#bforblizzard

That was a lot to take in.

“Cyborg— oh, bald guy’s friend." That crew. Careful proceeding, as Riley takes her seat at the table. "I think you might be gettin’ too in your head?” That's the gut instinct -- but frankly the game tournament probably would’ve worked on her. Conceptually, anyway. Would God’s Most Competitive Esper have let herself lose gracefully? What game was it? Mario Party could crush friendships, not foment them. Furthermore: was this crew a bunch of vegetarians? Did they want or like suits? And so on.

Social cues. Fubuki wasn’t the best with 'em. Riley hadn’t figured out she wanted to be friends for quite a while - figured that she just picked the only woman accountant at her company out of some girl power thing, and was forceful about social engagements since -

She didn’t know any other way to be.

//pls ice your foot dear

Oh trust me I’m taking care of it, haha.

Fubuki sighed and flapped the pink edges of her manicure hopelessly at the high shelf. Even in four and a half inch heels, EVEN being the tallest sister she still couldn't reach the boxes Mountain Ape--with his formidable size that was so useful in a fight but was considerably less helpful when it came to letting him put away the shopping--had stored so high it had taken Eyelashes all day to even SEE them. "Eugh, I can't reach." She looked down at Riley, who she'd tasked with finding and holding the stepstool, then back to the shelf, considering tactics. "Can you get a pool cue from the club room?" Hands on her waist. Riley's hands? Fubuki gasped as she felt the stool she'd been perched on drop away and suddenly the box was within reach. There was no one else in the room besides her and Riley. Could it be...? Fubuki made a grab for it before she was set back down with her goods in hand and a scheming look on her face. "Ohoho, don't tell me you gained this strength shredding paper, Miss Cross." "Ever considered the hero academy? We could call you Crossfit."

"I can’t help but note that you can fly, boss. Surely you didn’t need me for this."

Was it not possible for most people to temporarily lift someone? It was like… a foot. Maybe a bit more. Hard to tell. Not for the first time, Riley wondered what it'd be like to have a nice little book. What Ordinary People Can Do. Though she felt little fatigue, Riley rolled her shoulders to at least feign it. It'd probably get by. Surely! Fubuki mostly interacted with those at the edge of humanity. (The super-equivalent of a banana, Michael, how much could it cost, ten dollars?) She smoothed out the boss' dress appraisingly, dusted off her hands in commemoration of a job well done. The matter was closed, it said. Normal as can be.

@bforblizzard

"Mr. Chun." Riley can count the times she's had uninvited visitors to the door on one hand, and when they've been welcome with just her thumb. An enormous man in a suit thrusting premium Wagyu her way... look, there are worse things, but if only it wasn't early on a Saturday. As is, the hellspawn came to the door in much the same way she often does when she doesn't want to be disturbed -- tying a robe around her and calling out 'Back in a sec!' before opening the door in the first place.

@bforblizzard sent in 📸 to take Riley’s photo:

“Fair warning, I do better in motion.” Though she doesn't let it show, it’s a little embarrassing, beneath the skin. No point in photos of Riley alone, she reckons. The charm doesn't survive the change of medium from flesh to ink. “Or is this a reversal thing, spend enough time being the model and you wanna get behind the camera?”

That said, it is a cool camera. Classic, with the Polaroids you pull out and wave back and forth to develop. Feelin' like Riley hadn't put in the same effort to match -- Street wear, the text had read, which to Riley meant ‘comfortable, but you wouldn’t mind people seeing you in them.’ So: a lightly diaphanous off-green button-up over one of her cuter bras, and a blue pair of paperbag waist shorts, with a clean pair of canvas shoes (barely even worn, they were awful for actually moving around in).

"Smart thinkin' to come here durin' a baseball match. Hardly anyone around." The stairs around the art museum, a classic choice for getting photos done. ...yes, she's changing the subject -- that she is the subject. This sort of attention... look, it's not normal. Riley gives the attention, she isn't the one to receive it. It's... flattering? Embarrassing? She doesn't know yet.

"Do you?" Fubuki paused and dabbed on a fresh layer of lip gloss then tucked the tube back into her fluffy coat. Already the days were growing too warm for her signature thick garment. By afternoon she'd need Mountain Ape to bring her a light sweater (maybe the Pierlot?) but for now it was perfect to meet with Riley in the park. She shifted on the bench to face the girl, her newly taffied mouth in a smile. "You'll have to come to a midnight sale with me and the gang sometime. We really have fun."

"Mhm."

Do psychics run cold? Some kind of balancing factor to keep the brain from cooking? 'Course, that was only a theory; it was difficult to tell where ESP ended and magic began, and this hellspawn couldn't distinguish the difference on her own. Maybe it was just for fashion. It certainly worked for her.

Riley was glad she’d settled on secondhand shop slinky prep. Being fully fashion forward stylish seemed exhausting. More comfortable to rely on the casual cool cache of not knowing the brand name and reframing your cheapness as thrift. Not that she begrudged Fubuki her fashion -- presumably it was something she cared about. When you're putting it all on the line, having a hobby keeps you grounded and sane - incredible psychic potential or not. (Well, probably. Again, that was only a theory. When Riley put it on the line, it wasn't exactly by choice.)

This was what she considered as Fubuki attended to her lips. Normally, you know. How you watch a friend rub gloss on.

“I’d hate to ruin the vibe of a good raid,” she demurred. Some kind of powerless paper pusher palling around with the premium Pblizzard Group? Surely Fubuki’s reputation couldn’t take that kind of hit. But then again here they were, in the shadow of a venerable old oak, sharing fancy small-bakery treats (only open a few days a week!) on an old bench. Couldn't make it much worse.

Hook, line, now time to reel in the sinker. Or however that phrase went. French chicks liked wine and cheese, right? And he’d gotten a generous gift basket from an old client he was desperate to share with company. Well-endowed, smartly dressed company.

Rostam paced from kitchen cabinet to kitchen cabinet, running his fingers along the countertop. His free hand reached out to inspect the label of the wine bottle poking out of its wicker home. 

Ask my muse how they feel about these common fears!

👻- Ghosts

“There are no such thing as ghosts, thus, I have nothing to fear about them.” it was a complete and utter lie. While she didn’t think ghosts existed, she was terrified about the possibility that they did. Not only had she slain many, many people who wouldn’t mind getting back at her for what she did, thus bearing a grudge and probably becoming ghosts...well.