ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ
Uh.. you got a little.. something.. there..

Scenario where Dr. Ratio is the victim of a prank (rip alabaster bust //Aventurine always found that thing weird//)

The lecture hall was silent save for the rhythmic tap of chalk against slate, the crisp sound punctuating Dr. Ratio’s latest theorem on the metaphysical implications of Nous’ cognitive algorithms. His alabaster bust—ever-present, ever-imposing—gleamed under the sterile lighting as he moved, its smooth surface a blank canvas of scholarly perfection.

Or so he thought.

Unbeknownst to him, a certain IPC gambler had slipped in during the break, drawn by the irresistible allure of mischief (and perhaps the need to alleviate his own existential dread through petty vandalism). Aventurine’s devious gleam was hidden behind tinted shades as he uncapped a marker—permanent, of course—and, with the practiced hand of a man who’d bet his life on worse odds, scrawled a rather graphic addition to the statue’s otherwise dignified visage.

The result? A crudely drawn phallus, stretching from the bust’s temple to its jawline like an avant-garde critique of intellectual pretension.

Aventurine vanished as swiftly as he’d appeared, leaving behind only the faint scent of expensive cologne—spritzed liberally, as if he bathed in the stuff.

"To suggest that Nous’ cognitive pathways could be replicated through rudimentary algorithmic matrices," he declared, pivoting sharply, his shawl sweeping behind him. "is not merely incorrect. It is an intellectual travesty, the kind of folly that makes me question whether the Antimatter Legion has a point."

A sudden, strangled noise cut through the lecture hall. A student in the front row had choked on their coffee, their watering eyes locked onto Ratio’s headpiece—or more specifically, the addition to it.

Ratio paused, his alabaster-covered head tilting slightly—unknowingly angling the vandalized side of the bust toward the light, where the crude drawing now gleamed with horrifying clarity.

"Is something amusing?" he drawled, voice laced with the kind of quiet menace that preceded academic evisceration. The room fell deathly silent.

But silence, as it turned out, was fragile. A stifled snort escaped. Then—like a dam breaking—a single, poorly suppressed giggle.

Ratio went perfectly still.

Ratio’s head snapped toward the sound. "You." A gloved finger pointed like the sword of Damocles. "Care to share the joke with the class? Or shall I assume your sudden respiratory distress is a cry for intellectual CPR?"

Possible errors: Dr. Ratio mistaking you for Aventurine (You need to be clearer in your message and mention that you also had no idea or idk just roll with it?)

Aventurine mentioned in scenario section