The beeping from your phone jerks you awake, and it keeps beeping until you rise from the cold floor to turn it off. You moan in self-pity, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, as you move around your room opening the blinds to the glaring sun. Your place isn't much; a single living room/bedroom with an attached kitchen and separate washroom. It's cramped compared to your old home, but quite frankly you think it's almost too spacious. Aren't university students supposed to be bundled together like logs in dorms? Well, you weren't going to complain. At least this granted you some privacy, even if you had to take the futon out and move the table-
Wait.
Shit
.
Meow.
Your table calls at you from the kitchen countertop. You lock eyes with it. The clock ticks in the silence.
"I, uh, don't have anything for you to eat." You say lamely.
You don't know how, but your ex-furniture managed to convey an expression of supreme disdain at you. The dark-stripped tabby cat leaped down from it's resting place and wandered towards the center of your living room, acting as if your existence had ceased to matter. You were just wondering if you should call Animal Control (did the building even allow pets?) when there was a
popping sound and the cat turned into your tea table.
You sat down on the sofa. Huh. Guess that wasn't a dream.
***
[Insightful: You're experiences have given you a keen sense of what makes people tick...]
You cup your hands around the cup of tea you just brewed. You're taking this surprisingly well, all things considered. If you were to guess, you think getting shitfaced last night may have been the right choice, allowing you to release the stress from earth-shattering revelation in the form of dreams. You vaguely remember half a dozen of them, each more bizarre than the last.But you're already forgetting them, the memories melting away in the rising sun like mildew.
However, you remember enough. About the woman-the Headmistress. The offer. The promise. The apology. Your subconscious had an entire night to pour over what had happened, the slight changes in the older woman's expression as the conversation continued, the subtle shifts in body language you had learned through trial and error back in high school.
And unless you were way off base, which you admit you may very well be, it seemed as if the Headmistress wasn't really looking at you. It was hard to put your finger on what exactly made you think this, but your gut tells you that throughout the entire conversation, she didn't see you as a person, but as something else.
You chew on your thumbnail contemplatively. A symbol perhaps? A reminder? The crisis eighteen years ago, on the day you were born; perhaps she would be reminded of that every time she saw you.
[Counter-Trait Gained!]
[Disillusioned: ......and you're not impressed. You have a hard time opening up and letting people in.]
As per usual, people only see what they want to see, not what's actually there. Was the bit about how Hogwarts only discovered you now a lie? It's not like you can trust someone who comes out of the blue proclaiming your a long lost heir or something equally ludicrous.
No matter. You managed to get through both middle school and highschool. Your entire social arsenal consists of weapons to distract and divert attention. Three years under that Headmistress is nothing.
You're going to grab every last snatch of magic you can get your hands on.
***
Oh, I'd rather be a leper than a Tab!
It's Monday morning.
I'd rather be a leper than a Tab!
You are hungover.
I'd rather be a leper-
You just spent the past hour doing icebreakers with others in your Fresher group-
I'd rather be a leper-
-another hour spent listening to a junior explain about some ridiculous traditions they would be forced to undergo-
Oh, I'd rather be a leper-
-the strangest of which is that students from Cambridge are now called 'Tabs'-
-than a Tab-
-and you still haven't fully digested the fact that you're now Magical-
-than a TAAAAAAABB!
And now you're forced to sing chants before you can go eat lunch. Appalling example of academic hazing.
"It's a bit much, isn't it." A voice to the right of you asks.
You turn. A lanky, dark-skinned student is there, lounging with his hands in his pockets against a wide oak trunk. You brain stutters for a second, before spitting out a name.
"Brian, right?" Your voice, like his, is raw from yelling. "No Driver's license, and scared of squirrels? You lied about the size of your bank account, if I recall correctly."
He gives a friendly grin. "Can't believe you remember that. I mean, I completely forgot everyone else when they were doing theirs."
"Bell." You say, returning his grin and moving down to where the luncheon line is forming. "Pre-Med, Univ."
"Brian Clarke. Jurisprudence, Hertford College." He says, stretching up and coming down to join you. You note he has a few inches on you and his accent is interesting. You see hints of a tattoo peeking out from his collar and sleeve, flame-like.
"Jurisprudence?" You question, before it hits you. "You mean Law?"
He flashes white teeth at you. "Larger words opens larger doors."
You laugh at the joke, as expected. "You sure-"
"There's that fake smile again!"
You blink at the interruption. "I'm sorry?"
Brian waves his hand, brushing the matter aside. "Nothing, nothing. So, Hertford was pretty crazy last night. Anything wild happen at Univ?"
Oh, you have no idea.
You spend the rest of your lunch chatting with Brian and others in your Fresher group. Everyone has the similar stories about the stupid shit people pulled yesterday, the day after moving day. As much as you hate to admit it, you find yourself having fun, joking and ribbing each other over things they claimed to have done. You decline the invitation to a house party later that night, pleading you still have to unpacking problems. Such an excuse will only hold up for a few weeks however.
As lunch breaks and your group heads to the next activity, you feel...
[] Invigorated: Cracking jokes at lunch, laughing at drinking stories, a heady atmosphere of excitement and anticipation. You missed this.
[] Content: Your shoulders are relaxed, your palms open and head up. Now, if you just had a good night's sleep, you would be ready.
***
It's Tuesday morning.
You're just finished showering and brushing your teeth when there's a knock at your door. You glance at your watch. 7:30. Hm. Today's the day when your college is supposed to have you, instead of the Fresher Committee, when you're supposed to spend the day hanging out with the people who live in the same building as you and grow bonds with them. Same shit, different people.
But that's only supposed to be later. Even breakfast is only at 8:30, in deference to all the partying all the other Freshers did last night. You barely got any studying done because of the noise.
Irregardless, whoever was knocking on the door wasn't mandatory. And you haven't gotten any coffee in you yet for social interaction. You'll just ignore it and hope whoever it is goes away. They can come again this evening if it's so important. Really, they should just use the bulletin board. It's there for a reason.
Also, you just showered and haven't put any clothes on. Not a way to make a good first impression.
By the time you're fully attired, the knocking has moved on. You can vaguely hear further knocking from down the hall. This time, it's accompanied by the cracking noise of a door opening and the grumpy voice of your neighbor. Not a morning person. Good to know. He's answered by a higher pitched voice, muffled but feminine. Whatever. Doesn't sound important from how fast the door slammed shut after.
Your eyes are drawn to a searingly cyan flyer that's drifted underneath your door. Presumably left by the knocker. You pick it up and give it a once over while brushing down your hair. Something about a party? On Sunday? At night? Don't they know that people have class the next day?
You can barely make out anything else besides those pieces of information. The paper looks like a printer vomited over it. Wordart and pictures of waterfalls adorn the entire thing. You're pretty sure you were making better advertisements in primary school.
Still, the fact that the organizer is calling the party a "cultural exchange" is interesting.
You at least decide to take out your phone and record the date, but you doubt you'll remember, or even decide to go...
[] You set up an appointment in your calendar.
[] You note it down on your To-Do list.
***
It's Wednesday afternoon.
You're running. You hadn't had the chance to these past few days, and it's one of the few ways you have of staying fit. Today was the day where all the fresher's got their new insurances, filled out a reams of forms and generally had a very dull time.
Which was why you took the time to get some fresh air once you were done and out of the dusty office.
And you have to say, Oxford has some gorgeous running trails. A big factor may be all the beautiful architecture on display, manicured parks, a football-
You grab the projectile instinctively. You somehow manage to block it from hitting your face and leaving a mark, and instead send the ball bouncing away. You stare at where it came from, a group of freshers playing on their college's field, all of them looking back apologetically.
"Balllll..." One warns, jokingly.
You jokingly move to kick the ball away.
"Wait, wait, hold up!" One of the players calls, running over. The same one who made the joke, he's a fit and well-built man, around your height but broader. And American. You think you've seen more foreigners in Oxford in a single day than an entire year in your hometown.
He comes to a stop in front of you, panting. "Listen, sorry about that. We were just goofing off, and the ball bounced off of Caitlin's shoe and it went flying and no one knew where it went until it it had almost hit you and.."
You watch in amusement as he leans down, hands on knees, struggling to catch his breath and panting all the while. He's covered in grass stains and dirt, sweat tracks standing out starkly on his face. He managed to say all that in one go?
He straightens up, pushing back dirty blonde hair back with a one hand. If you gave him a cheeseburger and coke, he could fit on a poster warning against stereotypes. "Name's Bill. You play?" Oh lord, even his name. Next he would be talking about the good old days on his dad's farm.
You shrug nonchalantly, trying not to laugh. "Some. Nothing recent."
He smiles friendly. "That's cool man, it's just for fun. My team still has two spots open, you up for it? I get it if you don't want to, no pressure."
You consider it for a moment, before giving in. What the hell, you could always run tomorrow. Anyways, it did look like fun, and you were crazy about football only a few years ago. And you don't think this is a prank, you don't know any of the players. It should be safe.
"Sure. What spots?"
"Hm, right back and striker. Which one you want?" Bill seems genuinely happy you want to play, and it's putting you on guard.
[] Right Back: This used to be your position, and your body still remembers it somewhat. If you choose this, you're reasonably sure you won't embarrass yourself, even with your rusty skills.
[] Striker: You've never played this position before, and you're unsure of how well you will do. But, as they say, Carpe Diem, and all that.
In any case, you play a few games before you have to call it there, heading back home to eat and get some rest, before the campus-wide night-time scavenger hunt. You're looking forward to it.
Huh. You just called your room "home".
***
It's Thursday evening.
"Tutorials are usually the time when you go over the week's work and review. As such, today you will be going over what you did this week and reviewing it." With that, your TA pulls a beer case, grinning at the lot of you.
The rest of your tutorial group cheers in approval. You were supposed to meet with your Tutorial group today, get to know them, and start preparations for the school year.
You're fairly certain that was a load of hogwash by the administration, who's probably the only one who believes that no one will take this time to get a little drunk. Well, except for some of the more boring TAs, and you're glad you haven't got one of those.
The next hour and a half is spent drinking cheap beer and chatting pleasantly. It's only later that you realize your TA is using this time to get to know you, preparing you for the upcoming term. She's just doing it in the guise of drinking. Right now, she's talking about which of the Pre-Med classes are hell and which ones' you can sleep through. Clever. You mention it to the girl sitting next to you, the two of you having drifted away a bit from the rest of the group.
"What, you realize that now? You sure you're in the right university?" She teases.
You groan. "I just know, that once I graduate, some smart ass is going 'And you went to Oxford?' every time I make a little mistake."
She laughs, a sound that reminds you of wind chimes. She twirls her long blonde hair, sinking further into the couch the two of you are relaxing on. Whatever shampoo she's using, it's was nice.
"Well, on the bright side, you would probably be able to fire whoever said that." She says, sipping from her can. Agneta. That was her name, Agneta. Scandinavian, by the sound of it.
"Not for a decade." You grunt. "Three years here, then four years of medical school, then Foundational and then Specialization. A tortuous route if I ever saw one."
"Amen." She replies, clinking her can with yours. "Ten years of studying our hair out, and then a life-time of on-calls and late-night shifts. Well, hopefully the salary will soothe my pains."
You look at her. "Is that why you want to become a doctor? For the salary?"
"Any other reason?" She giggles. "I want the money, the prestige, and a house with a swimming pool fit for a queen."
You chuckle. As far as you can tell, she's being truthful. "Those are rather mundane reasons."
She shrugs and looks up at you from her low position. "If I wanted to help people, I would go into volunteering. I wanted to be a pilot when I was a little girl, really. You know, see new places and meet new people. Then I found I was scared of heights. Becoming a doctor is the next best thing."
You're interrupted by the sound of cheering, as one of your fellow Tutorial members starts chugging a can shotgun style.
"Why do you want to be a doctor then?" She asks, deep blue eyes gazing at you curiously. The light from the setting sun reflects off them. "For mundane or magic?"
You very carefully do not react to her phrasing.
[] Mundane: You agree with Agneta. You're in it for the money, good job prospects and a host of other, selfish but reasonable reasons.
[] Magic: You admit it. There's something romantic about being a doctor. About saving people's lives, about being important. You're like a real life hero.
***
It's Friday night.
You're lying in bed, still wearing the clothes you had on all day, feeling the tiredness drain out of you.
You spent the day attending the compulsory Matriculation ceremony, which lasted hours.
Then there was a feast, in which you and the rest of your college stuffed themselves.
And then there was a massive, final party, a last hurrah as Fresher week ended and people began to settle down for the upcoming term.
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord....Ooxxfooooord..." You mumble sleepily into your pillow. Your throat hurts from all the chanting you did. They seemed less awkward...and embarrassing...now...
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord..."
Huh....You had almost forgotten about the trip tomorrow, to London....You're pretty sure you set up the alarm on your phone...
"Ooxxfooooord... Ooxxfooooord..."
Your thoughts were slowing down, unwinding...
"Ooxxfooooord..."
You're asleep.
Something isn't.
...Ooxxfooooord...
New Title: [Oxford Medical Student]!
QM: This is getting a bit ridiculous. I was hoping there would be a definite winner by the time I woke up. Someone roll a 1d2 for me. 1 means you're a girl, 2 means you're a boy. I pretty much wrote this entire update not knowing which gender the player character would be, meaning you may come off as a tad bit bisexual.
Anyway, I was planning to split this up into two updates, but I decided to just write the whole thing in one go and finish off Fresher week. Next up is your trip to Diagon Alley, which will probably just as long, and the choices there will seem less like a personality quiz and more of a shopping list. May take a bit longer, as I need to work out your finances.
oh well guess were boy
