OOM

[_righthandman_]

Chase holds the door open for Lyrae. One learns quickly to be especially gentlemanly around her. "I hesitate to say that I'm going to stomp you into the floor at this, but if we can't find a decent team to play against, I'm afraid I'm going to have to. I told you I'd pay you back for getting Chappelle to judge that dance contest

Comments

[_mother_dearest]

A careful perusing of the arena showed it to be a place full of an artificial haze, strewn with artificial barriers, and poorly lit with artificial light. A number of what seemed disaffected youth comprised the rest of the teams. One entire team of individuals with shaved and brightly painted heads, and over-sized eye-jarringly purple robes, many seeming to have been built from bedsheets. They referred to each other as if they were siblings.

This was... different, and that was what she had been after, she supposed.

Lyrae poked at the vest and the gun with a slight frown.

Different.

[_righthandman_]

Chase eyes them with weary distaste. "Yeah, that's pretty par for the course in LA too," he says.

"Unfortunately, there aren't a lot of other people around to play with, so..."

[_mother_dearest]

An obviously collegiate guy, barrel chested and wearing a "UCLA" shirt, leaned over to Chase and rather loudly whispered.

"Who's the Russian babe, dude?"

Lyrae said nothing, but merely cast an icy glare.

[_righthandman_]

Chase, who happens to be wearing his CTU Academy shirt, rolls his eyes. "Just walk away, man." He adjusts his vest.

"Okay," he explains to Lyrae. "The object's pretty self-explanatory, I'd think."