[ it takes a moment, but soon she answers. wasn't asleep, but from the sound of her voice makes it sound like she was distracted with something. as usual. ]
RUKA, ARE YOU GETTING THIS MESSAGE? MY COMM SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO ACCESS THE NETWORK THIS TIME AROUND, BUT I CAN'T BE SURE. IN ANY CASE GET BACK TO ME ASAP WITH YOUR STATUS. ARE YOU ALRIGHT??? WHERE ARE YOU?
ALRIGHT SO YOU KNOW HOW WE AGREED WE WERE BOTH GOING TO MAKE IT OUT OF THIS ALIVE AND HOW I AGREED NOT TO GET MYSELF ELECTROCUTED ANYMORE AND THERE WAS A GENERAL CONSENSUS THAT DYING WAS NOT GOING TO BE A THING THAT HAPPENED WELL I BASICALLY FUCKED ALL OF THOSE THINGS OVER IN ONE FELL, IDIOT SWOOP. SORRY.
9pm on thursday; what do you mean she's supposed to reply to this
[ she'd put on a brave face during sorting and organization at the library—going through all that history, all that death. but once they'd gotten back to the compound, she'd gone straight to her assigned room and flopped face-first into the mattress with a shaking tremble in her shoulders and an inability to breathe. she'd gotten up only twice: once to dial up the volume of the television, hiding what noise she would make to the upbeat drone of international politics, and once when dinner was delivered to her room at 7pm. she'd feigned sleep through the service's arrival and departure, but ten minutes after she played into awakening, eating, and going back to "sleep."
she wondered how much detail the cameras caught of her. was the resolution high enough to get the shivers that went down her spine every few minutes? was where her hands clutched at the sheets cropped out of frame, or was that captured with clarity? were there microphones, and could they pick up the way her breathing rose in swells, and collapsed like a tower of brittle twigs on a windy day.
they died. every last one of them died.
so when her heart settles back into its half-dug grave, when she's sure she's inhaling more fiber than air, when the sun has long since set out in the world, it is only then that she checks her communicator, as she has done these last few nights.
she'd felt its near-silent vibration, when the message first came; the light of the screen burns her eye. so late, it makes her vision blur, and it takes her a while to read it.
[ A letter, delivered by Wiseman himself, swoops into Ruka's window sometime in the evening. It's on fine, expensive cardstock, with a formal invitation to the Iceberg Lounge, on the night of the 16th.
Included is a small New York State ID, with a picture of Ruka, the details expertly handled to the point that she looks like it's just makeup that makes her look so young.
Very expertly, and perfectly detailed.
The letter contains a note, written in a perfectly neutral scrawl. Obviously not his normal handwriting. ]
[ ............... Well, she recognizes the visitor easy enough, but the letter and the... everything certainly take her by surprise. She hadn't given the party much thought, at the time it was announced or any time thereafter, but...
If he went to the trouble of all this effort...
The letter the owl returns with is a more expensive sort of paper—though not near the quality of Ozzie's, what with her being an art student and not a business mogul swimming in enough money to put Scrooge McDuck to shame—and a finer script, gratefully accepting the invitation.
But seriously what]
voicemail; sometime in the evening, backdated to the second week of november
[ Well, here's a voice she probably didn't expect to hear in her inbox. ]
... Hey, Ruka. It's Bradbury. [ As if that dopey drawl could belong to anyone else. ] You've got a pretty good memory, right? And you've been here a long time. Longer than anyone else.
I could use a little help figuring something out. Call me back if you're interested.
Edited 2013-11-23 07:55 (UTC)
probably half an hour or so later, after staring befuddled at that missed call alert
[ it's a medium sized, neatly wrapped box full of high quality art supplies. unlike the others, ruka gets no attached card, only a ♋ symbol scrawled on top of the wrapping paper, to indicate who the gift came from. ]
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youre goin to be blindinly pissed at me here in a second just lettin you knoww
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what did you do/are you going to do?
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unknown number;
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the sixteenth | probably some ungodly hour of the night because nocturnal
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Yeah?
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last edit i promise omg
haha in the exact middle of this four-notif crab sandwich i have a shark tag so it's a seafood blend
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CALL
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text | 15th of april
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Call; about a day and a half after you know what
4/12-ish
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may 25th | text | like 6am
CAN I ASK A FAVOR OF YOU, WHEN I GET BACK?
to the surprise of no one, she's still a-fucking-wake
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tuesday night; private comm message; slowly takes over your ic inbox
MY COMM SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO ACCESS THE NETWORK THIS TIME AROUND, BUT I CAN'T BE SURE.
IN ANY CASE GET BACK TO ME ASAP WITH YOUR STATUS.
ARE YOU ALRIGHT??? WHERE ARE YOU?
WHAT IS INEVITABLY SEVERAL HOURS LATER
he totally spent all those hours in the shower waiting for a reply
loser
what else was he supposed to do
not be a loser
impossible
true
see
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A DAY LATER BECAUSE WHAT IS CHECKING COMMS IN HELLHOLE DYSTOPIA DIMENSION
she doesn't have this contact saved ]
?
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5pm on thursday; private comm message
YOU KNOW HOW WE AGREED WE WERE BOTH GOING TO MAKE IT OUT OF THIS ALIVE
AND HOW I AGREED NOT TO GET MYSELF ELECTROCUTED ANYMORE
AND THERE WAS A GENERAL CONSENSUS THAT DYING WAS NOT GOING TO BE A THING THAT HAPPENED
WELL
I BASICALLY FUCKED ALL OF THOSE THINGS OVER IN ONE FELL, IDIOT SWOOP.
SORRY.
9pm on thursday; what do you mean she's supposed to reply to this
she wondered how much detail the cameras caught of her. was the resolution high enough to get the shivers that went down her spine every few minutes? was where her hands clutched at the sheets cropped out of frame, or was that captured with clarity? were there microphones, and could they pick up the way her breathing rose in swells, and collapsed like a tower of brittle twigs on a windy day.
they died. every last one of them died.
so when her heart settles back into its half-dug grave, when she's sure she's inhaling more fiber than air, when the sun has long since set out in the world, it is only then that she checks her communicator, as she has done these last few nights.
she'd felt its near-silent vibration, when the message first came; the light of the screen burns her eye. so late, it makes her vision blur, and it takes her a while to read it.
to understand. ]
11pm on thursday; god ruka stop making totally reasonable and logical assumptions
never
rude 1/?
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Re: never
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Re: never
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FRIDAY NIGHT
almost replied with my personal
that would have been pretty funny
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...
A LETTER
Included is a small New York State ID, with a picture of Ruka, the details expertly handled to the point that she looks like it's just makeup that makes her look so young.
Very expertly, and perfectly detailed.
The letter contains a note, written in a perfectly neutral scrawl. Obviously not his normal handwriting. ]
In return for Wiseman.
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If he went to the trouble of all this effort...
The letter the owl returns with is a more expensive sort of paper—though not near the quality of Ozzie's, what with her being an art student and not a business mogul swimming in enough money to put Scrooge McDuck to shame—and a finer script, gratefully accepting the invitation.
But seriously what ]
voicemail; sometime in the evening, backdated to the second week of november
... Hey, Ruka. It's Bradbury. [ As if that dopey drawl could belong to anyone else. ] You've got a pretty good memory, right? And you've been here a long time. Longer than anyone else.
I could use a little help figuring something out. Call me back if you're interested.
probably half an hour or so later, after staring befuddled at that missed call alert
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tedious tags: when ic and ooc knowledge don't match up; the life the saga the musical comedy
you are the hero the city deserves
nobody deserves this hero
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thing dumped outside her room | 25th of december
1/6, evening
How's your apocalypse thing goin' so far?
[ ruka gets a phone call! eridan's tone is shaky at best, despite the attempt at bravado, but whatever, she's seen him worse. ]
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Better. Knowing for sure you're not at the bottom of the ocean, I mean.
[ predictably, she also sounds like crap looks after a week in alternating sun and frost. ]
My house is tagged, but there's still a roof. The guys are fine as can be.
Getting hammered sounds like a better plan than mine.
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Message: (a long and overwrought poem comparing her hair to the ocean)