celadon.
in the chapel of
del.
mood
wishing for disaster!
outfit
<---
location
the warehouse, london.
interactions
fredrik (
Viper Actual
), chelsea (
FloatingAroundSpace
), tasya (
birth of venus
), oliver (
Steve Jobs
)
“Have we worked together before?”
Like a hunter sure not to startle her mark, Del stops. Stops breathing. Stops doing anything. Her eyes meet Fred’s and her pupils dilate. A predatory intellect unfolds from them. It maybe makes him feel a little bit like a witless animal. Like a goat. Or something like that.
Slowly, not even blinking, she takes the brim of his hat between her thumb and forefinger and carefully, carefully, removes it from his head. She looks into the inside of the hat, and then studies the mirror-bright baldness that’s been left behind. Or pretends to. Pretends to see or not see certain things in it. Like she’s been paid to read leaves at the bottom of a ceramic bowl.
After a few seconds she’s satisfied, and she says no with just her head somehow. Despite not moving it at all. Despite not moving her lips either. She puts the hat back on his head.
She knows him now. Ex-military, definitely. Keeps up with his personal hygiene. Not a lot of vices – too busy ever-so-solemnly providing for the few very dear to him. Children, if not some younger girlfriend maybe? Dead future but thinks his rules of engagement will save him. Usually makes responsible choices of employer, so what’s different now? Not that she gives a fuck. She could just invent that part herself.
The easiest thing in the world for her to be is bored. She’s mostly bored now. She was looking forward to a party with some real energy; this feels, so far, like any other job. And she knows it’s not. Because just look at Tasya Kuznetsova, who Del has never seen set in a more grueling mold than this. So spun out on preparation. Something is eating her. Hard and sharp teeth. The silver woman has turned to rust. Flaking away into dust and moth. Not that she had such light to her, before.
Something is very wrong. And Delphine Jonas is very intrigued.
Or would be. Could be. She sighs through the corner of her mouth, blows some hair up, she's very beautiful, who cares. She could put her head down and fall asleep in this chair.
Tasya’s assistant, ha-ha, gives her a folder and then Tasya moves her thin spindly fingers as she starts to talk.
Did she know that Tasya had a brother? Should she know for sure? She’s not sure if she and Tasya ever talked about him. Out of all the things they have talked about.
“Some of us have accepted we’ll just be empty.”
There’s a nothing cloud of cobwebs next to Del, now, dry spittled lips and unshowered, trying to offer her a cigarette. Del read her the moment she came in through the door – so scared of her own ambition that it drew everything else in towards her like a static charge. Del looks at her, puzzle from the beginning of time, undying and indifferent, doesn’t say anything, just casts a little bit of that fear on her eyelids, like winterfreeze, for later, cold savoring Satan. And then those spindly fingers operate an awkwardly tiny video screen.
There’s the man, the brother, but not either anymore, just a cave’s repeating echo, a test, a myth. He gets up and tries to kill. There’s a clanging-clunking to the solid pipes of the warehouse ceiling and it’s like scrap metal dragged down a staircase.
It makes the little hairs on the back of Del’s neck stand up. She has to put her powers of not-smiling into practice.
Well, she half-tries. And then she’s not sure why she’s trying at all. Tasya shows off her injury and it’s like, is someone about to walk in with a slice of cake and a candle? The moon on a string? She’s not sick at all. She's delighted. She could drop to her knees in appreciation of the industry so well-oiled, so continually providing of the means and materials and intelligence for these experiences, or events, or games, whatever you want to call them. The dreams.
The violence.
“...But the sooner we can begin, the better. Are there any questions?"
Only her question is lost in the sound of another’s complaint. And it’s that woman.
“No. I’m not fucking doing this shit.”
Del had thought any dreamsharer who’d worked more than five minutes on the job could have seen that black envelope fall through their mail hole and intuited from just the slightest of passing perceptions that this was going to go very badly. How much dumber of an existence could there be? A dreamsharer who could actually take a warning, ingest it, but never not too late. Never before she became an inconvenience.
And of course Oliver Brazzos would try to sand the edges off. That's his skill. He's exemplary.
“...But understand you will be leaving more than four million euros behind.”
Del could shudder at this woman and her unenjoyment and her attitude, which she would describe as tremendously shitty and hindering. Without turning around:
And then she does turn around. With this face on that’s almost as charming as irascible, like a laugh of a face, this wide-ass mouth like an upside-frown, and it’s pointed right at Chelsea. Low in her voice, like it’s a secret, she says:
Like a hunter sure not to startle her mark, Del stops. Stops breathing. Stops doing anything. Her eyes meet Fred’s and her pupils dilate. A predatory intellect unfolds from them. It maybe makes him feel a little bit like a witless animal. Like a goat. Or something like that.
Slowly, not even blinking, she takes the brim of his hat between her thumb and forefinger and carefully, carefully, removes it from his head. She looks into the inside of the hat, and then studies the mirror-bright baldness that’s been left behind. Or pretends to. Pretends to see or not see certain things in it. Like she’s been paid to read leaves at the bottom of a ceramic bowl.
After a few seconds she’s satisfied, and she says no with just her head somehow. Despite not moving it at all. Despite not moving her lips either. She puts the hat back on his head.
She knows him now. Ex-military, definitely. Keeps up with his personal hygiene. Not a lot of vices – too busy ever-so-solemnly providing for the few very dear to him. Children, if not some younger girlfriend maybe? Dead future but thinks his rules of engagement will save him. Usually makes responsible choices of employer, so what’s different now? Not that she gives a fuck. She could just invent that part herself.
The easiest thing in the world for her to be is bored. She’s mostly bored now. She was looking forward to a party with some real energy; this feels, so far, like any other job. And she knows it’s not. Because just look at Tasya Kuznetsova, who Del has never seen set in a more grueling mold than this. So spun out on preparation. Something is eating her. Hard and sharp teeth. The silver woman has turned to rust. Flaking away into dust and moth. Not that she had such light to her, before.
Something is very wrong. And Delphine Jonas is very intrigued.
Or would be. Could be. She sighs through the corner of her mouth, blows some hair up, she's very beautiful, who cares. She could put her head down and fall asleep in this chair.
Tasya’s assistant, ha-ha, gives her a folder and then Tasya moves her thin spindly fingers as she starts to talk.
Did she know that Tasya had a brother? Should she know for sure? She’s not sure if she and Tasya ever talked about him. Out of all the things they have talked about.
“Some of us have accepted we’ll just be empty.”
There’s a nothing cloud of cobwebs next to Del, now, dry spittled lips and unshowered, trying to offer her a cigarette. Del read her the moment she came in through the door – so scared of her own ambition that it drew everything else in towards her like a static charge. Del looks at her, puzzle from the beginning of time, undying and indifferent, doesn’t say anything, just casts a little bit of that fear on her eyelids, like winterfreeze, for later, cold savoring Satan. And then those spindly fingers operate an awkwardly tiny video screen.
There’s the man, the brother, but not either anymore, just a cave’s repeating echo, a test, a myth. He gets up and tries to kill. There’s a clanging-clunking to the solid pipes of the warehouse ceiling and it’s like scrap metal dragged down a staircase.
It makes the little hairs on the back of Del’s neck stand up. She has to put her powers of not-smiling into practice.
Well, she half-tries. And then she’s not sure why she’s trying at all. Tasya shows off her injury and it’s like, is someone about to walk in with a slice of cake and a candle? The moon on a string? She’s not sick at all. She's delighted. She could drop to her knees in appreciation of the industry so well-oiled, so continually providing of the means and materials and intelligence for these experiences, or events, or games, whatever you want to call them. The dreams.
The violence.
“...But the sooner we can begin, the better. Are there any questions?"
"Yeah, yes, Tasya. I'll speak. So..."
Only her question is lost in the sound of another’s complaint. And it’s that woman.
“No. I’m not fucking doing this shit.”
Del had thought any dreamsharer who’d worked more than five minutes on the job could have seen that black envelope fall through their mail hole and intuited from just the slightest of passing perceptions that this was going to go very badly. How much dumber of an existence could there be? A dreamsharer who could actually take a warning, ingest it, but never not too late. Never before she became an inconvenience.
And of course Oliver Brazzos would try to sand the edges off. That's his skill. He's exemplary.
“...But understand you will be leaving more than four million euros behind.”
Del could shudder at this woman and her unenjoyment and her attitude, which she would describe as tremendously shitty and hindering. Without turning around:
“Oliver Brazzos, if the girl wants to sit on the floor and itch herself, guess for shapes, pluck forget-me-nots while we watch, that’s just– that’s so great. You should let her. It’s not like she’s wasting everyone’s time. Oh.”
And then she does turn around. With this face on that’s almost as charming as irascible, like a laugh of a face, this wide-ass mouth like an upside-frown, and it’s pointed right at Chelsea. Low in her voice, like it’s a secret, she says:
“It’s very stupid to ask to be wanted after you were asked here with money. It makes you stupid like a little child.”
adriatic
mount kimbie
♡coded by uxie♡
Last edited:
