who: bunny and margot (@margothenderson)
where: bend records, bottom level
when: early afternoon
There was a customer whose taste in music—for reasons completely unknown to Bunny—bewildered them entirely.
Every time she came in—apparently her name was Margot, but Bunny didn’t really know her—she would look at something or ask about something or do something that would skew Bunny’s impression of her taste wildly. (Bunny’s way of understanding taste was different than most people’s, so for all they knew she could be normal; but their individual problem remained.) One visit, her preferences would be almost understandable to them; the next, Bunny would have no clue how to pin her down.
And pinning down people’s modes of self-expression was what Bunny usually did best.
This visit, Bunny had had enough.
“So I have to ask,” they said, spotting her on the bottom level as they stepped off the staircase. “Keep in mind, this is coming from the record store employee you barely know as a means of helping you buy music better, so you are not obligated to tell me. I probably wouldn’t.
“But could you describe your taste in music, in your own words?” said Bunny, visibly defeated. “Maybe my brain can be normal then. Maybe I’ll finally get it.”
Stella considers herself to be a friend to all (unless you cross her), but she's particularly loyal to a select few. Lucky for all of them, the majority of those few were all employed at Bend Records. Bunny is no exception. So, Stella is particularly thankful that it's them who is speaking to her and not a stranger like she'd initially thought from the impersonal greeting.
"Bunny from Bend," she responds, grinning and patting the empty spot at her table, "I am also not working today, but I did have a gift card. You know what they say— if it's free, it's for me."
She wrinkles her nose as her mind stretches back to the new t-shirts. "Never say never," she grins, "But... I'd have to be convinced pretty heavily. Especially when there's other, better, options. Why? You thinking of rocking one?"
“If it’s free, it’s for me?” Bunny took a seat at the empty spot, placing their large slice of four-cheese pizza and paper plate on the table, and chuckled. “That’s the only thing I’m saying about me living at my cousin’s place now. If it’s free…there I will be. If it’s free, I have literally no hangups about just getting it and that’s totally fine by me.”
They listened as Stella explained she’d have to be convinced to wear that bright orange T-shirt. Honestly? So would Bunny.
At Stella’s final question, Bunny let out a single cackle. “Tell me if I ever genuinely seem like I would wear that T-shirt,” they said to Stella, their face now dead serious. “Tell me if my behavior indicates I’d even consider touching it. That’s how I’ll know I’m at rock bottom.”
Bunny took a bite of pizza and thought about how they wanted to phrase their next question:
“On the topic of style, though, I feel like you could actually pull off a lot of stuff. Have people told you that? That your appearance is really versatile?”
Bunny continued: “Me, I had to work in high school to find stuff that looked good on my body type. With my complexion, even. But picturing you in that disgusting orange shirt made me realize that…you’re not like that at all.
“Have you ever considered switching up your style?” Bunny asked Stella sincerely. “Just because you could?”
WHO: austen & @genuineloner
WHAT: austen refuses to be ignored :/
WHEN: shift at ze bend together !
Austen wasn't watching Bunny. At least, that's what she told her when she caught them doing what could only be described as the world's fastest pivot the moment they noticed her in the stockroom doorway. It had been happening nearly every time they had a shift together. Ducking into aisles, the sudden urgent reorganizing of the CD displays, the way Bunny would glide past her without so much as a head nod.
Austen wasn't used to that. This was an entirely new phenomenon that she had never experienced. So, she did what any reasonable girl with high standards and a mild God complex would do:
Bake.
She found Bunny tucked behind the front counter and she sat the bakery box directly in front of them like an olive branch. "Okay," she said. Her voice was crisp, but not necessarily unkind. She leaned her elbows on the counter, eyes narrowed as she tried to assess if they would try to find a way into beelining it away from her.
"Did I like, do something to you?" Straight to business, always. "I mean, do I smell? Be honest. For real, though, I wanna make sure I didn't say something stupid," she said, letting out a small laugh.
Then, she tapped the container. "Vanilla." Safe choice. "They're not poisoned."
The day had been pleasant, if aggressively normal, thus far. The Richie customers had all behaved, Bunny had made a few good sales of their own initiative, and—best of all—what they’d thought would be another difficult shift with Austen had turned out…manageable. (Bunny’s word for “pretending not to need the stockroom when Austen was right there”.)
But the box of cookies placed neatly on the front counter—followed by Austen herself initiating conversation—was a real plot twist…and one that Bunny did not think they could navigate while keeping their trademark cool.
(If, of course, “keeping their trademark cool” in the past had included noticeably avoiding Austen at every turn.)
There was no exit. There was only Austen. Bunny pretended that they were not more intimidated by Austen than they had been by any other person on the face of the earth.
“Did I, like, do something to you?” she was saying.
Oh shit.
Had she done something? …Technically no. Had she “said something stupid”? Definitely not. The problem with Austen was that those things never could have happened with her. Bunny didn’t dislike her—they feared her.
The cookies were vanilla. The flavor of classic perfection. …This conversation was going to be hell, wasn’t it?
Bunny let out a long breath, half to collect their thoughts and half to fill the space. It had been very obvious, in hindsight, that they’d been trying not to go near her.
Then Bunny found themself turning to face the wall.
“I’m not avoiding you right now, by the way—I’m embarrassed as fuck,” they said. “I should’ve just asked for different shifts.”
They turned back around; their cheeks, they could feel, were pink.
“This is extremely nice, and I can tell that you put effort into having this conversation right,” said Bunny. “I just hate telling you that it’s something as common as me being intimidated by you. I mean, how many people tell you that on the daily?
“Everything that comes from you is pristine, powerful, perfect.” Bunny leaned their elbows on the counter and placed their head in their hands. “And I got—I get—thrown off. I think I have to keep up. Then I think I can’t.”
Bunny looked up at Austen and added, “Are these honest to God for me?”
it’s not her crowd— that much has always been quite clear. fallon’s less stringent than she used to be in high school, not by much, but she’s no longer the white whale of parties; she’s a step below that now, thank you very much. bunny comes to her at a time when she’s scanning the room for moosh to try and head home.
fallon musters up something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t the grimace that is her natural expression. “i’m not,” she answers back, taking a sip of the arizona she’d stashed earlier in the night. “adrian mendoza? yeah, i was there in high school too.” fallon knows she’s easy to overlook, but she didn’t realize even the outsiders thought she was invisible. “adrian’s just an asshole who thinks he owns the place,” fallon grumbles. “last time i was here, he kept insisting i was new in town and that he’d never met me.” he’d tried to hit on her too. rich, given that he and his friends used to throw their trash at her from his car while she walked home.
“when did you get here? we should’ve congregated earlier, found a corner to hide in.”
At the name “Adrian Mendoza”, Bunny tipped their head back and laughed. They’d known Fallon had gone to high school with them, but something about her calling the guy out was extremely gratifying. And Fallon’s following statement was absolutely true—Adrian did think he owned the place (or else he wouldn’t have been so weird about Bunny’s mere presence).
“Damn, you should’ve run with it,” Bunny commented on Fallon’s recent Adrian story. “Could’ve tested how bad his memory really was.” They added, “Or done one better and convinced him you were a Richie. He was always such a copycat with everything—you could’ve even told him Bend Records was cool and he would’ve spent money there the next day.”
At Fallon’s question, Bunny filled her in: “I actually haven’t even been here that long.” I don’t know the right time to show up for a party to save my life. “The half hour staredown with Adrian is honestly what I’ve done tonight. But congregating with you would’ve been my first pick.”
Bunny caught sight then of the second guy they’d seen tonight taking off his T-shirt.
“Okay.” They gestured to the guy covertly but so that Fallon could see. “Tell me if you know what that means. Is he…having fun? Is he not having fun and overcompensating? Is he doing it automatically, on some kind of timetable—like this is his thing, and he has to do it every time?”
And Bunny added, “My money’s on ‘not having fun’. I think the smile hides the pain.”
work is almost decent when victor and bunny are working together. most of the time, victor is on his own, mindlessly reorganizing the bottom level of the store. there's less foot traffic on days bands aren't scheduled to play and less of a possibility he has to fight with himself to be friendly, though he doesn't mind when bunny happens to be on the same level. tasks at hand are finished quickly and efficiently, and conversation is optional, or at the very least, low stakes.
shuffling from the vhs tapes to the dvd's, victor gives a curt nod to the lone costumer as they retreat before turning his head towards bunny. "altruistic..." he glances at the twenty before turning back to the cases with a low chuckle. "don't think i've ever put this much work into anything. let alone anything for other people." then, returning one last dvd to it's rightful spot, he meanders over to the counter, leaning against it. victor eyes the bill on the counter, reaching out to grab it. "i could get a week's worth of food with that." his brows furrow as he continues to observe, considering pocketing it. as quickly as the thought comes it goes. he scratches the back of his neck with his free hand and drops the bill into the donations jar.
Bunny watched as the twenty dollar bill fell into the donation jar—and realized that Victor was actually right. Expenses like a broken restroom—that was big money. Putting food on the table? That had been Bunny’s whole world for their whole life…and the irony was that it took less money to do that than to run a record store. One ten dollar bill each for Bunny and Vic could mean one less worry for the week.
But Bunny knew better than that. Everybody counted on this place. As “charitable” as raising money for the girls’ room seemed, strengthening Bend Records was a decision that made sense…and one that paid itself off in full over time.
“Victor, you’re a reasonable dude,” Bunny said as they grabbed the rag they’d been wiping down the counter with before the customer had checked out. “Tell me if this makes any sense.
“We work hard for stuff like this because it’s our job—essentially because it’s our paycheck. But then…aren’t we, like, the backbone of the store?
“Maybe once this restroom gets fixed…we do something as employees to celebrate us. I don’t know what. But I feel like we deserve it.
“Speaking of ‘altruism’...” Bunny finished wiping down the counter and leaned forward. “You ever had somebody be altruistic to you? Just because they could?”
who: bunny and milo (@giantcd)
where: the stones’ basement (near the staircase)
when: late night
Bunny had—as they’d promised their coworkers—shown up to the Stones’ party, but they hadn’t exchanged words with Milo or Merritt yet. (At the front door, they’d ended up entering behind someone and had probably missed some sort of greeting and/or courteous offering of a beer.)
There Milo was, though, without anyone talking to him…and here was Bunny. …They’d figured that that realization alone would be enough to put their feet into motion and allow them to show some politeness for the Stones’ hospitality tonight. But Milo was somebody that, if Bunny had trouble being “earnest” with most individuals, they particularly struggled to interact with without some sort of joke or triviality on hand.
Still, it was now or never. Bunny took a long sip of beer and headed toward the foot of the staircase.
“So this is probably something you hear from everyone,” Bunny began as they approached Milo. (For the love of Jesus, Bunny, do not turn this into a joke.) “But…I get it. I get why this is the party place.”
There was probably not a person on this earth that had less in common with Bunny.
“Anyway. Thanks for a fun night—I’m not the obvious person to wanna come to something like this, but…” They shrugged. “I might just be a convert.”
Sloane was exhausted. She didn't know what other way to Bend it, no other way to cure the issue without sleep... The problem was, that since Foggy - her father - left to take care of his ailing mother, she hadn't exactly been sleeping. It was the stress: of losing the record store, of losing her grandmother. It was the newfound responsibility of having a whole team looking up at her, their whole world balancing on her aching shoulders. She had been working at the record store since she was just a kid, she was raised for this... Why did it all feel so - ?
She had forgotten Bunny was there until they cleared their throat; hadn't realized her head was hung in her hands, fingers trying to rub the tired away.
"What'd you say?" Had they even been talking? Sloane wasn't sure; she knew that her cigarette had gone out, though. That the air felt colder than it had when she sat down. Her lighter was always in her pocket; fingers clicked at the flint. Sloane breathed in the smoke like it was oxygen. "Sorry. Don't think I heard a fucking word."
Bunny and Sloane had a very easy relationship to one another. The kind where, for instance, Bunny could walk Sloane home from Bend Records after a shift and have it not be a major deal. Labeled “The Loner” by high school classmates, Bunny really only found it difficult to open up in a semi-normal manner…but gestures of kindness they could do, and often did. They were just self-conscious about how people would perceive them after. Something that wasn’t a problem with Sloane—she seemed to get them, and Bunny didn’t take that for granted.
Today, though, maybe the casual friendship was a little too easy. Anything Sloane did was fine by Bunny—but hang her head in her hands was a step too far.
They’d cleared their throat on purpose. “Honestly…my story about the Richie that tried and failed to prove their musical talent in-store yesterday is worth telling again and again. Thank you for giving me the chance to tell it to you twice.”
They cackled. It was, probably, the funniest thing that had happened to them at Bend all month.
“But in all seriousness—holy shit, Sloane, what is going on.” As smoke rose from the tips of their (now-lit) cigarettes, Bunny took one breath of clean air and continued. “You look exhausted. You look more than that, actually—you look fatigued. Like you’ve been doing too much.
“Is it the damage to the merchandise, the bathroom, the Issue of the Week? Or is it something bigger than that?”
They offered Sloan a smile—something genuine. “I know I’m kind of a walking brick wall, but I’m a surprisingly—and very low-stakes, because I never overshare—good listener.” They raised their eyebrows. “Give me a shot. What’s your crisis?”
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: rip spencer you would have loved crush by david archuleta
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: outside of the stone’s house
Spencer isn’t sloppy, but he’s certainly drunk, the amount of beers and shots he’d knocked back long forgotten. The world is sort of blurry, his limbs loose and tingly, and mind quieter than it was when he’d walked in the door. He might regret it in the morning, but he certainly doesn’t now. He’s not sure exactly how long he’s been outside, lounging on a beach chair despite the chilly weather, eyes trained up on the stars. There’s a pleasant haze around them, drawing him in, so much that he barely registers someone approaching at first.
His head lifts slowly, glassy eyes training on Bunny, attention captured as if he was looking at some sort of angel rather than an ex-classmate and current coworker. Spencer remembers the day the schoolboy crush bloomed in his chest— he was seventeen and stupid, passing notes rather than taking them in English class. He’d seen them around, sure, but something had been different that day. Their eyeliner, maybe, making their green eyes pop in a way that Spencer had never noticed before. Warmth had spread through his chest and to his cheeks, butterflies had erupted in his stomach, and then he forced himself to look away. Shoved those feelings into a box he never intended to open again. Every now and then he would catch himself staring, daydreaming a little, which was where the ignoring began. It wasn’t as if they talked anyway, so it was easy enough. At least, until Spencer started working at Bend. Though, he’s still full of mumbled, one-word answers when they’re on shift together. Things dropped or knocked over by nervous hands, perpetually distracted. It’s nothing serious and nothing he’s ashamed of, but they’re unattainable, best left to wondering. He remembers being the one on the other side of those sort of actions and he wonders if this is how some of his less popular classmates in high school felt about him. God, they were all doomed.
“Hey,” there’s a slight slur of his words through a lopsided grin, the flush that was already on his face from the alcohol deepening, before he drops his head back down, “You seen the stars tonight? They’re fuckin’… woah.”
The Stones’ party was the type of environment to change your mind about things. Bunny thought this as they climbed back up the basement stairs for the front porch; whether you were a friend of Milo’s (and Bunny figured Milo had many) from who knew where or one of the Bend Records crew (Bunny had been hanging with Fallon and Moosh down there), the combination of pleasant atmosphere and alcohol (which Bunny had definitely partaken in…) made not opening up impossible.
Made concerns easier to forget.
Perhaps that was why, when Bunny emerged from the front door and found Spencer Beckett relaxing in a beach chair, cheeks flushed from a night of festivity, they immediately sat down next to him.
The golden boy from high school. The one everyone’d either had a crush on or been trying not to have a crush on; the star athlete, the prom king, etcetera etcetera. Spencer Beckett, the phenomenon.
Spencer Beckett—the one person that, if asked, Bunny would say they’d probably never be able to talk to normally.
(The differences were just too great. The…way Spencer was, and the way Bunny liked to be—some things weren’t meant to be overcome, no matter how many shifts the two had worked together, no matter how much time had passed.
Spencer would never understand Bunny. That was—and really, that should’ve been—The End.)
But there Bunny was, looking over at Spencer…and there Spencer was, looking back. With a look on his face that suggested he—wonder of wonders (Bunny almost debated if they were seeing things)—didn’t mind Bunny stopping by.
…Spencer was drunk. Thank God—so was Bunny.
At Spencer’s mention of the stars, Bunny instantly turned their head to see them for themself. They were…well, they looked normal, but Bunny understood why a Spencer Beckett enjoying a peaceful moment alone would appreciate them.
…Actually, Spencer had a very valid point. The longer Bunny looked, the more their foggy head convinced them as well that, yes, the stars were “fuckin’ whoa”.
“Spencer, we’re trashed,” Bunny acknowledged before anything else. “We’re trashed, and we’re turning to the night sky for entertainment, like—I don’t know—some settlers on the Oregon Trail.” (Spencer and Bunny had shared a US History class.)
“But.” Bunny turned to Spencer and returned the grin, if not as winningly. They found the movement easy—like letting the alcohol in their system and the things that had gone unsaid between them during their time at Bend take the lead.
“...I think it’s, actually, worth remembering: nights like these are special." Bunny’s sentimentality coming out—a rare sight. “Stars, and—and hanging out with people for hours when you pride yourself on not caring about that kind of thing, and finding out that—wow!!—you were probably wrong about yourself there…”
Bunny chuckled to themself. “Or at least that was my night.”
They sighed. “Spencer Beckett, be bluntly honest with me. Would you ever have thought back in grade school that the two of us would be not just coworkers, but at the same event—sitting next to each other, even!
“Is that a future you would’ve even liked back then?”
And Bunny looked back at the starry sky, and they finished their thought with:
“I would’ve killed for the chance to have a single conversation about deep shit with you.”
who: bunny and arwen (@arwenla)
where: pizzarama
when: around 7:15 PM
It was perhaps, more obvious to everyone around Bunny than to Bunny themself that their favorite food right now was Pizzarama’s pizza. They would eat it for their last meal, probably. They would be able to happily eat it for the rest of their life. (Or, perhaps, eat it until their tastes changed and they latched onto something else…like Tidal Twist fro-yo.)
What was obvious to Bunny, however, was that all the time they’d spent at Pizzarama had made them deathly curious about the real reason why so many people visited:
The arcade.
Bunny’s interest in nerd culture was high. Their familiarity with it was low; however, the complicated (and, at times, intentionally difficult to understand) components of every nerd hobby had always fascinated them from afar. What if they’d gotten into, like, Dungeons and Dragons as a high-schooler—and were some kind of a creative genius now? What if they’d gotten into these arcade games and had hand-eye coordination to impress God?
What if they were secretly supposed to be doing something a little geeky…and were missing out on a life’s passion?
(These were the sorts of thoughts that Bunny had every five minutes.)
The Pac-Man machine was occupied (and that, sadly, had been the only game that Bunny had been initially familiar with). But—and this would be enough to satisfy their curiosity—
Pac-Man had a wife or sister, and her machine was open.
Bunny approached. Then stopped as they were about to insert a quarter.
Somebody was watching them hesitate. A woman, about Bunny’s age (who looked an awful lot like that regular Arwen from Bend). At first, Bunny wanted to explain to her the situation. (That Pac-Man had a wife, and also that Bunny was about to find out if they were any good at video games at all.)
But Bunny found themself saying, because it was the only thing they really needed to know right away:
“Can you explain to me why there are two separate machines for two members of the same circle-shaped family? What in the world could distinguish the Pac-Man experience from this Ms. Pac-Man experience?”
who: bunny and stella (@ofbratz)
where: pizzarama
when: around 1 PM
“Stella from Bend.” Bunny said it the instant their eyes met and they clearly recognized one another; they half-smiled. “You working today?”
It was Bunny’s day off, and they were still eating lunch at Pizzarama. One could (rudely) argue that the point of a place that served food and had arcade games was to do both. One would be wrong—the pizza was so good that it was worth it to stop in on a lunch break, for dinner, even when you wanted to impress a visiting relative (which had really happened to Bunny—it was a long story).
Stella was somebody different, to Bunny. Contrary to how Bunny had greeted her—and they were already correcting their initial distantness with a joke: “You can call me Bunny from Bend, too. They’ll never know we already knew each other.”—Stella was actually someone Bunny had gotten to know a bit in high school. Bunny had always thought, privately, that they and Stella were two sides of the same coin—Stella running hot (and getting into fights—Bunny had a story about that, too) and Bunny running cold. Neither had been your average high school student; neither, Bunny had believed, had particularly wanted to be. Bunny wished they’d known her better.
Popular psychology had it that Bunny should confide in Stella about more than they were. Popular psychology had it that sharing yourself with people you appreciated (and Bunny had great reasons to appreciate Stella from the past) was always warranted, always a plus. Bunny disagreed. Far better, they thought, to learn about somebody from a short distance; far better to share yourself when there was literally nothing else left to do. If you did that, they liked to reason…chances were good that you’d be happy anyway. (Cynical, but actually true.)
But Bunny found themself initiating small talk with Stella today regardless. It was nice to be running into her.
“Tell me honestly, Stella. You’ve definitely seen the new band T-shirts we got this week.” Bunny chuckled. “They’re…something else. Would you, if it were a dare or if you were seeing someone who liked the band, wear the traffic cone orange one?”
who: bunny and victor (@scrtissues)
where: bend records, bottom level
when: just before noon
“You know,” Bunny said to fellow figure of mystery Victor Tazi as they found themselves on the same level of the record store. Bunny had just finished checking out a very one-of-a-kind customer.
Bunny picked up the crisp twenty that they’d been given for the Bend Records bathroom and held it up so Victor could see. “Look at what we’re doing,” Bunny told Victor with a disbelieving chuckle. “Neither of us—well, me by preferred bathroom, you by being a man—actually have any stake in the girls’ bathroom being fixed at all. I mean, does it suck they’re using ours? A little. But…”
Bunny frowned. They put the twenty down on the checkout counter slowly, as if it were something else. “Doesn’t this whole fundraising thing, for people who use the guys’ room, feel…”
They had difficulty getting the word out. “Altruistic?”
The customer Bunny had just been talking to had called Bunny an angel for “helping out their friends like that”.
(They’d also been the biggest fan of local bands that Bunny could possibly imagine, but that was beside the point.)
Bunny rested their forearms on the checkout counter and leaned forward. “Maybe it’s just me that feels weird about that. But I feel like you get it. Tell me something—when’s the last time you put this much effort toward something that…”
Wasn’t about yourself.
“...that had so much to do with other people, and so little to do with you?”
Bunny did have to admit, though. The feeling of being “altruistic” or “selfless” for the women in need was greatly diminished by the accompanying feeling of not doing it, in any way, shape or form, with intent.
who: bunny and fallon (@sullngirl)
where: the stones’ basement party
when: night
Parties sucked. The Stones’ parties ruled. Both of these truths Bunny fully believed.
If you had stopped Bunny on the street (they’d walked here) and asked them, “Where you headed?”, they would’ve lied. Without a thought. One of the convenient things about being a Bend Records employee was that Bunny could, if and when they preferred it most, pretend that the activity before them was actually a requirement of their job. “I’m actually doing a little research for work tonight,” Bunny could’ve said to that hypothetical passerby. Or, if they were going for humor: “Turns out my coworkers are huge. Fans. Of doing your job right. And as it stands today…I’m that hard worker that can’t say no to the perfect lesson in exceeding expectations.” They would pause. “I’m kind of a mystery, and I exceed ‘expectations’ just by being normal for once.”
But it wasn’t for research purposes that Bunny was standing in the Stones’ basement. Nor, they realized as they stared straight at some would-be party king peeling off their T-shirt, were they here to surprise people. As fascinating and unique as that would’ve been (and Bunny was all about unique), Bunny was here to have fun.
Parties sucked…but everybody always said the Stones’ parties ruled, so why not benefit from that for once?
Mostly they were at the party to drink and listen to good music. (And the music was delivering.) But Bunny caught sight of Fallon Wu—maybe the last familiar face they’d ever be prepared to encounter in that basement—and they knew instantly, intrinsically, that they would be socializing a little more than planned.
Bunny set their beer on an end table (they needed a reason to come back to that particular spot, and it had been a great, unproblematic spot) and picked their way through the crowd toward Fallon. She was alone, thank Christ.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” Bunny told her honestly. (This was unusual for Bunny to ever say, let alone think—they prided themself on being “glad” about very few things. “Glad” meant, as if it were plastered on the biggest billboard around, “I need this!”) “This is, believe it or not—actually, guess. Guess if I’ve been to this place before. I’ll give you a hint, and it’s that I spent my first half hour here tonight staring down some football player from my high school who was glaring at me. Genuinely glaring. I’m an acquired taste, but holy shit.”
The incredible, cool thing about Fallon was that she probably thought the party was somewhat silly, too.
or, “exactly what part of ‘opening up slowly but surely over time’ do they not understand?”
BASICS
name: bunny fletcher price / pronouns: they/them (sometimes also she/her) / gender: genderqueer / age: 24 (almost 25) / birthday: january 5, 1979 / orientation: pan / hometown: atlantic landing, nj / current residence: still atlantic landing (what can they say, it’s the perfect place) / occupation: five-year employee at bend records / label: “loner much?”
height: 6’1” / build: quietly strong (...but from what?) / hair: dark brown, naturally very curly, usually kind of a mess / eyes: green / piercings: multiple ear piercings; another one they say they just got—but no one can tell where… / tattoos: a conch shell on their right forearm; a small seahorse on their right ankle / personal style: alternative and grungy, but with bunny’s best attempt to look casually glam at the same time. band t-shirts and necklaces. lots of eyeliner.
positive traits: wickedly funny and a very quick thinker / negative traits: philosophically cynical, to a fault. obstinate beyond all belief / mbti: entj (the commander) / enneagram: 8w7 (the independent) / likes: any and all kinds of music, making a joke in dead silence, the beach / dislikes: order without a purpose, being wrong, boring television
ABOUT BUNNY
Bunny at first glance: something that was born one day from an album you’ve never heard or a book you’ve never read; “make them darker,” God must have said—“and make that darkness shine.” Necklaces of gray and black, but hoop earrings of rose gold; alternative band shirts (are they one of the Bend misfits?) with the sleeves and midriff cut off (ostentatious), but black jeans and combat boots that say, “I don’t present this way for you.” Eyeliner; bed head; a smile. People call this one The Loner, you’ll learn, but all the distance is in what’s implied. They view themself as something…other. In fact, this person in all their otherness could really do anything—could smile like that in the seediest alleyway in New Jersey—could fall from grace and be mistaken for some shooting star, jewelry gleaming, eyes keen and bright. They could have fallen from grace five minutes before you spotted them. They could do it—you get the clear, undeniable feeling—with their hands tied behind their back; but The Loner, you really must know, has been a loyal and hardworking employee of Bend Records (despite that…infinite shadow of theirs) for the past five years.
Bunny Price once you know them: the dry joke in the sincere room, the person who seems to have everything, in their life and outside of it, thought through (unlike a leader but very like an anti-hero)...and the kind of quietly faithful presence you might call “a friend” (though they insist they’re just fine without companionship, without any connection at all). All on their own, always on their own, you know that’s their way…but they’re good to you. If they were less cynical and a little more serious some of the time, you think that you could probably be a friend back.
Bunny once you really know them: one foot in the darkness and one in the comfortable ambiance of Bend Records. Still an unhappy kid with an empty heart; suddenly the cherished employee whose heart is full…and who can’t afford to make the same old mistakes. Bunny once you really know them: in turmoil, in constant, ironic need of warmth, and in love with an idea that may never become breathtaking reality—the idea that acquaintances could become friends could maybe (just maybe) become family, if one only chooses to let them in.
…And Bunny, in the eyes of truth: absolutely unchangeable, as long as they’ve made a decision properly. Whether for good or for bad…you cannot stop Bunny. Oppose them, by all means—they actually really enjoy that. (A lot.) But by any and all means, don’t think them persuadable on every issue, or a willing follower on every front, or weak in the places they’ve already made up their mind. You may be in for more than you bargained for.
Bunny’s favorite genre of music is indie rock. Their favorite band is The Cranberries, their favorite album is (a guilty pleasure) Super Trouper by ABBA, and their favorite song by far is Michael Jackson’s “Bad”.
SHORT BIOGRAPHY
Bunny Price wasn’t born the loner they purport themselves to be, but they were born lonely. The youngest of four growing up in a very small house in Atlantic Landing, Bunny was consistently overlooked. Why? …The others were overachievers. Athletes with praisable first-place finishes, scholars with spotless reports from their teachers, even young politicians with an early passion for leadership—the other Prices left Bunny somewhere far behind them. (Or at least Bunny always viewed themself as being behind them, rather than somewhere simply different.)
Being unnoticed, therefore, along with being poor, meant Bunny turned out a little rough around the edges. They found the dark side of everything they encountered and flourished there; they found their dry sense of humor in the unpredictability of fate, their alternative style in self-identification as “an alternative taste”, their guarded demeanor in the reality that life was very hard. They, by the time their senior year of high school rolled around, had found themself—an entity that needed no one and nothing, and would rather spend every moment they had becoming stronger as an individual than strong in relation to anything else. They were, in both thought and action, exactly what their classmates labeled them: The Loner.
And Bunny genuinely liked that.
At nineteen, Bunny started working at Bend Records. This…well, it would be nice to say it opened them up to the possibilities of true camaraderie, but something about the counterculture and deliberate chaos of the music scene actually reinforced a lot of the hardness Bunny had taken on in adolescence. (...Though maybe it reinforced those things, if possible, in a healthy way. For once, Bunny felt not just happy to be so different, but proud.)
And these days, Bunny will readily, gladly tell you that they don’t intend to change—ever. They want to be self-sufficient and pervasively, perpetually separate. They love coming across as “unique”—and actually turning out to be more unique than you would’ve believed. And…they don’t need you.
But something about the little community that’s begun to form within Bend Records tempts them, secretly, to reconsider…
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