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quicklog: brielle mahue & charles xavier & steve rogers
Who: Brielle, Xavier, Cap
What: Collecting the criminal
Where: Gatsby. The Vega.
When: Now.
Warnings: TBD.
[It was all a blur. The doctors prescribed heroin and the band played soft jazz through the night, gentle notes that crumbled into the muffled sighs of ghosts by the time they reached the upstairs where Brielle slept in an oversized poster bed. Men had replaced the windows, and the blood stains on the floor were removed to the best of housekeeping ability, the memories of dark stains flowed seamlessly into the patterned designs in the carpet. Business carried on as usual downstairs, the bar stayed busy and the parlor stayed polished. The staff brought her food, and the doctors brought medicine, and mostly, Brielle slept.
There were headaches, lapses in time, and notes on the nightstand in handwriting she didn't recognize. The name ERIK circled in ink, pinned beneath the brass edge of a gas lamp at low flame. The bedroom was kept dim like mourning. The colorful glass of a Tiffany lampshade glowed blue and green, seaside floral like the long, sleeveless dress that Brielle wore while she sat at a mirrored vanity, fastening wormsilk curls back with beaded combs. Her reflection was sallow from painkillers and forlorn from happenstance that night. The doctors assured her that her hearing would return completely once she was fully healed, which could take weeks. In the meantime, everything sounded distorted like words spoken through walls. It might have been more bothersome if she had anyone to speak to at all. Instead, she slept.]
What: Collecting the criminal
Where: Gatsby. The Vega.
When: Now.
Warnings: TBD.
[It was all a blur. The doctors prescribed heroin and the band played soft jazz through the night, gentle notes that crumbled into the muffled sighs of ghosts by the time they reached the upstairs where Brielle slept in an oversized poster bed. Men had replaced the windows, and the blood stains on the floor were removed to the best of housekeeping ability, the memories of dark stains flowed seamlessly into the patterned designs in the carpet. Business carried on as usual downstairs, the bar stayed busy and the parlor stayed polished. The staff brought her food, and the doctors brought medicine, and mostly, Brielle slept.
There were headaches, lapses in time, and notes on the nightstand in handwriting she didn't recognize. The name ERIK circled in ink, pinned beneath the brass edge of a gas lamp at low flame. The bedroom was kept dim like mourning. The colorful glass of a Tiffany lampshade glowed blue and green, seaside floral like the long, sleeveless dress that Brielle wore while she sat at a mirrored vanity, fastening wormsilk curls back with beaded combs. Her reflection was sallow from painkillers and forlorn from happenstance that night. The doctors assured her that her hearing would return completely once she was fully healed, which could take weeks. In the meantime, everything sounded distorted like words spoken through walls. It might have been more bothersome if she had anyone to speak to at all. Instead, she slept.]