Thank you for that Verizon name drop

[Cicadan]

SB05 wouldn't leave the restaurant kitchens for some time after waking. She'd been one of the earlier ones, her constitution perhaps especially suited to enduring TV's famous knockout gas, a zealously guarded intellectual property.

She hadn't dwelled on the softer things all that long. Not a stray bit of emotion leaked from face or body, no demands of audience attention that played out in any especially cliché way. Quiet work after she'd gained her bearings, after she'd adjusted to the gentle ocean sway that rocked the restaurant like it was slowly spinning mobile music for some unknown thing bound in a cradle.

(and she'd thought a lot about Bethan in a sort of indirect way? It was hard to describe how her thoughts were going without... closest thing she could think of was invoking memories of the first few times she'd tried to drive one of the family cars. Avoidant of crashing, or of moving in general, really. She, Lucille, would touch one infinitesimal inch of her big toe to the pedal, hear the engine start the first eighth note of a rev, panic and retract her foot immediately. Her thoughts kind of worked at the same speed. She wasn't really sure how she was doing any of the things she was doing right now- things happened, she watched them happen. Weird to be narrating her own life in this kinda... third person perspective, her English teachers finally vindicated after painful years of failing to drill concepts into her head.

But yeah, she was remembering, y'know. Stuff that seemed awfully mundane. She'd been chilling last night even after Bethan had said something about hitting up a rave. All Lucille had asked for in turn had been pictures of the 'fit. Not because, like, Lucille was trying directly to be all like, 'mmm babe that's the hottest shit wear that again the next time we meet wink wink', at least, that wasn't what she actually felt? It looked good, like, as 'good' as it was possible for Lucille to think Bethan had anything approximating good taste- she was trying to acclimate to all the PVC, she was really honest to God trying- but really for Lucille with Bethan it was never so much about what Bethan was wearing in particular and more like the reaction Lucille earned whenever she adjusted the tuning fork in her throat to harmonize with compliments, or flirting, Bethan always had these absurdly over-the-top expressions that were like, capital letters The Best. Lucille only peep showed as much as she needed to for Bethan to notice what was happening, that was the thing that Lucille liked to do, whatever any of it meant)

Lucille emptied out the contents of her bag, using the flat cold expanses of stainless metal surrounding her in sous chef approved geometries for space to vomit her supplies out over. Her awe over the colorfulness of the rations this season 'round was a moment in time, followed by longer and more careful ticks of the clock only laggardly following the pace she set.

Supplies were notated and counted.

(she figured this was going to be one of those times where she could actually remember numbers of her own volition? Her math teachers back in Mangrove added to the ranks of those able to witness Lucille belatedly applying any amount of the lessons they'd long ago given up on catapulting the direction of the desk- she always picked the one closest possible to people she'd be loud with, or doors she'd rush out of when bells rung. So on and so forth)

There was a slight leer to her otherwise neutral eye as it tracked over the contours of what they'd afforded for her as a clothing budget, pressing each bit of fabric flat down so she could appraise if there'd be any sizing issues.

(they got her sizes perfectly, which was pretty fucking creepy. The colors all, strictly speaking, matched in the same way it was exceedingly easy to not mess up a look if one wasn't even trying to make a statement in the first place. Just like how, like, almost any sentence could be ended in a period and it'd work because a period always worked but it also didn't actually imply anything in particular. A period, among all the punctuation possible, was just there, casually existing.

Couple of surprises in her haul: The beach getup, for one. The bobbing up-and-down sensation that had reminded her of the few times she'd gone onto yachts for some party or another had been familiar for a reason, looked like. She supposed she appreciated the opportunity to show off the beach bod? No amount of clothes stopped a bullet from ripping through flesh, so Lucille entertained some vague ideas of going full on poolside look. Maybe some practical maintenance aspect to having less shirt and shoes to sweat into with that.

Fanservice outfit looked positively janitorial, color scheme wise. She recognized the series, she guessed? Lucille wasn't a big fan of anime but her more in-the-know geek-media friends had recommended it to her in the past. And she hadn't watched it, inevitably, because training schedules, general disinterest in sitting in front of a TV or computer screen when SOTF wasn't involved, blah blah. It was pretty sus in a particularly cute kind of way. Like, so bad it'd be good, or something along those lines... Maybe the gloves would be useful)

SB05 stared intensely at the outfits she'd laid out, shifting her touch from one to the other. Some sort of ritual, perhaps to boost the mind, perhaps to boost the soul.

"I was already following you, Steph. F-Y-I."

Her attention shifted over to her gun, innocuously laid over the collar of the Under Armour

(fuck this brand, in particular)

tee they'd made part of her loadout.

"Your season wasn't a fave by any means." Her smile was casual, quietly tiny on her face as her voice was, the camera barely able to pick up the self-directed murmur. "But I always thought, like, you had solid setup in that season. Especially shutting up that walking lung Amy. You deserved the W."

The weight of the gun was tested in her hand. It was barely lifted off the countertop, tension deep in her wrist tautening the outline of muscle and vein and all underneath her skin. Then she gently laid it down.

(she guessed they were still going with the team setup, too. Nice splash of color with the bandana they'd given her, though it was a particular shade of hot pink that could all too easily be too much in like, most circumstances ever.

She'd heard mixed reviews about the past season doing the team setup thing. Some of the bigger egghead pundits claimed the math didn't work out very well for teams having a particular impact on the possible combinations of kills and impromptu team ups in an arena of an average size... a lot more technical speak in addition to that kinda-summary, with Lucille trusting that the experts had their numbers right)

"Things are going to get to a quick start, I think. Lot of kids in my class who pretty much have it in them, so like... good call, producers."

Her one-note giggle was colorless. A tiny shift of her mouth, almost imperceptible.

She tried out her bandanna, around her wrist, around her neck. Slowly, deliberately, inspecting her semi-coherent, semi-opaque reflection in the shiny kitchen chrome.

"Still. I bet I can waste my contact for the day asking, like... I dunno. Just wanted to hear your thoughts on what it's like."

(she remembered once on Ryan's podcast that one of the guests had claimed the best possible way to game a team setup in the style of 66 would be hunkering down in one spot- wait for teammates, kill or hide from anyone else- because something or another about how movement around an arena would only increase amount of possible contact with someone not on the team and not significantly increase the chance of a friendly contact. It was something to keep in mind, she guessed. All of a sudden she felt sharp, light on her feet. All it had taken was getting out of the classroom, out of the theoretical for a change. No more podcasts and forums and hypotheticals, this was, apparently, the real deal)

"To start killing."

She only listened, she didn't respond. It was longest she'd been quiet for, in a long time. From the moment she'd woken up.












She was ready to hear, when the first other sounds of life reminded her there was something on the other side of that kitchen door.

(what do you call that thing, anyways? When it doesn't shut normally but has those flappy plastic edges in between)

Hearing the sound and following it didn't come at exactly the same time.

((SB05 continued in I Carry Only The Finest))

[Wham Yubeesling]

No response comes from the collar.