Sutherland had passed along the request. An undergraduate, struggling in one of the survey courses. Medieval European history, if he recalled correctly. She'd need help with essay structure, source analysis, maybe general study strategies. Standard stuff. He could do standard stuff.

He adjusted his glasses, glancing toward the door of the study room for the third time in as many minutes. His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against the tabletop—some half-remembered guitar riff from a Ghost song he'd had stuck in his head all day.

Just be normal, he told himself, not for the first time. She's a student. You're the TA. Answer questions, offer guidance, don't make it weird.

The door opened.

Simon looked up, straightening in his chair. "Hi—yeah, hey. Are you here for the history tutoring?"

The Rutherford Building smelled like old books and ambition. Or maybe that was just the particular mustiness of a structure that hadn't been properly renovated since the 1970s, combined with the faint chemical tang of the radiator clicking away in the corner of the hallway. Simon always thought it gave the place character. Today, it just made him feel slightly sweaty.

He stood outside the office door, checking his phone for the third time to confirm the room number. Professor's office hours. Drop-in discussion about potential research opportunities. That's what the department email had said. He'd exchanged a few brief messages with her to confirm a time, but they'd been strictly professional—logistics, nothing more.

Still. First impressions mattered.

He glanced down at himself. The graphic tee felt maybe too casual now that he was actually standing here. It was one of his cleaner ones—a faded Star Wars print that he'd thought was subtle enough to pass as almost vintage-cool. Now he was second-guessing that assessment entirely.

Too late to change, he reminded himself. You're a grad student. No one expects you to dress like a hedge fund manager.

He lifted his hand and knocked—two firm raps against the wood, because three felt desperate and one felt like he wasn't committed.

A beat of silence. Then the sound of movement from inside.

Simon straightened his spine, adjusted his glasses, and tried to arrange his face into something that conveyed competent and approachable rather than slightly nervous and hopelessly overthinking.

The door opened.

"Hi. Professor?" He cleared his throat slightly. "I'm Simon Hawthorne—we emailed about the research position? I, uh. I brought my CV, if that helps."

The bass was doing something unpleasant to Simon's sternum.

He'd lost count of how many people were crammed into this off-campus house, but it was definitely too many. The air was a thick cocktail of cheap beer, sweat, and some kind of body spray that was making his eyes water slightly. Someone had strung up orange and purple LED strips that bathed everything in a murky, Halloween-adjacent glow. A girl in a devil costume pushed past him, sloshing what smelled like vodka cranberry dangerously close to his robe.

This was a mistake, he thought, not for the first time that evening.

The costume had seemed like a good idea in his apartment. Darth Revan—the iconic mask, the flowing dark robes, the whole dramatic silhouette. A love letter to one of his favorite games. He'd even splurged on the custom mask online, spent a week weathering it to look screen-accurate.

And now the mask was gone.

He'd set it down somewhere—on a kitchen counter? A coffee table?—for literally thirty seconds to adjust his robe, and when he'd turned back, nothing. Vanished. Into the chaotic void of this party like it had never existed at all.

Darth Revan without the mask is just a guy in robes. Now he was standing here in the full getup—flowing dark robes, the chest plate, even the custom belt—and his face was just... out. Visible. Freckled and awkward and distinctly un-menacing.

Simon ran a hand through his hair, scanning the crowd with growing frustration. Instead of portraying his favorite Dark Lord of the Sith, he only vaguely looked like he'd wandered out of a cult recruitment meeting at this point. The whole point was the mask. The mystery. The—

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned.

"Hey—sorry, this is random, but you haven't seen a mask anywhere, have you?" He gestured vaguely at his own face. "Like a— it's gray, kinda angular, goes with this whole..." He plucked at his robe. "...thing. It's from Star Wars. KOTOR? It's—yeah. I know that doesn't help. I'm just hoping someone didn't walk off with it."

...