Piper 90: Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goneawaymod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
goneawayworld2020-04-17 08:20 pm
goneawaymod) wrote in goneawayworld2020-04-17 08:20 pm
Entry tags:
- #rig logs,
- +intro log,
- +sheetcake party,
- adora,
- alloran semitur-corass,
- brainiac 5,
- bunnymund,
- catra,
- dave strider,
- gadget hackwrench,
- guts,
- jack spicer,
- nora valkyrie,
- robbie baldwin,
- ronald mcdonald,
- ronan lynch,
- sam winchester,
- saturday,
- setsuna higashi,
- stacia novik,
- ✘ cayde-6,
- ✘ ciaphas cain,
- ✘ doreen green,
- ✘ elsa,
- ✘ emily grey,
- ✘ kevin ingstrom,
- ✘ peter parker,
- ✘ phosphophyllite,
- ✘ remus lupin,
- ✘ ryotaro dojima,
- ✘ saint-14,
- ✘ sirius black,
- ✘ steven universe
SHEETCAKE PARTY #1
SHEET CAKE MEETUP
“Who the fuck is Linda?”
The question pops up every few minutes, a little tack of punctuation above the offensively-inoffensive music being piped in*. The room the hires have been ushered into is clearly just a conference room, with a layout that requires either sitting at awkwardly-spaced intervals around a giant table or milling and scooting around the smaller folding table, where the “big surprise” the corporate officers promised them is on display: a sheet cake.
A sheet cake that that still bears HAPPY BIRTH DAY LINDA in blue icing across the top, although someone has, at least, gone to the effort of writing welcome, to the team new hires in Sharpie on a purple flashcard and used a Popsicle stick and tape to plant it like a dismal flag right in the middle of Linda’s “DAY”. Dedication aside, the cake itself looks pretty suspect too, not as if it were poisoned but more like if it were salvaged. The cake part looks dry, and the frosting seems strangely...sweaty. No one’s eating yet, and yet there’s already a piece missing.
However, there’s no lack of enthusiasm around the room. A projector hooked up to a laptop casts an off-center, warped rectangle of WELCOME TO, THE BEST TEAM. NEW HIRES!! onto a wall. The many paper plates have a festive print, although they all seem to be Christmas themed. The table cloth looks as if it came from both 4th of July and potentially a war, given the scuffs and tears. The shot-glass sized paper cups are inadequate to hold a satisfying amount of sparkling cider, but at least they don’t leak. There are many more plastic knives than forks, which could prompt some hires to give in to their animal instincts and just use their hands, or perhaps start a barter economy for the better utensils.
“I’m so jealous,” a corporate employee keeps saying as she ushers hires into the room. “We haven’t had a good party in this office since Kelly’s baby shower, and that little girl practically has teeth now!”
(An eagle-eyed hire may suspect that the box of donuts next to the sheet cake might have come from said baby shower, on account of the fact that the few stale hunks of donut remaining have Pepto-Bismol pink strawberry icing and that there’s still the paper envelope for a gift card with ITS A GIRL written on it.)
Most of corporate slips out after the hires get set up - this is clearly an event for the hires to do some “team building” and work on “rapport” in addition to filling their bellies with cake that tastes remarkably like sand. There’s a karaoke machine in the corner, but hires are instructed not to touch it because, as an employee points out, last year’s Christmas party demonstrated that karaoke is the worst thing in the entire world for morale (“in any world! even before this one got eaten away by the bombs!”).
There’s an additional big glass jar filled with scraps of paper, which the hires are informed are filled with prompts for ice breakers and activities in case the party needs a pick-me-up. Any hire who investigates will find that most of the ice breaker activities start with three benign questions (“what’s your name?” “where are you from?” “what’s your favorite animal?”) and somehow, always a fourth question that feels a little invasive (“what are your feelings on unions?” “under what circumstances would you kill an innocent person?” “do you use the same passwords for all your accounts?”).
“Please enjoy yourselves and all the desserts Jorgmund has generously supplied you with,” one of the employees says on her way out, “and don’t worry about making a mess, janitorial gets paid too much to sit around as is.”
*All music that can be summarized as ’grocerycore’.
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It tastes like crumbling pebbles of dust mixed with an appallingly high amount of off-brand confectionary sugar someone found sitting in an abandoned pantry (and all things considered, given the condition of the world, who knows how long ago that was or under what circumstances it might've been abandoned), and her face reflects it for as long as it takes her to choke the bite down.
"Oh," she struggles to get out around the mouthful, her voice cracking slightly, "well ... it's not ... bad ..."
And that's true, inasmuch as that's important, here. It isn't bad.
This cake is, in fact, terrible.
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Poor Setsuna. Adora is giving her a concerned look as she chokes down that bite.
"Are you... OK? I don't think you should eat anymore of that."
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"You don't have to pretend to like it. It's not like you're gonna hurt their feelings," she says. Her voice and expression are pinched. Disdainful. Pretending at being happy with something has never sat well with her, even if it's brought her plenty of pain.
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Instead, she turns her attention to the other people in the room. At five feet even without her heels, most of them are taller than she is. With a few notable exceptions, most of them also look basically human; but then again, so does she.
Well, time to get to work. She looks around again, letting the motion of the occupants of the room carry her attention until some
unfortunate soul makes eye-contact with her."So this is definitely an event that we're both at. Let's play Two Truths and a Lie; I'll start: my name is Stacia, I enjoy attending Homecoming Dances, and I've colored my nails with hair dye."
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"I don't know what a homecoming dance is. Does that make it a lie?"
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Plus they're not feeding people enough in this place, especially for those with a fast metabolism like himself. He's got a little extra chub to burn but he has a feeling if his current diet holds out, it won't last for long.
"Merry Chrismapendence day and mazel tov to the new mom!" he says loudly, sarcastically, stuffing gross cake in his mouth. He gestures with his fork and a little frosting falls off to the floor. "Ah, Chrismapendence day: the magical day once a year that Santa flies his sleigh and gets tragically taken out by surprise light artillery. Making Santa veer for his life away from surface-to-air-explosives: festive fun for every girl and boy."
It is rare that Peter finds himself in a situation that as much of a disaster than...well, himself. This place feels oddly appropriate for him to find himself in. That's not to say that his life isn't filled with endless disasters it's just he has sunk so very low in life and this place has decided to meet him there.
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Bunny scoffs from the corner he's chosen to glower in, only slightly nauseated by the enthusiasm with which the man is putting away the wholly unsatisfactory cake.
"His counterincendiary laser targeting . . . whatever would detonate the explosives before they put a scratch on that overblown goatcart of his."
Is that something North actually has? Who knows. It sounds somehow both fake and plausible enough that Bunny wouldn't question it if North told him it was a thing. That's enough for him to roll his eyes over.
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you know what this one's about
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It could be worse, Elsa figures. There are definitely worse surprises it could have been than an unappetizing-looking cake.
Guess who's wallflowering as hard as she possibly can? This gal. Elsa has politely declined the cake and is holding a shot-glass-sized cup of cider, hovering near one of the walls. Gingerly, she tastes the cider, and makes a face. Elsa glances around to see if anyone's watching, then as surreptitiously as she can (which is really only so surreptitious, since doing this makes little frost flakes crawl up the side of the paper that can be spotted from a short distance), she chills the cup. Elsa takes another sip. The cold masks some of the artificial taste. It's an improvement.
It is a miserable party and she is very uncomfortable.
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Adora is very loud and very enthusiastic and very glad to have found something even vaguely familiar. Sorry, Elsa.
"That's so cool! I thought only Frosta had those!"
Yes, she's drawing attention to them. No, she's not going to stop.
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ugh she's making like three different faces in this tag, here have the first one
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squirrel has stopped looking like a word
Re: squirrel has stopped looking like a word
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I'm so sorry
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Candy is his specialty. Baking is not. Still, there are things he can just tell, with a nose that sensitive.
"That cake is stale, the frosting has too much sugar - heh, and I'm saying so - was there even a single vanilla bean in the building where this was baked?"
He hasn't taken a single bite, just a real investigative sniff.
"You call that generous, I'd hate to see what you lunatics call stingy."
His tone is merely snarky but even reigning himself in that much takes a massive amount of self-control. Every hair on his body is standing on edge. He's never been trapped this thoroughly before.
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She doesn't believe it one bit, but she's also willing to put money down that this is another eat-shit test, like the smiley entry door in the mess. The tension in the rabbit guy is like a steel cord ready to snap, and she doesn't want it snapping with absolutely every other pissed off "worker" in the rig in the same room.
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That a surprise is terrible doesn't really surprise her, but the sheer subtle pettiness of the terrible is almost artistic. To be this callous, you have to really try.
Well. To work, then. She puts on a wry, open smile, a bit of a twinkle in her eye, and heads towards a likely prospect.
"Some party, huh?" she says as she catches their eye.
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"This is the second party I've ever been to and the first one was way better. Just saying." She's not going to count that crap that went down in the portal reality as a separate party. Nope. Nuh-uh.
"Is a cake supposed to look like that?" Catra has seen like one other cake in her life and she's pretty sure this one is wrong.
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Mac | OTA
It doesn't take much to get Mac hyped up, and a bunch of these new employees telling him he's going to get something great definitely do the ticket. Mind filled with gold bathtubs and Ferraris and a two-way ticket back home only he can go through, Mac can't help but be smiling as he's herded into the room, nor can he help the way that smile wilts and fades into a bereft expression comprised of disappointment, resignation and betrayal.
Even Mac knows this cake was for Linda.
He still tries it, because even cake addressed to someone else is probably better than the meatball that literally bounced in the mess hall. He snatches a neon green fork before anyone even gets the chance to look at it and loads it up with Linda's Y, then takes a nibble. It's crap. He knew it was crap, by the weird sugary condensation on the outside to the fact that when he stabbed it with a fork it crumbled like granola. But somehow, just somehow, he had nursed the tiniest iota of hope, and he now has to live with the bitter consequences of that.
He tosses it over his shoulder, and it seems to go out-of-sight, out-of-mind, because he doesn't even seem to recognize when it smashes against the floor or against another person innocently minding their own business ten feet behind him.
II. Karaoke Machine
Since this party is lame as shit, Mac loses interest in anything structured within about forty seconds, and ends up roaming around like a wayward sheep in a field, with the table full of terrible cake as the grazing patch he periodically returns to. When the corporate suits told him there was going to be an exciting surprise, he pictured some Wolf of Wall Street splendor, with money raining from the ceiling and scantily clad people in million dollar bikinis* giving free lapdances to any Tom, Dick and Harry with an employee I.D. This weird sheetcake thing isn't even lame and predictable; this weird sheetcake thing is a blow against Mac's entire faith in American Capitalism.
("We're not in America," a corporate suit says to him the first time he complains, to which he responds "if I don't know where we are my money's on America because this country is so huge, dude".)
Eventually he ends up at the karaoke machine, which, through skimming it, has a large selection of lame music that Mac would pull the plug on (literally) and a small but workable selection of Christian rock. Tons of Switchfoot, which almost makes up for the urban crap. The problem mostly is that there's a sign that says "out of order" and when he tries to play it and get this party going, no sound comes on.
So he knocks it over and kicks it. That usually gets things to work.
*Mac has neither seen Wolf of Wall Street nor purchased a bikini in his life.
III. Champagne
Mac feels like he deserves some kind of commendation for not having a hissyfit when the proffered beverage was knock-off Martinelli's, and yet no one emerged from the shadows to praise him for this magnanimous act of fortitude and temperance. In fact, people aren't really paying much attention to him at all, probably on account of the fact that he's milling around with a giant talking rabbit and other more evidently remarkable beings. Mac's left out in the cold, in his opinion. He has to go be proactive and introduce himself to a bunch of strangers, and it's only now starting to occur to Mac that he hasn't really made any new friends in like, almost thirty years.
The flop sweat is brutal, but it's at least mitigated by the fact that he hacked the hell out of the sleeves on his coveralls and is now blasting bare arms with totally badass tattoos. He can mostly mop that away with napkins, which he does rigorously. The general sense of unease is harder to combat, and he keeps circling around the table with the cake, not eating anything but pushing things around with a fork before tossing them and rearranging paper cups full of brightly-colored plastic knives. At some point, some corporate interns run in to refill the fake Martinelli's, and they leave a bottle of the good stuff; since Mac's lingering, he's the first to see that there's a bottle of real champagne mixed in among all the "sparkling grape" and "effervescent raspberry" pussy ciders. He takes it to examine, and then he takes it to keep.
True, the champagne is meant for everyone but, as the Good Lord says: "sucks to be them". Mac tries with marginal success to slip the bottle of champagne through the armhole of his modified coverall into his clothing for covert transportation.
iii
"Are you ... stealing our drinks?"
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a. cake
"Here."
Do you want more cake? Whether you do or not, Guts will be practically shoving his piece into any outstretched hand within sight. He's not hungry for starters, and he is getting a headache from just smelling the frosting and donut glazing. Far, far too sweet for his palate. He'll eat almost anything to survive, but he's not eating this crap.
Well, at least the plate has a rare plastic fork still sticking out of it?
b. drinks
"This is cider...?"
Disappointment. He had a little sliver of hope that the tiny cups would have wine or at least some real cider. No luck for him. It's just bubbly, incredibly sugary fruit juice as far as his eye can see. He hates it. What's even the point of a party if he doesn't get to drink something a little stronger? Now he has to put up with the insufferable socializing without anything to take the edge off.
He is at the point where he will rudely walk out of a conversation before it even gets going. What does he think about unions? A grunt and a turn in the opposite direction. It really isn't personal. He's just Like That.
c. failing to escape
Guts is stuck in a little room with crappy pastries and no booze. He manages to hold out for exactly (10) minutes before he makes his way for the exit and gets held up by an employee about a foot shorter than he is.
He stands perfectly still as he gets an earful about having not even tried the cake! or giving the icebreakers a shot. Guts is doing an... okay job of keeping his annoyance in check as he steps closer.
"Come on. Get out of the damn way."
a
"Thank you!" She beams up at the nice generous grumpy man.
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Sam took one look at the cake and stepped away, trying to find a good place to stand where he wouldn't take up too much room. Unfortunately, at nearly 6'6" and pretty well built, that wasn't the easiest thing to do. So he settled for standing as still as possible so that people could go around him more easily. "That cake just reminds me of something back home and I'm about 90% certain it's going to do something terrible to your insides."
Maybe it wasn't made with the Leviathan addative, but that didn't mean you wouldn't end up with the runs from that much...whatever it was.
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Dojima already had a bite before leaving his slice abandoned somewhere else.
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It's somehow less appetizing than ration bars and that's a feat in of itself.
"So, uh, hi... everyone. I'm Adora. I guess we'll be... working together?"
Haha. She's trying.
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"Hey--" She turns, then goes into a sullen glare when she sees Adora.
"Oh. You."
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The cake itself looks... barely appetizing, even by the standards of ration bars and even then she's pretty sure it has less nutritional value. So she avoids it, despite the exhortations to take some, on Jorgmund. Eventually, she circles the room, glaring at anyone unfortunate to bump into her.
"Back off--!"
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"Woah, chill. Put that shit on ice, the label clearly says to refrigerate after opening, god." What the fuck is he even saying? Who knows, he carries right on without waiting for any kind of answer. "Personal space is kinda at a premium right now if you haven't noticed." He glances over the ears and tail and all that shit, and one eyebrow quirks up over the rim of his shades.
Ah. Somehow, this chick instantly makes more sense.
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This is almost cartoonishly callous. Do they really think this party will do anything for unity?
[This party is tedium given form. Dojima isn't introverted, but this sure makes him want to stand aside and do nothing]
It's like a machine tried to guess what's corporate culture.
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[Emily Grey is a pretty human woman with an inappropriately cheerful smile for someone who's seen that sheet cake. Noticeably, she hasn't got a plate or cup in her hands.]
Shared hardship is excellent for forging team bonds!
[She's also inappropriately perky, even if that's intended as a joke.]
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For now, he's just been putting on his most unobtrusive body language and pretending not to be here. Trying to figure out who the hell is all over this playlist when you're a decade behind is at least keeping him busy, up until-
"Oh my god, you're telling me not even the end of the world could get rid of Viva la Vida? Jesus, dude!"
The outburst isn't loud, but the suddenness and genuine anguish make up for it.
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"What are you talking about?" Sorry, she doesn't know your silly Earth pop music.
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Playing nice with a company like Jorgmund didn't sit right with him, but given how many people they had essentially taken hostage, Saint felt he could do more good protecting them than fighting something faceless and not-punchable like a megacorporation.
So while he normally would have found an office party like this almost insulting given the situation, he decided instead to make himself helpful and started cutting pieces of cake for people who seemed brave enough to give it a try. Of course, the unpleasant crunch that sometimes emerged when he cut a piece caused him to be slightly more grim-faced than someone cutting cake should be.
"This is like the worst Dawning party ever," he sighed, speaking in a thick Russian accent, before forcing a smile in an effort to be friendly.
He held out a paper plate with a piece of cake (which looked like he had managed to scrape off the more unpleasant bits) towards the nearest person.
"Cake?"
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Dojima seems to have his eyes locked on the rest of the cake, like he expects it to morph into something unpleasant.
"That can't even be called cake"
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As an Andalite he takes up a lot of space. Counting the stalk eyes he's maybe six foot five, but there's that four-legged body, and the tail that would be more than ten feet long if he held it straight out behind him. It's in a great arc instead, the more flexible tip past the blade making occasional sinuous motions, but it's still enormous.
He doesn't know what to do. Too used to being trapped in his body, only able to think and remember, and he keeps waiting for Esplin to move, or to comment on his thoughts. So - Alloran stands, mostly still, his stalk eyes sometimes stirring to languidly survey the room and fixing on one person or another.
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Admittedly, that was probably at least partly because of him having no mouth. Still, Doreen reasoned, he had to have some method of communication. Even if it was just through the comms.
"My name's Doreen, and this is my buddy Tippy-Toe." She says, pointing at the squirrel on her shoulder.
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It was dry, stale, and probably going to make him sick. It also tasted great.
Sirius glanced up and noticed someone beside him. Still chewing, he waved in hello. And swallowed... and swallowed again. Wow, this cake was really dry.
"Hi."
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"Pretty sure we can count downing this shit as a form of masochism," he said, a hint of Texan drawl in that deadpan. "Or maybe self-harm in the form of shitty baked goods. Is this depression or a kink? You gotta let us know whether or not we should be calling a therapist. Suicide by cake isn't the answer, you've got so much to live for."
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He ended up with his hand in a jar, pulling out the scraps of paper and reading them. He snorted more than once.
"Do you use the same password for all your accounts? Are they trying to find who to scam?" He dove in again, pulling out another piece of paper. "Next up: what's the password to your bank account?" He then looked at the paper to see if he was right.
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He's joking, but it's kind of plausible -- asking for favorite animals and what not. Dojima isn't positive, but given what they have done so far, he wouldn't be surprised. Petty bank account thievery is a minor thing to do after having kidnapped them, really.
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"We could have another one if Kelly would crackin' on having another adorable little butterbean, am I right, Amber?" Robbie doesn't wait to see if the woman answers or even hears him - and he's fairly sure that the odds of her name are close to nothing. Yet somehow, pretty good odds. If she's not an Amber, she's an Ashley or a Jess.
It's just words and an appropriately wide smile. The kind that a soccer mom gives you as she calls you a freak in the absolutely nicest way possible because heaven forbid the rest of the PTA think she's a bitch.
Robbie is 100% that bitch right now, and he is judging the hell out of the hodgepodge of decorations and the suddenly suspect donuts and the already worrying cake. He's hungry, but... not that hungry yet. He takes one of the question chits and reads it outloud to no one in particular. "Carrots or parsnips? What's your favorite hobby? Do you have any siblings? What happened to Linda?"
The last one is quieter, and a person or mic would have to be within 3 feet of him to hear it. The actual question on his sheet is 'What's your mother's maiden name?', but his question is far more interesting.
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He frowns thoughtfully. "Parsnips, an answer that may not meet this crowd's standards of decency, not anymore, and...good question; I'm hoping but rather doubtful that our friendly new overlords had absolutely nothing to do with it."
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For a brief moment, he could've been seen in the halls peeking around at the New Hires to see if he recognized any faces. Someone else may have see him ambling through the halls, projecting an air of simple curiosity, trying to be discreet about following a specific person in a lab coat to her final destination.
At one point there was a strange rumble through the rig and some vibrations, but it wasn't much cause for alarm. The rig surely had engines that gave out the occasional grumbles, right? Surely, it sometimes hit a brief patch of rough terrain.
And the announcements on the intercoms that followed hadn't been that alarming. They'd simply called for a few teams to certain areas, but the people making announcements had been calm, hadn't they? No mention of anything being code this or code that. No red alerts. Certain teams could easily be called to make simple repairs or work on the engines to help get the rig past a mild rough patch.
The only tangible signs he's responsible for anything are in how he looks as he enters the room. He has a split lip, oozing green blood, but already scabbing over. A lightly bruised cheek. His coveralls are slightly torn like he's been in a fight, and they're covered in a little soot. Also, another sign he's been up to something: the way he enters the party. Two guards shove him into the room. He winds up tripping and landing on his butt, then lays on the floor on his back, looking a little sapped.
Then he cranes his head back to look at the room upside down.
When he speaks, he has a bit of an unidentifiable accent, his mouth committing hard to all the consonants and ignoring a few of the vowels.
"Is that cake? Normally, I don't indulge in sweets that often, but I'm positively famished." The green-skinned alien drags himself up, stumbling over to the food table to start working on the worst breakfast ever. His voice is the picture of relaxed calm, like his physical state is no sign for concern. "It looks vile, but I skipped breakfast and lunch; I had quite the eventful morning."
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Well, until he speaks. Dojima doesn't answer at first, taking a good look at Brainy -- his injuries, and how...unusual his everything was -- until he finally finishes mulling his response.
"You should skip the cake too unless you're desperate. It'll fill you but it is vile"
And totally non-sweet, depending on where you bite.
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The giant rabbit seems to have first dibs, though.
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“He’d probably learn faster if you let ‘em sort it out,” he adds helpfully.
This is how he learned things as a nasty feral teenager with a sword. Clearly this is how you take care of things when the kids start fighting.
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There are far too many xenos in the room, and the sheer number of them in one place is, frankly speaking, rather discombobulating.
But he's determined to make the best of a situation, and that means circulating like it's a planetary governor's pre-invasion party. Holding a plate of cake and a cup in his hands like they belong there, and choking it down in front of the Jorgmund organizers, Cain looks perfectly at home and approachable.
[CLOSED TO SATURDAY]
They get to the turn of the corridor, and there it is. People are being hurriedly ushered into a conference room ahead of them. And if that wasn't enough of an indication that they were in the right place, the faint music floating towards them from the door set slightly ajar, as well as the peek of mismatched festive decorations proves it.
Cain winces exaggeratedly, the certainty of an appalling event curdling in his chest, but he waves at it in good humor. "The festivities seem well under way. Ladies first?"
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"May as well get in the spirit of things, right?" Her eyes are bright with suppressed laughter, most of it somewhat hysterical. "You know, the last time I had to go to a function thrown by my enemies, at least the snacks were good."
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This sure is happening, isn't it? If Steven can say one thing, it's pretty much that. Jorgmund is happening. The shock collar is happening. The jumpsuit, that's happening. He learned what a vaccine is and then he got about a million of them. And now this. He exists here now.
His father told him once that he would learn to appreciate all pizza, even square, and he's left wondering if that rule applies to all cakes. Even, uh. Stale. But maybe he's just spoiled by the Beach City quality he's used to.
Honestly, he doesn't feel as out of his depth in this moment as he was before it started. The party is nice in a well-meaning, performative way that reminds him of the Diamonds. He can't fault the good intentions of what's happening in this room when there's work to do. Not because of it not being perfect. It's all about pushing through.
He will deal with the implants and conscription and everything it entails on his own time, like a professional. (So probably never.)
Steven stands to one side, picking at his cake with a plastic knife he chose in the hopes of gaining strength from the novelty of eating that way. More than a small amount of time on his agenda is sort of hollowly looking down at it. In so many ways, the cake is also just. Here, existing like this.
Still, eventually he can't help but wonder: ]
Since when did singing become bad for morale?
[ Forget the ice-breakers. This is important, because it's where he's landed. ]
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[He goes over to the jar with scraps of paper, rooting through it. After grabbing a few, he walks over and picks the stupidest possible ice breaker question to ask a child.]
So what are your feelings on unions?
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The guards had trouble finding him to bring him to the party. Which was the way that Remus had wanted it. He'd needed sleep and to not be thinking about the fact that Sirius Black is in this place with them.
At least, like him, Sirius doesn't have a wand. That would probably protect people fairly well.
Still. The guys in the suits - guards, he figured - eventually found him and took him to the same room with everybody else. Which, honestly, couldn't have been any larger than his flat outside of London. And even that, he felt, was a bit tight for one person.
He reaches up, brushing his fingers through his hair, the florescent lights glinting off of more than a few white hairs in his brownish-blond mop though his face says he's maybe early twenties. He frowns when he sees the cake, not looking at the others around him. "I'm no connoisseur, but that's possibly the worst cake I've ever seen in my life."
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"I've seen some people eating it, but their faces said either 'I need the calories' or 'I will always eat cake no matter how disgusting it is', so I wouldn't recommend it," she says, giving him a once over. Probably not a Jorgmund spy now that she's got a closer look, there's no way they'd have someone who looked like him on tap.
"Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Stacia."
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