ℝ𝕆𝕋𝕋𝔼ℕ, 𝔹𝔸𝔹𝕐 !

         you are orange-red                             #FF4500

❝ Your dominant hues are red and yellow... most of what you do is motivated by your need to change things and have a good time, but you've been known to settle down and think out a situation, too. You tend to surprise people just when they're starting to feel like they've got you down. Your saturation level is very high - you are all about getting things done. The world may think you work too hard but you have a lot to show for it, and it keeps you going. You shouldn't be afraid to lead people, because if you're doing it, it'll be done right. Your outlook on life is very bright. You are sunny and optimistic about life and others find it very encouraging, but remember to tone it down if you sense irritation. ❞

date: the first monday of january 1964 time: dawn location: near the apple tree, eel pie holm, the garden district status: open to all !

She stares longingly at the greenery just beyond the bars and uniforms; the House ran out of fresh produce last week, and so all they can do for the time being is imagine how the apples would taste. Scratching absently at one side of her neck, Rue hears the gentle shuffle of feet behind her – she’d left just as the fog was clearing, and in only minutes the dirt paths would be as bustling as they get – and begins to speak out loud to no one in particular. It’s a trademark of the Garden District, it seems. “Do you think they’d trade for anything?” she asks, referring to the bobbies who stand watch at the apple tree, “I don’t think I could fight all five of them alone.”

His attention and his interest are piqued in tandem at the promise of a fight, though it is a halfhearted one, and one that wishes to avoid that which gives he and his boys such a delight. Gideon hops from his perch atop the wall behind, darting across the street so as not to be spotted; they would have little time to act - and how he loved to jump to action. “Two on five ain’t the best odds, still,” he muses aloud; if only the other Plough Boys had come along this morning, “But I’m a dreamer. You got anything to trade, otherwise? They’re stingy bastards, but no one can turn down a good deal.”

date: early January 1964 time: approaching the fog location: the garden district status: open

Ophelia pursed her lips, she was feeling hungry, actually no, starving. She was ravenous and her belly begged to be filled with something delicious and savory. She turned to her approacher, her eyes lingering on their bare skin. “And who are you to be asking for one of my precious yams?” She asked. Her bounty was plentiful, but she was particularly agitated at this time. 

He approached with one hand in his pocket and the other flipping absentmindedly at the lighter he’d stolen years ago, somewhere in a memory long-lost. At present, he cared little for the lighter’s ascribed memory, as he so usually did, but rather for the woman before him and the fervent expression she bore. In truth, he cared little for the yams - though his stomach ached, and he could almost hear the hunger-moans of his boys some blocks away - but had been taken by rapt curiosity about the whole scene before him instead. 

“Who am I?” he asked, “I’m just a hapless neighbor out for a stroll, doll - no threat here.” This was, quite obviously, a jest. “Quite the harvest you’ve got here. A crime, it’d be, not to share the wealth.”