2019-10-18 - May the Chips in Your Chocolate Chip Cookies Always Turn Out to Be Raisins
Just another seasonal disaster in Gray Harbor.
IC Date: 2019-10-18
OOC Date: 2019-07-19
Location: Huckleberry/Space 21 - No's Room
Related Scenes: 2019-10-18 - The Great Pumpkin 2019-10-21 - May Your Five Year Old Neighbor Always Have Their Violin Lessons During Your Hangovers
Plot: None
Scene Number: 2251
Not long after wiping out at Addington Park, Noelle Elodie Duchannes returns home to the trailer in space 21 at the Huckleberry, parks her scratched and dented Vespa, and trudges up do the door. She passes several potted plants, a tiny outdoor grill used more often for burning documents than prepping food, and a pair of muddy wellies left out where spiders can climb right down into them.
On the back of her Vespa is bungeed a pumpkin a little too large for her to carry. It's bungeed within an inch of its life. It's possibly she can't get all the bungees off and will be riding around with that pumpkin until someone takes mercy on her.
Inside the trailer, there's music playing low.
The door slaps shut behind her, an No turns through the living area toward her bedroom, yawning. "It smells like burnt caramel in here. Were you trying to do that whipped icing thing with the pre-roasted sugar?" No asks this question of the trailer at large, though no answer is forthcoming. She shuffles back through the kitchen where all manner of baking supplies are sat out, and snatches a cupcake off the end of the counter, no icing present yet. She unwraps it on her way back, and kicks open her door with a vintage Doc.
Just as Noelle disappears into her room, a voice from the one across the hall asks, "What happened to your hair?"
"Ha ha. Very funny." Noelle drops her bag, some squished dumplings inside are retrieved after a moment's thought. The guy who ordered them bailed out of the park before she could deliver them, so that's what's for dinner. She pulls out the smooshed delivery bag and sets it on her desk, dumping her singed jacket over a small chair there. She sniffs when a singed scent wafts up.
No's room is a study in band posters from the mid-to-late 90s, most prominently displaying Hole, NIN, Nirvana, along with a bunch of original artwork, screenprints, and photograph of various people, places, and things pinned up to white-painted wood panels. Most of the room is a huge bed covered in layers of messy purple linens and turquoise pillows. Her closet is always overflowing with vintage tees and Doc Martens she bought on eBay, bringing the 90s back. There are several black military surplus duffel bags under her iron-framed bed, all zipped closed. A rainbow row of vinyl, sueded, and shiny leather Docs are lined up under her bed too. From the ceiling are suspended a bunch of white fairy lights and a few waterfall LEDs.
No reaches up to run her fingers through her long blonde hair, breath hitching when she comes to a rough patch. A suspiciously brittle patch. A patch that feels too short. "What...." Her eyes widen, and then her eyes narrow.
Through clenched teeth, she hisses, "HEADLESS HORSEMAN."
And then she screams loud enough to shake the windows, and probably mildly-alarm at least a radius of five trailers on either side of Space 21.
"This. Means. War."
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