SEASON 1 - 𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙏: The Annual Fall Fling and The Midnight Waltz | November 6th, 2021 | Downtown Dawn Chorus

[whitechapel]

---

Event: The Annual Fall Fling and Midnight Waltz
Location: Downtown Dawn Chorus
Time/Date: All Day - November 6th, 2021
Description: The Fall Fling and The Midnight Waltz is an annual street festival that takes place in Downtown Dawn Chorus on the first Saturday of November. During the day, the event takes the guise of a typical family friendly small town fall festival complete with pumpkins lining the streets, makeshift booths doling out funnel cakes and souvenirs, hay bales piled purposefully for photo ops, and even a small fair relegated to Elvis Pulley Memorial Park featuring a carnival games, a Ferris wheel, and more. It's a fun time all around where one can find everything from axe throwing contests to live music to artisanal craft vendors.

As night falls, the festival takes on a different hue and becomes decidedly more adult oriented as the crowds are herded onto a closed-off Netherland Avenue, one of Dawn Chorus's main thoroughfares. This part of the event is known as The Midnight Waltz and commemorates the night in 1937 when over half of the town's population succumbed to a spontaneous fit of sleepwalking. While the food trucks and merchandise stands remain, they also begin to serve alcohol and open containers are allowed on the street. From here, the festival becomes as much a commemoration of the past as it does an excuse for drunken revelry. The streets are generally cleared by 3:00 AM as the festival comes to a close.

This year's festival is also held only a few weeks after The Missing Four seemingly vanished from the town. A candlelight vigil is planned to be held at 10:00 PM in front of Netherland Inn.

This event is a big deal for Dawn Chorus and brings in a lot of tourism. Most of the local establishments remain open and offer various promotions to bring in extra business. However, like most things in this sleepy little town, something unknowable lurks just at the periphery...

OOC: This event is going to run for a month in real time, from November 24th, 2021 to December 24th, 2021. It's mostly going to act as a means for us to introduce our characters, interact with one another, and get acclimated to the setting. No pressure and no stress, just a nice, easy, slow beginning. The only major plot point that's going to happen here is the candlelight vigil, which I'll likely have happen halfway through the run of the event (so, December 1st, most likely). After the candlelight vigil happens, you guys will have free rein to create your own threads and interact with the world how you see fit.

As far as timing goes, we'll be starting close to the end of the Fall Fling and the beginning of The Midnight Waltz. Enjoy.

---

Posting Instructions
Posts should always be in third person (limited), past tense. There is no enforced word count, post length, or anything silly like that.

Every post (even outside of the event) should have a header that states the name of the character you're writing for, when/where the scene is taking place, whether or not the scene is opened to other players or closed to just the players involved, and a tag for the other players involved. I included an example below along with some code to make it easier:

Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: Evening, outside of The Mothlight
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Yancey Klump (@whitechapel), Quentin Severin (NPC)

---

[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:[/COLOR][/B] 
[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Time/Location:[/COLOR][/B] 
[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Scene Status:[/COLOR][/B] 
[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Tagging:[/COLOR][/B] 
[hr][/hr]

 

[whitechapel]

---

See this boy.

Barely thirteen. Brown skinned and slight of frame. Coarse black hair tied in a loose braid halfway down his back. Breechclout kept at his waist as he kneels there by a dry creek bed, eyes peering beyond the trees and the brush and all of the infinite darkness that night gives birth to. He clutches a crude knife made of deer antler in his left hand, the blade still sullied with dried blood. It’s been two days since he last ate more than what he could forage. It’s been three days since he last saw another living soul. It’s been four days since he last slept.

He’s tired. He’s been tired. Beneath those stars, the mind wanders and wanes. The eyes go heavy and the lids lull. He can hear his mother’s lullaby echoing from the past, offering him comfort in even the most trying of times. The realm of dreams beckons, but there is no sleep; not in Alisgolvdodiyi. To sleep in Alisgolvdodiyi is to tempt the spirits and to tempt the spirits is to invite death. It’s only a few more hours until morning’s next light when he hears the unmistakable crunch of leaves beneath foot just a few yards away. His eyes dart in the direction the sound came from, but the trees betray his sight. Carefully, cautiously, still crouched, The Boy begins forward into the unknown.

This is the time of his proving, the time of his ascension to manhood. It is the time to be divested of all that he has been in order to become what he is meant to be, same as his father and his father’s father and backwards through the annals of time. It is an honor. One of four chosen few. He cannot count, but he knows what he’s seen. One dead on that first day, throat slit where the woods meet the tall grass. Another dead by The Boy’s own doing, stabbed in the side of the neck on that second morning. He could still hear the gurgling of blood and see the fear in their eyes as all life left the body. It was as thrilling as it was haunting.

Besides himself, one other remains.

It could be a deer, he tells himself. It could even be a rabbit scurrying through the underbrush in search of a hideyhole, somewhere to tuck away from all the evils of the world. It could be anything at all, but beneath those stars, the mind wanders and wanes. He holds his knife at an angle. Bravery, he tells himself. Bravery, bravery, bravery. This is a time of bravery, of courage, of warrior hymns. In one quick movement, it could all be done and over with. One almost imperceivable flick of the wrist and he can return to his tribe, a hero. A simple killing to be born again, a warrior rising where once there was only a child.

Slowly now, his back against the bark of a tree. He sees movement at the corner of his eyes and he lunges at shadows, stabbing his knife into darkness only to feel it cut through air and nothing more. From somewhere at his flank, he hears the telltale rustling of leaves followed by frantic footsteps. The Boy turns just in time to feel the bludgeoning weight of a stone against his left temple, a ringing in his ears replacing all other sound.

There's a bright light and The Boy falls to the forest floor. The side of his head feels hot and wet. Through blurred eyes teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, he can see a child standing over him, a stone tomahawk hanging inert from their hand. The Child is young, barely removed from their mother's teat, no more than eight and no less than six. There's tears streaming down The Child's cheeks. The Boy tries to speak, but there are no words and there is no voice; just mangled syllables. As if appearing out of thin air, a tall woman steps into his periphery, long hair the same color as fire and skin as pale as moonlight, adorned in a flowing white gown. She’s like nothing and no one else The Boy has ever seen. She wraps her arms around The Child in a slow embrace and The Boy can hear her muffled whispers. She’s soothing and sweet, wiping away The Child’s tears even as she helps him raise his weapon above his head.

Through the canopy of trees, The Boy can see all of those stars. Beneath them, the mind wanders and wanes, but only until that tomahawk comes crashing down on his skull again.

And again.

And again.

He can hear the disappointment of his ancestors; his father and his father’s father and backwards through the annals of time. He can feel the exact moment when his soul detaches from his body, drifting momentarily in that space between life and death. He can hear the woman’s voice, comforting even in the darkness, as she incites The Child to act.

And then it’s done.

 

[whitechapel]

---

​

Transcript

Good morning Dawn Chorus and thank you for tuning in to 95.9 'The Mountain'! I'm your host, Dr. Feelgood, and I'm here to make you feel good with that music want, that music you need, and that music you haven't even heard yet.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, today is The Annual Fall Fling here in our little town of Dawn Chorus. Downtown is going to be absolutely pulsating with life and I hope to God I'll see you there! Afterwards, for those of you with a little bit of spring left in your step, Netherland Avenue is going to be closed down to commemorate The Midnight Waltz, that night oh-so-long ago when half our grandparents started sleepwalking through these very streets. While tonight is certainly a time for celebration, jubilee, and all things revelry, for some... it's a time of mourning.

It's only been a few short weeks since Morris Blevins, Carla McCormick, George Reed, and Greta Ryan went missing. Tonight, a candlelight vigil will be held in front of Netherland Inn in hopes that our light might guide them home.

But music! We. Have. Music. Up first, from way back in those halcyon days of nineteen-nine-and-two, it's Leonard Cohen with "The Future".

Lyrics

The Future by Leonard Cohen

Give me back my broken night
My mirrored room, my secret life
It's lonely here
There's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
Over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby
That's an order

Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
And stuff it up the hole
In your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
Give me Stalin and St. Paul
I've seen the future, brother
It is murder

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing (won't be nothing)
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
Has crossed the threshold
And it's overturned
The order of the soul

When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant

You don't know me from the wind
You never will, you never did
I'm the little Jew
Who wrote the Bible
I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
But love's the only engine of survival

Your servant here, he has been told
To say it clear, to say it cold
It's over, it ain't going
Any further (do, do, do)
And now the wheels of heaven stop
You feel the devil's riding crop
Get ready for the future
It is murder (do, do, do)

Things are going to slide
Slide in all directions
Won't be nothing (won't be)
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
Has crossed the threshold
And it's overturned
The order of the soul

When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant

There'll be the breaking of the ancient Western code
Your private life will suddenly explode (ooh, ooh)
There'll be phantoms
There'll be fires on the road
And the white man dancing
You'll see a woman
Hanging upside down (ooh, ooh)
Her features covered by her fallen gown (ooh, ooh)
And all the lousy little poets
Coming round
Tryin' to sound like Charlie Manson
Yeah, the white man dancin'

Give me back the Berlin wall
Give me Stalin and St. Paul
Give me Christ or give me Hiroshima (do, do, do)
Destroy another fetus now
We don't like children anyhow
I've seen the future, baby
It is murder (do, do, do)

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing (won't be)
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
Has crossed the threshold
And it's overturned
The order of the soul

When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: 12:15PM-5:45PM / Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: N/A

---

There’s something to be said about being a creature of habit.

A person who can give themselves over to a routine demands some modicum of respect. It shows dedication and commitment, a sense of timeliness and attention to detail. In the case of Frank Liddle, a creature of habit if there ever was one, his routine was bound to be the death of him. It began a quarter past noon in the shitty little motel room that he called home. He rolled over on his dirty sheets as the light came creeping in through the crack in his curtains, a single sliver of sunshine beaming across his eyes. He let out a groan because words were only vehicles to convey thoughts and a brain as beaten to a pulp by the excesses of liquor and drugs as his own didn’t have any business whatsoever conveying much of anything in the first few minutes of wakefulness.

So, groan.

The morning continued as it usually did. Frank climbed out from his tangled bedsheets and made his way across the room. He flipped a lightswitch and nearly recoiled at the sudden flood of fluorescent light. A few more steps brought him to the cluttered dresser where a half empty bottle of whiskey still sat. Without a second thought, he popped the cap and took a long, carless swig. It burned all the way down and just like that, Frank felt alive again. A sigh of relief escaped his throat as he laid the bottle down, making his way to the bathroom to (as he would so eloquently say) ‘drain the lizard’. In the mirror above the sink, he saw his reflection and simply sighed. There’s no use in describing that reflection here. You already know exactly what it looks like. Suffice to say, it’s bad.

From there, it was game show reruns on basic cable and listening to the lodgers next door fight about things that Frank couldn’t care less about. There was more drinking, but only enough to ward off the shakes. A man in his boxers sitting on an unmade motel room bed, watching Pat Sajak demand a wheel be spun. Frank knew a thing or two about the spinning of wheels. That seemed apt. This continued until he gathered up the courage to get dressed and go out to seize the day.

In most cases, ‘seizing the day’ meant riding his bicycle up Chorus Boulevard until he got downtown, grabbing a quick bite at the Juniper Street Diner if the waitress that had eyes for him was working, scavenging a few worthwhile cigarette butts from the ash receptacle outside, and then making his way to The Mothlight to drink at the bar for as long as Virgil would let him. But see, this is where being a creature of habit can fail a man. As Frank turned the corner on King Street, he came face to face with a sea of people milling about, shopping at makeshift tents, posing for pictures, and being happy.

“Fuck.”

There were hundreds of them. Thousands! Billions. A whole army of townsfolk and tourists flocking the streets, blocking his path. One giant, festering, living inconvenience. Once upon a time, The Fall Fling was one of Frank’s favorite things in the world. That was a long time ago, though…

Locking his bike on a nearby rack, he decided it best to proceed on foot, weaving himself through the crowd like some sort of drunken octopus. There were people he knew there, so he did his best to not make eye contact. This was not a time for chit chat or catching up. His stomach was growling! The Mothlight was calling! There. Was. No. Time. To. Waste. And then, surrounded by the din of noise and all that movement, Frank stopped. He stopped and stood there outside of Elvis Pulley Memorial Park, staring at the Ferris wheel as its neon lights struggled to shine against the evening sky. In his head, cogs turned. Thoughts processed. The brain brained. It was only then that he remembered The Midnight Waltz followed The Fall Fling. If this year was like every other year, there would be a tent set up at the entrance to Netherland Avenue where they gave away three free drink tickets on a first come, first serve basis. All at once, plans changed. The few wadded up dollar bills in his pocket sang his praise. Frank cracked his knuckles so loud the whole town could hear it before he turned, waded back into the crowd, and began the trek towards Netherland Avenue.

“Fuck yes.”

There’s something to be said about being a creature of habit, but there’s even more to say about the wonders of free booze.

 

[pixel.]

Character: Randall McDougall
Time/Location: Roughly 5:45-6:00pm Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: @whitechapel

---

At some point in time, Randall McDougall found himself propped up on one of the cubes of hay that had infested the streets of downtown. Instead of the usual smell of decently clean air punctuated by the bite of encroaching winter, which left the atmosphere acrid in the wake of rotting leaves that some folk called beautiful with the array of reds, oranges, browns, and still a speckling of green here and there - it smelled like a farm. If the farm had been dragged out onto the street to mix with the lingering effects of diesel, gasoline, and rubber on asphalt. Which had then been dipped in sugar and fried food. Not to mention the sickly sweet stench of too many people pushing around each other at one time, jostling in a tangle of limbs and sweaty brows, despite the fact that everyone was bundled up in their coats and flannel.

Fucking jackasses, all of them.

So there he was, right in the middle of it, the neon lights of hastily put together puke machines that the locals were calling rides painting the scowl on his face in shades of pink, red, blue … the entire fucking rainbow, why not. In addition to the fact that he had his fist locked around a sticky roll of cardboard that the cloud of pink and blue fluff was latched onto. The cotton candy looked largely untouched, yet he hadn’t tossed it yet. Instead, while his attention was still face forward into the crowd, glassy eyed and pensive, he lifted it up to his mouth.

Like he was going to take a drink. But instead betrayed himself by swallowing a mouthful of burnt sugar instead. See, the flask was in his other fist, clenched tight like it was his most valued possession. And it probably was. Looking more than a little disgruntled at this point, Rand jostled himself out of the stupor that had led him to this plight and with a creaky start, managed to lift himself up off the hay to stumble over to the trash can set up not five feet away to toss the sugary confection in the bin with a fierce look fixed on the mother and son walking by hand in hand. Challenging them to say anything about it. Especially with the judgemental gleam he could swear was in Mama’s eyes as she eyeballed the rumbled red and black checkered shirt that had come untucked from his jeans.

Only a few pieces of straw stuck to the back of his legs.

Raising a brow, he deliberately lifted the flask and took a swig from it right in front of her. He no longer felt the burn of ol’ Jameson in his gullet. Worse, with that point across, he was out of booze and couldn’t be bothered to participate anymore in the festival than he already had by trading good cash for paper tickets.

He didn’t have to lament for long. Or figure out a way out of this clusterfuck so that he could find himself a real drink, not the watered down piss that they were probably serving out here. Whiskey was what he was after, his second love if it was any indication by the red rims around watery blue eyes. They’d already been up to no good together for God knew how long already that day if Rand wasn’t sober enough to realize he had stumbled somewhere he wouldn’t normally be. At a festival. Around people. … And noise. The noise - screaming kids, loud clangs, a riot of chatter that didn’t make any sense.

You old fucking drunk, he chided himself right as a familiar face snagged his attention, dragging it over. Like recognized like - and Rand knew the fellow drunk like an old acquaintance even if he (pretended) not to know his name.

“Hey boy!” Hey, Jackass! ...was lost in the crowd, swallowed up by the swarming beast that was people. Rand, for his part, at least hadn’t used the only name he (pretended) to know Frank Liddle as.

So he pushed forward, physically shoving if he needed to, in order to put himself right smack in the other man’s path. “What’re you carrying, boy?” Pleasantries aside, gruff and to the point as they were, Rand lifted his flask even more pointedly. Shook it. Grunted, even, while eyeballing the jackass. “You’re not here to drink that piss they’re serving, are ya?”

 

[Praxis]

Character: Charlie Liddle
Time/Location: 5:30PM, Downtown Dawn Chorus; outside of the Magic Oven Bakery
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Yancey Klump (@whitechapel)

---

There was a rhythm to this.

First, nod. There was usually a fair amount of that. Pepper in the occasional head tilt, but don't linger before you start nodding again. That'll just look like you're confused, and when they sense that you're confused, they start backtracking. Then --oof -- before you know it, you're in for a world of needless information and opinions before they eventually meander back to whatever it was that had them flagging you down in the first place. Nod. Tilt the head. Impart that you understand, fully. Listen, naturally, but keep focused on the issue at hand and not the other rabble that'll try to squeak through the door while your attention is diverted. Reiterate. People will often take some small amount of joy over having their concerns parroted back to them. It shows that they've been heard. That their problem is your most urgent concern, and that help -- clad in blue and eager too - is there at last.

Then...

Wait.

Let their fire die out a little and see if the both of you can't approach the situation with a new, fresh pair of eyes (and a considerably lowered blood pressure). De-escalation they called it. Section 14B-2 of the Dawn Chorus Police Department handbook. Nestled between Civilian Engagement Protocol and In-Field Firearm Discharge Regulations, it had been one of the relatively unwrinkled, unstained, perhaps all but entirely untouched sections of the copy Charlie had been issued. Someone -- the specific who was uncertain, though her list of possible suspects was none too large -- had scribbled crudely drawn penises along the margins in blue ink.

Sadly, this seemed to be her most glaring of memories from the page, even if instinct was doing most of the heavy lifting through Mrs. Boucher's ranting. She'd gone quite red in the face, and while her chins were telling an impressive tale of their own, her fire looked to be dwindling some. She exhaled her stale breath in Charlie's face and flapped her arms at her sides in helpless defeat. She'd already repeated herself, and her problem, more than enough times for Charlie, and anyone within earshot, to have gotten the broad strokes.

People. Tourists. "Tons and tons of 'em". Milling around her bakery in half-drunk stupors. Fogging up and smudging the glass of her display cases while they leaned and pondered what sweet to overpay for. Chewing, laughing and crumbing up the aisle instead of taking their little white box back onto Chorus Ave. with the rest of them.

"I guess I just don't understand," Charlie feigned. She knew the woman well enough to know that where there may not have been a problem, Marie Boucher was more than apt to create one. In this case, making too much money seemed too ghastly a concept to let slide. "You don't want people buyin' you up? Lotta people. People like cupcakes."

She snorted. "No, Dep-u-tee. This is not. about. muh-nee." Charlie could usually gauge the intent of someone simply by the way they handled her title. This time, it felt like it'd been thrust into her like a blunt shiv. Or ...a piping bag perhaps. "They are not sav-our-ing them. Do you understand? These," she huffed and went about brandishing her finger at the crowded shop and poor Robbie Wheatland, sweating behind the counter, scrambling to fulfill ever-shifting orders, "these are hand-made, Deputy. Every morning, by my staff and I. They are art-is-an cakes, Deputy. Do you understand? They are a tradition." Then, her gloved hand went to a wrapper, crumpled and many times stepped upon, half a cake and frosting still clinging within. "This! This is unacceptable, Deputy."

Charlie nodded. Back to step one.

"And you were hopin' I'd ...police them into that? Makin' sure they enjoy their cupcake?" She hoped saying it aloud in such a way would help to ferry Mrs. Boucher toward the inevitable shores of reason. Be it that, or perhaps just regular exhaustion from having crashed against the rocks, the woman sagged and replaced outrage with indignation before finally settling on weary acceptance. "Tell ya what, Mrs. Boucher, try this. Why don'tchu go on in there, give poor Robbie a break and start explainin' what these -- um..."

"Artisan cakes!"

"Right: artisan cakes. You go on in there and you tell every one of them customers how you came up with the flavour they're thinkin' about, okay? Let 'em know about the lavender 'n buttercream 'n all that. Okay? People just don't know is all. You gotta sell 'em." She figured the extra pain in the ass would shuffle a few out the door. A churro cost a fraction of anything she sold and would come about ten times easier. And with less brow furrowing. Anyone willing (or drunk) enough to entertain her once she got going, well...

She'd circle back in an hour and see if anyone had taken the business end of an icing spatula.

As for the rest, she'd have to find the rhythm for those too. Such was the fate of those having drawn shortest straw. While the rest of the department -- save a few backups, brought in from Asheville -- was out partaking in the lights, the drinking and the revelry, Charlie would be doing the best that Charlie could to stamp out any potential fires that dared ignite. The town had already felt like a tinder box for weeks; where even the slightest friction from an especially long red light or the sudden unavailability of 2% milk at Dan's Grocery, could engulf what was usually a peaceful, if not occasionally strange, little part of the world.

Her radio squawked. Yancey, off-duty, probably watching from afar, radioing to see if she'd been trampled by a rowdy herd of Fall Flingers yet.

"That's a 10-30, deputy." she teased, moving at shoulder height through the crowd. "Are you havin' fuuun out there?"

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: 5:45-6:00PM / Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Randall McDougall (@pixelated violet)

---

And then, from out of all that noise, a familiar voice.

It would be a lie to say that it was comforting. It would be an even bigger lie to say it was welcomed. In truth, Franklin Liddle could have gone the rest of his life without hearing a familiar voice and he would have been perfectly fine with that. Familiarity, in his experience, was a gateway drug to eventual contempt. ‘Contempt’ was just a fancy way of saying ‘people think you’re a piece of shit, buddy’. How many people did Frank owe money to? More than he could count on one hand. How many people had he been in fist fights with that week alone? At least three and a half. How many people wanted to beat the ever living shit out of him? More than he probably knew. They hated Jesus for telling the truth too, y’know. Crucified him. Strung him up on a lowercase ‘T’. Some people just couldn’t handle Frank’s particular brand of truth.

He felt his back stiffen and his teeth start to involuntarily grind. His hands balled themselves into fists as fight or flight reared its ugly head. Frank turned to face the source of that voice and a wave of relief washed over him as he saw Randall McDougall working his way through the ground, all bull shouldered and furrowed brow. Frank even let a small smile curl at the edges of his lips. Of all the people in Dawn Chorus that may or may not have had it out for him, Randy was the least of his worries. In Frank’s mind, Randy and him were two peas in a pod! Cut from the same cloth! Brothers from altogether different mothers.

Even at his most grumpy and accusatory, Randy was ‘good people’, as far as Frank was concerned. It was like looking through a rip in time and space to see his future self.

“Ain’t carryin’ jack shit! Pawned my flask last week for a fiver,” he said. “You know how it is. A man’s gotta eat.”

He pondered that next quandary for a moment. Really thought about it. “Y’know, I ain’t much for drinkin’ piss, but any port in a storm, so says I. If these pigfuckers are givin’ it away for free, you bet your sweet ass I’m drinkin’ it. It’s that or back to Listerine, buddy. Why? You got the goods? Jameson? Johnny Walker? Jack Daniels, if’n you please?”

Frank talked fast. This was half a force of habit and half a way to keep people on their toes. Even though he knew Randy was on the up and up, Frank was like any other cornered animal; paranoid and looking for a reason to lash out. This was his first direct interaction of the day, after all. There’s a certain level of gravitas associated with that and he hadn’t even had the chance to prepare in advance. The fear was setting in even if the loathing hadn’t quite caught up yet.

All those people. Happy families with happy homes and happy lives buried beneath a dirge of carnival music with Frank and Randy standing there among them, two drunks living another bullshit day in suck city. He leaned in close, his voice taking an almost conspiratorial tone as he spoke.

“I’ve got five George Washingtons in my pocket that’re just dyin’ to meet you. If you ask me, that's worth at least two or three swigs from your flask. Eh? Yeah? Whaddya say?”

 

[Lydia]

Character: Grace Letts
Time/Location: 6:00pm/Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open!
Tagging: Frank Liddle (@whitechapel), in passing

---

You think it's safe? Ha. It's never safe. Even if you don't see them, they probably see you. They're everywhere - especially now.

Grace Letts narrowed her eyes in skeptical concentration, took a sip of wine, and let the curtain fall back across the window, filtering the dusky daylight through a simple cream sheer. A couple blocks away, the Fall Fling was roaring, summoning late stragglers and wanderers, inspiring comers-and-goers, sending sundry meanderers down her leaf-littered residential street. She'd seen their faces: happy, tired, or excited, mostly. A few were curious and slightly apprehensive - those, she assumed, were the tourists.

It was fine.

"It's fine," she said flatly. To herself.

Besides her handful of tentative meet-up plans - everyone she'd ever met in this strange town was bound to be at the equally-strange Midnight Waltz - Grace immediately resolved that talking to oneself was as good a cue as any to leave.

The blonde slipped through her cluttered living room and into the kitchen, snatching a spare solo cup to transport her remaining wine. The night was young, and though she thought the premise of this particular kitsch holiday was utter fantasy, she respected the creativity. Whatever sleepwalking that may've occurred back in nineteen-thirty-whatever, she was pretty sure the intervening years had conferred some serious exaggeration.

Nevertheless, a party was a party, and Grace needed something to lift her spirits.

A pall had fallen over her daily routine since Carla McCormick vanished. The empty desk in her fourth period class was continuously afforded the distance, reverence, and trepidation of a tombstone. An uneasy tension sat on everyone's tongue. Grace could picture the girl, laughing with her friends, eager to discuss the assigned reading, and with guilt, she realized she was beginning to resent Carla's memory and the mysterious, save-my-space uncertainty of the situation. Without any answers, they were all just fucking stuck with painfully-waning hope.

Maybe that was why she wasn't sleeping well.

But it was fine, right?

Grace walked out the front door, pausing a moment to lock it before venturing down the sidewalk, wine in hand, toward the rumbling din of the crowd, ankle boots crunching on the autumn debris of leaves and acorns. Her sharp gaze swept the vicinity, cautiously scanning for them, the ones who were always there.

Students, of course.

High schoolers adored shit like the Fall Fling, roaming together in little packs or pairs, ready in equal numbers to flee or pounce at the unusual sight of a teacher in the wild. Some couldn't get away from her fast enough, but others, bless their hearts, wanted to talk. And follow. And follow talking with more talking. They were sweet, of course, but the interactions demanded a level of patient professionalism she preferred to leave at DCHS.

Plus, being drunk in front of your students was a pretty bad look.

To her credit, Grace wasn't nearly drunk yet - she'd been nursing this single glass of wine for an hour - but she intended to get there, or at least a little closer, by the end of the night. Thankfully, most of the families seemed to be dispersing as the daylight faded, and the teenagers who remained at the festivities were doing their best to avoid scrutiny. She turned down Netherland Avenue and queued up in the drink ticket line, satisfied that all was reasonably well, until she heard that voice and froze.

This was so much worse than a student.

This was Frank.

Grace immediately turned her back to the direction of his voice, silently willing him not to notice her. Reflexively, she pulled her phone out and tapped through the screens, as if redirecting her own attention could grant her a temporary measure of obscurity. Nothing at all existed except her email, and a 30% off promo message from The Gap. And she fucking hated The Gap.

Grace finished her wine in a single gulp.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Character: Marigold & Daisy Baker
Time/Location: 12:30pm - 6pm || Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Grace Letts (@LydiaTessaro)

---

The Heat Snip & Dye Salon on Pilsner Street was always threatening to explode in a dull roar of feminine voices and Dolly Parton played over cheap wall speakers, but today the woman sitting in the front chair of the shop was utterly dominating the conversation, much to the chagrin of those around her.

"So anyway, I don't know what to do! I'm pretty sure it's Dave's baby, but I can't exactly tell Aaron that now, can I? Not with the wedding only a few weeks away!" the caped woman mourned into the mirror. "What do you think I should do, Mare?"

Behind her, Marigold Baker tucked a few more pins into her client's elegant updo. "I think you should close your eyes and hold your breath, hon. Here comes the hairspray," the stylist warned, one second before the could engulfed Judy's perfectly coiffed head. It was a bit excessive of course, but a glance over at the salon owner behind the front desk assured Mari it was the right move as long as it shut the client up for five seconds.

Even Marigold's saintly patience was beginning to run thin today though. Judy was her last client on the book, which meant the hairstylist had all afternoon to take Daisy down to the Fall Fling for snow cones, carnival games, and rides that probably hadn't passed safety inspections since Clinton was in office. The outing was a rare treat for the mother and daughter, and Mari was anxious to get to it.

"What do you think?" she asked, handing Judy a mirror and turning the chair so she could observe the back of her head.

The redhead's lips squished together and to the side of her face. "Well I like the hair a whole lot, but I don't know about the lashes. Or the lipstick. I really wanted it to look like the picture..."

Mari sighed. "Okay, no problem. Let's try this." Looking over Judy's head to Barb, she mouthed the words 'Can you check on Daisy for me?' to her boss, who smiled sympathetically and nodded.

Leaving Marigold to Judy's whims, Barbara Wallace strode past the other stylists to the back room of the salon, where a young blonde girl was busy reading Meditations on First Philosophy, her lemon-yellow glasses slowly sliding down her nose. "You doing all right back here, kiddo?" Barb asked, wondering why in God's name Mari let her kid read such books. It was probably why the girl spoke so weird, almost like a little adult--or a robot, Barbara hadn't decided which.

Daisy didn't look up. "I'm fine, thank you," she answered in her small, monotone voice. "Is Mom done yet?"

"Almost. She's just finishing with Ms. Dempsey."

Whether Ms. Dempsey liked it or not, Mari was finished with her after about fifteen more minutes. It was even worth the diminished tip to send the woman on her merry way before she could suggest something like a new set of acrylics to match the hideous orange lipstick she'd insisted on. Marigold was almost more excited to get out of the salon than Daisy was, and she even seemed annoyed when her boss stopped her to ask if she'd be attending the Midnight Waltz herself later.

"I don't think so," she said quickly as she pulled on the fake leather biker jacket over her red polka-dot dress. "Ma's having one of her internet friends over, and I don't want to make her try to babysit while she's entertaining."

"I don't mind, I like Miss LeBang," Daisy chimed in. "She wears a lot of glitter. I don't understand how her hair stays that puffy though. I think it might be a wig..."

The adults overlooked this commentary. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. Me and the other girls were gonna go over to that vigil for Misty's husband and the others. I'm sure Misty would appreciate you being there if you can make it," Barb added gently.

Marigold's expression softened. She'd worked at the diner after dropping out of school, right up until she'd gotten licensed to go work for Barbara at the salon. It felt like a stab of disloyalty to her old employer not to show support after Mr. Blevins' disappearance.

"I'll see," she replied, before taking Daisy's hand and leading her down the long walk towards Netherland Avenue.

Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon was every bit as delightful as Mari had hoped. She was happy to indulge Daisy in all the carnival treats the nine-year-old's stomach could handle, and thankfully the girl was as cautious as her mother about the shoddily assembled rides, preferring instead to listen to live music and play the occasional wack-a-mole game ("All the others are rigged, this one's just a competition," Daisy had stated, as though she were an expert on the matter).

It was only as the sun was beginning to set that Marigold had her moment of panic. Another client had stopped her in the street to make small talk, and she'd made the fatal error of letting go of her daughter's hand for just a second. By the time she'd looked down, Daisy was gone.

"Shit...sorry," she excused from her companion, frantically looking around for any sign of her daughter's oversized jack-o-lantern sweater. "Daisy? Daisy!"

A little farther down the block, blissfully unaware that her mother was searching for her, Daisy was busy staring in the front windows of the shops, wondering how much allowance she would need to buy a hacksaw like the one in the hardware store window, when she suddenly collided with someone's leg.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, looking up with some surprise to see the leg belonged to a familiar face. "Oh, Miss Letts! How are you today?" Daisy asked, in the practiced courtesy her grandmother had drilled into her.

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Yancey Klump
Time/Location: 5:30 PM / Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Charlie Liddle (@Praxis)

---

Ochlophobia. An irrational or disproportionate fear of crowds, especially an extreme fear that a crowd will become mob-like or violent. For a person already chock full of irrational fears, the Fall Fling was just more kindling for the fire. Yancey Klump was doing his best to not let the sweat on his brow turn into a mighty flood. Standing on the corner of Chorus Boulevard and Netherland Avenue with his saxophone case slung over his shoulder, Yancey did his best to just look normal even as he spoke German into the cell phone pressed against his ear.

“Nein Mama. Nein mir geht es gut. Alles ist gut,” he said. “Sag Papa, dass es mir auch gut geht. Die Vermissten sind nur ... vermisst. Ich bin immer noch hier!”1​

People were staring. He could feel it. It’s not every day you stroll through a small Southern Appalachian town and see a mixed man wielding a saxophone speaking German in broad daylight while a festival roars all around him. That’s what we call abnormal. “Ja, Mama. Ja. Ich liebe dich auch. Ich werde morgen mit dir reden. Ja. Ja. Ja. Wiedersehen.”2​

Exhausting. Producing or tending to produce fatigue, weariness, or the like. That was the easiest way to describe his parents. Ever since this Missing Four business started, it had been a phone call each and every day; sometimes multiple times! Yancey Klump, for better or worse, carried a weariness with him everywhere he went. It was a weariness for the world itself, an anxious little voice in the back of his brain that made him look both ways several times before crossing the street, a sense that eventually the other shoe would drop and he would almost certainly be underneath it when it did. Biting at his lower lip and tucking his cell phone into his pocket, he felt a lump in his throat as he began to cross the street. Yancey hadn’t had any intention of coming to the festival. After the straws were drawn and he got the day off, a great relief like waves of serenity washed over him. He had planned to tough it out in his apartment, surviving on Twizzlers and Diet Coke, catching up on Doctor Who, maybe even having a go at online chess… and then his phone had rang. Phones, in Yancey's experience, very rarely had good news on the other end.

It was Virgil down at The Mothlight. The band he had booked for the Fall Fling had dropped out due to an unfortunate cliff diving accident. Yancey didn’t ask for the details, but from his understanding, the lead singer had bruised his vocal cords on a tree stump. The whole thing sounded very messy. Suffice to say, Virgil needed help. He was in a jam. A real pickle, if there ever was one. No entertainment would be a death knell for business and Yancey, armed with his trusty saxophone, was just the man to prevent that from happening.

Yancey always had a tough time saying ‘no’ to people. Even more so when the person asking just had a daughter disappear without so much as a goodbye letter.

So, there he was amidst the throngs of tourists and townsfolk alike. Seeing it with his own eyes, his mind wandered down a particularly nasty path, hopped over a whole mess of conclusions, and arrived at a doorway marked ‘Intrusive Thoughts and Those Like Them’. Charlie, he thought. His best friend. His confidant. His gal friday. Somewhere in that sea of faces, she was working the beat and Yancey was positive that she was being eaten alive, swallowed whole by the will of the masses. What, praytell, would she do if a group of mafiosos decided it was the perfect time to bring their human trafficking plans into fruition? She’d had no backup! What, perchance, would occur if Charlie found herself trampled beneath a stampede of tourists, excited for half off churros at The Churro King stand? Why, she’d be swept away without a second thought!

What if, and hear me out here, the Ferris wheel broke away from its hinges and started rolling down the street, crushing Charlie beneath its weight before it plunged into the depths of Lake Gordon?

“Gadzooks,” Yancey muttered beneath his breath.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he reached for the standard issue police radio strapped to his hip that he had brought along just in case of emergency. He fumbled with the buttons, never able to tell which one was for the volume and which one was to radio out. A hiss of feedback escaped from the speaker that nearly made Yancey clutch his ears in pain. Tucking himself at the mouth of an alleyway where no one could hear what he would deem Very Important Police Work, he started to speak into the radio in the calmest way he could muster.

“Charlie! Charlene Liddle! Deputy Liddle! Are you okay?! This is Deputy Klump!”

Imagine his surprise when Charlie actually responded. “10-30?” he asked. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me. Is that for a suspicious person? Drag racing? Sweet Mother Mary, is there a prisoner escape?!”

All the while, Yancey had his little notebook full of police codes pulled out, frantically flipping through the pages in an attempt to figure out what he could do to help… and then he found 10-30. Unnecessary use of radio. “Oh,” he said. “You mean a Code Jar Jar. I… take it you’re fine then? Just fine? Right.”

Sigh. Relief. The lump in his throat disappeared. The tension in his shoulders released. His right eye, having been twitching involuntarily, settled into a simple blink instead. “I’m… fine too. I wouldn’t call this fun, though. There’s so many people, Charlie. It’s a flipping clusterfrack! Over.”3​

---

1. "No mom. No, I'm fine. Everything is fine," he said. "Tell dad I'm fine too. The missing people are just ... missing. I am still here!"
2. "Yes mom. Yes. I love you too. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Yes. Yes. Yes. Goodbye."
3. "It's a fucking clusterfuck! That's all."

 

[Vinaein]

Character: Victor Sims
Time/Location: 6pm / Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: @Shiva the Cat @LydiaTessaro

Victor Sims knew the records. He knew exactly which number festival this was in the history of the quaint little town of Dawn Chorus. Point in fact, part of his job was studying festivals. That and everything else as a matter of fact. The local Librarian had closed up shop, leaving the archives behind for once and dressed in his best as he stepped out into the streets. Not that his 'best' was very good. Point in fact, his clothes weren't that fancy. Being a Librarian and Archivist was an ostensibly honored position, but...

Well, it paid enough to live on and people knew him when he passed by, for better or worse. There were people all about whom loaned books to, whose new births he recorded, funerals he attended and marriages he wrote down. Graduation records, town events...already he knew what would be expected of him.

But good old Vic, as people were wont to say. Vic wrote everything down. Vic made sure Dawn Chorus's history was committed to ink...well, more like typeface now. One blessed aspect of the modern age was that things could be typed up. Not like he had very fancy tools for that; computers, sure, but his predecessor had preferred an old word processor. (Try saying that one five times fast, he thought idly)

But he was enjoying himself. Sure, he'd need to record it, as he did everything, but it was nice. Alan had offered to buy him a good slice of cherry pie at the dinner later, a symbol of friendship and appreciation for his hard work. And Jimmy Buck...well, Jim would be around to peruse the archives. Make sure they were up to snuff.

In fact, Jimmy was likely at the festival already. Kids were getting treats, people wandering the streets to greet one another like charming neighbors they were...Alan was likely already here, not that Vic needed to know. Dawn Chorus was Dawn Chorus, and Vic tended to know most people there...

Point in fact, he had records on everyone. He knew every face from those records, one of the curses and blessings of having such a perfect memory. But he wouldn't be the archivist if he didn't. He had bought a little cone of honey-roasted, sugar dusted nuts for a snack, munching them with small crunches as they went on. Bakery wasn't too far away, he could get a pie for later...

"Daisy! Daisy!" the words struck him and he turned, seeing none other than...Marigold Baker, that was it. And Daisy was...

Well, HELL.

Vic booked over, forgetting his snack. People knew Vic and Vic was a helper. The Archivist, after all. He hated recording tragedies. "Miss...Miss Baker? Is everything alright?" He asked in that pleasant tone, with an eyebrow lifted. "Anything I might do to assist?" He didn't need much to put two and two together here...

 

[pixel.]

Character: Randall McDougall
Time/Location: Downtown DC, heading to where the drink tickets are sold / smack dab in the middle of the ruckus (carnival rides/games/vendors)
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Frank Liddle @whitechapel Grace Letts @LydiaTessaro (heading your way) Marigold and Daisy Baker @Shiva the Cat (probably heading your way) Victor Sims @Vinaein (perhaps, if you're in the area)

---

Something more humanizing than what Rand usually offered slipped through the cracks and softened the lines around the old man’s face as he sized up Frank Liddle. Gave a glimpse back in time to how he must have looked twenty years ago - more even - before his hair had been shocked completely grey and started to thin out, convincing him to keep it cut short and close to his scalp. It added to the severeness of his face; that resting old grump face, if you will. That brief something also sobered up the look in his eyes so the blue cut clearer, saw a little straighter. Knew a little bit something more than what the drink demanded of him.

He hated these moments of clarity. It reminded him that he was still standing outside, surrounded by too many people, who all made noise.

That brought the scowl right back to his face just like it tightened up his jowls and stiffened his shoulders so that he stood up straight. Looked less like the boozer he claimed he wasn’t and more like someone about to take responsibility for something other than himself.

That look was purpose. Frank was his purpose.

“What the hell happened to you, Frank Liddle?” Gruff. Speculative. Those were the notes his voice took, along with one other thing: just that one speck of concern. “I remember when you were just some idiot kid running around with the rest of them. Now you’re just a drunken idiot who don’t got enough direction.”

Pot, meet kettle. But Rand considered himself to be functioning. Plus, he drank because he liked the taste of it, not because he needed to. The whiskey he kept on hand was just an afternoon delight to whet his throat when he was out and about.

That’s what he was telling himself. Right now in this moment, while they both stood there like a pair of dolts while the lights kept flashing and the chimes kept dinging.

Rand grunted, jerking his head in a direction, gesturing for Frank to follow him. Hard to say if he cared or not if he was followed. “Let’s go get some of that piss water,” he supplied right over his shoulder as he began milling through the crowd, back to the place where he could have sworn they could trade real money for paper tickets. What kind of bullshit was that? “My treat,” he mentioned as an afterthought. “Since you don’t have your shit together enough for it,” came the second afterthought, which was really more of a barb.

 

[sky.]

Character: Theo Collins
Time/Location: 6:30-ish/Down town DC; The Blue Rose Bar and Grill wine and appetizer booth. Food court.
Scene Status: open
Tagging: n/a

---

“Wine. Only.”

The brunette shoved a plum polished nail at the sign hanging above her head. For fuck’s sake, can’t people read? Theo held back the urge to snap at the young man, his blank indecisive expression making it all the more difficult to restrain. Letting her arm collapse to her side, she motioned towards a smaller sign standing next to a tray of the replicated food being served. Her red stained lip curved upwards into a forced smile, eyebrows arching in anticipation.

“Come on, guy. Today. You’re making a damn line. Pinot Noir? Paired with aged manchego? Fantastic.”

Can’t make a decision? - allow me.

Lifting up onto her toes, her cerulean hues trailed over the man’s shoulder to give the clustering crowd a scoff. Wonderful. Theo shook her head and turned towards the pop up kitchen situated at the back of the tent. Much like the Blue Rose Bar and Grill itself, Zara made sure their little corner of the festival held equal class. A large banner hung under a string of off gently glowing bulbs, illuminating a blue rose with twisting thorns.

One positive about aspect of working and setting up solo, there’s no one around to misplace your shit.

The sound of glass bottles clanked gently as she searched the row of pinots. A slight jab against her chest reminded her of the bra-hidden joint with her name on it. Unfortunately, any moment of salvation would have to wait. She brushed the loosening strains of dark hair behind her ears as she bent for the correct bottle. Before straightening back up, she adjusted the ends of the black pencil skirt.

Oh, how she tried to beg Zara out of that one. A battle of fashion Theo knew she’d lose to began with.

Within a few moments she emerged with plastic plate and cup in hand, placing them down on the cream colored table cloth. “It’s good for beginners,” Theo eased her expression long enough to give him a quick wink, tossing him his total. “Don’t like it, come visit me at the restaurant and I’ll buy your next one,” she added with a dimpled grin. It had been at least the fourth time she used that line tonight. Money was not an obligation, loosing a bit of tip money in exchange for new customers would always be worth it.

In many ways, she owed a lot to Zara. Hell, she hired her on the spot once she heard she moved up from the city and found her to be the granddaughter of Theresa. Apparently gran traveled to the restaurant every Sunday for dinner, always dressed to the nines and asking for the same table. Theo could picture it easily, her sitting alone with a humble demeanor, gently humming along to whatever classical ear junk the restaurant played at the time. Gran was truly the only flower in her family’s garden of dysfunction.

“Cabernet merlot with the pork plate.”

The next in line ordered simply. Making her Theo’s new favorite customer of the evening. No bullshit. No grey area or “ what should I have “ questions. “Absolutely,” she beamed back, preparing a plate with thinly sliced meat. A combination she replicated about a dozen times by now.

Looking through the sea of people she couldn’t help but smile. Eventually she’d make her way around the quaint festival, after all it was her first Annual Fall Fling Thing. Tonight’s event had been boldly circled on gran’s yoga cow calendar - indicating it’s obvious importance. Not only was she here for Zara, but for gran to in a way. The old woman truly did love this odd, little town and it’s inhabitants..most of them.

“What are we having, hon?”

Her attention shifted to her newest customer.

 

[Lydia]

Character: Julia Whitford
Time/Location: 10:00-2:00 Dawn Chorus Tribune Offices | 2:30-7:30 Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open!
Tagging:

---

With enough time, anything can become commonplace. The strange becomes familiar, as well as the incredible, and the unbelievable becomes fact when we simply forget to be skeptical.

The lore behind the Midnight Waltz, in Julia Whitford's estimation, had to be a prime example of this - tales that had grown taller with each successive telling, celebrated with enough regularity that it was simply accepted as history. It had to be true, they said - after all, it was one of the few occasions in history that their tiny town made the national news.

But what actually happened?

The question had been on Julia's mind since early that morning, and it was one she posed to her editor at the Dawn Chorus Tribune when she dropped by his office mid-morning.

"Does it matter?" David Nance shrugged, his grizzled gray head barely lifting to acknowledge the brunette. "People like the story. It brings in tourists."

"Do you believe it?" she pressed, her arms crossed idly over her midsection.

He paused, finally fixing the reporter with his full attention. "No, not really. Well, maybe," he admitted after an extended pause, as if he'd never actually considered the veracity of the town's beloved myth. "I'd be wary of completely ruling out anything 'round here."

"I'm going to look into it."

"Don't," he sighed. "Just cover the event. Take a photographer. Interview a drunk person. No need to make this any more complicated than it needs to be. We've got enough on our plate with The Missing Four." His attention returned to the computer screen. "Been in touch with the Sheriff's Department today?"

"They haven't returned my call," she sighed. "I think they're all wrapped up with the Fall Fling."

He grunted.

"So you should be too, Ms. Whitford."

---

On November 10th, 1932, The New York Times mentioned Dawn Chorus in a brief article entitled "Sleepy Smokies Town Surrenders to Spontaneous Sleepwalking." It outlined the event with patronizing skepticism and offered few specific details, beyond second-hand reports of "numerous" sleepwalkers who refused to be woken. The article concluded the "alleged" event was an amusing curiosity and unlikely to ever be explained.

Julia sighed, clicking through archives. Nothing else. The next major mention of the town wasn't until thirty years later.

Benjamin Smith, staff photographer, peeked his head into her office. "Ready when you are, Whitford."

It would have to wait.

---

"I don't know how y'deal with those things," Ben muttered, gesturing mildly to Julia's heels. "My feet are killing' me from all this. Ya always gotta be fierce, huh?"

The reporter glanced down at her black stilettos, a smile tugging at her lips. By her own standards, she was dressed informally - heels and snug, straight denim, a casual fitted jacket over a crisp white t-shirt. "I don't even think about it," she admitted with a shrug. They had been milling around with the fling-goers for hours, interviewing visitors and vendors, snapping pictures of delighted children gripping cotton candy or other frenzy-inducing sweets.

"So, after the vigil at nine, we can call it a night," Julia continued. "We'll get some pictures, I'll take some notes, and you're all done."

"What 'bout you?" Ben queried, "Gonna stay 'n' party with Will?"

With a light scoff, Julia shook her head.

"Nah. It's not Will's scene. He's busy doing something else." Julia paused, realizing she had no idea what her husband was up to that evening, which wasn’t - to her mild discomfort - especially unusual. "Besides, I'll have to get back to the office to write this up before we go to press."

"Well, we've got an hour and a half to kill," Ben muttered, checking his watch.

"Let's get some food," Julia suggested, a wry smile turning her graceful features. "I've dragged you a lot of places today. Let me buy you a beer."

 

[Praxis]

Character: Charlie Liddle
Time/Location: 6:15pm / Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Yancey Klump (@whitechapel) Stanley Ryan (npc)

---

"Mm, no -- I told you, I don't like that one." She said back into her radio, as near to a whisper as she could manage through the dull roar. "I mean, all of those movies were pretty unnecessary. At least you remember that char--"

"Liddle!"

She jumped in place, probably looking about forty shades guiltier than she had any cause to and gawked at the voice. "Shoot -- Code-88," she hissed into the receiver. Another squeal of feedback attempted to sound but Charlie killed the volume. Sheriff Ryan, out of uniform and sloshing a plastic tumbler full of a questionable, brown liquid was waving her over. Without the assistance of the department's tailor, his gut was noticeably more pronounced as it hung beyond the bounds of his flannel and over his belt. He -- or perhaps the PD embellishments on his coat -- had garnered the attention of two women Charlie didn't recognize. Tourists. That made more sense than two locals suddenly forgetting they were supposed to be grieving for the man's missing wife.

"How we lookin'?" He asked, affecting a sudden sternness over very puffy looking features. It was probably important to feign some level of professionalism in front of his company. Otherwise, they could mistake him for some other deep country, use-to-be-but-slowly-going-downhill hunk with arguably good bone structure and a hairline that hadn't betrayed him yet. "I seen that, uh, that – what's her face, the cupcake lady causin' a fuss?"

"Mrs. Boucher? Oh, no, she was just a little worr--"

"Yeah, that old bitch always has somethin' up her butt."

Charlie, failing for a response, cleared her throat and glanced to the pavement instead. She could hear the women growing restless, shuffling their feet, whining in nicknames and pawing at his sleeves to move onto whichever sight he'd set out to show them next. It all might've seemed impressive to someone from the city (her best estimation of them for how poorly they'd come dressed for the mountain chill). Quaint and kitschy in such a way that anyone could see themselves belonging there when the lights were strung up and the children were laughing. Or – and this was mere speculation on Charlie's part – maybe they were just drunk on more than whatever was in those tumblers. Maybe Sheriff Stanley Ryan spun a better yarn than his less than rousing, most-fridays-but-not-always morning briefings had led her to believe. There had to be some appeal to the man, after all.

Anyone who could total one of the new prowlers by backing it into Lake Gordon, only to then turn around and – successfully, mind you – blame it on "teenagers", had to be a good storyteller, right?

"Hey, where's that skinny friend of yours? He ain't on duty tonight? Wanted to show the girls that weird shit he can do with his elbows." His attention went to one of the women while an index wavered a few inches from Charlie's face. "Lemme tell ya, Rachel -- it's Rachel, right? Marissa!? ...Well, anyway, I thought I'd seen everythin' until the day she came in; talkin' about ...joinin' the force." He chuckled. "Nothin' against ya, kid, you're just," he gestured, wordlessly, down at her. "Y'know. None of us boys could believe it. Shit, I guess I had you pegged for a ...a librarian or somethin'."

"Why?" She asked, knowing it wouldn't really matter what she said.

He wasn't listening anyway.

People often don't listen when you speak softly.

"Alright then, back to it." With his obligations fulfilled, the sheriff and his two . . .escorts were off again. Charlie watched them disappear into the crowd, toward a taco stand before she turned her radio back on. Having capped out around armpit level to some of the town's more vertically blessed citizens, crowds had never been among Charlie's favourite of conventions. An event, such as the Fling, necessitated it – something about the thought of a lonely, customerless churro stand or vacant bumper cars sent a chill down her spine – but did little toward her actual enjoyment. So long as the liquor kept where it belonged, she'd only have to endure a while longer until all hell had potential to break loose, and the whole lot of them were herded onto Netherland Ave.

Then, well, then they'd be in even better spirits.

Nothing like the loosening of societal restraint and an excuse to drink to lighten the mood. Hopefully, by the time everyone had tired of their milling, the vigil would act as a somber reminder to the importance of it all. Community. This part of their world that'd incurred a wound too strange and too dire to speak of, thus leaving a stilted silence as the best balm any of them could find. Fortunately, what distance and time couldn't accomplish, booze and distraction would. Charlie found a path through the thickest of the crowd and made to approach the command tower that'd been set up on the far, east side of the square.

The tower – an ambitious name – was more of a hastily constructed stage and booth with a radio and a single backup from Asheville manning it. It offered a decent enough view of the Fling, better than on foot at least, as well as a brief respite from the odours and oppressive clamour of a few too many bodies all congregating around the rides and attractions. She waved a silent greeting at the officer there and took a moment to catch her breath, only to have it snipped short by a sudden rise in pitch from Marigold Baker having lost sight of her daughter. She scanned the crowd, realized it was pointless to try and pinpoint a child among the adults, and decided to radio back to Yancey instead.

"Keep an eye out for Daisy Baker while you're out there, huh? Looks like her mama lost track of'er."

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Randall McDougall (@pixelated violet), Grace Letts in passing (@LydiaTessaro)

---

Frank should have been offended, but he wasn't. Not really. Not at all.

In truth, even he caught himself wondering what the hell happened every once in a while. Slippery slopes have a funny way of sliding downward, but it was hard not to try to pinpoint the exact moment in time where he bid sweet fuckall to the life he loved and went spelunking into the Caverns of Failure. It only happened in those few fleeting moments of sobriety, those brief encounters with cognizance where a certain neuron fires just right to tickle the correct brain stem and… eureka. There and gone in a flash. It was never a significant amount of time before he went back to beating his brain with all the vices he could find in a fifty mile radius. As far as he was concerned, his brain had picked the wrong body to hitch a ride in. There was no room for reason or logic or forethought in the life he was trying to lead. Frank was all id, hold the ego. He was Sigmund Freud's wettest dream, mother notwithstanding. He was what happened when four billion years of evolution met the wail of Eddie Van fuckin' Halen's guitar and decided this whole 'being a productive member of society' thing was for the birds.

He was mankind's most unfortunate qualities stood resplendent and writ large for the whole world to see. Here I am, one of God’s own prototypes. Hear me yowl.

"Fuuuuck yooooou, old man," he mocked. "I've got my shit together just fine! I've got it together so much I'm practically constipated with it! You don’t know m-- ...wait, did you say you're buying? Shit fire, you’re a goddamn saint, Randy. Anyone ever tell you that? A goddamn saint…”

Frank followed after Rand like a rat bewitched by the Pied Piper's song. Alcoholism is, after all, a brotherhood of misfortune above all things. Misery loves company. Every thinly veiled insult could be taken as a friendly barb between old chums at the right angle and in the right light. Frank had to suspect that wisecracks and ripostes weren't a part of Randy's repertoire, but it bears repeating; misery loves company, especially when free booze is involved. The smell of kettle corn wafted through the air. The ferris wheel kept spinning and a hack writer would find a way to equate that to how Frank kept on spinning too, but I digress. Somewhere in the distance, through a blown out speaker hissing static beneath a constant groove, "Once in a Lifetime" by Talking Heads played.

And you may ask yourself, well? How did I get here?

Frank hadn’t heard that song in years. It was never his cup of tea. As they made their way through all of the crowds and all of the people, Frank could have sworn he spotted a familiar face quickly averting her eyes from his gaze. Oh Grace Letts. They were two ships that had done just a little bit more than pass in the night. In fact, they had found themselves crashing (read: drunkenly flopping on top of) into the same iceberg (read: bed) and sinking (read: having sex) to the depths below (read: never talking again). He knew she saw him seeing her. She was just playing coy, trying to ignore him lest his Stunning Good Looks and Outrageous Masculinity drove her crazy all over again. There was no fooling Frank Liddle. He knew she had it bad. He made a mental note to round back her way once he was finished drinking himself halfway blind. Somewhere in the distance, through a blown out speaker hissing static beneath a constant groove, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard played.

I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet. Yeah!

Frank had heard that song the night prior. It was more up his alley. As the two made their way onto Netherland Avenue and glided past the traffic barricades already set up to keep the roads closed, Frank stood up on his tiptoes to try to get the lay of the land. A whole sea of people sprawled out in front of them, moving as one as if they were a singular superorganism swallowing the town whole. Up ahead in the distance, Frank saw a bright red top tent set up with ‘DRINK TICKETS’ scrawled in bold black letters on a makeshift sign. A line as long as the River Nile snaked through a set of queue dividers for as far as the eye could see. An immediate sense of defeat and disillusionment washed over Frank, shoulders sagging and mouth falling agape as he grabbed Randy by the shoulder.

“Christ on a crutch, McDougall! We’re going to be waitin’ in line ‘til next Tuesday!” he shouted. “This ain’t gonna do. This ain’t gonna do at all. What’s the plan? We goin’ to bum rush them? No, no. You’re old. These animals will eat you alive, Randy. They won’t even think twice about it. Think, Frank. Think…”

And think he did. A whole maelstrom of good ideas, bad ideas, and everything in between swirled in Frank Liddle’s head until he was dizzy. He liked to believe that the aliens that had abducted him integrated his body with enough extraterrestrial technology that he now existed on a higher plane than the rest of humanity. Better. Faster. Stronger. That wasn’t the case, but it didn’t stop him from believing it. Frank sighed. He knew what had to be done. He knew that tough times called for measures.

“Randy… We’ve got to kick against these pricks. We're cuttin' the goddamn line.. We need a create a distraction. Give me the money and fake a heart attack. This. Will. Work. Trust me.”

Somewhere in the distance, through a blown out speaker hissing static beneath a constant groove, “What a Fool Believes” by The Doobie Brothers played.

It was a jam.

 

[Lydia]

Character: Grace Letts
Time/Location: 6ish | Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: @whitechapel & @pixelated violet (passing); @Shiva the Cat

---

It only took half a dozen fruitless refreshes of her phone for Grace to sense the mustached danger had passed along into the benign throng. As she watched the back of Frank's unwashed head - seemingly paired with an older man she didn’t recognize - vanish among a hundred others, an irksome combination of uneasiness and sympathy bled through her initial alarm. He looked worse these days. She wasn't sure how he could've progressed much further than the outlandish abduction story, but those heights have equal depths, she supposed. What a fucking mess.

She preferred not to think about it, and if she must, she preferred disdain. Not this plea for compassion from her softer self. Grace Letts would not - she would not - feel sympathy for a man who referred to her, earnestly, as "sugartits." Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow.

With a subdued sigh, Grace tucked her phone away, tossed her empty cup into a trash can, and allowed the current of the crowd to carry her toward the Midnight Waltz. As she passed a row of stores, Grace watched her reflection trail ghostly across various goods, boutiques and bakers, bookshops and curiosities, hardware, and —

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she made contact with a small, adorable obstacle. Freezing, she looked down, her lips reflexively turning in a wide smile. "Daisy Baker!"

Grace knelt down to child-height as the stream of people parted around them, wrapping the little girl in a familiar hug. "I'm great. Have you been enjoying the festival?"

Then, her brow furrowing with the afterthought, "Where's your mama, sweet girl?"

Grace was as familiar with Mari and Daisy Baker as anyone else in Dawn Chorus, and she knew Mari wasn't inclined to let her daughter wander alone, especially at such a crowded event. She often babysat the nine year-old at her home, allowing Daisy to explore her cottage and it's many oddities, including her "creatures.” Grace recieved a lot of playful grief from adults who knew about her burgeoning taxidermy hobby, where she not only attempted the amateur preservation of small animals obtained from the local madwoman, but in such a fashion that combined hybrid elements of different animals. Cardinal wings on a rabbit body. Or a possum in the front, raccoon in the back. Then, of course, a different one with a raccoon in the front and possum in the back, because why be wasteful? Most of her friends didn't shy away from telling her that the creations were fucking weird, but little Daisy loved them.

Daisy had imagination. Plentiful imagination. An imagination that occasionally made her babysitter feel a bit uneasy. Creativity was great, but reality had rules. Daisy was still figuring out those rules, like the fact that dead folks, well, stay dead. It was to be expected, Grace imagined - after all, the Baker family had experienced a lot of loss, particularly among the men.

Perhaps Grace was sensitive to loss herself these days, after the disappearance of her student, and Daisy seemed, above all, to be currently lost. She was sure Mari was somewhere nearby, probably alarmed, hopefully not panicked.

With all the people who'd gone missing recently, the town had adopted a sinister edge that, as Grace's narrowed gaze turned toward the festivities, she realized was only exacerbated by the festival lights and dense crowd of strangers. She shifted her attention back to the tiny blonde.

"Hey, we should find her, shouldn't we?"

 

[sky.]

Character: Theo Collins
Time/Location: 6:45 / The Blue Rose Bar and Grill wine and appetizer booth. Food court.
Scene Status: open
Tagging: @p r i s m

---

Always make eye contact with the customer before you connect verbally - Theo could hear Zara’s voice humming in her ear. It was the first thing she had been instructed to do during her orientation, after all. A rule Zara insisted due to a few rowdy regulars who occasionally plagued the restaurant. Surely it was only a matter of time before they found, or better yet stumbled their way to the drink booths. Maybe it was a scene worth waiting for.

Her gaze drifted away from the passing crowd. The break between customers gave her time to fumble around the front pocket of a short black apron. Pushing past the cluster of pens, lighter, and notepad she grabbed hold of her cellphone. Giving the dimly lit screen a swipe it opened with a click. Her fingertips worked quickly, sending out a text to a fellow coworker -

---

Place is packed.
Dying for a break ​

---

Theo rolled her eyes, watching the message go through before slipping the device back into her pocket. Unfortunately, not many volunteered to work the festival, wanting to participate themselves. Theo was the first to raise that hand. If she had ever been to the festival, it was long before she could remember. It’s importance to the locals was crystal, leaving her no room to argue the night off as well.

Not to mention those who wishing to participate in the vigil.

The male’s voice came as a unfamiliar one. Thankfully so. With any luck, her relief would be stuck with the drunks. If the damn girl ever gets here. Then again, the new hire was about as useful as the nipples on Batman’s suit.

“Is that right?” Her gaze finally budged, carefree voice trailing off as soon as she met the bottomless pools of dark, warm honey.

Theo lingered, a deer in headlight, stunned to move...even after laying on the horn. Her pout lips parted, though nothing came out. A sense of déjà vu crept over. She knew his type. To well.

She ran a brisk look over him. A tall drink of water, as gran would’ve said. “Guess there’s a first time for everything,” the silence broke, finally pulling herself back together.

“Nothing you’ll see here,” Theo verified with a simper, attempting to sound unaffected by his presence.

Wine is an acquired taste, it’ll will grow on you with age, Zara had assured each time she had her sample a new brand. By now it had became a ruthless routine, in honesty - it was most likely to enjoy the sight of Theo sourly shooting the liquid back like a damn shot. Entertainment at it’s finest on a slow night.

“Tequila, huh? Might have chosen the wrong stand then,” she nodded to the left, her porcelain cheeks flushing a subtle pink. You’re here to work, not flirt with bad boy repeats who pop out of thin air, the brunette struggled to remind herself. That was one reason she landed herself in DC in the first place. The pickings were slim and the town seemed to lack her typical weakness.

So she thought.

Without a word she crouched down, reaching underneath the soft fabric of the tablecloth for her purse. A small, silver flask sloshed in her hand as she came back up. Her elbows met the surface of the table, vermilion lips curving into a challenging smile. What harm can flirting back bring? She caved, setting the flask down in front of him before resting her chin on her hands.

“Unless Don Julio isn’t your type.”

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Quentin Severin (NPC)
Time/Location: Lake Gordon, 6:30PM
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: N/A

---

Quentin Severin had never been an athletic man.

While his schoolmates busied themselves with football fanaticism and the desires of the teenage heart, Severin had taken a liking to more esoteric matters. Books, of course, but also grimoires; massive tomes as old as time, their pages written with the promise of knowledge both forbidden and strange. He took a liking to antiquities and the passage of time, the way that history repeats itself again and again and again. He became preoccupied with objects and places of power, near and far, that supposed the veil between worlds was thinner than one might think. He began to peer beyond the facade of goodness and benevolence to see the wickedness within all things, but of all the places he’d been and of all the things he had seen, no place was more outright evil than the admittedly unlikely town of Dawn Chorus, Tennessee.

And so, as he paddled away from Summerland Islet and back across Lake Gordon in a little rowboat meant for two, Quentin Severin thought about how he had never been an athletic man as he wheezed and his muscles ached.

By the time he reached the shore, he was out of breath and nearly cursing to whichever deity might be listening. He huffed and puffed as he dragged the boat through the thistle and reeds and up the embankment from where he had first departed several hours earlier. Hidden in the trees where no curious eyes might be watching, Severin stood wiping the sweat from his brow. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear carnival music playing and the excitement of a crowd in a state of revelry. Ignorance is bliss, he thought. After a moment’s rest, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. Of all the books he had read and all the esoteric knowledge he had gleaned, no great occult work or all-encompassing opus ever contained as many secrets as that little piece of paper sitting in the palm of his hand. On one side, written in perfect cursive, it was addressed 'To Virgil'.

He bit at his lower lip, his nerves getting the better of him. His fingers quaked. His eyes welled with tears. Hid stomach did somersaults, butterflies flapping their wings. With his free hand, he reached into his other pocket and produced a lighter. With only the slightest amount of hesitation, he set the note ablaze.

As ash and ember fell to the forest floor below, Quentin sighed. "Forgive me," he said. "This is for the best."

He dreaded the days to come.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Character: Marigold & Daisy Baker
Time/Location: 12:30pm - 6pm || Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Grace Letts (@LydiaTessaro ); Victor Sims (@Vinaein )

---

No. No no no no no...

The music was a distant whisper as Mari's heart pounded in her ears. Every since Daze was a baby she'd had a habit of wandering away, even in her own house. Marigold tried to believe it was the kid's inherent curiosity and absentmindedness that lead to her wanderings. If her daughter was ever purposely trying to hide she'd really be in trouble. It was a saving grace that Daisy rarely seemed to find humor in..well, anything. But there was no way she would take off just to mess with her panicking mother.

And the idea someone would take the girl...Marigold began to feel faint. Face after face flashed before her eyes: she knew all of them, at least in passing. Only one of them though seemed to notice her distress: the good-natured town archivist, Vic.

A momentary relief crossed her face as the hairdresser seized onto the man's forearm. "Vic, Daisy's gone," she half-gasped, half-sobbed. "She was right here, I swear, and when I looked down..."

Farther up the street, Daisy returned Grace's hug with a polite lack of emotion. She did find it much easier to speak to ears that were at her level, however, and pressed a little closer to the teacher for practicality's sake. "It's been very nice. I tried an ostritch burger for the first time. It tasted like regular hamburger though. Do you think the ostritches are raised domestically, or do they import them? I also won this." She held out her wrist to display a colorfully beaded plastic bracelet, the first-place prize for winning at whack-a-mole when no one else sat down to play. "How is your taxidermy going? I found a dead frog near the old well the other day. I'm saving him for you, but don't tell Mom."

A genuine crestfallen look arced her brow, but like all children she was quick to move on. The mention of her mother did make her shrug a little, and the girl took a perfunctory look around for Mari's red dress. "She's here somewhere. She was talking to Mrs. Barsotti a minute ago. Did you know Mrs. Barsotti has another husband down in Cuba? They have a pink house. I wish Grandma would paint her house pink."

Speaking of pink, that was the color that had risen in Marigold's cheeks the instant she caught sight of her daughter locked on conversation with Gracie Letts. She let go of Vic's arm, and storming past any body that dared cross her path, she immediately seized onto her daughter's shoulder. "Daisy Mae Baker, what have I told you about wandering off in crowds!" She was trying her best to inject all the rage and indignance that her Baker ancestors were known for, but in truth she was so grateful to find Daisy safe that the effect was halfhearted at best.

Mari kept one hand on Daisy's wrist as she turned gratefully to Grace. "Thank you so much for finding her, Gracie. Come by the salon any time you want, I owe you a manicure for this one." Now that her daughter was safe, she let her shoulders drop a little and tried to adopt a more conversational tone to her voice. She genuinely liked the teacher, and she appreciated how well the woman could relate to Daisy, quirks and all. Not everyone in town was as tolerant of the girl's...eccentricities.

"Are you sticking around for the Midnight Waltz?" the stylist asked, glancing down sharply the instant she felt Daisy growing impatient with the adults' conversation. She was still listening, but kept her eyes on the little blonde girl. It was an excuse to hide her face anyway; she always felt a little bit like Cinderella when she had to miss town social events. If only Ma wasn't entertaining tonight...but no sense in grieving about it. "Sounds like it's gonna be a fun time," she added with a sideways smile back at the teacher.

 

[Vinaein]

Character: Vic Simms/Alan Cooper
Time/Location: 12:30pm - 6pm || Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: @LydiaTessaro @Shiva the Cat ), @sky. @p r i s m @Praxis @whitechapel

Victor Simms was a man used to helping people. Concern was writ all over his face as he saw the obvious distress upon Marigold's own. He knew her and Daisy well enough, in addition to his dislike of seeing any human being suffer. His frown deepened in sadness at the sorrow upon her, while Vic practically rushed close, panic lending his feet new speed. "I'm here," the words came from his mouth as he stared at the woman before him with a burgeoning urgency.

Vic liked to help people in town. When you had to record everything, that was how it went. He could see neither hide nor hair of little Daisy, and in a festival, there was no shortage of places she might be. But this was Dawn Chorus and there would be no shortage of anyone to meet. He tried to think of something to say, his face bearing a sad countenance as he moved closer to poor Marigold. Daisy might be gone, but that meant Daisy had to be somewhere. And if she was somewhere, they could find her. "Marigold," he murmured...

"Now, Miss Baker." He took her hand. "Try to think clear. This won't help find Daisy." His smile turned gentle. "Kids have a way to not knowing when to stop walking. Here..." He took her hand, squeezing it tightly. "We're going to find her, alright? She's probably just around- " he stopped shortly as his gaze locked on little Daisy, up with none other than Miss Gracie Letts.

Oh. Phew, he thought as Marigold tore over to admonish Daisy, making his way over, with his own friendly smile. "Well!" He said. "See? There she is and no harm done, right?" He looked over to Mari. "In return for the trouble, why don't I buy you two a snack from one of the venders? Daisy might like to share a funnel cake?" He offered as he arrived, still pleased for his time away from the rest...

---
In another part of town, Alan Cooper, late off his own job, was making his way down to his niece's shop. Alan had been working too much latel,y pleased to have gotten away from his latest job. Since leaving the force and working as a private investigator, he had been happier....his own boss, less stressful hours...

Not that he didn't miss some of the people on the force. And he did worry about Theo every so often, the daughter of a considerably older sibling. Keeping in contact was an imperative for him as a result, he thought. And this was the Midnight Waltz, the annual festival, THE place to be of crazy old Dawn Chorus...

He might need to go further, check in with some of the old force. He had glimpsed some he knew, like Yancy Crump, one woman he dimly remembered as "Charlie," but first...Theo, in the tent he'd remembered she'd be

He came to her stand, swinging the opening flap aside to step in with a happy greeting and surprise his niece

Until he saw who was actually inside...

 

[pixel.]

Character:Randall McDougall
Time/Location:Drink booth, in the thick of the carnival, downtown DC
Scene Status:OPEN
Tagging:Frank Liddle (@whitechapel )

---

Rand was a hypocrite that would never admit it otherwise. Where he had no trouble throwing the other man under the bus for his alcoholism, if the tables were turned, Rand would just say that he drank because it kept his bones warm or grunt and make the statement that he was functioning. Or, better, it was none of their fucking business.

While butting into their business, like he was now, like he was the doting town papaw and Frank just needed a good morale booster and some unsolicited life advice that he really needed but didn’t ask for. As if, underneath the skin, the truth was a festering wound that he hid behind that fucking scowl he had permantly stamped on his face. Especially now, when his touch was almost gentle on Frank’s shoulder as he caught up, guiding him along.

Like Rand didn’t need it himself. Like he hadn’t been almost but not caught drunk as a weasel dozing on a bale of hay and was now pretending that he meant to be out in all this all along. Right. Because the old, crazy fuck who yelled obsensities at the neighborhood kids and threw an obsolete and often inappropriate worldview at his fellow townsfolk instead of … what was it?

Playing nice.

Not to mention he was still drunk. His breath still smelled of it if anyone got too close and he put on a good show of weaving through the sticky handed, grinning mob that his sliding from left to right was just navigating like a pro.

“And you’re a fucking jackass,” Randy finally grumbled like an old grizzly he was, eyes rolled ahead and not bothering to give Frank the time of day except for that retort. Way to pay back a compliment with … well, he could take it as a compliment if he wanted.

Despite his own whiskey-tinted state, he did notice a few things. Well, he noticed one thing, and that was because he had chosen to make a strange bedfellow - carnival pal? - of the Liddle boy, while maybe wishing at this point, two minutes after making the snap decision, that it was the girl one. Prissy little thing, but she had an ass on her. Namely…

“Don’t even think about it,” again with the grizzly growl, his own eyes moving to where Frank’s head had been turned to the blonde. “Aren’t you married?” He couldn’t remember. Or he did and this was his way of being belligerent. Maybe he was even psychic, though with how he had spewed his conspiracy nonsense all that time, he was most likely just batshit.

Fuck ‘em all anyway.

So Rand followed his charge around the line at the drink ticket tent, then shoved his hands in his pockets, staring ahead at the backs of people’s heads, fine to wait it out and about to suggest just that, until…

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” came his response, again not even looking. But now he was starting to feel a little bit of the cold despite the flannel he wore. “And these animals wouldn’t stand a chance. I’m not that old, boy.” He turned his head, spit on the ground like it meant something, then finally narrowed his attention on Frank. Scowl in place. Eyes sharper than they were before on his lined face. “You’re worse than a toddler. Didn’t your mama ever teach you patience? We don’t need to bumrush jack shit. There’s still plenty of time to get our tickets so you can have your piss beer.” We. He should have said we. Rand may have been acting self-righteous in that moment, but cheap beer or not, he would drink.

So while Frank rattled off his plan, Rand chewed the inside of his cheek. Hummed a little under his breath. “Say, what do you think of those folks disappearing like that? Heard anything?”

A distraction? Maybe. “Don’t you think it’s a little odd that no bodies have been found yet?” He eyeballed Frank, half worried the (other) drunk was going to do exactly what he said he would do and try to cut the line. He had half a mind to reach out and grab him before he lost whatever smarts he had and actually did it. So Rand snorted, shaking his head. “Eh, the law around here ain’t worth anything. Probably just want the case to turn cold like…”

Well, like his own case had gone. Years ago. Come on, Rand, get your head unstuck from the past.

He grinned. Well, tried to - but when you frowned as much as he did, something as natural as smiling turned into a grimace that might scare children. “Fuck it,” that was a grunt. “Follow my lead and don’t be a dumbass.”

He left his place on the outskirts and rushed forward through the crowd of people, making a beeline for that ten, his expression changing like a natural born actor to bewildered concern. Right up to the very front of the line to stare down the annoyed expressions of the two women who manned the booth. One even opened her mouth, “Sir–”

Only Rand cut her off, palms falling hard and shoulders heaving. He was breathing heavily, like he had run all the way up here, and at least his hair already looked like he had taken a tousle in well - a bale of hay.

“You’re the closet booth,” he ground out. Paused. Looked from one disgruntled turned confused face, then the other. “With the crowds and all, but there’s a little girl–”

“There’s a little girl? Is she in trouble?” Concession Woman A asked, her face now pinched with worry as she looked at her fellow volunteer.

“I’m not sure, she wouldn’t come over with me. She’s just standing…” He head nodded towards where one of the rides, lighting up in cheap neon colors, rolled over onto its side and up in the air as screaming bodies hung upside down, letting the machine throw them around like it was something fun to do. Over his dead body. He was surprised that no one had died yet on one of these contraptions. “I don’t mind watching the booth here if you wanted to go see what’s wrong. She might be lost and just wants someone who looks more like her mama to help her out-”

Rand paused. And waited to see if the Liddle boy would catch the hint and do whatever it is that he needed to do to finish the gimmick.

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Virgil McCormick (NPC)
Time/Location: Above The Mothlight, 7:30PM.
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: N/A

---

Grief can come in a thousand different forms.

For some, it manifests in waves of tears. For others, fits of anger. For Virgil McCormick, it came as a sense of numbness that overtook his very being. Since the day his daughter disappeared, Virgil hadn’t felt like he was living in any real sense of the word. He was only going through the motions, wasting time, trying to keep himself occupied and his mind from wandering into the darkest depths. He stood in the bedroom window of his little apartment above The Mothlight, looking down at Netherland Avenue below and all the people congregating in the streets as he took drag after long drag from his cigarette. That menthol tingle tickled at the back of his throat. Virgil had given up the habit fifteen years prior, but there was some sort of passing comfort in the taste and the smell of the smoke. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was longing for another place in time. Maybe it was just casual self-destruction.

He put the cigarette out on the windowsill, leaving a streak of black ash on the white paint. Any other time, that would have driven the neat freak in him crazy, but in Carla’s absence he couldn’t bring himself to care. He closed the window and let out a long, drawn out sigh. Down below, he could hear his little bar thriving. He supposed there should have been a sense of pride in that as well, but there wasn’t. Depression, as it turns out, has a way of weaving its tendrils through every facet of your life. It eats away at you. It consumes you. There were only a few hours until the candlelight vigil and even that filled Virgil with a sense of dread. He could already see all the faces of his friends and neighbors, tears in their eyes glinting off the low flames, offering their support and their thoughts and their prayers and all their useless little words.

Did any of them know what it felt like to lose the only thing that gives your life any meaning?

That wasn’t fair. Virgil knew he wasn’t the only one in town buried beneath the weight of an honest to God crisis, but that didn’t make it any easier to not turn inward. At least he had Yaya, even if she unwittingly acted as a constant reminder of Carla… In his bedroom, Virgil dressed himself in his typical, stylish outfit; a modern man even if he felt like a shell of a human being. He looked at himself in the mirror and poked at the bags beneath his eyes, unable to will them away. He pet his dog Cornelius who slept atop his comforter, barely having moved since the disappearance. He took a deep breath and reached up into the top of his closet to pull down the little shoebox he had tucked away toward the very back.

Inside, there was his last will and testament alongside a gun he had bought a few days beforehand. He had always detested guns, but this one had a purpose. The bar, the apartment, and Cornelius would go to Yaya because she deserved it. After the candlelight vigil, Virgil planned to book the suite on the top floor of Netherland Inn. He planned to drink a whole bottle of wine and take a long, relaxing bath. He’d listen to his favorite album, “Bitches Brew” by Miles Davis. He’d let that music engulf him as he danced around the room in the nude, drunk and careless and alone.

And then, when the time was right, he’d blow his brains all over the wall.

Bang.

The end.

Just another Dawn Chorus ghost story.

Virgil didn't believe in an afterlife, but he could only hope his death would bring him closer to Carla somehow. He was sure she was gone, so what was the point in him staying? The gun felt cold in his hand as he tucked it into the waistband of his slacks.

It would be easier this way.

 

[whitechapel]

Character: Yancey Klump
Time/Location: The Mothlight, 7:40PM
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Yaya (@p r i s m)

---

After reluctantly ending his radio chat with Charlie, Yancey continued on through the mean streets of Dawn Chorus. He kept his head tucked down and walked at a quick pace, hoping to avoid being pulled into any unnecessary conversations by familiar faces. It wasn’t that Yancey was anti-social, it was just that… well… people are taxing and Yancey had a hard time saying no. He was a pushover and he knew that about himself. A simple ‘hello’ was a slippery slope, especially if he ran into somebody who knew his day job as an officer of the law. Yancey was a man about town! He had places to be! The saxophone in the case slung over his shoulder wasn’t going to just play itself!

In truth, Yancey had never wanted to go into law enforcement. In truth, it was his worst nightmare. In truth, if it weren’t for Charlie, he’d step down from the force in a heartbeat. Half the time, he had no idea how to help the people he interacted with. The most he could offer were panicked apologies, ill fitting but well meaning recommendations, and an index finger pointing towards the nearest officer that wasn’t himself. Imposter syndrome is a real thing and, boy howdy, Yancey had it in spades. Every time he put on his uniform, he felt that little bubble of anxiety in his chest threatening to burst. Sometimes, it did.

By the time he reached The Mothlight, the bar was already hopping. He passed Virgil on his way out the front door, heading towards The Netherland Inn to prepare for the vigil. They exchanged pleasantries and Virgil even palmed him a hundred dollar bill to pay for his entertainment in advance. Yancey pocketed the money with a smile, but any happiness he may have felt in that moment was quickly superseded by the sudden explosion of nerves in the forefront of his brain when he realized who had to be running The Mothlight in Virgil’s stead.

Yaya.

She hadn’t been in Dawn Chorus for very long, but in the short time of her residence, her mere existence had sent poor Yancey Hildebard Klump for a loop. In her presence, his heart thumped so fast that he couldn’t tell where panic began and attraction ended. They were barely even acquaintances, but whenever they exchanged words, Yancey found himself only able to speak in vowels. One night, while up on stage working his sax through the opening riff of “Careless Whisper”, he caught a glance of Yaya watching him from across the bar and nearly passed out from a sudden inability to breathe.

It was, in almost every sense of the word, a problem.

With nervous footsteps, Yancey made his way through the bar patrons and up to the bar itself. There she was, all starbright and eternally beautiful, the very vision of beauty cast beneath delirious neon lighting. “Yaya,” he said, the name melting off his lips like ice cream. He stood up straight. He did his best to look… sexy? Was that a thing? In his tweed suit, he doubted it. “Hi. Hi hi… um… how are you? Could I trouble you for… um… a glass of Tang?”

Nectar of the Gods, don’t you know. “Virgil keeps it on tap for me, you know. Astronauts, they… um… they drink it…”

Floundering. That’s what he was doing. Floundering and crashing and burning and falling to pieces before her very eyes. He could feel his shoulders involuntarily slouching. There was sweat forming on his brow. His teeth wanted to grind themselves to dust.

“In… in space, I mean. Maybe on Earth too? I don’t know. But… definitely… um… definitely in space. They definitely drink it there...”

Goshdarn it. He could feel every eye in the room on him. He could hear the tittering of a thousand of his fellow countrymen, watching as he struggled to navigate the hazards of coquetry. There were no come-hither eyes or wry smiles. There were no thinly veiled innuendos or double entendres that invited the moves to be made. There were only astronauts and the beverages they preferred.

The saxophone still hanging at his back suddenly felt like it weighed more than a mountain. His fingers tapped nervously on the bar. His body leaned against the nearest stool to keep himself from tumbling over. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and he couldn't even begin to bring himself to push them back up into their proper position. Every passing second felt like an eternity, even as his lips began to curl into a shaky, fidgeting, anxiety-ridden smile.

"...cool, right? Haha! Ha!"

 

[Lydia]

Character: Grace Letts
Time/Location: 6ish | Downtown DC
Scene Status: Open!
Tagging: @Shiva the Cat @Vinaein

---

"Wow, an ostrich burger?" Grace repeated, her brows lifting in the exaggerated surprise that seemed to appeal to most kids, though her expressiveness failed to crack the child's solemn affect. Both Daisy's recently-won bracelet and her contraband frog corpse received similar treatment, and Grace leaned a little closer, her manner conspiratorial.

"Hey, I won't tell your mom about the frog, but you have to do me a favor, okay Dais? Will you put it in the freezer? It'll keep it from, uh," Grace paused, uncertain how much Daisy would know about decomposition. "…getting gross. I'll come snag it soon, or you can bring it next time you come over."

There was no telling what shape the frog was in, or if she'd be able to do anything with it - she suspected not - but even Grace knew it was bad form to critique a child's gift. As Daisy continued to explain where she last saw her mother, Grace stood, scanning the crowd, a light hand placed comfortingly on the girl's small shoulder. She was vaguely acquainted with Mrs. Barsotti, so she shot a surprised glance down at Daisy when she mentioned the woman's Cuban husband.

That couldn't be right.

Grace opened her mouth to protest when Mari's voice lifted above the chattering crowd.

"Daisy Mae Baker!"

Acknowledging the approaching stylist with a wide smile of sympathetic relief, Grace observed the reunion and rolled her eyes in good-natured dismissal of Mari's manicure offer, as if it was unnecessary. She didn't outright reject it, though - manicures were a luxury she rarely prioritized on her meager teacher's salary. It was then that she noticed the man who accompanied Mari, recognizing his face and recalling that he worked in the town's archives, but forgetting his name.

Shit, the archives. Maybe he would be able to help her.

"See? There she is and no harm done, right?" he said, indicating the ever-impatient Daisy. Grace took a brief moment of appraisal, noticing the man's physical proximity to the stylist and classically attractive features. She made a mental note to ask Mari about him at a later time - both his name and the nature of their relationship. It seemed like good gossip.

"Are you sticking around for the Midnight Waltz?" Mari asked, and Grace’s attention returned to the other woman.

"Yeah, I actually just got here. I was thinking I'd stay for a while," she said, waving a handful of drink tickets, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "At least until a while after the vigil."

Mentioning the vigil chased away Grace's levity, her delicate features growing uncomfortable at the incongruity of celebration and sorrow.

"Carla McCormick…is one of my students."

She almost said was. Fuck. That familiar dread returned, darker than the dusk that had almost overtaken the sky.

The archivist offered to take Daisy and Mari for a snack, and Grace was grateful for the distraction - and the opportunity to further speculate on whether or not there was more than simple friendship between the two. He seemed pretty fond of the stylist, she surmised. Grace thought Mari deserved someone good - and maybe this guy was it. Grace surreptitiously tossed at inquiring glance in Mari's direction, a sly smile on her lips.

"Well, I'll leave you guys to it," she said, not wanting to intrude. "I'm gonna go find a beer."

The blonde leaned down, lifting a hand. "High five, Dais? Remember, freezer." She offered the girl a wink.