It was a fucking brilliant party, Chris had to admit. He was loaded up on pills and spliff, and he was pretty bloody content with it all. When he finally left, he had the numbers of two girls, which he was quite pleased about
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"...Hey?" Warren's sitting on the porch, book in hand, and he looks up at the person staring at the hotel. Probably new. Something very odd about him, too. Warren wonders if he's drunk.
"Ah, well, it's alright, we can speak English," she replies helpfully. And he sounds British, which reminds her of home - Normandy is right across from Liverpool, after all.
Chris has woken up from his looooonnnnng nap, and feels, well, terrible. He gets up and walks out of his room, maybe hoping to find some coffee or something. When he finds his way downstairs, he looks in the lobby, still a bit dazed. He sees a guy about his age there, and he waves a groggy hello.
Zhane looks up at Chris with a smile. "Sure thing. You new around here?" He'd guess so, because clearly someone who doesn't know where coffee is can't be an old timer, but.
"New? Yeah, I guess." He shrugs, rubbing his head. "I've got this awful bloody headache right now, so...if you could find me some, that'd be great." He doesn't mean to sound mean or sharp--his head is just killing him right now.
Jack finds this place thoroughly troublesome. He winds up getting trapped way, way too often, though he's glad that this time he isn't in a time loop with John Hart. That had been the most tiring two weeks/five years of his life. The sheer lack of exciting places to go is frustrating, though he supposes the people make up for it; if Jack's anything, he's a people person. For better or for worse.
He doesn't know what to make of the beach; it's too close to home but nothing like home, and he just isn't comfortable standing out in the sand watching the waves roll in for too long, though he can't exactly place why. He's strolling back in from the beach, carrying his shoes in his hand, when he sees the confused kid standing around. At least, he's pretty sure it's a kid. With some races, it's hard to tell; some even age backwards. (Benjamin Button, for the record, was not just a story
( ... )
"Yeah, cool," Jack replies skeptically. It's obvious the kid is blitzed out of his mind, and while Jack figures he ought to just walk off and mind his own business, he can't exactly think of what business, exactly, he should be minding in this 21st century hotel. "Do you even know where you are?"
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"Oh, bonjour," she smiles. "You just arrived?"
I swear, I had a mind to send Genie before her boyfriend tagged in. ^__^
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He's really, really out of it.
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"Ah, well, it's alright, we can speak English," she replies helpfully. And he sounds British, which reminds her of home - Normandy is right across from Liverpool, after all.
"You're British, aren't you?"
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He's ... been better, but he's also been worse. At any rate, he's grown up a little, and is closer mentally to his eighteen physical years.
He's wearing a black t-shirt and gray shorts. He'll never be in any other color, anyway. Go, Power Rangers.
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Chris has woken up from his looooonnnnng nap, and feels, well, terrible. He gets up and walks out of his room, maybe hoping to find some coffee or something. When he finds his way downstairs, he looks in the lobby, still a bit dazed. He sees a guy about his age there, and he waves a groggy hello.
"Is there coffee round here?"
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He doesn't know what to make of the beach; it's too close to home but nothing like home, and he just isn't comfortable standing out in the sand watching the waves roll in for too long, though he can't exactly place why. He's strolling back in from the beach, carrying his shoes in his hand, when he sees the confused kid standing around. At least, he's pretty sure it's a kid. With some races, it's hard to tell; some even age backwards. (Benjamin Button, for the record, was not just a story ( ... )
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