Ambiloquous
Graphic Fanatic
- Group
Cheryl Seki-Feigenbaum
Last edited:
-
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Futuristic gestalt ✦ rp
- Thread starter Thread starter Klown
- Start date Start date
Zedalith
#-#
Vega Riviera
The Journalist
Last edited:
Wyll
Senior Member
GESTALT
Cassidy
McNamara
McNamara
It seemed that the area around the register counter was becoming a bit of a hotspot. Good, Cassidy thought. The more of them gathered around, the better their chances against Slendie will be.
However, it would seem as though the gathered people weren’t looking to confront the creature, but rather, to listen to it. Appease it almost. Each word spoken was like a weight around his ankle, pulling him deeper into a pit of isolation. He felt his shoulder slump more and more with each person that spoke up as he quickly realised that he was on his own in wanting to fight his way out of this place.
The worst part of it was that, the more he listened, the less he himself wanted to fight his way out. After all, if it was true that they were indeed “anywhere and nowhere” as someone had said earlier, then - even if he did manage to get out - where would he go? Keep driving - or walking - until he was out of whatever space this was? If it was even possible to get out of wherever this was. Not just the gas station but the whole area where the gas station itself was.
Compared to the risk of breaking a second hand in an attempt to get out of here only to end up frozen in a magical blizzard, working together with the others in the station to get out of here seemed more sensible. There was just one problem with that, however:
“I don’t have no problem working together but, I wasn’t really made for thinkin’, you see. But y’all just point me in the direction of something that needs to get done and I’ll get it done.”
The smoke from the cigarette that was lit under him rose and assailed his senses as he spoke. Casually fanning the smoke away, he looked down and fixed the source of his latest discomfort with an unimpressed gaze. At least they had had the decency to warn them first - if “you smoke” could be considered a warning.
Rolling his eyes, he went back to addressing the larger group, ignoring the Clerk behind him like everyone else seemed to be doing. “Anyway, if y’all truly reckon we could get out of here with ‘the power of friendship’, then go on and call me Cassidy.”
He looked around the group. “Any of y’all got names? Or would you rather stay as hair colors and attitudes?”
Mentions: Pretty much everyone at the counter
Kameron Esters-
Fear my godly wrath!
- One on One
- Group
- Nation Building
- Off-site
Darnell didn’t blink.
Not when Newton with the frog on his head waxed poetic about roads and about nowhere. Not when a woman lit her cigar and, to him, it felt like she had been coping against everything that compromised the reality around her. Not even when the clerk folded inward like an origami object of nerves and teeth. There he stood among a bunch of strangers who were taking these better than he thought. Kind of. Sort of. He could do without them taking their frustrations out on the frogs. Do people not like amphibians anymore?
Before another thought crossed Darnell's mind, he felt it there, behind him, almost moist up against the glass, almost giving way to the quickening of breath by anyone other than him. The syrupy, slow, implication-laden words floated softly in the air behind him. Darnell kept watching the frogs in the bag with his arms steady at his side and an expression that could have meant just about anything.
“Now that's one helluva pickup line,” he said, willing the corner of his mouth to twitch into a half-smile. “Maybe you should treat a guy to some dinner before you start whispering sweet paranoia down his neck.~”
The breath lingering on his collar and the words with almost poetical menace were not disconcerting to him. They were, rather, engaging. It seemed an overture—that kind of concern in the air, the faux threatening bit testing the flinch while laughing at you for not being afraid.
He began to step out, slowly, pulling just enough to tilt his head so that Vega could catch a glimmer of the quirk in his eyes behind that harried calm.
“You wonder if I'm a proper meal ,” he said, his voice smooth as leather. “I say—depends on the appetite. But I ain’t fast food. Takes a slow simmer to figure me out.”
He paused for a moment and then added, softer still, almost secretive:
"And if this whole thing operates on who wants whom?" His head tilts further. "Then it's best I contribute when I can, keep my head on screwed on, and let those who speak the loudest, scream the ludest once they turn themselves into appetizers."
His eyes flicked down; just for a few seconds, he noticed the bag of frogs that Vega was carrying.
"But if we are talking presentation, yours might just be drying up slightly."
Darnell stepped a little farther forward, reclaiming some of the space, the bag of frogs swinging gently at his side. Not a retreat—just onward. It was his way.
"But hey," Darnell said over his shoulder, voice still called down, mellow, and cultural, "you come find me if you get in the mood to drop the cryptic act sometime. I make for better conversation when I'm not being squared up on like some choice cut. But hey, at least I know you got good taste.~"
Darnell winks at Vega before turned and walked away from. He never looked back. The same languid stride carried him onward.
Darnell flashed a lopsided grin, the kind that came easy to a man who’d seen too much to scare easy. He gave Cassidy a two-fingered salute with the hand not holding his frog bag. “Name’s Darnell. I rarely do icebreakers, but I am house-trained and moderately useful in a crisis. Good to meet ya, Cassidy—nice to know I’m not the only one here who can throw a punch and take a hint.”
Zedalith
Wyll
Theasuke
AI10100
PawPawkit
TheRealAngeloftheStorm
Klown
Alien222
efferve
Gigglecake
Ambiloquous
Klown
(∴✪౪⊗∴)
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
Part Two
Wyll
Gigglecake
Zedalith
timesink
Ambiloquous
AI10100
TheRealAngeloftheStorm
Theasuke
efferve
Alien222
PawPawkit
Kameron Esters-
Introductions are made; frogs are collected. In the midst of tense alliance, a seam opens. A single, bright white line splits the air like broken pixels, space that reality forgot to fill. It opens with the same satisfying pop of a zip-lock bag, splitting colors and matter like they were intruding upon its space. Blending or clipping just short of ending. The portal sputters. Tickled and trying to maintain its breath. Beyond it, you see what looks like a diner with a climbing line.
“Ah, there it is.” The clerk hums, hands delicately held like two feathers made to slot together. Fingers curling too far over his palms, nearly touching the sharp edge of bone at his wrist. “Quite the crowd, too. It is Golden Hour after all.” Each sentence is drawn out like the coil of snake, his limbs elongate again with the spirit of an impatient child.
“Go on and deliver the order. I’ve ruminating to do.” He grinned wildly, the definition of the word a coin flip.
You all walk through the portal.
Music that kisses the back of necks, soft and sweet, from a jukebox singing a phantom memory—all fog, cotton, and indiscernible; but nostalgic. The clatter of plates and forks, but no chatter. Despite the number of hungry guests, no one speaks a single word, all waiting to be seated.
A cushy 1950's diner hosting rubbery red booths, the shiny kind that stick to your thighs. Mint green walls stacked with frames of long roads, expensive cars, and autographed photos of unfamiliar—yet strikingly familiar—celebrities. All held together on polished checkered floors of black and white tiles. Perfectly preserved. Nothing aged, nothing faded, everything pristine.
Outside, the sky is warm. The sun is gone, but it’s not quite night. A day perpetually stuck in ending, a coat of bruised apricot. An empty parking lot awaits outside, stretching for both hundreds of miles and a few feet. It looks like there might be an edge and nothing else.
The door to the kitchen swings open as the one behind the group eats itself.
“Ah, the delivery!” An older gentleman emerges, hands worn with experience being patted dry by a towel, which is promptly slung onto his shoulder. He looks…human. Kind. The sort of disarming granted to those who’ve suffered in life and earned a lifetime of tranquility in death. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, laugh lines deepened by a rich elation. He’s stout with a neatly cropped beard of brown and short hair to match. “Thank you very much! I was starting to worry it wouldn’t come.”
Eyes like iridescent orbs. Where pupils should be, there’s only a soft, pulsing light. Swirling and white, cradled within the gold of his irises like a secret curled beneath the tongue. The only marker that perhaps human wasn’t an apt descriptor. On his nametag sits the name Erinnern.
“I’m a bit understaffed at the moment, so I appreciate the help.”
You are all granted nametags and uniforms, the new ensemble appearing on your body as if you’ve been wearing it the entire time.
“Let’s serve some good memories!”
“Ah, there it is.” The clerk hums, hands delicately held like two feathers made to slot together. Fingers curling too far over his palms, nearly touching the sharp edge of bone at his wrist. “Quite the crowd, too. It is Golden Hour after all.” Each sentence is drawn out like the coil of snake, his limbs elongate again with the spirit of an impatient child.
“Go on and deliver the order. I’ve ruminating to do.” He grinned wildly, the definition of the word a coin flip.
You all walk through the portal.
Music that kisses the back of necks, soft and sweet, from a jukebox singing a phantom memory—all fog, cotton, and indiscernible; but nostalgic. The clatter of plates and forks, but no chatter. Despite the number of hungry guests, no one speaks a single word, all waiting to be seated.
A cushy 1950's diner hosting rubbery red booths, the shiny kind that stick to your thighs. Mint green walls stacked with frames of long roads, expensive cars, and autographed photos of unfamiliar—yet strikingly familiar—celebrities. All held together on polished checkered floors of black and white tiles. Perfectly preserved. Nothing aged, nothing faded, everything pristine.
Outside, the sky is warm. The sun is gone, but it’s not quite night. A day perpetually stuck in ending, a coat of bruised apricot. An empty parking lot awaits outside, stretching for both hundreds of miles and a few feet. It looks like there might be an edge and nothing else.
The door to the kitchen swings open as the one behind the group eats itself.
“Ah, the delivery!” An older gentleman emerges, hands worn with experience being patted dry by a towel, which is promptly slung onto his shoulder. He looks…human. Kind. The sort of disarming granted to those who’ve suffered in life and earned a lifetime of tranquility in death. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, laugh lines deepened by a rich elation. He’s stout with a neatly cropped beard of brown and short hair to match. “Thank you very much! I was starting to worry it wouldn’t come.”
Eyes like iridescent orbs. Where pupils should be, there’s only a soft, pulsing light. Swirling and white, cradled within the gold of his irises like a secret curled beneath the tongue. The only marker that perhaps human wasn’t an apt descriptor. On his nametag sits the name Erinnern.
“I’m a bit understaffed at the moment, so I appreciate the help.”
You are all granted nametags and uniforms, the new ensemble appearing on your body as if you’ve been wearing it the entire time.
“Let’s serve some good memories!”
BriiAngelic
*Willingly Participates in Self Sabotoge*
- One on One
- Group
Interacting With/Mentions:
Erinnern (
Klown
), Cheryl (
Ambiloquous
), Darnell (
Kameron Esters-
), Joann (
Gigglecake
), Cosmo (
Alien222
)
Ran Past:
Kitchen Crew (
TheRealAngeloftheStorm
AI10100
Wyll
efferve
timesink
)
~ The Usual, Kitchens -> The Usual, Resterant Main~
Never Gonna Give You Up
The Usual was the Usual. Except when it wasn’t. She had no reason to think that today would be any different from the last seven years in the joint so when she strolled up to the job board and saw she was a cleaner again she felt no real surprise but still yelled out from the back.
“GEEEZ COME ON DAD I’M STUCK ON CLEANING AGAIN??? You’d think I’d get special privileges as the only employ-”
Her thoughts were completely interrupted by the fact that there were more names than just hers on the board. In fact there were so many names what the actual fuck? She jumped up at seeing the names on the board before pulling herself back together. Yet the mask couldn’t be maintained with her glee at another rousing batch of what she could only assume were humans coming in.
She rushed out from the back before even getting into uniform headphones still on and jacket falling off her shoulders. With a few strides she brought herself to the doors of the building waiting with excitement for the others to cross the boundary.
“Dad dad are you being serious? There’s more people today?”
Her excitement made her movements wild as she ran to the kitchens. She didn’t even wait for a response though as she saw the group assigned to kitchens. WAIT THEY WERE HERE.
“NEVERMIND DAD THEY’RE HERE? Hey CLEANING CREW wait I need the bucket.” she grabbed the tools needed and ran back out of the kitchens. “HEY COSMO, CHERYL, DARNELL, JOANN LET ME SHOW YOU AROUND OKAY.”
She ran forwards bucket in hand before nearly slamming into a table but she soon reached the area her dad always said to start with when cleaning, the supplies. If this wasn't her crew she couldn't image who the heck they actually were.
Zedalith
#-#
Vega Riviera
The Journalist
Last edited:
PawPawkit
New Member
- One on One
- Group
Normally, a hole being ripped in air and matter is concerning, and it completely is. However, nothing about this gas station has been normal, from being both everywhere and nowhere at the same time, to the gas station just appearing out of nowhere in a snowstorm, to the mirrors not always reflecting what they should. This hole in space and matter should make his heart want to escape from his rib cage in fear, and it does, but he's not that surprised that this has been happening. In fact, the only part of the gas station that does not scare him are the gas station lemon frogs, especially Thumbs. In fact, Thumbs, with his thumb printed head and hair chewing tendencies, grounds Newton, brings him some semblance of joy. Thumbs is still in his dark mop of hair, still in that pancake state.
As the hole opens in air and matter, Newton goes back for the energy drinks he dumped on the floor, and he squats, lifting his backpack off his shoulders, and unzipping his bag. He throws them as quickly as he can into his sagging, lumpy backpack. The few labels Newton spares a glance at say that the energy drink is lemon lime. How ironic, how funny the universe thinks itself, considered that this gas station is lemon themed(?). As Newton slings his backpack back onto his shoulders, he realizes that the cosmic joke started as soon as everyone started walking in the door: 13 strangers walk into the same gas station, even though very few of them live in the same area. It doesn't seem like the punchline will arrive anytime soon.
Newton, with the same speed that he threw the energy drinks into his backpack, rushed to rejoin the group, his shoelaces slapping the floor. He didn't want to find out what happened if he stayed behind in the gas station, so he chose to go into the portal, because obeying the smiley, blond clerk had kept him from not dying(so far). As he shuffled through the portal at a pretty fast and hurried pace, at least for him, his purple sweater and sweatpants were replaced by a wrinkled white collared shirt, and black pants, very formal attire. On top of that, although his moustache was still tickling his upper lip, his hair was no longer tickling his neck...
On the other side of the portal, music played, and just like with the gas station, everything was too clean, and Newton had the strong urge to look down at the floor. And, just as before, the floor was so clean that Newton could see himself, and everything around him. In addition to the collared shirt and black pants and fancy shoes, Newton also had a crooked red bow tie, and a crooked name tag perched on his left breast with his name written in his neat, slanty handwriting. His hair, which had been hanging off his head, was now in a small bun on top of his head. Thumbs, meanwhile, was chirping away like a baby bird. Although Newton wasn't too comfortable in his uniform, as he wasn't used to the formality, he quite liked the candy-cane pattern apron that his name tag was attached to.
“Newton. Lucas. Jasper,” Newton felt eyes on him, and he looked up from the shiny black and white tiles, into roseate eyes. Those pale-lashed eyes didn't seem to blink, and it felt as if the man was trying to dissect him. Newton's eyes inadvertently followed the roseate eyed man from one person to the next. First was Lucas, who like Noe, had blue eyes that were filled with a sort of hostility and disgust. Lucas had a single strand of platinum in his longish obsidian hair. The next face was much more familiar, much more friendly: Jasper. Once the man had rattled off everyone's names, Newton chose to turn his dull brown, heavy lidded gaze onto the man's breast where he read the name "Vega."
“Perhaps I should simply watch and learn. Do any of you have a talent for this… work?” Vega sounded out work the way one might say mold, or foot fungus. He looked at all of them, assessing them, observing them the way a scientist might observe subjects before the IRB was established.
"Nah, dude." Newton had never been employed before, with his accumulating debt and his mountain of schoolwork and occasionally his intrusive thoughts taking up all his time. "But may I offer you guys caffeine and sugar in these trying times?"
interactions:
Zedalith
Klown
Theasuke
As the hole opens in air and matter, Newton goes back for the energy drinks he dumped on the floor, and he squats, lifting his backpack off his shoulders, and unzipping his bag. He throws them as quickly as he can into his sagging, lumpy backpack. The few labels Newton spares a glance at say that the energy drink is lemon lime. How ironic, how funny the universe thinks itself, considered that this gas station is lemon themed(?). As Newton slings his backpack back onto his shoulders, he realizes that the cosmic joke started as soon as everyone started walking in the door: 13 strangers walk into the same gas station, even though very few of them live in the same area. It doesn't seem like the punchline will arrive anytime soon.
Newton, with the same speed that he threw the energy drinks into his backpack, rushed to rejoin the group, his shoelaces slapping the floor. He didn't want to find out what happened if he stayed behind in the gas station, so he chose to go into the portal, because obeying the smiley, blond clerk had kept him from not dying(so far). As he shuffled through the portal at a pretty fast and hurried pace, at least for him, his purple sweater and sweatpants were replaced by a wrinkled white collared shirt, and black pants, very formal attire. On top of that, although his moustache was still tickling his upper lip, his hair was no longer tickling his neck...
On the other side of the portal, music played, and just like with the gas station, everything was too clean, and Newton had the strong urge to look down at the floor. And, just as before, the floor was so clean that Newton could see himself, and everything around him. In addition to the collared shirt and black pants and fancy shoes, Newton also had a crooked red bow tie, and a crooked name tag perched on his left breast with his name written in his neat, slanty handwriting. His hair, which had been hanging off his head, was now in a small bun on top of his head. Thumbs, meanwhile, was chirping away like a baby bird. Although Newton wasn't too comfortable in his uniform, as he wasn't used to the formality, he quite liked the candy-cane pattern apron that his name tag was attached to.
“Newton. Lucas. Jasper,” Newton felt eyes on him, and he looked up from the shiny black and white tiles, into roseate eyes. Those pale-lashed eyes didn't seem to blink, and it felt as if the man was trying to dissect him. Newton's eyes inadvertently followed the roseate eyed man from one person to the next. First was Lucas, who like Noe, had blue eyes that were filled with a sort of hostility and disgust. Lucas had a single strand of platinum in his longish obsidian hair. The next face was much more familiar, much more friendly: Jasper. Once the man had rattled off everyone's names, Newton chose to turn his dull brown, heavy lidded gaze onto the man's breast where he read the name "Vega."
“Perhaps I should simply watch and learn. Do any of you have a talent for this… work?” Vega sounded out work the way one might say mold, or foot fungus. He looked at all of them, assessing them, observing them the way a scientist might observe subjects before the IRB was established.
"Nah, dude." Newton had never been employed before, with his accumulating debt and his mountain of schoolwork and occasionally his intrusive thoughts taking up all his time. "But may I offer you guys caffeine and sugar in these trying times?"
interactions:
Zedalith
Klown
Theasuke
Alien222
Funny lil' Internet guy
- Group
- Off-site
Mentions:
Kameron Esters-
(Darnell),
TheRealAngeloftheStorm
(Margaret),
PawPawkit
(Newton),
AI10100
(Elise),
Ambiloquous
(Cheryl),
Theasuke
(Lucas),
Wyll
(Cassidy),
Klown
(Erinnern and Clerk)Interactions:
BriiAngelic
(Rochelle)(Most of this 1000 word monster is just catching up with what happened in the gas station so if you just want the diner stuff, skip to 'Once he stepped through')
The more everyone's voices filled the air, the more they agitated Cosmo, thus leading him to stay silent during the introductions and such, knowing that if he was filled with rage, that nothing of use was going to exit his mouth. After all, better to not make an impression, than make a bad one. He did, however, take mental notes on everyone there. First was the guy who looked to be a social worker or have a typical office job, dressed in the stereotypical dress shirt, tie, and all. He was intelligent, to an extent, but annoying, telling Cosmo stuff he already knew and had acknowledged verbally.
‘So high-and-mighty for a man who’ll most likely die with employee of the month being his greatest achievement; a little gold sticker to show how little of a life he actually has,’ Hatred grumbled once again from where it was fed a steady stream of Cosmo’s current annoyance with everyone.
‘Okay, now you’re exaggerating,’ Reason tried to protest, but it came out in only the smallest of whispers drowned out by Hatred.
After the office worker spoke an even more egregious fashion disaster than the black haired homeless man, Newton, spoke up. Cosmo didn’t look at him too long, keenly aware of the fact that if he looked any longer at that rancid combination of neon colours, he would say things that he would greatly regret later down the road, for example, commenting on Newton’s parents’ feelings surrounding his conception. And that, he predicted, would be a terrible decision considering the man had some semblance of intelligence and attentiveness.
Then there was the brunette who smoked however not just normal smoke came out of her cancerous stick of tobacco but stuff that somehow managed to invade his nose even with his senses dulled. It reminded him vaguely of his uncle Murdoc, always muttering around the apartment, worsening the terrible smell ever more with those cheap cigarettes he kept in practically every nook and cranny. Due to that, she was already within the list of people in the store he greatly hated, currently only stoking the fires of his fury, but she wasn’t in the list of worthless people, not just yet. He needed to see more of this introverted office worker.
Then there was the woman…? (he thought it was a woman from afar, but now that they were up close, they had a clearly more androgynous look which threw him off slightly) who dragged the strange pink girl behind her. He disliked them. Not hated. Disliked. Not for any particular reason. It was just that sort of aversion that came suddenly and for no real reason.
Speaking of things that came for no real reason, the most worthless of everyone in the gas station purgatory sat down beside him and asked if he smoked, in the rudest way possible. He had to bite down the sarcasm, swallow the insults brewing in his mouth, repeat to himself the penalty for second-degree murder could be a life sentence, and remind himself he was currently not physical or skilled enough to rip out the other’s windpipe just so he could manage to nod with a smile.
The office worker with an attitude, Darnell, and the redhead with more brawn than brains, Cassidy, were not helping him calm down with their introductions. Somehow, despite all this, he remained smiling with a look of serenity on his visage.
The same artificial calmness remained even as the portal opened and people began to walk through it. He was one of the last to do so, going over to the still half-full can of Phaze Energy he’d left between one of the aisles, on the now-slimy floor. He gingerly picked it up and, to his surprise, his fingers didn’t phase through the object, despite their non-physical state. He walked over to the portal, can in hand and the tiniest speck of actual glee hidden within his ever-permanent smile.
Once he stepped through the portal, however, this small joy was robbed from him by a few words from the thing imitating a man on the other side. It called itself Erinnern, perhaps to only annoy everyone who tried to pronounce or call its name, or maybe it meant something of use. Either way, Cosmo despised it from the beginning, trying so hard to seem kind, to seem human, to seem like a thing he could trust. Who exactly did it think it was fooling?
‘The surplus of idiots here, most likely,’ Detestment chipped in, and Cosmo was forced to agree, however much he wished his fellow prisoners, now fellow slaves, had more intellect.
It was just as foul a creature as the clerk, only the clerk had the decency to not pretend to be something it wasn’t. Not to pretend it had a heart, it had a soul beneath its inhumane surface. On top of that cowardice? Denial? Terrible trickery? – Whatever the thing led it to put on its terrible disguise and act – it turned them into labour, for free. No promise of pay, of questions answered or even escape, just unpaid work. That and it somehow had assigned him his least favourite form of work to ever exist: cleaning. It could have been just coincidence, but Cosmo was incredibly doubtful. At the very least, the uniform was cute if not a bit tacky: a frilly skirt and a gaudy yet endearing shirt over his black bodysuit which he had grabbed from the back of his Nissan once the snowstorm had begun, making him shiver like a leaf in the wind.
At the time, he had scolded himself for not carrying a jacket too and cursed the weather from turning into the typical humidity he’d come to know to an unfamiliar blizzard. However, the bodysuit had come to serve some purpose after all: covering his skin and not exposing him more than he was comfortable with. It also wasn’t too thick that it took away from the freedom he felt from finally letting his legs breathe, and it was made of Cosmo’s favourite material: soft cotton that didn’t trigger his sensory issues constantly, like a criminal constantly shooting a gun at innocent civilians; Something he was sure would happen with the pants. It did show more than he was planning to display to the complete strangers he'd been stuck with, the soft muscle on his chest and limbs more visible with the thin fabric of the suit rather than the thicker baggy material of his dress shirt, but it wasn’t enough to make him any sort of uncomfortable.
However, his affection for the uniform didn’t last long; an all-too-loud creature imitating a girl, who seemed to be the daughter of Erinnen, came onto the scene, destroying it with its over-enthusiastic manner. He imagined beheading the blue-haired abomination along with its father, hanging their heads outside the door with perfectly matching ropes, smearing the blood all over the restaurant, using their bodies for the next meal and stuffing it down their precious disgusting customers’ necks. The overly cruel mental image calmed him enough to come up with a polite response: “Hello, what’s your-”
But before he could finish, it ran off again, and he was forced to follow after. They reached the cleaning supplies, and internally he recoiled at the sight of them. Externally, he simply asked, “As I was saying, what’s your name?” He tilted his head in curiosity.
AI10100
Expert Lurker
ELISE MOORE
Wyll
Senior Member
GESTALT
Cassidy
McNamara
McNamara
He looked down at the dark-haired man that approached him, offering a smile and a nod as he introduced himself as Darnell. It was good to see at least one person wiling to play ball. Plus, apparently he knew how to fight as well; something Cassidy would remember in case it did come to a situation where they had to fight their way out of whatever mad house this was. He opened his mouth, as though to say something to Darnell, but then it seems like reality itself split open.
As he stared out at the portal and how it bent space and time to its will, Cassidy found himself in a tragically unique and unprecedented situation.
At every other point in his life, for better or for worse, the world and Cassidy played by the same rules.
Now, maybe it was the fact that he vividly remembered driving here in his silver Mazda. Or, perhaps it was the fact that those that had sought refugee in the gas station all looked and talked normal...more or less. In fact, if one choose to be wildly optimistic, it might even have been the fact that most people seemed to agree that something wasn't right.
Maybe it was all of the above; native it was none. Whatever the case may be, Cassidy had been convinced that the world and him still had the same agreement. That the same rules still applied and some basic common sense was enough that you'd get by just fine.
At least, that was his belief until a portal appeared. The portal represented a new order, a new normal, a new world. A world entirely unknown to him. Perhaps the others had figured it out before him and, like everything else, he was just slow on the uptake. Maybe that's why they were so willing to comply.
Silently, wordlessly, Cassidy moved through the motions he was being guided through, obediently observing. His face was largely expressionless until he entered the kitchen and saw that it looked the same as any other that he'd been in. A smile lit up his face as he took in the surroundings. This may be a different world, but a kitchen would always be a kitchen.
However, the throbbing pain in his right hand suddenly arrested his attention and demanded treatment. Not that any treatment could do anything to salvage his situation though. Several bones had taken damage and he could feel each one. If he removed the shirt, his palm and fingers would likely be swollen and bent at unnatural angles. Such a thing would take months to heal. Now, if he wanted to be stubborn, Cassidy had enough experience in the kitchen and dexterity in his left hand to be able to cook one-handed. However, if this truly was a different world with different rules...
His eyes locked on the person that had given them all the uniforms and name tags. Or, rather, the person he assumed had caused the uniforms and name tags to appear on their bodies. Walking boldly, he approached the man, stopping a few steps short.
"Hey there, buddy." Tone, indifferent - neither harsh nor pleasant. Certainly not submissive or appeasing, because Cassidy was too proud for that. "I can't exactly do nothing in a kitchen with a broken hand, now can I? I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that?"
As he stared out at the portal and how it bent space and time to its will, Cassidy found himself in a tragically unique and unprecedented situation.
At every other point in his life, for better or for worse, the world and Cassidy played by the same rules.
Now, maybe it was the fact that he vividly remembered driving here in his silver Mazda. Or, perhaps it was the fact that those that had sought refugee in the gas station all looked and talked normal...more or less. In fact, if one choose to be wildly optimistic, it might even have been the fact that most people seemed to agree that something wasn't right.
Maybe it was all of the above; native it was none. Whatever the case may be, Cassidy had been convinced that the world and him still had the same agreement. That the same rules still applied and some basic common sense was enough that you'd get by just fine.
At least, that was his belief until a portal appeared. The portal represented a new order, a new normal, a new world. A world entirely unknown to him. Perhaps the others had figured it out before him and, like everything else, he was just slow on the uptake. Maybe that's why they were so willing to comply.
Silently, wordlessly, Cassidy moved through the motions he was being guided through, obediently observing. His face was largely expressionless until he entered the kitchen and saw that it looked the same as any other that he'd been in. A smile lit up his face as he took in the surroundings. This may be a different world, but a kitchen would always be a kitchen.
However, the throbbing pain in his right hand suddenly arrested his attention and demanded treatment. Not that any treatment could do anything to salvage his situation though. Several bones had taken damage and he could feel each one. If he removed the shirt, his palm and fingers would likely be swollen and bent at unnatural angles. Such a thing would take months to heal. Now, if he wanted to be stubborn, Cassidy had enough experience in the kitchen and dexterity in his left hand to be able to cook one-handed. However, if this truly was a different world with different rules...
His eyes locked on the person that had given them all the uniforms and name tags. Or, rather, the person he assumed had caused the uniforms and name tags to appear on their bodies. Walking boldly, he approached the man, stopping a few steps short.
"Hey there, buddy." Tone, indifferent - neither harsh nor pleasant. Certainly not submissive or appeasing, because Cassidy was too proud for that. "I can't exactly do nothing in a kitchen with a broken hand, now can I? I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that?"
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Kameron Esters-
Fear my godly wrath!
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As Darnell was beginning to wrap his mind around the fact that lemon frogs constituted a valid entry on his unofficial "Weirdest Tuesday Ever" list, the portal ripped through the air like some lethargic seamstress under deadline. He now found himself standing in a sparkly fifties diner, clad as if dropped off straight from the set of some 80s' sitcom rerun- from his name tag, which clearly knew him better than he knew himself.
"Aw hell," he muttered, smoothing the front of the uniform down, the sort of thing one would do, granting the setup for entrance aplomb, doing just that, wearing very reluctantly ones rented tux for some cousin's third wedding. "I could tell this had the smell of customer service all over it."
Then she came bursting through. Some firecracker woman, completely with a comfy set of headphones on. He liked her style. Before Darnell would have thought to duck behind the jukebox or pretend to read the menu, she had already begun yelling names.
One of which being his name.
Darnell blinked very slowly. Then he looked down at the mop bucket. Then at her. Then back down to the bucket.
"I swear," he said, mostly to himself, "somehow I've managed to hop dimensions, then went from being a frog wrangler to a janitor in under five minutes. I'm setting World Records here. Hey, someone call Guinness!" Darnell cuchkles to himself
But something in Darnell softened just a little as she beamed at him, all-star smile like it was Christmas, like the most adorable innocent-looking gray puppy. He snorted through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Lead on, fireball," he said, crooked grin on his face as he fell into step behind her. "But if any of these memories start biting me, I'm out of here. I don't know where I'd be going, but it'll faaar away from here rest assured."
BriiAngelic
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Wyll
The kitchen was big. Bigger than one might expect or need. The space stretched to accommodate for the sudden influx of kitchen personnel. Expanding with each added pair of shoes to squeak against its floors. Stainless steel reflected the red stripes of gaudy uniforms, ingredients sat in shelves or bowls, plump and bright. Even the lemon frogs seemed to chirp in anticipation.
Erinnern had watched each of the new employees walk in, burly arms crossed. Not angry, but comfortable. The lights in his eyes pulsed faintly as they crossed the threshold. Awake and bright.
A demonstration of how the lemon frogs are harvested was made. Clear, concise. It wasn’t rocket science, nor did he plague them with the more complex methods of harvest. Those he’d handle himself. Big hands, rough with experience, but gentle and precise. His mustache twitched as he chuckled, not turning around as Rochelle swept through the kitchen—a tornado with legs.
“You have a daughter?”
The crinkled corners of his eyes softened at Noe’s question. Sadness, pride. A story deep as oceans cradled within a shimmering gaze, held there like a secret.
“In all but essence.” Erinnern smiled fondly, wiping clean a counter. “Daughter by circumstance, fortunate and otherwise.”
When Noe’s stomach growled, Erinnern finally looked over.
“They not feed you from where you were coming from?” It’s a rhetorical question lilted with warm amusement. The kind that paired well with a pat on the back. But a single, friendly slap might’ve broken Noe to pieces. Erinnern’s bicep was about as wide as his head, and his hands nearly tripled Noe’s in width. Even a nudge might’ve threatened a bruise.
A cursory glance around the kitchen heralded a bowl of fresh pears in the palm of the man’s hand. Almost like the air knew exactly what he was searching for before he’d even said it. Sliced and pealed by a practiced mother. Dedicated to cutting each slice into the perfect size to fit into a child’s mouth with a single bite. Sweet, and juicy. The kinds of pears waiting for one after sweltering, rosy-cheeked fun in the sun, or a grueling day of school.
“Here, a little something to keep you on your feet.” Erinnern passed the bowl of pears to Noe with a wink. “Find me on your break and I’ll make you something heartier. You’ve been through a lot—a full stomach won’t fix it, but it won’t make it worse.”
Cassidy’s approach drew his attention away from his station again, but he seemed eager. Surprise yanked at his brows at Cassidy’s hands. Bruised and bent in odd places. Fractured—if not plainly broken. He laughed, deep and tender. How honey feels going down the throat.
“Well, I’ve been told my cooking heals the spirit, but I’m no doctor.” He rubbed his chin pensively, fingers brushing against his trimmed beard. His second hand hovered just below Cassidy’s broken one, careful not to touch it. “Put this one through quite the number, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Strong hands.” Erinnern grinned, patting Cassidy’s shoulder, practically engulfing it within his grasp. “The hands of a working man!”
“Come with me, kid.” Erinnern moved to an empty stove, grabbing a pan from nothing and setting it over the heat. A cutting board popped onto the clear surface beside them with a sharpened knife sheathed in white plastic. “Tell me, what was your favorite thing to have accomplished with those hands? Doesn't have to be the best, just your favorite.”
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