Looks can be deceiving

Mason "Mouse" Quinley "But still I smile Because I need to look strong And all the while I keep soldiering on" Age: 19 House: Torren Security Class: 1 Infection Status: Empath

[mouse-quinley]

[ mun q ] Any plots/storylines you'd really like to play out with Mouse?

So many!I’m excited to see how his conversation with Boone goes, because I’d really love to see him with a positive adult role model. Right now he thinks all adults are evil, but he’s going on 20 very soon and he can’t keep looking at them as the enemy anymore. I’d also love to see him actually open up to someone about all the guilt and responsibility he carries on his shoulders and come to realize he can’t control everything.And like...as he does get older and integrate more in the Colony, if he ever gets to the point where he stops seeing adults as the enemy and can embrace being one himself, I could really see him being happy with being a teacher or a counselor. That’s a long ways off, but it’s an idea I think he could potentially start exploring soon and I’d really like to see that happen. He’s never really had ambitions but with the right kind of nudge I could see him aspiring to something like that. It’s also always fun when he gets awkward around a pretty girl and I would love to explore Mouse with a crush on someone lol. Also, CONFLICT! He’s so easygoing and gets along with most people, so it’s always very welcome when he doesn’t (coughs - JR - cough). 

[mouse-quinley]

Will you ever outright confront JR about his shitty attitude?

Don’t plan on it.

[who-is-jr-archive]

[ They aren’t here. They’re not fucking anywhere.

J.R’s eyes were drooping in his final class of the day. He over-stretched himself in training. Then a blind panic hit him in class and he quietly fumed through it. The only thing keeping him happy was the fact he could pop a couple pills and sleep like the die. A few more pills and he’d be one of them. He’s so exhausted he could sleep without them, he just wouldn’t stay that way.

Now they’re no-fucking-where to be found. 

His bed in a disarray, drawers opened and shut. He considers screaming into the pillow after searching. That wouldn’t help. He thinks of hitting the wall. His hand couldn’t take it – then he’s kicking the end of his bed with such force it smacks hard into the wall. It drags along the trunk just under his bed. Filled with nothing but the colony’s clothes. The crash doesn’t startle him but the voice does.

There’s a long pause after Mouse’s question. J.R stood, taking deep breaths because he’s even angrier he was heard. He stares hard at the ground. From their nice “conversation” awhile back with Roman, everyone knows about J.R’s pills. Everyone appreciates the fact he uses them.

With a sharp movement he throws open the privacy curtain. Eyes still trained down to the ground, steeling himself a moment before looking up to Mouse. Disheveled and obviously just woken up. Isn’t angry, exhausted J.R just the prettiest picture everyone wants to see when they first wake?] 

You seen my pills? [It’s not accusing but it’s enough of an explanation for his roommate. J.R doesn’t think anyone would want to nick them. He’d only suspect them of switching it for stronger stuff.]

[mouse-quinley]

[For a long time there’s no answer; just a fuming, boiling anger curdling under Mouse’s skin that tells him he was heard. And it’s impossible to ignore, even though it doesn’t belong to him. Maybe some of it does belong to him, because he’s fucking sick and tired of J.R. doing this to him. And now he’s gone and woken him -- from his first really good sleep in a while -- to deal with whatever the bloody hell is going on behind that privacy curtain.

Mouse is about to shout at him again, but then the curtain is pulled back. J.R. isn’t looking at him -- he never seems to want to look at him, Mouse has noticed, but it’s not something that usually bothers him. Right now, though -- everything is bothering him. He’s scowling at the man when J.R finally looks up at him, ready to fight any explanation he might give --

Except that one.]

Your pills? [Mouse repeats, irritation clear in his voice. Of course it’s the fucking pills.] No, I haven’t, but maybe if you kick some more shit around they’ll turn up. 

[The sarcastic words are past his lips before Mouse can stop them, and he’s too annoyed even to care. As if he would have any way of knowing where J.R’s pills were. The man wasn’t wrong in his assumption that the only reason Mouse would take them would be to switch them out with something stronger. 

He’s tempted to just get up and leave -- but that won’t fix the problem, not if J.R doesn’t find them on his own. And for as much as the man’s anger and exhaustion are fueling Mouse’s, it’s also wearing on him just as quickly, the effects of the sleep he’d just gotten already leaving him. 

Letting out a groan and running a hand through his hair, Mouse gets to his feet and moves to the center of the room, folding his arms across his chest. He’s going to help, but he’s not going to pretend to be happy about it.] When was the last time you saw them? [Not that that would help anymore, seeing as J.R had torn everything apart. Fucking hell.]

[mouse-quinley]

What would you say to your roommates if you could say anything without consequences?

I’m sorry I can’t help you.

[mouse-quinley]

Describe a time when you felt completely alone?

'Bout a month or so after D-Day, I guess. Before I really started to notice my infection and before my brothers and me were as close as we are. Everyone from the home was dead. Everything was gone. And there were six younger blokes all looking to me to keep them alive. Closed myself off for a few days, didn’t talk to anyone. Couldn’t talk to anyone, really. And then I got my head back on straight.

[mouse-quinley]

Ready to change dorms, yet?

No, actually, I’m trying to figure out how I can spend more time in my dorm. 

[mouse-quinley]

[chance-caellach-blog]

[The wave of relief feels palpable. It’s only Mouse. 

And he doesn’t know Mouse well, not enough to even think about counting him among his small (and yet, still, too big) circle of those he calls friends (if only because he can’t call them anything else). But Mouse feels — safe. Mouse isn’t going to get him in trouble.

Mouse is just-enough like Chance for him to take a breath out and relax. The two of them out at night when they’re not supposed to be, and it feels like he could be back at Wyatt’s, two boys without families — (Chance’s far away, behind bars) — trying not to get into trouble. 

But Mouse is too good, probably, to ever have been one of Wyatt’s. If he wasn’t in bed when he was supposed to be, nobody made him sleep on the floor for a week, no pillows, no blankets. Chance feels sure. 

It’s not often that Chance thinks it: what if he had known someone then? He only thinks it about Mouse because once, for a small time, they had something in common. But Mouse probably wouldn’t have liked Chance then. Then Chance was small. Then he was weak. Then, he didn’t speak.

Chance didn’t like Chance, then.

But it’s the end of the world and they’re all orphans now, even if Chance didn’t start out that way. They all live under the same roof and with the same rules even if they aren’t as brutal as the ones Chance remembers, the ones that he sometimes still follows because their lessons are seared into his skin. He isn’t sure how much it matters, now, that he and Mouse were once the same.]

Deal. [He says, and he even manages a small quirk of a smile.] Do you want to  — I usually go out onto the grounds. When I can’t sleep. 

[mouse-quinley]

[A wave of relief washes over him, and it makes Mouse that much more pleased to think he might have something to do with it. 

For his part, he’s glad it’s Chance he ran into. Glad it’s not an Elite that will scold him, as if he’s a child who can’t make his own decisions. As if his wandering the halls after dark will somehow be a detriment to the safety of the Colony. 

But that’s not the only reason he’s glad it’s Chance. It’s the shared experience they both have; orphaned, even before the world ended. It’s something small, and he doubts their experiences were anything close to the same, but it’s significant enough that he feels a sort of kinship with the other boy. 

And so he grins back wider at the question, even though it ends up turning into more of a statement. Like maybe Chance is preparing for Mouse to say no. But he doesn’t.] Let’s do it, mate. Before we run into someone else, yeah? 

[Mouse doesn’t wait for an answer before he starts leading the way outside, and the idea of fresh air -- and further separation from the emotions swirling about in the Colony -- is a welcome one indeed. He’s quiet as he leads them outside, eyes and ears open for any indication that someone might be nearby to get them into trouble. 

When they make it out the door, it’s his own relief that washes over him as he breathes in the fresh night air. He grins at Chance and pauses in his steps so the other can take the lead now, decide where they go from here.] Excellent idea, mate. [His voice is quiet, even though there’s no one around to disturb, but still it feels like it cuts too loudly into the night.] I dunno how often you do this, but I reckon ya might start running into me a whole lot more. So just tell me if I get annoying. 

[mouse-quinley]

[In some miraculous turn of events, Mouse ended up finishing his chores early. Which meant all his brothers were still occupied with their own chores or classes -- as was the rest of the Colony -- and right now that was a blessing in itself. It meant there was nothing more productive Mouse could do with his time than go back to his room -- his room that would be empty -- and sleep. 

Because God only knew he needed it. It felt like it had been years since he’d gotten a full nights’ sleep, but every time he was in his room with both Roman and J.R it felt like he was being suffocated. If not by one of his roommates than by the other. And so he’d been reduced to slipping out of his room in the middle of the night and dozing off in the Torren common room, or trying to find times to take catnaps during the day.

It wasn’t working for him, though he refused to admit it to himself. Refused to admit that maybe he needed help dealing with his situation. Mouse offered help, he didn’t take it. Certainly didn’t ask for it, even though he would never begrudge anyone else doing so. And so he found himself passed out on top of his blankets in the late afternoon, sleeping more soundly than he had in ages. So soundly, in fact, that he slept right through dinner. Right past the sunset, even, until his dreamless sleep started to shift into something else. 

Agitation creeped under his skin, and suddenly he was back in the home again. Half-buried under rubble, struggling to pull himself out from under the remains of his bed so he could get through the smoke and dust to the boys who were screaming all around him. And then there was a crash --

But it wasn’t another asteroid. It was -- Mouse didn’t know what it was. He sat up, groggy and disoriented and pissed off, and a moment later the reason why became clear. J.R. had returned to their room, and he was -- Mouse didn’t know.] What’re you doing? 

[logan-grimes]

“This is how we do it!”

[The backing track kicked in with an extra loud thud as logan pranced around the kitchen, tying an apron around her waist as the music picked up momentum. It was her turn to select this meal prep shifts music playlist on the echo machine and unlike whoever decide that classical music filled with nothing but strings and piano was a great way to make breakfast too, Logan felt that for the evening shift they might as well make it a party. Especially if she was going to keep her mind off how hungry she already was even though she would not be able to eat for another good hour and a half - ]. 

“This is how we do it, it’s Friday night -!”

 [she sang along to the ancient song that somehow people to this day still new because of ironic internet memes and comedy film soundtrack before D-Day. She didn’t care what anyone else thought - though she could easily spy some people around the kitchen absentmindedly dancing to beat, singling along to the rap track. ] - “I’m kinda buzzed and it’s all because! This is how we do it!” [She began peeling carrots into a nearby bucket].

[mouse-quinley]

[If anyone had a problem with the food at the Colony -- and many seemed to, as far as he could tell -- it was probably safe to blame it on Mouse. At least when he was part of meal prep. Why anyone thought it was a good idea to stick him in the kitchen was beyond the nineteen year old. Honestly, it was a wonder he hadn’t set the Colony on fire yet. Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration, seeing as his job mainly consisted of chopping vegetables. Still, he couldn’t help the thought that he would be of far greater use anywhere else, zoned out as he was while chopping up his vegetables. 

Needless to say, the music was jarring. So much so that he very nearly cut his finger on the knife he was using. Amused, he glanced up at the woman who’d changed things up from the boring old classical stuff that put him to sleep, grinning when he recognized she was also from Torren. Figured. Mouse chuckled as she sang along. The music was hardly his style, but the energy that came along with it was more than welcome. He bobbed his head along to the music, his chopping becoming even more uneven, and once the refrain had passed he couldn’t help calling out to the woman,] Oi! Anyone gives me shit about finding whole pieces of celery in their soup I’m sending ‘em t’you, yeah? [But he was grinning, his tone nothing but amused, and he popped an extra large chuck of the vegetable into his mouth a moment later.]

[boone-ellis-blog]

[Sometimes, Boone’s office feels like it’s in another dimension. Meaning: tucked in a back hallway on the third floor, it feels very removed from the bustle of the rest of the Colony. 

It also means that people don’t drop by that often. 

He tries to use it as little as possible, prefers instead to hold his sessions on more neutral ground: an empty classroom or the empty dining hall, something that feels less formal, a little bit more fitting to who Boone is as a person, and who he tries to be as a therapist. 

His office mainly seems to exist to be filled up with papers, printouts of psychology journals from before D-Day and his own chicken-scratch notes, spending all of his hours not otherwise dedicated to something else to trying to shove as much knowledge in his head as he can. 

Which is — not what he’s doing now. No, he’s got his feet up on his desk, on a little cleared-off space, and he’s got a printout in his lap on top of a battered notebook he’d picked up in the hub, but his notes have petered out to nothing and he’s humming as he taps out a beat with his pen on paper, some old tune he remembers on the stereo from when he was a kid, and his mom and dad would dance around the living room, and his dad would let him stand on his feet, holding on and shrieking. 

The good old days, long, long gone. 

So, needless to say, he isn’t expecting Mouse. He isn’t expecting anyone.

And with Mouse’s sudden (okay, maybe it wouldn’t have been so sudden, if Boone had been paying attention instead of half-rocking out) appearance in his doorway, he startles, and his pen goes flying. It clatters to the floor, like it’s declaring to Mouse (you know, in case he missed it) that Boone’s a freakin’ idiot. He’s such an idiot, that even super-senses can’t help him. 

He lets it go, he’d only tatter his dignity further by rooting around on the floor for an errant pen.]

Mouse! [But maybe, in some way, it’s a blessing. Because he doesn’t buy Mouse’s “just passing by” argument for a second, and maybe Boone making a fool of himself is enough of a happy accident to put Mouse at ease when he’s obviouosly feeling awkward, unwilling to own up to the fact that he sought Boone out.] No, no, you’re not bothering me at all. I was — well, I wasn’t doing much of anything. I’m sure you saw. Do you want to come in? Sit down? 

[mouse-quinley]

[There’s a split second where Mouse thinks he’s just imagining the almost comical look of surprise on Boone’s face, the way the pen he’d been rapping against his notebook goes flying across the room. But the wave of embarrassment -- the better kind, the kind that bears at least some amusement rather than complete mortification -- that washes over him tells him it really happened. 

Oddly enough, it relaxes him some, has him letting out a chuckle at Boone’s assurance that he wasn’t doing anything. It reminds him why he (unconsciously) ended up here in the first place. Because Boone seems genuine, because Boone seems somehow more human than the authority figures Mouse is used to. He knows how to have fun.]

Ah -- [Mouse hesitates all the same at the invitation to sit, halfway in the room and halfway out. Like if he takes it, he’ll be committing to something more than that. He’s not, though. And he doesn’t feel like Boone will make him, so he after a moment he shrugs. Like it’s him doing Boone a favor, and not the other way around.] Sure, if you’re sure I’m not disturbing band practice.

[Mouse flashes a cheeky grin at that, pausing a moment to pick up the stray pen and set it on Boone’s desk before he takes a seat. And despite Boone’s openness, despite his warm, inviting presence -- despite the fact that he’s here of his own accord, even -- Mouse can’t shake the feeling that he’s about to be scrutinized.

It’s the setting, more than anything, but it’s reminiscent of far too many instances of being called into the head nurse’s office and getting told off for nicking some candies or playing a trick on one of the other caregivers. He shifts uncomfortably, crosses his arms and then uncrosses them, and looks around the room as if it might provide him with an answer as to why he’s even here in the first place.] You doin’ research or somethin’? [He asks after a moment, noting the papers that seem to clutter up the room.]

[mouse-quinley]

chance-caellach:

[Two weeks on, one week off. The cycle of his medication has become familiar to him, now.

What is new is the way that he sleeps through the night, sometimes, now without it. And though he is weak enough to feel relief, it scares him, too. Time is passing. The memory is slipping away. Chance is letting it. Chance’s priorities are changing. He isn’t a ghost, isn’t held still in time in the worst moment of his life, unable and unwilling to move past it. 

Chance is a human boy, and he is alive, and he is growing.

He’d thought that he wouldn’t, but he had underestimated his own instincts. Almost against his will, they push him towards survival.

Tonight, though, he wakes. It’s quieter, not the violent, sweat-slick panic of his first months at the Colony. But he knows the feeling, knows that phantom smell of smoke and the all-encompassing feeling of blame. Of failure. 

And once, when he woke in the night, he would sit up in bed until morning. Once, Chance had been too afraid to break the rules, even when his fear made the walls close in on him, the air feel too heavy in his lungs. He had been until he and Quentin had walked the Colony grounds at night, and nothing bad had happened at all, and Chance had learned to be bold.

Unwilling to stay awake and sleepless, looking through the faint light at the sleeping forms of his roommates, he slips from his room, and then from Delma, walking through the dark-quiet halls to clear his head. 

But the quiet is broken by footsteps, and Chance’s boldness evaporates, aware that he’s doing something frowned upon, something wrong.] I didn’t, I’m just — [he winces, he doesn’t have a convenient excuse, and so he gives up trying] What are you doing awake?

[As if Mouse’s living quarters aren’t bad enough -- a constant drain on his energy, a constant weight of negative energy resting on his shoulders -- tonight is worse.

Someone’s having a nightmare, and it isn’t someone in his own room but it’s bad enough that Mouse can feel it. Only he can’t do anything about it. Can’t drop a book on the floor with a loud ‘thunk’ to pull the sleeper from their terror. All he can do is toss and turn in his own bed until it’s too much. Until his head aches and his skin is paling and it’s all he can do to pull himself out of his bed and flee his common room altogether. 

He tries his best to follow the rules, most of the time. The rules he deems worth following, at least, and the curfew is one he understands for the most part. It’s stupid. It’s annoying. But raiders are a threat he’s all too aware of, and if his sticking to this rule lessens the odds that one of the younger boys will wander outside in the middle of the night -- Mouse is willing to do it. Most nights.

Tonight his bare feet pad softly through dark hallways. Seeking solitude, or the familiar feeling of one of his brothers dreaming in their own dorms. What he finds is something else. Daring, boldness, creeping closer and closer -- until it disappears just as quickly. Replaced by defensiveness, nerves, guilt as a familiar face emerges from the shadows.

Mouse answers Chance’s accusation with a crooked grin, a gentle lift of his shoulders.] Dunno. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t fancy listenin’ t’people snoring any longer. [It’s close enough to the truth, Mouse thinks, and he offers Chance a wider grin.] I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me. 

[mouse-quinley]

[Mouse has more or less gotten used to the constant tension that hangs over his dorm like a storm cloud, closer and closer to pouring down rain and thunder and lightening with each day that passes. He’s used to it, but he’s not really dealing with it. His sleep comes in short, troubled bursts, usually if he can manage to beat everyone else to his room and pass out before they’re in there.

And maybe he should say something about it. Maybe he should try some of those sleeping pills, or try talking to one of the therapists – but that feels an awful lot like admitting defeat, of some sort. Admitting that after everything he’s been through, his stupid infection is the one thing he can’t handle. And it wasn’t even his brothers’ deaths that led him to that conclusion – it was being forced to live with a bunch of sad, angry jerks. Instantly he felt bad for even having that thought; they were all sad, they were all angry, and they had every right to be. It just didn’t seem fair that Mouse had to feel it tenfold, from people he didn’t feel the same obligation or desire to hold up as he did for his lost boys. It wasn’t fair that he’d been crammed in a room with J.R and Roman and things had exploded and he blamed himself for it. 

But ‘fair’ was hard to come by even before the end of the world, so it’s something Mouse has learned to deal with. To deal with on his own, just like he’s used to dealing with everything else. And yet, following another day of nodding off in the back of a class, he finds his feet carrying him toward Boone’s office. Just because, he tells himself, he hasn’t seen the man in a while. And he’s a friendly face, and really it couldn’t hurt to make sure one of the people in charge likes him. And yet, upon nearing the man’s open door, he pauses, hesitates until he realizes he must already be in sight if Boone is indeed in his office. It leaves him with no choice but to take those last couple of steps forward and poke his head inside.] Uh -- hey, Boone. I was just, er -- ...passing by. Thought I’d pop by and say hi, was all. So -- yeah, hi. I can just -- [He gestured awkwardly back out to the hallway.] I don’t wanna bother you or nothin’.

[alexander-donovan]

You want to tell me...

[alexander-donovan]

[He’s pretty sure, if he tried hard enough, he’d be able to find some level of amusement in the way his being half-decent takes people off guard. Like they’re expecting his surface of surly frowns and stoic expressions to reach out and bite their heads off. 

He can’t really blame them, he supposes, considering out on the field, he’s a hard ass, and in the halls he’s impersonal. Alex, to most, is simply Elite Donovan. To most, he’s walking rules, striding structure, glaring egotism. And that’s entirely his doing, he knows. So it’s unsurprising how many are surprised when he’s not as bad as he seems. When he’s, God forbid, understanding. 

It could be amusing, and maybe sometimes it is, but today he doesn’t have the energy it takes to find humor in it, so he can simply note it with an internal, withering sigh, and move on. 

Nonetheless, the young man seems unsure about how to proceed, some of his bravado almost put on pause. Alex listens calmly.]

I doubt it would either. I don’t have much experience with Empaths, but when the subconscious isn’t the problem, it can’t exactly be treated the same way. Perhaps you should try speaking with one of our infection trainers. Practice, I presume, makes… well, I hesitate to say perfect, but it helps. [A pause] Mr…?

[mouse-quinley]

[If Mouse didn’t know any better, he would almost think he’d somewhat upset the Elite with his surprise at the man’s decency. But it’s hard for him to look at people in authority -- especially when they exude that authority so effortlessly, as this Elite seems to do -- as normal people. They are, in some ways, but they also are not. They made a choice, to be in a position where people had no choice but to obey them.

Mouse had never asked his brothers to follow him. He’d never demanded they stick to his rules. Never coerced them, never threatened to leave them on their own if they didn’t. The boys did what he asked because they wanted to. 

That doesn’t feel entirely like the case here. But so far, the man has been surprisingly un-demanding. He offers suggestions, not orders, and they don’t carry the weight of accusation Mouse would have expected them to. It leaves him feeling more off-balance, but it doesn’t affect the pride that tells him he doesn’t need a trainer. He’s been dealing with his infection for just as long as any trainer has; just because he’s younger, that doesn’t mean he’s any less capable.

Though he doesn’t feel entirely capable right now, caught skipping his training because he’s been beaten up by others’ emotions.] Yeah...maybe. [He answers the suggestion with a shrug of his shoulders, unconvinced, and moves on.] Mouse. [His last name doesn’t feel important, doesn’t carry the weight of who he is the same way his true name does, so he doesn’t offer it. He studies the man before him a moment, because he’s familiar, and with a concentrated effort a name surfaces.] You’re....Donovan, yeah? You did the awards thing?

[mouse-quinley]

imogenj-f:

[The men’s toilets are nearer her room. That would be her excuse if anyone were to ask, atleast, in reality she hadn’t thought about. Not that the man/boy she’s cornered seems to really care. Her smile turns to a devilish grin as she immediately recognises her new ‘friend’ from the Awards, delighting in how she’d startled him. 

He’d left drunk (nowhere near drunk enough for her liking) after a pair of his small friends had dragged him away from her grip. Not that she was holding very tight. He was a fleeting entertainment that night – just as he will be now.]

Bonkers. [She repeats the word, playing with the sound of it on her tongue. No tics or idiosyncrasies of the languages she learnt felt like they really belonged to Imogen. She’s a fondness for British-isms.  And this young man is right at home with the language. Words slammed together and letters dropped here and there. She fucking loves it. She also loves how quickly he takes to the surprise. Everything right now is perfect, the best sort of reaction she could expect from wondering into the men’s and shouting at the first person to enter.] Those are very dull terms, y’know. Normal and ‘bonkers’ …

I was going for more of a punk vibe albeit a punk with commitment issues to being ‘punk’. [She lies without a falter at all. As though her thought process had really gone beyond “I have a razor and too much hair.”] My ear’s already getting frostbite. Isn’t your neck costantly cold? Also – she tacks on suddenly before admiring the side of her skull in the mirror again  –  I might look like a cancer victim if I go all the way. That’s a no-go.

[Mouse doesn’t miss the devilish tilt to her grin, the same kind that’s often settled comfortably over his own features. But where Mouse trades in snarky comments and mostly harmless mischief, Imogen feels like she plays for a much different league. Where Mouse is an amateur, she is a professional. A rush of delight at his own surprise, and he’s reminded of the way he’d felt at the party. Like she was a cat, quite literally toying with a Mouse. Nothing more than a trifling distraction to her.

But this time it isn’t Mouse’s dignity at stake; it’s her own. Her own head that she’s shaved a chunk of hair off of for reasons he can’t understand, and she’s laughing the whole thing off. Bonkers, he thinks, just might be a perfectly apt way to describe her, but he keeps it to himself for now. Not because he thinks it would offend her (if anything he thinks it would just amuse her that much more), but because he’s much more interested in seeing what she might do next.

He snorts out a laugh and quirks an eyebrow at her, matching her devilish grin with a crooked one of his own.] Yeah, ya might. [A shrug, a pause as if he’s given the matter some consideration before he adds,] But then -- there’s really only one way t’know that for certain, isn’t there? [He lifts an eyebrow, daring her to do it and half hoping she actually will.]

O’course, if the cold’s too much for ya already then maybe ya shouldn’t. Not everyone can handle a bit of air blowin’ on their ears, no shame in that. 

[mouse-quinley]

chloehirsch:

[She wonders if it is time for her to go, without saying goodbye. There is nothing to keep her in the Colony. She can imagine it, an Elite catching sight of her and looking the other way, and it would be better that way. She’ll step into another world, the real one, and be with a magnificent coven by the sea where they all know why she would need mouse bones.

She wishes she could remember everything, but it’s been so many nights and her memory is waning with the phase of the moon. Minutes are years, there. Splash, splash, there is the sticky residue of magic on her bare toes. Yes, she must save it, but it’s just so beautiful here. The water is a magic water, and it will wash away everyone’s fears and qualities and memories, until you are left with a mermaid creature, and everyone likes mermaids.

That quiet, rasping voice in Chloe’s head whispers that she must make up a rhyme so she will never forget. She wouldn’t like that, but the rest of them would, perhaps. Maybe she hasn’t forgotten yet!

But she doesn’t know about Mouse, it’s been too long for reconnaissance and besides, talk of war is frowned upon here. She hates this.

Were this Neverland she wouldn’t ever leave, but the end of the world, this changes everything. She knows how to ignore the aching feeling in her heart that something is wrong in the Colony, something fantastic missing from this fantasy. Her greatest fear is that one day they will all look back and not remember a thing. Like the sound of laughter– - it bumps blindly into Chloe’s heart, she had almost forgotten it. People don’t laugh with her. She doesn’t laugh ever, and it takes a moment to understand that it’s funny.] You’re a Mouse! I can make medicine with Mouse bones, but you have far more than I’d ever need. Why are you called Mouse? You’re a boy.

[Even before he started to feel the emotions of others creeping under his skin -- forcing him to empathize, literally, whether he wants to or not -- Mouse has always thought himself good at reading people. At figuring out the best way to put them at ease, figuring out when it’s okay to let his mouth run as it may and when he ought to censor himself. 

Girls are weird, though. Might as well be a foreign species, for as much as Mouse knows about them. It’s not that he thinks girls any less competent or capable as blokes -- he knows better than that. It’s just that they are something Other, going through life on an entirely different trajectory than Mouse. 

So he’s surprised (albeit pleasantly so) when she seems to perk up, when she offers him a smile and he realizes suddenly that she’s actually sort of pretty. Maybe even very pretty, except he still thinks its sort of weird that she’s carrying bones around with her. 

To...make medicine, but he’s spared giving that too much thought by the question she asks. Mouse smiles easily along with her, pleased with the lightening of the mood, and he doesn’t feel the need to filter the cheeky response that leaves his lips almost by instinct.] 

It’s ‘cause I’m so quiet, ya see. [They’ve only just met, but Mouse likes to think he makes such an impression that no one could be left thinking that’s the truth. Even after such a brief interaction. Nevertheless, he flashes her a grin and shakes his head just in case.] Nah, I’ve just always been real small, is all. Been called Mouse for as long as I can remember. [He shrugs.] Anyhow, I’m all for medicine but I think I’m pretty happy with where my bones are right now so hopefully the ones you’ve got are enough for ya. 

[mouse-quinley]

nat-prescott:

[Nat’s speaking before she actually knows who she’s speaking to, though when she pauses enough to hear his answer and really catch a look at his face—she recognizes the lad instantly. Natalie remembers him from a hazy time of the past. A ukulele was involved somehow, though her memory fogs up just enough to make it unclear as to how the beautiful instrument wove their interaction together.]

[Her words are a river, they flow and they flow, flooding with her emotions and only coming to a simmering stop when he’s considering them as she wracks her brain for a certainly important piece of information—his name. Natalie prides herself in being a good conversationalist. Ok, perhaps good was a reach, but a somewhat genuine conversationalist. She can’t recall the last time she went into a conversation with anything but pure intent and interest, and this encounter here was threaded from the very same material.

So it is imperative to Nat that she remember the lads name, no matter how hazy the alcohol has made her mind. Her brows furrow as she taps her foot, leaning back as if it would help her size up his face better. Her ears take in his words though she doesn’t comprehend them, too lost in making sure she can dignify his presence with a name. The right name. Nat springs from letter to letter, settling on M because it sits right in the gut. It’s M for sure, and the following flurry of names are an abundance. Wrong, but an abundance nevertheless.]

[Matt. Matthew. Madison. Murdock. M…Mack. Mi—Michael. Miles. Moses? …Mouse. Mouse. Her mouth opens in the shape of several vowels before her eyes squint in the precious moments before a confirmation. The affirmation envelops her like a warm hug, as a grin breaks her face, her eyes bright. It’s hardly a thing to be proud of, but Nat’s just a little happier, a little easier to please at the moment.] Mouse! Hiya bud, I knew it was you. [And she tilts her head in a funnily scoffing assurance. He mustn’t know that it had slipped her memory. It was the alcohol, but there was no room for excuses in this serious business.]

Glow-worms? We have those here? [Eyes widen just a tad as she cocks a brow. A memory of camping in a place far, far away shines dimly in some backlit corner of a hazy mind but she pushes it away without much thought. Her mind’s too busy trying to decide on what to do this fine evening. Though his question stops her, even in her drunken stupor—what does she want to do? Well. Nat didn’t think about that. Nat’s never thought about that much at all.] Me? [She repeats, her brows rising once again just to insure she’s heard the question right. And she can’t help but furrow her brows, trying to pull an honest answer. What did she want to do? What did she want?]

[But all she can come up with is a scary blank and it sends an uncharacteristic chill down her spine because the question rings and pulls on something bigger than just evening plans for her. And no, Natalie doesn’t think it goes so well with the warm fuzz of the alcohol that’s wrapped itself warm and tight around her. It’s been a while she’s had the comfort of any embrace, so she ditches the thought quick and settles for an answer that only seems appropriate for every fantastic suggestion he makes.] Everything, mate. Let’s do it all.

[Her brows knit together and she’s looking at him with a concentration that doesn’t quite fit with her cheery mood, with the endless stream of chatter that came from her lips only seconds before. Mouse tips his head at her, more curious than uncomfortable under her gaze. There’s nothing judgmental in it, and if there is it’s not being directed toward him. It’s more like curiosity, like she’s grasping for something in the way her lips move soundlessly. The way she squints carefully at him and then there’s a rush of pride he doesn’t understand.

Until she speaks, and suddenly it makes sense. Mouse lets out a loud, easy laugh and nods enthusiastically, choosing to humor her tonight rather than give her a hard time about it. She seems so pleased with herself, and he doesn’t want to be the one to bring down her good mood -- especially not when it boosts his own spirits along with it.] Yep, that’s me. And you’re Bob, right?

[He can’t resist the teasing question, but given her current state he feels the need to give her a wink and tack on quickly,] Only jokin’, I know you’re Alfred. [Okay, he can’t resist that one either, but there’s a flash of amusement in his eyes that gives him away.] Think I’m gonna call ya Nat, though, seems like it suits ya better.

[And hopefully she’s not so drunk she thinks he’s serious, but even so she seems easygoing enough that it won’t matter. So his grin widens at her question, excitement building up inside him that he can’t distinguish as his or hers.] Dunno, maybe? Worth a look, innit? [Now he thinks about it he isn’t sure if there are glow-worms around, but there’d been some around the farmhouse and he’s sure they can find plenty else to do. 

Though Nat's mood takes an unexpected turn when Mouse turns the questions around on him. It’s something he can relate to, in a way. Putting the needs of others before his own, always, rarely stopping to think about what he wants or needs. But he’s also well-practiced at having fun, at knowing what sorts of things will lead to a good time, so he’s happy to take the lead here.]

Brilliant! That’s the spirit! [He agrees with an enthusiasm that matches her own -- because a lot of it is, in fact -- and then tips his head toward the exit. A flash of mischief in his eyes, the sideways slant to his grin, those are the only warning she gets.] Last one outside’s a glow worm’s arse! [Then he’s off, making a beeline out of Catch and toward the Colony’s exit, though he slows his pace enough to make sure she’s behind him, to make sure she’s not too far gone to actually keep up -- ready to hop back a few steps and catch her, if he needs to.]