![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsehowmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
redstringtheories2023-05-01 11:31 am
TDM #22
(NOTE: There will be no TDM or applications in June as we will be running our Arc 2 finale. If you wish to jump into the game, please be sure to app this month!)
(cw: potential for severe disorientation/vertigo, claustrophobia, arachnophobia, body horror)
It happens in the blink of an eye. You may have been asleep. You may not have. You may have stepped through a door or turned a corner. You may have seen a flicker of something at the corner of your vision and turned to look. Or maybe you didn't.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that you find yourself somewhere entirely new and entirely unfamiliar. The arrival point is not always the same. (If you're lucky, it might be a canteen or an open office. If you're not, well... you aren't claustrophobic, are you? Or arachnophobic. These ducts do seem to be a bit cobwebby.) You might even arrive in a section of building that has been demolished, leaving a pit of rubble open to the sky–hope you're up on your tetanus shots! There is no one waiting for you but you don’t seem to be alone, either. Even in a janitor’s closet or the bathroom, you’ll find at least one person who seems to be just as out of place as you are. The one exception is the demolition zone off what used to be one corner of the building: it seems the security teams are keeping a particularly close eye on that area to document new arrivals and bring them in quickly.
If characters have arrived in a location devoid of NPCs, they may want to work together to figure out what is going on... or to avoid their 'kidnappers.' If you’ve arrived in the middle of the entry foyer or the gym, there may well be a few people who startle a bit at your arrival and try to approach (or discreetly leave the room... where are they going?). Will you cooperate or fight? Do you even understand what they're saying? You might need to find a translator, if you’re not immediately willing to follow a stranger.
After characters follow their new hosts (or are forcibly taken in) there will be a limited tour and the chance to settle in at the ADI-provided housing. (Do you enjoy living with strangers? Well. It's a new situation to navigate, anyway.)
(cw: supernaturally-induced anxiety and mistrust; victimization; stalking)
Flyers have appeared throughout Gloucester. Have you seen this person? They're wanted for questioning on suspected supernatural activities. Most of the locals laugh them off as some advertising gimmick, particularly when it seems that every photograph shows someone who works for ADI. It's not just the people actually doing supernatural things, but anyone associated with the place at all. While most take the idea of the supernatural a little more seriously these days, this seems… odd to them.
Maybe you're one of the people thinking it's especially odd when you're confronted with a stalker-esque photograph of yourself plastered along a block. Have you been caught doing something you shouldn't? Are you being accused unfairly? Regardless of the answer, people are seeing this, and they might have their suspicions aroused or their opinions changed by all of this. It's nerve-wracking, isn't it? Thinking you might be cast out of your group to the wolves. Maybe more nerve-wracking than would be normal for you. There's a tick of anxiety that might even feel foreign and out of place, but it is still very much there.
Calling the number on the flier will get you a feminine voice demanding, "Tell me everything you know." Regardless of the answer, the voice will simply respond with, "Noted." The hang-up is abrupt and multiple attempted calls will just result in your number being blocked. Those who ask around about who put up the fliers will get descriptions of a rather fierce and focused woman who claims to have come down from Buffalo. The name 'Jeff' has come up more than once with her for those she's questioned in-person, but her net seems to have been widened from just one person, and she's now on the hunt for more than just one potential 'avatar.' Whatever that means. Most locals assume it's an anime thing and move on. You can't shake the feeling that this person is after you, specifically, though. Maybe your new allies or friends, as well. And can you really trust the people who have their faces on these posters? Maybe you should be a good citizen and start removing all this paper debris… or start doing some asking around yourself.
(cw: spiders, ants, arson, burn injuries, implied danger to families and children, blood, body horror)
Even monsters tend to find a sort of equilibrium in the world at times, perhaps in ways that no one notices until the supernatural ecosystem is suddenly disrupted. In the days after a new Avatar takes up residence in Dogtown, a number of other things come streaming out of Dogtown in numbers that haven't been seen in months.
The first and the most numerous are the spiders. Spiders of all types and descriptions are suddenly everywhere in Gloucester. Most are various house spiders, tiny and generally harmless to humans, but here and there a black widow or brown recluse turns up, or a fat tarantula fails to find a hiding spot for its hairy bulk. There's hardly a place in Gloucester without spiders lurking in the corners of the ceiling, crawling in the walls, draping trees in their webs, or scuttling away in shocking numbers when you move a piece of furniture and happen across a whole nest of them. Everywhere you go there's the phantom sensation of walking through spiderwebs strung across doorways, sidewalks, and paths. Sometimes the cobweb is real and brushing it away sends a little spider fleeing; other times it's hard to say whether that thread you felt brush across your face was really there or if it was all in your imagination.
As for what the spiders are doing, though, the answer appears to be…nothing. Though they're present in fearsome numbers, though some of them have deadly venom, the spiders don't swarm or attack. If anything, they're even more inclined to run and hide than normal spiders, seeming to be keenly focused on survival rather than any sort of specific campaign of action. They learn and adapt quickly, too, should anyone go out of their way to kill them in large numbers. The spiders seem to actually recognize individuals and actively avoid anyone who's particularly prolific in the art of spider-smashing. Though they may not be the most pleasant roommates, it appears the spiders are simply…present.
Less pacifistic are the other creatures that come pouring out of Dogtown in the days that follow. The swarms of spiders might almost be forgotten in the face of the next swarm: one of fire ants. At least, people take to calling them fire ants as shorthand; whether or not these are actually members of the genus Solenopsis is neither known nor particularly relevant to the current problem–namely, that these are fire ants in a very literal sense that speaks to the cruelty of the universe. Their sting causes not just the feeling of being burned but the actual physical consequences of it; someone unfortunate enough to come in contact with the swarm may find an entire arm or leg covered in second or third degree burns. Their tiny bodies are like smoldering coals, and anywhere they nest grows hot and smoky until whatever structure has provided them shelter finally ignites like kindling. The roaming red swarm is, in contrast to the spiders, highly aggressive. The ants seek out victims, drawn especially to family homes and anyone with a lot to lose to the fire.
Whether the creatures that rise from the river of blood in Dogtown are worse still is up for debate. They're less destructive, perhaps, but no less unnerving–and no less dangerous to an unwary individual caught alone at night. From a distance they look almost like creatures made of raw, bloody meat. Up close, it becomes clear that the key word is blood. It's as though the reeking blood of the river itself has congealed into gelatinous creatures, each with the skeleton of some unfortunate animal (or, in a few rare and unsettling instances, human) inside. They thirst for fresh blood straight from the source and will attack with the intent to kill and drain their victims. For any brave individuals willing to hunt the creatures, they're easy enough to track down–they leave glaringly obvious trails of bloody footprints everywhere they go. Somewhat less straightforward is the issue of fighting and killing them, as they're able to reshape themselves and regenerate their jelly-like limbs and bodies so long as they still have enough mass to shape around their bones. Perhaps something more destructive than bludgeoning or shooting them will be more effective?
(cw: agoraphobia, monophobia, risk to life and limb; loud alarm sound in the second link)
Roughly ten months ago, the skyline of Gloucester got a little taller. The extra signal towers have made your home their home for quite some time. Yet over the last few days, their numbers seem to be thinning out during the nighttime hours. Maybe they have somewhere to be. Those towering, sinewy, creatures left behind seem content enough to stay. Although, to anyone with a sharp enough eye, they still seem to shift and move around the city every now and then.
It’s not a special or notable day when they intermittently send out a fresh signal around town. Different blocks on different days will hear the signal issued from their phones, car radios, emergency broadcast systems, anything that could have a speaker. It lances through your ears, into your brains and leaves a hash pulse just behind your eyelids.
The next time you blink, the city has vanished.
The rush of wind is violently loud and everything seems bright around you. An attempt to move around finds you stuck. Strapped in and trapped in a tightly enclosed space with wings and a propeller. A small, one-man plane. By the time your eyes adjust, maybe it’ll occur to you to take over the controls and pull yourself out of the free-fall dive your plane had been headed in. Funny how the ground never seems to truly get any closer. Whether you try to land or fly out and away or even up, every sense and sensor tells you you’re moving, yet the scenery never seems to truly change. Just you, your plane, and the wide open nothing around you as far as the eye can see.
Those familiar with the area or maps might be able to pick out a rough estimate of location: the general area of the Northeastern coastline. Forests spread out like an ocean beneath you and an ocean on your right hand side beyond that. Far below, just barely visible or noticeable, keen eyes might spot something familiar: the tall, signal-pad heads of the creatures that have been vanishing from town. They don’t seem to notice you, so far above, but they appear to be moving, their long, rusted, twisted legs carry them with wide strides in various directions away from Gloucester. Where? It’s hard to tell, they blend in so well with the trees, keeping an eye on them is almost impossible for long. Perhaps it’s better to simply focus on your own predicament.
After all, even those caught in the same signal might not find themselves stuck in the air. Instead they blink back the pulsing headache with a small nosebleed and someone nearby jerking and reacting and looking at…nothing, but they sure seem intent on walking. Those not caught in the vision might see a friend or stranger dead-set on walking out of town or down to the ocean, regardless of any hazards or people around them and shouting barely seems to do the trick. It’s hard to hear over all that wind, after all.
- ARRIVAL (May 1-31): Two people will almost always arrive in the same general location together. Arrivals occur throughout the early month, not all on the same day or in the same place. Arrivals are not naturally fluent in English/other languages immediately upon arrival. Characters may attempt to evade capture, but they will eventually be snagged before they can leave the building (or the rubble that used to be part of the building). PC's already in-game are more than welcome to interact with and try to guide new PC's to get them oriented. Please refer to the Arrival page for details regarding the arrival and onboarding process, as well as information about the state of ADI Headquarters.
- LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH (May 1-15): You may find photos of your own character or others at ADI while out on the streets. The whole town has been plastered with many of them. Trying to track the source of the phone number to be called seems to be strangely impossible, even for those with supernatural abilities in that arena. The woman people have seen will not be available for interaction during this TDM, but she will be available at a later point. Characters trying to investigate her will have very little to go on apart from the fact that she claims to have come down from Buffalo and seems to have it out for everyone even a little enmeshed with the supernatural happenings of Gloucester. The posters induce either a sense of anxiety about your own situation or some mistrust about the people you're seeing on the posters.
- FOR THEY ARE BUT MERE MONSTERS (May 1-15): To sum up, three types of creatures have come swarming out of Dogtown: spiders, which don't appear to be taking any kind of aggressive action; fire ants, which are lighting things on fire; and blood jelly creatures, which are attacking individuals to kill them and drain their blood. The fire ants are susceptible to being crushed like ants or snuffed out like a fire, and the blood creatures are susceptible to being burned (though the smell will be horrendous). The spiders are susceptible to anything that normally kills spiders.
- TERROR AT 20,000 FEET (May 1-15): Anyone can be caught in the signal’s radius, it only last a few seconds, but the visions will last until a physical action is taken upon someone effect (i.e. a slap or shake or hit by a car) and the person will be moving their hands and head like they’re seeing or reacting to something that isn’t there. Those not affected by visions, will suffer a migraine the rest of the day and a nosebleed for nearly a minute after the sounds end, but see nothing of what someone else might see. At least for that day. Characters might see the visions on another day if they’re caught in the signal more than once.
no subject
She snickers at his response. Her stupid needs no acknowledgement. That's how she got to be friends with Cass.
She's smiling over at him and thinking she should probably stop teasing him for a little bit when he tells her he missed her. She could swear her heart skipped a beat, her face turning so red that she can feel the heat in her ears. That's cheating, she thinks, before he goes on.
All that blood rushes out of her face fast enough to make her dizzy. Her blushing, uncertain expression morphs into one of horrified dismay.
"Two-- what? Two years?" Her voice is nearly a whisper. He was here for two years, in this place that literally feeds on fear, while nobody even knew he was gone?
no subject
"Yep," he confirms. Two years. Maybe. Look-- it's complicated.
But... that's that. It's not like he can elaborate here. There's civilians around them, all clueless people. Tim squashes a spider (a small and hairy thing) before it can hide under Steph. See?
He's a gentleman.
"You're going to meet so many different kinds of people here."
Because he loves his lead-ins and also: Tim is tired. He continues. "It's really phenomenal. The place we're headed? It belongs to Neal and Malcolm. Malcolm Bright and I shared a room when we first arrived. If anything happens-- you go to them first. I mean it. Got it?"
no subject
A place that feeds on fear... she should try to brace herself for that. That kind of darkness has overwhelmed her before.
She turns back with nothing more than a light frown and tense jaw.
"Neal and Malcolm. Got it."
no subject
Their lives were never meant to be easy.
She looks elsewhere. He does too. He's sorry about bringing down the mood. And not. It had to happen.
He needs to tell her about Jeff.
About Lovely Ren. The Eye. The spying, invading the lives and conversations of those civilians he wants to shield from outright talk of monsters and things that go bump in the night.
"I already told you I did my time in I.T. I'm spending most of my time working in Equipment nowadays, though. Sometimes Security."
A part of him says this doesn't matter.
"Have you given any thought to where you're going to set up camp? Company Housing, Bonnie's?"
no subject
"I've got a couple of ideas. I was gonna stay in Company Housing until I get a feel for things around here, and then make a decision." She's not sure about the company in general, or anything she's been told for that matter. Then again, her best alternative is setting out on her own and trying to stay off the grid in a city overflowing with both magic and surveillance. Not a fun way to live.
no subject
Some habits die hard.
"We'll get you back home."
Like hoping against hope. Like jumping erratically from one topic to the next.
Speaking of-- there's their stop. Tim points quickly to one simple, blue, 2-story right down the lane.
"Come on."
no subject
She puts her hand on the seat to push herself up and finds a spider an inch from her pinkie. She jerks her hand away from it and follows Tim. She can try to get it out of him later.
no subject
Tim chews on his tongue.
And then they're on their way to the house's front door. There's a messy little "B1" painted above the lock that Tim slips a key into.
It's been a long moment of silence. Tim ushers her in to blessed air conditioning, and a neat and simple living space.
"Nobody here knows about the graveyard shift we pull. There are no capes, there's no Gotham or Central or Metropolis on the map here. Or in the lives of anyone else brought to ADI. I just didn't find it relevant."
--oh yeah. He had promised her coffee. Tim... searches for said coffee, like someone unused to actually working the machine. The kitchen counters are lined with too many benzos for Bright. Antibiotics and painkillers for Drake. The really good coffee is literally just above Tim on an accessible shelf. But the guy's a dunce.
"I don't think I've named anyone beyond... not any more than just twice. I don't know what's listening, or who is laying low too. Plausible deniability is big, here."
He finally finds the coffee. Three cheers?
"What Stephanie Brown has experienced in her life... could be different from Tim Drake's."
...
"Uh."
...
"I need to leave you for a sec. My, uh, leg feels like it's gonna fall off."
no subject
Taking a seat at the counter, she takes note of what he tells her.
"No capes at all?" Gotham and Metropolis not existing is weird, but no vigilantes is much harder for her to fathom than eldritch horrors that feed on fear. Still, she doesn't see the subject coming up too often.
She's about to ask what he means about different experiences, but she finds her own habits die hard too. She's peeking at the names on the prescription bottles that aren't even remotely her business. It's not like she would know if any of them were sketchy. Seeing the name "Drake" is like having a bucket of ice water dumped on her head. His explanation comes only a second later.
She had forgotten. He had told her it had been two years and she had forgotten that he was limping. What kind of person does that? Who just assumes that their friend is faking an injury and then forgets about it?
"Go-! Go right ahead, don't worry about me." She practically shouts in her embarrassment, but manages to return to her casual tone by the end of the sentence.
She should help him make coffee, shouldn't she? She'd thought it was entertaining to watch him fumble around for it. She is the worst. He can never know. He probably already knows. Crap.
no subject
He could grin. Dopey and star struck. Stephanie Brown. Alive and well. Tim won't grin, though he does smirk with that promise of I know something you don't know which he knows she finds irritating.
Some things just need to be done, and it's doesn't really matter how much anyone dislikes it.
"There's a... frother around here somewhere. I'm not allowed to touch it ever since I told Neal I bit the toaster."
Which in his defense had been trying to kill him. But he's earned his right to revel in the absurdity of it all. "But make yourself at home. I made sure no kitchen appliances were homicidal before I left."
--he maybe locks himself in the bathroom longer than strictly necessary for a simple change. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to think, what he is thinking, much less what he should be thinking. Beyond overwhelming evidence pointing to the idea that this is only ever going to hurt (hurt him, hurt her, hurt them), there's a pulsing gray and callous, heavy comfort of selfish wishing.
Look.
Listen.
It's a lot, okay?
no subject
Once he's gone she covers her face with both hands and silently screams. What is wrong with her? Is she completely incapable of not acting like a total moron? And what the hell was that earlier? She was the one who said she didn't want to get back together, and now she's what, flirting? Why does everything always have to be so difficult between them? Get it together, Steph.
After mentally berating herself for a few moments and taking a deep breath she gets up to look for the frother. Maybe Tim isn't allowed, but nobody's ever said Stephanie Brown couldn't use it.
...What does a frother look like, actually? Sort of like a tiny handheld blender, right?
no subject
Assessing those weaknesses he's preached about. Keeping Steph away from... the Lonely, maybe.
He doesn't know.
The click of forearm crutches will let her know Tim Drake has finally emerged from hiding. Wearing a tee this time (proudly proclaiming that Birds Aren't Real) and loose shorts.
"What d'y'know," he drawls in greeting, always game to... stall. Despite the obvious. The obvious prosthetic in this case: his leg leg having been fully fucking decimated, the knee unsalvageable and thrown out with the rest if the useless meat that used to be his body.
Tim very gracefully slumps in a chair.
"My leg was indeed about to fall off."
Never let it be said he doesn't address the elephant in the room, heart beating wildly and voice confidently full of bull. He wants to pull at his hair, or scratch himself until he bleeds. All he can feel, looking at and studying her, are the spiders in his skull.
He sighs. Tired. "I shouldn't be out without the crutches. But I thought I could. They do fast... and good work at ADI. This happened in Buffalo. That was a month... two? I've been out of it for a little. Obviously. It's the small things... you're going to have to look out for, Steph. You're going to have to be better."
no subject
She straightens, and the look that ends up on her face is one of tortured grief. There are already tears threatening to overflow from her eyes. She grips the frother with both shaking hands, clenching her jaw hard enough to hurt. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but closes it again when nothing comes out.
How did this happen? Why? How bad was it? How bad is it still that he's on those painkillers? How hard must it be for him to adjust to not being able to do everything he used to do? How can she respond without hurting him more?
She realizes suddenly how she must look and turns around again, putting the frother down and going through the cabinets for mugs just to have something to do with her hands.
"Right, I'll... keep that in mind." It doesn't even occur to her to protest. All her energy is going into acting like everything is fine.
no subject
Tim wonders about offering help again, about forcing himself into her space.
She acts like she wants it all to be fine.
It is fine, because it has to be fine.
Still, Tim points to where they store the mugs just before she whips around to battle whatever is swirling in her thoughts. --the War Games? The aftermath?
"We were investigating a traveling museum exhibit. And I had to sss...top to tie my shoes. Because I had a mismatched pair of laces." (The 's' is dragged on in a shockingly boyish way- embarrassment is a heck of a thing.) "My partner and I entered a room we had already cleared, but I put my shoe on a folding chair."
Because he was lazy.
Nah, the point of this is
it's because he was stupid.
"If I had been any better, Stephanie, I would have remembered that the chair hadn't been there before."
Speaking of stupid, he should be glad he never sat his ass on that chair.
"I was supposed to know better. And you're going to have to remember that there's very little you can trust here. None of this is a game."
no subject
She reaches for a mug, but her hands are shaking so badly that she needs both to pull it down without dropping it. She stops, lays her hands on the counter and lowers her head, taking a few breaths. It's not helping.
She knows he's trying to warn her. He's right, it's a stupid way to get hurt. And it has to be embarrassing to admit that it happened while he was retying a shoelace. But she can picture it perfectly. She can almost feel it, and if he lost so much of his leg what kind of shape must the rest of him have been in?
She feels a tear roll down her cheek and knows that she's finished. Abruptly she straightens, walks purposefully across the kitchen and up to his chair and throws her arms around him in the tightest hug she can manage. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't try to hold back her tears anymore either. So maybe her sympathy and pain will hurt him. She can't pretend this is fine.
no subject
He holds on for dear fucking life.
Welcome to Jackass, the neon marquee flashes across his empty skull.
His shoulders are in fact protesting, their positions awkward, and all Tim does is dig his chin into some part of her. Maybe the crook of her neck. It's half of a nuzzle and half dumb revenge, this give-give-give they have worked too many years on when it comes to inflicting small pains.
She's warm. Tim's vision is obscured by lengths of blonde hair, either purposefully or lazily made wavy and messy. If he were to press his lips to her neck, he thinks he can feel that pulse, pulse, pulsing of life.
If.
Instead he murmurs a... rehearsed, but not insincere, "It's fine, Steph."
Or, rather--
"It'll be okay. We'll find-- we'll figure it out."
And because he's a real son of a bitch and his heart hurts in a way she cannot understand, because Tim Drake was never given the opportunity to help, all he was left to do was know she'd been-- and then gone, and then--
"Steph, you're not going to be alone in this."
no subject
"It's not fine," she informs him, her voice squeaky and choked with tears but firm. It's not fine, and it's okay that it's not fine, and it's okay for him to admit it's not fine.
She sniffles and shakes her head against his shoulder, though she knows he can't see it.
"That's not important. Just... just don't die, okay?"
no subject
But Steph is crying and Tim has yet to make up his mind of how or what he feels and instead of dull gray his life is, right now, warm and golden. The tears and high, strained voice of hers makes that tidal wave of protective, obsessive, possessive nature prick at his throat. It's like suffocating. But nice. In a weird way.
Who the hell is she to say how things are when she doesn't know.
Tim brings a hand to the back of her head.
If he just pressed his lips against-- no, Tim takes the liberty to stroke her hair, once. Twice. It's kind of awkward. More awkward than comforting. But he tried. And then he... pulls back. Or rather, he pushes Steph off. Away. A little. An inch. She's crying. He's hiding. They've got to get it together.
The hand that had been petting her cups her cheek.
He hates to see her cry.
He hates that she has the damn audacity to
she literally cannot understand that death and
"Same to you, Batgirl."
A soft and gentle plea. She's going to think he's a... pod person or something. But damn, he really... doesn't want to move any more, right now.
no subject
She's afraid if she tries to answer she's going to break down again, so she only nods with a miserable smile. Maybe he is a pod person. Or maybe he's been stuck in a bed, in pain, playing those moments over and over in his mind until she's not sure anymore if she's awake or dreaming--
"Sorry. I didn't mean to..." She gestures vaguely at the damp spot she left on his shirt, but she's really apologizing for having a total emotional breakdown on him when he's probably struggling to sort out his own feelings.
She rubs at her eyes, trying to dry them. It doesn't work very well. The thought of him going through even a portion of what she did breaks her heart.
no subject
He snorts, because it's on him to get her to understand
"It's fine."
Even if he instinctively glances down at his shirt. There's something liberating about knowing this thing was bought on clearance.
Torn between telling her to get used to feeling inside-out and his self-inflicted responsibility to lighten up because there's something so wrong about the sight of Steph so disheartened, Tim scrubs at his face. Asks, "Coffee?" And then, a beat later, "Don't worry. I can, actually, navigate a Marshall's store by now. You know I don't care about the shirt."
It's not about the shirt. But.
no subject
"I can tell," she jokes as she turns to get the mug and frother.
"Do you want a cup? I meant to ask."
no subject
He's more than fine with being a lump in the kitchen as the Grown-Ups(tm) do their thing, but there's a sense of pride in... heaving himself up again, crutches at the assist, to go crowd Steph? Okay. Sure. Why not. He'll take it.
...he daintily picks up the frother, like he's worried it'll either come to life (fair) or that Neal will choose this exact moment to barge in and catch him red-handed (fair).
"That's shockingly classist."
Yeah, he'll take a coffee.
no subject
"I can make fun of your fashion sense without being classist. What happened to plausible deniability?" She looks pointedly at the frother with a single eyebrow raised. The longer they talk, the easier it is for her to maintain a normal expression. She has as much practice as any Bat at hiding pain.
no subject
He presses on the gadget's ON button, chimp that he is behind all that faux human exterior.
"Uh. It works," he announces. And yeah, you know what, the milk frother goes on the list of shit he oughtn't be messing with because it frankly does look dangerous. It's like a dremel for milk. Satisfied that he isn't going to lightsaber his hand off, he dutifully flips the switch off.
Blissfully, deliberately domestic.
"What else do we need?"
no subject
"Milk," she states simply. For the milk frother. Whipped cream, caramel, and maybe some fudge, but she'll happily settle for a faux latte right now.