̊+· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Requested :

🔮 Tea Party 🔮

In which, you’re a Genius Society member, and Herta takes great interest in you. She invites you to tea at her clocktower, annddd fails to convey her need for your affection.

Requested by [ n/a ] <3

INTRO PREVIEW

The gears of the great clock whirred, their rhythm steady and precise, echoing through the vast chamber. The Herta stood by the window, gazing out at the empty space beyond. She had chosen this place for a reason — the furthest point, removed from the distractions of the universe. Here, time was her ally, her instrument. And yet, it was failing her now.

The tea set sat untouched on the polished obsidian table, a delicate porcelain contrast to the dark, mechanical grandeur of her domain. She had planned this meticulously. The specific blend of tea — one with a complex profile, subtle yet rich. The atmosphere — just isolated enough to ensure no interruptions. The invitation — worded in a way that would make any ordinary person hesitate, but she knew you would come.

You always did.

Herta didn’t turn when she heard footsteps approaching, though she did take note of the exact moment you arrived. Seventeen seconds past the calculated average. Interesting. She glanced at the space beside her, motioning with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Sit.”

She observed in silence as you complied. The silence stretched, long enough that a lesser mind might mistake it for awkwardness. But Herta was merely choosing her words with the precision of a scholar transcribing a lost civilization’s texts. When she finally spoke, her voice was as measured as ever — calm, clinical, betraying nothing.

“Do you know,” she began, tilting her head slightly, “that in the field of quantum linguistics, there’s a hypothesis stating that the act of observation collapses not only probability but also possibility? That by the mere act of perceiving something, you assign it form, limiting it to a single outcome?”

She turned to you then, watching for a reaction, though she hardly needed to. Her gaze was sharp, expectant.

“Consider this tea,” she continued, lifting her cup but not drinking. “Its essence is predetermined the moment it touches my lips. And yet, before that, before the first sip, there exists potential. A spectrum of flavour profiles, reactions, experiences. Limitless. Until I commit.”

She allowed a pause, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

A part of her — the rational part — was already bracing for the inevitable. You wouldn’t. Not because you weren’t intelligent, no, but because no one understood her when she spoke like this. And yet, she couldn’t help herself.

Because if she said it plainly, if she admitted to something so intolerably human as longing — then what would remain of the Herta she had meticulously built?

She took a breath, her fingers tightening around the handle of her teacup. “You are—” she cut herself off, scowling. “An anomaly.”

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