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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
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[personal profile] bequethen
She's dead on her feet.

As time passes, that fact is becoming harder and harder to ignore. Running on pure adrenaline can only carry one as far as running on fumes; eventually, there's a limit, and then there's a crash. The not-even-two-hours of sleep she'd managed on the bus, wedged between Lydia and the window, aren't even close to what she'd need to recover from the whirlwind of the past twenty-four. There'd been the battle against the alpha pack, trying not to lose the bus, the race against time to stitch up Scott before he'd let himself bleed out completely, the entire night at the Glen Capri -

She's starving.

That is also becoming harder and harder to ignore, especially when the smells coming from the Bistro are so tempting. With the all-consuming anxiety that had been tearing away at her, food had been about the last thing on her mind, and now, it's hard to remember the last time she'd even eaten anything. Yesterday morning? Had it really been that long? It's a wonder she's still moving at all.

Unease is something that continues to linger somewhere in the background, behind fatigue and lightheadedness. It isn't surprising, given that, after everything that's just happened, she's found herself in a hotel, of all places. One that's strange in every way, even if it doesn't feel half as dingy or creepy as where she's just come from. There's still an impetus to move, to find people, to not waste time grabbing a bite. But she knows that, realistically, she can't be useful for much of anything without food, at least.

So, that's what leads her here: standing outside the restaurant, rummaging through her purse for some cash.

(Looks like nobody's told her the buffet is free yet.)

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