Who: Georgie and Felix where: The Billiards Room When: 2:30pm
Felix wasn't addicted. He didn't do addictions. He had vices, sure, just like any other remotely interesting guy or gal, but those were a choice, not a necessity. He'd chosen to wander down to the basement game room almost the instant he'd woken up that morning. He'd chosen to spend all morning down there, and a bit of the afternoon, even if it was a surprise to himself that when he looked at the clock he saw that it had been over four hours. It hadn't felt like that long. Recycling his tokens until he was the proud high scorer on the skeeball machine he and Kiley had used a few days earlier, the Wack-a-Mole machine, and one of the dart machines, he'd fed all of his winning tickets into the prize dispenser. Not addicted. Not desperately wanting to collect more of those stupid fucking plush STDs that he still needed to make that stupid post about.
His groan of disappointment was very audible in the silence of the room when he saw the folder, sighing as he tugged it out of its confines and flipped through it. Rhett. Who the fuck was Rhett? His brain absent-mindedly sorted through the names of the past guests of Zenith, and realized it was the weird asian kid that kept trying to hump the boxer's leg, then had turned into a pathetic hermit the instant the eye of TPTB had turned on him. And then both he and boxer guy had poofed away into smoke and dust. Is that what TPTB did with wasted potential? Fuck, if the cards had been played a little differently, would that kid have ended up on their team?
Still, as much as he didn't actually trust the fuckers who had put him in there, he knew that They wouldn't have thrown something like this at him without reason. If there was a way to use it, he'd find it. Or, he'd be a good team player and bring it up to one or two of the remotely useful members of their team. For a moment he wondered what Audrey and Daphne were doing, or if they'd ever consider coming down to win some shit. Any consideration of Simms only left him with mental images of every machine broken beyond repair.
He decided to leave the file for later, securing it against his waistband and under his shirt as he took the elevator back up, and deposited the file in his secret stash. That only reminded him of the team's prize coming, and he wondered how TPTB would undoubtedly fuck it up for them. Or would They take his deleted ideas into consideration? Motivational kitten posters would probably last about as long as Damon's unlikely attempts at chastity.
He made his way back downstairs again, barefoot as always, and clad in a pair of dark jeans, the accessories he'd come in with, and a camo cat t-shirt he hadn't worn since he'd found it in Cassi's days ago, fully intending to return to his playtime and see what else he could win with his last two tokens. He headed for the kitchen first, grabbing a few pieces of olive loaf and sliced American cheese to turn into rollups. Who the fuck really needed bread? Or a damn plate? Despite the presence of the bar downstairs, he made his way into the billiard room for a drink, grinning to himself as he prepared to take a bite of his lunch. "Early drinker too, huh?" He knew that about Georgie from the feeds, but sure as hell had no judgment there.