Who: Misty, you
What: Returning from her field trip, freshly mostly-reassured the barge is real, to a little fall of snow
When: December 9th, and presumably something of a catch-all for the first half of the month
Where: All over, babey
Warnings: Potential risk for standard Misty tws - reference to borderline dissociative stuff, hell stuff, suicide(/al ideation) - but just as likely nothing


It's been a very busy trip. Unexciting as it is, once she reappears in her cabin she simply collapses onto the nearest couch and sleeps. Difficult without ambient dog breathing - Ambrose has been left with Randel and co - but she manages. Upon waking she inspects her cabin and spies a file, which seems more important than a meal, and the better part of the day is spent on that. There is no outgoing message via communicator to announce her arrival, no visitation, not one step taken past the threshold into the hallway beyond her cabin. So preoccupied with reexamining her things, trying to get her bearings, she puts off checking the network until it's entirely forgotten.

So when she finally emerges, the snow (and mistletoe) are quite a surprise.

The illusion takes hold quickly; the first people she passes silently in the hall likely aren't even aware of it, something she files away as conservation of social energies or reluctance to tempt the mistletoe. Two hours later she's shoving a fresh bout of paranoia behind her and has more or less pieced the goings-on together. After some consideration she decides it's not half bad. It will end when it ends, and until then there's something peaceful about being an unseen observer.

It isn't quite 'watch your own funeral', she figures. It isn't especially focused on herself. More...nature documentary. There's nothing to look for, but reason enough to expect she won't have the opportunity again anytime soon. The entirety of one invisible afternoon is spent seated on the deck railing contributing even further to the snowfall, face turned skyward, on the verge of tears. While greater pleasure is taken in acting the part of ghost, on a lively hour one may benefit from helpful (a door opened, something precarious steadied, a radio adjusted to something objectively superior) or unhelpful (windows opened to allow in harsh drafts and further snow, objects rearranging themselves or in rare potential cases breaking entirely) ghosting.

And then it's back to business. Mistletoe trappings, visits, announcements. To say her spirits are high might be too optimistic, but she moves with more focus than has been typical as of late. Something solid behind her eyes. The snow receives transparent wonder when she isn't trying to safeguard the greenhouse from it - snowflakes are caught on tongue, the rogue snowball may be thrown if you're on appropriately friendly terms, a few extra laps are made of the ship per day in less warm clothing than might be recommended. Whatever gifts she hadn't already sorted need tending.

It's a fine time. She feels...fine.