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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
hearnospeakno: (worrystone.)
[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.
scaleshavefallen: (Default)
[personal profile] scaleshavefallen
Spoilers for Hannibal 1x13 )

I turn to face front, half a mind to correct the inaccurate title he's given me, but for some reason, the scene has changed. Instead of damp brick and two overgrown oafs, I see a nondescript hotel room. A double bed with an ugly floral patterned duvet, peeling wallpaper, a painting of a windmill. I turn in quick circles, taking it in, and now the panic rises and bubbles in my chest.

I was cured, I had thought. They pumped me full of steroids and antibiotics. I have a clean bill of health. I haven't had a hallucination since they woke me up, and besides, this scene has no meaning to me. There's no reason for it. It doesn't fit the pattern.

Haltingly, I take a step forward, reach out with one hand, and run my fingers across the bedspread, the cheap wooden bedframe, the grimy nightstand. Everything feels real, but I know it can't be. Testing the limits of my freedom, I step towards the door, place my hand on the doorknob, twist and pull. The door swings open easily and my feet are carrying me, on automatic pilot, out the hallway. It's a slightly more lavish hallway than the room I just left, but something feels wrong, sterile, otherworldly.

I don't know where I am or how I got here or if this is even real. I wonder if I'm sick again, and then realize that I don't care. Not right now. Not after everything else. I turn back to the door I just stepped through, but the handle won't turn, and I have no key. Whatever is happening to me, it appears that I must go forward, not back. I can't help it. I swipe a hand across my brow, sweat slicking my skin; my lips pull back in a parody of a smile, and I laugh. It sounds haunted and sick to my ears, and I suppose I am, after all.

[ hover for an ooc note regarding will's clothing which is a mild spoiler for 1x13.]
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[personal profile] concierge
The black sign positioned in front of the Dining Hall's main entrance reads:

New Guest Reception
6 PM - 8 PM

All guests welcome

In the Dining Hall itself, the chairs have been pushed up against the walls and the long dining table turned into a buffet stocked with finger foods. At the far end of the room is a small bar serving beer, standard cocktails and non-alcoholic drinks.
hearnospeakno: (Default)
[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.)


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