(july intro log) WELCOME TO THE CONTAINMENT ZONE! (for real this time.)

[vestigemods]

JULY INTRO LOG

► PROMPT 1 ► WAKING UP

Whenever you're from or wherever you were, you awaken now with the mildest of headaches in-... oh, this is new. For some people, you wake in a cabin - in a bed, on the floor, amidst boxes in the basement - and for others, you wake up somewhere else entirely. Off in the woods. Between aisles in a run-down gas station. Lying on a branch ten feet up a local tree. Perhaps even on a leaky boat out on the middle of a lake. It's mid-morning, and across the nine square miles of containment zone, a little under two-dozen people are waking up just as you are. I'm sure you'll run into some of them soon enough.

This might be your first time waking up where you don't expect to be. If it is, consider yourself lucky to have missed what came before. For those have been through a Loop or three (or five or twelve), you'll find that waking this time feels different. It's as though you've woken from a dream - and that's what those memories feel like, trapped in the semi-tangible realm between dream and reality, though if pressed you can probably discern that they were undeniably real. (Or perhaps you can't - or perhaps some of the memories are missing altogether. This is hardly a precise science.)

Somewhere in your vicinity (in your hand, in your pocket, on your chest) is a smartphone, if you're able to recognize it as such. The models tend to vary, but they all share the capacity to connect to what seems to be an overarching network, able to connect to others with similar devices via text, voice calls, or even video messages.

But the phone is likely the least of your concerns, at least for now. More pressing is where exactly it is that you've awoken and whether or not you've woken up alone.

PROMPT 2 ► THE CABINS + LAKE

As many as a dozen cabins sit in the general vicinity of the lake, some along the shore and some a bit farther back in the woods. Perhaps you awoke in one, or perhaps you're stumbling into one after dragging yourself out of the lake or through a couple of miles of woods. Either way, you're in perhaps the best place you might have ended up. The cabin's amenities are sketchy but functional, and the kitchen is stocked with food...

And let's not forget about the pamphlets.

On at least a couple of nearby tables or countertops sit a handful of them, fanned for display. They're vividly colored, depicting what you might recognize as the landscape outside, and the title reads: THE CONTAINMENT ZONE AND YOU! Within these pamphlets, a conversationally cavalier voice explains a bit about the Containment Zone, which (as it turns out) you're stuck in right at this very moment.


"THE CONTAINMENT ZONE AND YOU", summarized


• Where am I?
  Earth. Well - an Earth. Definitely not your Earth. if that creates more questions than it answers, glance to your left and right and ask any follow-up questions to whomsoever seems least confused.


• Why am I here?
  To feed the elder gods with your death and/or suffering in order to prevent any more of an apocalypse than we already had.


• Can I leave?
  Voluntarily? No. Involuntarily? Probably not.


• What do you mean, 'death'??
  Oh, calm down. You'll come back.


• I have very important shit to be doing/people to be saving/weed to be smoking back home!
  Lucky for you: If you go back, we'll put you back right where and when you left off. You won't miss a thing.


• Isn't that how you break time!? I'm pretty sure that's how you break time.
  Only if you remember this place and/or what you've learned here when you get back. Which you won't.


• Supplies?
  Cabins and gas station.


• Cabins?
  Yours. Pick one.


• Lake?
  Safe. (For now.)


• Moon?
  Haunted.


• Who even are you?
  Call us the Technicians. Individual identities don't matter. We may give you sweets and toys but we're not your friends.


• Do you at least negotiate?
  We'll consider it. Depends on what you're asking for. And, of course, on what you have to offer.


• Wait! I'm (insert emotions) and have more questions!
  How unfortunate. Expect your next pamphlet in 4-6 weeks.




Well, that certainly is... something. Lots to discuss, lots to consider. If you're the get-right-to-business sort, that could easily occupy you for a good long while.

Alternatively: It's a hot day, and you've just ever-so-conveniently learned that the lake is 'safe (for now)'. Why not go for a dip to clear your head? The water is actually impressively clear, offering visual reassurance of the lack of abject horrors lurking below.

Those who do swim find that the lake is, as promised, mostly innocuous. 'Mostly' being the key phrase, as anyone who swims out close to the center will find it getting more and more difficult to stay on the surface. As if you're getting heavier and heavier, or your limbs are getting weaker and weaker. It isn't enough to drown you (probably), but you certainly might find yourself considering how peaceful it might be if you let yourself sink.

These thoughts are simple enough to push away in much the same way you might push through the heaviness of your limbs. One could consider it more a warning than anything: Even that which is 'safe' should be treated with proper caution. (Quick and senseless deaths are junk food to the elder gods - tasty but unsatisfying.)

PROMPT 3 ► THE GAS STATION

At the south end of the containment zone sits an old gas station, run-down and overgrown at first sight. It sits alongside a cracked asphalt road, one which (as you might discover) bisects the containment zone from the east wall to the west without a single other building in sight.

You may have woken up here, or perhaps you found it at the pamphlet's behest. Either way, it's a discovery that you'll thank yourself for many a time as throughout the next few months here, for reasons that become apparent the moment you step inside.

In sharp contrast with the outside, the inside of the gas station looks... well, like a functional gas station should. Floors and surfaces seem recently-wiped, shelves seem stocked and organized... It's enough that if you're familiar with gas stations as a concept, you might find yourself reflexively glancing around for an attendant.

But no attendant seems to be present. Just shelves and shelves of goods - perishables and nonperishables, first aid supplies and whatever else one might expect to find at such an out-of-the-way pit stop, all ready for the taking. You might even find an extra surprise. Oh, and let's not forget a nice array of THE CONTAINMENT ZONE AND YOU! pamphlets on the check-out counter, in case you missed them back at the cabins.

Maybe you encounter someone here - are they friend, or foe? Maybe they're as lost and confused as you are. Maybe they're reaching for that last fucking can of Spaghetti-Os and you're serious about your fucking Spaghetti-Os. At least one person is definitely waking up in a gas station fridge... Maybe you're lucky(?) individual who spots them and has to decide whether or not you've discovered a corpse where the soda should be. The world (or, at least, the gas station) is your oyster.

PROMPT 4 ► THE WOODS + BARRIER

The vast majority of the containment zone is covered in evergreen forest, populated with wildlife that look and act disarmingly normal. It may, in fact, be a nice quiet place to stroll in order to clear your head. While large swathes of the woods are moderately dense, there are a number of paths to make your way along should you choose to. Birds sing overhead, deer occasionally bound across the path ahead... If you didn't know any better, you might be able to forget that this isn't a normal stretch of woods somewhere not far from home.

But nothing in the containment zone is truly harmless. The blackberry bushes that line many a cabin (you remember, the ones that make your mouth and tongue go numb?) are out in force in the woods, and out here they're even more of an infernal menace: While the cabin variety only cause havoc when ingested, so much as a scratch from the woods variety's thorns will induce a tingling numb in the affected area that lasts for the better part of an hour.

And let's not forget the lovely field of "wildflowers" that definitely aren't not infested with poison ivy. It's a shame, really. The flowers themselves are quite pretty, an array of pastel blues and pinks and oranges. It's almost like a painting, if touching that painting happened to make you itch, burn, and blister for one-to-two weeks.

But why are we talking about flowers? What you're truly interested in is the containment zone barrier, aren't you? That's fine, you're bound to encounter it out there somewhere. It's invisible until you touch it, at which point a honeycomb pattern ripples out from the point of contact. As a general rule, the barrier gives back what it gets: Place your palm on it and you'll receive a faint uncomfortable buzz. Run headlong into it, and it will ricochet you multiple yards back into the woods.

The barrier stretches all the way around the containment zone without a single break or point of yielding. No further buildings can be seen beyond the barrier, nor any real sign of civilization at all save for the gas station's road stretching past the barriers and out of sight. The only thing of passable interest is the somewhat concerning tree sitting at the far end of the field across the street from saud gas station, at least two-hundred yards past the barrier. At this distance, it's a bit tricky to make out what flocks in the tree's branches. Those have to be birds... right?

► MOD NOTES ►

• This log takes place from July 4th onward, arguably through whenever the event goes up - though you're welcome to toss up your own logs in the meantime. I'm gonna troubleshoot the HTML to leave a space for IC dates, but I didn't want to waste any more time on that right now.
  
• Vestige is now open for business! You're welcome to post logs + network posts of your own, post memes on vestigechat, whatever you want.
  
• This log is functionally intended to be a tour of the containment zone for new characters and players, with dashes of mild horror or discomfort along the way. Don't worry: The actual horror is rolling in later this month. (I'm tagging this under 'event' anyway, just to keep track of it.)
  
• You can literally have your character wake up wherever you want within the containment zone, even if I didn't list it. Go nuts.
  
• It's worth noting: None of the cabins are recognizable as the precise one from the TDM loop, nor is the forest fog still present. The forest is recognizably the same flora/fauna, but that's about it.
  
• You're welcome to include a network post with your top-level (or to put it up on vestigenet as per usual) - but don't forget to consult the NETWORK: USERNAMES ARE FUCKY drop-down of July's Infopost before you do!
  
• Direct any and all questions at Trace on plurk/discord or (for slightly slower answers) this top-level.
  
• My deepest most heartfelt apologies for the lateness, I failed to factor in my own godforsaken attention span.
  

Comments

gwenaëlle vauquelin | open

[hedoniste]

the cabins.

( on principle—she has fewer of those than some people, not none—gwenaëlle is not entertaining for even a moment remaining in the cabin that she'd woken up in, disoriented and shaking off dreams-that-weren't-dreams. she can still smell smoke, can't quite tell if it's psychosomatic or not, and even if she never sets foot in the room she woke on the floor of ever again the ceiling and the smell of it will linger in her memory, so

so she leaves. pamphlet in hand, dressed for the filthy-hot summer that had been about to ripen into something much worse, a cigarette between her teeth and her stylishly overpriced backpack slung over one shoulder (containing, not that she's looked to know yet, her new smartphone with its unflattering temporary username daddyissues). this isn't the first time that she's been dumped out in the middle of unfamiliar no where with no place else to go and nothing to do but to make the best of it, and the chances of being hit in the face with the oppressive scent of decay when opening a strange cabin is at least fifty percent lower than it was in derry. eliot was in derry, and another eliot was in at least one of her dreams; optimistically, she is sort of still looking for her brother, but mostly she's looking for...anything. something. a place to stop in.

five foot three of purposeful striding is happening between cabins, but maybe there's someone already in the one she opens next. who knows. )

wildcard.

( her tiny highness will be investigating around the cabins, the lake, and the woods; please feel free to find her any of these places if you have a better idea for a starter, or hmu @ lilpantsunicorn#8828 to hash something out. )

the cabins.

[inventoried]

[ The cabin she comes up on is deeper into the forest, which is thick with insects and humidity while the sun is in the sky like that, although dense trees throw dark shade every which way. The building is stained black timber, hard angles, and an upright tree growing through the porch and the rooftop. The woods creak beneath her feet as she heads up the stairs. Glass paneling next to the window show a very dim interior, and the door is not locked when she opens it.

The dimensions are generous with good headspace, but the old fashioned seventies summer camp decorating makes everything feel a little quainter and smaller than it really is.

Also making everything seem smaller than it really is is this guy coming out from the archway of a kitchen. He is wearing old and worn jeans, flat sneakers, a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and kind of a stupid expression that quickly firms up with wariness. He is also holding the pamphlet in both hands.

She is going to have to say something first as the gears in his head are slow to turn and activate his speech centres. ]

[hedoniste]

( gwenaëlle doesn't look out of place because gwenaëlle possesses the kind of casual self-assurance that anywhere she is, she's meant to be; this is not dented by the presence of someone almost twice her size with his sleeves rolled up like he's probably Doing Something that indicates an element of settling in. her sleeves are rolled up, granted, but her (loose, sheer) blouse is also tied and not buttoned over a black silk triangle bra, and in conjunction with the dark denim shorts that almost cover most of her backside, it seems more like a style choice than because she might be doing anything strenuous.

she might well have intended to do something strenuous when she'd put the outfit on some place other than this, but she doesn't look like she did.

she gazes up at him. hmm. )

If you are decided on this one,

( —french, then, unless in addition to everything else some people here just put on accents to fuck with each other, )

then I've walked all this way already, I'm going to smoke on your porch before I try another.

( how he feels about this doesn't appear to enter into it. )

[inventoried]

Okay.

[ And likewise, that sounds less like permission granted than it does acceptance. Has he 'decided' on this one? Luke folds and unfolds and refolds the pamphlet in his hands in a slow idle fidget, looking her over like he is trying to get a read and failing.

European. Youngish. That's all he's got.

He glances backwards at where he'd come from, which was simply investigating the cabinets, the fridge, all of which were stocked with food. Or ingredients that will need to be made into food. That sounds like it's asking a lot of him right now, so he'd rather dampen his hunger in other ways. ]

Can I have one of those?

[hedoniste]

( that seems fine, she decides. fair, even, since she just marched into probably his house and announced she's going to turn it into a breathing hazard. she says, )

Okay,

( as if this is some benevolence, nevertheless, slinging her backpack down one arm to rifle through it as she turns on leather-sandaled heel to go back out onto the small porch. it's a remarkably well-stocked pack; if only more of it contents might be as useful as the cigarettes, which are produced in short order (hand-rolled, from a case) alongside a lighter that matches it.

she is not a total animal, so she lights one for him first, offering it back from where she has sat like holding court on (probably) his front steps.

the second one she holds between her teeth while dispassionately holding the corner of her pamphlet into the flame. )

[inventoried]

[ Luke accepts the cigarette with a muttered thanks, his voice sandpapery and quiet, and finds a corner for himself. Putting distance between them but not exactly retreating, because being alone in this moment sounds potentially more crazy making than he wants to fuck with.

He smokes and watches her light up the pamphlet, the flame turning into a longer ribbon of fire. He says, dry as the building she is lighting fires within the vicinity of; ] Smokey's gonna kick your ass.

[ That flicker of humour warms his voice a moment, stamped out in the next moment. ]

[hedoniste]

( when the flame licks close to her fingertips, she shakes it out what's left of the paper, wrinkling her nose— )

Oh, here it's encouraged.

( the details don't linger; dreamlike and unsettlingly real at the same time. still, she remembers watching a cabin that she can't find now burn, over and over and over again,

she will have to see all of them, she thinks, to be sure. she doesn't think she can sleep anywhere until she's sure. if it is still here, she's of the mind to burn it the fuck down again on principle, but she can sit here for a little while first. )

Did you wake up in there? Or somewhere else.

[inventoried]

Here. In the.

[ A tip of his head indicates the second storey up, finishing his sentence for him.

He isn't covered in dust (anymore), unlike every surface inside, so it's unlikely that she's meeting him mere moments after waking up, with enough time to clean up some and attempt some form of exploration within and without. But if he's looking at her like she is the first person he's met since arriving, then that would be because she is.

In all his wildest imaginings of what kind of fucked up shit is currently in store for him, random strangers had not factored in. ]

Do you know what this is?

[hedoniste]

Kind of.

( it isn't a confident answer, but— )

I woke up here. And then woke up here, and woke up, and woke up, and woke up—it kept looping, yes, there was this one cabin and it was the same every time no matter what had happened to it. In it. Whatever. It feels weird to remember.

( not so much in a delicate sort of feelings way, from her tone, but in a more literally disorienting sense. a dream or not a dream, a dream that she remembers too well and lingers too strongly. that accounts for too much. )

My brother was there but he wasn't my brother, ( breathing out a wreath of smoke. ) Whatever it is, it's fucked up.

[inventoried]

[ Luke listens, expression intent and cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Someone unaccustomed to weird shit may be concerned, frightened, but more likely might struggle to connect to what the woman is saying. They might hear it without hearing it.

But he does, it seems, some familiar snag catching in her words. He swallows down the taste of his cigarette and drops his eye line to the porch floor. ]

So it's like a dream?

[ He hovers the cigarette close to his mouth, hesitates, adds, ] All this.

[hedoniste]

It didn't feel like a dream.

( when it was happening. and neither does this—

but the answer still doesn't quite seem like a no, either, her brow furrowed and her eyes on the blur that smoke makes in front of her. maybe it's a dream? something that's real and not real and a problem, anyway. that they won't remember if they leave, if they leave.

it is still better than what she was waking up from, except the snagged complication that is her brother (or not her brother), which has a lot to do with the muted nature of her present reaction to their predicament. the thing about surviving is that it gets to be a habit. )

If this were my dream, you would be better dressed.

( that is both very rude and apparently intended as friendliness. )

[inventoried]

[ Hurtful, says Luke's brow wrinkle. Not really, adds what could almost pass as a smile, subtle enough to read as shy. The next line manages to come out smooth, unstammered; ]

If this were my dream, I'd probably know your name.

[ What are dreams but nightmare tours of people you love getting hurt and hurting you? He has never met a real live French lady. That he remembers.

He offers; ]

Luke.

[hedoniste]

( the end of the world had introduced gwen to a whole new world of people who didn't already know who she was, but somehow in all the assorted lessons of the apocalypse, that one didn't really take and there is an air about the way she laughs, rueful,

like she probably wouldn't have introduced herself without being prompted. maybe someone should see how long that can go, like for science. it's probably a while. )

Gwenaëlle, ( she returns, apparently really getting into it by offering him the hand not currently holding a fire hazard to shake. ) Gwen.

( gwen being generally easier for english speakers, on the whole, and the nickname of hers least likely to prompt someone to inquire whether or not she is in fact a poodle. (gigi is a perfectly good thing to call a person, actually.) )

The gas station has more cigarettes, Luke, ( she pronounces it more like luc, and the difference is minimal but distinct, ) if you didn't think to pack any for your foray into bad dreams in the woods. Maybe you'll know the brands also, I don't know, I didn't, I'll just be sad when I have to resort to them.

( she taps ash out onto the steps, and curls her toes in her sandals. )

Derry was shit anyway. Have you been to Maine? It's shit.

[inventoried]

[ Okay, sure, says the jumpstart twitch semi-shrug that precedes Luke tipping forward enough to reach a long arm across the way and shake her hand, nodding to her, cigarette clamped into the corner of his mouth. There is dirt under his nails but that's about all his hands have to say about him as a person.

When he takes the cigarette out of his mouth (glancing at it like the hand-rolled twist of paper and embers might inform him of its brand and origins), he holds it between pinched fingers. 'The gas station has more cigarettes' is knowledge he files away for later, somewhere between 'no one stays dead here' and 'moon? haunted'. The idea of staying long enough to explore that fact feels unlikely. ]

Maine's okay, [ he says, still talking angled-down. ] Every state's got a shit town.

[ He clears his throat, habitual. ]

I'm, uh. I'm holding out for a better explanation than bad dreams. Or the bullshit in the pamphlet.

[hedoniste]

( everyone in derry was dead.

almost everyone. it feels like a weird, unreal thing to have to say to someone else—impossible as it was happening around her, even moreso to recount, apart from that experience. so she doesn't, but pulls her knees up toward herself a bit, leaning onto them and tilting her head sideways to watch him, thoughtful. )

What, you don't think the moon is haunted?

( gwen doesn't think the moon is haunted. )

[inventoried]

I mean.

[ Luke taps away some ash. ]

I haven't been up there, so.

[ Jokes land better when you don't mumble them, but still, a sense of humour persists. Being a Crain means inheriting more than just crazy. ]

What did you mean about your brother?

[hedoniste]

( the huff of breath released into her knees could have been a laugh, almost. it's a shame gwen is not nearly internet enough for a buzzfeed unsolved: on the moon joke of some description, because it'd be great, but she is familiar with no forms of shane madej. in any font.

instead, much less amusingly, )

I have a twin. He's— ( the gesturing isn't helpful, at this point, ) like you, tall, American. I went to the states to find him. ( maine was not exclusively shit, there was also eliot. ) The first time I woke up in the cabin, he was outside.

( her fingertips tap restlessly against her knee. )

It was him. Exactly him. The same face, the same voice. Eliot. But different. Like—

( he did fucking magic )

The scars were different.

( —protests the psychic. )

And he didn't know me.

[inventoried]

[ Whatever ease had managed to eke its way into Luke's system, either by way of nicotine uncurling in his lungs or amiable enough chatter with familiar undercurrents of nihilism, that all crystallises. His chest feels immediately tight and he steers a look away.

Is grief just like this? Like a whole separate animal part of you, violent and clawing against the walls of your ribcage. He counts, internally, one, two, three-- ]

Sorry, [ a little late, four, five, six, and he breathes in a sharper draw of smoke, gusts it out. His apology is intended as in 'to hear that', but also a little like he is conscience of the fact he's reacting to some other damn thing and it's embarrassing, and also like he says that word a lot.

Seven. ]

He still here?

[hedoniste]

( the one-shouldered shrug is even more lopsided for being delivered with her leaning over her own knees— )

I woke up by myself.

( it's not a no, and not a yes, either; she hasn't found him, but she only saw him once in all that looping, just the first time. maybe he wasn't real—what's she supposed to do with that? she went halfway around the world into the middle of an apocalypse to find him, and did, and now she's in that movie final girl and he...isn't? maybe?

she feels too worn out to feel a way about it, but she knows better about stillness and icebergs.

and icebergs. he looks like one; she wonders which part of what she said struck, lodged. )

[inventoried]

[ It's probably a lot of bullshit for a normal person to process, and by all accounts, there's a lot normal about Luke. Well, maybe not normal. Ordinary, certainly. Expected. Even so, there was something porous about the minds of both himself and his sister when they were little, and a lot of good that did them in the long run.

All the same, he absorbs inexplicable words around a brother who is not, who has different scars, and doesn't remember who she is, but still counts. ]

I keep expecting people I know to walk out of the woods. When I heard you come in.

[ The sentence dies there, the rest unspoken, but probably understandable enough. He is looking at the woods too, as if imagining it. ]

Better for them if they don't, right.

[kingish]

[ eliot, in the interim, has remained almost completely totally positive there's no way he has a twin sister, in large part because--well, because she's so much like him where she's not the appealing opposite. like an anchor to hold him steady. (despite how intrinsically uh, wobbly they both inherently seem to be.) surely he'd know if a connection like that was out there?

then again: his counterpart apparently didn't either; maybe in one of those 39 very short lives, there's a twin. shit, maybe eliot ate his in the womb more than once, that sounds like something he'd do.

........................... moving on from that

he talls into her immediate vicinity by sheer twin osmosis radar, which he has now decided they have because who gives a shit if it's real? the only family he's ever had who didn't see him as skid marks on the saggy briefs of the illustrious waugh lineage is--is either dead, or unreachable. at the very least gwen and he can stick together and pool their remaining cigarettes. so:

eliot spots her much tinier figure on the grounds that she is the other best dressed person here, perhaps, and beelines in that direction, reaching down to grab her by the shoulders and look into her face as if they have been separated for years. YEARS, gwen!!! (is it scary that he doesn't have to fake this? that it's so easy to fall into the idea that they need each other?) ]

There you are. I thought I was going to have to live with one of these...these other people.

[ please imagine how snobby he was pre-canon character development, if this is what he's arrived at now. ]

[hedoniste]

( wh—oh.

no, wait, back up: what. her first reaction is an embarrassing lack of one, taken off-guard and slightly disoriented by the fact that now she can't really gauge which eliot is which based on recognition of her. and the fact that there are two, maybe, is still an issue, but it's—

she has relaxed before she's aware she's going to into the relief of reunion. he's glad to see her. it's such a little thing to ask for. )

No, ( automatically, when her mouth catches up to the emotional experience the rest of her is having and bypasses it entirely, ) I found one for us.

( well, for them now. it was for her about thirty seconds ago.

it's probably too hot for hugging, but she shrugs her shoulder out from under one of his hands just so she can use its momentum to lean into the front of him, exhaling. this is fine. this moment right here is okay. )

[kingish]

[ what is a more than fair reaction, considering eliot changed his entire mind in one single tag. he thinks--he likes her, and shit, he got married with no more social basis than that.

so yes. this moment right here is okay. it takes him just a beat to return the hug, but when he does it's with totally unforced enthusiasm, chin tilted down to prop the side of his face in the crown of her hair, which it is most definitely too hot for, especially since gwen can probably like, literally feel the literal heat on his all black clothes. (technically speaking he could change out of those, but he's been to the gas station and no fucking thank you to hilarious graphic t-shirts. fuck those forever; he wasn't a fan even before he spent several months watching his own body be vandalized by such choice sentiments as sorry for what i said when i was hangry. why.) ]

Look. You know this sucks, I know this sucks. Whoever's running this place is the Grand Marshal of suck. But we're gonna be okay. We're survivors.

[ is this like, wildly presumptuous uhhhhh ]

I mean, you'd have to be. Right?

[ a] of a literal apocalypse and b] any twin of his, one who clearly does not fit in with a family of soy bean farmers, would, as stated, have to be. ]

Now, where's our house? [ a pause, mingled horror and resignation. ] And whose dick do I have to suck to get clean sheets? Thread count preferably in the triple digits.

[hedoniste]

( the sound that she makes into his chest loosely translates to you don't know the fucking half of it and skirts a sufficiently hysterical edge as to indicate it's better that she just make a noise, for the moment. give her a second, and then maybe the words. surviving is the only reason she knew eliot existed in the first place, in a very real and very terrible way, and

mm.

the point is, if it's presumptuous, it's also not wrong. )

I don't like the odds, ( she says, eventually, ) of any dick here having laundry skills.

( for starters, if they themselves are a remotely representative sample. she loops her hand around his elbow— )

It's this way. And my dog is there.

[sybaritic]

[ eliot's first instinct runs toward rampant curiosity, but because he understands so well the need to give being picked apart such a wide berth it's only visible with a high powered telescope, just lets the topic die quietly. if she wants to Words at some point they can do it over very, very strong drinks.

never mind what's at hand here; he's a fucking magician. to quote someone he ...does not feel he has high odds of every seeing again, but he's going to dwell on that audibly as much as gwen is her survivor status. he pats her hand, companionably, matching what would be ginormously long strides with seemingly zero effort. ]

Let's not write off the possibility yet, dear sister.

[ totally. totally sister! ]

Exhibit A: the many surprising abilities my silver tongue has inspired over the years.

[ a pause ]

As for dogs, are we talking purse sized here?

[ hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha no ]