#fingerslost

[blacksplinter]

@fingerslost

It was impossible to track time in the realm.

Trials, and numbers thereof, were the best way. Killers underwent more trails than the survivors, working in a randomized rotation. Some killers were favored for the work over others. The Hag often remained behind, while Michael, Amanda, and Bubba took the brunt of the work.

It was rare to have enough time free of the trials to explore the forest. The Entity bound them from hurting the survivors during the time in between trials, but they could observe. Interact, at a distance. 

Michael found Miles. The fingers missing on his hand was a good indication that it was Miles, and not simply another blood-soaked survivor. The opportunity was short, and likely wouldn’t come again. He made himself known by stepping out into the open, papers in hand, soon on the ground between them. Giving some distance was the only way for Michael to show he was not there for blood. Not like the trials leading up to that moment. 

[blacksplinter]

@fingerslost

The note was inconsequential. The writing on it vague, pointless. A sure enough signal- or, at least, a reason to return to the forest surrounding the campfire at the earliest convenience. 

With the way time moved in the realm it was difficult to tell if he was even approaching the right Miles.. but the blood was indication enough of time spent there. 

It was him.

Getting someone’s attention wasn’t Michael’s forte. He was stunted in terms of social skills, and calling out was hardly comfortable... so he just... stood, and hoped Miles feeling eyes on the back of his head would be enough. That, or the stark white mask amidst the gloom.

[blacksplinter]

☾ :/ track team boyo........

☾ = being found shirtless .

Michael may have taken a few.... extra shots... of the team surrounding Miles when Miles decided to take his shirt off. Maybe.

He felt bad afterwards and deleted all but one. The best one. With Miles front and center. 

[blacksplinter]

           despite   the   door-frame   being   filled   by   a   six   foot   figure,   miles   hadn’t  actually   noticed   anyone   come   in   the   room—either   too   distracted   by   the   photo  spread   he   has   on   the   table   in   front   of   him,   or   maybe   their   guest   is   just  that  quiet.   but   he   looks   up   when   the   voice   finally   snags   his   attention,   and   a   faint  smile   warms   over   him.   “   that depends.   “   he   makes   a   vague   gesture   to   the  mess   of   a   classroom   that   he   liked   to   call   an   “office.”   of   course,   it   is   just   a  classroom   …   but   office   sounds   more   official.   a   better   ring   to   it.   “   — you  looking   for   yearbook?   “

Michael, deciding that this had to be the right place, offered forth a slip of paper that marked his arrival in the Yearbook Committee.

“I needed another elective for graduation. For my transcripts...” Which was more oversharing than Michael was use to. Why he felt compelled to tell Miles the unneeded details was beyond him. 

Maybe he just felt out of place. With all the papers and pictures around him, he felt much like a bull in a china shop. It was by poor luck that the shops classes he’d rather have signed up for were full... and sports just asked for trouble for a social outcast like him (regardless of how many times his councilor begged him to ‘at least check it out’).

[falsechrist]

@fingerslost // sc 

THERE WAS SOMETHING bothering him -- he heard of the leak, the Whistleblower contacting Miles --- this felt wrong. as though something bad was going to happen.  ❛ --I know you can’t disclose much on your lead...but are you sure this is legitimate? i don’t want to sound uh, nevermind, i just --- ❜   he doesn’t trust this. 

[pvrificd-blog]

@fingerslost ♥’d.

     He didn’t expect to be approached by anyone. In Acheron’s mind, he’s really a nobody. Sure, sometimes Three Dog talked about him on GNR, but it wasn’t too often. It’s not like he was famous or anything. He was just a kid from Vault 101. A kid who had just lost his father and picked up a dog. He’d been taking his time to rest, with Dogmeat’s head on his lap where he was scratching the canine’s ears, when he was approached. Slowly he raises his gaze to the visitor ( of whom Dogmeat seemed rather unconcerned with, meaning there was no danger ) and questions his intentions.

     ❛ Did you need something? I’m a little preoccupied as of late. I’m not very likely to accept work unless a substantial amount of caps are on the table. ❜

[coolleatherjacket]

❛ you mean, you weren’t joking about that? ❜

@fingerslost | question sentence starters | selectively accepting

“Shit, no.”

Robert turned off the screen of his phone now when Miles had seen the picture - claw marks deeply inbeeded in stone steps leading up to an abandoned building. Jagged, forceful dents. 

He dressed all his stories up as bullshit. That wasn’t anything new. But when asked, he’d be honest.

“I don’t joke about shit that’s actually out there.” 

[coolleatherjacket]

come on, robert. say "not for nuttin'." let that accent shine.

He snorts into his drink and gestures at Miles in a shooing motion because nah son, get outta here –

“Forgetaboutit”, he says, partially to be contrary, partially because that’s honestly his first impulse for a response, and well, that probably gives the kid what he wants anyway, so, whatever. 

“Fuck off.” He’s laughing, though. “Y’don’t hear enough of that shit, I’ll tell Ma H a friend’s comin’ up. Boom, place to stay, place to eavesdrop. You’re welcome. Get out of my shit.”