sixthiterationlogs | ( OPEN ) gotta get back gotta get free.

Entry tags:

( OPEN ) gotta get back gotta get free.

WHO: ~~Mayor~~ McChilicheesedog
WHERE: House 6, House 60, and beyond
WHEN: October 15-November 5
OPEN TO: OTA (closed prompts in comments)
WARNINGS: animagus times, general obliviousness, dust moths, tba

OPEN TO ALL.

After cooking for the Stark Expo, Frank had bailed pretty quickly thereafter, not wanting to stick around for the thank-yous and/or any derisive comments. He also really hadn't felt as though he had much to contribute to a "tech conference" even with no tech to be found. At first, he considers going to find that book Mark started with all the skills and scratching his name off every page, but he finds himself heading to the Lake instead.

Before he knows it, he's heading down to the Bunker and straight for that powers vending machine. He studies the choices for a long time, remembering his conversation with Kamala and wondering if this all isn't an elaborate trap. Maybe it does nothing? Just another way to mess with their minds. He's heard whisperings of people hearing one another's thoughts recently and decides he needs to pick something tangible. Something he can prove definitively worked or didn't work. His finger hovers over Animal Transformation, but then he swallows, steeling himself. To Hell with it, right?

It isn't Frank Castle who runs out of the bunker and back onto the surface, but a coyote. He will be easily spotted loitering outside House 6 like he's trying to figure out how to work a doorknob in this state. When he gives up, he goes to lay down in the backyard, like he's watching over the animals in the pen. The groffle and zalpaca graze on as if oblivious to a predator nearby. Perhaps because they sense it's not really a creature who intends them any harm. After a time, Frank nods off in that state and a croc-dog finds him, curling up under his chin to join in the nap.

Over the next week or two, people might spot the coyote who comes in close to the Villages, most often he'll be outside the Schoolhouse or the Inn but never does he try to venture inside or close enough to be caught. If someone catches his eyes, he'll run off towards the forest.

WILDCARD.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The Harvest shindig reeked a little of Children of the Corn to her, peppered with the usual night-before-a-massacre energy of their inescapable circumstances. She doesn't know if she's that drunk, scoping it out on a walk and keeping a good 20 foot berth from the gathering's edge, or if she really did stop paying attention long enough for it to transform between glances. She cuts her stroll short and double backs immediately, repulsed by the gaudy ballgowns and tryhard Jerks du Soleil masks.

Once home, Jess fires up her woodburning stove and leaves the flame exposed to illuminate her living room. She lights two wicks protruding from sloppily shaped candles that sit on her windowsills. Wax trickles down to the scratched up wood, for Jess to scrape off later and re-use. The firelight pools in the one comfy corner of the room, blankets strewn over one half of the couch: back, seat and floor layered in careless abundance. She reads books there, since the library showed up.

She lives too far out for drunk stragglers to stumble past and Jess doesn't know whether or not she'll acknowledge a sober knock, though it's obvious she's home. When there comes a clawing, she can't help but assume a wendigo, though they haven't seen hide nor hair from them since the one that got Peeta. It couldn't possibly be one of Frank's strays unless Kamala herded it here. Her book is a dry one, offering the occasional chuckle by way of hilarious misinformation. With a cooking knife blunted from gouging out wax, Jess checks the door. She opens it a crack, knife behind her back, and doesn't know whether to open it further or tuck the weapon away when she realizes what she's looking at.

"What?" Jess asks sharply, like it can answer. Still uncertain she's looking at a coyote and not a jackal or a dirty, malnourished dog, she leers at the gifts on the porch behind it. The door opens several inches so she can scan around for anyone who might have dropped them off, with or without the mutt.

Frank knew she was at home, of course, and at least he stuck around to see her this time instead of ding-dong-ditching, even if she has no idea it's him. Something he only realizes when she's looking around. Oh, right. He nudges the flowers towards her with his nose before slowly shedding coyote for man, though these days he's just as hairy. He runs a hand back through the slop on his head indicatively, managing to look a little sheepish as he picks the bottle up and hands it to her.

"Sorry, I forgot I was still..." A coyote?? Yeah. Honestly, he had. "I had a feeling you were skipping the party too." And he thought they could skip it together.

Edited 2018-11-06 23:09 (UTC)

[ pretend i had a wicked description about how moths are all over her fuckin house ]

What in the love of fuuuuck. Jess's brain scrambles to comprehend what's happening, gets tired halfway through and gives up. Whatever's happening in front of her might as well happen, as long as it's not more masquerade bullshit. The form that looms into a man should surprise her but she can't muster it. He barely looks like a man, actually; she expects the show to keep going, the scruff framing his face to regress another inch or two, but he seems to have settled at mountain man (that's been trapped in the sewers for a month).

"Grab the booze," she sighs, carelessly scooping up the flowers. The door swings idly ajar, welcoming him in as she crosses to the kitchen table. The heap of plants if tossed into roughly the middle of it. There. Centrepiece.

He probably should have warned her, but she's inviting him in so he can't be too broken up about it in the end, clutching the moonshine in his grip like it's something precious. If only because to her, he knows it is. Frank doesn't think anything of it (because he doesn't notice) when a moth chases him inside towards warmth and candlelight.

"I, uh. Sorta volunteered to be the guinea... coyote for that superpower vending machine." Whoops? He slides the bottle across the table so she can do the honors, and also decide if they're bothering with glasses, probably.

She'd scoff and tell him "as far as you know" but Jess's recollection of the past few weeks is stuck in passivity and she's occupied with hosting her favorite guest: Booze. Jess is more acutely aware of the moth problem in her house, but equally concerned. They're drawn to light, she doesn't have electricity, thus she expects they will take care of themselves in the flames.

"Weird pick." Animal and power. Jess is familiar with the list, having chosen strength from it to test its working on herself.

Of the three glasses (and two mugs) in her cupboard, Jess grabs the shorter pair and brings them to the table. His is poured and prodded towards him, then she fills hers to another half a finger. "I would've gone with a bird."

As far as he knows, indeed, which he's used to being 'not much' in this place. He accepts his drink with a little nod and shrugs his free shoulder as he waits for her to pick hers up. Then he raises it to her in a mock-salute.

"It seemed like one of the harmless ones. More obvious if it's working, too." He takes a sip, closing his eyes for half a second. You can't exactly 'savor' the physical equivalent of drinking rocket fuel, but he doesn't hate it all the same. "And I didn't get to pick the animal."

"Well that's a cry for help if I've ever heard one," she remarks glibly after meeting the tip of his glass with one of her own. There are riskier roulettes to play but he's got responsibilities, or a responsibility, whose name she can't recall and on whose behalf she's not nearly as affronted as she normally would be. "Or yip," she goes on noncommittally, gesticulating with her glass as she sits. "Whatever 'coyotes' do."

Has she ever had cause to say that word out loud? Nope so hopefully he pronounced it right, 'cause that's the cue she's following. With intimated but invisible air quotes even though she has no reason to doubt him.

He rolls his eyes at that even as he takes another long sip. "They howl. I think." Whatever. Frank wrinkles his nose and sits down with her, her banter sounding off to him for some reason though he can't place the why. "Were you already drinking?" She knows it's nonjudgmental, or at least she should, he's just curious if that's why she sounds... lighter, for whatever reason. Maybe it's all in his head, wishful thinking, or something.

"I was reading." Jess nods at her cozy corner of the living room. There is a bottle on the floor but she didn't get that deep into it. Chalk it up to a combination of distraction and revulsion for the taste. To the same end, she's questioning why she poured herself a double of moonshine like it's actual bourbon. She eyes the pungently strong liquid. Once the smell invades her sinuses, there's no point going back, and she has a quick but copious gulp.

Containing a gag, she scrapes her tongue through her teeth and sets the glass down to obscure her face with the palm of her hand. Which becomes the back of knuckles are her fingers close into a fist while a rottenly sweet aftertaste sticks around for way too long.

"Oh," he manages softly, about to tell her he can get lost if she'd rather get back to it. But he doesn't really want to get lost and maybe he has to stop giving them both an out by being such a pushover. He thinks Kamala would be proud of him for that thought so he doesn't say anything more about the subject. Taking his moral cues from a sixteen-year-old should probably feel weirder, but he's used to it. "Sorry, should I have brought the wine instead? It sucks too but this is faster." So it seemed like the better option considering the company.

She drains the last of her disgusted look into the quizzical one she gives him. It's not like they made plans to get sloppy together. He didn't even give her a heads up. She wouldn't have turned him down or opted for grown-up grape juice but still.

"Faster to what?" Despite the dubious edge to her curiosity, she locks in for a second sip and keeps her features better schooled. The first swig is already marinating her brain. If his baseline human metabolism doesn't disintegrate when confronted with this swill, the shock will kill her before the alcohol poisoning can. Must have had one shitty day, or week or month? She's so far out of the loop, from here it looks like a little hoop for ants to jump through.

"To... wasted. Isn't that usually your goal?"

It's Frank's turn to deal her a confused look.

"Are you feeling okay?"

He leans a little closer on instinct, though maybe it's not exactly weird for Jessica to act hot-and-cold. That is kind of her hallmark and he doesn't do great at keeping up their... friendship? He honestly doesn't know anymore, he just knows it really sucked when they weren't talking.

That should be anyone's goal when consuming alcohol this bad so it's a sound one, but it's not hers. There's a supreme lack of anything better to do around here but she can't recall forming a habit around that flimsy excuse. Same goes for her sister's absence.

"I'm fine?" She's pretty sure. But in case he thinks she's really questioning it, she smooths it over with a swish of her glass. "I'm celebrating." Might as well. She's perfectly capable of setting aside her conditions and caveats for a night, while other people out there make bad decisions of their own. "To getting wasted without having to turn my phone off." Translation: To Trish, whom she misses, and her flaming hot mess days, which she doesn't.

Celebrating. Frank sighs, feeling that familiar feeling like he said or did something wrong. It won't stop him from taking another sip.

"But maybe stay away from the network anyway," he suggests helpfully, even though he's way more likely to go off on it than she ever has been. Still, he had to make the joke.

"With pleasure." Must be some fresh bullshit, different day. He probably doesn't let that stuff get to him even if it could rile him in the moment.

Jess has a third, small sip and sets her glass onto the table. She relaxes into her chair with her elbow planted near her drink. Her eyes wander the details of his clothing and his face, making small deductions to herself or reconfirming things she already knows. Feelings, imprints mostly, trusted on instinct. He's what passes for a friend, regardless of if she can call to mind their experiences together. He's just made her paranoid, that's all. The liquor is 120 proof and she's buzzed and state dependent memory. She is okay, while he looks like he's been living in a cave for however many weeks it takes to grow out that soupcatcher.

It's sitting here and staring in silence that's letting her head get away from her. "I'm hungry," Jess says by way of explanation, leaving her chair and going to the cupboard. He probably already ate and if he didn't, she's not offering him food yet. First she has to decide if she wants to eat it all.

Frank pushes his drink away from himself so he can lean against the counter too, watching her watch him. What is she looking for? He's just about to ask when she's getting up and he swivels his stool to watch her instead. He's not hungry, but on some level he's pleased that she's going to eat without being asked. Still, it's out of his mouth before he can police himself: "Want me to make you something?" Not that he has any idea what she keeps here of the edible, but he can probably make do. Maybe. Now he's wishing he had stolen food from the party, too.

"Relax. I like oatmeal."

She has an empty bowl on the counter where she deposits fruit nabbed from that day's lunch, close to a breadbox with a couple of stale buns. There are various jars of jam hidden in the cupboards above her head, and a sack full of grain in one at her feet, next to where the cookware is stored. Jess tips some water into a tough-looking black pot and brings it over to the stove. The moths scattered along the wall pay her zero heed when she waves a hand at them, trying to disperse them. Jess leaves the pot to boil on the hot iron top, then goes to grab a mug and measure out a half cup of oats. She puts it aside for a few minutes, returning to the able that's not two steps away from either the counter, the stove or the wall.

He hadn't exactly seemed in a rush to help her anyway, so for once he's glad for the out, leaning his face against his palm with his elbow locked against the counter as he goes on watching her.

"Did clothes show up on your bed this morning?"

They did, along with a bow and a note. She burnt both for kindling and kept the clothes to later swap with comparative items at the inn's lost and found. It wasn't a forgettable occurrence, especially when it should have reminded her of others that were far worse, but it takes her a beat to be sure.

"Yeah." Jess remains upright in her seat, attentive for the sound of bubbling. "Why?" isn't she more disturbed about someone breaking into her house? Why does it feel odd to question or think about? Like it shouldn't concern her when it is undeniably deeply concerning. Why didn't it occur to her that might be part of why he's here, why he doesn't feel safe in his own skin?

He lets out a tiny breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, one hand closing around the lip of the counter and hanging on.

"'Cause it wasn't just you." How does he say this? "Everyone who wore them to the Halloween party got a costume courtesy of our friends."

"Why the hell would they --?" She leers at the kitchen window as though she can see the cornfield from her house. Why would anyone play along with that creepy little lovenote? Jess shakes her head, taking the lord's name in vain under her breath and reaching for her drink. "Freaks," spills into the glass as she fills her mouth.

Frank snorts. This is why he came here, or at least, one of the reasons.

"You can say that again. I was only there long enough for the booze." And it was still way too much.

"Then no wonder you need to get drunk." Mystery solved, for all intents and purposes. Any wondering she continues to indulge in can be blamed on her exacting nature. If he wants to talk about, he either will or he feels like he can't; Jess has no preference seeing as she can't solve either. "Though if this suddenly turned into champagne," she speaks overtly to the glass in her hand, for the benefit of the alcohol (and more importantly the people consuming it), but alas, it continues to look and smell like run-off from an eavestrough.

"That, and I couldn't think of a better person to get drunk with." Who's as Done as he is, he means, but it comes out a little wistful despite himself. He either needs more or less alcohol, he realizes, and takes a shallow gulp since he's definitely not up for the other solution yet. "'Cause you're an expert," Frank clarifies, though he sounded much more confident in the first statement.

"Another stunner for my resume," Jess chuckles, watching the liquid slosh gently until the surface settles motionlessly. Though she doesn't hear anything, she gets up to check on the water. Sure enough, pinhead-sized bubbles are streaming up and bursting quietly. She takes her time in retrieving the mug of oats, grabbing a spoon while she's at it. "That and what's a good way to say I only know how to cook food with zero nutritional value? Anti-dietician?"

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jess is the one getting dust mothed right? i ironically forgot.

and i never fully learned how they work but I just did and YES to your q, i checked chat history

yesss good u are hero

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