live life to it&#x27;s fullest

a place of no return || para 1

He cants his head to the side while she talks about what she does, eyebrows arching when she finushes. He lets out a low whistle. “Particle Physics.” He repeats, shaking his head with an amused smile. “An engineer. Christ, you’re probably really smart then. Like genius level.” And he wouldn’t be surprised if she were, honestly. He’s starting to expect the unexpected with her.

“I really doubt you’re boring. I don’t think boring people take the man who broke into their house out for a meal, do they?” Cain smiles, but it’s very close to being a smirk. “The Smiths, huh? I could start singing, right now, like in that one movie but; a. I have a horrible voice, and b. I’d look like a real dick, huh?” Though, he probably already does, but he’s not gonna risk making himself into more of an ass. He comes off as one a lot, unintentionally, when he makes jokes peolle interpret as him making fun of them.

He follows her into the diner, looking very much like a lost tbn ouppy trailing after its owner. It’s probanly an amusing sight to anyone else watching. He sits down across from her, and realizes she probably comes her all the time. He doesn’t really have places like this, where people mnow him. Except for maybe the coffee shop by his house, but college kids are always comeing and going there, someone new serving him every time. She’s clearly got a regular, and he just orders whatever she gets. He’s not particularly picky, so it doesn’t matter. “So you’re from Russia?”

Marlene shrugs nonchalantly, she’s smart and she knows it. She doesn’t tell anyone her IQ because it makes them fear her. People, as a rule, are afraid of knowledge. That’s why Russia is the way it is. “I am smart but that’s neither here nor there. Most jobs you have to be smart for. I don’t care to say I’m smarter than the next person. Everyone has their distinct set of talents. My talents are math and physics--sciences. I can not write books or essays or.. well anything. I didn’t read until I was nearly seven years old. Some people are just better at doing some things than others.”

She smiles at him shyly when he speaks of singing. One thing she distinctly remembers about the woman who gave birth to her is her voice. It was sweet and distinct, not something to be forgotten easily. Unfortunately, she didn’t inherit that from her mother. She got her mother’s hair and her nose, from what she’s been told, but not the good stuff. Her hair frizzes more than she’d like and her nose is far too round but such is life. “You would look quite silly.”

“I am American.” She states simply. It’s not something that she talks about often. She was quite old when she was adopted by her parents, old enough to understand what was going on. It was an incredibly rough time in Russia, unstable and unsafe for young children. Her parents had wanted a child for so long they would have taken almost any child. They chose her by chance and almost didn’t get her. “But yes, I was born and raised in Russia. I moved here when I was fourteen.” Her blood will always be Russian and there’s nothing she can do about it. She’s tried to lose the last bit of her accent for years but it’s always there. Her heart is American, it is truly the land of the free and the land of opportunity. “Where are you from?”

a place of no return || para 1

There’s something about him that interests her, maybe it’s the fact that she’s slightly intoxicated herself, or maybe it’s because she hasn’t gone out with anyone that wasn’t family or a coworker in over a year–regardless she actually wants him to come to the diner. She doesn’t normally show the diner to people as a general rule. It’s her favorite place for a milkshake and a burger (her favorite part of America) yet here she is, leading a perfect stranger directly to her safe haven. She wants him there, for some reason. Maybe it’s fate telling her to lead him there, she doesn’t know. Most of her life she’s trusted her gut and she doesn’t think to stop now.

“No, it’s alright. You can get sobered up with some hamburgers.” Belatedly, she hopes he doesn’t throw up in the restaurant. “And milkshakes. They have the best. I’ll just grab a coat and we will be on our way.” She doesn’t mention that if he leaves she won’t sleep because she has a feeling he would just blame himself and she’s not one who likes to reassure people of things more than once, so she grabs her jacket and stashes her keys in the inside pocket. She grabs her holster as well and stashes her gun there for good measure. One can never be too careful and she knows her neighborhood is prone to trouble.

She leads them out of the door and down the stairs, thinking of ways to make conversation that wouldn’t sound like an interrogation. Her father always made their talks seem like she would be getting into trouble straight after, which years in the Army trained him to do. Her mother conducted conversations like business, very “get to the point” in nature. Before that…. her conversations were entirely based in survival and she really didn’t like to think about them. “So, what do you do for living?” Even that was dangerous territory. When he asked her, she’d have to lie (though she hates lying) but it’s a good start regardless.

Even if she had let him get a word in edgewise to argue, he probably wouldn’t have. A burger and milkshake does sound really good right now (he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, he thinks), even if he’ll have to eat is very slowly to keep from vomiting. A small price to pay. And she seems very insistent anyways, so he must not be troubling her too much. Idly, he wonders why she’s being this kind, and then decides not to question it any further- maybe there is no reason, maybe she’s just a nurturing person. Either why, he’s thankful.

After he pulls his own coat on (it’s not cold outside really, but there’s a breeze and it’s probably going to storm soon), he walks beside her, not slouching any more, and he notes how small she seems in comparison. Of course, she also still has her gun tucked away, so her small stature isn’t exactly giving off an aura of frailness. He takes a moment to study her profile when he thinks she’s not paying attention. She is really very pretty, and when he tells Mary about it later she’s going to laugh at him.

Her voice startles him and it takes a moment to realize she’s asked him a question. He stutters for a second, a he definitely doesn’t blush, thank you very much. “I, uh, I’m a vet. Private Practice, so we get a lot of animals like birds, rabbits, reptiles. And, you know, obviously dogs and cats.” Thank god he doesn’t have work today. There’s a cat who recently had surgery he’ll have to check up on later, but that can wait. “How about you, what do you do?”

She listens along attentively, nodding when he said he was a vet. It makes sense, even though she doesn't know him well. The way he was with Artemis, for example. That doesn't come naturally to a lot of people. "I cannot imagine the reptile part. Snakes were never a species I could seem to agree with." She hadn't seen a real snake--a large one--until her parents adopted her. When she saw her first west coast snake she had nearly fainted on the spot. The only animals she really gets along with are dogs and sometimes cats, but never anything with scales.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Marlene grins for the first time that night. Really, most people don't see her as a weapons designer. Most people don't see her as anything but a petite girl with a slight accent. In reality, the gun she's carrying is one of her own design. It's elegant, sleek, and practical. It's one of her best works. "I have a doctorate in particle physics from MIT. I'm an engineer of sorts, I suppose. I tinker mostly. And draw." It's about as close to the truth as she could get without blowing the lid. Somehow, she's never had to tell anyone what she does for a living before, hadn't had a lot of time to think about it.

"I'm mostly boring. I like milkshakes and 90s music. You know, The Smiths and stuff." She shrugs, leading them through the door of the restaurant. Immediately she takes them to her favorite table. All of the people in the diner know her by sight, she doesn't order anymore. Change is never something she's ever needed, so she gets the same thing every time. A cheese burger with mayo and extra pickles, extra crispy fries, and a milkshake. Chocolate, of course. "I work a lot."

a place of no return || para 1

“Russian.” Her accent bleeds through, if only a little. When she was younger she had been ashamed of her accent, embarrassed at how her words didn’t flow like everyone else’s did. Her parents reassured her that she sounded perfect the way she was, but she strove to normalize herself anyway. “Jello shots are for nursing mothers.” She murmurs in her native tongue. In Russia it’s shameful to chase the burn with anything. Jello shots were something she discovered late in life, at a college party she didn’t want to be at. She had refused it straightaway.

“I’ve never had anyone break into my house before.” Not even in Russia where her father had not locked the doors. They had nothing to steal back then. Now, she has everything to lose. Silently, she thanks god that she remembered to clean up all of her drawings and doodles of everything she had been working on. “I’m afraid I do not know the proper etiquette. You ate the lemon, you should feel better. If only marginally. Next step is eating a rather large and greasy hamburger. There’s a diner down the street.”

Now she’s not sure of how to proceed. Does she offer to take him there? There’s no way she can just put him out on the street in this condition. She’s also not overly sure that Mary is home, she thinks she remembers hearing something about the elderly lady watching Mary’s cat for the week. “I could take you there, I mean, it’ll help. I’m kind of an expert on hangovers.” She almost mentions her father, but thinks better of it. “Unless you’d rather catch a cab.”

“Ah.” He says, nodding. She speaks again, in that tongue he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t ask for a translation, because he figures if it was something he was supposed to know, she would have said it in a way he’d understand. “My Russian, unfortunately, begins and ends at привет.” And he’s probably butchered tje pronunciation, but hey, he learned that like 14 years ago in high school, cut him some slack.

“Really? Not once? See, I actually lied, I accidentally break into people’s houses all the time; it’s part of my charm. Seriously though, Mary lets people crash at her place all the time, I’m honetstly surprised I’m the first one dumb enough to make this mistake.” And more than incredibly mortified, but he supposes it could have gone worse. She could have shot him, could have been a lot less understanding, a lot less helpful, a lot less kind, and, if he’s being honest, a lot less pretty. Evidently he’s very lucky

The offer is unexpected (she seems to be taking him by surprise a lot in the veey short time he’s known her. Suppose it makes up for the surprise he must have given her, waking up with a strange man standing confused in her living room). “Well, I, uh- sure? I mean, that’d be really great but I just- don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been, and you’ve been really nice already…”

There's something about him that interests her, maybe it's the fact that she's slightly intoxicated herself, or maybe it's because she hasn't gone out with anyone that wasn't family or a coworker in over a year--regardless she actually wants him to come to the diner. She doesn't normally show the diner to people as a general rule. It's her favorite place for a milkshake and a burger (her favorite part of America) yet here she is, leading a perfect stranger directly to her safe haven. She wants him there, for some reason. Maybe it's fate telling her to lead him there, she doesn't know. Most of her life she's trusted her gut and she doesn't think to stop now.

"No, it's alright. You can get sobered up with some hamburgers." Belatedly, she hopes he doesn't throw up in the restaurant. "And milkshakes. They have the best. I'll just grab a coat and we will be on our way." She doesn't mention that if he leaves she won't sleep because she has a feeling he would just blame himself and she's not one who likes to reassure people of things more than once, so she grabs her jacket and stashes her keys in the inside pocket. She grabs her holster as well and stashes her gun there for good measure. One can never be too careful and she knows her neighborhood is prone to trouble.

She leads them out of the door and down the stairs, thinking of ways to make conversation that wouldn't sound like an interrogation. Her father always made their talks seem like she would be getting into trouble straight after, which years in the Army trained him to do. Her mother conducted conversations like business, very "get to the point" in nature. Before that.... her conversations were entirely based in survival and she really didn't like to think about them. "So, what do you do for living?" Even that was dangerous territory. When he asked her, she'd have to lie (though she hates lying) but it's a good start regardless.

a place of no return || para 1

“Some guard dog you are,” she murmurs to Cобака, who is currently trying to lick the stranger’s face. It’s her fault for not training Cобака to be an attack dog, but not fully. One can never truly make a golden retriever anything other than happy. For a moment she considers that this could all be a ploy, something to let her guard down, but then she sees how this man is obviously in pain, and her nature takes over. They used to tell her at the orphanage that her mother was famous for her heeling through the region. “Mary does live next door.” She decides to put her gun away for now, but keep it close–so she sticks it in her pants securely.

“No–no. Sit. Stay. I’ve got something.” She strides to the kitchen, wondering if she would’ve gotten any sleep that night anyway and decides that, no, she probably wouldn’t have so she doesn’t blame him for waking her. Her cupboards are filled with remedies of every kind. It is one thing that she has always held on to from her heritage. Russians know how to cure ailments of every kind, even alcohol poisoning, which she knows is a possibility. She grabs a glass of cucumber juice and a lemon and decides that will have to be enough.

“Eat this, drink this.” She hands him the glass and the lemon and backs away–hoping to get out of his vomiting range. “I’m Marlene, by the way. This—-” she points to her dog, “is Cобака. What have you been drinking?” Her father, back in Russia, used to drink too much before he died. She knows the signs of too much drinking because she never lets herself get to that place. “You look horrible.”

A lopsided smile tugs at his lips when she mutters to the dog. He pets the latter, chuckling a bit. “I don’t think Golden Retrievers make very good guard dogs, anyways. Too affectionate. Should have gone Kuvasz. Then again, if you did, a hangover would be the least of my problems.” Partly, it’s hope that if he seems friendly enough she’s not going to, you know, shoot him, but mostly his speech kind of kicks into auto-pilot if he can talk about animals. Only thing he knows much about, really. (Well, that’s not true. He’s smart, he couldn’t do what he does successfully if he weren’t, but most things simply don’t interest him.)

She tells him to stay, and it’s a surprise to be sure, but not an unwelcome one. He’s never been one to crankily insist that he hates surprises, after all. Usually they were fine (as long as no one was jumping out trying to scare him, anyways). He sits down like he asks, and watches her with a tilted head as she leaves. The dog snuffles, getting back his attention and he pets his snout with his knuckles and scratches under his chin while he waits for her to come back.

When she does (offering juice, a lemon, and instructions which he readily follows), he turns his attention from the dog, back to her. “Vodka. Not straight, mind you— Jell-o Shots. God, I really hope I don’t hurl Jell-o Shots. And nice to meet you, breaking and entering aside. Name’s Cain.” (God, he’s grateful he’s an only child, imagine the remarks people would make if he had a brother. Not to say that they don’t make any now, teasingly asking him if he’s always been an only child. Really, he doesn’t know what his parents were thinking, sticking him with a name like that.) “I’m sorry— his name is… what language is that?”

“Russian.” Her accent bleeds through, if only a little. When she was younger she had been ashamed of her accent, embarrassed at how her words didn't flow like everyone else's did. Her parents reassured her that she sounded perfect the way she was, but she strove to normalize herself anyway. “Jello shots are for nursing mothers.” She murmurs in her native tongue. In Russia it's shameful to chase the burn with anything. Jello shots were something she discovered late in life, at a college party she didn't want to be at. She had refused it straightaway.

“I've never had anyone break into my house before.” Not even in Russia where her father had not locked the doors. They had nothing to steal back then. Now, she has everything to lose. Silently, she thanks god that she remembered to clean up all of her drawings and doodles of everything she had been working on. “I'm afraid I do not know the proper etiquette. You ate the lemon, you should feel better. If only marginally. Next step is eating a rather large and greasy hamburger. There's a diner down the street.”

Now she's not sure of how to proceed. Does she offer to take him there? There's no way she can just put him out on the street in this condition. She's also not overly sure that Mary is home, she thinks she remembers hearing something about the elderly lady watching Mary’s cat for the week. “I could take you there, I mean, it'll help. I'm kind of an expert on hangovers.” She almost mentions her father, but thinks better of it. “Unless you'd rather catch a cab.”

a place of no return || para 1

He doesn’t drink, usually. And if he does, it’s always to get drunk. Not because it’s been awhile, or because he gets shaky without it, but once and a while, he wants to feel pleasantly buzzed. Sue him. Of coursw, after this, he might drink even less. His head feels like its about to explode and when he stands up he gets dizzy. Then there’s noise, and if he were less alarmed about the fact that he definitely doesn’t know who that is, and shit she’s got a gun, he might ask her to threaten him a little more quietly, please. He spares a cursory glance around the room and finds it completely unfamiliar. Definitely not good.

Later in the evening, when he looks back on this, he’s gonna realize how fucking stupid it was. A terrible, awful idea. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. Or they say something similar to that. Whatever, he feels like he’s about to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Probably also not a good idea. So instead he settles for rubbing his temple with one hand, and holding the other up in an awkward half wave, half the international symbol for I-come-in-peace.

“Christ. Uh, hey? Christ. You’re not, uh, you’re not Mary. Fuck, I’m sorry, you- you live right next door to her, I thought this was her house. I was, apparently, to fucking drunk to tell the difference. And Mary doesn’t have a dog, but drunk me was, ah, not really clear headed enough to think that one through. I’m- I’ll just go?” Another wave of nausea hits him, though, and he groans, a little embarrassed.

“No--no. Sit. Stay. I’ve got something.” She strides to the kitchen, wondering if she would’ve gotten any sleep that night anyway and decides that, no, she probably wouldn’t have so she doesn’t blame him for waking her. Her cupboards are filled with remedies of every kind. It is one thing that she has always held on to from her heritage. Russians know how to cure ailments of every kind, even alcohol poisoning, which she knows is a possibility. She grabs a glass of cucumber juice and a lemon and decides that will have to be enough.

“Eat this, drink this.” She hands him the glass and the lemon and backs away--hoping to get out of his vomiting range. “I’m Marlene, by the way. This----” she points to her dog, “is Cобака. What have you been drinking?” Her father, back in Russia, used to drink too much before he died. She knows the signs of too much drinking because she never lets herself get to that place. “You look horrible.”

#this is ACTUALLY HER #wtf #&photos.

jennacoleman

Jenna by Andy Gotts

jennalouisedaily

Jenna Coleman by Jo Metson Scott (2012)

#&photos.

a place of no return || para 1

Marlene has suffered from insomnia her entire life. When she was little her parents tried everything to help; from doctors to holistic medicine. Nothing helped--until she turned 21 and had her first drink. It's a running joke in her family that her Russian blood runs so deep she can only be put to sleep with a warm bottle of vodka. The sad thing is that it's the truth. It's three in the morning and all of the candles around her are on their last legs. Her Surface currently displays her newest design--a simple drone that is anything but simple. Drones are one of her favorite things to design because no matter how simple they appear to be on the outside, they are full of complexity on the inside. Unfortunately, it's beginning to be the part of the night where her eyes finally start burning and the vodka goes down a little easier (though it never goes down hard, if truth be told). A loud noise snaps her out of her doze. "Fuck," she snaps as she throws her sheets back. "If that is another fucking bird flying around my apartment..." She pauses, realizing that perhaps it wasn't a bird. It could very well be a human, and she has quite a bit of information lying around. "Fuck," she repeats, hitting the false side of her dressing table to access her pistol. Luckily it's still relatively light in her hallway as she had fallen asleep (albeit shortly) without flipping the lights off. Quietly she slips along her hallway, peeking around the corner to find a strange man in her living room. "I'm armed, and you'd better have a good fucking reason to be in my house."