𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: funhouse of mirrors, carnival of time 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: past ten o’clock @terminastarters
As a volitional recluse, Marlowe didn’t often peruse the streets of Paris unprovoked. If it weren’t for the semi-annual chime of a text reminding her that the world existed outside the walls of her loft — she would have lived merrily within the confines of that quaint life in Pigalle. Alas, there she’d been, accompanying a friend to the revered Carnival of Time nestled in the heart of the city of lights. So far she hadn’t endured a night akin to that of Dante persevering through the nine concentric circles of torment like she prophesized upon braving the world in a ratty cardigan and unpolished combat boots. In fact, she’d acquired two massive Squishmallows in thanks to her sharp precision and dexterity in dart throwing, which she cradled in her arms as if they were fragile toddlers.
Her last stop was intended to be the funhouse. She might have chosen the life of a hermit, but introversion was all nature’s will for her. A couple hours spent socializing was enough to exhaust her for an entire week, if not more. It was amusing enough. Perhaps it was the drinks she’d sank in celebration after winning her beloved Anastasia and Buffy; which didn’t serve in her favor whenever the lights shut off and she was plunged into pitch darkness.
“Fuck,” she cursed, instinctively reaching in her back pocket and maneuvering around the teal axolotl squish for her phone, which simultaneously alerted her of a text message once she had a grasp on it. Glancing up as she began attempting to navigate the attraction, the artificial light of her screen illuminating the room of mirrors, she became aware of another’s presence and slammed directly into a panel. “Fuck! You didn’t see that. You’re, uh, stuck too? Did you get a text?”
