September's POV
I swear, every time we get dragged into some cosmic nonsense, or tossed into a realm no one approved, or shoved into whatever fever-dream assignment Mother cooked up, the first few chapters of our lives always end up quick, messy, and completely fucky. So… apologies in advance. And sorry for the cursing. Apparently, I swear like a sailor who got kicked out of sailor school. You would think someone born in the Month of Scholars would sound refined. Instead, my vocabulary leans aggressively toward the vulgar. Total opposite of the branding, I know. But trust me—these chapters will get better once we clear the warm-up chaos.
Now here is a little meta for you, since this whole book is basically a meta-satire experiment for your entertainment. The way this works is simple: you are walking in our point-of-view shoes. You hear our thoughts, feel our chaos, and witness our mistakes in real time. Sometimes it will sting. Sometimes it will make sense. Mostly it will make you question your life choices.
I am going to hold your hand when I say this, because the next part might hurt: Hey, reader. I am not mad at you. I am actually proud you have made it through this many chapters and stayed. Thank you for that. Truly.
Anyway, let us start simple before the universe throws another chair at me. I am September. And—upgrade incoming, so brace yourself—I am about to say things to a government worker that HR would have lectured me for, if he did not absolutely deserve it and if he were not surprisingly competent.
"YOU BETTER STOP MESSING WITH ME, ASSHOLE!" That is me yelling at my computer while trying to balance the network accounts. The Mother Cult is not our only moneymaker, but lately they have been poking holes in the budget, and I have a vacation with my sweet Thingy coming up. Thingy has one cloud-leg wrapped around my wrist, smelling like coffee and vibrating like a humidifier with abandonment issues. Officially, they are an "emotional super-animal." Unofficially, they are a weather pet who smells like their last snack and silently judges me.
But you are not here for my emotional support cloud. Mother shoved you into my POV today because I handle the family's money, or at least I am one of the few trusted not to collapse the cosmic banking system by accident. And right now, I am dealing with the IRS. Can you guess what creature they sent? If you thought goblins or leprechauns, congratulations. You just offended two magical labor forces. No. They sent a unicorn.
He looked mostly human—broad shoulders, crisp shirt, and an infuriating sense of self-importance—but his unicorn traits were impossible to miss. The polished spiral horn, the faint shimmering on his skin, and the rainbow-colored nails were all dead giveaways. Sonster law required species like his to maintain a humanoid form when working outside their native realms. He complied, but still carried himself like a mythical tax auditor who believed he was majestic and legally untouchable.
He tapped his horn-finger on my desk, a glittery metronome of judgment. I did not respond, because I was staring—not admiring, just trying to understand how someone could look both majestic and punchable at the same time. He noticed. His iridescent ears twitched and his cheeks turned a pearly pink. "You are staring," he said.
That snapped me out of it so fast my neck cracked. I got up, walked to the cabinet, and forced my voice into something calm. "Sorry for the outburst. Would you like a drink? I have rainbows and berry." He rolled his eyes with unicorn-level dramatics but accepted the rainbow drink anyway. Typical. Annoyed at me, yet far too proud to say no to something aesthetically pleasing.
"Now," he said after a delicate sip, "how will you resolve this? You are late on your taxes, and we may freeze your mother's assets for a month or two, although I doubt that will affect you very much." My eye twitched. Then I slammed my wrist on the table hard enough for the rainbow fizz to jump. Thingy gave a tiny cloud-pop of terror and darted behind the chair to hide. That dramatic wrist slam was a trick I learned from an orc. Or maybe an ogre. There is a huge difference, but I can never remember which one taught me how to intimidate someone without damaging the furniture.
Words shimmered in the air, visible only to me. They read: "They are watching us right now." My instincts tightened, but instead of letting panic take over, I breathed. Something was wrong, but not wrong enough to let my newly repaired office suffer another attack. I had earned this space back after the last catastrophe, and I refused to let it get wrecked again. Not today.
"You know," I said, lowering my voice, "we might be moving too fast on this." He blinked. "I am sorry?" "Dinner," I said firmly. "We are getting dinner. Now." "Dinner?" His horn tilted slightly, like it was confused on his behalf.
"Yes. I can transfer some of my personal funds right now, enough to hold you over until tomorrow. Then you can come back, go over everything again, and we clean it up piece by piece. Sometimes even powerful people make mistakes. We are not above paying taxes. I would rather deal with you than certain entities who think chaos is an acceptable bookkeeping method."
He looked torn between panic and professionalism. Before he could protest, I moved around the desk and began pushing him out of the office. "This is highly unusual," he muttered. "Welcome to my life," I said, nudging him again. "And if something wants to attack me today, it can do it in a public place. Preferably after dessert."
Behind us, Thingy peeked out from behind the chair, trembling like a caffeinated fog bank. I gave them a reassuring nod before shutting my office door. Public dinner. A partial fund transfer. Survive today. Deal with whatever the universe throws at me tomorrow. That was the plan. Or the closest thing to it.