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Futuristic Perchance to Dream

Elle Joyner

Elle Joyner

Fracturer of Fairytales







​





It’s 2052 and for a number of years now, sleep has been outlawed. No one knows why, but no one argues. They just apply their medication patch, follow the rules and go to work, and that’s how it’s always been… until now. The Nudge Patches, designed as a sleep supplement, are malfunctioning and people everywhere are falling asleep… and worse yet - they're dreaming, and everyone knows there's nothing more dangerous than a dream.




























 
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-Perchance to Dream-


Dolly looked over the edge of the building and fought the sudden urge to throw up. It was more difficult than she would have liked, but the reminder in the back of her mind that being discovered in a puddle of sick would be exceedingly mortifying, was enough to quell the discomfort in her stomach. Three minutes remained until the deadline. Her watch ticked away, the seconds zipping by at double speed, in time with the pounding of her heart.


He’d promised her it would work. He’s assured her it was a guarantee… Still, nothing was a sure thing except death and taxes, ironic, all things considered.


A frown on her lips, Dolly clutched the letter tightly in her hand. The instructions were clear and concise. All it would take was a little bit of trust. Well, maybe not a little bit...


Two minutes…


Dolly felt her stomach clench again as she stepped up on the ledge and grit her teeth. She’d always liked her teeth – they weren’t perfect… not like the people you saw on television or in the theaters, but they were nice. Straight, white, no over bite… no chips or cracks or gaps. She wondered, idly, if she’d still have all her teeth when she landed. It would be awful, a face full of broken porcelain.


Her breath collapsing into a sigh, she shoved the letter into the pocket of her pants. When the idea had first been presented, she hadn’t thought twice about volunteering. All her life, she’d wanted to be a part of something – She’d felt the wrongness, like an ever-present fog in the air, and she had wanted so badly to change it. Now, looking down at what waited for her, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.


He’d promised it wouldn’t hurt. One minute to go…


Shuffling forward, the tips of her black saddle shoes met the edge of stone barricade. She’d called her mother the night before. There were, she was sure, more difficult conversations out there, but it had certainly not felt like it, at the time. She hadn’t, of course, told Mother everything. The letter had specified… Tell No One. And while she herself knew the context of the plan, the absolute importance of it being carried out to the very last second, somehow, she’d still felt like she’d be remiss in not saying goodbye.


Heart pounding, Dolly looked down at the world below, and as her thoughts came to a head she felt the burden of tears building, blurring her vision.


10 seconds.


She inched closer to the edge…


9 seconds…


Her breath caught on a sob and the letter slipped from her grasp.


8… 7… 6... 5 seconds…


Maybe she’d pass out on the way down…


4… 3… 2…


Her watch buzzed and shutting her eyes, Dolly stepped off the roof, into thin air.


Scene Objective


A Body in the Courtyard...

Details:



Monday


10:15 AM


Sunny - 75°





Someone in the Warehouse has just committed apparent suicide by leaping from the roof. Some know her as Dorothy Whitfield, an HR representative who, up until now has shown little indication of any unhappiness. Some do not know her at all... But when her body fell to the courtyard, effectively interrupting everyone's work schedule, it became impossible to keep things quiet...


The police arrived... mulling about with very little urgency, and slowly, the crowd began to form.


Whether it was by pure curiosity or you were dragged there by a coworker, and contrary to any thoughts you might otherwise have, you find yourself drawn to the zoo happening down below...






 
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As soon was the Warehouse staff begun to buzz with the news of the day’s happenings, Dover was one of the first staffers out the door. She loved her work and was diligent about doing a good job, but if there was news to know, she wanted to be the first one to know it. Setting down the metal box she had been inspecting for a barcode, the young woman clutched her clipboard under her left arm and swiveled out from the rows and rows of metal boxes on racks piling all the way up to the ceiling and dismissed herself without so much as a word to her coworkers. No one would notice a simple, five minute absence from her, right? After all, most of her job was spent in solitary confinement looking at metal storage boxes. The only time she really saw other human beings was during her lunch break or when she decided to take an informal recess from her post.


Her flats made a soft pattering noise as she fluttered across the tiles, her feet sliding a little as she rushed around corners away from the storage rooms and towards the courtyard doors where, supposedly, there had been a young woman who had fallen to her death. Dover hadn’t known Dorothy Whitfield personally; though they had interacted a few times before after her work-related accident left her without a pinky finger. In truth, Dover didn’t really care whether the woman was dead or not, but damn to hell if she was going to let that annoying girl, Stacy Martin, from accounting get in on the gossip before her again. The door creaked as she pushed it open, letting her step into the blinding sunlight of late morning. The day was warm, unduly so, and she quickly could feel the slickness of sweat collecting between her shoulder blades below her prairie-tan knit sweater. Cursing her choice of attire for the day, Dover quickly pushed up the sleeves to relieve as much of the heat as she could and crept forward into the courtyard. A few souls already mingled about, though no one she could pull from her bank of memory as being people she was acquainted with.


Officers, too, had blocked off the bloody scene and were poking about for what she could only assume as clues, though there was no real urgency to be seen when it came to dealing with the body. Dover crept her way forward, clutching her clipboard ever closer to her chest as she gazed out over the commotion. Blood had seeped into the cracks in the cobblestone and oozed out into geometric rivers across the stone and the woman, lying face down was in the centre of it all—a tangle of her bloodied hair veiling the worst of the gore.


Dover’s face pulled back into a grimace as she leaned over the Do Not Cross tape to get a better look, though she quickly recoiled. The smell of blood was like the smell of the kitchen sink after her mum had cleaned the dishes with the metal scrub pad -- smithy and like raw iron. She found herself being more off-put by the smell of the blood than the scene itself, which she found to be more disturbing than anything else. An officer shooed her away from the tape and she took a few steps back, though didn't disperse like he had asked. Instead, she remained patiently waiting, twiddling with the pen between her fingers to keep her restless brain entertained. The crowd of people began to fill in around her as comments of ‘oh poor thing’ and ‘what a tragedy’ filled in the silence.


Silly of them, Dover thought, none of these people probably even had any idea who she was.


Scratching a hand through her hair and pushing the tassels of unruly loose curls back away from her face, Dover mulled about below the hot sun, deciding to stick around for just a few more minutes to see how all of this would unfold…


Surely, something exciting was bound to happen? There wasn't a pound of her flesh that didn't want to gossip over the whole ordeal, but as she scrutinised the crowd, not a single face drew her attention as being familiar. She couldn't help but mentally cuss her friends out-- how dare they not be around when she so desperately needed a good gossip session?
 
Frankie was in the zone - he was boxing on automatic, packing things up and getting things going, it was all a fine rhythm and he was just going with the flow. Such as it was that he completely missed the first few people darting off from their posts. Then the next few people. It was only when Marcie, the short brunette girl who worked across from him, tugged his arm that he stirred from his almost ritualistic activities. She asked if he was going outside to see it.


"See what?" Frankie asked. This was the first he'd heard of anything happening, no one else had told him- oh. Looking around he saw that pretty much everyone else had left. It was just down to him, Marcie and a couple of stragglers who were already putting their boxes down and heading out the door. He turned back to Marcie. "What's going on?" Marcie almost beamed - it was so exciting, someone had thrown themselves off the roof outside! Frankie thought it was a touch macabre that Marcie was so excited about this, but he guessed that nothing much of excitement had happened recently, so this at least broke up the monotony.


"Oh, erm..." he wasn't really sure what to do. He didn't really want to see someone who had just died, and knowing how tall the warehouse was it wouldn't be a pleasant sight. But everyone else was already out there, and he'd hate to be the one who didn't have anything to say about it later. He shrugged and smiled. "Sure, let's go." He put down the toothbrush he still had in his hand and followed Marcie outside to the front courtyard.


It was a beautiful day - the sun was beating its generous heat on everyone who was outside, and it was a fairly large crowd already, full of people chatting, others craning for a look beyond some police tape, and others still just milling about, happy for an excuse to be out of work. Marcie wandered on and Frankie slowed his walk a little - he really didn't fancy seeing this, and he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing out here. Gossip was one thing, but this was a person who had just taken their life. It seemed...wrong. Disrespectful, he guessed was the right word. But whatever reservations Frankie had about it he still meandered through the crowd to the police tape where he glimpsed the blood on the floor and her hand-


Oh, nope. Frankie was out. He saw the woman's hand resting in a pool of blood and that was more than enough for him. Holding a hand over his mouth and blinking the sudden tears from his eyes, he backed up to let others in front of him. He couldn't tell who it was, but he heard some names being thrown around - Whitfield, she worked in HR, HR woman, Dot? Dotty? Dorothy Whitfield, that was the one - he didn't recognise the name from firsthand experience. He likely knew someone who knew her, but he couldn't put a fact to the name. Maybe that was better.


Wiping the few tears from his eyes, Frankie took a deep breath and steadied himself, feeling all of a sudden unwell. Damn it, Marcie.
 

Kenan Gregor



​



"Dorothy Whitefield you said?" asked Kenan with interest, his tone loud and clear, cutting over the chatter of bystanders, moving parts, and mechanical grinding alike.


"Na, na, it's Whitfield..... like umm..... wit" replied Kenan's first sergeant, a man by the name of Isiah, a homely and mild mannered family man, sporting a chipped smile and dark yet friendly brown eyes that embraced others softly upon first meeting.


"Her name.... it's familiar to me" said Kenan as the name struck a cord in the back of his mind.


He didn't know how he knew her, nor where she was from and aside from the vague description of Human Resources Rep, he knew little of her life or who she was outside of work, but somehow, as the name entered into his mind he was overrun by a feeling that he had met the woman before.





"In a past life I suppose"


Thought the cop as he made his way underneath the yellow tape that surrounded the bloody scene of the fall, a supposed suicide according to first respondents.


"You know her?" asked Isiah, his brow furrowing as he looked towards Kenan with interest.


"I don't know where, but I've heard that name before" replied the Lieutenant dryly as he approached the corpse, eyeballing the gore and destruction wrought upon the woman by the forces of gravity.


Gregor was a veteran, he'd seen bodies mangled in the worst ways possible, he'd seen a woman who'd been dismembered and partially eaten by a lunatic, he'd seen men who'd been shot so many times that it took dental records to determine ID, he'd seen bloated and gaseous bodies that had emerged from the depths of the river missing eyes and limbs, he'd seen children with peeled skin at the hands of a serial killer who flayed his victims while they breathed. By most measures he'd seen it all, but it never got any easier, nothing like this ever was.


The woman had impacted face first, her jaw had crumbled completely and from her face hung threads of flesh and bone, among the red mess was a lone eye, hanging by the optical nerve, dangling from the skull of the woman, bobbing and weaving with every shift in air pressure. It's iris, static and un-moving, seemed to stare into the soul of Kenan, freezing him in thought as he became lost in the woman's collapsed cranium.


"Fuckin shame ain't it, she was a pretty one too" said one of the first respondents who had ambled his way to the side of the officer, standing with his hands on his hips as he too eyeballed the dead woman.


"It always is" said Kenan, pausing for several seconds before continuing.


"What's your name officer?" asked Gregor, turning his head to the policeman who stood aside him.


"Sergeant Keith Marton, first responder" said the man from the depths of his chest in a professional tone, obviously meant to impress the senior officer.


"You ruled it a suicide?" asked Kenan


"Aye, I did sir, by the looks of it she jumped" replied the man.


"Alright....... gather up as many people who knew her personally as you can. Filter out the others with some basic questions about her station, her background, her life outside of work, her family, whatever you can think of, use your imagination." Ordered Kenan in a calm authoritative tone.


"Yes sir, one question though, why not close the case? We know she jumped, we have a vid recording and two dozen eye witnesses. Plenty of unsolved out there worth our time to be bustin' ass over a suicide" asked the officer with curiosity abundant.


"A valid question, unfortunately I'm not going to be able to tell you why. This case is open until stated otherwise by Dream Precinct." said Kenan, turning and meeting the eyes of the all too knowing Isiah as his statement came to a close.





Flint Gibbons



​



"Ten years I worked my ass off in this sweatbox, ten fuckin' years, this bitch was the one who rejected my raise, good riddance I say"


Came a voice from the crowd behind Flint. The boxman didn't know what was worse, the ignorance of the man who clearly thought that corporate policy was the domain of an HR rep or that someone could be happy that the person who rejected a 1% raise was dead. Regardless of the flagrancy of the man's words, Flint resigned himself to silence as he viewed the chaotic scrum that had surrounded the scene of the suicide.


The corpse itself was out of sight and Flint preferred it that way, from what he had heard from his friends who had seen the impact, her entire head had popped like a melon as it impacted the concrete. It wasn't that Flint was squeamish, on the contrary, he had seen death, he'd killed once, and he fought for a living, but still, the less death he saw the better.


Instead of waiting for the police to clear them away via the use of force and megaphones, Flint withdrew from the heart of the crowd, sitting upon one of the benches by the side of the walkway he strode upon, willing to wait and see what developed from the most comfortable and cop averted position.


 
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“Thank you for calling. Glad I could help, Mr. Henderson.” Frizz spoke softly into the head set, a small smile making the dimple in her chin more prominent. Then, with the satisfying beep of an ended call, the red head let out a deep sigh and slammed into the back of her seat.


“I swear that man just makes up things to call us every day. Did you hear he called Amanda yesterday and asked how his ‘lovely lady’ was doing? I bet he’s some old kook who… Becky, are you even listening to me?”


Becky made a waving motion, shushing Frizz and leaning closer to the dial pad. There were no incoming lights lit up on her neighbor’s phone set, so it had to be a local call coming through. Leave it to Becky to be ignoring work. Probably a call from Ben upstairs, this week the girl had been sweet on the little jerk.


“Oh. My. God. I’ll be right there!” Becky gasped before turning to Frizz and yanking both of their head sets off. “Get this, someone in HR just jumped off the roof. Bless her heart, I wonder what drove her to it. Why are you still sitting there!” Dumbfounded, Frizz followed behind Becky as everyone in Telemarketing started making their way down to the ground floor.


---


Outside was worse than the stairwell. Packed and bustling with people, Frizz felt like a pin ball machine; bouncing off one person to the next as she tried to navigate through the growing crowd. All the faces she passed were in different stages of emotion, all while throwing around different pieces of information and speculation. But none of that was her concern. All the woman wanted was to find the one person who could turn this grim event to a circus side show. And if she knew her roommate, she was going to have to make it to the front row of the spectators.


Catching glimpse of the police tape was her sign to not look any further. The last thing she wanted was the image of some poor woman’s dead body burned into her memory. So Frizz kept her gaze upward as she scanned the crowd, still bumping shoulders with the occasional onlooker and apologizing as she went. Finally she saw the chaotic hair of her friend and the fascinated glee glowing on her face.


“Ada! The hell you doing, wipe that smile off your face before someone sees you.” Frizz hissed once she reached the young woman. “What if a friend of hers sees you or something. It’d be…Heavens!”


Too busy scolding Ada, Frizz had pointed at the scene in front of them and, stupidly, followed her own finger to the gruesome crime scene. Instantly Frizz grabbed Ada’s arm and turned her back on the body; slapping her hand to her mouth to keep down the bile quickly rising. How could anyone jump knowing this is what awaited at the end.
 
One minute Ada was making a tiny house out of computer parts that came down the conveyor belt, and the next it seemed everything was in chaos. She narrowed her eyes, trying to put the finishing touches on her project when a co-worker rushed over and surprised her.


“Ada! Did you hear abou-are you making a house?”


“What?! No!”


She whirled around, knocking over the delicately put together miniature and struck a non-chalant pose.


“I wasn’t doin’ anything; just working, like I’m supposed to.”


The man raised an eyebrow, obviously not believing her so Ada pressed on, hoping to move passed the subject.


“Anyway! What were you comin’ over here for?”


“Oh! Yea, someone jumped off the top of the Warehouse!”


“What? Are you serious? Like, they’re just layin’ outside right now dead?”


He nodded his head enthusiastically, eyes wide, and Ada pushed herself away from the conveyer belt, already walking towards the exit.


“Well don’t just stand there let’s go see!”


It was a macabre sense of curiosity that pulled her towards the scene. She was one of those individuals that thought things of this nature were interesting, not in the sense that someone had lost their life, but the manner in which they died. If you ever caught her watching television then it would always be on some crime show or documentary on a serial killer, things that were absolutely fascinating to her.


The crowd outside was already immense and the police had already responded but Ada was determined to try and get a close look. She elbowed and shoved her way as close to the front as possible then stood on her tip toes until she could glimpse the bloodied corpse.Wow, poor girl, but look at her eyeball! Sweet!


As Ada strained her neck and toes to go higher and higher, a familiar bush of red hair bobbed into her peripheral vision; no sooner had the ginger locks come into view did the nagging start. Ada rolled her bi-colored eyes at her roommates fussing but still heeded the warning. It was true, there were so many people out here and she didn't want to upset someone who'd just seen their friend mashed on the ground. The last thing a mourner needed was some psychotic woman smiling like a maniac at the corpse of their loved one.


Frizz grabbed Ada's arm and whirled around, looking like she was going to be sick. Ada looked down at her calmly, raising an eyebrow at the petite woman.


"You okay there champ?"


She knew her best friend had a weak constitution; poor thing almost tossed her cookies when Ada had cut her hand open on a glass a few weeks ago. So, although she did want to stay and snoop some more it was in her friend's best interest that they move away.


"Come on killer let's get you away from here."


Putting one hand on Frizz's back, the other taking her arm, she lead her roommate out of the still growing crowds to some benches that were out of the way. It seemed like a good place for the red head to catch her breath but where Ada could still hear the gossip of what was going on.
 
Jackson Day

All he wanted was a simple, quiet walk. To clear his head, get away from his over-crowded apartment. Fatigue had fully engulfed Jackson; he had headaches, he was constantly dozing off, bags under his eyes, daydreaming. Daydreaming of sleeping, actually. The first time he fell asleep was terrifying. He was so lucky not to have been caught. He had fallen asleep in a small corner in the back of his apartment. It was a rather secluded place. The funny thing was, he couldn't even remember why he had been back there.


Falling asleep was not the only thing that terrified him; Jackson had a dream too. Fire, screams. He tried to find them, to help, but he couldn't find them anywhere. The world was empty like a desert. His heart was pounding. Something about it felt so real, and yet he knew it.. wasn't. He was trying to get out, get away.. to wake up. And he did. He woke up gasping and panting, cold and sweaty, passed out in the back of his building. He had slept. He dreamed. He'd broken basically broken the worst laws to break. It had been about a week ago, and Jackson had forced himself to stay awake. He would not risk sleep again. But it didn't mean he didn't think about it. It was like forbidden love, if he could compare sleep to that. Thrilling, dangerous, and adventure. As much as the dream had been horrifying, he wondered if there was more too it. A vision? The future? It didn't seem like any place he knew. Jackson actually enjoyed theorizing about it.


Then the note came. He had only slept once, just once. But now he was a part of something, something he wasn't sure he should be a part of. Someone had caught him sleeping. Would they report him? Would he be killed? If he wasn't with a wanted sign above his head, what did they want him for? "You have been chosen. Don't fear the dreams. Fear everything else. You will be contacted soon." It was so cryptic. He didn't like it. Not one bit.


"Did you see it happen?" "No, but Tracy said she did. She was pale as a ghost." "Woah. Was it that bad?" "Pretty gruesome."





Apparently, simple, quiet walks did not exist. He watched two woman walk away from what seemed to be a large commotion near the courtyard of the warehouse. The first thing Jackson caught sight of was policeman, and a scene cut off from the public with yellow tape. A body on the floor, covered in blood. All the warehouse workers were either trying to get up close or not even wanting too. It was definetly not a pretty sight. Jackson looked up at the sky, and at the rooftop of the building. Had she jumped? Jackson stepped backwards, trying to get a better view of the roof when he walked right into somebody.


Jackson jumped. He hadn't fallen over, but maybe the person he walked into had. "O-oh, sorry, miss." He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. The girl had bright blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. Pretty, actually. Jackson was just too tired to really have it make a connection in his brain.


@Mordecai
 

Lynda Jonas

​



Lynda had no idea how to react when she first her the news of Dorothy's death. She had been working a fairly slow shift that day, with even the lunchtime rush at a dizzyingly slow pace. By the halfway point of her shift it had felt like half a century had gone by. Slow days never happened, there was always at three hour lunch rush during every lunchtime. Well it was the middle of lunch, and they hadn't seen a single person.


Finally a customer arrived, after hours of silence. With a smile on her face Lynda greeted the woman, preparing to take her order. "Hello, what would you like?" But something felt off about her, as though something had happened. A curtain was over the woman, keeping the air around her depressed.


She wasn't even paying much attention, and that was saying something. Hardly anyone spoke to food servicers, but this woman didn't seem to notice anything around her. "Sorry," She said after a moment, still looking distant. "This woman died earlier. Suicide. Dorothy, I think her name was. Anyway can I have a..." The woman's words faded away into the background as recognition came to Lynda.


Lynda gave the woman her food and watched her go on her way, now anxious to get her break so she could check things out for herself. The only Dorothy that Lynda knew was Whitfield, a cheerful and kind regular. Suicide sounded nothing like her, she was never anything but positive and friendly.


As soon as Simon got back from his break Lynda rushed to the direction the woman came from, trying to find and make sure Dorothy was okay.


It only took a minute to get to the still growing crowd, and when she heard the name Lynda froze in place. "Dorothy Whitefield, from HR." "...this bitch was the one who rejected my raise, good riddance I say." "No one can get close, but they said her head just exploded on impact." Lynda was very tempted to scream at the second man. Dorothy was only doing her job, don't claim she deserved it, what kind of person thought like that?


Lynda tried to get through the crowd, to see her friend, but police tape managed to stop her even after she crossed the river of humans. All Lynda could do then was wait, wait and hope for an eventual answer.


Mentioned: @HunterJJ
 
Dover


As the courtyard filled in, Dover’s eyes sort of glossed over as the scene continued to unfold around her considerably more uneventful than she had first been hoping. Oh, sure, there were the normal reactions: fear, disgust, interest, but aside from the happenings in the crowd, very little was actually happening. She would have thought that the police would have at least put a tarp over the body until they could come take her away, but they didn’t even bother to do that much. Instead, her blood and hair still gleamed in the warm sun, her clothes fluttered idly in the hot breeze that gushed past. It tugged at her own hair, causing the sandy, looping curls to brush across her forehead that was now a bit sticky with sweat. She idly reached up and wiped it away on her sleeve.


While, normally such a breeze would feel nice—it just felt hot and sticky now; like it was sucking all the moisture from her skin. She couldn’t help but lick her lower lip in response. As exciting as the situation seemed at first glance, Dover found herself lulling into a dream-like state of boredom. She considered returning back to the Warehouse, where it was air conditioned, but that meant returning to work. She supposed she could suffer the heat for a few more moments of freedom from checking the barcodes on storage boxes. Then again, she could go and get a coffee from the break room’s café and, just as she had settled on the idea of doing that, a young man crashed into Dover. The force of the man’s weight sent her scattering off her centre of balance and, due to a very unfortunate and misplaced dip in the cobblestone of the courtyard, Dover lost her balance and went tumbling back on to her bum with an audible ‘oomph’ of equal parts surprise and pain.


“Oo,” she murmured out, though glad her butt had managed to catch her fall, as it was slightly more padded than the rest of her. She took a moment to pick herself up and dust off the legs of her trousers before looking up to the perpetrator. He was a handsome man who looked about her age with mostly undistinguished features, save for the striking colour of his eyes—the most lovely shade of seafoam green she had ever seen (but would never admit that she was a touch jealous). “It’s alright,” she replied, wiping her hands off on her sweater one more time. She didn’t know him, but she had seen his face a few times around the Warehouse in passing months. Now was as good of time as any to meet him, she supposed.


“I’m Dover, by the way. And you are?”



(​
https://www.rpnation.com/profile/9705-cloudyblueday/@CloudyBlueDay

https://www.rpnation.com/profile/9705-cloudyblueday/)






Chai


“This is just bad, bad, bad,” Chai muttered to himself as he hugged a welder’s mask to his side as he made long strides across the hallway and towards the courtyard. While a bit late to the party, he had gotten the news that was wildly circulating around the Warehouse staffers since earlier that morning. He knew bad things were going to be happening that day from the moment he had woken up (or from the moment he stopped playing video games, as he told his peers). His horoscope had even told him to counteract potential problems or conflict and to avoid whatever makes you uncomfortable or puts you in a negative state of mind. Well, damn, because suicide was really cramping his style for the day and there was not a thing he could do to avoid it besides mutter under his breath and try and go with the flow as much as humanly possible. Pulling up the sleeve on his black sweatshirt, Chai glanced down at his wristwatch and took note of the time. He could spare just a few minutes to investigate the happenings, he supposed. He was about due for his mid-shift break, anyways.


While most of his breaks were reserved for sipping tea and fervently checking the web for new horoscope updates, he supposed he could make the exception for today. He was impossibly set in his ways and really hated making such exceptions-- but today's events simply called for his attention.


A part of him wanted to do nothing more than get back into work, as there was quite a ‘to-do’ list for him to accomplish that day, but his innate curiosity got the better of him. Before long, Chai had sauntered out in the morning sun and into the throngs of people huddling around the Do Not Cross police tape and the dead body. The site made his nose crinkle and stomach churn a little as he quickly adverted his eyes from the body that was displayed across the cobblestone courtyard like a piece of art. It was disappointing how slow the police seemed to be moving, but then again, who was Chai to judge their work? With a low hum, the young man shoved his hands deep in his jean pockets and idly stroked the nickles with one hand. They were coins that were long since obsolete in favour of the credit money plan, but they were a gift from his grandfather and Chai never failed to keep them with him. He felt as though they possessed mystical, soothing powers.


Humming softly, Chai glanced over to the person directly to his right. The man next to him looked friendly enough with a twist of long, off-blonde hair on his head and tears collecting on the rims of his eyes as he clamped a hand over his own mouth. “Hey—“ Chai murmured to him, a chunk of his thick, dark locks tumbling down his tanned cheek as he moved to lean closer, “What’s going on ‘ere, aye?” he asked, offering Frankie a sympathetic, if not shy, smile. Perhaps it was best just not knowing what was going on, but even sweetheart Chai couldn't resist the temptation of some good gossip and of all the faces he could see, Frankie's definitely looked the friendliest. He reached up and pushed the welding googles off the bridge of his nose and used them to collect his hair back on top of his head like a headband.

 
Remi Circi

​



Remi smiled as she bent back up from the filing cabinet, feeling quite successful as she managed to get her most recent set of files into the system. It was her job to categorize all of the newly registered grunts into the mainframe and making sure their health information was up to date. She frowned as she scratched her head, wondering what she could do now that she was done. Walking over to her desk, she sat dwn in her chair and stared at her computer screen, her mind going to the past events. Leaning forward, Remi messed with the pens and pencils she kept well stocked in the little metal cup she had beside her keyboard. Hearing the sounds of the metal and plastic clinking together, they suddenly suddenly lost their innocent sound and Rem realized she was hearing the sounds of death and brimstone from her dreams!


Dreams!?


Remi jolted as she woke up from her short nap, shaking her head as it swam with exhaustion. Her eyes felt heavy as she carried the weight of the burden her disability to dream caused her. Yet, in the same instance, she felt rejuvenated, a twisted excitement that she tried to hate, but always found herself wallowing in. She was glad the ability to resist the patches effects were still in place, but it mattered not. Even if she loved it or hated it, it was a tumor embedded in the far reaches of her mind. Something in her blodstream simply said no and after that, there was no argument. Rubbing her head, Remi sat up and looked at the door that lead to the hallway. She could go get some coffee.


Yeah, some coffee sounded good, but...but Remi felt stuffy. Going down the hallway was certainly a way to stay awake, but she needed to clear her mind of the side effects of her lucid experience. Looking over, Remi smiled as she saw the window. Walking over to it, she opened it up and breathed in as the bloated air left and made room for the much more natural and cleansing sort. She sighed as she crossed her arms on the window sill, her head resting in the pit of her conjoined hands as she smiled at the sounds she could hear. Industrial that might have been, but it was better than the-Remi jumped back as the large and shadowed object fell in front of her, elliciting a scream from her.


Her eyes widened as she went to the door, but her hands shook at the doorknob, unable to leave until she knew what she just saw. Peeking behind her with trepidation, Remi walked cautiously over to the window and peeked out. Her eyes widened as the sun revealed a dark truth about the object, "O-Oh god. Oh my god. Oh my god! Oh my...Oh my...Oh my god."


Remi shuddered as she encountered panic, the sight of the dead body destroying any confidence she might have felt had she been some other person. She grabbed her shoulders and looked again, before her hands dove to her phone, the devestating news on the tip of her tongue as the officials on the other side of her call picked up the phone.


~Squiggle~TIME SKIP~Squiggle~

​



The whole experience was kind of surreal, watching the cops swarm the area around Dolly, as the corpse used to be known. As the paramedics, far more practiced in the careful manuevering of these kind of accidents than Remi was, moved in their practiced ways, slipping the body into one of the many bags they had on hand, she noticed the number tag they put on it. She frowned as she realized that this would be the final time Dolly was seen as simply Dolly. It seemed like just yesterday that Remi had been talking with her casually about the weather, having met each other on the way to the local coffee machine that was placed along with the others of its kind. She had seemed just fine, simply positive as they walked and talked, both having no looksee into the others mind. Grimly, she wondered about how she had a perfect view of her mind, or at least, the physical part of it. As she was bumped by a curious bystander, a rather morbid interest was quite common today, Remi looked up at the window on the side of the building. Looking up above the window, far above, Remi sheilded her eyes from the sun as she saw the "step off" point.


Looking back at the scene, the stray blood that was present, Remi shudded at the the thought of what must have gone on in Dolly's poor head as she felt the wind blowing through her clothes, the ground approaching faster and faster and FAST-Remi exhaled as she tried to keep her calm. If she focused to much on this, then there would be nothing stopping her from becoming just like Dolly. She just needed to let go and try and find a way to help this pass over smoothly. Feeling her eyelids gain a little weight as she blinked, Remi realized she still hadn't had that coffee she had promised herself, having found herself rather full of adrenaline after the fall of someone she had once called aquaintance.
 
Jackson Day

Jackson knew drawing attention to himself in his tired state wasn't good, but maybe this woman.. wouldn't notice? He really hoped not. Unfortunately, she already seemed to be looking him over, especially his eyes. Jackson turned red. He could not count the number of times he was stared at because of the bright and intriguing color of eyes, and still it made him uncomfortable. Plus, if she was looking at his eyes there was no way she could miss the bags under them. Only solution: Avoid eye-contact. Jackson immediately directed his gaze to the floor and kept it there as best as he could.


At least she was alright, and she didn't seem mad at all. “I’m Dover, by the way. And you are?” Dover. He liked that name. It had a nice ring to it. "Jackson. Nice to meet you, and I'm sorry for bumping into you, again." Without even thinking, he rubbed his eyes once more. Dammit. He sighed and turned back to the sprawled body on the floor. It was a gruesome sight for sure. Jackson wondered if he'd ever have the guts to do that. Committing suicide was something that was both brave and foolish at the same time. Just imagining staring at the ground coming at you so fast gave Jackson the chills.


"Did you know her?" Jackson blurted out of nowhere, voice suddenly getting deathly quiet. "I don't think I'd ever be able to do that. Not because my life is a ball of rainbows and sunshine. Even if my life was the worst it could possibly be, I wouldn't be able to stare at the ground that would kill me and jump willingly." He looked up at the roof where it seemed the woman had jumped off of. It made his stomach flip-flop. It was quite literally staring death right in the eyes. Or floor.


Then, he blinked.


"I.. I.. didn't mean to go off like that. Sorry.. I'm just really out of it today.." He mumbled, rubbing his temples as he turned back to Dover, cheeks reddening again. Good going, Jackson. You probably scared the heck out of her.





@Mordecai
 
Loryn planted her forehead into the wall with a loud thud. Moaning she pushed herself back and glanced sideways toward her friend, Sissy, "This is literally the worst shift ever."


"I know dear. I'm sorry. But you really need to get going."


Loren nodded slowly, dazed as she lost herself in her thoughts. Nearly everything that could go wrong had indeed gone wrong for her in the last twelve hours. She lost track of time at the club and showed up for her shift forty-five minutes late, pissing off the auditor on the clock before her. She heard no end of it from their boss for fifteen minutes solid. The stack of paperwork waiting for her was the most she'd seen since she took her job and she had one less hour to do it in. If she had a good shift and spent every minute at her desk she wouldn't have been able to get through half of it. That wasn't today though; she'd been pulled away from her desk every thirty minutes to deal with trivial complaints, spats between supervisors and employees, and bizarre injuries. Now, as she was preparing to finally leave and get back to the club, a suicide.


Loryn bent down and collected her clipboard and the file she'd pulled. She'd never met Miss Whitfield personally and without the shred of humanity afforded by a personal acquaintance, Loryn simply had no patience for this. Her group was raiding tonight and she was missing it for someone else's drama.


Her excruciatingly high heels clicked loudly in the corridor as she made her way toward the courtyard doors. Before she ever turned the corner, she could hear the dull roar of a crowd. Rolling her eyes she buttoned up her small jacket and prepared to elbow her way through. "Excuse me.... Move please... HR!.... I need to get through...... Officers! Some help? I'm with HR!"


Loryn was met by and escorted the rest of the way by an average looking gentleman. Immediately, she began sizing him up. "Thank you sir. They might've eaten me alive if not for you," she turned on her doe eyes and blinked quickly, feigning breathlessness.


"Officer Dawson ma'am. What's this here?" he asked, gesturing toward the file tucked under Loryn's arm.


"Oh," she followed his finger down and glanced back up at him, pushing her bangs from her face, "It's Miss Whitfield's... It's the file for the woman who jumped. I needed to get it to the scene."


Officer Dawson simply nodded stoically and held the caution tape up as Loryn stepped through, tucking her hand down to hold her abbreviated skirt in place. "Thanks Dawson," she breathed, adopting a tone reminiscent of a police movie and winking slyly. She caught a smirk as the officer turned away to address an unruly employee who leaned too far over the tape.


Approaching a pair of informed looking officers, one of whom was quite handsome, Loryn cleared her throat politely and held out the file, "I'm Loryn with HR. This is Miss Whitfield's file." She was intercepted by a rather burly looking female officer who took the filed a curtly dismissed her. Crinkling her nose at the back of the woman's head, Loryn stepped off to one side and waited to be found useful, carefully keeping her back to the scene. She unbuttoned her jacket, freeing herself from its claustrophobic grasp and heaved a sigh, probably not for the last time that day.
 

Remmy Rutherford



​



“Knocked my head on a shelf.”


Remmy did not look over her shoulder to look at her colleague until she was sure that the last box that she dropped onto the trolley wasn’t going to cause it to immediately tumble over.


“Very silly. I know.”


It wasn’t immediately obvious how convincing her cover stories actually were. In terms of keeping everyone from asking how exactly she had gotten the bruises and cuts, they were amazingly effective; however, to what degree that effect comes from them actually believing what she said and not from everyone simply not being interested in prying out the truth, was questionable.


Practically, only the first part of it mattered.


She strolled over to the pile of boxes on the ground, secured a grip around one of them that was protruding from the top of the stack, then remembered that the trolley was already filled up.


It had been a particularly tiring morning for her after yesterday. She thought about staying a bit longer later today, just to compensate for the perceived lack of efficiency this morning. Though, after what happened yesterday evening, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take this day to get her start feeling like it was a struggle resisting collapsing into the ground unconscious.


Just as she was wondering that, she noticed that, outside, something sounded like it just did that, except maybe harder and in a very painful way.


She looked over the toppled pile of boxes besides the trolley, and after a moment or two, began to follow the flow of people that were headed for the exit.


____________


Quite a large crowd had gathered around the yard in front of the warehouse by the time Remmy arrived there. The air was saturated with chatter that blurred into an indistinct background noise. At the centre of all that, presumably, lay the body of a worker in the Warehouse that had fallen off the building.


“Dorothy Whitfield, they say. Worked in HR.”


“Aw.” was the first uttered response from Remmy towards the scene.


The young man with curly brown hair turned to look at her. Remmy recognized him as someone from a floor above.


Remmy recognized a lot of people like that. Very vaguely - one detail about where a he worked, where he lived, who he was friends with. It could hardly be said to be knowing each other, but it cannot be said that they weren’t acquainted either.


Then again, everyone in the warehouse probably recognized just about everyone else in much the same way.


“Used to know her?” He asked.


“No.” Remmy replied, lips pressed together.


“I’m very sorry.”


The young man was going to utter the same reply whatever she answered. She didn’t mind that.


Remmy remained facing the direction of the centre of the group but did not move forward, even though her sight was mostly obscured by the crowd in front of her.


Remmy did know a number of people who worked with Dorothy, in fact. They said Dolly was a pleasant person.


There was a time, a little more than two years ago, Remmy remembered spectating a match that was held on a rooftop in the living section of the LCD. Late night, few lights, concrete roof, winds, no railings. Falling of the ledge was a very real danger for those engaged - and even in the middle of all the intensity seldom were any combatants reckless enough to push towards the edge.


She learnt in a conversation that night that there was in fact one incident in which a man made a false step backwards and dropped from a similar roof in a similar event.


Remmy imagined the scene from the description given in that conversation and decided that she did not want to.


Thumbs latching on to the edge of her pockets, Remmy slid a few steps backwards, away from the commotion, and watched from the periphery of the circle of onlookers as several figures in paramedic uniforms disappear through the edge of the crowd and into its centre. She sighed.


She then found herself slightly upset by the slight lack of places to sit on in proximity, until she laid eyes upon the one bench to the side of the walkway, only a few more paces besides her.


“Oh.” she turned around to see that on the other end of the bench was already a man, sitting quietly, hands crossed and eyes gazing idly into the scene in front of him.


“Excuse me sir.” she said, taking one last step to have the back of her legs touch the side of the bench, and rested arm on the edge of the backrest on the far side from the seat’s one current occupant.


“You mind?”


Flint Gibbons,

@HunterJJ
​
 
Grier Davis

The needle went in smooth as a spoon through broth, the light prick barely a sensation anymore. Smooth, warm adrenaline coursed through the syringe, into her blood stream and with a long, slow sigh, Grier retracted the needle and pressed a cool fingertip to quell the tiny droplet of blood which came in it's wake. It wasn't her drug of choice, Epinephrine, but she'd fallen asleep again the night before and drastic times called for drastic measures.


"Hey! Davis!" A voice called out, and Grier jumped, the needle and small glass bottle falling from her lap, clattering to the bathroom floor. Swearing under her breath, she scooped them up and jammed them into the muff of her sweatshirt, rising to her feet, "It's been ten minutes, Grier! Floor Manager's askin' where the hell you went."


Pushing open the stall door, Grier frowned at the figure of the red headed woman, glowering from the threshold of the restroom. Cynthea Shanders - the woman could manage to stick her nose in anyone's business, even if it were loped off from her face.


"I told you I wasn't feeling good. You wanna smell my breath? Test the toilet for biologicals? God, Cynth... Take a pill." Rolling her eyes, Grier shuffled past the woman, who backed away, apparently repelled by the suggestion. A smirk of satisfaction touched the blonde's lips and she turned, heading in the direction of the 8B Assembly Line. Halfway down the hallway, she was halted by the site of a small group, huddled together in front of the window overlooking the courtyard, their mumbled voices carrying through the narrow passage.


"Did you know her?"


"No... But I heard she was pretty high up... Had dinner with the President and his family, even."


"Maybe it was an affair, that made her do it...?"


Brow quirked, Grier approached the gaggle. Three of the four were strangers, but she recognized Dan Phelps. He'd worked on her line a few times. He was a nice enough guy, when he wasn't staring at your boobs.


"What's going on?" She asked, and Dan glanced up. She considered it a testament to what had happened that he looked her in the eye first.


"HR Rep jumped... Pancaked in the courtyard. It's some pretty grisly stuff, down there."


"Gross. Suicide?"


"Looks like it, yeah. Cops are here, though. Wonder if they're gonna start askin' questions..."


Her hands twitched inside the sweatshirt pocket and Grier shrugged, "I don't see why they'd need to..."


"Yeah, probably not. Still... how cool would that be."


"You forget somebody died, Phelps?"


"Oh. Right! Yeah. Sorry... Say, Grier... You never call--"


Before he could finish, Grier was gone, but not in the direction of the assembly lines. Curiosity... however morbid... was often times a Siren's call. She hadn't known anyone in HR personally, but it was the first real news the Warehouse had since that chick chopped off her toe... or finger... or some body part. It was fascinating stuff, and it was a hell of an excuse not to return to the line until the Adrenaline really kicked in. Taking the elevator down to the lowest level, Grier stepped out in the lobby, hit hard by the heat coming off the floor to ceiling glass windows. She followed the line of gawkers out into the sticky heat and was immediately met by the impression that any kind of news like this wasn't beneficial to the Warehouse's business. It was a mad house - hundreds of workers, bundled together, stretching on tiptoes, peering round one another, hoping to get a glimpse of what was happening. It all seemed a little sick, but then... wasn't she there for the same reason? Grateful for once that she was so small, she found a hole in the crowd and pushed her way through.




Finn Carver

Dolly was dead. He'd gotten the news through the gossip pipeline - not the way he would've liked to hear it, certainly, but it was better than being the last to know. Half the Warehouse was down there, now, driven by twisted curiosity and a weird psychological need to be a part of the freak show, but not Finn. He couldn't bring himself to do it... to go down there and try to sneak a peek at the body. Thinking about it made him feel sick...


They'd only dated briefly - a few weeks, really, but their break up had been amiable and he had always considered Dolly a good friend. They both had their secrets, which was why they never worked as a couple, but ultimately, she was a good person, full of life and ways to live it to the fullest. Knowing what had happened, knowing what she'd done... It wasn't just upsetting, it was mind numbing. It made no sense.


He'd made it outside, but only to the front portico and no further. He refused to join the voyeuristic rabble... even if it might mean getting information.


His eyes hurt from tears, held at bay, and Finn blinked uncomfortably, digging into his pocket for a cell. Pressing in a few digits, he waited until the voice on the other end answered, "Dixon. Make it quick."


"Hey, Dix. It's Finn. I need a favor..."


"Yeah, kid? What's up?"


"...I want in on tonight's fight... Can you make it happen?"


"You aren't on the roster, kid. Not sure if the Boss'll like it."


"...Don't worry. I don't mean to win or anything... Just... got some bad news today, and I need a distraction."


"Yeah, sure, kid. I'll make it happen. See you tonight."


"Thanks, Dixon. See ya."


Pressing the button to end the call, he moved to slide his phone into his pocket, but noticed a message, blinking in the corner. Frowning, he tapped on the screen.


SENT 10:46 || UNKNOWN NUMBER


1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday.


All that is Gone is not Lost. -- D



Without recognition, the phone slid from Finn's quivering hands, splattering Dorothy Whitfield on the pavement all over again...


Scene Objective



This mysterious text message goes out among the crowd... reaching those to whom a similarly ominous letter was delivered. An address, a time... a summons...


And with it... perhaps, the promise of answers.
 
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Dover


Dover offered a touch of smile, though it didn’t seem quite convincing from underneath the dark black hoops lining her eyes. Ever since the sleeping had kicked in days prior, she never felt like she looked quite right. She would desperately apply foundation to try and hide the dark bags under her eyes—convinced that everyone who saw her knew her dirty little secret once they saw her disheveled appearance. Ever since she fell asleep the first time she had been spending increasing amount of time in front of the mirror before going to work in the morning—trying to hide any evidence of what malicious deeds she had been getting up to. No one had noticed the dark circles under her eyes, at least no one had commented on them, but Dover still felt convinced that everyone knew. That one day she’d come to work and she’d walk into a room full of officers putting her under arrest. Now, she had to hold her breath, close her eyes, cling to her extra large Four-star Alarm double white mocha syrup coffee with whipped cream and stroll in to her workspace—praying to survive another day without anything knowing that she had slept.


“It’s nice to meet you Jackson,” Dover resounded when he introduced himself. She studied his face for a moment, committing it to memory and taking note that he looked as worn out as she did. Everything about his body language spoke to the fact that he was hiding something. Either that, or he was damn shy. Still, it wasn’t really her business to pry, even though she’d probably try anyways. “Really, it’s no big deal,” she shrugged it off lamely when he attempted to apologise to her again, “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”


“What? Who? Oh,” Dover felt a little foolish for not understanding what he meant right away as her eyes skirted back over to the corpse, “I mean, yea, I knew her a little. We talked a few times. I had a work accident and she handled my case,” she explained, clenching her hands together behind her back and idly ghosting her fingers across the scarred stump of her missing finger, letting the sleeves of her sweater slump back down over her arms and cover her hands out of embarrassment. She’d rather overheat and sweat out ten pounds of water than let anyone see her ugly, mangled hand missing a finger.


Dover hummed as she listened to his barf up a rant about not being able to commit suicide himself, to which she just shrugged in response. “I mean, I guess, but how bad can death---“


Bzzt. Bzzt.


Dover’s voice was truncated by the sound of her phone vibrating in her pocket. Giving Jackson a sheepish grin, she pulled up the most recent message. Dover always prided herself in being generally indifferent to the happenings of life, but the text left her with a twisted look curving into her face. Reading the text over and over, she felt her gut clench. “Sorry, I uh---“ was all she could stammer out, glancing between Jackson and her phone screen several times.


“I uhm. This day. This day blows, man. I’ve seen small weird, big weird, and weird with crazy on top… but today just takes the weird cake.”

 
Frankie







Ugh. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Frankie cursed himself inwardly for following Marcie down here. She was probably off galavanting around spreading gossip about who knows what, leaving him high and dry- but that wasn't fair. Marcie was just doing what Marcie does. He couldn't hold that against her, especially since apparently the whole warehouse was turning up outside. But that didn't help him feel better, and the tears stung his eyes as he tried his hardest to blink them back. Nausea gripped his insides and threatened to make a scene, but Frankie willed with all of his might not to let it win. No matter how gruesome and horrible and bloody a freshly dead person was. And with that Frankie was sure he was going to throw up...


"Hey-" The voice was soft enough Frankie wasn't sure it was directed at him until he looked up to his left and saw a dashingly handsome face smiling down at him. "What's going on 'ere, aye?" Frankie hadn't met this man before - he was sure he would have remembered him if he had. With his shock of dark hair and stubble framing his not-unimpressive features, Frankie was amazed there weren't women falling over themselves to get to this tanned Adonis. His smile was sympathetic and his demeanour wasn't reserved in the slightest, which probably meant he was easy to talk to. Good. An easy person to talk to would be a welcome break from what was going on a matter of feet away from them, and it might distract him enough to stop him from blowing chunks all over the floor.


He quickly wiped the tears away and swallowed and coughed a little in a weak attempt to settle his stomach. It didn't work. Still, it would be rude to ignore the man, so he stood up and turned to face him full on, wearing his strongest 'hello' smile. "Hi, sorry about that. I'm not too great with...things like this," he said with a chuckle, turning and motioning to the gathering of men and women closest to the police tape. There was a sizeable group now, and he recognised the woman from HR who was standing inside the tape - Loren? Loryn? Something like that. She intimidated Frankie, she was so confident and oozed a sex appeal that was too overwhelming to be natural.


Turning back to the man in front of him he held his hand out. "I'm Frankie," he said, still smiling widely. "I work down in packaging. I've not seen you around our parts much, what do you-" He was interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket. Considering almost everyone he knew was either here at work or working elsewhere, it couldn't have just been a simple text to ask him out to drinks after his shift was over. He shrugged sheepishly - this was so rude, he hated that - and apologised. "I am so sorry, I've just got to see what this is." He flashed an ashamed grimace at the man before turning slightly away and pulling out his phone. He had one new message from an unrecognised number. Swiping it open he read it slowly.


Unknown
them
SENT 10:46 || 1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday. All that is Gone is not Lost. -- D


He paused. He read it again. Frankie shook his head, his hair bouncing around in the elastic band with which he had restrained it this morning. Who was D? And what the hell was this address and time? A meeting? The message itself worried him, because it only made him think of what had just happened. It was...ominous. It could just be a wrong number, or a scam, but it all seemed too convenient. And could D be...Dorothy? Was that... He cast a furtive glance over at the throng of people around the police tape. No, it couldn't be. No. No no no.


Whatever the hell that was, he would deal with that later - he was in no physical state to deal with that kind of emotional or mental turmoil right now, and lord knows he was having enough of that as it was with his sleeping. A little more aggressively than he ought to, he locked the phone and turned back to the man who had greeted him, still smiling but now slightly concerned and a lot more nauseous. "Umm... I'm sorry man, I'll...deal with that later. What's your name, dude?"




@Mordecai @Nine (mentioned)
 
Jackson Day

Jackson had been so caught up in hiding his own tiredness he had barely even bothered to pay attention to her. She seemed to be clinging to her coffee cup like a lifesaver. Her body language was strange, but he figured he looked no different, considering his disheveled state of mind.. hmph. Come to think of it, there were bags under her eyes, too. He brushed it off. A lot of people these days had bags under their eyes.. right? Right. Totally.


“I mean, yea, I knew her a little. We talked a few times. I had a work accident and she handled my case,” Jackson blinked. Work accident? He noticed how she suddenly clenched her hands behind her back. He didn't want to pry, but the question lingered in his mind. Jackson was glad he at least didn't know the woman. That would have just made him feel terrible. Of course he still felt terrible. He didn't really care to get to know anyone these days. He felt better off alone, yet here he was, mingling and ranting about death with a woman he had crashed into.


He was amazed at the way Dover was able to shrug off the whole sudden rant. He kinda wished he had the ability to do that, forget about things, not let them get under your skin. Jackson felt so heavy sometimes, it was just.. aggravating. Hell, she was literally humming. Maybe that was a bit too much to ask for, though. He felt a yawn coming on, but bit his bottom limp to stop himself. This was getting out of control. It couldn't be long before she, or anyone else caught him sleeping, or even worse, dreaming.


Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.


Dover's phone beeped in her pocket. Jackson glanced at her as she took her phone out. Then, he head another buzz. A ringtone jingle. Beeps, clangs, cowbells. Everyone's phone was ringing at the exact same time. Well.. not everyone. But a lot of people at the scene. His, too. Jackson took his phone out of his pocket and scanned the text. He stared at it, confused. “I uhm. This day. This day blows, man. I’ve seen small weird, big weird, and weird with crazy on top… but today just takes the weird cake.” Jackson couldn't say anything. All he could do was nod. What even was this? D? He didn't know anyone who signed their texts like that. Dover? Nah. Couldn't be. She seemed surprised as everyone else around here who had gotten the text, plus she couldn't have sent those texts while they were talking.


He looked at the woman sprawled on the floor again, and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the people who were staring at their phones, surveying the crowd. You had to take a walk, Jackson. You HAD too.


@Mordecai
 
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Flint Gibbons



​



The fighter observed the crowd with a blank look over his face as the mob convulsed and dispersed slowly. Like a piece of food being nibbled upon by the hungry mouth of short attention, the people of the group left one by one, leaking from the police line as morbid interest faded as it always did. Most of the members of the crowd, similarly to the observers of a wrecked vehicle, the "rubbernecks" as they were nicknamed, stopped to observe for a few moments at most before moving on to whatever task or distraction they could find, and slowly the rotating door of onlookers began to dwindle as the shock value wore off.


Of course there were some exceptions. There were some who knew her closely. Those people would either look on for as long as they could or leave immediately, unable to bear further witness to the carnage. Others were overly curious in death for one reason or another. Perhaps they had some intense morbid curiosity, or some internal blood lust that would be temporarily sated by the viewing of the corpse. Maybe a few members of the dispersing crowd wished to kill themselves as well. Flint pondered if some suicidal person had had their mind changed by the scene created by the woman. Perhaps some good would indeed come from such a dark action, some final redemption for the lowly HR representative who had plummeted from the rooftop.


In the internal silence that followed his stream of thoughts, Flint's mind rushed back to the night on the rooftop several years prior to the day. The man was some no name fighter, a tattooed goon who had spent far too many nights in shady bars and penitentiaries. He had fallen from the roof as well, not like she did though. The first difference was the intent, he hadn't committed suicide, instead he had taken a bad step after being flung back by a larger opponent. As opposed to taking his fall, and a beating, he tried to keep on his feet, he had almost regained his balance too, until introducing his boot to thin air or course. His body had fallen far differently than the woman's as well, instead of falling face first like the HR Rep, he had fallen feet first. His knees had taken the brunt of the impact according to what the doc had said down by the river.


Suffice it to say it was the last time the roof had been used to stage fights.


It wasn't like the men who had been involved could simply leave the body by the entrance where it had fallen. Dead bodies fallen from rooftops lead to questions, especially one's that have bruised and cut faces from a fistfight. So they did what they had to. Before the next shift of workers had arrived they had taken his body and placed it in an industrial style laundry bag, one retrieved from inside the warehouse. Unfortunately their plan was exceedingly stupid, the bag was canvas and it didn't take long for the man's blood to begin leaking through it's cloth material, and before they had left in Roni's van they had bagged it twice more. Once in another laundry bag and once more in a massive black bag used to haul garbage from the compactor room.


An hour later and the body was at the bottom of the river, a place more fittingly called a graveyard after all the unlicensed disposals that took place there.


Flint's thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a woman he didn't know, as he looked up to her he could tell she was lower class like him. Something about her eyes screamed slum kid and he could see the faintest of crookedness in a nose that had probably been fractured at some point in time. Most people wouldn't notice such a subtlety, but after several broken noses and after a lifetime of fighting, he could spot one, even if it had been set by a professional.


"Ain't my bench" said Flint quietly, motioning vaguely with his off hand towards the seat next to him, offering, in his own shorthanded way, a seat beside him.


@eheu








(I'll post a follow up to my other character later tonight)

​
 

Lynda Jonas

​



Lynda couldn't keep it up. Two officers moved out of the way, and the body was in full view. The second she saw the body, she needed to vomit. How shameful, she was a doctor, she had seen more than a few bodies in her line of work, even cut open a few. But this...


This was Dorothy. Her friend. Every day a coffee and a burger. No lettuce, extra mustard on the burger. Two shots of vanilla cream and three bags of sugar. Every single day, lunch at around 12:35. But no, she was a corpse. Her head exploded, completely obliterated by the force of the impact.


Lynda took a breath and forced the tears down, not letting herself cry in the middle of the public. The underground didn't take those who were too emotional seriously, and she had to keep up that image. One quick glance was all it took for Lynda to see at least two former patients, and neither were the secret keeping type. Dorothy would understand, wherever she was.


Fortunately, her thoughts and focus on the body were broken by her text tone going off:


SENT 10:46 :


1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday.


All that is Gone is not Lost. -- D





Who was that? Lynda immediately tried to find a number, but it was unidentified. How strange. But that wasn't the only odd thing:


One of her patients, at least two rumored sleepers, the man who openly insulted Dorothy, and a few others received simultaneous texts. It couldn't have been a coincidence.


Did this have something to do with the letter? Was Lynda not the only one to receive it? She thought about approaching another person who got a text, but it was too risky. There were cops everywhere, and she was already barely off their radar. No, it was best to simply back up and avoid any unnecessary attention.
 
Chai


“S’okay, mate, s’all groovy,” Chai chuckled softly, a certain brightness coming across his face that lit him up like only laughter could. He was a bit curious as to why the man had bothered to come out at all if he knew he wasn’t good with such situations, but Chai wasn’t one to question it. After all, his horoscope had told him not to meddle in affairs like this… yet what was he doing? Meddling in affairs like this. He sighed and nervously patted the coins clinking around his pocket, immediately finding comfort in their presence. It didn’t help that the day was blazing hot and sweat had begun to collect in the centre of his chest underneath the heavy layer of clothing he donned for welding. His hair, too, in thick, brunette locks was beginning to stick to the back of his neck and forehead as they continued to bake in the sun that was crawling up closer and closer towards midday.


The crowd that had gathered for the scene quickly moved from spectating a corpse to socializing. It had been nigh silent when he had first crossed the courtyard several minutes prior, but slowly, conversations were beginning to crop up in a blanket of white noise, but Frankie’s voice rung crisply through the hubbub. Frankie. That was a nice name and he liked it. It rolled off the tongue with a playful ease and it felt balanced to him—if the name was a colour, he’d imagine it being a frolicsome periwinkle. Chai had always imagined his own name being the colour of eggplant. Eggplant and periwinkle: two colours that were completely compatible on the colour wheel. Assigning colours to people’s names was how he decided whether or not he was compatible with them as friends, lovers, or otherwise. It was just something his brain sort of did, and had always done. He could still hear his mother’s voice ringing in the back of his mind like a vice: ‘Willam, words are not colours.’


His mum, Deborah, had always loved him as her son, but her name was blood-orange red, and from it, Chai knew she was embarrassed of him.


“Nice ‘ta meet ya, Frankie. People call me Chai,” Chai said, his voice heavily lathered with his ancestor’s Brasilian accent, as he took the man’s hand and gave it a single, firm shake, “Oi, packaging, ya say? That’s groovy, I don’t go there much. I work in welding.” His job carried him all over the Warehouse to repair pipes, wiring, and other miscellaneous projects, he didn’t make it to packaging very often as it was usually out of his assigned sector. When his new acquaintance’s phone went off, Chai gave an understanding nod and turned his attention back towards the police mulling about, but was surprised when his own phone played the melodic jingle of an incoming text message just moments after Frankie’s.


Pulling his phone from his pocket he opened the message and had to read it several times, trying to figure out who D was. Dmetri in accounting? Diane in packaging? Dennis in welding? He scrolled through a mental list of all the people he knew but couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer. Still, Chai was not perturbed by the bizarre message as he was simply too innocent to believe it was anything but a friend with a new phone.


With Frankie having put his phone away, Chai did the same and broke a pleasant smile to the man. “So, how long have ya been workin’ here, mate?” he said, squinting out the bright sun. His eyes suddenly caught sight of a woman he knew. She was a pretty little tart with short hair and root beer brown eyes by the name of Remi; a lovely name in the colour of rose pink. Upon thinking he had caught her gaze, he smiled lamely and gave her a wave, encouraging her to join him and Frankie.


"Tha's Remi. Nice girl," he explained to Frankie.

 
Ada’s hand rubbed up and down her best friend’s back in a comforting manner, hoping to help ease her nausea. Her attention was torn between Frizz and the crowd in front of them, she still wanted to catch every bit of information she could. From what she’d heard so far the woman had been someone in HR which made sense, Ada had faintly recognized the battered face from countless, stop bullshitting around and work, meetings she’d had with the HR workers. She hummed thoughtfully in her throat, leaning against her knee to be more eye level with her bent over roommate.


“Why’d you think she did it?”


Before the question was completely out of Ada’s mouth her phone whistled at her, she crinkled her forehead and straightened up, pulling the device from her pocket. No one but Frizz ever really texted her; Ada quickly flicked her eyes over the words and felt her heart begin to pound in her ears. No, no this was ridiculous, it couldn’t be. Ada was so focused on the message that she hadn’t even realized Frizz getting a text at the exact same time. When the blue haired woman’s mind caught up, she snatched the phone from Frizz’s hand with a stern look. The anxious look in her roommate’s eyes stirred up Ada’s protective nature even more and she pocketed both of the phones.


“Don’t worry about it; it’s just some fuckin’ weirdo is all. It means nothing.”


They’d gotten the letters, addressed in the same manner as the text. Together they’d shredded and burned them in their sink to keep them safe. What if someone were to find them, what if the police randomly decided to raid them and caught them with those weird ass letters? There were so many what ifs with those letters that it wasn’t worth it at all to have them around. Out of sight, out of mind, and that’s what they’d do with these texts as well. No one had to know, they’d ignore them and life would go on as it always did. They could hide their sleep, they’d been doing it so far.
 





Remmy Rutherford
​



"Ain't my bench."


“mhm.”


Remmy sat down on the bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places to rest in, but with one of her legs pulled up and the tip of the other foot just scratching the pavement as it hung freely, she managed to find herself quite satisfied curling up in the composition of metal and plastic that pretended to be wood.


“Well -”


She started. It was one of those things she did - signalling the beginning of a conversation before she decided that she wanted to start one.


She thought about referencing what just happened. Or, maybe, asking about why it happened. Or starting on a topic completely unrelated to alleviate the atmosphere that was getting a little too bleak, after the initial surge of interest towards the scene of an unexpected event realized that the scene in question was slightly too traumatic to serve as a valid target for gossip for some time.


The man kept his gaze directed vaguely towards the bottom of the building, where the group of people were gathered. Remmy noticed the scabbed cut at the edge of his eyebrow, and the remnant of a bruise beneath the side of his chin that was facing her way. If this was at night, at home, and the man was on the other side of the bar stand, she would not have hesitated in asking about it if only for the entertainment in provoking an exaggerated recounting of deeds in a wobbly, half-drunken voice.


He, however, seemed to be in too weighty a mood, and the curtness of the first sentence she heard from him was already a display of his disinterest in small talk.


“Remmy Rutherford.”


She said without lifting her chin from the palm that was supporting it.


The sudden decision to introduce herself was, perhaps, in a way a response to her realization of the fact that she didn’t know him - not even an acknowledgement of his being present at work, or memory of brushing shoulders in one of the queues at lunch near the warehouse that was always overcrowded. She found, then, very puzzling this eminent sense of familiarity she felt from his presence.


Noticing that her name on its own carried little meaning without context - except, perhaps, the correlation between the last name and the place at the corner of the street not far away from the Warehouse - she pulled herself from that train of thought. Before she could finish uttering something that was along the lines of “Nice to meet you”, though, she was again distracted by a distinct beeping noise, and broke off to pull from one of the pockets the little black brick of a cellphone that was the origin of the sound:

SENT 10:46 :


1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday.


All that is Gone is not Lost. -- D

“Hamish Avenue.”


She muttered those words out loud without meaning to.


It took her a moment or two to note that the text was signed “D” - making it even more curious in that she was sure that she did not know anyone who signed in that fashion. She would’ve checked for the source of the message if she knew how to.


1913 Hamish Ave. 8:30, Wednesday.


An address, a time. A summons -


“That’s - two days from now.”


She said, eyebrows locked together in thought even though thinking harder about it was only confirming further that she had no idea what was going on.


Idly, she removed her sight from the screen to check on the crowd yet scattered, to made certain that she still had time before they were going to start to be ushered back to work. She figured that she’ll perhaps make up for the while of missed-out shift time later today, or perhaps arrive earlier at work the day following.


“Sorry.” She then said, in realization that most of the things she’d uttered in the past few minutes on the bench were entirely incoherent.


“-sorry?”


She said the word again, in a different tone, this time towards the man whom she noticed had his attention elsewhere. She thought that she heard him mutter something as well.

 
Remi Circi

​



Remi was about to head inside to get some coffee, quite sick of the scene in front of her when she heard her phone ring. It vibrated the cloth of her pants and with it came a break of reality. Not many people had her phone number besides her business officials who would need to get a hold of her, some relatives that had decided to stay in contact besides the few and far apart family reunions they had at her house. Frowning minutely as she reached in and pulled out the offending item, the rather loud ringtone rudely threatening to break the mournful atmosphere that Remi would of liked to keep on hand for a while longer. Tapping the screen, the light flared on and she saw the notification for a text message. Looking over towards Dolly, Remi swiped the screen, easily getting through the unlocked phone, and saw the message. Her heart began to beat as she read the mysterious message that had graced her phone, ringing a faint bell of memory as she skimmed it multiple times.


Caller N/A
them
1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday. All that is Gone is not Lost. -- D


Her mind flashed back to the message that had graced her doorstep recently, yet it felt so long ago. She wondered, no, she knew that this had to be the same person. It was so general though and vague, and not very personalized. She had no idea where Hamich Ave. was, but hopefully she could get a hold to the destination beforehand. It was due Wednesday anyway, so she did have time. Remi bit her lip as she thought of what she was going to do with this. She had been thinking that going was evident, but it was so stupid if she took a step back and observed it.


What kind of person would follow this random stranger's command, even if his cryptic message brought hope. If...If all was not lost, did that mean that Dolly wasn't as dead? No, no, no that was even more pathetic. This person was trying to get her to hope Dolly was alive while the paramedics carried her cold corpse away. She rubbed her head as tried to calm down, knowing that this was not doing well for her sleep deprived mind. It was so weird how dependent she had gotten with sleep. Maybe this was why it was banned in the first place, it was almost worse than a drug. Not that Remi had done drugs.


Remi shook her head and was about to get back to the message that was still on her slowly dimming screen, the lack of activity prompting it to turn the display off to save power, but stopped as she saw movement on the edge of her vision. Looking over, Remi spotted Chai gesturing at her with a poor wave. He looked a bit unruly, but his skin looked like accented bronze against the clothes he wore, giving hima bit of unkempt look that did nothing to abate how he looked. Remi blushed a bit at his attention, but walked up to him, momentarily caught up in the idea of being talked to by her associates and greeted, "Hey Chai, how's it been?"


Remi looked over and noticed another beside him, somene unfamiliar, thought the man seemed to have a relaxed conviction with the world, as if there was nothing that could shake his fortitude. Giving a polite smile, she asked, "Oh hello, and you ar-Oh wait, I know you." This up close, Remi was able to easily tell that it was Frankie, one of the box packers. She had seen him around and his medical statements, so being this up close, it was easy to remember his name at least.


@Mordecai @Absurdisan
 
Loryn kept her back turned to the scene at hand and tried to distract herself, gazing out into the crowd as it began to thin and hoping to spot a supervisor or anyone who might be able to let her off work. She didn’t feel as though there was anything useful she could contribute to a suicide investigation and her paperwork wouldn’t start until weeks from now when the Warehouse executed an internal audit to look into Miss Whitfield’s life. Sighing heavily, Loryn’s eyes scanned the faces around her.


She noticed a few familiar faces. Loryn was well-read on many of the Warehouse’s employees being an auditor. Though most of them had never come personally under investigation, Loryn was called upon to look into all work relations during the audit process. She caught sight of Jackson Day; he had recently left his employment at the Warehouse in order to apply elsewhere, chatting with… who was that? Dover… something. Loryn shook it away. She was talented but she couldn’t be expected to remember everyone’s names, could she? Continuing her perusal of the crowd, Loryn noted Flint Gibbons and Remmy Rutherford sitting near each other. Flint’s file came across her desk frequently. He’d been often mentioned during the course of more than a few investigations, but never implicated. Flint was rough, but clean. As she stared absently into the mob, she felt a soft vibration in her pocket and pulled out her phone, expecting to have a message from her raid group hassling her about being late.


SENT 10:46 || UNKNOWN NUMBER

1913 Hamish Ave. @8:30 on Wednesday.

All that is Gone is not Lost. – D​



Loryn froze in fear. She’d had more than a few anonymous texts in her day - the places she spent time – her number was bound to circulate and plenty of people tended to reach out to her, but this was different. The message was vague, but commanding, and it reminded her of something. “That letter…” she spoke under her breath, feeling somewhat faint.


She glanced upward into the crowd again as if by instinct. Perhaps she suspected someone in the crowd to be the sender, perhaps she had hoped that others were receiving these strange messages. As she cast her gaze across her field of vision, she stopped short as a bit of motion caught her eye. That gentleman was Francis Maddox. Loryn recalled his name from several days before. Mr. Maddox’s supervisor had requested his file for some reason or another. Loryn had obliged him, skimming it herself before handing it over. Francis was an unassuming man, well-liked by coworkers and seemingly relaxed if his style was any indication. Yet now, Loryn caught him with a strained look on his face, looking down at his phone and shaking his head as if in shock. He looked upward and scanned the crowd, like her, with somewhat frustrated and confused eyes before shoving his phone in his pocket and turning back to his conversation with… that was Willam… nope, it was German but Loryn couldn’t recall it. As she observed them she caught Willam glancing at his phone as well but giving no indication that it was the same text Loryn had just received.


Am I being crazy? Loryn thought back over the last few days and her numerous, unavoidable naps. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Frankie was going through the same thing. It was too coincidental. Loryn squared herself and breathed deeply before stepping under the caution tape and pushing her way through the remaining onlookers, emerging at Frankie’s right elbow, between the two of them.


Loryn cleared her throat and poised herself. Her posture was confident and forward, though inviting and friendly; proud, but approachable. “Hey! Francis, right? Maddox?” Loryn’s voice was smooth as she extended her hand with a sly smirk, “I’m Loryn. Did you two know Miss Whitfield?” She added, glancing toward Willam and extending her hand politely to him as well.


@Absurdisan @Mordecai
 
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