(no subject)
There's a select group of people scattered throughout the Compound today, any of which someone might happen to run into, but only if they know where to look.
In the IPD Office, there's a tall woman with long brown hair sitting behind one of the auxiliary desks and filling out some long-neglected paperwork. She's been putting off her patrol reports for too long, and they're starting to pile up on her. Next to her elbow, a cup of coffee sits, almost empty and down to the dregs and definitely in need of some refreshing. Every now and then, she pauses in her writing to stop and stretch, to absently twirl the pen between her fingertips or just to glance around at any change in her surroundings - but she's ironically engrossed in her work the next time she senses a visitor standing over her.
Standing in front of the bulletin board is a man with short brown hair (although there does happen to be some grey peppering at his temples). He's definitely recognizable from the tattoos on his arms alone, but he's also wearing his favorite combination of boots, t-shirt and cargo pants - the latter of which he's just managed to hold onto for this long after keeping it hidden away from his fiance beneath stacks of nicer shirts in his dresser. He's planning for his wedding, and starting to feel a sense of panic about the whole thing, but you wouldn't guess it from his calm, even demeanor as he tacks a paper to the board announcing his availability for surfing lessons. Even after putting up his own ad, he lingers there for a little while, reading everything else that people have posted - some of them looking like they've been there for months.
There's a girl in a leather jacket standing on the roof - or, more accurately, she's sitting on the roof with her legs dangling over the edge, swaying back and forth. She's never really been afraid of heights, and she's definitely been at higher heights than this. She's also been higher than this before, taking her current state of mind into consideration. It's cooler up here, surprisingly, even given the old saying about heat rising, but that might be because she can feel the breeze from off the ocean, faint and salty. It's still warm, though, and she moves to shed her jacket, laying it neatly by her side and leaning back, closing her eyes as she tilts her face up to the sun.
A woman with blonde hair sits in front of the clothes box, eagerly rummaging through its contents for something new to add to her wardrobe. She hasn't had much luck so far, though; everything next to her is either more suitable for someone half her age or twice her size. "What does it take for a girl to find a good swimsuit around here?" she mutters, mostly to herself as she absently reaches over one shoulder to scratch the slightly raised scar there. Anyone with any knowledge of firearms and battle wounds would definitely recognize it as the remnants of an old shrapnel wound, but she also carries a scratch on her face from a much more hilarious fight with a stuffed moose, held together with a small bandage.
There's a slightly more petite woman with brown hair waiting for some coffee to brew in the kitchen. She's spent the morning training in self-defense, and now all she wants is some more caffeine to alert her senses - not to mention alleviate the lingering effects of way too much tequila the other night. At least she doesn't have a job to go to or a boss to avoid right now, she thinks, bracing her hands back on the edge of the counter as she waits patiently, an idle tapping of her foot serving as the only visible sign of her restlessness.
And last, but not least, there's a younger man with blonde hair standing in front of the bookshelf, idly glancing over its contents. He definitely looks like he's just been out for a run, but curiosity struck midway through and he's ducked into the Compound, which also explains the bottle of water in his hand. The jukebox kicks on as he crosses the room with the sounds of Hall and Oates, and a frown filters over his features as it starts in on the unmistakable chorus: you can rely on the old man's money, you can rely on the old man's money. It's purely a coincidence, it has to be, but he's still walking over to it before anyone else can overhear the song, pushing at all of the buttons to try and get it to change its tune.
[Obviously, I am crazy, but I blame all the people involved for this one (you know who you are). Basically, this is my entire roster packed into one post for your threading pleasure. Let me know who you want in your comment in some way. Feel free to tag in more than once, too. ST/LT is definitely going to happen, as a forewarning, but this post is open until stated otherwise.]
In the IPD Office, there's a tall woman with long brown hair sitting behind one of the auxiliary desks and filling out some long-neglected paperwork. She's been putting off her patrol reports for too long, and they're starting to pile up on her. Next to her elbow, a cup of coffee sits, almost empty and down to the dregs and definitely in need of some refreshing. Every now and then, she pauses in her writing to stop and stretch, to absently twirl the pen between her fingertips or just to glance around at any change in her surroundings - but she's ironically engrossed in her work the next time she senses a visitor standing over her.
Standing in front of the bulletin board is a man with short brown hair (although there does happen to be some grey peppering at his temples). He's definitely recognizable from the tattoos on his arms alone, but he's also wearing his favorite combination of boots, t-shirt and cargo pants - the latter of which he's just managed to hold onto for this long after keeping it hidden away from his fiance beneath stacks of nicer shirts in his dresser. He's planning for his wedding, and starting to feel a sense of panic about the whole thing, but you wouldn't guess it from his calm, even demeanor as he tacks a paper to the board announcing his availability for surfing lessons. Even after putting up his own ad, he lingers there for a little while, reading everything else that people have posted - some of them looking like they've been there for months.
There's a girl in a leather jacket standing on the roof - or, more accurately, she's sitting on the roof with her legs dangling over the edge, swaying back and forth. She's never really been afraid of heights, and she's definitely been at higher heights than this. She's also been higher than this before, taking her current state of mind into consideration. It's cooler up here, surprisingly, even given the old saying about heat rising, but that might be because she can feel the breeze from off the ocean, faint and salty. It's still warm, though, and she moves to shed her jacket, laying it neatly by her side and leaning back, closing her eyes as she tilts her face up to the sun.
A woman with blonde hair sits in front of the clothes box, eagerly rummaging through its contents for something new to add to her wardrobe. She hasn't had much luck so far, though; everything next to her is either more suitable for someone half her age or twice her size. "What does it take for a girl to find a good swimsuit around here?" she mutters, mostly to herself as she absently reaches over one shoulder to scratch the slightly raised scar there. Anyone with any knowledge of firearms and battle wounds would definitely recognize it as the remnants of an old shrapnel wound, but she also carries a scratch on her face from a much more hilarious fight with a stuffed moose, held together with a small bandage.
There's a slightly more petite woman with brown hair waiting for some coffee to brew in the kitchen. She's spent the morning training in self-defense, and now all she wants is some more caffeine to alert her senses - not to mention alleviate the lingering effects of way too much tequila the other night. At least she doesn't have a job to go to or a boss to avoid right now, she thinks, bracing her hands back on the edge of the counter as she waits patiently, an idle tapping of her foot serving as the only visible sign of her restlessness.
And last, but not least, there's a younger man with blonde hair standing in front of the bookshelf, idly glancing over its contents. He definitely looks like he's just been out for a run, but curiosity struck midway through and he's ducked into the Compound, which also explains the bottle of water in his hand. The jukebox kicks on as he crosses the room with the sounds of Hall and Oates, and a frown filters over his features as it starts in on the unmistakable chorus: you can rely on the old man's money, you can rely on the old man's money. It's purely a coincidence, it has to be, but he's still walking over to it before anyone else can overhear the song, pushing at all of the buttons to try and get it to change its tune.
[Obviously, I am crazy, but I blame all the people involved for this one (you know who you are). Basically, this is my entire roster packed into one post for your threading pleasure. Let me know who you want in your comment in some way. Feel free to tag in more than once, too. ST/LT is definitely going to happen, as a forewarning, but this post is open until stated otherwise.]