(no subject)
Characters: Brook, OPEN
Time: Morning
Location: The Starbucks on the ground floor of the Blackstone hotel.
Content: Even after death, some of us need tea to live.
Format: Prose
Warnings: Brook is a total derpcanoe.
Brook had always been the sort of person who woke up at ridiculously early hours naturally and without prompting, barring occasional interference from severe injury or multiple decades without direct sunlight confusing the devil out of his sleeping habits. Those times aside, he almost always woke up very early and went about about his duties...you know, taking his turn on watch, waking the others by any means necessary at the appointed hour, and so on...
Needless to say, all tasks that wouldn't be much of an issue for the foreseeable future. He supposed he could have woken up Mr. Franky anyway, just for some sense of normality, except it would probably have just driven home how not normal or right this mess was when nobody else yelled or swore or threw random objects in response. And furthermore it wasn't Mr. Franky's fault he was no good at sleeping in, anyway.
There was one part of his routine that still worked, though. Mostly. He thought he could probably have remembered how to use the tea maker on his own without exploding anything, and perhaps he could have, but he was pretty sure you didn't just go bumbling about at all hours when you weren't supposed to be waking anyone up. So instead of that he did his very best to keep quiet while making himself reasonably presentable (and mostly succeeded) and then, halfway to the door, paused, looked about, and in the early sunlight peeking past the curtains caught sight of a small notepad someone had left out on the desk. That would do.
After some fumbling he found a pen (it looked odd, but after some experimental scribbling it seemed to work normally enough) and took both to the window to scratch out a quick note. It was probably even legible! He'd been working on that. When it was done he tore the note free and found to his amazement that the note was a...a sticky-note of some sort. A note that held itself in place! How clever! Brook almost woke up Mr. Franky to tell him how clever this discovery was, only realizing just in time that doing so would be pointless and silly. He did approach the other bed though, quietly, looking for a good place to leave the note where it wouldn't be overlooked or anyth--
Ah!
Perfect.
Having very carefully attached the piece of paper (Downstairs for tea. with random testing-the-pen scribble in one corner) to the snoring cyborg's forehead, he snuck away again. He was halfway out the door this time before something else occurred to him and he quickly darted back into the room and went for the notepad once more.
When the door opened a second time it stayed open for some seconds, propped against his foot while he wrote the room number down, not quite as legibly as the last but then he was the only one that might need to read this one. Then the notepad and pen went back where he'd found them, and with a tiny creak he opened his skull and stuck the new note to the inner side of a parietal bone where it couldn't possibly wander off. You know, just in case.
Yay he was so responsible.
At last satisfied, Brook carefully ducked under the low doorframe and into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. There didn't seem to be anyone else awake, not that he saw on the way downstairs, and this was still terribly creepy in ways he didn't want to think about long enough to describe, but there were finally a few on the ground floor. This was better, even if they were the sort of people living in this city that never seemed to properly hear half the things you said to them. They were a bit creepy themselves, even if Brook felt bad for thinking it. But they were better than nothing.
They also had tea, although he had to talk the coffee shop employee down from several suggestions with far more caffiene in them. None of those suggestions would have ended well, he was sure.
He found a seat next to one of the windows, and, yawning, sat sideways to stretch out his extremely long legs; all the tables seemed to be sized for a particular range of human heights that didn't quite include his. That was fine, though.
There were lots of things that needed worrying about more than whether a chair quite fit you.
Time: Morning
Location: The Starbucks on the ground floor of the Blackstone hotel.
Content: Even after death, some of us need tea to live.
Format: Prose
Warnings: Brook is a total derpcanoe.
Brook had always been the sort of person who woke up at ridiculously early hours naturally and without prompting, barring occasional interference from severe injury or multiple decades without direct sunlight confusing the devil out of his sleeping habits. Those times aside, he almost always woke up very early and went about about his duties...you know, taking his turn on watch, waking the others by any means necessary at the appointed hour, and so on...
Needless to say, all tasks that wouldn't be much of an issue for the foreseeable future. He supposed he could have woken up Mr. Franky anyway, just for some sense of normality, except it would probably have just driven home how not normal or right this mess was when nobody else yelled or swore or threw random objects in response. And furthermore it wasn't Mr. Franky's fault he was no good at sleeping in, anyway.
There was one part of his routine that still worked, though. Mostly. He thought he could probably have remembered how to use the tea maker on his own without exploding anything, and perhaps he could have, but he was pretty sure you didn't just go bumbling about at all hours when you weren't supposed to be waking anyone up. So instead of that he did his very best to keep quiet while making himself reasonably presentable (and mostly succeeded) and then, halfway to the door, paused, looked about, and in the early sunlight peeking past the curtains caught sight of a small notepad someone had left out on the desk. That would do.
After some fumbling he found a pen (it looked odd, but after some experimental scribbling it seemed to work normally enough) and took both to the window to scratch out a quick note. It was probably even legible! He'd been working on that. When it was done he tore the note free and found to his amazement that the note was a...a sticky-note of some sort. A note that held itself in place! How clever! Brook almost woke up Mr. Franky to tell him how clever this discovery was, only realizing just in time that doing so would be pointless and silly. He did approach the other bed though, quietly, looking for a good place to leave the note where it wouldn't be overlooked or anyth--
Ah!
Perfect.
Having very carefully attached the piece of paper (Downstairs for tea. with random testing-the-pen scribble in one corner) to the snoring cyborg's forehead, he snuck away again. He was halfway out the door this time before something else occurred to him and he quickly darted back into the room and went for the notepad once more.
When the door opened a second time it stayed open for some seconds, propped against his foot while he wrote the room number down, not quite as legibly as the last but then he was the only one that might need to read this one. Then the notepad and pen went back where he'd found them, and with a tiny creak he opened his skull and stuck the new note to the inner side of a parietal bone where it couldn't possibly wander off. You know, just in case.
Yay he was so responsible.
At last satisfied, Brook carefully ducked under the low doorframe and into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. There didn't seem to be anyone else awake, not that he saw on the way downstairs, and this was still terribly creepy in ways he didn't want to think about long enough to describe, but there were finally a few on the ground floor. This was better, even if they were the sort of people living in this city that never seemed to properly hear half the things you said to them. They were a bit creepy themselves, even if Brook felt bad for thinking it. But they were better than nothing.
They also had tea, although he had to talk the coffee shop employee down from several suggestions with far more caffiene in them. None of those suggestions would have ended well, he was sure.
He found a seat next to one of the windows, and, yawning, sat sideways to stretch out his extremely long legs; all the tables seemed to be sized for a particular range of human heights that didn't quite include his. That was fine, though.
There were lots of things that needed worrying about more than whether a chair quite fit you.