Repose

[Locked to Gwendy R+Felicity H+Flash M]
So, do you guys want to go to Edwards Island with me and Flash? For Harry.

[Locked to Destiny S]

You don't call. You don't write. Dude, it's like I didn't make an impression.

[Locked to Misha B+Lou D+Atticus M+Claire J+Jude C (& Sam can read)]

I dunno if alla you who got letters and alla that got visited by Daniel, but we did. Which means he's around, not just playing pen-pal. I been talking with Misha here, and I've asked him to help us. What that means for everybody is no reaching out to the guy, cause he ain't Daniel. You ain't gonna be able to get through to him, not with pleas or nothing. Right now he's playacting, huh? To win us over, using whatever he knows bout us to do that. Don't give him bullets to shoot you with.

Misha's got [...] let's call it an ability. He can tell alla us more bout it, as long as we're all on the same page—we're done giving him fodder. Right now, all I want is a yes or a no, huh? On Misha's assistance.

[After this.]

I got two books and some smashed up glasses to sell. Anyone else pick up anything good? I'm open to the barter system.

[After this bit of news spreads (quickly), and after checking Jack's room with Bukowski in tow.]

[Locked to Jack P]
Jack?

[Locked to Cat C]
Has Jack come round your way?

[To cover his bases, he rings as well.]

[Call: Jack P]
[Ring!]

[A short while after the bus from the Capital reaches Repose (perhaps an hour) and in mid-evening the window of the newspaper office over the bookstore is flung wide. Both of them in fact, one over the street-front and one over the side-alley where, if you remember the local news that was never truly reported, two people were shot by a man who was in fact, a dog. There is a current of music over frigid air, low to the outside world but clearly loud within.

There begins a snow-fall of detritus out of the windows. First sheaves of last week's news-run never distributed and by the handful (the ad supplement, it is to be noted is on much glossier paper and the print un-smeared) until they fan out like birds, then the week before's un-destroyed copies. And then, merrily a flood: books, papers, glasses, a lone tea-mug that slings out and smashes against the alley wall, a raft of power leads and plugs, a broken lamp and punctuated occasionally throughout the hours-long process, computer equipment dating probably to the early twenty-first century begins to come crashing down into the narrow space of the alley. Where it is admittedly less likely to kill someone.]