1. Dean

Dean

The large squat white building looms in front of us, the giant CSA letters the only identifying mark on it. We're almost to the door, and James is still going on about America's Next Top Cryptid . He's a good guy, and he makes amazing homemade Mexican food, so his obsession with reality television is something I suppose I can forgive.

"I really think that Cindy, the sasquatch with the blue eyes, is gonna get voted off the show next," he says.

"James, I don't watch that crap, so I have no idea what you're talking about," I answer, then nod my head at the security guard. "Hey, Bob."

"Morning, Bob!" James says, blushing lightly.

Bob just nods his large, hairy head at us as we scan our badges.

James waits until we get inside before he whispers, "He's so hot. Have you seen the sasquatch porn out there?"

I almost trip while walking through the lobby, which is already being decorated with the typical holiday decor. "James!" I hiss. "Geez! First of all, Bob is bigfoot, not sasquatch, and second of all, you know they have amazing hearing, right?"

This time James almost trips, then he stops dead, staring at me. "Shit. Do you think he heard that?" he whispers. "Even through the glass doors?"

James is really blushing now, but I just roll my eyes and shake my head at him. "Just ask him out already," I say, but James looks utterly horrified at the idea.

"The last time I asked a cryptid out they laughed at me," he mutters, starting to walk again.

"Well, asking a chupacabra if they really enjoy sucking things was probably in poor taste," I reply. James was a little drunk at the time, but it was still a pretty horrible pick up line. "You're lucky all you got is laughed at."

James blushes again as we get to the elevator, making our way in as one person gets out at the lobby level. "Well you know chupacabra really means—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Yes, James, I did have the required Intro to Cryptids course in college, just like you," I answer. "Yet you still can't tell the difference between a bigfoot and a sasquatch." I don't admit that I really don't know either—I think only the species themselves know (although it might have to do with place of origin).

James just snorts as we reach his floor. "See you at lunch!" he comments before getting off the elevator. "You can help me pick out a Christmas present for my mom!"

I just roll my eyes. James is pretty clueless, but he means well and has a big heart. Before the elevator door shuts, a Jersey Devil gets in and presses the number for the floor above mine. I give her a head nod, moving over to give her space for her wings, and she nods back before burying her head in her tablet so that only her horns are visible.

CSA probably hires more cryptids than humans, so James and I are both lucky to work here—it is one of the premier scientific labs in the country, and it's fiercely competitive in its hiring process. It's actually been around since before the big "coming out" of cryptids about thirty years ago, although most people don't know that.

Of course, cryptids weren't always as accepted as they are today; there was definitely some upheaval at first. As people started to realize that cryptids were all over the place and took human form pretty easily, they also realized that they couldn't really tell who was cryptid and who was human.

They also came to the realization that their next door neighbor was a thunderbird, and the nice old lady who opened up her lake for swimming was named Nessie for a reason. Then there were all the wendigos that were politicians, and the mothmen who were ER doctors or on search and rescue teams. Once people found out their favorite musician was probably a siren, it seemed to be the tipping point for acceptance and even fandom (hence the reality television shows all over the place featuring cryptids).

It took a few years from the original announcements, but the anti-cryptid protests stopped, laws were passed, and now people look back on those dark beginning days as a history lesson of how people react poorly to things they don't understand.

Nowadays, cryptids are comfortable taking their natural form, which explains why a very hairy bigfoot is currently our security guard. Of course, there's always some cult who's spouting anti-cryptid nonsense, but stupid people have always existed, and most of us just ignore them. Besides, there's a whole branch of the government that deals with threats against cryptids.

The elevator stops at my floor, and I stride out, swiping my badge again to get into the lab.

Speaking of cryptids… Art is already in the lab, busy working on whatever his latest project is. He looks mostly human, except he has hands and tentacles. It is kind of amazing to watch him work—he holds test tubes and glass slides in his tentacles, mixing things together and operating lab equipment, while his hands take notes about everything he's doing. He's also sort of mumbling under his breath at the same time, totally engrossed in his work.

He's such a cutie.

"Hey, Art," I call out.

I really should know better, because next thing I know I'm staring at test tubes floating in the air, one of which gets dropped, and Art is nowhere to be seen, his lab uniform appearing to float in mid air.

Shit, I triggered his metachrosis response. Cephalopods are amazing at camouflage, and Art is particularly shy and nervous.

Which is another thing I find totally adorable about him. Still, I can't help the sigh that escapes my mouth. I'm never going to be able to ask the guy out if I keep scaring him all the time.

I head over to pick up the dropped test tube, which is thankfully empty. Art starts to fade back into his normal appearance, although he just stares at me nervously.

One of his tentacles reaches out and circles around my wrist holding the test tube, and Art looks absolutely mortified at that. I just laugh, opening my palm so he can take the tube back.

"Sorry, Art. Didn't mean to startle you," I say.

With that, his tentacle slowly uncoils, he grabs the test tube, and he makes a beeline for the back of the lab. I just sigh again.

Art is adorable and sweet and utterly brilliant, but I'm guessing my chances with him are pretty slim. At least two lab assistants and one chemist all tried asking him out, and it was actually comical to watch them get shot down.

The first lab tech tried for a coffee date, which Art deflected by discussing, in depth, the effect of caffeine and sugar on lab mice in a study he recently read. He'd ended with the question as to why he would want to consume something that contained "biologically destructive elements," and the poor tech had wandered off, looking deflated. He'd transferred out of the lab that afternoon.

The other lab tech had been human, and she'd learned from the last guy and had gone for the open ended, "Would you like to hang with me tonight?" Art had responded by discussing her inability to hang from anything for long periods of time because of her musculoskeletal make-up, responding that perhaps she ought to rethink her plans for the evening if they would cause her physical harm.

I'd had to stifle my giggles at that response, and I'm still not sure if Art is that adorably clueless or if he meant to turn her down.

Unfortunately, it lost us yet another lab tech, which is why we're currently short staffed.

As if conjuring upper management with the very thought of our staff problem, I hear the voice of my harpy boss over the intercom.

"Dean and Art, please report to my office when you get a chance."

Great. It's really too early for a meeting with the boss. Art peeks his head around the cabinet, one tentacle snaking out before he grabs it with his hand and pulls it back.

I just give him a wave and head out of the lab, hoping whatever Frank needs doesn't take us out of the lab for most of the day.