Era-appropriate attire? Well. She's at least got the right century, which is to say, she's dressed like the nineties. In her current state, Aloy's memories are a bit of a mess, and trying to work out the proper thing to wear when she's already got two separate senses of "appropriate clothing," neither of which agrees with the other. Trying to work out a particular decade is just not worth the trouble. She's tried to look a little nice, though, with leggings under a short grey dress and shoes that aren't boots and a rather smart tan-coloured short leather jacket and an assortment of beads she found in her house. It appeals to her sense of taste, anyway, and that's good enough.
Still, clothing is mostly not important. The atmosphere of the party is familiar, in that she feels she's seen something like it before, and unfamiliar in that she also feels that it's not something she's seen frequently. It seems, too, that dancing isn't something Aloy learned to do in either set of memories, too busy training, or studying, or working, or something else that had seemed important. That doesn't mean she's not enjoying herself, though. Aloy takes a good place at the edge of things, hands folded behind her back as she leans against the wall, and just drinks it in with a pleased little expression, if a slightly overwhelmed one.
Oh, and clapping for the karaoke singers. Even if they're not good.
II.
The milkshake was too much to resist. So sweet, so creamy, so cold and perfect and unfamiliar. Chocolate is a recent discovery -- at least, comparing to the memories she suspects are real -- and the milkshake she orders is a ridiculous towering confection with chocolate ice cream and chocolate chips and whipped cream, and it's pretty much the greatest thing she's ever eaten in her life.
It's just a shame that when she gets two thirds of the way through it, the alcohol she hadn't realised she was drinking and is mostly unused to catches up to her. Aloy rather gingerly makes her way to a table in a corner, and lays her head down on it, next to the milkshake she would really like to finish, actually, waiting for her head to settle down.
Maybe it won't hurt to drink the rest of the milkshake.
III
The jello is what throws her off.
Most of the food is straightforward. Sausage or meat or fish in bread with cheese, potatoes fried in a really lovely way, these are all things that are delicious and made of things she recognises in one form or another. And also, french fries are great.
But jello? It's with the food. She's seen people eating it. It does not appear to be any food product she's ever seen, or even look like any food she's seen.
Aloy will lean over to someone at the table, nudging them gently with her elbow to get their attention. "This probably sounds like a stupid question," she says, holding up a dish of jello. "But what is this?"
Aloy | open to all
Era-appropriate attire? Well. She's at least got the right century, which is to say, she's dressed like the nineties. In her current state, Aloy's memories are a bit of a mess, and trying to work out the proper thing to wear when she's already got two separate senses of "appropriate clothing," neither of which agrees with the other. Trying to work out a particular decade is just not worth the trouble. She's tried to look a little nice, though, with leggings under a short grey dress and shoes that aren't boots and a rather smart tan-coloured short leather jacket and an assortment of beads she found in her house. It appeals to her sense of taste, anyway, and that's good enough.
Still, clothing is mostly not important. The atmosphere of the party is familiar, in that she feels she's seen something like it before, and unfamiliar in that she also feels that it's not something she's seen frequently. It seems, too, that dancing isn't something Aloy learned to do in either set of memories, too busy training, or studying, or working, or something else that had seemed important. That doesn't mean she's not enjoying herself, though. Aloy takes a good place at the edge of things, hands folded behind her back as she leans against the wall, and just drinks it in with a pleased little expression, if a slightly overwhelmed one.
Oh, and clapping for the karaoke singers. Even if they're not good.
II.
The milkshake was too much to resist. So sweet, so creamy, so cold and perfect and unfamiliar. Chocolate is a recent discovery -- at least, comparing to the memories she suspects are real -- and the milkshake she orders is a ridiculous towering confection with chocolate ice cream and chocolate chips and whipped cream, and it's pretty much the greatest thing she's ever eaten in her life.
It's just a shame that when she gets two thirds of the way through it, the alcohol she hadn't realised she was drinking and is mostly unused to catches up to her. Aloy rather gingerly makes her way to a table in a corner, and lays her head down on it, next to the milkshake she would really like to finish, actually, waiting for her head to settle down.
Maybe it won't hurt to drink the rest of the milkshake.
III
The jello is what throws her off.
Most of the food is straightforward. Sausage or meat or fish in bread with cheese, potatoes fried in a really lovely way, these are all things that are delicious and made of things she recognises in one form or another. And also, french fries are great.
But jello? It's with the food. She's seen people eating it. It does not appear to be any food product she's ever seen, or even look like any food she's seen.
Aloy will lean over to someone at the table, nudging them gently with her elbow to get their attention. "This probably sounds like a stupid question," she says, holding up a dish of jello. "But what is this?"