Atrophy

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Nah, everybody dead
Warehouse

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If the night had continued the way it had been going, Vicky would’ve ended it in a blackout. Tuyen would’ve gotten her another drink, Vicky would boot and rally, and she’d wake up the following morning with a massive hangover. However, something changed and the party was crashed. Vicky felt it just before it happened, the chill that descended microseconds before something went wrong. It raised the hair on her arms, then she heard the screams. She turned her head to the cacophony, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she saw the blood and the body and it looked like when she had found her brother in the bathroom, only her brother hadn’t been roughly folded like the shirt of a teenage boy being made to do his own laundry for the first time ever, all wadded up and carelessly tossed to the floor with the rest of the bodies.

Alcohol isn’t the only thing that could make a person blackout. Fear worked well enough as Vicky was soon to learn. Her vacant eyes witnessed the carnage, her ears heard the shrieking chorus, but her mind refused to comprehend. It was as if her mind was shielding herself from herself, her consciousness briefly spirited away in an act of self-preservation, yet her terrified body still seized as her pulse quickened. The chill that had penetrated through her skin and slipped into her veins was gone, replaced now by a burning heat, stinging her like rubbing alcohol on a scraped knee, only it was everywhere: all over her skin, in her eyes, hell, even in her bloodstream. She could hear it boiling inside of her ears, her blood whistling like the steam from a tea kettle.

It was deafening, drowning out the screams until all she could hear was the whistle, and then even the whistle faded into the background, still present but almost inaudible, and then Vicky heard footsteps. She looked up at them and the roof of the warehouse was gone, replaced by wooden floorboards. She could hear conversation in a language she didn’t understand from up above, several male voices, as she stared up at their boots through the cracks. The beanbag chair had vanished; she could feel the dirt beneath her. She could sense the other bodies jammed in with her underneath the floorboards, shoulder to shoulder. She could feel their tension. They all knew if the voices found them they would be dead.

A sneeze, a shout, a couple clicks, and Vicky threw her hands over her ears as assault rifles unloaded into the floorboards and turned the basement into a mass grave. Tears streamed down her face as she watched a second salvo of bullets shred through the faceless corpses around her, somehow leaving her unscathed, and then a trapdoor was thrown open. Footsteps. She saw the polished boots of a soldier. She heard more shuffling above. There was no way out; the corpses had trapped her in. Vicky tried to scream, and then realized she already was; it hadn’t been the sound of blood boiling in her ears, it had been her own shrieks, so feral and so loud that they’d sounded unrecognizable.

She felt something grab her.

“Babe! Vicky! Help me!”

“NO! NO!”

Her shouts were inhuman. Vicky flailed wildly, landing a couple of solid hits as Chef tried to grab her as she shouted out a few more noes. Finally he managed to dodge her swings and pull her up to feet, her strikes slowing as the memory faded and Vicky watched as the soldier uniform rippled off of Chef and disappeared alongside the rest of the basement and the bullet-ridden bodies. What the fuck? What the fuck! What the fuck! Was she going crazy? Was she delusional? Had Kersten given her some drugs? Did it matter? Chef had come back for her. She won. She buried herself against him, feeling safety in his arms even as pandemonium continued to sweep the warehouse.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I fucked up, I mean, I was drugged. I’m not in love with Tyler. I…” Jesus, he was really going to make her say it huh? Whatever, it wasn’t like she had never lied before. She pulled out of the embrace to look him in the face as she finally forced herself to say, “I lovAAAH!

It’s truly hard to say what happened in that very next moment as her false confession was cut off by her screaming. Vicky had seen the silhouette of something large and incomprehensible rushing across the warehouse towards her before the vivid visions began again. The warehouse warped, images cascading down its walls like backdrops for a stageplay, the hallucinations so real that they felt more like memories, hitting Vicky in such a rapid blur that she could hardly keep up.

She saw dark silhouettes wearing buckled hats on the other side of flames and she could feel the heat but not the burn as she stepped through the flames and watched them scatter as she lifted a hand. She saw the dark belly of a ship, her own belly stuffed, hiding in plain sight and listening with a smile on her face as the sailors accused one another of stealing rations, preventing a snicker as she covered her mouth with her hand. She saw dark furs wrapped around bearded men in fading warpaint as they sang and danced and drank, their celebration interrupted as she burst through the door of the mead hall, blood trickling down from the knife in her hand. She saw so many more, too quick to parse, but the message was still the same: it’s us versus them, it’s always been us versus them, so take our fucking hand and stand with us or die like them.

Vicky didn’t want to die.

If you asked her what happened next, she would say that Chef had protected her. However, the other people there, the ones who would survive the night, who happened to be looking her way in that precise moment instead of being swallowed up by a swarm of scared teens, they would have a different narrative. Chef didn’t protect Vicky. He never even saw what ended his life coming. Vicky would say that it was all a blur, it happened so fast, she didn’t even know how to react, but from a certain angle, from a certain perspective, it looked like she had pulled him. Her hand had been on him, his body had been shifted, and whether it was willing or not, Chef had been turned into a meatshield. Vicky didn’t step back so much as she was pulled away by the unseen hands of her ancestors, screaming louder as the claws burst through Chef’s chest and ripped through his broken heart.

Her scream was cut short as it was replaced by a gag as Chef coughed and Vicky could taste his blood in her mouth as well as feel it on her face. There was an earshattering, animalistic squeal being torn from Chef’s mouth as she dropped to her knees and started retching when JESUS FUCKING CHRIST the boy was torn in two. Vicky was soaked in gore like she’d just won the big game and Chef’s innards was the gatorade, his missing jacket no longer needed now that his warm blood had completely coated her entire body. Blinded, seeing nothing but red, she tore at her eyes with her hands, trying to wipe them clean, the blood on her hands making it a nigh impossible task, barely allowing her to witness the dark shape that had killed Chef now striking down at her as she screamed.

Then there was silence as the slumbering Lux inside of her finally woke up after a nap that had lasted generations.

There was a burst of light like a lightning strike as Vicky threw her arms up in front of her face defensively, or rather, they were guided up by the spectral hands of her ancestors that transformed into a sparking electric ribbon wrapped tightly around her forearm. She felt the chill of the shadow’s claw as it harmlessly knocked against the weave. The Lux continued to silently crackle like electricity as it shielded Vicky, her bloodsoaked hair being pulled upward by the static around her. She backpedalled across the floor in sheer terror away from the shadowy monster, slipping through blood and broken glass, her body convulsing and heaving painfully as her uncontrolled magic tried to protect herself.

To anyone Aware, it would appear as if she was being electrocuted to death, the blood soaking her skin beginning to bubble and smoke as the Yellow Lux surged around her in a protective cocoon. To the Blind, it would look as if the thing had gotten her and was pulling her by the hair as she had a seizure, dragging her away, ironically, to the room that once Vicky would’ve considered to be a safe haven. To all watching, they would see the scream stuck on Vicky’s face, looking like a crimson mask if not for her shifting expression of terror and pain as she writhed around in absolute silence, as she dragged herself through the bathroom door, leaving a trail of Chef behind.

But who would be watching, really? Everyone was only interested in saving themselves. Selfish, little monsters. Everyone, Vicky realized, except for Chef. As the door of the bathroom closed the bubble of silence around her burst, but instead of a scream there was a howling cry, an admission of guilt, and acknowledgement that she had lost someone she had truly never deserved.

From the other side of the bathroom door, the anguish sounded like she was being murdered.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Kersten @Rekkuza
Warehouse

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Everything was not fine!

Vicky swatted away the bag of flaming hots like a fussy toddler refusing to open up for the airplane then returned to hiding her face behind her hands. Her life was already ruined. She was boyfriendless, phoneless, and drinkless, but she wasn’t willing to sink low enough to cover her fingers in cheese dust and get crumbs all over her outfit. Even if Vicky was starving. She probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner. Perhaps just a few of those unnatural orange bastards wouldn’t—no! If she started making justifications for junk food now, it wouldn’t be long before Vicky went from the ‘wow you’re so hot’ mountaintop to the ‘wow you used to be hot’ trash pile.

Her fingers fanned and a teary eye peeked out between them as Kersten admitted that Chef hadn’t told them anything. She even confirmed his status as a dick. Briefly, Vicky’s muffled sobs grew quieter and her breathing became steady. She forgot all about wanting to call the cops to ruin the party for everyone. All she wanted was to make sure that everyone got fed the same lie that she had given to Tuyen and Kersten. Chef was the dick who had dumped someone at a party. Not Vicky. Vicky would never do something like that! She was so glad that Kersten had bought it.

…hey, wait…

Much to her own surprise, Vicky managed to activate her core and sit up straight in the bean bag. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she stared at Kersten. She failed to see the generosity and patience that was being given to her, the undeserved kindness and caring for her own well-being from someone that she had just insulted. Any normal drunk person would still be able to see at this moment how cool Kersten really was, but Vicky was not a normal drunk person. She was a dick when she was drunk (as she was when she was sober, although much better at hiding it) and Dicky was focused on only one fucking thing: she had never said to Kersten that Chef had dumped her.

Kersten had just assumed.

So what, did Kersten just think that Vicky was the kind of the loser who would get dumped at a party? And she had done it while smoking a joint in front of Vicky to, what, taunt her about all the drugs she wasn’t willing to share? And why was he so intent on feeding her? First Cheetos, now a brownie? What the fuck! Heat rose up inside of Vicky as she jumped up to her feet, her stomach lurching, the pressure built up inside of her steaming out with a frustrated bellow.

“Eeeergyah! Are you that fucking high? Nobody breaks up with me, you druggie, burnout, dumbfuck!” So much for relaxing. The brownie definitely wasn’t happening now. “I broke up with Chef! I! DUMPED! HIM! Why would you even…why would you think…”

Somebody let out a loud “HOLY SHIT” as a hush fell over the party, or as much as one was possible while bass heavy music threatened to give everyone tinnitus. Vicky looked around in a panic, her stomach doing somersaults from the sudden movements, certain that everyone was freaking out because of her revelation, unaware that while a few people might’ve overheard her the majority of attention was being drawn to Lexi who had just been head-butted by that foreign exchange kid. She saw stupid, motherfucking Danny Graham doubling over and pointing while his girlfriend Stupidho Slutjerk looked on in horror. She didn’t see Lexi but she heard her meanspirited laugh. She saw Tuyen, Ella’s pink hair serving as a beacon, hiding her face in her cup, embarrassed to be friends with someone who’d break up with someone at a party, or perhaps hiding her disappointment from realizing that Vicky had lied to her.

“It’s…it’s not my fault…” uttered Vicky, horrified, looking as if someone just informed her that she’d been diagnosed with something terminal. She plopped back down in the beanbag, hoping it would serve as camouflage from her peers. ‘Why, that girl couldn’t possibly be Vicky Prescott, she was sitting in a beanbag chair!’ was what they would think. And Tuyen probably didn’t even hear her! She was just too polite to ignore Ella, and Ella was too stupid to know when to shut the hell up and let someone go about their very important business. She just had to clear the air with Kersten and then everything would be just fucking peachy.

“Do you think I’m a dick?” asked Vicky hesitantly as she stared at her shoes.

Perhaps she should pivot away from worrying about what Kersten thought about her and move on instead to an apology for blowing up on her. But she had already asked the question, and frankly Vicky didn’t feel like apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault—Kersten should’ve just given her drugs and sent Vicky on her way. Vicky sniffed, squared her shoulders, and sat up as best as she could to stare down Kersten. The look in Vicky’s eyes was issuing a challenge, daring Kersten to say the wrong thing, hoping for it even. If she said yes, or if Vicky even got a hint that she was being a bit disingenuous, hoo boy, just wait until she got her phone! The cops in Cornell were bored as hell. They’d probably cream their jeans at the opportunity to bust up a party and beat the absolute shit out of some stoners.

Vicky smiled. It was unfriendly. The slurred speech did little to offset the threatening undertones as she doubled down on the issue, “Do you think that I am a dick?”

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

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The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Eilrethiel @Fernstone
Outfit: Worn by quite the catch

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The second go around was not any more palatable than the first, but now knowing what to expect Ransom was able to keep the sip of Something Worse down. He wasn’t surprised to see that Eil had taken him up on his offer. If anything, Ransom was more shocked that less people were raiding the bar. If the world wasn’t ending then now was a prime time to be looting while everyone’s eyes were up to the sky watching the whole town turn topsy-turvy. But of course the world was ending, despite what the strange elf he was half-listening to had claimed, and even if it wasn’t Ransom was above behaving like a common crook.

A man has to have principles, thought Ransom as he passed Eil a heavy pour of Rosa’s secret stash.

Ransom dropped the drink off in front of Eil before he had even finished requesting it. He stepped back, casually leaning against the far counter so that he wasn’t in the splashzone. Ransom wasn’t quite sure what flavor of elf this one was, but if he had to guess then judging by the webbed fingers he was dealing with one of those Inbred Elves. The blue skin was probably some kind of hereditary disease, the kind his elven ancestors proudly boasted of as being a symbol of strong fae connections but really meant that he had to be extra careful because even the tiniest of scratches could lead him to bleeding out. Plus, with the way Eil was carefully over enunciating his words…

Ransom squinted. Despite the unplaceable accent, the elf talked kind of like how Ransom talked.

”I’d jump over too, but I don’t want to follow your amazing performance.”

There was a wink and a smile. Now most scumbags would be on edge after being teased and bounty blocked by a tiefling and probably jump to the conclusion that there was something fishy about the elf. However, Ransom was not the average scumbag. First, despite the staggering evidence and direct assertions from the tiefling herself, Ransom was pretty sure that Cali would come crawling back to him once she realized what she could have. Second, everyone should be winking and smiling at him anyway. He was often shocked how rarely a parade of fawning suitors formed behind him whenever he came to a new town. Clearly it was only due to shyness and modesty, his two least favorite traits.

Lastly, and most importantly, this wasn’t just a wink and a smile from some nobody. The clear signs of birth defects from keeping the lineage pure, the properly posh way of making sure that every syllable of every word was fully used and explored, blood so blue that it had dyed his skin—Ransom would bet good money that Eil was highborn in some way. Probably had some unpronounceable name, too. His expression softened. Not the elvish princess that he had exactly been looking for, probably not even a prince unless they were a runaway. It was more likely that Eil was the second or third cousin of some duke or baron if he was traveling without any kind of retinue, but hell, any port in a storm.

Ransom slipped away from his defensive positioning at the back of the bar and moved up to the front counter. He leaned against the counter across from Eil, trying not to glance at those creepy webbed fingers while pretending to be absolutely charmed by his introduction, letting out a soft laugh as if the elf had said something funny. If anything, Ransom was laughing because he’d called it. Elves loved their ridiculous names, always naming their kids after the sound a tree makes when the wind blows through the leaves or some shit. Pretty, pretentious fucks.

“A pleasure to meet you, Eilrethiel,” said Ransom, showing off that he could be a pretty, pretentious fuck too. He sucked it up and offered Eil his hand. “I am Ransom Labelle and, if I may speak honestly, I couldn’t imagine watching the world end with a more delightful person.”

It wasn't a compliment. Ransom was referring to himself.

“But if I heard you correctly, you believe this isn’t the end. How about we make this a little interesting? When that tower pops and the world ends, I get you to search for me in the afterlife so I can say ’I told you so’. But if you happen to be right, and I truly hope that you are seeing as how I would hate to have our time together cut short, you get, hmm,” Ransom leaned forward, the corners of his lips curling. “Well, what would you like?”

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Kersten @Rekkuza Tuyen@Fernstone
Warehouse

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Drugs for a smile seemed like a bad business practice, but if it benefited Vicky then she had no complaints. She even managed to not make a smart ass remark about how she’d already covered the cost then, having totally smiled on her approach. Instead, Vicky just took her pointer finger and dug it into her cheek as she tilted her head. She threw in a couple of batted eyelashes as a bonus and smiled harder, even if it made her face hurt.

Fortunately, that overextended smile didn’t last for long as Kersten verbally slapped it off of her face as Vicky immediately took everything the wrong way. Her jaw dropped. First of all, that’s not her name. Second, Kersten had to be super high to even think that Vicky was a little bit drunk. She was, at best, maybe tipsy. Fourth, or whatever number she was on, did Kersten just say that Vicky’s vibes were bad? Bullshit! That was bullshit! Her vibes were good. Her vibes were the best. She had better vibes than anyone else at this stupid lame party!

And also, and also, and also…where were they going? Vicky shot a look of panic over her shoulder at Tuyen as Kersten began to gently and carefully guide her towards a hazy corner of the warehouse. This was a kidnapping. She was getting taken, just like in that the dumb movie Chef had made her go see at the drive-in theater. What had it been called? Anyway, Vicky was going to run so that she wasn’t taken too, a risky option in these heels, and Kersten must’ve sensed it when she started talking about ending up in the hospital or going on a bad trip, presumably to some vague and forgettable country in Eastern Europe where his drug suppliers were established.

”So instead, your good pal Kushten will hook you up with a nice comfy beanbag and a bag of cheetos.” Douplespeak, that was doublespeak for torture! “And then we’re gonna chill until you sober up a bit, and then we’ll make sure you’re not sober for a good long while.” Dope her up and make her an addict, more like. “I’ll even give you the really good bud I usually keep for myself.” More like mail her off to some rich drug kingpin…a rich drug kingpin that Kersten was also dating casually? “I just want everyone to have a nice evening. That’s why I made my brownies extra weak tonight. Even newbies like you should be able to handle them!”

Vicky furrowed her brow. None of this really tracked as the kind of thing a drug dealer working for a human trafficker would say. The second she got to the beanbag chair she dropped into it, sniffing at the strange and unpleasant skunk smell that kicked up the moment she flopped in. Even if these stoners tried anything, they were dweebs, losers, nerds. She could beat all of these stupid Shaggies up, and she was drunk, no, not drunk, just a little tired, long day, that’s all, she’d still win, and what’s with this chair? How was it the most comfortable thing she had ever sat in while also being completely gross? She could really sink into it. She closed her eyes…

…and shot right back up, realizing that Kersten had been patronizing her! That little bitch! He thought Vicky was a bad hang, was that it? Had that dumbass Chef already gotten to them first? She flopped about, trying to find a way to sit up in the beanbag chair, the leather squelching disgustingly as she floundered. Uggggggh! Aggggh! Why did chairs like this exist? But that was it, right? She was being timed out from the party because Chef had told everyone that she had dumped him for sympathy points (which should have been her sympathy points, damn it!) and now Kersten was putting her in a corner until Vicky thought about what she did?

Or, or, or was it because—Jesus Christ, why couldn’t she sit up—or was it because—seriously, how was she sinking deeper into the chair—it was totally because Vicky not being around meant that everyone had a better evening. Is that what they all thought? Bastards. Fuck these bastards, and fuck this beanbag chair. It was like being stuck in quicksand. She’d show them. Where was her phone? She’d call the cops. Bust this whole party up. Put Kersten in time out. For life, motherfucker.

“Hey man, fuck you. Fuck you, man. She thinks I’m a newbie? Me? I’m Vicky. I’M VICKY!” rambled Vicky as her hand smacked around the beanbag in a frantic search, talking both to Kersten and Tuyen but also to herself. “MY NAME IS VICKY! I’m not a Victoria, I’m not your pal, and I don’t want to chill with you. I don’t give a shit why most people are here, you’re here because you have drugs. It’s the only reason why you were invited. It’s the only reason why anyone would talk to you. It's the only reason why someone like me would waste her time talking to you!”

“Please? I can handle my shit. So give us drugs,” slurred Vicky. She had stumbled over half of her words and muttered the other half into the beanbag. She tried pointing at Kersten, only to dip lower into the chair and point up at the ceiling. “Or else!”

Where was her phone? Had it sunk into the beanbag? It had just been in her pocket. Vicky froze, or she tried to, her foot kicking up as she sunk even deeper into the beanbag.

She didn’t have any pockets. Shit, she didn’t have any pockets. Where was her phone?

“TUYEN!” hollered the beanbag. “TUYEN MY PHONE!”

A tuft of staticy blonde hair briefly emerged from the comfort abyss as Vicky shouted frantically at Kersten, “And I don’t care what Chef told you, he’s a fucking loser and a liar and I hate him and he broke my heart and now I’m going to DIE ALONE!”

She disappeared as she flopped back down, hoping that inside of the beanbag nobody could see her tears. She called out to Tuyen between sniffles, holding out a hand expectantly, “And a drink?”

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Tuyen, Ella (nah) @Fernstone Kersten @Rekkuza
Warehouse

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”You really see everything?” Yes, everything, always. Vicky was locked in. She had them eagle eyes. Not even the most insignificant worm wiggling around in the dirt could pass her by undetected. ”Does that mean you saw why I took so long? Nooope. So long with what? Vicky had forgotten already that Tuyen was supposed to bring her a drink. A failed task that, possibly, saved her evening. Vicky was at her liquor capacity. Which meant she should get another drink. “You saw and didn’t even try to rescue me?”

Vicky stiffened. It was hard to tell why. It was quite possible that she was (even though Vicky was very much still dealing with her own extremely important trauma) alarmed to hear that Tuyen had been in danger. Then again, it could’ve been that Vicky just hated being a disappointment, even though it wasn’t her fault, she had been winning that game of beer pong, and also Chef, well, Chef was being a total dick, so really, Tuyen should be blaming Chef. Yet just as Vicky had found a perfectly good excuse to absolve herself of even the teensiest morsel of failure she was nudged by Tuyen, letting her off the hook. She relaxed.

Briefly. For a millisecond. Before Tuyen mentioned John Miller.

“Oh, gross! He’s the worst!” blurted Vicky out at the mention of his name, and after Tuyen said that he’d been the one to call things off in the first place Vicky added, “And an idiot!”

Vicky continued to interject as Tuyen told her about dealing with that lame ass benchwarmer, the cheerleader inside of her unable to resist hyping up Tuyen for cutting out that loser. Vicky hit her with the totallies, the ewgh-yucks, the so weirds, and the hell yeahs. It was so nice to see Tuyen stick up for herself. It was nice, really, it was…it just wasn’t nice enough to stop Vicky from falling silent the second Tuyen mentioned them being single together. And then what? They’d just be two lonely souls? The truth was that Vicky didn’t see everything, but at that moment, she could see the future, and again it involved her becoming kibble for the kitties.

Her eyes grew vacant. She started to feel sick again. She was so upset.

Vicky needed a new boyfriend. Soon.

“Kersten’s over there. Let’s- Let’s get high, I guess.”

Vicky snapped out of it.

“Yes! Right! Drugs!” Tuyen was right. Great idea Tuyen! “Let’s get high!”

Tuyen spun—oh, whoa, easy, not so fast—spun Vicky in the right direction. It took a second for her head to catch up with her feet as she surveyed the room. Danny Graham’s bitch ass was snickering in a circle with Gwen and some other jocks. The good Daniel was trying to convert some satanist or something. Weirdo. Satan herself was SMOKING! INDOORS? IN VICKY'S AIR!? SERIOUSLY!!? with that French kid, which almost made it okay since it was a European thing, until Vicky remembered that he was somehow French but Canadian. Weirdo. Tyler was, who cared what Tyler was doing thought Vicky as her eyes jumped over him but lingered briefly on Tommy. Weirdo.

Weirdo, the repeated thought directed this time at herself.

Somebody was waving at Vicky. Well, of course somebody was waving at her. Before she could even think, Vicky found herself waving back. Everybody should’ve been waving at her! Everybody should have been as enthusiastic as this person was that Vicky was gracing the party with her presence. Everybody should just be like (pink hair, pink hair, wait, that’s) El-ehhhhh, nope. The wave fell fast to the side of her face as Vicky shielded her eyes and diverted her gaze, her head finally catching with where Tuyen had spun her, her sight lasering in on Kersten. Knew they were there the whole time. Definitely not searching for homecoming dates, definitely not going to be eaten by a hungry mob of mewing—STOP! FOCUS!

Focused, Vicky slipped in front of Tuyen, unhooking her from her arm only to start pulling her along at the wrist. Drugs. Vicky dodged the ever distracting Lupe and the lure of one of her legendary nightender mixed drinks. Drugs, drugs. She blitzed past Ella and those lame Stupid Scouts tagging along with her. Drugs, drugs, drugs. She didn’t circumnavigate the dance floor. Drugs, drugs, drugs! She charged straight through, barely stumbling, only knocking into one or ten people, so impressive. Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!

Um, wait, Chef was the one who always dealt with Kushten. She had never scored drugs before. How was Vicky supposed to do this? According to the cop who used to interrupt their learning in elementary school so that Officer Burpke and Scruff the Drug Dog could scare those little shits straight, people were just supposed to be trying nonstop to give and make her smoke drugs. Vicky never thought she would have to learn how to ask for drugs. Is there like a code or something? A secret handshake? Do you just go…Vicky smacked Kersten on the shoulder (perhaps a bit too hard) to get them to stop dancing, held out her hand, cocked her head, and gave a big smile.

“Drugs,” demanded Vicky.

She swayed, her hand wavering as it curled and made a gimme, gimme motion. Her eyes were a little puffy from crying, but what was more telling was the drunken glaze. Vicky was sauced. When drugs didn’t immediately materialize in her hand, Vicky let go of Tuyen and started patting for pockets on her outfit. Duh! The “deal” part of “drug deal” implied that there was some kind of cash exchange or something.

“We want drugs. How much for an ounce of weed?” asked Vicky with hardly a slurred word, not actually knowing what that meant but knowing it was probably a thing and assuming it wasn’t much. Like, an ounce was nothing. Nothing weighed less than an ounce. Still patting at her skirt for something that wasn’t there, she loudly declared to both Kersten and Tuyen. “I don’t have pockets. Like, I don’t have any pockets!”

Shit, she was yelling to be heard over the music. Vicky should be whispering. This was a drug deal.

“I don’t have pockets,” she repeated in a hushed voice that was still pretty loud, her head darting back and forth between Tuyen and Kersten in confusion, letting out an exasperated laugh, like how, she had just had pockets, what the fuck? How did she lose pockets? Vicky stuck her hand back out, finding her confidence, just like she was sure to find those pockets. “First one’s free, right? Isn’t that, y’know, part of the thing?”

They better not have to do anything too weird.

Vicky side-eyed Tuyen.

Vicky better not have to do anything too weird.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

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Interactions: Tuyen @Fernstone
Warehouse

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Vicky plucked the tissue from Tuyen’s hand, freeing her poor friend from her clutches as she dabbed at her eyes. Vicky was still sniffling, but Tuyen’s reassurance that she knew that Vicky didn’t like Tyler like that had prevented the full nuclear meltdown. Tuyen was right. Tuyen was so right. Vicky didn’t deserve to be forced to break up with her boyfriend so that she wasn’t the loser who got dumped at the party, but frankly, she was better off for it. Damn right Chef was lucky to be with her. He was a total loser—a college student, dating a high schooler, getting dumped by that high schooler? Oof! What. A. Dweeb.

She was better off, she was, she was, it was definitely better to not be in a relationship with such a loser. Even if that loser was going to one day win a Heisman Trophy. Even if it meant not going to college parties. Even if it meant she had nobody to take her to Homecoming. Even if it meant being single. Only if she was single it meant she was a Gwen. She didn’t want to be a Gwen. She wanted to be a Vicky, and a Vicky was always with someone cool!

”I know it’s not the same as having him there, but I’ll stay with you the rest of the party. I won’t leave your side, I promise,” said Tuyen as Vicky’s face darkened as reality began to reveal itself to her.

“No it’s not the same,” said Vicky, letting Tuyen cook for a few moments under the bright light blues of a staredown before breaking out into a big smile and trapping Tuyen in a tight hug. Tuyen was cool. Therefore, technically, it counted. “It’s better! Tuyen! You’re just the best. I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

Seriously, what an asset to the team. Thoughtful, kind, caring, knew that Vicky wanted Tyler to come down with some horrible disease so rare the doctors would eventually name it Fox’s Syndrome. Bonus points for dressing down so Vicky could feel like the hot one, even if she wasn’t feeling so hot right now, in fact, she was feeling kinda sick, and it wasn’t the typical kind of sick she felt when Vicky looked at Tuyen, saw how skinny the girl was, and knew that she could never achieve that trim of a waistline.

Still, it made Vicky want to throw up.

Oh, no, wait! She was actually going to, oh god, she was totally gonna—it passed, okay, coast clear. Probably just a case of the sixty-second suddenly single sickness, brought upon by the realization that because of this breakup Vicky was going to die alone and not be found until half of her body was devoured by her seventeen cats after her neighbors complained about the smell.

Vicky stared with dead eyes straight ahead at the vulgar graffiti covering the rusted door of the stall, thinking that perhaps if she looked long enough something between the blocky tags and dirty doodles would reveal to her the secret of how to turn her brain off. Unfortunately, if there was any wisdom to be found she couldn’t uncover it. Instead she pulled away from Tuyen with a shudder, making a mental note to never get any kind of pets. She tucked the tissue to be forgotten inside of Chef’s jacket, trading it for a tube of sparkly lip gloss as she turned her back to Tuyen and moved to the mirror.

“I am so done with all the stupid boys in this town. They are all such lo-sers,” said Vicky. She started to shimmy out of the massive jacket, struggling a bit with the concept that to get it off she would have to remove both her arms from the sleeve first. “I didn’t even really like Chef. He was always so suspicious, texting me, asking me ‘what are you up to’. It was so annoying!”

Vicky kicked the jacket away with her heels as it dropped to the floor to reveal not much, at least in terms of the amount of fabric—a sleeveless crop top and a snug skirt that completely failed the school’s fingertip rule. She leaned forward as she began to run the gloss over her lips, analyzing every single fault in her face as she continued to transform her tears into steam as she vented.

“You know what the worst thing was? He would call me,” said Vicky with a smack of her lips as she capped the gloss and began to fluff up her hair, immediately undoing anything she had been going for as she wildly shook her head in exasperation. “Like, on the phone. And just to talk, too! Seriously, what the fuck!? Here I am, having a panic attack, thinking he’s in the hospital or jail or something, and he just wants to hear my voice. It was *so* stupid! And he did it all the time, all the time! Sometimes twice in one week. It was obnoxious! I hate people who talk too much.”

And with no time to acknowledge the hypocrisy, she continued her rant.

“Ick, and the way he kissed? It was like making out with, Jesus, how can I even begin to describe something so awful?” Vicky turned from the mirror back to Tuyen, gesturing with the tube of lip gloss. “Well, remember Gwen made us go to the Slappyburger because she said her ex could hook us up with his employee discount and not only did we have to pay full price but your chicken fingers were raw on the inside? Imagine that mouthfeel but worse.”

The worse was illustrated as Vicky made a thrusting and thrashing motion with the lip gloss tube, creating a visual representation that Tuyen had not asked for and that nobody needed to see.

“Here, hold this. I don’t have pockets.” Vicky lobbed the lipgloss at Tuyen before looking back at the mirror. “Is it obvious that I was crying?” asked Vicky, looking back at Tuyen. “It’s obvious that I was crying. Oh, I know!” Vicky looped her arm under Tuyen’s and pulled her towards the bathroom door. “Let’s find Kersten.”

If Vicky smelled like weed, then nobody would know that her eyes were red and puffy before she’d gotten high. Could a drunk person think of such a brilliant idea as that? Absolutely freaking not! Which meant that they should also get a couple of drinks along the way. Vicky barely stumbled as she guided Tuyen towards the door, leaning just a bit on her friend for both moral support and actual, regular old support too, but just because of the heels being kind of hard to walk in and not for any other reasons.

“I just got broken up with, so you’re getting high with me. And none of that shit like last time where you put the thing to your mouth and pretended to smoke it. Oh, what, didn’t think I’d notice? People might tell you everything, but I see all, I know all. Nothing slips by me,” teased Vicky in a way that kind of sounded like she possibly believed it.

She actually felt better. Tuyen was such a good listener. Vicky threw the door open with gusto, ready to grace all the worried people with her presence, certain that there would be a sea of sad faces waiting for her, the crowd absolutely devastated because Cornell’s cutest couple was kaputt, and wait, these assholes kept partying without her?

What the hell?

Seriously!?

God, she really liked everyone here, obviously she had to, and they definitely, totally, fucking better have liked her too (or else), but sometimes, sometimes, SOMETIMES they really made Vicky so mad that she wished each and every single one of them (minus Tuyen) would die a horrible, painful, and truly awful death.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

---

Interactions: Tuyen @Fernstone
Warehouse, Bathroom

---

Don’t be a whiner. Be a winner. Winners don’t cry, not in public, not at a party, shit like that is for the showers where the tears can wash down the drain with the rest of the filth. Nobody liked the girl who cried at the party and Vicky had to be liked, because if she wasn’t like she wouldn’t win Homecoming Queen, and if she wasn’t Homecoming Queen she was just Vicky and just being Vicky apparently wasn’t—ENOUGH!

Vicky tore at Brayden’s jacket, fumbling with the stuck zipper, jerking violently as she moved on from attempting to free the zipper to trying to just break the damn thing. She slammed through the bathroom door with her shoulder. The second she caught sight that there was nobody inside she stopped trying to hold the tears back. She collapsed against the sink as she let out a choked, sputtering cry that sounded like a swarm of flies occasionally interrupted by one of them buzzing into a bugzapper.

"Vicky?"

Vicky’s entire body tensed when she heard her name, her fake nails threatening to crack as she gripped the porcelain of the dirty sink. The flies were exterminated at once but tears were still shed over their massacre as Vicky’s shoulders quaked like they were trying to sprout wings of their own. She stared into the dirty basin as the droplets fell from her face and streaked towards the drain. She held her breath and prayed that when she looked up in the mirror she would see a ghost, because otherwise she’d be looking at a dead woman. Her eyes sprung up faster than Tommy’s switchblade knife as she flashed a freezeframe glare of murderous intent that broke the moment she saw the other girl in the reflection.

”Are you alright?”

Oh, thank God. Tuyen! She was alive. She had chewed through the kidnapper’s ropes. Vicky was alright now, except wait, no she wasn’t, her life was terrible. Everything was terrible. She resumed her sniveling zt-zt-zt-ZZT cries. ”Did something happen after I left?” Was Tuyen joking? Only like the worst thing in the world had happened, wasn’t it obvious? How could she always be so calm even in this time of crisis? Vicky’s attempt to respond was gibberish: ey-fhyukt-uhpt. ”Can I help with anything? Sure, just do some magic and make Vicky go back in time so she could unfuck it. Only magic wasn’t real. This wasn’t like one of her Japanese animes American romantasies.

Vicky saw Tuyen’s tentative step forward and launched at her, grappling her up in a hug as Tuyen asked, “Or- Or is it just the alcohol?”

Wait, why say that? Was this a repeat offense? Did Vicky do something like this every time she got drunk? Was she already known as the girl who cried at the party, and everyone outside the bathroom was out there snickering about her tragedy right now? So wait did that mean she wasn’t going to be the Homecoming—oh, nope, Vicky felt the bottle of curaçao in her hand. Tuyen meant the blue stuff. The crown was still Vicky’s and, hey, Tuyen was right. Another drink would definitely help calm her down. Still locked in a hug, Vicky pressed the plastic to her lips, raised the bottle, and waited to make the liquor face again. The face never came. The bottle was empty. How was that possible? She had only taken like…

“I fucked up,” said Vicky, the sobs stopping for the moment of lucidity as the bottle bounced off of the bathroom floor before returning as a muffled wail as she buried herself into Tuyen’s shoulder.

Perhaps pregaming on the way to the party had been a bad decision, but that bottle Gwen had stolen from her mom had tasted like green apples. It couldn’t have been that strong. She wasn’t drunk. She totally wasn’t that drunk. Vicky most certainly wasn’t just drunk.

She was hammered.

Smashed.

Shitfaced.

“Tuyyyen, I fucked uppp!” cried Drunk Vicky, or Dicky, the named uttered behind her back by the girls on the cheer squad on account of how after a few libations Vicky could become a total dick. “I broke up with—”

Whoa, girl. Time out. Vicky pulled back from Tuyen, holding her at arms length, scanning her like she was reading the nutrition facts off the back of a box of cereal. Sure, Tuyen was both her best and longest friend, which were two different distinctions but still equally important, but, like, Vicky couldn’t tell her the truth. Vicky would look like an absolute jerk if she did. What kind of awful person broke up with someone at a party? Vicky figured that if she had struck first then Chef would feel awful, and if he felt awful he would think that he didn’t want to break up with her. It had made sense in her head so why hadn’t it worked? He was supposed to chase after her. Why hadn’t he chased after her?

Her eyes started watering again.

“Chef broke up with me. He said, ‘Is it because of Tyler?’, I mean, ‘It’s because of Tyler’ he said, and I said, ‘What does Tyler have to do with me—with you—with you breaking up with…you’ and, uh, and I said,” Vicky trailed off, her sobs dampening as she stared up at the lights, trying to figure out which version of the story she was telling.

She exploded in tears as she remembered.

“He said I was in love with Tyler and I’m not in love with Tyler, Tyler’s like a brother to me, but the kind of brother that you wish your parents had put up for adoption or forgot was in the backseat of their car on a hot summer day when they went into the grocery store and came out two hours later to find a crowd and police cars and a news team and, anyway, you understand right?”

Vicky’s eyes narrowed. Her arms dropped from Tuyen’s shoulders as she folded them out in front of her chest. What was that? What the fuck was that? Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps it was because she had half-blinded herself by staring at the fluorescents, but she swore she had just caught a weird look on Tuyen’s face. Vicky wiped her eyes with a sniffle, the remorse in her voice starting to evaporate as her words started to carry with them a little heat.

“Why aren’t you more upset?” asked Vicky, her tone not just suspicious but on the edge of hostile, her nose upturned, her shoulders squaring before the tension released and her face fell into her palm with a loud clap. “Oh my god, you think I’m in love with Tyler too. I told you, it’s not like that! Does everyone think that? Tuyen, does everyone think that!?”

With a loud gasp, Vicky grabbed Tuyen’s shoulders again.

“DOES TYLER THINK THAT!?”

A Journey Through Space - A DnD story

---

The Waystone Inn
Interactions: Eilrethiel @Fernstone Kel @NoriWasHere
Outfit: In retrospect, should've spent those 10g on Clothing, cold weather

---

Ransom felt a strange, unfamiliar feeling swell up inside of him as the goliath jumped to his call and helped him free up the lady from the snow. Saving a life wasn’t something completely unbeknownst to Ransom, it was just strange to be doing it for free. He watched as the big man laid his hands on the hurt woman to heal her without even trying to bargain for a reward. Ransom only ever did that if they were pretty, and this old lady had definitely looked better when she was buried beneath the dirty snow. Ransom felt a warmth on his shoulder that shot down to his hand as the goliath clasped it and piped in some holy healing. Ransom rubbed his gloveless hand, glad to have the feeling back in his fingers.

"Thank you and agreed, although I am surprised by your help, as your previous actions show a disposition unlikely to act for others in kindness, however I am glad that I am wrong."

“What the fuck?” said Ransom to the old bat, watching the goliath bolt off to continue with the rescue effort. “Couldn’t have just stopped after ‘thank you’, could we?”

If the apocalypse wasn’t happening, Ransom would’ve had to take off his other glove to protect his fragile and easily bruised honor. Latrom was lucky. Perhaps Ransom was, too. Whenever he had to challenge someone to a duel, he was always happier when they were smaller than him. Speaking of small things, Ransom shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure no gnome was sneaking up on him to slice his heels. Instead Ransom caught sight of an apparently asphyxiated yet still attractive elf (weren’t they all?) hollering and waving at him. Ransom cocked his head. Hands made for scooping? Was that code or…Ransom winced when he saw the webbed hands and realized Eil was probably being literal. He waved the sea elf off. Surely Ransom had already met some kind of savior quota.

He felt something staring at him and turned to the old lady who was, for some reason, still by her side, “What?”

“What do I do now?” she whistled through the gaps around her tooth.

“How should I know?” said Ransom with a dismissive shrug as he moved away from her before she offered him hard candy and told him about how he looked like her grandson. “Whatever you were doing before you ended up buried alive, do the opposite.”

More people had responded to Ed’s call. Ransom wasn’t really surprised. Some of the nicest people he’d ever met were criminals. The exception to that sentiment had already climbed on top of the bar and was now directing traffic with the bard barking orders. The goliath had gotten back up from his little sister, and two cowards in the form of that tabaxi and that dragonborn were now out here trying to prove that they weren’t so yellow after all. Ransom, hand in pocket to keep it from getting a chill, settled next to the sea elf, took a gander of the ongoing rescue, glanced up at the arcane tower that was surely about to burst and vaporize all of them in the next couple of minutes, and then let out a sigh.

“Welp, looks like they’ve got this covered,” he said to Eli, giving him a pat on the back. “World’s ending, let’s get drunk. I bet you Rosa keeps the good stuff under the counter.”

Without waiting for an acceptance of the offer (because, clearly, the answer would have to be ‘fuck it, why not?’) Ransom started to head back inside. He towards Lairëcúma, the spotlight now on Cali and therefore away from the door, and given the circumstances Ransom was even able to avoid expressing his annoyance at her for focusing so heavily on the tiefling but failing to mention how the aasimar had already saved two, count ‘em, two whole people. Okay, well actually, a gnome and an old grandma probably only counted as like one and one fourth of a person in terms of usefulness but still, Ransom was up two bodies. Speaking of bodies, Ransom almost tripped over the man with the catawampus legs, stumbling to avoid given the wounded man even more grief.

“Oh, he’s fucked,” uttered Ransom.

His thoughtful words were mercifully drowned out by Lucky’s hollering. Yeah, he needed an undertaker. Lucky could’ve saved a cigarette and given the poor bastard a coup de grâce instead. Would’ve been kinder than a slow death. Well, perhaps the bard would get the tiefling to put an arrow in him. Ransom was off duty. He slid past Lairëcúma, pushed through the sea of sad and battered faces taking shelter from the arcane storm, and sidled up to the bar—away from the side that Kel had hurled all over. Ransom drummed his fingers on the countertop for a moment, trying to remain casual and not consider how his imminent doom was just moments away because some limp-dicked wizard had to make up for their inadequacy by erecting a massive arcane tower, before hanging his head in shame.

What the fuck am I doing?

They were all about to be torn into a million little fragments by a Prismatic Shitbang: drinks were free! Ransom planted his hands on the counter and hoisted himself over with one swift movement before landing on the Rosa side of the bar. Ransom couldn’t tell if the tremors had thrown everything back here to hell or if Rosa just ran an untidy operation, but he had to carefully wade through broken glass and spilled mugs as he investigated under the bar for something good instead of the Something Else. Tucked inside of one of the cabinets was an unmarked bottle of brown liquor. Jackpot.

Ransom wiped the dust off from around the cork with his cloak, grabbed a glass that hadn’t been cracked, and poured himself a generous three fingers. He lifted the booze up to his nose, sniffed, nearly fainted, and took another big whiff. Was this some kind of orcish hooch? A sip of this and he actually might grow some hair on his chest. As he lifted his final, unless he was fast, drink to his lips, Ransom made eye contact with Kel. Funny, if she had just come with him then at least one of them would be alive in the morning. He raised his glass to her, and then took a drink.

<sub>...oh...no...

...Death come quick...</sub>

He spit out the drink in a brown mist. It was just his luck that Ransom had managed to find the lost bottle of Something Worse.

He took a second, smaller sip.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

---

Interactions: Mentions Lupe, Tuyen, & Tyler
Warehouse

---

There’s no good way to say this: Vicky hated parties.

Now, wait! Stop, stop, she’s not some kind of monster or, worse, an introvert—Vicky didn’t hate partying. She loved partying. If she could she would party all the time, only that’s how people ended up turning tricks like that psycho’s mom and meanwhile Vicky actually had a future. Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t nice to temporarily drown out the future’s ceaseless drone with loud music and skunked beers. Anyway, she was fun.

She was having fun.

She was fun to be around and everyone around her was having fun.

It’s just that when she heard the cheering and saw the dance circle forming on the other side of the warehouse it kind of seemed like those people over there were having way more fun than her and—see! This right here was why she hated parties! Everybody was focusing on Lupe being a fricking idiot and hardly nobody was even aware that Vicky was about to make history. Even Vicky was hardly paying attention anymore, her head tilted towards Lupe as the woman balanced on a folding chair. Vicky’s eyes beamed a signal command directly into the annoying loudmouth’s empty brain, ordering her to fall! Fall! Fall!

Instead there were cheers. Jesus Christ, was everyone over there high or something? She wanted to be high. Right now she wasn’t even drunk. It wasn’t even her fault. The problem was that she was too good and she kept winning and the more she won the less she drank, which ultimately made the competition sloppier. That in turn made winning even easier although, listen, it didn’t change the fact that Vicky had run the table since she got there and this had to be some kind of record so, like, why the fuck weren’t they cheering over here?

Out of nowhere, her hand struck out like a cobra and swatted a bright orange ping pong ball as it bounced dangerously close to the rim of a red solo cup, smashing the ball across the warehouse from the potentially record-breaking beer pong game.

“Aw, nice bounce, little bitch. Playing with balls is, like, your entire personality. Shouldn’t you be good at this? ” teased Vicky as the jock opposing her chased after the ball. Okay, maybe she was a little drunk, but it wasn’t like she was shit-talking. This was playful banter. She turned her head to her partner. “It’s just so embarrassing. Isn’t it just so embarrassing?”

“Super embarrassing,” confirmed Gwen.

Gwen dressed and sounded and acted just like Vicky. A couple of years ago Vicky would’ve been the one who was a carbon copy of Gwen, but, well, now Vicky dated football stars while Gwen got dumped by the guy who worked drive thru at the Slappyburger. Imagine getting rejected by the dude who makes minimum wage to ask strangers over a loudspeaker how they would like their meat slapped? Vicky couldn’t, and that was why Gwen now looked like her.

“Soooo embarrassing,” hissed Vicky with a little added grunt as she jerked to the side to catch a ball that was nowhere near the table.

“Fuck!” yelled the center for their school’s abysmal basketball team.

“Oof, just like playoffs.”

“Shut up, Vicky,” snapped the point guard.

“Make a shot, Jackson,” said Vicky, and she wasn’t talking about beer pong. She sunk her shot. Gwen missed, she was getting sloppy, and when the boys missed too Vicky threw her head back, stomped her foot, and let out a long, drawn out, “Uuuuuugh, oh my God, just give up. This game is taking so loooong. I want to driiiink.”

Where was Tuyen? She was supposed to get them drinks, so why wasn’t she here? Did she—no! Vicky snapped her head back to the dance floor. This was such utter bullshit, man, first they steal the spotlight, now they take her drinks (and her best friend)? No, no, no, there had to be a good reason for this. Vicky knew Tuyen. Tuyen wouldn’t do that; she’d get the drinks.

“Oh, Chef!”

Vicky waved at her boyfriend who was already heading her way. He was being weird tonight, really weird, like being a total moody bitch kind of weird. Earlier he’d been annoyingly pushy about her wearing his dumb letterman jacket even though it was massive on her and covered up her cute outfit. Then he kept on trying to hangout with her despite them having spent almost the whole weekend together. It was so annoying, like, he had barely just left for college and now he was already back to visit. Vicky felt like she was being smothered, although that might’ve been just because of all the extra fabric that smelled of Old Spice and Slim Jims weighing her shoulders down.

Since Tuyen had been kidnapped (because it was the only logical reason why she wasn’t back), Brayden Chef could get her a drink. And then maybe start a search party. Vicky was actually almost getting worried.

“Hey babe,” said Chef.

Without hesitation Vicky threw her arms around his neck, stood up on her tiptoes, and gave him a long kiss to really make Gwen feel like a total loser for getting dumped by the burger guy. Around the table, feet shuffled, the voyeurs almost as uncomfortable as Vicky was making out with someone who tasted like an old bowling alley. She could feel him sway backwards. How many Yuenglings had this idiot already crushed? He wasn’t even kissing back right. She pulled back with a loud exhale, as if Chef had taken her breath away instead of merely making her hold it, and moved in for a second assault but stopped short as he asked, “You gotta moment?”

“Right now? Babe, I’m in the middle of a game,” said Vicky.

“It’s kinda important.”

“Kind of means that it can wait,” said Vicky, missing her shot. Goddamnit, Bray Chef. He was throwing off her rhythm. “Could you get me a drink?”

But he didn’t get her a drink. He just stood there like a stupid idiot, staring at her, making a face. What did that face mean? His eyes were a bit red and watery. Was he high too? Was everybody here but her on drugs and/or drunk?

“Vicky, we need to talk.”

Oh. Vicky turned her attention from the game and stared at Chef. Oh, that bastard. That stupid bitch. He was going to break up with her. She didn’t really care about that. She wanted them to break up. She just didn’t want it to go down like this. Not now. Not tonight. Not at a party. Not in front of people who she would have to see for one more year. What a jerk. What a douchebag. What a total asshole.

Vicky felt her chest tighten. And seriously, were those motherfuckers over there still dancing and celebrating? It was like they wanted this to happen to her. She could feel the heat already starting to rise in the warehouse. Her eyes began dissecting Chef, peeling back the sunburnt skin on his face to crack open his thick skull and investigate the caverns beyond it. She was going to fucking murder him. Scientists would study his remains, unable to determine how a boy could be so stupid.

“But I’m winning,” she said as if that would stop the inevitable.

She wasn’t watching, which meant Gwen had to defend, and at the sudden outburst of excitement from the other end of the table it was clear to Vicky that Gwen fucked it. Vicky turned to see two ping pong balls nestled together in one cup. They lost. They were up six cups and they had lost. It was difficult for Vicky to drink the warm beer that Gwen had passed her way through a clenched jaw, but she somehow managed it. With no excuses left to avoid this, she spun towards Chef with a snap.

“What!?”

They disappeared outside. A few beats later and Vicky was already back inside, storming to the bar, muttering feverishly to herself as she wiped her eyes while fighting to free herself from Chef’s massive jacket and it’s stupid, broken fucking zipper. Defeated by the stuck zipper, the letterman jacket hung off of one shoulder as Vicky snatched a plastic bottle of something from the bar, sent the cap spinning to the floor, took a shot, and made a face like someone who had just been stabbed in the liver. She squinted at the liquor. Why was it so blue? Why was it so sweet? Why was liquor misspelled on the bottle? Oh, 30 proof? Well fuck those other questions, this would do. She was absolutely going to become someone else's problem tonight. She took another shot, made the same face, and turned to scream at Chef.

"God, you’re such a fucking idiot. It was a game. I don’t even like Tyler! I hate Tyler. Just like I hate—” yelled Vicky, startled to see that he hadn’t followed her in. “—you?”

Why hadn’t he—what the fuck, was he actually serious? This was so embarrassing, oh man, and everybody was looking at her. In this context, everybody meant the few kids around the drink table who could hear her outburst that was otherwise drowned out by the music, but if even one person saw her crying it wouldn’t be too long before it became local, no, perhaps even state news. She bolted with a sniff. Not here, not here, stop that shit. Oh, god, she choked on her quivering lip, she was like Gwen now. No, worse. What if Chef actually made it to the NFL? Her shoulders shook as she made some kind of horrified noise that most definitely wasn’t a suppressed sob, hid her face, and bolted for the bathroom with an ever so slight stumble because, seriously, she wasn't even that drunk it was just suffocating in here and there were too many bodies and, and, and—

Oh god, she *really* hated parties.

Recollections: Where the Folds Meet

"Let the past die," says Ghost Note who recycles characters from Agents of Death....

@Blizz

It's okay, that wasn't canon.