• This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

Futuristic gestalt ✦ rp

OOC
Here
Characters
Here
🍒
Cheryl Seki-Feigenbaum
INFORMATION
LOCATION
Gas Station, Definitely Not Alabama
INTERACTIONS
El ( AI10100 AI10100 ), Lucas ( Thi Thi )
MENTIONS

Darnell ( Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- ), Newton ( PawPawkit PawPawkit ), Margaret ( TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm ), Cosmo ( Alien222 Alien222 )
“So many people I could collab with!
Such a bad place to collab in.”
POST

Cjvwobm.png

Cheryl sad because El thinks she stupid. She is. Drag over to gang. Darnell smart. Newton big smart, mind blown, explosion pew. Hobo Greek philosopher. Wowow many shiny sparkly people. Bad to frog? No worry, cool.

Click here for the actual post

I swear this isn't all I wrote
Cheryl could feel the grip on her shoulder, neither tight nor forceful. An onlooker might think El was holding her for reassurance, but onlookers didn’t know her habit of failure. It was detainment, a gentle act of restraint to make sure she didn’t fuck them over again. The comforting touch of her best friend’s hand through her hair was barely a consolation to the resignation on her face. El was disappointed in her. She wanted to run away. Away from the ugly emotions stirring the pit in her stomach, away from her stupid, half-baked proposal, away from the expression of long-suffering defeat she was the cause of.

Her petulant voice sounded distant, separate from herself, a drawn-out reverberation of the impassioned Cheryl from moments ago.

“I didn’t want to attack him!”
she said, pushing her lips into a pout, her intended melodramatic gesture of throwing her hands up hindered by the articles her fingers had wrapped around. Her statement was only partially a lie.

Her line of sight drifted down to her left hand as the lemon toad was pulled out of her slackening grasp, El muttering something about heaven. The part of her not in a dejected stupor wanted to grin wryly and poke fun at her. El, do you really think Slenderman and unholy-looking citrus demons have anything to do with heaven? The other part of her had progressed from wanting to run away to wanting to fizzle away under the blinding bulbs, vampire-in-the-sun–style—and not the sparkly Hollywood kind. As both sides fought for dominance, her cheeks tried to rise into a smile only to fall and crumble the next moment. Eventually the overwhelming vacillation drowned her peppy facade in decision paralysis, so her thoughts stayed just that: thoughts.

She didn’t manage to stay in her daze though, as El had moved on from obstructing her to towing her towards the subject of their previous discussion. Instinctively, her head turned and traced the spindly figure extending outwards from the counter like a misshapen web as the main body neared, heels raking unenthusiastically across the floor. She watched vacantly as it squeezed itself back into the median human shape, allowing the vertigo and unease to wash over her. Better that than whatever fervour had triggered her to overcome her fear, right?

As El planted them beside the counter, she only caught the tail end of what the man scooting near the Boy was saying, her mind starting to spin its cogs again. What he was advocating did sound reasonable. He was sporting a wrinkled dress shirt and dark-coloured tie, a model businessman after a late night out, which meant he was probably competent. This impression of reliability didn’t pass on to the next speaker, who was a familiar ungroomed face—or so she thought until he opened his mouth. His declaration was surprisingly insightful and perceptive, and she mentally smacked herself for her bias. As another office worker out of the office—puffing on a cigar in a mob boss way—corroborated the fact and El added their circumstances, it only cemented her growing opinion. Yes, he was actually a brilliant thinker, accurately grasping what everyone hadn’t yet realized, only impeded by the fact that he couldn’t put more care into his hygiene.

“It seems all the great minds and philosophers of the universe decided to gather here today. We're saved.”


It was like a lightbulb flicked on in her brain. Of course, he was one of those philosophers who thought the hobo-chic aesthetic was a way of life! What was the school of thought called again, pessimism? She’d taken an intro philosophy course, but her memories of the lectures ended at “people die if they are killed”.

“You’re right; he’s so definitely a philosopher. Even his clothing gives that philosophical vibe, don’t you think? And he’s being smart, just like”
—she waved her long stilettos in the direction of Businessman—
“he said we should be. Together, we’re sure to make it out of here!”


She shifted her gaze towards the direction of her enlightener, who had been overshadowed by the glitching fellow pink-haired fashion enthusiast thus far. Honestly, she thought the digital filter suited his 70s-inspired dressing and tipped it into the category of vaporwave, but she found it hard to actually compliment him on it. What if he was terribly self-conscious and extremely troubled about his state of being? (He did not look terribly self-conscious and extremely troubled about his state of being.)

Distracted by the flickering lines representative to raster, she saw the smoke before the person. Then she heard the cursed squeaking coming from his hands. Her brows rose a fraction before they dropped. She didn’t care for the lemon toads, yes, but maybe she wasn’t ready to talk to someone who—her sight landed on his fit—must have a good reason for stretching the pestilential little creatures! Maybe he was testing the elasticity for… future… plans.

 
Last edited:
Vega Riviera
The Journalist
Gas Station
idek man, you figure it out
interactions / mentions

TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm (Interaction)
Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- (Interaction)

Charmed,” he spoke dryly, undulating bag hanging limply within pinched fingers. The look of amusement in his eyes is subdued.

He didn’t need to see her face to memorize her features; she was a woman-shaped-nova. A flash-burn contour seared into his eyes; heat and radiance, the kind that left afterimages on the inside of the skull. Ordered disorder in a kiss-sealed letter. He didn’t glance at her again. You don’t look twice at the sun.

The lime green gum peels from his tongue without fanfare. Now reduced to a tasteless bud—flavor spent and gone. His hand reached under the counter’s edge, pinning the remnants with the same deliberation one might use when they crush an ant. It clings to the marble surface, saliva-polished veneer dimly glinting under the sterile light. He thinks nothing more of it. Heeled boots carried him further towards the center of the structure.

The gum swells, ripples, ebbs, and flows. Its body pulses, as if it had a heart hidden away in its cloying sweetness. Then, its flesh pulls inward, breathing in deep, and its voice perfectly matches its creator's—sardonic and dry.

Walking ashtray.” A phrase he’d thought—not said—when she turned her back. It repeats itself a second time. Vega stops in his tracks and lingers, head tilted on its axis, ear craned toward the source. The gum quivers once more before it collapses in on itself. It fell dead and silent. “...interesting.

His body moves slowly through the congregation of cold bodies. It is intentional. The act of moving through a disaster is a rare delicacy to savour. He thrived in places that did not know what they were yet. A world writhing in its own rebirth—that meant opportunity. A blank page waterlogged by dream and nightmare. Every noise collapsed into the same ravening roar. Sneakers skidding across the tile, a man attempting to calm a situation beyond redemption.

Let it rot,” he whispers into the collar of his own shirt. It was a prayer one might give to a garden too overgrown and wild. Some beauties flower best in disarray.

He approached the man from his nape, drew himself close, and lingered. Close enough to smell Darnell’s shampoo—eucalyptus, green and sweet. His breath disturbing the air near the man’s collar, calculated proximity blowing past what was polite. Not threatening—no, never that. Intimate in the way only predators and lovers could get away with.

Roseate eyes appraised the situation beyond Darnell’s shoulder. “What if staying alive here isn’t a matter of being smart, but being wanted?

He turned his head, becoming a hawk before the dive. “Some places don’t care how clever you are. They’ll chew the bone just the same. It's about… playing along. Dressing nice. Smiling widely. Making yourself look like the right kind of meal.

The transition on the ground was smooth, feet gliding against the tiled floor, every step mapped and choreographed. His bag of frogs swayed to and fro from the quick motion, sizzling like wet hardware within the plastic casing. He stared at Darnell in a way that was diagnostic, in the same way that an ectothermic lifeform sees heat. “Are you the right kind of meal?” His voice dropped an octave; perfume on a stalker's love letter.

 
Last edited:



1744417996552.png

GESTALT

Cassidy
McNamara

It seemed that the area around the register counter was becoming a bit of a hotspot. Good, Cassidy thought. The more of them gathered around, the better their chances against Slendie will be.

However, it would seem as though the gathered people weren’t looking to confront the creature, but rather, to listen to it. Appease it almost. Each word spoken was like a weight around his ankle, pulling him deeper into a pit of isolation. He felt his shoulder slump more and more with each person that spoke up as he quickly realised that he was on his own in wanting to fight his way out of this place.

The worst part of it was that, the more he listened, the less he himself wanted to fight his way out. After all, if it was true that they were indeed “anywhere and nowhere” as someone had said earlier, then - even if he did manage to get out - where would he go? Keep driving - or walking - until he was out of whatever space this was? If it was even possible to get out of wherever this was. Not just the gas station but the whole area where the gas station itself was.

Compared to the risk of breaking a second hand in an attempt to get out of here only to end up frozen in a magical blizzard, working together with the others in the station to get out of here seemed more sensible. There was just one problem with that, however:


“I don’t have no problem working together but, I wasn’t really made for thinkin’, you see. But y’all just point me in the direction of something that needs to get done and I’ll get it done.”

The smoke from the cigarette that was lit under him rose and assailed his senses as he spoke. Casually fanning the smoke away, he looked down and fixed the source of his latest discomfort with an unimpressed gaze. At least they had had the decency to warn them first - if “you smoke” could be considered a warning.

Rolling his eyes, he went back to addressing the larger group, ignoring the Clerk behind him like everyone else seemed to be doing.
“Anyway, if y’all truly reckon we could get out of here with ‘the power of friendship’, then go on and call me Cassidy.”

He looked around the group.
“Any of y’all got names? Or would you rather stay as hair colors and attitudes?”

Mentions: Pretty much everyone at the counter
 
d23e84033d2186f77cba1a90692f510a-jpg.1217140

Darnell didn’t blink.

Not when Newton with the frog on his head waxed poetic about roads and about nowhere. Not when a woman lit her cigar and, to him, it felt like she had been coping against everything that compromised the reality around her. Not even when the clerk folded inward like an origami object of nerves and teeth. There he stood among a bunch of strangers who were taking these better than he thought. Kind of. Sort of. He could do without them taking their frustrations out on the frogs. Do people not like amphibians anymore?

Before another thought crossed Darnell's mind, he felt it there, behind him, almost moist up against the glass, almost giving way to the quickening of breath by anyone other than him. The syrupy, slow, implication-laden words floated softly in the air behind him. Darnell kept watching the frogs in the bag with his arms steady at his side and an expression that could have meant just about anything.

“Now that's one helluva pickup line,” he said, willing the corner of his mouth to twitch into a half-smile. “Maybe you should treat a guy to some dinner before you start whispering sweet paranoia down his neck.~”

The breath lingering on his collar and the words with almost poetical menace were not disconcerting to him. They were, rather, engaging. It seemed an overture—that kind of concern in the air, the faux threatening bit testing the flinch while laughing at you for not being afraid.

He began to step out, slowly, pulling just enough to tilt his head so that Vega could catch a glimmer of the quirk in his eyes behind that harried calm.

“You wonder if I'm a proper meal ,” he said, his voice smooth as leather. “I say—depends on the appetite. But I ain’t fast food. Takes a slow simmer to figure me out.”

He paused for a moment and then added, softer still, almost secretive:

"And if this whole thing operates on who wants whom?" His head tilts further. "Then it's best I contribute when I can, keep my head on screwed on, and let those who speak the loudest, scream the ludest once they turn themselves into appetizers."

His eyes flicked down; just for a few seconds, he noticed the bag of frogs that Vega was carrying.

"But if we are talking presentation, yours might just be drying up slightly."

Darnell stepped a little farther forward, reclaiming some of the space, the bag of frogs swinging gently at his side. Not a retreat—just onward. It was his way.

"But hey," Darnell said over his shoulder, voice still called down, mellow, and cultural, "you come find me if you get in the mood to drop the cryptic act sometime. I make for better conversation when I'm not being squared up on like some choice cut. But hey, at least I know you got good taste.~"

Darnell winks at Vega before turned and walked away from. He never looked back. The same languid stride carried him onward.

Darnell flashed a lopsided grin, the kind that came easy to a man who’d seen too much to scare easy. He gave Cassidy a two-fingered salute with the hand not holding his frog bag. “Name’s Darnell. I rarely do icebreakers, but I am house-trained and moderately useful in a crisis. Good to meet ya, Cassidy—nice to know I’m not the only one here who can throw a punch and take a hint.”

Zedalith Zedalith Wyll Wyll Thi Thi AI10100 AI10100 PawPawkit PawPawkit TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm Klown Klown Alien222 Alien222 efferve efferve Gigglecake Gigglecake Ambiloquous Ambiloquous
 


Introductions are made; frogs are collected. In the midst of tense alliance, a seam opens. A single, bright white line splits the air like broken pixels, space that reality forgot to fill. It opens with the same satisfying pop of a zip-lock bag, splitting colors and matter like they were intruding upon its space. Blending or clipping just short of ending. The portal sputters. Tickled and trying to maintain its breath. Beyond it, you see what looks like a diner with a climbing line.

“Ah, there it is.” The clerk hums, hands delicately held like two feathers made to slot together. Fingers curling too far over his palms, nearly touching the sharp edge of bone at his wrist. “Quite the crowd, too. It is Golden Hour after all.” Each sentence is drawn out like the coil of snake, his limbs elongate again with the spirit of an impatient child.

“Go on and deliver the order. I’ve ruminating to do.” He grinned wildly, the definition of the word a coin flip.

You all walk through the portal.

Music that kisses the back of necks, soft and sweet, from a jukebox singing a phantom memory—all fog, cotton, and indiscernible; but nostalgic. The clatter of plates and forks, but no chatter. Despite the number of hungry guests, no one speaks a single word, all waiting to be seated.

A cushy 1950's diner hosting rubbery red booths, the shiny kind that stick to your thighs. Mint green walls stacked with frames of long roads, expensive cars, and autographed photos of unfamiliar—yet strikingly familiar—celebrities. All held together on polished checkered floors of black and white tiles. Perfectly preserved. Nothing aged, nothing faded, everything pristine.

Outside, the sky is warm. The sun is gone, but it’s not quite night. A day perpetually stuck in ending, a coat of bruised apricot. An empty parking lot awaits outside, stretching for both hundreds of miles and a few feet. It looks like there might be an edge and nothing else.

The door to the kitchen swings open as the one behind the group eats itself.

“Ah, the delivery!” An older gentleman emerges, hands worn with experience being patted dry by a towel, which is promptly slung onto his shoulder. He looks…human. Kind. The sort of disarming granted to those who’ve suffered in life and earned a lifetime of tranquility in death. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, laugh lines deepened by a rich elation. He’s stout with a neatly cropped beard of brown and short hair to match. “Thank you very much! I was starting to worry it wouldn’t come.”

Eyes like iridescent orbs. Where pupils should be, there’s only a soft, pulsing light. Swirling and white, cradled within the gold of his irises like a secret curled beneath the tongue. The only marker that perhaps human wasn’t an apt descriptor. On his nametag sits the name Erinnern.

“I’m a bit understaffed at the moment, so I appreciate the help.”

You are all granted nametags and uniforms, the new ensemble appearing on your body as if you’ve been wearing it the entire time.

“Let’s serve some good memories!”



 
  • IMG_3906.jpg
    Interacting With/Mentions:
    Erinnern ( Klown Klown ), Cheryl ( Ambiloquous Ambiloquous ), Darnell ( Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- ), Joann ( Gigglecake Gigglecake ), Cosmo ( Alien222 Alien222 )

    Ran Past:
    Kitchen Crew ( TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm AI10100 AI10100 Wyll Wyll efferve efferve timesink timesink )
    ~ The Usual, Kitchens -> The Usual, Resterant Main~
    Never Gonna Give You Up


    The Usual was the Usual. Except when it wasn’t. She had no reason to think that today would be any different from the last seven years in the joint so when she strolled up to the job board and saw she was a cleaner again she felt no real surprise but still yelled out from the back.

    “GEEEZ COME ON DAD I’M STUCK ON CLEANING AGAIN??? You’d think I’d get special privileges as the only employ-”

    Her thoughts were completely interrupted by the fact that there were more names than just hers on the board. In fact there were so many names what the actual fuck? She jumped up at seeing the names on the board before pulling herself back together. Yet the mask couldn’t be maintained with her glee at another rousing batch of what she could only assume were humans coming in.

    She rushed out from the back before even getting into uniform headphones still on and jacket falling off her shoulders. With a few strides she brought herself to the doors of the building waiting with excitement for the others to cross the boundary.

    “Dad dad are you being serious? There’s more people today?”

    Her excitement made her movements wild as she ran to the kitchens. She didn’t even wait for a response though as she saw the group assigned to kitchens. WAIT THEY WERE HERE.

    “NEVERMIND DAD THEY’RE HERE? Hey CLEANING CREW wait I need the bucket.” she grabbed the tools needed and ran back out of the kitchens. “HEY COSMO, CHERYL, DARNELL, JOANN LET ME SHOW YOU AROUND OKAY.”

    She ran forwards bucket in hand before nearly slamming into a table but she soon reached the area her dad always said to start with when cleaning, the supplies. If this wasn't her crew she couldn't image who the heck they actually were.

 
noe alvere
location
kitchen!
interactions
erinnern Klown Klown

Pots rattled, fire sizzled, but it was the smell that got to Noe the most. Regardless of how surreal the situation appeared—from a gas station brazing against a wild blizzard to a homely dinner of the ’50s—the distinct scent of thyme and rosemary always remained the same. Wary eyes glided over the shelves of spices and herbs, neatly packed away and within reaching distance. A mocking salute. A siren’s call. One he replied to with the click of his tongue and a silent turn-away.

The whole process of their arrival still lingered on his mind. From the start of the bigger conversation to the now. Something that felt so distant, despite its recency. Rallying leaders, cigarette smoke, poorly disguised nonchalance, uncalled aggression, nauseating optimism and bits of weird flirting. A perfect picture book of bleak personalities. The kind Noe would have preferred to spectate in one of his favorite dramas on television, while cowering in the safety of his home. Throw in some microwave popcorn, shut the blinds as the sun rose.

But instead, Noe found himself cast away in this stupid role, and not particularly inclined to follow its script.

He had no wish to act smart, nor to be desired by some alien audience. What was there to strategize about, when their own whims were merely pesky flies in the air? Escape beings capable of bending reality like origami swans? Don’t make him laugh. How humiliating to think they were anything more than toys, with settings that could be freely adjusted. Slowly, Noe picked up a clean pan, whirled it around, just to throw it back onto the stove a second later.

And wasn’t it the worst offender? Scalding, he glanced toward their new employer—the word burned on his tongue like little knife stabs. Just as irritating as the gauntly uniform they were forced into. White with red stripes. Come on. At least the trousers were black, and not some neon pink. That one girl would have liked that.

Looking over the creature once more, Erinnern’s voice was truly its only upside. Mellow, gentle, disarming, all the same. Yet its face begged to be caved in, and its eyes begged to be stolen and turned into some kind of jewelry. Unsettling. Skin revolting. More so than the clerk, because unlike it, Erinnern’s smile actually seemed genuine. Noe shuddered, gaze shying away before the old man could start to think turning around was a good idea.

Rather, it was easier to look at the people he was stuck with. Loud, irritating, but normal. At least as normal as a group with a priest could be. God be blessed he didn’t end up with the servers. And not only because they had to interact with the cursed patronage this diner entertained.

Sighing, Noe’s eyes swayed over the collective name tags again—the only saving grace from making this a kindergarten introduction round. To believe he would be thankful for a portal opening up before Cassidy’s plan could blossom to fruition. Would you have liked a hobby and favourite animal with that name? Now they were stuck together anyway. In the kitchen. What a joy.

Suddenly, the doors slammed open. A girl ran in, then ran out. Her excitement was lost to his ears. Befuddled, he watched after her, as if she’d left traces behind in her whirlwind of movement. Then Noe turned around, attention falling back onto the thing. Erinnern, he reminded himself.

“You have a daughter?” Noe asked, not quite able to hold the question, nor the disbelief back from seeping into his voice. A hint of normality. Family. Weird.

Then, he swallowed. Dry and itchy. His stomach growled. Noe missed the lollipops.

code by @Nano
 
Vega Riviera
The Journalist
Gas Station
idek man, you figure it out
interactions / mentions

Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- (mention)
Klown Klown (interaction)
Thi Thi (interaction)
PawPawkit PawPawkit (interaction

Huh. He had been composed and cordial. Smoothing the edges of his thoughts like blowing a glass sculpture with a surgeon’s hands. It is vexing to him, the way that Darnell didn’t flinch. It’s not just that he didn’t flinch at Vega's provocation, it was also the fact that Darnell seemed to enjoy it. Both qualities served to puzzle him.

He was too charming. Too aware of how far he could lean into madness, Darnell had that chill behind the eye. He had met his share of evil and learned to brush shoulders without spilling his wine. Vega didn’t like seeing pieces of himself reflected with someone else’s voice and posture. Careful bait on the hook, swagger, poise. Different lure, same intention. He’d have to watch that one.

Not now.

Time and space blended, scathing rupture giving cause for him to take a pace back. He heard it even, not with his ears but with his skin. The way your body knows a thing before your brain does. A line climbs out the door of the diner on the other side. The rift in space assessed him, creating a tight-knit rope from void to chest. His body slipped through the crack with the liberty of fog creeping through the bottom of a door.

The first step on the other side is disorientating. He wonders, ponders, if he is the same man as the one who left on the other side. To be taken, pulled across from one pocket of unreality to another, is a challenging concept to tousle.

Golden Hour. The crowd was… off. Faces blurred at the edges, painted with wet paint, and never allowed to dry. And he is to serve these… people… things… abominations that climbed out of some liminal 50s hellscape? That was when he noticed the outfit, dreadful checkered stripes, and the offensive bow that strangled his neck. His hands reached up to adjust, studying the smooth contours of velvet.

Let me see who’s on the menu. They all wore nametags, and thankfully—these seemed to stay the same. “Newton. Lucas. Jasper,” he read their names aloud, as his eyes lazily grazed from chest to chest. They wore the same hideous getup as himself, and there was camaraderie to be found.

The kind of kinship you feel when you realize everyone has to pay taxes. The bitter solidarity of universal suffering. You too, huh?

But one detail was off. Jasper’s tie looked a touch ajar, and the way the bottom of their apron clipped into their pants by a centimeter. An innate wrongness that he could feel as a phantom pain. Momentarily channeling the grace of a tailor, his hands moved. Seizing the knot with his fingers, and pulling it upwards forcefully, were he any stronger—he might have lifted the man with it. He flattened a palm against his stomach to smooth out the corner, adjusting the fold, whipping the fabric into place until its rebellion seized.

There,” he spoke low, giving him a look as if he’d expected a “thank-you,” in return. The look of a monarch who spared a peasant the guillotine.

Wait. No, no no—a look of desperation slammed across his face with the grace of a rampaging hippo.

First, his hands slid across his own apron, unleashing a storm of ceaseless pats and grapples. Then to his belt. His pocket.

He felt something, a weight just under the hem of his apron. He peeled the damned thing back, with the same hesitance as one might expect when checking an unseen wound.

Easy, easy. His camera is still there. Tucked tight against his ribs with the ribbon strapped under his neck, beneath the aprons.

He holds it between his fingers, re-centers it, and clicks the button downward with a therapeutic click. He captures his colleague’s faces, holds the screen close to his face, and inspects it eagerly. The terror held within his eyes slips away, ebbed to dust by the waves of relief that crashed over his psyche. He smoothed himself over, wiping his face into a clean slate.

How the hell are we supposed to serve these things?” Not truthfully a question. He speaks it as if the task is far beneath him, spoken with the cadence of an aristocrat tasked to pour their own drink. He made a gesture towards one of the aforementioned things, it is scraping a coffee mug with what he believed to be a tongue.

Perhaps I should simply watch and learn. Do any of you have a talent for this… work?”
 
Last edited:
Normally, a hole being ripped in air and matter is concerning, and it completely is. However, nothing about this gas station has been normal, from being both everywhere and nowhere at the same time, to the gas station just appearing out of nowhere in a snowstorm, to the mirrors not always reflecting what they should. This hole in space and matter should make his heart want to escape from his rib cage in fear, and it does, but he's not that surprised that this has been happening. In fact, the only part of the gas station that does not scare him are the gas station lemon frogs, especially Thumbs. In fact, Thumbs, with his thumb printed head and hair chewing tendencies, grounds Newton, brings him some semblance of joy. Thumbs is still in his dark mop of hair, still in that pancake state.

As the hole opens in air and matter, Newton goes back for the energy drinks he dumped on the floor, and he squats, lifting his backpack off his shoulders, and unzipping his bag. He throws them as quickly as he can into his sagging, lumpy backpack. The few labels Newton spares a glance at say that the energy drink is lemon lime. How ironic, how funny the universe thinks itself, considered that this gas station is lemon themed(?). As Newton slings his backpack back onto his shoulders, he realizes that the cosmic joke started as soon as everyone started walking in the door: 13 strangers walk into the same gas station, even though very few of them live in the same area. It doesn't seem like the punchline will arrive anytime soon.

Newton, with the same speed that he threw the energy drinks into his backpack, rushed to rejoin the group, his shoelaces slapping the floor. He didn't want to find out what happened if he stayed behind in the gas station, so he chose to go into the portal, because obeying the smiley, blond clerk had kept him from not dying(so far). As he shuffled through the portal at a pretty fast and hurried pace, at least for him, his purple sweater and sweatpants were replaced by a wrinkled white collared shirt, and black pants, very formal attire. On top of that, although his moustache was still tickling his upper lip, his hair was no longer tickling his neck...

On the other side of the portal, music played, and just like with the gas station, everything was too clean, and Newton had the strong urge to look down at the floor. And, just as before, the floor was so clean that Newton could see himself, and everything around him. In addition to the collared shirt and black pants and fancy shoes, Newton also had a crooked red bow tie, and a crooked name tag perched on his left breast with his name written in his neat, slanty handwriting. His hair, which had been hanging off his head, was now in a small bun on top of his head. Thumbs, meanwhile, was chirping away like a baby bird. Although Newton wasn't too comfortable in his uniform, as he wasn't used to the formality, he quite liked the candy-cane pattern apron that his name tag was attached to.

“Newton. Lucas. Jasper,” Newton felt eyes on him, and he looked up from the shiny black and white tiles, into roseate eyes. Those pale-lashed eyes didn't seem to blink, and it felt as if the man was trying to dissect him. Newton's eyes inadvertently followed the roseate eyed man from one person to the next. First was Lucas, who like Noe, had blue eyes that were filled with a sort of hostility and disgust. Lucas had a single strand of platinum in his longish obsidian hair. The next face was much more familiar, much more friendly: Jasper. Once the man had rattled off everyone's names, Newton chose to turn his dull brown, heavy lidded gaze onto the man's breast where he read the name "Vega."

“Perhaps I should simply watch and learn. Do any of you have a talent for this… work?” Vega sounded out work the way one might say mold, or foot fungus. He looked at all of them, assessing them, observing them the way a scientist might observe subjects before the IRB was established.

"Nah, dude." Newton had never been employed before, with his accumulating debt and his mountain of schoolwork and occasionally his intrusive thoughts taking up all his time. "But may I offer you guys caffeine and sugar in these trying times?"

interactions: Zedalith Zedalith Klown Klown Thi Thi
 
1000002719.png

Mentions: Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- (Darnell), TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm (Margaret), PawPawkit PawPawkit (Newton), AI10100 AI10100 (Elise), Ambiloquous Ambiloquous (Cheryl), Thi Thi (Lucas), Wyll Wyll (Cassidy), Klown Klown (Erinnern and Clerk)
Interactions: BriiAngelic BriiAngelic (Rochelle)

(Most of this 1000 word monster is just catching up with what happened in the gas station so if you just want the diner stuff, skip to 'Once he stepped through')


The more everyone's voices filled the air, the more they agitated Cosmo, thus leading him to stay silent during the introductions and such, knowing that if he was filled with rage, that nothing of use was going to exit his mouth. After all, better to not make an impression, than make a bad one. He did, however, take mental notes on everyone there. First was the guy who looked to be a social worker or have a typical office job, dressed in the stereotypical dress shirt, tie, and all. He was intelligent, to an extent, but annoying, telling Cosmo stuff he already knew and had acknowledged verbally.

‘So high-and-mighty for a man who’ll most likely die with employee of the month being his greatest achievement; a little gold sticker to show how little of a life he actually has,’ Hatred grumbled once again from where it was fed a steady stream of Cosmo’s current annoyance with everyone.

‘Okay, now you’re exaggerating,’ Reason tried to protest, but it came out in only the smallest of whispers drowned out by Hatred.

After the office worker spoke an even more egregious fashion disaster than the black haired homeless man, Newton, spoke up. Cosmo didn’t look at him too long, keenly aware of the fact that if he looked any longer at that rancid combination of neon colours, he would say things that he would greatly regret later down the road, for example, commenting on Newton’s parents’ feelings surrounding his conception. And that, he predicted, would be a terrible decision considering the man had some semblance of intelligence and attentiveness.

Then there was the brunette who smoked however not just normal smoke came out of her cancerous stick of tobacco but stuff that somehow managed to invade his nose even with his senses dulled. It reminded him vaguely of his uncle Murdoc, always muttering around the apartment, worsening the terrible smell ever more with those cheap cigarettes he kept in practically every nook and cranny. Due to that, she was already within the list of people in the store he greatly hated, currently only stoking the fires of his fury, but she wasn’t in the list of worthless people, not just yet. He needed to see more of this introverted office worker.
Then there was the woman…? (he thought it was a woman from afar, but now that they were up close, they had a clearly more androgynous look which threw him off slightly) who dragged the strange pink girl behind her. He disliked them. Not hated. Disliked. Not for any particular reason. It was just that sort of aversion that came suddenly and for no real reason.

Speaking of things that came for no real reason, the most worthless of everyone in the gas station purgatory sat down beside him and asked if he smoked, in the rudest way possible. He had to bite down the sarcasm, swallow the insults brewing in his mouth, repeat to himself the penalty for second-degree murder could be a life sentence, and remind himself he was currently not physical or skilled enough to rip out the other’s windpipe just so he could manage to nod with a smile.
The office worker with an attitude, Darnell, and the redhead with more brawn than brains, Cassidy, were not helping him calm down with their introductions. Somehow, despite all this, he remained smiling with a look of serenity on his visage.
The same artificial calmness remained even as the portal opened and people began to walk through it. He was one of the last to do so, going over to the still half-full can of Phaze Energy he’d left between one of the aisles, on the now-slimy floor. He gingerly picked it up and, to his surprise, his fingers didn’t phase through the object, despite their non-physical state. He walked over to the portal, can in hand and the tiniest speck of actual glee hidden within his ever-permanent smile.

Once he stepped through the portal, however, this small joy was robbed from him by a few words from the thing imitating a man on the other side. It called itself Erinnern, perhaps to only annoy everyone who tried to pronounce or call its name, or maybe it meant something of use. Either way, Cosmo despised it from the beginning, trying so hard to seem kind, to seem human, to seem like a thing he could trust. Who exactly did it think it was fooling?

‘The surplus of idiots here, most likely,’ Detestment chipped in, and Cosmo was forced to agree, however much he wished his fellow prisoners, now fellow slaves, had more intellect.

It was just as foul a creature as the clerk, only the clerk had the decency to not pretend to be something it wasn’t. Not to pretend it had a heart, it had a soul beneath its inhumane surface. On top of that cowardice? Denial? Terrible trickery? – Whatever the thing led it to put on its terrible disguise and act – it turned them into labour, for free. No promise of pay, of questions answered or even escape, just unpaid work. That and it somehow had assigned him his least favourite form of work to ever exist: cleaning. It could have been just coincidence, but Cosmo was incredibly doubtful. At the very least, the uniform was cute if not a bit tacky: a frilly skirt and a gaudy yet endearing shirt over his black bodysuit which he had grabbed from the back of his Nissan once the snowstorm had begun, making him shiver like a leaf in the wind.

At the time, he had scolded himself for not carrying a jacket too and cursed the weather from turning into the typical humidity he’d come to know to an unfamiliar blizzard. However, the bodysuit had come to serve some purpose after all: covering his skin and not exposing him more than he was comfortable with. It also wasn’t too thick that it took away from the freedom he felt from finally letting his legs breathe, and it was made of Cosmo’s favourite material: soft cotton that didn’t trigger his sensory issues constantly, like a criminal constantly shooting a gun at innocent civilians; Something he was sure would happen with the pants. It did show more than he was planning to display to the complete strangers he'd been stuck with, the soft muscle on his chest and limbs more visible with the thin fabric of the suit rather than the thicker baggy material of his dress shirt, but it wasn’t enough to make him any sort of uncomfortable.

However, his affection for the uniform didn’t last long; an all-too-loud creature imitating a girl, who seemed to be the daughter of Erinnen, came onto the scene, destroying it with its over-enthusiastic manner. He imagined beheading the blue-haired abomination along with its father, hanging their heads outside the door with perfectly matching ropes, smearing the blood all over the restaurant, using their bodies for the next meal and stuffing it down their precious disgusting customers’ necks. The overly cruel mental image calmed him enough to come up with a polite response: “Hello, what’s your-”

But before he could finish, it ran off again, and he was forced to follow after. They reached the cleaning supplies, and internally he recoiled at the sight of them. Externally, he simply asked, “As I was saying, what’s your name?” He tilted his head in curiosity.
 
ELISE MOORE
INFORMATION
LOCATION
The Usual, Extra dimension
INTERACTIONS
Cheryl ( Ambiloquous Ambiloquous ) | Noe ( efferve efferve ) | Cassidy ( Wyll Wyll ) | Margaret ( TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm ) | Vincent ( timesink timesink )
MENTIONS
Everyone else amen
“y'know what, sure, cooking sounds fun.”
Artist
POST
Eyes drawn to the shift in the air, the distortion of space before them like there was some sort of glitch and it widened and displayed something else entirely. Maybe it would have paid to be wary as their most gracious host prattled on, his words like a restrictor around them— urging them to act and leave him to his devices. Elise sent a look to Cheryl, uncertainty, trepidation, excitement.

They stepped through, falling in line with the others.

It was a blast from the past, mellow music carried across the eerie silence despite the almost full house. Elise shifted in their stand. This was more like a replica than an actual diner, though then again, so was the convenience store. Surely, there was no shortage of oddity in this diner too. They couldn't dawdle on listening to the music or looking at the photos for too long, the warring feeling of familiarity and unfamiliarity only pulled a headache from the recesses of their mind. Instead, they looked at the man who exited the kitchen who didn't have the same reach as their earlier guide but nevertheless off-putting.

It's the eyes, The thought jumped to her mind. The eyes that were always considered a window to one's soul, this man— Erinnern— his eyes were different. They were a bright light, a kaleidoscope in every sense of the word, and Elise had to put her entire will to maintain the strange eye contact. So when she was beckoned to the kitchen with a select few others, Elise was powerless to stop it. She gave Cheryl a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Not that bad of a fit, at least?" She muttered to her best friend as her gaze dropped to their uniforms. Mercifully, she was wearing the men's uniform, finding it a lot easier to maneuver around in slacks rather than the short skirt diners were known to have. With that, she moved off to the kitchen.

Erinnern seemed intent on staying back in the kitchen with them and ran down a few key notes— the key notes being absolutely nothing at all aside from the names of their dishes and specials and the fact that the lemon slimes were the key ingredients. The almost merciless way of squeezing them into the dish made her shudder, clearly not looking forward to the continuous low moans of the frogs as they dig into their flesh to get their condiments. Elise curled her hands into fists and released, not sure what she wanted to be grounded on for the moment.

"So, just make it up as we go. Dishes are vibe based, got it." More to herself than anyone else in the kitchen staff. Taking the role semi-seriously, the student looked around their space to take in both the ingredients and her fellow staff members. Elise was reassured to see that the red haired guy from earlier, Cassidy was it?, was there with her. Though the less welcome presence was that of the priest but her problems with Catholicism and religion could be set aside in this space beyond the sight of the Lord. As for the other two, well, that really remained to be seen, yes?

Before they could really start, another presence announced herself to them in the form of a whirlwind of a girl with short blue hair. She didn't appear any less human than all of them but Erinnern was her dad and Erinnern was decidedly not human. Another companion, Noe if her eyes weren't betraying her, spoke up about the new arrival— or longtime employee, or whatever and Elise hummed as she turned to busy herself with becoming more familiar with the kitchen. She was curious and actively listened it but she needed to be kept busy or else she would sink further and further down thoughts she'd rather not have.

"It'll get busy but hey, at least we aren't out there, right?" She tried to inject a bit of levity in her voice as she gestured outside. Yes, they had to deal with the screams of dying lemon slimes ,but Elise would rather choose that than those emotionless customers that would certainly trip her up the moment she spoke.


 



1744672834219.png

GESTALT

Cassidy
McNamara
He looked down at the dark-haired man that approached him, offering a smile and a nod as he introduced himself as Darnell. It was good to see at least one person wiling to play ball. Plus, apparently he knew how to fight as well; something Cassidy would remember in case it did come to a situation where they had to fight their way out of whatever mad house this was. He opened his mouth, as though to say something to Darnell, but then it seems like reality itself split open.

As he stared out at the portal and how it bent space and time to its will, Cassidy found himself in a tragically unique and unprecedented situation.

At every other point in his life, for better or for worse, the world and Cassidy played by the same rules.

Now, maybe it was the fact that he vividly remembered driving here in his silver Mazda. Or, perhaps it was the fact that those that had sought refugee in the gas station all looked and talked normal...more or less. In fact, if one choose to be wildly optimistic, it might even have been the fact that most people seemed to agree that something wasn't right.

Maybe it was all of the above; native it was none. Whatever the case may be, Cassidy had been convinced that the world and him still had the same agreement. That the same rules still applied and some basic common sense was enough that you'd get by just fine.

At least, that was his belief until a portal appeared. The portal represented a new order, a new normal, a new world. A world entirely unknown to him. Perhaps the others had figured it out before him and, like everything else, he was just slow on the uptake. Maybe that's why they were so willing to comply.

Silently, wordlessly, Cassidy moved through the motions he was being guided through, obediently observing. His face was largely expressionless until he entered the kitchen and saw that it looked the same as any other that he'd been in. A smile lit up his face as he took in the surroundings. This may be a different world, but a kitchen would always be a kitchen.

However, the throbbing pain in his right hand suddenly arrested his attention and demanded treatment. Not that any treatment could do anything to salvage his situation though. Several bones had taken damage and he could feel each one. If he removed the shirt, his palm and fingers would likely be swollen and bent at unnatural angles. Such a thing would take months to heal. Now, if he wanted to be stubborn, Cassidy had enough experience in the kitchen and dexterity in his left hand to be able to cook one-handed. However, if this truly was a different world with different rules...


His eyes locked on the person that had given them all the uniforms and name tags. Or, rather, the person he assumed had caused the uniforms and name tags to appear on their bodies. Walking boldly, he approached the man, stopping a few steps short.

"Hey there, buddy." Tone, indifferent - neither harsh nor pleasant. Certainly not submissive or appeasing, because Cassidy was too proud for that.
"I can't exactly do nothing in a kitchen with a broken hand, now can I? I don't suppose there's anything you can do about that?"

Mentions: Klown Klown
 
Last edited:
d23e84033d2186f77cba1a90692f510a-jpg.1217140

As Darnell was beginning to wrap his mind around the fact that lemon frogs constituted a valid entry on his unofficial "Weirdest Tuesday Ever" list, the portal ripped through the air like some lethargic seamstress under deadline. He now found himself standing in a sparkly fifties diner, clad as if dropped off straight from the set of some 80s' sitcom rerun- from his name tag, which clearly knew him better than he knew himself.

"Aw hell," he muttered, smoothing the front of the uniform down, the sort of thing one would do, granting the setup for entrance aplomb, doing just that, wearing very reluctantly ones rented tux for some cousin's third wedding. "I could tell this had the smell of customer service all over it."

Then she came bursting through. Some firecracker woman, completely with a comfy set of headphones on. He liked her style. Before Darnell would have thought to duck behind the jukebox or pretend to read the menu, she had already begun yelling names.

One of which being his name.

Darnell blinked very slowly. Then he looked down at the mop bucket. Then at her. Then back down to the bucket.

"I swear," he said, mostly to himself, "somehow I've managed to hop dimensions, then went from being a frog wrangler to a janitor in under five minutes. I'm setting World Records here. Hey, someone call Guinness!" Darnell cuchkles to himself

But something in Darnell softened just a little as she beamed at him, all-star smile like it was Christmas, like the most adorable innocent-looking gray puppy. He snorted through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Lead on, fireball," he said, crooked grin on his face as he fell into step behind her. "But if any of these memories start biting me, I'm out of here. I don't know where I'd be going, but it'll faaar away from here rest assured."
BriiAngelic BriiAngelic
 
Erinnernff.gif
efferve efferve Wyll Wyll


The kitchen was big. Bigger than one might expect or need. The space stretched to accommodate for the sudden influx of kitchen personnel. Expanding with each added pair of shoes to squeak against its floors. Stainless steel reflected the red stripes of gaudy uniforms, ingredients sat in shelves or bowls, plump and bright. Even the lemon frogs seemed to chirp in anticipation.

Erinnern had watched each of the new employees walk in, burly arms crossed. Not angry, but comfortable. The lights in his eyes pulsed faintly as they crossed the threshold. Awake and bright.

A demonstration of how the lemon frogs are harvested was made. Clear, concise. It wasn’t rocket science, nor did he plague them with the more complex methods of harvest. Those he’d handle himself. Big hands, rough with experience, but gentle and precise. His mustache twitched as he chuckled, not turning around as Rochelle swept through the kitchen—a tornado with legs.

“You have a daughter?”

The crinkled corners of his eyes softened at Noe’s question. Sadness, pride. A story deep as oceans cradled within a shimmering gaze, held there like a secret.

“In all but essence.” Erinnern smiled fondly, wiping clean a counter. “Daughter by circumstance, fortunate and otherwise.”

When Noe’s stomach growled, Erinnern finally looked over.

“They not feed you from where you were coming from?” It’s a rhetorical question lilted with warm amusement. The kind that paired well with a pat on the back. But a single, friendly slap might’ve broken Noe to pieces. Erinnern’s bicep was about as wide as his head, and his hands nearly tripled Noe’s in width. Even a nudge might’ve threatened a bruise.

A cursory glance around the kitchen heralded a bowl of fresh pears in the palm of the man’s hand. Almost like the air knew exactly what he was searching for before he’d even said it. Sliced and pealed by a practiced mother. Dedicated to cutting each slice into the perfect size to fit into a child’s mouth with a single bite. Sweet, and juicy. The kinds of pears waiting for one after sweltering, rosy-cheeked fun in the sun, or a grueling day of school.

“Here, a little something to keep you on your feet.” Erinnern passed the bowl of pears to Noe with a wink. “Find me on your break and I’ll make you something heartier. You’ve been through a lot—a full stomach won’t fix it, but it won’t make it worse.”

Cassidy’s approach drew his attention away from his station again, but he seemed eager. Surprise yanked at his brows at Cassidy’s hands. Bruised and bent in odd places. Fractured—if not plainly broken. He laughed, deep and tender. How honey feels going down the throat.

“Well, I’ve been told my cooking heals the spirit, but I’m no doctor.” He rubbed his chin pensively, fingers brushing against his trimmed beard. His second hand hovered just below Cassidy’s broken one, careful not to touch it. “Put this one through quite the number, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Strong hands.” Erinnern grinned, patting Cassidy’s shoulder, practically engulfing it within his grasp. “The hands of a working man!”

“Come with me, kid.” Erinnern moved to an empty stove, grabbing a pan from nothing and setting it over the heat. A cutting board popped onto the clear surface beside them with a sharpened knife sheathed in white plastic. “Tell me, what was your favorite thing to have accomplished with those hands? Doesn't have to be the best, just your favorite.”


 
LUCAS NEIL
LOCATION
The Usual (dining area)
INTERACTIONS
Cheryl Ambiloquous Ambiloquous Vega Zedalith Zedalith Jasper Klown Klown Newton PawPawkit PawPawkit
A flicker of pink brushed the edge of his vision, dismissed at first as a digital echo from the much flashier pixelated boy. It wasn’t until the girl spoke that the color took form.

The moment his gaze landed on her, so terribly underdressed it felt like an act of rebellion against basic survival, a dozen questions crowded his mind. Girl, are you trying to break the world record for induced hypothermia was the most pressing, only to get snagged and lost somewhere in the web of neurons struggling to make sense of what he was actually hearing.

"Uh... yeah. That's definitely what I meant."

He could almost see the word sarcasm physically flying way over her head and crashing against the wall. Was she actually being for real?

He looked at her—really looked. The way she delivered that hopelessly corny line with the bright, oblivious energy of an anime side character who would not make it out of there, and her crop top and mini skirt. Yep. Real. Definitely real.

She had a point, though. He did look like an actual philosopher. His gaze lingered on the man, studying him not as a person, but as if he were some oddity set behind glass in a history museum.

"Old Haight-Ashbury style. Especially the hair and mustache. I see it now. You might be onto something here." The words carried a note of genuine surprise, as though the very notion of her being right was something he couldn't quite believe. Lucas slid down from the counter, brushing past the ginger, the taller man and whatever introductions were to be made—the disdain was unmistakable—and walked up to the pink-haired woman.

Between chunky sneakers and kitten heels, they stood almost perfectly balanced: shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye.

Long fingers tapped the cigarette once, twice. Brittle gray ash tumbled down, breaking apart against the floor. For a moment, the ash seemed to writhe, burned by the purity of emptiness and white crisp tiles.

"You look absolutely insane. In every meaning of the word," he said, gaze sweeping over her. Blue eyes trailed up, down, and up again, before settling on her face with a quizzically raised brow. It wasn't quite an insult. It was the kind of warped compliment one might say to someone who, in their glorious catastrophe, made you feel a little better about your own. Someone who was pleasantly tolerable, in the same way a person becomes oddly endearing once you realize they’re failing the test even more spectacularly than you are.

There was some clear thought put behind her clothes, even if said thought would freeze her to death sooner or later. Basic, but stylized. Lucas eyed the kitten heels. "You good in those? 'Cause you better pray the clown man won't start chasing you down a hallway anytime soon. Nice outfit, by the way. I like it. Reminds me of acubi, but also not. Don't know if that's what you were going for. Nothing wrong with being original, though. As long as you're not wearing an existing concept straight to its death."

His face scrunched up at his own words, the taste of some unknown memory that crept back in uninvited. Teenagers and young adults alike, scrambling over each other to wedge themselves into the newest, freshest labeled box they could find for the week. Everyone desperately trying to look like no one, which, ironically, made them all the same. Viral videos barking out style commandments like gospel, teaching people how to limit themselves with strict guidelines stretched so thin and warped they barely resembled their source. A store filled to the brim with thin, cheap fabrics and poorly finished hems fraying at the seams, maybe.

But then, reality split and opened.



"So they were food. I knew it. Fucking genius."

The first thing murmured under his breath when he first joined the group was self-praise, and the second remained an unintelligible grumble—something about the cosmos and slaves.

His hair was now pulled back into a neat high ponytail, a habit Lucas couldn't quite shake, even as his understanding of the universe was being torn apart and reconstructed in real-time. The scent of cigarette smoke had long since dissipated along with his clothes, leaving only the faintest trace that clung to his breath. The apron fit snugly around his waist, and the black pants, tailored with precision, hugged his legs in a way that no suit ever had. It was a custom-made uniform, every detail calibrated to the fraction of an inch. He fidgeted with the bow and frowned at the hat. How tacky were they, really? For once, he actually thought wearing the female uniform would have been better.

"Can't expect much from society and male uniforms, can you?"

His complaints ended there. Deep down, he knew he was far more comfortable with not showing off his bare legs in heels.

Looking up, he caught the camera just in time to stick out a pierced tongue, followed by a lazy middle finger. Then, it was onto business.

The photographer spoke, and Lucas felt, somewhere in those words, the subtle sting of inclusion. Servers, in essence, as they were. There was something about the way the man stood tall and proud, and the way his voice carried with a delicate edge of self-importance, like he was not one of them at all.

And yet, here he was.

Perhaps it was real, perhaps it was not; wherever that sense of haughtiness was coming from, Lucas could already tell Vega was someone he neither wanted nor had the patience to deal with.

"What's there to know? Walk up, ask what they want, write the order down, leave. I'm sure you can do that much," he said, with the tone of a faulty string struck in just the right way, reverberating back to the man with equal force.

He turned toward the philosopher then. "I'll take the caffeine. At least that'll let me know if I didn't fall asleep at the wheel and this isn't just one hell of a collective fever dream."

Said fever dream was, to say the least, oddly alluring, despite finding himself once again employed on his day off. Torn between the idea of protesting by doing everything but his actual work and the pull of his gnawing curiosity, Lucas glanced over at the two other servers. Jasper and Newton, the nametags read.

"Don't ask me what I mean, but you two look like you could chat up aliens just fine." It wasn’t a lie. From the way they carried themselves, Lucas could almost see their resemblance. Like how they looked like the most reasonable out of their entire group, but also the most likely to stumble upon an old radio in a dusty garage and accidentally contact and summon an entourage of extraterrestrials down to Earth. "Why don't you give it a shot?"
code by @Nano
 
🍒
Cheryl Seki-Feigenbaum
INFORMATION
LOCATION
The Usual, Supplies
INTERACTIONS
Lucas ( Thi Thi ), El ( AI10100 AI10100 ), Rochelle ( BriiAngelic BriiAngelic ), Cosmo ( Alien222 Alien222 ), Darnell ( Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- )
MENTIONS
Newton ( PawPawkit PawPawkit )
“#dayinthelife of a cleaner in an eldritch diner?”
POST
She dialed her smile a few watts brighter, forcing her line of sight to stop flitting around. People typically didn’t like being studied, she had found, unless they wanted something from the observer. Cheryl really didn’t want to make a bad impression on a possible future fashion frie—no, she was overreaching, apparel-related acquaintance? … Fellow clothing coordinator? His look felt so evocative of the web that she was certain her critical viewers would admit his styling mastery, his calling as a true accoutrement artist of the digital age. It would reach beyond her own audience, even. The wider internet would love him. He was an amalgamation of a slew of aesthetics under the alternative umbrella, sporting inspiration from emo, goth, punk and soft-grunge subcultures—more if she squinted. His one pristine streak of white brought to mind Y2K chunky highlights, but elevated.

If she had to describe him with a single label, he was The E-boy to end all e-boys. She could picture a 2020 e-kid factory resurgence if he was released into the TikTok microtrend waters, and her thumb pressed on her phone screen, instinctively ready to hit record.

It wasn’t just his fit, though. She could almost hear ghost commenters whispering “face card never declines”. His features were appealing in the sort of gloomy, vaguely K-pop, post-anime “bad boy” way that blended seamlessly with his attire. Really, he should be the influencer, not her. Maybe he already was. Maybe he was down for a collab. She tugged at her skirt, shifting her weight to her back foot in sudden clarity of her own ensemble. It wasn’t her best work, but she hadn’t expected to meet anyone she’d need to impress in real life. She wasn’t even sure what she considered her best would impress him, if it hadn’t any of her watchers.

Her self-conscious wallowing was pushed away by his voice, not as rich as velvet, more a medium-weight satin—a matte peau de soie—dragged out with a little bite. He’d do well as a boyfriend ASMR content creator was the thought that briefly skimmed past her mind. Now that she was focused on him, she finally caught the nuances when he started speaking. He sounded a little dry, a little bewildered. Her heart dropped two levels. It was definitely not what he meant.

But as he continued his spiel, she became the bewildered one. No, it was what he meant? Her surprise mirrored his, and she nodded blankly, not sure who exactly he was talking about but sure he was correct in the connection. She fought the urge to raise her phone and tap in a quick Google search. Wracking her brain, she recalled that Haight-Ashbury was related to hippies; they were probably a prominent leader in the movement then. She peeked at Philosopher from the corner of her eye. He did seem very peace, love and “dudes”. “Dudes” was hippie, right?

Movement from the E-boy caught her attention, and she turned to look at him again. As he slipped off the counter, her expectations started climbing skyward. He was stepping towards her. Did he want to continue their conversation? Was he going to ask her to be frien—acquaintances?! She gripped her phone hard enough that the case dug into her fingers, muscles primed to whip out her Instagram the moment he hinted. Waiting with bated breath, her heartbeat matched the casual taps of his cigarette.

“You look absolutely insane. In every meaning of the word.”


Her heart stopped beating. She wanted to be the ash scattered from his cigarette, magically vanished and forgotten. She could imagine it: dropping down, sinking into the floor, swallowed by the suspiciously clean tiles. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to assume Slenderman clerk could read her mind, to assume he’d be open to throwing an underperforming worker in the galactic trash can.

She waited. The floor, as usual, did not open up and devour her.

As she continued listening to his good-natured(?) verbal knifing, her emotions flip-flopped back and forth. I’d rather the “clown man” start chasing me down a hallway… or not, E-boy likes my outfit! She was going to be original from this moment onwards. No more pin boards, no more doomscrolling through OOTDs, just her and her 100% authentic brain coming up with acubi fits. The fact that she hadn’t really delved that deeply into the style wasn’t going to stop her. Delulu is the solulu, as the internet says, and she was going to love it.

She opened her mouth to gush about his style, about acubi, about how he could be the influencer FashionTok needed. She didn’t get a chance.

A little too late, as if trying to make up for the fact that the floor didn’t consume her, the air unfurled its yawning maw.

🍒

The music gently tugged at her reconstructions of the past, invoking the impression of a memory but not the memory itself. It was a diner fit for the set of Back to the Future, which was a good way to depict what had happened, except it wasn’t 30 years—this time, she wasn’t sure if it was years at all that had been yanked from their grasp.

At least their new employer had none of the spurious insincerity of the clerk. Erinnern might’ve been another horror in human skin, but at least he acted like a human when he was one. It was easy to trick herself into thinking his eyes were extreme colour contacts if she didn’t look at them directly, but she didn’t need to. They were beautiful, the kind of eyes she imagined a magical girl might have when carrying out their final move.

Her idle reverie was broken by a hand. Unlike before, El’s grip on her shoulder was exactly what it appeared to be. Cheryl touched her fingers in return, giving it a squeeze of her own. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—disappoint her again, not after El had physically pulled her away from her stupid suggestion. Hopefully not ever.

“No,”
and it came out half in a laugh, half in a sigh. She tilted her head to view the skirt and smoothed out some nonexistent creases.
“Not bad at all.”


The vibrant red was a highlight of the uniform, and the striped pillbox-style hats tied everything together. The only gripe she had was the zigzag stitching on the apron; she had no idea why it had been added the way it had. But beyond design, the material was like nothing she’d ever felt: all the shimmer of silk, but none of the slip. A forgotten memory sparked to life. Silk-cotton. Not a blend any of her garments were made of, but something she’d always wanted to try.

When she looked up, El had swished away into the kitchen. There was a sense of loss, but it was diluted, strained by all the events that had happened so far. Another flicker of disappointment when it was clear nobody else she had talked to was a cleaner. Not Priest, not Boy, not Philosopher, and not to-be-acquaintance E-boy either.

It was fine. It was fine! She could make new… acquaintances. They could talk about their favourite chores together! Or whatever else cleaners talked about on the job.

She didn’t really feel fine, until an animated girl sped over and shouted all the cleaners’ names, clutching a red bucket. Blue bixie, monochrome knee high socks and pink rollerskates, she looked so delighted to see them that Cheryl couldn’t help but feel a little happier as well, the corners of her lips relaxing into a more genuine smile.

When Neon ’70s—Cosmo, she corrected herself—asked for Rochelle's name, she glanced at him, confused. Perhaps he didn’t notice the nametag on her chest? She wondered if it would be overstepping to point it out, and hesitated, deciding instead to exaggeratedly fix the position of her own tag and cough in no particular direction. Spotting the bodysuit, she wondered if it counted as undergarments or something, as it hadn’t disappeared in their costume change.

The moment Businessman—Darnell—mentioned Guinness world records, she reflexively patted where her skirt pocket would be, forgetting her phone was tucked away in the staff lockers.

“Maybe there's a signal here, and you can apply to be a record holder once we go on break?”
she said, tapping a finger to her chin. She didn’t think it was likely, but she also hadn’t thought going back to the ’50s was likely, so what did she know?

As he broached the subject of leaving, she wondered how he was going to get out of the diner if they did bite. She wondered if he’d take her and El along. And E-Boy, Priest, Boy and Philosopher and—well, all of them. They might have to put their heads together at that point; if all the employees except one left, it would be a big deal, wouldn’t it?

Skipping to keep up with the small intern group lead by Rochelle, she piped up again.
“So what exactly do we need to do? Is it going to be like chasing after the… um, lemon toads?”

 
Last edited:



1745429800588.png

GESTALT

Cassidy
McNamara
It took a lot for Cassidy to recognise somebody else’s strength, but there was a weight to the hand that landed on his shoulder that lingered long after Erinnern walked past him. It was a weight that spoke of strength Cassidy instinctively knew he couldn’t compete with, like a how a household dog instinctively knows to be wary of a wild wolf.

Cautious eyes followed the man(?), thing(?), man-thing(?)...cautious eyes followed the man-thing as it walked over to the stove, simply nodding to everything that seemed to magically pop into the air. One of the benefits of being such a slow starter in life was that he was used to knowing nothing; familiar with the fog that came with cluelessness, so it was easy for him to simply accept the madness of this world. After all, growing up, everything seemed just as mad to him. Now, he had made up his mind to learn the rules of this world and, so far, one thing was clear. Whatever this world was, this person was in charge of it.

That understanding put him in a tough spot when Erinnern asked about what he had done with his hands. With anybody else, he would have brushed them off. Perhaps given them a stern finger to the chest reminding them to mind their business. However, everything about this was different. A different world with different rules and a different type of person. All that, however, was not enough to make him completely lower his guard.

His memory with his father was too precious to share, even with this charismatic stranger. That moment burned in the brightest part of his memory and he would protect it no matter what world he lived in.


“Protect my sister.” An honest enough answer. One that wasn’t are precious to him as the time spent with his father, but also one that he was still proud of. “Some bad folk thought they could do whatever they wanted with her; say whatever they wanted to her. I had to go teach them that things don’t work that way ‘round these parts. Not when it comes to my family.”

He looked down at the cutting board, picking up the knife and unsheathing it with a smooth flick of the wrist. His Southern upbringing demanded that if work was being done in his presence, he would be helping - broken hand be damned. He flaunted the knife in his hand, getting used to the feel of holding it in his less dominant hand. It was something he had done before but not enough times to be entirely comfortable with the motions.
“My ma told me that my body was made to build and to protect. Ain’t nobody better to protect than family itself.”

He kept playing with the knife as he spoke, the movement slowly losing their clumsy edge and becoming smoother. Slower than they would look in his right hand, but smooth enough to where he now looked back at the cutting board, simply waiting for something to appear there like everything else had.

Mentions:Erinnern Klown Klown
 
  • IMG_4042.jpeg
    Interacting With/Mentions:
    Cheryl ( Ambiloquous Ambiloquous ), Darnell ( Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- ), Joann ( Gigglecake Gigglecake ), Cosmo ( Alien222 Alien222 )

    ~ The Usual, Resterant Main~
    Wonderful



    Perhaps she could have approached them a bit less… well a bit less. She straightened her back out and ironed out her excitement at the realization that each of them were looking at her. Of course they were, she’d screamed her way in. Man she was off, the relaxed one reminded her exactly why when he mentioned dimension hops and front wrangling.

    Right. Most people weren’t used to The Usual. She turned back to the one who asked for her name and tried to give off a friendly smile which came off a bit too much like a smirk instead.

    “Rochelle, though I prefer Roche. Fireballs a new one. I don’t mind that one either.”

    She knew the shift started when she started to feel her legs feel colder. Damn it’d be a bit since the outfit wasn’t something she actively put on herself.

    “Huh, guess it’s shift time. On the bright side the memories are way less likely to bite you on cleaning duty. Probably. It won’t be memories anyways.”

    She was more relaxed than anyone would imagine in this scenario knowing her shit was probably around somewhere. She didn’t like to question how The Usual worked, knowing too much usually made her head spin. Instead she honed in on the talk of applying if they had signal.

    “Signal?” Her voice was light clearly meant to be spoken under her breath. She tilted her head like she wasn’t used to the word or at the very least couldn’t get the meaning of its use.

    “Well! Glad you asked! No no lemon toads unless your cooking team is particularly incompetent.”

    Her confidence returned from the little lull as she put a hand on her hip skating around the team. She seemed entirely in her element speaking of her experience in the place.

    “Yeah so all the kitchen clean up is on them. Basically we got the main area clean, bathrooms, trash room and run. Sucks I know, dad unfortunately can’t play favorites and I suppose having someone who knows the place helps for knowing what needs cleaned up. Worse yet, it’s deep cleaning day. Also all of this isn’t gonna stop customers from coming in so don’t get in the serving teams way if they do start coming….cause the customers aren’t always patient.”

    She paused after each task taking a moment to scan their expressions. It wasn’t too often they got more than one or two wanders around these parts. Cleaning was gonna be a breeze with these many hands so long as they weren’t princesses about it.

    “If you have any complaints, well I mean have ‘em but you’re gonna be doing something anyways. As the one with the most experience I ain’t doing the trash run. So like I guess put it to a vote of what you hate most. We could do it as one group or in pair and trio.”

    She figured none of them were going to be too thrilled at being the cleaning crew but you had to make the best of your lot. In reality she felt sorry for the poor suckers on serving duty.

    “Oh yeah if the room feels like it’s shaking or if you see someone in all red… run as far into the place as you can. Do Not Leave if that happens.”

 










VINCENT WARD















location

the usual diner;
kitchen area






interactions

gordon erinnen
ramsay's idiot sandwiches






mentions

Errinern Yaeger // Klown Klown ;
Noe // efferve efferve ;
Lucas // Thi Thi ;
Cassidy // Wyll Wyll ;
Elise // AI10100 AI10100 ;
Cheryl // Ambiloquous Ambiloquous






He didn’t notice at first. His pulse was still too loud in his ears, still echoing the sound of retreating footsteps and the subtle tremor in Cheryl’s voice as she’d murmured something about finding her friend (El, was it?) without quite meeting his eyes, without giving him time to respond; she’d dabbed the gauze too hard against his brow, not so much out of carelessness as out of uncertainty, as if she didn’t know how much pressure was too much or too little, trying to be gentle and swift and somewhere else all at once. Then just like that, Vincent watched the space she left behind, her voice trailing off like a ribbon caught in the air-conditioned wind.

She had left him behind.

And she was right to. He understood it; of course he did, she was not wrong to go find her friend, not wrong to leave him. He was a grown man, a former Marine, a fully ordained priest at thirty-one and weathered by all sorts of war; he didn't need to be coddled. He had been trained and bred to do exactly this: sit with blood cooling against his skin and wait for reinforcements, to pray in foxholes and bless the dying with hands that shook only after the fact; but somehow none of that made it easier to dull the small, stupid ache in his chest as he sat there with the gauze slipping and the antiseptic stinging. Letting himself wonder - just for a second - if he’d said something wrong, if his dry smile had struck the wrong chord, if she’d noticed the way he looked at her when her hands had hovered too long near his face, when she’d leaned in close, so young and bright and nervous, too young to be steady but too sharp not to see the weight he carried, as if it might be contagious.

Her eyes. He could admit, even now, that they were pretty; reminding him of a certain someone from years ago. Beautiful even, in that quick, glancing way that youth always is. Unguarded, impulsive, unsure of its own power, and then in moments or a lifetime, gone. Gone like others before her; brothers he couldn’t save; young love he’d turned away for duty, for the family that had always expected too much or too little or simply never understood; and he’d thought, foolishly maybe, that he’d grown past the ache of being left or the one to leave; but apparently not, because something in him still folded inward when it happened. Like a shirt packed too long in a suitcase, creased in ways that wouldn't come out no matter how many times you ironed it.

Just then, there seemed to be a noise. Not a loud one, but a wrong noise, a soft sound that filled the cracks of his skull where logic told him to not listen. But
once the lemon yellow thing settled on the slope of his shoulder and blinked, all slow and conspiratorial-like, Vincent froze.

The frog blinked up again at him.

Vincent blinked back.

The frog blinked more.

Am I... dreaming?

He glanced at the tile floor, the blood congealing beside him as if it were slow, oxidized art, and wondered, with some genuine concern, whether he was in a coma; but he was awake - he was, right? He could still feel the pain in his temple, still smell the iron tang of blood and cheap tile cleaner, still taste the stale church coffee he'd had two or more hours ago, and didn’t that mean something?

Vincent glanced back at the door. Maybe his hit against the door had concussed him just enough to conjure amphibian hallucinations, or maybe this was some weird PTSD surge blending in with his memories of a post-tour Vincent taking LSD, or hell, maybe Cheryl had slipped something into the first aid kit just to stop him from prying in that priestly way he was so good at... but even as the excuses mounted, flimsy and paper-thin, another frog landed on his thigh with a wet, flesh-slap sound.

Then another lemon frog came; and another; and another.

And then came the arms.

He knew, instinctively, the moment the air changed; it was the same shift that happened right before the first bullet cracked through the sky, right before a bomb dropped, your patrol went silent, or the IED took the legs from the man beside you: wrongness, thick and invisible, seeping in through your pores before you could name it.

The arms unfolded from nothing, long and jointed in all the wrong places; one of them held a bag made of ordinary paper, almost pitiful in its mundanity. The instructions were simple: place the lemon frogs into the bag, for the patron.

Vincent stared at it, stared at them, stared at the frogs now congregating like obedient ducklings around his knees, and for a moment he considered refusing, considered telling whatever eldritch PTA meeting this was to go find someone else; but his hands moved anyway, opening the bag like it was part of the liturgy, like this was communion and the frogs were holy offerings, and some cracked, weary part of him whispered maybe this is a test, maybe the test never ended, maybe this is Purgatory and the bag is the Ark and the frogs are God's angels in disguise and you’re just too stupid to get it Vincent---

He placed the first one inside.

Then the second.

And slowly, reluctantly, reverently, like he was a child performing another religious rite he didn’t really believe in but dared not botch, Vincent began to scoop. He
didn’t scoop the frogs in so much as... hold the opening out with both hands, watching one by one as the yellow things leapt inside with a squish and a squirm and a knowing lack of utter ceremony that made his skin crawl.

After a few minutes of witnessing this, the arms withdrew like satisfied serpents. Following it, the air thickened.

And then it opened.

A line split through the air like a crack in a windshield or the first cut of a scalpel; a wound in space, white and stuttering, flickering like bad reception or God changing the channel mid-sermon. It didn’t open like a door really, it more like unzipped, hissing and popping like a damn Ziploc bag, and Vincent immediately shuffled back, hand lifting reflexively to his chest in a movement drilled into muscle memory long before seminary ever got involved.

The sign of the cross came out quick and clean, all instinct, fingers brushing forehead, sternum, shoulders in that old rhythm, lips parting in spooked fashion,

"I-In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti...?!"

And then the clerk, or whatever Satanic that thing was, grinned with all the enthusiasm of a birthday clown and none of the warmth, his voice winding out like honey drizzled over kitchen knives, limbs elongating again in a way that made Vincent’s spine crawl, and said something about a Golden Hour and ruminating and crowds.

Vincent's every instinct told him to NOT walk through the portal, but it seemed the gas station gave him no choice as it too, frayed at its existential edges, telling him the only thing worse than walking through was staying behind.

So in he went along with everyone else, light enveloping him briefly, painless but still entirely disorienting, and when he blinked, he was no longer in the gas station; he was standing inside a diner that was again, pristine. Too pristine.

And then he looked down.

Gone were the robes, gone was his cassock, his clerical collar, the bloodied gauze still stuck to his temple. In their places, fitted to his 6’4 frame with unnervingly perfect accuracy, was a neatly pressed male diner uniform, name tag already clipped like it had been there for years.

Vincent turned in place once, taking in the checkered floors and mint green walls, the autographed photos of AI-generated looking celebrities, the infinite parking lot beyond the window and the sky; and he felt it again, that old feeling from the battlefield, from the hospital chapels, from the confessional booth just a few hours ago; purgatory, the place between death and whatever came next.

Someone was speaking. It was a rugged looking man with strange, glowing eyes with the name tag said Erinnern on him (or it?!) but Vincent didn’t hear the words at first. He was still trying to breathe through the fact that his faith, his function, and his clothes had all been stripped without warning, and now he was in polyester with a name tag, and a menial job he hadn't had since he was thirteen. Vincent adjusted his grip, stubbornly clinging to the only thing they hadn’t taken, the only familiar weight left - his briefcase. As the kitchen doors swung open and the others began to shift and herd inside like drafted sheep, his soldier's instinct scanned those nearest to him, taking stock of each face.

Chiefly, the 'patron' Vincent guessed the clerk spoke of. At first glance, to Vincent's surprise, the man possessed an eerie resemblance to his late grandpa. Just the sort of retiree you'd find drinking black coffee on a sun-warmed porch, who fixes his own roof, survived some war or another, earning himself a softness around the edges only age could justify. Disarming, Vince's mind offered, but his mind also knew it had been around long enough to know the difference between the genuine and performance, and the glowing white light behind those golden irises made it clear: this thing was not at all human, and he would bet his kidneys it was hiding something much darker from them... for now.

He barely processed the words “Let’s serve some good memories!” before the kitchen doors slammed open and the room filled with sudden, kinetic chaos in the shape of a young woman with short blue hair, headphones still on, jacket barely hanging on her shoulders. She yelled something about cleaning, shouted out names, about her dad - and Vincent’s head jerked toward Erinnern with renewed shock as she exited.

Dad??

He wasn't the only one willing to question the connection. A pale boy with tired posture and sharp, crystal blue eyes, tag reading Noe, voiced his. Noe looked like he'd rather be anywhere else; watching this unfold from behind a screen, maybe, with popcorn in his lap. But he was here and judging from the cold distance in his gaze, he hated that fact with every cell in his body. Still, Vincent could sense it: in this kitchen, he had the posture and eyes of an expert in his element...

The old man’s smile softened at the edges, sure, but Vincent had known enough soft smiles to know which ones hid real teeth; there was something behind that face that didn’t quite belong to flesh made in His Image. Still, Vincent would be lying if he didn't say he almost bought it. There was a flicker of what looked like sorrow in Erinnern's eyes; genuine, maybe, if you didn’t know what to look for. Even though Vincent was convinced it wasn’t human, didn’t mean it couldn’t act like it. Hell, half the monsters Vincent had met in his life shook your hand before they bit it.

“In all but essence,” the old man-thing replied. “Daughter by circumstance, fortunate and otherwise.”

Vincent blinked once, slow and disbelieving, the kind of blink that tried to reset the frame, recalibrate the setting, reground him somehow in the logic of things, but so far, there has been no God-given logic here since he stepped and hit his head through that gas station door. Not to mention that girl bouncing around like she owned the place, no fear in her steps, no hesitation in her voice, moving through this strange 1950s sitcom set like it was her own damn backyard. And if she wasn’t kin, and wasn’t captive, and hopefully, hopefully, wasn’t clueless, then what in God's green earth did that make her?

The only answer given was the bowl of pears materializing in Noe’s direction. Vince had to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep from letting out a snort; not because it was funny, but because it felt scripted, like someone behind the curtain was pressing a button labeled “comfort” and expecting applause. Whether or not Noe took the bowl wasn't the point; what mattered was how it defied physics, how neatly the kindness had arrived to him, how precise it was, like this older man had fed many a stomach before them, fattening victims up for the slaughterhouse. Erinnern wasn’t simply feeding; he was acting precisely in a way to get people to bring their guards down, playing at good old' Grandad, playing at diner host, playing at being human.

And everyone was letting it happen.

Including Cassidy. Vincent had noticed him earlier; maybe a few years younger than himself, seeming like he didn’t have much use for panic or small talk, the kind of no-nonsense presence that reminded Vincent (unexpectedly) of his older brother Lionel; but now, seeing him up close, hearing the gravel-and-honey Southern accent roll out from his mouth, Vincent’s brow furrowed a touch tighter, because the voice didn’t match the coordinates.

Texas? Georgia? Did it matter? It simply confirmed what had been gnawing at the corners of Vincent’s mind since the lemon frogs: none of these people were from Chicago like him, or likely even Illinois residents. They’d been pulled from separate corners of the country. Still, Vincent hoped Cassidy would demand answers from Erinnern. That he’d go off in some classic Southern rage about how in America, people couldn’t just be kidnapped, shoved into God-knows-where, and forced to put on aprons like it was some cosmic version of Hell’s Kitchen. That he’d say what Vincent was too exhausted, too rattled, too newly disrobed to say himself: “This is against the laws I fought for.”

But instead, Cassidy held up his hand. And Vincent winced, because Lord Almighty, the thing was mangled; twisted at two, maybe three angles, swollen around the knuckles like it had lost a boxing match to a brick wall, already purpling around the edges like rot starting from the bone; and here Vincent had been feeling sorry for himself over a forehead gash and some gauze! But instead of raising hell, Cassidy just held up his injury like he was at a damn work meeting and calmly said: I can’t cook like this.

Not “Why are we here?!”
Not “What the hell is this?!”
Not “Who do I sue?!”

Vincent watched, dumbfounded, as Erinnern laid that oversized hand across Cassidy’s shoulder; how the grip swallowed most of the man’s torso, how easy it would’ve been to crush bone, to fold muscle like parchment, and yet he didn’t; he just led him to the stove like a coach assigning positions on a field, his voice carrying out the real play:

"Tell me, what was your favorite thing to have accomplished with those hands?"

It sounded like the kind of line you’d hear on a soap opera, or buried in the third act of a half-decent Netflix thriller; Vincent blinked, eyes sweeping the room for someone else to rise up, say what needed to be said, crack the spell with a single well-timed “what the f--k?!,” and remind everyone that none of this had been remotely normal. He kept looking, genuinely dumbfounded, waiting for the curtain to drop, for a boom mic to swing into frame, for some frazzled PA to stumble in with clipboard in hand and apologize for the mix-up, then pass out NDAs and waiver forms for whatever this was supposed to be. God help him, he’d sign the damn thing, shake the director’s hand, and go home to finish writing this coming Sunday’s sermon.

Yet when he turned; half-hoping, half-desperate to find someone who looked as rattled as he felt, his gaze landed on a younger woman a few feet down the kitchen line, dressed not in the skirts but the slacks of the diner uniform. Her eyes, when they met his, were cool; not unkind, but assessing in a way that made Vincent feel like he’d just been placed into a certain category, and not one she particularly liked. Her tag read Elise; shortened, it would be El, most likely the one Cheryl ran off to find. His mouth twitched, not quite a frown, not quite a smile, really just a quiet, reflexive pull at the corner of his lip that said, I see you too, kid.

And just beyond her, framed in the square glass of the kitchen’s double doors, a flicker of movement passed like a shadow over a ripple of water. Barely there, but enough to hook the corner of his vision. He glanced casually, automatic, not expecting anything - and stopped cold.

Lucas?

He caught only a glimpse of the silhouette whose back faced his point of vision; black hair pulled back in a ponytail, a cigarette balanced loose between sharp fingers. There was something in the angle of the face, in the set of the shoulders and the defiant nonchalance that stirred recognition.

Vincent’s gaze lingered, his breath stilling for a moment beneath the weight of a face he hadn’t seen since it had tried to, with all the heartbreak of highschool, punch him in the face for breaking up with his sister the way he did. Vincent had let the swing come through, and took it without anger, too shocked yet unsurprised to say something. He remembered carrying the pain of that bruise for weeks; it felt like the only thing he could do back then.

But that really wasn't what Vince's mind zeroed in on. It zeroed in on the fact that Lucas had been a good kid; even when he wasn’t trying to be; even through the crooked, defiant smirks he'd give when Vincent told him to stop trying to sneak smokes behind the school bleachers. He’d always been small, wiry, all elbows and attitude, chip-on-the-shoulder scrappy, but it was the kind of scrappy you couldn’t help but root for. Vincent had liked the attitude the kid had to have to make up for it. Heck, he'd loved him in the way he would have loved the younger brother he never got, seeing as Vince had already snagged that role in his own family. He remembered the version of Lucas that loitered outside class, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, waiting for Mia to wrap up whatever mock trial or debate team debrief she was running that day; the version that groaned every time Vince pulled up in his dented Camry but still got in the back seat without argument; Mia always calling shotgun; Lucas sulking for the first five minutes before lighting up at the first inside joke that got tossed across the front seats. Vince used to sneak him fast food when Mia was on one of her health kicks; Lucas paid him back by letting Vince win every third Mario Kart game when they hung out in the basement (just enough to keep his ego intact~). He remembered movie nights in the Neils’ basement; Lucas in a blanket burrito on the far end of the couch, always chiming in with edgy one-liners that had Mia cackling. That laugh used to get him every time; the sound of it would unravel something in his chest, make him laugh too, helpless, like the two of them were the only ones left inside some dumb bubble of warmth they were too young and stupid to protect.

God, he thought, I hope Mia's doing alright.

And then, just beneath that, a quieter thought surfaced.

If Lucas is here... is she?

Half of him hoped so. Selfishly, painfully, some part of him wanting to see her again, to hear her voice, to know how she turned out after all these years of no contact, no calls, no closure. The other half prayed she wasn’t; that she was safe in some downtown law office or cozy living room with a dog at her feet and a good man beside her; far, far from this place, from whatever hell they'd all been marched into with nothing but name tags and diner grease to cling to.

Either way, unless they got answers and got out of here, there'd be no way of knowing. So Vincent turned his attention away and stepped toward their giant of a diner host. He didn’t square his shoulders, didn’t plant his feet, but he let the room feel the shape of him. At 6’4”, he wasn’t used to looking up at anyone, let alone at someone who stood at least half a foot taller, making Vincent feel, viscerally, what it meant to be second for once. Nonetheless, Vincent sized him up, scanning mass, reach, balance, the bend of the knees, the width of his stance; how far his arm might swing before it hit clearance, how fast Vincent would need to be to duck it. All of it filed away in a moment of cold mental notation; because if this turned ugly, Vincent wasn’t just the first in line, he would probably be the first to get hit.

And truthfully, the odds weren’t great. Not impossible, but not great.

Still, Vincent cleared his throat; a quiet sound, the kind that lets a room know it’s about to be addressed whether it wants to be or not. And then his voice followed, measured in those years spent delivering bad news to families and enemy fire to insurgents in the same damn week, straddling the line between the priest and former Marine in him trying not to spook the civilians.

“Look... sir,” he said, and there was a dry edge under the surface of it all, his sarcasm like spice in a broth that had been simmering too long. “I don’t know... how we got here, or what this place is supposed to be exactly; escape room, psych eval, some set from a movie you're filming here... Really, whatever it is-” he glanced around, hand half-lifting in a loose, half-circle gesture toward his other fellow shellshocked new hires, “some of us have people waiting for us. Jobs. Families, friends. A congregation this coming Sunday, in my case."

“So if you could just skip the job tutorial, give us our clothes back, and kindly point us toward the door that leads back to the parking lot with our keys and cars intact, I’d greatly appreciate it. And I imagine the Big Guy would too.”


Then, with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he added, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to forcibly clothe and unclothe us against our will. Or detain us here against our will. Or violate a good dozen state and federal statutes in the process. I'm just saying, no need for this to get ugly, legally speaking.”





























HIS THEME

jungkook






♡coded by uxie♡

 
Last edited:
jasper antova.gif
J a s p e r A n t o v a
location: the usual, dining floor
interaction: vega Zedalith Zedalith
newton PawPawkit PawPawkit
lucas Thi Thi


A giddy anxiety accompanied every first. Trembling hands, bated breaths, a bouncing giddiness. The symptoms ran rampant within Jasper. Grinning with a robotic back—like the boss was mere feet away and watching.He was a static cluster. Snapping and sparking with the potential to be explosive. His brain trembled with something akin to manic inspiration and questionable lucidity. The absence of his guitar case left him feeling vulnerable. A turtle without its shell. The way his eyes flew to each new stimulant with the joy of seeing the sun for the first time, you’d never guess he was drowning—or maybe it was glaringly obvious.

Swept by everything around him, he’d nearly fallen face first into an undulating mass of chromatic patterns. Shifting and melting, the languid motion of sleepy lungs. Sunk within its translucent mass were colors capturing the slow passing of highway lights.

“My bad.” He gaped, poorly adjusting the hat on his head. The creature garbled yellow, then hummed green. Jasper thought he understood and joined his team.

There’s a pull and a tug. His breath hitched, voice lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat. Jasper stilled, seized by the same paused awareness of an animal being approached from behind, sensing the threat before it acted. Except there was no threat, and Jasper had nowhere else to look but his captor. Not detecting danger—or completely aware and allowing it anyways—Jasper’s arms go limp at his sides, granting Vega the opportunity to adjust his uniform. He stared at Vega’s face the entire time, like cracking open a book with illegible scribblings. Ink melted and words impossible to decipher, except for a belligerent tenderness.

For a fleeting second, Jasper’s gaze faltered between them. Vega flattened the fabric on his stomach, a smile twitching at the ticklish sensation, Jasper huffing a laugh through his nose. Sound finally escaped him—not of protest, but surprise. Small, soft. Amused. When Vega stepped back, an emperor regarding a peasant, Jasper grinned at him. All cheeks, and teeth, and dimples.

“Thanks!” How kind of Vega to ensure Jasper looked his best.

Vega’s anxiety unfurled abruptly. A roll of paper unravelling across the floor before one could grasp it—hands patting down his body like he’d misplaced his ticket to heaven. Jasper blinked, curious. The man of stone clutching a camera like it bore his soul. Jasper’s own soul gave a sage nod. That, he understood. He tossed up two peace signs and a smile when the camera was aimed. He never missed a beat.

After a moment of admiring Vega’s work—hands hovering above the uniform as to not disturb it—he looked at Newton and Lucas.

"Don't ask me what I mean, but you two look like you could chat up aliens just fine."

Jasper’s lips parted slightly, considering something. A circle chasing its own tail behind his eyes. Then, like lights flipping back on, he perked up. Tail and dog ears wagging like he’d received praise.

“Sure! I’ve got some extratr—extars—estrasters—wow, that’s a hard word.” He refreshed and tried again. “I’ve got some alien charm in me!” A pause, a squint, a clear second guessing of his phrasing before it’s brushed off to nothing and his smile resurfaced. “I just go up to them and ask them what they want, right?” Pockets patted until a notebook was discovered, Jasper turned towards the diner and sized up the room.

The undulating mass of lights, a spot of shadow with wispy tendrils, something with too many eyes. Finally, he landed on something human. At least, the back of their head looked human. Long brown hair, green shirt. They were sitting faced away from them, shoulders squared, unmoving. Jasper made a beeline towards them—start easy, then tackle the cosmic abominations.

“Hey! Are you—” A shrieking, melting face turned to them. Hollowed. Like something had peeled off their face, stretched it, and slapped it onto air like a wet rag. Eye sockets stretched wide; mouth pulled low by a loose jaw. Beneath the sockets, nothing but the gaping dark. It’s shrill, whistling like air winding through empty columns. It croaked and clicked at him. Tapping long fingers over a laminated menu. “Uh-uhm…Okay. Do you want that…warm?”

The figure’s face stretched further down, nearly reaching the middle of its chest. It gave another hollowed howl. Jasper nodded on a creaking neck, leaned over, and glanced at what the customer was pointing at.

“A city sunrise?” It whistled, clucked. Jasper felt its breath jostle his hair. “Excellent choice!” He wrote it down and added a quick doodle of a sun poking its crown over the horizon.

He nearly tripped over his own feet when jogging back to the team.

“I almost pissed myself, holy shit.” He laughed, fractured but sweet. Wheezing like someone who’d narrowly escaped death by an inexplicable miracle. “What do you guys think a city sunrise tastes like?” The notebook is flipped to show his fellow servers the page, but quickly added a face to the sun, drinking from a cup with a straw. “Also, I think that guy might’ve been wearing someone’s skin.”


jas banner.png
 
Vega Riviera
The Journalist
the usual
rawr
interactions / mentions

Klown Klown (interaction)
Thi Thi (interaction)
PawPawkit PawPawkit (interaction

Caffeine and sugar.

Vega can see the crayon marks on the inside of that statement. A call bellowed by someone whom the world’s woes had not wholly conquered. Hopeful entropy and messy hair modeled Newton’s shape, sculpting the perfect replica of a scruffy man-boy hybrid. A puppet—poorly assembled, but…GODlook at those strings. “Sugar,” he slid his tongue across the top of his mouth, savoring it like the word’s namesake were there. The corner of his lip turned upwards in the faintest mime of a smile. “You're clever.

He pulled closer, orbiting nearer, the weight of his body took a special interest in Newton. “Hold on to that,” an addition. “Not everyone is as drawn to levity. ” Mismatched socks, mouthful of platitudes, a face that makes people want to fix things to see if they will break again when left alone. “It’s precious.” He turned his head, as if he were not trying to twist a needle into skin that was too soft.

Lucas’ intention to provoke him is transparent; he wanted to be heard like a fist dealt across the chin. A provocation that came from someone begging to be noticed for how wounded he was. Vega did not bruise the way people often hoped; you can’t chisel alabaster with words. No flinch in his eyes, no lifting of the spine. He addressed Lucas with the look of a teacher staring at a student struggling to pronounce a word. “A short nihilist in eyeliner. Quaint. I suppose every circus needs their clown.” His hands adjusted his apron idly, eyes drifting to the portrait of a celebrity that did not exist.

Newton,” he called again. “Provided that Jasper comes back alive, will you let me take the next order? There’s something about you and this place that feels right. My intuition tells me that you have the best chance of figuring it all out. Observe, learn, before trying yourself—It’d be a shame if something happened to you.” That insectile glare softened, his eyes shuttering into a gentle twinkle that slid from the pupil. It was candid, domestic, a wife with arms splayed wide in anticipation of a husband coming home.

And if I survive, maybe we can call each other friends. You have my back, and I’ll have yours,” the same mouth that spat venom turned deathly sweet. One face changed for another, like a play conducted by a single actor. The previous mask had not fully slipped from his face before the next one devoured it beneath.

He watched Jasper’s back between words. Taking tiny glances when he could, studying the contours of their patron’s back—it looked human enough, but so too did the clerk—at first. Treat everything here like how a bomb diffuser handles a wire; live every moment in anticipation of that final hot burst of light. Trained hands, a pointed mind—recklessness was a wolfsbane that’d whip the blood from your veins.

He held in a delighted “aha,” when the thing moved a blip too fast. Anticipation of Jasper getting hewn in half, devoured, or any number of grisly fates is worn stark on his face. But it never arrived, and the boy came marching back. When presented with the sketch, Vega’s lips molded into a small and impressed “O.” Jasper is all in one piece and loosed a laugh that Vega could not place as nervousness or joy. “A city sunrise… probably like pennies and concrete. Why? Are you hoping it’s sweet?

Possibly tart. These dishes were all cooked from the tiny prides harvested from their labor. Some kitchen time would serve him well, should he be blessed with the opportunity to wring the final croaks from their citrus-stuffed necks.

Also, I think that guy might’ve been wearing someone’s skin.

How generic. I have about a dozen images of similar occurrences on my SD card. A personal favorite of mine came from a fellow called ‘The Stichmen.’ I’d expect these paranormal anomalies to be more creative than men in their rituals.” A spark of realization appeared through the twist of his nose. His eyes shifted, like they held a polarity opposite of Jasper's, and his voice trailed off to be several decibels lower the longer that he went on. Ah, I’m talking too much.

Those eyes drifted until they landed on a patron, menu gently folded atop their table, and a strangely anthropomorphic expression that conveyed its patience was running thin. Green skin, like rotten lime, and a portly belly that would lift the table if it rose too quickly. In place of human hands were a set of tentacles, gentle writhing barely perceptible from where he stood. Their face is grimly vacant, with no indication of eyes beneath the golden fringe of blond feathers that swoop from its head. Almost like human hair, a cut you’d find on a middle-aged woman whose comfort became expectation.

I’m up. Wish me luck?
 
"I'll take the caffeine. At least that'll let me know if I didn't fall asleep at the wheel and this isn't just one hell of a collective fever dream." Lucas' blue eyes weren't 100% hostile, weren't just 2 orbs of blue ice. Those eyes weren't friendly, and the tone wasn't very cordial, but Lucas was giving the vibe of someone who was irritated at the entire world, and not irritated by Newton personally. Besides, he had taken up on Newton's offer of caffeine and sugar, and that was pretty close to a win. Newton shrugged his backpack away from his shoulders, shifted his bag to his chest, and hiked his knee up so that his ragged, worn backpack had some sort of purchase while he looked through the cans and bottles stowed away.

"Luke," Did Lucas even wanna be called Luke, or would the obsidian haired man want to throttle him for that nickname? "I'm going to need to work soon, soooo you can pick whatever flavor you want to." The bag whumped to the floor, lying there pathetically for Lucas to take. "Or at least, I'm going to try to learn, dude." He adjusted his red hat now, the foldable garment hiding most of his hair aside from the man bun, as well as Thumbs. The only hint that the lemony gas station frog was underneath this hat was the muffled cheeping.

Lucas said something about how he and Jasper could chat up aliens just fine, but the raggedy, skinny brunette turned his droopy brown eyes onto Vega. Vega has said something before, but Newton had been paying attention to what Lucas was saying. Their words had been climbing over each other, overlapping, fighting for attention. “Provided that Jasper comes back alive, will you let me take the next order? There’s something about you and this place that feels right. My intuition tells me that you have the best chance of figuring it all out. Observe, learn, before trying yourself—It’d be a shame if something happened to you.” Those words were accompanied for Vega's unblinking roseate gaze, but they were encouraging, and Newton was filled with reassurance. Vega seemed to care for him, seemed to want to spend time with him, even though Vega had just met him minutes ago.

In fact, as the words slithered smoothly out of Vega's mouth, Newton felt a sort of warmth spread through his chest, through arms and legs, and into his dirty finger nails. A soft chuckle escaped the man, and a heat rose to his cheeks. Few peers of his had ever valued him in this way before, considered him a fit for a position or place, had ever softened themselves for him. As such, even as he tried to hide his joy, the blush on his cheeks was a dead give away. “And if I survive, maybe we can call each other friends. You have my back, and I’ll have yours,” No one had ever really called Newton a friend before, and that honor filled Newton with a rush of joy. He might've been good at hiding the storm that was going on in his head, but the bursts of sunshine he sometimes got could never quite be hidden behind clouds.

“I’m up. Wish me luck?” Newton gave a little nod, his half smile currently more like a three-fifths smile. He crouched down, and dug through his backpack, sparing glances at the labels, hands gripping around energy drinks. After a quick moment, he pulled his hand out of his bag, gripping a vibrantly colored can in his right hand. Newton set the energy drink by Vega's feet, and then rooted around in his bag for an energy drink of his own.

"Dude, Newton's words were punctuated by the sound of shifting cans and bottles, and the bird-chirping of Thumbs. "I hope you don't mind Blue Raspberry."

interactions: Thi Thi Klown Klown Zedalith Zedalith
 
noe alvere
location
kitchen!
interactions
elise AI10100 AI10100 margaret TheRealAngeloftheStorm TheRealAngeloftheStorm

Hunger. An absurd need to worry about. In between childhood monsters hiding in closets and something worse, the familiar gnaw of life seemed insignificant in comparison. Specks of imperfection fueling complex structures—mortal bodies. Those that breathed and aged, obeying physics as part of nature. It was something, Noe believed, quite beyond comprehension for any creature feasting in this cheap imitation. And yet, with blank eyes drawn to the bowl of ripened pears in his hands, there was this.

A tiny surprise. A kind gesture. His favourite fruit. True empathy, or a hoax to smooth the edges out. How much human was beyond these endless pits of golden irises? To wonder what would flow if he dared to cut it—peel back layers of skin like flower petals until nothing but the bud remained. Was there a heart beating inside, or just a code keeping the machine running?

His head tilted downward—an anchor dropping to the ocean floor. Heavy from everything except actual physical force. Staring at the pears wouldn’t bring Noe any answers, but perhaps the sight alone was pitiful enough to entice the kitchen to let answers fly toward him. It worked for Erinnern.

One, two…

The silence passed, just to be broken by Cassidy’s arrival—an act mirroring his own hand. Noe let its poor state sink in. Disfigured. A rotten apple. Dumb and dumber. If this was a ceremony, one trophy would belong to this hothead; the other half still had too many candidates.

Whatever infected the man, persuading him to act the way he did—now and then—Noe had no interest in catching fire alongside it. He stepped away, brisk and sharp, a hedgehog curling up; past the priest, who was busy picking his jaw up off the floor. A sight that made Noe scoff—mean and ugly. Religion didn’t teach one this, did it?

But it did mention sharing, and Noe always wanted to be a bit more caring.

Stopping in front of the person who spoke up earlier, he pushed the dish into their arms, hoping instinct alone would will them to hold onto the bowl. “Right,” Noe glanced down to find their name. “…Elise. I couldn’t imagine anything better than this.” Her name melted on his tongue. Soft pudding. Vanilla or matcha. Mellow, but likeable.

His attention drifted down to the pears again. Contemplating, before finally taking one. He weighed it in his hand—easy and airy—then looked up again. Searching for something, his eyes scanned the room, his head following a beat later; it stopped when he found her. And, once more, Noe was grateful for the tags. “Margaret,” he called, like a barista too tired for the job. “Catch.” The only warning before he threw the fruit to her. Wide and high. No need for casualties—yet. That could wait until he found the raw eggs.

Turning back, he reached for another pear. This time, his. “You should take one too. No one cooks well on an empty stomach.” Noe's eyes didn't let the bowl out of his sight, bound to the dubious existence of the food in front of them. As if Persephone herself was warning him about the hidden pomegranate seeds. Troubling.

Finally, Noe blinked up. Slowly. Hating that he had to tilt his chin upwards to meet her face. “Cheers,” he said, low and steady, raising his fruit in response. Funny, for this wasn't wine. Odd, for there wasn't any further indication he would move to consume it first. “To a good corporation.”

code by @Nano
 
1000002719.png

Interactions: BriiAngelic BriiAngelic (Rochelle)
Mentions: Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- (Darnell) Ambiloquous Ambiloquous (Cheryl)

Cosmo didn't like his workmates. There were many many people he despised much more than the people he was currently being forced to cooperate with: his blonde highschool tormenter, Prince Mcguire, the rail thin priest who beat ‘discipline’ into him, Murdoc, or even just any slew of current politicians, celebrities or world leaders; people who had far too much money or power and far too few fleeting morals to handle it well.

But here, overstimulated and with an important trip interrupted, the people (and things pretending to be people) were starting seem more and more like the worst excuses for humans he'd ever met.
First there was Darnell cracking jokes.

“somehow I've managed to hop dimensions, then went from being a frog wrangler to a janitor in under five minutes. I'm setting World Records here. Hey, someone call Guinness!”

Unfunny. The kind of joke only a friend could make and have it be somewhat endearing. But here, in a stranger's mouth? It just seemed like he had a failing comedy career and Cosmo was being forced to be the audience of one of his extremely empty late night stand up shows in some dingy local bar. That and he was trying too hard to make friends. Still Cosmo had to give him credit where credit was due, trying to get allies and comrades was smart. After all, he very much doubted one could leave this purgatory alone. That didn't dull his hatred for the corny joke however. Never would the young adult forgive the crime that was bad comedy sullying his ears. It was the reason he hated dad jokes and most Stand-up.

That was not to say Darnell's words were the only thing that assaulted his ears. A cry for attention specifically in the form of a very fake cough. It was for his attention specifically, or rather that's what he pieced together knowing it came just after he spoke. It was from an ‘interesting’ person: The girl with pink hair. He did dislike her like the others but she was fun to watch. A show that distracted and intrigued him. His view of her started feeling like a pendulum switching back and forth from utter and pure hatred to intrigue that scraped the borders of amusement. Now however, it was on hatred and thus his hidden gaze didn't fall upon her but remained focused on the blue haired thing before him.

It called itself…Rochelle.

‘Bad name,’ Logic and Hatred for once agreed within Cosmo's mind. There was no real reason Rochelle was a bad name. It just was. It felt tacky. Like an overdecorated purse owned by some annoying grandmother or a leopard print over someone's walls that had deluded themselves into thinking it made them look posh.

He realised then it was now wearing uniform with a name tag making him look like an idiot with the observational and reading skills of an infant. ‘Well played,’ he thought as anger boiled in his stomach and to cool it, he fed it the image of strangling the scum beneath scum before him with it's own monochrome apron, watching that thin throat bruise purple and pulse as it tried to force air through itself and into the lungs before light left the eyes he wished fry in the kitchen and movement finally came to a satisfactory stop. As he finished the calming thought, he thought of how pretty Rochelle would look as a cadaver. Truly all its flaws were in its personality: its annoying movement and chatter. If that all stopped and it was still and cold, its inherent beauty would shine.

‘It would be an art piece…maybe,’ He thought, warmth adding to his smile as he did.

He listened to the rest of what the infernal creature standing before him had to say with that same smile, taking note of the trash run and knowing immediately that it was between him and Darnell of who would do it. The pink girl was definitely not going to be voted as hated the most after all. He was probably more a stranger to everyone else than anyone else in the group and he might have said something back in the gas station to tick the others off putting him at risk of the vote.

‘Ah the gift of autism; not knowing whether you offended someone or not~’

Then Darnell was just likely to sacrifice himself though Cosmo wasn't completely counting on it.

“Oh yeah if the room feels like it’s shaking or if you see someone in all red… run as far into the place as you can. Do Not Leave if that happens."

Two words reverberated through Cosmo’s aching skull at that sentence: ‘Fuck. No.’ He knew then that this job had a much higher risk than he was willing to take for no real reward. After all, Erinnern had never said that on the break where he would give answers that work had to be done in order to receive it. Cosmo thought of untying and throwing the apron down on the floor, telling Roche to fuck off with her practical slavery and Eldritch horrors but he didn't. Instead he tightened his right fist, the satin fabric rustling as it rubbed against itself, a small sound of rage, and imagined torturing Roche, pulling out her fingernails with a metal clamp.

Within a few seconds, his fury had evaporated and stiffening he hadn't even realised he was doing stopped, leaving his muscles to once again relax. “Roach,” He chuckled internally at the fact that both the nickname and the insect sounded the exact same, “Before we start, I have a few questions, if you don't mind. First, are there bathrooms for employees?”

‘In case, a meltdown so happens to unfortunately strike me’ He finished the question in his mind.

“Can I get different gloves? These ones are satin, white and a gift so I'd rather not ravage them with dirt if I'm cleaning.”

The gift part was a lie (albeit his tone indicated no such thing, staying light and polite as ever) but it was one of Cosmo’s more pathological ones rather than one he thought out carefully. Something that slipped out of his mouth simply because his mind conjured it. A playful untruth. Cosmo would never let anyone pick out gloves for him, most people had dreadful tastes in gloves and fabrics, only ever getting him stupid synthetic cloth that served only to trigger his sensory issues or tacky cheap gloves with so-called ‘style’ but it was fun to let everyone around him believe he would.

“And lastly, what happens if we don't do the job? Is there a reprimand or punishment?” He asked the question with curiosity in his voice, no malice or actual intentions to quit coming through.
 
Last edited:
  • IMG_4042.jpeg
    Interacting With/Mentions:
    Cheryl ( Ambiloquous Ambiloquous ), Darnell ( Kameron Esters- Kameron Esters- ), Joann ( Gigglecake Gigglecake ), Cosmo ( Alien222 Alien222 )

    ~ The Usual, Resterant Main~
    Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It



    The question of employee bathrooms reminded her that those needed to be cleaned as well. Huh did she assign those together or seperate. Well that was an issue for later her instead she honed in on the questions asked of her.

    “Bathrooms yeah, round the corner and to the right. The ‘customer one’ is before it so just book it to the end and you’ll find it.”

    She really really hoped they didn’t freak out too badly if they wound up in the wrong one. Not like they could really avoid it anyways but she’d prefer they didn’t run out with their pants down.

    “As for the gloves we got plenty and you are really gonna want them trust and believe.”

    She could have elaborated but considering whatever cosmic deity that took pleasure in their suffering already assigned them to the worst job she figured the least she could do was make the job seem survivable. A glance to the doors of The Usual told her all was still good. If they were lucky it’d be another shift with slim to no casualties. God she hoped they were lucky. The last question thrown her way threw her for the biggest loop though.

    “Huh. Just not do it. Well the place is gonna wind up gross. You’ll probably piss off the patrons. At least one or two of them will have zero issue eating you. Dad’s not gonna sit back and let that happen though so you’ll probably be fine eventually. Uhh but I don’t know really? No one’s ever outright refused to help. I mean if you want you can probably ask one of your friends to swap jobs? Never seen a group this size come through before but like first time for everything and what not.”

 

Users who are viewing this thread

Back
Top