I was stressed, to say the least. Standing in the wide, glass doors of the Animal Research Center, I realized just how stressed I was. A new batch of acne littered my hair line, my hands were clammy and slick, and I couldn't stop fidgeting with my thin bracelet.

"Outta the way!" A young girl cries, shoving past me, "Move, move!" In her arms, wrapped in a neon green jacket, something chirps. She has a ponytail full of light blonde hair that bounced as she charged past. I craned my neck to look, but she was barreling her way down the empty hallway. I watched her skid into a room, the door kicked open.

'Maybe she could help me,' crossed my mind. I glanced down at the papers in my hand, 'Where is Professor Dean?'

I bit my lip and started towards the room the girl had sprinted to. But I couldn't stop myself from looking around me, at the people hurrying from room to room. One of the walls had circular windows cut in it. A dolphin swam past. I only caught the tail, but it was, indefinitely, a dolphin.

Doors anchored rooms to the main one. When I looked in one window, I saw snakes in their habitats, idly slumbering under the artificial sunlight. Someone had left an AC/DC playlist running- I could faintly hear Hell's Bells. In another room, nothing but microscopes and posters lined the walls. One of said walls was a clear window, showing an enclosure; but I couldn't see what animal it was.

Once I stopped sightseeing, I picked up my snails pace. The place I'd watched the blonde disappear into was the next room over, so that's where I headed. The door was silent as I opened it, thankfully.

She was using baby-talk to talk with a turtle, like the ones you'd see on the side of the road.

"Hey, there, baby," she cooed, rubbing the shell with a gloved hand. It was cracked, like the turtle had been hit. Red leaked from the crack, slow and trickling. I swallowed whatever nausea decided 'Hey, let's ruin your lunch! And life!' and stepped forward. Two doctors- I suppose I'll have to learn their names- hurried around it.

"Liz," one of the doctors, the cute one with brown hair, put a hand on her shoulder, "please, wait outside."

"Hm?" She looked up and nodded, clearly dazed, "Oh, yes! Yes! Right." She stood, stepped to the door, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out. I mean literally dragged me, because she was shorter than me by a good six inches, and was toting me around after her like a wayward child. I stammer as I stumble, awkwardly trying to get my thoughts in order. Who was she? Why was she grabbing my arm? What the hell was going on?

My thoughts clouded my sight and sense. I didn't snap back into the real world until the door swung shut behind me- us- whatever!

"Uh, um," I babble, "c-could you-"

"Hi!" She greets, ignoring my words, "Do you need help? You're a new face, you must be lost!"

"Actually, yeah!" I smile- maybe she could help me find the Professor!

"Whatcha need, sugar?" She grinned back.

"Do you know where I could find Professor Dean? I can't seem to find his room, and the file I was given only tells me where he should be, not where he is." I held the piece of paper out so she could see.

"You've got some problems," she took the paper, "One, Dean was running late. Two, Dean is a last name. Three, Dean's first name is Vega." I sputtered and turned red, but she continued, "Four? I saw a turtle on the side of the road on my way to work, hurt, and my bleeding heart stopped to pick it up. Fifteen minutes late!" She scoffs, "I'm here now. You Henry Solas?"

"Yes? How do you know my name? Did you read my file?"

"Yep!" Her grin is lopsided, "And your application. Background check, resume, acceptance letter... Hell, I wrote that one. Vega Dean, at your service," she stuck out her hand. I shook it, but my brain wasn't working properly. I stammered as I shook her hand. Vega smiled, sweet but awkward.

"I'm so sorry!" I babble, "I should've never assumed!"

"You shouldn't have, but it's human to err. Pity. I think Sam and Arthur have this under control- it's only a hit 'n' run turtle.” Vega untied her hair. Turns out that her hair isn’t a light blonde. Instead, it's shock-white with black tips. It's a lot longer than I expected; it ends up ghosting her middle back. I see, now, what she’s wearing. Paint-splattered jeans and a AC/DC shirt that's only one size too big.

“Is it your playlist in the herpatology room?”

“The lizards? Yeah. Is that where I left my phone?” Vega made a face that looked a lot like the dash emoticon. She ran, quicker than I expected someone of her size, straight to the herpatology room. A quick swipe of a keycard that's elasticly connected to her belt, and she swings the door open for me.

“We’'ll see about getting you a k-card,” she let the door shut behind me, before tapping on the glass of a iguana, “Hello, beautiful! Did’ya sleep well?” It doesn't respond, of course. It's an iguana. It does lazily look at her.

Her phone, now blasting Highway To Hell, is fat and wearing a galaxy case unlike any I'd ever seen.

“Woah… Where did you get that case?”

“This li’l thing?” She sounds American, and turns the phone over in her nails. Her violet eyes grow soft and she smiles, just as soft. “My sister painted it for me as a going-away present. Doesn't it just feel real? If the paint ever chips, I know I'm taking a break to go back.”

“Where is your sister?” I ask as I follow her out. I must resemble a lost dog, eyes wide as I wait for her response.

“Alaska,” she responds. Vega is fast- her convers click as she hurried down the file. Her hair, which falls in lazy waves, bounces as we go, “My office is around here somewhere. Ah! There it is!” She points with a slender finger. When she lets me in, I can’t help but to feel a twinge of disgust. It's large, and it's cluttered with files and books. There’s a bookshelf on the left wall, floor-to-ceiling, and its only half full. I recognize some of the books as biology books, some as chemistry, and a few on psychology. But that's only one fourth of the shelf, the higher rungs. The lower two shelves have sloppy binders and untitled journals, probably hers. And the two shelves at her chest height are stuffed with fiction books. I can see the complete set of Harry Potter, Mortal Instruments, a few John Green books, The Complete Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes, A Midsummers Night Dream, Alice in Wonderland, several books concerning mythology, and a load of books, all in a line, by different authors but with the same artwork on it. Four of these are called 'Dragonlance', with the last one seperated by a multitude of other short series. Three of those are worn and beaten, and two are missing the front cover entirely. Her fingers rest on the shiniest fourth one as she dances past.

“So, Henry, welcome to ARC, or ‘The Arc’ as I call it. You specifically wanted to be an assistart. Mind telling me why? Don’t hesitate to make yourself at home here.” She scoops up a large file, eyes the photo I can't see, and flips it shut. She slids it on the near full other half of the bookshelf, in between a thick file and a thin file.

I don’t have a good answer. I don't know why I wanted that, I just did. It was one of those things that I couldn’t explain. After I sit on one of the chairs in front of her desk, I shrug. There’s a stepstool next to it, flush against the desk, that I think she’s forgotten was there.

“Okayyy,” she hums, plopping down on her chair. In movies, it's a big and leather chair that gives a creepy vibe. Vega’s chair is probably the exact opposite; it happens to be bright blue and fuzzy. She wiggles into it and sighs, “Your PhD. Botany? What makes a plant want to work at a zoo?”

I shrug again, “I wanted to. I have bachelorates in zoology, too.”

“I know.” She must feel my anxiety, because she laughs, “Hon, if I weren't going to hire you, you wouldnt be here. Got any questions?”

“If you don’t mind, what are your PhDs in? I couldn’t find any references to them, except for a ‘multiple’ under your bio on the website.”

“Biology,” she replies, nochalant and tired. She shuts what I presume is my file and stands to slide it into the file shelf.

“But which kind? Branches? Herpetology, mammalology?” I’d name more, but I can’t remember them at the time. I’ll remember them later.

“Uh,” she curls back into the chair,eyes glazed with thought. “Herpetology and marine biology, mammalology, psychology… Not bugs, I don't like bugs. Plus a bachelorate in chemistry.”

“How long were you in college?” The words escape my mouth before I can stop them. I feel bad, instantly, because that's a question I should not have asked.

“Eight years,” she opens another file, “I multitasked.”

I'm officially in awe of her. My mouth is hanging open as she shuts the file. I expect her to go around her desk like she has the past few times. Vega is full of surpises, it seems, since she walks across her messy desk. She kicks a few files out of the way with her toes as she goes. It looks like a second nature to her, strutting across her tabletop like it's the floor. She took her shoes off, now that I can see her feet. Her nails are painted purple, and she has a few anklets resting on the nob of bone. One of them looks African, one looks Indonesian, and the final one has a washer with letters stamped into the metal. They rustle as she steps off the desk onto the stepstool. So she didn't forget it.

“So, you've got the job. Beware, though, my day is busy and I rarely get time to daydream. Could you go grab me a breakfast bagel? I have to hit the showers and change. I bike to work, see.” I nod, unusually excited to be helping out, “feel free to grab yourself something at the cafeteria.” She scribbles down something on a notepad, rips the page out, and hands it to me. It contains the directions to the cafeteria and how she likes her bagels. There's thirty-five euros here.

Vega’s directions are absolute crap. I spend fifteen minutes wandering around the halls until someone spots me.

“Hey!” It’s the doctor, the cute brunette, from earlier. I jerk around to look.

“Oh, hi,” I stammer and look down at my paper, “could you help me?”

“You did look a little lost. Arthur.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. I do, smiling awkwardly. He’s roughly my height.

“Henry. Could you tell me where to find the cafeteria?”

“I could take you,” he says, “It’s a little confusing on your first day.”

“That’d be amazing,” my voice is quiet. He starts walking, presumably toward the cafeteria. I follow. His steps are bigger and quicker than mine. He’s nice, though, because he slows down so we walk together.

“So,” he tries for small talk, “you’re the new assistant?”

“Yes,” I respond, “just hired, apparently.”

“Vey has a habit of doing that. Last time, I was halfway out the door before she hollered after me.” He must be irish. “Sam says she was at her car when Vey came sprinting after her. But Bea makes stuff up- if she tells a story, I’d recommend fact-checking it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She tends to exaggerate and romanticize things. Oh, if she tells you any stories about me; none of those are true. None.” He laughs. I laugh. We’re laughing.

Arthur is sweet. The cafeteria is huge. After I buy the bagel for Vega (cream cheese, mustard, bacon, ham, lettuce, vinegar and oil, and onion bits), he offers to buy me a coffee. I let him. He takes his black, I take mine sugary.

“Would you like some coffee with that sugar?” he jokes, sipping at his. I stick my tongue out and reply.

“It's a cup of death,” I shake my cup at his, “How can you drink that?”

“Years of training,” he sips again. I pop the top off of mine and lick the whipped cream, “how can you stand that?”

“A heavy sweet tooth,” is my response. I lick the cream again.

“Ah,” he wipes at his nose, “you kinda… got something.”

Cream getting on my nose has been happening to me since I started drinking coffee in high school. That doesn't mean it's not embarassing. I flush and use my collar to wipe it off. He chuckles and sips at his coffee again.

“Does Ms. Dean take sugar? In her coffee, I mean.”

“No. Vey hardly drinks alcohol. If she does, it's cold coffee from her thermos. I don’t know what's in that thing.” He leans in to whisper in my ear, “Bea and I have this theory- she spikes everything.” Adrian’s laughing, but I’m not so sure. Does she? If she is an alcoholic, I’m not sure if I’d have a job after much time.

Adrian notices my thoughts and tells me to, “Lighten up, Henry, it's a joke. She hardly drinks booze, remember?” I remember this, now. I've never been more embarrassed. He laughs at me and I turn red. He claps a hand on my shoulder and chuckles, “don't worry, 'ry, it's an easy mistake to make.”

Adrian and I spend about ten minutes drinking our coffees. And that's only because I violently remembered the bagel in the white little box in my hand. It was cold when I got it, thankfully, and I nearly shriek.

“Forgot about it?” He asks, “I do that sometimes.”

“I'm sorry,” I apologize as we’re walking back to Vega's office, “thank you for the coffee and showing me around.”

“No problem.” He smiles and turns a light shade of pink. It's cute, “Maybe we could go on an actual date sometime?”

I should be turning red, but I’m not. Maybe it’s adrenline?

“Sure. Yes. I’d like that,” I nod. God, I must sound like an idiot. We say our good-byes, and I'm just turning red. A few steps away from each other and I realize I hadn't grabbed his number. Sprinting back is easy, I can see his blue scrubs as he shuffles to the room where the other doctor and the turtle was.

“Wait! Arthur! I never got your number!” I pant. I'm so out of shape.

“You’re right,” he laughs and hands me his phone after fishing it out of his pocket. I tap my number and name into the contacts while he does the same with my phone. His background is a sunset over water.

Now that that's been done, I actually head back to Vega’s office. I probably shouldn't call her Vega, since we’re not on first-name basis.

Dean isn’t angry, despite that she’s been waiting for a few minutes. She dries her hair with a green towel as I try to explain away what had happened.

“It’s alright, kid,” she laughs and snatches the box from me. The bagel drips vinegar and oil as she tears into it with her teeth, “I saw Arthur steal you with his dazzling smile and sweet words. Sorry my directions were bad. Never been good at those,” she’s talking with her mouth full. Ew. “But good thing you made a friend.” I flush. She giggles, "Maybe something more? Tell me, tell me, tell me! C’mon, Henry, you gotta fill me in! Drama happens so rarely around here!”

I tell her about the date. She squeals and bounces on the balls of her feet and hugs me. Her hair is wet. It leaves a damp imprint on my shoulder. It’s awkward, but also a bit comforting. Americans are weird. Dean acts like the older sister I never had, despite hardly knowing me for a day. Are all Americans like this? It’s… horrendously intimate. But. But. I feel like Dean is going to be a close friend.

My first assignment is to help set up the stage.