Encounterlogs
Peytons Odd Encounter Sr Zoe 240623
In the opulent mansion by the forest, Peyton is roused from the comfort of her chic, pastel-toned bedroom by the sounds of a search party outside, calling for a lost girl named Becky. The peace of her morning is shattered further by the ringing of the doorbell, revealing Anita Blake and a cohort of search and rescue personnel, including HSD deputies and civilians, all desperate to find Anita's missing daughter. Anita, clutching her phone, shows Peyton a photo of Becky, a blonde teenager, imploring her if she has seen the girl. With a mixture of concern and determination, Peyton, adorned in a crop top, tennis skirt, and blocky heels, agrees to help search her vast property. Venturing through her mansion and calling out for Becky, Peyton's morning transforms from one of luxury and solitude to an unexpected mission of urgency and empathy.
Meanwhile, in the small town of Haven, Rachel experiences a different kind of interruption at her Pigment and Paper Studio. The usual slow day, filled with the odors of paint and coffee, is suddenly pierced by the entrance of a frantic man, distraught over bizarre behavior he's observed outside. Pushing past the mundane expectations of another customer, Rachel finds herself appointee to address the man's fears of drug-induced chaos. Armed only with her concern and lacking a functioning phone, she decides to investigate, suggesting the man stay behind for safety. What she discovers outside her storefront is a collection of individuals acting strangely, marking a departure from the day-to-day monotony and perhaps hinting at something more sinister at play in Haven. Peyton and Rachel, each in their own settings, face unexpected challenges that draw them out of their comfort zones and into the unpredictable and often unsettling world beyond their doors.
(Peyton's odd encounter(SRZoe):SRZoe)
[Sat Jun 22 2024]
In a chic studio-style bedroom
The walls are painted in soft pastel hues of blush pink and light lavender, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The floor is covered in a plush, white faux fur rug that feels incredibly soft underfoot. The windows are framed by floor-to-ceiling, luxurious cream-colored curtains that can be drawn to block out the light and provide privacy. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing a glamorous focal point and soft, ambient lighting. Above the bed, a statement neon sign in vibrant pink reads "Glow On," adding a touch of personality and flair. The room features a canopy bed adorned with fairy lights, a vanity illuminated by a Hollywood-style mirror and surrounded by high-end cosmetics and beauty products, and a streamlined workspace equipped with essential office supplies and stylish decor. The room also includes a generous walk-in closet, and a comfortable living area with a sectional sofa and flat-screen TV.
It is morning, about 82F(27C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(Your target's been contacted to help find a civilian who's become lost in the woods.
)
As the clock ticks past 8 AM, the early summer morning begins to breathe life into the mansion nestled at the outskirts of the forest. Gentle beams of sunlight filter through the canopy of trees outside, casting a dappled glow onto the bedroom floor. The plush, white faux fur rug sprawled across the floor appears even softer in the early morning light, inviting bare feet to sink into its luxurious fibers. The curtains flutter ever so slightly with the morning breeze, drawn just enough to allow the soft glow of the morning sun to seep into the room, casting an ethereal light across the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It's a serene morning, peace and tranquility spread all around inside and outside both: the chirping of birds, the neighing of horses from the stables, the occasional sound of other wildlife, a stray, wild cat meowing, and the loud shouting of people calling out a name, somewhere outside.
Well, that last one isn't supposed to be there. But now that Peyton's noticed it, it's hard to not pay attention. There's a number of voices, both masculine and feminine, calling loudly for a 'Becky!' out there. Becky, presumably, doesn't see fit to answer them. It would be hard to fall back asleep if Peyton was planning on sleeping in any further this Saturday morning, especially when there's a loud DING DONG of the doorbell only a few moments after.
Peyton sits at her brightly lit vanity table, finishing up her morning round of makeup and primping. She lifts her chin at the first hint of a sound, and then sighs at the doorbell. Moving to her walk in closet and her shoe racks she selects the Kate Spade Mary Jane's and marches down to the front door to check who it it is. Reaching the front door she pauses a moment before tentatively cracking it up, bright smile already fixed in place.
It's a search and rescue team in full force out there - or as full a force as you can ever get out of the Haven populace. A few HSD deputies with a couple tracking dogs, almost out of sight behind the treeline, and half a dozen civilians, all out to look for little lost Becky. The person who stands in front of Peyton, however - persumably the one who rang the doorbell - is a middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair, who flashes Peyton an uneasy smile when the door is finally opened, blinking dazedly as though she hadn't expected to be treated to Peyton's model-smile in full force. There's more important things to consider at the moment though, unfortunately.
"Hello ma'am, I'm Anita Blake. I, um, I'm wondering if you may have seen my daughter out here? She's blonde, yay high-" She holds up her hand to indicate how high, which may be anywhere between four and six feet. It's hard to tell. "And she may have come out here last night? That's what her friends told us anyway, but she hasn't been back home and we're really worried." She's rambling a little, but surely a concerned mother can be given a ramble pass this once. Peyton isn't given any time to reply though, before the woman's bringing out her phone to show her a picture of the girl: she's definitely blonde and yay high, and apparently a teenager who looks like she's likely in her high school years. "Here, does she look familiar?" There's a very hopeful look turned Peyton's way. Maybe she's harboring a lost teenager somewhere in that giant mansion?
Peyton blinks her big dark eyes slowly as the woman rambles to her, taking it all in with careful and sympathetic attentiveness. Her face falls slightly as she prepares to disappoint Anita, frowning with pain, wincing a little as she shakes her head gently. "No, I have not seen her." She says ina warm southern accent. She glances past the woman to view the full force of the search party, and down at herself in a crop top and tennis skirt and blocky heels, then shrugs as she reaches for a jacket. "I can help search the grounds, maybe she's in the gardens or the stables..." She speculates...?
"Oh..." The disappointment coming off the woman is very palpable indeed, especially when she's all but spewing her desire to find her daughter out for anyone who's the least bit empathic, but there's a silver lining to every dark cloud, and she's not about to let Peyton's helpfulness slip away without taking advantage of it. She earns herself an emphatic few nods of the head at that offer, and there's that hopeful gaze turned her way yet again. "Thank you so much. We weren't able to get access to private property earlier, but if you can take a look and see if you can find her, I'd appreciate that so much!" She's all optimistic now, but unsure if she should be following Peyton in.
There's a glance back at the assortment of people all calling out "Becky!" near and far behind her, and Anita tells Peyton, taking a step back to rejoin them at a central point near the driveway, "I'm going to stay here to be in reach in case anyone else finds something, but please do your best. I'm very worried..."
Peyton nods her head a few times, still a bit sort of like, this is the morning and I am tired, but she seems determined to be a helpful and friendly member of society. "I'll check back in after I check over the property then." She says, nodding an smiling awkwardly as she closes the door. She takes a minute to walk through the central hall of the house, calling out a few, "Becky!"s, as unlikely as it is she broke in past all the security, down the stairs once as well, before heading for the back door and the fields, gardens, and natural swimming pool and stable therein.
(A recent surge in supernatural activity has led to an increase in victims suffering from memory loss, hallucinations, and other psychological trauma. Your target is tasked with investigating the cause and finding a solution before the situation spirals out of control.)
It's midday in Haven and warm. The usual suspects roam the streets and occasional cars pass by. Standard small town traffic. The news has been quiet aside from a few social events recently, one of which Rachel herself attended, and some buzz regarding sightings of scaled animals that have so far turned out to be unverified nonsense. Thus far today; a slow day overall, and an even slower day for Rachel here in the Pigment and Paper Studio.
The air is thick with the smell of paints in various stages of the drying process from a small try-before-you-by display, pleasant caramel of fresh coffee grounds brewing behind the drinks bar, and the balmy summer laden with hayfever-inducing pollen. Not very many customers have been by; only a few here and there seeking to buy a few materials for paintings most of them will likely never complete, cheap reproductions of famous canvases to brighten their walls, and coffee brewed by our resident barista(s). Faintly, the sound of top 40s chart music wafts in the open front door from a car parked nearby filled with college-aged youths enjoying the sun with starbucks in-hand, singing along and laughing loudly enough to annoy most passers-by.
For a long while, no one enters, and Rachel is left alone with her thoughts, whatever they may be. Turmoil surrounding relationships? Old lovers and teachers? Societies and sect struggles? - not uncommon for the denizens of Haven unlucky enough to find themselves involved in the supernatural.
A fly buzzes about the caf for a short while, taking an interest in the light fittings and then the coffee machine, bumping fruitlessly against glass bulb and chromed metal fittings respectively. It's company atleast, in a strange way. SOMETHING to break up the monotony of stacking shelves, preparing coffee grounds and supplies for the next shift's workers, warming pastries and whatever else it takes to keep a place like this running. It might amuse a passer by to imagine it examining the artwork it skitters past occasionally, making its own buzzing commentary regarding colour compositions and facture of the pieces; analysing the emotional content of the images and underlying themes that might have informed the vision and hand of the artist responsible.
That boring..
Eventually, however, something does occur. A shuffling outside as several people move by at pace beyond the waterstain streaked windows, chattering animatedly amongst themselves. The music of the youths cuts along with the peals of their reprehensibly high pitched laughter, suddenly finding whatever happens beyond to be far more interesting than Taylor Swift's latest offerings, no matter how astonishing the backstory behind this song in particular might be (a topic that the students have loudly discussed at length the last time the song played through the location).
"What the fuck are they -doing-?", one of them asks, suddenly breaking the group's silence, but no answer comes. Perhaps now the fly is forgotten, back to being an entirely uninteresting insect as opposed to the grand amusement and break from monotony it could once have been.
The engine starts and a little press of the accelerator sends the teens and early-twenty-somethings rolling away with a crunch of tyre on decrepit roadway as they decide to make an escape and find a new spot to terrorise innocent locals with their inanity.
The door at the front of the shop moves after a few long seconds of silence, pushed through by a newcomer. A potential customer, perhaps? It isn't to be, however, as Rachel realises upon seeing them make a beeline through the shop front to reach the caf. A portly latino man, short of breath, bursts into the space and nearly wipes out a couple of chairs at one of the cozy little tables set for diners and art admirers.
"Miss!", he calls out, addressing Rachel with polite formality, "There's.. There is something happening outside! The, these people are insane! Dios Mio!". The little man throws his hands up, wrinkled face flush with confusion, having hot-footed it across the street to get inside. "Can you call the police or something?! My phone is out of battery and I think they are taking drugs!". His button-down shirt us wet with sweat beneath the pits; such is his dedication to the pursuit of public decency and order. He looks expectantly to Rachel, his hero of the hour, potential bearer of functioning telephones!
The shelves have, in fact, been stacked; supplies have been gotten; and pastries have been warmed. In fact, Rachel had been in the process of signing herself out when the man enters. Her pen dots the 'i' in 'Cai,' and she's almost home free, when --
Dammit.
Of course there's a new customer. She plasters a pleasant, well-meaning smile on her face, only to find that he's not here for warmed pastries, coffee, or paints at all. Why bother having done any of it, really?
"The police? Oh, I don't think..." She does have her phone in her pocket. There's a conspicuous bulge in the side of her skirt, weighing the fabric down. "Let me go talk to them." She puts the pen down and moves her clipboard aside. "I'm on my way out, anyway, and I can ask them to move off of shop property."
Pocketed skirt? DAMN - THE UTILITY, THE CONVENIENCE!!!
"Oh, be careful miss! They aren't talking to anyone, I think it's the fentanyl from the television!", says the portly panicker, worked up into a right and proper froth. Maybe it the Fenty from the Telly, but this is Haven. It might just as well be something altogether more (less?) sinister (depending on which channel you happen to watch). He steps back, wiping his hands down the thighs of his diarrhea-toned chinos anxiously. Looks like he's not going to be much help here, whatever it is.
The storefront is just as empty as it has been most of the day, but a slackjawed attendant scopes out the happenings across the street with a mystified stare. Clearly - something is happening out there.
The roads are clear, Rachel can see through the window, of traffic. Across the street, gormlessly, a trio of people stagger about the mouth of an alleyway. One, a student with a baseball cap worn backwards on his head, gropes at the air fruitlessly with claw-fingers curled for purpose. The other two, a middle-aged couple, are staring directly at the grimy brick wall beside the entrance to the alleyway with their noses practically pressed against it. The final erratic pedestrian, a young asian-american woman, stands beside a car pulling the door handle fruitlessly. A bewildered and scared pensioner sits in side of the car, a similarly aged chevvvy, as the handle-pulling girl's dog yaps up at her; a long-furred white dog of around fifteen pounds of weight with needle-like thin legs.
"Look! What are they doing?! They all just came out of there!", Rachel's frantic questgiver asks, pointing wildly across at them after following Rachel to the front door. "Do they need the hospital?!"
Mhm, sure, Rachel might as well say to this feckless man for all the credence she's giving his concerns. "It's fine," she reassures him. They walk into the painting room, past a gallery of colorful posters. "Drugs don't *make* you violent. Anyway, it's not a big deal." Now they're in the reception area, with the large, cedar door to the outside within arm's reach. "I'll just have a quick talk with them--..." Rachel glimpses the window in the last moment before she turns the door handle.
She eats her words. Instead of marching across the way to have a firm talk with some ne'er-do-wells, she quietly reaches for her phone. Her thumb presses and holds the power button on the right side and... nothing. The screen stays perfectly, annoyingly, and uselessly black. "Of course I forgot to charge it. That's great."
She looks back at her companion - her what-seems-to-be very, very Unaware companion. "How about you stay in here?" she asks. She's kind about it, gentling her voice to sound as though she were addressing a small child. "Don't touch anything." That has the air of preternatural command.
Meanwhile, in the small town of Haven, Rachel experiences a different kind of interruption at her Pigment and Paper Studio. The usual slow day, filled with the odors of paint and coffee, is suddenly pierced by the entrance of a frantic man, distraught over bizarre behavior he's observed outside. Pushing past the mundane expectations of another customer, Rachel finds herself appointee to address the man's fears of drug-induced chaos. Armed only with her concern and lacking a functioning phone, she decides to investigate, suggesting the man stay behind for safety. What she discovers outside her storefront is a collection of individuals acting strangely, marking a departure from the day-to-day monotony and perhaps hinting at something more sinister at play in Haven. Peyton and Rachel, each in their own settings, face unexpected challenges that draw them out of their comfort zones and into the unpredictable and often unsettling world beyond their doors.
(Peyton's odd encounter(SRZoe):SRZoe)
[Sat Jun 22 2024]
In a chic studio-style bedroom
The walls are painted in soft pastel hues of blush pink and light lavender, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The floor is covered in a plush, white faux fur rug that feels incredibly soft underfoot. The windows are framed by floor-to-ceiling, luxurious cream-colored curtains that can be drawn to block out the light and provide privacy. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing a glamorous focal point and soft, ambient lighting. Above the bed, a statement neon sign in vibrant pink reads "Glow On," adding a touch of personality and flair. The room features a canopy bed adorned with fairy lights, a vanity illuminated by a Hollywood-style mirror and surrounded by high-end cosmetics and beauty products, and a streamlined workspace equipped with essential office supplies and stylish decor. The room also includes a generous walk-in closet, and a comfortable living area with a sectional sofa and flat-screen TV.
It is morning, about 82F(27C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(Your target's been contacted to help find a civilian who's become lost in the woods.
)
As the clock ticks past 8 AM, the early summer morning begins to breathe life into the mansion nestled at the outskirts of the forest. Gentle beams of sunlight filter through the canopy of trees outside, casting a dappled glow onto the bedroom floor. The plush, white faux fur rug sprawled across the floor appears even softer in the early morning light, inviting bare feet to sink into its luxurious fibers. The curtains flutter ever so slightly with the morning breeze, drawn just enough to allow the soft glow of the morning sun to seep into the room, casting an ethereal light across the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It's a serene morning, peace and tranquility spread all around inside and outside both: the chirping of birds, the neighing of horses from the stables, the occasional sound of other wildlife, a stray, wild cat meowing, and the loud shouting of people calling out a name, somewhere outside.
Well, that last one isn't supposed to be there. But now that Peyton's noticed it, it's hard to not pay attention. There's a number of voices, both masculine and feminine, calling loudly for a 'Becky!' out there. Becky, presumably, doesn't see fit to answer them. It would be hard to fall back asleep if Peyton was planning on sleeping in any further this Saturday morning, especially when there's a loud DING DONG of the doorbell only a few moments after.
Peyton sits at her brightly lit vanity table, finishing up her morning round of makeup and primping. She lifts her chin at the first hint of a sound, and then sighs at the doorbell. Moving to her walk in closet and her shoe racks she selects the Kate Spade Mary Jane's and marches down to the front door to check who it it is. Reaching the front door she pauses a moment before tentatively cracking it up, bright smile already fixed in place.
It's a search and rescue team in full force out there - or as full a force as you can ever get out of the Haven populace. A few HSD deputies with a couple tracking dogs, almost out of sight behind the treeline, and half a dozen civilians, all out to look for little lost Becky. The person who stands in front of Peyton, however - persumably the one who rang the doorbell - is a middle-aged woman with graying blonde hair, who flashes Peyton an uneasy smile when the door is finally opened, blinking dazedly as though she hadn't expected to be treated to Peyton's model-smile in full force. There's more important things to consider at the moment though, unfortunately.
"Hello ma'am, I'm Anita Blake. I, um, I'm wondering if you may have seen my daughter out here? She's blonde, yay high-" She holds up her hand to indicate how high, which may be anywhere between four and six feet. It's hard to tell. "And she may have come out here last night? That's what her friends told us anyway, but she hasn't been back home and we're really worried." She's rambling a little, but surely a concerned mother can be given a ramble pass this once. Peyton isn't given any time to reply though, before the woman's bringing out her phone to show her a picture of the girl: she's definitely blonde and yay high, and apparently a teenager who looks like she's likely in her high school years. "Here, does she look familiar?" There's a very hopeful look turned Peyton's way. Maybe she's harboring a lost teenager somewhere in that giant mansion?
Peyton blinks her big dark eyes slowly as the woman rambles to her, taking it all in with careful and sympathetic attentiveness. Her face falls slightly as she prepares to disappoint Anita, frowning with pain, wincing a little as she shakes her head gently. "No, I have not seen her." She says ina warm southern accent. She glances past the woman to view the full force of the search party, and down at herself in a crop top and tennis skirt and blocky heels, then shrugs as she reaches for a jacket. "I can help search the grounds, maybe she's in the gardens or the stables..." She speculates...?
"Oh..." The disappointment coming off the woman is very palpable indeed, especially when she's all but spewing her desire to find her daughter out for anyone who's the least bit empathic, but there's a silver lining to every dark cloud, and she's not about to let Peyton's helpfulness slip away without taking advantage of it. She earns herself an emphatic few nods of the head at that offer, and there's that hopeful gaze turned her way yet again. "Thank you so much. We weren't able to get access to private property earlier, but if you can take a look and see if you can find her, I'd appreciate that so much!" She's all optimistic now, but unsure if she should be following Peyton in.
There's a glance back at the assortment of people all calling out "Becky!" near and far behind her, and Anita tells Peyton, taking a step back to rejoin them at a central point near the driveway, "I'm going to stay here to be in reach in case anyone else finds something, but please do your best. I'm very worried..."
Peyton nods her head a few times, still a bit sort of like, this is the morning and I am tired, but she seems determined to be a helpful and friendly member of society. "I'll check back in after I check over the property then." She says, nodding an smiling awkwardly as she closes the door. She takes a minute to walk through the central hall of the house, calling out a few, "Becky!"s, as unlikely as it is she broke in past all the security, down the stairs once as well, before heading for the back door and the fields, gardens, and natural swimming pool and stable therein.
(A recent surge in supernatural activity has led to an increase in victims suffering from memory loss, hallucinations, and other psychological trauma. Your target is tasked with investigating the cause and finding a solution before the situation spirals out of control.)
It's midday in Haven and warm. The usual suspects roam the streets and occasional cars pass by. Standard small town traffic. The news has been quiet aside from a few social events recently, one of which Rachel herself attended, and some buzz regarding sightings of scaled animals that have so far turned out to be unverified nonsense. Thus far today; a slow day overall, and an even slower day for Rachel here in the Pigment and Paper Studio.
The air is thick with the smell of paints in various stages of the drying process from a small try-before-you-by display, pleasant caramel of fresh coffee grounds brewing behind the drinks bar, and the balmy summer laden with hayfever-inducing pollen. Not very many customers have been by; only a few here and there seeking to buy a few materials for paintings most of them will likely never complete, cheap reproductions of famous canvases to brighten their walls, and coffee brewed by our resident barista(s). Faintly, the sound of top 40s chart music wafts in the open front door from a car parked nearby filled with college-aged youths enjoying the sun with starbucks in-hand, singing along and laughing loudly enough to annoy most passers-by.
For a long while, no one enters, and Rachel is left alone with her thoughts, whatever they may be. Turmoil surrounding relationships? Old lovers and teachers? Societies and sect struggles? - not uncommon for the denizens of Haven unlucky enough to find themselves involved in the supernatural.
A fly buzzes about the caf for a short while, taking an interest in the light fittings and then the coffee machine, bumping fruitlessly against glass bulb and chromed metal fittings respectively. It's company atleast, in a strange way. SOMETHING to break up the monotony of stacking shelves, preparing coffee grounds and supplies for the next shift's workers, warming pastries and whatever else it takes to keep a place like this running. It might amuse a passer by to imagine it examining the artwork it skitters past occasionally, making its own buzzing commentary regarding colour compositions and facture of the pieces; analysing the emotional content of the images and underlying themes that might have informed the vision and hand of the artist responsible.
That boring..
Eventually, however, something does occur. A shuffling outside as several people move by at pace beyond the waterstain streaked windows, chattering animatedly amongst themselves. The music of the youths cuts along with the peals of their reprehensibly high pitched laughter, suddenly finding whatever happens beyond to be far more interesting than Taylor Swift's latest offerings, no matter how astonishing the backstory behind this song in particular might be (a topic that the students have loudly discussed at length the last time the song played through the location).
"What the fuck are they -doing-?", one of them asks, suddenly breaking the group's silence, but no answer comes. Perhaps now the fly is forgotten, back to being an entirely uninteresting insect as opposed to the grand amusement and break from monotony it could once have been.
The engine starts and a little press of the accelerator sends the teens and early-twenty-somethings rolling away with a crunch of tyre on decrepit roadway as they decide to make an escape and find a new spot to terrorise innocent locals with their inanity.
The door at the front of the shop moves after a few long seconds of silence, pushed through by a newcomer. A potential customer, perhaps? It isn't to be, however, as Rachel realises upon seeing them make a beeline through the shop front to reach the caf. A portly latino man, short of breath, bursts into the space and nearly wipes out a couple of chairs at one of the cozy little tables set for diners and art admirers.
"Miss!", he calls out, addressing Rachel with polite formality, "There's.. There is something happening outside! The, these people are insane! Dios Mio!". The little man throws his hands up, wrinkled face flush with confusion, having hot-footed it across the street to get inside. "Can you call the police or something?! My phone is out of battery and I think they are taking drugs!". His button-down shirt us wet with sweat beneath the pits; such is his dedication to the pursuit of public decency and order. He looks expectantly to Rachel, his hero of the hour, potential bearer of functioning telephones!
The shelves have, in fact, been stacked; supplies have been gotten; and pastries have been warmed. In fact, Rachel had been in the process of signing herself out when the man enters. Her pen dots the 'i' in 'Cai,' and she's almost home free, when --
Dammit.
Of course there's a new customer. She plasters a pleasant, well-meaning smile on her face, only to find that he's not here for warmed pastries, coffee, or paints at all. Why bother having done any of it, really?
"The police? Oh, I don't think..." She does have her phone in her pocket. There's a conspicuous bulge in the side of her skirt, weighing the fabric down. "Let me go talk to them." She puts the pen down and moves her clipboard aside. "I'm on my way out, anyway, and I can ask them to move off of shop property."
Pocketed skirt? DAMN - THE UTILITY, THE CONVENIENCE!!!
"Oh, be careful miss! They aren't talking to anyone, I think it's the fentanyl from the television!", says the portly panicker, worked up into a right and proper froth. Maybe it the Fenty from the Telly, but this is Haven. It might just as well be something altogether more (less?) sinister (depending on which channel you happen to watch). He steps back, wiping his hands down the thighs of his diarrhea-toned chinos anxiously. Looks like he's not going to be much help here, whatever it is.
The storefront is just as empty as it has been most of the day, but a slackjawed attendant scopes out the happenings across the street with a mystified stare. Clearly - something is happening out there.
The roads are clear, Rachel can see through the window, of traffic. Across the street, gormlessly, a trio of people stagger about the mouth of an alleyway. One, a student with a baseball cap worn backwards on his head, gropes at the air fruitlessly with claw-fingers curled for purpose. The other two, a middle-aged couple, are staring directly at the grimy brick wall beside the entrance to the alleyway with their noses practically pressed against it. The final erratic pedestrian, a young asian-american woman, stands beside a car pulling the door handle fruitlessly. A bewildered and scared pensioner sits in side of the car, a similarly aged chevvvy, as the handle-pulling girl's dog yaps up at her; a long-furred white dog of around fifteen pounds of weight with needle-like thin legs.
"Look! What are they doing?! They all just came out of there!", Rachel's frantic questgiver asks, pointing wildly across at them after following Rachel to the front door. "Do they need the hospital?!"
Mhm, sure, Rachel might as well say to this feckless man for all the credence she's giving his concerns. "It's fine," she reassures him. They walk into the painting room, past a gallery of colorful posters. "Drugs don't *make* you violent. Anyway, it's not a big deal." Now they're in the reception area, with the large, cedar door to the outside within arm's reach. "I'll just have a quick talk with them--..." Rachel glimpses the window in the last moment before she turns the door handle.
She eats her words. Instead of marching across the way to have a firm talk with some ne'er-do-wells, she quietly reaches for her phone. Her thumb presses and holds the power button on the right side and... nothing. The screen stays perfectly, annoyingly, and uselessly black. "Of course I forgot to charge it. That's great."
She looks back at her companion - her what-seems-to-be very, very Unaware companion. "How about you stay in here?" she asks. She's kind about it, gentling her voice to sound as though she were addressing a small child. "Don't touch anything." That has the air of preternatural command.