#mobiusuniverse

zelo

uhhhhh

ok but what even is it. help me out here

coolio

I should, but it's late. I'll do it tomorrow, I think.  if I remember...(can you text me to remind me? :D)

You should start a blade blog….

Droog is one of the most astute people in Midnight City, possibly second only to Pickle Inspector. He’s certainly the most astute person in the Midnight Crew when it comes to every day things, although not when it comes to romance. This instance, however, is one in which an eye for the irregularities in the every day comes in handy.   Something’s wrong the minute he and Slick turn the corner. Not with them, although Slick is working himself up into a fine froth over nothing in particular, but with the street. It’s one of the streets in Midnight City that’s taken on a hint of the nation that most of its residents hail from (it’s not quite called ‘Little Derse’, Slick made sure of that), and the purple shop fronts and dark stone street are reminiscent enough of home that Droog can’t help but remember decades ago, when he carried a spear instead of a cue, and he wore the finest silk uniform, fashioned into whatever crazy design the Dreamers had decreed. It’s part of why he likes this street so much, and why he’s given one shop in particular his business so frequently.   But something was wrong with the street. More to the point, something was wrong with the shop. He tunes Slick out and strides right up to the door, but there’s no one inside. The lights are out, the sign is flipped to ‘Closed’ and Droog knows without a doubt that the door will be locked.   Slick pulls up even with Droog and cocks his head to one side. “Kinda weird bein’ closed on a fuckin’ Wednesday afternoon.”   “It’s very … unusual.”   “Oh did you not hear?” They turned and came face-to-face with an older Dersite woman, her arms full of shopping bags. “Poor man, has a terrible case of the kissing disease.” The last was said in a whisper, as the woman glanced around them in the street. “They say you can get it from something other than kissing, but that’s silly; why would they call it the kissing disease?” And then she stood back, looking around and heading off in her previous direction. “Anyway, he’s to be out of work for quite some time; if you boys are looking for a tailor there’s one down on fifty-third that’s not terrible.”   Slick elbowed Droog as soon as she wasn’t looking at them anymore, although she was by no means out of earshot. “Ha, kissing disease, Droog. You gonna come down with -”   “No, Slick. Shut up.” He frowned at the closed door, and then looked up to the bay windows over the shop front. “I admit I am concerned with this development, however.”   “Yeah, ‘cause you’re next on the fuckin’ list of people with the makeout disease.”   Droog’s frown just deepened a little, and then he turned, Slick trailing off his shoulder. “I suppose we go to fifty-third, then.”   The smaller man bounced off Droog’s shoulder, and then swayed back straight. “Whatever you say, asshole.”   They did go to fifty-third street. The tailor there looked at the minute fraying on Droog’s cuffs, and the microscopic speck of blood on the white tie he’d folded up in his pocket, and raised his hands, backing up behind the counter. “No English,” he said, desperately, his Prospitan accent increasing tenfold. “No English.”   Droog scowled while Slick started cursing at the shopkeeper about how his English had seemed just fine two minutes ago. No, Droog thought, no. This wouldn’t do at all.   It wasn’t all that late when Droog returned to the tailor in definitely-not-Little-Derse. Past dark, yes, but a reasonable hour. He picked the lock to the shop door in seconds, calmly and delicately, and stepped inside before anyone on the street could figure out what he was doing, or that he didn’t just have a key to the store. He’d never been into the building besides the shop out front, but it was easy enough to find his way through the back room and to the narrow wood staircase leading up to living space.   The first floor was dark. A little kitchen, a breakfast table, and a small sitting room. All dark, deserted. Droog checked, just to make sure, and then proceeded up the second set of stairs. There was a light on at the end of the hall, and Droog beelined for it, barely glancing into the little rooms shooting off in both directions. They were empty, anyway. At the end of the hall, he paused outside of the door, uncharacteristically. He ought to knock; it would only be polite. But then, he’d broken into the man’s shop, and come all the way up to what was presumably his bedroom. There was very little left to do that would be more impolite than that.   He knocked anyway, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He just pushed the door open and drew a handgun with his free hand. “Do not shoot,” he cautioned. The shopkeeper, who had frozen with his hand mid-reach for his own gun, gaped at him.   “Diamonds Droog?” He scrambled back in his bed, hands raised. “I ain’t done nuffin, not a thing, sir, always took the best care of your suits, me, and -”   “I know,” Droog said smoothly, cutting him off. “I’m given to understand that you’ve fallen ill.” The tailor nodded, a little weakly, although that was probably more due to shock and fear than his underlying disease process. “I’ve brought chicken soup; I’m told that is the typical gift of goodwill in this case.”   “You … you what?” His head cocked, and his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Soup?”   “Yes. It absolutely will not speed your recovery, however if you are feverish it’s a good replacement for fluid and electrolytes that are commonly lost through sweating.” He would need that, obviously. The thin slices of skin visible through the gaps in his carapace were shiny with sweat.   “Oh. Thank … you …” The tailor lowered his hands, and pulled his blanket up over his bare chest. “That’s very … thoughtful of you, sir.” And then, quite bravely, Droog thought, despite his timid tone, “You might have just left it in the refrigerator, though.”   “I thought I would make sure you were aware that it was there.” He nodded and turned to leave.   “Your sleeves are a little frayed.” The words seemed to spill out of the smaller Dersite, unbidden. “Sorry I just … I notice these things, y'know how it goes.”   “Y-yes.” Droog looked back over his shoulder. “It was the reason I stopped by your shop to begin with. Can you recommend any other tailors?”   The shopkeeper toyed with his blanket for a minute, not making eye contact. Then he heaved a sigh, and suppressed a shiver. “Y'can leave the jacket on my table - I’ll get to it by next Tuesday. I have the last jacket you left with me in the back room. It needed re-lined.”   Droog frowned a little. “I didn’t intend to -” but the tailor cut him off with a wave of his hand.   “It’s fine, Mr. Droog, my pleasure. And, ah." He smiled, thinly, and Droog returned it, or tried to, anyway. "Thanks for the soup.”