sixthiterationlogs | it's like playing the lottery with you ( OPEN )

WHO: Beverly Crusher
WHERE: hospital, House 20, Inn
WHEN: Nov 4th and onward
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: will update as needed

hospital - Nov 4th

Of all the things Beverly had expected to find in the hospital, it wasn't a red, sealed envelope. She was alone in one of the rooms, looking through their supplies. She'd turned around to pick something up and there it was on a table. It hadn't been there before. Frowning, she hesitated for a few seconds before reaching out to pick the envelope up and turn it over. It has a wax seal with the same insignia as the one on her backpack. Not a very comforting thought.

Slitting it open doesn't seem to produce any terrible consequences and she pulls out the letter inside. She doesn't really know what she's expecting, but this sort of letter, or these instructions, definitely weren't on the list. A frown crosses her face, one definitely of disgust and confusion.

"What in the world...?"

House 20 - Nov 4th-5th

As soon as she gets back to the house on the 4th, she builds up a nice fire and tosses the envelope and its letter inside. Whatever the Observers might want of her, she isn't about to obey. That isn't the type of person she is. When it reappears in her room, again when she's alone, on the 5th, she does the same thing again.

"Whatever you want, it's not going to happen."

She stands over the fire with her arms crossed, watching the paper curl and burn, until it's all a mess of ash and fire and she can't tell what is fire and what was letter.

Inn - Nov 6th

Eventually, she ends up at the Inn, throwing the next letter into the fire there, on the off chance that it was somehow the fire that meant it came back. Unfortunately for her, that doesn't seem to have much effect either, so she spends most of the 6th looks really put out and actually more than a little unsettled. Somewhere towards the end of the day, she returns with another, flops into a chair, and stares at the red letter she's set on the table. What do they want?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Once Ned makes someone's acquaintance, he is hard pressed to forget the individual - both by name and by face. The clearest and only memory Ned has of the woman currently looking rather disheartened and forlorn in front of the hearth at the Inn is when she'd been standing about near the fountain, arms and legs moving strangely out in front and to the sides of her, and how the behavior had continued once inside. He'd later found out, of course, that it had been due to an .. odd case of a disappearing shadow, but the image of her doing a peculiar, one-person waltz has stuck with Ned.

He approaches mindfully, coming up behind the empty seat opposite her, placing his hand on its back.

"Have you lost it completely, then?" he asks, eyes scanning in a halo around her form. "Your shadow, I mean."

It would be more curious a memory if he had any idea that she can waltz; she's an extremely talented dancer, though that is a secret she intends to keep with her. With any luck, Jean-Luc and the Observers won't spill that secret for her. Either way, she remembers Ned as well and she huffs out a small laugh at his words, grateful for the levity.

"Not this time," she replies, lifting an arm over the table and turning it around to show him the shadow perfectly attached to her. "It returned a while back and admittedly I'm happier about that than I probably should be."

It's something else that has her concerned and unsettled today.

"I don't think there is any precedent by which to measure one's happiness at a returning shadow," Ned replies, matching her humor and lightness of tone with a quiet laugh of his own. His eyes glance to her arm and, of course, the darkened shadow underneath. "I am glad to see that you've returned to as normal a state as one might expect here." The brightness of the envelope on the table catches his eye, though he makes little motion to reveal he's noticed it.

"What is it that has seemed to distract you, then?"

She appreciates the chance at levity that he offers in return. Sometimes it seems far too difficult to find times to laugh here and she likes any of them that she can get. The people she's met are resilient and that helps as well. "Better than it could be," she agrees.

His question does, unfortunately, bring the levity back down and she glances almost warily at the envelope. "A letter that won't take no for an answer," she replies as jokingly as she can manage. The hand that was extended motions towards the envelope. "You're welcome to look if you'd like. I think it's from our lovely captors."

Ned studies her for a moment longer before reaching out for the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It is a familiar sight, having seen an identical one that had been given to Moana only days earlier. His finger runs along the smooth edge of the wax seal, the sigil of a flame. It reminds him of House Marbrand, with its burning tree or perhaps the Martells, with their spear-pierced sun. He knows, of course, that it's neither, but it helps to think in the context of home.

"You aren't the only one who's received such a thing," he says, glancing up towards her. "I know of at least one other who recounted a similar experience. The letter inside requests that you do something, I believe?"

"Steal something from someone and leave it by the peach trees in the other village," she affirms with a wave of her hand. "If I do, I'll be rewarded, though what that reward is they don't say." She hopes she doesn't need to state that she isn't going to do it, but just to be sure... "I'm not doing it. I don't see the point."

"Does it specify what it is you need to steal?" Ned asks, brows furrowed with concern. Such a strange request, and for what end? To foster suspicion and rouse distrust amongst the villagers? Have the Observers grown tired of their willingness to work together and support one another? It feels very much like a plot to stir chaos and pointing fingers. "I suppose they purposefully keep it open-ended and vague, so as to let one's imagination run wild with speculation as to what the reward might be, when in truth, it could be nothing more than a pile of twigs." He turns the envelope over a few more times before he hands it back to her. "You aren't alone in that decision, either; the other I spoke to had decided not to partake in the request, either."

"Something of value," Beverly clarifies, her jaw tensing. It isn't exactly specific, but it does narrow down the options. It could be valuable in a monetary sense or valuable in a personal sense. Either way, it has to have some kind of value, which is all the more reason for her not to comply. "I wouldn't be surprised. Twigs with spikes attached in some form."

Or simply a lack of punishment, though she has yet to voice that suspicion.

"Well, I guess we'll find out together, won't we?"

"Or perhaps twigs disguising a trap laid underneath, which might turn make you think yourself as someone else, with the way things seem to take place here," Ned agrees with an equal amount of sarcasm and displeasure. Were they truly nothing more than animals in a cage, being poked and prodded by some unseen hand, being observed for reactions and out of sadistic amusement? "Yes, I suppose so. I hope it ends up not being a reward you'd have rather had than not."

They really do seem to be nothing more than lab rats and she hates that feeling. She might not be the most temperamental person, and in fact most people who only barely know her would never expect her to be anything but sweet, but she does have her stubborn streak. Especially when it comes to keeping people safe and healthy. So she simply shrugs, her jaw setting briefly as she gazes back at him.

"The only reward that could get me to agree to this would be something that keeps everyone safe," she says firmly. Not 'do this or your friend gets hurt.' She and Jean-Luc would find a way to bypass that. Somehow. "I don't even think finding out where my son is would do it. And I think he'd be able to forgive me, given the situation."

it's like playing the lottery with you ( OPEN )

.inn.

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