Log:Glass for The Fool

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Glass for The Fool
Characters  •   The Fool  •  The Visionary  •  The Addict  •  The Coward  •  The Caregiver  •  The Capitalist  •  The Penitent  •  The Martyr  •  The Creepshow  •
Location  •  The Facility - Parlor
Date  •  2019-03-05
Summary  •  A gathering in the parlour, and sudden violence!

WIth the changes having overcome the main parlour, Penitent can be found on the floor. She's right before that antique radio cabinent. Dressed in her black slacks and black singlet top, though she's got Emily's sunglasses perched up on her head for some reason. She's staring at the old radio, fiddling with it a little. Mostly the sound is all awkward static. Annoying and irritating, as she's moving the thing along slowly. Occasionally she finds actual music, or an audio drama, straight from the era the radio looks like it's from. But she keeps on turning it, wondering what it means.

Well, it's probably pretty obvious what it means. Things they've seen in this very spot have very much lead to where they're going next. Still, it's a curiosity, and something new to play with for a few moments distraction.


The Martyr is dressed in black toreador trousers, a very frilly black poet shirt and a purple velvet paisley from coat. He strolls out of the kitchen with a large tumbler of something the wrong red for wine. "I wish I knew how to dance to this stuff. What are you looking for, programming wise. I got a Shadow serial and some dance music a while ago."


Having spent some time this day in his room, reflecting on several many things about his accumulation of past memories and things of that nature, The Capitalist kept himself busy with his notes, after a quick shower and getting dressed. He's dressed in business casual attire, something which those in the Facility are probably used to seeing him in by now. Today it's a white buttoned down shirt, tan slacks, black dress shoes a tie. He even has Conrad Wellson's watch around his wrist, something which has been absent for the past few days as he's sorting out his memories, especially his most recent one.

Once he's done with noting everything that he recalls from the life of Christian Price, familiar faces etc, he rises from his desk to venture out for a much needed cup of coffee. Once in the hall, he can hear the sounds of the radio playing. He'd noticed it earlier on his way to get his first cup of Joe and found it rather disappointing as they were now missing a mostly useless, but at least more modern television.


At some point after the initial rough 'day' has cycled in the Facility for her, and whatever time spent holed up since self-occupying, the Caregiver finally comes out for a more public form of adjustment that isn't limited to certain company helping her get her bearings and general sanity. And she's probably intending on getting something from the dispensary, something stiff from the grumpy look of her as she steps into the hallway. But she steps out right around the same time as the Capitalist moves out ahead of her with the door right next to her own, and after a tiny breath held pause, she knits her brows a bit.

But after kind of stalling in her doorway a moment, she trails after with casual stride in her designer cream colored stilettos that match the leggy slacks and camisole and jacket she's wearing. She's made herself up to sheer radiance and style, hair sleekly curled and a little longer here in this place, at least giving the appearance of being perfectly lovely and together and then some, as intended.

She pauses there and puts her hands on her hips to watch Emily tinkering with the radio, looking at the thing with unease that steals her focus from the people for a moment.


"I'm not looking for anything, really," Penitent says over her shoulder as she keeps slowly turning the dial. "I'm just seeing what all there is. Who knows, I might end up taking this whole thing apart. Where is it getting its signal from?" There's a small little smile. "For that matter where'd the teevee get it's signal from too, who the hell knows." She pauses proper to look over the Martyr, considering him. "Hell you could always like, go into one of them rooms and have yourself some lessons on dancing to this stuff, if you wanted to learn. Or read a book on it. There's bound to be one," she gestures at the shelf.

Seemingly in something of a tinkering mood, which makes her Kylie persona feel closer to the surface, she nods a little to him. "Seems like that's all there is on this thing, though. Call it a foolish hope." A shrug and she goes back to turning the dial. She's just itching to take the whole thing to pieces, barely even noticing the approach of others right away.


The Martyr waves at the former Joshua/Christian and gives him a friendly enough smile, "I heard you were back. I fear I've forgotten what to call you now. I'm Dare, by the way, but it's okay if you forget." When he spots the woman behind, his smile widens and he calls, "Laine!" With real delight. He now knows now better than to approach people on first remeet, but he does set down his tumbler.

The differences between the Martyr and Finn are subtle. He is the same age, with very similar hair, though slightly longer, and in a slightly different cut, and is still long limbed and gangling. Though he remains very thin, he is wiry with it instead of borderline emaciated. He nods to the Penitant, "I've so much to learn, it's hard to keep up." He is more relaxed than he ever was at Beaver Lake, and strangely serene. That strong drive to be doing that characterized him from the moment he stepped out of the car by the Boathouse seems to have drifted away.


Hearing first the door opening up behind him then the clack of stiletto heels, the Capitalist pauses only briefly in his steps to take a look over his shoulder to find that the Caregiver had decided to venture out at this same time. Waiting for her to catchup, he continues on his way when she reaches him, proceeding into the parlor. He's actually seen the Martyr from time to time. The Capitalist had woken up in the Facility for a while now, long before those who died in the last battles and then the survivor arrivals. "O'Neil." He says in a sort of greeting, but doesn't look like he's about to stop any time soon. Coffee is an important part of the food pyramic of nutrition and he won't care to listen to any naysayers who think otherwise.

When O'Neil introduces himself as Dare, however, there is a quirk of his brow but it's not something he cares to address at the moment. Instead, the Penitent and the radio capture most of his attention on passing. "Yeah, I saw that earlier. Which, if I've gotta be honest, gives me a really bad feeling." He says of the radio. Look, he's lived through 1902 Wild West Nevada. The lifestyle is far different from the creature comforts that his other personas are used to. Hearing that she wants to take it apart, he doesn't hesitate to say, "You know what I'd say. Go ahead and do it. Though I'm not sure what clues or anything we'll find in the electronics in this place, but it might be good to know how things are wired. The television, especially. Where was the programming coming from?" But even that's gone.

Disappearing into the dispensary, he presses a few buttons then awaits his cappuccino, lingering in the doorway with his arms crossed as his mug is being filled.


Whatever she was going to get from dispensary is forgotten for the time being with that pause of hers, but when the Capitalist keeps walking to go get his caffeine fix, she murmurs a delayed greeting since they collided, "Hey, lovely." And her eyes wait til he's turned some to track him in brief. Then she looks back at the radio and the Penitent for a quiet beat, eyes flitting right back to the antique tech with a hint of dread and pondering.

Laine, as Finn knew her, she rarely played dressup the whole time at the Lodge, save for the time she was on stage and on a private date with ol' Joshua Gray to kill time in their room and cope. And this woman, the Caregiver, she's admittedly a little different, not just in her flashy feminine designer style and made up presentation with longer hair. She also doesn't seem to have much of a poker face in here in the name of calm given the way she's just staring at that radio while it's tinkered with. Her glossy painted nails dig a little into her hips as she stands with something like agitation and some kind of visible urge to ruin it, where Penitent wants to take it apart in a different way.

But, once she actually falls out of that moment of internal fight or whatever it was that antique radio triggered, her mood outwardly takes a turn when she's addressed by one of her names-- instantly, she's sheer unreserved warmth that spills out on seeing and hearing Finn, or who she knows as that, "... Finnekins? You weren't here when I was here last, were you? Oh, honey. Come here, you brave lil' flyer posting madman."

She has a vague hint of drawl on her words where Elaine did not, suitable enough, given how richly honeyed they are with feeling. And she starts moving with arms out for an arm's length reach and look at him before she can fully step to initiate hug.


The 'O'Neil' gets a smile. It's not him anymore, but the Martyr liked being that him. "I admit, I'm not mechanically inclined, but it _is_ nice to know how things work." He quietly clocks the body language and expressions of the former Monkee and former honorary monkey, but keeps his thoughts to himself. He comes all smiles to give the Artist Formally Known as Laine a big, warm hug. He is more substantial than he was, but still very Finn-sh. "I wasn't. I'm new but I'm adjusting. I really am glad to see you; I was worried. What should I call you now. I'll write it as a gloss, those seem to persist."


Glancing over when Martyr is making noises at the present of others, only then does Penitent notice the arrival of Capitalist and Caregiver. Her expression changes to something more thoughtful as she considers the pair of them, just briefly, nodding to the Capitalist as he keeps on moving. "Could have been some kind of tape mounted inside the thing to keep the video data on," she suggests mildly. The programming didn't have to come from anywhere in particular, though her knowledge of technology comes from a weird future that was imagined in the 1970's, so actual modern, or in this case, antique, tech works rather differently. "No fucking sign of any tv mounts though, or anywhere the cables would've been, or anything at all." She shrugs. This is not entirely unsurprising. "You know as well as I do there'll be no clues."

She's quiet a moment as she keeps turning the dial, and shifts her gaze towards Laine, inclining her head as the woman stares at the radio itself, and then the sudden outburst of emotion for Martyr, her head tilting and brows lifting up. "Mmm, hi," she says in her simple, pleasant tones, offering a flicker of a smile.


It doesn't take long for the mug to be filled, which makes the Capitalist retreat back into the room to scoop it up in hand for that first delicious sip. Other sort of food can come later. In here, eating was more for pleasure anyway. So with his newly begotten ambrosia in hand, he steps on out to towards the others, eyes on casually on the hugging going on, but his attention is back on the radio.

The Capitalist, for the most part, could be considered similar to what Finn knows of Christian Price/Joshua Gray. A little older, perhaps, but it's hard to tell. Otherwise, some of his mannerism seems to be the same and the way in which he talks. "A radio like that," He starts, considering everything he knows about history from some of his various more modern-day memories, "would be from the 1920's? 30's? Some of the tunes on it definitely sound like the 30's." Another sip is taken from his mug, "Don't know if we're going to be playing gangsters or what this go. Let's hope it's not another mining town."


"I didn't think so, but then, there were faces here too that hadn't had a life yet and I never really knew many of them. It was my first time after Prosperity and I-- drifted through like a dream, adjusting and thinking it was a bit of a magical afterlife because I didn't know anything but ah. Turn of the century era. Not to say the eighties have done me too much better in adjusting to the particular way of this place, as far as technology and options go." She's chatty in spill, the Caregiver is, and to Penitent and the Capitalist, it's echoes of Eilis, or admittedly Laine when overexcited, here and there.

The warmth remains with ease and seems to be doing her own mood a turn to a degree, hands going in brief to the Martyr's face for a tactile look at him up close when the hug is through. Then finally she steps back away from that fragrant wash in his personal little bubble, wondering before her hand flips dismissively, easily explaining, "Are you settling in alright? Actually, don't answer that, I know there's not words for some things. You can call me whatever you feel comfortable calling me. I've never had to make that decision before and I stuck to Eilis the first time because it was all I knew. But I'll answer to Laine or Elaine just as well. They're still me just fine."

She looks as if she's about to ambush the Penitent in a hug next, the way her foot shuffles with step, but then she snap points to the dispensary to go that way in brief, "I'm going to get my bottle and glass before I go passing the hugs to that girly at the radio, who knows who else is going to wander in and distract me, I feel the need to be prepared. Excuse me a tick." Her fingertips tickle in reaching brief at the Capitalist's midsection in his leaned pose with his cup in passing to briefly disappear.


One last fiddle with the dial and Penny leaves it sitting on a piece of music rather than static, turning the volume down just a touch so it's more of a background thing. She gives the cabinet a proper look for a few long moments before nodding to herself, as though some plan or another has been settled on, and then climbs on up to her feet, brushing down the slacks she's wearing briefly. "The time period would still allow my theory to hold true, on always dealing with the past, though I guess everything is someone's history, it'd be the first time we might be actively dealing with our own history proper if it had something to do with Zeb." She suggests mildly, nodding at the Capitalist.

She does arch her brows a little as Cargiver seems about to move towards her, and then chooses not to, inclining her head slightly, tracking her departure with a vaguely unreadable expression before shaking her head a little. "But there's no way to know what we'll be, I suppose." She says, switching back to the threads of her conversation with Capitalist after glancing at Martyr for just a moment longer.


To Penny and Christian, the Martyr says, "From what I've seen of Prosperity, I'm happy to have missed it. The music sounds about right for then. It played "Puttin' on the Ritz," but that clearly wasn't taco, and that was definately Louis Armstrong singing a love song I heard when I was listening earlier. Who's Zeb?" To Laine he says, "I've seen one new guy so far. He's calling himself Boots." He doesn't seem to mind the touching. He just gives her a gentle smile, "I thought I was completely crazy at first; I was greeted by Cheer right out of the door." Who he'd bbeen hallucinating. "This place is very strange. I can only imagine how strange affter where you were first. I really am fine, Elaine. You know me. Freak out a little. Feel what needs feeling. Adjust. I was lucky. The ones I cared most about made it here. The not being me thing was hardest, but I think I like this me too."


The Coward didn't, it seems, fall back into his mid-40s body that he's had every time previously. No sir, he's somehow kept the ridiculous, sleek, muscled body of Colorado Jones, 25 years old. He's not dressed like him, though. No tiny crop tops or ball-hugging Wranglers in evidence, only boring old-people clothes. He walks into the parlor, stride vigorous. "Heard music."


"And now there's word that those doors," The Capitalist directs his own attention to the pair of mystery doors there, "lead to a proper, abundant world rather than ghost towns. I don't know what to think about that. Are we actually at that place and time once we enter? Will we meet up with familiar faces?" Though in his mind, he does wonder if they'll meet with faces that they've known before-- known /here/ in fact, but who are gone now. "I'm willing to test some of that out." What starts as a bold enough statement is marred with some hesitation towards the end. What if he met up with Maata in those rooms, but it's something he needs to see for himself if it were even possible.

Hearing all of these odd names mentioned, the Capitalist's brow furrows and he just has to murmur, "A name that someone is calling themselves?" But he does go on to add, "Though I wonder if we already know them by a different name." All of these other petnames also looks to annoy him and it's clear on his features, not something that he's hiding even if he tries his best to ignore the mention of them.

A smile is given over to Caregiver when she teases at him before sauntering off for a drink, his eyes trail behind her a moment, before addressing what Penny had said. "You're right. I mean, Prosperity was one thing. A place far off the beaten back path in the day. What's the chance that we'll be anywhere near there again after, what? 30 years?" He looks like he's about to sip from his mug, before he adds in with a murmur, "Let's hope we don't regret not banishing him to the depths of Hell."

That's when Colorado enters and... that's the only name he knows for the guy, but rather using the first name, he uses the familiar, "Colton." In greeting. "And yeah. Our flatscreen was replaced by this. So you know what that probably means." Time travel! He then states, "Zeb was the Hargreave family's personal demon. While we banished the others in Prosperity, we let that one go."


"Oh, honey. I wrecked my whole room this time, the first time I thought it was demons playing tricks on me and wouldn't come out, I'm sure you're better at me in the handling department, already. But we make due." There's a call over her shoulder as the dressed up brunette moves toward the dispenser, speaking to Finn on her way out. Then she's back after a bit.

The Caregiver returns with a bottle of extremely aged strong brandy and not just one, but a few glasses just in case. One of them, though, has already been wetted because she spent time at the dispenser taking a good double nip and leaning with her hands on the counter for a private beat before returning to the room. She pulls that one on the table toward her with scooting to pour into, then puts the bottle down between the clean glasses before gesturing to who she saw last as Emily with step near the Penitent, going to get a leaning back and forth rock of hug in that's warm and genuine, but it doesn't come with the spill of chatter as came for Finn. Nevertheless, it's not diminishing, and she had seen the woman during a Paris visit that seems not like so long ago, but forever away, "... hey you."

On draw back, she seems to be listening to the back and forth of conversation among the other female and the Capitalist, and the Martyr too, briefly contemplative. Expressions are such a thing on her here, even though she's always had expressive eyes in any guise. Here, though, they're just all face. And speaking of expressions? When she sees and hears Colorado, she downright grins.

After stepping closer, she gets out of one heel, then the other, like she's preparing for something physical. Then she puts her arms out and waits for the superhugswing she's demanding and he knows it, "Hey cowboy. Someone was my big damn hero, once."


The Penitent says, “Beelzebub," Penitent explains further for the Martyr, nodding. "My family's benefactor. Pretty reasonable guy. For a demon, anyway. He's something else." Inclining her head at Capitalist, she considers further. "The chances are pretty high honestly. Or they're not. It either will be or won't be. But we're always dealing with someone's history -- Akala, or even the Lost Tribe's history. Sevastopol Station's history, and the Nostromo. Generations of history in Prosperity, back to the founders making that deal. And even our most recent go round was dealing with the fallout of events thirty years ago, which in turn were about things happening years before that too. So, the time frame could be right to be dealing with our own history."

There's a glance at the returning Caregiver, and the hug is something that is returned, though she's got a lot more confidence about her than someone like Emily. Far more comfortable in her own skin, leading to a much more Anette-like hug. "Hey," she echoes back. A glance at the doors to the 'magic rooms' and she considers them a moment, inclining her head. "I've some thoughts on that, but they can wait," she mentions back to Capitalist, before considering Colorado at length. She never really met him at the Eager Beaver, and his youthful appearance doesn't cause her to make the connection to the Colton she knew, until others speak of it at aleast, and she blinks a little.”


The Martyr does his best not to look directly at colorado, but Finn-like he still manages to surrepticiously look. "We needed something to call the new guy since he hadn't been anyone else before." He sips his juice, having had the name arguement several times since he got here already with other oldtimers. The 'depths of hell' reference is enough to enlighten him about the basics. He mentally files the names 'Beelzebub' and Gargreave' for later. "You didn't banish all the demons? Why?" His tone is curious, rather than accusatory. Life gets pretty messy out there.

He eyees the bottle, taking in the wet glass with the dry, "I don't think I've had brandy before." It's not a 'no.' Then he's grinning at Colorado after all, "See? It's not just me."


The Coward nods to the Capitalist with a faint smile. "McTavish. Good to see you without quite so many holes in you. Guess we're headin' back in time again, hm? Or, well, who knows what time it is *now*." The Caregiver demands her hug, and he laughs and sweeps her up. And spins her around, too! When he sets her on her feet, he kisses her forehead. "I did that in a sheer panic." He touches his hat to the Martyr, and to Penitent, grinning. "Dare. Miss Nettie."


"If that's true," And the Capitalist hopes it isn't, "Then maybe you're right and whatever we're jumping into next has to do with..." Here, he draws in a deep breath, "What we did, or in this case, didn't do, back in Prosperity." See, they may not be in Prosperity anymore, but just the mention of Baelzebub runs a shiver up his spine. 'Never speak their real names.'. He can hear his father... no Cillian's father and uncle telling him. That said, Baelzebub was his own personal demon, so that makes him all the more uneasy. Nevertheless, he'll let Penitent explain why Zeb was not banished.

When Colorado reminds him that Price had be shot to death, the Capitalist's response is to take yet another sip of Capuccino from his mug as he tries not to relieve that last moment in his mind. "Right..." Though, hearing the name McTavish does bring back both fond and horrible memories. For now, he simply watches this hug fest between the Caregiver and Emily and then the far more rollercoaster of a hug that is shared between her and the Colton.


"Tch. I did everything in a state of panic or desperation, trust me, it works sometimes. Eilis is kind of fucking horrified about Elaine's handling of things, Miss Iron Spine and lemons into lemonade grace, but I think she'll stop yapping in my head at some point. Maybe." The kiss is returned to the Coward's cheek as the Caregiver clicks her tongue and speaks with dry fond advising and just as dry commentary on what exactly round two might be causing with lashback. She's easy enough about it, though, but the commentary about holes and who the Capitalist was has her kind of looking down with drop of lashes, spending a little longer than is strictly necessary while wiggling feet back into her designer stilettos.

She crosses the floor to pick up her glass for a long drink, then pours a little nip into one of the clean glasses she brought for the Martyr to try, holding it outward in her other hand, "So many had already fallen to the ones that wouldn't relinquish claim on the land, it might have wiped the rest of us out, for one, but..." She too lets Penitent explain, it was her Family's demon afterall.


The Addict emerges from the hall of rooms. They're in a loose black tunic dress made of satin, with a faux fur tan coat over it. Clean-shaven, legs smooth and sleek, with their hair loose and wavy, they certainly seem to be embracing their feminine side. Though it would be awesome to be barefoot right now, past experience has taught them to at least wear sandals, in this case a cute black pair with low heels. Also, their makeup is on point.

They smile tentatively when they spy new faces. Well, not new faces, but new to them this time around. "Hello," they say. "How's everyone doing tonight?" Though with that Jersey accent, so say goodbye to the 'r' and 'g' sounds at the end of their words.


"We didn't banish him because he conceeded and agreed to leave us alone. Most've the other demons was tryin' real hard to get us to fall in line and keep payin' our dues." Talking about this stuff, that drawl just comes back into her voice, and she switches first person rather than talking about it like it happened to other people. "Ain't nothin' like a demon wants to feel the freely offered blood of a family sacrificed, and most've 'em were practically starvin', livin' on scraps rather than what we were s'posed to pay 'em. They got angry, hollerin' and threatenin' and when we challenged 'em and threw down proper most of 'em tried real hard to torment, torture and kill us for darin' to stand 'gainst em. Not Zeb though, he saw we'd prob'ly win and he just asked to be left alone, agreed to leave us alone, and went on his merry way. We were free."

Hands resting at the front of her waist, she grins a little at Colorado, reaching up as though to touch her fingers to the brim of her own hat. "Reckon I can't remember the last time I saw you lookin' so fine, Mister Colton." There's probably some snippet somewhere in Nettie's memories where she knows she knew Colorado when they were both much, much younger. After a moment, she moves across the room, finding her spot on the couch and setting down into it, legs curling beneath her as she falls into a contemplative thoughtfullness.


The Martyr gives a little bow in response to the hat touch. His eyes widen when he sees how unsettled the once Cillian is. "This demon? Did it agree to leave other people alone or just the Prosperity people? Di you have a competent lawyer to make the contract?" He sets the juice down to try the brandy. not having paid enough attention to the right sort of movies, it doesn't occur to him to swirl it or warm it in his hand first. He simply takes a small sip and after some contemplation pronounces, "Oh! I think I like this." And then he's turning towards a voice that's becoming increasingly familiar, "How is it that you are stunning in every outfit, Love?"


Colorado Colton was frail even in his youth. The Coward, in Jonesy's body, is excessively and outrageously healthy. "Pshaw, you'll turn my head with that talk," he answers the Penitent, amused. "Would you pour me some of that, Eilis? ...Sorry, everybody gets to be named from Prosperity today, I s'pose." He flashes a wink at the Martyr, yeah he saw him looking. "Howdy, Briar," he adds, as the Addict comes in.


Despite his own relationship to Baelzebub, the Capitalist does relay, looking somewhat thoughtful, "The other demons were far more terrible than Zeb." Though his eyes lift here to meet with the Penitent, sharing a look with her, as they both know full well what the deal that he'd made with that particular demon. "Our own demon, the McTavish clan, was an outright bitch and just as we were completing the challenge she set for us, she forfeited it in her bout of spite and rage by attacking me. So yeah, there were demons that needed to be banished and then there was Zeb."

There was something endearing about listening to Anette speak again through the Penitent, bringing back Cillian McTavish and all of those fond memories that they'd shared together. "I wonder what became of the place after most of us upped and left when we did."

With the Addict's presence being made, while he'd known him as Martin Munson back in Prosperity, he has a far better connection to him as Danny from the Lodge, being his drug dealer and all. The outfit is given a quiet look, but rather than comment on it, he decides to say, though he's pretty sure everyone here already knows, "Looks like we're heading back into time again."


The Caregiver side-eyes the Capitalist for a moment after that tick of bother on her and him alike while nursing her drink, then, even though he has his coffee, she not only makes Colorado a good pour, but sets her own glass down to take two pours for handing out. She delivers to the Coward first, easily responding to Eilis and making a noise of dismissal in her throat at the apology. Then she delivers the other to the Capitalist, hand reaching in brief to touch at the small of his suited back after. Then she does a bit of a double take at the Addict, because she knows he crossdresses from the first go 'round in the Facility, but she saw him last as her Songbird who... was bleeding and mangled on the cavern floor and picked up and carried out when they were done.

She stands and swallows thickly for a moment while listening to Penitent make the explanation for the Martyr, then her hand reaches out with beckoning curl of fingers and lift of arm outward, slowly stepping who she saw last as Danny's way, "C'mere, Songbird."


Only by the magic of the Facility is the Visionary not dead of alcohol poisoning, most likely. Her door is just across the hall from the Addict's, in the Hall, and maybe she's what's summoned now by the mention of Zeb. A single brow shoots upward, and she calls out, "Sounds like he's been on a lot of minds, of late. Zeb, that is," in advance of her even fully making her way out of the room. There's a glance through the door into the room, and a tiny shake of her head before she fully step out and heads into the parlor proper-like, leaving the door ajar behind her. At least all the faces are familiar, this time, and she offers up a smile, and the flicker of a wave. Hints of lazy, rumpled hangover are just how she looks here.


"Just us. Fact was most've us didn't much care 'bout anyone else but our own. We were the families of Prosperity. Remember, Finn, I was an outlaw, likely to be hanged sure as I could say half a word in my defense if the law caught up with me. More likely to be shot when they tried to take me in, though. I wasn't much carin' 'bout what else Zeb might get up to. We didn't make a contract, we merely dissolved the one we was under and went our seperate ways -- the only lawyer I remotely knew wasn't much to be trusted, given he was thinkin' more along the ways of Widow Munson from what I heard tell." Penny shakes her head a little after that, glancing up at Addict and offering a pleasant little smile which is completely at odds with the strong sense of her Nettie persona.

The grin that follows is offered at Colorado, "Well we can't be turning your head now can we." She muses, before her gaze drifts lazily over the Caregiver. There's a faint little smile before she nods at Capitalist finally. "Like as not it's a ghost town, remnants of the people who once were, and a place people wonder about. Whatever happened to Prosperity, they'll say. One flood season hit pretty bad, the Hargreave vinyards went up in a disaster and the silver mine ran out and that was that." And then there's a bright kind of smile for Visionary, and a beckoning gesture for the woman that's been her sister, and has never been her wifi tech.


The Addict makes their way over to the Martyr, wrapping their arms around his neck. He gets a kiss, and then Briar looks to the radio with a small frown. "Looks like," they say to the Capitalist. "Man, it's just never going to be easy to be me, is it." Another kiss on Dare's cheek, and they offer a shy smile to Colorado. "Looking good," they say to him.

They come over to Laine, arms out to wrap her in a hug. "Lainey," they murmur. "It's so good to see you." Their voice is raw with emotion. Even if Slasher was just another scenario, it felt real damn it, and Laine lived. They sniffle and look up at Vis, and they offer her a warm smile.


"Thank you, sweetheart." The Coward takes the brandy. He sips it, rolls it around in his mouth, nods approvingly. He hikes his eyebrows back at Briar, saucily. Then he props up a wall, listening to the others explain Prosperity. What an explanation it is, too. "Mo was the Colton demon. The General of Hell. I might've fooled myself into thinking he was fond of us. Maybe he was, but it didn't stop him from killing when it was his turn to get banished. Can't expect too much of a demon." The Visionary appears, and the Coward smiles at her. "Well, hello there."


The Martyr's cheeks colour slightly at the wink, "It's okay. I am trying to learn the Prosperity names anyway. This place could really use handouts." He has another sip of the brandy, a little less cautious this time. He looks at the Visionary with some concern, "How are you feeling?" He looks sharply at the former Emily, "That's really concerning." He kisses Briar, as if this breif moment were the most important in the world. He settles on the sofa to sip his drink. "I supose I should attempt to read up. I was an atheist and so even more behind here than in most things."


When the Penitent continues on in Nettie fashion, the Capitalist's gaze lingers on her, listening to the drawl and that bit of outlaw sass in her voice. "Anette's right. While we were just a bunch of townfolk protectin' our families, many of us, not all, but many had our own dark side. Things that we may or may not've been proud of, back then. Even now, thinking back on it all."

With the mention of Mo, the Capitalist remembers that particular banishing and the heavy toll that they paid for it. Though when the Martyr mentions handouts, he can't help but close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, "No thanks. I'd veto the fuck out of any more handouts." His eyes blink open , hand lowered, "Though I think Jody's been posting information for people to read. Last I heard anyway." His shoulders shrug, taking another sip of his coffee before moving forward to take a seat near Penitent, "I've got my own notes."


"Hey babydoll. You... oh you." Her tone of voice is almost dismal and proud at the same time and it's clear what she's seeing there for a moment in her head, spurred by the Addict's very presence. At least Caregiver prepared with waterproof mascara in her dolled up state, because when she's hugging on the Danny she saw dead, not Danny at all, but enough so, especially when he says her name in such a way... the waterworks finally start, despite her taking the constant nips of strong brandy like she was preparing for it to happen at some point here in the parlor with someone. But it's controlled enough, and she eventually stops clinging and squeezing to draw back and touch his hair with brief arranging, in Briar state, "You're very pretty today."

Then she pulls her hand back to wipe briskly at her face, nodding familiarly to the Visionary with a passing fond smile as she goes to grab her drink back up with turn. Apparently, she was pretty on point with getting the drink bottle before she got caught up in hugs, because that's how many now? Considering she's looking like she's feeling them all in different ways for one reason or another, she's hitting that glass kind of hard, but her eyes are just wet shimmer instead of tears, at least. She posts up with bump of hip on the table edge to look at what's left in her glass and listen while swirling it.

Then the Martyr is talking about handouts and she just groans his way.


"Zeb and I had a chat," says the Visionary, like she has some kind of business chatting up demons. Spoiler alert: she doesn't. "He talked to He-Kirk, some, too. Film Kirk, you'd remember him as, if you didn't meet Heck back in Prosperity." Dimly aware that there were two Kirks, she briefly flails through a hand gesture or two before she clarifies: "Bigfoot guy? He was our champion, handling all matters Zeb, back in town." She explains as she makes her way into the main area, offering an arm to lead into a hug for the Penitent, the person she's known here the longest, to be sure, if she's up for it. "Sis. Saw little sis the other night, too," she greets more personally. She never ran into Laine directly at the lodge, but Eilis' face is familiar, and she, too, gets a pretty huge smile from the freckle-faced redhead. "Hey, 'Rado. Briar. Dare." She just leaves a blank for the Capitalist, unsure of what name he prefers this time around, but that she knows to pause to wait for it to be offered says enough. "I'm glad to see so many familiar faces, this time." There is most assuredly another hug waiting for the Caregiver, too.

There is a pause, and it's the Martyr's question that gives her a moment's silent consideration. "Unless I hallucinated it -- which is entirely possible, considering? Caught up with him later, before the lights went out. Or I maybe died of alcohol poisoning. Not that it'd really be possible to tell, here. I half remember mention somewhere along the line seeing if we might not track Zeb down for another little chat, seeing as there have been changes." Her eyes flick toward the doors, and her lips purse mildly.


"There's no reason to think we're in the exact same ... reality, every time. Given the way we dip in and out of these lives, we can't be sure that anything we do matters to any other situation." Penitent says with a shrug of her shoulders for the Martyr, nodding at Capitalist. She does lean into the hug offered by Visionary, giving her a small, Penitent style smile. "We were talking about it because of the antique radio instead of the tv," she gestures, "which the Kylie in me wants to take apart and try to figure out. See, I have this theory that we're always dealing with history. The island was the lost tribe, the Noc was the history of Sevastopol, Prosperity was our forefathers making deals, and the Lodge had these old rituals and massacre anniversaries." She gestures. "But by the looks of that radio we might end up close enough in time to see some of the aftermath of what happened. Depending when exactly, and where, and who, we are." She shrugs a little. "Naturally, that led to talkin' 'bout Zeb." That explanation given to Visionary, there's a brief little smile.

Peering across to the doors, she nods slightly. "I dunno about that though. Given the way the place drew on whatever we consciously wanted it to be -- or subconsciously -- I reckon the people inside might to. We can probably meet anyone, but I don't think it'd actually be them. Otherwise ..." she just trails off, and shakes her head.


The Addict hugs Caregiver fiercely. The Danny hugs live on in them, so there's that. "I didn't want to leave you, doll," they murmur. "I'm sorry." Because even if the sacrifice was necessary, it was upsetting. They draw back and smile softly. "Thank you. You're pretty, too."

The groan Martyr's way gets a laugh from them, and they go to sit beside him on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. They take his hand, quite comfortable with their affection. With a glance at the radio, their lips purse, and they say, "I wonder if I'll see my daughter again. She'd be all grown up, maybe with a kid of her own."


The Martyr says, “Which one is Jody?" He nods, "I am following, but that you very much for checking." His eyebrows go up, in response to the Visionary, "Were you talking to zeb in an Anywhere room or are you talking about the past?" He lifts the addicts hand to brush lips across their knuckles, then offers them a sip of his brandy. "She'd be older than you are now, wouldn't she? If i've got a correct idea of the timeline."”


The Coward gets a little, okay more than a little, alarmed when Visionary says she talked to Zeb. "Well, what'd he say?"


There's a knit of consternation at the Caregiver's brow, suddenly, while she's looking at her glass and not really at anyone else, but it's unclear which commentary quite set her off. She drifts her eyes down the adjacent hallway, then she looks at the Coward for a long moment with contemplation, then she looks back at the Visionary. After pulling in a shallow breath, she finishes her drink and goes over to step and wrap the latter in hug next, but at least this one just seems fond and less thick or emotional, "Hey pretty lady."

Then she draws back to go pour into her glass again, letting the woman answer the inquiry, but this one she at least nurses, instead of drinking from immediately, because a rising flush on her edges of ears and cheeks says her body is starting to get caught up to what she's been putting down too quickly between hugs while listening to conversation.


With two drinks in hand now, the Capitalist makes a nice mixture of the two, before leaning forward to set the glass of spirits down as he settles in with his spiked coffee, his eyes flickering in the Caregiver's direciton and she greets everyone. It's amusing and somewhat endearing in his eyes. "Deputy Jody DeWitt was..." He knows the Confidant from previous stories more than he'd known him from the Lodge. "He was that tall guy, I guess a film student. The one who got into that fight on the stage, if I recall correctly. I was a little busy myself at that moment." Yes, he remembers that beef with Troy.

It's the Addict's mention of his child... or Martin's child that has him falling all the more contemplative now. Dark eyes stare down into his mug. Something about this conversation seems to be hitting a lot of people hard, but after a moment of this, he takes a swallow of his drink, letting his eyes study each and every face here. "That would be interesting. Meeting with your family, down the line. Offspring."


The Addict takes the offered brandy and has a sparing sip, then offers it back to Dare. "Jody's Chance. He was Derek at Beaver Lake." They drape Dare's arm around their shoulders as they tuck up close to his side. "She'd be..." They eye the radio. "Maybe thirty? But I won't know her. Not until I get back here. Still, it would be nice to know she grew up okay." Wryly, they add, "At least I don't think Danny left any children behind. That he knew of."

At Colorado's question, they turn their attention to Visionary, curious for the answer.


"We all keep saving the world in some way or another, more or less," the Visionary says with a strange sort of smile, leaning in to the hug and grinning broadly enough to split the difference between them. "We could ultimately be the crappiest repair crew in cosmic history, considering that. And folks like 'Mo-kala are on the other team, trying to burn the world down." There's a warm squeeze for the Caregiver, and a quiet murmur of, "It's really good to see you back again."

"Meant back in town, before we left. Before Igor, even," she says quietly, her lips tugging back toward a more wan smile. "After the sheriff made it back from the challenge alive. He was pretty maudlin about everything. Zeb, that is, though I suppose it could apply to either of them. Said he was glad to be free of the contract, and had wanted to go for a long while. That there was nothing worth wanting to stay for, any more."

"Derek. Jody was Derek," she murmurs, turning a strange shade of pink. "I've known him every time around, and... well. No thanks, background programming department. I didn't need to know how he looked naked, you know? Those were some vivid flash cards." Grumbling, she adds, "Stupid 80s neon everything."


"Or meeting them now, through the rooms, if they can indeed draw people out of our desire." Penitent says quietly on the heels of Capitalist's words, then shakes her head. "But how can it really be them? It can't." She leans back at her spot on the couch again, all thoughtful, and staring at the doorways to the magic rooms. There's a soft little laugh at Visonary ramble-complaining before she peers at Cargiver, brows lifting up in a silent question as she listens to what everyone else has to say.


The Laine inside Caregiver shoots a glance of guilt over the Capitalist's way when he says he was busy at the time, batting off distraction as she rims her fingertip around and around the edge of her glass. But then it turns into a sudden twitch of humored smile and pride, because she also remembers him knocking the shit out of Troy. Besides, his fiance fucking shot her, no use being guilty about Troy, right?

But then the talk continues of children in the middle of the theory and she breathes out a soft sigh, shrugging a little the Penitent's way with a helpless hitch of shoulders, that quiet way of saying some things can't be helped. Whatever that thing is. She doesn't have anything to say about it, really, but she's looking pretty pained when she looks back into her glass, like she's just realized something else.

No goddamn poker face and she's having trouble with a lot of the conversation. But it's momentary, because she turns herself suddenly to approach the radio with her back to everyone while wandering and nursing glass. Her fingertips reach out to touch at the edge of the antique design and her brows knit down, "What... year do you think this music is from?"


The Martyr takes his own sparing sip. "Chance. Right. That makes sense." He curls an arm around Briar's waist. "It would be nice. Odds are, Danny didn't. He was super careful, if memory serves." He makes an 'mmm' sound. "I still like the parallell worlds Time bandit Theory better than Hell or experimentation, though the realist in me doesn't trust it." His cheeks pink a touch at the naked Derek reference, not that it is anything he's seen himself, "Okay. That does make more sense. I do wonder if the demons are in the Rooms, or their facimiles anyway." He gives the Former Elaine a worried look, but keeps his guesses to himself. "How early was 'Love for sale,' does anyone know?"


The Coward grimaces, even though the Visionary's answer is pretty damn tame for a demon. He pushes off from the wall. "I'll..." Without finishing what he'll, he wanders off.


When his words are met with the Penitent's statement on the impossibility that whoever they meet through those mystery rooms now, would actually be the person... they created back in the encounter that was Prosperity, the Capitalist's eyes flicker to her, a crease forming on his brow. "Would it hurt to try?" She might know what he's referring to, but he remembers what other events happened before even Cillian's child's birth and not all of them were good ones.

This brings his attention back to the Caregiver as she factors into his thoughts regarding Prosperity's aftermath. To her inquiry about the era of music being pumped out of the radio, he considers, "I'd guess the 1920's, probably 1930's. But I can't give an exact date. Some times there's radio dramas being played, I wonder if we can learn more from those as well." When the Visionary brings up Igor though, well, they've brought up the lot of them in this one convo. Oh those memories.


The talk of children isn't settling easily with the Visionary, either, at a glance, with the way her bare toes curl a little with uncomfortable shifts of her feet. None of Danica's perpetual stiletto heels in here. The Caregiver's question is welcome enough distraction, and she offers a guess of, "Maybe... thirty or so years after the town? It isn't 40s swing just yet. Not the WWII sound. We might have better luck listening for cues from the radio plays. See what events they reference, if any, or just if the titles are mentioned, somewhere-" Her eyes stray toward the shelves.

Her gaze drops again all too quickly, dissolving into another weak, but well-intentioned smile. "Not that anything we figure out is anything we'll remember once we're there. Do we necessarily want to open the door to the 'we should have seen that one coming?' drinking game?"

"If it's not really Zeb, I can't imagine it would hurt to try," she replies, even if she's trying to not think about it. "And if it is? I imagine he'd get a laugh out of our present fix. If he's still bored, whenever it is we pin to go."


"Time travel theory is one thing, but doesn't explain how we lived in one world that was a fictional franchise inside of another world. Though any of our lives could be fictional in some sense, regardless." Penny says quietly in regards to Martyr's thoughts. "And doesn't explain why we're kept here and given these personas and memories if were were just some time travelling heroes that save the world on the regular. Why give us weird relationships and make us then have to contend with all that when we're back here, where things become a tangled mess? I really thought my prison and punishment had something going for it, honestly."

Caregiver gets a reassuring smile, and the shrug of her shoulders in echo of Caregiver's own. As if to suggest she understands, and perhaps it just doesn't matter.

Glancing back to Capitalist, she shifts slightly closer to him and shakes her head. "I think that's the start of falling down a hole of lies we'd never get out of. And I feel like, if these people are drawn from our own desires and subconcious, or even concsious thought if we're actively trying to find a specific someone, what happens if I try to say, find you in there? Do I get a copy of you? Do you get magically moved? Do I just find no one at all? What about Cillian, specifically, rather than the entirety of you? Or Conrad? Or Eilis or Mattie Novaks or Dahlia the wifi lady -- A Dahlia who actually IS the wifi tech?" She spreads her hands, looking at Visionary. "If it makes another one of you, any of you, or us, only slightly changed based on my desires, then they can't possibly be real."


The Addict squints into the middle distance. "I think early 30s," they say. Maybe Danny studied music, even if he wasn't an expert. Maybe he had a secret love of Cole Porter and musical theater. A secret he took to his grave. They lean against Martyr lightly. "I don't know if I'm ready to face even a facsimile of my grown daughter," they say. "It kills me to have left them, but I hope they continued living, somehow." The demons don't seem to trouble them overmuch. They were dealt with. Most of them.

"The problem with trying to figure out what we're doing here is we don't have enough data, you know? Every theory we come up with is gonna be tainted by our own prejudices and perspectives, which I might add, have been handed to us by the powers that be, whatever they are. Watching us try to figure it out might be part of the exercise."


"Twenties could be fun. Thirties, not so much. Then again, the idea of fun in any case is likely extremely limited and relative and comes at severe trade of other screw-bit things. Tch." The Caregiver 's hand comes away from the edge of the radio to fall and she looks like she wants to put that fancy, pretty stiletto heel she's balancing on while holding her brandy glass right into the radio on principle. Her head tilts and she glances down at her feet while shifting weight, then looks at the sturdiness of the antique cabinet with a sigh as a moment of booze and angst fueled idea is tipped with some passing logic.

Instead, she takes another drink of the amber liquid in the tumbler glass and looks at the dial while listening to the others.


Creepshow has moods. Those who've known her here longest can tell those moods in part by how she dresses. Her default wake-up outfit is a tanktop and boxers, both gray. With that, it's a crapshoot - she could be anywhere from pleasant to murderous. Red track suit, hood up, and Salvador Dali mask? She's in a trolling mood. Dressed like Max? Trying to cling to that identity and feel human.

Right now she's wearing a shredded wedding dress that's stained in vast quantities of blood. It's not her first time wearing it, and it never means anything good. The mostly empty bottle of black rum in her hand is another red flag.

She stalks through in silence, heading dispensary-wards.


Stepping in a few paces behind Creepshow and pausing at the archway is a man no one has seen here before. He is not tall — probably shorter than average — with a slim build. His skin is dusky and his hair dark, unruly and wavy. He wears a gray button down shirt over jeans with white sneakers. Unremarkable. There’s a darker gray hoodie over the shirt.

The man is wearing silver wire-rimmed glasses, which he pushes up his nose as he assesses the scene before him. So many disparate characters, a 1930s radio...there are a lot of pieces to pick apart here.


The Capitalist doesn't look entirely pleased by the Penitent's response, even if her answer is far more sound than his, driven by that terrible thing called emotions to go along with past memories. "First of all, why seek out a replica of us or who we were? I mean, I'm here if you want to relive Prosperity." Whatever that means. Though even he knows that while he was Cillian McTavish once upon a time, that's merely a part of him now. Other ideas come to mind now though and it looks like he won't push his opinion for once. Though with the Addict once more speaking of seeing his grown child, a daughter, it gives the Cillian part of the Capitalist some dark hope.

If he were to say anything more, just seeing Creepy in that bloodied wedding dress shuts him up. He's seen her in that thing before. His eyes don't even follow her towards the dispensary as he takes in a much deeper sip from his coffee mixture, eyes finally landing on his first unfamiliar face since waking up after being shot to hell at the Lodge. "There's bound to be a few new faces..." He's heard of one, supposedly, but now there's another.


The appearance of the Creepshow isn't lost on the Visionary, even if she hasn't personally encountered this look before now herself. She observes in silence, though the sense of foreboding is real. "It would be easy enough to test that theory. We could all go in there, now, and call up someone we know is here, now. Maybe even leave the door open, keep an eye on them directly."

"Then call up one of us that's gone." Her head cants, and she turns to lean against one of the couches, arms crossing over her chest. "Don't ask me to do that part; I have enough on my plate without calling for any ghosts. You can try to talk to Wifi Dahlia, though, if you want. I mean. If there being a volunteer makes a difference." Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug that's only seeming to be casual. "Then I can come in, and we can see if anything changes." Her eyes shift to the new arrival, and her smile is quick, but sincere enough. One hand lifts from her crosses arms to offer up a wave. A pause, and she flicks a glance to the Capitalist. "I dunno, there are times I'd really like to throttle the shit out of Angeline."


The Martyr watches The Capitalist, the Caregiver, and the Visionary, but can't think of a single useful thing to say. he's never had kids himself nor chance of any. "It would have to be a parallel worlds thing. Straight time travel wouldn't do it. If it's an experiment, that would require serious far future tech too. Punishment would likely be supernatural senario. Simple sadism would be another serious future tech senario. This level of technology would be very resource expensive in any future tech senario. Which doesn't rule out sadism, mind, but the person or people doing it would have to have resources to burn. I agree we need way more data than we have and I've no idea where to get it." He presses his cheek against the top of the addict's head, "That would fit with early Louis Armstrong, wouldn't it? I'm now wishing I watched more old movies."

Dare's eyes go wide. He's never seen that dress, but he's observed enough of Max to make guesses and is openly considering flight. Then his eyes shift to the man behind her, "I don't think i've met you yet." The Martyr is dressed in black toreador trousers, a very frilly black poet shirt and a purple velvet paisley from coat.


From behind his glasses, the Analyst’s dark eyes move from Capitalist to Visionary to Martyr. He returns Visionary’s wave, almost mirroring it. The gesture of one not used to making social gestures, perhaps. Then he inclines his head to Martyr. “You have not met me. I have not met you.” He sounds like he might be from Northeast USA. American-sounding, but not easy to place.


"No, I was more talking about it for the scientific approach to figuring it out, not actually that I have any need to call up you or some version of you and see if you appear wherever I dream you. I know where to find you, Cillian," Penny says quietly, shaking her head. "My point is it wouldn't actually be you, and I, personally, wouldn't be happy with a lie. I literally just lived a life that was mostly all little lies holding themselves together and calling herself Emily." Tilting her head at Visionary, she shakes her head. "That wouldn't help me know either. The idea would be to get two versions of you in the same place to determine if it's creating something from one's subconscious or actually bringing you into my world. And I don't really know what either means."

She leans back, staring at Creepshow for a moment. Red alert. She watches the troubled woman stalk past, chewing at her lip a little as she considers before just glancing past the new guy -- a reassuring smile there -- before settling her gaze on Caregiver. "You can break it if you want," she says, far more attentive than Emily, for sure.


The Fool is the resident nudist at this point. He's simply given up on the simple concept of clothing - fuck it all right?! So enters a shambling blanket monster, the lean frame of the nerd underneath not providing much bulk beneath, but the comforter itself is doing a good job of keeping him semi-modest; there's no mistaking the fact that there's not a scrap of so much as boxers under there. A bluish tinted puff of smoke leaves his lips as he slides in from Visionary's room smelling of soap and hot water at least.

It'd be about then that he settles eyes onto Vis and then Creeps and then back again. He blows a smooch at Cass and then promptly starts stalking down, "The bride from hell! See this would have made an excellent movie," he notes before promptly sauntering right up behind Creepshow and throwing his arms around her shoulders and letting his arms fold over her collar bone so he can perch his chin on her shoulder, "Attack of the shambling blanket monster!" is also declared as he pretends to consume Max with blankets, regardless of his own safety.


"Maybe later." Comes drift of response to the Penitent after the Caregiver has stood there to listen. Pushing her tongue hard at the line of her top teeth, she drains her glass, turning away from the radio with profile to most of the room as she wanders back toward the bottle and glasses. After standing there a moment, she carefully puts her emptied glass down and rubs her hand against her hip and thigh. Then she turns a bit to sit on the table edge in psuedo-leaned sit, a leg stretched out for balance, playing with the sleeve of her little dress jacket where the ivory is cutout embroidered.

Eventually, though, her eyes come up to follow after where other eyes and the Martyr's inquiry goes, over to the Analyst. She breathes out a tiny little puff of air, taking in the unfamiliar.


The Addict idly watches the radio as people talk. They have little enough to offer the talk of theories that they haven't already said. Creepshow's appearance gets a look and no comment. Briar doesn't know what the wedding dress means, but in general, walking around in a bloody bridal gown rarely means anything good.

"I wish people would stop breaking things," they say. "We all have to live here, and even if it resets, it ruins it for the day. I also think summoning a durian should be punishable." They look up to note the stranger. With a small smile, they say, "I'm Briar."

Their attention is caught by Oz, then, and they watch with anticipation and horror. This can't end well.


Oh, he made it! The Visionary perks, waving to the shambling blanket monster. "I'm Cass," she offers to the newcomer, the Analyst. She seems ready to make a proper introduction when she sees the direction the Fool is taking, and her eyes suddenly flare wide as saucers. It may as well appear in a neon sign above her head instead of her expression; 'oh my god, he is going to die'. She's just not close enough to physically intervene in any way, and her inner recent film student sees her sudden attempt to lunge awkwardly forward in slow motion, possibly accompanied by a sudden spike in the soundtrack flowing from the radio toward something on the order of a traditional: dun dun dunnnnnnnnn!


What was that about breaking things?

Creepy is small, and easily squirms out out the Fool's grasp, wheeling on him. One hand reaches for blankets to yank them away from his face while the other swings the bottle of black rum like a club, at that same face. There's a shriek of way too much pent up pain and rage from the runty woman as she does it.


The Martyr sounds like he's from the Pacific Northwest, "I'm Dare. Welcome. You might also hear me called finn or O'Neil. Is there something you'd like to be called? Likely you have questions." He inclines his head to Emily. It's a perspective he understands. His eyes go wiide on seeing the Fool and he looks way quickly. Not his circus, defiinately not his monkey. And so it ishe misses Oz the great and reviousl deceased hugging the Murder Bride. "I second Briar's motions."


The Analyst just barely moves aside for the Fool to brush past him, watching him as he goes. “I am Nour,” he says to Addict, and then to Visionary. It’s offered to Martyr as well, since he also spoke to him. Then he, too, is watching the psychodrama playing out in the dining room beyond. There is slight confusion on his face, but mostly, he’s just watching. He does not comment, returning his bespectacled gaze to the one who calls himself Dare. “I’m pleased to meet you.” Yet he doesn’t come forward with any other questions. Not yet. For now, he is observing: several colorfully dressed people, some in the throes of strong emotion, and perhaps not a small amount of substance use. And the radio: his gaze flicks to it again.


"Well then, be an angel and get me whatever that is you're drinking, please?" Penitent asks of Caregiver, and with those sunglasses perched on her head her Emily look is spot on with that question, the grin following it. "Hey, guys, breaking stuff is a great way to learn about how it works." She offers, her tone distracted by the the Blanket. Looking on with a growing sort of dread as Fool descends upon Creepshow, she's feeling like she should give some kind of warning but she just can't. Wincing as the bottle gets whipped around, she shakes her head slowly.


Seeing what should be an odd sight of a blanket monster variety wandering through the parlor, the Capitalist's just watches with unamused eyes. He's seen it all in this place, for the most part, and like the bloodied bride, this wasn't new. What he doesn't catch, however, is the loving embrace that the Fool gives the Creepshow, being alerted to this by the reactions of the others alone and then by the sounds coming from that direction. Half-turning in his seat to view the spectacle in full, or what he can see of it, he gives Penitent another of those 'looks'. Turning to reseat himself, he murmurs under his breath, "It's a good thing Maata isn't here.." Though it pains him to say that.

When the Analyst speaks up with his own... name already chosen, the Capitalist's brow arches, "Odd." But like with the others, he says nothing more and goes back to sipping at his spiked coffee in as much peace as he can muster throughout all of this. "Either way, I'd say welcome, but this place isn't all that welcoming. I've been called various names in the past, Christian, Cillian, Driscoll, Conrad. Take your pick." There's even Joshua, but he was never really that guy!


CRASH! That's...ouch. That's gonna hurt regardless of how one looks at it - especially when one is looking that bottle right in the lable. While everyone watches, the Fool, formerly known as Oz, simply blinks and only kind of flinches with a vaguely flaily motion of his arms that just makes him look like a bat. Right up until there's shards of glass in his forehead and rum rainding down his eyes. There's a moment or two of crystal clarity into that pain before the Fool looses a rather fantastically stuttered, "HOLYWHATTHEFUCKTHATHURTSYOUCRAZYBITCHWHYWOULDYOUDOTHATTOSOMEONEWHOWASGIVINGYOUAHUG!?!" all in one breath. And while the initial stun and sting is still working its way to his nervous system he shouts, "Bloody Mary hugs!" before probably recieving a broken bottle in the guts - thankfully there are at least blankets between the glass and him if that's the case. If not, then Creeps is getting some glass-tinkling, blood-sharing, fuck-you-we're-hugging hugged.


Laine looks at Creepshow swinging on the Fool and his blanketed approach as it turns to noise and action over that way, and quietly, she stares for a moment, making sure no one's about to actually die, nurse mode flipped. Then as if on autopilot, she refills her own glass and drinks after the request from Emily-- no, Penitent finally draws her eyes back that way to see her sitting against the Capitalist. Looking away abruptly, she pours a new glass and pushes up to bring it over and pass down to the other brunette with some form of concentration on her walking, given she's drinking while doing it. After delivering it, she steps to the hallway quietly.


The Visionary, despite her best intentions, is completely distracted from the return introduction, dashing as she is toward the collision between the Creepshow and the Fool in a flurry of tie-dye skirts and an awkward shuffle of bare feet. The crash has her eyes going wide, and her lips part as she sees the glass in her former husband's forehead. The downright stubbornness of the man, however, stuns her even more. Stuns her enough to stop dead in her tracks, despite processing all of this with some speed. Then? She gets it. Somehow. On some level. And she waits, looking like she's not sure if she should be proud or horrified, but it's certainly going to be one of the two.


Creepshow's primal scream spent, bottle swung and broken, she stumbles a step or two from momentum, her hand turning the remaining bottle neck around like a jagged dagger.

"FUCK YOU, you fucking fuck!" Stabstabstab she goes at him, the blanket likely absorbing the worst of it. Her other arm flails to keep the hugging blanket bastard off of her. "Don't act like you fucking give a SHIT about me now when none of you were there when I fucking needed you!"


The Addict cringes as the Fool takes a rum bottle to the face, and subsequent stabbings. "I can't take this," they say to Dare, and they start to sit up. They're stone cold sober, so that might be the root of the problem. They get up and give Creepshow a wide berth as they make their way toward the dispensaries.


The Martyr turns back at the commotion, mouth open in horror. He knows dead people come back, but still he lets go of Briar and starts to stand, not sure what if anything to do. The Great and Foolish Oz's stubborness convinces him to just this once wash his hands of trying to get in the middle of violence. Instead of protesting, his mouth snaps shut and he opts to follow his lover glace in hand.


The Analyst doesn’t answer Capitalist — there’s just too much going on. He takes off his glasses, rubs them on the hem of his hoodie, places them back on his face, and turns to walk out the way he came.


The Fool would have given someone a better greeting, several someone's at that - but there was a red alert Creepshow and frankly we were having none of that. The dramasplosion unloading on his face and then tearing up his blanket and giving him several more nicks and cuts despite his protecting blanket folds. "I am a fucking fuck, and I woulda been -" he grunts as Max manages to get through again and make him 'wooof' at the new stabbing bright pain in his abdomen. And yet, he doesn't let up. "We would have been there if we could!"


"Sister," the Visionary says with as much calm as she can muster, not scolding or angry, but her voice raised just enough to be clear above the general din of conversation and the radio. Just enough to be a point of punctuation above what she's seeing, and the effect it is quite visibly having on her. She's trying not to scream, cry, or explode into a flurry of motion or possibly even rage. As a mixture of blood and rum flows from the bottle, all of that gets well and truly bottled up for later.

For a brief moment, she has her shit well and truly together enough to take a step forward, toward the stabbing and the screaming and the yelling. "We fucked up," she says as steadily as she can, and, gods help the crazy woman, she seems intent on trying to embrace -- or maybe catch, not that she's built for it -- the Creepshow from behind. In a hug.

Because that went so well the first time. Doesn't stop her, though. "And we're sorry." The words emerge as a choked little sob for all too many reasons.


With Max's angry scream filling the air, the Capitalist takes an even deeper drink from his mug, though it's difficult to try and ignore what's going on when all he can hear is, well, someone being murdered. He knows better than to try and stop this and no, he does not take any amusement in any of it. That was real blood that was soaking up the Fool's protective comforter. Violence in this place, strangely enough, has been a rarity and this scene was just as bad as any of the lives they've lived where death was a thing. It brings back other memories of the Creepshow as well, but even that wasn't anything close to being this violent.

When he looks at those in the room, he sees that a few others has the right idea. Maybe. When he notices the Caregiver making her way out, a wary look is given her, especially with how quiet she'd fallen earlier during their discussion. There's a moment where he considers following, but he needs to know how this all plays out and whether an explanation needs to be given if there is a Fool-sized corpse.


They had found a first aid kit in the Caregiver's bathroom by the end of that first Facility cycle after roughly waking, because she needed it and she had a hunch, having been Laine once, her bathroom would be prepared. It's not her nursing bag of old or anything, but when the brunette arrives from back along the hallway, she has it like standby along with some nice white towels ready to staunch up blood in a fix. She's also minus those fancy stilettos because she's been hitting a lot of that brandy and it's kind of showing on her. She's not really stumbling or anything, but she pauses back out of the way to let the Visionary try and intervene. Maybe with less attempted slashery. Maybe. Either way, she's a little too tipsy to react with more than wince of stare.


"What, did you fall down Danica's fucking twat and get stuck again?!" Creepshow yells at the blanket monster, stepping back and at least momentarily ceasing her assault. It gives Visionary the opening to wrap her up from behind, and while she struggles a bit, she's not truly putting up a fight anymore. She can see she's done real damage. "Too busy up each other's asses to give a FUCK about me? Misty fall in there with you? God knows there's fucking ROOM in there! Only Derek - fucking coked-up, 'roid rage DEREK came for me!"


With a smile of thanks for Caregiver, and a vague kind of nod for Capitalist's murmured comment, Penitent inclines her head as she watches the altercation brewing further between Creepshow and Fool. Visionary is getting involved with it all too, and while there's a shake of her head from Penitent, in warning. She sips from her brandy, watching with a detached air, almost the same way Anette might linger nearby when Lupe was doing something to someone, especially when not in Prosperity. It's different, here, and the words that come out show something there, chewing at her lip a moment. A sidelong glance to Capitalist, brows lifting up.


The Addict takes Dare's hand and tugs him into the dispensaries. "I'm getting supplies," they tell him, in a low tone, "in case these shit-breaking, durian-summoning lumps of fuck decide to trash the place again." They study the dispenser in front of them as they think about what they might need. "Don't get me wrong, they're our people, and I love them, but it's like living with animals sometimes."

They pick a thermos of coffee that'll stay hot, an orange that'll keep, and a bag of black licorice, because that's just how they fucking roll.


The Martyr comes along willingly, taking a long swallow of the brandy before abandoning it. Then he's filling his pockets with crisp read apples and grabbing assorted chip bags and granola.


She's still trying to not look at the way the Fool is bleeding, or how much damage he's taken, right to the face. Her focus locks on his eyes, limned in red though they may be. The Visionary wraps herself all the more tightly around the Creepshow, if she's able, though she's not really strong enough to restrain anyone, especially not here, or shaking as she is. It wasn't just that, but she's not going to argue. Not right now. Now, she's going to be there. "I'm sorry," she mumbles into her 'sister's' hair, swallowing hard. The tears are assuredly there, and doubtless the Fool can see them, even if her stance behind the Creepshow doesn't reveal them in full to the woman in the bloody gown, though that could describe either of them, now. "I don't even know what was going on with Misty. Or Kirk. Or Reno, Sasha, Chuck, Dante, or... anybody else. But fuck them, all right? For right now?" Her voice is small, but she understands the anger, no matter how terrified she may be. "Please believe me when I say I'm sorry?" She swallows hard. "Because I am. You're my fucking sister."


If anything, the Capitalist finally, eventually, rises to stand to see what damage was actually done. There was blood, lots of it, from what he can tell from his safe vantage point, with that mug of coffee still in hand. When the Caregiver returns all tipsy-like but with her first-aid kit, there's some concern on the Capitalist's face, but he decides to approach her, to speak in quiet words, "You definitely don't want to get in between any of that. If we can't save him. If he bleeds out." A pause, "He'll just wake back up in bed the next morning." For now all that they can do is watch as the Visionary tries to calm the little ball of anger down.


The Fool is bleeding. A lot. There's a faint paleness to his skin now as he eye flutters at Max with a few confused blinks. A hard swallow seems to come with a hiccup and a cough that doesn't come with more blood thankfully. Just a hand pressing the blanket to his cuts so that the fabric sticks to the skin. He's staring at Creeps as she unloads on him with the blankness of a man who's probably. The words probably do more damage than the bottle did to his face and torso, and there's a glance down at the spatter of blood that becomes a gush as he looks with facial cuts. "Oof," is all he manages before reaching out to settle a hand half on Max, half on Cass as he shakes his head. "I was me, but not me. I do give a damn.." his words slur a little and the Fool starts wobbling a little more than a drunkard might. "We are sorry, and if we could do it again differently, we would." He glances over at the Capitalist and nods firmly. "Yeah...self preservation in here is kinda...moot."


Something Fool says gets a blink from Creepshow, a great deal of tension draining almost instantly, breathing slowing. Yes, Visionary's words help some, but something very specific about his words have impact. Her eyes close.

"Not just you," she says quietly. "I can't hold you responsible for what happens in there." She does break away from Visionary now, quickly moving past the Fool in the direction of her room, still holding the bottle dagger.


Setting her drink down, Penitent rises moments after the Capitalist does, lifting Emily's sunglassess of her head and holding them there in her hand for a moment. She doesn't really have any idea what all went on between these people while at the lodge. People she knows but doesn't know all over again. She lingers right there near Caregiver and Capitalist, nodding a vague agreement at his words about not getting in between things, shifting slightly as Creepy moves quickly back towards her room, glancing at the woman in that wedding dress. There's some kind of internal debate going on there, within her.


"I-- he's..." The blood is triggering the Caregiver straight into Laine entirely, this having been her first real time out of her room since arriving here, so she's overwhelmed and she's starting to argue with the Christian in the Capitalist. Her hand lifts while holding the towels as if she needs to staunch from afar, weird semi-drunken logic, and she shifts on her bare feet before the look back from the Fool and commentary kind of stuns her into quiet. It's not a natural reaction to being stabbed and slashed, that's for certain and she's reminded again of where she is but...

After a tiny catch of her breath on looking up at the dark eyes of the man standing there with her giving the quiet words, she tips her head into tiny nod and doesn't rush in when she realizes the extent. But it looks like it's real hard for her and that, that's maybe not even just the nurse lingering inside. It seems to be making her twitchy to just watch. After a time, though, she just exhales in a gust and tosses the towel over a shoulder to reach for one of his near hands with tiny fingerhook, like an anchor.

But then the Creepshow is coming hallwards with the bottle dagger and she kind of starts backpedaling just in case to make sure she's clear from the place she had paused coming back.


Knowing they'll make it back come morning doesn't make it any easier on the Visionary to watch the color fading from the Fool's face, or watch him resign himself to it all. The color seems to drain from her features in time with his own. As the Creepshow eases somewhat, then pulls away, she closes the distance between herself and the Fool without a word, diving down to her knees like she knows damned well she'll need to catch him. She stares after the smaller woman for a moment more, her eyes still wide as saucers, unblinking, as she looks back to the Fool. "Hey," she whispers, tears streaking her face. "I'm here." The words barely break the volume of a whisper.


The Addict eyes Martyr's selection of apples and granola. "It's all going to reset anyway," they tell him. Then they maintain eye contact while taking from the dispenser a box of Euphoria truffles, found only in Eugene, Oregon. And here. Holding the red and gold box up, they say, "I'm going to eat these, and then I'm going to have some coffee, and then I'm going to eat black licorice until I throw up or die."


It's goin down. He's yellin' Timber! You better move - oh sorry. Yeah Oz isn't gonna stand on his feet much longer. He may have learned how to stubborn through the intial pain, but there's very little conditioning one can do to resist the effects of losing blood. The pool would be bigger, but a lot of it is getting absorbed by the blankets as he does indeed topple, but only after waving after Creepshow, "We do adore your face," he harumphs, as if his voluntary bleeding wasn't proof enough. Caregiver or Visionary, maybe both, end up with the lightheaded Fool drifting into their expecting plans rather easily. And at this point he's relying on them to remain verticle and not well, waking up in bed like nothing happened.


The Capitalist may have reacted differently if the person being assaulted by the Creepshow were someone he were closer to, but from his experience with this sort of thing, the one person that would've been knew how to hold her own. Once he feels the Caregiver's hand taking his, he gives her this comforting squeeze, though he never lets his gaze leave once the Creepshow begins her trek through the parlor and back to the hallway of doors. The bloodied jagged bottle is noted and whether he sensed the Caregiver drawing away or not, he, too, takes a single step back to give the little 'monster' some room.

It's here when he gives the Penitent another look, this whole thing may be a little familiar to the both of them, but not to this bloody extent. Once he feels that the coast is clear, he turns back to Caregiver, "If you are still feeling up to it, he may need your help."


The Martyr kisses Briar's cheek. "I know, but we might get hungry in between. My I have one of your truffles, Love, and perhaps the pleasure of pressing one or two to your lips? Suddenly, I very much wish we were under a tree up in that park on the hill above the University, but if we went, i wouldn't be me and you wouldn't be you and it's very much you I want to decadently feed chocolates to while we watch birds hop around.


Creepshow says nothing as she stalks past, eyes glassy, and down the hall. She throws her door open and slams it behind her. A *click!* suggests she's locked it, as well.


"I don't... " Know anything about medicine. The helpless look on the Visionary's face is telling, that way. "Shit. Can those rooms magic us up a fucking ER? Doc shop? Something?" It's not the worst idea she's ever had. Her free hand reaches trembling fingers toward the Fool's hair, but with all the glass in it, she dares not make contact. Instead, she reaches for his hand, his left hand, squeezing it tightly when she finds it. "Somebody help me get him to the door!" The idea is already a plan, and she's hell bent on it.


The Addict returns the kiss and tells Martyr, "We'll do it anyway. Some other night." They bite their lower lip, then say, "We should go check on them. I just had a moment." A moment that required getting supplies. Licorice and chocolate. They have zero survivalist instinct, but at least they chose an orange for health. Progress.

Briar returns to the parlor, thermos in one hand, box of truffles in the other, an orange in one pocket and black licorice in the other. They've got booze int heir room, so that's taken care of. They look around tentatively. The Fool doesn't look so good, but hey, he's still alive. They offer him a little wave.


Penitent meets that gaze of Capitalists, inclining her head. "It's been awhile since we had this kind of ..." she trails off, and then peers at Visionary. "Hey, that's a really good idea," she says, moving over to towards where she has the Fool, ready to offer help. "Maybe you just need to keep him going long enough to get him into some proper care, Laine?" She suggests to the Caregiver, brows lifting up. She'll worry about Creepy later, she'd prefer more people didn't die. There's enough death around them.


"I can try to help, but this... is just... normal first aid as far as supplies and I don't know how much of Laine I... while drinking and-- oh. Oh." As soon as the Capitalist gives her a bit of all-clear permission and opening, more or less, the Caregiver almost trips over her feet going to at least try to make the guy comfortable or see the extent so that the Visionary is soothed while he sleeps things off. But her confidence kind of wavers once she's standing closer and she realizes exactly what she has in hand to deal with things and it's not real reassuring while her focus is swimming in brandy, besides, "You're going to make a..."

Okay, new plan, she's clearly drunk, because suddenly her and her fancy pants and jackets and bare feet have decided they're going to try to get behind and under the man's arms with hooking of her own once she's dropped things. She tells the Visionary, "Um, get his feet, I don't think he's dying exactly, just... adrenaline and blood loss, more like than not, from where I can see him leaking."


Sure, the Capitalist is wearing a ,probably expensive, white, buttoened down shirt but it looks like the Fool might really need some help there and while he's not quick to action, once he hears Visionary's request, he'll at least go and lend a hand and help to move the guy somewhere more comfortable. Working with both the Penitent and Visionary, even though he's shirt is becoming a bloody mess, he does his best to help carry.

All of this just reminds him of his... she's not really an ex. She is just gone from this place. But this whole bloody scene? It brings back some memories. "I won't say that it happened often, but when it did it usually turned out something like this." All the while, though, he watches the Caregiver only now fully realizing that maybe she's had too much to drink to handle this. Then again, the alcohol may have calmed her nerves some.


The Martyr smiles at Briar and follows. He looks worried when he looks at Oz. Knowing intellectually that people rest doesn't make him feel any better about watching Oz bleed again. he watched him die recently after all. "Do you need us to get you anything else, Elaine? Needle and thread maybe?"


The Fool is, indeed, not dying. There's blood loss, but for the most part the blanket has soaked some of that damage and made it so he had some fibrous material right there at the wounds along his torso. Really he's mostly blanched from getting a piece of glass shoved abruptly against his skull to the point that it's just staying there. The idea to take him somewhere gets a giggle, "That's a great idea, let's go for a ride, maybe it can be a monster truck?" he asks in that slightly doped stage of things. Even in that state though, he's at least aware enough to catch onto general feelings. "I bet it looks worse than it is, but I'm not a betting man," he nods and blinks before his bright eyes settle on Danny, squinting a bit. "You..." he loses the train of thought


That determination on the Visionary's face as she tries to gently bolster the Fool suggests she's not sure how much to move him, or how to go about it best. "Shit, on the island, they had boards for this, but I don't-" See anything. Nothing like that. Her focus is sharper than the razor she's still half-convinced her partner doubtless has on him, somewhere, in the sea of bloody blanket. "If we can get him to the door, we can get help. I know exactly where to go." It's already clear as crystal in her head, it would seem, as she looks to the door like she can see right through it. "Anybody who wants to come along, help me get him to the door?" She looks to the woman she still knows best as Eilis, after the Capitalist's seeming deference to her on the matter. "C'mon, babe," she murmurs, squeezing the Fool's hand as she steers the lot of whoever's coming toward the door. Handle? No. She kicks that fucker right open, and on the other side is a relatively well-stocked triage center. Modern day, or nearly so. "Welcome to Texas," is all the explanation she offers up.


The Addict tells the Fool, "...look amazing in this dress, yes." To their credit, they kinda do. They look to Dare, then to Vis. With a nod, they seem to be willing to follow along until Vis says welcome to Texas. They pause. Texas? They look down at their gender-fluid, dress-wearing self. With a sigh, they mutter, "You're lucky you're cute," to the Fool, and they step through.


"We tore this place to pieces when we were first here, remember? How come none of the next ... generations, have done that? Is it because we were here already to tell them what we learned?" Even as she helps get the Fool more comfortable, caring very little about the blood. Her outfit is nothing so fancy as some others that are worn around her. At least it's more than just a blanket! "Oh, not dying? Well. That's good." She's a little relieved about it all, as they get to the door. Once it's opened, she nods as though that's exactly what she expected.. "Maybe I didn't tear it all apart, personally, but I was still curious about it anyway. Danny," she half turns, glancing at Addict. "Why are you so less curious than we were about this place? Same goes for you, Finn." She still just defaults to those most recent names, it seems. "Is this somewhere in particular?" She wonders of Angeline. With the statement that Fool is likely not going to die, she's more easily distracted.


The Martyr holds the door open just in case, "Oh you definately look good, Love." he waits patiently until all that are coming are through before stepping in himself.


"So like, does Texas come with a doctor? Or do I need to try to do things like the old drunk barber doctors that said we had ghosts in our blood and we should do cocaine about it?" The Caregiver wonders of the Visionary as she helps the people and the woman drag the blanketed litter and man however way to the doorway once it's kicked open to reveal what's within. Then she can't help it. She just kind of grins across at the Capitalist because she's looked down at the blood on her clothing, then on him from kicking in to help. It's a little drunk and lopsided, "You know this is 'cause I'm wearing something that's dying to be bled on, right? Kind of like old times."


Realizing that they aren't just taking him to the couch or laying him on the floor nicely, but were escorting him through one of those mystery rooms, the Capitalist's jaw sets, eyes looking at exactly where the heck they were actually going. The move from the parlor into this triage was an odd one, strangely transcending time and space. There was nothing familiar about the place, in truth, and there's hardly anything to make this world look any different from any other modern day setting, so at first he doesn't notice that this place was part of a world that he and some others had already been into. The same... world, if not the same time and place, but that's nothing that will ever come to mind. Looking across the way at the Caregiver, he offers a sheepish grin and while he's not comfortable soaking in the Fool's blood, there was very little he can do now. He does have to ask, "So, no one's going to ask any questions about any of this?"


There's a familiar face to some of them, though when the woman looks up from behind the counter, she's far younger than any of them would remember. She's wearing casual scrubs, and looks like she's fresh out of college, if not still there. Heather Marks, still in her prime. And, it would seem, somewhat accustomed to clusters of teenagers in awkward situations cloistering in what amounts to her parlor. "Shit," the woman behind the counter says as she simply slaps her clipboard down, and calls a few folks around her same age to cloister around them.


The Addict tells Penny, "It was already explained to me that anything we do to the place resets when we sleep. My theory involved the sleep, that maybe they put something in the air vents to knock us out, but I was told there are none. Everyone has already broken and torn up everything, multiple times." They shrug a shoulder. "I don't see what doing it again will accomplish. In the meantime, I just got brutally murdered, and the last time I just lost my family. I want a few days where I can rest in an environment where no one's getting shanked, there's no sewage smell where I'm trying to get my food, and I can walk around barefoot without shattered crockery and glass. I mean, there's probably an answer to what's going on, but I've been traumatized. I'm hurting. I want to feel safe, even if safety is a lie."


Nodding vaguely to the Addict, Penny might have more to say, but then she steps through that door. The difference is a lot more startling for her. She went in barefoot, slacks and singlet top. Her 'prison uniform' as she affectionately calls these outfits. She ends up dressed for success. Black heels, a grey business skirt, stockings covering her legs. The maroon stays in the form of a blouse, earings dangle from her ears. Her makeup is done to perfection, and a big ol' handbag dangles from the crook of her arm. She's Madison Wellson again, all of a sudden. A younger Madison Wellson, likely barely twenty years old, but still ready to take over the Wellson empire. Looking down at Madison Wellson's wardrobe, once again worn by her, it's very distracting. "... what?" She just kind of turns this way and that, looking at herself. It's not unfamiliar, but she was unprepared for the change.


The Martyr brings up the rear. He'd been dead a ling timeline and Goth fashion is Goth fashion. He looks like Finn looked before he stepped through the door, only with longer hair with dyed purple tips and chunkier boots. Hearing Briar he comes up behind them and gently wraps his arms around them. All he really has to offer are thin comforts like these. "I did ask Caleb a hundred questions. Most of the experiments Boots and I could think of were tried already. I tried notes last night and it worked. If I think of something new, Ill do it, but I refuse to give up all of the little time I have here as this me brreaking things to no purpose.


Almost too suddenly, the woman propping up the Fool is a gawky teenager. Still all the curls, but all awkward limbs and a geek tee, cargo shorts, combat boots. "I'm sorry," the Visionary -- Dahlia suddenly familiar enough under all the youthful gawkiness to those who knew her -- says in a hiss of a whisper. "Heather worked here. Before we met. No questions asked, right?" That Nawlins accent of hers, shared with Angeline, is back in full force, too. Much thicker than either of them that anyone would actually remember. "Anybody who wants to make for the door, uh... " The sound of wheels rolling down the short hallway toward the group can be heard getting louder. "Now's the time!"


The Caregiver was dressed in a designer pants and little jacket and camisole with bare feet and in this year, well, she gets about that equivalent-- she's never been here, so her differences are really just minor cosmetics to everything from hair to clothing cut to style choices in makeup to suit the style of the year. She's wearing shoes again, suddenly, though, which, with her drunk, is suddenly an issue and she just kind of drops her end of the hold on the blanket litter. But there's a lot of people taking care of that now anyway.

And spooked and confused, the warning from the Visionary has her heading that way because... the others look different too and she's just not of a fine mind for that at the moment. She had overheard some things about these rooms in the parlor in brief, yes, but this is suddenly nope to her. She pops right back out into the parlor once the familiar wheels of cart aid and medical staff hits her senses with a little, "I uh... okay, good."


The side conversation going on has some of the Capitalist's attention, eyes flickering in the Martyr and Addict's direction as they respond to his sister's question about their time in the Facility. Wait! His eyes stare out at what Penitent who very much resembles the Maddie he knew of growing up. It doesn't help that Conrad Wellson probably dressed exactly the same as the Capitalist does, even as a teenager, but he definitely looked younger, lacking any of that facial hair that others would be familiar with. But Madison knew what he looked like at this age, so. "Maddie..?" He asks now, even the memories of his time as Wellson begins to come back somewhat. Nevermind that they are hauling a bleeding guy somewhere.

This was all terribly odd, this mixture of knowing what's going on in the present with some of the emotions and memories from the past. Looking down at himself, even despite the change, his white buttoned down dress shirt is still covered in blood either way.


The Addict's eyes widen as they note the changes in the people around them. Having never lived in this time, they haven't changed much. Just subtle things like their sandals becoming heels that put them at a height with Martyr, and that makeup is a little more modern than the 80s had to offer. They slip an arm around Dare's shoulders and say, "I feel like if I say 'aww' I'm going to get decked, but aww." Everyone looks so young!


The Martyr suddenly realizes he's the adult in this senario. Surrounded by bloody teens. In Texas. An obviously queer adult surrounded by bloody teens in Texas. Caleb's assurances of a better future or not, he suddenly rather desperately wants to be somewhere else. Especially givn his postcar memories of the last time he was in a hospital. "Babe? I have a bad feeling about this. It's Texas. And we're about to be the responsible parties."


"Conrad?" Comes the small, uncertain voice from the Penitent. The sudden uncertaintity, that hint at a lack of confidence that was deep within Madison, along with the Penitent's own fears about who she is, especially when it comes to Madison. But her gaze is on him, rather than her. She's almost forgotten where she is, why they're even here with the wounded Fool. "W-wh-what ... I didn't think this would ..." She glancing about, vaguely nodding at what Martyr has to say, starting to edge back towards the door and back into the Facility's own parlour. Glancing at the Addict, she shakes her head. "You don't understand," she says in a shakey voice, "This isn't ... good." She retreats further.


<Continued here and likely in another log!>