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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
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[personal profile] concierge
Throughout the day on the 14th, the Nexus staff deliver single roses and accompanying notes to designated hotel guests in celebration of the Valentine's Day holiday. For some, the gesture will be a foregone conclusion; for others, it will be a surprise. For some, they might only guess at who sent them the gift in the first place.

[Comments with deliveries will follow are done. You may reply to yours with a reaction if you like!]
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[personal profile] digyourman
The twilight was painted in soft strokes across a tumble of low-slung clouds, pinks and purples distilled from the glitter of the infinite sky to spill over neatly-clipped lawns and gently burbling fountains. Perched upon one of the retaining walls in the English garden, Larry was bent over a guitar propped up by one braced knee, evening shadows chasing across his face as he strummed out a familiar melody with calloused fingers.

A year he'd been in this place; a year of quiet living and silently-borne restitution, a year that felt simultaneously endless and a blink, a year that had fostered introspection and little else. Good things still left him skittish, afraid of what followed, and despite it all the very nature of that feeling seemed another failure.

Frannie had been gone a month, and he still wasn't certain why he hadn't seen it coming.

The back edge of the guitar rested against his chest, each note humming through the thin cotton of his t-shirt and under his skin. He needed a haircut, dark curls sliding across his downturned eyes as began to softly sing.

Even children get older, and I'm getting older, too.

Feb. 3rd, 2014 07:48 pm
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[personal profile] 71st_victor
It had taken her a long time to find it, but once she has it in her possession, they'll have to pry it from her cold dead hands to get her to give up the small, but functional axe she'd found on the grounds in a shed. It's probably the remnant of some old gardener, but in her hands, it could be the difference between life and death.

She wishes there were tall trees around, the kind of soaring redwoods that adorned Seven. She'd learned to wield the sharp edge of her blade on thick trees standing hundreds of times the size of her. Meek, weak, and a little mousy, Johanna had learned that everything can fall if you apply enough pressure and cut them down at the right angle. Everyone falls and everyone bleeds.

Johanna hefts up the axe and makes her way outside, careful not to appear too overtly threatening. There are strangers roaming here and she needs to maintain the facade in case she has to play them. The axe has to be hidden where she can find it and she needs to seem like the little girl who frightfully entered the Hunger Games. She makes her way to the English Gardens, settling cross-legged on the ground as she starts to dig a hole in the ground. It's nowhere near six feet deep, but it makes her think of the grave she'd basically dug for herself by joining the rebellion.

Once she gets three feet down, she gets the axe in there, covering it up quickly and dragging over several blue bell flowers to mark the spot in a circle. She wipes the sweat from her face, smearing her cheeks with dirt like a hasty camouflage.

She's going to keep protecting herself, no matter the cost.

Johanna catches movement in the corner of her eye and she softens her posture and her expression, careful not to look too aggressive. She draws her hand over the soil and keeps the shadow in her peripheral vision, always wary. "Did you come to look at the flowers?" she asks quietly, head down, eyes averted.

Meek, weak, and murderous if given the chance.

Jan. 19th, 2014 08:15 pm
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[personal profile] ogunquit_girl
Frannie couldn't stop staring at the sleeping baby in her arms. She watched every intake of breath, every exhale. Her pulse spiked when his little face twisted into any expression other than serene sleep.

She was waiting for him to cough. She was expecting him to sneeze.

Even though she knew the flu wasn't here - it was contained to their world and it hadn't followed them here on their clothes (even if it had, she'd burned hers shortly after coming through to the Nexus, even the time she'd just walked into her bedroom in Maine for a few minutes before backing out in horror.

Still, Frannie watched her son sleep, listened to the soft silence of breathing unencumbered by snot or phlegm or whatever had choked the life out of her world. Against every odd there was, she was here, Stu was here, and her baby had survived arguably the most stress filled pregnancy ever, to arrive a respectable 6 pounds 9 ounces, with a pair of lungs announcing his arrival. Loudly.

If Frannie could remember how to pray, she would have right then and there.

Gathering type post - tag Frannie, tag each other (feel free to top level with Frannie asleep if you want, or just outside the room). If your pup saw the stationery post, feel free to jump to the conclusion that the hotel's only pregnant woman popped.)
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[personal profile] concierge
A large, decorative sign situated prominantly in the lobby reads:

The Nexus Hotel
proudly presents its

Event Location
Nexus Premises
6 PM - ?

1920's themed dress recommended, but not required for all guests

The sumptuous theme of elegance that typically surrounds the Nexus Hotel is out in full force on the evening of the 31st. With efficiency and very little said, a group had entered and snapped white tablecloths on long tables in the main lobby of the hotel, turning side-rooms into similar displays of elegance. Then came the food, followed by the alcohol, and the guests were quick to follow.

Drinks were on the lawn, in the hotel, making their way into the hands of party-goers who wore shining, shimmering, jewelled gowns of all eras, but only those from the 1920’s hung on a rack in the luggage room where hotel guests entered to check in and found themselves amidst a welcoming committee like none before.

In the skies between the hotel and the stars, fireworks shot off in hourly intervals, sparkling and accompanied by a great bang that the music from the band does its’ best to drown out (to no avail). And under those shimmering lights, the party for New Years Eve roared. It was not the only party, though, as a door had been propped open that led directly to the shining lights of Las Vegas, the gleaming neon of the strip beckoning any guests daring enough to try their hand at games of chance and luck.
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[personal profile] digyourman
18 November 2013 | The Nexus

The total lack of Room 5:678 was more evidence than Larry really needed, the plain fact of it sharp like a blade. For a long time he had stood in the empty hall, head bowed and hand splayed against the wallpaper where a door had once been, unsure if he was trying to conjure Nick from the drywall or keep his knees from buckling. Probably a little of both.

Eat your pie, Frannie. Every last bite.
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[personal profile] concierge
A large, decorative sign situated prominantly in the lobby reads:

The Nexus Hotel
proudly presents its

Formal Reception
Nexus Dining Hall
6 PM - Midnight

Monster Mixer
Nexus Basement
8 PM - 2 AM

Masquerade attire recommended for all guests

Most of the chairs have been removed from the Dining Hall to allow for ballroom-style dancing to the orchestra set up on the far end of the room. A polished cherry wood open bar is aligned along one wall. The adjacent Bistro is open for the duration of the formal reception, serving gourmet hors d'oeuvres.

Downstairs, the basement's largest storeroom has been converted into a spooky nightclub, complete with DJ, dance floor and cocktails.

Oct. 3rd, 2013 08:02 pm
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[personal profile] ogunquit_girl
Frannie wasn't sure how long she stood in her bedroom with the door handle in her hand. All she knew was that her jaw ached from holding it open for so long.

She also knew that she was standing in her bedroom. Her old one, in Ogunquit, with the same posters and trophies it had held since she left for college years ago. A lifetime ago. Before the end of the world.

Eventually, when her brain processed what she was seeing, she started thinking. As much as she wanted to rush out into the house, and into...into the garden...she was afraid of what she'd see there, too. Afraid she'd see her father, alive but sick. Afraid she'd see his grave.

Afraid she'd see that it had been disturbed somehow.

Afraid that if the door she still held closed, she'd be stuck here in her old house alone again. Alone in Maine with everyone she knew on the other side of the country. Alone in the world.

Once the first tremors of fear passed her, she realized something else. She was standing in a world that had been toxic to 99% of it's residents....and she held the door open, spilling that air into the hotel.

Before that thought even finished forming, Frannie stepped back into Nexus and slammed the door as hard as she could and pressed her back against it.

"Anyone got a hammer? Some nails maybe?" she called out to anyone that could hear her voice.

Sep. 3rd, 2013 04:43 pm
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[personal profile] ogunquit_girl
Two months. They'd only been here two months. How was it possible that so little time had passed? Two months was nothing, time wise. Half a semester. If she'd been at UNH, that would mean midterms were upon her.

It was exam time, all right. The ultimate pass-fail. She laughed a little and the sound was so hollow and scary, she immediately stopped.

Frannie had told Lucy that she was tired, and she was, so Lucy had left her to go home to Joe, to find her own way through the weeks (months?) of waiting ahead of them. She hadn't been lying when she said it - she was tired. Tired from the pregnancy, tired from the often boring, sometimes terrifying, trip across the country. Tired of trying to set up a government with nothing more under her belt than a politically active father and three years at UNH in pursuit of an English Lit degree. Tired of watching everyone she'd known her whole life swell up and die, strangling on their own snot.

The kind of tired that didn't go away with a nap, or even a good night's sleep. The kind of tired that was still there, waiting for you when you woke up and reading to jump right back onto your back.

With a sigh, Frannie walked through their bedroom door, thinking that she'd start with a nap, or an attempt at one. It was something, anyway.

She stopped when she found herself in a hotel lobby.

What the fuck?

The doorknob she'd been holding just seconds before had vanished under her grip and the hallway that should have been behind her was gone. There was nothing. Just this hotel lobby. A voice in the far corner of her mind said she was dreaming again. That any minute now, the Dark Man would appear at the other end of the room with his coat hanger. The spike of fear was real and, thankfully, fleeting. She'd had enough dreams in the past two months to know how her dreamscape felt. This didn't feel like that.

"Hello?" She out to the emptiness and tried to not be afraid of what might answer back.
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[personal profile] hearnospeakno
When: Friday 6:00 p.m.
Where: Attic Observatory
What: Community Support Group

As Nick promised on his open advertisements, there are chairs and coffee in the Attic Observatory. There's even a table laden with what food products Nick and co could round up.

The process of setting up for a group meeting felt enough like Boulder that Nick took a short break to lean, palms first, against a wall. It was a short, easily displaced moment, and he has no intention of lingering on it.

This is about everyone, one way or another. For all the people stuck here, and everyone new, and all those in-between. Nick left the purpose of the group intentionally vague. In the future, he assumes it'll have to be narrowed down and split up for the sake of different needs, but for this first coming together of the displaced in any non-official capacity he wants it to be open for everyone. It wouldn't be right, otherwise.

So all newcomers will find Nick by the attic observatory door, nursing a cup of black coffee next to a clearly printed sign:

Hi, I'm Nick. Welcome to the first Nexus Hotel Support Group. Whatever your problem, we'll listen. Help yourself to coffee and food.

Underneath the words, Nick has drawn and crossed out a mouth and ear, leaving an arrow pointed at himself. His pad of paper and pen are obvious on his lap.
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[personal profile] hearnospeakno
This is a medical emergency. I need alcohol. I will pay you back.

This is what you may find held up to you on Nick Andros' palm, if you seem like the kind of person who might buy a guy a beer on credit. If you're not, or he just hasn't gotten around to you yet, Nick is the skinny guy hassling people in the Smoking Room.

It's been one of those days.

Nick doesn't like this. He's paid his own way for years, and he's been buying his own drinks since he was first able to bluff his way into a bar. But he's not going to steal, and he hasn't carried cash since--he doesn't even remember when he stopped thinking about having money in his pocket. It's been a while.

If this is whatever comes next, Nick has some pointed questions to ask whoever runs the place about why he gets a room free, but not a drink. (Nick's experience with hotels doesn't extend to the kind with minibars, so he didn't think about going up there first. He's honestly not thinking much.)

He's not begging. He's done that before, and it left a sharp, slippery taste in his mouth like sweaty pennies. Whatever is going on, wherever this is, Nick is asking for a loan, not a handout. It might be a stupid thing to be hanging onto, but under the circumstances--

Under the circumstances, Nick just wants a break. Five minutes to sit, drink a beer, and try to reconcile this bustling, beautiful place with what came before.

(He indulges in enough bitterness to think that isn't very fucking likely, but hey. He can dream.)

Aug. 5th, 2013 11:00 pm
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[personal profile] prayimdead
"Just ain't us, man."

Daryl's own words ring in his ears as he watches Rick walk off to talk to Merle. He doesn't agree with Rick's decision to go through with it, giving Michonne over to that jackass Governor, but he can still respect it. Survival is something Daryl understands. It's a bitch, and you don't gotta like it. Survival forces people to do things that cross the line of decency, and turning over a woman to certain death sure as hell ain't decent. It isn't them, isn't their group, but Daryl knows that Rick is just doing what he's gotta do for the greater good.

Giving Hershel a shrug, Daryl pushes off of the wall he'd leaned himself against. Maybe he'll go check on L'il Ass Kicker before getting his gear. A slight smile tugs at one corner of his mouth at the thought of her. Judith, so tiny and perfect. He won't admit it to anyone, but that baby gives him hope that maybe the entire world ain't gone to shit after all.

"Later." Nodding at Hershel, Daryl reaches a hand out to the heavy, barred prison door and pushes slightly.

Preoccupied with deciding which knife to take along with his crossbow, he doesn't notice initially that suddenly he is no longer in the prison until he realizes that his footfalls sound different. They aren't echoing; they sound muffled, barely perceptible instead.

Puzzled, Daryl looks down to see that he is standing on some sort of large, decorative Oriental carpet. Mouth setting in a thin line, he lifts his gaze, eyes sweeping across a strange, large library that certainly isn't part of the prison.

"What the hell," he mutters. "Didn't fall in no rabbit hole, so where the hell am I?" Instinctively, he begins looking around for things he can use for makeshift weapons. Never can tell when you'll run into a walker, after all.
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[personal profile] digyourman
It was a tenuous acceptance, being in this place.

mild spoilers )

A city boy all his life, Larry knew shit about plants. His mother had kept some sort of vine perched in a faded red pot on her kitchen windowsill, and that was where his expertise stopped. He'd never even been to the conservatory in Central Park. Yet when he'd visited the hotel offices and looked at the list of available jobs, his eye had kept jumping back to the landscaping crew. It felt wrong, somehow, to choose something that kept him inside all day, and his hands needed something to do. Not a distraction, a benediction.

That's how Larry Underwood, New York City born and bred, more accustomed to concrete than compost, was now outside beneath a blue sky with dirt caked under his fingernails and the sun at his back, packing soil around lavender plants in an English garden. Somewhere, Larry knew, the Judge approved.


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