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Sitting in a large foyer covered in dust and debris, Marjoram realized he probably couldn't have picked a worse day to start volunteering with the CDA. His anxieties were punctuated by another foundation-shaking thaumaturgical blast, the sixth since he'd arrived.

He was just about to stand up and walk out the door when the Dollrector, that's doll director, finally arrived, walking with absolutely none of the urgency the situation called for. For a cloth doll, the Dollrector carried itself with all the poise and efficiency of clockwork.

"Marjoram! A pleasure to make your acquaintance. These ones are all looking forward to having you working here. Can this one get you anything? Chai? Jasmine? Darjeeling? Orange Pekoe? Earl Grey? Don't tell this one bean..."

"That… that does realize the building is currently under attack by a Witch, right…?" Marjoram replied

"Hmm? Oh, yes. It will pass shortly. Nothing to be concerned by. Once she realizes these ones don't possess the information she believes these ones to have, she'll move on."

"What could you have possibly learned to anger a Witch that badly...?"

The Dollrector laughed. "Ah, funny story that. These ones were leading an investigation into Alice, the Transitory Witch, that's the woman currently blasting at the…" a large explosion rang out through the building, "…sounds like the western doll hole.

"Anyways, one of her dolls, Celestine, was in quite the pickle. She was to head up the next tea service at her Witch's weekly coven gathering and she didn't know whether her Witch preferred blueberry or raspberry jam. Terrible, terrible situation. That's where these ones came in"

Marjoram could feel his gears hitch, the situation not quite adding up. "Couldn't she have asked one of her Witch's other dolls? Satin? Lilly? Natrium? And how does investigating a Witch's jam preferences lead to open warfare with the CDA?" he asked confused.

"You remember your first tea service. Too much, a-hem… 'awawa'… to think of such an obvious solution. To your other question, these ones found a receipt from an artisanal jam maker that she'd previously contracted. Turns out, the answer was raspberry."

"That… still doesn't make sense… A receipt…?"

With infinitely more gravitas than the Dollrector had given even the crumbling building, it said, "The receipt… was from PayPal."

And suddenly it clicked into place for Marjoram.

Once the Dollrector was sure Marjoram had caught on, it continued, "That being said, these ones must ask that you consent to immediate short-term memory wipes in the event of learning any such cognitohazardous information. Standard operating procedure, you understand."

End 🧵