Time together isn't ever quite enough
Misaki Kirihara is in the Kashtta Tower, her arm in a cast and a sling. All the clothes they found for her were a bit too large; she’s ended up in loose sweat pants and a t-shirt. She’s been exploring the building for about an hour and a half now, poking her nose into the empty rooms and trying to busy her mind with information gathering and figuring out how, exactly, she’s going to get home.
The first priority is finding someone at the MIAC who will actually take her calls.
She stops at the door of Bristow’s piano room, arrested at the sight of the instrument. She drifts in, glancing back to make sure she’s alone before she runs her fingers lightly over the keys. She hasn’t played in years. Her hand slips into a fist and rests on the ivory, sending a soft and jangling chord through the room. She closes her eyes.
Not her universe. That's ridiculous. It--none of it can be true.
Cy has a vacuum.
Specifically, she’s kidnapped the Casa’s vacuum, and is dragging it through downtown Chicago in monstercat shape. By the hose. It’s tearing a little.
She was bored.
Karrin Murphy has decided that she is never going holiday shopping without her sword ever again. It makes things so much easier. At the moment she's plowing through the early-morning, last-minute shoppers to claim the remnants of would-be Turkeyday feasts from the shelves.
It will be a faily Thanksgiving, maybe, but there will be Thanksgiving.
Portia Kilgaur doesn't really care about Thanksgiving. She's got no one to celebrate it with--save the requisite call to mom, there's nothing different about today. She couldn't sleep last night. Now she's out at Buckingham Crater, staring at the withered flowers and candles that have all gone out, photographs and cards damaged by the weather, and handfuls of new gifts, fresh grief laid to rest on the old like a veneer. People pretending that the dead don't get forgotten, that the world doesn't move on. She takes out her flask, unscrews the top, and pours its contents out over the ground in front of the shrine. "Sorry," she says, "you paranoid fucker."
[backdated to two days after the Wake]
Adrian Vela is prowling through downtown Chicago.
Rachel is a big girl. She has Wes. There's nothing for him to be worried about.
But she hasn't come home, hasn't left him a note, hasn't been at the bar--he checked. He's scared. Wes isn't the kind of person to up and leave somewhere with her without saying something, either, is he? He's not. He isn't. Adrian might not know him well, but he knows enough to know that.
There's nothing to worry about.
There's nothing to worry about.
He'll keep telling himself that until he knows it's true.
The first priority is finding someone at the MIAC who will actually take her calls.
She stops at the door of Bristow’s piano room, arrested at the sight of the instrument. She drifts in, glancing back to make sure she’s alone before she runs her fingers lightly over the keys. She hasn’t played in years. Her hand slips into a fist and rests on the ivory, sending a soft and jangling chord through the room. She closes her eyes.
Not her universe. That's ridiculous. It--none of it can be true.
Cy has a vacuum.
Specifically, she’s kidnapped the Casa’s vacuum, and is dragging it through downtown Chicago in monstercat shape. By the hose. It’s tearing a little.
She was bored.
Karrin Murphy has decided that she is never going holiday shopping without her sword ever again. It makes things so much easier. At the moment she's plowing through the early-morning, last-minute shoppers to claim the remnants of would-be Turkeyday feasts from the shelves.
It will be a faily Thanksgiving, maybe, but there will be Thanksgiving.
Portia Kilgaur doesn't really care about Thanksgiving. She's got no one to celebrate it with--save the requisite call to mom, there's nothing different about today. She couldn't sleep last night. Now she's out at Buckingham Crater, staring at the withered flowers and candles that have all gone out, photographs and cards damaged by the weather, and handfuls of new gifts, fresh grief laid to rest on the old like a veneer. People pretending that the dead don't get forgotten, that the world doesn't move on. She takes out her flask, unscrews the top, and pours its contents out over the ground in front of the shrine. "Sorry," she says, "you paranoid fucker."
[backdated to two days after the Wake]
Adrian Vela is prowling through downtown Chicago.
Rachel is a big girl. She has Wes. There's nothing for him to be worried about.
But she hasn't come home, hasn't left him a note, hasn't been at the bar--he checked. He's scared. Wes isn't the kind of person to up and leave somewhere with her without saying something, either, is he? He's not. He isn't. Adrian might not know him well, but he knows enough to know that.
There's nothing to worry about.
There's nothing to worry about.
He'll keep telling himself that until he knows it's true.