Working Hypothesis Log
Dr. Park: 08:02 Subject still objects to early rise. It complained at first but was quickly appeased with an energy drink from the fridge. Watching for more responses. 
Dr. Park: 09:06 High sugar, high fat cafeteria style diet administered. Sugar bolus seems to attenuate poor attitude.
Dr. Park: 09:54 Subject complained of nausea and motion-sickness on transport, no vomiting or adverse reactions. Likely relation of meal to movement, monitor for similar reaction in future.
Dr. Park: 10:04 Water intake. Approx 400ml. 
Dr. Park: 11:12 No outward aggression to other species, poor attitude does not extend externally to anyone other than assessor. AKA it’s being a little bitch today for no reason. 
Dr. Park: 12:20 Big cat superseded salience- abnormal attentional processing. Apparently the tiger was nicer to him than the assessor. Note: He may be cranky because it’s snack time. 
Dr. Park: 12:54 Food bolus administered. Subject has since decided assessor is the most benevolent creature on the planet. Note: He was cranky because it wa-

“What are you writing down now, mph- I thought you were looking at the ride wait times?” The words come out muffled, a little stifled amidst another bite of Dole Whip.

Guy Drivers is stood in the middle of Disney World’s Animal Kingdom. His chin is resting on the head of a shorter man, pressed against some green safari cap that they are wearing. Clad in some obnoxiously bright orange novelty t-shirt and some camo print shorts that he has already been informed thrice are a ‘crime against humanity and fashion’. An ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other, the next mouthful held out to Dr. Park- no, shit, Ji-hyeong. They aren’t working- technically. It’s with a hiss that the scientist turns off their phone, shoving it back in a cross-body bag with a dozen too many pockets and leans forwards. Their own blue jorts creasing as they do so- matching blue yeti-emblazoned shirt folding in the middle. Catching the shitty plastic spoon and the next bite of ice cream between their teeth. Still just a little too sharp.

“Dude shtop being nosy, I’m trying to score some hot DILF on a family holiday right now and you’re ruining my mojo.” They swallow it down, grateful for the sustenance before darting out and taking a bite out of the remaining ice cream. A teeth-shattering, jaw-clenching, spine-shuddering bite straight out of sub-zero sorbet. But they swallow that down too, a pleased hum, a stupid grin on their face, not even flinching at concept of brain-freeze. Dumbass immortal, impenetrable, unbreakable stubborn bastard that they are.

So Guy looks on in horror at the teeth marks in his ice cream. His ice cream which is now melting in the Florida sun. He bought that with his adult money and he intended to eat it himself. They didn’t even want one. No joke, he asked about seven times and every time they claimed they were full, or were waiting for a better snack opportunity, or didn’t like his choice in dogshit ice cream and NOW- it’s fine. He drags them a little closer, a hand around their ribs to glare at them from a shorter distance. More intense. Fucking seething.

“You owe me an ice-cream, Ji-hyeong Park.” Oooh. The full name. Real scary.

Instead of immediately apologising- of proclaiming innocence and accidence and all those other instinctual reactions that a person with any ounce of integrity might have, they turn around. Grin at him with those sharp, awful fangs, and press a quick kiss to his frown.

They taste like pineapple. His stolen pineapple. Yellow and orange- tropical instead of the overly sweet blue raspberry that he has become so familiar with.

(Piece of shit.)

He gets a pat on the face for his troubles, and before he can even complain they have pulled away, slipped out of his jealous grasp. Phone back up and open and walking in some sort of unintelligible direction. Guy has… no idea where either of them are going. Sure, he normally navigates and drives and plans and organises and does- just about everything mind-numbingly dull but Disney World is a different beast. And Ji-hyeong Park- who apparently has an annual pass despite living in Toronto, Canada- seems to know it like the back of their hand. Claws. Flipper?

Dr. Park: 13:01 subject unusually protective over his possessions. 

“Come on big guy, the wait is down to like… twenty minutes and you won’t let me single rider. Hurry the fuck uppppp. God, you walk like you’ve only got one leg or something.” Asshole. They aren’t much faster, leaning on their cane, refusing to use the disability access entrance in Animal Kingdom because apparently it ‘spoils the imagineering’. Whatever that means.

So that is how Guy Drivers ends up in the front of some small beat up looking cart- a roller-coaster he has been assured is ‘really not scary at all’ after only an 18 minute wait. His partner, however, is practically bouncing in their seat. Vibrating up and down with an excitement that is terrifying to behold- their fanatical excitement and thrill is usually a very bad sign.

A really bad sign.

Because within a few moments there is the crunch of rustic gears, the lull of tracks, and they are at least 70ft up in the air. The open fucking air. Nothing either side of them and no railings even- why the fuck does a roller coaster need to ascend a mountain. Why the fuck does Ji-hyeong need to peer over the side like they are going to fall out and be crushed to pieces in the descent and-

A smaller claw-tipped hand reaches out, entwining with his. Awkwardly clammy and wet and impossibly sweaty in the humid heat but- it’s there. It allows him to cling to them for the rest of the ascent. Let’s him stare, white-knuckled, at his blue-eyed freak for the most of the ride- a halfway decent distraction until they reach ripped up tracks, the top of a mountain, and there’s a switch track clicking into place.

Ji-hyeong squeezes his hand “Sorry dude, didn’t wanna tell you in case you bailed.”.

They get the words out just in time before they begin plummeting back down the mountain, faster. Backwards. A rush of cold air as they enter the dark, icy caves of Mount Everest. Into the lair of the Yeti.

“JI-HYEONG I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU-“

Dr. Park: 13:45 Subject still suffers from severe acrophobia. Exposure therapy unsuccessful. 

Written by Faith W.

CW: Mild gore

It's dark in this room, in Toronto. It's dark, and the recent hiree of GRAIL who lays within it is achy, hurting, and feeling a little nauseous.

On their wall is a pinboard of a hundred sordid little documents, photographs, notes; on the floor lies an end-of-contract payout from Sceau d'Or, unopened, and on the bed lies them.

Their mind is fuzzy. They reckon they ought to be thinking about a lot of stuff. Stuff that happened a… while ago, now.

Their mouth opens, throat dry, but voice, as always, bright and chipper.

"Hey, Guy."

The other figure on the bed, that their floppy body is draped over like a blanket, opens one of his eyes. "Hmmh?"

"What th’fuck were we up to - the past few months?"

Screams. Blood on the wheels, on the tracks, on the ice, on the spires. A popstar's life bleeds away into the ice. Ji-Hyeong thinks, consciously, in their mind, that they probably ought to feel something about this.

They do not.

They cling tighter to their warm-coated prize. Their one victory out of all of this.

They cling to him, and smile, and wonder when they will get to come back.

Their bones judder on the rollercoaster. Their teeth glint. Beside them, their prize clutches onto the safety-rack with a trepidation that feels ready to crush it into a scrumpled plastic blob.

The coaster comes to a halt, at the very top of Everest, where the track sits broken, adorned above with lines of bunting.

Their prize looks at them, and shakes his head rapidly. He is grimacing. His eyes - both of them, an odd shade of brown that almost looks orange - are wide.

They smile back at him.

The locks release, and the rollercoaster slides backwards down into the darkness.

Guy’s Mom’s thanksgiving turkey is actually really good. Annoyingly so. They eat it, and the stuffing, and the potatoes, and all the other omnivore food with practiced ease. This has won them some good graces with the indomitable Paula Drivers, whose glare over her son coming home with a missing leg and an unclearly defined intimate relationship with a Korean-Canadian psychopath has slightly softened in the time he’s been back.

They still need to work on his sisters, though. There are four of them, between the ages of fourteen and twenty. None of them like Dr. Park even a little bit. But they’ll win them around eventually. They always do.

And so they walk through the spray-foam of Niagara, and wave from their blue-coated ferry to Guy’s red-coated one,

And so they wander, like the terrible Americaboo they are, through the streets of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, and tug their prize’s arm, bouncing up-and-down at the gates of Dollywood,

And so they float at the beach, and clasp in their hands, like a burger, a live crab, which they throw, and immediately dislocate their shoulder;

And so they look up into the night sky at the Berlin christmas markets, one hand in a glove, one hand in someone else’s hand, and open their tongue to the snow.

Guy Drivers thinks.

He thinks, because he remembers the blood, and the plane, and the tears, and the strain, and everything that hurt more than he can imagine.

And he looks into their blue, blue eyes, 

And decides that reminding them can wait.

“Just a bunch of bullshit, really.”

They snort. “A’rright. Mm. Uh.” They fumble for his phone—for the time. “...When’s our flight to London?”

“Two days, 10pm.”

A contented sigh. Like a seal, resting on an icy floe.

And they go right back to sleep.