#bri * ain't ever got no class cher

[champagneprobllems]

@criticalfai1ure * max

She knows something wasn't right the moment she steps into the barn. The door wasn't latched right, for one, and the door of the empty stall at the end that they used for storage was ajar. She checks on the animals first; the cows couldn't care less about the disruption, but the goats had a lot to say about it, braying at her as soon as she opened their stalls. The horses near the storage stall are unusually skittish, and Bri takes several precious moments calming them.

Finally sure the animals are unharmed, she draws one of her pistols, quietly loads it, and then pushes the last stall door open with the barrel. Lying there on the floor is an unfamiliar man, dressed like an astronaut.

She draws the hammer back, gun pointed squarely at the man. “Why are you in my barn.”

[champagneprobllems]

She doesn’t understand why Granddaddy always insisted she be the one to go into town in search of short-term help. Grandmama was right there, and she actually enjoyed going into town during the day, even if it took three hours to find someone because she got talking with her friends. Hell, Mama was right there, too, and she was much better at talking to people. But no, Granddaddy insisted it be Bri, saying she “needed to learn to talk to people.”

“I dunno what the problem is with waiting for people to talk to me,” Bri grumbles to Alphé as they approach the only tavern in town worth visiting. There’s a nicer place on the other end of town, near the main road, but she won’t find anyone willing to do farm work there. “They do it plenty when I’m playing. Hell, it’s how I met Mary and Bill,” she continues, pushing into the tavern. To the barkeep, “Hiya, Bill.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” the man greets, gruffness melting. “When you gonna play for us again?”

“You know the rules, not during harvest season.” She comes up to the bar, leans against it so she can lower her voice. “And we’re short hands. Haven’t heard of anyone looking for work this season, have you?”

“’Fraid not,” Bill answers, and laughs when she wrinkles her nose. “I’ll keep an ear out for you. Come on, sit down for a bit, you ain’t in no rush yet. The missus has some of those berries you like left over, if you want me to throw ‘em in some seltzer for you?”

“You’re the best,” she says solemnly, sitting on a stool. “Honest.”

The barkeep chuckles as he turns to the kitchen. “Don’t think you know how to lie, Bri.”

“Not really,” she agrees, pulling Alphé out of the inner pocket of her coat and setting him on her knee. “I’ve never been good at it.”

open -- main verse

ITS A SMALL town, but he's sure there's employment to be found: protection detail, cargo, off the record transportation. hell, even farm work would be more work than he's got now. one benefit of being as off the grid as he was -- he has skills & a lot of them. all he needs is some work, which means money, which means he'll be back in the skies in no time.

he just has to do the hard part: finding said work.

he stops in a local tavern -- your typical seedy yet cozy joint -- & finds a seat at the bar. he doesn't plan on doing much drinking ( not only is he broke, he doesn't like what they're serving ) but listening? that he can do, & do it well. his daemon, a tawny arctic hare named hester, hops up onto the bar beside him, anxious golden eyes darting around as if she expects an ambush.

" relax, ol' gal. you're actin' like someone's gonna shoot us. "

" given our luck lately, its not out of the question, " says the hare, " you need to be more careful. "

" & i reckon you need to be less. "

[champagneprobllems]

Bri : full-names people she's not Close with

Also Bri : refuses to respond to anything other than 'Bri'. No Britt, no Brittany, god help you if you call her Brittany Alyssa and you ain't blood.

[champagneprobllems]

oh sunshine and bri are friends, aren't they. Idk if they've ever met in person, but since they're both acoustic enthusiasts, revolvers specifically, and sunny makes her own gunpowder.... she prob got the recipe from bri tbh, and they help each other source ingredients.

[champagneprobllems]

I think bri was the town cryptid for a while. She didn't want to join the school band bc it required too much extra time, so no one in town knew she was an ace with the trumpet. When she'd disappear into the badlands to play sometimes, people decided the otherworldly wailing was ghosts. Was just Bri, playing jazz alone.

[champagneprobllems]

The Morrow family farm is on the outskirts of the outskirts; they're a good distance from the town, even by car. Seasonal hires are given lodging on the farm, and in the off season the hired housing is rented (usually at obscene prices) to tourists. They're one of the few still-working farms in the area, and so tend to run on credit and exchange in town. They keep both crops and livestock, though not very much of either—enough to get them through the year, and a little extra to sell or trade.

[champagneprobllems]

What form would your daemon take?

Eulipotyphla

Your daemon would take the form of an eulipotyphla! Those who have shrew daemons are shy and habitual people who aren’t too interested in socialization. They like their creature comforts and tend to form isolated, independent projects, as well as deep inner worlds that others very rarely see. From the elephant shrew to hedgehog to star-nosed mole, proceed to the subquiz to find out what eulipotyphla form your daemon will take!

Moonrat

Your daemon would take the form of a moonrat! You are an adamant and private individual who has no issue asserting yourself. More so than others with eulipotyphla daemons, those with moonrats are intensely private and determined to keep it that way; their first impression is often cold or bristly. They are ambitious people who have strong boundaries and don't appreciate sharing their inner thoughts or feelings.

[champagneprobllems]

bri, like any good holliday, with a brace of pistols slung low on her hips

[champagneprobllems]

It’s classified. Oh, she’s learned to hate those words. Her scowl only deepens, but she does finally decock her revolver in a smooth, practiced move. No good shooting government, after all. Tends to bring more badges in than it’s worth. “Fine, it’s classified. I don’t want more of your people here, though. When Granddaddy has breakfast, I’ll drive you into town so you can tell them to pick you up there.”

Irritated as she is, she’s not going to ask him to walk the twenty miles to town, especially if… whatever happened has left him winded enough that he can’t even stand yet. She turns to leave—always chores to be done on a farm, after all—but hesitates at the door. “D’you… need water, or something?”

❝ oklahoma? ❞ he sidesteps her questions in favour of acknowledging the confirmation that, yeah, he has made it back to earth. that's at least one of his questions answered. and then, ❝ like i said... an accident or, well, nothing done on my part to facilitate the landing bit. ❞ his tone remains even, slow, but he has to open his eyes again to keep himself from a sudden burst of panic that flares in his chest. how did he end up here?

if he was standing, he'd shrug — facade contradicting the way his heart races beneath the surface. ❝ sounds like you don't believe me, which makes me doubt the whole truth of it all won't just end with one of those bullets lodged right up here, ❞ max struggles to push himself into a sitting position, pointing at his forehead. ❝ how 'bout, ❞ another puff of a breath, ❝ we settle for 'it's classified' and go from there. ❞

[champagneprobllems]

Bri frowns. People didn’t usually react so… cavalier when she has a gun pointed at them. Of course she knows enough Spanish to understand lo siento, but nothing else he said made sense. It’s obvious he’s not a current threat, so she lowers her gun, but doesn’t decock it.

“How do you ‘land here on accident’?” she asks, somewhere between a question and demand. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Our nearest neighbor is five miles away, the town is twenty. City’s another hundred after that. Y’didn’t leave tracks. I don’t like it.” She tips her head, frown deepening. “And your accent’s British. What’re you doing in Oklahoma?”

he's lying on his back, eyes closed despite the way his brain insists on reliving the last half-a-dozen hours he can remember. max's head is swimming and he draws another breath in, slowly, careful not to start hyperventilating the way he had when he'd first thrown his helmet off.

his memories, at least, are doing their part to drown out the sounds of the animals surrounding him, lending him some weird sense of peace despite the chaos of the bleating.

an eye cracks open at the sound of her voice, glancing over the gun aimed at him with little regard — if she wanted to shoot him... well, he doesn't have the air to put up much a fight. ❝ lo siento, ❞ he says in barely a whisper, eye falling closed again. ❝ didn't mean to disturb you 'r your animals. sorta landed here on accident... ❞ he pauses to breathe, ❝ can be on my way 's soon as i, eh, catch my breath. ❞ another pause, shorter this time, ❝ if you'll let me? ❞