@mvltiversed / mind electric starter call!
Stanford feels so tired.
He doesn't remember anything from the night before. Whatever his Muse had mixed up for him had floored more than just his senses, and yet it had done nothing to dampen the uneasy anxiety in his stomach as he paces towards the refrigerator. Bags seem to permanently rest beneath his eyes, his movements are sluggish—he needs a minute to reaquaint himself with reality, which would be easier if his head weren't throbbing. It must've been a good time if this weren't such a massive drawback.
The author pulls open the refrigerator, staring for a moment as if contemplating the dilemma of life—and then a knock on the door makes itself known. One, two—
“ I'm coming, “ he grumbles, rubbing his temples as he trudges towards the door. Three, four. The rooms all blur together, but he persists nonetheless. There's something familiar about the knocking, something he can't quite put his finger on. It's nothing, he chides himself; probably the mailman with a package. Oh, how he had hoped it had been that, because when he opens the door, his whole world freezes, and his blood runs with ice once again. “ …! “
Fiddleford McGucket, on his doorstep, damp with the cold—lost, confused, and coming to him for help. And last night rushes back to Stanford like a crashing wave, but he can't familiarise himself with it; can't display recognition, so buries it deep down into his being.












