Recent Statuses

5 yrs ago
Idea: Superhero rp but every superpower has to be a unnecessarily specific fetish taken from a 1x1 thread
5 yrs ago
joining a roleplay can have the same stress of applying for a job except its better cause instead of bagging groceries you get to be a cute gay anime cat girl who goes to magic school
5 yrs ago
*tackleglomps u and nuzzles* X3 *notices bulge in ur pants* OwO wats dis???
5 yrs ago
does anybody in this thread smoke weed
5 yrs ago
The thrill of doing seventy different code edits without saving and then not knowing whether your post looks cute or like an exploded cumbox


▄██THE YAOI TANK███▅▄▃▂

I like rats, jalapeño poppers, y2k aesthetics and idol games. I am pretty extroverted on the internet due to how easy it is to connect with people with similar interests. My personality may come across as aggressively friendly or over the top at times and I apologize in advance for that, whoops.

As for my strange signatures and profile pictures, a lot of them are a part of a specific aesthetic I´ve developed over the years that's basically 2000s aesthetics with a focus on the technology that explore themes of loss, abandonment, filth, and hopelessness, rather than the optimistic and mainstream view of the future that was common during that period of time.

TALK 2 ME!!!!

Most Recent Posts

Small hands protected with rags stretched towards the fire, as close as they could handle a heat that pierced snow and cold and bone. To the left and right of him were other hands, even smaller, jostling against one another alongside chattering. It was only when a ruddy man in suspenders entered the courtyard that they stopped shoving. Over a dozen faces turned to meet his, one clad in a smile that seemed to personally meet every one of them.

He cupped a hand around his mouth. "Newes' of the playwrights! Newes' of the playwrights right 'ere!"

The man flicked through a motley stack of papers with a gloved thumb, taking a seat by one of the iron wrought benches at the edges. Within moments a flurry of children cut through the snowflakes to converge on him, most sitting on top of others or on the weathered stone ground when the handful of spaces were gone. Their shouts and laughter fell around the man in a jumble of noise.

"Alright! Silence!"

The fire crackled behind them.

"Osric's been scribin' away real hard for this one. Took'em a good eight tries to get it right. And oh boy, did he ever." He separated the papers into smaller stacks. The oldest received theirs first. "If you can't read, ask someone to help. Start off with your finger, say it out loud, it's the season for that sort of thinkin', it is." He stood back up with some effort, handing the last of the papers to the smaller children. They scampered off back into their old groups, and he let out a sigh. Until he turned around.

Another child. Or adolescent, he was nearing that age. Easily the oldest out of the group, hands in his pockets, trudging back to the fire.

"You. You're Ophelia's brother, correct?"

The boy's shoulders sagged upwards in a shrug. "We arrived at the home at the same time, so that's just what we call each other." The word had no weight to him nor any of them for that matter. Even their names were assigned to them on the spot. His dark eyes rose to meet the man's, and to the boy's surprise his smile was gone. In its place was a tight-lipped frown that was almost unsettling in between rosy cheeks and and a graying beard.

"Tell 'er she's not welcome scribin' anymore. Waste of perfectly good paper, it is. We'll find some'un else." And with that, the man left, leather boots gnashing against snow and stone.

The boy said nothing, not that he was able to do anything else. He resumed his gait, approaching a pair of girls that were audibly struggling to tell some of the letters apart. His index finger joined theirs.




"It is still callous to not share your whereabouts. For a representative of that being to be caught engaging in petty thievery would be disastrous."

Octavio ignored the familiar and opened another set of drawers, finding no apparel worth caring about. He plucked a gaudy strip of cloth and draped it to the wooden mannequin next to him, life-sized and held together through metal rods. It was an effortful piece of craftmanship. "You just have to think about it. The weather's getting colder and the clothes in this vacation villa are clearly for sunnier temperatures. We could live here for most of the year if we were clever about it," He chuckled. He gazed at their reflections from the mirror in center of the room, only noticing the enormous blur on his left when it was too late.


The girl wiped at the swollen bags under her eyes with one hand.

"I made it better, you know. But they don't see it that way."

They were the same age, wearing similar sets of rags. The two sat on a bench far away from the fire. Various sheets of paper were spread across their laps, all of them covered in thick blots of oil. Above and around the blots were sentences of different sizes and coherence, with arrows that meant to show an order but only disorganized the words further.

"The ending changed completely." There was no tone to his voice.

"It did." A short sniffle interrupted. "It's such a sad story. I mean, all this betrayal, madness, violence, and they die at the end so tragically. I don't want to tell stories like that, Julius." There's another pause to her words, and for a moment she's lost in thought. "You're still Julius, right?"

The boy nods. "It's the seventh name I've taken on. It feels lucky to hold on to it." For as long as they've known each other, however, he knows she's never parted from hers. He gathered the papers and organized them to the best of his ability, finally handing them to her. "Sometimes life is a tragedy. No point in ignoring that, or making any strange changes to a play. He stood up and left the courtyard.


Hands protected by rags searched for heat, and found it around Octavio's neck. In what felt like moments he was grappled by a pair of arms, struggling to find a way out. Lynx tossed his own body towards the assailant in a rough maneuver meant to trip them up. For a moment nothing could be heard save for a desperate man's increasingly harsh grunts, but a new sound joined the scuffle. The wooden mannequin, now unhooked from its display pole, slamming wooden nubs for feet and hands against floor and foe.

After a handful of strained breaths Octavio's heel found purchase on the ledge of a drawer. With one last wheeze he drove the weight of his body on it and wheeled upwards, nearly leaving his body completely horizontal until gravity fought back. But it had been a part of his plan, and the four crashed to the ground in a pile of limbs from using himself as a human domino. The chaos gave him the opportunity to slip free from the attacker's grasp. A dagger made its way from a hidden compartment in Octavio's clothing to his hand to the gap in the opponent's armor that would have revealed a neck. It wasn't until the hilt clanged against metal that his eyes widened.

"There's nothing underneath."

He scrambled upwards and backwards, his back pressing against a wall.

"An illusion."

"...a knight illusion whose armor made no noise. The only person I've met who uses a style of illusions such as that..."

His gaze remained on the empty suit of armor, locked in the grapple of the wooden mannequin illusion pinned beneath it.


Every illusion of Octavio's, every piece coiled around his fingers in the game of blood and flesh, was gnarled to nothingness in a near instant. It made his blood go cold, in a wasteland already polluted with frost and blood. He thought of kings without kingdoms and sailors whose ships had ruptured. Men that were already dead, who clung to the ragged breaths that were all they had left in the world. The world around him stopped, and his thoughts froze with it.

Stranger. Being. He had the face of a man, but it felt incorrect to consider him one. At one point Octavio envied him, even saw him as a rival that could be bested. Those had been the thoughts of a stupid man. As the... entity took interest in Lynx, he could feel the cold crawl towards the center of his heart.

Taunting words. Ones uttered by those with the power. The control. Just as the noblemen he hated, the politicians, the mercenaries, all those he wanted that feeling of control from besting. But he could feel ice in his throat where words would be, a frozen expression of grief where one of confidence would have to take center stage. He wasn't the lead again. It felt as if he'd never be.

One piece left. Himself. Lynx was in no state to fight, instead fleeing with the other familiars. The king was supposedly the most important piece in chess, able to move anywhere, yet signalling the loss of the game when captured. But when Octavio attempted to move himself, he found no way to escape the storm of tentacles that overtook him. A struggle, thrashing, sinking. Tentacles wrapping around other tentacles, anywhere they could sense empty space to contaminate. It was worse than the last time, as the tentacles had greedily dug around his abdomen, denying him of even his final breaths. Checkmate.

...Check. A third player. One that wasn't bound to timing their turns. One that wasn't bound to white and black squares, white and black morality. The way the entity spoke truly made Octavio feel like a piece, one listening to an actual player. Octavio remained silent for the most part, eyes trained on the thing as it continued it's fanfare. He had no experience dealing with the supernatural. It irritated him, almost. When he finally spoke the words jutted out without much concern for formality. It was gifting star adhesives.

"Do not wish to fashion yourself as a god, and yet you say you lost access to your godly power. You're allowed to call yourself whatever you desire," he said, judgmental of the word "Bud" and the entity's newfound love for it, "but you're a former god, is what you've so indirectly implied."

He suppressed every ounce of pain and discomfort imaginable as he stood, feeling it pound through over a dozen and a half areas of his body. It wasn't entirely successful, and with a pained grimace he knew it would give the being brand new material to work with. "I would thank you, but this isn't so much a favor as it is a transaction. We've been performing our end of this odd bargain, and I suppose you've assisted us through some of the more dangerous moments. It was a close call particularly now. Don't you think it'd be wiser to facilitate things for us? It'd be a win-win for this... transaction we've been conducting." Whatever this former god was in actuality, he'd likely never know. But the being had shown more of his hand, and Octavio found himself reacting predictably as a man moments from death encountering great power. It was ironic, he realized. The same thoughts that led to the insight obliterating men. He still hadn't taken a single step from his spot.



Lynx's body arose one limp paw at a time, until he was upright and more or less lucid enough to stand. He recognized Akai, but it took a moment for the thoughts to solidify. Words were even slower.

"Gah. What a mess."

With the heart's destruction came a faint trace of hope, and what to Octavio was a misstep in their opponent's game. The seed's roar was an admission of weakness, a sign that, no matter how viscerally repulsive and fantastical, it was a thing that could die. He'd wanted to joke about it, and he was sure he would've, had he not still been surrounded by danger and supernatural bodily fluids.

Soldiers. Tw- Air! Air!

Another limitation of their new code, he discovered. It didn't account for situations in which points of interest were no longer on the same altitude as Octavio and were in fact being dragged by tendrils. He intervened late, through a single soldier and multiple robotic, tactical hacks. Octavio didn't even have time to curse at himself before the next threat came into view.

He couldn't affect the battlefield in the same spread out way a heat construct or a wall of ice could, so he emphasized the opposite. Illusions that targeted tendrils individually, the less conspicuous ones that could have gone undetected. It had been easier thought than done, as many tried to strike Octavio. He weaved and rolled out of harm's way, albeit slower, bogged by the multitasking. A larger tendril scrabbled across his shoulder bone and nearly found purchase, before his dagger could put a stop to it. Two smaller ones darted for his shins and missed by inches.

Sidestepping a third tendril, he silently agreed with Karina. His own personal efforts to deal with the tentacles would be nothing but ineffective pruning over the long-term. They all needed to be more aggressive.

"I could perhaps try something riskier. Having many illusions rush towards different hearts, something to spread this digusting creature's attention around." He wiped a brow and hoped that what had oozed off was mostly from his own body.

Two, six o'clock.

A guard caught in battle whipped around and slashed at a cultist behind him. There was no reasonable way he could have seen the foe approaching behind him, nor strike back with such speed.

One, three o'clock.

Another guard took advantage of a scuffle to dig his polearm into a cultist's ribs. The man's movements were uncanny, a rabid sprint towards his sudden target that had more in common with a dancing puppet than a human's organic movements.

As Octavio's experiences in battle grew against his will, he found himself refining what it meant to fight effectively. He assumed a more administrative role now, developing a steadier hand when it came to directing his illusions. No longer simple disposable peons, he was beginning to see the use in preserving them, using them to surveil each other and take advantage of every blind spot and moment of weakness he could carve out with their eyes.

Two, 4 o'clock, form flank.

From the thick of battle a familiar in the shape of a lynx hopped from body to body, mentally sending commands to the man who was technically, begrudgingly, his owner. No sooner than he finished the thought a guard joined a loose group of people who were uncertain about whether or not to engage. His appearance and charge bolstered them into doing the same, flanking the opponent before anyone changed their mind.

Octavio himself took to the shadows. It was an overwhelming amount of information and stimuli, a deluge of sight and sensation. More than once he found himself nearly curling into a ball so he could focus entirely on the illusions. It was a strange, new way of battling. Gone was the scrappy rogue that threw everything at an opponent until it stopped moving. In his place was a more tired man, one who had more in common with a shepherd or a puppeteer.

"Get up!" shouted one of his guards to a younger man whose entire body shook. He yanked the hammer the man had been wielding and handed him a short sword. "Something like that's too heavy for you to use right. Take this and aim for the wounded." The young man nodded with a twitch and took off.

Hmph. Employment of social skills. Excellent work taking notice of that boy.

Th...anks. Octavio's eyes slammed shut. Too much happening, too much being taken in. For every piece on the board that had been meddled with two more required his influence.

The board had shifted. The pieces that hadn't been trampled followed suit at the mercy of it. Rot and death followed and entrapped them within its squares, depraved simulacra of plant and flesh enveloping land and choking air. It was as if a nightmare had torn through the veil of the mind and began to devour the world around it. There was no storybook or grimoire in existence that neared this... being's description. It was the board and it was the piece, the king and every pawn held together through bone, bark, and wet ligament. And then the tendrils struck.

One, three o'clock! Two, four and seven o'clock! One, three! Three, nine!

With a slam towards the ground Octavio commanded his illusions to dodge their newest threat, only just avoiding collision with one aimed towards him. His new strategies were still tentative, still prone to failings, and now Lynx was struggling to keep up verbally. In the past they'd taken advantage of his illusions and the blank space they occupied to the sightless. It'd be harder to employ that strategy here, he knew. Space was in short supply and tendrils could break through at any given moment. He needed something more aggressive.

He hacked at the tendril with a calm precision that surprised him. He needed to employ a level of self-preservation he'd never felt before.

"I've got the numbers to try a couple of tricks with. Perhaps with an even spread we can see where this rancid thing's vulnerabilities lie." Chres had his own suggestions, more on the defensive side. "I'll distract if distracting's what we need, though it'd be best to pair it with some solid firepower. Pairing up an attacker with an illusion to counter any surprise tendrils."

Then Týfurkh mentioned a bomb.

"Good luck." A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead. He couldn't tell whether it was because the word triggered a sudden rush of adrenaline within him, or whether it had been caused by their fleshy surroundings. He positioned himself and his illusions far away from the man, forming a quick formation in which they could cover each other's backs. It looked humorous from any perspective other than a bird's eye view, but he wasn't thinking as an individual body anymore.


The game board. Once again, it shifted.

Alex flipped through his own notes with a quiet sort of shame that adults had to keep to themselves. Seele's own discoveries and strategies had revealed quite a few spots in his ideas, and he found himself coming to terms with a pang of self-consciousness that seemed out of place for a grown-up. Ironically, one of his primary motivations had been to conduct research in a way that avoided any sort of tunnel vision or incomplete conclusions, and now he'd realized he was headed for a similar outcome if nothing were to change. He had been too focused on the human element rather than the logistics involved in travel routes and locations. His former guild had chastised him for that often. He was a people person who preferred talking it out in contrast to the more pen and paper approach his brother and the rest had favored.

"Still good." He muttered, updating his notes with Seele's findings. "We can... still do my thingy. Good to have a lot of perspectives." He could combine them too. Interviews conducted with an emphasis on the shady hotspots, possible witnesses that didn't show up in registries but inhabited the same areas as the disappeared, there was a lot of information to play with in front of him, and a lot of good moves to make.

A disagreement had sparked at some point, one which only escalated and later advanced outside. It worried him, but so did the mission at hand. The two would duke it out, the pain would register, and then they'd forget about it. Guys did that all the time. Alex wasn't thrilled at the prospect of using Seele like fishing bait, but it was the fast and punchy thing to do, and it seemed to him that they were already late to the trail. Their shouting eventually became lost within the noise of the tavern, and he went back to muttering to his notes.

"We can do it." He bit his tongue as he underlined a particularly confusing passage. The fighters would fight, the talkers would talk, the awkward ranger would figure something out within his labyrinth of scribbles.

Whoever was orchestrating this mess had a particular interest in wayfarers that had a harder time fighting back, to summarize their findings. In other words, they didn't want someone fighting back. That was a bad outcome for them, a condition an all-powerful force wouldn't be sporting. It was what galvanized Alex the most. He knew if you wanted to beat up a rogue or stealthy guy in a videogame, you wanted to take them on directly, where they're at their weakest. With the element of surprise propelling a head-on strike, he was confident things would be in their favor. They also had, for a lack of a better term that didn't sound psychopathic, a second shot. Artemis was fine with being goat in a dinosaur enclosure number two if things got to that point and Seele hadn't died. He brushed a stray hair back. He'd be number three, he silently decided, if he were able to find a way to pass off as a support character.

"Everyone's gonna be fine. We've been holding on, we can really do it."

A lone man strutted near the perimeter of the church, his fist tightened over his heart and his face a sort of twisted exaggeration of human emotions only seen in theater performances. It was as if whoever was making the expression and the original owner of that particular set of facial features were two different people, in the same way a puppeteer's hand and a new glove he was stretching out adapted to one another.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"

The man's voice was nearly drowned out in its entirety by the chaos of war surrounding it. A puppeteer never sticks to one puppet, however.

"All who fight in the name of this great land! All who wish to destroy evil!" The second man sounded a lot like the first. Their features were identical, actually, but through careful tweaks to clothing and a noticeable pitch added to his voice, it was likely that no one would notice through the heat of war.

The first man raised a cupped hand to his mouth and spoke once more.

"We must invade the church! There is nothing but corruption happening within!"

The second replied. "A great corruption of what once was pure!"

It was a classic technique. If two conmen seemed to be on different sides, it complicated matters to their advantage. Likewise, the second man favoring a more spiritual argument to compliment the first man's more practical, rebellious shouting added an organic touch to what might have otherwise been two parrots mindlessly repeating words. And Octavio had far more tact than that.

A third illusion skulked near them, a silent guard meant to prevent any unfortunate interruptions. He stood beside a few other men who had been drawn in by the illusion's words and raised his weapon in a powerful motion. He furrowed his brow and took a moment to wet his tongue before speaking.

"What these men shout must be nothing short of the truth!" He turned to the other men and women nearby, trying to meet as many eyes as possible and respond to silent doubts with a thundering approval from a man who seemed to be just like them until moments ago. "We must storm the church!"

"Storm the church!"

"We must!"

"Until our last breath!"

More voices, more weapons drawn. It was a disheveled and disorganized attempt at what an army was, but it was an army nonetheless. An army that was amassing quite a lot of new, stringless puppets.


"We're getting quite a bit of progress here," Octavio muttered, without moving a muscle. His eyes remained clamped shut and his hands remained on either temple. "All a rockslide needs is a couple of good pebbles in the right direction."

"I suppose veneers don't matter when our lives are on the line this often," he stated, not making eye contact with Chres. "No, I am no true nobleman. I grew up under... shall we say unfortunate circumstances, and had to sharpen my tongue to feed it." The dry start of a chuckle creaked out of him. "Although I suppose the throwing knives and constant bickering with Lynx outpaced my words at some point." The battlefields and peaceful lands turned battlefields they found themselves in had never been the time to talk as allies, and their periods of respite had Octavio thinking less about the benign and more about the myriad of threats surrounding them. The truth was out there now, at the very least.

His words slowed from their typical patter. "Wanting something. No, it wasn't that clear cut. It was more of a continual testing, a sort of odd verbal probing. She wanted to test her information and myself simultaneously, it felt like. Wanting to see if I'd stick to defending my principles and the rest of you." His eyebrows arched upwards. "And I did, you know."

It would have been simple to end the conversation there, but the dread of that day continued to loom over him. "She seemed satisfied, in her own enigmatic way. Her last words were a warning. She'd return... and... so would my sister."

Alex thumped to the rhythm of a song in his head as the others deliberated their course of action, his knuckles pausing with every swivel of his neck to listen to what another person had to say. Siegfried was unamused by the idea, but the same could be said of his perception of Alex as a whole. He felt like an older brother, if that older brother had the opposite personality of his actual older brother. Kalie was out of the question too. Sif was more ambiguous, but clearly had other priorities.

Kazuki spoke... and teetered... and drank... and drank..

He answered the bard in earnest regardless. "These disappearances are too specific to be some griefer or troll. Whoever or whatever's behind this is probably a bigger deal than people goofing off too hard, I think." There was more on his mind, but Kazuki's surprise trip to the ground had been a good end to the conversation as any. He watched in morbid fascination as Kazuki's princely demeanor carried over into his drunken slump, giving the movement an almost gentle air.

"Huh." he muttered. At least Kazuki's brother was there to help the guy. A pang of envy made a frown jolt across his face for a split second. "All me and Seele have are papers," he told Graves. "There's no telling what the cause is yet, either. Could be something that doesn't bleed, though I sure hope it does." He sighed. Once again, he didn't want the kaleidescope of bizarre ideas in his head to spill too hard onto everyone else. He'd have to tame his impatience and let people approach this from all sorts of angles to establish a better feedback loop among everyone.

The tavern cleared itself of wayfarers as he ruminated, some having committed to the more domestic and economic problems they were now going to have to deal with. The idea of a powerful adventurer slaying dragons and then dying from not packing enough sandwiches or having too many tears in his gear was kind of funny to him, but it was now a possibility, and something that had probably already happened more than once in this world. It was food for thought.

"I think we before we head out to any of the possible dissapearance spots we should just talk to the people connected to the disappeared. I don't think whatever this is is gonna strike in the same place twice, anyways." He dragged his knuckles through the surface of the wood and raised them to cross his arms. "What do you guys think?"

Alex looked up from his sprawling mess of documents for what felt like the hundredth time, his eyebrows either widening or tensing based on what words got speared across the tavern. Despite the amount of effort he placed in his investigations, the conclusions were no longer inside his head, as it instead thrummed with an entirely different set of mysteries.

He'd come to a realization not too long ago, one that made him audibly laugh and had continued to morbidly entertain him since. He'd spent his life living as a passive, even hedonistic man with a reckless streak and a desire to stay out of any trouble that wasn't his, followed by the undercurrent of a desire to divert from that, to be something more, a hero on the times he allowed himself to use such an immature word. And it came true. The opportunity that couldn't have possibly been granted in the world of reality had reared its head and crashed into him at full speed.

He empathized with anyone feeling weak or scared. The phrase "be careful what you wish for" had been a particularly reocurring intrusive thought of his, and he definitely struggled with regrets and fear. But they were going to solve this fucking mystery if no one else would. He cleared his throat, and the mechanical horse wheeze of a noise seemed to have at least gotten some people's attention.

"Well, uh, back when this was a game everyone had their own reasons for playing. The people not fighting might just be doing other things. And that could help us. Like right now," he made a broad sweep of his arms towards the documents laid out in front of him. "pla- way-people are disappearing and I have my suspicions."

It was tempting to blurt out his own ideas, but forcing answers onto people was what he decided on intentionally avoiding. If he interviewed people separately then they'd give better information than if he were to fill them in on what any other wayfarer or denizen answered. Likewise, he wanted his party members to draw their own conclusions first. "Seele's right, but I'm also thinking a little more long-term. The reason why this is even an incident in the first place is because people haven't banded together tightly enough. We approach the right people, we talk, we network, and something like this becomes harder for everyone involved."


I don't know.

The words draped themselves over both sides of every parchment Alex took notes in, rocking in tandem to the flickers of candlelight that followed him late into the night. His eyes had spent hours wandering along the labyrinth of documents he'd taken from the guild advisor, losing themselves over and over again in between the black hedgerows of ink. This was a lot more difficult than he intially thought. Talking was easy, approaching others was easy. It was the reverse, the analysis, the understanding, the listening, that was hard. This had all been the latter, a one-way conversation between him and those presumed missing or worse.

He'd been in a situation similar to this. Clutching his brother's bony hand, asking himself the difficult questions, trying to draw the right conclusions. The years after that were heavy, only lightened by the eventual talks of video games and LARP campaigns Alex feigned interest in. But the memories never faded, and his family or his brother's friends never forgot. Even in the world of Pariah did the stares of his brother's friends carve their way into him. It didn't matter how many layers of extravagant armor or fantasy crafting tchotchkes were between them, he'd always be the stupid kid who smoked cigarettes in the school bathrooms, the poser who thought he was some kind of artist, the one who ignored his brother until it was almost too late.

He woke up with a startle. He must've fallen asleep at some point, predictably. Facing him was a crude drawing of a pair of eyes he had no recollection of ever making. He stared, and they stared back. He averted his gaze out of instinct.

He dragged himself out of his dorm chair, and a piece of parchment stuck to his cheek through drool fluttered along with him. He peeled it off, gave it a quick inspection, then added it to a messy pile.

"Mmh.. shit."


His body's initial groans of protest diminished with the walk to the Laughing Worg, as the barrage of thoughts concerning the case took priority over everything else. Knowing he was late only minimized the aching even further. If his party couldn't prevent the loss of more wayfarers, they could at least discover the answers needed to be the voice of those who no longer had one. It was a strange goal, but as someone who had nearly lost a family member, he knew every name on paper was a person with a similar story, one with people who loved them.

His brisk walk transitioned into a hard shove of the tavern doors, one arm clutching the small yet important stack of documents he'd picked to analyze. He'd taken the most important of his findings with him, folded and shoved in the middle of the stack in an attempt to conceal it from any prying eyes.

"Crap, sorry I'm late!"

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