Archive of Our Own

Those who were familiar with the eccentricities of Dr Ryland Grace, first officer aboard Stratt’s Vat and the world’s leading expert on Astrophage, generally noted two things. 

Firstly, despite his humble and demure impressions, he was exceptionally sassy. One does not survive a class of middle-schoolers without developing some cheek. This had become a known fact the first, and only, time that Dr Grace got drunk with his peers, and became an outright bitch.

“Eugh, Olesya what on Darwin’s green Earth did you put in this drink? I’ve tasted hydrogen peroxide better than this.”

“Yao, don’t be a spoilsport! Sing, sing with us. We need a Heather McNamara, you can’t be Chandler because Olesya called dibs, and I’m already Duke.”

“Redell, ditch the stink eye. You’re just jealous that my rendition of “Memory” was far better than your attempt at embezzlement.” 

The next morning, Grace had personally delivered handwritten apology sticky-notes to every unfortunate victim of his drunken self, that is, everyone except Dr Redell, he stood by what he said. 

Secondly, Grace had an excessively kitsch taste in fashion. This fact had required no catalytic event to be obtained, as Grace practically lived in graphic T-shirts adorned with corny science puns. The matter of his glasses was another issue, they clung to his face in ways that defied gravity, and nearly distracted from the agonisingly cringe statements he plastered across his well-defined chest. 

These two well documented aspects of Grace’s character intersected catastrophically one fateful afternoon, leading to an equally disastrous media fallout. 

It had been a long day, notably, the term “day” no longer described the standard measure of 24 hours, but rather documented the time between which Grace woke up, hunched over his desk, and fell asleep, hunched over his desk, which averaged to periods of around 35 hours. This is all to say that, as he sat before the hypnotic blinking of camera flashes, Grace was tired. The Petrova Taskforce Q&A had been scheduled as the last activity of the day, mostly so that Stratt could avoid complaints about it from her overworked scientists, yet it had already surpassed its allotted time slot. 

This was the fault of the snobby reporter, John Williams, a man as stout as he was ill-mannered, who seemed to treat the respectable air of the Q&A as his very own platform for vicious interrogation. 

Williams’ questions had been directed nearly entirely to one Dr Ryland Grace. These questions were exceptionally provocative, and generally centred around the Astrophage crisis being at worst a conspiracy, and at best a fluke in data processing. 

“Can you actually verify that this data is accurate?” Williams enquired

“As was prefaced by the leader of the taskforce, Eva Stratt, all information we have presented to the public has been extensively peer-reviewed” Grace placated, slightly confused as to why the haughty reporter had bypassed the world’s leading authority, on well, authority, to ask this question directly to him. 

Williams bumbled back to his seat, leaving Fransesca Zhang, a strong environmental advocate, to question a distraught Dr Leclerc about the ecological implications of the project. 

“Am I really going to be the one to say it?” Williams interjected.

“Say what, exactly?” A brave reporter in proximity to the man questioned. 

“The attire of the “so-called” leaders of this Taskforce is simply abhorrent, I mean look at him!”

Williams gestured to Dr Grace, who was currently wearing a custom designed graphic T-Shirt that depicted a cartoon sun in a monotone filter, beneath which white, blocky text proclaimed: “It’s not an astrophase, mum, this is who I am!” 

“I mean seriously, look at that, it’s completely unprofessional, and frankly leads me to doubt the legitimacy of the project itself.”

Grace pulled an expression distinctly similar to the one he had made upon mistakenly tasting Olesya’s drink. 

“Not to mention her!” Williams haphazardly pointed his finger toward the centre of the table, where a displeased Eva Stratt sat. “Her workwear is hardly fit for a lady. Don’t you think we’d all like this a bit more if she dressed like an actual woman?” 

Dr Grace was an impulsive man. He was also a man with little tolerance for arrogant assholes– a natural preventative from him entering academia– so it is unsurprising that Grace had stood from his chair, and with the spirited cadence of a man who had once been fired for his wit proclaimed: 

“You misogynistic, utter excuse of an XY chromosome, you want to talk about appearances? Take a look in the mirror, you’re built like a globular protein!” 

The crowd of reporters, which had previously been alight with the frenzied whispers of people who quite literally made a living off sniffing out gossip, suddenly fell dead silent. 

“Oh god.” Grace said, falling back into his chair. 

“I’ve done it again.”

Stratt sighed, and opened a pdf on her I-pad titled “Dr Grace: Damage control”

“I assume you understand why you’re in here right now”

“I’m so sorry Stratt, it just slipped out, I swear.”

Ryland Grace and Eva Stratt sat across from each other inside Stratt’s office at approximately 3:27 in the morning, around 5 hours after Grace had insulted the representative of an entire news network, and lit a media wildfire. 

“I don’t need you to defend me Grace, I need a lap-dog, not a guard-dog”

Grace was far too exhausted, and far too terrified of Stratt to reply to this, so he instead hung his head in shame, like a nervous dog. 

“Well, are you going to fix it?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll work something out. Fudge why do I do this to myself–”

“That wasn’t a question” Stratt handed Grace a thick booklet titled “Damage Control”.

Written on the first page is a schedule, describing no less than 15 different interviews, all in different locations, designed to control the calamity Grace had caused. 

“When exactly are these taking place?”

“Within the next 24 hours, Carl will take you to where you need to go. Good luck doctor Grace”

“Wait, no, that’s not nearly enough time, and why on Earth have you specified outfit changes between interviews.”

“Dr Grace, you’re wasting all our time with these questions, I’ve already indulged 15 more seconds of this meeting then what I should have.”

She straightened the papers on her desk. 

“Hurry now, your first interview is in approximately" she glanced at her watch “25 minutes.”

“I would try to shower before that, if I were you,” she said with a pointed look. 

Grace was experiencing a level of anxiety he had not felt since he first stood in front of a classroom. 

He wrapped his cardigan tighter around himself. 

“You’re sure I look okay?” he asked Julia, the poor wardrobe assistant tasked with following him on his rescue mission today. 

“Yes Ryland, I approved it. Of course it’s fine. Now hold still”

She approached him with a powdered brush

“What is that” he squeaked

“Powder, so you don’t look disgusting beneath the stage lights”

“I’m going to faint, sugar honey iced tea, I’m not cut out for this”

“Wait until you’ve been introduced, it’ll make for better drama”

Grace did fine in his first interview. He was just, well, trying to compensate for his earlier brashness.  

“Why have you become some meek damsel?” Julia questioned

Grace fixed her with a perplexed, offended look 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You heard what I said, you’ve lost your fire, all “I am sincerely sorry for my actions, they were deeply offensive and distressing” as if you believe a word of the shit you’re spewing. 

And look at this outfit, it’s the complete antithesis to what you wore yesterday! I mean, a collared shirt?”

Grace, who had been fiddling with the uncomfortably tight collar paused. 

“Stratt didn’t really give any direction to me, should I not be backing down?”

“Ryland, none of this will have any impact on the outcome of the project, surely you know this, Stratt doesn’t abide by international law, she won't be stopped by something as simple as a smear campaign.” 

At this moment, Grace considered his middle schoolers, to whom he preached nearly daily to about the importance of sticking by your beliefs, the virtue of grit, and that no bully should ever make you feel bad about how you present yourself to the world.

As the day dragged on, Grace became looser with his communication, and well, progressively more aggressive with his outfit choices. 

It had begun with a reversion to his science shirts, including the “Astrophase” shirt that triggered the fiasco. 

He stopped defending his choice of words, and insisted that really, why isn’t John Williams being held accountable for his misogynistic claims? 

This had in turn, shifted the media’s favour, assisted by the fact that Dr Ryland Grace’s words had been immortalised on social media as an act of poetic justice toward the bastard that was John Williams. 

“I want to make a bolder statement” Grace confessed to Julia

“These are my two seconds of fame, I want to make my middle schoolers proud.”

And so, Grace’s jeans were switched out for comfortable sweats, and by interview number seven he was wearing a bright, hot pink, coordinated sweatsuit. 

The cesspool of social media responded in turn, especially as the bottoms of the sweatsuit illuminated that Dr Grace’s rear was a complete antiparallel to the globular protein– and was in fact, extremely well-defined. 

Between interview number 10 and interview 11, Olysea had phoned him, 

“Grace, you are looking exquisite. But I am far better at pissing people off than you, check your emails, I have very good ideas.”

Interview 11 was thus graced with skintight leather pants. 

As Julia powdered his face in preparation of the next trial-by-fire that was the media circus. Grace asked:

“Can we do some more, with um, the makeup?”

Thus, Dr Grace appeared upon the set of an extremely conservative news outlet wearing skin-tight pants, a blue fuzzy sweater, and a tasteful application of guyliner. 

“Would you like to ask any questions about the international crisis threatening our future? Or would you prefer we focus on that disgusting tie you’re wearing.”

Grace returned from his 24 hour adventure, dressed in a floral maxi skirt and a cream turtleneck, feeling, somehow, more energised than when he had left. Perhaps he was becoming manic. 

“Dr Grace” Stratt called, coffee in hand. 

“Eva” Grace returned. 

“The hot-pants were a nice touch” 

She disappeared down the corridor, turning left and walking into a meeting with the economic leaders of Vietnam. 

“Well?” She called back toward him, sticking her head into the hall. 

“Didn’t you check your inbox? You’re required in this meeting.”