skidcrow

OBLIVION

IM STILL MAKING THEM

OBLIVION

<Snipped quote by nodogs>

But is it with the keypad attachment or is it manually typed with the on-screen keyboard? Now that is the question.

@Kuro

manually typed on-screen, if you look up controller companion on steam theres screenshots

OBLIVION

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Tie a noose around her neck and throw her in front of a fucking bullet train. Everything CJ’s doing—the ridiculous dig that’s too stupid to be getting under Jack’s skin like this, her body language, Jackie—is just so… so fucking CJ. Jack has to fight to get another mouthful of her drink down around her throat closing in on itself. There’s about a third of the glass left, and only a very steady buzz settling in her head, but she knows if she downs the rest right now then this night isn’t ending in anything but a disaster. After a brief moment, she scoots the drink out of her reach—half restraint, and half because Hanna is picking up people’s tabs and Jack almost breaks the glass with how tightly she grips it. Casey catches her eye from down the bar and pulls a ‘yikes’ face. She makes a mental note to threaten him later. On the second Jackie of the night, Jack’s jaw clenches so hard she sees stars. She raps her fingers on the bartop and takes a breath, turning so she’s facing somewhere between CJ and the back of the bar. “I hear the economy’s really been going up, so. Price of coffee’s gone down by ten whole cents. And that’s just in the last year.” She tries for another sip of her drink. It goes down well. “It was storming super bad earlier, though—what time did you get into town, exactly?” Jack jokes, but there’s no humor in her voice. She glances past CJ towards the table. A few people shuffle past the bar, venturing deeper inside to fill out the corners as P.J’s peak hours crawl closer. Just a couple hours of this and she can be on her way with a nice fire in her chest. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ #1.01 WAY DOWN WE GO ubu — methyl ethel p. johnson’s interacting with: @TGM, casey [npc] ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

OBLIVION

posting here as a physical reminder that @nodogs's next post has to be typed with a 360 controller

@Kuro

"yeah sorry babe ill be right there im just typing a roleplay post with my xbox 360 controller"

OBLIVION

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

She flinches. Nobody else calls her Jackie. Nobody has called her Jackie since CJ, and Jack flinches because she isn’t expecting it. She isn’t expecting any of this. Her fingers twitch for a cigarette while she watches CJ disappear inside, left only with her final remark and the slowly-building chatter that pushes through the windows like a low hum. Sometimes, Jack would get the last word in, but it was mostly CJ. It’s always fucking CJ. Another cigarette so soon would practically be chainsmoking, and Jack isn’t really in need of a smoke, but she needs something to do. Something that isn’t being stuck in P.J’s all night with the worst reminder of high school the universe could throw at her, all while having nowhere else to go because her adult life isn’t faring much better. Jack paws at her phone again, fumbling to flip it the right way up and stare at the missed call notification again until it burns into her retinas. Jack: we can talk in the morning Fuck no. Erica would flay her alive if she sent that. Jack: at pj’s Nope. Jack: at pj’s. i can talk later No. Jack: i love you No, no, fucking no. Jack switches her phone all the way off and runs a frustrated hand through her hair. Is this how people usually feel? Constantly fucked over with a thousand things to deal with? Fuck this. If Jack’s gonna commit to this, she’s gonna commit. With one last look over at her bike to check everything’s secure, and a firm kick to CJ’s with the side of her foot, Jack tucks her hands in the pockets of her leather bomber and strides into P.J’s, warm air settling on her cheeks as she makes a direct line for the bar. Some shitty synth pop song plays over the speakers—clearly Casey’s not in charge of the playlist tonight she thinks, watching him walk down the bar to her while the other bartender on shift deals with what can only be the Ritman group. She tries peering through the thin crowd to see who else is attending, but one glimpse of bleach blonde has her staring back down at the bartop. “Shit, dude, did it go that badly?” Casey whispers as Jack’s attention remains fixed on the small gathering. Smoke guy from outside carries a drink and some food to the table, and that’s when Jack makes him—it’s Lucas fucking Watson. At least she won’t be the only one having a miserable time tonight. She tries to catch a look at the faces sitting at the table now there’s a clearer view, but misses her opportunity right as Lucas sits down. Jack focuses back on Casey, who’s giving her a look that says she just completely ignored everything he just said. “Yeah, kinda having a shitty night,” she supplies, trying so hard to look out the corner of her eye that it starts giving her a headache. “Okay, well, holy shit, Cyclops. I’ll get you a drink before your head explodes.” Casey placates, palms spread. He disappears in a blur of his black P.J’s uniform and pastel orange undercut, digging about at the other end of the bar. Jack can probably guess what he’s fixing her up. He returns post-haste, drink in one hand and card machine in the other. “Am I paying or drinking first?” Jack queries, pulling out her wallet. It’s one of those fancy metal ones that every annoying tech bro with a Bitcoin account has, where the cards slide up for use. She got an off brand one at a heavy discount, but she hasn’t lost a single card since she started using it, so she guesses it’s the kind of worthwhile investment you make as an adult. “You know customers don’t get to sample the product,” Casey remarks. “But since you kinda look like shit… it’s a shot of every rum we have, enough fruit juice to make your grandma shit herself, and a tipple of vodka.” He grins, waving the card machine in Jack’s face. She squints at the total displayed and winces, begrudgingly tapping her card on the screen. “You’re lucky I like you,” Jack sneers into her drink. Casey balls the receipt up and expertly tosses it into the trash, folding his arms against the bar. “You’re lucky I like you,” he playfully corrects. “Speaking of: your type, 7 o’clock. You’re welcome.” Jack glances back and Casey pounces on the opportunity to disappear back down the other end of the bar. It’s more like 8 o’clock, not 7, but sure enough, CJ’s up from her seat and walking straight to the bar with a menu in hand. Jack silently curses and gulps down half her drink. There’s nowhere to run to unless she wants to walk right into the lion’s den and wait for the lion to get back, so she steels herself, elbow propped on the polished wood. She doesn’t know what kind of favor Casey thought he was doing her, but she mentally thanks him, shitty music ever-drumming in her ears as CJ closes the distance. If I was one of the good ones I don’t think you’d like me I’m one of the bad ones And that’s why you feel lucky If they only fucking knew. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ #1.01 WAY DOWN WE GO bad ones — matthew dear p. johnson’s interacting with: casey [npc] ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

OBLIVION

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

So maybe Jack had neglected to check the RSVP list before crashing the party. But, shit, she seriously isn’t expecting the sight that greets her when she pulls up to P.J’s. The motorcycle’s engine cuts dead—parked right next to a mean-looking Scout, what the fuck—and Jack moves with swift muscle memory, slipping her helmet off and depositing it on the seat, all the while her eyes barely tear away from the blonde standing against the wall. CJ fucking Markowitz, smoking with… well, Jack sorta can’t tell. Her phone burns a hole in her jeans as she stands like a deer in headlights and she quickly rips it from her pocket, switching on the screen to be met with the notification of Erica’s missed call a few minutes ago. She can’t bring herself to call Erica back, the same way she can’t bring herself to move a few paces past CJ and straight into P.J’s. Somehow, being one of (apparently) several gays in the village still causes the biggest problems for her. CJ’s new smoke buddy makes his leave and retreats into the glowing interior, Jack’s window of opportunity leaving with him. It’s just the two of them outside now. Jack can feel the fresh Maine air on her skin, and the lack of any significantly sized buildings in Delton leaves the surrounding wilderness free to view from any angle, yet she feels more trapped than if she were in a fucking Saw trap. Two seconds into her high school reunion and she’s already stuck between a rock and a CJ. Swallowing to combat her suddenly dry throat, Jack jams her phone back in her pocket and approaches cautiously, arms folded. “Figured you’d be the last person to show up at this thing.” Because CJ, unlike Jack, actually managed to get the fuck out of this place. She was free and clear of Delton, and yet here she is, dragging her chains back like she’s about to warn Jack of three ghostly specters visiting her tonight. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ #1.01 WAY DOWN WE GO so good — warpaint p. johnson’s interacting with: @TGM ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

OBLIVION

ic post headers are montserrat regular size 24

ic skeleton - view raw

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	█ #X.0X EPISODE TITLE song name — artist 1 ▸ 2 interacting with: name/@, name/@ ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

OBLIVION

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

“PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHERE THE REMOTE IS,” whines Josh Haverford, a scrawny eighteen-year-old slacker—and shift manager at the Bistro, for some reason. “This is Sleater-Kinney, you fucking ingrate,” Jack says with a cigarette pinched between her teeth. There’s a thin crowd of people in the Bistro right now, but even during rush hour conversations usually transpire like this. People in Delton accept what’s outside of the typical realm of ‘good customer service’; probably because they think it adds to the family-run business vibe. She flicks the cigarette up and tucks it behind her ear, folding her apron and leaving it on the counter. “You’re not turning it off.” “You’re only getting off work early ‘cause your dad owns the place!” Josh fires over his shoulder, too busy getting ready for his shift to trail after her with taunts. “Yeah, and I’ll get him to fire your punk ass!” Jack fires back, pushing down on the lever of the fire escape door. Josh responds by flipping off the door as it slams shut. “Fuckin’ kids, man,” Jack mutters outside, hesitating for a moment to dwell on how old it makes her sound. Five years since her ‘graduation’ and she’s still throwing venom at eighteen-year-olds. She shakes the feeling off as quickly as it comes on and retrieves her cigarette, lighting it. She pauses to take a drag before walking through the alley, where her motorcycle waits parked against the brick wall. Out of the few things she’s done since graduating, getting her license and a decent Sportster is definitely up there. She can bet nobody’s gonna be rocking up to P.J’s tonight on a Harley, and—Jesus, why the fuck does she care? Her ringtone helpfully starts blaring and Jack quickly answers the call. “Somebody’s anxious,” she jokes, her voice laced with an uncharacteristic warmth. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting into a screaming match with the stick insect again,” comes a distant voice from the other end, interwoven with a lot of rustling. “Jesus, Patrick Bateman, you laying out newspaper?” Jack snorts, balancing on the seat of her bike. “I’m getting ready—” A pause for more rustling, “—and you’re cutting it close.” “I’m literally looking at my bike, Erica.” She takes another drag. “I’ll be right there.” “But you’ve got time for a smoke?” Erica’s voice is louder now, and the rustling seems to have stopped. Jack scowls, more at being caught out than anything. “Well, considering I only get five minutes for smoke breaks...” There’s more mirth in her voice than she wants. The fuck would be wrong with ten minutes? “Just quit worrying. It’s gonna be fun.” “You don’t even know the guy.” “Well, the friend of my girlfriend is my friend, or whatever,” Jack quips. “I’m gonna start driving up, like, right now, so.” “Okay,” Erica exhales, the tension leaving her voice. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.” “I love you, too.” The line clicks dead. Jack stuffs her phone back into her pocket and stares at the half-smoked cigarette. After a moment, she sighs, dropping it on the ground and stomping on it. For posterity, she rummages through her jacket, grabbing her pack to check how many’s left. Empty. Shit. Jack all but slams the helmet onto her head and pulls out of the alley. The detour for another pack of cigarettes eats up 20 minutes of her time—she only ever goes to the minimart out by Majestic Plaza, since the guy there knows her and has a stash of imported cigarettes he sells her for cheap—and Jack stops for a smoke break once she’s secured them. Mistake number one, because right as she lights up, her phone begins to light up. Erica: Send me your location With a groan, Jack runs a hand through her hair. She’d told Erica that was her last pack of cigarettes. Majestic is a good thirteen minutes out of the way of Erica’s. Erica is an amateur-turning-professional novelist, who can’t afford to have her public image be tarnished by her unreliable girlfriend. Jack: i just needed to stop and grab some stuff Erica: Jesus christ Jack I just wanted one night Jack: just give me a few more minutes Erica: Forget it. Do whatever you wanna do Jack’s thumbs hover hopelessly over the buttons on her phone’s keyboard. She considers fighting for the relationship, but what if it doesn’t work? She doesn’t even know where to start. Whatever she needs to do, she doesn’t want to think about it just yet. If she can’t get boozy at some party full of strangers, then she’ll have to go to a party full of people that do know her. People that probably know the worst of her. And she’s going to do it the way she always used to—showing up unexpected. With renewed vigor, Jack finishes her cigarette and turns her phone off, starting up her motorbike set on a course to P.J’s. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ #1.01 WAY DOWN WE GO one more hour — sleater-kinney delton station bistro ▸ p. johnson's interacting with: erica ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Not shortly after sending out the email en masse, did Ivory spin in her office chair and take a deep breath. Her face was frozen in an awe struck expression, like, ”Did I really just send that out?”. Her puzzled face gained its elasticity back when her body finally went limp with acceptance. A slow exhale crept out of her mouth, almost forming a mist it was so thick. Of course, she sent it. Who else was going to have the intention and the reach to? She was the head of the yearbook club 3 years running, no nepobaby in sight. She spun back around and slammed her mac book shut, before checking to see if she damaged her two-band investment. Her drawer slid out revealing her tools and weapons, like an armory hidden behind a whiteboard or false painting. Instead of knives and guns, it was pens and binders. Her father always said a trapper keeper would have been easier, but she hated the bulk even though the aesthetic was clean. Fingers traced over meticulously curated pages of notes in a very cramped planner. The amount of planning she was about to do to ensure a smooth transition for this reunion was about to be egregious. And with weeks of deliberation and no response for the first couple of weeks, Ivy was beginning to have second thoughts on the whole thing. It was foolish of her to have no semblance of mind to believe there was a possibility it would just be her and some streamers. Another stressful attempt to balance work/life left her in a pool of her own drool, on that same dang mac. The drum of an outlook notification surged her awake, few things sent her into a PTSD frenzy, the alarm on iPhone’s being another. It was from CJ Markowitz, the last person she expected to reply, or should she have been the first? Regardless, her eyes did a full-on sprint when sifting through each and every word. Her efforts weren’t for naught. From there on it was a domino effect, ping after ping came in when she was doing laundry or making her fifth juice cleanse she found off TikTok. There were blunders which saw RSVPers turn to pull outs. Once the dust settled there were 5 including her that were locked in for the fateful reunion. The day of, Ivory is tearing with effervescent excitement. Perhaps this is the start of her redemption for not putting more effort into her peers instead of her peers’ best interests. CJ and Anni are going to be the toughest to crack, that is if they haven’t changed since graduation year. Hanna making an appearance sets her heart aflame, that whittle superstar. Lucas is going to be a mystery to her, but she never gives up a good mystery. With a last touch of her make up and flattening of the fabric of her top she heads out to meet her rental car. There is already sweat accumulating under her arms from the nerves. She’s been in Delton for a week now, yet seeing her neighborhood feels like the first time with each car ride. She makes her way into P.J’s, worried she’s made the owner sick by seeing the same face for a better part of the day every day. “This is the last time, I swear. And I’ll finally take that drink you think I should have had by now. Tom Collins—no cherry please and thank you” she turns around to prop her elbows on the bar while she shakes her hands out, “Come on Ivy League, a meteor isn’t going to bail you out this time.” Or is it? ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

█ #1.01 WAY DOWN WE GO grown up — danny brown hilton suites ▸ p. johnson's interacting with: barkeep ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

wayward. — a midwestern sol roleplay

good evening