[log] chips but no salsa [closed]

[mrcreamsicles]

Characters: Davesprite, Karkat, the Cat, Beckett, Angel, Rhys (the dickcheese one), and Enoch
Location: Building 309
Date: Day 285
Summary: A whole bunch of people meet up, tablet chips get handed off, and maybe pancakes happen.
Warnings: Nothing planned.

309: A house, green on the Geiger counter, that probably should have been redecorated ages ago. Everything looks to be from the 60s or 70s. There was carpeting here, but it's gone now, revealing a locked trapdoor in the bedroom. There's a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom. "зеленый" is written on the inside of the door. A ration box from the convenience store has been attached to the inside of one of the kitchen cabinets with wood glue. On the kitchen wall beneath it, a message has been painted in black: "i left a ration box here for storing food. if you want to leave rations for the people exploring it should hopefully protect them from radiation. any other supplies can go in the cupboard outside the box. contact davesprite (@featherydouche) if some fucker steals it".

Comments

cw: implied eye trauma/scars from the Noisy Black event

[mrcreamsicles]

A. this entire couch is my nest

[Did you want to sit there? Good luck doing that. Because after a long night of traversing the tunnels (and that goddamn labyrinth beneath the pass), Davesprite's exhausted body has claimed the couch. The whole couch. His folded wings take up their own space, and the tail that forms his lower body has been coiled up onto the portion of the cushions not taken by his torso.]

[At least he's warm, given the three blankets (two space-patterned, thanks Andromeda) and pair of vintage '60s curtains draped over him. He's also an unrelenting eyesore between them, how incredibly goddamn orange he is, and what peeks out of the rainbow sock made from one of those kids' parachute games on his tail. The scars around his eyes mark the more literal kind.]

[Catch him later and he may be awake (with shades firmly on and scars hidden), but he has his tablet and is still comfortably settled under his blanket-plus-curtain pile.]

B. this prompt brought to you by the gold shag carpet my grandma had all the way into the 90s

This place looks so different without the carpet.

[Davesprite is up now, blanket and curtain collection gathered up with his things somewhere else, leaving him to float around the house while mumbling to himself. Mind the tail; it hovers right at trip hazard height above the floor.]

Who decides to call a carpet shag, anyway? Yeah, I want my floor covering to sound like a teenage stoner who thinks his dog can talk. I want to live my life cosplaying Austin Powers 24/7. I want my entire house to sound like nothing but a shack for banging people while being insufferably British about it. Ain't nobody ever saw shag carpet and got aroused, but these assholes had it all the way up the bedroom walls. Is this a metaphor? A visual reminder of what's lacking in the marriage? Come on, honey, you've had a headache every night for the past year. Well, sweetie, maybe if you made some sensible design decisions we wouldn't be having this problem. It's the horrorterror of carpeting. I swear somebody has to have busted their toe getting it tangled in all that fucking floor yarn.

B!

[phaseshifter]

[ While it may not be considered polite to listen in on someone mumbling to themselves, it's a habit Angel has never quite been able to get rid of. You can take the girl out of the secret heavily-fortified spy bunker, but you can't take the secret heavily-fortified spy bunker out of the girl.

Or something. ]

In the old days, shag carpeting signified opulence and luxury in the same way that turbo mansions and golden statues do in my time. Who's Austin Powers? The name sounds kinda familiar, but I can't quite place it.

[ angel bb no ]

I haven't seen those movies in years

[mrcreamsicles]

[Davesprite's not bothered at all. He's generally intending to talk to someone; it's just questionable who, and the interjection is relevant.]

[As for the question—]

The spy who shagged me. He loved me, left me, and now I've got nothing but the memories of a velvet suit and overused '90s refs to keep me warm on these endless winter nights.

[Utterly deadpan.]

So what's a turbo mansion?

[phaseshifter]

I-- that's. That sucks.

[ She's not entirely decided on whether or not he's joking. He has to be, right? R-RIGHT?

Stupid pokerface. ]

But, uh, a turbo mansion is like a mansion. But kinda more... everything. Bigger, cooler, costlier, more in-space, usually made to order. They tend to be the size of a small village, but some people get really ostentatious with them, you know? Go large or go home. Or... go large and go home, in this case.

...also B

[warriorscribe]

[Tail right at trip hazard height, you say? Well, here's someone tall enough to not even notice something so low to the ground if he's not paying attention - which he's not. Enoch emerges from the bathroom and promptly stumbles over Davesprite's tail, only righting himself after an undignified flail. He'd probably have fallen flat on his face if he'd had his backpack on.

Of course, it's Davesprite he's worried about first...]

Oh- I'm sorry, did I hurt you?

[mrcreamsicles]

[Floating as he is, albeit at a very limited height above the floor, there's nothing particularly weighing down his tail when Enoch trips. It moves with the impact until his feet are free, then lashes promptly back out of the way after.]

[None of this has prevented the undignified, avian squawk he let out from the surprise of it.]

[He turns to face him properly, and his feathers ruffle and resettle themselves as he checks that he's all out of the way now.]

I'm fine. You didn't kick me that hard. But come on, Enoch, I'm the most colorful thing in the house and I can't keep myself any further aloft than I am. Unless I start carting my tail around over my shoulder, you're going to have to watch your feet.

[But Enoch was the one sent flailing, so—]

You alright?

[warriorscribe]

I'm fine, only...embarrassed. I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere. I wouldn't ask you to account for that.

[He pauses and shakes his head. Foolish of him, to not even look.]

I take it you could fly much higher before this.

A!

[bookofnope]

[The entire couch, though.

However he might feel about Davesprite's ensemble otherwise, Beckett does feel him on the sunglasses, because it is using sunglasses that he can look at that ensemble without Davesprite quite seeing how much he disapproves. Though that is probably less to do with the fashion aspect, and more with smouldering jealousy over Davesprite's superior number of blankets. And his position on the couch. The entire couch, damnit.

Let them just. Glare at each other while pretending not to because sunglasses.]

That tail is remarkable, but it's still not an ass.

[mrcreamsicles]

[He's watching you, old man. This couch is comfortable. These blankets are warm and delightful. He has two pillows, albeit of the smaller throw pillow type.]

[He's not glaring, exactly, but he does pointedly lift an eyebrow at Beckett's appraisal.]

You want to tell me the merit of your opinion on my ass-lack? Have you got credentials? I want to see certificates and signatures, Beckett; I want to know what the Better Booty Bureau thinks of your skills. Am I wasting my time getting an ass-essment under your ancient gaze, or should I take the smooth, uncleft expanse of my backside to more supple hands? These things take delicate handling and an eye for detail, and I ain't convinced when your judgment is this cold and lifeless. Passion is the lifeblood of these things, Beckett. I want a review with the kind of meat I can sink my teeth into.

[There's your effort.]

[bookofnope]

[With every sentence, Davesprite is treated to the sight of Beckett's eyebrows go up, and up. They're already way past his tinted glasses. Hairline, here they come. Whatever his expertise or lack thereof is with asses, he is good at eyebrows.

Finally, he raises both hands and golf claps the performance. One. Two. Three.]

Congratulations. Every time I think I've heard peak nonsense, one of you youngsters astonishes me. Truly, there is no limit to human potential.

eat some pancakes you nerds

[headjacked]

1) cake

[ Mixing. Drizzling. The batter bubbles and cooks, oh-so-slowly, on Rhys' trusty frying pan. He throws himself fully into the task. He is the Pancake Lord, he is going to bring sweet sweet happiness to everyone crowded in this house.

Concentrating on this keeps his mind off other things. It's nice. The house smells nice. ]

Hey -- h-hey! Take this one before it burns, willya?

---

2) smeep

[ Once the maybe-successful pancaking is complete, Rhys is pacing back and forth, looking for something else to busy himself with.

Forts.

The old standby. ]

Who wants a -- I could build a fort, with any pillows and blankets and any other soft thing you care to donate. Seriously. Think of it as a shelter within a shelter, trap as much heat as possible.

2!

[phaseshifter]

[ Behold. THE HECKLER. ]

Don't pretend you do it for warmth purposes, you freaking dork. You aren't fooling anyone.

[ Is she wrong, tho. ]

[headjacked]

I do! [ AN OFFENDED LITTLE SNEEZECOUGH ]

Just because it’s fun doesn’t mean I don’t also do it for practical reasons. You brat.

[phaseshifter]

Then why not just a blanket pile? Like Davesprite's! Or a cocoony... burrito... thing.

I can roll you up, if you want.

1

[warriorscribe]

[Oh no he forgot the plate - he'd already handed over the fork and bowl to assist Rhys in mixing the stuff but...

Have a plate practically materializing on the countertop next to you, Rhys - if you're fast enough, you can see as Enoch quickly ducks out of close proximity and backs up to twice a normal respectful distance.]

Ah- sorry, I forgot about that. There's no need to rush them now!

Room for one more?

[bookofnope]

Yes there is.

[Beckett does not have a plate. He only has a measuring cup. But it will do.

He tries not to hover too insistently behind Enoch in the line for pancakey goodness, but as you may know, Enoch is sweetness and patience and gentle endurance. Beckett is just hungry.]

Are you managing? We can't let even a single one be lost.

ew no

[headjacked]

[ His smile is small and tight but he does not flinch, does not react.

Enoch IS sweetness and patience and has been through enough.

Rhys is pretty sure his nerves are aflame but what can you do. ]

We're good! We're good, guys. Plate - [ Pancake on plate, next batterpuck poured. ] This'll really help production. But you two, you're gonna have to fight over that one.

PANCAKES PANCAKES PANCAKES

[mrcreamsicles]

[There's a reason Davesprite's group trekked all the way over here, overnight, to collapse in thorough exhaustion in the early morning. The pancakes Angel suggested they'd get were part of it.]

[But also, computer chips. It's hard to miss Davesprite, bright as he is, as he deposits them onto whatever nearby surface is handy but out of the way of Rhys's cooking efforts. With his other hand he holds out a tupperware container, not a plate but big enough for the job.]

Right here, man. I haven't had anything like this in months, and the whole house smells like I've gone to heaven.

EAT AND BE MERRY

[headjacked]

[ Just about anyone who has experienced the cages with him gets special consideration. As soon as he plops the first cake into the tupperware he pours another disc of batter and holds a robot finger up. Davesprite gets immediate seconds. ]

Then hold up, 'cause I'm giving you a fastpass to double trouble. For -- for the chips...!

[ y e a h just the chips ]

[mrcreamsicles]

[Oh what. Is he really—? He is.]

Hell fucking yes, I am going to marry these pancakes. If I'd know I'd get them for this I would have brought them when we first got 'em.

[He looks down at the one he has already, sorely tempted to just dig in, but... Nah, better to wait. These are a treat to be savored. Pancakes. Sweet Jesus, he really is in heaven.]

Can you give Karkat the double when he gets his? He's never had them—too alien—and he helped when we were getting these.

itt Enoch gets emotional over pancakes

[warriorscribe]

[They're just fried cakes...and yet, they're completely unlike the ones he knows. Fluffier and yet still pleasantly doughy, and just the right amount of sweetness. Even if they were more familiar to him?

He hasn't had properly cooked food in months. He slows from simply eating slowly and savoring every chew to just holding a bite of pancake in his mouth and letting it gradually dissolve in there.

He may or may not be about to cry in pure joy.]

[quadrangle]

A

[Like Davesprite, this little troll can be found passed the fuck out after the night's travel, curled up as comfortably as he can in a deep purple sleeping bag. To be more accurate, he's almost comically enveloped in it; the only really visible parts of him are a lock of wild dark hair and a single horn. The edge of a blanket peeks out from inside too, but it's not enough to discern any sort of pattern besides also space.]

[The more crowded the house becomes, the less likely he is to be found actively asleep; at some point, he hauls himself awake and begins poking through the room for anything usable. His hair is a fucking disaster, but he seems to neither notice nor care. More of the blanket is visible too; it depicts a solar system that contains, among other things, what looks like a red giant and a planet with one green moon and one pink.]

B

[If trolls have pancakes, they are 1) absolutely not called pancakes and 2) probably contain enough insect parts and/or other fucking bizarre ingredients as to be completely unrecognizable to their Earth counterparts. Consequently, while Karkat does settle down sssssssssomewhere (up to you??) to consume these delicacies, it's clear from the vaguely perplexed expression on his face that he's not one hundred percent sure what to make of them.]

[Occasionally, he will reach out with his spork (AKA the one utensil he's managed to pick up) to lightly poke at one. He may also be sniffing occasionally because the scent is goddamn everywhere and, seriously, what are these things made of?]

B is for bancakes

[mrcreamsicles]

We're gonna need to get you a fork.

[So says Davesprite as he works at what's left of his own pancakes. He's been trying to savor them. He has a fork, but it's his.]

Sporks are like what you had a five year old so they don't go jabbing each other with the fork tines. Or when you're too dang cheap to buy a set of forks and spoons, so instead you settle for the disappointing sibling. Or maybe it's more like an ectobiology experiment gone wrong. Tried to get the benefits of both in one utensil, instead you get an abomination that's just barely adequate for the task of either.

[quadrangle]

[Karkat can't quite believe he's hearing this, and primarily as a form of self-defense, he begins carefully spearing a spork-sized biteful of the pancake and, wait, fuck, there it goes falling back onto the nutrition plateau. Time to try scooping it up instead.]

It works fine for me. [Present difficulties notwithstanding, and yes he's being stubborn purely to be stubborn. Besides, he's... maybe thinking of something else.] Just because you lack the finesse to use it doesn't mean you have to shit all over it.

[mrcreamsicles]

Finesse. That what you call dropping your bite there? I'm telling you, forks: tool of kings.

[He neatly eats another bite in pointed demonstration.]

How you liking the pancakes?