( july intro ) WELCOME TO WAYWARD PINES!

[officialnotice]

INTRODUCTION LOG

JULY 1ST - 3RD

AFTER THE ACCIDENT

There was an accident. The details are hazy and obscure, but it's still the first thing you remember. Maybe a car wreck — metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the screaming. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. Maybe something less mundane, even impossible seems to have happened to you. You can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can truly remember.

It's also the last thing you remember from before waking up.

When you open your eyes, the accident is gone, replaced with white sterility. Perhaps somewhat alarming at first, until you blink at your surroundings and realize that you're in a hospital bed. You try to move but are sluggish, covered in a scattering of minor injuries you only vaguely remember receiving, not to mention the possibility of the partially healed remnants of other, seemingly older wounds.

It's a shame you won't be able to tell the difference between the two. Your memories are an indiscernible fog where they're not absent altogether, only a few standing out in your mind with any kind of certainty.

If the room happens to be empty when you wake, it's not for long. Nurses bustle in, taking your vitals and asking your name and anything else you might remember. Don't worry, they tell you. You'll make a full recovery here. Much of what you say (especially anything unusual, anything about monsters or magic or outlandish technology) will earn a quiet, pensive look and a gentle suggestion that you avoid trying to force any memories or hazy impressions, that everything will be explained in due time, after you've had the chance to sufficiently recover. You'll be told to stay put, not to push yourself, and to wait for the doctor to clear you before you leave.

Then you'll be left alone. Or maybe you'll find yourself visited by loved ones: family, or friends. Of course you have those things. And of course they already remember you being here, remember visiting you in the hospital while you were still unconscious. You've lived here much or all of your life....

As far as you can tell, anyway.

Either way, the hospital's population is busier than you'd expect in a small town, and you get the impression the nurses are working themselves ragged just running damage control. You might hear talk around the hospital of other small population spikes over the past few days, though many patients appeared to be well enough to be released the same day, and the same might be said of you. Or at least the staff doesn't seem to be too concerned. You can even leave your room without much fuss, any doctor or nurse that might try to intercept you getting called away almost immediately to deal with something even more pressing.

Of course, it's not so unusual to settle in until you're discharged, either. You may choose to wait for loved ones to come pick you up, even speak to your fellow patients, whether roommates or others wandering the halls. The more enterprising and suspicious might even consider it an opportunity to poke around for a few basic answers.

JULY 1ST - 5TH

GETTING USED TO HOME AGAIN

However you get there, outside the birds sing a joyful song, the sky is clear, and the warm sun on your skin is a pleasant contrast to the pervading chill of the hospital now at your back. It's bright enough to make you squint for a moment before you feast your eyes on the quaint little mountain town of Wayward Pines, though that might just be some sort of side effect from your accident.

Fellow pedestrians spare you glances, some wary, others concerned or just friendly. It probably depends on how clothed you were when you left the hospital. Or maybe that has more to do with the fact that this once idyllic, peaceful community appears to have just suffered from some sort of full scale invasion.

Once carefully manicured trees lining the streets now each have their share of scorched or shattered limbs, even one or two instances of deep dragging claw marks in the bark, for the more keen eyed individuals. The streets are mostly empty, the few cars that cruise by at a safe and respectable speed looking like they've been used as a battering ram recently, or perhaps been on the receiving end of one. One building in the periphery appears to have exploded even, if the crater of splintered wood and foundation is any indication. What exactly happened to this place while you were in the hospital, anyway?

This isn't even the once picturesque city center, though a colorful nearby sign reads "Main Street" with an arrow pointing due south, followed in smaller font by a list of businesses you don't recognize (could be a good direction to head in, though — maybe it'll help clear up some of those conflicting memories), and one that you might: Wayward Pines Sheriff's Department. You've likely caught wind by now that any clothing or other items you had on you at the time of your accident are being held by the Sheriff until you're well enough to claim them. Not to mention the keys to your home, kept locked and safe at the station for you. That should probably be your next stop, though if anything's missing in what they hand over you'd be the last to know.

It's time to get home, to recover from your ordeal and try to sort through your memories. Do you remember this house, the pictures of family on the walls and how to navigate to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Maybe it's easier with loved ones living with you, helping you get settled, or maybe you're on your own. Either way, over the next few days you'll have plenty of time to try and sort through your confusion and misgivings. Maybe your friends and family in the town are just as confused and unsure as you are, maybe their familiarity is jarring, but somehow still some sort of comfort when so much still remains unfamiliar and strange to you. Or maybe they take you aside with a knowing look in their eyes and start to explain. The memories and the destruction and the confusion.

Either way, it might be a good idea to get out and finally visit Main Street (looking just as battered as the rest of the town) if you haven't already. Maybe you even remembered that you work in one of the more familiar sounding shops, or elsewhere in town. Whether you trust those memories or not at this point, it probably wouldn't hurt to get back to work some time soon. Your co-workers might have some explanations for you as well, after all, and you have to be able to put bread on the table somehow.

JULY 4TH

4TH OF JULY

If there's one thing to be said for Wayward Pines it's the town's resilience and staunch refusal to give up on the image of a picturesque little town, and July 4th this year has the community putting it's best foot forward in this regard with its annual 4th of July picnic and fireworks spectacular.

To hear anyone (Linda) familiar with the town talk (complain), this year is a much more sedate affair than any of the years prior, but in a lot of ways today is a very good opportunity for people to reconnect with their neighbors; chat quietly at a table, share a recipe, play some catch, or argue with Jerry over the proper way too cook a burger. Jerry never listens, of course, but thankfully the whole event is a pot luck so there are plenty of other, far more edible options for those with a more... discerning palate.

The day passes pleasantly, and the night? The night brings the fireworks. A beautiful cascade of bright colors and lights in the sky. Sparklers are handed out like party favors while everyone is strongly encouraged to play safe by a long-suffering and weary looking sheriff. After all, the town has had quite enough excitement by this point, don't you think?

MOD NOTES

Welcome to our sixth mingle log for newbies and oldbies alike!

This log is meant to cover characters' first five days in Wayward Pines. Characters for this round will appear staggered in the hospital between the 1st and the 3rd, and a CR building event will occur on the 4th, after everyone has had a suitable amount of time to get settled in town. For the most part, only the five memories detailed in your character's application are remembered throughout the duration of this log, although their false Wayward Pines memories may also begin to surface (in those who've opted to utilize this mechanic) as the week wears on. These memories, as noted in the FAQ, feel very real and are accompanied by as much emotion or sentiment as a real memory would be.

PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE: Character Name, date, location, and Open or Closed, to help keep things organized and make your character easy to find.

If you have any questions regarding this intro log, feel free to ask them on the FAQ or the relevant plurk.

Comments

BOTH Lynn's well-dressed poorly-adjusted nerds for the price of one

[sybaritic]

ignis scientia | ota

[nightsight]

ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ;​

ｉ． ＪＵＬＹ ３ＲＤ

Suffice to say, Ignis has been in better moods.

...of course, most fake memory real memory any close friends would tell you his day to day is tetchy, at best, so frankly there's only so much visible difference. That reacquiring both cane and visor required an utterly pointless jaunt across town had started his patience for like, the world at large, barreling down a rocky hill toward a pit of spikes, and the revelation that his knives were apparently being held in some kind of stasis until a stab-free month had gone by--

That hadn't much helped matters. Though it had made him feel a great deal more like stabbing something.

It's not as if he's unarmed regardless, in technical terms, but it's the principle of the whole deeply irritating affair. After a day's recuperation, it's primarily the need to deal with all that restless percolating energy that has him out walking, mapping the town in his mind for the reassurance that he remembers how to get wherever he might need to go. That he's memorable, if spotted, more or less speaks for itself: he's the only member of the White Cane Brigade in town.

Except for Fred. Ish.

As self-sufficient as he is, he also, after many cranky years, isn't too bad at accepting help crossing streets and whatnot! Just be sure to announce yourself first, because it is a bad idea to startle a person who summons spectral knives on instinct.

ｉｉ． ＪＵＬＹ ５ｔｈ

Before you point out that Ignis is at least several parts per million coffee and therefore should probably be working at Java Joe's, allow him to inform you he now remembers that his illustrious employer clings to the notion of as little responsibility as possible, and therefore allows Ignis to fuck around in the kitchen however he wants. He might actually like unadulterated freedom over his Cooking Doman even more than coffee, if that's even possible.

By now he's got some idea that things are as uh, incredibly screwed as they are, which for some reason strikes him as absolutely normal and in fact a shade of comforting, for reasons he can't recall and honestly isn't sure he'd prefer to contemplate. But if there's one thing he takes comfort in it's routine, and as such can be found at Go Alice the day after the 4th of July celebration, determined to resume carving out whatever weird niche can be found amidst, apparently, invading monsters and seventy fucktouple other flavors of unsettling.

He's thrown together a handful of little things for taste-testing purposes, so if you would like a tiny slice of delicious sandwich, for instance, Ignis is your guy. Alternately, if you'd like to be the receipt of cutting remarks about your dining and or drinking choices, Ignis is...uh. Also your guy. Which is probably why Roman is generally in charge of the front.

eliot waugh | ota | one closed starter

[sybaritic]

ＪＵＬＹ １ｓｔ － ５ｔｈ

i. Eliot's name is very deliberately not on the official list of people willing to help rebuild, because he seems to have this hideous virus known as altruism, and it's just becoming ickier by the day. Aaaaand yet. Here he is, to be found both inside and outside Weaver's, shuffling debris out of tripping distance (with magic, obviously, what do you think he is, a peasant?), generally trying to make his place of work presentable again. Even if Lantar did use up all the alcohol on the abbies.

(Not actually all of it, but Lantar! Please! He gave one of the finest blowjobs of his career to get that. So much hard work (hurr hurr) for so few returns.

Since he's not officially on cleanup crew, he's doublefisting (that is right) his usual bartending shift, and he's not saying happy hour goes for an extra half hour, but .......no, that's exactly what is happening. Who doesn't need to get shitfaced right now? No one. That's who. Absolutely no one.

ＪＵＬＹ ４ｔｈ

ii. closed to penny "shits rainbows" adiyodi;

By now, most of Eliot's Real Memories have resettled, but for our purposes, we need only two very important pieces. One: Penny is annoyed by virtually everything that ever happens, and two: Eliot can set things on fire with his mind.

(Two point three, or some imaginary number, is that Eliot has a penchant for giggles.)

So even though he has no fake memory of Penny's bloodfeud with Jerry, it seems like the kind of thing that if it hasn't been going on for ages, at least should have been. Like in a soap opera! Eliot misses soap operas. Plus, he's a totally great friend. Meaning: as the dulcet tones of "fuck you, Jerry!" die away, a marvelous idea occurs, one that Eliot of course weighs the consequences of befNO hahaha I don't think I can continue.

What actually happens is that at the grill, suddenly a plume of flame with no apparent source pops up from the charcoal, somehow giving the impression of being mischievous. It's fire, so naturally that's nonsense, but nevertheless. No one is hurt, but Jerry is rattled enough to take a break from the grill for a while. Maybe someone with uh, a modicum of talent might take over!

Not Penny, of course, but if he happens catch Eliot's eye, Eliot will tip his definitively not!beer at him. For no reason.

ＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ

iii. do ur own thing, friendo.

major | multiple | ota

[imitable]

getting used to home again;

[ Her steps through the town, while purposed and heavy, are slow. Major's taking in the sight of the town, battered and broken, and she keeps trying to connect to something (although she can't remember what; but something feels off, like she's closed in and suffocating). Her destination is the police station — ostensibly for her clothing that the hospital informed her of, but also because there's this niggling sensation in the back of her mind that she works there and needs to report in to her job. She thinks about asking about Batou when she gets there, but there's something about the place that feels both wrong and right, and she doesn't, instead collecting her clothes and heading 'home'.

She's too curious to stay home for long, though, and she's back out on the streets soon after she's dressed, riding her motorcycle down the roads slowly to get a good look at the destruction. She stops on a street corner on Main, parks the bike and stares up at the buildings, brow furrowed in a frown. ] What happened here?

[ She asks to someone passing by, watching them with an imperceptible gaze. ]

july 4th;

[ Major is used to large crowds and the noise of them, and while it's certainly not the large, looming network of a city she's used to, the life the celebration has is a small comfort, a reminder of the place she was before, even as she feels adrift and alone, with no net or Section 9 to connect to. It helps, in it's own way. She stalks through the crowd like a tiger, lingering here and there to listen to conversations, but mostly taking in the buzz of the background noise of dozens of voices melding together into one pleasant (to her, anyway) sound.

At one point, she lingers around the tables piled high with dishes brought from almost everyone in town, but she doesn't take a plate or try to eat. Most of it smells delicious (although there's a plate of burgers she makes a face at — she hopes no one is eating those), and she even reaches out at one point to grab a piece of fried chicken, holding it up to her nose to smell it before putting it back. ]

[ Later that evening, she can be found making her paces through the crowd gathered to watch the fireworks; she's a police officer here, a pale imitation of the field leader she is back in New Port City, but that, too, is a familiarity she'll grasp with both hands. A lot has been taken from her, and if she can keep it, then by whatever, she's going to do it. Mostly she's keeping an eye out for rowdy kids, but she's not adverse to stopping to chat with someone, if they're inclined. Unless you're Linda or Jerry — she's really tired of listening to them complain about having to trim their neighbor's bush.

She does stop when the fireworks start, staring up at the sky with a faint smile on her face. ] Beautiful.

July 4th

[blaiiines]

[normally parties are where he thrives. But the last party ended with monsters, and it triggered a memory of yet another party. Still, parties are the best places to meet people, mingle and promote his business.

Though it can be hard to find the right customers. There is a promising one who seems to find the food unappetizing]

Not hungry?

july 4th!

[zymasoldat]

[ Bucky's used to Fourth of July in New York. The big to-dos in the city, the political demonstrations, the antics he'd get up to with Steve, with his sisters, with friends and girls he wanted to impress. And then there was that last Fourth of July, celebrating Captain America's 'birthday' with the Howlies.

(He'd given Steve so much shit over that.)

He wasn't even in America for the couple of July Fourths that passed since his freedom from HYDRA, and if he had been, he doubts he would've ventured out to any gatherings. Being an American, having any sense of patriotism, felt so far away and abstract. So what was the point?

And yet, here he is now, though he can't say that he really feels... anything about this celebration, either. It rings hollow, after everything. But he stays, anyway, because if Dr. Rousseau's to be believed, then this is the last of humanity as they know it. And that's something worth appreciating and protecting and holding on to, and he can't do that if he keeps himself at arm's length from his fellow survivors.

When the fireworks start, he does look up at them, remembering another time and place, when he was another person. When the woman beside him calls them beautiful, he does manage to smile a little as he watches the display, before he turns his gaze to her. ]

It is, yeah.

Penny and his evil hands | Various Dates | Open

[inceptisex]

i. waking up! (closed to cassian)
There's not a whole lot that comes to mind when Penny wakes up in a hospital bed-- at least, not beyond this vague notion that all of this is somehow deeply, concerningly familiar. And then he begins to take stock of the more... immediately obvious aspects of his current state. The physical stuff in the here and now. Like: he's got a splitting headache, his muscles feel like jelly, and everything's so goddamn LOUD, like he's standing in a crowded stadium and everyone's talking on their phones at the same time.

It's when he tries to piece out the details of what happened, what brought him to the hospital (this time?) that he realizes everything's a giant blank outside of a handful of names, a girl's face that fills him with a hell of a cocktail of mixed feelings, and the fact that he's a psychic magician who can teleport. It may sound crazy to most people, but it's something he knows about himself with absolute certainty. He's not crazy, and he knows, now that he's fully awake, that the voices in his head-- the constant noise-- are coming from the people around him. Everyone else in the goddamn building...

He closes his eyes and concentrates on clearing his head, getting some good meditation going before a nurse eventually interrupts to let him know his brother's coming to get him. Brother? Huh. That seems... Whatever. Who's he to say he doesn't have a brother when he can't even remember his parents or childhood or even the past few years?

Without thinking, his hand swipes out and knocks everything off the bedside table in a swift, aggressive swoop. Which... He's pretty sure he didn't mean to do?

Weird.

ii. fourth of july (open)
"Yeah? Fuck you, Jerry!"

It looks like somebody has no patience for Jerry's techniques at the grill and decided to express it-- bluntly and loudly-- until it devolved into a back-and-forth that culminated in the aforementioned exchange of 'fuck yous.'

Which is about par for the course with Penny, if you ask some people. Actually, if you ask some people, they'll lay it out pretty simply: Penny's an asshole. He's an asshole who hates being stuck in this white-ass town in freaking Idaho with no way out. Even if nobody's gotten him up to speed on the whole "welcome to life after the end of the world, and by the way, you just spent 1,000 years spent in a freezer" thing, he remembers enough about how things are SUPPOSED to be to know that this? His life here? It's all kinds of wrong. Partially because there's something about the whole concept of "home" that rings so false like, down to his core, that he knows it can't be real. And his "brothers" aren't even the same race as him, and he doesn't remember ever being told he's adopted...

Plus there's the whole fact that the town looks like it's just seen war or something. The idyllic feel is totally ruined by all the debris and shit. Ruined like the goddamn hamburgers here-- WHY IS JERRY EVEN IN CHARGE OF THE GRILL?

Whatever. He's only here for the free shit, anyway, and there's plenty of other options. Which is why Penny stalks away from Jerry, clutching a beer in hand, scowling at the world as he drinks and tries to shut the droning thoughts of others out of his head. Why do people have to think so loud, and about the stupidest shit, too?

What he wouldn't give for something stronger right now. As if on cue, spurred by that thought, his hand jerks back, splashing the bottle's contents behind him, then does a thorough job of pouring the rest of the beer on the grass.

"Damn it!" And this??? His hands acting like they've got a mind of their own? It stopped being cute days ago. He's seriously about to pay someone to cut the damn things off. After flinging the bottle at a nearby trashcan (not IN the can, mind you. AT. So that it shatters against the side), he curses again and crosses his arms, hands tucked against his side, as if he's angrily trying to smother the evil out of them.

He hates this.

iii. wildcard (open)
IDK WHATEVER YOU WANT.

ii

[stow]

Jerry's a dumbass. [The voice comes from a teenager approaching from up the block, holding a red solo cup of... something. She'll say it's juice if asked, but nothing further.]

Wouldn't know a decent burger if it smacked him in the face. [A grin's offered in camaraderie as she glances over at him attempting to salvage a pile of what appears to be charcoal.] Please tell me someone else on the street's got some food.

[ouzel]

When Cassian gets the call about his brother, Penny, he sighs and pinches his nose and replies "let him know I'm on my way." Learning that the implanted memories are due to foreign technology in his brain has added an interesting new color to his nightmares, which it to say blatantly terrifying, but that is not the fault of anyone thinking themselves his brother, so.

He should call Pietro, actually. Hm.

Either way he's made it to Penny's room in time to take in the stuff that appears to have been knocked off the table, but none of Penny's body language reads as likely to attack so Cassian will just roll with it.

"Hey." Because. This is how Cassian greets everyone, now. Apparently. "Cassian. You ready to go?"

[fuckthelookingglass]

She didn't stay at the hospital until cleared. Surprise.

Reclaiming her belongings was simple enough--there wasn't much to reclaim. Nothing to tell her why the itch of rough cloth against her skin makes her want to scream. Nothing to indicate that the formulas and gestures filling her head aren't the norm, though the looks the nurses gave her say they aren't.

Nothing to tell her that the house she's walking up to is hers, though the key says it is.

"Doors," she says, suddenly struck by how annoying they are. An obstruction, a flimsy barrier to safeguard objects that will only decay if left alone.

Doors.

Alice jams her key into the lock and twists sharply, like somehow the door will realize how much she dislikes it by virtue of the motion.

The house is huge. Huge is somehow familiar. That's the only thing that resonates at all.

It's also, apparently, occupied. Of course they gave her the wrong damn key.

noctis lucis caelum | various | open & closed

[basileia]

after the accident / july 1st ( closed to ignis )

[ when noctis wakes, it’s to the sound of a heart monitor, blips slow but steady. for one excruciating moment he thinks he's eight years old again, broken and bedridden, waking to his bedroom turned ward. he blinks heavy eyes and finds white walls and white sheets instead, the tight grip of fear loosing.

except, of course, he's left with... this.

a nurse enters the room as he slowly comes back to himself; she smiles, calls him by name. when she tells him he’s been in an accident, that he was injured but is on his way to a full recovery, his first hazy thought is ignis must be here with me. there's safety in that, even if the "why" is fuzzy. it’s not until noct finds the will enough to turn his head and find the single chair stationed by his bedside empty that dread swells up from the dull peace of exhaustion. because ignis is not here as noct is sure he should be. noctis is alone instead, surrounded by bright lights and sterile scents familiar in a way that is far from comforting even in the thick fog of recollection that is currently his brain.

before anything, noct's instinct is to bend his knees, rotate his ankles, and wiggle his toes against the sheets, testing mobility, searching for points of pain or its even more frightening counterpart numbness. but it’s alright—or it’s not, not quite, but as far as memory serves, it’s as it should be. noct attempts to sit up, thin covers slipping down his chest and folding over on themselves as he gingerly lifts his hands and blinks at an iv and a wrist braceleted in paper bands. the nurse says something vaguely scolding and another steps through the doorway with a clipboard, but he can’t quite focus on either, the quickened pace of a faraway pulse drowning out all other sound. he catches his breath.

when he looks at the first nurse, his brows furrows, mouth and eyes stubborn and doing all they can not to let slide the panic surging against the surface. it's all he can do not to haul himself from the bed and see himself out, shaking limbs not withstanding. he hates this feeling. ]

Ignis. [ he manages through a dry throat, determination faltering a moment as the nurse eyes him strangely. ] I need Ignis.

[ he has to hope that means something to someone. the nurses exchange looks, and then the second taps idly at her clipboard before ducking out of the room. he takes it as a good sign. he has to. ]

getting used to home again / july 3rd

[ ignis tells him that recuperation is important, and as much as noctis is one thousand percent prepared to take any excuse to lie around, he figures it's only courteous to drop by lagomarcino's when he finds a nametag for the place with his own handwriting on it. with ignis off following his own threads, noct might as well do the best with what he has. his house, when he finally returns to it, is of little comfort anyway with its hallway of boxes marked to go, the remnants of a family now reduced to one.

he stops halfway through his slightly uncertain, meandering walk to analyze one of the trees destroyed in... whatever happened recently, arms folded over his chest as he peers at the deep scratches in the bark. the long tears are familiar somehow, and it's with an unexpected shock that he realizes how happy he is that the sun is high in the sky at his back, the shadows pressed into corners. he doesn't hover long.

when noctis reaches the shop and steps inside, he's greeted by the smell of fresh bread and sugar. he thinks he can recall sitting on a stool behind the counter and eating hard candies when the store was quiet. he'll glance at customers as he makes his way to the back in search of an employee, hoping to find a face he recognizes from what he feels has been months or maybe years of working here. if nothing else, he'll be leaving with a bag full of sweets. recuperation at its finest. ]

fireworks / july 4th

[ for the most part, his first few days go by without any extreme revelations or upheavals of truth, and so he has no real reason not to indulge a little in the festivities. he spends most of the fourth sleeping off more of his discomfort surrounding the accident, but noct can be found standing on the edge of the crowd that gathers to watch the fireworks show once night falls. he gazes up as color bursts and pours forth across the sky and latches onto the sense that he'd come out to see them in the past, though he'd felt closer to them then, high enough to reach out and almost touch. maybe he and ignis had found a roof to settle on last year.

whatever the case, he's still somewhat flustered to have a sparkler forced upon him. ]

Never really knew what to do with these things. [ he says to whoever's closest as the fire starts to glitter down along the wire. that said, when he does draw a lazy figure-eight in the air it's with a graceful hand, precise in a way that seems intrinsic. he'll take any suggestions for patterns or names those nearby would like to see carved with light, and if anyone is in the mood for a (completely safe!) sparring match, they'll get a smirk and a you're on. ]

( ooc: will switch to prose if preferred! )

July 4th

[blaiiines]

[Blaine was not all that enthusiastic about the food at this party, but he did snag a beer. It helped a lot and when the evening started to wind down, he was a lot more loose overall. He flashes a smile at this guy who may have an opposite color hair, but has a similar style in wardrobe. Why bother with other colors when black goes with everything, right?]

I think the goal is to wave it around and not burn yourself.

3rd!

[unweaving]

[ Aranea's not in a great mood. She's got a healing, still-tender gash across her midsection and a whole list of things she needs to do that range from a pain in the ass to dread-inducingly awful, so it's not hard to justify bumping lunch at her favorite place to the top of the list. There's a fine line between self-care and procrastination, but right now? She can't be bothered drawing it.

The entire list gets shelved when she spots him, sandwich included. That's the kid that everything depended on, once; important enough that she remembered him before she remembered anything, before she had any idea of why.

She should leave him alone. She's had a 0% success rate with trying to warn people about this place so far, and if there's anybody who could use the kind of downtime the haze of false memories offers it's the boy-king of Lucis.

Still. ]

Hey, Noctis.

[nightsight]

[ The first thing Ignis knows when he drifts back to consciousness is that he's been here before. Waking in a state of almost complete disorientation, the smallest movement scattering dull thuds of pain along his nerve endings, darkness refusing to recede even when he opens his eyes--

Well. Eye. That his vision is limited to what he'd guess is what sunlight streams through closed blinds is, he remembers after an instant, the only part of his general corporeal existence not a mystery, and as macabre as that is, at least that's something he can hold onto. There's a knock on what sounds like a doorframe after a second, a nurse announcing herself, checking his vitals in that telegraphed way medical professionals do, which at a basic level he appreciates. The rest of him is busy being irritated by the fact that his visor isn't within easy reach, where it should be; it strikes him as patently idiotic for its apparent location to be the sheriff station when surely it would have been simpler to leave it with him where it's of any use at all, and that is the top of a very long list over which he's working up to being an absolute nightmare, as a patient, but then the infinitely patient nurse shifts as someone else enters the room, and pulls away from him for a quiet, if urgent conversation he's clearly not meant to be privvy to yet.

That lasts until he hears a particular syllable amidst the flurry of others, and then apparently protagonist syndrome is catching, since he definitely tries to get out of bed immediately, still attached IV and all. ]

Where is he?

[ He will irritate every last member of the staff if he has to! Fortunately that's. Not necessary; he's told his friend is asking for him, and in the interest of keeping said friend calm the second nurse is offering to walk him over. Ignis manages to dial his attitude back from intensely waspish to patient enough to absorb the information, Noct's whereabouts and well-being overriding every personal concern. Though he can recollect little else, he knows those things are of paramount importance.

He'll remember to be even more annoyed that he had to traipse over there in a flimsy hospital gown like, later, since once he enters the room he nearly trips over absolutely nothing in trying to get to Noct's voice. The, again, infinitely patient nurse guides his hand to the edge of the bed, and he sits with the feeling of some impossibly unbearable weight burning off like morning fog. ]

Noct-- [ a faint flicker just on the tip of his tongue, behind his teeth--another form of address that doesn't quite get a grip in his mouth before it's gone ] --it's all right. I'm here.

[ Stupid, when it's not as if Noctis (whose face is the first he can recall clearly, in fine-boned, chiaroscuro shaded detail) is the one who requires announcement upon arrival, but it's what comes out of his mouth anyway. He fumbles, in a way that is to his own hazy understanding rare, for some point of contact: a knee, or shoulder or wrist, just something.

The familiar sharp shape of skinny wrist is what his fingertips brush initially, and his hand curls around that lifeline like he will actually literally fucking drown otherwise, because some things remain the same no matter the bizarre circumstance. ]

july 4.

[dendrites]

Oh – I could take it back if you'd like.

[ someone else had handed elsa a bouquet of blue sparklers, illuminating her face in a way that looks just right. the right amount of magical. the right amount of whimsy. elsa looks embarrassed to have assumed, having been passing them around to anyone who will take a few off her hands. with noctis being one of the last people she has gotten to, this leaves her with about five in her hands now.

it does suit him too, she has to note with a fond smile. ]

Hello, Noctis, [ the blonde greets with a small bow of her head, a touch of warmth in her smile, peeking through her cool surface. ]

July 4th

[cacoethical]

[There haven't been many moments like this in Dirk's life, not across the breadth of it he can now recall, and the flavour of those memories doesn't make him optimistic about the rest. It's strange, supremely strange -- even by his standards -- that this should come so hot on the heels of an experience so thoroughly opposite to this, so very far from celebratory as to have driven the idea from his mind entirely. Until today. Now. A warm evening, the sun still tickling the edges of the horizon -- hidden by the mountains but sending a warm glow to trace their edges. People, a cluster of them, gathered to stare up into the sky, a group that must look from above absolutely different than it does from here. Maybe from up there, they're looking for something profound, waiting for an answer. From down here, they've just gathered to watch some things explode -- not that Dirk can blame them. He's here too.

All in all it feels like standing in the eye of a storm, something which has only recently acquired the title of hurricane but has ambitions on hitting category five by the end of the week, which Dirk supposes he can admire in a situation. His own personal ambition is to stay as near to the eye of that storm as possible, thank you very kindly, which more or less guarantees that this is all going to spiral out of control once more, and maybe worse.

It wouldn't be the first time. He feels a sudden pang of... is that homesickness? Is that what that feels like? He'd forgotten. Actually forgotten, it feels like, not had it stolen from him. He closes his eyes and savours the sensation, the particular quality of the ache, breathing in the cooling evening air.

It's probably just as well, though, that his reverie is interrupted. It wouldn't do to weep on this particular holiday. Even if he is English. Sort of.

Anyway, it's an interesting question. His tangled memories suggest to him both that he has never held one of these in his own hand, and that he absolutely, definitely has. Both sort of imply that he shouldn't.]

Oh, er, try not to set things on fire, I think.

[He gives a wan but matter-of-fact smile.]

That's probably why I don't have one.

4th! At least I'm managing in the right month... Sorry for the wait!

[allfornothing]

Hmm? [ Crowe is not the one who gave the thing to him. Crowe looks over, and then does an actual double-take, color draining from her face as she realizes whom she might have just barely avoided jostling a moment or five ago.

Her voice goes quieter, possibly not easy to hear at all, through the din. ]

Your Highness.

[ She digs her fingernails into the flesh of her palms, then forces a smile, and just. Points at a little girl who is making amazing drawings of light in the around herself. That. Works in lieu of an answer, right? ]

Buffy Summers | Multiple Scenarios| Open

[theladylazarus]

July 1st - Getting Used to Home Again

[Buffy wanders through main street hunched inwards, gaze skittering over the burnt and torn remains of the town. There's a familiarity to this sight, something that makes her want to crawl inside herself and shut it out. Her eyes are wide, but her walk is brisk and steady. If nothing else, at least she knows her name and has somewhere to go. She'll get her things and go home, and maybe wearing real clothes will make her feel better. She can barely believe that the hospital would just send her out in a gown she has to clutch to keep closed, even if it's not a long walk.

The clothes do help a little, and oddly so does the stuffed pig. Buffy carries it in both hands as she heads back out onto the Main Street. She should get to the house, she knows, but she can't help slowing down. She takes one hand off the pig and touches a scorched tree, watches the beaten-looking cars as they head past her. Without near-nakedness to give her urgency, Buffy can't help being distracted by the ruin around her. That in itself seems as familiar as the fact that there is damage to be fascinated by. It seems less overwhelming than her initial walk through the town, even if the deja vu remains unpleasant. Something about the curiosity, even the smallest bit of investigation, seems right. An image materializes: the sheriff showing her a sharpened, curved stick he'd be keeping for the next month. She pushes it away.

As she pauses, Buffy hears another pedestrian pass by; the footsteps make her whirl around to stare in silence at first, completely still. Then--] Sorry.


July 4th - 4th of July

[The fireworks and the talking are almost too loud. Even more so after being targeted immediately upon her arrival by a woman with as many complaints as words of welcome. If Linda's commentary is accurate, Buffy silently thanks God that this year was quieter than normal. Words buzz around her, and she can't quite focus on any of them. She smiles anyway, until Linda's gone off to someone else.

Focus or no focus, she won't leave. There's a coziness to the scene, and she wants to be part of it. The longing and the distance, the sense of being a spectator, all feel familiar, although she doesn't understand why. So she's done what she can to contribute. She's brought homemade mint chocolate chip cookies, frosted with the red, white and blue of the day. Buffy brings them to what looks like a dessert table that's covered in the same colors. A giant, mishmashed edible flag, she thinks. Abruptly, to the next person who approaches the table--] Hey, it's a flag you can eat! [She brings back her tiny smile.]

[Later, Buffy wanders throughout the picnic. She tries to stop for a burger, but the arguing from...Jerry? Jerry and someone else over his cooking puts her off, just as much as the thought of the burgers being bad. She can't quite make herself stop at any more tables, though. Even her own cookies don't tempt her. After some halting attempts at chatting with anyone who'll approach her, she begins to head away from the festivities, absentmindedly dumping her sparkler as she goes. She doesn't notice the little sparks on the grass for a second. Then she frantically stomps them out, picking up the sparkler once more and hoping that nobody is looking in her direction.]


July 1-5th Your Choice

Any scenario you prefer that isn't one of the above!

July 4th (lmk if I should change anything!)

[royalpassport]

[ Fourth of July doesn't really conjure up any emotions in Jefferson any which way, beyond some vague sense that he should, perhaps, care a little bit, as somebody with not one, but two sets of false memories telling him that he's an American and therefore should give a damn about the holiday. That vague sense isn't all that convincing, though, so he's really just here to drop off some food for the potluck (little sandwiches and little fruit tarts, courtesy of Go Ask Alice) and engage in some people watching.

He supposes this is his community now. His home, with his neighbors and his makeshift family of Eliot and Kenzi. It's odd, how easily he accepts it. Or perhaps it isn't. After all, he had no attachment to Storybrooke, and even in the best of times, he never really had much of a sense of home in the Enchanted Forest, either. (That's wrong. He did, once, but he can't remember why, and trying to chase that notion always turns into a dead end.) Perhaps that's why he took so well to portal jumping, once upon a time. But that's in the past-- over 1,000 years in the past, apparently. Sometimes he wonders, idly, if the curse is still in effect. If he trekked all the way to Maine, would he find Storybrooke, still suspended in time? He can't imagine Regina would be anything short of completely mad by now.

(Good. He hopes she is.)

As somebody who's spent far too long observing his small slice of the world, rather than participating in it, Jefferson has a tendency to zero in on people who seem similarly out of sorts, even in this patchwork town of misfits. So maybe that's why he finds himself watching the young woman who wanders around the celebratory gathering with a sort of... detachment that doesn't seem to shake, even through attempts at conversations. Playing at normal when you know you're out of sync with everything and everyone around you. It's not unfamiliar to Jefferson. Or maybe he's projecting. In any case, he finally approaches-- overdressed for the celebration, because really, who the hell wears a scarf in July?-- after the incident with the sparkler. ]

I hate those things, too. [ A wry half-smile. Look at him, trying for normal and casual. ]

octavia blake | multiple | ota

[stow]

JULY 2 ; getting used to home (again?)

[Waking up in the hospital without a clue is fun (not really), but she's more than ready to move past that in some way. Octavia does all the steps: gets (kinda) better, makes her way to the sheriff's station, gets her shit, then goes home. One worried big brother later, she changes into clean clothes and sets off into the neighborhood.

Main Street is her starting point. She steers clear of the counseling center, moving to walk on the other side of the street. Her pace is slow and leisurely, as she has nothing but time right now. Occasionally she'll stop to look into a window or to read a sign. When someone greets her, Octavia gives a polite but succinct nod in reply. Not remembering much of anyone or anything makes her wary, especially considering the state of some of the town.

What even happened?

By her side, one hand balls into a fist then releases, an action she repeats unconsciously while she walks. She stops, at one point, to look at a newspaper stand, brows furrowing. The only thing stopping her from dwelling too much is the sudden realization that she's extremely hungry. Instead of looking herself, she waves, flagging down someone who'll listen.]

Hey! Tell me a good place to eat here, I'm starving.

JULY 4th of july

[It's strange how quickly she's fallen into things; she'd realize that if she stopped to think about it. Clad in some sort of blue, the teenager idly wanders throughout the neighborhood, taking in the sights of people. Every now and then she grabs a piece of food off a table or unattended plate before resuming her trek.

Linda's chatters reach her ears more often than she wants, and Octavia does her best to ignore the woman. But small talk isn't above her, so she'll engage in polite, if meaningless, conversation with anyone who seems somewhat okay.

Luckily, she finds a somewhat secluded spot in some grass where she sits down to watch, a look of concentration of her face.]

Still feels weird.

JULY ?? ; something else

[Want something else? Feel free! Recognize her if you'd like, it's all good.]

JULY 2

[dominance]

[ it doesn't surprise him octavia finds him. ]

[ ever since he arrived in this bumfuck town, he's been looking for the exit. without his sister here, there's no anchor keeping him at bay. he's a ship that's restless, fighting against what's tying him to the dock, and despite his best efforts to free himself from what's keeping him there, nothing works. ]

[ it's when he hears some people are arriving in the hospital, a little confused, some worse for wear, he gets dressed, slips on that guard jacket he'd found among his possessions in the sheriff's station, and makes his way out the front door. the best way for a ship to find purpose is to set sail under the command of a captain. bellamy's just not sure who the captain happens to be here. ]

[ he doesn't get far. a foot on the threshold, he stops when he sees her. she's making her way up to the front door, looking a little disheveled, maybe a little pissed — truthfully, bellamy's not focusing much on her expression. there's a familiar swelling in his chest, hope starting to properly kindle there, and he forgets everything that he'd set out to do within those few hours of waking up and growing irritable he was still here. ]

[ taking a step forward, he doesn't so much as run toward her. a little taken aback, he almost doesn't want to disturb what could just be a fucked up hallucination. ]

O?

[unweaving]

july 1st
[ She didn't expect to wake up.

That thought's followed by a kind of internal snort; nobody expects to wake up, right? You're asleep, and then you're awake. That's how it works. But she'd been so sure, when there was more blood on the ground then she even thought she had in her body and everything stopped hurting and the world went soft around her, that she was dying.

She sucks antiseptic air, feels a twinge where she remembers being torn open. When she opens her eyes there's a nurse, but that turns out to be no help. I thought I died, she says, and the nurse says you did, and even through the odd ringing in her ears that follows she can tell there's really nothing useful in what comes next. She can't tell whether the fact that the nurse hurries away indicates being busy or uncomfortable, so she helps herself to donated clothes and sets out.

There's a phone for public use. She could call someone. Prompto. Or Nyx, maybe. She doesn't. It's nice enough out to walk, for a given value of nice. Things are a goddamn mess, but they're less of a mess than she would have expected. She walks slowly, less in deference to her still-tender abdomen and more because she's taking in what's around her. So she might bump into you, or ask for today's date. And if she sees anyone she knows, she... waits. It's goddamn unsettling, to have someone tell you that you were dead. Reactions'll tell her more than asking questions to start with, at least. ]

july 4th

Nobody cares, Linda.

[ Except this time – unusually – she's saying it with a smile. Which is probably some kind of side effect, but hell. You can only spend so long pondering your own mortality (or the apparent lack thereof) before it gets really fucking boring, and the picnic is a good excuse to shelve that for a while even if it's “sedate”. She wanders, pokes idly at the pot luck, and eventually bullies Jerry away from the grill long enough to cook her own damn burger – and maybe yours, if you get in quick. I was dead, Jerry! is probably only good as an excuse until he decides she's mentally unstable and shouldn't have access to the grill, the utensils, or things people are going to eat, after all.

When night falls, she sticks around to watch the fireworks. Who doesn't love fireworks? Party poopers, that's who. And she takes sparklers with a lot more enthusiasm than she remembers ever showing towards them, though that might not be a good thing. Apologies to any parents with small children nearby, because the things she's spelling out in prettily looping cursive include FUCK, BALLS, and one optimistic but ultimately doomed attempt at ALDERCAPT SUCKS GARULA DICK. ]

4th

[comic_relief]

<sub>[In the time since the attack and the revelations that followed, little appears to have outwardly changed for Jack. He's a quiet listener during the discussions, neither accepting nor resistant, and heals from his injuries without comment, pulling on his store-bought shoes and his age-appropriate t-shirts each day like he has a choice in the matter. The surveillance equipment is gone, but now more than ever he keeps his thoughts privy to a party of one.

He even shows up to the town celebration, though paying homage to an Independence Day seems almost painfully tongue-in-cheek, all things considered.

That's where he stumbles on her: Aranea, last seen a blood-smeared corpse, now gaily flipping meat on a grill.]</sub>

... You're back.

<sub>[Happy surprises are rare here, but it's not one he sounds as surprised about as he could. Class Zero had walked off disembowelment every now and again...

Well.

... On second thought, maybe he should be surprised. Not only is she not one of Arecia's children, he knows for a fact her phantoma, that innermost vital energy powering her body, should be missing. Because he'd taken it. He distinctly remembers tugging it free of an empty shell, along with all the other remains in the street during the chaos of battle, having found her in a state beyond saving. Taking phantoma from those who didn't have the luxury of reviving was normal back home, a grim but efficient means of turning displaced energy into purpose.

She shouldn't be able to come back without it. And yet here she is. And here he is, alive again when he shouldn't be.

How could he forget? Wayward Pines doesn't play by normal rules.]</sub>

I mean-- _{[Once more with feeling:]} You're back!

Laura Howlett | July 4th | OTA | ... the bushes :|

[shoplifter]

Option 1: in the bushes

[Laura's memories have returned, mostly. Memories of all sorts of things, terrible things — surgeries and experiments and training and — and more, much more, and she had taken a lot of time to herself, away from her housemates and teachers, to deal with all those things she's suddenly catapulted into feeling.

Today, however, her focus is solely on the fireworks.

When they start, the sound and energy behind them send her running to the nearest brush — some bushes around the picnic area, away from the dangerous things that seem to pop off like gunfire. She can't remember ever seeing such excitement over the sounds like that. And she certainly can't remember why anyone would light them up and fire them in the first place. It goes along with wondering why everything is red, white, and blue.

God, that one they just lit is screaming, like nails on a chalkboard to her oversensitive ears. It reminds her too much of the beasts.

... This is the worst.]

Option 2: out of them (shortly?)

[She only leaves the bushes, finally, out of hunger. And only when she's sure nothing dangerous (well... you know what she means) is happening. When she thinks nobody's looking, she pours plain grilled hot dog weenies on a plate and proceeds to squeeze ketchup all over the top of it. While she's apparently been coaxed out of the bushes, noise-cancelling ear muffs given to her at some point, she seems like she might just so right back into them when more uncomfortably bright and loud fireworks go off nearby. The smell in the air is pungent and overwhelming to her sharper senses, so she takes a clamp from one of the chip bags and puts it on her nose.

Here is a helpful example image of what one can expect, seeing her.



... Well, at least they're kind of pretty.

The hot dogs and the fireworks, she means.]

Michael Munroe | Town, at July 4th picnic, etc. | OTA

[onewithfido]

option a. July 1st - 3rd

[Mike is helping with the clean-up; actually, it was kind of a job he fell into, if he's honest, and he thinks maybe this suits him a little more than uselessly sitting around and wondering what he's going to do with his life now that his memories have returned. He grabs for a sweeper and starts cleaning up debris. Starts helping tape up broken windows and getting the glass out of the way.

It's gonna take some time, but he's got plenty of that. And it helps... try not to remind him of what happened. God, poor Skye. He should've been able to do more, you know? Fuck, he's always like that. Always too shy of doing what he needed. For Jess, for Sam, for the others at the lodge. And now-- Skye. He tries not to think about it, but it's there. Burning away at him.

His wounded shoulder, stitched up after nearly getting re-mauled, is acting up a little, so he sits down and wipes the sweat from his face, aiming to take the shortest of breaks. Maybe he's helping you guys out, or maybe you're passing through. He'll help out any newcomers, or whatever. Good guy Mike, that's him. Ha.]

option b. July 4th

[Look, Mike likes fireworks.

They're cool and fun to light and -- well, guys his age, from his specific demographic? They love to blow shit up for fun. It's totally legal, okay. Well, uh, a portion of them are, anyway. But he's found himself taking it easy this year; he lights a few of those black snakes that grow out of nothin', mostly to awe some of the children hanging out around him.

Poor kids, some of them are still bandaged or bruised from the attack.

Sue him, he's a big kid himself, so he doesn't mind showing them all the littler ones.]

--well, it's like... uh... sodium bicarbonate. If I remember it riiight... eventually you got the sugar that forms carbon; that's what the ash is, really. The graphite in your pencils are totally a type of carbon, too. Pretty neat, right??

[What, he got really good grades in school.]

option c.

[Or, like... he also tosses a few of those bang snaps near people's feet when they're not looking.

Because he's a little shit.

Happy fourth.]

July 1st

[morethan084]

[Waking up was disorientating to say the least, and then to find out she had actually died? That was even worse. Especially because she didn't fully understand how it was she actually came back to life days later. Then on top of all of this, she and the rest of the town are flooded with all of this information.

She's more or less felt like a zombie since waking up. She honestly looks like it too, what with the lack of sleep and all. Skye has been isolating herself to try and process everything, and today is the first day she actually left the house. The pain was a little more tolerable now, but if she thought about it too much it was like it was happening all over again. She could feel herself being torn apart.

What was even worse is she didn't know what happened to Mike, who she had been with at the time this happened. The last thing she remembered was him screaming her name in a panic. Did he die too? Did he come back like she had if he did? What are the chances she finds out right now? Pretty likely, as she's moving past those helping to clean up after the mess and spots him about to get back up from the spot he had been sitting at.

She can't run but her pace does quicken.]

Mike?

Aloy | July 1-4 | OTA

[girlexmachina]

July 1-3, afternoon

Aloy's done being passive. There are things to fight, and she will be ready to fight them, because it will be necessary again, she's sure. But the stretch of the entire month where she wasn't allowed to have her weapons because of the pretense that nothing was wrong, well. It doesn't sit well with her. These things have to be kept up on.

So at the edge of the woods, trying to be away from where people might run into her way, Aloy's set up a sort of makeshift target. It's a large cardboard box, filled with scrap styrofoam and spray foam from the hardware store, light enough to carry around, firm enough to stop an arrow reasonably well. She's taped a piece of paper with a target traced in Sharpie to each side, and is contentedly circling it and firing arrows into it.

Her aim is good, but she is also trying to keep an ear out for anyone wandering close.

Later, she'll curl up under a tree with one of the science textbooks she's lugged out here in a camouflage-pattern backpack, and Aloy is far more oblivious to the world when she's caught up in learning about the solar system, though her spear and bow are always within reach, even then.


July 4, evening

Admittedly, Aloy isn't really sure she understands the celebration. She has some vague notion of the holiday in the set of memories that she knows perfectly well aren't real, but that's an unsatisfying explanation. History, though. It's a celebration of history. And that's an idea that's at least familiar to her. Some things are universal.

And fireworks are... pretty great. The idea is simple enough: controlled explosions, in different colours, far up in the sky where they can't do any harm. With a half-eaten burger beside her, Aloy stretches out on the grass with her hands behind her head to watch the fireworks, a small smile on her face.

July 1

[blaiiines]

Blaine didn't pay much attention to the girl who was working with him at the butcher shop, but he did note how she had lots of geeky-looking textbooks. And with his memories settling back in his mind, a geek was what he needed.

Hopefully she bought the story that those man-killing creatures had been the ones responsible for depleting the butcher shop's inventory. Because otherwise this was going to be a short conversation.

"Hey, sister." He crouched down while still keeping a distance between them. "You know anything about chemistry and biology?" Might as well jump right into it.

Alice Quinn | 1st - 4th (she is a walking spoiler for most of S2)

[fuckthelookingglass]

I. Waking Urp
[ Walking is making her angry. She doesn't understand why, because she doesn't understand anything right now, but walking is making her positively furious. She can't even tell herself that the feeling isn't logical, because there's a voice in her subconscious saying that it is entirely, completely logical to hate walking this much. It's a waste of time. Completely uneconomical. It's so human.

Also, her eyes are bad. Why are her eyes bad? They're supposed to help her see, not impede that function.

Alice's walk is turning into a stomp, and she beginning to growl under her breath as she reaches main street, finally.

She's entirely too caught up in her hatred for her eyes, walking, and the feel of muscle shifting under skin to pay any attention to who she might bump into.

She's not sorry. ]

II. 4th of July
[ She doesn't remember the Fourth of July. When she wakes up in the morning to the sound of firecrackers somewhere down the street, it's a damn good thing she can't do magic, because if she could there would be a fireball-shaped hole in her wall.

She doesn't want to be at the picnic. She doesn't want to be anywhere near the picnic and its disgusting food and its disgusting humans. (Why can't she help thinking of them that way, as 'humans', like they're a different class of being?)

But Penny made her come. He made her come, and now she's standing in the middle of the festivities hugging her arms against her sides and glaring at anyone who comes close.

Eventually curiosity wins, though, and the nearest person gets the question:] What is all of this for?

i.

[realists]

[ alice doesn't bump into jyn because jyn knows where she is going, but she also casually watches as alice maybe strides right toward another oncoming collision. should she say something? she should say something.

wwbd: what would bodhi do? bodhi would say something. ]

You're gonna hit a bin.

[ there. warned. now if she does walk into the trash can and trip right inside it jyn can laugh freely with no guilt. ]