#﹙ 💊 ﹚ 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗌 ⸻ colloquy.

[ofcandy]

AS  AN  INTROVERT,  THE  WOMAN  often  needs  moments  of  solitude  to  recharge;  to  squeeze  the  onslaught  of  emotions  from  the  sponge  that  was  her  heart  so  as  not  to  break  under  the  weight  of  them.  it's  why  she's  sneaking  outside,  though  that  isn't  what  she'd  call  it.  in  order  to  sneak,  one  would  need  to  be  missed,  but  candy  has  always  gotten  lost  in  a  crowd.  no  matter  how  big  or  small.  lids  flutter  shut  for  a  moment  under  the  light  of  the  moon,  attention  focused  on  the  drum  in  her  chest  as  she  practises  her  breathing.  the  exercise  isn't  much,  one  picked  up  from  a  therapist  she'd  seen  for  a  brief  stint  during  her  second  year  of  university,  but  it  does  the  job  ------  until  she  hears  the  shuffle  &  eyes  suddenly  go  wide.  a  momentary  lapse,  and  candy's  worried  she's  ill  prepared  for  yet  another  attack.  her  first  instinct  is  to  shrink,  protect  her  head,  but  recognition  occurs  before  her  body  has  time  to  move.  laughter  soon  flows,  following  his  apology.  it's  melodic  and  strong,  a  skill  she's  mastered  to  keep  up  appearances.  ❝  no  apology  needed,  ❞  the  gentle  wave  of  a  hand.  ❝  don't  think  i've  ever  been  on  the  receiving  end  of  that,  though.  normally  i'm  the  one  doin'  the  scarin'.  ❞ gaze  then  shifts  skyward,  allowing  a  hint  of  silence  to  exist  around  them.  it's  nice,  she  thinks,  having  reminders  (  no  matter  how  small  or  brief  )  that  beauty  still  exists  in  the  world  that's  gone  to  hell.  as  dumb  as  it  may  sound,  it  gives  her  hope.  soon,  a  finger  is  brought  to  her  lips,  ❝  now  shush  before  you  jinx  us.  ❞  candy's  learned  to  live  under  the  assumption  anything  is  possible.  furrowed  brows  when  her  attention  shifts  back  to  the  other.  ❝  but  i'd  like  to  think  the  moon  would  have  mercy  on  us  and  just  make  them  look  like  werewolves.  i  feel  like  that'd  be  easier  to  handle.  ❞  a  beat.  ❝  wait.  just  for  science  purposes  and  whatever..  what  would  you  say  is  the  best  way  to  protect  someone  from  an  undead  werewolf?  because  they  would  still  be  undead,  right?  ❞

open event starter! location: outside of the bloater

  NIGHTFALL RESTS UPON his features amongst the dwindling twilight, and behind the doors of The Bloater the music thumps against walls and bodies alike. Reuven is slipping forefinger over the smooth edge of his wedding band, now hung around his neck beside black dog tags, in an absentminded gesture of self-soothing. Introverted nature births abnormalities in social functioning like this; he chooses to linger outside after making his appearance, providing congratulations and watching the party rather than being in it. Now is the purgatorio, between event and solitude, where man stays in orbit of this celebration but only at arms-length. The crickets chirp all around, and if he closed his eyes he might be able to imagine a life some eons ago, of laughing with buddies outside a bar and cutting out early to go back to his kids, where he felt much more comfortable and entertained.

 No. That is all lost now; eroded and opaqued with the reality that there are no children to go back to now. No wife. No pup. No three-story home full of baby bottles and cartoons. His chest aches with a pain he cannot rub numb—incessant, dulled by time but demanding all the same. He inhales long and slow, and none of the happiness shared amongst the group inside can reach his own features. Moonlight drapes his strong profile, and he tips his head back to gaze up at the moon, and wonder if laboring over wild strawberries for the past few weeks had really healed him like he'd been trying so hard to make reality. Whether this carbine strapped across his back was really the safety assurance he'd convinced himself it was, or if he had more to look out for now. To look inward for now.

 Fingers had tugged the chain forward from his neck in their fidgety pursuit. Someone stepped out of the front doors, and he listened to their breathing rather than looking over. A silence befell them, and then he shuffled, and the other jumped suddenly, startled. Reuven had a habit of existing so silently he faded into the backdrop—likely an attribute retained from his service as a SEAL. "Sorry," he immediately apologized, then cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to scare you." A pause. Then a gesture up, at the moon. "Full moon... Wonder if the dead will turn into werewolves tonight." It was spoken with complete seriousness, with only the tiniest lifting of lips over canine to offer its playfulness.

[ofcandy]

DESPITE  THE  TIME  THAT'S  PASSED  since  the  invasion,  the  event  still  has  candy  shaken------nick's  violent  rage  always  a  mirror  to  that  of  her  father's------though  she's  made  a  vow  to  herself  upon  leaving  her  dorm  room:  no  more  thinking  about  it.  no  more  thinking  about  anything,  except  celebrating  the  man  she'd  grown  to  view  as  a  grandpa  during  her  time  at  uec  pre-outbreak;  a  joke  shared  between  the  two.  bracing  herself  with  a  deep  breath,  she's  pleasantly  surprised  when  she  enters  the  bloater.  the  mood  within  the  bar  is  infectious  and  it  warms  her,  a  smile  blooming  atop  her  rosy  lips  (  she's  painted  them  for  the  special  occasion  ),  growing  all  the  wider  when  the  man  of  the  hour  finally  arrives.  there's  a  sudden  wave  of  melancholy  &  the  woman  has  to  peel  her  gaze  away  from  the  crowd  around  him,  happening  just  in  time  to  catch  the  beer  that's  been  sent  her  way.  cheeks  glow  a  soft  pink  when  the  pharmacist  realises  where  she's  been  taking  up  space,  ❝  oh.  oh,  no.  ❞  the  can  is  passed  back  on  the  chance  he  was  offering  her  his  own.  ❝  thank  you,  hun,  ❞  the  texan  draw  still  present,  albeit  watered  down  after  all  these  years,  ❝  i'm  good.  ❞  in  truth,  candy  refuses  to  touch  alcohol.  she  knows  what  it  can  do  to  people.  leaning  closer  to  the  other,  a  grin  is  flashed,  ❝  well,  actually..  i  wouldn't  say  no  if  you  were  willin'  to  help  a  lady  procure  some  juice.  ❞

FILED AS : open to all.

LOCATION : the bloater, omar’s 60th !

working on the supports and housing for the bloater’s sound system ahead of omar’s birthday celebration had been eerily reminiscent of his time spent building nativity scene sets in his youth. the familiarity of the task had rendered him quieter than usual — a change enough from his usual fare to warrant queries from his work mates from the maintenance building. now that a sense of celebration had descended upon the sanctuary, ushered into the bloater with the guest of honour’s arrival, he was determined to recover his former easy joviality — even if it were but thinly glazed over the weariness that had consumed him since the infiltration. “ here, ” rex slides a just opened beer down the bartop towards a fellow soldier in the battle of waiting for one the bartenders to notice them amongst the sanctuary’s entire population , elbows still perched on the bar’s wood. “ take that one. or you’ll be waiting ‘til your sixtieth birthday. ”