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IC Inbox for Pumpkin Hollow
Nov. 1st, 2025 10:07 pm[Ping me to discuss starting a thread!]
(no subject)
Jun. 14th, 2016 07:33 pmHe's still not sure whether or not he wants to move out of the jaeger now. What he is sure of is that he needs to talk to Chuck about what's changed, and why.
By now he can find the towering form of Tacit Ronin in the garage as easily as he could find Painter's bunk in the Tail section, without needing to consciously track landmarks between it and the lift. He heads that way, hoping Chuck's at home.
By now he can find the towering form of Tacit Ronin in the garage as easily as he could find Painter's bunk in the Tail section, without needing to consciously track landmarks between it and the lift. He heads that way, hoping Chuck's at home.
no going back, no going home
May. 1st, 2016 08:02 pmThis place never seems to sleep. There's a lull most nights, when it gets really late, but it's only a few hours long; the lights in the main room never go down.
So he could go up there right now, into that hours-after-midnight lull, if he wanted to. He could find somebody new to talk to, maybe. He could ask Bar for some kind of food he's never tried, maybe something he's never even heard of. He could get a hot drink and sit by the fire and let the noise wash over him, instead of lying here in his hammock listening to the tiny creaking noises of the great jaeger-machine settling and staring at the intricate wirework of its controls.
None of that is what he wants to do.
He's not sure he's going to go through with it until he knocks at the door of Curtis's old room, not knowing whether or not there'll be anyone there, not knowing whether or not he wants there to be.
(Even then, there's a little voice saying: you could still run.)
So he could go up there right now, into that hours-after-midnight lull, if he wanted to. He could find somebody new to talk to, maybe. He could ask Bar for some kind of food he's never tried, maybe something he's never even heard of. He could get a hot drink and sit by the fire and let the noise wash over him, instead of lying here in his hammock listening to the tiny creaking noises of the great jaeger-machine settling and staring at the intricate wirework of its controls.
None of that is what he wants to do.
He's not sure he's going to go through with it until he knocks at the door of Curtis's old room, not knowing whether or not there'll be anyone there, not knowing whether or not he wants there to be.
(Even then, there's a little voice saying: you could still run.)
[milliways: kidplot]
Apr. 4th, 2016 11:03 pmWhat the hell is this place?
Edgar's only sure of three things: (1) it isn't the Tail, therefore (2) he's not supposed to be here, and (3) he's going to be in the worst kind of trouble if a guard sees him. Or anyone who'll call a guard.
The thing is, he's not sure how this could be the Front either. But he's not sure how it could be anyplace else.
For the moment, he's got to try and get out of sight. Maybe under one of those tables.
Edgar's only sure of three things: (1) it isn't the Tail, therefore (2) he's not supposed to be here, and (3) he's going to be in the worst kind of trouble if a guard sees him. Or anyone who'll call a guard.
The thing is, he's not sure how this could be the Front either. But he's not sure how it could be anyplace else.
For the moment, he's got to try and get out of sight. Maybe under one of those tables.
but the cold's already in your bones
Feb. 7th, 2016 10:57 pmThere isn't much snow falling yet, just enough to give an extra stinging bite to the wind.
But the cloud cover is thick and getting thicker; it's not even noon yet, but the light is already failing, as though toward night.
This close to the building, the snow is pretty well trampled. A handful of trails lead off in different directions, one toward the stables.
But the cloud cover is thick and getting thicker; it's not even noon yet, but the light is already failing, as though toward night.
This close to the building, the snow is pretty well trampled. A handful of trails lead off in different directions, one toward the stables.
(no subject)
Nov. 24th, 2015 10:23 pmThe thing about suddenly being nine feet tall and awkward as a kid having his first growth spurt is that you can't very well keep bunking with a guy who lives in the close quarters of a Jaeger cockpit. At least not until it wears off. Edgar leaves a note for Chuck, and finds another temporary bunk.
He's asleep, curled in a loose huddle of too many too-long limbs in the clean straw of Nitwit's paddock, when something shifts in his brain and he bolts upright in the infirmary bed, clutching the side of his head and staring.
Oh, dear sweet christ in heaven, he's got his own body back.
It only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that he's got an important visit to pay, and he staggers to his feet and out of the infirmary, heading for the back door and the stable.
He's asleep, curled in a loose huddle of too many too-long limbs in the clean straw of Nitwit's paddock, when something shifts in his brain and he bolts upright in the infirmary bed, clutching the side of his head and staring.
Oh, dear sweet christ in heaven, he's got his own body back.
It only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that he's got an important visit to pay, and he staggers to his feet and out of the infirmary, heading for the back door and the stable.
(no subject)
Jun. 29th, 2015 10:37 pmOne thing Edgar decided to do after that last visit to the meadow: go out for a walk by himself sometime. He's starting to enjoy the occasional bit of solitude.
It's really nice out here by the lake. And it's warm; he's stripped down to a t-shirt, though he's still got a jacket tied around his waist by the arms. The flat rock he's found to sit against has been warmed by the sun, to the point where it's almost as soothing to his back as yet another hot shower.
Edgar's got a basket containing a couple of sandwiches, a packet of pretzels, and a thermos full of cold lemonade, and is feeling pretty damn at peace with the world right now.
It's really nice out here by the lake. And it's warm; he's stripped down to a t-shirt, though he's still got a jacket tied around his waist by the arms. The flat rock he's found to sit against has been warmed by the sun, to the point where it's almost as soothing to his back as yet another hot shower.
Edgar's got a basket containing a couple of sandwiches, a packet of pretzels, and a thermos full of cold lemonade, and is feeling pretty damn at peace with the world right now.
(no subject)
May. 25th, 2015 10:21 pmHe's gotten his old clothes back from wherever they vanished to, clean and folded and repaired in a few places. They still look dingy and ragged next to the clothes the room's been providing, but he's not going to throw them away, is he?
The socks, though ... there's very little left of one sock but a network of holes, clinging together. And you don't really need to wear socks in multiple layers here, it's too warm for that -- but that sock's not worth wearing by itself.
So Edgar's sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his hammock, carefully cutting what's left of the sock into strips that can be twisted into twine. Maybe he'll make something out of the twine later.
The socks, though ... there's very little left of one sock but a network of holes, clinging together. And you don't really need to wear socks in multiple layers here, it's too warm for that -- but that sock's not worth wearing by itself.
So Edgar's sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his hammock, carefully cutting what's left of the sock into strips that can be twisted into twine. Maybe he'll make something out of the twine later.
wash it away
Apr. 25th, 2015 10:09 pmThere's unrationed running water in the bathroom, just like Curtis said. Unrationed hot running water, as well as cold. A sink for washing just your hands, and a booth sort of thing big enough for two or three people, for washing all over. Pale blue soap to wash with. Pristine white towels, incredibly soft and fluffy, to dry off with after you've washed. A roll of flimsy paper that he can't figure out the use of, next to ... something that looks like a latrine seat but doesn't smell like one, and there's clean water in it.
(Curtis has to explain.)
He turns the shower spray as hot as it will get, and then has to adjust it back down to something he can stand in. Steam billows around the room, like smoke but paler. Soap has a smell he can't give a name to, sharp and sweet at the same time, and foams into brilliant rainbow-hued bubbles; he spends a few fascinated minutes just turning over handfuls of froth in the light, watching the colors gleam and vanish.
Soap also stings like a bastard in cuts and scrapes, it turns out. And tastes foul.
He studies his body under the running water, arms and legs and bony chest: pale even against that expanse of white tile, marred by red wounds and brown scabs and purple-black bruises, all more visible than ever without the grime.
(He can't see his own back. He can't find any sign of that last blow, and his groping fingers find only smooth skin.)
Afterward, drying himself with one of the preposterously soft and spotless towels, he hesitates -- and then reaches out to wipe clear as much of the mirror as he can, and studies his own face.
It's something of a relief to see that even like this, as clean as he's ever been in his life, he doesn't look like a front-sectioner.
(Curtis has to explain.)
He turns the shower spray as hot as it will get, and then has to adjust it back down to something he can stand in. Steam billows around the room, like smoke but paler. Soap has a smell he can't give a name to, sharp and sweet at the same time, and foams into brilliant rainbow-hued bubbles; he spends a few fascinated minutes just turning over handfuls of froth in the light, watching the colors gleam and vanish.
Soap also stings like a bastard in cuts and scrapes, it turns out. And tastes foul.
He studies his body under the running water, arms and legs and bony chest: pale even against that expanse of white tile, marred by red wounds and brown scabs and purple-black bruises, all more visible than ever without the grime.
(He can't see his own back. He can't find any sign of that last blow, and his groping fingers find only smooth skin.)
Afterward, drying himself with one of the preposterously soft and spotless towels, he hesitates -- and then reaches out to wipe clear as much of the mirror as he can, and studies his own face.
It's something of a relief to see that even like this, as clean as he's ever been in his life, he doesn't look like a front-sectioner.
