#thread: the ingenue 001

[missvane]

When: 14 July, 1800 Where: Mrs. Bell’s Modiste Who: @margaretmulgrave

She needed to get out of the house, away from her thoughts and the red paint that now adorned the entrance to the townhome. There were a number of places she could go: the park, Hatchard’s, Piccadilly Arcade, Somerset House... and yet all held the terrifying risk of running into those she was attempting to avoid. So instead, Ophelia chose a rather infrequent location, and one she felt quite sure would offer the freedom of an unwanted run-in. An appointment at the modiste. 

Unfortunately for her, Whistledown had seen to it that any anonymity would be impossible to come by, and as she and Bridget made their way to Mirs. Bell’s, eyes followed them from all directions. If nothing else, Ophelia felt exhausted, and she for, perhaps the first time ever, she felt relief as the bell chimed upon their entrance to the dressmaker’s. 

But it would seem she was not the only one to have thought this place a refuge, or perhaps Lady Mulgrave drowned her sorrows in fabric in ribbon. Either way it seemed the two had similar ideas. 

“Lady Mulgrave,” she said, with a nod of greeting. “What a lovely welcome we received upon our return to London, hm?

[conradmowbray]

Lady Margaret Mulgrave turned Harcourt... It was a union of some import. The Harcourt name was standing on it’s final leg, and the Mulgrave dukedom was in the hands of a woman. Conrad expected that both families were pleased with marriage, and that by summer next there would be a proper heir to merge the two. 

He had not had the distinct pleasure of being introduced to Lady Harcourt prior to the luncheon, but he had heard whispers of her pleasant nature and rather becoming appearance. He had, in particular, taken interest in the tales of her successful captaining during the Bennetton Regatta. 

Leaning over towards the countess, Conrad offered a smile, and a dip of his head in greeting. “Lady Harcourt, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I’m Lord Mowbray.”

@margaretmulgrave​

[infinitycircuit]

despite everything, it's still you. | mm epilogue

It doesn’t take long to shut TAP down. The place was designed to be pulled apart anyway, so it’s only a week or so before the last gold plated toilet is boxed up and shipped to a clueless eBay seller. The train- shining jewel of human ingenuity, unknowing venue of a million killing games, overall tacky piece of shit- is carefully dismantled and scrapped for parts, although the whereabouts of the actual time machine components is a secret known to Lindsay alone. …Well, maybe not just Lindsay. One of the low-level employees saw Employee 001 grab a stack of notes and walk off muttering something about an “infinite wife timeloop”, but they didn’t give it that much thought.

Three days after the Hunt for Red- er, the Yoshioka Expr- er, the Hell Train to Fucksville rolls to its final stop, MEATCOPTER69 springs back to life on all social media. Sorry for the absence, meatlings, but guess what? That’s right- there’s a volcanic island in the middle of the Pacific and it’s about to host the grandest, stupidest influencer tournament ever. The Meatlympics are Manifesting.

Fourteen days after that, the entity known as “MEATCOPTER69”, or Lindsay Tsai, tragically- but, like, kind of awesomely- perishes in a massive explosion at the closing ceremony. It runs on the news for weeks. All of Lindsay’s social media accounts are set to ‘archived’. Long-suffering roommate Akihiko Yamada makes a mint selling most of Lindsay’s belongings to crazed fans.  He’s fine with it, after all. “Lindsay Tsai” is dead, but someone else lives on.

(Somewhere, among the countless articles covering the Meatlympics Tragedy, a fascinating op/ed is published in the Taipei Times by one Emily Tsai which recounts the troubled past of her now-dead younger sibling. By the time it gets translated and spread among the English meatling fanbase, however, many of them have already made peace with the fact their idol probably wasn’t that great of a person.)

Over the next few weeks and months the anonymous backers of the Tsaimeline Alteration Project begin to reap their rewards. A copy of Citizen Kane with them in the background. A realistic prehistoric echidna fursuit. The full, 60-edition run of Sex Thanos. What looks to be, for all intents and purposes, THE original Red Octobers. How these things came to pass, who knows? Forgeries, perhaps? Or did someone shove the time machine into the back of a Honda Civic to get the job done? It doesn’t matter. Time rolls on, and the final threads are tied up.

So, at some point…

At some point there’s a nice little apartment in a place far removed from the hellhole of Los Angeles. There’s a careful assortment of plants on the balcony that aren’t too hard to care for. A collection of weird shit on the mantelpiece, juxtaposed with expensive furniture and two purebred pomeranians waddling about the living room. A scorched pan left to soak in the sink after a cooking attempt gone wrong; novelty-print toilet paper in the bathroom, because at the end of the day, you can’t truly scrub ironic shitposting out of your soul.

And there’s a woman. Short and slim, black hair in loose curls, orange eyes gleaming with delight. She’s draped over the arm of the couch, ordering takeaway as one of her two dogs tries to chew on her foot. Tonight, probably Thai food. Tomorrow, Koyo and Guy are in town, so she’s taking them out to dinner. The day after that is raid night, but more importantly, she’s got wedding plans to discuss. And the week after that… Well, they’re long overdue to visit Ume, so she’ll need to find someone to dog-sit. It couldn’t be a more mundane, normal existence if you tried.

But that’s fine by her. As long as she has one thing, nothing else matters. And that one thing-

- “Saya?”

She lifts her head. A voice calls from the bedroom, where they still need to finish unpacking all their furniture.

“Huh? What?”

- “Did you figure out what we’re having?”

“Oh- yeah, sure, red curry. What do you want to watch while we eat? I have seven different insipid reality competition shows for you to choose from, babe.”

There’s a bit of choked laughter from the other room.

- “Christ. It’s your choice, then.”

“Okay!”

She smirks and orders food.

It arrives in due time, by which point she and her fiancé are already curled up on the couch. One dog is asleep between them while the other one is begging for curry far too spicy for it to eat. Project Runway (season 11) is blasting on the TV; Saya, who watched this a million times in the background when she was trying to perfect time travel half a decade ago, knows all the dramatic twists by heart. But that’s fine too. It’s another cozy night in. It’s another normal night for a normal couple, living their normal lives.

In time, she will get married, and she’s going to hurl the bouquet directly at Koyo’s head. In time, the confused looks she gets on the street, the people asking if she’s related to ‘that influencer who exploded on an island’ will fade away. In time she will grow old, and her husband will grow old, too.

Hibayashi Saya will be the rich aunt to her classmate’s children, the eccentric patron keeping many Vriska fan artists Patreons afloat, bankroller of whatever weird and wacky pursuits her classmates want to pursue over the years. In ten more years she will host another reunion that isn’t on a train, and Ume’s kid will find her Chanel lipstick in her purse and eat the whole tube, and she’ll just smile and nod.

In time, nobody will ever remember tragic and poisonous Lindsay Tsai. But they will remember Saya. Not for inventing time travel, or for generating an unfathomable amount of clout, or for successfully putting a hit out on Andrew Hussie. But for being a good friend, for being happy, and- most of all- for being in love, love, love, the only thing she ever wanted in the first place.

(And in time, she is eventually going to wake up and see Takako at her front door holding a ten foot crab from three hundred million years ago, but that’s a problem for another day.)