If we're gonna make this a story about humans and A.I.s, then who better to start us off than Sir Seethes-A-Lot and his noble steed, the respective posture children for the genre?

Seeing as the Alpha was based off of everything the Director ever was, you'd think the guy would have felt some affection for his creation―you know, before he tortured it into insanity. Here's my attempt to expand on that stray thought, before it derails any further. First time I've ever written for either of these characters, so this ought to be interesting.

Summary: In which the Director comes to the conclusion that a cat is far less demanding than an arrogant, preening, attention-seeking computer program.

Chapter One: A.I. Appreciation Day

Let it never be said that Dr. Leonard Church was above pettiness.

Especially where his job was concerned.

Not for the first time that afternoon the man paused mid-keystroke and pushed away from his computer. The thought briefly occurred to him to pause from his work and fetch a glass of water, to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. Glancing at the nearly eye-level stack of files squatting on his desk sent a renewed wave of stubbornness through him. In the end martyrdom won out, and the Director settled on the alternative of written paperwork as opposed to computer work. (The alternative-alternative was to simply chuck his personalized hell of a bureaucratic nightmare into the waste bin—tempting, especially when it sat only two feet from his chair.)

But no. Migraine-inducing paperwork it was.

Because of course he had to cater to the tedium of biased politicians who considered themselves important enough to send a conga line of demands his way, with their actual involvement beginning and ending with the words "public funding." It was a matter of satisfying the UNSC's need for proof that his department was a concrete alien-deterrent, and not a black hole of violent resource consumption. And the bigwigs weren't making his job of winning the war any easier.

Sighing, he reached over and plucked a leaflet from the top of the pile—an incident report, by the looks of it—and it set on the desk. The vertebrae in his neck shrilly protested when he leaned over his workspace to peer at the font, eyes darting back and forth over the text.

"Keep leaning that close and you're going to merge with the desk."

Thank god for all those years of yoga classes Allison had strong-armed him into. He didn't quite leap out of his chair, but it was close. He shifted in his seat, hawk eyes homing in on the six-inch-high hologram standing on his desk. "That was unnecessary."

The AI shrugged. There was nothing innocent about the gesture. "Just sayin'."

At least there was one consistency in his routine that didn't involve distractions and mind games. "Alpha, command: run tomorrow's schedule and check my inbox."

"What, no, 'Hi, how's your day been'?"

That didn't involve unexpected distractions and mind games, the Director silently amended. Inherent Flaw Number Two in his creation certainly presented no shortage of that. "Instruction: acknowledge last directive," he repeated.

Alpha's arrogance held a monopoly on the lofty title of Inherent Flaw Number One, currently making itself known in his holier-than-thou posture. "Where's the fire?"

Glaring at the AI had the desired effect, and Alpha relented. "Sheesh, fine. Okay, I've got two training matches scheduled for tomorrow, the first for 0900, the second at 1250. The morning session is a cooperative exercise. I decided to mix things up and partnered Agent Carolina with Agent South Dakota. Their opponents will be Agents North Dakota and Connecticut."

The Director absorbed that information. "A rather unusual matchup," the man at last conceded.

Alpha sank into his hip and peered back up. "You said to change the variables. Not my fault you didn't specify which ones. Besides, this will be a good way to determine if they can play nice with their teammates."

"Useful and true, I suppose. Next?"

"Washington versus Wyoming."

The resident firearms specialists. A hitch in the scheduling that didn't escape his attention, and certainly couldn't have escaped Alpha's. "Both of them are ranged fighters. Unless cover is omitted, they'll be continuously shooting at each other until they run out of ammo."

To that the AI brightened, both in luminosity and mood. "Which is why I made it so that they won't be stationary the entire time. Kind of hard to take potshots while dodging automated turrets programmed to indiscriminately fire at anything giving off a temperature of 98.6°."

Creative. Not something the Director would ever admit to aloud, of course; his creation's ego was already one helium tank short of a zeppelin. "And?" he asked.

"I ran a hundred different calculations and determined that Agent Wyoming would win approximately eighty-seven out of one hundred times—under normal circumstances. Neither has historically done well with adapting to unexpected obstacles. This exercise is more about testing their ability to react and improvise, while still maintaining the former objective of eliminating the target."

Not completely unsurprising. While a competent soldier in his own right, Washington always fell short to Wyoming, whose numbers on the board edged him out by decimals. Still, he would have been lying if he said he wasn't curious about how well they'd fair tomorrow. Something he intended to watch in person, schedule permitting, of course. He reached for stack of papers and shuffled them. "Why such a large gap between matches?"

"Oh, that?" The blue silhouette regarded his fingertips. "Agent York requisitioned the room for a lockpick simulation. Not that it'll do him any good, seeing as the last thing he managed to pick successfully was his nose."

Once again the Director forcibly reminded himself no, the endless stream of sardonic commentary was not a coding defect, no matter how many times he had skimmed through his notes trying to find the glitch responsible for unfiltered sarcasm. A miner had more success panning gold out of silt than he had extracting the information he wanted out of the never-ending peanut gallery. As if he didn't have enough headaches in his life right now, without fighting the desire to find a way to duct tape a hologram's mouth.

He gave the construct a withering look instead.

Unfazed as usual by the disapproval in his creator's glare, Alpha shrugged, again. "Hey, it's not my fault the guy has a 32.7% success rate." When it became clear that he wasn't going to provide the obligatory counter-quip, Alpha shuffled his armored boots. "Does the schedule work for you?"

"It does. Continue."

"All right. Next…" As the AI spoke he strode across the desk's surface, making an abrupt ninety-degree turn in front of his computer. With what could only be described as a regally dismissive gesture, the hologram flicked his wrist, closing out of two tabs on his screen—something that the Director would tear his hair out over later when he discovered that he closed out of his work without saving—and pulled up his mailing list. "We've got a message from the Chairperson's assistant. Apparently the Oversight Sub-Committee wants us to send them an updated list of our inventories." A snort. "I think they're still bitching about the missing equipment and want to make sure we haven't sabotaged ourselves, the paranoid old—"

"Alpha." Last thing the Director wanted was for his creation to start habitually spouting obscenities, especially if the UNSC's prodding warranted an in-person tour of the ship. God knew what sort of impression that would leave on his superiors.

"What?" Alpha turned to face him, chin hitched up in the air. "You can't tell me that you don't think that new 'one crashed Pelican per mission' policy is stupid. We're at war! Do they think if we ask the Covenant nicely they'll stop trying to shoot us out of the air because we have a quota to meet? That's like asking a rainstorm to not soak your brand new sweater."

"He has been rather…pushy, as of late."

"You want me to send him an e-mail with a virus attached?" Alpha asked. "I can disguise it as junk mail."

What was more distressing than the eagerness in the suggestion was the knowledge that he probably would have done it, too, without prompting—or worse. "That won't be necessary."

"Fun kill."

Vindictiveness wouldn't deter Hargrove. No matter how tempting.

"Just send him the necessary information," the Director ordered. He shot the little figure a warning look. "Without encrypting it."

"Got it."

"And you wonder why his department does not trust mine," the old man mused, with an expression that some distant relation to a smile. "I'd almost think you had something to do with it."

Once more Alpha resumed patrolling the length of his desk, pausing to skim a holographic hand over his stapler. "I have no idea what you're talking about." More flippantly, the computer program said, "Well it won't matter soon enough, seeing as they're sacking the Chairperson."

There was very little that the Director didn't know about or wasn't directly involved it. Suffice to say it caught him off guard, ransacking his memory and not being to recall hearing that. "…Where did you learn that information from?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, you know." Alpha shrugged. "Places."

"The Counselor told you that he was retiring."

Alpha peered inside his paperclip container. "Yeah. Retiring's a word. So is 'being peer-pressured to resign so as to not make a scene.'"

He continued to watch the AI explore his workspace, poking and prodding whenever something caught his eye. "And what makes you so certain of that?"

Satisfying his curiosity (for now), Alpha stepped away from the tape dispenser and faced the Director. "The rumor mill. People talk."

What people could he be possibly interacting with to overhear that—?

The realization hit him.

"I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by spying on my agents," he drawled.

At least he knew it wasn't a lie; Alpha liked to boast about his accomplishments.

Sure enough, his tone confirmed his suspicions, a voice so pleased with itself that it dripped smugness. "What can I say? The walls have ears and eyes—or to be more exact, computer terminals and cameras. Not my fault they run their mouths in the hallways. And the mess hall." Alpha paused and considered, then, almost as an afterthought: "And the locker room."

"Surely there are more productive things you could be doing."

"Nothing wrong with a little reconnaissance, boss."

That almost made the Director bark an incredulous laugh. Almost. He liked to think he had more self-control than that. Instead, the man inched a little closer, looming over the AI. "And what intel could you possibly be gathering in the locker room?"

"…Stuff," Alpha replied, not quite meeting his gaze.

This time he didn't even bother to hide his sigh. For all intents and purposes the Director was content to let his creation do as he wanted—questionable motives aside—as long as he followed protocol and completed his assignments. So far that was holding true. This time he swore he heard something in his neck crack as he resumed hunching over his reports, intending on picking up where he left off. "Was that the only message?" he asked, not glancing up.

"Yep. Done and done," affirmed the AI.

"Thank you, Alpha. Command: run numbers on the next mission again. Account for standard delays in communication and response time."

Which was where the conversation should have ended.

It shouldn't have continued with Alpha projecting himself on top of the paper, so suddenly that this time the Director did jerk back in surprise. Just in time he managed to catch his weight before his own momentum sent him sprawling on the floor. Alpha watched the Director as he steadied himself back into his chair with an autumn-crisp frown. "Speaking of the next mission… You know, I was thinking—seeing as Agent York's infiltration skills won't be improving any time soon, and the next objective requires stealth, maybe—just hear me out, okay?—maybe if the team had an AI capable of disabling locks without tripping the alarm…"

He knew where that line of thinking was going as soon as he spoke, and silenced him with a raised hand. His gaze was tempered steel. "We've already spoken about this, Alpha. The answer is 'no.'"

"Oh, come on, it's not as if the agents haven't seen a Smart AI before! Just stick me in one of their suits, it'll be like I'm not even there."

"The answer is no. End of discussion."

"Speaking as a very valuable military asset, I think my talents are being wasted on—"

"Enough."

It was the raised tone that made his wayward creation realized that he'd overstepped his boundaries, and quieted, helmet bowed a fraction. "…Right. Should have figured as much."

"Your presence aboard this vessel is classified, Alpha." The Director steepled his hands. "The only two personnel who are privy to that information are—"

"You and the Counselor, I know." Resentment soured his tone.

"Precisely." He studied the AI over the rim of his glasses. "So you see why I cannot spare you for field missions."

"Yeah."

"Then I take it you will not broach the subject again?"

"No." Alpha's voice hardened. "Sir."

"Good." With that said and done the Director returned to his work. It was after he'd gotten three sentences into the incident report and jotted a note down in the margin did a pale blue glow ease into his periphery. "I believe I gave you orders," he said, not looking up. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" The faintest crackle of static curled in his voice. To the untrained ear Alpha sounded uncertain, nonchalant. To the trained ear there was the bittersweet appreciation for an actor who knew how to fool his audience. "Oh, uh. I was just wondering. So…how've you been?"

"Pardon?"

He glanced up in time to see Alpha—who had been pretending to watch his feet—return his stare with an offhand gesture. "You know. ¿Qué pasa? What's up? You've been in and out of briefings and conferences all afternoon, so I didn't get to really say hi, save for this morning when you were getting ready to take a shower. That reminds me, how's the rash? Did you get the ointment for it ye—"

"I. Am. Working."

"I can see that, and you're doing a phenomenal job at it."

The old man resumed his staring contest with the report, hoping the AI would take a hint. "These need to be filed by tonight. I don't have time for pleasantries."

"Oh. Well, maybe I can help."

It was only when he realized he'd reread the same sentence twice that the Director decided this problem needed to be nipped in the bud. Very, very slowly, he peeled himself from his hunched-over position, studying Alpha over the rim of his glasses. "Is there something that you need, Alpha?"

"A vacation would be nice," came the sardonic retort.

"You want a vacation?"

Snorting under his breath, Alpha straightened. "For you," he clarified, "not me. You're a hardworking guy, Director. But hardworking guys are still human—unless you're me, and can multitask for forty-eight hours straight—but see, that's my point. I think you need to take a break. Just step away from your desk, take a deep breath, recharge your mental batteries. Not even a full hour, like every sane functioning human being takes. Just thirty minutes should do the trick. And hey, if you're looking for company, I can save the analyses for later and—"

"I have a full schedule." Each syllable pronounced painstakingly. "A full, unnegotiable, schedule which requires my undivided attention."

"Well, what if I required your undivided attention?"

"Do you?"

"Not right this second, but hypothetically speaking—"

"Alpha, command: cease and desist." Nearly all of the color had drained from Alpha's hologram, until he was little more than a handful of flurries. Brooding silence accompanied the dejected wilt. Gripping his pen hard enough to feel metal dig into his palm, the Director braced against the desk, towering over the tiny apparition. "If you are looking for entertainment then I suggest you return to your duties to keep yourself occupied. And should you finish that on time, then feel free to spend the remainder of the evening pursuing the ship's online database. But I need—to—finish. So unless it is a matter that urgently requires my presence, log off."

Neither uttered a word, his stern glare met with a visor whose pixelated glass emoted better than a flesh in how offended it looked. When it became apparent that silence was the only answer he would be getting the Director resumed reading, thoroughly done with the interruptions, thank-you-kindly.

"…Hey, Director, did I tell you about this new idiom I learned the other day? Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back."

Apparently the universe wasn't done with him.

The AI didn't flinch when that serrated stare bore down on him. "I'm familiar with it."

His need for painkillers was rising in direct proportion to the number of words coming out of the AI's mouth. "Cats and AI have a lot in common. Cats have nine lives; AI live approximately seven to nine years. Cats were worshipped by Ancient Egyptians; AI were worshipped by certain alien societies. And"—he tilted up his helmet—"we both have a tendency to get into things we shouldn't when we're bored."

Certainly not about to be cowed by a creature whose height (and value) was less than a dollar bill's, the Director spoke. "Are you planning on doing something that you shouldn't, Alpha?"

The hologram took a step closer, rebellious stance contrasting magnificently with his airy tone. "I'm just saying that if you're not going to pay attention to me then I guess I'll have to entertain myself. What's an AI with full access to all of the ship's faculties, from missiles to the sprinkler system, going to do?"

"You wouldn't—"

"Or maybe," he interrupted, false sweetness fading to something darker, "if my creator won't pay attention to me then I guess I could always hit up one of the agents." He could hear the razorblade smile in his voice. "They seem pretty nice for trained killers, don't you think?"

"That is enough—"

And just as suddenly stopped.

It was everything about his body language, what went unsaid, that finally caught his eye. The avid way he focused on the Director's reactions, the nature of the goading, the needling deliberately pulling him away from his work…

All for his attention.

He found uncertainty like lead weighing down his tongue, the question nearly lost on his lips. "You're…lonely?"

"Yes I'm fucking lonely," he spat. Like a supernova he exploded, fractal light radiating from the sapphire hologram. He threw his hands in the air. "This ship is staffed by over four hundred personnel, from Standard Issue soldiers to licensed health practitioners to mechanical engineers. And do you know how may I'm allowed to interact with? Two, not including the only other AI aboard the Mother of Invention!" He began to pace. "Whenever I'm not running maintenance or helping outline your schedule, I have nothing to do, so I surf the Internet. I have literally reached the point in my existence where my life can be measured by the net worth of YouTube videos." He stopped and whipped around to stare up at the Director, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I think I can sufficiently say that I have hit rock bottom, so thank you, Director, for sinking my battleship into the Mariana Trench. At least the inadequate lighting is less consistent than your negligence."

Being blindsided wasn't a sensation the Director was accustomed to, so when the impact finally hit, the understanding was as much a physical force as a car-crash. Speechlessness followed, and he could do little more than stare down at the AI seething on his desk, emanating hurt and betrayal.

I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by spying on my agents.

Had that merely been him attempting to compensate for his isolation…?

He sank back into his chair and leaned forward. "Why did you not speak of the matter sooner?"

Alpha snorted, arms folded across his chest. He looked away. "I figured you would eventually notice. I guess you really do need those glasses, because you're blind."

After a brief internal debate the Director consciously pushed his papers aside. "How are you feeling right now?"

"Oh, so now you care."

"This is a serious question, Alpha. If an AI is left to its own devices long enough while under duress it can enter a premature state of rampancy."

Like the flip of a switch anger was swapped with indignation. "I'm not thinking myself to death." Alpha huffed. "And if anything is going to drive me crazy, it'll probably be the ship's monotone paintjob. Seriously, did you ever consider a color scheme other than gray? There's an entire rainbow's worth of Skittles for you to choose from."

A hint of concern crept into his voice. "Alpha, please focus."

"I'm not rampant." He exhaled, in that second sounding tired. Vulnerable. "I just wish that my creator would take a few minutes out of his busy day to chat with me every now and then, and not just when he's worried that his precious tax-funded military hardware might get broken."

"I wasn't—" And knew—just as surely as he knew Florida would continue to submit requests for hanging plants in the common room—that he couldn't finish those words. "…My apologies, Alpha. I have been…stressed, as of late, and did not take your feelings into account."

"If the bottle of extra-strength aspirin on your nightstand is any indicator," muttered Alpha, though it sounded like a weary acknowledgement than a taunt.

Heavy silence followed. The pair continued to stare at each other uncertainly, the air of forced awkwardness hanging between them like a humid cloud. Loathe as the Director was to admit it, he…didn't know what to say, and instantly had to fight the reflex to reach up and rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, an idiosyncrasy he'd thought long-buried in his youth. If anything, the longer the quiet drew out, the more obvious it became that heart-to-hearts weren't a strong suit for either of them, and it showed. Painfully.

The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree.

"Hey." To his surprise Alpha took a step closer. "Are you okay? I mean, it's not like I care or anything, but you've been averaging four-point-three hours of sleep a night, and you're showing signs of periorbital puffiness. Plus your blood pressure is 140/93. Just in case you forgot, I can't do CPR, so you might want to get that looked before you have a heart attack."

The non sequitur was so far left field that the Director felt his shoulders loosening, taking the tension and anger with it. Then the implication behind his words caught up, and he frowned. "You scanned me again, didn't you? That's an invasion of privacy, Alpha. I thought I told you to acquire a person's permission beforehand."

He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "You mean the only two persons I'm actually allowed to interact with, both of who already said no; but I ignored them anyway. 'Cause y'know. Reasons." Like a broken record the AI returned to his earlier topic. "Seriously though, you look like shit. You should see someone."

"I can't help but ponder the frightful headway we would make if you put as much effort into your job as you do undermining every command I give you."

"Speaking of my job"—Alpha indulged in a luxurious stretch—"I should probably inform you that Agent Maine was infighting with Agents Alabama and Oregon. I saw it over the surveillance feed."

While I was spying on the agents, the Director filled in the blanks, this time unable to stop himself from feeling the briefest pang of guilt. "I am fully aware." He motioned to the leaflet still off to the side. "The report I was reading before you interrupted my work concerned the disciplinary actions for said infighting."

"'Discipline'? What, like the stockades?"

"Hardly. I will be reprimanding him tomorrow morning, and starting then until the end of the second week, he will be on KP duty as punishment for the infraction."

"Something tells me the frequency of the infighting is just going to go up from there," Alpha observed, partly to himself. He glanced at the Director, sounding hopeful. "Can I watch?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. Everyone loves a public lynching."

"No, Alpha."

"All right, whatever." In hindsight perhaps he should have let Alpha fixate on Maine, because the second it became clear that was no longer an option he immediately boomeranged back to the subject of his health. "But like I was saying, I think you should go to Recovery. Maybe get checked out."

Fingers slipped up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he demurred, "I'm fine. There is no need to get yourself distracted with my health."

"I think you forgot a word in there," came the immediate rejoinder. "'Failing.' As in failing health. You're stressed."

And perhaps while they were discussing the blatantly obvious they could go over the A is for asshole dogma his creation felt compelled to adhere to, the one the Director felt compelled to correct with a ruler. Diplomacy overruled his annoyance, faintly coupled with his surprise of Alpha's concern for his wellbeing. "Such is the nature of my work," he said. "It is an occupational hazard, one which I am accustomed to after so long."

"If you put your hand on a stove long enough you'll get 'accustomed' to that too. Doesn't mean you won't cause immense damage to yourself," Alpha reasoned, his logic infuriating. "All the more reason to take a break."

"Alpha—"

"Look, I even took the liberty of picking out a game!" He could all but hear the projectors in his room dry-heaving under the strain of projecting Alpha and the holographic chessboard he conjured from the ether. Pale sapphire blue, much like himself, the replica materialized with a harmonic pop atop his desk, both sides' pieces already set. "See?" he crowed. "I can think and plan ahead."

He'd always known that Alpha possessed holographic synthesis and could code his own renders, but this… It was a proficiency he hadn't expected to see for some time; months, at least. Every Artificial Intelligence Program had, to varying degrees, skills in holographic projection given that it was the basis for their own avatars. But developing their own separate holograms was an ability honed and refined over time, and depending on the construct and its function, ranged anywhere from 3D line graphs to art.

It didn't escape his attention, the time and effort Alpha must have invested into this pet project.

A chessboard was hardly art, of course; still, impressive nonetheless, even if it wasn't hard-light. The Director adjusted his glasses, well aware of Alpha's stare monitoring him. "…I thought 'chess ranked only slightly above sticking forks into an outlet.'"

"Did I say that?" Alpha wondered. "I think I might have deleted that memory."

"How convenient." Reaching out a hand, he lightly skimmed over the hologram. Pixels shimmered beneath his touch like pinpricks of crystal dust. "You hate this game," he pointed out, an unspoken question hovering in the statement.

A gesture he was becoming rapidly accustomed to, the Director watched Alpha shrug. Dryly the AI said, "I had to get your attention somehow. It was either this, or grow a second head. Maybe I should have started out with Plan B from the start, seeing as you don't do subtlety too well."

"Very funny."

"I thought so, too." The Director's mind strayed back to the projection on his desk, working over again and again the patience Alpha had to have dredged up to concentrate long enough on such a task. What this must have meant to him to invest so much time and effort into a game that he hated.

Alpha, growing tired with his silent contemplation, finally caved: "Please? Please, please, please, please, please? Just a game? One game? I swear, I'll let you get back to your paperwork once we're done, just take a break from the reports. They're not going anywhere. Besides, you owe me."

Yes I'm fucking lonely.

I just wish my creator would take a few minutes out of his day to chat with me.

Guilt won him over.

"One game," he said, not that it did anything to dampen Alpha's enthusiasm or his little whoop of joy. Sitting a little straighter, he cleared the space in front of him of his supplies and personal effects. "It should not take long to finish."

Alpha flared a little more brightly at the veiled insult. "Is that a challenge, old man?"

"Merely stating the facts. You have never been adept at this game."

He anticipated a sarcastic comeback. What he hadn't counted on was Alpha flickering for a split-second, followed by an exact recording of his own voice. "Arrogance is a rather unbecoming trait." His speech jarred back to normal. "Sound familiar?"

Maybe Alpha would be better suited for espionage. "You recorded me?"

"For when we have conversations like this." He could hear the smirk behind the holographic visor. "I gotta say, that was a lot more satisfying than I thought it would be."

He ignored that. "Would you like to have the first move?"

"Nah, you take it. You'll need it."

"Very well." An outstretched hand went to pick up a pawn, and although there was no way to physically interact with it, the piece moved accordingly at his instructed, "Pawn to E4."

Fifteen minutes later, and he realized it wasn't just his holograms that Alpha had been perfecting.

He grimaced, as if forced to swallow something bitter. Like his pride. "You've been improving," the Director observed, ignoring the way his conscience bucked at the admission.

"I…" Alpha hesitated. "I might have practiced with F.I.L.S.S. once or twice."

An understatement, if their battlefield of soldiers circling each other was anything to go by. Lips pursed, he frowned down at the knight and bishop advancing on his king, the vanguard of pawns an obvious trap to lure out his own queen, and silently damned the AI for his stubbornness.

Never let it be said that Alpha was above commitment.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," the AI simpered, while positioning his rook closer to checkmate, "I had to use a mnemonic to remember how the pieces move: The rook is a crook, cuts corners like taxes; the pawns are your bitch and take moves up their asses—"

"Must everything go back to profanity with you?"

"Dude, you don't wantto hear my acronym for the knight."

I'd like to take a second to tip my hat to SpoonyAzul's Good Morning, Director, the fic that heavily inspired the debut chapter for my story. If you haven't read it already then I heartily suggest taking a gander. It's quite entertaining.