The midterms were over. The Survivors Club had, against all odds and with significant spectral assistance, not only passed but in some cases excelled. Ethan's programming professor had written "Surprisingly philosophical approach to loops" in the margins. Chloe had gotten a B+ on her Econ paper after a last-minute, desperate pivot to "The Ghost in the Machine: A Post-Mortem Critique of Late-Stage Capitalism," which confused Professor Grange so thoroughly he graded it on a curve of one.
But their victory was short-lived. A new, more tangible problem emerged, one that even Alexander's most eloquent diatribes couldn't solve: they were broke.
"I'm down to my last three dollars," Mason announced, laying the bills on the common room table like a coroner presenting evidence. "And one of them is Canadian. My life is literally Monopoly money."
"I've been watering down my shampoo for a week," Liam added morosely. "My hair has never been so philosophically clean, but it's lost all its will to live."
"The cafeteria is serving 'Mystery Protein Surprise' again," Jade said, staring into the middle distance. "I saw it move. It moved, guys."
Ethan slammed his laptop shut. "We need a solution. A real one. Not just Alexander telling us that poverty builds character and that material wealth is an illusion."
"It is, though," Alexander's voice chimed in from the light fixture. "Currency is merely a socially constructed symbol of deferred labor, a phantom of value that…"
"Can phantom value buy pizza?" Chloe interrupted, not looking up from her phone. "Because I would trade the entire Frankfurt School for a large pepperoni right now."
"A crass but compelling argument for base materialism," Alexander conceded, floating down to join them. "However, your predicament is not without its solution. I have been auditing the university's financial systems."
Five pairs of eyes locked onto him.
"You can do that?" Ethan asked.
"The firewalls of the living are no match for the boundless curiosity of the dead. It is, as you would say, a feature, not a bug. And I have discovered something… interesting."
He gestured, and a shimmering, ethereal image of a campus map appeared in the air. A location in the Administration building glowed with a malevolent red light.
"The Annual Faculty Research Grant Dispersal Gala," Alexander announced. "A grotesque spectacle where the university's tenured elite gather to consume canapés and distribute vast sums of money to projects of staggering irrelevance."
"Like what?" Mason asked, leaning in.
"Professor Higgins—the man who failed my thesis—is receiving a $50,000 grant for his project: 'A Semiotic Analysis of Pigeon Courting Rituals in Urban Environments.'"
A stunned silence filled the room.
"Fifty grand," Liam whispered. "For… for watching birds flirt?"
"Indeed," Alexander said, his form vibrating with indignation. "Meanwhile, my own groundbreaking work on phenomenological ontology was deemed 'unfundable.' The injustice is a stain upon the very concept of academic integrity! It cannot stand!"
"So what are you suggesting?" Jade asked slowly, a dangerous glint in her eye.
"I am suggesting nothing. I am, however, outlining a scenario in which a group of resourceful students might engage in a act of radical wealth redistribution. We liberate the funds from Higgins's avian voyeurism and reallocate them to a more deserving cause."
"Us," Chloe said flatly.
"Precisely. Consider it a scholarship for the spiritually and financially bankrupt. A grant for surviving my tutelage."
"You want us to steal fifty thousand dollars from a faculty gala," Ethan summarized, his voice tight.
"Steal is such a judgmental word. I prefer 'ethically re-contextualize misallocated resources.' It's a victimless crime! The pigeons will never know."
The plan was insane. It was reckless. It was borderline suicidal.
It was also their only shot at eating something other than "Mystery Protein Surprise" for the rest of the semester.
---
The Heist Prep: A Crash Course in Spectral Espionage
The next 48 hours were a whirlwind of preparation, guided by a ghost who was alarmingly enthusiastic about white-collar crime.
"Okay," Alexander said, his form projected onto a whiteboard they'd stolen from an empty classroom. He was wearing a tiny, ethereal beret. "Phase One: Infiltration. The gala is black-tie. You cannot show up in hoodies and existential despair. You need costumes."
"We don't have money for tuxedos!" Liam protested.
"Hence, the 'borrowing'. The Drama Department's costume warehouse is poorly secured. Mason, your proclivity for petty mischief will finally serve a higher purpose."
That night, they broke into the theater building. Mason picked the lock with a hairpin while Alexander provided a running commentary.
"Note the symbolic resonance: you, the students, forced to wear the masks of a society that excludes you. The tuxedo is not a garment; it is a uniform of conformity."
"This one smells like mothballs and sadness," Chloe said, holding up a sequined gown.
"That's the smell of the American Dream, Chloe. Now hurry, the night watchman's existential dread peaks in twenty minutes. He'll be questioning all his life choices in the break room, which gives us a window."
They escaped with two slightly-too-large tuxedos, a gown that made Jade look like a disco ball, and a waiter's uniform for Liam, who was deemed "the most server-like" due to his inherent anxiety.
"Phase Two: Intelligence," Alexander continued the next day. "The grant money is presented as a giant, ceremonial check. A vulgar display. It will be in a locked briefcase in Higgins's office until the presentation. We need the combination."
"And how do we get that?" Ethan asked.
"We ask him."
"We… ask him?"
"Through a carefully crafted ruse of course! We shall deploy the oldest, most effective tool of espionage: the phishing email."
Alexander dictated while Ethan typed.
Subject: URGENT: Security Verification for Your Grant Funds
Dear Professor Higgins,
This is Campus IT Security. We have detected a malicious attempt by a spectral entity to access your research funds. To secure your account, please verify the combination to your briefcase lock below. Failure to do so may result in the permanent loss of your funding for pigeon-based research.
Sincerely,
The Ghost in the Machine (IT Dept.)
"He'll never fall for that," Jade said. "It's ridiculous."
Five minutes later, Higgins's reply dinged in Ethan's inbox.
"Thank you for your vigilance! The combination is 38-16-22. Those damned philosophy ghosts are always trying to ruin serious scholarship!"
They stared at the screen in disbelief.
"See?" Alexander said smugly. "The man is so terrified of philosophical rigor he'll believe anything. It's his fatal flaw."
"Phase Three: The Swap," Alexander announced, his eyes gleaming. "We cannot simply take the briefcase. We must replace it with an identical one, containing a message of our own."
He had them pool their last few dollars to buy a cheap, look-alike briefcase. Inside, they placed a single, typewritten note, composed by Alexander:
"Your grant has been ethically re-appropriated. While your study of avian coitus is doubtlessly fascinating, the funds are now serving a higher purpose: funding the continued existence of five students you have failed. P.S. Kierkegaard was right about you."
"The P.S. is a bit much," Chloe noted.
"Artistic license," Alexander replied. "Now, for the final piece of the plan: distraction."
---
The Gala: A Night of Chaos and Canapés
The following evening, they stood outside the glittering Administration Hall, looking deeply uncomfortable in their stolen finery.
"I feel like a penguin that's been to a taxidermist," Mason muttered, adjusting his bowtie.
"My shoes are two different sizes," Liam whimpered, wobbling in the waiter's uniform. "I think one is from a production of 'Guys and Dolls' and the other is from 'Death of a Salesman.' It's a metaphor."
"Just remember the plan," Jade said, smoothing her sequined dress. "Ethan and I go in as guests. Mason, you're our inside man on tech. Liam, you're circulating with trays. Alexander is on comms."
A tiny, spectral earpiece materialized in each of their ears, humming with Alexander's voice.
"Testing, testing. Can you hear the voice of reason echoing in your skull? Good. Remember, you are not criminals. You are performance artists critiquing the academic-military-industrial complex. Now, move out."
The gala was a sea of self-congratulation and cheap champagne. Ethan and Jade blended in, trying to look like they belonged. Liam circulated with a tray of shrimp cocktails, his hands shaking so violently the shrimp were doing a little dance.
"Higgins is at the podium, preparing for his speech," Alexander's voice crackled in their ears. "The briefcase is under the table. Ethan, you're up. Initiate 'Operation: Dialectical Distraction.'"
Ethan took a deep breath, walked up to the stage, and tapped Professor Higgins on the shoulder.
"Professor?" Ethan said, putting on his best impression of an eager, slightly unhinged student. "I just had a question about your pigeon research. Isn't the very act of observation, by a conscious being, fundamentally altering the pigeons' authentic courtship behavior? Are we not, in fact, imposing a human narrative upon their avian Dasein?"
Higgins's eyes widened. He was a man who loved to hear himself talk, but he was utterly unprepared for a Heideggerian critique of his life's work.
"Well, I… that is to say… the methodological implications are…" he stammered.
While Higgins was floundering, Jade, disguised as a event coordinator, smoothly slid the real briefcase out from under the table and replaced it with the fake one.
"The swap is complete!" Alexander announced. "Excellent work! Now, for the grand finale. Mason, the microphone."
Back in the tech booth, Mason, wearing a headset he'd found, cackled with glee. He flipped a switch, and Alexander's voice, amplified and echoing, boomed through the entire ballroom.
"ATTENTION, TENURED ELITE! THIS IS THE GHOST OF CRESTWOOD PAST!"
The room fell into a stunned silence. Higgins froze mid-sentence.
"TONIGHT, WE HAVE WITNESSED A TRUE ACT OF SCHOLARSHIP! THE REDISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH FROM THE ABSURD TO THE NECESSITOUS! LET THIS BE A LESSON: PHILOSOPHY ISN'T DEAD… IT'S JUST UNEMPLOYED AND HUNGRY! ENJOY THE CANAPÉS!"
As panic erupted, Mason hit play on his laptop. The opening bars of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" blasted through the speakers at an earsplitting volume.
Chaos. Pure, beautiful chaos.
The Survivors Club met at their pre-arranged spot by the dumpsters behind the building, their hearts pounding. Jade held the briefcase tightly.
"We did it," Ethan breathed, a huge, incredulous grin spreading across his face. "We actually did it."
"We performed a masterful act of socio-academic ju-jitsu," Alexander corrected, materializing before them, looking prouder than they'd ever seen him. "You were magnificent. Especially you, Liam. Your tray-shaking conveyed a perfect sense of proletarian angst."
Liam, who had thrown his waiter's jacket into the dumpster, managed a weak smile.
Back in Ethan's dorm, they crowded around as he clicked open the briefcase. There it was. The giant, ceremonial check, made out to "Professor Alistair Higgins," for the sum of $50,000.
For a moment, they just stared at it, the reality of what they'd done sinking in.
"So…" Mason said, breaking the silence. "How does a ghost feel about his cut being used for, say, a lifetime supply of energy drinks?"
"I am beyond material concerns," Alexander said, his nose in the air. Then he glanced at the check. "However, a small donation to the philosophy department, earmarked for the 'Alexander Plath Memorial Scholarship for the Uncompromisingly Weird,' would not be… unappreciated."
They all laughed, the tension finally breaking. They were fugitives. They were accomplices to grand larceny, guided by a dead philosopher.
But as they sat there, planning how to carefully launder a giant check, they realized something. Alexander wasn't just a ghost, or a tutor, or a nuisance.
He was family. The weird, undead, philosophically-insistent uncle they never knew they needed.
And for the first time all semester, none of them were worried about money. They were just worried about getting caught.
It was, they decided, a significant upgrade.