[PRP] Magical Mishaps Inc. (Pickles + Harrow)

[Toshihiko Two]

In Halloween there were many towns, streets, and neighborhoods more catering to one species than the others. There were also many hazards that could befall a Halloween resident (primarily among them incidents involving mishandled Fear), and among those many types of Fear. For those that involved Reapers (or more specifically, Magic), there was a tall and shaky building in the Reaper Business District. Thie building, called Magical Mishaps Inc., handled such misfortunes. It encompassed tables gone mad, faucets that would only deliver a stream of mice, and any variety of spells, curses, and hexes gone amuck. Parts of this job were, to be sure, interesting.

Other parts involved massive amounts of paperwork.

It was to this part, the paperwork part, that Pickworth was headed with several impossibly stuffed bags of folders.

His father had sent him to work as personal assistant for another company, mainly for his insubordination, and he had been doing so dutifully in between school. The problem, of course, with the Office of Magical Mishaps was that the building seemed to be full of...exactly that. Pickworth ducked a flying pat of butter and side-stepped a ferociously barking office chair to arrive, wild-eyed and panting, at Harrow's desk. He struggled, and then plopped the massive bag of papers on top of said desk.

andbeblue

 

[and be blue]

To his family, Harrow had described this as an internship in an important, managerial kind of position. He had made it seem like he was doing something real, maybe managerial. It was in the business district. It was official. And his father had, just vaguely, approved.

The truth of it, though, was that Harrow had more or less become someone's secretary, himself, with grand duties that mostly consisted of sorting mail, delivering messages, and making sure the actually-important people got the files they so desperately needed. It was dull, it was repetitive, it was small, but it took a certain organized monotonous skillset that was the very core of Harrow's being.

His father could never know. And definitely couldn't know he really enjoyed it.

Still. The bag of papers raised his eyes from whatever it was he'd been sorting carefully into columns on a scraptop, and pinched the corners of his mouth down again. The look he finally turned up to Pickworth, instead, was borderline accusatory. He didn't need to say anything, it was clear on his face:

What did I ever do to you?

Toshihikotwo