(no subject)
Lux isn't entirely sure what she's doing.
Back home, there's nothing that special about her. She's a daughter, a teenage girl and a high school student. She isn't even a good high school student, nor is she a talented enough liar to get away with it. She hates reading and camping and most of YouTube, but she loves her friends and her family, and while it might not be immediately obvious, she loves clothes.
Even when she had no money and was scraping the bottom of the donation barrel, she still somehow managed to look good. Portland was often chilly, and she developed an early affinity for layers and bright colors and mixing fabrics in unexpected ways. It's not always immediately obvious, but she puts every outfit she wears together with care and a critical eye, right down to her artfully worn Chuck Taylors.
So she isn't entirely sure what she's doing, but it feels right nonetheless. Seated at one of the long tables in the Compound's rec room, she's surround by piles of fashion magazines from all eras. Kitchen shears in hand, she's cutting free anything from the pages that speaks to her, tiny snippets of glossy paper collecting on the tabletop and floor around her. What she's going to do with her carefully color-coded collection of pretties, she doesn't know yet. A book, or maybe a poster to hang in her tree house. She's content, though; more than she's felt in a long time.
Jane isn't entirely sure what she's doing, either.
Seated across the littered tabletop, she's hunched in front of a laptop computer, eyes narrowed at the screen. The end of the pencil in her hand has been chewed to bits, and she keeps accidentally replacing it in her mouth only to be startled by the cold, wet saliva collected in the tiny indentations left by her teeth.
Unlike the petite blonde sharing her table, the petite brunette is far from content. She's spent much of her time since her arrival on the island writing various programs for the computer she was so graciously bestowed by one of her fellow residents. Her coding is right; she knows her coding is right, and that's the problem. If she could fix the results she's getting simply by rooting through the program, that would make sense, be a goal.
But it isn't the program that's the problem, it's the data. It's this damned island where nothing makes sense.
Know when to step back. How many times had Erik told her as much? He'd told her dad the same thing, too, for years. It's more difficult to do than you might think.
Giving in, she lets out an loud noise of frustration and abruptly closes the laptop, drawing the attention of the teenager in the adjacent seat. Jane pushes her chair back, slumps down until the back of her head is resting against the top of the seat back and stretches both arms above her head with a satisfying pop of her spine.
"I think I need to get drunk and get in a fight," she declares with a decisive nod.
[OOC: Two-two-two posts in one. Tag Lux or tag Jane (of the Foster variety), just let me know in the narrative or in an OOC note which you prefer!]
Back home, there's nothing that special about her. She's a daughter, a teenage girl and a high school student. She isn't even a good high school student, nor is she a talented enough liar to get away with it. She hates reading and camping and most of YouTube, but she loves her friends and her family, and while it might not be immediately obvious, she loves clothes.
Even when she had no money and was scraping the bottom of the donation barrel, she still somehow managed to look good. Portland was often chilly, and she developed an early affinity for layers and bright colors and mixing fabrics in unexpected ways. It's not always immediately obvious, but she puts every outfit she wears together with care and a critical eye, right down to her artfully worn Chuck Taylors.
So she isn't entirely sure what she's doing, but it feels right nonetheless. Seated at one of the long tables in the Compound's rec room, she's surround by piles of fashion magazines from all eras. Kitchen shears in hand, she's cutting free anything from the pages that speaks to her, tiny snippets of glossy paper collecting on the tabletop and floor around her. What she's going to do with her carefully color-coded collection of pretties, she doesn't know yet. A book, or maybe a poster to hang in her tree house. She's content, though; more than she's felt in a long time.
Jane isn't entirely sure what she's doing, either.
Seated across the littered tabletop, she's hunched in front of a laptop computer, eyes narrowed at the screen. The end of the pencil in her hand has been chewed to bits, and she keeps accidentally replacing it in her mouth only to be startled by the cold, wet saliva collected in the tiny indentations left by her teeth.
Unlike the petite blonde sharing her table, the petite brunette is far from content. She's spent much of her time since her arrival on the island writing various programs for the computer she was so graciously bestowed by one of her fellow residents. Her coding is right; she knows her coding is right, and that's the problem. If she could fix the results she's getting simply by rooting through the program, that would make sense, be a goal.
But it isn't the program that's the problem, it's the data. It's this damned island where nothing makes sense.
Know when to step back. How many times had Erik told her as much? He'd told her dad the same thing, too, for years. It's more difficult to do than you might think.
Giving in, she lets out an loud noise of frustration and abruptly closes the laptop, drawing the attention of the teenager in the adjacent seat. Jane pushes her chair back, slumps down until the back of her head is resting against the top of the seat back and stretches both arms above her head with a satisfying pop of her spine.
"I think I need to get drunk and get in a fight," she declares with a decisive nod.
[OOC: Two-two-two posts in one. Tag Lux or tag Jane (of the Foster variety), just let me know in the narrative or in an OOC note which you prefer!]