#rainonglass

   He’d been on his way up another floor when an audible crunching sound was heard, the elevator grinding to a halt. Great.

   Slowly he tilted his head up, scanning the ceiling for any emergency escape. Elevators always freaked him out a little, and he had no idea how big the drop on this thing was if it ever broke--

   Oh. At the sudden voice, Jacket learned that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t actually even notice the little... Bug...? Standing there in the corner when he’d walked in. Well, this was a bit awkward. A cursory once-over on the chatty little thing told him this wasn’t going to be much of a problem for him on a personal level, and he was just here to do business.

   So, he thought this thing was a ‘music box’ or something? What the hell was he talking about, it was just an alternative to stairs. Did he seriously decide to lock himself willingly into the box not knowing that?

Taking in everything Barry had told him was... a lot. A lot. This wasn’t the afterlife, and Barry apparently was a pretty good judge of that. This was a place where gods were real, and other universes were their toybox, and there were was nothing set in stone. There were no such thing as solid rules, and everything could change on a whim.

But really. Was it any stranger than climbing a mountain and falling down a hole only to find out monsters and magic were real? Really, the most shocking part was still that they were dead, emphasis on were - the rest of it, for Chara, was not completely out of the ordinary.

Once they’d spoken to Barry, now better informed and better fed, their first goal was to go to the library. The library was an old haunt for them, and in a place like this, it would undoubtedly be more useful than ever.

As they approached the library, though, they saw... something strange in front of it, staring through the front window. Not a human, but not a monster like any they’d ever seen either. They looked like some kind of four foot tall bug. 

But maybe they were a monster? It couldn’t hurt to ask.

They plastered an obviously false smile on their face and walked up to them.

Contrary to the belief of some of his coworkers, Blurr’s interests are not limited to running and racing and filing reports.

...those make up a great number of his interests, however, and with none of them as a particularly viable option at the moment, he’s grown horribly, frustratingly bored.

His optics flit from the lump of clay in front of him to his “activity partner,” some sort of bug-like organic whose notable features match those of precisely zero of the hundreds of thousands of species of which Blurr has knowledge.

The agent taps his foot rapidly, poking at the edges of his little block of clay until it no longer resembles a cube. Signing up for a mid-day pottery class was an impulsive decision, but he isn’t regretting it-- not yet, at least. At least it’ll be something new to try. ...if he can figure out how to get started, that is.

“So have you done this before?” he blurts abruptly, looking over at the organic again. He’d appreciate a few tips from his partner, but he’s mostly talking just to fill the silence. That becomes evident when he doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing on.

“I haven’t. I’ve made art before, but I haven’t taken classes and I certainly haven’t taken pottery classes. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe they offered any arts-focused courses during my entire training and while I understandwhyitwouldn’tbeapriorityIdothinkcertainbotscouldhavebenefitedfromcreativeelectives. This type of thing is supposedly a stress-reducing activity and I don’t think I’ve met a singlemechalivewhocouldn’tuse that!”

The same could not be said below ground which was, shockingly dead despite the growth atop it. The quality of soil was poor yet somehow packed together tight as if teaming with life. He left the ward of petals in the deep earth, slowly burrowing through in the darkness toward an indiscriminate point. The methodical motion of chew, swallow or chew, shift dirt behind it stilled its nerves on the dead dirt around it. It might have chewed a decent tunnel had a pinging of a mind not taken priority.

A bug.

The first one it’d felt and immediately it twisted upward, corkscrewing its body to tunnel faster and faster until the upper crust gave way and it emerged into damp darkness, trickles of still water rushing into the newly caved hole. It had emerged near but not beneath the bug, and its dark pupils blew wide to find its quarry in the darkness, vestigial spurs scraping at the slick earth to draw itself out. 

@rainonglass said: BEEP

18. a drunk text

Working in the Dome has left Hornet with quite a bit of Dust to spend. She's never had anywhere near this much money, and she's never known what to do with her money when she had it. Whenever she had extra Geo to her name, she'd first try to spend it by giving it to those more in need of it than her. If that fell through or if she still had some even after that, she'd resort to casual luxuries. A ticket to a particularly nice seat in the Coliseum of Fools, a relaxing evening in the Tower of Love... Money is meant to be spent on experiences.

Which is obviously why she currently finds herself on her third glass of... what do they serve at this place again? It doesn't matter, it's good. A pleasant buzz has overcome Hornet, and this may be the only case where she finds that not only acceptable, but enjoyable. She's all warm and fuzzy and filled with a new vigor for life. Rung was right– this place is new and filled with new opportunities for her to start entirely fresh with. Of course, that starts with the one thing that's the same from Hallownest. Who knew bugs and humans made alcohol the same way?

No, really it starts with this damn phone. She's been tapping random icons for the past twenty minutes, trying to figure out what everything does. Of course, this process would be a lot easier if she was both sober and able to read... but this way is more fun. She ends up on a screen with a lot of letters... What does this icon do?

Suddenly, there's a beep from the phone, and the icon she had tapped pulses gently. "What...?" As she speaks, words appear on the screen. Is she... doing that? She can just make words appear if she wants?

To: Quirrel

Hornet [10:19 PM]: What

Hornet [10:19 PM]: Oh fuck yeah

Hornet [10:19 PM]: This is great I can just. Say things

How comforted he is just by the sight of a shell, at any other time, would end up worrying Clover. He’s not going to start bouncing off the walls or anything when he sees a carapace, but, y’know. It’s hard to not still think about home after being alone so long and cling to whatever reminds him of it.

Which is his excuse for draping himself over this bench, feet digging into the brackets of its back, looking over this thoroughly carapacian fella with his face in his palms.

Dante, the Shadelord, thought they’d seen the last of Quirrel at Blue Lake, but here he was, in the Archimedes ward! They had come here to look at the pristine colors... and maybe jump in the pool for a bit. Their body did get rather hot.

“Quirrel?” It’s dark here by the river, but between the flickering of the candles and the bright glow of Rung’s own spark, it’s not hard to make out the bug’s familiar shape. Rung regrets calling out as soon as he’s done it-- it isn’t right to intrude, not during a ritual like this-- and he apologizes by keeping his distance when he moves to kneel at the river’s bank. It should give Quirrel the opportunity to ignore him, should he wish to.

These candles are technically meant for remembering a Spirale resident who has somehow left. Rung doesn’t know any-- Athena’s back now, after all-- and he’s not sure such a somber rite would be entirely appropriate for celebrating a friend’s escape anyway. He’s here to remember the dead, not the missing, and he can’t help but wonder whether Quirrel’s here for the same reason.

That candle is for Monomon, probably. Rung looks down at his own flower-raft before sparing another glance at Quirrel. They haven’t seen each other since their dual memory loss. The bug had seemed so... different then. Rung’s sure he had, too.

He shifts closer ever so slightly. He won’t intrude on Quirrel’s remembrance, but it’s important, he thinks, to make it clear that he’s there for support should the bug want it.