capeandcowllogs | ( open ) will tomorrow be better when yesterday things got worse?

Entry tags:

( open ) will tomorrow be better when yesterday things got worse?

WHO: Sharon Rainsworth & ???
WHERE: Near the Porter tower
WHEN: Early evening September 15th
WARNINGS: n/a, will update if changes
SUMMARY: Sharon arrives and is promptly left speechless by the modern world. 13 year old seeming pseudo-Victorians should adapt pronto, right? ... Right?
FORMAT: quick or prose, tagger's choice

There'd been no help for it, she'd decided, once her heart rate had slowed down and the yelling at faceless, demanding machines had paid off exactly as much as might have been expected, but to continue forward. Her hair was an unforgiveable mess, the ribbon usually keeping it half back missing as it had been from what she last remembered. Her hands habitually smoothed out the material of her dress, unable to do much about the dust aside from patting it out. That her hands ended up slapping the material with more force than necessary had more to do with the situation she'd been in prior to this wretched strangeness than the unfamiliar surroundings themselves.

Certainly, there were no Baskervilles around in their red cloaks, but just as certainly there was neither her grandmother nor Break in evidence, nor anything else she recognized. The memory of Mad Hatter when she'd come to at Break's side, back on her feet after last having been knocked flat with a backhanding to her head (one hit that left a lump she felt now, engendering a wince as she frowned at the memory), beat against the darkness of here.

Getting on the lifts that took her down countless levels to a lobby filled with pamphlets and fewer explanations than she liked, though she read all of what she could. Too many different things were registering in a blur, but she focused, breathing in deeply and calmly as she sorted out what she thought she knew.

One, if this was an illusion, it had awful timing. There was an equal improbability of this being another dimension, like the pocket of Cheshire's realm, since how would she possibly have been sent there given the circumstances? Not alone, surely. She could almost believe it if Sheryl had been on the floor above with her, but Sharon had been alone.

Two, the bodiless voice expected some form of action from her that made no more sense than the fact she was here, and not in Pandora, in the first place. Clinking metal tags hung from around her wrist. Her name was on one. The numbers made no sense, but they were there, as sure as her name was. How did this tie in to notions of bank accounts with her name, or this residence supposedly set up to house her? She'd read the information, she'd scavenged for a map among the materials so glossy and overfull with enigmas. There was a dot marking "You are here." Another marking "MAC."

She could hardly afford further hesitation, what, with the light fading, and no person or people manifesting out of thin air to assauge her questions (or worries, much as she set those to the side and told herself to start worrying once she had the luxury of the space and time to do so). Right now called for action, even if that action led to uncertain, unfamiliar, and perhaps unwanted results.

Yes. Move forward, and don't dither about staying behind, bemoaning what she didn't know. Having written off Eques based on recent occurrences, Sharon didn't even attempt to call on the shadow unicorn. Instead she gathered what infromation she deemed most presently relevant into her hands, held close along with the strange device that was meant to let her communicate through some means with others like her.

How comforting.

Nevertheless, so it came to pass that a young girl who appeared no more than thirteen or fourteen stepped out onto the sidewalks of the City, letting the lingering heat of the day wash over her and her hastily finger-combed hair. She pauses, lifting her chin, eyes widening as she is assailed by the full spectrum of sights and sounds and sensations of a place gone through an entire Industrial Revolution she has yet to witness. If she looks momentarily overwhelmed... she is.

Give her a moment to collect herself, but until then, it looks like someone's going through a mass of culture shock, and all that without even having gotten around to talking with the people who pass by. "Ah," she says at some point, swallowing and barely preventing herself from looking up and up and up, finding the top of any given towering building. "This is... surprising."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Natasha was on one of her early evening jogs— and she was always careful to design her routes past interesting things. Like the Porter. Sometimes there were tourists taking pictures, sometimes protesters carrying bold lettered signs. And sometimes there were strangers wandering glassy-eyed from the doors, their lives newly ripped apart.

She was clad full up in her workout gear. Civilian stuff, sneakers, tight pants made of special fabric they claimed would absorb sweat. Her hair was pulled back and her eyes very clear.

Sharon catches her attention because the girl displays all the symptoms. So her pace slows, and she tries to wear a kind expression. "Are you lost?"

The kind expression isn't lost on Sharon, not as she turns, blinking rapidly, feeling some heat rise to her face before she breathes in deeply and offers up a smile. A smile that is a tad bit, ah, frozen, as she looks over the woman attached to the questioning voice.

Whatever attempt at a flush for being caught standing around with her eyes wide open like some country bumpkin turns into something undeniably a blush at the sheer indecency of what she saw. It's not the first time she's seen a woman in pants (hardly could be, eve if it wasn't standard practice, and most certainly not in her grandmother's household). Even the uniform at Lutwidge Academy tended toward revealing, with the shortness of the skirts most female students wore, and Alice herself cared for fashion about as much as Oz cared for frank discussions of family matters --

But a great deal of her slow processing now has to do with the sudden shock of so many unusual, unrecognized factors, and then the simplicity of being able to take in this one woman and realize that she, too, is alien. Only understandably, manageably so.

"Ah," she starts, pouring strength into her words and more practiced ease into her smile. "In time, you might say. I'm sorry, but if I'm understanding what I've recently... read correctly, this is called The City?"

Absolute genius. Whoever named the place likely bought themselves a burial plot in The Graveyard, was responsible for naming Main Street, and also doubtlessly had a home properly titled The House In Which I Reside.

Natasha only nods. She doesn't really like to acknowledge the non-name. It's strange and petty of her, but she hates to see things go on unnamed.

"You're in New York now. This is America." There's a bit of bland irony in those last three syllables, like the dead cheerfulness of an airline attendant, but the concern on her face doesn't waver.

This is one of those rare times she will try, honestly, to give information and not guard it.

New York. America. Names that don't mean anything to her independent of being pieces to slot into a larger puzzle now. "America. Of course." She has a feeling she's going to be dissatisfied with what she did and didn't ask now, based on not knowing what it is she should be asking.

Still, there are concerns on concerns to consider, when she has yet to see sign of Break, or anyone else she knew or (to some degree or another) trusted.

"Are you from around here, Miss...?" She's being remiss, and not terribly polite in withholding her name for the moment. Yet she wants to know if this is someone who does come from a place other than this world, so to speak, and might be more inclined to less mischievous responses to someone from far, far away. There'd been enough note made in the literature to make her doubt how much someone from here would wish to say to someone they peg as different, but regardless, it's a thought on her mind.

[Whether Damian would approach a new person or not was pretty hit-and-miss. He did like helping people, he really did, but this New People Stuff? There were plenty of other ImPorts around who could handle all that tedious stuff.

...but then again, it's pretty hard to pass up someone who clearly seems to be confused, especially someone who looks as young as Sharon does. He was just heading back to his place with his dog, but he takes a little detour to talk to her instead.]

You're probably new here. I can already tell.

( Being perpetually thirteen as far as the world could discern has benefits, she supposes, just as it has its set-backs. It's probably why someone in a younger age bracket approaches, let alone makes a declarative statement that's both true -- and rather blunt.

Sharon's response is a polite smile, one hand holding pamphlets and dog-tags and a communicator oh my coming up as if she were instead holding a fan, something she realizes looks much more ridiculous ever as she observes what detail she can of the young man in such odd clothing before her, and his canine to boot.

The dog, cheerfully enough, looks like nothing more or less than a dog. Some things were less mutable than others. )

Is it the reading material? I wasn't sure what I'd need or not, the variety was... perplexing.

( The usefulness was all over the board. Still, more was better than less, and if things were presented meant to be misleading, she'd simply have to find those out.

She also doubts it was the reading material. It's a fair enough starting point for the moment. "Probably new here." Is he part of the collective that would be new? Bits of what she's read indicate he might be, or she may need to worry about backlash from the legacy that precedes her stepping out onto the streets in an unfamiliar city. )

It's written all over your face.

[Well, that, and... everywhere else. Still, he says it casually, as if that's a totally normal and polite thing for a ten-year-old to say. (It's really, really not.) He takes note of her appearance, too—the dated clothes and messy hair—and briefly wonders if she might be one of those people who's relieved to be here or one who's already itching to get back and finish what she started.

But he doesn't say anything about it, at least not yet. It didn't quite matter yet.]

You're better off learning about this place from other people who were brought here, anyway.

( She supposes kids can be blunt, though if that's actually delightful or more bothersome she only refuses to say because everything in her points toward bothersome right now. Sharon raises one eyebrow in response to his statement -- schooling her expression into something pleasant and not quite so overfull of new sights and sounds that aren't the ones she'd just been drowning in hours before -- keeping aware of his canine companion even as she canted her head just a little to the side. )

People such as you?

( She asks, and it's meant to sound exactly as guileless as it isn't. It's a presumption, and one she figures may go any of several different ways, but if he wasn't deigning to play at manners, she would do what she could to keep a semblance of hers while cutting to the chase of her new circumstances. )

Edited 2013-09-24 04:56 (UTC)

I wouldn't be talking to you otherwise.

[He says it with a shrug. Damian's not trying to be rude this time, even if there doesn't seem to be much of a change in his demeanor. He's only stating a fact—the natives of this place, after all, could hardly be described as friendly toward people like them, even if their opinions toward the ImPorts might not be as bad as they used to be. If he hadn't been like her at all, it was a lot less likely that he would have stopped.]

I've only been here for a few months, but I know more than enough.

Edited 2013-09-25 01:52 (UTC)

( Sharon had expected as much, between what little she's gleaned from reading, and from how the people who did walk by seemed to both see and not see her at the same time. So this is another person who's been in this situation.

Funny how unpleasant it is to hear he's been here for months on end. For whatever the reason, it drums up a small smile. )

Does the one who knows so much have a name? I should like to know what to call you, should I need someone with your hard earned knowledge to steer me rightly in this strange place.

( She's curious to hear what he considers important, or what his bounds of enough are. With kids his age, it'd be hard to tell. Knowing nothing of his background, she'd rather not assume more or less than she might presume of persons growing up in the environments she called familiar. )

Damian Wayne. [There's almost a sort of emphasis on the last name when he gives it. It's totally important—mostly to him, of course, but anyone who had been around for a while was likely familiar with the family business and, thus, his name. He assumes she will be eventually, too.] Yourself?

( She files his name away, noting what might have been emphasis, or what might not. If Wayne is meant to be a name of some consequence here, it's best to learn eventually what consequence it has.

Discreetly, of course. )

A pleasure, young Master Damian. I'm Lady Sharon Rainsworth. I don't doubt you've heard nothing whatsoever about me.

( She adds with a small amused smile, realizing partway through her own motion that she has her hand out to be taken in a fashion she doubts is common here. )

If Steve was anything, he was rather reluctant to let a good notion go.

Or a bad one, perhaps; everyone and (probably) their dog told him to stay the hell away from the Porter and Lachesis' business. Be it his natural programming-turned-desire to learn or his unique position as a former machine himself, he was terribly compelled to at least try to touch base with the source of everyone's grievances...and joys, too! His joys were countless.

...That isn't true, but it sure seemed that way sometimes.

Regardless, a tall, lanky, distracted Steve Pocacchio was turning the corner, head up with eyes all for the tower where the mysterious AI resided. It was bad practice, especially in such a densely populated city, yet that time of day and his peripherals were to his advantage; not a whole lot of young people out and about that part of town during that time of day.

Very unfortunate for the young, confused girl he nearly went toppling over as he walked right into her.

And terribly lax on Sharon's part, a lapse she's intent on rectifying even as she stumbles forward, knocked into from behind. None of her current predicament is so terrible (the lack of being locked up or under threat of execution may have something to do with that), but it's still strange, and overwhelmingly so.

Not to say she forgives her lack of awareness. More that as she stumbled forward, she spun herself around, keeping her feet under her and managing to look more irritated than disturbed.

"Beg pardon," she said, twisting around and holding up her pamphlets as if they were something of substance rather than bendable paper and so many unsettling words, "Sir," she continued once she caught sight of his face, offering him a very stern smile. "But do watch where it is you're walking!"

She'd be best served not sounding so piqued. It's still difficult, particularly when the initial burst of righteous outrage fades, leaving her more clear headed and focused.

She smooths down her dress, smile losing some of it's strain. "I'm sorry," she continued, though she really wasn't. "It's been a bit of a trying afternoon. I'm afraid my manners aren't all they're supposed to be." Implication: neither are Steve's.

"Oh–! Goodness, I–"

Steve staggered, arms flailing a little in some unconscious pantomime of a car dealer's decor, missing much of the sharp disapproval beamed his way simply out of the need for his attention to things like balance and the space itself.

Once his toes no longer scraped at heels or elbows bumped passers-by, he managed to at least look at the victim of his absent-mindendess with concern and alarm. And as she readjusted her self, his mouth opened up.

"Oh, I am terribly sorry!" he exclaimed, and not a shred of insincerity came off from it. "I nearly toppled you over, miss! It's my lack of care entirel–"

Her apology came right over his, halting his own with a word half-spoken with some confusion.

"Ah?" He blinked. Then smiled, laughing a nervous laugh. "Oh, no! You have nothing to apologize for, I'm certain. The blame is all mine."

"Apology accepted," she said with a continuing smile. It was easier to slide back into a semblance of poise and control, breathing evenly and tamping down on the anger starting to rise as a response to fright and everything else coursing through her.

What right have they...! Has it, has the thing sitting as a voice with no body in the tower so close by.

"Though where the blame lies may be up for debate. May I have your name, Mister...?"

It isn't terribly hard to identify people that are new, particularly people who were dressed a little unusually or who looked a little lost.

By the time the evening had set in a bit more, Nelson was making his way home from work, taking the longer route out of recent, denial-laden habit. He's been smoking a bit more again (very old habits die hard in times of stress) and has a cigarette perched between his lips as he walks forward, staring down his path. But even if he'd been more distracted, she's not a hard person to notice; young-looking unaccompanied girl, dressed more nicely than what he considers normal for the area (or even the City), confused.

"You ought to be careful wandering around by yourself," he offers, a little hesitantly. He doesn't want to be too presumptuous.

She looks thirteen, sounds thirteen, appears to be all of thirteen through and through, and her quick step to the side and swirl of skirts as she turns to face Nelson doesn't make her look any older. Sharon schools herself into a smile, and with a dip of her chin to accompany a nod of her head, fixes her eyes upon the stranger's face.

"What makes you think that I am?" Her voice carries a question while her eyes seem more intent on evaluating, for just a moment. Then she blinks and lets something almost innocent slide over her features. Guileless -- yes, that'd be the word.

"Uh--" Something about her response catches him off-guard, though he can't place what about it in particular. Maybe that he doesn't see anyone nearby that he assumed could be with her. "I just assumed you were alone," he admits after a moment.

Nelson glances around then, to justify his assumption, before he looks at Sharon again. The usual shame of 'otherness' prevents him from asking immediately if she's new, because if she isn't he hardly wants to out himself as someone who doesn't belong there either.

"You're not lost, are you? Looking for anyone? Or... anywhere?"

It's the same otherness that has been mentioned in all the literature in her hand, the pamphlets still visible in one hand. She doesn't have the proper volume of skirt to hide them easily, though it turns this into an interesting question.

Sharon lets those pamphlets play out in her hand, bringing them up in a lazy, fanning wave. Admitting to strange men that she is all of the very things he asks after has a implied risk she needs to be sure there's a good reason to take.

"I've lost track of time," she admits, because that can be safe and innocent sounding enough. The dog tags from the Tower wind round her wrist, catching some of the light as she turns her wrist, flashing the titles of at least one or two of those pamphlets. She watches for any sign of recognition, versus one of a darker sort of emotion, or even a lack there-of. "There's simply so much to see, I don't know how anyone can stay on schedule. It's my first time," she admits lightly, "Being in this City."

The pamphlets and the dog tags clarify pretty much any remaining doubt that Nelson might have had, so he rubs the back of his neck a little self-consciously and nods his head.

"Right, I-- uh, I don't blame you. It must be very overwhelming," he says, a little slowly. He tries not to look at either the pamphlets or the dog tags for very long, but both do warrant a glance. "Just be careful, it can be dangerous around here at night. If you need help finding the MAC, I could walk you there." After another moment he puts his hands up. "Uh-- I should clarify that I'm not dangerous."

It's enough to warrant a small amused noise from Sharon, the reassurance that could, in most circumstances, not sound reassuring at all. She tucks the pamphlets partly away, using her arm and the fabric of her dress to prevent them from being easily read. Nothing more than slips of colored paper in her hand now, much as the communicator stays in her palm. The dog-tags are quick to follow. Deft fingers tuck them up into the security of her palm.

Sharon smiles up at her new acquaintance. "I feel absolutely reassured, mister..." She trails off, canting her head slightly to the side in expectation of a name being provided. "I should be glad to accept your generous offer." The warning, too. Though as far as she knew, this was a city of strangers. Wandering around with them would perhaps be a little bit inevitable.

"Oh-- Gardner. Nelson Gardner. Sorry," he says, a little apologetically. He's not very good around kids and it shows, but as a self-proclaimed hero he still believes their safety is worth protecting. He stands a little straighter, shoulders back as he debates if it's more chivalrous -- or not -- to offer his arm.

He does, a little hesitantly, because that's what good boys raised in the 10's and 20's were taught to do. "You seem to be handling it all right so far," he adds after another moment, encouragingly. "The shock'll wear off eventually. It usually seems to."

Offering his arm appears to be a right enough response. Outside of a glance underneath her eyelashes, Sharon doesn't seem to find it strange. "I only wish we had met under more pleasant circumstances, Mister Gardner. I am Lady Sharon Rainsworth."

A moment of consideration before she lifts her hand, accepting his arm. That it further conceals the literature she does have (should any of it truly be called literature)is only to the better. Sharon seems rather unconcerned at having called herself a lady, offering Nelson a polite enough smile that seems warmer than it had a moment before.

"Shock may be all that makes me seem calm," she says, offering a hint of humor even as she knows it's not entirely false. Things take too long to penetrate. She's been keyed up, dropped low, then left to key up again, but there's little she can do but walk forward. "Though it's difficult to imagine what hysterics would achieve in a situation like this."

It's a relief to him to note that their sensibilities seem to align somewhat, particularly considering Nelson's disdain toward the teenagers of today. Sharon's politeness communicates volumes to him, at least that it's worth the effort to make sure she gets to the MAC safely.

"Good to meet you, Ms. Rainsworth," he says amiably enough, likewise a bit more warmly than his initial tone. "Though I suppose were the circumstances more pleasant we'd probably all be where we belong right now. It may be our only opportunity."

Though he approached with her safety in mind, there's something about her manner that's comforting -- he's the kind of man that will always appreciate the familiar, old-fashioned that he is. "Not that you aren't right, of course. It does no good to lose your head, it's just unusual. Young people tend not to take well to the... er, you know. News. Better to try and stay rational."

He's correct, and she's more of a mind to be pleasant than to say some of the other things she's starting to think of this situation. "Then we should make the most of the opportunity, asked for or otherwise. I'm not inclined to begrudge pleasant company in an unfamiliar place."

Something she means, even if it could be taken as little more than ongoing pleasantry. There's more insight in what he says, considering how it is that children and young adults act when thrown in these circumstances. She may or may not choose to follow more closesly to those examples. Unlikely, considering her personality, but that in part depends on how much she needs to pass as her apparent age versus the ten years older she is in truth.

She keeps pace with Nelson, inclining her head toward him in a nod. "I'd hope many of those of greater age share a similar wisdom. Are there many around my own age here?" Brought here rather than born here. Scant time on the streets already showed faces of about the right ages, intermingled with men and women in their twenties, thirties, and greater.

"I like to think so. For all its inconveniences, there is some merit to the experience occasionally. It all depends." His smile grows slightly, though it's still a little wary or sad in it. Anyone else might adjust to this situation in no time, perfectly fine, but it seems like such a shame to him for a nice girl like her to have to experience it in the first place.

Oh well. Times are still changing, and some things are out of anyone's control.

"Yes, plenty. Though I can't say that most of them are as well-mannered as you are. Hopefully you won't find yourself lacking in polite company." Nelson's opinions on teenagers are perhaps transparent. "I don't mean to say they're all bad. It does take all types, you at least won't find yourself amongst punks and thugs."

Which was nice, if almost too bad. Punks and thugs had a way of running into useful information that polite society might not always find.

"Have you founds yourself in polite enough company, Mr. Gardner?" She lets curiosity show on her face. For the moment, she's more interested in what he has to say from his own experiences, and learning what she can from him, than theorizing on what people of her own seeming age-group will act like. It seems more and more likely that she'll be mingling out of a necessity of information and connections, regardless of how out of hand and improper that should be.

There is no Pandora here, and there is no Rainsworth Dukedom. It's better to concentrate on those details first, slotting in the rest of the does and does not haves later on.

He considers the question for a moment before he shakes his head.

"Only some of the time," he admits, lifting his eyebrows. "Some people are perfectly decent, and some are impolite enough I don't know how anyone tolerates it. In my day people were raised to be respectful. You know? Some of the people I work with have the most vulgar vocabularies you wouldn't know they were meant to be professionals, hearing them talk. With that in mind I can't completely blame any young folks who want to follow their example."

Shaking his head again, Nelson waves his hand a little dismissively and sighs. "Of course, I'm sure you'll be fine. There are plenty of good people around, you just need to keep your eyes open. Do you make friends easily?"

"I haven't much had the opportunity." Considering how she was generally kept out of society, her close companions and friends were largely internal to her household or to Pandora -- or being hid in one from the other. "I've always gotten on well with guests of the household."

She's reminded of just how much she'll need to start adapting how she thinks. She falls into quiet contemplation as they walk. It's ridiculous, the contrast between this moment and the ones from hours before. "I'll learn, one way or another." Another smile accompanies her words as she evaluates the most probable truth to follow. Being young? Ah, it comes with it's own sets of griefs to swallow. Explaining the discrepancy wouldn't do either.

"Well, at least you'll get the opportunity here. Or I recommend trying, it gets awfully lonely if you don't," Nelson says with the same uneasy smile as before, though he keeps his tone upbeat enough. She's young and doesn't need any discouragement yet.

"And if you need anything I'm happy to help. It's the least I can do," he adds as they draw nearer to the MAC. He doesn't live there anymore, but since he is escorting her it seems a bit too cold to just leave her to fend for herself from here. "Do you -- um... do you know anything about your abilities?"

She shakes her head, a polite denial, even as her mind circles around that feeling niggling at the back of her skull. She's almost certain if she calls Eques, he'll be there -- interesting, since that hadn't been the case for some time prior. "No," she says in complete honesty, as far as other-than-human abilities went, "I haven't the faintest idea. Unless a love and appreciation for fashion counts as something more than human." It's a light jest, and another truth: Eques' abilities were his own, not hers. She's unlikely to forget that lesson anytime soon.

"Do people find they know, one way or another? I don't understand precisely what's supposed to have gone on." Her attention shifts back to his face from where it's drifted, watching the people and marking landmarks on the streets. "Did it take you long to discover your own?"

He nods slowly, glad he doesn't have to explain the power situation to begin with. He's been here for months and it still doesn't make sense to him, but he's nothing if not steadfast.

"It's different for everyone," he says after a moment, looking forward rather than at her. "Some people know right away, and some find out on accident. Or... trial and error. People don't have such things where I'm from, so I can't say I knew where to start."

People excluding one person, that was, but he doesn't see the need to get into it. He gestures forward with his arm, pointing down the street.

"That's the building you'll want, by the way. Right there."

There's no disguising the look that flicks across Sharon's face. TO say she's unimpressed is not so much an understatement as it is a lack of proper description. Is it possible to be both overwhelmed and unimpressed at once? She feels it must be so, as that's the only easy to explain joining of emotions she can feel for the moment.

"Oh. It's... very different than anything I was expecting," she allows. Very different indeed. "Thank you for escorting me this far, Mister Gardner. It seems my adventure in this place is about to begin in earnest."

She doesn't entirely manage to hide her misgivings. "Are vermin much of a problem in this area?"

Nelson smiles a little apologetically and pats her arm before he lets it go. He can imagine how she feels, as he felt quite the same when he first got here. While the building is hardly dilapidated, it's a far cry from anything someone of means might be used to. He wouldn't even define it as "middle-class."

"It was no trouble. Just stay safe, there's a lot of people going in and out of there," he says after a hesitation, speaking a little slowly. He shakes his head, at least. "No vermin indoors, though you'll want to be careful outside. New York isn't the cleanest city out there, so the City isn't much improved either. The rooms themselves are fairly ordinary."

New York. That explains a better name in some world for this City; "The City" is too drab and thoughtless to be a proper name for much of anything.

She takes a step forward and to the side, giving Nelson a shallow nod of her head and the hint of a curtsey. "Caution in all things. I thank you for your warnings, and your accompaniment to this new..." she deliberates over what word will suffice, "Establishment."

If it was a more whimsical word to use for a place of residence, it might have something to do with how unused to living in such conditions she was. Is. Adaptation will be -- difficult. (Until she runs into Gilbert, but that is neither here nor there.)

"Good evening, Mister Gardner. I shall hope this will not be our first and last meeting."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( open ) will tomorrow be better when yesterday things got worse?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

late i'm sorry!!

no such thing as late!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject