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August 2024:

“Looking for a necklace you sold,” she says, allowing herself to lean into the mannerisms and cadence of speech she’d used as a cop. It’s convincing enough, or this place is shady enough, that they don’t ask for a badge or a warrant.

Daisy and Daniel meet up while unwittingly working the same case.

[ HERE | complete | language, Hunt-y stuff, off-screen implied NPC death ]

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It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny and just breezy enough that Sophie doesn't feel hot but she doesn't worry about her towel getting blown away, either. She's got a swimming suit on, a green one-piece with bows on the shoulders, and she feels so pretty in it. She has a cream skirt on, too, with little flowers all over it; it flutters as she darts about the surf, catching in the breeze or the water, and she giggles as she finds pretty shells.

It's been a long time since Sophie's been able to play in the water like this. She was too sickly in Shinelem, and even if she weren't, she didn't have any friends to play with. Now, in Darrow, she has Shion, and nobody bullies her at all, so she can even just play by herself and nobody will make fun.

She's been wanting to come back to the beach since that movie day, and now that the day's chores are done, she'd decided that it was the perfect time. She'd made Shion help her pack a picnic of sandwiches and some of Elora's sweets that she'd left for them at the castle, but there are vendors who sell chipped potatoes — they’re called French fries here, she’s learned — that she loves, too, and she has a paper boat of them with the picnic basket.

Some gulls have been dancing around the place, hovering near Sophie and the other beachgoers, and Sophie giggles as she darts over to her towel for a sip of water. A few birds caw and cry as they scatter before her, but soon they land behind her, close to her towel. She plucks up a fry and eats it cheerfully. She savors the salty taste of it with a happy little hum, then stops and stares when she realizes that two birds are now five, and then a few more still land behind them.

And they’re looking right at her.

“Oh! Do you want some potato?”

She plucks one fry up and lobs it towards the back of the group. The gulls swarm it and Sophie’s eyes widen, amazed by the mass of white and gray and brown all moving together in a raucous heap. A few bicker over it, beaks clashing together, and she says, “Hey! There’s enough for everyone!”

She tosses another fry, and then a third, and the gulls race towards each one, greedy and noisy. And then three decide they’re brave enough to try to get the fries at the source: they start walking up towards her, unafraid of her size.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she asks, green eyes going big.

Then she shrieks as they launch towards her.

[ Catch Sophie at any point during her beach excursion; hunt for seashells with her, save her from the seagulls, or even just sit in the sand with her and watch the surf. Shion is with her, and we can either do a three person thread or handwave that he’s nearby but out of the way. Just make it clear somewhere in your tag how you’d rather do it! Open to all, timed to whenever it’s convenient for your pup, including shortly after nightfall (but not too late. She is only seven, after all!) ]

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It’s a beautiful evening, and Regan’s taking advantage of the nice weather by checking the camera and variable speed control of one of her drones out near the beach. The sun is just barely still up, somewhere on the other side of the city; shadows cast long and stretch towards her from Peachtree Street. The sky is a lovely purplish color and the clouds are splotched in orange where the sun can still hit them, and it—

“Excuse me! Are you fucking deaf?”

And it all comes screeching to a halt. Regan jerks back when suddenly there’s a woman in her face, and the controller in her hand slips just enough that her drone goes wheeling through the sky. Regan gasps and gets it back under control, and the woman in front of her scoffs and throws her arms up.

“Could you be any more rude?”

Unaware of her complaining, Regan lands the drone close by and sets the remote control down.

“I said!” the woman continues, “you need a permit to fly that thing here! Stop ignoring me!”

Regan holds a finger up to the woman, but apparently that was the wrong move. The woman gapes at her, and Regan knows it’s rude, but she’ll apologize later — once her phone is out and she can type on it. For now, she needs to get her drone put away. Behind her back, the woman starts to yell and complain, loudly.

“I can’t believe that anyone would behave this way! Hello! Does anybody see this? We have members of the foreign government spying on us! We have rights, you know! You can’t just watch us!”

People are starting to stare, and a couple people even have phones out like they’re recording the woman, or are about to. Regan feels a hand close on her shoulder as she grabs the drone by the middle. The woman’s acrylic nails press against her skin through her shirt and she frowns and whirls. As she does, the drone comes up, and the woman reaches for it with her other hand.

“You can’t just spy on us!” she screams, and it would be more effective if Regan could actually hear her; it’s not exactly a party as it is.

“Get off!” Regan snaps, loudly, as the woman’s overly-manicured, garishly glittering fingers get closer to the drone. It’s only then that Regan realizes the thing is still on.

[ Find Regan in the midst of a spat with a local Karen! Friends and strangers alike are welcome to intervene on Regan’s behalf or let the woman get whatever is coming to her (probably at least some gnarly cuts if she gets too close to those propellers). Open for as long as it needs to be! ]

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March 2025:

“Mrs. Finch? Teddy?”

There's still no answer, and Saoirse feels her stomach drop like she's in an elevator. Okay. It's okay. Mrs. Finch is old, right? Probably she's hard of hearing. The raccoon has left a bit of poo on the runner that leads, presumably, deeper into the house, and Saoirse sidesteps it with a wrinkle in her nose.

“Mrs. Finch? Your house is dark and creepy, do you wanna talk about it?”

Saoirse and friends agree to help Mrs. Finch get squirrels out of her attic for ‘Teddy.’ It does not go according to plan.

[ HERE | ongoing | language, a looming sense of dread, horror violence ]

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Obi-Wan Kenobi, it seems, is collecting items from fallen loved ones.

Between Boga's arrival and Satine's brooch, not to mention the years he's spent in Darrow, he well knows that people receive 'gifts' from home on occasion, items of importance to them at some point in their lives. As a Jedi, few material things have ever been that important, save his lightsaber, and even that is easy enough to recover from, if lost.

Not here, he supposes, but in his own galaxy, where another trip to Ilum is not so impossible.

It makes sense, he reasons, to receive items that remind him of those he's lost. Ultimately, they're the only things that have truly mattered to him over the years.

Cody had customized his helmet. Nearly all the clone troopers had and though some Generals looked down upon it, Obi-Wan saw no reason not to let his troops express their personalities in whatever way they chose. They may have been clones, but they were individuals, too, and they had been his friends. Some of his best friends, at the end of it all, closer to him than many of the Jedi he'd known in his life.

So he recognizes the helmet sitting on the bench in the park. It's as familiar to him as his own lightsaber. He and Cody had spent nearly every day together for three years, strategizing, fighting, even simply relaxing. It had all changed with such a simple order from Palpatine's lips, a shot from Cody's blaster meant to kill him.

It was the last time Obi-Wan had seen the helmet until this moment.

He steps forward to touch it, then lifts it from the bench to turn it over in his hands.

"I miss you, old friend," he says to it.

[He sad, but some meet him anyway!]

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She knows the achiness — not personally, but she's familiar with the stories and what it means. Soon enough, she'll have the first of her growth spurts that will launch her to the full height of her Elezen heritage. It's exciting in its way, because the people here will finally stop seeing her as a child and might actually start to recognize her for the adult she's been for nearly two full years.

She wishes Alphinaud were here to experience it with her.

But that isn't the point. The point is, she's exhausted. The achiness persists even when she's trying to sleep, and so sleep is scarcely found. Which is a poor recipe on any day, but especially on a day in which she plans to interview for a new occupation. Swirlybun has lost what little appeal it had.

Dressed in her nearly trademark red and white — this time something more appropriate for Darrow's business landscape — Alisaie walks the city. She's boldly left her rapier back at the empty apartment. Instead, she's armed with what amounts to her resume. She's been to Törgt and three different Ahabs, and she's feeling the strain of the aches and the sleep debt when she spots a corner store with an enormous sign in the window boasting Creature™ Energy Drink: Unleash the Creature Within.

“In a place like Darrow, that sign could well be literal,” she admits to herself, and then releases a truly jaw-popping yawn. “Perhaps just one won't go amiss,” she adds, and makes her way into the little store. She finds them in a cooler along one wall, in a variety of flavors that she barely recognizes. After picking one at random she pays and steps back outside.

With her resume under her arm, Alisaie tugs the pull tab up and cracks the can open, then takes a deep pull. It's awful — carbonated and sickly sweet and somehow tart at once — and she makes a sound of disgust that's followed promptly by a thoughtful hum as the aftertaste catches her.

And then she feels it: a strange sort of popping sensation in her joints. Her body jolts as if startling herself awake, and there's a rush of faded pain through her limbs. Alisaie shakes her head. She really needs to catch up on her sleep. But for now, in theory, this drink will help, and so she takes a step to resume her job search…

Only to trip on the sidewalk and nearly sprawl as she tries to pull a leg forward. She gasps as her resume flies out from beneath her arm, and she reaches to catch it, but her arm overshoots the grab and it flutters to the ground at her feet.

Her feet, which now hang over the ends of her open-toed sandals as though a size or two too small.

Her feet, which are much more visible beneath the hem of slacks that now, suddenly, fit like capris.

“You cannot be serious!” she declares, loudly and with as much annoyance as distress. She looks down at herself properly. Yes, all of her clothes are shorter — her top, too, stops at the end of her ribcage instead of at her hips as it had only a moment ago, and her sleeves barely pass her elbows.

“Thal's balls!” she curses, and looks at the can in her other hand. “I trusted you to be a metaphor and this is how you repay me? How am I supposed to get a new job looking like this?”

[ Catch Alisaie anywhere in the city, at any time, that works for your pup. Despite her annoyance, this is an excellent time to meet her! She's experiencing stage one of the classic Elezen growth spurt and is now 5'8 — nearly a full foot taller than the last time your pup likely saw her! See it in real time as it happens above, or bump into her afterwards ranting at the energy drink in her hand and help her find clothes that FIT. Open to all! ]

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He's got a lot of places he can work, these days. He's got his office at Barton but, if he's there, students tend to think he's fair game, and he's constantly interrupted. He's living between the loft and the townhouse, trying to give Hilde a sense of home while also making sure that he supports Bev. He's got a desk in both places, but he doesn't really feel settled in either.

So he finds himself in a cafe, one he used to work in when he first ended up in Darrow. It's been a while, but they still have good pastries and the coffee is decent. There's a table in the corner with an outlet, and enough room to spread his pages out. It'll do.

As always, before he plugs in, he texts Bev and Hilde, lets them know where he'll be if they need him, and then he puts on his headphones and he goes to work, editing script pages, responding to notes and questions from the director. It's an adaptation of the first novel he'd written when he arrived in Darrow, an old fashioned haunted house piece. It had sold well and, in a series of events that Bill wasn't entirely sure he understood (because, after all, Darrow was only a small city), the script had been optioned, he'd been paid, and, suddenly, they were only a few weeks out from production starting.

And, as ever with him, it was the ending that didn't really work. He's picking it apart and putting it together again, trying to make it work better for the screen. It's evidence of the fact that he's grown, in the last few years, that at least now he can sort of see how that might be done.

He's so absorbed in what he's doing, the Clash playing loud, that he doesn't even look up when someone comes to stand in front of him.

ooc: Find Bill in a cafe close to the park. Excellent time to meet him. Open forever.

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Jacques' Jacket

She'd gotten complacent. That was true, she knew it was true, and she'd allowed it to happen anyway. There had been enough years with no reminders of Section or the life she'd had before this place that she had started to think that part of her history really was a door that could be closed. Her skills and her memories would never disappear, but the only code words that had been used recently had been from colleagues at the DFR, her waitresses, or occasionally Daisy if she wanted to come over to Nikita's place.

She wasn't rushing out to tell anyone her history, of course. There were a few people here who knew a limited number of details, but part of the door to her past being closed was not having to explain why exactly she had excellent aim with a piece of paper or liked sitting with a view of the windows and the exit. She'd started to appreciate not lying to everyone she knew, or at least not having to be quite as careful about which truths she told. She'd relaxed.

And of course, that meant she'd been reminded of exactly what she'd left. The reminder seemed innocent enough, just like a single word when the phone rang (Josephine). There was a suit coat left draped over a chair in the coffee shop she liked to stop by now and then. It was a black men's coat, and it looked like it was well-made.  Whoever left it would probably want it back, so she went over to get it and take it to the counter.

Her hand had just touched it when she froze.   She knew this coat.  She knew this fabric.  She knew this smell. It was a subtle, spicy cologne that she had never smelled on anyone here.  Michael Samuelle had liked it, though, and she'd appreciated it on him. She picked the coat up and ran her hand down the inside. There was a holster and pockets worked into the lining exactly where she would have expected them to be.

The last time she'd seen this coat, she had been giving it back to Michael as he left her new apartment after the mission. He'd given it to her to wear in the limo because she'd been shivering from a combination of adrenaline and cold, even in the warmth of the plush interior. That was the contradiction of Michael -- he'd surprise her with a mission when she thought they were just celebrating, and then he'd give her his coat in the limo for comfort.

She sat heavily in the chair next to the coat. She'd gotten complacent, and now she was being reminded of Michael, of her past, of what she'd done and what she'd wanted to escape. A part of her wanted to wrap the coat around her, and a part of her wanted to throw it in the sea.

She'd do neither. For now, she'd do neither.

[[Nikita has received a late 90s Gaultier suit jacket. Despite being a little shaken, it’s not a bad time to say hello.]]