I keep getting marginally disturbing phone calls, like the protagonist does in the play I'm having put on now. I guess someone liked the showing? At any rate... if people creeper at me, I'd prefer if they used a little bit of creativity. Don't recycle my own fictional material. That's tacky.

Victor has grown intellectually fat and happy with the idea that she doesn't die when bad things happen. That's probably why this time (this one time) she PINpointed without triple-checking her coordinates.

And ended up in the ocean.

In a full suit.

She kicks to stay afloat, kicks hard, but the waves aren't kiddy pool style, and she's very scared in that overwhelmed way that some people get when they're in something so much bigger than they are. She blindly searches for the default button, but instead of the default button, she hit something else (a scrambler? a last-four-digits-switcher?) and thwump. Now she's in an office. Drippingly, soppingly wet, nose burning with salt, and choking. She smells like ocean and wet wool. She is also missing a loafer.

I'm out of my room. I'm out because a friend of mine pulled me out of bed, slung me over his shoulder, and took me shopping for a sword on an alien planet.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it, but now I have a sword.

Do you have any questions about Vic? Here's the place to ask!

All answers are on the munly side of the 4th wall, and not to be taken ICly, unless otherwise noted. ♥

Today, Victor feels like a video game character. Objective: save the person who ambiguously may or may not still be her boyfriend. Health: ninety-two. Energy: eighty, not including the adrenaline bonus.

She's PINned herself into the middle of a busy street. A man in a backwards New Haven Hornets cap bumps into her, and for a moment (just a moment) she closes her eyes and allows herself to feel completely overwhelmed. Then she flips her phone open, speeddials number three. "I'm here, corner of...." She sucks in another deep breath, looks up, scanning for street signs. "Smith and Saint George's."

J bet me that everyone thought that I was very innocent and childish, and he polled the Nexus. I'm convinced that the votes were at least partially coerced.

That punk.

(Get it? Ironic name-calling. It's for the completion of the false image. Anyone? I thought it was funny.)

I woke up this morning, slipped out of bed and went to get something to drink, only to find a half-naked man in the kitchen. Thankfully I knew this half-naked man, and he was there for a reason (that reason was not me.) It was still distressing. J startled the heck out of me on my birthday.

That's right, twenty-one years old. If you had told me five years ago that I'd make it to this age, I would have laughed at you. Politely, of course. I'm just thrilled to still be around!

((for howdoyouwork))

Four minutes before noon, Victor remembered that she was supposed to go to lunch with Gabriel. She set aside the manuscript she was translating and tossed on the nearest suit jacket she could find (it did not belong to her.) Before she left her room, she grabbed her backpack and threw a hat onto her head.

Three minutes before noon, she PINed into the Nexus.

Two minutes before noon, she dashed to the restaurant.

One minute before noon she slid into the establishment, a rounded place that would look like a fifties diner if the walls weren't made of fabric and the checkerboard pattern wasn't on the ceiling. She looked around for Gabriel.

My boss told me I had to take my sick leave. I'm not sick, by the way, but since I work at a hospital for a doctor he thinks he can tell me when I'm sick. And I'm not.

I found a nice synagogue in Langley.

This post is brought to you by the number fourteen. Fourteen, the number of days before I turn twenty-one. When I'm twenty-one, I can stop using my friend's slightly psychic paper as my fake ID. I don't even drink, I just want to go places.