Realistic or Modern 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆.

[.V1LLAINISM._]

.N P C POST.

MOOD: a mess

OUTFIT: Formal wear

MENTIONS: Wes, Reggie + et all

INTERACTIONS: Sheriff Smith, Doctor Symonds

TAGS: VomitIcicle @Sistros

CHAPTER I: WHERE ARE YOU MISS PRESIDENT?



Time: 5:00 PM
Weather: Partly Cloudy, light rain
Location: Catsborough College Campus; Room M234
Tags: Everyone !​

There is something that shifts in a man when it becomes October. October, the month of nostalgic melancholy. October, a time for relief. The atmosphere remains predictable: cool and crisp, cold like a hand over a searing wound. The leaves always a waterfall of reds and russets as they cascade over the damp earth, crunching underneath the boots of eager students, red-nosed and chipper in their short exchanges. October, the month of new beginnings. Or perhaps even, new ends.

The fluorescent lights whirred like traffic above them, dull yet glaring assaults into harsh lines and taut flesh. It was his favourite season, a time where his students were finally settling back from their initial introductions of new classes and classmates, new schedules and new routines. Everything- much like the leaves- was falling back into its rightful place. Everything was just right, until it happened.
The dark roast steamed before him, wisps of white smoke rising from the mug his daughter once gifted him, a stranger now that she was also a student. He stared into the stormy black liquid as if searching for answers, eyebrows knitted together, stomach doing backflips and his knee, bobbing like it always did in that annoying, pestering way when he was anxious. Because he was only human and sometimes, humans speak too soon. Where did you go Lacey?

“Lacey Brewer was- is a good student sheriff, officer” he nodded at the latter who sat distant from the conversation, merely a shadow of presence.

“She would never run away.” but even his conviction was weak, words a near murmur while he waged internal wars, racked and rummaged through his brain as if it were a storage compartment of memories… Would she? It was then that he asked himself, honestly and truthfully, if he even knew her in the way he would’ve liked to know all of his students: as if they were his own. His frown deepened. Had he been oblivious to her misfortunes? Her teary eyes and suffocating cries for help? Had he not seen what he should have seen? Guilt tore into his flesh like a rabid dog into its bone; cracking open his lungs, his heart in one swift clean motion. Dean Matterson brought the mug to his lips, taking one slow, painful sip.
“Let’s begin”

Although he would’ve liked to believe that none of his students were capable of committing something even remotely sadistic, Mr. Matterson knew better than to pass premature judgements. He knew now more than ever, having been shaken into rationality, into a mode of war. His gait seemed to match his will as he escorted the two burly men through the large corridors, all wide strides and smart loafers clicking against polished floors, reflecting the image of utmost determination. It was decided then in that cold and lonely office of his that he would do everything in his power to aid the local law enforcement, the papers, the families into bringing Lacey back, even if it meant doubting his own students.
“Classes and extracurriculars are still in procession Sheriff, I just ask that you don’t pull them away for too long.” He called after his acolytes, suit a misfit in between two uniforms, almost comedic without the context.

Their journey was that of an awkward one, filled with only idle chit chat as they maneuvered through the campus, careful not to disturb those sweating over test papers or presentations. The movement itself was somewhat therapeutic to the Dean who, had been at unease all afternoon, practically writhing with despair over his coffee. It was too bad that it was cut short, footsteps pausing abruptly before a large door. A classroom run by none other than Doctor Symonds, a faculty member with a rather peculiar reputation about him. He was sure to be questioned, just like the rest of them.
Wrinkly knuckles rapped against the hardwood, waiting patiently until they dove back in again, only to find no answer. To say that he was concerned was an understatement, both afraid of what he was going to find behind that door or if he was going to find something behind that door. There was only one way of knowing. Boldly pushing down the handle and flicking open the lights, what he saw next added about ten more years to his face.
Wesley Perez, Reggie Hoefgenn and a menagerie of other students all sitting in a circle. Like a daycare. He didn’t even want to know.

“‘Afternoon students, I’m sorry to interrupt whatever.. this is but the local sheriff’s department is here to ask a few questions about- I’m sure you already know the situation regarding Ms. Brewer. There is no need to worry however, you will be dismissed shortly, you only need to be honest.”
His inflection was always candid, forthright and from the belly, like his father and his father’s father. Eliciting a somewhat fearful and serious reaction.

“Sheriff Smith, Officer Sharma, I’ll hand it over to you now.” He gestured, stepping away from their spotlight and slipping into the background, keeping watch like a good Dean always should. Slinking into the back of the room Mr. Matterson sighed as the students fell into a frenzy, after all, who likes a surprise visit from the police? He frowned next to his colleague, who he felt half sorry for and half suspicious of. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling of companionship, the history and the bond. Long fingers massaging his own temples
“They’ll question you too, doctor.” he breathed another sigh. “I’m sorry; I know Ms. Brewer was one of your students.”

º º code by ditto º º

 

[miyabi]

REGGIE H.

THE FOUNDER

It started with Frederick, the local drunk who often found himself in countless trouble—someone Reggie was often warned to stay away from, yet he’d somehow befriended the man, spent a few evenings in front of the convenience store sat on cracked sidewalk. The conversations only took place then, at night, ramblings about the vast expanse of the universe—thoughts about how Frederick had been seeing things, though it had only been summed up to the effects of his inebriation: long-standing consequences from years of alcohol and drug abuse. Frederick confided in him; spoke about how he wouldn’t be missed if he’d ended up gone with the wind. In another morbid turn, that had exactly happened: the drunken, drugged-up man gone, even from his usual rotations. Gone unmissed, unnoticed until Reggie reported it. Though, the report was never taken seriously: no, there was the thought of this, that Frederick had gone on another bender. But five months? No trace, no sign, no goodbyes? Reggie wanted to do everything but believe that he’d gone on the run, Frederick had his routine. Ten years, the same thing; he wouldn’t have steered away from it, especially with how he spoke of Catsborough being his home despite being shunned by the community.

Kriti went missing only a few months after, a daring woman Reggie had the pleasure of meeting; spitfire, dauntless, loved by most. Her disappearance was jarring, to say the least, shaking Catsborough from its seemingly eternal slumber up until it went back to sleep again. Again, no trace. Nothing. Though this case had more care to it than the previous, from what Reggie could gather, it seemed that the police were doing a less-than-pristine job; this much he was certain of. Had it not been for the news coverage, articles, and bombardment of local television, Reggie had had his doubts about the police department’s capabilities. Kriti lived an extraordinary life, though it seemed that her presence seemed less than in the eyes of the police—little action in pursuance. Uncle Graham, Sheriff Smith, whatever he could call him: Reggie lost faith little by little, small batches of hope thinning in every passing. Then came the theories, two missing persons within the span of a few months: Lacey’s disappearance added fuel to the fire, the third disappearance to add.

The club, Wes mostly, devoted time to making her Missing Person posters; Miss President, future politician, she hadn’t been missed until it benefitted those who pretended to care. Out of everywhere in the college, Lacey seemed enthusiastic about them, never a doubt in her mind. Her kindness gained their gratitude, it was only right to look for her in return. Catsborough’s secondary Golden Boy, Harrison, joined in on the action to add to his reputation; false-worry about her disappearance. Whatever his plan was, it gained him brownie points, more positive light shining in his direction, beating against flawless skin and perfectly coiffed hair. He’d proceeded to successfully fool the student body, yet stood around during search parties so as not to soil his new varsity jacket and stark white Reeboks.

The Fall semester went as normal, as if no disappearances had occurred, the only remembrances now being Missing posters and the constant reminder of a town-side curfew to ensure the “safety” of the public; Dean Masterson and the local Police Department, at least, did more than what they did for Kriti and Frederick.

It is unnecessary to dwell on these things, yet Reggie cannot help but look further into the theories. A serial-killer? Had all three run away on purpose? Maybe they’d been taken by cryptids, now tossed into another dimension like their own, only, worse. Reggie, despite his passion for D&D had begun to use it as a distraction from the constant thought surrounding the possibilities that had gone on endless. Disappearances prompted universal dissection, ruminations of life, humanity, how humans had not discovered 100% of Earth’s properties, creatures, oceans—there were far too many to count.

Crumpled paper sits in his calloused hands, red marker smeared on Lacey’s missing poster, doodles, and hopeful words. Granted, Reggie had not intended to wander so deep into the varied Missing Persons conjectures; unwanted discoveries only came from prior cases far before Frederick, stuck themselves in the back of his mind, every once in a while haunting Reggie the very moments he attempts to think about anything else. He reclines at the edge of the concrete stairstep, strangers scurrying around him, to and fro heavy wooden doors riddled with ornate carvings—the bodies sharing the afterimages of residual white; strides a self-assured stroke of purpose and urgency.

"God, I'm so sorry, Lacey," an urge to apologize, Reggie speaks to papers that cannot respond back, a sort of guilt overcoming through an overwhelming flash.

He feels the collision of legs against his shoulder, yet another purposeful path chosen by someone he never quite had the liking for: Harrison, imbibing the fruitful juices of his ego, stands front and center—shaded eyes leering down at Reggie. And for a moment, they’d locked eyes; not the respectful gaze, but one that imbued a threatening clause into Reggie’s retinas. The founder urges a silent gulp, formerly tired eyes beckoned awake by the very sight of a terror worse than the unknown.

“Now, what do we have here? Hoeffgen in the flesh,” Harrison speaks with a click of his tongue, large hands embedded into his sides, chest puffed with the colony of followers behind him; he eyes the papers in Reggie’s hands, snatches them from sticky fingers, and flips through them with little care. A common formality between the two, not mutually respected—Reggie, despite his protests—watched onward with a grimace as he is pushed back into his seated position. “The fuck you know about Lacey?”

Reggie knew enough to recognize that she detested how Harrison treated others with such cruelty—the devious motivations which commit him, inevitably, to conflict; though, Harrison sees no issue in such endeavors. Lacey’s name and face flutter to the ground, the rustling of pages breaking Reggie’s silence, eyes falling to the now-sprawled leafs; Harrison’s judgment falls far from sagacious, the expectation of Reggie to avert his gaze, head drawn to the pavement in an act of social submission. And though this interaction churned the adrenaline through his veins; made his heart pump wildly as if it was about to give in soon; anxiety welling through every crevice of the brain. Reggie could not help but make a move that had been the deciding factor of his fate—furthering the divide between him and Harrison. A puffed up chest, false confidence, adrenaline, and a copious amount of caffeine was to thank as he pushed himself to stand.

A fist connects to nasal bone, the skin on cheeks forming waves against ringed fingers; searing pain shoots through spidery digits, knuckles both red and white. Red leaks from Harrison’s nose and for a moment, he is taken aback. He and Reggie both. Mouth agape, in shock that he’d the gall to perform such an act, Reggie stands with his fist pulled back, deep brown eyes widened in disbelief.

His fight or flight response just as confused as his counterpart.

“See, I–uh–well. I meant to say something before that—” a single step back on Lacey’s flyers, he nearly slips, swiftly grasping himself the metal stair railing; his savior for now, but not for long. “I should run… huh?”

Rushed footsteps, a herd of men chasing a lone one.

With heavy breaths and tired legs, Reggie has only found himself behind a concrete barrier; peering out over an outgrown courtyard, wary eyes scanning for familiar bodies to avoid at every cost. They’d already taken their jabs, Reggie’s face reddened, eye beginning to swell, the ringing in his ear coming back after taking what could be considered a light beating from Harrison’s hands. It was inevitable, he supposes—severe consequence to an action he couldn’t believe he’d done. The moment holds a sigh of relief, Reggie’s back against the barrier, calming breaths to soothe to overwhelming hysteria that’d blossomed within only a few short moments. This has brought him back to the thoughts hounding him, how he’d lacked the findings contributing to a sacred peace between two heads. Harrison had always been on his head, starting from the moment Reggie stepped on Catsborough, throughout high school, and now beyond; hobbies were a thing of the past, the only now being the consumption of cigarettes, tossing a ball around, and terrorizing Reggie and his associates. That and, frankly, everyone he crosses paths with that he has not claimed as his people.

Time ticks, the single remaining ear with a better grasp on hearing than the other, picking up the sequential clicks. It hadn’t occurred to him until that very moment, the anticipation of an adventure waiting just around the corner.

​

Reggie stands at the table, barefaced, bruised cheeks hidden beneath the shadows. Thick fingertips tap against the woodgrain laminate, clinking rings against clinking rings, and an air of silence broken by a symphony of words;

“And so our adventure continues: heroes coming face to face with the sullied, the mystical ritual of which holds the power to destroy our world or protect it. In the face of evil, as the cauldrons brew, falls the darkness. A room, dimly lit by fire, small batches of light spread sparingly across the cobblestone expanse; the dark holds secrets, grabbing fingers of the undead waiting to grasp their next victim. Black and red mist obscure the vision at their feet, the only tell of our dastardly creatures is by torchlight.”

Palms covered in black pen, the ramblings and doodles of the bored, fall flat against the tabletop; Reggie leans forward in a sequence of slow motions. His eyes, though deep brown voids, follow the story onward—a flame alive, “droplets of water form into a puddle, illuminated reflections stare back.” A hand releases itself from the pressures of the table, vague gesture as it hovers over the binder brimming with secrets. He motions again, a stirring gesture above a painfully detailed drawing Minnie had assisted him with. “In the distance, only a ways away as the darkness separates them, are the evil wizards of chaos—”

“God, can you make this go any faster?” Lev interrupts, the typical grimace painted on pale cheeks. Pausing in response, Reggie's eyes subconsciously look to the ceiling in light annoyance, one accompanied by a silent ‘oh my god.’

“Ahem. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted by our fellow Oogbah the Unbreakable! In the distance, only a ways away as the darkness separates them,” his gaze darts to the faces sitting around the table. He continues:

“—are the evil wizards of chaos—a mission to bring back the unholy being of calamity; our world’s Harbinger of Death. Our adventurers tread carefully, few torches shared between them until a summoned swarm of bats fly overhead—putting out the sacred flames—”

The light switch flicks on, bright, yellowed lights encompassing the formerly dimly-lit classroom. Reggie’s tone drops, as do his shoulders, another gasp to add to the counter as he lets out a groan. “Alright, who did that? C’mon, we were just about to — oh,” the dean stands in the doorway, two bodies peeking from behind him, the Sheriff and his colleague, “we were just about to get to the good part. Mister Matterson, Sheriff, Officer.” He fights the urge to mull over sudden ramblings, head tilted with a quizzical sense, arms now folded against his chest, “y'know, people usually knock when a door is closed.”

Matterson speaks with the authoritative demeanor he’d always consumed himself with, though Reggie could not decipher if he could or couldn’t stand it; last year, he’d drawn a low number in the dormitory lottery, brought it up with Matterson, yet with no resolve; the year prior, Matterson had become a stronger representative of the school, an admirable man whose efforts gained the confidence of the student body — to say the least, Reggie’s verdict upon his observations had fallen both hot and cold, a constant teeter noted.

“...They’re only here to ask a few questions.”

Few words that made him want to escape into the abyss of nothingness, a stark void in order to run from the trouble seemingly placed on innocent heads. ‘Only here to ask a few questions’ often prompted the genuine suspicions which are relayed to the wrong people—more often than not. This statement, while with pure intention, makes his mind scramble across the surfaces and folds of his brain; his stomach turns, heart beating hard against his chest with little falter in the pace, and though he is not guilty Reggie dislikes the challenge of speaking to the law. Or, rather, any authoritative figure that has presented itself in front of him in such sudden moments. Perhaps it had been the bruising that further highlighted the panicked expression on his face or the fact that his blood pressure had increased exponentially; either way, Reggie looked as if he was about to get hit by a train whilst tied to the tracks.

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INTERACTION

everyone in the club, the dean, sheriff smith and officer sharma, dr. symonds

LOCATION

room m234 on campus, dr. symond's classroom

TAGS

blue-jay Sistros VomitIcicle noxrequiem .chxrryette. L3n ravensunset Stardust Galaxy cavitea mother of sorrows Athens weldherwings Gao demonology xayah. arthur morgan.

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PARANOID
BLACK SABBATH

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[demonology]

by bad ending.

KERO-KERO THE CROW

MOOD:

dreamy, haunted, unnerved

OUTFIT:

shirt [x], skirt [x], shawl [x], shoes [x], earrings [x, x], ex of necklaces (tbh there are probably twenty times more) [x], hair accessory [x], hair style for da day [x]

MENTIONS:

reggie, lyall, lev, the dean, officer sharma, the sheriff

INTERACTIONS:

the whole group; reggie [ miyabi ]

– POTHEAD.

A horizon of the lids. Her cheek laid flush to the plastic wood, cool, and she tapped the underside just to feel it against her face. She settled into her Dungeons and Dragons disposition, using the table like a cradle for her skull. Akin to a notebook splayed out, but instead of pages to be scrawled on, there were the formations of her cranium. While Reggie brought the crew up to speed on the last session, she attempted a different adventure, the one where she finds inner peace for a handful of moments.

The lips of her eyes peeled open, only for a second, and spotted a devious smile. A small one lobbed in return, before she brushed the bridge of her nose against the hard surface, as though that would tenderize it. A child settling into an innocent sleep, Crow felt like anything but as the everlasting, eventide image of the smile from moments below replayed and overlaid itself onto an image from a further past. A clip, trimmed off the endless loops of reels running across her body. The spools from her own lips revealed a kiss from days past, a handful of blond straw, and a soft cheek for her hand’s anchor. She let herself stew in the memory, replaying the movie over and over until she couldn’t keep up with the projector. Until she mixed up her movies completely, splicing one scene with another.

Her ears perked, shifting slightly as though the physical movement jarred what path her thoughts were on. One nerve ending for another. The rumble of Reggie’s voice did away with other thoughts, as it commanded a strange sense of attention from her. An attention she gave happily, scraping her nose against the table once more. A babe who couldn’t stop letting their mind wander from the mulleted sheep above.

Finally, other than her stimulations, there were no barriers between her brain and the campaign. The fuzz of her latest bong rip clouded the sinews of the muscle, but all it amounted to was greywarren dream-matter. Pulp infused from shredded paper to create a whole notebook of possibilities – that’s what it felt like with their Dungeon Master at the helm. A small smile formed on her lips with Lev’s interruption, but she didn’t bother to remove herself from the tranquil freeze of the tabletop. Enraptured in visions of black and red mist, of a cauldron bubbling, and–

His palms found purchase on the laminate, and she felt her smirk widen.

The film always loops. She neglected to mention that it loops onto another wheel, implying some sense of volition, but all the same, Crow felt her mind shift back to its former track at the impulsivity in her grin. Always easily won by him. By all of them, but he existed in the simplest of moments, of memories, and there was Crow, watching and saving all the angles and irrelevant minutiae that made him sparkle. There was a different spool unfurling across her face, lapping over her lips. Sweaty and drenched in slurpee-colored tongues, she found herself back in summer, actually beginning to dream. All it was. Whimsy and fantasy. It might as well be Rhogar and Crowlei that had kissed.

Crow’s humor segued back to reality, still listening intently. Kind of.

Suddenly, her friend stopped and Kero’s heart panged like a rudimentary tornado alarm. A pair of hands swaddled around metal and oil-laden wood utensils, banging the doldrums of the kitchen. Her vision changed, still glued-tight, but it wasn’t something that she saw. A feeling of warm, soft tissue and cotton fibers against her as she slept, opening to find a girl she’d only met last night on top of her, investigating the contents of her purse and removing her wallet. Worst of all, her weed.

Crow shot upright at the memory, but also at the boom of the Dean’s voice. Bleary-eyed and red, her gaze took him in, but it drifted in slow-mo to Officer Sharma and the sheriff. Normally, the presence of the sheriff, on his own, just bummed her out and made her reconsider how few plants she was going in her closet. With the other factors to the expression, however, Crow’s brows curled inward. She sat up a bit straighter, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and the drool that began to form in her half-sleep state.

“...you only need to be honest.”

Crow scoffed, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest, and subsequently jostling her mountains of jewelry, from pearls to chains. “Why would we know anything about Lacey?” she murmured to the group, forming magnets that were glued to the dean as he moved. “We’re literally sitting in the dark about to take on wizards. Fictional wizards.” She leaned forward, finding the pull of her eyes going towards the officers.

Still, Crow shrunk back into her chair, letting her frame warm the entirety of the plastic. She wished it would form around her, an abyss to swallow her whole.

Shifting her head towards Reggie, she quipped, “Suddenly, I’m wishing the evil chaos wizards could cook me in their cauldron.” While she was joking, there was no smile, rather a grimace, and she readjusted the criss-cross formation across her chest.

There were words on her tongue, snippets of paper cut from newspapers and pulpy books that would aid her here. Strike up a sense of defense, even if only formed from stolen bark. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at the sheriff and Sharma, unable to speak except to her party members.

 

[blue-jay]

I didn't know what I was in for When I laid out in the sun. We get burned for being honest. I've really never done anything, for anyone.

clymene allbrook

3:23 PM
Art Building - Clay Sculpting Room

Minnie sat in her favorite place in the Art Building: the back left corner of the clay sculpting room. She was angled towards the window, where soft autumn sunlight was pouring through and providing the perfect lighting for detail work. Utensil in hand, she worked meticulously at the piece in front of her, fretting over every little detail. Although the Art Building came equipped with a variety of bright lamps and angled work lights, Minnie was of the opinion that natural light won over artificial every time.

Though when she looked out the window, Minnie could see clouds closing in: it was going to rain soon. Her window of natural light was closing. On top of that, today’s Goblets and Goblins meeting would be soon. She and Mira had planned to meet up and walk there together. Her time to finish this piece was limited.

What exactly was she working on, though?

It was a surprise for the club that she planned to present at the meeting later that day, a gift from her to them: a statuette of a terrifying, eldritch creature. Orange, amphibian eyes looked out from a long, bulbous head. A mass of feelers jutted out from seemingly every corner of its body. Clawed hands were dragged along by scaly arms. This sort of sculpture had been a bit out of her comfort zone; Minnie naturally had more of a knack for cuter creatures. However, she wanted to try something new for the club. The monster, made from polymer clay, had already been sculpted and baked—she was just doing the painting now. She hoped for it to be the main villain of their next campaign.

Small brushes and blotches of paint in various blues and greens littered the table in front of her. Brush in hand, Minnie painted the scales on the torso. She was optimistic: at this rate, she could finish soon and give it enough drying time to present at the meeting!

And then a face appeared at the door. Ginger pigtails and a nervous expression: it was Olivia, another student in the Art department. She spoke sheepishly: “Hey, uh, Minnie. I kinda had an accident in the painting room. I was working with oil paints and… there was a spill. I would clean it up, but I have a paper due in an hour and I really need to get back to the library and finish it up! Could you pretty please clean it up before you leave?”

Without looking up, Minnie sighed and smiled softly. “I got you covered, Liv,” she said, finishing up the last torso scale and redirecting her brush to the arms. “Go and finish your paper. You just gotta be more careful, all right? This is the second time this month.”

Olivia’s face brightened. “You’re a lifesaver! Thanks a bunch. See ya tomorrow!” And she was gone.

Only a minor setback, Minnie thought. A quick oil paint clean-up would take—what, ten minutes? That still left her plenty of time to finish up this piece.

Before long, another face appeared at the door, this one under a mass of dark, curly hair. Isaac, another art student. “Yo, Minnie! I was about to start welding my metal sculpture project—you know, the one of the horse I told you about! Professor Greene was supposed to help me, but she had to leave early. I was gonna try to do it myself—.”

“Um, you better not! You’ve never used those tools before; that’s way too dangerous!” Again, sigh and soft smile. “After I clean something up for Liv, I’ll come to the welding room and show you the ropes, okay? What all the buttons do. How to turn things off. What safety equipment to use. Precautions. That sort of stuff.”

Isaac grinned and gave her a thumbs up. “You’re the best, Minnie! I’ll wait for you.” And he was gone.

Minnie was only a little unnerved. Giving Isaac a quick but thorough run-through of the welding equipment would take at least fifteen minutes. However, if she worked quickly, that would still leave her enough time to make the statuette presentable for the club meeting.

Another face appeared at the door. Blonde-wavy hair and green eyes. Priscilla, an art history major who had been trying her hand at wood-carving recently and often came to Minnie for help. “Minnie? The guy from the lumberer just dropped off the wood for my carving out front, but… it’s kinda heavy. Can you help me carry it inside?”

Minnie felt stress coming on. She looked up at Priscilla, down at her statuette, and up at Priscilla again. “Well, it’s just…”

The blonde made a pleading face. "Pleeease! It might rain soon, and I don’t want it to get wet.”

Minnie put down the statuette, and again came a sigh and soft smile, though the sigh stretched on a bit longer this time. “Okay, I’ll meet you outside once I clean up for Liv and help Isaac in the welding room.”

The painting of her eldritch horror would have to wait for another time, and so would the surprise for the club.

…

4:25 PM
Art Building Quad

Minnie and Priscilla were carrying a (comically) big block of wood across the quad in front of the Art building when Priscilla asked, “The Autumn Showcase is next month, right?” She smiled and her eyes smiled with her. “I’m sooo excited for everyone to see the sculpture collection you did with all the little bears—what’s it called again?”

“It’s just called Bears, Priscilla,” Minnie answered with a chuckle. “And I appreciate the love. You should ask about getting one of your carvings shown! You’ve improved big time this semester.”

“Well, that’s only because a certain someone gave me honest critique while everyone else was trying to spare my feelings. I don’t think I’m quite at the level of the Autumn Showcase yet, though.” A pause. “Is anyone coming to support you?”

“Yep! I mean—I haven’t sent out invites yet, but I’m pretty sure the usual people are gonna show.” By the usual people, she meant Mira, Reggie, Wes, Alex, and others from the club.

Priscilla had a curious expression. “Anyone special?”

Minnie made a face of honest confusion. “Those are special people.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “No, Minnie. I mean like… a boyfriend.”

Minnie’s steps faltered, and the log’s weight shifted overwhelmingly toward her. She felt her right foot suddenly go sideways, and as pain bloomed in her ankle she was only thinking: Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

…

5:00 PM
Room M234

Minnie had tried to hide her limp from Mira during the walk to Room M234 so as to not worry her. However, she knew that nothing escaped the journalist’s eye: Mira had picked up on it almost instantly.

Upon first arriving at the club meeting, she felt a little upset with herself; she had planned to arrive with a gift. But her disappointment was supplanted by excitement once the meeting got underway. Now, she sat around the table, enraptured by Reggie’s narration. In the seat next to her, Mira was doodling on her notepad, bored out of her mind.

“A room, dimly lit by fire, small batches of light spread sparingly across the cobblestone expanse…”

Minnie was deliberating about what Pythia’s next action should be when she looked over at Mira’s notepad to find a message for her, in the handwriting that acted almost as a secret language between the two: What happened with ur ankle? R u okay?

Minnie took a pencil and scribbled back: Just an accident. No biggie. She smiled reassuringly to accompany the message before turning back to Reggie. She immersed herself in the narration. She could see his descriptions like a painting in her head: the black and red mist, the evil wizards, the swarm of bats—.

And, just like that, the lights were on. The Dean was here. The cops were here. Minnie didn’t bother hiding her scowl when looking at them. Her face softened, however, when the Dean announced their reason for being there. Minnie wasn't a big fan of cops, but if they were genuinely trying to get their shit together and find Lacey, she'd talk to them—though not with a smile on her face. "You only need to be honest." Honesty wasn't a problem for her at all.

Leaning over in Mira's direction, she murmured, "What do you make of this? Think they got an actual reason to question us? Or are they just pulling leads out of their ass now?"

mood | both intrigued and annoyed

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location | room m234

outfit | cute colorful + red bandana tied around her hair and red converse

tag | xayah. , anyone else nearby !

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[ravensunset]

SORCHA.

THE EXCHANGE

The autumn wind smelled like home. The trees started to look it, too, turning bright oranges, yellows and reds mixed in. When Sorcha awoke, the breeze from the window she’d left open welcomed her just the way she was familiar with. It was only as the slumber rolled slowly away from her mind, as the colors of her dorm room faded into focus, that she remembered she wasn’t home at all. She could hardly be any further.

A shiver ran down her spine. She pulled down on the window, and it closed with a loud slam. It was starting to get too cold to leave it open at night, anyways. Sorcha pulled an outfit off of the racks in her closet, and grabbed a couple of textbooks to lock inside a bright yellow bag, not checking whether they matched the classes she had today.Her hair was left down, a straightener used to curl the ends in, but a yellow hair tie with two beads on it was stuck onto her wrist, and her lashes were done to look much longer than their natural state.

​

The campus looked brilliant. When Sorcha had arrived, it was soft summer greens, trees and grass against the brick red of most buildings. The sun had bounced off of concrete paths. Now, the brick red faded behind the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves. Something hung over the entire campus, maybe it was the colder weather, or the slowly thickening clouds.

Sorcha always thought Catsborough looked just like a postcard.

Nearly seven minutes had passed since the start of her English class when Sorcha slid in, finding a seat near the back of the room. A professor shot a look at her, but no one there really cared, even if Sorcha just about never arrived on time. A redhead she’d found herself next to several classes in a row but had yet to learn the name of slid his notes over, allowing her to check what had been missed. She thanked him a little too loudly, earning herself another look. The boy’s cheeks flushed, turning to match his hair.

Classes were not too different, here, filled with students everything from frantically taking notes to asleep on their desks. The thing Sorcha noticed most, the thing Sorcha always noticed, was the unfamiliar voice that filled the room, words shaped all kinds of wrong as they left mouths.

If she was to dwell on it, she’d suppose she must sound all kinds of wrong to them.

Sorcha didn’t like to dwell on things, particularly anything that felt unpleasant.

​

Sorcha joined the D&D club because, well, because they had their sign-ups open and posted. She’d never played before, hadn’t even known what it was, but it was a club, and she’d decided to join clubs. More than that, however, the description appealed to her, to the part of her that remembered being a small child, getting lost in the woods pretending to be faeries with her friends.

Of course the idea of escaping her ordinary life to adventure in a far-off land appealed to Sorcha; that’s what she was doing in America. Would that make Dungeons and Dragons an escape from the escape?

Maybe it just made Dungeons and Dragons fun.

A yellow bag thudded onto the table next to Crow’s head lying down on it.

“Sorry! Aren’t I a tad late,” Sorcha’s accent slipped out through her words and she took a seat, rummaging through her now open bag. Sorcha could hardly find another person whose energy strayed further from her own, yet, the other woman was one of her favorite faces to see in this entire country. The earliest person to welcome her in and first friend she made, Crow was easily still the best friend Sorcha has found. Mall hangouts, smoking, outfits, coffee shops, late night talking, the two settled into an existence close around each other. She gave Crow a light poke in the shoulder as she finished her words, before pulling a notepad out in front of her and finding a position sitting neat in her chair, legs crossed and hands folded neat across them.

The rest of the club had taken their seats around, with Reggie at the front of everything, standing tall. Sorcha loved this club. She loved most of her clubs, in all fairness, anything that made her feel a part of something, but so many of the dimly lit faces around her were friendly in a way much of the campus hadn’t proved itself to be.

Reggie’s voice was low, describing their group of adventurers and the situation they’d found themselves in. Sorcha closed her eyes as she listened. She was relieved at the detail he went into; she needed the refresher, and despite having a notepad in front of her for every session, it was filled with doodles and not one single word. The image slowly formed in front of her vision, and she tried to fit her armored dwarf into it—

Lev’s voice interrupted her thoughts, causing her eyes to snap open. Reggie went back to his description, but her attention had already been lost. He was one of the few club members she hadn’t gotten the chance to speak to, somehow having slipped past her almost aggressive attempts at befriending the whole club. Why was he here if he didn’t want to be? She found it curious, found herself dwelling on the question often. Was there someone he was here for? He didn’t seem to mind letting Reggie know his distaste for the affair.

His silhouette suddenly turned to color as the yellowed burn of classroom lights spilled across the room, glinting off of black curls. Sorcha forced her gaze away.

Three men stood in the doorway. Reggie groaned, protesting the interruption, but they took no mind, declaring their intent. Ms. Brewer. Lacey Brewer. Her disappearance was sad, but Sorcha didn’t even know the woman. Crow echoed her sentiment, a quiet question posed. How was she meant to help?

Sorcha didn’t mind the prospect of being questioned. She had nothing to say, sure, but she’d answered a flurry Mira had sent at her just the other day, and that hadn’t been bad at all. Still, it was impossible to ignore that the atmosphere of the club had soured. She gave a shrug, poking her notepad back inside the bag it came from, and tried to catch a look from one of the students sitting alongside her.

scroll

MOOD

Largely unbothered!

MENTION

Crow, Reggie, Lev

LOCATION

Catsborough College Campus; Room M234

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come on eileen
Dexys Midnight Runners

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[L3n]

ANGELINA.

THE TRUSTFUND

The chatter of cheerleaders bubbled up in the popular mom n’ pop shop. Their gossiping giggles ricocheted off the walls. Loud “hushed” voices spilling secrets they found buried at Catsbourough college for everyone to hear. They wore their cheer uniforms out as a badge of pride, their hair pulled up in ponytails from the practice they just escaped from. The women were all smiles and laughter and whispers.

Angelina sat at the end of one of the two booths they took up at Chubby’s Diner. Soft blonde hair flowed down a length past her shoulders. Her glossy lips were tugged into a slight frown, her eyebrows furrowed. One of her polished pink nails tapped a rhythm against the cold cup her slush was served in. Occasionally she took loud sips through her straw.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood? Let me guess,” Lucy twirled a curl from her high ponytail as she eyed Angelina from across the table. The brunette leaned in, her head resting in a palm. She had a squeal-like voice, grating the eardrums of whoever had the misfortune of hearing it. That was everyone. Lucy loved to talk, especially about other people. If there was drama she would know. “Your first meeting didn’t go well?”

The other conversations happening at their table slowly simmered down. A few cheerleaders turned their heads to listen in. Someone had finally asked. It wasn’t every day they got the inside scoop into the infamous nerd club. Didn’t they perform rituals?

Angelina loathed the D&D club.

“Tell us tell us! Is the School Witch as creepy as they say she is?” one girl chimed before taking a sip of her drink.

“Of course she is. Angelina, you should see a priest. Who knows what hex that chick put on you,” another spat. Others at the table nodded in agreement, making faces at the thought of being behind a closed door with those freaks. Angelina narrowed her eyes, thinking back to Patterson. Was the woman weird? Definitely. Scary? Not at all. “Does anyone else remember the guy from the bar mitzvah who thew up everywhere? Is he still covered in glitter?”

“Oh right do Lev, Lyall, and Sam really go? I swear the boys are losing their minds,” mused an eavesdropping redhead freshman from the other table. Angelina recognized the voice as Jessica, a new cheerleader who only ever talked about her massive crush on Golden Boy. The blonde didn’t bother answering her, but her face twisted in disgust at the sound of Lev’s name. Jessica didn’t know not to mention the football player around her yet. “I heard Sam killed a guy! Maybe he and the Witch should start dating, the creeps.”

“Okay but tell us is No Hoes Hoeffgen really bald under that wig? He has to know no one believes that thing is real,” Lucy added with a giggle. The rest of the table laughed along with her.

Angelina loathed the D&D club. Not because they were weird nerds, which they were, but because in the single meeting she went to they seemed more real than any of the people she hung out with. If she was a ‘Barbie’ the other cheerleaders were her fellow plastic. And after this, she’d go home to her dollhouse alone. She hated the ball of excitement in her chest at the thought of going to the club again next week.

​

Reggie was setting the stage with a recap. His voice was enticing, the kind that got you hooked on every word. It made Angelina cling to his sentences, her brain stirring with fresh ideas. Feeling creative still felt foreign and new after all these years of staying dormant. Angelina wanted to pick up a pencil and draw the scene. Or maybe sketch her character. She felt the need to get the energy out but had to refrain. The blonde had her dominant hand draped over Hedge’s shoulder after all. Her chair was scooted as close to Nicks as it could get. She really stuck to him like glue at meetings.

Angelina found herself focused on losing reality in the story Reginald was weaving, her eyes locked onto the man as he made gestures and faces. Her bored expression betrayed how absolutely mesmerized she—

Fuck Lev. His horrible voice stopped the flow Reggie had built, taking her out of the spell. Angelina temporarily took her arm back to snatch a pencil. The cheerleader wrote in her notebook "I hate you" in giant letters. She held it up for Lev to see.

Angelina attempted to relax into the story once it started back up again. Right before she trusted they weren’t going to get interrupted anymore the lights flew on. That was it. D&D sucked. She darted her eyes away from the Dungeon Master to the door. Oh. The three guests didn't look too interested in joining the campaign.

As the Dean droned on Angelina popped a piece of gum in her mouth. The man's presence demanded respect. The way he spoke reminded her of her father. Laced in authority. She didn’t dare open her mouth to him. After the Dean finished murmurs could be heard around the table. The cheerleader whispered to Hedge. “Half these dweebs can’t even make eye contact with me. How would they manage to take two women?”

Angelina wasn’t worried, at least not for herself. She wasn’t really part of the club.. right? She probably wasn’t even considered a suspect. Knowing who her father is she wondered if they’d actually question her at all. This situation was stupid. She didn’t care. Except nerves bubbled up in her stomach, contorting her gut. What if the Sherrif or Officer twisted Hedge’s words? What if he said something dumb and they realize they can pin everything on him? Angelina glared at Lev. She didn’t know why, but it was definitely his fault.

Angelina held onto Hedge tighter. She couldn’t go into the questioning room with him, she couldn’t protect him in there. “Don’t admit to anything, okay? If things get bad tell them you’d like to speak to my family’s lawyer,” Angelina’s voice was barely a whisper, hardly said aloud at all. Hopefully, he would be called down after her so she could prepare him for the questions. Damn you, Lev.

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MOOD

hot girl shit. protective, wary, irritated

MENTIONS

Patty, Vitto, Lyall, Samuel, Reggie, Sherrif

INTERACTS

Lev, Hedge

OUTFIT

Catsborough's cheer uniform (x) layered with a puff sleeved white mesh button up (x) on top.

LOCATION

Catsborough College Campus; Room M234

scroll

dance with somebody
whitney houston

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[xayah.]

mira song.

”could i bother you for an interview?”

mood

smells opportunity ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

location

DnD club room

interactions

Minnie blue-jay , Sheriff VomitIcicle

"Gather 'round, journalism club!" A stack of papers thudded onto the old, rickety mahogany table in the center of the room. The legs trembled, struggling to stay upright, and every person in the club held their breath. Then, the table stilled, returning to its original position.

And the floodgates opened.

That thud had been the equivalent of a war cry, a call to arms, for the Catsborough College journalism club. Their pavlovian response. If they were dogs, the dropping of papers was the sign that their meals had arrived. They dropped everything: books fell to the floor, pencils rolled, and the clicking and clacking of typewriters and keyboards alike ceased. And what filled the sudden silence? The sound of footsteps. Of running.

Mira was no exception. She had unfortunately been near the back of the room, taking a look through previously published issues for inspiration. A sort of writer's block had engulfed the communications major over the summer, where the words in her thoughts all seemed like words right up until she put them into writing—she imagined she was experiencing the same thing others did whenever they read her handwriting, and the start of the school year had only exacerbated the problem. It was why she had fallen behind in her classes and even more so in meeting the monthly quota required of all journalism club members. The club advisor had been understanding, despite not particularly enjoying how often he'd get in trouble with school administration and town police as a result of Mira.

Many of these had been because of Mira's secret talent, something that struck fear into her colleagues and writing subjects alike. Her speed. She'd often receive warnings about "chasing" others, but a good journalist never gives up on obtaining a story and is certainly never the last to arrive at a scoop either. Despite being one of the farthest away, Mira found herself amongst the first to arrive, letting her little gremlin feet carry her as fast as possible. A crowd quickly formed around her, careful not to lean on the table. Anyone who did always receive a stern call out by their advisor.

"Hey! Hands OFF." Mira turned her head to look at the offender. Everyone else did, too. Nosiness was a trait they all shared. Unabashedly, too. The culprit was a freshman by the look of their wide eyes and the way they practically backed away in embarrassment. "A reminder to all freshmen that I explicitly mentioned at the previous meeting this table is off-limits." A rule they'd do well to learn quickly unless they wanted to be on the advisor's hit list for the rest of the year. The worst assignments. Running errands that never needed to be done in the first place. Being overrun by more club assignments than homework ones. The members shuddered at the collective thought before all settling their eyes on the stack of papers.

It was time.

"These are the yearly assignments for this school year." The advisor picked up a few sheets. On them, the name of a member and a club, community service activity, or topic to research all year and write continuous articles about. Mira could only hope she could finally get something interesting. Her first year was following the school janitors, and the second? Theatre club. The memory of being forced to dress up as a scantily-clad spy and having her picture published in the school paper still haunts her every night. And this year…

“Mira. Here.”

Her hands shot out faster than a viper striking its target.

Come on… Please be Dean Matterson. Even a sports team. Anything but the janitors or...

Song, Mira. DnD Club.

"And... the Catsborough College... cheerleading team can't... wait for the start of the sports season. Period."

Article done. Mira pushed her chair back from the desk and raised her arms high in the air. The stretch was well-needed although perhaps not well-deserved. In an effort to get her to meet at least half of the month's quota, she had been relegated to the desk near her advisor's own in the journalism club classroom after her last class for the day ended at lunch. She was a hostage, unable to leave until an article about the homecoming game was finished.

The homecoming game that happened over a month ago.

Her eyes looked over at the only clock in the entire room, the one completely behind her, and she squinted. The numbers looked like shapes, meaningless blobs, but by the position of the hands she could make out what the time might've been. 4:37. Perfect. She had been just quick enough to be able to finish before her meeting with Minnie. Hands reaching over the shoddy typewriter her advisor had available for people who wanted to work on their articles in a focused environment, she pulled out the last sheet of paper and quickly organized the pages in order. Then, with a quick thud to even them all out, Mira placed them next to the advisor and quickly grabbed her bag.

"Finished! I'm off now. I'll make changes tomorrow, promise!"

There would definitely be changes to make. Mira herself wasn't very proud of what she had written, never was nowadays, but like she said, tomorrow. She would deal with it tomorrow. So her feet ran. All the way to the art room.

The art room had been where Minnie and Mira first met, where Minnie's eagle eyes saw her absolute lack of affinity for the visual arts, and where the two of them became close friends. Had it not been for Minnie's involvement in the DnD club herself, Mira would have never made it past the first meeting awake. These short walks to the clubroom were the most interesting parts of her tenure as a club member so far. Not for any investigative reasons. Simply because Minnie was there, by her side, in a place where most people ran away from her.

So today, when she noticed her companion was just the slightest of steps behind their normal tempo and spacing, Mira couldn't help worry. Minnie had hidden it well, but what kind of journalist—no, friend—would she be if she didn't notice?

At the meeting, Mira assumed her typical position: cheek against the table, hair spilling all over, the only other body part visible being her hand scribbling on the notepad she carried with her everywhere. Usually it was filled with an entire record of the day's narration and choices made, little random thoughts she kept track of for later, or a repeated message of absolute dread in her typical shorthand. Even if the writings were nothing important, she wasn't going to let anyone get any ideas if they happened to have just the smallest of glimpses.

"Black and red mist obscure the vision at their feet..."

But today, instead of recording Reggie's every word, Mira let it drift in one ear and out the other. She couldn't help but take a glance at Minnie every once in a while. She scribbled:

What happened with ur ankle? R u okay?

And Minnie, being perhaps the only person on Earth capable of deciphering her message—something that would be a cause of alarm for the journalist had she not trusted and viewed her friend as entirely pure of heart—responded without hesitation. Just an accident. No biggie.

Just an accident? No, Mira had sensed something else underneath. Perhaps disappointment or something along those lines, but she wasn't going to push it. Not today at least. Despite the nagging, urging, clawing need to know welling up within her, Mira could imagine that Minnie already felt awful with her ankle. The least she could do was not add on to it emotionally or take Minnie out of the immersion—she was absolutely enraptured by Reggie's narrative and Mira could never understand why—but she would know. One way or another. For now, she returned to scribbling, noting only when Lev interrupted—a man with the same thoughts she had it seemed.

Then, the lights flashed on, a burning enveloping Mira's eyes as purple, red, green, and yellow flashed in rapid succession throughout her vision. She snapped up, sitting straight up at the sound of the door opening, her hair flipping along with her and wacking the person at her side. Squinting at the doorway—the light outside was just as, if not more, brutal—Mira watched as the three figures came closer in view and became more recognizable. Dean Matterson, and her two "best friends" outside of the college: Sheriff Smith and Officer Sharma.

Was it wrong for Mira to be happy, dare I say excited?

Minnie leaned in close, speaking to her in a hushed whisper sort of way. It seemed that the arrival of the three authoritative figures had exposed who each person perferred most, and Mira was strangely honored to be Minnie's confidant. "What do you make of this? Think they got an actual reason to question us? Or are they just pulling leads out of their ass now?"

Was the glimmer in Mira's eyes as visible as she felt it was? The smile tugging on her features? The gears just turning in her brain? Were they finally going to do something about the missing people, one or two she had written about for the newspaper before administration scrapped it. That is... until Lacey went away. Ran away, they say. The presence of two police officers seems to imply otherwise.

"There's something to this."

Mira glanced around at the room, taking in Reggie's pale demeanor and the uncertain, if not annoyed, glances of others, before turning back to Minnie.

"Okay, maybe not to questioning us in particular, but I'm sure there's a good reason somewhere... And I intend to figure it out."

As the officers scanned over the group, Mira couldn't help by meet their eyes—ones that clearly seemed a bit distraught to have to meet her here as well.

Me first. You have questions. I have questions.
We just need to be honest with each other.

She smiled, adding a little wave on top.

all the good girls go to hell

billie eilish

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[cavitea]

/* ------ right side ------ */

/* ------ image 1 ------ */

mood | stressed, cautiously observant location | not where he wants to be

/* ------ image 2 ------ */

outfit | x.

/* ------ image 3 ------ */

tag | sam the man, Athens , mentions Mira, Lev, Minnie, Kero Kero Bonito, Father Officer Sharma.

/* ------ left side ------ */

lyall novak

/* ------ main textbox ------ */

4:12 PM,
Track Field Male Locker Room:

Lyall stood with firmly planted feet atop a locker room bench, eyes looking out expectantly towards the gaggle of students that had slowly given up on standing through the course of his speech. Arms were folded snugly against a sweat-beaded chest, a soaked uniform peeled just below his ribs to allow the constricted skin a chance to breathe. "Aerodynamics," he had been told by the coach of track and field, fingers pinching at the fabric remembering feeling the uncomfortable fabric for the first time. Too much was exposed, skin that had no right being in the open and a distraction he felt had been the main focus over the past few competitions.

Now he was sure their soonest meet would be only a show of muscles rather than actual talent. A sigh pushed out the remaining air in his lungs, eyebrows knitting together as a hand moved to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Thirty minutes into a 'pep talk' and he felt as good about the coming competition as the slightly expired milk he had finished that morning with his cereal. Lev's cereal, technically.

"To close things out just remember: we've met some of these rivals before so try and do some research on your individual events. Relay teams, I have a short practice for us planned tomorrow in lieu of a full team practice. Try to get good rest for the next few days and stay safe out there, especially with the disappearances around."

It felt necessary to mention, even briefly as eyes traced along feigned interest and rolling eyes. A pair of snickers broke from the back of the crowd: two red-haired guys leaning against lockers and snapping each other on the shoulder with their uniform straps. Drained almost instantly it was sheer routine that brought Lyall's hands together in the clap that signaled the end of his Golden Boy speeches and set free the team before him to their respective locker rooms.

He knew no words at this point would be able to fix the cracks that had been appearing in their foundations recently. Even a more lackadaisical approach of leadership for the past few practices didn't seem to ease the tension that rose with each 'Missing' poster slapped to the chain-link fences surrounding the university track. It was almost like staring into the eyes of ghosts had a negative impact on the entire team. Almost.

Only one person continued to show his worth, a competitive spirit that seemed only fanned lately as Lyall himself pushed forward. Blue lingered on dark curls for a moment longer than comfortable, a sucking in of cheeks as the flush of exercise did well to hide a momentary lapse in judgement.

Sami wasn't allowed to be a target anymore.

A stumbled step off of the bench he had been perched on took mind away from the second best runner on the team, a noticeably worse hobble towards a disgustingly navy-colored locker. Whimsical at best, nothing would come from the blossoming questions he had about the other, an internal promise that it was to be left to compliments and accidental brushes. It was fine. He had a spiral of drug-laced cotton candy to occupy his thoughts between conflicting decisions on men or women.

4:30
Outside of the Locker Rooms

Lyall was aware of the obnoxious length he took to clean up after each practice.

He had to wait until almost everyone had left before he could limp to the showers, even then hiding his leg as if the eye of God would reveal his secrets to those that stayed around. Of course, someone always stayed around but he couldn't help wonder if it was out of wanting to or because their destination now aligned so wonderfully. Fingers pulled back the still-damp strands of blonde into a multi-colored tie; a gift from an eccentric being pulled directly out of a fairytale. She would be there too, distant eyes and mind so obnoxiously interesting to the popular boy.

It couldn't be helped.

Eyes flicked over to the other member of the track team remaining, a shouldering of his duffel bag swinging gently into his side as a signature smile dazzled outwards, a kindness that radiated 'look at me!'. "Ready for nerd club, Sami?" Words said a little too cheerfully, a tone he thought he would surely have to reign in for the next time as he began his journey of limping towards the designated lecture hall, a journey that took the pair down a lengthy path of accommodation for the injured captain.

5:00 PM
A Place that isn't Studying

The scratch of worn cotton was paltry compared to the grating itch of decision making, cerulean eyes and vermillion skies pulling a cloth over the vision of Lyall. He felt twitchy sitting at the table, fingers that crawled across his skin and inched along the notebook before him. Clipped nails pressed a dull line underneath the scrawling he had made since the beginning of the meeting, disconnected words and names from a recap mainly heard through covered ears.

Dear as he was slowly coming to find the stocky figure of the imaginary dwarven man he played, there simply was not enough time in the day to justify the hours towards extracurriculars. A race towards the top was never-ending, a finish line only drawn after years and months with a podium hesitant to solidify. Harrison was not allowed to be first. Even if the actuality of athletics combined with social dynamics and academics crushed Lyall at the end of day it had to be fact. Insufferable the other had become, more so with the accumulating disappearances to the point of blatant intolerability.

"A room dimly lit by fire, small batches of light ..."

What purpose did a medulla oblongata serve?

Diagrams take precedence over dice, terms and definitions twitching lips as recitations ran through the remnants of a sapped mind. Exhaustion from the track practice before this was still gripping at his ankle, an throb along the lengthy scar that he couldn't bring himself to hold at. Eyes caught hold of another briefly, a warm smile pushed out towards the almost sleeping form pressed comfortably against the table before they fell away to other occupants of the circle. Of course, the one beside him was familiar, a form he didn't allow himself to look at again as rested hands had already teased a brush, a played off laugh that led to a confinement under his knee.

I have to tell Lev we're out of cereal again. That was the thought brought on by the interruption given by his roommate, an uninterested cock of his head towards the football player indifferent towards the animosity often shown to him. Sure, he sometimes took a day too long to wash his track clothing but it wasn't a good reason to lose his mind as easily as he did. Or having people breaking into their home to occupy their space and create noise late at night, talking about some weird hypotheticals involving pigeons and lace.

Eyes traveled again, the recitations continuing in his mind as eyes met more at the table, brief connections formed from those he had slowly come to spend time with outside of the club for better or for worse. Even Mira, the girl he found impossible to shake on their walks back home was only briefly noticed in the middle of mental flash cards, an exchange between herself and the artsy-looking girl — Minnie, he thought — hardly noticed. There was plenty of time to talk to the stalker journalist on their usual basis, a cautionary string of words he found himself getting looser and looser with.

Thoughts were interrupted as he reached the prefrontal cortex card in his mind, a definition cut off with the interruption by law enforcement and ridiculous words claiming that any of them were to even talk about the missing students. Sure, it sucked to know that there were bodies just disappearing around the campus but from the vantage point he had he saw nothing relevant in a fifteen foot aura to himself. Lyall's head turned towards the guests then, eyes locking knowingly with a dean he had sat before plenty of times. Not for disciplinary actions but praise, an honorary friendship provided to the top percentage and one he now felt threatened with the activity of questioning.

"I hardly think any of us have the potential to commit crimes ..." Normally it would be such an easy think to say for someone seen in such high regard among the school, a reputation that came before his mind and stilled itself at the remembering of who exactly he sat in the room with. Okay, at least not kidnapping another stu—

Lyall stopped thinking about it.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[VomitIcicle]

The sheriff entered the dimly lit classroom, the gathering place of this 'Dungeons and Dragons' shit. What was Reggie's little witchcraft club thing called? Swords and Adventurers? Devils and Axes?

The Goblin Diddlers?

Yeah, that sounded about right. Reginald was fascinated with it. His little pet project. Poor parents, bless their hearts, said he used to stay locked up in his room for hours, drawing up all kinds of weird no-good devily shit.

Well, at least the kid had friends, even if they were, well...

He glanced across the room, eyes lingering for a moment on that damned reporter. At Crow, he threw a brief smile.

Losers, they were all kinda' losers.

Speaking of Reggie...

"Reginald, that boy been giving you trouble again?" The sheriff sighed through the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Even in the dim lighting, the cheap fluorescent light flickering, the discoloration of bruises adorning the young man's face was unmistakable. "You and me gonna' have a talk later." He added sternly, cutting off any would-be protest from the long-haired youth. He spared a glance at the Dean. "Maybe rope you into this, too."

"I need to see Nicholas Snyder, outside real quick." The Sheriff's prominent southern accent drew out the 'I' sound annoyingly long. Smith spared what tried to seem like a comforting smile. "Won't be here long, just need to ask a few questions real quick." He thumped his deputy on the shoulder. "While I do that, Officer Sharma here'll be more than happy to take your, uh..." He waved a hand. "Statements on the, well, y'know." He coughed awkwardly. It felt taboo to say. Almost illegal. Ironic, really, given his status as a lawman. A missing person? In Catsborough?

Especially one as thoroughly disappeared as this girl?

It seemed impossible.

Smith jerked his chin lightly, motioning for the youth whose name he had called to follow him, away from the prying eyes of the students and dean alike.

 

[mother of sorrows]

LEV K.

THE HOSTAGE

The sock, Lev decided. The sock is the problem.

It was laying there, right under the couch as if cringing away in shame; or maybe contempt, ogling Lev from the shadows like some sort of creature. 'That's right,' it jeered, 'I'm under here. What are you going to do about it, big guy? Throw me in the laundry when there's only one of me? Where's the other one, huh? Huh?' It laid there, mocking and dusty, right there - it almost touched the carpet that Lev painstakingly cleans every Friday. It's presence had ice beating in his heart, sending his eyebrow twitching, mind grinding to a halt with primal horror. For if there is one here, that means there must be another one - socks come in pairs, pairs come in an unseen enemy lurking his apartment.

He threw it in the laundry anyways. But still his mind didn't let go of the shock it had caused.

When Lev rushed down the stairs to catch a morning class, he almost tripped. He walked into a pole straight afterwards and then stepped into dog poop while holding his aching nose from said pole. He dropped by Andy's house first where he got kicked and then robbed of five dollars by Tom and Jams, and then barely survived being ran over by some guy on a bike (Lev doesn't want to remember if the guy had clothes or not. Some things are better left buried, undisturbed, a ghost you pretend not to see in the corner of your eye.)

Suffice to say; this morning was not going great. And when things don't go great, we try and find things to blame.

An inherent instinct, a protection against the great, unknown world. A hope that the universe isn't as cold and empty and careless as we all secretly fear - that the wicked burn and the righteous are blessed, that there is meaning in every echo of our step, that we matter and are not just atoms floating in space, ready to fall apart once the soul leaves. There must be some long-reaching hand tugging at the strings, making his day worse as punishment for some unknown transgression. Lev blamed the sock, at first - but the more he thought about it, the sock must have came out of somewhere. It certainly wasn't his, of that he's sure.

And because the sock caused problems, Lev deducted that - of course - it must be Lyall's. And if it involved Lyall, he's sure Angelina and Crow must have helped somehow.

Lev could see it now; the trio huddling together by the moon's sickly glow, faces contorted by shadow and gleeful malice, hands rubbing with expectaction. He doesn't think Angelina, Lyall and Crow actually meet in the odd hours of the night to plan his demise (that he knows of!), but it held ground enough for him to pin the blame on them. Yes, they're the reason - what else.

''Pricks,'' Lev mumbled to himself, slamming his car door a little too loudly. ''I hate this town.''

* * *​

Autumn knocked on the window, it's sighs and pacing sending dead leaves rustling on a steadily cooling breeze. Catsborough's sleepy little streets blanketed themselves under a palette of browns, yellows and oranges, falling deeper into slumber than ever before. In better times it would have blown friendly shop's doors open, inviting in gaggles of excited middle schoolers and lazily strolling retirees. September in Catsborough was the smell of cinnamon and pumpkins, the leaving of summer in a huff and familiar skies turning blotchy with greys. It was comfort of knowing that while the world might change, but this little town won't.

Now, in the air of change, there was an underlying discomfort that not one person could ignore. Like a gum on the bottom of your shoe Lacey Brewer's disappearance stuck to the town, locking kids indoors and keeping the police at a loss. It couldn't happen here until it did. People disappearing is supposed to happen in far-off cities, in places you've only seen in geography lessons and don't actually know. Not Catsborough.

Lev didn't talk to Lacey often. He knew Kriti by face only and rumors from the PTA fights. Out of all of them, he knew Naked Pumpkin Man the most; he chased a younger Lev out of a store when he caught a glimpse of Lev's pumpkin-designed bouncy ball. But familiar or not, none of them deserved this - a worry gnawed on Lev's mind, a cold shower that hit him everytime he drove past a missing poster. What did it mean for this sleepy town? Maybe you can argue NPM went to better horizons - but Lacey and Kriti?

They stared at him from the Woodview Road Coffee walls, asking him - have you seen me?

''I don't think I'll go to the club today.''

His mom squints at him from behind the counter, fussing over a milk pitcher. The morning rush is over and only a few office workers lingered now, sitting by tiny tables overcrowded with plastic menus. The coffee Lev has been nursing for half an hour has gone cold and unsipped, mind gone elsewhere; classes passed by and left and the time for other activities rolled in. Usually this meant practice, but coach Mellis has been sick for a week and Lev could always use extra credit when it came down to it.

Which left the DnD club.

''Which one is that?'' His mom asked, attention refocused on brewing. ''The DDN one? What do you do there again?''

''DnD,'' Lev corrected, internally cringing that he even knows. ''I don't know it's some nerd thing Reggie,'' her face betrayed nothing ''came up with and I promised to join.''

She let out a hum of understanding, plopping a warm coffee to go in front of him. ''Take this to Samuel when you go.'' It smelled painfully sweet and maple-y, a tower of foam lurking just beneath the cap. Lev has long given up on insisting he's not Sami's errand boy.

''But I'm not going.'' He protested, leaning over the donut display case, all sticky from melting glaze. It was warm here - a comfort from the crisp wind waiting just outside. ''There's just losers there.'' Namely - Crow, Angelina, Lyall. A possible drug-ring leader, a stuck-up blonde rat and possibly the worst roommate of all time. Lev could count about fifty things that would be a more worthwhile use of his time and most of it could just be him staring at a wall.

''If you promised,'' His mom said simply, sticking a paper bag filled with warm donuts into his hands, ''you should stick to that.'' The message was clear; go share the donuts and be a good friend. Lev only barely contained a groan, taking the bag and coffee. They exchanged goodbyes and a promise to drop in later to eat dinner.

The door rang out a cheery tune as he left, sending him straight into another person.

''Oh, shit, my bad - Heather!''

And there she stood, Heather Holmes, in all her heaven-sent glory - like an angel descending to tell Lev not everything has been lost. Lev gave a friendly grin, filled with relief at seeing a friend he could force to go with him. He balanced the coffee and bag in one hand, latching on to Heather's arm so she can't escape. ''Club time. You're comin' with me.''

And Heather, bless her soul, as annoyed as she looked - went.

* * *​

It took about twenty minutes more to actually get to the club. He only just avoided a poop airstrike from the infamous Catsborough pigeons and after driving to Vitto's house to make his best friend go along - 'dude, please go with me, I really don't want to go alone and it's just the worst people ever. We can get pizza later, just - oh, hey Reggie!' - while leaving Heather to defend the donuts from ne'er-do-wells, they finally packed into the tiny, dusty room.

And honestly?

Lev regretted not giving in to his more selfish side, because it sucked.

Listen. He likes Reggie. They're - not friends anymore, not really, but he likes the guy. But Lev can only pretend to like sitting in a dark room and hallucinating fictional nerd fights. There's a limit and the limit has long been over-reached when Lev was asked to get involved in said fictional nerd fights. Worse yet, he hated most of the people he had to sit with - not all, but just looking in Angelina's general direction was enough to give him high blood pressure and Crow being there was asking for trouble.

When he couldn't take anymore, Lev jumped in; ''God, can you make this go any faster?''

Reggie sputtered at his interruption, falling back to the man he actually was and not some mysterious game-master or whatever it's called (was it just him or were those bruises on his face? The thought made him frown, silently noting it to interrogate him later about it.) Lev couldn't supress the eyeroll at being called 'Oogbah the Unbreakable', dragging a hand down his face. God. Please. I know I'm terrible, but even this is just cruel and unusual punishment. Are the others actually enjoying this? Angelina obviously was, judging by her oh-so-thoughtful message. Lev gave her the one finger salute in return, glad to have at least annoyed her.

The exchange student - Sorcha, his mind supplies - seemed to actually like the narration. He's only talked to her a few times around the campus, mostly to give directions or ask about classes, but she always looked like she was having genuine fun. What she saw in it, Lev couldn't even begin to understand.

And then, just like that, as if God had heard Lev's prayers, the light turned out and voices fell. The dean and the sheriff, walking side by side and the magic was gone. Lev straightened in his seat, all annoyance gone - whatever it was, it must be serious. They could barely get the sheriff to do anything but shake Andy down for weed and get drunk in his office.

''...only a few questions.''

Lev cast a nervous glance towards Vitto, silently asking the guy what he made out of this.

''...I need to see Nicholas Snyder outside real quick.''

Oh, shit.

Not Hedge - the guy could talk himself into accidentally confessing into being involved with Kennedy's assassination. All boredom extinguished in the heat of concern, gripping his hands in his lap. He wasn't too concerned for himself; he does nothing out of the ordinary, and really, if anybody here ought to be sweating it's Crow. Right there, officer, he wanted to point, she's the one with the drugs. Big words considering he's Andy's brother, but goddamnit, he liked her much less.

He just hoped Hedge won't say anything stupid. Which, really, is like praying for rain in the Sahara.

scroll

MOOD

Fighting to stay alive.

MENTION

Lyall, Angelina, Reggie, Vito, Crow.

LOCATION

Room M234

scroll

slippery people
talking heads

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[Athens]

Sami Munir

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Fall in Catsborough is the second-best season in town. Though it’s never been a busy place, the Autumn months are when his home quiets down.

The quiet is not the frosted, echo chamber of winter; where living things become seen and not heard and the world falls into slumber, but a crisp night, and the peace that settles over the body before a creature goes to rest.

Castborough is settling in.
It’s only then that Sam really appreciates his home — he sees why people never leave.

Even as it grows closer to Halloween and teenagers do as a teenager does, Autumn is like the perfect, cool, weighted blanket putting his mind at ease. Classes went easier, Sam was more attentive, things were just chill. Well, until people started going missing. But those things didn’t concern Sam, so he wasn’t going to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

~*~*~​

4:15pm, Catsborough College Track Practice

An absolute shitshow.

Never the one to mince words, Sam caught the tail end of coach's grievances after he'd dismissed practice. And Sam couldn't say he disagreed.

With almost a semester under the belt and Thanksgiving break around the corner, coach not only had to prep the team for the upcoming track meets, but ensure that they made enough progress for the inevitable plateau/diminishing of their skills over the holiday. Coach had his work cut out for him. The others trailed off towards the locker room, while Sam sidled up to his coach with a relaxed smile,

"Relax coach, we've still got time,"

Despite the mild irritation on his face, his coach seemed receptive to Sam's chatter so, of course, he had to ruin it. All it takes is one confidently placed pat on the back and he's being shot a look so blank that he eases back without a word.

"Munir."

"Yes... coach?"

Play innocent, that should work.

"Talk to me like one of your friends again, and I'll make you do 800s for the rest of the year."
Sam shuddered at the thought. He was a sprinter not a masochist.

"I read you loud and clear... sir."

The man had already shouldered his duffel bag and started heading towards the gate, so Sam took it as his sign to also exit. He flung his towel over his shoulder, grabbed his water bottle from the ground and—

"Oh, and Samuel,"

...

"If you don't improve your time in the next 2-3 weeks, I just might do it anyway. See you tomorrow."

What a peach.

~*~*~​

4:30pm, Locker Room

It's an unspoken thing. Whether it was for convenience or because they were sort of friends, routine dictated that Lyall and Sam left practice together; usually to DND but occasionally not.

Already accustomed to waiting on his team captain, Sam took to looking up and tracing nonsensical phrases and patterns in the air. He only paused once, early on to call out to Lyall,

"I think coach is going to kill me."

Then he was right back at it, zoning out in a way that was not uncommon. Saying things and then giving no context is Sam's bread and butter. For a guy like Sam, it's easier to move when things feel right and press on whenever the winds of his whims dictated so. It helped keep his stress down.

"Ready for nerd club, Sami?"

A grin slowly stretched over Samuel's face after Lyall surfaced from the depths of the locker room. A new, less smelly, man. It's a wonder what a rickety old shower, with poor water pressure could do for a college athlete.

"Ready whenever you are, Golden Boy. I'll gladly take nerd club over the practice we had today."

Sam hopped up with a bounce. Despite his remark, Sam thrived in track, he enjoyed it almost as much as when he played DND with Reggie's family as a kid. What he did not enjoy was the damp, slightly tart smell of the locker room. He was patient while Lyall got ready, but once he was done. Time to go. Like, yesterday.

So without anymore preamble, Sam ushered Lyall out of the lockers and towards the lecture hall.

~*~*~​

5:00pm, m234

Say what you will. That DND is for nerds, it's satanic, it's boring or whatever. Sam liked it. Not in the, I'm wholly dedicated to this and will take notes so I never forget a detail about anything. Honestly, Sam could barely remember the rules, let alone what had happened over the "sessions" — more often than not he forgot his character even had items.

Call him cliché, but for him it was about the belonging. Well before he knew what DND was, he'd been introduced to it alongside the introduction of family. One completely different and infinitely warmer than his own and it left an impression.

So he joined the club, made a character that he resonated and tried his best to keep track of what was going on so he didn't have to harass his clubmates beforehand; he'd still do it no matter what, but surely they'd appreciate it if he did it less, y'know?

Still, Sam will admit that he was more than a little distracted this particular day; too busy doodling on the table and relishing in his maple latte from Mrs. Kovitsky to really care that her son was harshing everyone else's vibe.

He'd just begun doodling the evil wizards of chaos (on his notebook this time) when the lights came on flushing out the atmosphere Reggie had worked so hard to build.

In typical No Hoes fashion, he still takes it upon himself to sass the Sheriff and Dean. He's still the same Reggie even with painful-looking bruises on his face. His own face twinges in sympathy.

Seeing the dean outside of pep rallys and major college events gave Sam an ick equivalent to seeing one’s therapist on the street. It’s weird and he’d prefer for it to not happen again, but just “asking some questions” didn’t seem as simple as he was making it out to be.

The missing people in town (Because what else would Catsborough PD actually be investigating. The guys were more decorative assholes than anything.) didn’t magically turn up, so questions were likely just the beginning of more “investigation” things.

How they came to the conclusion that DND club was the place to start, or that Hedge was the person to ask about said investigation was a mystery. The Hedge part in particular gave eenie meenie miny mo energy, and the Sheriff just might regret it.

But if they’d already made their lottery selection, Sam was going to mind his own and go back to his drink, confidently pretending that the standoffish authority figures didn’t exist. He didn’t do well with authority figures.

”We didn’t even get to the good stuff…”

Sam groaned to himself.

Track was more productive than this meeting.

I'm Just a Kid

Simple Plan

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[weldherwings]

scroll

mood

sit straight, stay quiet and listen

location

Room M234

outfit

mention

Reggie ( miyabi ) + Nicholas ( Gao )

tarni yates

1:56 am - Friday, October 16th 1987

Ever since she was a child, she could sleep through anything.

The sound of sirens wailing by her bedroom window. The thumping of a bass as it reverberated against the walls. The wails of her mother as her father took out every inch of anger that dwelled in his body upon hers. She could sleep through it all without a care in the world. There wasn’t a dream that she could remember; they never dared to leave any sort of imprinting upon her memory or create an intense dread or fear in her life. When she slept, it was like she was almost… dead.

So, why was it she was now dreaming? Why was it now that she was finding herself staring up at the ceiling at night, tracing imaginary lines with her gaze? Why did every little sound trigger a sense of flight or fight in her? Moving to America, she had hopes, dreams, desires, and ambitions to move on forward. To leave the past tucked away under the rug, cuddled up and gathered with the dust bunnies and long forgotten pennies. To strive for a future where she could stand proudly and boast to the world “look at what I did.” But with each passing day, the sleep deprivation began to drag her down. She didn’t want to close her eyes at night, in fear of the horrors that lay in her mind. A story projected, flickering as the dust scratched the film and drew her into her terrors.

It starts off peaceful.

She’s home. She’s around the people she loves. They’re yarning together, throwing a damper on the campfire, and embracing the nature around them. Mother nature calls out to her, whispering through the winds and warming her soul with the radiant sunlight peaking through the bush leaves of the gumtree. For that moment, everything is perfect. She is at home with her family; she is at home with her land. Confident and content, she lets her guard down.

A brown snake slithers through the dry floor, on the hunt for its next meal. It creeps past the others, the campfire, and past the watchful eyes of Mother Nature. It weaves itself up her leg, surrounding her body. Stay still, she tells herself, remaining as still as possible. Just stay still and he’ll pass.. The snake wraps itself around her neck, constricting ever so slowly. Until she can finally take it no more; she is gasping for the sweet relief of air. Her lungs are on fire, yearning to breathe once more. She rips the snake from her body and runs. She runs. Her legs raise high to her chest as she belts down the bush; the trees and bushes whacking into her, slowing her down bit by bit. Finally, her heel meets the pointed end of an upright stick. She falls to the ground in pain, screaming in anguish as blood pours from her foot.

And just as she looks up, there is the snake; coiled up and prepared to end it all. He leaps and-

Tarni sat up straight in her bed, sweat pouring from her brow and her lungs shaking vigorously. Her heart leapt with great force, causing her to place her hand upon it – just to make sure it wouldn’t dare to try and rip its way through her ribcage. And once she had control of her breathing, something truly un-Tarni-like happens; she began to sob. And sob. And continue sobbing. Until the sun awoke, giving the land a morning kiss.

5:00 pm - Friday, October 16th 1987

The theatrical work of Reggie Hoeffgen was one to behold. Admittedly, when Tarni first joined the group, she had no idea what she was in for. She couldn’t even fathom how the game worked; and in all honesty, she still didn’t really understand it. The only reason she had stayed for as long as she did was... because… well… pride, I suppose. Like she had to prove herself to… herself? Reggie’s eccentric, dramatical monologues were filled with cliff-hanging encounters and nail-biting conundrums. And while Tarni often found it rather annoying in other people, in Reggie it somewhat seemed fitting. In fact, she almost didn’t mind it.

The game was in play, and Reggie took his mark as the narrator. Before her, upon the table, were her papers sprawled in a neatly, organised manner. Her liquid paper at the ready for any error she may have created along the way; everything was neat and perfect in her eyes. However, despite the gleeful boom of Reggie’s voice, the darkness that surrounded the players was enough to drain Tarni’s energy. The many nights of restlessness, consumed by the dreams that took her hostage and leaving her breathless, had finally taken their toll. Sitting upright and her arms crossed, in a dark, warm room… it was the perfect storm.

Her dark eyes slid close for just a moment, exhaling deeply as she continued to hear Reggie’s voice echo through her mind. It was the only thing keeping her grounded for the time being. The only reminder that no matter what happened when she closed her eyes, whatever she saw wasn’t real. There she found peace, content, and tranquillity; getting lost in the imagery of the land the dungeon master was projecting before them. Who knew that this was where she would find her sweet spot; her happiness. Her relaxation.

The flickering of the light was enough to burn her eyes through her closed eyelids. Blinking furiously, Tarni’s eyes half opened, peaking through with a frown upon her face. Her sullen, tired eyes burned at the sight of the fluorescent, illuminated classroom. Her brain rattled, confused with what was happening at that moment as she lifted her palms and placed them upon her eyes. As she rubbed them, she heard a collection of words from others; Mister Matterson, Sheriff, Officer. Wait, what?.

The announcement of the law enforcers was enough for Tarni to push through the pain of her aching eyes, dropping her hands quickly and gazing up at the authorities. If there was something she had learnt all these years, it was to sit up straight, keep your mouth shut and listen when a police officer was requesting your attention. Reggie was acting so casually, giving the officers his classical sass and charm. Tarni had half a mind to reach over and tear a clump of his precious locks to bring the boy back down to reality. Not to mention the relaxed nature of every other student within the room. Had everyone gone crazy while she had fallen between the void of consciousness and dreaming? This wasn’t some schoolteacher they were dealing with; it was the law.

“I need to see Nicholas Snyder outside real quick”

This wasn’t good.
Not good at all.

Tarni felt sick to her stomach; anxiety riddled her gut, even though the request wasn’t directed at her. Her dry eyes flickered towards Nicholas, curiously gazing at him as if to question what the fuck did you do now?. All the while, her mother’s voice chimed in the back of her head.

Sit straight, stay quiet and listen. Sit straight, stay quiet and listen. Sit straight, stay quiet and listen.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[Gao]

click!

HEDGE.

NICHOLAS SNYDER.

MOOD

MIGHT THROW UP. IDK.

location

ROOM M234

Mentions

REGGIE, LEV, ANGELINA, MIRA, TARNI, SHERIFF SMITH.

Interactions

L3n + weldherwings + VomitIcicle + All !

CHAPTER ONE.

It was something that gave life and took life, a tragedy in motion.

Snared by corners of devotion and denial, the Snyder boys had watched it bleed from a drop into a salient sea. Edges of tobacco stained fingers, brittle and butter-yellow nails scraping at seawater veins. Uprooting skin for a frayed edge to tug, pull wet and suck from tendon. Plagued in tar-dredged movement, a haunted thing lost to compulsion; there was nothing beautiful in describing a void.

As a child, one sees a child, thinks as a child, feels as one too. Scraped knees burning with sun-hot gravel imbedded into flesh like bubbling caviar. A garage that hangs acidic with kerosene, a pond of tadpoles, a cloud crown of pale cream piled onto a single pancake. It is loud and spirited, conspiring in shared delight, only to fall victim to time’s catharsis. Aged with barbed hair and nebula skin, a dark veil pulled free from iris to meet Asphodel’s Meadow.

He’d only ever recognised her rich with hues of vivacity, staining mug rims with plummy lipstick and lowering shuttered lids of sour teal. Thick with somnolence and a spidery coat, Hedge remained wilfully, stubbornly ignorant to her vice shades of watercolour. Blotted pale and made of glass bone, she was nearer to death than life.

It wasn’t a metaphor, that flinch held low in his stomach. Holding staunch to an undercurrent amber-glass dark and heavy as molasses. Snyder, swallowing down poison of his family name as if sacramental, sacrificial wine. Smoothing plasterwork cracks in a smile, taut at the face that aches long for distraction, a reprieve of syncopated rhythm, that solace to be found in Room M234. Dregs of worry which settled sedimentary at the flooring of his mind, receding from focus and eclipsed by the tugging of fate:

Donuts and Daisies; a siren’s wail to his interests.

It could almost make God and the Devil tremble in tandem, the vigour of Reggie’s words. Drinking ink and spitting out paper sheaves printed with gilded gold, the Aurelian yolks of which the Dungeon-Master spun drew attention from all members of their hearty council.

Most, at least.

Lev had a mouth on him.

Air fractured and spilling ire threads in wake of the interruption, even Hedge’s own naturally empty expression scrunched and turned to stare. Offended. Radiating an unspoken warning in pairing with the other discontent players:

Shut it, Oogbah.

Cinder eyes returned to Reggie, coals of fixation renewed and alight to relish the evil wizards of chaos. Hedge’s jaw lax with dumb awe. Balanced precarious on tenterhooks of bated intrigue, bewilderment, and amazement.

“No fuckin’ way,”

he’d almost drool,

“evil wizards?”

Hedge always knew that “Gandalf The Green” guy (if that was even his real name!) was shady.

There was something comforting about the touch laid languid over his shoulder, the woman seated beside with a personal space of nil. Shuffled close and adhered warm, Angelina Miller. Expression sobered of friendliness and an unspoken hiss to show for it, how she held many in a chokehold of terror. He’d recall student’s talk about her, then recall his fists flying feral, reduced to nothing but a husk of loyalty.

At the sound of an opened door, Hedge’s head snapped up as if startled by a cracking gunshot. Biting down a flinch, the three evil wizards of chaos that stood, lined by an ethereal back-glow of the outside world.

Three evil wizards that wanted to ask some questions.

“Half these dweebs can’t even make eye contact with me. How would they manage to take two women?”

Hedge snorted, an ill-timed noise that cleaved apart the sombre essence of the room. He stifled it with a burning cough, barely registering the hurt in his throat to appear somewhat topic-appropriate. The disappearances, a thought too dangerous to let linger. The disappearances, not something to be mistaken for having a laugh about.

“Ted Bundy style.”

He whispered back to Angelina,

“probably felt pity and fell for the sad-eye bait.”

But she was right, chasing gaze over the circle and finding none who’d seem capable of kidnapping.

Excluding Mira.

He’d seen her run.

That was the run of a predator.

Even now as he swept the group, he noticed curiosity had ignited in the journalist. Caught aflame and bristling with new-born energy, ready to fling in the visitors direction and scrabble rabid and foaming for answers. But alas, it was someone else bestowed with the first round of questions.

"I need to see Nicholas Snyder, outside real quick."

They wanted to see him! An ephemeral rush of delight. Him, Hedge!

Yet at the latching of claws, curling inwards to snare the Snyder in place, his beam faltered.

“Ange–”

he’d utter,

“Ange your nails– kinda kebabing my muscles right now.”

A wrong kind of flavour knotted inside him, smile unspooling and fading like a candle of tallow. Rose-thorn nails dug numb, skin coated cold, barely audible in her warning.

Don’t admit to anything.

Hedge blinked, felt cold pour between his shoulder-blades.

That heavily implied he’d done something.

Like wax to hot flame his spine melted, sinking awkwardly low in the chair in an attempt to fade from focus. Spine bent to plastic and a look of finality, the expression of a saint led to the gallows. Driftwood weighted lead, eyes dragged to cowering crannies of the room in silent suspicion.

…Had he done something?

Catching Tarni’s equally dubious look, Hedge flashed a cheery— if not a terribly weak, smile: Wasn’t me. Ever since her arrival a perilous stretch of ice had formed between them. A hurdle, Hedge had thought, one I must jump. To truly accommodate someone into a new environment, offer them your favourite half-chewed pencil, your half eaten sandwich, show them a cool bug you found, that is the Nicholas way.

Trying to recall recent mishaps, nothing floated to the crown of his mind as something worth a visit from law enforcement. Perhaps they’d finally come to terms with the truth and recognised his hair as an unconcealed weapon.

Leaning forward to consult with the table, fingers drummed the surface, an inhale, momentary pause, furrow of recalcitrant brows. The faintest glimmer of a brain-cell before it slipped through his hand like a grain of sand and was exchanged for hushed caprice.

“Think I should run for it?”

Impulse was cancerous in its vividness.

“I’m no Mira, but I think I could out-speed ‘em.”

The group may disagree with the sentiment, and rightly so, but for Hedge, it felt like a reasonable thing to do. Snyder’s and police were a combination akin to chalk and cheese.

Decidedly, he turned his face to look over at the Sheriff.

“Mister Law-Man-Dude,”

Hedge referenced Smith.

“How quick are we talking? Snack-break quick or–”

a thick gulp,

“prison-sentence quick?”

Please don’t arrest me.

“Mom’s making Chicken soup, so I can’t be out late tonight.”

Buying precious seconds he needed to swallow the film in his throat and stifle down tell-tale panic— had to look cool for the group, fingers wrapped the pulse of Angelina’s wrist to gently pry it free. A reassuring pat on her hand, don't worry, before he’d stood to meet his reckoning. With a taste of finality curled under the tongue, a quick salute in farewell to the table.

“I’m an apex predator,”

willed quiet as he followed the Sheriff.

“I’m a big strong apex predator, with cool hair.”

His mouth might as well been wired to a bomb for all the hellfire it had brought him. It rippled out like the repercussion of stones meeting water, lapping at milk bones and stirred blood.

Don’t admit to anything.

As he stared at the Sheriff, all hat and leathery skin, Nicholas couldn’t hold true to Angelina’s warning.

“You wanna know the secret.”

Hedge nodded knowingly, breathing a tense sigh.

“I’ll confess.”

He was guilty of something.

“Gotta use Vaporub. A whole dollop of it, that’s how you get spikes like these bad boys. Go on dude, I’ll even let you touch one.”

He leaned his head forward in offering.

”Feel their power.”

Holy Diver – Dio

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[noxrequiem]

ALEX

THE GENIUS

The roar of an engine quietly sputtered out as deft fingers pulled the key from the ignition. A lanky man with a mild case of helmet hair pulled back the sleeve of his jacket as he took a step up the sidewalk curb, glancing at the face of the watch affixed to his wrist. 4:29. Plenty of time, as usual, to help set up for this week's meeting.

The crisp, afternoon breeze sent fallen leaves skittering across the pavement, and with it, a single tattered sheet of paper. Out of reflex, Alex stepped on the edge of the leaflet, catching it between the toe of his boot and the ground before it was spirited away by the wind once more. Bending over, he idly thought something about people littering as his fingers enclosed around the sheet. Mindlessly, he made a move to toss it into the nearest trash bin when something he spotted on the reverse from the corner of his eye made him pause. “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?”

Like a stone in a pond, Alex felt something sinking in his chest as he turned the paper over. He was now face-to-face with the black-and-white image of Catsborough College’s own Student Body President, Lacey Brewer. What he held was her missing poster, one of the very ones he and his friends had helped spread across town. It had felt like they were the only ones taking her disappearance seriously when they had first started putting these posters up. It was beginning to feel like that was still the case.

What really sucked was that Alex and Lacey weren’t even really friends. They were good acquaintances, sure, the two of them interacting often enough thanks to their statuses within the college. But it was never anything enough to be called friends. Thinking on it now, though, they might as well have been, considering he seemed to be one of the few people actually concerned about finding her. Whatever had happened to her, she hadn't deserved it. She was kind to him, kind to everyone, and in the very least what she did deserve was a little of that kindness back. Even if she wasn't getting it by the people who claimed to be her actual friends.

He stared down at the page as he contemplated this, wondering how the poster had ended up on the street anyhow. Surely no one could have been so callous as to rip it down from a bulletin board? The paper was crumpled and the edges frayed, with smears of dirt a stark contrast against the ultra white of printer paper. He winced at the sight of the faint bootprint on the backside, trying, and failing, to brush the imprint away with his fingers.

“Sorry, Lacey…” The words came out in a hushed murmur, spoken with the same reverence and contrition of someone whispering in church.

He glanced around, unsure of what to do with the crumpled paper in his hands. It felt wrong to just… toss it in the trash. Like he would be throwing away any care or hope for her straight into the garbage heap. Like so much of the town seemingly already had. He couldn’t do that to her.

He had no means of hanging it back up anywhere right now, and he couldn’t just set it down somewhere and leave it for the wind to snatch up again. At a loss of what else to do, he set the poster against his thigh and ran his palm over it, gently trying to coax the wrinkles from the crumpled page as much as he could. With it as smooth as he could manage, he folded it once, twice, three times with all the care and precision one would normally only afford to something like origami. Running his fingers over the crease one last time, he slipped the folded paper into his jacket pocket, snug against the half-empty carton of cigarettes. A safe enough place, for now. Until he could decide what to do with it later.

After club.

​

"And so our adventure continues: heroes coming face to face with the sullied, the mystical ritual of which holds the power to destroy our world or protect it…"

The casualness by which Alex sat in his chair, leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest, did not betray the true extent to which his attention was really captured. He could be considered something of a veteran in Dungeons and Dragons, at least compared to many in the club: he had been playing since freshman year of high school. But in all his years of experience, no other DM was quite as talented as Reggie Hoeffgen. Reggie’s dramatic flair and passion were to be admired, and admired it was. At least by Alex; he couldn't speak for the rest of the club, half of whom seemed to be either asleep or busy doing something else entirely. As for him, he was content to give his full attention,the spoken word as vivid as any of his favorite novels.

“God, can you make this go any faster?”

The scene playing in Alex's head was momentarily interrupted by the harsh edge of Lev's voice. Alex took a silent deep breath, trying to keep a firm grip on his patience. This wasn't the first time the quarterback had interrupted a session with a snippy remark, and Alex knew sure as hell it wouldn't be the last, either. It was starting to get old real fast. At least the genius had the grace to keep his own mouth shut instead of snapping back. Thankfully, though, it only took a moment for Reggie to recover and get on with it, and Alex was able to piece the scene back together in his mind quickly enough.

"...Our adventurers tread carefully, few torches shared between them until a summoned swarm of bats fly overhead–putting out the sacred flames–"

As if on cue, the overhead lights flashed to life and bathed the room in a sickly yellow fluorescent glow. But wait, that wasn't right. The bats were supposed to make the lights go out, not on, and—oh.

Reality quickly settled in, the power of the spell woven from Reggie's words now broken by the unwelcome intrusion of three figures looming in the doorway. Dean Matterson, Sheriff Smith, and Officer Shawarma or whatever his name was. Alex didn't care enough to correctly recall. What he did care about was why they were here. He snapped his focus to the dean's words, listening almost as intently as he had for the club's adventure, though with considerably less enthusiasm.

"... you only need to be honest."

Lacey.

They were here about Lacey.

Alex's left-hand pocket suddenly felt considerably heavier than moments before. He touched his hand to the thick leather of his jacket, now hyper aware of the folded leaflet tucked away inside the pocket. He had forgotten about its presence, his mind having found a temporary reprieve from thoughts of her and the other missing during their campaign.

A crease settled into his brow, the gears in his mind beginning to work into overdrive with suspicion and countless questions. So the cops were finally giving a damn and starting to do their jobs. But why were they here to question them? There's no way they thought anyone in this room was actually capable of something like that, right? Especially not Hedge, who was apparently to be the first chosen for interrogation. This was surely a disaster waiting to happen.

He watched in silence as Hedge got up to follow the sheriff out. Apprehension settled within the gut of the so-called genius. Brown eyes swept over the room, surveying his fellow club members (though he made sure to pass over Angelina as quickly as possible). From Reggie's wide-eyed, painfully bruised face, to Tarni's uncomfortably stiff posture. He looked at Sam, briefly making eye contact with the troublemaker, but looked away just as quickly. He had already tried initiating a conversation with her earlier, a mistake he would not be making again so soon. But just from this brief glance around the room, it was easy to tell that no one seemed particularly happy about the current predicament–except Mira, maybe–and the atmosphere had soured considerably. Fucking obviously.

A tense silence fell over the room, with the occasional whispered aside between friends. Alex decided to be the one to shatter the uncomfortably growing silence, like brittle glass.

“Anyone else feeling like it’s a really bad idea for Hedge to talk to the cops without a lawyer?”

The question was posed to no one in particular, spoken aloud to the group, but in the end his eyes settled on Minnie. They often did during these meetings; she was a constant unerring anchor in a place that could otherwise suddenly break into the most chaotic of storms. Thank God she was here now. He opened his mouth, about to say something else, but pausing as a different figure from the corner of his eye distracted him.

He looked back over at Reggie who had since gone concerningly pale and was shaking slightly. He looked like he was about to pass out, puke, or both. Alright, very much not good and only slightly more important than whatever it was he had been about to say.

"Uhh, Reggie? You okay?" he raised a single brow, silently praying that the metalhead would find the strength to neither faint or vomit.

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MOOD

Wary

LOCATION

Catsborough College Campus; Room M234

MENTIONS

Reggie, Lev, Sheriff, Hedge, Angelina, Tarni, Sam, Mira, Minnie, Dean Matterson, Sharma

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LIFE DURING WARTIME
TALKING HEADS

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[VomitIcicle]

Gao

The spiky headed youth followed him out, his ever increasingly incessant babbling eliciting an internal sigh from the sheriff. He turned to face the youth, rolling around the cigarette clenched between his teeth in annoyance, a habit he had picked up recently. Right when all of these cases started making it's way across his desk, in fact. Just a few months ago, his life had been so much easier. Booze up. Smoke up. Look the other way while that Miller c.unt kept that insurance racket going, grab his cut.

Now here he was, having to interview some brain-dead, disco-dressed, spikey haired freak.

"Put your hair away." The sheriff snapped in annoyance. He sighed, composing himself. Rubbed his eyes. He was hankering for something. Booze. Kush. Fuck, he'd take some cough medicine. "Montgomery boy called me up a few days ago, said he recalled seeing you on your lonesome out by Devil's Creek, 'round the time that Lacey girl went missing."

Giving into temptation, no smoking signs be damned, Smith fished into his pocket for a lighter, taking a relaxing puff. "Harrison's fuller than shit, but it's the only lead I got."

A questioning look, piercing directly into the youth. An uncharacteristic interest gleamed in the officers eye.

"You see anything that night, son? Anything unusual?"

 

[L3n]

ANGELINA.

THE TRUSTFUND

Angelina eyed Hedge as he snorted, cutting through the tension she had so vividly felt in the air just a moment before. The man had a way of doing that. Clearing the negativity from any space he entered. He even added a cough for special effect. It was harder to take this all seriously. The cops walked in on a circle of adults talking about evil wizards, surprisingly not in capes themselves. Angie knew for a fact Reginald and Wesley would have loved to wear them. Maybe even with wizard hats.

“Ted Bundy style,” Hedge whispered to her, “probably felt pity and fell for the sad-eye bait.” Angelina had to look away and try to stifle chuckles. He was so right. The D&D club would have to group up and use puppy eyes if they ever wanted to kidnap someone. They were all harmless… except for Lev. He was responsible for every possible terrible act and Angelina would prove it one day. But for now, she was just gathering the evidence. One day Lev, one day.

Then the Sheriff stepped up to talk, taking the spot the Dean had left open for him. The cheerleader had the displeasure of seeing this man often. Her father donated a lot of money to the police force of the town. Angelina assumed that was what all the Sheriff's private meetings with Mr. Miller were about. They didn’t deserve the extra funding. They never really did anything prior to the missing persons, and now after they were twiddling their thumbs. And questioning Hedge first.

Angelina straightened in her seat. Her limbs felt rigid, like stone. Relax, appear relaxed. Her long nails dug into Hedge’s arm, like cat claws. She didn’t mean to latch onto him, she hadn’t even noticed anything until he brought it up. Her grip immediately loosened but she wasn’t ready to pull away. “Sorry,” Angelina barely whispered. It wasn’t a word that left her lips often, and she wasn’t going to let Lev hear it.

Nicholas seemed to sit there, taking her words in. Was he worried? Did she say the wrong things? What were people supposed to say in these situations? The cheerleader rarely sugarcoated her thoughts or feelings. Being nice for the sake of being nice felt plastic and suffocating. It never sat right with her, However, being kind to Hedge felt like drops of water after a century of drought. She couldn’t mess it up.

“Think I should run for it?”

Angelina’s eyebrow raised. Hedge, please. Honestly though if it came down to a chase Nickolas might stand a chance. That would be if he didn’t manage to trip two steps in. The cool-haired guy just kept talking; his words soothing her worries over. Hedge tenderly pulled her hands off, giving one a little pat. She spared him a teeny tiny smile as stood. He would be fine. He had his mother's soup so what could go wrong? Angie squinted her eyes. What did homemade food taste like anyways? Maybe she could ask one of her chefs.

With a salute, Nicholas left with the Sherrif.

Angelina crossed her arms under her chest, guarding herself against the nerds in the room. She wanted to respond to Alex’s question but that would break the silence they’ve built up. Plus it was hard to even look at him. Trust her, she's tried.

“Lev should have gone first.”

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MOOD

hot girl shit. it was lev i saw it

MENTIONS

Sherrif, Alex, Hedge, Lev

INTERACTS

Gao + mother of sorrows + all

OUTFIT

Catsborough's cheer uniform (x) layered with a puff sleeved white mesh button up (x) on top.

LOCATION

Catsborough College Campus; Room M234

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dance with somebody
whitney houston

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[mother of sorrows]

LEV K.

THE HOSTAGE

Whatever hope Lev had left for today, he could hear it's footsteps trailing after Hedge right out the door.

'Oh my God. He's going to fuck it up. He's so going to. He's going to tell them he's D. B. Cooper on accident and go to prison forever.' The slap of the door sounded awfully like a judge's hammer sentencing one Nicholas Snydes to death. Lev cast a nervous eye around the room, unsure of what to say in the silence. Everybody seemed to be just as unsure as him, hesitant faces seeking hesitant faces. Any other person and he thinks the group would be more assured, trusting their intelligence to not talk themselves into trouble. Alex is the first to break the silence, saying;

'Anyone else feeling like it’s a really bad idea for Hedge to talk to the cops without a lawyer?'

And Alex might be about the biggest, goofiest nerd Lev has ever spoken to, right up there with Reggie - and really, a lot more annoying - but even so, he had to admit Alex was right. The guy might enjoy this club far too much than any normal person should, but out of all of them, he had the closest resemblance to making sense. Not that Lev said it out loud; he only gave a slight nod, looking back at the door. Nothing. Not even murmurs. For all they know, they've already slapped the handcuffs on Hedge and loaded him up for the station.

Alex's voice drew Lev's concern to a new target - Reggie, sickly and pale-looking under the light. The clear sight of developing black and blue made Lev snap to attention in his chair, suspicions confirmed. So those really are bruises; Lev's back straightened in alertness, pinning Reggie with a frown that spelled trouble on the horizon.

''You got beat up, didn't you?'' He accused, searching out all the ticks of lying he's learnt through the years.

''Who was it? What happened?'' Lev ran through the names of people either dumb enough to cause an accident or arrogant enough to start a fight; and he always came back to Harrison. Not many people are permanently stuck in the high school mentality, but Harrison is definitively one that is keeping the mindset alive. Lev's frown deepened, arms crossing on the table.

''Was it Montgomery?''

But before Lev could even attempt to wait for an answer, Angelina - never one to use her brain and ask herself if what she's saying is necessary - just had to comment.

'Lev should have gone first.'

And that. That did it.

Lev's head snapped back to look at her, faster than if she had tried to shoot at him. His frown sharpened into a glare so hateful you'd think Angelina has been the cause of all his life's woes; and if you ask Lev, she's responsible for 92% of them, anyways. Were their coaches here, this would have been a sign to pull out a whistle and get them separated; but this wasn't the field, their coaches weren't here and Lev has had enough of her talking - when what she really should focus on is finding a way to look less she's one of American's most prominent rabies carriers.

''Oh, fuck you,'' He snapped, arms closing in tighter. ''You know what, maybe you should have gone first. For all we know, your daddy has the cops in his pocket about this whole thing.''

He wouldn't be surprised. Fucking rich people and their secrets. Angelina is the perfect example of what happens when you don't know how much minimum wage is. Lev raised his nose in her general direction, letting out a small 'hmph' - he turned towards his best friend instead, giving his shoulder a small bump.

''Isn't that right, Vitto?''

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MOOD

Bad Girls Club; Top Ten Angelina vs Lev Fights.

MENTION

Angelina, Reggie, Vito.

LOCATION

Room M234

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slippery people
talking heads

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[blue-jay]

I didn't know what I was in for When I laid out in the sun. We get burned for being honest. I've really never done anything, for anyone.

clymene allbrook

Minnie could see it: the glimmer in Mira’s eyes, the beginnings of a smile taking shape, the cogs whirring to life in the journalist’s brain. If there was a scoop to be had, Mira was on it with no hesitation, and the recent disappearances were no exception. It was one of the many qualities Minnie liked in her friend. Her passion added much-needed color to Minnie’s life. "There's something to this. Okay, maybe not to questioning us in particular, but I'm sure there's a good reason somewhere... And I intend to figure it out."

Minnie made a doubtful face. “Well, if there is one, I’m sure you got it covered. But I’m not sure the Sheriff would know a 'good reason' if it slapped him upside his head.” Her severe lack of faith in law enforcement started in middle school and only strengthened as she got older, especially with Catsborough’s recent disappearances. Some may have thought she was being unfair, but she had her reasons. In her mind, there was a non-zero chance that the Sheriff was here because he thought the club had kidnapped the victims for satanic sacrifices or something stupid like that.

Minnie watched as Hedge stood and left with the Sheriff, slight worry apparent in her eyes. Most in the club didn’t find him to be the brightest tool in the shed, and Minnie was (honestly) among them. He seemed to be a pretty cool guy, though, and the sight of him getting taken away by the Sheriff made her cringe.

Once Hedge and the Sheriff had walked out, Minnie scanned over the room, gauging the reactions, which ranged from bummed out to very concerned. The anxiety was palpable. “Anyone else feeling like it’s a really bad idea for Hedge to talk to the cops without a lawyer?” She met eyes with Alex after he spoke and felt an understanding pass between them. The pair were usually the more responsible of the bunch and often ended up taking on the task of keeping things from getting hectic. In a situation like this, it would be especially crucial.

She nodded at Alex with a small reassuring smile and went into Club Mom mode.

“Lev should have gone first.” Minnie flicked her gaze to Angelina quickly, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her eyes. Minnie was sympathetic to her dislike of Lev and, likewise, sympathetic to Lev’s dislike of her. It certainly didn’t bother Minnie to see Lev receive a few deserved jabs from time to time. But now was really not the time.

Lev’s sharp response came soon after, causing Minnie to roll her eyes. At this rate, their arguing was only going to worsen the tension and give some of the more sensitive members mini panic attacks. After taking another quick scan of her anxious clubmates, Minnie stood and positioned herself near the front of the room—in front of Officer Sharma, perhaps a coincidence or perhaps an attempt at obscuring him from her friends’ sights to soothe them.

“Ok, let’s use our heads for like two seconds please,” she started, her voice projected and laden with frustration. “Neither of you should have gone first because neither of you did shit. And neither did Hedge. I’ve been with this club for a while, right? And while—yes—I do like some of you more than others, I feel pretty damn confident that none of you kidnapped those people.”

Minnie began circling the room, trying to make eye contact with everyone at least once—though, she decided to skip over Lyall because that would feel a bit awkward for her. Pain flared in her ankle with every step, but she did her best to hide her limp and keep moving. “Just because we’re getting questioned doesn’t mean they think we’re guilty or even involved.” She gave Tarni’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she passed by to calm her. “Cops question innocent people all the time. Yes—sometimes, even on purpose!” A wry smile accompanied the quick jab at law enforcement before she continued, “They might just wanna know if any of us saw the missing people or talked to them or something like that. Just basic stuff.” She directed a thumbs-up at Crow, her old childhood friend, as her circling took her within the stoner’s field of view. “They’ll just ask a few questions, we’ll give a few answers, and we can get back to the good stuff!” She sent a light-hearted smile to the disappointed-looking Sami as she walked.

“And as far as lawyers—we’ll only really need them if Smith tries twisting some words.” She left her statement there but made a humorous face that said the rest: she didn’t think that guy could twist someone’s words even if you gave him a screwdriver. Maybe she was underestimating him, but you’d have a hard time convincing her of that.

Her circling had taken her to Reggie, whom she now stood beside. She lightly leaned into his chair, taking some weight off of her ankle, and released a small sigh of relief. Then, she noticed the DM's paleness and spotted what appeared to be fresh bruises on his face. She leaned towards him to get a better look and her eyes widened; he looked like he'd seen a ghost and then gotten his ass beat by it. “Yo, you good?” she asked instinctively, echoing Alex’s earlier question. Her hand hovered over his shoulder in concern.

mood | trying her best

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location | room m234

outfit | cute colorful + red bandana tied around her hair

tag | everyone Xayah noxrequiem L3n demonology miyabi weldherwings Athens mother of sorrows

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[Gao]

click!

HEDGE.

NICHOLAS SNYDER.

MOOD

INNOCENT. YES.

location

OUTSIDE M234

Mentions

SHERIFF SMITH.

Interactions

VomitIcicle

CHAPTER ONE.

Put your hair away.

Pacified, Hedge settled warily; holding a hand over his soot-black spikes to censor them from the Sheriff's view. Dude I can’t, he’d whisper if without the weight of risk piling on his shoulders, I don’t have a hat.

Their look needled him, and acutely, Nicholas could feel it. Boring through skin and bone to the wall behind him. A wizard scouring for information, a vying tongue flaying and searching for weakness. Akin to a bad omen spoken into existence, Angelina’s warning held heavy as fog.

Don’t admit to anything.

Cleaving upwards and through the glacial chokehold snaring his throat, Hedge allowed the already lax reigns of his mind to go freestyle.

“Not guilty, your majesty.”

The words were easy to take as wry riposte, if not the empty smile genuine in geniality, vacant with intelligence. What greater honour than to bestow a royal title? What greater honor to be chosen first for an interrogation? What greater honor t–

Montgomery.

Hedge’s smile dropped.

Of course.

Distaste curled beneath the tongue, souring the palate. Retaining a marble exterior was futile, wrinkle marring his nose at the unwelcome mention; a boy with hair as impressive as his right-hook, there was no doubt some ill-sentiments harboured for Harrison.

“You listened to a guy with one earring?”

A mused snort, scuffing of shoes.

“Monty’s head is off-balance, it’s physics. Or bad genes, or something. Dunno, but something’s not right with him. Probably eats baby animals.”

The Sheriff reaching to light the cigarette caught between teeth embedded an essence of levity. Informal, watching smoke curl like pale fingers between them.

Through the familiar miasma, suspicion entered Hedge's features.

“What was Montgomery even doing out there? Stalking me? Little one-earring freak, I oughta deliver him the famous Snuckles.”

Hedge didn’t register the tarrying topic, batting attention around as easily as he did with most rationale.

“—That’s short for Snyder knuckles, by the way.”

A passionate head-nod, riling with zealousness.

“Snuckle sandwich.”

The incising look had not been completely lost on Nicholas, and despite his reactive nature, fell silent to the Sheriff’s question. Blinked slow, loading. A skull so empty, driftwood thoughts forming a singular caveman sentence.

“Hedge like rock.”

Reeling himself back into disregarded senses, reigns were pulled in for clarification.

“Not like– tweedle tweedle tweeeeeee,”

he voiced a nasally guitar solo under his breath for example, fading out with an awkward pause.

“I meant like, rocks. Stones, ya know? Yup, Devil’s Creek got neat ones. Been looking for a good rock for a pet.”

A smile so smugly proud found his features, a sway to his body like a lady enjoying the floaty tulle of a new dress.

“I’m a bit of a collector, if I do say so myself.”

Now was the perfect time to building rapport with the Sherriff, sow a seed of trust and glimpse into the deserted shell of the Snyder mind. Affirm that there was no possible way he, darling Hedge, was capable of any missing persons.

“But if I was going to kill someone?"

Admittedly, not a good way to start.

"Gotta chop ‘em up small, right? Sprinkle the bits around, mix them in with some moist compost for the worms.”

A pause. Air freighting with reassessment of those sentences.

“Not saying Lacey got killed and chopped up or anything. That’d be wack.”

Side-eye. Don’t admit to anything.

“Actually I… I think I plead the five– the fifth! I plead the fifth. And the sixth.”

A lukewarm grin hooked his mouth.

“And seventh. Eighth. All of them. Full house, woo! Go fish.”

He was sweating. Eyes flickering back to the door where his trusted council remained, imprisoned.

“Can I get back now? I worry my fair maidens will be missing me.”

Holy Diver – Dio

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

REGGIE H.

THE FOUNDER

He fought the urge to flinch, ultimately managing it as he listened to the old-timer speak; the ramblings of the geriatric, association by family—not by blood, however his parents seemed to adopt people in left and right. Sheriff Smith was no different: grandfather, uncle, whatever he could be classified as, Reggie isn’t past acknowledging him as such. Reggie opted to instead angle himself slightly away from the man’s gaze, a habit yet to have gone unlearned—not out of intimidation, but possible embarrassment. Whatever that was. If he’d been burned alive, it would’ve been a lesser punishment than the perilous concern mended between thin lips.

Reginald, that boy been giving you trouble again?

Uncle, Sheriff, his perception was all the same—albeit accurate. It is only then Reggie responds, blowing stray strands of hair away from his cheeks, “we’ve been over this, unc. It’s Reggie.” So much for establishing one’s identity before pure adulthood. “Hey, we didn’t do shit wrong,” silence follows words, crushes it down beneath the sound of heavy doors slamming with rusty hinges.

The voices seem to clamor with one another, layering against each other in short breaths, Alex being one of the first to speak, followed by Angelina, then another followup of quarrelsome exchanges that only seemed to roughly outline the blown-over problems of the club’s dynamics. Moments like this inhaled the promise of risk, the risk of the club falling apart by the smallest of sentences, and it seemed that Minnie felt near the same sentiment. Tarni's tense body language shares something untold, but knowing her, Reggie would only address it afterward, giving her an expression that crinkled his brows into a furrow. “Jesus Christ, guys! Neither of us should be questioned as Minnie said. She’s right.” No matter the queries, the amount of questioning; whatever target that the club had on their back be it the proximity of closeness in rapport with Lacey or the fact that the town’s DnD beliefs severely shroud all reasoning, prompting a catechizing view connecting DnD to the untrue “Demons and Devils” hype-train, the club—the people in it—are more than just catalysts for the town’s disdain.

Disheartening, the fact that they’d been questioned, the fact that there have already been suspicions made despite the shining fact that the club themselves did more to look for Lacey than anyone else, made even the smallest ounce of rancor that had been residing in his chest. A feeling that he abhorred, but could not shut away.

A discussion made transitioned to concern, mostly towards the bruises he nearly forgot about, light pouring from yellow bulbs highlighting the face he quickly turned away, covered with his hair. “It’s nothin’. Harrison and his guys, y’know what they’re like,” he remained truthful despite not wanting to raise any more concern, what was more important was how they’d all weasel their way out of this ordeal. “If it makes ‘ya feel better, I gave him a good punch before it?” Reggie questioned his own statement, chewing on the dry patch of skin on his bottom lip.

He was quick to brush off the bruising, the evident pain that in his attempts to hide, only seemed to highlight it: had it been the overthinking or the fact that he was, truly, incapable of hiding whatever droplet of emotion he’d felt. His eyes fall to the rest of the club, a lingering eye to Alex before quickly shooing it away and shaking his head, “how ‘bout we do our own investigation, then? Officer Sharma! Instead of harassing a few kids, why don’t you take a stab at being on the other end? I’m sure we got a few juicy questions for ‘ya, don’t we, Mira?” Their nosy, nosy journalist, she oughta pull a few things out of him, right? Surely.

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INTERACTION

everyone in the club, the dean, sheriff smith and officer sharma, dr. symonds

LOCATION

room m234 on campus, dr. symond's classroom

TAGS

blue-jay VomitIcicle noxrequiem L3n ravensunset cavitea mother of sorrows Athens weldherwings Gao demonology xayah. arthur morgan.

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PARANOID
BLACK SABBATH

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[Athens]

Sami Munir

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  today… kinda sucks
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  room M234
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  mentions
  officer sharma, the club
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Lev and Angelina.

Two of the angriest club members, he’s ever met. Everything displeased them to varying levels of irritation, but nothing irritated them more than eachother. Sam tries to keep his distance when the two of them are in proximity to one another; their energy is like two feral cats with never-ending territorial beef. It’s intense and unpredictable, and Sam does not want to be a witness in whatever crime is committed when the two butt heads.

Unfortunately, DND meant that at least once a week the scalding tension that rolled between the two of them was unavoidable. And Sam made it a goal to pretend like it didn’t exist.

Relationships are complicated, okay? You’re friends with that person who knows that person. Those two haven’t spoken in years but they share the same circle. This person hates your guts but you have a mutal friend. People get linked and interwoven in the blink of an eye and one ripple on the outskirts of one person’s circle can tear apart the inner workings of someone else’s. So Sam would rather keep to himself in moments like these and let someone more capable handle the big emotions like…

“Ok, let’s use our heads for like two seconds please. Neither of you should have gone first because neither of you did shit.”

Minnie!

Minnie was great at the peace keeping and unifying odd circles of people. She was a woman of the people, truly.

Sam may be a good listener, but when it comes to action, he’s more of an instigator —unapologetically so.

In some ways, it’s not surprising that law enforcement would turn their gaze to the DND club. In a small town like theirs, no one wanted to point a finger at Susan’s cousin’s kid, so why not that odd bunch of young adults playing that demonic ritual game or whatever. They practically begged to be a target!

Some were more blatant in their targeting of the club members, “It’s nothin’. Harrison and his guys, y’know what they’re like,” like Harrison. But others were more slick about it, like the PTA moms making comments about a teacher when her back is turned. So even if the sheriff didn't come to question members of the club, it was only a matter of time before people started looking at them funnier than they already did, right?

“how ‘bout we do our own investigation, then? Officer Sharma! Instead of harassing a few kids, why don’t you take a stab at being on the other end? I’m sure we got a few juicy questions for ‘ya, don’t we, Mira?”

Finally something that made Sam perk up.

“If we’re asking the questions… You don’t really plan to question all of us today, Officer Sharma? I mean we’re a decent sized club… Surely we can just split this up?”

Did that sound suspicious? Probably a little but honestly Sam didn’t give a shit, because the last thing he wanted to do was sit here.

It was already tense and with each person questioned it would just get tenser as they all wait to go home.

He barely knew Lacey, can't they just round him up tomorrow? He’ll be on his best behavior — a goddamn boy scout— if he can go home sooner rather than later

“I mean if we have to be questioned today, can I go in the first half, because I’ve got work at 6:30 and I’d like to be as far away from this campus as possible — since we’re not doing the DND thing today, y’know?”

He paused for a minute. Remembered that he’d be going to work with his brother, then added as an afterthought,

“No disrespect or anything… sir.”

Khai would kick his ass if he knew he’d talked to an officer like that.

I'm Just a Kid

Simple Plan

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[arthur morgan.]

.scroll

깊은 밤을 날아서 !
— cover by onew & suhyun

mood

sweet yet harsh, was half listening to lev before

outfit

answer

interactions

mentions everyone in dnd; talks to lev and officer sharma

tags

answer

Vittorio

― "The sad clown."

the disappearance of these young girls was unexpected, such a quite little place and someone’s out here snatching innocent people? that’s something you’d hear in big cities, not in sleepy little towns. when he first showed up to Catsborough he figured it would be a good place to start, but he’d say that about anywhere if it meant getting away from his mother and her abusive boyfriend— thankfully he had at least one aunt that would take in a scared little 13 year old. it was a more welcoming experience then back home and that was saying something, but perhaps that was because his aunt had gotten a knock on her door by Lev’s mother. a fancy envelope in hand, requesting that her ‘son’ attend her own sons bar mitzvah— which would then create a domino effect of unfortunate events, but at least he got a best friend out of it though right? he can’t look at meatballs the same though, or nerds.

it wasn’t easy for this ball of energy to make friends, while he tried his best to make people laugh and feel good, it often was out of his own expense. vitto never seemed to mind, never once loosing that big smile on his face in unfortunate circumstances. as if he was resilient towards most insults, deep down a fragile boy is taking all the shots. battered and bruised, shivering and red in the face— a scared little boy that needed love and protection, someone to tell him that the things that happened to him weren’t his fault… but there was no one. vitto was alone for so many years, left to fend for himself in the hell hole that was his home.

the tales of his abuse would not damper his sweet heart however, he refused to turn out how his mother was as he wanted to be better then her. the beatings he got from her boyfriend would not break him, perhaps it horribly cracked the surface— but inside was still soft and tender, an innocence that refused to die out. it must have annoyed chris to no end however, considering his beatings only got worse and worse as the days went on, turning into weeks, months and soon enough it turned into years. a beaten puppy who still wagged its tail, vitto went about life as if he wasn’t living with satan himself— cracking jokes to those that would listen and brushed off when others laughed at him, the yellow of a sponge would soon turn dirty the more it absorbed. leaving a heavy, dirt filled sponge that no one wanted to touch, it would be rung out eventually… and it would start all over again.

no matter how much vitto says he’s doing okay and plastering that award winning smile, underneath is someone that desperately needs to be heard and held. a friend that anyone can depend on, it always a shoulder to cry on and you know you can rely on him making you laugh again, he’s the type of guy you can either cherish and love or take advantage of and most of the time, sadly, vitto would always be taken advantage off— but at least they were paying attention to him right? any attention is good attention, that’s how his brain thought anyway. an attention starved boy being seen, his jokes got him the most attention and the other time his head was being put into toilets are his clothes were stolen after gym class.

after so many years, it seems like vittorio has finally found a group that actually liked him, people that he could actually trust and possibly let them in— it’s not as though he has a harden shell, that was broken a long time ago, it’s simply he’d rather people not know his suffering… vitto never wants to ruin the mood or have people pity him because they should, but for once in his life he feels.. safe? a feeling he’s never had before or that his trust and friendship was given right back to him.. at first it definitely scared him, he wasn’t so sure what to do with it— but the curls of a rambunctious boy in a wizard hat seemed to calm his nerves, or maybe it was the newfound friendship he made with the stick in the mud jock vitto cares so much about. although, he probably wouldn’t admit to you, but getting to know the pretty lady on roller skates and braids— for once he’s felt a ping in his chest that didn’t hurt anymore.

for once in his life he can say he has friends, the charms that jingle against his wrist is like a gentle reminder of who he loves dearly. skating around the roller rink with crow while the two of them hold onto lyall, vitto learning how to speak french with lev in the most chaotic of ways. sometimes you can find him drawing little dicks on mira’s notes when she isn’t looking, or you can find him in his shared room with reggie, doing something fun to his hair— braids, hair dye, big as mohawk’s, hair cuts, you name it. though vitto can’t help but mess with wes, convincing him of things that other people wouldn’t believe or getting him to fall for his yo mamma jokes while alex tries his best to teach vitto math while he tries to converse with him in dwarf speak (what can i say vitto likes one kind of book). the teasing vitto would do with sam, whether he knew sam was trying to one up him or not he liked his company— everyone in the club was important to him, whether they believed it or not.

“isn’t that right vitto”

the sound of lev asking him a question echoed in the back of his mind, snapping him out of his own trance of his own brain. he hadn’t been listening to the argument, the sound of raised voices and disagreements caused him to disassociate. years of drunken slurs and burnt cigarettes, the smell of burnt flesh often followed soon after— he hated fighting, most of the time he suffers through it but some days he randomly will get triggered by them. blinking his eyes like a deer caught in headlights, vitto turned his head to look at lev with his iconic smile

”of course your right, when are you ever wrong”

he said genuinely, letting his orbs cast a quick look at the seething aura that was Angelina, making him press his lips together and just lean into his chair… simply to avoid her rage filled eyes. it wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he just preferred to keep a little distance from the two of them— he might be used to mean girls, but he tries to avoid them… but let’s be honest vitto has at least tried to be nice towards her.. even mean girls have broken hearts.

“why do you have to fight so much with her”

he muttered under his breath, the question directed towards lev but he supposed it was more of a rhetorical.

Neither of you should have gone first because neither of you did shit. And neither did Hedge

the sound of minnie’s voice came through, her tone was that was a mother— which is kinda funny to say the least, but her concern was valid. it wasn’t possibly for any of the club members to have killed these young girls, most of the people here couldn’t even hurt a fly.

you got that right minnie, these guys are wasting their breath.

he said gently, gritting his teeth as he stared at the beat up looking sheriff, rolling his eyes before letting them wonder again. deep within vitto’s stomach was a heat that made him uncomfortable, the need to question them simply because they were an outlier made vitto upset.

why waste precious time trying to pin something on use, when the real killer is out there somewhere.

vitto was never the type to like cops, back home he once lit a cop car on fire— let’s just say he somehow pulled it off, but he doesn’t talk about it that much. while he didn’t like cops, he especially didn’t like the sherif— a drug stealing copper, he felt as though he was the type to be paid off. whether that was true or not wasn’t his concern, knowing that Hedge was going out with him was; he loved Hedge, but sometimes he said things that were questionable— but that’s just who he is, without knowing him you might point the blame.

letting his two green eyebrows push together, he let his eyes follow the two of them leave the room before letting out a gentle sigh

“hopefully hedge won’t act weird, what’s normal to use won’t be towards that stick in the mud. ”

he said quietly towards Lev, shrugging his shoulders “

“But even that con of a sherif could tell he couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone put the right shoes on the right foot. ”

which he did see that boy do, walking around with the wrong shoe on the wrong foot— “ooh i was wondering why my shoes felt different.” he loved him for who he was, not for the lack of brains he had going on. anyway, vitto leaned back into his chair to the point it was leaning on two legs as he crossed his arms behind his head. looking over to Reggie as he started to converse with Sharma, the grumpy yet hot as fuck cop— while he didn’t like his profession, vitto isn’t the type to lie, he was attractive to look at.

“I’m surprised ya’ll are finally taking these disappearances seriously, actually doing your job right”

he said in his usual kind tone and his sickeningly sweet smile, it wasn’t as though what he said was a lie— it’s taken them this long to actually care and do something rather then sit on their asses, so he didn’t feel bad for what he said… though it’s suprising to hear him say something so… crass? blunt? anything that isn’t a joke or something sweet was unusual.

have you seen her? here take this flyer, just in case you happen to see her somewhere.
take this, just in case
please just take it, she needs our help to find her.
every slice of pizza he handed out, vitto would give customers flyers. whether it was smothering to people or annoying, vitto didn’t care— while he didn’t know the girl personally, she was nice to him whenever they crossed paths. if it were him, he’d hope there would be at least someone searching for him… wishing for him to get home safe and alive.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[L3n]

ANGELINA.

THE TRUSTFUND

“You got beat up, didn’t you?”

For the first time since the lights flickered on Angelina’s eyes snapped to the club's leader. Bruises. They looked fresh, too. How did she not notice? Well, she was pretty wrapped up with Hedge. Then Lev pissed her off for existing, it made sense… kind of. Thoughts stirred through her head. Who would beat up Reginald and why?

Montgomery.

Angelina moved a hand out in front of her to analyze her nails. Harrison was her ex-boyfriend. While she won't speak (even think) about the details it was pretty common knowledge. It fit honestly, he would beat up a dweeb. Not one of his redeeming qualities, if he had any left. Speaking of being absolutely horrible Angelina could feel someone gross eyeing her. The barbie barely lifted her gaze to make soul-withering eye contact. Biting back the venom to scowl, which wouldn’t be pretty, she looked at the football player with absolute disgusted indifference. Like one would look at an ant. She knew that would be more effective anyways.

Dog vs cat.

“For all we know, your daddy has the cops in his pocket about this whole thing.''

Angelina rolled her eyes, scoffing. As fast as the words left his mouth her brain whirled, pulling out all sorts of insults her mind had saved just for Lev. She was going to say something so vile his hair would pluck itself from his head, leaving him bald. His teeth would fall out and his skin would age 40 years.

Goddamn it Minnie. Angelina didn’t need a lecture right now. The cheerleader didn’t hate the artist. In fact, she could kind of tolerate her on occasion, which was a compliment in Angelina’s eyes. Right now was not one of those occasions. Angelina had no idea why Minnie brought up being in the club for a long time like that was anything to brag about. “Look at me, I’m a nerd.” Okay, that wasn’t completely fair. The blonde just needed to be mad at someone. Lucky for everyone else Lev is conveniently always there to be mad at. Always. Why did he have to run in the same friend circles AND play football? Where out in the field they had their coaches to stop them in here they had Minnie and Reggie.

It was hard to snap at a kind guy who was covered in bruises though.

“Look at you Lev, being saved by a goodie two shoes,” Angelina slyly jabbed at both of them. The cheerleader then aimed her glare at Vitto. Wrong answer funny man. The clown had cool hair but right now that was about it. Minnie and Reginald had taken mediator approaches but Vitto had obviously chosen his side of the war. Totally unfair of Lev to bring him into this seeing as Hedge, about the only person who didn’t mind Angelina, was conveniently absent.

“How ‘bout we do our own investigation, then?”

That wouldn’t be half bad. It sounded like a lot of work though, and the blonde hoped she wasn’t expected to stay at the club longer than she needed to. Sure, the police wouldn’t get anything done on their own, no matter how fine this officer was. If they wanted to find the missing people they’d have to do it themselves. Or pay someone more qualified to do it. Angelina liked that idea better. Could we do that actually?

scroll

MOOD

don't even look at me rn

MENTIONS

Sherrif, Alex, Hedge, Lev

INTERACTS

mother of sorrows miyabi blue-jay arthur morgan. + the club

OUTFIT

Catsborough's cheer uniform (x) layered with a puff sleeved white mesh button up (x) on top.

LOCATION

Catsborough College Campus; Room M234

scroll

dance with somebody
whitney houston

♦ bad ending ♦

 

[demonology]

by bad ending.

KERO-KERO THE CROW

MOOD:

dreamy, haunted, unnerved, looking at a cute animal

OUTFIT:

shirt [x], skirt [x], shawl [x], shoes [x], earrings [x, x], ex of necklaces (tbh there are probably twenty times more) [x], hair accessory [x], hair style for da day [x]

MENTIONS:

lev, vitto, angelina, hedge, sharma, the sheriff, the whole group.

INTERACTIONS:

lyall [ cavitea ], big money, reggie (technically) [ miyabi ]

– POTHEAD.

Absent, filing under a false name, she watched the cacophony spill from her party’s mouths. She attempted to keep track of the threads, her hands palming them, but her mind flew away from them, making her as lost as a babe in the woods when the rain pours and melts away their careful chalk marks along the bark. Her mother had taught her that once, as they traipsed through the woods that engulfed their home.

“It would be better to leave strips of fabric, but since it’s so sunny out, we’ll just use some clay,” she’d explained, disjointed and withered.

Her profile was set downward, from the lips to her eyes to the whole head itself. Kero had followed suit, watching the leaves crumble beneath her toes. She wore polka-dotted, pink rain boots and a yellow raincoat. It was her only jacket.

Crow became lost in the memory, being led astray into the cauldron of thoughts. A witch was boiling her alive, but she couldn’t decide what the face of said warlock looked like: the old man’s or her own. Studying the edge of the board, she thought about corners, drowning once more in a memory that had been stuffed into brine and left to rot on the mind’s shelf. It was the kind of memory that she only vaguely wore the scent of when she slipped her arms into her red suede or let Vitto pick out a record before sparking up and dishing about whatever Reggie or Lyall had done to piss her off this week.

She felt the whirlpool, and the storms clouded her senses. She feared when her mind warped, knowing that this was the type of high that fried her brain and caused her to shake. It frightened her and suffocated her, fed by the fears of other needles. One of the current ones was watching Hedge be carted off, put under a microscope. Now she felt like the amoeba, watching Officer Sharma overlook them all and seeing as her friends devolved into nonsense.

Then, she was handed a warm, fuzzy, and obesely fat obelisk. The chain bumped against her fingers, chilling them further. Smiling, she looked down to find Big Monkey squirming in her grasp, and she quickly settled him into the folds of her skirt, petting his body sweetly. She looked up and met Lyall’s gaze.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, eyeing the rest of the conversation.

She watched as Vitto backed up Lev, unsure where the conversation turned to hatred being spewed at Angelina. Somewhere, too, attention had been drawn towards Reggie, whose eye turned metallic in the fluorescent.

“Reg,” she spoke softly, barely breaking through the din. The conversation flitted onward, forgetting the comment.

Yet, Crow felt her stomach drop, and a sense of righteousness flooded her. She turned back to Lyall, knowing who was to blame.

“We should show that Harry Ass motherfucker that we do more than roll dice,” her words came out quiet. A perfect median between overly emotional and lacking anything at all.

“You convince Lev to help us, and I’ll work Vitto down and have him help you,” she half-joked, petting Big Money further to soothe both herself and the creature, who sensed something off.

 

[cavitea]

/* ------ right side ------ */

/* ------ image 1 ------ */

mood | stressed, cautiously observant location | not where he wants to be

/* ------ image 2 ------ */

outfit | x.

/* ------ image 3 ------ */

tag | crow demonology , a lot of y'all come get your juice. |

/* ------ left side ------ */

lyall novak

/* ------ main textbox ------ */

We are all born rats and we choose whether to evolve or remain.

One exception to that rule came in the form of light-colored fur, a miasma of shades and speculation that poked a curious nose out from a sport duffel bag on the beginnings of commotion. Hedge had been taken away — an unfortunate choice but one that couldn’t exactly be protested against. A fight simmered in the belly of popularity and burbled and bubbled over jagged teeth with the potential to ruin.

Now, an incitement against a man of the law was spoken by one who had more power over the group of motley nerds than most would appreciate admitting.

Lyall sighed, closing the mental book he was running through in his mind as it became obnoxiously obvious that there would be no time for studying as long as this debacle was going on. Eyes of spring moved, a lazing magnifying glass that peered from the outside in until it settled on dark curls and a wispy atmosphere. He wanted to open his mouth and suggest something, anything that would be better than sitting there the fool, allowing the world to continue.

"Sami ..."

It was a reflection of the one that had his current attention, a grasping whisper into a void unwilling to whisper back. The word was too small for too much notice and Lyall could not rid himself of the feeling fast enough. A hand had moved to the duffel bag and the nose that had been poking out, fingers coiling around the obese animal within and proceeding to slide around and under the table until he could set the creature in unoccupied hands. Crow was a figment of his imagination in most cases; a midsummer night dream doomed to end as the morning sun rose and parted ways took aching souls down the pitter-pattered path of unrequited amoureuse.

Lyall watched her as lips formed words of thanks only to puzzle along the sentences she dropped like leaves on his lap. There was no denying his dislike for Harrison. Ever since they had both stepped foot into the college the two had been going head to head like mortal enemies for the golden spotlight in everyone's heart. Inch by inch Lyall kept ahead of him, lengthy nights and a strained body just barely keeping him in front of the obnoxious footballer.

Fighting, however.

"Yeah, I can do that for you. Since you asked so sweetly." He bit his tongue in a smile he forced, fingers reaching to pet along the curious head of Big Money before knuckles dragged along his current protector. Lyall was tired of being perfect, a face turning towards the artsy one that broke up a starting of the fight and the guys that so eagerly seemed to throw falsities onto Angelina. It was a lot to take in, empathy briefly given to the hazed state of the flower beside him before his body dragged itself like a fish into fire.

"Lev, Vitto. I don't think fist-bumping a sentence of ignorance is going to help the real situation here."

Lyall briefly wanted to lay down and fall asleep instead of speak to them.

"Don't you think there are better things we could be doing about Harrison than harassing Angelina?"

Blonde hair took his focus for a moment. They shared some sort of camaraderie in a sense, both popular and circling each other in social circles like planets out of orbit. Yeah, occasionally he thought that Angelina put on too much of the personality of the popular girl, a stereotypical hole he found so readily filled in the world of cheerleading and sports that tasted of expired spice and wilted roses. A parent, however, was no reason to butt heads with another. He had been blessed enough in the smothering of love to understand the misfortune others experienced, teeth rolling over his lip in thought before again he found limbs untangling and a struggle to stand.

An ankle pulled against him, the scratching of the sock that taunted him like Minnie had avoided him. She was limping, why couldn't he?

"Crow, take care of Money for me for a second, yeah?" Softened words that spoke of the way he wanted to lay down instead of get involved. He wasn't about the follow the suggestion of Reggie and get involved with Sharma; a record too clean that couldn't risk the loss of status for bickering with the law. Instead he could focus on Harrison and the way he deserved to be knocked down a few pegs if only for the sake of beating up people out of left field. It's like high school but worse. He wished to sigh once more, a rolling of neck and shoulders popping the muscles that begged from hours of practice to be left alone.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.