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

"Oh, he'll be all right," Beverly says, as though she knows exactly where he is and what he's doing. She senses she's stumbled upon a difficult topic somehow, so in the effort of helping them both out, she adds on, "Although, I might be interested in picking a geneticist's brain about how a child can have an ability neither of the parents possessed."

It's mostly teasing. Beverly knows well enough how, but talking about it might be better than whatever land mine they've stumbled across now.

Sam was clever enough to know when she was being baited. Any doctor worth her salt--even a future doctor--knew about recessive genes. But she got the sense that it wasn't meant out of malice.

So she didn't puff herself up like a cat and hiss and spit.

"I can draw you a Punnett square sometime," she said. "Assuming there's any paper left around here."

"I don't know about paper and pens or pencils, but there's enough dirt and sticks floating around to manage something if we're desperate enough," she teases in response.

The change in topic had been meant more to settle them back into something more tolerable. Less touchy for both of them. For all the Beverly doesn't mind talking about Wesley, she does still miss him. The topic of her son is still bittersweet for her.

"Well, if there's one thing we're fucking fantastic at, it's improvising," she said. It was probably the most diplomatic--and polite--thing she'd ever had to say about the whole clown rodeo.

Which spoke volumes about how she felt.

"I've started doing a lot of work with charcoal. My room is...well. It's not the Art Institute or anything. But blank walls drive me nuts."

"Very true," Beverly agrees. Out of everything they have to do here, improvising is definitely one of the most consistent.

"It doesn't have to be the Art Institute to anyone but you. As long as you're happy with it, or it serves a purpose, that's all that matters," she points out, gently. As far as she is concerned, Sam's artwork is probably the most impressive thing just by virtue of having been done at all.

Spoken like a woman who had never experienced the super shitty competition of an art school.

She kind of envied her for that.

But a compliment was still a compliment. Sam smiled at her. "Thanks. That's a good way to look at it."

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

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